After a returning smile, Tony says, "Better head out," and scoots out of the bed (waits on the edge for Steve to move and let him go). "Don't forget to finish those forms. I'm perusing them Monday," he murmurs, but when he picks up his jeans, which Steve folded the night before, he pauses. Past the mental clutter of priorities and check marks, predictions and innovations, Tony notes the possibility in each studious crease of the denim.
"I'm keeping these," he blurts out, head turned to Steve. He pats his hip to indicate Steve's pajama pants, which, while fitting at his wider hips, also drape over his heels.
Steve just raises his eyebrows. The pants are long enough to drag on the floor, but if Tony wants to parade around in a mansion in pants that don't fit, then he's free to do whatever the hell he wants. "Well, at least you aren't abducting the Snuggie." He thinks about offering breakfast so Tony doesn't have to drive home on an empty stomach, but there's no point in delaying him, and he probably wants to be alone to think through his emotions.
"Take care of yourself, Tony," he offers softly. It's almost, but not quite, an order.
Tony nods once and slips on his sneakers. At the door, he bids, "See you around, Steve," and click of the knob behind him comes slowly and sounds soft. Before this morning, he would've called him Cap.
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"I'm keeping these," he blurts out, head turned to Steve. He pats his hip to indicate Steve's pajama pants, which, while fitting at his wider hips, also drape over his heels.
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"Take care of yourself, Tony," he offers softly. It's almost, but not quite, an order.
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