For which of you, intending to build a tower, sitteth not down first, and counteth the cost, whether he have sufficient to finish it? — Luke 14:28

"Really, what burns me up the most's how people keep 'specting me to fall on the other side of twelve. 'Cause I know the posters make it out like I'm about four foot eight and prob'ly never kissed a girl, and I know they want it so they've got someone they can pretend to be—the real kids, I mean. But sometimes people think I'm just a loon playing dress-up because maybe now it looks like I actually gotta shave. I'm gonna be nineteen soon. I'm a bona-fide adult. And the fresh recruits keep getting younger, anyhow. Before long I'll look old compared to everyone. But that isn't the point.

"The point is, Steve, that if you're hearing this, I've gone and croaked it. Bit the big one. Finished, ended, kaput. And I know you've got this nasty penchant for taking all the world's sorrows onto yourself, so I'm giving this wire to Diane, back at HQ, in the event of my death, because I don't want you taking all the credit for it.

"Which is not to say that I'm planning on pulling a Jap and strapping TNT to my chest and running at the Krauts guns blazing without sensible regard for my life. Nah, I'm stupid, but I ain't dumb. I didn't get into this line of work for the health benefits, and I volunteered, same as you. I can see it now—headline: Bucky Barnes Actually Knows What He's Doing, So Don't You Go Blaming Yourself for Nothing, Steve Rogers, Except Your Crummy Sense of Humor.

"Shit, half of that's supposed to be classified, isn't it?"

Here's the thing: Bucky remembers when Dad died. Oh, he knows that hollow creeping that starts from down low and works its way up from under you, starting with the rap-tap-tap of a knock at the door. He knows what they say, and where they place their pauses, when they're trying to explain that someone you belong to's gone and there just ain't no way of getting 'em back.

They don't tell you much, really, not even if you switch on whatever orphan tears you've got and try to work the pity angle. "There was an accident. The parachute malfunctioned." They don't tell you the shape the wires went, how many red crisses and crosses little metal strings can make across a body. They don't tell you how perfect abalone bones can seem when they're jutting of skin, or that brains aren't tinted pink like in the textbooks, not when they come out of you.

The records are sealed, of course, off-limits— if there are any photos they took for investigation's sake, Bucky didn't see them. He tried to break into the files once or twice, when he was thirteen, maybe, when breaking kids' noses had gotten old. Never made it past the secretary's desk. Pretty soon, it seemed like Bucky could get a hold of anything. Anything but that.

When he got his triple-secret SAS clearance after two foggy months in England and one helluva sobering handshake, he thought about going back, putting his papers down on that damn secretary's desk and getting them to bring out the file. He never did.

"Alright, moving on. The first thing I want you to do is tell my sister. She's mad at me already because I went and enlisted. She's been mad at me since Dad died, probably. Never took it the same way I did—just went straight off to that girl's school they found for her, not caring to look back. I dunno if I blame her.

"So when you see Becky you gotta tell her everything you can, even the stuff I know they're not gonna let you. I'm doing a horrible thing leaving her all alone like this, and she deserves to know why. Hang, I think she suspects anyway—I have to leave so much out of my letters, it must smell a bit fishy.

"Tell her that I'm sorry. Christ, I think you might be the only one capable of making her believe that. But I am sorry, I am. She'll be alright, I think. She's always had herself sorted out."

He is something of an expert at opening people up. The literal way, the kind of openings you make with tools and implements, that write swelling red lines across a person before they go off gently into the dark. Bucky's got a fussy Frosolone switchblade he nicked off a guy when they were stationed in Italia, and he's sure that if he put his mind to it he could make that thing sing Chopin sonatas. But dying isn't supposed to be difficult. If he's got to do it, he does it all in one go, quick-like, none of those fancy trills. And that's about where he and Baron Zemo disagree.

Now, he doesn't actually get tied up as often as those crummy serials make it seem— and if Bucky ever runs into the poor kid who plays him in the reels, there's gonna be a real gasser of a reckoning. That is right now what he's trying to think about, giving that kid a good telling to, showing him the real ins and outs of Bucky Barnes. Not the pieces of glass that are stuck and sparkling in his face, or the fact that he probably won't have any tongue left when they're finished because he'll have bitten it clean through by then. He definitely, definitely can't think about those mean looking scissors Zemo's goons just brought out, what it is they're planning to do with him.

That one bright voice in his mind knows they're just doing this to get Steve riled up. It counts up the costs: Hitler'll want them both mostly intact, so he's got another two days of living, at least, and there's no power on this earth that could keep him tied up for that long, no sir. That part of him that's whispering that it will all be alright, that Zemo's a huge drip anyway for covering his face in glue and sticking a bag on his head. Trouble is, Bucky's pretty sure he's still screaming.

"Toro's gonna be a fine mess, so you're going to need to look after him. I know, I know, you'd do that anyway, but gee whiz, take him out to the dances, once in a while. Not everyone likes to stay huddled up over maps and charts and all those kinds of things. People need to breathe, and Raymond needs all the help he can get.

"Don't let him spend all his time with Jim. I mean, Jim's great, it's just—Toro can get real quiet, sometimes, when things get rough, and Jim doesn't always notice. Listen for that, would you? And see if you can get him to put on some goddamn pants one of these days—aw, hell, this is harder than I thought it'd be."

Bucky knows he can make that jump, he can feel all the way down to the whorls of his feet. Steve can't, he's gotta hold on to the handlebars, he's rooted too strongly to the ground. Steve can shout out after him, though, when he does jump—but the words take their precious time in getting there, like they got lost on the way to England, had to take a detour. The syllables sting a bit when they finally reach Bucky's ears.

There's a lot of arithmetic worked into this thing that he's doing, a lot of balancing the scales. Used to be, when they lived in Texas, he'd peddle lemonade during the summers, and Bucky never let anyone stiff him half a cent. Then he got older, got to peddling big and bigger things, and still he could tell you seventeen times twelve makes two-oh-four without needing to count anything on his hands. Well, the math is a lot clearer now—there's maybe six million mouths in London, and he's only got the one. He could count it all up if he wanted, but for once his mind is going faster than the numbers.

It doesn't take him long to figure out the damn plane is booby-trapped, but he thinks maybe he can scoop out the wiring, open the thing up and take out its brain. That's how his arm gets stuck.

"Now, when it comes to Namor, there's just about nothing you can help him with. I'd be much indebted if you'd call him Subby for me though, and I think he'd appreciated it as well. Tell Jackie and Brian that I don't need their kooky uncle intervening on my behalf. Who'm I kidding, you'll figure out what to do better than I could. I'm sure you'll work up one whale of a speech, Steve. I sort of wish I could be there to see it— but I guess that'd be against the rules.

"It's funny, 'cause I made this list of all my stuff, and where I want each thing to go. And I had it figured that I was gonna read it out loud, but you know, after talking through this whole mess it just seems like a silly thing to do. Just about all of this seems silly, now. I wonder how that happened."

Dad taught him how to swim when he was seven, back at the hole on Fort Bliss. He had to take to the water blind—if he tried to look where he was going, the silt would slide up underneath his eyesockets and make his whole face itch.

Of course, there wasn't much swimming you could do, back in El Paso. The hole was maybe ten feet across, ten feet down. Not enough room for a tall man to swim a length of himself, not enough room even for Bucky when Dad was in there with him. You could tread water, or make a dive for it; there was no going forward. Coarse fingers of dust would be strangling from all sides, and you were either coming up for air or trying to stay afloat.

But of that matters, now. He's dead before he hits the water; Bucky doesn't feel the ice begin to bloom over him. Not for a while, yet.

"I guess the only thing I got left to tell you, Steve, is the same line I started with. Because honest, of all the people I know, you're the one I worry most about. It's good that you're not really here, 'cause I'm not sure how this'd come out if you were. I'd probably be dead of embarrassment, which would throw a bit of a wrench in the whole exercise.

"But here's facts: you're not allowed to feel sad on my account. Really, this ain't about me. I'm over and done with. You're the chump who has to keep going. I know it'll be hard, because you're even worse than Raymond. You won't do anything for yourself unless your best friend's begging you from beyond the grave, which is saying something. Scheiße! You oughta see if there're any good swears in Atlantean—I always meant to ask Namor, but I bet you'd have more luck. Cripes, I'm rambling, aren't I?

"What I'm telling you, Steve, is—just so long as you remember to have fun every once in a while, I swear, I'll be fine."