Steve always remembers to keep himself warm. He always remembers.
He puts on an extra layer of underwear before he goes out, no matter how hot it is. He turns the tap to the very left-the warm side-because he can't stand cold water. He pulls two blankets right over his head and tucks his knees in every night. In the shower, he's in and out in five minutes tops after showering with the hottest temperature possible. And last but not least, he never, ever, eats or drinks anything cold.
Except this time, he forgets.
It's been a really long day, and Steve is exhausted. He just wants to lie down and burrow himself under blankets, beside Tony, and go to sleep.
It's not like he's never been tired before, but he's certainly never been this tired. This is a bone-deep weariness gnawing away at his chest, making his skin prickle uncomfortably, and he stumbles into the bathroom, eyes half closed, not bothering to close the door because it's just Tony typing away in his tablet on their bed, no one else.
Steve stares at the mirror, taking in the bags under his eyes that exist because he sleeps too little and the deepening wrinkles between his eyebrows that exist because he frowns too much.
Then, without even thinking, he turns on the tap.
The cold, freezing water hits his hands like razor sharp blades, stinging his skin and immediately sending bouts of shivers shooting through his body. Steve lets out a strangled cry and slams the tap shut, staggering backward into the door with a loud crash.
It's just water. Cold water. Nothing to panic about.
But the damage has been done. The coldness is seeping into his veins, tunneling through his bones, freezing his heart, and Steve can't breathe. He can't breathe.
It's just a little cold.
Cold. It's always cold.
Cold, cold, co-
"Steve?" Tony's voice penetrates Steve's thoughts for a second, but then he's sucked back into his own head, anxiety rising up his chest.
His hands are numb. Numb from the cold.
Ice.
The memory, the feeling of it-all of what he remembers-comes crashing back from where he tried so, so hard to bury it deep down where no one would ever be able to reach.
The plane. Peggy's voice. His heart thundering in his chest. The horrible crack he hears. The thud after he flies forward from the impact and twists his shoulder. The water. The freezing, freezing water. His limbs thrashing desperately. The water rising and rising and filling his nose and pouring down his throat. The sharp, unbearable sting of pain. And Steve, Steve has the serum, and it's not letting him die. It's holding him in a cage, a prison. A prison of never-ending coldness. And it's agonizing, waiting, waiting through it, waiting and waiting for darkness to take over his consciousness, for the numbness after the pain.
But it won't come. It won't come, it won't come, and he can't breathe. He can't...he can't-
"Steve, Steve! Come back to me. You're safe, you're in our room, and nothing can hurt you, I promise." Tony's eyes are wide, frantic, as he crouches in front of Steve, not touching him because he's afraid it will cause consequences.
Steve is clutching his shoulder, his chest heaving as he tries to take in oxygen that refuses to be taken. And his throat is closing up again and-
"Steve!"
Tony's voice is clear. Like a knife cutting through silence. Or, more accurately, through the war raging in Steve's head.
"Steve, you need to breathe, all right? Come on, breathe with me."
And Tony breathes, inhaling through his nose, exhaling through his mouth. Slowly, steadily. Steve tries to follow.
In, out. In, out.
In.
Out.
Slowly, like a snail creeping along a wall, Steve's horrible gasping eases and his chest stops heaving so much. And only then does he realize he's somehow slid onto the floor, his back against the bathroom door.
His face is wet.
"Can I touch?" Tony asks quietly, extending a hand.
Steve barely manages to nod, stiff and jerky.
Tony stretches his hand further toward him, and his fingertips brush Steve's arm, burning with warmth.
Before Steve comprehends it, he's gathered into Tony's arms, and Tony is hugging him, his reassuring warmth forming a cocoon around Steve. Tony presses light kisses to Steve's hair, rubbing his arm gently and firmly, and slowly, feeling returns to Steve's body, and he doesn't feel like he's suffocating any more. Cold, yes, but not suffocating.
"Wanna tell me what happened?" Tony murmurs, tracing intricate patterns across Steve's forearm.
Steve curls into him, sighing softly.
For a moment, he doesn't answer, letting silence hang over them like a feather-light veil.
"The ice," he finally says.
And, of course, Tony immediately understands. Tony always understands.
"I'm so, so sorry. Was it the water? From the tap?"
Steve nods somewhat timidly.
"Do you want me to ask Jarvis to adjust it automatically whenever you use it?"
Steve turns his face into the crook of Tony's neck. "Please."
"All right then, I'll make it work."
Steve doesn't know how or why he deserves such a kind, thoughtful human being. He really doesn't.
"Sorry for bothering you," he whispers, his voice slightly hoarse.
"Don't say that," Tony says firmly, tightening his arms around him. "Don't say that, Steve. I love you, and I want you to know I'm here, okay?"
Steve nods again.
"Come on, let's get ready for bed."
Steve only just stops himself from latching onto Tony tightly. It's just...he feels so cold.
"Hey, hey, you can get in bed first, okay? You kinda crushed the tiles a little bit, so I'm gonna clean up and join you real quick."
Steve turns his head and winces when he sees that he actually did crush the tiles in his panic, and now there's a crumbled hand print on the floor.
"Does your shoulder hurt?" Tony asks, kissing the side of Steve's neck.
Steve blinks in confusion. "Huh?"
"You were gripping it really hard. I just don't want you to be in pain."
And now Steve thinks about it, his shoulder is sort of throbbing. How does Tony just...notice?
"It's probably-probably bruised. I-I twisted my shoulder when the plane crashed and-and just now-"
"Hey, shhh, I know now, don't get yourself too worked up about it," Tony soothes, rubbing Steve's arm again.
Steve sighs a little and reluctantly detaches himself from Tony's arms, changing into his pajamas in record time and slipping under the covers, shivering. Tony joins him soon after, a bottle of oil in his hand. He dips his fingers in the oil and gently pulls Steve's collar down to rub the bruise on his shoulder. Steve winces and closes his eyes, relishing in the heat that sears through his skin from the friction. It's not warm enough, but it's better than being just cold.
"I'm sorry I freaked out," Steve whispers into the dark.
"Don't be," Tony answers simply, setting the bottle of oil on the night stand beside their bed and pulling Steve's collar back up. He pulls the covers up to their chins and wraps his arms around Steve, kissing his forehead softly.
"If it happens again, tell me, all right? I'll do something about it, I promise," Tony says.
Steve nods into the crook of his neck, sighing a little. Tony kisses the remaining tear tracks away from his face and hugs him more tightly.
Steve shifts and presses himself closer to Tony. "Thanks," he murmurs.
He thinks he sees Tony smile. "You're welcome, dummy. I love you."
"L'you too."
Steve drifts to sleep knowing he's safe, because Tony will be here in the morning, kissing him and making sure he knows everything is okay.