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It was two weeks after it happened.
After the fall.
Bucky woke up that morning to the sound of Steve sobbing. He joined him, after realizing he couldn’t comfort him; much less himself.
During the two weeks before the funeral and after the fall, Steve hardly spoke to him anymore. He hardly ate, hardly did anything.
Bucky wasn’t much better.
Neither of them said anything on the drive to the church. It was almost funny, because he never really went to church.
A lot of things about this was almost funny.
No, not funny.
Ironic.
He fell. And you’d never expect him to fall. He is the Falcon!
Was.
Bucky remembers it clearly. They were on the top of skyscraper. Some nameless HYDRA agents and SHIELD agents were having a fist fight. They were sent to break it up and contain the HYDRA agents. One of them used their gun; it was a SHIELD agent. The agent aimed for a HYDRA agent but missed and shot Sam. The force from the bullet pushed him off the building.
A HYDRA agent shot both his wings after he fell.
It wouldn’t have mattered anyway, if he could have used his wings.
He was dead before he hit the ground.
Bucky didn’t pay attention to the funeral. It was like he was on autopilot. He felt light-headed.
He didn’t cry at the funeral.
Steve didn’t either.
None of it felt real; they couldn’t wrap their minds around the fact that he was gone.
They felt as though he would walk through the large doors of the church, carrying a sign that said Surprise! I’m Not Dead!
Sam wouldn’t have liked the funeral anyway. It was too stuffy, too formal.
The whole thing was soaked in irony.