STEVE
The flight to Monaco was unexpectedly quiet. After Miss Potts had cancelled her attendance at the last minute, he'd expected Stark to, well, act on it; like pestering the flight crew or blaring loud Rock 'n Roll music throughout the whole flight. Not that he'd been looking forward to that, but there had been reports about a stripper pole and excessive drinking on Stark's private jets, for heaven's sakes. And even if those stories weren't true, Steve would've at least expected more of Stark's insults and jokes on his behalf. Honestly, after their first conversation at the gala, he expected to hate every second of the flight.
Apparently he was wrong.
As it was, there was barely a low hum to be heard. The only actual sound within the cabin was the clinking of glasses from the galley area and Stark's fingertips tapping on the tablet in his hand. When Stark had arrived only a couple of minutes late, he'd acknowledged Steve with a little nod, then sat down in his seat and hasn't moved since. Almost six hours had passed like that and Steve soon found himself bored to death. No matter how irritating Stark's one-liners and innuendos were, it had been somewhat soothing to listen to him speak.
"You're fidgeting," Stark said across from him. It were the first words he had directed at Steve and he didn't even look up from what Steve assumed were blueprints of whatever it was he was working on these days. "Didn't pack you for the antsy type."
"I'm not... antsy," Steve huffed, willing his foot to stay still. "I'm just not into planes all that much, is all."
"Fear of flying?" Stark asked, every word oozing disinterest.
Fear of freezing, he mused, looking down at the wide, blue ocean below them. "A little." Just a casual answer, that was good. Little crumbs of information that would make Stark feel like he was able to assess Steve's character. Make the impression to give personal information without revealing anything at all, he chanted inwardly. He'd already messed up the day before. He wouldn't let Stark get under his skin again.
Stark looked up and the little smile he gave him didn't even look all that fake—sympathetic even. He rubbed his meticulous goatee, shrugging. "It gets easier with practice."
"You were afraid of flying?" Steve found himself asking before he could think about it.
Stark chuckled. "No. I love flying. Always have, always will. But Pepper used to get sick a lot when she started to accompany me to my oversea-meetings. Now she sleeps like a baby whenever she has enough time to."
Steve found himself smiling at the warmth in Stark's eyes when he talked about Potts. He really must care deeply for her, then.
"That's good to know," he said and found he actually meant it.
* * * *
He had known about the press, of course, the paparazzi, the cameras. Natasha had set him down to watch videos of Stark being surrounded by hundreds of flash lights and microphones. He'd seen the grainy recording of a four year old giving his first interview about the engine he'd built and he had watched, sick to the stomach, how the reporters had made him explain himself again and again until he got it right, until the smile he was forced to sport the whole time looked genuine. He could comprehend why Stark had become so incredibly good with handling the media. After all, he'd been cornered, photographed and exposed in so many ways he probably just didn't care anymore.
So, yes—Steve had known about the press.
But no videos could've prepared him for the impact of this moment.
"Breathe," Stark said beside him, and suddenly there was a warm hand on the small of his back, leading him forward. He was aware of Happy walking on his other side, isolating him from the chaos, but he just... he couldn't think straight. "Almost there."
God, he'd been trained to withstand torture, he had seen brave men crawling in their own blood, he should be able to handle a few flash lights, this was ridiculous, but it was all so much. He probably looked like a deer caught in headlights, and tomorrow there would be photographs of him everywhere.
Stark's hand was gentle though, his thumb rubbing circles into Steve's spine and then they were stepping through a door and a second later the noise was gone. Everything was gone. He could finally breathe.
"Yeah, no, thank you," Stark snapped at someone, the doorman, or Happy maybe, he couldn't be sure. He led Steve straight to an empty corridor, pushing him against a wall and down on a window sill. "Hey," he said in a firm voice and goddammit, he was taking Steve's head in his hands, tilting it upwards. He had to admit, Stark had nice hands. A little callused, maybe, but very warm and very firm. He tipped a finger against Steve's temple, his brown eyes boring straight into Steve's. "You still in there, big guy?"
How had this even happened? He'd done well up until this point, he was sure. He'd been professional and polite and he hadn't given Stark any unnecessary insights. But the second they'd stepped out of the plane and into the frenzy of reporters, it had been like stepping into a bubble of noise. The people, the proximity—it was USFO all over again. And he had just lost it, pathetically so.
God, he must've looked like an idiot.
He took a deep, slightly shaky breath and squared his shoulders as best as he could. "I'm sorry," he admitted, his voice embarrassingly raspy. "That was unprofessional."
"Fuck it," Stark said, running both thumbs over Steve's cheeks before letting go completely. Steve found himself leaning in for a second, before he remembered himself. Stark smiled down at him and he looked honestly relieved. "Again: practice makes perfect and all that jazz. You'll manage just fine. Thanks, you're a sweetheart." It took a moment for Steve to notice that the last part hadn't been directed at him but at the waitress who had walked by with a tablet full of half-filled tumblers.
"Isn't it a bit early for that?" Steve asked when they were alone again.
Stark barked a laugh, looking openly amused and already sipping from what Steve assumed was whiskey. "See, you already sound like Pepper. You'll be a highly professional pain in my ass in no time. I am such a lucky man."
And Steve, for all the training, all the information about Stark, could simply not decide if he was being sarcastic or not.
