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."
Steve has to take a few moments to mull Tony's words over, and in that time, the food arrives, plates unloaded between them. His own meal - stuffed meatloaf with more sides than is strictly necessary - takes up an alarming amount of table space, and Tony has his veggie wrap and surprise cheeseburger (with fries, because Steve's just a little extra sometimes). He musters a normal-looking smile and a thank you for the waitress, who bustles off to take care of the new people in the restaurant, and for once in his life, Steve Rogers ignores food that's set down in front of him.
"I know you're not ready," he says finally, haltingly. "I don't think I'd want it if you offered right now." Because if Tony did that, tried to plaster over the cracks in his life, he'd just be shoving Steve in as a replacement for Pepper, and that's not what any of them deserve. Before the serum, he'd never been good enough for anyone, and he still wouldn't have settled for second best - not because it's unfair to him, but because his potential partner deserves better. And now, well, he knows that Tony needs to appreciate him for who he is, not use him to prop himself up in Pepper's place. He's not Pepper, and he can't fill that hole, no matter how he tries, no matter how much both of them would want him to. But once Tony has some time to reconfigure himself, once he can accept Steve for who he is? Yeah, he's willing to wait for that. He might be impetuous, but deep down, there's a part of him that can wait if he needs to; he'd waited years for Peggy, after all. It's a patience born of the determination that kept him fighting though his childhood - not physical fighting, but the fight to stay alive.
"But I can wait," he adds with a shy smile, looking for all the world like a lovestruck teenager. Ever since that first tentative session, sketching Tony while he posed on the bed, Steve's had a bone-deep certainty that this - whatever complicated thing this has been at times, whatever messy thing it turns out to be - is the right thing to do, that it's what they both need. It's not just a physical attraction; Tony makes his heart ache sometimes, from those little glimpses he gets into the sheer depth of his loneliness, his anxiety, the workings of his mind. Steve wants to be there for him, to do what he can to make things right, to give him what he needs. (And, yeah, there's selfish motives of his own, too; he can't deny that they exist.) "I will wait, I mean. Till you're ready."
When Madison appears, Tony turns his head away and hides his face in his shoulder. He flips open his shades and slides them on before he turns back: they're another form of armor, a defense mechanism. Immediately he hones in on that cheeseburger, nothing the lack of turkey sandwich. Even behind the orange sunglasses Steve can see that little disapproving squint of his. "Good," Tony responds, curt but sincere, still staring at the burger. He straightens. "I mean I can still think of at least a dozen reasons why we'd be a bad idea, that," he stabs a finger at the burger, "being just one of them, but ... good."
With a passing glance at Steve, Tony drags the basket of fries closer and pops a full one into his mouth. He leans an elbow onto the table as he chews. If Steve knows him at all, he won't say a word about it.
"You can have a turkey sandwich back at the compound. Get some real food if you're at a restaurant." When Steve had first woken up in the twenty-first century, restaurants were still a treat for him; now they're standard fare, but something in him still insists that they're for ordering food you won't make yourself, or otherwise indulging. "And if you feel bloated later, you can complain all you want."
He almost thinks about stealing a fry, despite his own excess of food, but settles for digging into his own potatoes instead. "And you've still got the wrap," he adds. "That's perfectly healthy." Steve's never understood the appeal of wraps, but the twenty-first century is weird like that.
"You do know I've undergone one open-heart surgery already, right? Well. Intentionally," Tony reminds him, but pulls the plated burger closer with the fries, anyway, a dragon hoarding his gold.
"I had no idea," Steve replies dryly. But he assumes Tony's going to eat at least part of the burger, judging by his reaction to it. "Not like you couldn't build yourself a mechanical heart if you really had to." Although the heart isn't the problem, it's the arteries full of cholesterol. Steve comes from a time when fat was an essential part of a balanced diet, so you'll have to forgive him if he's a little flippant about health factors he doesn't even have to worry about.
Tony whistles lowly, the veggie wrap held in both hands. "I know a team of medical professionals who would be very disgruntled with you right now," he says. He bites a generous chunk off.
"I'm not telling you to eat french fries all the time." He at least knows that fried food is bad for you, so that's a plus. "Just that you have the money to pay those medical professionals to do whatever they need to." And, yes, the idea is to keep his own body healthy and running, Steve's aware of that. He's also spent enough time in a broken-down body to admit that, if given the chance, he would fix things in a heartbeat.
"Which is to advise me on the best preventive care possible," Tony counters, waving the wrap at him. This is all a moot point, anyway, given that he's hoarded the burger and fries.
"If you're so concerned about that, maybe you could hit the gym a little more," Steve suggests innocently. Not that he's suggesting that Tony's out of shape, he's just not as in shape as he could be. "Go jogging every now and then. It's not all about food, after all."
His cheek puffed out from another bite, Tony tilts his chin up and looks down his nose at Steve, expression studious, like a scientist down at a pinned bug. Slowly, he crunches the mouthful down. He's stalling until his sleep-starved brain can settle on a comeback out of the hundred that zoom by.
Steve just keeps munching through his food, leaving a swath of destruction before him. "With all that complaining, I'm going to assume that means you don't want ice cream for dessert?" October isn't exactly the time for ice cream, anyway, but odds are pretty good that won't stop Steve. "Or any dessert?"
Tony balls up the empty paper wrapper as the turn in conversation stalls his wonderful comebacks. (He stores them for later. Steve might appreciate Tony getting his aerobics in via lap dance.) "That depends. How smug would you be if I got some? Keeping your ego in check would taste just as sweet," he teases. Fry basket reduced to crumbs, he bites into the burger. He melts in his seat a little with a grunt.
"You're talking about keeping my ego in check?" Steve fires back with a grin. "I didn't know you had any room to talk about ego, Stark. But I'm gonna have a sundae, and I don't want you stealing it or giving me puppy dog eyes." Because he'd probably cave and let Tony share it (okay, there's no probably about it), and he'd even let him get away with theft with only mild ribbing. He's already eating the burger and fries; that's victory enough for Steve.
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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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"I know you're not ready," he says finally, haltingly. "I don't think I'd want it if you offered right now." Because if Tony did that, tried to plaster over the cracks in his life, he'd just be shoving Steve in as a replacement for Pepper, and that's not what any of them deserve. Before the serum, he'd never been good enough for anyone, and he still wouldn't have settled for second best - not because it's unfair to him, but because his potential partner deserves better. And now, well, he knows that Tony needs to appreciate him for who he is, not use him to prop himself up in Pepper's place. He's not Pepper, and he can't fill that hole, no matter how he tries, no matter how much both of them would want him to. But once Tony has some time to reconfigure himself, once he can accept Steve for who he is? Yeah, he's willing to wait for that. He might be impetuous, but deep down, there's a part of him that can wait if he needs to; he'd waited years for Peggy, after all. It's a patience born of the determination that kept him fighting though his childhood - not physical fighting, but the fight to stay alive.
"But I can wait," he adds with a shy smile, looking for all the world like a lovestruck teenager. Ever since that first tentative session, sketching Tony while he posed on the bed, Steve's had a bone-deep certainty that this - whatever complicated thing this has been at times, whatever messy thing it turns out to be - is the right thing to do, that it's what they both need. It's not just a physical attraction; Tony makes his heart ache sometimes, from those little glimpses he gets into the sheer depth of his loneliness, his anxiety, the workings of his mind. Steve wants to be there for him, to do what he can to make things right, to give him what he needs. (And, yeah, there's selfish motives of his own, too; he can't deny that they exist.) "I will wait, I mean. Till you're ready."
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With a passing glance at Steve, Tony drags the basket of fries closer and pops a full one into his mouth. He leans an elbow onto the table as he chews. If Steve knows him at all, he won't say a word about it.
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He almost thinks about stealing a fry, despite his own excess of food, but settles for digging into his own potatoes instead. "And you've still got the wrap," he adds. "That's perfectly healthy." Steve's never understood the appeal of wraps, but the twenty-first century is weird like that.
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