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“And sometimes they’re bad decisions, and he can’t see it,” Seven says quietly, and that’s it, and all the pieces are falling into place in Steve’s mind, effortless and quick.
“Okay, so he needs us to rely on, what do we need?” Shield asks. “What do we need from Tony?”
“It’s not always Tony,” Steve says, and he shifts SJ from his knee onto the sofa, gets up and paces the length of the couch, hands behind his head. SJ doesn’t object this time, just sits back and watches him with wide eyes, muffling a cough into the crook of his elbow. “Sometimes it’s Bucky, or other people.”
“Yes, but the universes that avoided the war, they’re the ones where you’re with Tony-”
“Not with him,” Steve corrects. “Where we had a good relationship. Whatever that relationship was. Husbands, lovers, friends, it doesn’t matter, as long as it worked.”
“Okay,” Shield concedes. “The question still stands, why Tony?”
Steve stops pacing. He stares out the window at the clear blue sky, the light warm on his face. His hands fall to his sides. “The fight with the Director,” Steve says distantly, still staring out of the window. “Earlier, I could have-”
He stops, turns around, looking at the others. “I could have put SJ down and jumped into that fight,” he admits. “But what would be the point? What was I fighting for? Fighting to beat the Director, or fighting to protect SJ and the others?”
Shield looks agitated, troubled. “But why Tony?”
“Because when we’re honest with Tony he’s the one that reminds us what we’re fighting for,” Seven says, and his voice is raw and trembling. “God, some days he was the only one that kept my head on straight. He was the only one who I would be honest with, the only one who would call me on my crap when I needed someone to, and I loved him so I let him. I listened to him.”
And that’s it. The final piece of the puzzle slotting into place, and that’s why Steve needs Tony, to remind him of who he’s supposed to be, to remind him to be a good man-
“I-”
Steve’s words are cut off, wrenched from his throat in a strangled gasp as a piercing pain slices through his chest, starting somewhere under his sternum and spreading through his ribcage.
“Steve?”
He tries to breathe in but the pain surges through him again. Gasping, he presses a palm to his chest, right over the star. Oh god, it’s not letting up; every time the pain recedes slightly it surges back even stronger, and his whole ribcage feels like it’s on fire, his pulse thudding violently in his ears.
He sinks to his knees on the floorboards, and he’s vaguely aware of SJ scrambling off the sofa and towards him, of Shield shouting urgently, grabbing his shoulder and shaking him, a hand on his cheek and trying to force his face up. His vision is going blurry at the edges and he feels himself slipping sideways, his shoulder hitting the floor, hard and painful.
“Steve!”
Strong hands rolls him over onto his back and the last thing he sees is SJ’s panicked face above his own, and then everything goes black.
Chapter 5
Chapter Text
And Steve moves.
The barest flicker of an eyelid, but Tony feels like he has stopped breathing, his own eyes locked on Steve’s. He continues to hold his breath, willing Steve to do it again.
“Come on, you bastard,” Tony breathes, and he hears someone shift behind him, possibly Bruce or Clint. “Come on.”
And Steve makes a sound, a rough catch of air in the back of his throat and his eyelids are flickering again, the faintest hint of blue under groggy lids, and now his fingers are twitching before everything goes still again.
“Come on, Steve,” Tony repeats, and he reaches forwards and holds Steve’s head in his hands, not giving a damn about everyone else in the room. He leans over the bed, palms on Steve’s jaw and thumbs roughly stroking his cheekbones. One hand darts distractedly upwards, fingers combing through blond hair, pushing it back away from Steve’s face.
Another rough noise, almost a cough, and then Steve’s eyes open, heavy and bleary and not altogether there. He coughs again and his hand moves, lifting unsteadily from the blankets before falling back again. He blinks slowly and Tony feels a horrible panic that the eyes won’t open again, but they do. His brow creases in a frown and then his eyes open more fully, focussing hazily on Tony’s face.
“You absolute fucker,” Tony chokes out, half-laughing, his thumbs stroking against Steve’s cheeks, throat tight and eyes too warm. He leans back, letting go of Steve’s face and instead grabbing his hand where it’s trying to lift from the blankets again. “Yeah, yeah, we got you.”
He reaches for the controls for the bed and hits the button which will lift the upper half of the mattress, sitting Steve up. He can’t stop touching him, hands on his shoulders and arms as he helps him sit comfortably, pulling the blankets straight and brushing Steve’s hair out of his face. The doctor is crowding the other side of the bed, checking vitals and holding up a penlight.
“Captain, can you hear us?” the doctor asks, carefully leaning over and lifting Steve’s eyelids, checking his pupils with a penlight. “All responsive. Captain, can you hear me?”
Steve’s brow furrows and he clumsily lifts his free hand and knocks the doctors hand and the light away. “Quit it,” he slurs, and somewhere behind them Clint starts to laugh. Tony’s laughing too, laughing so hard he has to fall back into the chair next to the bed, still clutching at Steve’s hand, holding it in both of his own and pressing it to his mouth. The doctor simply smiles ruefully and steps back, nodding in apparent satisfaction.
“‘M I alive?” Steve slurs, blinking hard, head lolling forwards. Tony catches him with a hand on his cheek, pushing his head back up and against the pillows.
“Yeah, yeah you are,” Tony says, and he feels Natasha’s hand on his shoulder, squeezing tightly. He reaches back with his free hand and grasps her fingers, covering her hand with his own.
Steve breathes out heavily through his nose, eyes drifting shut again. He swallows thickly, coughs again, and Clint is instantly there with a glass of water.
“Slowly,” Bruce says, and Clint slips a hand onto the back of Steve’s head and presses the glass to Steve’s lips. Steve’s eyelids flutter and he leans forwards slightly, enough to drink a couple of sips of water before falling back. He swallows again, throat clicking, and then his brow furrows, distressed.
“Tony,” he croaks, and forces his eyes open. “Tony-”
“Yeah,” Tony says, and his stomach tightens into a knot as blurry blue eyes meet his own. He feels Steve’s hand tighten on his, almost painfully despite how weak Steve clearly is.
“You – you’re okay,” Steve manages to get out and Tony is utterly thrown by the panic is Steve’s eyes, clear to see even through the haze and the sluggishness. It was Steve who was stabbed because Tony wasn’t there quick enough, why the hell is he concerned that Tony isn’t okay?
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Tony says, shifting so he sits on the bed, next to Steve’s hip. Steve’s free hand pushes the water and Clint’s hand aside and gropes for Tony’s shoulder, fingers curling into the material of his shirt and pulling Tony close with wavering strength.
Not understanding, but not quite able to care, Tony lets himself be pulled. He shifts closer to him, pressing close and winding an arm around Steve’s neck. Steve tips forwards, burying his face in the juncture between Tony’s neck and shoulder, breathing out heavily.
Confused, Tony looks up over Steve’s head at Clint. Clint just shrugs, spreading his hands wide.
“We got you,” Tony murmurs, holding onto Steve’s hand and stroking the other up over the back of his head. “Steve, I got you.”
Steve wakes up again a few hours later, lying on his side and curled into something warm. The something warm is stretched out in front of him, against Steve’s cheek and hips and knees, and it’s moving every now and again, shifting gently next to him-
Abruptly, Steve realises that the thing he’s curled into is Tony.
His first thought it thank god, because Tony is here and safe and Steve knows he’s alive and back in the right dimension. His second is that Tony is warm and comforting and smells nice. His third is to remember that at least thirty versions of him across the multiverse have slept with Tony Stark.
Without even thinking, he jerks back, limbs not quite cooperating up to their usual standard. He feels something tugging at his hand and a constriction around his feet, confusion and mortification warring in his stomach. Oh god, no, he and Tony aren’t-
“Steve, whoa!”
Luckily, Tony is scrambling up off the bed, swinging onto his feet so he’s not pressed against Steve. He stands close though, hands planted on Steve’s shoulders in a futile attempt to keep him still. Still seized by a minor amount of panic, Steve shoves back at him and then there are more hands pressing him back down with considerably more force than Tony managed.
“Steve, stay still, you’ll tear your IV out,” Tony says, and Steve looks around wildly and realises that first, the tugging sensation is indeed a line that’s in the back of his hand, and second that Thor is there, and he’s the one that’s got him firmly pinned in place.
Somewhere close, he hears Thor’s deep chuckle, and then the pressure on his shoulders lifts and then vanishes. “You are not back to your usual strength yet, in body or in mind. Be still, my friend.”
“Where am I?” he tries to ask, but his voice is rough and hoarse and it feels like his throat is lined with sandpaper. Everything in front of him swims, blackness creeping in at the edge of his vision. Bending his arm up at the elbow, he blindly reaches out, fingers fumbling and uncooperative.
