[ Fugitive. The word leaves acid, hot and acrid, in the back of his throat. Never in his life did he think he would be labeled a turncoat, that the people he tried so hard to protect would come hunting for blood. But that's how war goes, and much like he'd told Tony on the downy lawn of the compound: he's home, here.

The life of a soldier, the life of a man on the run - they're one in the same, aren't they? No permanent place to rest his head, no one to write home to. Just the chilled German flat, the data on the screen in front of him, and the - what, thunk? - noise of the man in the other room.

Pushing to his feet he crosses some of the distance to get a better look at exactly what the man's doing to the stove that, for all intents and purposes, should be put out of its misery. ]

I'll make sure to call ahead, see if HYDRA left anything behind. Maybe a care package or two, who knows. Maybe some cookies and milk.

[ Wry, but there's a hint of warmth in his voice, his smile a touch warmer. The bump is enough to tell him that maybe Sam's fighting a losing battle. ]

But if you're tired of bad take out, we can find good take out instead. Or find a hotplate. They have those in this century, right? [ A huff. ]