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Steve doesn’t mean to be impatient. He knows by now that the trick to wrangling Tony is in finding ways to make his priorities overlap with the Avengers’ (and Steve’s), and that by any measure a briefing without a clear agenda (“It’s on a need-to-know basis, and when you’re there, you’ll know,” Fury had said) usually results in Tony spending the next day or so pointedly rotating through his This Could Have Been An Email collection of shirts.
But Steve’s better at identifying the urgency levels of Fury and Hill’s missives. Also, Tony isn’t even busy.
They need to be in the conference room in fifteen and Tony isn’t hiding in his workshop as per usual. Instead he’s on the couch in the otherwise quiet TV area, and slouching forward dangerously despite holding a large mug of (presumable) coffee in his hands.
A lesser man would be impatient, and would not judge Steve unkindly for sighing as he marches up to the back of the couch.
“Tony,” Steve says.
Tony doesn’t do him the courtesy of acknowledging his presence in any way. The TV is on and Tony’s facing it, but his eyes are unfocused.
“Fifteen minutes.” Steve takes a deep breath, and does not raise his voice. “Tony.”
Tony finally moves, but it’s only to lean back, tipping his head against the back of the couch so he can look up at Steve, his eyes absurdly large.
“I don’t want to,” Tony whines.
Whenever Tony looks at Steve right in the eye – sans the filter of his various colored glasses – it’s usually in the prelude or climax of a disagreement, when Tony makes his point known through a knife-sharp glare of frustration and anger. Pavlovian expectation makes Steve tense up, until he realizes that today Tony’s eyes, fanned as they are by his long eyelashes, are wide and mirthful in a cheeky attempt at over-the-top guilelessness that he knows won’t work on Steve but is doing it anyway, just because he wants to.
It’s childish and playful; the way he is around Rhodey and Bruce, but less so with the others, whom he prefers using snark and sarcasm. There’s a rare invitation in the glitter of his dark eyes, where Tony is for once asking Steve to join in on the joke if he wants to, where they can recognize together that Tony’s absolutely spectacular at being ridiculous.
“Okay,” Steve hears himself say.
Tony’s brow twitches in surprise. His eyes stay wide – maybe even a little wider – as they hold Steve’s.
“I mean,” Steve adds quickly, “wait, no—”
“You said okay!” Tony sits up sharply, almost spilling his coffee as he does. He’s grinning in surprised – and confused – triumph, and kicks off his shoes to emphasize his point. “You said okay, I’m staying here, no takebacks—”
“You just caught me off-guard,” Steve exclaims.
“Hey, if I’d known all it takes to disarm you is a little puppy dog—”
“Or asking nicely,” Steve says, sounding more petulant than sharp. He ignores the warmth at the back of his neck and crosses his arms. “Not that you ever do.”
There’s an opening there for Tony to slide in with his usual friendly teasing, and Steve can almost hear it: Tony would say something like about how asking nice is for chumps, or Steve’s job instead of Tony’s, or a dramatic denial that Tony always asks nice so what is Steve talking about.
So many possibilities, but Tony doesn’t take the opening. Instead, he’s quiet, and brings his mug up to his lips as he peers over the rim at Steve. His eyes stay on Steve’s face, thoughtful and curious, and this is what sets a klaxon firing at the back of Steve’s brain – danger, danger – while the floor feels unsteady under Steve’s feet.
“Thanks,” Tony says at last. “Let me know the highlights.”
Steve can only nod, and ignore Tony’s blink of surprise that he’s getting away with it.