I meet Bucky’s eyes and wonder if what I see there is mirrored back at him in mine. In part, probably. I’m not afraid, though. I know how this all goes, and so I’m not afraid- but I am angry. I hate this, hate making this decision, hate that this has been turned into my choice. I’m failing him, again, of my own volition. I swore I never would, and here I am, about to. I want to say something- I have only a split second in which to do so- but I don’t know what. There’s nothing I can say, can put into words in this moment, that would help or change anything.
I can’t wish him luck or wellness, I can’t tell him to be careful. Telling him I’ll miss him would be foolish- in a few seconds, we’re probably going to be right back where we were on the island, about to grab a beer for Veteran’s Day. There’s nothing I can say, here and now, that would encapsulate the truth of the matter which was that until the moment I knew he was still alive, had the evidence in my hands, until that second I had lived every day past this one with a part of me gone, a metaphorical limb ripped away to match the one Bucky is about to lose quite literally. That nothing I ever do in my life will make up for this moment, regardless of whether or not it was necessary to make me who I am.
I want to tell him I’m sorry, but the flicker of a moment, the opportunity to speak, is past, and we’re air born.
I slam into the plane’s wing, and even knowing that I’ll drop off and Bucky won’t, even knowing how this has to go, I split my fingertips open in desperation as I grab for purchase in the welded creases of the fuselage. Not yet, not yet. I’m not leaving him yet.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2011-11-04 05:02 am (UTC)I can’t wish him luck or wellness, I can’t tell him to be careful. Telling him I’ll miss him would be foolish- in a few seconds, we’re probably going to be right back where we were on the island, about to grab a beer for Veteran’s Day. There’s nothing I can say, here and now, that would encapsulate the truth of the matter which was that until the moment I knew he was still alive, had the evidence in my hands, until that second I had lived every day past this one with a part of me gone, a metaphorical limb ripped away to match the one Bucky is about to lose quite literally. That nothing I ever do in my life will make up for this moment, regardless of whether or not it was necessary to make me who I am.
I want to tell him I’m sorry, but the flicker of a moment, the opportunity to speak, is past, and we’re air born.
I slam into the plane’s wing, and even knowing that I’ll drop off and Bucky won’t, even knowing how this has to go, I split my fingertips open in desperation as I grab for purchase in the welded creases of the fuselage. Not yet, not yet. I’m not leaving him yet.