Chapter 1

Becky groaned as she got off of the bus. She tried to stretch as the driver pulled away, but nothing short of a bath was going to help the pain in her lower back, and that was a luxury she could only afford once a week. She got to bathe on Saturday nights, so she would be nice and clean for church on Sunday. The rest of the week she had to rely on flannel washes. Flannel washes did not remove the grime of factory work. Today was only Wednesday.

Becky sighed as she walked up the stairs, they lived in one of the nicer apartment blocks, but it was still an apartment block, and five sets of stairs was an unappealing challenge after a twelve and a half hour factory shift. The elevator was one of those old cage ones from the turn of the century and in serious need of repair. The building owners claimed they had turned it off to conserve electricity, Becky didn't believe that for one second, they'd turned it off because they couldn't afford to fix it. Various neighbours greeted her as she made her way up and she did her best to return the kindness despite her bone-deep weariness.

She dodged a group of bare-footed children who were playing tag in the hall and pulled out her key, she raised her hand to unlock the door, but the door was unlocked, and slightly ajar. Becky held her breath as she carefully pushed open the door and looked into the entrance way. People were getting more desperate every day. Everything was rationed; tea, sugar, bread. Mr Jones, the butcher, had to cut the meat so thinly that it looked like the churches stained glass windows. And people living in apartment buildings didn't have gardens to feed themselves. Between the Great War, the Great Depression, and now this war… home invasions were increasing.

Becky took in the white trimmed pastel yellow walls of the entrance hall, but nothing seemed amiss. The little white table with the telephone on it was in order, the pastel blue vase of Marigolds sitting exactly where it had been this morning when she had left for work. The family pictures were untouched on the walls. Becky shut the door softly and clutched her key tighter. She took a few cautious steps down the hallway then stopped beside a picture of Bucky and Steve swapping presents under a modest Christmas tree. Father had taken the photo on Christmas morning, the first year after Steve's mother had died, and it was one of the few photos in which Steve was truly smiling. Father was a photographer, currently a war photographer, so it was only Becky and Mother at home these days. If anything had happened…

Becky took a deep breath and clutched the key tighter. "Mother, I'm home." She called out as cheerily as possible. "Did you need some help with dinner?"

"I'm in the sitting room." Mother called out. "We have company, try and make yourself look presentable."

Becky took a look at herself in the hall mirror and frowned, Saint Anges forgive her, she was a frightful sight. There was grime on her face and her simple dress was filthy. The dark hair that had escaped her headscarf was wild and untameable. She let out a heavy sigh. "Mother, I work in a munitions factory, 'presentable' is for church on Sundays."

"There's no shame in being a Canary Girl," A male voice called out. "Why don't you come join us, you may want to hear this."

Becky was confident that she did not know the man, he sounded about her age, maybe slightly older. She repressed another sigh, was Mother making some horrid attempt to find her a husband? She was twenty six years old, and unwed, something which her mother considered shameful. Most of the women her age were married with children. Thanks to the war some of them were even widows now, but Becky was not one whose head was easily turned. And she simply had no intention of marrying for the sake of it. After all, didn't people realise there was a war going on? Oh, she heard the words 'Spinster', 'Thorneback', but she held her head high all the same. (It didn't mean it hurt any less.) On the other hand, her mother had good intentions, it wouldn't hurt to humour her.

"Give me a minute." She replied, defeated. She removed her head covering and rearranged a couple of hairpins in an attempt to calm her dark locks. The effort felt unsatisfactory. She rubbed at a particularly bad grime mark with the heel of her right hand, but it did little good. Long days and nights full of nightmares had made the bags under her eyes so pronounced that even makeup could not hide them. Skipping breakfast to allow her mother more of the food ration, and skipping lunch because she gave her mother most of her pay was making her face look thin, and not in a good way.

There was nought to be done about her appearance, so she squared her shoulders, broad as her brother's, and walked into the sitting room, holding herself to her full height. She was unattractively tall for a woman, heck, she was taller than many men, but she would hold herself with dignity – despite whatever indignity her mother had orchestrated for her this evening. The line of thought was derailed when she saw the two men in uniform – noticed the MP badges on their arms.

The taller of the two men turned towards her and smiled. "Miss Barnes." He acknowledged softly, "I'm Warrant Officer Royce and this is Second Lieutenant Ferguson." This was clearly the man whom had spoken earlier.

Becky let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. "He's alive, isn't he? Bucky – my brother – he's alive."

Royce nodded, a smile growing on his face. "Yes-"

Becky turned to her mother, a harsh look in her eyes. "I told you." She snapped. She returned her attention back to the MP. "How badly is he injured? When can he come home? How did he get out?" She rambled the questions quickly, not giving the poor man a chance to answer.

He chuckled, stopping her line of questioning. "His injuries seem surprisingly minimal, considering." He replied slowly. "He'll be returning to active duty shortly. Unfortunately, given the classified nature of that duty, he is currently restricted to base. As for the how, well you will know as much as I do when you read the morning paper tomorrow. Captain Rogers-"

"Wait? Rogers? Steve Rogers?!" She interrupted incredulous.

Royce nodded, he seemed to be smirking now. "Yes, Captain Steven Grant Rogers, you know of him, I assume?"

Becky's eyebrows shot up so high she was sure they hit her hairline. "Scrawny little Steve?!" She could hear the pitch of her voice rising, but she couldn't stop herself. "Steve the asthmatic?!" She could feel herself shaking her head. "Steve can't even pass the medical, how the hell-"

"Rebecca Ernaline Barnes! Language!" Mother chastised.

Becky shook her head. "Little Stevie can't even lift a chair without losing his breath. He needs three stops to make the stairs to the front door, and a sit down and a glass of water once he gets here. Saint Jude! Now I'm expected to believe that Steve is not only a Captain, but successfully rescued prisoners from a POW camp?! If the Nazi's are so pathetic I'll take your knitting needles and go fight them myself, easier than building bombs! Probably safer too!"

"Steve Rogers is Captain America." Second Lieutenant Ferguson muttered in a confused voice, the first time that he had spoken.

Becky turned her full attention on the shorter man. "He what?!"

"Steve Rogers is Captain America." Ferguson repeated more nervously.

Becky looked from one man to the other in disbelief, yet they appeared to be telling the truth. Becky marched straight past her mother, to the small liquor cabinet and picked up a half empty bottle of Rieger's. She poured herself a measure and downed it quickly, letting the fiery whiskey burn her throat. She poured herself another measure and took a small sip before turning to face the MP's, ignoring the disappointed expression on her mother's face. She crossed her arms in front of her, glass still in hand, blue eyes hostile.

"Explain."

"Becky, I raised you better than that." Mother chided.

Becky shrugged and took another sip of whiskey. "Well Bucky took all the charm with him when he took all the stupid." She snapped. "I'm tired, I've spent the last twelve hours assembling anti-tank mines, and wondering if one of the fuses was going to go off on me. I've shared a single tea bag with three other people and I haven't eaten since yesterday. Forgive me if I'm a little short on manners."

"Merciful Mary, mother of god, preserve me. At least offer them a drink, Rebecca." Mother chided.

Becky obliged, grabbing the bottle and two more glasses she gestured for the officers to sit. An hour, and the rest of the bottle of Rieger's, later Becky still didn't believe it. Steve was Captain America. Little Stevie, whom she'd broken an arm protecting from Tommy bloody Greenwalt when she was twelve, was Captain bloody America! Scrawny Steve, whom Bucky had begged her to take to homecoming dance, only for him to not dance and to sit in the corner all night looking dotingly at Millie Madison.

That night, as Becky got ready for bed she made her mind up, if Bucky wasn't able to come home to them she was going to go to him. She needed answers. But more importantly, she needed to see with her own eyes that he was safe. And she needed to understand what 'Zhelaniye, Rzhavyy, Semnadtsat', Rassvet, Pech', Devyat', Dobroserdechnyy, Vozvrashcheniye na nodinu, Odin, Gruzovoy vagon' meant. (And why those words gave her a headache.)

Becky slipped out of the apartment early the next morning, pocketbook in hand. She always left for work before her mother was awake, so it was nothing unusual. What was unusual was that she was not dressed for factory work today, she was dressed in her Sunday best. By the time her mother was awake Becky was on her second bus. By the time her mother was cleaning the breakfast dishes Becky was arguing with an MP about getting onto base to see her brother. And by the time her mother received a phone call saying Becky hadn't shown up for work Becky was standing in a military cell, having laid into said MP for being a complete and utter jerk.

Becky took a deep breath and released it slowly as she paced the small cell for the tenth (or was it the eleventh?) time. Nothing she could do now but pray. "Okay, Saint Jude," She whispered softly. "You're supposed to be the saint of hopeless causes, can't get much more hopeless than this. Help me, please."