The silence isn’t that long between them… but Bucky feels every second of it like it’s several lifetimes. Here’s Steve, that guy who was so gung ho about jumping head first into the War that he’d have climbed over every single Joe just to get there first if he’d been strong enough. Hell, even when Steve got out there and saw war for himself, it didn’t seem to quite get to him. Just made him feel like he sure as hell did the right thing. Steve might as well’ve been America itself come to personally sock Hitler in the jaw.
Now even Steve’s struggling to answer. Bucky looks back up at him, the tiniest telltale hints of the toll the war’s taking on him on his face. The dark shadows sitting under his eyes, the exhaustion that seems to sit like a permanent squatter along the edges of Bucky’s face; he’s gone through so much that being so bone-deep beat seems second nature. Hardly remembers what it’s like to feel up and at’em.
At least Steve sounds like he sorta believes it. Mostly.
“At least it wasn’t a waste,” Bucky looks down at the mud crusted on his boots. His folks get a future, everyone else back home and in Europe gets a world without the Nazis overrunning it. He’s got the sudden urge to pick at a lace threatening to come loose, but instead digs his nails into his palm just to feel the blunt pain. “Everything we’re gonna go through.”
He doesn’t feel proud. He feels resigned. But at least if he’s gonna go, it won’t be for nothing.
Bucky casts around for something to say, turn it away from his coming death so the panic he’s mostly got down to a simmer doesn’t flare up. It almost doesn’t work. Instead, Bucky drags his hand across his face, and pulls himself up. Dragging a nearby chair over, he slumps down into it, and glances up at Steve. “So that’s it? You make your home here in London or something? Or just wanted to check out an old haunt?”
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Now even Steve’s struggling to answer. Bucky looks back up at him, the tiniest telltale hints of the toll the war’s taking on him on his face. The dark shadows sitting under his eyes, the exhaustion that seems to sit like a permanent squatter along the edges of Bucky’s face; he’s gone through so much that being so bone-deep beat seems second nature. Hardly remembers what it’s like to feel up and at’em.
At least Steve sounds like he sorta believes it. Mostly.
“At least it wasn’t a waste,” Bucky looks down at the mud crusted on his boots. His folks get a future, everyone else back home and in Europe gets a world without the Nazis overrunning it. He’s got the sudden urge to pick at a lace threatening to come loose, but instead digs his nails into his palm just to feel the blunt pain. “Everything we’re gonna go through.”
He doesn’t feel proud. He feels resigned. But at least if he’s gonna go, it won’t be for nothing.
Bucky casts around for something to say, turn it away from his coming death so the panic he’s mostly got down to a simmer doesn’t flare up. It almost doesn’t work. Instead, Bucky drags his hand across his face, and pulls himself up. Dragging a nearby chair over, he slumps down into it, and glances up at Steve. “So that’s it? You make your home here in London or something? Or just wanted to check out an old haunt?”