His brow furrows, eyes alert with realization as she explains her lot. The gravity only weighs heavier as disappointment settles into her final words, and he finds himself suddenly far more aware of how utterly fucked up the situation is. He has no memory of having been in a place like this, and it hardly seems like something Hydra had a hand in, especially because the unnaturalness of the circumstances would certainly stand out more than any of the memories he held naturally on his own. There’s no protocol relative to such a notion either, an apparently encased space where he was capable of coming and going so many times while others could remain captured.

What kind of crazy place has he come to? God. Poor Peggy.

He doesn’t want to dismiss her clear struggles since arriving in this place, but it’s difficult not to want to offer his condolences, his sorrow, that someone like Agent Margaret Carter would be more or less trapped somewhere for a year without a means of escape.

“Pegs,” he starts, trailing off when nothing else comes. Bucky doesn’t correct himself this time. “Jesus. Are you. Holding up okay?” It’s the only thing worth asking. No one deserves what she’s gone through, and no platitudes can erase what she’s likely endured in the interim. A clear crease forms in his brow, the concern he always help for the wellbeing of others making a rare appearance, but here and now it sharpens because Peggy isn’t just anyone. Peggy's existence is something too grand for him to even quantify properly with words.