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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Cheerfully: "Not to me it doesn't."

She gives him a thumbs up. "Good. It shouldn't. I'm very inoffensive, really."

"You totally are," Tony agrees. "And like, you'd have to be psychic to have run into me here on purpose, so he's probably not suspicious or anything."

"Nuh-uh, you'd have to be psychic to have come in here on purpose. You walked into my gin joint, Ilsa."

"...well, yeah," he points out, "that's why you'd have to be psychic; there's no other way you could've picked this place to work at knowing I'd show up eventually. But I probably could've found out you work here if I'd, like, had some clue who the hell you were. Which I didn't. I like you, though, I'm totally coming back here."

Somehow Tony's I like you manages to dodge creepiness completely. It has to do with the way he says it. Not as an expectation or imposition, but as a pure statement of fact.

"Ah, clairvoyant psychic, not telepathic psychic. I get you."

Down the bar, one of the other customers is trying to get Andy's attention. She straightens up, taking the tequila with her.

"Hold that thought about coming back here," she tells Tony with a grin.

He grins back, bright and cheerful. Sherlock had an air of sophistication, or at least boredom, to him that added significantly to his apparent age; Tony, with no such distinctions, has last year of high school/first year of college written all over him.

Andy notices, as she serves up another Long Island Iced Tea to a customer, and thinks that Tony had better have a damn convincing ID when he comes back.

Mixing that first drink takes a few minutes, and a couple other customers see their opportunity to settle up or re-order now that she's not talking to Tony.

He can wait.

He actually can. Tony's not very patient, and he does drum his fingers on the bartop a little, but he doesn't bug her while everyone else is vying for her attention.

When she eventually makes it back over to him, she pushes her hair out of her face and gives him a wry grin.

"Sorry. Look, do you want water or soda or anything? I can't serve you booze since you don't have an ID, but as long as I'm bending the rules and not kicking you out I may as well make some money off you."

"Sure, I'll have a Coke," he decides. "Thanks."

"You got it."

That's easy enough; she grabs a glass and returns it to him, filled, a minute later.

"So can I ask what did make you wander into this bar? Proximity? The nice neon signs?"

He shrugs.

"Basically just picked one at random," he says, although it is convenient to get to and the signs are eye-catching.

"Humans are really bad at randomness," she comments absently. "Pick a number between one and twenty."

Smugly: "Pi."

"Whole numbers, smartass."

"If you wanted an integer between one and twenty, you should've specified. Okay, thirteen. What's your point?"

She rolls her eyes.

"My point is, when asked to pick a number between one and twenty, people are disproportionately likely to choose a prime, odd, -teen number. Most people pick seventeen, though, so way to buck the trend."

"I'm cool like that," he says, grinning. "But no, seriously, I didn't know that and it's kind of awesome."

"Yep," cheerfully. "And my larger point is, people suck at randomness. When you narrow it down to 'pick a number between one and ten' they get even more predictable."

Promptly: "Two."

"You are throwing off my statistics. Remind me never to pick you for a magic trick."

"Don't bother trying that on Sherry," he advises. "I mean, even if he doesn't know the statistics, he probably has a list of randomly generated integers between one and a hundred memorized in case they come in handy for something."

Sherry is like that.

"It wouldn't be random if it was memorized."

"Sure it would. Get it out of a computer, go through it in order, get a new one when he runs out. Works perfectly, if you have a good memory and, y'know, are a freak."

He says the word like it's an endearment.