[Bucky waits to be pulled up by his hair, to be shoved into the chair. He's wet, his clothes weighed down by what he can only think to be the remnants of cryo, and his heart pounds furiously in his chest as he waits for the expected to happen.
But it doesn't.
Bucky's eyelids flutter open, pupils wild as he casts his gaze around. It takes only a matter of heartbeats to establish that they aren't in Siberia, that there is no chair waiting for him.
The fingers in his hair loosen and release and Bucky blinks. Someone is here with him, but not his usual handler. He steadies his eyes and looks at Sam long and hard. His handler. Sam. Sam Wilson. If things went South, Bucky would find him first.
He's exhausted, as if he's been on a long journey with the sun leeching his energy, and the beginnings of a headache coil beneath his temples.]
no subject
But it doesn't.
Bucky's eyelids flutter open, pupils wild as he casts his gaze around. It takes only a matter of heartbeats to establish that they aren't in Siberia, that there is no chair waiting for him.
The fingers in his hair loosen and release and Bucky blinks. Someone is here with him, but not his usual handler. He steadies his eyes and looks at Sam long and hard. His handler. Sam. Sam Wilson. If things went South, Bucky would find him first.
He's exhausted, as if he's been on a long journey with the sun leeching his energy, and the beginnings of a headache coil beneath his temples.]
Sam?