Steve being Steve, he feels guilty about it anyway, now that it's been pointed out to him. Not that he thinks he's a horrible person, it's just a behavior to be ashamed of. "You aren't a horrible person," he adds, a little belatedly, which of course makes it ring false, even though he genuinely means it. "No matter what you think of yourself." Of course Tony thinks he is; he's discovered that as egotistical as the man may be, it's a thin veneer to hide the self-loathing underneath, and it troubles Steve.
But he snorts at Tony's response. "Yeah. Same as the rest of us." Which means that he's not fooling Steve at all with his claims.
Head downturned, Tony glances at him. ("Why do you think we've barely seen each other this past year?" Pepper asked like a frustrated tutor across the restaurant table. "We're both busy people, I don't see how that--" he argued. "Tony," she chastised, and then continued quieter, heartbroken but resigned, "Between me, and all of that, I wouldn't be your first choice ... and I won't be the reason you tear yourself apart.") He thinks of Wanda's hex. The Avengers dead, a great fear realized. The rest of us, Steve says: an inclusive us. "Said I'd manage. Never said I'd be all right," Tony points out with a subdued smirk.
"Uh-huh. And I said same as the rest of us." He's not sure there's a single Avenger who rests easily - Clint, maybe, he doesn't know enough about his past to pass judgment there, and he's pretty sure Vision doesn't even sleep - not just from what they've done in the time they've been together, but the time before. Steve reaches out, rests an arm around Tony's shoulders. "I don't know what I can do, Tony, but if there's anything I can do to help, just say the word. I don't want you to hide yourself away."
I know I could, Tony thinks as he searches Steve's earnest face. Just one word with a "sir, please" tacked on, and you'd grant it. That's why I don't. Not until I can give as much as I'd take. As much as his mind and body crave the release, he's resolved: he won't hurt Steve like that, just like he won't hurt Pepper anymore the way he has been by gallivanting off. Protest as much as he wants to, her words ring true: at some point their paths diverged. Now he feels lost at sea, directionless, helpless against the current. But Steve throws a rope to pull their rafts together, and Tony grabs it.
He thinks back a couple months to their roots, before this folly started, and wonders if they can grow from there, as they should have. "That dinner offer still open?" he asks, abashed.
Steve grins suddenly at the request, and it's like the clouds parting for a sunbeam on a cloudy day. Thor might win the golden retriever personified contest, but Steve has his own moments of puppyish joy. There's a simple pleasure in sharing a meal with friends - maybe it's because he grew up when there wasn't much else, or maybe it's because he eats like a horse now, but he loves to drag people along on culinary adventures. (Maybe he just watches too much Food Network in his downtime.)
"Of course it is. You wanna drive, or should I?" Steve's offer, of course, requires Tony to ride on the back of his motorcycle. Whether or not he owns a spare helmet (or any helmet at all) is anyone's guess.
Rising to his feet, he offers Tony a hand up, quashing the urge to make a joke about creaky joints.
Tony starts, blinking wide. Now? His watch reads barely four in the afternoon. But seeing Steve's joy, he just rolls his eyes, darkly amused, and accepts the offer up. "Hn. You drive. This is supposed to be your treat," he says and brushes off his jeans. One ass cheek has grown numb from the cold. He grimaces.
Steve doesn't really keep to any set meal schedule; he eats when he's hungry (which is nearly all the time, thanks to his metabolism). It's just as likely that he'll eat a meal early in the afternoon as it is that someone will find him making sandwiches in the kitchen at midnight. So he doesn't register the time; no matter what, he can inhale an entire meal. And Tony probably forgets to eat half the time, so Steve figures he can probably put away some food, too.
"Aw, man, I thought I was gonna be able to stick you with the tab," he cracks. He doesn't need the aid of Tony's GPS to lead them out of the woods; his memory is good enough to get them back to the compound, and never mind that he wasn't even actively paying attention on the way out. He still remembers the path they took.
"I'm surprised you don't wanna impress me with whatever fancy car you brought up here today." Steve's motorcycle awaits them in a corner of the garage; Steve wheels it out and casts an eye on the gas gauge. There should be enough to get them into town and back, he decides.
"Don't need to impress you. I already got in your pants," Tony murmurs, seemingly distracted, as he taps on his cell phone, but only seemingly -- his observant eyes flick up to gauge Steve's reaction. With new variables in play, he needs information to determine where the line has been redrawn. More than that, he needs to know that this -- that they haven't been ruined. He just lost Pepper because of his mistakes. He won't lose Steve, too.
He notes the motorcycle and the lack of protective headgear in its vicinity, though, and reconsiders this one choice. Steve may be a super soldier with the hardest head imaginable, but Tony likes his very precious brain, which is already racing through thoughts, intact: he's told Steve before that it's state law to wear a helmet, and furthermore, that headgear and sane people go hand-in-hand. But good luck hounding Steve Rogers into anything, hence the hardheadedness, so Tony let it go because the serum offsets Steve's stupidity; except now, unless he's hiding a helmet up his ass, he expects Tony to hop on without one, and worth repeating: Tony has precious brains and no serum to thicken his dumb skull. Now that he envisions it, he'll be squeezing Steve's hips between his knees and laying his hands on him, too. No big, normally, but things between them have changed. This could be construed as leading Steve on, and with no guarantee Tony will move on from Pepper, he needs to not play at being a carrot on a stick.
In the seconds that Tony thinks through everything, he slowly purses his mouth and squints his eyes at the bike as though it's a Rubik's cube and he's planning twenty steps ahead.
Steve just snorts at the remark. "'Cause that's never stopped you from trying to impress anyone else before." He's Tony Stark, and Steve just assumes that involves a deep-seated need to show off to anyone and everyone in order to gain their approval. He straddles the bike with a practiced ease, and glances at Tony, and then-
"Is it the helmet thing again?" He tries not to roll his eyes and fails. It's not just that he has a hard head (and is equally difficult to injure everywhere else, and has super-human healing); he also has superior reflexes and agility, and the ability to react to situations that might result in a crash faster than a normal human. Which doesn't make an accident impossible, just a lot more unlikely. "You know, Nat doesn't wear a helmet."
Tony snaps his head up. Sleep-deprived as he is, he's lost the focus necessary to conduct the train station of his mind, so thoughts veer down incorrect paths, run amok on unfinished tracks, or barge into each other engine-first, which all results in a cacophony of horns and whistles and angry shouting of operators -- and he's taken this metaphor far enough: case in point. He wonders if he could crash in Steve's bed tonight -- in a purely platonic fashion. It just feels safe there.
Tony huffs and pockets his phone. "I house a bunch of crazy people. To think I'm the one arguing for safety," he grumbles but takes the bait, anyway: if Natasha can do it, so can he. He sidles up behind Steve and flips open his shades. "If we die, Rogers, I'm dragging you to hell with me."
Of course Tony takes the bait. They know each other too damn well - and in this case, Steve knows exactly how to jar Tony out of his serious safety concerns, by appealing directly to his masculinity. (Tony might not say it's his masculinity, but it definitely is.) Steve's at least polite enough to not grin and gloat over his success.
"Aw, Tony, are you that desperate for my company?" He smirks back over his shoulder. "You'd be stuck with me for eternity. Might wanna reconsider that one." And instead of giving Tony the chance to get the last word in, he revs up the bike and takes off.
The drive takes them along the Hudson River - Steve deliberately picks the scenic route, which adds a couple minutes to the trip, but, hell, it looks prettier, with the leaves turning shades of red and orange and the foliage reflected in the water. Plus there's less traffic, which means that Steve can go just that much faster; a trip that would take around fifteen minutes is cut closer to ten.
They pull up outside a kitschy-looking diner; in weather like this, with just enough of a bite to the autumn air, nobody's gathered outside to eat on the benches. Steve glances back at Tony for approval, and also to make sure he's still clinging on and he hasn't left him on the road somewhere. "See? All in one piece."
Undeterred, Tony leans over Steve's shoulder to shout in his ear about how Steve'd actually be stuck there with him, but after that he sits back, huffy, and pipes down for the drive. As they traverse the gravel and then along pavement, Tony's grip at Steve's waist isn't what his complaining might suggest: his fingers are lax. He trusts Steve; he just worries. The drive lulls him, though, with the crunch of tires on the highway and sun glinting off the water. Tony loses himself in thought.
What was it all for?
Arrived at their destination, he hums at Steve's comment and appraises the diner from behind his orange (to match the pumpkin shirt, naturally) shades. He swings off the motorcycle, runs his fingers through his hair to fix it, and belatedly, distractedly responds, "Didn't you film a P.S.A. about safety for some school? You should lead by example."
"If I were in school today," Steve offers, "I'd constantly end up in detention for getting into fights." Meaning that he's probably not the best example for today's kids anyway, but he couldn't turn down the request when it was made. "The fitness challenge was pretty funny, too; I'm not sure I coulda done a single push-up when I was a teenager."
Once Tony's done fixing his hair, he leads him into the diner, holding the door open for him. He greets the college-aged girl who, at this hour, is serving as both waitress and hostess, by name; her eyes flick to Tony, and blushing and stammering, she leads them to one of the booths. Apparently Steve is a regular here, but Tony Stark is enough to make her nervous.
"You might have to break your diet," Steve remarks. The menu is all-American standard diner fare, practically a heart attack waiting to happen - but Tony looks like he could use a good hearty meal for once instead of one of those sludgy green things he drinks.
After he checks the inside (red booths, checkered floor, 1950's memorabilia, small and personal like Steve likes; he bites his tongue at the rainbow theme), Tony hooks his sunglasses onto his shirt and smiles patiently at the waitress. He sits across from Steve in the booth and opens the menu she provides. "You are just a myriad of bad influences," he says. Nearly imperceptible, the corner of Tony's mouth twitches up. "Soccer moms everywhere gasp."
Steve doesn't even bother to look at the menu; apparently he's familiar enough with what they offer here that he doesn't need to. "They don't know the half of it," he deadpans quietly once the waitress is gone with their drink orders. "Although I don't know how scandalized they'd be by the rest, what with Fifty Shades of Grey and all." Steve definitely hasn't touched the books, but they came up often enough as bad examples in his D/s searches that he's familiar with the subject matter and the popularity among that particular demographic.
"Everything I've had here is fantastic," he continues in a more normal tone of voice, clearly trying to make conversation. "I don't know if I'd recommend one thing in particular. If you wanted recommendations, that is."
Unbeknownst to Steve he decided correctly when he moved the conversation along; Tony already armed himself with a smirk and the knowledge that housewives across America would actually be titillated at the idea of the Captain dipping his toes into those waters. "No, no. I can feed myself this time," he assures.
"That's a relief, 'cause I'm pretty sure Madison would start posting pictures on Instagram if I fed you a cheeseburger with a knife and fork." Steve just rolls his eyes, like talking about this sort of thing is perfectly normal for him, though it probably does imply that he's getting used to talking about it with Tony, at least. Tony might have to start working to get a blush out of him. "And I'm not in the mood to be a trending topic today." The staff here is actually very respectful of his privacy, and they treat him like a normal person (it doesn't hurt that he's on a first-name basis with everyone), but he's pretty sure that something as out of the norm as feeding Tony would be pushing it.
Tony chuckles humorlessly. "If you're thinking of dating me, soldier, I got some bad news for you. Candid snapshots are the least of it." He flips the menu to the specials, indecisive.
"Really? I'd never noticed." Like Steve himself isn't already the recipient of more than enough unwanted attention to know exactly what Tony's talking about. Maybe not to the extent that Tony has for literally his entire life, but he's no stranger to speculation and gossip about his personal life on social media, either. "Good thing it doesn't matter, huh?"
Wordless, Tony flicks up his eyes, something different in his expression, changed -- opened and considering, but cautious. He swallows and returns to the menu. "I don't know what I want," he confesses, and then startles, exclaiming, "To eat! I don't know what I wanna eat. You choose." He spins his closed menu to Steve flat across the table and slouches back. "Something light. I hate feeling bloated late."
"Not sure that's gonna be a huge concern here," Steve mutters under his breath. It's still light outside; unless Tony eats a pretty hefty meal, he should be fine by bed, he thinks. The other implications...he'll worry about those later. He actually does have to consult the menu to pick something out for Tony; Steve barely knows what a light meal is.
"I'll take the stuffed meatloaf, clam chowder on the side, and my friend who refuses to appreciate Chuck's cooking wants the veggie wrap with slaw," he orders when the waitress returns with drinks. She gives him a funny look when Tony doesn't order for himself, but doesn't comment on it, instead picking up the menus and vanishing again.
"That light enough for you?" he asks, raising his eyebrows.
The moment the waitress -- Madison, Steve called her -- approaches them, Tony opens his mouth with "We're--" only for Steve to barrel past and order for them both. We're not ready, he would've said, because he said for Steve to choose his meal, not order it for him like Tony is his demure girlfriend on a first official date. He squints at Steve ordering, but smoothly switches to a stretched smile for Madison's look to pretend that this is normal for two dudes.
After she leaves, Tony drops the smile and challenges Steve with an unimpressed eyebrow of his own. "On the contrary. That is too light." He crosses his arms and makes a show of thinking. Any attempt on Steve's part to interject Tony ignores, until he says, "Get me a turkey sandwich in addition."
In his defense, Steve doesn't have any idea what 'choose a meal' entails, either in quantity or behavior. In his mind, he did exactly what Tony asked, and doesn't see why he's so huffy about it. But he's Tony, and that's reason enough, he supposes.
"Are you sure you won't be too bloated by the sandwich?" Steve retorts, unimpressed. "You don't need to eat like a soccer mom, you know. You're allowed to have some grease and cholesterol." If he's noticed the little paunch Tony's developed, he certainly hasn't mentioned it, although he probably just thinks it's because he needs to exercise more. But Steve thinks most things can be fixed with exercise.
"I do! On occasion. I don't deprive myself. Some of us are just getting on in years, no naming names, and don't have a super serum to clean out the ol' arteries," Tony argues. Would he moan obscenely biting into a fresh cheeseburger? Maybe. But he likes the leaner choices well enough. Experiencing his body failing on him once was plenty.
Pepper helps. She likes those healthy alternatives, like vegan, gluten-free, or organic food. Subconsciously, Tony compares Steve here to her and finds the chasm between heart and mind.
"You mean I'm not getting on in years?" Of course he knows exactly what Tony means, but sometimes even Steve is capable of poking fun at himself. "Y'know, I had to do a PSA about the food pyramid, too. So fine, I'll order your damn turkey sandwich." He gets up from the booth and bumps Tony's shoulder as he walks past to change their order up at the counter. Except, of course, instead of a healthy turkey sandwich, Steve adds a cheeseburger and fries to their order, in a low enough voice that Tony can't hear him. If Tony gets pissed off, he'll just take the cheeseburger home and eat it for a midnight snack. Win-win, right?
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But he snorts at Tony's response. "Yeah. Same as the rest of us." Which means that he's not fooling Steve at all with his claims.
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He thinks back a couple months to their roots, before this folly started, and wonders if they can grow from there, as they should have. "That dinner offer still open?" he asks, abashed.
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"Of course it is. You wanna drive, or should I?" Steve's offer, of course, requires Tony to ride on the back of his motorcycle. Whether or not he owns a spare helmet (or any helmet at all) is anyone's guess.
Rising to his feet, he offers Tony a hand up, quashing the urge to make a joke about creaky joints.
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"Aw, man, I thought I was gonna be able to stick you with the tab," he cracks. He doesn't need the aid of Tony's GPS to lead them out of the woods; his memory is good enough to get them back to the compound, and never mind that he wasn't even actively paying attention on the way out. He still remembers the path they took.
"I'm surprised you don't wanna impress me with whatever fancy car you brought up here today." Steve's motorcycle awaits them in a corner of the garage; Steve wheels it out and casts an eye on the gas gauge. There should be enough to get them into town and back, he decides.
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He notes the motorcycle and the lack of protective headgear in its vicinity, though, and reconsiders this one choice. Steve may be a super soldier with the hardest head imaginable, but Tony likes his very precious brain, which is already racing through thoughts, intact: he's told Steve before that it's state law to wear a helmet, and furthermore, that headgear and sane people go hand-in-hand. But good luck hounding Steve Rogers into anything, hence the hardheadedness, so Tony let it go because the serum offsets Steve's stupidity; except now, unless he's hiding a helmet up his ass, he expects Tony to hop on without one, and worth repeating: Tony has precious brains and no serum to thicken his dumb skull. Now that he envisions it, he'll be squeezing Steve's hips between his knees and laying his hands on him, too. No big, normally, but things between them have changed. This could be construed as leading Steve on, and with no guarantee Tony will move on from Pepper, he needs to not play at being a carrot on a stick.
In the seconds that Tony thinks through everything, he slowly purses his mouth and squints his eyes at the bike as though it's a Rubik's cube and he's planning twenty steps ahead.
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"Is it the helmet thing again?" He tries not to roll his eyes and fails. It's not just that he has a hard head (and is equally difficult to injure everywhere else, and has super-human healing); he also has superior reflexes and agility, and the ability to react to situations that might result in a crash faster than a normal human. Which doesn't make an accident impossible, just a lot more unlikely. "You know, Nat doesn't wear a helmet."
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Tony huffs and pockets his phone. "I house a bunch of crazy people. To think I'm the one arguing for safety," he grumbles but takes the bait, anyway: if Natasha can do it, so can he. He sidles up behind Steve and flips open his shades. "If we die, Rogers, I'm dragging you to hell with me."
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"Aw, Tony, are you that desperate for my company?" He smirks back over his shoulder. "You'd be stuck with me for eternity. Might wanna reconsider that one." And instead of giving Tony the chance to get the last word in, he revs up the bike and takes off.
The drive takes them along the Hudson River - Steve deliberately picks the scenic route, which adds a couple minutes to the trip, but, hell, it looks prettier, with the leaves turning shades of red and orange and the foliage reflected in the water. Plus there's less traffic, which means that Steve can go just that much faster; a trip that would take around fifteen minutes is cut closer to ten.
They pull up outside a kitschy-looking diner; in weather like this, with just enough of a bite to the autumn air, nobody's gathered outside to eat on the benches. Steve glances back at Tony for approval, and also to make sure he's still clinging on and he hasn't left him on the road somewhere. "See? All in one piece."
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What was it all for?
Arrived at their destination, he hums at Steve's comment and appraises the diner from behind his orange (to match the pumpkin shirt, naturally) shades. He swings off the motorcycle, runs his fingers through his hair to fix it, and belatedly, distractedly responds, "Didn't you film a P.S.A. about safety for some school? You should lead by example."
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Once Tony's done fixing his hair, he leads him into the diner, holding the door open for him. He greets the college-aged girl who, at this hour, is serving as both waitress and hostess, by name; her eyes flick to Tony, and blushing and stammering, she leads them to one of the booths. Apparently Steve is a regular here, but Tony Stark is enough to make her nervous.
"You might have to break your diet," Steve remarks. The menu is all-American standard diner fare, practically a heart attack waiting to happen - but Tony looks like he could use a good hearty meal for once instead of one of those sludgy green things he drinks.
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"Everything I've had here is fantastic," he continues in a more normal tone of voice, clearly trying to make conversation. "I don't know if I'd recommend one thing in particular. If you wanted recommendations, that is."
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"I'll take the stuffed meatloaf, clam chowder on the side, and my friend who refuses to appreciate Chuck's cooking wants the veggie wrap with slaw," he orders when the waitress returns with drinks. She gives him a funny look when Tony doesn't order for himself, but doesn't comment on it, instead picking up the menus and vanishing again.
"That light enough for you?" he asks, raising his eyebrows.
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After she leaves, Tony drops the smile and challenges Steve with an unimpressed eyebrow of his own. "On the contrary. That is too light." He crosses his arms and makes a show of thinking. Any attempt on Steve's part to interject Tony ignores, until he says, "Get me a turkey sandwich in addition."
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"Are you sure you won't be too bloated by the sandwich?" Steve retorts, unimpressed. "You don't need to eat like a soccer mom, you know. You're allowed to have some grease and cholesterol." If he's noticed the little paunch Tony's developed, he certainly hasn't mentioned it, although he probably just thinks it's because he needs to exercise more. But Steve thinks most things can be fixed with exercise.
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Pepper helps. She likes those healthy alternatives, like vegan, gluten-free, or organic food. Subconsciously, Tony compares Steve here to her and finds the chasm between heart and mind.
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