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This, he thinks, has to be a decent bachelorette party.

Maybe not for the average bride, maybe other people out there want strippers and sashes that read BRIDE-TO-BE and phallic decorations, but Peggy had made it very clear to John that she wanted none of that.

So he'd rented out a bar. An entire bar. The guest list isn't particularly extensive, they don't need the entire bar, but he'd seen no reason not to do it anyway. It means they have the entire place to themselves, they can control the music, and the bartender has only them to serve. And John has paid a flat fee for the bartender and the serving staff, plus given them a significant tip, so they're attending the party perfectly.

The bar is nice, with comfortable chairs and several pool tables, as well as a well stocked jukebox that he thinks has just about anything someone might think to play. Maybe not Dutch, she probably knows songs none of them have ever heard before, but there's probably plenty on the jukebox she'll still enjoy.

There are appetizers, lots of them, covering just about any option a person could want. The same goes for alcohol.

All in all, for someone not all that inclined toward attending parties, he thinks he's done a fairly good job capturing something Peggy will enjoy. And that's the point of tonight, giving her a party to celebrate her future and everything that's to come with people she enjoys spending time with.

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Tony Stark was a cheat. It wasn't that he lacked a moral center, particularly, although his didn't always point true north. It wasn't that he was mean-spirited, either. It was just how he was. It was probably genetic.

He was also very good at pool, because he was very good at math, and most of pool, at the end of the day, was all about math. Angles. Force. Everything was fun and games until Tony Stark figured out the friction coefficient in any given situation.

It also helped that his glasses had a heads-up display.

Lifting his hip up, he sat on the edge to make a showy shot, lined up behind his back.

"Eight ball, corner pocket." He called it, and made the shot.

Tony was playing against himself, of course, because Peggy Carter's friends weren't typically easy to hustle. And also because it was nearly as fun, just doing that, as playing against someone else. Half the challenge and half the fun for Tony, as ever, was proving himself right.

Edited 2018-09-08 23:01 (UTC)

Just as the cue ball was about to smack into the eight ball, the eight ball floated into the air and the cue ball alone sailed into the pocket.

"Playing yourself?" Stephen asked as he wandered over on the opposite side of the table, drink in hand and a faint smile on his face. "This is just sad, Stark."

He reached up, plucking the eight ball from midair with his free hand. Tony looked good. He wished he'd have thought to come here with him, but he wasn't a plus one this time and he'd simply portalled in.

"Better than playing with myself. They frown on that in the majority of public establishments."

Tony offered a look of droll irritation. What had the point of that been except to rob him of satisfaction? Maybe that had been the point. He sighed and started working to rack the balls back up.

"For the record, I'm still counting that as a win. I don't make bad calculations. I had that eyeballed and it was going in."

He stared for a little too long, before picking up his drink and taking a very long sip very slowly. He was wondering, in fifty different directions, whether he ought to simply come clean that there was something going on with the two of them, or keep it between them, just a little while longer.

He left it up to Stephen in the end.

"Wow, that outfit looks fantastic on you. I wonder why. You have to tell me the name of your personal shopper."

Stephen rolled the eight ball back to Tony.

"Hm," was all he said, a faint smirk playing at his mouth. He watched Tony rack up the balls, and then watched Tony drink, and then he realized he should probably do something besides stare at Tony across the table.

"Thanks." He set his own drink on the side of the table, walked over to the wall and picked up a pool stick, since it looked like no one else was interested in playing. "Just this guy. Short, dark, and handsome. You know the type," he said with a wink, chalking up the tip. He returned to the table.

"Wanna play me? You've got nothing to lose."

Stephen put his hand out to demonstrate, fingers spread. The shaking was visible, he was probably going to be terrible.

"Short? Now you're just trying to get me worked up on purpose so I'll miss some of my shots."

He snorted, but it was a friendly one. He was game. He'd even take it easy, provided he didn't smell he was being lured into a trap. They weren't making bets yet, so it seemed safe.

Tony hefted his pool cue and waggled it in Stephen's direction. He had the blue chalk.

"Just the tip, if you please."

Edited 2018-09-12 02:53 (UTC)

"I need every upper hand I can get."

Stephen knew he could use his magic, but that didn't seem fair, even with his hands. At best he would focus his magic there to steady them some. It shouldn't matter, so long as nothing turned into a disaster.

He caught the cue in his hand without taking his eyes off Tony, raising an eyebrow as he chalked it up.

Finally he looked at the tip, blowing away the excess. He let go.

"I guess that's enough. For now."

"Minx," Tony accused, finishing the rest of his drink and clearing his throat before moving away to unrack the balls with a snap of his head.

"Stripes," he called for himself. "You break 'em, Strange."

He pushed his sleeves up over his elbows and leaned on the table's rail, looking too casual. He was about four drinks in, and feeling a little too at ease.

Stephen looked pleased with the endearment, but his expression went serious when he approached the balls. He ignored the fact that Tony had just called his ball color and leaned forward, lining up his stick. Focusing his magic in his hands to steady them, he smacked the cue ball, sending the balls across the table.

A stripe went in, but no solids.

"Luck's on your side tonight, your turn," he said, stepping back and taking a drink of his remaining whiskey.

Tony pointedly decided on a shot that would line him up right next to Strange. He popped him with a hip to move him aside, before taking Stephen's whiskey tumbler directly out of his hand and tipping it back. He handed it back empty before taking his shot, sending some of the balls scattering and pocketing one of his own.

"It's not luck, sweetheart. It's just entropy."

Stephen stepped aside with ease as though he hadn't been jostled, and refilled his glass without taking his eyes off the pool table. He took a thoughtful sip and gave no outward reaction at Tony's reply. His head was swimming a little.

"You don't believe in luck, then?"

Tony laughed at first, at the way the whiskey glass filled again, at Stephen's question.

"If luck can be quantified, is it luck at all? No. Honestly. I don't believe in luck. I believe that something good tends to happen when preparation intersects with opportunity."

Picking up his cue again, Tony managed to sink another ball, but the third try sent a green ball to the edge of a pocket. It didn't fall in.

"See? If I'd practice more, I'd have made that."

Stephen took another drink, eyeing the solids and considering his best plan of attack. He then handed the glass to Tony and moved to the other side of the table, leaning in and going for two balls in one. He pocketed them both.

"That's a sound explanation," he said, eyeing the table for his next turn. He glanced up, giving Tony a significant look. "Speaking of opportunity, how's your arm?"

He wasn't wearing his sling, though Stephen couldn't be sure if it was because he no longer needed it or he just wanted to play pool.

Lucky for Peggy, she's sober. She doesn't plan to be the whole evening, but she's glad that she is when she comes across Tony because there are some embarrassing situations that she doesn't want to put herself in and one of them so happens to be getting drunk in front of your friends' son.

She settles on the pool table, perching with her drink and tugging the straw towards her, eyeing Tony and the lack of a challenger. "I'm not sure this is much fun, playing by yourself," she notes. "Care for someone to keep you occupied while you win?"

"What's not fun about proving yourself right?" Tony asked, playing the egotist, even though Peggy was too canny not to see right through him. It was habit. It was also at least partially in earnest. He liked playing himself almost as much as playing someone else.

He was also a few drinks in, but only enough to feel pliable and, for once, relaxed.

"But I don't mind the company, no. You look good under the drop lights, Peg. Throw a little hazy cigar smoke in and you'd be right out of some hardboiled detective flick. Maybe we'll rent you an old Lincoln Cosmo and tie some cans to it so I can take photos and add hilarious old timey filters to them. "

Peggy laughs at that, given that she'd lived through the era of detective movies, as far as she's discovered, though she never did like that the woman in them was always cast as either the villain or the helpless assistant. She wanted to be the detective.

"Your father once offered me a role in his movies as the damsel, in a cowboy picture," she recalls. "I told him that I'd be in, if he cast me as the cowboy." As to the rest of what he's saying, she's not sure, but it sounds like a silly little hobby to indulge. "I wish that he and Jarvis were here. Ana, as well, and Angie. It would be so good to have the lot of them here to celebrate."

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