Steve has some stuff to work through now that Ethan's gone, and Bucky does too. Time for some introspection and sweetness.
It was nearly midnight by the time Steve got finished with his debrief in Phillips' office. There was a lot to cover, never mind that he was doing the debrief alone. Colin was in the infirmary, and Ethan was…
Ethan was dead. It always hurt, losing someone in combat, someone Steve was responsible for, but he was surprised just how deep this one cut. He didn't hate Ethan anymore—hadn't hated him for a long time, but losing him still hurt more than he ever would have thought it would.
When Phillips dismissed him, he pushed himself wearily to his feet and left the office, contemplating the long walk up to the infirmary. The nine flights of stairs were a daunting prospect at the moment, but there were people he should check on, and sharing their pain was infinitely preferable to the long night of troubled contemplation and staring at the ceiling that was ahead of him if he went to bed.
He sighed heavily and started walking toward the stairs, surprised to hear the office door open and close behind him and the soft click of Peggy's shoes on the stone floor. "Aren't you supposed to be working?" he asked her. There was usually a lot for her and Phillips to sort out after the team came back from a mission.
"I can do it in the morning," she said, sliding her hand into his.
Steve smiled gratefully. People died on missions, and it wasn't as though he couldn't handle it on his own, but he appreciated her company. "I was going up to the infirmary to check on the wounded. You want to come?"
"You can go up in a minute," she told him, sitting down on the stairs instead of walking up them and tugging him down to sit beside her. "Talk to me first. You're not okay."
"I'm fine," he started, but stopped at the look she gave him. "No, I'm not okay," he sighed. She pulled his hand over into her lap and leaned into his shoulder, inviting him to go on. "You sure you want to do that?" he asked. "I have no idea what most of this stuff is I'm covered in."
"I can shower later," she said. "And you're stalling."
He huffed a brief laugh at that. "Yeah. See, if you'd just let me go up and check on people, then I could wait and not have to think about…" He sighed and scrubbed a hand down his face. "Not think about what happened." He sighed again. "It was almost Gabe. Gabe was on the ground, pinned partway under some rubble that had fallen on him and he couldn't get his wand out. I had four guys on me and couldn't get over there fast enough. And Ethan just…"
Ethan had come flying in from the side, barreling into the soldier aiming at Gabe and taking him to the ground. Twin shots rang out, one from Ethan's gun and one from the soldier's. The Hydra soldier hadn't gotten up, but even then, even though Ethan was still moving, Steve had been able to tell Ethan wouldn't be getting up either.
"He took the shot," he said quietly. "Saved Gabe's life. We got him out, but…" He sniffed, a tight knot forming behind his eyes as he felt tears threatening to reappear. "Jim couldn't do anything. His guts were…they were melting." Steve couldn't think of a more painful way to die. He sniffed again. "He told me he was sorry," he said softly. "For the way he'd treated me. I—" He paused and wiped his nose on his sleeve. "He did that two years ago, Peggy. I forgave him then, why would he…" From where Steve was sitting, he'd more than made up for it by now. Had he still been feeling guilty about that after all this time?
It took him a minute before he could go on. Peggy squeezed his hand and wrapped her other hand around his bicep, warmth and stability flowing through the touch. "He was worried about his mom," Steve said, his voice wavering dangerously. "He was in so much pain, but he…" He swallowed hard. "He wanted me to tell her that it was quick so she wouldn't think he'd suffered." The first tear trickled out, and Peggy pulled him around so that his head was on her shoulder, kissing him gently on top of the head, heedless of the dirt and soot layered in his hair.
"I used to hate him, Peggy," he whispered. "I hated him so much. Then after he got better, I, I thought we were okay. You know? We worked together well and made a good team. We weren't friends, but we were okay. I thought that was fine. But he's gone now, and I…" He lifted his head enough to meet her eyes. He'd felt like they were square, but could he have done more? Should he have been trying for more than that? "Was it good enough? Should I have… I should have tried harder to fix things, I…"
Peggy pulled him back into the hug. "It was good enough," she whispered, stroking her fingers through his hair. "You did all you could—more than other people would have done. It's hard to admit you're wrong about something and change your life so drastically. Think how much harder it would have been for him to do that if you'd not forgiven him." She kissed the side of his face. "He became a better person because of you. And he did a lot of good in the world before tonight. He died a hero." She rested her head on top of his. "And you did enough."
Steve sat there for a while and cried, just holding on to her. She stroked his hair and rubbed her hand up and down his back, and when Steve finally sat up to look at her, her eyes were a little damp too. "I'm sorry, Steve," she said, smiling sadly and reaching up to brush his hair off his forehead. She leaned forward and kissed him gently, and Steve leaned in and pulled her closer to him, kissing her back and losing himself for a moment in how warm and alive and present she felt.
"I love you," he whispered.
"I love you too," she told him.
They sat there for a moment longer, Steve leaning in and resting his forehead against hers, before he pulled back and sat up straighter with a sigh. "Thanks," he said. The loss was still hanging heavy over him, but calm was settling into his soul for the moment. "You want to come with me while I check on the rest of the guys?"
"Alright," she said. "While we're at it, we'll have you looked over as well."
"I'm okay," he said. Sure, he was bruised and battered and sore, but it wasn't anything that wouldn't heal.
"You've not got anything that looks life-threatening," she corrected. "There's a difference." She rested a hand gently on his arm. "That needs cleaning out and looking at at the very least."
He looked down at the blood staining his sleeve, and yeah, that was a pretty bad cut. Not deep enough for stitches, and not enough blood to make him pass out, but now that she'd pointed it out, it did hurt pretty bad.
They walked up to the infirmary, and Nurse Rains gave him an exasperated look at having waited so long, but had his arm fixed up easily. Steve checked in with his team—those that were there, anyway. Gabe was staying overnight for his leg after all that stuff had fallen on him. Physically, he was going to be fine, but he was taking Ethan's death pretty hard. They'd had their fair share of beef in the past too, and Steve imagined the same guilty thoughts that were bouncing around in his head were running through Gabe's. He tried to say something encouraging, but he didn't linger. There was a time and a place for words, and a time and a place to sit alone and sort through things on your own, and Gabe didn't need Steve hanging around right now.
No one from the rest of the team was here—they'd all been hurt, but their injuries had been minor enough for easy fixes, and they'd all been sent to their dorms. Steve was a little surprised Bucky wasn't here—he'd taken some shrapnel to the shoulder during their final escape that no one, including Bucky, had noticed until after Ethan died, which had been long enough for it to get kind of messy. That was good, though, that it had been easy enough to fix to send him back to the dorm. Steve was still kind of worried about him—he'd been looking really rattled back in the woods, and Steve could tell it had to do with more than just his shoulder. Between what happened to Ethan, though, and sorting out the other casualties and wounded, Steve had been forced to shove the rest of his worry aside until after they got back. And Bucky would be asleep by now, so Steve would let those worries keep until morning.
With as long as it had taken Steve to get up to the infirmary, Nurse Rains had had plenty of time to get Colin figured out. Steve hadn't actually seen the injury, just heard about it, and he couldn't see it now—Colin's leg had disappeared under what looked like an entire roll of bandages, and it was splinted up and elevated, ankle to knee suspended from some sort of metal contraption above the bed. Rains wasn't sure yet if the leg could be reattached, but she was hopeful—some sort of magic was going on under all the bandages trying to stick things back together.
Steve had intended to give Colin a report on the rest of his unit if he'd been awake, and he was awake, but on so many painkillers that coherent conversation wasn't really an option. Steve just smiled and patted him on the shoulder and told him he'd talk to him when he was feeling better, leaving him to return to the conversation he'd been having in Gaelic with the bedpost. Steve's command of Gaelic was pretty shaky—and Scots Gaelic was a little different from Irish Gaelic—but he thought Colin was talking about potatoes.
He hesitated outside the infirmary doors, not really sure where to go next. He was exhausted and filthy and just wanted to take a shower and go to sleep, but he didn't know if his mind would let him.
"Don't want to go to bed?" Peggy asked.
Steve sighed. "Not really." He looked down at her and smiled. "You go ahead and go get some sleep, though. I'll be alright."
"I know you will," she said. "But I fancy a walk."
"At one-thirty in the morning?"
"I was thinking the Astronomy Tower? It's a clear night. The stars are gorgeous." She twined her fingers through his again and they set off up the stairs.
It was chilly up on top of the tower, but Steve pulled his jacket open so Peggy could snuggle up against his side, and they huddled together in one of the corners out of the wind. Peggy was right. It was pretty up here.
They spent a little while talking about the mission. They always did this after every mission, good or bad, whether it was just one of them that had been out or both of them together. Not the tactical, military side of things, but just their feelings, thoughts and worries. When there was nothing more about the mission to be said, they sat in silence for a little while, just watching the stars.
"When the war's over," Peggy asked him. "Do you think you'll go on being Captain America?"
Steve was quiet for a minute, considering his answer. It was a big question, but it was kind of the time of night for that sort of thing. "I don't know," he said at last. "I don't really know how to be anything else."
"Do you want to be anything else?"
"I think…" he sighed. "I think I'd like to try. Just to see what else I could do, you know? Not that I want to stop doing stuff to help people," he amended. "But there are ways to do that without wearing a patriotic jumpsuit."
Peggy giggled at that.
"I could join up with you in the S.S.R.," he said. He knew Peggy had no intentions of leaving her job, and it might be neat to work alongside her in a different capacity.
"You're already in the S.S.R.," she reminded him.
"Well, yeah, but I could do something less high-profile. Or, you know, I could leave the heroics to you and get some kind of nine to five job."
Peggy smiled. "Does that mean you'd have dinner ready for me every evening when I came home from work?"
"Sure," Steve said, echoing her smile with his own. "I can cook."
"Really?" she asked skeptically.
"Of course I can!" he said, mock-affronted. "Mrs. Barnes taught me how. I can make bread; I can cook vegetables and fish and chicken. I can even make pot roast."
"Can you?" Peggy asked, sounding impressed in spite of her teasing tone.
"Yep. It's delicious."
She giggled again. "Lamb chops?" she wondered.
"Yep. And pork."
"Beef stew?"
"Uh huh."
"Pasta?"
"And sauce to go with it."
"Chocolate cake?"
"Yep."
"Souffle?"
"No," he admitted.
"Well, can't cook everything, can you?" she teased.
"Can you make a souffle?" he asked.
"No."
He grinned. "I make a decent merengue, though. And I'm good at Jell-O. I can make it with the floating fruit pieces and everything. I'm not that great at pies, though. You want good pie, we're gonna have to end up next door to Bucky. He makes good pie."
"I never would have thought the boys from Brooklyn would be such good cooks," she said. She smiled. "I do like chocolate cake."
Steve smiled back and kissed the tip of her nose. "I'll make you one for your birthday."
They stayed on top of the Tower until the sun came up, and though it felt like it should have been wrong, somehow, to talk about things that really weren't all that important after what had happened the night before, Steve felt better than he had when they'd sat down. There was comfort in the little things.
Standing up after sitting so long in the cold, he felt stiff and achy and decided a hot shower was in order. Peggy was thinking the same, hoping that at this hour of the morning, the bath tub would be free and she could have a nice, long soak. Steve walked her down to her dorm, kissing her soundly before continuing on down the stairs.
He crept quietly into Hufflepuff, snatching his towel off the back of the door without going fully into his room—the rest of the guys would be asleep and he didn't want to let the light in and wake anybody up. He spent a long time in the shower, washing off the dirt and soot and blood, the smell of battle and the weight of exhaustion. His thoughts drifted back to Ethan and his last request—his parents would be notified, would probably be here later today, or tomorrow at the very latest. He should come up with something to say.
It took a while, standing there under the spray, but he finally formulated what he thought would be good to say, though he still wasn't quite sure how to put it all together. Maybe Ethan's parents wouldn't get here for a little bit, give him time to go out and ride around on his bike for a while and figure things out the rest of the way. Or maybe Bucky would know what to say. Bucky was good with words.
He crept back to his room, wet feet chilly on the stone floor, slipping inside as quietly as possible. Morris's bed was by the door, and it was empty, sheets in an untidy heap at the foot of the bed—he was an early riser, but he never made his bed. Dave and Jacques were still asleep, Jacques snoring loudly, but much to Steve's surprise, Bucky's bed was empty. Bucky didn't get up early unless he had to, and Steve hadn't seen him in the bathroom or the hallway. As he approached his closet, he was close enough to Bucky's bed to notice that not only was it empty, but it hadn't been slept in.
Steve got dressed quickly and decided to forgo his original plan of sitting in front of the fire in the common room with a book until breakfast to go out and look for Bucky. The haunted look on Bucky's face last night came back to him, along with the worry that he'd had to save for later. Something was wrong, and he should go and find out what it was.
After not finding him in the common room or the kitchen, Steve decided to head outside and try the training area instead of searching the whole castle. Bucky sought out the punching bags when something was bothering him, and while it was still awfully early in the morning for that, it was worth a look.
It didn't surprise him when he found Bucky down there, hands wrapped and pounding on a punching bag. What did surprise him was that Bucky was still in his uniform—he'd shed the blue coat when the work got too hot, but he was still in his combat boots and the rest of his gear, covered in last night's blood and dirt.
"Bucky?" he asked. Bucky continued his rhythmic punching, not hearing him over the noise. "Bucky!" he said a little louder. Nothing. "Bucky!"
Bucky whirled around, breathing hard, sweat pouring down his face and washing clean streaks through the grime. "Hey, Steve," he grunted. He dashed a hand across his nose and nodded at Steve's arm. "You get fixed up alright?"
"What? Yeah, I'm fine, Bucky, what—"
"Colin okay?" he asked, cutting him off.
Steve nodded. "Rains is optimistic about saving the leg."
"Good." He turned back around to face the punching bag.
"Bucky, have you been out here all night?"
Bucky didn't answer, just grunted and started punching again.
"Buck, did you—"
"I heard you," he snapped. "I'm fine."
Steve frowned. "That's not what I asked."
"It's where you were headed," Bucky replied between punches. "Can you leave me to it?"
Steve's frown deepened. If he'd really been out here all night…yes, Bucky didn't like people talking to him when he did this, but he'd never done it for seven hours straight before either. Steve was suddenly a lot more worried and kind of surprised he was still on his feet.
"Buck, what's wrong?" he asked carefully. He always took missions hard when people died—they all did—but this was…this was more than that.
"I said I'm fine," he growled.
"Buck—"
"I'm fine! Go away."
Yeah, sure, because that sounded totally fine. "No," Steve said, and he stepped forward and stuck out a hand, catching Bucky's fist before it could hit the bag again.
Bucky whirled around, fire burning in his eyes. "I said leave me the hell alone!"
"No," Steve said again gently, not letting go of Bucky's fist, though he loosened his grip when he looked down and saw that it was black with bruises under the tape that was slipping off. He looked back up at Bucky sadly. "Talk to me, Buck. What's wrong?"
Bucky glared at him for a long minute, shaking with what Steve thought at first was anger but then realized was exhaustion. Steve shifted his grip from Bucky's hand to his elbow, leading him over to the nearest bench where he dropped like a rock.
"Talk to me," he said again.
Bucky wasn't glaring anymore, but he didn't say anything, just reaching up and dashing a hand across his nose again. That hand was bruised and bloody too, the knuckles swollen and not all of the fingers bending quite the way they were supposed to.
"How long have you been out here?" Steve asked.
"Since Rains fixed my shoulder," Bucky said quietly.
"What's going on?" Steve asked. When Bucky didn't seem sure what to say, Steve prompted, "Was it Ethan? How he died, I mean?" Bucky had a thing about internal organs—and why shouldn't he, after what Zola had done to his? Injuries like that freaked him out more than others did, and that might explain what had him so shaken up.
Bucky huffed a humorless laugh. "Well, you're close," he said. Steve waited for him to go on, and after a minute, he did. "Ethan's dead, Steve. Ethan…" He shook his head. "Ethan frickin' Green. I hated him."
"I know," he said softly.
"No," Bucky protested, a little bit of heat coming back into his voice. "No, you don't. You know I'm always gonna have beef with people who treat you the way he did, but he was worse than any of 'em. The stuff he said, the stuff he did…To you, mostly, but there was Gabe and Jim too, and hell, even Kelly. I never met anyone who was worse than him that wasn't Hydra." He was quiet for a minute, chewing on his lip and gathering his thoughts. "After Azzano…he apologized, and you forgave him, because you're a better man than I'm ever gonna be. I never did. Not even a little. I worked with him, and I saw he was trying to be better, but I never trusted him. Not really. I mean, I trusted him to do his job, sure, but that's different. This was just, as a person, you know? I kept waiting for him to slip up, to flip that new leaf back over to where it started."
Bucky stopped talking again, but Steve didn't say anything. He wasn't sure what to say, and he didn't think Bucky was done yet.
"I don't know why I did that," he said quietly. "Everything he did, he really did seem like he'd changed. I'd watch him with his team, you know, and there were guys on there who would have been just his kind of target before. But he just took care of 'em, the way he should have. Kept saving our lives too," he added with a huff. "That whole thing after Gray, and he saved my life once later, at that factory in the Netherlands. I don't know if I ever told you that. Took out a guy coming up on me up on the roof." He sighed. "After Azzano, he never did anything to prove he was the scumbag he was before. But I never believed it was for real."
Silence for a moment again, and then Bucky shoved himself up to his feet with a growl. "And then he went and saved Gabe's life!" he snapped, and he sounded like he was mad about that, but Steve knew that wasn't what it was. "He was one of the worst people I knew, Steve! The stuff he used to call Gabe and Jim…" He shook his head. "Ma would whip me six ways from Sunday for even thinking words like that! The way he talked about you being half-blood and the…the things he said about your ma…" He snarled. "And I was always picking up the pieces after he went after you—there were times he hurt you so bad he could have killed you if there hadn't been magic to fix it! And then he says he's gonna change, and, what, I'm just supposed to buy that?! Hell, no! He was always gonna be that guy, that awful, terrible person, and then last night…" He inhaled sharply, the breath stuttering through his anger. "It was like, like he was trying to prove to me that I was wrong! He just went and threw himself into something he knew would probably kill him to save someone I know he used to think wasn't good enough to lick the dirt off his shoes! Why…Why the hell would he do that, Steve?!"
He snarled and swung around to face the punching bag again, driving a battered fist into the stained canvas with a howl. He punched it again, then again, the bag tearing with a sharp ripping sound as Steve jumped up to grab him and Bucky let out a yell that was only partially because of the pain.
Steve caught him and spun him, pinning Bucky's arms between them and tucking Bucky's head underneath his chin. Bucky didn't fight it, just collapsed against Steve with a miserable sigh. "Why would he do that?" he asked again, soft and sad this time, the words muffled as he spoke them into Steve's chest.
Steve didn't know what to say, so he just hugged him. He knew Bucky didn't like Ethan, but he knew he still would have taken his death hard, like he did everyone's. He just hadn't realized he would take it so personally, and he had no idea what to say to make it better.
"Why would he do that?" A whisper this time. Bucky sniffed dejectedly, his shoulders heaving once as he tried to force down a sob. "And why didn't I…" Another sniff, and Steve felt the hot moisture of tears start to soak through his shirt. "I never forgave him. I hated him and I never forgave him, and he's dead now and it's too late for—" His words caught in his throat and his shoulders heaved again, and Steve felt tears prickling in his own eyes.
"Aw, Buck," he whispered sadly.
"I was wrong, Stevie," he said miserably. "I was wrong, and there's never gonna be anything I can do to make it right."
Steve closed his eyes and sighed, a deep ache expanding in his chest. His heart hurt for his friend and the pain he had no way to take away; but also for himself, and those words of Bucky's that echoed Steve's own thoughts just a little too closely. "I'm sorry," he whispered, all he could say. That felt inadequate, but Bucky sighed deeply and Steve felt some of the tension in his shoulders loosen, and maybe he didn't need to say anything else.
Steve wasn't sure how long they stood there, but he held on until Bucky stopped crying. He pulled back a little to look at him then, and his eyes were red and weary, clean tracks from his tears running from the corners of his eyes through the dirt on his face down to his chin. He looked miserable and exhausted and Steve pulled him back in for another hug. He resisted the urge to tell him it would be okay—though it would be, eventually, it would do him no good to hear it now. "You need some rest," he said instead, and Bucky sniffed and nodded minutely.
One arm securely over his shoulder, Steve steered him back up to the castle, avoiding the few students who were out braving the early morning chill. Thankfully, most of their dorm was out at breakfast or still asleep, so there were no questioning eyes to greet them in the common room, though Steve doubted Bucky would have noticed them. He didn't think Bucky had enough left in him to stand up long enough for a shower, but he needed to get that blood and dirt and the smell of death that always lingered after a battle off of him. Steve grabbed one of the stools in the corner of the bathroom and set it down in one of the shower stalls, depositing Bucky down on top of it, uniform, boots and all. Bucky barely flinched when the spray of hot water hit him in the face. The water around his feet was swirling red and brown as the filth of battle rinsed off of his body and clothes, though he continued to sit still. Steve grabbed a bottle of shampoo and started lathering it into his hair, and after a minute or two, Bucky swatted his hands away and mumbled that he had it.
Steve hovered for a minute to make sure he could manage with the shape his hands were in, then nodded and went back to their room. He changed into something dry and not covered with blood, snot and tears, then made his way quickly to the kitchen. Bucky needed help with his hands, but he didn't need the long walk up to the infirmary or the scrutiny and questions he would face there. Fortunately, Willow was more than willing to help.
"Of course, Master Steve," she said. "Let Willow gather some things, and she will meet you in the dorm."
Steve thanked her and hurried back. Bucky was still in the shower, though he'd turned the water off and was just sitting there on the stool, unable to get up. Steve helped him up and dried him off as best he could. Back in their room, he undid all the buckles and buttons that Bucky hadn't been able to manage, then leaned him against the closet and went out into the hallway, trying to let him keep as much of his dignity as he could and peel the wet clothes off himself. With one hand on the closet, Bucky would be able to keep himself upright enough to finish drying off and to pull his pajamas on.
Steve came back in and helped him into bed, where he laid down and curled up on his side. A blink of mild surprise was all the reaction he gave to the sharp crack of magic that heralded Willow's arrival, though once he realized what she was there for, he looked up at Steve with a small, grateful nod.
Willow made no comments about how he had injured himself, merely clicked her tongue sympathetically and set straight to work. Now that he was horizontal, Bucky's eyes were already drifting shut, but she made him sit up just enough to drink some of her special tea. Bucky was tired enough to sleep, but on his own, he wouldn't sleep well right now, and Steve was grateful for her thoughtfulness.
"Thanks, Willow," Bucky whispered before falling asleep, and Willow smiled softly and patted him gently on the head. She worked in silence for a little while after that, muttering over his hands and rubbing various ointments on them. A straight night of punching would be tough on anyone's hands, but Steve was surprised that Bucky had been able to keep going at all, as bad as they looked—they were black and purple with bruises, knuckles swollen and split, and several fingers curled up at awkward, pained angles.
Under Willow's gentle ministrations, though, the bruises started to fade, split skin knitting back together and bones healing until his hands were whole again. She started wrapping them in bandages that had been soaked in something sweet-smelling, to help heal the rest of the pain, she said. "Something troubles Master Bucky?" she asked, shooting an inquisitive look up at Steve as she paused to tie off one of the bandages.
Steve nodded. "It was a rough mission last night."
"Mm," Willow nodded. "Students were killed?"
"Yeah."
She nodded again, moving Bucky's hands up to rest by his chest and pulling his blanket up over his shoulders. "His heart is very big, Master Bucky's," she said, patting him on the shoulder. "He worries much for many people." She turned and looked up at Steve, a sad smile on her face. "Master Steve is the same. To care so much, some would say is unwise—'tis easier to be hurt then. But to know this and still care much?" Her smile grew much warmer and she rested a little hand on Steve's, squeezing it gently. "Sirs is good men."
Steve swallowed down a sudden knot of emotion in his throat, feeling unexpectedly touched. A small smile curved up the corners of his mouth. "Thanks, Willow," he whispered.
She nodded, still smiling, and set to picking up her things. "Sir should sleep too," she said. "Willow knows a boy who has not slept when she sees one. But," she added. "Willow also knows Sir will not sleep while he watches over his friend." Steve blushed a little, and she grinned, knowing she had his number. "So, Willow will send food. Master Steve must eat, and he can watch and rest his soul while he does it. The body can rest tonight."
Steve chuckled a little at that.
"Master Bucky's hands are healing, but if they are still paining him when he wakes, Sir must send for Willow."
"I will," Steve promised. "Thank you for coming."
"Sir is most welcome," she said warmly. "Willow is glad to help."
She left, and Steve moved over to his own bed. Not to sleep, but it was a more comfortable place to sit and think. Bucky should sleep for a long time, and Steve hoped he felt better when he woke up. Some good, long sleep wouldn't get rid of the pain, but it would dull the edges, make it less raw. He still didn't know if there was anything he could say to Bucky to help, but helping didn't always mean saying things. Sometimes it just meant being there.
He sat there for a long time, nibbling absently at the food Willow had brought him. His mind was too restless to do anything productive—homework sat unremembered in his school bag under his bed, and the words that had been swirling around in his head trying to form into something to say to Ethan's parents continued to flit around chaotically, never landing anywhere. He knew Peggy had been right—he'd done as well as he could have by Ethan, but the guilt, the 'what if's' still hung heavy. He watched Bucky sleep pensively, thinking over his words. Bucky had never liked Ethan, true, but Steve wondered if maybe he wasn't being too hard on himself—he knew guilt sometimes made things darker and heavier than they should have been. But, then, sometimes, they were just that heavy. And that knowledge that it was too late to do anything about it either way, that was like a punch in the gut. Steve could sympathize with that all too well.
Eventually, feeling restless and tired and jittery, Steve pulled out his sketchbook and pencils so he'd have something to do with his hands. He lost himself for a while in the lines on the paper, completing their shapes and shading without really thinking about them. It was some hours later that he looked down, his hands smudged with graphite, and really looked at what he'd drawn.
He'd filled several pages. Some were little things—he'd drawn the untidy pile of shoes under Dave's bed; Bucky's towel hanging off the bedpost and the little drips of water under it on the floor; the light glinting on the handle of his closet; and his own foot, including the pattern on his sock and the hole over the big toe. Some took up a whole page—he'd done a few of Bucky sleeping; the folds of the blanket piled up around him; one of just his hands, bandaged and tucked up in front of him; and one of his face, peaceful under the tangled mess that his hair always worked itself into when he slept with it wet. There were some sketches of things he'd just pulled out of his memory too—Peggy smiling and wearing the scarf he'd made her for Christmas last year; Becky writing in her little notebook; the flowers in the box outside the living room window that Mrs. Barnes always watered; the handlebars of his motorcycle.
There was a page in the middle of them all that surprised him. He hadn't been aware of it while he was doing it, but he'd drawn a portrait of Ethan—not as he'd last seen him, dying and in pain, but walking forward with a reassuring smile on his face, holding out one hand. Steve stared at it for several minutes before he realized that was another memory. It was some factory mission—he didn't remember which one—but there had been a kid there, maybe nine or ten. Not a soldier, just someone who'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time and gotten caught up in one of the sweeps Hydra did when they needed more forced labor. Ethan had gotten the kid out and looked after him, promising him that it was all going to be okay now, that it was time to go home. Steve smiled sadly and scribbled a little notation down in the corner of the page. 'Ethan Green, 89th. Rescue and Extraction. 1945'.
Bucky woke up halfway through the afternoon. He still looked exhausted, but a little more settled. He blushed a little when he looked down at his hands, unwrapping the bandages gingerly.
"Sorry about this morning," he said.
"It's okay," Steve replied. "I get it." Bucky arched an inquisitive eyebrow and Steve lifted one side of his mouth up in a half smile. "I should've…There's stuff it's too late for me to say too."
Bucky nodded, a ghost of an appreciative smile for the understanding and lack of judgement flitting across his face.
"Do they still hurt?" Steve asked, nodding at his hands.
Bucky curled and uncurled his fingers experimentally. "No. A little stiff, but they're fine."
"Good."
"Thank you." Steve knew he meant for more than just getting his hands fixed up.
"Anytime," he told him warmly.
The fiery anger and the suffocating guilt that Bucky had tried to punch away last night was gone, but he didn't feel…he wasn't okay. He didn't feel much of anything right now, really, still too tired for any depth of emotion, even after sleeping all day. Compared to drowning in all the things he should have done, though, that numb feeling was preferable, at least for now. There was plenty of time for self-reproach later.
Willow came back to check on him, and he managed a smile for the little elf and her cheerful kindness, thanking her again for her help. It was still a little while until dinner when she left, and Bucky glanced over uncertainly to where Steve was still sitting on his bed writing something. This whole thing wasn't over yet, he knew, but he didn't think he could handle any more baring of his soul today.
Steve looked up, and there was a small smile in his eyes as he read Bucky's expression. "I'm not waiting around to drag anything out of you, Buck," he said. "You have more to work out, we can do it when you're ready. I'm just here." Reminding Bucky he wasn't alone. A knot of grateful emotion welled up in Bucky's throat and he nodded.
"Thanks, Stevie."
Steve went back to whatever he was writing and Bucky pulled one of his library books off his nightstand. He didn't know that he read an awful lot of it by the time they went to dinner, but it took his mind off things for a little while. Becky was waiting for them when they got there, and Bucky felt another quick stab of guilt at the realization that while she may have known they'd made it back alive, she hadn't seen him or Steve since they'd come back yesterday. She didn't look mad, though, just smiled and hugged them both. Her arms lingered around Bucky, and she looked up at him curiously.
"You okay, Jay?" she asked.
He nodded. "Rough mission."
"What happened?" she wondered.
Bucky swallowed down the knot in his throat before it had time to build. "I don't really want to talk about it right now."
She studied him for a few seconds, then nodded. "Okay." She smiled. "You want to hear what happened in Charms yesterday?" When he nodded, she launched into an elaborate retelling of yesterday's events, which seemed to center around some sort of relationship drama between two of the Gryffindor Third-Years that had evolved into a full-blown incident in class involving furniture flying around the room and several parakeets. She was exaggerated enough in her story-telling that Bucky could tell what she was trying to do, and he appreciated it, finding himself laughing along at the ridiculous tale that was unfolding. Steve laughed so hard that orange juice came shooting out of his nose, eliciting cackles of disgusted glee from Becky.
He went to bed early that night, still tired enough that he slept well. Ethan's parents were there the next morning, and there was a small memorial service out on the grounds for him and for the others they'd lost that night. Bucky had been to far more of these things than he cared to count, and though the repeated sentiments of sorrow should have started ringing hollow by this point, they didn't. He stared out over the patch of grass on a little knoll above the lake, allowing his mind to wander enough to keep from crying in front of all these people. Of the students who had been killed in combat, none of them had been buried at Hogwarts—their parents all took them home—but there was a little set of memorial markers clustered there in the grass. They were simple stone panels, just a name and a date and a short inscription. Arthur's was in the back, a little weathered but still easy to read. Ethan's was new, so clean and smooth that the sun was glaring off the top of it, obscuring part of his name. It would dull in time, just like the guilt that had started stabbing daggers into Bucky's stomach again.
He wondered when that would be. He didn't think he deserved for it to be any time soon.
After the funeral, Steve got up to go talk to the Greens. He told Bucky that it was alright if he stayed behind, but Bucky shook his head and stood up with him. He should talk to them too, and he shouldn't make Steve do it alone. Once they were face to face, Bucky found he couldn't do much more than tell them that he was sorry. Steve talked a little while longer, and it was nice, what he said. He told them about how Ethan had saved their lives, and a couple of other nice things about him. Bucky nodded along where he could, hoping that made up for his own lack of words. Steve also made sure to assure them that Ethan had died heroically, and that he had gone out quickly and without suffering. A weight seemed to lift off his mother's shoulders when he said that, and Bucky wondered how many times Steve had had to rehearse those words to be able to say them convincingly.
They left and Steve sagged down, his shoulders slumping. "I just lied to a grieving mother," he said, a little catch in his voice. "What the hell kind of man does that make me?"
Bucky slung an arm over his shoulders. "A kind one," he said. Steve looked up at him and Bucky smiled sadly.
Steve nodded, and they just stood there for a minute, watching the crowd disperse. "I think I need to get out for a little while," Steve sighed. "If I go out and ride around, will you…"
"I'm not gonna punch anything," Bucky said, knowing what Steve was worried about. He nodded towards the garage. "Go clear your head."
Steve nodded and clapped him on the shoulder, walking off to get his bike and skirting around the lingering groups of people. Bucky looked back at the stones, taking a few steps closer to them. A cloud had drifted in front of the sun, cutting off the glare on Ethan's stone. "I'm sorry," Bucky said, feeling a little foolish talking to a rock but needing to get the words out. "I was wrong about you. You were alright." He sighed and looked around, catching sight of Gabe walking back to the castle, still limping a little, with one arm over Jacques' shoulders. There were more than enough stones out here already, and there could have been one more today—one with the name 'Gabriel Jones' carved on it. Bucky turned back to Ethan's stone, moisture prickling in his eyes. "Thank you," he said softly.
He took his time walking back to the castle. Somewhat to his surprise, Peggy was sitting on the steps leading up to the front door, getting to her feet when he got closer. "There you are," she said, clearly having been waiting for him. She smiled. "Fancy a walk?" Her smile got a little wider when he narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "We don't have to talk about Ethan," she said. "But you were cooped up inside all day yesterday, and if you're going to keep brooding, you can at least do it in the sunlight for a bit."
She took his hand and started leading him away from the castle. "Peggy," he started.
"I wasn't asking," she replied.
He sighed, looking back over his shoulder at the castle. Going back inside the dark, heavy stone walls suddenly seemed like a foreboding prospect. He shoved his hands into his pockets and fell into step beside her. "Alright," he said.
They walked down toward the front gates, and, yeah, they were sort of supposed to ask before going off campus, but a change of scenery sounded nice. Peggy asked him a few questions about if his shoulder was still hurting, or how Becky was doing, and things like that, but they were mostly quiet until they passed the gates and got on the road down to Hogsmeade.
Bucky looked over at Peggy—she'd said they didn't have to talk about Ethan, and maybe that was just because of the funeral, but he wondered how much she knew. "Did Steve tell you about yesterday?" he asked. Not that he thought Steve would have shared the personal details of Bucky's breakdown or anything—he just wondered how much he was going to have to explain if he was going to talk about this with her too. He didn't think he had the energy to go into all of it again.
She shook her head. "No. That's between you and him," she said. "I just know your history with Ethan, and I imagine that makes this whole ordeal rather more complicated."
"Yeah," Bucky agreed. "How do I…" He didn't really want to get into all the messy details again, but he was curious to know what Peggy thought. She always had good advice. "There's no way to square things up between me and him now," he said, and it hurt, being that blunt, but it was true. What to do with that was what he was trying to figure out. "What do I do now?"
She was quiet for a minute, considering her answer. "You're right," she said at last. "There isn't anything you can do now as far as Ethan goes." She didn't sound like she was blaming him, for which Bucky was grateful. "That doesn't mean you're a bad person, though."
Bucky didn't say anything, but she must have read something in his expression to make her feel the need to elaborate.
"It doesn't," she insisted. "Everyone has people they don't like. I highly doubt I'm stretching anything to go a step farther and say everyone has someone they hate," she added. "And that doesn't make you bad, that makes you, you know, normal."
Bucky smiled a bit at that.
"And I think feeling guilty about not liking him now that he's dead, like you are now, I think that's normal too. Actually, I'm rather inclined to think it's more of an indicator of you being a good person than anything else." Bucky arched a questioning eyebrow and she smiled. "A good person realizes a mistake they've made and wants to fix it. A bad person wouldn't care," she explained.
"And I think that's what you need to do," she went on, reaching over and snapping a twig off a nearby branch, peeling the bark off thoughtfully as she continued. "I think you need to look at this, and, yes, that's probably going to be unpleasant, but look at it and see what you can do to make sure you don't make the same mistake next time." She tossed the twig aside and looked up at him with a soft smile. "And acknowledging what you did wrong and learning from it…" she shrugged. "It doesn't fix everything between you and Ethan, but maybe it fixes a bit."
Bucky nodded. "I think I could do that," he said thoughtfully. He smiled down at her warmly. "You're a wise woman, Peggy Carter."
"I am," she agreed with a grin. "You think you would have cottoned on to that by now."
That made him laugh, and she chuckled along with him. "Can I buy you a drink?" he asked, nodding in the direction of The Three Broomsticks as they entered the village.
"I wouldn't say no to that," she said with a smile.
They went in and sat down, and they somehow found themselves talking about pie. Apparently, Steve had told her Bucky could bake. Steve showed up a little while later, dusty from his ride but looking more settled than he had at the funeral, and joined in their discussion.
"I thought," Steve protested when Peggy started angling for Bucky to make her a pie for her birthday. "That I was going to make you a cake."
"I can have both," Peggy argued. "Dessert is sort of the point of the birthday celebration."
"She's got a point, Stevie," Bucky agreed.
"Yeah, alright," Steve conceded. "So that means you're gonna make me a pie for my birthday too, right?"
"Your birthday is the fourth of July. Everyone's making pies for your birthday," Bucky pointed out. Steve just kept looking at him and Bucky shook his head. "Fine, I'll make you a pie for your birthday. Strawberry, right?"
Steve grinned. "That's the best kind."
Bucky shook his head, still smiling. "So, come March 10th, I'm getting a cake from you, then, right?"
"It's only fair," Steve chuckled.
All this talk of dessert was making Bucky hungry, and they ended up ordering some pie while they kept talking. This was nice, just sitting here talking about pie and homework and sports and other regular stuff. It made the ache in Bucky's chest lessen somewhat, reminding him that things were going to be okay. One day, the war was going to be over, and they could all go home. They could have happy, normal moments like this all the time.
Over the next couple of weeks, the ache in his chest continued to dull into something more manageable. He tried to take Peggy's advice to heart, not dwelling on his failure, but spending enough time examining it to try to see how he could do it better. It helped too, that Steve was struggling with the same thing. They did talk about it some more, the two of them, usually late at night in front of the common room fire. And when they didn't talk about it, just having someone there who knew what you were going through helped a lot. He talked about it with Vicki too in his letters, and she was sympathetic and had more or less the same advice that Peggy did, although in different words. How was it that girls were so smart about this kind of thing?
The evening after Ethan's funeral, he and Steve had gone up to the infirmary to check in with Colin. He was feeling better, and had dialed back on the pain meds enough to hold a coherent conversation. He appreciated Steve's report on his team, and asked that if the Greens were still around, if there was a chance they could come up and talk with him, since he'd missed the funeral. He also seemed reasonably stoic about the fact that Nurse Rains hadn't been able to save his leg after all.
"Aye," he said, waving a hand down at the cluster of bandages wrapped around where his left leg now stopped just above the knee. "There was some sort lingering magic she couldn't clear out. Had to take it off at the knee to stop it spreading any further up." He clicked his tongue irritably. "That Coleman was a clever wee bugger, I'll give him that."
"Are you gonna be okay?" Bucky asked. Colin had always been fairly stoic about getting injured, but the fact that he was treating an entire missing limb as just a minor annoyance seemed to be taking it a bit far.
"Oh, aye," he said. He grinned. "Howard's already got something in the works for a replacement—something he says will work well enough I can still get out and fight. He's a bit hard to understand when he gets going like that, to be honest, but the bonnie lass that works for him explained it a bit better."
Steve chuckled, and Bucky swallowed down a smile of his own. He wasn't sure how Samantha would take being called a 'bonnie lass', but it was probably just as well she hadn't heard it.
"Well," Steve said. "You take whatever time you need getting back on your feet. I mean, foot. I mean…" His face was going bright red, and Bucky and Colin laughed.
"It'll be 'feet' by the time it's over, don't worry," Colin said with a smile. "And hopefully in time for our next mission too, although Jamie will probably have to take over training for a bit." He turned to look at Bucky, looking a bit more serious. "If you find the time, would you mind having a word with wee Alfie? I sent him off to help cover the prisoners escaping, so he wasn't with me when I got hit, and he still thinks it's his fault I got hurt. He'll no' listen to me when I tell him it isn't, but you've a way with the lad, so…"
"Sure," Bucky said. "I'll talk to him."
"Thanks."
Things were starting to look up on news from the front—particularly in the non-magical side of the war. There was hopeful talk of Hitler being defeated before the end of the year, and the battle with Grindelwald was winning some major victories too. It was going well enough that Phillips was able to pull in more resources from the Ministry to aid their hunt for Schmidt and the Valkyrie. He seemed less optimistic about the Hydra side of the war coming to an end, but it was hard to judge from that—Bucky didn't know that he'd ever heard Phillips be optimistic about anything.
"Hey, Jay?" Becky asked him one day at lunch.
"Yeah?"
"If you're not doing soldier stuff this afternoon, could you help me with some of my homework?"
"Sure," he said. "More Transfiguration stuff?"
"No, it's Defense Against the Dark Arts. We're practicing Stunning spells, and I'm not doing it right, and Esther won't practice with me anymore," she pouted.
"Why not?" he wondered. "Did you guys have a fight or something?" Based on the stories his sister told, life as a thirteen-year-old girl was pretty dramatic, but he didn't think he'd ever seen the two of them get mad enough to stop speaking to each other.
"Oh, no," Becky said. "I'm just not doing it right, and it throws her into the wall and she's tired of it."
Bucky laughed. "Yeah, that really makes me want to let you practice on me."
"You're bigger than her; you wouldn't go as far," she pointed out.
"You're not good at this," he said, still chuckling.
"Come on, Jay, please?" she begged, slumping theatrically onto his shoulder.
"Of course, I'll help you," he told her, grabbing her and poking her side and making her giggle. Which was how he found himself in one of the empty classrooms after school letting his little sister throw spells at him.
"Okay," he said. "Show me what you've got." She studied her wand for a moment, going over the wrist movements in her head, and Bucky was reminded of the days when he and Steve used to find an empty room and practice spells until Steve could pull them off.
"Stupefy!" Becky said, pointing her wand at him, and the next thing Bucky knew, he was skidding across the floor and crashing into a desk.
"Ow," he complained. Yeah, that would happen when he practiced with Steve too. "Good night, kiddo, you weren't kidding," he said, rubbing the back of his head. "But if you're trying to knock people out, throwing 'em into a wall would do it."
"I'm sorry, Jay!" she exclaimed, hurrying over. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," he said, climbing to his feet. "You didn't break anything."
"Sorry," she said sheepishly.
"I can see why Esther would be tired of that," he said, smiling to let her know he wasn't mad.
"When it happens to Esther, she usually goes straight back," Becky said. "So we try to aim at, like, a couch or a pile of pillows or something. You went way off to the side."
"Yeah, well, you yanked your wand off to the left," he said. "Keep it straight, first of all. Do it again, and I'm going to watch your hand, see if you're moving it right." He moved so that if she flung him back again, hopefully it would be out of range of any more furniture.
"Okay." She tried it again and he went straight this time, but still flew back a few feet.
"Okay," he said, getting up again. "Your hand movement is way too enthusiastic. Try it like this." He took out his wand and demonstrated the correct motion.
She practiced a couple of times, whispering the spell to herself as she tried to get her hand to move right. Then she must have done it right, because Bucky was waking up on the floor and something wet was dripping into his face.
"Stop that," he complained, swatting at the air.
The dripping stopped. "Are you awake?" Becky asked.
He cracked one eye open to glare at her. "No."
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah." He sat up. His shirt was drenched with water that smelled vaguely of old leaves. "Why were you dumping water on me?"
"To get you to wake up," she said, setting aside the flower vase she'd evidently been using to do so. "I tried poking you and shaking you and stuff and it didn't work." She grimaced. "I was starting to get scared I'd hurt you."
He smiled and looped an arm around her. "Nah, I'm alright. It's a spell to knock people out—usually takes a few minutes to come around afterwards is all."
"Are you sure you're alright?" she persisted.
"I'm fine."
Becky was ready to stop, but Bucky insisted she try it a couple more times just make sure she really had it down. "It's a good spell to know," he told her as they left. "I mean, it helps a lot, out in combat and everything like that, but it's a good safety kind of spell. In case anybody starts giving you trouble." She grinned as he said that, and he pointed a warning finger at her. "And that doesn't mean me. You start sneaking around trying to Stun me, don't think I won't get you for it."
"I wasn't thinking that," she protested.
Bucky snorted. "Sure. You're a worse liar than Steve is, you know that?"
She giggled. "Well, I wasn't thinking I'd do it now," she amended. "I would wait until we got home or something. You know, when you weren't expecting it."
"You are underage, young lady, and you don't get to do magic at home," he reminded her.
"Well, you would be unconscious if I did it and you wouldn't be able to stop me," she pointed out.
Bucky laughed and slung an arm over her shoulder. "That's true. But I would wake up eventually. And I know more magic than you."
She giggled and tried to wriggle out from under his arm. "You'd have to catch me first."
He tightened his grip and she squeaked. "Like this?" he asked, laughing as she tried ineffectually to escape.
"Lemme go!" she squealed, poking him in the side where she knew he was ticklish.
"You're not getting away that easy," he told her, switching his grip around and flipping her up over his shoulder. If they were at home, he would have flung her down onto the sofa, but seeing as they were in a hallway with a stone floor, he just spun her around in a circle and set her back down on her feet. "You should know by now that if I'm after you, you're never gonna get away."
She smiled and poked him in the side again, then hugged him tightly. "Thanks for your help, Jay," she told him.
"Anytime, Munchkin," he replied, planting a quick kiss on top of her head.
"Why are you all wet?" Steve asked when he went back to the dorm, nodding at the front of Bucky's shirt.
"Because Becky doesn't know any rejuvenation spells yet," he said, kicking his shoes off and flopping down on his bed.
"What?"
He explained what he'd been doing all afternoon, adding that Steve might want to be on the lookout for sneak attack Stunning spells from Becky.
"Good to know."
Bucky fished his notebook out from under his bed and got back to work on his Herbology essay. He'd been planning on working on it during his free period this morning, but he'd run into Alfie in the hallway and decided that was as good a time as any to have a talk about Colin. The little guy really did remind him of Steve—and fortunately, he'd already had the people-getting-hurt-isn't-your-fault talk with Steve a while back, so he knew the right kinds of things to say. Alfie had looked somewhat more encouraged by the time they were done.
"How do you spell 'narcissus'?" he asked Steve, frowning down at his parchment.
"With a 'c', two 's's' and another 's'," Steve replied. "Are you still working on that toxin essay? It's due tomorrow."
"I know. I've only got a paragraph left," he said. "And don't lecture me about stuff that's due tomorrow when you haven't started your Care of Magical Creatures questions yet."
"Crap!" Steve exclaimed. "I forgot about that. Wait, how did you know I hadn't done it?"
Bucky looked up with a smirk. "I know everything, Stevie." He chuckled for a minute as Steve dug through his backpack, then pulled a textbook out of his own bag and tossed it over to Steve's bed. "And the book's been in my bag for the past two days," he added. "I've been waiting for you to ask for it." Steve scowled and threw a wadded-up piece of parchment at him before opening the book and getting started.
A few days later they ran into Colin down in the dining room, finally freed of the infirmary and proudly showing off the artificial leg Howard had made for him. It was a good deal more elaborate than Marsh's had been—shiny metal, about the size Bucky imagined the bone inside the leg would be, with a joint at the knee and another at the ankle that allowed for an almost natural range of movement. The foot was a little creepy-looking—instead of being shaped like a human foot, or even a shoe, it resembled nothing so much as a large bird claw, but there were little joints along each digit too, and it was supposed to help with grip and traction.
"That's really something," Dugan said, sounding impressed.
Jacques let out an appreciative whistle, leaning in to rap his knuckles against the polished surface.
"Can I see how it's attached?" Jim wondered, which struck Bucky as a rather personal question, but Colin didn't seem to mind and rolled his pants up past the knee to show him.
Bucky couldn't help wincing at the angry-looking ring of scar tissue surrounding the seam. Colin caught his look and chuckled. "Aye, it does hurt a bit," he conceded. "But not near so bad as it looks like it should. I reckon I'll get used to it."
"Can you move okay?" Steve asked.
Colin dropped the leg of his pants and stepped back to walk in a ring around them. A faint clanking, hissing sound came from the joints as he did so. "I'll not be sneaking up on anyone anytime soon," he said with a smile. "But it works just fine. Rains won't let me run until the seam heals up a bit more, but I can move well enough."
"I'm glad," Steve said, clapping him on the shoulder, though his smile didn't quite reach his eyes. Bucky got where he was coming from. Colin was still alive, but he was one more person Hydra wasn't letting out of this war unscathed.
Things continued to go quietly on the war front for a little while, and Bucky was glad of that. It meant none of them were out there getting hurt, and it gave them all time to study and to enjoy the first hints of spring that were starting to pop up. Now that the sun was staying out for most of the afternoon, the younger kids had started up their Quidditch league again. Some of the older, former players gave them a hard time about waiting for good weather, but as far as Bucky was concerned, there was something to be said about playing in the sun. Flying around in the rain with your fingers so cold you could barely hold on to your broom wasn't really his idea of a good time.
He and Peggy were both helping to coach Becky's team this term—the girls were determined to come out on top at the end of the year, and they were good, but there was a Fourth-Year team that had been dominating the scoreboards all year. They made a pretty good coaching team. Peggy took the Beaters through moves and helped Esther work on her speed for Seeking, and Bucky coached the Chasers and showed Esther how to roll and avoid hits. Steve was still pretty awful on a broom, but he had great aim, so he would throw things at Becky to help her practice Keeping while the rest of the team worked with Peggy and Bucky.
"Marie!" Peggy barked. "Eyes on the ball!"
Marie blushed and turned her attention back to the Quaffle and away from the goalposts, where Steve was hurling the spare Quaffles in Becky's direction with honed precision. "Sorry!" Marie called back. She looked over at Eve, who was hovering on her broom next to her. "I don't know how she expects me to concentrate when he's over there doing that," she said, lowering her voice. "Have you seen the muscles in his arms?"
Eve sighed dreamily. "He's like a Greek statue."
Bucky had been floating close enough to hear that exchange, and he snorted and laughed so hard he almost fell off his broom.
"Something you'd like to share with the class, Bucky?" Peggy asked, flying back over.
"Nope," he said, shaking his head and still chuckling.
They kept practicing, and the girls really were getting a lot better. They worked hard, repeating moves over and over until they were sure they had them right. They liked what Bucky had told them about how the Howling Commandos spent time working together before they went out anywhere, getting familiar with how the rest of their team moved, and so they spent some time doing that too, flying around in formation, tossing the ball back and forth and watching each other closely. They were pretty good, and they had a lot of determination. Bucky thought they just might have a chance at knocking out the top team before the end of the year.
It was still early enough in the year to be chilly, but he'd worked up a pretty good sweat flying and rolling and throwing, and he paused during a break to tug the bottom of his shirt up and wipe his face off. Appearing by his side so fast he could have sworn she'd apparated was Becky, glaring unhappily. "We talked about you taking your shirt off in front of my friends," she said.
"I'm not taking it off, I'm just wiping my face," he said, rolling his eyes. He waved the sweaty part of the shirt at her and she backed up a few inches. "See? Besides," he added, when she continued to glare suspiciously. "It wouldn't be the worst thing, would it? Abs like these, you know someone would appreciate them," he said with a grin, patting his stomach.
"Don't think I don't know the spell to sic the Bludger on you," Becky scowled. " 'Cause I'll do it."
Bucky laughed and shooed her back down to keep practicing with Steve, feeling her shooting him dirty looks every time he looked down at her end of the field.
After practice, they all walked up to the castle, still chatting happily about practice. Becky appeared to have forgiven him, since he had made no further moves that might be construed as removing his shirt, though Bucky did make sure to give her a hug and squeeze her up against the damp front of his shirt.
"Gross!" Becky complained, shoving him away.
"Hey, I'm not the only one who needs a shower," he told her with a pointed look.
She scowled, but then giggled as she caught sight of Eleanor and Moira, who were watching with fascination as Steve and Peggy walked up the path behind all the rest of them, Steve's arm over Peggy's shoulders.
"I would never let my boyfriend hug me if I was all dirty and sweaty like that," Moira said, sounding half-appalled, half-envious.
"It means he really loves her," Eleanor said sagely. "If he doesn't care about all that."
Steve leaned in and kissed Peggy, and the girls both gasped, then let out a breathless little, "aaaww!"
Becky covered her mouth with her hand in an attempt to hide her snort of laughter. Bucky was having a hard time not laughing himself. "I don't know what it is about you and Steve that make all the girls so nuts," Becky said, shaking her head as Moira and Eleanor left, casting shy smiles at Bucky as they passed.
"You don't think we're handsome?" Bucky asked with a smile.
"I don't know; I guess," Becky said. "But, Jay, you're almost eighteen. Eleanor is thirteen. It's not like you'd ever go out with her." Bucky inclined his head in agreement and Becky continued. "I'm just saying, there's plenty of cute boys in our year. Why do they have to get all lovey-dovey over you two when it's never gonna go anywhere?"
Bucky smiled. "And it's weird because they're being like that about your brother?"
"Yes!" she agreed emphatically. "It's embarrassing."
Bucky looped an arm over her shoulder. "Tell you what. How about I stop teasing you about it? Will that help?"
Becky narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "You wouldn't do that."
"I would," he told her, still smiling but no longer joking. "I've known you for almost fourteen years, Munchkin. I know which buttons I can keep pushing and which ones I need to lay off. And if it bothers you that much, I'll stop."
She looked at him a moment longer, then smiled softly. "Thanks, Jay."
He tugged her over for a hug and ruffled her hair. "You're welcome." He grinned a little wider, letting a playful tone creep back into his voice. "I am a nice big brother."
He was expecting a joke in reply, and was touched when, instead, she went up on her toes and kissed his cheek. "Yeah, you are," she said warmly.
It was a few days later, the last day of February, when Peggy called them in for an unexpected mission briefing. Bucky assumed it was another factory run since he hadn't heard of anything else in the works, so he was surprised when they got there and no one from the 89th or 107th was there. Even more surprising was the fact that Phillips was leading the briefing instead of Peggy, and if Bucky hadn't known better, he would have sworn that was excitement he was feeling from him—though he still looked gruff as ever.
"I know it's short notice," Phillips said once they were all seated. "But we just came across some intel that couldn't wait. We know where Zola is."
The room was so quiet you could have heard a pin drop.
"Hydra's head scientist?" Steve asked at last. "That Zola?" While everyone was familiar with the little scientist, Arnim Zola had proved to be as hard to find as Johann Schmidt.
"That Zola," Phillips confirmed.
"Where is he?" Bucky demanded. The chance to apprehend the author of so many of his nightmares sent a thrill racing through Bucky's body so powerful he was surprised he didn't combust.
"He's going to be moving through the Alps," Phillips said, pointing to a map behind him. "Hydra has something they need to move that can't be moved by magic, and so Dr. Zola is playing babysitter for the journey. You boys think you can keep him from reaching his destination?"
"Hell, yes," Bucky growled. Phillips ignored the breach in protocol.
"Say the word, Sir," Steve said, vibrating with the same energy Bucky felt coursing through his own body. Nobody could hate Zola as much as Bucky did, but Steve was sure in the running.
"The word is said, Captain," Phillips replied. "You boys have a train to catch."
.
