[Poor people could spot money by looking at a person and seeing polish, a lack of dirt, no scars on their hands or lines around their eyes. By seeing a lack of wear on the knees of pants, no stretch in shirts from pulling them on and off more than once a week. Rich people could spot money in an entirely different way. The way someone answers a question, how long the pause is. The way people sit, reach for objects. The way a conversation can go.

Tony was bred to have manners, to know all the social customs of high society. He just didn't give a crap anymore. He'd had all of that beaten into his head and then he'd gathered it all up and dumped it on the curb almost as soon as his parents died.]

What, the stove thing? Six, maybe seven. Jarv- [He stops, mid word, brow pinching before he grins, wide and harsh, eyes sharp as he stares at Charles, his expression guarded.] You're good, I'll give you that. You use the mind thing for that? [The slip of the tongue, the information he'd started to give out, information that even Pepper and Rhodey didn't actually know.]

Jarvis, the family butler, had given me a cake a few weeks before, so I'm pretty sure I was seven. Parents celebrated my birthday whenever it corresponded with a benefit. It was easier, and I never actually cared. [Which is why he can say it with a shrug of the shoulder, burying the one pertinent piece of information under a load of facts completely detached from any sort of... affection. Worth. Things he'd let the papers know, let them think was a juicy piece of gossip.

He honestly just didn't care. Birthdays didn't start to matter until they were an excuse to go even more wild than he already was.]