Pretending that was anywhere near what he wanted to hear was easier with Pietro's face hidden, where Tony could stare numbly into the cramped cell behind him at the pieces of an old friend on the floor, and he turned his hands between them to clutch at the front of Pietro's shirt until his knuckles turned white. Sure, fine, he was a saint. He had successfully taken care of all of them, no one had anything to worry about, they functioned seamlessly as a unit and didn't worry about how much food they had left and whether or not everyone they ever knew was dead out there. Tony didn't do anything wrong, he just ran off to meet the West coast team just when his own needed him most, promised Cap he wouldn't do it again and still left with violence in his heart just the day before to see Cassie. Cassie, who he had done everything in his power to find and hadn't left stranded. He knew exactly what Wanda and Clint were waiting for him to say or do to make them trust him, if they ever did, and how to take all that weight off of Steve. He wasn't thinking about getting loaded and giving up. He didn't want to lay down and never get up again. He didn't move, squeezed his eyes shut so hard he saw white and muttered, "So why do I need help?"