“They put me on an image inducer,” Steve says and closes the topic by tugging the gun out of Tony’s thigh holster and clicking off the safety. Beretta 92. He tsks.
“Oh, get over it.”
“The short —“
“Reset is a pain, I know. Cry me a river,” Tony’s peeling off his gauntlets. Better, Steve knows, to not use a repulsor in the field when not necessary, to leave that nice sliver of doubt as to whether Iron Man was there. Plausible deniability, the Ultimates greatest friend. “The magazine is bigger.”
“15, 17,” Steve shakes his head, “if you’re paying attention —“
“Anyways!” Tony says, too loudly, as he hooks the gauntlets to something on his belt, leaves them dangling there like a prize fighter’s boxing gloves. The casualness of it tickles Steve. “This image inducer . . . “
His humor swirls away. “I’m not talking about it.”
“Were you hot?”
Steve weighs a few answers to that. Thinks about his — not his — reflection. About feeling small and objectified. Says a version of the truth, “other people thought so.”
There’s a strangely loud silence in response to that.