Steve and Tony
After dinner, Tony found himself pulled in a few different directions. The first (and most powerfully compelling), the bar; the second, Jarvis; the third, Natasha, to get the hopefully explosively juicy gossip about which of their fashionable and charmingly empty-headed friends had pretensions to freedom-fighting; and the fourth - literally anywhere that wasn't at the end of the bee-line Rogers was making, looking like he'd bitten into some of the bitter melon garnish (understandable faux pas: where he came from, everything on your plate probably was for eating). For one thing, the patience he had for Rogers' little jab at the few of you we know aren't going in was hair-thin, and he was absolutely certain that getting into it with him about the odds in District Five and his own relationship with President Stane probably wasn't the best idea given how fragile things were to begin with. For another - well. That they had differences of strategic opinion wasn't surprising, but that didn't mean he was looking forward to butting heads about it before someone else had had a chance to soften him up.
But here he was - barely out of his chair, and already in Rogers' shadow, no succor to be found. He grabbed his half-empty glass of wine, looking around the table for a sympathetic face, someone who might see his plight and swoop in - and came up empty. Great. Good start, team. "Yeah," he muttered, finally raising his eyes to Rogers' with a smile that was pure obligation, the product of a nice, long career of perfecting his party face. If Rogers wasn't winning any awards for courtesy, well, neither was he. "You bet. Let's get you the tour."
At least he had the sense to want to speak alone. That wasn't nothing - actually, considering where they'd started, that was something. Tony turned on his heel and led him out of the dining room; down a windowed hallway; past the billiard room, with all its convenient projectiles; and into the library, which had fewer books than artfully-arranged objects of curiosity set in mostly-empty shelves, and a desk whose purpose as a purely ornamental embellishment was betrayed by the fact that it didn't even have a chair. Tony took a seat on its corner, one leg still propped against the floor, checking briefly over his shoulder to ensure he didn't topple the vase of bare branches behind him. There were a couple benches beneath the windows - otherwise, not a lot in the way of amenities. "You can shut the door, if you want." He drank, and cleared his throat, and scratched at the wood grain at his side instead of looking up. "But someone'll just put a glass to it." One thing about gathering a society of traitors: they tended to be suspicious.