Tony looks up at the ceiling, hanging back at the hinges of his neck as he thinks. After all this time, someone at least moderately Avenger-shaped traipses his stupid way through a rift and is willing to put out on the first date, and he feels bizarrely unprepared.

A year and a month.

"Satinalia," he says, on a delay, slightly strained from his contemplative flopping back. "No Christian holidays at this renfaire. First of fantasy-November, which is Firstfall, which is soon. Everyone does gifts and a party. So you should probably prioritise that."

Tony straightens his spine back up.

"Write me a blank check. I'll get back to you."

Uncomfortable. He should probably be more curious. He should seem more curious. But right now, it's already taking a lot of his considerable bandwidth to internalise that everything worked out okay.