Optimism wasn't exactly flowing in excess down the abandoned streets of New York City, and Tony could never really be described as an optimist before the plague set in. With a spoon in his mouth, all he had to offer to Peter was a dismissive, "Mm-hmm," more glad that he was back without electrocuting himself than that he had anything to say for it.
Tony dragged a chair over to Peter's table to sit across from him, propping his feet up on a milk crate that rang with the sound of glass, full of empty tubes and dishes. "Is it cold out?" he asked as the kid focused on his sample. If they couldn't figure this thing out soon, the snow would take care of it for them while Tony stayed cozy in here with his generator and a crate of something strong and finely aged.