Bucky snorts; surprised, himself, by his flicker of amusement at her comment and the gentle implied insult in it. It’s true: he’d still been shaggy and unkempt and bedraggled on that battlefield, like some feral dog recently brought in from the cold. He doesn’t reach up to run a hand through his relatively newly-shorn hair — he’s reached for his rifle, and his hands are too steady on that trigger — but he is, suddenly, aware of it.

“Yeah, it was time for a haircut.” Somehow, the man still has a dry sense of humour even here, in the middle of the field. He has a bad habit of it, ever since he’d been woken up. He and Sam groused at each other often enough when they were on mission.

“I’m not trying to frighten you,” he adds, voice echoing through the room. He’s had enough of fear; hates the way people look at him when they first recognise him, when they mostly know him and his reputation as the Winter Soldier, when they’re still waiting to see if he’ll bite.

Still sitting there, his back against the metal, he’s weighing the angles and options here. He could jump into action and trying to outshoot her, but he’s feeling strangely reluctant; there’s already been enough death everywhere. If he can find some other way out of this situation without it…

“So. Hey. What’s the plan? You’re gonna keep killing agents? Run away again if you can slip past ’em at the exits? Try to steal a spaceship to get off-planet? There aren’t that many spaceships here.”