and resists the urge to cover his hands with his face.

※Okay, here＊s your French-roast extra-tall double half-caff skinny mocha vanilla hazelnut venti latte mhiato with whipped cream, cocoa powder and caramel drizzle on top,§ Clint says, and slides a mug onto the counter in front of Steve. Steve arches an eyebrow at him and takes a sip of his decidedly normal black coffee.

※Hmmm, I can really taste the hazelnut.§

※I live to serve,§ Clint says perfectly seriously, hopping back up onto the counter with his own mug in hand. ※So. Plan?§

Steve takes another sip of his coffee, feeling oddly listless and unmotivated in a way that has nothing to do with his lowered energy. ※I probably need to get some more rest,§ he says, and it＊s a half-truth; he does feel like he could easily sleep for an hour or two but he also just wants to retreat to his room and hide.

※Alright, I＊m going to go shoot stuff,§ Clint says and slides down from the counter. ※Later, Cap.§

He leaves the room with his coffee in hand and as Steve watches him go he realises that Natasha must have also have vanished without him noticing because he＊s now most definitely alone. He＊s grateful that they haven＊t felt the need to hover and make sure he＊s okay.

Tony was right to leave, he thinks tiredly and sadly. He can＊t do this without some breathing space from the entire mess of a situation.

He grabs his bag and heads to the elevator instead of taking the stairs as he usually would. He steps in, and a quiet voice calls out to him as the doors slide shut.

※May I say it＊s a pleasure to have you back, Captain Rogers.§

Steve smiles, shutting his eyes. ※Yeah, thanks Jarvis,§ he replies as the elevator starts to rise, a smooth movement that most people barely notice. Jarvis doesn＊t speak again and Steve is thankful, because it＊s just another reminder of Tony that he doesn＊t need right now. Maybe the tower isn＊t the best place for him after all; yes, it＊s pretty much his home now, but it＊s just drenched in Tony. Every place he looks, every step he takes, he finds something that brings it all back to Tony; most of all the fact that this whole space he calls his was built for him by the man.

He silently thinks about all the things that Tony has done for them, done for him, and his stomach twists.

The feeling only intensifies when he steps out onto his floor, going into his rooms and shutting the door behind him. Everything is exactly where it he＊d left it all those weeks ago; a pair of those stupid, modern, fashion trainers that he hates but can＊t stop wearing by the coffee table; a sketchbook and set of pencils on top of it next to a book on portraiture that he＊d bought on a harrowing trip to Barnes and Noble; an empty coffee mug that he really doesn＊t want to go anywhere near after leaving it unwashed for this length of time.

Deciding that putting off cleaning up for one more day really isn＊t going to make a difference, he goes to step through to his bedroom and then freezes in the doorway when he spots his shield resting against the edge of his bed. He knew that it had been recovered and taken safely back to the tower, and he＊d resisted the urge to ask Tony to go and fetch it for him whilst he＊d been in medical. There＊s a bright yellow sticky note stuck to the centre of the shield, right over the star, and Steve＊s throat goes tight as he crouches down and pulls it from the smooth surface.

Stop dropping this when you＊re fighting robots or I＊m going to permanently attach it to your hand.

He knows that handwriting anywhere, and he doesn＊t know what＊s more overwhelming; the implication of worry and fear in the words or the fact that it＊s exactly what he thought when he＊d first realised that he hadn＊t got the shield with him in the multiverse. Reaching out, Steve trails his fingers over the star on the shield, takingfort from the simple fact that it＊s there with him. God, it＊s so good to be back, he can＊t bear the thought of what would have happened to everything if he hadn＊t made it. What would Tony have done with the shield then, if he＊d died? Would he have kept it, or gotten rid of it as quickly as possible?

Steve shakes his head. ※Get it together, Rogers,§ he mutters, and stands up again, sticky-note still in his hand. He steps around the bed and carefully sticks the note to the wall just beside the headboard, behind the lamp on his nightstand. There＊s another sketchbook beside the chrome base of the lamp, this one full of doodles done with felt-tip pens. There＊s a set beside the sketchbook and he's not going to lie; he loves the damn things, even if Tony does say that makes him a giant artistic ten year-old. The lines and colours are just so bold and bright,pletely different to anything he could get his hands on in the forties.

His side is starting to ache; a phantom pain that he normally ignores because he knows that he＊s pretty muchpletely healed. He does acknowledge that it probably means he＊s pushing past his limits for the day though, and kicks his shoes off and clambers onto his bed, leaning back against the pillows. Throwing one arm up over his head and shifting to getfortable, he blinks up at the ceiling and then looks over at the glorious floor to ceiling windows that cover the right side of the room. He＊d been a little disconcerted by them at first, until Tony had assured him that whilst he could see out, no-one else could see in. He＊d even offered to suit up and fly Steve around the outside of the building to prove it, but Steve had declined and opted for taking Tony＊s word for it instead.

And he＊s back to Tony again. As if he really ever left.

Despite how his body feels, his mind feels too jittery and out of sorts for sleep. Instead, he reaches over and grabs the sketchbook, bending his knees so he can rest it against the slope of his thighs. Without looking away from the blank page in front of him, he reaches out for a felt pen and flicks the cap off. He can already feel his mind starting to calm; drawing has always been something that he＊s found wonderfully soothing and almost cathartic, and today is no different.

The pen sweeps over the page, smooth and even. He finds himself drawing the lines of the apartment building from his trip through the multiverse and decides to go with it. He fills in the steps at the front, concentrating as he works out which lines need to go down first, which need to wait until another part of the drawing isplete. It＊s not too much effort but it＊s enough so that he＊s not overwhelmed by his thoughts surrounding Tony. They＊re still there, hovering in the periphery of his mind, and he＊s beginning to realise that maybe they＊re not going to go away.

Judging by the unhappy ache in his chest that tightens when he thinks of Tony being thousands of miles away, they＊re definitely not going to go away.

Why does everything have to be so hard?

Or maybe it＊s easy, a small traitorous part of his brain says as his hand continues to draw, barely aware of what he＊s doing. Maybe you have fallen for Tony, maybe you just don＊t want to admit it.

He＊s about to tell that part of him to shut the fuck up when he realises that he＊s stopped drawing the apartment, and has instead starting drawing Tony. A rough sketch of his face, a small smile in place that fits with the oddly gentle way he＊s been acting around Steve since he woke up-

Steve groans and leans forwards, hitting the sketchpad against his forehead before leaning back and huffing. He glances down at the sketch again, something strange churning in his stomach.

His fingers trace the edge of the page, and as he does, he feels the faint ache in his sidee back again. Pressing his palm to his ribs, he tries not to think about the metal pressing into him, snapping bone and tearing through flesh. He＊s not a queasy guy anymore but it＊s still not pleasant to think about.

Abruptly, he wonders how it would have looked from Tony＊s point of view. Getting there only to find Steve prone on the floor, bleeding out andpletely skewered by the twisted spike of metal. Well, he knows how he would have reacted if he＊d been the one to find Tony in that position.

And then he＊s wondering what it would be like if their positions were reversed. etting what has happened in the rest of the multiverse; what would it have been like for him if he＊d seen Tony taken down by a robot? If he＊d been there on his knees as Tony had slowly bled out all over the floor, slipping through his fingers, unable to be saved by anything Steve could do?

The agonising wrench of emotion in response to that thought is answer enough. He can＊t imagine what it would be like to lose Tony, to not have him by his side every day, to not know he was safe.

Swallowing thickly, he looks down at the drawing once more. If Tony had been killed that day, Steve would have missed him for every day for the rest of his life. If something were to happen to Tony now, he would 每 god, he doesn＊t even know. He can＊t even contemplate it.

There＊s your answer, Rogers, he tells himself, and every thought he＊s ever had about Tony and how he＊s different from Clint and Bruce and the others all slots effortlessly into place, like someone＊s taken an eraser to every barrier, every thought that made him deny it.

He bites his lip, shaking his head, eyes once again on the picture his hands have drawn without permission. He thinks of Seven and Stephanie and the other versions of him throughout the multiverse, and his mouth hitches in a weak smile.

※Guess you guys knew me better than I did,§ he murmurs, and he sets the sketchbook aside on the nightstand, capping the felt-pen and also setting it aside. He breathes out heavily, sinks back into the pillows, and he sleeps.

Tony drags his hand through the hologram in front of him, movements listless and without purpose. The workshop in LA is just as good as his workshop in New York, but it feels strange, oddly sterile. Not only is he missing the presence of the bots, there are no memories of the team he

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