Who: Tony Stark & Scott Lang What: All the best parties require a recovery period. ... And so does this one. Where: The train. When: After the arena dedication, on the way home.
Ideally, Tony would have waited until he was once again in the safety and comfort of his own home before indulging in the drink he'd so sorely missed for the past several hours. He'd have held out until he had something really worthwhile to put in his glass, until he had something substantial and hot to polish off with it - food, real food, safe and made precisely to order. Had he waited, his very empty stomach might not have provided such a steep curve for drunkenness to travel. Had he waited, his craving for company (which always intensified under the influence) could have been easily and harmlessly managed by someone who knew not only exactly how to talk to him, but exactly how to shove him off to bed.
But he hadn't waited. Who could blame him? He'd collapsed in his train compartment, still deeply pleased with himself but running only on water and coffee, and the joy of being one step closer to home combined with the sight of that beloved decanter had made the decision for him. If ever a man had deserved a drink - didn't he now?
So he poured himself a tall one, and watched the scenery flying past for a little while; and soon he poured himself another - and then got right back up and headed out to wander the rest of the train.
He'd come here for a damn party, and the impulse had never quite cleared his system. Drinking himself alone into oblivion was perfectly fine in theory (and often in practice), but he was actually feeling pretty upbeat, and for that, he wanted companionship.
Or - an audience. Whatever. Same difference.
He flitted in and out of a few groups of escorts, a pack of stylists, and a junior Gamemaker or two, finding the conversation to be pretty lackadaisical (maybe he shouldn't have been surprised, after such a draining event, not to find everyone as spirited as he was, but his disappointment was always fresh, somehow). So by the time he found Lang, his mood had lost some of its polish but none of its energy; his half-empty glass still demanded some facsimile, at least, of socializing; and the topics that interested him were drifting further and further away from the dismal scene they'd all just left behind. "So, how'd you make out?" he asked, slouching for the moment against a door jamb. "Sick, drugged, or hungry?" He didn't really care; he barely paused before moving on. "What is it - straight home for you, after? Back to Twelve? That must be a fucking relief."
It probably would have been better to more closely monitor his language - he was more than vaguely aware that there was a kid floating around. But honestly, children just made him nervous. He tended to think of them kind of like stains on a tie: it happened to everyone, of course, but it just looked careless.