Imagine Bucky is actually sad when he hears about pierces death.
"He always told me I was making a difference. Doing the work that no one else could do. I was a hero."
Newspaper crumples beneath stiff metal fingers. The face in the photo stares blankly back, preserved in perfect black-and-white serenity.
"He took care of me."
Steve’s hand rests feather-light on Bucky’s shoulder. He doesn’t know how much he can say now, how much is allowed. His throat aches. “He didn’t, Buck,” he whispers. “It was a lie. A trick. It wasn’t -“
"I know." Like the paper, Bucky’s face is crumpling. His eyes are bottomless, empty. "I shouldn’t…I know I shouldn’t, I just…"
"It’s okay." Steve’s finger close tighter, squeezing. "You’re gonna be okay."
"Funny," Bucky snorts. He has never sounded less amused in his life. "That’s what he used to tell me, too."
(titeln är länk tll tumblr:n)
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