Your home. [Bucky's emotionally constipated face somehow manages to turn even more constipated. They've been here less than a week and it's already his home? What the fuck is going on?]
The hell's wrong with you. [Nevermind that Bucky-- sort of maybe quietly begrudgingly would never admit it but he likes some things about being here. Anyway, that has nothing to do with murderous, dead salesmen.]
Stop. Just stop. [Bucky huffs and tries not to kick Zemo, tempting as it is to lash out at him.]
no subject
The hell's wrong with you. [Nevermind that Bucky-- sort of maybe quietly begrudgingly would never admit it but he likes some things about being here. Anyway, that has nothing to do with murderous, dead salesmen.]
Stop. Just stop. [Bucky huffs and tries not to kick Zemo, tempting as it is to lash out at him.]
You aren't helping. And this isn't our home.