Respire

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"Whereas the use in war of asphyxiating, poisonous or other gases, and of all analogous liquids, materials or devices, has been justly condemned by the general opinion of the civilised world; … this prohibition shall be universally accepted as a part of International Law, binding alike the conscience and the practice of nations."

Protocol for the Prohibition of the Use in War of Asphyxiating, Poisonous or other Gases, and of Bacteriological Methods of Warfare. Signed at Geneva, June 17, 1925

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Gas.

It was the instrument of horror, both physical and mental, to thousands upon thousands during the Great War. Soldiers, civilians, and animals alike suffered in the most grotesque and painful ways imaginable as the invisible weapon ate out their eyes, their skin, their throat and lungs. Dying men, women and children clawed at their faces and chests, straining to breathe, tears streaming from blinded eyes.

At the end of it all, sixty-five states signed what would become known as the Geneva Protocol, prohibiting the use of poisonous gas in war for all time.

"Never again," people said, white-lipped and resolute. "Never again."

Then the Second World War began.

On the face of it, the nations kept their word - but that didn't stop terror from gnawing at every man's heart. Improved gas masks were part of each soldier's gear, drills tested reaction time, and deceptively cheerful signs taught people what to look out for.

Lewisite smells like geraniums. Mustard gas smells like garlic. Phosgene smells like musty hay. Nasal irritant - skin burns - vomit - death.

"Hitler won't give you warning," the soldiers reminded each other, and slept with their masks close to hand, the memory of their dead or crippled fathers and uncles and grandfathers a haunting reminder.

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"Captain?"

There was definite amusement in Peggy's voice, but by the time Steve Rogers tipped back his head to peer up at her through the slightly smudged lenses over his eyes, she had managed to tuck it all back. Only the slight twitch at the corners of her mouth gave her away.

"Agent Carter," he replied, voice muffled through the ventilator. "Can I do anything for you?" He tried to rise, but she waved him back down to his seat.

"What on earth," she asked slowly, hands planted on her hips, "are you doing?"

Steve looked down at the large bowl balanced on his knees, and then back up to her face. "Field test," he promptly answered. "Howard sent out these new gas masks - figured I'd give them a try, see how they hold up under conditions here at the front."

Peggy's mouth did curl up then, although she forced it back into submission with admirable adeptness.

"Steve - you're peeling onions."

Bowing his head, Steve grasped the ventilator pipe and tugged upward, pulling the gas mask off to reveal his red, shining face, covered in perspiration from being sealed under the heavy rubber. His hair stuck up, rumpled from the elastic straps, but he was smiling. "Works like a charm," he told her with a cheerful nod toward the bowl of sliced onions in his lap. "Couldn't smell a thing besides rubber."

"Wish I'd had one of those back in New York." Bucky's voice startled them both, and a teasing grin flickered across his face as Steve very nearly dropped the mask in his hasty snatch at the bowl of onions to keep them from sliding off his lap. "Might've come in handy, all those times my sister made me peel the onions because she said they made her cry."

Steve nodded. The equilibrium of the bowl regained, he busied himself putting the mask away into its carrying pouch. "Sure would," he agreed. "Though every kid on the block woulda fought you for it."

"If you're quite done reminiscing," Peggy Carter cut in. Not that she wasn't enjoying the glimpse into their past, but she had a message to deliver and lately Colonel Phillips had been getting a disconcertingly knowing look in his eye every time he sent her to talk to the captain. "We've one last mission briefing for your team."

At once, the captain was all business. "Be right there," he promised. "Buck, can you finish peeling these up for dinner?"

Bucky opened his mouth to refuse, but was promptly rewarded with the bowl of onions shoved into his resisting arms.

"Hey!" he protested. Already several steps away, Steve paused and whirled on his heel.

"Oh, you'll want this," he called back, tossing the gas mask in it's carrying pouch to his friend. The onions nearly met the ground a second time as Bucky frantically juggled the bowl in his attempt to catch the mask.

"Rogers!" he roared, half-exasperated.

Steve's shoulders shook in silent laughter as he jogged ahead to catch up with Agent Carter. She aimed a sidelong glance at his face as he fell into step beside her.

"You know he'll make you pay for that," she pointed out, jerking her chin over her shoulder to indicate the audibly grumbling sergeant.

Steve grinned. "I know."

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Light-hearted banter aside, the mission they were on was actually very serious. Word had reached the SSR some weeks before of an old scientist - a friend of Dr. Erskine - who was in dire straits. Like the good doctor, this man had been forcibly 'recruited' by the Nazi science division. Unlike Dr. Erskine, he had been unable to escape.

"Please," his message had begged, carefully smuggled out of the Hydra stronghold by a French resistance worker. "Please, I cannot hold out much longer. They are making me do things - terrible things. I ask for sanctuary from any country into whose hands this may fall. For God's sake, please help me."

The plea was almost certainly genuine. The information that had come along with the message - that was more dubious.

"Whole thing smells like a setup," Colonel Phillips had growled when he first got the packet, and Peggy had agreed with him. The resistance worker had found blueprints, detailed plans of the stronghold, a guard change schedule. The whole thing was just a tiny bit too clean, too complete.

Even so, they couldn't leave the man there. He'd appealed for sanctuary, and the United States was thirsty for any scientist willing to defect. Besides, if he really was being forced to make things for the enemy, it was better to get him out of their hands.

"So we're going, then?" Steve had asked.

"Oh, we're going." Colonel Phillips swept the papers into a stack, tapping the edge against the table. "Order came through an hour ago. Men up top too intrigued by the idea of getting another Erskine to worry about it being a trap."

"But if it is a setup after all?"

Colonel Phillips raised a craggy eyebrow and then shrugged. "I'm sure it is," he agreed. He stabbed a finger at the guard schedule. "There's an obvious window in three weeks. If they're expecting us, it'll be then."

Peggy had looked up sharply, but Steve spoke first.

"Let me guess - we won't be using that window?"

The colonel slapped the papers into a folder, and then stood. "Pack your gear," he told them both, nodding shortly. "They're expecting us in three weeks - so let's get there in two."

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They had made it in two weeks - Colonel Phillips, the Howling Commandos, and an elite squad prepped to accompany the Commandos on missions larger than the team could handle on its own. Stark couldn't come, preoccupied with the categorization of some recent modifications found in a captured Nazi airplane engine, but he'd sent Peggy along with a bunch of new "toys" for the men to try out.

"Tell me how they work" he'd urged her, dropping the last box of new gas masks into her arms. "I'm trying something new with them, and I want to know how it goes."

"I will," she had promised. Now, tramping through the gathering dusk with Steve Rogers by her side, she wondered how Stark would react when he found out how the boys had been using his new masks.

"You smell like onions," Colonel Phillips commented when they reached his tent. He finished the line he was writing and then looked up, capping his fountain pen. "Been trying out those masks of Stark's?"

Steve nodded. "Works great, seems to fit well. I'd like the men to run a drill with them tonight so they can carry them tomorrow."

"Speaking of tomorrow." Phillips shoved his chair back, gestured for the captain and agent to sit. "Chances are good that they were planning a trap for next week - but there's still a possibility they've heard we were coming early. I want you to be on your guard. There's no telling what they'll try to pull off. If you can't get to where they're holding Müller, then pull back. I'd rather come up with another plan than lose most of my men on a fool's errand."

"Understood," said Steve firmly. "We'll keep our eyes peeled."

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The plan was simple.

Early the next morning, Captain Rogers was to split off from the group with his Commandos and half of the elite squad, led by Lieutenant Warren. He and his men would hike down and infiltrate the building, rescue the scientist, and get out as fast as they could. The rest of the squad would go with Colonel Phillips and Agent Carter to cover the main road, take out the expected transport trucks that were due to roll through, and ensure the captain didn't get any unwelcome company.

"We'll rendezvous at point B," Peggy briskly reminded the captain for the eighth time, keeping exactly one half step ahead of him as she wove expertly through the disbanding camp. Steve knew she was disappointed not to be assigned to the rescuing team, but she was doing an excellent job keeping her game face on.

"We'll be there," he promised. "Late tomorrow or early the next day, but we'll be there." He shifted the shield on his arm, hefted the pack on his back, automatically checked his gear to make sure he had everything. Then he took a longer stride to draw even with her, ducking his head a little to get a better look at her face. "Take care of yourself, okay?"

Peggy Carter slowed, lifting her chin to meet his gaze squarely, and Steve was pleased to see the little laughter lines deepen around her eyes, a little of the disappointment fading. "I rather believe that's my line you've got," she informed him archly. "After all, you're the one stepping into the lion's mouth, so to speak."

The breeze caught her stray curls, sending them fluttering around her face, and Steve caught the image and stored it away somewhere deep in his heart. He shifted his feet and rubbed the back of his neck, trying to think of something to say in response.

Why was it that every time Agent Carter was especially beautiful, all the words seemed to fly right out of his head? Bucky never seemed to have that problem.

Steve Rogers was beginning to think there must be something seriously wrong with himself in that department.

"Yeah," he managed, quite brilliantly, and then cleared his throat and tried again. "Well - see you on the other side?"

Peggy's dimples were most definitely on display by then. "See you on the other side, Captain."

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It was a trap.

They had expected something of the sort, but none of them realized until far too late exactly what kind of trap it was. Either the blueprints had been wrong, or the base had been re-done, because none of the hallways exactly matched. It wasn't enough to call off the mission, but it did keep them the slightest bit off-balance. The base was poorly manned, but those who were there fought fiercely, ducking backwards through the maze of corridors amid bursts of gunfire.

Steve led the invasion of course, bright shield flashing as he deflected bullets and pressed deeper into the heart of the base. Behind him, his men returned fire as they fanned out behind him, briefly examining each room before moving on to the next.

The part of the base where they were supposedly holding Müller was just ahead. Working together like the elite team they were, Steve and his men barreled forward. Steve knocked out the last two gunmen with his shield, sprinted around a corner - and came to a halt, so quickly that the lieutenant behind him ran headlong into his broad back with a startled grunt.

It wasn't a prison.

It was a dead end.

And in the middle of the hallway stood a young enemy soldier, eyes invisible behind reflective lenses, hair spiking up between rubber straps. He shouted something in German, but the ventilator covering his mouth muffled it - and then he clenched his fist and tossed something towards them - something round and metallic, arcing gracefully through the air, releasing a trail of cloudy whiteness in its wake.

The whole world seemed caught in slow motion, as Steve's blood froze in his veins with sudden horror. This whole thing had been a trap, from Müller's letter all the way down to the maze of hallways - all this, just to get them in this hallway now.

Then his training took over.

"GAS!" he roared, and swung his shield, smacking the gas grenade out of its arc towards them. It flew back the way it had come and hit the young Nazi in the side of the head with a solid thunk, dropping him instantly, before rolling into a far corner of the hallway and obscuring itself with the poisonous gas that continued to pour out of the tiny nozzle.

Even before it hit the ground, Steve was scrambling for the gas mask at his belt, dragging it on over his head and pressing both sides against his face to make sure it was sealed. It was, and the clean, rubber-tasting air felt like the best thing he'd ever breathed. Behind him, the rest of his men were doing the same, warned by his shout. The air was quickly growing murky - and how had one tiny grenade managed to contain that much gas? There had to be additional canisters somewhere, triggered as part of the trap.

A strangled scream made everybody jump, and Warren suddenly crumpled, convulsing in sheer agony. Steve dropped to his knees at the soldier's side, and immediately saw the problem. Some stray bullet earlier had torn a gaping hole in the thick rubber of the mask's seal, rendering it completely useless.

The captain made an executive decision.

"Out!" he shouted, whipping off his own mask and yanking it over Warren's head, throwing the damaged one aside. This was obviously a trap - there was no sign of the doctor they had come to rescue. He needed to save the people depending on him first. "Bucky, take lead!"

The dim shadows that were his team turned obediently, retreating. He didn't watch them go, focused on sealing his mask against the face of his gurgling, writhing teammate. Then he stooped, lifting the fallen soldier over his shoulder, and staggered to his feet, one arm crooked over his own eyes in an attempt to protect them.

If anybody could survive without a mask, it would be him.

Following the sound of his team's retreat, Steve charged blindly back through the now gas-filled base, taking the shortest breaths that he could. The gas tickled at his exposed skin and inside his lungs, but otherwise didn't seem to have much of an effect. Warren, on the other hand, was a dead weight over his shoulder. He didn't scream again, only twitching faintly - and then even that stopped, leaving him worryingly limp even when Steve misjudged a turn and slammed them both into a wall.

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Steve found his way the last hundred yards by following the sound of Bucky and Dugan arguing. When he finally burst through the doorway, blinking against the too-bright daylight, he saw that Dugan was holding the younger man back bodily from charging into the death trap again. At the sight of the captain, they both relaxed visibly.

"Steve," Bucky gasped, wrenching away from Dugan's slackened grip. "I thought you were right behind us - I thought - what were you thinking?"

Steve jerked back to avoid his friend's touch. Bucky had mostly been in front of the gas as it filled the base, but he had been in the thick of it. If the gas had contaminated his clothes… "Clear?" he rasped, and then cleared his throat and tried again. "Clear?"

Bucky dropped his hand, took a shuddering breath through the ventilator of his mask, and then nodded. "Right, yeah. Not here - come on."

They hurried to the edge of the treeline, where the sergeant bent cautiously, getting his head as close to the ground as he could without kneeling. Then he slipped two fingers under the edge of the mask against his face and broke the seal, sniffing shallowly.

"It's clear," he announced, straightening and taking off his mask. Steve immediately dropped to his knees, rolling Warren off his shoulders and onto the ground. The man's limbs flopped heavily, head slumping limply back.

"Oxygen," the captain gasped, fumbling with the mask with suddenly clumsy fingers. Over his head, Bucky hollered, repeating the order, but Steve wasn't listening to him. "Warren," he ordered, pulling the elastic straps forward. "Warr-"

The mask came free then, and Steve's heart sank abruptly. Warren was very clearly dead. Dark liquid poured from his slack mouth, smeared the chalky face, dripped from the inside of the mask. Defeated, Steve sat back on his heels and bowed his head, panting. The death of any one of his men always hit him hard.

When he finally looked up, Bucky was peering at him, concerned.

"You still want the oxygen?"

The captain shook his head. "He's dead," he admitted heavily. Perhaps if he'd moved faster, reacted more quickly, recognized the trap earlier…

"I meant for yourself," said Bucky. His face was strained and sharp. "You're breathing pretty hard - and you didn't have a mask."

Steve blinked up at his friend. It took him a minute to figure out what Bucky was talking about. "Oh. No, I'm okay." He hauled himself to his feet, and looked down for a moment, wishing that he had something to lay over his dead soldier. "I'll need some soap though," he said. "And a new uniform - and a tarp."

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They tossed him the soap, and Bucky came close enough to bring him a bucket of water. Steve still didn't feel much more than a faint tickle on his skin, but if Warren's reaction to it was anything to go by, the stuff was a quick killer to anybody who wasn't a super-soldier. There, under the trees, he bundled Warren's body into a tightly-rolled tarpaulin and then proceeded to strip himself down to the skin and scrub until the bar of soap was gone. Shivering in the light breeze, he used the last of the soapy water to wash down his boots. There was no way to clean his uniform, so he buried it under loose dirt and leaves.

They didn't have decontamination units with them - and if this stuff was anything like mustard gas, he didn't want to pass it on to his team.

"You want us to dig a grave?" asked Bucky, coming up with an armful of random clothing, since the extra Captain America uniform was back with the rest of the company. Steve shook his head, gratefully wrestling the dry clothes onto his damp body.

"No," he decided. "We'll take him back with us. If this is a new weapon, the scientists will want all the knowledge they can get. Has anybody else come out?"

"Nope." Bucky looked back towards the stronghold. "We've got men with guns on the entrance, but there must be a really well-hidden exit somewhere." He paused. "You sure you're okay? No rash or anything?"

Steve squinted against the sunlight and cleared his throat, buttoning up the borrowed shirt. It had to be Dugan's - nobody else had a shirt that could fit around his shoulders. "I'm okay, Buck. Remember? I don't get sick anymore."

Bucky eyed him suspiciously, and then looked up at the cloudy sky. There were little white creases on either side of his nose, and his fists were clenched so tightly that his palms were probably bleeding. "Mmm," he said noncommittally, but left it at that.

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Air.

AIR.

Steve came awake in a blind panic, not entirely sure what was happening. Then his mind caught back up with him, and he realized he was sitting bolt upright in his bedroll, wheezing and struggling to breathe.

"Steve - hey." The quiet whisper and the hand on his shoulder told him that Bucky was there. "Here, lean forward."

Drawing his knees up, Steve bowed his head and focused on breathing - in - out - in - out. His brother's hand was firm on the back of his neck, while the other hand traced a rhythmic pattern up and down his spine, something for him to focus on, to time his breathing by. They'd done this before during a hundred asthma attacks.

At length, his breathing calmed. There was still a weird, wet catch with every breath, but everything else seemed to be fine. Slowly, Steve straightened and tried to draw away.

Bucky didn't let go.

"What on earth was that," he hissed into Steve's ear. "I thought you didn't get asthma since you got big."

"I don't." Steve tried to shrug Bucky's grip off, but his friend was too determined for that. "S'okay, Buck. Go back to sleep."

Bucky sputtered, whisper cracking in incredulous fury. The storm had been brewing all day, and now it was about to break. "Go back - Steve. This is what happens when you take your tom-fool gas mask off. You've been clearing your throat all day, squinting and blinking..."

"It's been sunny," Steve interjected, trying to defend himself.

"Not that sunny!" Bucky was barely even pretending to whisper anymore, sounding more and more like his mother, which struck Steve as something between funny and alarming. "And now you can't even breathe - look at me when I'm yelling at you, will ya?"

"I can't," said Steve, who had only just barely figured that out himself. He rubbed at his eyes, which tickled and tingled uncomfortably. Bucky sighed and then knocked his hands away from his face.

"Stop that," he grumbled, and then Steve heard the metallic scrape of a canteen being unscrewed. Water sloshed, and then a damp cloth was shoved in his hand. "Here."

Gratefully, Steve mopped at his eyes, blinking gingerly as his crusted eyelashes pulled apart and the interior of the tent swam into view. "Thanks."

"Don't thank me," Bucky growled resignedly, and rolled over into his blankets again, clearly telegraphing his fury through his stiff back and shoulders. "When we meet up with the rest of the company, you're getting a full physical. If you still feel like thanking me after that, go ahead."

Steve lay back down as well, keeping the cool cloth against his eyes. It felt nice there. "I'm okay, Buck. Be fine by morning, really."

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Steve was not fine by morning.

He said he was, but he wasn't fooling anybody. His pace was a little slower, and he kept clearing his throat explosively. Eventually, he borrowed Morita's sunglasses, even though the day was even more overcast than the day before. Bucky hovered like an overprotective mosquito, and the Commandos clumped closely around them both, loyally pretending not to notice anything, and providing a buffer between their captain and the rest of the soldiers.

By dinnertime, even the most oblivious could tell something was wrong. The pace had slowed, they were off their predicted rendezvous time, and Steve couldn't look at the fire without tears streaming down his cheeks.

"I'm all right," he told his men for the hundredth time. "Just need to sleep it off tonight" - but that night, he couldn't even lie down without coughing everybody awake.

Bucky didn't even pretend not to be worried out of his mind.

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Peggy knew something was wrong when both halves of the company were reunited and Sergeant Barnes was the one who came to report to her and Colonel Phillips.

"Where's Steve?" she demanded, in the same instant that Colonel Phillips barked, "Where's Müller?

Sergeant Barnes saluted sharply, but his movements were rushed. "We took the base, but never found the doctor," he reported, lips tight, words blunt. "Steve's been gassed, and Warren's dead."

Gas. Peggy felt herself blanch. Her mother's brother had been terribly scarred by chlorine back in the previous war. She still remembered, as a little girl, flinching away with childish terror from the sad-eyed, twisted face.

Colonel Phillips' jawline visibly hardened. "What kind of gas?"

Barnes shook his head. There was a touch of helplessness in the gesture. "We don't know," he admitted. "Warren was bleeding from the mouth and nose when we got him out. We brought his body back, and the doctors are checking it now."

Peggy's professionalism wavered. "And where's the captain?" she asked again, fist clenching white-knuckled around her pencil.

"Medic tent," said Barnes shortly. It was very obvious from his stance that he would much rather have been with his friend at this moment.

Phillips glanced her way. "Better go check on him, then," he told her, with the sort of gruff kindness that it had taken her months to recognize as such. "Don't want him sneaking out before anybody has a chance to pop a thermometer in his mouth."

It was a transparent excuse, but Peggy grasped at it all the same.

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She was initially relieved when she found him. Steve was sitting on a bunk in the medical tent, coughing into a wad of cloth somebody had handed him, but he was alive and not disfigured, and Peggy felt her heart rate settle a little. Then he raised his head, and her concern shot right back up again as she saw his eyes were red and inflamed, tears streaming down his cheeks at the dim light that filtered through the canvas walls.

"Captain," she greeted him crisply, stuffing all her worry and fear into the back of her heart so it wouldn't come out in her voice. The result came out perhaps a bit too crisp, but Steve didn't seem to mind.

"Hey," he rasped hoarsely, and then grimaced. Evidently speaking was painful for him.

Peggy crossed the room and laid a hand on his forehead. It was a trifle clammy, but not fevered. "What have you got yourself into this time?" she asked.

Steve opened his mouth to answer, but coughed instead - a deep, gut-wrenching cough that left him hunched and shallowly panting. Discreetly, he tucked away the cloth that he'd been coughing into, but Peggy's eyes were sharp enough to catch the scarlet stain he was trying to hide from her. Her heart twisted, and she shifted her hand to a more supportive position on his shoulder.

"I've had worse," Steve grated at last, and then he aimed a wan but cheerful smile her direction, completely at odds with the darker, more serious look in his watering eyes. "I'll be okay."

The medic arrived then, standing in the tent doorway and looking at her impatiently. Peggy retrieved her hand and straightened with reluctance.

"I certainly hope so," she managed, and then saw herself out.

Barnes was pacing out in front of the medical tent. Peggy leaned her back against the trunk of a pine tree, heedless of the pitch she might get on her clothes, and looked up into the grey sky.

"He says he's had worse," she said at last, not quite looking at the sergeant. Barnes grunted. A few heartbeats of silence passed, during which neither one said anything.

"Has he had worse?" she finally inquired.

Bucky stopped pacing, and came and stood somewhat near her, looking down at the crushed ferns beneath their boots. "Yeah, he has," he answered at last. "Then again, he's almost died before, a bunch of times."

Somehow, that wasn't exactly comforting.

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Hello, folks! This is an extremely late (we're talking literally years late!) answer to a prompt request by Project7723: "What if Steve got poisoned? And since it probably had to be altered to get past the serum, no one knows what it is. Bucky and Peggy have to figure out what it is, and who is behind it."

The story has changed somewhat from the original prompt - but then, that's what happens in my brain. Hope you like it anyway!

Also, here's a plug for Project7723 - go check out her super great stories! She's awesome!

History note: Steve and his men use correct protocol for donning and removing their masks, as well as checking for gas. While gas was not used as a mass weapon during WWII, that didn't stop soldiers from being prepared and trained.

Source: "Adjustment of the Service Gas Mask" Official Training Film, War Department, produced by The Signal Corps in collaboration with the Chief of the Chemical Warfare Service, 1941