[The short-shorn hair at the base of Tony's head scrunches like velvet under the woman's fingernails. His smile scrunches on his face too, in tandem with that motion, crinkling up all the way to his eyes. He is unreasonably happy, under the circumstances. Her metabolism is incredible, you know, and it traps warmth between them, in the taut circle of her arms, fanned by the butterflies in her stomach. Sure, there's some irony in it, that one of the mightiest military commanders in the entire multiverse stumbles and flutters on the dance floor.]

Just think of it like throwing a punch, [he suggests.] Fast release, quick on the recoil. Except, you know, let's not lay me out on the floor fountaining blood.

[He doesn't mind when she rolls her eyes at him. As long as she isn't really hurt or exasperated. A little bit of exasperation never killed anybody, according to all of his surviving significant others, flings, etcetera.] And Houston we have a — [dip. It happens right then. His mechanic-callused hands at the small of her back, tucking her down low. Gravity pops up under her like an eager puppy, swinging her red hair back from her white neck, shifting her skirt. But they move together, as easily as they had out on the battlefield.

And then she's up again, easy as you like.]

I would like you to know, [he says, cordially,] that I almost kissed you.