On the heels of that announcement comes a somewhat embarrassing mental image of traipsing back to Justin’s parents’ house and asking to bum a few matches of them. It wouldn’t be that bad, really, but they’d known about this trip in advance. They’d planned enough to buy the necessary equipment. And even if he doesn’t know the first thing about camping, he’s Tony fucking Stark. He should be able to start a fire without matches.

But he’s saved from having to go request help from the Hammers when Justin fishes out the lighter. Huffing, Tony has to resist deciding into utterly juvenile behavior; much as the situation seems to call for sticking his tongue out at him, he’s not going to do it. “Were you holding out on me on purpose or did you mistake me for a magic-wielding alien again?”

He’s joking, of course. On both fronts, really. It doesn’t bother him that Justin’s having a little fun with him at his expense. At the offer, he waves his hand expansively, like he’s the ringmaster at a particularly flamboyant circus. “Oh, do go ahead, master fire-lighter. Show us newbies how it’s done.”