"Well, your sense of humor's intact," Bucky mutters under his breath, pushing through the Compound's main door. He's met with a rush of cool air, the temperature having dropped off for the night, and the hairs on his arm stand up on end in a way that isn't all together unpleasant. A part of him's glad for the dark; the blood stain left on the steps from last week's events is near invisible in the moonlight. Holding the door open for as long as he can while still moving forwards, he darts down the stairs. With a vague gesture as if it to say, here it is, he turns around to look at Steve, his gaze scrutinizing, expectant. The change in mood didn't escape Bucky's notice, after all, though he's not especially surprised. Things between them were never going to be easy, not after all these years, and he can't shake the idea that he misspoke before, even if he's no closer to spitting out an apology regardless of this realization.