Steve’s last three minutes have sent him on a path from elation to annoyance to willful idiocy to sadness to relief. It’s exhausting, and that dash across the street certainly hasn’t done him any favors in the stamina department. He lets his shoulders drop and slips his hands into his pockets. He’s been called too touchy too many times and while it’s in his nature to be tactile, even in 2018, being that way in public isn’t always the best course of action. Besides, if he hugs Bucky now, he’ll never let go. He’s like a catfish that way, like an army ant. He’s tenacious. That’s not always a good quality.

“I still work at the supply shop,” Steve answers, though he decides not to mention that he’s always working at the school bookstore because it’s hard to scrape together the funds he needs, on top of the aide he already gets, to live in Brooklyn. “They started letting me have the testers and the damaged stuff. It works out pretty good.”

With his head, Steve gestures that they could start walking.

“You back in Brooklyn? Or are you with Becca in Long Island?” Ten years ago and Steve might reach out to take Bucky’s hand. He kind of wants to anyway, if only to keep from sobbing at the next corner.

It still feels like Bucky’s gone.