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Italy. Four months before.
The beer was cheap and warm, but there was enough of it to go around. Falsworth made three trips from the bar, glasses clutched against his chest, sloshing foam on anyone who didn’t get out of his way fast enough.
Steve was trying to convince them of his plan. Men talked over one another, pointing at gaps in the partial blueprints spread out on the table, knocking elbows and glasses. Eventually, as always, a plan took shape. It didn’t matter, things would inevitably go sideways and they’d have to improvise. Things worked out in the end, though. Always did. Gabe called it skill. Steve called it luck.
As men grew louder, the beer changed to liquor, and they prayed it would steel their nerves. Steve swirled his glass of whiskey. He relished the burn at times like these, even if the drink did nothing else for him. He started to speak, trying to think of whatever wise words could help.
“Fellas, I just wanna say-“
A hand swatted at him as the men booed at his attempt at sentimentality. Steve blushed and raised his hands in surrender, laughing along with the rest of them.
“Hey! HEY!”
Bucky had stood on a chair, his own glass of brown liquor raised for a toast. He looked down at them all, meeting each of them with clear eyes and a grin.
“May we all get to heaven before the devil knows we’re dead!”
The toast was met with a raucous cheer. Pint and rocks glasses alike were smashed together, creating an absolute mess. But no bar maid that close to an army branch would dare chastise the Howling Commandos for making a mess, not when they knew that this drink could be their last.
France. Two months before.
The pace had been taking a toll. The lines on their faces grew deeper, the shadows beneath their eyes were darker. But they still came together and drank.
The bar looked like every other bar across Europe that they had managed to squeeze themselves into the night before they had something dangerous planned. It smelled like sweat and soot from the fireplace that was desperately trying to keep them warm. Dum Dum and Happy Sam swayed near the back, singing something off-key that Bucky couldn’t quite place. It should have felt familiar.
Bucky knocked back drinks with the rest of them, the movements familiar, but the edge had stopped softening. He took another swallow of liquor. The burn didn’t help. Pulling his hands into his lap to hide the small tremble, he glanced over at Steve, watching his small, earnest smile twitch as the men made fools of themselves. Steve met his eye and tilted his head, as if to ask, “Now?”
It had become their ritual. Bicker and drink beer and once a plan was set, the toast.
It was their good luck charm, and so far, it hadn’t failed them.
And so Bucky hauled himself up on the table, reaching out to put a hand on someone’s shoulder to steady himself unnecessarily, and raised his glass.
“May we all get to heaven before the devil knows we’re dead!”
The cheers filled him with the warmth that the liquor lacked tonight.
Austria. The night before.
His nails scratched at the table while his mind spiraled.
Steve was talking, explaining how they’d catch Zola this time, how this was the chance they’d been waiting for. The Howlies were quieter than usual. Revenge for being held hostage, starved and beaten, poked and prodded, was at the forefront of all of their minds. Especially Bucky. He’d skipped the beer and jumped straight to whiskey tonight.
After Steve tucked the plans away in his jacket and the men started up as they normally did, Bucky slipped away. He ordered a drink at the bar, shooting back the liquor before immediately asking for a refill. The bartender gave him a double, saying it was “on the house.”
“You good with the plan, Buck?”
Downing another drink and feeling nothing but the burn on the back of his raw throat, Bucky attempted to mirror the faces of those around him, a carefree smirk, rosy cheeks, but the tension stayed in the form of that line between his eyes and a paleness cast over his face.
Steve didn’t push. He assumed it was the memories of Zola and Azzano that caused the tightness in Bucky’s shoulders and extra glasses of high proof liquor. He just clapped his old friend on the back.
“Take it easy, don’t need you puking tomorrow. Might give away our position,” Steve chastised with a laugh before heading back to the rest of the group. Bucky forced a chuckle and gripped his glass harder.
“Barnes!” Pinky called over the noise of the bar. “It’s your moment!”
Bucky forced himself to rejoin the group and allowed himself to be hoisted onto a chair where he raised his glass and toasted.
“May we all get to heaven…” The words died on his tongue, the bitter taste of dread taking over.
“Before the devil knows we’re dead!” the men finished for him, thinking it was intentional. Steve’s eyebrows narrowed when Bucky made excuses to leave early.
Austria. The day of.
The cold bit through his clothes and when Dum Dum passed him a flask of something to warm him, he took more than his fair share. It didn’t help.
Everything was going exactly right. Their timing was perfect. Each move they made was flawless.
Until all the Commandos’ skill and luck ran out.
Until Bucky slipped down the white, snow covered mountainside, out of Steve’s reach, out of all of their reaches.
Steve and the remaining Commandos gathered that night in uncharacteristic silence. Finally, Dum Dum raised his glass and tried to choke it out.
“May we - may he, oh god.”
“Before the devil knows,” Steve finished. His voice didn’t shake. Each man touched his glass to the others before walking out, one by one. Steve stayed, staring at the empty chair where Bucky should have been, replaying the moment his hand had missed Bucky’s sleeve, and knowing that for all their toasts and rituals and hopes, death was able to find them after all.
As Bucky fell, the words ran through his mind. It had been a joke when he first said it, something to stop Steve from talking too much, from overthinking.
May I get to heaven before the devil knows I’m dead.
While he lay in the snow, bleeding and drifting in and out of consciousness, he couldn’t figure out if he had crossed over yet. It didn’t feel the way his priest had described it would. He thought that maybe he should’ve gone to Sunday School more instead of kissing Dot Thomas behind the church.
When he felt himself being dragged, he knew something was wrong. The dread and anxiety he had felt was coming to a head.
He didn’t make it to heaven. The devil found him in the snow.