It wasn’t easy to do considering the festive air in Midnight in Paris. The band was playing a lively jazz tune, the illegal booze was flowing freely, and if Tony had shown the slightest bit of interest he’d have had his pick of any of the women present, regardless of whether or not they were already spoken for.
“You gotta be a wet blanket tonight?” Rhodey asked. “These people didn’t come to see morose Tony Stark.”
“I’m buying drinks, aren’t I?” Tony countered without any real heat. “Shut up.”
“Stark, you’re an actor. Can’t you at least fake being happy for a while?”
“No.”
The break-up with Steve hadn’t been unexpected, but Tony was taking it harder than he thought he would. Maybe because Steve hadn’t been with him on account of his Tinseltown fame. It had been both deeper and more shallow than that. Complicated. That’s what it was. Complicated as hell.
Maybe he should’ve taken Steve to Venice instead of Oslo.
If Tony was going to be alone, he’d rather it be in a room full of people. Even if that room was in Rhodey’s stupidly named blind pig, which was full of flappers and jazz musicians and men who’d stripped down to their shirtsleeves to cut it up on the dance floor.
Tony tipped back his glass, finishing his drink. “Another,” he said.
“You looking to empty a whole bottle tonight?” Rhodey asked, even as he pulled out the champagne.
“I’m the one who supplies it,” Tony reminded him. “May as well enjoy it, too.”
Rhodey rolled his eyes. He poured the champagne, poured the orange juice, and garnished with an orange rind before setting it in front of Tony.
“What are you drinking?” asked the man who slid onto the stool next to Tony’s.
“I call it a Paris Sunrise,” Rhodey said.
“You’ve never even been to Paris,” Tony said, just to be contradictory.
“I’ll take one of those.”
The man slapped some money on the bar, and Tony couldn’t help noticing the tremble in his hands. He was also wearing a high-end suit, blue with a bold herringbone pattern, and the money clip he’d pulled out of his pocket was gold with a sizeable emerald affixed to it.
“Little ostentatious for a blind pig, aren’t you?” Tony asked. “You a stoolie?”
“A surgeon, actually.”
“I played a surgeon once,” Tony remembered. “You ever see Dr. Watson’s Secret? I got a lot of good press from that one.”
“I don’t care for motion pictures,” the surgeon replied. He took a sip of his drink and made a face. “This is disgusting!”
Tony grinned. “More for me!”
He picked up the man’s champagne flute and downed the fizzy drink all in one go and followed it up with a modest belch.
“Real classy,” Rhodey said with a frown.
“I’ll take a Brandy Alexander, please.”
Tony studied his new drinking companion with renewed interest. He didn’t like movies, which meant he probably didn’t know how famous Tony was. And Tony’s wealth wouldn’t matter much to a man sporting decorative gemstones on something that spent most of the time unseen in his pocket. It was almost enough to make Tony regret the belch. Almost.
He wanted to ask about the shaky hands, and how a surgeon could be expected to slice people open with such a tremor, but he wasn’t quite drunk enough to cross that kind of line. Tony could see some scars, thought maybe –
“Car accident,” the man said. He took a sip of his Brandy Alexander and nodded appreciatively.
Fill 1/2: Tony Stark/Stephen Strange with bonus Rhodey (Gay Paree 'verse)
It wasn’t easy to do considering the festive air in Midnight in Paris. The band was playing a lively jazz tune, the illegal booze was flowing freely, and if Tony had shown the slightest bit of interest he’d have had his pick of any of the women present, regardless of whether or not they were already spoken for.
“You gotta be a wet blanket tonight?” Rhodey asked. “These people didn’t come to see morose Tony Stark.”
“I’m buying drinks, aren’t I?” Tony countered without any real heat. “Shut up.”
“Stark, you’re an actor. Can’t you at least fake being happy for a while?”
“No.”
The break-up with Steve hadn’t been unexpected, but Tony was taking it harder than he thought he would. Maybe because Steve hadn’t been with him on account of his Tinseltown fame. It had been both deeper and more shallow than that. Complicated. That’s what it was. Complicated as hell.
Maybe he should’ve taken Steve to Venice instead of Oslo.
If Tony was going to be alone, he’d rather it be in a room full of people. Even if that room was in Rhodey’s stupidly named blind pig, which was full of flappers and jazz musicians and men who’d stripped down to their shirtsleeves to cut it up on the dance floor.
Tony tipped back his glass, finishing his drink. “Another,” he said.
“You looking to empty a whole bottle tonight?” Rhodey asked, even as he pulled out the champagne.
“I’m the one who supplies it,” Tony reminded him. “May as well enjoy it, too.”
Rhodey rolled his eyes. He poured the champagne, poured the orange juice, and garnished with an orange rind before setting it in front of Tony.
“What are you drinking?” asked the man who slid onto the stool next to Tony’s.
“I call it a Paris Sunrise,” Rhodey said.
“You’ve never even been to Paris,” Tony said, just to be contradictory.
“I’ll take one of those.”
The man slapped some money on the bar, and Tony couldn’t help noticing the tremble in his hands. He was also wearing a high-end suit, blue with a bold herringbone pattern, and the money clip he’d pulled out of his pocket was gold with a sizeable emerald affixed to it.
“Little ostentatious for a blind pig, aren’t you?” Tony asked. “You a stoolie?”
“A surgeon, actually.”
“I played a surgeon once,” Tony remembered. “You ever see Dr. Watson’s Secret? I got a lot of good press from that one.”
“I don’t care for motion pictures,” the surgeon replied. He took a sip of his drink and made a face. “This is disgusting!”
Tony grinned. “More for me!”
He picked up the man’s champagne flute and downed the fizzy drink all in one go and followed it up with a modest belch.
“Real classy,” Rhodey said with a frown.
“I’ll take a Brandy Alexander, please.”
Tony studied his new drinking companion with renewed interest. He didn’t like movies, which meant he probably didn’t know how famous Tony was. And Tony’s wealth wouldn’t matter much to a man sporting decorative gemstones on something that spent most of the time unseen in his pocket. It was almost enough to make Tony regret the belch. Almost.
He wanted to ask about the shaky hands, and how a surgeon could be expected to slice people open with such a tremor, but he wasn’t quite drunk enough to cross that kind of line. Tony could see some scars, thought maybe –
“Car accident,” the man said. He took a sip of his Brandy Alexander and nodded appreciatively.
“What’s that?”