Right, of course, there were a lot of great things for them to talk about. Tony cleared his throat, trying to cough up the ache that clenched his chest when Steve gave him such a loose number, unable to ask for fucking specifics, dammit, without completely losing his cool. They would get to it. Tony would see them for himself soon enough.
"Almost here," he replied, his voice more confident than before, and jerked his chin toward the balcony rail. "Ten minutes," he offered, teetering his hand, give or take, if the traffic stayed as good as Iron Man's fly over suggested. All right, only one great thing. Tony's glove scraped over his armored calf restlessly for an excruciatingly long minute before he gave in and pushed himself to his feet, stalking around the pool with rounded shoulders and pointedly avoiding looking in Steve's direction in case he had something to say about it. Tony had to suffer the indignation of kneeling and stretching into the water to retrieve his abused helmet, dreading every new second it took and waiting for Steve's interjection, then empty it out back into the pool before he could back away, clutching it to his chest like he thought it might leap out of his hands again.