Something in Bucky's chest sinks with that expression. Cold. Harsh. The look Steve got when facing down a bully or their enemies in the war. It was the look that meant Steve meant business and wasn't fooling around. He stopped in his tracks, lowering the broken metal in his hands. Letting it slip loose before dropping it to lean it against the wall. Not quite to the floor. If something is up he might need it, and unarmed in a Hydra base, Steve or no Steve, is an uncomfortable feeling.

"To get out of here. Steve, what the hell. What's going on."

Don't look at him like that. Steve. Don't. Bucky's forehead furrows, eyebrows knit as he steps to the side, away from the weapon. Fingers twitching uncomfortably.

He's exposed here, raw and unsteady. The rising pulse, the twisting knots in his gut. In his head he can hear his own screams on repeat, feel the hard metal on his back. The coursing pain. The madness of isolation. All of it gets shoved down where it won't make him an easy target. Shoved away until he can deal with it a long time and way from now and here.

Hatred. That's the look. The look Steve has never once in his life directed at Bucky. They had fought plenty. All friends did. Especially two as concerned for each other as they were. But it was never hate. That anger had never been pointed at him.

He can't reconcile this. It's a nightmare. It's something from the hell of his mind. Projecting from his paranoia that Steve wouldn't want or need him around now that he could fight all his own battles.

"Where are the others? We've got a train to catch."