Tony has this dream he gets: he's lying in the dirt and the sand, his fingers making lines as he scrabbles at tiny pebbles, fighting for everything breath, each one shorter than the last, trying desperately to crawl out of the puddle of blood growing under him. The dream is long and slow and awful, dying one rasping gasp at a time.
/
It's four am and they've just come back from a mission, an easy knock out, a Loki cult of fifteen violent criminals that was more of a gentle warm up than anything else. Natasha stretches, long lines of elegant grace, and Steve rests his shield on the granite island table in the middle of the Tower kitchen, cracking his neck. Bruce crashes against a wall, his bare feet dirty, pressing his face into his knees. Clint plugs in the coffee machine and smashes at the buttons until it starts gurgling before banging through the cabinets in search of cups.
Tony slumps into a stool next to Steve. "Go team," he says in the Iron Man voice, and holds up a hand to Steve, the rivets whirring in the armor's joints. Natasha leans over Steve's torso and slaps a high five to Tony's red and gold palm.
"Sniped," she says, completely straight faced, and lifts herself up to perch on the table. Steve pushes at her thigh, playfully serious, and Clint thumps mugs of expensive coffee on the tabletop. Tony's has a Spiderman logo on it, and when he flips the faceplate away and sips he finds it's hot cocoa.
"You don't need caffeine," Clint says.
Privately, Tony thinks he has everything he needs already.
/
The dream changes. A man with a scarred face laughs at him, kicks dirt into his face even has he stitches him up. "You won't get off that easy," he spits, accented. "You don't deserve to die." He heats a piece of metal over a fire of scrap wood and laughs when he presses it to Tony's arm. Tony screams and smells his own flesh burning.
/
Dummy drops the welding torch and Tony twists to catch the glove he was working on. It burns him and he curses, letting it clatter to the floor. A red angry line forms, between his wrist and elbow, and he stares at it. He smells smoke, burned hair, scorched flesh. He watches his skin blister and feels the pain from very far away.
"Tony?" Pepper clicks into the workroom, eyes on her tablet. "I need your signature-" She looks up and gasps, dropping her stylus from fumbling fingers as she rushes to his side.
Tony shakes himself. "It's fine," he says, turning to the first aid kit he keeps well stocked. "A love tap from the Dumm-pster."
"You need to be careful," Pepper scolds, and wraps the burn, smearing ointment and using tiny scissors to cut the gauze.
Tony thinks about a scarfaced man and a burn in the same place.
/
Tony dreams of a rusted cot, the metal digging into his body, and the burning fever of infection.
/
"No practice for you," Clint says, singsong.
"Tony go take an Advil and lie down," Steve says, wrapping his knuckles for sparring. Natasha, already ready, bounces on her toes in the practice ring.
"Ha," Tony says, standing straight and steady with an effort. "Shows what your Depression-era ass knows. Not Theraflu, that's what."
Bruce appears at his elbow with tea. "You're making less sense than usual."
"Even for me!" Tony chirps, and throws up on Bruce's shoes. His ears are ringing. He feels sand under his fingernails.
/
How to know if you're dreaming, Tony googles. He skims four pages of results and orders Jarvis to wipe the history.
/
The scarface man kicks him in the ribs and throws a shallow bowl of thin gruel on the floor by his head. It smells like the cheap oatmeal MIT served in the dorm cafeterias.
/
Bruce is baking. Steve sits in the window seat and sketches, Natasha's feet against his thigh. She's stretched on soft blue foam, sharpening knives on her back, red curls hanging off the seat. Tony takes Clint's mug out of his hand and chugs it. Clint takes it back in a huff and stalks back to the coffee machine. Tony can hear the scratch of Steve's pencil on paper, the bubble of Clint's coffee, soft deadly snik snik of Natasha's blades.
"Cookie," Bruce says. His hand drags over Tony's, relaxed, at home. The cookie is warm in Tony's hand.
Tony takes a bite and almost gags. It's oatmeal, and his ribs hurt.
/
Tony and Pepper creep up to the roof and drink vodka out of paper cups. "Today I walked into the kitchen and the god of thunder was making fluffernutter sandwiches. Then Captain America walked in wearing a towel."
"A good day for any heterosexual woman," Tony says cheerfully. They toast, the wax rims of the dixie cups tapping against each other.
"Do you ever feel like you're living a dream?" Pepper asks.
/
The scarface man pulls Tony's fingernails off, one by one, and breaks each finger twice at the joint, once at the knuckle. He smiles when Tony begs for mercy.
Tony closes his eyes and welcomes passing out. He waits for his dreams.
/
Tony rips a meatball grinder in half and hands a portion to Clint, the other to Steve. He sits on a mossy boulder and pretends to clean his nails. Just in sight across a clearing Natasha hums a lullaby, running a finger across Bruce's green palm.
"Tony," Steve says suddenly, "they got you-" he points at the place between two chest plates, where a needle has punches through the undersuit. He yanks it out and Tony yelps, pitching to the side. Steve eases him down.
Clint sniffs the needlepoint. "Laced," he grunts. Steve feels for the catches in the faceplate and tugs it off. Tony tastes dirt in his mouth, feels sluggish. He can see Natasha jogging towards them, her face pinched in concern. Behind her, Bruce stumbles to catch up, holding his pants up with one hand.
"You'll be fine," Steve assures him. Clint radios for medical support. Bruce arrives at Tony's side and flicks him in the forehead.
"You'll be fine," he echoes. Tony raises a metal arm and Bruce grips it, reassuring.
"It's okay," Tony says softly. Natasha taps on his shoulder as she and Steve go by at a jog to fetch the medical team. "It's okay," Tony says again, Bruce's face going blurry, "it's not real, it's okay."
/
Tony dreams Rhodey is throwing peanuts at his face, trying to get them in Tony's slack mouth. "I would have gotten one eventually," Rhodey says when he sees Tony watching him.
"You came back for this?" Tony rasps, "little old me?"
"Yeah," Rhodey says, tossing a peanut in the air and catching it in his mouth, "someone tells me my best friend is ranting about reality being a dream and I take it seriously."
"What an asshole," Tony agrees.
/
Scarface says something in another language, and then English, talks about ransom. Tony closes his eyes and goes back to sleep.
/
Pepper is perpetually pinched, Tony thinks, and applauds the alliteration.
"This doesn't work unless you work at it," his very expensive therapist says.
/
Natasha breaks into his room and sits crosslegged on his mattress. Tony pours her a scotch neat and leans against the wall. "Any word on when I can rejoin the team?"
"Not my call," Natasha says. "And you know what you need to do, anyway."
Tony opens a very expensive bottled water and drains it. He sits on the edge of the bed next to her and dangles his hands between his legs. "I like it better here," he says.
Natasha lets the silence roll between them, back and forth like a riptide. "Sometimes all you have is a choice," she says. Between her fingers, the business card for his therapist dances pointedly. Her other hand hovers above his shoulder. "What will you choose?"
/
Tony dreams.