"Hey, it's not my plan." Tony whipped his hand up to shield his eyes when the lights flared to life, giving a little snort of protest. By the time he'd blinked his way past the glare, she was standing at the mirror, rigid and upright and shedding leaves like a week-old bouquet. He had a hard time thinking of it as a negative change, really. "I'm just the asshole who has to make it happen. It's not a total non-starter. I've been working him, a little," he said, although it was probably high time to reach out and make sure he was staying worked - the conversation they'd had after that miserable dinner party, in which he'd tried to bait his hook with a few reasons Rogers might agree to try to stay alive for as long as possible, had been a little while ago, and the time for suggestions and generalities was getting short. Specifics and promises, that was the next step. "If we can get him to think you're protecting him for something else, he'll buy it. You can sell it to him. I mean, let's face it - it's not like I have to worry about you laying it on too thick."
Even Rogers would probably notice if Natasha were all of a sudden a solicitous team player, which was lucky, because that might have been too tough an act to ask her to keep up without succumbing to the urge to rip his throat out (or just to a rage-induced aneurysm). They'd find something, some plausible excuse for him to feel obligated, in his overweening sense of nobility, to stay alive long enough for Thirteen to pull the trigger. The Gamemakers really were the more pressing concern, from Tony's point of view, but he was working on one of those, too. For all he knew, so was Thirteen - wouldn't have been the first time, right? Who knew if it would be enough, but it would be something.
And now, if it failed, he had a Plan B. Pocketing his knife and wedging his makeshift boutonniere between the lapel of his waistcoat and his shirtfront, he pushed himself to his feet and went to stand behind her, hands set on his hips. Not bad, if he did say so himself. A pretty good match. There was a smudge of green paint just above the angle of his beard; he leaned in to rub it out with his thumb. "We don't want things to be too easy on him, anyway. If the Gamemakers weren't out for his blood, he'd be suspicious. And if he gets wind of this - he'll spike the whole plan." Afterwards, he might just spike Tony's head, but - one problem at a time. "But he's built like a brick house. If we can get him to actually fight, he's got a chance - he might even be some help. And we can do that. We can talk him into just about anything." They weren't married to the truth, they were willing to sacrifice lives, and they didn't care much about being his friend now, or ever - it was an extremely powerful position to occupy, against a man who could barely lie, who outlined his bargaining position in detail for anyone who wanted to hear it (and plenty who didn't), and who seemed all too ready to be convinced of the good in people.
But the truth was, the Arena would be dangerous for Rogers. They were just going to have to hope they could get the plan in motion reasonably quickly. ... And that Thirteen didn't take out their buyers' remorse on either of them when they realized Rogers wasn't the willing mouthpiece they were no doubt hoping for. "Look at it this way," he said, grim, crossing his arms over his chest. "At least he won't like it, either. And when we get to Thirteen, you'll have all the time in world to tell him he's a fucking dick."