Logs:American Daydream

American Daydream
Dramatis Personae Steve, Tony Stark
In Absentia	2019-05-06 "I've been practicing a long time."
Location Metropolitan Museum of Art
Outside it is a chaos -- an endless flutter of snapping cameras, a press of crowds hoping to catch a glimpse of the rich and famous come out to play in style, a throng of police and security on standby to make sure that none of the wealthy guests have to deal with any more of the peasantry than they care to. For all the tumult out there, in here the party is -- well, not /sedate/, what kind of party would that be? But it flows smoothly, the throng of staff keeping the food stocked and the drinks flowing; ample space at tables for conversation, ample space in the center of the gallery for dancing, the actual exhibit (soon to open to the public) cordoned off but available for a sneak peek viewing for those invited to this exclusive event. It's early enough in the evening that guests are still arriving, a new clamor going up when someone arrives in /particular/ style -- voguing down the red carpet or borne on a litter of shirtless men. Not everyone, though, is chewing the scenery quite so hard. Plenty of people just come -- to see or be seen, to network, maybe even to enjoy the food. Steve hasn't done much in the way of voguing, though as Captain America he's been chewing the scenery in his own fashion. He seems to have an endless store of gee-golly old-timey one-liners to charm the quality. Even now, in a quiet moment between bouts of animated conversation, he one has one maroon-booted foot propped up on the edge of the fountain, his shield held loosely at his side, a squat glass of some brownish liquor in one hand, eyes gazing off across the water as if contemplating Manifest Destiny or somesuch. There aren't many places where Tony Stark can blend into a crowd. Here, though, tonight, he's just one famous person among many. In a garish tuxedo of blockily gold trimmed glittering metallic red he is very middle of the road, among the people who went all out on theme and the ones who did not try whatsoever. The table he's been snacking at has a cluster of starlets fawning on his conversation; as he gets up he takes one of them with him, champagne flute in one hand and flamboyantly dressed young lady on the other arm. He leans in towards her, murmuring something close to her ear as they near the fountain; whatever he says, she heads off with a giggle and a promise to return. /He/ saunters towards Steve, giving the other man a brief look as he takes up a spot beside the fountain as well. "Been practicing for this a long time, huh, Cap." He takes a sip from his champagne. One of his hands lifts to half-frame Steve in his pose. "The American Daydream. Could have stepped right off a postcard." Though he had not been looking specifically in Tony's direction, it's apparent Steve had recognized him from afar despite the preponderance of other famous and loudly-dressed people about. He stands up a little straighter, but does not otherwise seem to startle. "Good evening, Mister Stark," he says smoothly, a delivery that bespeaks long practice or recent looping. "Honestly, I was a bit rusty by the time I got here." He braces his shield up and takes his raised foot down from the ledge. "Had to get me a crash course in Captain America /before/ he ever went to war." This sounds largely neutral, light, but something in his practiced smile is sad. "Thank you, by the way." "Looks like you've brushed the rust off just fine. Guess you've maybe had a little help with the polishing." Tony takes a seat on the edge of the fountain, just near where Steve had been resting his foot. His brows lift at the thanks. He answers it with a quick sniff, lips quirking sideways. "Hope you got something useful out of it. I did crib all the work so not exactly --" He looks down at his glass, his foot bouncing briefly. "Huge sacrifice on my part." "I found it very useful," Steve replies earnestly. "No matter how little effort it was for you, I'm sure it would have been difficult, if not impossible, without your assistance. Or that of my publicist -- who is responsible for the polishing you mentioned and who is also here..." He looks around as though expecting to somehow pick Lucien out of the kaleidoscopic gathering. ".../somewhere./" He shrugs. Pauses a beat. Then sits down on the edge of the fountain as well, propping his shield against one leg and leaning his forearm across the top of it, the gesture exaggeratedly cavalier. "I reckon you go to a lot of these parties?" "Your publicist." Tony snaps his fingers. "The concierge. That man --" He follows Steve's look out toward the crowd, but then just looks up toward the ceiling. "Wears some very interesting hats." He takes a sip of his champagne, flicking a brief glance over the shield. "Not really your speed, I'm guessing?" His eyes skim, momentarily, over Steve's posture, and he looks back out to the room with a soft chuff. "But not new either." "Ah, you know him!" Steve snaps his fingers. "From the Hellfire Club. He's got a keen eye for fashion, even if he doesn't get much opportunity to apply it to /literal/ hats." His smile at this is warm with genuine amusement. "It's an old role, and I don't much like it," he agrees with a small half-shake of his head. "But I didn't much like getting shot at, either." He glances at Tony. "You like it, though?" "I'm sure he's having fun tonight, then." Tony taps a forefinger against the bowl of his glass, staccato-quick, his eyes skimming the crowd. His head shakes -- small, quick, nearly a mirror image of Steve's save for the fleeting smirk that crosses it. "Getting shot at? Nope. Can't say I'm a fan." He lifts his glass, offering a smile and careless salute to /someone/ passing by who is giving him a cheerfully drunken wave. "Why put the uniform back on?" His smile hasn't dropped. He swigs from his glass again. "Does kind of make you a target for." His other hand waves about the sumptuous surroundings. "All /this/." Steve doesn't answer immediately, and seems to be staring at the inside of his shield, though there's nothing there but polished, unpainted steel. "Because I'm not done fighting, I suppose." He frowns slightly, looks up past his shield at the crowds. "People /liked/ Cap. It wasn't just patriotism, performative or otherwise, though that sure didn't hurt. But it was more than that. Fascism seemed unstoppable. People were terrified. They wanted a hero. My job was --" He chuckles. "-- yes, to sock ol' Adolph on the jaw, but also to tell them, '/you/ are powerful, /you/ are heroes, and we are going to win this /together/'. By enlisting or buying war bonds or what-have-you." His shrug is very small, here. "Well. People are still terrified. Fascism still seems unstoppable. I'm not sure they still want a hero, or if I'm the right kind to teach them to fight -- a different way this time. But like you said. I've been practicing a long time." Tony's brows lift quickly, fall quickly. "You do that all in front of the mirror each day? Pays off," he's standing, turning to face the fountain, idly tugging one sleeve cuff more neatly down into place. "Nearly got me ready to enlist." He drains his flute, looking across the fountain towards the costume exhibit across the hall. "People still want heroes. We -- give them this." Turning, he tips his glass out toward the celebrities drinking and dancing in their extravagant finery. Lifts it again -- to Steve, this time, Captain America now framed within the lingering legs of champagne streaked down the sides of the crystal. "From some angles maybe it looks the same. Enjoy the party, Cap." His nod is curt, but his smile easy -- then again, it might just as well be directed toward the woman he's turning to meet, falling in alongside her as naturally as if they'd been conversing all the while.