Tony was too wrung out to dive with his usual headlong gratitude at the escape hatch he'd been offered; leaving this conversation behind felt a lot less like a relief than a turn onto a slightly less unpleasant road. There wasn't much to look forward to. But - he had the night, at least. He'd have to start thinking about this in earnest tomorrow, but for now, his only responsibilities included cleaning up and trying to get some sleep.
Frankly, that sounded like a pretty tall order. He was going to have to devote his full attentions to it. Better get started.
Downing the rest of his drink so he could set it on the back of the chair without fear of spillage (no need to make any more of a mess), he straightened and started shrugging out of his jacket with a grimace. "Just throw it away." A muscled somewhere behind his shoulder blade protested; he peeled the thing off with a grunt, grabbed it by the collar, and thrust it out to Jarvis. "I don't want it anymore." Getting that blood out hardly seemed worth the effort (not that he had any idea how much or what sort of effort was really involved), considering he'd think about it anyway, every time he put the damn thing on. He had a feeling he wouldn't need any mementos to help him recall the day's events; its results would be more than enough of a thorn in his side to keep it fresh in his mind for a good long time to come. "Neither of us need anything else to do tonight."
And bloodstained clothing from District Eight seemed entirely too much like a slogan Rogers would have pitched at him to be tolerable. Stained or not, it's all drenched in the blood of the workers - he could hear it now. And people bought this tripe, apparently. He couldn't imagine.