He stares; it's something long and unflinching, something scrutinizing, searching Steve's expression for any hidden truths or unvoiced intentions. There aren't any, which is a relief and a concern all at once. The memories he has of this man seem to be inflated, put on some kind of unrealistic pedestal, made out to be like he's some kind of bastion of loyalty and friendship. In his recent experience, no one is as kind as they seem to be and everyone has an ulterior motive.

But not Steve Rogers.

He's been to the Smithsonian. He's heard the recordings. Best friends since childhood, inseparable on the schoolyard and the battlefield. A pretty bold claim, but the thing is, everything in his mind has thus far pointed to it being true.

If that's the case, he's too good. Too good of a man to be weighed down by a winter soldier with a thousand eyes searching to bring him in.

His eyes drop, his jaw thumps a little.

"I tried to kill you," he points out, addressing his coffee cup. "Almost did. Still your friend after that?"