Chapter Text
Fire. Smoke.
Bucky feels a sudden moment of clarity in the midst of all the chaos of gunshots and shouting, triggered by the smell of gunpowder filling his nostrils.
He'll come home when all of this is over. He'll take Steve with him to rural Wisconsin, and never go back. They'll have a farm, together- the fresh air will do wonders for Steve's asthma. They'll have cows, maybe even some sheep and a cattle dog to herd them, and a lovely big farmhouse with creaking wooden floors and fireplaces in all the bedrooms. He'll teach Steve how to shoot so he'll stop lusting for war and Steve can shoot grouse for dinner and after dinner they'll go to sleep in the same bedroom because it will seem more logical that way, and Steve is a stickler for logic.
Bucky blinks, the revelation of his desire taking him by some surprise but most of all inducing a sense of a relief in him. All of this mayhem, this senseless violence and slaughter makes sense all of sudden- now Bucky knows what he wants to do with his life. All he has to do is survive this ordeal and get back to Steve.
Explosions. Fire. Smoke. Shouting. Bucky is ripped from his reverie by the sound of oncoming assault. He squares his shoulders and positions his rifle over the low wall of the trench, finger on the trigger of his Springfield 1903, called Betty.
"Here they come!" he yells, looking down the length of his rifle at the Nazi troops marching down the hill towards them. He fires shot after shot that hits its mark precisely between the eyes and imagines that every shot, every Kraut down is a step closer to that Winsconsin homestead with Steve.
"I hate these guys," Dugan mutters from somewhere behind Bucky as he, too, puts on his helmet and begins firing at the enemy.
"You're really good at this," says an admiring voice to Bucky's right.
Bucky pauses his sniping for a moment to look at the source of that voice, Private Vincent Wells, barely a day over 18 and so green that his skin tone practically matches the color of his uniform.
Bucky held Wells as a baby. It seems a lifetime ago, now. The Wells and the Barnes lived only a few doors from each and Winnifred Barnes was good friends with Elaine Wells. Bucky and Harvey, her eldest, started out as playmates and later developed a friendship of their own. Vincent was too young to become a proper friend of Bucky's, but he'd sometimes tag along with the older boys.
He's grown up to be neither much heavier nor taller than Steve, and that fact makes Bucky look away and focus more succinctly on the task at hand, bringing down Nazis.
"Aim for their heads," he says simply, refusing to let sentiment affect his performance. Steve- he needs to get back to Steve. That is his only imperative.
But more and more Nazis are coming down the slope, and between himself, Dugan, Jones and the private they are barely making a dent in the number of their enemy.
Then, suddenly, everything changes.
Blue lightning streaks across the field, impossibly bright in the gloom of the night, and Nazi soldiers collapse before the bullets of the 107th can hit them.
Bucky gapes. Something is decimating the Nazi forces with more power and quicker speed than they can ever accomplish.
The blue lightning brings down several divisions before either the Nazis or the Allies realize what's happening.
Through the smog, he sees a tank rolling down the hill, shooting blue lightning out of it snout periodically. It fires and fires until all of the Nazi foot soldiers are either down or dead, and then it stops at the foot of the hill, only a couple of armlengths away from the trench of the Allies.
Bucky feels fear coil around his heart like the tail end of a rattlesnake. He eases his finger from the trigger of his rifle but keeps his grip on the gun. In the corners of his eyes, he sees Dugan and James do the same.
He waits, and so do his allies.
The top of the tank pops open, and a figure crawls out, lands in the mud without losing composure, back straight and manner confident, unafraid.
Bucky sees movement in the corner of his eye, but he's too late to stop Private Wells in crawling up over the lip of the trench and running towards the hostile, gun blazing.
The figure from the tank moves fluidly aside, laughing, and Wells' shots miss, clanging uselessly off the side of the tank.
Well's gun is ripped out of his hands, and he gets hit over the head by the butt of it for his troubles. Bucky cringes at the hollow thud and watches helplessly as Wells collapses to the ground in front of the hostile.
"Jesus Christ, what were you thinking, kid," he mutters. But secretly, he's impressed. Throwing yourself at the enemy like that, an enemy with a blue-lightning-charged tank at that - it's not smart, but it does take guts. It's exactly the kind of shit Steve would pull if he were here. And, Bucky thinks grimly, it would go as well for Steve as it did for Wells.
He pulls his attention back to enemy. The man hovering over Wells with Wells' gun trained on his head wears the insignia of a menacing-looking octopus on his lapel. It's not a swastika, but... it damn well still looks Nazi, Bucky thinks.
What kind of Nazi would shoot down his own people, though?
But Bucky doesn't have time to think too much on the topic of Nazi politics, because the man starts speaking, in crisp, perfect English:
"We have you surrendered. Best to come forward with your hands in the air."
"And why the fuck would we do that?" Dugan retorts venomously. "I sure as hell ain't gonna be ordered around by some fucking squid Nazi!"
The man crosses his arms, and nudges the prone body of Wells with the tip of his boot.
"Does this situation appear advantageous to you?"
Bucky takes aim, and shoots the ground a few inches away from the man's feet, splattering mud onto his boots.
The maybe-Nazi merely sighs.
"I see. I don't seem to have made myself clear enough."
He motions to someone or something that Bucky can't see, obscured by darkness and smog.
Then, he begins to see the faint outline of a group of men as they move towards the trench.
Jones inhales sharply through his teeth and Bucky feels his stomach turn as they see that the men approaching are their own, the rest of the 107th from whom they became separated at the start of the battle. The men have been disarmed, their hands bound and helmets taken off, laying bare their pale and wary faces. They are flanked by enemy soldiers with their guns drawn, aimed at their heads.
"Come now," the octopus man drawls, hands in his pockets like he's at a farmer's market negotiating the price of onions. "Or do I have to spell it out for you what happens if you do not surrender?
Wells is starting to come to at the man's feet and his little groans of discomfort and pain rake like claws in Bucky's soul.
"What about you, little sniper hiding over there?"
Bucky stiffens.
"Will you play along or do you want to watch the boy bleed?"
The man places a boot on Wells' neck and presses down, making Wells wheeze.
"Okay, okay- stop! I surrender!" Bucky crawls out of the trench warily, and, once he's up, stands with his arms raised, his Betty sadly abandoned in the mud at his feet
"Good boy," the man croons. "Now come over."
"The fuck you doin'?" Dugan hisses as Bucky starts moving.
"What the fuck do you think I'm doing?" Bucky snaps at Dugan over his shoulder. "I don't see us having a lot of other options right now."
The chill of the early October night easily penetrates his uniform and seeps into his skin as he bridges the distance to the enemy. He feels terribly exposed without the weight and the warmth of his rifle in his hands.
And, though he's loath to admit it, even to himself, he feels scared.
So far, the war has been brutal and gory at times, and Bucky has seen and heard and done things which he hasn't imagined he'd see or hear or do, but up until this moment none of it seemed really real. Like he was a playing at war, rather than living it.
And in a way, that was the truth. The 107th encountered no major setbacks until Azzano. The worst thing to happen was a private getting torn up to hell by a grenade in Salerno. Even then, the man survived and was shipped home to Kansas the following evening.
Now, the gravity of the current situation hits Bucky like a sucker punch.
He and his men are unarmed and surrendering to an enemy that is very much armed, not in the least with a tank that can shoot blue lightning.
Shit doesn't feel like playtime, anymore.
He comes to a stop a few feet away from the man who commanded him to surrender, arms still raised and trying to keep his back straight and chin up while his heart is kicking up a storm in his chest.
Up close, the man's uniform certainly looks Nazi enough, having a similar greenish hue and cut. Bucky also notices that the man, aside from the creepy octopus, is sporting an Iron Cross. So, Nazi indeed - but what kind?
The man's pale gray eyes, set in a pinched and bloodless face, bore into Bucky's with an intensity that makes Bucky want to look away.
He's used to being stared at. He knows he's good-looking, attracting the attention of women and men alike, and it's been that way since he entered adolescence.
But this man's stare... it's eerie. Bucky feels like the man sees him and sees right through him at the same time.
The grey eyes shift, unblinking, to the stripes on Bucky's uniform and his lip curls.
"Seargent, huh?" he says and the softness of his voice sends a shiver down Bucky's spine.
As he's caught in the death hold of the man's eyes, Bucky dimly notices more and more hostiles spilling out of the tank behind them.
One of them, a soldier with the looks and posture of an officer, joins the man's side.
"Oberst Lohmer," he greets him, saluting, then leans in to whisper in his superior's ear.
Lohmer's gaze lingers on Bucky a few more seconds and then he looks away, almost as if reluctanty. He starts, still with his hands in his pockets, sauntering toward the trench where Dugan and Jones can still be heard, shouting obscenities.
Bucky releases a breath he didn't know he was holding.
The officer who spoke to Lohmer gives Bucky a hard shove forward and Bucky falls on his face in the mud beside Wells. It doesn't hurt, but the humiliation of it sends a thrill of anger coursing through him.
"Stay down!" the officer barks, machine gun trained on Bucky's head.
To keep himself from jumping the officer, Bucky settles for a glare in his direction as he pulls himself off the ground and onto his knees and turns his attention to Wells.
"Hey, kid, you OK?"
He helps the disheveled young man sit up as well, and checks him over for injuries. Wells has deep bruising over his left temple, crusted blood falling apart at Bucky's touch, and a boot print faintly visible on his throat. But the eyes that meet Bucky's beneath muddy strands of peat-black hair shine with steely resolve.
Wells nods shakily, and Bucky gives him a pat on the shoulder.
The steel in the kid's eyes softens, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows.
"Bucky, I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault, kid."
Bucky closes his eyes, suddenly remembering the eight year old kid that the private once was with his big eyes and outstanding ears and a mess of black hair following his teenage brother and friends around because he thought they were cool.
He shouldn't be part of this mess, but he is, and Bucky, damn him, can't do shit about it.
A scream rips through the air and Bucky and Wells look up.
Dugan's being dragged towards them by no less than four octopus Nazis, screaming and thrashing all the way with all the ferocity and fervour of a wolverine. Lohmer follows quietly behind, calm as ever, pistol drawn and aimed at the head of Jones.
The men are forced to their knees beside Bucky and Wells.
Lohmer holsters his gun and folds his hands behind his back as he stands before the men.
His eyes lock with Bucky's again, a faint smile playing on his lips.
Insanity, Bucky thinks, this is what insanity looks like.
"Hail HYDRA!" Lohmer shouts triumphantly, while looking at Bucky.
The whole valley erupts with the answering salutes of "Hail HYDRA".
And even though it's the first time that Bucky's ever heard the word, it sends cold through his heart like a bullet of ice.