(You're my friend.")
They told you it wasn't your fault that he fell, back in 1944.
("You're my mission.")
Here in 2014, they're telling you it isn't your fault that he was turned into this weapon- into the Winter Soldier.
You tried to believe them back then when you were sitting in the empty shell of a bar.
But you don't even bother to try and lie to yourself now.
This is your fault.
You should have killed Zola when you had the chance.
Your packed bag is at your fingers and Sam is waiting for you, ready to follow you as you try and rescue Bucky from the hell you condemned him to.
(Who better to hurt a super soldier than the one person he would never kill?)
All you can think about as you strap your shield to your back is Bucky's terrified eyes as he fell, the confusion on his face when you refused to fight back.
Hoisting your bag over your shoulder, you leave your semi destroyed apartment, not bothering to lock the door behind you.
Sam looks at you when you slide into the car and asks if you're sure about this.
(He has sympathy in his eyes when he looks at you- you're just glad he's willing to help you because you have no one else.)
You barely nod in response, eyes already staring forward.
You're thinking about how he trusted you to catch him and how you were far too slow and how you know it was him-Bucky-that dragged you out of the Potomac, even after you let him fall.
Sam starts the car and you nod again, firmly this time.
This is your fault and you're going to make it right.
(Maybe he doesn't blame you for not catching him, maybe he does.)
Whatever it takes.
(Maybe he loves you the way you've always loved him, maybe he doesn't.)
Because you're with him until the end of the line.
Unbeta'd.