Watching Steve eat is like some weird kind of modern art that Tony can’t help but stare at. There’s a part of him that wants to ask if he’d like a little pancake with his syrup, but after whatever ordeal he’s been through, he probably deserves to drink the whole bottle if he wants to. Tony certainly doesn’t care.

When he puts the bottle down, Tony picks it up and puts a bit of syrup on his own pancakes. Not nearly as much as Steve, there’s still more doughy fluff than there is sea of thick brown goo, but there’s enough to taste, at least.

“Nah,” he says, shrugging as he starts cutting a pancake up into smaller bites. “I’ll make something for it after we’re done. It eats damn near everything, I’m surprised it hasn’t eaten the rug yet. Did you ever have pets? Do you know how to get them to listen to you?”