"Are you listening to yourself?" Tony demanded, now officially annoyed at this interjection, and at his shirt bunched and locking his arms, at the insistent base beat of the shitty music and every single person staring at him waiting for his attention whenever he could bother to tear himself away from all the inane little things he had to deal with every day like land mine detection and disease outbreak and genocide and alien invasions and overpopulation and economic collapse and and the sheer, overpowering ignorance that people would gladly open their mouths and drown in. Tony wrenched his arm away then, absolutely not buying in to the baby talk, and shrugged his shirt back up on his shoulders.
"We're done talking? When did we start? You don't like how this is going, you can leave. I'm not the complaints department," Steve was advised, Tony throwing an arm to illustrate the general direction in which Steve could take his angry letter. In fact, Steve could shove it up his ass. Either walk away or commit, don't just waltz in late and make veiled threats like Tony was refusing to eat his vegetables. Tony wasn't the type to listen to anyone readily, never mind the nanny who spent the rest of the day watching Oprah.