Fandom: Marvel 616 (v3) Pairing: Steve/Tony Rating: G Wordcount: ~4,000 Tags: Fake Dating, Fluff, Christmas Fic Notes: Happy fandom stocking, Big Mugs! I hope you enjoy these dummies fake dating at a fancy Christmas party. <3
Tony panicked for one second. That’s why he’s currently in this disaster. Sunset had been pushing at him, plucking at his weak spots, and he’d been feeling particularly alone and wistful, and he’d gotten the wires labeled “babble for time in front of Sunset Bain” and “guilty romantic fantasies,” crossed in his head.
Now he needs to ask Steve for a spectacularly embarrassing favor.
Steve is installed, cross-legged, on the living room floor next to the coffee table. It’s two weeks before Christmas and as usual Steve is determined to dress the tree properly. Spread in front of him are bowls of cloves, swags of gold-trimmed satin ribbon, and a mesh bag full of oranges.
He’s already made at least a hundred yards of cranberry and popcorn garland, and is now on to pomanders. While Tony procrastinates in the doorway, Steve wraps an orange in ribbon, then runs a chunky needle threaded with twine through the center of the fruit to make a loop for hanging. He turns the trussed-up orange in his big hands and presses cloves through the rind with an artist’s precise eye for distance and alignment.
“You know,” Tony says, tearing his attention away from Steve’s capable hands and entering the living room properly, “I was going to make tiny animatronic doves that sing Greensleeves, but this is pretty good too.”
Steve looks up at him and his face breaks into a smile that makes his entire face glow. Tony’s heart flutters, even though he knows Steve looks at everyone like that. Steve’s face is an open window into the bright core of goodness inside him. Even though it’s not special, not for him, Tony still wants to kiss that smile onto his face every night, wants to wake up and meet Steve’s gaze next to him in bed and see his eyes light up with love.
Down, boy, Tony thinks sternly. Now is not the time to be a besotted idiot.
Steve would never stoop to date Tony. Tony spent an agonizing six months hoping after learning that Steve wasn’t actually straight — the thing between Steve and Batroc the Leaper apparently ran hotter than typical hero-vs-villain banter — but eventually Tony had come to his stupid lovestruck senses, and realized that just because Steve was attracted to men didn’t mean he was attracted to Tony. Sure, Tony Stark is New York’s most eligible bachelor, but Steve knows the real Tony: messed up, alcoholic Tony who never feels strong unless he’s wrapped himself in steel.
“I’d love to see your robot birds,” Steve says warmly. “They’ll look nice with all the tinsel.”
Steve loves tinsel. The little silver strands get everywhere, but Tony can’t help but indulge Steve. Thor, a walking generator of static electricity, gets covered in the stuff and leaves tangles like metallic hair in the showers.
Now Tony has to make a few dozen lifelike, singing robot-doves before Christmas, because he wants Steve to look at his creations the way he looks at a tinsel-drenched tree, misty-eyed and happily sentimental.
Tony is not sentimental about his childhood Christmases. He’ll settle for basking in Steve’s nostalgia.
“Sit on down, come help me pincushion these poor oranges,” Steve says, patting the carpet next to him.
“My spine is not made of the same stuff yours is.”
Steve snorts. “Pretty sure mine is bone just like everyone else’s.”
“Incorrect,” Tony says. “Your spine is made of an amazing super-bendy-yet-load-bearing polymer that science has been unable to replicate so far. My back is made out of dry spaghetti and dust bunnies.”
Really, Tony is temporizing because sitting next to Steve on the floor, able to smell his aftershave, close enough to sneak a brush against his shoulder, is possibly the worst position for Tony to ask this favor from. Curse his stupid, stupid mouth.
Now it’s going to be awkward if he doesn’t sit.
“You could sit in my lap if that’s more comfortable. I’ve heard I make an excellent, if rather firm, cushion,” Steve jokes, patting one thigh. His cheeks go pink for some reason.
Tony considers taking Steve up on that option for exactly one self-indulgent nanosecond, then gets grabs both his heart and his libido by the scruff of the neck and hurls them out the window.
“It’s alright, I’ll take the floor and hope for a Christmas miracle to keep me away from the chiropractor,” Tony says quickly.
Steve hands Tony an orange to decorate. The smell of orange and cloves soaks into Tony’s hands, heady and festive. When these are all hung on the two-story silver fir in the foyer, the entire grand staircase will smell just like this.
Okay. Tony can do this. Just ask him.
“I need you to be my date for the Christmas Gala at the Rockefeller,” Tony says.
Don’t ask him like that!
“Not a real date,” Tony adds, and Steve sags with what Tony is certain is relief. “Sunset Bain was angling to be my plus one, and I had to think fast. I told her I was already going with you.”
What Tony had actually said was, “I’m in a relationship, I’m afraid,” which had made Sunset more interested, not less.
She’d pressed and pressed on who the lucky lady was, and Tony had realized that whoever he named would have all of Baintronics dropped on their head. And he couldn’t think of anyone who could handle that, and he’d been thinking about Steve, Steve cowing Sunset with a single look and a brusque speech about boundaries, and for one shining moment of idiocy Steve seemed like the perfect solution.
“Steve Rogers — he’s an artist,” Tony said. A small, reasonable portion of his mind screamed bad idea bad idea bad idea! even as his mouth formed the words. “You wouldn’t know of him.”
Sunset’s mouth had curled into a faux-sympathetic moue. Tony hated when that was how people reacted to the bisexual thing, it was like they thought he’d been afflicted with a terrible, incurable disease and wanted to be gentle about it. “Oh, I do see why you’ve kept it a secret. But at the gala? You certain you don’t want some cover?”
“No,” Tony’d said icily. He certainly wasn’t going to take Sunset as a beard. “Steve and I will be attending together.”
And with those thoughtless words, Tony landed himself in his current, terrible situation.
Tony has to make Steve agree somehow.
Steve fiddles with his clove-studded orange, twisting one of the dark brown buds until it’s too loose to stay in place. He sighs and sifts through the loose cloves, looking for one with a bigger stem, not quite looking at Tony. There’s color high in his cheeks. Tony has embarrassed Captain America: a new achievement for his collection.
Steve is going to say no, and Tony is going to be in hot water. Maybe he can get some other guy to come with him. Put an ad out in the paper for guys named Steve Rogers. New York is a big place — there have to be at least a few gay Steves who’ll jump at the chance to attend a fancy holiday party.
“If you want me, I’ll be there,” Steve says quietly.
Oh shit.
Tony wasn’t prepared for this eventuality either!
“It’d mean you’d have to come out,” Tony says, backtracking with a wince. “I can’t pressure you into -- that’s not fair of me, I’m sorry, I’ll find another excuse.”
Steve shrugs, then ties a perfect Tiffany bow at the top of his finished pomander. “If I go as Steve Rogers I’m just some guy. I’d be worried about yourself if I were you. You’re Tony Stark.”
“Everyone suspects anyway,” Tony says. Thank you, Ty, for that lovely nudge out of the closet, Tony totally appreciates it. “I’m just saying, it’s a lot just to fix a dumb mistake I made.”
“But it’ll help you?” Steve asks.
“Yes,” Tony replies, even as he knows this is going to break his fragile, smitten heart. Steve, on his arm, coming up with some sweet story of how they met, having to pretend to Steve afterwards that it had all been an act on Tony’s part as well, cock-blocked Tantalus hoist on his own petard.
“Then I’ll do it,” Steve says. “Anything for -- for a friend.”
And that’s all it is: friends. Tony is going to hide every single one of his feelings, put on his playboy persona, and get through this as unscathed as possible.
I’m doomed.
When they arrive at the holiday gala, Tony expects the ambush of lurking photographers outside, but not the elegant rescue by New York’s gay elite. They close ranks around him and Steve, gracious, friendly, and impenetrable. He had been expecting to come out alone, Tony realizes. These people won’t let that happen. They’ve been waiting for him to join them.
“Edie!” Tony says, delighted, when she bustles up. He bends to exchange air kisses.
“Took you long enough,” Edie says, then chuckles and pats Tony on both shoulders. “Good. You look happy.”
“I am,” Tony says. “Steve, this is Edie Windsor, the best of the little old lesbians.”
They enter the ballroom in a swirl of introductions and brightly-colored dresses.
Inside, the Rockefeller is decorated in gold, cream and burgundy. Tony watches Steve spin around, taking in the grand foyer and sparkling cut-crystal chandeliers. Steve’s been to all sorts of fundraisers and high-society events, but usually as Cap, not Steve. Cap doesn’t get to be delighted by beautiful things.
There’s a towering croquembouche serving as the centerpiece of the refreshments table, cream puffs stacked six feet high, glazed in caramel and dusted with powdered sugar. The theme of tonight’s menu seems to be French patisserie, evidenced by flaky pastry and custard on every plate.
It’s exactly like every other charity dinner, except it’s nothing like them, because Steve is at his elbow the entire time, charming people and doing embarrassing things like pulling Tony’s chair out for him.
Playboy, Tony reminds himself. Tony Stark found someone beautiful to be on his arm for a night, like he always does. You’re indulging an infatuation. Steve isn’t anything to you but proof you can have anyone.
Tony pats Steve’s arm and tries to appear breezy and maybe a little bit condescending. Steve Rogers is a handsome dalliance, nobody special, just up-and-coming artist who’s never seen luxury like this.
Steve quirks an eyebrow at him, silently asking, why are you being weird?
Tony folds immediately, flashing Steve his real grin and bumping up against his shoulder, like they’re playing Risk at the mansion coffee table and there isn’t space on the couch for two superheroes to sit without touching.
His plan to keep things casual hasn’t survived even brief contact with the enemy. It’s a familiar feeling, but usually the adversary is the Melter or something, not his own emotions.
Tony realizes about halfway through dinner that he hasn’t been offered alcohol once all night. Steve’s been deflecting it for him, so skillfully that Tony didn’t even notice. He just didn’t have to think about it for an entire cocktail hour. He’d never had a date do that for him so well. He glances at Steve, who is chatting happily with his neighbor at the table, about the intersection between modern art and technology. Steve makes an insightful point about machine learning, and Tony wonders where he picked up an interest in that.
Then he remembers a rainy afternoon curled up in the library with his laptop while Steve read the latest Octavia Butler collection nearby. The suit’s auto-targeting system was being buggy, and Tony had been mumbling at his code without really noticing that he was doing it until Steve asked a question.
“So how does your suit know who’s an AIM soldier and who’s an Avenger?”
Tony had jumped a bit, then apologized for being distracting, then discovered that Steve’s question was a genuine one.
“It’s a combination of computer vision and me manually picking out targets. Ideally every time I shoot at something it adds that to the database of what’s an enemy and then extrapolates from there, but we’ve been fighting a lot of AIM beekeepers lately and the suit has decided that it hates everything yellow.”
Steve laughed. “After punching enough of those guys, I start hating yellow too.”
“Who wouldn’t? But I’d still like the AI to stop putting crosshairs on every fire hydrant and yield sign.”
Steve asked how he was going to fix that, so Tony had kept up a steady chatter as he went back to coding, assuming that Steve had tuned him out after a few minutes. But he hadn’t -- Steve is still talking about it, stuff Tony only half-remembers saying aloud, as if he’s actually interested in this stuff.
Steve turns and catches Tony staring. He smiles, and for a moment that’s all there is in the world; Steve’s smile is like the sun on Tony’s face as he lifts the faceplate after a long, dim flight.
“Where’d you learn all this?” asks the man beside Steve.
“Tony,” Steve says. “He’s an inspiration to me, every day of my life.”
Tony blushes. Laying it on a little thick, Steve. It almost sounds real, when Steve says things like that.
Steve’s just so damn handsome in his suit. Tony wants to peel it off of him and kiss him all over. It’s bad enough that Steve is wearing clothes that Tony helped him pick out -- balancing elegance and Steve’s cover as an artist. They’d picked a slightly retro cut for Steve with a truly lovely camel overcoat and fawn driving gloves. Tony hadn’t told Steve how much any of it had cost, shuffling him out of the cedar-scented tailor’s shop before any of the delicate dance around credit cards and prices.
After dinner there’s a few speeches, and then more mingling and dancing while a band plays jazzy Christmas tunes.
Tony doesn’t intend to dance with Steve. He knows that’s an express train to hopeless yearning. Steve is good at dancing. Tony’s had lessons since he was old enough to put on his own shoes, but nobody can measure up to Steve’s natural grace.
But then Tony catches sight of Sunset across the room, and he’s not up for exes. Not when tonight has gone so well so far.
“Care to dance with me?” Tony asks, offering a hand.
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timeasmymeasure
616 Steve/Tony: Fake Dating
Date: 2020-01-04 09:56 pm (UTC)Fandom: Marvel 616 (v3)
Pairing: Steve/Tony
Rating: G
Wordcount: ~4,000
Tags: Fake Dating, Fluff, Christmas Fic
Notes: Happy fandom stocking, Big Mugs! I hope you enjoy these dummies fake dating at a fancy Christmas party. <3
Tony panicked for one second. That’s why he’s currently in this disaster. Sunset had been pushing at him, plucking at his weak spots, and he’d been feeling particularly alone and wistful, and he’d gotten the wires labeled “babble for time in front of Sunset Bain” and “guilty romantic fantasies,” crossed in his head.
Now he needs to ask Steve for a spectacularly embarrassing favor.
Steve is installed, cross-legged, on the living room floor next to the coffee table. It’s two weeks before Christmas and as usual Steve is determined to dress the tree properly. Spread in front of him are bowls of cloves, swags of gold-trimmed satin ribbon, and a mesh bag full of oranges.
He’s already made at least a hundred yards of cranberry and popcorn garland, and is now on to pomanders. While Tony procrastinates in the doorway, Steve wraps an orange in ribbon, then runs a chunky needle threaded with twine through the center of the fruit to make a loop for hanging. He turns the trussed-up orange in his big hands and presses cloves through the rind with an artist’s precise eye for distance and alignment.
“You know,” Tony says, tearing his attention away from Steve’s capable hands and entering the living room properly, “I was going to make tiny animatronic doves that sing Greensleeves, but this is pretty good too.”
Steve looks up at him and his face breaks into a smile that makes his entire face glow. Tony’s heart flutters, even though he knows Steve looks at everyone like that. Steve’s face is an open window into the bright core of goodness inside him. Even though it’s not special, not for him, Tony still wants to kiss that smile onto his face every night, wants to wake up and meet Steve’s gaze next to him in bed and see his eyes light up with love.
Down, boy, Tony thinks sternly. Now is not the time to be a besotted idiot.
Steve would never stoop to date Tony. Tony spent an agonizing six months hoping after learning that Steve wasn’t actually straight — the thing between Steve and Batroc the Leaper apparently ran hotter than typical hero-vs-villain banter — but eventually Tony had come to his stupid lovestruck senses, and realized that just because Steve was attracted to men didn’t mean he was attracted to Tony. Sure, Tony Stark is New York’s most eligible bachelor, but Steve knows the real Tony: messed up, alcoholic Tony who never feels strong unless he’s wrapped himself in steel.
“I’d love to see your robot birds,” Steve says warmly. “They’ll look nice with all the tinsel.”
Steve loves tinsel. The little silver strands get everywhere, but Tony can’t help but indulge Steve. Thor, a walking generator of static electricity, gets covered in the stuff and leaves tangles like metallic hair in the showers.
Now Tony has to make a few dozen lifelike, singing robot-doves before Christmas, because he wants Steve to look at his creations the way he looks at a tinsel-drenched tree, misty-eyed and happily sentimental.
Tony is not sentimental about his childhood Christmases. He’ll settle for basking in Steve’s nostalgia.
“Sit on down, come help me pincushion these poor oranges,” Steve says, patting the carpet next to him.
“My spine is not made of the same stuff yours is.”
Steve snorts. “Pretty sure mine is bone just like everyone else’s.”
“Incorrect,” Tony says. “Your spine is made of an amazing super-bendy-yet-load-bearing polymer that science has been unable to replicate so far. My back is made out of dry spaghetti and dust bunnies.”
Really, Tony is temporizing because sitting next to Steve on the floor, able to smell his aftershave, close enough to sneak a brush against his shoulder, is possibly the worst position for Tony to ask this favor from. Curse his stupid, stupid mouth.
Now it’s going to be awkward if he doesn’t sit.
“You could sit in my lap if that’s more comfortable. I’ve heard I make an excellent, if rather firm, cushion,” Steve jokes, patting one thigh. His cheeks go pink for some reason.
Tony considers taking Steve up on that option for exactly one self-indulgent nanosecond, then gets grabs both his heart and his libido by the scruff of the neck and hurls them out the window.
“It’s alright, I’ll take the floor and hope for a Christmas miracle to keep me away from the chiropractor,” Tony says quickly.
Steve hands Tony an orange to decorate. The smell of orange and cloves soaks into Tony’s hands, heady and festive. When these are all hung on the two-story silver fir in the foyer, the entire grand staircase will smell just like this.
Okay. Tony can do this. Just ask him.
“I need you to be my date for the Christmas Gala at the Rockefeller,” Tony says.
Don’t ask him like that!
“Not a real date,” Tony adds, and Steve sags with what Tony is certain is relief. “Sunset Bain was angling to be my plus one, and I had to think fast. I told her I was already going with you.”
What Tony had actually said was, “I’m in a relationship, I’m afraid,” which had made Sunset more interested, not less.
She’d pressed and pressed on who the lucky lady was, and Tony had realized that whoever he named would have all of Baintronics dropped on their head. And he couldn’t think of anyone who could handle that, and he’d been thinking about Steve, Steve cowing Sunset with a single look and a brusque speech about boundaries, and for one shining moment of idiocy Steve seemed like the perfect solution.
“Steve Rogers — he’s an artist,” Tony said. A small, reasonable portion of his mind screamed bad idea bad idea bad idea! even as his mouth formed the words. “You wouldn’t know of him.”
Sunset’s mouth had curled into a faux-sympathetic moue. Tony hated when that was how people reacted to the bisexual thing, it was like they thought he’d been afflicted with a terrible, incurable disease and wanted to be gentle about it. “Oh, I do see why you’ve kept it a secret. But at the gala? You certain you don’t want some cover?”
“No,” Tony’d said icily. He certainly wasn’t going to take Sunset as a beard. “Steve and I will be attending together.”
And with those thoughtless words, Tony landed himself in his current, terrible situation.
Tony has to make Steve agree somehow.
Steve fiddles with his clove-studded orange, twisting one of the dark brown buds until it’s too loose to stay in place. He sighs and sifts through the loose cloves, looking for one with a bigger stem, not quite looking at Tony. There’s color high in his cheeks. Tony has embarrassed Captain America: a new achievement for his collection.
Steve is going to say no, and Tony is going to be in hot water. Maybe he can get some other guy to come with him. Put an ad out in the paper for guys named Steve Rogers. New York is a big place — there have to be at least a few gay Steves who’ll jump at the chance to attend a fancy holiday party.
“If you want me, I’ll be there,” Steve says quietly.
Oh shit.
Tony wasn’t prepared for this eventuality either!
“It’d mean you’d have to come out,” Tony says, backtracking with a wince. “I can’t pressure you into -- that’s not fair of me, I’m sorry, I’ll find another excuse.”
Steve shrugs, then ties a perfect Tiffany bow at the top of his finished pomander. “If I go as Steve Rogers I’m just some guy. I’d be worried about yourself if I were you. You’re Tony Stark.”
“Everyone suspects anyway,” Tony says. Thank you, Ty, for that lovely nudge out of the closet, Tony totally appreciates it. “I’m just saying, it’s a lot just to fix a dumb mistake I made.”
“But it’ll help you?” Steve asks.
“Yes,” Tony replies, even as he knows this is going to break his fragile, smitten heart. Steve, on his arm, coming up with some sweet story of how they met, having to pretend to Steve afterwards that it had all been an act on Tony’s part as well, cock-blocked Tantalus hoist on his own petard.
“Then I’ll do it,” Steve says. “Anything for -- for a friend.”
And that’s all it is: friends. Tony is going to hide every single one of his feelings, put on his playboy persona, and get through this as unscathed as possible.
I’m doomed.
When they arrive at the holiday gala, Tony expects the ambush of lurking photographers outside, but not the elegant rescue by New York’s gay elite. They close ranks around him and Steve, gracious, friendly, and impenetrable. He had been expecting to come out alone, Tony realizes. These people won’t let that happen. They’ve been waiting for him to join them.
“Edie!” Tony says, delighted, when she bustles up. He bends to exchange air kisses.
“Took you long enough,” Edie says, then chuckles and pats Tony on both shoulders. “Good. You look happy.”
“I am,” Tony says. “Steve, this is Edie Windsor, the best of the little old lesbians.”
They enter the ballroom in a swirl of introductions and brightly-colored dresses.
Inside, the Rockefeller is decorated in gold, cream and burgundy. Tony watches Steve spin around, taking in the grand foyer and sparkling cut-crystal chandeliers. Steve’s been to all sorts of fundraisers and high-society events, but usually as Cap, not Steve. Cap doesn’t get to be delighted by beautiful things.
There’s a towering croquembouche serving as the centerpiece of the refreshments table, cream puffs stacked six feet high, glazed in caramel and dusted with powdered sugar. The theme of tonight’s menu seems to be French patisserie, evidenced by flaky pastry and custard on every plate.
It’s exactly like every other charity dinner, except it’s nothing like them, because Steve is at his elbow the entire time, charming people and doing embarrassing things like pulling Tony’s chair out for him.
Playboy, Tony reminds himself. Tony Stark found someone beautiful to be on his arm for a night, like he always does. You’re indulging an infatuation. Steve isn’t anything to you but proof you can have anyone.
Tony pats Steve’s arm and tries to appear breezy and maybe a little bit condescending. Steve Rogers is a handsome dalliance, nobody special, just up-and-coming artist who’s never seen luxury like this.
Steve quirks an eyebrow at him, silently asking, why are you being weird?
Tony folds immediately, flashing Steve his real grin and bumping up against his shoulder, like they’re playing Risk at the mansion coffee table and there isn’t space on the couch for two superheroes to sit without touching.
His plan to keep things casual hasn’t survived even brief contact with the enemy. It’s a familiar feeling, but usually the adversary is the Melter or something, not his own emotions.
Tony realizes about halfway through dinner that he hasn’t been offered alcohol once all night. Steve’s been deflecting it for him, so skillfully that Tony didn’t even notice. He just didn’t have to think about it for an entire cocktail hour. He’d never had a date do that for him so well. He glances at Steve, who is chatting happily with his neighbor at the table, about the intersection between modern art and technology. Steve makes an insightful point about machine learning, and Tony wonders where he picked up an interest in that.
Then he remembers a rainy afternoon curled up in the library with his laptop while Steve read the latest Octavia Butler collection nearby. The suit’s auto-targeting system was being buggy, and Tony had been mumbling at his code without really noticing that he was doing it until Steve asked a question.
“So how does your suit know who’s an AIM soldier and who’s an Avenger?”
Tony had jumped a bit, then apologized for being distracting, then discovered that Steve’s question was a genuine one.
“It’s a combination of computer vision and me manually picking out targets. Ideally every time I shoot at something it adds that to the database of what’s an enemy and then extrapolates from there, but we’ve been fighting a lot of AIM beekeepers lately and the suit has decided that it hates everything yellow.”
Steve laughed. “After punching enough of those guys, I start hating yellow too.”
“Who wouldn’t? But I’d still like the AI to stop putting crosshairs on every fire hydrant and yield sign.”
Steve asked how he was going to fix that, so Tony had kept up a steady chatter as he went back to coding, assuming that Steve had tuned him out after a few minutes. But he hadn’t -- Steve is still talking about it, stuff Tony only half-remembers saying aloud, as if he’s actually interested in this stuff.
Steve turns and catches Tony staring. He smiles, and for a moment that’s all there is in the world; Steve’s smile is like the sun on Tony’s face as he lifts the faceplate after a long, dim flight.
“Where’d you learn all this?” asks the man beside Steve.
“Tony,” Steve says. “He’s an inspiration to me, every day of my life.”
Tony blushes. Laying it on a little thick, Steve. It almost sounds real, when Steve says things like that.
Steve’s just so damn handsome in his suit. Tony wants to peel it off of him and kiss him all over. It’s bad enough that Steve is wearing clothes that Tony helped him pick out -- balancing elegance and Steve’s cover as an artist. They’d picked a slightly retro cut for Steve with a truly lovely camel overcoat and fawn driving gloves. Tony hadn’t told Steve how much any of it had cost, shuffling him out of the cedar-scented tailor’s shop before any of the delicate dance around credit cards and prices.
After dinner there’s a few speeches, and then more mingling and dancing while a band plays jazzy Christmas tunes.
Tony doesn’t intend to dance with Steve. He knows that’s an express train to hopeless yearning. Steve is good at dancing. Tony’s had lessons since he was old enough to put on his own shoes, but nobody can measure up to Steve’s natural grace.
But then Tony catches sight of Sunset across the room, and he’s not up for exes. Not when tonight has gone so well so far.
“Care to dance with me?” Tony asks, offering a hand.