A/N:Big update today. 4 longish chapters, because there's no good way to break them up into separate updates. We're nearing the end of part 1 of the story, so things may move quickly until we reach that point. (Assuming life doesn't happen as it is wont to do sometimes.)

Also, sorry to disappoint those of you who wanted me to write about the train, but I have already covered it pretty thoroughly in other stories, and there's just not much expansion I can do on it here. It's a pretty self-contained scene. What I CAN expand on, however, is what came after...

It was a dangerous mission. They all knew it was. Steve just can't quite figure out how it went this wrong.

Jones touches his shoulder and he flinches, startled, turning away from the mouth of the ravine that swallowed his best friend. The others are waiting for him.
The ruined train car is only a few yards away, gleaming innocuously in the cold. Zola is cowering in the snow at the back of the camp; hog-tied and gagged after he started ranting and whimpering in rabid German. A large purpling bruise has blossomed on his cheek that none of them have yet commented on. Steve doesn't know which one of the Commandos is responsible for it, but he's not going to ask either. Right now he's A-Ok with any abuse they want to heap on the prisoner. Any suffering they choose to inflict. If they wanted to toss the little man over the cliff to follow after Bucky... he'd probably let them. It's all he can do, not to do it himself.
… It's probably a good thing his men are calmer than he is, because Steve is definitely seeing red right now, and his self control is hanging by a thread.

They've already combed the valley floor for hours, but he knew it was essentially hopeless before they even started down. He just can't wrap his mind around the reality, hard as he's trying to.

The only trace they found in six and a half hours of searching was a swath of sickeningly bright red, spattered across a sharp stone outcropping, almost a mile beneath the tracks. Bucky's dog-tags were tangled around it, the chain snapped and dangling loose into the stained snow. There had been a small patch of disturbed snow just above the stone, as if something had impacted and slid, but the landscape beneath is smooth and crisp. Undisturbed. The trail stops there.

It was Fallsworth who'd found it first, and Steve had known just from the tone of his voice that the news was grim. He'd approached on unsteady legs, bracing himself. Hadn't been prepared for the sight of his best friend's blood, gleaming against the snow. Nothing would ever prepare him for that.
Steve's entire world had shattered as he stared. The chances of finding Bucky alive had just plummeted. Even if he'd survived the initial fall, an impact like this could've killed him all on it's own, especially if the rock had snagged his tags.. Steve tried hard not to picture Bucky's neck snapping on impact and cursed his very vivid imagination when he failed.
Even if by some miracle Bucky had survived this… Even if they somehow found him... they'd never get him out of the ravine alive before exposure finished him off.
Steve's stomach had dropped like a stone and his head abruptly felt light. He had to look away. Dimly, he heard Dugan swearing behind him, and was vaguely aware of the retching sound that came on its heels. He was close to being sick himself.

"...Captain?" Fallsworth had carefully untangled the battered tags, faintly smudged with the same slowly dulling crimson as the snow. He placed them silently in Steve's hand when it was slowly, dazedly extended. The etched metal looked impossibly small and fragile against his palm, and he swallowed hard around the lump in his throat, tucking them carefully into a pocket in his uniform.
They were not mentioned again.

The Commandos had searched the entire area desperately, but there had been nothing else to find. When a vicious windstorm had whipped up near evening, Steve had reluctantly called off the search. Visibility was nearing zero and the temperature was rapidly dropping. With a heavy heart, he led his men back to camp, where Dernier was still supervising the prisoner.

Steve considered it a supreme act of willpower that he went straight into his tent and slowly crushed a canteen into scrap between his fingers, instead of putting a fist through Zola's skull the way he really wanted to.

Later, he'll come to regret not just giving in to that urge. It might've saved everyone a lot of suffering.