Chapter One: Aftermath

"There's not going to be a safe landing. But I can try to force it down."

"I'll get Howard on the line. He'll know what to do," Peggy said, leaning over the radio, Bucky hovering beside her. He could feel his heart racing. His shoulder throbbed where a bullet had grazed it, but he ignored it.

"There's not enough time." Steve's voice was confident but even over the radio Bucky could detect the little shiver in his tone; the nerves he was trying so hard to hide. "This thing's moving too fast and it's heading for New York. I got to put her in the water."

"Steve, don't you dare!" Bucky snarled.

"We have time. We can work it out."

"Right now I'm in the middle of nowhere. If I wait any longer, a lot of people are gonna die... Peggy, Buck... This is my choice."

The silence in the room was the kind that caught in your throat and choked you. It didn't look like Peggy was breathing and Bucky couldn't stop himself shaking. It should have been him in that plane; not Steve. Never Steve. Steve was the one he was supposed to protect. This was not how it was supposed to end.

"Tell him," a soft voice urged and Bucky felt himself blanch as he met Morita's gaze.

"I can't," he mouthed back, a little jab of adrenaline making his skin crawl. Damn it, secrets were supposed to be secret and he cursed himself for not being more careful. He thought he'd been so good; thought he'd kept his feelings to himself. God, if Morita knew...

"Tell him or I will."

He looked to his other side. Peggy was giving him that look. The one that made whatever she said feel like an order. Between that and the feeling of Morita's eyes boring into the side of his skull he was certain he'd never been under more scrutiny. It terrified him, but then again, they didn't seem to be judging. He swallowed. Hard.

"You guys still there?"

"Steve, there's something I gotta say." Bucky clenched his jaw, gulping down the emotion that threatened to strangle him. "It's important."

"Fire away, Buck."

When had breathing become so difficult? "Steve, I..." Christ, it was an open channel. Colonel Phillips' superiors could be listening. The entire conversation was probably being recorded. "Steve. I love you." He was shaking like a leaf as he forced the words out.

"I love you, too, Buck."

"No, Steve. I didn't mean like... pals... I..." He wanted to laugh but he felt dangerously close to crying. "I mean... I love you... the way Peggy loves you."

There was silence for a moment and Bucky barely breathed. His eyes were screwed shut; afraid to face the judgement on the others' faces and afraid to hear it in Steve's voice.

"I know, Bucky. I know what you meant." There was a soft chuckle at the other end of the line. "Back at you."

Bucky slumped in relief, his face half smile and half grimace. He managed a laugh, though it was closer to a sob. "Guess I should have said something sooner, huh?"

"Yeah, me too."

They lapsed into silence. Bucky could feel the hot sting of tears in his eyes. All he could think about was that scrawny little idiot back in Brooklyn that he'd fallen so hard for. The one who'd always had a heart too big for his chest. The one who could never back down from a fight. And even though he knew Steve wasn't that frail, asthmatic kid anymore, that was who he saw in his mind's eye as he listened to the sounds of the cockpit on the other end of the radio. He saw Steve as he'd been when they first met.

"Peggy?"

"I'm here."Peggy's voice shook and she grabbed Bucky's hand like it was a lifeline.

"Take care of Bucky for me."

"Hey, punk, I can take care of myself."

"I will, Steve. I promise."

"And I'm gonna need a raincheck on that dance."

Peggy crumbled in on herself and Bucky instinctively squeezed her hand. She was doing her level best to remain composed but there were tears on her cheeks.

"All right." She swallowed. "A week, next Saturday, at the Stork Club."

"You got it."

"Eight o'clock on the dot. Don't you dare be late. Understood?"

The sounds of the plane's engines were decidedly unhealthy. Even over the crackling radio there was a distinct quality to the scream that Bucky knew meant that the Valkyrie was diving.

"You know, I still don't know how to dance."

"I'll show you how," Peggy's voice finally broke. "Just be there."

"We'll have the band play something slow. I'd hate to step on your—" The line burst into static and Bucky's heart stopped.

"Steve?" A tremble, barely detectable, went through Peggy as she fiddled with the controls. "Steve?"

Bucky couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. He swallowed, his jaw clenching until his teeth hurt. The burn in his eyes gave way to tears and all he could do was stare at the hissing radio.

"Steve?" Peggy's voice was a high, brittle whimper and her head dropped.

There was no sound in the room besides the radio. Peggy's sobs were silent. Part of Bucky wanted to shut the machine off, if only to silence the oppressive noise. Another part of him wanted to drown in the static forever.

He had no idea when exactly his knees gave out and he sank to the floor. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours. He was half aware that he was crying; each sob choked and breathless. There was a weight like a tank on his chest; his breaths gasping and shallow and he wondered if this was what it had been like for Steve when he'd had one of his asthma attacks. He barely noticed Peggy's hand on his shoulder, but her voice came through the fog clear as day.

"Breathe, Barnes. It won't do either of us any good if you drop dead." The effect of her chiding tone was lost somewhat with her makeup running down her cheeks and her voice trembling. "Bucky?"

"I'm trying," he managed, his voice rough and low.

Peggy smoothed down his hair. "You look like a wreck."

"Yeah, 'cause you're the picture of composure." He was pretty sure that if he hadn't have been such a mess she might have smacked him. Instead she pulled him into a hug and buried her face in his shoulder. Not knowing what else to do, Bucky wrapped his arms around her.

He was dimly aware of Morita, silent and still by the door, but he couldn't look him in the eye. He was afraid of what he might see there. He knew what people did to men like him. He'd seen enough back alley beatings and heard enough horror stories from his one-night-stands to know that outing yourself in the wrong place was generally one of the last things you ever did. And sure, he trusted Morita, but there were a lot of men like him who'd thought they could trust other people and had ended up regretting it.

There were heavy footsteps in the doorway.

"I hate to break this up but we've still got mopping up to do." Phillips' voice had lost some of its usual waspishness. "Come on, Barnes. It'll get your mind off things."

Peggy released him, hastily wiping the tears from her cheeks before snatching her rifle from the control panel. Bucky ran shaking, calloused hands down his face, taking a deep breath which did nothing to steady him. But at least he could pretend.

"Yes, sir," he rasped, moving stiffly to his feet and slinging his own rifle over his shoulder. His eyes were bleary and stinging but he could see well enough to shoot. That was all that was really important.

~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~

An hour later and Bucky had found a sort of cold composure. He knew it wouldn't last, especially now that he was out of Germans to shoot. He hadn't spoken a word since the communications room; not even to Morita, who'd been shadowing him the entire time. He recognized the concern on Jim's face for what it was, but he still couldn't bring himself to talk. What the hell was he going to say? It wasn't like there was anything Jim could say that'd bring Steve back. And the longer he could put off the inevitable conversation, the better.

And damn it, he was afraid. He was angry and he was afraid and he was aching with grief. He wanted to run away and hide; he wanted to punch someone in the face, and that fistfight with that German after they'd both run out of ammo hadn't been enough. He wanted to throw himself off the damn runway, but all he could think about was Steve's face when he'd almost fallen off Zola's train. The terror in his eyes when the brittle rail had given way under Bucky's weight and his hand had almost slipped through Steve's. It had been a close thing. One more second and he would have been a human splat at the bottom of a gorge. One more second and he wouldn't have had to listen to Steve die. And god wasn't that selfish. He hated the thought even as it passed through his mind but he couldn't stop it. It would have been easier for him, sure. Death was always easier than mourning, but it would have left Steve exactly where Bucky was now.

But damn it, Steve was never, never, supposed to die first. All of Bucky's worst nightmares had been of holding Steve during one of his asthma attacks and hearing that wheezing breath stop. He'd been so afraid that one day his help wouldn't be enough. That one day Steve'd catch something that'd kill him. That after some cold night in their apartment he just wouldn't wake up. The serum had chased those nightmares away and yet here he was nonetheless.

If Johann Schmidt hadn't already been dead, Bucky would have torn him limb from limb—slowly. Zola too, if he could get his hands on the snivelling little weasel.

His blood boiled as he followed the SSR men in front of him into the hangar. Peggy and Colonel Phillips were standing over a makeshift map table made of stacked crates, taking reports from Falsworth, Dugan, and a few other higher-ranking SSR men whose names Bucky didn't recall. Morita headed over to join them but Bucky paused. His eyes lingered on the few dozen HYDRA POWs who were lined up on the tarmac; kneeling, arms bound and armour removed. Some bowed their heads in shame, others jutted defiant chins forward. All he could think was that in no just universe did these men deserve to live when Steve Rogers was dead.

He'd crossed the hangar and drawn his sidearm before he even knew what he was doing. Seven shots rang out in quick succession, the roar rebounding off the walls as all seven bullets found their mark precisely between the eyes of seven HYDRA captives. Without breaking stride, without taking his eyes off his targets, without even blinking, he ejected the clip and slotted a fresh one into place. He cocked the weapon even as Phillips and Peggy shouted at him to stand down. He'd already put another seven bullets in another seven prisoners when Dugan and Gabe tackled him from behind, restraining him while Dernier pried his fingers from his gun. He was howling like an animal when they dragged him away; cursing and spitting and thrashing.

It took a long time for his teammates to calm him. He dimly remembered punching Dugan, though why and whether he did it knowingly were lost to the blur of rage and grief. Surprisingly, Dugan didn't hit him back. He just pinned his arms at his sides and held him there until shouts and snarls dissolved into a terrible, silent shuddering. The shakes might have been sobs if Bucky had had any tears left.

They didn't speak. Bucky slumped, defeated, against Dugan, Morita's hand squeezing his shoulder. Gabe and Dernier exchanged hollow glances; the sympathy in their eyes making Bucky's chest clench. Would they still look at him like that once they knew?

When Monty finally appeared the hallway was silent and cold as a tomb. Dugan was still holding Bucky, though it was less of a submission lock now and more simple comfort. The rest of them were clustered in a loose huddle, seemingly not keen to leave him alone. Monty said nothing; just joined them on the floor.

He wondered how long this would last; how long it would be before they'd learn his secret and turn away from him. How long would it be before he was on a troopship, heading home with a blue ticket to an empty apartment? And what would be the point? What in the hell was he supposed to do now?

~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~

For two days he didn't speak. He helped Peggy and Howard set up shop in the captured base. He helped the other enlisted men put up bunks. He helped move supplies and install defences. HYDRA may have been in tatters but they were still behind enemy lines. They were reminded of this when a Wehrmacht patrol passed nearby and a firefight broke out. Bucky had been watching from his blind and had taken out the drivers and gunners before they could fire a shot. When orders came he nodded, wordless, and Colonel Phillips didn't ask for anything more. And if he cried himself to sleep no one questioned.

He was reassembling his rifle in the courtyard, dawn light giving everything a sickly pallor, when Peggy joined him at the bench. Her grim expression didn't bode well for the day ahead and Bucky wondered if maybe there'd been some bad news from the front.

She sat in silence for a moment before wetting her lips. "James, they want to see you in the officer's lounge. They've set up a hearing room."

"Who's they?" Bucky almost didn't recognize his own voice, hoarse and gravelly as if was.

"The board of officers. If I recall, it was Major Kirby, Captain Brubaker, and Lieutenant Colonel Ross."

The bottom dropped out of Bucky's stomach. "So I guess Colonel Phillips heard." He didn't know what he had been expecting, but it was disappointing nevertheless.

"The Colonel didn't have much to do with it, I'm afraid." Peggy handed him the bolt carrier of his rifle and he took it, reattaching it by muscle memory alone. "It appears his superiors were listening to our radio traffic. They called up the board without consulting him." She was having difficulty concealing her disdain.

"Well ain't that swell," Bucky grumbled, heavy with sarcasm.

"I'm sorry, James."

Bucky set down his reassembled rifle with the same detached focus that he'd had during the fight for the base. He couldn't quite bring himself to remove his gaze from the woodgrain of the bench. The earnestness and sympathy in Peggy's eyes made it harder to keep himself in check. The thin veneer of control he'd cultivated was barely containing the maelstrom of emotion beneath the surface.

"You don't have to apologize, Peggy. This was inevitable from the moment I opened my mouth."

"That doesn't make it any less despicable."

"I know," Bucky turned a wry smile on her. "But I don't regret it."

~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~

"Sit down, Sergeant Barnes."

The Lieutenant Colonel gestured vaguely toward the chair in the middle of the room without so much as a cursory glance up from his papers. The Major and the Captain sitting to either side of him were equally impassive. There was a great deal of shuffling files; the worst offender being the wiry, bespectacled man in the great coat who was sitting in the corner. Besides Bucky and the officers he was the only man in the room, and his whole demeanour screamed psychiatrist.

Bucky took his seat. He knew this routine.

"Sergeant, we've called you here to discuss the events of the morning of February twelfth. We have transcripts of your radio conversation with Captain Rogers. Do you have anything to say before we begin?" The Colonel looked up at him, though his eyes were narrowed as if he were examining some distasteful specimen.

"I think I said everything that needed to be said."

"Very well." There were more pages shuffled and Major Kirby leaned forward. "You and Rogers were living together before you enlisted, is that correct?"

"I didn't enlist. I was drafted," Bucky snapped, his jaw clenched. He'd heard rumours about witch-hunts like this. Word was the Navy was worse for them. That's irony for you. He never thought he'd actually face one. "And yes, we lived together."

"Did the two of you ever sleep together?"

Bucky shrugged. "Our apartment was cold in the winter. If we hadn't, he woulda died... He wasn't always a supersoldier."

"Did you engage in intercourse?"

"No!" Bucky looked between the officers. "I thought you said you had the transcripts. I'd never told him anything."

Kirby went on as if he hadn't heard. "Have you been sexually active in the service?"

"Yes."

"With fellow servicemen?"

"A few times."

Ross flicked the cap off his pen. "Names and ranks?"

Bucky sneered. "I don't remember."

The Colonel was glaring daggers now. "Look, Barnes. Cooperation is in your best interests. This tribunal has the power to grant you clemency."

"I'm sure it does."

Ross crossed his arms, leaning back in his seat. "You're a popular man in your unit. We all know that. You're also an American hero. It'd be a shame to tarnish that reputation." His narrow fingers twirled his pen with a deftness that was clearly meant to intimidate and Bucky might have been impressed if he couldn't have done the same with a nine inch knife. "I'd be willing to forget about this unfortunate business provided you were to give me the names of the other men who were party to these activities."

Bucky felt his hackles rising. "You want me to rat out good men to save my own ass?" He scoffed, running a hand through his hair. If they hadn't been officers and if he hadn't already been in trouble he would have punched them all. What the hell kind of man did they think he was?

"I wouldn't have put it in such crude terms—"

"Well, good for you."

"Sergeant Barnes, this is a serious matter—"

Ross was cut off by Captain Brubaker clearing his throat. "With all due respect, sir, perhaps the Sergeant would prefer to talk about something else."

The Colonel gestured, accommodating. "By all means."

Brubaker smiled, leaning forward and meeting Bucky's eyes. For the briefest of seconds he actually looked sympathetic. "Why don't you help us understand your situation, Barnes. Let's talk about how you feel when you see a good-looking man."

Bucky felt his eyebrows climbing. Were they serious? "I imagine it's like when regular guys see a fine-looking dame."

"And is that how you felt when you saw Captain Rogers?"

"What I felt when I looked at Steve is none of your business," Bucky growled. The anger that had boiled over in the hangar and got fourteen German POWs killed was simmering just beneath his skin.

Brubaker was unfazed. "Did you prefer an active or a passive role in copulation?"

"What?" Bucky spluttered. The officers just waited, tapping pens on paper. "Why the hell do you need to know that?"

"Like I said, I'm trying to understand your situation," Brubaker said. "Help me help you."

Bucky wanted to spit in his face. "It depended on who I was with."

"In general."

"Passive," he hissed through gritted teeth.

"Was it pleasurable for you?"

"Yes."

"And did you reach orgasm?"

That was enough. Bucky sat back in the chair, scowling. "You know what, I'm not answering that. This is absurd."

Ross perked up at his defiance and cast an angry glare across the room. "Is your family aware of your condition?"

Bucky's jaw clenched. "No."

"What about your minister?" Major Kirby asked.

"Of course not."

The pen was twirling again and Bucky was beginning to think that there was a direct correlation between Ross' confidence and how much that pen moved. "It would be unfortunate if we were to be forced to inform them."

Goddamn slimy prick... Bucky clenched his fists, acutely aware of the knife in his boot and wishing the officers were Wehrmacht so he could have killed them. When he remained silent, Ross continued.

"Our purpose is to remove from the Army people who are afflicted with this condition. If you can provide names to further that purpose—"

"No."

"Need I remind you, Sergeant, that you are under oath?"

Bucky hated the patronizing tone. He'd heard it from officers before, but it never failed to grate on his nerves. He thought back to all his flings and one-night-stands; all the men Ross, Kirby, and Brubaker would have him betray. He thought about the young corporal he'd met during basic training—blond, born in Indiana. An innocent farm kid who'd been over the moon to find others like him. He thought about the sailors he'd met up with during the crossing. He thought about Harry, with whom he'd shared both foxhole and bed for three months; about Tom, a fellow Brooklynite and the best sex Bucky had ever had. And he thought about the young Italian men who'd leaned out their windows with offerings when he'd first landed. Solicitations which he'd declined to translate for Dugan and Gabe so that there would be no suspicions when he disappeared with one of them later. He remembered all their names, their faces. He remembered everything. But it would have taken a special kind of coward to turn them all over to this goddamn kangaroo court.

"I'm not giving you any names." Bucky raised a defiant eyebrow. "So if that's all..."

Ross dropped the pen and sighed. "All right. If that's how you want to play it."

"What? Are you gonna torture me?"

"No, Sergeant. I'm going to call a recess," Ross replied, bland and clinical, almost bored. "We're going to decide your fate and you are going to talk to Dr. Kurtzman."

Bucky glanced over at the bespectacled mute. "Oh joy."

~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~

In the end, Bucky was fairly certain he preferred Ross' style to Kurtzman's. It didn't help that his talk with the excitable psychiatrist took place in what looked like Arnim Zola's private office. Sure, it looked like someone had hucked a grenade in there during the battle, but still. The equipment looked eerily familiar, even in pieces on the floor.

Kurtzman himself seemed friendly—sympathetic, almost. But Bucky wasn't about to be suckered into that ploy. He knew that everything he said would go straight to Ross. There was no doctor-patient confidentiality here. So Bucky was curt and cautious. He gave away nothing and refused to talk about anyone besides himself. Kurtzman was clever though, and a few of his questions nearly caught Bucky off guard. He wondered how many people had been on the receiving end of his invasive questions.

For an hour and a half he was quizzed on his sex life in between offers of assistance in return for cooperation. Bucky wouldn't have considered himself easily embarrassed but as the interrogation went on he grew increasingly uncomfortable. It was disconcerting to have Kurtzman taking notes as he answered questions about pointless, highly personal details of his sex life. Kurtzman was being very clinical and detached about it all but it still made Bucky's skin crawl. When they were called back to the hearing room, Bucky was more than happy to get out of Zola's office.

Ross, Kirby, and Brubaker were waiting for him when he returned, retaking his seat. Kurtzman had got there first and the new stack of papers in front of Ross looked suspiciously like those that the doctor had been writing on. How predictable.

"I must say, Sergeant, you have been supremely uncooperative." Ross' voice had an edge of frustration to it and Bucky counted that as a win. "I hope you enjoyed this show of defiance."

Bucky smirked, even as nervous knots settled into his stomach. "Yes, sir. I did." There was a weary sigh from Kirby; Brubaker shook his head. Ross just glowered.

"You've been discharged, Mr. Barnes. Papers will be delivered to you later today. You will be stripped of any service awards and medals, and you will be expected to remain in isolation barracks until such time as you can be shipped home. Do you understand?"

Bucky gulped. The numbness of the past few days was the only thing saving him from breaking down. He'd known this was coming but the reality of it still hit him like a speeding train. A blue discharge... A goddamn blue discharge. No GI benefits, no re-enlisting, and good luck getting a job. God damn, this was not happening...

"Barnes?"

He twitched. "Yes. Yes, I understand."

"Good." Ross shut the manila folder in front of him. "You're dismissed."

Bucky stood, stiff and silent, his legs like rubber. He snapped a robotic salute and turned heel, feeling like he was going to be sick. He refused to let them see him break and he made it down the hall and out to the hangar before his knees started to give underneath him. The main doors were open just enough to slip through and he stumbled out into the frigid mountain air, collapsing in the corner where wall met stone.

He didn't cry. There were no tears; just a silence broken only by the sound of his breathing. He didn't actually have a word for the emotion tearing at his insides. It felt like rage and grief and shame all rolled into something infinitely worse than the sum of its parts. He was shaking and hyperventilating and he hadn't felt like this since the last time he'd woken up in Zola's lab. And for the first time he actually hoped that he would wake up and still be strapped down to that examination table. He hoped that the last year and a half would turn out to be some fever dream. That Steve would be safe back home in their dingy tenement in Brooklyn, gathering scrap metal all day and sketching in the evenings. That Clara would be watching out for him like he'd asked her to before he'd shipped out. That none of this would have happened. That Steve would be alive and well and not smeared across the arctic ice.

Returning to that lab—to Zola's experiments—would have been a small price to pay to breathe life back into Steve. It would have meant dying under Zola's knife, sure, but if it gave Steve a normal life... Surely that was better than this. Steve dead; Bucky riding home with a blue ticket that would forever mark him as a pariah. His only consolation was that Steve had loved him back.

No amount of blue paper would take that away.

~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~

An hour later and Bucky was halfway to the bottom of a bottle of White Horse Scotch Whiskey he'd been saving since they raided that third HYDRA base back in '43. As usual, he didn't seem to be getting as buzzed as he'd hoped. He couldn't get drunk anymore. He'd figured that out about a week after being rescued. It had sucked then and it sucked now.

"Knocking back the hard stuff, huh?"

Dugan took a seat on the crate next to him, a not-quite-black eye blossoming on his face. He looked tired and glum and worried.

Bucky shrugged. "Not like I'm on duty anymore."

The crunch of footsteps in the snow behind them signalled the approach of the other Commandos. He could recognize each of them by their gait. Morita's clipped steps; the smooth, near-silent padding of Jones; the equally silent, yet stiff steps of Falsworth; the confident swagger of Dernier, though it was less than confident at the moment.

"Yeah, we heard about that." Dugan looked back and motioned their teammates forward. Jim, Monty, Gabe, and Dernier pulled a few crates out from the wall and into a rough circle. Bucky gulped down another mouthful of whiskey and kept his eyes on the snow at his feet. "You okay, kid?"

"Don't worry, I'll have my gear into the isolation barracks as soon as they're up.

Morita and Falsworth shared a glance.

"Why the devil would you do that?" the Lieutenant asked.

Bucky raised his eyes and looked from face to face. He swallowed and lowered the bottle. "You do know why I was discharged, don't you?"

Dugan laughed—a curt, bitter ghost of his usual laugh. "We didn't need some stick-up-their-asses board of officers to tell us you were queer, Barnes. We've known since Austria."

Bucky almost dropped the bottle, staring, muted, at Dugan.

"You remember that day Lohmer beat the hell outta you and you didn't wake up 'til the next morning?"

Bucky nodded, meeting Dugan's eyes. "I remember."

"When his guards threw you back in with us there were pink triangles sewn to your shirt and trousers," Monty took over. "We all knew what that meant."

"And we knew that with those on you wouldn't last a week in that camp. Marked men never do." Dugan shrugged. "So Dernier picked the stitches and Gabe and I made the patches disappear into the blast furnaces the next day."

"You never said anything..."

"Wasn't my business."

The Commandos fell quiet. To be totally honest, Bucky had no idea what to say. To know that they'd covered for him—saved his damn life... What was he supposed to say? What words could possibly convey how he felt? He took another swig of his scotch. There was a commotion by the open hangar door and he could just make out Colonel Phillips' voice snarling at what sounded like Lieutenant Colonel Ross.

"Need I remind you, Ross, that I am the commanding officer here?"

"No, sir."

"Good. Now if you want my signature on those papers you'll do as you're told."

Bucky heard Ross' heels click as he snapped a salute; didn't even need to be looking to know that's what it had been. Beside him, Morita, Dugan, and Jones turned to watch as Phillips approached. There was a second set of footsteps, but Bucky hadn't even tried unravelling who it could be when Dugan gave a curt nod.

"Sir. Ma'am."

"Mr. Barnes," Phillips began, his tone impossible to read. "I heard about your discharge."

Bucky chewed the side of his mouth. "I'm assuming you heard the reasons."

"Only one reason a man gets a blue discharge."

Peggy stepped into view and Dugan shifted over, making room for her next to Bucky. Her hand on his forearm was strangely comforting, even though a stab of guilt slid between his ribs. He should have been the one looking after her, not the other way around. He glanced up at Colonel Phillips.

I'm sorry, sir."

The Colonel gave him a look. "The hell you got to be sorry about, son? Being a damn good shot? Saving lives? Being one of my best men? So you have a little more than the usual amount of love for your fellow man. I don't give a damn." He cast a glance around the miserable circle, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat. "What about you, Morita? You give a damn?"

Jim shook his head. "No, sir."

"Dugan? Jones? Anybody?"

The Commandos all shook their heads. Gabe's hand came to rest on Bucky's shoulder and squeezed, but Bucky kept his eyes down. He could feel the sting of tears and he desperately tried to will them away.

"You know, my best team was a Limey, a Jap, a Negro, a Frenchman, a Girl Scout, a dunce in a bowler hat, and a supersoldier in tights," Phillips grumbled. "Adding a queer to that illustrious list is not the end of my damn world."

Monty rolled his eyes at 'limey' but the rest of them snorted; though Dugan did glance up at his hat and frown. None of them seemed to know whether they should have been trying to make Bucky laugh or joining in his solemn mood.

"Look, I told Ross that I won't allow any isolation barracks on my base. He doesn't like it but he knows where he can shove it. I figure you've been through enough in the last seventy-two hours." Phillips paused. "Unless any of you have any objections."

"He's slept in the same barracks as us for two years now. Nothing's changed," Dugan replied.

"The Sarge is still the Sarge," Jim agreed.

Monty nodded and Dernier replied with a simple "Oui."

Gabe smiled. "Once a Commando, always a Commando."

Relief swelled in his chest and Bucky hung his head, wiping his cheeks. He didn't know what he'd been expecting, but this wasn't it. Never in his wildest dreams had he thought that they would stand by him if they knew. He'd been so careful about concealing that part of himself; from basic training to the trenches, from the HYDRA camp to now. He hadn't wanted to go to war, but once he'd been drafted he hadn't wanted to end up assigned to clerical work just because he was a queer. And he certainly hadn't wanted to be sent home with a Section Eight. He hadn't wanted to be treated any different than the other men, and here they were, not treating him any different. Bucky was so relieved and so grateful and so damn happy; so why were there tears on his face?

Phillips sighed, ruffling Bucky's hair. "Come on, kid. You're makin' me cry."

"Sorry, sir."

"You don't have to call me that anymore, Barnes."

He took a deep breath and screwed the cap back on his bottle. "I know. I know that... Force of habit."

Phillips nodded and there was a moment of comfortable silence. It felt like old times; like one of those evenings in Italy after raiding a base. Sitting around the fire, drinking stolen German liquor and telling embellished stories. But there was an aching hole in Bucky's chest that had nothing to do with his discharge.

"You know what, to hell with it," Phillips said. "As of now you're all off duty for twenty-four hours. How about we all go down to the mess and see what old Johann had in his wine cellar."

"Wine cellar, sir?" Morita asked, a touch hopeful.

"Apparently they found a huge stash underneath Schmidt's office. I figure he owes us one, so I asked around and it turns out Kingsman and Isaacs know how to tend bar." Phillips shrugged. "Told 'em to set up in the officer's mess."

Dugan smiled. "What are we waiting for?"

It was Gabe that hauled Bucky to his feet as they all moved to follow Phillips inside; ignoring his grumbled protests. Despite having almost finished a bottle of whiskey, he didn't feel even close to intoxicated. And he hadn't realized how cold he'd been until they passed back into the hangar and the usually chilled space felt warm.

Peggy squeezed Bucky's hand, kissing his cheeks before slipping off in the direction of the briefing room. She hadn't got two steps before Phillips grumbled.

"You too, Carter."

Peggy stopped. "Sir, I have things I—"

"All you're gonna do is sit in your office and cry," Phillips interrupted. "You might as well come down to the mess and cry. You won't be alone."

She sighed, straightening her uniform. When she turned she was standing a touch straighter, too. "Yes, sir." There was a certain resignation to her voice but Bucky said nothing. He knew how she felt.

"You and Barnes can commiserate," Phillips added as they all made their way to the makeshift pub.

~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~

It really did look like a pub. Bucky had to give the boys credit. They'd set up a bar behind some piled-up transport crates; a sampling of bottles were on display behind them. Soviet vodka, French wine, Scotch whiskey, American bourbon, German, Irish, and English beer. There was even a bottle of sake and a few different brands of absinthe. Schmidt had had quite the collection. He wondered what awaited them in the as-yet unopened crates stashed in the corner.

On the opposite side of the mess from the bar was an attempt at a stage. A few of the boys were putting on a show; Milford in his usual Carmen Miranda getup backed by the hairiest, most ridiculous chorus line Bucky had ever seen. The laughter died down somewhat when Phillips entered the room, but all it took was a "Carry on," and Milford was back in some Sergeant's lap.

Bucky was surprised they were getting away with it, considering how big of a stick Ross had up his ass. But he supposed that Milford's girlfriend protected him from suspicion. And Bucky was the only one so far to confess love to another man.

The Commandos took up residence at one of the mess tables, sending Dugan up for drinks, but Bucky slipped into place at the bar. Peggy followed, taking the stool next to him in silence.

"You don't have to look after me, Peggy," he said, quiet and subdued.

Peggy studied him, dark eyes staring into his like she was looking for his soul. Or checking to see if he still had one, he supposed.

"I made a promise, Barnes. I intend to keep it."

Bucky emptied his bottle into a tall glass that Isaacs passed to him with a certain hesitancy. He knew he should have found it disconcerting that he could get through an entire bottle of scotch in less than four hours. But he wasn't even buzzed, so he ignored the fact that that amount of alcohol should have killed him.

"S'not like he's gonna be checking in on you."

"Exactly my point." Peggy's stoic facade cracked and some of the pain underneath shone through. "If he had made you promise to look after me, would you flag in that duty?"

Bucky sighed. "No. I just don't think a lady as nice as you needs to be saddled with looking after a dumbass old queer."

Peggy reached over to squeeze his shoulder. "How about a dumbass old friend?"

He met her gaze for a moment, smiling bitterly, before dropping his eyes once more to the woodgrain of the bar. "You would have been good for him."

"Yes, but I think he was already spoken for."

Bucky swallowed down a mouthful of his drink. "No. No, if he'd lived I'd have backed off."

"Why? Because you think he loved me more?"

"Because a good, respectable family life is what he deserved."

Peggy looked at him like he was the biggest idiot in the world. "And life with you wouldn't have been respectable at all." Her voice managed to carry more sarcasm than two whole years worth of James Montgomery Falsworth.

"That's what they'd say." Bucky swirled the liquid in his glass. "Can't go tarnishing the reputation of America's golden boy, now can I?"

"I think America's golden boy would have had something else to say about that."

His chest constricted and he told himself that it was just the smoke in the air. "We'll never know now, will we?" In one smooth gulp, he downed the rest of his drink.

Peggy leaned onto the bar, running weary fingers through her hair. "I think Steve said everything he needed to, James." Her tone was level but her expression was wavering closer to grief. "He loved you."

He watched the tremble in her hands and her jaw; watched the purse of her lips and the sparkle of unshed tears. He knew she probably would've preferred that he pretend not to notice but he was damned if he was going to sit there and watch her fall apart. "I guess we've got that in common, then," he said, slinging an arm around her shoulders. A soft, broken sob escaped her and she sank against the bar. Bucky pulled her close, leaning his face into her hair. "And if you're gonna insist on lookin' out for me, at least let this dumbass old queer return the favour."

Peggy did laugh at that, so Bucky called it a win.

~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~

The next three months passed slower than the previous two years. Bucky got his blue discharge papers, but Phillips told him point blank that he'd only be sent home if that was what he wanted. There would have been a time when he would have jumped at the chance, but he didn't have anything left to go home to except an empty apartment that would never again echo with the sound of Steve's footsteps and would never again smell of charcoal and fresh paper. So he stayed on. He was no longer Sergeant Barnes; he was just Bucky. But the Commandos still deferred to his orders. He was still their leader in Steve's absence, though by all rights the command should have been Monty's.

They linked up with the Ninth Army at the Rhine not long after leaving the base to a fresh batch of SSR commanders. They fought their way into Germany inch by bloody inch and Bucky became convinced over those months that the only reason they'd got as far as they had was because the Germans were throwing most of their firepower to the eastern front in a desperate attempt to hold back the Soviets.

Berlin was a bloodbath. Bucky had to drag Gabe to cover and tend bullet wounds, all the while listening to the whistle and clang of machine gun rounds raining around them. They spent half an hour pinned down behind a shallow cinderblock wall before one of their stolen HYDRA tanks could get to them.

The worst part of it was that most of the Germans they were shooting were kids who'd had rifles shoved in their hands and been told to defend the Reich till their dying breath. Bucky's nightmares were filled with the lifeless eyes of the boys he'd shot and the droning static of a dead radio line. He didn't sleep well anymore.

It came as a relief when the Germans surrendered. He could breathe easier knowing that he wouldn't have to kill any more of those boys. The Commandos shipped back to London that afternoon and by the times the news hit they'd settled in at a pub close to HQ.

Compared to the other patrons they looked like a dour bunch, but none of them could bring themselves to celebrate. Not when there was an empty chair. When their first round of drinks came, Monty raised his.

"To the Captain."

They all followed his lead, raising their glasses, and Bucky added a soft "To Steve."

Bucky spent most of the night sitting in one dark, smoky corner thumbing over the folded blue papers that he kept in his pocket, wondering what in the hell there was to go home for. He didn't know if he knew how to be anything other than a soldier. Without the war and without Steve he didn't know if he even had a purpose anymore. The army didn't want him; they'd made that abundantly clear when they'd refused him lodgings at the local barracks. If it hadn't have been for Monty offering to let him stay with his cousin in Surrey he'd have been sleeping on the street.

He knew that come morning they'd be packing up SSR headquarters. The war in Europe was over and life as he had known it for three years was coming to an end. He had no idea if he would ever see any of these people ever again.

He'd never known victory to feel so bittersweet.