Perhaps Steve was letting Stark off the hook too easily - it had been his weapons after all, his demonstration - but he couldn't get Stark's horror out of his head, the way the man had seemed so honestly distressed at what had happened in District Eight. And things between them had been almost pleasant while they were stuck in that elevator, enough so that Steve didn't want to push his luck, didn't want to send this meeting hurtling merrily over a cliff, a replay of their previous dinner. Besides, it finally felt as if things were starting to come together for him, like if he kept making the right choices, a revolution might actually find its feet and start to gain traction.
And as much as Steve wouldn't have wanted to admit it a few months ago, if he had an opportunity to get Stark on his side, or to at least make him understand why this was a cause worth fighting for, that could only be a good thing. Stark was well-connected and brilliant, and Steve couldn't afford to fuck this up. He wasn't entirely sure that's what this meeting was about, but... it seemed like a possibility, suddenly, and really, that had always been all Steve needed to take a chance.
That didn't mean he wouldn't argue if he felt the need for it, however, and he was on the verge of it after Stark declared the Peacekeepers wouldn't have shot him. Surely that would have been an opportunity for Stane, a chance to get Steve out of the picture, to shut him up once and for all.
Except it didn't look like Stark had finished his thought, so instead of jumping in, Steve forced himself to wait, took another swallow of his drink to keep himself quiet. It still burned going down, but he was starting to get used to it, and the warmth it left in its wake wasn't a bad thing by any measure, even if he'd have to be careful not to down too much of it. He could tell it was high-end, which meant it was strong, which meant he'd end up fuzzy if he wasn't careful.
Stark was fidgety, enough for Steve to notice, though he wasn't sure if it was nerves or simply the boundless, restless energy the man seemed to have. It would have been distracting, maybe, but Steve made himself listen to his words and refused to give in to his knee-jerk reaction, the anger that flared up in him and threatened to spill over in a protestation of how wrong that was, how entirely unacceptable. Because Stark wasn't denying how terrible everything they were forced to do was; he was simply laying out the facts of the matter. It wasn't anything Steve hadn't heard before, but maybe he'd never imagined hearing it from someone like Stark, who never seemed to give any indication that he actually knew he was playing a game.
He tipped the glass he held in his hand, watched as the liquid came perilously close to the lip of the glass before he straightened it again and tipped it in the other direction.
"I know all of that," Steve said quietly, his mouth twisting up into a grim curve, too bleak to be properly considered a smile. "But I can't - I don't know if I have it in me. To play. It's not simple for me, it feels like I'm... like I'm spitting on the people back home every time I have to play nice here. Like it's a betrayal of all the people who have died at Stane's hands."
He lifted his gaze to Stark, the curve gone from his mouth, leaving it nothing but a straight, unhappy line. "You saw the people in Eight," he said. Because surely, surely someone as smart as Stark would have noticed the drawn faces and the threadbare coats that didn't do enough to keep out the wind's chill. But Steve hoped he'd also noticed the fire in their eyes, their determination to change their lives for the better. To demand an existence with enough food to go around, where they didn't have to fear their children being plucked from a crowd and murdered for the Capitol's entertainment.
"I think the tide's shifting," Steve murmured, aware that this was dangerous, to be speaking this plainly to Stark. "And I'll be damned if I'm going to sit back and watch from the sidelines."