It's about the time that Frank calls him Maria that he realizes he's going to have to start hacking before Frank gets his shit together. He knows his hair is long, but he figures unless Maria's got the most testosterone on the planet she wouldn't have a beard to match.

"Sorry, pal," He mutters, head dipping in resignation for just a sec before he tosses the hatchet up an inch to get a better grip on the handle. That's the only warning he gets before Bucky starts hacking. A flesh hand grips Frank's shoulder as the left one works, not because he's just so damn comforting but rather because if Frank comes to or jerks forward he's gonna lose a limb in the process and Bucky's not about that life.

The vines aren't too happy about this whole thing; they tighten their grip on the hand Bucky's not currently working on freeing, cutting off circulation, twining around his fingers like it's trying to hold god damn hands. Worse, they start to creep up Bucky's own ankles without his notice, too busy fighting god damn Jumanji.

It's not a great time.