That sounded like an invitation. Tony only strolled a few steps away from the car, just far enough for it to squeal away without any bodily harm (though, the obvious continued disapproval in the hasty exit wasn't emotionally kind), then stopped with one hand out to Wicked as if he meant to say something. From there he froze, though, gaze locked on some middle distance over her shoulder as if he had just spotted something. "Don't move," he instructed, then, quietly, "Close your eyes." His expression was about as earnest as someone allergic who had just spotted a wasps' nest, which he hoped was convincing for just the fraction of a second it took him to bend and scoop her over his shoulder, held securely, and with a pat of appreciation, around her knees.
Instead of a key, Tony pressed a finger to the door just above the steel handle for an answering click of the releasing lock. The heavy wood swung open silently with a push and Tony shuffled them into the front hall, glancing around curiously and until a familiar, inflectionless voice greeted, "Welcome back, sir."
"Thanks, buddy," Tony replied to the computer, who probably could have been very helpful in finding out where the residents of the house might have been found, but Tony didn't bother asking. He called, too quietly to actually get anyone's attention, "Hello?", just once, then gave Wicked's thigh another pat of regret. He was just going to have to take care of her now.