Steve is weirdly detached from the idea of himself as the pinnacle of human performance, even more so now than during the war. As much as he considers the serum and its effects a serious responsibility, he's pretty wrapped up in the idea that there's too much variation in humanity to select a few traits and pump them up and call that perfect. That's what Schmidt wanted, he supposes. Maybe that's what Erskine wanted at first, but Steve still clings to the idea that the serum magnifies whatever is in the person that takes it. Good becomes great. But he has to maintain the good, because it's a long way to fall, if he falls, and there's a red skull grinning at the bottom of the slope, mocking.

And yet to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Just a kid from Brooklyn.

He's heard plenty about how beautiful and perfect he is, and the less said there, the better as far as he's concerned. Except from Tony, perhaps, if he's going to flirt.

He does not, in fact, get the reference, and the quizzical rise and fall of his eyebrows says so, but like Tony he concludes it isn't important. He gets the context. "The idea of you researching kink for me is weirdly touching," he says. "Engineering sex toys in your workshop in the wee hours of the morning..."

His eyes are sparkling. For an awkward confession, this is turning out all right. "Nothing with its own AI, okay? I don't want a sci-fi threesome. You're plenty to handle all on your own."

He tugs him into a kiss, then uses that as a starting point to nuzzle across his cheekbone and around to the side of his throat. "That can be the title of your memoir," he says. "'Christmas Cards from Prostitutes: My Life with Deaf Artist Drag-Queen Captain America.' By Tony Stark."