ArchivedLogs:Civil

Civil
Dramatis Personae Steve, Tony Stark, Jarvis
In Absentia	2016-03-09 "There may be something of nostalgia in this, as well."
Location <NYC> Tony's Penthouse - Stark Tower - Midtown East
Accessible only by private elevator, this home takes up the top four floors of Stark Tower. Three of them are residential, a luxurious sprawl of space equipped with state of the art technology and a wealth of comforts. Private gym, terraced pool room whose glass walls can be rolled back in summer to turn it into an outdoor balcony, full bar equipped with robotic-armed bartender, extensive home entertainment system. For all its opulence, the place is decorated tastefully, careful coordination through its wood-and-stone look. The views, through many windows, terraces, balconies, might be the best part of all of it; from this perch high atop the tower, the city spreads out beneath. The lowest floor of the home is less residential, more technologically bent; packed with a host of robotics, monitors, equipment. Where Tony does the bulk of /his/ personal work, it may well be the real heart of Stark Industries' R&D. It's quiet, mostly, in Tony's house this evening. Right now there's no music, no talking -- the sounds of the city are remote, drifting faintly (faintly) up from so very many stories below and wafting in along with a pleasantly warm breeze through the open door out to one of the many balconies. There's a quiet rattle-clink of ice against glass far more immediately present; Tony is leaning against the balcony railing, eyes fixed somewhere out on the city-in-miniature far below. More casually dressed than his in-between-meetings state before -- jeans, a dark v-neck tee with light blue trim. On the patio table nearby there is food. Indian takeout -- channa masala, tadka dal, baingan bharta, vegetable biryani, though all Tony has taken for himself so far while he waits is Scotch. The elevator doors open to admit a lone visitor to the vast penthouse. Steve is casually dressed -- gray t-shirt with a futuristic landscape of blue, purple and silver towering over a cartoonishly adorable golden retriever puppy, dark blue jeans, scuffed black combat boots, shield slung from a harness on his back -- but more impeccably groomed than he usually is by evening, pomade still crisp in his hair, skin smelling faintly of bay rum aftershave. In one hand he carries a long, matte black bag, its shape typical for transporting a fifth in a box. He stops a few steps in, gazes around him until he locates the egress to the balcony, and makes for it slowly. Stops at the threshold and knocks on the open door. "Good evening, Captain." J.A.R.V.I.S.'s pleasant voice greets Steve when he gets out of the elevator. "It is a -- pleasant surprise to see you back so soon. Would you care for a drink?" There's a very faint tightening through Tony's shoulders, but only for a brief moment before he straightens, turns around from the balcony to slouch back against it with a loose-boned ease. "Surprise, yeah. That's one way of putting it. Evening, Cap." Steve looks up when Jarvis speaks, reflexively, as if to locate the source. "Good evening, Jarvis. I --" He hesitates only momentarily. Then, "Yes, I'd love a splash of Irish whiskey, if you've any about." He bows his head slightly when Tony turns around. "Good evening, Mister Stark." Lifts the bag in his hand. It reads 'Oban' in gold-embossed capitals. "I don't know what your security procedure is on gifts, but consider this my apology for intruding on your supper." "Very good, sir." Somewhere deeper in the room, a metal arm is reaching for a bottle on a shelf. Tony lifts his brows, shakes his head even as he steps forward to take the bag from Steve. "B made you an appointment. Means you're not intruding, doesn't it?" He sets his glass down on a coaster on the table, slides the box out of its bag. "Mmm. That's a good year. Glad to see you've been brushing up on the important parts of a modern education." He sets the box on the table as well, hand turning out to the food before he picks his glass back up. "Hungry?" "I wasn't sure how much she consulted you, if at all, about the convenience of the time." Steve doesn't sound particularly apologetic about this, however. "It's no easy matter, keeping up in this age of marvels. And thank you, but I've eaten." His eyes skim out over the city, a hint of wonder edging briefly into the neutrality of the his expression before he turns his attention back to Tony. "I admit, this is not exactly a social call. I've come to ask for something of Howard's -- something he'd made for me, actually." "I'd guess not. Not when you have so much to catch up on." There's a quiet whirr behind Steve, a small metal -- table? Really just a round platter on a long thin arm, wheeling up through the doorway, a glass of whiskey perched in its center. Tony is returning to the railing, leaning back against it once more. He swirls his glass, the ice clinking in it again; his eyes lower to it, chest expanding on a slow breath before he takes a sip. "-- Gonna have to be more specific. I got the impression he made you --" His eyes flick up to Steve again. "-- A lot." Steve blinks at the machine that delivers his drink, pale blue eyes wide. He picks up the glass and mutters an uncertain "merci" before looking back up at Tony. Takes a sip of the whiskey. Considers for a moment. "He did," the agreement comes evenly -- maybe /too/ evenly. "It's armor -- of sorts. He was working on the next update of my uniform when I went MIA." The round platter-top of the robot dips, once, at the thanks, before it scoots back and away. Tony, meanwhile, just lifts his brows again. "Can bring you back from the dead but S.S.R. can't even afford to dress you anymore? I know the government isn't /renowned/ for efficient spending but even I find that hard to swallow." Steve's jaw tightens just a touch at the mention of his resurrection, but in lieu of arguing that point he just lifts his cup and takes another sip. "They're all too happy to dress me, but I far prefer Howard's craftmanship to theirs." He pauses, looks down at the whiskey. "There may be something of nostalgia in this, as well. Sentimentality." There's a small twitch that pulls, brief then gone, at the corner of Tony's mouth. "Longing for the good old days. Right." He drains the rest of his glass, steps forward again to set it down. "You can leave your address with Jarvis. If that's all you need I'll have Pepper send it over." Steve doesn't seem all that surprised by Tony's response. His brows knit very slightly, but then he sighs. Nods -- once, barely perceptible. "Yes, that's all." Tosses back his drink and sets the glass down beside the other one. "Thank you." He turns to go, but stops at the threshold as he steps back inside. Doesn't look back, and doesn't raise his voice, but his words are clear enough when he speaks. "They were awful days, and I'm glad they're gone." Tony doesn't follow. Just watches -- a very small crease between his brows as well. "Then --" There might be a question forming here, but it doesn't come. His hand drops, resting against the box of Scotch Steve brought with him. "Well. Maybe they left something good behind. I'll get that to you -- soon." He turns back around, elbows propped against the railing as his weight settles there once more.