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christmas in july;
Jan. 14th, 2018 01:42 pm[Broadway's right, you know. Not that he'd ever admit it, but when it comes to New York-- well. It's a helluva town. He's lived (to varying definitions of the word 'lived') here most of his life. Despite all the bullshit, the garbage (he firmly maintains he's never actually seen a garbage truck doing its job-- ever) and the way the East river still stinks, it's home. No place like it.
He and Rogers have that much in common. Maybe that was his old man's doing, because he always talked about how much Steve loved New York. Tony used to listen to stories and think about having something in common with a hero, and now-- well. Now whenever his thoughts steer in the direction of stars and spangles, he kind of just wants to punch its anachronistic embodiment in the teeth.
(That's his default state these days. 'I Want To Punch Steve Rogers'. He should probably see someone about that. If he were a) a healthy, well-adjusted person or b) less stubborn he probably actually would. But alcohol exists, so. Bully for psychology.)
Hell's Kitchen wasn't even on his radar until Matt. Who is lucky, by the way, that Tony's sense of disbelief is capable enough of being suspended to allow for blind lawyer in a devil costume as a viable attempt at vigilantism and not some latent BDSM fetish that probably needed clinical examination. And Tony, who can never resist a challenge or a pretty face, sort of inserted himself into Matt's milieu.
Which, by the way, is the most ridiculously bullshit place he's ever been - ever. Crazy fucking ninjas, weird dead girlfriends, Matt and his mile-high martyr complex and everything else. He takes it in stride. It's nice to think about someone else's problems.
Tonight's problems are bringing the mood down a little. Tony'd intended to stop by with a nice bottle of some expensive whiskey he's never bothered to learn how to pronounce and the intention of suggesting something adventurous for the evening's exploits, but instead-- well.
(Tony only has one real scar of any particular note. Just one. Matt has dozens. Proof positive, in fact, that he's a fucking idiot, but Tony doesn't like to throw stones in glass houses anymore.)
The bottle has been left on Matt's countertop, and Tony is dabbing rather inelegantly at the gash across his shoulder. His mouth is tugged down into a frown at one side.]
I happen to have the number of an amazing domme who'll beat you up without leaving any permanent damage, you know.
[Look, humour. He jokes. It's a joke. Jesus.]
He and Rogers have that much in common. Maybe that was his old man's doing, because he always talked about how much Steve loved New York. Tony used to listen to stories and think about having something in common with a hero, and now-- well. Now whenever his thoughts steer in the direction of stars and spangles, he kind of just wants to punch its anachronistic embodiment in the teeth.
(That's his default state these days. 'I Want To Punch Steve Rogers'. He should probably see someone about that. If he were a) a healthy, well-adjusted person or b) less stubborn he probably actually would. But alcohol exists, so. Bully for psychology.)
Hell's Kitchen wasn't even on his radar until Matt. Who is lucky, by the way, that Tony's sense of disbelief is capable enough of being suspended to allow for blind lawyer in a devil costume as a viable attempt at vigilantism and not some latent BDSM fetish that probably needed clinical examination. And Tony, who can never resist a challenge or a pretty face, sort of inserted himself into Matt's milieu.
Which, by the way, is the most ridiculously bullshit place he's ever been - ever. Crazy fucking ninjas, weird dead girlfriends, Matt and his mile-high martyr complex and everything else. He takes it in stride. It's nice to think about someone else's problems.
Tonight's problems are bringing the mood down a little. Tony'd intended to stop by with a nice bottle of some expensive whiskey he's never bothered to learn how to pronounce and the intention of suggesting something adventurous for the evening's exploits, but instead-- well.
(Tony only has one real scar of any particular note. Just one. Matt has dozens. Proof positive, in fact, that he's a fucking idiot, but Tony doesn't like to throw stones in glass houses anymore.)
The bottle has been left on Matt's countertop, and Tony is dabbing rather inelegantly at the gash across his shoulder. His mouth is tugged down into a frown at one side.]
I happen to have the number of an amazing domme who'll beat you up without leaving any permanent damage, you know.
[Look, humour. He jokes. It's a joke. Jesus.]
