White Roses, Red Snow
Switzerland, 1945
Bucky had nightmares well before the fall.
War was hard on men stronger than him, and Bucky had never been a warring man. He never relished the fight. But being an older brother, Bucky was well acquainted with responsibility. He always did his duty, whether that was tying up pigtails or picking up a combat rifle.
"I'm Sergeant James Barnes. 32557038."
When the 107th had been captured in Azzano, Bucky dreamed of Death. She came to him like an angel, with soft smiles and warm hands, but he was afraid. Bucky didn’t want to die. He hadn't known then that Death wasn't the enemy.
In the lab, between Dr. Zola's experiments, Bucky had dreams—maybe they were hallucinations—of his family.
They'd been happy before the war. Mom used to make the best pecan pie. Dad took up her apron after she died. His pies were always slightly burnt, but by god did Pa try. Those years were full of tears and whispered reassurances and all the burnt pecan pie they could eat.
"Life's tough, James, there's no changing that," Pa would say. "But things always feel a little brighter when you're eating pie."
Bucky dreamed of pecan pie and holding his sisters’ hands. He dreamed of his mom's tired smile and his best friend Steve’s stupid, reckless bravery.
Those were good days—before Pa died too.
But those memories were a nightmare in their own right. They made him forget. In waking up and realizing all over again where he was—what was happening to him—the grief and the fear sank in like Zola's scalpel.
"I'm Sergeant James Barnes. 32557038. Sergeant James Barnes. 32557—"
Steve pulling him out of that Hydra base was like a dream. Among the electrocutions and injections, Steve was a goddamn dream.
But the nightmares continued well into the war. Nearly every night Bucky woke in a sweat. It always took a moment to focus and see the other Commandos around him, to realize he was safe in that moment. Safe from everything except the shit in his head.
"32557038. Sergeant James Barnes…James Barnes."
Steve always seemed to sleep alright. Bucky envied him for that. He envied Steve for a lot of reasons. His stupid, reckless bravery was high up on the list. Steve didn't seem to be afraid of anything—unlike Bucky.
Squinting against the endless white, Bucky wasn't sure right then what he was more afraid of, the distant height of train tracks above him or the numbness creeping over him.
It was cold. So cold the snow seemed to burn.
The train was long gone, Steve and the Commandos along with it. And Bucky was dying.
He felt Death's fingertips, soft and warm, brush his forehead. And for once, Bucky wasn't afraid.
"I'm Sergeant James Barnes. 32557038."
But it wasn't Death who pulled him from the snow.