[ There is no verbal response to that, just a twitch of his brows as he looks at Steve as if daring him to say Tony was a more reckless driver. He wasn't, driving was the thing that Steve certainly won being most reckless for.]

Uh, yes? I mean that-- coffee isn't the best at that anymore but I made a solemn vow to Rhodes that I wouldn't dip back into anything better. Worse. Depends on how you look at it. [ Addiction was addiction, and Tony has been addicted to a lot of different things in his years. Alcohol was sadly the most benign of them all.

Since coming back from Siberia, Tony avoided sleep even more than usual; now he had nightmares about the world closing in, about space swallowing him whole, along side the image of Steve gritting his teeth and slamming the shield into his chest, into his throat and-- well, there was only so many times you can wake up screaming and tangled in your bedsheets before you figure that maybe sleep wasn't the greatest plan in the world. So Tony has been spending more and more time in the workshop. Creating. Building. Hiding. Call it whatever you want.

He really should be there and not-- here. Here was taunting. Steve was all awkward angles and tension just beneath the surface and Tony was hovering on that razor's edge of stupid right now and Steve-- the fucker wasn't helping. He's making fucking coffee the way Tony likes it, like he never forgot, in nothing but sweatpants that hang too low and fuck--

Tony must have been a fucking horrible person in his last life to deserve this. Wait, no, he was a horrible person in this life, never mind.

Dropping onto the couch with no grace whatsoever, Tony tries to focus elsewhere, anywhere, that isn't the bare skin go Steve's back. ]

Yeah well, I'm not going to make you fucking sit on iron spikes or anything. That and it's apparently super durable, figured you'd... uh.... yeah.

[ That brought to mind things he really shouldn't be thinking about right now. Fuck. Tony needs to go. ]