Later on, they’ll have cause to notice those similarities between their unique situations: the way some friends could look at them and think they love them, but they’re still seeing someone long-dead, someone they aren’t.

Much later on.

But for now, it’s like Gamora’s jamming in a fulcrum and pressing down, finding that splinter and levering him open.

Bucky shifts in his position, cranes a head up and over the edge of the dented metal; he can’t get a good angle on it, can’t see where she’s holed up in her sniper nest, but she doesn’t take another warning shot either. He sinks back down again behind cover, thinking. Trying to think.

How much does he trust the people holding his leash? Not very. He pretty much trusts no one these days. It’s a grand list of one, lately.

“It wasn’t included in the mission brief,” he says, but there’s that rising questioning note in his voice, a kind of quiet bitterness. This ground is too familiar. He’s been aimed and pointed at too many situations like this before.

“People like to leave shit out when they think it’s need-to-know.”