[He doesn’t like that they can’t leave. He understands the reasoning for it, but he doesn’t like it anyway. Why disguise captivity as freedom? He’s still a captive even now. Nothing will change that ever again. Too much has happened, and he was ready to let it all be taken. Instead, Steve fought, and he has his life, his choices, but the freedom is lost somewhere between the pages, and Bucky can’t get to them.
He knows Steve itches to jog, but he’d never been one to burn out the frustration through running. It was always easier for him to bide his time, settle his mind, and begin anew. Walking has always been his speed, absorbing the world as it happens rather than charging in to face it. He appreciates that Steve comes with him though, instead of pressing on at his own pace. The attention is appreciated, even if the selflessness is another thing he can never repay to Steve.
He’s in such great debt these days, even unwillingly.
The bird is gorgeous, and while familiar, something he remembers seeing in the books he used to borrow from the public library to show Steve while he was sick in bed, no name comes to mind. Bucky resorts to his usual. Even years out of practice, it comes far too easily.]
That, my dear friend, is a quarkywobbledoodler, relative of the brushawobbledonkler and resident scavenger of these jungles. It feasts on berries and grubs, and in the night, they dance above the canopy while singing serenades to find their mate.
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He knows Steve itches to jog, but he’d never been one to burn out the frustration through running. It was always easier for him to bide his time, settle his mind, and begin anew. Walking has always been his speed, absorbing the world as it happens rather than charging in to face it. He appreciates that Steve comes with him though, instead of pressing on at his own pace. The attention is appreciated, even if the selflessness is another thing he can never repay to Steve.
He’s in such great debt these days, even unwillingly.
The bird is gorgeous, and while familiar, something he remembers seeing in the books he used to borrow from the public library to show Steve while he was sick in bed, no name comes to mind. Bucky resorts to his usual. Even years out of practice, it comes far too easily.]
That, my dear friend, is a quarkywobbledoodler, relative of the brushawobbledonkler and resident scavenger of these jungles. It feasts on berries and grubs, and in the night, they dance above the canopy while singing serenades to find their mate.