[ If it's a laugh Zemo had been trying for, he gets the prize. Steve can't help the laugh that bubbles up and out of his chest when the man gives that stuttering, slow wink. He finds himself wondering how the man sitting across from him isn't otherwise engaged, isn't wrapped up around some pretty man (blond, he'd think, all things considered), because Steve finds him impressively charming.
Most men he goes out on the town with are handsome, sure, but they usually lack that sparkle of something special, the hint that there's a person beneath all the expensive clothes and alcohol. Money isn't exactly dazzling, in Steve's eyes. But he can't bite the hand that feeds; it's those rich, sleazy types that pay him exorbitant amounts of money, after all. They pay the ever rising medical bills with the name Sarah Rogers written atop them. ]
I think I could pencil in some time to get lost in a tailor's shop with you.
[ Steve winks, near perfectly before he squeezes both of his eyes shut, his nose wrinkling up along with it. A tease that draws a warm smile across his lips as his expression evens out. ]
But breakfast, a tailor. That doesn't sound perilous to me. In fact, we could tell all of your prying Sokovians that we argued over the color of the suit. You wanted the royal blue, I wanted the navy, and the shop keepers were so endeared they gave us a discount.
[ A shrug of one shoulder, the pull of his lips to one side in a silly grin. ] And then I made it up to you by getting us both brunch. Mimosas, some fresh fruit, maybe a few slices of french toast. You know, because sometimes we overindulge.
[ Running a hand back through his hair, he props his elbows back at the table, pausing briefly when the waiter comes back to refill their water and bring their beverages: tea for Zemo, a coffee of Steve. He waits for the man to be out of earshot enough before he curls his hands around his cup and his blue eyes train themselves on Zemo once again. ]
And if they pry even more, I'm sure I could get creative with what we managed to do after brunch.
no subject
Most men he goes out on the town with are handsome, sure, but they usually lack that sparkle of something special, the hint that there's a person beneath all the expensive clothes and alcohol. Money isn't exactly dazzling, in Steve's eyes. But he can't bite the hand that feeds; it's those rich, sleazy types that pay him exorbitant amounts of money, after all. They pay the ever rising medical bills with the name Sarah Rogers written atop them. ]
I think I could pencil in some time to get lost in a tailor's shop with you.
[ Steve winks, near perfectly before he squeezes both of his eyes shut, his nose wrinkling up along with it. A tease that draws a warm smile across his lips as his expression evens out. ]
But breakfast, a tailor. That doesn't sound perilous to me. In fact, we could tell all of your prying Sokovians that we argued over the color of the suit. You wanted the royal blue, I wanted the navy, and the shop keepers were so endeared they gave us a discount.
[ A shrug of one shoulder, the pull of his lips to one side in a silly grin. ] And then I made it up to you by getting us both brunch. Mimosas, some fresh fruit, maybe a few slices of french toast. You know, because sometimes we overindulge.
[ Running a hand back through his hair, he props his elbows back at the table, pausing briefly when the waiter comes back to refill their water and bring their beverages: tea for Zemo, a coffee of Steve. He waits for the man to be out of earshot enough before he curls his hands around his cup and his blue eyes train themselves on Zemo once again. ]
And if they pry even more, I'm sure I could get creative with what we managed to do after brunch.