It really is one of the strangest occurrences Tony has encountered. He's been beloved by millions, fawned over, and been told every compliment that practically exists. He's bedded hundreds of people at this point in his life who have said similarly sweet things, even if only in the heat of the moment, and maybe even if they didn't really mean it. He's heard it all. But. When Steve says it he's reluctant to accept it. Shy isn't a thing he's used to being, and maybe it's not that, but some part of him just sort of gets a little nervous when Steve says things like that. In a butterflies-in-the-stomach kind of way. Something he's surely too, yes, old for.

"Do they?" He challenges without a thought. And this is nice. Falling into it with each other. "It's not like you were celebrating. Or. Aging. Which is what we're talking about." He takes another very concentrated slow sip of his drink, shifting further back on the couch, tucking his legs up underneath him. Normal night. They can pretend this is a normal night. It feels better, when the alcohol starts soaking into him like a sponge.

Makes him feel better. That's when he finally reaches over to take a piece of garlic bread, dipping it into some marina on Steve's plate, and then takes a bite.

"No. They cracked you open and you came out same way you went in." He lifts his hand, flicking an errant stand of Steve's hair from his forehead. "Perfect," teasing still as he grins at him lightly. He knows Steve dislikes that over ideal version of him that the public carries for him. But. Even if that's not quite who Steve Rogers is, Tony at least thinks he looks perfect. Unfairly so, at times.