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The Commander nods, turning away and walking back across the room towards the kitchen area. He picks up a sheaf of papers that someone has left and glances at them before tossing them back onto the counter. “Of course. You’re not dead yet, you need to get home.”
Gratitude swells in Steve’s chest and he nods, following the Commander’s path across the room. He’s not daft enough to feel hopeful just yet though, but he’s certainly not going to give up. He idly pushes at the papers the Commander just left; it’s a collection of sketches rough and unfinished. The top one is of Clint in full Hawkeye mode, arrow nocked and ready to fly. The second is also Clint, perched up high on what looks like the arm of a crane. He pushes them to the side and spots another familiar face with bright wicked eyes and a neatly trimmed beard, a smudge of dirt across a cheekbone, a warm and genuine smile-
He hurriedly shoves the stack of papers straight again, the sketches of Clint covering the one of Tony. His fingers linger, flicking at the edge of the papers, tempted to flick through the rest and see who is there, if there’s other people or more drawings of those eyes and that smile.
He slides the papers away from himself along the counter and firmly ignores the wave of sadness and grief that he feels. Part of him wants to sit and stare at the familiar faces all day long. He clears his throat, straightening up. “Who’s coming?” he asks the Commander.
“As many people as we can gather without the Director noticing,” the Commander says, stepping over to the window and looking out.
“The Director,” Steve repeats cautiously. “I get the feeling that’s not a welcome name around here.”
“No,” the Commander says shortly.
“But he’s still…one of us?”
“Yes,” the Commander says, and he turns to face the doorway and Steve hears the sound of boot-steps and voices on the stairwell. Steve thinks there’s more to this Director business than the Commander is letting on, but before he can ask Seven and Eight walk into the room – Eight looking more tolerable than he did yesterday – followed by another five Steves. Violet is there, as is Ice, and Steve recognises the Steve in the olive-green uniform with the bullet hole in the breast, but the two others both appear new and different.
“Steve Rogers ninety ninety one, died on a European mission for Shield and Steve forty eight twenty, drowned trying to save some kids,” the Commander fills in helpfully. “Dresden and Hudson.”
“Wonderful,” Steve says flatly. “I’ll cross swimming and backpacking around Europe off my to-do list.”
The Commander doesn’t quite smile, but his lips twitch slightly and maybe that’s as much as Steve can hope for. “If you’re writing off everything that has ever killed a version of us across the multiverse, you’ll have to stop doing a lot.” He pauses, mouth twisted contemplatively. “And that would also negate the idea of sending you back to Stark.”
Steve groans, leaning forwards over the counter on his elbows and pressing his hands to the sides of his face. “Every four damn seconds and it comes back around to Tony,” he says. “Which one of us was killed by Tony Stark, then?”
The Commander doesn’t even blink. “Literally, figuratively, or inadvertently?”
“You know, I don’t even want to think about Tony anymore,” Steve says abruptly, and the Commander holds up his hands in a placating gesture.
Luckily, more Steves enter the room at that point, distracting them from the conversation. Robot-arm Steve is there, along with the Steve in the green uniform. Two more blue-suited Steve’s follow, and then a gaggle of shorter-Steves. Minutes behind are a group of Steve’s who all seem to be from the war, followed closely by two wearing the same navy uniform as Stephanie and Shield. There’s even one wearing a sharp black suit and tie, who wanders in alongside the Steve who is barefoot and in sweats. Very soon the whole apartment is full, and Steve is now so over it that he doesn’t even bat an eyelid, not even at the Steve who has a suit the same as his own and a blatant bullet hole in his temple.
“Okay?”
Steve looks up, moving his eyes without bothering to lift his head from his hands. He probably looks sullen and moody but he can’t bring himself to care. It’s Seven who has stepped up, and Steve’s eyes automatically flick to his collar where he knows the wedding ring lies hidden.
“Yeah,” Steve says, and forces himself to straighten up, suddenly feeling exhausted. “I’m alright.”
They blatantly know he’s lying but they don’t call him on it. They just exchange a glance and then Seven moves to stand next to Stephanie, and Steve wonders if they’ve bonded over their mutual marrying-Tony thing. They’re quite blatantly as crazy as each other, so it’s highly probable.
Two more Steve’s wander in – one in a modern sand-camouflage military uniform and one wearing jeans, a blue shirt and a black baseball cap – and then the Commander walks over and shuts the door. The one called Dresden peers out of the window, scans the street and then gives the Commander a thumbs up.
“Right, some sort of attention would be nice,” the Commander calls, and everyone shuffles around and falls quiet. Steve expects him to start talking but instead he turns expectantly to Shield, who nods and steps forwards next to Steve, arms folded across his chest.
“Most of you have heard, but a Steve Rogers joined us yesterday and he’s not dead,” Shield says bluntly, and a murmur goes through the assembled crowd. “He received a life-threatening injury before blacking out and waking up here, fully aware and still with a pulse. So far we don’t know how or why, so if anyone has experienced anything similar in their universe, we’d like to know. Also, there’s the matter of the Director. This is something that he’ll probably take an interest in, so be on your guard.”
A rumble goes through the assembled crowd. “Does he already know?” the Steve with the metal arm asks.
“We don’t know,” the Commander fills in gravely. “Just assume he will find out and he will try and get involved. Back to the problem in hand – has anyone ever heard of anyone passing through the multiverse like this?”
“Only Deadpool,” a voice from the back calls, and someone groans.
“We are not taking Deadpool as an example,” an exasperated voice replies. “He’s nuts.”
“Agreed,” the Commander replies.
Shield looks around. “So no one has any idea as to how this has happened? Not seen anything similar?”
There are a few ‘nos’ and several head shakes, and Steve feels his heart sink.
“Damn,” Shield murmurs. “We’ll keep asking, but for now it looks like we’ll have to wait and see if they can pull you back from your side.”
“Who is on your side?” a voice asks.
“The Avengers,” Steve says. “Bruce Banner, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanov, Thor and Tony Stark.”
“You’ll be fine,” a Steve in a blue suit says to him, sounding almost dismissive. “If anyone can get you back it’s Tony.”
Some of the Steves make noises of agreement, and a fair few look sceptical. For his part, Steve wishes vehemently that they would talk about someone else for a change.
“Maybe,” he says tightly, because half of him aches for it to be true, knowing that Tony is probably his best hope. The other half still doesn’t know how to feel about Tony and this entire mess, even more so now he knows that some versions of himself have gotten far too involved with the guy.
“Not likely,” a voice interjects, and Steve lifts his head to see Seven, Stephanie and some of the others scowling at Eight, who stares back defiantly.
“Just because your Tony Stark was an asshole to you doesn’t mean his will give up on him,” Stephanie snaps, and Jesus, she might as well have punched him in the face. Eight’s cheekbones go a blotchy pink with anger.
“Tony will do everything he can-” Seven begins, and suddenly Steve has had enough of hearing people defend Tony. For god’s sake; he’s the one who has been stabbed and dragged unceremoniously through the multiverse, so how the hell is this suddenly all about Tony?
“Tony is the one that got me in this mess.”
All heads swivel to look at him, some looking taken aback and some looking like they expected no less. He feels guilt roll through him the moment the words are out of his mouth; yes, he’s angry at Tony for what happened, but he’s aware enough of the fact it wasn’t Tony’s fault. God, Tony would never ever wish harm on him intentionally – the look on Tony’s face when Steve had been dying on the floor is seared into his memory, and god, the guilt and shame and terror he remembers witnessing makes Steve feel horrendous. He wants to go back and both punch Tony and pull him into a hug and tell him it’ll be fine.
“He’ll get you out,” Seven insists. “Trust him.”
“Look, he is not you,” Eight says. “And your Tony is not his Tony.”
“The whole world doesn’t revolve around Tony Stark,” Violet chips in with a frown, and Steve bites back a choked laugh because he’s really starting to think that it does.
“Your world didn’t,” Stephanie retorts, and they all hear the ‘but mine did,’ that she doesn’t say out loud. “This Steve is friends with Tony, so we can assume Tony will be doing everything to get him back.”
“He said Tony caused this,” Violet says, starting to sound angry.
“He didn’t cause it,” Steve says, and he pinches the bridge of his nose because now he’s been pushed into defending Tony, and how did that happen when ten minutes ago he was ready to yell at people for doing the same? He breathes out deeply, tries to regain some composure. “He didn’t cause it,” he repeats. “I got myself in a bad spot and asked for backup.”
“And he didn’t turn up,” Shield finishes flatly.
Steve winces and lowers his hand. “He did,” he says. “Just not quick enough.”
“I thought we were having a meeting about getting you home,” the Commander calls over, looking as unimpressed as ever. “Not having yet another session of arguing about Tony goddamn Stark.”
