It's probably for the best that Tony be a little discreet. Steve doesn't feel too much self-pity for having grown up in the tenements, but he's also a depression-era kid and the idea of wasting food still bothers him. Half the time if you give him an apple he'll eat the core of it. And yet, he's grown reasonably sanguine about the idea that his friend has an income that rivals the GNP of many a small European nation. It's just one of those weird facets about his life in the 21st century that he's learned to accept rather than analyze. He's developed an Alice-in-Wonderland mentality about some of these things.

Part of him wants to more or less hang off of Tony's arm, like the doe-eyed girls in the movies of his era. That might be asking a little too much, particularly in public, but he's less worried about getting chided by strangers for failing to hide the homoerotic tension between them than he is about Tony hitting his limit. The look he gets in response to his touch tells him he doesn't need to worry.

"Friendly wagers?" He raises an eyebrow. "Are you talking about off-track betting or counting cards here? Wait, I mean...I am shocked, just shocked, that you would suggest such a thing."

He doesn't look shocked. Actually, he looks delighted by the prospect. It sounds like just enough of an adrenaline rush to distract from the stress and melancholy of their mission, without putting them in physical danger. If he were a puppy, he'd be wagging his tail and doing play-bows all around Tony's feet right now.