There's only the slightest tick of hesitation before he slips silently forward into the room, accepting the gesture and formally accepting Rogers, for whatever that's worth. The door is heavy and clicks closed after them, the sound soft but final.

In an instant he has assessed the whole of the room for tactical advantages, a habit impossible to break even under circumstances as strange as this, but it's the second pass of his gaze that proves more important, lingering on details that fill in the spaces in his memory about who Steve Rogers really is. There is no more intimate or personal space as a bedroom, even one in a hotel.

He feels awkward standing there just inside the door, the sensation intensely foreign, as if his body isn't his own when he's around this man.