Hi! So I really love your "When You Can't Find The Quiet" series and I think it's amazing how well you write! If you're still taking requests I'd love to see another part with maybe like Bucky and Steve helping the reader through a meltdown. Like Peter's ill or something so couldn't be there and Tony's away on some kind of business but like Happy picked the reader up and took them to the tower and Tony contacted Bucky to help. And like Steve's confused and just draws for the reader or something?
(Can be read as standalone or as (the much delayed) WYCFTQ pt 6)
There weren’t many people you interacted with on a regular basis, and that was just the way you preferred it.
People are scary. Unpredictable. Deceit hidden behind curtains of seemingly genuine intent, gauzy and constantly shifting and impossible to focus on what lies beyond. It didn’t make sense. All your life you had been exactly as you were, no lies, no acting unless instructed to. The masking kind, only, as you tried to keep up in the neurotypical social game. Frankly, it all seemed rather put on and pointless and by the time you reached high school you’d all but given up on it. Given up on trying to decode other people as well. There was too much shit going on, and it was the path of least resistance to settle on your small group of friends and leave it at that. Minimal masking, minimal need for interpretation. You trusted your friends to be who they said they were, and you showed up with no pretences held.
That being said, entering Peter’s world was terrifying. Here were adults that seemed to have true intentions; adults with the time and resources to make your life easier in a way you’d never before had access to. Adults- Tony, Nat, Bucky, Pepper- who said they wanted to help. Who did help, and not in the way you were used to adults ‘helping’, with social rules and short reprimands and sad sighs when you just didn’t get it. You had to trust them. Because without that help, trying to manage being a generally functioning human that left the apartment and did homework and went to school and didn’t punch randoms on the subway on instinct for standing too close, felt impossible. Part of you felt shame for having grown so reliant, but you knew the alternative all too well. Complete shutdown. Burnout. Months of being so hazy and out of it nothing felt real and nothing got done. So, reluctantly, you accepted the status quo.
Meltdowns happen. They suck ass. At this point you felt like you’d experienced every possible way that they could happen, the growing Big Bad Feeling in the pit of your guts almost familiar. They honestly didn’t get any easier with time (or, to phrase it kinda weirdly, with practice). The humiliation stung just as harshly after every one when you had nothing left to give. The Post-Meltdown Energy Drain leaving you collapsed on the floor like some kind of deflated beanbag, letting everyone else take over. You could cry over the mortification later when you had the spoons.
This last meltdown was no different. It had grown over a few days, the general unrest of the student body headed towards summer break doing nothing to help, nor did the constant stickiness of late-May humidity. It made sense, in a weird parallel way- humidity inevitable breaks with a storm, and the growing sense of badness broke in a meltdown. It was only too bad you couldn’t have waited until school was out to have it in the privacy of your bedroom. The floor probably would’ve been less gross as well, but even the thought of high school corridor germs wasn’t enough to get you up as you waited for Happy.
It wasn’t usually Happy who picked you up. Tony typically did it himself, and as selfish as it felt you preferred it that way. He knew what to do, and he hadn’t belittled you for it yet so there was a growing sense of trust that it was an unlikely scenario. Alas, being an avenger and owning a multi-billion dollar company is no casual business, and there was just no way he was able to come and get you, so Happy was enlisted. You weren’t sure what to make of Happy. He never really said much to you (not that you would’ve said much in return) but he seemed to like Peter. Only problem was, Peter wasn’t even at school today. Probably hurt himself patrolling, given that it was probably impossible for his genetically enhanced ass to get sick. Lucky.
The slapping of Happy’s shoes on the worn linoleum broke your train of thought. The corridor was being kept clear by Ned and the new school nurse, who probably volunteered just to not have to figure out what else to do. You could’ve sworn none of these people had ever met another goddamn autistic person out in the wild before. Which, their loss, honestly. You hoisted yourself up on a locker and followed Happy on autopilot, eyes glazed over by the time you reached the distinctive black car. You felt like absolute shit. But every part of your brain was yelling at you to act fine, act normal, like nothing had ever happened.
Unsurprisingly, Happy didn’t say a word the entire drive back. You felt like every atom in your body had been drained of energy and you collapsed against the window of the car, too viscerally exhausted to care about the vibration of the car against your skull. Somewhere deep in your brain you tried to remember all the steps to the sensory room- the elevator, the right level, FRIDAY, the security pass- but each thought was too much effort to complete, and trailed off part way through. You kept trying over and over and over and over to remember how to do it, how to get to safety, with each attempt fizzling out sooner and sooner and never eventuating. You were too preoccupied with forcing the repetitive thought loop to recognise pulling into a driveway, down to the garage, half closed eyes seeing nothing, and the bone-tiredness letting your head just hang when the pressure of the door dropped as someone opened it from outside. Cool metal pushed hair back from your forehead and held you up as the restraint of the seatbelt rescinded and you realised it was Bucky.
He didn’t even ask before transferring most of your weight to his shoulder, and picking you up and out of the car. Somewhere in the haze you considered that maybe, this treatment was embarrassing; after all, you’d only met Bucky like, twice, and this was the second time he’d seen you in at some point in the meltdown life-cycle. But your body felt simultaneously numb and tingly and not there at all, and you didn’t even have the energy to cry despite desperately wanting to be able to, and all you could do was sink into his shoulder and try and keep your eyelids open.
You could feel when Bucky spoke. “Hey, can you grab that blanket over there? It’s weighted.”
Still feeling devoid of any capacity, you almost imperceptibly shook your head. Bucky rubbed your shoulder. “It’s okay, I wasn’t asking you, doll. We’re up in the sensory room. Steve is here. He wants to help, and I’m gonna get him to grab the weighted blanket so we can rest on that big comfy beanbag. You can sleep if you want, or we can just ride this out until you’re feeling a bit better. Nice and easy,” he lowered himself to slowly fall back into the memory foam. It only just occurred to you that you were gripping onto Bucky’s shirt for dear life, that the only way he would’ve been able to put you down would be to pry himself from your entangled hands. An honestly, you didn’t even fucking care. Humiliation aside, Bucky felt steady and calm and reassuring and you still felt so unsafe in your mind and body, an unrest that could easily spiral into meltdown round two. Which, ya know, you’d rather not do. Fighting sleep, you felt the air shift next to you and Steve returned, draping the grounding weight of the blanket over your jittery bones. He had something else with him too; as he sat on the ground beside you and Bucky, you registered that it was a sketchbook, and without a word he started to draw. First a landscape, a sunset, some birds, etched in grey then filled in pastels of colour. Mesmerised, you watched as your consciousness dripped away, sleeping in the way you only ever did when you were safe