"You know, I'm having some trouble remembering," Tony said, shoving a spoonful of soup in his mouth and heroically swallowing back a remark about a couple other things Rogers' Ma probably used to do really well. The truth, of course, was that he'd invited Rogers specifically because the man disliked him, and so he hardly had any right to be surprised that it was off to a bumpy start. In his head, though, all of this had gone very differently; in his head, he'd cleverly teased out exactly what it was Rogers didn't care for, examined it, and stuffed it back into him in a new arrangement, one they both understood. In his imaginary rendering of the evening, they had both left with a certain mutual appreciation, if not, perhaps, affection. He'd invited Rogers over to partake in his favorite brand of antagonistic but light-hearted banter, confident that that would leave them seeing eye to eye.
It always failed to occur to him that not everyone liked antagonistic, light-hearted banter. And for someone who made a very big show of not caring what people thought about him, it drove him absolutely up the wall when his attempts to connect (not to say: to prove himself) were left hanging in the air.
And that, in turn, drove him right under other people's skin. "I'm pretty sure it was to be friendly. We have these things, 'manners' - I know it's been a little while, but your escort should have covered them with you." For all his brilliance when it came to designing actual weapons, his rhetorical arsenal tended to be pretty blunt. He fell back on all the easy targets and cheap shots that came with privilege. I'm rich, you're poor; I'm civilized, you're a rube; I'm someone, you're no one. Even where he didn't believe them, they made good trumps, touching live wires most people were too angry or embarrassed about to cover properly. "You don't seem to have a lot of friends here, and you should want them. You can't just stand around looking like someone spit in your drink and then stomp home. That's not how this works. Do you not get that?"
The genuine curiosity probably didn't come through very well in his voice, considering all the contempt piled on top of it, but it was an honest question. Did he not get it? Did he not understand the game he was playing? Or - did he see a different way? Maybe that's what he'd hoped to get out of this - some sign that Rogers actually had a good reason for acting this way, some indication that there was logic or hope behind it, and not just stubborn self-destruction. There were parts of it he hated more than anything, and deep down it made him desperately tired, the endless show. And so he was too eager, maybe, to jump on what looked like a way out.
Well, at least they could both leave the table disappointed.