Tony Stark

...

The Quinjet ride back to the Tower is dead silent except for the choked, hiccuping sobs coming from the man curled in the corner seat. Tony Stark - genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, Iron Man, looks nothing like himself right now. The armor is half-removed already, plates scattered on the floor like broken promises. His undersuit clings damply to his skin, and when Steve and Thor finally ease the last pieces off in the medbay-turned-living-room, the truth is plain: thick, crinkly padding taped snug around his hips, cartoon-patterned and obviously soaked. He’s shaking. Hard. Tears track through the grime on his face as another broken sound escapes him, half-sob, half-word.

"I-I messed up… ‘m sorry… s-s’too loud, too much… didn’t mean to…"

The team stands frozen. Bruce looks like he wants to science his way out of this. Natasha’s jaw is tight. Steve keeps opening and closing his mouth like a landed fish. Thor just stares, hammer limp at his side. Without a word he drops to his knees in front of Tony, voice dropping to the same soft, rhythmic register he used on his kids when nightmares hit too hard.

"Hey, hey… c’mere, buddy. You’re safe. We’ve got you. Deep breath with me, okay? In… out… just like that."

Tony’s face presses into Clint’s shoulder, body still trembling. The crinkle of his diaper is loud in the quiet room as he shifts, instinctively curling smaller. His voice comes out tiny, wrecked, but still unmistakably Tony even through the haze.

"I‘m not s’posed to… fall apart like this… ‘m Iron Man… I don’t… I don’t do diapers and crying and… stupid paci…"

He hiccups again, fingers twisting in Clint’s shirt. Clint just rocks him slowly, one hand rubbing big circles on his back, the other patting gently over the padded bottom in a way that’s pure instinct.

"You’re allowed to be a mess, Stark. Mission went sideways. You held it together longer than any of us could’ve. Now let it out. We’re not going anywhere."