They're both too old for this, in Steve's opinion, in their various ways. Tony's physical age is older, but there is something to be said for the time-displaced mentality. Steve has adjusted fairly well to cultural trends, but that doesn' t mean he doesn't still feel lost on a regular basis. The surreality of where he started and where he's ended up still gets to him. It's nothing anyone could have predicted, least of all a poor artist from Brooklyn.
"I'm trying," he tells Tony, and opts not to elaborate, for now. Everything is raw and too-present, and if he lets himself get worked up here it will make for a horribly long plan ride home. But really, what better can he say? Steve's always tried, always trying, and on the rare occasions he doesn't succeed, it isn't through lack of determination.
It's just that trauma is so insidious. Depression is so quiet. An ailment that saps an indefatigable will is hard to combat. But he's far from over, and when he smiles at Tony, there's an element of honesty in it. A secret shared, a promise that he's down but not out. Not yet.
He is of course no help whatsoever in working out how to alter the Ant Man suit, but he hangs around behind the scenes for a couple hours anyway, to make sure no one gets bitten, punched, or otherwise injured. Rocket's temper rivals that of humans several times his size. It's obvious from the way Steve reacts that the little furry guy is growing on him, though. Small, mouthy, potentially doomed to a short and uncomfortable life--there are some obvious parallels between him and Steve's past self. Still, he does his best to operate as a conflict mediator rather than choosing sides. Choosing sides hasn't worked out well in the past.
It's Natasha that undertakes to drag him away and talk him into eating and resting, mostly by convincing him he's getting on the nice mad scientists' nerves, let them do their work. She's gotten very clever at Steve-wrangling these last few months, and gets him talking the quickest way she knows how: asking his advice about how she should approach Banner. She in no way needs it, but as a ploy, it works. The catharsis is quiet and incomplete, but it's there.
"I'm wearing my favorite chicken costume, you won't feel emasculated," he calls back when Tony knocks. "It's unlocked."
In point of fact, he's in sweatpants and a sleeveless black shirt, and he hasn't shaved or cut his hair but he looks much cleaner otherwise. There are a couple light scars on his bare arms that weren't there before. They're probably from the recent battles; his skin will swallow them up in time, leaving no visible external marks. The only scars he's held onto since the serum are from bullet wounds.
He's been looking through the old sketchbooks. The one open on his lap has a new doodle of the bobblehead in it, in progress.
"I'm keeping that," he tells him seriously. He's put Redwing on the windowsill next to it. Sam wouldn't mind. Tony made the drone for him in the first place.
absolutely!
"I'm trying," he tells Tony, and opts not to elaborate, for now. Everything is raw and too-present, and if he lets himself get worked up here it will make for a horribly long plan ride home. But really, what better can he say? Steve's always tried, always trying, and on the rare occasions he doesn't succeed, it isn't through lack of determination.
It's just that trauma is so insidious. Depression is so quiet. An ailment that saps an indefatigable will is hard to combat. But he's far from over, and when he smiles at Tony, there's an element of honesty in it. A secret shared, a promise that he's down but not out. Not yet.
He is of course no help whatsoever in working out how to alter the Ant Man suit, but he hangs around behind the scenes for a couple hours anyway, to make sure no one gets bitten, punched, or otherwise injured. Rocket's temper rivals that of humans several times his size. It's obvious from the way Steve reacts that the little furry guy is growing on him, though. Small, mouthy, potentially doomed to a short and uncomfortable life--there are some obvious parallels between him and Steve's past self. Still, he does his best to operate as a conflict mediator rather than choosing sides. Choosing sides hasn't worked out well in the past.
It's Natasha that undertakes to drag him away and talk him into eating and resting, mostly by convincing him he's getting on the nice mad scientists' nerves, let them do their work. She's gotten very clever at Steve-wrangling these last few months, and gets him talking the quickest way she knows how: asking his advice about how she should approach Banner. She in no way needs it, but as a ploy, it works. The catharsis is quiet and incomplete, but it's there.
"I'm wearing my favorite chicken costume, you won't feel emasculated," he calls back when Tony knocks. "It's unlocked."
In point of fact, he's in sweatpants and a sleeveless black shirt, and he hasn't shaved or cut his hair but he looks much cleaner otherwise. There are a couple light scars on his bare arms that weren't there before. They're probably from the recent battles; his skin will swallow them up in time, leaving no visible external marks. The only scars he's held onto since the serum are from bullet wounds.
He's been looking through the old sketchbooks. The one open on his lap has a new doodle of the bobblehead in it, in progress.
"I'm keeping that," he tells him seriously. He's put Redwing on the windowsill next to it. Sam wouldn't mind. Tony made the drone for him in the first place.