Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

At least they were getting a ride this time. On wheels. There would be no jumping out of airplanes; the terrifying weightlessness and bone-jarring jerk from the prop blast. There would be no leaping off of moving trucks and directly into blood and mud and bullets. One time they had simply rolled in, concealed safe in a tank, but that was because of unique extenuating circumstances. No chance of that happening again.

No, this time it was going to be safe. They were packed like sardines into the back of a truck (no complaints, it was cold as balls) and headed to the last friendly town before venturing beyond enemy lines.

Bucky Barnes privately thought that he had seen quite enough of his enemies' lines.

Jim Morita lit the end of a cigarette that was dangling from Gabe Jones's lips. The heavy scent of smoke had come to feel as safe and comfortable as the smell of the vegetables Bucky's mother had used in her stew. Bucky re-tied the spare pair of socks he wore around his neck.

Jones's ash sprinkled over the map Steve had open in his lap. A frown creased the captain's face. He hadn't come to find smoke and cigarette ashes a suitable replacement for the domestic smells of home. (Yet.) Steve brushed the ashes away with a small amount of visible irritation.

"Oh, please," Bucky said to Steve, who was seated right beside him. "It's darker than the backs of your eyelids in here. You can't even see that map anyway."

"This is a big mission, Buck. It's not our regular gig. We shouldn't take it lightly."

Bucky rolled his eyes and tried to settle further into Steve's side without the other cottoning on. It was just that the guy was so big now! And warm. After all that Bucky had done for Steve, all the shit he dealt with for the little punk...well, Bucky thought he earned some of that stolen heat. And it was so hard to stay warm these days. They practically lived outside when they weren't afforded the comfort of a canvas tent. "Hungry" and "cold" had become Bucky's permanent states of being.

"You kiss your girl good-bye, Cap?" Dum Dum asked. They couldn't see the teasing smile bending the second-in-command's lips but they could hear it in his voice.

Jacques Dernier muttered something in French which won muted laughter from Jones.

"She's not my girl," Steve said. Bucky swore he could feel the heat coming from the captain tangibly increase. And he was grateful for it.

Dum Dum said, "Well, I sure hope you did. Who knows how long it'll be before you see her again? A day? Two? God forbid, a whole week?"

Packed in as they were, they could feel each other's laughter. Steve's crush on Agent Carter had become a source of much-needed relief. It gave them something to tease the captain about (teasing was always welcome), but it also brought about a bit of normalcy. Sometimes it was very reassuring that something as civilian as a crush could exist in the world they'd found themselves living in.

Deciding to evade the topic of his feelings for Agent Carter, Steve said, "This mission shouldn't take a week."

As if none of them had been present for the briefings.

Really, the mission was nothing special. It may not have been their standard shoot-and-run, but it was not outside the ballpark. They needed intelligence in the form of a technician. It had only recently been discovered that HYDRA and the German armed forces did not use the same technology to encrypt their transmissions. The Allies had been suspecting that HYDRA may have been an independent agency from the rest of the German forces, but they hadn't had confirmation of that until recently.

(Before, all they had was a hunch and the words from a bunch of shell-shocked and starving prisoners of war. Not exactly the most reliable bunch. Bucky and Dum Dum's testimonies were among those insisting that HYDRA was no longer under the command of anyone apart from Red Skull. That blinding blue light jumping indiscriminately from the turret of a tank in Azzano still visited Bucky in his dreams.)

The point was that the S.S.R. needed to know how to decode HYDRA's communications. And the man that could tell them how to do that was housed at a metalworking factory just far enough beyond the current front lines that they couldn't wait for the army's troops to take that ground. They suspected the factory was a front for a large-scale communications hub.

The factory itself had some pretty good defences. The Commandos were tasked with getting in there, grabbing their man, destroying the factory for good measure, and escaping back to friendly territory with prisoner in hand. They were assured that the S.S.R. would take care of persuading the prisoner to reveal the secrets to decrypting HYDRA transmissions.

And after that?

Bucky wasn't thinking that far ahead. He was mainly concerned with making sure his blood didn't freeze in his veins. This snug little truck was as close as he'd come to being warm since…a long time.

The truck's front left wheel hit a muddy pothole, jolting the Commandos in the back. The canvas flap waved open as the back wheel hit the divot too, escorting the frigid air inside. The Commandos collectively groaned. Falsworth banged on the wall that separated the cargo space from the truck's cabin. A muffled, grumbled apology echoed through the wall from the front.

Bucky pulled up the collar of his field jacket until his nose was nearly covered by the fabric. This way no one would be able to see his teeth chattering. Dum Dum reached around Bucky to tap Steve on the shoulder. The two of them shared a whispered conversation over his head. Eyes closed and ears already tuning out, Bucky chose to believe the arm around his shoulders was there because it needed to get the captain's attention and not because Dum Dum could see how much Bucky was (still) struggling against the cold.

Icy wind slapped them all in the face when they were finally forced to exit the truck. Sleeping had just made Bucky feel more tired, but he didn't regret the nap. It was either dusk or dawn; Bucky's mind was too sluggish to decide which direction he was looking. Right outside the back of the truck was an icy puddle. Bucky didn't feel a little bit guilty about his relief that Dernier had been the one to realise it.

"Way to take one for the team," Morita said, slapping the Frenchman on the back and jumping from the tailgate to a safer area.

The town they'd arrived in was on the very edge of Allied territory. It consisted of a handful of buildings, the tallest being the church's bell tower (it always was). Small and crumbling buildings made up the rest. In whatever light this was, Bucky thought the town looked rather grey. This whole damned continent was starting to look grey to Bucky. The town ended abruptly at the banks of a river. It was clear that a bridge had once spanned the water. All that remained of it were shattered lampposts on either side. On the opposite bank was a town looking just as small and crippled as theirs. According to reports, the men that occupied this town frequently traded half-hearted artillery with their German neighbours across the river.

Bucky trailed behind the rest of the Commandos as an NCO escorted them from the truck to the building which held their commanding officer. Bucky kept his eyes downcast most of the way, feeling heavy inside. They just made it inside when artillery started falling on them from across the river. Inside an old wobbly building wasn't usually the place Bucky liked to be when exploding rounds were popping overhead. This place would probably collapse on them if a shell landed too close. They'd be done for with a direct hit.

The barrage stopped eight minutes later. Everyone inside the building lowered their arms from over their heads and stood to their full height. Each of the Commandos' eyes skimmed over the others by second nature.

The voice that spoke sounded unnaturally loud after the artillery: "And that, gentlemen, is who you'll need to sneak by if you're going to make it to your destination."

It sounded a lot more like "that's who you're going to get rid of for us before you can go on and do what you've actually been sent here to do" to Bucky.

Most of the briefing went ignored by the Commandos. Only Steve and Dugan seemed to pay the CO any mind. They were, respectively, numbers one and two among the Commandos. Besides, they had all heard the game plan for this mission a thousand times. Steve would lead them to the outer perimeter of the isolated factory. Then Dum Dum would take Bucky and head around to the north side of the building where reconnaissance imaging told them an escape route would be available. Dernier would place charges on the first incoming vehicle they caught. The charges would be detonated once the truck was in the factory. With Bucky providing cover, Dum Dum would intercept the technician as he fled through the north-facing exit, and the three of them would head back to rendezvous with the rest of the Commandos. All that would remain to be done was disabling the factory. The more they learned, the better. Prisoners in addition to the technician would be acceptable but it wasn't necessary.

Morita kicked a bit of rubble to Bucky, who kicked it to Dernier, who kicked it to Jones. The rubble slid to a stop at Falsworth's feet. The Brit stared down at the stone as if torn. Of all of them, Falsworth seemed to have the most temperamental sense of humour. That, or the rest of them really didn't "get" the British sense of humour. Either way, Falsworth sighed when he saw the other four watching him intently and kicked the piece of rubble to Morita. They carried on kicking the stone around until Dum Dum told them to knock it off and that it was time to head out.

The same NCO that had brought them to the CO now led them to the building that held supplies. Stockroom it may have been, but it was not plentiful to say the least. Many thanks were tossed around as the men in fatigues loaded them up with ammunition and whatever rations they could spare. Bucky eyed a rolled-up pup tent longingly but, seeing the rusty stain on it, decided not to ask for it. There was probably a good reason why the thing was still here despite the weather being as it was.

Their time in the supply building was extended a little bit since the men working there wanted to talk to Captain America and have him write messages to their kid sisters and brothers back home. One private went up to Steve with a magazine, enthusiastically asking for Captain America to sign it. Steve had a lot of patience and usually acted very grateful to the troops that shared what scarce supplies they had with his team. Because of that, he usually wasted some time doing whatever they asked. But this magazine caught all of the Commandos' attention. It was the most colourful thing any of them had seen in weeks. Not counting maps.

Dum Dum boomed out a laugh. "What in the world is this?"

"We got 'em in a box from a buncha kids back home," the private supplied. "The men get a kick outta 'em."

They all crowded around Steve to read the cover of the magazine, which wasn't really a magazine at all. Jones read, "Captain America comics. The thrilling tale of how Captain America socked old Adolph on the jaw."

Dernier started laughing and pointing to an illustration in the bottom corner.

Jones continued to read through his own amusement, "Also starring Captain America's young ally, Bucky."

"Look at that!" Falsworth shouted, perhaps the most light-hearted any of the Commandos had ever seen him. "I do believe you're wearing pantyhose, Sergeant!"

For the first time in months, Bucky's face burned with heat. Humiliation wasn't worth this warmth.

"Get rid of it," Bucky managed to say through clenched teeth.

"Get rid of it?" Morita said. "No, we ought to take it! Where can we get one of these, Private?"

Falsworth said, "I don't know what you're all upset about, Sergeant. I think they've drawn you looking very dapper."

"If you sign that, I'll never forgive you," Bucky said to Steve.

Steve looked down at the comic book, a look of uncertainty on his face. Finally, with an apologetic look to Bucky, Steve signed 'Keep up the hard work! Captain America' and handed the comic book back to the private. Gruffly, he said, "We have to be moving out now. Your CO said there was someone who would take us to some boats."

Thankfully, a corporal led them out into the icy wind and away from the comic book. The air quickly leached the heat and redness from Bucky's face.

It turned out that it had been dusk when they arrived; full dark had descended upon them now. The corporal pointed out the two inflatable boats that they would be using. One end of a coil of rope was tied to a stake driven deep into the frozen bank, the rest of the rope was in the first boat. The corporal explained that they should tie the boats together once they reached the opposite bank and tap out a certain code with their clackers so that the men would know it was safe to pull the boats back.

If they handled the Germans holding the town on the opposite bank, then there would be no trouble letting their allies know when they needed transportation coming back.

Morita dragged the first boat into the water, cracking the thin crust of ice that had formed near the bank. "What do you say we cut the rope and hide the boats so we don't need their help coming back?" He jumped into the boat rather noisily.

"We'll be sabotaging our own forces," Steve said. Always the mild, hardly-hidden disapproval. "Let's just get moving. We're at least going to investigate the town over there."

"Please," Bucky said while he settled in the first boat behind Morita, gripping his rifle with hands tucked inside his sleeves, "you know we're going to end up clearing the place out."

Dernier stepped lightly into the boat beside Bucky. The Frenchman could move impressively quietly and swiftly when he wanted to. Which was in stark contrast to the products of his specialty. Sometimes the two extremes Dernier was capable of put Bucky on edge. Not to mention how friendly Dernier could be. Tactility never used to phase Bucky. Recently, though, he found himself tensing at any touch he didn't see coming.

"Bucky's right, Cap," Jones said. He took the last place in the first boat and handed one of the two oars to Morita; the other he kept for himself. "What's our plan with the krauts?"

Falsworth and Dum Dum settled in the second boat with their equipment. Steve shoved the two connected boats out into the river and jumped into whatever space remained on the second boat. Immediately, he demanded Jones hand one of the oars to him. Jones obliged.

They spent the short ride across the river strategizing. It couldn't have taken more than ten minutes to cross the modest width, but a fully-formed assault plan had been formed by the time they hit the opposite shore. Once they were out of the boats with equipment distributed, Morita used his clacker to tap out the code they'd been taught. A few seconds later, the boats were floating empty and ghostlike back across the river.

Short work was made of the German-held town. The masonry was sporting a few new holes that would do nothing for their insulation in this weather, but they were able to send back several prisoners. Morita radioed the men in the town they'd just left so that they'd come over in the boats and escort the captured Germans into Allied hands. As soon as the men arrived (looking bewildered at how quickly their stalemate had been ended, but not ungrateful), Steve had the Commandos move outward and onward to their true task.

They travelled on foot. When he was still with the 107th, Bucky didn't mind going on long marches. The repetitiveness of the motion brought him some measure of comfort. Usually they would talk among themselves as they marched. But they were moving in the dark in enemy territory now. Talking was not permitted. So while the walking did good to keep Bucky from becoming restless or frozen, the absence of talk left his mind idle. When nothing demanded his focus, Bucky couldn't help but think about Krausberg.

It was the same way when they spent too long on base between missions. Nothing to think about or plan so his thoughts rolled into the deepest and darkest valley of his mind. He could resist it no better than he could gravity. He'd tried counting by sevens and saying the alphabet backwards. Sometimes he practiced the little bit of French he'd learned between Dernier and Jones. He recited songs and stories his mother used to tell him. Sometimes he even tried to remember prayers. (But that was no good. He could never remember them in school, and back then he'd had a nun standing over him with a cane for motivation.)

Nothing ever worked for long. It was no more than an hour before his memories would start to whisper.

Sergeant Barnes…

The air felt colder to Bucky the more they walked. The sweat on his back was cooling too fast. His teeth clattered together noisily when he couldn't help it. His hands stayed curled tight around his rifle. Even as the awfulness inside him mounted, his body never failed him. Cold and mental exhaustion prevailed but never weakness. The feeling was unnatural. It wouldn't surprise him if his mind stopped working but his body soldiered on without him. The strength in his arms didn't feel under his control. Certainly, it wasn't something he'd ever felt before. Bucky wondered if this was how Steve felt all the time.

Sergeant Barnes…

Unwanted pictures and sounds stirred up in his head, that accented voice calling for his attention.

Begin phase one of the procedure —

Bucky scratched at phantom pain in his forearm.

He is moving too much ㅡ

Bucky swatted at the memory pinching his neck.

We must start over. Administer the first injection ㅡ

Burning in his throat, gloved hands on his neck…

Sergeant Barnes…

Searing heat everywhere. His insides were blistering.

It would be over sooner if you cooperated.

Fire gone but now it was so cold and his bones were getting brittle.

If you do not answer my questions, Sergeant, I will force you to.

Hands on him and he couldn't move and pain and his insides being sampled and now there were hands on his bare, exposed bones.

The results are very promising. I think we may begin phase two ㅡ

Who was he? Time kept getting lost and so did he and every time he started to forget there was that voice so close to him, calling him back, reminding him.

Sergeant Barnes…

Complete stillness. That was what fell between the seven men; no one dared to breathe. Steve broke the charm. Hands held up in surrender, he took a measured step toward Bucky. When the captain's voice reached him, it sounded as if he were under water. The more Steve said Bucky's name, the more he came back to himself. His head cleared, pulse fading from his ears so that words made sense again, the present and all its fine details were extruded before him.

Steve was only a meter away, and Bucky finally lowered his rifle from firing position. Over Steve's shoulder, Falsworth lowered his hands which were raised in a similar show of surrender. Hidden in the snow and debris below the Brit's boot was a fractured stick. All the air went out of Bucky, and the rest of the Commandos relaxed. Bucky rubbed his face with his icicle hands.

"Sorry, Monty," he said in a voice that hardly carried.

The Brit heard it anyway and nodded his head. "It's alright, Sergeant."

It wasn't. It was never 'alright' to point a weapon at your friends. It was never 'alright' to aim at them and have your finger on the trigger.

Steve reached a hand out. Before it could land, Bucky started walking forward again. A beat later Steve signalled for the rest to continue forward.

They reached the shadow of the factory just before daybreak. Watch was established; Falsworth and Jones found a ledge with enough growth and debris to hide themselves but not enough to obstruct their view of the factory. The rest settled into the cover afforded them by the hills. Not an awful lot of growth on these hills. They had to rely on the orientation of peaks and valleys of the hills to hide them. Bucky, Morita, and Dernier dug a foxhole.

Steve dug three. The jerk.

Dum Dum "supervised." Bigger jerk.

Dernier quickly laid out in the hole the three of them had just dug and fell asleep. Morita pulled out his deck of cards; he was already bickering with Dugan like an old married couple. They settled into one of the bigger holes Steve dug. Feeling a bit like a kid being sent to the principal's office, Bucky trudged over to the foxhole Steve was standing in.

"Room for rent?" Bucky said.

"Depends who's asking," said Steve.

Bucky said "punk" under his breath and stepped down into the foxhole. After shedding his gear, he nestled into the trench, pulled his belongings into a heap on top of him, and sighed. That strange exhausted strength ached in his muscles. Bucky felt he could tear a tree from the ground if only he could muster up the will. His stomach protested its vacancy.

Sergeant Barnes…

Bucky rocked sideways, registering Steve settling in beside him a beat late. They'd spaced the foxholes far enough apart to afford the inhabitants some semblance of privacy. So Bucky let his head fall heavy on Steve's shoulder without fear for his pride. An arm snaked around Bucky's back and held him steady. Closing his eyes, Bucky wiped his nose on the fabric of Steve's ridiculous uniform. Murmurs built to whispers in his head, and the sergeant pushed an unsteady, gasping breath past his cracked lips.

The pressure of Steve's arm around Bucky increased by a single degree.

"I know," the captain said.

Chapter Text

It was after noon when Bucky was leading Dugan north around the factory. Dum Dum would call out modifications to their heading and Bucky would pivot to that direction, rifle held steady and aloft. Sometimes they would have to walk in clear view of the factory because of the sparse coverage on the hills. They moved as quickly as possible through those valleys, feet sinking in the snow so deep that knees were liable to bend in unnatural directions. Bucky felt his heart in his throat when they made these dashes, and from the way Dum Dum breathed behind him, he could tell that his companion was feeling the same way.

Sergeant Barnes . . .

He tried not to think about how much more distance he was covering per stride than Dugan.

At last they came to rest on the side of one of the hills. They fell heavily and panted in the snow. Quickly, Bucky shed most his gear until nothing too heavy hung from him. He clutched the signalling device Howard Stark had created for precisely this mission in his fist. Once activated, Morita would be able to pick up the device's signal on the radio and the assault would begin. For some science reason that Bucky hadn't even pretended to listen to Stark explain, the device had to be stuck to the factory wall relatively high up. Something to do with the northern-facing sky (or was it south?) and power and radiation influx.

Sucking in a cold breath—he felt it in his entire body—Bucky hauled himself back to his feet and dashed straight at the factory's escape door. There was a metal staircase connecting the muddy grounds to the exit, which sat halfway up the wall. It was to the landing outside this escape door that Bucky threw the signalling device, which he activated when he was twenty meters away.

He didn't wait to see if he hit his mark; he'd already turned around and was dashing through mud and snow back to cover and safety. Distantly, he heard the device hit its mark—hard. There was a suspicious sound that Bucky hoped didn't mean that the instrument had shattered on impact.

Sergeant Barnes . . .

The earth beneath Bucky's feet was shaking before he'd made it halfway back to the hill. That was unexpected. Dernier couldn't have already detonated his charges. They had planned for a waiting period of at least an hour after Bucky activated the signalling device. Crashing and rattling filled his ears; someone was shooting at him. Snow beneath him suddenly jumped into the air with a breath-stealing pop. Bucky's foot sank into a cloud of nothing, and he felt his bones twist unnaturally—

You must endure, Sergeant.

—they'd pull and twist until he couldn't even scream anymore. His femur being parted from his hip. His ankles being twisted to excruciating degrees.

Disappointing I must say. Perhaps the cold cells will improve you.

But other times there was absolutely nothing. At first it was just cold darkness, and then he'd be in there so long with no light or sounds or anything to interrupt him. There was nothing with which he could mark the passage of time. It was no different whether or not he opened his eyes. Senses were lost one by one. No smell, no light, his mouth devoid of taste or texture, no sitting up or lying down, no difference between freezing and dying, nor between starving and dehydrating.

The periods of sensory deprivation always ended with Bucky feeling worse than when he'd gone in, a voice above him welcoming him back.

Sergeant Barnes . . .

—then there were hands on him, angry and impatient hands, and the touch was particularly jarring because he'd nearly forgotten what it was to be touched. His brain would jump and his heart would attempt to crawl out of his throat and he'd try to remember what noise was by creating some of his own—

"Sarge," said a voice.

Sergeant Barnes . . .

Arms around his chest, restraining, confining, dragging. They'd take him back to the table now. Bucky tried to want to fight out of those arms, but he didn't think he was succeeding. He drew in a breath but a hand covered his mouth before he could scream.

"Oh, no you don't," that same voice as before said.

Dum Dum. Of course it was him. Ceasing his pathetic struggling, Bucky blinked the black spots from his vision and watched his surroundings sharpen to reality. He caught Dugan's eye.

"OK now?" Dum Dum asked in a low voice.

Bucky nodded because the second-in-command still had a hand over Bucky's mouth. It was peeled away tentatively, ready to snap back in place in case Bucky felt like screaming his head off for no good reason again. When Bucky moved to sit up, Dum Dum let him.

"What's going on?" Bucky asked. He tried not to let the shame show on his face too much.

"What's going on? I have no idea what's going on. You nearly got blown to hell and I dragged you here."

"Something exploded."

"I don't think that was us," Dugan said. Pushing himself up to his elbows, he peered down the hill and into the valley.

"What—" Bucky asked as he began to copy Dugan's stance. But a hand on Bucky's back forced him to lie prone again. The snow bit at him through his jacket.

The sound of engines rose in the air. Tank treads and the trademark squeaking of the lumbering vehicles were clearly discernible in the ruckus. Bucky inched his head up until he could see some of what Dum Dum was observing. The factory grounds were flooding with black-clad HYDRA troops from the northwest.

It struck him how far Dugan had dragged him. You'd think a guy would remember covering that much ground.

"Shit," the two said at the same time.

They both spun around and pressed themselves as flat as they could to the ground. Something big exploded. Bucky didn't need to exchange the look he did with Dugan, but it felt better to do it. How strange it was that they could pick out the sounds of Dernier's handiwork among all the horrible sounds of war.

Bucky looked at Dugan and was relieved (not for the first time) that he was not the one in charge here. Bucky had agreed to follow a punk from Brooklyn into hell, but he'd flat-out refused to lead anyone else there.

"How many, you think?" Bucky made himself say.

Dum Dum gave him a look that Bucky had only seen once before: when their unit was about to be captured by a tank shooting rounds that disintegrated people.

Dugan said, "A couple regiments. Maybe a whole division."

Bucky's stomach folded over itself. "Did they know we were coming?"

"Must have missed something in the recon images. We should have been able to see a camp that big."

"Was that town at the frontline held by Germans or HYDRA?"

Dugan looked hard at Bucky and then looked away. "Should have brought a radio," he finally said.

Bucky looked over the edge of the hill at the factory. The escape door was open and a man was directing the reinforcements across the muddy grounds. There was no way the technician would be fleeing; no way Dugan and Bucky could complete their end of the mission. A bulk of the new forces were headed south toward Steve and the others but some lingered and scanned the hills where he and Dugan were hidden.

Knowing a lost cause when he saw one, Bucky said, "Shouldn't we be running? They're going to cut us off. We're going to be surrounded by enemy forces while we're already behind enemy lines."

Dugan said, "We have to take care of that," and pointed to Bucky's leg.

Looking in the direction Dum Dum was pointing, Bucky looked down at his leg. It looked like he'd actually caught the farthest edge of a mortar round, maybe even a mine that had been placed around the factory. The leg of his trousers had been shredded from the knee down, the brown fabric growing red and damp. Tiny bits of shrapnel were lodged in his flesh. Beneath the skin, his ankle felt stretched.

Not to mention his boots were goddamn useless now.

"Just a flesh wound," Bucky lied.

"Take care of it," Dugan said flatly.

"We really should be running."

"Do it fast."

Deciding not to ask about the time that Bucky appeared to be missing in his memory, he fished out his aid kit. Of all the Commandos, Bucky's aid kit was the biggest. He wasn't by any means the biggest egg head in the group, but he was the only one who had seemed concerned that there wasn't a medic among them. So he'd taken brief and informal lessons from the docs and nurses in the aid tent (and later at the hospital near London). Since S.S.R. seemed so intent on sending him to the hospital so often, he'd decided that he might as well get something out of the forced visits.

Bucky yanked his tattered pant leg out of his boot, picked out the metal, wiped the leaking wound, sprinkled the contents of a sulfa packet over it, and bound the thing up in a bandage. Jones would have done it better, but Jones wasn't fucking here right now.

Dum Dum passed Bucky his gear once his leg was taken care of. "Better hurry up, Sarge."

Instead of asking, Bucky looked down into the valley. About fifty HYDRA soldiers were headed their way.

Bucky threw his hand out and said, "Help."

Dugan grabbed Bucky's hand and hauled him to his feet. They each grabbed all the equipment they could reach and ran—away from the factory and the reinforcements and their friends.

Well, they hadn't totally failed. Steve looked at his partial team and felt about two inches tall. He'd never felt this way before. Missions had gone off-plan before, but they'd always managed to get what they needed in the end. But it had never felt this bad before.

Falsworth puzzled it all out first.

The five of them had been well-hidden along the drive that led into the metalworking factory. Morita manned the radio, listening for a little blip to come across the frequency to which he was already tuned. Dernier was keeping a close eye on the comings and goings at the front of the factory. Mostly, they were teasing each other and making jokes. It was what they always did. Contrary to the motion pictures and riveting reports in the newspapers, there was a lot of sitting around and waiting involved in the missions of the Howling Commandos. It was a good thing they liked each other.

Morita had abruptly cut out of their conversation to listen to the radio. Steve knew something wasn't right when a line appeared between Morita's brow.

"What is it? Did you get their signal?"

"Only for a minute. It's supposed to repeat itself." Morita had looked at the captain with thinly veiled apprehension. "It finished going through its sequence by a half-second. All I'm getting is static."

Stark's tech had been incredibly reliable so far. It was unlikely that it had failed because of its design. The only reason Steve could come up with for why the signal would have ceased broadcasting was because the device had been destroyed. Jones suggested that maybe the factory was just scrambling the signal, but it didn't even sound like he believed it. A detonation followed shortly after the signal cut out. The explosion wasn't too far—probably on the other side of the factory. Steve looked to Dernier for an explanation even though he knew it couldn't possibly have been an explosion from the Frenchman.

Falsworth had already climbed halfway up a tree by then and shouted down to them that he could see troops coming down from the north and that there were a lot of them. A look was exchanged between the five of them. Bucky and Dugan had been overrun by the enemy, if they hadn't been killed already.

Steve had sworn aloud, beyond frustrated with the circumstances.

When Steve was angry, he did stupid things. True to form, he did a stupid thing just then, too. It was pure dumb luck that a truck happened to be trundling by. Steve sprinted after it, legs pumping until he was level with the driver's door, and threw his shield (with his body behind it) at the truck. The force of Steve's blow rocked the thing onto its right-side wheels. Steve lept onto the running board and wrenched the door open. The shocks squealed something awful when the left-side wheels slammed down again. Steve pistol whipped the driver and threw the limp body out the door. A bullet greeted the passenger.

The rest of the Commandos had caught up with him by then. They loaded the truck with Dernier's explosives. Falsworth drove it through the service door of the factory, the rest of them packed in the back. They had all of seven seconds to run for it before the truck blew itself sky high. All of them flooded the factory, taking the working men by surprise. They fought through most of the front parts of the factory before they were forced to give up ground. Each of them had swiped up as much intelligence as they could get their hands on before they had to make a full retreat, which was accomplished in another stolen vehicle.

The failed attack on the factory had done one thing: It had drawn the attention of the incoming troops. Bullets tore the canvas cover and punched holes in the metal. A wheel was sacrificed. But Morita's crazy driving evaded the troops. They rolled, defeated, into the copse of trees which offered the best cover.

Now, Steve sat before the Howling Commandos minus two and felt a pit open up below him. He said, "Let's go over what just happened."

Morita snorted. "We got our asses shot up, ace."

"They clearly knew we were coming," Falsworth said.

"There were no division movements detected during recon," Steve said stubbornly. He didn't know who he was fighting.

"They got here mighty fast," said Jones.

"We are behind their lines," said Falsworth. "We could have passed any number of hidden OPs that reported our movements."

Dernier said something too fast for Steve to fully decipher. He knew enough to understand "stupid not to increase defences."

"Look, the point is that there's no way we're getting the technician when the factory is covered by another division," Jones said.

Why not? Steve thought. I've gotten through larger forces before.

"What about Dugan and Barnes?" Morita said. "We need to get in contact with them."

Steve wished Stark had outfitted them with more than one radio very much right then. Their noisy assault had to be enough of a distraction to allow the other two to get away. Steve felt the faces of his comrades upon him.

"Let's look at the intelligence we gathered," he said. "We have to go back. Our mission isn't complete."

They weren't exactly chased, but they were shot after for a bit. A bullet bit Dugan before they could escape HYDRA's sights. Thankfully, it was a through-and-through. Not thankfully, it was bleeding like a bitch.

Dum Dum lost the ability to move his legs first. And because he'd had a stubborn hand locked on Bucky's sleeve, they went down together. They panted in the snow until they weren't dizzy anymore. Bucky recovered first and sat in a more dignified position. His arms felt like long tubes of syrup. Despite the feeling, he opened his pack, pulled out his aid kit, and dressed Dugan's weeping shoulder. When he whined about Bucky pressing too hard, Bucky told Dugan where he could shove it.

"They have us running like fuckin' kids, thinking we're invincible." Bucky pulled on the ends of the bandage a little stronger than he meant to, so distracted was he by his frustration at both HYDRA and S.S.R. He deserved it when Dugan called him something obscene.

"Some bedside manner you've got," Dum Dum grumbled.

Bucky washed Dugan's blood off his hands with a handful of snow. "When I'm on my game, I'm better than the most beautiful nurse."

The remark earned him a snort.

Good enough.

"Well, I think we should move," Bucky said.

Dugan was still panting for breath. He dug into his field jacket and pulled out a flask. He took a generous swig and said, "What's wrong with right here?"

Bucky got to his feet (which didn't even feel connected to the rest of him anymore) and stood behind Dugan. Hooking his arms under Dugan's armpits, Bucky began to drag his friend toward the nearest interruption in the flat landscape around them. He made a point not to think about how easy it was to manoeuvre the extra weight.

Sergeant Barnes . . .

"The fuck are we going?" There was something deeper than agitation in his voice. Something scared.

Scared of him?

Bucky ignored that too.

"Away from where we were," Bucky said.

"Let me up, idiot," Dugan groused.

"It's a lot easier this way."

When Dugan threw himself out of Bucky's arms, Bucky let him go. He also didn't offer to help his superior up, the foolhardy idiot. In the time it took for Dugan to get his balance, the lack of movement made Bucky's bones go cold. Brittleness and jaw quivering and a howling, empty stomach.

"Well?"

Bucky's brows drew together. "Well, what?"

"Well, where are we going?"

"I'm not the one in command here."

But he used to be.

Dugan punched Bucky's shoulder. "Shut up and lead, Barnes. Me giving you orders is just unnatural. If you tell anyone I said that, I will deny it."

When Bucky smiled it felt like sitting up for the first time after a long illness.

"So where are we headed?"

Bucky pointed. "Northwest."

So Dugan pulled out his map and compass, oriented himself, and then they were on their way toward a blip of structures on their map a handful of kilometres away. Dugan felt better following Bucky's lead, and Bucky felt better with a rifle in his hands.

Night was falling and so was a dusting of snow by the time Bucky and Dugan saw signs of civilization. A stony look won Dugan's compliance: Bucky picked his way into the cluster of buildings alone. He investigated every structure that stood at least two feet high. The place was abandoned as far as he could tell. By the time he swept the entire place, it was clear that this collection of hovels couldn't have been a true village. Even a city kid like Bucky knew these were just a bunch of farm houses. Maybe a few nuclear families shared the land. He didn't see any crops but does one really expect to this time of year?

The rolling plains around the buildings made him nervous; too open. He and Dugan would be in for a long night, but it wasn't as if they hadn't had them before.

Bucky made considerably more noise on his way back to Dugan, safe in the knowledge that the houses were abandoned. Nevertheless, he kept his rifle level and ready.

"Took you long enough," Dugan grumbled when Bucky came back. That moustache was positively quivering with temper.

"Had to be sure, didn't I?" He offered a hand to haul the other to his feet. "Let's go; it's clear."

Dugan allowed himself to be helped up and into town. "Goddamn fuckin' snow," he said.

"At least it'll cover our tracks."

"Yeah, from the others, too."

Bucky hadn't thought that far. So he focused on the job at hand and led Dugan to the dusty old barn he'd determined had the best vantage point.

"Stay," Bucky said, and he left Dugan to lean against a post in the loft of the barn.

"There's the bossy old sarge I used to know," Dugan said.

Bucky glared at his companion as he dragged the remnants of several sad-looking haystacks into a nest. Next, he shed his equipment next to the nest. Then he took all of Dugan's gear (after a brief and pathetic fight) from him and put that in a pile opposite his own. Though the lack of banter was worrying, Bucky elected to add it to the mounting list of things he was ignoring.

"Sit," he ordered.

"In a pile of hay?"

"Yes. Sit."

This time Dugan slapped Bucky's hands away when he tried to help.

"I can do it," he said waspishly.

It made Bucky's lips twitch up toward a smile. "Good?" he asked.

"It'll do."

Bucky peered at Dugan's shoulder. His mind was already made up that he would change his friend's bandage before all light had been leeched from the sky. There was minimal resistance; Bucky wasn't sure how much longer he could ignore it.

Sergeant Barnes . . .

The old bandage was completely saturated with blood. Bucky pressed a new one into the wound until the leaking slowed (why wouldn't it stop). After that, he cleaned it with some snow and bound it back up as tightly as he dared, keeping in mind Dugan's comfort.

"Get some rest," Bucky said.

"Gotta keep watch, figure this out," Dugan said.

Blood loss would make him goofy and stupid. And tired.

"I got this shift," Bucky said.

There was no more argument from the second-in-command. Indeed, he was asleep before Bucky ever got his pup tent unrolled and tucked tightly around Dugan's massive frame.

A large window was cut under the apex of the barn's roof. It offered a wide view of the eastern sky. If anyone followed them from the factory, there was a good chance Bucky could see them from the window. All the other vulnerabilities of their position went ignored.

Sergeant Barnes . . .

And he could stay close to Dugan, check on him through the night without losing his view of their surroundings.

Sergeant Barnes . . .

Restlessness, frozen fingers, and a bit of recklessness drove Bucky from the loft. He felt uneasy leaving Dugan unguarded while injured. But if Bucky sat at that window with nothing to think about for another minute, well . . . he didn't want to think about it. (Another thing to ignore.) So Bucky slipped down the damp, wooden ladder and walked in circuits around the perimeter of the farmhouses.

Debris from that mortar that had nearly torn him limb from limb had mangled his boot. His sock was soggy and cold. It was incredibly stupid to walk around with compromised boots. He'd end up trench foot, the way his luck had turned the past few months. The thought of trading the sodden sock out for the warm ones around his neck made him shudder.

Despite the numbness, he could feel his ankle pulsing. Something wasn't right with his bones. The last thing he remembered before the mortar blast blew him half to hell was his bones twisting in ways they shouldn't (and then his head had gone somewhere else). He really should at least look at his foot.

Bucky paused at the largest house. He swept the top layer of snow off the top step of the deck and sat down. Without preamble, he viciously tore the ruined boot and dripping sock off of his foot. It hurt. He unwound the bandage Dugan had told him to apply with more care (not nearly as much blood as there had been on Dugan's bandage).

What light there was seemed to be partially amplified by the snow, so he was able to see tight, faint, pink lines decorating his skin. Pulling his pant leg up over his knee, he saw the same was true for the length of his shin. Scars already. It had only been a few hours. But there was a bump on his ankle where there normally wasn't.

Sergeant Barnes . . .

Hot water was filling Bucky's head and making the backs of his eyes boil. The table was beneath him and there were hands on him, holding tight, and pop! Bucky blindly reached for his used sock and stuffed it in his mouth.

Sergeant Barnes . . .

The sock killed his cries before they were born.

He didn't give himself time to think; gripping his ankle with one hand and midfoot with the other, he twisted.

Sergeant Barnes . . .

His eyes watered and left cold tracks down his cheeks. It still wasn't right; he pushed and twisted with blind force, nothing but the hands in his memory to guide him. He stopped when he choked on the sock.

Sergeant Barnes . . .

If he had travelled this far on the ruined joint, he could handle things until they found Steve again. Probably wouldn't even be evidence of trauma by the time that happened, the way the flesh had knitted already. Slowly, Bucky pulled the sock from his mouth.

In the middle of tying his useless boot back onto his foot, the scent of smoke wafted over. Bucky ceased motion and tensed. Smoke meant fire; fire meant someone was here. He didn't even remember picking his rifle back up. The first place his eyes looked was toward the barn where he'd left Dugan. Nothing there: no smoke, no light, no shifting shadows, no noise.

Bucky followed the smell, sticking to shadows and the backs of houses. Smoke did indeed lead him to fire. He saw the light of a small campfire near the base of a great, leafless tree. Four silhouettes were framed by the feeble light. They were burning parts of a fence.

"What a bunch of idiots," Bucky breathed to himself. Greenhorns, probably.

Because he never went anywhere without it, Bucky pulled out the rifle scope Stark had designed for him. Between the moonlight and the fire, he was able to actually see after adjusting the dials. The flickering light of the flames illuminated the HYDRA insignia on the sleeve of one of the men. There was a sensible jump in Bucky's heart rate when he saw one of the men fiddling with the dials of a device that looked a lot like a radio.

Opportunity. Lifeline.

Bucky tucked his scope away and unsheathed his field knife.

Four minutes later, there were four dead men with slit throats lying in the snow at Bucky's feet. The warmth he finally, finally felt made him pause. It had been so long since he'd felt this way. It was almost foreign.

Sergeant Barnes . . .

The fog in his head only cleared when Bucky felt his fingernails scratching vigorously at his left arm through his coat. Once he became aware of it, he let his hand fall still again.

Mentally shaking himself, Bucky looked down at the radio. It had a HYDRA insignia embossed on its side. He had just hit the fucking jackpot.

There was the matter of the bodies. Did he hide them? Leave them out for the world to see? Bucky wasn't inclined to leave them. Not because he felt bad or anything like that. He just didn't want anyone walking by to notice. They might come and investigate the farmhouses. A dead body lying around was nothing. A bunch of bodies with slit throats and no bullet holes? A little less unusual. Leaving them out could attract attention Bucky and Dugan didn't have the resources to fight off.

He ended up piling the bodies in the nearest shed. There was a tarpaulin in the shed, torn, frayed, and holey. Bucky pulled it over the bodies. It was weak, but it would keep away anyone who happened to just be glancing around. A thought made him pause before he shut the door on the young, dead soldiers. The toe of one of the dead soldier's hobnailed boots poked through a hole in the tarpaulin.

Looking down at his own mangled footwear, Bucky made an easy choice.

Steve drove his shield into the side of the last man's head. The body went boneless and collapsed in a heap, never to rise again. It was the eleventh patrol they had taken out that night. Daybreak was still hours away. Steve's breath fogged before him. His chest became tight when he saw the faces were still rounded with youth. Setting his jaw and wiping his eyes, Steve made his way back toward their base. He left the bodies to be discovered by their own countrymen and, eventually, hopefully, be returned to their families.

Dugan woke just before the sky was shot with the light of dawn. He moved slowly; if he grunted from the pain in his shoulder, Barnes would never let him forget it. Guy was good but you were asking to be hurt if you dared to start a ribbing match. And frankly, Dugan didn't feel like he had a whole lot of room to be complaining around Barnes. Not after what the sergeant had been through.

Once he was sitting up and dignified, Dugan caught a glimpse of the sky through the window.

"Hey, asshole," he said to Barnes's frame, "why didn't you wake me up? I've got to have been out for twelve fucking hours."

Barnes didn't move from his sentinel's place beside the window. There was a boxy shape beside him. Curiosity piqued, Dugan carefully got to his feet and approached. He didn't have to go far to see the HYDRA insignia on the side of the box. It had keys and dials. A radio?

"The hell did you get that?" Dugan said.

Barnes looked woodenly up at him. His hands moved slowly and drew out a bloodied field knife. Then his eyes fell to his boots. Rather, somebody else's boots that he was wearing.

Dugan didn't say anything, but he did sit down beside Barnes. Everyone who'd seen war knew what to do when a comrade got like this. It happened to the best of them. It happened to Barnes a lot recently. He'd get all quiet and still, looking like he was very far away. Then he'd come back and move slowly, almost like he was taking care not to disturb the atmosphere.

"You did good," Dugan said. "We can contact Cap with this thing. Soon as we figure out how to use it. Maybe we can send it back to HQ and they can crack the encryption."

"Maybe," Barnes agreed.

"Yeah. So there are patrols combing the hills for us?"

"Watched one walk by in the woods a bit ago. They didn't even search the houses."

"Fuckin' greenies, huh?"

"Fuckin' greenies."

Like pulling teeth, trying to get Barnes out of his stillnesses.

Dugan said, "Why don't you hit the hay for a few hours? You could use it, you know. Rogers'll have my ass if I keep his darling baby boy up all hours of the day. And he'll have your ass for not taking care of yourself."

A visible tremor ran through Barnes. "I'm OK," he said. Words were slow and clumsy because of his clacking teeth.

"Barnes." Dugan's voice was dripping with doubt.

"I am."

"Bucky," he said.

That got the sergeant to look up. Though they'd known each other since the day they shipped out for England (ultimate destination: Africa, then Italy), there weren't many instances in which Dugan had called Barnes 'Bucky.' At first, he'd avoided it because Barnes was his superior officer. Then, after a slew of men were killed and he was promoted to sergeant himself, Dugan avoided it because he knew how much Barnes hated to be called 'Jimmy.' And it was so much fun to watch him get all hot about the name. Always, it was Barnes or Jimmy or Sarge. Hardly ever Bucky.

Dugan said in the softest voice he had ever used in his entire life, "You've got to take care of yourself."

Barnes looked away again, down to his boots. "Won't be able to sleep anyway."

Which Dugan knew to be true enough. He'd seen the proof; heard it. All of them, their little group of suicidal idiots—they had all watched the change before their eyes. About ninety percent of the time Barnes got restless in his sleep and whined and moaned, fingers pressing bruises into his arms. The Commandos used to wake him from these fits, but it usually came at a price: black eye, split lip, swollen cheek. Rogers did all the waking these days. With the captain's super-healing, Barnes's blows were less of a toll to Rogers than they were to anyone else.

The rest of the time, well . . . no amount of shaking could rouse Barnes. Pure exhaustion was the only thing that allowed him something approaching quality sleep. More than once, Morita radioed to S.S.R. that they were "tying up loose ends" when, in fact, they didn't want to wake Barnes from his rest that had become as scarce as hen's teeth.

Mostly, though, Barnes just got still, quiet, and very far away.

Rogers and the rest of the Commandos went to great lengths to cover up Barnes's behaviour from the brass (Cap's idea). Dugan supposed Rogers feared them tossing Barnes into some institution, testing and examining him just as Zola had. Dugan would freely admit that it was one of his own fears. He'd seen first-hand the change in Barnes—and it was a crying shame that lit a fire in his veins—and Dugan would be damned if he allowed Barnes to be thrown back into it. (It would be all the more painful if his own country did it to him.)

Dugan couldn't imagine the difference in Barnes that Rogers must have been seeing.

"Just lie down," Dugan said. He nudged Barnes with his shoulder, pretended not to notice the way the sergeant swayed. "You don't have to sleep."

But Barnes just shook his head.

Helpless, Dugan retrieved the pup tent, placed it around Barnes's shoulders, and sat down again beside his sergeant. Then he pulled the HYDRA radio toward himself and said, "Let's figure out how the hell this thing works and get outta here."

Chapter Text

By morning, Steve, Morita, Falsworth, Jones, and Dernier had taken out what felt like half of the reinforcements they had seen cascade around the metalworking factory. The denseness of the patrols they came across were unusual, completely ineffective. Either an idiot was in charge or these greenies—nearly all of them had youth clinging to their cheeks, hiding their jaws—didn't know how to follow orders.

Probably both.

But they had a plan now. They were going back and they were going to accomplish their mission. Steve knew he was being headstrong and little stupid about it, but his resolve didn't waver. Sure, he was aware that he was falling victim to his own myth, but . . . this was important. They'd never failed before and they weren't going to start now.

"Storm the place just like we've always done, take 'em out, take the building, find our guys. Clear?" Steve summed up their plan for what remained of his team.

Their confidence didn't exactly match that which Steve was trying to give off. But they all murmured their assent and began to move out.

Steve wasn't stopping for anything.

"Don't let me fall asleep," Barnes had mumbled. That's what he had said four hours ago. His eyes hadn't even been opened and he was telling Dugan not to let him fall asleep. The nerve of this guy. Four hours ago he had said that.

And if Barnes was going to be a pain, then Dugan was going to be one right back.

"Hey, did you say you have some sisters?" Dugan said very loudly.

Perhaps talking would hurry the sergeant to his imminent collapse-due-to-exhaustion.

Barnes's head jerked up from where it was resting on Dugan's shoulder. The sergeant sputtered stupidly; Dugan felt smug satisfaction.

"Scissors?" Barnes slurred.

"No, sisters. Didn't you say you have some?"

"Three." Barnes was blinking and slapping his tongue around in his mouth. "Why ya askin'?"

"Well, I'm askin' because I wanna know if they're lookers, don't I?"

Heavy brows furrowed over sleepy eyes. "Don' be talkin' 'bout my sisters like that, ya punk."

"What're their names again? Rose? Constance?" It cost Dugan something precious not to bust out laughing at the looks drawing on Barnes's half-asleep face: Drunk and indignant.

"Don't you worry about my sisters' names. You wouldn't have a prayer with any of 'em."

Dugan shrugged and regretted it (Barnes was leaning on him again), "Fine. Rogers'll tell me later. He wants them to be happy. Everyone'll want to be hangin' on the arm of a national hero."

"Don'—don't be talkin' like that," Barnes said around a yawn. "Steve'll set you straight. He won' wan' you sniffin' around my sisters either. They're his sisters, too, ya know."

Dugan didn't doubt it. "But not in the same way, I'm willing to bet."

Barnes shot upright but his eyes gave away his lack of true presence. He shook his head at Dugan, appearing for all the world to be looking up from the bottom of a bottle. "You better not be implying tha' little Stevie Rogers was foolin' my sisters behind my back, ya dirty Mick."

A bark of a laugh couldn't be held back. Dugan slapped Barnes on his swaying back. What could he say? The kid was a hoot. "Your whole family is a buncha dirty Micks, Barnes."

"Hey, we're Catholic."

"So am I."

Barnes shook his head and leaned it on Dugan's shoulder again. "No. Nah," he said, voice full of that unbearable cockiness that had, somehow, won him respect in boot camp. "Nuh-uh. We're Catholic and we do it the right way. None of your crap, Timothy. My sisters are good an' . . . and proper."

Dugan was thinking that perhaps instead of letting Barnes sleep all those times before that they should have kept him up and talking. He was an absolute delight when he was so exhausted he couldn't see. "Well, see, both you and Rogers have been away for years now. Ain't nobody makin' sure they're still good and proper."

Barnes laughed through his nose. He rocked the side of his head on Dugan's shoulder and raised his eyebrows without opening his eyes. "Guess you're right."

His laughter positively boomed.

"Jesus, keep it down," Barnes said. He was still a weight against Dugan's good shoulder. "Place is gonna be crawlin' with patrols if ya don't shut it."

"Thought we were meant to be fixing this radio?" Dugan said. The box still sat before them, a mystery.

"Shit, turn the buttons."

"Excellent advice, Mr. Stark." Dugan tapped on the keys unhelpfully. "I thought you were good at science, Jimmy."

"I ain't no egghead."

"Nah, I'd never accuse you of that, but you're a college kid. Educated."

Barnes opened his eyes and glanced at Dugan through his limp hair. There was almost a smile there. "I went 'cause Steve did. I ain't no egghead."

Dugan's mustache disguised his frown. Not that Barnes could see it through his eyelids anyway. "Why do you insist that you're stupid, Jimmy?"

Through a yawn: "Ain't stupid. You're stupid."

"Then why do ya talk about yourself like this?"

Barnes sat up and looked at Dugan with mock seriousness, like a drunken man playing at being sober. Like a broken man playing at war.

"I go where I'm led." His seriousness cracked for a second and he fought a smile. "I went to college because Steve went to college."

"You didn't learn about the things Rogers learned about," Dugan pointed out.

"No," Barnes agreed.

"You were learning about science."

Barnes laughed through his nose again. "I went to class," he amended.

"Cap told me you had a scholarship."

The serious act was abandoned. Deflating, Dugan found the weight of Barnes's head on his shoulder once more. To be inherently trusted in this way made the circumstances of their friendship worth it—made war worth it.

How long could this damn guy hold out for? Surely talking would tire him out faster.

"They give those to anybody," Barnes mumbled.

"See, I don't think that's how it works. Just say you're a scholar, Jimmy. Say you're an egghead."

"Ain't an egghead." It was just a breath that time; inching toward victory.

"Tell me what you were learning about at college."

"Just ask Steve. He was there."

"Why can't I ask you?" Dugan smiled to himself; they were circling the drain here. At last.

"Cause I don't want to say." There was an audible pop of Barnes's jaw when he yawned that time.

"Because why?"

"'m not an egghead, OK?" The canvas tent-blanket was pulled tighter around his shoulders. "I'm tired and cold and hungry."

Dugan hummed, victorious. Barnes let himself be guided into a prone position, his head against Dugan's leg. "What else?"

"Wanna kill Zola with my bare hands. And go home. Take fuckin' Steve with me, the stupid punk."

"I know you do."

Slapping a slow hand against Dugan's leg, Barnes slurred, "Don' let me fall 'sleep, OK?"

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"There are patrols. And we gotta get back to the o-others."

"I know."

A grumbly sound filled the air. Dugan scanned the full view provided by the window before he realized it was just Barnes's stomach. Perhaps he should have stuffed the sergeant with field rations before talking him into sleep—if they even had any. Too late now; Dugan wouldn't wake him unless he needed to. So the second-in-command pulled the radio closer to himself and tried to make sense of it, unintelligently wiggling the knobs and tapping on keys.

This mission was successful the second time around, mostly. About eighty percent of the forces were neutralized and most of the building still stood. S.S.R. was right: it was a mass communications hub (in addition to creating metal housing for HYDRA weapons).

They were too exhausted to pursue the forces that managed to escape. Falsworth reported that most of them had fled south and east. A few went north and then west. It was almost as if they had had a plan in place in case the thing that had just happened, happened.

Steve sat down next to Morita and Jones in the command center of the communications room. The dimensions were deceptively small compared to the amount of power that lived in the room. Like taking Howard's lab and condensing it down into a closet; overflowing with technology Steve didn't even want to understand. Falsworth and Dernier wandered into the room eventually, waiting for what the next directive would be.

Steve was prepared to give it. "Morita and Jones can stay here and try to figure out these machines. See if you can get anything out of them. We need to radio base and let them know what's up. The rest of us will search this place for Bucky and Dugan. Holler if you find anything."

And they each moved to carry out their orders.

It began with a strained sound escaping somewhere between Barnes's nose and mouth. Still, Dugan didn't regret coaxing his sergeant to sleep. It was only a shame that it hadn't lasted even an hour. Barnes shifted under the pup tent, curling.

Curious, Dugan experimentally placed his palm on Barnes's back. He did it lightly and eased the weight on his hand onto the sergeant incrementally. Equally slowly, Dugan rubbed Barnes's back in calm circles the way he had seen Rogers do (after taking one on the chin) once he'd restored Barnes to consciousness. Looked like it made coming back to himself easier.

At first there was some distress, but the curling ceased and Barnes grew tranquil once more.

"Steve?" Barnes pawed one of his hands around under the tent-blanket. Dugan didn't think he was all the way back yet. "Hurtin' again . . ."

There was no telling if that was a statement or a question. Dugan kept rubbing Barnes's back. He said, "It'll be OK."

"Why ya always gettin' me into trouble, Steve, eh?"

"I don't know, Sarge, suppose he was just born that way."

"Born a punk . . ." A sigh, then: "And a pain in my ass."

Dugan dampened his laughter as much as he could. He was sure Barnes was clawing out of his rest, but Dugan still took care to keep quiet. Hoping against reality.

"Can't have it all."

"No," Barnes agreed. "No, you can't." Quiet. Then words. "What am I doing here?"

"Fightin' a war."

"Don't want to be fighting. Don't like fighting. Never did."

"Well, you're damn good at it."

Barnes grunted and pressed his forehead into Dugan's leg.

"What? Not what you wanted to hear?" Dugan ceased his ministrations and patted Barnes's back instead. He left his hand there—a weight, a depressor, an anchor.

"I was just a kid from Brooklyn doin' physics."

Egghead.

"What were ya doin' that for?"

"Motion."

"Huh."

"Wanted to know how things move and where they're going. Wish I hadn't."

"Why's that?"

Barnes lifted his head and glanced at Dugan, awake. "Now I know where things are going."

He sat up and rotated his neck, little snaps from within crackling in the cold air. The tent stayed wrapped around him. Barnes looked at Dugan and said, "Canteen?"

Dugan unhooked the one that contained water from its harness and passed it over. Barnes sucked it down like he hadn't had any since the day he was born. Probably just wanted something in his hollow belly. The way that thing had been grumbling!

"Ration?" he offered.

Barnes shook his head in the negative. "I'm alright."

Not by a long shot, bud. "If you say so."

The canteen went back into its place. Dugan took a drink from his other canteen. European drink left a lot to be desired to Dugan. Then again, he didn't exactly have access to the best the continent had to offer. But they wouldn't get anymore missions in France now that the Allies liberated the country, would they?

"Let me check," Barnes said.

"What?"

He was already up and shoving Dugan's coat out of the way, unwinding the bandage and checking both the entry and exit wounds. "How's it feel?"

"Like I been shot."

"Good," Barnes said while binding it back up, "because that's what happened."

"Still waitin' for you to become better than that beautiful nurse."

"Won't be long now."

"Alright, your turn." Dugan turned toward Barnes.

"My turn for what?"

"Let me see your hacked-up leg."

He looked down at his stolen boots. "I took care of it."

"Let me see anyway."

"It's fine, Dugan."

"Starting to think you're full of shit, Barnes."

"I'm starting to think so, too."

Then Barnes filled their canteens with snow, tucking them inside his coat so that they'd melt (and make him shiver and shake and clench his teeth). A fierce glare met Dugan when he struggled down the ladder to help. Together, they moved through the farm houses and collected anything they thought could potentially have a use. The insides were already pretty well stripped of goods; someone's army had made this place home before.

There was a few seconds' panic when they came across a corpse on the second floor of the second-largest house. It was a soldier. He was missing an arm. There were shriveled and dried plants lying around the body. It appeared that the soldier still had all of his equipment with him. It was stacked in neat pile close to the bed, as if those who left him here thought he might rise, pack up, and follow them to their next destination.

Dugan went to look through the neat package of gear, finding rations and an aid kit, among a small complement of other supplies. Whoever had been with this soldier, they had been stupid to leave all this supplies behind. Looking up from collecting these supplies, the excitement faded from Dugan's face. He saw Barnes leaning over the body, one hand reaching hesitantly toward the corpse's chest. Dugan watched Barnes pluck one of the dried plants off of the dead man's chest. It was small, white, and hairy.

Barnes smiled at it, let it roll into his palm. Kept it. He never spoke.

They collected the rest of the supplies, searched all the houses, did a perimeter sweep of the place, then went back to the barn. Dugan cracked the German rations. First, he tasted something out of a tube.

"Ack!" Dugan spat. "Jesus, is this supposed to be cheese?"

Barnes looked ready to laugh as he took the canteens out of his jacket. "Let me try."

"Ugh, be careful." He passed the silver tube over.

Dugan watched Barnes squeeze a brave amount of the German sludge into his mouth. Laughter jumped out of his mouth like a cannon blast when Barnes covered his mouth and his eyes started watering.

"God, that's awful," he said around the sludge still on his tongue. "Is this even food?"

"Those krauts deserve a medal for fightin' this long while eating this shit. They're stronger than I am."

It took an impressive display of will for Barnes not to spit it out. "Tastes like trash can scum."

"Eat a lot of that back home, do you?"

"Can it."

They tossed the tube of cheese aside and opened different cans. Just for moment, it felt like it used to. Before they knew that there were tanks that shot blue light and before they knew that men could be turned into super men. Dugan could have been back in Africa after their baptism of fire. He was a newly-minted corporal and Barnes was running around making sure all of his men had made it through the fire (they had). He would eventually settle down beside Dugan, pull out some paper and his stub of a pencil, and write about everything that had happened.

("Whatcha writin'?"

"Words."

"To who?"

"To whom."

"What?"

"It's whom, not who."

"You're a real egghead, Sarge."

"Not an egghead, Dum Dum.")

"Whadaya get?" Dugan said.

"Sardines," Barnes replied after a long, hard look at the contents of his can. "You?"

"Some kind of meat."

"Where's Jones when you need him to read German food labels?"

"He's with the rest of the team taking their sweet time to come get us."

They ate from the German rations, opening packages and passing them back and forth. Dugan tapped the side of one of the cans.

"Do you remember that field exercise we did when we landed in England?" Dugan asked. He saw things that were far away and sunny.

Barnes stopped shaking the canteens and their half-melted contents. "Which one?" (He knew which one.)

"The one where Kompston got caught on the fence and all the cows were coming over, chewin' on us and shitting right on our boots?"

"I remember."

"And he was holding us up. We were supposed to flank the target, and we were already behind schedule. Just the eight of us, and then Komp got stuck on that fence." Dugan laughed. "You just turned around and ripped him off the barbed wire."

Barnes laughed, too. "Tore the man's pants right off."

"And the two of you land right in the cow shit. So we all go running to the target, late by a mile. Everyone was just standing around waiting for us. Captain Fonte was just standing there, face red as a tomato. Smoke might as well have been pouring out of his ears. Then you run up with your shit-covered fireteam and pantsless man." Dugan deepened his voice in imitation of their old captain and said, "Sergeant Barnes, where the hellhave you been?"

"And I told him," Barnes said.

"He looked at you like you'd just slapped him. Never saw you talk like that to anyone, let alone a superior officer."

"Fonte was a asshole; he deserved it. Then again, my pop always said Steve was a bad influence on me. Guess it showed right then."

"That's why you never got promoted, I swear."

Barnes laughed and nodded his head in agreement. "Probably. I liked being buck sergeant anyway."

"You're still buck sergeant."

His smile disintegrated until it was just a slight bend in his lips. "Yeah, but it's not the same."

Nothing to say to that, so Dugan drank from his other canteen. No chance of that one freezing. Barnes watched him and said, "Go take it easy."

"We ain't done nothing."

"You don't fool me, Dum Dum. Your shoulder is killin' you. I'll kick you in a few hours."

"Then what'll you do?"

Barnes nodded at the radio. "I'll see what I can do with that. German's not so different from English, right?"

The seconds stretched and tingled between them.

"OK," Dugan said. "Two hours and you wake me up."

Barnes was already examining the dials of the radio. He gave Dugan a mock salute without looking up. Dugan's arm was feeling awful, and he could feel the weariness all around him. He laid in the nest of hay, the tuning, tinkling sounds of Barnes messing with the radio lulling him to sleep.

"Nothing," Falsworth said.

"Pas une seule chose," Dernier said.

Steve huffed in disappointment and shook his head. They went back to the control room empty-handed. Steve was already thinking about combing the surrounding area. Bucky and Dugan would have fled west, Steve was sure. They were on the north end of the building, and the HYDRA troops had come in from the northeast. West was the logical direction to go.

"Figure anything out?" Steve asked of Morita and Jones.

"This thing's amazing," said Jones. He held one end of a set of headphones up to his ear.

"It's like radar or something," Morita added. "Look."

A monitor above them showed concentric circles, just like radar screens. When Morita maneuvered the right button on the control panel, a pulse went out and lit up several dots on the field of view.

"Have you been able to intercept any of their communications?"

"Nah," said Jones, "they probably ceased communications when we took the building for precisely that reason."

"What's the range?"

"Pretty far, but still not much more than a few miles."

Steve ran his hand through his hair. This mission was over—successful even—and they were still caught. Bucky and Dugan were either hiding better than they had in their entire lives, or they were dead somewhere. Steve was inclined to believe the former.

"Let's search the area then. Falsworth will come with me, and we'll search the hills to the west. Jones and Dernier, you two search north. Grid formation. Keep your ear to the ground, Morita—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Morita interrupted. He waved a hand to quiet Steve, then pressed the headphones to his ears.

Jones grabbed a page from one of the manuals opened beside him. His hand jumped across the page with a short pencil, recording the broadcasting message. "Something incoming."

A threat, Steve thought immediately. Red Skull knew they were here already and he was going to make a threat. But then Morita started laughing. Jones held it together for only so long before he started chuckling too.

Dernier, Falsworth, and Steve traded looks.

"What is it?" Falsworth said.

Jones stopped recording the message and handed what he'd written to the Brit.

Falsworth smiled without changing his face in that strange way all British people could. (Peggy did it all the time.) He said, "Well, that's a good sign, eh, gents?"

Steve took the message from Falsworth and stared. The message Jones had recorded was in Morse code. Steve stared at it, felt his face freezing. In a second he was laughing, too.

"Damn it, Buck." Because no one else would broadcast the lyrics of "Star-Spangled Man" in Morse code on a German radio. "Where's this coming from?" Steve asked Jones.

Jones pointed to a section of the control board. Morita manipulated a dial and the monitor showing the radios within range changed so that only one light was visible. It was nearly out of range, just barely on the inside edge of the last concentric circle.

"Twelve kilometers northwest," Jones interpreted.

Morita twiddled a dial and the rest of the radios in range lit up the board. "Looks like the rest of them heard the song, too."

Several of those lights were converging on the only one Steve cared about.

"Let's get going," Steve said. He took up his shield and led the way out of the factory.

Bucky wasn't thinking and shook Dugan by his injured shoulder. Try as he might, he didn't feel bad about causing the hiss of pain.

"Been two hours already?" he asked.

"More than, but we gotta go, big guy." Bucky was already pulling him up (easily) by his good arm. "Up and at 'em."

Dugan went with Bucky's force (he didn't have a choice). Bucky began stuffing supplies into all of the pockets on Dugan's jacket; the canteen was nearly frozen again.

"What terrible thing happened this time?" Dugan said. Slowly, he inched his way back to awareness; sleep still clung to his eyelashes. Funny, you'd think war would shake you of that habit.

"Patrol. Giant patrol. More like an entire company. Let's go."

And Bucky was leading him carefully down the ladder. That enormous HYDRA radio was strapped to his back. The cold air hit the two of them in full force when they emerged outside.

"Whoo," Dugan whistled, the last of his sleepiness being cut by the wind.

Sergeant Barnes . . .

"Keep going," Bucky said. A forceful push to the back was enough to get Dugan moving again.

Perhaps broadcasting on the radio had been a bad idea. Perhaps the company coming over the hill were meant to rendezvous at this farmland. Perhaps a thousand different things. Bucky stayed between Dugan and the incoming men, checking his back every few strides. Even so, he didn't see the men setting up artillery. The mortar round crashed near enough for the concussion to suck their breath away. Bucky was glad his mouth was already opened.

Sergeant Barnes . . .

He pulled up his rifle, aimed, and fired in a single motion. A man on the hill fell. It wasn't nearly enough. He and Dugan couldn't defend this position against an entire company of men. Hell, they couldn't even get away from an entire company. If they ran, it would be only too easy to track them. It was a matter of time.

Another mortar round landed to their left. It had them stumbling but didn't knock them off their feet. The rattling of machine gun fire started next. Bucky put a hand on Dugan's back and shoved him. Rounds were falling all around them: to the left, right, back, front. One mortar landed right behind Bucky's foot but thankfully it didn't detonate. The war had dragged on for so long that dud rounds were becoming more and more frequent.

"We're never gonna make it out of this, Sarge," Dugan said. He kept running though.

Sergeant Barnes . . .

I know. "Just keep moving! You never know when God's gonna smile at you," was Bucky's reply.

Fwoomp! Bucky threw himself at Dugan. They crashed down in a pile, Bucky covering Dugan's head with his body. He threw up his arms to protect his own head. Why don't we wear fucking helmets?

A shell exploded nearby. Shrapnel and debris rained down on them, dirty snow making it look surreal. Not wanting to give their pursuers a chance at a stationary target, Bucky grabbed Dugan and made for the nearest house. Rapid fire chased the two of them to the door and continued to punch holes through the wooden siding. Bucky kicked over a table and sunk down behind it.

"OK?" he allowed himself to ask Dugan.

"Just peachy," was the answer.

They each took stock of the others wounds; didn't say anything about them. The house shook, dust snowing on them from above. There was great crashing—a hole had been punched through the second story, Bucky was sure. More rattling pops of machine gun fire. Air-sucking snaps of artillery.

When a hole was blasted through the wall just beside them—splinters flying with menace—Bucky threw a grenade for all he was worth through it. The sounds of fire were so close now. They were going to be killed if they were lucky; captured if they were not.

Sergeant Barnes . . .

The detonation Bucky heard after he'd thrown the grenade was not right. It was disproportionate to what should have been expected. The detonation was huge. Sounds of fire were increasing in volume and number. No one shot at them through the walls anymore.

Sergeant Barnes . . .

Bucky dared to hope.

Lifting his head by increments until he could see over the edge of the table, Bucky looked out the hole in the wall. There was a truck be driven by what seemed to be a madman. Snow jumped up, accompanied by immense booms, among clusters of their enemies. An obnoxious blue blur shot with red was flying among the black figures.

Dugan was doing the same beside him. "Wahoo!" he shouted. Aided by strength rented with adrenaline, Dugan ran out through the hole in the wall. The snapping of his Thompson was like a punch in Bucky's head.

Sergeant Barnes . . .

Bucky turned so his back was against the upturned table. His body sagged against it. Bucky's vision blurred; he didn't know what he had expected, what he had hoped for. Unconsciousness took him before the gunfire stopped.

Steve didn't let up until every last HYDRA troop was dead. It felt both good and wrong. Dum Dum looked bad. Red was beginning to seep through the fabric of his coat. His face was full of red marks and dirt. But he was smiling and would be fine.

"Where's Bucky?" That was the first thing Steve asked after he was sure that Dugan was not being threatened by death.

"Probably still back there," he said.

Steve followed him back toward the house that the HYDRA troops had been tearing apart with every weapon they possessed. They entered through a hole in the ground floor. Bucky was behind a shot-up table.

"I don't believe it," Dum Dum said as he squatted down next to Bucky. "The kid's asleep."

"The good kind?"

"Looks like."

So Steve scooped up Bucky like he was child and headed toward the truck he and the others had commandeered at the factory.

"Steve?" Bucky's voice was hardly lucid.

"It's me, Buck." Why does he always have to ask?

"Hurtin' again . . ."

"No. No, I'm just fine."

Bucky turned his head into Steve's shoulder and wiped his nose on the fabric. "That's good."

"How do you feel?"

"Dum Dum thinks I'm an egghead."

You are. "I'll set him straight."

"Steve?"

"Yeah, Buck?"

"Hurtin' again . . ."

"Why don't you sleep it off?"

"OK."

Bucky and Dugan slept the whole way back to the front lines. Dernier climbed between them and dropped right off, too. The unit that had first greeted them at the banks of the river had moved across so that both sides of the water were occupied by Allied troops. The sat in the truck after they reached the lines, letting the vehicle's heat fill the truck until the gas ran out.

Dugan woke first and went off with Dernier and Jones to find (hot) food and return any supplies they hadn't used. Their allies also offered them shelter in the most hospitable rooms they could find. Word was the old German commander called those rooms his quarters. Morita and Falsworth went straight to the rooms to sleep. Steve did all his required paperwork and duties from the back of the truck.

The engine had long gone cold, and he was nodding off sitting up by the time Bucky woke up.

"Steve?"

The sound jerked him from his half-sleep. "What is it?" he asked.

"You should go to sleep." Steve could hear how tired Bucky still was.

"Can you get up?"

"Course I can."

Steve kept an arm out just in case. They collected food along the way toward their designated quarters. Sitting shoulder to shoulder at a low table that had only benches and no chairs, Steve and Bucky leaned on each other as they ate. They took turns nosediving into their mess kits.

Steve did most of the work guiding them to the barracks (they're not barracks, they're bedrooms!). Bucky gave up moving his own body halfway there. This forced Steve to sort of toss him onto the narrow bed. A clumsy hand caught Steve's arm when he turned to collapse on his own bed.

"Wait," Bucky mumbled. "Got somethin' for ya."

Steve turned and hoped whatever this was, it wouldn't take long.

Bucky fumbled with one of his ammunition pouches and pulled out a surprisingly well-preserved flower. It was a dusty color of white, and it was hairy. Bucky held the little thing out to Steve.

"Give it to Carter," he said.

"What is it?" Steve asked.

"It's edelweiss; she'll know what it means. You'll thank me later."

Steve took it and went to sleep.

Steve gave the flower to Peggy. She accepted it and kissed him.

Dugan never mentioned Barnes's miraculously healed ankle to anyone. He was grateful Barnes was OK and wouldn't question a gift. What difference would it make if anyone knew anyway?

Steve forgot to thank Bucky later.

When Bucky next saw Agent Carter, she smiled at him without changing her face. She told him that they'd figured out how to intercept and interpret HYDRA transmissions, due in part to the radio he'd brought back. She told him that they had already decrypted a transmission that said Zola's presence had been requested at a location they'd had suspicions about.

"Dr. Zola is your next mission," she said. Agent Carter brushed her lips against Bucky's cheek and pretended not to notice how glassy his eyes were.

Sergeant Barnes . . .

I'm coming, he thought. Ready or not, here I come.