"I noticed," he says dryly. By no stretch of the imagination could any version of her he'd ever met be described as a people person. His gaze automatically tracks her hands, keeping an eye on what she's touching. Not that he thinks she's going to purposely interfere with anything. But those damn M4 washers have a habit of spontaneously vanishing and he'd rather not have to spend half an hour hunting around on the floor for that one missing one. Chaotic as the workshop might have looked, everything in it was exactly where it was supposed to be.
He eyes the extended hand warily for a second, eyes flickering up to her face and back again. Even now - especially now, in fact - Natasha exudes an air of don't touch. Contrary to popular opinion, he's not totally devoid of common sense, and he likes the number of fingers he has. But in the end he gives a mental shrug and just accepts it. "Tony," he responds, reaching out and taking her hand in one of his own scarred and callused ones. For a 'billionaire playboy' he really does have the hands of a mechanic. "Nice to meet you."
When he releases her hand it's immediately apparent that a significant amount of engine oil and miscellaneous grime has been transferred. "Shit, sorry," he says, casting around for a relatively clean rag.
no subject
He eyes the extended hand warily for a second, eyes flickering up to her face and back again. Even now - especially now, in fact - Natasha exudes an air of don't touch. Contrary to popular opinion, he's not totally devoid of common sense, and he likes the number of fingers he has. But in the end he gives a mental shrug and just accepts it. "Tony," he responds, reaching out and taking her hand in one of his own scarred and callused ones. For a 'billionaire playboy' he really does have the hands of a mechanic. "Nice to meet you."
When he releases her hand it's immediately apparent that a significant amount of engine oil and miscellaneous grime has been transferred. "Shit, sorry," he says, casting around for a relatively clean rag.