Stony One-Shots

More Than Enough

Trigger Warning: Contains description of anxiety and mention of death.

Note: This is a Stony AU (alternate universe) where Bucky did not survive the fall.

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Steve was not okay.

It had taken him four hours of trying not to cry or rip his room apart to figure that out.

Of course, he wasn't going to go around telling anyone that. But he was not okay.

He was sure he didn't need help. He didn't need comfort. He didn't need anyone. He was just not okay today. He would be fine tomorrow.

All he had to do was to lie in bed swarmed in his horrible, wandering thoughts for a few more hours before he could head downstairs for breakfast without raising any suspicion.

He would be fine.

Except he wouldn't.

He lied in bed and closed his eyes. Then he opened them again. His brain was a screaming, chaotic mess, and he was vaguely aware that he was shaking slightly. Maybe...maybe no one would be downstairs. Maybe he was just being paranoid. Maybe he could head down and try to breathe a little. Stretch his limbs. Not feel so trapped in his own home-well, technically, it was Tony's, but still. Maybe he would be able to relax a little in the living room because it was at least larger than his own room, which was already large in the first place.

But he didn't want anyone to know, he didn't want to get caught roaming around even though it was a stupid worry: it was three in the morning.

The contradicting thoughts hammered back and forth in Steve's head, and the soldier sat up abruptly, his chest tightening in a whirling vortex of anxiety and scattered voices. His hands wounded their way into his hair as he dipped his head toward his chest, curling into himself tightly.

He was panicking-on the verge of running out of his room—when a distant crash sounded downstairs. Someone was up. Someone was up at three in the morning, just like him, and now Steve couldn't run downstairs, he couldn't escape, he didn't even have the strength to think about the window. He just... he couldn't.

Another crash sounded below, and Steve flinched almost instinctively, digging his fingers hard into his scalp.

"Shoot!" came a yelp.

It was Tony. Steve could recognize that voice any where. And...and that kind of made the situation so, so much worse.

And Tony was swearing, each curse word stabbing at Steve's heart as if they were directed at him. But they weren't, and it was stupid, stupid of Steve to even be feeling like this, unstable and shaky and stressed. He was—he needed to—he couldn't take it any more, he had to get out, or he would-he didn't know, he didn't know.

He had to take the chance. He had to.

Maybe Tony wouldn't notice. The building was massive, after all. What were the chances of Tony walking into the same room or corridor as Steve was?

So Steve took the chance.

He flung off the covers tangled around his feet, stumbling out of bed and across the room. His hand trembled almost uncontrollably as he very slowly eased the door open, trying to calm his breathing as he slipped into the hall, padding as quietly as he could across the carpeted floor and down the stairs, hoping his terrible shaking wasn't going to ruin everything.

It turned out that it did, indeed, ruin everything.

In his hasty panic, Steve was only aware of his own breathing, only aware that he had to stay quiet. He'd neglected the fact that he also had to be careful. Which was why he so stupidly missed a step and almost fell down the stairs.