Rumlow knew for a fact that the Soldier wasn't a millenial, but they were both playing the game. He was enjoying it terribly, even if he knew that the other shoe would drop eventually and it would come with its own unique set of consequences. Cold shoulder at best, death at worst. And as someone who had gone to war and returned out of touch himself, he was willing to let all the unanswered statements go. He wasn't here for a fight, just a conversation.

He raised his eyebrows and whistled in appreciation to the admittance of being a POW, and his expression momentarily turned grave with a high degree of respect. "That's a shitty experience, to say the least. You have my respect for coming out the other side as seemingly functional as you appear to be. Most guys I know are pretty jumpy."

And way back in the day, there was no term called PTSD. He had heard it call battle fatigue or shell shock.

He pulled his arm out of the panel and moved away, approaching the Soldier with a quiet sort of confidence. He then offered his hand for a shake. "Did you ever get a welcome home? I know this ain't your home, but every soldier deserves one."