Very quickly after that, they're beginning to lose sunlight – which on one hand doesn't really matter because… fluorescent lights, but on the other, it means that it's also time to dine with the Captain, and Natasha uses her remainder of fifteen minutes to get acquainted to Tony's gaits.

"No, Nat, you're too graceful. Now, you're making me look campy. Longer stride, come on. No!"

She likes taking the mickey.

Tony practically seizes her by the collar and drags her to his room to doll her up in his usual slacks and T-shirt, then a jacket over her shoulders. The design over her front is something equally stupid and geeky, and though faded with wear, is tainted with a faint musk of cologne that didn't quite go away during the wash. Ambergris?

"I need a shave," he mumbles to nobody as he fastens the belt buckle around Natasha's waist. "I mean, not me me, but you… this is weird. And I'm usually much quicker on the uptake."

"Is there anything in particular you'd like to discuss with Steve? I mean, I'm going as you, so maybe I can bring it up on your behalf?"

"Hah, nice try, lady." He pats her on her shoulders. "It's in your DNA, isn't it? Always snooping. What Steve and I talk about are obviously, our own business."

"Not prying. Just want to make sure."

"Talk about whatever. Just stay away from my tech, and you're golden."

Seven o'clock sharp, and Natasha delivers herself to the drop zone. This is her first time walking around in Tony's meatsuit, and it's making her moustache itch. Tony will smother her in her sleep if she shaves his keratin. She scratches her face as she descends the grand stairway that will take her to the Tower's foyer, and almost skips two steps when Steve – always the early bird – looks up at her and waves.

"Hey," he says first, and immediately holds the side door open. "Where to this time?"

Stark, that bugger. Natasha walks out of the door, a grin frozen on her face as she wonders what Steve could possibly want to hear. They're here for dinner, right? So that excludes the museums and art galleries, which brings her to… she has no idea where Tony likes to bring Steve to on their bromance nights.

"You know what, Tony," Steve suddenly says, and points his thumb at some vague direction. "Sam says there's a good burger joint two blocks down. Want to try it?"

"… Sure."

They fall into an easy pace, walking side by side, shoulders almost touching. Natasha digs her hands into her pockets as the wind blows past, and belatedly realises that she has no idea how Tony's wallet works. She doesn't know how much cash he usually packs, if he ever bothers with that, she doesn't know his signature – not really – how many cards he has, which one she's allowed to use, or not –

This is not going to go over well.

There's something else too, something strange about the whole… walk to this burger joint. People are looking at her. Like, really looking at her, and she counts that for every four strangers she walks past, one will nod their head, or smile, or maybe mumble a quick, "Mr Stark."

What is this place, seriously? Still Manhattan, right?

"Tony, you OK?"

"Yeah. Hungry."

So, they hurry their asses to said burger joint and order their food. Before she can worry her gorgeously sculpted, gelled-up head with cash or card, Steve offers to foot their bill, and she gratefully brings their tray to the most secluded corner she can find. Who cares if it's right beside the toilet.

Steve doesn't complain and takes his seat across Natasha.

The problem with playing Tony Stark is – Natasha sighs inwardly as she unwraps her burger – that man's brain is silicon. Not grey and white matter, nothing of those organic crap, it's all circuit boards and logic gates in there. His mind goes to places no others have traversed, and that's inconvenient.

"You sure are quiet today," Steve says it first. Natasha takes the hugest bite she can – and realises there's twice as much bun stuffed between her cheeks than she's ever managed to. "Something on your mind?"

She shakes her head viciously.

"OK." Steve is still not touching his burger. "I've got something on my mind. I uh, I'm not quite sure how to put this, and I figured I can count on you on issues like this."

Nuh uh, and she flicks at a dollop of stray mayo that got entangled on her facial hair. "Wha' abou'?"

"It's about Nat."

She stops – plain stops breathing, chewing, just stares at Steve with her bulging, hazel eyes.

"Ah, I don't – I mean… Jesus, Tony. Are you sure you're OK? Are you choking? You're turning beet red."

She hums against her burger and forces it down her throat. Wow, is that tightness in the throat her chicken patty or Adam's apple? She reaches over the table and grabs Steve's Coke – because Steve orders her coffee, which is very thoughtful of him, but coffee is Tony's thing, not hers – and gulps down a few mouthfuls –

"I think I might have feelings for Nat."

And she spews Coke and bits of half-chewed burger all over Steve Rogers.