“You…you’re here,” Bucky breathed as soon as he met you in the middle of the crowd, swarmed with men he’d been held captive with in the prisoner camp for several months.

Finally, they’d been relieved. Bucky had climbed the flag pole and waved the American flag to show they were in fact good ole’ Americans. Now, he’s in front of you after months. Eighteen, to be exact. He’s different, you’re different. But you’re here in front of him, backed up by hundreds of other Americans that came to get them, wearing his old sheepskin jacket.

“John?” you croaked, taking a step towards him, breath in your throat, scared he’d disappear right before your very eyes. But, Bucky Egan doesn’t die so easily.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “I’m right here.” he confirms, looking you over again.