Stark International

   [ Oliver peers down from his perch on the fire escape – he has no doubts that a man like Tony Stark can’t handle himself, but that doesn’t mean he can turn a blind eye to what happens in his city. Whatever kind of crime it is, it needs to know he’s lurking in every shadow, that every breath eventually comes back to the Green Arrow. ]

I’m going to leave such a good review on Yelp. Five stars. Would definitely recommend vigilante escort service.

“Right. Usual, yeah, I’ve seen the news, mate, you’re all over!” He cackles madly, scooting across the table until his back hits the wall. 

Tony is still frozen in place, and Cassidy is not about to send him running, if he can help it.

“Right.”

A deep breath as he slaps a palm down on the table and heads for the kitchen.

“ ‘ello, Tony.” He says with a wry twist to his lips, a flash of teeth. He hates this part. Seeing how much they’ve aged since he last saw them. What cards the world’s dealt them.

Seems this one became a superhero.

(What he actually does is not move at all.)

BANG, BANG! songs about an addiction to the spotlight (and to, well, some other things too)

“Yeah…—it’s not. A hallucination, it’s not a hallucination.” It’s all coming back to him now, like water out of a broken faucet. The kid used to take as much as Cassidy did — good to know he’s sober, these days. Not that Cassidy ever bothered to check up on him.

What joke? His mind is racing as he watches the hallucination, taking in every long line of his body, the voice from his past curling against the base of his spine and taking hold. 

“Jesus.”

The memory hits like getting bitch slapped by the Hulk. Cottony limbs and stringy thoughts, skin on skin slick with sweat. 

‘m a vampire, Tony.

Yeah, and I’m Boy George. 

Oh, no, wait. Waaaait, see, that — that’d be why the man didn’t just look familiar. And that’s because last Cassidy saw of him, he was just a boy. And he also pretty much watched Cassidy bleed out right in front of him.

Shite.

“...right. This is a hallucination. Not sure why I’m hallucinating, since I’m sober. Don’t think I ate anything weird. This isn’t a pot brownie hallucination, and the world would be much weirder if this was an acid trip.”

He shakes his head slowly, scratching at the scruff on his cheek.

Foggy wasn’t even aware that Jack’s bar had a karaoke machine, let alone actually used it for karaoke nights. But with the amount of alcohol in his system, and the number of skeletons he’s been working on pulling out of his closet, the revelation is one he is absolutely going to take advantage of. It takes him all of two minutes to decide on an act– not just a song, he is a performer when he becomes more liquor than water– and then all he has to do is wait for his turn.

Usually, he loves to people watch. But knowing exactly how far he is from the ‘typical’ patron of the pub, he instead spends his time ordering another shot of liquid courage and keeping his head down. When his name is called, he shoots Jack an apologetic smile (which he’ll understand in a moment), and heads to the stage.

In his defense, Foggy had had vocal training, in those summers his folks had sent him off to theatre camp. That doesn’t mean the falsetto isn’t a little belabored, but hey, he was drunk and making the best of it. And speaking of theatre– Foggy was an absolute ham, entertaining himself approaching the ladies (and gents) who dared to offer him a laugh, playing it up.

He swaggers his way over to the bar during the bridge, gearing up with the vocalization and deciding to go all out– with a gentle nudge to get the man’s attention, Foggy plants a quick, sloppy kiss to a stubbled cheek.

And then he makes out the profile of the man he just kissed, and freezes halfway through the building vocal. Deep breaths, Nelson. Sexually harassing a billionaire is. Probably fine.

Picking up with the next repeat of the chorus, Foggy heads back to the stage. God bless alcohol, he manages to hit his stride again, finishing the song with a flourish and a melodramatic bow.