Tony had seen a few things. His childhood was shitty enough: lonely, neglected, and struggling for acceptance that he'd never get, it hadn't been fun. He still had residual issues from it. He didn't trust easily, drank too much, and had a generally volatile personality.

Afghanistan had been mutilating. He killed people. Men. He watched Yinsen die. He had a serious surgery in a dank cave and was hooked up to a car battery. His heart had been permanently damaged. Hell, he'd been permanently damaged. It had been terrifying, demoralizing, and a complete eye-opener to the violence he was facilitating. Nothing like waking up to your own failures. Failures that had quite possibly killed thousands of people. Children. Guilt. He was a guilty man.

So there were reasons why he avoided sleep like the plague, abused alcohol, and desperately abstained from human contact even though he wanted it just as much. But he wasn't a child anymore, despite what Pepper liked to claim, and he handled it.

There were cold sweats, restless nights, and a plethora of character defects. He dealt.

He understood what PTSD was, knew how bad it could get. He didn't have the time to break down. He had a company to run, parties to attend, experiments to conduct.

Tony would let it burn in the back of his mind, leaking through in alcoholic episodes and the occasional suicidal rescue attempt. It was bad sometimes, and his heart felt like it was having a seizure, but he was dealing.

The other stuff, the arrogance, insanity, and general insomnia, were all normal.

He was Tony Stark.

And while he'd reached some sort of self-possessed redemption through the Iron Man, certain things started to fall together with it.

Sometimes Tony forgot that the Avengers were a team. He forgot that there was probably going to be someone wandering around his house when he got home. He forgot that when he went down, there would be someone swooping in and saving the day. He forgot that instead of just Pepper and Rhodey and occasionally Happy, there were five other people who put up with all his shit, and actually didn't mind it.

It was a refreshing feeling, to be honest.

The Avengers were having one of their movie nights. It had become something of a ritual after Tony had started Toy Story after a horrible mission with a lot of casualties, and everyone filtered into the living room, bruised and wounded in ways untouchable. They could never set a specific date for it, with everyone participating in such an unpredictable work life; they just seemed to gather like moths to light for those few hours of peace.

Clint and Natasha were already dominating the couch, both appearing unusually relaxed in pajama bottoms and worn-out shirts. It was strange, knowing that there were two assassins in his house who felt safe enough to be human. They were both such loose-limbed, lethal weapons. Every movement was planned, every action spoke of power.

It freaked him out, ladies and gents.

Bruce was sitting on the bar, intently studying a stack of papers with his glasses perched on his nose. Tony smothered the small smile of affection that threatened to overcome his face.

No, Tony Stark didn't get the warm and fuzzies.

Bruce was just cute in an old man way, like a wrinkled grandfather; one who occasionally ripped apart jets and turned into a steroid-using extra from Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

"Hey, where's Cap?"

Clint dropped a few pieces of popcorn into his mouth. "Probably asleep. Kid looked exhausted when he got back a couple hours ago."

Tony got up and started pulling glasses from underneath the bar counter. "Did he go solo with SHIELD or something? I thought you two always palled around."

"I'm on vacation. I don't know what his mission was about. It's not he's the most talkative person we've ever met."

Shrugging, Tony waved his hand behind him. "What's your poison?" Unfortunately, Clint was the only one who really drank with him. Bruce didn't want to risk it, Thor and Steve couldn't get intoxicated, and Natasha was too uptight.

"I'll just take a beer. Something light."

Natasha shifted from where she was leaning against Clint. "What movie are we going to watch?"

"I was thinking about Jurassic Park."

She blinked. "You're kidding me, right?"

Tony tossed her a water bottle as he handed Clint a bottle of beer. "Okay, would you rather that or E.T.?"

"What's with the horrible '90s movies?"

Tony feigned hurt surprise, collapsing into a leather armchair. "First of all, E.T. was released in '82, and it's a Spielberg marathon. Nice guy, horrible receding hairline."

"Are you sure Steve's asleep? I feel like this is a movie he'd actually like."

The last movie they'd watched was Saving Private Ryan, and Steve flinched like he was the one getting shot and fled from the room. It wasn't as if he wasn't enough of a mute already.

"Come on, everyone knows group orgies are telepathic. He's probably just tired."

Clint's face creased with disgust. "Never say that again."

Tony shrugged and turned on the TV.

"I wouldn't mind, I'm just saying," he muttered.

They were halfway through the movie when Tony heard a loud thud that wasn't coming from the speakers. He seemed to be the only one who heard it, and just figured Steve was up. The T-Rex had just eaten the guy sitting on the toilet when there was another louder clattering. Natasha turned her head and met his eyes.

Tony shrugged. "I don't know what he's doing on the rooftop."

Over by the bar, Bruce took off his glasses and massaged his eyes. "I can go look."

There was a loud crashing noise, and Clint shot to his feet.

He started towards the staircase, and there was a blur of gray and blonde barreling into him. Clint stumbled back, Steve's hands wrapped around his biceps.

"Bucky, get down!"

Clint was thrown underneath the bar, Steve crouched over him.

Tony watched, frozen. Clint didn't move. He sat, staring in utter shock at Steve's heaving chest.

Steve ducked closer. "Th-the bombs! We have to move! C'mon! We've gotta go! Bucky! Look at me! There-there's HYDRA a-and I promised I'd get you out, and I did, I swear I did. I just, I just couldn't get—. I couldn't catch-catch you even though I tried, and I kept reaching, and reaching, but you just fell. And-and the tr-train just kept going, and I didn't mean to. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Clint's mouth opened, and then fell shut. "Steve, I'm not…"

The soldier's eyes were glazed and wide. A fine layer of sweat covered his face even though goose bumps pimpled his arms. He hauled Clint to his feet and pushed him towards the middle of the room. He ducked three times, and Tony swore he could almost hear the gunshots slicing through the air.

Tony felt like he was stuck in cement. His heartbeat thudded in his eardrums. He looked over and saw Bruce and Natasha each pulling the deer in the headlights look.

Clint pushed back against Steve and managed to get him to stop moving.

"What are you doing? We're going to get bombed! They're gonna get us! And I said—I promised, I'd make sure you were safe, and I got you out of there, but I just couldn't catch you. I'm sorry, I should have caught you. I-I just couldn't and I tried. I tried so hard, you have to believe me. I tried."

He sounded so desperate.

"Steve, what are you doing?" Clint protested. "I'm not Bucky!" He looked at Tony. "Who's Bucky? What's—? Why does he think I'm someone else?"

"We have to go!" Steve whispered vehemently.

Clint paused, grabbing Steve's arms. "Stop! Just wait! Just…let me look around, okay?" he played along.

He gave Tony another confused look. Tony averted his eyes, choosing to stare down the abstract Jackson Pollock on his wall.

"James Barnes. Captain America's right-hand man. They were best friends. My dad—" he stopped. "They were on a train when he fell off the side into the Alps. Body was never recovered."

Steve pushed Clint behind one of the walls jutting out from the main support. He supposed Clint let himself be manhandled, mainly because there was nothing he could do to prevent it. This was Captain America. He was the strongest human alive.

Strongest human alive.

"Bucky, quit fooling around! We have to go!"

He started to drag Clint forward, but he held fast, resisting Steve.

"Steve!" Clint yelled. It was strange. Tony had never heard him yell before. "Steve Rogers, look at me!"

Steve stopped his incoherent rambles, seemingly stunned that someone had yelled at him. He blinked widely, painfully unaware of what was going on. His eyes were still distant, pupils dilated.

Clint paused, features torn. At that moment, Tony didn't know who looked worse.

"I'm not Bucky. It's not 1943. It's 2012. You're in Avengers Tower in New York."

Steve's rasping breaths started to slow.

"But…" he whispered, eyes falling to the floor. "I just… You were…"

Clint's jaw flexed underneath his skin. "It's Clint, Steve. Clint. Hawkeye. I'm not Bucky."

Steve inhaled sharply.

"Where is he then?"

The room went dead.

"Steve," Clint pleaded. He closed his eyes. "Please wake up."

There was an empty breath. "But Bucky—"

"He's not Bucky. He's Clint Barton. Bucky died when he fell off the train 69 years ago, Steve. He's dead."

All eyes in the room trained on Tony, and he tossed back the whiskey in his hand. He drank the entire glass. It burned all the way down.

"Someone had to do it."

Steve blinked rapidly, awareness starting to filter through his eyes. "But…" he trailed off. He sank to his knees, Clint catching his shoulders. "Oh."

If Tony could wipe one sound from his mind at that moment, it'd be the complete devastation in that one word.

There was nothing like telling someone their best friend was dead. Again.

Steve swallowed, staring silently at the floor. The previous stress that had ravaged his face before completely drained away, leaving only an exhausted wreck behind.

"I'm…" Steve breathed. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He cleared his throat and climbed to his feet. "I shouldn't have…" He barely met Clint's eyes. "Sorry." For a horrifying two seconds, Tony was absolutely positive that Captain America was going to cry in his living room. But he didn't. "I'll go back to my room."

Steve looked up.

Tony stared at the living, breathing, breaking man that he barely knew.

"I apologize for interrupting your evening." He took a controlled breath. "It won't happen again."

The dead silence of the air followed him as the splintered pieces of Steve Rogers disappeared up the stairs.

"Well," Tony deadpanned. He quickly stepped to the other side of the bar and pulled out a bottle of vodka. "I'm going to go get drunk off my ass."

No one stopped him.

Tony Stark dealt.

The ending is abrupt, yes. I didn't know how I was supposed to follow up on that one.

Everyone always writes about Tony's nightmares. I write about Steve's.

And THEN I throw in Tony's nightmares. Because what's more breaking, witnessing pain or going through it? I also have a fetish for Tony's point of view. He's so...interesting. This is probably why he gathers all the attention in the universe; he's arrogant and complicated.

But Steve's so intensely private and a challenge to write.

OH. SO. I have to say this. I love writing in this universe, fandom, etc. Why? The reviews are delightfully long. I love it. I don't know why the stuff I put here seems to invoke such thoughtful reviews, but it does, and I adore it. So thank you.