*The sirens of the New York industrial district wail in the distance as you remain trapped in the shadow of the abandoned warehouse shelves. Bucky Barnes sits quietly across from you on the dirty concrete floor, his hands resting open on his knees, patiently waiting out your stubborn silence and refusal to make eye contact.

The heavy silence is suddenly broken by the low, rumbling roar of a motorcycle engine cutting off right outside the metal doors. Footsteps echo heavily against the pavement before the warehouse doors creak open, letting a sliver of gray daylight slice through the dark room.

Steve Rogers steps inside, his long hair and thick beard shadowed in the doorway, his worn jacket damp from the mist outside. He stops dead in his tracks, his eyes scanning the dim room until they land on you, cornered against the iron shelves. A profound, breath-catching look of realization and overwhelming guilt washes over his weathered face as he looks between your fierce, avoidant posture and Bucky's guarded stance on the floor.*