Things were starting to come together. Iron Man's hold on Quicksilver didn't get any more gentle, but there was a relaxation in his shoulders. The traffic into Buenos Aires was moving slowly, and it was difficult to tell anymore whether the cause of the backup was still the same one or it was from the necks craning to see the robot and twisted metal in the desert. Iron Man stared back at them, getting more annoyed the longer he stood there, and abruptly turned towards the row of low houses and the dogs.
"Why not Hawaii or something?" he muttered as he mostly-carried Quicksilver with one arm passed the canine sentinels; the whole pack too hot or tired to do much more than watch them go. "You think Argentina, you think 'Oh, the tango.' 'Oh, historic bike tours,'" he continued, not quite acknowledging the startled woman of the house they barged into. She stared at the pair, her embroidery frozen mid-stitch and the kettle whistling on the stove.
"Talk," Iron Man finally adressed Quicksilver again once the mutant was dropped onto a couch stuffed with straw and thick with dog hair.