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The party was Darcy’s idea.
Jane’s idea was to spend a night with her daughter and her fiance (Or was it betrothed?) and watch Disney movies. Because apparently that’s what brilliant astrophysicists in their mid thirties with an space-viking-alien-princes for boyfriends and kids do.
Darcy dismissed it by waving her hand ordering a fourth glass of wine.
(“This is gonna be the last time you’re gonna be single, for like, eternity. ‘Cause he’s, like, immortal. Immortal. Marriage is until ‘til death do you part. Death. He’s immortal. Never gonna die. You are gonna be together for, like, actual forever. You gotta go out with a bang, boss lady, a bang.”)
The guest list was also her idea.
She was equally as drunk.
Sif.
(“She’s a fucking queen, Jane. A queen. How many people are gonna get to say that they partied with a fucking queen? How many people are gonna get to say that their sister-in-law is a queen? No one.)
Maria Hill.
(“Okay, so not everyone actually likes her and she’ll probs be a party pooper, but she’s kinda hot. Maybe she’ll be a funny drunk. Maybe she’ll dance on a table or grind a stripper or something. Maybe she’ll be like a loose cannon outside of that ugly ass bodysuit outfit. Why can’t she wear a suit like Secret Agent 00-Phil? Like why does she have to wear that bodysuit? There are so many other fashion opt-
“Darcy, focus.
“Sorry, but she is kind of hot.)
Natasha Romanoff.
(“Is it Romanoff or Romanov or Romanova? Like, Clint told me one thing, Tony told me another, and Bruce actually speaks Russian. I think. Maybe. Like what do I put on the invite? Which one? Or should I just put Natasha on it? Are we at the point when I can just call her Nat? Or does she go by Tasha? That sounds really dumb, though. Oh God, what if she can hear me? And kills me? Jane, what if she kills me?)
Pepper Potts.
(“Her boyfriend is footing the bill so I guess we should invite her.
“Darcy! She’s our friend.”
“Our totally rich and totally well connected friend.”)
She chose the venue, too.
Jello shots are bitch.
Pepper couldn't tell if Bruce was waiting up for her, or he was just always just up at five in the morning on a Sunday. He was obviously still in his pajamas, his bare toes curling around the edge of the coffee table. The pale light of his StarkPad illuminated his face and reflected against his glasses. He didn’t look up when she crashed on the couch next him.
“The yellow mug is mine. The pink one with white polka dots is yours. You smell like expensive alcohol and cheap perfume. ”
“The mocha blend with three creamers and no sugar?” She asks as she presses the mug to her lips.
“Your favorite,” he flips to another page. “How did the party go?”
She breathes in deeply and closes her eyes. Her voice is strained, and the pauses are large, as if she is trying to remember what happened years ago not last night.
“Darcy danced on a table. Sif drank a case of beer and got into a fist fight. Natasha jumped in to help. I think they’re best friends now. Maria accidentally bought the whole club a round. Jane got grind-ed- is that even a word?- by a male stripper. I payed for it all.”
He chuckles. “So, for us, a normal party?”
“More or less.”
The first cracks of sun leak over the skyline, and they both laugh quietly before Bruce whispers:
“I can’t wait to see what the wedding is like.”