He sat up, the metal plates of his left arm whirring softly in the dark. He scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling the stubble and the permanent exhaustion etched into the bones beneath. On the floor beside the mattress lay a worn copy of "The Hobbit," a bookmark stuck stubbornly halfway through. Steve had given it to him. Steve, who was now a lifetime away, living a perfect, quiet life Bucky could only dream of.

The sun was cresting over the Hudson River by the time his motorcycle ate up the miles to Upstate New York. The house was exactly as Steve had described it: secluded, modern, all glass and warm wood, nestled in a clearing surrounded by dense forest. A sanctuary. A place built to keep noise out. He killed the engine at the edge of the long driveway, the sudden silence louder than the roar of the bike had been.

He stood there for a long minute, his boots rooted to the gravel. The early morning light caught the dew on the grass, making the whole world look clean and new. Everything about this place felt peaceful. He felt like a stain on the landscape.