The quickest way for an Avenger to get from the penthouse to the lobby was to go out and come back in; after steeply falling, head first towards the concrete of the plaza and leaving his own dent in it as he came to a hard landing, Iron Man strolled in through the front doors to the crisply cool Stark Towers lobby just as Quicksilver brought a gust of hot summer air with him as a zoomed past Iron Man's shoulder and back inside. A bullet ricocheted off of his armored chest, making him take a surprised step back for the unsolicited attack, then cock his head at the firefight going on where his wildly attractive and impossible to resist receptionist was supposed to be. Was this Barton's way of diffusing the situation?
"Hey," Iron Man demanded, stomping towards the pair without any particular rush, and when that didn't get him the respectful attentiveness he wanted he repeated, sharply, "Hey." He held up his hands, which would be a gesture of surrender if his palms didn't glow with a cautioning charge and he didn't have the obvious advantage with three against one on the home field, trying to talk to the psycho who destroyed his lobby in an admirable show of restraint. The second he was presented with the perfect opportunity, though, Iron Man was going to make the guy regret it. Maybe by suing him until his great grandchildren were destitute.