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[ingeniar]

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USERNAME: STARK

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[ingeniar]

[ Nnnno? No. ]

I'm actually busy next week. And the week after. And all the other weeks are pretty full. Tonight is actually the only time I can do. So..

[rehandle]

Wow. Busy man. Thanks for the heads up, wouldn't want to miss my one and only chance. Wait there and I'll see if I can make it work.

[ Says the man who literally just said Tonight ]

[ingeniar]

Now?

[rehandle]

Patience personified.

[ingeniar]

I just need to get dressed.

[rehandle]

Go on, then

[ingeniar]

What are we going for? Do I need a suit?

[rehandle]

Yes.

[ingeniar]

You're so annoying sometimes.

[ But give him twenty minutes. Maybe half an hour. He circles back with a photo. ]

[rehandle]

That'll do.

[ Do you ever have to take a moment to consider how much your luck has turned lately? ]

Still picking you up at 8. Try not to drop anything down you in the meantime.

[ingeniar]

[ Asshole.

Thankfully, Tony's used to spending his day in expensive suits. It's not difficult to change his plans from playing with Jonty's 1967 Corvette to something more sedate: namely, spending the time with his laptop and a drink, ensconced in the velvet dark of the Hex Club. ]

[rehandle]

[ Fortunately, there's no need to resort to a total change of plan. When he opens the door to head to the Hex, Stephen's standing waiting for him, similarly date-ready, sling ring a brass counterpoint to the warm silver he's so rarely seen without now when he pulls a hand from his pocket to wave hello. Valiantly doing Tony the courtesy of keeping his shit-eating grin somewhere closer to a shit-eating smirk. ]

Anywhere important to be?

[ingeniar]

[ Thankfully, Tony is used to a certain level of mischief, and is able to recover quickly from his surprise when he swings the door open only to see Stephen already there, suited and handsome and all too pleased with himself. He gets the reward of Tony's affectionate amusement, gaze sliding down Stephen and back up again, as he slips his own hands into his pants pockets. ]

Not right now. Got to be somewhere later, though.

[rehandle]

Oh yeah? Hot date?

[ He's met with the slow track of an answering once-over, the view in person somehow always sweeter than even the prettiest picture. In the absence of a tie to straighten Stephen doesn't resist the urge to reach out across held ground and fuss ineffectually with the open neck of Tony's shirt, pinching fabric closed one-handed, letting it fall open again. Eyes on that bare slice of skin when he follows up. ]

Give me an hour or two. [ Meeting his eye - ] I'll convince you to ditch him.

[ingeniar]

[ A little upwards tilt of Tony's chin, accepting and encouraging the fussiness going on at the hollow of his throat, a certain mischievousness in his eyes that suggests Stephen could dare to do more and not be rebuffed. Could do, in fact, almost anything he wanted.

Smile curving up one side of his mouth: ]

I dunno, I've kinda been looking forward to it. Might take a lot of convincing. [ He raises his eyebrows. ] What have you got?

[rehandle]

[ A little chemical rush at the look in Tony's eye, the cant of his chin, his choice of words - want and welcome inherent in it all. Tempering lit nerves with a breath, Stephen nods. Quietly confident. Ready to rise to the challenge of beating himself in the date wars. ]

I'd take you to dinner, but it's a little early. [ And whose fault is that, Mr. Stark? ] If we wait a while, we'll call it lunch, and you can get something small if you're still holding out for your eight o clock.

[ The perks of a recent background in improvisory battle strategy: the newfound ability to flip and reverse your date plans at the whim of a certain someone. Foot turning out toward the hall, hand dropping to give Tony's collar its space, he tilts in the direction they're about to head. ]

Come on. I've got somewhere we can go first.

[ingeniar]

[ Content to go along with whatever is asked of him as long as it means getting what he wants -- currently, Stephen Strange, alone -- Tony falls into step alongside the wizard, tugging his cuffs and the lines of his jacket straight again. Aware, even if they've left their fans behind in another world, of the requirements of being recognised and putting on a good show. ]

Is it miniature golf? Because I'm not really dressed for the ninth hole. [ A beat, considering time and place and present company. ] That's not supposed to be an innuendo.

[rehandle]

Obviously. [ If it were, it would be entirely untrue. ] If you're that desperate for me to spoil the surprise...

[ They've made it maybe ten steps down the hall but Stephen's stopping again, hands swooping through the carving out of a portal to a room with high ceilings, huge windows facing out onto the grounds, a perfectly polished floor. It's a sparsely furnished space: a chesterfield and a fainting couch, a few cabinets and bar carts, all furniture carefully arranged to take up little room or focus, tucked back against the edges. The only thing encroaching on the open floor is the grand piano stationed in front of the windows, lid open, keys waiting.

It makes for a quietly striking image, sitting untouched in the muted light of a cloudy English day. But it is just an empty room in a lesser-used part of the house, and here is Stephen Strange, Piece of Work Supreme, stepping aside to perform a pantomime sweep of his arm toward the portal like he's just opened the door of a limousine onto a gala's red carpet. ]