Steve never did have anyone to compare himself to, not when he was the standard. If Tony wanted to hurt himself, the quickest way was just a glance around to take stock of every way he fell short. He was practically an expert. He should have recognized someone looking for punishment. He slid from the table, not attempting to make himself look any less intimidating, shoulders still back and without any softening gesture of surrender as he approached, letting the looseness of his limbs and the self-assured expectation that Steve would let him smooth the path into Steve's personal space. The problem was, Tony didn't think he was capable of punishing Steve; when he chased an argument, it was to challenge him to scale a wall, not crush him under the pressure.

He reached up to Steve's shoulder, to trace a flat hand up the back of his neck and pull him closer, so their heads were bowed together and Steve didn't have anywhere else to look, and it was suddenly so obvious how those centimetres of difference in this Steve's shape didn't quite fit into the void that Tony felt at his side. If he could hurt Steve, maybe he could bite and drag his nails through his skin to force him into that shape, push and dig until he was his. The only thing his Steve had ever done was, "He forgave me. Every time." If he really thought Tony deserved that, he couldn't argue that he didn't himself.