Steve fails to see how a committed three-person relationship is any kinkier than strings of one-night stands. His brain doesn't work the same as everyone else's, though; he doesn't think or feel the way most people seem to.

And neither does Tony. He is brutally tactless, completely without shame. Maybe it's partly that he's still drunk and grieving, only...only, Steve's known him for long enough that he can't make himself believe that. It's just the way he is, unfiltered and goal-focused whether the goal is completing a project or coaxing a reaction out of Steve Rogers.

The thing is, he's succeeding. For a moment, some small part of Steve mourns that it has to be like this, that he can't have at least a taste of something softer and kinder. Men like them weren't made to be comforted, maybe. Iron Man. Captain fucking America. But tender or not, it's an offer he wants very much, not just to get him out of his own head, but to give Tony the same benefit. They have to keep each other sane a little longer.

His gaze drops to the floor at Tony's feet, then sweeps up again, and there's something predatory creeping into his body language. "You makin' fun of me, Tony?" he asks quietly. "Or is this your way of asking me for a blow job?"

He gets up and retrieves the wastebasket and a few more napkins. "Because either way, I'm pretty sure you're gonna regret it when you're sober."

He sinks easily down beside Tony's chair and hooks one arm over his knees, making sure he's not going anywhere before he starts picking up the meal debris with his other hand, piece by piece.

"Brakes are off," he says. "If you're playing chicken with me, you're about to lose."