Some bird was making a really obnoxious sound. Bucky was sitting outside the old couple's house, feet up on their stone garden wall, trying to ignore the sound. His watch read 0234 and he was on watch. In reality, his head was tipped back against the top of his wooden chair and his eyes were closed. If only that fucking bird would shut up. It was because he was so aware of the sounds around him that he knew Steve was coming long before the captain was beside him saying, "Hard to keep watch with your eyes closed."

Bucky hummed in the back of throat and lifted his head, looking up at Steve. "All quiet here," he said to spite the bird. What kind of bird hangs around in winter at two-fucking-thirty in the morning? What the hell?

"That so?" Steve dragged a chair over — the legs scraping the stone sounded so loud — and sat beside Bucky. "Good."

They both stared out at the landscape. There were few clouds and everything was painted in shades of grey. So this was mountain air? Thin and cold?

"So," Steve said and then sighed. "How're you doing?"

"Who, me?" Bucky looked sideways at Steve. "Well, let's see. We've been in the field for five weeks, travelling across a whole country in the dead of winter. Strangers are constantly trying to kill me. But I don't blame them; I'm trying to kill them, too. I've been eating out of cans and living off of whatever I can take off of dead bodies. Despite that, I'm always cold and hungry, and I'm exhausted but can never sleep. I just got to take my first bath in more than a month a few hours ago. So," Bucky said while smirking at Steve, "I'm doing alright."

One side of Steve's face smiled; he looked down at his hands. "Well that's good. I've got somethin' for you." He opened one of his ammunition pouches and handed over a bundle of waxed paper.

Bucky unwrapped it, very aware of how loudly the paper crinkled. Some type of chocolate rested in the paper. "What's this for?" he said.

Steve quirked an eyebrow. "I thought we agreed not to mention it."

"Ah." The fuckin' side car. Bucky put the whole chunk of chocolate in his mouth and let it sit on his tongue, melting. With his mouth full, he said, "It's a start." When the chocolate had dissolved and left his mouth feeling sour, Bucky said, "How about you? How are you holding up?"

The way Steve looked up and out over the wall and drew in a big breath answered Bucky's question more honestly than any words Steve could speak.

"I'm hanging in there," Steve said.

"You worked so hard to get over here," Bucky said. "I almost feel bad now that you know what it's really like: a whole lotta sitting around and waiting for someone to try to kill you."

"Not exactly how I'd describe it."

"No?" The taste left in his mouth from the chocolate was giving Bucky a headache. Even candy made him miserable. Would anything ever be the same? "Then what's it like for you?"

Those chair legs scraping the ground again, making Bucky grit his teeth — Steve shifted his chair so he could put his boots up on the low wall. His giant new shoulder touched Bucky's regular old shoulder. It felt like a stranger. He'd never be used to this new version of his oldest friend.

"It's like this," said Steve. "I wake up every morning terrified. I see all you guys standing around, looking at me, waiting for me to give an order."

"Steve, we've been over this. You know how to command." Bucky didn't look directly at Steve, but he could see his friend nodding in his peripheral.

"I know. I know what we have to do. I know what the next move is. I'm just terrified to make you guys do it. And I know what you're gonna say, Buck. It's your job. All of you signed up for this voluntarily. You guys are ready and willing to take whatever risks I ask of you. Still, if something happens — and something is bound to happen, it always does — it's gonna happen because of a call I made." Steve huffed a little through his nose and looked straight at Bucky. He met the captain's eyes. "I just don't know how I'm going to live with it."

It took more self-control than Bucky was aware he had not to roll his eyes, to break the suffocating tension Steve had just injected into the air between them. "Come on, man. When one of us bites it, you can't take the blame. We chose to follow you. We chose it. Don't take that away from us." Bucky shrugged his shoulder that was touching Steve's, transferred the motion. "They're all idiots, remember? Not your fault we're stupid."

Steve didn't say anything for a while. Bucky felt his insides squirming. He was sure it didn't have anything to do with the chocolate. This damn conversation was reminding him of thoughts he'd sworn not to think. Tell him, his turbulent stomach told Bucky. You can tell Steve.

But Bucky told his stomach to shut the hell up and said, "Becca got married. Did I tell you?"

Steve looked at him with big eyes. "No, you certainly did not tell me your sister got married. When? Jesus, Buck, why didn't you say anything?"

Shrug. "You've been busy."

Steve slapped the back of Bucky's head light enough so that there was no harm but rough enough to mess up Bucky's hair. "What's his name? Tell me about it."

So Bucky reached a hand into his coat and pulled out the letter he'd received back in Sicily. Though a part of him wanted to tuck it away again and not answer any of Steve's questions, the better part of Bucky made him hand the letter off to Steve. His friend made a lot of noises as he read the two and a half pages contained within. Bucky had nothing to do but sit and stare at the hills, resolutely ignoring the hoots and shouts of that damn bird.

"Gee," Steve said so that Bucky would know he'd finished reading. Bucky put a hand out and tucked the letter back into the interior left breast pocket. "That's some news to get!"

"I know." Bucky was just glad that Steve hadn't mentioned the date on the letter. It would have given him another excuse to bring up Krausberg. Or to make some soft, well-meaning comment about how nothing else had been sent since. "I'm sad to have missed it."

"Probably never would have happened if you were there," Steve teased. "She was lucky to have ever gone on a proper date with the way you intimidated everyone."

"She's my sister. I don't want her being bothered by someone—"

"Someone like you?" Steve cut in.

Bucky laughed through his nose and shoved Steve. "Yeah, I guess I don't want her stuck with someone like me. I mean, whoever this guy is, he can't be any good. All the good ones are here. Or in the Pacific."

"Aw, gee, thanks," Steve said. "I woulda been one of those no-good guys back home."

Bucky laughed. "Hey, I would have had you marry Becca in a heartbeat if it meant you woulda stayed home."

"I know you would. God, could you imagine Becca's face if she heard you talking like that? I'd've been her doormat if we were married."

"Woulda been good for both of you." That godforsaken bird.

"We'll see what she says when I tell her about this conversation when we get home."

Bucky's hand rested on the letter, tucked inside his coat. A wind blew through and his fingers tensed. His stomach squeezed and roiled. "Shit, Steve, you don't think we're actually gonna go home, do you?"

Superhuman body made human movements superfast. Bucky swore he saw Steve blur when the captain whipped his head in Bucky's direction. "Of course we're going home, Buck." Steve said the words with that voice he used before someone started beating the snot out of him in some alley. It was his Fight Me Voice.

So Bucky humoured him. "Say we live. When we get home, you don't expect it to be the same, do you?"

"What do you mean?"

The bird hooted and Bucky said, "I mean, Brooklyn's not gonna be Brooklyn when you get back, Steve. How can it, after what we're doing now? After what we've already done? The things we've seen and . . . You're gonna be different, more different than you already are. You're gonna bring a lot of things back home with you that you're never gonna be able to put down."

The image of his father floated before Bucky's mind's eye. Shell shock, his mother had always said by way of explanation after his father would come down from an episode. Bucky had always known that, even if he survived the war, he wouldn't be coming back in any better shape. It was what had made the decision to enlist so difficult. He'd ended up deciding that it was better that he do it on his own terms than wait for the draft papers to turn up in the mail. Did he want to jump off the bridge, or did he want someone to push him? Neither, but he knew which was the lesser of two evils.

He knew Steve was looking at him in a bad way, but there wasn't much he could do now that the words were out of his mouth.

Steve said, "I know things won't be the same, Buck. Believe me, I've thought a lot about it. It's something I'm willing to accept. I don't expect anything back home to look or feel the same once I get there. Our parents made sure both of us knew that about war. But we're gonna go to Brooklyn when it's all said and done, and even though it won't be the same, it'll still be our home."

Stupid Steve, fighting for ideals. Idiot Steve, always expecting things to work out. Moronic Steve, thinking he can just deal with whatever consequences he'll bear because of this war. Asshole Steve, always running head first into fights he doesn't have a prayer of winning. Fucking Steve.

The feeling in Bucky's gut was verging on becoming painful. So Bucky took a breath and said, "Hey, promise me something? Say yes, and we're even on that thing we're never gonna mention again."

The captain smiled even though Bucky knew Steve could hear the hesitance in his own voice. "What am I agreeing to?"

A forced laugh fell out of Bucky's mouth, an attempt at keeping things light. His eyes fell to his hands. He couldn't look at Steve when he asked. It was— . . . He couldn't look. "Promise me you won't go first."

So much for taking the tension out of the air. Bucky could feel how still Steve had gone through their touching shoulders. That point of contact felt so solid; it could never be broken, connecting them forever. That fucking bird was the only sound to be heard. That strange feeling of becoming separate from his body washed over him. Bucky pressed his shoulder into Steve's to fight the feeling.

"Buck, come on," he heard Steve say from far away.

Shaking his head, Bucky insisted, "You come on, Steve."

"We're gonna be fine. Both of us are gonna be fine. The war is going to end, and we're going to go home. You're gonna see your ma and father and sister again. I'm going to go home with you, and I'll see them all, too."

Bucky hadn't stopped shaking his head. He kept leaning harder and harder on Steve's shoulder. Now wasn't the time to go somewhere else. Bucky wanted to stay right here with Steve. "Even then," he said. "Even then, you don't get to go first."

He was drifting. Time bent around him. Part of him was gone and away but it could still perceive something he knew was Steve pressing on the shoulder Bucky wasn't attached to anymore.

He heard, "OK. "

It was enough comfort for now.

They started into the outer ruins of Novara before daybreak the next morning. The edges of town had been hit particularly hard by the bombings. (Someone on those German bomber planes was shit at their job.) The seven of them were shot at no less than ten times by troops in the rubble. Rogers called them back and laid out a new plan. Surprise! It involved him using himself as bait. Team James would go around the ruins and find a safe place with good sightlines to set up a nest. The captain would walk through the ruins and draw fire from the shooters. When they gave themselves away, Barnes would take them out. Morita would radio the number of men and their location to Dugan, Gabe, and Frenchie. The three of them would then take out whoever remained after Barnes mowed down the sharpshooter.

And the plan actually kind of worked. The only problem was that it took forever for them to gain any ground. After a day and half of securing only two blocks of ruins, the captain called them together for a different plan.

"Same idea," said Rogers, "I draw their fire. But we've gotta get into the city proper and get Fahroni before HYDRA's counterattack arrives. So I figure me, Bucky, and Morita attack the city in this sector. The rest of you wait until we draw enough of their attention and then you guys sneak into the city while they're looking the other way. Scout the area and radio back to us. If we can take on these guys on two fronts, we should move quicker."

"We're not to engage?" Monty asked.

Rogers shook his head. "Not unless you have to. Mark their movements and try to find the camp. Get as deep into the city as you can. We'll blow 'em up from the inside to make sure you can get out."

Dugan felt better when he saw Barnes rubbing his forehead and making his duck face. It was nice not to be the only one with doubts about the plan. It might have worked if they had more men. Seven guys taking a city full of enemies and sharpshooters sounded a little more than optimistic. Dugan had to admit that there really wasn't a better option, not with the support the S.S.R. gave them for this mission. Which was to say, no support at all.

So they moved out. Dugan led his team about a half mile away from where Rogers and the others would initiate the attack. If it had been up to Dugan, he would have had the attack team be the bigger of the two. But it wasn't up to him, so he kept his trap shut. Rogers knew what he was doing. Besides, Barnes nodded his head at the plan. Dugan knew the sergeant didn't like the plan, but when did the kid like anything? If Sarge gave the captain's plan the nod of approval, it was enough to make Dugan fall in line.

They moved so slowly. There could be enemies everywhere — there probably were. So they had to stay out of sight and move at a snail's pace. Monty was in charge of the secondary radio. Stark had designed the thing, but it kind of sucked ass. Thing was cumbersome to use, which was why they hadn't really been going out of their way to use it. It was smaller than Jim's and its range was much shorter. The idea, Stark had explained during their time in Sicily, was for them to be able to communicate with the large radio, not a base hundreds of miles away. Stark had been very clear that his device was not a Handie-Talkie. It was better. When shipped out for Naples, Dugan remembered seeing Stark elbows deep in mechanical parts for more of the handheld, two-way radios. Dugan couldn't hold in a snort when he thought about it. They might not be carrying a Handie-Talkie, but theirs was made of all the same parts.

Dugan ran across the road. No stones reached up to trip him, which he was thankful for. Throwing his back against a building, he turned to peer down the road. Nothing. He watched and waited and counted. Then he turned his gaze to the place he'd just come from. Catching Gabe's eye, Dugan motioned him forward. They did this until all four of them had made it across unharmed.

He led them up the road next. They moved one at a time again, sliding into cracks and alleyways filled with rubble and corpses. Dugan knew that at this very moment the others were letting themselves be seen as they moved among similar ruins. Dugan crouched behind an upturned table and scanned the windows of the buildings nearby. He saw the small barrel of a gun resting on the ledge of one of those windows. Unconsciously, he held his breath and stared, listened. Nothing; too far. Turning, he gestured for the others to get low and then curled his hands into Os, holding them up to his eyes.

Monty slunk forward, hugging the walls and the ground. The Brit sat beside Dugan and watched as he indicated the direction of the gun. Monty pulled out his binoculars and peered in the direction indicated. Dugan slunk completely below the edge of the table and waited. After a few seconds, Monty lowered himself, too.

"I saw four and was able to make out a few shadows, so possibly a few more," Monty breathed.

"Weapons?"

"Not much visible. No evidence of artillery or a nest."

Dugan nodded. So more than likely they were looking at a sniper and his scouting team. Do not engage. "Right. Have Gabe mark it and let's go around. Follow me."

So they were off again, moving laterally to a new street away from the nest. They encountered a few more nests. Most of them were full of machine gunners, not snipers. And thank God for that, Dugan thought. Monty was able to pick out a few places which were full of heavier weapons. Glass bottles lined up unnaturally against a wall or shredded fabric gave away bomb stations. Frenchie even noticed a few wires dangling harmlessly that were in fact rigged for remote detonation. Dugan had Gabe mark the map, and they gave the building a wide berth as they went around.

It took an hour and forty-five minutes for Dugan's team to get into a position where they could travel no further. The four of them were squeezed inside a caved-in building which was pressed up against a house with four machine guns in it. Dugan caught Monty's eye and nodded. The Brit brought Stark's not-Handie-Talkie up to his lips, held down the Talk button, and murmured, "We're at the post office."

Monty put his hand over the speaker as Jim's voice came over, "Copy. Standby for signal."

"Wilco."

Monty put the radio into his bag and braced himself. Dugan forced himself to breathe out and relax his shoulders. His muscles loosened with the exception of hands; they tightened on his Thompson. He really would have rather been on the other side of this mission. That annoying part of his brain kept telling him that Jim, Barnes, and Rogers were about to be shot full of holes for a mission that had no chance of succeeding — for nothing. Dugan's heart pounded. A man never gets used to war, a heart never used to being so close to stopping.

Boom.

The assault had begun. Dugan heard a building crumbling. Immediately, his mind began to count the seconds. More explosions filled in the quiet, then shouts. His muscles were growing more and more taut. The slamming boots of the enemies streaming out of the house echoed in his head. He could hear their foreign voices barking at each other, could hear them disassembling their machine guns and packing up the ammunition. They were headed for the dense gunfire, headed for the rest of their team. Dugan's team. Dugan's friends.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Tock.

Go time. Dugan stepped out of the hidey hole and ran for the house full of machine guns. He sprayed bullets into the soldiers' backs. Do not engage, his ass. The bodies dropped and their weapons went flying. Behind him, he knew Monty was tossing hand grenades into the windows of the house. The familiar tack-tack-tack of Gabe's Browning was what life insurance sounded like.

The Germans (or were they Italians? Dugan only knew that they were attacking his friends, which made them enemies) in the street were only just cottoning on to the presence of another team. Dugan shot most of them before they got a chance to turn around. Lucky that they ran in teams of twos. There was a boot colliding with Dugan's side and he was knocked to the ground at the same instant a rifle fired. Barely a blink of an eye later, another rifle fired. A bullet sailed into the stone street millimetres from where Dugan had just been. His first thought was that they'd fuck up his hat even worse than it already was.

He looked up, trying to see sense.

Monty. The damn Limey had knocked him out of the way of a sniper — and then killed the bastard. Damn. Barnes wasn't the only one who had been reading up on sharpshooting tactics, Dugan reminded himself. As the scout, Monty knew a lot more than they gave him credit for. Guy was a major for a reason.

Boom – Frenchie's stolen potato masher had detonated on a fresh pile of German shells just inside the broken window of a building.

Monty glanced at Dugan and said, "Now's not the time to sit around and have tea, Corporal."

"Fuck you, Tommy," Dugan said and pushed himself up to his feet.

All the remaining hostiles in their sector was dead. The sounds Cap's battle seemed unreasonably loud. Dugan would even wager that no one had heard them attacking the men on this street. Good. He could live with that.

"Shall we?" said Gabe.

So they moved deeper into the city. Dugan didn't attack any more troops. He'd been told not to engage. Besides, all of the people that had been hiding in this building had already left to attack the others. Dugan waved a hand and they all ran at a crouch across an intersection.

"Don't look so proud of yourself," Bucky snapped.

Steve bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. It really wasn't funny. It hurt. Not I'm-dying-this-is-it pain, but it was definitely making itself known. The burn on this forearm had already mostly healed. It was just shiny, soft skin now. The gash from the bullet fragment in his calf though. That was still bleeding.

That fragment itself was sitting on the ground beside Steve. Bucky had fished it out with a knife and tweezers. The attack today had gone as well as any of them could have hoped. They'd managed to push fairly deep into the city before being forced to retreat a little. At the end of it, they'd managed to defend most of the ground they'd gained.

Steve, Bucky, and Morita were now holed up in a tower that used to hold a sniper. Bucky had killed the guy during the assault and then pushed the body out the window when the three of them returned to make it their camp. The place was well-stocked, considering the circumstances. The guy must have made this place his nest a long time ago. Steve was happy to have a comfortable place to sleep. They dined on the dead soldier's rations, and Bucky used his aid kit to clean up Steve and Morita. The communication officer had taken some debris to the cheek. Bucky had put a few careful stitches along his cheekbone and left it.

Steve knew that he ought to be grateful that they were still alive and hadn't taken any serious hits. And he was. One of these days he was going to stop feeling guilty over every drop of blood his men spilt. It just wasn't practical to be like this. They'll always get up, Steve told himself. They can walk off anything. Suck it up and keep moving.

He'd get there. Steve would get to that place. He'd get there soon — he had to. In the meantime, he let himself be reassured by the fact that Bucky hadn't sustained a single scratch.

"Don't tell me you're going to start being a mother hen," Steve said.

Bucky put a bandage on Steve's wound and pulled on the straps like he was tying a tourniquet. There was a withering look in his eye for the fraction of a second they made eye contact. The back of Steve's mind was surprised that his body registered the pressure as discomfort for a moment. But then Bucky let off on the ties and continued to apply the dressing per protocol with his duck-faced scowl out in full force. "That an order?"

"Sounds like a hen to me," Morita chimed in.

"You keep your trap shut or else I'll sew that closed, too."

"Calm down, Buck." Steve was well aware that telling someone to calm down was the surest way to fire them up. And, hey, it was amusing when Bucky got going.

"Why don't you just shoot yourself out in the street, Steve? Then everyone will come out to see if you're dead, and we can rescue this asshole we've been sent to save while they're distracted. Isn't that a great fucking plan?"

Morita shrugged. "Actually, it's not bad."

Bucky was absolutely whipping the first aid supplies back into the dead man's kit. "All a bunch of fuckin' idiots. Why did I agree to do this?"

The answer was, of course, because Steve asked him to. Steve knew he was the reason Bucky was still in Europe. Well, maybe not the only reason, but he was the biggest one. The deciding factor. After twenty years, you stop denying how influential you are to your friends. Sometimes Steve felt guilty about it. For all the crap he gave Bucky about Krausberg, Steve hadn't let that stop him from asking Bucky to come back to war. He was the first person that came to mind. The only one that came to mind, really, until Bucky had recommended the rest. For all of his worry, Steve still couldn't imagine not having Bucky with him on this mission.

"Quit your bellyachin', Sarge," said Morita. "It's makin' my face hurt worse."

They all settled down. There was the regular check in from the other team, but other than that, it was peacefully quiet. Bucky and Morita moaned a bit about not being able to smoke but knocked it off before long. Steve passed out more chocolate, feeling a bit like Saint Nicholas, and the three of them relaxed for the night. Bucky sat at the window for first watch.

"Either of you two ever been out west?" Morita asked.

"Pennsylvania," Steve said dryly. He deliberately didn't count anything that had happened on the USO tour.

"Indiana first," said Bucky. "Then Wisconsin for basic."

Morita laughed. "No, I said out west."

"We didn't have a lot of time or money to go traveling," Steve pointed out. "You been out east?"

"Sure," Morita said. "Saw damn near the whole country from a train. The thing stopped every other state. The west is nice. I'm not talkin' California, though even that is nice, too. "

"What, like Montana?" said Bucky. Steve could hear the distaste in his friend's voice. Bucky had opinions about the countryside.

"Yes, like Montana. Colorado. Wyoming. Everyone forgets about Wyoming."

Bucky said, "What's to remember?"

"The space. There's just so much space. Hills and grass and wild things. No people. My family went out there once, when I was really little. God, I can't remember the reason why we went. But I remember thinking it was out of some storybook. Life as it was intended." Morita snorted. "My mother said I started fussing and saying I was gonna mess it all up."

Steve was quiet. The words made him uneasy. The image Morita had painted in his head contrasted sharply with what surrounded them in reality. Houses and stone buildings. Ruins created from bombs. This city at the base the mountains — the mountains looked so powerful. Steve remembered that that was the first thing he had thought when they laid eyes on Novara. The city was just a hunk of rocks at the base of nature's might.

"I don't know," Morita continued. "I've been thinking about Wyoming a lot lately. Especially as we were coming up the coast, past all those cities and shit. Nature didn't make buildings and knock them over with bombs. Nature didn't do any of this to people. Makes me wonder if humanity is worth it, you know."

Steve glanced at Bucky. His friend looked as blank as their parachute silk.

"It is," Steve said. "It's worth it."

The next morning, they attacked again. The plan had worked. A lot of the manpower had concentrated in their portion of the city. Steve ran through bullets and rubble like he was born to do it, the wound in his calf barely registering. A useful bit of information: the people holding this city were not well supplied. Steve knew this because they were very conservative with their shots. Also, Bucky and Morita had pointed out yesterday that not all of them had guns.

Granted, there were a lot of machine gunners. It seemed to be the only thing that they did supplies for. The only thing for it was to run the nests out of ammunition.

One such nest was being set up at the end of the street. Steve tossed his shield up, caught it on its edge, and sent it flying into one of the men. The shield ricocheted into the second, snapped off a wall, and came careening back to Steve. In the time the shield was away, Steve had unholstered his sidearm and shot down a rifleman up on a rooftop.

The cracks of gunfire from Bucky and Morita were all Steve needed to hear to keep moving forward. They were both still fighting, mowing down hostiles before they could get set up. The hardest guns to overcome were the machine gunners. Steve's attacks relied a lot on speed. But he couldn't run between the bullets of a machine gun. He was forced to either knock out the gunner teams before they set up or wait for Bucky or Morita to get a clean shot on one of them. Steve had a shield, though. He could always wait with the shield deflecting the shots until the gunners reached the end of their ammunition belt and then attack. That took a long time sometimes.

Despite the Germans having all night to focus their forces in this part of the city, Steve noticed that his team was able to move much faster into the city. A part of him thought that this might be a trap, but it didn't stop him from punching and throwing his shield for all he was worth.

At 1100, Steve had Bucky and Morita halt forward progress and bunker down for scout work. Steve stayed in the street, drawing fire and curses. He got a lucky break when one bullet bounced off his shield and nailed some poor guy up on a roof right in the chest. If the bullet didn't kill him, the fall off the building sure did. Steve heard the familiar sound of Bucky's Johnson firing, so he knew when to dive for cover. A mortar round detonated a few yards ahead of Steve. More and more rounds fell up the street while the captain retreated to their rendezvous point. The snapping sound of a Thompson could be heard supplying further suppressing fire.

Steve made it to their new hide out and sat heavily on a holey sofa. Morita was already at the radio, marking up positions on a map. A few minutes later, Bucky showed up. He went over to Morita and pointed to three spots on the map that were close together. Morita nodded and marked them in pencil. Bucky craned around, trying to get a look at the stitches on Morita's cheek. He must have been satisfied, because he turned away without doing anything further.

Steve knew that he was next. Bucky caught his eye and flapped his hand upward. Steve yanked his pant leg out of his boot and rolled it up until the bandage was visible. Bucky crouched down to inspect the blood which had seeped all the way through. This was familiar. Their roles were second nature. Steve was grateful for this bit of Bucky's personality remaining unchanged, even though Steve had always hated it, hated being fussed over. You'd think being as sick and boneheaded as he was that Steve would have gotten used to fussing. Or built up a tolerance at the very least. But, no. He had only become more and more annoyed when it happened.

Except for now. Now he was just glad that this small thing had been preserved. His body would mend the wound and stop damn near any infection. Steve knew all of this. He was certain that Bucky was aware of it, too. Whatever the case, Steve found himself touched that Bucky was plucking at the bandage and frowning his duck-faced frown as if nothing had changed.

"It's fine," Steve said for old times' sake.

Bucky hummed just like he always used to when placating Steve. "I'll be the judge of that."

All those hours Bucky had spent at Steve's mother's side had turned the sergeant into a menace. Hell, Bucky had been half-convinced he wanted to be a doctor by the time Steve's ma died. Always used to say that he had a lifetime of experience taking care of Steve. Bucky would have been good at it. He was a natural caretaker. Steve wondered what things would have been like if the Army had tapped Bucky for medic.

On second thought, maybe it was better they hadn't. Steve didn't think Bucky would take it very well if a bunch of guys were calling out for his help and Bucky couldn't get to all of them. A man could only deal with that sort of thing for so long before he lost something of himself.

Morita said, "They've found the camp. It's pretty small. A plaza was blocked off, and there are a bunch of civilians inside it. It has good defences. Machine gun nests, 88s, the whole shebang."

So that's where they've put all of their resources.

Steve smiled. "Well, let's draw them out."

The three of them spent the better part of that afternoon preparing their second phase of the day's attack. They took turns keeping watch in a building across the street and closer to the heart of the city. Steve didn't want any shots to compromise their fall-back point.

At 1600, Steve and Bucky set out for the neighbouring sector of town, laden with explosives and a spool of wire they had claimed from a machine gun nest. They moved slowly and took great care to lay the charges and string the wires. Nearly half a block was rigged by the time they were done. They had to have used a mile of wire. Steve detonated half of the charges. A few minutes ticked by and then the streets were swarming with troops. What a bunch of boneheads. You'd think they'd know better than to just run into the street like that by now.

Anyway, Bucky got to detonate the second half of the charges. The block nearly collapsed. Screams shattered the brittle winter air. Steve flinched and then tapped Bucky's shoulder. They headed back to base and did it again the next day.

Steve's plan didn't change much over the next two days. But their progress was reduced every time the three of them attacked. They eventually were ground to standstill, pinned down by three sharpshooters. Bucky felt a little more on edge every day. His ammunition was running low. These Germans didn't leave their dead in the streets for long, so if he didn't have the time to steal the right kind of ammunition in the middle of a firefight, he wasn't going to get any replenishment.

No way he was going to use one of those piece of shit German long-range rifles either.

Steve had gotten grazed in the side on the last day. Bucky had bottled up his nerves and frustration as he bandaged the wound. The only good thing about all of this was that Steve didn't seem to notice how quickly Bucky was fraying. They didn't have the supplies to keep at this much longer. They didn't have ammunition, food, or first aid to keep this up. And HYDRA was due to show up at their destroyed barn any day now.

That didn't even include the stress Bucky felt about having no visual on Dum Dum and the others for so long. They communicated via radio, but he would have felt better to see for himself that they were all still in one piece.

The plan changed: Steve would wander out into the street and try to draw the fire of the sharpshooters and make them give up their location. Bucky would handle the rest after that. Great theory. Real smart plan.

That was how Bucky had come to lie on the floor for a whole day with his face shoved right up to his scope tracking Steve's progress through this city full of places for snipers to hide. He felt like a string being pulled taut as every second crept by. Even when Steve came back at the end of the day, Bucky couldn't make his shoulders loosen up. His mind was an unending refrain of what if what if what if what if I don't get to him in time?

On the third day, one of the snipers showed himself. Bucky breathed out and squeezed the trigger without hesitation as soon as he saw the muzzle fire. The body slumped where everyone could see. Bucky got up and moved to the tallest tower, a building the three of them had gotten within their boundaries just yesterday. Bucky made himself comfortable in the belfry, bell since gone missing, and found Steve in his scope again. It was cold up there, all exposed to the winds that came down off the mountains.

The second sniper shot at Steve that same day, despite the fact that Bucky had revealed himself as a rival sharpshooter in the area. The second one was dead in a single shot.

The last sniper was smarter than his peers. He knew Bucky was out there, and he didn't shoot at Steve. (Smart move, asshole.) Bucky moved among the tallest buildings and stared through his scope for hours trying to find that fucker. This went on for three days. Three days with no fire. The fibres of Bucky's nerves were giving up one by one. It didn't help that Steve still insisted on walking the streets even though the sniper was too smart to shoot at him.

Nightfall on the third day: Bucky, Steve, and Jim were on the second landing of a former bookshop. Jim was at the radio, face smiling. Steve was right beside him. Bucky couldn't make himself get up from the patched and fraying couch even though it smelled like mould and piss. It wasn't until Jim said "out" that Bucky opened his eyes and tuned back into the conversation.

"Good news. They located Fahroni in the camp."

Steve's jaw dropped. He looked like a fish. A stupid fish. A great, big, stupid fish. "How?"

Jim looked wry. "The Frenchman."

"How?"

"Frenchie got himself caught with a bunch of Italian insurgents — on purpose. So they put him in the camp. Guess he was able to find our guy."

Bucky rose from the couch like a zombie from the grave. "He's a prisoner?" Again?

Jim nodded.

No.

"Yeah. He's been talking to the rest of 'em through some code system with a sock." He shrugged at the look Steve gave him. "That's what they told me. The guys have got a plan to bust 'em out, but they need us to cause major chaos to distract the camp's defences. This one's gotta be big."

Bucky couldn't help but think of their dismal supplies. How in the world were they going to be able to cause a ruckus big enough to distract the Germans from a prisoner break-out? He could see Steve thinking the same things, could see his oldest friend doing the calculations, scheming.

Finally, the captain said, "Tell them we need two days."

Fuck me sideways.

Dugan breathed heavily through his nose so that the ends of his moustache fluttered. He needed a trim.

Wait two more days. Sure. OK. Just sit there and wait. Yeah, yeah, he understood that the others needed to get some things together. They knew Frenchie was in the camp, and it was always best to be not in a camp. Still, Dugan had to work to keep himself in check. They'd all been in the field too long, been hungry and cold for too long. Too close to death for too long.

"Two days gives us more time to plan," said Gabe.

Thank God for Gabe Jones. He could be a very calm voice of reason when he wasn't being fucking nuts.

"Right, right," Dugan said. He stopped fiddling with his moustache. At the rate he was going, he was going to rub the thing off his face.

"The bloody camp is surrounded by landmines," Monty said for the ten thousandth time. "We need a way in that is not the front door."

The camp was surrounded by mines. The four of them had only been able to realise that when a prisoner had tried to make a run for it one day. Guy was blown sky-high in tiny little pieces. So the guards knew which paths were safe (and so too did Dugan). The problem was that they'd didn't have a snowball's chance simply busting through the front door. There were nests everywhere. They'd been stuck trying to solve this problem ever since Frenchie let himself get caught. (Barnes had been right: He was not the most Italian-looking among them. It helped that these Germans apparently couldn't tell French from Italian.)

"We need to disarm the mines before we go in," Monty said. "But we can't just remotely detonate them while there are people inside the camp. They'll be blasted to hell."

Gabe looked skyward. Pensively, he said, "We could evacuate them. Then detonate the mines."

"I like the idea of blowing the camp up, but how the hell are we supposed to get the people out, genius?" Dugan said.

Gabe just pointed up. Dugan and Monty looked in that direction.

"Up and over," he said. "There's nothing preventing us from going over the fence."

Dugan looked at one of the buildings lining the square. It had part of its upper level caved in, exposed. It was high enough. It would get them over the fence, provided they had a line to string into the camp from the building. Dugan saw the potential, but he also saw the problems. What would they do, sneak the men out one at a time on the line? These krauts were dumb, but they would definitely notice the camp's occupants crawling away on a rope strung over their heads.

Monty sighed and said, "We really only need to get Dernier and Fahroni out, you know."

"What, and just leave all these people here?"

Monty shrugged. "It is not our mission. We cannot stage a full attack. And whose side are these people on? Are they Italians who will kill us just as fast as they'll kill their jailers?"

Just leave the people in the camp? Dugan's head pounded. It would be easier that way. Just get their man and their mission and be on their way. So much easier. Dugan's Catholic guilt was already biting at him. Could he get what he came for and leave all these people to whatever fate had in store for them? What if Rogers had come and rescued Barnes, leaving the rest of them in their cages?

Both Monty and Gabe were looking at him. Dugan took off his bowler (which still had a goddamn hole right through the middle of it, thanks HYDRA asshole) and rubbed at his hair. He said, "Let's find a rope."

The second day: Bucky was back in the belfry. He lay prone and stared through the scope of his rifle. Jim was up there with him, mostly just for the company. The third sniper was still out there. And while Steve was also out there, Bucky wouldn't stop waiting for the sniper to slip up. After all, Steve was out there preparing the street for the Big Show. They would be getting into it at 2100.

"So are we gonna talk about this or what?" Jim said. He sounded irritated.

Join the club, pal.

"Talk about what?" Bucky said while moving his lips as little as possible.

"You spacing out."

"I'm not spacing out, I'm doing my job."

Jim snorted. "I'm not talkin' about that."

Bucky pulled his face away from the scope for as long as he dared to give Jim a warning look. "I don't know what you're talking about then."

"I'm not as oblivious as the rest of 'em, Sarge." Jim tossed a bit of stone that had broken off one of the belfry's support columns and caught it in the same hand. "You stare off into space and don't respond to anyone for several minutes at a time. Don't know why your so-called best friend hasn't noticed you going all stiff and blank ten times a night."

Bucky clenched his jaw and focused on the view in his scope. "I'm fine."

"Frenchie thinks it's seizures."

"What?"

"It's what he told me after your freak out near the Winter Line."

"I didn't freak out."

Jim missed the bit of stone and it fell down the open sides of the belfry. They both heard it hit the ground.

"Says you."

"Yeah, says me."

"Nobody expected you to come outta there without a scratch, Sarge."

Bucky set the Johnson rifle down for a moment and looked at his hands. "I don't want to talk about this."

"Tough shit." Jim nudged Bucky's calf with his boot. "We're on your side, Sarge. Seizures or no, all of us are still following you."

Bucky found the nerve to look Jim in the face. "You're following Steve."

Jim snorted in reply. "He's just the captain."

As if there were a difference between the two statements for him.

Jim said, "What I'm trying to say is that you can count on us. If you need us to watch your six 'cause you're feeling funny, we'll do it."

A long time passed where neither of them said anything. They watched a rare artillery shell pop a block over. Bucky eventually said, "I've never had a seizure in my life."

"Would you be able to tell if you had?"

Eye roll. "No one's ever accused me of having one then. How about that?"

Jim shrugged. "Fair enough. Frenchie said yours are subtle. He wouldn't have noticed if he weren't looking for it. And the freak out in the woods made him look for it."

"I do not have epilepsy."

Jim held up his hands. "No one said that."

"That's what having seizures is."

"Listen, Sarge, I'm no doctor. I'm not saying whether or not you have anything. I'm saying we all heard the rumours about the isolation ward. We saw you practically get your head caved in by those kraut guards and then get dragged back there. Fuck, all of us saw what you were like after Cap busted you outta there. If it wasn't the beating, then it was the drugs. You were fucked up the whole way back to Allied territory."

Bucky swallowed around a growing lump in his throat. "Does this really matter if there's nothing that can be done about it?"

"They make stuff that helps."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "That'll be the day."

"Think about it." Jim gave him a shit-eating toothy grin. "We've got your back in the meantime."

"I got a job to do," Bucky said quietly, almost purred. The barrel of his Johnson swung in smooth degrees over his field of view.

"Yeah, so do all of us. That's why it's better that none of us are caught daydreaming." Jim stretched his shoulders until they popped. "God, I haven't had a cigarette in days. All this shit, and I can't even smoke. So fucking cold up here it could freeze the balls off a brass monkey. You're not even shivering. Look: no gloves and your trigger finger is steady as shit."

Bucky felt the same craving for a cigarette just then. But he also had no desire to actually smoke one while Steve was out there being an idiot. Even Bucky's vices bowed to Steve's position as Priority Number One.

So the day wore on. 2100 came and went and they started to fight again. Steve razed about three city blocks single handed. From the belfry, Bucky saw something catch fire deeper in the city. That was Dum Dum and the others, he supposed. Jim fired the last of their mortars into the densest groups of Germans. They kept hearing sounds of battle get louder and louder. Much too loud for the numbers they were expecting from the Germans. It was almost like an army had arrived.

When the thought crossed Bucky's mind, his lungs froze. Raising his head away from his scope for the first time in hours, he looked, really looked, toward the centre of the city. He saw it: blue flashes of light. In his chest, Bucky's heart contracted painfully and then started beating like crazy. He wheeled on Jim.

"Get Steve!" Bucky shouted. "HYDRA's here! They fucking boxed us in! Followed us right into the city so we couldn't get out! Get on the radio and tell S.S.R.! Then get Steve! Get him the fuck out of there!"

Jim didn't blink once. He took in every word and then he was gone, a single "fuck" the only thing left in his wake.

No wonder it had been relatively easy for only three guys to push into the city. So easy because the city was HYDRA and they were letting three guys force their way in. There was sweat falling into Bucky's eyes; it was cold. A part of him was starting to separate...

"Not now!" he snarled at himself.

Lying back down with his rifle, Bucky quickly located Steve and followed his dumb, star-spangled ass through the battle in the street. Anyone who even looked at the idiot got a bullet through their chests. It didn't matter that Bucky's Johnson was bolt-action. He'd gone on automatic, a machine of a different kind. Dwindling ammo his only limiting factor.

He didn't stop, didn't pause until he heard stones scuffing on the stairs. Boots. Two people. Bucky lowered his rifle and looked toward the hatch which led to the inside of the building. His breath was shallow; his heart was more demanding. Blue light flashed behind him at the same time that the hatch flew opened and white light flashed in front of him. And then voices. German voices. Hands reaching for him, grabbing.

Bucky instantly began to struggle. The tracer round — or whatever that flash of light had been — had left him blind. Bucky kicked and punched violently; it won him more than one grunt of pain from his invisible assailants. It was not lost on him that no one had tried to shoot him. That meant that they wanted him alive. That meant— . . . Bucky screamed like his life depended on it. He screamed like he was already back where they wanted to take him. Something hard hit the side of his head, German barked an inch from his nose. Bucky could smell the man's breath. He didn't stop fighting. When he opened his eyes, it was still too washed out to see anything. There were shifting outlines, but nothing useful.

Lunging, Bucky caught one of the outlines in the chest, knocking them both to the ground. He swung his fists blindly, like a feral animal backed in a corner. Every second allowed his surroundings to extrude to life. Bucky flung a leg out at the second shadow, felt the satisfying pressure when a body fell on his leg. Getting to his feet only made Bucky feel more disoriented — he feared falling over the edge of the belfry.

There was suddenly a body pressed to his back. An arm came around his chest and cold metal pressed into his throat. His skin stung. But he wasn't allowed much time to think about his throat being cut, because the second body was up and there was an all-too familiar needle prick at his neck. And Bucky went fucking ballistic the instant he felt it.

He bit the hand holding the knife, kicked at the knees of the man in front of him. Sight had returned enough for him to see their faces. Bucky turned away from them and pulled out his Colt in the same motion. He shot the first, but the second was on top of him before he could get the next round off. They both hit the ground — the world tilted and Bucky felt like he was at sea.

Not again, not now!

The HYDRA operative shifted on top of him. Bucky saw him reaching for something. The needle — were there more? Flailing, Bucky threw up a knee. The force of the blow knocked the man forward. He still had the knife and it was coming to Bucky's face.

A gunshot sounded. He knew that sound, had been waiting for it — the third sniper had taken a shot!

Feeling like an absolute idiot, Bucky put up a hand to stop the knife. It felt like the blade was cutting his hand in half. He screamed something guttural. Punching with his right, Bucky shoved the man off his chest. He found his Colt and fired at the second man until there were no more rounds. Then it was back to the Johnson — world so heavy and swirly, his head emptying itself of everything except for Steve goddamn it you idiot what if I don't get there in time?

Looking through the scope made Bucky dizzy and nauseated. But he found what he was looking for: A man in a window holding gun with a long barrel. Bucky took the shot. His head was too heavy. So he rested it on the cool stones and hoped— . . .

"Took you long enough!" Rogers shouted when Dugan caught the captain's eyes.

He waved the rest of his men onward: Frenchie, Monty and Gabe with Fahroni supported between them.

"That him?" Rogers nodded at Fahroni.

"Yep. He took some damage on our way out," Dugan said. "Fucking HYDRA. How're we getting out of this thing?"

And the captain actually smiled like he was enjoying all of this. "We fight."

"Yes, but how?"

They heard the heavy creak of tank treads. Great. Rogers smiled and said, "Give me a hand?"

It took two seconds for Dugan to take his meaning. He smiled a crazy smile himself. "I'd be honoured."

They dodged fire and went in a roundabout path to get behind the tank. It was one of the tanks that vaporised people — way better than if they'd commandeered a plain old Tiger. Dugan picked up his last two grenades (potato mashers he'd picked off a kraut a few days earlier) and ran up to the tank, Rogers right beside him. They both jumped on the sides. Rogers ripped the door opened, and Dugan pulled the strings and dropped the potato mashers inside. Slamming the door down, Rogers held up his shield to protect both of them. Debris shot out the front slot of the tank. The captain opened the door once more and Dugan strafed the inside. Sounds of the dying gurgled out.

Rogers jumped inside, tossing out the bodies like they were dirty laundry. Dugan waved the rest of his men over, guiding them inside one at a time. Gabe remained outside, providing covering fire with his Browning. It was tricky getting the openly bleeding and half-aware Fahroni into the tank, and Dugan took a shot to the arm for it.

Monty manned the turret, firing like a "nutter" so that Gabe could get in safely. Dugan fell into place at the controls. They were rolling in no time.

Dugan turned to Rogers. "What, we just gonna ride out of here in this thing?"

"Got any other ideas?" It was only partly a joke.

"Where are the others? Where's the rest of Team James?"

Rogers looked pale under the helmet of his ridiculous uniform. "Morita found me in the field before things got hectic. He went back to our base to radio S.S.R. Bucky was in the bell tower of a church."

"Point me," Dugan said.

The tank rumbled through the streets. Gabe was up with Monty, the two of them blasting their way through town. A curious thing happened when Monty shot out another HYDRA tank: It didn't disappear. Instead, the thing burned and crumbled. Good to know; Dugan steered them clear of any other tanks lest the same fate befall them.

"Who's gonna go get 'em?" Dugan asked the men at large.

Rogers was already headed for the exit.

"Cap, you can't," said Gabe. "They're looking for you. You'll only draw fire. I'll go."

He didn't look happy, but Rogers agreed to let Gabe go find Barnes and Jim. Dugan steered the tank away from the block where their friends were. He didn't stray far but went a good distance, drawing the action away from that block.

Jim was outta ammo.

Jesus Christ.

All he could do was run. He still had the radio going and had the headset on as he slipped between the cracks of the city. There weren't a whole lot of people on the streets, but it was still crawling with HYDRA. Seven guys weren't gonna be enough.

"How are you now, Private?" That was Agent Carter over the radio.

Jim slid down behind a wall and covered his head. Dust and rubble from an explosion up ahead sprinkled down on him.

"Still not dead," he answered.

"We've already sent the planes out, our fastest models," she promised. "Can you get out of the city in an hour?"

Jim sure hoped so. "Peggy, I'll be lucky if I'm still alive in an hour, inside or outside the city."

There was a strange pause. Then: "Just try to be clear. Get out whether you find the others or not."

"Copy that."

Jim cut the radio and got up, kept running. He nearly wet his pants when Gabe appeared out of goddamn nowhere. They nearly collided. They did a stupid twirling hug, both trying not to knock the other clear off his feet.

"What's going on?" Jim demanded.

"We got the guy. Commandeered a tank. Cap has everyone there ready to bolt. Where's Barnes?"

Jim just started running toward the church and its ice-cold belfry. There was definitely a feeling of relief in his chest now that Gabe was with him. Honestly, though, Jim thought anybody who had a gun would have made him feel better. No one shot at them on the way to the church, but there was loud rumbling and sounds of heavy weapons fire just a street over.

Neither broke stride entering the church, and their boots pounded louder than usual as they climbed up and up. Shit, Jim didn't remember there being so many stairs in this thing before. The belfry wasn't this tall, was it? The hatch was already opened, so Jim hoisted himself swiftly out of the stairwell.

"Aw, Jesus."

There were three bodies lying on the ground. Two were clad all in black and the third was Barnes. Sarge was lying face down beside his Johnson. Jim counted the bullet holes in one of the HYDRA men. Overkill. Gabe crouched over Barnes, turning him onto his back.

"He alive?" Jim asked.

"Yeah, he's got a pulse. But look," he said and pointed to Barnes's neck.

The first thing Jim noticed was the cut on the sergeant's throat, but it wasn't what Gabe was pointing to. No, there was a dark little bruise surrounding a small red dot, the sort of thing one gets after they've been injected with something. The exact sort of thing Barnes had been covered in on their march out of Krausberg.

Jim took it back; that hadn't been overkill at all.

And then he saw that Barnes's hand had been nearly cut in two. Gabe noticed it, too. He did what Jim was too horrified to even think to do: pulled out a bandage and immediately wrapped the hand.

"He gonna be OK?" Jim managed to ask.

Gabe shrugged. His eyes caught something on the ground. Jim noticed and looked in the same direction. Gabe reach over and held up a syrette. There weren't many words on the tube. Gabe bent the needle over and put the thing in a pocket.

Gabe tapped Barnes's face. "Sarge," he called. "Hey! Sarge, wake up! Barnes! Hey! Bucky!"

Nothing. Not even a flinch.

"Let's get him out of here," he said.

Jim picked up Barnes's Johnson and slung it over his shoulder. Then he helped Gabe manoeuvre the sergeant's body over the hatch and down. It took a goddamn eternity to get that guy down the stairs. The guy wasn't exactly that big, but his weight was a lot when coupled with the damn batteries for the radio.

In the bottom of the church, Jim flipped on the radio and shouted until he heard Monty reply. "Jim? It's bloody good to hear you."

"Yeah? Great. Where are you? We got Barnes but he's not up for walking, and we can't drag him through the streets."

There was a lot of noise coming from the other end of the radio. Jim would have laughed if his legs weren't burning from supporting Barnes's dead weight. Speaking of, the sergeant made a pathetic noise and drooled yellow bile down his chin. Jim leaned away but Gabe pulled his sleeve down over his hand and wiped the mess away, saying, "There's no need for that, Sarge."

"We're coming to you," Monty said shortly. "Out."

"Copy. Out."

It took them so long. It was like they were driving the tank from the moon. Gabe and Jim put Barnes down on a pew so they could keep watch out the windows. One thing Jim knew for sure was that it was damn difficult to fire Barnes's Johnson. It made sense; you know, the thing had been designed specifically for him. Of course Jim would think it was trash. But it really felt like trash in his hands.

As soon as the tank turned down their street, Jim saw an American flag pop out of the top. Cap was running toward them before his feet ever hit the ground. Jim knew that the best thing he could do now was get the hell out of the way. Gabe knew, too. Cap busted inside without even really noticing either of them. Some sixth sense told him exactly where Barnes was and he charged over to the pew. Jim and Gabe advanced behind him.

"Bucky," Cap said forcefully, like he didn't have time for Sarge to be nappin' like this. "Bucky, wake up or so help me."

Gabe pulled the syrette out of his pocket and said, "We think he was injected with this." He shifted Barnes's head to show the track mark.

Cap stared for a beat and then turned toward Gabe with crazy eyes. Would have been funny if it also wasn't terrifying. "What is it?"

"Not sure. I guess it's some sort of sedative."

Jim watched the captain move Barnes's head, trying to look for more marks (and maybe avoid looking at the wound on his throat). The look on Cap's face could melt diamond. It only got hotter when his fingertips came away from Barnes's hair stained red.

Jim took a step back.

Gabe said evenly, "Or he's unconscious because of a blow to the head."

Jim could see the curling of the captain's lip. To his surprise, Cap threw his shield to Jim. He just barely stopped it from clanging on the ground. His hands stung a bit at the force. Would have been embarrassing, dropping the damn shield. Cap scooped up Barnes. They headed for the door: Jim first with the shield and Barnes's Johnson, Gabe a step behind with a Thompson, and Cap carrying Barnes last.

The tank was right outside, but they still came under heavy fire the moment they stepped out the door. Monty swung the turret in the direction of the worst fire, sending deadly blue light their way. Jim's arm felt odd with the shield on it, deflecting bullets. He was the last one into the tank; they went into it in the reverse order they'd left the church. Once they were all in, Cap said sharply, "Get us out of here."

It took a tank battle to get them out of Novara. Steve really didn't have the patience for it, but there was no choice but to endure it. The tank was really cramped; they were practically sitting in each other's laps. Falsworth fired from the turret and Jones mounted his machine gun up there until the ammunition ran out. Mostly, Dugan tried to sneak them out of city limits without engaging any enemies. They'd made it past the last ruins when planes flew overhead, dropping bombs on the city. Morita said that it was courtesy of the S.S.R.

Steve was relieved but also still fuming. In the limited space of the tank, the bloody side of Bucky's head was pressed against Steve's collarbone. It was cold, a constant reminder. Steve was sure he'd ground his teeth away before they ever got out of this thing.

Dernier was holding pressure to a wound in Fahroni's gut. Every so often the men would trade places tending to the wounds of their mission objective. Jones cleaned up a wound in Dugan's arm while the man kept driving; Dugan refused to come away from the steering column. Steve didn't stir from his place. He just sat there with his arm around Bucky. His friend would convulse every few minutes, saliva and bile sliding out from between his lips. Steve let it happen. He'd thrown up on Bucky more than his fair share in the history of their friendship. It was time to pay it back. So Steve let Bucky sweat on him and made sure his friend didn't aspirate.

Steve had them ditch the tank outside the village they'd started this mission in. Hopefully, the old couple would allow them back for another stay. He sent Jones and Falsworth to do the asking. The rest of them climbed out of the tank and figured out the best way to remove their wounded. It felt good to breathe the cold air after being stuck in the tank for so long. Morita sat on the side of the tank and smoked like his life depended on it. Steve settled down with his back against the tracks, Bucky sat and leaning against him.

Between getting out of the tank and waiting for the others to return, Bucky leaned forward and vomited properly. Steve held him up and patted his back. When he was done, Steve pulled his friend back to his side.

"Feel better?"

Bucky's eyes were glazed like doughnuts. "No."

"Sleep it off, Buck." Steve guided Bucky's sweaty head to his shoulder. His friend offered no resistance, already gone again.

Falsworth and Jones came back not long afterwards.

"Good news," said the Brit.

They disabled the tank.

Their convoy was slow, but the old couple and their little girl met them halfway with a little wagon. Morita and Jones put Fahroni in it and ran with the old man and little girl to the house. The old woman walked with the rest of them, chattering in Italian. Steve didn't mind the noise. It kept him from thinking about the state of his men.

The old woman, with the help of the little girl, changed the arrangement of the parlour. There was a lot more furniture. Fahroni was in a bed in another room being tended to. The old woman flapped a hand between a curled sofa and Bucky. She hurried away once they had complied with her stern gestures.

Steve felt a tiny poke in his leg. When he turned, it was the little girl. She held up a quilt and looked from Bucky back to Steve. He accepted and whispered a thank you. Her face went pink and she disappeared quickly from the room. After throwing the heavy quilt over his friend, Steve pulled a chair over until it was flush against Bucky's and melted into its cushions. Closing his eyes, Steve breathed in deeply.

Everyone was talking lowly. Morita and Jones came back into the room and collapsed onto chairs of their own. The old woman and the girl came around with little cakes and tea. Dugan asked for something stronger, and the woman winked at him. When Steve refused the tea, she came back with water, which he accepted. When they were all distracted with sustenance, the old woman cleaned their wounds. She patched up Dugan's arm properly, with stitches and everything. She pulled out the stitches on Morita's cheek, the ones Bucky had sewn in, and covered what remained with little pieces of cloth bandages.

Any cuts or scrapes anyone had, the old woman cleaned them up and bandaged them if need be. When she came to Bucky, the old woman looked at Steve. He nodded his head and scooted his chair back.

From across the room, Jones said something in soft Italian. The old woman looked back at him, eyebrows raised. To everyone else in the room, Jones said, "His hand."

Steve hadn't paid the bandage on Bucky's hand much mind. He'd been much more concerned with the blood on his head. But the old woman nodded and unwound the bandage. The red had almost bled through. She dropped the soiled bandage into her metal bowl, where the rest of the soiled material went. Steve sucked on his teeth when he saw the meat of Bucky's palm exposed. The old woman had the girl fetch clean water before she started to work on the mess. In no time at all, black threads held Bucky's hand closed. Good as new.

Morita said, once the woman had moved on, "Wanna call base, Cap?"

No, he didn't. But he got up and so did Morita. They took the radio to another room and hailed the S.S.R. on the given frequency. Morita gave their report in a flat sort of voice. He handed the headset over to Steve at the end, saying only, "Agent Carter."

Steve accepted and pulled on the headset. "This is the captain."

"Hello, Steve."

So it was personal.

"Hey, Pegs."

"Are you all right? Ar-are all of you all right?"

"Yeah. We're all still here. Fahroni took a bad hit. Our host is seeing to him now. Doesn't look good."

A pause.

"I'm sorry to hear that. But I am glad that your team is whole."

"Yeah. Me, too."

"Listen, Steve, I was able to intercept some transmissions earlier in the week. I'm damn sure no one else is going to tell you this, so I am."

God, Steve was grateful for Peggy Carter.

"What is it?"

"The message was sent at about the time your team took out the base. It seems they had at least partly been expecting you. After the attack, they sent a message saying 'he's here with the supersoldier' to Germany. Notice the singular, Steve."

"The team . . ."

Peggy cut him off, "No, I don't think the message was referring to the team, Steve. Not the whole team."

All the air went out of Steve. He was like a deflated balloon. He had known this could have happened, didn't he? "They want Bucky."

"That's our current theory. Whatever they were doing in Krausberg, Steve, it wasn't random. And it appears it was important enough for Zola to consider Barnes a high priority. They could have just bombed the city once they knew you were there."

"But they couldn't risk damages." He was so tired. Even with the anger rising in him, Steve was tired.

"How's he doing? Morita said they'd injected him again."

"He's still out. Got sick."

"He'll metabolise it in a few hours. He'll be alright."

"Yeah." Steve sure hoped it was only a few hours. Wished it didn't have to be any hours.

"Steve."

"Yeah, Pegs?"

"You'll be alright. I know you will."

"Thanks. It means a lot."

"I wish there was something I could do to make this easier for you. War's never easy."

"Just get us outta here as soon as you can. The guys need to get out of here." I need to get out of here, maybe you'll make it OK.

"Howard's working on extraction as we speak. I'll see you soon, Steve. Out."

"Out."