While it didn't have the charm of a wholly scantily clad population of the pool deck, the casino floor had its own attractions. More of a freak show, far more high energy, and more of a challenge finding just the right machine amongst the rows of duds-- or just the right pair of nonstop legs. Everything became a game once amongst those flashing lights and endless deluge of noise and colours, where Tony touched shoulders and shook hands and wished the best of luck to his favourite customers and, of course, the new faces that had yet to be thoroughly charmed into repeat business by his hospitality. Six to one: this guy is gay. Twelve to one: she doesn't know who I am. Twenty to one: they're both married to different people.
When he caught sight of that red, red dress out of the corner of his eye, Tony wanted to increase the odds of getting it on his bedroom floor. He apologized to the Egyptian art dealer he had been laughing with and signaled for a waiter to bring him anything he wanted before slipping away, leaving the art dealer to get a little more drunk and maybe lose a couple hundred thousand at that roulette wheel. Tony was following that Toreador red like a stalking bull.
He didn't expect to stop dead before he reached the tiled floor of the bar, but impossible things did that to him. This was literally impossible. That alluring red dress on a recognizable rock hard body, that he could cope with. But not this one. Elektra was dead. She just was. Tony had watched her. He was right there. Listened to her heart literally stop.
His might have right then. He grabbed at the collar of his shirt, feeling choked, feeling like he must have been seeing things, he hadn't been getting enough sleep, the whole ordeal was traumatizing. But even breathing deeply with his collar unbuttoned, she was still there.
He had to gather himself, to not upset this perfect, mad world of the gamblers, and cross to the bar coolly and casually. She kept adamantly being Elektra as he got closer, refusing to reveal her true identity at a different angle or under scrutiny. So he could only put a hand on her back, his fingers just touching the red fabric, then her shoulder, then her hair before retreating just a little and holding in the air like he could feel her aura, and all of his questions were on his face though none passed his lips. Where could he even start?