It was just supposed to be a normal op.
Of course, that’s how the cliche always goes. Standard mission gone wrong. Unlikely mistake causes drastic consequences. All they had to do was clear the area and subdue the threat.
And according to the mission briefing, the threat is airborne. Which, okay, that’s more than manageable when your whole thing is wings. Bucky will just stay on the ground, getting civilians out of the way. It shouldn’t be a problem. Divide et impera, and all that. The bad guy’s just making their job easier.
At least, that’s what their game plan was. Until they reach the area and… there’s nothing. No people, no buildings, just a wide open field in the middle of a forest.
“Torres,” Sam calls out hastily, as he and Bucky share a concerned look. “Who gave the order for this mission?”
The plane continues rumbling beneath them, quickly approaching the exposed area. “I think-” Torres starts walking over to where Sam is, when suddenly, there’s a loud bang and an awful sound of screeching metal.
“Shit!”
Yeah, shouldn’t be a problem. That’s what they all say. Until the problem they didn’t know existed rears its ugly head and makes itself abundantly obvious. AKA, this was a setup. No shit.
“Torres,” Sam commands, “Do you think you could get control? Let me know what’s happening in the cockpit.”
Torres, serious when the moment needs it, nods his head sharply. “You got it, Cap.”
Bucky’s already pulled out his Starkpad, checking over the mission assignment. “Buck?”
“It’s been wiped. Digitally, at least.”
At the very least, they’re on the exact same wavelength in this abrupt shitstorm. That’s one of the things Sam loves about fighting alongside Bucky; not only is the man a hell of a tank when he needs to be, but he also has Sam’s back. And, as an added bonus, Bucky isn’t stupid. Sam doesn’t have to waste time explaining the situation to someone who’s already two steps ahead of him.
“Sam…” The crackle of the earpiece comes through, and Sam thanks god for small favors- like the fact that they decided to set up the comms before taking off. “I’m having some trouble finding out what’s wrong. If I had time… but…”
Torres trails off, confirming what doesn’t need to be said. This sucker’s going down. It’s a good thing Sam has wings. And that Torres- baby Falcon, Bucky likes to call him- has his old pair.
“It’s okay, kid.” Sam nods at Bucky and they share a silent conversation. “Get your wing pack and let’s blow this joint. We can regroup on solid ground. Rendezvous back at the campus, me and Buck’ll meet you there.”
Thankfully, Torres is the only other one currently on the plane, but that doesn’t bode well for figuring out who the traitor is. It’s one thing to have a pilot drawing their plane into enemy fire; it’s another to have a previously trustworthy organization point you to a fake mission for sabotage.
Of course, Sam’s not going to risk the chance of there actually being civilians- or at least, innocents- so he’ll do a quick sweep of the premises before turning back. Try and find the saboteur as well. There’s nothing visible, obviously, but someone’s firing for somewhere.
Another booming noise shakes the plane, little clouds of dust and debris scattering against the reinforced windows. The pressure spikes as the altitude drops quicker. Yeah, someone’s out there. And maybe it’s the middleman, but it’s a hell of better lead than nothing.
“Sam.”
Bucky stands steadily, but there’s a weird look on his face. Unfortunately, there’s no time to sort that out.
“C’mon, man.” He says, gesturing his arms wide.
Bucky rolls his eyes, but acquiesces- as always. “I’m sure you know how patronizing this is.” He comments dryly, like this wasn’t the plan the whole time. If Bucky’s not going to use parachutes, Sam’s going to have to stop him from straight-up jumping out of planes. (As funny as it was the first time.)
“That’s why I do it.” Sam quips back, but offers a cheeky smile despite the situation.
After readjusting Bucky in his arms, Sam opens his wings and dives off the plane, just as the door starts sliding open. “Lemme just…” He comments, but trails off, not wanting to scream but knowing that Bucky won’t hear him if he doesn’t due to the wind.
He starts circling towards the ground, keeping an eye out for anything suspicious. It’s… literally just a field. Just an open field, dead grass scattered along the earth, making the ground look like a murky puddle of garbage. Sam spots a blalck and red blur a little further down, heading east, and is relieved to see Torres following directions. (Unlike someone Sam knows. Hint, hint, Bucky.)
Thankfully the man himself is too busy holding on to be causing trouble. Sam flies up a bit, unsure if the ground is safe territory. Hey, he’s seen some shit, and isn’t about to take any chances. If Wakanda can hide a whole nation, some random ass bad guy can hide an IED or something similar in uninvestigated land.
“See anything?” Sam yells, tilting his head so that Bucky’s face is in his periphery.
He doesn’t respond so Sam assumes it’s a no on that front. Shit, might as well cut their losses. It’s unsafe to keep flying around the area without any backup- especially when working under the assumption that someone on the inside is out to get them- plus Bucky’s freaking heavy. Super soldier muscles and all that.
Just as Sam spies a nice little clearing in the wooded part of the area to land, Bucky’s grip tightens painfully, and if not for the suit he’d probably already be marked with red crescent-moon nail marks in his skin. “Buck?”
Before there’s even time to breathe after exhaling Bucky’s name, there’s something bright and solid and very, very fast approaching their position in the air.
Now. Whoever said that time moves slowly during moments of catastrophe- well, they must’ve been doped up or something. Because from experience, disaster comes in a flurry of unrecognizable motion and frenzied movements; everything moves too quickly, even. No time to focus, no time to reorient, just a heavy reliance on adrenaline and ingrained reflexes.
This time is no different.
Maybe the “later” is when the scene replays in slow motion, when he can analyze what went wrong, what more he could’ve done. Maybe the “after” is what people remember more than the current. Hindsight and such.
But when the RPG whistles through the air, all Sam can think is ‘not again.’
When it connects with his right wing, damaging it’s structure, slightly warping the weaker areas of vibranium- his mind goes blank.
See, in theory, it should be fine. Vibranium is strong, and shock absorbent. When Shuri designed the suit (as he later found out from Bucky that the princess of Wakanda created it for him) she knew what she was doing. As long as the suit bears the brunt of the hit, he should be fine. Shouldn’t even lose altitude.
But theory doesn’t account for the way he freezes up, the way his mind gets thrust in a conglomerate of the past and the present; memories clashing with reality, blinding and disorienting.
In fact, he’s so busy focusing on ‘not again, not Riley’ that Bucky slips from his mind. Slips from his hands, too. Loosened by the shock of the hit, fingertips scrambling to get ahold of Sam’s arms, digging for purchase.
“Sam!”
And maybe that’s the worst part. Because Bucky trusted him. And Sam let him down. Literally, forcefully, and about 200 feet in the air.
It’s all over in a moment, a flash. He drags himself out of his stupor, clawing his way out of his veil of memories, dark and opaque. By the time the light peeks through the surface, Bucky’s already halfway down, a figure shrinking to a speck, a mark against the backdrop of the ground.
He dives, immediately, automatically, too, too fast but still not fast enough. The wind blows clamorously over his ears, almost but not quite stifling the horribly gutteral sound of Bucky’s scream as he drops.
It was supposed to be a simple mission.
Right.
There’s a thump. A crack. Then stillness.
Stumbling, Sam feels a sharp pain in his legs as he hits the ground, but that doesn’t matter. His wings retract; a job well done. At least one of them is doing what they’re supposed to.
“Bucky?” He calls out, approaching the dark clump against the ground, barely recognizable. Sam’s right leg gives out and he slides ungracefully to the dirt and grass, hands hovering over the prone figure.
His earpiece buzzes. “Sam, is everything alright? Do you see anything?”
There’s too much blood. He lays a white gloved hand against the sleek black of Bucky’s torn vest, and it comes back red.
“Sam?”
Hands shaking, Sam reaches his fingers near the uncovered skin of Bucky’s neck. Leans over his body, gingerly, trying to get a view of his face. (Avoids where the bone peeks through Bucky’s leg, where the skin is lacerated and shredded beyond recognition.)
“Sam, is everything alright?”
Bucky’s face is pale, ashen. Smeared with darkening blood, pooling. There’s a gash on his forehead, and as Sam runs his hands through his hair, he’s met with even more crimson, hot and slick between his fingers.
“Sam!” Torres insists.
“I… uh…” His voice wavers, cracking as he searches desperately for something helpful. He needs to do something, needs to stop being useless and destructive and fix his mistakes. He can fix this. It isn’t… Bucky isn’t Riley. He can’t let that happen. He can’t. He won’t be able to… “Bucky, he- Medical. Please.” Sam begs.
Torres continues frantically whispering words into Sam’s ear, a continual, indistinguishable humming in his ear.
Finally, snaking his hand over the veins in Bucky’s neck, Sam does the thing he’s been dreading. Because it could confirm something too terrible to be true.
He presses the pads of his pointer and middle finger against the pallid skin, and checks for a pulse.
He breathes out.