Bucky Barnes, who is vulnerable and afraid. Bucky Barnes, who’s only been himself for twenty-nine out of the ninety-five years he’s been alive, if the war even counts for him. Sam knows war changes you. Knows that he, himself, was a certain way before the war, and somebody else on the other side. Chewed up and spit out. Bucky looks it, acts it, wears it in the tormented creases in his brow. Sam knows what it’s like to get kicked to the ground, over and over, until your soul’s just a bloody heap and living like that isn’t worth it anymore. It’s a lonely and painful way to be. Sam wonders if it’s worse to portray the facade that he’s fine and if draining his heart til it’s empty is even worth it. Those are the worst days for him. And he knows Bucky has bad days, too.
That’s how he knows Bucky, and Bucky knows him. Maybe more than they know themselves. And that’s an easy way to be, Sam thinks, as long as they’re with each other.
a disgustingly sad piece of shit story by yours truly–Empty
