"Call, Secret Agent Man."
"I see your call, Stark, and I raise you twenty."
Have you ever seen that painting, the one that always seems to hang in crappy Italian joints and dusty barber shops, the one of the dogs playing poker? Jowls drooping, cigars dangling from their jaws, visors cocked and hands held close against their dog-chests? Well, this is kind of like that.
Except Tony's pretty fucking sure that a cocker spaniel, a bulldog, hell, even a greyhound (twitchy bastards) would have a better poker face than all of the other players sitting at this table right now, combined.
Which is a surprise, especially considering that Clint and Natasha are supposedly Master Assassins who should be able to maintain a straight face while killing their own grandmother with a tea towel. (Which, all things considered, Tony thinks, might have actually already happened in Natasha's case.)
He watches Clint's eyes twitch from his hand to the flop and back, rapid-fire like a hummingbird, and he can practically see Clint scrambling to put two-and-two together in his mind. Chump.
Natasha, on Clint's left, has managed to put herself nearly in the poor house betting large and then folding. It would almost be a good strategy – confuse the enemy, lower their expectations – if she didn't do it every goddamned hand. It's really a shame, Tony muses, that Steve had been so quick to shout down his suggestion that they play strip poker – "Jesus, Tony, we're five men and a dame, that's really something you want to see?" – because Natasha would have definitely been anteing up with something interesting by now. Or perhaps she carried enough hidden knives to still be fully clothed; but then, at least she wouldn't be armed. Probably still plenty dangerous, though.
Tony's eyes drift past Thor, his cards buckling pathetically in his tight grip, a look of confusion etched onto his face, and Steve, who is holding his hand away from his body, like it might explode at any second. Tony resists the urge to remind him that gambling isn't considered a criminal's pastime anymore. Or, you know, offer him a glass of counterfeit hooch, just to see his reaction.
Coulson is as unreadable as ever, smiling bemusedly back at Tony, calling his bluff, and taking a swig of the beer resting near his elbow on the table. Tony had thought for sure that Coulson was going to be the one to beat, I mean, come on, the man's entire career is contingent upon his ability to give away nothing, he's basically a human Fortress of Solitude, and yes, he was a pretty solid player. But Bruce was better. Bruce was incredible. And Bruce was totally a fucking cheating bastard.
Tony knew what cheating at cards looked like; hell, he used to turn over the casinos in Monaco for fun when he was 18 and stupid, making just enough to cause trouble before folding and passing the chips off to some good-looking woman or man on his way out. He was too drunk to care, usually. Besides, he went to MIT for fuck's sake; didn't they make some awful movie about their blackjack team? Well, let's just say that fifteen-year-old-boy-genius Tony Stark taught those careless assholes everything they knew. And then took them all the cleaners to prove it.
So, it's safe to say that when Bruce picks up his fifth hand in a row, slapping a full house down on the table with a mumbled, "Sorry, guys," Tony has had about enough. Nobody schools Tony in poker in his own house, and gets away with it. Not even someone who is liable to turn into a giant green housekeeping problem at the suggestion.
"Come on, Bruce, really?" Tony snaps out, leveling Bruce with what he hopes is an accusing-and-totally-badass stare. "You can stop now."
"Stop what?" Bruce replies, his placid face betraying nothing, save his one crooked eyebrow that seemed to say, come on Tony, this is why we can't have nice things.
"I know you're cheating, Banner. What is it? Counting outs? Bending your aces? Or are you just taking a good look at Steve's cards while he waves them around like they'll give him the clap?"
Steve's cheeks color as he pulls his hand back toward his chest. Bruce's other eyebrow rises up to meet the first, and he pulls off his glasses before answering, "Is it that hard to believe that I could just be a good player, Tony?"
"Yes. I find it difficult to believe that a man with a, with a situation like yours would excel in a game that essentially thrives on tension."
"I had a lot of time, Tony. Sequestering yourself for years in various third-world wastelands has the added bonus of unlimited free time. So, I did some studying. Picked up a few tricks. Besides, the Other Guy hates to lose."
At Bruce's admission, the other players lower their hands, Coulson tipping back the rest of his now-warm beer with an audible gulp. Tony splutters, his indignation now suddenly tempered with that emotion Pepper had told him once was called embarrassment. Steve fixes Bruce with a confused look, his head cocked, and says, "Then why play, Dr. Banner?"
"It's good for him to lose, sometimes. I like to think it keeps him humble." His easy, crooked smile returns to his face, and he replaces his glasses with a small sigh. "So, no worries, guys. Not going to hulk out over a few straight flushes. Although, if I keep winning, Tony might," he adds, his smile widening to reach his eyes.
At that, the Assassins Two turn identical evil smirks in Tony's direction. Natasha reaches for the dealer's chip, cracks her knuckles, and begins to shuffle.
"Who's in?"