Chapter Text
‘Til the end of the line’ was never meant to be a suicide pact. No, it was a love confession tangled and disguised under an inconspicuous phrase of commitment. Words to be spoken before every battle. A simple promise as unassuming as two best pals in the army. Their own version of ‘til death do us part’ when they would never be allowed that vow in the eyes of God or the world.
But Steve had never been good at making well thought out decisions when left to his own devices. No, he was very much a shoot first, ask questions later type of guy.
Especially when 98% of his impulse control had just fallen out of a train.
So in a split-second decision, bound to change the fate of everything, he took a deep breath, steeled his nerves, and let go of the flimsy railing he’d been holding.
He counted himself lucky that there was no way Bucky would know Steve had thrown himself after him. If there was, well, it was Steve’s grave.
His next thought as he fell was that there was a chance he would survive this. Who the hell knew what it would take to off him after Erskine jacked him up on super steroids. And if he did survive this, he would just have to find another way. To die, that is, because no matter what Bucky would want, there was no way in hell he would live in a world without him. That was a fact he’d known since he’d jumped wholeheartedly into Erskine’s science experiment.
And so he fell.
And he fell
And he fell
Until finally he stopped. Suddenly. And with a lot of pain. Which was not dulled as his mind stuttered.
His head spun from the impact, stars clouding his vision, and his chest and lungs ached, trying to retrieve the air that had been forced out of them. He was forced to lay there, body unresponsive for a few minutes. The pounding in his head and his burning throat and lungs reminded him of a time before the serum and the war. Of lying in sweat-soaked sheets and praying to make it to morning.
In the dimming light of the Alpine forest, Steve stared up at the trees and the grey clouded sky above. He could pick out small sounds of rodents scurrying over fallen snow and birds fluttering through snow-covered branches.
In the midst of forestial noise and his own heartbeat, he caught the sound of stuttered breaths not too far away.
Shock, hope, apprehension, joy, fear. A jumble of emotions zapped through him in that instant. And then he was trying to sit up, gritting his teeth against the near blinding pain that shot through his body. He stumbled in the direction of the breathing, hoping against hope that maybe it was Bucky (and if not Bucky, maybe a Hydra agent who would put him out of his misery).
As he stumbled he noted that, with the amount of damage that had been dealt to his body, he probably shouldn’t be moving at all. It was basically a miracle he was alive. Moving around was testing God.
But his very existence at this point was a middle finger to God as a living product of Erskine deciding to play him. And Steve wasn’t particularly involved in the whole self-preservation thing. If he had been, he wouldn’t be in this situation.
So he stumbled, painfully slow, in the direction of the stuttered breaths.
He spotted the heap, the bloody heap, half-hidden behind a large tree. He knew that heap. His heart stuttered at the amount of blood, but he could still hear soft breathing and a steady heartbeat. But it wouldn’t stay that way if he didn’t do something about the bleeding.
He collapsed into the snow next to Bucky. “Buck?” he asked, softly.
No response. He lightly nudged his shoulder. “Bucky, you awake?”
No response.
He checked over what of Bucky’s body he could without moving him. The blue uniform he wore was torn up. There were quite a few lacerations, but none too deep. Just enough for rusty red to stain the edges of thick fabric and make Steve’s heart pound a little harder. He presumed Bucky must have hit quite a few branches on the way down for his uniform to be in the state it was.
He oh so carefully rolled Bucky over to get a view of the rest of the damage.
Well, he found the source of all the blood.
Blood thundered in his ears and his head spun dangerously, spots dotting his vision. Steve forced the ball of feeling and bile rising in his throat back down, emotionally separated himself from the issue at hand, and focused on what was right in front of him. Though never one to faint at the sight of blood, this was a lot of blood.
Bucky seemed to have landed directly on his left arm. It was bent where it shouldn’t be and bone poked through the skin, spilling warm crimson out into white snow. And further up, his shoulder was clearly dislocated, bones pressed oddly against pale skin.
“Shit,” Steve whispered, looking away from Bucky’s arm and checking the rest of him over. Opening up the tattered jacket carefully and hiking up the dirty undershirt, he looked at the mottled reds quickly turning purple around his chest. Listening carefully to Bucky’s breathing, nothing sounded wet or laboured. He still suspected a few of Bucky’s ribs to be broken and there would be extensive bruising, but at least they hadn’t touched his lungs. Looking further, there were no other injuries as urgent as his arm.
Turning his focus back to ut, he gathered the meagre medical supplies they both had on their persons. He sorted through them a bit, checking everything over, but when Bucky let out something of a whimper, Steve steeled himself again. His best friend needed his help if he was going to make it out of here.
Steve moved into action, starting with the arm. God this was something he had never wanted to have to do again, but this was war and goddamn him if he let this kill Bucky.
He started by sprinkling the packet of sulfanilamide over the exposed wound. The next part wasn’t going to be pleasant for either party.
“Sorry, Buck,” he muttered before placing one hand above the fracture and the other on the wrist. He then applied gentle pressure, pulling on the wrist. He was careful to feel for any resistance as the bone shifted back under the skin. Bucky’s breathing seemed to get a little more pained and a litany of swears and apologies fell from Steve’s lips. He continued with even pressure, watching the whitish bone sink below bloody flesh and yellowish fat.
Once the bone was no longer exposed, he applied bandaging to the open skin. It took almost all of their bandaging for the blood to stop seeping through gauze and he hoped he wouldn’t have to rebandage it because they didn’t really have the supplies for that.
Next was to splint the arm. He grabbed a couple broken branches and strapped the arm to the branches. The last thing to do was to set the dislocated shoulder which Steve did very carefully. He didn’t want to worsen the fracture, but a dislocated shoulder could cause serious issues if not set in time. So he kept his movements as slow and deliberate as possible, apologising and praying as he did so.
Bucky hadn’t woken up throughout the entire process, despite small sounds escaping his lips, which was beginning to concern Steve.0 There was a part of him was grateful his friend wasn’t conscious of the intense pain he would otherwise be feeling, but there was also a high chance that the fall could have caused brain damage. Steve had heard stories of soldiers who had taken a hit to the head, fallen asleep, and never woken up again.
He pushed those thoughts aside. The sunlight was fading fast and it was steadily getting colder in the forest. The next thing on Steve’s survival checklist (because now that he knew Bucky hadn’t died on impact, survival was critical) was to find shelter.
It was actually simpler than Steve thought it would be. The snow was deep enough that there were decent sized tree wells that they could slip into. He shuffled around gathering branches and brush to use as a covering.
He counted them both unlucky and lucky that they hadn’t had most of their gear when they’d fallen. If they’d been carrying everything, it probably would have done more harm than good upon landing, but having their gear there now would have been very helpful.
He had to take breaks as he gingerly moved around. He may heal fast but the serum wasn’t magical. Broken bones and bruises still hurt like hell and he really wasn’t trying to shift a cracked rib out of place and puncture his lung. Steve didn’t think drowning in his own blood sounded like a very good way to go.
His caution in movement was thrown to the wayside when he noticed Bucky’s lips turning a concerning shade of purple. He decided to move Bucky to their half-finished temporary shelter before continuing to build.
He grasped Bucky around the chest, being careful not to jostle his arm too much, and half-dragged half-carried him to the hole around the tree base, gritting his teeth against the intense pain of his own body complaining. When he reached the edge of the snow, Steve released his friend’s body, hopped down under the tree, immediately regretted the action as his eyes watered in pain, and reached up to lower Bucky to the damp ground.
It wasn’t too much warmer under the tree, but it was warm enough to buy time. Everything was too damp to get a proper fire started, especially with their severely limited supplies.
“This isn’t good, Buck,” Steve said, not expecting a response from the man laid nearest the tree trunk. “We’ve got a shelter of sorts now, but there's nothing for a fire.” He sighed, trying to secure branches above them. The well they were in was only about three feet deep and Steve had to basically crawl as he moved around. The movement was near excruciating, but as the only semi-functional member of the team, he had to protect them.
“Also I’m not sure if I should even try to set a fire. Shits wet and I don’t even know if it would light, but if it did, I ain’t about to set the whole forest on fire,” Steve rambled to Bucky’s unconscious form.
“And we’ve got jack in terms of food. I don’t know how to forage. That leaves hunting but winter in the alps? Doubt we’ll find much. Plus we’re kinda low on ammunition. I don’t even have my shield. Think I lost it in the fall.
“Wish you’d wake up, Buck. It's fucking weird yappin’ at you without you yappin’ right back,” Steve shivered, the cold starting to get to him now that he wasn’t moving. “Do ya think they're looking for us?”
He curled up on Bucky’s right side, trying to draw some heat and vice versa. If they died of exposure Steve would never hear the end of it. “I doubt it. I thought you were gonna die… Thought I would too.”
Steve knew that if Bucky didn’t wake up soon, he would be as good as dead. He didn’t know how long someone had to be unconscious for it to be considered a coma, but he reckoned it was something Buck was in danger of.
“Don’t leave me, Buck. Please,” he pleaded to his friend, God, and the universe at large.
Steve stayed awake the whole night, keeping watch and making sure Bucky stayed breathing. He was too worried to sleep, anyways.
Once daylight broke, he moved the makeshift roof to allow sunlight to filter in. The night had given Steve time to think and plan. There was little chance anyone would come searching for them. They were about 65 clicks behind enemy lines and presumed dead. Their best bet would be to somehow make it to the front lines without being caught by the Nazis. Staying where they were would be a death sentence. The only viable option they had was to move west and hope for the best.
Checking the sun and his compass, Steve mentally mapped out a route to start on. Then he moved to Bucky.
Lightly slapping the man’s cheek he said, “Wake up, Buck. Please? I really don't want to carry your ass through the mountains.” Of course, he would do it, but Steve worried that his own battered body wouldn’t be able to withstand the strain. If anything, his body hurt worse than it did the day before.
Bucky remained stubbornly unconscious.
Steve sighed and got to work prepping for the trek. He took Bucky’s sidearm and extra ammunition and moved them to his own belt. Then he gingerly lifted him into a fireman's carry, careful to not pull on his splinted arm. He worried a bit about the added pressure against already damaged ribs.
He grunted as he stood with the extra weight. His right leg nearly gave out as he climbed out of the tree well, but he just grit his teeth, shifted his weight, and carried on.
Steve was anxious that the position might cause further injury to either party, but he really didn't have much choice. They were in deep shit this time and, with the distance they had to travel, this was the best way to carry him. Everything was just risk management and the lesser of two evils.
“Okay. And off we go.”
And so they began their trek through enemy territory.
<...>
By nightfall the second day Steve was fading. He was subsisting on whatever vegetation he thought he could get away with eating (he was no expert, but he had yet to have an adverse reaction to anything) but that was in no way enough. He was even more concerned about Bucky, though. He had woken up a few times and Steve had been able to get him to eat a little bit, but it was absolutely not enough.
Whenever he’d regain consciousness, Steve would talk to him. About their survival, the past, plans for the future, whatever he could come up with to fill the silence and give Bucky something to focus on. Bucky would sometimes respond, sometimes coherently sometimes not. Most of the time he would just listen before falling back into unconsciousness.
Lying in another tree well, Steve pulled Bucky close. He had to sleep to preserve any energy he may have left, but they were nearing the front lines at this point. Having both of them asleep or otherwise unaware could potentially be a death sentence.
Sometimes Steve thought he caught the faint sounds of gunfire or explosions in the distance. On one hand, he doubted what his own senses were telling him at this point. He was so desperate to make it back to camp that the likelihood that it was nothing more than his imagination was higher than he would have prefered. On the other hand, if he could trust his ears, they were in even more danger than before.
But he was weak. He burned through calories at about four times the rate of a normal person. The lack of food was getting to him. In another day he would be reaching dangerous levels of starvation. It was getting to a point that he was doubting his ability to carry Bucky safely (like it was safe before).
He had to power through, though. Steven Rogers and James Barnes were not about to die in the middle of the fucking mountains. He refused to let that happen. He would fistfight a hundred Nazis, Hitler himself, and even God if he had to. They were not about to die.
The sun completed its descent below the horizon as Steve sat, vigilantly keeping watch. It was about an hour before his eyes started to drift shut of their own accord. He was just so physically exhausted and it was getting to him.
The sound of crunching snow and heavy breaths on icy wind caught his attention. Due to the fact they were so close to the battlefront, he assumed they were soldiers, though whose, he couldn’t tell as there were no words being exchanged.
He knew it would be obvious they were there. It hadn't snowed that day and he hadn’t covered his footprints. So he was faced with a choice. He could either stay where he was, assume they were unfriendly, and quietly prepare himself for an assault. Or he could assume they were friendlies and expose their hiding place, hoping for aid.
Obviously, he went with the first choice. He wasn’t about to risk Bucky’s life like that.
The small group moved closer and Steve shifted his grip on his pistol and prepared for the soldiers to find them. A gust of wind muffled what the soldiers were now saying in hushed tones, though he assumed they had spotted Steve’s footprints.
Slower now, footsteps crept towards their tree.
“Drei… zwei… eins.”
The makeshift roof was ripped off to reveal a small group of four German soldiers. Steve and the nearest soldier made eye contact.
“Es ist Captain America. Und… ein anderer?” the soldier said to the rest of them. Steve knew that in his state, surrounded at gunpoint, and protecting his best friend, he stood no chance in a fight.
But he was a stubborn son of a bitch and was not about to go quietly, so he held his ground, waiting to see how this would play out.
“Herr?” someone asked.
“Töte sie nicht. Nimm sie lebend. Ich wette, Zola würde ihn gerne in die Hände bekommen,” ordered another.
Steve tightened his grip on his gun and raised it to point at the nearest soldier. It seemed like there was going to be a fight.
He caught the shift of the nearest soldier and took that as his sign. He pulled the trigger, dropping one of the soldiers. He was met with responding fire, though it didn’t sound exactly like bullets, neither was it the high powered blue hydra blasts.
A few of the projectiles caught him but didn’t pierce his tac gear. Unfortunately, one of them caught him in the neck and another in the face. It hurt but not like a bullet so he didn't mind the shots.
He shot another soldier in the leg and noted him crumpling to the ground as he took aim at the third soldier. That's when a wave of dizziness hit him like a brick. Another shot hit him in the neck again, sending him through another wave of dizziness.
Black gathered at the edges of his vision, encroaching quickly. He barely had another moment to react before his eyes were rolling back in his head and he was lost to unconsciousness.
<...>
“Sir, they just brought in two off the List.”
“Perfect. Their condition?”
“Declared MIA. The Captain was combative.”
“Throw him in the Hole.”
“And the other? His condition-”
“Give him a dose, then the same as the Captain. I need them both.”
“Sir?”
“I need them both. ”
“Yes sir.”