The Howling Commandos

by Go Away Olivia

The story of the Howling Commandos focusing on Bucky Barnes.

2. Chapter 2

AN: As promised, Part 2 is much, much longer than part one. Thank you for being so kind to me. I hope you enjoy part 2!

PART TWO

"Well, Jimmy; no one would ever accuse you of being smart," Dugan remarked cheerfully as he picked Bucky up by the shoulders with little regard for what being roughly pulled to his feet did to his muscles after being beaten and electrocuted by those damn cattle prods just moments before.

"Fuck off, Dum Dum," he grumbled, swatting the larger man's meaty hands away from where they were checking him over. He was grumpy as hell. "And, you're no genius yourself, I'll have you know. There's a reason we call you Dum Dum, asshole."

"Hey, don't get crabby with me. You're the one who just got your ass kicked. That's completely on you," he declared, like it made no difference to him whether or not Bucky was beat to hell. Bucky might have believed him, if not for the fact that those meaty hands were back, gently checking him over, carding through his hair looking for blood. This was probably karma for all the times he'd done the same to Steve after one of his fights. Still, he'd like to think he wasn't half the patronizing asshole Dugan was. And damn it all, he just wouldn't stop with the hands.

"Dugan," he snapped, shoving the man's hands away again. "Off."

"You alright, Barnes?" Jones asked him casually, which Bucky appreciated. The last thing he needed right now was to be fussed over. It'd been weeks since they'd gotten to Azzano, and Bucky hadn't made friends. That first encounter with Rudolph had set a sort of precedent that Bucky didn't particularly appreciate. Calling him Rudolph had probably only escalated the problem, but not only was it a common German name, but the red nosed reindeer part was just hysterical after the bloody, broken nose he'd given the guard, and Bucky hadn't been able to help himself. Needless to say, Bucky wasn't his or his friends' favorite person. Or he was, depending on how you looked at it. Not only that, but it was getting colder and colder at night. He'd started coughing two days ago, which hurt like a bitch when he had a cracked rib. The cough was only getting worse too, but while Jones snuck concerned looks, at least he didn't say anything outright.

"Fine, fine," Bucky replied with a sigh, putting some space between him and Dugan so he could sit down in peace without being felt up for the third time. Gingerly, he leaned against the metal bars.

"The hell were you thinking?" Monty snapped. He sounded even more like the pompous son of a lord when he was angry or worried. That's how Falsworth dealt with stress; he got snippy and condescending. That was how his whole damn country dealt with stress as far as Bucky could tell.

Bucky sighed irritably. This was really not what he needed when he felt like crap. They were all too damn loud.

Dernier grumbled angrily at him in French. The only parts Bucky understood was "fuck" and "stupid," but he got the gist and gave his best glare in return. Dernier just arched a brow and he and the others looked at Bucky expectantly, waiting for him to explain his actions. He gave in, and let himself slump further against the bars.

"Adams is just a kid," Bucky slurred a bit, settling his aching head against the cold bars. "A stupid one, yeah, but a kid."

"You're not much better," Dugan shot back, more serious than he had been moments before, which made Bucky frown. Dugan was actually concerned, and damn if that didn't make him uncomfortable.

He managed a careless shrug, "Maybe to you, old man, but I've got eighteen months on the battlefield that that kid doesn't, and you know what kind of a difference that makes to someone that green."

"Maybe, but you do realize that if you keep using yourself as a distraction sooner or later their attention is going to fixate even more on you. And you can't afford the extra attention with that cough of yours." The older man warned, ignoring the quip about his age, which again spoke to how concerned Dugan actually was.

"He's right, Barnes," Jones said quietly. "Try to lay low for a bit, huh?"

Barnes heaved a sigh, "I was actually trying," he admitted, which was just kind of sad, because he'd honestly been mostly trying this whole time, and look at how good he was at it. "I didn't mean to get involved. I just have three loud mouthed younger sisters and a brother who gets himself into more trouble than me. It's more instinctual than anything else at this point. And like I said; Adams is just a kid and he's one of ours." The unlucky bastard had been dropped into the platoon Bucky oversaw scant weeks before they were picked up by HYDRA. He was as green as they come, but he was a good kid. Bucky had dismissed rank very early on in their captivity. They were in this together, and his pen-mates were his equals, not underlings, but he couldn't help but feel responsibility for Adams still. When the fool kid had found himself on the wrong side of those guards, Bucky had jumped in before even realizing what he was doing. For a split second, it'd been Steve there, and then there he was, shoving Adams out of the way and mouthing off enough for them to switch their focus. That was when the beating and the glorified cattle prod came in.

"Lay low," Dugan said firmly, giving him a hard and serious look. "Lay low and we'll pick up the slack."

The others nodded so Bucky nodded. "Yeah, alright. You guys have been getting lazy anyway. Probably will be good for you," he joked.

Dugan and Jones tossed their jackets at his face and he let out a raspy laugh that hurt like hell as he tossed them back. "Wake me up for my watch," he murmured sleepily, and just like that he was out like a light.

No one woke him for his watch. And when he did wake up that morning as the guards called their friendly wake up call, he was wrapped up tight in Dugan's jacket. He glared at the man as he tossed it back, but Dugan shrugged unapologetically.

Laying low wasn't much of an issue, it turned out. His cough worsened dramatically over the next few days, and he got a fever to go with it. Bucky had nursed a pneumonia ridden Steve enough times to know the signs, so he knew he was pretty much done for. As soon as he was too weak to work he'd be dragged off to be shot. There wouldn't be any recovering. Not from pneumonia. Not in these conditions when they were working fourteen to fifteen hours a day with no heat but whatever their working bodies generated. He was done for, and it was something he understood with a sort of weary detachment. There was no fear. No panic. Just resignation and a pang of regret that Steve, his mother, and his sisters might never know for sure what happened to him. That bothered him more than anything else; the idea that they'd forever wonder.

Unfortunately, he'd already made enough of a menace of himself over the last several weeks that Rudolph and his buddies noticed that he was lagging a bit. They made sure to give him hell for it, too. Bucky was beginning to suspect he'd be beaten to death by the guards before he could manage to die from the pneumonia. At least that would be faster, he supposed. If he was taken out back to be shot, he knew for certain Rudolph would be one of the ones pulling the trigger. He'd grin too, smug bastard. Bucky really of kind hated him.

The others were really beginning to worry, which, while annoying and slightly disconcerting, was also kind of nice. They were all in hell, and for as much as the five of them remained upbeat, Bucky knew he wasn't the only one who wasn't expecting to get out of there. It would have been easy to just shut off, to tune out everyone around them and focus on themselves. Easier than staying connected with the people around them and watching them die one by one. It would have been easy to shut him out the moment he got sick, because they all knew what he did; his days were numbered. But they didn't. They talked to him and joked with him, and he was pretty damn sure they were giving him extra food and water, and that meant more than Bucky ever would have expressed. Not only that, but he was pretty sure the four of them were currently planning an elaborate "accident" for Rudolph, who would probably kill him pretty soon, if given the opportunity. They weren't willing to let him get that opportunity though, and that was pretty touching too.

"How's he doing?" a voice from the pen over asked. Bucky rolled his head over to see a Japanese American looking at him in concern. When Bucky looked up, he asked him directly, all casual and upbeat, and fake as hell, because Bucky could see the tightness around his eyes, but he appreciated the sentient, "How's it going, Ace? Finished lying around yet?"

"What's it to you?" Bucky slurred, because he didn't know this guy from Adam. He hadn't been in their company, but in another platoon somewhere else, captured and brought in almost two weeks after his unit. The others clearly wanted to know that too, because he could feel them grouping around him protectively. Even Dernier who'd been a member of the Free French, and hadn't known him not too long ago.

The man shrugged. "Kensey is ours. You got your ribs cracked for him last week. That earns you a hell of a lot of loyalty in our group."

Bucky nodded because that made sense. He could understand and respect that. Anyone who'd ever stood up for Steve had been alright in his book too. "In that case, no I'm not finished lying around yet. Figure I got a hell of a lot more of it to do. Let you lazy jackasses handle the work for a little while."

"Sounds good to me, man. Been getting bored anyhow," he replied. "Jim Morita. Nice to meet you. You a sergeant?"

"Yeah," he mumbled. "James Buchanan Barnes. Friends call me Bucky. Too many James' and Jims running around, you know?"

Falsworth snorted.

Morita looked amused, "The hell kind of a name is Bucky Barnes?"

"A damn good one," he shot back, instantly riled, just like he'd been as a kid.

Morita laughed and turned his attention to Falsworth, "Here," he said, passing something through the bars. "It's not much."

"It'll help," Falsworth replied. "Thanks, mate."

Morita just nodded and sat down.

"Up and at 'em, Sarge," Dugan said, grabbing him by the shoulders and heaving him up into a sitting position. The room spun and his head pounded.

"Your bedside manner is shit, Dugan," he grumbled peevishly.

"Sorry I'm not a pretty dame tending to ya," Dugan said amused.

Falsworth put the small bundle of leftover food in Bucky's lap. "Eat up, Sarge."

Bucky sighed dramatically, but he knew better than to argue so he ate the meager leftovers and made sure he got eye contact with Morita. "Thanks."

Morita nodded, "You rest up, Barnes," he said seriously.

Bucky nodded and closed his eyes.

He slept like the dead, but he didn't get better. Every day it was a little harder to keep up with the punishing work pace set by their jailors, and a little harder to hide his cough. His fever was growing, he felt dizzy and his lungs felt like wet bags that were too hard to properly inflate. The only bright spot was that the guys' plan was successful and Rudolph died very unfortunately in a freak accident on the factory floor. Bucky had grinned the rest of the day, managing to do his share of work, against all odds. But still, he wasn't getting better, and they all knew it.

"Come on, Sarge, up you come," Dugan said, hauling him up yet again two mornings after the accident. Bucky wanted to let out a long groan at the thought of another day on the factory floor, but he stood and pushed away from Dugan proving he could still stand on his own, despite the pneumonia and the fever. The others were more openly concerned now, which was good enough for Bucky to know he had a couple days at the most. Part of him thought it would be easier to be taken out and shot now. At least he'd be out of his misery.

They moved out of the pens and out onto the factory floor. Bucky was in a haze for most of the morning. A litany of "just keep moving, don't sit down, just keep going, keep breathing, in and out, breath, Barnes," ran circles around his brain. It took so much of his concentration just to keep moving that he didn't notice at first when a fight broke out, but when he did. Finally registering the yelling, his head jerked up and he pushed his way forward, through the others, the sudden urge of adrenaline helping him a bit.

"Fuck," he hissed furiously as he saw Hastings being pounded on by four guards. These dumb kid privates just kept trying to get themselves killed. And he would be killed, Bucky realized, as he watched them. They were probably still wound up from Rudolph's "accidental" death, and they were taking it out on the kid, who'd slipped up. Which, inadvertently kind of made it Bucky's fault. He couldn't let the kid die, he realized, and he started forwards immediately. Dugan grabbed his arms, snatching him back.

"No way, Barnes. They'll kill you," he said, firm and grim.

"They're going to kill him!" Bucky snapped, feeling a bit frantic, because they didn't have much time, and Dugan looked stone-faced and unmovable. He knew the man hated it. Under that bowler hat and stupid mustache, Dugan was a pretty decent man who hated bullies as much as the rest of them, but he was also a hard man when he had to be, and with those blue guns pointed at all of them, he knew the kid was going to die and he knew there was nothing they could do to stop it. He could accept it. Bucky couldn't.

"I'm a dead man walking anyway," Bucky said honestly, finally voicing what all of them had been thinking for days now. Dugan visibly flinched, but Bucky kept eye contact, boring his eyes into Dugan's "At least this way I choose how I go and I go down with the chance of saving someone else. Come on, Dum Dum. Let me have that," he said fiercely. "You gotta let me have that."

His hand tightened on Bucky's arm for a moment before his expression broke and he swore viciously. "Alright," he relented, looking grief stricken in a way that had Bucky wanting to swear too. "Alright."

"We'll cover you," Falsworth said softly and before he knew it they were all shouting, getting the attention of the other guards so that Bucky could slip through the guns. He grabbed the wrist of one of the guards who was about to land yet another blow with one of those god-forsaken sticks, and cleanly snapped it, snatching the stick out of his hand as he did so. The guard let out a cry of pain, but Bucky was already following through with a swing to the face. The guard fell and didn't get up.

Adrenaline was coursing through his veins, and he was pretty sure it was the only reason he wasn't falling to his knees in a dizzy, breathless haze, but Bucky didn't question it. If he was going to go down, he was going to make as many of those crazy nazi bastards as he could suffer first. He slammed the stick into another's gut and then slammed it into the side of his head. He went down too before the other two guards realized what was happening and abandoned Hastings for him. Hastings had enough good sense to drag himself away from the fight, and other soldiers clumped around him hiding him from view even as they cheered Bucky on. Bucky knocked another one out before he got a staggering blow to the head and the other guards rushed into subdue him. He fought them off as best he could, but he was out numbered and weak. Still, Hastings was hidden, and he'd done better than he expected.

Three guards held him and another was raising a gun when a cold voice cut through the air. "What is going on here?"

Bucky was dizzy and out of breath and he couldn't help the coughing that started wrenching from his lungs violently.

"Shut up," One of the guards barked angrily, jerking him. It just made the coughing worse though. He couldn't catch a breath, and black spots started speckling his vision. It took a moment, but after some more hacking he was finally able to take in some desperate, gasping breaths. Deep sympathy for Steve stirred within him. Pneumonia was the worst.

When his vision cleared Dr. Zola was standing before him, looking at him curiously behind his round glasses. Bucky jerked away when the little round man reached out a hand to touch his forehead, but one of the guards grabbed him by the back of the neck and forced his head down so Zola could reach. Bucky snarled behind gritted teeth, but his arms were locked in two different guards' grip, and the adrenaline was wearing off quickly, leaving him feeling like he wouldn't even be standing without their help.

The doctor's hand felt cold and clammy against his forehead and Bucky flinched away, but the grip on his neck tightened and the doctor moved his hand from his face to his neck then back to his face again as he checked his eyes.

"What's your name, sir?" Zola asked curiously.

Bucky's throat felt raw as he spoke belligerently, "Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes."

"Tell me, Sergeant, did you do that?" he asked curiously, nodding to the three guards on the ground. Two were shifting, starting to get up. One wasn't moving yet.

Bucky sniffed, "What of it?"

He was expecting anger. He was expecting to be shot with one of those blue guns then and there. He wasn't expecting for the little round man to smile and look genuinely pleased. Cold dread pooled in his gut at that look, and Bucky suddenly felt like he was facing down a fate so much worse than the strange, blue gun. "Well, Sergeant Barnes, I think you are just the subject I've been looking for." His attention turned towards the guards. "Take him to my lab. I don't want any more harm to come to him in the meantime, gentlemen. Deliver him safe and sound."

"What?! No!" he heard Dugan's voice shout angrily as the guards acquiesced, if only because the fate waiting for him in Zola's lab was worse than just being shot and killed. He might live a little longer, but no one came back from Zola's lab, and being killed would be a mercy in comparison. "Sarge!" Dugan shouted, sounding panicked, and Bucky was just barely conscious enough to hear the sounds of a struggle break out. "Sarge! Barnes!"

The bottom dropped out from beneath him, and Bucky stopped trying to even hold his head up. He was too damn tired, and now the world wouldn't even let him die in peace. He was just so tired; all he wanted to do was sleep. He let his body go limp, too tired and too sick to fight anymore.

He was unconscious before they even made it to the lab.

He woke up some time later, strapped down to a metal table, cold and shivering. His eyes were blurry but he could just make out white lab coats and strange looking machines. A sort of muted terror coursed through his veins, but his mind was too fuzzy for the sharp stab of fear to really hit home. A little round man in a white lab coat and round glasses moved further into his line of vision, and Bucky struggled to focus his eyes on him. When he finally managed it, he realized the little man was holding a needle up and smiling. Bucky started shifting away weakly.

"Relax, Sergeant," the round man's voice soothed. "We haven't even begun yet. We need you healthy first." There was a sharp pinch at the side of his neck and Bucky blinked dazedly before his vision was washed out in black once more.

The next time he came to he was in a small concrete cell. He picked his head up, looked around, got dizzy, shut his eyes and went back to sleep. Twice more he woke up on the lab table to Zola repeating questions that he could hardly process.

"Huh?" he asked dazedly.

"Your breathing, soldier. Is it any easier?" Zola repeatedly patiently.

"I—" he struggled to think through the question. "I—maybe?"

"How is your head?"

"Hurts."

"Your throat?"

"Hurts."

"Another injection then. Don't worry, Sergeant. You're well on your way to recovery and we'll be able to start our work soon."

Bucky was fairly certain he didn't want to start anything soon, but the thought didn't seem to matter to Zola. Another pinch at his neck and then Bucky was asleep again.

Later, when he was lucid again, he had no idea how long it had gone on, whether he'd been in and out of consciousness for a day or a week, but eventually when he woke up again on that lab table, he was lucid. Which meant the panicking was actually able to break through to his conscious mind, instead of being a muted thing, just on the periphery of his attention. He tried to move, only to find he could barely do so, and that just made the panic grow. His heart was pounding in his ears as he lifted his head up only to see thick straps binding him to the table. He shifted and pulled, but the restraints were tight across his chest, arms and legs and offered no give.

"Ah, good morning, Sergeant," Zola moved forward and smiled down at him. "Am I correct in thinking you're feeling much more like yourself?"

"What are you doing?" he demanded, ignoring the question, even as he tried to shift away from Zola and the disturbing way in which the man was regarding him like he was an unopened Christmas present.

Zola smiled excitedly, pulling on a pair of laytex gloves in a way that had Bucky's stomach dropping in dread, "Science, Sergeant Barnes. Science. Let's start by taking some samples, hmm? I'm afraid this might not be entirely pleasant for you, but try to think of it in terms of the contribution you are making to the scientific community. That might make it easier."

"Fuck that," Bucky said, staring at the little man in disbelief as he picked up what had to be the biggest needle Bucky had seen in his life, from the table next to Bucky's head. The thing could probably pierce a skull.

Zola shrugged, not offended. "It was just a suggestion. In any case, find something to cope with and hold onto it." His eyes turned to the other scientists in the room. "Let's start with the bone marrow and move on from there." That at least explained the size of the needle, and Bucky yelled curses at them as they jabbed it into his hip. It would turn out to be one of the least terrible things they did to him.

Things just got worse for Bucky after those initial tests, and all the sessions began to bleed together. Most of the time, he had no idea how much time passed when he was on the table. Hell, he had no idea how much time passed when he was off the table, as he was often delirious and in no state to even think, let alone move. Every now and then he was taken out of his cell and allowed a brief shower and shave, before being dragged back to the lab and forced onto the table, but he couldn't figure out any sort of rhythm or frequency to it, and time remained an unsolvable puzzle. He'd lie there on that table, unable to move, dread running through his veins, unable to do anything but wait and pray time moved slowly, so he'd have more time before they came. Sometimes he'd wake up in his cell, uncertain whether or not the experience he'd just been living had been a dream, or if it had actually happened to him. Sometimes he'd wake up on the table, realizing he'd only died in his dream, that there was no peace waiting for him when he got off. Other times he'd wake up on the table thinking he had died and he'd gone to hell. That's what it was like though; he'd wake up on the table, no memory of how he got there. He'd wake up in his cell, no memory of being dragged back after Zola finished with him for the day. He'd wake up one of the two places with no idea how or when he'd gotten there and how much time had passed since he'd been there last, and that made it absolutely impossible to get his bearings on what was happening, on what was being done to him.

Honestly, when they took him, Bucky had thought they were going to interrogate him. Looking back on it, it was stupid, because Zola had taken privates from the pens before, and what useful knowledge would a green private have towards the war effort? Still, Bucky had just shrugged it off and figured maybe they were going for variety. In any case, when Zola had picked him out on the factory floor, he'd been prepared for torture and interrogation. The prospect had been unpleasant, yes, but he'd contented himself with the fact he'd probably be dead before they managed to break him and if not, he didn't know anything particularly valuable anyway. He'd been as prepared for it as anyone could be. This though, while undoubtedly torture, was certainly not interrogation. He hadn't been asked a single question about the allied forces, their command structures, strategies, or anything like that. No, he'd been asked questions about his body; how was he feeling; in the past, how long had it taken a broken bone to heal; did he have any medical conditions before joining the army.

He had no idea what they wanted from him, and none of the questions seemed particularly dangerous, but Bucky didn't know their endgame, and he refused to answer on principle. It was possible that this was all some sort of elaborate trap to get him talking. He doubted it, but he wasn't willing to take the chance. And damn it all if he'd be cooperative with the bastards when they weren't even offering to lessen the torture.

Bucky blinked and turned his head, trying to shield his currently very sensitive eyes from the harsh light glaring down at him. They'd already taken several samples, bled him a bit, and injected him with something that was making the lights harsh and his head fuzzy, but he knew from experience they were far from done.

"The cellular regeneration rate seems to have increased, but it's a minute change," a voice faded into his awareness from somewhere to his left, and Bucky frowned at the rather echoed quality of it.

"Hm," another voice, the one he dreaded, postulated. It, too, had the curious echo effect. "Tell me, Sergeant, how are you feeling now?"

A not entirely lucid groan escaped his lips. It was an automatic response; one he hadn't meant to make. If he'd decided to respond, it would have been something closer to "Fuck you."

"I need you to describe what you're feeling, Sergeant," the voice said again, sterner this time, and in his slightly muddled state, he had to fight the instinct not to flinch. He'd had enough time to learn that pain usually accompanied that tone.

Bucky decided that, as usual, he wanted to be as difficult as possible and drew on every reserve of strength he had to reply rather belligerently, "Sergeant Barnes, James Buchanan. 32557830. Sergeant Barnes, James Buchanan 32557830." His own voice had the echo quality as well, and wasn't that just curious?

"This is getting tedious, Sergeant Barnes," Zola declared, sounding annoyed, and therefore dangerous. "If you don't speak to us willingly, we'll have to persuade you with one of our special machines here."

Bucky struggled to open his eyes against the harsh lights. He blinked against the pain and made sure he had eye contact with the doctor. When he spoke, he did so very deliberately, though a bit hoarse. "Sergeant Barnes, James Buchanan. 32557830."

The doctor sighed and waved at one of the scientists. "Hook him up."

Bucky frowned as two of the scientists moved forward on either side, bearing things that looked like electrodes with fishing hooks attached. He could do nothing to stop the hands that came down on him, and that was probably the worst part of all of this. The helplessness and utter inability to defend himself. Though, to be fair, the fish hooks they were digging into his chest and arms were pretty awful too.

"One more chance, Sergeant. Tell me; how are you feeling right now?"

"Sergeant Bar—" he didn't get to finish for the scream that was torn from his throat. Electric fire was the only thing he knew for some time after that.

He was barely conscious as he was dragged back to his small cell, and he spent the next who knew how long in a trembling heap in the middle of the floor. Cold sweat poured from his body, soaking his clothes through, making him even colder in the small cement room. He closed his eyes and let his mind wander in his misery, taking care that it did not wander too close to home. No thoughts of Steve. No thoughts of New York. He just couldn't let himself. The despair was too real when he did. Instead, he thought of the pens. About Dugan and Jones and Monty and Dernier. He wondered if Hastings had made out alright. He wondered if Adams was still alive. He wondered if Morita was taking care of Kensey, keeping him out of trouble.

He did not wonder about Steve or his family.

Sometimes he woke up on the table with the distinct and terrifying feeling that he had been there for a long time. He'd be attached to machines and fluid would be steadily dripping into his body, and his legs and arms and muscles would ache because he hadn't moved them in far too long. Zola was usually there when he awoke, smiling at him like he was pleased to see him again after some time. "Ah, nice to have you back again, Sergeant. I'd almost forgotten your military identification number. How are you feeling?"

His responses varied. Sometimes he'd grind out a dry, rasping, "Like shit." Sometimes a "Fuck you." Sometimes a "Sergeant, James Buchanan. 32557830." Sometimes he'd admit, "Thirsty," because there was a pretty good chance the doctor would offer him a small cup of water and he just wasn't in the mood to be hooked to the electric machine on top of everything else. This was one of those times.

"Thirsty," his voice croaked, and man was his mouth dry. Felt like he'd swallowed a bottle full of dust. His tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth and there was not enough saliva to wet his dry and cracked lips.

A hand reached towards his head and he had to struggle not to flinch away as it reached under his neck, lifting his head up a little. Bucky greatly resented the position he was in as Zola held his head and held a cup of water to his lips, letting him drink slowly. He couldn't afford to be picky though so he swallowed every last drop of water without so much as a glare in Zola's direction until the cup was empty and the hands were off him once more. Only then did he give Zola a glare before letting his eyes flutter shut. It felt like he'd been out for ages, but he was so tired. A slight but painful shock coursed through him, jolting his eyes open. He hadn't even realized he was hooked up to the machine.

"Not today, Sergeant. I need your feedback," Zola spoke lightly.

"You know what I'm going to say. Why are you wasting my time?" he asked, grumpy and hoarse.

Zola looked amused which never bode well for him. "I've been making the most of my time while you've been sleeping off the last injection, and I believe you will be more cooperative from here on out."

"And why's that?" he rasped.

"Your friends, Sergeant. If you are difficult, they'll be denied their rations."

Bucky shook his head on the table. "You need them to work."

"Yes, so if any of them fall behind because they are weak with hunger they will be severely punished, and you will be the one to blame."

Bucky glared at the doctor appraisingly, trying to gauge his willingness to carry out the threat. He didn't like what he saw.

The doctor must have seen the defeat in his eyes because he smiled, "Now let's try again, how are you feeling?"

"Like shit. You're going to have to be more specific than that," he spat grumpily.

Zola smiled, "Are you feeling any strange sensations through your body? Anything unusual? Remember; your friends need their strength."

If it were anything about the allied forces, anything like that, Bucky would let his pals go hungry and not feel guilty about it. But in all the hell and torture, he hadn't once been asked what he knew about the allies' movements, and from the way the doctor's eyes were lit up at the prospect of information from Bucky's body, he doubted those questions would come up anytime soon. He didn't exactly want to further the doctor's studies, but he didn't think it was worth the others' suffering. "Cold," he finally said. "Ice cold. Can't feel my fingertips."

"Interesting," Zola remarked, making a note on his clipboard. "Anything else?" he asked eagerly.

"Bones ache," Bucky grumbled out.

Zola made a thoughtful noise and then brandished a needle. "Now, Sergeant, I want you to pay extra special attention to this one and tell me everything you feel, okay? It's exceedingly important."

Panic was already bubbling up in Bucky's chest though, and he struggled uselessly against the restraints. Forceful hands grabbed his head and wrenched it to the side so Zola was able jab the needle in his neck. He felt the liquid go into him like fire, and it was barely a minute before he was screaming. But that wasn't good enough for Zola. He wanted hard data. Screaming in agony only told so much, but the only thing Bucky could process was pain.

His voice gave out long before the pain stopped, and when his vision finally stopped being bright white and the pain faded to something a little more manageable, he realized he was drenched and shaking hard, and everything in him just ached. In that moment, Bucky just wanted to be dead. He could have sobbed from the unfairness of being alive at all. He'd been ready for death before he'd been dragged off to Zola's lab, and now he was unfairly being kept alive and in agony. He was aware of the tears slowly leaking out the sides of his eyes, but he didn't care at all. He felt no shame. There was no room for that with the agony, exhaustion and despair.

"I have to say I'm disappointed, Sergeant," Zola spoke. "But I suppose one day without rations won't kill them. I expect you'll do better next time."

He flinched as the restraints were pulled away. Hands grabbed at him hauling him off the table. He tried to pull away, because damn, did it hurt, but he could barely stand up and their grip was too tight. Halfway back to his cell he gave up on walking and let himself be dragged. They dropped him unceremoniously onto the concrete floor where he curled into a ball and began to tremble from the pain, the injections, and the cold. The guards retreated without a word and the door slammed shut. Bucky surrendered to his misery.

"Come on, Sergeant Barnes, are you with us?" a voice filtered in thickly through his haze of pain. His eyes felt hot and dry and he tried to blink away the gritty feeling. Dr. Zola's face came into focus. "There you are, Sergeant," he smiled proudly.

Bucky shut his eyes and rolled his head away, desperately wishing he hadn't woken up. Someone grabbed his hair and yanked his head back towards Zola. "Today is a special day, Sergeant. You have officially outlasted any other subject before you. We must celebrate."

"Does that mean you're going to give me a break?" he croaked weakly.

Zola just smiled and started digging the electrodes into his body, "We will celebrate by testing a new chemical. How does that sound, hm?"

"Like you're a real bastard," Bucky managed.

Zola smiled and patted his cheek. "This is what I was hoping for when I chose you. I saw this resilience in you when you got the better of three guards while suffering pneumonia. Your strength is what I value in you, dear Sergeant."

Bucky closed his eyes because he really just did not care. Whatever Zola had done last time had worked a real number on him, and it didn't matter that he hadn't been awake since he was last on the table. He was still so exhausted.

An electric shock coursed through his body, jolting him back to awareness. "Not yet, Sergeant," Zola chided him. He jerked at the familiar pinch at his neck, and tried to move, but it was too late. His reality immediately began to distort.

"No," he mumbled squeezing his eyes shut, hoping to block out the inevitable hallucinations. "No, no."

"How do you feel, Sergeant Barnes?"

"Sergeant Barnes, James Buchanan," he choked, but was cut off at the electric shock.

"We've talked about this, Sergeant; your men need to eat. How do you feel?"

He kept his eyes squeezed shut, "D-dizzy."

"What else?"

"Fuzzy."

"Very good," Zola remarked. "Prepare the next injection."

He jerked at the sudden, unexpected pinch at his neck but then ice was suddenly running through his veins. He gasped at the sudden sharpness of it.

"And how do you feel now?" Zola asked patiently.

Bucky couldn't answer; he was so distracted by the ferocity of the cold. Not for the first time he feared what Zola was doing to him—what he was trying to turn him into. What was the point? What if he succeeded? The thoughts made him sick, but the cold was all encompassing, quickly drowning out his every thought.

He awoke in his cell with gasp, shivering violently. Again, he had no idea how long it'd been.

Before long, that lab, that table, became his world, in a way. He became so consumed that he could almost no longer remember who he was before Zola, which was honestly just as terrifying as Zola's machines. He'd taken even more to repeating his name, rank and serial number, just so he'd know for sure; so he could be certain he was a person and not a thing. He was a person, even if he was treated like a science project, even if no person should ever have done to them the things he'd experienced. He was a person.

He'd woken up on the table again, feeling again like he'd lost several days of time. It couldn't have been too long though, because his face hadn't had time to grow a beard or someone had seen fit to shave him. He grimaced at the thought as he tried to lift a hand to see whether he was clean shaven or not. Of course, his hands were firmly secured.

"Good morning, Sergeant. How do you feel?" Zola asked him.

Bucky blinked. He felt awful, like usual, but he felt empty almost as well. More wrung out. Like this time, he'd almost not come back from whatever brink Zola had pushed him to. Like he'd been yanked back from the brink of death against his will. He'd been cheated. Death had been cheated. God, he was so tired. Bone tired and ready to give in . . . except what was giving in in the situation? It wasn't death. He'd been wanting that for a few a while now, so giving up meant what, then? Accepting his fate as a science experiment? Accepting that he was nothing more than a thing to be studied and tested? Was he supposed to stop fighting it and forget he was a human being?

Something in him kicked and screamed at the thought, but it was too quiet and distant to give him any comfort. He tried to focus on it, to fan the flame, make it stronger and bring back the outrage and indignation he knew he should be feeling. But again, he was just so tired.

His eyes closed.

"Your last round of injections went very well. Of course, it was a risk, but you pulled through even better than we expected. You make a fine subject. So today we will test the changes, starting with pain tolerance," he said lightly.

His eyes snapped open. Zola's words were enough to spark the anger within him, fanning the distant embers into a real flame once again. "I'm glad gambling with my life paid off for you," he spat.

Zola just smiled and turned his attention back to his fellow scientists. Bucky indulged himself with the mental image of driving a scalpel into the man's eye. Angrily he jerked at the restraints as they hooked the electrodes under his skin. It always hurt, but that was nothing compared to when they turned the machine on, and Bucky could feel his heart rate kick up in fear as they got the machine ready.

"Last time the Sergeant made it to seven? Let's see how long he can last this time. Maybe he'll even make it to nine today."

"Go to he—" he was cut off by his own scream. They did a full work up, which meant he spent ten hours on the table before they finally left him. They left him on the table though, something he was only vaguely aware of, because he'd been pulled out of his own mind by pain and drugs. He'd spent a large portion of the afternoon hallucinating out of his mind. The repetitions of his name, rank and number helped ground him a bit for those as well. Or so he thought until he heard Steve's voice in the lab.

"Bucky? Oh my god," the horror in his voice was new to the Steve hallucinations. New enough to make him doubt.

"Wha—who's there?" he croaked.

"It's me. It's Steve," the voice assured him.

"Steve?" He couldn't help it. He smiled drunkenly as Steve's face came into view. "Steve."

"Yeah, I'm right here, pal," Steve's soothing voice fluttered through him as he felt his restraints being ripped off. That was new too.

"Come on; let's get you off of there," Steve said, pulling him up and onto his feet. His bones and muscles protested and when he was up Steve was much taller than he should be.

Steve looked desperate and painfully earnest as he spoke thickly, "I thought you were dead."

Bucky looked him up and down in confusion, because even in a hallucination, this had never happened. "… I thought you were smaller."

Steve laughed and choked back tears as he clapped Bucky gently on the side of his face, like he was reassuring himself that Bucky was real and alive, which was crazy because Steve was the hallucination, not Bucky.

"Come on, Buck. We gotta go."

Bucky blinked as he struggled to control his legs. Steve grabbed his arm and swung it over his ridiculously broad shoulders. Steve felt real and solid underneath it as he began to move Bucky out of the lab. His legs were stumbling along, late and unable to catch up to Steve's, and that was the first time in his life it wasn't the other way around. It was just so bizarre and so surreal, but man was this just the most realistic feeling hallucination he'd ever had.

"Fuck, Steve," he choked out, unable to get a handle on it. "I think I finally cracked," it was said mostly to himself, because despite the fact it felt real, talking to a hallucination was never a good idea. "Hallucinating you coming to save my sorry ass." He gave a self-deprecating laugh. "Yeah. Finally cracked."

"You're not hallucinating, Buck," Steve assured him. "Does this feel real?"

Big Steve had a point. Bucky could feel himself being dragged along. Frowning a bit, he swung an arm up to pat Steve's face and shoulder. Felt real enough. "… You real, Stevie?"

Steve sounded a little choked again as he replied, "Yeah, I'm real."

"Fuck," Bucky swore. "What happened to you?"

"I joined the army," Steve replied, chipper.

"Bullshit. What happened?" Bucky snapped. Because Steve was supposed to be home and safe. And now he was infiltrating hell on earth? A foot and a half and a hundred pounds extra? Bucky felt inexplicably furious, and as Steve told him the story, that fury only grew.

"You signed up for it?" he snapped angrily. "You mean you willingly signed up for what they were trying to—" he cut himself off abruptly before he could finish the "do to me" but it must have been obvious, because Steve faltered and said in that voice, "Buck."

"Did it hurt?" he snapped, pulling away so he was stumbling along beside Steve on his own power. Did it hurt, because it sure as hell hurt me. That one was probably obvious too.

"A little," Steve said lightly, which in Steve speak was a resounding, "Like hell."

"Is it permanent?"

"So far."

"Can't stay out of fucking trouble for nothing, I swear," Bucky swore angrily.

"Yeah, just be glad I'm here to save your ass," Steve snarked. The little shit.

He was mad, but he was beat, and there was no energy to sustain that anger, especially with Schmidt and Zola ahead of them. Zola had none of the bravado he had in his lab, yet that didn't keep any of the sickening fear from his gut. What he wouldn't do to have a gun in his hand. He'd end Zola then and there. Save himself a few nightmares, he was sure. Then Schmidt did the whole face thing and even that line of thinking was quickly snuffed out.

"You don't have one of those, do you?"

Then fire and Steve and he was in the middle of an adrenaline crash when they reached the others, and part of him was still very convinced that this as all some sort of drug induced dream.

"Holy shit!" a very familiar voice exclaimed. "Sarge!"

And suddenly he was surrounded by his pen mates and Morita. "We thought you were dead" Someone exclaimed and when Dugan's large, meaty hand clapped him on the shoulder, Bucky's knees buckled under him.

"Whoa! Easy, Sarge," Someone said, as several hands caught him. He struggled to regain his footing as someone helped pull him fully upright once more.

"Bucky! Hey, you alright?" Steve asked in a panic, suddenly right there, taking Bucky's weight. Bucky tried ineffectually to shove off of him and stand on his own once more. Steve was having none of it.

"'M fine, Steve. Dum's just a monster, that's all," he grumbled amicably, but no one really bought it.

"You are one stubborn son of a bitch, Barnes," Dum Dum exclaimed cheerfully. The beast of a man was practically giddy, and it was a rather disturbing sight. "And damn near impossible to kill! We thought you were dead!"

"Yeah, yeah. We can talk about my shitty luck later. We should probably get a move on in the meantime, huh?"

Steve nodded. "Yeah, come on. Let's get you onto one of the truck's we've commandeered.

Bucky pulled away immediately. "No way. I'm walking. Can't watch your own back for nothing, Steve. Someone get me a rifle," he declared, all authority.

"Buck," Steve protested.

"No," he said firmly. "Rifle. Now."

Steve let out a frustrated sound and snapped, "Fine. But if you start stumbling, you're going into a truck."

"Yeah, sure," Bucky agreed, not meaning it a bit. Jones handed him a rifle with a soft, "Here, Sarge."

Bucky felt more whole and real with the comforting weight of it in his arms, and if that didn't speak to how much the war had screwed him up, he didn't know what did.

They made it about ten miles before Steve decided they could rest for a few hours with some campfires. The sky to the East was lightening, but it was cold and the men had worked the factory floor fourteen hours that day already, and Bucky wasn't the only one stumbling at the end of their hike. They set up a watch, and Steve made sure there were no immediate needs before he came back to their little fire. He came back to an argument.

"I'm not an invalid! I can take a watch. You guys worked all day and fought then marched. I didn't," Bucky was arguing.

"You didn't because you were busy being worked over," Morita remarked. He'd made himself at home in their group it seemed. Not that Bucky minded. Dugan needed someone to go toe to toe with. But at the moment, they were teaming up on him so he was feeling a lot less charitable.

"Sarge, you have blood draining from your ears. Sit down, shut up, and lose the sweater so I can check on you."

Bucky rolled his eyes, "And what are you going to do, Gabe? I don't see any medical supplies lying about."

Jones held up a first aid kit. "Found it on a truck."

Bucky scowled, realizing his own defeat, "Shit."

"Sit," Jones said firmly, gesturing to a log behind the fire.

"Don't order me around. I outrank all of you," he declared, frustrated.

"And I outrank you," Steve said cheerfully, stepping fully into their circle. "Sit, Bucky. Let Jones check you out."

Bucky looked ready to argue, but Steve put that look on his face, and he immediately whined, "Steve."

"No," Steve cut him off. "Sit."

Bucky gave him a mutinous look but sat stiffly on the log, muttering under his breath. "Running around behind enemy lines, wearing a giant damn American flag. Can't believe someone made your stupid, stubborn ass Captain. What the hell." Then louder he snapped, "Who the hell goes on an infiltration mission with an American flag on their chest anyway, Steve? It's like you got a death wish or something. Who the hell even let you out in that?"

Steve grinned, amused. "Hey, this giant damn American flag saved your sorry ass single handedly, so I'd stop complaining."

"Shirt off," Jones said, moving over by him with the first aid kit.

Bucky stiffly peeled off the sweater and there was an immediate chorus of swearing.

"Bucky," Steve sounded like he'd been shot in the gut and Bucky hated it. He'd lost weight, but other than that, he really only had the bloodied bruise on his neck from the injections and then the spots on his chest and arms where they dug in the electrodes, then the spot where the iv had been on his arm. Bucky thought they were probably over reacting a bit.

"We heard the guards say they were doing human experimentation in the isolation ward," Monty said. It was a question and the others were waiting for an answer.

"Well they certainly weren't questioning me about the allied forces," he said darkly. That was the only answer anyone was getting from him.

Jones cleaned the bloodied bruises from the electrodes and the spot on his arm and neck efficiently. There weren't a lot of bandages and Jones didn't want to waste them. When he was finished with the last spot, Bucky reached for his sweater, but Jones stopped him. "What's that?" he asked, pointing to a spot just under his left side ribs. Bucky looked down to see a bandage striped with red he hadn't even known was there, though he supposed it explained the steady ache and burn.

Bucky shrugged, "Don't know."

Dugan snapped angrily, "What do you mean you don't know?"

"I mean I don't know," he relied simply. "They weren't exactly accommodating enough to tell me what they were doing to me, and it's not like I've exactly been myself either, if you know what I mean." He grabbed the edges of the bandage and carefully pulled it back, only to reveal a three inch long, carefully stitched line. Bucky stared at it blankly, casting about in his head for how it got there. The mental images hit him like a truck. Zola in surgical gear, standing over him with a scalpel, the bite guard in his mouth, the inability to move even a fraction of an inch or even scream as some paralytic drug coursed through his body. He recoiled and immediately swore. He'd thought it'd been a dream.

"What?" Steve asked him quietly.

"I remember," he said darkly, moving his slightly shaky hands away so Jones could clean it and bandage it back up.

Of course it was Dugan who asked the question because Dugan didn't give a flying fuck about boundaries and respecting them when he felt something needed to be said or done, which was pretty much all the time. "You saying you were awake for that, Jimmy?"

Bucky snorted, full of dark, twisted amusement, "Not for long." He lasted through the initial, excruciating slice of the scalpel, but all bets were off when Zola stuck his gloved hand inside of him. Bucky's eyes had rolled back in his head and he'd woken up in his cell, hurting so bad all over, he hadn't even realized it had actually happened, and not been just another of his drug induced nightmares.

There was another chorus of swears as the boys picked up on what Bucky wasn't saying—on what Bucky would never say. They all looked a bit grim faced, but they'd seen horrors of war already, and they'd had an idea of what was going on in the Isolation Ward before Bucky was taken. Steve though was looking rather beside himself in that kicked puppy way he had that was surprisingly even more effective now that he was a great big lug.

Bucky sighed and moved a bit so that his shoulder was touching Steve's giant, hulking shoulder. His giant, hulking furnace of a shoulder. "Damn, Steve!" he exclaimed, sidling closer so his whole right side was pressed into Steve's left, even though Steve's right ear had perfect hearing now. Old habits, he supposed. Steve's brow shot to his hairline and he moved back a little as Bucky pressed into him. "You're a fucking furnace. Stop moving; I'm cold. Might as well put you to some actual use, huh?" he joked.

Steve heaved a put upon sigh but stopped moving away once he realized what Bucky was doing. "You mean other than single handedly saving your ass?"

"You gonna keep using that against me? Cause if we're keeping score let the record show I've saved your sorry life literally dozens of times now," he joked, bringing an indignant look to Steve's face, thoroughly banishing the kicked puppy.

"I've saved your ass plenty of times too, Buck," he protested. "Saved you from your own mother even, and she's scarier than Schmidt."

Bucky snorted his amusement, but stopped abruptly as it pulled the sore muscles in his abdomen. The others had taken Bucky's cue and were now laughing and joking amongst themselves.

"So tell us, Rogers," Jones asked, smiling at them. "Was Sarge always this much of a pain in the ass."

"Always," Steve replied immediately and without remorse.

Buck shot him a look. "Really? You're going to sit there and tell me I'm the pain in the ass here?" Steve gave an innocent shrug; a silent I have no idea what you're talking about. Bucky just shook his head. "You haven't met a real pain in the ass till you've met Steve Rogers," he declared. "Trust me; you'll see what I mean by the time we make it back to base. None of you will call me the pain in the ass again."

They laughed. "Yeah we'll see, Sarge."

Bucky dropped down to the ground in front of the log and Steve followed suit, staying close as Bucky stretched himself out before the fire, pressing his head into Steve's side with no shame. He'd slept on Dugan and Jones over the past year, at least once, and he'd had both passed out on him as well. Monty was a cold, British bastard, but he'd warmed up enough to sleep back to back and shoulder to shoulder. Dernier would cuddle anyone who'd let him. He didn't know about Morita, but he didn't care if the man thought to give him crap on it.

"You alright, Bucky?" Steve asked quietly, and Bucky could feel the concern he was radiating.

He gave a sigh, because at this point, he honestly didn't even know. He was out and that was great. But he still felt fuzzy and his entire body ached and trembled without his permission, and he knew Steve could see it, that all of them could see it. And his mind was reeling because Steve was here. Steve was here and a super soldier at that, which was the best and worst thing that could ever happen to Steve. Because Steve now had a body to match his heart and he would no longer be at risk for dropping dead because of some illness at any time of day. But conversely, he now had a body to match his heart and one that could keep up with all the trouble Steve got himself into. He wouldn't be leaving the war anytime soon. Bucky knew that in his core more than he knew his own name. Steve wasn't leaving. That meant Bucky wasn't leaving either. He couldn't go home and let Steve stay and fight. He couldn't let Steve fight when he wasn't there at his side. And that was just the worst, because he'd been cut open and ripped apart from the inside out, and all he wanted to do was go home. Go home and be free and safe with Steve, and that wasn't going to happen—might never happen, and he was so aware of that it hurt.

"I'll be fine, Steve," he whispered. "I just—it was . . . I'll be fine soon, okay?" His voice might of hitched just a little, and damn it all, because he didn't even care.

Steve's voice was thick as he replied, "Yeah, Buck. Take your time. Just relax for now. You're safe, okay Buck? You're not there anymore. You're safe."

"Alright. And I'm not done yelling at you for being the stupidest idiot in all of Brooklyn though, just so you know."

Steve snorted, "Looking forward to it."

Louder, Bucky said. "I'm going to sleep. Wake me up for my watch."

"Sure thing, Sarge," someone said as he closed his eyes. He didn't hear the sarcasm or see the rolled eyes.

They didn't wake him up in the night. They tried, but only because he had some sort of fit. They had been planning to let him sleep, but at some point he had something like a seizure when Monty was on watch.

"Jones! Get up! Something's happening to Barnes!"

Jones was up quickly and dashed over to Bucky's side where all of his muscles had seized up, and he was shaking and convulsing. "Go get the Captain!" he snapped.

The others were awake quickly and one of them dashed off to find Captain America from where he was patrolling the perimeter.

Steve was there quickly, "What's wrong with him?!" he demanded quickly rushing over to Bucky's side. The others moved back to allow him room before gathering around once more. Jones had rolled Bucky on his side and he was holding onto him to keep him from swallowing his tongue or doing any serious damaged.

"I think he's having a seizure," Jones replied. "How was he when you found him?"

"On a damn operating table, strapped down, and hallucinating," Steve replied readily.

"Then they did work on him today?"

"Definitely."

"There's no telling what they did to him," Jones said. "There could be a dozen reasons for this."

"But will he be okay?" Steve asked, the panic in his voice completely evident.

"He's young. A seizure shouldn't cause too much harm," Jones said. "He's strong. They had him in there for weeks and he's still alive. They wanted him alive. That's pretty much all we have at this point," Jones said.

Steve grit his teeth, but thankfully Bucky's muscles finally loosened a bit and he stopped shaking. "Bucky? Buck, can you hear me?"

He didn't wake up.

"Bucky, come on. Wake up, Buck. You can do it." Steve urged, but Bucky didn't move, even as Jones checked his pulse and lifted up his eye lids.

"He's unconscious, but his heartbeat is steady and so is his breathing. I have no idea how long he'll be out for though. His body probably just needs to rest that badly."

"Will he be alright?" Steve asked again, trying not to sound too desperate.

Jones shrugged, "I think. I mean, obviously, it'll be much better to have an actual doctor look him over, but the things that happened to him, I mean I wouldn't be surprised if he sleeps a couple of days, Cap."

Steve nodded grimly then gently hoisted Bucky up in his arms. "Let's find some room on a truck. We need to get moving soon anyway."

Monty moved ahead to make some room on one of the trucks and the rest of Bucky's pals gathered around, like they were guarding him. Steve wasn't quite sure the specifics as to how Bucky had earned their devotion, but he wasn't the slightest bit surprised that he had. Bucky was a great guy. It had always surprised Steve that there weren't more people as devoted to Bucky as he was, that more people didn't see just how good Bucky was.

He laid Bucky down gently in the truck before quickly shrugging out of his jacket and draping it on Bucky. "Rest up, Buck. If you die, I'll kick your ass. I mean it," he warned quietly, before stepping back. He turned to see the others waiting there.

"What are your orders, Captain?" Falsworth spoke.

Steve stood a little straighter, willing himself to focus on the task at hand and not on Bucky. "We need to get a move on. The food we managed to salvage from the base isn't going to last us long with the number we got, so we'll send a scouting party ahead. There's an abandoned village just a few miles up, they can check out. You know anyone up for the job?"

"I got some guys," Morita declared.

Steve nodded, "Good. Let's get moving."

Steve had a hard time not glancing back at Bucky's truck every two minutes until he realized Dernier had separated from the group and was walking vigil next to the truck. The others were just at Steve's back, showing their support, and as Steve met Dernier's eye and the Frenchman nodded solemnly, he knew the others had already decided to take turns watching the truck.

Steve finally felt a little ease as he lead the company through the woods. "Thank you," he told them calmly. "For having Bucky's back. He's the only family I got left and it means everything to me."

Jones spoke cheerfully, because they'd had enough somber, and he wouldn't participate anymore when he was still so happy that Barnes was even still alive, "So you're the punk kid brother Sarge was always going on about, huh? Not gonna lie, he described you a bit shorter."

Steve snorted, "I was until a few months ago." He then gave them the brief version of the story.

"So how long have you known Jimmy?" Dugan asked casually.

"Since we were six. Bucky's saved my backside more than I can count at this point," Steve admitted. "I couldn't just stay behind and not do the same. Then when they told me what'd happened . . ." Steve trailed off.

"You volunteer for this assignment then?" he asked.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck, "Uh . . . you could say that."

Morita frowned, "What's that supposed to mean, 'you could say that'?"

"Well," Steve began but Dugan cut him off.

"Exactly how long after you heard about Jimmy before you decided to go AWOL and infiltrate a heavily fortified enemy base on your own?"

The others looked surprised, but Steve just looked a little sheepish. "I don't think I even thought about it," he admitted. "Just did it."

Dugan snorted and shook his head as the others let out low whistles. "He's gonna skin you."

Steve nodded cheerfully, "I know."

"Well I guess we know where Sarge gets it from," Jones replied amicably.

"What do you mean?" Steve asked.

"Jimmy got himself on the wrong side of a beat down a few times before the isolation ward," Dugan remarked. "And not just a bit of slapping around either. Full on, bones ready to break beating. Every damn time, it was because he moved in to take the beating for some clueless punk kid that got themselves in trouble."

Steve sucked in a breath, but nodded. "Yeah. That's Bucky," he said quietly. "How'd he end up in the isolation ward?" he asked. The others exchanged looks and Steve pushed. "Tell me. Please. He's all I got. I gotta know."

Falsworth let out a huge sigh, and Dugan spoke, "Kid was dying. He'd saved this private's life, but the beating was bad, and he still had to go out and work the factory floor when he had cracked a rib. Kid didn't even complain, but in those conditions, it was less than a week before he started coughing and the pneumonia set in. We were doing all we could, keeping him out of the line of fire, we took out the guard that had the biggest beef with him, gave him extra food, made him sleep through his watch. But he had days at the most."

They were still moving, but Steve was tense and stiff as they walked, his hands repeatedly clenching into fists as he pictured it all in his mind.

"One day, out on the floor, this kid gets into trouble. Just some nineteen year old private—unluckiest son of a gun to ever get drafted, you know? He messes something up and the guards were still worked up over the "accident" we orchestrated to get rid Rudolph, and they just lit into him while the others kept us back at gunpoint. Four on one, beating this kid. They were going to kill him right in front of us, and Sarge, he just goes. We tried to stop him, but he said he wanted to choose how he went out, and he'd rather go out saving this kid then by pneumonia or being taken out back and shot for being too sick to work. So we let him," Dugan spoke.

It took Jones clapping him on the shoulder for Steve to realize he wasn't breathing. He sucked in a breath and nodded for Dugan to continue.

"I'm not going to lie," Dugan began. "When I first met Barnes, I thought he was a cocky little shit that wouldn't make it past our first skirmish. All the grinning and the joking—I'd seen war, and I'd thought his days were numbered. But the kid is sharp. And I mean that. Jones has got us all beat on book smarts, but as much as I give him shit, Barnes is intelligent. I'm seasoned, but he saved my life the first time he saw combat. The kid's a natural, and nobody in the 107th was surprised when he made Sergeant so damn fast. I'm sure you expected nothing less, but I sure as hell didn't. Barnes grew on me like a fungus and not just because he saved my life. By the time Azzano happened, I was proud to fight and die by his side. We all were. Still are," he spoke and the others nodded solemnly. "But I let him do it, because I knew he was a dead man walking, and it would only be another day or so before they dragged him out and shot him. He deserved to go the way he wanted, and that was fighting for someone else's life."

"We didn't expect him to actually take down three of the four guards handing out the beating," Falsworth spoke wryly. "Beware of dying tigers, I suppose."

Dugan nodded, "He knocked down three of the four, the poor kid got out of the way, and the other guards were about to execute Jimmy when Zola walked in. He took one look at Barnes and one look at the downed guards, and he wanted him. It wasn't right, and it wasn't fair, because Barnes deserved his peace, and there was none in that hell. But, now he's alive," he allowed. "If Zola hadn't taken him, he'd be dead."

"We tried to ask about him, but the guards just laughed in our faces and told us the longest lasting prisoner of the isolation ward had only made it fifteen days. Barnes was there for forty," Jones spoke.

"We thought he was dead," Falsworth admitted. "When you asked, I didn't think there was even a chance. Judging by the things they did to him, he probably should be dead."

"Bucky's stubborn as a damn mule. Always has been. He's never gone down easy," Steve explained. "Course, we grew up in the poorest part of Brooklyn during the Depression. You didn't survive if you weren't tenacious."

"Here, here," Morita quipped, and immediately started on a story of how he and a friend stole some meat from a butcher associated with the Russian mob when he was younger. Steve let them steer him away from the rather distressing topic of Bucky's imprisonment for a while, as they all tried to outdo each other on stories of childhood stunts. Dernier, who accidentally blew up an empty warehouse at thirteen, won.

Bucky didn't wake for over twenty-four hours.

Steve heard him arguing with Monty before he actually saw them. "Buck?" he realized, turning and running through the men. They parted quickly.

"Steve," Bucky said when he saw him. He looked a little tired and a bit pale even though he'd done nothing but sleep for over a day. The lines at his eyes eased a bit as he looked over Steve, checking to make sure he was healthy and whole, like he'd been doing since they were six years old. There wasn't much point anymore though, now that Steve was serum enhanced. Somehow, he doubted Bucky would see it that way. "There you are. Monty's giving me some crock about getting back in the truck."

Steve put his hands on Bucky's shoulders and then on the side of his face, checking him over. "Hey, how are you feeling?" Bucky swatted his hands away irritably, which is what he always did when he was sick and Steve was checking on him.

"I'm fine, which is why it's ridiculous to expect me to get back in the truck. Someone give me back my rifle," he snapped.

"Bucky, you had a seizure," Steve protested. "You were unconscious for over twenty-four hours."

"Which means I'm well rested and ready to go," Bucky declared firmly. "Rifle, for the love of all someone hand me my blasted rifle."

"Bucky, you had a seizure," Steve protested firmly.

"And I'm fine. Rifle, now," he declared authoritatively in the tone of voice Steve knew meant he'd have to pull rank and fight him every step of the way to get him back in the truck and then he'd still mutiny at the first opportunity.

"Look me in the eye," Steve said seriously, "and tell me you feel alright."

Bucky rolled his eyes, but then did as Steve asked, "I feel fine, Steve."

"You dizzy or anything?"

"No."

"Are you in pain?"

"No more than any other guy here."

Steve gave him an unimpressed look at that, but Bucky just cocked a brow and squared his shoulders. Steve knew that look. He'd seen Bucky give it to thugs, teachers, nuns, and priests, and while he may have gotten a beating for it dozens of times, he never backed down.

"Stubborn son of a bitch," Steve grumbled grumpily, but he couldn't find it in himself to be too upset, because as soon as he realized his victory, Bucky grinned and that was the first time since the punch drunk smile on the table that Bucky had smiled. "Until our next rest. A few hours, and then you're back on the truck," he conditioned, wiping the grin from Bucky's face.

"What?"

"You heard me," Steve said firmly. "A few hours on, a few hours off. That's the best deal you're going to get."

Bucky scowled, "Fine. Where's my rifle."

"Dum Dum's been keeping it warm for ya," Monty replied easily.

Bucky nodded and they moved back through the troops to the front of the line. Several of the men greeted Bucky warmly and clapped him on the shoulder. Bucky flinched each time. It was subtle, and Bucky tried to cover it with enthusiastic greetings, but Steve had known him his whole life, and he'd never seen Bucky shy away from a friendly touch (Bucky had always been extremely tactile) so to see it now was jarring, and a reminder that Bucky had been through so much more than the rest of the men, and that was saying something. They'd been through hell themselves, but nothing compared to the horror Bucky had experienced. Horror enough to make him flinch away from even a friendly hand for fear of pain. It was more than Steve could handle because Bucky had always been the strong one. And he couldn't stand to see him like this; in pain and hurting. It was more than he could take, so Steve resolutely did not think about it. Instead, he focused on the fact that Bucky was beside him, that Dugan had kept his spot open for him the whole time. Bucky had been unconscious. Steve could tell Bucky was still tired, and even in pain, but he'd had a point. Most of the men were tired, and a good chunk of them were in pain, though Steve was willing to bet Buck was worse off than almost any of them. Even so, he kept pace and even shot an enemy sniper out of a tree before even Steve realized he was there.

Bucky was sharp, and apparently had an eagle eye, and seeing him in action, even when he was fresh out of being a human experiment, well, Steve wasn't at all surprised that he was a sergeant. Not even a little bit. For three days, Steve made Bucky adhere to the rest then walk then rest rule. Bucky grumbled and complained about it, but he also fell asleep within ten minutes of being back on the truck. Every time. And thankfully, during these exhausted naps, he didn't dream. Night was a different story. Several times he'd jumped to his feet with a shout on his lips and a knife in his hand that Steve still couldn't figure out where he even gotten. Bucky was always restless after these incidents, and refused to go back to sleep. Instead, he stalked about silently with Steve on patrol. He'd taken out another treed enemy on one of those. Steve had taken out his comrade on the ground, because the men were tired and hungry, and they just couldn't afford for the enemy soldier to get away and report their presence. It was the first man Steve killed. It'd been a split and utterly necessary decision, and afterwards Steve ruthlessly did. not. think about it. Bucky had followed Steve back to their camp circle and sat beside him, their shoulders pressed together, so Steve figured he knew, even if Steve didn't say anything.

In any case, it became clear to Steve rather quickly, that if it wasn't one of Bucky's drop dead from sheer exhaustion naps, he either wouldn't or couldn't go to sleep without Steve there. Steve didn't need quite as much sleep as he used to. The times he actually slept eight hours now was from habit, not from need. He'd started walking a patrol at night, letting Bucky walk with him, for a bit, then take his shift for sleep earlier, so he'd be there shoulder to shoulder with Bucky so he could go to sleep. The others had noticed Bucky's disinterest in sleep while Steve wasn't there, and before long Dugan was complaining about his watch, and wouldn't stop until Steve agreed to switch with him. Steve was incredibly grateful, because Bucky just wouldn't sleep unless Steve was in the circle. Steve didn't even have to be sleeping, but if he wasn't there, Bucky wouldn't even lie down and try. Steve thought it was probably a combination of what had been done to him, and a deeply ingrained instinct to watch Steve's back. There just wasn't any point in trying to rest if Steve was up and about and likely to find trouble. Steve could understand that. It wasn't like he spent anytime sleeping while Bucky was awake.

It occurred to him distantly that perhaps their relationship wasn't entirely healthy, but if that were the case, it was far too late to do anything about it now, so Steve shrugged it off.

It took five days to march back to the base, and by the time they got there, even Steve was tired. Bucky had marched all day without resting once, and Steve knew he was about ready to drop, but he moved forward strongly anyway, standing by Steve as he prepared to accept his punishment. Part of Steve was afraid Bucky would demand to be punished as well. Thankfully, it didn't come to that, and the whole camp was cheering for him at Bucky's lead. Steve allowed himself to feel stunned for a moment, but then when he turned to Bucky, he was gone. Steve, quickly looked about in concern, and finally saw Bucky being ushered to the medical tent by some nurses. Jones was with them, no doubt explaining things, and Steve moved to follow, only to be stopped by Peggy.

"I'm sorry, Captain, but we'll need your debriefing first," she told him gently.

Steve frowned in concern at the tense, hunched quality of Bucky's shoulders as he vanished into the tent, and he could only imagine what Bucky must be feeling at the moment. But he could understand the need for a quick debrief. Colonel Phillips would need to know what they were dealing with before he could manage the soldiers. But Bucky was a sergeant. Wasn't it possible that he'd be needed for the debriefing as well?

"Who else is needed?" he asked.

"Just you for now, Captain," she replied. "He'll debrief the other officers separately."

Steve nodded and followed Peggy to the command tent where Colonel Phillips, Howard Stark and some other scientists and lieutenants were waiting.

"Captain!" Howard rushed forward, shaking his hand vigorously. He wasn't the only one. There were quite a few pats on the back, congratulations, and good jobs all around, but Steve found it a little difficult to be cheery about it when he was worried about Bucky.

"Alright, alright," Phillips said, taking control of the room. "We need to know what happened, Captain. Everything you saw."

Steve immediately started the story, not leaving anything out from the strange weaponry, to the pens, to Bucky on that table, the map he saw in the room, Bucky's seizure, and the few run-ins with enemy soldiers they had on the way back. When he was finished, there were mixed emotions through the room. "They're trying to replicate it then," one of the scientists thought.

"I'm more concerned with the strange blue light in these weapons," Howard declared, pushing past the topic of what was done to Bucky. Steve was thankful. He didn't think he could keep talking about it for much longer. The more he did, the more horror he felt. It was just too much. "What can you tell me of its effects, Captain?" Howard continued.

Steve shrugged. "I'm not a scientist. I think it'd better for you observe its effects yourself. I brought you plenty of samples to play with."

"What?" Howard demanded, jerking up in his seat.

Steve nodded, "Yeah. In the trucks. Guns, magazines. Even brought you a tank."

Howard was on his feet and running out of the command center before Steve even finished, "Captain Rogers, I could kiss you!" And then he was gone.

"Well, that will be the last we see of him for quite a while," Peggy declared with a sigh.

"Well he'll have to wait to really get into the experimentation process. We're packing up and moving out; headed to London in three stages over the next ten days," Colonel Phillips declared.

"Sir?" one of the lieutenants questioned.

"We don't have the supplies to feed everyone, and given this new information, I think it's time to take things in a different direction. I'm sick of playing defense to Johann Schmidt. But first, we need to regroup and make plans, and give these boys a little bit of rest."

Everyone seemed to agree, and Steve could sense the meeting was coming to an end, so he stood up.

"Captain," Phillips spoke, getting his attention. "You will not be permitted to see Sergeant Barnes just yet. I need to debrief him."

Steve immediately began to protest, "I don't see why I can't be present for that sir. Sergeant Barnes has been through horrors above and beyond the call of duty and he could use all the support he can get."

"And I need to fully debrief him, Rogers," Phillips said firmly. "And in full detail if we're going to know everything we need to know to help him and make sure those bastards didn't do anything permanent. Now, you know him better than any of us. How willing will he be to share with you in the room?"

Steve opened his mouth to snap that of course Bucky would share, but then he closed it quickly, because, well, that wasn't necessarily true, now was it? Bucky wouldn't share anything if he thought it would cause Steve pain. He hadn't given any details yet, and he wasn't likely to. But Phillips was right. If the doctors were going to help Bucky, then they would need to know what had been done to him. But it was going to be hell for Bucky, he just knew it. So he fixed Colonel Phillips with a solemn look and spoke, "Alright. Just . . . make sure the doctors understand; being in medical is not going to be easy for him after that, and if they start poking and prodding at him, using him as a test subject to figure out what Zola was up to . . . he won't take it well. And neither will I," he said, making it clear exactly where he stood.

Phillips looked equally solemn as he spoke, with no hint of scorn or malice—a rare occurrence when speaking to Steve, "Captain, I assure you the Sergeant's situation will be handled with the utmost care, respect, and discretion, and not just because he happens to be the same Sergeant Barnes who caused you to go AWOL and infiltrate an enemy base all on your own. I understand he's been through a hell that none of us in this room can fully grasp, but I will personally ensure he's well taken care of."

Steve studied him for a moment, and after deciding he was genuine, he nodded. "Alright."

Agent Carter moved closer to him and spoke very earnestly, "We'll take good care of him, Captain."

"I'm counting on it," he replied. "Please notify me as soon as I can see him."

Colonel Phillips nodded, "Fine. You're dismissed, Captain."

Steve nodded, "Thank you, sir." He left the room.