By the time Tony had looked through the whole box, his seat and his pantlegs up to his hips were soaked from where he tucked his feet up to brace the gift, possessive and protective now, in his crossed legs. That probably said a lot more than his dismissively muttered, "Now-- you're welcome," mouth twisted and too caught off guard to give any weight to his sarcasm. His grin grew steadily as he discovered every new element of the little taste of Italy, but it was the toys he came back to (after teasing "Looks like Pietro" of the underwear a thorough examination of the pens with Wicked welcomed closer to help him out-- "Does that remind you of anyone?") with wonder and, Wicked had to be prepared for this, a story brewing.
"You know, Da Vinci," he started, holding up the tiny wheeled cart in his palm where he pushed it with one finger, "was so brilliant and so ahead of his time, but so completely out of touch with the basic human condition that he thought this-- it's a car, self-propelled, four centuries before Ford-- was a plaything, a distraction. He thought that the absolute pinnacle of development was flight, something most people aren't even interested in understanding. It's not a human instinct. But speed...everything we do since the wheel works towards speed. We love to go fast, especially if it's dangerous. Absolutely nothing will get you more wet than 0-to-60, so: was he wrong?"