Steve taps his feet against the luxurious granite floor, and he tries to keep his hands busy with something that isn't shredding the napkin, because even though it's a cloth napkin and relatively difficult to shred, he's fairly certain that he could make himself feel nervous enough to manage it, if he wanted to.

And he looks across the table, at Tony, and his stomach flutters at the thought that he's on his first date. And then he wishes so badly that this were actually a date.

He thinks that if he were a woman, he'd be able to have Tony just because of the way that he looks. And it's shallow of him, to think that, but when you're sitting across from the most attractive, most charismatic man in America, it's hard not to think about what a waste it is to have a perfect body and not even be able to use it to your advantage.

He wouldn't want Tony to want him just for his body, of course. But it'd be a start.

Tony smiles at him as he takes a sip of water, and Steve smiles back, then hides his face in the menu once again.

He still can't believe that he's here, in this obscenely upscale restaurant, sitting across from Tony Stark. It's been six months since they first met, a little over four since they'd last talked, and he'd never planned on seeing him again. Not after Tony went out of his way to invite Steve places, and then Steve canceled on him, three times in a row, always at the last minute.

He had his reasons, of course, reasons that didn't stand up to scrutiny and couldn't be expressed, because they involved a period of time where Steve lacked the strength of character to make himself get out of bed, much less spend time pathetically pretending that he only wanted Tony as a friend.

He'd gone to that thousandth meeting with the secretary of defense yesterday not expecting much. Not expecting them to make much progress talking about precautions and regulations, as though they could have prevented Loki from appearing through anything as simple as government oversight. And certainly not expecting the other 'Avengers' to acknowledge him with anything further than a simple hello.

It's not that they didn't get along. They just all had lives, separate lives, and Steve had his apartment and Peggy's nursing home and it was hard to stay friends when they were all such different people.

Tony, however, Tony had surprised him, when he sauntered over after the meeting, coming over specifically just to talk to Steve, like there was some value to that.

"Haven't see you in a while," Tony had said, sounding like they were old friends rather than just minor acquaintances, and Steve appreciated that.

"I've been around."

Tony smirked. "Around your apartment, you mean?"

"Yeah, something like that."

Tony's phone chose that moment to ring, saving Steve from the fruitless search his brain had been conducting for words that weren't insulting. There was something about nerves, and Tony, and insults being easier than jokes, that made him mess that one up every time.

Tony looked at his phone and sighed. "Ah, fuck, I better take this." He seemed just a bit jumpier then, and Steve figured it must have been an important call. "But hey, why don't you let me take you to dinner tomorrow night?"

"Okay." It wasn't like he had any other plans.

"Great." Tony flashed a quick smile, leaning away from Steve like he was on a fishhook, being pulled away against his will. "I'll, uh, have my people contact your people. Or something."

He smiled at Steve one last time before he left. "It's a date."

And Steve knows Tony didn't mean it as a real, romantic date, but somehow he's gotten it in his head that he can pretend it's a date anyway. Because what Tony doesn't know can't hurt him. And if he does figure it out, well, Steve doesn't have much need for a social life anyway.

He's not even sure why he wants it to be a date so badly. He'd always figured that if he ever satisfied his attraction to other men, it'd be some quick hotel room tryst. He always figured it'd never come to that. But then he'd woken up in the 21st century, and he'd read in the newspapers about how queers were allowed to marry each other now, and it seemed like maybe he could have everything he wanted.

So now he's sitting across from the Tony Stark, pretending to be a little nervous and a little excited, looking at the menu and trying to assess which dish will make the best impression. But he's out of his element, so he folds the menu and looks at Tony. "What do you recommend?"

"Finally," Tony says, his face broadening into an excited grin, and Steve's glad he asked. "I'm having the ribeye, which is always good, but the risotto here is great as well. And then there are the short ribs, which I'd definitely recommend, but I'll warn you now, if you get them I may not be able to restrain myself from stealing a few bites."

Steve can't help loving that prospect, but he tries not to show it. "That's quite the recommendation," he says. "Short ribs it is."

He's pleasantly surprised when Tony orders for him, because that's a move right out of the classic date rule book, and even though it's probably just because Tony can pronounce everything on the menu properly, .

He's more than a little worried about the conversation part of the night, because there's not much about his past that makes for comfortable dinner discussion.

"Have you ever had raw tuna?"

Steve blanches a bit at this. "No."

"That's what ahi tartare is," Tony says, and Steve vaguely remembers the term from when he was watching him order. "It's kind of amazing."

"It sounds... interesting," Steve says, doing his best to be tactful. He'll try it if Tony insists, but...

Tony laughs. "You'll like it."

"Is it safe to eat raw fish?"

"Absolutely. I was once on this boat in the Caribbean where they caught the fish straight out of the ocean and served it to us." He closes his eyes and sighs. "That was the life."

Steve finds it easy to ask Tony more about that vacation – "I was there for scientific purposes," Tony explains. "Had to bring my own fruity drink umbrellas. And my own fruity drinks." – and then about the other places he's been, and soon all he has to do is nod and occasionally smile and listen and admire the excitement with which Tony talks.

By the time the tuna appears, they're consumed in discussion – or, Tony's consumed in explanation – and Steve selfishly doesn't want Tony to eat so that he can listen to him talk for the rest of his life.

But he's distracted by the way that they've piled the food up into a little column of marbled pinks and greens and golds, surrounded it with leaves and chips and made it so ornate that he can almost understand why anyone would pay forty dollars for it appetizer. Almost.

"This looks amazing," Steve says.

"It is."

"No," he says. "Aesthetically. I wish I could draw it."

"Hmm." Tony looks at the food, appraising it, and then his eyes turn to Steve, their expression never changing. "I didn't know you were an artist."

Steve blushes, because nobody ever puts it that way. Particularly nobody who's never seen him draw anything. They call it a hobby, usually.

"I was in art school, before the war," he says. "Always figured I'd do my service and then find a job as an illustrator. I did some photography too. Although technology's really taken away the challenge for that."

"And now?"

"I draw sometimes," he says. It's kind of not a lie. In the past three months he's drawn exactly three pictures. Iron Man fighting Loki. Iron Man talking to Thor. Iron Man standing on top of Stark Tower. He has his face mask off in all of them, and even though it's perfectly explained in the pictures, it's really just because Steve likes Tony's face. He keeps them in a box, where nobody is likely to stumble upon them, should people suddenly appear in his life again. "Just little things. Technology's made that obsolete too, it seems."

Tony shifts in his seat, pulling his phone out of his pocket, and Steve watches perplexed as he points it at the appetizer. He turns the phone, showing Steve the picture he's just taken. "In case you'd like a reference."

Steve smiles, and then, even though he's absolutely, completely against the idea of eating raw fish, he follows Tony's lead in putting a small bit of the ahi on a chip and taking a careful bite. He's learned that Tony doesn't exactly like it when he argues. And anyway, it tastes great, once you ignore the little fact of what that is.

"You should get a tablet."

He wonders if that's what they call the leafy bunches on the plate.

"For your computer," Tony adds. He's talking around a bite of food and Steve shouldn't find that attractive but he does.

"I don't have a computer."

Tony fixes him with a look of utter disbelief and confusion, then quickly recovers, gesturing with his fork as he talks. "A tablet lets you draw digital art by hand." He shrugs. "Digital art still needs artists, it's just the tools that have changed."

Steve's not sure what to say to that, so he just chews, trusting Tony to bring the conversation back. When he does, it's to ask Steve about himself, which makes him blush. He's not sure if it's just that he's put so much pressure on himself to pretend that this is a date, or that he's just genuinely nervous around Tony.

No, he's pretty sure it's the second.

And his first instinct is to admit that he's finding the 21st century far worse than he'd have imagined. But then he realizes that's not exactly date material, so he talks about the things he likes about New York, and before he knows it they're in animated conversation again, pausing every now and again so that he can admonish Tony's fork for trying to infiltrate his plate.

It's more than he's ever hoped for, the way that Tony smirks slyly as he tries to sneak the last bite from Steve's plate. And Steve responds with a coy smile, blocking Tony's fork with his own, prepared for a playful, dare he hope flirtatious fight, but as soon as he looks up at him Tony's expression changes, and he backs off, leaving Steve to self-consciously chew the last bite as Tony talks to the waiter.

He's so busy being embarrassed at overstepping the boundary that he barely registers when Tony asks if he wants dessert. And even though he absolutely, definitely wants dessert he finds himself shaking his head and saying, "no, thank you."

So all that leaves is the check. And of course Tony's going to pay, because it's Tony Stark and this restaurant is obscenely expensive, but his stomach still does a bit of a flip when Tony insists on taking it.

"I'm afraid I gave Happy the night off," Tony says, when they get outside. "So we'll have to walk."

And Steve's not sure when it became a foregone conclusion that they were going to the same place but he finds himself okay with that, if it means that he gets to be near Tony some more.

He's not about to admit to it but he definitely walks closer to Tony than is strictly necessary, hands in his pockets because he's not entirely sure he'd be able to stop himself from playfully brushing his hand up against Tony's and trying to play it off as accidental contact, and he doesn't want to ruin things now.

And he wouldn't want to be seen doing that, in public, anyway.

He lets a sort of suspense build as they get closer and closer to Stark Manor. There's a part of him, a small but very strong and ardent part of him that imagines Tony squaring up between him and the door, looking deep into his eyes and taking his hand.

And that part of him imagines blushing as Tony tells him what a wonderful time he had on their date. And that part of him imagines falling hopelessly, deeply in love as their lips meet, as fireworks explode behind his gently closed eyes. And as much as the larger, more practical part of him tries to block out these images, he can't guarantee that there is no hope. Until they reach the door, and Tony doesn't kiss him, he can't completely rule out the possibility.

But Tony just pauses in front of the gigantic front doors and says, "come in for a drink?"

And Steve nods, letting the disappointment drop through his bones, feeling his stomach twist into a strange sort of regret. "Sure."

He follows Tony through the expansive house, listening politely to explanations of this picture and that vase, things that he would actually be very interested in were this any other situation. But he can't quite shake the feeling of being let down, and he can't help chastising himself for creating expectations where there ought to have been none.

Tony leads him into the master suite, a giant monstrosity of a room that Tony apologizes for in a way that tells Steve he's not at all embarrassed by the opulence. Steve looks around, at all of the sharp edges and colors that he's come to associate with modern interior design, and he sits down on a couch that wouldn't fit in his apartment, and he watches as Tony pours them some scotch.

He's expecting Tony to sit in the armchair next to the couch, or to take a seat further down the couch, or even at the other end, but that's because he's forgotten that Tony doesn't have any sense of personal space. When he does hand him a glass and sit down, there's just inches between them. Not that Steve minds, of course. If there's anywhere he wants Tony, it's right next to him.

He wonders how Tony would feel if he knew that Steve was carrying a torch for him. He probably wouldn't sit so close, then. He's heard it's not as bad these days, being queer. That it's not illegal anymore, and lots of people admit to it. But that still doesn't make it okay.

He takes a sip and grimaces at the harsh taste. He's never been a fan of alcohol, even back when it could get him drunk. Tony catches Steve's eye as he takes a long, lingering drink of his own glass, raising a playful eyebrow over the rim of his glass. "Can't take it?"

Steve's not quite sure what Tony means, but he recognizes a challenge when he hears one, so he drains the rest of his glass, fighting through the burn in his throat and controlling his gag reflex, placing the empty glass on the table seconds after Tony does.

And of course the alcohol does nothing for him, because of the serum, but as he looks at Tony he's feeling intoxicated anyway, intoxicated by the way that they're so close together, and the way the lights are dim and there's a fire and the radio is playing something kind of romantic, and he's reminded of why they can't be friends. He wants him so bad and it's not right to keep that sort of secret from him, and there's no way he's going to tell him.

And he's trying to tear his eyes away from Tony, and stand up, and make some sort of excuse to leave and never come back, when Tony kisses him.