And Tony gets as far as the doorway and then changes his mind and about turns, back towards Steve. He sits on the edge of the bed and takes Steve’s hand in his, clutching it between both of his own and bringing it up to his face
“Tony?”
Bruce’s voice is gentle, questioning. Tony shakes his head, screws his eyes shut. His breath is coming too short in his chest and in that moment the relief hits him like a ton of bricks, a punch to the chest.
Steve’s alive.
He’s alive and he’s awake and he’s back, and he’d opened his eyes, still blue and bright even after the past few weeks. He’d managed to speak, voice rough and torn and beautiful as he rasped out Tony’s name of all fucking things-
The door softly clicks shut and Tony draws in a shuddering breath. There are tears on his cheeks, wet and messy, squeezing from beneath his clenched eyelids. He tries to pull himself together, opening bleary eyes and letting go of Steve’s hand to swipe across his face, hoping he hasn’t woken Steve up-
He hasn’t. Steve sleeps on, mouth slightly open and brow slightly furrowed. He looks different, asleep instead of unconscious, and Tony is never going to bitch at him for frowning ever again, because it’s that stubborn frown on his sleeping face that reassures Tony he’s still there, he’s simply asleep and not gone again.
Gulping valiantly, trying to get his breathing steady and back to normal, Tony pulls the sleeve of his shirt over his hand and wipes his face. It doesn’t work; his lungs still catch and spasm and hiccup, and he can’t stop crying, like he’s a hormonal goddamn teenager. He swears roughly, looks up at the ceiling and forces himself still, to show a façade of calm, of control.
A minute later and he’s externally composed. He shuts his eyes for a long moment and looks down at Steve’s sleeping face, glad to find that he can now look at him without breaking down. He pushes the feelings away, because he knows he’s going to have to batten down the emotional hatches to deal with the conversation he can sense lurking in the distance.
The guilt rolls back, thick and familiar underneath the relief.
“Whatever you say to me,” he begins, and takes a steadying breath so he can continue. “However fucking mad you are with me, whatever you say, I’m just – fuck, you will never know how glad I am that you’re back.”
Steve doesn’t answer, but this time it’s okay. Now Tony knows it’s only a matter of time before he wakes back up, and he will be able to hear that rough voice and see the brightness of his eyes, even if the voice is cursing Tony for what he did and the eyes are narrowed in anger.
Whatever form it takes, Tony will take it.
“…then everything went black, and then I woke up, here again.”
Steve finishes his tale – the very abridged version, he has neither the strength nor energy to tell them everything right now – and then looks up from where he’s been fiddling with the IV that’s still in the back of his hand. Tony had batted his hand away once, but then seemed to forget all about it in the wake of what Steve has to stay. The whole room is silent, a pregnant pause as he looks up and tiredly takes in the expressions on his friends’ faces.
“Alright, who gave Captain America acid? Because that sounds like you’ve been tripping balls.”
All faces turn as one to Clint, who is somehow perched on the windowsill, looking somewhere between incredulous and impressed. Steve lets out a sigh through his nose, reaching up to rub between his eyebrows, because whilst he didn’t want to have to convince them all about what happened, he doesn’t blame them for finding it a little hard to wrap their heads around. Frankly, he sounds insane and he knows it.
“That’s what happened,” he says, dropping his hand and eyes flicking to Clint. “Take it or leave it.”
Clint holds his hands up like he’s surrendering. “Oh I’ll take it. That’s fine, I believe you. But I still maintain,” he says, spreading his hands out expressively. “Tripping balls.”
Steve would laugh, if he was in better control of his emotions. He’s still exhausted and so completely blindsided by everything that’s happened; feels grief and frustration and fear lurking far too close to the surface, as if one move or word too many will let it all come rushing free.
“Good to know,” he forces himself to say, looking from Clint to Natasha, who is leaning against the wall next to his perch, looking at Steve carefully. Thor is on Clint’s other side and is probably the only one who seems to have happily accepted Steve’s story without any disbelief or reservations.
“So you were in a facsimile of New York with three hundred and twelve other versions of yourself,” Reed Richards repeats back, looking like Christmas has come early. He’s leaning forwards in his chair, and behind him Natasha’s eyes keep flicking to him like she’s about to make him sit back. Next to Richards, Bruce is also looking intrigued, but his expression is erring on the side of cautious.
“Dead versions,” Clint adds.
Steve shuts his eyes for a moment. “S’what I said,” he says, and there’s hints of Brooklyn creeping into his voice with his exhaustion, and he knows it’s making him sound more irritable. “Yes, dead versions.”
Next to him, on the opposite side of the bed to Richards and Bruce, Tony makes an aborted move like he was about to grab hold of Steve’s hand. He’s not said anything so far, which is unnerving as it is, and he seems completely out of sorts. Only by knowing his face so well can Steve spot the faint red puffiness around his eyes, but his barely restrained agitation and turmoil is probably clear to everyone. He’s twitchy, left leg bouncing on his toes and fingers drumming on his knee, and Steve knows guilt well enough to spot it a mile away.
He half wishes everyone would clear out so he can talk to Tony, because he knows exactly why he’s looking so guilty. The other half of him doesn’t want to be around Tony at all, because since he got back Tony has been nothing but there for him, kind and caring and genuine, and it’s confusing as all hell.
“Besides, it wasn’t a correct copy of New York,” Steve says, willing to continue talking if it stops him thinking about Tony and whatever it is that’s going on between them. “It was different. Buildings out of place, moved, missing. Like it was my New York mixed with other – other peoples.”
“Fascinating,” Richards says. “And the other versions of you – I assume they were different?”
Steve feels the grief and anger under his skin spike, his fist clenching in an automatic response. He remembers the Director pulling the gun and shooting Shield without hesitation, remembers the easy, calm expression on his face when he’d been threatening SJ. He remembers the goddamn look on Six-One-Eight’s face, the cruel taunts aimed at Seven.
“Yeah. Very different,” he says, feeling his temper brewing like a thunderstorm. He breathes out and tries to fight it down; he will not succumb to volatile emotions like some of the others did, will not let them rule him.
“In what way?
Steve’s fingers clench again, remembering the Director standing over him, face calm and unconcerned. ‘This is exactly your problem. You’re so concerned with protecting that you forget we were built to fight.’
“In every way,” Steve says, and he can’t keep the bitterness out of his tone. “Look – I don’t want to talk about them. Not – not yet.”
“What you’re describing is an unprecedented breach of the structure of the multiverse,” Richards says, either oblivious to or ignoring Steve’s discomfiture. “It could have massive implications for travel between dimensions, for-”
“Hey, Stretch Armstrong, he said he doesn’t want to talk about them,” Clint snaps. “He’s been mostly dead for weeks, back off.
There’s a beat of tense silence. Natasha, Thor and Clint all have eyes on Richards, all looking put out and ready to jump in and physically remove him from the room if needs be. Even though any violence is exactly the opposite of what Steve currently wants to see, the sentiment is certainly appreciated. Bruce is looking between Steve and Reed, mouth slightly open. Steve turns his head and something inside him jolts as he sees Tony staring right at him, jaw clenched tightly and eyes now too bright.
Their eyes meet, and Tony looks away. Steve looks away too, not sure what the feeling in the pit of his stomach is. Feels like relief, like guilt, like disappointment all rolled into one. Maybe even regret, he just doesn’t know.
“Can a man be mostly dead? Is this a medical term I have not yet come across?”
Thor’s puzzled voice breaks the silence, and Steve knows him well enough now to know he’s probably playing ignorant for effect but he doesn’t care because it works. Clint chokes on a snigger, and then he’s outright laughing and Bruce is also chuckling tiredly, sitting back in his chair and letting his head fall back. Even Natasha’s mouth flickers in a smile and Steve feels some of the tension leave; he breathes out heavily and slumps back into the pillows, blinking slowly and tiredly.
He doesn’t look across at Tony to see his reaction. Isn’t sure he can take it right now.
“Okay,” Richards says, appearing to concede the point and giving up on asking Steve about the different versions of himself. “So, now the question is, in what state were you there?”
“He got stabbed by a robot, that’s a pretty bad state.”
Richards sends an annoyed glance over at Clint. “That’s not what I mean,” he says. “We need to know if it was hallucinatory, or if there has been some sort of actual interference which moved your consciousness through the multiverse."
“What do you mean by interference?” Bruce.
“Magic,” Tony says, the word automatic and toneless. It’s the first thing he’s said since Steve started talking. His knee has started to bounce again, and Steve fights down the urge to reach over and hold it down.
“Magic,” Richards agrees with a look of distaste on his face.
“But why would someone magically steal Steve’s brain and stick him in some sort of limbo?” Clint demands. “What would be the point?”
Steve opens his mouth fractionally, but then his eyes dart to Tony and he closes it again. Damn. He’s in a room with the cleverest men on the planet and several damn spies, there’s no way that no-one noticed the automatic jerk of his eyes. He feels a flush rising in his neck, because the Tony part of the whole ordeal is the part he left out, and he’s got absolutely no intention of talking about that in front of everyone, least of all Tony.
God, he’s never felt like a coward before. It’s not pleasant.
“Does it matter?” Thor interjects cautiously, voice calm. “Steve has experienced something that was real to him, no matter how or why it happened.”
