True to his word, by the next morning Colonel Phillips gets them orders to release Stevie from the hospital and return to the Army base just outside London, the one that houses SSR headquarters. The Commandos travel with her, having chosen to sleep in hospital corridors for the last week rather than leave their Captain alone when she was vulnerable. (Several different officers and hospital staff had complained, but between Colonel Phillips and Agent Carter, everyone had been convinced to look the other way.)

With Stevie in her modified WAC uniform—and the rest of the Commandos, for once, in regulation clothing—they go mostly unnoticed upon their initial arrival. Without Dum Dum's bowler hat, Bucky's blue coat, or Stevie's red, white, and blue, it's much more difficult for the average person to recognize them, even with Gabe's skin color and Jim's features standing out from the crowd. Stevie had gone as far as to place her shield inside her pack instead of carrying it openly, although she keeps reaching back to feel the hard metal edge through the canvas, as if reassuring herself that it's still there.

Bucky supposes that getting shot, no matter how quickly it had healed, would make anyone cling a little tighter to their security blanket. Doubly so if said security blanket was specifically designed to keep them from getting shot again. He certainly feels better, knowing Stevie has it close to hand if anything were to happen. (Every time he closes his eyes, he still sees it: red blood seeping through a white star, Stevie falling, blood on her teeth as she screams his name—)

Bucky takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and shifts just a bit closer to Stevie's side. He's been a soldier too long not to understand that sometimes war is chaos, and survival is often more a matter of sheer luck than skill. He's smart enough to know that he can't protect her from everything. But he's been Bucky too long not to try, anyway.

Their arrival seems to be a secret, though, or at least a surprise, and there aren't any incidents getting Stevie installed in the officer's barracks. The worst they get are a few muttered phrases or murmured conversations, whispers behind their backs and dark looks from the corner of their eyes. No one is willing to try anything, not yet. They're still in shock, it seems. Or maybe they just don't fancy the idea of taking on every single Howling Commando, all at once.

What they don't know is that Stevie had given the Commandos each a firm order not to fight, not even if someone else started something. Bucky might have found it funny, Stevie Rogers convincing anybody not to throw a punch if the situation called for it, but instead he's just frustrated. She'd been very clear, though: No fighting. No getting defensive. No losing tempers. They can't give the brass any excuse to side against them, or this will fall apart before she has a chance to fix anything.

It isn't exactly fair, but nothing about this is.

(Bucky never thought he'd be nostalgic for the way the brass had treated them in Italy at the beginning of the year, but at least then they'd been given the chance to prove themselves. No one seems willing to extend Stephanie Rogers the same courtesy, as if she really is a different person somehow from the Captain America she was six months ago.)

The team splits up for a quick lunch, and Bucky once again finds himself grateful for Monty's lieutenant's pips, which get him into the officers' mess with Stevie. At least if anybody starts something, Bucky knows that she's got somebody there who'll be on her side, even if it can't be him. He worries about the meetings, dinners, and press events where she'll be alone, though. That's when people are most likely to be openly hostile, when she doesn't have any support. (Maybe he should talk to Colonel Phillips about working out some kind of shift rotation between Monty, Peggy, and the old man himself.)

The press is slated to arrive that afternoon, but of course they show up early. By the time Bucky and the rest of the Commandos run through the enlisted mess and report back to the set-aside briefing room, Stevie and Monty are already sitting across from three reporters, each one with a pen and notepad at the ready. (Stevie looks mildly uncomfortable, sitting upright in the hard chairs, knees together under her skirt. She's out of practice at sitting like a girl, and it shows.)

Stevie gestures the rest of the team over without speaking, never taking her attention off the reporters in front of her. The Commandos arrange themselves in chairs around her, each one with a respectful, "Captain," or "Sir," as they approach. (They're still over-reacting to the insinuation that a woman can't be in charge of male troops.) Bucky takes his usual place at her right hand, slipping into the empty chair left for him.

"—reacting to the news," one of the reporters is saying as Bucky sits. "When the story first broke, most of America didn't seem to take it seriously, thinking it was a hoax or some kind of German anti-propaganda attempt."

Stevie smiles. (It's her fake smile, her for-the-cameras smile. Bucky hates it.) "Well, that's understandable, I suppose. I put a lot of work into keeping my secret." She laughs, and the sound hurts Bucky's ears. "I'll take it as a compliment on my performance."

"So you'd have kept lying indefinitely, if you could have?" a second reporter asks.

"I'd have preferred not lying at all," Stevie says instantly. "But when the choice was between telling one lie or never getting the chance to fight for my country, I thought lying was the lesser evil."

The third reporter glances up, something bright and gleeful in his eyes. "And the fact that your lie cost the United States its one chance at a real super soldier?"

Everyone goes very still.

"I'm sorry, what?" Stevie asks politely, as if she simply hadn't heard him correctly. (It's good enough to fool the rest of the room, maybe, but Bucky can see the way her hands tighten on the table.)

"Let's be honest, Miss Rogers—"

"Captain," Bucky says instantly.

All three reporters look at him.

"Buck," Stevie says, very quietly.

He ignores the implied warning. "It's proper etiquette to refer to a military officer by her rank, not her title," Bucky says.

The reporter is watching him carefully. "Even when that military rank was earned under false pretenses?"

"Actually, it wasn't," Gabe says from his spot down the table.

"How do you figure that?" the first reporter asks. At least he sounds relatively neutral, curious instead of challenging.

"Captain America started out as a stage name," Gabe says calmly. (He's using his 'college boy' voice, as if he were back home participating in an academic debate.) "It was created by Senator Brandt, who was present at the Project Rebirth procedure, and therefore knew the truth about 'Steve' Rogers."

"We're not discussing the stage name," the third reporter says harshly. "We're talking about when it started to be treated like a legitimate military rank."

Gabe smiles. It looks almost shark-like. "That was decided, at the conclusion of her first mission behind enemy lines, by Colonel Phillips and the higher-ups at SSR Command. Who, as it so happens, also knew the truth."

There's an awkward sort of silence at the table.

"Even ignoring all of that," Monty adds from Stevie's immediate left (and is Bucky imagining it, or has his pristine, upper-class British accent gotten thicker all of a sudden?), "the decision was made just yesterday to uphold the Captain's rank, regardless of how it might have been earned. If you won't respect the Captain herself, perhaps you should respect the US Army officials who have made their stance relatively clear."

Bucky has the sudden urge to cheer. He's going to buy Gabe and Monty both as much beer as they can drink, later.

"Fine," the third reporter says, around clenched teeth. "But let's be honest, Captain Rogers. By lying about your gender, you put the entire super soldier program in jeopardy, and took the critical first spot—the only spot, as it turned out—away from a real US soldier." It's his turn to smile, cold and predatory. "Dr. Erskine's serum has certainly done wonders for you, to the point where some people seem to think it's perfectly reasonable to send a woman into a combat zone, and let her play at leading soldiers. Imagine, then, what it could have done for a man. Imagine the Captain America we should have had, if you hadn't interfered."

When it's clear he's done, Stevie takes a single deep breath before speaking. "I'm sorry," she says, without an ounce of sarcasm. "Was there a question in there somewhere you'd like me to answer?"

Bucky catches the barest impression of a smile from the first reporter, the seemingly nice one, before the man controls his face.

The third reporter, meanwhile, is turning red. "I think it's—"

"Actually, it's fine," Stevie interrupts sweetly. She's still smiling that vacant, meaningless, movie-star smile. "I don't mind. People's opinions are always so interesting. Here, why don't I give you a few of mine?"

The man glares. "You—"

"I don't think anyone can speak as to what might have happened if someone else was chosen for Dr. Erskine's trial," Stevie says, interrupting him. "Perhaps you're right, and I'm not as physically strong or fast as someone else from my training class would have been." She spreads her hands with a tiny shrug, innocent and humble. "Of course, I think that had more to do with me being a five-foot-tall, ninety-pound asthmatic at the time, rather than being a woman."

The second reporter smiles. The first one chuckles.

Stevie's demeanor grows more serious. "I can't pretend to know what went on in Dr. Erskine's head, the day that he chose me. But I do know what he told me, when I asked him why."

Everyone at the table, including the Commandos, perks up. None of them have ever heard her talk about the procedure. Even Bucky just got a sentence or two, but he'd never pushed for more. He'd have felt like a hypocrite, considering how little he'd been willing to share about Zola, and how understanding Stevie had been about the whole thing.

"He told me that a strong man, who was used to having power, would never truly respect that power." Stevie has to pause, voice growing slightly thick with emotion. Bucky is suddenly reminded that she'd liked Erskine, and she'd had to watch him die right in front of her. "But someone who had been weak? Who had lived a life without power? They would understand. They would never take it for granted."

Bucky wants to reach over and grab her hand, to remind her that she's not alone. Then he remembers that revealing Stevie's gender means that he can get away with things like that, now, and no one is going to beat him bloody or dishonorably discharge him for conduct unbecoming. So he does, and squeezes her fingers reassuringly, just for a moment.

"I don't know if I was the right choice, or the best one," Stevie says quietly. "All I know is that I had great respect for Dr. Erskine, and I was his choice. He looked at me and didn't see the sickly, weak, useless runt that everyone else saw. He even knew the truth about my gender, and chose me anyway. Everything I've done since that moment has been to honor his memory, to try to live up to the faith he placed in me that day."

For a moment, the whole room is silent.

Then, for a long time, the only sound is the frantic scratching of pen to paper.

The interview goes on much longer, of course. That third reporter, the antagonistic one, continues to test Bucky's commitment to the no punching plan, but the other two are skeptical at worst and genuinely intrigued at best. It's a far better response than Bucky feared they would get, when they started.

They ask about the 'real' structure of the Howling Commandos, and if Stevie is actually the one planning the raids and giving orders in the field. (Stevie doesn't have to say a word; her men jump all over themselves to make that one clear.) They ask about the missions themselves, and if anything has been exaggerated or falsified. (Except for the comics and films, which are made up by writers, every word has been true. No, some things are still classified, sorry.)

They ask about her enlistment process, and Stevie tells the story for the first time, about being rejected—on medical grounds, not because of her gender, because none of the doctors had ever gotten that far—five times before Dr. Erskine decided to give her a chance.

"He was already breaking the law by clearing me with so many medical problems," Stevie points out. "I don't think being female mattered so much, compared to that."

They ask about basic training, and how she fooled so many people for so long. (Apparently it wasn't as hard as it might sound; people mostly see what they want to see, and Dr. Erskine helpfully gave her medical excuses for any special provisions that were needed, like keeping a shirt on during swimming evaluations and showering privately.) They ask about the USO tour, and what prompted the creation of a male 'Captain America' figure in the first place.

"That was all Senator Brandt," Stevie tells them.

(Bucky is silently delighted at the predatory gleam in her eye; if this is her way of getting back at the senator for the argument they'd apparently had, it's a good one.)

"I just wanted to do my part for the war effort, and at that point in time no one was willing to let me fight. He was the one who thought it would be good for bond sales and public morale to put on an exhibition of what Dr. Erskine's serum could do. Of course, America's Super Soldier had to be a man; no one would have taken me seriously, otherwise."

The whole ordeal is exhausting, and Bucky's not sure how Stevie manages. Sure, she has more experience with the press than the rest of them, but some of the questions are downright vicious. (Including a not-so-subtle insinuation that Stevie only got her autonomy in the field by sleeping with Colonel Phillips, of all people, which doesn't even make sense.) How she keeps her cool and answers each question politely and calmly, Bucky will never know.

"If you don't mind, I think a lot of people would like us to ask a few questions more personal in nature, Captain." The remark comes from the man Bucky's dubbed 'the nice one,' just before the interview is slated to finish.

Stevie doesn't even pretend not to know what's coming. She glances right at Bucky, and waits for him to nod. Once he does, she smiles at the reporter and says, "Of course. I'm happy to answer any questions the American people might have, now that I know I can tell the truth."

The reporter hasn't missed their shared glance. (He probably didn't miss Bucky holding Stevie's hand for a few seconds, earlier, either.) "Ah," he says. "Well, much has been made in the past of your relationship with Margaret Carter, a British intelligence agent in the SSR. It had always been implied to be a romantic one. One that had quite captured American hearts, too, if you don't mind my saying so. How has that relationship changed in light of recent events?"

If Stevie is hurt by the words that come out of her mouth next, she does an amazing job of hiding it. "Peggy has been fantastic," she says warmly. "She's known the truth all along, of course. We became quite close, being the only two women in the entire camp, a lot of the time. When people first started suggesting we might be together, we got such a good laugh out of it."

The reporter looks a bit puzzled. "You've done quite a bit to encourage those stories, Captain. Not only in interviews, of course, but there's also the infamous so-called Sweetheart Compass."

Stevie laughs. (It hurts Bucky's ears even more than before.) "It was actually Peggy's idea, to encourage it, you know. It was another piece of keeping my secret, a way to make sure nobody looked too closely. A cover story, if you will."

All three reporters lean forward, intrigued. Clearly they're good enough at their jobs to sense an impending revelation.

"A cover for what, exactly?" the antagonistic one asks.

Stevie milks the moment a bit, inclining her head in response and dropping her voice slightly. "Can I show you something?"

"On or off the record?"

"On, as long as you're kind," Stevie says. She reaches into a pocket of her altered WAC uniform jacket and pulls out her aforementioned compass, the one Bucky had given her at Christmas. She sets it on the table in front of the three men. "Go ahead," she says, nodding. "Open it."

The nice one gets there first, popping open the lid to reveal the now-slightly-faded picture of Peggy. "I don't understand," he says.

Stevie isn't watching them. Her attention is on Bucky. "Keep looking," she says.

The reporter carefully unclips Peggy's picture, pulls it loose, and puts it down on the table in front of him. "Ah," he says again. His fingers pluck something else out of the compass, something that had been hidden behind Peggy's face. When he places it on the table, everyone leans closer to get a better look.

It's a photograph of Bucky, looking impossibly young and cocky in his dress uniform, hat jauntily tilted to the side, grinning. The memory washes over him in a sudden wave: the summer night at that science fair in '42, right before he shipped out for Europe. He recalls smiling at something Stevie had said or done, and an opportunistic photographer shoving a camera in his face. The flash partially blinded him when it went off without any warning. He protested at the cost when Stevie insisted on buying it, just before they met up with their dates.

It's the last time he was Bucky, the one he remembers in his dreams. No wonder the kid in the photo looks like a stranger to him, now. Why would Stevie even still have it, after all this time? That night was nearly two years ago, now.

Just in case the reporters haven't gotten the message yet, Stevie proceeds to kiss him right there in front of everybody. It's chaste, but warm and fond. It sets off the scribbling pens again, and this time they don't stop until someone finally shows up to kick them out.

("How long have you had that old photo in your compass?" Bucky asks her later, when they're alone and don't have to worry about being overheard.

"Since the day you gave it to me, at Christmas," Stevie tells him. "I kept it in my pocket, before that."

When he just stares at her, disbelieving, she shakes her head. "You are an idiot, Bucky Barnes," she whispers, and kisses him again.

It's the same kiss, but it feels different. This time, it's not for show. This time, it means something.)

"Well done, Rogers," Phillips tells them later, staring at the newest headlines on the papers scattered across his desk. "It's a good start. Now go make it stick."

Bucky does so many interviews over the next few weeks—alone, with Stevie, with the Commandos, even once with just him and Peggy—that they run together in his memory. He smiles so much for the cameras that his face constantly aches. He might not mind so much, except it's the same damn questions over and over. By the second week, he's got a whole script memorized.

If that was the worst of it, though, he'd have been happy. The reporters, even the ones who clearly think Stevie should be kicked straight out of the Army immediately, have at least the veneer of professional courtesy over their hostility. Several of the soldiers and base personnel around them don't bother to be so civil.

They spend the next weeks moving around from base to base, ostensibly to let Stevie meet with the brass on their own turf. Their real mission, of course, is to get people used to the idea of a female Captain America. They visit every bar, dance hall, pub, camp, shooting range, and airfield in England. (Or at least it feels that way.)

They never stay anywhere longer than a day or two. Stevie spends her time schmoozing with the officers and press during the day or the occasional dinner, and the enlisted men and non-commissioned officers in the evenings. She seeks out as many people to talk to individually as possible, buying drinks—Colonel Phillips has managed, somehow, to get her a budget specifically for this—playing cards, sharing news, and answering questions. No matter what happens, she meets it with a calm, serious demeanor and refuses to cause trouble.

(Bucky nearly loses his cool on more than one occasion, and when exactly did he become the one with the temper, and Stevie turn into the reasonable one?)

The types of responses that she gets seem to come in four flavors.

Some people are horrified and furious, and take every opportunity to tear Stevie down or make disparaging remarks about everything from her attractiveness to her intelligence. Others are disappointed and sad, and tend to treat her like a misbehaving child who's gotten in trouble far over her head, patronizing and superior. You should have known you'd get caught eventually, you silly girl.

Some people are just cold and distant, as if they feel personally betrayed. They tend to immediately walk out of a room when she enters, or pretend like she's invisible even if she's trying to talk to them. (This, Bucky realizes, is the reaction that she was afraid of, back when she convinced him to tell the Commandos the truth.)

As far as Bucky is concerned, those people are lucky Stevie is holding them to a strict No fighting policy. As it is, he's not convinced that the Commandos—Dum Dum and Jacques, in particular, but all of them at one point or another—aren't quietly breaking that rule, not in messy bar fights but by paying a few discreet visits after hours to the loudest troublemakers. Bucky would have to report them if he knew for sure, though, so he doesn't speculate too hard or wonder where they go when they disappear at night.

There is, however, a fourth category of response.

There are some people who smile, or shake Stevie's hand. Some people make the effort to approach her and offer their support. Several of them turn out to be men who have seen Captain America in action somewhere, including some of the other survivors from that first rescue mission, the ones who didn't earn a spot on the Commandos. Others aren't, and have no reason to take Stevie's side; they just do.

Some of them are WAC's or nurses who bravely come up to Stevie and tell her she's an inspiration. They tell her that they appreciate the risks she's taking by trying to change the perception of what a woman can or can't do. (Other women do the exact opposite, and they're often even more vicious than their male counterparts, calling her a disgrace and telling her to be ashamed.)

Then the letters start arriving.

Captain America has always gotten a thoroughly ridiculous amount of mail, from people all over who have never met her. Some are from people who saw her on a stage once when she was still on tour back in the States. Others are from the friends and family back home of soldiers she's fought with, or saved. (To a lesser extent, the rest of the Commandos have experienced this, too, especially Jim and Gabe. It comes with being a celebrity hero, apparently.)

Stevie never has time to read them all. (There's an entire office of WAC's somewhere in London who are kept busy typing up generic responses to Captain America letters.) She goes through the backlog when she gets a chance, though. She says that if it takes her fifty years, she'll eventually read every one. Sometimes she picks out a particularly touching or humorous one to share with the team, sitting around a campfire or in the middle of hostile territory when no one can sleep.

Four weeks after the story breaks back on American soil, the number of letters coming in quadruples. Many of them are hateful, even worse than the things people are willing to say to her face, because the detachment of a letter makes them feel safer and more anonymous.

Stevie tries to pretend that it doesn't bother her, but everybody knows better. Bucky even catches her crying once, holding a particularly nasty letter in one hand and looking like she might throw up. It arrives on her birthday, and somehow that makes it even worse.

(She's twenty-six.)

After that, Bucky tries to discourage her from opening them at all. She doesn't listen, of course.

"I need to know what people are saying, Buck," she tells him. "Or else how will I know what I'm fighting?"

Bucky offers to read them for her, to weed out the truly awful ones and just give her a general report on the contents, but Stevie won't have it. She's decided that this is her responsibility, and she won't shirk it.

When Bucky finds her crying over a letter for the second time, a week later, he's ready to track down whoever wrote it and introduce them personally to his sniper rifle. Or maybe his favorite combat knife.

"No, you don't understand," Stevie says quickly, wiping at her cheeks. "It's not—Here. Just read it."

Bucky does, not sure what to expect.

It's from a ten-year-old girl in Wichita, Kansas. She has chronic asthma. She writes that last year, her mother told her all about Captain America when she had to go to the hospital, because he was once a little guy and sick all the time, but he'd gone off to fight a war anyway. He'd become her hero, for the way he hadn't given up or let his sickness stop him from doing what he knew was right.

Then last week, she found out from the newspaper that Captain America was really a girl, just like her, and had been the whole time. Now she knows that she doesn't have to listen to all the people around her telling her that she can't do things. I promise I'm going to be brave just like you, when I get bigger and can make people listen to me, the letter says. Thank you for showing me that I can be strong.

When he finishes, Bucky is silent for a long time before he hands the letter back.

Stevie folds it up and puts it in her pocket. On the particularly bad days, when it seems like everyone around her is an enemy, Bucky sometimes sees her take it out and read it again. It seems to give her the strength to keep moving forward, to keep answering asinine questions over and over, and to keep working for just one chance to prove herself.

After five weeks of their unofficial press tour, Stevie finally gets it. Colonel Phillips calls them to his office and shows them a map. (It makes Bucky smile, to see the tiny sliver of France now shaded blue, for Allied territory.)

"What do you say, Captain?" Colonel Phillips asks. If he'd been another man, he'd have been smiling. "You ready to go after HYDRA again?"

"I thought you'd never ask, sir," Stevie says.

"Then you might need this."

Phillips pulls a large box out from under his desk and hands it over. Stevie takes it, frowning. When she glances at Bucky, he shrugs. He doesn't know what it is, either.

She opens it slowly, as if she's afraid of what she might find. She reaches inside and pulls something out to show the room.

It's a new Captain America uniform. It's identical to the original in material and color scheme, but shaped for a female form. There's no padding or compression shirt included. If she wears this, she's going to look very different from the Captain America she was before. No one could look at her, wearing this, and mistake her for a man.

For a moment, Bucky is worried. The longer he looks, though, the more he relaxes. Yes, the new uniform isn't designed to hide any of her curves, but it doesn't look like it's made to flaunt them, either. It has the same utility belt, gun holster, and magnetic clip for her shield as the old one. The boots are sensible, thick-soled, with no heel in sight. It's not for a USO show. It's meant to be worn in the field. It's meant for combat.

It's meant for a soldier.

As Stevie turns it reverently over in her hands, a slip of paper falls to the floor.

Bucky picks it up and reads it out loud.

Always knew you'd need this version eventually.

It's signed, simply, Howard.

/~*~/

The news about the attack on Pearl Harbor leads to a second 4F rejection notice for one Steven G. Rogers later that week. Bucky goes with Stevie to the enlistment office this time, although he chooses to wait on the sidewalk rather than accompany her inside. He's not sure what he's going to do, if he hears a ruckus going on or spots a cop car pulling up to the curb. This is even more dangerous than her first attempt, because she's lying about both her name and her hometown, so as not to end up in the records as having already been rejected.

It doesn't come to that, thankfully. Stevie walks back out barely half an hour later, hands stuffed angrily into her coat pockets. She shoves her paperwork in Bucky's general direction.

"Happy?" she mutters darkly, eyes downcast.

Bucky puts his arm over her shoulders, catching the back of her neck in the crook of his elbow. "I'm sorry," he says.

She gives him an incredulous look.

"Not because you got rejected; that's the right decision—" He ignores the way she glares at him. "—but because I know how much it means to you." He hesitates. "I wish there was another way."

"Yeah," Stevie says.

Bucky watches her for a moment, seeing the anger and resentment and frustration written in every line of her body. He can't do anything to make it better, and that hurts. "You got dinner plans?" he asks.

She shrugs.

"Perfect. Come with me."

They end up at a diner a little ways away. It's outside their normal haunts, closer to the docks and in a slightly rougher part of the neighborhood. Once they've finished their meal and are just sitting in a booth drinking hot, strong coffee, Bucky makes a seemingly innocuous comment about the war.

Stevie is off like a bullet. It's a rant Bucky has heard many, many times before. (If he cared to, he could probably mouth along with her words, because he's damn near got it memorized.) It's not the most ideal way for Stevie to blow off steam, but it gets the job done.

It's a Friday evening after work, so the diner is relatively full. Stevie is talking pretty loudly about the Army having idiotic restrictions and how the only upstanding thing to do is join up and fight.

"Steve?" Bucky tries half-heartedly, to no avail.

She keeps on, hands clamped tight around her coffee. She talks about the draft and how she could take the place of somebody who has a good reason to stay home.

"Um, Steve?" Bucky tries again, a note of nervousness in his tone.

From there, the rant goes on to disbelief that they need a draft in the first place. Why don't people understand how important this war is? How can anyone sit back and read the newspaper headlines and not fight back?

"Steve! Time to go," Bucky says.

It's too late. Several other men in the diner have already gotten to their feet and surrounded their table.

The fight happens in the alleyway outside. It's three guys against him and Stevie, which is more fair than a lot of Stevie's fights. In the grand scheme of things, it's actually kind of fun. Bucky even bursts out laughing the first time one of the guys lands a solid hit on him; it's been ages since he and Stevie have done this. Is it weird that he sort of misses this? The adrenaline rush, that feeling of it being the two of them against the world?

They probably ought to lose, but Stevie won't stay down and Bucky can't if she doesn't. By the time the other three have had enough, Bucky has a blooming black eye and a nasty twinge in one knee from where he took a fall wrong. Stevie has a split lip and is holding her side in a way that suggests she took a kidney shot that's going to leave her with a spectacular mark. Other than that, it's mostly split knuckles and some scrapes and bruises.

They end up in the bathroom of Stevie's place. Bucky holds a cold compress on his eye to try to slow down the swelling with one hand, as the other hand prods gently at Stevie's ribcage and stomach. He's trying to determine the damage, to see if they need to take her to a doctor.

"It's fine, Buck," Stevie says, even though she's wincing as he puts pressure near the angry flush on her side. It had been a knee, apparently, which was worse than a punch but better than a kick, at least. "I know what broken ribs feel like, remember."

"You know," Bucky says, tucking her shirt back down and leaning against the counter. He shakes his head back and forth, still smiling for no real reason. "Only from you is that a comforting thought."

Stevie runs cold water into the sink and daubs at her split lip, still wincing slightly. "Sorry about this," she says. She's got blood on her teeth. "Not how you wanted to spend your Friday night, huh?"

Bucky shrugs, working his sore knee up and down to keep it from getting stiff. As if he hadn't known from the moment she walked out of that recruitment office that they were going to end up in a fight, one way or another. As if he hadn't all but set it up for her by picking that diner, in a rough neighborhood where they were strangers. As if she hadn't known how her rant was being perceived by those fellas. As if she hadn't had time to notice and get clear before it came to blows, if she'd really wanted to. As if he can't read her any better than that.

"Oh, I don't know," he says flippantly. "Dinner and a show with my best girl? I could do worse."

Stevie gives him an exasperated look. "Bit more than a show. You're still going to have that black eye Sunday when your folks come by."

Bucky turns and checks his face in the mirror. When he lowers the cold cloth, he finds his eyelid half-shut and the flesh around it swollen so that he can't move it. It's bright red now, but the edges are already starting to darken. It's going to be dark purple by morning.

"Well," he says, putting the cloth back—gingerly, because it stings something fierce—and turning back around. "My Pa was running out of reasons to shout at me, anyway."

Stevie limps her way past him, out into the main room. "Come on. We need to wrap that knee and get your weight off it."

"It's not that bad," Bucky protests, but he follows her anyway.

He ends up sitting sideways on the couch, bad leg propped up on a pillow. Stevie sits next to him, leaning on her uninjured side, and spreads a blanket around them both. The radio is on softly in the background, and for a while they're silent. Stevie is haphazardly sketching, and Bucky knows better than to try to sneak a look over her shoulder. He picks up a book from the end table, instead. It's one of his that's taken up permanent residence in her apartment, and he starts to idly flip through it.

As the minutes tick by, the space between them slowly disappears. Stevie shifts to get a better angle on her sketch, or Bucky stretches out his sore knee, and they slide together. By the time Bucky starts to feel tired, reading and rereading the same sentence without taking in the meaning, they're curled up together the way they might be in bed, Stevie's head on his chest and his arms around her. Her sketchbook has been set aside, some time ago now, and Bucky's book and the no-longer-cold cloth over his eye follow suit.

"Hey, Stevie?" he asks, too aware of her breathing patterns to think she's fallen asleep.

"Yeah?" she says, without turning her head.

"We going to talk about it?"

There's the barest suggestion of a sigh. "The fight?" she asks. "The Army? Or …"

Bucky cups his hand behind her head, using his thumb and forefinger to massage tightness out of her neck. "Well, we already talked about the fight," he points out. "I've given up trying to talk to you about the Army. So …"

Stevie has one hand curled up slightly near his heart; she flattens it out and presses her palm to his chest. She must be able to feel his heartbeat, like that. "Do you want me to get up?" she asks softly.

Bucky's arms reflexively tighten, just a hair, as if she's about to run away. "Shit, Stevie," he curses. "You know how I feel. I'd be happy if you never moved again."

"But?" she prompts.

Bucky hesitates. "Last I checked," he says slowly, "you wanted us to keep some distance from each other. Be friends, but nothing else." He swallows. "Give you some space to forgive me."

"Buck," Stevie whispers. She turns her head and lifts herself up—wincing as it puts strain on her bruised ribs, until she gets the angle worked out—so that she can look him in the eye. "I forgave you a long time ago."

"Did you?" Bucky asks. "Even though I never really said I was sorry?"

Stevie raises her eyebrows. "Are you?"

Bucky thinks for a moment, knowing that he needs to get this right. "For what happened," he says at last. "For the way I reacted, mostly. I had no right to do that to you." He smiles, crookedly. "Sometimes I'm an asshole."

"Thanks for saying it," Stevie tells him quietly. "But I did already forgive you." Her eyes are soft. "Sometimes the worst things we do to each other are because of love."

"I do, you know," Bucky says, low and earnest. "Love you."

"Even after a year apart?" Stevie asks, cocking her head as if puzzling something out. "I know I hurt you, when I left."

The memories of their fight wash over him. He's relived every second so many times, wondering how he could have done things differently, that he feels like he could recite every word. Including the ones that weren't actually said out loud.

"You called me a coward," he says eventually. "For not enlisting."

In his arms, Stevie tenses.

"Is that really what you think of me?" Bucky asks. "Do you hate me for not joining up, not fighting? Especially now that we've been attacked?"

"I could never hate you," Stevie says immediately. "And you're not a coward, Buck; I should never have said that."

"You do think I should enlist, though," Bucky says. He closes his eyes. "You want to fight so badly, and you think I'm wasting my chance."

There's a long, drawn-out moment of silence between them. Bucky eventually opens his eyes to find Stevie watching him, their faces only a foot apart.

"I'm jealous," she says softly. "You could have everything I've ever wanted, everything I'll probably never have, and you just … don't care. You don't want it."

Bucky thinks about that for a moment. "We're not just talking about the Army, are we?"

Stevie doesn't answer for a long time. She puts her head back down on his chest, like maybe whatever she's trying to say will be easier to get out if she's not looking him in the eye when she does it. Her hand plays absently with the wrinkles in his shirt.

Bucky waits her out, taking the opportunity to shift his sore knee where it's propped up on a pillow.

This is his favorite thing about them. They can just be here, together, unselfconscious. There's no expectations, no pressure, no nerves. They're as comfortable tangled up like this as they would be across a table or in a crowd. They're not together anymore—haven't been in well over a year—but there aren't any boundaries between them. To be honest, there never have been.

"Why are you here, Buck?" Stevie asks eventually.

Bucky doesn't even have to consider it. "Because there's nowhere else I'd rather be."

"You could have anybody," Stevie tells him. "One dance, one look with that cocky grin, and you can go home with any gal in any joint."

"So?" Bucky asks.

"So why do you always end up coming back to me?" Stevie asks. Her voice has gone quiet. "When are you going to find that girl that really turns your head, and get serious about her?" She swallows. "When are you going to leave me behind?"

"Not going to happen," Bucky says. He pulls her a little tighter to his chest, just for a second, careful to make sure it doesn't affect her breathing. "None of them are ever going to be my girl, Stevie. Not like you." He tips his head just far enough forward to drop a gentle kiss to her hair. "Say the word and I'll never look at another woman again."

"Bucky," Stevie says, admonishing.

"I mean it," he says. "I'd have given you a ring ages ago, if I thought there was half a chance you'd take it."

She tenses again, uncomfortable. "That's what I mean," she says. "I'm not like that, Buck. Settling down, getting married? That's just not me." She pushes herself upright again, meeting his eyes. "I can't ever be your wife. I like being 'Steve' too much for that."

"Can I tell you a secret?" Bucky asks, in a voice just above a whisper.

Stevie rolls her eyes. "I've known all your secrets since you were nine."

"I like 'Steve,' too," he says. "Too much to lose him forever. What would I do, without my best pal?"

Stevie pops her head up to look at him. "He's a sassy little punk," she says flatly. "Who does nothing but get you in trouble."

"Yeah, but he's my sassy little punk," Bucky says. He breathes in the scent of the two of them, all mixed up together with soap and cotton and cheap diner coffee. "You could have been born Steve, and I think I just might have fallen in love with you anyway."

Stevie stares at him for a long moment, considering. "Even though I can't ever give you what you really want?" she asks.

Bucky nods. "I don't want anything else, Stevie. Just you."

"You deserve it, though," she tells him, all sincerity. "You deserve somebody who can give you that, a—a regular life. A family." She tilts her head again, smiling a sad little smile. "You'd make a good husband, you know." Her voice catches slightly. "And a great father."

Bucky has to wait a moment before he responds, because the sudden ache in his chest makes it hard to breathe. He has a flash of it, some little blond squirt with Stevie's fire and his smirk, and it hurts.

"Maybe," Bucky says, when he can talk again. "But that doesn't mean anything to me, Stevie, if I can't have it with you."

"It's not fair," Stevie says. "I—even if I wanted to, doctors have been telling me for years that it'll be a miracle if I make it to thirty—"

"Don't," Bucky says instantly, voice harsh. "Just don't."

"Bucky—"

"We agreed to never have this conversation, Stevie," Bucky says. "It's not going to happen. All right?"

She sighs. "I just …" She puts her head back down on his chest, going limp in his arms. "I shouldn't ask you give all that up, your chance at a real life, just for me."

"It's not fair to ask you to be somebody you're not, just for me, either," Bucky points out. He lets her think about that for a moment before he adds, softly, "Be who you are, Stevie. And let me decide if it's enough for me, or not."

Stevie sighs again, with a breath so deep that Bucky can feel it as her chest expands. "Sometimes you make it very hard to remember why I had to leave," she tells him, shaking her head. "Jerk."

Bucky smiles. "Does that mean you want to come home?"

"Home?" Stevie repeats, sounding confused.

"What?" Bucky asks, teasing. "You think I rented out your room?"

"No, I just …" She picks up her head to stare at him. "You'd let me come back, no questions asked? Like you've just been waiting, this whole time?"

"Stevie," Bucky says, quiet and sincere. "I've been waiting for you since the moment you left." He sweeps one hand through her short hair. "You said you didn't want it to be forever."

"We're no good at it, are we?" she asks softly. "Being apart, I mean."

"No, we aren't," Bucky says. His smile goes wry. "Have we ever gone more than a week without seeing each other? Even through the worst bits of our fight, when we couldn't have a conversation without shouting at each other?"

"It never occurred to me to try," she admits. She chews on her bottom lip. "What would it mean? If I came back, for good?"

Bucky hears the real question underneath, the insecurity and the warning: I just said we couldn't be together, not the way I know you want. Can you live with that, or will it just tear us apart again?

"It will mean whatever you want it to mean," Bucky says. "We'll be friends, and nothing more, if that's what you want. I promise."

Stevie watches him for a long moment. "Nothing more sounds a little harsh." She swallows. "I do love you, Bucky. I don't want you to think I don't, or that—"

"I know," he says quietly. "I know, Stevie."

"If there was a way," she says, tears in the corners of her eyes. "If there was a way to be me and be your wife at the same time, I'd take it. But there just isn't. I'd have to give up so much. Stop going out with the guys. Maybe stop working." She blinks back the tears. "People wouldn't understand."

"So we'll just be us," Bucky says. "You and me. Like we were before."

Stevie's smile falls sideways, crooked. "You with your parade of girls, and me with whichever poor soul you can charm into going on a double-date?"

Bucky shakes his head at her. "We'll find you a girl, Stevie. We will. One that's going to love you for who you are."

Stevie looks skeptical. "Even if I could get a girl to stick around for more than a couple dates, she'd run away screaming the second she found out what I really am."

Bucky shrugs. "If you can fall in love with a gal, stands to reason there's other gals out there who can do it, too. We just have to find one." He cocks his head, slightly, thoughtful. "Or one who falls so hard for 'Steve' that it doesn't matter, when she finds out."

Some of the self-deprecating humor falls out of her eyes. "And this mythical, perfect woman that we're going to find, somehow—she won't care that I'm in love with my best friend, too? That I always will be, and neither of us can help it?" She sighs. "People don't like to feel second-best, Buck. It wouldn't be fair to her."

Bucky sweeps her bangs across her forehead with gentle fingers. "If it comes down to it, I'll walk away."

Stevie glares at him. "No, you won't."

"I will," Bucky insists. "I swear."

"No, you won't," Stevie says again, hotly. "Because I won't let you."

"I just want you to be happy."

She looks at him like he's being an idiot. "And how am I supposed to be happy, without you?"

A slow, satisfied grin creeps across Bucky's face.

Stevie stares at him for a moment before the light comes on behind her eyes, and she playfully smacks him on the shoulder. "That wasn't fair. Getting me to talk myself into moving back."

"I think sometimes you forget," Bucky says, chuckling slightly. "I know you better than you know yourself." When she rolls her eyes, he adds, "Punk."

"Jerk," she says automatically, soft and fond.

Bucky drops his hand from where it's been playing with her hair. "Honest, Stevie," he says quietly. "We can do—we can be—whatever you want." He smiles at her. "I just miss you."

"Yeah," Stevie says, slow and sad. "I miss you, too."

"Then come home," Bucky whispers. "Please."

When she nods and whispers back, "Okay," Bucky kisses her.

It's not the first time since their fight, but it's the first one that feels right, like it used to. When it ends, she doesn't pull away or put her head down on his chest, reestablishing that line between them. She kisses him right back, instead. It's warm and slow and lazy, a chance to get reacquainted after so long apart.

It's by no means the end of the conversation, of course. There are still things to be worked out, discussions they've yet to have about how to fit back together in a way that will work for both of them. It will take weeks to get it all settled, to sort out all the details. How to love each other without being a real couple, not the way everyone else means the word. How to build a life around themselves, one that has space for other people, without abandoning each other. How to navigate around Steven and Stephanie and James without losing who they really are, underneath.

But for now, in the living room of Stevie's tiny apartment, curled up on lumpy couch cushions, they're content. It's not easy, or simple, or perfect, but it's them. Together.

Bucky and Stevie.

Always.

/~*~/

The invasion of France has caused quite a bit of troop reshuffling. With the Allied push outward from the beaches beginning, German forces are pulling back to strategic defensive points and setting up for a drawn-out ground war.

HYDRA, on the other hand, seems to be retreating from the Western Front altogether. Apparently Schmidt doesn't fancy the Wermacht's chances against an Allied invasion, and has decided to relocate his research bases and factories farther east. With Germany itself hostile to his agenda, intelligence suggests that he's setting up shop in Austria and Poland instead. Surveillance flights have noted convoys and commandeered trains moving large equipment east, in a way that doesn't fit with the rest of the German defensive preparations.

The final base to be evacuated appears to be in Belgium, not far outside Antwerp. It hadn't shown up on any of their captured maps, but the pattern holds. Over the last three days, massive convoys have been spotted streaming east and north through the Netherlands and toward Denmark. Spies have confirmed it; the cargo is HYDRA tech. Presumably they're heading around the northern tip of Germany and into Poland, or maybe into nominally-German-friendly Finland.

The Commandos have been tasked with finding the base, confiscating any valuable information or technology that's been left behind, and then destroying anything they can't carry. If they can manage to slow, stop, or blow up the convoys in route as well, so much the better. It ought to be a relatively routine mission.

They parachute in with a night drop and spend the first twelve hours getting their bearings. None of them have been on a mission in Belgium before, and the local Resistance isn't as accommodating as they're used to in France. (Bucky wonders how much of a difference having Jacques on the team has made, in that regard.) They dropped without a firm mission plan, because Stevie wants to see the layout and circumstances before making up her mind, so the entire first day is reconnaissance only.

Being in the field with Captain Stephanie Rogers shouldn't be different than missions with Captain Steve Rogers. The team has known the truth almost since day one, so it's not like they suddenly treat her any differently. If anything, Bucky thinks, it ought to be a relief for Stevie to be back out in the field where she can just ignore the uproar that revealing her secret has caused. (Bucky is actually looking forward to being able to shoot anyone who makes a disparaging remark about Captain America or the new uniform.)

For some reason, though, Stevie is different. She's wound tighter than she should be. Her orders come out clipped and cold instead of friendly. Her demeanor is formal and almost distant with the entire team, long after they've left their RAF escort behind. Her mission plan is so routine that it's almost boring, a textbook assault without any of the antics she's become famous for employing. When Bucky mentions this, at their private strategy meeting before she outlines the plan to the team, she ignores him.

They cat-nap in shifts in the hours leading up to the assault, as usual, with two people awake and five asleep at any given time. Only when it's Stevie's turn to get some rest, so that she'll be fresh for the mission, she refuses to sleep. Bucky eventually cajoles her into at least lying down for a little while, but as far as he can tell she never even closes her eyes.

It's become a part of their routine to wake everybody up at least an hour before they need to get moving, passing around some cold instant coffee and whatever pathetic excuse for food they're carrying on that particular day. Somebody will take out a pack of cards. Somebody else will start reminiscing. They'll spend some time relaxing, getting focused. Eventually Stevie will go over the fine details of their plan one last time, and Bucky will slip off to take up his sniper's perch, but for a little while they just sit together and enjoy being alive for one more day.

Stevie usually participates, at least a little. There's always the thin layer of separation between her and the men, due to her rank, but Bucky bridges the gap and they've never been overly formal anyway. Today, though, she turns down Dum Dum's attempt to draw her into a card game. She doesn't seem to be paying attention to Jim's story about his childhood dog. She just sits at the edge of their camp, muscles tense and eyes scanning the tree line for threats.

Bucky stands up—stretching a few kinks out of his spine—and says, "Give us a minute, would you fellas?"

Nobody has to ask what he means. Thirty seconds later, he and Stevie are alone. The Commandos have dispersed into the rapidly-falling twilight, each with his weapon ready. They're probably still close enough to overhear any conversation, but it's the illusion of privacy that matters.

Bucky falls into a comfortable sprawl next to Stevie, legs crossed and hands behind him. "Hey," he says quietly. He leans sideways and nudges her shoulder with his own. "Talk to me."

Stevie sighs. "I'm fine."

"Clearly," Bucky says. "Come on. Talk to me."

"Bucky, I'm fine," she insists.

He watches her for a moment. Her posture is stiff. Her eyes are downcast. Her hands are fists by her sides. Every once in a while she reaches over one shoulder to run a finger along the edge of the shield on her back.

"Sure," Bucky says. "How many times have I said that to you in the last year and a half?"

Stevie glances over at him.

Bucky hums in victory. "And how many times did you believe me, and let it go?"

She's silent for a little while. That's okay; Bucky learned how to wait her out a long time ago.

Eventually, she huffs once—in annoyance, or an attempt at humor, he can't tell which—and says, "My hands are sweaty." She shakes her head. "It's the dumbest thing. Sixteen months of missions behind enemy lines, and I suddenly develop nerves now?"

(Somewhere, in the back of his head, a part of Bucky is rolling his eyes. Every soldier in the history of the world has gotten nerves before a battle. Only Stevie would see it as a failure, when the truth is that it's a perfectly valid survival instinct. One that she apparently hasn't had before today, which—come to think of it—might explain a lot.)

"So what changed?" Bucky asks.

Stevie glances at him again, with that look on her face that says he's being an idiot.

Bucky just raises his eyebrows. "I already know the answer. I'm trying to figure out if you do."

She takes a steadying breath. "I have to be perfect, from now on," she says quietly, almost a whisper. "It's not enough anymore to win, or take down HYDRA, or bring my team back alive. I have to be so good that nobody—nobody—can say I don't belong. It's the only way to convince everyone I still deserve to wear the uniform."

Bucky thinks about that for a moment. "True," he says. "That's why you jumped at this mission the second Phillips offered it." He shakes his head. "But that's not why you're nervous, Stevie."

"Well, why don't you tell me then, if it's so obvious?" she asks nastily.

Bucky waits, staring at his own boots.

"Sorry," Stevie mumbles eventually. "I—I didn't mean to snap. I don't know what's wrong with me, today."

Bucky reaches over and places one palm on her back. He doesn't have much room, below the shield, but he rubs little circles anyway, slow and comforting. "It's okay," he says.

Her knees draw up towards her chest, and she puts her arms around them.

Bucky slides a little closer across the rough ground, until his hip is pressed against hers. "You're going to be okay, Stevie," he whispers. (This isn't the sort of thing he wants the Commandos to hear, illusion of privacy or not.) "You've got the team watching your back. You've got your shield. You've got me. You'll be fine."

A tight, almost hysterical giggle escapes her lips. "I don't even know why I'm worried," she says. "I took a bullet to the chest and I was perfectly healthy in under a week. I should be—I should be less nervous, now. I know it can't kill me."

She's trembling. Just barely, but enough for him to notice.

"You're not immortal, Stevie," Bucky says. "And even if you were, you can still feel pain."

She flinches, hard. Her breathing pattern changes, like she's about to have an asthma attack in a body that shouldn't allow that.

Bucky hurts just watching her. "You'll be okay," he says. "Just breathe for me, Stevie. You're going to be okay."

She gives him a thin, wry smile. "Promise?" she asks. Her words come out around a wheeze, and for a moment she sounds just like the old Stevie, the one he still sometimes expects to see when he first wakes up in the morning.

"I do," Bucky says. "Nothing bad is going to happen to you, Stevie, not while I'm around."

(It's an absurd thing to say, and he knows it. The first time he made that promise—in front of a priest, no less—she was dying from Scarlet Fever, and he had no control over whether or not she pulled through it. He's sworn it again and again over the years, sometimes out loud, more often to himself. He's broken it more times than he can count, seen her sick and weak and bloody and hurting. There are some things he just can't protect her from. He'll keep making that promise, though, every day for the rest of his life, if that's what it takes.)

It's several minutes before Stevie is calm again, and Bucky feels confident removing his hand from the soothing circles on her back. She takes one more deep breath, slow and steady, and closes her eyes in an extended blink.

"You ready for this?" Bucky asks.

Stevie nods. "Don't tell the team I had a panic attack?"

Bucky smiles. "I wouldn't dream of it," he says. "But it wouldn't be the end of the world, you know, for them to see you as human once in a while."

From the look on her face, Stevie doesn't agree, but she doesn't argue with him. She turns sideways instead, leaning forward, and presses her forehead to his. "Thank you," she whispers.

"For what?" Bucky asks.

She smiles at him. "For being you," she says. "For being here. I feel a lot better, knowing you're out there watching my back."

He shrugs, rolling his shoulders without moving his forehead away from hers. "Where else would I be?"

"Cap?" Monty calls, respectfully, from several yards away. "It's time."

Stevie rises smoothly to her feet, then reaches down to haul Bucky up by her side. "Then let's go," she says. "Wouldn't want to keep HYDRA waiting."

Bucky checks his rifle by feel, keeping his eyes on Stevie. She's not okay, not really. How could she be, after what she's been through? Six weeks isn't far enough removed from that sniper's bullet, no matter how fast her body might heal. The scars might be invisible, but they're still there. Bucky knows that better than most.

"Buck? You coming?"

He turns. He smiles at her. "Wouldn't miss it," he says, as brightly as he can.

He knows she isn't fooled, any more than he had been by her insistence that she was fine. They'll go anyway. This is the best they can do, to just keep moving forward and hope that there's enough pieces left, when all of this is finally over, to pick up and put each other back together.

For now, there's a job to do. For now, there's a mission.

It'll have to be enough.