Chapter Text
The fall had been quick. And yet it had felt like an eternity.
Bucky’d had enough falls for more than one life time. Literally.
It took a moment. A moment to clear his head after remembering how to breathe--after forcing the air back into his lungs almost as painfully as it had been forced out--to recognize that he was not at the bottom of that godforsaken ravine in Austria, to remember that it was not 1944, and that the source of the strange whirring sound was his left arm.
Everything else was silent. But he was alive. Alive. That was good. Good, because he needed to get to--
Oh god, Steve.
Bucky sat up, battling past the intense pain that shot through his back at the sudden movement. His left arm protested, jerked and twitched and shot hot sparks along his nerves. It was damaged, but it moved. And that was good enough. Debris and dust shifted beneath him, and he felt his flesh hand cut open on a jagged piece of metal.
There’d been no train. Not this time. But there had been train tracks. Train tracks, and a bridge set to blow. Bucky hadn’t made it across in time. He’d made Steve go first. Steve always went first. But then . . .
He hadn’t wanted to come on this godforsaken mission. Hadn’t wanted Steve to go either. Something had sat wrong in his gut as they’d gone over the intel, but it was HYDRA, and they couldn’t let even the smallest faction live long enough to grow another head.
They should have been home.
He’d fallen. Again. And Steve had screamed his name. Again. It had been just like 1944 all over again, except . . .
Except this time Steve had jumped.
Bucky dragged himself the three feet across the ravine floor to where Steve had landed. His love was on his back, uniform torn and bloodied, the white star across his chest a mottled red and black. The shield had rolled away; Bucky remembered vaguely Steve grabbing his arm, pulling him close, and digging the shield into the canyon wall to slow their descent, but even that had given way. Steve’s left arm was bent at his side, the angle of his shoulder all wrong.
“Steve,” Bucky said, wiping away the smear of blood that threatened to run into closed eyes. “Stevie, can you hear me?” He continued to call to him, checking for broken bones, deep lacerations--when he touched the back of Steve’s head his fingers came away bloody. “Steve.” He said it one more time, louder, harsher, more demanding.
Steve stirred, groaned, and mumbled something.
It was too quiet to hear. “What’s that?” Bucky said, thanking god for the response despite its lightness. “You gotta speak up, pal. I’m here. We’re good. God, Steve. What’d you follow me for? You were across. You were safe!” He hadn’t meant to say any of that. Not yet, not while they were still on this ravine floor, bleeding and half-conscious. Bucky held his breath, calmed his nerves. He could yell at Steve later, once they were clear and safe.
“Couldn’t let you fall on your own,” Steve said, his voice ragged and half a whisper. “Not again.”
Bucky suddenly felt like he was choking on his own heart, even as his stomach had fallen to his knees. He gripped Steve’s hand in his. “You’re a punk, ya know that?” This damn, beautiful, idiot. Always with the weight of the world on his back.
“I love you.”
“Shut up.” Bucky kissed him. Kissed him as hard as he dared. Steve still hadn’t opened his eyes, but his lips responded to Bucky’s, weak, but eager. “Shut up and let me think, okay?”
“Are you hurt?”
“I’m right as rain. What’d I just say, huh? Let a guy think. Gonna get us out of here.” He started taking in their surroundings in earnest. His first priority had been Steve, but now the only mission was to get Steve out.
A light sound caught his ear as he calculated the likely angle of the cliff nearest them. He felt Steve squeeze his hand.
“What’s that? Too quiet again, pal. You gotta speak up.” The nearest edge was too steep, but it looked like the wall to the south had a path . . . He looked down at Steve, who hadn’t answered him yet.
“Stevie?”
--“Steve?”