For the soft prompts--12?
12. ‘you could say I’m fond of you.’
"Would you get out of here?" Steve asks from the doorway, folding his arms across his chest. Tony doesn't know what Steve's so exasperated about. He's being a good little Avenger and logging their mission because Steve set up a rotation system and it's Tony's turn this time. Is it his fault he can only type with one goddamn hand because his other one is wrapped up in a mitt of bandages? "Tony, get up. I'll do the report."
Oh. Tony waves him off with the mitt. "No, no. You get out of here. I can pull my weight. Just wait 'til I sync the log archive to my server and get J on it. Then I'm never lifting a finger again. I'll dictate everything."
Steve walks over to him and sits back against the desk. It's quite a view from where Tony's sitting, actually. "Your hand only got hurt 'cause you went in to catch me. It's just a mission log. Let me do it."
God, this guy. Tony really can't stand him sometimes. "Well, I'm your parachute, right? Can't have you turning into a Cap pancake on my watch."
"I was landing on my shield," Steve insists. "I've done it before. The vibranium absorbs the—"
"Yeah, right, okay. I'll add that to the report." Tony pretends to type. "Steve says he wasn't gonna go splat."
Steve shakes his head and laughs that small, soft laugh that Tony wanted. "Fine, you got me. I only came to take over because you're the one who orders dinner and I'm getting hungry. Okay?"
Tony suddenly feels the strange urge to order all the pizza and pasta and other tomato sauce-smothered carbs Steve's little heart could ever dream of eating.
"Careful, Steve," Tony says, the words tumbling so gently out that he surprises himself. "I'm gonna think you're getting fond of me."
"You could say that," Steve says with that smile of his, and Tony's pretty sure he's staring. "Now move over, please. You're typing a word a minute."

















