Oh, ho, ho. Steve Rogers has no idea what he’s just said. Tony finishes the alcohol in his glass in two gulps and slams it down. “Whip it out,” he says, turning towards Steve again. The liquor burns his throat and relaxes the tension in his body. Steve is still a swarm of slightly blurred colors, and Tony wonders if he’s seeing him in watercolor right now. He likes the idea.

Of course, he just waits for the blond to start stammering before he opens his mouth again to clarify.

“I have the numbers of how many people were killed by weapons I personally had a hand in designing and contracting out to various military and ally groups across the globe. Contracts I made a lot of money from.” It’s one of the ghosts he just can’t see around, they loom too large and color everything in blackness. “I’m glad you have faith in me. I actually am glad someone has faith in me. But I don’t have faith in myself to do much more than arrogantly destroy and then try to rebuild everything. Classic Tony.”

He’s not a good guy. And nothing you say will make him think he is, Rogers.