Chapter Text
October 1943, Azzano, Italy
Night has long since fallen but the battlefield burns as brightly as day. Flames leap skyward, grasping at the stars, whose cold light could not possibly rival the hellfire raining down the European Front. The earth trembles under the weight of mortar shells and frantic, retreating footsteps. The air tastes sour of burning fuel.
Bucky sprints through the madness, boots pounding against scorched soil—corpses littering the ground like grotesque epigraphs—and he doesn’t dare look down. A mine detonates behind him, the force knocking him off balance. He stumbles—once—twice— but he doesn’t stop, running until he trips and dives into a shallow foxhole.
He hits the dirt hard.
He feels it deep within his bones, his skull. The explosion that follows sends a terrible wave of heat and debris over him, clogging his throat with ash and dust until his lungs heave for breath. Another soldier isn’t so lucky—a flash of fire and shrapnel cuts him down, splitting his face in two. He hadn’t even been that far from him, only a few steps behind, perhaps if Bucky had reached out his hand, dragged him forward…But there is no space for grief here. He realised that within his first week—when his commander was blown to bits right beside him, showering his freshly pressed uniform in blood. The stains never did come out.
Static hums in his ears, even as he presses his head to his knees, shielding his face from debris. The noise blends and swims into a nauseating cacophony of sharp gunfire, the deep-throated booms of mortar fire and desperate shouts of soldiers calling out orders—praying, asking for their ma’s, cursing a sailor’s worth of profanities.
Dugan drops in beside him, grinning widely despite the soot streaking his face and the blood smeared across his sleeve. He has that wild gleam in his eyes—the one they all get after too long spent on the front lines. “Hell of a fireworks show out there!” Dugan yells, clutching his rifle like it’s somebody’s sweetheart. Bucky tries to laugh at the old memory—no one in the infantry bought Dugan’s stories about his so-called “maidens”—they figured he was already married to that damn rifle. The man talks about it like it’s an actual woman, hell, even calls it she, as if that’ll make it shoot straighter.
Bucky still can’t hear, wiping the rest of the soot from his eyes. He’s barely able to make out the shape of Dugan’s words before replying: “Not sure I’d call this a party,” his gravelly voice deaf to his own ears. He peers over the rim of the trench. Flames twist in the distance, illuminating the carcass of what had once been a forest. Shapes dart through the haze—friends, enemies—it’s impossible to tell. He raises his rifle, finger hovering over the trigger, but the target is gone before he can fire. His head spins, but the ringing finally fades.
“There’s got to be at least five mortar companies out there!” Dugan hollers.
Jones crashes into the foxhole next, scrambling with the bulky radio pack strapped to his back. “Good news and bad news,” he pants, coughing against the acrid air.
“Get ahold of B Company!” Bucky snaps immediately, steadying his grip on his Springfield. “Tell them we need cover!” He watches as another soldier falls at the hands of Wehrmacht gunfire, and he pulses with a tempered stream of indignation. His ribs tremble, and he can’t tell if it’s him or the reverberations upending the earth.
“Well, that’s the bad news,” Jones grimaces, hauling the radio forward. Smoke curls from its shattered casing.“Thing’s fried! No calling for backup.”
Dugan curses. “Then what the hell’s the good news?”
“I’m still breathing, aren’t I?” and Jones offers him a crooked grin, despite it all.
“Don’t fuckin’ jinx it, Jimmy.”
Bucky wipes the sweat from his brow. He lines up his rifle and pulls the trigger. His hands remain steady even as the ground quakes—because they have to. Because he can’t afford to slip. “We’re sitting ducks without reinforcements!”
“About to be dead ducks,” Dugan adds unhelpfully.
Bucky doesn’t answer. He knows Dugan’s jokes are his way of keeping sane, but they’re not very timely. He risks another glance over the edge of the foxhole, spotting a cluster of Wehrmacht soldiers advancing through the growing smell of death. His pulse quickens, but each pull of his trigger remains sharp and precise, even as adrenaline pounds through his veins and turns everything dizzy. He feels a brief sense of satisfaction as the soldiers drop, remorsefully so, but he doesn’t have any time to feel the guilt of his crimes as he cocks his gun to the left to take out two more, a bullet whizzing just past his shoulder.
It isn’t nearly enough. Their efforts grow more and more pointless and he’s painfully aware of this—for every German he shoots, two more seem to take their place, another head replacing the last. There’s an endless stream of Nazis gaining proximity, they’re vastly outmanned and completely cut off. And Bucky thinks, for perhaps the hundredth time since his deployment, that this is it for him. His luck has finally run out.
His next thought is Steve’s gonna kill me if I die here. It’s a reassuring thought—all things considered. To think of Steve one last time, to imagine his face before the bullets tear through him and erode that beautiful smile forever.
Bucky turns around at Dugan’s behind you! just in time to fire a round into the chest of an advancing soldier. Dugan and Jones join in, their rifles rattling as they spray bullets across the field. Another mortar round detonates too close for comfort, and Bucky ducks, feeling the scrape of metal against his jaw. Dugan’s bowler hat goes flying, and he curses as he snatches it back, slamming it onto his head with a muttered, aggravated insult.
“They’re closing in,” Jones says sharply, raising his Thompson. “Get ready.”
Bucky’s first round hits true, the soldier crumpling instantly. The second drops another. The third—a misfire—sparks against rock. The enemy keeps advancing. He fires, he slips, he fires again, until his round is empty and he’s slammed back against the dirt. Bucky’s never been particularly religious—his ma had to drag him to church, tooth and nail, every damn Sunday, and even then, the only reason he ever went was because of Steve. Still, he says a short prayer, all that he remembers from those tedious sermons. He prays that Steve will at least have a body, but doubts it.
And just as he’d gotten to the deliver us from evil, sinking into bleak resignation, a crackling blue light streaks across the battlefield, obliterating enemy soldiers like lightning from some otherworldly storm. Bucky freezes, his rifle slack in his hands as he watches the soldiers vaporise, their bodies disintegrating into nothing. No skeleton, no blood, no smoke—nothing.
“What the hell is that?” Dugan mutters, his grin finally slipping.
Jones stares, wide-eyed. “Not ours, that’s for damn sure.”
Bucky’s hope flares for a moment. A grace from God? Had He really heard his pathetic prayer? So maybe scrawny old Steve will have to wait a couple more years before chewing him out on his untimely death.
Unfortunately, Bucky’s instincts tells him otherwise.
The source of the light rumbles into view—a German tank, larger and more menacing than anything he’s witnessed on the front lines. Its headlights pierce the smoke, the barrel of its cannon glowing faintly with residual energy, roaring like thunder.
Another dozen Nazis erupt into white light and then—nothing. Nothing except the terrifying sound of electricity that echoes in their eardrums. The gunfire seems to pale in comparison.
“That looks…new,” Dugan comments off-handily. The three of them stare, frozen, bewildered, mouths slightly agape—curiosity laced with caution. It looms over them, massive and unyielding, like some mechanical predator toying with its prey before the kill. It grinds to a stiff halt, its barrel angling straight at their faces and…certainly not an ally after all.
“Shit.” Bucky’s instincts kick in, mind hardly catching up to his limbs as he yanks Dugan and Jones by their uniforms, bracing himself as he follows quickly behind.
The tank fires.
The blast carves the spot they’d been standing, shrapnel raining down as the shockwave hurls them forward. The ground shudders beneath him as Bucky hits the ground, the breath knocked straight out of him, landing badly on his left knee. He struggles to his feet and continues to run, ears ringing, muscles screaming in arduous protest. He spares the briefest glance back at the scalding crater and curses himself for getting distracted. But damn it if he hasn’t always been fascinated by the futuristic. He’d been practically head-over-heels at Stark’s Expo just three months ago, even when the hovercar fell flat on its ass. And not just because of the machine— because he’d gotten to spend his last day before getting shipped out with his best guy beside him. And it had felt, for once, like there was hope for the future.
Now, that hope feels like some cruel joke.
The tech here isn’t dazzling. The world isn’t advancing; it’s tearing itself to pieces.
It’s strange how different things were just a few months ago. He misses it—those moments of wonder, that brief spark of optimism. He misses Steve. And that’s a good thing perhaps. Maybe it’s the only thing keeping him moving.
Bucky pulls Jones to his feet, who mutters unsteadily:
“That’s not normal,”
Bucky grits his teeth, tasting iron from where his teeth had clipped his tongue. “No kidding.”
They don’t have time to marvel or question. The blue light doesn’t come again—at least not yet. The tank rolls forward, unperturbed, its cannon swivelling towards its next target. But it’s not solely the tank that unnerves Bucky.
Shadows emerge from the fog—soldiers clad in dark uniforms, faces obscured by bulbous helmets and goggled visors that catch the firelight, making their eyes glow orange. Like wasps.
An insignia stands out on their collars and sleeves—a tentacled beast with a skull head. Their weapons are sleek and unfamiliar, humming with an energy that makes Bucky’s stomach twist. Large, brutal-looking contraptions he doesn’t want to get acquainted with. Bucky has a few choice of words about their choice in fashion—none of it complimentary—but there’s no time for wit. He keeps running along the line of the trench, the others just in front, too afraid to stop, dragging their legs forward with nothing but fumes and adrenaline. He doesn’t look back this time.
It’s only when they near the forest’s edge, its canopy roaring with fire, that Bucky realises why they stopped firing.
And why they’re royally, irreversibly fucked.
Surrounding them and enclosing the perimeter is a legion of those bug-eyed soldiers, cleaning the rest of the battlefield, prodding through the wreckage and finishing off stragglers. Dugan slows ahead of them, faltering as the sheer number of soldiers becomes clear—an onslaught of men and machinery, double the size of the Italian front. The figures corral the rest of them up like cattle, butting them with slender batons, alien in design, some pulsing with that same blue light. One jab is all it takes to force compliance, it seems.
They’re pushed past armoured cars and half-tracks, stacked and sardined into lines of cargo, pressed up against shoulders, until he can feel the hitch of wet lungs. The closeness feels like a tomb—like being buried alive.
When a goggled man prods him to get back in line, Bucky snaps—a wire setting off in his mind—and shoves back, getting one solid punch in before a long pulse of electricity shoots through his veins.
Pain floods his body, muscles locking as the current crackles through him. He bites back a scream, glaring instead at the masked soldier, refusing to give the him an inch of satisfaction. The soldier raises his baton once more, and this time it lands squarely between his ribs. Bucky groans as the sparks renew, frying his nerves for several, painful seconds, before finally settling into a shivering ache. It leaves him staggering behind, but still standing.
“Jimmy,” Dugan hisses, his tone harsh as he fixes Bucky with a stern look. That look. The looks that says sit your ass down before you get yourself killed. It’s a frequently recurring look Bucky gets from a variety of people. The main one being Steve. Though honestly, Bucky sent a fair share of those looks towards the little punk too, when he’d bite off more than he could chew.
Around them, murmurs of Allied soldiers clash with the more discombobulated sounds of German, barking orders, strained and urgent. Somewhere in the distance, the heavy clank of the mega tank’s tracks echoes as it recedes, leaving behind a hollow silence that feels almost worse than the explosions, somehow. The reverb of closing metal doors and whirring machines lingers in the air, and it sounds less like a retreat and more like a warning.
Jones slips forward, moving unnoticed through the uneasy shuffle of men. He tugs on Bucky’s sleeve. “They’re taking us to some sort of weapons facility—in Austria,” he whispers hurriedly, looking around cautiously before turning his gaze back onto him.
Bucky raises an eyebrow.
“What? You thought the radio was all I was good for? Communications expert here.”
“That’s…really convenient.” Bucky signals for Dugan to stall a bit so they can catch up to him. The Germans start pushing a couple of soldiers behind them. The ones too injured to keep up, they shoot. “What else did they say?”
Jones thinks a bit. “Not much. They’re angry..it seems..with the Third Reich. Want to be separate. Or already are. They’re not Nazis, but I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.”
“Anything not-Nazi is a good thing,” Dugan fires back quietly, staying a couple paces in front.
Jones shrugs his shoulders. “With that type of power, I don’t know man. Somethin’ ain’t right.”
“Why are they taking us to a weapons facility?”
“Work,” Jones replies quickly. “Labour. Camps. I didn’t catch everything. They’re taking us prisoner.”
“No shit,” Dugan retorts. “They just decided to line us up all nice and pretty to send us home, of course we’re being taken fucking prisoner!”
Bucky shushes them as a German soldier walks pass, eyeing them slowly before carrying on towards the front. It’s his turn to give them both the look.
“Austria’s a long ways away, it’ll take days to get there on foot,” Bucky says. “And with wounded men...” He trails off, and they both get the implication.
There’s a pregnant silence before Dugan speaks up. “We stick together.” He gives them both pointed stares, one meant to be encouraging this time, but it’s a little weak around the edges.
Nonetheless, Bucky nods his head.
He doesn’t know how long it’s been, but the sun is well in the sky now, dull and cold against swelling clouds. The weather offers no warmth, no mercy. They’ve been walking without rest since they left the battlefield and his legs are starting to feel like the old lime jellos he used to save up for Steve’s birthday. Weak, wobbly, barely holding form. But still standing.
It’s a luxury, really.
So many others have fallen behind, their bodies plastered into the stale mud, long forgotten by the march. Bucky doesn’t let himself look too long. At least their families won’t have to see their faces.
He tries to help. Lending an arm or two for other soldiers to grasp, hauling half-conscious men forward when their legs give out. But eventually, they fall too. His chest tightens, breath coming out sharp and choppy. A faint wheeze scrapes its way up taut his throat, and he swallows it down. His knee is killing him too, but he doesn’t check it. Won’t. It’s not like he can do a damn thing about it anyway.
Jones keeps feeding him information. It helps him stay awake as the fatigue sets in, keeps his mind occupied—something to focus on other than how much his feet hurt, how the cold has begun to bruise his fingers.
So far all they’ve gotten are insults. A couple of slurs that once would’ve lit a fire under Bucky, made him bare his teeth and throw hands at the nearest adversary. Now, he’s too exhausted to muster the energy. Jones is wearing thin too, but he masks it well.
“You need a shoulder, Sarge?” Jones asks him, glancing at his poorly concealed limp. Bucky sends a visceral glare his way, and Jones can only huff in amusement. “I was just askin’, Christ. No need to get so offended.”
“Go help someone who needs it,” Bucky replies stubbornly, picking up the pace. It only makes the pain worse, sharp and hot in his knee. He grits his teeth through it.
“Stop moving away, I’ve got somethin,” Jones calls out—not a whisper, but low enough.
Bucky doesn’t stop, but he slows down just enough for Jones to catch up.
“What is it?”
Jones leans in slightly. “A name. Or at least, I think so.”
Bucky signals for him to continue. This time, Jone’s voice does drop to a whisper:
“Hydra.”
Bucky repeats it under his breath, turning the word over in his mind. It stirs something distant—library trips with his sisters, flipping through old mythology books, the sea-serpent with too many heads. Now that he thinks about it, the insignia stitched into their captors’ uniforms reminds him of just that. “Never heard of ‘em.”
“They’re new,” Jones mutters. “Or not new, but officially a separate force, like I figured. They’ll destroy anyone who ain’t them, to put it bluntly. Or at least, they’ll try.” He’s trying to be uplifting, but they both know that whatever the hell Hydra is, there isn’t going to be much resistance against a weapon like that.
“They’re careful with what they say. I’m not gettin’ much more than that.”
Bucky nods. “What you’ve got is more than enough.”
A soldier stumbles in front of him, falling to his knees. It almost trips him up, but he side-steps, tugging Jones along with him. A German—Hydra—soldier goes to probe the fallen soldier, growing frustrated as he refuses to move. He raises his gun, pushing it against the soldier’s temple, his voice loud and jarring. He’s going to shoot.
In one quick motion, Bucky pivots back, grabs the man under the arm, and hauls him upright. He’s conscious, at least, but not completely there—head swaying disjointedly from side to side. He’d been bleeding at one point, a deep stain covers half his beige uniform, though the patch is dry now. The Hydra soldier hesitates before lowering his weapon, barks something at Bucky’s face and then kicks at the limp soldier’s legs. Bucky clenches his jaw. Doesn’t react. Doesn’t give the bastard an excuse to pull the trigger. He just tightens his grip, making sure the soldier stays upright.
The guy is young. Younger than him, maybe. Blonde, sunken brown eyes—and something about him reminds Bucky of Steve.
He mutters something incoherent that, by the tone, Bucky guesses is a ‘thank you.’ He tells the guy to hold on, that they’re almost there, even if it’s a lie. Even if there is nowhere worth reaching.
The crows begin to feast on rotting corpses.
An hour or two later, the rain starts.
The mud turns thick, sloppy, clinging to his boots with every step, pulling his already lagging footsteps. The blonde boy still clutches onto him, slipping in and out of consciousness, his weight growing heavier with each passing moment. Bucky practically drags him now, his own body protesting as his knee threatens to give.
His clothes are soaked through, the cold Autumn chill seeping into his bones, damp and unforgiving. It only aggravates the tremble slowly consuming his body. His muscles ache and stiffen, but there’s no stopping, no reprieve. Just the unrelenting march forward.
By the time the sun begins to set, more soldiers have fallen. Their faces, mottled with mud and rain, stare blankly at the sky. He feels bad that it’s a relief—that the thick sludge obscures their features, spares him from remembering them. They mark the trail like breadcrumbs in an old fairy tale, ones he used to read, long ago. He hopes that the witch finds them instead.
He keeps a steady mantra in his head, keeps him moving with one singular thought: Make it. Just make it. For Steve. He can’t let some lousy letter in the mail be the thing that breaks the guy’s heart.
Bucky thinks about him a lot as he trudges forward, dragging the barely conscious solider with increasing difficulty. He wonders what Steve’s doing—if he’s sketching in the apartment, nursing a bruise from another alleyway fight, or holed up in bed, coughing through another fever as they gradually descend into winter. He hopes he’s warm, that he’s eating enough. He hopes he isn’t trying to enlist again.
Steve’s a fighter. Always has been. And even if he’s sick, even if life keeps knocking him down, he won’t stop doing what he does best. The thought reassures Bucky, keeps him from worrying too much—because worry takes energy, and he doesn’t have much of that left.
When the man stirs beside him next, he gets a name.
“..’M name’s…Charlie,” he says raggedly, wincing at the drag of his legs. He tries to catch his footing, and Bucky eases off a bit, letting him find his balance. He trips before finally standing on shaky legs. “Charlie O’Sulliv..an” he forces out, accent thick. British? Irish?
Bucky exhales a short laugh. “That’s ‘bout the most English name I’ve ever heard.”
Charlie huffs weakly, nodding with a grimace. “Well s’true.. What’s yours?”
“James,” Bucky says, then offers a small smile. “But call me Bucky.”
Charlie squints up at him. “And you..make fun..of my nam..e”? He coughs out something close to a laugh, wheezing all the way through it. “What type of n-name is that?”
Bucky huffs in amusement, ignoring the way it makes his own lungs rattle.Bucky gives him a short glance, stifling a smile. “How old are you Charlie?”
His words slur but are less shaky and disconnected than before: “Twenny, you?”
Jesus. just a kid. “Twenty-six. You got somebody at home you’re fightin’ for?” If only to keep them talking.
“Well, first and foremost, I’m fightin’ for my country,” he responds half-assed, and Bucky barely stops himself from snorting. “And so that my little brotha can have a normal life. So he doesn’t have to fight when he comes of age.”
Bucky nods his head thoughtfully. “How old is he?”
“Fourteen.”
There’s a lull, the scuttle of trudging feet and quiet murmurs filling the space. Bucky thinks Charlie must’ve passed out again until:
“You got someone you’re fightin’ for?” He waggles his eyebrows. “A lady?”
Bucky rolls his eyes. “Got three little sisters. Workin’ hard, hopefully not gettin’ into too much trouble while I’m gone.” Despite the exhaustion, he smiles. Becca, the oldest, is probably taking charge of the chores, flirting with guys he’ll have to knock out when he gets back. Lily, still young but learning to take care of herself. And Carolyn, the troublemaker—smart as hell and always causing a ruckus.
“And a best guy,” Bucky adds after a pause. “Got the soul of a thousand lions. Greatest guy I’ve ever known.”
Charlie hums knowingly. “So, no lady?”
Bucky scoffs. “Fuck off.”
Charlie laughs, weak but genuine. Bucky holds onto that sound.
“Them four are all I need to keep me going out here,” he says eventually.
And his ma, he thinks. He wonders if his Pa would be proud of him—if he’d think Bucky had done right by the Barnes name, for following in his footsteps. If he’d say he was honourable. If he’d say anything at all. Bucky’s starting to understand that far away look in his Pa’s eyes now, the silences that plagued him after his tour in France. He’d been angry, before.
Now he feels hollow.
Like the space between gunfire. Like the pause before an impact, before the moment of breaking.
Or—
Now he feels like he finally understands.
Or—
Now he feels nothing at all.
Because maybe that’s the trick. Maybe you survive by becoming empty, by letting the cold settle in your chest, by stopping the wanting, the hoping. Because the hope makes you weak, doesn't it?
“They’re damn lucky to have a guy like you around,” Charlie murmurs softly, resting his cheek against his shoulder.
He falls back unconscious.
The wind picks up. It’s cold. Not just skin-deep, but something worse—seeping past muscle and marrow, settling in his soul like rot. His breath stutters in awkward bursts, a tickle clawing at his throat until he has to clear it every few steps. Charlie’s dead weight drags at his shoulder, slowing him down, his body trembling when Bucky’s own breaths hiccup into rough coughs.
His knee is failing them. Every few paces, it falters, a sharp, sickening hitch that throws his balance off. Hydra soldiers have prodded him more than once now, the electricity mercifully off, but the message is clear: Move or be left behind.
Bucky doesn’t want to fall behind.
He repeats it in his head, clinging to his mantra: Can’t fall behind. Can’t fall behind. Can’t fall behind.
For Steve. Do it for Steve.
He tightens his grip around Charlie’s limp form, heaving him higher onto his shoulder. Every nerve in his body is on fire, every inhale more shallow and ragged than the last, but he doesn’t stop.
It feels like he’s been walking forever.
The air is no longer damp. Dry now. It feels sharp and terrible against his throat, like breathing fire. His chest aches, the tickle from before now an unbearably scratch that burrows deep. It feels like needle pricks—like the ones he used to get helping his mother sew blankets in the winter for his sisters and Steve. Only now, the slip-ups aren’t on his fingertips. They’re inside him, needling through his trachea, sinking into the belly of his lungs to puncture each breath.
Dugan notices him staggering and offers to take Charlie. Bucky brushes him off.
A couple hours later, Dugan tries again. Bucky swears him out before he can get more than two words out.
His Can’t fall behind’s become Can’t leave him’s and Don’t wanna leave him’s.
He’s not sure if he’s still talking about Charlie or if his delirious mind has started confusing him for a smaller, skinnier Brooklyn punk.
His mind swims between past and present, eyes burning with exhaustion, his gut weighed down by the cruel grip of hunger. His muscles lock up from the sheer demand of movement, straining and shivering. He’s had to piss for well over a day now. And he’s so, so thirsty. He almost prays for the rain again, despite the cold—just so he can tip his head back and gulp down mouthfuls of it. Anything to ease bite in his throat, the stone in his stomach, the way his tongue sticks dryly to the roof of his mouth.
Charlie’s grip on his shoulder and wrist is tight. Too tight and stiff and cold.
The next time Dugan comes to him, Bucky refuses for a different reason
He’s afraid.
Don’t wanna leave him. Don’t wanna leave him alone.
Night falls, and the sun rises again.
It snows.
Bucky catches as many snowflakes as he can, tongue out, desperate. The ice burns, but it soothes some of the dryness—if only for a moment. When it stops, he’s even thirstier.
They must be close, now. They have to be.
Almost seventy soldiers have died in the last two days—from injuries, exhaustion, or the brutal cold. Some from all three. Bucky feels just about dead himself.
When the sun begins to set on the third day, the break comes without warning. The Hydra soldiers slow, murmuring among themselves as they begin setting up camp.
Jones tells him that they’re letting them rest. They’re not happy about how many prisoners they’ve lost—it’s wasteful, apparently. Dead men don’t work. Jones says it like a joke, but the grimness in his tone betrays him.
Bucky doesn’t really care. He just wants to piss and sleep.
He kneels beside Charlie, shaking his shoulder. “Hey,” he mutters, voice hoarse.
Charlie doesn’t stir.
Bucky shakes him again. Harder.
The realisation creeps in before it hits all at once. His stomach seizes, bile rising in his throat. Slowly, he pries Charlie’s fingers from his wrist, a deep bruise already blooming where they’d clutched too tightly.
His skin is cold.
Bucky doesn’t know when it must’ve happened.
If only minutes after their conversation—hours—or a full night had passed.
It doesn’t matter now.
Bucky buries him under heaps of fallen snow. Finds a branch and a stone. It’s pathetic, but it’s all he can do. Charlie deserves more than a sloppy burial. He feels hollow as he traces his name in the snow, mutters his half-baked prayer. He changes the words, just in case Charlie wasn’t Christian. He doubts it, but still—he wants it to be right.
When he returns to the fire, Dugan doesn’t say anything.
They simply huddle together, for comfort more than warmth.
Bucky grips his chest beneath his uniform. He suddenly misses the too-tight grip of the other boy. So he squeezes harder.