When Tony finds out what the Widow has done, he bolts out of his top floor, corner office, takes the elevator down forty floors to the lobby, and promptly drags Happy out to the parking lot by his collar.
"Hey boss, the meeting at the factory is not until this evening –"
"We have a crisis at hand, Happy. I've coordinates. We have to go, now."
"But, I'm scheduled to drive Miss Potts to the Foundation in an hour."
"… Tell you what." Tony swivels around and grabs Happy by his shoulders. "A man's life is at stake here. Drive me to the Met, you don't have to wait on me. I can take a cab back or something."
He makes Happy drive like a man possessed, going over the speed limit whenever they can get away with it, and in under twenty minutes, the car screeches to a halt in front of a coffeehouse. Nothing is posher than those deep velvet awnings over whitewashed window sills, a lush Persian rug by the entrance, and a freaking crystal chandelier in the main sitting area.
"Aw, damn."
Steve sticks out like a sore thumb from where Tony's loitering on the curb. The brooding figure of Captain America is seated front and centre by the floor-to-ceiling glass panel. Tony understands how this works, how the glamourous are often paraded by the windows. An unusual decorative addition, so to speak. Having the complete package himself he's experienced this first-hand, and the only reason they give in to his table-behind-the-pillar-please is because he's threatened to sit in as Iron Man instead, glorious helmet and all.
How did he make this all about him… there is something wrong with him.
Steve looks like he's seating on hot coal. He's already glanced once at his wristwatch and twice at the counter, all within five seconds.
Clearly, something is troubling the good Captain, and Tony knows why.
"Send Pepper my love. Off you go, Happy. Thanks for the ride."
Tony skips through the front door, and the bell attached to the handle chimes like a mother. Some twenty heads look up at him in sync, and he waves them off and flashes his well-rehearsed megawatt grin. Only one face isn't smiling – all frowny – and Tony makes a beeline towards it.
"Steve, my God, I hope I'd reached you in time. Has it started? Please tell me it hasn't. Nobody's sitting here, right? Excuse me."
He drops into the vacant chair opposite of Steve and downs the glass of water before him. Steve hasn't spoken a word since he's forced his way to this silly table with barely enough space for a pair of elbows. To others, this is intrusive behaviour, but he ain't like no others.
"What are you doing here, Tony?"
"Saving your ass. I think."
"From what?"
"Uh," Tony looks past his shoulder at the counter where a lady is manning a table bell and her stopwatch so intently her eyes appear crossed. "That. I'm saving you from that."
Just as Steve's about to open his mouth, the lady slams her palm onto the bell, and there's a synchronous bustle as everyone around them stand up and walk – to Tony's non-surprise – clockwise to the adjacent table. A murmur of greetings breaks out as the crowd retake their seats, and a silhouette looms over their table. Tony ignores it. Somebody clears her throat. Tony ignores it some more, until she edges closer the hem of her blouse flutter against his ear. Then only Tony offers their company a pleasant smile, as pleasant as Bruce's in code green. She wears her red hair in a ponytail. Probably mid-twenties and is obviously trying to dilute a scowl with civility.
She coughs into her fist again.
"Cough drop?"
"Your turn's over. The bell just rang. You should be over there," and she jabs her painted finger at the other table, the one currently occupied by a couple as old as his parents, if Howard and Maria were still alive and kicking.
"Ah, nope. The seats are all taken there, see? This one is fine."
"Well, this one is mine now. You had your chance."
"No, no. This round is just beginning. Isn't it, Steve?"
Steve opens his mouth again, when under the table and over the smooth jazz playing, Tony digs his heel into Steve's toes.
"Christ – uh, yeah. He just sat in, so… maybe five more minutes?"
She raises her brows and spares both men a sweeping glance. "What a shame." And that was that before she stalks out of the coffeehouse.
"Oh, the nerves on her."
"Tony, no more games. What are you doing here? There're no distress signals from SHIELD or the Avengers –"
"Relax, Cap. Not everything is about work. It's about you."
"What about me?"
"Are you kidding me? This, Steve," Tony waves around the space, making his point, "You're on a Tinder-esque blind freaking date! This is wrong on so many levels."
"… It's Nat's idea."
"Yeah, I know, she told me. Doesn't change the fact that this is the craziest prank she's ever pulled on us. I tolerated her adding Nair to our shampoo, but this?"
"She means well."
"Don't tell me you're on board with this."
"Tony, you're over-reacting. Calm down –"
"I am calm." He takes another glance at the lady-in-charge, wrinkles his nose a bit at how closely her hand is hovering over the table bell.
"OK, we're leaving." Tony raps the table once with his knuckles, and grabs Steve by the wrist. "Let's go."
"What, now?"
A waitress quickly stops them before Steve could even stand up straight. "Gentlemen, your tab is still open –"
"Bill everything to Stark Industries, tips for all staff members included."
They spill into the noon of mid-summer May. Melding easily with a mob of hungry New Yorkers hunting for lunches, they fall into a casual walking pace side by side, shoulders sometimes bumping against one another.
"That went over well, don't you think?"
Steve buries his hands in his pockets and doesn't comment.
"Don't tell me you're pissed. Be honest with yourself, you didn't enjoy that."
"That was… uncalled for."
"This whole thing was arranged without your permission, all right? You didn't know you were gonna spend the rest of your free afternoon – and these free afternoons are rare in Captain America's monthly planner – with people you don't care about knowing –"
"I do care about meeting these people, Tony," the frown returns to Steve's forehead. "Perhaps not in the way you or Nat intended, but I've no… violent objections against this."
"It's a hook-up thing. It's not OK."
"It's just lunch. And whatever they billed you, send them over. I'll pay."
Then, Steve swerves sharply to the left, almost leaving Tony behind if it weren't for his awesome reflex – he catches Steve by his elbow at the first flicker, but man, does Steve normally use so much force just walking, that Tony gets dragged along the inertia when he tries – and fails – to stop Steve from walking away from him, that he almost trips and falls and be stampeded over?
"Go back to the Tower, Tony. Don't you have a meeting at the factory later?"
"I do," Tony rights his necktie. "I took a couple of hours off to find you. CTO privilege. Are you coming?"
"… I'm heading back to the Avengers compound. It's a bit out of the way from the Tower, so you don't have to –"
"Happy isn't waiting on me."
Tony feels a bit patronised at how astonished Steve's looking. He's a grown-up, some solid thirty-four years of wisdom and wrinkles to prove it, so he can find his damn way home if he has to.
"I'm taking the train," Steve states plainly. It sounds like he's implying born-with-a-silver-spade-Tony-Stark isn't fit to share commuting space with mere commoners.
"Great. I'll come with you."
Truth is, he has not the slightest inkling if it's even possible to make it back to the Tower by train. He can work out the route later. There'll be maps. Or maybe he should man up and ask Steve for directions?
And look at that, the sheer crowdedness of the subway station exceeding his expectations. He knows there'll be ribbing and jostling and no regards for personal space because, peak hours, but this is really something else. He gets his ticket and files into a coach, always trailing behind Steve because Steve and his superhumanly broad shoulders make a good battering ram against the traffic. There are no bars, or walls or anything to use to ground himself because it's a certified sardine can in here, so they all sway to every jerk and thud along the way. He can't fall. There's nowhere to fall to. They're all fluids in continuum, at the mercy of a cuboidal metal case blazing at fifty-five miles per hour –
"You OK?"
Tony blinks and readjusts his focus to Steve's impossibly blue eyes. They're burning a hole through his skull, and Tony would've loved to look at someplace else, but he's all but huddled against Steve's chest, so it's either Steve's face, or Steve's Adam's apple, or Steve's collarbone –
"You're being unusually quiet. Something wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. I uh, didn't expect such volume of commuters."
Steve breaks their gaze first, to Tony's relief. "Whatever it is, don't take it out on Nat. She's trying to help. Introducing me to her friends, her colleagues."
Right. He agrees that Natasha is many things, but a matchmaker?
"I'm not saying you can't meet new people, Steve. I'm not trying to control anything, or anybody – hell, I don't even know why I bothered. You can make your own decisions."
"Clearly, this bothers you."
"I just." Come to think of it, whydid it? Man has been around for far longer – technically, his seventy years' tenure as Capsicle shouldn't count – but there's something niggling about the way he's hanging out with civilians without a care in the world. "I think," carefully Tony weighs his words, "it's unwise to… get involved with people who might not be ready for our world. Our duties, the risks we take every day."
The door opens and throng of people file out. Steve steers Tony into a corner, and brackets him with his arms. They're almost nose to nose now, and the proximity drives something weird up Tony's spine. The intensity in Steve's gaze seems to pierce right through him.
"Go on. Why does this matter?"
"You understand this. What we do, we're lucky to see another day without a bullet in our head. You sure you want to drag an innocent into this? They deserve better."
Steve leans in. It's impossible, there isn't enough space. His warm breath ghosts over Tony's lips. "I know what this is. Your regrets. You don't want your mistakes repeated. Not under your watch."
Then, new passengers flock in, imposing their Viking lifestyle on the rest of them as they carve a space in the coach for themselves. Someone outright shoves Steve in the back, and he falls forward, his chest crushing against Tony's.
Damn, at this rate –
"Does this – am I hurting you?" Steve's whisper sails over his ear. Of course it's all hush-hush.
"I'm fine."
Tony feels his arc reactor pulsing against Steve's ribs. His heart aches, a reminder of why he came down from his Tower on a Friday afternoon to go on a mad goose chase for Steve.
"Sorry," he finds himself mumbling. He's not sure Steve could hear him. "This is so messed up. And selfish." Last he checked, Yinsen, Pepper, Happy and Rhodey were all –
It's all on him. All of it. It keeps him up at night, and Steve doesn't need more reasons.
He tilts his head back until it hits the wall, and studies Steve's guarded appraisal on him. They might as well be one person occupying this space – he doubts Steve's even standing vertical at this point, their legs interlacing, thighs rubbing. He has to dig his forehead into an acrylic panel – super uncomfortable – or contend with sharing breath with Steve.
Then, a few stray strands of Steve's blonde hair flutter as his chin dips somewhat. "Or, is there something else?"
Is there something else indeed that's stopping him from stopping Steve from actively pursuing an opportunity?
Tony can't reply. He realises he's reached his stop when Steve tap him lightly on his wrist. Still knee-deep in his reveries, he exits the coach, leaving Steve on his journey to the compound alone.
And Tony walks back to the sky-scratching Tower with nothing but himself and the lingering warmth of Steve's body for company.