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?
"Rude," Tony says, playfully affronted by the bump, before he shouts after Steve, "And you're not getting on, Rogers; you already got!" Smiling to himself he looks across the table and decides to make himself comfortable. When Steve returns, Tony is sitting sideways, sneakers on the booth with his ankles crossed and his back against the wall. He swipes through news stories on his phone.
Madison peers over Steve's shoulder when Tony shouts and giggles, though she tries to keep her face straight when she looks back at Steve. ("Whose side are you on?" Steve grumbles, and she just laughs and tells him he needs to go keep Mr. Stark out of trouble.)
"Madison says you need to keep your feet off the seats." Steve sits back down and watches Tony glancing at the news for a moment. That ridiculous punk teenager look shouldn't be so attractive on a man his age, but it is, and it's unfair. He really needs to get the hell over Tony already, he reflects. Just looking at him tugs at his heartstrings; Tony wouldn't come within a mile of him if he knew what it did to his emotions. But Steve's determined to be a good friend, even when he has to push his feelings out of the way.
Tony hums without looking up from the screen. "Ask her if I can keep them up if I buy the whole place. Hands-off ownership, no changes. I'd just get to keep my feet up."
With a glance aside Tony chirps, "Nope," and swings his legs down. He stops himself from adding, But you're welcome to try. Tapping the phone's edge, elbows on the table, he stares at Steve's placemat, unresponsive for several moments. ("What'm I supposed to do without you?" he asked her, choked. Pepper smiled sadly and said, "We're not all each other has anymore, you know.") "Got a question for you," Tony says during the next lull, no matter if Steve talked in the meantime. He ducks his head, all semblance of joviality or joking wiped away, and fiddles. "Kinda a serious one."
Steve keeps himself from grinning when Tony moves his feet, but it's a close call. And since he doesn't seem inclined to talk much, Steve carries on a one-sided conversation about the plot of Lost. He's just getting to the polar bear when Tony interrupts him, and Steve studies his face for a moment. There are times when he wonders just what's going on in that head of his, and times when he's just as glad he doesn't know.
"Shoot," he replies, folding his hands on the table in front of him.
Tony breathes in deeply, and after exhaling, voice a quiet rumble: "How would you see this going? If we tried ... this." He motions an unsteady hand between them. "Us. The whole shebang, not just play." He meets Steve's eyes; and if the counter and workers were not at his back, he'd never break himself open like this. For just Steve, though, he allows the vulnerability to show in those round, dark eyes and that relaxed mouth -- his fear, and his tentative hope.
Steve's heart skips a couple of beats like an overexcited teenager (actually, that happened a lot when he was a teenager, but for purely medical reasons), and he just sort of stares at Tony in disbelief. "I- I don't know," he stammers. "I don't exactly have a whole lot of experience with these things, Tony." He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. "Can't say I wouldn't make mistakes, you know? But-" he lowers his voice a little, leans in closer. "I wouldn't want to hurt you. And I'm not always good with emotional things, but...I think trusting each other goes a long way, probably." Hopefully. His own tension shows in the way he huddles in on himself a little and shifts nervously: Steve's body language gets a lot smaller when he's uncomfortable.
Tony nods slowly, the little wrinkle between his eyebrows that designates deeper thought forming. He can create a detailed list of why a romance between him and Steve would end poorly, but with the static of sleep deprivation, Tony struggles to discern any sense from it; and as the past thirty minutes have proven, something being a bad idea doesn't stop Steve. Tony's personal track record showcases a plethora of checkmarked bad ideas all on its own.
On the flip side, Tony thinks of the folded jeans in his bedroom, the seamless efficiency of their battle prowess as the Captain and his second-in-command Iron Man; and most importantly, Steve barreling ahead into territory unknown, footing uncertain, with nothing but grit and a desire to help. Steve Rogers, confronting the future barehanded, and not giving an inch. With all his plans and expectations dashed, Tony decides to follow Steve's lead.
While Steve shrunk into himself, here some of Tony's tension releases and allows him to unspool. "We should try. Not yet! I'm... I'm not ready yet," he admits haltingly, voice lowered for privacy. Beyond them, in the world outside, the door chimes and food sizzles. "Not for anything serious. I dunno when I will be. And I know it's a tall order, especially for you, but if you'd be willing to wait..." He gifts Steve a weak smile and waves a single finger at him. "You'd be the first to know when I am. Ready, that is. When I'm..." His eyes grow distant and sad: Pepper, once a constant. "When I'm ready."
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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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"Madison says you need to keep your feet off the seats." Steve sits back down and watches Tony glancing at the news for a moment. That ridiculous punk teenager look shouldn't be so attractive on a man his age, but it is, and it's unfair. He really needs to get the hell over Tony already, he reflects. Just looking at him tugs at his heartstrings; Tony wouldn't come within a mile of him if he knew what it did to his emotions. But Steve's determined to be a good friend, even when he has to push his feelings out of the way.
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"Shoot," he replies, folding his hands on the table in front of him.
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On the flip side, Tony thinks of the folded jeans in his bedroom, the seamless efficiency of their battle prowess as the Captain and his second-in-command Iron Man; and most importantly, Steve barreling ahead into territory unknown, footing uncertain, with nothing but grit and a desire to help. Steve Rogers, confronting the future barehanded, and not giving an inch. With all his plans and expectations dashed, Tony decides to follow Steve's lead.
While Steve shrunk into himself, here some of Tony's tension releases and allows him to unspool. "We should try. Not yet! I'm... I'm not ready yet," he admits haltingly, voice lowered for privacy. Beyond them, in the world outside, the door chimes and food sizzles. "Not for anything serious. I dunno when I will be. And I know it's a tall order, especially for you, but if you'd be willing to wait..." He gifts Steve a weak smile and waves a single finger at him. "You'd be the first to know when I am. Ready, that is. When I'm..." His eyes grow distant and sad: Pepper, once a constant. "When I'm ready."
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