Frozen Tears

All characters belong to Marvel Comics

I own nothing

Flashes of white and blue flames.

He looked at the alloy shield spinning against the floor, disjointed memories clogged his mind in the split fraction of a second that he heard the deafening sound that would remain emblazon, not mere screams of soldier fighting to survival, but a sound of anguish and fear, and he knows that it building up into cries of defeat.

In Brooklyn, all of his days of youth ended by getting slammed into an alley wall, punched in the nose until blood gushed over his lips. When he fell into the trash cans, Bucky's steady hands were always there to lift him up, to wipe the maroon away and to ease his strained heart. That's what friends did, watch other's back. That's what Bucky did when he threw a punch at a bully towering over him, or kicked his boot into a behind of a jerk when the man staggered out of his eye contact. That was all Bucky did when in came to protecting his life, defending him, and kept on easing the pressure of his bony shoulders with the warmth of his hand.

And yet, despite, however, uncharacteristic to may have seen he knew that Bucky Barnes, the tough, Irish and defiant boy was his guardian angel, he knew Bucky would never believe in those words, so it kept it to himself.

The train car was spinning and cold with heavy flakes of snow brushing over his broad muscles, and he blinked the haze out of his crystal blue eyes. He struggled to reach his full height of six-two inches, his bones were jostled from the impact of the blast, and a thin line of blood trickled over the corner of his numb lips. He moved in sluggish steps, his vision swam in hues of red, and he narrowed his stern gaze at the shield, and felt his heart detach from his rib cage and sink into the churning pit of his stomach. A part of his soul threatened to rip when he lifted his head up, and faced the bright gray light of winter. Another part burns when he gripped his hands over the metal door and looked for his friend.

Moments grew still, chance was mocking him and coldness smothered his bones. His blue eyes filmed with water, violent gusts of wind slashed over his chiseled face-he searched-and his heart pounded faster against his chest. His resilient emotions had become disarmed with dread, and he dared himself to turn his gaze to his right, he knew that he didn't want to stare at the sight of his friend struggling to live.

"Bucky," Steve called out, feeling his heart exploding with heavy, rapid jolts of pain; he climbed out of the car, hanging on the edge, his knuckles tensed under the layers of his motorcycle gloves. His eyes scan over the scorched metal, and locked on his best friend's face. "No," he dismissed out a sharp breath, and met his steely blue eyes filled with uncertainty, fear and pain. He moved gingerly against the rattling wall, gripping onto his own life with every ounce of strength his veins could produce when he extended out his hand for Bucky to grab. "Bucky," he screamed out in a firm voice, the layers of his soul twisting.

"Bucky, take my hand." He tried to beckon the young sergeant to follow his direct order. He clenched his jaw against the biting frigid air lashing over his cheekbones. Everything was becoming numb. He felt frozen and trapped in a moment that felt like eternity.

The weight of his friend's life was slowly building on his shoulders. "I'm not going to let you go, pal." He spoke with a cadence of truth escaping his lips, heaving out a forceful breath-and pushing his arm closer to Bucky while he kept a steady gaze on the young soldier. "Take my hand..."

I will try, Steve. Bucky thought, his hands slipped off the steel rod. He managed to twist it was his weight, and mustered enough strength to reach for Steve's right hand. He fastened his lips into a taunt grimace, the muscle of his left arm begun to pull and tear. The bones dislocate, and poke out the skin.

Bucky gritted against the pain searing through him, and lifted a blood, stained hand. His heart ached. He could sense that his final moment of being a soldier, a Howling Commando, and a friend was fading. Winter was calling him in fall into a grave of ice waiting down below. He swallowed down a constricting lump of dire, tasting the copper tang of blood drip over his lips as he clenched his blue eyes shut, and tried to reach for Steve. His few heart beats steadied and muscles of his chest heaved with pants of exhaustion. He reopened his eyes, tears rolled over his temples and drenched his dark brown strands of hair. He was falling apart, pieces of his life stripping off him, and wounds becoming crystallized by the freezing rain pelting over him.

"Don't do this to me, Buck." Steve hollered against the wind, he latched his teary gaze on his friend's face, taking in all the details. He knew this was the last moment he would ever see his friend alive. It was torture to his soul, a puncture in his heart. Forcing his gaze to stare for one final time, he looked down at Bucky straight in his pools of glistening blue, looking at his youthful face, full lips that always contained a cocky, yet humble smile and the short brown hair that never grew past the nape of his neck. This was the James Buchanan Barnes he would always remember, not a soldier, but his best friend from the heart of Brooklyn, the boy that fought by his side and helped him conquer fear for his own battles.

"Steve," Bucky hoped his dimming voice would cut through the frosty wind and reach his friend. "Always remember...No matter what those jerks told you were always strong even when you didn't have muscle."

The screeching sound of metal loosening out of the bolts made his thudding heart cease in his chest, Bucky took one last glance at Steve's face, still imagining him as the scrawny, golden-haired boy he met in the schoolyard, the kid who had always been to dumb enough to walk away from a fight. A piece of him never wanted to see Steve as a soldier for the suicide missions of war, he knew his friend was meant for more than being a man in uniform. He was a righteous man-a protector and defender. He was a soldier who followed orders and carried out his missions.

Hearing the metal rod break off, Bucky dropped inches below the train, just enough to listen to Steve screaming out his name with heart-shattering cries. He fell into the white abyss, allowing it to swallow his mortality into a void of ice. He fell into a chasm of winter.

"BUCKY!" Steve screamed out a thunderous cry of pain. He felt his heart explode with a grenade in his chest, and the world around him shattered like glass shards of a mirror, cutting through the layers of his soul. He shuddered, and tore his eyes away when the distant echoes of his friend hit his ears. He wanted to let go, and fall down with Bucky, maybe the serum would give him enough strength to survive the injures he would endure. He needed Bucky. He would always need his wing man. It was too late, the train pulled him further away from the drop zone-the final resting place of James Barnes.

Steve clasped his eyelids tightly shut, and rubbed his forehead against the cold metal. He grieved silently. He felt the waves of failure crash against him. He failed to save his friend, Captain America allowed a good man to die when he had a chance to save him. Bucky never deserved this end, he was a hero, not a causality to be written on a gravestone in a vacant cemetery back in Brooklyn, along with all the other fallen men who gave their lives for liberty and freedom.

He was a friend, but a ghost of memory that will haunt Steve each time he will stare at falling snow.

"I'm sorry, Buck." He wept, feeling sick as smoldering tears of defeat rolled over his frozen lips.

He never looked back.