Bucky's head snaps up at the unfamiliar voice, tension gripping his shoulders and his right hand lets go of the photobook he'd been holding, letting it fall onto the table. The paper behind the book he was holding is revealed, where Bucky had scribbled some notes. 01/01/1961. 12:01. Grenade? Shrapnel? Vague description of the medic - hair colour, eye colour. Trying to make out the name on his uniform, with lots of letters written on top of other letters, then crossed out.

He's a little on edge, and he looks tired, but. Apart from wearing his perpetually mildly irritated face, he's not terribly offended by the intrusion. His gaze drops to the weathered old History of Maryland, then back up to make eye contact with the man who asked, then down to the book cover again. He nods without much hesitation.