Tony dragged out the chair to the left of the head of the table and dropped into it with a casual flare, waving Rogers toward the seat just across from him. The Avox appeared, bearing a tray. The setting was too formal for the occasion, the table long enough for twenty people, but they weren't on intimate terms - and his scrupulous attention to meeting the standards of hosting had more to do with appearances than any real consideration for other people's comfort. He dropped his elbows on the table and chased the lemon twist around the rim of his glass with the same fond expression one might find on someone toying with a favorite pet. He laughed. "That's right, it's past your bedtime." Glancing up at Rogers from the surface of his drink, Tony gave him a smile that was well short of proper - it came almost automatically, just one more formality of his existence, like standing up for the anthem or getting carried home from the official New Year's celebration. "You're welcome to stay, but I don't like to get quiet until around four in the morning."
With a heavy thunk, a large carafe of water landed on the table directly between them, a napkin knotted around its neck against the condensation fogging the glass. Tony's smile went a little dry, but he took another sip of his drink - and that moment was enough to recover. He was used to fielding curveballs from his Avox - their only means of conversation, when they weren't alone - and by now he could read them as clearly as though they were written out. The last time Tony had asked for water while not flat on his back and convinced that he was dying had been ... never. Mr. Rogers had a fan.
Tony's reactions, of course, had to be just as clandestine. He'd fallen into this little treason so long ago he couldn't even really remember how, except that he was always talking, even when there was no one there to answer; only natural that he should start addressing himself to the only other breathing thing around. And when he'd started getting answers, they'd been worthwhile ones. Any overt indication of their communication was, of course, unthinkable in front of anyone else - so Tony took up the carafe and topped Rogers off as the Avox set out the soup and then slipped back into the kitchen.
"But it's quiet at home? That's good. That's what we like to hear." Even the implication that it might not be quiet was, to him, the verbal equivalent of a grenade. "Everyone's so keyed-up here, and I mean - you can't blame them. Amazing finale, right? That would get anyone going. Well. Almost anyone. Personally," he confided, blithe and fluid, pressing a hand to his breastbone as he spooned unenthusiastically around his soup, "I'm just not very dramatic."