[ Steve huffs something that nearly sounds like it wants to be a laugh; something he hasn't done in what feels like years. (A century, maybe). A small part of him wants to tell Sam to leave, to send him on some recon mission somewhere, but he knows it won't make for anything, anyway. Sam won't leave, and as much as he'd like to curse his dogged, deterministic stubbornness? Steve sees it in himself as well. ]

They have pizza joints in Germany, Sam. A load of diamonds might be a stretch, though.

[ But the tired lines of Sam's shoulders, the ones that might as well mirror his own, tell him this isn't about the pizza, about the takeout. He reaches for the cloth, then hunkers down near the stove, looking at the fittings, the expose side where they'd pried the cover off. ]

I'm not giving up, by the way. [ Quiet, off-hand like they're really talking about the stove, but the words feel heavy on his tongue. He adjusts one pipe fitting, cranking it with his hand before he tries another. ] But realistically, a hot plate and a meat-lovers pizza would get us through until we figure this thing out. Who'd have thought, with all that gear we've worked with, it's a stove that would get us down.

[ He's no Tony Stark, capable of whispering to machines and engines and murmuring life back into them. He's no Bruce Banner, Clint Barton, Scott Lang. The name Steve Rogers feels nearly as foreign here, as useless, but he'll never say as much. ]