10123/Topics such as Pigeons

Topics such as Pigeons
Date of Scene:	20 November 2019
Location:	Avengers Mansion, Dining Hall
Synopsis:	Steve and Tony shoot the breeze after some Avengering.
Cast of Characters:	Iron Man, Captain America

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Iron Man has posed:
The monster is down. And so are all of the little monsters. In a spree across Manhattan, chasing flying monsters that were trying (and often succeeding) to dive bomb the population, the last of them was finally smashed out of the sky. Iron Man didn't even take a dent, but he did take a spray of monster guts over the legs of his armor. Gross. Not as gross as the rest of it that fell on Steve, though.

It's an hour later, they've returned to the mansion, and Tony's let Steve and the others know that he's ordered Chinese: and it's now arrived.

Tony himself, freshly showered off, now drops into one of the comfortable dining room chairs, without a plate: just one of the beef and broccoli containers that he's decided is his! Tony's dressed simply: comfortable pajama pants in gray, and a black tank top. His arc reactor glows strongly from his chest, hair wet from the shower, and a glass of something alcoholic nearby at hand.

Captain America has posed:
Sudden bombardment by the lukewarm splash of monster guts is one thing Steve's going to try his damnedest to forget, eidetic memory notwithstanding. His suit didn't end up burned, but the smell was enough to require mutiple near-industrial level cleaning runs in the communal washer.

No, he wasn't bringing that stench into his bedroom.

"Dibs on the pork fried rice," says the voice that floats in with a weary undertone. Steve's in a long-sleeved tee shirt in slate-blue and black sweatpants, thick white socks on his feet (because cold toes suck). His wheat-gold hair is spikey and damp from his own scrubbing; his neck and cheeks, back of hands, these are pinked not from emotion, but from the thorough washing.

With a grunt of a sigh, he plunks down in a chair across from Tony and reaches out to pluck the box of pork fried rice apparently for his own as well. A white plastic spoon will do for cultery. "Whoever decided to let in things that looked halfway between horned frogs and demonic jellyfish needs therapy," he grumps quietly. A finger swirls through the curls of his ear, as if he might still have something stuck in it.

Iron Man has posed:
"Too late, I think, for therapy. Like. At some point you have to look at the person that goes 'yes, demon jellyfish' and understand that they aren't really someone that can be redeemed," Tony replies. He's using chopsticks: skillfully, actually. With the amount of various foods Tony eats, and his ability to pick up skills of a dextrous nature, that can't be a shock. He lifts his hand to rub at his cheek briefly, and then taps near his cheekbone, looking directly at Steve.

"Your face okay? Saw you take that tentacle to the face. Not a love tap, that. Your helmet take the brunt?" Tony asks, dark eyes watchful, before he drops his gaze into his food, fishing out a bit of beef, then broccoli, to eat together.

"We're got photos tomorrow for you guys, some hall of fame things," Tony appends. "I took mine before the fight."

Captain America has posed:
"Ngh." A short sound of agreement from the Captain with his mouth occupied by three spoonfuls of fried rice -- indeed, too late for therapy. He chews carefully enough and stops to look up from shoveling another heaping mound of the food on his spoon. A glance to one side is accompanied by a lift of eyebrows.

"Admit that rung my bells a bit, but nothing's gonna linger. It'll bruise overnight 'nd be cleared up by tomorrow evening. Figure Janet can put some foundation over the worst of it if it's green 'nd blue still by the time pictures come around."

He pauses in lifting the spoonful to his mouth, now giving Tony a scrutinous once-over. "Suit's not damaged by the cloud of 'em that settled on you? Saw you disappear for a second. Way you scattered 'em made me think of shooing pigeons off popcorn in Central Park."

Iron Man has posed:
"Nope. Just was giving them a free ride away from the people below," Tony replies, shaking his head. "Thinking of moonlighting as a squid-monster UBER. Make the big bucks." Tony smirks, pausing, looking down into his beef box. He drops his feet (he had had them up on the neighboring chair), and leans forward to pick through what else is available. He ordered it, but he didn't /order/ it. Someone handled the details, of course.

A plate is finally used, and some orange chicken shoveled out. He lifts a brow and tips it towards Steve, offering some of it before he sets it back down. One hand draws in to suck the sauce off his thumb, and he stirs things around with his chopsticks.

"Never thought you for a pigeon torturer. More that you'd scatter the popcorn around you, and be their best buddy," Tony asks, amused.

Captain America has posed:
Steve snorts at the idea of a squid-monster UBER. At least half of the pork fried rice is gone now from the medium-ouncer box and it seems he's not slowing down in the least. Calories are always important post-battle. He will apparently take Tony up on the offer of the orange chicken and use a plate rather than stick his spoon into the collection of sauced nuggets; that would be on par with drinking directly out of the milk carton, after all.

As he uses a fresh spoon to serve himself up a third of a plate's worth of chicken, he smirks at Tony across the way. "Never said I was a pigeon torturer. Said it reminded me of shooing them away. I never did get into the idea of feeding 'em. That, 'nd never had spare change to throw popcorn to pigeons back when I had time to consider doing it. Why wouldn't I eat all of the popcorn myself? Or share it with a friend? Seems like a waste of popcorn," the Captain says pragmatically.

Iron Man has posed:
"Note to self: don't engage Steve Rogers on topics about pigeons. He has strong opinions on pigeon feeding and has thought about it too much for what is healthy," Tony smirks a little, but it isn't mean. It isn't as if Tony had some other important topic.

"Did you end up keeping count of your streak? I was at twelve, until I had to go stop that building from falling over. Did you pass my high score?" Tony asks. Topic, of course, is Tony's awesome streak of squid-things being zapped. Tony's a cheater, in a way, though: he had the aerial advantage on flying targets.

Captain America has posed:
"You try 'nd sketch in Central Park without being interrupted by those flying rats," Steve mutters around a mouthful of orange chicken, though not without a half-smirk on his face. He glances up from picking out a collection of crab rangoon for his plate (he's up to four now, soon to be five) and lifts a single eyebrow humoringly.

"Shoulda seen the swarm of 'em that showed up around Eighth Street. Had to be at least...eight or so...along with one of the hive-soldiers." He picks the fifth crab rangoon and sets the box aside, though not without stuffing this choice tidbit of food in his mouth. "Two swarms make my tally sixteen -- 'nd you exploding the hive-soldier only counts as one even if it was the size of a shipping box," he challenges in a friendly manner, even making to point a finger at Tony across the way.

Iron Man has posed:
"I was about to say 'language' to you, but you didn't quite swear. It just felt like you did, with the 'flying rats'," Tony considers, tapping the side of one finger to his lips, trying to decide what about it felt so raunchy. He ends up shrugging and letting that slide in favor of a topic that involves his battle prowess.

"A swarm flying into you and killing itself doesn't give you points. They were fleeing from me," Tony points out. "At the most you have half of those points from that swarm, four, which brings /me/ to sixteen total." Tony chews the chicken, and then picks up his alcoholic drink with a laugh, finishing it off down to the ice. "But who's counting?"

Captain America has posed:
Overhead light gleams on the tines of the plastic fork as Steve points it at the genius-inventor.

"You owe me a new suit then, Stark, if you were the one herding those around the way. Warn a man, why don't you?" Regardless, he laughs and shakes his head. "Also, you're full of bunk."

A beat.

"And I pulled a seven-point ricochet with the shield through ten of 'em, which brings my math into something nearing a...bonus-point multiplier," muses the man with a wry little smirk. He informs Tony sagely, "Fleeing flying rats thinking they have a chance with Lovecraft are worth twice as much if you can get 'em without repulsor beams."

Iron Man has posed:
"They aren't worth more if you use a terrible method to fight them, such as your face, or bite them with your teeth, Steve," Tony sighs at him. "You know what. I take that back, entirely. If you bite the next monsters with your teeth to fight them, I will give you bonus points," Tony offers, spreading his hands with a show of extreme generosity. It's the same gesture Tony uses when he grants charity to pediatric foundations.

He then leans forward and claps Steve on the back with one hand. "I know you need them." Tony cheekily lifts his brow, and smugly eats his food.

Captain America has posed:
Laughter outright echoes around the dining area at Tony's offer. "Y'know what, Tony, sure -- sure. I'll bite the next monster we fight with my teeth to make a point. It'll be worth those bonus points I apparently need."

The white plastic fork, now covered in orange chicken sauce, points briefly at the man across the table. "Don't tell Janet about this. She'd tell me off about hygiene 'nd then I'd have to tell her about what folks thought 'hygiene' was back when I was actually her age. It'd be a mess." He flicks his eyebrows once to accent his point before fishing around for an eggroll.

Iron Man has posed:
"A mess... equal to the mess of your hygiene back in the 1900s?" Tony quips back, deadpan. "What do you think of our soap, anyway? Did you scrub your teeth with a twig?" Tony asks, putting his feet back up on the chair across from him, and accepting an egg roll from what Steve is clearly doing to offer him one.

"Indoor toilets must have blown your mind." Tony grins, sighing, and standing up to go to the fridge. He pulls bottled water out and returns to the table, as if that were ordinary, and keeps talking. "If the next foe is a ghost or made of fire, I'll not require the biting. I'm not a monster. Although at that point they'd be worth five times the points."

Captain America has posed:
"Tony: when the day comes when you swig out your mouth with turpentine to make sure a lost tooth socket gets cleaned out, you can walk the walk. Right now, you're all talk," Steve fires back with another laugh. "'nd I said I'd bite the next monster we fought. 'm a man of my word."

Content with his eggroll of choice, the super-soldier leans back in his chair and eats it with more presence, as if his body is no longer screaming for sustenance. "I had a toothbrush...that, 'nd more'n six teeth, so that never came up as a problem in the Army. D'you know you needed six healthy opposing teeth to become part of the Army? Five teeth 'nd you were stamped rejected. Rations were sometimes like eating leather."

Blunt nails briefly scratch at the back of his scalp. "Modern soap's like wearing cologne without spraying it, though I can't complain about the lack of lye. Lye burns're rough. I only got mild ones once from touching a batch of it left out in an alley one building down from where I lived in Brooklyn."

On a dare, Steve doesn't add.

Iron Man has posed:
Tony lifts both hands, "I never said I wasn't all talk," the inventor says shamelessly. "It's others that have added the other accolades." Tony smiles sleekly and continues to eat as Steve describes his torture of a time. "I've what you'd call 'indoorsy' and I'm fine with it." A wink follows.

"So what I'm hearing is you'd like a day in an exclusive spa," Tony suggests. "JARVIS," he addresses the ceiling. Then pauses, and looks at Steve questioningly. "How's Thursday? It'll be after the photos, but let's be honest here, there are always more photos." Tony spots that Steve is slowing, and flips one of the fortune cookies at him. He's still taking his time with the beef and broccoli, but slowing. He's not an endless tank for food like Steve.

Captain America has posed:
Tony gets a vaguely amused look and squint to follow, as if his eating companion was uncertain he'd heard the question correctly. He catches the fortune cookie without crackling it, proof of kinesthetic control long-earned throughout the years, and peels the plastic from about it. His lips thin as he looks down at the fortune pulled from within. A thoughtful hum leaves him.

"'If a turtle doesn't have a shell, is it naked or homeless?'," he reads as evenly as he can manage. It's very clear Steve's trying not to laugh. The cookie is flicked into his mouth and he finally can't help it, ending up with his hand over his mouth to stop fortune cookie crumbs from escaping as he guffaws.

"That's not even a fortune!" Though, with a shake of his head, Steve gives Tony a half-smile. "Why not, Tony. Thursday. Never been to a spa before. Maybe there's a mask that'll help clear the bruising." Fingertips gently feel at where the tentacle whalloped him butt over tea-kettle hours back.

Note to self: duck.