Bucky slept a lot over the course of the next few days. He couldn't remember ever having been so tired in his life. He kept nodding off mid-conversation and waking up several hours later, which was a little embarrassing, but Steve was gracious enough not to say anything about it. He also had the grace not to say anything about the nightmares—when he woke up screaming, Steve would just move to where Bucky could see him and hold on to him, grounding him back in the real world and reminding him he was safe now. They didn't talk about it, but Bucky knew Steve made a point of making sure he never woke up alone, and though it kind of made him feel like a little kid, he was immensely grateful.

Steve always checked with Bucky before leaving, but he was having more meetings with Colonel Phillips now. Steve had filled Bucky in on the S.S.R. and Hydra, and it looked like Phillips had decided Steve was crucial to taking those Nazi freaks down. Bucky couldn't agree more, though he didn't like the idea of Steve going out where people were shooting at him. He'd managed the rescue mission alright, though, and since he'd be going on sanctioned missions now, surely he'd have some sort of backup. He would check on that to make sure, once he was allowed to leave this stupid tent.

He was proud of Steve—he was finally able to do the sort of thing he'd been born to do. It was strange too, though. He wasn't sure what to do with himself anymore—it was like they'd completely switched places, and Bucky was the one who needed protecting now instead of Steve. It was kind of unsettling. He felt stupid being bothered by it.

When Steve was gone, Bucky did talk for a while with Eddie, the S.S.R. medic who'd been working on fixing whatever Hydra had done to him. Eddie had explained what they thought it was that Zola put in him, pointing out that the healing properties of the mysterious compound had actually kept him alive after leaving the camp and were helping take out the pneumonia too, even as they were breaking down. Bucky wasn't sure how he felt about that.

Eddie was kind of cagey about the whole breaking down of the compound. Bucky got the feeling that before Erskine died, Eddie had done more lab work than human interaction, and was really uncomfortable telling Bucky that the stuff still might kill him. Fair enough. The fact that there wasn't anything they could do but wait and see was really gnawing at Bucky's nerves, so he did his best not to think about it. If he concentrated, he could still feel the hot little shards of glass in his blood and the snakes churning in his gut. He tried not to think about that either.

He was starting to feel it less, and he hoped that meant it was breaking down in the good way and not in the way that would kill him.

He took a little hope in the fact that he was starting to feel better, though. He still slept a lot, but he was staying awake longer, and feeling more clear-headed when he did. His breathing was coming easier and his head had stopped pounding.

It was the end of the day when Eddie came by again. Steve had brought some food over from the mess tent and had settled into the chair by the bed for the evening. Bucky had half-heartedly tried to talk him into leaving and sleeping in a real bed. Steve was having none of that. Bucky didn't really mind.

"Oh, good, you're awake," Eddie said, pulling the curtain shut behind him.

"Hey, Eddie," Bucky greeted. He pulled his arm out from under the blanket and rolled up his sleeve. He got that they needed to check his blood all the time to monitor Hydra's crap, but a bruise was starting to form on his arm from the constant parade of needles. "Am I gonna have any blood left by the time you're done?" He supposed he wouldn't have to worry about whatever was in his blood if Eddie took all of it.

"What?" Eddie asked, looking confused. Bucky had tried joking with him a few times. It usually went over his head. "Oh, no, I'm not here for that," he said, shaking his head. "Well, actually, no, I do need another sample before I go," he corrected himself. "But that's not why I came."

"Did you guys figure something out?" Steve asked. His face was calm, but he sounded hopeful and anxious. Bucky looked over at him and then up at Eddie nervously, suddenly afraid to hear the answer.

Eddie smiled. "I've got good news. We're seeing a significant breakdown of the compound in your blood, and, even better, the components are being absorbed into the bloodstream and working their way out of your system."

Bucky was speechless for a moment, taking in Eddie's words and hoping he'd heard them right.

"Really?" Steve asked.

"I'm going to take some more samples to make sure," Eddie said, turning to Bucky. "And once you get to London, you'll need to go in for a full physical, but at the rate it's going, your body should be clear of everything Hydra put into it by the end of the week."

A relieved smile stretched across Bucky's face. "It's really going away?" Eddie nodded. "I'm gonna be okay?"

"You're going to be fine, Sergeant," Eddie said with a smile.

Relieved laughter bubbled up out of his chest and he turned to Steve, beaming. "I'm gonna be okay!" Zola hadn't beaten him after all. He turned back to Eddie, still grinning. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

"Well," Eddie said, shifting awkwardly. "I've actually done very little. But you're welcome."

He started to leave and Bucky sighed. "Wait," he called after him, holding out his arm. "You said you needed more?"

"Oh, right," Eddie said, cheeks coloring a little. He pulled a clean syringe from what had to be a never-ending supply in his lab-coat pocket. "Thank you."

"What'd I tell you?" Steve crowed, still grinning as Eddie left.

"Yeah, yeah, you just know everything, don't you, punk?" Bucky said, rolling down his sleeve with a smile. He knew this had been eating at Steve too. He looked back up, saw two of Steve and blinked, shaking his head a little to clear his vision.

"Dizzy?" Steve asked, nudging him back to lie down.

"A little light-headed," Bucky admitted. His headaches were gone, but between all the blood Eddie kept taking and the general crappiness of being sick, it didn't surprise him. He sighed. "I hate being sick." He looked up at Steve. "I don't know how you did it all the time."

"Practice makes perfect," Steve chuckled. "You're probably light-headed because you haven't eaten."

Steve had a point, but between the worry and the decreasing but ever-present nausea, food had been pretty far from his mind. "I really don't feel like eating," Bucky sighed, his stomach protesting the idea of food.

"Well, you should still try it," Steve said, pulling over the tray he'd brought in and grabbing a sandwich. "You'll feel better faster."

Again, Steve was probably right, but the snakes were starting to wake up again and Bucky put a hand to his stomach and shook his head.

Steve held out the sandwich. "I'll sit on you and make you eat this," he threatened.

Bucky's eyes went wide. "You wouldn't dare," he growled. They really had switched places. He used to threaten Little Steve with that all the time when he'd been sick, although he'd never actually done it.

"Eat the sandwich and I won't have to," Steve replied, a little too gleefully for Bucky's liking. He had to have been waiting years to be able to do this.

"You're a terrible person, Steven Rogers," Bucky grumbled, using his full name to emphasize his displeasure. Steve kept staring at him expectantly, and Bucky wouldn't necessarily put it past him to actually carry out his threat, so he grabbed the sandwich and took a small bite. It took him a while, with several long pauses to stop and breathe slowly and settle his stomach, but he got it down, and it seemed like it decided to stay there.

"See? That wasn't so bad," Steve said. He'd been watching Bucky eat, but had also eaten about fifteen sandwiches of his own.

"Shut up," Bucky said, stifling a yawn. He did, admittedly, feel a little better. He looked up at Steve's smug face. "I'm gonna thump you when I get better."

"Looking forward to it," Steve told him with a smile. "Because you are gonna get better."

"Yeah," Bucky agreed, letting his eyes slide shut. He was going to get better. And he wouldn't be, if Steve hadn't come and saved him. "Thanks, Stevie."

He wasn't sure what he dreamed about this time, but he woke up abruptly in a cold sweat, struggling to breathe and unsure of where he was. Large hands wrapped around his arms, tugging him out of half-asleep panic. "Buck?" a calm voice said. "It's okay, Bucky, you're okay."

He followed the voice and the hands back to Steve, sitting in front of him and failing to hide the concern in his eyes. Oh, yeah, he should probably breathe. It freaked Steve out when he didn't do that. "Steve?" he asked, and the grip on his arms tightened reassuringly, and yeah, okay, this was real and he was safe. He sighed, pulling his arms out of Steve's hands and rubbing his hands down his face. "Sorry," he breathed, feeling his cheeks going red. "I'm sorry." Steve was being great about this, but he just wished his stupid brain would settle down and realize everything was fine now. At least he wasn't crying this time.

"Buck, it's okay," Steve told him.

"I just wish I could get a handle on this," he sighed, flopping back down to his pillow and staring at the ceiling.

"It's been three days," Steve said softly, deep compassion flowing under his words. "No one's expecting you to just be okay all of a sudden. I'm not. Hell, I've had nightmares about what you told me they did to you, and I wasn't even there." Bucky looked up at him. Really? That soft sadness in his friend's eyes told him it was true. "It's okay," Steve assured him again.

Bucky sighed. He knew Steve was right. If their places had been reversed, he would have been saying the same things to Steve. He pushed himself up to sit back against the pillows. Whether this was normal or not, he wasn't in a hurry for more nightmares to show up. Besides, something else had been niggling at his brain. "Hey, Steve?" he asked.

"Yeah?"

"Do you know if…" Bucky started, feeling a little guilty for only bringing it up now. "I should've asked this earlier, but all this stuff with Hydra and my blood and everything put it clean outta my head…Do my folks know I'm okay?" He'd written home not too long before getting captured, but he'd been out of commission for nearly a month now. And if no one had been planning on breaking them out of the prison camp…Had letters of condolence already been sent out? He suddenly realized that his family might think he was dead, and felt sick to his stomach.

The look in Steve's eyes told him that hadn't occurred to him yet either, which made Bucky feel a tiny bit less guilty. "I don't think they knew you were missing yet," Steve said thoughtfully. "Phillips was writing condolence letters the other day, which is when I found out you were missing," he explained, his voice a little tight. Bucky grimaced. That's right, Steve had been afraid he was dead. "But I don't think they got sent anywhere before we came back," Steve finished.

Bucky nodded. That made sense. "That's good. That's good, I wouldn't want them to think I was…" He shook his head. Phillips struck Bucky as a very efficient sort of guy. "Would you, I mean…Would you mind checking?" he asked Steve. Just in case. "Just in case it did get sent? I need to write them anyway, but if a letter telling them I'm dead is going to get there before mine…" Sure, he could correct it in his own letter, but he hated for them to go through that, however briefly.

"Sure," Steve nodded, rising form his chair. Bucky hadn't been going to insist that he do it now, but he was glad he was. "Here." He handed him a notebook and pen he pulled from the bag by his chair. "I'll go and check with Phillips, and you can get started on the letter if you want."

Bucky smiled gratefully. "Thanks, Steve."

Steve left and Bucky sat up a little straighter, propping the notebook on his knees. He chewed on the end of the pen thoughtfully, suddenly unsure of where to begin. Hey, guys! Sorry I haven't written in a while. I was busy being experimented on by a mad scientist, you know how it is…Yeah, that would go over well.

Dear Ma, Pop and Becky, he started at last. I know it's been a while since I've written, and I'm sorry. I hope you haven't been too worried about me. My unit was in some pretty heavy combat for a while, and we moved around a lot…

He really, really didn't want to tell them about the camp. It wasn't that he wanted to lie, but he knew they were worried enough as it was. He sighed, grabbing a sandwich from Steve's plate and nibbling on it thoughtfully. He couldn't not tell them, though. He had to tell them something.

You may have read about it in the paper, but my unit hit a pretty rough patch recently. That was putting it mildly. We lost some good men, and the rest of us were captured. No matter what you did hear, though, I don't want you to worry—we weren't there long before we were rescued. I'm safe, I'm in one piece, and I'm taking some well-deserved R&R. Yeah, so, his R&R was happening in a medical tent, but he'd be better by the time they got this. You should've seen the smoking crater that was left of that place by the time we busted out! Maybe some humor would help it not seem so bad.

He thought about mentioning Steve, then decided against it for now. They probably didn't know about giant Steve. That was a longer letter for another time. Once Bucky knew what was going on with that. He wondered if they even knew Steve was over here.

He thought back to the last letter he'd gotten from them, and decided to work his way forward from there. He knew his sister had finally found an opening at a school and was teaching math. He was glad that worked out for her—she'd worked hard enough for that degree, and he didn't like the idea of her waiting tables. He knew the kind of creeps she had to put up with at those all-night places. He asked her how it was all going and told a little story about some cute Italian kids they'd met on a farm they'd passed by a while back. He asked how his dad's work on the car was going—it was his never-ending project, fixing that old thing up. Half the time it didn't run because he'd taken something out to tinker with it. He added the story he'd heard from Dugan about stealing the tank—he figured his dad would appreciate it. For his ma, he assured her again that he was alright, and told her about the cathedral he'd been to last time they'd been in a town, describing the stained glass as best as he could remember. His ma had always loved stained glass.

I miss you all, he finished. Take care of yourselves until I get back. I hope I'll get to see you soon. All my love—Bucky.

Steve returned just as he was finishing up. "How's the letter coming?" he asked.

"Just about done," Bucky told him. He swallowed the last of his sandwich, ignoring Steve's smug smirk. "I didn't really go into detail about the labor camp. Do I need to add any sort of explanation, or…?" he trailed off. He figured he'd covered the situation well enough—as long as they hadn't already been told he was dead.

"Phillips never sent the letters," Steve told him. "So, no one thinks you're dead." Well, that was a relief. "Just…" Steve continued. "Maybe not so good at writing letters."

"Very funny," Bucky said sarcastically, folding up the letter. He'd have to ask the nurse about an envelope and a stamp. He sighed. He'd tried to reassure them as best he could with the letter, but…"They haven't heard from me in a month. They may not have been told I'm dead, but they're probably starting to worry."

Steve sat down on the end of his bed. "You're in a war," he said with a sympathetic shrug. "They'd worry even if you sent a letter every day."

Bucky nodded. That was certainly true. "Were they alright when you left?" he asked. They'd been saying things were fine in their letters, but Steve had seen them more recently than he had.

"Yeah," Steve nodded. "I mean, I didn't see them after…all this," he said, gesturing at his newly gigantic body. So, yeah, good call not mentioning Steve in the letter. "But they were all okay. I saw them a few times a week." He smiled. "Your ma kept having me over for dinner and then complaining that I didn't eat as much as you did."

Bucky laughed. His ma had always kept a close eye on Steve since Mrs. Rogers died. If it was up to her, she'd probably feed him three meals a day. "That sounds like her," he chuckled. He cast an eye to the plate he'd nabbed the sandwich from. "If she could see you eat now, though…" He shook his head and Steve grinned. He was glad to hear they were doing okay.

"Hey, so, yesterday," he asked. "Or this morning, or whenever it was that Eddie was in here…" He had no idea what time it was. The tent didn't let in a lot of light. "He said something about London?" He'd mentioned a physical in London, but that was the first Bucky had heard of being shipped out. He'd forgotten about it until now, the relief of knowing he was going to be okay taking precedence.

"Yeah," Steve said. He looked like he thought Bucky should know what he was talking about. Bucky raised an eyebrow for him to continue. "We're going to London at the end of the week."

Okay, yeah, he'd gathered that. "Why?"

"Phillips is meeting with the S.S.R. brass there," Steve explained. "They're working out something for a strike team against Hydra."

Bucky nodded. "So that's why you're going to London." Steve was talking about this like it was old news. Had Bucky fallen asleep while Steve had been telling him about it? He didn't think so. He was getting better at staying awake. "Why am I going?"

"They're sending everyone from the camp out for R&R," Steve said. Thoughtful of them. "Since I'm headed for London anyway, it seemed easier if that's where you went too." Oh. Right. Steve wanted him where he could keep an eye on him. "I'd have to get you there eventually," he finished.

Bucky sighed deeply, looking down at the sheet in his lap. "You don't have to do that, Steve," he said quietly.

"Do what?" Steve sounded genuinely confused.

"I'm getting better," Bucky said. "I can do my R&R wherever, and then I'm good to go back to the front." Most of his unit was back now, and he figured they'd be regrouping before too long. "You don't have to drag me around and babysit me." He knew Steve felt responsible for him, and while he appreciated that, he knew Steve had things to do now. This world of covert army divisions and super-powered Nazis was above Bucky's pay grade. Steve didn't need him slowing him down.

"Babysit you?" Steve repeated, sounding surprised. "No, Bucky, that's not—"

Bucky interrupted him with as much of a smile as he could manage. "I don't need you feeling sorry for me, Steve. You've got your whole thing going now, and you're gonna do great." He really was. Bucky was prouder of him than he could say. But he didn't know how to keep up with this new Steve, didn't know where he fit anymore. He didn't want to hold Steve back, but it hurt a little having to let him go. "I don't wanna be in the way," he insisted. "I've got my unit—I can go back there, and I'll be fine."

"You wouldn't be in the way, Bucky," Steve said. He looked hurt, and Bucky hadn't meant to make him feel bad. "And you're not coming to London because I feel sorry for you," he continued. "I want you to come because I, I need you there."

Bucky couldn't help a small, humorless laugh. Steve was so used to Bucky looking after him, he didn't realize he didn't need that anymore. "No, you don't," he said softly, trying not to sound bitter.

"I don't what?"

Bucky wanted to roll his eyes. Was Steve being purposefully dense? "You don't need me," he said, and that…that didn't feel good, spelling it out. "You've got this, Stevie." And he did. He really did.

"I don't—" Steve sputtered. "Bucky, of course I need you," he insisted.

"For what?" Bucky asked without heat. "This is your show now, man, you don't need me holding you back. You can take care of yourself." He appreciated Steve's loyalty. But he'd come a long way from the little punk who got beat up in back alleys. He was strong, he was smart, and he could lead. Bucky had seen him do it. He gave him a quick smile—he didn't want Steve to think he was mad at him, because he wasn't—then looked down at his hands. He knew Steve didn't need him anymore, but he didn't want to watch him realize it.

Steve was quiet for a long moment. "Bucky," he said at last, his voice soft and sad. "I don't…" He sighed, and when his voice came back, it was sharp and a little bit angry. "Four days ago, I stormed a Nazi weapons factory alone in the middle of the night with a prop shield and a handgun. What the hell do you think I did that for?"

He wasn't quite sure where Steve was going with this. "I'm guessing the four hundred prisoners of war had something to do with it."

"I didn't do it for them," Steve said resolutely. Bucky's eyes snapped up to him in surprise. Doing the right thing was what Steve was all about. "I mean, don't get me wrong," Steve continued. "I'm glad I was able to get them out and they're okay, but…" He met Bucky's eyes. "I went in there for one person."

Shame colored Bucky's cheeks and he looked down again.

"I don't need you because you take care of me when I'm sick or fight off bullies in back alleys," Steve continued softly. "I need you because you're my best friend. Hell," he huffed. "Forget friends, you're my brother. Yeah, maybe I can fight my own fights now, but…" He moved over and put a large, warm hand on Bucky's shoulder. "I'm always gonna need you, Buck."

Bucky kept staring at his lap. He was the world's smallest, pettiest person. Deep down he knew, he knew Steve didn't keep him around just because of what he could do for him. He knew that. Hell, as much as he needed Steve, it didn't really surprise him that Steve felt the same way. It was kind of humbling. But not surprising. Because Steve was right—they'd been brothers since they were six years old. He'd just gotten so caught up in feeling sorry for himself…

He drew in a deep breath and looked up at Steve. Steve's eyes were blazing sincerity, begging Bucky to believe him, and Bucky nodded. "Okay," he said quietly. He'd always believed the little guy. He smiled—a real smile to let Steve know he meant it—then shook his head, a fresh wave of shame coloring his cheeks. "You must think I'm an idiot." He couldn't recall a time he'd felt more stupid.

Steve's hand was still resting on his shoulder, and he squeezed it warmly. "No." That was all he said. That was all he needed to say.

Bucky shook his head again, running his hands slowly through his hair. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't've…" He sighed. He shouldn't've brought it up. He should have sat there and thought about it and realized what an idiot he was being. He really thought he'd gotten his brain around this whole new Steve thing. "Apparently, wrapping my head around this is more work than I thought it would be."

"It's fine," Steve told him sincerely, a warm, encouraging smile on his face. "And, you know, I know it's weird. It took me like a week to stop running into things." Bucky couldn't stop himself from smiling at that mental image. "It still catches me off guard sometimes," Steve said. Gratitude swelled in Bucky's chest as he got what Steve was trying to tell him. It'd taken him, the guy who was living in the giant new body, a while to get used to it. He wasn't expecting Bucky to get his head all around it at once.

"So, however long it takes you to process it, it's fine," Steve said firmly. "Just know that the only thing that's different is that I'm taller now. That's it. You and me? Nothing's changed." Bucky smiled to himself, suddenly not feeling so stupid anymore. Sometimes, he didn't think he deserved a friend like Steve.

"Well," Steve added, and Bucky could hear the smirk in his voice. "That's not entirely true." Bucky looked up at him, wondering where this was going. "I don't think you can toss me over your shoulder and carry me to the clinic anymore."

Surprised, delighted laughter burst out of Bucky's throat. That had been the last thing he'd expected to hear. He smiled broadly, still chuckling. "You didn't talk to me for, what, a week after that?" he asked, smiling at the memory. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

"I was twenty-four years old," Steve said curtly. "And you carried me down the street like a sack of potatoes."

"If you had just gone to the clinic on your own…" Bucky repeated his original argument, smiling at the undignified picture he knew they'd made.

"I was fine," Steve said, repeating his own argument.

Bucky snorted. Between coughing bad enough to hack up a lung and wheezing for every breath he took, the punk had been incomprehensible. "You couldn't make it through a single word without hacking up enough mucus to fill a coffee cup."

Steve's nose wrinkled at Bucky's analogy. "That is disgusting."

"You were disgusting," Bucky retorted, still grinning.

Steve smiled. Bucky knew what he'd been trying to do, and he appreciated it. And, yeah, Steve was right, he really was the same little punk underneath. Bucky realized he'd foolishly been worried that he'd lost that little guy. But he was still here. Like Steve said, he was just taller now. Nothing else had changed.

"So," Steve offered. "You wanna know where the name 'Captain America' came from?"

Bucky grinned and settled back against his pillow, tucking his arms behind his head. This was going to be good.