He stopped it. How many times over the years have I wished for just this? To change history? To not die this day? Knowing all that follows, of course Steve would have the same regret, but...
A disbelieving laugh that’s easier a cough more than anything else escapes from Bucky’s throat, but he succeeds in swallowing back whatever emotion threatens to take hold of him. Relief, anger, simple, selfish joy: he doesn’t know which, each applicable in their own, unique way. Slowly getting to his feet, he nearly stumbles on his first step towards Steve, his legs protesting from having to walk so soon.
This isn't real. It sure as hell feels it, but it can't be. This is the same trick that sent me to Russia -- it’s the only explanation that makes a lick of sense -- but still it makes me wonder... Is this really my nightmare?
“Steve.”
There’s warning in Bucky’s voice, though his appearance does little to convey it. He’s barely over twenty, his face younger than it has any right to be, though it’s presently painted with dirt and blood. He flexes the fingers of his left hand before swiping at a gash across his cheek, ignoring the sting that follows.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2011-11-03 10:30 pm (UTC)A disbelieving laugh that’s easier a cough more than anything else escapes from Bucky’s throat, but he succeeds in swallowing back whatever emotion threatens to take hold of him. Relief, anger, simple, selfish joy: he doesn’t know which, each applicable in their own, unique way. Slowly getting to his feet, he nearly stumbles on his first step towards Steve, his legs protesting from having to walk so soon.
This isn't real. It sure as hell feels it, but it can't be. This is the same trick that sent me to Russia -- it’s the only explanation that makes a lick of sense -- but still it makes me wonder... Is this really my nightmare?
“Steve.”
There’s warning in Bucky’s voice, though his appearance does little to convey it. He’s barely over twenty, his face younger than it has any right to be, though it’s presently painted with dirt and blood. He flexes the fingers of his left hand before swiping at a gash across his cheek, ignoring the sting that follows.