Bucky coughs where he's crouched down by the tank, spilling more blood onto the floor. His shoulders shake with as he shivers in the cold- which he didn't seem to mind before. He's not sure of their next step or where the hallucination ends and real life begins. Trying to talk sounds like a bad idea right now, so he doesn't. If he could get his fingers to stay still long enough, he might have a better chance at signing, but perhaps he can simply give and impression of a thought, like they've done so many times before.

He tries to imagine the Red Coast, tries to pull up the the sound of the rustling of tents, of sensations from the outside. Pain floods his system, but he does his best to push through. He's not in Siberia, he's on a mission, with Sam, on the Red Coast.