Arc 3, Chapter 1, Steve's Party: Thor & Tony

[clint_barton]

Thor and Tony enjoy a bromantic interlude, then wrestle very heterosexually (prior to Thor vs. Namor fight).


By the time Thor slips away from the conversation to offer Steve a better chance to reconnect with his old friend, and just as he simultaneously dispatches the last bit of food on his tray, the party is in full swing. The band is playing something he recognizes vaguely from the television (Loud and energetic enough to aggravate Rogers, which was most likely Stark’s plan from the start.) and what started as a quaint little gathering of friends has turned into a spectacle worthy of the local paper. He is starstruck, distracted and awed by a celebration of lights and sounds unlike anything he’s seen before, and he wanders aimlessly through the crowd to catch every second of it.

In fact, he almost forgets why he’d left Jane in the first place until he spots the fully stocked bar. He’s half-tempted to help himself, but he knows by now it’s customary to wait and be served. One arm clasped over his chest, the other resting atop it as he scratches his beard, Thor attempts to consider the available selection.

Why can’t they just make it easy and let him drink from every one till he finds something he likes?

Tony has just finished picking up his first libation of the evening when he turns from the bar and nearly knocks his fresh glass right into Thor, who’d snuck in beside him.

With disaster just barely averted, he slides his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose to peer at the so-called thunder god. Yeah, the guy’s a walking tree trunk: glass tumbler versus Thor’s shoulder meat would have ended in nothing but tears and a ruined Brioni.

“I see you decided to swap the hospital gown for some civvies.” Tony puts his back to the bar, lifting the Scotch to his lips.

“Much to my relief, yes.” Thor says absently, still absorbed in the various possibilities set out before him. When he finally glances down at the man beside him, his expression shifts to something far more pleasant. “It is good to see you again, Tony. I trust you are responsible for all this?”

“You mean everything remotely party-worthy in a fifty mile radius? Yeah, that was me.” Tony grins, adjusting his shades back into place and then nudging Thor with his elbow. “So. What does a god like to drink, anyway?”

“Nothing that I see here.” He replies, though unlike most Asgardians, it isn’t said with disdain. The strength of the spirits might not match those from home, but Thor has a certain amount of respect for Midgardian culture. As a former god, he has to.

“What would a mortal suggest to him?”

“No, no, no. Me? I’ve got favorites. But you’ve got to let the best booze speak for itself.” He turns back around, already beckoning the bartender over. “Get my friend here one of everything.” Tony smacks the bartop with the heel of his hand. “Line ‘em up!”

The guy doesn’t even bat an eye at the request, already reaching under the counter for glasses.

Thor has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. This is exactly what he had been looking for. He thumps one heavy hand against Tony’s shoulder in approval as he waits for the row of glasses to be filled.

“Will you join me?” Thor asks after downing the first and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You heard the man. Make it two,” Tony says, tipping back his head, polishing off his Scotch, and slamming the empty glass back down onto the bar. He chases it with a couple of shots out of the line, after which he feels oddly buzzed. But any chink in his tolerance level usually gets shrugged off as jetlag.

Thor doesn’t even flinch or pause as he moves along his lineup, drinking from each as if they were water. He’d managed to get at least somewhat tipsy in his previous Midgardian alcoholic adventures, but nothing ever stung hard enough to last for more than an hour. He’s not expecting anything different this time around, either.

“Done!” Thor exclaims proudly, turning the last glass upside down before slamming it down hard enough on the bar to shatter it into pieces. There is a split-second realization that that was not what he’d intended to do, but it’s lost beneath the sound of the laughter he’s been holding back as he falls forward to steady himself against the table with his forearms.

“Oh my friend, I never thought this day would come…” He says, words only slightly slurred but delivered with flushed cheeks and an all-too-revealing grin. “I have been undone by mortal ale.”

He tastes something else, just as the last bit of liquid runs down his throat. Something familiar. It reminds him of…ah well. He can’t think straight enough to place it, anyway.

The broken glass is the nail in the coffin for Tony’s composure too, apparently, because he doubles over with a snort of laughter, clapping one hand on Thor’s shoulder and swiping a dewy spattering of vodka out of his beard with the other.

“You and me both, buddy.” Though his brain’s operating at quarter-speed, one inspired thought suddenly occurs to him, and he pulls his eyebrows together, peering up at the bartender. “Say, you guys aren’t serving anything special with the booze tonight, are you? ‘Cause I feel like I should be paying extra for this buzz.”

“Magic—!” Thor yells out in response, the end of the word choked and cut off as he tries to regain some amount of composure with little success, still lolling about on the bar.

“I am surprised at you.” He tugs idly at the hem of Tony’s sleeve, once again losing his train of thought. “I thought you would come wearing your armor as you did the first time we met. Were you afraid it would get damaged?”

“Let’s just say Iron Man and exorbitant amounts of alcohol don’t really mix.” He lets go of Thor, which isn’t—in hindsight—the best of ideas, since he immediately loses his footing and stumbles into the table serving as their bar. Half the remaining glasses clatter onto the ground. “I’m, uh…trying this thing where I learn from my mistakes.”

Thor reaches out to grab Tony by the back of his collar, pulling him as upright as possible. (Which admittedly is still very lopsided, but it’s better than the ground.) “What exactly did you do?” He asks, barely paying attention, but curious all the same.

“Threw myself a birthday party, compromised the structural integrity of my house.” God, he’s wasted. If he was anybody but Tony Stark, he wouldn’t still be on his feet, much less uttering whole, lucid sentences. “Good party. But next time, I’d like to avoid knocking my place into the Pacific.”

“And how exactly did you manage that?”

Once Tony is somewhat stabilized, he lets go and takes hold of the bottle closest to him instead, attempting to pour them both another glass of…whatever it is. He can’t see clearly enough to tell, and he can’t keep it from spilling out all over the place, either. He’s not even sure if there are any glasses to begin with. Oh well. It’s the thought that counts.

“Showing off for your attendants?”

Tony fumbles for a glass, not really paying attention to whether any liquid had actually made it in, though he goes through the motions of knocking it back all the same.

“Who, me? Show off? Never.”

Thor snorts, taking a sip directly from the bottle still firmly clasped in his hand.

“Did you fight?”

Tony stares at his empty tumbler for a second or two before shrugging and chucking it back over his shoulder, where it connects with a corner of the stage and shatters.

“Sure. It’s not a party until somebody has a black eye. Am I right?” He pokes his elbow at Thor, and though it doesn’t quite connect with the big guy’s ribs, Tony’s satisfied when he doesn’t miss and fall flat on his face.

“Not many in this Realm would agree with you,” Thor says as he watches Tony sway unsteadily, the gears in his head already turning. “It is good to know there are at least a few mortals here who understand our idea of fun.”

Tony doesn’t really have the heart to tell him he’s mostly bullshitting, but the sentiment behind the statement is sound: the best parties leave the worst cleanup.

He tilts his head enquiringly at Thor.

“Why? You looking to liven things up a little?” The band had long since taken to the stage, but they’re ambiance; the music doesn’t make the party.

We can do better.

“More than a little.”

The hand that had so carefully kept his companion from toppling over snaps forward in a solid arc, colliding with the dead center of Stark’s back just between the shoulder blades. In Thor’s mortal form it doesn’t carry enough strength to cause so much as a single bruise, but he doesn’t want it to. It’s a mild test of both sobriety and endurance— or as much as he can manage while swimming in a sea of magic soaked alcohol.

Sloshed as he is, tony has no hope of anticipating the blow, and he stumbles forward against the bar. Yeah, he’ll be surprised if he doesn’t wake up with table-high bruises on his thighs, thanks less to the big guy and more to his own booze-fueled momentum.

But he laughs it off, staggering back around to face Thor and give him a shove.

“You want to go, bro? C’mon. Let’s do this.”