“It’s not your fault.” The words break the silence of the airfield, save for the sloshing of the liquor as Bucky swirls it around in the bottle. It’s not my fault? Bucky wonders, as if it had been obvious. All he can do is scoff out loud, shaking his head. His best friend was gone—missing in action, presumed dead.

“I could have gone with him.” Bucky manages out as he sips. “Instead of being on leave in London with you.” he says. It’s an insult, you can tell, but you don’t let it hurt.