He's done it. He's finally finished it. It may have taken him six days, eleven reminders from Steve that sleep is important and also more fun when the possibility of it being preceded or followed by something that is very much not sleep is present, but he's finished it.

He picks it up and turns it over in his hand, unable to stop the self-satisfied smile from spreading across his face.

Steve is going to love it.

"What is it?" Steve asks when Tony accosts him in the fourth floor hallway half an hour later. Tony raises an eyebrow.

"You did have sex in the '40s, right?" he clarifies. Steve offers him a withering glance in response, and Tony raises his hands in surrender. "Just checking."

"We did," Steve answers, dubiously prodding the device in Tony's left hand. "But not with... egg whisks."

Tony looks at him in mock horror.

"It is not an egg whisk," he argues. "And if that's what egg whisks looked like in your youth, then I can see why you found it hard to adjust to modern living."

Steve rolls his eyes.

"Well, what is it, then?"

Tony grins wickedly.

"Not telling you. I'll show you. Come on."

It's not the most thorough of demonstrations, but it'll do.

About four days later, Tony is in the kitchen, trying to ignore Thor's attempts at cooking spaghetti Bolognese with Clint, when Bruce comes in, holding something rather suspicious. Tony's throat constricts in fear.

"What's that you've got there?" he asks Bruce. Bruce looks at it and tosses it in his hand, and Tony winces.

"Oh, an egg whisk," Bruce answers. Tony puts his head in his hands. The world is ending.

Thor frowns. Clint's eyes are wide.

"I have not seen an egg whisk thus," Thor says. "Although on Asgard, we tend to flay eggs with horsehair. It makes for a far creamier - "

"And have you used it?" Tony asks. "You know. To whisk eggs."

Bruce laughs, a small, confused huff that makes Tony want to jump out of the fifth storey window.

"Well, yeah," he replies. "I had scrambled eggs this morning."

Clint makes a little whining sound in the back of his throat. He's trying not to laugh.

"Hope they weren't too salty," he says. Bruce looks up at him.

"No, they were pretty good, actually," he says. "The secret is not to use too much seasoning and to keep scrambling them every thirty seconds."

"I'll remember that," Tony says hurriedly. He extends his hand in request of the offending object. Bruce wordlessly hands it over, brow furrowed in concern. "I get cravings," Tony offers by way of explanation. Bruce still looks a little suspicious, but seems to accept it.

"Well, I have to go," he says. "Fury wants to brief me about some new drug they're trialling, says it should help me control the Other Guy. I'm not expecting much, but I'll let you know how it goes."

"Will do," Tony says. He wonders if he could drop dead on will. Bruce turns to leave.

"Oh," he says, suddenly remembering something. "Good luck with the eggs!"

Clint splutters. Tony's toes curl.

"Eggs," comes a flat voice from behind him. To Tony's horror, Steve is standing in the doorway behind Clint.

"Yeah, we were just talking about this pretty neat egg whisk I found on the table," Bruce explains. Steve looks at Tony. Tony looks at the ceiling. "Anyway, talk to you all later. Bye!" Bruce calls cheerily over his shoulder, before exiting.

Tony huffs out a breath that he didn't realise he was holding.

"You left it on the kitchen table," Steve states flatly.

"Apparently so," Tony confirms. Steve puts his head in his hands.

Clint looks at Tony. Tony looks at Clint. Steve looks at the floor, apparently willing it to swallow him up. Tony can empathise.

"Was that - " Clint begins.

"Yep," Tony affirms. He rubs the bridge of his nose, and Clint shudders, his face an open display of horror.

"I am never eating eggs again," he says.

"Isn't that like cannibalism for you anyway?" Tony asks. "You know, what with you being Hawkeye and everything."

Clint glares at him.

"You can try and insult me all you want, Tony," he says. "But I didn't just have my kinky sex life exposed to everyone."

Tony has to hand it to him. He has a point. He shrugs.

"Fair point," he says. Clint smirks.

"Enjoy your scrambled eggs," he says, before hopping down from the kitchen counter and leaving.

Tony watches him go, a distinct spring in his step that only comes from winning an argument. Tony should know. It's his default walking style.

Steve clears his throat, and Tony turns to look at him. Steve is blushing furiously, his face almost as red as his hoodie – one of Thor's old ones, back from when he was still attempting to blend in with Midgard conventions – and Tony shrugs helplessly. Steve sighs.

"Is it always going to be like this?" he asks. Tony feels a lump of anxiety in his throat. 'Like this'? What does that mean?

"Like what?" he asks, trying for cool but ending up with nervous. Steve looks at him pointedly.

"Egg whisks on the table and... not on the table," he answers, a little flustered.

Tony grins.


Steve tilts his head to the side contemplatively.

"I quite like scrambled eggs," he says.

"They're chronically underrated," Tony agrees. "And a perfect accompaniment to toast. But my God, Steve, we are not using that as a euphemism for sex ever again."

"I like toast, as well."

Tony frowns.

"What does that mean?"

Steve shrugs.

"No idea," he replies. "I was speaking euphemistically. But we can find out."

To this day, Tony still isn't entirely sure what it means, but he likes it.