So I’ve been working on this in fits and starts for a while, and am offering this to the void for the inspiration to keep going. Tell me if you think I should XP
For @ishipallthings glorious prompt over on the old imzy comm positively aeons ago: “you’re supposed to be on a blind date with someone but you sat down at the wrong table and i haven’t been able to get a word in edgewise to tell you that and it’s been thirty minutes” au
The café was nothing noteworthy in itself, casual and breezy with a couple of tables set out in the sun, shaded by parasols looming overhead; and some more set up in the interior with mismatched chairs for those who liked to really breathe in the scent of caffeine in the morning.
It reminded Steve of a dollhouse, really – a real-size replica of a model manufactured by the thousands, with its pastel chintz tablecloths and lacquer floorboards. A stock establishment to be found in any tourist-y hotspot, perfectly inoffensive, nothing particularly memorable. And wasn’t that true of nearly every place he’d strayed into in this modern age…chains, people called them, establishments rolled out by rote, based on one formula. No space for variation. Even the creative little ‘quirks’ in design and aesthetic were pre-planned, and duplicated in a hundred other stores of the same ‘brand’ in the country. No space for a personal touch. No pub down the road with a frame of the owner’s prizewinning stallion in pride of place over the mantelpiece, and genial ol’ Mr Garcia bragging about the Triple Crown win of ’29.
But people these days didn’t care too much for that, did they. Maybe Steve wasn’t such a cheap date after all. Even if the café was on the ground floor of Stark Tower.
He’d been lingering on the outskirts of the place for over fifteen minutes now, more than the time it took for him to ‘get ready’ and zoom down the elevator from his apartment combined. JARVIS had told him he’d had a cowlick at the back of his head in said elevator; Steve had licked his palm and flattened it down on reflex. That had been the extent of his vanity – he was in his usual khakis-and-button-down combo, and it was only as he fidgeted with the leaves of the potted geraniums on the café exterior for the umpteenth time that it registered that maybe Natasha wouldn’t be all too pleased with his ‘efforts’.
“Give this one a chance, Steve. An honest chance.”
Contrary to outward appearances, he was…. trying, alright? It was just that Natasha kept tossing the names of people he scarcely even remembered, forget developed an actual interest in, his way and he was too busy reflexively ducking to actually consider any of them with seriousness and this metaphor had escaped from him three phrases back but damn if he was going to give up without a fight.
It was all just too reminiscent of a sly brown-eyed stare, a jostle of the shoulder, “c’mon Rogers, one hour down at the hall, no one’s gonna step on you, I swear Abbie is a really sweet gal−” and even putting aside how well those times had gone, it just left Steve with an indistinct ache in the pit of his stomach and rapid, wet-eyed blinking. He didn’t want to be set up. He didn’t want new people to ‘spice up’ his life. Why was that so hard to grasp?
But chapter five of How to Get Out of Your Mind and Start Living insisted that the support of his current friends and…family, was ‘key’. That people had sources of help all around them, all they needed to do was tap into that concern and care and be helped. And Natasha did care for him, and demonstrated it in a way she so rarely did; Steve would be an ungrateful sod to not appreciate the value of that. So he was going to walk into this café with an open mind and…whatever would happen thereon, would happen.
He pushed open the door without much fanfare for all the lingering he had been doing, fingers leaving smudges on the foggy glass. Autumn was approaching and there was a nip in the air; most of the café’s patrons had a thin cardigans or jackets draped over their chairs, or a scarf winding around pale necks. The contrast between temperatures was palpable; the air inside was warm and toasty (literally so, Steve could separate out the smells of at least three different flavours of bagels crackling as they were heated, fragrances bright and crystalline sharp). Not many of the glossy wooden tables were unoccupied – it was evidently quite the popular haunt and Steve could…get why, despite all his uncharitable thoughts in the beginning.
Chapter Two: The Importance of a Positive Outlook. Always think of the brightest outcome possible before entering a situation. Something out of one of those romantic comedies Bruce liked to put on as background noise, maybe. A bright-eyed girl who taught kindergarten in the day and worked in a puppy shelter by night, who was more or less indifferent to the Avengers, who by some miracle of fate liked Steve…yep, that seemed about right. Five dates on, he’d tearfully propose, she’d joyfully accept, they wouldn’t have sex till the wedding night, and after a brief honeymoon in the Pocono Mountains which she’d of course agree to because she adored his precious little forties foibles like that – they’d retire peacefully in a house with a picket fence. Or you know, move in a matchbox high-rise apartment because Stark would probably evict them due to his moral objection to the institution of marriage, and then they’d get a dog who only got walked up and down the stairs and put their names two years in advance for daycare. Marital bliss, hallelujah.
Steve knuckled the bridge of his nose wearily. Yeah, this ‘imagine the brightest outcome’ thing was going smashingly.
He dropped his fingers, shoving them into the pockets of his khakis with ease (modern jeans with all their rivets were so inconvenient, how on earth was one supposed to fit anything into those tiny pockets?) Scanned through the scattered milieu of people already seated at different tables. Positive outcome, positive outcome. Pretty girl with ‘wife and family’ branded across her forehead like a billboard, yep yep…
Or, you know. Tony Stark with his nose hidden behind a menu card. That worked too.
I didn’t know cafes had menu cards, was the first thought to dart, tiny and petrified, through the massacred battlefield that was Steve’s mind. All sanity, come here to die. The second thought was, it’s just like that song – which was ridiculous because Steve and Stark had never even batted their eyelashes at each other affectionately, forget being in a full-blown relationship, and Pina Colada had undertones of infidelity that Steve was uncomfortable with anyway−
Liar. You love that song. Natasha crowed in his head in a very Natasha like way, which meant she stated it with an impassive face and subtly smug voice, eyes gleaming knowingly. Which was moot, because this was nothing like Pina Colada, even if Steve knew the curve of the face that Stark was hiding under that maroon scarf, eyes attentively studying the glossy white card before him.
Steve stood frozen in place for what seemed like minutes on end, mind grappling with this…entirely unforeseen set of circumstances. Tony Stark. Sitting…entirely innocently in a café in his own Tower, yeah that made sense, except all the ways in which it didn’t. Not in the least because Stark’s espresso machines could blow this place out of the water in mere seconds, because Stark prized efficiency as well as quality in his coffees, as he liked to declaim to them at breakfast every now and then.
So yeah. Tony Stark, sitting in a café where Steve was supposed to be meeting his blind date. That was…quite the situation. The only question remained: what was Steve going to do about it?
And that was where Steve had to blink, and shake his head internally – because when had he last made that kind of choice? Everything he dealt with in his day-to-day life these days, he was always…reactionary. The flinch of unease at every new thing he had to accustom himself to, every remnant of something old that made nostalgia jar sharp and painful in his ribcage. He never thought about anything, much anymore. It was all just a roiling wave of emotion that Steve had resigned himself to ride out, except it never really ebbed; just tossed and turned till Steve shook with the weariness of it all. Shook and buckled his shoulders against a storm that never seemed to pass.
But here he stood, caught in indecision, watching black spiking up at the back of a tanned neck, like Stark had kept his head tightly covered by the grey hood of the jacket he was sporting, only to release it in the coffee-scented air of the café and static-fuzzy hair sprung up in response, wild and liberated. No first date efforts taken there, either.
The thought coaxed a mindless smile to his lips, even as Steve waited for the wave to come. That instinctive rush of distaste, unease. Irritation at Nat for the ploy, anything at all. The urge to turn around and leave, the advice of self-help books be damned.
A woman brushed past his shoulders on her way to the door; Steve stepped forward instinctively to clear the path, and then his feet kept moving, forward and forward while his mind churned in a manner that oddly wasn’t that unpleasant.
“Give this one a chance, Steve.”
Natasha thought this was a good idea. And Stark had to have agreed to this in order to be here. Sure, it was technically a blind date…but when was the last time that Tony Stark had gone into a situation blind? Without extensive research, all information available stored somewhere in that genius head of his…”since when did you become an expert on thermonuclear astrophysics? Last night.” Stark wouldn’t agree to spend half an hour of his precious time on a date without knowing their bank account details and name of their favourite highschool teacher.
Unless he’s sleeping with them. Apparently, he’s done that without even knowing their name, aaaand Steve jerked himself away from that particular train of thought quick, neck warming up slightly. The conclusion was: it was uncharacteristic of Tony Stark to go on something as innocuous as a date without prior research. The man was perennially, fatally curious. And it wasn’t like it would be a hard thing for him to pull off anyway – he had access to the feeds of the common areas through JARVIS, spying on the conversation where Nat finally wheedled Steve into a date was very much in the realm of possibility.
So. Tony Stark knew he was going on a date with Steve and he…agreed. Steve wasn’t quite sure how he felt about that. And wasn’t that interesting?
Steve was now close enough to spot the long fingers that Stark (Tony, Steve tested cautiously at the back of his mind, something almost exhilarated in the inflection, Tony) wrapped around his coffee mug, workshop grime sticking under his nails. The vee of his unzipped jacket revealed the soft black cotton of a tee, peeking amidst the fraying maroon threads of a scarf lazily looped over his collarbones. Dark stonewash jeans, folded untidily over a pair of Converse, with loosely knotted, muddy grey laces trailing over the polished lacquer of the floor.
Steve picked out these fragments in slow, careful detail, back of his neck growing steadily warmer all the while. “Pretty positive outcome, heh.” Bucky’s voice drawled in his mind, strangely free of the shackles of regretful memory, and Steve bit into his lower lip, feeling the thin skin crack under his incisor. This was veering from ‘interesting’ to a whole new category altogether.
Because the idea of Sta−of Tony being amenable to something between them…what could that mean? Tony was smart-mouthed and arrogant and inconsiderate− except wasn’t it just that he spat quick-formed insults and clever references at Steve, and he arrogantly lifted his goateed chin and looked down his nose in condescension at Steve and spoke blunt and sharp in equal measure, regardless of Steve’s plans and opinions and feelings and…what was Steve’s hostility going to stand on, if Tony wasn’t going to be hostile towards him at all?
If he possibly…liked Steve?
Two steps away, enough to see that Tony had read through the same line perhaps a half-dozen times and was now quite possibly debating the differences between Helvetica and Helvetica Bold.
Steve cleared his throat.
~to be continued
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https://www.tumblr.com/joannaofarkham/741729803313479680/ohh-piecks-definitely-the-confrontational-type?source=share
i can imagine the teases of their friends in the background!! im guessing connie even tried to push jean to get close to pieck 😂 her neck must have hurt from craning too much while looking up at him hahaha... please tell me he got her number after that 😭😭 Ate no more, hello bhebhe qOuh!! and the jejemon texting begins 😏😆
lmaaaooo you got that right!! i also feel like pieck will gesture with her hands to jean to squat down so she can look at him eye to eye like the boss she is 🤣 oh, even better, pieck gets jean's number instead of the other way around, and says, "ayan ah text mate na tayo ah" but instantly regrets it when she receives:
,,,ell0 phOusx, C j3an p itu...ty pu pLa nA txtm8 na tY0 jeje,,,
kUmaiN knb pU? xEnxiA na, d aq mAsyadng dUmalDaL. shy p0 aq jejejeje,,,, iNgatzx pHou kY0 paUwi, t3 jeje. C U t0M <3!
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