[ The unexpected new voice startles Steve, who looks around the room first with urgency and then confusion, when Tony addresses him with something that sounds, in intonation if not in content, like an explanation. The only reason he stops expecting someone to materialize and claim the voice is that it sounded as if it was coming from all around them, rather than any fixed spot in the room. In 1940, Walt Disney studios experimented with multichannel sound for their film Fantasia. That was a mere three years ago for Steve, and seven decades ago for technology. It's dizzying to realize that something he just saw invented has evolved to such a degree that he was nearly tricked into thinking there was someone else in the room.
Tony's invitation to sit couldn't have come at a better time. He drops into a seat on the edge of the couch, radiating tension in his inability to relax. ]
Sorry. I don't think Miss Potts was screening for conversation skills.
[Great, just what Tony needs, someone whose tension is enough to seep over to him. That'll really help him out. Tony's still not quite sure what the point of all this is - if he spends enough time around a Normal Person then he'll magically acquire the ability to function normally again? If Rhodey hasn't managed to rub off on him over however many years, then this guy doesn't stand a chance.
Thinking about Rhodey makes him flash back to those last few moments in Afghanistan, how he'd been so fucking stupid, and from there, it's a short mental hop to the explosion rocking the Humvee, that desperate moment of crawling out and nearly being blown to bits by one of his own bombs. Tony's fingers tighten in the fabric of the sofa, and he can hear his heartbeat thudding in his ears - too fast - and fuck, why does this have to happen on a day when he's actually out of bed and wearing clothes, let alone potentially trying to convince Pepper that he doesn't need a fucking babysitter?
Tony swallows, tries to say something back, but all that escapes is a raspy monosyllabic croak. Yep, this is going just fine.]
[ The couch is long, and Steve's seat at its edge places him far enough from Tony that the man's sudden shift in demeanor would have been imperceptible for anyone else. But Steve can hear it when Tony's pulse picks up rapidly. What's more, he recognizes the panicked look in the man's eyes; he has seen it before.
It was easier back then, when it was Bucky. Well, easier isn't the right word: it was hard as hell to witness someone he cared about changed by an experience Steve would never understand. But at least he had known how to approach Bucky, how to talk to him without making matters worse. Tony Stark, for all his publicity, remains an enigma.
It's the indecipherable croak that has Steve finally jump from his seat and close the space between them. He drops into a seat just outside of the other man's personal bubble and extends his hand between them, palm turned up in an open gesture. ]
Grab my hand and squeeze my hand as hard as you can. [ Steve is no head shrink but necessity has taught him how to pull men out of their own heads. Giving Stark something tangible to ground himself is a tried and true method. ]
[Tony barely parses the words over the roaring in his ears, and his gaze is a thousand miles away. But after a too-long moment, he places his palm on top of Roberts'. He focuses on the warmth of his skin - outside of the makeshift forge, warmth had been scarce in the mountains of Afghanistan, and touch even more so. Tony sucks a breath in and squeezes - not as hard as he can, but it's something to get himself out of his head. He exhales and relaxes his grip, then inhales and squeezes again. Okay, this isn't a bad tactic, maybe he can pull this off.]
We gonna arm wrestle next? [he actually manages after a few minutes. Haha, bonding over masculine exercises. What could be more normal than that? Absolutely nothing, that's what.]
Not if that's the best you can do, [ Steve replies before he can think better of it. He winces immediately after, regretting the implied familiarity of his teasing response. But something tells him that it would take more than a lapse in etiquette to upset Tony Stark. So instead of a calculated retreat, he doubles down: ] Come on. I know you can squeeze harder than that.
[The tease actually startles a laugh out of Tony. He hates formality - has ever since he was a kid - and only insists on it when he wants to be a pain in the ass. So it's good that his new babysitter can sound like a human being if he puts some effort into it.]
I'm having a panic attack, not delivering a baby, cut me some slack.
[It's a good sign that he's drawing Tony's ridiculous sense of humor back out, at least. Tony grits his teeth and squeezes harder; at least having to physically hammer out a suit of armor put some muscle in his arms, even if he's lost some of that tone since he returned to America.]
[ Surprise colors Steve's responding laugh. It was a gamble, and goodness knows that Steve isn't the best at judging reasonable level of risk. That he managed to read Tony Stark correctly, even just this once, comes with an inordinate sense of self-satisfaction. Maybe he won't screw this up after all.
Panic attack. Steve turns the term over in his head. They didn't have such a succinct name for it in his day but the signs are sufficiently recognizable on their own. Something about the matter-of-fact way that Tony says it sits heavy in Steve's mind. He says it like he's resigned to an inevitability. ]
I've heard distractions can help. What do you usually do to get your mind off something?
[Tony arches an eyebrow at him.] I'm Tony Stark. What do you think I do?
[Drinking and fucking, he means, and one isn't an option currently, and the other-
Tony knows himself well enough to know when the other shouldn't be an option (which never removes it from the table entirely). What's more, he imagines Pepper's left strict instructions regarding alcohol, because that's the kind of person she is. (He knows she genuinely cares for his well-being, that she's the one person who doesn't see him as a meal ticket, but goddamn, it still chafes sometimes.)
Which leaves option C, tinkering with something. Not the secret project, but maybe just getting his hands greasy will help.]
C'mon. [Tony gives one last squeeze before he stands up.] I'll show you the garage.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Tony's invitation to sit couldn't have come at a better time. He drops into a seat on the edge of the couch, radiating tension in his inability to relax. ]
Sorry. I don't think Miss Potts was screening for conversation skills.
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Thinking about Rhodey makes him flash back to those last few moments in Afghanistan, how he'd been so fucking stupid, and from there, it's a short mental hop to the explosion rocking the Humvee, that desperate moment of crawling out and nearly being blown to bits by one of his own bombs. Tony's fingers tighten in the fabric of the sofa, and he can hear his heartbeat thudding in his ears - too fast - and fuck, why does this have to happen on a day when he's actually out of bed and wearing clothes, let alone potentially trying to convince Pepper that he doesn't need a fucking babysitter?
Tony swallows, tries to say something back, but all that escapes is a raspy monosyllabic croak. Yep, this is going just fine.]
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It was easier back then, when it was Bucky. Well, easier isn't the right word: it was hard as hell to witness someone he cared about changed by an experience Steve would never understand. But at least he had known how to approach Bucky, how to talk to him without making matters worse. Tony Stark, for all his publicity, remains an enigma.
It's the indecipherable croak that has Steve finally jump from his seat and close the space between them. He drops into a seat just outside of the other man's personal bubble and extends his hand between them, palm turned up in an open gesture. ]
Grab my hand and squeeze my hand as hard as you can. [ Steve is no head shrink but necessity has taught him how to pull men out of their own heads. Giving Stark something tangible to ground himself is a tried and true method. ]
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We gonna arm wrestle next? [he actually manages after a few minutes. Haha, bonding over masculine exercises. What could be more normal than that? Absolutely nothing, that's what.]
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I'm having a panic attack, not delivering a baby, cut me some slack.
[It's a good sign that he's drawing Tony's ridiculous sense of humor back out, at least. Tony grits his teeth and squeezes harder; at least having to physically hammer out a suit of armor put some muscle in his arms, even if he's lost some of that tone since he returned to America.]
no subject
Panic attack. Steve turns the term over in his head. They didn't have such a succinct name for it in his day but the signs are sufficiently recognizable on their own. Something about the matter-of-fact way that Tony says it sits heavy in Steve's mind. He says it like he's resigned to an inevitability. ]
I've heard distractions can help. What do you usually do to get your mind off something?
no subject
[Drinking and fucking, he means, and one isn't an option currently, and the other-
Tony knows himself well enough to know when the other shouldn't be an option (which never removes it from the table entirely). What's more, he imagines Pepper's left strict instructions regarding alcohol, because that's the kind of person she is. (He knows she genuinely cares for his well-being, that she's the one person who doesn't see him as a meal ticket, but goddamn, it still chafes sometimes.)
Which leaves option C, tinkering with something. Not the secret project, but maybe just getting his hands greasy will help.]
C'mon. [Tony gives one last squeeze before he stands up.] I'll show you the garage.