Chapter Text
Austria - 1945
Bomb blasts shake the air, exploding out from the ground as Steve Rogers, better known as Captain America, runs. All around him, his squad ducks and dodges flying shrapnel and the searing percussive blasts that threaten them. Steve feels hot pieces of metal and sand flash against his skin, the pain of it there and gone in an instant.
It is midday. They are in the middle of the Alps, surrounded by trees and snow and little else. They are in the deep midst of a Hydra base. Out here, there are no civilians. Anyone they face is an enemy, and an enemy that needs to be put down.
Steve has no doubts about the skill set of his men. They’ll make it through this. They always do. But for now, it is aim, shoot, and repeat.
Ahead of him, a Hydra soldier leaps up from his makeshift barricade, raises an assault rifle, and aims it at Steve's head. Cursing, Steve raises his shield, bullets ricocheting off vibranium, knocking him back a step with their strength. The bullets zip past, little blasts of air playing across his skin.
“Watch your back, Cap!” Someone shouts as the sound of a gun goes off behind him. He turns in time to see a body fall to the ground.
“Why would I do that when I got you?” Steve shouts back, flashing a grin over his shoulder at Morita. Then he leaps to the side, his muscles bunching, his body tucking inward as he rolls with the leap, tucking in limbs that might risk getting hit by a wayward bullet. Coming up onto his feet beside a truck that had seen better days and could use a tune-up, he rounds on the soldier firing upon them, raises his pistol, and fires.
The bullet exits his gun, and Steve watches as it slices through the air and plows its way right between the eyes of the soldier, coming out the other side with an audible pop and a spray of red and bone.
“Wooo! Nice shot.” Falsworth cheers, though Steve’s not sure if he’s talking about himself, or Steve, since he’d just taken down a soldier of his own. Steve rolls his eyes.
Turning to look around, he catches sight of his Corporal, Dum Dum, laughing as he takes down soldier after soldier, his pistols flashing, his eyes everywhere as he works from behind the shelter of an overturned truck.
Speaking of trucks, there is the sound of a revving engine, and then a truck flies past, one of his guys in the seat, a grim but determined look on his face as he plows the vehicle into the barricaded entrance of the base, breaking past the front gates with the grate of metal and a high, keening sound of the engine. The front end of the truck crushes under the impact, and the engine sputters.
“Gabe, fall back, get out of the line of fire!” Steve shouts, covering his back as Gabe Jones leaps out of the driver's seat, dodging back on his heels to take cover behind the truck and turn back to fighting, his gun in hand.
Taking the lead, Steve storms the now open gates, leaping out from cover and stalking forward. Adrenaline pumps through his veins, making his heart race and narrowing down his focus to the here and now. He’s made for this, for war. He’s comfortable in his skin under the raging shouts of gunfire and the play of bullets in the air. This? This is easy for him. He can take on anything, as long as he has his team by his side, especially—
There is a flash of movement from above. Steve glances up, into the upper ramparts of the base's walls, and catches sight of a sniper moving into place.
“Sniper!” He shouts out in warning, raising his gun. He need not have bothered. A moment later, there is a bang, and as fast as a whiplash, the sniper goes down. Steve grins something fierce. He can take on anything, as long as he has his team and Bucky at his side. Steve glances over his shoulder and spies, just barely, the muzzle of Bucky’s sniper rifle, where he hides in a tree. Throwing a salute over his shoulder at his second in command, Steve turns his attention back to the fight.
“Fall in!” He shouts for his commandos to follow. And with a few more bursts of gunfire, they do as he commands, falling in behind him in a protective circle as he takes the lead.
Breaking out into a run, he sucks ice-cold air into his lungs and madly dashes past the open gates, his thighs working overtime, his breath bursting out in white puffs. He looks around immediately for some kind of cover as bullets fire overhead. The base sprawls out before him. It is a training base. Earlier reconnaissance had proven as much. These are green recruits who didn’t know much about war, and probably hadn’t fired at anything more than a target yet. What they lack in experience, they make up for in numbers, though.
And then there are the weapons—a blue flash of light barrels down the front lane. Morita leaps out of its path, his gun glinting, as he ducks and rolls, coming up behind a barricade.
Steve turns towards the new threat and sees a man step out from behind the cover of a building. A gun at each hip, he fires in every which direction, blue blasts of energy smashing into the ground and sending up bursts of dirt and debris. Steve groans audibly. He hates berserkers. They make everything more difficult. The man doesn’t seem to have a plan in mind—just point and shoot. Steve holsters his pistol and grabs his rifle from where it hangs around his waist. Raising his gun, he pulls out from behind his cover and fires. His rifle recoils against his shoulder, his mind focusing in on that deep, hitting vibration as he straightens his spine to take on the brute force of each blast.
Gunfire rains down on the man as Steve and his commandos give him all that they have. He goes down, blood spewing out of his mouth, dozens of bullet holes piercing his uniform. A couple more shots blast into the sky as he does so.
More of the enemy stand in his place, though, taking up his weapons and rushing the commandos with faces that are torn and terrified in the blue light of the Hydra weapons. Steve scowls, ignoring their fear. There are no winners in war. Everyone is the enemy of someone else, and fighting does nothing but create more enemies. In the year to come, these men would have been on the frontline, shooting down American troops. Ending them now would save an American soldier's life in the future.
So he ignores the screams, the sobs for mercy, the cries in German as soldiers die under his onslaught, and he presses on. Later on, those cries will come back to haunt him, carrying on through his dreams, and ripping at his soul. For now, he bears their burden. He can do this. He is Captain America after all.
A sharp wallop of pain hits him as a stray bullet strikes him in the side, delving in past the armored padding of his uniform. Steve cries out, falling to one knee and catching himself on his shielded fist. For a second, it’s hard to breathe past the pain. His mouth falls open, and he gasps. Sucking in a desperate lungful of air.
“Cap’s shot!” Someone shouts out in warning, and he all but feels the tension in his men as they wait for him to check in.
“I’m fine!” Steve snarls, even as the pain rears its ugly head, singing in his skull and setting his side to pounding. Crouching down under the cover of his shield, he takes a moment to assess the wound. Judging by the pain, it’s an in-and-out. Blood spews from his side like a spigot. It’s a lot of blood. But he’s lost a lot of blood before. So he’s used to it, in some ways. He grimaces. He’ll live.
There’s a sound by his side, and Steve jerks upright, raising his gun to fire upon whoever had snuck up on him. Then he pauses when he realizes who it is.
Bucky. Grim-faced and war-torn. Blood spattered across his skin. He’s pale as a sheet and pissed off. He must have joined the fight from his sniper position once they’d gained the walls. His sniper rifle hangs over his shoulder. He has a submachine gun at his hip, and he fires it rapidly into the enemy, laying down a spray of cover fire that quickly has the enemy running.
“Come on, pal, get up!” Bucky shouts, his voice urgent as he lays down the distraction. Steve snarls and gets back up onto his feet, his body protesting the movement but listening to him.
Hefting the weight of his shield over onto his other arm, so he’s not putting so much pressure on his bad side, Steve nods his thanks to Buck.
Bucky takes off running, and Steve follows after.
They’ve got a skirmish to end.
Barreling through the base, Steve flings his shield, which ricochets off the side of a building and strikes an oncoming soldier, before flying back towards Steve. Beside him, Bucky is wildfire. Blazing a path through soldiers. His body is shaking with the forceful bursts from the submachine gun, his biceps taut underneath the cloth of his winter jacket. Bodies fell all around, one after the other.
Suddenly, the gun falls silent. A quiet clicking fills the air.
“Reloading!” Bucky shouts when the gun clicks, and Steve backs up, taking up a proactive stance at his side, and scanning for enemies. They’re in a small bubble of isolation. No hostiles are around, no guns at the ready. In the distance, there are the sounds of explosions, but for now, they’re safe. Or as safe as they can be.
Drawing a cartridge out from his supplies, Bucky finishes loading up his weapon. Steve keeps a careful eye on him from the corner of his eye—he always watches Buck. They’ve had each other's backs ever since they were kids. And the same held true in war, too. Steve had fought his way single-handedly into that armory in Austria just to save him.
Honor said he’d gone to save the entire 107th squadron, but in Steve’s heart, he knew that wasn’t true. If Bucky hadn’t been there, neither would he. So, yeah, Steve keeps a close eye on Buck—Buck is all he has. Beside him, Bucky punches the cartridge home. Seeing the other man done, Steve nods. Turning, he runs back towards the fight, the cries of the fallen echoing out from behind him.
They find the rest of his men at the center of the base. All are accounted for but Falsworth, who’s no doubt busy infiltrating the base itself, gathering up intel as he does.
Darnier launches a hand grenade out into the gathered forces. Soldiers dash away from the flying object, and it explodes, sending out a shockwave of body parts and shrapnel as it takes down everyone in its path.
“We need someone who’s in command,” Bucky says offhandedly from beside him. “This is gonna be worth nothing if we don’t get someone who knows where Zola is.” Bucky stalks forward, his eyes flashing over the battlefield. He spares one more glance at Steve, his eyes lingering on Steve's bloody side, the only indication he makes that he’s worried, then he’s off—no doubt to get to higher ground, where he’ll serve them better as a sniper.
Steve sees the top of a German helmet pop out from behind a blockade and fires, sending the man behind the blockade skittering away with a squawk.
“On it. You all finish up here,” Steve commands, turning to look around. He spots the commander's barracks with ease and heads towards them. Knowing the Germans, as he does, the commanders will be blockaded within, waiting out the worst of the storm, before heading out themselves.
Shooting down a German who gets too close, Steve ignores the body as it falls to the ground and stops before the barracks. Inside, he can hear angry shouts and low discussions. No windows are facing this direction, but there is a door. So Steve reaches for his belt, takes up a hand grenade, and pulls the pin with his teeth. He underhand tosses it towards the door with precision, and it gently rolls to a stop, pressing against the wood.
He can hear the tick-tick, and he takes a few steps back, out of range of the grenade’s five-foot radius. It explodes, the sound blasting Steve’s eardrums. There are cries from inside, shouts of outrage, and yelling in German. Steve takes advantage of the chaos that ensues and steps inside, blocking the one and only exit. His eyes stinging from smoke as he stops at the door, shield at the ready, his features grim and set in stone.
“Captain America?” Someone shouts in dismay.
“The one and only.” Steve declares, raising his gun and firing. This time he aims for arms and legs. Disabling shots, rather than deadly blows. The men inside set to screaming, as they lunge for their guns and turn, firing at him. A bullet ricochets off the shield and strikes an officer in the head. He goes down, eyes rolling back in his skull. Steve curses. He doesn’t want casualties. He wants prisoners.
The fight is brief and involves more screams than anything as he subdues those he can, switching out his pistol for his fists, striking down his opponents with brute punches to the face. He knocks them out and takes them down. Blows are exchanged, he gets a mean right hook in the jaw that will definitely bruise, and one man gets in a lucky shot to his bad side. Grabbing that man by the head, he raises his knee and slams the man's head down onto it. The man goes out cold, slumping to the ground.
Breathing hard, Steve looks around in the sudden quiet. All enemies are accounted for. He grimaces. His side is on fire. Clutching it tightly, his hand comes away damp with blood. He turns his eyes up to the ceiling, sucking in desperate lungfuls of oxygen, and gives himself half a second.
Outside, he can hear the cheers of his men. The outpouring of relief that happens after any battle is over. The enemy has been defeated. Now it’s time to get what they came here for.
Bending down, he begins to strip his captives of their weapons, grabbing up handfuls of guns, knives, and anything else that might prove detrimental if an enemy should get their hands on it.
There’s a sound by the door, and DumDum pokes his head inside.
“Cap, we’ve got 'em. You alright?” DumDum questions. Looking Steve up and down, then taking in the chaos surrounding Steve. He grins. “Hell, you look plenty fine to me!”
“We got ‘em,” Steve answers, forcing a responding grin onto his lips. He reaches up and rips off his helmet. His hair is plastered to his scalp, and his skin lets off steam in the cold air. “Hey, you got any rope on you?”
“Nah, but I’ll go get some,” DumDum says, turning and disappearing out into the base. Steve stays where he is. He needs to guard the prisoners until they’ve been tied up and put in a position where they aren’t going to harm themselves or any others.
At his feet, a man groans and twitches, slowly waking up. Steve aims a kick at his head, knocking him out fast.
“Stay down.” Steve snarls, running his fingers through his sweat-damp hair.
Dumdum returns with the rope in record time. He’s uninjured, so he sets about tying up the hostages. Five in total. One of them has to know something about Zola’s location. Steve’s betting on it. Otherwise, they’re going to have to repeat this song and dance over and over again until they get the right information.
Stepping out from the barracks into the cold winter air, Steve inhales sharply, and looks around, his eyes lingering on the bodies littering the ground, his head pounds. He takes stock of himself. He’s got a couple of spots that ache significantly, but there’s nothing like the fire in his left side. Lifting up the edge of his shirt, he examines the damage, twisting to look at the back.
“It’s a through shot.” Bucky’s voice says from behind him, Steve jerks his head up, and smiles for real when he catches sight of his best friend.
“You doing alright, Buck?” Steve questions. It’s a stupid question, but it slips out of his lips before he has a second thought about it.
“Yeah. We got ‘em. Nobody died. What else is there to it?” Bucky questions, mimicking Steve’s words from earlier. Walking over, he shrugs off his sidebag. He bends down, and Steve notes how he moves stiffly, as if his body aches.
Dropping his shirt, Steve walks over to Bucky and looks him over.
“You hurt?” He asks.
“Asks the guy with a through and through,” Bucky says, raising his eyebrows as he digs into his bag. He comes up with a roll of bandages and some padding. “I’m fine, just got chucked into a tree, is all. Ain’t nothing worth sending home about.”
“Only one of us has a super serum.” Steve teases, the joke has grown old by now, but he says it anyway.
“Only one of us is a fuckin’ moron and let that happen in the first place.” Bucky declares, grinning to take the sting out of his words. “Come on, let me patch you up before you bleed out on me.”
“Yeah, alright, pal,” Steve says, nodding his head.
“Cap!” Gabe Jones comes running up from a ways off. He’s got a cut to his lower lip, and it’s bleeding freely, the way all head wounds do. “We got the survivors corralled in the barracks. They surrendered, so we didn’t keep up the fight. Anything else you want done?”
Steve nods as Bucky comes up beside him and lifts up his shirt. Raising his arms up slightly, he gestures towards the barracks with his helmet.
“Radio in and let Colonel Phillips know we’ve got it locked down and to send in reinforcements. I want those POWs tied up, unarmed, and ready for transport—fuck, Bucky, could you have a worse bedside manner?” Steve croaks, sucking in a breath as Bucky presses a couple of compresses to Steve's gunshot wound hard. Beside them, Gabe snickers, taking a skipping step backward, before turning around and racing to comply with his orders.
“Stop your whining, you’ll be alright,” Bucky says by way of answering, as he wraps up Steve's side, twisting the bandages tightly around his midriff. His right hand has a slight tremble to it. It’s never obvious when he’s shooting. But it’s there nonetheless. “Any higher and you’d have a lung shot.” Bucky observes, tying off the bandages with a well-practiced move before helping Steve to ease his armored shirt back down over the bandages.
“Yeah, well, I’m lucky like that.” Steve offers. “Sides, it’ll heal in no time.”
“Alright, Supersoldier. Stop your bragging.” DumDum teases as he walks up to Steve, a spare loop of rope hanging from his hand. “We got some live ones already, if you want to go in and interrogate some Nazi fucks.” He says the last to Bucky. Bucky nods, the slight smile leaving his face, his tremor picks up its pace, as he taps his fingers forcefully against his thigh.
“Alright. Bring out the highest-ranking officer. We’ll start with him and work our way down. Cap, why don’t you go take a sit-down? You look like you could use one.”
Steve scowls, glancing between the two men. They know how he feels about torture. All the boys do. But this is war. There are no holdouts in war. So when it comes to things like this, they tend to take charge. It drives Steve mad. Especially when it’s Buck doing the work. Seeing that darkness enter Bucky’s eyes is like getting socked in the face. It’s not like the war hadn’t done enough to destroy the light in those eyes, and then there are times like this, where all hints of it seemed to dim out altogether.
“Go on, Steve, we got this.” Bucky encourages, slapping the back of his hand against Steve’s chest. As his second, he is more than qualified to be in charge of the situation. In fact, he is more qualified than Steve in most aspects. Steve was Captain in name before ever stepping out onto a battlefield. While Bucky had been fighting his way up to Sergeant since he was green in the field.
Point is, they know what they are doing. And Steve. Well, there are some things Steve just doesn’t have a say in. There is some comfort in knowing Bucky takes no pleasure in what he does.
“Alright, report back your findings,” Steve says, nodding his head sharply. The two salute him, then turn on their heels, about facing, and heading back in the direction of the officers' barracks.
Steve watches after them for a long time, only turning away once the screams start.