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A Bucky Barnes Winter Soldier Fic - The Constant	By : TheConstant1944 Category: Marvel Verse Comics > Captain America Views: 2391 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own any Marvel characters. They are solely owned by Marvel and MCU. No money is made from this story.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
Chapter Two
The Beginning

Part One - Bucky Barnes
The cold bites through to his bones and his body hurts all over. He is confused for a moment. He is lying in snow and if he looks up he can just see the sky through the trees. The wind is howling through them and it is getting dark. There are broken branches spread around him.
He must have fallen.
As soon as he thinks that, he sees a picture of Steve in his mind, reaching out his hand, a distraught look on his face. Then he is falling, his body hits the rock face but keeps going, falling again, a pain so bad in his left arm that it causes him to lose consciousness and then he wakes up in this place.
"Not your fault Steve," he murmurs and he passes out.
The next time he comes around, it is the pain that has woken him. The sky is lighter and there is a small covering of snow over him that he tries to brush off his face. He is so cold and he tries to get up but nothing moves, instead he can feel bones grating against each other. Pain lances through his body and he cries out. Jesus, that hurts. He senses one leg bent under him and his left hand is aching so bad he thinks he must have broken it, he holds it up to look but there is nothing there and as he tries to move all he can see is a ragged mess where his arm used to be.
“No...” he stutters, thinking he is not seeing right. He blinks to try and clear his eyesight and he becomes aware of the searing cold. He is now aware of it in every part of his body. He shivers violently.
He coughs and groans from the pain it causes, a trickle of blood runs from his nose, his chest hurts and he tries to stop the next cough as he can't breathe properly.
He is trying to think.
He must have been here for hours, no, longer than that, so why isn't he dead? Why hasn't hypothermia settled in, claiming his body, cooling it down ready to claim him as its victim? He has forgotten Zola's serum - no not forgotten: he does not know what it does, does not know its purpose.
It is in his blood stream, it is in his muscles, coursing around keeping the nerve endings alive, keeping the hypothermia at bay, keeping him alive so he can feel every broken bone, every bit of damage done. But the serum is untested, unstable, there is not enough of it to start even trying to repair the damage done, for now it will just barely keep him alive.
But just for now.
He tries again to sit up but his head swims. He needs to get up, needs to move or he will die. Blood trickles down the back of his neck from a head wound and he passes out again.
Next time what awakens him is something pulling at what remains of his left arm. He opens his eyes and the pulling stops. A huge wolf is watching him. It bends its massive head to lick at his blood in the snow. He sees the creatures muscles ripple through the beautiful grey coat and then it comes forward again and tugs at the mess where once his left hand and arm had been. The jolt to his heart gives him a false strength and he surges back against a tree. The wolf jumps back, licking its snout, it has had a taste of his blood now and is hungry. He groans as pain lances through his whole body and he bites his tongue hard causing blood to run out of his mouth.
His mind is sluggish, he can't hold his thoughts. Where is he? What the hell happened?
The last he can remember is picking up Steve's shield, lifting it and shooting at something and that is all, total blank. And now? Now he is in a forest and it is so quiet, no bird song nothing but his own ragged breathing.
The yellow eyes of the wolf follow his every move, its breath misting out in front of it, and it starts to move forward again, baring its teeth warning him not to try and stop it.
He looks around for something he can defend himself with and sees a branch, he lifts his left hand up to reach over for it, he has forgotten - there is nothing there and he feels bile rising in his throat. All he can see is a red ragged mass just above the elbow and a long piece of broken splintered bone. He can see the marrow running through the broken bone and the flesh is mingled in with the torn ends of the sleeve of his blue jacket.
Breathe Barnes, breathe.
He is trying not to panic, this is a nightmare, he will wake up soon. But God he is so tired, every part of him hurts, everything is so cold. Blackness starts to move in, his mind ready to blink out again and the wolf moves forward - sensing its prey is all but finished, it licks its snout already covered in his blood.
He thinks it is one of the most frightening things he has ever seen.
It comes nearer until he thinks he can feel its hot breath, it dips its head to his broken left arm and he feels the tugging again and a tremendous pain as the jaws bite off the splintered bone. Its eyes never leave his as it crunches down, dips its head for more. Bucky's heart is racing so hard, his mind is absolutely petrified watching this creature eat his flesh and bone. He tries to move, tries to cry out but the wolf knows there is no strength left in this damaged creature and it is in no rush to kill him whilst his blood is so warm and fresh.
Jesus Barnes you're being eaten by a wolf, for Christ's sakes man do something.
But then the darkness rushes in and thankfully takes his mind away.
This time it is a shot that wakens him, it is just moments later but he doesn't know that, he has no sense of time. The shot is followed by a growl and a whimper and the wolf has gone.
Instead he sees a group of soldiers walking towards him, rifles held relaxed, they recognise that he is no threat to them. His immediate thought is that it is Steve and the others, they have come to help him. He tries to blink to clear his eyes.
'The cavalry,' he thinks his humour trying to take over, take away the sick feeling deep in his gut.
But he can't see Steve. He would recognise him anywhere and he can't see him.
As they get nearer he realises he doesn't recognise any of them, doesn't recognise anything about them at all.
God I hope whoever they are they have water, his mouth is so dry.
Then he hears them speaking.
Russian.
They are casual, not in any hurry and the group walk up to him, spreading out, covering him from all angles. Their faces show their amusement, he has no idea what they are saying but he is guessing it is not good.
They see the wings on the sleeve of his coat.
'Amerikanskiy,' one of them says and spits on the ground.
Aren't we supposed to be on friendly terms with them at the moment? His mind won't let him think. God Steve, where are you? I could really use your help about now.
He tries to move again and another bout of pain hits him and he groans, he senses a pain in his back as if something is trying to split the skin and he feels a trickle of something run down his spine.
“Please...help me,” he says, his voice cracked by pain. He doesn't know if what he said came out loud, his hearing seems shot and it feels like he is under water, he shivers and his lungs take in the cold air causing pain that makes him breathless.
One of them, the leader, crouches down and looks up through the trees and then back at Bucky. He reaches forward and pats Bucky's coat looking for weapons but there are none. Bucky has already lost them when he fell. The Russian then rummages around in Bucky's outer pockets and takes all that he finds – but there is not much to be had. He prods the stump of Bucky's left arm with his rifle and makes some comment - pain flares up through Bucky's mind, heat flares up through his body and he groans. The soldiers find it funny, and, using the now defunct rifle straps around Bucky's coat, they drag him out from under the tree and into a small clearing leaving a bloody trail behind.
He cannot stop them, he has no command over his body at all. He is shivering and he feels his heart rate and breathing speed up, not fear, it is the cold starting to win.
They stand around him and watch as he tries to ask them for help, for water, he tries to sit up. Impossible.
Their faces show what they are thinking: there is no compassion for him at all and their grins show that there will be no help from them either. Instead one of them prods him with his foot causing another bolt of pain to flare up.
The leader kicks him over and tells him in broken English to 'Crawl!' He crouches in front of Bucky, holding out a flask of water, indicating that Bucky is to come and get it, a cruel smile on his face. The men stand back and watch, the look in their eyes similar to that of the wolf. They laugh at his efforts, they have played this game before.
Bucky tries to crawl forward using his right hand, what remains of his left trails behind leaving fresh blood. His nails break as he tries to dig into the ground to help himself move. Another soldier steps forward and puts his boot on Bucky's right hand and grinds it into the hard ground, and blackness threatens his vision as pain lances through and up his arm - he actually hears, as well as feels, two of his fingers break.
Then the man kicks him and he hears the word 'faster!' but his whole body is broken, he can't move.
He lays his head down on the frozen ground. He can hear them talking but doesn't know what they are saying. He coughs and blood trickles out of his mouth and onto the snow. He is going to die, he is too tired to even think about saving himself, there is no way he could. Any second now he expects to hear the shot that will take his life.
Instead hands pull at him and turn him over again driving whatever it is in his back deeper, he coughs as blood surges up his throat and then someone plants a heavy foot in the middle of his chest. It is the leader. Bucky finds it even harder to breath with the weight bearing down on his already damaged lungs.
The leader is smoking and looking down at the American. How is he still alive, he must have fallen a hell of a way...and what is he doing out here all alone? He does not speak enough English to interrogate him to find out more. They could never get him back to their camp, it is to far but he senses there might be money to be made, even if it is just selling the organs to the black market doctor at the hospital field camp ten miles from here.
He signals his men who groan - they wanted to have fun with this one, see how long he would last naked and crawling in the snow until they show mercy and put a bullet through his brain. They sometimes turned it into a game, placed bets on their victims. The leader rubs his fingers together, the universal 'catch all' for money.
He points to two of the men to drag the body, and then as they bend and get a good hold on the straps they set out towards the field camp, given luck and no heavy snowfall they should reach it in two hours.
Bucky feels the pressure on his chest lessen but as the two soldiers either side grab the straps around his coat he feels pain as they lift him just enough for his shoulders to clear the ground, the pain in his back takes his breath away.
“No, please don't,” he begs them but they take no notice.
He wants them to stop, he can feel his bones grinding together - can't they understand he is broken? He has never felt pain like it but they have no pity, no compassion. All he can do is now is pray that Steve is near by. Pray that Steve will find him.
He feels every bump they drag him over, his back feels as if it is breaking and he feels nauseous, dizzy. His mind goes in and out of consciousness and the journey never seems to end. They are not gentle with him: the two soldiers are disgruntled that they have the extra job of pulling him and they make no effort to ease the way. He has stopped shivering now, his breathing is slowing, shallower. As he goes in and out of consciousness he is confused as to where he is and what is happening.
By the time they get him to the field camp he is almost gone, he is so cold his blood is close to freezing. It's a wasted journey for them and the leader is in a filthy mood. Looking at Bucky he can see why, there can't be an unbroken bone in his body, what a waste of a good opportunity to make money.
The doctor doesn't even come out to look at the body. There is just not enough life left in it, but he does do a trade for other goods they have brought with them. The leader passes a few bottle of cheap vodka around his men and tells them to do what they want. He goes with the doctor into the tent to warm up and have a drink.
The men pounce on Bucky arguing over what possessions left of his belong to who, they strip him completely, tugging his clothes off his body, regardless of his wounds.
They leave him lying naked in the snow. He was cold before but now the snow starts to freeze his body, he can feel it burning where his skin touches the solid ground. He is hardly bleeding; his wounds are frozen. Bucky thought when you were this cold you weren't supposed to feel anything but he does, he feels every broken bone, his skin is torn, bruises mark his body where he has been kicked and dragged along the ground. The pain is courtesy of Zola's serum. His eyelids are almost frozen shut and he has no strength to open them but he can still hear, can still feel himself dying.
Suddenly he feels two of the men lift him up and his back is slammed against a tree, he groans but they take no notice. He is so thirsty. He tries to ask for a drink but no words come out. They tie him to the tree, he tries to open his eyes to see what is happening, they flutter and light breaks through and then he closes them again, they are pointing rifles at him. They are finally going to kill him. He welcomes it.
He knows he should face them bravely; suddenly he experiences a clarity of mind and he tries to stand up straighter using the tree trunk to help him, he grits his teeth and tries to look at the men but his eyes are watering as if they are full of grit, he can hardly see what is happening. He tries to think of Steve, of his parents, his brothers and a sob escapes him.
He hears a shot and just as quickly feels a bullet thump into his thigh, he hears laughter. The soldier was trying to aim for the American's genitals but missed, he blames the drink. Another shot and the snow behind him flares up. Missed altogether. The next bullet slams into his right side and passes all the way through to the tree trunk behind him, splinters embed themselves in his back. He tries to beg them to stop, to just shoot him through the head but they are laughing, they want their sport. When the third bullet hits his left shoulder he is no longer conscious. He doesn't hear the shouts of their leader or feel as the ropes are cut and his body falls to the ground.
The leader looks down at the near lifeless body. There is no sympathy, nothing. This body is no better than an animal to put out of its misery. He will destroy the face and take the dog tags. He is looking forward to it. He kicks the American to bring him around and he will then move him onto his back so he can see his eyes open and see the moment the life drains away, the eyes flicker and he unslings his rifle but at that moment he hears footsteps and swings around.
It is one of the nurses. He recognises her; he has had run-ins with her before.
She says something to him. He just grins at her, but then she is shouting at him and steps forward, eyes flashing, so angry. He swings the rifle around to point it at her. How he would love to pull the trigger, watch her as she takes a bullet to the gut and then writhe on the floor whilst he and his men abuse her - but then he hears a shout in the background and he sees one of the doctors.
He doesn't want any trouble, he needs to know he and his men can still use this field camp, pilfer supplies and besides which one of their contacts with the black market is here. He knows she saw in his eyes what he wanted to do to her and he enjoyed that moment of fear that he saw. He slings his rifle on his back and spits at her feet and then leaves. He has other things to do and they have a few more miles to go before nightfall.
Bucky lies in the snow on his side and feels when hands pull him over onto his back again. He wants to open his eyes but he is so tired. Sounds fluctuate. He feels like he is under water and there is a humming in his brain. God, but he wishes Steve were here, wishes they were back in Brooklyn. He can feel someone touch him, gently, running their warm hands over his cold flesh and then brushing his hair back off his face.
A gentle heaviness covers part of his legs and middle body and he hears a woman murmuring and then he hears her indrawn breath as she gasps, he feels fingers on his wrist and then he hears her shout something in Russian.
He opens his eyes, struggling to keep them open and he sees her bending over him. She talks to him softly, he recognises the words, they are English.
He tries to say Steves' name, he needs her to send for help but he can't get the words out. He feels her trickle water into his mouth and he is so grateful for that small act of kindness. He tries to talk again but he can't hear his voice sound the words, has he said them?
He is fading fast.
She is talking to him, he hears the click of his dog tags and she says his name, not his nickname, not the name everyone calls him by but instead she calls him James, it has been a long time since anyone has called him that.
Then darkness closes in and he doesn't hear any more.
*
Part Two - The Nurse
You have to start your memories somewhere, so you think back to the time when you first saw Sergeant James Buchanan ‘Bucky’ Barnes. But the first sight was so inconsequential you don’t even take in what you are seeing.
It's cold, so very cold, and it has been snowing. You used to love the snow as a child, but as an adult you are beginning to hate it. How can something so beautiful frame such bloodshed? Because that is what the snow does, it shows you the true red colour of spilt blood.
Your uniform (blue skirt and green buckled jacket) does nothing to keep out the cold, and you have taken one of the greatcoats worn by the soldiers to try and keep warm, but the ice still seems to seep into your bones.
It has been a long time since you were truly warm.
You are in a field hospital, God knows where because you no longer care; they send you wherever they need you. The hospital is just another collection of tents, a few hastily constructed wooden outbuildings they have put up for the small contingency of soldiers based here, and not forgetting the operation and recovery tents which is where you spend the majority of your time. And finally the tent you share with the other nurses during the rare times when you are asleep in your bunk.
And you mustn't forget the dead and dying bodies. There are always those, no matter where you are.
On the day in question, you have been on shift for what seems like days; you are not supposed to be but how can you tell a 19 year-old boy that you can no longer hold his hand whilst he is dying just because your shift rotation has finished? You can't, and it seems to happen every day.
Now, you are going to see one of the doctors. There are four of them, two on two off - not that their shift pattern ever works for them either. You like this doctor, Doctor Bethune, and try to work with him as much as possible. He cares and he is honest.
Coming into the camp is a patrol, soldiers - no not soldiers, scavengers, the dregs the army could find to fight the war. You cannot call them soldiers, because these ones have no honour; they are a disgrace to honourable soldiers everywhere, the ones who fight for their families, for their countries. Their leader looks around, and he sees you but you are immediately dismissed; just a nurse, he wants to talk to someone important. You know this man, you despise him, you know that he is a runner for the black market and whenever he and his men are here supplies seem to dwindle at a worrying rate.
As you bend to go into the tent, you see they are dragging a body - another one. This band always seem to find them and then try to sell them to the doctors as if they are spare parts, and you can't seem to make them realise once a person is dead the organs are just offal and can benefit no one. It just leaves another dead person to be buried out here, nowhere and alone.
The leader obviously spies who he has come to see and heads towards him. It is one of the other doctors here, a man who cares nothing for saving lives. He chose to be is here rather than face the Gulag, he is a criminal and God knows what else. They greet each other and the men dragging the body just drop it and stand around stamping their feet, trying to get some life back into their hands.
The last thing you notice is the thin, spotty trail of blood they brought with them - it must be from the body they were dragging - and then you are in the tent and have put them out of your mind, you need to discuss today's losses. Now that the latest poor boys have died, it will leave the camp virtually deserted of patients - that is, until the next ones arrive bloody and torn. After the meeting you intend to drop into your bunk and oblivion until you hear the trucks arriving to deliver your new round of patients, and it will all start over again.
When you come out of the tent 45 minutes later it has been snowing, just lightly but enough to make the landscape look beautiful again. You pull your coat around you, buttoning it as you go, and trudge back to your tent, brushing the snow from your fringe and eyelashes where it always seems to stick. You are close to your tent when you hear a gun shot, not unusual in this camp but it is the laughter that makes you hesitate and draws you around to the back of the camp. There is a cruelness to the sound that disturbs you.
You take a look at what is going on, and at first you think it is just rifle practice - but then one of the men moves and you see what they are shooting at.
How can men like this exist?
The men are from the patrol that came into the camp earlier, and naturally the doctor was not interested in buying the corpse - so they have stripped it of its clothes, tied it to a tree and decided to use it for target practice. They are passing around a bottle, obviously they had something they were able to trade to someone.
You are sickened. You have learnt to expect grim humour from the soldiers who work around you but this is sick and you are tired of death. Everyone, especially the dead who have fallen in battle, should have their dignity.
The leader says something. Rifle practice is over and one of the men cuts the rope to let the body fall into the snow, and then, unnecessarily kicks it to roll over on its side. Two of the men are arguing over some of the clothes they stripped from the man, good boots and a blue jacket which has lost its left sleeve and has a large rent in the back but can be repaired, the rest of the items have been absorbed into the group and they start to move away.
The leader looks down at the body and unslings his rifle. You come up behind him and he swings around, he recognises you and his face changes into a sneer.
“You bloody animal.” You are angry. You are also five foot ten, tall for a woman, but he is well over six foot and could swat you like a fly.
“Haven't you done enough?” You know he is going to shoot the corpse in the face; this is the signature for this group, you have seen it before, they like to wipe out the features of their enemies.
For a moment you see it in his eyes, he is debating whether or not to use the bullet on you, you stare at him and do not break eye contact, and although fear gnaws at you, you will not allow him to do any more to this poor man's body.
In the distance you hear someone shouting.
“Whats going on?” It is Doctor Bethune.
The leader smirks and swings the rifle back on his shoulder, then spits at your feet. He dismisses you without a word and goes to join his men. They are leaving. For a moment your knees tremble, and you think someone up there must like you.
You kneel next to the corpse. His back is bruised, sliced open and the wounds are frozen, wood splinters run down his spine. You pull him gently over towards you. His flesh feels so cold and stiff.
You look at his face and something in you breaks.
He looks so young, not much older than you are. His dog tags are still in place, and you can see a part of the writing on them and you realise he was foreign, either English or American which explains the contempt that they had for his body. No doubt the leader would have removed them as soon as he had destroyed the man so utterly as to render him into a piece of meat.
His skin is so very cold and blue, like delicate marble. The snow is gently landing on his body and with no body heat it is covering some of the wounds, but not enough that you cannot see the extensive damage done.
This soldier did not have an easy death.
The man has lost all of his lower left arm, the stump is splintered and the marrow is missing from the very end. He is heavily bruised all over his body, and in at least one place you can see the white of his bones showing where they have broken and pierced his skin. They have hit him three times with their bullets, once in the thigh, once in his right side and once in the left shoulder.
You can't help but reach forward and touch his brown hair, which has fallen over his forehead, and you brush it back into place, blood has run through the hairline from damage to his skull, it makes the hair stiff in places. Bruising and blood covers his face, his lips are cracked and you can see he didn't die straight away. His death was slow and painful.
You want to cover him to give him back some dignity, so you struggle to take of your coat. As you move and start to cover him with it a trickle of blood slowly runs down from one of the bullet holes and into the snow. You stare at it and your heart lurches. You suddenly see the memory in your mind of the red trail left in the snow as they had dragged him into the camp.
You swear. The cold and your exhaustion have fooled you.
To be bleeding it means his heart must still be pumping blood around his body, barely - but it is trying.
The man is still alive.
You grab his wrist. You cannot see him breathing because it is so shallow, and you concentrate on the spot where you should find a pulse, nothing, but then think you find it, so very faint - but a pulse.
You swing around, Doctor Bethune has reached you and he sees the distress in your face.
“He's alive,” you say, your voice no more than a whisper.
The two of you are in tune; the doctor turns and runs, and you know he is going for help and his bag.
You look back at the injured man and it jolts you, his eyes are open, glazed and you see the moment in them when he sees you, blue grey, beautiful, long lashes against the white of his skin. His lips move, they are so bloodless, dry and cracked, and you wonder how has this man survived.
He is trying to say something.
You pick up some snow and warm it in your hands and trickle it into his mouth.
“Ssshhh,” you tell him, “help is coming.” You speak to him in English; your father taught you well.
He tries to speak again and you bend nearer so you can hear.
He is saying a name.
“Steve...”
You glance at his dog tags, and although you can only see a small part of the information you don't think that that is his name.
“Don't try and talk,” you say and your hands find his right hand and squeeze gently, realising too late that some of the fingers are broken.
He is focused on you and there is such a look in his eyes that you feel tears well, he is trying to tell you something.
“Please tell Steve...must…know where I am...not...fault.” The words are mumbled; he does not have the strength to speak out loud and you do not hear them properly, you just hear the name Steve repeated.
“Shshh, try not to talk, you need to conserve your strength.” You look back to see if the doctor is on his way; he isn't but two orderlies are running with a stretcher and you know he won't be far behind.
You turn back to the man, without knowing you are even doing it you kiss the back of his hand and then lay it gently by his side. You reach for his dog tags and rub the blood and snow from them.
His name is James.
He is still looking at you and you try to smile, to reassure him but he is so cold, his body has started to shiver now and you know before long it will start to convulse. You tuck the coat around him, you need to get him out of this weather and up off the cold ground.
“James...” the name feels strange on your lips, “...there is a doctor on his way...hold on, please, try to hold on.”
He tries to smile, so sad and it breaks your heart, you thought you had gotten used to the dying but you haven't and you take hold of his hand again just as the others come running up to carry him to the tent and to what you think will be safety.
Just before he falls into unconsciousness he says the name 'Steve' again and you wonder who this Steve is, and how important he must be to this man as it will probably be the last thing he ever says.
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A Bucky Barnes Winter Soldier Fic - The Constant