Chapter Text
Three months of lockdown. Three fucking months. He is going insane. Like, literally insane. He's one step away from jumping off the window, but he lives in the fourth floor. That wouldn't kill him. Although spending time at some hospital doesn't sound so terrible right now.
Shit, the virus. Right. So maybe not an improvement.
But the worst part is Rogers.
Yes, the worst part. Even worse than the virus.
The Russian Chick and the Emo/Barista Guy (who's actually a barista, what the hell? Are they all trying to look alike?) he can stand. Sure, they look like they could throw a government down all by themselves, but they're actually... Well, not nice per se, but non-obtrusive people. That's a huge compliment, really. And maybe, maybe, Tony thinks they are kinda cute-ish together, not that he's ever going to admit it.
Rogers, also known as Sweetcheecks in previous iterations (don't ask) (or ask, he doesn't care, the guy has a great ass, sue him) is the real problem in this apartment. You know, beyond the size, infrastructure, location and aesthetics.
That's what happens when you are thinking with your dick, says a voice in his head, sounding suspiciously like Pepper.
But it isn't his fault that Blond Guy With Pecs Of Steel was who decided to show him the place. And it's also not his fault that said guy ended up being an obnoxious prick with a superiority complex.
Well, if he's able to overcome the next few months Tony is going to make sure to buy a t-shirt with "Quarantine Survivor" on it. With a radioactive symbol under the text. Maybe some badges.
And a mug. Definitely a mug.