A/N: So, I saw Infinity War today and was utterly devastated. Some of my favorite characters didn't make it at the end, and while I'm personally about 99% positive that someone is going to use a certain stone to fix that later, I also needed an outlet for that grief. So here is something a bit idealistic, a bit of a what-if scenario that I couldn't get out of my head. Please make sure that you do not read ahead if you haven't seen the movie and wish to avoid spoilers!

Bucky should've known this was going to happen.

How many times did he have to lose before he figured that out? Anyone else would have learned their lesson after being thrown out of a train and getting their arm torn off on the jagged rocks of the Alps, but not James Buchanan Barnes. No, he just kept jumping into the deep end without checking to see if there was anything in his way. Sometimes, it was as though he had been falling forever, waiting to hit the ground while never actually making contact. That was his only description for the sensation that accompanied the constant pitfalls he couldn't seem to avoid. Bucky Barnes, the Winter Soldier, and now the White Wolf—every single one of them had dropped like a stone in water, treading when they could but ultimately unable to fight the tide that increasingly threatened to drag them under.

This time, it looked like he'd lost that battle before it had even begun. They all had, whether they woke to the same darkness or not.

Well, he called it waking up, but his mind was murky enough that he wasn't so sure. It was almost akin to the days when the world would blur in and out of focus, his limbs cold and rigid at his sides while nameless, faceless goons carted him around for conditioning. When that happened, he didn't get a chance to survey his surroundings or make sense of anything; he hadn't been allowed the luxury of time or certainty. Instead, he'd lived in an endless haze of motion and missions and death and blood. It had stained his hands until that was all he recognized: there was no escaping the telltale red or the whispers of those whose lives he'd ended whether they deserved it or not. No escape, no relief, no atonement before they put him back under and wiped it all away.

Living in Wakanda for the last couple of years had meant that Bucky could put those days behind him, choosing another existence that allowed him to be whoever he wanted. It hadn't erased the memories from his mind like Hydra's machines had done, though, and he carried them with him everywhere he went now.

That was how he maintained his composure when he struggled to rise but couldn't do more than maneuver himself onto all fours. That was how he managed to remain immobile when his eyes opened only to discover that he may as well have kept them closed for all the difference it made. The darkness was complete, maybe even more so than what had blanketed him in his decades of inactivity.

This time, however, he was alone.

There weren't any technicians waiting to check the status of his metal appendage or doctors, if they could be called that, ensuring he was in peak physical condition. Alexander Pierce wasn't there; neither was Vasily Karpov. In the gloom that encompassed everything, he could make out nothing but his own breathing and the way his flesh hand clenched tightly into a fist against whatever passed for ground beneath him.

For a second, that was all the movement he was capable of. None of his limbs were working right; he couldn't even feel them, which was discomfiting at best. In spite of the calm that had descended upon him during his convalescence in T'Challa's hidden kingdom, some habits were harder to break than others. Bucky had already lost an arm—he wasn't about to let another one go wandering off when he least expected it. Every morning, he catalogued his condition: the state of his muscles, the sharpness of his vision, the briskness of his pace. If he had to run, then he wanted to make damn sure he was able to, even if he was well aware that it probably wouldn't be necessary. The king of Wakanda had done everything in his power to ensure that Bucky was not only safe there but welcomed as well. He'd gotten to know the kids from neighboring farms (or, he should say, they had been more responsible for making his acquaintance when he'd been perfectly content to keep to himself); the Dora Milaje checked in every now and again to make sure he had all he required to live comfortably. Running should have been the furthest thing from his mind, yet it was hovering somewhere near the front regardless. The Winter Soldier was gone for good; his legacy was another matter. Given that he and Stark weren't really on the best of terms, he didn't think it was too paranoid to believe that someone would come for him eventually.

So, he'd stayed in shape. He'd ignored his conspicuously empty left sleeve until he'd finally grown accustomed to going about his business with just one hand. He'd focused on keeping busy and helping out any way he could.

He'd counted his five fingers and ten toes. He'd flexed the muscles in his thighs and his calves. He'd gritted his teeth and tested his eyesight—all in preparation for something he couldn't be certain would come.

As it turned out, that effort would apparently be going to waste. Bucky was numb from the top of his head to the soles of his feet where he assumed they were still crammed into combat boots he hadn't worn before that day. Stepping into them hadn't been difficult, nor had slipping his stump into the pretty badass replacement arm Shuri had made for him to fight with. He didn't doubt for a second that she would have given him one whenever he asked, whether he needed it for a battle or simply to pick his nose and scratch his back at the same time, but he hadn't exactly reached a point where he was ready for that sort of thing. He'd been doing fine without another appendage, so there hadn't been a reason to rock the boat. Not until now.

Steve Rogers was a powerful motivator. Always had been, always would be.

But Steve wasn't here—wherever here was. While his vocal chords seemed as frozen as the rest of him, Bucky was certain of that long before his mind caught up enough to consider calling out for him. The two of them had been connected since they were kids, almost to the point where it was kind of creepy. Even when he was locked behind the door of the metal vault Hydra had slammed on his identity, something about that guy had resonated with him. It didn't matter if they were together or apart, a room away or continents: they always found each other, always heard each other, always felt each other. Bucky's mind was still fuzzy, unsure of what the hell had happened, but his lips remembered forming Steve's name before the end. His eyes remembered looking to his best friend when the world had wavered and turned indistinct. His legs remembered trying to reach him and then…

Nothing. Just nothing.

Now he was alone, and he didn't feel Steve Rogers in his head or his heart. He didn't feel anything. For the first time in two years, it was almost like being the Winter Soldier again.

That was what goaded him into steeling his resolve and propelled him not quite to his feet, but close. They were too weak beneath him, trembling as though they might turn to dust under the strain of holding his weight. Exhaustion clung to him, and he got the impression that it didn't have anything to do with the war they'd been waging a minute ago. Had it been a minute? How long had he been out, anyway? Bucky had no way of knowing, although he distantly registered that time wouldn't mean a damn thing here regardless. If he'd been captured, then that needed to be his utmost concern; if he was dreaming this up, then that was a whole other ball of wax. His head wasn't the most reliable or stable place to be, so it wouldn't do him much good to dwell in it for too long. Odds were, he'd already overstayed his welcome if that were the case.

He couldn't just lay there, much as his muscles ached to do precisely that. He had to move, had to figure out where he was—where Steve and the others were—something. Anything. His best friend was counting on him; the Wakandans were counting on the White Wolf. He had to get out of here.

That was easier said than done. Bucky's body wasn't his sole enemy: navigating through the dark was its own trial, especially when he couldn't discern whether there was even a floor. Logically, there had to be. If there wasn't, he wouldn't be able to walk (see: stagger) across it. Even so, his fingers met no perceptible resistance when he occasionally toppled forward and reflexively reached out to catch himself. It was like he was floating—or falling—with invisible strings preventing him from hitting the ground. Or it would have been if not for the fact that they didn't do much to keep him upright.

Neither did the lump of something he tripped over.

Grunting in surprise, Bucky rolled to the side so that his metal arm would take the brunt of the impact and winced when it didn't make a sound against the seemingly nonexistent surface below. A second passed where he was positive his imagination was going into overdrive: he still couldn't see a damn thing, and not a sound breached the silence besides the ones he was making. He was no stranger to sensory deprivation, so it wasn't too difficult for him to believe that his brain was giving him what he wanted even though it couldn't possibly be true. There was no one and nothing else here. Wanting that to change wouldn't make it so.

Which meant he was either the luckiest bastard in the universe (doubtful) or had apparently appeased somebody upstairs, because he nearly died of relief when a familiar groan reached him through the ceaseless shadow.

"Sam?" he called softly, hardly daring to hope.

There was a rustle of clothing then a murmured, "Where the hell are we?"

Oh, yeah. He'd somehow gotten lucky this time. Sam was a military man, and as such, he wasn't prone to pointless panicking even in the direst of circumstances. They hadn't exactly gotten along on the rare occasions when they'd been forced into each other's company, but Bucky had to grudgingly respect the guy for that.

Shrugging a shoulder before remembering that Sam wouldn't see it, he replied, "No idea."

"Gonna take a wild guess that we aren't in Kansas anymore," he retorted wryly. It was a nice way to disguise the uncertainty in his voice.

He's been taking too many lessons from Steve.

"Yeah," sighed Bucky, glaring into the darkness. "Looks that way."

"Anybody else here?"

"Just us, as far as I know."

Sam didn't immediately respond, and Bucky had to bite back a smirk. Any other day, he probably would have made some smart remark about how they were in hell or that he must have pissed somebody off to end up with no one else for company. A couple of years ago, Bucky would have anticipated it.

Not today, though. Wherever they were, whatever had happened, they would be better served by sticking together rather than poking at each other the way they had in the past. There would be time for that when they made it out of this place.

He hoped.

For now, they had to keep their priorities straight. Getting out, getting to the others, getting to Thanos—that was their mission. And Bucky was nothing if not damn good at focusing on a mission.

Fortunately, so was Sam. He seemed to be taking their situation in stride, because he sounded a lot steadier when he asked, "You having trouble remembering how we got here, or is it just me?"

"Definitely not you."

A pause, then, "All things considered, that's not too comforting."

There was the old Sam. Bucky had been starting to think that he was going to be a professional about this. Silly him.

Smirking, he shot back, "Hey, I can remember what I had for breakfast and everything these days."

"Oh, really? What'd you have for breakfast, then?"

"Nothing. I was too busy saving the world."

"Uh huh. I'm starting to think we didn't do such a hot job," observed Sam, his humor instantly vanishing and taking Bucky's smile along with it.

He didn't have an argument for that one. The longer they sat in the dark, the more he wondered whether this really was some kind of hell—sarcasm aside. How they'd gotten here was about as clear to him as where they were, but he wasn't stupid: it was more likely that they'd died on the battlefield than that they'd been captured. Thanos didn't need them; they didn't have anything he could possibly use. Maybe that would have been different if his arm had contained an infinity stone or something, but while Shuri was a talented scientist, he doubted she'd had access to that sort of thing before Steve had shown up with Vision in tow. That meant they were nothing to that psychopath.

And that was the problem, wasn't it? People didn't matter to him; lives were expendable if it would preserve the rest of civilization. That, at least, was what he had gotten from the spiel Thanos had spun.

Genocide in order to save half the planet. Talk about a load of crap.

For once, Bucky had to hand it to Hydra: at least when they'd been set on decimating the population, they'd had a reason behind it. They'd been attempting to safeguard their institutions and their aims, which was a far more tangible goal than what Thanos was after. Hydra hadn't been playing God—they'd just been assholes. Bucky could deal with assholes. It was the ones who thought they were in charge of deciding who lived and who died because they were too stupid to come up with a better plan that he had a tougher time with.

The notion left him with a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, and Bucky had to swallow hard against the question he really wanted to ask: do you think we're still alive? It wouldn't have been unwarranted, that was for sure. The last thing he did recall with any clarity was that Thanos had succeeded. He'd used the time stone or whatever it was to turn back the clock and rip his prize from Vision's head. Nothing Thor had done could change that, not with that fancy axe of his or his deific strength. In that instant, he had been just as vulnerable as the rest of them, utterly powerless against the might that Thanos had wielded. The might that Bucky increasingly believed may have been used against him. Against Sam.

Against half the universe.

Why else would they be here? Why else would his brain protest his attempts to access whatever had happened prior to slipping from consciousness to whatever passed for it now? Why else would they be trapped in darkness, far from Steve or anyone else who could have any answers as to what was going on?

Question piled upon question, but neither he nor Sam gave them voice. If they did, it would make this real. If they did, they would be admitting what they only had to fear for now.

"We've gotta get out of here," Bucky echoed his thoughts from earlier aloud, feeling more than hearing the air displaced by what he assumed was Sam's nod of agreement.

"Yeah, man. We've still got more ass to kick."

He was right about that, not that Bucky had a lot of confidence that they'd manage it. Sam obviously didn't either, but that didn't stop him from muttering something about how Steve owed them for this and how the next hotel was going to be a ten-star one. It didn't stop him from practically smacking Bucky in the face as he blindly felt ahead of him for any unexpected obstacles. It didn't stop him from quietly calming a grieving Wanda when they stumbled across her or making hushed plans that would probably never come to fruition with T'Challa when they happened upon him.

All the while, Bucky simply followed and listened and waited. What he was waiting for, he wasn't entirely certain. Maybe it was for something to change, or perhaps it was merely for their actual deaths to whisk them away from one another forever.

Or maybe that part of him that had never come home from the war was simply wondering if they would find Steve next so that he could say goodbye first.

Either way, his suspicions didn't materialize—not yet. They were allowed to wander alongside those of their comrades who hadn't been fortunate enough to be spared Thanos's cleansing, their souls gathering here rather than moving on to whatever it was that existed after death. If T'Challa's assumptions were correct—and the guy wasn't wrong often—then things hadn't gone entirely to plan for their giant purple enemy. No one had ever wielded the infinity stones the way he had, which left the possibility, however slight, that they weren't as down and out as they seemed.

There was still hope. There had to be.

If they could just get the hell out of here.

Or turn back time.