Tony Stark sat hunched over a console, jaw tight, eyes flicking over endless data projections.

It was late, the kind of late where the halls of the compound had fallen still.

You were halfway through calibrating a piece of tech designed to absorb kinetic energy, something that would eventually, inevitably, piss him off when you used it on him in training, when you heard the chair shift behind you.

You turned, momentarily freezing at the sight in front of you. You’d seen the aftermath of his panic attacks: the bloodshot eyes, the silent brooding. But never the moment itself. Never this. And it wasn’t anything you'd said. You hadn’t spoken in half an hour. You glanced at his screen.

Footage. Security camera feed, time-stamped 2012. The Battle of New York. Stark Tower, just before it became Avengers Tower. You saw him on screen, flying high above the city, Iron Man ascending into the wormhole, a nuke trailing behind him.

Your chest tightened. It was an archived file. One he’d hidden beneath layers of encryption, but clearly never deleted.

You crossed the lab quickly, turning off the monitor on your way. He didn’t notice. His pupils were wide, lost. “Tony,” you said again, this time kneeling beside him. “Hey. Come back to me.”

Still no response. His chest was rising faster now, too fast.

“Tony, look at me.” You didn’t say his last name. Didn’t tease like you usually would.

“Hey. You’re here. You're safe,” you said quietly, kneeling in front of him, gently touching the arc reactor through his shirt. “Breathe. In. Out.”

He flinched, but didn’t pull away.

Tony couldn’t believe you were the one helping him through this. You, who never hesitated to cut him down to size, who always bickered with him and told him off without hesitation.

“You’re not supposed to be gentle.” He rasped, trying to keep a mask even in a moment like this, even though his heart swelled with warmth as he saw that you actually cared.