The bowl bounced off his shield, and the sharply truncated cracking noise told him the glass in its frame had shattered - so Tony let it drop to the side as he swung around a corner, where it rattled into place against the wall. He didn't need splintered plate glass falling under foot, not when he was already hobbled enough as it was. Without protection now, his primary goal was to get somewhere with a little cover, and when he found himself in the dining room that flowed into the kitchen, sure, he could think of a drawer full of knife-shaped reasons why it wasn't exactly ideal, but - there was furniture. He wasn't in a position to be picky.
Veering around the long dining room table, he stopped abruptly at its foot and grabbed onto either side of it, half-ducked, leaning slightly over the chair tucked in there and ready to dodge to one side or the other depending on which way she chose to advance. He could look at her this way, watch her, face her with something substantial between them - and as soon as he did, the rage and betrayal in her face lit something dangerously pressurized inside of him, because it wasn't fair. I trusted you.
"Then I guess we're both fucking stupid." He spat it at her, angry, his shoulders lunging with it, his face hot in a way he hadn't felt in a very long time - a way he'd never have let himself feel, not before all of this bullshit had started. He didn't deserve this. This wasn't what he wanted. He didn't have the first clue how to navigate the choppy seas of guilt and fear and injustice that all of this had kicked up in him - he'd spent his life making damn sure to hew to the shore, and on his maiden fucking voyage, here he was. Hadn't he done this for her, hadn't he done it for everyone? He was doing this for a good reason, a noble one - when the hell did he get to be proud of it? Why had it all been so hard, so perfectly thankless? For once he wasn't being selfish, right? If he were Rogers - if he were almost anyone else - he could perhaps have found something better to say, something lofty and self-effacing about how they were all in this together; but the truth was, he didn't even really believe it. He hadn't broken his deal with Natasha for world peace. And that deal had been important to him, it had been a sometimes-lifeline in a world of exhausting expectations, but what it hadn't been was an agreement to protect one another, to be honest and true or anything similarly illusory. The deal had been that things wouldn't be complicated, that they'd never be sticky, and now - now they were, but it wasn't his fault, not all of it. Was it?
He grabbed the plate from the place setting before him and hurled it to one side like a discus without even watching to see where it smashed. "Don't act so fucking superior, Miss is it so hard to believe I care about him. Please." The sarcasm dripped off his words, painting a picture clear as day of how much credence he gave anything she'd said during that whole debacle: the only reason he could think that she'd done something so foolish, and constructed such an idiotic story around it, was that she was protecting Barnes. And that - that was the stupidest thing you could ever do. He, after all, would know. He was an expert in that particular brand of folly. "Don't act like you never put your foot in it for no good reason." He wasn't here to argue it wasn't stupid; that would have been a waste of breath. "Don't act like you're not a fucking handful. You're supposed to be the one who I don't have to worry about getting her head taken off for any goddamn thing. I trusted you, and look - hey." He laughed, bitter. "Now we're both fucking disappointments." He snatched up another plate and flung it to his right; the adjacent flatware went clattering onto the chair, onto the floor, and Tony threw his hands out to either side of him, a perfect open target. "I guess the party's over! How do you like that?"