Disclaimer: Marvel Entertainment owns everything, with the exception of Cat who is my own creation and various others who I will identify as this progresses. This is a work of fanfic, no copyright infringement intended.

Author's note: As a Non US resident, I can only keep up with Cap's adventures in trade paper backs. Unfortunately the death of captain America is currently outside my price range, so if I make any mistakes sorry. this story, or to be more accurate parts of have been flitting around my head for a while now, so Enjoy.

Impressions

Prologue

"There are some moments in time which everyone knows where they were and what they were doing when they heard about it. The Outbreak of World War II, the assassination of President Kennedy, Live Aid, the Death of Princess Diana, September 11th and 7/7. To this list I would like to add another. The death of captain America."Argh! My frustration gets the better of me and I tear the page from my notebook and screw it into a ball.

There's less than an hour to go to the funeral and I still have no idea what I'm going to say.

What can I say? It's not like there's any set protocol for this. How do you morn a hero turned into a villain? The people's champion turned into public enemy number 1? What do you say?

Spitfire knocks tentatively on the door. I can't blame, I haven't exactly been sweetness and light since we arrived at the embassy.

She stands nervously in the door in her costume, with a black coat as protection against the rain. Union Jack stands beside her, also in costume.

"Ready?" she asks.

"No!" I snap, but relent at the look on her face. This is a tough day for everyone. "But I don't think I'm ever going to be. Not for this."

She nods and Union bends down to pick up one of the many balls of paper littering the floor.

"This your speech?" he asks, begin to uncrumple it. I snatch it off him.

"I'll finish it in the car."

The Arlington National Cemetery.

"Mr. Ambassador!"

"Mr. Ambassador over here." The vultures are out in force despite the weather. They descend upon the car as soon as it arrives, recognizing the plates and flags flying from it.

The ambassador steps out, with Spitfire and Union Jack, under the cover of the umbrellas held by the FBI. The CIA is also out in force; recognize several old friends as I scan the crowd.

A part of me is amused that my mind is working like this, today of all days; but it's just like the first time. Training takes over.

Flashman and I exit from the other door, just as the ambassador turns.

"Today America morns a hero, and Britain morns a friend" he declares to the journalists. Perfect sound bite.

We thread our way though the crowds to Flashman seat, however when I make to sit down beside him, he shakes his head. I open my mouth to protest. While I may have said I would like to kill Tony Stark, there's no way I'd do that today. And Flashman knows it. Instead he nods to a seat underneath a huge oak tree. The wind shifts and I catch his scent. I understand.

"Just tell him no Trouble." Flashman says softly as I make my way over, all but running.

I don't know if he sees me, or if Fury or Flash let him know where I am. All I know is suddenly I can smell him, hear his heartbeat. I know all I have to do is turn my head to see him. But I can't.

"Message from Flash." I say, staring straight ahead. "No trouble!"

"Fury says the same." The pain in his voice is so obvious and so intense, that I want to take him in my arms and just hold him. To make it better or at least to let him know that I understand. But as it did 60 years ago duty separates us.

I scan the crowd automatically, looking for familiar faces. There's almost none of the old gang here. It's scary how few of us survived the war, but it's even scarier how few survived the peace.

Peter and Jakob spot me and head over. Both hug me, muttering phrases of comfort, much to the annoyance of their wives. To him they merely nod, not sure how to react. Returning from the dead confuses people. On the one hand, you're pleased to see them. On the other hand the pain of their death angers you.

Harry also arrives, his grandsons in tow. The youngest clutches a cap comic against his chest. I can't help but be glad. He belongs to the future as well as to the past.

The ceremony begins. First the basic details: Steve Rogers born 4th July 1917 to Irish immigrant parents in the lower east side of Manhattan; Then the early years, the art student and the depression; then finally the propaganda bull about his creation and Bucky's.

"How did it really happen?" I ask. "How did you become Bucky?"

"What makes you think I want to talk about it?" he asks.

I turn my head slightly so I see his profile against the dark sky. It makes my heart ache.

"You're here aren't you?"