Author's note: Very sorry for not responding to any reviews over the past week; my youngest puppy has been allowed out as of last weekend, and I've spent every spare moment I have taking her out for walks and car drives, getting her used to travelling and socialising with people and a wide range of animals. So far, so good! I'll get around to responding, along with catching up on stories I follow, over the next couple of days. Thanks for reading!

We Were Soldiers

55. Caving In

Bodies came pouring up the tunnel, men and women whose faces were pale, eyes wide in shock, their clothes caked in dust. Agent Carter's voice grew louder as she approached, her instructions of, "Out, everybody out, quickly and calmly, and don't take more than you can carry easily in your hands," reaching Bucky's ears before he saw her dust-smeared face. Wells kicked out the fire and stepped aside to let the tide of people pass.

"Agent Carter," Bucky said, when she was close enough to hear his call, "what happened?"

"An earthquake," she said. She was putting on a brave front, but he could see the fear lurking in the depths of her eyes. "Didn't you feel it?"

His heart thumped loudly in his chest. "Is anybody hurt?"

She nodded. "A few. We're bringing the injured up last; the doctors are working on them, and we needed the area clear before the engineers can ascertain whether it's safe to attempt a rescue."

"Rescue?!"

Her voice softened, as if trying to take the edge off a harsh blow. "When the earthquake struck, one of the tunnels partially collapsed. Some were injured, and others were trapped. We don't know how many are stuck down there, nor how many are injured or worse. The colonels sent me to oversee the evacuation up here, whilst they send up everyone else who's still down below."

"Who's trapped?" His eyes scanned the faces of those passing him as they spilled out into the open air. He saw members of the 107th amongst them, but all the regiments were mixed in together. Hawkins, Mex and Hodge passed him, but they hadn't even been in the same tunnel.

"We don't know," Carter said. "It's impossible to get a headcount down there."

"What can we do?" asked Wells, beating Bucky by a hair's breadth.

"Separate everybody into infantry or support personnel. Have them form up in their regiments and find someone from each group who can start sounding names off."

Now that there was a plan, Bucky's heart began beating a little steadier. "Infantry form up over here, with me," he shouted over the crowd, while Wells took the support staff to another area and began separating them into their groups; Engineers, Signals, Medics, and the small collections of auxiliary personnel who helped to oil the wheels of war.

After a while, the influx of people began to slow, and Bucky was still missing Gusty, Franklin and Davies, along with small numbers from the other Infantry regiments. Just as he was about to head back to the tunnel to check for stragglers, Gusty appeared. He was limping a little, but otherwise unharmed. The same couldn't be said for the man from the 9th he was practically carrying; the guy's arm was hooked over his shoulder, and he had a nasty head wound.

The rest of the injured were brought up last; three men unconscious with head and upper body injuries, one of the nurses with a broken arm, and finally Howard Stark, who was nursing a dented cup of moonshine. The doctors and nurses not already accompanying the injured scrambled to set up a space for triage.

"How are we looking on the headcount?" Phillips asked, as soon as he was in the open air. His face glistened with dust-streaked sweat, and his hat was sitting askew atop his head.

"The 107th are missing two men," Bucky told him. "Dugan tells me they're also down two men, and we're four missing from the 370th. All of the 9th are now accounted for."

Wells stepped up to report on his own count. "All support personnel are accounted for except five engineers."

"Sir, if there are men buried, I volunteer to help dig them out," Bucky said immediately.

"First things first, Sergeant," said Phillips. "We can't start digging until we know it's safe to shift the load, otherwise we risk bringing more down on top of anybody already in there, not to mention the team sent to get them out. For now, sit tight. See to your men. As soon as I'm given the green light from the engineers, I'll let you know if you can be of any help."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Bucky lost track of how long he sat waiting. His mind was only half present; the other half was deep in the mine, with Franklin and Davies and the rest of the men who were trapped behind a wall of fallen rock. As he waited, he tried not to think about what must be going through the minds of those men. How they must be feeling. How cold, and alone, and in darkness they were. Davies would be accepting bets on how long it would take for them to be rescued, but maybe there was some niggling doubt in their minds about whether they would be rescued at all. Maybe each one of them secretly hid the belief that perhaps they might die down there. That the mountain itself would be their tombstone and grave.

He tried to push the thoughts away. His problem, he realised, was too much imagination. An active imagination had been a blessing when he'd been a kid. He and Steve and their friends had turned the most mundane of objects into games. Cardboard boxes had been a fort, which they'd defended against Mary-Ann and little Johnny Delaney, who'd been the Indians. They'd played at cowboys, and pirates, and they'd even been explorers once or twice, searching deep in the heart of the jungle—the park—for buried treasures.

Growing up, he hadn't lost his imagination, it had merely become rusty through misuse. New York had been comfortable. Tame. It had been home. He'd had no need to imagine enemies lurking around every corner, because there had been no enemies. It had been a simpler, more innocent time.

Since signing up, his imagination had resurfaced, kindled perhaps by some childhood memory of standing with Steve and his friends at the Alamo, defending his home against fictional enemies. Back then, he hadn't worried about what might go wrong, because nothing could go wrong. The worst that could happen was somebody grazing his knee, and that was an injury easily fixed by one of Mom's cookies and a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade. It had been life or death, but death had not been permanent. Not like it was out here, where the enemies shot real bullets and there was no Mom waiting to provide cookies and lemonade, or to kiss away the hurts.

As soon as he saw movement at the mine entrance, he was on his feet, moving fast enough to hear the guy talking to the brass confirm that it was safe enough to send a small team in to start trying to dig the trapped men out.

"Sir, I volunteer," Bucky said.

"Me too," said Wells from behind him.

"We only need a small team, Sergeants," Phillips said, with a questioning glance at the lieutenant from the Engineers.

"A couple of extra hands to shift some of the heavier stuff wouldn't hurt, Colonel," the man said.

Phillips sighed. "Alright. But be careful; I don't want more men trapped down there."

The lieutenant turned to face Bucky and Wells. "Grab yourselves something you can make protective lower face masks from. We're going to be agitating dust as we work, and the last thing you want is to breathe it in and come down with respiratory irritation. If you can find any protective goggle, too, that would be even better. I'll meet you back here in five minutes and take you down to where the tunnel's collapsed."

Bucky nodded, then dashed back to his backpack. He pulled out a triangular bandage from his first aid kit and fashioned it into a makeshift nose and mouth mask. As Wells did the same, Bucky inched closer to him, to speak without being overheard.

"Are you sure about this, Wells? If you thought it was bad in the mouth of the tunnel, how much worse is it gonna be down where the tunnel's collapsed?"

"I'll manage," said Wells, the lower half of his face hidden behind his makeshift mask. "Really, Barnes, let me worry about me," he continued, when Bucky didn't look convinced. We have men trapped, and I'm not gonna let this get in the way of helping my friends. Besides, Davies still owes me six bucks. Now, are you coming, or are we just gonna waste time talking about it?"

Bucky gave up. After seeing Wells lose his head just a few hours ago, he had his doubts that the guy would last more than five minutes down in the collapsed tunnel. But Wells had been to the Steve Rogers school of stubbornness, and Bucky couldn't afford to be worried about Wells right now. He had too much worry invested in the trapped men.

They found Stark and borrowed two pairs of protective goggles, then met up with the lieutenant at the mine's entrance. When they both nodded to indicate their readiness, he handed Bucky one of the lamps he'd lit and led them down into the tunnel.

The weight that had pressed so ominously down on them during their last journey into the mine felt ten times heavier in the wake of the incident. Bucky forced his breaths to remain steady despite his racing heart. Trapped in a mine was not how he wanted to end this war. That wouldn't be the letter his parents got.

A crew was already hard at work in the collapsed tunnel, but it wasn't the frenzied scramble to free the trapped men that Bucky had been expecting. The team worked slowly, critically examining each and every stone before pulling them out of the pile. Bucky wanted to dive in; common sense held him back.

"How's progress?" their guide asked.

"Slow," said another. "A surprisingly large amount of the rock here is load-bearing."

"Have you heard anything from the men on the other side?" Bucky asked. The man shook his head. "What can we do to help?"

"Start over there. And don't move anything unless you've been given the OK."

So they worked under the direction of the lieutenant, watching while he poked around the pile of jumbled rocks, waiting while he shifted a few broken pieces here and there, eventually hauling the larger debris away when instructed, and always going carefully, slowly, piling the discarded rocks far away from the chaotic mess.

After twenty minutes of digging it seemed they'd made little progress. How much air was on the other side of the blockage? Would the men trapped there run out, or would they try to make it to the second exit somebody had mentioned hours earlier? Did this branch of the tunnel even have a second exit, or did it lead to a dead end? He asked the questions as he worked, but none of the engineers seemed to have any answers.

"I've found someone!" one guy called, and everybody crowded around, oil lamps in hand.

At first, Bucky didn't see what the engineer had seen. Slowly, the scene before him was revealed, like an optical illusion. Sticking out from the large pile of dark rocks was an equally dark hand. One of the 370th. Somebody crouched down and used his first two fingers to search for a pulse, but even before he looked up and shook his head, Bucky knew the guy was being overly optimistic. Nobody could survive being crushed by that much rock.

"Should we fetch a medic?" asked Wells. There was a sheen of dirt-streaked sweat across his forehead, and Bucky knew just how he felt. Even though he wasn't claustrophobic himself, he felt as if the mountain was only a small tremor away from collapsing further.

"No," the lieutenant said. "Not yet. There's no point risking anybody else. Not until we've got good news and somebody to save."

Slowly, they dug the body out. They couldn't risk pulling the man from under the stones in case his body had been incorporated into the load-bearing mass. When the body was finally released, Bucky's heart sank. He didn't know the name of the young, dark-skinned private, but he'd seen him around camp. It was harder, somehow, seeing the face of someone familiar than the face of a stranger.

Another half hour of digging revealed two more bodies; one from the 69th, and another from the 370th. Bucky and the others lay the men down side by side at one end of the tunnel, closing their eyes and taking their tags to be returned to their officers. A small, traitorous thought lurked in the back of his mind. Maybe all the men were crushed in the cave-in. Maybe there's nobody left to save. He pushed the thought away. So long as even one man was unaccounted for, there was hope, and he would dig until, one way or the other, everybody had been found.

"There," the lieutenant said to Bucky, gesturing at a large rock. "That one's safe to move."

When Bucky glanced up to Wells, to ask his friend to help him lift the heavy chunk, he spotted him a short distance away, leaning against the stone wall and practically doubled over, his face pale and sweaty, his eyes closed. Even though his hands were resting against his knees, propping up his upper body, his arms were shaking. Bucky hurried over to his side.

"Hey, are you okay?"

Wells shook his head. "There's no air down here." He took a deep gasp. "Feel like my lungs are on fire."

"I'm just gonna take Wells to get some fresh air," Bucky told the lieutenant. "I think he's feeling a bit light-headed from the heat."

The man merely nodded. "Alright. Get yourselves a drink of water, too. This sort of thing isn't easy."

Bucky grabbed one of the lamps and shepherded his friend further up the tunnel. Almost had to carry him. Wells' progress was painfully slow; each step seemed to take a lifetime. Finally, halfway along the tunnel, Wells' legs gave way and he sank to the ground. In the confines of the tunnel, his rapid breathing came echoing back and forth, and Bucky found himself completely at a loss. What should he do? What could he do? If he took the lamp and went to fetch a medic, Wells might panic over being left alone in the dark. If he left the lamp and tried to make his way back in the dark, he might take the wrong fork and end up wandering the mines forever. By now they were too far from the other excavators for the men to hear their calls, and even if they weren't, he didn't think shouting this far underground was a very good idea. Not after the recent tectonic activity.

He considered asking Wells what he was supposed to do, but Wells was too busy trying to curl himself up into a tiny, panicked ball. Each rapid, ragged breath sounded like a wheeze, and Bucky suspected he didn't have enough air left in his lungs to do any talkin' with. He was completely and utterly on his own.

His mind went back to a few hours ago, when Wells had managed to stave off panic by imagining himself in an open field. Bucky looked down at his friend. Wells seemed to be beyond the help of open fields.

He sank down onto the floor beside Wells and tugged the makeshift breathing mask from his friend's face, so he could breathe a little easier. That ought to help… a little. Maybe. He just didn't know which problem to address first; the darkness, the closeness, the hyperventilating… why hadn't his basic first aid training covered this?!

What would I do if it where Steve? he thought to himself. C'mon, Barnes, think! You've helped Steve out of lots of scrapes. This is no different. Or at least, not all that much different. Just use your head.

"Wells," he said, and received no response. "Wells, listen, I need you to give me your hand, okay?"

If Wells heard him, he gave no indication. His arms remained firmly wrapped around his legs, his knees raised to his chin and his face buried in them. Bucky ran a hand down one of Wells' arms and forced his fingers beneath Wells' hand. Finally, Wells transferred his hot, sweaty grip to Bucky's hand, and Bucky felt every single tremor as it shook his own arm too. Wells feeling fine would've thrown out a smart-assed comment by now. We're not gonna sing kumbaya, are we? The lack of smart-assed comment reinforced just how not-fine Wells was.

"Listen, pal, I want you to focus on my voice, okay? Squeeze my hand if you're hearing me and understanding me." The already tight grip tightened even further. It made the trembling worsen. Bucky's chest begin to feel tight, as if just watching Wells struggle to breathe was making it harder for him to draw breath. He tugged his face mask down before continuing. "Okay, good. Now, I want you to close your eyes and think of that wide open field. Blue sky. No clouds. In fact, don't even bother with the field; they're overrated. Think of the days you spent on the deck of the Monty. Nothing but water and horizon as far as the eye can see. Smell the fresh salty air, and hear those annoying seagulls. And while you do that, I want you to focus on my hand. I'm gonna breathe, and I want you to breathe with me, okay? When I squeeze your hand, that means inhale. And keep breathing in, and holding your breath, for as long as I'm squeezing. And when I let go of your hand, that means start exhaling. Do you understand? Squeeze my hand, Wells."

It was squeezed.

"Good. Okay, now, here we go. Take a slow breath in, and think of the Monty."

At first, he thought it wasn't working. Wells was still breathing as fast as ever. His hand was still slick with sweat, his arm shaking so much Bucky felt it tremor down his own arm. It took a few cycles of him squeezing Wells' hand, a few mantras about open skies and fresh air, until Wells got the hang of how and when to breathe. When he did, the shaking started to become less intense. The rapid wheezes grew quieter. Finally, as Wells managed to get air into his lungs, his body relaxed, his limbs loosening as he uncurled from the protective ball he'd drawn himself into. Each shaky breath was a small victory, and he gripped Bucky's hand as if it was a lifeline.

Bucky checked his watch. It had felt like a lifetime of sitting in the dark, breathing slowly, squeezing Wells' hand, but it had been only ten minutes. His own throat was dry from the effort of breathing to a slower rhythm, so he took out his canteen and washed away the dry with a few deep gulps. He held the flask out to Wells, who shook his head. In the yellowish lamplight, he looked terrible. His hair was damp with sweat, his eyes wide and pupils dilated, his face pale and clammy with streaks of dust smeared here and there, and he still shook slightly with each inhale. Still, at least he didn't need Bucky to prompt him.

"Better?" Bucky asked.

Wells nodded and licked his dry lips before croaking out a response. "Haven't had it that bad since I was a kid. Though I was past it."

Anger burned deep inside Bucky's gut. "That's happened before?" Wells nodded. "And your folks still punished you by sticking you in that cupboard?" Another nod. "How can any parents do that to their own child?!"

"Apparently I deserved it."

"Bullshit. That's not parenting, it's torture."

"Could we not talk about it?" Wells croaked.

"Alright. Sorry. Here, have a drink."

Wells finally let go of his hand and accepted the canteen. A few small sips was all he took before he started to shiver.

"Cold," he explained, as Bucky opened his mouth to ask if he was struggling breathing again.

"Let's get out of here. Can you walk?"

Wells shook his head. "Sitting here, in the light… it's hard, but I can manage it. Pretend that I'm in a tent or something. But when I'm walking, and the darkness walks with me, it's like some never ending nightmare."

"Then close your eyes, and I'll lead you out. You can imagine being on the Monty or something. I'll make sure you don't trip, or bang that enormous head of yours."

The comment elicited a tiny smile from Wells' lips, and he nodded. He pushed himself to his feet and closed his eyes whilst Bucky collected the lamp and looped Wells' arm through his own. He quickly figured out why Wells was shivering; the cold sweat which had covered his body had dampened his clothes, which were chilling him. If he'd realised Wells would be this bad, he would've argued more strongly against him coming back down into the mine.

"I think we're just about even, now," Wells said, as he shuffled along beside Bucky. His right hand was out, feeling for any jutting rocks which he might walk into. It was a futile effort, because Bucky was guiding him around any obstructions.

"Even?"

"Yeah. I saved your life, and you got me to the hospital after I stabbed myself, and stopped me having a full blown panic attack just now."

"I didn't realise we were keeping score."

"I like to know where my debts lie."

"I don't think there should be any debts between friends."

"In that case, can I borrow a hundred bucks?"

Bucky snorted. "Sure. I think there's a bank down the next tunnel."

They continued in silence for a moment, and Bucky's thoughts went back down to the men trapped behind the rockfall. Apparently, Wells was thinking about the same thing.

"I just need a few minutes in the fresh air. Then we can rejoin the digging team."

Bucky stopped, forcing Wells to stop beside him. "Are you crazy? You can't go back down there." Wells was mad if he thought Bucky was gonna let him go anywhere near that tunnel.

"Sure I can." Wells opened his eyes for long enough to fix Bucky with a determined scowl. "We have men trapped. Friends trapped. I'm not gonna leave them. Besides, you know I can't tell anyone why I can't go back down there."

With a sigh of frustration, Bucky shook his head. Lord save him from stubborn, mule-headed friends! Being around Wells was like being around a larger, more sarcastic version of Steve.

"Wells, you're far from okay, and if you even try to get back down there, I'll haul your contrary ass to the hospital tent and tell Nurse Klein to pin you to a bed and beat some sense into you." Wells opened his mouth to protest, but Bucky hurried on. "Look, nobody has to know why you can't go back down. We'll tell them that we need someone stronger to help shift a heavy load, and I'll take Biggs back with me. That's sorta technically true anyway. And if the next words out of your mouth aren't 'okay, we'll do it your way,' I will personally kick your ass the second we're out of this tunnel."

"Fine," Wells scowled. He closed his eyes, and they resumed their journey. "I hate being like this. Afraid, and weak."

"You're not weak," Bucky assured him. "I've seen you come under fire without even flinching. Crazy? Sure. Weak? I think not. After everything your folks put you through, I'm not surprised small, confined spaces trigger panic attacks. If I were you, I doubt I would've lasted this long."

Wells seemed too tired to argue further. Just before they reached the mouth of the tunnel he extracted his arm from Bucky's and managed to walk unaided into the open air. As soon as they reached the rest of the company, they were inundated with questions about whether anybody had yet been found. Bucky dodged them, whilst Wells outright ignored them. Nobody questioned why Wells was switching places with Biggs, and as soon as the large man had his own face mask and had borrowed the protective goggles from Wells, Bucky led him back down into the mine, all the while praying that there was somebody left alive to save.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Bucky dug slowly, each twist of his entrenching shovel rubbing against the blisters on his fingers and hands. He welcomed the pain. Invited it in because it stopped everything else from coming out. The longer he delayed finishing the hole, the longer it would be until he'd have to put another friend in the ground. Around him, in deepening trenches, Wells and the men from the other regiments who'd volunteered for grave duty dug in sombre silence, the only sound their shovels biting into the ground, loosening earth, throwing it up into piles which grew as the graves were hollowed.

Thirteen graves. Thirteen men. The cost of staying 'safe' from the Luftwaffe was thirteen lives—a heavy price to pay. Too heavy. The men injured in the cave-in were on the road to recovery, but those who'd been crushed under the bulk of the rubble hadn't stood a chance. Most of them had died instantly. They'd found Franklin and Davies next to a couple of the dead engineers, their broken bodies twisted and crushed by the weight of the earth above them. It was a terrible, pointless way to go.

Eventually, the other men finished and left. Bucky tried to work even more slowly now, making each shovel full of earth come as slow as he could manage. He glimpsed Wells above, watching him work, but his friend didn't offer to help. Maybe Wells understood, or maybe he didn't wanna get in the way, or maybe he didn't wanna imply Bucky wasn't up to the task of digging a hole. Either way, he watched in silence, and Bucky dug in silence.

Not even he could delay forever. Soon—too soon—the hole was deep enough to bury a man. Wide enough to fit him comfortably. No coffins out here, just blankets. A bed in the earth, an eternal resting place for men who didn't deserve this. Good men. Men who had succumbed not to enemy fire, but to a geological act of serendipity.

For a long moment, Bucky stood in the grave, observing it critically. Would Franklin or Davies be happy here? No. Stupid. Stupid thought. It's a hole in the ground. He considered working a bit more, chipping a little at the sides, smoothing off some of the rough edges. But then… when they put the dirt back in, it would all be the same, except a little higher. Bodies displaced dirt. He'd learnt that much after Danzig.

Wells reached down to offer him a hand, and Bucky allowed himself to be pulled out of the hole, wincing as his blisters were rubbed again. Now out, he stuck his entrenching shovel into the pile of loose earth and stood looking down at the hole he'd made, with Wells standing beside him. From up here, the hole looked better. Larger. Smoother. This was a better view to be buried from.

"Remember that day back in NYPOE, when Franklin taught us how to stir sugar into coffee?" Wells offered at last.

There was a gleam of humour in his voice, elusive as gold nuggets in a panned-out stream. Bucky could remember it, alright; remember it like it was yesterday. The bullshit coffee stirring. The ban on stirring coffee too much. The sugar-redistributing it had spawned. Once, how to stir coffee properly had been the most important thing in the world. The hot topic of the day. Back when they'd all been young and stupid, all of three months ago. Amazing, how a guy could age in three months.

When the memory elicited no response from Bucky, Wells continued. Bucky didn't have to look at his friend's face to see the half-smile on his lips.

"And remember how Davies did all that stuff to get Carrot's rose to Samantha? All the shit we had to barter for? Those matches we played on the Eagles' dartboard to win our stuff back?"

Suddenly, it was too much. Franklin and Davies were dead. Carrot was dead. Tipper was gone. So was Weiss, and Danzig, and a bunch of guys Bucky had known as comrades but never as friends. Too many men were in the ground. Too many were a permanent part of the earth, fated to lie here forever, until their bones turned to dust. And now, Franklin and Davies were joining them. Remembering the men they had been was too hard. Too painful.

"I don't wanna play this game anymore," he said, his parched throat forcing his words into a croak.

Wells turned to face him. "Game?"

"Remember this. Remember that. Maybe I don't wanna remember this and that."

"It's better to remember how they lived than how they died," Wells said, his voice infuriatingly patient, like he was some damn teacher talking to a stubborn child. "It's a better way of honouring their memories, and who they were."

"We can't all be like you, Wells," Bucky scowled, turning to his friend. "We can't all just shrug it off when somebody dies and pretend like everything still smells of roses."

He didn't see the punch coming. Wells' fist caught him off guard, knuckles hitting his cheek, momentarily sending his head spinning. The pain of his bruised skin set off a chain reaction of anger within him. Even before his mind had recovered from the fact that he'd just been punched, he launched himself forward and dropped his weight, hitting Wells' chest with his shoulder, knocking him to the ground and punching him before he could recover, a swift punch to the chin which split his lower lip.

Fury draped itself around his mind, caressing his thoughts darkly, sending strength to tired, aching muscles and blistered hands. But Wells wasn't Carrot, who didn't know how to fight, or Tipper, who was too scrawny to throw a damaging punch; he fought hard and dirty, kicking Bucky off him before he could punch again, jabbing his knee into his back, employing his elbows to swipe, fists and feet landing blows as they scrapped amongst the mounds of earth. Even the birds fell silent, awed by the sudden violence and the brief ferocity of the two figures punching, kicking and wrestling on the ground.

When Wells' elbow came jabbing swiftly into Bucky's shoulder, sending a tingling feeling down his arm, he finally managed to plant his foot on Wells and kick him away. He pushed himself to his feet and grabbed the handle of his entrenching shovel, which had become dislodged from the mound of earth during the fight, and held it in front of himself like a weapon. Amongst the mounds he stood,panting, hurting, anger bubbling him inside. A second later, Wells was on his feet too, a half dozen paces away, fighting for air of his own, his face twisted into an angry snarl, his lip dripping blood from where Bucky had bust it.

"You punched me!" Bucky growled.

"You were acting like a complete asshole," Wells shot back. He took a few steps forward into Bucky's personal space, his blue eyes blazing angrily. Bucky's grip on the entrenching shovel was so tight that several of his blisters burst, wood rubbing against raw, weeping skin. The fingers of anger caressing his mind told him to use that shovel to strike out, but he kept his arm still, forced his fingers to stop twitching. "You think I don't care? That I just shrug it all off? Lemme tell you something, Barnes. When you spend your childhood being punished for crying because it's seen as weakness, you teach yourself to cry real fuckin' quiet so nobody can hear you do it. And maybe I am weak, and broken, because when shit like this happens, when we lose men—when we lose friends—all I can think is that I wish I had some small, dark cupboard to be alone in, where nobody can hear me or see me, even though that place gives me fuckin' nightmares. You think I get by every day by pretending life is sunshine and lollipops? No. I get through the days by letting myself be a goddamn wreck in whatever few moments I can get alone. A few minutes of private catharsis, then I go back to trying to do my job, trying to keep everyone else alive so that one day I might not have to bury any more friends."

Bucky took a step back, and very nearly slipped into the grave he'd just finished digging. He still gripped the handle of his shovel, because adrenaline and anger were doing their best to keep hold of him, but guilt had just gatecrashed his party. So far, he'd managed to avoid crying over the dead. Thought that if he started, he'd never be able to stop. He'd just assumed that Wells put all thoughts of the dead aside, as he'd suggested doing after Tipper died. But maybe that was easier said than done, even for Wells. How the hell did the guy do it? How did he let the sadness and loss in? Acknowledge it? Dance with it? Live with it? How did he put it aside afterwards and hide it away, and pretend it had never been there at all? How did he keep it from sneaking back in? How did he stop that floodgate from reopening?

"I'm sorry," he said, and the anger left Wells' eyes. "I was outta line."

Wells took another step forward. "Look, I get it. You may think you're good at hiding your feelings, but you're actually not. Do you think I don't see how much it cuts you when we lose someone? How personally you take it? I see it. Everybody sees it. But if you keep all those feelings inside, then sooner or later something's gonna break. I know you're used to being the guy everybody can rely on, but you don't have to be." He reached out to wrap a hand around the entrenching shovel that was trembling in Bucky's painfully tight grip. "Let go."

So, he did. His blistered skin stung, his arms ached from digging, and his knuckles were bruised from the punches he'd thrown, but he let go of his anger and relinquished his grip on the shovel. As he did, he made himself a promise. No more being a jerk to his friend. No more wallowing in sadness and self-pity. No more being blind to the feelings of others, no matter how well they hid them.

"I'll go get washed up," Wells said, dismantling the shovel. "I'll tell Hawkswell you're gonna need another fifteen minutes to finish the holes." A tiny, sad smile twisted his lips. "Trust me, the hardest thing to do is to let go, but you can't keep holding on to pain forever. Not without it tearing you up from the inside."

When Wells disappeared, Bucky sank to the ground in front of the pile of earth beside the grave. Tears stung his eyes as they had during the liberation of the concentration camp. Not tears of anger, or frustration, or self-remonstration, but tears of sadness over the friends he had lost. Good men who'd died young and left behind friends and families who would miss them. This time, he didn't try to hold the tears back. Now that he'd been given permission, it was easier to let them come. They spilled down his cheeks and into the pile of earth. Watched only by the morning songbirds, he finally let himself mourn the friends he'd lost.