Chapter Text
Life seemed to have taken a turn for the better, or so it appeared on the surface.
Tony’s work had finally begun to pay off in ways he could have only dreamed of. His position as a mechanic and engineer for the army’s secretive project had not only filled their modest apartment with a sense of pride, but it also filled their pockets with steady income. The once sparse rooms were now furnished with decent, comfortable furniture, thanks to Peter’s careful eye and hard-earned money.
It felt like a huge victory—one they had all fought tooth and nail to achieve.
Tony’s job, while demanding, had lit a fire in him he hadn’t felt in years. He was thriving, using his mechanical genius to develop armor and suits for the military. Bruce Banner, his boss, often praised him, even letting him take the lead on certain designs. It wasn’t long before Tony was attending conferences and meetings, rubbing shoulders with other brilliant minds in his field. He traveled across the U.S. more often now—New York one week, Washington D.C. the next, even as far as Chicago.
The world had opened up for him in a way he hadn’t expected, and it brought him both a sense of accomplishment and a feeling of freedom from the suffocating poverty that had plagued them for so long.
Peter, despite the whirlwind that life had become, managed to keep it all together. Benjamin, now six months old, was the light of his life. The baby’s wide, curious eyes and soft giggles were the highlight of every day. Between his factory shifts and attending high school in the evenings, Peter was juggling more than most could handle. Yet, he did it all with grace, determined to build a better future for his son.
The apartment, once a cramped and dreary shelter, had turned into a cozy, warm home. Peter had saved enough to buy small luxuries—a soft throw blanket, a lamp for reading, even a framed picture of the family that hung proudly on their living room wall.
But not everything was perfect.
Steve was a permanent shadow of his former self, and no one could ignore it any longer.
After coming back from the war, Steve had tried to reintegrate into civilian life. He took a job as a paper boy—the only job anyone would give him. The weight of rejection from every other employer he approached settled into his bones, and over time, it crushed him. He was once a proud man, a soldier who had fought valiantly.
Now, with one arm gone and his sense of purpose ripped from him, Steve could barely look in the mirror without feeling disgusted at what he saw.
Every day, Steve would walk the same route, delivering papers to the neighborhood, and every day he would come home quieter, more withdrawn. At first, Tony and Peter had tried to talk to him about it. Tony had even suggested taking time off to help Steve, but Steve had brushed it off, insisting that he didn’t want to be a burden.
"Just let me be, Tony," Steve had muttered one evening, sitting by the window, staring blankly into the street below. "I’ll figure it out."
But he never did.
Steve had gained a significant amount of weight since returning home. His once muscular, lean frame had softened, and his cheeks had filled out.
The weight gain wasn’t what concerned Tony and Peter the most, though—it was the lifelessness in Steve’s eyes. He didn’t talk much anymore, except to Benjamin. The baby was the only one who could coax a smile or a word out of him, and even that seemed to be fading. Steve had stopped going outside unless it was for work. He didn’t want to be seen, didn’t want people’s pitying glances or the whispering behind his back. He had started avoiding Tony and Peter, spending most of his time in their small bedroom, only emerging to hold Benjamin or do his paper route.
Peter had tried his best to fill in the gaps Steve left behind. With his schoolwork, factory job, and Benjamin to care for, his days were packed. But despite the exhaustion, Peter was happy to be contributing. He didn’t mind the hard work because it was all for his family.
Still, he couldn’t shake the worry gnawing at him about his papa.
One evening, as Peter was rocking Benjamin to sleep in his arms, he glanced over at the doorway. Steve stood there, leaning against the frame, his once broad shoulders now slumped in defeat. His hair, once neatly combed back, had grown longer, and his face had a scruffy, unkempt look.
He watched Peter with tired, sad eyes.
"Papa," Peter whispered, careful not to wake the baby. "You want to hold him?"
Steve shook his head slightly. "No... I, uh, I should... get ready for work."
It was well past dusk, and the paper route wouldn’t start until dawn, but Peter didn’t say anything. He just watched as Steve turned away and shuffled down the hall, his steps heavy and slow.
Peter felt a lump form in his throat. He had seen his papa fight through the hardest battles and come out the other side strong, but now... now Steve was slipping away, and neither Peter nor Tony knew how to pull him back.
Meanwhile, Tony was pouring himself into his work, perhaps a little too much.
The late nights at the facility were as much about the job as they were about avoiding the growing silence at home. He knew Steve was suffering, but he didn’t know how to help.
He was afraid of getting Steve checked with a doctor because he didn't want to love his life to spend the rest of his days in a mental hospital.
It was easier to stay in the lab, surrounded by machines and blueprints, than to confront the man he loved who was slowly fading away.
During the few hours Tony was home, he and Peter would spend time together, but there was always a tension in the air. They’d talk about the baby, laugh about Peter’s classmates or Tony’s colleagues, but eventually, the conversation would falter, and the unspoken truth about Steve’s depression would hang between them like a thick fog.
On the rare occasion that Steve joined them at the dinner table, the conversations were short and stilted. He barely touched his food, pushing it around his plate before excusing himself to bed early. Tony would stare after him, his heart aching, but every time he tried to talk to Steve about it, he’d hit a wall.
"I’m fine, Tony," Steve would say, his voice cold and distant. "Just leave it."
Tony couldn’t leave it, though. He couldn’t stand seeing the man he loved in so much pain, but he was also terrified that he was making it worse by trying to help.
One night, after a long day at the facility, Tony returned home to find Peter sitting on the sofa with Benjamin asleep in his arms. Peter looked up and smiled when Tony walked in, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. The apartment was quiet, too quiet.
"Where’s Steve?" Tony asked, hanging his coat on the rack.
"Bedroom, I think," Peter replied, his voice subdued.
Tony sighed, running a hand through his hair. He walked over and kissed Peter’s forehead, then bent down to kiss Benjamin’s tiny head.
"I’m going to check on him."
Peter nodded, his eyes following Tony as he walked down the hall. Tony hesitated outside the bedroom door, listening for any sound, but all he heard was the soft ticking of the clock on the wall. He knocked gently before pushing the door open.
Steve was lying on the bed, his back to the door, his body curled up like he was trying to make himself smaller, trying to disappear.
"Steve?" Tony whispered.
No response.
Tony stepped inside and sat on the edge of the bed, reaching out to touch Steve’s shoulder. "Steve, talk to me."
Steve flinched at the touch but didn’t pull away.
"I don’t know what to say, Tony."
"You don’t have to say anything, just... just let me be here with you," Tony said softly.
Steve’s body shook with a quiet sob, and Tony’s heart broke a little more. He moved closer, wrapping his arm around Steve’s waist, holding him tightly as the man he loved fell apart in his arms. Tony pressed his forehead against Steve’s back, closing his eyes as the tears he’d been holding in for weeks finally slipped free.
The world outside their small apartment was beginning to change, and this time, it was for the better—or at least it seemed that way to everyone else.
Tony Stark, once a poor, overworked mechanic with a family barely scraping by, was now making waves as one of the most promising inventors for the U.S. military. His designs, particularly the armor prototypes he was developing, were attracting attention from both the military brass and the media. Journalists had started calling for interviews, and Tony was frequently photographed in newspapers, hailed as a rising star in military technology.
The money was rolling in, and with it, the apartment was filled with a sense of pride and relief that had been absent for years. Tony could finally provide for his family in a way he had always dreamed of.
New clothes, better food, and small luxuries like an upgraded crib for Benjamin—things that had once seemed impossible were now their reality.
Everyone was overjoyed.
Peter couldn’t stop grinning when he saw his father’s name in print. He clipped the articles and pasted them in a scrapbook, proudly showing them to everyone at school and work. Benjamin, oblivious to it all, giggled in Tony’s arms every time Tony came home from a long day at work, smelling of oil and metal but carrying with him a new sense of triumph. Even Sam and Bucky, who came by to visit when they could, patted Tony on the back and told him how proud they were.
But behind closed doors, there was another story.
One that no one but Steve knew.
Steve’s life had shrunk. The once-proud soldier who had fought in a brutal war was now reduced to delivering newspapers and existing in the shadows of his family’s newfound success. Each time he saw Tony’s face in a newspaper, each time someone complimented Tony’s brilliance, Steve felt the weight of his own failures pressing harder on him.
He was no longer the man he once was. The man who had stood by Tony’s side, strong and capable, full of purpose.
Now, he was a broken man—an amputee, fat, depressed, barely able to contribute to the family beyond the few dollars he earned as a paper boy. He was living in the shadow of Tony’s success, and it was killing him inside.
In public, Steve put on a brave face. He smiled when Tony showed him the latest newspaper articles, kissed Benjamin on the forehead, and even managed to keep up small talk with Peter. But when he was alone, when the apartment was quiet and everyone was either asleep or at work, Steve fell apart.
He would stare at himself in the mirror for hours, hating what he saw. The weight he had gained since the war clung to his body, turning the once-strong lines of his jaw and shoulders into soft, sagging reminders of what he had lost. His stomach, bloated and round, stuck out, a cruel mockery of the athletic form he used to pride himself on. And then there was his missing arm—his constant reminder of what the war had taken from him. The empty sleeve hung limp by his side, a cruel joke that never failed to make him feel useless.
It was the shame that consumed him most. He was ashamed to be Tony’s husband—Tony Stark, the brilliant inventor, the man everyone admired and respected.
What was he? A fat, useless amputee who couldn’t even find a proper job.
What kind of husband was that?
The pain of it all was too much to bear, and Steve had no idea how to release it. He couldn’t talk to Tony about it—not when Tony was working so hard, not when Peter was juggling school and work. He didn’t want to add to their burdens, didn’t want to be yet another problem for them to solve. So, Steve kept it all to himself.
Until he couldn’t anymore.
It started one night, weeks after Tony’s latest interview had been published in the city’s biggest newspaper.
The headline read, “Tony Stark: The Military’s Secret Weapon in Armor Technology”—complete with a photo of Tony looking proud and confident, his hands smudged with grease, his face lit with passion for the work he loved.
Steve had stared at that photo for hours, the words in the article blurring together as his eyes filled with tears he couldn’t let fall.
He had been so proud of Tony, but with that pride came a wave of self-loathing so deep it made him physically sick. He had barely been able to stomach dinner that night, and after everyone went to bed, Steve had locked himself in the bathroom.
His reflection in the bathroom mirror was unbearable to look at. His face, round and pale, was a far cry from the man he used to be. His body, weighed down with fat, was heavy and slow. He could barely stand to see himself anymore. The disgust and shame boiled over inside him, threatening to swallow him whole.
That’s when he did it.
Steve had spotted a razor blade on the bathroom counter, something Tony had left behind in his rush to get ready for work earlier that morning. Without thinking, Steve had picked it up, holding it between his trembling fingers. His breath came in shallow, panicked gasps as he stared at the blade, feeling the sharpness of it press lightly against his skin.
And then, with one swift motion, he dragged it across his forearm.
The pain had been sharp but brief, quickly replaced by a strange sense of release. The blood that welled up from the cut was warm and sticky, and for the first time in months, Steve felt something other than the crushing weight of shame. It wasn’t a solution—it wasn’t anything close to one—but in that moment, it felt like relief.
It became a habit after that.
Whenever the shame got too heavy, whenever he saw Tony’s name in the paper or heard people talking about how brilliant his husband was, Steve would retreat to the bathroom, lock the door, and find his release. The cuts were small, hidden in places Tony wouldn’t notice, like his thighs or the back of his arm. It was his secret, his way of managing the pain that threatened to drown him every day.
No one knew. No one suspected a thing.
Steve hid his scars well, wore long sleeves, and kept to himself. He smiled when Tony was home, laughed when Peter made jokes, and held Benjamin close when the baby needed him. But the shame never left. The self-loathing never faded. It was always there, lurking beneath the surface, ready to tear him apart at a moment’s notice.
And with each passing day, Steve felt like he was falling further and further away from the family he loved.
One evening, after a particularly long day at work, Tony came home with a wide grin on his face, holding a newspaper in his hand.
"Hey, Steve!" Tony called out as he entered the apartment. "You won’t believe this—I’m being invited to a symposium in D.C. next month! It’s a huge deal; they want me to give a talk about the new designs!"
Steve looked up from where he was sitting on the couch, holding Benjamin in his lap. He forced a smile, though his stomach twisted with shame.
"That’s great, Tony," he said, his voice hoarse.
Tony, beaming, walked over and handed the newspaper to Steve. "Look, they even mentioned me in the article. It’s crazy, right?"
Steve glanced at the paper, his eyes skimming over the words without really reading them.
He nodded, though he couldn’t bring himself to feel any joy. "Yeah... crazy."
Tony didn’t seem to notice Steve’s lack of enthusiasm. He was too caught up in his excitement, talking about the symposium and the other inventors he would get to meet. Steve listened, nodding in the right places, but inside, he felt like he was sinking deeper and deeper into a dark, endless void.
Later that night, after Tony and Peter had gone to bed, Steve locked himself in the bathroom again.
The razor blade was waiting for him, cold and sharp, and as he pressed it against his skin, he closed his eyes, letting the pain drown out the shame—if only for a little while.
Tony Stark stood in the middle of his newly purchased house, a rare, proud smile spread across his face as the voices of their friends filled the space. The once small, crowded, and rundown apartment they had all called home was now a memory—something to be left behind, like the hardships of their past. This new place was nothing short of a dream. Spacious, clean, and filled with light.
It was a symbol of everything Tony had been working toward—a life where his family could breathe, relax, and finally feel secure.
The housewarming party was in full swing. Sam was in one corner, bouncing little Ben on his knee, while Bucky had his son swaddled in his arms, and cracked jokes with Peter, who was eagerly showing off the sweater he had stitched for himself. Rhodey, Pepper and Dr. Strange were talking quietly by the kitchen. The smell of food filled the air, warm and comforting, the laughter of friends ringing in Tony’s ears.
It was everything he had ever wanted for his family—security, love, and joy.
But amidst the laughter and conversation, Tony kept his eyes drifting to Steve.
He was standing near the back of the room, trying his best to blend into the shadows, one arm awkwardly tucked into the pocket of his beige pants, the empty sleeve of his shirt hanging loose. His eyes were distant, dark circles beneath them, and though he tried to smile at people as they passed by, Tony could see the tightness in his jaw, the unease in his posture.
Steve hadn’t been himself for months.
Even now, at a celebration meant for all of them, Steve looked like he was struggling to stay afloat.
Tony had been too busy lately to really address it—his new job, the conferences, the extra money—but now, seeing Steve like this, the guilt gnawed at his gut. He knew Steve was hiding his pain. But every time Tony had tried to bring it up, Steve would brush him off, change the subject, or simply retreat into silence.
As Tony made his rounds, chatting with everyone, he kept a careful eye on Steve. He saw how Bucky’s attempts to engage him in conversation failed, how Steve excused himself to go stand by the window alone. Tony’s stomach twisted with worry. He should have pulled Steve aside right then and asked him how he was really doing, but the party was in full swing, and Tony didn’t want to make a scene.
It wasn’t until about an hour later, when Tony noticed Steve was no longer in the room, that alarm bells started ringing in his head.
"Where’s Steve?" Tony asked, his eyes scanning the crowd.
Peter, holding Benjamin, looked around. "I don’t know… I thought he was with Bucky?"
"He was," Bucky said, walking over, concern etched on his face. "He seemed kinda off, and then he just... left. Said he needed some air."
Tony’s heart raced.
Something was wrong. He could feel it in his bones.
"I’ll be back," he muttered, already heading for the front door.
Outside, the evening air was cool, and the quiet streets were a stark contrast to the warmth and noise of the party. Tony jogged down the front steps, scanning the street for any sign of Steve. His heart pounded in his chest, dread coiling in his stomach.
Where would Steve have gone?
And then he spotted him, just a blur of movement in the distance, heading toward the old bridge not far from their new house. Tony’s blood ran cold.
The bridge.
Tony broke into a run.
“Steve!” he shouted, his voice raw with panic. But Steve didn’t stop. He kept moving, faster, as if he were trying to outrun something, maybe himself, maybe everything he had been feeling for months. Tony’s legs pumped harder as he pushed through the fear coursing through him, his mind screaming that he had to reach him—he couldn’t lose him, not now, not ever.
By the time Tony reached the bridge, Steve was already standing at the edge, his hand gripping the rail, his body leaning dangerously forward over the dark water below. The wind whipped around them, cold and biting, and the sound of the water crashing against the rocks filled the space between them.
“Steve, no!” Tony’s voice cracked as he approached, out of breath, terror written all over his face.
Steve didn’t turn around. His knuckles were white where they gripped the railing, his entire body tense, his chest rising and falling in shallow, rapid breaths. Tony could see the tremor in his shoulders, the desperation in the way he leaned forward, staring into the abyss below.
“I—I can’t do this anymore,” Steve’s voice was barely a whisper, almost lost in the wind. “I can’t... I don’t belong here, Tony. I’m just a burden. You’d all be better off without me.”
Tony’s heart shattered at those words. He could feel his throat tightening, but he pushed the emotion down, desperate to get through to Steve.
“That’s not true, Steve. Please... come back. Come back to us.”
Steve shook his head, tears glistening in his eyes.
“Look at me,” he rasped. “I’m useless. I’m not the man you married. I’m not the artist or soldier I used to be. I’m nothing now... nothing but a fat, broken mess who can’t even take care of his family.”
“Steve, no,” Tony’s voice broke, and he took a cautious step forward, holding out a hand. “You’re everything to me. To Peter. To Benjamin. We need you, Steve. I need you. You’re the only thing keeping me going, don’t you get that?”
Steve’s shoulders shook with silent sobs, but he didn’t move.
“I’m a disgrace, Tony,” he whispered. “Look at you. Look at what you’ve become. You’re a success, you’re making things happen. And I’m just... holding you back.”
Tony was crying now, tears streaming down his face as he inched closer.
“You’re not holding me back, Steve. You’re the reason I’ve done any of this. You. You’ve been my strength through everything, through every hard time, every struggle. Without you, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t be me.”
Steve’s grip on the rail loosened, and for a terrifying moment, Tony thought he might actually let go.
But then he stopped, standing still as Tony came up beside him. Slowly, cautiously, Tony reached out and wrapped his arms around Steve’s waist, holding him tight.
“Please, Steve,” Tony whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Don’t leave me. I can’t do this without you. I don’t care what’s happened, I don’t care about anything but you. We’ll get through this, we’ll figure it out... just please don’t leave.”
For a long, agonizing moment, Steve didn’t respond. The sound of the river below roared in Tony’s ears, and all he could do was hold on tighter, praying that Steve wouldn’t slip away.
Finally, Steve turned his head, his tear-streaked face looking at Tony with such raw pain it broke Tony’s heart all over again.
“I’m sorry,” Steve whispered, his voice barely audible. “I’m so sorry...”
Tony shook his head, pulling Steve into his chest. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Stevie. Nothing. We’ll get through this, I promise you.”
Steve’s body sagged against Tony, the weight of his exhaustion and despair finally giving way as Tony held him.
Eventually, Tony coaxed Steve away from the edge of the bridge, guiding him back toward the safety of home. They walked in silence, Steve leaning on Tony for support, both of them worn down by the weight of everything they had been carrying for so long.
As they neared the house, Tony glanced up at Steve, his heart still aching but filled with a fierce determination.
“We’ll get through this,” Tony whispered again, more to himself than anyone else. “I promise you, we will.”
Steve didn’t respond, but the way he clung to Tony’s hand said enough.
And that night, for the first time in a long time, Steve didn’t feel completely alone.
Steve Rogers stood in front of the tiny mirror in their new home’s bathroom, his reflection staring back at him with a mixture of disdain and determination. His once muscular body—fit for a soldier, for a busy poster artist—had softened considerably since his return. His chest, once proud and broad, now sagged slightly, and his stomach, which had once been flat and taut, had rounded out with the extra weight he had gained during the long months of depression.
The sight disgusted him.
He knew that he couldn’t go back to the man he was before, not entirely. His missing arm was a constant reminder of that. But he was tired of feeling ashamed, tired of seeing the pity in Tony’s eyes, and the concern in Peter’s voice when he asked how his day had been. He was tired of seeing himself as weak, tired of being trapped inside his own body.
No more.
He had made the decision the night Tony had found him on the bridge. He wasn’t going to be a burden to his family anymore. He was going to get better—no matter what it took.
Steve’s plan was simple: exercise until the weight came off. Push himself harder than ever before.
And if he was hungry? Well, he could deal with that. The less he ate, the faster he’d slim down. It was simple logic, really. He’d trained for war, survived battles that had torn men apart. This was just another fight. Only this time, the enemy was his own body.
The next morning, Steve laced up an old pair of boots and set out early, before anyone else was awake. He jogged through the streets of their modest neighborhood, pushing his body harder with each step. His lungs burned as he ran, the cold morning air biting at his face, but he didn’t slow down. He couldn’t slow down.
The days blurred into a pattern—wake up early, run until his legs felt like they were going to give out, come home, shower, and spend the rest of the day playing with Benjamin or working as a paperboy. The meals, though, became smaller and smaller.
At first, it was easy to skip breakfast. Then lunch, and eventually, he found himself nibbling at his dinner just enough to satisfy Peter and Tony, who watched him from across the table.
“Papa, you’re looking... better,” Peter said one night, noticing that Steve had begun to slim down. “You’ve been going out more. It’s good for you, Papa.”
Steve forced a smile, nodding as he poked at his food. “Yeah. I feel better, too.”
And in a way, he did. The hunger pangs in his stomach were like a twisted badge of honor, proof that he was doing something, taking control of his life again. Every time he felt weak, every time his body begged for food, he ignored it, pushing the need aside.
Hunger meant progress. Faintness meant he was winning.
Tony and Peter were too distracted to notice much.
Tony, still busy with his inventions and projects for the military, was constantly traveling. He was in and out of the house, his work consuming more of his time with each passing week. Peter, who continued to work at the factory (despite Tony saying there was no need to anymore) and was juggling high school and taking care of Benjamin, was so exhausted most days that he barely had time to think about anything other than keeping their family afloat.
In their eyes, Steve was finally coming out of his shell.
He was getting outside, moving more, and they were happy to see him improving. The depression that had weighed him down for so long seemed to be lifting. He was talking a little more, engaging with Benjamin, and even going on long walks again.
What they didn’t see were the moments when Steve’s vision would blur, the ground tilting under his feet as he stumbled home from one of his exhausting runs. They didn’t notice how his hands trembled when he skipped yet another meal, or how he avoided sitting too long because the hunger gnawing at his insides made him restless.
His mind was constantly at war with his body. When he looked in the mirror, he still saw the fat, broken man he had become. No matter how hard he worked, no matter how much weight he lost, it never seemed to be enough.
One afternoon, Peter noticed Steve had been gone for longer than usual. He had been out for his daily run, but hours had passed, and there was no sign of him returning. Peter furrowed his brow, a sense of worry gnawing at him, but he convinced himself that Steve was fine. After all, he was exercising, he was getting better. They had all wanted this for him.
By the time Steve stumbled through the front door, the sun was already beginning to set. His face was pale, beads of sweat trickling down his forehead as he leaned against the doorframe for support. His breathing was ragged, and his legs trembled with exhaustion.
Peter rushed over. “Papa! Are you okay? You’ve been gone for hours!”
Steve forced a weak smile, waving Peter off. “I’m fine. Just... went a little further than I planned. I’ll be fine once I sit down.”
Peter helped him to the sofa, his concern deepening. “You’ve got to take it easy, Papa. You don’t have to push yourself so hard.”
“I know,” Steve lied, though the truth burned inside him. He wasn’t pushing himself hard enough. He still wasn’t where he needed to be.
Tony came home late that night, greeted by the sight of Steve lying on the sofa, his face still pale but trying to hide it behind a book. Tony smiled warmly, dropping his bag by the door.
“How’s my best guy doing?” Tony asked, leaning down to kiss Steve on the forehead. “Heard you’ve been getting out more. Peter said you’re killing it out there.”
Steve nodded, his throat dry. “Yeah... just trying to get back in shape.”
“Well, don’t overdo it,” Tony said, chuckling as he moved toward the kitchen. “We want you healthy, not half-dead.”
Steve’s stomach twisted with guilt, but he couldn’t stop. He had to keep going. He had to get better.
He had to be the man Tony deserved—the man he used to be.
In the following days, Steve’s exercise regimen became even more extreme. He started waking up earlier, running longer distances, and doing push-ups and sit-ups until his muscles screamed in protest. He skipped meals without a second thought, his mind consumed by the idea that the more he pushed, the better he would become. The weaker he felt, the closer he believed he was to finally being worthy again.
Tony, wrapped up in his work, only saw the surface: Steve moving more, getting out of the house, engaging with the world again. Peter, overwhelmed with school and work, assumed that everything was going well. To both of them, it looked like Steve was healing.
But Steve’s struggle was far from over. And as he pushed his body harder and harder, the fine line between recovery and self-destruction grew thinner by the day.
And Steve didn’t see it.
Steve stood in front of the mirror again, but this time, the reflection looking back at him seemed… different. Better.
His cheekbones were more defined, his waist had shrunk, and the bags under his eyes had softened just slightly. His body, though still missing the arm that had haunted him since the war, now felt lighter, almost weightless. The hollowness in his stomach was no longer a burden; it was a reminder that he was in control.
The hunger had become his ally. It brought him a strange clarity, a high that made everything sharper. He wasn’t sluggish or depressed anymore.
Quite the opposite. With every pound he lost, it felt like he was shedding the layers of shame and sadness that had weighed him down for months. It was as though he’d discovered a new source of energy, a secret wellspring of vitality hidden in the emptiness.
For the first time since returning home, Steve felt… alive.
Outside the bathroom, Peter sat on the floor, bouncing little Benjamin on his lap while the baby cooed and tugged at Peter’s shirt. When Steve walked into the room, his face lit up with a smile that had been absent for too long.
“Look who’s awake and full of energy,” Peter teased, glancing up at Steve. “You’ve been getting up earlier and earlier every day, Papa.”
Steve grinned, scooping Benjamin into his arms with a new vigor. “Feels good to get up before the sun. You’d be amazed at how peaceful the world is in the morning.”
Peter chuckled, clearly relieved to see Steve in such high spirits. “I’m just glad you’re feeling better. For a while there, we were all worried about you.”
“I know, I know,” Steve replied, bouncing Benjamin gently as he paced the room. “But I’m good now. Really. I feel like a new man.”
And he did. The constant gnawing hunger in his belly had transformed into a kind of adrenaline rush, making him feel like he could conquer the world. He started waking up earlier to run, extending his routes through the neighborhoods, parks, and even to the Brooklyn Bridge. Where before his exhaustion left him breathless and weak, now he felt unstoppable, like nothing could slow him down.
His change in demeanor wasn’t lost on the family. Tony, despite his busy schedule and frequent nights away due to work, noticed Steve’s renewed energy.
He’d often come home late to find Steve sitting in the living room with Benjamin, playing with the baby or fixing little things around the house. There was life in his eyes again, and a kind of spark Tony hadn’t seen in a long time.
“You’ve been looking good lately, Steve,” Tony commented one evening, tossing his jacket over the back of the chair. “You’re more active than I’ve seen you in years. What’s your secret?”
Steve shrugged, flashing a lopsided grin. “Just… taking better care of myself. I needed to get my head straight, you know? Exercise helps. Makes me feel alive.”
“Whatever you’re doing, it’s working,” Tony replied, settling down next to him on the couch. “I’m just glad you’re back to being your old self.”
Steve smiled at the words, but there was a flicker of guilt beneath the surface.
Tony didn’t know about the skipped meals, the way Steve purposely pushed his body to the edge every morning. Tony thought Steve was “getting better,” that he was healing from the trauma of war and injury. And in a way, Steve was.
But it wasn’t in the way anyone expected.
Peter, too, was just happy to see his papa coming back to life. With Tony busy at work and Peter juggling school, the factory, and caring for Benjamin, it was a relief to have Steve stepping up again, helping out with the baby and even getting involved in some of the household tasks. He’d even started taking Benjamin out for walks, something he hadn’t done since coming home from the hospital.
“Look at you two,” Peter said one afternoon as he returned home from the factory, seeing Steve and Benjamin outside in the small yard of their apartment complex.
Steve had set up a blanket on the grass and was lying on his back, holding Benjamin up in the air as the soon to turn one year old baby giggled uncontrollably. “You’re like a whole new man, Papa.”
Steve flashed him a smile, his chest swelling with pride. “It feels good, Peter. I haven’t felt this good in a long time.”
But beneath the surface, things weren’t as simple as they seemed. Steve’s energy came at a cost—a cost he wasn’t willing to admit to anyone.
The high of hunger kept him going, but it also meant that he was constantly pushing himself to the limit. He would skip meals without hesitation, lying to Tony and Peter about having eaten at odd hours. He’d stay out longer on his runs, pushing himself harder each day, all the while convincing himself that this was what he needed to do to stay in control.
His weight dropped steadily, but Steve didn’t care. The lighter he became, the better he felt. The more he pushed himself, the more alive he felt. It was as though the hunger had unlocked a part of him that had been dormant for so long, a part that had been buried under layers of depression and self-loathing.
One evening, after a particularly long run, Steve returned home to find Tony sitting in the living room, reading a newspaper. Tony glanced up as Steve walked in, a flicker of concern crossing his face.
“Steve, you’ve been out running for hours,” Tony said, folding the paper and setting it aside. “Are you sure you’re not overdoing it?”
Steve wiped the sweat from his forehead, shaking his head with a grin. “I’m fine, Tony. Really. It feels good to push myself.”
“I’m just worried,” Tony said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “I know you’ve been through a lot, but you don’t have to prove anything to us, you know? We love you the way you are.”
Steve’s stomach twisted at the words. They were meant to be comforting, but all he could hear was a reminder of how far he still had to go.
“I know,” Steve replied, forcing a smile. “But it’s not about proving anything. I just need to do this for me.”
Tony seemed to accept the answer, though the worry never left his eyes. He trusted Steve, but there was a part of him that couldn’t help but feel something was off.
As the days turned into weeks, Steve’s weight continued to drop. His face grew more angular, and his body, though still strong from all the exercise, had become almost too thin. But he didn’t care. The emptiness in his stomach had become an addiction, a source of control in a life that had once felt uncontrollable.
He was always on the move now, always doing something. Whether it was running, fixing things around the house, or playing with Benjamin, Steve’s energy seemed boundless. And for the first time in a long time, he felt like he had a purpose again.
But beneath the surface, the cracks were starting to show. His body was weakening, even if his mind refused to acknowledge it. And as the hunger continued to fuel him, Steve was teetering on the edge of something dangerous—something he couldn’t quite see until it was too late.
For now, though, he was riding the high. And for the first time in months, Steve Rogers felt like he was winning.
The invitation was glossy and formal, sealed in an expensive-looking envelope. It had arrived in the mail that morning, addressed to Tony Stark with a flourish of ink.
A high-profile gala, a gathering of the brightest minds in engineering, science, and politics—a perfect opportunity for Tony to showcase his growing fame in the world of invention.
But the first thing Tony thought of wasn’t himself. It was Steve.
He sat at the kitchen table that night, fiddling with the invitation, watching Steve spoon mashed potatoes into Benjamin’s tiny mouth. The baby, now a plump ten-month-old, giggled and gurgled, his little fists grabbing at Steve’s shirt.
Steve looked… more alive than he had in months. His energy, his presence, was different. Tony noticed how Steve smiled a little more lately, how he seemed to have taken charge of his life again. But there was something else, something Tony couldn’t quite put his finger on—an edge beneath the surface that made him uneasy.
“Hey, Steve?” Tony spoke up, his voice soft but expectant.
“Yeah?” Steve glanced over, wiping a bit of baby food from Benjamin’s chin.
“I’ve been invited to this gala—big event, lotta important people there. I was thinking… would you be my plus one?”
Steve froze for a moment, his eyes wide. “Me? At a gala?”
Tony chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Of course, you. Who else? I mean, you’re my husband.”
Steve’s face flushed slightly, his heart swelling at Tony’s words.
But then, a wave of doubt washed over him. A gala, with rich, sophisticated people. He hadn’t stepped foot in that world ever before. He was just a poor kid from Brooklyn, who got lucky when he married his sweetheart Tony, and the best things in his life so far had been Peter and Benjamin.
Could he really face a room full of those people, dressed in fine clothes, making small talk and sipping champagne? The thought made his stomach twist with anxiety.
But he pushed the feeling aside. This was for Tony. He had to do it.
“I… I’d love to,” Steve replied, forcing a smile. “I’ll wear my best suit.”
Tony smiled, relieved. “Great. It’ll be nice. You’ll see.”
But as soon as the words left his mouth, Steve’s mind raced.
His best suit?
The only suit he had that could possibly work for a high-profile event was his wedding suit. But the last time he’d worn it, he had been a teenager, young and fit, with none of the weight he’d gained since the war. The idea of trying to squeeze into that suit now made him feel sick.
But he was determined.
He had to make this work—for Tony.
The next morning, Steve dug through the small wardrobe in their apartment and found the suit. He held it up, inspecting it carefully. The fabric was still in decent condition, though it smelled faintly of dust and old memories. He remembered the day he had worn it—the day he and Tony had married, the way Tony had looked at him with so much love and hope in his eyes.
They had been so young then.
Steve bit his lip. He was no longer that person, but maybe, just maybe, he could be again.
The days before the gala, Steve spent hours exercising, pushing his body to its limits. He hadn't eaten in two whole days now. He ran longer than usual, did more push-ups, more sit-ups, more everything.
He was determined to fit into that suit, no matter what it took. The hunger was sharp, but it fueled him, driving him to keep going. He needed to be good enough—to look good enough—for Tony.
By the day before the gala, Steve was exhausted, his muscles aching, his stomach growling. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.
That night, after putting Benjamin to bed, Tony and Steve finally had some time to themselves. They hadn’t been intimate in a while—between Tony’s long hours at work and Steve’s depression, the two had been like ships passing in the night.
But now, with the quiet of the apartment surrounding them, Tony pulled Steve close, kissing him deeply.
“I’ve missed this,” Tony whispered, his hands wandering across Steve’s back.
Steve leaned into the kiss, his body responding, though his mind was somewhere else—still thinking about the suit, about the gala, about fitting in, literally and figuratively.
As things heated up between them, Tony’s hands slid under Steve’s shirt, fingers grazing along his ribs. Tony paused, his brow furrowing as he felt how prominent Steve’s ribs had become. He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching Steve’s face.
“Steve…” Tony’s voice was soft, but there was a note of concern in it. “What’s going on with you?”
Steve tried to brush it off, leaning in for another kiss. “What do you mean?”
Tony’s hand lingered on Steve’s side, feeling the sharpness of his bones. “You’ve lost a lot of weight. I can feel your ribs. Are you… okay?”
Steve tensed, pulling away slightly. “I’m fine, Tony. I’ve just been… trying to get in shape.”
Tony didn’t look convinced. He reached up to cup Steve’s face, his thumb brushing against Steve’s cheek. “You don’t need to change for me, Steve. I love you just the way you are. You know that, right?”
Steve’s heart sank at Tony’s words, a lump forming in his throat. He wanted to believe Tony, but the voice in his head—the one that had been driving him for weeks—told him otherwise.
He had to be better. He had to fit into that suit, had to be good enough for Tony.
“I know,” Steve whispered, forcing a smile. “I just… want to look my best for the gala, that’s all.”
Tony studied him for a moment, his eyes full of concern, but he didn’t push any further. He kissed Steve again, slower this time, as if trying to reassure him with every touch. Steve let himself get lost in the moment, trying to push the anxiety away, but it lingered, gnawing at the back of his mind.
That night, after Tony had fallen asleep, Steve slipped out of bed and quietly pulled out the wedding suit from the wardrobe. He held it up against his body, his heart racing. Tomorrow was the gala, and he was determined to make sure he looked perfect. He tried on the jacket first, pulling it over his shoulders. It was tight, but not unbearable. Then came the pants. He struggled to get them past his thighs, and when he finally did, the waistband dug painfully into his skin.
His chest tightened with panic. It didn’t fit. Not properly. Not like it used to.
He stood in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection. He tugged at the fabric, trying to make it work, but no matter what he did, it wasn’t the same. He wasn’t the same.
Tears burned at the corners of his eyes, but he blinked them back, determined not to break down.
Tomorrow was the gala. He’d make it work. He had to. For Tony.