Failure. He understands that notion well. It seems, when he looks back on the remnants of his past he manages to make sense of, that his life may as well have been defined in a lifetime of failure. Every attempt he’d made to do the right thing, to be the right person, was always taken apart, pried open, and forgotten. No one had even come for him when he fallen, not even to bury him properly or to mark his grave.

Bucky watches her solemnly, knowing the words she ends with are a deflection, to draw focus away from what she feels and put the present moment back into focus. Taking a slow breath, he decides to oblige the deference. For the moment.

“Can’t say there’s much for you to comfort,” he returns. “Not when I’m used to it.” It being how fucked up everything that happens to him is anymore. He almost wishes he had a genuine reason to need comfort, at least as an excuse to feel that old feeling of concern again, of feeling like he matters or that his existence makes a difference. But the rules were defined without him in the picture. Wanting something like that when he already knows his place is a selfish, abominable thing.

“All of that isn’t on you though, is it? Not like you were the one that trapped us here. Ain’t really a failure if you’re just doing your best with what you’re given.”