This was written for a fic exchange in the Whumplover's Collaborate Discord server! And also because you can't tell me that after being tortured and then having to walk 30+ miles, Bucky and the rest of the Commandos were just A-okay. I hope you all enjoy!
Still don't own anything.
Through the haze of semi-consciousness, Bucky could pick out the distinct metallic rattling of surgical instruments. The sound seemed to echo inside his head. Everything felt…wrong. The bed was too soft underneath him. What should've been a comfort was instead the horrifying fact that had Bucky clawing his way to wakefulness. He'd passed out on the floor, he knew he had. He'd slipped his wrists free of the restraints and made it a few feet before being injected with who knew what.
Which meant now he'd be back in that chair, likely strapped down even more, and then he'd have absolutely no chance of escape.
"Sergeant Barnes?" someone asked off to his side.
Bucky turned his head, which immediately swam as a wave of dizziness overcame him. He couldn't quite make out anyone standing next to him beyond a vague shadow. He moved his arms experimentally and to his surprise, he wasn't yet strapped down.
Now was his chance. He must've come around sooner than they were expecting. He pushed himself to a somewhat seated position and in an uncoordinated motion stood up from the bed.
That was what he had envisioned, anyways. Instead, the moment he put weight on his legs, flames tore their way through his muscles and he crumpled to a heap on the ground.
"Sergeant Barnes! You really shouldn't be up and around!"
The shadow got closer to him at a worryingly fast speed.
"Get away from me!" he yelled. Fine, if his legs wouldn't hold his weight, maybe he could crawl his way out of here. Anything would be better than dying in this lab all by himself, not knowing what happened to his men. He turned away from the shadow and crawled on hands and knees, all the while running his hands along the ground for something he could pick up to use as a weapon. The usually spotless cement floor felt wet today. Strange. Maybe a window had broken to let the rain in. No weapons.
He felt a pressure on his shoulder and whipped around, his hands up in front of him defensively. The shadow was right in front of him. No white lab coat, so not Zola, not yet at least. But that could be worse. His lackeys weren't keen on keeping him in peak physical condition during his escape attempts, after all.
"Sergeant Barnes, can you hear me? We really need to get you back into your bed, your fever is much too high—"
"Stay back," he growled in warning. Finally, his back hit something sturdy. He was backed into a corner, but at least this way they could only come at him from two sides. When he was on the table, it was all four sides and from above. He'd take any improvement he could get.
Mercifully, the shadow didn't get any closer. Bucky could make out some muffled voices, some in front of him and others many feet away, which was odd. The air around him smelled like blood and no matter how shallow he breathed, he could feel it invading his lungs.
They were probably going to get Zola now. He needed to formulate some kind of plan to get out of here and back to his men. Just as soon as his head would stop spinning and the flames inside his body would abate. Maybe he could find his way to an armory, gear up, blast his way out…
Another shadow encroached, this time slower, and seemed to kneel down in front of him, probably to deliver some kind of injection. He wasn't ready. Not again. "No," he whispered. He'd rather be beaten black and blue than subject to another experimental concoction.
To his surprise, the shadow didn't come closer. Instead, there was a soft voice that said, "Bucky, hey."
And that gave him pause. Had he really slipped up and given them his nickname? No, he wouldn't. He'd been saying his name, rank, and serial number for as long as he could remember. They'd never tear Bucky out of him.
Gradually, like a sheet being pulled from his eyes, the red brick walls and cement floor of the lab faded away. Bucky blinked a few times and shook himself off, which didn't help his headache or the feeling of hot cotton behind his eyes.
The shadow slowly morphed until Bucky could make out Steve sitting in front of him. He was out of that ridiculous patriotic outfit and dressed in standard fatigues. His hair still looked the same, golden blond, even if the rest of him had changed. "Steve?" he whispered.
"Yeah, Buck," Steve said. His voice was even and he smiled just a little like he was trying to be reassuring. "You're in the field hospital. We got you out, I promise."
Even in his confused state, one of Bucky's baselines had always been Steve. If Steve said he was out, then he was out. Unless this was an extremely elaborate hallucination…at least Steve was here in some capacity.
Bucky took a few measured breaths to try and calm his racing heart. When this vision finally stabilized, Bucky realized he had backed into the corner of the field hospital. He was bordered by canvas on two sides and his back was pressed harshly up against the support pole. He could still smell copper in the air.
Steve was indeed kneeling in front of him, knees in the mud and hands outstretched like he wanted to hold Bucky up but wasn't sure how that action would be taken. There was a nurse standing a few feet behind him, looking worried and stricken. Bucky glanced around the rest of the field hospital, which was filled with men from the 107th and the nurses and medics treating them. Some were looking in his direction.
"Sorry," Bucky croaked out.
Steve shook his head. "It's alright, Buck. Can I?" he gestured with his hands towards Bucky. He was pretty certain this Steve was real. None of the hallucination-induced versions of him had gotten that worried look in his eyes right. At Bucky's nod, Steve wrapped a few fingers around his wrist and pressed the back of his hand up against Bucky's head.
"Used to do that for you," Bucky said without thinking twice. Steve's hand was frigid on his forehead. A series of shivers began to wrack his body.
That little smile was back on Steve's face. "Yes, you did," he affirmed. He turned back to the nurse and said something Bucky didn't quite catch. Steve dropped his hand from Bucky's head and Bucky found himself missing the chill. It helped mute some of the fire in his veins. "Think you can drink a little?" Steve had pulled a canteen seemingly out of nowhere and the nurse was gone. Huh.
Bucky nodded and took the canteen with shaking hands. He managed a few swallows of water that felt like ice and tasted like metal. "Cold," he said as he passed it back.
"You're burning up, Buck, you need to rest." Steve screwed the canteen lid back on and set it down. "Those thirty miles back took a lot out of everyone."
Bucky frowned. "M'fine."
"Course you are." Steve moved closer to Bucky and Bucky didn't back up. "Up on three?"
Bucky was indeed very grateful for the help up, since his legs still wouldn't hold him. Ah, yes, this was indeed Steve. Even in a bigger body, he still held Bucky as carefully as he did when he was smaller back home and Bucky had gotten over served at the local pub. Steve got him situated back on the cot and tucked a scratchy blanket up to his chin.
"Mother hen," Bucky muttered. The blanket was too warm, but Steve knew best. Steve was the baseline.
Steve let out a breath of a laugh. "Says the pot to the kettle."
Bucky's eyelids began to grow heavy, but he still caught glimpses of Steve pulling a chair up to sit beside him. He all but fell into it and the chair creaked in protest. "Okay?" Bucky asked, his eyebrows bunching together in concern.
"Yeah, of course. Just had to debrief with Phillips. Your men are taken care of. They fought to be in here with you, but got sent to recover."
Bucky smirked. Knowing them, he doubted they'd follow that suggestion for long. They were good men, all of them. The ones that had died at Azzano, the ones that had been blasted to ash without a dog tag to mark them by, the ones that had gone into the isolation ward, same as him…He frowned.
"Didya find anyone else? In there?" he asked. It had better be sufficient, his mind wasn't up for a more detailed description.
Thankfully, Steve seemed to get it. He shook his head slowly.
Bucky clenched his jaw and looked at the tent above him. The dark green spun and swirled. Men groaned throughout the tent as nurses whispered placations and treated their injuries. He had heard men—most likely his men—scream on occasion. It had echoed down the halls and bounced off every hard surface until it ended up in his ears. So many had been taken before him and who knew how many after.
Miller and Johnson and Bessinger and Davis and—
"Wilson, Campbell, Anderson."
Bucky tilted his head to the side and saw Steve's lips moving with each of the names he whispered. Names Bucky had been whispering without realizing. Names Steve knew.
Bucky looked at him quizzically. How did he know?
It took a few seconds for Steve to look up from the floor to see that Bucky was watching him. "Do you remember passing out on the first day of the march back?"
Bucky went through his addled memory. It was mostly fuzzy and jumbled after they left the factory behind, his coherence fading as the adrenalin had worn off. He remembered trees and men and feeling like every step was bringing him one step closer to death.
But Steve had been in front of him, and he'd never lead Bucky astray, and if he only did one thing upon returning to camp he had to make sure that people understood that Captain America would never lead them astray either. That one thought had been the lighthouse in the dark, swirling storm of the last few days.
Steve must've taken his absence of an answer as a negative. He leaned forward and shifted so Bucky wouldn't have to crane his neck so much. "Dugan barely caught you in time. When we stopped to rest, you would say their names, always in the same order." He paused to take a breath. "Dugan said it was the order they were taken away in."
Dugan was right. Those names would be burned into whatever was left of his memory. They'd lost so much and then were forced to lose even more. And Bucky, even as their platoon sergeant, hadn't been able to stop them.
Steve opened his mouth like he was about to say more but then promptly closed it. "You should get some rest." He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. Steve looked strange, sitting so large in that chair. It would take more than a breeze to knock him down now, but Bucky could still tell he looked wiped.
Bucky fixed him with the best glare he could manage. He ended up having to blink sleep out of his eyes midway, but he thought he got the message across.
"I will," Steve said, albeit reluctantly.
Hah, message received. Bucky nodded. The cot was still too comfortable and foreign underneath him. Like if he slipped into sleep he'd just wake up strapped to that table again. He opened his eyes wider and forced himself to focus on the green canvas of the tent above him.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Steve bend over a bowl on the small table next to the bed. Steve brushed a gentle hand against Bucky's forehead and then placed an ice cold wash cloth on his brow. Bucky immediately tensed up, but then the ice faded to a comforting cool.
A few moments later, he felt a light pressure on his hand through the blanket. Steve had his own hand there and was looking at Bucky. "I'll keep watch."
Bucky should really keep watch though, being a sergeant and all. He had to keep his men, which now seemed to include Steve, safe. At least he had years of experience in that department.
But Steve was pretty good at watching his six too. He'd wake Bucky up if there was anything wrong. Maybe just this once…he'd take first watch next time. He tried to tell Steve that, but his eyes slipped shut before he could.
Some of the chill from Steve's hand seemed to seep through the blanket, making the inferno just bearable enough for him to slip out of the flames and into the darkness that waited.