Tony lurks in the doorway a little longer, watching the two of them like a suspicious father watching his beloved daughter with her first boyfriend. He’s no supersoldier, however, and he knows it. If the tiger chooses to attack, he’s likely to get killed first. Steve at least the strength and speed to protect himself. Which means that they really don’t need Tony hovering, and quietly, he slips into the hallway and heads back to the living room.

The tiger notes his retreat with a brief, unconcerned sniff, the majority of his attention centered on the two-legs and his hands. The tiger enjoys this scratching-stroking thing the two-legs is doing, and he decides that he’s acceptable. This two-legs can stay. This two-legs, in fact, is his.

Opening his massive jaws, the tiger yawns and, once finished, settles his head across the legs of the two-legs, directly in his lap. Perhaps for the first time, he’s mindful of his fangs, careful not to pierce fragile two-legs flesh accidentally. And ever so softly, felt more than heard, comes the faint, hoarse rumble of a very quiet purr.