Water drips back to the pool from where Tony’s arms are still extended. Bruce hasn’t gone far, he hasn’t retreated enough to make Tony think that he ought to stop touching him now. Or now. Or even now. His words make the other man smirk, his eyes a different shade of brown, his voice just a note or two higher in pitch than the confused but still on point gravel that Bruce uses when he’s trying to verbally puzzle something out.

Tony loves that. The drawn out syllables. He can’t stop himself from that even if he wants to. Truthfully, though, he doesn’t want to do anything but this.

“I warned you,” he says, as helpful as it truly isn’t. “But that probably doesn’t matter.” There’s a smacking sound as he bites the fat on the inside of his lower lip and lets it go.

There hasn’t been one abnormal jump on Bruce’s pulse. Not one.

“Guess I just don’t do it for you, huh?”