“Can I stay?” SJ asks, burrowing into Steve’s side, obviously relishing the warmth.
Steve’s initial thought it that he would rather be alone, but he passed over it almost instantly. He remembers what it was like for him being so small and frail; constantly feeling cold, feeling relieved and grateful every night that Bucky snuck into his bed. God, he’d spent so many nights after his mother died feeling alone and wishing for someone there – he doesn’t know if SJ’s life followed the same trajectory as his own, but he’s not about to deny the kid the comfort he remembers craving.
“Sure,” Steve says, and SJ wriggles around a little more and then finally stills. His breath evens out and he soon falls asleep, eyes moving behind the lids as he dreams. Steve watches him for a moment, wondering what he’s dreaming about and how he died. Maybe something to do with the horrendous cough he seems to have brought with him; he’d nearly succumbed once or twice himself as a kid, only scraping through by the skin of his teeth.
God, he needs to get back. He has not battled through all the challenges his life has thrown at him for it all to end now. He has to get back to the team and-
And just like that his thoughts are back at Tony.
Steve holds a breath in his chest for long, long seconds and then breathes out. He tries to stop thinking about Tony for more than one damn minute, trying to take comfort from the small figure curled up and sleeping next to him.
It doesn’t work.
“They’re taking the ventilator out."
Tony is on his feet before he knows it, the chair beneath him screeching back and his knees banging the edge of the cafeteria table. He looks up at Bruce, feeling panicked and angry and oddly betrayed.
“They’re doing what?!”
“Tony, no,” Pepper tries, reaching for his sleeve and holding him in place. She casts a despairing look at Tony and the untouched meal on the table where he’d been sitting, plate surrounded by empty coffee cups.
“Why?” Tony demands, and extricates his sleeve from Pepper’s grip. “Why, what’s happened?”
“Nothing,” Bruce says, and he pinches the bridge of his nose as Tony walks away from the table, towards the doors, needing to be out of the goddamn cafeteria and in Steve’s room right now. He hears footsteps behind him; Bruce’s steady even footfalls and the sharp click of Peppers heels.
“Then why are they taking it out?”
“His lungs are healed,” Bruce tells him. “They’ve been reducing the amount of time that the machine is actually controlling his breathing, and he’s basically holding his own now anyway.”
“Why has no-one told me these things?” Tony snarls, shoving through a door and knocking into an agent carrying an armful of files. He hears Pepper apologising but he doesn’t care, he needs to be with Steve and talking to someone who can explain why they’re fucking around with the ventilator. It’s a piece of shit machinery anyway, and if it hadn’t been attached to Steve then Tony would have already ripped it apart and built a better one from its remains.
“We did, you weren’t listening,” Bruce says without inflection.
Tony ignores him, feeling his heart hammering in his chest. God, despite Bruce’s reassurances he’s terrified that the moment they take the ventilator out then Steve will stop breathing, will give up and die-
He bursts into Steve’s room and it’s quiet and still. Clint is sat on the chair next to the bed, and the ventilator is gone. His throat goes tight and he holds his own breath as his eyes frantically search, and relief tears through him as he detects the steady rise and fall of Steve’s chest.
“Fuck,” he says roughly, and steps forwards, eyes on Steve’s pale face. He looks so different now the invasive tube is gone, along with the tape that had held it in place. He looks relaxed and like he could be sleeping, and it feels better however also infinitely more awful. He’s glad the machine is gone, but if Steve’s body has healed itself enough to not need the machine yet is still not waking up, what does that say?
Maybe in the next few minutes, Tony thinks as he walks over and sits carefully on the edge of the bed.
“He’s okay,” Clint says quietly. Behind them, the door softly opens and closes again, and Tony looks over his shoulder to see Pepper outside the room with Bruce. Her expression is understanding, and she raises her hand in a small wave before turning away.
“Any change?” Tony asks, turning back to Steve.
“No,” Clint replies. “They said not to expect any though.”
Tony nods, and absent-mindedly reaches out to push Steve’s hair back from his forehead. His fingers tremble slightly, and they drift down the side of Steve’s face, across his mouth to his chin. He swallows hard and then slides his palm onto the side of Steve’s face, thumb gently tracing the corner of his mouth where he can feel the faint stickiness where the tape used to be.
“So, I now feel awkward,” Clint says, and Tony blinks, realises what he’s doing and slowly takes his hand away. “Is there some new clause to the bro code that I’ve missed, like circumstances where face stroking is acceptable when sober? Or is this a thing? You and Steve?”
“What? No,” Tony says, frowning and shaking his head agitatedly. “I just.”
He doesn’t even know how to continue that sentence, because he’s starting to suspect that maybe he’s not been categorising Steve in the same way that he would Clint or Bruce or any of the others, and it’s not only fucking terrifying but also horrendously painful, because why is he only just realising this now?
“I think maybe it should be a thing,” Clint says, and pauses. “I mean, you know they say it’s a damn thin line between love and occasional mutual animosity caused by conflicting egos.”
“What? Do you even hear the things you say?”
Clint shrugs, rocks back on two chair legs. “It’s not love and hate though is it? You two can’t hate each other even on the days when you’re really, really trying.”
“Can we not,” Tony says abruptly, pressing the heels of his hands to his temples. “Not now.”
Clint just salutes him without the chair so much as wobbling, and Tony is infinitely grateful. He turns away from Clint, hesitates, and then puts his hand down on the bed next to Steve’s thigh, stretching his fingers out so the tips of his just brush Steves.
It’s barely much at all, but in that moment it’s enough.
Steve watches the sun rise through the window of the apartment room, light slowly filling the sky and the space around him. SJ is still curled up next to him, head now resting on Steve’s stomach and mouth open as he breathes. Every so often his breath catches rough and dry in the back of his throat, chest rattling with every deep inhale. He seems comfortable enough though, so Steve doesn’t wake him
He hasn’t slept, but then again he didn’t really expect he would.
Slowly worrying his lower lip between his teeth, he exhales heavily and then belatedly looks down to check SJ hasn’t been woken by the jolt of movement. He twitches minutely but sleeps on, and Steve feels a warm pang of fondness for the small figure. SJ's presence is an unexpected support in this strange place; he makes Steve feel needed in a small way which helps ground him, keep him from completely losing the plot.
The sun is already growing warm on his face through the glass of the window. It must be pretty early still, he thinks, though he can hear movement in the room below his, footsteps on wooden floorboards and the low hum of familiar voices. He should have expected it really; he’s always been an early riser, and apparently that’s a given across the multiverse.
He needs to be up and doing something. Lying here for much longer is going to drive him crazy; he needs to at least try to work out where he is and if there’s any way of getting home. Like hell he’s just going to sit on his ass and wait to be rescued, not if there’s even the slightest chance of him fixing this mess himself.
Carefully, he reaches down with one hand and up with the other; he pulls his pillow from behind his head and then lifts SJ’s head from his stomach, gently cradling it with his palm. He edges his body sideways and then slots the pillow under SJ’s head, smiling faintly when he huffs out a sleepy breath and rolls over, unwilling to fully wake.
Steve sits on the edge of the bed and watches him for a moment, idly wondering who is left in SJ’s universe now he’s here. Will SJ’s Bucky be okay without him there? God, he hopes so.
He quietly gets to his feet and reaches for his suit, pulling it back on and ignoring the tang of blood he can still smell. He does it up fully, smoothing his hand over the white star on his chest, feeling a fierce rush of pride flicker through him. Whatever happens to him, he went down whilst fighting in uniform, in the blue of Captain America, and he won’t regret that, not now, not ever.
He leaves SJ asleep and leaves the room, debating for a second before deciding to go back down to the impromptu lounge, maybe find someone to talk to, to discuss their options and what they can do about this entire situation. As he descends the stairs, hand on the warm wooden bannister, he half heartedly hopes that there’s no new Steve’s to contend with.
He’s in luck. The only people present are Stephanie and Brooklyn, and he’s relieved that it’s people he doesn’t have to be reintroduced to. They’re both sat on the floor, a chessboard between them and looks of identical concentration on their faces.
“Morning,” Stephanie says without looking up, evidently having heard him come in. Brooklyn looks up, distracted, and gives him a sort-of-wave.
“Still here then,” he says, and Steve nods, walking over and perching on the edge of the couch just behind Stephanie.
“Still here,” he confirms. The fingers of his right hand drift towards his left wrist, pressing gently against the skin. “Still alive.”
Stephanie glances up at that, her eyes flicking to where his fingers are on his pulse point. “No pain anywhere?” she asks. “Has anyone actually asked you how you are, or were we too distracted by the fact you’re still alive?”
“Aching,” Steve admits. “Like I got beaten up by a robot.”
Her mouth twitches. “Funny, that,” she says, perfectly deadpan, and Steve can’t help be fascinated by the way she’s so obviously one of them, even though she’s a woman. She’s well-built and clearly as strong as he is; tall with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. She’s less curvy than Natasha is, but her figure is definitely more feminine than masculine, despite her strength and build.
