closed log } a good time was had by all.

[propulsion]

About a week and a half after someone in Stark Industries HQ sent back an RSVP politely declining Tony Stark's attendance to a gala across the country, a helicopter descended atop one of the many black glass high rises in Gotham City.

Not only would it tarnish the shiny, state-sanctioned government friendly image that a weapons manufacturing company tended to try to maintain (Pepper had explained in franker words before she noted the hint of interest creeping into Tony's expression over the Ferrari 400 Superamerica he was refitting), but he was meant to be giving a lecture in Colorado on repulsorlift technology and its influence on military development earlier that evening. It's a good time for the Freedom Line and a good time for Stark Industries, and no time at all to plant any seed of doubt in the minds of the men and women overseeing contracts, regardless as to Rhodey's influence.

And, that city is just crazy.

Not that Tony, he imagines, has to worry about that when flying several hundred feet above it and touching down in the midst of the glitz and glamour of Gotham society. He arrives with two women, identical waves of Malibu blonde hair and skin a flush, beachy tan, and they don't mind a lot that he mixes up their names. The wind lifts the fishtail skirt of Gabriella's (Rebecca's?) dress and Rebecca (Gabriella?) clutches his right arm, laughing.

Inside, he knows fucking no one, which is nice, and the bottle of champagne he'd helped consume on the way over is agreeing with him. Currently, he is watching a woman -- German supermodel, or maybe that was the last one -- play with the StarkPhone, tapping its transparent screen. "Give it a year, everyone'll have one," Tony is saying, between sips of-- scotch? Maybe. "Call it the pocket rule -- technology's actually diversifying in every other way, and this little guy can uplink-- oh, uh." A flurry of text messages, Pepper's smiling face at a contrast to a few choice words scrolling by. "Let me get rid of that, that's-- I don't know why it has that feature, to be honest--"

But eventually -- and not too quickly -- his orbit will collide with the other gravitational pull in the room, introductions slowly pulling him in like a tide as much as his attention span seems to fall into the cleavage of every model in attendance. Eventually, to the German model, and within earshot;

"He's supposed to be dead, isn'e? Must be a theme, pretty sure most of Wayne E has a foot in the grave."

Comments

[overkill]

Bruce doesn't bother to hide his frown at Gabr--Rebecca's very minor injury. It's his party, so blood at all minor or not is probably the opposite of good. Right? Right. He watches Tony sweep her away with a slightly owlish look on his face, as if whatever mental process was running in response to 'omg injury' has crashed with the sudden derailment. He recovers a heartbeat later, gives Stark a wry smile and "Right."

The auto-accepted bottle of vodka is given its own spot on the sofa (wedged between cushions for lack of a cap). Bruce, standing, begins to move broken glass to the central impact area with his foot, a mission that is interrupted by the woman who isn't Rebecca (but who is also missing her footwear) all but sashaying over to him to see what he's up to. "Wait, don't--"

Honestly, she's probably happier slung over his shoulder, if her shriek of laughter is any indication.

While Tony is nailing one of the Malibus in the bathroom - presumably anyway, he could also be doing lines or composing her a sonnet, what does Bruce know - Wayne is wrangling a young woman eager to let him know she isn't wearing panties, a completely hammered Vicki Vale, shattered glass, and the longsuffering judgmental look of that security guy who'd been hovering outside the door. Once the mess is cleared away ("I can take care of it, Mr. Wayne--" "Please, I'd rather give you a hand than have one of the girls fall on it.") he ends up sitting with his back against the bath tub, the two relative strangers in it amiable enough company. They're nearer to sober than the others at least, and are just here to spend his money. That's fine. He gets pizza out of it.

[propulsion]

It definitely does not take this long to inspect for glass pieces and slap on a band-aid, but no one is surprised that the bathroom door stays sealed closed for as long as it does.

They emerge, fully dressed, although Stark's tie is now draped around her neck like a pinstriped scarf -- people keep taking things from him, souvenirs torn away, trophies kept in place of the memory he probably won't bother to keep for himself. Wayne goes ignored, vodka and whatever Stark had been imagining with shot glasses and dice entirely forgotten in the absence of its presence. None of this is very deliberate, on account of being high as a kite and being handed another drink.

He will drink it too. And the next one.

If there is a visible transition between this guy and the buzzed but largely sober Tony Stark who'd spotted something interesting in the heir of the Wayne fortune, even if he had only wrong ideas about what that was, then it's no more remarkable than any person who has had a few too many. He has given entire speeches in this state, of course, borderline incomprehensible, rambling, the frenetic way his mind tends to leap ahead losing its own sense of time and continuity.

When he finally crashes, it's on a chaise lounge, fully dressed in comparison to Rebecca (because Jensica had made off with his glasses about half an hour ago, spending Wayne's money on a private car home) who is curled up at his side in her underwear after several young ladies, including a couple of acrobats, had decided that was a good life choice. Someone's dress is strewn on the floor, damp with split wine.

His phone has fallen on the floor as well, set to silent, its translucent screen flashing now and then as people paid to care about his wellbeing continue, now and then, to get a hold of him.

[overkill]

Bruce doesn't drink. At all. No one knows that besides Alfred (who, universe willing, is asleep now instead of up worrying), because he has to keep up the act. He's gotten good at faking it; a teetotaler in wolf's clothing with expert liquid sleight-of-hand. He knows what he's actually like drunk - he was once a teenager, contrary to narrative belief - and that is 'asleep almost immediately'. Bruce Wayne, resurrected tabloid spectacle, is not a sleepy drunk. He is a scatterbrained, sarcastic, filter-free drunk who has 'COPING MECHANISM' stamped over his forehead. There is a meanness to him when he's had one too many, it's been said, that settles in like bad weather, taking over his sense of humor and making it wholly unpleasant.

Tonight he's quiet.

Stark's behavior is not new, or shocking, or even really that troubling. It's a little pitiable, in Bruce's mind, but not in a compassionate way. How is this fun? From where he's sitting, his expression twists slightly bitter - but no one's paying him any attention, so it's fine. Maybe, like virtually all substance abusers, Tony is trying to drown something inside of him. Memories, emotions, or even the unnerving echo chamber of emptiness. It doesn't really matter; he doesn't have anything to whine about, in his position, and Bruce has approximately zero sympathy. Still that... doesn't mean he fully dislikes him. He should, probably. Tony Stark is the opposite of everything Bruce wants to be, and is the gold standard of the rotten image he himself is faking. ...He seems so guileless about it, though. And maybe Bruce appreciates the trials and tribulations of being an asshole.

Who knows.

Two girls remain in the now tepid water of the bath. Bruce tries, soft-spoken, to coax them out (for their own good). It takes letting the more gregarious of the two pet his hair with wet fingers and kiss him for a while, talking to him in definitely-drunk-by-now coherency. She tastes like something sharp and sugary; cognac and pepperoni. It'll never sell. They're nice enough and he's sure by the time they're herded to the bedroom half of the suite that they sneaked into this party uninvited - he promises they can order breakfast in the morning. After, Bruce does a bed-check that would have appeared military-like had anyone observed it. Is everyone here? Is everyone who is not here accounted for in some still-breathing capacity? Is everyone who is here asleep and not medically-compromised unconscious? Injuries, breathing difficulties?

Rebecca has her pilfered tie-scarf confiscated (too close to an accidental suffocating hazard), and Bruce has to actually grab Stark's face and lift his eyelids up to make sure he's not on the verge of ODing or some other damn thing. The fact that Bruce accomplishes this without seeming to be noticed at all is faintly exasperating. He leaves his head slightly elevated anyway. Phone is rescued, barely-not rudely rifled through (habit - he stops, leaving it unbothered), set safely on the coffee table.

Hotel security (nodding off) is given an excellent tip, and Bruce Wayne vanishes with the rising sun.

[propulsion]

He wakes up while it's still dark, and it's generally in these slices of time that ambient regret seems to texture the air. Feeling unwell is part of the charm, of course -- hung over, windswept, and interesting is definitely a version of Tony Stark that sells. He sits up, grinding his eyeballs with the heels of his palms, peering around the room.

"Well, that was fun."

He's probably going to puke into the nearest, likeliest place.

But after that, and after he's run the tap of the sink over his head, he collects his cellphone, absently tries to straighten a tie that is no longer there, and puts in a call; "I need a spirulina, codeine, a cancellation of meetings up until about 4 PM, and all of that on a helicopter to airlift me out of Gotham, pronto. Which you were wrong about, by the way, perfectly uncrazy. Except Wayne's a little off the rails if you ask me."

The sun is out by the time he is on the rooftop, tucking his phone into his pocket, and turning his back against any particular source of light. It'll take longer for Tony Stark to complete his own vanishing act, leaving on a small amount of chaos behind in his wake, approximately two women, and a couple of tabloids to enjoy later on.