Belatedly, he looks over at Tony. Tony is staring at the door, face shuttered and tense.
“Tony?”
“I’ll leave you to it,” Tony says abruptly, and stands up. Before he can think about it, Steve reaches for his arm, grabbing his hand.
“Don’t.”
Tony freezes, turns to look at their hands and then up at Steve’s face, something helpless and vulnerable visible for only a moment. “Cap-”
“I need to talk to you,” Steve says, and it’s the wrong thing to say. Tony’s face shutters again and he pulls his hand free from Steve’s grip.
“Clint’s an ass,” he says shortly. “He’s talking shit.”
Steve files the response away for consideration, because he’s not an idiot, he can work out what Clint was hinting at, that Tony’s behaviour hasn’t been strictly friendly whilst he’s been out for the count. But that’s – that doesn’t mean anything; Tony has been close to him since he woke up and Steve has put it down to guilt and Tony wanting to reassure himself Steve is okay. It’s probably been the same whilst he’s been unconscious.
“That’s not what I want to talk about,” he says, and it’s true. He really doesn’t. “Tony, it wasn’t your fault.”
The words hang there in the air, heavy and serious, impossible to dismiss or gloss over. If Steve thought Tony has shuttered himself off before, it’s nothing compared to now; he looks as if he’s gone into complete lockdown, body still and eyes far too bright. It’s lasts for too long a moment, and only breaks when Steve reaches out, touches the back of Tony’s hand with his fingertips.
Tony draws in a sharp breath through his nose, head jerking around to look. His fingers clench and his face falls, mouth turning down and twisting unhappily.
“Anyone would think you weren’t happy to see me awake,” Steve says lightly, because it’s true. Tony hasn’t been right since he opened his eyes, and he doesn’t know if he’s made it worse by reaching out for him, by taking so much comfort from him. He knows how other versions of Tony feel about other versions of Steve, but here, between the two of them, it’s not like that. The lines have always been clear, until now.
“Of course I’m pleased to see you,” Tony says, and his voice is forced and fake and Steve can spot it a mile off. He reaches up, scratching at his eyebrow with his thumb and studiously avoiding Steve’s gaze. “We had no-one else to put in charge of the Avengers, can you imagine what would happen without you there to kick us into shape? Natasha and Bruce refuse to be in charge and Clint is clearly a giant eight year old, so it would either be me or Thor and that’s just a disaster waiting to happen-”
“Tony,” Steve repeats to stop the rush of words, and Tony’s eyes close, brows drawing together as he fights away some barrage of emotion.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and the words ring out, leaving silence in their wake. “I’m so sorry,” he says, and Steve hates how broken he sounds. “You asked me to be there and I ignored you,” he says. “God, I didn’t know – I wanted to get to the source and shut it down, and I thought-”
He breaks off, makes to move away. Steve stops him by grabbing his wrist, fingers tight enough so that this time Tony won’t be able to pull free. Tony freezes all over again, still looking away.
“Well, you won’t be dumb enough to do it twice, will you?”
Tony does look at him then, expression disbelieving. “Just like that. You forgive me just like that – Steve, you can’t just let this slide-”
“The hell I can’t,” Steve says stubbornly. “My forgiveness, I’ll give it to who I damn well want.”
Tony stares at him for so long it makes Steve shiver. Tony’s eyes flicker over his face, searching for something, and then shakes his head. “You nearly died. Because I directly ignored an order. I told you, I don’t work well in a team, never have, never will-
“Don’t even,” Steve snaps out, and that’s the loudest his voice has been since he woke up. “Just don’t.”
“It’s true,” Tony shrugs, looking dismissive and like he doesn’t care. “Can’t be relied on in, not in the way you need-”
“Tony, shut up,” Steve says, and pulls him closer by his wrist, unthinking. Tony isn’t expecting it and stumbles, hip catching the edge of the bed. He throws out an arm to steady himself, ends up far too close to Steve. Steve draws in a sharp breath and lets him go, wildly thinking of Seven and the others and the images he’s seen of himself kissing Tony, and what Clint said-
“See,” Tony says, leaning back, obviously having spotted something in Steve’s expression that he’s misread. “You can’t convince me if you can’t convince yourself-”
“No,” Steve says, though he feels wrong footed and unsteady, and he tries valiantly to remember what he’s supposed to be fighting about. “No, Tony – l don’t blame you. I was angry, yeah, but I know you would never hurt me intentionally. God, look at yourself. You tell me you haven’t been beating yourself up over this-”
“Of course I have,” Tony bites out, and then looks like he regrets it.
“There you go,” Steve says. “I remember everything. You came the moment you realised. You dropped everything to get to me-”
“Not quick enough.”
Steve ignores the interjection. “Next time you’ll trust I’m not just ordering you about for the hell of it,” he says.
“Maybe I won’t!” Tony bursts out. “Maybe I’ll still always think I know better.”
“You won’t,” Steve says adamantly, because he didn’t nearly die and spend god-knows how long stranded in the multiverse learning that he and Tony need each other just for Tony to refuse to play ball. “The things I saw when I was – when I was there,” he says, shaking his head slightly. “I learned a lot about myself. And a lot about you."
Tony stares at him, clearly not sure what to say. “A lot about me? But it was only you there – only versions of you.”
“Yeah,” Steve says slowly, and then rallies his courage and looks Tony right in the eye. “But they had a lot to say about you.”
Tony finally meets his gaze, unflinching. When he speaks, his voice is quieter, less jagged around the edges. “Do I want to know?”
The words are there on the tip of his tongue. Steve knows he should tell Tony, knows he needs to explain what he learned, but that involves admitting that there are versions of them that have been too involved with each other. Tony is still looking at him, waiting. Steve swallows and then looks down at his knees, hating himself for not just saying it.
“I don’t understand half of it myself – I don’t – I just know that – my issue isn’t with what happened during the fight. You-”
He breaks off, struggling. He looks at Tony and then away again.
“Okay,” Tony says slowly. “I hear what you’re saying, I'm hearing and I'm probably trying to listen, but this whole aura you’re giving off isn’t filling me with confidence.” He gestures to Steve with a hand, helplessly.
Steve doesn’t know what to say. He jumps as fingers touch his chin, lifting his head so Tony can look him in the eye. The world seems to pause for a moment, a deep breath.
“Steve,” Tony says, sounding wrecked. “What’s going on here? Because words are saying one thing and your face is saying something completely different-”
“I-”
Footsteps in the corridor cut off his wreck of a response. He’s mucking this all up, he knows – he just wants Tony to know it wasn’t his fault, wants them to be friends. They need to be friends if his escapade through the multiverse has taught him anything; they need to be there for each other-
“I literally wrestled this out of a junior agent's hand in the lobby,” Clint’s voice says proudly as the door swings open. “You better appreciate it, and you better give me my thousand bucks.”
Steve lets go of Tony’s wrist and Tony steps back. Clint pauses in the doorway, pizza box balanced on his left hand and a carton of juice in the other.
“Maybe I should take victory pizza elsewhere?”
“No,” Tony is the one to speak, pulling his phone from his pocket and thumbing the screen. “He needs to eat. Pizza probably isn’t on the doc’s recommended list for nutrition, but knock yourself out. I’m gonna go sort a thing, I’ll be back in a bit-”
And eyes still on his phone, he leaves the room without looking back. Steve groans and slumps back against the pillow, feeling completely and utterly lost
“Right. So this was like an eleven on the awkward scale,” Clint says, walking over and putting the pizza box down on Steve’s knee. It smells mouth-wateringly good and Steve’s stomach gives a violent rumble. Clint sniggers and sits down in the chair Richards had been in earlier, putting the carton of juice on the small table next to the bed.
Steve’s into the pizza box and dragging free a slice before any doctors can turn up and tell him not to. Clint snorts with laughter again and reaches for a slice of his own.
“Slow,” he says to Steve as he takes a bite, and Christ, he’s never going to take food for granted ever again. “Seriously, pause, no more – you’ve not eaten proper food in weeks.”
