What I want to happen next doesn’t matter. It’s a lesson that most of the villains of my acquaintance have, sometimes unintentionally and sometimes not, beaten into me over the years. Nothing I do will ever undo this. Nothing will ever stop it from happening. I try, though, the only fruitless, hollow ways I can. The plane’s incline steepens and my fingertips slip. I can’t catch myself, but Bucky’s sleeve is caught. He won’t be able to pull it free until it’s too late. And-

“No!”

I won’t be able to free him.

“I’m losing my grip-!”

For another eighty years.

“Drop off, Bucky!” I call out, uselessly, desperately, my diaphragm and lungs and throat burning with the effort, because I’ve already begun to fall.

“Let go!” My eyes are wide as I fall back, even though I don’t want to see it. I can’t look away from him, though, from this final moment. I never can. I have neither the right nor the ability.