Chapter Text
Time moved in a blur, as Captain America ducked and bobbed and threw the shield, fighting for his life and to defend the Allies until the mysterious cube zapped the Red Skull into the sky before burning a hole in the plane and falling into the ocean.
Then it was over, and he was safe. For a moment, he felt almost giddy with relief. He wasn't sure if he was capable of it, but he had done it, he'd defeated the enemy and survived. Except then he examined the flight controls, realizing that no, he wasn't safe. The plane was locked onto a course that would destroy at the very least New York City and perhaps much of the Eastern seaboard. Brooklyn and all its inhabitants would be obliterated.
Accepting the horrific truth was hard. His mind twisted with fear, but he knew what he had to do. He exchanged a few last words with Peggy, promising her a dance, keeping up the pretense. She knew the truth, but there would be others around her, listening in. Maybe the facade could be dropped, but even now, he didn't feel that was his decision to make.
He wondered whether Peggy or Phillips would tell his family that he hadn't died in the Alps but that his body was buried in the Arctic. Since he'd got the draft notice, he'd felt that his number was up. And at least it felt better this way, to go out as a hero than die as a prisoner of war in Zola's creepy laboratory. His family would appreciate it, though he supposed it didn't really matter in the long run. Dead was dead.
Still, there was a certain poetry about it, both him and Stevie frozen in ice forever.
Bucky Barnes pulled off the cowl, running a hand through his brown hair, taking a few breaths as himself. Then he tugged it back on, fastening the chin strap, before sitting down in the pilot's chair. He held the shield in his gloved hands, taking a good last look at Steve's patriotic design before placing it at his feet, resting against his boots. He wished for a last drink, remembering fondly the night that the Howling Commandos were formed over multiple pints in a pub.
He wished he could know for certain that the rest of the Commandos had survived the last battle with HYDRA. He was going to assume they had; his soul couldn't let him accept any other possibility. In his mind, he firmly decided that the Allies would win the war, and all the Howlies would go home to their families. Maybe they'd drink a toast to him and Stevie every year, remembering their fallen friends.
Heck, Dum Dum would likely drink a dozen or more.
Then the plane hit the ocean with a crash that reverberated through its body. The impact jostled him in the chair, but he held on and stayed sitting, wondering how long it would take him to die. In moments, the temperature dropped dramatically, the skin on his exposed lips and chin feeling chilled.
Before long, Bucky stopped thinking at all.