[ He flinches. His brain knows Bucky's not gonna hit him, but his body reacts to the swift, hostile movement of his hand. The smallest reaction, a sharp tension rippling over his muscles as his head lifts back an inch.

He swallows hard, lips parting in silence again as he searches his face almost wildly. ]

Alright, Buck. Okay. Let's just talk you and me then. [ His voice is low and hard, but the tightness around his eyes gives him away again. ]

I know— I know it matters who's wearing that uniform. [ Or carrying the shield. I know it's complicated, for more reasons than either of can articulate to any satisfying degree to each other. ] But it's not us. It's not who we've been.

[ Maybe that doesn't matter anymore, now that Bucky only remembers him leaving. But it matters to him. Only one person alive in the world who knows who he was before his name, his identity, the line between himself and the mantle blurred so hard he couldn't bother to draw it for himself.

They're not the people they were before. But it matters.

Soldier. Sergeant. Sidekick — that one's a laugh.

You were his friend first. You still are his friend, first.

The shield is nothing compared to that. ]