Who: Tony Stark & Natasha Romanoff What: A strategy session. Where: The Tribute Center. When: After the Tribute Parade.
The moment the parade dissolved into applause and darkness, the moment the ubiquitous cameras powered down, Tony was on his feet - shoving through the carefully-arranged crowd of mentors, escorts, and other colorful worthies in as straight a line as he could make for the street exit. This was not, as they said, his first rodeo. He wasn't going to get jammed up in the inevitable eddying swell of idiots behind the bottleneck. He wasn't going to spend an hour just trying to get out the door. He knew how this went. Stop for one handshake, one glass of champagne, one oh, thank goodness I caught you and you'd be paying for it into the wee hours. If he'd been playing by the usual rules, he should have stayed - shoring up relationships, proposing alliances, putting out feelers were the responsibilities of any good mentor - but his concerns tonight were different. Nothing about these Games was normal.
And frankly, he had relationships enough for a lifetime; his feelers were already everywhere. He could have beaten a hasty retreat without consequence, if it hadn't been for the one son of a bitch with impossible reflexes who'd snagged his arm - the woman who shoved a glass of champagne in his hand while he was waylaid - the photographer who just needed one quick group shot - and on, and on. He made a valiant attempt. He failed.
By the time he made it back to the Tribute Center, swimming in about eighty other people's perfume and a perfectly monastic two glasses of wine, covered in the glittery detritus of dresses, suits, confetti, and a million other stupid props, he'd lost about an hour. First thing, he shucked his jacket - an absolutely hideous mint green - onto a chair just inside the District 7 lounge. Didn't they ever come up with anything new?
Of course, none of it was new. And it was striking how quickly all the pieces of it came back to him - he remembered all the little tricks he needed to, all the lessons he'd stumbled over in the years before. He handled it pretty well, for the bizarre whirlwind of logistics and showmanship that it was. It helped that most people were a little afraid of him; it didn't save him from having to wear some really unforgivable colors, but it gave him enough clout that he could cling to a few shreds of his dignity where other, less imposing personalities wound up giving it away. Not that he wouldn't sell his dignity for the right dime, but - it was all about self-determination. Hauling at the knot of his equally hideous, equally green tie, he stalked right into Natasha's half of the floor without so much as stopping to glance at the spread on the common table.
He felt like he hadn't stopped moving in days. Maybe he hadn't - and it was probably for the best. Without an hour of waking downtime, with barely a lick of privacy, there hadn't been much time to talk, never mind much time to slip into himself. There had been no time to think; no time to brood. He never used that time well, anyway. When the track was laid, when the starting shot had been fired, there was no time and no reason to stand around mapping out the course. It was better to go through the motions, to run, to get your momentum going, to jump - and then to think. Otherwise, you psyched yourself out. Otherwise, you started to get a bigger picture of what a terrible idea it was you'd embarked upon in the first place. He shouldered his way into the bathroom, finally pulling that thing out from under his collar like some kind of limp, silken snake.
"Can you save me some of your moss, or something?" he called, leaning over the sink to peer into the mirror with a grimace. He wiped something purple-black off his cheek - make-up? Ugh. "I'm going to try to pitch, like - a boutonniere, maybe, to these hacks you've got for stylists. Corsage. Whatever."
Now, he was here. Now, they were alone; now, they had time. The incessant noise of all their preparations was threatening to fall away, but there was still something standing between him and what he'd starting thinking of as it - the time that would come when she was actually down there, in the ring, when he wouldn't be able to bust in whenever he liked, when he wouldn't be able to talk to her, when he'd only be able to see her if someone decided she was the most interesting thing to put on-screen. When he would have to let go, and trust, and know that there wouldn't be one damn thing he could do. It could have been worse - because it was her, and of course he trusted her not to be an idiot. But it also couldn't possibly have been worse - because it was her, and not being an idiot wasn't nearly enough to make sure you didn't get thoroughly screwed. Just look at him: Exhibit A.
But it wasn't here, yet. They still had plans to discuss. He still had information to share - one more thing he had charge of, one more thing over which he could exert his little modicum of control. He still had things he had to ask her to do.
Time to rip off that band-aid. He held his tie up beside his face, inspecting both in the over-bright lighting. "I can't keep going on TV looking like - fuck." He dropped it in the sink, all disdain. "Green makes me look like I work in a goddamn coal mine. Like I haven't seen the sun since I could swing a pick-axe." That was what they used for coal-mining, right? If the District 12 stylists were to be believed, it was.