Steve wasn't sure if the offer of a glass of milk was being made in earnest, or if it was meant to be a jab. Considering the source, he thought the latter was more likely. It wasn't worth it to let himself get offended over it, though he had to wonder if Stark would have made such a flippant remark about the beverage if he'd ever witnessed a child waste away before his very eyes, because there wasn't enough milk or bread to go around. Stark could scoff over the idea of a grown man wanting a glass of milk all he wanted, but then, Steve thought Stark had probably never gone to bed with a too-empty stomach, hunger pangs accompanying him to sleep. He'd been hungry during his Games, surely, but that was temporary, an aberration. Going to bed hungry each and every night for weeks on end was a different thing entirely, and Steve knew well enough that no one who had grown up in the Capitol had ever experienced that.
Still, he silently accepted his glass, along with Stark's clink, then took a polite sip as he followed Stark over to the table, which boasted an impressive view of the Capitol, with its towering skyscrapers and beautiful, twinkling lights. The artist in Steve could appreciate the beauty of the sight, the way the city seemed to give off a glow against the dark night sky. He couldn't take any enjoyment from it though, not when he thought of how much money went toward keeping the Capitol ablaze with so much electricity.
He turned from the window to face Stark once more, who was watching him an expression that was more caricature than the cartoons Steve sometimes scribbled for District Eight's more artistically inclined children. Drawing and design were marketable traits in his home district, after all, provided they had to do with textile patterns, and Steve could often be found volunteering his time to help Eight's future fashion designers refine their sketches. What he wouldn't give to be doing that right now, instead of making polite, meaningless conversation with Stark.
"I like the quiet back home," Steve said simply. "The Capitol's just a little bit too loud and busy for me." It was an empty answer, the sort of canned response that Clint had trained into him on Steve's Victor's Tour, back when Steve had still been reeling from Erskine's death and prone to saying stupidly reckless things.
He took another gulp of his water, the clear, cold liquid laced with just the slightest hint of green from the cucumber. "Besides," he added, "coming here always throws my routine off. Everyone here gets ready to eat dinner just when I'm usually turning in for the night."
Now that - that was a pointed statement, and it certainly wasn't a very kind thing to say to your host, but then again, Steve didn't want to be here in the first place, and he certainly had no designs on being invited back. And the fact remained that nine o'clock was two or three hours past when Steve usually sat down to eat.