There were several lessons to be learned form Tony's interactions thus far with Steve Rogers. The first was that an open-minded approach was essential; defensiveness and preconceived notions hadn't served them well in the past. He could see that, now that it had been pointed out to him. The second was that certain subjects were best avoided, in the interest of keeping the peace. The third - perhaps to easiest to put into effect - was that sobriety was obviously very helpful.
So, naturally, he'd spent the afternoon convincing himself all over again that this was a terrible idea; District Eight was going to be a central topic of conversation; and he'd started drinking before lunch.
It was the waiting, the anticipation, that ate at him worse than anything else. Seeing something awful looming up on the horizon wasn't so unusual, for him - about half his waking life was dedicated to dodging the results of his missteps or finding ways to skirt around things other people told him were inevitabilities. It was even fun, sometimes, squeezing out of tight spots, leaping through closing doors, getting away with things and coming out clean when by all rights the consequences of his actions should have left him mud all over. But this ... this was like marching to the scaffold. Every second felt like time he should have been spending planning evasive maneuvers.
Instead, he was watching the minutes tick by until Rogers showed up, so he could calmly implicate himself in treason and possibly (if necessary, they'd agreed) do the same for Jarvis. And all because -
No. Never mind motives; he wasn't going to think about those, and certainly wasn't going to talk about them. He'd hashed them out ad nauseam. He'd made his choice. Dropping himself back into the meandering downward labyrinth of why would have been dangerous the way second-guessing one's trajectory at full speed was always dangerous, and, more than that, it would have been extraordinarily unpleasant. He imagined, thankfully, that a man like Rogers wouldn't get too hung up on questions of rationale. He was (he swallowed back a sour taste in his mouth) a practical person, in his own misguided way. He cared about results. Right? They could agree on that much. Results were what mattered.
But by the time Rogers arrived, results seemed very, very far away indeed.
Tony had shuttered himself away in his workshop for most of the latter half of the day, partly because it was where he had the best chance of relaxing, and partly because he knew if he sat out in plain view he could be more easily chided for overindulgence in liquid courage. And it was from his workshop that he emerged when he heard the door, a little rumpled, very informal, but not overtly hammered; the glass in his hand was just to be expected. But if he wasn't obviously drunk, he was very clearly unhappy. His jaw was tight, his eyes a little withdrawn, his shoulders stiff - in short, he was doing an awful job of concealing his dread. Or would have been, if he'd been trying at all.
Still, he forced his mouth to pull up at one side in something resembling a smile when he crossed to take his glasses and tuck them immediately into his pants pocket. "Thanks." And with absolutely no further pleasantries - it took a lot for him to abandon so completely his dedication to hospitality, but here they were - he waved Rogers toward one of the sofas. "Sit down. You want a drink, right? I want a refill." He plodded over to the wet bar, dragged out a glass, and poured Rogers some of what he was having before dropping in an ice cube. Going through the motions was, at least, something with which he had a fair amount of experience. He set Rogers' rather overfull glass on the coffee table in front of him, slid it his way, and collapsed into a chair opposite where he was sitting - and winced, and took a moment to adjust the glasses in his pocket. "We need to talk about your -" He made a vague, aggravated gesture, shuffling through a bunch of inflammatory words before settling on: "... Eight."