"Not any better, huh?" Sam had asked, when Steve called to let him and Natasha know he was on the way back, and Steve had shaken his head, grim.
No better. No worse, although it's difficult to say how Bucky could be doing worse than he is: hardly talking, making almost no eye contact, drifting through the day. He'd hated to leave his best friend like that, like this, but he'd put his other responsibilities off long enough, made Sam and Natasha shoulder them, even while Natasha was working through her own grief.
"It takes time, Steve," Sam had said, and Steve had nodded.
"I know. See you soon, Sam."
But he's barely a few hours outside Wakanda's borders when the jet's communications screen lights in an urgent pattern; he checks the skies and the instruments and flips it on, worry a knife in his chest. He'd only just left, what else could have happened...?
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No better. No worse, although it's difficult to say how Bucky could be doing worse than he is: hardly talking, making almost no eye contact, drifting through the day. He'd hated to leave his best friend like that, like this, but he'd put his other responsibilities off long enough, made Sam and Natasha shoulder them, even while Natasha was working through her own grief.
"It takes time, Steve," Sam had said, and Steve had nodded.
"I know. See you soon, Sam."
But he's barely a few hours outside Wakanda's borders when the jet's communications screen lights in an urgent pattern; he checks the skies and the instruments and flips it on, worry a knife in his chest. He'd only just left, what else could have happened...?
"Buck? What's wrong?"