Arthur's not of a mind to say much either, if Bucky won't. His cane sits between his legs, left hand toying with its wrist strap as he leans on his right, staring out the window he can't fucking see.

But Christ, he misses John. Misses knowing what the world looked like as it passes by, with his quiet, sincere enthusiasm and appreciation for all the mundane sights he'd come to ignore. Not this endless, useless black. He can't help but wonder how far they might have gotten together already, if he didn't need to fucking ask for help with every single goddamn thing.

Trapped in his own thoughts, with no indication of where they are besides the gentle shifts in gravity when the car turns, hits lights, eventually gets closer to the edge of town, he has no idea what's happening outside.

So he has no idea, as they start to drive closer to the border, that the car begins to slow down like it's stuck in tar, like it's being prevented from going forward like there's a giant magnet pushing them away. The wheels certainly keep moving, the odometer stays steady, if Bucky doesn't let up the gas, but they simply stop going forward.

Until he frowns, when the change in momentum is too much to ignore. "Why are we slowing down?"