17. 1944: Runaway Train

Dear Bucky,

You know the worst part about being a super soldier? I can't get drunk. I've gone through every bottle of beer I can find in this place. I've downed whiskey and brandy, the way we did whenever we were toasting another toppled Hydra facility. Nothing. I used to wonder if you ever got my letters, and then I just didn't think about it after we were finally reunited because we didn't need letters. If I needed to tell you something, or get advice, you were right there again.

And once again, you're not. And you're never going to get this letter, and it's my stupid fault. I shouldn't have let you come on the train mission. But I knew you had it out for Zola, and I knew that saying no would have resulted in you going anyway, so I try not to blame myself too much. But it's hard. I see that shocked look on your face as you're dangling off the side of a runaway train. I hear you scream for no more than a second before it's lost to the wind and the engine and the roar of the train on the tracks. And then there's nothing, nothing but gray and white mountainside and chasm rushing by, and I understand that empty look I saw on so many soldiers' faces now.

I knew we swore to be together until the end of the line. I just didn't think the line would end so soon. I think about our side-by-side brownstones in Brooklyn; taking our kids to Coney Island; teaching our boys to play catch, and maybe taking them to a ball game. I think about all the things that we and countless others were supposed to have, but can't because of this damned war.

I'm about to do the stupidest thing of all. I'm going after Schmidt, alone if I have to. I might not survive, and I'm fine with that. If I did make it out alive, what do I have to go back to? I have no family. I never really had a home, not after I left Brooklyn. I'd rather die trying to save the world for others than sit back and let it go to hell if just to stay alive. Besides, like you said the night you left New York: it's war. People are dying. More people will die if I just keep sitting here, drinking and hoping for miracles.

I keep trying to remember that you died doing what you believed in. It doesn't make it any easier. How and why you died doesn't change the fact that you're never coming back. You always looked out for me and the moment I had to look out for you, I let you fall.

I should have begged for the resources to look for you. I should have defied orders again. So many things I should have done, and I didn't do any of it.

I included a personal letter to your family in the formal condolence letter Phillips sent. They'll know you died a hero.

You were my best friend, Bucky. Nothing will ever change that.

No regrets,

Steve