"You can't control how people think. That's a dark road, doc." Tony looked up at the ceiling. "I don't think everybody sees the world like I do. I just don't try to see it theirs." It was a big difference, a willful disobedience, a predictable rebellion. Tony was the ultimate eternal teenager, made all the worse because his intelligence, presence, and background gave him the ability to overcome anyone who tried to discipline him with reality.
Only fate could do that, and despite whatever Tony said to the people around him, they tended to forget all about it. "He might not have killed him. He didn't so you can't know he would have." Tony leaned on the glass, leaving smears of blue light as the programming tried to accommodate touch that had no command.
"You think people who died by my hand a few years ago want to hear about how most of the time that I'm 'a pretty decent guy'? You think they like seeing me on television, when I'm the one that designed their loved ones a slow and painful death? Go talk to those kids from the alternate future and ask who designed their hell. I got you on body count, Bruce. I got you on lethal capability, I got you on death in every way imaginable. Once you beat me, then we'll talk about the box again. I think if things were the way they should be, I'd probably be the one in here."
Tony got to the elevator and leaned on it, counting backwards and imagining raindrops through the pain. "Selina. She's coming for stitches. Something about her arm. And Natasha wants a second opinion." Ding.