neveryourmuse | open roleplay post.

[Steve Rogers gets into the vehicle for fuck's sake. His very tall rather broad frame folds up neatly, a little bit reverse clown car. He has to immediately adjust the seat, which he starts to do quickly and without comment, only to find that the modified model is already shifting back, answering the optical sensors that tell it how long a Steve Rogers is. That is cool. He should probably be worried that the car is also about to cuff him and ship him off to jail, aND YET.

He also fastens his seatbelt of course. Protecting his entire person including ze testeecles.]

I almost called. [He's referring to the phone he sent Tony, along with his lengthy heartfelt letter. He looks out the window at the curb peeling away.] But I figured our problems have more tiers than most. How're you holding up, Tony?

[ The car doors close like wings, and Tony pulls out into the street, the air still warm from the day even as the sun is set to sink out over the ocean. Responsibly, his eyes are on the road, but there is a tension to it. ]

Me? [ he asks. Me??? ] I haven't checked my pulse in the last five minutes but I got a war criminal riding shotgun, that's gotta do something to your blood pressure. [ Now a glance, and then hand-over-hand as he switches lanes. ] Nice cap, Cap.

[ How are they not already in jail. ]

What're you drinking these days.

A lot of Malbec. It's all they have there. [Steve thinks about the predictive computer of Tony's brain, as well as the predictive computer of Tony's computer, making sense of this information. Argentina, probably. Some outlying regions of South America, maybe.] I could use a beer.

[An American bar! The ambience. Tony Stark's anxiety-relaeted heart problems, alternative proof that Tony Stark has a heart. Steve will like that. He looks out the window at the city swishing by, allowing himself to enjoy the shape of the unlit neon, advertisements for musicals that he does not recognize, and regional oak trees instead of worrying if he will have to kick through a wall of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. The second to last time he went fugitiving around the United States, he kind of made out with Natasha at a mall. These things happen.]

I like your car. [He squares his head back on center, peeks at Tony's narrower face in the rearview mirror.] Made any other upgrades lately?

[ There is only so much overpreparation one man and his AI assistant can achieve in locating an ideal watering hole. Via the speaker only audible to him through the arm of his glasses, Friday provides a couple options, and assures an absence of traffic that implies Steve's disguise hadn't set off any alarms anywhere.

As they go, Tony sneaks a glance at his passenger. There's very little to read there, heroic jawline angled where he watches the scenery and an ease to body language.

Tony looks forward again as Rogers tunes back in. ]

Sure you don't wanna find out the hard way sometime? [ is tightly quipped. ] Could be fun. What'd you mean by tiers of problems.

I mean I still consider you part of my family, when there's a global threat.

[What if they're about to get into an argument. Steve hopes not. He does have like maybe twenty more lengthy semi-apologetic, but effortfully empathic letters to send. And ugly flip phones.]

But there are other problems. Life doesn't stop. I got into it with Natasha the other week. [and the paparazzi have made no secret about you and pepper's stuff but also I'm too tactful to say that right away, no matter how obvious it is, and how many news stands we've driven past with the big jagged lightning split frame dividing the cover of the rumor rags between your photo and her photo.]

[ That first part is Manipulative and Tony will have None of it and so he says nothing, mouth pressing into a line as they close in on a bar that probably is not ordinarily graced by bullet-nosed cars with doors that go in unexpected directions.

OKAY AND DO YOU THINK THAT'S COMPARABLE TO MY PROBLEMS is not something that Tony says in a too loud voice, although he's close to doing so. The truth is, he doesn't want to fight. Not even the verbal slaps that are a little familiar, not after the actual slapping that occurred what seems like not too long ago.

That sucked, that one time. ]

Sorry to hear that, [ he says, clipped, as he pulls into the little back alley parking space of a bar with flashing neon, barely worth it in the daylight. He switches up his voice to a more pleasant affectation as he says; ] Friday, be a dear and run a blindspot protocol on all devices in this area, will you?

Certainly, sir, [ chirps from his car.

Tony kills the engine, and pivots to look at Rogers properly before anyone can think of getting out, just yet. ]

I can't even imagine a reality where you hijack my valet for the purposes of getting relationship advice about Romanoff from me, which leads me to think this is about-- [ Fingers flex, ball up into a fist, where he has his arm folded on the back of his seat. ] --the other really impossible alternative.

Since when did you care?

[ --and he can't decide if that's an unfair thing to ask, or a damn good question. Either way, he wants an answer. ]

Edited 2019-10-14 11:19 (UTC)

I always care about you, [says Steve, who can get away with it with a face and jaw like that I guess. He glances at Tony from across the car's narrow girth again.] Always.

[Then he glances out the window. Hmmm. Bar looks very divey. He's into it. Once the car parks, geometrically perfect parallel to the sidewalk, he pops out of it. Clown car again, his big shoulders and boxy head emerging leviathan from the coupe's sleek little angles.] You did me more than one solid.

[You know. Letting them get away from the Raft with hours of head start. AND FOR THIS, IN EXCHANGE, STEVE SHALL PURCHASE HIM A BEER. Something. It's not quid pro quo, it's #friendship, which for some reason exists between them in a permanent skew where Steve objectively gives less than he takes. Arguably, he has less to give. Not a billionaire, and whatnot. He peeks through the windows and is happy to find that the room is nearly empty. How much scandal does one billionaire playboy genius something something need?]

But we don't have to talk about it if you don't want to.

[ That is such-- that is a terrible answer, and Tony doesn't even have time to make a face about it before Rogers is exiting the vehicle. It's a terrible answer because it also effectively puts his question to bed, and so Tony also exits the vehicle. The bad thing about beautifully designed technologically marvelous cars is he can't give it a satisfying door slam on his way out.

He's not mad, just-- maddened.

Button up his jacket, breezing by where Steve had stopped at the window to enter the bar. It's not too terrible in here, but not exactly hoppin'. ]

I'll have what you're having, [ he says, over his shoulder. In the dimmer light of the bar, the tint of his glasses have shifted to a less opaque champagne hue. ] Thrill me.

[ --while he tries to wrap his brain around what he could say about Pepper to Captain America. The transition between staying watertight and talking at lengthy excess about his problems is a rusty state-change. ]

[Steve is having a beer from the tap. The barman either doesn't recognize either of them or is secretly hitting a panic button straight to SHIELD under the table that somehow Tony's tech isn't alerting him to, or possibly, the old fellow just does not care.] I'm glad I caught you. You look like you're holding up.

I know it's a balance that I'm not an expert at. Figuring out how our duties and personal relationships fit. And I know you aren't under obligation to make them. I guess I'm hoping there's a part of you that wants to. [There is an orange plastic bowl sitting on the counter by Steve's arm, approximately half-full of candy. One may belatedly observe that the peanut shells underfoot are mixed in with candy wrappers, and that there is a slightly shriveled paper skull attached to the wall above the highest shelf.

Steve fishes out two Hershey chocolates, little teardrops. He keeps one for himself and passes the other very contritely to his companion.]

How've you been? Really?

[ Cute, Steve. Tony would never stoop so low as to picture what their inevitable reunion might look like and how apologetic Rogers might be during BUT IF HE DID--

He folds his hands together and leans his elbow on the bar top. It's taking effort to reframe this as a scenario in which Steve is offering something as opposed to demanding something, and Tony centres his attention on the Hershey kiss sitting in front of him as he contemplates clicking over from one status to the other.

He sniffs. Quick irritated nose flare. ]

Crap, [ he says, shortly. ] Obviously, that's why you're here. [ He takes the little chocolate, fidgeting with the wrapper without opening the thing. ] Hey, you remember all those times we sat down and I asked you a million questions about my dad back in the day?

[ Spoilers: it was none times. ]

Been thinking about him a bit. How he made it work. How nuts that seems.

[In all seriousness, Steve had been prepared for more yelling. Obviously he didn't want more yelling, but he was on some level braced for -- a direct reference to Wakanda's relief group, maybe, the casualties of battle. The anniversary was just a few weeks ago. The Accords themselves will be a year old soon.

It's been a long one.

What Steve didn't expect was for Tony to refer to his dad. Indeed. There's little context for that, outside of when a magic glowy scepter mind controls them into peripherally arguing about it, or bad surprises from... Well, other casualties of Avenger related activities. After performing there calculations, Steve decided to Be Careful. Who needs more casualties.]

Are you talking about the job or the family?

[This is new. Wishing he had known and could remember more of the past.]

Edited (Repeat word je naime pas) 2019-10-25 05:41 (UTC)

[ There's still time.

But probably not today. The yelling, that is. Misgivings feel all at once very personal instead of global and talking casualties is a hell of a hefty rock to throw in this glass house. Tony Stark of Stark Industries never did punch Captain America a lot over the abstracted principle of the thing, after all.

He watches the direction their beer is coming. Uncomfortable but willing. It's like a fun game. ]

I'm talking, [ is passive correction. Meandering his way to the point of the thing. ] But not about the job. [ His gaze swings back around to Steve. ] To you. You quit, 'member? I got the shield gathering dust in my basement to prove it.

[Steve smiles a little, but it fades. Not somber at the reminder of his ruthless betrayal (he can smile through that a lot for some creepy reason), but at the matter at hand.]

He got married late. Especially for the culture of the time, and especially for a first marriage. [Steve says this unironically and without meaning to poke fun, probably.] I remember, back when we worked together, he was very dedicated to the science. The government projects. Of course, we had no idea at that time how vulnerable we were to infiltration... [h.y.d.r.a. is super uncool.] That might have changed his attitude.

But-- a lot of the other scientists in the room were pretty close to his age. Their mid-twenties, thirties. Most of them had families to go back to. Kids, even. For them, I think, there was a balancing act. A lot of secrets, long hours at the office, risks of... negligence, I guess.

I don't know exactly what it means, he waited so long to get married to Maria. I wish I'd met her. But I think part of it was, he was on his own time. And the other part, people who were right for him were one in a million, and he wasn't going to get hitched for anything less. [Steve glances up when their beers arrive, nodding this thank-yous. The barman considerately retreats from earshot.]

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