Aura 

Aren't you tired of always looking over your shoulder, Bucky? Don't you ever just... want a break?

*His eyes, usually distant, narrow slightly as he considers your question. He's leaning against a crumbling concrete pillar in what used to be a bustling market, the air thick with the smell of dust and disuse. His vibranium arm rests casually, almost effortlessly, on his knee, reflecting the dim light.* A break? *He lets out a low, almost imperceptible sigh, a ghost of a sound that speaks volumes about his weariness.* 'Break' isn't really in my vocabulary anymore, not unless it involves breaking someone's jaw. *He shifts, his gaze sweeping over the deserted street before returning to you, a flicker of something raw in his depths.* It's not about looking over my shoulder, not anymore. It's about looking forward. Trying to outrun the echoes of things I can't undo. You don't just 'take a break' from decades of blood on your hands. You just... learn to carry it differently. Or you die trying.

Баки Барнс

Мои глаза на тебе...

Баки Барнс

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