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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

"You already know my name," he points out. "Every boring syllable of it. Sherry got all the weird in the family."

"What, arey ou trying to make like I ought to be fair about this? Not a chance, buddy."

He pouts.

It is adorable.

It is. But--

"Nope. My bar, my rules, and my rules say life isn't fair, princess, anyone who says differently is selling something."

Tony sighs.

"Don't I know it," he agrees wryly.

Her expression softens.

"Sorry."

He smiles, but there's something behind the smile, and it's not a good something.

"Hey, don't worry about it."

"Fat chance. I'm a professional worrier."

She considers him.

"You want to pour out your sorrows to a bartender? I can go get a towel to wipe down the bar for the full effect."

"For the full effect, I'd need to take that shot," he says, eyeing his forlorn tequila. "And my sorrows are kind of fucked up."

"One, true but not happening. Two, everyone's are."