[Bucky knows this is hypocritical, and probably more than a little selfish, but he can't help but bristle a little when Steve says he doesn't want him there.
He knows Steve doesn't mean he wants him to die, or that he doesn't miss him or want him around, because God knows he'd be saying the exactly same thing if their positions were reversed - and he doesn't even know the truth about what happened, that Steve hadn't just been knocked unconscious in the crash and woken up decades later - but he still finds himself glaring at him.]
Maybe I want to be there. [And the thing is? He doesn't want to die again, and he doesn't want Steve to go through losing him again, but he means it. Steve crashing the plane alone in the Arctic upsets him on a level he wasn't sure was possible anymore, not after how beaten down he's become, and it just seems like it would make sense. They were supposed to be in this together.
Except he might die in the crash, and Steve's already been alive for years without him, and is it fair on him to ask him to rewrite that? Probably not.
There's no good answer, and abruptly, he feels just as exhausted and strange as he had when they'd been walking back from the HYDRA factory. Like he's here and alive, but maybe like his body doesn't really belong to him anymore, he's just sort of dazed and along for the ride, wherever they wind up. And that's fine, he can work with it, because God knows he's had to make do with less, but he still finds himself almost wishing he could just crumple on the ground and stay there until he feels like moving again.
He doesn't, though. He's worn out, but he's not broken, and so he just runs a hand through his hair, almost distractedly.]
How'd we get here, Steve? [He's asked something like it before, on a bad day when they'd lost a lot of people - not from the Commandos, thank God, but from one of the companies supporting them - and Bucky had been feeling scared and bitter and desperately sad then, too, except then it had been snowing, dark and miserable, and now they're standing on some grassy hills, with trees rustling in the wind, birds singing, no sign of danger or horror or war. It should be good, he should feel safe, and on some level, he does.
Except he's carrying an M1 and wearing a combat uniform, and Steve's dressed like a civilian. Bucky's still stuck in 1945, and Steve's not, and that's good, but it still hurts.
His mouth still twists into a grin in an attempt to lighten the mood. It looks pained, and probably doesn't really work.] This is so fucked up.
spam!
He knows Steve doesn't mean he wants him to die, or that he doesn't miss him or want him around, because God knows he'd be saying the exactly same thing if their positions were reversed - and he doesn't even know the truth about what happened, that Steve hadn't just been knocked unconscious in the crash and woken up decades later - but he still finds himself glaring at him.]
Maybe I want to be there. [And the thing is? He doesn't want to die again, and he doesn't want Steve to go through losing him again, but he means it. Steve crashing the plane alone in the Arctic upsets him on a level he wasn't sure was possible anymore, not after how beaten down he's become, and it just seems like it would make sense. They were supposed to be in this together.
Except he might die in the crash, and Steve's already been alive for years without him, and is it fair on him to ask him to rewrite that? Probably not.
There's no good answer, and abruptly, he feels just as exhausted and strange as he had when they'd been walking back from the HYDRA factory. Like he's here and alive, but maybe like his body doesn't really belong to him anymore, he's just sort of dazed and along for the ride, wherever they wind up. And that's fine, he can work with it, because God knows he's had to make do with less, but he still finds himself almost wishing he could just crumple on the ground and stay there until he feels like moving again.
He doesn't, though. He's worn out, but he's not broken, and so he just runs a hand through his hair, almost distractedly.]
How'd we get here, Steve? [He's asked something like it before, on a bad day when they'd lost a lot of people - not from the Commandos, thank God, but from one of the companies supporting them - and Bucky had been feeling scared and bitter and desperately sad then, too, except then it had been snowing, dark and miserable, and now they're standing on some grassy hills, with trees rustling in the wind, birds singing, no sign of danger or horror or war. It should be good, he should feel safe, and on some level, he does.
Except he's carrying an M1 and wearing a combat uniform, and Steve's dressed like a civilian. Bucky's still stuck in 1945, and Steve's not, and that's good, but it still hurts.
His mouth still twists into a grin in an attempt to lighten the mood. It looks pained, and probably doesn't really work.] This is so fucked up.