toblameforit | (no subject)

(no subject)

Two days after he lends the other Sherry his credit card, Tony decides he could do with a night out himself. Sherry—the one with a pulse—is taking care of things at the company for now, being Tony where needed, because Tony himself just cannot fucking deal. If he had to take one step into Obie's old office he thinks he would probably throw up. In a little while he'll take back the reins, seeing as it's his company and all, but for now he'd much rather go out and get drunk.

If it occurred to him, he might ask where Sherry went so he can avoid the place, avoid the complications of identity. It doesn't occur to him.

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It's quiet tonight. There are a few regulars at the bar, one of whom is chatting with the bartender -- a short young woman with her hair pulled back in a bandanna. When the door opens, she glances over and smiles at Tony, straightening up.

Tony smiles back, mostly reflexively.

He wants something strong and simple, but he's conflicted about what. Whiskey is his favourite, but the associations are a little too much right now. After the last week he is starting to get sick of vodka. The next one down the list isn't immediately obvious.

This place doesn't check ID, at least, so that's one worry off the table. Should he be thinking about what would happen if he got caught? No, fuck it. He needs a fucking drink.

Andy's smile disappears into a puzzled frown as she comes over.

"Uh," she says, tentatively.

". . . Tequila?"

This can't be the same guy who was in a couple of days ago, can it?

"Sure, I'll go for it," he says, settling onto a barstool.

Definitely not. Tony's accent is pure New York.

She shakes her head once as if to clear her vision, blinks at him again.

"Okay," uncertainly. She grabs a shot glass, a bottle, and the necessary accoutrements -- lime wedge, salt shaker, napkins -- and a minute later is pouring Tony's shot.

"Will that be all?"

The phrase sounds familiar for a second, but he can't place it. He dredges up another smile.

"It's a start, anyway. Thanks."

"You want me to open a tab?"

"Probably a good idea."

And when he digs out his credit card, it's the same card. He even keeps it in the same pocket, although Sherlock didn't bother with a wallet, and Tony does.

Andy takes it, glances at it--

And reaches out to put a hand over the shot.

"Okay, no, what's going on?"

Tony blinks.

"What?"

Half a beat, and—

"Oh, you gotta be kidding me. A whole city's worth of bars and I end up picking the one Sherry went to." He grins. "Sorry. I let my brother borrow my card the other day. Looks just like me, but paler, better dressed, and with a British accent? Yeah."

That does account for all the facts, but . . . Jesus, this whole thing is too fricking weird.

"Got some ID to back that up?"

...great.

He eyes the tequila wistfully, then shakes his head and reaches for the card.

. . . Dammit. He looks so pathetic.

"I'm sorry, man," she says. "I can't serve you if I can't card you."

She hesitates, then adds, "I'll let you stick around if you can explain why the heck your twin is so much weirder than you, though. For whatever that's worth."

"Nothing and nobody can explain why Sherry is so weird," he says, brightening a little with obvious fondness.

"His name's Sherry?" She rubs her forehead. "Goddamn, I need to be carding more often."

"It's short for Sherlock," Tony says cheerfully. "As in Holmes."

. . . Dubiousface.

Or possibly WTFface.

"What're you looking at me like that for? I didn't pick it."

"I just feel deep sympathy for any kid whose parents would name him after a literary character."

"Yeah? What's your name, then?"

"Andy," firmly.

"...which is short for what, Andromeda?"

"Nope."

"It's gotta be something embarrassing or you wouldn't've said it like that."

"This is not a game of Who the Fuck Are You," she quotes, with dignity.