Another day of waiting; another class, another lecture. Steve had rolled out of bed that morning at his usual 0500 hours for his morning run and workout, but even the tranquillity of routine did not, could not fully distract him from the fact that he was living a comfortable, safe life, in a comfortable, safe apartment, while uncomfortable and painful realities raged on outside of his metropolitan bubble, on the other side of the world.
Two weeks, and not a single word to be had from his superiors. He told himself to be patient, and to wait it out, and in the mean time, acclimatize to the 21st century. That had been the popular word in his instructions. He had to acclimatize to his surroundings, so he could be once more useful without a chance of becoming a liability. It made Steve want to bash his head against the wall
( ... )
Steve obviously knew his subject. The whole art thing wasn't of personal interest to Tony, but he respected intelligence when he saw it, and Steve was an excellent professor. Easy, approachable. Tony wasn't even listening and he was learning by osmosis; the quality of Steve's voice carried charisma and affability and something compelling, hell if Tony knew any more synonyms for 'pretty neat' at the moment, his head was so full of random art terms.
Steve still hadn't noticed him yet, which, well, there were a hell of lot of kids in the room and it was difficult to pick faces out of a crowd, so Tony got that. It was also dim. He checked his watch: around twenty or so minutes left.
He cleared his throat. "So what makes a good composition?"
It was entirely tongue-in-cheek, interrupting Steve as he was talking about black and white abstracts. He hoped Steve would recognize his voice, if not his face. Otherwise this would be an exercise in embarrassment. Especially since a lot of the student faces had just turned to him.
Oh. It took some effort not to grin in an undignified manner, but after the slightest of pauses, Steve had collected himself enough to remark, "Mr Stark, see me after class. Clearly you are in need of a remedial session," before rejoining the flow of his lecture. The last twenty minutes passed more quickly than the first, and when it was over, Steve slowly and deliberately collected his trench coat and repacked his attaché, fielding questions from students and trying not to look too anxious.
When most of the students had filed out or were moving towards the lecture hall doors, Tony came down the rows to the front with his hands in his jacket pockets. He smiled lopsidedly.
"You realize your kids are going to be pestering you about this for a really long time, right?"
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Two weeks, and not a single word to be had from his superiors. He told himself to be patient, and to wait it out, and in the mean time, acclimatize to the 21st century. That had been the popular word in his instructions. He had to acclimatize to his surroundings, so he could be once more useful without a chance of becoming a liability. It made Steve want to bash his head against the wall ( ... )
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Steve still hadn't noticed him yet, which, well, there were a hell of lot of kids in the room and it was difficult to pick faces out of a crowd, so Tony got that. It was also dim. He checked his watch: around twenty or so minutes left.
He cleared his throat. "So what makes a good composition?"
It was entirely tongue-in-cheek, interrupting Steve as he was talking about black and white abstracts. He hoped Steve would recognize his voice, if not his face. Otherwise this would be an exercise in embarrassment. Especially since a lot of the student faces had just turned to him.
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"You realize your kids are going to be pestering you about this for a really long time, right?"
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