[Tony's gaze skates over the hand, the sheen of vibranium. No sense in asking who made it when the answer is obvious. (It's easier to look at, at least. Not the same weapon that killed his parents, and he can't quite manage to squash the curiosity about the mechanisms behind it. Wonders if he ought to talk to T'Challa about the connections between technology and nerves; maybe the Wakandans have something he could use to help Rhodey.)

But he has no intention of hurting Barnes, as much as part of him still wants to. It's a part he's working to banish, but he doesn't know if he'll ever succeed. Right now, in a suit, Barnes almost looks...vulnerable. And logically, Tony knows he is, that despite the muscle, despite the decades of training to become the world's most elite assassin, the man before him is broken.

As much as he might wish, his brain doesn't always work logically. Tony also wishes he were in one of his suits right now, that the latest model wasn't half-assembled in his workshop. He wishes he had a way to wear a suit all the time - but any therapist would say that's ridiculous.

(Tony says it's pragmatic.)

Behind the tinted lenses of his glasses, Friday scrolls security footage in miniature in front of one eye, invisible to everyone save Tony himself.] Uh-huh. I know. [He knows now, anyway.] You sure you don't want anything to drink? Coffee, tea, water? Milk? Steve always likes milk, but he's a walking PSA.