Hey guys, so this prompt was originally intended to be a little fluffy and a really basic homecare!Avengers chapter, but I realized that this could play into something a lot deeper that I'm sure a lot of us have experienced: struggles with mental health. Basically, this delves into some real ugly truths about what its like to have a breakdown.

so, tw for depression, tw for self-care problems and tw for eating disorder.

This chapter is really important to me because its based on something that I actually went through, just played out from Tony's perspective in the MCU.

If this resonates with you at all, please comment on the fic or message me privately. The best thing we who suffer from mental illness can do is talk to one another and realize we aren't alone – and I hope that that is what you take away from this chapter.

Love you all 3

Q is for Quirks

Tony Stark is many things.

To his teammates, he is a friend and a partner. To his ingénues, he is a passionate and exciting lover. To his colleagues and patrons, he's a titan of industry. And each is true, of course; Tony Stark is all of these and more – but, for those that know him well enough, above all else, Tony Stark is a man of habit.

He has a few forgivable quirks, of course – what genius doesn't? The more innocuous of the bunch straddle the line between obsessive compulsive and eccentric. For example: not liking things handed to him, talking to himself for hours, washing his socks separately from the rest of his clothes, and never wearing the same tie twice within a 30-day period.

But some of his quirks are not so endearing, and not nearly so harmless. Tony pours himself into his work, and sometimes (many times), completely disregards the fact that he is human with human needs. On more than one occasion, Tony has found himself on the ass end of a four-day work bender that hasn't seen him eat a single calorie, and he only remembers a few hours of it. These habits, these nearly-fugue states, are dangerous – specifically, his tendency to his overwork, overstrain, overexert, and of course, underfeed himself. These episodes happened a lot more frequently after Battle of New York.

But since the Avengers had all taken up residence together in The Big Apple, these particular demons of Tony's had been under new management. Beneath the watchful eyes of his friends, Tony had gotten better – healthier, even. Each Avenger took it in turn, forcing Tony out of his workspace, sneaking snacks downstairs and placing them within arm's reach of the bench, even dragging him into the gym showers on more than one occasion.

At first, of course, Tony had rebuked wholeheartedly the constant nagging and nannying, sometimes pushing himself to his limits just to spite everyone's efforts – but through the years, he had learned to accept help, and moreover, to learn from it. He had started taking care of himself without having to be told to do so. He would shower almost every morning, eat a good breakfast, and set reminders in the lab to take a 20-minute break every few hours. Half of his daily coffee intake had been replaced with green tea. There were ready-made meals in his downstairs fridge, and a microwave to boot. Tony Stark was slowly but surely making room for self-care in his routine-obsessed mind.

But everyone can relapse. At anytime.

So really, it should come as no surprise that on one particularly warm July morning, Tony found himself in his workshop, busily troubleshooting a nanobot software that simply refused to behave. JARVIS was running diagnostics on the main display screen while Tony absentmindedly tossed his stress ball up into the air. It fell to his hand, up into the air, down to his hand – each resounding smack clicked like a tumbler on a locked door. The keys were slotting into place; Tony was craftily picking his way through, ever-determined to solve the puzzle before him.

Several more smacks echoed through the room and bounced off the walls. The lab was uncharacteristically quiet, breathlessly awaiting the results with the same anticipation as its lone occupant. Minutes passed, still the stress ball landed and launched, landed and launched, its exterior worn from years of the same repetitive action.

The computations were ceaseless. More figures ran across the screen, accompanied by a steady wave of charts and graphs, showing little-to-no significant deviations – in essence, each outcome appeared to hold the same fate: failure.

"C'mon, baby…" Tony's tired brown eyes flitted studiously, never breaking concentration, well-practiced in their search for a hopeful blip on the radar. "Come to daddy…"

The wall-mounted display projected an egregious 4 o'clock in the morning - not that Tony was paying any real attention. He had muted JARVIS' reminders about sleep almost three full days ago, the same reminders for a decent meal had been muted at the beginning of the week. For a full week, Tony had been living on the occasional twenty-minute power nap and a box of stale fiber bars stored unceremoniously beneath the soldering bench.

Natasha had come down on Wednesday morning, intent on dragging him upstairs for a hot meal; Tony had all but slammed the door in her face.

"Stark, this isn't funny. Nobody has seen you for days. You look terrible." She studied him for a moment through the glass, then grimaced. "And I'm sure you smell about as good as you look."

"Agent Romanoff," Tony never averted his gaze from the bench, the circuit board smoking slightly as the tin solder dripped off the heated tip. "While I appreciate your concern, it is – how you say," he waved the small iron with the flick of his wrist, "Mal placé."

She crossed her arms, simmering. "Stark, don't make me-,"

"I am fine. Completely fine, in fact - to put you at ease-" He wiped the iron on the damp sponge, set it aside in its holster, and ostentatiously inhaled the armpit of his shirt with an obscene vigor. "Ahhh…" He cocked his head to the side. "I've actually smelled worse." His grin was palpably smug, and he returned his focus to the work at hand.

She was not amused. "Tony, I'm serious, you need rest. I haven't seen you this bad in years. You need-,"

He pointedly ignored her. "JARVIS, can I get a little privacy, pal?"

And just like that, the windows of his workshop went fully tinted and the room became a soundproof haven of creativity. Not even Natasha's angry fist could be heard pounding against the glass.

That was Wednesday. It was now Sunday morning.

Tony's bags had bags. His shirt was stained with coffee, drool, and sweat. His stomach was so empty, it wouldn't even rumble, and it was all JARVIS could do to remind him to drink enough water to compensate. Tony was in his zone, and while that zone had produced some of the greatest achievements of his lifetime, it also ate up every ounce of his being. But Stark was on a roll, and Death itself couldn't steal this thunder.

His eyes were glued to the data. Number after number, probability after probability, flew by without a hope. Each probability a birth, each test a lifetime, and each failure a meaningless death. It was enough to drive Tony insane, watching every possible solution to his problem flicker and die. His ideas weren't good enough, his solutions weren't good enough, he wasn't good enough.

"Numbers, numbers, so many numbers," Tony was muttering, his hand now clenching the stress ball, digging into it with his fingertips, pressing it against his temple, hitting it against his brain as if it would jar something loose – as if it would let him see the answer that has so cruelly evaded him unto this point.

And then, from the screen, came a blip.

"THERE! FREEZE!" he shouted, wrenching his exhausted body off his chair, his head swimming for only a brief moment before sheer willpower brought his body back to proper standing position. "JARVIS, what is that? Yah, that!" The fatigue of the past 10 days was replaced with a sort of buzzing, adrenaline dusting off the cobwebs and clearing the fog.

He moved out from behind the bench, grabbing the swinging monitor. "There, J, there pull that chart up and project it on the wall."

"Immediately, Sir." JARVIS threw the latest figures onto the wall, zooming in and giving Tony a better look.

Tony abandoned the monitor and stood squarely opposite the wall, the corner of the bench pressing against his lower back. He carefully studied the graph, the fervor of his excitement substituting itself for his well-practiced skepticism. Tony was intent on being very, very sure of this victory.

"Which hypothetical is this? What are the independents, here?"

"This is Trial W-35J. In this family of simulations, you altered the software to force the nanobots to individually compensate for alterations and variations in density, rather than a relay system."

"And that's feasible with the power supply?"

"It is in this particular model, sir. But it calls for an altered relay system... one that has been deemed impossible to fabricate."

Tony gripped his stress ball absentmindedly, flexing his fingers, keeping them moving. "Impossible is my favorite word, JARVIS. Pull up the plans for the Mark 50. Substitute the current reactor, play around with it, will you?"

"What would you have me do, sir?"

Tony ran a hand down his haggard face, fingertips brushing at his unshaven cheeks. "Put in the hyperloop we talked about."

"Sir, while the Mark 50 hyperloop would technically allow this simulation to function, I must remind you that the Stark Hyperloop Relay does not yet exist."

Tony laughed. "That's never stopped me before. You let me worry about that, J, you run the test. Factor in the projected numbers."

After several more minutes of diagrams and projections, Tony had a theoretically functioning design swimming above his manipulation table. He was adding pieces of older suit tech - changing things there, altering them here, retrofitting that, deleting this, mixing those - until finally he seemed satisfied.

"Okay, JARVIS, as long as a rough hyperloop can get this thing off the ground, I can make it better. I just need to know I'm on the right track." He punched a few keys, restarting the simulator. "Fire her up."

Tony stared intently, like a coach watching a world cup soccer match, as his players one by one took the field. Hypothetical simulations, each getting their moment of fame before being swathed in red light, a large X reducing their existence to a fruitless dream. Each X felt to Tony like the death of brain child, and as he watched more and more red X's fill his screen, he started to lose faith that any of them would pull through.

Until one.

"Sir, this mark seems to have a trace of feasible production."

Tony didn't hesitate. "How much?"

JARVIS' sarcasm was thick. "A whopping .13% of success."

"I can work with that." He spun on his chair. "Conditions?"

The AI threw a bullet point list onto the screen. Tony studied the panel once more and calculated some quick figures in his head.

"JARVIS, let me see a breakdown of that reaction hyperloop, with a list of additive and subtractive manufacturing steps, as relative to this thing?" Tony gave a quick tap to his chest, where the triangular light shone through his grimy t-shirt. "I need materials, I need cost analysis, I need system controls."

"Immediately, sir."

Within minutes, Tony had a basic rundown of materials he would need to acquire, purchase, make, and scrap. And none of it was impossible – rather, it was all completely doable.

Which meant-

"I did it?" He inhaled sharply. "I…did it?"

He did it. He really, truly did it.

"Shit…I did it!" Tony felt a laugh bubbling up his throat. "Shit!" He guffawed, he put his hands behind his head, lacing his fingers together. "HOLY SHIT! Hahaha, Oh my God, oh my God!" Tony took an amazed step backwards, then one more, and then he just took off. He ran around his workshop, slapping DUM-E upside the actuator and sliding over chrome counters. His hands drummed noisily on the steel tabletops as he scootered past them, completely elated and drained and shocked and just so proud of himself.

"Congratulations, Sir. May I now suggest you immediately go to sleep?" But JARVIS was talking to empty air; Tony was already gone. He flung the lab door open, his adrenaline still pumping energy into his otherwise-lifeless limbs. He felt indestructible.

In reality, his brain felt fuzzy, his breathing was too fast, and his hands were shaking – but he noticed none of it. Tony was swept up in the complete euphoria of invention.

He bounded down the hall, not seeming to notice the black dots dancing at the edge of his vision, and he slammed the elevator button repeatedly. He bounced giddily all the way to the top floor, needing to scream to the world, needing to tell everyone alive that Tony Stark had created the first nano-tech armored suit in existence. He had singlehandedly advanced micro-technology one hundred years in the span of a week and a half. He laughed again, watching the numbers on the elevator panel climb. Almost there, almost there.

It was 5:43 am when the elevator dinged softly throughout the apartments floor, but the sliding panels hadn't even opened all the way before Tony was squeezing through them and careening down the hall, banging on door after door.

In hindsight, not the best way to wake up a team of assassins, deities, and superhumans.

"RISE AND SHINE, KIDS, GET UP YOU LAZY BONES, HEY- HEY BARTON GET YOUR ASS OUT HERE. BRUCE! BRUCE, YOU'RE NOT GONNA BELIEVE THIS. CAP, CAP WAKE UP! YOU-"

Steve's door flung open before Tony's fist even managed the first knock. The captain, who was already awake and dressed for his morning run, looked ready for a fight. In a split second, he had Tony up against the wall behind him, shielding the engineer from what Steve figured was imminent danger.

"STARK!? What's wrong – what?! - What the hell, Tony, where's the-?"

"Wrong!? Nothing's wrong! God, Rogers, don't get your Life Alert in a twist - EVERYTHING IS AMAZING!" Tony wriggled out from behind the immensity of Steve's wingspan and continued his dance down the hall. "TO THE KITCHEN! EVERYONE TO THE KITCHEN!"

Within seconds, the other Avengers shot out of their rooms in various states of both alertness and undress. Clint rolled out into a perfect crouch, his boxers on backwards and only one hearing aid in. Nat followed suit in her favorite Pink Floyd t-shirt and satin pajama pants, a loaded pistol out in front of her, a drool stain on her right shoulder. Bruce shuffled out in his slippers, hair and glasses completely askew, fastening his robe as quickly and haphazardly as he could for the sake of decency.

Thor, who had been staying in New York since Jane had been stationed there by SHIELD, didn't seem bothered at a prospective naked battle. As soon as he had heard the commotion, the God of Thunder threw his door wide open and stepped out completely in the nude, taking a wide battle stance and raising his hand to summon Mjolnir from the bedside table, which flew promptly into his grip.

There was a chorus of alarm, people shouting, trained fighters standing at the ready, waiting for some unseen force to attack…. but all they saw was a half-crazed Tony Stark, mad with excitement, slamming the Keurig on the kitchen counter and telling them all to assemble 'round the table.

Now, all of this had occurred in the span of the last 10 or so seconds, and when the general consensus was reached that there was, indeed, no threat at all…well, the team seemed at a complete loss, looking expectantly at both Steve and Tony.

Steve finally cleared his throat, regaining a semblance of control over the hallway. "Stand down, team, stand down." Everyone shuffled, readjusting their stances. Steve's gaze suddenly found its way to a very naked Thor, and the Captain spun around as if he'd been shot, turning a bright shade of pink. "Well," he exhaled, his blush deepening. "Um, Thor, maybe - um, at ease, soldier. At ease."

Natasha, very aware of her Asgardian neighbor, unabashedly craned her neck for a better look. She lifted an eyebrow, a slow smile working its way up her face.

"I'll say." She winked.

Thor smiled shyly just as Clint looked up, startled, and followed her gaze. As soon as he realized what was happening, the poor man turned about every shade of purple under the sun. The archer was sputtering, shooting to his feet and doing his damnedest to block Natasha's line of sight. "EXCUSE – hey, NO, you!" He pointed to Thor with one hand, his other shoving Natasha down the hallway toward the kitchen, "YAH, YOU. Go put some clothes on, nobody wants to see – well, THAT."

Nat's smile widened. "Speak for yourself."

"NATASHA."

Thor, at least, had the decency to look embarrassed, and quickly lowered Mjolnir to cover his more private areas. Jane had just made her way out of bed to the doorframe, wrapped in the sheet, still unsure what was going on. Met with the hallway spectacle, she gasped, profusely apologizing, and pulled her Norseman back through the doorway. The door was slammed shut, but everyone could hear the mutterings of a curt, five-second lecture on modesty before the it opened again just as quickly. Thor was shoved unceremoniously out into the hall, this time squeezed into a much-too-small pair of red Roots sweatpants. He joined the team in the kitchen, meeting Barton's livid gaze with an apologetic, bare-chested shrug. Steve, who still hadn't stopped blushing, caught Natasha sending an appreciative wink to Jane before the physicist herself bit her lip in a giggle and quietly shut the bedroom door. If Clint hadn't been so pre-occupied having a conniption against the kitchen counter, he certainly would have dropped dead right there.

At this point, all eyes (except maybe Barton's) were on Tony, who looked like a madman. Though they had all tried to get a hold of him for the past week, none had been successful, and seeing him now in all his glory was kind of shocking.

Tony's hair was standing in all directions, unwashed and unkempt; it was greasy and grimy, his rust and oil-covered hands had pulled roughly at it over the course of the week. His skin was a sickly shade of grey, and his knuckles were torn to shreds from machining scrap metal. His scruff was beyond scruff, and he was sporting a patchy beard around his usually pristine goatee. His scent filled the room – stale coffee, peanut butter, and pure body odor. A metallic twang lingered like a perfume behind him, causing more than one Avenger to shrivel their nose in disgust. They saw his hands shaking, his wide, feverish smile showcasing the unhealthy, anemic-whiteness of his gums. His eyes were darting back and forth, unsteady and unfocused, bloodshot in their sunken sockets.

He looked insane. He looked ill.

He looked like a corpse.

"Tony?" Steve was beyond annoyed, but the Italian didn't seem to hear him. "Tony? We haven't seen you in days. We were worried about you. How could you just…"

But Tony hadn't stopped mumbling to himself since entering the kitchen. He repeated the same few fragmented ideas over and over as he flitted around the cupboards, looking for coffee mix. "You're never going to believe what I just did – what I just created – you have no idea, no idea how amazing, how groundbreaking – I never thought – it never seemed plausible – I thought I was limited – the tech, the TECH! For our ages – singlehandedly, I'm telling you! I saw it and BAM. It was there – the Mark 50, can you believe it?" Tony was rambling, the Keurig bubbling. They watched him sway slightly at the counter, a flicker of fatigue crossing his features for a split second before he was back in action, shooting away without finishing a single sentence.

Steve was watching the scene unfold, feeling almost ill. He had seen Tony after a few days of intense work. He had seen Tony after rough fights and rougher nights. He had seen Tony emotionally and physically destroyed. Hell, over the past few years, every single Avenger had seen Tony at his best and his worst – but this was a new level of self-inflicted low. Tony had simply stopped taking care of himself, and Steve could tell, in every single behavior that Tony was displaying, that there was an underlying factor to it. Steve doubted Tony was even in his right mind at the current moment; a week of starvation and no sleep had simply built and built until the engineer had shattered into an incoherent mess.
The whole situation gave the captain a bad feeling in his gut. One sweeping glance around the room told Steve he was not alone. Tony had cracked, and everyone there knew the efforts to put him back together were not going to be met without resistance.

Bruce was the first to step forward, gingerly. "Tony, whatever this is, it sounds really great." He started. "Why don't you and I just sit down at the table first and then-" He reached out a hand, which Tony casually brushed aside.

"No, no, Brucey – I gotta stay on my feet!" He hopped from one foot to another to punctuate, shaking the cobwebs from his head. "I gotta stay in the headspace. Hey!" He pointed around the room, snapping his fingers. "Who wants coffee? You? You? I'm brewing a whole bunch, I'm on a roll. Let's order some danishes, huh? Anyone else? I'm in the mood for a danish."

Bruce turned, looking at his teammates for any suggestions, his arms up in helplessness. Tony, in this state, had to be dealt with very carefully. If they tried to tell him what to do, he would get defensive and lock himself back in the lab.

Thor glanced around and hesitantly chimed in from the kitchen sink.
"Alright, Man of Iron, what have you created? You came up to tell us, did you not?"

Tony, with a Splenda in his hand and a coffee spoon in his mouth spun energetically and withdrew the spoon to use as a pointer, thrusting it in Thor's direction. "FINALLY, an intelligent question. Yes, Thor, I did wake you up for a very good, very brilliant reason. I, Anthony Edward Stark, have singlehandedly deciphered the secret to collaborative, adaptive nanobot technology. Stark Technologies did it – well, I did it." He grinned and winked, putting the spoon back in his mouth and turning again to the Keurig.

Bruce looked shocked. "Tony, are you saying you found the deviancy? You fixed the software?"

Tony mixed his coffee, responding over his shoulder. "Well, even more than that – but yes, that is exactly what I'm saying, Dr. Banner. I found the one possible outcome that gave me ANYTHING above a 0% chance of success." He spun, and started pacing circles, his coffee mug trembling in his unsteady hands without him noticing. "All I needed was a single possibility –," he punctuated his words. "A single probable scenario." He brought the mug up to his lips, unflinchingly taking a sip of the too-hot liquid. "I knew could make it work from there. And I found it. I really found it. A beautiful .13% chance of a successful rendering, and I found it amongst millions of failures. I did that, I really did that." Tony began to laugh to himself, breathing a little too quick again and moving just a little too shakily. "And it will work perfectly."

Bruce was flabbergasted, appreciating the moment, but still staring at the Italian intently as he scurried around like a madman, half dead and running on a dangerous mix of coffee, adrenaline, and genius.

But Steve was completely fixated on Tony, who looked as if a strong breeze could have knocked him down. The Captain cleared his throat, unable to take another second. "Tony, that's incredible, but –

"Oh, it is, Capsicle, it really is."

"Right," Steve began again, "But Tony you haven't had a real night's sleep or a real meal in over a week. You can tell us more when you've had a chance to recuperate. You need to rest, you're completely drained."

There was a pause, and though Tony had his back to Steve, the shift in mood was palpable. The engineer visibly tensed, and his head quirked slightly to the left.

He turned.

"Drained?" Tony's eyes flared, a daring smirk glued to his face.

Oh boy.

Tony was ramrod stiff, indignance ripe in his tone. "Oh, oh you think I'm drained, do you? You think I'm all-," he tapped his temple to punctuate his words, "-all drained up here, hmm? Is that it? Is that what you think? What you all think?" He eyes jumped from face to face, accusingly.

Steve shook his head, "Tony, you know exactly what I'm saying. We're worried about you – and it has nothing to do with the nanotech or the Mark 50. You've stopped taking care of yourself." Steve's voice softened, and for a moment, Tony looked incredibly vulnerable. Steve continued, softly, delicately moving forward.

"You don't have to tell us what it is, Tony. Not yet. But you do need to let us help you."

"Stop it." He couldn't make eye contact, and he just shook his head. "Stop it, Rogers."

But Steve was having none of it. "You were doing so well, Tony. What happened?"

Tony sounded almost unsure. "I…" Tony flitted his gaze up to meet Steve's.

They held eye contact for the briefest of moments, and Steve knew he had a chance to get through to him. "Tony, you need food, you need sleep, and you need to bathe." There was a rare tone of pleading in Steve's voice. "You need help."

Tony seemed to edge forward, a thought dancing at his tongue, about to speak, but it was swallowed as quickly as it had arisen. He shook his head once, twice, eyes glued to the floor, and his delusion doubled down. Tony swept his coffee off the countertop, gripping it as firmly as his hand would allow.

His addled mind was retreating behind one of his most well-practiced facades: ambivalence.
Stark's tone shifted completely, slicing through the room, flat and cold, with a dangerous edge of fake congeniality - "Don't tell me what I need, Rogers." He gave Steve a rather harsh pat on the shoulder, signaling the end of the conversation. The engineer bee-lined out of the kitchen and toward the stairs.

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Stark, please – "

"Nope." He grabbed a crumpled t-shirt strewn over a sofa near the landing and sniffed it. Satisfied, he wiggled it at the team like a victory flag and tucked it into his back pocket.

"Tony, you're being unreasonable." Steve was trying to look calm, but he was growing more and more agitated. The soldier knew that, if it came down to it, Tony would sooner waste away than be nagged into self-care, but Steve would never let that happen.

So, naturally, they had reached an impasse.

Steve decidedly widened his stance and crossed his arms in the kitchen just as Tony reached the top of the stairs.

"Don't walk away from us, Tony."

"Uh, you seem to forget, it's my house. I'm merely walking towards another part of it."

"Aren't you going to at least take the elevator?" Steve quipped.

"No thanks, I'm full of energy, ripe with it, in fact. What's a few flights of stairs?" Tony called over his shoulder and held his arms out wide. "I feel practically brand new."

"Oh yah?"

"Yah."

"You're being a petulant child."

"Your mom."

Barton ran a hand through his hair, sighing loudly, exasperated at watching this downhill exchange. "Stark, for Christ's sake, you woke us up at an ungodly hour, screaming to the high heavens about the greatest achievement in modern day science, and now you're just going to disappear for what - another day? Another week? You'll kill yourself at this rate. There's no shame in taking a break, you fucking deserve it. You're a normal human being, you need to-"

"- No. NO, Clint!" Tony spun and staggered, his eyes alarmingly glassy. "That's where…that's where you're wrong." He swayed visibly, bumping up against the wall, seeming not to notice that half of his coffee had spilled onto his hand. "I am not normal." He spat the word out as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. "You're right, Barton, I just came up here, after a week straight without a goddam meal or a goddam night's sleep, to tell you all that I had singlehandedly become a fucking GOD-," he pointed at Thor, "YEAH, you heard me - A FUCKING GOD. And you all just, just what? You want to – to – to what?" He waved his hands abstractly, "To spoon-feed me Spaghetti-O's and tuck me in?" Tony's hand flew down to grip the banister at the top of the stairs as he tilted slightly backwards. His knuckles went white with the force of his grip, a pale green tinge creeping ominously up his face.

Steve was growing more anxious. "Tony, please step away from the stairs, you look like you're about to collapse. You aren't thinking clearly."

Tony shook his head furiously, desperately trying to clear the newest onslaught of black dots swarming his vision. "No! No. I'm perfectly fine. Perfectly fine." More of his coffee sloshed out of his shaking mug. "None of you – NONE OF YOU are even listening to me." He staggered backwards again, causing the whole team this time to lurch forward.

"Tony, stop this. You're gonna fall." Barton strode slowly toward him, a very no-nonsense expression on his usually amicable face.

"…M'not."

"Come here, you stupid-,"

"DON'T, BARTON!" Tony's voice was harsh but watery, betraying his exhaustion. He swallowed, his mouth felt like cotton and his head was pounding to an excruciating rhythm. "I'm not – I can't stop. Not now."

Tony's eyes were fluttering shut, a cold sweat beading on his forehead. His legs were visibly trembling, his body starting to surrender to his lethal levels of fatigue. "Can't stop now. Work t' do. So much work…"

Tony's left foot slid dangerously back, slipping off the top stair. Barton saw the foot go, and the archer made a split second decision. He ran at Tony.

Steve's heart leapt into his throat. He knew exactly what was going to happen.

"Barton, Stop!"

Clint froze, but it was too late.

In his feverish state, Tony had reflexively put his hand out to stave off Clint, releasing his only anchor to the bannister. Tony swallowed hard, looking suddenly confused, his eyes completely glazed. "I just…I need to…I just…"

…And that's when the coffee mug fell to the floor, shattering on the hardwood.

Steve watched in horror as Tony swayed one last time, a painfully innocent expression of defeat on the engineer's face as his body finally gave out. His eyes rolled up into his head, and before even Barton could bridge the gap, Tony's knees buckled, sending him careening backwards down the long flight of stairs.

"NO!" Steve heard himself scream after he was already moving.

Clint had immediately vaulted down the stairs, the closest to Stark, trying to catch him as he tumbled, but he wasn't fast enough. Everyone flinched when the audible smack resounded through the space – it was the painful, staccato sound of Tony's head meeting the wall as he came to a full and abrupt stop.

Steve bolted to the railing and craned his upper body over the side, taking in the scene below him. His heart jumped into his throat at the sight of a gaunt Tony, paler than ever before, laying in a crumpled heap at the foot of the stairs. Barton was over him, followed by Bruce, who seemed to have lost a slipper in his own race down the stairs. Natasha was the most level headed of all, running instantly to the freezer and grabbing ice packs, water, towels – anything she thought might be useful, and lining them up square on the table as if the kitchen counter were a triage center rather than a breakfast nook.
"Cradle his neck, don't let it move." Bruce was directing Clint, who steadily and robotically obeyed.

"Good, like that. Good, Clint. Okay, JARVIS, anything broken?"

The AI responded in turn. "Initial vital scan has detected no trauma to the spinal column or skeletal system."

Steve let out a breath. Bruce gave a similar huff and pushed up his glasses. The Doctor pulled his phone out from his robe pocket and shone the flashlight, once, twice, into each of Tony's pupils.

"Shall I call a SHIELD medical team, Doctor Banner?" JARVIS probed.

Bruce looked unsure, glancing up to Steve. "Tony would hate us for it." The doctor's expression shifted. "And there doesn't appear to be a concussion, so I think…I think this is one that we can take care of in-house." He looked up at Steve for confirmation. "Rogers?"

Steve hated to admit it, but he knew Banner was right. Though nothing would have made the captain happier than to see Tony in a hospital bed, being monitored day and night by professionals, he knew that something was going on that only his team could fix. He nodded at Bruce, who threw him a sympathetic grimace.

"JARVIS, it would just make him grumpier at the end of the day." Banner stood, straightening the tie on his bathrobe. "Okay, Clint, keep his head steady, but he's safe to move – Steve, Thor, can one of you come-," but Thor was already at the landing, bending to sweep Tony up into his massive arms while Clint walked alongside, holding Tony's head straight so that it wouldn't flop. Thor walked as evenly and carefully as he could up the flight of stairs, adjusting his grip as he went. The magnificence of Thor's size and his radiating power only served as a harsh juxtaposition against Tony's feebleness. He looked even smaller and weaker than he had before.

"Captain," Thor spoke as he reached the main floor, and his voice was unsettled. "I have never known Stark to be so…lightweight." The Asgardian cast a sad gaze to the unconscious man in his arms, and Steve managed to get a good, up and close look at Tony without the Italian sprinting madly around the room. His cheeks were sunken and waxen, and Thor was right – his clothes were hanging off of his frame much too loosely.
"God, Tony," Steve couldn't help the pain that struck his chest. He looked back up to Thor. "How long do you think he's been like this. This isn't just one week – it can't be."
Thor walked past him, gentle as ever with Tony. "I fear you are right, Rogers. But you must have faith that Stark will tell us…when he is ready." Thor smiled, bittersweet. "In my home, those who suffer from ailments of the mind and spirit are considered much braver than those who suffer from a physical injury." He readjusted his grip on Stark, ever gentle. "Wounds that cannot be bandaged are much more averse to treatment, and those that still try to heal are courageous, indeed."

Steve nodded, suddenly fighting back tears, and brought a hand up to scrub at his face. He was grateful the Asgardian was here. Thor's wisdom had a calming effect, which was greatly needed, not just now, but in any situation where Steve genuinely didn't know what to do.

He wasn't raised in this time – he didn't know all that much about things like anxiety and PTSD – Hell, in his day, it was called shellshock, and he had certainly seen its effects in the barracks after particularly horrific battles.

But…Tony had certainly seen his fair share of those.

As if reading Steve's uncertainty, Natasha brought him back to reality with a firm grip on his arm. "Steve, go grab pillows off his bed. At least 2. Then, go into my room." She was speaking to him with such assuredness that Steve found himself hanging on every word, thankful to not be giving the orders for a change. "East wall, there is a closet. Fourth shelf on the right, PIN code 4295, and don't forget to grab a wire coat hanger."

Steve blinked at her.

"Just go." She pushed him down the hallway.

Thor and Clint were now safely in the living room. They laid Tony softly on the sofa, all too aware that his forehead was burning up and he was weaker than a kitten. Natasha met them in the living room with her munitions: an ice pack, a few wet dishrags, paper towels, and a bottle of vodka. Wordlessly, she placed one cold rag on Tony's forehead and another on the back of his neck. She gingerly lifted Tony's head, feeling an impressive sized lump from his battle with the landing wall, and slid the wrapped ice pack under his skull.

"Bruce, can you get his legs?" Natasha uncorked the bottle of vodka while Bruce positioned himself at the end of the couch and elevated Tony's legs to rest on the arm of the sofa, forcing blood to his chest and his head.

At this point Steve had three large pillows under one arm as he strode nervously into Natasha and Clint's shared rooms. He followed her instructions to a T, opening her closet and uncovering the dresser. He counted down to the fourth drawer, opened it up, and on the right-hand side of the space there was a small, refrigerated strong box with a pin pad. He punched in the code Natasha had given him.

"4…2…9…5," He was rewarded with an audible click of the locking mechanism as it released. Steve pulled the small door aside and was surprised to see several IV bags, filled with fluids. Steve closed his eyes in a silent prayer, thanking Natasha for always being equipped. He reached into the box and grabbed two packs for good measure, careful not to unravel the carefully wound IV lines attached to the caps. He resealed the box, pushed in the shelf, and dutifully grabbed a grey metal coat hanger from the closet before shutting the door and exiting the room. Feeling fulfilled, he strode with newfound purpose through the hallway towards the living room.

Natasha looked up when Steve entered the den. She ran a visual quick checklist and was satisfied to note that Steve had not forgotten anything. Nat stood, nodding her approval.

"Steve, hand one pillow to Bruce to keep Tony's knees elevated - the other two we can use for his head and his neck." Steve obliged, happy, again, to be following orders in the moment instead of trying to give them.

He handed her the IV bags, speaking quietly. "Here are the fluid packs, and the metal hanger – though I still don't get why-," Natasha answered his unspoken question by quickly bending the coat hanger in half and hanging it on a nearby floor lamp, which she had moved to Tony's end of the couch.

"Ah." Steve nodded appreciably. "IV stand. Gotcha." He looked almost embarrassed.

Natasha gave him a small smile. "Old field trick. Its quicker than getting a fancy one from the boys downstairs." He watched her kneel, douse a folded square of paper towel in vodka, and swiftly sterilize a patch on Tony's forearm before expertly finding a vein with the butterfly needle. "I had to do this to myself all the time when I was in the field," she explained, connecting the drip and giving it a few flicks. "When you're alone, injured - on the brink of consciousness, one of these can save your life."

Barton nodded from his perch on the top of the couch. "Damn straight."

Nat didn't take her eyes off the drip, but she gave a light chuckle. "Budapest, am I right?"

Steve watched with a growing sense of ease as the IV line filled and started to steadily drain into Tony's dehydrated veins. "And this one…?" He asked, gesturing to the bag.

"Essential fluids, b12 vitamin, glucose, small dose of a non-opiod painkiller – nothing fancy. But enough to make a big difference." She stood, gathering her supplies, and headed back toward the kitchen. "I keep them here for mission aftercare, now." She paused, looking at Tony, a rare moment of vulnerability creeping its way to her marble surface.

"…And for him."

About 90 minutes later, the city below was in its usually morning frenzy at the prospect of a new day – but to the Avengers, the day had already been a long one. Each teammate was puttering anxiously around the apartment.

Immediately after Tony had settled, Thor had returned to his room to change into his own clothes, and after explaining the morning's events to Jane, had been promptly joined by his girlfriend to keep a calm vigil over Tony's slumbering form in the living room. Dr. Foster was nestled against the Asgardian on the opposite couch to Stark, reading a book on perpetual motion in four dimensions and making coffee for anyone who wanted it.

Natasha and Steve were currently seated, freshly showered, at the breakfast nook, each picking at a bowl of granola cereal and nursing a large glass of orange juice. Steve had needed to do some sort of exercise, if only to take the edge off, so he and Natasha had done an hour-long yoga session on the landing pad. The exertion, coupled with the proximity to Tony, had put Steve at ease. Also, they both had to admit, the early morning view of Manhattan was beautiful.

Bruce, sitting contentedly in a neighboring armchair, was keeping an ever-watchful eye on his slumbering friend, but was overall pleased with his progress. His initial evaluation, matched with JARVIS' monitoring system, had detected no serious trauma and no concussion, the thought of which had weighed heavily on Bruce's mind at first. After only 30 minutes with the cold rags and the IV, Tony's skin tone had gone from ashen grey to a pale pink, and his temperature had gone down considerably. He seemed to be sleeping much more soundly than he had at the beginning, and the IV bag was practically empty.

"Nat, I think it's time for another miracle bag." Bruce spoke softly, easing out his chair and leaning forward. "One last one and he should almost be at proper hydration and blood sugar levels. Right JARVIS?"

The AI spoke at a low volume. "Yes, Doctor Banner. Sir's levels are steadily returning to normal."

Clint huffed from the corner, where he was playing a target-shooting game on his phone. "Oh, don't let Tony hear you say that," he grumbled with a hint of bitterness. "Tony Stark isn't normal. No, no - normalcy is for regular people." He scoffed, mumbling under his breath. "Well, at least regular people don't throw themselves down staircases to prove a point."

Steve clicked his tongue. "Now, Barton, don't be salty."

They all froze and turned to look at Steve, who returned their gaze with an innocent expression. Natasha blinked several times and stared, disbelieving.

"Where in the hell did you learn what 'salty' meant?" Her tone was suspicious, but her eyes held a fair share of amusement.

Steve shrugged, re-adjusting his newspaper with a furl, not even trying to hide how smug he was feeling. "I'm online."

Tony slept for 17 hours, without moving one time. Not even a twitch. If there hadn't been a constant monitor on him, he could have been mistaken for dead.

Tony went through a total of four IV bags until he was completely out of the danger zone and well into healthy. Steve had kept one hand on the TV remote and the other on Tony's wrist for nearly the entire day, unable to focus on passing the time unless he could feel Tony's heartbeat. It had been erratic and weak at first, but it was now so much stronger and consistent that Steve could hear it from the other end of the couch. Now, that didn't stop him from clinging to Tony's wrist all day – but it certainly relaxed him.

It was officially a new day, and pitch-black outside, when Tony first shuffled in his position on the couch. There was a twitch of the eyebrow, followed by a small sniffle as his tongue roamed the dry expanse of his mouth.

Steve, completely absorbed in the Planet Earth episode on the television, didn't even realize that Tony was waking up until he felt the hand he was holding tug slightly out of his grip. The motion scared Steve so much that he almost shot clear out of his chair, and he swiveled just in time to see Tony's left eye crack open.

Awash with relief, Steve switched gears immediately, shutting the TV off and crouching by the arm of the sofa.

"Hey, Tony, how you doing?" His fingers flitted nervously over Tony's IV tubes and blanket edges, carefully guiding them as the engineer stirred, careful to keep everything free of entanglement.

"…St'v?"

Steve couldn't help but smile. "Yah, Stark, it's me. How ya feeling?"

Tony blinked hard, his eyes still thick with sleep, but clear of true exhaustion. Stark looked…well, he looked good – not great, but good. The soldier felt a lock in his chest release, letting him breathe easy for the first time all day – and if he was being honest, for the first time all week.

But Steve could see Tony was still a bit out of it, so he squeezed his hand gently. "Stark? Hey, do you need anything?"

Tony opened his mouth, coughing slightly, licking his lips. "I…gotta pee."

Steve's head bobbed to his chest, and he ran a tired hand through his hair, chuckling. "Good, Tony, that's really good. Do you think we can get you to the bathroom? You up for it?"

Tony closed his eyes, but picked his head off the couch, nodding slightly. "Yes, ma'am."

"Good, Tony, that's great." Steve had one hand under his head, helping him sit up, and the other hand had never left Tony's. Now, with a stronger grip around each other's palms, Tony was slowly lifted into a sitting position, and the engineer groggily slid his legs off the edge of the couch so that his feet were planted on the carpet. "How are you doing now, Stark?"

But Tony was squeezing his eyes shut, inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth, looking just as faint as he had yesterday morning.

Steve felt his heart drop. "Tony? Tony is something wrong?" he immediately began doubting every decision they made that day. They should have taken him right to the hospital, immediately, and they should have forced him days ago to come upstairs, they should have-

"Steve, Steve…" Tony swung his free hand over to reassuringly pat Steve's knee. "…'m'fine," He blinked a few times. "I'm just goin' for a swim, that's all."

Steve paused. "A swim?"

"Yah, a swim." Tony's eyes were open, but they were unfocused. "Y'know, when you sit up too fast 'n everything's kinda swimmy." The engineer mumbled, breathing casually, just waiting for the blurriness to pass.

"Oh – oh!" Steve nodded, still nervous, but understanding. "Ok, well, you let me know when you're ready to stand up."

"Will do," Tony gave a weak salute. "And, Cap, you can stop breaking my fingers now."

Steve let go of Tony's other hand as if he'd been struck by lightning. "Sorry, I've just been checking your pulse all day-,"

"Sure thing."

"Tony, you were-,"

"Its ok, Cap, admit it: you like holding my hand."

"Tony."

"I don't blame you, I'm a handsome devil-,"

Steve sighed. "Stark, you are unbelievably-,"

"Unbelievably full of urine? How astute of you, I am absolutely bursting." He shook his feet a little bit to dispel the pins and needles. "I'm ready to go. Help me up."

Steve stood and offered his arms for grips. Tony did need a few tries, but he eventually mustered the energy to stand relatively quickly, and he only held onto Steve for the first few steps before he got his sea legs back underneath him. Steve could have lifted Tony and carried him to the bathroom without breaking a sweat, but he knew it was important for Tony to feel like he had at least one thing under control right now.

Besides, Steve would be lying if he said it didn't make him a little proud to watch Tony get up onto his feet and shuffle slowly down the hall. He was glad that he'd convinced everyone to go to sleep early – his teammates had been completely drained by the day's events, and nobody could be sure when Tony was going to come around. The fact that he wasn't seriously hurt, and that there was no imminent danger, had been more than enough to get everyone to relinquish their lookout spots around the flat and retire for the evening.

He ran a hand over his face, bringing his gaze back up to Tony's alarmingly small frame making its way toward his apartments. For a moment, Captain Rogers was unsure as to whether or not he should follow Tony, just in case he needed help. He tried to reason with himself – Tony is fine, he's a grown man, he's exhausted not wounded, he can make it to the bathroom.

All was going well until Tony suddenly paused at the end of the hall and slumped unceremoniously into a lean against a door frame. The sound of his labored breathing assaulted Steve's ears.

"Fuck it," Steve muttered. Inner conflict gone, he was at Tony's side in about 4 strides.

"Hey…Steve," Tony gazed up at him as soon as he felt the soldier's grip on his shoulder; and in turn,

Steve felt the dampness of Tony's back from the exertion of walking thirty steps. "I'm so sorry," Tony cast his eyes down, more embarrassed than he could ever remember being. "But I…I don't think I can. My legs feel so…and I'm so…" he exhaled, and Steve could see his chin start to quiver. "I'm so tired." Tony gulped. "And this is really embarrassing but I smell disgusting and I'm starving and I can't believe I'm asking this of you, but would-,"

"Tony, look at me." Steve locked eyes with the engineer, forcing him to match his gaze. "I don't know what happened last week. I don't know why you let yourself get to this point." Tony just nodded. "But I'm not going to ask you that. I'm not going to harass you right now."

Tony let his head fall, relief palpable, his voice a rasp. "Thank you."

"Hey, hey," Steve tightened his grip on Tony's shoulder. "back up here." He waited for Tony to shyly meet his gaze once more. "Tony, this," he gestured broadly, "this is not something to be ashamed of. This is not something to hide from. What this is," Steve gripped his shoulder again. "Is something that you can't and shouldn't try to do alone. So, yah, I'm gonna help you get cleaned up, you don't have to ask. And you're gonna take a bath, not just a shower, whether you like it or not."

Steve felt instantly better when Tony gave a small huff, half a laugh and half a grimace.

"So, you ready to go?" Steve's face was nothing but support and kindness, and Tony couldn't help the pang it stirred in his chest. He felt the hot tears welling in his eyes, and he just let them fall. This was Steve.

"Yessir, Capsicle." Tony couldn't help but whisper. "Can you please help me to my room?"

"Of course."

Steve slung the smaller man's arm over his, half walking him, half lifting him down the remainder of the hall. He effortlessly managed the door and his charge, gliding Tony into his apartments, into the bathroom, and to the edge of the tub. Steve went as far as to help Tony get down to his boxers, and then turned to let Tony keep a shred of dignity. Steve just listened for trouble as Tony transferred himself from the bathtub lip to a seated position on the toilet, where he was finally able to pee.

"You know," Tony quipped. "Considering you gave me, what – three IV bags?"

"Four," Steve shot over his shoulder.

"Four then. Four IV bags, phew." Tony huffed appreciatively. "It's a miracle I didn't piss myself on the couch."

The two men shared a soft laugh, and Tony finished up with a resounding flush. Steve could hear the shuffle as Tony slid back into his boxers and flipped the seat down to give himself a chair.

"Good?"

"Good."

Steve went through some cupboards and closets in the bathroom, grabbing handfuls of towels and soaps. He knelt by the edge of the tub, turning the shower on and testing the temperature with his hand. Satisfied with the water, Steve let it run for a few seconds while he grabbed a stool from the kitchen, bringing it back and planting its rubber-tipped legs securely onto the floor of the luxury bathtub.

"Ok, Tony, you can stay in your underwear, we're just gonna do an initial hose down so that when you soak in the tub you aren't swimming in grime."

Tony, who had ben resting his head against the wall, was nearly asleep once more. "Mhmm, hose me down like sorority sister."

Steve raised an eyebrow. "Look at yourself. I was thinking more like a dumpster fire."

Tony's head quirked, and he opened one eye. "Touché."

Steve asked Tony to do his best to stand, but in reality, Steve basically lifted him like a sack of potatoes and placed him with immeasurably delicacy onto the stool. Luckily, the stool had a small back to it and arm rests, so Steve didn't have to worry about Tony slipping off.

Positioning the shower head in its holster, warm water splashed mercifully over Tony's battered, dirty body, and his lips parted in appreciation.

"Ok, Stark, just try not to fall asleep yet, I'm gonna getcha cleaned up, here." With a little input from Tony, Steve selected a dark blue designer bottle from the shower caddy and poured a generous dollop of its contents into his palm. Rubbing his hands into a lather, he gently began working the shampoo through Tony's grease-infused locks.

He was making small circles, careful to not batter Tony's neck, and mindful to avoid the small lump on the back of his head – the only remnant from his terrifying tumble down the stairs.

"Tony?"

"Mhmmm?"

"How much of this morning do you remember?"

Steve watched as Tony's brows furrowed, his mind searching through the haze of fatigue. "Not…not really anything?" Tony cracked his lids. "Why?" he peered at Steve. "What happened?"

"You really don't remember anything?"

"Uh, well. I remember the Mark 50. I remember running up the stairs to tell you, then I made a coffee, and I think Thor was naked." He paused. "Was Thor naked?"

"Briefly, yes."

"Cool. Glad to know I'm on the right track."

Steve didn't want to prompt him, or upset him, so he figured it could wait for another time. "Well, don't worry about it, I'm sure it will come back to you eventually. Besides, you need to get some sleep. Anything else can w-"

"No, no, Steve." Tony shifted, suspicious, trying to look at him dead on. "You've got that voice on. That 'don't-tell-Tony-cuz-it'll-just-make-him-upset' voice."

Steve hesitated, though his hands never stopped running the shampoo through Tony's hair. "You're right."

Tony let out a breath, bracing himself. "Well, are you going to tell me?"

"Do you really want me to? Right now?"

"…Not really."

"Then it can wait. Okay?"

Tony wanted to say something, and then Steve grabbed the shower head from its spot on the wall and began to rinse the soap from Tony's hair. The grease and sweat ran the water yellow, but the smell of the soap was soothing, and the water felt blissful against Tony's abused scalp.

Tony conceded, leaning back and closing his eyes again, but the quaver to his voice was distinct. "Okay."

"Okay." Steve smiled, and finished rinsing Tony's hair. He finished up with some conditioner, and then did a thorough wash of Tony's face and neck, gently wiping a washcloth over Tony's beard and scrubbing the exhaustion plain out of his skin. The water cascaded, warm and soothing, down Tony's chest and back. Steve lifted Tony's arms, scrubbing and cleaning, replacing the smells of sweat and burnt plastic with Irish Spring. Tony was fully catatonic at this point, lost in the sound of the water hitting his head and the feeling of being tended to. There were moments when it was just too emotionally overwhelming, and Tony had let tears slide silently down his face. If Steve had noticed, he didn't say anything, he just kept up his munitions. There would never be words to express the gratitude Tony felt in those moments.

Finally, the basic bathing was done, and Steve had Tony wrapped in a large fluffy towel, lifting him clear off the stool and placing him gingerly down onto another towel he had folded earlier on the closed toilet seat. Tony leaned into him, letting himself be lowered and raised like a ragdoll.

Steve rinsed out the bathtub, quickly clearing it out so that Tony could get into the warmth before he caught a chill. Soon, the tub was filled with blissfully hot water and soap, and Steve tapped Tony on the shoulder to rouse him.

"I promise this is the only time I will ever say this, but Tony, strip down and get in the tub,"

His eyebrows shot up, amused. "Buy me dinner first?"

"Well, if you can promise me that you'll stay awake in the tub, I'll go make you dinner."

Tony's eyes were immediately open and more alert. "Sounds like a plan, Capsicle. I'm starving." Tony gestured, still wrapped in the towel, towards his bedroom. "Grab me my phone, I'll keep myself entertained."

Steve nodded, pleased. "Good, what do you want to eat?"

"Literally anything. Roast beef, duck a l'orange, chicken piccata, filet mignon - ,"

Steve held his hand up. "How about we start with something simple, like soup."

Tony pursed his lips and nodded slowly, pondering, considering. "Ya know, soup could be good."

When Steve came back to the bathroom, he had a TV tray in his hands with a giant bowl of chicken-and-rice Campbells soup balanced on top. There was a ring of Ritz crackers and two slices of wheat bread with butter.

Tony was emerged in the tub, a thick layer of bubbles floating atop the water, his phone in his hand. He looked up, almost startled to see Steve, but instantly set his phone atop the bathmat and reached his hands out for his late supper. Steve lowered the tray, helping support it until Tony found a balance point on his knees and the edge of the tub. As soon as the tray was in his hands, Steve rolled back on his heels and sat himself softly against the bathroom wall, legs crossed at the ankles, comfortable on the floor.

Tony completely ignored decorum and began slurping the soup straight from the bowl, finding the time to squeeze a cracker into his mouth every few gulps.

"The soup isn't going anywhere, Tony," Steve gave a wry smile, his arms crossing over his chest. "You don't have to kill it. The chicken's already dead."

Embarrassment flashed over Tony's features, and then he seemed to collect himself. He sat up, trying to find the words he needed to thank Steve…for everything.

"Rogers, I can't…um, I know I can't say 'thank you' enough, but-,"

Steve held a hand up to stop him. "This isn't a favor, Stark. This is my job, and I'm happy being here. You would do the same for me."

Tony just nodded, humbled, and returned to his soup.

Within minutes, the food on the tray was no more, and Tony looked completely blissed. Steve could see, despite their intermittent small talk, that Tony was checked out and due for another deep sleep. Steve sighed loudly and made a move to get off the floor.

"Where ya going?" Tony asked beneath heavy eyelids. Though he was groggy, his voice held an unmistakable note of anxiety. He thought Steve was leaving.

"Nowhere, Tony. We're gonna get you out of the tub, into some PJs, and into bed." Steve reached into the tub and pulled the stop. "How does that sound?"

"Mhhmmm," Tony was instantly more relaxed. "S' good."

Steve held a fresh towel up and Tony managed to stand up long enough to be completely swaddled in it. Steve held him close to his chest, picking him up and placing him onto the bathmat. The soldier had already selected a fresh t-shirt and a fresh pair of cotton boxers for Tony to change in to; they were resting, folded, on the counter.

Tony was rejuvenated enough to dress himself without Steve having to stand at the ready, so the soldier waited in his bedroom while Tony shuffled lazily into the first clean clothing he'd worn in a week and a half.

Steve led him to the edge of the bed, pulling the sheets back and helping him swing his legs up under the covers. "There you go, pal." Steve muttered a few reassurances while he firmly tucked the engineer into his blankets, his own anxieties of the day being washed away by every contented breath Tony took.

It was going to be a long road to getting Tony back to normal, but this was a hell of a good starting point. And Steve knew, deep down, that it didn't matter how many times Tony relapsed like this. He would never begrudge him his breakdowns, and he would never stop helping him find his way out of them.

"Ok, Stark, I'm gonna let you get some real sleep. If you're not up in 10 hours, I will come in and wake you up – we gotta get back to a schedule, soldier." Steve let a grin tease at his lips. "Goodnight, Tony."

Steve was turning to go when a calloused hand found his wrist. The grip wasn't strong, but it was insistent. Steve froze. "Tony?"

"Pl's…keep talking?" There was so much masked emotion behind those few words. Tony was begging him to stay, to talk to him, to make him feel…not alone.

Steve felt a lump in his throat. He had to take a second to swallow it down.

"Yah, okay, Tony, I'll…I'll tell you about….about the forties, would that be good?"

"Mhhmmm," and Tony visibly nuzzled further into his sheets. "That would be great."

"Uh, yah, alright." Steve looked around for a chair, and found a small armchair in the corner of the room. He soundlessly carried it to Tony's bedside, and made himself comfortable.

"Well, Tony, I'm not exactly sure what to tell you the most about, there were so many amazing things. The music, the dancing, the inventions…My friend Bucky and I, we went out once, to Coney Island, with these two beautiful dames…" He trailed off. Something in the back of his mind told him that this isn't what Tony needed to hear.

No, Steve knew which stories to tell.

"Actually, ya know, Tony," Steve smiled, speaking low. "When I was a kid, and I was sick all the time, my mom used to do this to me, exactly the same." Steve stopped and shrugged ruefully. "Well, granted, we could have fit our entire apartment into your bathroom, but still. She would have me in and out of the tub a dozen times a day, cold baths to lower my temperatures, hot baths to help my lungs and my joints. I never thought about how hard it must have been for her, to know she was doing all she could and never knowing if it was going to help. We didn't have anything – none of the medications and antihistamines and fever reducers that you can buy clear off a shelf these days. We just had to take what common sense God gave us and do the best we could." Steve gave a sad smile. "She was a good woman. And when she died, well…"

He trailed off, and his eyes found Tony, fast asleep and content, cozy and clean under his thick comforter. Steve spoke directly to him. "And when she died, the only family I had left was the family I chose." Tony breaths were steady, and the lines of worry on his forehead were less pronounced than Steve had ever seen them.

He was so much like Howard sometimes that Steve had, on more than one occasion, almost called him by his father's name. Howard, too, was a brave hero, a groundbreaking engineer, and an accomplished academic. But he was also a stubborn and proud man – not that Tony wasn't. Hell, Tony was, by self-proclamation, a textbook narcissist. But Tony…Tony was different, in many ways. Tony was never cruel. Tony was never apathetic. Tony was loyal to a fault. In that way, Steve figured he must be more like Maria.

It saddened Steve to see the damage that Howard had done to his own son. Something changed that reckless, brilliant man from the forties. Something dark and painful.

"You know, Tony." Steve whispered into the darkness of the room. "I didn't know the Howard that you knew. But…" Steve paused, uncertain how to continue. "I guess it is good that you aren't listening to me right now, because I don't really know how else to say it…But the Howard that I did know, he would have loved you; and more than that, Tony, he would have told you that every single day. He would have been so proud of you, and I think you would have been proud of him, too." Steve rested a hand on Tony's head. "I know I'm proud of you. You're the strongest man I've ever met. And I'm honored that you're my friend. And I'm grateful that you're my family."

Tony gave a small snore, and Steve closed his eyes.

So yah, this was really heavy Tony and Steve, and both of them might have been a bit OOC, but a) this is a fanfic and b) sometimes I need to write what I need to read. But I just value their relationship so much, and I wanted to show how strong their bond is. I know we've had a few home care/not very adventury oneshots lately, so I promise the next few will be more action packed!

Thank you all for coming back to me 3