Was it an offer? Was it sincere? The slump of Tony's back, the way he immediately dropped his face into one hand, rubbing at his temples, probably answered that question - nothing but an honest journey out onto Rogers' extraordinarily thin limb could have caused that kind of angst. He was a good actor, yes; he could charm his way around the tightest of corners, and talk himself out of almost any compromising position. But he very rarely pretended to do something he thought was idiotic - playing stupid wasn't his game. Dashing out into the reckless flow of the idea of resistance and revolution had seemed so sweet, so refreshing, but as soon as it was actually confirmed - as soon as Rogers formed it into words and threw it back to him - its downsides leapt out at him in sharp relief. It was a little like waking up after a particularly eventful night, and rehashing, in increasing terror and remorse, the past twelve hour's events.
But - just like on those touch-and-go mornings - rational touchstones were essential. What he was feeling was just fear. There was no reason to give it any more credence than the carefully-constructed, thoroughly discussed plans that had been developed before Rogers had arrived. It was natural to be afraid and to be reluctant, because what he was doing was dangerous. He just had to ignore the sentiment, and boil all of this down to its purest, least biased elements. Don't feel - think.
He wasn't great at that. But he was trying.
Part of the trouble, of course, was that even his cold, dry, deliberately cut-and-measured thought process was too rash and too fast for his sense of tact and decorum, which was always staggering gasping to the finish line in last place, just a second too late. It took him half a second to discard the no, never mind, this is a terrible idea that was his knee-jerk reaction; then he nodded, heavy and unhappy, into his hand - yes, this is sincere, and I should probably just go jump off a bridge; and then he listened. Rogers had already taken some action. Rogers was getting a list. Rogers was reaching out. To -
He looked up at him, leaving his hand suspended somewhere below his face. His expression was flat, heavy, half skepticism and half distress. Are you serious?
"... To the people you know for sure they're watching," Tony said, his voice rasping in his throat a bit. He lifted his glass, regarded it: he was definitely going to need some more. "That's your plan. Reach out to the people who are definitely under surveillance." Something like a groan pushed its way up out of his chest, and he stifled it by downing the rest of his drink - and, shoving his hand into his hair, he stood, and stalked back toward the bar where the decanter sat ready to soften the edges of the pile of broken glass he felt like he'd just fallen into. "I'm not -" Halfway through pouring himself another drink, he spun to face Rogers again, thrusting his hand out toward him in denial (and slopping some whiskey onto the counter - he might not have been falling down drunk, but he was not sober). "I'm not 'already involved' in anything. I never have been. This is -" This was new, this was dangerous, this was daring, this was attractive and absolutely horrendously terrifying. This is a bad idea. He turned back to his glass, watching it fill far, far too full. Why were they even talking about this? Intelligence: what a joke. "Oh, fuck me."