“I did what I could,” Steve muttered, not lying. He could smell gore and sick, the smells of war, and oddly enough, it calmed him. Relieved him almost. He’d heard tales of wounded soldiers going home without the ability to blend back into life, unable to step to the beat of Not War. Steve hadn’t understood that until now. He was used to being under fire. He was used to the fight. It was comfortable. Even hiding, in a way, had been comfortable.

Pushing the ballcap back over his head, mask at his feet, he looked towards Bucky’s scowling face with a smirk. At least he was covered. They might still be able to recognize him, though knowing a man just by his eyes was still difficult. And no one would believe that Steve Rogers was actually alive.

If anything, they might assume the Soldier has liberated one of their test subjects. They had tried to make sure none were blond or blue eyed like all of the Soldier’s handlers, made sure none looked somewhat of Steve Rogers, but suitable candidates for the resurrected Project Rebirth were few and far between.

“Buck, I don’t know what happened between the train and now, and I’m not gonna press because it’s probably been a lot longer for you than it has been for me, but can you drop the accent? It’s weird.”

Steve pulled himself up and shouldered his shield. It was a natural move, though he had been carrying it under his arm during his run to at least attempt to disguise it.