[Fic] But the Heart - Steve x Tony (+ team and kid!Peter) 2/4
New York in the morning almost feels like home. The smell of damp concrete and steel, faint sewage, the car traffic gone quiet. Well, quiet-ish. Steve can stand on the street and take a deep breath and pretend he's not so far away from home that he can barely find his way around the city he spent his whole life in, anymore.
"Hey," Tony says as he steps up, not even looking at the street, eyes on his phone as his thumbs tap away at the screen. "Find us a place to eat, Brooklyn Kid."
Abruptly, Steve feels grounded again, because this--this he can do. "What would you like?"
Peter is staring at the little fences around each of the trees that line the road like they're a personal challenge.
The look Tony gives him is hard with spite and hazy with sleep deprivation, even as he leans into Steve, the lines of their bodies pressing together. "Co-ffee," he says, pulling the word into emphatic, scornful syllables. "Everything else negligible, Rogers." Then he straightens and gives a sharp whistle, like a person might call a dog, and Steve follows his line of sight to see Peter freeze in the act of putting his foot on the rung of the tree-fence, hands gripping the bars. "If you get your foot stuck we're leaving you here, monkey face."
Peter seems to consider that carefully.
"Then no pancakes for you," Tony says, eyes back on his phone.
Steve can't stand the sad look Peter throws in Tony's direction, so he scoops Peter up and swings him around a few times until he seems to forget about climbing anything but Steve.
They reach the diner in working order, Peter on the seat of honor that is Steve's shoulders, the heels of his brand new sneakers kicking lightly at Steve's pec muscles. Steve can smell the new rubber and is almost as fascinated as Peter is at the way the soles light up on impact.
"I could make something better," Tony says.
"No rocket boots."
"They'd be perfectly safe--"
"No, Tony."
The place is small and wasted none of the budget on decorating. The seats for the outdoor area are plastic, as are the tables. On the inside, the floor--while clean--is that gray color that comes from years of wear, and there's tacky chili lights that Steve thought were charming strung around the edge of the small dining area and strung in the rafters. He's holding his breath at the thought of Tony seeing and saying something snide.
But the smells from the kitchen are mouthwatering, and Tony doesn't comment on the décor at all. Instead, his head comes up at the first whiff of coffee--very good coffee in Steve's admittedly limited estimate--and he tries to make a beeline toward the first available pot, which is actually being carried by a passing waitress. Steve has to physically hold him back, and make him sit on one of the benches along the wall for people who are waiting for a table.
Peter is fascinated by the crayon drawings that cover the walls in the waiting area. Most are childish scribbles, but even so, Steve thinks they're lovely. There's one or two scattered through that are obviously done by a more adult hand, and Steve envies the colors. The waiter that takes their names offers Peter a piece of paper and a plastic cup of crayons, and apparently that's tempting enough to lure the boy off Steve's shoulders and on to the floor where he promptly places his paper and begins coloring.
In the transition, Steve's lost track of Tony, and when Steve spots him, he's leaning on the countertop that rings the open griddle and coffee machines, talking to one of the waitresses guarding the caffeine-filled carafes. There's steel gray streaking her hair, which is pulled back into a no-nonsense bun and a stern line creases her face between her eyebrows. She's a study in solid, square lines, as immovable as a wall, but Tony's got his most charming smile on, one that is somehow not dimmed by the scruff of his usually meticulous beard or his oversized, worn t-shirt and old, soft jeans. He's wearing red high tops, the only splash of usual Tony Stark flamboyancy in his outfit.
So Steve's not particularly surprised when Tony returns triumphant with a hot cup of coffee. He is, however, surprised that he's brought back a cup for Steve, too, black, with two spoonfuls of sugar. Steve takes it, holding it in his hands and remembering Sunday mornings with his mother--after early morning mass, when the bitter coffee and precious sugar had been a treat. Tony sprawls beside him, propping himself up against Steve's shoulder, one hand holding his cup and the other manipulating his phone.
It's early and it's a weekday, so there's a minimal wait, made quicker by Steve's agreement to sit at the counter instead of waiting for a booth or a table. He has to scoop Peter up and carry him to their waiting stools, because he won't abandon his picture even to walk.
"You're spoiling him," Tony says absently, eyes still on his phone, the fingertips of one hand tapping away, the others cupped protectively around his coffee.
Steve frowns, not sure if he agrees, but also not willing to argue about it. Instead, he ignores Tony as he settles Peter on his other side, only a little worried that Tony might be right and that Peter won't stop drawing to engage anyone and then what will they do? What do parents normally do?
Steve's worry seems needless, however, because the little redheaded girl beside Peter drops her doll and Peter hops down to get it, scrambling back up to his seat with a nimbleness that Steve is beginning to recognize as innate. She smiles and Peter grins back. Then there is a solemn exchange of a green crayon for a blue one, and Steve is slightly embarrassed to realize that Peter may be better at interacting with his own age group than Steve. Certainly better than Tony.
Speaking of whom, Steve turns back to find that Tony is ordering for them in Spanish, fluently, grin flirtatious. That's Tony's default, so it's not bothersome. What is annoying is their waiter's return smile that says Tony might actually be successful. The boy's willowy-thin, but has relatively broad shoulders for his smallish frame, younger than Tony usually likes them, silver hoop in one eyebrow and more following the outer curve of his ears.
Steve could take him in fight, no problem. He'd probably start by grabbing a handful of that flashy metal an putting the kid in a headlock and--
Oh god, Rogers, stop thinking of beating up innocent--sort of, relatively innocent--civilian kids because they're smiling at the guy you sort of maybe have a thing for, you great big lout.
Steve consciously unclenches his hands from the countertop, and then flushes when he catches the waiter's knowing smirk. It's embarrassing enough finding himself with these kinds of thoughts; it's more than humiliating when other people notice them.
"And what about you, Bambi?" the waiter addresses Peter, accent heavy but English perfectly understandable.
"Er, he doesn't..." Steve starts, trying to explain that they haven't yet seen Peter even attempt actual words.
But Peter's expression says that this is a Very Important Decision, one that gets him to set down his all-important crayons and give his full attention to their server. Then he straightens and makes a very deliberate set of moments with his hands, like he scooped something up from his palm and then flipped it over to lay it flat again against his hand.
"Pancakes, huh?" the waiter says without preamble. "Good choice. You want bacon with that? Or sausage?"
Peter tilts his head, then makes a quick movement with both hands again, this one like he's caught a rabbit by the ears--represented by the pointer and middle finger of one hand--only to have it slip away.
"Both?" Their waiter scoffs, expression teasing. "Where are you going to put all that in that skinny body of yours?"
Steve finds himself gaping a little. He's afraid this is another one of those things, those future things that everyone just knows but him.
Peter's next reply is one Steve actually knows. He sticks his tongue out.
The waiter laughs. "Okay, Bambi, okay. You want hot chocolate, too? You look like a hot chocolate kind of man."
Peter nods, then touches his chin with all four fingertips before presenting his palm in a downward arc.
"You're welcome."
"Huh," Tony says. Steve glances at him and sees that he's stopped looking at his phone to watch the exchange. He's got that look that says there's something unexpected happening, and Steve's relieved to know that he's not the only one out of the loop. "Sign language."
"Yeah, my cousin taught me. So," the waiter looks at his list, "two specials, pancakes with bacon and sausage, hot chocolate and...more coffee?"
"You could probably just leave the pot."
Their waiter smirks. "More coffee."
Then he's gone, and Peter's returned to his drawing, kicking his heels against the rungs of the stool, expression content, humming quietly.
"Sign language?" Steve asks Tony.
"Yeah, I think so. That's what it looked like. I dated a deaf girl, once."
Of course.
Steve manages not to roll his eyes but only just. "So Peter's...deaf?" But even as he says it, it doesn't sound right.
"No, I don't think so. They use sign language in early development these days. And with monkeys."
"Monkeys?"
"He's not mute, clearly."
Steve tries to get his mind off of signing monkeys. "How old do you think he is?"
"We could always ask. Hey, Pete!"
Peter looks at them, eyebrows up, questioning.
"How old are you?"
Peter shrugs, then goes back to drawing with an expression that suggests they shouldn't interrupt him with things that are aren't worth his time. Steve's seen that exact same look on Tony's face when he's in the lab more than once. It makes him smile. Then also makes him worry, a little.
"Well, that was no help."
Breakfast arrives. Whatever Tony ordered for them comes with an egg over a mess of rice and beans with a flatbread-grilled-grain-something on the side. It's spicy and a bit messy and perfect. Peter tucks into his tall stack of pancakes with a gusto that says he also approves of the food selections.
Steve's phone chimes. It's Clint. Cute kid! Give him back to his mother before Stark corrupts him Hes already sans clothes Booze and loose women cant be far behind -CB
Steve is halfway through answering, He doesn't have a mother-- before he stops to think that maybe that's opening the way for a whole barrage of questions he doesn't have answers for.
"Who's that? Clint? Gimme." Tony steals his phone with no regard for personal property. It's StarkTech so maybe there's some gray area of ownership there, and Steve has given up trying to stop Tony's casual theft, anyway. It's the definition of futility.
"I thought you said you didn't take a picture."
"I lied," Tony says, not even bothering to sound abashed. "Clint says he thinks Peter looks about six or seven. Maybe a very small eight."
"Clint knows kids?"
"He was raised in a circus."
Now Steve is almost certain Tony is lying, but even more importantly, "How does that help us?"
"Kids like circuses."
Steve supposes that's close enough to logic to count for something. "Does he know anything about sign language?"
It turns out that he does not. At least, nothing like American Standard, which Tony says he thinks is what Peter is using. Clint and Black Widow have some sort of secret code of hand signals that they use on missions, but Tony reports, "He could teach it to us, but then he'd have to kill us."
"What would be the point?" Steve asks, confused.
"Exactly."
Steve's still missing something--he guesses some kind of pop culture reference--so he lets it go and polishes off his breakfast and half of Tony's too. Peter has abandoned drawing for sculpture, using the last half of an uneaten pancake and a handful of toothpicks to build a little fort on his plate with a syrup moat. His flapjack castle is besieged by the fork and knife, and the napkin is also involved somehow, though Steve's not entirely sure how.
When the check comes, Steve pays for it, glaring Tony's protests into silence. Peter's picture--streaks of red and black and blue--gets taped to the wall with the other amateur artwork, and then they're back out onto the street, Peter and Tony sporting their matching shades and Steve squinting into the sun. Peter, small hand curled contentedly in Steve's larger one, gives him a concerned look before offering his own glasses for Steve's eye protection.
"Oh, no thank you," Steve says, but Peter gets a stubborn look that says he's about to start arguing--loudly, even though he doesn't have words to articulate, so Steve hastily takes the sunglasses from him and puts them on.
Peter looks satisfied, and Steve is relieved at the near-crisis averted. Of course, Peter's next move is to tug on Tony's hand and make grabby gestures toward him.
"Huh?" Tony takes his eyes off his phone and frowns at Peter, whose hands flick through a series of deliberate motions that Steve is beginning to recognize as a language even though he can't interpret it. "Sunglasses? Mine? What happened to yours..." Then he glances at Steve and the look that settles on his features makes Steve feel like he stole something important from a helpless person. "Oh, I see how it is."
"Sorry," Steve says, immediately taking the glasses off again. "I just...he wanted me to..."
"No no, that's fine." Tony pockets his phone and scoops Peter up in one smooth gesture, taking off the red-tinted shades and dropping them on Peter's face. Peter makes a bright, happy sound and seizes them in a firm grip to settle them properly on his ears.
"Really," Steve continues doggedly, still holding the glasses out to Tony. "Take them back. You can wear them. They're yours, anyway."
"Ew, no. Blue is not my color. Besides, those aren't mine. They're Peter's, and are you really going to refuse a gift, Cap? You'll make the kid sad." He looks at Peter. "Cap doesn't want your sunglasses, spider-monkey," Tony tells him mournfully.
Peter looks at Steve, lower lip wobbling slightly. Steve puts the sunglasses on. "No, I--! They're great. Thanks."
Tony and Peter have identical grins, and Steve has the distinct sense that he's been played, but somehow, the world is tinted in pale blue and he doesn't actually care, much.
Which is probably why he gets in the cab that Tony hails without asking where they're going. Peter explores everything with nimble, questioning fingertips, like he's never seen the inside of a cab before. Tony makes faces at--Steve assumes--the idea that other people have touched the same things he is currently also touching, and Steve makes friends with the cabby because he's genuinely interested in the man's four children and wife who makes excellent curry and terrible casseroles.
Almost a half hour later and across the Bridge, they're getting out somewhere in Lower Manhattan, on a street full of shops that don't look entirely awake, yet, before Steve tries to find out what they're doing.
"Equalizing assets," Tony says and doesn't explain.
Steve doesn't ask for clarification because sometimes it's necessary to claw through the tangle of Tony's brilliant mind for mutual understanding, and sometimes it's just fun to go with the flow and not worry. It took a long time for Steve to understand that.
Tony, in worn jeans and a ratty t-shirt too big for him, waltzes through the glitz doors of a store that is obviously not yet open to the public, and doesn't look at all out of place among merchandise that Steve is afraid to even stand close to, everything looks so expensive. It's still fairly early, and although employees are present, the lights are dimmed and some of the displays are empty, items still locked away for safe keeping during the night.
Steve thinks he has a pretty good idea what they're doing here when Tony heads straight for a display of sunglasses.
When they step back outside, Tony's got new yellow-tinted shades in the same style as Peter and Steve, custom fitted on the spot. It's an extravagance that makes Steve wince but doesn't even seem to register for Tony.
"Where to now, Mama Bear?" Tony asks and then, without waiting for an answer, continues, "There's a few arcades we could check out--one on Coney Island that's pretty awesome. Lots of old school games. Peter should get a solid education on things that matter."
Steve looks up at what he can see of the blue sky and feels a vague horror at the thought to being trapped in dimly lit spaces with too many people pressed around him, bells and alarms and flashing lights, gunfire. Even fake gunfire doesn't sound appealing.
"I thought maybe the park."
"The park?" Tony echoes back, like Steve has suggested skinny dipping in raw sewage. "Like, outside? This is the City that Never Sleeps and you want us to take a stroll though nature?"
"What's wrong with the outdoors?"
"It's full of death. Have you watched the Discovery Chanel?"
"No?"
"Well, I have and I'm not letting lions eat my kid."
"Our kid," Steve corrects before thinking, and then flushes hot.
Tony only raises an eyebrow. "The kid," he insists stubbornly, then glances around. "Who is...where, exactly?"
Steve searches the area with growing horror when he realizes that he doesn't see Peter anywhere.
"Oh my god," Tony whimpers, "we are so bad at this."
Then there's gunfire and shattering glass and shouting. Steve takes off before it even registers, something deep and instinctive telling him that it's Peter and Peter's in trouble. He reaches for his shield and is almost startled to realize that he didn't bring it with him. Tony yells something after him, but the pounding of trainers on the sidewalk means that, despite questions or protests, he's close behind.
They round a corner and... Well, Steve is half right.
It is Peter, but he's not in trouble. Instead, he's standing in the midst of broken glass and fallen, thwarted jewelry thieves. The manager and employees of the near-victimized shop ring the little boy in a circle of dazed gratefulness. Peter's smile is huge and triumphant. He's showing off the blinking lights on his shoes and a woman who likely is a mother herself, from aplomb by which she deals with Peter's enthusiasm, is making appropriately impressed sounds.
"Oh," says Tony, taking in the scene, "Oh, he definitely got that from your side of the family."
"What...happened?"
No one is entirely sure, except maybe Peter--who can't or isn't bothering to articulate it--and the bad guys, who are all in various states of unconscious or babbling incoherence. Then there are cops and the media shows up and it's a circus. Tony smiles his "on camera" smile and pushes to the front, blocking Steve and Peter from prying eyes as much as he can. He's more successful at hiding Peter, who stands behind him gripping the back of his shirt, than Steve, who towers and finds himself glaring more than he should.
Steve's not great at dealing with the press, especially the modern press who all seem more viciously rude and invasive than what Steve encountered even during his days selling war bonds, but he's usually better than this. Protective feelings keep making his answers curt and his smiles more like a baring of teeth, until Tony reaches out and settles a hand on the small of his back, thumb rubbing soothing circles against his spine. It's both relaxing and then fills him with tension for an entirely different reason. He wills himself not to blush.
Tony's eyes are toward the front. Steve's not even sure he's consciously doing it, just responding to distress. Then Peter takes Steve's hand and looks up at him with a grin that says, "We're all right; it's okay," and the rest of the fight goes out of his shoulders and he just shuts up and lets Tony do his thing.
Eventually, they find themselves sitting in uncomfortable chairs at 9th Precinct, across from a Sergeant Donovan while Tony flirts shamelessly with her partner and what seems like the entire population of Manhattan cops stops by to dote on Peter. Meanwhile, Steve answers questions to help the good Sergeant get her paperwork in order, because Steve is the responsible one and everyone knows it.
Steve keeps his expression a bit hangdog and his tone apologetically "aw, shucks" in a way that's about 60% an act, feeling only slightly guilty about it. Sergeant Donovan looks like she doesn't entirely believe it, but is willing to indulge him, so that's fine. The bad guys were pretty clearly bad guys and Steve has been recognized as Captain America and there's a little awe and embarrassing hero worship in the eyes of some of the passing officers. Steve pretends not to notice, but he's not entirely above using it to his advantage, even if it makes him slightly uncomfortable. These people likely get shot at with as great a regularity as Steve, and they don't have bulletproof shields to protect them.
When he says as much, Sergeant Donovan grins at him. "Don't feed the puppies, Captain. They'll just follow you home and shit on your carpet."
"I think I have about as much of that as I can handle." Steve spears a meaningful look in Tony's direction.
"Peter, cover your ears," Tony says, and waits for one of the plainsclothes detectives to clap his hands protectively on either side of the boy's head before saying, "Fuck you very much, Rogers."
Eventually, the paperwork's done, interviews are complete, and the three of them spend half an hour chatting with New York's finest, drinking frankly awful coffee and signing Avengers paraphernalia as Tony arranges to have them sneaked out the back and the coppers run interference with the press that's gathered outside like a horde of undead from the movie that Tony chose for Team Building Night a few weeks back.
"I'm buying you guys better coffee makers," Tony says, staring morosely into the dregs of his NYPD mug. "This is barbaric."
"You'll hear no protest from me," their Captain says amicably, tapping his mug to Tony's in a show of commiseration.
"Bribery is illegal," Steve points out, just to see Tony make a face at him.
"I might consider going dirty for an espresso machine," the Captain says, deadpan.
"Done and done," Tony says.
Steve's phone buzzes and it's Natasha: Eagle in the dive. Which is code for SHIELD and/or Nick Fury unhappy and headed their way.
Clint's text to Tony doesn't bother with subtlety: Holy shit stark WHat did you DO??? Furys shitting whole chickens and coulsons gonna
And which point there's a text to both of them from Clint's phone: If either one of you end up in the news again today you will find out just how unpleasant your training exercises can become. Coulson doesn't even bother saying who he is, but Steve knows anyway.
Tasers man. Lots and lots of tasers. That's likely Clint again. Im taking one for the team just standing this close to him. You better be grateful.
Nano-intelligent, major-artery-seeking arrows, Steve sees Tony reply.
If youre shitting me I am pissing in your whiskey and not telling you which bottle.
Moose and Squirrel should find better shelter. That's Natasha. Moose and Squirrel being her code names for him and Tony. It's in reference to some cartoon and Steve doesn't really understand beyond that. Is Eagle aware of Baby Bear's presence?
"Is she talking about Peter?" Steve asks, showing Tony the text.
"More importantly, we should go." Tony's phone chimes again. "Oh good, that's Happy. Thank you, everyone, you were lovely," he announces to the room at large.
Steve sets his stance, holds out his arm and lets Peter climb him while Tony says their goodbyes and makes extravagant promises that he will, likely, actually fulfill. Pepper's going to either be highly amused or deeply annoyed. Steve decides to avoid her for a bit just to be on the safe side, and cultivate a completely innocent expression that he can hold when she inevitably asks, "What exactly happened down at that precinct?"
They're escorted into a back alley where a nondescript midrange car awaits them, Happy at the wheel. Peter clambers into the front seat from the back with a determination that's not to be deterred, shakes hands with Happy in a serious, adult away, and straps in without having to be told.
They get about two blocks when Happy announces they've got a tail. Steve glances behind them but can't see anything. Espionage is not really his forte. He's much better at just punching things in the face. He feels the absence of his shield again and almost asks they go back to his apartment to pick it up.
Tony just says, "Lose them."
"You've got it, boss."
It's a lot more sedate than Steve would've expected from the movies he's seen, or the driving in the army or, more recently, SHIELD. Happy--mostly--obeys the speed limit and the roadway laws in general. He's just incredibly sneaky--ducking down alleys and under bridges, pulling multiple turns with a deft touch of the wheel. Peter provides the chase noises--engines revving and tires screeching--but the actual event is rather calm and professional.
Tony loses himself in his phone. Steve makes himself look at the city and know it for who it is now. It's an exercise he's made himself do since the day he decided he was sticking around--first to run The Avengers, and then just because--well, because the urge to give up on everything had eased enough for him to see light in the shadows of his mind again, not just endless charcoal darkness blotting out all detail.
He's interrupted from maudlin thoughts by a weight along his side, and turns to see Tony asleep, slumped against him, phone balanced precariously on his lap, still glowing. Steve catches glimpse of scrolling gibberish--letters and symbols in no order that he can make any sense of, before it blanks and goes dark.
Tony at rest is a rare thing to see, and despite the fact that Steve's wearing sunglasses in the dim interior of the car, details come easy--the rough of Tony's beard, the sooty arcs of his lashes on his cheeks made darker by the bruises of exhaustion under his eyes, the wild hair still weirdly artful despite who knows how long since Tony's last shower, though he must have at least scrubbed his face in Steve's sink because the dried trickle of blood is gone. He's pale and battle-scuffed and obviously dead tired, but Steve's heart still stutters and his breath catches in his throat at the golden morning light that plays over his throat and touches his lips.
As Tony sighs and curls closer, Steve shifts ever so carefully and lifts an arm so that Tony fits just so against his side in a very slow version of the yawn-and-hug technique that's been around since Steve was first getting enthusiastic instructions from Bucky on how to make a move on a girl. Tony smells of warm male and motor oil and, faintly, the lingering notes of expensive cologne.
Peter's exclamation of delighted surprise startles both of them. Tony sits up. Steve pulls his arm back and tries to look like he wasn't doing anything untoward.
They've turned onto Sixth Avenue, a towering canyon of steel and glass in a straight line as far as the eye can perceive. The city is finally awake, and all its varied population is out and on the move. Peter's babble is an almost continuous noise as he points out every new thing that catches his interest. He signs at the same time and Tony, voice a tired blur, answers with things like,
"No, that's not her hair. That's a hat."
"The mouse is not alive. It's a doll."
"Yes, those are real bananas."
Until Peter climbs over the seat to sit in Tony's lap, obviously unhappy with the lag time between answers as Tony tries to see what Peter's seeing. If they're occupying the same space they'll obviously see the same things at the same time. Steve assumes that's Peter's logic, anyway. Tony squawks and grumbles, but makes room until the boy is settled in comfortably, Tony's arms wrapped around his waist to hold him steady as he twists and turns to look at the city, Tony's chin resting on a small shoulder so they can see things side-by-side.
I want a girl with a mind like a diamond, a man's voice states, making Steve blink. It seems to be coming from somewhere near his feet. I want a girl who knows what's best.
"Shoot, that's Pepper," Tony says in what sounds like a complete non sequitur. "Where's my phone?"
Then Steve understands that the man speaking with a rhythmic instrumental background is actually a ringtone, and shuffles his feet until he sees the gleam of metallic finish. Peter squeaks as Tony bends to reach for it at the same time.
I want a girl with shoes that cut.
"Yeah, hang on, spider-monkey," Tony says, almost knocking heads with Steve.
Peter squirms until he's on the floor of the car, scrambling between their feet until he comes up triumphant with Tony's phone.
And eyes that burn like cigarettes.
"Oh--thanks!" Tony holds out his hand, but Peter's grin turn mischievous and he scrambles into the front seat, holding the phone aloft like they're playing keep-away. "Hey, give that back, thief."
Tony reaches, but Peter leans back, and when Tony pursues, he lurches sideways to avoid capture, he bumps into Happy, who swerves slightly. Peter shrieks with laughter, flinging himself back against the dashboard to get out of Tony's reach.
She's putting up her hair, she's touring the facility...
"Peter, goddammit!" Tony snaps.
Peter goes quiet immediately, eyes wide. Steve sucks in a breath.
"Give me the phone," Tony says with careful control. Peter hands the phone over solemnly and then, as Tony slides back into his seat, slinks carefully into the back so he can sit on Steve's lap.
I want a girl with a short skirt and a lonnnng--
"Hi, Pep, sorry. No, I'm not busy, what's going on?"
Steve tunes Tony out as the conversation continues, partly because it's none of his business, and partly because Peter is comparing their hands, tracing Steve's life line over and over.
"So," says Tony after he hangs up and there's been an uncomfortable stretch of silence. "The park."
"Yes?"
"You wanted to go. That's probably a good idea. I bet Happy can find you a park."
"Sure, Mr. Stark," Happy says amicably from the front.
Steve isn't sure what this is. An apology? A change of subject to hopefully steer them past the sudden tension? There's something in Tony's voice that Steve can't read, and whatever it is makes him nervous. Peter must be aware of something off, too, because he remains still and silent in Steve's lap, watching Tony raptly. Tony doesn't look at either one of them, head turned away, presumably staring out the window at the city beyond.
"Tony..."
But then Happy is dropping them off near a wide swatch of grass oasis at rest amidst a towering of buildings and Tony isn't moving to join them.
"Coming with?" Steve asks, holding a quiet Peter by the hand and resisting the urge to reach into the car and drag Tony out by the collar, or at least make him look Steve in the eye again.
"Nah, duty calls," Tony waggled his phone, which Steve took to mean there's something at SI that needs his personal attention. "Peter's better off with you, anyway."
That's--there's something off about that sentence, something final. The car is pulling away from the curb and getting lost in the stream of traffic before Steve realizes that Tony doesn't have any intention of coming back. A sudden stab of anger takes Steve by surprise, a clean, sharp feeling that almost immediately curdles, muddled by bewilderment and disappointment--and concern. He has no idea what sent Tony into skittish flight.
Peter makes an inquiring sound at his side and all that switches again into panic--because what is he supposed to do with the kid? How is Steve supposed to handle him? Then he feels ashamed at even thinking that thought, because none of this is Peter's fault.
He pushes all of it away and summons a smile as he looks down at the boy. "Let's go look at the fountain, okay?"
On to Part 3!