When Steve crashed the plane in 1945, he expected to die. However, this was not the case, and Steve hit the ground with a jarring crash and he was thrown forward, out of his seat and into flying shards of glass in the dark, the plane nose-first into ice and water. Steve gasped and shuddered and tried to stand, tried to pull himself out of the wreckage, and found his legs like jello and his strength leaving him as he went into shock.
It was pitch black, and the air was thick with sharp cold, and Steve was finally able to drag himself away from the crushed cockpit and out into the quickly freezing belly of the plane, collapsing to the ground and trying to steady himself.
Steve was scared, and confused, and he didn't know why he was still alive. He could see nothing, even with his eyes open and his hand infront of his face. The cold was unbearable, worse than Brooklyn winters, and Steve was shivering so hard his teeth chattered.
He didn't want this, he hadn't asked for this, this wasn't part of the plan.
He hugged himself there on the ground, trying to conserve his air, trying to warm himself, although he didn't know why he did. Why bother, after all? It was silent, except for Steve's own breathing, and his occasional sobs as his emotions got the better of him. He could hear nothing but the plane creak and the harsh wind blowing outside and he considered trying to break out, but he knew he had a better chance inside the plane, no matter how small a chance that still might be and no matter how much that chance never really mattered in the end anyway.
He was supposed to be dead. He should have been dead. Everyone would think he was, and would they even search for him? Would they leave him, like… Like Steve had left Bucky? Steve swallowed. Everything inside him felt crushed.
He didn't know how long he was there, but he didn't sleep and he was starving and lonely and scared and cold.
Then, the cold began to get worse as Steve couldn't keep himself warm forever. His hands pressed to his face were icy and he began to realize he couldn't feel them. After a while, he couldn't move his fingers. His face grew numb. His joints grew stiff. Steve felt fear like he like thought he never would again, sitting there in the thick blackness as the cold began to claim him for itself because he was dying and he was scared and this time, he was dying completely alone.
He was just so afraid.
After a while, and Steve didn't know how long, he found himself hardly able to move and everything was slow, from his limbs to his very thought process.
Dying, Steve thought numbly. He didn't bother speaking, because there was no one there to hear and because he wasn't sure if he could. Freezing, Steve thought.
He thought of Bucky, at the bottom of that trench, and was almost comforted because at least in heaven, they'd be reunited.
Gonna die anyway, Steve thought as he laid on the ice and he hugged his shield to himself in that last attempt for something, anything to comfort him. For the best. Wasn't really meant to live.
This is for the…
Then, Steve felt warm. He was stiff and sore, but the warmth registered with him almost suddenly, like a shock, and he realized that he could breathe without freezing his lungs and he could no longer feel the cold, metal floor of the plane underneath him. He could see bright light even through his eyelids and it was such a contrast. Confused-he thought he had said hello to death-Steve opened his eyes and took a breath and nothing was ever the same.