Disclaimer: This should have been in Chapter 1. I don't own any recognizable characters or plot points. I only own my OC.
AN: Thanks to everyone who has favorited and followed this story. Thank you to those who have also taken the time to write a review. This is a new venture for me. I've been interested in fanfiction for a while now, so I wanted to try my hand at it. This chapter was difficult to write. I didn't want to only go by the movieverse, but still stay true to the story most people know and love. The next chapter will finally introduce my female character. This story will follow some parts of the MCU, but otherwise it will be somewhat of an AU.
And any mistakes are my own. I don't have a Beta.
Chapter 3: 1945
Cold.
That's all Bucky could feel as he lay there nearly buried in the frozen ground under the snow. Every breath pained his lungs. Every blink of eyes made him want to cry. Every flinch of his muscles was agony. All he could think about was Steve. His Stevie.
How had things gone so wrong? Where was Stevie? Where was he?
If there was ever a moment when he thought he was fucked, this was surely it.
Did anyone know where he was? When was Steve going to come back for him? Did something happen to him on that train?
The sounds of boots crunching on top of the snow and ice reached Bucky's frozen ears.
He tried to laugh, a thin smile managing to spread its way across his lips. They had finally come. They found him. He was going to be okay.
As the noise grew louder, the voices became clearer. And that's when Bucky realized something was wrong. Something was very wrong. It was a language he had not heard before. Between all the Commandos and his and Steve's own collection of languages, he had never heard this particular one in person before.
Russian.
Bucky tried to speak, but his voice caught in his throat due to the harsh wind and freezing temperature. He wanted to crawl away, to find some sort of shelter to hide him from enemy eyes, but his body would not obey his frantic thoughts.
Suddenly, the voices stopped.
A single pair of footsteps moved closer to where he lay, exposed like an open wound.
"Well, look who it is."
He knew that voice.
"Sergeant Barnes has returned."
Not again.
"This is a most fortunate event, I must say."
Bucky wanted to cry. Not again, please God, not again.
He heard the gremlin, Zola, order the others to bring him along. They were also ordered to not damage him anymore than he already was. Bucky wondered what Zola meant by that?
He felt them grab at his body and start to drag him along behind them. Bucky watched the clouds in the sky above in a daze. The gray and white swirled together, ominous yet strangely comforting. When the muscles in his neck grew too tired to hold his head up, his chin dropped to his chest.
Bucky's eyes widened to the point of pain.
He screamed.
Most of his left arm was missing. Gone. Blood trailed after his prone form.
Bucky's vision started to swim.
Where was Steve? Where was his team?
He had to get back to camp. They must be waiting for him. Or they were preparing to search for him. Right? He needed to stay where he was so they could find him.
Bucky started to struggle with all his might against his captors. He kicked and jerked, trying desperately to free himself.
More shouting from the Russians that were attempting to take him as a POW, before one of them kneeled down beside him and placed his hand over his mouth.
Bucky couldn't understand what the man was yelling at him, but he could guess that he wanted him to shut up. But Bucky wouldn't give in. Brooklyn boys don't take nothing from no one. He'd show them.
That was the last thought before a blow struck him on his temple, causing his world to go fuzzy before it went completely black.
"Dr. Zola, What is this specimen you've brought me?"
The little man took off his glasses and wiped them with a corner of his lab coat. The larger man in front of him was more intimidating than Schmidt.
"I'm waiting," the man said, his voice tinged with impatience.
"He is an American soldier, a sergeant."
"I can see that."
Dr. Zola gulped and forced his gaze to remain on his former patient laid out on the examination table to his left. "I was working on him before, back in '43. His unit was captured and held at a facility under Heir Schmidt's –"
A hard smack jerked Dr. Zola's head to the side. He raised his hand to his cheek in shock.
"You know better than to mention that name in my presence. Get to the point."
The small man swallowed hard, but managed to continue. "Sergeant Barnes here was the only one to survive my initial tests. Captain America," Zola said, nearly spitting out the name, "broke in and ruined my plans before I could complete Phase 1. But now that the good sergeant has returned, there is renewed hope that I may continue my work. If it pleases you, of course."
A heavy silence fell over the room. The beeps of the machines hooked up to the body echoed in the uncomfortable atmosphere.
"And what would be in it for me?" the tall man asked.
Dr. Zola paused in his fidgeting. "The tool you will need to bend the world to your will. A fist, a new, more powerful fist than anyone could have imagined."
"And this man," the tall man said, moving closer to the examination table, "will be capable of such a feat?"
A wicked grin spread across Dr. Zola's face. "And much, much more."
The tall man nodded once, then turned on his heel and walked out of the room. "You may proceed."
Steve pulled his head up from the sink full of cold water with a gasp. Coughing, he tried to catch his breath. He blinked once, twice. It was still the same face he saw in the tiny mirror above the sink in the bathroom. That same face with the dark circles under the eyes, the gray-tinted skin, the limp hair, the hollowed cheeks. He knew there was nothing wrong with him physically.
It was his heart.
It was broken.
It was his soulmate.
He was gone.
Steve watched as tears filled his eyes and trickled down his face. But he did not feel them.
Bucky.
His Bucky.
Gone.
He hung his head and tightened his grip on the porcelain sink. It cracked easily under his enhanced strength. But he didn't care. Steve was no longer whole, no longer living. He died the moment that Bucky fell from the train.
A knock on the door startled him from his morbid thoughts. Steve hurriedly wiped the evidence of his pain from his face and searched for something to cover the large imprints of his hands in the sink.
"Steve, are you all right?"
He stopped his fidgeting and sighed. He knew Peggy wouldn't go away until he opened the door. The last time he had locked himself away in a room, she shot out the handle and chain lock, threatening to shoot him in the head the next time he did that. They still had a war to win, she had said, and he needed to win for Bucky.
Turning the doorknob, he kept his head down and waited for the inevitable lecture he was sure was coming.
"Oh, Steve," Peggy said, wrapping her arms around his waist.
He held still, ignoring the twitching in his muscles.
"It's okay," Peggy said, "Colonel Phillips isn't here. Howard is busy in his lab." She looked up at him. "It's okay to not be strong right now."
And in that moment, Steve Rogers, the Captain America, broke. His soulmate was gone. His best friend was gone. He couldn't even think about what would happen should their other soulmate appear and want to know about Bucky. What would he tell them? Would they still want to be with just him? Was that even possible in a triad bond? The tears came heavy and fast. But Peggy made no comment, no attempt to pull away from this much needed embrace.
After a few minutes had passed, Steve was able to collect himself enough to pull away from Peggy. He tried to apologize, but the words wouldn't come.
"When a soldier cries," she said, "there is nothing he has to apologize for."
Nodding, he took one last deep breath then finally met her eyes. "I'm ready," he said.
Peggy stared hard at him. She bit the inside of her cheek then turned on her heel. Steve followed. She explained the final details of their plan as they made their way to where the rest of the team was waiting.
Steve swung his leg over his motorcycle. Closing his eyes, he pulled all the pain and rage at Bucky's death to the surface, revved the engine, and shot out of the hanger like a bat out of hell. He didn't look back, knowing that his Commandos and the rest of the unit, Peggy and Colonel Phillips included, would soon follow his lead.
Steve stood in disbelief for a moment, trying to understand how the Tesseract had vaporized the Red Skull in a blazing column of light.
The insistent beeping and screaming of the plane's alarms echoed all around him. He barely registered the noise.
His legs took him to the pilot's seat. His eyes took in the shattered control panel. He gripped the joy stick and pressed the com button, hoping that someone on the other side would answer.
Peggy's voice came through.
He smiled. A strange peace had settled within his chest.
She tried to get him to listen.
He told her he didn't want others to die.
She begged him to let Howard find him a landing spot.
He told her he still didn't know how to dance.
She swallowed hard.
He heard the tears in her voice and told her not to cry, that everything would be all right. That he would be fine.
He would be with Bucky.
She asked how that reunion would go with a hiccup, saying that he still didn't know how to dance.
He said that Bucky had been teaching him for some time, that he'd practice before they saw each other again.
Peggy told him that she would make sure to wear her best at The Stork Club a week from then. Maybe she'd stand a chance at dancing with them for a song or two.
Steve smiled. The ocean was so blue. He promised that he and Bucky would save her a dance.
The radio cut out.
Peggy begged for him to answer.
Silence was her only response.