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“I don’t get why you’re so pissed,” Tony says. Peter ignores him. “You can’t blame DUM-E; he can’t tell magic sparks from flammable sparks. Okay, Stiles got sprayed, but it didn’t do any harm. Look at him!”
Stiles is sitting cross-legged next to DUM-E. He’s coated head to hips in fire retardant foam, but he’s wiped enough of it off his face to show that he’s grinning broadly at the ‘bot.
“He’s playing with your sentient robot,” Peter hisses. “Your wizard offered to train him. How am I supposed to get him to agree to go home now?”
Oh.
Whoops?