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Steve Rogers may wear his heart on his sleeve, but if he does, perhaps that's because putting what he feels into words is inordinately hard.
For most of his life, he's been defined by acts—volunteering for experimental treatments, leading soldiers through Nazi Germany, running and calling tactics for the Avengers. Doing what needs to be done has always been easy for Steve.
Granted, he's been told he's damn good at speeches, and rallying the troops, and giving Avengers pep talks. But somehow the knack for speaking just dries up when he looks at Tony and tries to tell him that Tony makes his heart flutter, that Steve often thinks fondly of Tony's playful ribbing, or how he's read all of Tony's interviews. Steve lives for his mentions of the Avengers in them. He always gets a funny, giddy sensation when Tony waxes lovingly about the team.
Steve resolves to try to find the words. He thinks that maybe if he makes it about Tony, and not himself, he can do it.
He'd pulled up the video of himself in rocket boots, intent on using it to break the ice with Tony. He wants to tell the other man that his laughter in the background never fails to make Steve smile—that Steve could listen to Tony's lighthearted laugh forever.
But he only gets as far as spying Tony at his workbench before getting cold feet.
The way that Tony is looking down intently at his schematics, hands flying across the hologram, making elegant little adjustments is beautiful. Engineering is what makes Tony smile. And Steve finds he's loathe to interrupt him.
So Steve puts the phone away, tries to capture Tony in his mind like this, happy and rapt with the process of creation.
On the way back to his room, before he can convince himself that it is a bad idea, he leaves a comment on Tony's video.
You always could knock me off my feet.
#
He's drawing in the kitchen when Tony comes up behind him and settles himself against the counter with crossed arms and a smile on his face.
Steve looks up at him, instantly suspicious. “Did I lose a bet I'd forgotten about?”
“Maybe,” Tony says.
“Maybe?”
“If you were betting that I didn't know who the Sentinel of 1776 handle belonged to.”
Steve thinks back, remembers the comment he left, and feels his stomach drop. “Oh. I—” —can explain he means to say. But instead what comes out is: “—didn't think you read the comments.”
“I read all of them,” he says. As if this is No Big Deal. As if he isn't a celebrity who has thousands of followers.
Steve swallows. “Do you ever reply?”
Tony grins. “Sometimes. If they're very nice.”
He is toying with Steve, damn it. “And?”
“And I think you're very nice, Steve. Want to be knocked off your feet again? Seven o'clock this Saturday?”
Steve can't believe this is happening. “Yes.” He resists the urge to babble yes several more times.
He says it too quickly because Tony laughs. And it's just that more endearing paired with the delighted twinkle in his eyes. “Okay. Make sure you wear a uniform with lots of padding.”
Steve frowns. This is not where he was expecting things to go. “Why?”
Tony waves his phone at him. “The Mark II build of your rocket boots needs testing.” And when Steve looks crestfallen, thinking that his comment's wording has ruined everything, Tony immediately adds, “then dinner after?”
“Sure.” But Steve's still worried he's misread this—mistaken a friendly gesture for something more. “Saturday at seven, it's a...” he stumbles to a halt mid-phrase, before date can tumble thoughtlessly from his lips. It's too loaded.
“It's a date, Steve.” Tony says for him. “A date date. That's alright with you, isn't it?”
Steve feels a flood of relief. He's terrible with words.
Thankfully, Tony isn't. Thankfully, Tony can piece together what Steve means.
“Yeah, Tony, that sounds perfect.”