Tony's chin retracts into his neck ever so as she gets all up on him, and the faint familiar whiff of wine-breath only registers dimly in the sensory overload he's enduring. His brain feels overcooked. It really could just take one day-drunk blonde girl to tip him over the edge into nonresponsive.

Instead, he knows -- while being barely conscious to it -- some delight in distraction. He imagines this is what it's like to yell at someone about a road accident when you're too poor to not care.

"Okay, sweetheart," he says, the veering into sarcasm no less aggravated, as he extends his arm past her head to point at roughly where that green glowing nonsense had been hanging in the air, "why don't you go ahead and open the sky back up again, and I'll be on my merry goddamn way." He thinks he saw her, anyway, hand glowing green like his is glowing green, but with some kind of connecting point, a flow of energy between her and it. Maybe? His mind is racing again.

His arm drops. Eyes bright. "Betcha can't. Right? Or can you?"