Work Text:
Even before things went wrong, Bucky had a bad feeling about this mission. Call it intuition, call it a sixth sense, call it what you will; his gut was telling him something wasn't right.
He'd realized a long time ago what that meant: somewhere, Steve needed him. And Bucky would be damned if he let him down.
But it didn't make much sense right now. Now, Steve was standing next to him as they looked over the Alps, perfectly and wonderfully A-okay. Still, Bucky couldn't help the anxiety in his chest. He glanced over the edge of the cliff, at the train tracks below, wondering how long it would take for someone to hit the ground if they fell. He thought of himself, briefly, for some reason. Bones breaking, joints popping...
He shook his head. No time. He didn't have the time to worry about that right now.
"Remember Coney Island?" He asked Steve, barely keeping the tremor out of his voice. "This isn't payback, right?"
Steve gave him a look. "Now why would I do that?"
"I dunno." Bucky smirked. "Maybe because you're a punk."
Steve rolled his eyes. "Jerk."
And it might have been stupid, really, the wave of relief that washed over Bucky, instinctive and warm. No matter what happened on that train, he wasn't going to face it alone. Steve would be there with him. And as long as Steve was there, Bucky would be fine. Had to be. Who else would look after the great Captain America?
Fate likes to play games with those who tempt her, so it turns out. Bucky should have known better.
.
.
.
Whenever things went his way for once, Bucky felt suspicious. There was always a catch. Growing up in the Depression hadn't taught him a better lesson than that.
He remembered one winter, the coldest one he'd ever felt, when the busted-up radiator went out in his and Steve's dingy apartment. He remembered because he'd finally gotten steady work, Steve was recovering from his latest flu, and things had been looking up.
It's funny, really, how quickly life can go south. And by funny, Bucky meant goddamn unfair.
The radiator broke. They didn't have the money to replace it, either, and whatever illness had settled in Steve's lungs came back with a vengeance. Bucky still felt those cold nights, sometimes. Cold nights spent by his best friend's side, watching his chest rise and fall, each breath growing weaker by the second. He wound up quitting his job. He knew Steve would give him hell for that—
Take care of yourself, Buck. No need to worry about me.
—But he did it anyways. He just... he just couldn't bear it, the thought of Steve dying alone. He needed someone by his side. He needed Bucky. And goddammit, Bucky wasn't going to refuse him. He never could.
.
.
.
Bucky should have known. Steve had rescued him and the rest of the Howling Commandos. They were attacking Hydra bases. Things were going their way for once.
Bucky should have known.
He should have known.
.
.
.
The train was a monster of steel careening wildly through the Alps. Bucky found it fitting that it was transporting monsters of other kinds. Hydra. Zola. God, if Bucky could get his hands on him... He would strangle the little weasel himself.
But no. No, they needed him alive. Zola was their key to Schmidt, to the rest of Hydra, and Bucky wouldn't give the bastard the satisfaction of a win.
Fate, it seemed, had different plans.
.
.
.
There was a hole in the train car.
There was a goddamn hole in the train car.
And Steve... Steve...
Bucky groaned and opened his eyes.
He was lying among crates, having taken a blow to the head. Dimly, he could hear the screeching of metal, the howling of wind—
The unmistakable charge of a Hydra weapon.
And it was pointing at Steve.
Bucky felt every muscle in his body ignite with white hot fury, and he hauled himself out of the debris. Because it was one thing for someone to point a gun at Captain America... but another entirely to point one at Steven Grant Rogers. Bucky's best friend. The man he would fight for—die for.
And that's exactly what he planned to do.
But Fate. Fate. She, for all her beauty and soft smiles in the paintings, is one hell of a bitch.
Bucky went to dive in front of Steve, take the full hit of a weapon he knew he couldn't survive, a weapon he didn't want to imagine would do to his body. He went to do what he'd always done: protect Steve Rogers.
And he tripped.
His face hit the cold steel of the train car.
The weapon went off.
Bucky had never felt a shockwave like the one that ricocheted off Steve's shield. The force of it sent both Steve and the Hydra assailant flying. Bucky heard the popping of bones, the unmistakable sound of the Hydra goon's neck breaking as he hit the wall of the car.
He didn't spare the bastard a glance. He couldn't. Because Steve—his Steve—had been knocked outside of the train.
Bucky scrambled to his feet. Through the bitter snow, he could just barely make out the blue of his friend's uniform as he clung to a piece of the railing.
"Bucky!" Steve shouted over the howling wind.
He wasn't Captain America right now. Right now, he was just that small, sickly kid Bucky had stood up for all those years ago. He was that wiry teenager, delirious with pneumonia, who whimpered whenever Bucky left his side. He was that young adult, bruised and bleeding in an alley after another fight, the one who Bucky swore to protect, to kill anyone who dared hurt him.
He was just Steve Rogers. And he was going to fall.
"Bucky!" He shouted again, this time in warning.
Bucky didn't listen to him, instead carefully edging his way outside of the car, hand outstretched. Just another few inches. Just another few inches, and he could grab Steve and get them both to safety. Just another few inches, and they would sit in a bar and drink away all the stress they'd ever felt.
The piece of railing snapped.
Bucky screamed.
Steve fell.
.
.
.
Bucky didn't know how long he searched the valley. Hours? Days? Time seemed to curl in on itself, blend into something that didn't make sense anymore, didn't matter. It didn't matter because Steve—Steve—was still out there. And Bucky wouldn't stop until he found him. Not his body, like the murmurs in camp suggested. Him. Alive.
Colonel Phillips called off the search after a week. It took three of the Commandos, Stark, and Peggy to hold Bucky back.
Because Steve wasn't dead.
He couldn't be. What universe would take him instead of Bucky?
.
.
.
Days later, the pain came. Full force, relentless, suffocating.
Steve was dead.
.
.
.
Bucky led the Commandos. They attacked Hydra bases without restraint, obliterated them, erased them from existence. Some of the things Bucky did... if there was a Hell worse than the one he was living, he would end up there for sure. But he didn't care. Hydra needed to be stopped. Beyond that, far beyond that, it needed to die.
People back in the States hailed him as a hero. Sergeant Barnes was saving the world.
Bucky knew the truth.
This wasn't about saving the world; this was about revenge. Plain and simple.
.
.
.
It became his daily routine: wake up, take out as many Hydra bases as he could, drink. Repeat. The war was almost over. Schmidt was cornered, too. The final confrontation wouldn't take long. Bucky would make sure of it.
But he had to admit, there was a part of him that wanted to drag it on... a piece of himself he wasn't proud of.
.
.
.
Schmidt got what he deserved.
It wasn't enough.
Bucky had no choice but to take the whole ship down. It was what Steve would do.
He didn't feel the impact of the crash. He rarely felt much of anything anymore. But he saw something in the darkness: a flash of blond hair, the beginnings of a smile...
And that? That was enough.
"Hey, Punk," he murmured as he shut his eyes. "Long time no see."
He thought he heard something, then. A response. A laugh. But then it faded, and Bucky was left to drift into the darkness.
He didn't care. He would take it.