Another tired laugh follows it, delirious and just as disbelieving as the first. Jesus Christ, if he didn't know any better — but he does, and this is prison, and he really needs to not let a night in solitary confinement go to his head. He feels ridiculous, light, floating. Feels like he's connected by a little red string that burrows through the cement walls to the guy behind him, an elated notion he tries to pass off on the byproduct of fighting on the same side of something.

Finding a friend in a place like this can feel ten times more profound than it actually is.

If they were on the outside who knows if they'd even look at each other twice? Who knows if they'd get along at all.

Who the hell is Bucky trying to kid?

He can't even school out the note of something (fondness? friendliness? amusement?) from his voice when he finally says, "Go to bed, Rogers, you're killin' me here."

Six more days to go.