Chapter Text
The bus pulled into Union City at 1915 hours.
Bucky leaned his forehead against the window, watching his breath fog up on the glass. He pressed his nose to it, then his cheek, then lolled his head back to his other shoulder. His neck was sore. They'd been driving for hours now, and it was getting dark. Bucky felt tired. He felt old. The streetlights shone through the smudge his face made on the window, dim against the purple evening, and Bucky perked up as the bus rattled to a stop.
"Half hour dinner break," the driver called. The doors opened with a shriek. When Bucky stood, the passengers stopped in line behind his seat. He wouldn't have minded the crowd, but it was nice to have the aisle to himself. People were more willing to let him move around since he got back, let him take up his own space. There were some perks to losing an arm.
Nothing compared to the perks of actually having an arm, but Bucky was always a silver linings kind of guy.
He stepped into the cool evening air and felt the pavement under his feet, grateful again to be on his way home. He savored all the little things now, like flat pavement, and street lights, and dry cigarettes. He hadn't thought he'd make it. The war had taken so many already, it was a wonder it let him go. Not all of him, but enough of him to be thankful for.
He lit a cigarette at his lips, blew the smoke to the air, and watched the glow of the streetlight again through the haze. The smoke always stuck to him a while after he finished, like a visiting relative, a thick aura, made it hard to breathe sometimes. He would have to quit after this one. He'd have to be more careful now, to watch out for more than just his own skin. His last cigarette, his last night away from home.
The diner nearest the bus stop was busy, and while the noise might have been annoying before, now it was only nostalgic. He missed this, civilian life, having supper in a noisy diner at seven fifteen and eating what you want instead of what you have. He ordered a coffee and set down his smoke, taking in the life around him. It had been a long time since he'd been on American soil, had a meal and heard voices chatting in English, only in English, rolling hard R's off their tongues. He'd missed the accent, of all things. He'd missed the R's.
Even though kids stared at his fatigue jacket, the worn "Barnes JB, 107" in marker on his back, and their parents stared at the place his arm had been, he felt more at ease than he had in months. A few kids were running down the aisle and hopping on booths, harmless and loud enough to distract him from a radio playing the news in the corner. He could almost hear the casualty count over the bustle, but not quite. He finished his coffee and just sat for a while, letting it sink in. His last cig smoked away on the counter.
Half an hour later he was back on the bus, and as the sky turned from purple to black behind his reflection in the window, Bucky smiled. He was going home.