a/n: Thanks to my beta Armchair Elvis. Amazing work on my rambling out-of-practice prose.
The police will tell him that there was nothing he could've done. They'll stand there with hands on their belts and shake their heads while their radios crackle with ten codes. They'll jot down a few words on some form report strapped to a clipboard and tell him this is a bad area. That he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. That it was just a bunch of assholes who happened to get lucky and get the right guy. None of their formulaic condolences will change the fact that Tony's stuff is gone and he's bleeding on the side of the road in Little Italy.
Someone helps him off the street. His arm slung around a thin waist, Tony's head doesn't even reach the man's chest. Someone has replaced his knees with silly putty, but his rescuer's dark, hairless arms keep him from falling. Tony is too busy holding his hand to his bleeding face to look up or even mutter an embarrassed thanks. The man says he can't stay, but the cops are coming. He's sorry Tony got messed up and he's definitely sorry about the car because it was a fucking amazing ride. It's a little rough out here sometimes. If you're not careful.
Tony can already feel his face puffing up. Something feels loose in his side and he can feel the damaged tissue tightening as it fills with blood. Taking a deep breath seems out of the question, so he doesn't move too much. Just holds his face and waits in the thick summer night until there are a few red and blue lights coming amidst the stream of yellow.
"Oh hell, it's Tony Stark," is the first thing he hears the cop say as they approach him with their hands out.
There's a woman speaking somewhere off to his right side and he catches the word "Iron Man," and then there's a sort of throaty chuckle.
"Yeah, whatever, guess he forgot his suit."
Tony knows he won't forget that one for a long time.
Chill bumps crawl up into the crevices of his legs and arms despite the heat and Tony shivers once, twice, and thinks there must be a cold front moving in. Maybe that could be, but he's also dripping sweat under his blazer. There's a strange urge to lie down on the sidewalk, curl up, but he pushes it back and gets to his feet as two more cops approach. Bile rises to the edge of his throat and his knees are still wobbly but they hold. He swallows the nausea and focuses on a yellow marking on the road ten feet away. The chills subside. "I'm fine," he says. "Could use a ride though."
A young blonde cop, the beginnings of a beer belly emerging over his utility belt, puts a hand on Tony's shoulder. "Yeah, you're pretty messed up, man. You're gonna need some stitches." He points towards Tony's face. "What happened?"
Another cop tries to press a gauze pad to his head, but Tony takes it from him, fighting to keep the tremble in his hands under control. He presses it against his face once and is impressed with how much blood is already on it when he pulls it away.
"Uh... some guys took my car. I have a tracker on it. I just need to get back to my place."
"They take anything else?"
Tony reaches a hand into his pockets and that's when he realizes that everything else is gone. He can feel the concrete through his socks. "Yes. Everything, actually."
