[ She laughs shortly at that, more an amused exhale than anything else. She wonders if he's joking. ]

That's me, [ she replies with a wry twist to her smile, ] just itching to cut a rug on any dance floor.

[ Far from it — at home she hardly ever went out to the dance halls, for lack of a partner (and a heart barely on the mend) and a schedule fit to bursting. And here, well. She barely recognises this noise as acceptable music to begin with so she doubts anyone here would be familiar with the Lindy, let alone a simple waltz.

Parties are exhausting affairs more often than not (or maybe that's her time with Howard Stark talking). But this is nice, all things considered. Much more sedate and intimate than the last one she unwittingly attended. And she can reintroduce herself to the people she did meet there under far better circumstances — much like now. ]

But I'll curb the impulse for the sake of your... invisible canvas, I presume? [ She vaguely understands the VR capabilities of the neural implant now. It actually makes her smile when she realises it. ] Believe it or not, I've had some experience with this.

[ Sitting for portraits. A different time, a different artist, a different medium. (The war, Captain Rogers, grease pencil to worn paper.) ]