Steve Rogers

Bucky’s shoulders lift in a small, helpless shrug. It’s a struggle to keep his expression neutral, to keep the conflicting emotions at bay, hidden. He has to be hold it together, for Steve’s sake, if not his own, but it’s no easier a feat than stopping the plane proved all those years ago.

“I don’t know,” he says, but the admission costs him too much. Shoving a hand back over his head, his fingers curl tightly around the short hair above the nape of his neck. “I don’t-- Steve, I don’t know.”