[She forgets in a split-second that she's mad and that she's prepared to argue that he said exactly that. He smells like burnt machinery and sweat, like exhaustion and the workshop. She's almost certain he's in pain or he should be and that the medic would probably frown on anything like it. But her fingers bunch in the fabric of his shirt on his shoulder, and her mouth parts beneath his. There's impatience to it, coupled with a willingness to shove practicality to one side and let go. The argument slides right out of her, and she slides her thumb up along the side of his neck until her fingers curl into the hair at the back of his neck and she kisses him until she's forgotten what she was meant to argue at all.
The harsh breath snaps the impracticality like breaking glass; Pepper's wrist twists free, her fingers slide free and she stumbles as she tries to both stand up and step sideways at the same time.]
If you've hurt yourself, I am going to make the medic sedate you. [She says it more slowly than she should; breathless.]