Steve is gripping his shield to his chest, in full uniform, sitting in the dingy hospital ward, and he won’t stop shaking, and shaking, and shaking.
He scans the room—once, twice, thrice. No bugs, no trackers, no cameras where they don’t belong, no planted ticking bombs.
It’s fine, it’s fine, he’s being overly paranoid about this.
Better safe than sorry, he thinks, scanning the room again. He would get up to check, but he’s felt like he’s been firmly glued to his chair since Tony practically shoved him into it two, maybe three hours ago.
He’s looked over every crevice and corner in this room so many times he’s memorized them. He won’t forget this room again, the crack in the left corner of the ceiling, the chipped paint just beside it.
He clutches his shield to his chest, ignoring the thudding of Tony’s shoes against the floor as he paces, and Bruce’s slightly-heavier-than-normal breathing at the opposite end of the room, and the heart monitor beeping unsteadily, Natasha’s pale, limp form next to it.
He scans the room again.
Bruce is half-asleep now, starting to snore softly under the blanket the nurses gave him. His breathing is always heavier than normal after a Hulk-out, and it carries over to his sleep. Thor has gone to check on Clint, who also took a lot of damage, but not… not fatal damage.
Steve stares at Natasha on the hospital bed, barely breathing, an IV attached to her wrist and so many tubes coming out of her he feels sick just looking at them.
Tony stops pacing.
“Steve,” he says, rubbing at the spot between his eyes with two fingers, “you should shower and get changed.”
“You haven’t,” Steve says, and he doesn’t mean for it to come out sounding clipped. A moment later, he remembers that Tony has showered, right after he was discharged from the hospital with his left bicep bandaged.
Steve doesn’t know how he missed the scent of soap still lingering on Tony’s skin. He shouldn’t have. He’s not supposed to miss these things.
Tony looks up at his tone, and Steve wills himself to stop shaking. He doesn’t.
“Cap, you okay?”
“Swell, Tony, swell.”
“It’s been, what, sixteen hours? Even Bruce has cleaned up. You should probably freshen up, too.”
“I’m fine.”
“You really look and sound like it.”
Steve does not look at him. He scans the room.
Tony stares. “Are you sure you’re good?”
“I’m good,” Steve snaps. Tony gets on his nerves on a good day, and he’s had a horrible, horrible day.
Tony shrugs and resumes pacing. Everything feels wrong and off-kilter. Steve can see and hear and smell everything a little too clearly, yet he still misses things, like the scent of soap on Tony’s skin.
“You should’ve followed my order, back at the base,” Steve says. He doesn’t know why he brings it up, he doesn’t want to fight right now.
Tony whirls around to face him. “And let Clint take on the bots alone? If you hadn’t noticed, he was getting fucking obliterated, and he’d be lying in the other room with much more than a concussion and a punctured organ right now if I hadn’t interfered.”
“Or you could trust my judgment and let him handle it so someone could’ve gotten to Natasha on time!” Steve snarls, his hands tightening on his shield. He hasn’t stopped shaking, and he doesn’t know why he’s suddenly angry, or why he had to start an argument with Tony Stark of all people in a goddamned hospital.
“Is this what it is, now?” Tony sneers, folding his arms across his chest. “Are we playing the blame game, Cap? Have you really thought about it? If I’d gotten to Nat on time Clint would be in her place right now, and if I hadn’t, both of them would be unconscious and barely alive. I hardly think either of those are better options.”
Steve knows he’s right. It’d been a bad mission all around, and it isn’t any of their fault that people got hurt.
It’s Steve’s fault. He’s the captain, he gives the orders. He’s responsible for all the casualties in the aftermath of the battles.
He doesn’t know what to say in response.
He scans the room again. No bugs, no trackers, no cameras where they don’t belong, no planted ticking bombs.
Tony stares at him. “What’s wrong with this room?”
“Nothing,” Steve says, too quickly. He can feel his chest tightening; he has to stay alert, he has to stay alert, because enemies could ambush them at any moment, and the Avengers, with two down, one exhausted, and one with a newly bandaged arm, are alarmingly vulnerable in this place.
“Why are you holding your shield like that?”
“Shut up,” Steve hisses, eyes darting around. No bugs, no trackers, no cameras where they don’t belong, no planted ticking bombs. They planted a bomb in the building, that was how they blasted Natasha nearly fifty feet backwards into ocean waves and hard rock.
That was also how Joe lost his arm in the war, and how George’d lost his sight, and how Henry’d exploded into nothing right in front of Steve’s eyes stepping on a landmine. He’s the captain, he makes the calls, and he’s responsible for his sol—for his team. If they get hurt, if they lose a limb, if they—if they die, that’s on him.
“Steve,” Tony says, and Steve’s chest heaves and he thinks he might not be breathing, but he couldn’t be sure. “Even J.A.R.V.I.S. couldn’t detect the bomb on time, nobody could’ve known.”
Steve seethes at the soft edge in Tony’s voice. He doesn’t need comfort or reassurance, he’s fine. He has to protect his team.
Tony walks away from him, and Steve watches as he drags an empty chair from the side, places it directly in front of Steve, and promptly plops into it.
“What are you doing?” Steve asks sharply.
Tony shuffles himself forward until his knees bump into the shield. Steve’s hand twitches.
“I’m sitting,” Tony says once he settles, meeting Steve’s glare with a steady gaze.
“Go sit elsewhere.”
“Nope, I like it just fine right here.”
Steve springs to his feet, knocking his own chair backwards with a thunderous crash. “What are you doing,” he hisses, gripping his shield tightly, scanning the room again. No bombs, no bombs, no bombs.
“What are you doing?” Tony shoots back. Steve looks down at himself, at his trembling legs and clenched arms, and he’s doesn’t know, he doesn’t know—
“Shut up,” he says instead of replying, voice raising. “Shut up!”
That’s very un-Captain America of him. Captain America doesn’t yell shut up at the slightest inconvenience. Captain America smiles politely and says the right things. Captain America and Iron Man are friends.
Steve and Tony are… barely on good terms.
“Put down the shield, Steve,” Tony says quietly.
“No,” Steve bites out.
“You’re okay, just put down the shield.”
Steve glares at him and glares at him and he can feel himself starting to break at the edges, he can feel the words on the tip of his tongue—
“They could be right here, right now,” he says, the words rushing out of him like an erupting volcano, scalding his throat like molten lava. “They could have planted cameras, trackers, bombs—they could ambush us right where we are, and I’m the only person who hasn’t been comprom—”
“They’re not here,” Tony says, standing up from his chair slowly, like he might scare Steve away if he moved too quickly. “J.A.R.V.I.S. has been scanning the hospital every ten minu—”
“J.A.R.V.I.S. failed to detect the bomb!” Steve roars. His entire body feels like it’s been lit on fire; everything in him burns. His heart pounds in his chest, every beat rolling into the next like thunder.
For once, Tony doesn’t rise to meet his tone, to match the tension and rage sizzling under his skin.
“Logically,” Tony says, his voice still soft, almost gentle, “they cannot be here. We took out all of them. That’s an estimate of nearly six hundred drones and bots, and a hundred or so more agents. You heard it while we were fighting—they had no backup, so if they have a base elsewhere, they’ll need much more than sixteen hours to regroup.”
“There’s always a possibility,” Steve grits out. He knows that Tony knows this. People these days are far too smart for their own good. Even with two geniuses, two assassins, a super soldier, a god, and the world’s most advanced technology on their side, people find ways to outsmart or outfight them.
“They’re not here,” Tony says firmly. “If they wanted to, or even knew where to ambush us in the first place, they would’ve done it twelve hours ago when we were all fucked out and two of us were nearly dead.”
“Or they could’ve been regrouping and are now ready,” Steve argues, fingers flexing around the straps of his shield. There’s a vice around his chest and it’s crushing his lungs.
Tony exhales. “I don’t know what to tell you, Cap. I’ve scoured the building myself twice since we’ve arrived. They’re not here. If you can’t trust my tech right now, at least trust me.” Tony gazes at him, something almost pleading in his eyes.
Steve swallows—at least, he tries to, because his throat is so dry all he really manages is a small cough. The vice around his chest tightens, squeezes inward, and he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, then suddenly he realizes he’s panting out loud, wheezing breaths echoing through the otherwise silent room.
“Hey, sit down,” Tony says, offering his own chair and touching Steve’s arm in an attempt to guide him into it.
“Don’t,” Steve snaps, rearing back and snatching his shield away from Tony’s reach.
“I’m not going to take your shield. You can be as paranoid as you want, just—it might help if you sit down, Cap.”
Steve doesn’t. He grips his shield and positions it in front of his body, blocking most of it from Tony, and he bends his knees like he might start fighting physically if Tony walked any closer.
You’re being ridiculous, his mind sneers at him. Wild animal, caged animal, what kind of superhero tries to fight a teammate in a hospital?
Tony looks at him, looks down at his shaking knees, and Steve doesn’t understand why Tony isn’t lashing back at him like he should, like he always does.
The tension is palpable in the ward; Steve’s shallow breaths come louder than even the beeping heart monitor in the corner. His heart is beating so violently he’s convinced it could jump out of his skin.
“You’re having a panic attack,” Tony finally says. “Steve, it’s okay, it’s okay. Just sit.”
Steve doesn’t, but breathing becomes so difficult he starts feeling dizzy, and then nauseated; he stumbles backward, trips, and ends up falling back into the chair like a rag doll, gasping like he’s close to drowning.
He curls over his knees and clutches his shield closer to his chest, unable to stop the tremors spreading all over his limbs. “What’s,” he chokes out, “what’s going on.”
“Um.” Tony blinks. “It’s—your body is responding to something that triggered fear and panic. Just—just concentrate on breathing. It’s okay.” He walks forward tentatively, and when Steve doesn’t immediately try to move away, he kneels down in front of him. “Just breathe.”
Steve closes his eyes and rests his forehead against the edge of his shield, his whole body taut with tension. Something in his chest is cramping painfully, and it makes breathing in harder, like he can’t and won’t ever get enough air and he’s going to die from a lack of oxygen.
“You’re okay,” Tony murmurs.
They sit like that for a long time, and Steve heaves and heaves and tries to remember how his lungs work, but every time he seems to catch a breath it tumbles away, and he’s left wheezing into the small space behind his shield, panting, panting, panting. Theoretically, he shouldn’t be out of breath just from sitting. His lungs are super-soldier lungs, enhanced, whatever is happening right now shouldn’t be possible.
But it is, and he’s struggling not to suffocate because of it.
It doesn’t get better. Panic gurgles in his chest and bubbles up his throat, and he’s just as short of air, just as breathless, no matter how many seconds or minutes pass by.
“Steve.” Tony speaks up after some time, his voice quiet. “You can—you can hold my hand, if it would help. It helps me, sometimes.”
Steve feels the beginnings of a snarl build up behind his tongue. He doesn’t need to hold anybody’s goddamned hand to calm down.
But when Tony offers his, palm up, on the chair’s armrest, Steve’s gloved hand seems to move of its own accord, latching onto Tony’s fingers like a child seeking a friend’s comfort. He holds on tightly, feels the bones underneath the skin, and he thinks: Breathe.
They sit like that for a long while—so long Steve couldn’t be sure whether minutes or hours have passed. It takes a frustratingly long time before Steve finally feels his breathing slow, his heartbeat slowing with it.
He clutches Tony’s hand and keeps breathing until the quivers snaking through his body settle into milder tingles.
By the time he feels a little closer to normal, by the time he feels like he can actually breathe again, he’s exhausted.
Steve slides his hand away from Tony’s, hating himself for needing it. Behind them, Bruce stirs.
Tony pats Steve’s shield and asks, “Water?”
Steve grits his teeth, wants to say Not from you, but he’s too tired to be angry, too tired to bite. He nods. Tony gets up from his knees and pats Bruce on a blanketed shoulder on his way out. Steve leans back, placing the shield on his lap.
“You all right, Captain?” Bruce asks from across the room, his voice groggy from sleep.
Steve looks up and gives him a nod of acknowledgment. He’s not, not really, but it’s not like any of them can do anything about it.
He doesn’t scan the room. Trust Tony.
Tony comes back with a glass of water, and Steve accepts it silently. He thinks about what Captain America would have said.
“Thank you,” he rasps after the third sip.
Tony shrugs. “You… you should let us take care of you sometimes,” he mumbles, then hurries away.
Shield in lap, glass cupped between his hands, Steve watches Tony. He watches the way he checks Natasha’s IV and then vitals, then goes to fuss over Bruce. He watches a smile break out on Bruce’s face as Tony cracks a joke, and he’s suddenly hit with the realization that he’s never thought about this: Tony is a compassionate person.
He’s… he’s reckless, stupidly reckless, and he gets under Steve’s skin, and he’s sharp and unrelenting and he pushes buttons, and Steve cannot stand him half of the time; but he cares. And he’s good at caring about people—Steve simply never noticed it because he was too busy picking at Tony’s flaws to see.
Once Steve finishes the glass of water, Tony walks over to retrieve it. Steve gives it to him and looks at his brown eyes—warm, liquid gold under the hospital lights.
“Thank you,” he says again, sincere this time.
Tony doesn’t look at Steve, gaze trained on the glass in his hands, but a hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “No problem, Cap. No problem at all.”