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Steve stuck to a tight routine on days when he wasn't saving the world from impending doom. He had a light snack, a large glass of water, ran for an hour, showered, and had coffee, four eggs, three pieces of toast with butter and jam, sausage, bacon, and a pile of fresh fruit while he listened to NPR. This sort of breakfast always felt indulgent to a kid who had grown up skipping meals more often than he really should have and he paused a moment over his toast, remembering how Bucky tried to feed him between sparring sessions before the war. It was a fleeting thought, followed by half-baked prayers tumbling around in his head that never felt like they quite made it to God. "Well, a soldier needs fuel," he said to himself as he dug in to the strawberries and pineapple.
"What's that?" Tony poured himself a giant cup of coffee, skipping the bourbon for now. It was early yet, even for him, but five o'clock would roll around eventually, if by five o'clock, you meant eleven A.M. and he did.
Steve laughed a little as he wiped the corner of his mouth. "It's just something Bucky said to me... y'know, before--" He gestured at his chest, still occasionally surprised that it didn't cough or gasp after a run.
"Before you became the big hunk of man you are today?" Tony raised his glass a little, "Cheers." Steved raised his mug and the news played on as it always did, mostly as background noise to the conversations he had with the team every morning. Sometimes Clint came in and drank from the pot or Natasha would keep him from making another, playfully swatting him away from cabinet where they kept the grounds and filters.
This morning, Steve Inskeep finished a story about some politician's alleged improprieties as Tony offered running commentary, then the music bump turned slow and sad. "Lennie Merullo, the oldest former member of the Chicago Cubs and the last living person to play for them in the World Series, died Saturday. He was 98..."
Steve held a hand up, a sudden seriousness in his eyes. "Quiet, Tony, I want to hear this." Tony shrugged and sipped his coffee as the remembrance continued and before it was done, Steve found himself pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes."
Tony, taken aback, asked "Are you... crying?"
"If you say 'There's no crying in baseball,' I'm going to hurt you."
"No, it's just--" he shook his head, "I didn't know you were a Cubs fan. I'm sorry to hear about... did you know him?"
Steve sniffed and shook his head, "No, I never met the guy and I never was a Cubs fan. In fact, I probably called him names that weren't fit to print a time or two. I don't know why I--" Steve sighed, trying to compose himself, "I didn't even know they got to the World Series. I went down during spring training and I was really hoping the Dodgers would redeem themselves after losing to the Yankees in '41. I just... I knew who he was: shortstop, right hander, and a good arm, too. I heard about the game where he made four errors in an inning and Buck and I had a good laugh about that. We'd never heard anything like it. I miss that. I don't follow baseball like I did before. Even during the war, we'd get news from home and we'd get baseball scores and that kind of thing, but I guess I've just had other things on my mind." Tony poked at his phone, seemingly inattentive. Steve took a bite of his breakfast and shook his head. "I guess not everyone's into baseball..."
"C'mon, Cap, let's go." Tony pocketed his phone and slugged down the last of his coffee. "We'll pick up some peanuts and Cracker Jacks when we get there."
"Get where?"
"Chicago. There's a game today against the..." he glanced at his phone again, "Royals, whoever they are. Chop-chop, time's a-wastin'."
"Tony, you don't have to--"
Tony rolled his eyes a little, "No. I don't have to and I can't bring back the good ol' days or your friend and my knowledge of baseball is primarily metaphorical, but my very fat wallet and I can take you a game." He gestured for Steve to hurry up, "Now c'mon, old man."
"You'd do that for me?"
"Yeah, but not if you don't bust a move."