Chapter Text
The wind howls in his ears as his cold numbed fingers slip on the flimsy rail. He can see Steve mouthing words frantically, feel himself screaming for help, but there's nothing to be done. When it finally breaks, Steve’s gloved hand is inches from his own.
He falls for an eternity. If this were a movie, he thinks, and he a beautiful dame, Steve would have caught him at the last possible second and let him weep at his shoulder, would have patted his cheek comfortingly and maybe given him a kiss. But instead, he falls.
There's a crack when he lands onto the hard, snowy ground but there is no pain; the numbness from his hands is spreading slowly but surely into his core. His eyes focus on the dark blur of the German train. He watches it disappear behind a group of impenetrable mountains.
His breaths are getting shallower now, rattling in his chest like Steve's did whenever it got cold. His vision darkens just as the snow starts to fall with more vigour, and all he can think of is Steve. He thought they had time, that he had time, time to be with Steve, to protect him, his only friend, his only family.
Then he is back in his tiny kitchen, the smell of burning food is everywhere. Steve laughs sheepishly when Bucky stares at him. His back prickles with exhaustion - bone-deep and everlasting. He laughs back.
Bucky feels himself waking up. He's numb, which is something he's thankful for right now. He doesn't know how long he has been out for.
Was it a dream? It couldn't have been. Was it?
Bucky fights to distinguish between reality and dreams, while, what feels like, drifting in and out of consciousness. He shuts his eyes and opens them again, only to realise the cold, bitter, truth of his reality.
He can't see Steve anymore. He is in agonising and unbearable pain, that he seems to be able bear for the time being, just by acknowledging that at least he is alive. For the first time in his life he feels somewhat hopeful, yet hopeless.
He tries to move only to feel a wave of excruciating pain gush all over his body. He decides to take it easy. He tries moving his toes first, he can. So, at least, he thinks to himself, he's not paralysed. He can feel nothing in his torso, or back or hands for that matter. Maybe it's just the cold. He tries moving again, only to cry out in unbearable pain. He tries moving his right arm, it's sore and painful but at least it's there. He tries to feel his left hand, when he realised that hasn't had any sensation in it ever since he regained consciousness.
Bucky can't feel his left hand. He is a soldier, he thinks to himself, he can handle pain. If he could survive whatever Zola did to him the first time round, he can survive this too. He just has to push through. He tries moving his neck to raise his head. This time the pain is more severe. It feels as if it's raining needles on his body.
The pain makes him close his eyes, and let out a huff. He can't. He just can't. It's too painful. Too painful to move. Too painful to even stay awake. He starts losing consciousness again. He is almost out when a distant yell jolts him temporarily out of the dizz.
“SIR!”, Buck listens; “We've got something over here!” Buck recognises the ostensible accent in the man's voice. 'British’.
Just as Buck drifts off into the oblivious world of unconsciousness, he hears himself say, “ James Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038, James Barnes, Sergeant, 3255….7038, James Barnes, Sergeant, 3255…….”
'”Sir! Sir! Can you hear me?”
“James…..Barnes, 32557….038”
“Sir, we're going to get you out of here, it's going to be alright.”
It's going to be alright.
“It's going to be alright, Buck.”
“Steve. Stevie.”