Bucky doesn't feel the hand, only knows it's there because he's looking right at it before his gaze tears upwards. He's wound up like a clock, but it's that singular detail that delays instinct; his mind's flooded with countless ways to break free, but he already knows he'll opt for the simplest when the time comes. His brows arch behind his cowl, unseen, though the set of his mouth hints at an unspoken challenge.

"You can rot down here for all I care," he says when he finds his voice, and he smiles colder than a Soviet winter. "But I'm taking the kid back home if it kills me."