Steve spends the afternoon working out, both solo and sparring with Natasha, then helping her train Wanda in hand-to-hand combat. Rhodey and Sam are both proficient, and he leaves them to Natasha to teach whatever advanced methods she might have, but Wanda is nowhere near their level. She might not strictly need any physical skills, but Steve leaves nothing to chance; there's always the possibility that she might need to be able to fight someday. (Mostly, he's the training dummy in these exercises, going through simple, slow routines while Natasha watches and corrects Wanda, or helping her demonstrate.) It keeps him busy, bleeds off his nervous energy from fretting about Tony.
Once he's done, he calls an order in, then hits the showers. By the time he's clean, the food's here, and he takes a selfie with the delivery driver before he hands the kid his tip. Steve heads straight for the workshop; it's the option that gives them the most privacy, and if Tony wants to eat somewhere else, then they can do that, too. He's got a couple bags of burgers and fries, hot and greasy and homemade, plus two milkshakes, because Steve firmly believes that calorie loading is the solution to emotional problems.
"I told them to go heavy on the ketchup packets," he says by way of greeting. In fact, there's a smaller bag that's loaded with the sachets, whether because all the local places know and like Steve, or simply because it's an order for the Avengers. (It's a little of both.) "Uh, I didn't know what milkshake to get you, so I just went for chocolate." His own is vanilla, but he's more than happy to switch with Tony. "Anywhere I should set this stuff down?"
A detailed brain portrayed in bright-colored holograms rotates slowly in the middle of the room above black tiles with small lights—the projectors. A few of the computer screens show the brain, too, but each with different readouts and different sections highlighted. Tony himself sits behind a table across the way, elbows on it and his eyes buried in one hand. On the table in front of him lies a device shaped like a wireless headset and some small tools. The florescent ceiling lights above him have been turned off and the closest nearby monitor Tony has turned away on its pivot. The robotic arm U putters around cleaning in the background.
When Steve enters and speaks, Tony lowers his hand and squints through his spot of darkness. Instead of answering verbally, he lumbers over to a steel workbench, shoves aside some metal cylinder, pats the emptied space, and sits on one of the stools, his eyes straight back to being buried in a hand. "M'not brooding, I swear," he mumbles.
"Course not," Steve replies easily. After he sets the food down, he crosses back to the door and flips on the lights. "You were just thinking in the dark." His tone is, unsurprisingly, dry; he can see right through Tony. He slides onto the stool next to his and begins taking the food out of the bags, hoping to appeal to Tony with the aroma of grease and salt. His own mouth begins to water, but he wants to make sure Tony's eating something first.
"C'mon," he coaxes Tony, waving a fry under his nose. He 'accidentally' boops the tip of his nose with the ketchup-covered tip of the fry, then delicately kisses it off. Is that weird? It's probably weird, but Steve doesn't care. "Nobody likes cold french fries." Which is a total lie, because Steve would eat them just shy of frozen, but Steve also knows he's a human garbage disposal and willing to inhale just about anything for the sake of calories if he's desperate enough.
Tony glowers from underneath the shade of his hand but then smiles at the kiss and crooks his fingers for Steve to give him the fry. He chews slowly with a pained squint. He hasn't eaten since that sandwich he snuck away with for lunch, so getting his blood sugar up could help. "I'm actually nursing a headache, but thanks," he clarifies lightly after swallowing, though there might've been a little brooding, too. It's not his fault that sitting in the dark and waiting for pain killers to kick in is prime brooding real estate. The brooding practically breeds itself. Tony checks on and then slides one of the wrapped burgers closer to himself. "This one's mine, right? Anyway, turns out probing the depths of human memory with electromagnetic waves has its side effects."
Steve knows better than to press the brooding issue, but he's sure that his headache isn't the only reason why Tony was sitting in the dark. Either way, the lights are on now, and hopefully getting his blood sugar up will help with both his headache and his mood.
"That sounds safe." Not that Steve can say anything on the subject of being a human lab rat, since that's the entire reason he's here. "You aren't gonna turn into the Hulk or anything, are you?" He's only half-joking; bombarding yourself with weird energy is never a great idea. (Again, he knows this from first-hand experience.)
"Not intentionally," Tony mumbles, joking back, and lowers his hand from his forehead. He winces from the overhead lights and unwraps the burger. "It's non-ionizing," he explains sincerely, and then reiterates more simply: "I'm making my atoms go 'wee!' instead of developing a split personality."
"Oh, well, that makes perfect sense." It doesn't, but Steve doesn't need an attempt at a further dumbed-down explanation. "Why are you messing around with your brain?" Brains, Steve feels, are the kind of thing that are typically better left alone, but Tony never found anything he didn't want to poke with science. It's definitely a trait that runs in the family.
Since Tony's actually eating, Steve doesn't want to distract him from his task. He figures a full explanation will be forthcoming at some point (or maybe it won't, if it doesn't go anywhere). "Is there enough ketchup for you?" he asks instead, giving the sack of ketchup packets an amused look. "I guess I could've asked for a to go cup full of it. Maybe a ketchup milkshake."
Tony is just about to attempt a bite when Steve brings up that imagery. His hands lower the burger and his nose wrinkles. "Eugh. Your timing. I've been nauseated as it is," he complains, and then takes a bite, anyway. The worst of the migraine has dulled, but Tony chews carefully.
"Payback for that time you talked about taking a shit while I was eating." Steve just grins back at him. Of course, it's nearly impossible to put him off his food, whether it's shit or ketchup milkshakes, so he goes on eating his own burger and fries. (Steve, of course, has impeccable timing - it's always the worst.)
Piling heavy, greasy food into his stomach might be a bad idea after the nausea of the migraine, but Tony feels all right enough now and he needs food for the soul as much as for the body. "Yeah? When was that?" he asks between bites, undeterred as well. Seeing terrible things on the battlefield, then going home and eating a post-victory meal became routine with the team, after all—until Ultron. Tony treated the new group to one fancy dinner after their first victory, and neglected any more.
Steve just huffs, a little insulted that Tony would forget their first- okay, he can't exactly call it a date, but that's how he thinks of it. "When we went out to dinner in town," he reminds him. "You said you were gonna name your dump Steve."
"At that gay pride place?" Tony remembers. The idea to use this as a segue strikes him. "We should go back there. You know, after I move in," he suggests, pointedly focused on his food.
Steve's about to mention that not every place decorated in rainbows is necessarily gay, but the next thing Tony says catches him by surprise. "You're still-" He hasn't said that he wouldn't, but Steve kind of expected he'd managed to sink that idea single-handedly. "I just figured since you were busy with everything else, you'd be staying in the city." It's a lame-sounding excuse, and he knows it."
"Actually, most of my business takes me elsewhere, so having easy access to helicopter and jet travel is a massive pro," Tony casually points out and waits for Steve's further reaction as he chews—waits for ... for Steve's permission or something, the reassurance that Tony is facing a moral north.
Steve gives him a soft smile as he reaches over and puts his hand on Tony's knee. "Well, I'm glad to have you around, whatever the reason. You still going to remodel?" While Steve's never seen the need to have more luxuries than the rest of his teammates, he knows that if he and Tony live together, they'll need more space, and definitely more privacy than the communal living quarters afford.
Tony breathes out, "Yeah, definitely," and lowers his half-eaten burger to the workbench, where he gazes at his distorted reflection in the steel. Despite everything—despite making Ultron, dividing himself from the team, and losing Pepper, he hasn't ended up alone, thanks mainly to the efforts of one person; and if his relationship with his parents taught Tony anything, it's to not leave the important things unsaid. With a soulful gravitas, he finally turns to Steve and tells him, "Thank you. For being patient, and honest, with me. You helped to get me through some dark times and I dunno if I've thanked you properly for all that yet, so ... there it is." Unwilling to meet Steve's response head-on, Tony chows down on his burger again.
Steve blinks at Tony's words. "You don't have to thank me," he replies softly and sincerely. Maybe he'd done it because he had feelings for Tony, but more importantly, he'd done it because Tony deserved to have someone there for him, someone there with him. In Steve's mind, it's part of being a friend (albeit maybe in an unorthodox manner). He's utterly devoted to his friends, to the point where some might consider it unreasonable.
"But you're welcome," he adds, before Tony can feel like he's dismissing what's clearly hard for him to say. "If you ever need anything, you can always come to me, Tony."
A deep fondness settles into Tony's gaze. Somewhere between Steve refusing to let go of him in that office and later showing up with the promised cheeseburger, the last remnants of doubts in Tony have cleared. Steve has earned his complete trust. With a shy little smile, Tony says, "Ditto," and grabs a napkin, which he waves between the two of them before he wipes his mouth. "This here, it's a two-way street," he clarifies.
It's the smile that gets him, that shy, vulnerable smile that represents a side of Tony few people ever get to see. "I wouldn't have it any other way," Steve agrees. He regrets now that impulsive decision to run away on the night of Valentine's Day; as much as he'd needed the distance to keep him from lashing out, now he feels like it makes him look like he doesn't trust Tony with his problems. He does, more than he would trust anyone else. It's just that he doesn't know what to do when Tony is the problem.
But that's something to deal with in the future, if it happens again, and Steve shoves it aside.
"Being with you, it makes me feel needed," he says quietly. "Not just as Captain America, but as Steve Rogers. You're with me 'cause you want me and not the guy in the suit. For the longest time, I was just kinda adrift outside of the Avengers. I didn't see a place for me in the world. But-" Steve stops and laughs softly, shaking his head. "God, I'm such a sap. My place is with you."
Mid-chomp on his burger when Steve begins, Tony pauses and slowly pulls the bite off. Truth be told, he expected nothing from Steve now or even soon; the guy tends to bottle things up out of some 1940s raising or because he feels he needs to be the Strong Leader or whatever. (Part of that assumption comes from Steve needing space that night, but also from the most vulnerability that Tony's witnessed from him being Steve's lack of confidence in domination.) So when Steve starts pouring out his soul, Tony is caught cheek bulging with burger mush and trying to give Steve all of his attention and compassion even though part of his brain is required to process chewing.
Swallowing thickly, Tony says, "I thought you'd found your home here," and then shuts his eyes. Little overwhelming to realize he's Steve's anchor as much as Steve is his. What a pair they make.
Steve laughs, and the sound is bitter. "Working for an organization that was secretly Hydra? I thought SHIELD was the place for me because it used to be the SSR, because it was something familiar I could do. I thought they wanted to help people the same way I did. And, well- there's not much use for a guy like me outside a war, you know? What else was I supposed to do for a living?"
Not that he strictly needs to earn a living; the Army owed him enough money when he was thawed out (thanks to listing him as MIA rather than dead) that cash isn't a problem. But Steve can't remain inactive, can't just sit around doing nothing. He's spent enough of his life idle already.
"I'm a man out of time, Tony. I don't fit. I tried to see things in black and white, but it's all just grey. I didn't know how to deal with that for awhile. I'm not sure I do now, but I'm trying the best I can. All I can do is trust my heart and follow where it leads me."
I meant here, with the Avengers, Tony should correct, but he's realizing how far Steve separates himself from Captain America. That day on the compound lawn, when Steve said he was home, that was Cap talking. Had to be. Their righteous and steadfast leader, right? Infallible. A soldier who poured his identity into a war and a symbol, unsure of who he is without them, made worse by losing the world he knew, lacking even that framework to figure himself out in.
"Well," Tony begins amicably, having straightened his back to listen with a concerned frown, "some of that's true. Other bits, not so much. 'Least not how I see it."
Steve scoots his stool closer to Tony's, close enough that he can bump their shoulders together. The contact reassures him, grounds him. It's not easy to talk about how he feels, but he's trying his best to get it out for once in his life - emotional constipation, Tony would probably call it, and it's not totally inaccurate. Back when he was growing up, men didn't express feelings, especially not the kind that would make them look weak to others - and that was even more true for someone who was already about as weak and vulnerable as anyone could be. He's always hidden his feelings, his pain. During the war, he tamped down his fear and grief, his shock at the reality of war. And now everything's bubbling up to the surface, decades later.
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Once he's done, he calls an order in, then hits the showers. By the time he's clean, the food's here, and he takes a selfie with the delivery driver before he hands the kid his tip. Steve heads straight for the workshop; it's the option that gives them the most privacy, and if Tony wants to eat somewhere else, then they can do that, too. He's got a couple bags of burgers and fries, hot and greasy and homemade, plus two milkshakes, because Steve firmly believes that calorie loading is the solution to emotional problems.
"I told them to go heavy on the ketchup packets," he says by way of greeting. In fact, there's a smaller bag that's loaded with the sachets, whether because all the local places know and like Steve, or simply because it's an order for the Avengers. (It's a little of both.) "Uh, I didn't know what milkshake to get you, so I just went for chocolate." His own is vanilla, but he's more than happy to switch with Tony. "Anywhere I should set this stuff down?"
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When Steve enters and speaks, Tony lowers his hand and squints through his spot of darkness. Instead of answering verbally, he lumbers over to a steel workbench, shoves aside some metal cylinder, pats the emptied space, and sits on one of the stools, his eyes straight back to being buried in a hand. "M'not brooding, I swear," he mumbles.
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"C'mon," he coaxes Tony, waving a fry under his nose. He 'accidentally' boops the tip of his nose with the ketchup-covered tip of the fry, then delicately kisses it off. Is that weird? It's probably weird, but Steve doesn't care. "Nobody likes cold french fries." Which is a total lie, because Steve would eat them just shy of frozen, but Steve also knows he's a human garbage disposal and willing to inhale just about anything for the sake of calories if he's desperate enough.
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"That sounds safe." Not that Steve can say anything on the subject of being a human lab rat, since that's the entire reason he's here. "You aren't gonna turn into the Hulk or anything, are you?" He's only half-joking; bombarding yourself with weird energy is never a great idea. (Again, he knows this from first-hand experience.)
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"But you're welcome," he adds, before Tony can feel like he's dismissing what's clearly hard for him to say. "If you ever need anything, you can always come to me, Tony."
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But that's something to deal with in the future, if it happens again, and Steve shoves it aside.
"Being with you, it makes me feel needed," he says quietly. "Not just as Captain America, but as Steve Rogers. You're with me 'cause you want me and not the guy in the suit. For the longest time, I was just kinda adrift outside of the Avengers. I didn't see a place for me in the world. But-" Steve stops and laughs softly, shaking his head. "God, I'm such a sap. My place is with you."
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Swallowing thickly, Tony says, "I thought you'd found your home here," and then shuts his eyes. Little overwhelming to realize he's Steve's anchor as much as Steve is his. What a pair they make.
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Not that he strictly needs to earn a living; the Army owed him enough money when he was thawed out (thanks to listing him as MIA rather than dead) that cash isn't a problem. But Steve can't remain inactive, can't just sit around doing nothing. He's spent enough of his life idle already.
"I'm a man out of time, Tony. I don't fit. I tried to see things in black and white, but it's all just grey. I didn't know how to deal with that for awhile. I'm not sure I do now, but I'm trying the best I can. All I can do is trust my heart and follow where it leads me."
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"Well," Tony begins amicably, having straightened his back to listen with a concerned frown, "some of that's true. Other bits, not so much. 'Least not how I see it."
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"How do you see it?" He has to ask, of course.
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