Occupational hazard (джен)

“Hi there,” Tony Stark says.
“Go away,” Peter replies. The drainpipe he is leaning against digs into his back, reminding him he doesn’t have a lot of room for escape.
“Can’t I buy you dinner?”
“Nope.” He shouldn’t refuse, probably. But the way Tony Stark stares at him, a bit like how a detective would study a cadaver, is giving him a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“Why not?” the man asks. He holds out both hands, palms turned upward. A ‘Look, safe’-sort of gesture. “I’ll let you pick the place.”
“Oh, goodie. And later will you let me pick where you’re going to bury my dead body?”