He gives a long-suffering sigh, assuming an expression of spurious forbearance. "Somehow I cope," he replies with dignity. There's a faintly bemused edge to his grin. This is...weird. He likes it, but it's undeniably weird.
"Scout's honor," is his response, coupled with a smirk. Clint will confirm everything he's said, as will the file SHIELD keeps on him. Many things have been said about Tony over the years. People have questioned his morals, his personal habits, and occasionally his sanity. But one thing that even the harshest critics have never questioned is that he's damn good at what he does. There's a reason Stark Industries is the leader in its field. He may get a bit too much of a kick out of tossing the word 'genius' around, but it really is merited.
Her hand hesitates in midair and he goes completely still, watching her with a strangely blank expression. The wariness in his stance ratchets up a few notches but he still doesn't pull away. One hand stays pressed flat against her stomach; the other moves, slowly and tentatively, to rest against the back of her hand where it's cupped around the side of his face. There's something almost vulnerable in his eyes.
"I don't-" he begins, and then stops, because he really has no idea where that sentence was meant to be going. What is he even supposed to say. It's always there. It's in every move he makes; underpinning every thought, every breath. Half the time it barely even registers on a conscious level it's so all-pervading, the dull ache radiating out from the hot, foreign weight in the center of his chest and cresting with every beat of his heart. Why would it be noticeable when there's nothing for it to stand out against? It is the baseline.
It's there though, when you're looking for it. In the shadows under his eyes which are so easy to attribute to insomnia, the tension in his shoulders, the occasional hitch of breath when he moves the wrong way; in all the little things that slip past the facade. And the 'genius billionaire playboy philanthropist' bit is and has always been a facade. Perhaps he never went through any of the training she did, but a lifetime spent always in the public eye, every move analyzed by a dozen different media outlets, teaches its own lessons about masks.
no subject
"Scout's honor," is his response, coupled with a smirk. Clint will confirm everything he's said, as will the file SHIELD keeps on him. Many things have been said about Tony over the years. People have questioned his morals, his personal habits, and occasionally his sanity. But one thing that even the harshest critics have never questioned is that he's damn good at what he does. There's a reason Stark Industries is the leader in its field. He may get a bit too much of a kick out of tossing the word 'genius' around, but it really is merited.
Her hand hesitates in midair and he goes completely still, watching her with a strangely blank expression. The wariness in his stance ratchets up a few notches but he still doesn't pull away. One hand stays pressed flat against her stomach; the other moves, slowly and tentatively, to rest against the back of her hand where it's cupped around the side of his face. There's something almost vulnerable in his eyes.
"I don't-" he begins, and then stops, because he really has no idea where that sentence was meant to be going. What is he even supposed to say. It's always there. It's in every move he makes; underpinning every thought, every breath. Half the time it barely even registers on a conscious level it's so all-pervading, the dull ache radiating out from the hot, foreign weight in the center of his chest and cresting with every beat of his heart. Why would it be noticeable when there's nothing for it to stand out against? It is the baseline.
It's there though, when you're looking for it. In the shadows under his eyes which are so easy to attribute to insomnia, the tension in his shoulders, the occasional hitch of breath when he moves the wrong way; in all the little things that slip past the facade. And the 'genius billionaire playboy philanthropist' bit is and has always been a facade. Perhaps he never went through any of the training she did, but a lifetime spent always in the public eye, every move analyzed by a dozen different media outlets, teaches its own lessons about masks.
In the end he just shrugs. "You get used to it."