Tony gives a sniff. Coffee is imminent.
And so are a pretty pair of baby blue eyes. The tightness in his chest and lingering anxiety he got from this particular interdimensional chat session dissolves with the kiss.
He takes a slurp of the coffee (mm, Steve made this with a French press—Tony’s got him so well trained), and swivels around to look up at Steve.
“Hungover. Stressed. Probably mildly depressed. But he’s got a date for Christmas, so it’s not all bad.”
He picks lint only he can see off Steve’s shirt. He always looks so crisp. Army training, he supposes.
Steve’s got that line forming in between his eyes that he always gets when he’s worried. “He’ll be fine. Starks are always fine.”
Using the French press is a little for Tony, but mostly for Steve. Sure, he’d been able to get by during the war with a cold cup of coffee that tasted more strongly of dirt than anything else, but that didn’t mean he had to settle for it now.
It’s strange, remembering that -- and how it was a luxury -- and thinking about now, how he has a French press at his disposal, as much coffee as he wants. Out of all the luxuries the future affords, that’s just about the only one he can say he wholeheartedly, immediately embraced.
His eyes crinkle at the corners as he takes a sip of his own coffee, casually reaching over to comb Tony’s bangs from his forehead.
“I know, tough guy. Doesn’t mean you can’t let somebody handle your light work now and then.”
It’s good advice, even delivered teasingly. It’s also advice it’s taken Steve years to even begin to take for himself, but this kind of thing is always easier when it comes to somebody you love.
“Christmas date, huh?” He rests his hip against the corner of Tony’s desk, sipping his own coffee. “Daredevil?”
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