Chapter Text
You knew before the warning blared that the jet was going down. You could smell it in the smoke, hear it in the whine of the engines. Your passenger peered over your shoulder, eyeing the indicators in front of you.
“That doesn’t look good.”
“It isn’t.”
He looked at you, this man whose name you didn’t know, whose identity you’d agreed to not ask for. “What do we do?”
“Get a parachute.”
He moved without questioning you, without second-guessing or offering a counter suggestion, and you liked that, that he just did it, quick, efficient.
The sound of metal snaps and rustling heavy-duty fabric filled the cabin for a brief few moments, and then he was standing behind you again, hand resting on the shoulder of your chair, peering out the window. “What next?”
He smelled good. A lot of the people you transported didn’t. You couldn’t blame them, really. Often, they were soldiers extracted from places no human should ever be, or refugees who’d been living without sanitation for weeks, or the bodies of those you hadn’t been able to get to in time. So, you couldn’t ever blame your passengers for the smell they brought with them.
It was nice, though, to have someone who smelled good for once. Someone who respected you and smelled good. What a damn shame you wouldn’t be able to see him to the final destination.
You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. “You know how to HALO, right?”
A small grin curled up one side of his mouth; it would have been a smirk on any other man, but those gentle blue eyes softened it to a half-smile that was almost self-effacing. “I have done it a time or two.” His gaze shifted to the altimeter and barometer. “Got a mask and oxygen?”
“Thought you said you didn’t need that when I asked about the packing list.” The words came out flirtier than you’d intended, but that was okay. It’s not like it would matter soon, anyways. Might as well flirt with this respectful, good-smelling, gentle-eyed man while you still could.
He made a soft noise in the back of his throat. “It’s not for me.”
“Ah.” You had been hoping that you could avoid this particularly unpleasant part of his evacuation. You’d heard stories from fellow pilots who had transported him and a few of his buddies; they were selfless and brave to a fault. No man left behind type. You really didn’t have time for that at the moment. “I won’t need one, either.”
He blinked. “Oh?”
You heard the question, knew what he was asking, and ignored it. Your words hadn’t been a lie. You’d always been good at that, telling not-lies and that led to the wrong conclusions. Maybe it was a type of lying, but not one untruthful word ever left your lips.
Off topic. Your mind was wandering off topic as a way to cope with the adrenaline that tasted bitter on your tongue and made your blood feel sharp. Sympathetic nervous system activated, increased blood flow to better transport oxygen around the body, epinephrine and norepinephrine released—you started cataloguing it, recalling the old facts you’d learned in your training so long ago.
It was an exercise you’d done many times before to focus your mind back on the task at hand. Too bad it would be the last time you did it; you’d always been good at that, too, being able to recall numbers and statistics and crisp, clean facts you’d read from textbooks.
The jet began shaking, an ominous rattling sound vibrating through the cabin. Those pretty eyes moved to you. “When do we jump?”
You fiddled with a switch that was useless now; he didn’t know that, though. “Move to the door; I’ll signal you.”
He didn’t move. Now was not the time for this, and he'd listened so well before .
“You’re not jumping.”
He was more astute than the others, too. Just your luck. You had to have the smart one for this flight. Any other time, he would be appreciated. But not now, not now; not when you needed him off this plane, when you didn’t have time to explain how if you didn’t fly it manually, the virus that had been uploaded would take over and steer the aircraft into some unsuspecting town or city or school or building—
You’d been in New York City all those years ago. You’d seen the towers fall. You’d been on site already, having had a business meeting in one of them. The meeting had gone to recess; you had left with a few of the others to get a coffee from the shop barely three blocks away. The sound of the crash, of the glass shattering and the metal snapping and warping—the scent and taste and sting of the dust and ash and smoke as it filled the sky and the streets—the people screaming—the way it felt as if the earth was cracking, the sky falling, as those towers collapsed only minutes apart—the fire—the sirens—the smell of burning fuel and burnt flesh—there was a reason you didn’t eat meat anymore—
And you’d run. You had training, you knew what to do and how to help. So you’d shoved your coworkers away whilst you’d run in the opposite direction, towards the destruction and the death and the chaos. You’d been there. Digging through rubble and debris, unloading bodies and body parts, triaging survivors and covering them in blankets.
You’d been there, and you knew how bad it was, and you weren’t going to let that happen with this jet, and you were annoyed, so very, very annoyed, because you didn’t have time to explain all that, and didn’t have time to explain why the plane was going to crash, and why you needed to be the one to crash it, and he wasn’t leaving.
“Sergeant,” that was the only thing he’d offered when you’d asked how to address him, “prep for green light.”
You’d done the work, jump school, rangers, jump-master training, and could slip into that commanding voice as easily as you breathed. For everyone else, even the most disrespectful who ever boarded your jet, that voice got them moving. This time, though, those blue eyes just met yours in the faint reflection in the windshield.
“Negative, ma'am,” which meant he was American military, then, to have recognized what the golden emblem sewn onto the front pocket of your jacket meant, major, even though you weren’t in the standardised uniform. Just what you needed; a stubborn, smart, American military unknown operative. “It’s all or none when it comes to me.”
Any other time you may have snapped, technically he was disobeying a lawful order from a commanding officer, may have turned to glare and give him a piece of your mind, but you couldn’t, couldn’t , because this virus was slowly but surely eating away at the jet’s firewalls and encryptions and whatever it was that protected the computers, and as soon as the virus was through, you wouldn’t be able to take control back from it again.
And you didn’t have time to explain this.
“I’ll find time to appreciate that sentiment in my next life.” That was definitely more snappish than the flirting statement that had slipped out earlier. “But right now, you need to go.”
“No.”
You could scream, or hit him; if you didn’t need to keep both hands on the yoke, you’d physically shove him out the door. A sort of helpless frustration welled up then. Your assignment was to deliver him alive. You wouldn’t be able to do that, but if he listened, if he just fucking listened, at least he’d make it there himself.
At least he’d stay alive.
“Sergeant,” your voice was low as another klaxon rang through the tiny jet, “get off my plane.”
His head tipped in a calm, curious manner. “Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“I meant why can’t you come, too?”
Cheeky. He was wasting time, intentionally. He was keeping himself on this plane. You were going to slap his face red if you ever saw him again. “Because as soon as I let go of this yoke, the virus that is slowly taking control of this jet will have total autonomy, and will use this plane in an attack. So,” you fiddled with that switch again, “I’m not leaving, and you’re jumping within the next minute.”
Maybe it was the calm seriousness with which you said it, or the set stubbornness to your shoulders, but he relented, slowly moving back towards the door. “You sure, ma'am?”
“Better this death than being a person in a crumbling building.” If he understood what you were talking about, he didn’t let on.
“What if you don’t die?” His voice was quieter now that he was near the back of the cabin, but you could still hear every word he said with perfect clarity. “Hydra likes to play with the broken things they find.” The bitterness of intimate familiarity laced that statement, and suddenly, you knew who he was.
“Jet fuel burns at over a thousand degrees. Between that and the impact, I think I’m covered.”
He didn’t like that. He didn’t like leaving you, and he didn’t like what you said, but you didn’t care, you didn’t care, you just needed him off this plane. As if reading your mind, he forced open the door, noise and wind filling the jet as the cabin depressurised suddenly. You gasped, choking on your breath as the oxygen levels decreased rapidly. It wouldn’t matter. None of this would matter in less than thirty seconds.
“Stand-by.”
You weren’t sure he heard you through the noise of the wind, but you heard his reply. “Standing by.”
You eyed the altimeter; if you got him at just the right altitude, he’d be able to drift and soar for miles without turning up on anyone’s radar. Twenty seconds—your head began to feel odd and woozy—fifteen seconds—you could feel your heartrate pick up in an attempt to get oxygen through your body—ten seconds—maybe you’d be unconscious by the time the plane crashed and would die blissfully unaware—five seconds, four, three, two—
“ Green light, go-go-go.”
He was gone. You’d completed that part of your mission successfully. In the distance loomed large mountains, isolated mountains— beautiful mountains.
Whatever god there was above must have heard your prayer; you were unconscious by the time you hit the mountain, right before the virus could complete its takeover.
Mission accomplished.
***
He refused to believe she was dead until he saw the body with his own eyes, that stubborn major with the 82 nd insignia and flashing eyes that he would have tried to make laugh during other circumstances. A hard woman, a strong one—brave.
He had heard her heart pounding, smelt the stress sweat, and somehow she’d never faltered. Almost fearless.
He’d seen the crash, heard the explosion, even where he was nearly forty klicks away. He knew he was supposed to be heading to the meeting point, the one that was almost two days away if he kept a steady jogging pace. That crash site, it wasn’t really on his way, but it wasn’t really out of his way, either.
He could swing it. He’d be able to find a way to justify the detour he was making.
Stubborn woman. Brave woman.
She wasn’t dead until he saw it with his own eyes. And if she was dead, he was bringing the body back, anyways.
If she was alive, well, he’d haul her into the base and put the entire medical staff at gunpoint if he needed to. Stubborn, brave.
Incredible woman. Maybe he’d request for her to be his partner. If she wanted. If she was alive.
She wasn’t dead until he saw it with his own eyes. That was his mantra, what kept him headed in the direction of the smoke, what kept him scaling the cliff-side even when his muscles began to ache.
The crash site was a mess of blackened ground and melted snow, twisted bits of metal and gear littered across what had been pristine nearly two hours ago. It wasn’t the first crash he’d been witness to or searched, but he still flinched from the scent, from the sting of heat and ash and burned chemicals.
He didn’t have much to thank Hydra for; the list was graciously short. An admittedly useful metal arm, admittedly useful training, an admittedly useful drive for vengeance, and the skillset needed to quickly and effectively scour an attack site.
She wasn’t dead until he saw it with his own eyes, and he was bringing her back to base either way.
***
You were damn proud of yourself for not crying. Not when you became vaguely aware of being transported through the mountain range, not when you woke briefly to bright florescent lights shining on you, and not now, when you opened your eyes to darkness.
You didn’t cry often, but the past hours—days? Weeks?—had been a little more enduring than usual. You could allow a tear or two.
Your mouth was cottony with the aftertaste of anesthesia, but the drip hooked into your arm meant you weren’t waking up dehydrated. That was something to be grateful for, you supposed. The sergeant had been right, and now you were going to become Hydra’s newest plaything.
You glanced at the needle in your arm. Maybe you could just snuff yourself before anyone figured out you were awake. Surely, even a needle that small would be enough to drain the carotid. An undignified end, but better than that of a plaything.
The lights flickered on as you began moving, motion activated most like, and you panicked then. Panicking happened as often as crying, but you wouldn’t, you wouldn’t let Hydra do to you what they’d done to so many others.
Klaxons began wailing as you scrabbled against the adhesive keeping the needle in your arm, squirming against the pain of your injuries. Let them become worse, it wouldn’t matter in a few minutes when you were dead. Maybe it’d help you along the path.
Voices gathered outside the door to the room as you finally managed to pry the needle out, bringing some skin and blood with it. Didn’t matter, didn’t matter.
“Get these damn doors open!”
You quickly felt along your neck for the pulsepoint, fingers shaking with exhaustion and adrenaline as your arm shrieked pain. Didn’t matter, didn’t matter.
You found it, the doors to your room bursting open. There were people, a lot of people. You couldn’t see who it was, gauging the angle and force needed for maximum damage as someone rushed in. They grabbed your wrist as the needle broke skin, yanking it away from your neck.
You screamed then. Screamed and thrashed, because goddammit they weren’t taking you alive and if you couldn’t kill yourself, you’d make them do it.
But they didn’t. Instead, two arms wrapped around you, pulling you off the bed and against something big and hard and warm. You shrieked again, and cried, and flailed— panicked. You panicked, and those arms didn’t let you go, hooking beneath your arms and knees, squeezing tightly.
“I need you to breathe, ma'am. Can you hear me? I need you to breathe.”
The words didn’t register for a moment, the voice nothing but harsh sounds that rattled against your skull, but then it did, and you froze. The arms tightened slightly— compress sympathetic nervous system to calm a panic attack, the sentence fluttered to the front of your mind, easy as any of those other statistics or numbers.
So, you breathed. And again. And again, your body suddenly going limp against whoever held you. The person relaxed, but kept the same tightness. “That’s right, major. Keep breathing for me. Just keep breathing. You’re safe. Can you tell me your name?”
“Major, seven-three-eight-eight-five-three-two-seven.”
“This isn’t an interrogation, major. I know who you are. I need to know if you know who you are.”
That, that—made sense. It made sense through the fog that was finally beginning to clear. The voice was familiar, too. You managed your name, coughing slightly, and added, “Where am I?”
“Not dead in a plane crash.” There was laughter in those words, soft and anxious, and you finally peered up, blinking away tears you hadn’t realised you’d been crying.
Those pretty, gentle eyes peered back. “Sergeant?” He offered a small smile. You weren’t sure whether to scowl or smile back. “You didn’t follow orders.”
He made a noncommittal noise. “Bad habit I picked up from a friend of mine.” An eyebrow arched slightly. “Jet fuel didn’t get you.”
“Lucky me.”
Silence settled over the room then, broken by the soft scuffling of the other people you’d intentionally forgotten existed. You could feel your heartrate finally returning to normal, adrenaline receding, and a barrage of pain hit you. The sergeant had you back on the bed in a matter of two breaths.
“Please, don’t try to kill yourself again.”
You met his gaze. “I thought this was Hydra.”
His next smile was sad and tired. “I know.”
He left then, and the doctors and nurses took his place, and you lay back on the bed, and wondered why the stupid plane hadn’t just killed you.
***
One-hundred percent disability, as filed with the VA. It sucked. There were days the nerves in your entire arm would just go dead, and you’d have to sling it up with fabric tied around your neck. Other days, the bones in your neck that the doctors had fused together in an attempt to keep your spinal cord intact would ache so badly you could feel it pounding behind your eyes. There was a permanent limp now, and usually a cane; the plane hadn’t killed you, but it had successfully hamstrung you. And the aphasia really was a bitch sometimes.
Still, being retired at a younger age than most wasn’t so bad. You did yoga now. You hiked the gentle trails in the parks surrounding your home, and spent hours painting, or cooking, or baking, or reading or really anything you very well wanted. You volunteered everywhere you could, and ran a foster home for the unwanted and unloved of the animal shelters until they were wanted and loved. Forced retirement really wasn’t the worst thing ever.
This was the first time you’d seen him, though, since the incident in the medbay nearly three and a half years ago. You didn’t think about him every day; often, yes, but not every day. Mostly, you thought about the night you’d woken in your new bed in your new apartment, gasping and shivering and realising that he’d been crying, too, that day. He’d been crying for you.
No matter how hard you thought on it, you couldn’t figure out why.
But now he was here, standing in your doorway with a small bouquet of flowers and a timid smile on his face, and maybe you could ask him why, after you asked him some other things.
“Hello.”
He straightened slightly. “Hello.”
You blinked up at him, the words suddenly leaving your mind. They did that sometimes; at least the aphasia hadn’t affected your ability to read or navigate. Finally, they came back to you. “You look well.”
“You look lovely,” was his quiet response.
A slow, small smile quirked your lips up. “Would you like to come in, Bucky Barnes?”
Some of the tenseness faded from his shoulders. “I would like that very much, thank you.” He was careful not to touch you as he squeezed past, and you were grateful for his understanding of your boundaries without having to say them.
Yet, it was close enough for you to smell him, and your smile grew slightly as you gently closed the door. He still smelled good.