Natasha could almost appreciate the symmetry of it all. This time, she was the one dressed in the stupid, thin Tribute-issue pajamas. She was the one who couldn't leave and who was staring down a loaded gun while Bucky could have walked away at any point he wanted to do so. As much as it was possible to walk away from this, she supposed, because this time, walking off the grounds and out into the city wouldn't make any of it feel less up-close, less personal. At least the first time they'd done this particular dance, neither of them had really known the other kids enough to have an emotional involvement that ran deeper than generalized regret over the fate of at least twenty-three of them.
So maybe he was just as stuck here as she was. She could think that was, if she was inclined to feel generous, and there didn't seem to be much point in being begrudging right now. He wasn't fucked in quite the same way, but he was still pretty fucked nonetheless, and moreso if they actually figured out a way to pull this plan off.
"You do indeed have a coat," she agreed, brushing a hand back through her hair. It was a little bit of a mess right now, but really, there was no one in the Tribute center that she felt like she had to keep up appearances for. Messy hair was the least of her problems. "Mine covers a little bit more than that dress did this time around, though."