"No - no. He was like that when he got here." Tony grabbed a bottle of gin - why switch horses mid-race - by the neck, and jabbed with it in Jarvis' general direction. He knew exactly what that look meant, not that he needed any particular intuition to parse it out. Some expressions were universal, and he had more than his fair share of experience with reproach. Far more. "How is it my fault he's got a stick so far up his ass he can't look both ways to cross the street? This isn't on me."
He was both certain that was true and also very aware that their entire exchange had been overheard - and, despite his level of inebriation (moderate to high), he remembered with decent specificity the major beats of the conversation. Discussion. ... Argument. He could start to imagine how Jarvis might have heard it, and how it might have seemed to someone playing the fly on the wall, when said conversation had begun with a gentle dig at Rogers' masculinity, swooped around to half-hearted, obligatory come-ons, and meandered through some insults to his intellect before the real fireworks got started. He could admit that, taken out of context, it might not come across as the most cordial welcome he'd ever extended.
But there was always context. To wit: Rogers was a prig, and Tony had been trying to extend an olive branch. What were a few jokes, here and there?
Setting the bottle a little too heavily down on the bar, he set to prying open the cocktail shaker. "Maybe if he spent a little more time around the city, around people who don't worship him for - whatever," he said, very nearly sending the lid clattering to the floor, "he could learn to laugh at himself. It's popular at parties, these days." Inverting the bottle over the shaker, he let it pour - and pour, as he looked back up at Jarvis with his own very pointed lift of the eyebrows. Yes, he did need a triple. "It's very fashionable these days. Really in."