If we're lucky, just a couple of injuries. [ If you can dream it, you can achieve it, maybe. In a lower voice, he says: ] Somethin's been hurting the soldiers stationed here. The townsfolk, too.

[ But he doesn't want whoever's up the stairs to hear them, and when they walk in it's clear enough why. The poor sap is moonlight pale, hair sticking sweaty to his face. There's blood coming from his mouth or his throat or somewhere inside of him— well, all blood comes up from the inside, but the way his uniform is folded round the neck, it's hard to tell how he's been injured.

"Cold…", he says. "So cold… in Europe…" Bucky kneels down beside him, takes him by the hand, even though the soldier's fingers don't move.

"I saw you once before— y'know— in France, don't 'member the town." The soldier is looking at Bucky or through him, at someone who isn't really there. But Bucky answers, not missing the beat. ]

That was some rough fighting.

[ "Not for you," the soldier replies. "Seein' you in action, that was somethin'. Guy like you, a hero… never thought you'd have the time for a grunt like me."

But at that Bucky shakes his head. ]

I'm only a soldier, just like you. We're just doin' our duty.

[ And even though Bucky doesn't even look all of his nineteen years, there's a feeling that this isn't the first time he's sat with a fella bleeding to death.

It won't be long before the soldier passes. Then they'll see what becomes of his bones. ]