He falls and falls and falls, fear clawing into his chest mercilessly, the image of the departing train growing smaller and smaller the farther he gets. It's not gonna hurt, he tells himself. It's not, it's not, he'll be dead before the impact of it all prickles every nerve in his body, his mind would have shut down before it could realize how much pain there is, and it would be infinite silence.
Bucky falls, and he knows he's going to die, so he keeps the image of Steve close--shuts his eyes and forgets the terror on Steve's face when he couldn't grab hold, and instead, imagines a softer him. Sitting on their shared couch, poring over a particularly detailed sketch, hair falling over his eyes. Don't move, the Steve in his memories scolds softly, Buck, you're the worst model ever, he teases.
Until suddenly--he isn't anymore.
A man stands before him, in uniform.
Bucky feels his chest rise and fall, faster and faster. "Where am I?" he sputters, "What happened? Steve--"
"You're in your quarters, sir, your office--"
"I'm supposed to be dead," Bucky breathes out, the air in his lungs barely staying as he breathes in a pace that's too difficult to catch up with, "I fell, I'm supposed to be dead, where the hell--where the hell am I--"
His mind spins, mahogany walls and carpet patterns swirling together in kaleidoscopic shapes, and he feels his knees buckle and his feet stumble back. His hand chances upon an edge of a table and he tries to settle himself, closing his eyes firmly.
"Are you alright, sir?" the man asks yet again, and Bucky frowns.
"Why do you call me that?" he mutters under his breath.
The man looks at him with confusion. "Sir--because you're the prince, and I address you with respect--"
Bucky chuckles under his breath. "The prince."
The man, now just slightly scared, motions towards the wall, pointing towards the mounted painting. Bucky's jaw grows slack.
"Prince of Gilboa. Heir to the throne." the man says shakily,
"You are Jonathan 'Jack' Benjamin."
