"Not to us? What's more Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff than six different shades of pink and shelves full of historical dolls with intricately crafted backstories?" she demanded, but she smiled when she said it: the sheer ridiculousness of it mandated pretty much no choice but to smile. She reached out to straighten the lapels of his blazer, though, before they barrelled in headfirst. His hair was a little bit of a mess, she liked it that way, and as promised, she was wearing his purple hoodie that she'd swiped - a little too big on her, she'd rolled the sleeves up to make it fit better. Standing together, they didn't look like they were in matching datewear, exactly, they looked - well, they probably looked like two people who between them had exactly half a clue of what they were doing, but.
Something about all of that felt appropriate. At least if they were fumbling, it was both of them. Two people feeling like idiots somehow seemed like better odds than one person feeling like an idiot.
"We don't have to do this tonight, if it's too..." she offered. "We could always come back and try on another day." She hadn't been imagining anything over the top - somewhere they could find a burger joint, maybe, or a pizza place - no disrespect meant to Alpha Peter's offerings at Pancho's. She'd have settled for a hot dog cart. The point was to keep it low pressure, and - fun, even.
"You do look nice, though," she told him, because it was true. "Be a shame to waste this look. Plus they're offering something called..." She squinted a little, reading the menu printed on a chalkboard in those same swirling letters at a little bit of a distance. "Kit's Mini Muffin. We can pretend that doesn't sound obscene."