NOTE: INCREDIBLY SORRY ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED TO THIS CHAPTER WHEN I FIRST UPDATED. THERE WAS SOME SORT OF ERROR - BASICALLY I HAVE NO CLUE WHAT HAPPENED. BUT HERE - HAVE A FIX IT! Second times the charm.

SUMMARY: Maybe, Bucky thinks, the rest of the world will finally start seeing you for you. All it took was dangerous human experimentation, one hundred and eighty more pounds of muscle and an inconceivable rescue attempt the brass would never consider worth it.

It shouldn't have ever taken that for them to see you Steve, but what am I meant to do now that they have?

There's two classical music tracks mentioned in this chapter, The Girl with the Flaxen Hair and Clair De Lune by Claude Debussy. I've attached links here and at the bottom notes if you would like to listen to them during or after the chapter. They are also my two favourite ones of Debussy :)

Girl with the Flaxen Hair: MUSIC LINK
Clair De Lune: MUSIC LINK

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STEVE

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They've been walking a while, having started the uphill trek about an hour ago. Steve has once again appeared at his side, seemingly content to delegate the lead position now that they've reached the main overgrown path of their new route. They've been walking in a comfortable silence for most of it, having cooled off from the argument earlier; or at least Bucky's too tired to stay angry. A couple of Privates occasionally chat to Steve about Washington, and how the city is now all the men have shipped out from it. Apparently nowhere near as different as most of the other cities, considering there's still a good number of men still over there running the country and all. Washington is always a place Steve's wanted to go, political nut that he is, and apparently is now a place he has been to several times during the USO tour; which Bucky is both glad - in that he didn't have to listen to Steve's liberal ranting - and jealous that he missed it. They'd had a deal, a childish blood-pact made from smeared nosebleeds when they were thirteen to go to Washington - Steve's choice - and the Grand Canyon - Bucky's choice - together before they died. Somehow, despite how childish it is, he can't help but feel churlish and sore that Steve's done half of their pact already.

"Bucky?"

He glances at Steve, forgetting again that his eyeline is now above him. "Yeah?" He answers, clearing his throat.

"What's a…bal….a bal-e-vas?"

Bucky blinks at him, surprised, as he stumbles over the word. "Where the hell did you hear that from?"

"What does it mean? It's obviously not English, or Latin."

Bucky frowns at him, fingers tapping an incessant beat against the barrel of his Thompson. "It's Romani."

From Steve's expression Bucky thinks his friend already knew that. He asks again, "What does it mean?"

"Bakalo or balavas?" Steve nods at the second. "Urgh, it's like a good luck charm, in some dialects. That coin ma always wears around her neck - that's a kind of balavas."

Steve's eyes seem to soften at the explanation. "And bakalo is what, good luck?"

Bucky shrugs, "Pretty much, I think? How did-"

"You said something the other day and I wasn't sure what-"

"Wait, I said something?"

Steve hums, "That's where I heard it from. You were outta your head at the time to be honest, but you've never really talked about your ma's traditions before, so, well, I was just curious. I don't know much about that side…"

"Neither do I, honestly." Bucky replies, looking away to focus on heaving his body over a bank of uphill dirt. Steve supports his back and elbow from behind silently. "Just what she's talked to me about, and she hasn't done that in years. It um, it doesn't really leave the family."

"Oh right, sorry, if it's private I didn't mean to-"

"Don't be stupid, it's you. I don't care."

"Would your ma care?"

"Probably? Who knows? She's not here though, and like I said, it's you."

Steve half-smiles at him, then catches him as he trips over a tree root.

"I'm starting to think you've grown an extra foot," he quips at him once Bucky's straightened back up and holding his Thompson securely again. They continue.

Bucky asks, unable to hold it back any longer; dreading the answer. "What did I say?"

"It wasn't that you said anything much," Steve seems to wave off, but then grins sickeningly sweet. "But that's what you called me."

"What?" Bucky blinks at him, dumbfounded. "I called you…."

"Yup," Steve summarizes, looking much too pleased with himself. "You walked straight - or not so straight - up to me and called me your balavas."

"Oh Jesus," Bucky mumbles, already knowing where this is going. "That doesn't mean-"

"Nope. You said it, by the grace of God and in front of witnesses at that. I'm your good luck charm." Steve grins at him, shit-eating and teasing. "That's so sweet Buck, who knew I meant so much to you, pal."

"Shut up," Bucky bites back, numbly, heat creeping up the back of his neck and across his cheeks. He tries to shove Steve, feeling almost sick with embarrassment. Steve dodges him easily, still grinning. Bucky see's it dim slightly from the corner of his eye when he realises Bucky won't look at him from the shame.

Bucky opens his mouth to - what? Apologize?

Steve clears his throat, and changes the subject deftly. "Sure was some shooting out there though, pal."

Bucky's hasn't felt so grateful since Subject #64 offered him the cot for the first time. He just grunts in reply, his cheeks still flushed. His stomach is pulsing in time with his steps, and the ants crawling up and down his skin are back.

"Why did you never tell me you could shoot like that? And don't tell me you never had the chance, not with all those letters you were writing from Wisconsin, or when you came back home before you shipped out. You had plenty of opportunity."

Bucky half shrugs in reply. "Didn't seem important."

The thing was though, it was important. To his Drill Sergeant, who whistled high and long when Bucky made a bullseye shot at twenty-five meters the second time he'd ever held a real rifle before. It was important to the AIT First Officer in Wisconsin too, when they transferred him for additional training instead of shipping him out immediately with the rest of his unit in Basic. When they told him not everyone got pulled out for tactical training so fresh from civilian life, and to make full use of it and be grateful for the opportunity. And Bucky had been grateful for a while; for the chance to stay on American soil for just a little bit longer if not for the opportunity granted to him. Turns out, he was a damn good shot and a damn good solider.

Steve scoffs, seeing through him as usual. "Oh, come on."

Bucky glances at him again, and half-admits-half-lies, "I wasn't really supposed to tell anyone the details."

He supposed he and Steve were a matched set in that - when it came to keeping secrets from each other with paper and pen. He'd never told him about Basic, Project Rebirth or the USO tour after all. They were top notch bullshitters, the both of them.

"What? That you were a good shot - or that they were training you up as a sniper? Seriously? With how much you like to brag I'd of thought you'd be all over that."

"It was more than just that kinda' training; other stuff too." Bucky continues to admit, "But I never finished. They needed more G.I's to ship out for the invasion of Sicily, that's why I got promoted to Sergeant so quickly before seeing action."

Steve frowns at him, "I thought the extra training was for leadership and command in the ranks. Was that a lie?"

"Yes and no." Bucky grimaces, scratching at the back of his neck and sucking his stomach in. The sharp twinge of the staples shifting in his flesh distracts from the unavoidable itching of his skin. "That's what I thought and what they told me before I got to Wisconsin, then they told me differently. I guess I figured there was no point in changing what I'd already told you. And I…"

"And you what?" Steve prompts a moment after he's trailed off.

And I didn't want to talk about that and all the questions it would bring up. I wanted to talk about home. I wanted to hear the gossip Mr Reagan told you while you were shining his shoes, and how you were trying to save up to buy the twins a birthday gift from the both of us; and what did I think they'd like? I wanted to be able to read the letters in my bunk after training, aching and sore, and imagine myself back there too - going to classes and hauling crates part-time at the docks again.

I didn't want to waste valuable paper talking - and lying - about the interrogation tactics they were trying to teach me, or how I now knew how to disarm men twice my size and handle a knife in my left as well as my right. I didn't want to talk about the war I was going into in a few short months time or how lonely and homesick it turned out I was.

Bucky shakes his head, huffing, and pushes the thought away. "Nothin'"

Steve unsubtly bats his hand away from where he's started furiously scratching at his neck after a silent pause. Now that he's started he can't seem to stop. He vaguely remembers watching Andrew draw blood once from how much he was scratching in the dim moonlight when Bucky was too tired to stop him. It because a compulsion for the both of them in the end, he thinks, whether they were itchy or not. He tries to pointlessly disguise it by swatting a fly buzzing by his left ear without even thinking. That seems to make Steve frown more and gives off a strange sense of deja vou. Will the deja vou ever stop, or will he trapped in it forever?

Steve whistles softly to keep the conversation going. "Still. Some shooting though."

"You said that already."

"Still true."

"Shut up Rodgers," Bucky replies, a pleased heat crawling up his neck this time.

"Take the compliment, Barnes."

Bucky fails at biting back a smile. "Sure was some everything back there yourself." He parrots back at him, "Looked like you didn't even need a gun after all."

"I still took one."

"Good."

"I do occasionally listen to you, you know." Steve retorts, before letting them lapse into comfortable silence again.

He slows a step behind Bucky to help him and another man up over a rock in their path. Bucky half misses a step once he's over it and straightening up - too busy scratching and trying to keep hold of his gun to watch his feet. He doesn't need to see Steve's face to know the unimpressed frown is back. The red patch on his neck burns something fierce when he forces his nails away from it and back against the barrel of the Thompson. His hands are almost shaking from the compulsion to scratch, and he taps out an erratic rhythm with his fingers again to try to distract from it. Without clear notes or a melody to focus on it's not working, so he forces himself to think about his ma's handwritten sheet music meticulously copied from a library book and stained with coffee rings; handwriting blocky and newly-learnt. The first to come to his head is Debussy's Girl With the Flaxen Hair; the second the famous Clair de Lune but he's inexplicably ashamed to his bones that while he remembers the names - the actual notes and chorus are shrouded somewhere he can't recall. As he's trying and failing to remember; the erratic taps against his Thompson speed up until he's almost scratching at it instead.

He wipes at his eyes quickly and tries to clear the lump in his throat as Steve makes a remark to a solider on his right. He can't remember.

"Do you know how The Girl with the Flaxen Hair starts?" He asks before he can stop himself.

Steve turns to raise his eyebrows, and answers almost immediately. "By…Debussy?" While Steve can draw something special he can't hold a tune to save his life, but he knows his classical and his jazz music. "Well yeah, with how many times I heard you playing it through the walls or next to my head I should think so. Why?

Bucky opens his mouth, then loses his nerve again. "No reason."

Steve stares at him for a long moment and quickly steadies him when he misses another tree root. This hill is killing him, how long have they been half-climbing by now? The tank and remaining trucks are a slow rumble behind him - scraping against the tree bark as the tank narrowly fits through the widest gaps in the forest. Bucky's not looking forward to when they're going to have to abandon it because if the hill gets any steeper or the trees any denser there's no arguing around it. He goes to swat at the stubborn fly by his ear again.

Steve starts humming inexpertly next to him - quiet but clear. Bucky jerks to look at him but he's looking forwards, one hand still hovering at Bucky's back. The hums go higher and lower in pitch, slow and almost soothing. Bucky opens his mouth to ask what it is before he realizes himself. It's The Girl with the Flaxen Hair. He sucks in a slow calming breath and looks forward himself - feels the bones of his fingers begin tapping out the first adult verse he ever learnt all the way through. He can feel himself able to focus with the melody suddenly over the ants crawling under his skin. He bites his tongue to keep from smiling as Steve butchers the chorus next to him and climbs effortlessly over a fallen tree. He offers Bucky a hand over, still humming.

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. . .

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Steve calls a halt as the tank stubbornly forces itself over the verge of the last hill, where a crumbling stone wall lines the perimeter of several old cottages. Bucky counts four from where he's standing, missing sections of roofs or sometimes an entire back wall. One or two still have the glass panes intact in the window frames, wherein one he can see a dusty stove covered in dead leaves and animal excrement. There's stubborn overgrown ivy covering an entire corner of the closest cottage; encroaching and entwined between the beams and the cracks in the stonework. There's old wooden and metal fences taking up different area's of the 'gardens' where Bucky presumes chickens must have been kept once, along with a trampled-on vegetable patch. The fitter men have already bee-lined there and are trying to pull out any carrots or cabbage left over.

Steve shakes two canteens to measure how much water is left in each and passes Bucky the fullest. He drinks greedily around his panting, his legs wobbly from the effort of the climb.

"I'm going to go talk to Mario for a moment, will you be okay on your own?" His friend asks.

Bucky nods as he swallows, water dribbling off his chin while he continues trying to catch his breath. "Yeah." He breathes, "I just need a minute."

Steve looks at him worriedly, the way he used to look at Steve when his asthma was acting up, but his friend can't really say anything considering the majority of the men are panting and heaving with him; leaning against trees or sitting on crumbling walls.

If he sits he doesn't think he'll get back up - so he'll keep on going, he supposes.

"You mind doing me a favour when you can?" Steve asks.

Bucky swallows another gulp of water and wipes his mouth, nodding. "Uh huh? What do you need?"

This, at least, is a familiar question and familiar territory.

Steve hands him the other canteen, "Fill that and the other up for me - there should be a well. Mario says it hasn't been filled or has dried out. Check that it's safe to drink first though."

Bucky makes a face at the last warning, "I'm not an idiot. And I know what you're doing."

"Oh?"

"You're just trying to make me feel useful."

Steve shrugs at him, walking backwards, "I never said that."

"Don't mean it's not true."

"That waters not going to fill itself!" Steve calls over his shoulder as he spins away.

Bucky coughs into his hand and calls back, "Oh, you trust me to get your water now do you? Nice change of pace there."

"Don't be an ass!" Steve yells back, unconcerned, over his shoulder right as Bucky flips him off - knowing it's coming.

He mutters "Punk" to himself and goes to do as he's told.

He wanders for a while around the little copse of cottages, realising it's bigger than he first thought. There's another couple of houses and a small barn beyond some small grazing fields. They must have kept a few sheep or goats here too, Bucky muses, maybe even a work-horse. Lily used to chase the milk cart down two blocks when she was little, at least three times a week, so she could pat the chestnut pulling it. The milkman eventually succumbed to her charms and after four months of the debacle it was having to chase after her every morning, he allowed Bucky to lift her high up and onto the horse's back once. He remembers her smile, gap-toothed and blinding during soggy weather. Christ he missed the girls, when had he written them last?

There's a line at the well; men carrying small canteens and larger containers alike, hovering haphazardly around the same area on all sides. Bucky can't tell where the queue begins or ends, so carries on walking a while until it's shorter. His little village adventure ends at another larger house with two floors on the boundary edge, along with what must have been the old road up to this small civilization. The path has since been overtaken by sharp brambles and nettles, with poisonous red berries and juicy blackberries alike.

He makes a point of picking the largest and shiniest of the blackberries he can reach, collecting a stack of them in his palm, the canteens tucked securely under his armpit. His stomach rumbles. He crushes one in his fingers first, just because he can, until it spurts open and stains his fingers purple. He pops another two in his mouth until they burst sweet and sour on his tongue. He has hazy memories of collecting berries in a cloth bag with much smaller hands and running back to his grandparents' house to show his nana his spoils. He remembers her always bopping him on the nose before going back to rolling out pastry, and the way her smile used to wobble with her false teeth.

She'd always then spoon out slices of pie twice his and Becca's size to scoff down until they felt sick, and lecture their pa on how they needed to cut it out with the city life nonsense and move back to Indiana where they belonged. She'd say it every visit and with every fruit pie, and his grandfather would grunt at them from his position at the head of the table. Pa always used to politely wave her off, he remembers, until his nana would get upset and they'd start fighting over the evening sherry. Bucky himself had never felt like he belonged in Indiana, maybe not even New York now, but the blackberries still taste the same.

He picks another couple before continuing to wander along the edge, half patrolling the area. He seems to be one of the first on this side at least; listening out if not actively looking for enemies; palm stacked with berries held out in front of him; Thompson hanging limply by it's strap against his thigh. There's an old orchard up ahead behind the taller house. He tosses back the whole handful of berries in one go and lets them explode against his tongue and the back of his teeth before gently pushing the creaking door open. He swallows, and with his purple stained hand untucks the knife he pulled from a Nazi's waistband from his narrow hipbone. He's had it there for hours, unable to stuff it anywhere else before someone saw.

Vaguely, he realizes if they've let him keep the gun they'll let him keep a knife too, but somehow, he feels like the possession needs to stay a secret. There's a swastika carved into the handle, painted red. He closes his hand around it in a defensive position and peeks around each of the three rooms downstairs. He's alone.

He dumps the canteens on a chipped bedside table and gives up; lowering his wobbling legs and aching body onto the springy mattress in the main bedroom. Dust spores sparse the air when he lands, visible in the beams of sunlight coming through the open shutter. Twisting the hold on the knife in one hand he pulls the strap of his Thompson off his shoulder and raises his shirt to look at his stomach.

How many staples has he already taken out? How many does he have left to go? His flesh has started to swallow two more, as well as the first he can feel burrowed deep near his ribcage, but the flesh has also split around the sixth and the seventh near his belly button. Probably from the blast. There's dried blood caked around the metal, and small cuts and dirt along his right side.

He breathes, and scratches his arm once, twice, three times. Time to get to work.

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. . .

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They walk maybe fifteen more miles through the forest, the hungriest men chewing on the orchard apples, camping down again in a dense valley for the night and up again at dawn. Bucky's pretty sure none of the men, all four-hundred of those left sleep much if at all; too tense and paranoid about another attack. Steve certainly doesn't seem to sleep after he finally lays down late in the night - tossing and turning on the other side of the foxhole.

He watches Steve silently for nearly an hour, closing his eyes whenever his friend turns over to glance at him. At some point during his pretending he must drift off, because everything goes and stays dark until he opens his eyes again to see Steve's cold patch of ground empty and daylight peeking through the thick trees. He rolls onto his back but keeps one hand over his stomach from where he's been cradling it all night, and absentmindedly scratches at his arm. The phantom ants under his skin finally began to taper off during the night, but his forearm and neck still feel raw from the scratching.

The men laying beside him in close quarters, either still asleep or pretending to be, are bundled up as much as they can be but are still shivering. Bucky can hear their teeth chattering like they're gnashing right next to his ears, as if the heightened volume is deliberately designed to get on his nerves. Belatedly he realizes his breaths are coming out in white puffs of frost air, he's not shivering, and he has Steve's jacket half-draped over his shoulders again. He sits up slowly, ribs aching worse now the bruises have had time to settle in, and blearily rubs at his eyes to see nearly everyone, bar Steve in his red-and-blue feeling the uncomfortable effects of winter.

He's almost not surprised that he isn't feeling it to the same effect. The cold's like the sight of blood, he decides; if you have enough exposure to it eventually it doesn't bother you so much anymore. Like the Syphilis and the Scarlet Fever he beat without even knowing he was infected, maybe he's had so much exposure to fever chills and the phantom cold in his bones he's immune to the real thing as well now. This jacket would probably be more use to someone else.

He wants to stay in this dirty little dig out and burrow forever deeper - he's so tired. He gets up anyway, grunting and cringing at the pain in his back. As he levers himself up with one hand he subtly slides his other under the grimy shirt to check the slice down his middle. No blood, which is great, just a crusty scab starting to form - the first staple is still under his skin. There was no way to cut it out without bleeding too much, so he'll have to wait for later when he can change his shirt. On the other hand, he's finally come back to true awareness now that he can quite literally smell himself. The crusty stiff fabric of his pants and trousers chafe something awful from where he must have pissed himself god knows when, the feeling only now registering fully.

He'd say this was a low-point - but he knows he's been lower. Lower even than entrusting his sanity to cats with bird's beaks and pigeons with scales. Lower than standing in a room full of bodies and begging for death. Here and now, there's so much farther he can, and has, to fall.

He taps Steve on the shoulder, who jerks from where he's repacking a truck. He twists quickly; Bucky backs up a step, hands up. "Your jacket." He says.

Steve's shoulders immediately drop at the sight of him.

"Bit jumpy, aren't we?" He adds afterwards, forcing the jacket into Steve's empty hands. "Jesus, cover up would you? That star on your back is practically invitin' someone to shoot you."

Steve pulls half a face at him at the last comment, shrugging it on. He replies to the first, "Scared me a little there is all, I didn't hear you come up, which is new. Since when did you learn to be quiet? Can normally hear you coming a mile off." He adds after, elbowing Bucky. "Sorry. Just a little on edge is all."

"Yeah, you and everyone else here."

He and Steve lean back against the frame of the truck together, watching the men shifting tensely on the ground. "How long have you been up?"

"Not too long. Didn't sleep much." Steve admits. Bucky hums in reply. "You managed to get some shut-eye at the end. At least a couple of hours." Bucky glances at him evasively. "Oh come on Buck, you used to spend half your evenings in Ma's apartment when we were kids, and then basically shared a single room together for three years. I know when you're trying to fake it, you know?"

Bucky can allow that, true as it is. "I guess I must have gone at some point, yeah. Feel more tired now if anything else though."

Steve grimaces in sympathy, "When was the last time you had a full nights sleep?"

He shrugs back, "The last time I realized it was night? How should I know?"

There's a long pause of silence; someone a ways off starts coughing into his elbow.

"You just need a full night, or maybe two, of proper honest shut-eye and you'll feel miles better. As right as rain in no time, I'm sure."

It's a nice idea in theory, and Steve seems, and sounds like he's desperately hoping it'll be true. "If you say so, pal."

"It's the magic cure, don't forget?" He continues, "An hour of sleep is a treat, but-"

"-A full night is a gift from God, who sheds your sins and sickness alike.' I remember."

Steve grins at him, disbelieving. "I didn't know you remembered all of it."

He scoffs, "How could I not? Your ma only had to repeat it three times a day whenever you were coughing your lungs up and still wouldn't stay in bed. Had to wrestle you to keep you down at one point, I'm sure."

"You did not."

"Okay, maybe I didn't." He admits, "But you're still an annoying little berk when you're sick. Anytime I wasn't terrified to death for you I wanted to wallop you over the head. But smacking the sick silly to shut them up and keep them down isn't exactly approved of for us Church going folk."

Steve barks out a laugh, "You're probably right there."

"Though maybe if I'd walloped you with a bible that mighta' canceled that out; and then we really would of seen if you'd shut your trap and stayed in bed."

Steve's laughter quietens to chuckles as a man curses them out for waking him, leaning back further into the truck to observe the camp.

"How far now?" Bucky asks as soon as the shuffling stops; to keep the quiet from taking.

Steve knows what he means, "Not far. Another days walk, maybe another night bedding down. It's a lot easier terrain from here apparently, mostly downhill. We haven't managed to get any of the radios working but Mario reckons we're a mile off Italian soil, which is something, huh?"

Italian soil is still the front, Bucky thinks, wishing he could share in Steve's optimism. His friend nods to himself, and continues to speak.

"Depends on how fast the men are moving, and a lot of them are starting to flag. Empty bellies will do that I suppose." As if on cue, Steve's stomach rumbles so loudly it almost seems like it must have hurt.

A thought occurs. "When was the last time you ate?"

Steve waves him off, "Oh, don't worry about me Bucky-"

"No seriously." Bucky bites back, old instinct rearing it's head. "When did you last eat? You didn't last night." He realizes, "Christ, how did I not realize you didn't eat last night?"

"Buck. Bucky!" His friend calls, grabbing him by the elbow to cajole him into calmness. He abruptly and sharply lets go when Bucky winces at the sting. "I'm fine. Honest." He repeats, "One missed meal's not gonna' do me in."

Bucky frowns at him, searching for his second string argument. He finds it, "Didn't you say that the serum, with you bulking up and all, made your appetite get bigger? That you needed to eat more than the rest of us to function now."

"Well…yeah." Steve admits, knowing Bucky has him there, because he did say that. "But like I said, one meal isn't gonna' make-what are you doing?" He cuts himself off in bewilderment when Bucky starts searching his pockets. "No Buck, seriously-" He tries to start again when Bucky pulls the lemoned candies from his pocket.

"-Take some." He says without preamble.

"Buck-"

"Take some."

Steve rolls his eyes at him, but obliges. "You're such a mother-hen. Two for two." He adds until Bucky knocks his own sweet against Steve's in a camadrie cheers like they're clanking together hooch in a dive bar. Bucky rolls his eyes, and cracks the sweet between his teeth. It's not as good as the blackberries - he should have saved Steve some, or made sure he got an apple yesterday before they ran out if he was gonna' secretly skip the evening ration. After a pause of crunching candy he asks:

"What happens when we get back?"

"We get you and all the other men fed and seen to for starters-"

"No. To you. Your agent helped but it wasn't exactly a sanctioned mission. You didn't have orders."

Steve sighs, cold air puffing out from his mouth and nose. "Put myself forward for a court martial I suppose."

"Sounds like a swell idea."

Steve clearly hears the sarcasm, and challenges: "Well what else am I supposed to do?"

"Not hang yourself out to dry without a fight? That's one idea. I don't want you getting locked up Steve."

"That's not something any of us can control. That's up to Colonel Philips or whoever else is in command there now, you know that-"

"I'm not letting them lock you up-" he repeats, adamant, before Steve cuts him off.

"And I'm not letting you do something stupid yourself after all of this. Besides it might not happen - I hope it won't but - like I said, it's not up to me. I did break orders, even if I'm not technically one of the troops, so I gotta' face the consequences for that. I don't regret it for a second though."

"You might…"

"I won't."

He sounds so sure, Bucky can't help but think and sighs out in defeat, muttering to himself. "You and your goddamn principles."

Why can't you just run Steve; just run far far away from this war, from this hell pit of mud and blood?

For once, can you just not stand your ground?

Steve laughs quietly into the morning, seemingly oblivious. "Yeah, I know, it's a real hardship for you. Maybe you should find a new friend."

The familiar rapport is like a smack to the face, but easy enough to fall back into; like riding a bike. He replies without a beat, flatly mocking. "Probably easier to deal with than you."

"Probably." Steve agrees, lips quirking, having steered the conversation away from dangerous territory; perhaps not as oblivious as Bucky first thought. The pleading words disappear from his lips and sink back down his throat in a dry swallow as Steve leans into his shoulder carelessly. "I don't think you will though."

"What makes you so sure?"

"You had that chance a hundred times over when we were kids with Richard Callohan and Johnny Shelby and all the baseball team. You got principles too pal, and apparently sticking by me is one of them. You're all talk, Buck."

With that statement out there in the dawning air, Steve sounds strangely touched; like he'd been when they were thirteen and Bucky waved off the Little League team so he could go play conkers inside with 'runty Rodgers'. They never really seriously asked him again after that and Bucky doesn't think Steve's really understood those choices made a decade ago.

Thing was, they weren't as good as you, Bucky thinks but doesn't say, and I always would have chosen the conkers. He hums, "I suppose you might be right."

"Gotta' happen some time." Steve quips, "Come on, lets start getting them up, I wanna see if we can make it all the way today."

Bucky breathes deeply, eyes shut for a moment, then heaves his weight away from the truck. "Let's get going then," he agrees again. Steve stops him, hand on his shoulder.

"Are you sure your feeling alright?"

Bucky shrugs, "I will be, eventually." He prays, as impossible as it seems, and focuses on the simple things and not the live landmine that is his brain, waiting for one wrong step. "It'd be a lot quicker as soon as I can get my hands on a bar of soap."

Steve nods, and squeezes his shoulder in support. "I think we'll both be glad of that pal, you need three."

"Thanks for that, does miles for my confidence."

"We all have to draw the line somewhere, and your stink is one of them. The longer we stay up and vertical, the sooner we can get you your shower. Come on." Steve says at last, jostling him playfully.

.

. . .

.

The thing is, Steve's all talk too, and they both know it.

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. . .

.

And in thirty more miles, after one more tense sleep than they'd like; four hundred men stumble and march, proud and determined into an American camp at exactly 9:26 in the morning. Bucky's at the front, side by side with Steve as always. The scouts see them a mile off, and are so stunned to see American uniforms and the dancing monkey of the USO tour marching ahead of a tank they don't raise the alarm properly until they're just about to cross the boundary.

Thirty more miles, after one more tense sleep than they'd like; a crowd of cheering G.I's form around them and Steve submits himself for a court martial.

After thirty more miles, at 9:34 in the morning, Steve Rodgers stops being Steve Rodgers and instead becomes Captain America, the star-spangled man with the plan to win the war.

Maybe, Bucky thinks, the rest of the world will finally start seeing you for you. All it took was dangerous human experimentation, one hundred and eighty more pounds of muscle and an inconceivable rescue attempt the brass would never consider worth it.

It shouldn't have ever taken that for them to see you Steve, but what am I meant to do now that they have?

.

NOTES & REFERENCES

They've arrived back at Base! Hallelujah! We got there eventually, welcome to Act Three and PART 11 onwards in the next chapter! So how do we all feel Bucky AND Steve are going to cope with the coming events? Will Bucky deal with his shit? Will Steve learn to become a true leader and finally begin believing in himself? What will their first mission be? What will they get each other for the coming Christmas? What terrible jokes is Dugan going to make? How will Dugan and Morita build their bromance? What will Josie say about his adventure into the hills? What will happen when Steve finally lands in London for the first time? How many inside jokes will we uncover throughout the story? So so many questions, but not so many clear answers.

Thanks again for all your support. Your comments make my day every time I get one. And welcome all new readers!

As we begin on this new journey, I thought maybe we could cross some things off our summary song checklist, as I know at least one of you is a little lost on what we've had and haven't had. Let's take ourselves back:

" On the first month of war, my true love sent to me,
One depraved doctor, two troubled boys, three Italian Fronts, four dancing monkeys...five commandos…six Hydra bases, seven soldiers swimming, eight shades of red, nine goggled goons, ten dancing dames, eleven eagles circling, twelve gunners gunning and A Partridge in a Pear Tree. "

1. One depraved doctor: Zola Check X
2. Two troubled boys : Steve and Bucky or Bucky and Andrew - matter of opinion. Check X
3. Three Italian Fronts: We've had one, Azzano, what are the others going to be?
4. Four dancing monkeys: Steve was the dancing monkey, as his role in the Propaganda tour, and he was that dancing monkey for FOUR months - so four dancing monkeys. Check X
5. Five commandos : Speaks for itself, and they're all here and raring to go. Check X.
6. Six Hydra bases : The bases Steve saw on the map in Zola's lab, but there's far more than six lets be honest, that would be too easy for our heroes...…?
7. Seven soldiers swimming : ?
8. Eight shades of red : ? Peggy's lipstick? Josie's hair? Blood? Peggy's dress? Who knows ?
9. Nine goggled goons : Bucky and Andrew killed nine Hydra goons on their attempted escape. Check X
10. Ten dancing dames : USO dancers. Check X
11. Eleven eagles circling : ?
12. Twelve gunners gunning : ?
13. And a partridge in a Pear Tree : Are we going to see a Partridge? Will it be in a pear tree? Who knows?

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NOTE TO REMEMBER: There is no errant fly by Bucky's left ear.

REFERENCES
BALAVAS : Good luck charm in some Romany dialects.
BAKALO: Good luck in some Romany dialects.
BIXBAT: Bad luck in some Romany dialects.

CLAUDE DEBUSSY - GIRL WITH THE FLAXEN HAIR: Written in 1909-1910, it's one of the classic Debussy compositions. Here's a link if you would like to listen to it.

CLAUDE DEBUSSY - CLAIR DE LUNE: Written in 1895 but not released until 1905, it's probably the most famous of Debussy's compositions. Here's a link if you like to listen to it.

CONKERS GAME: Conkers is a traditional children's game played using the seeds of horse chestnut trees—the name 'conker' is also applied to the seed and to the tree itself. The game is played by two players, each with a conker threaded onto a piece of string: they take turns striking each other's conker until one breaks.