Stucky One-Shots (Angst, Fluff, Smut)

Slipping through my hands

ouch. that's all i can say. (angst!)

words: 1.7k

And I can see you, I can feel you, slipping through my hands, I can taste you (I can taste you), slipping through my hands

—-

It wasn't supposed to be this way. This wasn't supposed to happen. It was an easy mission, something Steve had done before. He could have done it in his sleep. He didn't have any backup; it wasn't necessary for this low-profile, quick infiltration mission. The building had been scoped out several times before it was deemed safe to enter, and no one disagreed with Steve when he said he was fine to go in on his own. All of his team members had retreated to their safe house, which was a little more than an hour trek from their target. They couldn't afford to draw unnecessary attention, even if it was an old and deserted repository, there could have been eyes in between locations. So they didn't dare fly or drive, everything had to be on foot. But, again, the place had been swept, and Steve trusted his team; therefore, he only needed to get in, extract the necessary files and data programs, and get out. He didn't have anything to worry about, right?

Wrong.

He was so totally, unbelievably, completely wrong. Sure, in the past he made some pretty fucking stupid decisions, and he was known for cutting it a little too close more often than not. But all of those were entirely his own choice, doing it on his own free will. This was an accident. He wasn't intentionally throwing himself into the thick of things this time, wasn't even aware that a 'thick of things' existed to throw himself into.

It was over as quick as it had started.

Steve had made it into the secure room, had inserted the flash-drive he was given to download the materials, when the computer system exploded. He was thrown across the room, body hitting the hard wall with a sickening crack, his back absorbing the brunt of it. The shield fell from his grip due to the sheer force of the blast, as it took him by surprise. The two floors above came crashing down on top of him, effectively pinning him underneath the rubble. His ears rang, and his vision was unclear; he couldn't tell if it was because of the dust, the impact his skull took, or a combination of both. Probably both. Coherent thought was barely an option.

Coughing, his head was spinning as if he had just gotten off a terrible ride at an amusement park. He needed to orient himself and think of an escape plan. Taking in his surroundings, the dim room was turned to ruin.

The flash-drive must have been a detonator. That meant there was someone trying to get him killed and make sure that their work wouldn't be able to be recovered either. That also meant said person had been able to get under everyone's noses. The person was someone Steve knew, trusted. He ran through his team members in his head before stopping himself. Figure out the traitor later, escape bomb explosion now.

His lungs were restricted due to a large chunk of metal sitting on him. He couldn't breathe. He started to panic.

The last time he couldn't breathe was when he lost Bucky on the train. His chest felt just as tight then as it did now. That was more of a metaphorical inability to breathe. He choked on air nevertheless. The last time he really couldn't breathe was before the serum. The asthma robbed him of oxygen much like the debris was depriving him of oxygen almost 100 years later. Trying to stay calm, he raised the one arm that wasn't immobilized and cried out in agony. Something was broken. Well, several things were broken. And a few other things were dislocated. Steve grunted and persevered; he fumbled a few times, losing strength and traction the longer he tried. Finally, his other arm was freed--which was miraculously not shattered--and he could breathe easier, but not much.