[If they'd come back from the war, whole and intact, Steve Rogers would still have been twice the man Bucky was, with a frame that finally fit. They'd find a girl each and get apartments on the same block. Take the kids to church together on Sundays, where Steve's boys could teach Bucky's what good manners look like.
Maybe they'd move out of the city, somewhere with a tree dropping leaves in identical back years, and be buried together in the same churchyard, with flowers overlapping each other's graves.
Maybe life would never be so straightforward. These days there's little room for fairytales, but he closes his eyes and listens to Steve speak as though it's a lesson he should remember.]
Who was I?
[He leans a little emphasis on the was. Who he is is too fragmented to begin with.]
[Steve doesn't know if he even believes in heroes anymore, let alone fairy tales.
But he still believes in Bucky.]
You're the best man I've known. You're my best friend.
[There is no was, when it comes to this friendship, there is no was where Bucky is concerned. He's still Bucky. Battered and bruised and hurt, maybe, but still Bucky.]
[Wrong answer. Steve will hear it in the sharp catch of his breath, see the way his eyes narrow before he turns away again. The alley's a dead end, but brick walls aren't enough of a barrier if he decides to leave, now.
And he could.
It would be simpler than trying to be the man Steve Rogers thinks he is - wants him to be. Easier than trying to be a man at all.]
[He doesn't reach for him, doesn't move, like he'll dart if he does. Steve knows. He knows that he could leave, it wouldn't be hard, there isn't space but Steve knows that he could do it, and so Bucky could, too.]
[The question's snapped back fast, more desperate - frustrated - than angry. What can help him now? What does he even deserve? He doesn't know who he's supposed to be now, but he's not this friend Steve Rogers asks him for. Bucky Barnes died a war hero and all the shell of him that's left is capable of doing is making Steve watch him die all over again.
He'll figure it out, eventually. He has to. Figure out that he's hoping too much from something that's empty and hollow inside.]
Help you figure out how to be more than what you think you are.
[Steve knows better - saying something like I want my best friend back isn't fair, it isn't right, and it isn't accurate. Steve has his best friend. His best friend is right here. He's not trying to revive Bucky Barnes, whole and undamaged, the talk of every girl in Brooklyn and half the girls in Queens.
He just wants to help Bucky come to terms with who he is now. If anyone knows the challenges that poses it's Steve. When the world changed around him, when everything turned strange and different in what felt like seconds, he changed, too. And he had to remember who he is compared to who he was.]
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Maybe they'd move out of the city, somewhere with a tree dropping leaves in identical back years, and be buried together in the same churchyard, with flowers overlapping each other's graves.
Maybe life would never be so straightforward. These days there's little room for fairytales, but he closes his eyes and listens to Steve speak as though it's a lesson he should remember.]
Who was I?
[He leans a little emphasis on the was. Who he is is too fragmented to begin with.]
no subject
But he still believes in Bucky.]
You're the best man I've known. You're my best friend.
[There is no was, when it comes to this friendship, there is no was where Bucky is concerned. He's still Bucky. Battered and bruised and hurt, maybe, but still Bucky.]
no subject
And he could.
It would be simpler than trying to be the man Steve Rogers thinks he is - wants him to be. Easier than trying to be a man at all.]
no subject
[He doesn't reach for him, doesn't move, like he'll dart if he does. Steve knows. He knows that he could leave, it wouldn't be hard, there isn't space but Steve knows that he could do it, and so Bucky could, too.]
Come on. Let me help you.
no subject
[The question's snapped back fast, more desperate - frustrated - than angry. What can help him now? What does he even deserve? He doesn't know who he's supposed to be now, but he's not this friend Steve Rogers asks him for. Bucky Barnes died a war hero and all the shell of him that's left is capable of doing is making Steve watch him die all over again.
He'll figure it out, eventually. He has to. Figure out that he's hoping too much from something that's empty and hollow inside.]
What do you want from me?
no subject
[Steve knows better - saying something like I want my best friend back isn't fair, it isn't right, and it isn't accurate. Steve has his best friend. His best friend is right here. He's not trying to revive Bucky Barnes, whole and undamaged, the talk of every girl in Brooklyn and half the girls in Queens.
He just wants to help Bucky come to terms with who he is now. If anyone knows the challenges that poses it's Steve. When the world changed around him, when everything turned strange and different in what felt like seconds, he changed, too. And he had to remember who he is compared to who he was.]