It doesn't take a set of shiny dog tags to give away the fact that Rogers is a military man; those corners don't lie. Nobody bothers to tuck so tightly unless they're enlisted or obsessive-compulsive and, Christ, he really hopes it isn't the latter. Bucky keeps his shit clean but he doesn't touch the pillow six times before he puffs it. He's got no intention to start cleaning the floor with a toothbrush, either.

Explains the shoulders. He's not complaining about the view.

Or the one he's greeted with when Rogers turns around; it's pretty bizarre to reconcile pretty down-home features with a body like that, how one can look boyish and deadly at the same time? Impressive. He'll add it to the list of things he thinks about in the shower to pass the time - yeah, that's inappropriate as hell but after two years in prison? Christ, his spank bank is a tragic mile long.

God, he misses sex.

Steve's neutral, which is a first. Zola had been overly friendly to the point of sniveling and Rumlow opted for that antagonistic 'fight the first person you see' kind of aggression. He'll take it as a good sign, he hopes, and he reaches out calmly to shake the hand offered to him.

"Bucky," is his answer, which is neither the James nor the Barnes written on any of his shit anywhere in the room. As soon as their hands fall away, he nods to the bed. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"