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The word for what he's feeling, Tony decides, is embarrassed. Like, here he is, trying to be a good friend, a good team player, and what does he get? Captain America crying on his couch, that's what.
"Um," Tony says, all charm and smoothness and, oh yeah, embarrassment. There's definitely not the slightest urge of reaching out and patting Steve on the back. That's not - no. Just no.
"I guess I went a little bit mad after that," Steve says. He sounds sort of embarrassed about it.
Tony sips his drink. He's offered one to Steve, but Steve's told him he doesn't drink - not, Steve's explained, because he disapproves of drinking, as such (although Tony rather expects that Steve does, in fact, disapprove of drinking) but because he can't get drunk.
Not being able to get drunk sounds like a damn good reason to keep trying to Tony, actually. These days, it takes a lot for Tony to get drunk himself. Doesn't stop him.
"I think you're good," he says. Tony's seen mad. It usually involved explosions and buildings coming down and very occasionally Pepper being extra polite at him.
Going on to do the job you set out to do in the first place doesn't sound like a kind of mad to be embarrassed about. In fact, it doesn't even sound like the kind of mad that'll make your personal assistant feel like she needs to send people flowers and a card with Tony's (forged) signature on it.
Steve looks like Tony's going to be needing to do a lot more talking before he can wake up tomorrow morning and not feel there's a first-class jerk staring back at him from the bathroom mirror. "It's just that I never took the time to, well, to remember him."
"Dying can do that to a guy," Tony says, and he knows it's the wrong thing to say the moment he's said it. Adding: "Trust me, I know. Been there, done that," doesn't really improve things.
So Tony's not a very good shrink, so sue him. Just ... not the puppy eyes. That's too much.
"You - " Steve says, and now he looks embarrassed, and for all the wrong reasons, Tony just knows it.
"It was a long time ago and I really don't like to talk about it," he says. The part where it really wasn't comparable to Steve's situation at all is no more relevant to this conversation than the part where Tony hasn't really got any old friends, for all that he seems to have acquired rather a lot of new ones.
There's Rhodey, of course, and yes, Tony would be pretty torn up if anything would happen to him. Hard to imagine, though. Tony's imagination is up to injured and recovering, but that's pretty much it.
Possibly, this is what Pepper means when she tells him he's immature, irresponsible and egocentric.
If mature, responsible and unselfish looks like what Steve's looking like right now, Tony thinks he definitely got the better deal. Of course, nobody looks at him like he's a real American hero (not really), the way they look at Steve, but Tony's never been particularly keen on hero-worship either.
Steve clears his throat. "Would it be okay if I did?"
The tone more than the question prompts Tony to say: "Sure." It gets him a small smile from Steve, which is definitely a lot better than the kicked puppy eyes. "Um, did what?"
"I think I'd like to have someone to talk to. About Bucky," Steve adds, when Tony fails to look all clued in quickly enough. "If that's all right with you."
"Sure, absolutely," Tony says. "Now?"
"I got a few days off," Steve says.
Tony wonders if Fury's made Steve sign any sort of contract and, if so, how many days it'd take Pepper's can of lawyers to rip it apart. He makes a mental note to check.
Rather a lot of Steve's stories about 'My Best Friend Bucky' involve Steve getting beat up. Looking at the way Steve looks now, Tony finds it a bit tricky sometimes to remember he used to be the kind of short, scrawny kid Tony's never been himself.
Tony's also never really been in the habit of getting himself beaten up over things that are just a little bit ... well. Steve's an idealist, and he had a good friend to come rescue him.
" - but then, when it was my turn, I failed him," Steve says.
"Life's a bitch, huh?" Tony tries not to look at Steve's face. It's disconcerting, to look at Steve when you know he might start tearing up any moment.
On the other hand, it's tricky to figure out the wrong thing to say before you say it if you can't see someone's expression. Tony supposes he's just going to have to turn his head when things get risky.
Steve is frowning at him. Tony firmly refrains from smiling in relief.
"I failed him," Steve repeats, as if he thinks there's something wrong with Tony's hearing.
"He died hating your guts?" Tony tries. He's rewarded with a brand-new Steve face.
Pissed-off Steve looks - yeah, all right, maybe a little bit scary. "No, he didn't," Steve says tightly.
Tony decides he's not really looking to get hit here. It seems kind of counter-productive, to get Steve off his guilt-trip over not-saving Bucky only to get him on a guilt-trip over hitting Tony.
"Exactly," Tony says. "He didn't. So what's the problem?"
Steve doesn't look like he's about to put Tony through a wall or two anymore, which is good. He does look like he might get there again, eventually.
"Aside from his being dead which, yes, obviously a problem," Tony says. "Also: not your fault."
"It feels like it was just yesterday," Steve says, apparently back on the trip down memory lane. Or possibly not. "I should have - "
"People tell me I can be very annoying," Tony says. "Obnoxious, even. Also: stubborn. Plus charming, good-looking, arrogant, rich, irresponsible, immature and selfish."
Steve gets the hint. He's smart that way. Tony likes that about him.
And then there's the 'My Best Friend Bucky' stories that involve girls. They're ... interesting, Tony supposes the word he's looking for might be.
"He was taller than I was," Steve says without even a hint of defensiveness in his voice.
"Tall doesn't get you girls. Trust me on this," Tony says.
"He was a great guy."
"That works pretty well sometimes," Tony acknowledges. Not for him, he doesn't think. Tony Stark doesn't need to be a great guy in order to get girls.
"I wish - " Steve starts, and Tony tenses a bit, until Steve says: "I miss him," which is something Tony can handle just by nodding and pouring himself another drink.
"We should get you dancing lessons," Tony says, and if when he says 'we', what he actually means is 'someone I will have Pepper delegate this to', that's between himself and Pepper.
Steve doesn't look like he regrets having shared that particular anecdote with Tony, but it's a close thing. "People still ... go dancing, then?"
Tony tries to picture Steve in the kind of club Tony used to go to a lot more often. It doesn't really work. "Some," he says. "There's some dancing going on in some places, yes. Formal events, mostly. Receptions, that sort of thing." He remembers Pepper in her open-backed dress.
Steve looks dubious. "I think - "
"I think Bucky would definitely have gotten you dancing lessons," Tony says. Because he's an idiot like that.
"But - " Steve starts, which is a better reaction than Tony'd dared hope for.
"And believe me, there's going to be plenty of girls wanting to dance with you."
Steve sighs. Too late, Tony remembers there's a bit of an open wound there, too.
Oh well. If he presents Fury with a choice between Pepper having him sued and letting Tony keep Steve for a few more days, Tony's reasonably optimistic Fury's going to do the smart thing.
(If not, Tony's just going to sit back, enjoy the fireworks and wait for the right moment to repeat his offer, on only slightly different terms.)