[ He doesn't realize yet what day it is. To Bucky, it's a day like any other in this town, which has its own strange sort of 'normalcy' that's still tempting, on some level, to just accept.
There aren't many special dates he observes anymore, not even a whole lot of holidays. He made an effort, over the last two years, to try to absorb as much information he could about the years he missed to cryofreeze and memory wipes. Catching up had been a double-edged sword, both fascinating and gut-wrenching, particularly with those events he played some part in. Missions put into larger scopes, targets fleshed out into people with loved ones and accomplishments and goals.
He doesn't remember May 8, 1945, in any detail, but he thinks he was still... himself at that time. Still holding on, despite everything they were doing to him. It was before the arm, that much he knows. Had to have been. When he learned, nearly 70 years later, the details about how those last days of the war went down-- read up about it, watched old newsreels-- he'd felt so far removed from it all that there wasn't much of a reaction to be had. They were absorbed like so many facts he learned back in school.
Sergeant Barnes would've celebrated. But he wasn't Sergeant Barnes anymore, not exactly. Maybe he would've felt differently on those days of remembrance if he had anyone around who'd fought on the frontlines with him.
He's reading a book when Steve shows up with a bottle of... something. Sitting up, he fixes his old friend with a curious look, gaze shifting between Steve, then the unmarked bottle, then Steve again. Bucky ducks his head with a laugh. ]
Yeah? [ He extends an arm, making the universal sign for 'gimme' with his fingers. He just wants to take a look! ] Well, at least whatever it is won't make us go blind. Probably. [ Bootleg booze joke? ]
only a month late, DON'T MIND ME sob
There aren't many special dates he observes anymore, not even a whole lot of holidays. He made an effort, over the last two years, to try to absorb as much information he could about the years he missed to cryofreeze and memory wipes. Catching up had been a double-edged sword, both fascinating and gut-wrenching, particularly with those events he played some part in. Missions put into larger scopes, targets fleshed out into people with loved ones and accomplishments and goals.
He doesn't remember May 8, 1945, in any detail, but he thinks he was still... himself at that time. Still holding on, despite everything they were doing to him. It was before the arm, that much he knows. Had to have been. When he learned, nearly 70 years later, the details about how those last days of the war went down-- read up about it, watched old newsreels-- he'd felt so far removed from it all that there wasn't much of a reaction to be had. They were absorbed like so many facts he learned back in school.
Sergeant Barnes would've celebrated. But he wasn't Sergeant Barnes anymore, not exactly. Maybe he would've felt differently on those days of remembrance if he had anyone around who'd fought on the frontlines with him.
He's reading a book when Steve shows up with a bottle of... something. Sitting up, he fixes his old friend with a curious look, gaze shifting between Steve, then the unmarked bottle, then Steve again. Bucky ducks his head with a laugh. ]
Yeah? [ He extends an arm, making the universal sign for 'gimme' with his fingers. He just wants to take a look! ] Well, at least whatever it is won't make us go blind. Probably. [ Bootleg booze joke? ]