[ Even in the darkness, Bucky could almost taste the oncoming disappointment, the reminder that memories are unreliable, and so is the man who's lost so much of them. He glances at the exit, wonders how swiftly he can slip from him, from the conversation that they're having.
The words are tight in his chest, and he checks his desire to flee; Steve's tension is similarly felt, and perhaps they're more in tune with each other than they'd thought. ] I don't know that.
[ And maybe his words come out harder, more defensive than he intends for it to be, because he doesn't want to disappoint him. He's not the man Steve remembers; that man died in the snow, more than seventy years ago, and Bucky's not sure how to break it to him. His fingers flex, metal rubbing against metal. ]
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The words are tight in his chest, and he checks his desire to flee; Steve's tension is similarly felt, and perhaps they're more in tune with each other than they'd thought. ] I don't know that.
[ And maybe his words come out harder, more defensive than he intends for it to be, because he doesn't want to disappoint him. He's not the man Steve remembers; that man died in the snow, more than seventy years ago, and Bucky's not sure how to break it to him. His fingers flex, metal rubbing against metal. ]
...You look different.