Stay in there. [Agreement, order, something between the two, and she had planned, nay rehearsed the yelling at him if caught still without the in-built protection of suits and heels and board rooms but there was something irretrievably comforting that was physical presence, even wrapped in bullet-proof metal that the rehearsal flittered into nothing. Katherine Hepburn continued to denounce all men in flickering black and white celluloid projected helpfully by JARVIS onto the back wall and she nudged knees against the casing of Tony's thigh, leaned into an embrace cool and solid and inhuman, her own arms sliding around his neck.]
Shut up. [The glow was reassuring. Solid and consistent and she associated it with the unadulterated blip of machines that said nothing wrong even if it was technology that had nothing at all to do with monitoring Tony Stark's staying-alive status. Her voice was warm, something curled at its back that sounded damp, perhaps disbelieving. It had been a long time, since before hospital rooms and staplers.] There are no fake hugs here. I've had practice with you inside that thing. [The laptop had almost crashed sadly headfirst into polished marble: now it floated, about an inch or two from the floor, entirely steadily.]
I stole your living room: I sublet mine. [It wasn't an apology and it wasn't I-missed-you or I-thought-you-might-die or any of the other things that could have been said.] I missed you. [Okay. It was a little bit of the things that could have been said.]