"Are you drunk?" Barton asks in disbelief. Tony squints up at him from where his head rests on the mercifully cool counter.
"Yeah, totally," he says flatly. His voice sounds like a running garbage disposal. "Drunk as a skunk, in an alcohol-free tower. Aren't you proud."
"I'm disgusted, actually," Barton retorts, taking the stool across from Tony at the counter.
Romanov comes up behind him and offers one of the three pistols in her hands -- only two of them are Stark made, especially for them.
Barton takes the largest of the two, which Tony's briefly grateful for, but when he gets a look at the third he frowns.
"What happened to the third one?" he questions, sitting upright to stare at the smallest, a round pistol of an ancient-looking European make.
It's terribly designed; Tony's half convinced it's rigged to explode just by looking at it. "God, it's hideous. Why would you do that to yourself? Gimme."
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