"No, Tony," Steve says one morning over breakfast, a forkful of pancakes half raised to his lips. "Tony, no." He can't help but feel a little bad at the way his fiance's - ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgodwhat?! - handsome and expressive face falls. But if there's one thing Steve has learned over the years, it's how to stand firm when confronted with the infamous Stark pout.
"You don't even know what I was going to say, Rogers." Tony looks chagrined and far too adorable for a man of his age and wealth. Steve has an overwhelming urge to squish him.
"True," Steve says. "But I remember what you tried to get me to agree to the last time you wore that particular expression."
Tony sniffs. "I still say a honeymoon on the actual moon would have been both awesome and educational. And it's not like NASA's in a position to turn down donations, are they. Or advice on their propulsion systems. Morons. Plus, you would have looked unbelievably hot in a space suit."
"Tony, no one looks hot in a space suit."
"Okay, first, excuse you. Second, two words: skin tight Lycra." Tony's traded his adorableness for lecherousness. Steve still wants to squish him.
"That's three words, Tony."
"No, I'm pretty sure it's two."
"Well, I'm pretty sure it's three."
"Well, I'm pretty sure you went to public school." Tony's eyes widen and he blinks a few times. "That was mean, wasn't it? I was mean just now, wasn't I?"
"Little bit, yeah."
Tony reaches across the table and takes one of Steve's hands in both of his. "I'm sorry."
"I really am, Steve."
"Your sleeves are in my plate."
Tony drops Steve's hand, raises his arms, and looks perplexedly at the syrup dripping off of the cuffs of his long sleeve tee. "Huh. I'm sticky."
"Yeah, you are."
Tony's expression goes lecherous again. "Hey, I'm sticky."
Steve huffs. "No, Tony."
"But you could-"
"Fine," Tony says, crossing his arms over his chest. "I will just sit here and be sticky and unappreciated."
"I do appreciate you," Steve says. "Somewhat." He's trying to not show how amused he is because he knows Tony would only see that as encouragement. Judging from the grin forming on Tony's face, Steve thinks he's not being successful on that front.
"Big, blond killjoy," Tony says warmly.
"Yes, that's me."
"Fine," Tony says, heaving a mighty sigh. "Have it your way. I won't hire Michael Bublé to sing at our wedding."
"Thank you for... Wait. What?" It's Steve's turn to go wide-eyed. "What do you... You can do that?!"
Tony gives Steve a flat, unimpressed look. "Honestly, Rogers, what part of being richer than God can you simply not understand?"
"Don't blaspheme," Steve says faintly. "I like Michael Bublé."
"I know you do."
"Yeah. Hey, Steve?"
"I'm still sticky."
"Eh. Worth a shot."