"Shouldn't, like, me telling you this be more than enough?" Tony asked, fingers curling in the air to invite her to think about it for more than a third of a second, then dropping limply into his lap. "I know what it's like to be sixteen and an idiot, and I know what it's like to do this," he explained, nodding pointedly towards the helmet on the table, "And I've seen a lot and learned a lot and one of those things is what a disastrous combination 'sixteen and an idiot' and 'this'," nod, "is."
He wasn't going to apologize for essentially calling her an idiot; he had no real proof that she wasn't, after all, and chances were that she very much was and would realize that not even six months from now. "Fact is, you think you're helping people, and I appreciate that impulse and it's an endearing trait, don't get me wrong, but we all mess up. I mess up every f--ck--" He bowed his head, regrouping, doing his best to remember he was supposed to be setting an example or something. "Every day," he continued without the profanity. "Difference is, I have a fully developed brain, ten years experience, and a fleet of lawyers to help me through it. You're going to mess up bigger and harder, and it's not going to be worth it. You're going to get someone killed, and it might not be yourself, but it might be your family, it might be your friends, it might be your team, or it might just be collateral damage while you're trying to do your best, because there's always something you're not going to see. Not how I see it, not how Captain America sees it. And that's not something you can just put behind you, just like this career isn't something you can just put behind you. It's not like an after school job, you put that mask on for a few hours and punch a few bad guys and when you take it off it's all over. It's every second; you want to be Stature, then you go to sleep as Stature and you wake up as Stature and every part of your life is affected because you decided to be a super hero. Everyone in your life is affected."
Tony was more than thankful for the arrival of their drinks. This time his attention didn't linger on their server, just the straw he pinched between gold fingers to toss aside, rolling to the edge of the table against the wall, then the Iron Man helmet, scuffed, with a bright patch of its newly knitted red shell where it had repaired itself not a few hours ago. Not on Cassie.