"Hey Buck… I don't know if you can hear me where you are… Like to think you're still lookin' over my shoulder." Steve sits gingerly on the edge of the alarmingly soft bed they gave him, staring at the floor, and sighs deeply. It's nearly 4 am. He hasn't slept a wink and at this point, he's given up on trying.
"I set them straight over at that big museum in D.C., Buck. You'd never believe it: they thought I was some well-behaved little church boy." He chuckles weakly at himself. "I know, right? Didn't know much about you, so they didn't know about any of the shit you pulled either, but... I couldn't believe it. Didn't even know I'd ever been arrested. Not once. They thought I never got up to anything. -Me-.
Christ, I thought the guy was gonna faint when I told him about that time we nailed Marko Scarlotti's bedroom door shut for being a rotten little bastard to Gina Solkewicjz..." He trails off, not really expecting an answer, but unable to talk into the silence any longer.
The darkness looms just as empty as before. He slumps a little.
Steve fidgets with the edge of the coverlet for a while, then stands up and paces to the window. New York City at night is brighter than it used to be. Busier. Even the stink of the city is different. He shuts his window.
As an afterthought, he draws the curtain and slides down to sit against the wall beneath the sill, letting his head thump back with a groan.
"I'm not sure what to do without you, Bucky." Steve confesses quietly to the inky shadows. "Jesus, it's been… it's been about 70 years since you-" he still can't say it, "-since I saw you last. It don't feel like that long." A sob shimmies it's way up out of his gut, but he swallows it down viciously before it can escape into the air. To him, Bucky's only been gone for a couple of weeks. A month at the outside. It hurts like it was yesterday.
"I'm doin' my best." he whispers desperately, trying to fill up the quiet that's slowly stifling him. "I know that's what you'd expect me to do. To keep fightin'... After everything you did to save my ass out there, I can't just give up, but… Jesus, I'm sorry, Buck, I want to. I wanted to then, I want to now. I miss you. I miss everybody. I wanna be done, Buck. I just wanna be done, but I can't."
The sob fights its way back up and out with a loud wail. He feels tears shoving past his lids, so he simply lets them fall, snuffling into his elbow as his shoulders wrack with sudden grief. "I ain't ever gonna be done, am I?"
He shivers hard, wrapping both arms around himself and lets his head hang, tears flowing freely down his cheeks as he chokes on the guilt, misery, and grief that's festering inside him.
It's a long while, sun high in the sky, before he finally crawls to his feet and drags himself into the kitchen to start some coffee. The heavy weariness that settles over him as he waits for it to brew has nothing to do with the sleep he didn't get. He's simply too tired to struggle anymore.