— The Police, "Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic"
"Tony, hey." Steve shouldn't need to stride too quickly to keep pace with Tony, but the man's deceptively swift on his feet. Tony's glance over at him is brief but he keeps his head co*cked towards Steve, signalling that he has his ear.
"The French minister's visit." Steve opens.
"Went well, yes, I know." Tony's eyes skirt to him and then back forward, eyelashes low and fanning over his eyes. "And you're a liar."
"I am?"
"You said your French was elementary," Tony says. "That little display wasn't elementary."
"If the situation calls for it," Steve shrugs. "Wanda says the press has been good."
"Another understatement." Tony remarks. They're nearing the SIT room, and Steve knows he only has about a minute before his little gift becomes a burden.
"I wanted to give you this." Steve says, taking the wooden case out from under his arm. "Minister Batroc seems to be under the misapprehension that I'm a fan of this stuff. I'm not, really. But I have it on good authority that you are, and so, I. . ." Steve pauses hesitantly. Tony's come to a stop and has turned to look him over.
His eyes are as sharp as a pencil's point.
"Batroc gifted you a 1788 Clos de Grieffier cognac." Tony pronounces carefully. "And you're. . . giving it to me?"
"Like I said," Steve smiles; tries to pull off unassuming. "I'm not much for drinking."
"Thanks," Tony squints his eyes. "But no thanks."
"Oh." Steve tries to tamp down his disappointment, keeping his body language easy-going. "Can I ask why?"
"Free speech, right?" At Steve's confused silence, Tony elaborates with a splay of his hand, "you can ask me anything."
They walk a few more steps forward before Steve gathers the balls to press: "Is it the drink, or is it that the drink comes from me?"
With no hesitation, Tony replies, "it's that it's you."
"Ouch." Steve says, and they continue to walk. "Tony, if I've done something to make you feel—"
"You haven't." Tony shrugs, "not in the past month, anyway."
"So then why not?" Steve asks, "We're colleagues, aren't we?"
"Sure."
"We're—friends?"
"Sometimes."
"I consider you a friend." Steve says frankly, "I have for a while."
"Jeez, you're so upfront." Tony gripes. "Ever thought of playing some cards close to your chest?"
Steve thinks, I got a card so close to my chest, there ain't space for any other. You wanna hear about it?
Considering Tony won't even accept a bottle of brandy from him. . .yeah, Steve doesn't think he wants to hear anything about it.
"I get the feeling that you're hurt by this."
"Gosh, you're such a people person." Steve mutters. He probably shouldn't sound so sulky. He clears his throat, "it's alright."
"Y'sure?" Tony raises his eyebrows. "Can we go into the SIT room now? Or do we still need to talk about this?"
"No, no. You can go ahead. I'll just drop this off. . .give it to Peter." He gestures to the case.
"Really." Tony blows a hasty breath out. "Now you're trying to make me feel bad."
"Oh boy, it's working?"
"Of course not. D'ya think I'd have this job if my threshold was that low?"
"I think that's probably a big reason for why you have it." Steve retorts unwittingly.
Tony's mouth parts in an audible O. Steve watches, caught aback and unsure of what he's witnessing. Tony's throat works as he swallows, and then his lips press together.
"You. . ." It's raspy, and Tony clears his throat quickly, self-consciously. He rubs the back of his hand over his mouth before continuing, "you shouldn't celebrate early. The re-convening's this afternoon, right?"
"Yep."
"Well, knock on wood," Tony raps his knuckles against the case Steve's got tucked under his arm. "If that goes well, then we'll have an occasion to celebrate."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, why not?" Tony asks. "It's not like we're going to have a whole lot to celebrate in the SIT room."
"So itis the Wakandans?" Steve asks.
"What, you think you've got an in with me?" Tony asks, and it's almost teasing, "you'll find out along with the rest of the gallery."
"So it isn't the Wakandans." Steve tries.
"Stop trying to analyse me," Tony says, and a laugh slips through the end of the sentence. It warms Steve to his toes, and suddenly, the bulky, ungainly press of the case into his side may as well not be there.
"You go on ahead." Steve says, "I'll just hand this off to Peter."
Tony's answer is a quick, flitting smile.
Steve turns around, ushering Peter forward from the five yards' distance he's been maintaining.
"I think that was a win." Steve confides.
Peter makes a seesawing motion, pointing out, "sir, he didn't take the case."
"He's a complicated guy," Steve says.
"He's the smartest man in all of America." Peter says, "uh, or so I've heard."
"You a fan, eh?" Steve hands him the case. "Don't tense up now, I'd be a hypocrite if I judged."
"Not a fan," Peter says, "just an admirer of his work. It was actually his PhD on neural networks and pattern recognition in artificial intelligence that inspired—uh, never mind." Peter clarifies, "sorry sir, I don't mean to talk your ear off. You should probably head in."
"Get me a copy, would you?"
"Huh?" Peter says. "Sorry, what do you mean, sir?"
"The PhD." Steve clarifies. "Get me a copy."
Peter makes a thoughtful noise of understanding. "Light reading, sir?"
"Please." Steve says, "knowing Tony, it'll be tougher to get through than Riri's briefings on Air Force One."
.
Steve puts the phone down, places his head in his hands, and mutters a low and furtive, "goddammit."
He can't reach Natasha. There's no news out of Russia about Shostakov's health. They're supposed to have a briefing about it with P.O.T.U.S. tomorrow.
He can't reach Natasha. And it worries him enough that he finds himself tapping the landline and thinking. . . considering. . .
This isn't about him. He's got to try.
He presses a well-worn button the landline. "Peter, could you get me Tony Stark on the line?"
"Of course, sir," Peter replies.
He pours himself a glass of water while he waits to be connected to the White House chief of staff. He takes two sips before Tony's voice comes through.
"What, you haven't seen enough of me today?"
It's ridiculously tough biting back: not nearly enough.
"I'm not exactly seeing you, am I?"
"Semantics." Tony grouses, "what can I do for you?"
"I was wondering if I could pick your brain."
"I've got a minute."
"Uh, not now." Steve scritches a finger against his temple. "Could we do it after work?"
". . .What's this about?"
"I can't say over the phone."
". . . I see. That's totally not foreboding." Tony says. "Alright, then."
"Alright?"
"Yep. I'll find you." Tony says. "But I really do have to go now."
"Thanks, Tony." Steve blinks, surprised by the easiness of the conversation.
"Nothing to thank me for yet." Tony says, "and hey, good luck for the re-convening."
"Oh, yeah, thank—" Click.
.
Steve shakes Rumiko's hand with genuine warmth, a smile threatening to split his face in half. "I really can't thank you enough, Rumiko," he gushes.
"Please, Mister Secretary." Rumiko's got excellent English, her words only slightly curled by her Japanese accent. "This benefits both parties. You do yourself a disservice by thanking me."
"You came through in our final hour. I can't reiterate how much we've appreciated your flexibility." Steve points out. "This programme will change the lives of the next generation."
"That is why we do what we do, isn't it?" Rumiko smiles benevolently. "It's been a pleasure, truly. Fujikawa Industries is excited about this partnership."
"As are we," Steve says, subtly beckoning Peter forward. "Now, Peter's booked a reservation for us at a restaurant that I'm told serves the best sea bass stateside."
Rumiko picks up her briefcase, looking mightily pleased. "You remembered."
"Of course, Rumiko," Steve says, handing the binder to Peter. "Would you and your staff like to join us for an early lunch? I believe this warrants a celebration."
"Absolutely," Rumiko turns to converse with her colleagues, switching from English to Japanese.
Steve takes that as initiative to talk to his own staff. "Alright—who can go, and who's swamped?"
"Wanda and I'll take our lunches at the office." Kamala says, winking as she continues, "we may have a solution to your tone-deafness."
"That's what I like to hear," Steve grins. He can't help it; he's riding on a high from the energy proposal going through.
As for the tone deafness: he'd texted Kamala last night in a tizzy after being informed by his blunt house guest that he was in fact tone-deaf, and if it was at all possible, they needed to figure out an alternative to the song-part of the, er, song-performance.
"I'm certainly not going to say no to a lunch at The Cornelia," Phil says, Maria offering a subvocal noise of agreement.
"Peter, Phil, Maria, and myself." Steve decides. "Alright, good work, team. I'll catch up with you two afterwards."
.
At the restaurant, Steve's tucked away into a quarter of his own sea bass when Rumiko's phone pings. She checks it and grins, taking a few seconds to tap away at it.
"That's your colleague on the phone," Rumiko says after putting it down.
"Pardon me?" Steve asks after swallowing his bite.
"Tony? You work with him, right?" Rumiko asks.
Somewhat mulishly, Steve's first thought is: where's my text?
"Yeah—of course." Steve says, trying not to fiddle with his fork. "He texted you, then?"
"Yes," Rumiko waves a hand dismissively, "he was just congratulating me. He still owes me a drink for the red eye I took to come over." Rumiko leans in to add, "he keeps suggesting bars but between you and me, he's a pretty good bartender himself. I'm trying to get him to have me over for one of his co*cktails."
"Good plan," Steve says, noting the little fact down in his own head. Tony makes good co*cktails. Rubbing his neck, Steve asks, "I've been meaning to ask, how do you know Tony?"
"Oh," Rumiko puts her wine glass down. "We were friends through our adolescent years. Stark Industries had a pretty close relationship with Fujikawa for a while, and aunt Maria—his mother—well, she and my mom got along really well. Our families had a couple of summer vacations together, though with how busy our parents were, Tony and I usually ended up spending a lot of time together. Cooking to a crisp on the yacht, cooking to a crisp on the beach—gosh, I think there were days where we spent more time in the ocean than we did on land. But—anyway. We kept in touch over the years. He's a good man. For an American." Rumiko relays easily, taking a sip of wine after. "No offense, of course."
"None taken," Steve says. He follows her example, taking a sip of his own non-alcoholic lemonade. It's a bubbly drink, and as it sparks off a chorus of tingling nerves in his mouth, Steve can't help but feel that they mirror the advent of questions he wants to ask Rumiko. What was Tony like as a teenager? What is he like now? How has he changed? Did you two ever date?
Instead, he vehemently reminds himself that he's the U.S. Secretary of State Goddamnit, and would be better off using this time to reinforce their allyship to Japan's growing fishing industries and America's stake in their emerging trade routes.
"That must be, what, a thirty years long friendship. For Tony, of course. I'm sure you're not a day over twenty-four, ma'am."
Rumiko laughs, high and bright. "I do have a very extensive skincare routine," she confesses, before adding in a clarifying tone, "yes, we've been friends for a while." She takes another bite; a thoughtful, faraway look to her eyes. She chews unhurriedly, swallowing before continuing, "it has been thirty years, my goodness."
Steve should shut up. He doesn't. "I've gotta ask," he keeps his voice light, "has he always been like this?"
Rumiko casts a curious look at him. "Like what?"
Implacable. Beautiful. Untouchable. Intimidating. Relentless.
"Complicated?" he manages, staving off his embarrassed flush with a quick sip of his lemonade.
Rumiko tilts her head at him, visibly amused. "Tony's always been his own breed. Uniquely singular. You know, his dad," here, she drifts off, blinking down to her dinner plate for a moment before returning her gaze to Steve. "Mr. Stark, he used to say that most people are tragically simple but that Tony is comedically complex." Rumiko taps a glossy red, manicured nail against the tablecloth. "I never understood what he meant, but it used to make Tony and aunt Maria cackle."
Hmm.
"I'll admit, we got off to a rocky start," Steve says, "but he's been such an immense help to me over the past few months. A lot of the times without credit."
"That's Tony for you," Rumiko says, "he can't stand being in positions of leadership but he hates inefficiency. You're closer, now, then?"
"Much." Steve says, hoping he's not talking out of his ass with that answer. "I was meaning to—" his phone pings, and he makes a tutting sound. "Just a moment," he tells Rumiko. He taps his phone, trying not to jolt in his seat when he sees Tony's name.
TONY STARK (WH): Make sure to affirm our stance on collab'ing for SR - POTUS wants JP conf. to lead in for military contract
TONY STARK (WH): & congrats on getting the energy proposal through.
Steve quickly taps a response.
STEVE ROGERS: SR?
The reply's immediate.
TONY STARK (WH): Silk road
TONY STARK (WH): Get w the acros
STEVE ROGERS: You text like a millennial
TONY STARK (WH): You reply like a boomer
TONY STARK (WH): Should I tell POTUS you're on it?
STEVE ROGERS: Yep!
STEVE ROGERS: Thanks for your help w the energy proposal!
TONY STARK (WH): Yeah yeah we're breaking into that bottle later, right?
STEVE ROGERS: Just tell me where + when
STEVE ROGERS: or rather, tell Peter where + when & he'll tell me
TONY STARK (WH): I'm pretty sure your kid's terrified of me
TONY STARK (WH): I'll come over after hours--you needed to "pick my brain", right?
STEVE ROGERS: Yes pls. I'll send you my address
TONY STARK (WH): Shocking that you think I don't already have it
STEVE ROGERS: ...Wow
TONY STARK (WH): Stop texting me & earn your keep, Mister Secretary. Rumiko's probably getting bored. FYI she'll love a NY cheesecake for dessert
STEVE ROGERS: For the record, you texted me. BUT. Thanks for the intel
He clicks his phone off and looks up.
"Sorry about that." Steve pockets his phone. "Listen, I don't know about you but I could go for some dessert." He looks up at Rumiko. co*cks his head thoughtfully, casually, before continuing, "I hear they have a brilliant New York cheesecake here."
.
When they get back to the office, Kamala scurries up to him with a self-satisfied expression.
"We need twenty minutes, sir." Kamala says.
Peter promptly cuts in with, "he has fifteen."
"We can do it in ten." Kamala amends.
"Wonderful." Steve says. "Please tell me I'm not singing in a goofy costume."
"It's one or the other, sir," Kamala presses her hands together. "But we have found a solution for the singing. Peter, Phil, Maria—are any of you altos?"
"Soprano." Maria counters neatly.
"I'm an alto." Phil says.
"Uh," Peter's eyes dart between them. "I'm—Queens?"
"We'll figure you out." Kamala says to Peter before turning back to Steve. "Sir, Wanda's waiting for you in your office with the suit. We need to do fitting check."
"Oh," Steve says. "I thought that we already had them make it according to my suit measurements."
"Yes, sir, but we didn't account for how it would look as an ensemble. You know, with the helmet and shield."
". . .Right," Steve says faintly. "The. . . helmet and shield." Dear God. "Uh. When did we add that to the look?"
"When you decided you weren't going to sing?"
". . .Fair enough."
.
Steve runs his staff out of the office early. Ostensibly, it's because they do deserve an early night in after the re-convening. Mostly, it's because he doesn't know when Tony's going to be coming over and he wants to spruce himself up.
He enters through the doorway, chatting with his security detail for a minute and then closing the door. Before he can exit out through the foyer, Yelena comes up to him.
Yelena, his new house guest. Right.
She's dressed in pajamas. Pajamas she's obviously stolen from Steve's closet.
"Hi Yelena," Steve greets, "how was your day?"
"Boring." Yelena says. "I can't access p*rn sites on your Wi-Fi."
"That's—" Steve puts his briefcase down, taking off his coat with fumbling fingers. "They monitor everything I'm on, but Bucky's—my friend, remember, from yesterday—he figured out a workaround. I'll show it to you later."
"The house isn't bugged, though." Yelena makes an explanatory gesture. "I checked."
"Good to know. I check pretty frequently myself." Steve sighs deeply. "We're having company. The chief of staff, remember? I was telling you about him yesterday."
Yelena straightens at that. "You think he can help find Natasha?"
"I've got Bucky looking, too, but," Steve shrugs, "Tony's got eyes everywhere. Or so I've heard. He may be quicker." Steve flicks a glance over her. "You should change."
Yelena blows a raspberry. "Politicos. So formal."
"Didn't Bucky come by with a bag of clothes for you?" Steve frowns.
"Yes." Yelena looks down, "but I'd already put this on so I figured I'd keep it. You really don't have any sex toys, huh?"
"Wh—you looked?" Steve sputters. "Yelena, it's one thing to take clothes from my closet, but to look through my personal items is such a breach of—"
"I'm joking, relax." Yelena's expression is bemused. "But it's interesting to note that you really don't have any."
"Yelena." Steve scrubs a hand over his face. "Gosh, it's like having a teenager in the house."
"I feel like I'm living with my grandpa." Yelena jeers, her Russian accent thick and jeering.
Steve reminds himself, her sister's missing and she's likely very, very worried about her. Then, he goes, "I'm going to wash up and then prepare dinner. Is there anything you don't eat?"
"I don't like the taste of lamb," Yelena says. Her accent and tone make it very difficult to gauge whether she's being sincere.
Steve decides to just take it at face value, nodding, and walking ahead and up the stairs. He takes a speedy shower only to waste twenty minutes choosing a casual but apposite after-work-at-home outfit. He eventually decides on dark trackpants and a grey t-shirt, padding over to his bedroom mirror to dry his hair with a towel. His hair's pretty unobtrusive—it doesn't need much to settle neatly, and he just runs a comb through it before letting it be. He rubs some lotion over his face and neck, thinks it over a minute, and then goes back into the bathroom to brush his teeth. Once that's settled, he heads down the stairs and into the kitchen. His house—or rather, the house he's been given by the job—has an open floor plan, and the kitchen sprawls wide just behind the living room.
Yelena's sitting on the couch. She seems to have taken his counsel and changed into jeans, a blouse and a black leather jacket. She's laying on the couch with—her feet up. Feet adorned in dirty crocs. Dear God. For the love of America.
What clothes did Bucky bring? Why did Yelena decide to wear the crocs?
"Yelena, please get your shoes off the couch." Steve says.
Yelena lets out a long-winded groan. She whinges, "bossy, bossy," in a low tone before getting her shoes off.
"I'm making chicken parmigiana with a Greek salad," Steve tells her, looping an apron over his head. He ties it off, considering aloud, "I think we have soup, too."
"Yippee." Yelena pronounces. She's toed off her shoes, and is laying on the couch again. All Steve can see of her is the tips of her feet, toenails painted in purple.
"Dessert," Steve pats his index finger over his chin in thought. "What to do for dessert?"
Yelena pops her head up over the couch. "Is this a five-course meal?"
"Do the math, Yelena." Steve chirps back. He walks over to her, taking his phone out of his pocket and swiping over to his food delivery app. "Here, order something good for dessert."
"Ah, sweet, bliss-bringing cellular devices." Yelena says. "'Tis only the faintest memory to me."
"You know why I had to take your phone." Steve says, walking back to the kitchen. He starts rummaging through his cabinets, piling ingredients onto the counter.
"Please do not repeat your lecture on caution and walking on my proverbial tip-toes. I understood the point the first three times you relayed it."
With the assurance that she absolutely can not see it, he rolls his eyes heavenward. Of course then, when he turns to get a pan out, he feels a couch cushion hit the back of his head.
"Yelena!"
.
The doorbell rings an hour and twelve minutes later.
Steve's just getting to the end of the chicken parmigiana, and he finishes plating it swiftly.
Yelena doesn't move from her spot on the couch. She'd turned the television on after ordering, and seems to be caught up in some teen serial. Steve gets halfway down the hall and through the foyer before he realises he's still got his apron on. Oh, for heaven's sake. He considers going back to put it away but at that moment, the doorbell rings out again, and he decides it's better to let Tony in.
He opens the front door to find Tony standing there with a few of Steve's security personnel behind him. Tony's still in his suit, and when their gazes meet, he lifts his eyebrows expectantly at Steve.
"Sir," one of the guards begins awkwardly, "the White House chief of staff is here for you."
"My eyes are still working." Steve says. "Thank you, Ben." He steps aside. "Come on in, Tony. Thanks for coming over." Tony passes by him, and into the house.
"Did you come straight from the office, then?" He asks.
"Some of us have day jobs." Tony says lightly, adding after a thoughtful sound, "and night jobs, I suppose." Tony levels a conciliatory look back at him, "sorry, I'm later than I meant to be. One of the senators is throwing—to put it politely—a bitchfit. Guess who?"
"It's a Wednesday so I'm guessing it's Ross. My staff theorise that he gets bored halfway through the week and decides to just yap about until someone pays attention to him." Steve says. "Like one of those hyperactive small dogs."
Tony's laugh is a surprised, barking sound. "Do you know what? That's actually a pretty—" The amusem*nt in Tony's face extinguishes totally, and Steve looks ahead to see Yelena standing against the back of the couch, wearing what Steve's realised is her trademark I'm-bored expression.
"Tony, let me introduce you to Yelena Belova." Steve says, "Yelena, this is—"
"Yeah, yeah, I know who he is. You've only mentioned it a billion times." Yelena snarks.
Steve chances a look at Tony, correcting quickly, "I haven't said it a billion—she's just kidding." Tony isn't reacting to it much, his eyebrows low and contemplative as he looks Yelena over.
"So." Steve starts, feeling a tad thrown off by Tony's abrupt reticence. "Have you had dinner?"
When Tony's eyes return to him, it's like the man's reassessing him. But contrary to the past few days, it's like Steve's misstepped somewhere. Like Tony's docking points. Considering how hardwon those points have been, it's hard for Steve to be nonplussed about the look he's getting. In fact, he's feeling positively plussed.
Tony answers his question after a delayed pause. "No, I've not."
"Well, there's chicken parmigiana and salad, and uh, mushroom soup, and—" Steve forcibly slows down the stream of words. "Um. Tony, can I take your suit jacket?"
"Oh, no, I'm fine." Tony says, "I'll keep it on, thanks." His smile is fleeting and false. He looks back at Yelena, and says, "thank you for preparing dinner, Yelena. You truly didn't have to."
"I know." Yelena narrows her eyes. "That's why I didn't. Steve made it."
"Oh," Tony nods. "Then. Thanks, Steve."
"Don't thank me too early," Steve says, "you haven't tried any of it yet."
"As long as that eighteenth century cognac is still on the table." Tony rubs a hand through his hair. "Would you mind if I use the facilities first?"
"Sure. Here, uh, let me show you where it is." Steve offers. Yelena—miraculously—decides to help out with the food, taking the chicken parm into the dining room. In the meantime, Steve directs Tony down the corridor, turning right to the bathroom near the backdoor.
"Hey," Tony's voice is pitched low. Steve turns to him, and in that dimly lighted alcove, Tony's eyes set upon him with a focus more staggering than usual. Tony's hand is poised over the doorknob leading into the bathroom, body half-turned away. He continues, in a stilted tone, "it's none of my business, really, but she's not in your personnel file."
"Pardon me?"
"Yelena." Tony says, slowly, like he believes Steve to be thick. "I'm not judging, alright, but." Here, Tony shrugs, visibly discomfited. "You can date whoever you want, but even if it's, well, casual, I would recommend having it in your file. Telling it to your press secretary. Being vocal about personal information is important when it comes to preventing bad PR."
"Wha—" The word draws clumsy and confused out of him before it all hits Steve at once. "Oh, God, no. No. No."
"No?"
"She's a—college kid." Steve scowls. "Of course not. How could you think that?"
"Well, she's—" Tony's honest-to-God stammering, and if Steve were any less baffled, he would take the time to revel in it. Tony throws a hand out in his direction. "I mean, she's your type."
Steve thinks of surly, fart-joke-making, college-aged Yelena, and his frown deepens. "How is she my type?"
"Uh." Tony's eyelids flutter as he blinks. "Well. She's. Blonde. Like—Carter. Sharon Carter?"
Oh. Ohhhhhh.
"Sharon." Steve swallows. "Right. That's, okay. Sharon, right. Uh, well. That was eight years ago."
"I'm aware." Tony says, watching him carefully.
"Yelena isn't—Sharon isn't—" Steve tries to figure out a diplomatic way to say, my type isn't exclusively blond women, it's also you. He's supposed to be smoother at talking than this. His ability to de-escalate conflicts is literally listed in his CV. He shuts his eyes, takes a breath, opens his eyes. Tries again. "I'm not dating Yelena. Sharon and I went steady for a while but she's in no way indicative of my type. And of course, I understand the importance of relaying any updates in my personal life to Wanda." Steve pauses, adds, "trust me, if I was dating someone, you would know."
". . .Why would I know?" Tony asks. There's curiousity in his voice, and a—sudden—gleam in his eyes. It sets Steve's teeth on an edge, and it feels like—it feels like the opposite of the look Tony had set upon him just a few minutes back; that sense of displeased assessment now in inverse.
It's like being too close to a fire on a cold night, catching stray flecks of the blaze on his skin. Part of him wants to flinch away from the heated sting of it, and another part of him doesn't want to move even a centimeter away from its warmth.
"Uh. Because you've got spies watching me?"
"Right." Tony drawls out after a moment. "Okay, I'm going to use the bathroom, and then I'm going to have a chicken parm, and then you're going to pour me a glass of that brandy, and then you can tell me who Yelena Belova is and why she's here."
Steve takes the out gratefully, nodding. "Solid plan."
.
When Yelena finds out that Tony thought they were together, the veneer of distress that's kept the skin between her eyebrows perpetually pinched over the past two days eases into raucous laughter.
If Steve's reaction to the prospect of them being together was insensitive, Yelena's is a full-fledged hate crime.
It sloughs off any awkward tension from earlier, and they fall into easy dinner conversation. Tony's surprisingly comfortable with Yelena's brand of humour, not taking any of her barbs personally. They get through the soup, the chicken parm, a little bit of the salad—begrudgingly on Yelena's part—and then there's a ringing at the door.
"Dessert," Yelena reminds him, and Steve ahhs before making his way to the door.
Steve's security isn't too happy about him getting deliveries, and the poor delivery guy seems to be overwhelmed by the brisk search he's had to undergo. Steve tips him for his trouble, then takes the bag curiously. He hadn't checked what Yelena chose for dessert, and as he peers into the bag, he finds himself confused by the choice.
Pistachio gelato? He makes his way back to the dining table, and plops the bag down on the table. "So. We have pistachio gelato for dessert." He announces.
Tony puts his utensils down, giving Steve a shocked look. "How on earth did you find out my favourite gelato order from my favourite gelato place?"
"I—" Steve catches Yelena giving him an emphatic, go-with-it-idiot look, and attempts a casual shrug. "I have my sources. Just as you have yours."
". . .Good source. You've actually impressed me." Tony commends him with a touched smile on his face. He brings the bag close to inspect the box inside, cooing in satisfaction a moment after.
Over the table, Yelena shoots him a smug wink.
.
Tony's quiet and attentive as Steve unspools the Natasha situation, how she called him frantically, pleading for him to uphold his promise to protect Yelena. Steve tells Tony how fatalistic her words had been, and how she's been unreachable ever since. How none of his contacts are able to get into Russia, and how—though it stings to admit—he's got none of his nor Bucky's men already situated in the actual country.
Tony turns to Yelena, and observes in a neutral tone, "you don't have the same surname as Natasha."
"No, I don't." Yelena agrees.She doesn't offer an explanation as to why. "We are related, though. I can do a DNA test if you don't believe me."
"There's no need for that." Tony looks over at Steve. "I understand her. What's your stake in this?"
"Excuse me?" Steve asks.
Tony gives him a blunt look. "Come on. You're asking me to help. I want to know why it matters so much."
"She's my—"
Tony cuts Yelena off. "Like I said. I know why you care. I'm asking him."
Steve swallows thickly. "She's the best chance we have of shoeing in a liberal-leaning, democratic leader in the Russian government."
"Cool," Tony nods, "what's the real reason?"
"That is the real reason."
"No, it's not." Tony says. "Because if you really felt she was so imperative, you would've raised this with P.O.T.U.S., gone through all the right, straightforward channels available to you as Secretary of State. But you haven't. You've got me, after hours. So if you want me to compromise my people, you need to grant me the respect of telling me the actual reason."
Steve tries to be straightforward, is a bit embarrassed when the first thing that slips out is, ". . .she's a friend." It's not untrue, and he sees something in Tony's eyes yield. Just a smidge, but. It compels him to continue. "I know Jack wants Vostokoff for president. Peggy agrees with him. Asking the Russian government about Natasha would be an overt declaration that she's who we're throwing our weight behind. Jack wouldn't let it go through and besides, a public appeal by the U.S. would endanger Natasha even more." Steve stops, scrubs a hand over his face, admits quietly, "she put her trust in me."
Tony watches him for a long minute. Steve does his best to meet his gaze. "Okay."
". . .Okay?"
"Okay. I have a guy in Russia. Discreet. I'll set him on her trail."
It's a heady, heady feeling to have Tony on his side. He lets it be known in a breathy but sincere, "thank you."
Tony makes a tsk'ing sound. "Not yet, Steve. Thank me when we find her."
Yelena's interruption startles him a little; he'd just about forgotten she was here. She directs her question to Tony. "You think you can find her?" It's a blunt question but her voice wavers, worry overwriting bravado for a moment.
". . .I won't leave a stone unturned." Tony promises.
.
Yelena's gone up to the guest room she's staying in, and Tony's about to head out. Steve had gotten Bucky on the horn over the past hour, re-hashing all the intel they've got on Natasha's disappearance. Tony had taken notes on his phone, Yelena supplementing their intel with her own thoughts on the cortege that circled Natasha in her role as a foreign minister.
It's close to ten now, and Tony and him are lingering at the foyer.
"Thank you, Tony," Steve tells him. "For—everything. I don't know how much I owe you at this point."
Tony looks him over for a few moments, his expression contemplative and at ease. Finally, he says, "thank you for dinner."
"It was the least I could do."
"And thank you for this." Tony holds up the case containing the cognac.
"Trust me, you're doing me a favour by taking it." Steve explains. "If it stayed with me, it'd probably grow older by another century before I popped back into it."
"Not much for cognac, huh?"
Steve shrugs. "More of a beer guy."
"You know," Tony begins, pausing to put his suit jacket back on. He'd taken it off and rolled up his sleeves at some point after the gelato, and Steve had been so thoroughly distracted by the sight of his forearms that he'd ended up mixing his own gelato into a smushy mess. Tony's continuing: "when you invited me over to 'pick my brain'," he pairs air quotes with the phrase, "I didn't think you'd be involving me in the disappearance of a Russian foreign minister." Tony laughs as if it amuses him. It probably does, Steve thinks wryly.
"I know it was out-of-the-blue." He says, a tad sheepish. "My ma always said I had a knack for getting involved in bizarre situations. I guess I've always been good at finding trouble."
Tony buttons up his suit and gives him a considering smile. "My mom would say I've got a knack for getting out of trouble."
"We make a pretty decent pair, then." Steve suggests.
Tony agrees, "yeah. Peggy sure knew what she was doing."
"It's a good thing we took the job, then." Steve holds out his arm for a handshake. "I'm lucky to be working with you."
Tony looks down at his hand for a beat before putting his own forward, slapping it instead of shaking his hand. "Enough of that, then. We're not at work. Don't be a sap." Then, totally impromptu, he adds, "that was decent mushroom soup. You should send me the recipe."
"Oh," Steve sucks his bottom lip in behind his front teeth. "That was canned soup." He hurries to add, "organic, but yes, uh, canned."
"I'm not above canned soup, Steve." Tony says, giving him a faux-withering look. He rattles off a number, then. "That's my personal mobile. Let's share any updates or intel about Natasha over that." Tony says. "Plus, that soup brand."
"Sure. That's a good plan." Steve grins. "You can never be too careful."
"You got the number memorised?"
Steve repeats it to Tony. "Right?"
Tony gives him a look of satisfied intent. "Good." He emphasises the word. "I really should head off now."
"Of course."
"Don't abuse the number." Tony says as Steve opens the door for him, "and don't take it as indication that we're close."
"Now why ever would I make that assumption?" Steve teases, relishing the fact that he can tease him about this.
As Steve's security personnel come up to direct Tony out to his car, Steve finds himself thinking: Peter, forget about what I said earlier.
This right here is the win.
