“I can’t believe I’m saying this, sugarplum,” Tony slings his arm across Rhodey’s shoulder, “but I don’t think this is a good idea.”
Rhodey gasps. “Are you doubting my science, Tony? What the heck, man, that cuts me deep. I’m wounded, right here,” and he thumps his chest vigorously. Tony nods, because insulting a man’s ability to science is some harsh shit, it’s true. Even if said man is currently inebriated.
Tony waves his free arm expansively, sloshing some champagne accidentally over his fingers. “I just think that Mama Rhodes would like to keep rocket-launching away from her tomato plants.”