Chapter Text
“Hold on, Bucky. Just hold on, man. They’re coming for you as fast as they can.”
Sam’s voice fades in and out of focus on the other end of the phone, or maybe it’s his own hearing that’s not working right. He can’t seem to get his voice to work either; he’s choking on dust and there’s a jabbing pain in his chest with every attempted breath, a pain that makes his lungs seize up and pushes speaking to the very bottom of his priority list.
“Don’t you dare check out on me,” Sam says, his voice firmer now; it's an order from Cap. “This isn’t how it ends, right?”
Well, maybe this isn't how he would have imagined eventually finishing his existence, but who's to say that this isn't how the life of James Barnes ends? Who’s to say how anything is supposed to go for him these days? He’s never been a big believer in fate, but if it were a thing then surely even it wouldn’t know what to do with him anymore. He’s not the man he used to be, and he’s not someone new either, but some sort of Frankenstein’s monster of patchwork parts all pulled together from his horror story of a life. Who knows how it’s meant to play out for him anymore?
He doesn't have the breath to say any of that, so he just closes his eyes in the near-darkness and listens to Sam's voice. It’s louder and more insistent now, but he can’t make out the words. He slowly lowers the hand that’s holding the phone, letting it fall limp against his chest. He'll figure out what to do in a minute, after he's rested.
~
It was a paint scraper that had really set him wondering about it all in the first place; the matter of who he was anymore. It hadn't started it, exactly, but it had somehow solidified the feeling he'd been having for months once he'd finally gotten a chance to stop and think. For those several months he'd been drifting through life, trying to figure out who he was and where he was going, and whether he even wanted to go there after everything, and without Steve.
And then one day he'd been sitting on the dock while he waited for Sam, tossing the tool idly, watching the way the sun sparked off the blade, feeling the weight of it as it landed back in his hand, enjoying the balance and the ease with which he snatched the tool back from its lazy arc through the air.
Well, he'd thought he was enjoying it. But a couple of nights later a memory had come back to him as he slept.
The Soldier had been allowed to choose his weapons, once upon a time. He'd remembered the sensations; tossing a knife in the same way, testing its weight and balance, snatching it from the air, assessing how easily he could end a life with it and in how many different ways, nodding to his handlers in satisfaction. He'd taken that knife on his next mission. His hand still remembered the slowly yielding resistance as he'd drawn the knife across a throat, hot blood spilling over his wrist.
He'd woken up with a stifled cry, coated in sweat, breathing hard in the silence. He'd done that. It had been him that had done that, even if he hadn't known that he was him at the time . He'd just breathed deeply for a while, using what Dr Raynor had shown him, trying not to give in to the urge to throw up. He'd lost that battle.
Was that what he'd been doing on the dock too, without even realising? Testing a weapon? What if some other part of him, a ruthless killer, had been the one guiding his movements in what he'd thought was just an innocent moment?
He'd shaken that off. He'd tried to, at least, because no, he didn’t want to believe that. The water around him had sparkled when he'd toyed with the paint scraper, and the sun had shone, nothing like the ice of Siberia, and Sam had been there with his easy warmth, and he'd simply been playing, testing his reflexes, passing the time, relaxing in a way he hadn't been able to do in a long while. Nothing like before. He'd tried to ignore the nagging doubt as he lay there trembling in the wake of the nightmare, and he’d gotten out of bed, and gotten dressed, and gone back to work again, because Sam believed that some things could still be fixed even when it all seemed hopeless, even when it seemed they were broken beyond repair, and even if they couldn't then it was at least worth trying, and he'd wanted to believe all that too.
He hadn't been able to quiet his thoughts fully even after that, even through the distraction of working with Sam, having a purpose again. Who the hell is Bucky? he’d asked of Steve once, and it had seemed he still wasn't quite sure of the answer.
~
He coughs, and the pain in his chest flares into fierce jabs that leave him gasping, yanking him back to awareness from a half-conscious doze. He blinks heavily, trying to adjust his eyes to the dim light, but there’s little to see anyway.
Steve wouldn't have ended up stuck here like this. Steve would have come up with a better plan; he always had a plan. Right to the end, he'd had a plan.
Steve. A weak smile twists his lips upwards at the thought of him. Steve had been so hopeful that finding him meant getting his old friend back, always so hopeful. That hope in his eyes had been painful to see when it had become clear that the old Bucky wasn’t coming back. So many conversations with Steve had started with ‘ do you remember when…’ and no, no he hadn’t. Not all of it, not at first, and even now there are details of his life, his family, that he can’t bring back to mind.
He’s always known that there’s no way back to the Bucky he’d been before the war. That Bucky had lost his innocence looking down the barrel of a tank, surrounded by suffering, and it had only gotten worse from there. He can’t take out the things that were put into him to turn him into someone else. Can't take out the serum, or the knowledge of a hundred different ways to kill someone silently, or the memories of doing just that. Can't unlearn the skills he never asked for, can’t unsee the horrors.
Maybe Steve had realised that too, eventually. No wonder he'd gone, chosen to live the life he was meant to have.
Working with Sam for a while has helped him, he's sure of that. It’s given him a lifeline, almost; something he hadn’t thought he’d ever find again after Steve left. It had given him something that he could do. It had shown others that he could still do something useful. Even now that he and Sam don’t work together so much, he’s still got missions, and a purpose.
This life he's got now does have its disadvantages too, such as the fact that at this moment he’s trapped underground in a space that’s gradually filling with cold water, and he can't move. He’s lying under a twisted tangle of wreckage, metal and stone, a massive heap that’s immovable in his current state. Right after it had all come down he’d tried a few times to shift, to sit up even a little, but each time he’d tried it something in his back had locked up, with pain sharp enough that he'll gladly wait before trying it again. His ribs are aching fiercely, and he can’t get a full breath, something stabbing hard inside him whenever he tries. What remains of his left collarbone is definitely broken, the ends of the bone grinding together when he attempts to move his stronger arm. The wreckage presses the most heavily on his left leg, creating an agonising pressure on bones that are surely cracked at the very least, and his whole leg’s alight with white-hot pain.
If he could move even a few inches, or if he could muster up even a short burst of strength, he might be able to release the weight a fraction, just enough for a moment to drag himself free of it, but he's lost touch with the part of himself that can tolerate unimaginable pain. Back then , he’d been driven by the mission, by the threat of punishment, by the single-minded focus on achieving his objectives. Before that he’d been a soldier on the battlefield, responsible for the lives of others, putting one foot in front of the other because he had to, no matter how he felt. He can’t do that anymore. There’s only him here. No one is counting on him. There's no one to save. No one is expecting him to report back. He feels all of the pain, and there’s no stronger force driving him to push past it this time.
He rests his head back against the hard wreckage. If this is it, maybe he'll see Steve again.
The few dull emergency lights down here are flickering, about to go out. The cold water’s almost risen to the level of his chin.
“Bucky? Do you hear me? If you hear me, I need you to stay awake. Bucky!”
Sam. He hadn’t bothered to end the call when he dropped the phone onto his chest a while ago. He hadn't realised that Sam was still there.
“Hmm,” he manages to say, his voice hoarse, and at first he isn’t sure that Sam could have heard it, but then there’s a gust of breath on the other end of the call; one that probably wouldn’t have been audible without his enhanced hearing. The brief attempt at using his voice sets him off coughing, and the metallic taste of blood fills his mouth, and something warm and wet trickles down his chin, dripping into the water lapping at his side. He's cold, so cold.
“Hold on. They’re almost with you.”
They. They're almost with him. Where's Sam? He's on the phone, but he's not here. In DC, he recalls vaguely. He's often away these days, working alone or with Torres. He doesn't need a damaged, centenarian former assassin for a partner, and that's perfectly okay. They’re still friends, and Sam knows that he can call on his help if it is ever needed. Of course the powers-that-be would rather have him working alone for them, carrying out the jobs that Captain America can’t be seen doing.
That's what brought him here, to this facility, which is now nothing more than a shell full of rubble. It's a job that calls for stealth. Quick and quiet elimination of the targets, under the radar. You understand, of course. He had understood; that he was to use his dubious skillset again, and that it was apparently alright to do so as long as the good guys were asking. He’d done what they’d asked of him, but not without triggering a trap.
“Okay, so maybe you trying to talk isn’t the best idea right now,” Sam’s saying, and he tries to focus in on that voice. “ Just listen. A lot of people are looking for you. They know your last position. They’re making a way in to get to you. And I’m almost there. We’ll have you free any time now; just hang in there a little longer.”
Free. Now there's a word. He’s supposed to be free already. Free from fighting, free from the control of others, free from his own mind working against him. When Ayo had told him that, he'd sobbed with relief.
Of course he knows now that he'll never be free, not while there are fights to be fought. He’s never wanted to fight, but he’s always wanted to stand up for the little guy. He’s always wanted to do the right thing, especially these days, so that some good can come of the powers he’s been given. That hasn’t gone so well for him this time.
He tries again to move even slightly, pushing up with his one good arm that’s miraculously about the only part of him not trapped and tangled under tons of wreckage, but pain shoots through his whole body all at once, blinding and intense. It's so bad that he gasps, his body seizing up, and sucks in a lungful of water. He’s hacking it up again, squeezing his free arm against his ribs as best he can, forcing his eyes closed against the tears that build in response to the agony, when Sam speaks again, and his voice sounds so unfamiliar that it takes him a few moments to realise that it’s fear sharpening his tone.
“Bucky. Don’t you dare. Don’t you die on me. It’s almost Christmas, man, and you said you’d help me. You said you’d help me build that gaming chair for Cass, remember? You said you knew how to make the best mashed potatoes. I want you there, Buck. Sarah and the kids want that too.”
“Not g’na… die,” he grits out, and he means that with an intensity that almost surprises him.
Why is he fighting so hard, after so many years of just wanting to stop? Maybe he can take a rest now. It's dark, and cold, and he’s in so much pain, and he's so very tired. He hadn't even been sure he wanted to stay around, after Steve left and before he started to work with Sam. He’s tried to do some good in the world. This isn't how he expected it to end, but…
But… he has a family again now, in a way. He certainly has friends. In his pocket there's a keyring that Sarah gave him, and he pushes his right hand as far as he can into that pocket and runs his fingers over the smooth curves of the shiny resin fish shape that she'd said would remind him of their family. Just holding that smooth shape brings him back to the Wilsons’ dinner table, the kids shrieking with laughter. To the dock, sipping a beer with Sam, the sun warm on the back of his neck.
His fixer-up motorbike is there, at the Wilsons' house. Sarah had let him park it there when he finally decided to buy the one he'd been eyeing up; she'd said that at least it was one way she could be sure he'd visit, and then she'd lightly smacked his arm. She's never been afraid to treat him as just Bucky; nothing more.
There’s a map of the States on his table back home; one with neon post-its stuck all over it; places that he's going to finally see once he gets the new bike running the way he likes. He'd left his place in a hurry, abandoning both that map and the course brochure lying next to it. He'd been applying for Politics; figured maybe it was time to do something where he could try to make some sort of a positive difference in a way that was all his own.
His place is a mess, if he remembers correctly; as much of a mess as he's capable of making, because he was packing when he got the call for this job. He's supposed to fly down to Delacroix next week. The plane ticket's tucked under the loose floorboard by the TV for safekeeping, if he can just go get it. He wants to go get it.
He doesn't want to die. His eyes sting with tears, and he takes a few sobbing breaths. He's not dying here, not if there's anything he can do about it. He's not.
He wedges his right hand’s fingers against the twisted metal and gets a hold on it. He pushes at it, screaming, shoving as hard as he can with the heel of his good leg too until he manages to force himself backward a couple of inches. His broken bones grind together. The water laps over his mouth. The phone slides off his chest, splashing into the pool somewhere by his waist, but he doesn’t need it now. He's getting out of here.
He stops, panting shallow breaths with the effort those couple of inches cost him, trying to get enough air through the sharp pain that erupts all over. He coughs again, harder now, and the bitter taste of iron floods his mouth. There’s a strange floating sensation, and if he could see much of anything he’s sure he’d be seeing spots.
He maybe loses some time after that.
When he blinks back to awareness, groaning at the pain that assaults him all over again, it feels different. In his new position, there's less pressure on his injuries. A little more space to move. It's a little easier to keep going. Not easy, not by any means, but a little easier. He keeps going, gritting his teeth, dragging himself free bit by agonising bit, inch by inch, his cries echoing off the walls and rubble around him.
Eventually he works his foot loose from under the wreckage, the last part of him that was stuck, and he falls back, limp and exhausted. He lies there, tilting his head back just enough to breathe through his nose above the water. He can’t move. He can't do any more. But he has to. He’s not drowning down here. He pushes himself up on one elbow, choking back a cry as pain lances through his back. He's shaking with the effort, but he manages to prop himself against a hunk of stone, and he leans there, closing his eyes, trying to get enough air into his lungs through the rattle in his chest.
He’s bought himself a little more time, but there’s no way he can stand, or get the rest of the way out of here. At least he isn't going to drown yet.
~
He’s not sure how long he’s sat there, but he jerks back to awareness at a high pitched screeching from somewhere above and to the side of him. There’s a crash and then artificial light floods his little space and he squints, lifting his good hand to shield his eyes at the sudden brightness.
“Shut it off!” someone yells, and the screeching sound fades back to silence. There are voices now, anxious voices, and then a figure descends through the new hole in the roof feet first. They have wings. A blur of red, white and blue.
“Sam,” he gasps. He’s never been so relieved to see his friend. Tears prick at his eyes and he swallows them back, watching as Sam clambers his way across the wreckage and rubble, splashing through water that’s almost at the tops of his boots.
He braces one hand on the stone behind himself, trying to force himself up. His arm shakes before he's even made it a couple of inches off the ground, and he braces himself for the extra pain of collapsing back, but then hands are on him, lowering him gently, and that pain never comes. He can save himself, but Sam is there to help with that.
“You're alive,” Sam's saying, resting one hand on his cheek, and that hand is blessedly warm after the chill of the place that almost became his tomb. “I've got you now, man. It's okay.”
“You're supposed to be in DC,” he gasps out, his brain misfiring.
“I got a call about you. I came as fast as I could.” Sam’s voice is trembling almost as badly as his own is.
“Who…” he breathes, unable to finish the question. Who would care enough to call Sam for him? To launch a rescue effort of the scale that this one sounds like? Not Torres; he'd already been with Sam…
“Sarah saw the explosion on the news; they suspected you were here. She called until I picked up,” Sam supplies. His forehead creases with worry as he looks Bucky up and down. “Come on, we need to get you to a hospital.”
He hates hospitals, and Sam knows that well, but for once he’s not going to argue. He needs to know something, though. “Was anyone… else… hurt?” he asks, grasping at Sam’s sleeve. His targets were, obviously, and he needs to think about that later, but anyone else… any innocent bystanders… please, no.
Sam’s face softens with sympathy. “No, man. Only you.” He holds out his hands. “This will probably hurt. I’m sorry in advance. I’ll be as gentle as I can.”
He doesn’t doubt that for a second, and Sam’s true to his word as he wraps careful arms around him and lifts them both off the ground, but he wasn’t wrong about it hurting. He muffles his groans of pain against Sam's shoulder as the other man hoists him up and back out to street level. It's raining, and the chill in the air is biting against his already wet skin. He can't stop shivering, and it jostles all his injuries. He’s lightheaded again, and he’s only dimly aware of being placed down on something soft, and someone wrapping a blanket around him.
“I’ve got him,” Sam’s saying to someone he can't see, and he closes his eyes and lets himself sink.