The Falcon and the Winter Soldier

"They're the wrong size."

Now what. Sam glances over at the television, then to Bucky's face. Unreadable as granite, like always, but the eyebrows are twitching slightly. "What are you talking about?"

"Boots."

It takes Sam a moment. Currently, the view on screen has shifted from a closeup of that smug, white face, to a full figure view of John Walker in front of the roaring crowd.

"Okay, there is no way you could possibly know that."

"They grew. You know, after."

Sam frowns. Looks at John Walker's feet.

"We talked about it."

"Yeah." Sam nods, keeps watching. "All right."

"You've been awful quiet," Sam said, from the corner of the room. It wasn't like he was craving conversation with Bucky. Still, there was quiet, and then there was quiet.

"Butterflies."

"Beg pardon?"

"You know that theory - something about the wings of a butterfly setting off a whole set of complicated reactions."

"That's what you're thinking about?"

"I know time travel creates alternate timelines, but..."

Sam raised his eyebrows.

"He would have changed things. Where he went. He couldn't know the consequences."

"Steve again? Look-"

"There has to be an angle."

Sam shut up. He knew better than not to.

"Do you consider yourself an optimist?"

Bucky laughed, but his therapist kept looking at him. "Is that a joke?"

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

"I spent most of my life in suspended animation, with nothing but nightmares to occupy my mind."

She smiled, humorlessly. "That's not an answer."

"What does it matter? I'm here, I'm alive. That's all that matters." She said nothing, and he shifted, nervously.

"You keep checking your phone."

"So?"

"I know you don't have any friends. So whose text are you waiting for?"

"I'm..."

"He came back before."

Bucky glared at her, and walked out.

"I know I'm not the same person." John flashed a smile at the camera, but the reporter hurried to protest.

"By definition, you are Captain America. It is a role, not an individual."

Bucky felt the handle of his cup start to give. He should let go of it; it would break. He didn't. On the bar's television screen, the interview kept running, both John and the reporter laughing.

"Sir?" He didn't notice the waitress until she was next to him. "I'm sorry, that's decaf. Let me get you another."

Bucky shrugged. "Coffee is coffe." He stared at her. "Right?"