Around him, the homeless of Salt Lake City hummed and buzzed with excitement. Before he could say a word, he was ushered closer to the fire. The smoke was black oily and smelled of plastic, but the fire was warm and Steve felt the last of the damp fleeing from his bones.

"By God, it really is him!" Said one man. He was surprisingly young for being homeless. He couldn't have been more than twenty. Steve wondered what could drive a boy to such desperate circumstances. He had since learned that unemployment was a serious problem for the modern day United States, and Steve couldn't help but wonder at that. It had been a problem back in his day, too. Unemployment would always be a problem, but this boy was young and fit in his prime. Yet here he was, huddling around a barrel fire with the old and the insane and the drunks.

"He's a lot more handsome in person," said one elderly woman with a scandalous chortle.

"Don't say things like that," McMillan cried in amusement, "You don't want to scare him off now, do you?"

"God bless Captain America," said another man, taking off his knit-cap and clutching it in one gnarled hand. "My father was part of the 73rd infantry. You saved his life, Captain. God bless you sir, God bless you." And the old man took Steve's hand in his own and shook it vigorously.

The shock from Steve's chase was wearing off and the adrenaline that had been fueling his strength since his fall was fading away. The pain from his injured arm was beginning to resurface, and flared into such brilliance as the man shook his hand that Steve cried out and pulled back, cradling his arm close to his chest.

"Cap?" McMillan said, stepping forward hastily and putting a hand on Steve's shoulder, "Rogers? What's wrong? Blast it, step back all of you! Give him some air! Rogers, are you hurt?"

Steve straightened, still pressing his arm close to his chest. "Just my arm. Please, do any of you have a phone I could borrow? I have a call I really need to make."

McMillan looked at Steve closely, then raised his head to address the crowd, "Anyone got a phone? Anyone?"

Silence.

"Alright." Turning to Steve once more, he said, "I'll take care of that. Don't you worry. Margaret, can you do something about his arm?"

"It's okay, really," Steve said, putting up his good hand as if to ward off the tiny old woman who approached him with a look of fierce determination in her blind, milky eyes. "It's-"

He broke off as Margaret gently pried his wounded arm free of his chest. He was surprised by the strength the little woman had in her bony arms, and reluctantly gave in to her ministrations. He bit his tongue and looked up at the sky as Margaret felt along his arm with cold fingers. They bit down, pinching here and there as they searched for the break. Her fingers made their way up his forearm until the reached a spot about two inches below Steve's elbow joint. This time when Margaret's claws pinched down he let out a hiss and grit his teeth.

Margaret released Steve's arm and nodded, "I can fix this," she said, "But not with all of you hanging on his coat sleeves." She gestured Steve in the direction of a shack began walking towards it, as if she expected him to follow her without complaint. Which he did. "Go make yourselves useful!" She cried before ducking into the small, dark interior.

The shack itself was made of metal and wooden sheeting, plastic bags, newspapers, tarps, garbage can lids. Anything that could be found on the streets had been used in it's construction. Steve crouched and followed Margaret inside. The door was narrow, and his wide shoulders barely fit.

Once inside, Margaret ordered him to sit on a cardboard sheet, which took the place of a chair. She sat on a similar sheet next to him and began rummaging through her store of black trash bags, searching for something or other.

"They love you, you know," the old woman said suddenly. "They look up to you. The people."

Steve wasn't sure what to say to that. He knew that people loved him. Looked up to him. They followed him blindly to war even though they understood their chances of following him home were slim. And for the life of him, Steve couldn't understand why.

Margaret disentangled herself from the bag and held up an undecipherable wad of something with victory. She spread out the supplies neatly, but in the darkness Steve was hard-pressed to make out what they were.

"You do not think you deserve that trust," Margaret said, "Why?"

Steve was taken aback. The woman spoke as if she had pulled his thoughts straight out of his brain. He wet his dry lips then said, "I was out on a mission, but I failed. I couldn't save. . . I couldn't save my friend."

As Steve spoke, Margaret once again took his wounded arm in her cold hands, feeling the tender area around the break.

"I've let him down twice now. Because of that, he's sick, or traumatized or brain dead and I let it happen!"

With a sudden crack and a pain like fire, Margaret shifted the bones in his arm. She moved them quickly and there was the sound of bone grating against bone as she forcefully dragged the two splintered ends into place. Steve let out a groan, but didn't withdraw his arm from her grasp.

When Margaret spoke again, she sounded angry. "Steve, do you know why Stewart asked me to tape you back together?" Before Steve could say anything she went on, "It's because I was a doctor in World War II."

Steve gaped. If this were true, the woman was far older than she appeared.

"I saved almost every life that came into my hospital. Almost. I worked my hardest, drove the nurses to their limits, and we did everything we could for every wounded soldier, but they died anyway. Steve," Margaret put a hand to the side of Steve's face, feeling his grim expression. "if I learned anything during the war, I learned this. You can't save everybody."

She sighed and drew her cold hand away from Steve's cheek and went about her work with deft fingers. "Even you. No matter what you do, no matter how hard you try, you will not be able to save everyone who depends on you. But, as long as you try your hardest to save everyone you can, you can't blame yourself for the ones who are lost."

Steve was silent for a long time, staring at Margaret's hands without really seeing them.

You will not be able to save everybody. But as long as you try your hardest to save everyone you can, you can't blame yourself for the ones who are lost.

The words echoed through Steve's mind, repeating over and over like a mantra, and he was comforted. He had tried his best. He had done everything he could do to save Bucky, even if everything he could do was not enough. He shook away his thoughts as if shaking away raindrops. He couldn't think about this now. If everything went well, Bucky would be in Natasha's care. If things had gone awry . . . Well. Then he would do everything he could do once again to find his friend and save him.

Margaret drew the bandages tight with a crisp snap and fastened the edge with a paperclip stuck through the layers of fabric. Steve roused himself and looked down at her handiwork. His arm had been splinted with two long, straight rods of metal before being bound tightly with relatively clean strips of cloth. It still ached, but the pain felt healthy. Proper. The bones had been aligned and could now heal.

"Thank you," Steve said and got to his feet. "For everything."

Steve was not simply thanking her for splinting his arm, but for her words as well. They had steadied him, in the same way his broken arm had been steadied. The pain of letting Bucky down was still there, but it was no longer the heavy, guilty anguish that had burned away in the back of his mind since his friend's reappearance. No. It was the healthy pain of a cleansed wound. The pain of healing.

Margaret said nothing, but nodded to him through the darkness.

Steve crawled out into the comparatively bright courtyard. He huddled next to the fire, warming his hands. He appreciated the warmth, now that his arm wasn't throbbing and sitting down had relieved some of his light-headed weariness.

"Feeling better?" Asked McMillan as he strode briskly into the courtyard from the alley.

"Much, thanks to you and Margaret," Steve replied.

"Well, prepare to feel even better." McMillan went to Steve's side and put a plastic bag in his hand.

"What's this?" Steve asked, surprised. From the bag he pulled a plastic box. His mouth fell open. Inside the box was a prepaid cellphone. Steve looked at it with joy. Relief. With it, he could call Natasha. It was his ticket to safety and, he suddenly realized, it must have cost McMillan every penny he had. "McMillan-" Steve began to say.

"Don't thank me. It's from all of us."

Steve looked around at all the faces. All the homeless, the aged, the unfortunate who could barely afford to feed themselves, let alone buy something as expensive as a prepaid cellphone.

McMillan shuffled his feet, looking embarrassed for the first time since Steve had met him. "We figured you'd done a lot for us. For all of us. It was about time we payed you back."

Steve felt his eyes prickle. "Thank you. All of you," he finally said, and he looked down at the common everyday appliance that had suddenly become so precious.

Now all he had to do was make sure that Bucky was alright.

Now all he had to do was make a phone call.

Thanks for reading!

I'm sorry it took me so long to update. I've been busy traveling and, to tell the truth, I lost my writing inspiration for awhile there. But all of your kind reviews got me going again, so thank you to all you awesome people! Your reviews are honestly the only things that keep me writing!