Steve wipes the sweat from his brow and puts a hand on the punching bag to ease its swinging.
3:32 pm.
Great. Two and a half hours to go. Tony's been out for the whole day working, which isn't unusual given their superhero statuses and the fact that Tony runs a company, but it's especially stuffy in the house today, and Steve feels a restlessness that he knows only Tony can temper. So, yeah. Two and a half hours.
Steve runs a hand through his hair and unwraps his hands, deciding that at this rate, if he doesn't take a shower, he's most probably going to burst into flames or something.
A minute later, he enters the bathroom, shutting the door and stripping off his clothes. He's so sweaty he feels like the air is sticking to his skin, so he quickly steps in and turns on the shower, sighing in relief as cool water cascades down his back.
It's fine, at first.
Steve's showered in cold water plenty of times since he came out of the ice, albeit not as cold as this one. He doesn't even notice anything off.
His body reacts before his mind does.
Steve looks down and does a literal double take when he sees his hands shaking; his knees suddenly feel weak, and he has to grab onto the rack of shampoo to keep himself from slipping.
A moment later, he's plunged into ice, his lungs freezing and limbs flailing helplessly. A distance crash sounds, seemingly so close yet so far away. The thunderous crunching of a plane diving nose-first into ice echoes in his ears and all he feels is water, water, water filling his airway, choking him and freezing him as he tries to wrench free from the seat. He can't feel his body in this temperature, can barely see anything with the cold and seawater stinging his eyes.
He's going to die. He's going to die right here, and that mere thought alone terrifies him so much he cries out, giving the water a chance to swarm his mouth and tunnel down his throat, and-
For a split second, Steve resurfaces, and the white ceiling of the bathroom flashes into his vision.
But a second later, he can't breathe, can't see anymore, and he's plunged into complete darkness.
-
The first thing Steve hears is running water. His eyes spring open when he feels coldness against his skin, and clambers up, slipping a little as he tries to gulp in something that isn't bone-chilling water.
Somehow, his hand slams messily on the tap, and the water stops splashing down, leaving Steve a shuddering, gasping mess as he jerks out of the tub, grabbing numerous towels and trying to dry himself as best as he can with how much his entire body is shaking.
He can't even form a coherent thought before he's stumbling into his room, yanking clothes out of his closet at random and trying to put them on. But he fails, he fails, and Steve lets out a tiny whimper when the third shirt rips in his hands. Goddamn it, Goddamn it. He can't even dress himself.
"-uck," he manages to choke out. "Fuck."
He practically falls downstairs and staggers into the kitchen to make something, anything warm, hot. But Jesus Christ what is he thinking-the mug he managed to swipe from the cupboard slips from his grip and shatters to pieces against the countertop.
Steve somehow finds himself back in his room again, lips twisting into an ugly sob as his body wracks with shivers. He's so cold, so cold. He wants Tony. Tony is warm and bright and-
And he isn't here.
Blankets, Steve thinks somewhat hysterically. At this point, he's near hyperventilating. He's panicking so much he feels like scratching his throat until he bleeds.
Blankets, he thinks again, stumbling to his closet and collecting all the covers he owns, shakily, weakly pulling them across the room and crying out in pained frustration when his muscles spasm uncontrollably, forcing him to drop the blankets.
C'mon, c'mon, Steve. Steve, you can do this.
He doesn't try to stop the tears spilling past his cheeks. He can't.
Picking up the ten-twelve?-blankets that have fallen to the floor in a pile, he trips into bed, shuddering helplessly as he lifts them and burrows himself underneath, sobs ripping from his throat.
He wants his mother. He wants her to stroke his hair and kiss him and tell him everything's gonna be okay. But...she's dead. Along with everyone he had. Steve pulls the layers of blankets over his head and bites down on the fabric to muffle his scream.
It hurts, it hurts. He wants Tony. His heart is pounding loud and hard in his ears and god, he's shaking so badly, so violently he can feel all the layers of blankets quivering with him.
It's okay, he tries to tell himself. It's okay.
Eventually, his vision blurs, and he squeezes his eyes shut, shivering and trembling as exhaustion overtakes his body, engulfing him in darkness.
-
Tony is tired, and frankly, that means he's also cranky, which means he can't wait to get back home and take a nice, warm shower while Steve gives him lazy kisses everywhere.
"Honey, I'm home!" Tony calls, shutting the door. He walks into the living room and blinks at the sight before him.
Books are strewn across the floor, the couch has been moved-as if someone had crashed violently into its side-and the whole room simply looks like an elephant has stomped through it. When Tony enters the kitchen, he immediately spots the shattered mug on the counter and the way the cupboard above has been flung wide open, one of its hinges obviously ripped off.
Burglar, is his first thought. But really, what kind of burglar could make this kind of mess here? With Steve right here and Tony's security measures? Impossible.
Steve. Is Steve hurt?, is his second thought. Tony feels his heartbeat quicken at the realization that it looks frighteningly like Steve had a break down while he was away at work.
"Shit-shit, Steve? Steve!" The silence that follows isn't encouraging at all, and Tony flings his bag on the floor, taking the stairs two at a time and flinging the door to their room open-
To find a giant pile of blankets on their bed.
"Steve?"
Tony walks forward, spotting the tufts of blond hair sticking out from underneath. "Steve, sweetheart? You awake?"
He pulls back the covers a little, revealing Steve's face.
He looks...pale. He's sleeping, but his eyebrows are scrunched as if he doesn't want to be asleep.
"Steve, hey, wake up, hmm?" Tony says gently, shaking his figure.
Steve's eyes blow open, and he jolts up in bed, causing the covers to slide down his torso.
"Hey! Hey, it's only me, Tony. Yeah? You're safe, it's okay, you're safe."
Steve's eyes are wild, unfocused, but when they land on Tony, they clear with recognition. "T...Tony?" he croaks.
"Yeah, sweetheart, it's me-hey, why are you shaking like that?"
"C-cold," Steve bites out, trying to slip under the blankets again.
"Are you...sick?"
Steve shakes his head jerkily. "Cold."
"Okay, okay. Are you hurt?"
" 'Verything hurts," Steve mumbles.
Tony quickly strips himself of his clothes and lifts the blankets, wincing as Steve shudders violently at the sudden moment of cool air.
"Hey, it's okay," Tony whispers, shifting a little so he can settle himself, chest pressed to Steve's back. He reaches forward and clasps Steve's hand in his, hugging his trembling form.
"What happened?"
Steve lets out a suppressed sob and presses backward into Tony's embrace. "Shower."
"Oh, I'm sorry, darling. Shh, I'm here," Tony reassures him, thumb rubbing over Steve's knuckles comfortingly.
"I-I tore my clothes," Steve says, voice small.
Tony recalls seeing them, shredded on the floor. "It's okay," he says softly. "I'll buy you more."
"I'm sorry," Steve blurts out. "I didn't mean to-mean to make a mess-the kitchen-"
"Hey, hey, shh. Okay, deep breaths." Tony kisses the back if Steve's head. "You did nothing wrong, okay? Just a little freak out. If anything, I'm sorry I wasn't there."
" 'Sn't your fault."
Tony presses another kiss to his neck. "Thank you."
"You're warm."
"I love you."
"I made a mess of-of the house."
"We'll clean it up tomorrow."
Steve sighs a little. "Love you too, Tony."
Tony squeezes Steve's hand, smiles against his neck, and closes his eyes.