Steve groans. “Dammit, this is exactly what I didn’t want to happen, I didn’t want to get back and everything be weird.”
“Is it weird because other versions of you love other versions of Tony, or because Tony likes you, or because you quite blatantly can’t work out if you like Tony…?”
Steve rolls each question over in his mind. Swallows thickly, rubs at his temple.
“I don’t know.”
Steve is sleeping again. He’s lying on his side with his mouth lax and open, tablet computer held limply in his hand. He looks still and peaceful, still with that damn almost-frown on his face
Tony would be worried, but the doctors have told him that despite spending the last few weeks complete KO, Steve will need a lot of rest as his body adjusts to being awake and moving once more. After all, all he’s had in the way of sustenance is whatever nutrients were pumped in via IV and the half a pizza that Tony has no intention of giving Clint a thousand bucks for. His energy levels are completely shot, and it’s visible in his slow movements, his pale skin, the shadows around his eyes.
He aches to go in to sit beside him, but he won’t.
“Phil would be pissed that you’ve usurped the title of Cap’s Number One Fan.”
Tony breathes out through his mouth as Clint’s voice calls out to him, not looking away from where he’s watching Steve through the window in the hospital room door.
“You are the least helpful person I have ever met.”
Clint saunters up, hands in his pockets. He peers through the glass window in the door and then leans back against the wall, facing Tony. “How’re you doing?”
Tony’s not touching that with protective gloves on. He doesn’t reply, eyes tracing the curve of Steve’s forearm, across his wrist and down to his hand, fingers curled slackly around the edge of the tablet.
“So,” he says conversationally. “Which nurse was it that came by to take his IV out?”
Clint shrugs. “A blond one.”
“Yeah. Was the mystery blond named Steve or Clint?” he asks, and Clint pulls a face at him, crossing his legs at the ankle and glancing towards the door.
“You know I couldn’t have stopped him,” he says as way of admission, and Tony could kill Steve some days, he really could. “He wanted it out, so out it went.”
“He’s still dehydrated,” Tony says, annoyed. Trust Steve to always be on everyone’s case about taking care of themselves and then blatantly ignoring medical advice directed at himself. Tony finally pulls his eyes away, turning his body and slumping back against the wall next to Clint. Shoves his hands in his pockets because he doesn’t know what to do with them. “I’m going to tape a bottle of Gatorade into each of his hands.”
Clint breathes out, a huff of sound that’s nearly a laugh. “Tape not necessary, he’ll do it if you ask.”
“What’s your game plan, Barton?” Tony says suddenly, hearing the implication in the words, the stress on the word you. “I have an acute feeling of dread that you’re up to something, and that never ends well for anyone.”
Innocent look on his face, Clint shakes his head. “When am I ever up to anything?”
“Bullshit. I sense bullshit, and I’m calling you on it, Hawkeye. You’re not as dumb as you like people to think you are. Lacking in basic common sense, but not dumb. It’s all a terrible, terrible act.”
Clint smiles at that, and then uncrossed his legs, shifting his balance back onto both feet. “I think you two are good for each other, is all. I’m not the only one.”
Tony shakes his head, looking down at the floor. “Still calling bullshit.”
“Shut up,” Clint says. “Come on.”
“No, you need to stop this like yesterday,” Tony says. “Look, I know what I said, but it doesn’t matter because it takes two to tango, right? Whatever I feel about this, it doesn’t matter. I’ll keep a lid on it-”
“Did you know that he met two versions of himself that married you?”
Tony freezes, words catching in the back of his throat. He looks to the door, then to Clint, then back at the door. Steve met versions of himself that married him? What the actual-? But that means somewhere across the multiverse there are Steves who feel the same way about him-
He stamps down on the thought as quickly as it arrives, smothering it with a familiar blanket of denial.
“He didn’t.”
“And from what he said, a hell of a lot more versions of himself were sleeping with, dating or in a relationship with you too,” Clint informs him, ignoring the refutation.
Tony holds onto the denial. “It might not even have been real,” he reasons, voice low. “You heard Richards.”
“And you heard Thor,” Clint shoots back. “Even if it wasn’t, even if all that was just some bad trip, he felt it. It was real for him. And either way, it’s either the multiverse or his subconscious, there’s feelings for you swimming around out there. Big, big feelings, even if he doesn’t get it yet.”
As much as he doesn’t want to, Tony has to acknowledge that Clint is right.
“Fuck,” he says, hollowly.
“Aaaand he might also know how you feel about him.”
Something close to distress swells in Tony’s sternum. “Barton, what did you do? What did you tell him?”
Clint promptly pushes himself away from the wall and starts stepping away, moving backwards swiftly. “Would you look at that, now everyone is freaking out. My work here is done.”
“Barton!”
He’s gone before Tony can grab hold of him, which probably would only end with Tony being pinned to the floor in a very painful and undignified position anyway. He bites down to the impulse to keep yelling after him, still aware enough to remember Steve is sleeping on the other side of a door that isn’t sound proofed.
Clint vanishes around the corner at the end of the corridor and Tony puts his hands on the back of his head, cursing internally. He clenches his jaw, turns to look at Steve through the window once more and then drops his hands in something that’s either acceptance or defeat. Maybe both.
“Fuck.”
Chapter 6
Chapter Text
And SJ is laughing, laughing hard without any trace of that horrendous cough that had followed him beyond death, and Bucky is standing there, eight years old and full of affront. Steve watches as SJ keels over backwards onto the sidewalk, clutching his sides, and then Bucky pounces, grabbing him in a headlock and ruffling his hair. SJ protests violently, feet scrabbling as he laughs and tries to push Bucky’s hands away.
“You’re a punk,” Bucky says as he steps back, and his little voice echoes and lilts and dances, the sound drifting from far away. He’s stood straight with his hands shoved in his pockets, a slight cocky tilt to his chin and Steve’s heart aches because god, that’s Bucky all over, isn’t it?
“I’ll tell Sister Marie you called me that,” SJ retorts, and Bucky sticks his tongue out.
“You wouldn’t dare, punk,” he says again, and SJ is laughing and Bucky is laughing too. Bucky sits down next to him, the brighter than usual light shifting, breaking around his form as he slings a protective arm around SJ’s shoulders. The light shines clearly on SJ’s happy face, lighting it up.
This isn’t a dream. Steve knows it without question. It’s too real, too perfect, just like his stay in the multiverse had been. He’s there but he’s not; none of the versions of him can see or hear him, so all he can do is quietly watch them, full of relief that they appear to be back where they should be, with the people they always wanted to be with.
Steve smiles and steps away, turning around. The light around him shifts and breaks and he slowly wanders forwards through it, not even the slightest bit afraid. It’s peaceful and calm and he doesn’t think for a second anything here will hurt him. There’s a break in the light to his left, a shadowy image appearing as he comes closer. He turns towards it and takes one last step and then he’s in someone’s house, a neat and homely place that feels comfortable and inviting. SJ and Bucky and the warm New York street are gone, but the same bright light pours in through the windows, illuminating the scene in front of him.
“Not going, you’re not going,” a Steve Rogers in civilian dress is saying in a sing-song voice, mug in hand and eyes on the paper in front of him. He’s sat at a kitchen table, empty plate at his elbow and a pile of paperwork stacked haphazardly at the other end next to a pile of neatly folded shirts.
