Steve Rogers

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?"

My body is still in shock, or the memory of it, when I stagger and catch myself with one hand against a palm. My breath is pulling raggedly in my lungs and throat and every part of me feels raw, wind burned or frozen or scraped. The enormity of what we just went through is already slamming into me with the same kind of force as the waters of the North Atlantic and I feel such a powerful surge of nausea that I have to clench my jaw, breathe through my nose, and stay half bent against the tree.

Eventually my breath works itself free of the place it was coiled up and constricted in my chest and, eyes burning, I gasp, "Oh, God."

I smell motor oil, gunsmoke, salt and metal. The sounds of the motorcycle engine, the plane, the choppy, freezing waters of the English Channel assault my ears. It’s happening again. It’s happening again, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

I have always endeavored to remember the ways in which I’m fortunate, always tried not to take anything for granted. I was born to Irish immigrants. We were poor, not that I understood that until I was older. My dad died when I was young, my mother died when I was thirteen, and I was ill, my whole life. Sickly. Things were never easy, but that just meant everything mattered more, that there was more to be thankful for. All that said, I have never felt so damned as I do in this moment.

“No,” I murmur, grip holding tight on the throttle, “no, there has to be another way. There has to- Bucky!” I shout, looking at him over my shoulder.

“Bucky, listen! Make the jump, but forget the bomb. Grab my hand once you’re steady!”

There are, immediately, the smells of motor oil; mortar; gunsmoke and the sea. Not the warm, fragrant azure waters that surround the island of Tabula Rasa, but those colder, sharper, stormier waters of the North Atlantic. I know where I am just from breathing in the air, though it shouldn’t be possible. My hands are gripping the handlebars of the DKW NZ350 bike I’m riding, was just riding, have ridden before. A ‘43.

It’s happening again. It’s happening again. No. God damn it, no, I refuse. Bucky’s arms are tight around my waist, but any second he’s going to let go to make a jump for the experimental drone plane we’re chasing after. The sharp drop off of the cliff, the end of the runway, the rocks and cold water below, the explosion waiting for us above-

No.

I drop my foot and dig my heel into the ground as I twist the bike to the side. No more. It drags another ten feet before I let go of it and roll, the unevenly hewn stone scraping hard against my elbows, shoulders, jaw. The plane is gone, up and off into the sky as I’m picking myself up, reorienting myself as quickly as I can.

Bucky is a few feet behind me, the plane far too far out of reach already, the bike teetering over the edge of the runway and then it’s out of sight, and for a moment I can’t believe it. I can’t believe what I’ve done.