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He sets it on the dresser and ignores it for days.
(But it’s right there, he sees it every morning and at night the lights from the window reflect off the metallic wrapping paper)
He’s never sure what, exactly prompts him to open it. Rhodey, probably, who is due back at the Tower soon after spending a few weeks in LA. If Rhodey sees it, he’ll want to know who it’s from and Tony doesn’t want to talk about Steve, or the way they left things or the hesitant beginnings of a relationship that was snuffed out so quickly in Siberia.
So he opens it. He sits there on the edge of the bed for a long while, the paper crinkling slightly in his grasp. The ribbon eventually slides off his lap onto the floor. Maybe he’d have sat there all night if the phone hadn’t started to ring.
Not his phone. Steve’s phone, the shitty flip-top that Steve had fucking overnighted because apparently he… something. Tony honestly doesn’t know what Steve was thinking by that. Maybe he meant it, maybe he didn’t. Maybe it was an overture, maybe Steve was just covering his bases. The idea that he used to think he understood what Steve was thinking is, retroactively, fucking hilarious.
He lets the phone ring as he tosses the wrapping paper in the trash in the bathroom. There’s no following chime to indicate a voicemail. He’s relieved, then disgusted with himself for being relieved. It was probably just a telemarketer anyway. Steve might have time to run to FedEx but there’s no reason for him to call.
There’s a long minute where he holds Steve’s idea of a gift in his palm, poised to follow the gift wrap in the trash. He doesn’t need it. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t want it. He just wishes he knew why the hell Steve sent it.
He wants it a little, and kind of hates himself for it. What else is fucking new.
The phone rings again, and Tony curses.