Former U.S. president James Buchanan said, "The test of leadership is not to put greatness into humanity, but to elicit it, for the greatness is already there."

By the time Steve made it back to the ground—Bucky stumbling around as if drunk behind him—nearly all of the enemy soldiers had been neutralized. Steve squinted into the darkness and tried to gauge just how many people there were. His stomach clenched a little when he looked out over the sea of men. The fire burning in the ruined factory illuminated the stomping grounds all of the former prisoners were gathered in. Most of the men were scavenging weapons and seizing the armored vehicles. But Steve also noticed that a lot of them were hobbling around in less-than-great shape. That reminded him.

"Bucky," he said as he turned around.

Before the word ever left Steve's lips, there was another voice shouting, "Jimmy!"

Steve turned back to face the sea of men. A group was approaching. They were all smiles and sweat and ashes and happy. The voice belonged to a man with a bowler hat and a mustache reminiscent of a walrus. Steve idly wondered why the hat hadn't been confiscated from him. Steve may have been Captain America: Touring Chorus Girl for the past several months, but he knew that bowler hats were not standard issue.

The man who had spoken—Mustache, Steve unimaginatively named him—led a group of four others up to Bucky—Jimmy?—and hugged him. The other four were laughing and tossing seemingly fond insults around. The five of them wrapped up Bucky in hugs and passed him among themselves like they might share a cigarette. Steve stared.

"We thought you were dead, Yank," a man with a British accent said.

"Aw, fuck, nothin' the lousy Krauts can dish out could ever take out our Jimmy!" Mustache said as he clapped a hand on Bucky's shoulder. The force of it sent the sergeant staggering forward a half step.

"I told you," Bucky said in a voice that sounded a little hoarse, a little congested, and a lot wrong in Steve's ears, "no one calls me Jimmy."

"Yeah, well, I just did."

"Oi, Captain America," the British one said. "What now?"

At the words, most of the men in the sea before him stilled and turned to listen. How long were they kept here? Not long enough to forget their training. They wanted orders. They wanted to move again. Steve blinked and pulled his helmet off.

What now?

The words were already on his tongue. "The front is thirty miles from here. Gather all the weapons and rations you can. If any of the tanks are operational, and if anyone knows how to drive one, take it. See if you can find any medical supplies to tend to the wounded. If there are any medics here, now would be a good time to come forward. If any of the other guys are still alive, round 'em up; we'll take them back as prisoners."

The men moved to carry out the orders. The group around Bucky patted him on the shoulder affectionately before going to root out their preferred weapons in the wreckage of the factory. Steve watched the once-POWs move around each other. There was some laughing, some smiles. Fighting back seemed to have brought life back into their faces. It made Steve smile but also made a bitter taste rise in the back of this throat. What must have happened to make these men revel in such violent revenge? What had happened to them?

Steve was about to ask Bucky just that when he realized that his closest friend was walking away from him. "Whoa," Steve said while hooking an arm around Bucky's chest and pushing him back to his place. There was a tiny, euphoric feeling in Steve's chest when he realized that he could actually push Bucky now but it died just as quickly as it came. Steve frowned at the way Bucky jerked away and winced at Steve's touch. "Where do you think you're going?"

"You gave an order," Bucky said. He shrugged. "Captain."

"I didn't mean you."

Confusion drew on Bucky's face. "Why not?"

"Look at you," said Steve. "You can hardly stand. Just…sit down and—just sit down."

"Prefer to stand."

Still stubborn as a mule, Steve thought.

But even as Bucky said the words, he was curling in on himself as if his spine couldn't support the weight of him any longer. Steve put a hand out to stop his friend from taking a slow-motion nosedive into the mud. He could feel Bucky's breath and thought it seemed…forced? Unnatural? Labored? Not right.

"God, Buck, what happened to you?"

"I joined the army."

Steve's jaw clenched. "That's not funny."

"Who's laughing?"

With a firm grip on his friend's shoulders, Steve held Bucky out at arm's length and took a good, hard look at him. Even with only the flickering light of the fire, Steve could see the pallor under the grime on Bucky's face. Steve might have been an optimist, but he wasn't naïve. Whatever had been done to his friends hadn't been good. Torture at least. He couldn't even begin to fathom what sort of information HYDRA would want from Bucky—because that's what Steve must have stumbled in on, right? That was an interrogation, wasn't it? It had to have been. There was no other reason for Bucky to be repeating his name, rank, and serial number like that.

Steve thought about the scene again, thought about finding Bucky quite literally dazed and confused, strapped to a table. He let himself consider all the possibilities. That could have been an interrogation room. But it would have been a really stupid place to interrogate an enemy soldier given that a map displaying the positions of several HYDRA plants hung on the wall in plain sight. No, if Steve was honest with himself then he'd have to admit that the room looked far more like a laboratory in the midst of an experiment than an interrupted interrogation.

Steve's stomach curdled at the thought. Righteous anger flooded his veins and burned out the horror. The pure wrongness of it was enough to make Steve want to rebuild the factory only so he could raze it again. How dare they treat Bucky, his friend—his friend—like a lab rat? For the first time, Steve thought that he was actually and truly grateful for the serum and Operation: Rebirth. Now he had the means to fight back, to protect. Now Steve had the ability to start making up for all of the punches Bucky took and all of the bullies Bucky fought off in Steve's name over the years.

Steve had to remind himself that everything in his head was speculation. Bucky hadn't said anything about what had happened—how could he? There hadn't been any time. Steve's mind went to the thirty miles that lay between here and the front. There would be plenty of time to talk while they walked (could Bucky walk that far?).

Bucky interrupted Steve's thoughts by trying to shrug out of the captain's grip. "I'm okay. You can let go."

Steve's hands gripped tighter without conscious thought.

"That hurts."

That made Steve's hands drop in an instant. Bucky stepped back out of Steve's arm's reach and clamped a protective hand over a tear in his sweater where Steve's hand had been gripped tightly a moment ago. Steve watched Bucky rub the hurt from his left shoulder. He was so mesmerized by the action that it took the captain a moment to realize his friend was speaking.

". . . go find a rifle and—"

"Bucky," Steve said, cutting him off. "Please. Just sit."

"Steve, I can at least find myself a weapon. I'm not going to keel over an—"

"That's an order, Sergeant."

Steve hated to pull rank, and he hated the look that crossed Bucky's face when he realized that Steve had just done it. Nevertheless, Bucky's body reacted obediently to the order even though it was clear Bucky wished it hadn't. He sat on an overturned barrel though he looked like he didn't know why he was doing it. The two of them ran a hand through their hair at the same time. Bucky sighed and looked at Steve with bleary eyes.

"Are you actually a captain?"

Steve shrugged.

Bucky stared at the helmet hanging in Steve's hand. "It's against regulation to take your helmet off in a combat zone."

That made Steve smile. It reminded him of the old days before the war. The words reminded Steve of all the times Bucky tried to nonchalantly tell him that he was being stupid and was doing something that was bound to make Steve sick or bleed or both. Bucky had always been protective. Steve reckoned it had something to do with him being the oldest in his family, but he knew that wasn't quite right. Bucky was protective of his little sisters, but he was protective of pretty much everything that he thought was worth it. It was part of the reason he'd enlisted, Steve knew. Bucky was protective of Steve in particular because, as Bucky always said, Steve was "too stupid to protect himself." Steve had once accused him of being a mother hen. Bucky had held him in a headlock until Steve cried uncle.

That Bucky was getting passive-aggressively protective (passive-protective?) now made Steve feel better than he had in months. This, at the very least, was familiar ground. And things had been so horribly new and foreign for so long. Sometimes even the enhanced body that he lived in now didn't feel like his own. Steve hadn't realized how much he'd missed Bucky and his cleverly hidden fussing until now. He didn't need Bucky's protection anymore—not physically, anyway—but it felt so good to have it back.

"Then there are a lot of men in violation of regulation out here, huh? Should I report them?" Steve said.

There were the beginnings of a smile on Bucky's face when he said, "You're a punk, you know that?"

"Someone might have told me once or twice."

Weapons were scavenged easily enough, but there was hardly any food to be found. That made Steve nervous. Most of these men looked like they hadn't had anything substantial in a week. Nearly everyone was sporting some kind of wound or handicap. They were able to salvage one of the armored vehicles—a dinged up and dusty Tiger I—and enough fuel to make it back to the lines and then some. Only four medics came forward, but what they were able to do with the supplies that were found and improvised was astonishing. Steve marveled at their resourcefulness. There were splints and bandages made from debris and the torn clothes of the dead.

God rest their souls.

A group of men collected the bodies of the enemies and tossed them into the raging inferno that was the factory. Apparently, whatever was inside could burn for a long time. Any dead POW was buried. The graves were shallow and admittedly insufficient, but it was all the survivors had the time and strength to do. In the end, there were eight black-clad guards remaining. The tables turned and they were now the prisoners. The former HYDRA guards were used to help dig the graves. For the most part, they did this willingly. If Steve hadn't just rescued his best friend from a fucking laboratory, he might have thought that the former guards were remorseful and as upset by the death that occurred as the POWs.

Using sticks and ash-darkened debris, each of the graves were marked. A corporal approached Steve and gave him a canvas bag, its contents nearly busting out of the drawstring top.

"What's this?" said Steve.

"Their tags. Or whatever they had on them for identification. We tried to collect something from everyone that . . . that didn't make it out. Those are from before. Everyone before you showed up." The corporal put a second handful of thin metal tags in Steve's hand. "Those are from tonight. The escape. Couldn't get all of them. Those gun they have—some guys just fuckin' evaporated."

Steve stared at all the lives in his hands. His stomach rolled and his mind spun. This—this—was all that remained of so many lives. The burning factory caught his attention. There were people still in there. HYDRA, yes, but still. Lives. Steve put all the lives he hadn't saved into one of the pockets of his jacket. He looked into the eyes of the corporal. What was it like for you? Steve thought. It was this man that collected all that was left of so many. He lived with this bag of ghosts for what, months? Several weeks at least. The weight of everyone he hadn't been able to save settled on Steve's shoulders. He knew that there was nothing he could have done, rationally, and that there would have been a lot more tags if he hadn't come at all. But that didn't make him feel any better. Steve still wished that he had gotten here sooner. As the commanding officer here, those tags were his responsibilities.

He opened his mouth to tell the corporal that he was sorry but he stopped. The corporal looked Steve in the eye and smiled. He smiled and his eyes were shining.

"Thank you," he said. "Thank you for saving us. We didn't think anyone was coming. We've been here so long. Thank you, Captain America."

Steve's throat felt stuck. It was wrong. This man's praise and gratitude . . . He didn't deserve it. Steve said, "You shouldn't thank me."

The corporal had already gone. They were nearly done here and the sun was rising in the east. Steve turned and looked around for Bucky. He was sitting somewhere else (but still sitting, thank God) with a rifle in his lap. One of the men that had been hugging him earlier was sitting beside him with a cigarette in hand. They were sitting on the ground, heedless of the mud, and leaning back against the remnants of a wall. The other man was talking, and Bucky's head was tipped back with eyes closed. Steve approached.

"Hey, the captain," the man beside Bucky said. He reached a hand out. "Gabe Jones."

Steve shook the man's hand. "Steve Rogers."

"Jimmy says he knows you but that you look different," Jones said with a smile. As if he didn't believe a word of it. He took a drag on his cigarette.

"Oh, yeah? What else does Jimmy say?" Steve eyed Bucky with amusement. Bucky had so far refused to open his eyes or acknowledge the new company, but Steve could tell that the sergeant was clenching his jaw to fight a smile.

"Well," said Jones, "he used to tell us all the time 'bout some scrawny kid back home that was his best friend. Never shut up about it really—not until the pneumonia got bad. Anyway, he tells us this kid's name's Steve Rogers, and he's the bravest and stupidest person Jimmy's ever met. You tell me you're Steve Rogers, but you don't look nothin' like the person Jimmy was always yappin' about."

Steve said, "To be fair, the last time Jimmy saw me, I was a scrawny little punk."

"Not so scrawny anymore, are ya?" Jones smiled.

"No, sir."

Bucky mumbled, "Still a punk."

"Sour grapes, I think," said Jones to Steve.

That made the two of them laugh, and Bucky's poker face crumbled.

"We're moving out soon," Steve said. "Think you could put the word out for the men to round up into squads? Then get them to form companies of three squads? Those too wounded can ride on the tank."

"No problem, Cap," Jones said.

"Do you know these men well?" Steve asked.

"I like to think so, sir."

"Then would you split up the prisoners so that there's one man to a squad? I don't want them to be able to plan or attack while we head back. I don't want them to end up with a squad that's going to, you know, want to get a little revenge. Think you can do that?"

"Yes, sir." Gabe Jones put a hand on Bucky's shoulder. He made a sound in the back of his throat and raised his eyebrows at the sergeant. Bucky nodded his head, eyes still closed. This seemed to assuage whatever was in question within Jones, because he said "okay" and got to his feet. Taking a final drag on his cigarette, Jones threw it into the rubble and silently asked Steve to follow him. Steve obliged.

Jones stopped a few yards away from Bucky and said, "You really his best friend?"

"Yes," Steve said. There was a bit of defensiveness in his tone. Almost as if he'd been insulted that Jones had ever doubted the truth of it.

Jones held up his hands innocently. "I just want to be sure. The five of us have been keeping an eye on him the past few hours. Ain't no one ever come back from the isolation ward. Jimmy's a mess, Captain. He kept askin' for a gun and wouldn't shut up about it until Dum Dum finally brought him one. Figure his best friend might want a heads up."

The 'thank you' got caught in Steve's throat so he just nodded his appreciation. He had suspected Bucky wasn't all right, but it was good to know that other people noticed as well. Steve was suddenly very grateful to Jones and the others that had had Bucky's back. Jones saluted Steve and then headed out to spread the word and organize the men into manageable groups.

Steve turned back to where Bucky sat against the wall. When Steve looked at the rifle, he saw it in a new light. All the horrifying possibilities of what went on in that laboratory filled Steve's head. No wonder Bucky wanted to be armed so badly. He wanted a means to protect himself. He wanted to feel safe.

Well, safer.

It didn't take long for them to get moving. The HYDRA prisoners were split up among the companies. There was a squad of men guarding each of the flanks and the rear. Steve himself was in the group running point. All of the wounded riding on the armor of the Tiger I were in the center of the herd of men. Walking wounded moved along around the tank. Everyone else walked in a group around the wounded. Everyone had a weapon (except the prisoners, of course) and, seemingly, a renewed vigor. Even those that limped and flinched as the convoy slowly made its way across the foggy, cold terrain were not downtrodden.

As Steve scouted along in front, he worried. They didn't have enough food for everyone. They didn't have water. Their medical supplies were hobbled together. A lot of these guys would probably get sick without proper medical attention. Hell, they could even die. Infection was foremost in Steve's mind. No one had any penicillin. If they had just that single drug, Steve wouldn't feel so worried. He didn't think he could take having even one more dog tag in his pocket.

Whenever Steve and the men with him encountered enemies, they always went back and told the convoy to adjust their course. He was certain that he didn't want to engage anyone in battle. Most of his men were wounded anyway. He couldn't in good faith risk further injury. Nor could they spare the ammunition. Everything was already in such limited supply. Steve didn't want to waste a single thing.

So they plotted their course around any enemy nests. One of the men, Jacques Dernier, had managed to swipe a map out of the factory before it was completely ruined. On it were marked the heaviest defenses and military strongholds. They would certainly know where not to walk. That left all the little places. And those were the tough ones. But the more Steve was forced to maneuver around any enemies, the longer their road back to safety would stretch. They were already moving so slowly. They couldn't drag this out too much. Not unless they found food and water to replenish this many men. And crates of spare ammunition. Steve cursed the busted transceiver Peggy had given him.

It felt like they had been walking for days when it had only been hours. The sun was gone beyond the trees, and Steve called for the men to stop. They made camp. An enormous camp. There wasn't any food to go around, but there was a stream nearby. Water was collected and distributed. Watch was established. It took a very long time to sort everything out, but it was still relatively fast considering all the people that were in the convoy and how they had never had any training together before now. Steve was sure that there was a higher ranking (real) officer in their midst, but no one ever came forward to claim responsibility for them. It was still Steve in charge.

Steve made long, sweeping circuits around their camp and checked in with the men that stood at each of the established posts. He was too worried about everything to lie down. He felt responsible for these men. They, all of them, deserved to be home, and Steve was going to make damn sure that happened. Besides, he could rest when they were back on their side of the lines. The convoy was moving out at first light. Only thirty miles between the factory and the lines. They should have been back there in mere hours, not more than an entire day.

There was noise suddenly. Steve froze and let his over-sensitive hearing stretch out. He relaxed marginally when he realized it was coming from within the circle of watchers he'd posted. It was friendly, not hostile. Still, the crashing and snapping of foliage sounded urgent. That was not someone wandering around looking for a private latrine.

There was a voice calling, "Captain? Captain America?"

Steve said, "I'm here."

They played this game of Marco Polo until a face appeared out of the shadows. It was another of Bucky's friends, the one from Fresno—Morita, Steve thought was his name.

"Captain," he said, "I think you'd better come."

That could only mean one thing. Bucky.

Steve's blood felt more than a little cold in his veins. "What happened?"

He was already following Morita back toward the men. It didn't matter what he said, Steve was going to go check on Bucky anyway. He wanted to kick himself for not doing it sooner.

Morita said, "Some of the men dug a hole and made a fire. You never really said that we couldn't, but we aren't idiots, you know? The guys tried to hide the light by making a pit. Anyway, bunch of us were sitting around it—it's so cold tonight. One of the guys guarding one of the prisoners was there with his charge. I don't know what it was, but Jimmy just jumped him. Beat the living shit out of the guy, Cap."

"How is he?" Steve didn't know who he was asking after.

"Medic said the prisoner should be fine. He took a nasty beating, Cap. We all tried to stop 'im, but Jimmy just wouldn't let the guy go. Knocked out more than a few of the Kraut's teeth when he hit him with the butt of his rifle. When we finally got Jimmy off the guy, he was a fuckin' mess, Cap. He won't calm down, and we don't know what else to do. I figure you might know what to do."

They weren't running, but they were both moving as fast as they could. Steve wished he could take off through the foliage and find Bucky. But it was dark and the ground could trip him and waste valuable time. Besides all that, Steve didn't know where to go. He forced himself to be content with Morita's pace.

They passed only a few other men on their way to find Bucky. Morita led Steve to a relatively private grove of trees. They stop before Jones, Dernier, the Brit, and Mustache—hadn't Jones called him Dum Dum before they left the plant? The Brit pointed to a lump of shadows leaning against the trunk of a tree a few yards away. Steve nodded and cautiously approached. Not until he was a mere foot away did the contours of Bucky's face emerge from the darkness. Steve crouched down beside him.

"Buck," Steve said in a low voice. He was grateful when he heard the others back off and give the two of them privacy. "Bucky?"

Bucky was sitting with his back against the tree trunk. His legs were spread out before him. The barrel of his rifle rested against the side of his face. Bucky pressed his forehead into the metal and kept his eyes closed. Steve stayed absolutely still and listened to the weird way he was breathing. The breath in Steve's lungs nearly froze when he heard it. Bucky was muttering something. Steve frowned and inclined his head closer to be sure he was hearing right.

And there it was: name, rank, serial number. Over and over. This time Steve heard it for what it was. An affirmation. A reminder. A life preserver.

"Bucky," Steve said.

His eyelids opened. They were unfocused. Pupils blown wide. Unseeing and blind. Bucky said, "Who's there?"

Tentatively, Steve reached a hand out and touched Bucky's shoulder. He hoped it worked to ground his friend. "It's me, Buck. It's Steve."

Bucky's eyes looked for the source of Steve's voice but couldn't seem to locate the mass of a man that was sitting right before him. "Steve?"

"Yeah. I'm right here, Buck. I'm right beside you." He tightened his grip to emphasize the truth.

Bucky shook his head back and forth, the barrel of the rifle never losing contact with his forehead. "Sorry. I'm sorry."

Steve's brow pinched. "Sorry for what?"

But he just kept shaking his head against the gun. Steve didn't press him for words. He waited until Bucky's eyes finally seemed to come to the present and notice that Steve was indeed sitting right next to him. When they made eye contact, Bucky quickly looked away.

"Talk to me, Bucky."

"Shit, Steve."

"What?"

"Is that guy still alive? I didn't kill him, did I?"

"No," Steve said emphatically. "No, he's not dead. You put him through the ringer, but he's just fine." Not that Steve knew that with any certainty. That's what Morita had said and that was what Steve needed to believe. What he needed Bucky to believe. Steve shook the sergeant by the shoulder under his hand. "Tell me. What happened?"

Bucky let out a sigh. Steve told himself that it was exhaustion and not something else, something deeper that was thick in the sound. His eyes met Bucky's for a fraction of a second before Bucky looked down at his hands picking at the mud and blood staining the butt of his weapon. Steve thought he looked a little embarrassed or ashamed in that moment.

Bucky said, "It was the fire."

"What was the fire?"

"The fire, the way it pops, you know? It sounded like . . ."

"Like what, Buck? Just tell me."

"It sounded like b-bones snapping, and I just—he was there and I just—I'm just—FUBAR. It's all—I'm FUBAR, Steve."

"Buck, no." And that was all Steve could think to say for a long time. Then came the soothing, placating words: "I don't know what happened to you back there—and you don't have to tell me if you don't want to—but it's okay. You're overwhelmed. You're exhausted. You haven't eaten or drank anything in a long time. Your friend Jones even mentioned you had pneumonia! You've been just trying to survive for so long. Those instincts aren't just going to shut off. We'll get back to our lines tomorrow; you'll get some sleep and eat some real food. Won't that be a nice change of pace? You know what? I heard that they're relieving your until. You guys will go back to London. You'll have plenty of time to sort yourself out then. You just need to rest up. You're not screwed up, Bucky. It only seems that way because you're so tired. Okay?"

Bucky leaned heavily into the cold barrel of his gun. Steve could feel him leaning just the slightest bit into the hand on his shoulder.

Steve shook Bucky a bit. "Okay?" he repeated.

Spine straightening up, Bucky looked at him steadily. There was amusement on his face that someone who didn't know James Buchanan Barnes might not have been able to spot. "Screwed up?" He laughed genuinely. "It's not SUBAR, Steve," Bucky said. "You're the most innocent man on the planet, you know that?"

Steve shoved him lightly. "Shut up, you jerk."

At dawn, Steve tried to convince Bucky to ride on the tank. They were pretty close to the lines and the reconnaissance team that Steve sent out earlier had reported that there wasn't any resistance on the path they scouted. Steve hadn't left Bucky's side for long all night. He just wasn't comfortable doing it. There was a constant far-away, exhausted look in Bucky's eyes, and Steve didn't think it was wise to leave him like that. He wanted someone around the sergeant at all times. As long as someone was talking to him and keeping him busy, Steve figured Bucky's mind wouldn't have time to wander. Hell, even when they were kids, Bucky was always useless unless he had something to focus on. The trouble the two of them had caused when Bucky's brain was left to idle.

"There is no way I'm riding on the Tiger," Bucky said flatly when Steve suggested it.

"Why not? You wouldn't have to walk! You're wiped, Buck. Just take the ride."

"I don't need it. I can walk a few miles. I walked all day yesterday."

"Which probably wasn't a good idea."

"It was a fine idea. I've walked longer distances out here, Steve. I can manage a few more miles."

Steve said, "This isn't great terrain. You'll get even more ti—"

"The only way you can make me sit on that tank is if you order it, Captain."

But Steve wouldn't do that. In the end, he decided that Bucky should be allowed to make his own decisions. When he collapsed due to overwhelming fatigue—which, let's face it, could be any second now—Steve would be there when he came to with a big, fat I-told-you-so. So Bucky walked. At Steve's request, he walked right up front. Much to Steve's surprise, Bucky managed to walk step-for-step with him the entire way. Perhaps the army really did instill in its soldiers outstanding stamina. He looked pale and tired the entire time, but Bucky managed all twelve miles at Steve's pace. They made it back to Allied territory and led the way, side-by-side, into Colonel Philips's camp.

This, Steve thought as he glanced at Bucky with the remnants of the 107th whooping around them, I could get used to.

Note:

FUBAR is military slang. It's an acronym for 'fucked up beyond all recognition/reason/repair.'