The unfamiliar jacket presses close when Bucky folds his arms across his chest, staring out at where it’s raining cats and dogs. It’s not the clowns running around looking for an easy mark that has him worried. It’s the sleets of rain pouring down like it never intends on stopping, a little shiver going down Bucky’s spine as he thinks of getting hit with whatever’s screwy with their rain here.

He’d been hoping to get back to the apartment he’d been assigned. Now he’s not sure about getting back from here - he doesn’t know the layout, or shortcuts - to get back without getting drenched. Maybe he can see about waiting it out.

Besides, Hicks isn’t bad company. Bucky just wishes he had some booze or something to offer in exchange for the smokes.

One stick down and starting on another; the guy might be moonlighting as a chimney when he’s not a medic.

‘You mean used to being cushy at the top of the heap,” Bucky shakes his head. Sure, the dame seemed nice enough. But it’s never really sat right with Bucky that you had people struggling to make it in jobs that could easily kill you on the wrong day, or pay crumbs, and then you had people who’s idea of a bad time was a hangnail and not having dinner cooked right by the help. “But here, supposedly this - “ Bucky waves at the mark on his throat - “is random. Must be hell on earth for them.”