The latter part of this chapter again contains adult content—as I mentioned previously, please skip to the next chapter if you do not wish to read it.
London, England
Snow swirled against the windowpanes as Beatrice pushed open the door to the SSR barracks, her arms laden with supplies. She dumped them unceremoniously on the wooden floor as Helen and Ruth moved past her, each vying for the best spot. The beds were stripped of linen, the mattresses the only things on their frames.
"Are we the only ones here over Christmas?" Helen asked as she pulled aside the blackout curtains and scrubbed at a spot of grime on the glass.
"Yes," Beatrice replied, echoing what Colonel Phillips had told her when they'd disembarked the airplane after landing in London on a welcome break from the stress of wartime nursing. The Allies had pushed into Belgium in early September, and the 53rd Field Hospital had followed them, where they'd remained ever since. "Us, Agent Carter, and Private Lorraine."
"I haven't seen them yet," Ruth remarked, claiming the bed next to Helen's. "So I guess this means we have first pick here."
Helen snorted. "Good thing, too," she said darkly. "Carter doesn't have a funny bone in her body, and Lorraine is too stuck-up to be any interesting. We need someone exciting to liven things up a bit."
"You mean someone like Nancy," Beatrice said. Instantly the atmosphere turned tense; none of them had mentioned her for weeks.
Since Nancy's death, there had been a tangible shift in the relationship between the other three nurses. They were more professional and less familiar with each other, withdrawing into themselves through their grief. Nancy had been such an integral part of their group—the unspoken leader—that to lose her was to irrevocably alter the group's dynamics. Each of them blamed themselves for what had happened to her, but perhaps Helen took it the hardest; she believed that if she hadn't encouraged Nancy to go up to Castle Zemo, Nancy wouldn't have done it alone.
After they had returned to the hospital and explained to Talbott what they'd seen—Bucky and Steve refusing to leave Beatrice's side, a gesture she'd never properly appreciated nor thanked them for at the time—Colonel Phillips had been called in and they'd been forced to explain their story again.
Beatrice had expected Phillips to be absolutely livid, and she wasn't disappointed: he'd come close to ordering them to leave the SSR on the spot and even threatened them with a court-martial, but Steve had interrupted him, explaining that the Howling Commandos should have intervened sooner and that Beatrice and Ruth had been trying to convince Nancy to leave. This was backed up by Helen, who admitted it was entirely her fault. Phillips had softened somewhat after that, but he'd ordered Talbott to keep them all under close supervision from then on.
True to his word, the chief nurse had watched them like a hawk during the following weeks, and not even Helen had dared to put a toe out of line. Beatrice and Ruth, the two most likely to comply with the rules, were nonetheless watched just as closely. They were all careful to save the conversations they wanted to remain private until they were sure they weren't being watched; like now, for instance. Beatrice would have never dared to say Nancy's name aloud if she'd thought that Talbott was in earshot.
Helen and Beatrice stared at each other for a long, terse moment. Ruth looked to be holding her breath. Beatrice could tell that Helen was debating whether to argue the point or just let it slide. And then, suddenly, the other girl sighed, her shoulders deflating and all the air going out of her. "You're right," Helen said hollowly. "I would give anything to have Nancy here. Anything."
"It's been sixteen weeks," Ruth said in a low voice.
"And I still miss her just as much as I did sixteen hours after she died." Helen crossed her arms defensively, daring either of them to retort. "Look, things haven't been the same since August, and we all know it. That's why I gave my letter of resignation to Phillips today."
Beatrice felt a jolt of surprise. "Letter of resignation?" she echoed. "You're—you're leaving?"
Helen nodded. "I've been thinking about it for months," she explained haltingly. "I finally made my decision yesterday. Phillips approved my request and I'm going back to Detroit the day after Christmas. I'll be happier there," she added in response to Beatrice's and Ruth's startled looks. "Fixing up the house and waiting for Robert to come home. The war'll be over soon enough, anyway. The Allies are taking back Europe. I guarantee by this time next winter we'll all be home again."
"D-Day was six months ago," Beatrice pointed out. "And the Germans just launched an offensive in the Ardennes. We could be here for another year."
Helen tossed her head, suddenly looking more like Nancy than ever. "Aachen was just liberated, wasn't it? Anyway, it's too late. Nothing is going to change my mind." Her expression softened slightly. "I'm sorry that I didn't tell either of you until now. It's just…I can't do this anymore. I can't be reminded every day that I'm the reason Nancy is dead."
"Helen…" Beatrice began, and faltered. What could she possibly say? She didn't want her fellow nurse and, most importantly, friend to leave, but what good would it do to protest? Like Helen herself had said, her mind was already made up.
Ruth was fidgeting, staring down at her hands and her mouth working furiously as if she was warring with herself to speak. "I have something to tell you, too," she burst out, and both Beatrice and Helen turned to her. "I…I'm expecting."
This was even more of a shock than Helen's declaration had been; it took Beatrice a moment to comprehend her words. "Expecting?" she and Helen exclaimed simultaneously. "Since when?"
"Since…since August," Ruth confessed, unable to meet their gazes. "Nicholas and I snuck out the night after, well, after Nancy's funeral." She stared down at her hands, which were trembling in her lap. "I only found out last week. I haven't had a chance to tell him yet."
Now that she thought about it, Beatrice could remember that Ruth had seemed more tired and withdrawn during autumn, often ill and unable to work long shifts, but she had chalked it up as stress. Some nurse she was. "What are you going to do?" she asked carefully once she had recovered from the shock.
Ruth finally looked up at them, her eyes shining. "I've always wanted to be a mother," she said slowly. "And if Helen is right and the war really is ending, it's perfect timing. Nicholas is going to want to marry me when he finds out, and, well, it does give me an opportunity to go back home early. I'll probably be sent back to Boston in January or February." She gave a tiny shrug. "I'm sorry, Beatrice."
It took Beatrice a moment to realize why she was apologizing: with both Helen and Ruth leaving the SSR, she would be left alone, likely transferred to another unit. Another nurse in the 53rd had become PWOP—pregnant without permission—during the past year, though Beatrice hadn't known her well. As far as she was aware, the other woman had been sent home once she was far enough along for it to interfere with her work. "It's fine, Ruth," Beatrice said, giving the other girl a kind smile. "Congratulations."
It was suddenly clear that Ruth had gained weight, though she'd managed to hide most of it by adjusting the belt on her uniform. Her friend looked relieved, as if she'd expected a harsher reaction. "You're not angry at me?" she asked. "Either of you?"
"Why would we be angry?" Helen said, echoing Beatrice's own thoughts. "It's your decision."
Ruth frowned. "When do you think I should tell Colonel Phillips?"
"The sooner, the better," Helen replied, and Beatrice nodded in agreement. "Let's go now, then."
"Now?" Ruth squeaked, looking terrified.
"Now's as good a time as any," said Helen. She walked over to Ruth's bed and pulled her up. "I'll go with you for moral support. Are you coming too, Beatrice?"
Beatrice hesitated before shaking her head. "I have to unpack all of this stuff," she said, gesturing to the pile of supplies on the floor. "I'll see you at supper."
"Sure," Helen said, and led a nervous Ruth outside, telling her that the story was one Phillips had likely heard before.
When they were gone, Beatrice sat back on her heels, staring blankly down at the mess on the floor. She needed time to process the realization that both of her closest friends left at the field hospital were leaving. She would be lying if she said that she hadn't thought about leaving herself, but to go back to Brooklyn now would feel like a cowardice, like she was only temporarily running away from the real problem that she would have to face sooner or later.
It had been over a year—thirteen months, to be exact—since she had been the subject of Zola's experiments. Beatrice had had a lot of time to think about the consequences it had brought her, some more apparent than others. Lying awake at night, when it hurt too much to think of Bucky, she would analyze and re-analyze all of the changes she'd noticed in herself and compare it to everything she knew about the super soldier serum, from what Howard and Zemo had told her to what she'd witnessed firsthand in Steve.
Primarily, there were changes that only Beatrice herself could notice—heightened senses being the most obvious example. From the moment she'd opened her eyes after being strapped down onto Zola's gurney, her vision had sharpened noticeably, even though she had never had any problems with her sight before. She could read the fine print on a patient's chart with no difficulties from the opposite side of the cot, startling many G.I.'s who thought she hadn't yet examined them. Her hearing had also magnified to a point she hadn't previously believed possible, so much so that she was often able to hear heartbeats without a stethoscope. This unnerved Beatrice more than she cared to admit, and so she continued to use one, even if it was just to keep up appearances.
Likewise, she had been startled the first time she'd realized that she could detect abnormalities in the blood just by a sense of smell, but she pretended she had gotten the results from blood tests instead. It wasn't refined enough that she could detect individual chemicals, but there had been times when she'd tasted copper in the air and knew which soldiers had bullets and shrapnel lodged in their bodies just by the smell. She was able to lift heavy objects without tiring, and she often found herself having to slow down her pace to keep up with the others. She didn't get much chance to use anything else in her day-to-day life. Like Zemo had said, she knew she wasn't using them to the best of her abilities. She was scared of them—scared of what she had become. And she was pretending as if they weren't there, as if she hadn't changed at all.
But it didn't come without its downsides: the improved sense of taste made food that much more unbearable, and Beatrice often found herself having to choke down her K-rations, or worse, Spam, while constantly suppressing her gag reflex.
The biggest upside, however, had been touch. The rare times she'd gotten to kiss Bucky had been better than she'd ever imagined, and she guessed that everything else would be the same, too, but she had always reined herself in before those thoughts could get too out of hand.
Her mind was also sharper: she found that she had better memory recall and made inferences quicker, which was useful when diagnosing a patient or remembering their chart. She assumed that Erskine's serum had done much the same to Steve—but at the same time she was different. While she assumed they had been given similar serums, they hadn't been exact duplicates of each other.
For one thing, her physical appearance hadn't changed at all. She was still short and on the smaller side, whereas Steve had grown an entire foot and gained more muscle than was probably physically possible. As far as she knew, Bucky hadn't grown taller either, although she had definitely noticed the amount of muscle he'd put on in the past year that wasn't just from carrying around heavy rifles and roughing it during missions.
Beatrice had never let on to anyone the extent of how she had changed, although Ruth definitely suspected something and oftentimes she thought that Phillips did too. Maybe there was an ulterior motive for him instructing Talbott to watch her closely. Had the others noticed anything different about Bucky?
And that brought her back to him. Beatrice had known, of course, that his position as Captain America's right-hand man, one of the Howling Commandos, would mean that she would get to see him very rarely, if ever. Her work as a field nurse, too, meant that she was constantly traveling and it was difficult to stay in one place to see him even if he happened to be nearby. But she still would have been disappointed and surprised even if she'd known from the very beginning that she would only get to see Bucky on two separate occasions in the span of an entire year.
It was nearly the end of 1944, and she had only gotten to see her fiancé twice. They had been reunited during the trip to Poland in April, and when she'd next seen him after Nancy's death she had been too distraught for them to have a proper reunion. The Commandos had only spent a few hours at the field hospital then; Beatrice had spent most of it sobbing into Bucky's shirt. She had later apologized profusely, and he hadn't seemed to mind, but she still felt badly about her terrible reception.
She still wondered if she had dreamt their entire engagement—their time trapped by Hydra and their subsequent conversation at the Whip & Fiddle—but now that seemed so far away from where she was right now. He seemed so far away from her.
That wasn't to say they hadn't had any communication whatsoever: they'd kept up a steady stream of letters back and forth—Bucky occasionally describing a dream he'd had about their reunion that made even her blush—but words on paper just weren't the same as his physical presence. Nevertheless, Beatrice felt that she would have gone insane without some sort of thread tying her to him, no matter how thin.
The first month of separation had been the worst: she'd barely been able to eat or sleep, longing for him so much that it hurt. She would reread his letters over and over again until she was able to recite them to herself at night, staring up at the shadows dancing on the roof of the tent.
This hadn't gone unnoticed by the others, though: they'd finally staged an intervention, telling Beatrice that she was making herself unnecessarily miserable and wallowing in self-pity wouldn't bring Bucky back any sooner. Helen had been the most helpful of the three: she knew what Beatrice was feeling, having gone through the same thing herself when her own fiancé, Robert, had been shipped out. She was a great comfort, but also knew when Beatrice needed to be brought back to reality. "It'll stop hurting as much," she told her. "You won't stop missing him, but it will become more bearable."
Beatrice hadn't believed her at first, but time eventually proved the truth of Helen's words. She could go nearly a day without thinking of Bucky, and when he did cross her thoughts she didn't feel like spending the rest of the day pining over him. It hadn't become easy, but it had become, as Helen said, bearable. In fact, she'd felt guilty about it, as if the fact that she no longer turned into a complete mess when he was gone meant that she was falling out of love. But every time he left again, the pain would return, sharper than ever, until Beatrice was able to pull herself back together. In this manner not seeing him saved her pain; at least it meant that he wasn't always leaving.
She knew there was a very real possibility that they would be reunited over Christmas, but she had never allowed herself to dwell on it for too long in case she was disappointed. Instead she had focused on the break that she would get from work—talking to the G.I.'s without having to treat life-threatening wounds would be a refreshing change.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs outside, and Beatrice was abruptly jolted out of her thoughts, realizing that she hadn't made any progress whatsoever in cleaning up the supplies.
But it wasn't Helen and Ruth who came through the door—it was Peggy Carter and Private Lorraine, both dressed in their SSR uniforms and looking as if they had just returned from a meeting. Peggy carried a leather briefcase as her only piece of luggage, while Lorraine carried nothing at all, as if she planned to spend the entire holiday wearing the same outfit. Both of them regarded Beatrice with rather perplexed expressions.
"Afternoon, Beatrice," Lorraine said first, a tiny smirk on her face. "I would have thought you'd be at the pub with the rest of them."
"The rest of who?" Beatrice asked.
Peggy knelt down and began to sweep the mess into a neat pile, achieving more in thirty seconds than what Beatrice could probably do in thirty minutes, enhanced serum or not. "The Howling Commandos have just arrived in London," she explained. "They were able to fly in from Bastogne on a weekend pass."
Beatrice wasn't certain she had heard Peggy correctly; she just stared blankly at her, unable to let herself get her hopes up, until the ghost of a smile crossed the other woman's face. "Sergeant Barnes is indeed with them," she said, as if she had read Beatrice's thoughts.
The mention of Bucky was enough to get Beatrice to scramble to her feet and make for the door; as it swung shut behind her, she dimly heard Lorraine remark, "She's faster than I would have thought."
Beatrice pounded down the stairs, taking them two at a time, unable to believe it—this couldn't be happening, not after months and months of separation—
She crashed headfirst into someone standing just outside the front door, sending them stumbling backwards. As she gasped in surprise and apologized, she saw a familiar blond head and a bright grin as Steve grabbed her shoulders to steady her, his eyes warm and welcoming. "Gee, Beatrice, usually it's me knocking people over." He looked bemused, but thankfully not suspicious.
Beatrice gave a choked laugh, her head spinning madly. She had missed Steve too, of course—impossibly so—but now she felt something else fall into place, as if she had lost a part of herself without even knowing that it was missing. "I think you mean recently," she said. Steve laughed, too, but there was a solemnness in his eyes she had never seen before. Like Bucky, the war hadn't only changed him physically.
"I didn't know you were here yet, or we would have come to see you," he told her. "Bucky's in the pub with the others."
Beatrice forced herself not to go tearing off again in the direction of the Whip & Fiddle. "So who are you looking for, then?" she asked, half-teasing, half-curious.
A light flush appeared on his face. "Peggy—Agent Carter," he quickly corrected himself. "Colonel Phillips wanted me to find her, but I'm not allowed in the women's barracks." He rubbed the back of his neck, looking sheepish.
"It's only her and Private Lorraine in there," Beatrice replied. "I'm sure she won't mind. Actually—she probably will, come to think of it. Ignore what I just said."
Oddly enough, Steve turned even redder at the mention of the secretary. "Lorraine? I, uh, think I'll just wait out here," he said in a strangled tone.
Deciding that she didn't want to know whatever incident was behind his unusual behavior, Beatrice shrugged and began to head across the street. The snow had lightened up considerably, but the road and rooftops were covered with a light powder. It was below freezing, but she barely felt the cold. "Suit yourself," she said.
"Beatrice?" Steve called when she was halfway across. There were no cars in sight, so Beatrice stopped and turned around to face him. "Bucky'll deck me for saying this, but he's really missed you. More than you probably realize." Steve paused, looking thoughtful. "So have I."
Beatrice felt a rush of affection for him—for both of them. She was suddenly taken back to Brooklyn, two years ago, on a snowy day not unlike this one: how much had changed since then.
"I've missed you too, Steve," she said; even from her distance, she could see his genuine smile.
The Whip & Fiddle wasn't nearly as crowded as when she'd first visited it. Many of the tables were empty of patrons, and the air was no longer filled with a haze of smoke. Lively swing music played from a nearby gramophone, and the pub was filled with the clinking of cutlery and quiet laughter. A roaring fire crackled in the corner, sending sparks flying up and illuminating the darkness. She could already feel its warmth as she untied her headscarf and shook out her snow-covered hair.
"Beatrice!"
She barely had time to turn around before she was enveloped in a bear hug by Timothy Dugan, who was as broad and jovial as ever. "It's good to see you too, Dugan," Beatrice said as they embraced; she'd never gotten into the habit of calling him Dum Dum like the others.
"You got here okay, I guess," Gabe Jones said with a wide grin, coming up from behind Dugan. He flashed a bright smile at her. Across the pub, Falsworth, Morita, and Dernier raised their drinks to her; all of them had what she imagined were knowing smirks on their faces. She guessed that she had often been the topic of conversation among the Commandos when they wanted to tease Bucky.
Beatrice nodded and turned back to Gabe, hoping her amused glare was visible to the others. "We thought we'd have to wait for a ship leaving from Antwerp, but Stark sent one of his planes to us just in time. Peggy said that you were also in Belgium?"
"Yeah," Gabe replied. "We got caught in an air raid coming out of Bastogne, but we made it through." He shared a loaded glance with Dugan, and Beatrice knew he was withholding something else. "If you're looking for him, Barnes is over there."
She followed his gaze over to a small table next to the fire, where two figures looked to be deep in conversation. "Thanks, Gabe," Beatrice said, pretending she hadn't noticed the look he and Dugan exchanged, before heading in the direction he'd indicated.
Bucky was sitting at a table across from—surprisingly—Howard Stark, his back to Beatrice. He wore his distinctive navy peacoat and his hair was slicked back, as if he had put extra effort into it that morning. Beatrice found that her feet were frozen to the spot and she was holding her breath, somehow afraid that when he turned around it wouldn't be Bucky, but someone else entirely.
Howard saw her first; he grinned, pausing whatever conversation they were having—what did he and Bucky have in common, anyway? Beatrice didn't think she had ever seen them interact before—and he muttered something that sounded like "Perfect timing." He winked at Beatrice, stood up, and went over to the bar, but Beatrice didn't watch him leave, for Bucky had finally turned, and it was definitely him, and all her fears suddenly melted away.
She'd imagined this reunion countless times before she could manage to stop herself, but she had never precisely been able to envision the look on his face when he finally saw her. It was surprise and delight and tenderness, and it was a million times better than anything she could have created in her mind. The entire world seemed to shrink until it was just her and Bucky, and the dozen or so feet that separated them felt like miles. It had only been four months since they'd last seen each other, but Beatrice's heart stuttered and then took off again, her face growing as hot as if it had been years and she was unsure how to act around him.
And then, miraculously, her muscles unfroze and she could move again. Bucky had already gotten up and was striding toward her, with that same dazed look on his face, and Beatrice ran the last few steps to him, throwing herself into his embrace.
He crushed her to him, his arms so tight around her that even Beatrice was taken aback by it. She pressed her face into his neck, inhaling the scent of cigar smoke and sweat and cheap cologne. It wasn't alluring by any means, but at that moment it was the most heavenly thing she had ever smelled.
They stayed locked in a close embrace for at least thirty seconds—maybe more—neither of them loosening their grip. The other patrons, who had been amused by their antics at first, had now gone back to their own activities. Beatrice could have stayed in Bucky's arms forever, but her curiosity was winning out. She drew back from him slightly and cupped his face in her hands. His eyes were fixed steadily on her with a light that made her feel giddy. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him, intending to pull away after a moment, but Bucky kept her there, deepening the kiss, his teeth grazing her bottom lip—
Beatrice pulled away, gasping, despite not being out of breath. "Bucky," she managed to say. "This is…a warm welcome."
"I could say the same to you, Rosie," he murmured, his breath tickling her ear. "Do you kiss every guy you say hello to like that?"
He led her over to the table, keeping her close against his side, and pushed the chair Howard had vacated to the opposite end so that they were sitting next to each other. Beatrice curled up against his side, resting her head on his shoulder, looking up at him and determined to memorize every feature of his face, every fleeting expression in his eyes. His arm curved around her waist, drawing her as close as she could possibly be to him on separate chairs. The dancing fire illuminated him, deep lines already setting into his face, making him look much older than twenty-seven.
"Peggy told me you'd be here," she said, a hint of disbelief still coloring her voice.
A quick grin flashed across Bucky's face. "Ah, well, Agent Carter knows everything," he replied. "At least Steve thinks so."
For some reason, Beatrice didn't want to think of Steve and Peggy, not now, not when she had Bucky right here and the promise of less painful topics. "How long are you staying?"
Now it was Bucky's turn for a shadow to fall across his face. "We don't know. Steve could receive intel at any moment and we'd all have to go with him. But I think the intention was to stay over Christmas."
Beatrice had never been sure if she believed in God or not—even less so after she'd come to Europe—but she sent up a fervent prayer that they wouldn't be called away all the same. She thought of her previous conversation with Gabe and Dugan, venturing to ask, "Did something happen on the way here? Gabe said you were nearly caught in an air raid."
Bucky's face darkened and she felt him tense against her. "Nearly," he muttered. "But not quite." He paused, but Beatrice could tell he wasn't finished speaking. He met her questioning gaze and looked away again, his jaw tightening as he stared into the fire. "We've been in a hundred air raids and nearly killed a dozen times. But this time I knew we were going back to London, and when I heard those sirens I was sure I wasn't going to make it. I—I panicked, Rosie."
Beatrice took a long time before she spoke, drawing light patterns on his hand, entwined with hers. She wasn't sure she wanted to know what Bucky's definition of panicking was. "Steve wouldn't have led you into that if he knew the stakes were too high."
"But that's the thing, doll. Steve doesn't know. He has to pretend he knows, sure, because he's Captain America." Bucky turned back to her, looking agitated. "I don't want to die—who does? But if I have to, I'd want to have said goodbye first."
"Bucky…" she began, the words almost caught in her throat. "It doesn't work like that. Nobody can ever know exactly when they're going to die, us even less than most."
He seemed to calm under her touch, his eyes briefly closing. "Yeah, you're right. But Steve suggested—"
Unfortunately, Beatrice would never get to find out what Steve suggested, for at that moment the front door swung open and a man she instantly recognized walked in, leading a small boy by the hand.
"Ivan!" she exclaimed in surprise and delight. She leapt to her feet, pulling Bucky behind her.
Her uncle's face was drawn and pale, worry lining his features, but it lifted somewhat at the sight of Beatrice. They hadn't seen each other since the previous Christmas. "Hello, Beatrice, Sergeant Barnes," he greeted them, smiling at Beatrice and nodding at Bucky, who kept a light but protective arm around her waist. "I hoped I would find you here."
The boy at his side, who couldn't have been more than two or three years old, tugged at Ivan's sleeve and said something in a language Beatrice didn't recognize but guessed to be Russian. Ivan replied with her name, and when Beatrice really looked at the little boy she couldn't stop a hand from flying to her mouth. "Henry," she gasped, feeling almost faint.
The last time she had seen him, before he'd even left New York, he had been less than a year old. Now he was a toddler, nearly as tall as her waist, with the Romanov features of green eyes and red hair looking more like a child's than a baby's. The pictures Ivan sent her had illustrated his rapid growth, but they could never have prepared her for seeing him in person.
"Luisa is visiting her family in Madrid," Ivan explained as Henry stared quizzically up at Beatrice. "We decided he would be safer with me for now."
The boy in question took a hesitant step forward, his eyes fixed on Beatrice's, and spoke to her directly; she wished she had paid more attention when Elena had tried to teach her Russian. She couldn't understand a word her brother was saying.
"English, Alian," Ivan reminded him gently.
"Alian?" Beatrice stuttered. The name was familiar—he had called Henry that once before, but she hadn't known it was to be his Russian name.
Her uncle looked almost apologetic. "It is the only name he recognizes. I do not want to arouse suspicion by calling him an American name, even in private, when he is not yet old enough to understand the dangers. As far as Stalingrad is concerned, he is the son of Luisa and I."
Beatrice had known this would happen; known that he would not grow up the way she had imagined and hoped he would, but it still hurt to see her brother looking at her with no recognition in his eyes and speaking a language she did not. Sensing her discomfort, Bucky's arm tightened around her.
"Are you my sister?" Henry asked, in English this time; he immediately looked up to Ivan for approval.
Beatrice knelt down so that she was at eye level with him and nodded. "Yes, I am," she said. "Your much older sister."
Henry stared at her for another moment, unblinking and intent in the way only small children could master, before he let go of Ivan's hand and tapped her wrist. "Vverkh," he ordered.
Now it was Beatrice's turn to look at Ivan. "He wants to be carried," her uncle explained. "He's had a long day."
She cautiously reached out and picked him up in the same way she had done when he was an infant—only now he would be much heavier. At first Beatrice was surprised that he didn't feel as if he had grown at all, so easy it was for her to lift him, before she remembered that it was her who was stronger now. Henry settled easily in her arms, shifting his focus to Bucky, who had been silent throughout the conversation. He felt both familiar and different in Beatrice's arms; she had to keep telling herself that this child was her baby brother, who was no longer a baby.
Ivan shrugged off his coat and hung it up on the rack before turning back to them. "I'm afraid I didn't come to London just for a friendly visit," he said in a low voice, nodding to their table and beginning to make his way over to it. Beatrice looked up at Bucky before following him; her fiancé's expression softened and he pressed his lips to her temple reassuringly. She heard Dugan give a low whistle and Bucky returned it with a rude gesture Beatrice hoped Henry couldn't see.
They sat down across from Ivan, Henry still in Beatrice's lap and his legs dangling over the side of the chair. The warmth of the fire appeared to be lulling him to sleep; his eyes were slowly drifting closed and his arms were going limp.
None of them spoke for several minutes—Ivan looked to be choosing his words carefully and Beatrice could feel the wary tension in every line of Bucky's body. She reached under the table with the arm that wasn't supporting Henry to put a hand on Bucky's knee. He gave a startled jerk and turned to look at her with wide, slightly accusatory eyes. She pretended not to notice that she was filling him with a very different kind of tension.
Ivan cleared his throat and Beatrice turned her attention back to him, curious to hear what he was so worried about. Of course, as soon as he began to speak, she wished he hadn't. "Surely you remember the Norn Stone I showed you during our last visit," he said.
"Yes," Beatrice answered slowly, remembering the images she had seen in it that she'd tried hard to push out of her mind and dismiss as a trick of some kind. Bucky raised a quizzical eyebrow; Beatrice gave a tiny squeeze of his knee that she hoped got the message across that she would explain it to him later.
"Well," Ivan said shortly, "It has gone missing."
Beatrice frowned, uncomprehending. "Missing? How? You've had it for years—"
"I don't know," Ivan admitted. "I always keep it inside my desk under lock and key. When I returned yesterday from a meeting at Bletchley Park, it was simply gone, with no evidence that anyone had ever been inside."
She swallowed hard. "So you're saying that you can no longer tell where your enemies are?"
Ivan shook his head. "Hydra could be in this very pub and I wouldn't know."
The door opened again, startling Beatrice, but it was only Colonel Phillips followed by Steve, Peggy, and Lorraine. He led them over to an unoccupied table in the far corner where he unfurled a map and began to lecture them about whatever was labeled on it.
"It had to have been someone here," said Beatrice. "A Hydra spy in the SSR?" She suddenly felt very cold despite her close proximity to the fire.
Bucky answered before Ivan could. "Wait. You're saying that this…stone gives you the power to see your enemies?"
"It is an old Romanov family heirloom, gifted to my ancestors by Odin Allfather himself," Ivan said, looking proud.
If Bucky didn't understand a word of that, he didn't let on. "Then it makes sense that a spy would take it, so you wouldn't be able to know who they were."
This was a very good point; Beatrice could see Ivan considering it. "You are likely correct, Sergeant Barnes. There are very few people who are able to access my office, but I do not want to rule everyone out just yet."
"You're not suggesting that we're Hydra spies, are you?" Beatrice said with a weak smile, trying to add some levity.
"I'll die before I join Hydra," Bucky snarled, so vehemently that Henry stirred for a moment.
Ivan folded his hands on the tabletop, seeming unsurprised by Bucky's fierceness. "I know that it is neither of you—that is why I am confiding in you in the first place. What I am asking for is help in finding it."
"Finding it?" Beatrice repeated. "What could we possibly do to help?"
Ivan moved his scrutiny to her; she shifted under the weight of his gaze, so like her mother's. "I must admit that I was thinking of you specifically when I formulated this plan," he said. "I am certain that I know who the perpetrator is."
"Who?" Beatrice asked. "And why were you thinking of me? Why not Agent Carter or someone who is more experienced with the SSR?"
Her uncle's searching gaze didn't waver for an instant. "Because you are the only one who knows about the specifics of the stone. Agent Carter, while certainly able to get the job done, will arouse more suspicion than you. Her movements are being watched, whereas yours are not."
Beatrice didn't like the sound of that, but she couldn't deny that it also gave her a specific sort of thrill. "And what exactly do you want me to do?" she asked quietly, lifting her hand from Bucky's knee to clench it in a fist. "You sound as if you already know where it is."
"I believe I do," Ivan said. "I do not think it is in the hands of the Red Skull yet, but it shall be soon if we do not act now. The question is, Beatrice, do you wish to assist me in retrieving it?"
"I—I don't know," she said honestly. "I do want to help, but I'm just a nurse. I'm not qualified to be a spy or whatever it is you want me to be. Shouldn't you be talking to Colonel Phillips about this instead?"
"I already have," Ivan replied. "He approves of the idea if you agree. It will not place you in any danger, I assure you."
She glanced over at Bucky for help. His expression betrayed nothing, but she could tell that he didn't believe Ivan. Nothing that involved Hydra was ever guaranteed to be safe. "I'll help you, Uncle Ivan, on one condition," she finally said. "I just want to know why you're asking me."
"Because you are a woman," Ivan said simply.
"Stark's coming over," Bucky muttered before Beatrice could question her uncle further, and the spell was suddenly broken.
Ivan leaned back in his chair and said, "Meet me here at eight o'clock tomorrow morning."
By the time Howard reached them, Ivan had already stood up to leave and Beatrice reluctantly handed a sleepy Henry back to him. She couldn't help but wonder why Ivan didn't even trust Howard to know of the whereabouts of the Norn Stone, unless its loss unsettled him more than he let on. She had a sense that her uncle was far more stressed than he appeared to be.
"Have you told her yet?" Howard asked Bucky, an easy smirk on his face as he greeted Ivan with a brief handshake before the red-haired man left with Henry.
"Tell me what?" Beatrice asked suspiciously.
Howard's infuriating smirk only grew wider. "Guess that's a no, then," he said. "I'll go see if the car's arrived yet." With that, he disappeared, leaving Beatrice wondering if he had even been there at all. Then again, if the papers were to be believed, he was quite adept at disappearing, especially in the mornings when women were involved.
When he was gone, she turned back to Bucky with raised eyebrows. "What's he talking about? Are we going somewhere?"
Bucky gave the hint of a grin and leaned over to kiss her forehead. "It's a surprise."
"Don't tell me you've planned something with him," Beatrice accused, although judging by their earlier conversation she had interrupted, that was exactly what they had been doing.
"I think you'll like this one, doll," Bucky said. Now that nobody was paying attention to them, she reached over to give him a kiss, wanting to touch him as much as possible while she had the chance, while he was still here.
"Will I?" she asked, unable to stop herself from grinning slyly as he grasped hold of her elbows and pulled her closer, his nose skimming down the edge of her jaw. She shivered and in retaliation grazed his earlobe with her teeth, sucking on it gently as she pulled away. She'd discovered that one completely by accident, and hoped it would have the same effect on him as it had the first time.
She wasn't disappointed; Bucky shuddered and she felt his sharp intake of breath. "Are you gonna drive me crazy right here?" he murmured. "Is that what you want, Rosie? I've already embarrassed myself enough in front of these guys—"
But Beatrice suddenly drew back onto her own chair, having spotted Steve approaching over Bucky's shoulder.
"You all right, Buck?" Steve asked, sounding concerned when he caught sight of Bucky's pained expression.
"Yeah," Bucky said, and crossed his legs. Beatrice fought very hard to look innocent. She had tried to relax him, but it looked to have done the exact opposite.
"You found Peggy, then," she said to Steve, trying to draw his attention away from Bucky.
He looked to her and gave a slightly relieved, slightly sheepish smile. "Yes. She told me that there are surveillance cameras placed outside the barracks so that unauthorized people can't get in. Even if she hadn't minded me being there, Phillips would have seen it."
"Monitoring everyone who goes in and out," Beatrice finished. She wasn't surprised by the idea, as she assumed the SSR would want to take any and all precautions, but something Ivan had told her suddenly clicked into place.
There was a whistle from the other side of the pub and all three of them turned to see Howard standing at the front door, beckoning her and Bucky over.
"There's our ride," Bucky said, and he stood up, still holding Beatrice's hand. She didn't think they had stopped touching at all since they had reunited. Steve's gaze moved from their intertwined hands to Howard, a furrowed frown on his face.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"Your guess is as good as mine," Beatrice said truthfully. "No one is telling me anything."
"I'm taking her somewhere nice," replied Bucky. "Don't wait up for me, pal." He clapped Steve on the shoulder as they passed him; Beatrice could feel the blond man watching them all the way outside.
It had darkened considerably since she'd arrived at the Whip & Fiddle; the sky was now peppered with stars and the lights from the pub spilled outside onto the dark street. It was almost curfew, and Beatrice crossed her fingers there wouldn't be an air raid that night. The devastating wave of attacks on London by Germany's V-2 rockets had been highly publicized, and Beatrice didn't fancy taking her chances with one.
A cream-colored Cadillac limousine was idling on the road in front of them; Howard was standing by the driver's side conversing with the person inside. Beatrice saw him slip a stack of bills through the window, and a moment later the door opened and the previous driver climbed out before walking into the pub looking slightly taken aback as he counted the money, paying no attention to Beatrice and Bucky.
"Well, don't just stand there," Howard called to them, swinging into the driver's seat.
Beatrice and Bucky shared a look before he ushered her into the limousine; it was obviously new and very spacious, smelling like leather and cigars. The backseat had enough room for at least four people to sit side-by-side comfortably, but Bucky drew her onto his lap and she settled into his arms as Howard pulled away from the curb with a jolt that sent them reeling backwards.
"Why did you pay off the driver?" Beatrice asked him curiously; she could see Howard's answering grin in the reflection of the glass.
"You can't always give them a story to sell to the papers," Howard said ambiguously. His eyebrows raised when he saw the position they were in. "Are you two going to make it there? Not that I'm against this kind of behavior, but this isn't my car and—"
"I think we'll make it, Howard," Beatrice said dryly. She looked at Bucky with the dim light washing over his profile and saw that he was staring out the window, an unreadable expression on his face. There was a tightness to his jaw she had somehow never noticed before—or had pretended to ignore—and Beatrice felt a sudden surge of frustrated hopelessness. She wanted to go back to when they were content to stay in Brooklyn for the rest of their lives. She wanted Bucky's easy grin again, this time not mixed with something hard and bitter. She wanted to climb up the rose trellis into his bedroom and for him to pull her inside and kiss her until she couldn't see straight. She wanted too much; she wanted everything.
Blinking back the tears that threatened to gather in her eyes, she tried to figure out exactly where they were, but she didn't know anything about London aside from a two-block radius around the SSR headquarters. She could tell, however, that the lights were growing brighter, owing to the gradual lifting of the blackout restrictions, and more cars were flashing past them. They must be traveling deeper into the heart of the city.
Howard apparently missed a turn, since he let out a string of expletives that Beatrice had to admit were quite creative, and swung the car around so that the tires squealed on the pavement. She clutched on to Bucky's shoulders to stop her head from smacking onto the window; he braced his back against the seat so they wouldn't go flying.
The limousine finally screeched to a stop in front of a blinding array of lights. Beatrice blinked past the brightness to see that they'd stopped at the entrance to a tall white building with elegant gold lettering painted above the doors. "The Dorchester Hotel," she read. "Why—why are we here?"
"To admire the architecture," Howard said sarcastically. "Why do you think?"
"We're…staying here?" Bucky was smirking as he watched her try to puzzle it out. "But…this is one of the most expensive hotels in the entire world!"
"Just for tonight," he said, squeezing her hand.
"Okay, what did you do for him?" Beatrice demanded.
"He saved my life back in November," Howard answered instead. "I was about to take a bullet to the brain by Hydra, but Barnes got to the bastard first. In return, I offered him anything he wanted and he chose this. Well, he said he just wanted to spend time with you without any interruptions. I said I could give him that in style."
Beatrice couldn't believe this was happening. All she had wanted was a few hours of time to spend with Bucky. Now she was getting an entire night with him in one of London's best hotels with no fear of interruptions? "I can't believe it," she said faintly.
"You'll believe it when you see the bill," Howard said darkly, as a car behind them honked its horn impatiently. In response, he turned their own engine off completely. "At least you'll be in good company—rumor has it Churchill is staying here." He reached into his pocket and tossed a set of keys back to them. "Your room is on the seventh floor, the last suite on the left—"
"Suite—"
"And you're under the names James and Beatrice Barnes." Howard looked smug at her flabbergasted expression. The thought of being known as Bucky's wife was too wonderful to comprehend. "Have fun, kids."
"How old are you again, Howard?" Beatrice couldn't help but shoot back with a grin. "But honestly, I—I can't thank you enough," she said fervently as they climbed out of the limousine.
"Thank your fiancé," Howard called as they stepped out into the night. "If it wasn't for him, I'd be dead right now."
"Thank you for saving Howard," Beatrice said to Bucky. He gave the most genuine laugh she'd heard from him yet. She waited until Howard sped out of the driveway before following Bucky through the revolving doors, still piled high with sandbags, into the lobby.
It was so lavish it nearly took Beatrice's breath away. Everything was immaculately polished, the floor so shiny she could see her reflection in the gold leaves that patterned the tile. Diamonds dripped from the chandeliers overhead and the tables and chairs were made of rich mahogany. Mirrors lined with gold were hung on the wall over the decorated wallpaper. The entire place screamed of the glittering opulence of the nouveau riche; this was where London's elite stayed. Beatrice would have felt shamefully out of place if she wasn't so awed.
"Mom would have loved this," Bucky said, almost wistfully. "She always wanted to stay in a place like this."
The raw longing in his voice made Beatrice's heart ache for her own mother, but all she could do was squeeze his hand tighter and tell him that Winifred would want him to enjoy every minute of the opportunity. His face softened at her words.
"I plan to," Bucky declared, with a smirk that made her face burn with heat. The serum unfortunately hadn't erased her tendency to blush.
There weren't many other people about, with not even a bellhop in sight—Beatrice glanced down at her wristwatch and saw that it was already six o'clock; the other guests must be at supper. She hadn't realized she'd spent so much time at the Whip & Fiddle.
When they reached the elevator, a man wearing a gold-trimmed suit and white gloves greeted them. "Welcome to the Dorchester," he said, as if the name alone was a title in itself. "What floor do you require?"
"The seventh," Bucky said as they stepped inside, showing him their keys. The operator nodded with a slight tip of his hat and pulled the doors closed before cranking the lever and they slowly began to rise.
"You must be Mr. and Mrs. Barnes from Brooklyn, New York," he told them. "Howard Stark informed us you would be staying here tonight."
"Yes," Beatrice said politely. She could feel Bucky's hand on her lower back and it was very distracting; payback, she assumed, from placing her hand on his knee earlier. "His generosity is allowing us to stay here."
The operator looked as though he wanted to say something along the lines of "I gathered, judging by your worn clothing and lack of luggage," but his politeness won out and he only smiled at her. "The suite has been prepared for you," he said. "You will be pleased to know that the Dorchester is one of the sturdiest buildings in London should there be an air raid, and not a single window has been broken as of yet."
Beatrice thought that this was due more to sheer luck than the sturdiness of the building's foundation, but nevertheless she nodded politely and listened to him talk about the numerous bombing raids the hotel had survived until they arrived at their floor, the doors smoothly gliding open again. Another couple, dressed in much more expensive clothing than Beatrice and Bucky, moved aside so they could pass.
"Was I supposed to tip him?" she asked Bucky as they began to walk down the long, red-carpeted hallway. "I don't have any money with me—"
He shook his head. "I think he probably knew that already, Rosie." She sighed and he grinned at her pout, leaning over to kiss her. The feel of his lips on hers never failed to make her heart pound, and she nearly forgot that they were standing in the middle of a narrow corridor where any number of important figures could suddenly appear. She reluctantly broke away from him, but her heart was still pounding as he struggled to fit the keys into the lock—she noticed with some vindictiveness that it took him several tries to open.
The first thing she noticed when she walked into the suite was that it was twice the size of the apartment she had grown up in, open and spacious, looking more like an apartment in itself than a hotel room. The floor was carpeted and sank into her toes as she kicked off her shoes and unbuttoned her coat, retreating further inside in awe. There was a sitting-room with a pair of overstuffed armchairs, a chesterfield, and a table filled with—impossibly—fresh fruit. The heavy blackout curtains around the windows were drawn, but if Beatrice's scant knowledge of London geography was correct, they would have a spectacular view of Hyde Park in the morning. Beautiful paintings of the English countryside adorned the walls, and there was even a fire crackling in the grate.
A pair of French doors led to the bedroom, and Beatrice stopped in the doorway, wide-eyed, as she saw the massive four-poster bed in the middle of the room with roses scattered across the pillows and matching eiderdown. There were more chairs in here, too, and a reading-desk with a newspaper folded neatly on top of it. Beyond she could see the bathroom, probably the biggest she'd ever come across, with a clawfoot bathtub that was far too large for one person. She feared this was all a dream and she would wake up any moment; any little movement she made would shatter the illusion.
But the warmth and solidness of Bucky's arms as he wrapped them around her from behind was much too real to be a dream. She leaned back into him and gave a soft whimper as she felt his mouth draw a slow, burning line down her throat. A fierce hunger ignited deep in her bones, searing through her skin. She knew what was going to happen next—had known it since she'd first laid eyes on him that day and caught a glimpse of the thin cardboard package in the pocket of his field jacket—and Beatrice knew that she was prepared for it this time. This was deliberate, nothing at all like their frantic night together in the Hydra cell, but she still felt a heady rush of adrenaline as she twisted around to look up at him, desperate to speak before every thought left her head entirely. "You must have really saved Howard's life, huh?" she said. "But you could have asked for anything in return. Why did you choose this?"
Bucky's face was completely serious. "I wanted a night with you and no one else."
Beatrice's heart, which hadn't stopped pounding since he had kissed her in the hallway, was fluttering even faster, threatening to jump right out of her chest. "But what if you have to leave?" she said faintly. "If the Howling Commandos need you—"
"I don't care if the king of England needs me," he replied grimly. "I need you."
She was speechless, unable to reply, and Bucky took the opportunity to lean down and kiss her, his lips teasing the answer out of her that she couldn't say aloud. She had lost count by now of how many times they had kissed, but it was always a shock to her system, a jolt of electricity that made her wonder how on earth she had lived any sort of life before she'd met him.
Not to be outdone, Beatrice threw herself into the kiss, capturing his lower lip with her teeth and running her tongue along it while pushing his coat off of his shoulders. He impatiently shrugged it away before his hands came up to cup her face, his fingers splayed across her jaw, deepening the kiss as if he was going to devour her whole. This was the culmination of a year spent apart; of stolen kisses and embraces, of words left unsaid and letters left unsent. And this was Bucky Barnes—not the stoic soldier and not the carefree Brooklyn boy, but something much more raw and real and true. This was Bucky with every pretense stripped away, Bucky as no one but Beatrice and Steve had ever seen him.
"I—I need you too," she managed to gasp back against his mouth, her head whirling crazily. All she could see and hear and feel was him. "I love you. So much."
"I love you, too," Bucky murmured, his gray eyes warm, and crushed her to him once again.
They stumbled backward in a sudden outburst of passion, holding each other with a strength that Beatrice certainly didn't remember having the first time they'd done this. Their mouths smashed together in a way that was neither graceful nor smooth, blind hunger overtaking them. Bucky grasped hold of her and lifted her up off the ground, Beatrice's legs wrapping around his waist as she planted hard kisses all over his face and neck. He carried her over to the bed and laid her surprisingly gently atop it, her hair splayed across the pillows. Their clothes were disheveled and Bucky's shirt was halfway unbuttoned, but Beatrice didn't think they would need to worry about that for much longer.
"You know, this is the first time we've had a bed," she said weakly, falling back onto the soft cushions and staring with wide eyes up at him.
"Good thing, too," Bucky muttered, his voice a low growl. Beatrice expected him to kiss her again, but he stayed hovering above her for a moment, staring down at her face. She saw his eyes roving across her features as if he was trying to memorize the precise way she looked at that moment. "I would have done it all again for this, Rosie," he said, and bowed his head as he kissed the tender skin of her throat, his hair tickling her face.
"So would I," she admitted, and shivered as his hands snaked under her slip and then her brassiere, trailing across her stomach and the swell of her breasts. She arched her body toward him as he slowly raised his head, and she kissed him on the nose, missing his mouth entirely. Beatrice couldn't help but giggle, a moment of levity in an otherwise heated situation. She turned her head to the side so Bucky could impatiently brush her hair away and again noticed the roses on the pillows. A question sprang to her mind, and she ventured, "You didn't ask for the roses, did you? It's a nice touch, but—"
"No, I didn't ask for them," Bucky said, with an almost playful roll of his eyes. "Probably Stark's doing."
His knees were on either side of her hips, careful not to put any of his weight on her, though Beatrice was certain it wouldn't make a difference if he did. She tugged impatiently at his tie, the hunger burning inside her growing into a keen ache throughout her entire body, and he seemed just as eager. Within twenty seconds and her help, his trousers were soon lying on the floor along with his coat. Beatrice's own clothes were made quick work of, and she took a moment to marvel at how much Bucky's body had changed since she'd last seen him—his solid, developed muscles and dozens of silvery, healed scars—but his fingers were doing things to her that chased every coherent thought out of her mind for good.
"Bucky," she hissed, too shocked to feel embarrassed at what he was doing, and she could feel him smirk against her skin. Her fingernails dug into his back, and he covered her body with his as they came together again in a kiss that Beatrice hoped would never be broken.
She gasped into his mouth as his fingers slipped between her legs, her hips jerking upward, and Bucky raised his head to smile down at her, seemingly amused by her reaction.
"What are you doing?" she asked breathlessly. He paused, and her body ached for him again. She clenched her teeth to stop another involuntary moan.
"Returning the favor," he whispered, his mouth ghosting up to her ear, running his tongue along the shell, and Beatrice suddenly remembered that she had done the same thing to him when they were trapped in the Hydra cell.
"You remembered," she whispered.
"Of course I did, doll. God, you have no idea how much I thought about you—" A groan slipped from Bucky's mouth as a shudder passed through his body. He was pressing uncomfortably into her stomach, but Beatrice didn't care. He tried to say something else—a plea?—and she whispered into his lips as he blindly pulled her face back to his again, kissing her with a fervor that was almost terrifying in its desperation.
But as she moved to pull her legs up and over his hips, he stopped her, his hands indecently high up on her thighs. "Wait," he murmured. "I wanna try something first."
Confused but curious, Beatrice watched quizzically as he shifted down the bed, his hair mussed and sticking up in a thousand different directions. His hands gently pulled her knees apart, and he cast a questioning glance up at her. Still unsure what he wanted, Beatrice nodded, and Bucky bent his head to kiss the inside of her thighs, her legs trembling from the effort of trying not to arch up her hips. Without taking his mouth away from her, he reached up to pull her legs onto his shoulders, his hands wrapping around her thighs.
And then she realized what he was trying to do.
Her entire body suddenly went very hot, and then very cold. She stared disbelievingly at him, her eyes wide. In all of her secret daydreams about her and Bucky, Beatrice had never once imagined him doing—that. It just wasn't something that men did, especially not unmarried ones. "Bucky, you—you don't have to do that," Beatrice said, her words rushed, her voice breathless. "It's not—proper."
He raised his head slightly and gave her an incredulous look. "And everything else we've done is?" he asked. He was so close that she could feel his breath against her core, and she began to ache in want. Her tongue ran along the sharp edges of her teeth as her thoughts scattered to the four winds. Yes, she did want him to do this. There was something deliciously forbidden about it, and the thought of his mouth on the most intimate part of her body made her shiver.
"Okay," Beatrice whispered, suddenly wishing she hadn't said anything. "You're right."
But Bucky stayed where he was, one hand still on her knee. "Are you sure?" he asked. "I can stop—"
Now Beatrice's teeth sank into her lip, little waves of desire radiating out from her abdomen into the rest of her body. She knew her face was already flushed. "Stop talking, you mean," she interrupted, a little gasp escaping her mouth before she could stop it.
Bucky raised an eyebrow in a clear attempt to look as innocent as possible, though the effect was somewhat ruined by his head between her legs. "You started it," he pointed out.
"Barnes—"
Amusement colored the lines of his face as he finally lowered his head again, and this time his tongue drew a slow line along her center, his stubble scratching against her inner thighs.
Beatrice sucked in a sharp breath as the room suddenly tilted. She squeezed her eyes shut and her hands found a fistful of Bucky's hair as he continued his ministrations, his lips moving across her core, sucking gently. Her legs were shaking from the effort of not clamping themselves around his head.
And then she felt the slide of his tongue against the most sensitive spot of all and she went completely undone, unraveling at the seams, throwing her head back as her entire body tensed. Beatrice stuffed her hand in her mouth to keep from crying out as shuddering waves of pleasure rocked through her, each one stronger than the last.
Bucky didn't take his mouth away from her until she was recovered enough to open her eyes again, stray shivers running down her spine. Her hands were gripping his hair so tightly it must have been painful, but he didn't make a sound.
"Holy shit," Beatrice breathed, taking her hand away from her mouth. She couldn't help the wide, breathless grin that spread across her face.
Bucky's eyes gleamed in knowing victory. "Was it that good, Rosie? You look like the cat that ate the canary."
"It was better than good," Beatrice confessed; her head was still spinning. Despite her best efforts, she hadn't managed to keep entirely quiet—then again, it wasn't the first time she had made a sound that evening, and there hadn't been any complaints from the other guests yet.
While she recovered, Bucky moved to gather up the blankets that had somehow ended up on the floor next to their discarded clothing, and Beatrice made no secret of watching him. His abdomen was lean and tight, the muscles in his legs working as he bent over to retrieve the blankets and toss them back onto the bed. But it was difficult to ignore the very obvious physical fact that indicated he had enjoyed their previous activity nearly as much as Beatrice.
This wasn't at all like the first time, when Beatrice had been beyond nervous and completely unsure of what to do. Now she was emboldened and filled with confidence that she held all of the power. It seemed more prudent to do this at night, when the things she was doing seemed as though they weren't quite real, as though the truth of them would somehow disappear in the morning. But Bucky's shallow, ragged breathing was most definitely real, and so was the intoxicating feel of him moving against her.
She thought back to the hushed conversations she and her fellow nurses had had on the rare occasions they'd had free time to talk about such things—well, Nancy and Helen had spoken while Beatrice and Ruth listened—about what men liked, about what illicit activities went on between soldiers and their sweethearts if they only had a few minutes in which to be alone. After she'd gotten used to the shock of hearing such acts spoken about so brazenly, Beatrice had carefully taken note of what the other women said in case the knowledge ever became useful one day.
But she had never imagined that day would come so soon. And Beatrice would be lying if she tried to convince herself that she wasn't a little bit enticed by the idea.
When Bucky returned to her, she eagerly reached for him, planting delighted kisses across his face and neck, her fingers tangling in his hair. She felt the low rumble of his laugh as he gathered her to him again, his fingers dancing across her spine, rubbing circles into her skin with his knuckles. Her nerves blazed with heat wherever they touched; Beatrice couldn't imagine ever growing tired of this.
"Turn over," she murmured between kisses. It was getting more difficult to tear herself away from him. "Please."
Confusion briefly flickered across his face, but he obeyed, rolling onto his back next to her. Beatrice sat up, shaking roses out of her hair, and moved her legs so that she was sitting astride him, her hair falling into her face. Bucky's hands moved to rest on her hips, his fingers tracing light patterns on her skin. He didn't look displeased by the sudden change in position—in fact, he just seemed curious. Looking down at Bucky's face, she knew he was perfectly happy giving up control to her, that he trusted her entirely. Beatrice's heart swelled so that she could barely speak.
"You said that you've been imagining us," she told him, bending over to kiss his forehead, his jaw, the scars on his throat. "Well, this is what I've been imagining."
She ran her fingers down his chest, his stomach, his abdomen clenching at her touch, but stopping just before where he wanted her the most. She kissed around his stomach, the swirl of dark hair below his navel, while her fingers continued moving downward. His muscles tightened and relaxed beneath her touch; it was fascinating to behold, to observe the way the lightest brush of her fingers elicited such an intense physical reaction in him.
Beatrice could pinpoint the exact moment understanding clicked in his mind, and his eyes widened, the pupils blown. "Rosie," he started to say, his voice very hoarse. "You don't—"
"I don't have to do this?" Beatrice finished his sentence for him, raising a quizzical eyebrow. "I know. But I want to."
And with that, before her nerves got the better of her, she reached down and took him in her mouth. Bucky's reaction was immediate: he gave a low, guttural groan, his head falling back onto the pillow and every muscle in his body going taut. Beatrice could only assume that was a promising sign; she had no idea what she was even doing, much less how to do it, so she could only use his reactions to guide her. She ran light circles around him with her tongue, experimenting with different levels of pressure and even a hint of teeth. As she grew more confident she found a rhythm that pleased both her and Bucky; with what seemed like every bit of effort he possessed, he managed to raise his head and sit up, his hands moving to brush through Beatrice's unbound hair, pushing it back from her face even while his fingers trembled with the effort of holding himself together. The gesture was so unbelievably gentle that her heart stuttered, and she paused for a brief moment to stare in wonder up at him. That tiny pause appeared to bring some semblance of coherent thought, and Bucky realized just how close he was to the breaking point.
"Rosie, I'm gonna—please—" he gasped, his voice strangled. Beads of sweat stood out on his face. His fingers dug into her hips. He seemed to be using every ounce of self-control he possessed not to let himself go.
Seeing that he was close to the edge, Beatrice finally took pity on him and moved up the bed so she could straddle him again and then, finally, lower herself onto him. He made a half-choked sound and blindly pulled her to him, his hands clutching at her waist and cupping her breasts as he eagerly thrust into her.
It only took a few rolls of her hips before Bucky's entire body tensed, his hair sweaty and his breath coming out in choked gasps. Dimly, she thought that Bucky had never been more beautiful than this. And then she felt him finally let go, tense and shaking, and he groaned something that sounded like her name, his breath hot against her neck.
Just the feel of him moving inside her was enough to spike her already overstimulated nerves, and just as Bucky was coming back to himself, Beatrice clenched around him and let out a strangled cry of her own, her vision turning into an explosion of fractured colors.
When she finally had the strength to roll away from him, she was grinning from ear to ear, giddily exuberant. Bucky held out his arms to her, and Beatrice crawled into them, snuggling in his embrace and trying to catch her breath; the world was still spinning. His chest was rising and falling fast. She felt warm and content and happier than she had in months.
"That was mean, wasn't it?" she asked sheepishly as his mouth lazily traced a path down her collarbone. "I guess I should apologize."
Bucky paused, looking up at her from under his eyelashes, and planted a soft kiss on her forehead. "You don't need to apologize for anything, Rosie," he said hoarsely, his arms tightening around her. She could hear the dull echo of his heart in his chest. "You nearly drove me crazy there."
He was half-hard again, and she inwardly marveled at his stamina. Last time, he had collapsed against her and been unable to move for quite a while. Perhaps it was because of the serum—but no, she told herself. It couldn't be.
"But I am sorry," Bucky admitted, looking slightly, adorably ashamed. "I didn't mean for it to be over so quick."
Beatrice grinned and kissed him on the mouth. "That's fine," she said mischievously. "We have all night."
Morning sunlight filtered in through the cracks between the blackout curtains and the wall; Beatrice shielded her eyes from it at first and snuggled deeper into Bucky's embrace. She felt a blush warm her face that slowly covered her entire body as the memory of the previous night came back to her.
At some point they had fallen asleep, too tired to take advantage of Bucky's unusually short refractory period, and Beatrice drifted back to consciousness slowly, happy just to experience this single moment of content bliss, lying together in bed as if they had all the time in the world.
What a miracle it would be to wake up to this every morning, she thought as she turned her head to look at him beside her, his hand resting atop hers on the pillow, his face smooth and unlined in sleep. Just the two of them, far away from the war, her and Bucky as husband and wife, Mr. and Mrs. Barnes—
He stirred as she shifted next to him, gray eyes opening sleepily and a slow grin curving across his face as he remembered where they were. "Sorry," Beatrice whispered quickly. "I didn't mean to wake you up—"
Bucky scoffed and drew her closer, his warm hand rubbing up and down her back. "Best sleep I've had in months," he murmured into her hair. Beatrice turned up her face for a kiss, and he seemed more than happy to oblige, his lips softly brushing against hers. He pulled back too soon, a grin crossing his face when he saw her disappointed expression.
But according to someone like her mother, she shouldn't be disappointed at all. What she and Bucky had done in the Hydra cell was one thing when they had both been desperate and believing they were about to die. But last night, they'd had no such fear, and she had allowed him to kiss and touch her in ways even the soldiers deemed filthy, and she had in turn done the same things to him. Worse, she had done more than just allowed it, she had wanted it.
Then again, if she was going to marry Bucky anyway, how could a few words spoken in a church possibly make any difference? Was she less worthy to love him because they hadn't been blessed by a priest? Her father had never attended church; Beatrice and Elena had only gone to Mass on special occasions, and even then it was because of her mother's Catholic upbringing. If God were to judge her, Beatrice decided, He would have far more to go on than her lost virtue.
"Last night was the first time in months I didn't have nightmares," Bucky admitted after a long, comfortable silence. He sounded strangely hesitant, his fingers stroking Beatrice's arms.
She twisted her head around to look at him. "Nightmares?" Beatrice repeated. Bucky cast his gaze down to her bracelet as if he couldn't meet her eyes.
"Yeah," he said after a pause. "I've been having them since I came over here. At first I hoped they would just go away, but they haven't."
"And you didn't tell me?" Beatrice demanded. She raised her hand to touch his face and Bucky wrapped his fingers around her slim wrist, bringing her hand up to his mouth in an almost absentminded gesture.
"I didn't want you to worry. They're not that bad." He tried to grin at her, shrugging, but the dark circles under his eyes betrayed more than just the stress of long nights spent on duty.
"Have you told the others?"
"No," Bucky said. "We don't really talk about that kind of stuff."
Beatrice frowned. "Not even with Steve?"
He shook his head. "Steve has other things to worry about. Look, it's nothing, Rosie. I can deal with it."
But she wasn't convinced. "They're about Zola, aren't they?" she asked. "What he did to you—to us."
A strange expression crossed Bucky's face. "How do you know?" he said, his hands momentarily stilling on her.
It took Beatrice a moment before she was able to reply. "Because I get them, too."
Bucky bowed his head as if in prayer, but he was staring at their intertwined fingers, his gaze suddenly distant. "And what do you do about them?" he asked. His voice was a low rumble that sent little shockwaves throughout Beatrice's body.
"I think of you. And Steve. And Brooklyn," she said, echoing the words he had said to her so many months ago when he'd first confessed his inability to sleep.
A grin slowly spread across his face, something that chased the darkness from his eyes and his voice. He buried his head in her hair and she felt him inhale deeply as if breathing in her scent.
It was so easy for her to just lie here and forget about the rest of the world, about her promise to Ivan and her duties to the SSR and even the way her stomach had twisted earlier at seeing Steve staring at Peggy Carter like a lost puppy. She could even drive out thoughts of Schmidt and Zola and the way the Red Skull had held her head underwater and left her to drown when he was torturing her for information on Henry. She felt safe with Bucky in a way she never had before, not even when she was a child.
But when she could ignore the growing light no longer, she sighed to herself and slowly sat up, Bucky moving along with her. His hair was rumpled, his eyes still heavy with sleep as he watched her. "You're not leaving already, are you?" he asked, his voice hoarse. "Didn't think you'd be the type to run away afterwards."
"I couldn't leave the last time—we were locked up, if you don't remember," Beatrice teased, and just as quickly shuddered as Bucky kissed a line up her back, his teeth gently nipping at her shoulder.
"I do remember that," he said huskily, stopping at her neck and staring up at her with hooded eyes. "Vividly. Was it really that bad? You should have told me, Rosie."
Beatrice tried very hard to keep a straight face; it was difficult to maintain any sort of composure when he was looking at her like that. "I'm really not the best judge of that. I don't have anything else to compare it with."
Bucky wound a strand of her hair around his finger almost absent-mindedly, his teeth flashing briefly as he grinned. "Unfortunately you're stuck with me now, doll. It's in the papers and everything."
"The papers?" Beatrice echoed with a frown. "What do you mean?"
His face was deceptively innocent as he tenderly regarded her. "A couple of months ago we were interviewed for the Stars and Stripes. I said you were my fiancée." Bucky looked overly pleased at the simple word. "They tried to ask Steve about you too, and all he would say was that you're one of his best friends."
Beatrice laughed incredulously, warmly flattered by the boys' descriptions of her. "So what are they calling me?" she asked. "The Howling Commandos' personal nurse? That'll teach Ricky Marino down the street who used to call me a void coupon."
Bucky's eyes narrowed at this previously unknown bit of information, but Beatrice gave a slight shrug, letting him know that the insult no longer bothered her, and he slowly relaxed again. "Yeah, well, you've been pretty isolated. I don't think the press'll be able to find you for a while." He adjusted his position so that he was sitting up against the pillows and Beatrice leaned back into him. The sun was growing stronger with every minute that passed; as much as she didn't want to think about it, they would have to get out of bed soon. "You know, I was thinking about the first time we met," Bucky said after another moment.
Beatrice grinned, turning around so that she could see his face when she next spoke. "When you thought I was a prostitute?"
Thankfully, his reaction didn't disappoint. "What?" he choked, his eyes going comically wide.
Beatrice had him, and he knew it. "You didn't finish the sentence, but I knew you were going to say, 'You don't think she's a harlot, do you?'"
"Well, how was I supposed to know that, Rosie?" he protested. "Steve found you in a back alley in Flatbush. He could have rescued anyone."
"And I'm sure he would have," she said, idly looking up at the clock hanging on the opposite wall, which stubbornly continued to tick despite her wish for it to stay still forever. When she saw the time, she gasped and immediately untangled herself from him, pushing off the bedclothes and standing up. "It's eight-thirty!" she yelped. "I was supposed to meet Ivan half an hour ago!"
Bucky, however, didn't seem too disturbed. "He can wait," he said, climbing out of bed after her. The sight of Bucky Barnes standing in front of her without clothes would have been enough to make Beatrice feel faint any other time, but now she was too worried to feel flustered. "At least let's take a bath before we go."
Beatrice paused in the middle of gathering her stockings, following his pointed gaze from the clawfoot tub in the next room back to Bucky himself, who looked far more smug than he had any right to be. "We?" she asked in a slightly strangled voice.
Bucky only smirked devilishly in return, taking her hand and wordlessly leading her to the bathtub, and Beatrice found that she was all too happy to follow him. She knew that they were very late, that hot water was rationed and sooner or later the chambermaid would come in or Ivan would send Howard to check on them, but when Bucky paused in the doorway to spontaneously grab her face and kiss the breath out of her again, she found it very difficult to care.
Maybe, at least, he would be able to dream of this.