Tony had no idea. At five years old he was piecing together a motherboard to impress his dad when he finally got home and by 40 he knew how to make a kinetic, malleable titanium battle-suit that fit in his bones and responded to his thoughts and he had no idea what was wrong with him that he couldn't fix. The last thing he wanted to do was pretend he could interact with other people anymore; it was a tired game that he got worse at every day as people proved to be more complicated than he could keep up with, not just statistics and averages that he could project on the future but individuals that had feelings even when, logically, they were unhealthy or unproductive. Why was that? But Tony couldn't pull his arm from Steve's grip without acknowledging he was there anyway, so he stopped and kept his gaze dead ahead, not daring to turn until he was sure he didn't feel Pietro behind him anymore. "Nothing new," he answered at length, lips twisting into a facsimile of his practiced smirk and shrugging to shake Steve off to let him go.