Chapter Text
They started properly noticing a couple of weeks in. Tony couldn’t really say he was surprised. He was pretty good at masking, maybe even one of the best because very few people had to mask so consistently, in front of most of the world. And no one had ever suspected. But there was only so long you could keep that up before your body and mind gave in, and Tony had always used the Tower as his decompression space. It was absurdly unrealistic to think he could go months without relaxing properly. It didn’t make it any less humiliating every time he slipped up.
The problem arose after the Battle of New York. Tony was exhausted, shaking with adrenaline and overstimulated, nerves frayed from his resuscitation and the masses of noise swarming everywhere. The rapid shift from everything all at once to the starkly white and silent SHIELD van set his nerves on edge, and he compulsively cracked jokes, barely stopping for breath. He could see the squinted eye glances passed between his tired teammates, but physically couldn’t stop talking, anxiety propelling him onwards. He found his hands flapping up by his sides during one comment, and promptly shut up entirely, earning himself more than a few baffled looks. He tried to breathe in and out, sitting firmly on top of his still bleeding hands, horrified that someone might have noticed. By the time he made it into the debrief room, he was numb with social and physical exhaustion, dissociating slightly as he allowed his feet to follow the standard route through SHIELD. Words got harder and harder to wedge out from between his teeth, and he barely piped up during the meeting. Fury even asked him if he was alright.
Humiliatingly, he only realized it was sarcasm after he’d responded completely sincerely, if not necessarily truthfully, that he was fine.
He tried his hardest not to blush, focussing his eyes on his lap wearily. It was at this point that Fury brought up housing. Just his luck. At any other point in the meeting, Tony wouldn’t have registered it if Fury had said outright that the Avengers were moving into the Tower. But because his attention and response had just been required, Tony actually heard and took in the information, that the Avengers were to stay in the SHIELD barracks, and before he could think it through he was responding.
“No, they can come with me.”
It lacked any of the snarky inflection he carefully curated, way too plaintive, and Tony only realized what he had said when everyone slowly turned to face him. He could tell from the upward lift of their eyebrows that they didn’t believe him. It was a shame.
The thing is, he likes looking after people. It makes him feel warm. And he enjoys giving gifts, it’s one of the only ways of showing care that can’t be misinterpreted. It’s easy, and he doesn't have to be there. So when he offers, he means it.
This, of course, does not push the Avengers to believe him. Rogers got that angry look on his face that was painfully close to Howard’s, and Tony knew he had to step in before everyone got all angry and complicated.
“I mean it.” he said, desperately wracking his brain for an explanation that fit his personality around them “I… have too many rooms anyway! You’d be doing me a favor.”
And they moved in.
Unfortunately, that meant Tony had to actually deal with other people living in his space. He gets no days off now. No days where he wanders around in his battered MIT hoodie and boxers flapping his hands. No getting home and humming loudly and monotonously to release the tension. His weighted blanket and vest sneak back under his bed, and all the fiddle toys scattered around the place are collected up and put in a big clear bin by DUM-E’s charging port to guard.
He really should have thought it through more before inviting them in. It felt nice, simple, when the words left his mouth. He liked the little smile on Bruce’s face, he liked that he could be a part of something. But now he’s tired. Keeping it up all the time. Never taking a break to really be himself. He’s accidentally given away his safe haven to other people, and it feels like the furthest thing from good.
Of course, Tony’s a master at pretending, but after Afghanistan, New York… his foundations are not as strong as they used to be. He starts cracking through it. He gets caught.
1.
The first time they notice, it’s three weeks in. He thinks he’s doing pretty good, all things considered. He goes to the movie nights, he’s up to speed for SI and he’s making copious amounts of new gear for his team (team!). Barton’s prickly after the debacle with Loki, and Coulson ‘coming back to life’ didn’t help, but Tony thinks that Coulson’s escape from SHIELD early helped more than harmed. He didn’t want to know what would have happened had Clint gotten part way through grieving, rather than right at the get-go. Coulson seems to stabilize him as well - the days he’s around are much less likely to end in snippy little comments.
Tony’s including himself in everything. More than he ever has before. He likes these people, and they at least to some extent tolerate him. He exists pretty easily beside them, despite knowing for everyone else there’s an awkward tension. He likes to think he helps, that his absolute ignorance of this particular social convention is pulling them together, because Tony has no qualms about not knowing what to say to a near-stranger, or the bizarre fact of running into the body of the Hulk dressed in bunny pajamas at 3 am.
Tony’s getting tired though. He hasn't allowed himself to let his guard down partially in a while, to allow these people to get close to him, but not really know him. It’s a balancing game Tony hasn’t had to play in a while, because his only real friends are Happy, Rhodey, and Pepper, and they all learned why he was… well how he was, decades ago.
He misbalances. They’ve had a team dinner, something Rogers insists on at least once a week. Tony silently disagrees with calling it ‘Team Dinner’ as it frequently happens as lunch, and even breakfast once. However, he understands that is not what most people would think, and decided to keep his mouth shut, restraining himself to a rapidly bouncing leg under the table every time they change the plan from dinner to lunch.
He and Rogers were on cleaning duty because although pretty much everything from toilet flushes to toasters is automated in the Tower, the team had unanimously requested no cleaning teams on their floors and the communal floors. Although the idea of a robot with spider-like arms to pick items out of the dishwasher and load them into drawers did appeal to Tony, he had eventually decided against. Rogers also insisted it was good for you to do chores, but Tony ignored that point because it was absolutely ridiculous.
They’re unloading the dishwasher, making little conversation, and without thinking about it, Tony picks up a glass. His fingertips squeak along the side of it, freshly washed and completely disgusting. The feeling grinds unpleasantly up his spine, and he reels back, forcing himself not to do it again. Entirely unbidden, a low whining noise crawls up his throat and he shakes his hands desperately, trying to shake the texture off.
It’s too late when he remembers who he’s with, and he freezes, hand still up somewhere by his ear, shoulders clenched back.
Rogers looks at him with his brows furrowed in, lips downturned and mouth slightly open. Then he glances down at what remains of the glass, the shattered shards scattered across the floor, and when he looks up he looks angry. It’s one of the only emotions Tony is capable of recognizing instantly and with ease. And it’s pretty clear on Steve’s face.
He looks down at the glass again, and back up to Tony.
“Stark.”
Tony ducks his head to hide his face while he straightens up the downturn of his mouth. He had been proud of his first name basis.
“That was a perfectly good glass.” Rogers says, and his voice is identical to when they get off the battlefield.
Tony swallows, and forces his head back up, because Rogers is annoyed but he doesn’t know, and if Tony wants to keep it that way he needs to think of something, and think of it fast.
He plasters a smirk on his face (the one he knows is perfect because he has spent hours in total going over it in the mirror, the specific ways to contort his muscles for the desired results) and tilts his head to the side, gesturing his arms loosely to the side in a way he knows conveys confidence.
“Billionaire, remember?” He says in his usual voice. He’s been told many times that his condescending monotone is grating. It's a secret little weapon of his that people will interpret his words to be arrogant without him even trying.
He throws a wink at Rogers to seal the deal.
Rogers' face creases up and Tony has to forcefully remind himself to not take a step back. It's not Captain America, it's Steve Rogers. This is not something unforgivable, he has dropped a glass.
You can make mistakes Tony, you don’t have to be God. If it’s for you, to be comfortable, you can be inconvenient. There are worse things to be.
He breathes in, out. Reminds himself of how Rhodey had looked when he said those words.
Rogers turns back to the sink sulkily.
“Still an awful waste Tony.”
Tony breathes, unclenching his hands from where they’ve been toying with each other behind his back.
“You’re cleaning it up.”
Tony nods, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten times and then realizes he’s surpassed the normal threshold for nodding and goes skittering off to grab the dustpan and brush. When he rounds the corner, out of Steve’s eyesight, he allows himself to lean against the cool wall, pleasing through his age-softened shirt, and sink to the floor, letting a great gust of air out of his lungs. The panic he had been suppressing comes rising to the surface and he allows himself a few quick rocks, back thumping rhythmically against the wall. He was so close to being caught out, and over what? His inability to hold a fucking glass?
“Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid.” He mutters, hand lightly hitting his head to accentuate each repetition.
He pushes himself up off the floor, brushing the minimal dirt off his trousers, and goes off in a skip to find the cleaning stuff lest Steve notices he’s been gone suspiciously long. It takes a matter of two minutes to locate and collect the dustpan and brush, along with a pair of washing up gloves that he doesn’t completely despise the feel of.
He bounds back into the room and after the silence, while Tony clears up the mess, they fall back into simple, easy enough conversation. Tony tries to forget about the anxiety knotting up his chest.