The Guys Are Playing Cosplay

Two blocks from the center of New York stood a shawarma place serving the kind of grilled meat common in the Middle East.

America's Ass sat in the middle, propping up his head and staring into space. Maybe he was thinking about his first love?

Tony Stark silently stuffed a piece of meat into his mouth. Leaning back on the bench, he chewed and chewed, doing his best to control his expression.

Okay, that piece probably wasn't to his taste.

Hell, Tony could barely remember who had recommended this place to him.

But if it was one of his employees, then the next time he went to work, Tony would kick their ass with his dress shoe and send them to HR to collect their severance.

No. He would buy the place, promote that employee to head of food, and make them taste this stuff every day.

Smack, smack.

Stark came back to himself. Maybe he should say something to liven up the mood, but that dry chunk of meat, impossible to chew and devoid of juice or flavor, was stuck in his throat.

God Almighty.

Even the food he had eaten when terrorists kidnapped him in the Middle East had tasted better than this.

Should I spit it out?

He glanced casually at the caped man in armor beside him, the hammer enthusiast who looked like the lead in Point Break. The man was sneaking a glance Tony's way.

Looks like the Arabic flatbread wrapped around cheese, lettuce, and pickles isn't any good either.

You could also wrap minced meat, sauce, and salad in flatbread. Tony had never tried it, but by all rights it couldn't taste bad. The stuff was called the Middle East's sandwich, after all.

How bad could a sandwich be?

Tony Stark picked up a