The second time, he actually hadn't meant to say anything.

Tony was in his workshop, putting the finishing touches on a new aeronautics system he wanted to try out for the suit. With any justice – because Tony didn't need luck, just the cosmos to realize he was right like the rest of the world – it would be a little less glitchy than its predecessor. Less prone to random bouts of inconvenient systems failure.

"Jarvis," he said, rising from his stool, "start diagnostics."

"Right away, sir. Diagnostics initiated. Estimated time of completion: seven hours."

"Atta boy. Don't wait up for me." Grabbing his over-shirt off the side of the table, he tossed it over his shoulder and headed out.

He made it just about to the stairs when he heard something…unexpected.

Clang!

"Son of a—!"

Thud.

Tony wasn't sure whether to be alarmed or amused. If nothing else, he was curious. It sounded like it was coming from the garage, and if he wasn't mistaken, the owner of the voice was a disgruntled-sounding super soldier.

The latter was really all the incentive he needed to investigate.

All the lights were on in the garage when he went in, and though he didn't see anything at first, it wasn't all that hard to find what he was looking for.

A bike Tony recognized as Steve's was out on the floor, and as Tony got a little closer, he saw a pair of legs sticking out under it.

Sure enough, coming around, he found none other than Steve Rogers sitting on the other side, apparently having words with an unruly socket wrench.

"I find it helps if you threaten their family," Tony said, squatting down a few feet away with just a hint of a bemused smile on his face. "Nothing like mob-style negotiation to get those rebellious hand tools in line."

Steve didn't appreciate the humor. "I don't remember it being this complicated to fix a bike."

There was something more to the words, a certain gloom to them, that gave Tony the distinct impression this wasn't about the bike. Well, not just the bike, anyway. The bike here stood for something, reminded Steve of something.

It wasn't all that hard to figure out what: a lot had changed from what Steve remembered.

Tony sighed. Heart-to-hearts weren't really his thing. He wasn't generally good at helping people work through their demons, talking them through them, because it was just that: talking. Talking never did anyone any good.

He'd always been more a fan of the whole "work through it, or ignore it until it works itself out" philosophy.

"Scoot over, Stars'n'Stripes," he said, dropping down onto his ass and nudging Steve with his elbow. Steve gave him a curious look, but to Tony's both surprise and relief, he actually did as he was told. He scooted over a foot or two to give Tony enough room to slide in beside him in front of the bike.

Which Tony, of course, did, and then he held out his hand. "Hand it over," he said. It took Steve a second, but then he dropped the socket wrench into Tony's hand.

"God speed."

"Unnecessary," Tony said, and already he set to work. "See, there's a trick to it. Rather than trying to get the wrench between these pipes—" Tony paused to take the bolt off and move the corresponding piece, "—it's a hell of a lot easier just to take the tops off and do it that way."

"Always a way out, huh?" But there was amusement rather than condescension flashing in Steve's blue eyes.

Tony smiled accordingly. "You're learning."

"I've been doing a lot of that, lately…here, I got this part." Steve held out his hand not unlike Tony had, and Tony surrendered the wrench to Steve's grease-stained hands.

Tony wasn't quite sure why, but there was something decidedly attractive about a man smudged with grease and motor oil.

Especially one that was good with his hands.

He wasn't sure how long they were there, fixing that bike and just…enjoying each other's company. He did know he hadn't felt so comfortable around another person in a long time. Most of the time was passed with idle chatter: they talked about music, about how things had changed from Steve's memory of Glenn Miller to the ACDC Tony had Jarvis play softly on the speakers; they talked about hobbies, and Tony had mentioned the sketchbook he kept seeing Steve with only to chuckle as Steve's face turned a shade of hotrod red; and they talked about anything else that popped into their heads, and Tony enjoyed every minute of it, learning more about Steve as a person than he ever had before.

As if he hadn't already liked the guy enough.

It was…fun. Seeing this side of Steve, when he wasn't wearing the uniform or walking around like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. When he was just a guy with dirt on his hands, sweat on his brow, and a smile on his lips.

Which was probably why, when Steve finished tightening the last bolt over the last piece, Tony felt…disappointed. Checking his watch, he realized they'd been at it for hours. It was nearly six in the morning, but…he wasn't ready to call it quits just yet. On the bike, yes, maybe, but on his time with Steve?

Not quite.

Cue: second time.

"We should do this again."

Steve looked up, one eyebrow arched and his head cocked to the side in a way that Tony decided could only be described as adorable. "Fixing bikes?"

Because not only was Steve the sexiest, strongest, most righteous man Tony had ever met…he was also the most naïve.

"No," Tony said. "I mean this. You and me, together. This."

It took Steve a second to process, but his sensibility sensors apparently didn't throw up any red flags, because he smiled.

It was too bad he wasn't in the weapons business, Tony reflected absently, because that smile should've been weaponized.

"Yeah," he said.

But Tony wasn't quite satisfied. "Like, now." He nodded to himself, standing and offering Steve a hand up which the other man took, albeit a little more hesitantly. With Steve standing, he turned and grabbed the rag off the stool to wipe his hands. "Yeah, we should. Breakfast, maybe."

And there it was: Tony's next bright idea.

With this little gem of inspiration, Tony turned on his heel to face Steve. "Would you like to go to breakfast with me?"

Judging by the look on Steve's face, the questioning, the doubt, that sensor of his was starting to pick up some signals. "Breakfast?" he said.

"I mean, it's a little early for anything else, but I'm flexible."

"You're kidding, right?"

"Strangely, no. I am one-hundred percent serious. Which isn't something I get to say very often. But no, I am serious. Steve Rogers, I would like to take you to breakfast."

Steve's brows pulled in, a look of confusion and an increasing edge of alarm. "I think you need sleep," he said.

"If you're saying that because you think my asking you on a date – and just to be perfectly clear, that is what I'm doing – is a product of sleep-deprivation, then you've clearly underestimated a) my attraction, and b) my stamina. The latter is hurtful; the former, nigh-unforgivable."

"Tony, I don't know what you're trying to say—"

"I'm not trying to say anything. I've said what I want to say; I'm trying to get you to listen."

"I'm listening!"

"You're hearing," Tony said. "That's different. I know you've heard every attempt I've ever made at bringing you out of your shell, you're just too busy hiding with your head stuck in the 1940s to actually listen."

"I'm not hiding from anything, Stark."

"You're hiding from me!" Tony hadn't meant to snap, but there was only so much denial he could take. Still, he forced himself to tone it back before he kept on. "And you're hiding from yourself. I've seen the way you look at me, I've seen the way you smile when I say something you like and you don't think anyone's watching. I've seen all of it, and so I'm sorry if I'm having a little trouble figuring out why you practically run screaming every time I make an advance if it's not because you're afraid of something. So, what is it, Steve? What is it that makes the great Captain America so scared he tucks his tail between his legs?"

"What the hell is your problem?"

"I'm head-over-heels in love with a guy that's too scared to even admit he's not in the 1940's anymore. Why, what's yours?"

Steve looked like he'd been struck. All the color drained from his face, and the next time he spoke, it was hardly more than a ghastly whisper. "You can never just leave well enough alone, can you?" he said. "You have to keep pushing, have to get your way, no matter who you screw over in the process."

"I'm not trying to screw you over, Steve," Tony said, reaching a hand for Steve's shoulder. "Believe it or not, I'm actually trying to—"

Steve jerked his shoulder away from Tony's touch. "Just stop it, okay?" he said, and Tony had never heard a more miserable, defeated sound. "Just—just leave me alone."

And for the second time, Tony was stuck standing there as Steve turned his back on him and walked away.