The rest of the week passed uneventfully—or at least as uneventfully as it could when living with the most accident-prone person in all of Brooklyn. If certain people could attract bad luck like the Empire State Building attracted lightning, Beatrice thought, then Steve Rogers would be the conductor.
He was up before dawn almost every morning delivering papers, and that day had woken up with a head cold. He insisted he didn't have a fever and would recover within the day, but Beatrice made him rest and brought him chicken noodle soup anyway. His constant coughing and sneezing ensured that neither of them had gotten any sleep the night before. She was grateful to slip out the door after he had fallen asleep on the couch, a thin blanket wrapped around him and his sketchbook lying open on his lap. She didn't want to imagine Bucky's reaction if he found out that Steve had gotten into a fight and become sick while he was away. Beatrice was planning to tell him neither of those things—if they were lucky, Steve would be able to hide any evidence of his cold the next day and Bucky wouldn't arrive back home until late. Beatrice guessed he would see his family first before venturing across Brooklyn to visit Steve.
And speaking of Bucky…her thoughts had been almost constantly circling around him for the past week, as if her mind was tuned to a radio frequency that was impossible to switch. On Wednesday, she had nearly sliced her thumb off with the sharp edge of a razor blade she was packaging, saved only by Angie's quick reflexes. She hadn't told Angie that she had been thinking about Bucky, but even so her friend had correctly pinpointed the reason for her distraction.
"You're in love," Angie had declared, to Beatrice's embarrassment.
"I'm not!" she had vehemently demanded, to which Angie had tutted and shaken her head in a motherly sort of fashion.
"Believe me, I know that look when I see it. Don't give me those doe eyes, sunshine. It's Steve Rogers, isn't it?"
"No—"
"You're blushing. Did you know you do that a lot?" Angie had looked triumphant, sure she'd finally caught her.
"It's not Steve," Beatrice argued, but her protests had grown weaker as the day wore on. There was no stopping Angie once she made up her mind. At least she hadn't seemed inclined to march all the way to Flatbush and try to wrangle a proper confession from Beatrice. Angie was too starry-eyed over Gary to concentrate on much else—which was a great relief for Beatrice. The other girl was so observant that if she ever saw her and Bucky together, Beatrice was sure Angie would figure it out in an instant.
By Thursday, Beatrice had given up on trying to control her thoughts altogether. She'd had an extremely vivid dream the previous night wherein she had been dancing with Bucky in an empty hall, save for the band playing a mournful march. Bucky had been dressed in an olive drab army uniform and Beatrice in the blue nightgown that had been her only salvaged possession from the flooded apartment. She was soaking wet and shivering, and Bucky had held her so close to his body that she felt like she was about to melt into him. "The war'll be over soon, Rosie," he had murmured into the shell of her ear. "And when it is…"
But he had never finished his sentence—instead he had leaned down to her, his lips a hairsbreadth away from her own, and just before they had kissed Beatrice was jerked awake, shivering just as hard as she had been in the dream. Her arms were wrapped around her pillow as if she had actually been holding Bucky. It had taken a long time to shake off the lingering remnants of the dream.
In fact, although she was loathe to admit it, she had dreamt about Bucky almost every night in some form or another, her heart aching every time she awoke. Perhaps absence really did make the heart grow fonder. Beatrice was both terrified and exhilarated by this rush of new feelings, which had previously only been known to her in much duller forms. She hoped she would be able to put on a brave face and a sincere smile when she saw Bucky with a ring on his finger and a beaming girl on his arm—who was looking more and more likely to be Connie at this point. Soldiers the world over were proposing to their sweethearts in the days before they went off to fight. Beatrice wasn't entirely certain that Bucky would want to tie himself down to anyone just yet, especially since there was another continent full of European women just waiting for a handsome soldier to sweep them off their feet, but if she was Connie, she would want to make sure Bucky was hers before he left.
But she wasn't Connie, and Bucky wasn't hers. And he never would be. Beatrice forced herself to face that fact head-on as she rang the doorbell of Ivan's brownstone. Her thoughts were still so clouded with Bucky that it took her longer than it should have to notice when Luisa opened the door.
"Here for your weekly visit, are you?" Luisa said, wiping her hands on her apron, which was coated with flour. She must have been baking; Beatrice wondered what could have warranted such an occasion. As soon as she stepped inside the house the smell of warm pastries enveloped her, and she took a deep breath, inhaling.
"Have you gotten that scrap of a boy to eat more?" Luisa asked as they began to ascend the staircase.
There was no point in trying to explain Steve's extreme stubbornness and blatant refusal to heed any well-intentioned advice, so Beatrice just said, "Yes, ma'am."
Luisa looked pleased. "Good. Tell him that if he ever wants some genuine Spanish food, he comes to me, you hear?"
"Of course."
They had reached the landing by now, the smell of fresh baking growing stronger with every step. Beatrice opened her mouth to ask Luisa if it was a special occasion when they entered the sitting-room and the question answered itself. Ivan was sitting at his desk, looking ragged—there were dark circles etched under his eyes and his clothes looked rumpled, as if he hadn't changed out of them for days. He was speaking in a low voice to another man Beatrice had never seen before; their whispers ceased as soon as they saw her.
"Beatrice," Ivan said at once, standing up to greet her. "I should have told you that I would be having a guest. This is Doctor Abraham Erskine, a colleague and friend of mine at the SSR. Doctor Erskine, this is my niece, Beatrice Hartley."
"It is a pleasure to meet you," Erskine said, rising as well to shake her hand. He was older than Ivan but not quite elderly; he wore round glasses and his hair stuck straight up as if he had been playing with static. Even though it was warm in the house, he wore a white laboratory coat and looked like the kindly old man in Prospect Park who was always feeding birds with scraps of bread. But the most surprising thing about him was his accent—Beatrice could have sworn that it was German. There weren't many Germans living in her area of Brooklyn, and those that did were ostracized and avoided.
"Doctor Erskine is an extremely reputable scientist who has proven to be one of our most trustworthy allies," Ivan said proudly. Beatrice couldn't help but smile at his assertion as she walked over to see Henry in his crib—he had managed to pull himself up on the bars and was peering curiously out at them. She lifted him up easily when he raised his arms to her and balanced him on one hip as Luisa handed her a blueberry muffin.
Ivan ran a hand through his messy hair again and averted his eyes from the sight. He had sat back down at his desk, but Erskine was still standing, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose as he examined a paper on Ivan's desk. The atmosphere was not the casual, relaxed one that Beatrice was used to seeing on the weekends. This was something different—something she wasn't sure she wanted to hear about. She watched Erskine carefully as he studied Ivan's notes. He looked and sounded like the famous German scientist Albert Einstein—Beatrice couldn't help but wonder if he was really Einstein in disguise, and decided that she wouldn't put it past Ivan, or rather, Howard Stark.
She gently lowered herself onto the armchair while bouncing Henry on her knee, as he'd begun to fuss. Luisa hurried over with a pacifier and a stuffed bear to soothe him, and Beatrice fought to control her jealousy as Henry fixed his unblinking stare upon her. She murmured something in Spanish to him and he giggled, pulling on a strand of her hair.
Across the room, Ivan cleared his throat and stood up, clasping his hands behind his back as he began to pace in a line between his desk and Beatrice's armchair. He opened his mouth, uncharacteristically hesitant, before seeming to rethink his words and shut it again. "How are your friends—Mr. Barnes and Mr. Rogers?" he asked her.
"They're doing well," Beatrice replied slowly. Now she was certain that something was amiss. Ivan was pacing, Luisa had gone back into the kitchen, and Erskine was standing several feet behind Ivan, watching the red-haired man expectantly. "Pardon me, uncle—but is something bothering you? You seem upset."
She forced herself to sound as polite as possible and not betray the fact that her heart had suddenly begun to race. Her fears were confirmed when Ivan stopped short, his eyes flickering between her and Henry sitting on her lap. "I am sure you recall that last weekend I was attending a meeting with Howard when you visited."
Beatrice nodded hesitantly. She was sure she wasn't going to like where this would lead.
Her suspicion was made all the more obvious by Ivan clearing his throat and avoiding her eyes. "Howard believes that it would be beneficial to have eyes and ears in Stalingrad, considering the events that have recently befallen the city. Since I have spent many years there, he thinks that I am the best candidate."
All the air seemed to have been sucked out of the room. The only thing Beatrice could think of were her words to Steve the previous week, words that she never possibly believed would come true so soon. She'd had her suspicions when Ivan had been called to an impromptu meeting on a weekend, but hearing the words still sent a shock through her system. She suddenly wished that Steve was there—he would be able to calm her down.
Ivan was speaking again, and Beatrice had to force herself to process his words. She imagined Erskine looked sympathetic, though he was pretending to be absorbed in Ivan's desk.
"Luisa and Henry will be joining me," her uncle was saying apologetically. "We are going to pose as a family—it will arouse less suspicion that way."
Beatrice had expected this final blow, and she was distantly proud of herself for acknowledging him with a tense nod of her head. What else could she have expected, anyway? That Ivan would never be sent away on a mission again and she would be free to visit Henry whenever she pleased?
He seemed to relax, as if she had taken the news better than he'd expected. "I wish I could give you more details, Beatrice, but I am sure you understand that the work I do is highly classified. To give away any more information would not only jeopardize me, but your brother and perhaps even yourself as well."
"I understand," Beatrice said in a small voice. She hoped he couldn't tell that she was forcing the words out. Even Henry had stopped squirming.
Ivan stopped pacing in front of her chair and knelt down so that they were face to face, so that she had nowhere to look other than in his eyes, as green and bright as her mother's had once been. "Please understand that Henry will be under the utmost care and protection, Beatrice. Neither Luisa nor I will allow him to come to any harm. He is safe with us."
Hearing the fervency in his voice, Beatrice was left with no other choice than to believe him. Still, she loathed the idea of being separated from her brother in any shape or form. Living across the river from him was one thing. Living across an ocean from him was another. "How—how long do you expect to be gone?" she asked, dreading the answer.
The ghost of a sigh escaped Ivan's lips as he sat back on his heels, breaking their gaze. "All estimations point to the end of the year," he said.
It was better than Beatrice had feared, but even so—what was she supposed to do? She couldn't ask to accompany them and force Ivan to change his plans just for her; besides, she had already told him that he was now Henry's guardian for all intents and purposes. He had the right to move whenever and wherever he wanted. She tried to ignore the twinge in her heart that made an appearance whenever she thought about leaving Steve and Bucky. "When will you be leaving?"
"Monday," Ivan admitted, and Beatrice's arms tightened around Henry.
Two days. She had two days to get used to the fact that her brother would be leaving for good. She wouldn't be able to kiss his hair again, or hug him close to her and breathe in his warm scent, or see his smile, or say his first word. She wouldn't be able to watch him grow up. Nine months wasn't a long time in the grand scheme of things by any stretch of the imagination, but at Henry's age every week brought a new development. She tried to imagine what he would be like when he was a year and a half old; when he would be walking and talking. Would he even be taught English, or would he learn Russian to keep up the pretense? And the very worst: what if he didn't remember her when they returned to New York? The very notion of Henry not remembering her shattered Beatrice's heart.
Ivan smiled sadly, as if he knew what she was thinking, and patted Beatrice's knee. "Of course you are welcome to write as often as you wish," he said. "I will provide a mailing address when I have more information."
"And she'll come to see us off Monday morning," Luisa said, appearing behind Ivan and smiling sternly but lovingly at him, as if he was her son. They would have to work a bit harder if they wanted to appear like a married couple rather than two adults with a wildly skewed power dynamic. "Won't you?"
"Of course," Beatrice said firmly—at least she would get to say a proper goodbye to Henry. "At the Navy Yard docks, right?"
"Eight o'clock sharp," Luisa answered with a firm nod as Ivan rose again and gestured to the man still standing by his desk. Beatrice gave a small start; she had almost forgotten that Erskine was still present.
"While I am gone, I am entrusting any questions you may have to Doctor Erskine," Ivan explained. "Should any problems arise, or should you need to contact me urgently, you may go through him. He is the most direct link to the SSR at this time."
Beatrice looked at Erskine, who was smiling in a paternal sort of fashion. "Are you sure you don't mind, sir?" she asked him. "I wouldn't want you to feel obligated—"
But the doctor—or was he a scientist?—was shaking his head. "Of course I do not mind, Miss Hartley," he said. "You may contact me at any time." He reached into the pocket of his laboratory coat and moved forward, handing her a slip of paper with an address on it that Beatrice recognized as being located in Queens.
"Howard recommended it," Ivan told her, taking a biscuit from Luisa's plate of baked goods. "He likes everyone who is close to a member of the SSR to have an inside contact when they are absent. There are eyes and ears everywhere," he added, with a wry grin.
Beatrice blinked. "Howard Stark…knows about me?" she asked, slightly taken aback. The thought of someone as famous as the millionaire inventor knowing who she was was difficult to wrap her head around.
"He does," Ivan confirmed. "If I am not mistaken, he wishes to meet you sometime. Unfortunately he is in California at the moment, so that particular occurrence will have to be postponed. I have asked Doctor Erskine to schedule an appointment with him as soon as he returns to New York."
Beatrice's awestruck expression must have been a sight to behold, since both men laughed at her reaction. Some of the tension in the atmosphere had dissipated, but the uncomfortable churning in her stomach proved that she was still very much worried about Henry. Was it really so selfish of her to be upset that Ivan was taking him to Russia? Beatrice's mind was working frantically to think of possible solutions, but none of them were practical or feasible. It's just until the end of the year, she tried to tell herself, but her arms tightened around her brother all the same.
A shrill ring sounded from Ivan's desk, startling Beatrice. Her uncle immediately sprang into action, hurrying across the room and digging in a pile of papers to locate the source of the noise. The wind of his passing caused several of the papers to float to the ground, and Beatrice could just make out the words "Project Rebirth" on one before Erskine retrieved it.
Ivan had somehow managed to unearth a telephone from the chaos that was his desk and answer it. "Yes?" was all he said tensely, untangling the cord from a spiral-bound notebook. When the person on the other end responded, Beatrice saw him visibly stand up straighter. "Yes, Colonel. We'll be there right away. I am just resolving a…family matter." There was a short pause. "I haven't spoken to Howard since his departure. He is currently overseeing prototypes for the Stark Industries pavilion at the World Expo…" Ivan sighed, and added grudgingly, "Yes, he believes that he has drawn working blueprints for a hover car."
Beatrice's eyebrows shot up. Even Erskine looked mildly impressed. The colonel didn't appear to share their sentiments, however, since Ivan replied wearily, "I understand that he has other obligations, but—yes, I'll see what I can do. Good day." And with slightly more force than was probably necessary, he put down the receiver and turned to his captive audience.
"Colonel Phillips needs us at headquarters," he said to Erskine. The doctor inclined his head and began to move toward the door. Sensing it was also her cue to leave, Beatrice reluctantly handed Henry over to Luisa, promising herself that she would say a proper goodbye to him on Monday. Nevertheless, her heart ached as if she really was leaving him for good.
"I hope you understand that nothing of that conversation is to leave this room," Ivan said to Beatrice as she passed him. He was smiling, but she could hear the undertone of solemnity in his voice.
"Of course not," Beatrice assured him, giving her head a firm nod. She was touched that he trusted her enough to even let her listen to a one-sided conversation that was clearly not meant for her ears. She had only known her uncle for the better part of three months, and in some ways he felt like another father figure—or rather, the father figure she wished she'd had.
Unable to resist turning around to get one last glimpse of Henry, now back in his crib, Beatrice only managed to see a flash of his flame-red hair before the door closed behind her. She exhaled and ran her fingers through her own dark brown hair, wishing she'd taken more after their mother too, before beginning to head down the staircase where Ivan and Erskine were waiting for her. Beatrice had never seen the other inhabitants of the house, but she assumed that Howard had set up other members of the SSR there as well. It was almost tragic, she thought, that Ivan had deliberately ostracized himself from his sister in order to keep her safe, but now Elena was the one who was dead and her children had no one else but him to turn to.
Ivan strode ahead of them once they emerged out onto the street, presumably not wanting to displease the colonel, but Erskine stayed behind to walk with Beatrice. The entrance to the subway was only half a block ahead; Beatrice watched her uncle pass easily through the throngs of New Yorkers and disappear into the Stark Industries building.
Erskine must have followed her gaze, since he glanced back down at her, a kindly twinkle in his eyes, and asked, "Are you familiar with the works of William Shakespeare, Miss Hartley?"
"Well," stammered Beatrice, taken aback by the non sequitur. "Yes. Some of them, at least."
"In one of his plays—I believe it was called Twelfth Night—is the quote 'Some are both great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them'."
"Wasn't it some men?" Beatrice asked with a tiny smile. A man wearing a pinstriped suit and large square glasses strode out from the Stark Industries building and brushed rudely past them, but Erskine steadied her by grabbing her arm.
He inclined his head toward her in agreement. "Yes, but I wished to include you in it."
But Beatrice wasn't thinking of herself: instead, she thought of Steve, who had surely been born great. Howard Stark, growing up unimaginably poor, had achieved greatness. Bucky was going to war, even if he didn't want to—he'd had greatness forced upon him. "What about people who are not destined for greatness?" she asked quietly.
Erskine smiled kindly at her, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. "Everyone is born with the potential to be great, Miss Hartley."
Beatrice arrived back at the tenement with a heavy heart and a dejected manner. Usually she flew up the stairs coming home, but now every footfall felt like a herculean effort. She had been so optimistic when she left, and now she felt like a deflated balloon. She hoped that Steve was still asleep so she would be able to cry without fear of him hearing her. She was so lost in her own melancholy thoughts that she didn't even notice the black Ford parked outside the building.
The front door was unlocked when she walked in, but she didn't fully realize the implications of that until she walked through the parlor and saw Bucky sitting in the armchair. Beatrice did a double take, all thoughts of Henry and Ivan flying out of her mind. "Bucky?" she asked dumbly, as her heart skipped several beats in a row. He must have come home sooner than she'd expected. She had never seen him in his dress uniform before, an olive drab tunic and matching wool trousers with a peaked cap that bore the symbol of the United States Army. He looked carelessly handsome as usual.
A quicksilver grin flashed across his face, and despite herself, Beatrice felt a smile spread across hers in return. "The one and only," he announced, easily leaping to his feet and striding toward her. For one wild, hopeful second, Beatrice imagined him leaning down to kiss her, but he just squeezed her shoulder in greeting, her skin tingling at his touch. She felt her cheeks warm, which deepened into a blush when he pulled off his cap and placed it on her head, pushing the brim down over her eyes so she couldn't see. It reminded her of something he would do to Rebecca, and she quickly pushed the cap back up, embarrassed.
"Hi, Beatrice." Steve stood in the entrance to the kitchen, holding a steaming bowl of carrot soup. "How's your brother?"
Beatrice did her best to wear a neutral expression as she replied, "He's fine. I think he'll probably start talking soon."
Steve's face broke into a smile. "That's great!" He held out the bowl of soup to them. "Anyone want some?" he asked.
"No thanks, kid." Bucky looked amused as he plucked the cap from Beatrice's head and placed it back on his own. "I don't want to catch your pneumonia."
"It's not pneumonia!" Steve protested, but his subsequent sneeze was pathetic enough. "It's just a cold."
"Sounds like it," Bucky said dryly. "Anyway, I came over to see if either of you wanted lunch at my place. Ma and Becca are cooking."
"I'd love to," Beatrice exclaimed, a bit more fervently than she intended, but Steve sighed.
"I'd better not, Buck," he said reluctantly. "Wouldn't want to get your family sick."
"That's all right, pal," Bucky replied amiably. "Next time, then." He turned to Beatrice and grinned. "Looks like it's just you and me, Rosie. I take it you kept him out of trouble."
Beatrice was so surprised she didn't have enough time to think about her lie. So she ended up stammering, "Um, actually…that didn't go as well as I planned."
Bucky rolled his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, slowly turning back around to face Steve. "What happened this time, Rogers?" he asked with a heavy sigh.
Beatrice gave Steve an apologetic look as he insisted, "Nothing. It was fine. We're both in one piece." When Bucky refused to back down he finally admitted, "Geez, Buck, I just got in a fight with a creep at the movie theater who was rude to Beatrice. That's all."
"Another fight? What is it with you, anyway? Don't you know there's a war on?"
"I helped him out," Beatrice said quickly as both boys turned to her. "I, um, kicked him. And then Steve knocked him out."
"With a trash can lid," Steve added helpfully.
Bucky's mouth fell open in a perfect "o" shape as he stared accusingly at them. "For the love of God. Steve, you're an idiot. Did you tell him that?" he demanded of Beatrice.
"I used slightly different wording, but yes, I did."
"I can take care of myself," Steve argued.
"Clearly," Bucky snorted. "You're killing me, Steve. I'm gonna have a heart attack one day and it'll be your fault."
"Actually, it would be my fault," Beatrice interjected, hoping to divert Bucky's attention away from Steve. "He stood up for me—not that I wanted him to," she said firmly.
"Oh, I don't blame you, Rosie," Bucky said, but his expression softened when he looked at her. Beatrice forced herself to maintain eye contact. "He goes after anyone who looks at someone else the wrong way. But…where did you kick this guy, anyway?"
After bidding goodbye to Steve, who was left with no other option but to accept defeat, they left the flat and made their way to Bucky's car. He held the passenger door open for her—Beatrice wasn't sure why that small gesture made her insides feel like jelly—and when he climbed inside, she couldn't help but notice just how close their legs were on the front seat. Had the car somehow gotten smaller, or had she simply not noticed their close proximity beforehand?
Bucky, on the other hand, seemed perfectly at ease as he started the engine and pulled away from the curb. With one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting lazily on the gear shift, he glanced over at her. Beatrice quickly looked out her own window, pretending to be transfixed by the buildings flashing by.
"What's bothering you, Rosie?" Bucky asked.
When Beatrice dared to peek over at him, he had turned his eyes back to the road, but his expression was serious. Beatrice hadn't realized he was that perceptive.
"I'm not upset," she lied.
"Sweetheart, I'm best friends with Steve," Bucky said, oblivious to the fact that every time he called her an endearing name warmth spread throughout her entire body. "I know when someone is lying."
Beatrice twisted her hands and stared down at her lap, hoping if she got this over with quickly it would hurt less, like pulling off a Band-Aid. "Ivan is going back to Stalingrad," she mumbled. "He's taking Henry with him."
She heard Bucky take a breath and then exhale slowly. "Rosie…" he began, but the name trailed off into the air. Beatrice looked up at him again; they were stopped at a traffic light, and now he was giving her his full attention. If she hadn't known any better, she would have thought there was something like worry in his gray eyes. Dark circles ringed them, and he had more than a hint of a five o'clock shadow. Some tangential part of Beatrice's mind was focused on wondering just how much sleep he'd gotten in the past week. "When are they leaving?" Bucky asked.
Now it was Beatrice's turn to pause. "Monday."
She saw his knuckles whiten on the steering wheel; the light had turned green but he was driving very slowly. The sunlight reflecting off his irises turned them a rich blue-gray; Beatrice forced her thoughts back to the present. "You're not going with them, then?" he asked. His tone sounded strange, although she couldn't quite put her finger on the reason why.
"How can I?" she retorted, unclenching her fingers and spreading her arms out. "Ivan is his legal guardian now, and I don't want to interfere with his work. It sounds like they've been planning this for a while. Besides, I have a life here in Brooklyn, and I can't ignore that."
She saw Bucky's shoulders relax, as if he had been holding his breath waiting for her answer. "I'm sorry, Rosie," he said quietly.
"Don't apologize. It's not your fault," Beatrice said. She was concentrating very hard to force the tears back.
Bucky seemed to sense that she wasn't in the mood for further conversation; he didn't speak until they pulled up in front of the Barnes's house. Beatrice gave a small start; she hadn't realized they were in Brooklyn Heights already. "I'll smuggle you in quickly so Becca and my mother don't realize you're here," he said, completely seriously. "Unless you want to cook while they shout orders at you. It's like being in boot camp all over again."
Grateful for the change of topic, Beatrice nodded and climbed out of the car, spotting George Barnes talking to a lanky boy who couldn't have been older than nineteen. Beatrice's hand flew up to cover her mouth when she realized that the boy's entire right arm was missing, a stump at the end of his shoulder the only sign that there had ever been a limb there.
"That's Paul Stewart," Bucky said in a low voice right next to her ear. Beatrice couldn't help the shudder that passed through her body when she realized how close he was to her, and hoped he wouldn't interpret it as disgust. "He lost his arm at Kasserine Pass and came home last month."
She recalled overhearing a conversation between Bucky's parents at Christmas—Winifred had mentioned that the "Stewart boy next door" had received his orders and was soon due to be shipped out to North Africa. She hadn't given the offhand comment another thought until now. A wave of pity engulfed her as she stared at the boy. "How is he?" she asked. "I mean, aside from the missing arm."
Bucky's lips twitched. "He's got a girl who'll take him even if he had no arms. He'll be all right." As if to prove his point, he raised a hand and shouted, "Hey, Paul!"
Both Paul and George turned at his words. Beatrice saw Paul grin and raise his good arm to wave back. George clapped him on the shoulder in farewell and began to walk over to Beatrice and Bucky, while Paul made his way back to his own house. It was difficult to keep her eyes off his arm—or where his arm should be. Beatrice wondered how many men were being sent back home with similar injuries.
"Hello, Beatrice," George said when he reached them. "My wife hoped you would be joining us this afternoon. How is work at the supply depot?"
"Very well, thank you," Beatrice replied. "I can't thank you enough for that, sir. If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't have a job at all."
"The pleasure is all mine," George said, with another warm smile at her, before turning to his son. "Is Steven coming?"
"He's sick," Bucky said as the three of them began to make their way up the front steps. "Another cold."
George chuckled. "That boy should move closer to a hospital."
"I've been telling him that for years, but he won't listen to me," Bucky mused.
Beatrice had been in the Barnes's house a handful of times, usually to have supper, but this was the first time she'd been here without Steve. Without heavy drapes covering the windows, sunlight poured in through every available nook and cranny, bathing the house in a pleasant, cheery warmth. She wanted to sit down and bask in it. Even something as natural as sunlight had been difficult to come by growing up in a dark and musty tenement building.
"Beatrice!"
She turned her head to see Winifred hurrying towards her. Bucky's mother, who had clearly become a surrogate for Steve, had happily taken on the same role for Beatrice. She enveloped Beatrice into a hug before pulling back and smiling at her. "I'm glad to see you've put on some weight since I saw you last. You're looking so much healthier."
She was infinitely grateful that Bucky was talking about the car's faulty brakes with George and wasn't paying attention to them. The last thing she wanted was for him to start looking for where she had gained weight—which unfortunately hadn't been in the places she needed it most, like her hips and chest.
"Do you and Rebecca need help preparing lunch?" Beatrice asked, hoping to change the subject.
"Oh, of course not, dear!" exclaimed Winifred. "You are our guest. Just relax and don't be afraid to tell James off if he starts to misbehave." She smiled fondly at her son as if he was a boy again, and when Bucky turned at the sound of his name she brushed a speck of dust off his uniform.
"Aw, c'mon, Ma," Bucky said, stepping back out of her range. George had settled onto the divan with his pipe and Beatrice distantly heard Rebecca calling for Winifred. With one more smile at Beatrice, Winifred hurried out of the sitting-room, stopping to pinch Bucky's cheek on her way out. Beatrice laughed at their antics while another part of her watched in fascination: so this was what a family was supposed to be like.
"Come on, Rosie," Bucky said, and beckoned her from the foyer. Curious, Beatrice followed him up the winding staircase and to the very end of the upper hallway. She had never been this far in the house before.
Bucky was standing in the middle of a bedroom that, though larger than Steve's, was much cleaner. The bed was neatly made and the desk next to the closet, while cluttered, at least had some level of organization. A pile of books was pushed against the wall, partially obscuring what looked like a chemistry set. Beatrice took a step closer and saw that they were all science and engineering textbooks. "Is this your bedroom?" she blurted out.
"Yeah." Bucky looked almost sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. He tossed his cap onto the bed and moved to open the curtains covering the window.
Beatrice felt as if she had stumbled onto something private, even though Bucky had brought her in here of his own accord. She was used to being in Steve's room by now, but then again she was also used to living with him.
"I didn't know you were so interested in science," Beatrice teased before she could help it, looking at the chemistry set. She saw a miniature model of an airplane which looked as if it had been hastily shoved under the desk and bent down to get a closer look.
"I went to art school for a year with Steve, but it wasn't really my thing," Bucky admitted. "That's the only decent thing I made there."
"It's lovely," Beatrice told him, straightening up and noticing that he had taped a newspaper article advertising the World Expo over his desk, next to a calendar featuring beaming pin-up girls, their glazed smiles seemingly taunting her. There was even a picture of a high-school-aged Bucky and Steve propped up on the desk at some sort of science fair.
"I figured I'd never given you a proper tour of the house before," Bucky said, but he made no move to leave the room. Beatrice thought he sounded almost nervous—she would have thought his seemingly unbreakable ego would have been able to withstand any blows she threw at him.
Wanting to reassure him, she said, "I don't think I've ever been inside a house this big before."
Luckily it worked; Bucky relaxed and began to regain more of his usual bravado. Beatrice's curiosity was too much for her to contain; she walked over to the window, and, looking out, saw that it offered a pleasant view of the street below and the front garden. A rose trellis wound up the side of the house, ending just beneath the window. She refrained from commenting, rather sarcastically, that it would be perfect for any girls who wanted to sneak into his bedroom at night, and turned back around.
He appeared to be waiting for her to say something, so she asked him the question that had been weighing on her mind all week. "How was training?"
Bucky glanced away from her and leaned against the bedpost, staring down at his hands. "Fine, I guess," he said. "My unit was told that we're going to be shipped out sometime this summer."
Beatrice's heart dropped. "Were you…were you given a date?"
"No. But I wouldn't be surprised if it was sooner rather than later." Bucky still wasn't meeting her eyes. Beatrice scrambled for something to say.
"Isn't Ernest going off to fight?" she asked, thinking of Rebecca's sweetheart: she assumed they were still going steady.
"He got conscientious objector status, but we all know it was because of his father's influence. He's the mayor of a town in Connecticut."
Bitterness pervaded his tone, and Beatrice thought she had finally discovered the reason for his apparent dislike of Ernest besides his audacity to go steady with Bucky's younger sister. "So there's nothing you can do," she said quietly.
"Nothing," Bucky replied with grim finality. "Unless the war ends before I get there."
"You never know," Beatrice said lightly. "By the way, Connie came around a few times."
Bucky glanced up, looking almost startled. "To Steve's place?"
Beatrice nodded. "She wanted to know where you were. Apparently you didn't tell her you would be gone."
"I didn't," Bucky muttered, staring down at his hands again. "There was no need for her to know."
"I thought you were going steady. She said you promised to take her to the World Expo in June."
"Yeah, but she asked me first. And we're not going steady."
Beatrice was surprised at the vehemence in his voice; before she could question why, there was movement from the doorway and Rebecca appeared, the family's cat in her arms. "Lunch is ready," she told them. Beatrice didn't miss the way her eyes flickered back and forth between her and Bucky.
"Thanks, Becca," she said, smiling at the younger girl. When she turned back to Bucky, he was still staring at her with a look that rooted her to the spot. "Bucky?" she asked, a bit breathless.
"Sure thing, Rosie," Bucky replied, although Beatrice wasn't sure he had even heard a word that Rebecca said.
Three thousand miles away, in an impenetrable fortress buried deep within the Bavarian Alps, Arnim Zola was bent over a microscope, examining the inner workings of his latest creation. He had spent nearly a year perfecting this design—soon he would know if his hard work had finally paid off.
"Doctor Zola!"
He immediately snapped to attention as Johann Schmidt strode into the laboratory, wearing his SS uniform with his hands clasped behind his back. "Good evening," Zola replied, with more than a touch of nervousness to his voice. His eyes landed on the briefcase Schmidt was holding, which was giving off a very faint blue glow. Surely Schmidt didn't expect him to be finished already? "My designs are nearly complete. A month, two at the very most."
Schmidt laughed, the harsh sound echoing throughout the room, and carefully placed the briefcase on the windowsill, the bay window reflecting the bright snowcapped mountain peaks beyond. "That is not the design I am here for today, Doctor," he said. "Nevertheless...I will be expecting progress soon."
"Of course," Zola replied eagerly. "The combatants can already withstand an energy surge as long as—"
"Come," Schmidt interrupted, his tone dismissive, and waved a hand in Zola's general direction. The doctor paused, slightly disappointed, but obediently scuttled to his side.
Schmidt was standing in front of one of Zola's most recent inventions, a radio that had been fitted with a complex system of circuits that made instantaneous communication possible without the threat of surveillance. "I was told there was a message for me."
"There is," Zola confirmed, noticing the flashing red light on the button where the dial had once been. He knelt down in front of it and began to fiddle with the knob as static buzzed through the room, searching for the correct frequency. He gave Schmidt's briefcase another nervous glance. "And the artifact?"
"I am hoping the energy given off will make for a clearer call," Schmidt replied. He sounded coldly amused as he stared down at Zola. "Do I detect a hint of fear in your voice, Doctor?"
"No, of course not," Zola said quickly, rising to his feet. "It is just…unnatural. I have never seen anything like it before. It is powerful. Dangerous."
"And that is exactly what we want, isn't it?" Schmidt asked, with a twisted grin. Zola thought he could see the outline of scarlet burning just under his skin, and turned away uncomfortably. He did not respond to Schmidt's question, sensing it had been rhetorical. No further explanation was needed; now that his assistance had been given, he was no longer useful. Schmidt's refusal to prompt further conversation was dismissal enough. Zola retreated gratefully back to his workspace while keeping one eye fixed on the other man.
An odd buzzing filled the laboratory, so loud that it hurt Zola's ears. For a second, he feared his invention had not worked—but then it lessened and he could hear a third voice speaking through the radio, as crystal clear as if its owner was standing feet away from them.
"Herr Schmidt," said Heinz Kruger smoothly. "I trust everything is well."
"Yes, the plan is progressing as well as expected so far," Schmidt answered, glancing back at Zola, who pretended to be absorbed in his work. "The energy latent in the Tesseract will soon be transferred into our weapons. One of the Führer's top scientists has been assigned to the project."
Zola was trying so hard not to draw any attention to himself that he fumbled with his screwdriver and dropped it to the floor. He quickly retrieved it before it could roll under the table and cocked an ear toward Schmidt again, but the conversation had already shifted.
"I understand you wished to speak to me," Schmidt was saying. He was staring across the laboratory, out at the mountains—or perhaps at the Tesseract. Zola couldn't be sure.
"Yes," Kruger replied. "I have found Erskine."
Now he had Schmidt's full attention; he immediately snapped to attention and stared at the radio as if he could see Kruger in person. "Where?" he demanded.
"New York. I accompanied the American senator Brandt to a conference at Stark Industries when I encountered him. He was accompanied by Ivan Romanov, a high-ranking employee. You may recall—"
"Yes, yes, Hydra has been monitoring Romanov for quite some time," Schmidt snapped impatiently. "He is of no threat to us right now. At least we know that Howard Stark is somehow involved in this. Of course he would wish to ally himself with someone powerful who can fund his…flawed inventions."
Kruger cleared his throat. "There was a woman with them, but she did not follow Romanov into the building."
"It wasn't Carter, was it?" Schmidt demanded, whirling back around to face the radio.
"No," came Kruger's voice, and Schmidt relaxed. A snowstorm had begun outside; to a casual observer, he would have seemed as if he was admiring the view rather than being lost in thought.
"Good," he said. "Carter already cost me Erskine; if you ever come across her you have direct orders to kill, understand?"
"Yes, Herr Schmidt."
"Do you have anything on the girl, then?" Schmidt asked, arching an eyebrow.
"As a matter of fact, I do." Kruger sounded smug. "Her name is Beatrice Hartley. She is Ivan Romanov's niece."
"And how is she connected to Erskine?"
"I am not sure," admitted Kruger.
Schmidt stroked his chin thoughtfully before speaking again. "Then you must do some more investigating. See how close this girl is to our friend Herr Romanov. She may prove to be a valuable source of information."
"What of Erskine, then?" Kruger asked with a touch of impatience.
"Do not act hastily just yet," Schmidt warned. "We do not know how close the Americans are to replicating the serum. I shall give you orders when the time comes."
"Understood, Herr Schmidt."
Schmidt leaned so close to the radio that Zola could barely hear his next words: "Hail Hydra."
"Hail Hydra," Kruger echoed, and the radio faded into silence again.