Trapped
“Get down!”
Bucky dove into a trench just as an explosion rocked the ground. A moment later he felt a wave of mud displaced by the detonation splatter over his helmet, felt water leach into his socks as his boots sank inches into the perpetually wet earth. Even as the sound of the explosion rang in his ears, Bucky had a hard time registering the danger. Now that his unit had reached the mainland and was pushing solidly into enemy territory, the barrage of fire and its associated peril were almost routine. Bucky’s primary concern was now less about his immediate safety from enemy fire and more about his goddamned wet socks. Apparently, late fall in Italy meant nothing but constant rain, and Bucky didn’t think he’d been actually dry since September. He curled and uncurled his toes in his drenched boots, trying to stave off the prickling numbness already taking hold of his feet.
“Behind us, get ready!”
Bucky gritted his teeth, steeling himself to poke his head above the opening of the trench and fire off a volley of returning shots. He could taste dirt, could feel it grinding between his teeth. He could barely hold onto his rifle with so much mud caking his fingers. He was cold and miserable, but at least the cold provided some distraction from what awaited him outside the trench, both on the other side of the battlefield and what remained of his life back home.
Bracing himself against the rough earthen walls of the trench, gun at the ready, Bucky could feel the impression of a folded square of paper pressing against his thigh through the pocket of his uniform. Bucky hadn’t been without that piece of paper, Steve’s drawing of their apartment, since that night at the bar. As the weather grew colder and the days grew harder, he needed the reminder of its presence against his skin more than ever, and he made sure it stayed close to him even though he knew water and cold sweat were beginning to wear away at its edges. With every day that passed, Bucky felt less and less sure that he’d ever see that apartment - or the man who’d drawn it - again, but he’d be damned if he didn’t hold onto the fragments of those lost things for as long as he possibly could.
If Bucky was honest with himself, he’d know that the fragment of home tucked in his pocket wasn’t the only thing he had left. Somewhere in his waterlogged pack was a drawing of the Grand Canyon, even more beautiful than Bucky could have imagined it being in person. In spite of the lengths Steve had obviously gone to to get it to him, Bucky felt far less inclined to hold on to that particular piece of correspondence. Looking at that paper chasm just served to remind him exactly how far he and Steve had been driven apart.
“Barnes! Eyes up!”
Bucky forced his exhausted gaze away from the ground, willing himself to focus on the task at hand. If he didn’t make it through this, that Grand Canyon drawing would be the last he’d ever get from Steve. He’d never get to see the canyon for himself. Worse, he’d never see Steve’s bright eyes again, never watch his pretty hands tracing outlines in his sketchbook, never be there to patch him up after back-alley fights or get him medicine when he was sick... tired as he was, much as he wanted to simply give up and for once in his life stop fighting someone else’s godforsaken fight, Bucky couldn’t let that happen. There wasn’t much left to keep him going, but Steve was still out there, waiting for him. He had to be, Bucky told himself. He had to.
The heavy bombardment began to peter out as night fell, leaving the field so dark it was hard to tell a friend from an enemy. Bucky sank into a squat over the dirty ground with his rifle braced over his knees, halfheartedly trying to keep it out of the fetid mud puddles on the ground. He curled his hands into fists, tucking them into his armpits in a vain attempt to generate some warmth but only succeeding in painfully scraping his raw skin against the rough fabric of his uniform.
A pair of boots squelched in the mud beside him, and a moment later Dugan was crouched at his side, mimicking Bucky’s cramped posture in a futile attempt to stay dry.
“Rough one today,” he said flatly, not looking at Bucky, just staring at the opposite wall of the trench.
“Yeah,” Bucky muttered. It came out gravelly, the word scraping against his throat as it forced its way out and sending him into a painful coughing fit that he desperately tried to smother in the sleeve of his jacket.
Dugan shifted beside him, rummaging in his uniform pockets for a moment before drawing out something that looked like a tiny wad of wax paper. He set about unwrapping it, and the bittersweet smell of Army-issue chocolate immediately overpowered the stink of their surroundings. Bucky gulped down the saliva that had involuntarily flooded his mouth.
“How do you still have -”
Dugan wordlessly broke off a corner of the tiny piece of chocolate and held it out to Bucky. Bucky squeezed his hands into tighter fists to stop himself from snatching it away. His own rations had run out days ago. He’d been trying his hardest not to think about it, but the presence of food right in front of him had him feeling the effects more acutely than ever.
“I can’t -” he stuttered, forcing his eyes away from the little offering. “That’s yours. I can’t take it, it wouldn’t be fair.”
Dugan shook his head, still holding out the chocolate. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve been saving it, but I think you need it just as much as me.”
Bucky swallowed hard again, finally uncurling one of his fists and holding out his hand. He didn’t want to look weak, but he could only live on pride for so long, and it was hard to regret his decision to take the chocolate when its bittersweet taste washed away the acrid taste of dirt that had been clinging to his tongue.
“Thanks,” he forced out, doing his best to meet Dugan’s eyes.
Dugan shrugged. “Of course,” he said with a confidence Bucky could tell was strained to the point of breaking. “We’ll get more before we know it. This isn’t gonna be forever.”
Bucky’s mind drifted back wistfully to the months before they’d made landfall, all those warm days in Sicily where nights had been spent on cots under the roof of a tent and food had arrived at frequent enough intervals that, while he’d definitely been hungry, he’d never had to worry about starving. Those days were still a far cry from the real bed and warm meals he’d had in New York, but they still seemed downright heavenly compared to the past few months.
Taking Italy by sea had been the most terrifying experience of Bucky’s life. Packed shoulder to shoulder with his men in a tiny boat like sardines, the raw fear and roiling waves combining until half of them got sick into their own helmets, the sounds of the first opposing bullets as they splashed into the water - Bucky hadn’t thought it was possible to feel worse than he had in those moments, just before stepping off the boat and having to fight his way through hell. And sure, maybe he hadn’t been so acutely scared at any point before or after - but he truly had stepped off that boat into hell, and he was pretty sure he’d been stuck there ever since.
For a while after making landfall, Bucky’s unit had been stationed near the front, providing some extra manpower for the American push northward. Their days had been spent digging trenches in the dark earth and volleying off intermittent exchanges of fire with soldiers on the other side. When an order came from somewhere far above Bucky’s paygrade to send the 107th even further northward, to try a new tactic of invasion, Bucky had expected much of the same. He hadn’t anticipated the absolute strategic misunderstanding on the part of his superiors, hadn’t expected that his unit would find itself surrounded on all sides with little hope of escape. He hadn’t expected to be dropped straight into a trap.
“You gonna be alright?” Dugan’s voice sounded next to him. Bucky realized his eyes had slipped closed, and he forced them open again.
“Yeah,” Bucky said. He could hear the exhaustion in his own voice. “I just… know it won’t be forever, but I can’t help but think this ain’t gonna end the way we’re hoping.”
Dugan sighed. “Don’t say that,” he said without any real conviction. “Can’t afford to say stuff like that.”
Dugan pushed himself to his feet. “I’m gonna try to get some rest. You should, too.”
Bucky opened his mouth to reply, but found that he didn’t even have the energy to form words. He managed a slow nod before tilting his head back against the hard-packed earth wall.
In the inky darkness, Bucky could barely make out the mouth of the trench where it gaped open above him to reveal a narrow strip of night sky. It was cloudy, of course, portending yet another bout of freezing rain, but Bucky tried for a moment to imagine a clear sky. The stars would be beautiful out here, he thought. Without New York’s light pollution you’d be able to see all of them, pick out all the constellations where they hung in their respective corners of the darkness. For a moment, Bucky thought about a better world, one in which he could finally lay down his gun and crawl out of the stinking trench to look at the world from up above, from someplace between the winding scars they’d carved into the earth and the stars in the open sky. It was a nice thought, but it sent his mind spiralling back toward the Grand Canyon, toward Steve. Bucky wasn’t sure he’d ever been able to conceive of perfect things without imagining Steve somewhere in the midst of them.
He wasn’t upset that Steve had gone without him, he really wasn’t. He’d tried to communicate as much in the last letter he’d been able to send to Steve before things got especially bad, scrawling a quick note on a scrap of paper that he could only hope made its way out of the area before they’d been completely surrounded. He’d scarcely had time to get the words out, let alone choose the right ones, so he could only hope Steve got the sentiment of it. When nothing past the present was certain, it was hard to hold a grudge.
But he’d still be lying if he said it didn’t hurt, a little, thinking about Steve half a world away, living the life Bucky had never been able to do more than dream about.
Bucky sighed and closed his eyes, still imagining the stars that had to be hanging somewhere above the heavy clouds. Were they the same ones Steve was seeing in the wide Arizona sky? Was Steve looking at them and thinking of Bucky the same way Bucky was thinking of Steve?
Eventually Bucky drifted into light and fitful sleep, still seeing stars on the backs of his eyelids. His dreams were full of Steve, silhouetted against the night sky. Bucky kept trying to reach out to him, but Steve’s shadow always eluded him, hovering somewhere just outside his grasp.
Bucky awoke to an explosion rocking the ground. He was thrown from his position leaning against the wall and ended up on his hands and knees, fumbling for his rifle in the mud. It was still dark, the sun just barely starting to brighten the sky underneath the thick cover of clouds, and Bucky remained wholly disoriented as he scrambled to pinpoint the source of the threat. The shouts of men rushing to their stations were quickly overpowered by the sound of another blast, this one sending clods of dirt raining down on him as he struggled to his feet. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Bucky crept to the edge of the trench and dared to peer over the top.
Where yesterday there had been flat ground ending at the horizon, today there were mountains. No, not mountains, Bucky realized after a moment - tanks, lined up side by side, so many that they obscured everything beyond them. Even as Bucky forced his half-numb arms to position his rifle and return fire, he knew it was useless. Nothing good could come of staring down the barrels of that many enemy guns. For a fleeting moment, he felt an incongruous sense of perfect calm. He was ready. It was over.
In the end, it wasn’t Bucky who made the call. Someone far above his station sent out a message of surrender, the barrage of fire stopping on both sides as men raised their hands in the air. Bucky followed suit, shoulders trembling with the effort of it. The absence of immediate danger also stole Bucky’s sense of resigned calm. As men in unfamiliar uniforms surged toward them, he could practically hear his heart thundering in his chest, louder than the blast residue still ringing in his ears. He had no idea what was coming. He’d known it wouldn't be good, but now something deep inside him was buzzing with reignited fear, telling him that something inconceivably terrible was on the horizon.
It didn’t matter, really. He had no choice, hadn’t since the Army had knocked on his door with a telegram saying he was to report for duty. As Bucky was herded along, one in a long single-file line of beaten-down soldiers, that sense of utter powerlessness felt stronger than ever - at least, until his adrenaline abated enough for him to be made aware of the soggy lump weighing down the pocket of his uniform.
Steve’s drawing was still with him. He didn’t didn’t know if Steve, wherever he was and whatever he was doing, would ever find out what happened to him. Some small and bitter part of him wondered if Steve would even care, or if he’d be happy enough in the new life he’d built that he’d be okay to just let Bucky go.
But no matter what, Bucky still had the drawing, undeniable proof of the life they’d had together. That life may never have been all that Bucky had wanted it to be, but it had been enough - and now, as it started to slip from his grasp, holding onto it meant everything. Bucky tried to stamp out his rising dread with that thought. He’d had a life once. He’d loved someone, once. No matter what happened now, nobody was ever going to take that away from him.