His life's not over. Neither of their lives are over, even if it does consistently feel like the end of the world every other day. Even if they both feel old, worn down, past some kind of point of no return. The reality is, they have some tomorrows left still.

He doesn't know Tony well enough to know the intricacies of his voice. Can't tell that he's been drinking, not yet - he can only tell that it's missing a levity it felt like almost everything else had those days ago at the start. Even if they were angry, twisted, judgemental - there was still a certain bleak humor to them. An attitude.

He doesn't hear that.

But it's only two words.

He presses his back against a wall, losing himself in the phone so hard that he doesn't even see the tiled floor his eyes are pointed at.

"Better than prison," He says, only barely joking. "Better than a Hydra deep freezer, too."

And those shitty, sketchy, probably ought to be abandoned apartment buildings in the cheapest parts of Romania. Better than anything he's had in the last lifetime he's lived.

"How's-- New York, right?"