A/N: This is my first gay male OC story, so I'll be treading into this very carefully. If I write something that is offensive or misinformed, please let me know, and I will do what I need to do in order to fix it.

I tried to keep this story fairly historically accurate (it's Captain America, so that wasn't too much of a priority), which is why there is segregation in the military, and why homosexuality is shown to be illegal in the military as well.

For my sources regarding canon and geography, I am using a combination of the Timeline (with some small changes) and the map used in the movie, while also filling in the blanks myself here and there as well.

So yeah, I've been researching stuff for this story like a madwoman, and I tried to get as many things covered as I could. I wouldn't be surprised if a few things slipped through the cracks, though.

Also, I named each of the chapters after Two Steps From Hell, Thomas Bergerson, or Nick Phoenix songs. Just thought I'd mention that.

Glossary:

Frenchie = Jacques Dernier's nickname

Nada = Nothing

Marvel Characters (c) Marvel

OCs and Cover Photo (c) me

~Perilous Journey~

In the forest north of Rhinau, France, along the Rhine River, October 4th, 1944

He had reached the peak of the slope, but that didn't mean it was all downhill from here.

Far from it, devastatingly enough.

He was nowhere near clear of danger yet. It would only be a matter of time before they realize he escaped. They'll come after him. They have ways of tracking him, and they're probably doing it right now. He sometimes wondered whether it was pointless for him to run, when he knew that they were most likely going to catch him anyway. But he refused to let going back be an option! He would rather die than go back! So any chance of escape he could give himself, even if it's a meager one, he would take it.

His deep brown eyes scanned the terrain ahead of him. The slope downward was not terribly steep, so it was doable. There were trees jutting up from the underbrush in front of him, which could either be a blessing or a curse. On one hand, the trees could provide cover for him, with plenty of places for him to hide. But on the other hand, he was not familiar with the terrain, and his enemies most likely were. He didn't even know what country he was in! Was he still in France? Was he in Switzerland? Austria? Or was he all the way on the other side of Europe? He couldn't even begin to guess. That dark veil of simply not knowing encased his soul. Plus, any advantage he might have could be canceled out if they had the resources necessary to track him, be it hounds, or...other, more unnatural means. No doubt venturing deeper into these woods would leave him a sitting duck. It was a risk, but it was one he was willing to take! He could not go back; it would be a fate worse than death itself!

He turned and looked behind him. The dim sunlight made the forest behind him seem to fade into a dark abyss he could barely see into beyond ten feet. Fear, hatred, and anxiety slithered coldly through his veins, in knowing that somewhere beyond that abyss rested the hellish establishment he had been held in.

Just the thought of that awful place sent his heart into a frantic tap-dance, injecting hot adrenaline through every vein of his body. He didn't want to think about it, or be anywhere near it, so he took off down the slope, hoping with all his might that he actually was creating some distance between himself and his former prison. This certainly wasn't helped by the fact that he wasn't very good with directions to begin with; he gotten himself lost many times before, and there is no doubt in his mind that he was hopelessly lost right now. But he kept running, not even bothering to stop and try to figure out where he might be.

The uneven ground and downward slope made keeping his footing a challenge, and on more than one occasion he came extremely close to tripping. His eyes were mainly cast downward, paying more attention to where his feet were going rather than what was in front of him. This proved to be a problem when he actually did look up, and his face came in hard contact with a bunch of thin branches, smacking him like whips. He practically fell on the ground with a cry of surprise and pain. The branches had left some small scratches around his mouth and caused blood to drip from his right nostril. He sniffed and wiped the blood away.

He hardly let this slow him down, and kept running until the slope transformed into more even earth. This time he was more conscientious of looking at what was ahead as well as where his feet were going. He kept hearing twigs snapping behind him, never really sure it was just the echo of the twigs he was stepping on or not. He looked behind himself, half expecting but deeply hoping that he wouldn't see people chasing him. He kept telling himself to just keep running and not look back. Nevertheless, the echoes of twigs, be them from him or some unseen pursuer, kept prompting him to look backward despite his logical mind telling him not to.

On one of these instances of him turning around to check for any enemies, he had the misfortune of not allowing himself to see the downward slope that suddenly materialized ahead of him, until his feet were greeted by the sudden dip of the ground. Before he knew it, he was falling forward, his heart dropping along with his body. Then, his body hit the ground hard, and continued to hit it repeatedly as he tumbled down the slope. Halfway down the slope, he reached out to stop himself by attempting to grab onto one of the trees in his path. This resulted in his shoulder slamming against the tree hard, causing him to cry out in pain. Despite this, he still succeeded in hooking his arms around the tree, stopping his fall. For a minute he stayed there, clinging to the tree and gritting his teeth with a groan as he waited for the pain in his shoulder to subside.

When it finally did, he slowly hoisted himself up, using the tree for support. Once on his feet, he slowly let go of the tree and allowed himself to secure his balance before letting gravity take control of his pace. He started down the hill, not necessarily running as it was fast shuffling. He felt relief when he finally made it to the bottom. He then winced when his shoulder started to hurt again. He rubbed his shoulder to try and ease the pain, only to discover that the impact with the tree had dislocated it. He took a deep breath as he wrapped his hand around his arm and pushed it back, crying out when he felt it pop back into its socket. He inhaled through his teeth, clutched his arm, and began walking forward, not even waiting until the pain had disappeared completely. He kept his eyes focusing straight ahead and fought the urge to look back.

He didn't end up walking very far before the thick blanket of trees he had been pushing his way through suddenly disappeared and he found himself in, what he at first believed to be a small clearing, or break in the trees. It took a second for his brain to realize that it was neither when he looked down and saw that he was standing on a dirt road.

He looked up and down the road, seeing that it stretched deep into the forest in both directions. He felt his heart beat increase with something that teetered between relief and fear. On one hand, following this road would be his best bet of finding his way out this forest, and limit his risk of going around in circles. On the other hand, there was no way of knowing whether this road was still being used, whether by enemy or ally. He would probably be taking a huge risk by following it. Then again, he was already at risk, whether he was in the forest or on the road. So, he decided that following the road would be his best option.

The clearing that the road provided a large enough break in the canopy of trees that he was able to see where the sun was. He might not have been all that good with directions, but he at least knew how to figure out where East and West were by watching where the sun was rising and setting. His sense of time may have been warped a bit and he wasn't quite sure what time of day it was, but he was pretty sure that the sun was setting. Yes, it was definitely setting.

"Let's see," he muttered to himself. "The sun rises in the East and sets in the West, So, if it's setting there," he pointed to where the sun was setting. "...then that way is North," he pointed up the road, "... and that way is South." He pointed down the road.

Alright, he got that figured out. But since he had no way of knowing which country he was in, and for that matter, where in said country he was, it was hard for him to know which way would lead him away from danger. After all, he hadn't really been paying much attention to which direction he was going when he was frantically running for his life. He could have been running around in spirals before stumbling upon this road. Trying to choose between the two directions was like having the sword of Damocles hanging over his head, and not knowing which choice would result in the thread breaking. One way, or the other, or both? He was risking his life making this choice. But again, his life was at risk no matter what.

"North it is, then," he said, inhaling long and hard, praying that God, or whoever was listening, would lead him out of danger as he turned and headed North up the dirt road.

Outside Lyon, France, about an hour later.

Bucky Barnes sat in a chair just outside the doorway of the communications tent, staring into the darkness that rested just beyond the lights of the camp, watching, waiting, and hoping to finally see those headlights piercing the abyss and bringing good news, bringing hope. His features were carved with a look of concern, worry, anxiousness, and desperation. His heart was somewhere between flying out of his rib-cage, and stopping dead mid-beat. He had lost count of how many times that spark of hope was ignited hot inside him, only to be dowsed by the devastation and disappointment found at the end of another empty, unsuccessful search. He wasn't sure if he could take that anymore. He was just about ready to give up, but he knew he couldn't, not when there was even the slightest chance of them finding him.

He couldn't abandon him now, not like he had before.

Tapping his foot into a frenzy, Bucky finally couldn't take it anymore and stood up, turning and walking through the canvas flap of the communications tent. He looked at the still barely familiar faces of the French soldiers who were hanging around the table in the right corner. There were three of them; two were sitting, the third was standing. They were chatting among themselves in French, but as soon as Bucky entered the tent their chatter stopped, and they all turned and looked at him. There was silence for a moment, and Bucky could feel the weight of their stares growing heavier on his shoulders. They all had the usual expression that had been painted on every French soldier's face for the last several months; there was no fondness in their eyes, but there wasn't any hatred either. It was more like quiet judgment, annoyance, and respect reluctantly given with a sardonic clench of the jaw. Bucky had no doubt that not just him, but all the Howling Commandos, Colonel Phillips, and those associated with them had been receiving that stare.

The French Resistance; Jacques Dernier's brothers in arms. The leader of this particular unit, Major Mathis Pascal had been gracious enough to allow the Commandos to reside with them while they completed their recent mission of taking down a HYDRA weapons facility just North-West of Reims. But that was supposed to be the extent of the deal. They were supposed to depart right after the mission was completed, not latch onto them for almost four more months and drag them all over Free France to search for a missing Private. If the French men had their way, they would have booted them out months ago and left them on their own. Unfortunately for them, they had no say in the matter. All they could do was slip on that sardonic stare and point it at all the Outsiders, as they called them. They only could point it at the Outsiders, because they were too scared to point it at Major Pascal, who was the real culprit responsible for their chagrin. He and Colonel Phillips had shared a drink and became pals during the short course of the mission. So, naturally, when Phillips discovered that he was short one man, Pascal was perfectly willing to let them stay for as long as they needed to find their missing soldier.

Mathis Pascal was a good man; far more good than any of his men wanted him to be at this point.

The French soldier's didn't let up with their stare, but Bucky had no desire to face it any longer. He broke his gaze and turned away, and that seemed to be enough of a hint for them. A second later they resumed their conversation. Bucky didn't really care what they were talking about, even if it might have been insults directed toward him. He instead looked at the much more familiar figure of Jim Morita sitting at a table in the opposite corner toying with the radio, his head wrapped up in headphones. He turned and nodded to Bucky as the latter walked over to him.

"Any word from them yet?" Bucky asked, trying desperately to keep his voice steady and not let it go off key, giving away the lump that had taken residence in his throat for the last several months.

"Nothing, Sarge," Morita replied, seeming to not notice the slight crack in Bucky's voice. He had no idea, no idea that Bucky was falling apart right next to him. With each minute, hour, day, week, month that passed without any progress another piece of his soul chipped off and crumbled. "If the others find anything, even the smallest clue that might tell us where Isaac is, they will radio us."

"Dear God, I hope that comes soon," Bucky said quietly.

"Hey, don't worry, Barnes," Morita said, standing up and placing a soft hand on his shoulder. "I'm sure they'll find something soon. Don't blame yourself for what happened. It wasn't your fault."

It's a little more than that, Bucky said to himself; words that he never dared let out of his mouth. "Of course it's my fault!" he said instead. "I should have been looking after the kid," something he felt odd saying now, "Now he's God only knows where."

"There was nothing you could have done," Morita said. "It was far out of your hands. So there's no use in sweating it. In a way, we all blame ourselves for what happened. But beating ourselves up about it isn't going to get us anywhere. That's why right now, the best thing we can do for Isaac is keep looking for him and not give up."

"Oh, believe me, I have no intentions of giving up," Bucky replied.

"Me neither!" Morita agreed. "None of us have any intention of giving up on him."

Bucky looked at him. "Be honest with me, Morita. Do you really believe he is still alive?"

Morita stared at him for a moment. "Do you?"

"Without a doubt," Bucky said, without even skipping a beat.

"Even after almost four months of searching without any clues to tell us where he is?"

Bucky inhaled. "It may sound completely crazy, but yes, I do. I don't think he's dead. He's still alive, I can feel it." Bucky saw Morita cock an eyebrow, and realized how his words sounded. He straightened up. "I just have a feeling in my gut, you know." Nice save, he thought to himself

Morita seemed satisfied with that. "Well, at least you seem pretty sure, because I gotta be honest, Sarge, I'm not." Bucky's brow furrowed at that remark. "I mean, I want to believe he's still alive, really, I do," Morita continued. "...but I just don't know. He could be six feet under by now, for all we know. Without anything to tell us, we can only guess what state he's in. But there is one thing I do know, and that's that I don't want to quit looking until we find the truth of what happened to him, whether we find him alive or dead. I just want some closure, that's all."

Bucky lowered his eyes, but said nothing. He realized that in the end, that was all he wanted as well. Closure. Just to know the truth, because the not knowing was driving him insane; chewing up his dreams and regurgitating anxiety-ridden nightmares. Either that or it swallows them altogether, along with his ability to sleep at all. Although his optimistic idealist self kept insisting that Isaac was still alive, it constantly butted heads with his logical realist self. No matter how much the former succeeded in beating down the latter by sheer will, its opponent always found a way to get back up, reminding him with gut twisting honesty about how reality works. This was not some hero story where the good guys always won; this was WAR!

People die in war...

There it goes again; the Realist has staggered to its feet.

Bucky gulps his heart back down into his chest, almost choking as it seemed to scrape against his tongue on the way down, which felt as rough as a dehydrated sponge sitting in his mouth. He tried to will himself to beat the opponent back down to the ground, to convince himself once again that Isaac was strong, he was a survivor, and he was alive, hopefully hiding somewhere, waiting for them to come find him. He had endured tortures just as Bucky himself had; whatever he was going through now couldn't be as bad as that. He hoped.

But one thing he was sure of was that if they found Isaac alive (which they would, the Optimist said), Bucky would hold onto him and never let go. He didn't care if anyone saw. He didn't care if everyone knew the truth. He'd happily face the guns if it meant having Isaac back alive and in his arms again. Was that selfish? Probably. But it did not matter to him at this point. After four months of a hell worse than the war itself, he deserved to be a little selfish.

His thoughts were abruptly cut off by the stab of headlights briefly passing by the crack in the tent entrance and the distant rumble of, not one, but two car engines; a sound that could either bring hope, or more devastation.

"They're back," Bucky said, his tone seeming to reflect both the conflicting voices in his head.

Jim Morita turned his head at the sound of the car engines, as did the three French soldiers, who, up till now, had been chatting among themselves in their native language (or at least pretending to be.) But their reactions were a second slower than Bucky's, who was already heading for the exit before they had even processed what was happening.

"They didn't radio us, Sarge," Morita said. "That's not a good sign."

His voice was an echo in Bucky's ears, barely being registered. Blow by blow, the Optimist beat down the Realist with each racing thump of his equal parts scared and hopeful heart. Perhaps their radio wasn't working. Perhaps they forgot to use the radio. Maybe they found something that would lead them to Isaac that couldn't be explained over the radio. Maybe, they even found Isaac, but he was injured and they were so preoccupied with that that they didn't even think about using the radio.

Thoughts of that kind, as well as those on the opposite end of the spectrum, flip flopped in his head. The faint sound of Morita's footsteps following after him was barely audible in his ears, and was soon joined by the footsteps of the three French soldiers, along with multiple others. He eventually willed himself to turn and saw that, not only had he been joined by Morita and the three French soldiers, but by Major Pascal, Colonel Phillips, Peggy Carter, James Falsworth, and the rest of the French soldiers in the unit, all of them gathering to see what news the last of the search party brought.

Steve and Dugan sat in the front seats of one of the vehicles, with a couple French soldiers sitting in the back. Gabe Jones and Jacques Dernier occupied the other vehicle along with a few French soldiers as well. They had just spent the day in Lyon, looking and asking around to see if anyone knew anything, or could at least lead them to someone who did, while Bucky, Peggy, Falsworth, and a small handful of French soldiers spent the day asking around the villages surrounding the city.

That's what their searching had been like for the last few months; from city to city, village to village in liberated France they went, looking for a word, or even interrogating any HYDRA soldiers that were being held captive in the now freed cities. They even assisted in the liberation of Paris a couple months earlier in August. Same routine then. Once the city was free they started interrogating all the HYDRA and even Nazi soldiers to see if they knew anything. They found nothing; or at least nothing that the enemy soldiers were willing to tell. That was probably when Pascal's men would have wanted to break off from the Howling Commandos, and join their brothers in the liberation of more French cities. But of course, what they wanted was not what they got, as Pascal decided that the Outsiders needed their help more than the rest of the Resistance did.

The cars groaned to a halt, and Bucky didn't waste a second. He quickly approached the car Steve was situated in.

"Did you find anything? Anything at all?" Bucky said, only just barely noticing that he may have said that a little too quickly. He knew how that made him sound, but he wasn't sure whether he was really worried about that right now. But he did almost feel grateful when he felt someone move up beside him, and heard Peggy's voice inquiring the same thing.

"Any luck?" she asked.

Steve sighed and removed his helmet. Even in the near darkness Bucky could still read his friend's expression clearly, and got his answer right away; there was no optimism or triumph on Steve's face, just exhaustion, discouragement, and disappointment. Bucky's heart was already falling at high speed before Steve even started speaking.

"No," Steve said simply, completing the fall and sending Bucky's heart shattering on impact with the ground once again. "We asked all over pretty much the entire East side of the city."

"Yeah, and we found nothing that might tell us where Hermes is!" Dugan interjected, removing his bowler and whacking it against the dashboard. There was clear growl locked behind his teeth, heavily implying the frustration and anger he was trying to push down. "Nothing! Nada! If anyone does know anything, they're not talking for some reason. I mean, their city is liberated now. What would they be afraid of?"

"You know Isaac hates it when you call him Hermes," Bucky reminded, a little more harshly than he intended.

"Yeah, well it's not like he's really around right now to complain," Dugan retorted.

"Hey, hey," Steve said, reclaiming the conversation before Bucky could respond. "It's been a long day, and we are all exhausted, alright fellas?" He looked at Bucky. "We only covered a part of the East side. Tomorrow, we'll cover the rest. Maybe then, we'll find something." It was an empty promise, one that Steve had made many times in the last four months. But Bucky knew it was all Steve could do to reassure him, and placate him.

"What about Gabe and Frenchie?" Bucky asked. "Did they find anything?"

"You'll have to ask them," Steve replied. Before he could really say anything else, Bucky was already moving toward the other car.

"Did you fellas find anything?" Bucky asked Gabe and Dernier before he had really gotten to the car yet.

Gabe shook his head. "Sorry, Barnes," he said with a sigh. "Our search was the same as it's always been; dry as a desert." Just when Bucky thought his heart couldn't shatter anymore. Gabe turned to Dernier. "I never really asked you if you found anything that might help."

Dernier's eyebrows locked together, and he just looked at Gabe as if confused, or trying to process what Gabe had just said. Gabe sighed then said something in French, which Bucky guessed was him repeating the question in a language that Dernier knew better. Before the sentence was even finished, Dernier's eyebrows shot up in understanding.

"Well, actually..." he started, before stopping.

His eyebrows locked together again, and his eyes drifted to the sky, as if he was trying to look inside his head and find the words he needed. English was a struggle for him. Gabe was in the process of trying to teach him. But like most people learning a new language, he had a hard time remembering how to pronounce things, and which order they go in. Thankfully, he had a very patient teacher. After a moment of searching, Dernier gave up and turned to Gabe, speaking in his native language instead. Once finished, Gabe gave him a confused expression, then asked another question in French, which Dernier then seemed to answer.

"Well, what's going on?" Bucky asked after they were done. He really hated being left out of conversations. This must be how Dernier felt. No wonder why he wanted to learn English.

"He said that there was this older man working at a bar who seemed like he wanted to say something, but chose not to," Gabe told Bucky. "He said the reason why he didn't tell me was because he didn't think anything of it until now."

Just then, Dernier tapped Gabe on the shoulder. "Tomorrow," Dernier said. Gabe asked him a question in French, which Dernier nodded to.

"He wants to go back and question that man tomorrow when we resume the search," Gabe said.

"That sounds like a good idea." Bucky jumped at the sound of Steve's voice right next to his ear, and turned to see that his friend had appeared next to him.

"Captain Rogers is right," Major Pascal said, his voice rippling with a soft French accent. The guy was fairly quiet, but when he spoke, it was a treat for the ears. Yes, even when he was yelling. "We've all had a long day, and sleep will do us all good. We'll continue our search in the morning." He then shouted to his men in French, and was answered with a collective groan; the same song they had been singing in unison for months. Well, almost.

Bucky noticed that there was one French soldier who didn't join in with the song, or more appropriately, sang a different tune. Instead of a groan, he answered the Major with an accepting nod. A second later, his eyes caught Bucky's gaze. Whiskey colored eyes, contrasted against sun tanned skin and dirty blonde hair, seemed to regard him with understanding and compassion momentarily, before turning toward Major Pascal again. Bucky recalled seeing that guy around. He was probably the only French soldier, beside the Major, of course, who didn't wear that judging, sardonic stare, although he did see him wearing a look of disappointment and exasperation whenever a search came up empty. The soldier standing next to him, who did release a groan with the others, bore a strong resemblance to Whiskey Eyes, most likely his brother; whether younger or older, Bucky couldn't tell, nor could he tell how old the two of them were.

Once everyone began to disperse, Bucky felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Steve looking at him with a soft yet sad expression. "Get some sleep, Buck," he said. "You look like you could really use it."

"Believe me, Captain, we all do," Falsworth said as he passed by them.

Steve didn't say anything else, and just patted Bucky's shoulder as he turned and headed for his tent. For a moment, Bucky just stood there before finally finding the will and energy to begin his slow trek to his own tent. It was easy for Steve to tell him to get some sleep; far easier for Steve to say than it was for Bucky to do. He wished that going to sleep was as easy for him as simply just closing his eyes. It used to be so easy, but that stopped four months ago. He'll be lucky if he can get a few hours.

OC Cast:

Isaac Verona - Brenton Thwaites,

Major Mathis Pascal - Vincent Cassel

(There are other OC's clearly, but I haven't found faceclaims for them yet. I'll figure them out later)