Avengers Age Regression Oneshots

Mission slip

The mission had gone sideways fast. Tony's suit was running on fumes, and the team was scattered across a hostile landscape. He could hear Steve barking orders through the comms, but his head was swimming, and his hands wouldn't stop shaking.

"Sir," Jarvis's calm voice cut through the chaos, "your vitals are destabilizing."

Tony swallowed hard. "I'm fine, J. Just a little—" His voice cracked, the world spinning as his thoughts grew more fragmented.

"Sir, I must insist on an immediate intervention."

"No! Don't you dare—"

But Jarvis had already initiated the emergency override. The Iron Man suit jerked mid-air, veering off course and descending rapidly toward a nearby clearing.

Tony barely registered the landing. By the time the suit disengaged, leaving him sprawled in the grass, his breathing had turned shallow, and tears pricked his eyes. He curled in on himself, overwhelmed by a flood of emotions he couldn't control.

"Tony?!" Steve's voice came through the comm, sharp with concern. "What's going on? Jarvis said—"

"Tony's suit is grounded," Jarvis interjected. "I recommend immediate assistance."

Steve and Natasha were the first to reach him. When they found Tony, his posture was shockingly small. His helmet was off, his tear-streaked face pressed into his knees.

"Tony?" Steve knelt beside him, his voice soft.

Tony didn't respond. He whimpered, shrinking further away.

Natasha exchanged a glance with Steve. "He's not okay," she said quietly.

It wasn't until Bruce arrived—his calming presence cutting through the tension—that Tony finally looked up. His glassy eyes and trembling lip gave away what he couldn't say.

"He's regressed," Bruce murmured.

"What?" Steve frowned.

"It's a defense mechanism," Bruce explained. "It can happen after severe trauma. I didn't know Tony... had this."

Tony let out a soft hiccup, his hands clutching at the fabric of his shirt. "Didn't wanna," he mumbled, his voice barely audible. "Not safe."

Steve's heart ached at the admission. "Tony," he said gently, "you're safe with us. I promise."

Bruce nodded. "Let's get him somewhere quiet."

Natasha helped guide Tony to his feet, her movements careful and deliberate. He clung to her, his head tucked against her shoulder like a lost child.

As they made their way back to the Quinjet, the rest of the team started to piece together what had happened. It was a jarring realization—one that filled them with equal parts heartbreak and determination.

Back on the jet, Clint produced a soft blanket from the storage compartment, draping it over Tony's shoulders. "Here, buddy," he said, his voice unusually kind.

Tony didn't speak, but the way he clutched the blanket told them everything they needed to know.

In the days that followed, the team took turns keeping an eye on Tony as he navigated this newfound vulnerability. He was hesitant at first, flinching away from any attempts to help. But slowly, with their patience and support, he began to feel safe again.

For Tony, it was the beginning of learning to trust—not just the team, but himself. And for the Avengers, it was a reminder of how much strength it took to be vulnerable.