Final.

It’s a cold Spring day in 1945. I’m about 4,000 miles from my home, riding a stolen motorcycle toward the edge of a cliff, a concrete jetty built out of the stone of an old castle. Directly in front of me is an experimental drone plane, lifting off the runway, winging its way toward turning this war in favor of the Nazis. Directly behind me is my best friend, my brother, and that’s the only reason I think I can do this.

It doesn’t help that I know I can’t, but it doesn’t change anything, either.

People said, after the war, that it had made our country. That World War II was the moment that decided who we were as a generation and shaped the rest of the century.

This is the moment that made us who we are. It’s truer for no one more so than Bucky and me.

“Bucky,” I say. Not the exclamation of all the times before, not the question. We’re about to go over. He’s about to make the fatal leap.

Fateful leap. Either way.

After the Bar

It's not the first time I've carried Bucky, although it's the first time I've had to do so because he tried to drink a bar. I'm not entirely sure what point he was trying to make, but hopefully he feels that he made it- and nothing else, come morning. He's sort of walking- he refused outright any alternative- but I have to say, the bulk of his dead weight is lightened somewhat by the fact that his right cheek is wedged up against my shoulder and the resultant facial expression is more or less priceless. I only wish I could appreciate the moment for what it looks like- war buddies dragging each other back from a bar. With everything that led up to it, though... To be honest, I don't know what I feel. I'm grateful that Bucky stayed, that he refused to be brushed off or let me go off on my own. I can appreciate the whys of it, but all the same I'll be as grateful to drop him off at Natasha's. I need to get my head clear, I need to wrap my hand where I sliced it on the broken glass, I need to hit something. Not necessarily in that order. Lifting the hand not anchored around Bucky, I rap twice on the door and then try to drag him a little upright. "You're home, soldier. Tasha, you in?"