Yeah, right. The last time Mystique had visited without the intention of hurting anyone, she choked Wanda and effectively fucked everything up. It would be pure carelessness for Tony to let her run free and keep fucking up anything she could get her hands on. He was doing enough of that on his own, as she so helpfully reminded him, as if he needed to hear it. His chest still ached from that little dig and he glared at the floor, ashing his cigarette as she had and watching it skitter across the tile. Zero to sixty and a whiplash stop, every fucking time with her.
"I'm working on it," he replied with a shrug, as if that little gesture didn't make his muscles twist in pain and have Tony grinding his teeth. That much was true, but, like all of his other failures, the search party was being put on hold. Opening his mouth to say more, Tony massaged a hand against his chest and reconsidered, thinking Mystique didn't need to hear about his minor breakthroughs or the excuses that followed. That wasn't results. He clicked his jaw shut again and cracked his neck, thinking the honeymoon period was over and it was about time to bail. Without shooting Mystique another glance, he started for the door, throwing out a casual, "Sleep tight," as he went. At least he still had that image of her sprawled out on white sheets, sweat glistening on her blue skin and eyes heavy with pleasure, exhaustion and affection. For a second, he'd done something right, even if every little thing else about it was wrong.