Frankly, Bucky's not so sure he's not hallucinating this whole thing. Awfully convenient that the car stalls out so soon, isn't it? Awfully convenient he's hearing voices and Steve's not there at all. It's an itching crawl under his skin, a fractured Russian whisper that he's losing his mind. Too long since you've been reset, Sargeant Barnes.
He shakes it off with no external tells save the gentle press of his lips. Agrees silently to follow along with Steve's plan, because they don't have much of an alternative. Sitting in the car waiting for - what? Nothing, nobody's going to rescue them. Steve's the god damn rescue party, there isn't really a rank above him for things like this.
The car door swings wide open, Barnes pours out and into the dense mist. It's like stepping into another universe, the clearness and ease of the car is erased in favor of rolling smokey fog - the kind that makes your bones itch, the kind that stirs up a primal visceral fear left over from the dawn of man.
He forgets again for only a second that he can't see his partner, and glances back toward the driver's seat to see emptiness before he can help it. It's not that he's losing his cool, it's not, it's just- it's hauntingly desolate, isolated, empty, and of it's own accord a sort of uncomfortably choked sounding, "Steve?" falls from his lips.
A little loud, like he's calling into nothing. Like he's expecting Steve to be a mile away, or disappear entirely.
The tiniest tremor of fear, barely perceptible to anyone but the man who knows him well enough to pick it up.
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He shakes it off with no external tells save the gentle press of his lips. Agrees silently to follow along with Steve's plan, because they don't have much of an alternative. Sitting in the car waiting for - what? Nothing, nobody's going to rescue them. Steve's the god damn rescue party, there isn't really a rank above him for things like this.
The car door swings wide open, Barnes pours out and into the dense mist. It's like stepping into another universe, the clearness and ease of the car is erased in favor of rolling smokey fog - the kind that makes your bones itch, the kind that stirs up a primal visceral fear left over from the dawn of man.
He forgets again for only a second that he can't see his partner, and glances back toward the driver's seat to see emptiness before he can help it. It's not that he's losing his cool, it's not, it's just- it's hauntingly desolate, isolated, empty, and of it's own accord a sort of uncomfortably choked sounding, "Steve?" falls from his lips.
A little loud, like he's calling into nothing. Like he's expecting Steve to be a mile away, or disappear entirely.
The tiniest tremor of fear, barely perceptible to anyone but the man who knows him well enough to pick it up.
This ain't gonna be fun.