Miss America: I'll Be With You

Prologue

(Warnings: Blood, gore, body mutilation, genderbent!Steve, Stucky.]

When he awoke, he remembered there was pain. Frost-bitten numb was encountered first, and his senses seemed dulled. That opaque film that marred your vision like waking up too late on a Sunday morning after a late night was the first thing, and it didn't last. There was a jolt, a haze, an electric spark as he cried out because of the pain! Where was Ste— Where were the Hydra guards they'd been fighting in those closed quarters? God-! It hurt. A-And, where—where was his left arm?! Bucky's breath steamed hotly within the squalls of snow, unable to even move to investigate the empty sensation where his left arm had been, teeth bared as he gasped for breath through clenched jaws. He was...he was—James Bu-ch...anan B-Barnes? The free hand, the only hand, flexes digits where it's cold and there's an icy surface barely perceived to his touch. He views the narrow strip of sky barely contrasted to the sheer cliff-faces that ran parallel on either side of him like a cradle within Hell, helpless and at the blind mercy of whatever he was to subjected to now. He wants to move, but he can't! Bucky wants to escape this, and the pain—he just... Why...why was everything so out of focus? Those fingers he'd been mindlessly flexing suddenly ceased, and he heard voices. Voices that didn't speak German, English—any of the languages he'd been briefly taught and barely could comprehend in this state because of the war. No, no—languages he'd been taught for the war, but couldn't...couldn't—

It was cold again. But, he wasn't still. He wasn't left for dead. His field of vision jostled and was sometimes unpleasantly jarred, but he was moving. He could hear the grating friction of the material of his military fatigues on the ice, the snow, the stone. Could see the trail his body impressed upon the ground in a meandering trail, but—the red. It was red. So red, it was like it was angry. Bucky blinked weakly, and those voices returned. Russian—they spoke Russian. Soviets...red. He didn't know what to think. Devoid of an arm, of a means of escape, he should be dead. And he probably was dead—as good as dead. "W-Where 're we..." he voice trailed off, lips smearing words together as a head uselessly lolling distorted his speech. But, he wasn't allowed any more time to think. The numbing pace of their footfalls was all but silenced as he was brusquely hefted upon a litter of a truck, the floor still hard and cold and painful.

But, oh, his smile was bittersweet. His captors took no notice, crudely bandaging the worst of the bleeding so he wouldn't bleed out and die. He'd already lost over a liter of blood and couldn't afford to lose more. Was this it? He really was going to die, wasn't he? Of all the ways he thought he'd go on the battlefield, the last had been as a science experiment. Dissected, cut up; Bucky knew what was coming. And still, he smiled. An asinine, drunken grin like there was something beautiful waiting for him. Through the strife, through the searing pain his body was subjected to that was too incredible to bear, his eyes wrinkled at the corners, and God, they were soft. Bucky never thought he'd leave the world this way, but...he least he'd do it after protecting someone infinitely precious to him. The Russians thought he was delirious, slowly dying; and maybe he was. But when when you realize this hadn't been in vain, God, the pain was worth it. The corners of those brilliant and subduing blues became shining, blurred, building moisture at the tear ducts.

Yeah, his smile was surreal and he knew what was coming, but the last person he'd seen...he'd protected her. "Steph," he croaked hoarsely, a lonely, yearning sound. She'd be okay...she was tough. She wasn't scrawny anymore, and she could pack a wallop, save lives and just—he wasn't going to die filled with regret. With herculean effort, he raised his remaining arm, face preserving that expression while the pain seared hotter still, extrusion violently trembling as it splayed sloppily upon his face, he slowly, slowly, slowly—saluted. It took everything he had to position it just right, but that smile only grew wider. His captors were entranced, unable to comprehend what was going through this man's mind. But...if this was gonna be good-bye, he was going to do it right.

There was then a dull thud that followed suit, and nothing more.

"Bucky!"

There is a break, like a peal of thunder as she bolts upright, view blocked by a curtain of blonde from the violent inertia of her awakening. The noise—mortar fire? Her breathing is labored, gasping from her lungs and sucking in great gulps of air. It's hot, and her body is numb but perspiring, sheets and clothing adhering to her form, sticky and unpleasant, but she was trembling, quivering like it was cold. Like a bewildered deer finally pealing itself from the daze of headlights, she looks around, parting her hair to see.

It was dark. Black as night and yet her senses were mad with the vividness. Breathing, heartbeat, the way the moonlight refracted and shaped to the spartan appointments of the room—it was like she was on the battlefield again. Slowly, Stephanie stood, a laborious effort as she kicked off the sheets. But, as she wearily strode to the single window within the whitewashed room, she couldn't help but mull over the dream with a torturous dread in her heart.

"Don't know your own strength, do you?" came a male voice within the darkness. Deep, but it was familiar. One of the first she'd heard since awakening. This wasn't the 1940's. The space could be deceiving, but—everyone. They were either dead, or who knew. And Bucky... "In case you're wondering, it's 3 in the morning." A shrug of allowance, from a shoulder bearing a great weight, tilt of head. He'd give her that much. "Or, 300 hours." Stephanie pivoted to greet him, eyes averted before sullenly meeting his, a distance and detachment about that gaze.

"Director Fury," she greeted respectfully, but her voice was low and monotonous, and Nick Fury saw through that. Just because he saw the world through one eye didn't make it any less sharp. That was the look of a soldier before a commanding officer. Even more so it was the face of someone who'd lost too much and had been given too little in return, who was trying to be strong but was crumbling apart inside. Might have only one eye, but through it, he saw just about everything.

"That can be replaced." An idle observation, a roundabout remark that really had no true point. Nick smirked wryly at her stiffness, scoffing shortly, but it wasn't because of some hostile pretense. Well, Miss America was pretty old-fashioned. Couldn't really blame her for being so ramrod straight. So, he did her a favor. Sinking slowly within a chair closest to a nightstand, a hand in a patent leather glove flicking up a light switch in a fluid motion, consuming the room in an almost violent flood of light. Stephanie blinked reflexively, but upon seeing Fury seated almost casually, her shoulders visibly relaxed and she resigned to leaning against the window sill as opposed to standing in such a martial manner.

"We're not here to talk about the bed, are we?" she asked perceptively, flatly, Nick inclining his head as a measure at her correctness. He shifted in the chair, almost slouching. Getting comfortable. Stephanie's brows furrowed together, wondering where this conversation was going to lead, exactly. Lucky she wasn't the jittery type, because she knew that Fury had a tendency of inspiring that in people. But, she digressed. Stephanie didn't mind standing.

"No. We're not," he succinctly answered; they were both incredibly shrewd. Assessing the other like a hawk and an eagle. Fury, though not entirely relaxed, wasn't entirely tensed, either. This wasn't going to be some formal dialogue, which came a bit of a relief.

Nick's single eye fell from its sharp scrutiny to his hands, one finding way within his coat pocket and pulling from it a greatly worn picture which garnered Stephanie's interest intently. Before she could ask who it was, he renewed speaking: "...Before we continue, do you know who this is?" Stephanie's expression looked pensive as she flicked cerulean gaze expectantly upon the photo still angled away from her line of sight. Fury took the cue and held it from his forefinger and thumb, the portrait of an elderly yet handsome black woman seen, her face barely containing wrinkles and smiling brilliantly, hazel eyes taking on a wizened shine. The face of someone who'd lived long and lived a good, full life abundant with extraordinary things.

"No, I don't," Stephanie replied slowly, it not striking a bell. Granted, she'd been asleep for over seventy years, so her mind was still remembering her past and its nuances. Nick angled it away again and settled back within the chair, hands upon his lap and still keeping the picture in hand.

"Her name was Holly Fury—" the connection there was easily made, "—but when she was younger, you knew her as Holly Turner."

"Holly," Stephanie breathed, arms unfolded and she straightening, as though she were rushing to meet a memory. Her brows crinkled upwards, a moment of vulnerability before realization dawned and she schooled it away with neutrality, almost embarrassed.

Nick knew; showing your soft spots got you hurt in this business. He smiled softly, one of genuine affection and nostalgia for his mother, remembering. "Scout, Little Liberty; still remember when she'd show reels of your gigs growing up. Don't think she was ever as proud tellin' about her past as she was then. ...She loved you a lot, Rogers. You were the most important person she knew back then. But," his eyes darkened, the smile fading into its usual, think line, "she died two years ago. December of 2010."

Stephanie's eyes closed slowly, fingers rising to pinch the bridge of her nose as she resigned herself away, but she knew she couldn't mourn yet. Not now, and not like this. But if the amount of love Nick had for his mother was anything to go by, then she'd gone out well. "She must've lived a good life. Holly was the type. She dreamed big. I bet she made it big, too," she said finally, a shadow of a smile upon her features through the dark storm it now was.

"She lived a good life. One of SHIELD's best agents. Did a lot of good, but I'm not here to talk about that. Why else would I be here at 3 AM? You know as well as I that I'm not that kind of person who does that." Stephanie nodded frankly, knowing where this might be going. Though she'd barely known him for long, Nick Fury wasn't the sort that made rounds to individuals to check on their well-being. Everything he did had its purpose. And this was no exception.

"I'll be frank. I don't know anything about you, Rogers. Thing is, you know as well as I that the papers tell one story, but that story might be a whole lot different than what you have to tell me. I need to know for sure if you can be an asset to this organization, or if you're just a broken toy of another lifetime. Either way, you're my responsibility now." His gaze was unrelenting, the picture pocketed. However, he seemed to relent. That stiff and stoic mien became...calmer somehow. Not as severe. "Yet...I want to. I was told me a lot of things about you, Missy. You did a lot of good, but I need to know if you can be what I need you to be. Whether you can be a soldier again and fight for a greater good."

"—Or not," Stephanie finished softly. Her fight wasn't over. Even after taking the last few days to recoup, she'd felt restless. Even growing up she could never stay still for very long, no matter what was happening to her. Out there, there were people that needed help. That couldn't fend for themselves. Men and women—good people—being quashed beneath all kinds of bullies stomping on them just because they could. Because it felt good to have that kind of power over someone else. And it infuriated her. Knowing there was something she could do about it but being held back. And she would be naïve to think it'd change in this lifetime. Because it never did, and there was always someone somewhere holding everyone else's strings like puppets. Doing whatever they pleased.

It was three AM, and they wouldn't be active until sun-up. In early spring, as it was now, that meant about eight. That gave them a window of five hours, and it was clear that neither of them was going to tuck in anytime soon. There was a cursory thought to sit as Fury did, but she declined it. She honestly didn't feel like sitting in order to tell her story. It just wasn't the type you got cozy to listening. And as the details came to her, it'd be more than enough to keep her on her feet.

Arms folding again, staring blankly at a wall as she collected her thoughts, there was consideration as to where to begin. Her mind suddenly illuminated upon a memory, and it called out to her. Where to begin. Where she should begin this story about a sickly girl that would go on to become the world's first superhero—as she was heralded as. Nodding her head, she knew exactly how to start.

"Well, I was just a kid from Brooklyn..."

Last Thoughts: Wow, it's been quite some time since I've written fanfiction! I think it's been a few years, hasn't it? Before, I was mainly in anime/manga, but within the past few years, my life has been eaten alive by MCU and I love it! In case you all have been wondering why I've been gone, it's because I've been roleplaying, and it eats up my time, but I love doing it. Anyway, enough on me! On to the story, hm?

So, like a lot of people, I've been caught up in one of the biggest OTPs in MCU: Stucky. But this story isn't really about Stucky. It's there, and does play a major role, but the story is about Stephanie-genderbent Steve. Why? Well, I always felt the story of Captain America could be better told from a woman's perspective. At least in the movies, I'd always passionately imagined how it would've played out with Steve as a woman, hence why Miss America was born. But this isn't just going to be a retelling of the first Captain America movie-seeing as this will be split into two parts, two different stories. What I want to do is delve far more in the times we don't see in the movies: their childhood, the time with the Howling Commandos, and just everything we don't see. And trust me: what I have in store should be good. Which is what I do hope!

Also, additionally, if you want a good point of reference as to how my Stephanie Rogers appears, her faceclaim is Cariba Heine as she appears in H2O, aka the closest I've come to finding the female of Christ Evans.

Anyway, I hope you're all enjoying it so far, and expect a new chapter up soon.~

~Peace, G.