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christmas in july;
[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.]
no subject
Oh, I am definitely not the one to be giving that advice. Consider it more... [he wiggles his fingers.] a cautionary tale.
[But oh, does Matt just look so defeated. Tony gives it a moment, and then-- leans over and kisses his forehead very gently.]
I figure that one out, I'll let you know.
no subject
He's also not sure his help would be at all welcome. ]
You're not the poster child for every sin, you know.
[ Okay, that kiss does put a crack in his self-pity, and Matt smiles up at him. ]
I take it back. Maybe I can be safe and happy at the same time.
no subject
I'm not? Tell that to the Times.
[He feigns absolute surprise at hearing it. Tony Stark: prodigal son is a narrative that's been pushed now for more of his life than what came before. You learn to live with it. Tony shrugs, an easy lift of his shoulder. The fight in Siberia was months ago, but sometimes it still aches like it was yesterday. He doesn't want to pull that card on Matt, the I'm older than you, and I feel every single hit I've ever taken, and I don't want that for you too. Honestly, it's probably already too late.]
I like to think you could be.
no subject
[ She'd be brutally honest, but there'd be less sensationalism than the average article on really any of the Avengers.
Matt lets himself lean a little to one side, resting shoulder to shoulder. ]
There's always going to be a trade-off, though. Moments like this, in exchange for moments like... [ He gestures at the bandage. ] ...this.