“Bucky,” He says again, still sounding dazed as you stop and stare at the scars from bullets you drove into him. You look up and he puts a hand on eight days growth on your chin. He’s trembling slightly. You both sit there, before his nostrils flare in a tell tale way. He might cry. Christ, you’re going to make him cry. That’s almost worse than shooting him. “You’re here.”
Of course you’re here. Who does he think has been making the place secure, making his meals and executing HYDRA agents? He must be impressively concussed.
Mature, post-WS trauma. This Bucky makes my heart cry. He’s fumbling his way through the dark, Steve his only constant, even when he doesn’t understand anything else.