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Bucky sat contemplating the glowing coals and the remains of the driftwood sunken into grey ash, wondering if, unlike the crumbling remains of the wood, anything salvageable could be made of him in the future.
No arm, no purpose, no Steve; no redemption - no moment to be absolved of his past horrific crimes and reunite with the one soul who made this hellish journey through the decades bearable.
What he would do next he still wasn't sure about - he was tired of feeling like his soul was missing along with his arm - but 'life' felt so far away and difficult that he was taking it one breath at a time.
"I don’t know if I'm worth all this, Steve," he muttered for the hundredth time.
There was no one to answer him; his anguished thoughts flared and died out as the last branch smoldered to ash and he turned his back to try, yet again, to sleep.