Tony closes his eyes—for a moment, he is defeated again; for a moment, the violation shatters some crucial working component of his heart.

And then he opens them.

"So fuck me with your gun," he says clearly, lifting his chin.

(He would even if it were real. He knows he would. Because sometimes you're willing to risk anything—even dying, even dying like that—for the chance to cut through the fucking bullshit.)