“Man it up and join the rest of the multiverse in loving Tony?”
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“But I’m not in love with Tony!” Steve bursts out. “I can’t just –”
“Can’t just make yourself love him?”
Steve nods soberly, reach up to rub his face. The IV line snags on the edge of his blanket and he reaches for it, tearing the tape off in one vicious yank, before sliding the needle out of the back of his hand and tossing the line away. It doesn’t make him feel any better.
“I feel like I have to,” he says. “God, if he-”
“You don’t have to,” Clint says firmly. “Tony’s a big boy; if you don’t feel the same way about him he’ll deal with it. He’s Iron Man for god’s sake, he’s dealt with worse. Always has, always will.”
Nodding again, Steve unhappily acknowledges that Clint is right. As long as he treats this right – as long as he treats Tony right – there’s no reason for this to be a disaster.
“But maybe you do feel the same way.”
Frowning, Steve turns to look Clint in the eye. He still looks deadly serious, but shrugs as Steve looks at him. “You two are
I don’t know. Intense around each other at the best of times. And come on, if the rest of the multiverse has gone for it”
He trails off, the implication unspoken but simple to infer.
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.”
