The vaulted ceiling of the opera house's entrance foyer was supported by intricately carved columns and covered by an enormous circular mural depicting the nine muses of Greek myth. A sweeping marble staircase led up to the doors of the main auditorium, and in times past it provided a splendid venue for nineteenth century ladies to show off their new gowns to best advantage. Tonight, under the watchful painted eyes of Thalia and Melpomene, modern-day women preened and posed for the paparazzi, illuminated by flashbulbs and brilliant crystal chandeliers. Perhaps times had not changed so much after all. Black Widow spared them only the briefest glance, assessing for threats and moving on, turning to scan the rest of the crowd while at the same time keeping her face averted from the direct line of cameras.
After the sharp coolness of the outside, the inside air felt overheated and over-scented, a fact acknowledged by a quick wrinkle of Widow's nose. However, her well-schooled face remained impassive at Hawkeye's heads-up that Stark was in the house - the vernacular all too literal in this case. Cameras and heads swung toward the doors to capture the entrance of the man who was famous several times over: multiple degrees from MIT at a startlingly young age, head of Stark Industries, reputed lover to a bevy of Hollywood starlets (and a couple pretty boys, if the tabloids were to be believed), and - oh yes - the self-made superhero Iron Man. In what role was he here this evening, she wondered? Let this be some piece of corporate showmanship, a PR run rather than one of Stark's ego-centric solo escapades that would get in the way of their mission. Of course, the fact that Stark knew her face and her true affiliation from her brief time undercover at his company might complicate things. How had Fury not known he was on the attendees list? Or had he known and decided for his own reasons that Stark would be a good Plan B? Damn.
Those two seconds were all the mental break she allowed herself, and in truth they'd been two seconds too many. Fury's and Stark's hypothetical motives were irrelevant. She would focus on the job at hand and take the contingencies as they came, the same as always. A man, even an iron one, wasn't anything she couldn't handle. She turned her face up toward her date with a sweet smile that should have chilled him to the bone if he knew anything at all, then allowed him to lead her up the stairs to their seats, Tony Stark's voice carrying over the crowd behind them. The program would start with singing and a ballet performance; the real dancing would begin afterward.
"Hey, I heard this was where the real party was at," Tony joked broadly, gesturing with a glass of champagne that had found its way into his hand and gracing the nearest female reporter with the knowing grin that was the patented Playboy Tony trademark. Pepper's quiet presence on his arm didn't seem to discourage anyone, but somehow it made him feel good. His face assumed a more serious mien as he continued, "My father used to tell stories about the war, about how it hurt him to see so much history, which had been built over millenia, destroyed in a matter of moments in the name of greed and naked ambition. Of course, we all know that Stark weapons played a significant role in that destruction. Therefore, it is only fitting that Stark profits now be turned to restoration, even a half-century after the fact."
There was a round of polite applause, during which Tony saluted the crowd with his glass before tipping it up and draining it. "So, thinking to the future as well as the past, I have made a significant cash donation to the Hungarian Art Festivals Federation, based right here in Budapest. I also personally pledge here and now to match any donation made before the sun comes up. Get out your checkbooks, or your hidden Nazi treasure, whatever," he winked at a gray-haired man in the crowd, one sporting a red sash across his prodigious belly, "and see if your old money can drain my nouveau riche bank account dry. I dare you."
There, he thought to himself with no small amount of glee. Tonight, as far as anyone knew, he was Philanthropist Tony, salted with a dash of dance-until-dawn playboy and peppered with the expected amount of Stark Snark (as some clever reporter had dubbed his tendency toward glibness). A glimpse of something red on the stairs caught his eye, but it was gone before it could trigger a fully-formed image in his head. There was certainly no shortage of redheads in his personal background, some of whom he recalled better than others. The only one he cared about now was already by his side, but it might still bug him a little - or a lot - until he could place her.
