Chapter Text
1945
A month after the fall, Bucky finally awakes.
It’s the cold that wakes him.
Not the sharp bite of wind tearing past him. That’s gone. but a deep, marrow-level chill that settles into his bones and refuses to leave. His eyes open slowly, heavy as if they’ve been frozen shut. The world above him is a ceiling of dim lights and shadowed metal beams, humming with a low, constant electricity.
For a moment, Bucky doesn’t breathe. And then the memory hits like the train itself.
BUCKY!
Snow, screaming wind, the edge of the car tearing away. Steve’s hand.. it was right there- his fingers were already brushing his glove and it almost reached, but it was just not close enough. Then the fall, the rushing blur and the impact he can’t fully remember.
His heart stutters into a panicked rhythm as he tries to move.
Pain lances up his left side. Sharp, then dull, then… wrong. His right arm responds sluggishly, pushing weakly against the flat surface beneath him. But the left—
What the hell
There is no left hand pushing back. No familiar ache of bones or sore muscle.
It was gone. It ended just above the elbow, the rest gone. Wrapped tightly in layers of white bandages stained faintly through with pink. The sight of it was just fucking wrong. He couldn’t breathe again.
His head pounded. A deep, relentless throb that made it hard to think, hard to breathe. His vision swam in and out of focus, light blurring into pale streaks overhead. He became aware of something else then, the pressure. Tight. Unyielding. Restraints dug into his wrists, his ankles, his chest. He tried to lift his head but his neck screamed in protest, the effort collapsing into a weak, broken breath.
So he turned instead.
Slowly.
On his right… shapes moved. White coats. Masks. Glasses reflecting the harsh lights above. Doctors, maybe. Or something like them. He couldn’t really tell. Everything felt distant, unreal, like he was underwater.
His heart began to race. He was freaking out now. He tried to speak but his throat was dry. A numb feeling appeared in his head and a cold dread crawled up his spine.
His chest tightened. His breath came in sharp, ragged gasps. The room tilted, the ceiling spinning. He tried to yank away from the table, from the straps, from the eyes watching him, but his body barely responded. It felt so goddamn weak.
A hoarse panicked sound tore from his throat and the figures in white turned toward him.
And he suddenly wished he hadn’t woken up at all, panic hit him like the fall all over again.
Where was he.
What happened.
What the fuck did they do to his arm.
His breaths turned shallow, frantic. His chest rattled like it couldn’t keep up. He yanked harder against the restraints, muscles screaming even though he barely had the strength to fight.
“Whh–!” The sound scraped out of him, raw and broken.
Then a calm voice cut through the noise.
“Good morning, Sergeant. Had your beauty sleep?”
It was familiar.
His eyes dragged toward the source, sluggish and heavy, vision flickering as the pounding in his skull grew worse.
A man stepped closer into the light.
The smile came first. Pleasant, polite, and completely detached from the cold calculation in his eyes. Hands folded behind his back like this was a casual visit. Like Bucky wasn’t strapped down, drugged, and missing a piece of himself.
His heart hammered so violently it almost hurt more than his arm.. or what was left of it. He glanced down again, it was a mistake— and the sight of the bandaged stump twisted his stomach until he thought he might be sick.
The man tilted his head slightly, studying his reaction with polite curiosity.
“Yes,” he said lightly, as if confirming something to himself. “You’re awake enough.”
Awake enough for what?
The man stepped closer, and the light finally caught his face.
Round glasses. A hollow sort of politeness. Eyes that didn’t quite blink enough.
Something inside Bucky lurched.
He knew that face.
The name slid through the fog in his mind like a shard of ice.
Zola.
“Allow me,” the man said mildly, almost cheerful. “Doctor Arnim Zola. We have… met before.”
His stomach twisted.
His throat worked uselessly before sound finally scraped free. “Y-you…” The word fell apart, slurred by drugs and fear. He tried again, desperate. “You’re… the guy… fr’m… the… camp…”
The doctor’s smile widened just a fraction — pleased. “Ah. You remember. Good. That will make things easier.”
His mind went back.
Images slammed into him in broken flashes. Metal tables. Needles. Blinding lights. The smell of antiseptic and something burnt. Cold hands touching his skin while he shivered and couldn’t move. The 107th. Screams behind thin walls.
And then Steve. He rescued him. He remembered that. He remembered being saved.
So why was he here again?
His chest tightened painfully. “Steve…” The name slipped out before he could stop it.
Zola didn’t react beyond a small, clinical tilt of his head.
“Yes. Your… friend.” His voice softened like a teacher explaining a simple lesson. “An admirable man. But he is not here now, Sergeant. We are.”
The straps bit into his skin as he tried to move again, panic spiking sharp and hot. His left side felt horribly light — wrong — and his gaze was dragged once more to the bandages where his arm should’ve been.
Bucky’s breath stuttered.
“What… did you do to me…” It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even strong. Just broken.
Zola regarded him the way a scientist might study a specimen.
“Only what was necessary,” he replied calmly.
Necessary?
The room faded. His mind drifted to a memory he wished was real right now.
Not because he wanted it to but because his mind fractured under the weight of it all. The lights above him blurred into white streaks, and suddenly the cold steel beneath his back wasn’t this table anymore.
It was that one.
Back in the isolation room.
Back when he was skin and bone and fever and fear.
~~~~~~~~
1944
He could hear boots. Shouting. Gunfire in the halls. And then — a voice. Desperate. Familiar. Saying his name like it mattered more than anything in the world, but his head was stuck to repeating a set of words.
”Sergeant..—“
Footsteps. Light at first, but gradually increased as the sound drew closer.
Bucky flinched at the sudden light and noise, barely conscious, his mind fogged and broken by fever, pain, and whatever they’d done to him.
His lips moved, trembling.
“Three-two… five-five… seven..-”
The numbers came out slurred, mechanical, like he was reciting something drilled into him, not really seeing who stood in front of him.
“Bucky!” His name. He heard his name. His eyes opened, staring at the ceiling.
The figure leaned closer and the voice shook, thick with emotion. Looking down at the straps and the machinery that surrounded him in horror.
Bucky blinked.
Through the blur, he finally recognized the face hovering over him— worried, battered, but so painfully familiar it hurt.
“Is— is that..-“ his heart lifted.
“It’s me. It’s Steve.” The man assured him in the most sincerest tone.
He wasn’t small. He looked broader. Different. But still Steve.
He felt the straps loosening as Steve worked them free in a rush.
The blonde lifted him carefully off the platform. Bucky’s knees staggered weakly but Steve kept him from falling. His blue eyes expressed what words couldn’t. the inner ends of his eyebrows curled slightly upward. He placed his palm on the side of Bucky’s face, then it moved down to his shoulders.
“I thought you were dead..”
Bucky scanned Steve’s body from head to toe, trying to confirm he wasn’t hallucinating. “I thought you were smaller.”
BOOM!
Explosions sounded from outside. Bucky wobbled a bit from the impact. They needed to get out quick, Steve was about to eye the exit, but his eyes stopped halfway to a map pinned on the wall, with pins marked on different locations. His gaze lingered a bit more, as if he was memorizing it. Then he turned back to the exit.
“C’mon.” He supported Bucky’s weight as he limped, still weak from.. whatever he went through.
The sergeant really felt the change now. Did Steve have.. muscles? And was he taller than him? Last time he checked, he had the build of a twig. A weak voice let out
“What happened to you?” His voice cracked.
“I joined the army!”
~~~~~~~~~~
They were moving fast down the corridor — Steve doing most of the work, Bucky hanging onto him more than walking. For a moment, the world went quiet between them, just the sound of boots and far-off gunfire.
Bucky swallowed, eyes drifting over Steve’s broader frame — the impossible strength holding him up.
“…Did it hurt?” he asked, voice rough, curious despite everything.
Steve huffed the faintest breath of a laugh. “A bit.”
Bucky blinked, processing that, leaning heavier into him.
“Is it permanent?” he murmured.
Steve gave a small nod, eyes still forward. “So far.”
Bucky let out a shaky breath, something between relief and awe, and kept his hand hooked onto Steve like a tether to the world.
They kept moving— or rather, Steve kept moving, and Bucky tried to remember what it meant to walk.
His boots scuffed the floor more than they stepped. Each breath rattled in his chest. The hallway blurred into streaks of gray and shadow, and the world tilted without warning and his knee buckled.
For a heartbeat, the floor rushed up toward him. His fingers slipped weakly against Steve’s uniform. A weak whimper escaped him before he could stop it.
God He hated that sound.
Hated how small it made him feel.
But Steve tightened his grip instantly, without a word. Hauling him back upright with surprising gentleness, like he’d been ready for this. like he expected Bucky to fall and was never going to let him hit the ground.
Bucky’s chest stung. not from pain, but from the awful mix of shame and relief. He pressed closer without meaning to, his forehead brushing Steve’s shoulder again as he tried to breathe through the dizziness.
But there was still a hand at his back, firm and anchoring.
~~~~~~~~~~
Everything after the chaos inside the base blurred together. Hydra soldiers shouting, fire and smoke, the echo of gunshots fading into the mountains. That guy with a red skull.
But eventually, the noise fell away, they were outside. And finally free.
The 107th, gaunt, bruised, exhausted, walked with them. Some leaned on each other. Some limped. Some just stared ahead like they were afraid the world might vanish if they blinked.
Bucky had been given a rifle. The weight of it grounded him.. something familiar in a world that had stopped making sense. His grip was steady even though the rest of him still felt hollow and strange. His body remembered how to be a soldier long after the rest of him had been torn apart.
He walked beside Steve, impressively he managed to find his own footing and didn’t slump.
They Just there, shoulder to shoulder like they always had been back home in Brooklyn, only now the stakes were bigger than alley fights and bullies.
The camp came into view. tents, trucks, stunned faces turning toward the long line of returning men. Whispered shock rippled through the ranks. No one expected them back. No one expected this many back.
And at the front walked Captain America.
And right beside him with gun in hand, eyes forward, still trying to stitch together the pieces Hydra had cracked — marched James Buchanan Barnes.
A man who refused to be left behind— or to leave Steve, either.
The two of them walked in step not perfectly, but close enough that the rhythm of it felt like coming home. Exchanging a glance to each other. Smiling slightly.
~~~~~~~~~~
The 107th was given five days.
Five days where nobody ordered them anywhere. No drills. No missions. No shouting officers or sudden alarms. Just time — to breathe, to remember they were alive, to try and figure out what that meant.
Bucky didn’t really use the time.
He collapsed into a bunk and disappeared, the sleep swallowing the poor man whole.
The first night bled into the next day, and then another. Men came and went from the barracks. Cards were played. Meals were served. Cigarettes were shared. Laughter sparked in small, shaky bursts as the shock wore off.
And through all of it, Bucky slept. Two and a half days straight.
He barely even moved. Just laid there on his side, one hand half-curled near his chest, brow creased like even his dreams weren’t safe places anymore. Sometimes his breathing hitched. Sometimes his fingers clenched like he was reaching for something that wasn’t there.
Steve checked on him more than he admitted. pausing in the doorway, or sitting quietly on the nearest footlocker. Just watching. Making sure Bucky’s chest still rose and fell. Making sure he wasn’t trapped in another nightmare instead of resting.
Nobody bothered Bucky, not because they didn’t care, but because every man in that room knew what it meant to be bone-deep exhausted. To have your body finally realize it wasn’t in danger anymore and shut everything down, so they let him sleep.
When Steve finally stepped out of the tent after checking up on him still asleep, the night air felt cooler than he expected — crisp and edged with the smell of campfire smoke and cheap alcohol. The sky above the camp was streaked with fading blue and black, the last scraps of daylight clinging to the horizon.
The Howling Commandos had taken over a corner of camp, it wasn’t loud like a bar back home, not wild or reckless, but there was a warmth to it. Laughter that sounded a little rusty but determined. Bottles passed hand to hand. Someone had scrounged up a record player, and a scratchy tune drifted through the air, wavering like it wasn’t entirely sure it belonged there.
Dum Dum whooped at something someone said. Morita leaned back on a crate, cigarette hanging from his lips, smirking along. Falsworth and Dernier were arguing over the rules of a card game neither of them actually seemed to know. Gabe was fiddling with the record player, trying to coax the needle into behaving.
They looked… alive.
Not untouched, far from that. But alive in a way none of them had dared hope for weeks ago. A few men raised bottles when they noticed Steve. One of them called out something teasing.. something about “Captain” and the group laughed again. Not cruel. Just relieved.
Steve smiled back, but it was a small one. Honest, but tired.
He moved closer to the fire anyway, letting the warmth soak into his gloves, watching the way the light caught on faces that had once been gaunt and hopeless and were now cautiously finding joy again.
And somewhere inside that, he felt it too.
They made it out.
They really did.
~~~~~~~~
For a second, he just stood there, letting his eyes adjust to the dimming light — the camp alive in a way it hadn’t been in months. Fires burned low in barrels, smoke curling lazily into the night sky. Lanterns swung from poles. The distant hum of conversation blended into something almost like peace.
Then he heard them, off to the side near a stacked wall of crates, they’d gathered into a loose circle with bottles in hand, cheeks flushed with alcohol and the sheer fact of being alive.
Dugan had his bowler hat tipped back at a sloppy angle, face red as he bellowed out a verse with absolutely no concern for pitch. Morita was leaning against him, laughing so hard his shoulders shook, trying and failing to sing along. Falsworth— ever the gentleman, even half-drunk he was attempting to keep the rhythm with dignified claps that were anything but in time.
Gabe’s voice cut through the mess of it. Surprisingly good, smooth even. Though the melody kept wandering because Jones and Dugan kept interrupting with their own loud improvisations. Dernier swayed just a little where he stood, mumbling the lines in his accent, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth as though that was the only thing keeping him upright.
They weren’t really singing the same song anymore.. Just singing loud, off-key. Joyful in the clumsy, fragile way only soldiers fresh from hell could be.
A few nearby men cheered them on. Others shook their heads and smirked, pretending not to watch but still listening.
He glanced back once— toward the tent where Bucky slept, lost in whatever dreams he couldn’t escape— then forward again to the men singing like the sound alone might keep the dark away.
Steve wandered closer, the music getting louder the nearer he came. Dugan was halfway through a verse he clearly didn’t know, Morita was keeping time by smacking the table with an empty tin cup, and Dernier looked like he’d fall over if the cigarette left his mouth. There was an open spot on the edge of the mess table, so Steve slid onto it, resting his elbows on his knees.
He let them finish their dramatic, off-key finale, a ragged, drunken harmony that fell apart into laughter— before he spoke.
“So,” he said, amusement tugging at his mouth, “you men having a good time?”
Five slightly drunk faces turned toward him.
Gabe grinned. “Captain! Pull up a seat!.. oh wait, you already did.”
Dugan thumped a bottle down in front of Steve like he was knighting him. “We’re celebratin’. Man’s gotta celebrate not dyin’, y’know?”
Falsworth lifted his glass with dignified precision, despite the fact that he clearly had no idea how much he’d had. “To improbable survival,” he declared. Dernier muttered something in French that sounded vaguely pleased. Morita just laughed and leaned back, still a little breathless from singing.
Steve shook his head, but the warmth in his eyes didn’t fade. “You’ve earned it,” he said quietly.
Steve leaned back slightly on the edge of the table, elbows resting on his knees, the firelight flickering across his tired face. For a moment he was silent, watching them laugh and drink, a little envious of how easy it was for them to slip back into normalcy.
Then he spoke, voice low, careful. “Hey… could one of you tell me… more about what happened to Sergeant Barnes? In the isolation room?”
The laughter stopped. Just for a second. The men exchanged uneasy glances. No one answered at first.
Finally, Dugan shrugged, trying to sound casual, but there was a shadow behind his grin. “We uh- don’t really know the details. None of us saw it, and honestly… we don’t want to.”
Falsworth’s jaw tightened. “We know what goes on in there. Plenty of men went in before Barnes and they never came out. That’s all we know for sure.”
Gabe muttered something under his breath. “Hell- I was supposed to be the next one in there! But… well…” He smirked faintly, though the humor didn’t reach his eyes. “Bucky pissed the guards off enough they took him instead. That’s… Bucky for ya.”
Steve exhaled slowly, swallowing the tight knot in his chest. “That sounds… horrible.”
“Yeah,” Morita said quietly, voice low enough that only Steve seemed to hear. “But he made it out. Somehow. Tough bastard.”
Steve nodded, but the tight line in his jaw betrayed him. Somehow. Somehow he had come through that nightmare. Somehow he was here alive, breathing, and… sleeping. For now.
He let them return to their laughter and music, but his thoughts stayed tethered to Bucky. To the long hours he had spent unconscious, strapped down, and alone. The thought of him facing that hell… alone… made Steve tighten his fists just slightly.
~~~~~~~~~~
The first thing Bucky noticed was the weight. Heavy and unfamiliar. His limbs felt like they didn’t belong to him anymore — stiff, leaden, and uncooperative.
The second thing was the silence. Not empty, not peaceful. Just quiet in the kind of way that made your ears ache after weeks of constant alarms, shouted orders, and gunfire.
His eyes fluttered open. Blurred shapes swam into focus. The tent, the shadows of crates, the flickering lanterns. He tried to lift his head… and almost fell back immediately. A low groan escaped him, more reflex than voice. His chest felt tight, lungs still relearning how to expand. Somewhere outside, faint laughter carried in through the flap. A song, carried by men celebrating survival. Bucky’s brow furrowed. His mind tried to catch up. Survival… he’s alive… he’s…
…
His body protested, screaming with every attempted movement. He tried to sit, but his legs wobbled violently under him, nearly dumping him back onto the cot. He tried to whisper, but the sound came out as a raspy cough mixed with a low, choked noise.
“…Steve…”
The name slipped out before he could stop it, ragged and weak.
And just then, the tent flap shifted, and Steve’s familiar shadow appeared. Careful, quiet, and immediately alert to Bucky’s state.
“You’re awake,” Steve said softly, almost more to himself than to Bucky.
Bucky tried to nod, but his neck refused. So he let his head fall slightly forward, eyes half-lidded, tracing Steve’s face like a lifeline.
Steve moved closer, crouching beside the cot. “Hey… easy. Take your time.”
Bucky blinked, struggling to orient himself. “…Where…?” His words were slurred, broken. “…Where am I?”
“You’re safe. Here. Camp. The boys are out there celebrating a little,” Steve said gently, letting his hand hover near Bucky’s shoulder, not pushing, just present. “You’ve been out a long time.”
Bucky swallowed, faintly aware of the hum of life outside the tent, the warmth of the fire through the canvas, the soft, steady presence of Steve at his side. Exhaustion hit him all at once. Not the heavy, numbed sleep he’d had before, but the kind that came with finally waking up to a world that hadn’t killed him— yet felt alien all at once. Steve guided him out of the tent.
For a moment, he froze in the small space between the tent and the firelight, unsure if he belonged out here.
Then a voice broke through the haze.
“Look at the timing,” Morita called, a grin in his tone despite the warmth in the camp. He was the first to notice Bucky’s movement, his gaze tracking the slow, careful steps.
Dernier and Falsworth lifted their arms, waving him over. Their smiles were reassuring, though a little crooked from the alcohol and the exhaustion of the last few days.
Bucky blinked. His chest still felt tight. His legs trembled. But he took a hesitant step toward them.
Step by step, he crossed the short distance. The firelight flickered across his bandaged arm, across the rifle he still gripped a little too tightly, and across his tired, pale face.
“Come on,” Dernier said softly, patting the air near him again, “we’ve got a spot for you.”
Bucky reached the table and slumped onto the edge as though the world were finally letting him.
He smiled. Faint, tired, but perfectly polite. Polished. Even laughed softly at the right moments when a joke tumbled from Dugan or Morita. He carried himself like nothing had changed, like the darkness that had gripped him for weeks had simply been a bad dream.
It was… convincing. So convincing, in fact, that Steve leaned back against a crate nearby, letting out a sigh of relief and shaking his head. “Looks like you’re still kicking,” he said softly.
And Bucky let that ease wash over him.
But the men who had been there.. the ones who had shared the hell of captivity alongside him, didn’t really buy it. Because they knew. They knew the smile was too practiced. The laughter was too timed, the tease was too smooth. And they didn’t say a word. Not to Steve and not each other. It just wasn’t their place yet.
…
But none of that mattered anymore, as it was just a distant memory.