Dear Bucky,

It's been a few weeks since I last wrote you, and I'm never sure what you got last. I got a letter from you a few weeks ago, but it was dated almost two months back. I have no idea if you're getting any of my letters. So much has changed for me. So much about me has changed and it hurts that you're not here. That you don't know.

At the risk of repeating myself, I got into the Army. I volunteered to do an experiment to make me stronger and bigger. It worked. And, now I'm touring the states as Captain America, the best war bonds spokesman in the world.

Everyone is really nice. The girls are all knockouts. I love watching them rehearse, because they're all really good at what they do. And because they're nice to look at. When we have downtime (and the theater is even worse with the "hurry up and wait" stuff than the Army is), I draw them. Dancing, talking, portraits. Just little doodles mostly, but sometimes more detailed stuff. A few of the girls offered to buy a picture off me so they could send it to their fellas overseas. Not that I would ever make them pay. I've included a few sketches for you. And a poster from our last show. I figured you could use the laugh. If I could find a way to send you one of the films I did, I would, but maybe they'll show one of them some night when you've got a moment of peace or something. I know: me in the pictures. Can you believe it? I can't, and I'm doing them.

I feel almost as useless here as I did back home. Not quite as much, since I am doing something. The girls keep reminding me that I'm giving people hope. And I can see that. Especially on the faces of the little kids. The ones who've got dad and brothers and uncles overseas, they look at me like I'm their hero. A few of them ask me to watch out for their loved ones overseas. It'd be cruel to tell them I've never been over there. That if Colonel Phillips has his way, I'll never see any action.

I don't get it. The serum worked. I'm bigger and faster and stronger than anyone else. Yes, I'm only one guy, but isn't one more man facing the Nazis better than nothing?

I hope this letter finds you. Stay safe.

Yours, Steve

"Hey, look, it's the man with the plan."

Steve looks up from her sketchbook. "Hi, Evie."

The chorus girl nudges him with her leg. "Move over."

Steve obliges, scooting over on the top stair in back of the theater, allowing Evie to sit next to her.

"Are you drawing or writing a letter?" Evie asks, pulling out her cigarette case.

"Both." She shows Evie the sketchbook. It's of the girls standing backstage in small groups, gossiping and stretching while waiting for places to be called. A handful of months ago, it had been a foreign world back there, full of magic and newness. Now, it was so familiar Steve could navigate a backstage like the back alleys of Brooklyn.

"That's amazing." She leans over Steve's shoulder, resting her cheek against it. "There's me! You made me look so pretty."

"I will never understand why any of you think you don't always look amazing. You're all so beautiful."

"You're so sweet, Steve." She kisses her on the cheek, then pulls back to lite her cigarette. "So, who's the letter to? You leave a dame back in New York that you haven't told us about?"

"Even if I did, I still wouldn't be allowed to tell you. Senator Brandt insists that I maintain an aura of mystery."

Evie giggles. "Has he met you? You're the least mysterious man I've ever met."

"I wear a mask. No one knows my name. Except, you know, everyone who works on the show. But I mean, you know. The public. They don't know who I am." She sighs and looks down at the sketchpad. Starts adding shadows.

"They know you're strong and good. That you'd do anything for your country. They know you're a hero."

"I haven't done anything to be a hero," she says. "It's just a show."

Evie sighs. She puts her arm around Steve's shoulder. "Well, you're a hero to us. We've been on the road for months and you haven't made a pass at any of us. You haven't leered, you haven't joined in on the catcalling with the other guys…"

"Who's doing that? I'll…"

"You stopped the catcalling when you heard about it," Evie continues like Steve hadn't said anything. "You even acted like a perfect gentleman when Dottie invited you to her room."

Her cheeks burn. "I didn't realize…"

"We know. And it's adorable." She sits up again, letting her arm drop. "Who are you writing to?"

"My best friend. Bucky. He's overseas with the 107th."

Evie puts her cigarette in her mouth. Inhales and holds the smoke. "My husband's in the Navy. On the USS-Maryland. He was at Pearl Harbor and survived, but every day, I can't help wondering if this will be the day I get that telegram." She taps her cigarette against her shoe. "I haven't gotten anything from him in a while. Not a letter, not anything." She puts the cigarette in her mouth again.

"Me neither," Steve says. "Well. No, I have. A few weeks ago. But he mailed it months ago. Before we started tour." She sighs. "I don't know if my letters are really making it to him."

"What do you mean?"

She swallows. "I feel like, maybe, my letters are being taken. And maybe so are his."

"Why would you think that?"

"I don't know." She presses her pencil against the sketchpad until the tip breaks. "It took three weeks before Brandt allowed me to talk to any of you girls. And I was told over and over again not to reveal too much about myself. To keep myself separate. That I had to maintain the illusion of Captain America as much as I could. Twenty-four, seven, if possible."

"That's not possible. I mean, you are Captain America. I don't know why they don't let go over and fight, but there is no doubt in my mind that you are everything they say you are. But you have be a person, too." She rubbed his arm. "So. What are your secrets? Since you're dying to let them out."

Steve closes her eyes and takes a long, deep breath. "Evie, I'd love to tell you. But I'm government property."

"Oh, government property? That sounds intriguing. Especially since I'm fairly sure that a person can't be property. This isn't the eighteen hundreds."

"No, I know. I just agreed… I mean, before… and then…"

The stage door opens. Martin, Brandt's assistant and Steve's personal shadow since the tour started, sticks his head out. "Steve, get your stuff together. You too, Evie. Brandt just called. We're taking the show overseas to perform for the troops."

Steve gapes at him a moment. "You serious?"

"Why would I joke about something like this? It's not even funny. Yes, I'm serious. We need to be ready to leave in an hour. Move it!" He disappears back into the theater, door closing behind him.

Evie's grinning. "This is great! We're finally going over there. I've always wanted to do shows for the troops. Hey." She pokes him in the side. "Maybe we'll see your friend while we're there."

Steve rolls her eyes and shakes her head. "Yeah," she says, smiling lopsidedly. "Maybe."

Evie finishes off her cigarette and tosses it away. "I gotta go tell the girls. I gotta go pack!" She leaps to her feet. "Well come on, Star Spangled Man. Get your on your feet and move! We're taking the show on the road!"

Really, when Steve is booed off the stage and pelted with fruit, she isn't surprised. Well, surprised, because she still somehow expects people to act with dignity, and being flashed by someone's unattractive rear end isn't what she calls dignified, but beyond that, it's not a real shock. Like she said to Evie, she hasn't done anything yet. Not like these guys. There's no reason for them to respect her.

She's not even surprised to recognize Gilmore Hodge's voice and sneering face out there. Of all the army bases in all the world, right?

The second show is cancelled because it starts pouring rain. Steve thanks the weather gods and hunkers down next to the stage. He isn't sure where the girls have gone. Probably to the mess hall or common areas or where ever the troops were. About a quarter of the girls were married. A lot of the others had sweethearts and fiancées fighting. All of them, however, had spent the last hundred miles of the journey giggling and blushing like they were the ones that hadn't seen a member of the opposite sex in forever.

"There's just something about a man in uniform," Dottie had sighed as the bus rolled onto base. She'd had her face almost pressed against the window as she gazed at the bedraggled men milling about.

She doesn't begrudge the girls the attention they were getting. Better them than her. They deserve having people fawning over them. They're beautiful and talented and some of the strongest people Steve knows. They deserve to have a little fun.

She just wishes she could prove that she could be something, too. Not for the attention. Just, because, well, otherwise, what had Erskine's hard work been for?

"Hello, Steve."

Her heart leaps at the voice. She turns to see Agent Carter, standing on the stage behind her as she removes her slicker.

"Hi."

She stands over Steve for the longest moment that's ever passed, just looking at her. Steve just stares, wondering how she managed to look to put together, so beautiful in such a dreary place.

Then she realizes it's been about a hundred years since anyone's spoken. She shakes her head. "What are you doing here?"

That breaks the spell. Agent Carter sits next to her and says, "Officially, I'm not here at all." She glances at the sketchbook, then back at Steve. "That was quite a performance."

Her face burns. She looks away, stomach heavy with shame. "Yeah. I had to improvise a little bit. The crows I'm used to are usually more, uh. Twelve." She feels like an idiot as she says it. Kids worshiped her. Kids thought she was something special. They ate up every bit of the show. Who on earth thought that a bunch of battle weary men would find her inspiring?

Agent Carter digs the knife in, saying sharply, "I understand you're 'America's New Hope.'"

Her voice isn't kind. She's angry, and Steve doesn't blame her. She'd warned Steve, all those months ago, a lifetime ago. She'd told Steve that Senator Brandt would turn her into a propaganda machine. And he had.

I'm not playing the game, though, she wants to protest. I get that I'm just a tool. But at least…. "Bond sales take a ten percent bump in every state I visit," she says. It's rote. She says it to the newspapers and for news clips. It doesn't mean anything; it's just a statistic that she's been trained to rattle off.

"Is that Senator Brandt I hear?"

She looks away, a surge of frustrated anger making her hot. Because she's had this conversation with everyone. With Senator Brant and Martin. With Dottie, that night in her room. With Evie and with Bucky, over and over again in her letters. But no one will listen to her. They just soothe away her fears, her devastation, telling her that she's bringing people hope and she's doing so well and no one will admit to her that it's all meaningless!

And now Agent Carter…

"At least he's got me doing this," she spits out, turning to the agent. She can't quite look at her. "Phillips would've had me stuck in some lab."

"And these are your only two options," Agent Carter retorts. "A lab rat or dancing monkey?" She lets her words sink in before saying, "You were meant for more than this, you know."

Yes, yes, I know! she wants to say. She turns to say it, to pour her heart out to Agent Carter, to tell her that she's been trying to get here, but no one will let her.

Agent Carter is looking at her. She listening. Really listening, like only her mom and Bucky, and later Dr. Erskine have ever listened. Like what she says and thinks really matters. Like it's important.

Her words die in her throat. She looks away.

"What is it?" Agent Carter asks gently.

She swallows. She doesn't know how to say this, not exactly. Because the serum and being a super soldier who's not allowed to serve as a soldier is only part of it.

The other part goes back so, so long ago. Back when she was little and miserable all the time. Back when she wore dresses and had long hair and no girls her age to play with. When the older girls on the block had treated her like their doll and never listened to her when she told them to stop putting ribbons in her hair and, no, she didn't want to play tea and, no, she wasn't gonna be their baby. She wanted to climb trees and play ball and soldier and cops and robbers. It wasn't just being sick all the time. That part was miserable, but just trying to fit in was the worst.

The week after they'd gotten news about her father's death had been a never ending parade of neighbors and friends coming to offer condolences. Steve had been sick with a fever and bad cough for most of it, but she remembered one afternoon when she'd felt well enough to be in the living room with the adults. One woman had sat, stroking her hair, while exchanging soft words with the other ladies.

Then she'd said, "Poor little girl. Growing up without a daddy. What are you ever going to do?" before kissing Steve on the head.

Steve had sat up and said, "I'm going be a solider like my daddy."

The ladies all laughed. The one sitting next to Steve said, "Honey, girls don't grow up to be soldiers." And then, because adults seem to think that if they aren't talking to children, they can't be heard, she'd said, "This little one will be lucky to grow to be a woman as it is."

It hadn't been until that moment Steve realized she'd have to be a grown-up woman someday. She'd started crying right there and didn't stop until long after the guests had left and she'd been put to bed.

That night, Steve had crept out of her room. She'd gotten her mother's sewing shears, gone to the bathroom, and hacked off her hair.

Her mother found her there in the morning, back pressed against the wall.

"Honey, what's wrong?" she'd asked, kneeling next to her.

"I don't want be a woman when I grow up," Steve whispered. "I want to be a soldier like daddy."

Her mother had stroked Steve's mangled hair. "You can be a soldier if you want."

She'd shaken her head. "No. No one will let me."

Her mother had been silent for a long time before she said, "Stevie. Do you want to be a boy?"

Steve had nodded. "Yes."

"Well. All right, then. We'll figure something out."

They had. And if it hadn't been easy, it'd been worth it. Even when Steve had still spent more of her childhood sick and when she wasn't, she was always the solider killed first, always the robber who was caught before the others and never hit a home run in her life. It was worth it even when none of the girls ever looked at her and most of the boys made fun of her. It was even worth it when she'd come to the realization that she wasn't actually a boy, she just wanted to be treated like one, dress like one, and live as one. It was a struggle, but it was worth it.

Because, just by saying she was a boy, she was able to walk through doors she never would have otherwise. Only now, this one was slammed in her face.

"You know," she says finally, "for the longest time, I dreamed about coming overseas and being on the front lines, serving my country. I finally got everything I wanted, and I'm wearing tights."

Just then, an ambulance comes racing up to the medical tent behind the stage. Steve and Agent Carter watch as a soldier is pulled out from the back, laid on a stretcher.

She shakes her head. Maybe, if she'd been there, she could have stopped at least one man from getting hurt.

"They look like they've been through hell."

"These men more than most," Agent Carter responds. At Steve looks, she says, "Schmidt sent out a force to Azzano. Two hundred men went up against him, fifty came back. Your audience contained was what was left of the 107th. The rest were killed or captured."

The world drops out from beneath her with a suddenness that makes her head spin. "The 107th?"

"What?"

She's up and running. "Come on!" Heart pounds in her ears, the world blurs around her. Bucky seems to hang right in front of her face, just ahead of her, achingly out of reach.

Steve had briefly seen Phillips when the bus had unloaded hours ago, but she'd had no desire to face him. Now, she marches up to his desk, hands shaking.

"Well, if it isn't the Star-Spangled Man with a plan," Phillips mocks. "What is your plan today?"

"I need the casualty list from Azzano."

"You don't get to give me orders, son."

"I just need one name." She tries to keep her voice steady. "Sergeant James Barnes from the 107th."

Phillips looks to Agent Carter. "You and I are gonna have a conversation later that you won't enjoy."

Steve clenches her fist to stop from strangling him. Why is he stalling? "Please, tell me if he's alive, sir. B-A-R…"

"I can spell." Phillips' face shifts. Suddenly, he's not the man who's doubted Steve at every turn. He's a seasoned veteran who's seen too many men fall before him. "I've sighed more of these condolence letters today than I would care to count." He rises, taking his clipboard with him. Turns his back to Steve. "But the name does sound familiar. I'm sorry."

He sounds sorry. He's destroyed Steve's world with six words, but he's sorry.

For a moment, she can't breathe. Can't think. Bucky. Her best friend, her brother. Her companion and roommate and her whole world. The only one in the world who knows her, the only person she knows better than she does herself. She can't…

"The rest were captured or killed."

Captured. Bucky had to be one of the ones that was captured. Because they were part of each other. Closer than just two friends. They were soul mates. If Bucky was dead, Steve would know.

She would know.

"What about the others? Are you planning a rescue mission?"

"Yeah, it's called winning the war."

"But if you know where they are, why don't you at least…"

"It's thirty miles behind the lines through some of the most heavily fortified territory in Europe. We'd lose more men than we'd save. But I don't expect you to understand that because you're a chorus girl."

It doesn't sting the way Phillips intended, because those chorus girls are a thousand times the men Phillips was. And so was she. "I think I understand just fine."

"Well then, understand it somewhere else. If I read the posters correctly, you've got someplace to be in thirty minutes." Phillips walks away, dismissing Steve from his tent and his mind.

Steve stares at the map in front of her, memorizing it. Memorizing this map like the countless ones she'd studied and memorized of the battles her father had fought. Of wars, ancient and modern, foreign and domestic. She didn't even need to stare at it as long as she did, because she'd long ago trained herself to know them at a glance, but she can't take that chance right now. She can't gamble. Not with Bucky's life.

"Yes, sir," she says when she's sure she has everything etched in her mind. "I do."