You run into Stark a few hours later, and don't smirk as you slide onto the stool next to him, order a vodka martini. Stark's drinking scotch neat, probably his third, if the slowness of his gaze is any indication. He opens his mouth to say something to you, presumably something he feels is clever, but his gaze focuses on something over your shoulder. The corners of his eyes crinkle, just a little, and you call for another vodka martini, extra olives.