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Tony couldn’t move. He couldn’t even twitch his fingers in his suit, he couldn’t blink, he couldn’t look away. His chest—though it had been rising and falling—had been stalled, because he was holding his breath. Steve was falling, spangled-suit drifting through the air like a lead-coated leaf off of a wicked tree. He screamed, he screamed; “help!” “I need assistance!” and finally “Iron Man! Iron Man, can you read me, I need—”
And then Steve fell, and fell, and hit the ground; he hit it like a brick on sloppy, wet cement, he hit it and did not spring up.
Tony flew up, and stared out into the darkness. Sweat encased him like thick wires, draping around his body and tugging, tugging him off the building he was on—the building that was, in fact, his bed; he didn’t know, though, he was still in the dream, he could still count Steve’s eyelashes on his face, cold and done. His nails grated into the sheets, the red satin-silk, and he dug and dug until he could at least establish that he wasn’t in his suit, he was somewhere safe, and he could move. Thick, shallow breaths racked his body, and even though darkness buzzed around him, all he could see was Steve’s face, all he could hear was Steve’s voice: Iron Man! Iron Man!
And then: “Tony?”
He looked up and saw Steve standing in his door, timid and shadowed heavily by the low light. “Tony? Uh, this—erm, might sound weird but I just had… Had to make sure you were, uh, okay.” His voice lacked any resentment and any negative feelings; in fact, it sounded scared, it sounded empty. He continued to search Tony’s body; he had to wonder if Steve could notice the signs of a nightmare. Of course he could—he was a man out of time, not a man out of breath.
Tony blinked a few times, and stared at Steve’s face, because Steve, because he was alive, because it was a dream, and—finally—because Steve had to see him alive, too.
“No, it’s… Alright, let’s go to the living room. C’mon.” Tony stood up, trying to ignore the screams from his back and his legs {the villain they fought earlier sure had a field day at Iron Man’s expense}. Steve stood by the door, expectant and confused, and when Tony got closer he swung it wider.
“It was… Really, really vivid, Tony. I could count your eyelashes.” Steve said this and then stopped in the middle of the hall, as if he had been frozen. Tony wavered slightly before turning and stepping back a bit to face him. Steve studied him with an inquisitive eye, as if he was mentally running over a checklist to make sure Tony remained unscathed. Then he leaned forward, squinting ever so slightly. He placed his hands on Tony’s shoulders and drifted closer, forgetting personal space was ever a thing he swore by.
“Uh, Steve?”
“I’m counting your eyelashes,” he said it quietly, as if it held utmost importance, as if his life depended on it. It was so quiet that it was like a seashell whispering to the ocean, a hum, a whine.
“O…Okay.” He didn’t say anything more, because there wasn’t anything to say. He closed his eyes as well, because he just couldn’t meet Steve’s eyes, he couldn’t piece this event together. Did Steve even know he had a nightmare as well?—Tony was determined to make sure he’d never know, to make sure he’d never know how scared Tony was, knowing that Steve had died.
Steve’s breathing was shallow and soft and warm against Tony’s cheek, he could feel it, and it was comforting in the most peculiar of ways, comforting like finding your favorite drink on the kitchen table when you got home from work, even though you live alone. “It’s the exact number,” he began, slowly, as if he was not sure himself. “you’ve got the exact same number as you did in my dream—er, nightmare, that’s…”
“Uncanny,” Tony filled in, taking notice of how Steve still hadn’t moved an inch, taking notice of how Steve’s eyes still scanned him like he was a prize, like he had been gone and brought back.
Steve backed away slowly, and his back went straight, military precision aligning his back with the walls. “I’m—ah,” he blushed a bit, and geez, if Tony could tell in the low light then he must really blush up a storm. “Sorry if I made you uneasy…? It was just—it doesn’t seem…”
“Doesn’t seem like a coincidence?” Tony drawled, slowly shuffling back into his mirage.
Steve shifted on his heels. “Did you—did you have one too?”
Tony swallowed hard, and his finger twitched, and he knew that even if he lied, Steve would see right through it. He lied anyways. “No.”
“Ah, okay.” Steve knew. Steve knew he was lying through his teeth, but he didn’t push, he didn’t clobber up close. “Uh,”
“Hey,” Tony started, wincing slightly because this shouldn’t change anything, it won’t; they’ll wake up tomorrow and be on rough rocks, they’ll fight and bicker, exchange hard glares. Moving the team into the tower helped Tony’s relationship with everyone on the team but Steve—in fact, it made it worse. Tony didn’t even want to invite him, but Pepper had insisted; that had been when everything was going swimmingly, when they were in love, when it was whole. Now it resembled a china cabinet after an earthquake, and it was only every night Tony wondered where he went wrong with her. But Steve seemed to harbor something against Tony, so Tony avoided him—their rooms were at opposite ends of the hall; Tony never went up from his workshop when he knew Steve would be milling about. When Tony and Pepper broke up—or whatever it was, when they just stopped—Steve didn’t say anything, but he knew. It was obvious in his eyes: they would soften, the blue would change from ice to sympathy to empathy. It hurt. Tony didn’t need Captain America of all people to look at him like he couldn’t help himself.
“Tony?” Steve asked, looking at him like he had just had his head chopped off.
“Oh,” Tony said, snapping back from his thoughts—right, it wouldn’t change anything, but then there would be nothing to be broken. He could use companionship, from anyone at this point; he had actually fallen asleep in his own bed that night. It hadn’t happened since he was with Pepper, but he was too drunk to mind at the time. “Well, since we’re both up, why don’t we watch a movie?”
“Okay,” Steve murmured, but there was something faint tugging at the corner of his lips. The smile didn’t show, but his eyes were like painting’s, thick and groggy, but happy.
Happy. Steve was happy.
Tony wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen that before.
***
It did change things.
But Tony would trade his new nearly-a-friendship with Steve if the nightmares would stop, and that was saying a lot, because the team was working way better now that they weren’t shitting on each other’s ideas constantly.
The nightmares came every night, though, continuously; some of them were minor, like drizzle, but some of them were like hurricanes—he’d wake up and scream, because they’d be so vivid, so clear. It was if someone had create billions of identical universes and was slowly showing Tony all of the times Steve could’ve died, slowly showing him how painful it would be to lose someone he hardly liked.
When he would close his eyes, he would see Steve’s blood, or Steve’s face; he’d see what he couldn’t have helped, and he’d hear the distressed calls for help relay back in his head.
There was one night where the dream was particularly bad—Tony could feel his back creak when he woke up; he had tried to catch Steve, but a robot or boulder or something {anything for all he cared} smashed him. And then he had to watch everything slow, once again, like so many nights before; he had to watch Steve’s face flicker through a thousand different things: fear, hope {always, always when he caught sight of Tony}, disappointment, hurt, and then acceptance. The last was the worst, it always was, because his eyes would get red and Tony would have to watch him cry, and no one should be subjected to that. It was heartbreaking.
But that night, no, there was one more on the list, a new one, one he hadn’t seen before—it was pain, and it flashed on his face right when Tony was smashed, right when he realized that Tony was probably dead.
It clicked for Tony, right there, that their nightmares must be connected: each dream, each nightmare, Steve is trying to save Tony, and Tony is trying to save him. All this time, Steve had been dying trying to save him. Tony wondered if this meant that from now on, it would be him dying each time, him hitting the cement. –Or would they both die, both have to see each other die?
Tony couldn’t sleep anymore, the couch in his workshop was creaky; he couldn’t work, because his hands were shaking, because he ached, because his mind was going and going and going because really, really, if their dreams were connected, that wasn’t normal, it really, really, really wasn’t normal.
So he went to find Steve.
And it was way easier than Tony thought, because he was coming down the workshop stairs.
“Oh, Tony,” he rubbed his wrist nervously, as if he wasn’t expecting to see Tony awake. “I—uh, I’m sorry. I’m probably getting annoying with this, but these nightmares, they’re—not—like ones I’ve had before, I guess…?”
“No, no, it’s fine, it’s really really fine.” Okay, maybe it wasn’t fine, maybe it was weird to Tony; he wondered if Steve would come to check that he was breathing every night, or even after each nightmare. Perhaps the frequency he seemed to visit ought have freaked Tony out, but it was more that he was willing to go to the trouble, that he cared enough to see.
“Are you sure—I’m sure it’s creepy, I mean…”
“Was I crushed in your nightmare?”
“W-What?” Steve did look slightly taken aback, and he filled the silence before Tony could. “…Yes. You were going to catch me, but it didn’t make any sense, because I thought I had been trying to catch you, and—”
“Oh my god,” he drawled, thick under his breath. “We’re being fucked with.”
Steve’s face faltered. “Uh, what?”
“These dreams aren’t a coincidence.”
“I thought I was the only one having them, though?” Steve’s eyes narrowed, his brows furrowed, and he crossed his arms: the whole shebang. “Tony, why didn’t you say you were having them earlier—we could’ve come to this conclusion a long time ago!”
“Because.” And yes, that was all Tony was going to offer.
Steve didn’t pry, he didn’t push for more, and Tony thought that was a very redeeming quality. “I suppose we should ask the others if any of them are experiencing something similar.”
Tony was a bit surprised, because it wasn’t his Captain America tone, the one he usually used when referring to things relating to the team. It was casual, though heavy from tiredness, and it sounded worn—nearly wounded, but not quite. “Okay then, Cap,” Tony’s eyes darted for a way around Steve, because he had grown rock-still and quiet, and his lips were pursed. “Uh, earth to Steve? Hello?”
And then Steve hugged him, and wow, this was getting emotional quickly, and Steve was not light on the whole hug thing {thought Tony assumed as much: a bear of a man would give bear hugs}. He pulled away quickly, as if he came to his senses; he nearly fumbled down the stairs in the process. “I’m sorry,” he started, eyes flicking everywhere but Tony, “It’s just… Usually my nightmares are replays of things I can’t change, of people who are already gone. I know we aren’t the best of friends, but I couldn’t lose someone else. I really couldn’t.”
Maybe Steve was blushing, Tony couldn’t really tell in the low light. He also, in something rarely experienced by him, could not find something to say.
Steve filled the gap, again, this time with his Cap voice. “Well, I’m sure at least one of the other Avengers is up. Let’s go check.”
Tony still didn’t say anything, because he nearly thought he was in a dream again, and he was waiting for the blood. It never came.
***
They found Natasha first, cooking something in the kitchen. All of the Avengers had fairly peculiar sleep schedules, so it was no surprise to find her upstairs. It was a surprise to find her in the kitchen though; she spent the least amount of her time in there, but Bruce followed closely.
She said a brisk “hello” when they entered, assuming they were passing though. She did a double-take, however, once she locked in on who they were. “Oh, hello,” she corrected, adding a sultry note in her tone.
Steve didn’t seem to catch it, and Tony made a face. “Hey, Natasha,”
“Hi.”
“Is something up?” She was quite good at getting to the point. “Does it have to do with Steve wandering the house every night?”
“Uh,” Steve coughed. “Yeah, actually, it does.”
She arched one brow, and looked from Steve to Tony to Steve again. “Go on,”
“We’ve been having coordinated—nightmares,” Steve forced out, growing fidgety. “They’re grotesquely vivid, really, and we were curious if perhaps you have had any? Or if you knew if any of the other Avengers were having them.”
“I haven’t had any. In fact, I haven’t dreamed for quite a bit. How long have you been having them, hm?”
Tony knew this one, he knew it well. “The first one happened ten days ago, and if we are having the exact same dreams, then we’re even having multiple a night. Which sucks, mind you supersoldier, because I am not bred for sleeplessness, and though it might not seem like it, I do need to sleep sometimes.”
Steve snorted and leaned against the counter. “Mmhm.”
Natasha wore a ghost of a smile, and returned to cooking. Tony wondered if she was brewing poison or something, because the ingredients she had out did not look normal—except for the eggs. “I would talk to Thor.”
“Is he here?” Steve asked, because half the time Thor was off doing god knows what. He always arrived on time for missions and battles, but it seemed that the only reason he hung around was to use the toaster for his damned poptarts.
Natasha shed a curt nod, completely fazing them out of the room and resuming… Whatever she was doing.
***
Thor wasn’t having any dreams either—his last one had been the night before Steve and Tony’s first nightmare. There was something weird in his tone, and he said he’d look into it.
Clint wasn’t having any, but they were expecting that by now.
That left Bruce; they decided to go to him last, because he was sure to want to run tests on them or something or other.
Steve had insisted that they go to S.H.I.E.L.D., but that was Tony’s absolute last resort. They’d probably ask tons of questions and they’d probably make Steve uncomfortable and dealing with an uncomfortable Steve was never a good time. Unless it was funny, which was only sometimes.
Bruce gave them both wry looks when they tracked him down, and he assured them that they did not wake him up with their bickering; which, in their defense, was about movie genres, not stuff that hurt.
He hadn’t dreamed any dreams lately either, stated how weird it was that it was only them in the house having them—basically everything Steve and Tony had gathered already.
He offered to take blood and test it, but Steve and Tony had seen enough of each other’s blood. Bruce admitted that it probably wouldn’t have turned up anything anyways, but if things progressed as so, he would certainly need a sample. He also muttered something about how dangerous it’d be if S.H.I.E.L.D. found out they were hiding this, but he still held one hell of a grudge over them, so he wouldn’t tell.
Steve and Tony were pretty sure the other Avengers didn’t really care, thankfully.
“Wow,” Tony said as they retreated to the living room, “It’s already five in the morning. How about I prove your movie theory wrong and show you the Star Wars trilogy?”
“Fine, but I still think sci-fi movies are overrated.”
Tony tch-tched and flopped on the couch, ordering JARVIS to hit play.
They fell asleep after the first movie. There were no nightmares.
***
Steve was trying very hard to figure out why he didn’t have a nightmare, but he wasn’t going to say anything until he was sure Tony didn’t have one, either. It had seemed like the perfect condition for a nightmare, right down to falling asleep at nearly the same time and having a general lack of sleep.
Tony was still asleep on the couch, but based on how their sleep schedules seemed to flow together, Steve knew he’d be up soon.
Not even a minute later, he heard Tony mutter something that could’ve been “coffee” but could’ve just as well been “campfire”. His face was smashed into a pillow and he spanned the whole couch {Steve had moved him when he had woken}, two limbs dangling off the edge.
“Commffeee,” he repeated, and Steve was sure this time that it had to be coffee. Tony rubbed his eyes a bit, grogginess radiating off of him. He seemed to believe that if he rubbed his eyes hard enough, the sleepiness would disappear. He seemed to become slightly more oriented with his surroundings, because when he saw Steve, he just said “oh”.
Steve raised his eyebrows, and waited for a bit.
“Oh! Did you—” He started eagerly, and when Steve shook his head, he shot up. “Perfect! We’re free, no more freaky, terrible, grueling nightmares!”
Steve smiled widely, but he knew it couldn’t just end, not because they watched Star Wars. Then again, Steve beckoned, perhaps they would just… End? He hoped so, at least.
“So,” Tony said, stretching and then falling back onto the couch, “ready to watch the others?”
Steve smiled again, but it didn’t feel so forced this time.
***
That night, when both of them most certainly did have nightmares, they both drifted to the living room.
“Okay, let’s just meet up here whenever we have nightmares.”
“Which, Tony, would be every night.”
“Yeah, yeah, duh, but still. We can watch movies and stuff, I dunno. Last time we fell asleep on the couch nothing happened, so maybe it’s special or something.”
“Are you implying that the couch is magical, Tony? –You really do need to be getting more sleep.”
Tony huffed and flopped onto the couch. “So,” he said, shuffling through movies they could watch on his tablet, “uh, tonight’s nightmare was pretty rough, wasn’t it?”
Steve flinched. “Yeah.” He remembered it clearly, it flipped into his mind whenever he shut his lids—it was a parallel of all the nightmares he had reliving how he lost Bucky, but it was Tony, falling and falling into fog and tears. He shook his head, as if it would clear it like an etch-a-sketch. It didn’t.
“Steve.” Tony said it calmly, reassuringly, and patted the seat next to him on the couch. He was also thankful that he quit blushing when he was a child, because Steve sidled up right next to him; his warmth was very much contagious.
They both fell asleep again, and everyone was cautious not to wake them. Their sleeplessness had begun to take a toll on the team—though minute, it was not healed by their recent ability to work together.
***
“I think we should watch Toy Story again.” Tony said quietly. The nightmares were getting rougher and rougher, stabbing more holes in Steve’s past, letting them glint through to Tony. He knew Toy Story was one of Steve’s favorites, and that he wouldn’t be able to say no. Steve slowly shook his head yes and slumped into the couch, running a hand through his matted hair.
It had happened on the night where Tony decided to try to fall asleep on the couch, just to see if it really was magical. It wasn’t. And that’s when Tony regretfully pieced the puzzle together: that if he was with Steve, in close proximity, then neither would have nightmares.
Tony wasn’t sure, though; at least that’s what he told himself, because he couldn’t be the one to propose the idea.
***
Tony changed his mind the next night, because they were getting to his past, to everything he was damned to leave covered. He woke up with tears on his face, with sweat sliding down his body, and he was through with his, he really was. It was different when it was make-believe battles, but when it began to creep in on his past, when it began to rewrite it, that’s when enough was enough.
Tony walked, hands still shaking, into the living room. Steve was waiting there, lips tugged down tightly and eyes lucid. Steve heard his movements before he even came in, and he turned his gaze to Tony firmly. “Are you okay, Tony?”
“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” His voice was rocky; it sounded like he was slipping down a slope.
Steve shook his head slowly. “Come on, Tony.” He stepped closer and grabbed Tony’s hand ever so lightly, as if he would break him; Tony was near close to taking it personal when he realized that Steve had to control all of his movements, as if every object was sugar glass, ready to shatter or melt in his hands. His hands, speaking of, were obscenely warm—Tony tried to think of other things, but his thoughts kept tracing back to warmth, warmth.
It took him a bit to realize Steve was leading him to his bedroom, and if Tony was in his right mind, he would’ve made a joke about something-or-other, but he didn’t have it in him. Steve seemed to take notice, turning back and raising his brows, as if he was expecting it.
And then he was leading Tony to his bed, and wow, in the morning he was going to be so angry at himself that he didn’t take advantage of this. It could’ve been a full-on blush fest, complete with stutters and disapproving looks. Tony rolled onto the bed and watched as Steve went to a chair in the corner by the window.
“Steve,” Tony muttered, not fully aware of what he was about to do, but completely sure it would meet his ‘make Steve blush quota’ of the day, “You don’t have to sleep in the chair, get over here, ya lug,”
Tony couldn’t quite see, because it was still dark, but he knew—he just knew Steve was turning red. “Okay, Tony,” he sounded a bit dubious, but still obliged, crawling to the spot next to Tony {but nearly falling off the edge}.
“I’m not gonna bite, jeez.”
Steve chuckled a bit, and it rumbled the bed. He scooted closer, and Tony rolled onto his side so he could face him; Steve smiled wryly, and it crinkled his eyes. “Never thought this was how we’d become friends, if we’re being completely honest.”
“It’s not the easiest way to make a friend, is it?” Tony’s grin was wider; his heart did a few flips, and he took the opportunity of the silence to smack himself.
“Why’d you just smack yourself? Is that a normal thing?” Steve’s inquiry was completely honest and Tony was dangerously close to smacking himself again.
“No, it’s reserved for when I believe I’m being an idiot.”
Steve laughed, and the bed shook again. “In that case, I’m surprised you’re not smacking yourself all the time.”
Tony would’ve blushed, if he could’ve, because he felt like a damned schoolgirl trying to talk to her crush, and that was a terrible thing to feel like.
And then he thought, hey, maybe he was dreaming, since he was so close to Steve, and because Steve kissed him. It was awkward and a bit hurried, but it was a kiss, it was a kiss. It wasn’t a “we-just-saved-the-world” kiss, or a “we-all-survived” kiss, it was a kiss that meant he liked Tony. So Tony kissed back, of course he kissed back; when they pulled away, Tony smacked himself.
Steve automatically furrowed his brows.
“Don’t worry, that was just to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.”
Steve smiled at that, and Tony nearly wanted to smack himself again because that could have been one of the corniest things he had ever said, ever.
“Goodnight, Tony.”
“’Night, Steve.”
And nary a nightmare was had.
***
When Tony woke up, there was a note on his bedside table; it had rather elegant script, and every letter looked perfect. He groggily grabbed it, and rubbed at his eyes until they were focused enough to read it.
“For, what better to make you get along with someone than to make you realize how uncomfortable you’d be if they died? Him perishing at your hands was just a twist, though. You’re welcome, signed: Loki.
PS- To be honest {as I near always am, take note}, I meant to cut them off after you became friends. I got a bit lazy, but this is delightful, too; the respectful Captain and… You. Will I be invited to the wedding?”
Tony could nearly hear Loki’s snicker, and vowed to get him back for the nightmares. But he had to admit that he was—happy, really. And he wouldn’t go back to change it.