He wants to toss the gun, but not knowing if he’ll need it again, practicality alone keeps the Walther P38 he lifted off one of Zemo’s goons held firmly in Bucky’s hand. His steps are heavy along the catwalk as he makes his way forward, deliberate and echoing against the stone walls. There’s no pleasure to be taken in the kill, no sense of fulfillment. The thrill and the glory of combat is what Bucky lives for, what he believes himself born to do, and even so, there is no joy in this, only the bitter certainty that comes from knowing something was necessary.

The beginnings of a bruise color shade his jaw a dull purple from where Steve struck him earlier, but the cold fury burning behind Bucky’s eyes has nothing to do with a bit of friendly fire. His heart’s sitting in his throat as he spares the briefest of glances down at Zemo, then looks back up to Steve.

“Because I had to,” he says, and isn’t that the same old refrain?

’It had to be done... So I did it. Simple as that.’

“Because that’s what I was trained to do. What Captain America-- What you couldn’t... Or shouldn’t do.”