[ Bucky's distracted by the whales that come closer, seemingly tame and the farthest thing from aggressive as they curl and writhe around in the air like it's the most natural thing in the world to do. They didn't move like predators, but he's wary of them all the same. It's difficult to keep a close tab on them when Steve is there, sadder than Bucky's ever remembered him being.
There's something charged about their current proximity, the distance that Steve still tries to bridge even now; and Bucky responds in kind, awkward and tentative, a part of him ready to bolt if the situation called for it. He's not entirely sure if he's safe to be around Steve yet, but he damn well will try, because there's no way in hell he will raise a hand to his best friend, not again.
He's the only thing he has here, and something in the back of his mind prickles at the sight of Steve hunched over, as if defeated by some invisible enemy he had been fighting for too long. An impression, an imprint of memory: Steve's never looked this way to him before, not even when -- ]
You were much smaller, before.
[ -- he notes. Defiant eyes, stubborn mouth, and a fire that burned like anything. He remembers staying up on countless nights, listening to the harsh coughs that rattled that narrow, resilient chest. He exhales, looks out at a lazily approaching whale, the intelligence in those soft eyes. Soon, it'll turn and head away, he supposes. ] I think of it often.
[ Steve Rogers falling, falling into the deep, and Bucky jumping in after him. The first mission he gave himself when he was wrenched from Hydra by a promise echoed from decades past. ] There was Coney Island. The sweet shop. You liked --
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There's something charged about their current proximity, the distance that Steve still tries to bridge even now; and Bucky responds in kind, awkward and tentative, a part of him ready to bolt if the situation called for it. He's not entirely sure if he's safe to be around Steve yet, but he damn well will try, because there's no way in hell he will raise a hand to his best friend, not again.
He's the only thing he has here, and something in the back of his mind prickles at the sight of Steve hunched over, as if defeated by some invisible enemy he had been fighting for too long. An impression, an imprint of memory: Steve's never looked this way to him before, not even when -- ]
You were much smaller, before.
[ -- he notes. Defiant eyes, stubborn mouth, and a fire that burned like anything. He remembers staying up on countless nights, listening to the harsh coughs that rattled that narrow, resilient chest. He exhales, looks out at a lazily approaching whale, the intelligence in those soft eyes. Soon, it'll turn and head away, he supposes. ] I think of it often.
[ Steve Rogers falling, falling into the deep, and Bucky jumping in after him. The first mission he gave himself when he was wrenched from Hydra by a promise echoed from decades past. ] There was Coney Island. The sweet shop. You liked --
[ He frowns, struggles to find the words. ]