The inherent risk makes him nervous. Steve wants to pretend it's because a live weapon of mass destruction over New York is exactly the kind of thing he crashed a plane into the Arctic to stop. Which is true. But what he's really worried about is Tony. Younger-Tony, sure, but mostly this one that's lying in bed with him close enough to kiss. Because he needs him, and he wants to see him happy.
That's love.
He studies his expression closely, looking for any hint that he's on the edge of passive suicide, the way Steve has been off and on for...far too long. He's not seeing it, at least not now. No, and if it's such a seminal moment for him--well, Steve can relate to that. If he were offered the chance to go back and stop himself from crashing the Valkyrie, he's not sure he'd take it.
"I guess...sometimes the worst things we go through help to make us the people we wanted to be," he says softly, wondering if that's applicable here. If a decade from now they'll look back, still grieving, but grateful for the way this has shaped them.
He leans in and nudges his forehead to Tony's. "Okay, but can you program one of the suits to carry it unmanned as backup? If for some reason younger-Tony doesn't do what we expect, you're not doing it twice. At least, not alone."
If they go out, they go out together. And Steve isn't keen on the idea of letting past-Tony die, either, but if it's a choice between that one and this one, the one that he can sorta-kinda call his Tony Stark, well, it's not a contest.
"...you know what, though? The moment you really stuck it to me was before that. When I thought I was trying to be reassuring, about Phil getting killed, and you looked at me and said 'we are not soldiers'. God, I needed to hear that. I think that's when I really started fallin' for you."
Thanks to his eidetic memory, he has that moment on file in his brain, with perfect clarity. The quiet rage on Tony's face, the tension in his jaw. His vintage Black Sabbath t-shirt. Steve smiles and gives him a light, strangely chaste, kiss on the lips.
no subject
That's love.
He studies his expression closely, looking for any hint that he's on the edge of passive suicide, the way Steve has been off and on for...far too long. He's not seeing it, at least not now. No, and if it's such a seminal moment for him--well, Steve can relate to that. If he were offered the chance to go back and stop himself from crashing the Valkyrie, he's not sure he'd take it.
"I guess...sometimes the worst things we go through help to make us the people we wanted to be," he says softly, wondering if that's applicable here. If a decade from now they'll look back, still grieving, but grateful for the way this has shaped them.
He leans in and nudges his forehead to Tony's. "Okay, but can you program one of the suits to carry it unmanned as backup? If for some reason younger-Tony doesn't do what we expect, you're not doing it twice. At least, not alone."
If they go out, they go out together. And Steve isn't keen on the idea of letting past-Tony die, either, but if it's a choice between that one and this one, the one that he can sorta-kinda call his Tony Stark, well, it's not a contest.
"...you know what, though? The moment you really stuck it to me was before that. When I thought I was trying to be reassuring, about Phil getting killed, and you looked at me and said 'we are not soldiers'. God, I needed to hear that. I think that's when I really started fallin' for you."
Thanks to his eidetic memory, he has that moment on file in his brain, with perfect clarity. The quiet rage on Tony's face, the tension in his jaw. His vintage Black Sabbath t-shirt. Steve smiles and gives him a light, strangely chaste, kiss on the lips.