When Dugan took a moment to really think about the course his life had taken recently, he was amazed at what he'd come to consider normal. Guns and arm-mounted mortar tubes that launched blue light that vaporised people were just a normal fact of life for Dugan now. He'd hardly batted an eye when God himself sent down Captain America to rescue him and all the others from a prison where they built the blue light vaporisation guns. Dugan was friends with an honest-to-God Frenchman from France and a Limey from honest-to-God England.

Hell, he'd never even talked to anyone from somewhere besides the US or Ireland before he'd joined the Army. He was quite proud to call them friends now.

Might just be friends with the superhero sent from God, too. Sarge was definitely friends with him.

Sarge was also dying.

Dugan could feel the heat coming off of Barnes in waves. Seemed like it was heating up the entire back of the covered truck. Dugan had wedged himself on the floor beside his sergeant and all the rest of the supplies they'd packed up in the truck. The warmth was sort of nice; it was getting a little miserable outside, walking along in the Austrian autumn. Too bad that it was starting to smell pretty stale from Barnes's sweating. But Dugan had lived through worse, so he was more than happy to play babysitter.

Trading off with Frenchie had brought Dugan a sense of relief. After everything, it was just better when he had eyes on his sergeant. Captain America was apparently feeling the same way, because he kept stopping by about every hour to check on him. Sarge hadn't been very coherent all day. He was usually asleep or mumbling nonsense. Didn't seem to be seeing much that was around him. He choked and coughed droplets of blood a few times. There was a scary moment when Dugan realised blood was leaking from Sarge's ear. He clapped the man on the back gently while he vomited out the back of the truck once when the column had stopped to send out a few scouting parties. (The road directly ahead was blocked by nature they could not go through, as opposed to Axis troops that they could, and they needed to go off-roading.)

The truck was rumbling slowly through the forest now. They had to be careful of landmines and trees that were planted deceptively close together. The driver of the truck (Gabe) was pretty steady considering the path.

Barnes blinked owlishly at Dugan. Looked like a little kid. Not the first time he'd done this, so Dugan just let him stare.

"Why you in here?" Barnes said in a cracked voice.

Dugan shrugged. "You know me. Always liked automobiles."

"Hmm," Barnes said. Tried to clear his throat and blinked slowly. "Thanks."

"What for?"

Keeping his eyes closed, he said, "No one gets out alive…"

Dugan finished for him, "Unless we all get out alive."

"Right."

He rested a hand on Barnes's shoulder partly to keep him from rolling onto his back as the truck took a turn — Frenchie and Captain America said Sarge could die if he puked in his sleep while he was on his back — and partly to reassure himself.

"You're not gonna die on me, are you?"

Blinking up at him, Barnes said, "I mean, eventually."

"You're an asshole, you know that?" Dugan chuckled.

"Someone may have told me a time or two." Barnes grunted and then shifted to get his hands under himself and leverage himself up. "Help me," he said, "I feel better when the blood's moving."

Against his better judgement, Dugan helped Sarge get into an upright position. Sitting shoulder to shoulder, he said, "Your heart stops pumping the blood when you're moving."

At least, that's what Frenchie and the captain said when Sarge kept trying to get out of the truck and passing out before he got there.

Barnes leaned into Dugan's side a little heavier.

"OK?" he asked.

"OK. A little lightheaded. But OK."

A moment of quiet passed after that, and Dugan assumed that the movement had knocked Barnes out again. But he started to move each of the fingers of his left hand to touch his thumb one at a time. He'd go from index to pinky and then back again.

Barnes mumbled, "It's funny."

"What is?"

"Feeling."

"Feeling?"

"They took away all of my senses," Barnes said slowly in an unsure voice. He gave Dugan a confused look. "I think. Maybe I imagined it. So I didn't have to be in reality…couldn't feel anything. Couldn't feel if I was still attached to a body. Thought I was just floating consciousness. Couldn't feel my own hands because I didn't have any. Does that make sense?"

"No." Dugan shook his head.

"Huh." He touched each of his fingers to his thumb again. "It wasn't even dark. Couldn't be. Because I couldn't see. Wasn't dark, it was nothing. Couldn't scream. My mouth wasn't mine. I didn't have one. Just…unmoored thoughts."

Craning his neck, Dugan tried to get a good look at Barnes's eyes. They were still pretty glassy with fever, and the pupils were blown wide. That was another thing Frenchie had said to look out for. He said it meant there were probably still drugs in Sarge's system.

"They gave them back eventually. Sensation, I mean. Kind of hurt."

Dugan was really glad Barnes wasn't all there at the moment, because he would have been given so much shit for the concern that was no doubt writ all over his face.

Barnes stared at Dugan for a while and then went back to staring at his hands. "Still doesn't feel the same. Like I got put back into someone else's body."

"Well, you didn't," he said emphatically.

Under his breath, Barnes said, "That's comforting."

Dugan thought about his next move for a few seconds, which was twice as long as he normally thought about his actions. "I'm going to ask you something that's been bothering me. I'd like it if you told the truth."

Was he taking advantage of Sarge being sick and drugged to get an answer he probably wouldn't get under normal circumstances?

Absolutely.

"Why aren't you wearing the same clothes you were wearing when they took you out of our cell? What happened to your uniform from the 107th?"

The most bewildered look stared back at Dugan. Maybe there was a little bit of irritation in that look, too. The heat of the fever seemed to crank up; he felt it through the weight that Barnes had been steadily increasing on his shoulder.

"I think they took it away more than once?"

A feral part of Dugan's past was clawing inside of him. He'd been wondering about this since the moment he saw Captain America leading his sergeant through the battle outside the factory. It threw his imagination into overdrive, imagining all sorts of sickening possibilities that could explain why Barnes had needed new clothes. The ones he had now weren't exactly in better condition than what his 107th uniform had been in when the doctor had claimed him.

Dugan hadn't asked before now, because Sarge had seemed better then. Better, but still unsteady and like he needed a few moments to collect himself. He needed a moment to breathe back there and get his bearings. Dugan didn't want to rob him of that, especially not in front of Captain America, who Sarge was very obviously putting up a brave front for. (He kept trying to put that front up even when he was delirious with fever and drugs unknown. What a deeply engrained reaction, and the captain didn't even seem to notice it.)

Now Dugan wasn't so sure if Barnes had many moments left to collect himself, or if he could ever be collected. He wanted an answer before it'd be too late. Had to know exactly how hard he was going to give it back to HYDRA next time he saw their creepy little uniforms.

"Do you remember why?" Dugan asked.

Barnes shook his head but then paused halfway through. Shaking back the left sleeve of whoever's sweater he was wearing, Barnes ran his right index finger down the length of his inner forearm.

"What?" said Dugan.

Shaking his head, Barnes said in a low voice, "I thought I cut myself there."

"Where?"

He traced his inner forearm again. "There."

"When?" He tried unsuccessfully to mask the surprise in his voice.

Barnes shrugged. "When he told me to."

All of Dugan's blood surely boiled away inside of his veins. "Who? Fucking HYDRA, I swear—"

"Not HYDRA."

Dugan's brain wildly redirected his rage at the next strangest thing they'd encountered recently. He said in a low, conspiring voice, "Captain America?"

Barnes snorted hard at that. Laughed for a few moments after. "Yeah, right, that'll be the day."

"Then who?" he said a little petulantly. "Who told you to cut your wrist? God, don't fuck around with shit like this."

Another little shrug. Dugan felt like he was taking all of his sergeant's weight now; his spine was doing nothing to keep him upright.

"Didn't catch his name."

"What'd he look like? Want me to beat him up?" Dugan tried to get his tone back to normal. It was no good being pissed off when he was supposed to be taking care of Barnes. But he was worried about what he was being told and, if it hadn't been HYDRA to tell Barnes to effectively kill himself, then it was one of their own. Maybe someone really had been turned. Someone in their ranks had betrayed them. There had been a mole the whole time, maybe, who had given up that map they'd been working on all those weeks ago. That mole could be with them now, leaving a trail or a code for HYDRA to follow and obliterate the base they were headed to.

Barnes snorted again. "You sound like me talkin' to my little sister…or Steve, back then."

"Well, this might as well be me talkin' to my little brother."

"I've always been the big brother," he said while shaking his head.

"Not to me."

"Hmm."

"You'll come around to it."

"Pfft."

"Everyone does."

"What do I gotta do? Shine your shoes?"

"Hell, no. You'd be terrible at that. I've seen your boots. You gotta give me your socks when mine go south."

"That all?"

"I mean, yeah, besides all the other big brother rights I'll have over you."

"Hmm. I'll think about it."

"Nothing to think about. It's already happened."

Barnes hummed again. Dropped his head fully onto Dugan's shoulder, giving up all pretence of holding it up himself. He kept staring at his arm and traced his forearm one more time. "It was a medic."

What!

"What!" Dugan shouted.

Barnes flinched a little at the sound but didn't pick his head up. He made a vague noise.

"Sorry," he said in a lower voice. "One of our—?" Dugan trailed off when he remembered the guy who rushed at Sarge when he'd gone to get the water and rations before they'd left the factory. The that Dugan had punched the lights out of that asshole already. He wasn't opposed to doing that again. Or worse.

Fury and adrenaline flooded Dugan. He was sure he was about to start literally seeing red. "That fucker. Why the fuck would he—Sarge, why did you—?"

Barnes shrugged. "…told me to. I had to. And maybe…"

Dugan really wanted to attack someone just then. Had to really focus to pull himself back. He made himself stare at the pathetic condition of his sergeant, feel the heat coming off of him, smell the stale sweat, blood, and vomit. Barnes didn't need his rage right now, but God damn it!

"Maybe what?" Dugan said.

Barnes shook his head.

"What?"

Dugan didn't think that he actually wanted to know. Maybe he needed to, but he didn't want to hear something worse when he was so close to unleashing his rage.

"Nothing. I'm tired," Barnes said and drew his knees in closer to his chest.

"Jimmy."

"It's nothing, I swear."

"Hey."

"If I talk about it, I'll lose it."

It took a lot of effort to summon Dugan's usual comforting voice. To sound level and even. "It's me, Jimmy, c'mon. Steve From Back Home ain't here. You don't have to be strong or brave for anybody. Go ahead and lose it. I've gotcha."

"I'm not gonna say it right."

"It's OK. Just explain it to me."

Barnes pulled the sleeve back down over his forearm. Closed his eyes for a long, long pause. "Maybe I didn't want to not do it."

Dugan blankly said, "You think you wanted to slit your wrist."

"No. I told you I can't say it right."

"Sorry, sorry. You're right. Try again. Tell me what you mean like I'm an idiot."

"You are an idiot."

"Explain it to me again, smartass."

"I didn't want to hurt myself," Barnes said slowly but with a lot more clarity than he'd been using earlier. "I didn't want to be dead. I don't want to be dead. But I wanted to do what he said."

Dugan was struggling. "But what he said was basically for you to kill yourself."

After making a frustrated sound, Barnes said, "I know, but what he said had nothing to do with me wanting to do it. I don't know. I was really confused by then. Didn't know who anyone was, or who I was and where I was supposed to be. They kept injecting me with shit and then lighting me on fire without using any fire. I just knew my organs felt like they were falling apart inside of me and figured the guy who everyone called a doctor was going to help. And then he started trying to electrocute my fucking head—"

"What!" Dugan shouted.

"—and things got really weird and hard to understand after that. My body wouldn't listen to me anymore. I felt like so much shit, and I didn't understand what it was all for, and he was making the medics do most of the stuff that hurt the most. He'd kill them if I refused or fought back. So it's basically like I said I was OK with all the bullshit, but I wasn't, I swear. I just didn't want that fucker to kill any more of the medics, even though I can't fucking stand to look at them. None of it was their fault. They didn't do anything wrong, I don't hold any of it against any of them, but I can't fucking stand them. Jesus Christ, I sound like a madman."

"No," Dugan simply said. He put an arm around his sergeant. "No, you don't sound like you're mad. It's all logical, Sarge. I'm not bullshitting you."

Bad line of questioning. Barnes shook like a maraca against Dugan's side. A sweaty, burning, kind of smelly maraca. The breaths coming out of Barnes were forced and heavy. His heart was probably racing. Wouldn't be long now before he'd pass out again. Too much stress. Too much everything for a heart that couldn't keep up the pressure needed for a man to sit up on his own.

Sure enough, he did lose consciousness within a few minutes. Dugan guided him back down to a lying position and made sure that Captain America's jacket was snug around him.

The column stopped in the middle of the woods that night. Captain America told them all that they would probably reach Allied territory sometime tomorrow afternoon if they kept the same pace. When he went off to do the first perimeter sweep with some guys from the 92nd, Dugan waved his former cellmates and Jim Morita over.

"How was the ride?" Gabe asked him.

"Pretty good. Could have done it better myself though," Dugan said easily.

Gabe waved a dismissive hand. "How'd he do?"

"He's hanging in there for now. Doesn't seem any worse. Sat up and talked some sense for a while."

"That's more than he's been doing," said Monty. "It'll hopefully get the captain to relax."

Dugan nodded in agreement. He'd take Barnes babysitting duty over Captain America distraction detail any day.

He said, "If we're really this close to being on a friendly base again, we gotta get some things straight."

The group indicated that they were listening.

"Captain America is probably gonna tell the brass everything in his debrief when we get back there. If he's telling the truth, and he's never been in real combat before, then he doesn't get it about colonels and generals, " Dugan said. "But none of us are going to say a fucking word about what happened to Sarge. We wait to hear from him what he wants to do. If he wants the brass to know fuck all about the isolation ward, then we know fuck all about what happened. No matter what the captain says, we're quiet as church mice until Sarge tells us otherwise. Agree?"

"Not our story to tell," Jim said.

The group of them nodded and murmured words of assent.

"And nobody leave him alone with a medic. Especially when we get there and they force him into the aid station. I'm not convinced that we don't still have a mole in our ranks."