Logs:Room to Grow

Room to Grow
Dramatis Personae Steve, Tony Stark	2020-05-29 "How?"
Location <NYC> Montagues - Soho
Montagues harkens back to the day when SoHo was filled to the brim with artists, with its mismatched furniture, all plush and decorated heavily with carved wood, but remains trendy enough to keep its newer patrons by making sure that furniture is clean, in good repair and inviting. The antique tables all have been reinforced to seem less creaky. The real draw of the cafe is the smell: fresh roasted coffee mingles with perfectly steeped teas. Spices from crisp pastries mingle with the tang of clotted cream but don't overwhelm too much the scent of chalk on the menu boards. There was a surge well-wishers earlier in the day, come to see Steve after word got out he was back at work less than a week after his highly publicized and much-lauded heroism -- and injury. These flowers and get-well-soon cards that had only just begun to taper off as the week wore on returned full-force, and even keep and displaying a small selection of them makes the cafe look startlingly festive. Steve himself does not look all that festive, dressed as usual in unassuming barista black -- a short-sleeve button-down, lightweight slacks, Montagues apron, and his least beaten-up combat boots. His movements are just a little stiff as he goes about wiping down the counters, his face just a tough paler than usual, but otherwise he seems little worse for wear. There's little fanfare when the door opens, bell jangles, admits one more person into the not-quite-rush of midmorning. No entourage today -- just Tony, in jeans and a Black Sabbath tee shirt, dark glasses, a very large slim black bag held over one shoulder by two fingers. A few heads have already turned by the time he makes it to the counter. His hasn't turned back. "You're kidding with this, right? I thought they were kidding but here you are. You're really -- huh." His lips twitch slightly to one side as he watches Steve wiping at the counter. "Hobby," he decides after a moment of observation, but amends his guess a moment later: "Training routine? It's unconventional." Steve looks up at the bell and stops, blinking. "Good morning," he says, finally, smiling uncertainly. "I didn't get a chance to thank you -- for the hot dogs, or the bills. I'm not sure what part you think is the 'kidding' part, but I heal faster than most, if you're concerned about my coming back to work so soon." He cocks his head, his smile going just a touch crooked. "So, what can I get you today?" Tony snaps his fingers, points triumphantly at Steve -- "Charity. The amount of extra business you must bring in --" His tongue clicks, light, against his teeth. He leans an elbow down against the counter, dropping his bag to the ground beside him with a decided lack of thump. "Got shot at here before, too, didn't you? Kind of a -- regular thing with you." Steve allows an unvoiced 'Ah'. "I -- imagine I do bring in some extra business," he agrees evenly. "Not why I'm here, but it's a fringe benefit. The training, too. I'm picking up all kinds of de-escalation skills." His eyes follow Tony's bag, then flick back to his face. "That barely counts, it only grazed me. But ah -- I think it's less the location and more my apparent tendency to hang about folks others are looking to murder." He shrugs, unconcerned. "And I'm good at getting in the way. You -- doing alright?" "Grazed. Was that those, ah, skills at work?" Tony's brows have raised. He's half-turned, idly scanning the cafe floor, his fingers drumming lightly against the freshly cleaned counter. "I did notice that. Tendency of yours. Not keen on seeing an encore any time soon." He reaches down, picking up the bag and setting it on the counter. "Just in case you have to. De-escalate any more bullets." "Oh, no." Steve laughs, his expression just a fraction tight. "Hadn't picked up those skills yet. It was definitely the shield that time." He looks down at the bag. Looks up at Tony. Unzips the bag without further question. Stops mid-motion when he's got it open enough to see the contents, his brows furrowing quizzically. "How --" His gaze snaps back up to Tony's face. His mouth works for a moment, but all that comes out is another, slightly hushed, "How?" "Had a spare just. Lying around." Tony's huff of breath is quick, and quiet. His cheek twitches slightly. "Guess the old man figured it was only a matter of time before you misplaced yours. Never quite finished it before --" One hand flicks vaguely in Steve's direction. "Seemed like a good time to get the kinks out." Steve blinks, his expression carefully schooled but still faintly incredulous. He finishes unzipping the bag, the motion slower, zipper tab pinched between the thumb and fingers of his still-bandaged right hand. The great targe shield he pulls from it gleams in the mid-morning light, its convex outer face polished and painted: a silver star in a blue circle, ringed with concentric bands of red and silver. "Well, he was right, after all," he says at last, his voice tight. He hefts the shield, turns it over easily and slips his left arm through the newly padded enarmes. "Gosh, it's hard to believe he found room to improve on his design -- or you did." He looks up, blinks his eyes clear. "Either way, thank you." "Always room to keep growing." If some heads had turned before, plenty more do now. Tony's still ignoring them, though. Just giving a minute, satisfied nod as Steve fits the shield onto his arm. His hand drums briefly against the counter before he pushes himself upright. "Try to hang onto that one, yeah? They're, uh. Not easy to come by." He's turning, already, now. Starting for the door, though he turns back halfway across the floor to look back at Steve. "You got time tonight, want to swing by, I'm having a -- thing. I'll try to keep it to at least -- fifty percent fewer bullets than the last party." Then he's turning again. Out the door for real.