It had been eighty-one years since Bucky Barnes had gone out on a date. It had been eighty-one years since he had gone out on a date with you. He remembered it still, you were clutched at his arm, your soft palms brushing against the sleeves of his uniform as you strolled around Stark Expo. Your eyes glimmering in amazement, his lips curled into a fond smile as he watched you. And though Bucky fell off that train before you ever got to make things official, you both were always aware there was something.

Even now, almost a century later, little remanents of affection would slip every so often. It was the way Bucky’s eyes would instinctively shoot your way during missions, or the way you were one of the few people he dared to discuss his problems with. Your past wasn’t left behind and forgotten, it was right there, staring back at you.

And ever since you had shared that small kiss under the moon in Sam’s boat, he had taken it upon himself to make a move—this time an authentic one. If this were the 40s, he would have probably tried to take you out dancing. But it wasn’t, and he quite honestly doubted he had it in him to dance as carefree as he once did.

His leather-covered fingers curled around his beer bottle as he grinned at something you had said. What exactly that was, he did not remember. All he could focus on was that odd feeling in his chest. His thoughts were quiet, and guilt wasn’t eating him alive any more. You always did have that effect on him, he guessed. After breaking free from HYDRA’s clutches, he had relied mostly on Steve to find at least a trace of self-worth. Now that he was gone, he had chosen to let old flames be reignited.

He brought the beer to his lips, piercing blue eyes meeting yours. For a moment, for just a second, you were brought back. Still, a hint of elating tension lingered in between the pair of you. Despite having met one another about ninety years ago, he had no clue how to continue the conversation. “Well—this is more awkward than what I thought it’d be."