He wasn't entirely sure what possessed him to even walk into the... establishment? It wasn't like he was particularly fond of washing machines, or dryers for that matter, and it wasn't like he didn't have a perfectly good laundry at home (that he never used himself).
Maybe it was just the close proximity to the coffee shop he'd taken to frequenting. Or the fact that it was there in all its window fronted glory half a block away from the coffee shop, on the route he took back to the office.
Or maybe it was the fact that every Wednesday when he went past with his four o'clock coffee there was someone occupying the space inside the laundromat, in between the washing machines and the dryers and the table that was apparently there with the sole purpose of having clothes folded on it. It wasn't like he didn't see other people in there from time to time, on the varying days he went past. It was just that the same guy was in there every Wednesday at ten past four in the afternoon, sitting, not on the seats provided along the far wall, but cross legged on the closed lid of one of the stationary washing machines.
The guy looked young, maybe late teens or early twenties, most likely a college student from the nearby campus. It was hard to guesstimate, given that he hadn't seen the guy standing up, but he probably would have been well on the way to six foot tall, and looked like he was, for all intents and purposes, trying to bulk up, though there was still something angular about his features and knobbly knees, elbows and shoulders that made it seem like he was still in the early stages of that process.
Not that Tony had spent any great length of time studying him through the window of the laundromat. That would have just been creepy.
And okay, so maybe it would have counted as creepy to enter the laundromat one Wednesday afternoon on the way back to his office, if it hadn't been for the fact that someone had seen fit to tip a fair portion of a iced mocha down the sleeve of his shirt.
Ignoring the fact that he had spare shirts at the office, Tony found himself stepping into the laundromat, grateful for the AC/DC tee shirt that Pepper liked to pretend he didn't wear under his dress shirts. The rumble of a solitary washing machine filled the room, rhythmic and strangely soothing, in an industrial kind of way.
Soiled shirt in hand, he approached one of the unoccupied machines, lifting the lid gingerly and reading the instructions on the underside of the lid. It didn't look too complicated, far from it, he was a genius, after all. But there was the slight problem of apparently needing a large amount of small change, and it wasn't exactly like he walked around with that rattling around in his pocket.
He wasn't sure how long he stood there, shirt still bunched in his hand, glancing between the instructions on the lid of the machine, the laundry powder dispenser mounted on the wall, and his phone as he half contemplated calling Pepper and asking her to bring him some change, but disregarding it when he could already hear her rolling her eyes and telling him to hurry up and get back to the office. When the sound of someone clearing their throat broke through his thoughts, he'd almost forgotten the real reason he'd even come into the place to begin with.
Glancing over his shoulder he looked at the blond guy who was sitting cross legged on top of a machine on the other side of the room, taking in the blue eyes that were watching him closely, and the slightly awkward (but still rather endearing) smile.
The guy cleared his throat again, glancing away for a second, rubbing the back of his neck, before looking back at Tony again. "Hey, um, mister, did you need a hand at all?"