Dust mites? At this hotel? Dust mites can't afford the Four Seasons.
Steve eyes him uncertainly from across the room, still concerned, but since he seems to be on his feet he'll let it go for the moment. He has no idea what Tony ordered, but there's a lot of it, and it looks pretty good even with the clashing scents. He hasn't had a chance to be picky on the run as he's been, and pizza and tacos--even fancy tacos with cilantro pesto and mango salsa garnish or whatever that is--look really appealing. At the door, he tries not to look the desk clerk in the eye. There's no way it will have escaped the guy's notice that Steve is shaved and his hair has changed color, which doesn't quite fit the 'bodyguard' thing they established before, but it doesn't matter what he thinks as long as he doesn't identify Captain America.
Luckily, the clerk has a tablet for electronically adding tips to the credit card bill, because Steve is carrying about enough cash for a cup of coffee. Not Starbucks, either. McDonald's coffee. "Of course, sir," he says to Tony in the tone he thinks a professional bodyguard might say it. It comes out sounding half-military and half like JARVIS if he had a Brooklyn accent.
And when he goes back to the door, the clerk's gaze has intensified. Oops. That's a look of either recognition or 'I really should know who you are, give me a second to place you'. "Uh...are you...?" He begins softly.
Steve puts a finger to his lips and takes the tablet to add the tip, desperately hoping the hospitality industry's training in polite discretion towards guests' various quirks will hold out. "Thanks, though. If I were gonna be in town longer..."
He looks even more Captain America when he smiles sheepishly. The poor clerk is going to be confused for days.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
momijizukamori![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2018-06-22 01:08 pm (UTC)Steve eyes him uncertainly from across the room, still concerned, but since he seems to be on his feet he'll let it go for the moment. He has no idea what Tony ordered, but there's a lot of it, and it looks pretty good even with the clashing scents. He hasn't had a chance to be picky on the run as he's been, and pizza and tacos--even fancy tacos with cilantro pesto and mango salsa garnish or whatever that is--look really appealing. At the door, he tries not to look the desk clerk in the eye. There's no way it will have escaped the guy's notice that Steve is shaved and his hair has changed color, which doesn't quite fit the 'bodyguard' thing they established before, but it doesn't matter what he thinks as long as he doesn't identify Captain America.
Luckily, the clerk has a tablet for electronically adding tips to the credit card bill, because Steve is carrying about enough cash for a cup of coffee. Not Starbucks, either. McDonald's coffee. "Of course, sir," he says to Tony in the tone he thinks a professional bodyguard might say it. It comes out sounding half-military and half like JARVIS if he had a Brooklyn accent.
And when he goes back to the door, the clerk's gaze has intensified. Oops. That's a look of either recognition or 'I really should know who you are, give me a second to place you'. "Uh...are you...?" He begins softly.
Steve puts a finger to his lips and takes the tablet to add the tip, desperately hoping the hospitality industry's training in polite discretion towards guests' various quirks will hold out. "Thanks, though. If I were gonna be in town longer..."
He looks even more Captain America when he smiles sheepishly. The poor clerk is going to be confused for days.