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Falling was not a familiar feeling for Sam Wilson. Falling was something he witnessed, something he was close too, something that could never touch him. Not really, it could touch Rhodey, and more recently Joaquín, but never him.
Sam had seen it in war, in his nightmares, before his very eyes.
But hurtling toward the ground, racing snow to the ground and winning by miles? That was new.
Sam's heart was thundering like a drum, echoing through every part of his body as if he was a hollow cave and the beat was a shout.
Wind whistled past his ears, drowning out the crackling of his broken and misfiring earpiece. Communications long since shot out, a quick blow to the side of his head early into this battle had made sure of it.
You would think military quality equipment would be able to withstand a bitch slap, but alas, budget cuts and whatnot.
This was so distinctly disturbing that Sam didn't know how to react, he couldn't think, his wings wouldn't respond and the treetops were only growing closer. Snowy-dark green was coating his vision, blurred by the snowflakes that joined him in his descent.
Icy cold like he'd never experienced before wrapped him in its spikey clutches, stabbing under his armor and prickling his skin waves of goosebumps. Distantly he finds himself wondering if this is what Bucky felt like off that train all those years ago.
His husband seldom talked about that night, or the subsequent years, but a stray comment here or there enlightened Sam of everything he needed to know.
He was helpless, the only thing Sam had left to do now was close his eyes, hope the branches of foliage below were enough to break his fall, and brace for impact. He’d been through the training, feet first into a roll was his best bet; the second option didn't seem feasible with the lush blocking his path but he could at least stave off lasting damage. Hopefully.
It was likely he would survive, but the battle wouldn't be over for another hour or so at least, between the mission that he honestly can't remember the point of and the conflict in the sky it could even go longer than that. Med-evac would take even longer, especially if they can’t find where he fell.
But he didn’t have time to be bothered by the statistics, because he was hitting the ground.
-
Waking up was not a new experience for Sam Wilson; neither was waking up in pain, maybe not to this level, but in pain nonetheless.
At least the snow was working as a sort of ice pack, the dew seeping through his armor and freezing against his skin in a thin sheen of ice. Every bone in Sam’s body ached like a bruise, which it probably was; a haunting mixture black and blue spreading across like a spill against marble countertops. He definitely had at least a couple broken bones, maybe a concussion, who knew if he had spinal damage so moving was not the best option.
If only he could move, with every breath spiking his nerves like sparks of a flame, a forest fire of agony. A distant part of Sam’s brain is grateful he is even alive, the forefront of his mind however could go for some advice.
Maybe a little more than just some.
The only thing he could do was wait, wait for help or to pass back out he wasn’t sure, but something was bound to happen eventually.
In the meantime, the silence was deafening. There was no distant sound of gunfire or explosions, which can only mean two things, that the fighting stopped or he was so far away that he couldn’t hear them. There was nothing, the wind seem to have stopped, trees hauntingly still above him as his eyes blearaly adjusted to his surroundings.
The lack of noise could also mean the blast that knocked him out of the sky had blown out his eardrums, but that is neither here nor there.
On second thought, it probably wasn’t that last option, because Sam could hear something. It sounded almost like an engine. Scratch that: definitely an engine, but med-evac could not be that fast, not unless he had been knocked out for way longer than he thought, which considering the sun was in the exact same place in the sky as it was when he fell based on the daylight surrounding him, it hadn't been.
Simple light rays shimmered against the packed snow in the corners of his eyesight, shadows clouding the rest. Sam’s inner monologue had become a cacophony of wonder, brown eyes tracing the shapes in the branches and leaves, listlessly gazing around in a daze.
But that engine grew ever closer, distracting his wandering mind, grounding his thoughts and sticking his mind to reality in its distracting glue. The rumble echoed in the absence of all else, swallowing him whole. Then the rumbling stopped, instantly, like the power was cut. A voice soon replaced it, a voice he loved, a voice that shone brighter than the twinkling sunlight against the bright snow.
Bucky.
Bucky, the man who has healed him and who he’s healed in turn, the light of his life, his best friend, his favorite foe, his other half. The man Sam could hand his soul to, bare and unprotected, and trust the other to do no true harm.
If Bucky’s voice was here, then everything would be alright, there was no other option. They had each other's back, even at opposite ends of a lawsuit, or a battlefield, of the kitchen table, of their bed; they had each other’s back.
Sam heard his name against the silence, and despite the horror in his bones a smile cracked against his lips. HIs head tilted, unconsciously, to the sound.
Bucky had ditched the snowmobile he’d rode in on, God knows where he got the damn thing, and sat kneeling in the earth mere inches from Sam’s face.
“Don’t move your head dipshit, you could hurt yourself more,” There was a wobble in Bucky’s voice, shaky like the high tide in a storm.
Worry, Sam recognized easily, and felt the instinctive need in his stomach to sooth it, the smooth the crease in his husband's brow, to kiss the frown off his mouth; alas, the best he could do was let out a wheezing chuckle.
“Where did-” a cough, punctuating, “-where’d ya get the bike?”
Bucky’s hands were already fastening a c-collar around his neck, ever the gentleman, “You fell out of the sky and you're worried about the bike?” A hand, a brush against his cheek, better than any painkiller, “Worry about yourself for a damn second, yeah? Not that piece of shit, couldn’t even crack 30 miles out here.”
Sam's eyes softened, focused, met bright, beautiful blue, “Stole it?”
A smirk, sharp like a razor, breathtaking all the same, “Not everyone can fly, dumbass, I had to get to you somehow.”
Sam couldn’t help himself, he laughed. All hearty and loud in his chest, turned breathy through hissing teeth, “Better not have- have not killed-” another aching cough bubbling in his lungs, fluttering into the conversation, a bothersome bird in a park begging for breadcrumbs, “-killed a man for a shitty snowbike.”
Bucky laughed in turn, because he could do that now, laugh over a violent joke without turning into a fit of panic, a level of healing they’d gotten him to together, “Just knocked him out, and he was part of the bad guys anyways.”
“The bad guys, huh?”
“Yeah, the bad guys.” There was a pause, Bucky sat back on his heels and looked back, the whole time they’d been bickering he had assessed as much of Sam’s wounds as he could, using witty banter to distract as he splinted a clearly broken leg, “Alright, I’m gonna get you on this stupid thing now and we’re going to get the hell out of here, okay?”
Sam hadn’t noticed until now, but somehow Bucky had, along with the snowbike and c-collar, smuggled an entire snow rescue kit, bright red stretcher and all attached right at the back of his shitty scooter. Bucky vanished from his field of view for a few seconds, returning with the stretcher in tow. He loosed the straps and muttered several apologies as he used his strength to carefully maneuver Sam onto it without jostling him more than he already had been.
No more words were spoken from then on, the tightening of straps securing Sam to the rescue device zipped in their place and at least three emergency blankets had been tucked around him.
As a last thought, Bucky popped back over Sam's face and offered a gentle peck, comfort in the wake of the adrenaline and pain that still swirled throughout his nervous system, “Just gotta get you to a medical center, I’ll go slow, promise.”
Sam believed him, in lieu of a response he smiled with a tiny nod, having lost the energy to form words.
Love and trust swelled in Sam’s heart, for the man that would come to his aid in the middle of a fight, against each other nonetheless. They’re teams were going to hate them, that’s for sure, but it was worth it.
Bucky mutteres something about hating snow behind him, the only thing Sam can think is: Ditto.