Tony bites back on a laugh. “Yeah. Those parts. But he’s clocked the fact that now he doesn’t have to constantly ask when he misses a reference. His pride can make it through the day intact.”
Without him having to ask, Natasha leans forwards and tops up his drink. He blinks, eyes all at once feeling too warm and bright as he thinks about the Steve’s stubborn frown, the way he insists that he’s got it, that he doesn’t need any help, thanks. “Was this the plan?” Tony asks, voice rough. “Get drunk and wax poetical about Steve?”
“Talk about him, complain about him, write sonnets about him,” Clint shrugs. “Whatever, man.”
Tony laughs, a rough unsteady sound, and he reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose between his fingers. The words are on the tip of his tongue, and Pepper already knows, and Clint has already hinted that he suspects something, so there’s really next to no chance that Natasha won’t have picked up on it. With that in mind, the urge to actually say it is pretty much more than he can supress.
“So, should I just get it out the way and admit that I might be totally and utterly gone for Steve?”
“Glad you’ve worked that out,” Natasha says, and grasps his wrist, lifts his hand off the table-top and pushes his glass back towards him. “Drink.”
Tony pulls his hand away from hers, a little disconcerted by the lack of reaction. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” Natasha confirms with a nod.
“Dude, it was pretty obvious,” Clint says with a grimace. “We talked about this already, with the whole face touching thing. You two are kinda…intense around each other.”
“We are not.”
Clint just gives him a look. “You can either deny it, or we can cut to the chase and get started on that sonnet. How many words can we think of that rhyme with America?”
Tony slumps forwards, elbow on the table and forehead resting on his knuckles. “God, I hate you.”
A hand claps down on his shoulder. “Yeah you do,” Clint says easily.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, Tony pushes himself back into a more upright position and lifts his drink. He pauses with the tumbler inches from his mouth and points at Natasha with his forefinger.
“Just so we’re clear, this isn’t drinking because we’re mourning, or we’ve given up-”
“Of course not,” she says, her mouth tightening a fraction, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it. She’s hurting too, Tony knows. Probably as much as the rest of them, despite how she’s less obvious about it.
“Come on,” Clint scoffs. “You really think we’ll ever give up? This is a clever ploy to get him to wake up. He’ll sense us getting drunk with his heightened responsibility receptors and get up to yell at us.”
Tony and Natasha both snort into their drinks.
“Responsibility receptors?
“He’s got them,” Clint insists, and drops his voice to a whisper. “They’re red, white and blue. I’ve seen them.”
And Tony is laughing, laughing harder than he has in weeks, and it still feels like he’s about to cry as well as laugh but it’s okay. Clint and Natasha are both clearly at their limits as well and they’re getting drunk so being a little sloppy with his control is probably allowed.
He looks up just in time to see Natasha wipe her fingertips under her eye, still smiling as she listens to Clint's rambling. Without saying anything, Tony reaches over and grasps her free hand in his, and the way she squeezes his fingers in return is the most comforting thing he’s felt in days.
“Where have you been?"
It’s not Shield’s demanding voice that calls out the minute Steve steps into the apartment, or even the Commander’s. It’s SJ that he finds blocking his way across the room, arms folded across his chest and glaring at Steve with all the force he can muster.
“Out running,” Steve says. He reaches out to ruffle SJ’s hair and SJ scowls more ferociously and pushes his hand away, turning his face to the side as he coughs.
“For five hours?” SJ demands, and Steve laughs. He steps forwards and grabs SJ under the arms, lifting him up onto his hip and squeezing him gently. SJ doesn’t protest, just curves his small frame into Steve’s side, head resting on his shoulder and snuggling happily towards the warmth.
“You’re all sweaty,” he complains, wrinkling his nose. His breath catches and his back shifts as he supresses another cough.
“You’re all cold, you don’t see me complaining,” Steve replies, and smiles as cool fingertips press into his neck and then dance up his face, pressing against his cheeks. SJ grins and leans up and Steve takes his hand and presses it to his forehead with an ‘ahhh’ of satisfaction, making SJ giggle.
“So, you’re clearly the new favourite,” Seven’s voice says, sounding amused. He steps into the apartment, stretching his arms above his head before letting them flop down to his side. He’s still wearing his full uniform, unlike Steve who has kept the top half peeled down to his waist. This place is warm, the sun shining pleasantly and accompanied only by a soft breeze, and Steve knows he’s the only one who really appreciates it. The rest of them are always cool or cold, the sun having no real impact on them other than to provide light. Exercise doesn’t affect them in the same way either, though Seven insists that he and many of the others still enjoy running and working out.
“I’m clearly being forced into a life of servitude as a hot-water bottle,” Steve says pointedly and SJ just grins.
“Don’t like being cold,” he says, and a skinny arm winds its way around Steve’s neck. Steve hitches him up slightly, feeling a swell of emotion in his chest.
“Pretty sure none of us do.”
“Lewis does,” Seven says. “He was part of Spec Ops in the US army. Died in 2007 in Iraq, says he always ended up being deployed in the summer and was sick to all hell of being constantly hot and sweaty.”
“I take it he was never frozen in the Arctic if he’s from the twenty-first century?” Steve asks, and then sighs as SJ’s hand slides down over his eyes. “Really? I swear I wasn’t this annoying when I was small.”
“I’m not you,” SJ giggles, spreading his fingers apart so Steve can see. “We’re different, you keep forgetting.”
“Yes, I see. Very different in that I’m less annoying.”
“Are not,” SJ argues, kicking his feet against Steve’s thigh. “Shield said you were a pain in his ass for wandering off.”
“Language,” Steve and Seven both say at the same time, Steve sternly and Seven somewhat more wearily. SJ purses his lips, looking slightly abashed but not enough so that Steve is convinced he’ll never say it again. Steve steps over to the counter and swings SJ onto it, his heels clattering against the wood. Looking disgruntled, SJ shifts up onto his knees, leaning against Steve’s side. Steve capitulates immediately and slips an arm around SJ’s middle, palm smoothing over his tummy. It’s slightly disconcerting how easy it is for him to be there for SJ, to slip onto that comforting role. Maybe it’s because he knows what he wanted at that age; maybe it’s just instinct.
His instincts are also telling him where he should go next in his search for answers. He remembers the cool touch of the mist against his face when he’d first woken up here, and again contemplates what he should do. Should he just go, by himself? Would it be wiser to at least let someone know what he’s planning, even if he doesn’t want anyone to come with him? But would they even let him go alone-
“You’ve got that look on your face,” Seven says, folding his arms across his chest. “Out with it.”
Steve bites back a grin; seems there’s no point in wondering how to broach the subject of going off to search in the mist. After all, he’s surrounded by versions of himself who would definitely know that was plotting something, even if they couldn’t guess exactly what he was thinking. Hey, that was one benefit, he supposed; not having to tip-toe around when trying to broach a subject.
“I want to go back to where Shield and Brooklyn found me,” Steve says, and Seven lifts an eyebrow but lets him continue. “I need to start looking for ways to get home, and that’s as good a place as any.”
Seven nods slowly. “That’s where I was going to suggest we start,” he says, and Steve sags into the countertop in relief at the lack of resistance, hip checking against the edge. SJ winds an arm around his neck and Steve distractedly rubs his thumb over the worn blue and white stripes on his shirt.
“Has anyone ever been back that way, through the mist? Is that where everyone turns up?”
“We all seem to come in from somewhere out there,” he says. “You were the last one to come in. No-one been back through though, as far as we know.”
“Do you have to go?” SJ suddenly asks, and Seven and Steve both stop, eyes locked for a long moment. SJ seems to regret what he’s said, slumping back down to sit on his heels and twisting as if to get away from Steve. Steve doesn’t let go, just gently tugs SJ close to his side again, arm still wrapped around his middle.
“You know I do,” he says, though he’s unable to fight away the wave of guilt he feels. “Got people at home waiting for me.”
SJ just nods tiredly, understanding. Steve looks at him helplessly for a moment, not sure what to say. He’d give anything to be able to send SJ back to his own universe, alive and whole. Hell, at this point, if given the chance he’d probably take SJ back with him to his universe and raise him as his own goddamn kid, consequences be damned
“I take it you want to go now?” Seven says, bringing his mind back to the task in hand.
“As soon as possible,” Steve says, though focussing on the job isn’t as easy or straight-forwards now he thinks about leaving SJ and the others behind. He’s only been here a few days, he shouldn’t be getting attached, definitely not considering this is only temporary-
