Steve curls in on himself on the floor, panting hard and still struggling, kicking off the blankets he's gotten tangled in with fury. His wrist is throbbing and he wraps his other hand around it, pulling up his knees, resting his elbows on them and dropping his head into the circle of his arms.

The dream is always so real, so visceral, so PHYSICAL. He can already feel the nausea he'd felt that day clawing at the back of his throat, threatening to bring up dinner. He forces himself to hiccup and stifle the urge to gag.

Tony's reactor casts a dull blue glow over him and he lifts his head, taking in the worried frown on the other man's face.

"What?" It takes him a second to realize why Tony is apologizing. "...Oh, no no, that wasn't your fault... I'm sorry about your lamp. I'll pick the pieces up."