They might not need that long, but Tony wasn't going to admit that out loud. He wasn't spending a lot of time out of the armor, let alone indulging in the kind of attention he made sure everyone knew he was getting; it was a pressure thing. Tony knew a lot about pressure. With his head tilted back and eyes closed, he could think very hard about pressure, his inbox, the calendar still open and the Sphere's ambient sensor array's cumulative data since the last time he checked three hours ago, all while he continued to mutter on auto-pilot, "When did you get good at this?" Which might have been unfair, but Tony wasn't thinking, just talking. "Have you been practicing? Without me? Not that I like the idea, but the results are undeniable-- you know, you can use me to practice any time, use me, ah--, any way you want--" He clawed at the sheets again for a moment, only to freeze and start to melt back again, something catching his attention and dragging him out of rhythm. What was that? Still there?
A strange, unidentifiable distress signal, faint but consistent, its source untraceable but its message simple and clear, had been transmitting to the Sphere for days, occasionally disturbed by solar flares or, Tony assumed, orbital patterns, but always back and always the same. That S.H.I.E.L.D. still hadn't investigated was curious, and Tony took just a second to take a closer look, while he had the time, Steve was busy, and frowned, one hand picking up off of the bed instinctually like he might reach out for a keyboard then dropping limply onto his hip. It wasn't transmitting to the Sphere, it was coming straight at him. "That signal is still there," he finally muttered out loud, opening his eyes and pushing himself up on his elbows. Oh, right, they were doing something. Tony grinned, shifting his weight to bring one hand to Steve's cheek, tracing the line of his lip with his thumb. "C'mon, c'mere," he tried one more time. "I like it when you tell me what to do."