"Well, if you'd come see it, I'm sure it would be at least a modest success." Steve's position on fanfiction is that he knows it exists, and that's all he needs to know. Same with fan art. It's not that he minds being depicted in compromising positions, but he tends to feel artwork says more about the creator than the subject, and he doesn't especially want to know that much about the psychosexual workings of a totals stranger.

But hey, it's not really hurting anyone.

Mentioning the Dodgers, on the other hand, is a low blow as far as he's concerned. "You mean they were stolen. Don't get me started on the Dodgers, Tony. Not unless you wanna see a grown man cry."

He's exaggerating. He's certainly miffed about the Dodgers, but he's not about to start another fight over them.

Accepting the box, he shakes his head. "You don't engineer hair. That's crazy. It's hair. Hey, why don't you engineer yourself something to eat? I know you, you don't stop for breaks when you're working; I bet you haven't had a decent meal since we met up again. And it looks like I'm gonna need at least twenty minutes to become a bottle blond."