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He remembers when Bucky's voice was light and his shoulders unburdened by time. When each word was spoken softly, with that harsh Brooklyn accent lacing each sound. Now Steve can barely discern his real voice around the thick, Russian accented drawl. And that was when he even spoke.
It was normally a mutter recently; his old vernacular long gone and replaced by grunts and thickly rolled foreign words Steve couldn't understand.
There were a couple of words he'd say where that Brooklyn twang shone through; one word he could always confidently say, one that felt so right, so normal, was one he'd learned when the Зимний солдат was a half formulated plan whispered in rundown hidden shelters- Steve's own name.