The East River rushed under her feet as Beatrice skimmed her fingers over the railing of the Brooklyn Bridge, drawing patterns in the light snow that dusted the wood. Flakes were falling from the dark sky, settling on her hair and clothes, and Beatrice absent-mindedly brushed them off. A thick wool skirt now covered her legs instead of merely stockings, and the navy blue trenchcoat she wore was patched but still comfortably warm. To her pleasant surprise, she had found her mother's initials stitched into the lining—Elena's trademark signature. Beatrice wondered when Sarah Rogers had brought her coat to be hemmed, and wondered if she herself had once met Steve's mother and never known. At any rate, she felt connected to Elena in a way she hadn't since her death nearly seven months previously, and drew the coat more tightly around her shoulders, adjusting the matching shawl as she did.

A small crowd had gathered along the bridge, waiting for the Stark Industries fireworks to begin. There was just under an hour left until midnight; Beatrice hoped they would be able to reach the building in time. Her heart quickened at the thought of seeing Henry again—her stomach had been twisting itself into knots all day. Since there was little to no chance of them actually coming across Howard Stark, Beatrice planned to intercept any administrative employee she saw—they would be more likely to know where Ivan Romanov was, anyway. She doubted Stark kept meticulous records of where his employees lived.

Turning away from the gloomy view of the river, the harbor lights dimmed against the threat of lurking German submarines, Beatrice searched the walkway for Steve. He was standing under the dim glow of the nearest lamp, the yellow light bathing his face in a sickly pallor. Beatrice felt gratitude swirl up inside her for the umpteenth time as she regarded him. Neither he nor Bucky had had to agree to help her on this wild goose chase when it held no benefit to themselves, and yet both had still insisted on it. Steve had been unusually out of breath during the walk from Flatbush, and when Beatrice asked if he was feeling all right he had said he'd never been better—shortly after, she'd had to slow down to match his pace. Bucky had promised to pick them up on the bridge, but he was now ten minutes late and Beatrice didn't recognize any of the cars driving past them.

"Do you think something happened?" she asked in a low voice, the snow crunching under her boots as she walked over to the blond boy. Steve was rubbing his hands together for warmth; up close, she could see that his cheeks were flushed red with cold. His blue gaze met hers, and Beatrice tried to hide her anxiety. She didn't want to betray just how much she was relying on this plan.

"I don't know," Steve said after a moment. "He's never been this late before."

The words had barely left his mouth when Beatrice caught sight of a figure running toward them at full speed, appearing out of the fog like a ghost. She shielded her eyes with the arch of her hand to get a closer look, and gently tapped Steve on the shoulder. He turned around as well, his eyes widening in surprise. "Bucky?" he asked.

By the time Bucky reached them, he was breathing hard and his face was even redder than Steve's; he looked as if he had sprinted the entire way there. "Becca stole the car," he panted, bracing his hands on his knees. "She must have snuck out to Proctor's. She's gonna get it from Ma and Pop when she gets home."

"Never mind that," Beatrice said. "Are you all right?"

Bucky straightened up, running a hand through his mussed hair. "Yeah, I'm fine," he answered. "I told her I needed the car tonight, but of course she didn't listen to me."

Beatrice stuffed her hands into her coat pockets for warmth as she exhaled, a white puff of air vanishing into the night. "That's okay," she said, trying to hide her disappointment. "I can walk to Stark Industries, then."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "We're already here, aren't we? Besides, we're not planning to walk."

Beatrice frowned. "But you don't have a car—"

He grinned at her. "Watch and learn, Rosie." He stepped out into the traffic and hailed a passing taxicab, its bright yellow paint distinct in the light.

"Bucky," Steve hissed to him as he opened the door, "I can't afford one—"

"Who said anything about you paying for it?" Bucky scoffed. He playfully shoved Steve inside before extending his arm to Beatrice. She stared dumbly at it for a long moment before finally looping her arm around his and climbing into the backseat next to Steve. As she passed Bucky, their eyes met, hazel and gray. Beatrice quickly looked away, her heart pounding ridiculously fast compared to the amount of exertion she had placed on it climbing into the taxi. She braced herself for a sly comment from Bucky, but none came. He slid in next to her, so that she was seated between the two boys.

"Where are you going?" the driver grunted, who was watching them suspiciously with dark, beady eyes.

"Stark Industries," Bucky replied, the picture of civility.

"That on Park Avenue?"

"And 45th," Bucky added politely. He thrust a bill at the driver, who grunted but reluctantly turned back to face the front. The taxi rumbled to life underneath them as they began their slow journey through the labyrinth of Manhattan amidst the snow. Traffic crammed the streets, and Beatrice began to worry that they wouldn't make it to Stark Industries in time. She anxiously folded her hands together and stared down at her lap. Her right knee was just brushing Bucky's; she was sitting so close to him that she could smell soap and a faint hint of cologne. He'd probably put it on in case he met a girl on the way.

Feeling heat again rise to her cheeks, Beatrice turned to Steve on her other side, who was staring out the window watching the buildings move slowly past them. As if he could sense Beatrice's gaze on him, he turned to her, his eyes widening slightly at finding her staring, before smiling shyly but reassuringly at her. There was nothing in his smile but pure, unadulterated kindness, and the knot in Beatrice's stomach loosened.

"You okay, pal?" she heard Bucky ask Steve in a low voice. He leaned over her to get a better view of his friend, and Beatrice was left to stare at the profile of Bucky's face inches from her own.

"I'm fine, Buck," Steve replied, a hint of irritation in his tone.

Bucky sighed. "You're still upset about not being able to pay. Listen, I have more than enough money." His tone made it clear that this wasn't the first time they had had such a conversation.

"I start my job tomorrow," Beatrice interjected. "I can do it…"

"Not you too, Rosie," Bucky said, drawing back and shaking his head at her. "Listen, you can make that corned beef hash again sometime and we'll call it even." The previous day, Beatrice had prepared corned beef for supper and Bucky had joined them, eating nearly half of it by himself. She had taken over cooking and cleaning, as Steve was an abysmal cook and believed that oatmeal could be eaten for breakfast, lunch and supper. If nothing else, housework helped to distract her and channel her anxiety into something useful. It was no way to repay either of the boys for what they had done for her, but at least it was a start.

Since the driver kept a watchful eye on them the entire ride, probably wondering why they weren't at a party or with a larger group of young people, there was little conversation between them. Beatrice's throat burned with the question she had longed to ask since she had woken up in Steve's apartment but hadn't had the courage to in the week she had known them. Every time she opened her mouth, the words became stuck in her throat.

By the time the taxi reached Park Avenue, Beatrice was more than happy to hop out of the car—after Steve so she didn't have to repeat the previous awkward moment with Bucky. At least Steve was just as awkward around her; it was part of the reason why she felt so comfortable with him.

Beatrice didn't often venture into Manhattan—aside from her three years at nursing school, she'd never had a reason to; her entire life had always been in Brooklyn—and she felt small and insignificant against the towering buildings, so tall that she had to crane her neck to see where the concrete ended and the sky began. The sidewalk was crowded with people who wanted to get the best view of the fireworks, lining the streets outside of Stark Industries. In times like these it was as if the collective population of New York was trying to shake off the dark shadow of the war that haunted them every other day of the year.

While Bucky was paying the driver, Beatrice took a step closer to Steve and finally said it, the words she had been rehearsing in her head for the past seven days. "What do you want from me?" she asked quietly. "You and Bucky."

Steve blinked owlishly at her. "What?" he asked bluntly before quickly correcting himself. "I mean, pardon? We don't want anything from you, Beatrice—"

She bit her lip and stepped out of the path of a young couple who had emerged from the crowd. The chatter around them was loud enough so that Bucky couldn't hear her. "But you must," she insisted. "You—both of you—have been so helpful in the search for my brother that it's hard to believe you don't want something in return—oh."

Her last word trailed off as disappointment surged through her. It was so obvious—how had she not noticed it before? Of course they wanted something in return—for her to leave as soon as possible. They were probably sick of her disrupting their lives. In fact, they were probably hoping she would leave the very next day.

"Beatrice, what is it?" Steve asked, looking worried. "Of course we don't want anything in return. We just want to help you." He paused. "Is that so difficult to believe?"

Beatrice looked at him, at his wide, earnest eyes and his open face, at his slightly hunched shoulders and his cheeks red with cold. Steve had never done anything to make her believe she was unwelcome in his apartment, and Bucky's playful teasing had been gentler than she would have expected for someone who didn't want her around. She remembered the quiet conversation she'd had with Bucky after Christmas dinner, when he had told her about enlisting in the army. And she thought about Steve breaking into the library to help her find information about her uncle. If she was really honest with herself, Beatrice knew that the belief for them wanting her to leave had no basis in fact. She'd thought it was too good to be true, not when she hadn't felt so happy in months.

"Listen," Steve said when she didn't answer, "If it was the other way around—if you were helping me or Bucky—what would you do?"

Beatrice shuffled her feet awkwardly. "It's not the same."

"Isn't it?"

She opened her mouth, and then closed it again when she realized that she had no more points to argue. The weight of Steve's gaze on her made her feel as if he could see through to her very soul, and he would never be surprised by anything he found there.

She wanted—needed—to believe that she wasn't alone in the world, that someone truly cared about her. The past week with Steve and Bucky had at least offered her that insight. She had felt…safe, like her life wouldn't fall and shatter into a thousand irretrievable pieces again. But she refused to let herself believe that she had friends in case the tentative bond that had developed between them would snap at a moment's notice. Letting herself depend on someone else was a new sensation for her, at least since her mother had died, but allowing herself to finally believe that Steve and Bucky, two ordinary boys from Brooklyn, were now all Beatrice had to depend on was one of the easiest things she had ever done. And as she smiled shyly at Steve, as always unable to express her gratitude in words, she realized the only lie had been the one she was trying to tell herself.

"What are you whispering about?" This was Bucky, who had suddenly appeared beside Steve. He clapped his friend on the shoulder. "Proposing to her, are you?"

Even the tips of Steve's ears turned red. Beatrice gave Bucky her best glare. "No," she said emphatically. "If you really want to know—"

But her attention was caught by a movement in her peripheral vision; they had moved closer to the building to avoid being swallowed by the crowd, and now Beatrice realized a woman had just slipped out of a side door she hadn't previously noticed, glancing furtively at the gathering crowd before ducking her head and walking quickly down the sidewalk away from them.

"Do you think she's an employee?" Beatrice whispered, but Bucky had already taken off towards her. Alarmed, she turned to Steve. "What's he doing?"

Steve stuffed his hands in his pockets, looking resigned. "You'll see," he said, a bit glumly.

They were just within earshot of the conversation; Bucky cleared his throat and sidled up to the woman, looking perfectly at ease. "Excuse me, ma'am," he declared, bestowing a winning grin upon her that had won the hearts of nearly every girl at George Washington High School.

Beatrice guessed she was nearly twice Bucky's age, but her cheeks were painted rouge and her dark hair was perfectly coiffed. Even from her distance, she could see the woman's face narrowed first in annoyance at being intercepted, but softened as soon as she saw Bucky. "The fireworks don't start for another twenty minutes, sir," she told him, beginning to walk away. She had a thick accent which Beatrice vaguely recognized as Spanish.

"It's not about that," he told her, dropping his voice an octave so Beatrice had to strain her ears to hear the rest of his sentence. "I was wondering if you could tell me where an employee of Stark Industries lives."

"I am not an employee myself," the woman replied curtly. She again tried to sidestep him, but Bucky wouldn't give up so easily. "And even if I was, I would not be authorized to give you that information."

"Ma'am, it's important," he pleaded. "You may have heard of him—his name is Ivan Romanov."

Beatrice was taken aback by two things—firstly, by the fact that Bucky had remembered her uncle's name, and secondly, by the woman jerking in surprise when Bucky said the name.

She was hurrying over to them before she knew it, anxious to explain before the woman disappeared for good. "Ma'am, he's telling the truth," she said quickly, stepping in front of Bucky. "Ivan Romanov is my uncle."

Surprise flickered across the harsh lines of the woman's face, but her mouth was still set in a hard line. "Who are you?" she asked.

Beatrice drew herself up to her full height, which barely came up to Bucky's shoulders. "My name is Beatrice Hartley. I am the daughter of John Hartley and Elena Romanova, and Henry Hartley is my brother."

Now the shock on the woman's face was unfurling, quickly being replaced with understanding touched with suspicion. "Well, it is certainly fortunate that you have chosen me to speak to, of all people. Ivan told me that you may show up at some point." Despite her thick accent, her English was impeccable.

"Who are you?" Beatrice asked in return.

"I am his housekeeper."


As luck would have it, Ivan lived less than five blocks away from Stark Industries, on the second floor of a brownstone walk-up that screamed of wealth. Beatrice paused in front of the house before she ascended the stairs leading to the porch, the wind whipping her hair. She felt a stab of bitterness at this uncle who worked for one of the richest men in New York and who had his own housekeeper, but who had never appeared when the Hartleys had been hit by the Great Depression, or when Beatrice had been completely, utterly alone in the world and desperately needed help. What gave Ivan Romanov the right to walk into an orphanage and adopt Henry with only the most tenuous claim to family?

The housekeeper—Luisa Ramirez, she had told them—dug around in her pockets for a key and unlocked the front door. Bucky ushered Beatrice and Steve in first, presumably wanting them to get out of the blowing snow. Beatrice turned back to look at him as she stepped into the entryway—his eyes were very serious. "What is it?" she asked him, placing a hand on his wrist before quickly jerking it back, remembering he wasn't Steve. He looked more handsome than ever in the dim light, which illuminated only half of his face and brought the thin line of stubble that coated his throat into sharp relief. Beatrice quickly tore her eyes back up to his. "Bucky?" she asked again. Luisa and Steve had already begun climbing up a winding staircase that curved into darkness.

"You're cold," was all he said. It wasn't a question. Before Beatrice could half-heartedly deny his words, he was shrugging off his own coat and holding it out to her.

She laughed in surprise. "But I'm already wearing one," she exclaimed. "Besides, won't you be cold?"

Bucky abruptly reached out and placed his hand against her cheek, his palm hot against her skin. She shivered, but it wasn't from the temperature. Just as she began to lean into his touch, he withdrew his hand and gently pulled her glove back, brushing his fingers against the inside of her wrist to show her the difference in temperature. His fingertips were suddenly like ice.

Beatrice shuddered again; her skin tingled where he had touched her. She wondered what could have caused his sudden change in demeanor. "I guess you're right," she said, and slipped into Bucky's peacoat. It was far too large for her, but it was warm and smelled like his cologne, which carried a faint hint of wood and spice and wasn't as overpowering as she would have guessed.

Bucky met her gaze again, his eyes intent. "Rosie—" he began, but this time it was his turn to be interrupted; Steve was leaning over the balcony at the top of the stairs waving at them, his blond hair a beacon in the dark.

"Beatrice," he called down to her, "I think you might want to see this."

Just like that, the spell was broken, and Beatrice edged past Bucky to leap up the stairs, taking them two at a time. She found herself in a dimly-lit but grandly furnished sitting-room, heavy drapes pulled over the windows and a newly upholstered anise green couch pushed against the wall. A messy desk covered with papers stood in the corner, the lamp on it providing the room's only illumination. A red-haired man was sitting on the chair; he put his pen down and rose to his feet as soon as he saw Beatrice. But she was looking at Luisa, who had lifted a small bundle of blankets from a crib Beatrice hadn't noticed in her cursory glance of the room.

"Henry," she breathed, her feet automatically carrying her over to Luisa, who held out her brother. Beatrice pushed the blankets back to reveal Henry's face and sank onto the couch, hugging him to her as if in fear that he would be taken away again.

"He is asleep," Luisa said as Beatrice kissed his forehead. "Ivan likes to have him in here while he is working."

For the first time, Beatrice turned her attention to the man who had been sitting at the desk. He stepped toward her, into the light's path, and she let out an involuntary gasp: he was almost exactly the male version of Elena, precisely down to the shape of his face and the shade of his hair. There was no doubt that this was her uncle.

"Beatrice," he began, and she was almost surprised to hear a smooth American accent. "I hope you can forgive me."

Steve and Bucky were both standing rather awkwardly at the front of the room, but Beatrice was glad they were there all the same. She looked at them, and then back at her uncle, who slowly knelt down in front of her so they were at eye level. Somehow the gesture didn't seem condescending. "For what?" she asked.

"For not contacting you earlier." He smiled at her. "I believed you dead—or missing at the very best. The woman who brought your brother to the orphanage said that you had run away."

"Mrs. Banner," Beatrice said, unconsciously tightening her grip on Henry. Her former neighbor was the entire reason they had been separated in the first place.

Ivan nodded. "I hoped you would find me somehow. I did not think you would let Alian go so easily."

"Henry," Beatrice corrected, annoyed that he had already been renamed. "His name is Henry."

"My apologies," Ivan corrected. "Henry. Yes, I had hoped that, if I could not find you, I would be able to raise him as my own son."

"How?" Beatrice demanded. "You—you're a spy. I read about you in the Brooklyn archives. You work for Howard Stark. My mother rarely spoke of you. Why am I only meeting you now?"

"You are determined, aren't you?" Ivan murmured, almost to himself. He sat back on his heels, his eyes taking on a faraway look. "You must know that Elena—your mother—and I both grew up in New York, a poor Russian family living in the Lower East Side. The city has always been our home. When Elena married your father and moved to Brooklyn, I took a job working for the government and became a codebreaker, traveling between Washington and Moscow, and was later employed by Howard Stark while he was struggling to create his own company. His family had lived in the tenement building across from ours when Elena and I were growing up, and were already familiar with each other. He seemed to believe I had potential.

"Fearing for my family's safety when tensions rose between the countries, I cut off almost all contact with Elena, only sending her letters once or twice a year. She told me of your birth and when she learned that she was expecting your brother twenty-two years later. When I stopped receiving letters from her, I did some investigating and discovered that she had died in childbirth, but that you and Henry were still under John's care. From Elena's letters, I did not think he was a fit guardian, but I was sent off to Russia before I could intervene. When I returned to New York last week, I learned that John had died as well. Your Mrs. Banner told me that Henry had been brought to the orphanage after you lost your apartment. Since she often visited, I accompanied her and immediately adopted Henry. I knew that Luisa would be able to take care of him when I could not. But I always hoped that you would find me."

Beatrice was quiet for a long moment, trying to take everything in. If Ivan was indeed a double agent, it made sense that he would have kept minimal contact with Elena in order to protect her. But to leave Henry with him would mean bringing him in to that life of spies and secrets…

Ivan straightened up and took a step back, folding his hands in front of him. "Now that you are here, I will not protest if you wish to bring your brother back with you. But I also would like to invite you to stay here. Howard set me up with this place—it is not much, but I call it home. Luisa is not just my housekeeper, but a very dear friend. She will take care of you and Henry. Or," he added, looking over at Steve and Bucky, "If you have already made other arrangements, you may visit your brother whenever you wish. You do not need to make a decision now."

Beatrice exhaled and shifted uncomfortably on the couch. The movement must have startled Henry—his bright green eyes opened, and Beatrice didn't have time to hush him before an ear-splitting cry tore from his throat. Luisa moved forward to take Henry, and Beatrice felt a peculiar sense of loss as her brother quieted down the moment he was in the other woman's arms. Here it was, what she had been praying for: a chance to live a comfortable life with Henry without having to worry about having a roof over her head or where her next meal would come from. So why wasn't she feeling more relieved?

Ivan seemed to be waiting for her to speak. "I nearly froze to death looking for Henry," she said quietly. "I was rescued by Steve." She nodded her head at the boys, realizing they hadn't been introduced. "This is Steve Rogers and his friend James Barnes. I—I'm living with Steve now. I'm starting a job packaging first aid kits at a medical supply depot tomorrow."

"Not a munitions factory?" Ivan asked.

Beatrice stared down at her hands. "I don't want to kill people," she said resolutely. "I want to help them."

"As did your mother," Ivan said softly. He appeared to be searching for something in her face, and when he turned away Beatrice wasn't sure if he had found it or not.

"What's Hydra?" Bucky suddenly asked. Unbeknownst to Beatrice, he had moved over to the writing-desk and was standing over it, staring at the papers Ivan had left strewn about. Luisa opened her mouth, but Beatrice saw Ivan gently shake his head, and she fell silent, turning around to put Henry back in his crib.

"How about you tell me what you think Hydra is, Mr. Barnes?" Ivan asked quietly. Beatrice rose to her feet. Something had been different about Bucky ever since they had arrived at the house.

Bucky's eyes were hard. "It was a monster in Greek mythology. When one of its heads was cut off—"

"Two more would take its place," Ivan finished. "And such are the evils of this world. You all shall learn that, in time. I belong to an organization known as the SSR—the Strategic Scientific Reserve, as is Howard, who provides the majority of its funding."

There was a finality to his tone that even Bucky couldn't ignore. "Yes, sir," he said, taking a step back from the desk but his eyes still lingering on it.

Ivan began to shuffle papers around—protecting sensitive information, Beatrice figured. He must have been so surprised by her visit that he hadn't remembered to hide anything important. "You must not speak of this visit to anyone. Do you understand?"

"I'd trust them with my life," Beatrice said as fervently as she could. Ivan glanced up at her, and a meaningful gaze passed between them. He finally nodded and stepped back. Steve, she noticed, looked surprised but flattered at her words, and even Bucky raised his eyebrows.

Luisa, who had finished fussing over Henry, hurried over to Ivan to say in a low voice: "Mr. Stark will be expecting you shortly to look over final preparations for the fireworks."

"Of course," Ivan said. He surveyed Beatrice, Steve, and Bucky for a moment. "Do you have a way of getting back to Brooklyn?"

The two boys shared a sheepish look; that had been something none of them had thought to take into account.

Seeing that no one answered, Ivan smiled. "I shall drive you all home, then."

"You can stay at my place tonight," Steve said quietly to Bucky. "We'll put the couch cushions on the floor and everything."

Bucky's lips twitched for the first time that evening. Beatrice sighed in relief; only Steve could be the one to pull him out of whatever mood he was in. "I'll call my folks and tell them I'm walking Rosie to work tomorrow morning."

"Oh, you don't need to do that," Beatrice said quickly.

"It's only half an hour. It'll be fine. Besides, I work at the Navy Yard." He didn't look at her, and that bothered her more than she cared to admit.

"In that case," said Ivan, "I'll just stop off at Stark Industries to make sure everything is prepared and the three of you can enjoy the firew—"

An ear-splitting bang drowned out the rest of his sentence—it sounded like a bomb had gone off directly outside. Before Beatrice had time to react, Bucky was shoving her and Steve under the desk, shielding them with his body. Beatrice's heart was hammering madly and she heard Henry wailing again, but she was shoved so tightly against Bucky that she couldn't move an inch. She felt his heart pounding inside his chest in tandem with her own, and she shared an alarmed glance with Steve, her hazel eyes wide.

The inhabitants of the room seemed to be holding their breath for one long moment—her ears were still ringing—and when everything stayed silent apart from Henry, she could have sworn she heard Ivan laugh under his breath.

"Dear me, it sounds like all of Howard's fireworks exploded at once," her uncle said, in a tone much more pleasant than the situation warranted. Beatrice guessed that this wasn't the worst scenario he'd found himself in.

"I told you that you should have made sure everything was fine," Luisa scolded as Bucky slid out from under the desk, leaving room for Beatrice and Steve to scramble out.

"Well, it wouldn't be the first time one of his inventions has failed," Ivan said as Bucky held out a hand for Beatrice to grab. He hoisted her to her feet and she marveled at his quick reflexes; he had gotten her and Steve under the desk so fast that she hadn't even had time to process it. Wanting to alleviate the tension, she went over to Luisa and Henry to make sure he was all right.

"That was certainly an eventful start to the new year," Ivan said as he opened the drapes and peered out onto the street below. "Yes, those were definitely Howard's fireworks."

"A bit more eventful than I would have liked," Steve admitted, sounding breathless. "And before you ask, Buck, I'm fine."

Beatrice heard Bucky chuckle under his breath.

"Now," said Ivan, clapping his hands together, "I suppose we should be on our way before the streets fill up with people who thought that Adolf Hitler himself dropped a bomb onto the Empire State Building."


The air outside was thick with smoke; it was visible through the dim city lights, rising above the buildings like a slow, heavy fog. From what Beatrice could tell, although people didn't seem to be running in a blind panic, most looked aggravated and irritated. She didn't blame them—she had rather been looking forward to seeing the fireworks, too.

The crush of traffic only began to dissipate once they reached the Brooklyn Bridge; Beatrice turned her head and watched the cloud of smoke begin to clear behind them. Like their ride in the taxi, the three of them didn't speak aloud much. This time Beatrice got to sit in the front with Ivan while Steve and Bucky were in the backseat. She knew they were having an entire conversation with only their eyes; she could see it in the rearview mirror. She could only imagine what they were saying about her now.

Henry had been sound asleep again when they left; it felt like it killed Beatrice to leave without him, but she knew it was for the best: she wasn't about to ask Steve if Henry could live with them as well—and besides, he had looked so comfortable in Luisa's arms, as if she was his mother. Beatrice leaned her head against the cool window to try to quash her irrational jealousy before it rose up again.

She noticed her uncle kept glancing over at her, and when he pulled up in front of Steve's tenement building he placed a hand on Beatrice's shoulder, indicating he wanted her to stay. Steve and Bucky both gave their thanks for the ride and climbed out immediately. They both glanced back at her after she didn't follow, but continued on to give her and Ivan some privacy. Beatrice watched Bucky pick up a handful of snow from the sidewalk and toss it at Steve, who didn't manage to duck out of the way in time before it hit him squarely in the face. As Steve prepared to take revenge, Ivan spoke.

"I will be in New York for the foreseeable future. You don't need to make your decision right away, Beatrice. If you wish to take Henry, you have every right to do so."

She was quiet for a long moment before she spoke again. "I don't know what I want to do. A week ago I would have been able to give you an answer right away, but now…" She saw Steve's silhouette at the door waiting for her and waved at him. He waved back shyly, and she smiled although she knew it was impossible for him to see.

"They are honorable boys," Ivan remarked. "I saw the way James Barnes protected you when he thought you were in danger."

"He's in the army," Beatrice mumbled. "He's been trained to do that."

Ivan only made a vague noise in response, and Beatrice realized that she was still wearing Bucky's coat. With a jolt of embarrassment, she quickly shrugged it off and folded it over her arms. "It's not like that—" she began, but her uncle held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"I apologize. I spoke out of turn," he said, smiling slightly. "I am sorry our first meeting went like this, Beatrice, but I am glad that there was a first meeting between us. You are very much like Elena."

"So I've been told," she said wryly, remembering her conversation with George Barnes the previous week when he had compared her to her father instead. "Thank you, Uncle Ivan. For everything."

His smile widened at the name, and he said, "Rest assured that your brother is in safe hands. And for now, I will wish you a good night. You know where to find me."

Beatrice smiled once more at him and then climbed out of the car. She raised a hand in farewell as he pulled away, watching the car drive away until it became a pinprick of headlights in the distance and then faded out entirely.

She hadn't realized Steve had joined her until his voice said from beside her, "Aren't you going to come inside? Bucky's making hot chocolate." His hair was still dripping with snow.

"How could I resist," Beatrice said dryly, turning her back and following Steve up the stairs to his flat.

"Is that his coat?" Steve asked as he opened the door for her, looking baffled by the coat hanging over her arm. Beatrice only grinned in response.

Once they were inside, she tossed it on back of the nearest armchair and slumped down onto it as Bucky emerged from the kitchen carrying three steaming mugs of cocoa.

"Steve and I are gonna play a game of chess. Want to join?" he asked, offering her a mug and flashing a grin; he was apparently back to his easygoing self.

"But chess is a two-player game," Beatrice said, pulling her legs up under her and balancing the cup on her knees. The thick, inviting smell of warm chocolate wafted to her nose, and she inhaled the heavenly scent deeply.

"No problem," Bucky replied, sitting down on the couch across from her. "You can take over for Steve when he loses."

Steve, who was retrieving a chessboard from the depths of the coffee table, looked incredulous. "I can beat you any day!" he protested.

Beatrice laughed. "Isn't it kind of late for chess? It's nearly one o'clock."

Bucky shrugged. "It's a tradition to stay up all night on New Year's Eve. Besides, my folks aren't expecting me to come home tonight anyway."

"But we have work in the morning," she reminded him as Steve set the board down between them and took the opposite-facing chair to Bucky.

"Then we'll stay awake as long as we can." Bucky raised his mug and Steve and Beatrice followed suit.

"To 1943!" he declared, and the three of them clinked their drinks together. "May Steve stop picking fights with guys twice his size."

"I'll drink to that," laughed Beatrice, and raised the mug to her lips. But she had barely taken a sip when she began to cough and immediately put the mug down on the side table, wiping the back of her mouth with her hand. It didn't taste like chocolate, but rather like someone had mixed cocoa with alcohol.

"Is this gin?" she spluttered.

"Vodka." Bucky looked pleased with himself until Steve elbowed him in the ribs. "Ow—geez, Steve, that hurt—I mean, are you fine with this, Rosie?"

She blinked. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because of your dad," he replied. "He drank a lot, didn't he?"

"Oh," said Beatrice, touched that they had thought of that possibility. "No, it's fine." She lowered her voice and added, "To tell you the truth, I used to steal his whiskey when he wasn't looking. It's a miracle he never caught me. I've sort of given up the habit now, though."

Steve and Bucky both laughed, and Beatrice couldn't help but smile in return. Their enthusiasm was contagious—it tugged her mind away from those dark corners, that memory where she had downed nearly a whole bottle of the stuff and spent the rest of the evening violently sick. After her father's death, Beatrice had vowed to never have a drink of alcohol again, but this wasn't cheating, exactly, if it was mixed into hot cocoa…

She took another hesitant sip, pleased at the warmth it almost instantly spread throughout her body. The boys had begun their game, both of them leaning over the chessboard intently. Beatrice watched them with interest—both of them were exceptional strategists, planning their moves carefully, although she could tell within the first minute that Steve would be the winner. He knew how to use the pawns to his full advantage, while Bucky went for the power players first—the king and queen.

Sitting there in the dying light, the alcohol lulling her to sleep and knowing that Henry was safe, Beatrice realized that she was, incredibly, happy. She didn't need to make an immediate decision, as Ivan had reassured her—although she felt guilty for even wanting to put off the decision—besides, she could always stick with her original plan and work at the factory until she had enough money to move out of Steve's flat and into her own apartment with Henry. If she found one close by, she could still keep in contact with Steve and Bucky as well as getting to know her uncle better.

Bucky suddenly cursed loudly as Steve captured one of his knights, jolting Beatrice back into the real world, and she laughed along with them, resting her head on the back of the armchair. During times like these, it was all too easy to pretend that she was finally home.