“What?” Hang on, jeez, Banner. This guy here needs a damned minute and that includes you being cleverly vague in a way that he himself pioneered back when he was five. Tony rubs a hand over his face and pushes the internal release so that he can sit the hell up once the lid’s been retracted. There’s a wave of nausea that fills him, but he swallows it all back down and swings his legs over the edge of the table in abject defiance. He’ll hold off on getting up, though.

He’s got this bad feeling that he’s going to Bambi all over the place and he’d do it so much less cutely than a baby deer on ice might.

“Do I need mouthwash? I feel like I need mouthwash,” he lamented, breathing into his palm as if to detect…something. “Were you a decent wing man at least?” All of these things are more important to talk about than the alien obviously.