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Tony takes a daily, morning walk around Central Park. It gets him outdoors, and lets him clear his head and get some perspective on the day to come. He's not alone; there are dozens of people in this area of the park alone, joggers with headphones in, bikers zooming by too quickly and ignoring the bike lanes in several cases, kids playing hooky (or maybe they've graduated; Tony's bad with ages), and of course the dog walkers.
He'll admit that he's a little envious of the last group. Tony's always wanted a dog, vaguely, as a concept, as long as he could remember, ever since he was a child. Back then he swore that his first act of adulthood would be adopting one, but instead his first act of adulthood was being one of the youngest graduates of MIT while somehow still disappointing his father. A true achievement. He has a whole trophy case full of those, metaphorically speaking. Then, later and practically speaking, he didn't get a dog for the same reason why he doesn't want children: he'd be the absolute worst dog (and human) father, for so many reasons, but the top one is time.
Tony won't be Howard, never sparing a moment for his offspring. And he doesn't have moments to spare, except these ones, carved out of time he doesn't have in the mornings. But everyone, even a Stark, needs space to breathe.
He's lost in thought, so he doesn't notice the dog, a floppy golden retriever with a lolling tongue, bounding up to him from his distantly-calling owner. A second later the dog jumps up, ill-mannered but happy, to put his muddy paws on Tony's jacket in a joyous dog hug. Tony's coffee cup explodes between them, the lid popping off and the coffee bursting out, all over both of them.
The dog, unaffected by this, pants at him happily. The coffee isn't hot at least, but Tony is stunned, frozen while the owner runs up, breathless. "I am so sorry. Buck, down. Oh god, your suit—" he says, and Tony's left speechless again but this time by the blue of the other man's eyes. He drags the golden off of Tony, reclaiming the leash, and Tony is left with a sopping wet coffee stain and muddy paw prints down his front.
They both stare at it. Blue Eyes is aghast. "I'm so sorry. He's never done that before." His chuckle is kind of nervous, as he stumbles over the awkwardness of the situation. "Must sense something about you. Dogs, right?"
"It's fine," Tony finds himself saying. Blue Eyes has dirty blonde hair that's styled in a just-rolled-out-of-bed way. His shoulders are broad, and when he's got the dog secured and has straightened up again, he's a little taller than Tony is.
"I spilled your coffee. Jeez. Well let me—I'll pay for the dry cleaning, of course," Blue Eyes says with that same nervous energy. The dog is panting between them, pleased with himself.
Tony finds his annoyance fading. It's hard to be anything but charmed in the face of this man's sheer earnesty. "Seriously," he says, "it's fine. Gives me a chance to skip the board meeting."
Tony offers a grin and, after a second, a hand.
"Oh! Steve," Blue Eyes supplies, quickly shaking it. "And this is Bucky."
"Tony." Tony holds on a little too long. Steve's hand is warm, firm without testing. He doesn't give his last name. If Steve doesn't recognize him, he'd like to keep it that way a little longer. It's nice just being Tony for a little while.
Bucky's tail is whipping across the ground, a golden broom. Tony gives in and pets him. "He's enthusiastic, I'll give you that."
"He's a sweetheart," Steve smiles, sheepish. "But not well trained. We're working on that, aren't we, Buck."
"Adoption? I can't believe you got a golden," Tony admits. "You'd think they'd go fast."
"Well, he's older," says Steve. "And you know how people are. They like their puppies."
The coffee splash has turned cold, increasingly uncomfortable against Tony's chest. He adjusts his jacket with a tug at the bottom that draws Steve's attention, making him wince.
"I really am sorry."
"I've got a great dry cleaner," Tony says. "Really. You can make it up to me though if you want," he adds, and Steve practically has a puppy look of his own at the idea that makes Tony have to fight back a chuckle. "Coffee? Not today. Saturday," he suggests, and Steve nods.
"I'd love to. No dogs this time," Steve agrees, but Tony hasn't stopped petting Bucky's head and has to disagree.
"Well, let's not go that far. You're really gonna leave this boy at home? All alone, Steve? Look at his face."
Steve looks, and grins ruefully. Bucky looks like he's never been happier, his eyes half closed as Tony scratches around his ears. "It is hard to deny."
"We'll walk him after," Tony decides. "He'll like that."
"He will," Steve says, softer, a little won already. Tony finally straightens, and Bucky sits up and opens his eyes wider when the pets stop.
"Let me get your number, then," Tony says, and he saves Steve's along with a snapshot of both of them for the contact picture, having told Steve to crouch down.
It's Steve, grinning brightly at the camera, his arms wrapped around the happy golden, and it makes Tony smile every time he sees it, even years later when they're back at the pound to pick out their second dog, this one to bring home together.
Tony's always wanted a dog. Now they have two.