It was as if his heart had been roughly torn from the tight confines of his chest, as if it had been thrown harshly to the ground and stomped upon right before his very eyes, as if the oxygen was slipping from his lungs just as easily as sand might flow past his fingers. The static was grating, all too loud, and Bucky had never felt a silence so heavy, a silence so thick, as the one that surrounded them immediately after the signal cut out.

Peggy, tears dripping down the pale skin of her face, stared unblinkingly ahead of her, chocolate-hued eyes round and wide as the light shivered against her irises, and he stared down at her, knuckles white and trembling from his relentless grip upon the edge of the counter. His breath simply wouldn't come, and he had to close his eyes against the current of grief threatening to pull him under, lurking just outside his full awareness, prepared to strike and suffocate him slowly.

Carefully, Peggy pushed back her chair and stood, and his eyelids flew open at the sound, watching as she wiped the chilling tears from her skin just as new, warmer ones replaced them, and he noticed how reddened her nose and cheeks were, how sporadically her throat bobbed from the effort of keeping her sobs quiet. It was a small, short-lived comfort to know that someone else was going through the same thing he was; it was something he would have thought of regarding Steve, he knew, and that made his absence, sudden and shocking and hasty, all the more painful to bear.

Honestly, Bucky didn't think he could.

...

It had been two long years since Steve's disappearance, and despite Stark's occasional reassurances that he could be found, they were all feeling hopeless. Bucky had discovered a lone corner within his mind to retreat to when potential news of Steve's status fell through, and Peggy had found a kindred spirit within him, for some inconceivable reason, that kept her going.

Perhaps it was the bits of himself that Steve had left behind, reflected in Bucky's bright gaze and casual habits that she saw, that she clung to; Bucky would never know.

All he knew was that it made her show a tiny smile, every once and a while, when he laid a hand on her arm so that she wouldn't cry, and that it made the dark depths of her eyes dozens of shades lighter when he pulled her close to him to properly embrace her, as he was certain Steve would have done, and he liked to imagine that she herself was pretending that he was, in fact, the man they'd both lost. That was how they coped: friend to friend, comrade to comrade, the suffering to the suffering. And for a while, it was enough.

For a while, it helped, until the light touches upon her arm just weren't enough, until the simple hugs left him yearning to hold her even longer, until the soft curls of her hair, felt against his chin when he rested his head atop her own, began to smell like the sweetest scent he'd ever known. He didn't remember when or how it happened, but, suddenly, she was there before him with that reluctant curl of her lips, as if smiling completely still hurt her just a bit, deep down.

She was there with those wide, imploring eyes, just in front of him as the light danced across her features, and he reached out to trace its path on her ivory, heated skin. And when Bucky, with his breath held and his eyes closed, tilted her chin with two of his fingers in what was admittedly the softest gesture he'd ever shown, to gently press his lips to hers, it was, finally, enough.