A groan was on the verge of falling out of Bucky's mouth the instant he was halfway conscious. He tried to pull it back and coughed instead. Then he blinked and looked around.
"Hey," Jim said. He and Dum Dum were sitting around an orange glow.
"No fire," Bucky croaked.
"We'll take our chances," Dum Dum said.
"I outrank you."
Dum Dum just laughed at him. "You alright?"
Bucky nodded and pushed himself up into a sitting position. Wasn't easy to do seeing how his arms didn't particularly feel like they were under his control.
"Happen again?" Jim said.
Another nod.
"How many times this week?"
Bucky shrugged.
"Something we should tell him about?" Dum Dum said.
Him meaning Steve. Bucky reflexively shook his head in the negative.
"It's gettin' worse, Barnes," said Jim. "We can't ignore it forever."
Why not?
"I know."
"What if it happens during a battle again?" Dum Dum said. It was unnatural to see him so close to seriousness.
Bucky scratched at the back of his neck. His hair was getting long. "It only happens when I sleep."
"Bullshit," Jim said.
"Shit, Jimmy, you having seizures at any time ain't good."
"It's not like that." They still hadn't even proved that he was having seizures.
Jim and Dum Dum exchanged a look of exasperation.
"Do you hear yourself?" said Dum Dum. "Do you see yourself when it happens?"
Bucky inspected the dirt that had been under his fingernails for the last three years.
"Every night," Jim said. "It's happened at least once for the last seven nights. You don't always"—Jim shook his hands while searching for the right words—"come around after."
"What the hell do you want me to do about it?" Bucky said.
Their faces went soft, and Bucky hated it. Jim said, "We want you to be OK. Why do you think we haven't said anything to Rogers?"
The better question was why Steve hadn't noticed it for himself. Bucky's throat got tight when he thought about that. He purposefully steered his thoughts away from why Steve hadn't noticed or why his body reacted to that question the way that it did.
"We know you don't wanna go home," Dum Dum said. That softness and understanding in his voice made Bucky want to scream. "We don't wanna send you there in a wooden box either. Could you imagine Rogers?" Dum Dum shivered for dramatic effect.
Bucky bit back a smirk. "I can't leave the punk out here," he confirmed.
"Then we have to do something about this," Jim said in a clipped tone.
"Like what?"
They stared at each other.
"That's what I thought."
The dirt under Bucky's nails was interesting again.
"We'll figure something out," said Dum Dum. "I was gonna suggest we ask Carter what she thinks, if she knows of anything that can be done under the table."
Bucky was thoughtful. "You think she'd do that?"
"What, for Cap's closest friend?" said Jim. "Probably."
Getting by because of who he was friends with? Bucky didn't like the sound of that. Debt was something he took seriously — maybe too seriously. Asking for help wasn't something Bucky usually did unless there was absolutely no other way. If Carter helped him, especially with something so big, then he'd be deep in her pocket. He didn't know the agent well enough to know whether or not her debt was a dangerous place to be.
"Let's just get through this mission and sort it out when we're back at base, hm?" said Dum Dum. Thank God for that guy. He nodded at Bucky. "You know we've got your back, but you gotta tell us when it happens. No one will say anything to Rogers, not until he catches on by himself. But you gotta be honest with us, Jimmy."
"Just try not to lose it in battle again, huh?" said Jim.
Bucky let himself laugh and acquiesce. "Thanks," he whispered to his hands.
"Gotta look out for our own," said Dum Dum.
"Your own?" said Jim. "What kind is that?"
"Hell," Dum Dum said too loudly given the hour, "you're all a bunch of Micks as far as I'm concerned."
Jim rolled his eyes. "Oh boy, that's what I've always wanted."
"Well you're welcome," said Dum Dum with a smile on his face. "Not just anyone gets that honour where I come from."
Bucky said, "You get called a pot-licker a lot where you come from?"
"You get that one a lot?" Dum Dum was laughing.
Shaking his head, Bucky said, "Nah. Steve did, 'cause he was so small."
"No Irish need apply," Dum Dum said. "What about you, Jim? You've got to have heard some good ones."
He shrugged. "Don't really want to get into it."
That was fair.
Jim looked toward Bucky and said, "Since you're up, I'm goin' to sleep. Enjoy your shift."
Bucky nodded. That was also fair. "Sounds good."
Jim burrowed into his own gear, a pup tent serving as his blanket. Running a hand through his stupid long hair, Bucky said, "You goin' too?"
Dum Dum shook his head. "Think I'll stay up a bit longer." He slapped the space next to him. Sit by me, the gesture said. Bucky got up and sat in the indicated space. His body felt heavier than usual.
"Now," said Dum Dum, "I really don't want to have to sit on you if you start going funny during a fight."
"I don't want that either." Shaking hands itched for a cigarette. There was already a fire, so Bucky lit one of his last six. It was easier when he had something to do with his hands — when he had something to do, period.
"I'm serious, Sarge. I'll cradle you like a suckling babe if I think you're not in there."
Looking sideways at Dum Dum, Bucky said, "That a promise?"
The big man barked with laughter and Bucky let show a self-satisfied smile.
"You know, I never had a kid brother before," said Dum Dum. "I think I may have been missing out."
"Who you callin' kid?"
"You, of course."
"You're hardly older than me."
"I think five years is a considerable amount." Dum Dum slung an arm around Bucky's shoulders and shook him a little. "Embrace it. You're someone's kid brother now."
"Fine, but only because your birthday's coming up." He shimmied out of the arm around his shoulders. "Gonna take some getting used to. I've never been the younger one."
"You'll like it."
"That so?"
"Yeah. You let your big brother Timmy take care of things. All you gotta do is make sure I'm fed."
As if Bucky hadn't been making sure everyone around him was fed for his entire life. "Where I come from, that's still part of the big brother's job."
"We're not where you come from anymore."
"You can say that again."
By the time morning came, everyone was back on their typical routine.
Carter had taken all the information they'd gathered from the factory and recorded all their accounts and then she disappeared into the mist. She left Steve the goddamn bike though. Thanks a lot, Carter.
Bucky hadn't been around when they talked about what they'd seen in the building, what they'd learned. Steve and Carter and Monty huddled together to really hash it out when their getaway truck had parked outside the city. All of them pored over the documents and tried to remember every last detail of what they saw inside. They wanted to make a comprehensive report for the S.S.R. for Carter to deliver. All of them got in on this sharing of intelligence except Bucky and Frenchie. The little guy sat next to Bucky on a pile of pebbles that used to be a wall that used to make up part of someone's home. They shared cigarettes and a canteen until it was time to go.
Perhaps Bucky should have been more concerned about what was going on given that HYDRA wanted him, but he just didn't have the nerve to listen. Whatever his mind could imagine was worse than any reality, right? If he was preparing for the worst, it was better to stay in his head. There was nothing worse than what was already in his head.
Speaking of his head, it kept filling with static. Jim said Bucky seized at least once every night. That wasn't wrong (besides the use of the word 'seize'). But it was more accurate to say that whatever it was had happened all night. He was never fully aware, but Bucky knew it was always happening. His head alternated between scratchy static and total blankness all night. He knew it because every time he got up from lying down to sleep, he felt even more exhausted than before. Like he'd gotten no rest at all. You weren't supposed to feel like a rubber band that had been stretched too much every time you got up.
This was war, Bucky told himself. Everyone was tired. His case wasn't unique. Suck it up and get on with it. What right did he have not to feel pain and be tired? What made him think he had the privilege to never struggle?
Be thankful you're still breathing, Barnes. If you can't do that, you know where the door is.
One of the Polish girls went with Carter back toward the sea. The other stayed with them and escorted them a few kilometres south to an airfield. She said that she had a small plane that could take some of them to someplace just outside Prague. Not all of them would fit. Bucky didn't miss a beat and immediately volunteered to keep his feet on the ground. He didn't care that there would be no parachuting out of the small plane — the less time he was airborne, the better.
He pretended not to notice the way the Polish woman — Kava — looked at him when he volunteered for the ground team. There wasn't time for that anymore. No part of Bucky was interested — could be interested.
Jim had to stay with the ground team because Steve still had to make personal radio check-ins with Phillips. Gabe was lucky number four of the ground team. His translating skills really made him a shoo-in for any op where they might encounter locals. Not to mention that his Browning would be invaluable in case they happened to stumble into any firefights. It's just a lot easier to escape when you've got a machine gun providing suppressing fire.
The team had never been separated like this before. Bucky could feel the apprehension building behind his sternum. He told himself to get used to it. The feeling wouldn't be going away until he saw the others safe and sound in Prague. Why did he have to be like this? It would be easier not to care. It would be easier if it were just him and his Johnson; a boy and his rifle.
So things were moving fast and he was in a bad mood (which seemed to be normal — Bucky was tired of being grumpy all the time). Steve had ridden off on that stupid fucking motorcycle and left the rest of them to stumble after him in a car that the other Polish woman obtained for them before she flew off with the others in the plane. She wouldn't say she stole it.
Europeans, Bucky thought.
On the plus side, it wasn't so bad being stuck in a tiny, shitty car with Jim and Gabe. They didn't have to walk, so that was a great. Bucky was so tired he was beginning to doubt his feet could carry him on a full day's march (which was hard to admit and very embarrassing). By now, Bucky knew it was futile to wish for things, but he sometimes found himself wishing that whatever waited for them in Prague would require his sniping skills. That way, he could lie around the whole time. The lack of movement made his head stir, but he would take mental screeching if it meant his body could lie still for a change.
Anyway, it was nice trying to sleep in the car. The cabin was warm (which was rare) and Jim and Gabe's voices were familiar. Bucky would doze sometimes, in the backseat, and when he'd wake up, it was their voices that reminded him where he was. At night, they'd roll the car off the road and into trees or a ditch. Sometimes it was better to sleep outside. Jim liked to lie on the hood of the car and sleep with his back reclined against the windscreen. Bucky hated when he did that; it made him so vulnerable. That guy was absolutely courting death.
Gabe agreed with Bucky, and the two of them made sure to hunker down somewhere with better cover. By the third night, they dug a foxhole together. Their hands were long past blistering — their palms nearly covered completely with callouses by now — as they buried their entrenching tools into the earth again and again. With no shortage of slapping and cursing, they convinced Jim to stop sleeping on the car, and Bucky installed the radioman in the foxhole while Gabe made sure he stayed put. After that, Bucky was free to find his own place to nest and settle in for night watch until Steve came back from marking their perimeter on that godforsaken motorcycle.
When he heard the echo of the engine, he'd dropped from his lofted position in the middle of the tree's branches and sat at the base of the trunk instead.
"Hey," Steve said. He unhooked the shield from his arm and sat down beside Bucky. Bad idea; his ass was going to be wet and muddy in a minute. Bucky didn't say anything — Steve had already sat. What was the point?
He was gonna look like a shit-stained flag.
"Hey," Bucky said.
"Whatcha doin'?"
He bent his head over the paper in his lap. "Writing home."
"Who?"
"Becca. Least I could do for missing the wedding."
"Yeah, well, you were a bit tied up." Bucky snorted and Steve continued, "I'm sure she'll understand."
"You know Becca. I might still be making it up to her next century."
Steve shrugged. "She shouldn't have had a wedding when she knew you were at war. It's her own damn fault you weren't there."
That wasn't going to be good enough for Bucky's sister. But maybe he could stretch the whole Krausberg thing as far as it could go when he got back home. Like he was doing with that excuse while he was still out here.
Steve shifted beside him. "You haven't written anyone yet?"
Bucky shook his head.
"Not since Kr—November?"
"Nope." Steve was staring at him so Bucky added, "Still don't know what to say."
"Oh," said Steve. "Yeah. I can see how . . ." He shook his head and said in much more normal (and less pitying) voice, "Well, you're not supposed to be using a flashlight out here anyway, Sergeant Barnes. Maybe sleep on it another night."
"Yes, Captain. Sorry, sir." Smiling, Bucky clicked off the light he was holding above the paper and folded the draft up, tucking it into a pocket inside his jacket. In the dark, it was easy for Bucky to pretend that they were just kids again. They were little Stevie Rogers and Bucktooth Barnes raising hell in Brooklyn. In the dark, he couldn't see that they weren't on a familiar, dusty city block. There was no proof other than the blood painting the insides of his skull that Bucky wasn't still that kid. In the dark, he couldn't see any of the things that time and war had done to both him and Steve.
"How's it going? You know, being on point constantly," Bucky said.
"It's going well. I know that voice; I know you hate the motorcycle, Buck. You just gotta listen to me and trust me when I say I can take care of myself now."
What Bucky's brain told him: You're obsolete, Barnes. Steve's got confidence and the strength to move mountains now. He's got a girl who could turn you inside out and an army to command. He has bigger and better things to do and no time to be carrying your weight. He thought he was getting something else when he pulled you out of Krausberg and asked you to follow him into hell. You're not what he thought he was getting. It's only out of love for what you used to be that he still carries your useless shell of a body around. Be the bigger man and let him off the hook. Stop sitting there with your mouth open waiting for him to feed you. Have some pride. Salvage what's left of your dignity.
It's time to head home, soldier boy. Broken soldier boy, it's time for you to go home.
It took a lot of will for Bucky to withhold from physically attempting to shake the thoughts from his head. His brain was wrong. Steve still needed him — and even if he didn't, he needed someone to manage the rest of the squad. Who cared if Bucky dropped down one hundred places on Steve's list of Important Things? Steve was still Number One on Bucky's list, and that meant something.
Not yet, he told himself. I'm not that broken yet.
"You keep telling yourself that, Steve."
Neither said anything for a while. Bucky wondered if, in that stretch of silence, Steve was pretending that they were still who they were in 1941. Maybe he too was letting himself imagine just for a few moments that they could still be the same people regardless of where they were or what they had done or what had been done to them.
In the dark, Bucky could pretend Steve was still small and his weak eyes would look first and foremost for Bucky in a crowd. In the dark, Steve hadn't moved on without him — hadn't grown out of their friendship.
It was futile to wish things, but sometimes Bucky wished he could stay in the dark.
Steve turned toward him. He was about to say something Bucky was sure he didn't want to hear — he knew it.
"So, uh," Bucky said abruptly, "who do you want for next watch?"
"Oh. Um, uh. Jones. We're, uh, we're in the middle of a series of great conversations."
"Jones it is," Bucky said and jumped to his feet. The foxhole wasn't too far away, but it was far enough to breathe.
He was quiet as he shook Gabe by the shoulder. There was the quick, poisonous sting of envy when Gabe's eyes opened and he got to blink real, precious sleep from them.
"Batter up," Bucky said lowly.
When Gabe was ready, Bucky gripped his hand and pulled the translator out of the foxhole.
"Hope it's quiet," Bucky whispered.
"Me, too," said Gabe. "You get some real rest, OK?"
Bucky's cheeks spasmed and so it looked like he smiled truly, if not briefly. The place in the foxhole beside Jim was still warm when Bucky folded himself into it. Jim hummed and opened one eye. He squinted at Bucky with it.
"You still look like shit," Jim said.
"Yeah? And you look like the asshole that shit fell out of."
Jim snorted. "Not bad, Barnes."
"Thanks."
His eyes closed again. "You start shakin' and I'm gonna know. Remember you're not supposed to lie to me."
"I remember."
Joke's on you. The shaking usually only happens in my head. The majority of the iceberg is under the water.
The two of them settled into the foxhole like peas in a pod. Bucky stared up at the budding branches of the tree above him. Time to endure another long night of mental absence without the benefit of rest.
Falsworth didn't like being separated from the rest of the team. The distance reminded him of being a commander, and he hadn't turned out to be much of a commander. The responsibility had eaten at him from the inside out. Since Krausberg and all that had happened there, Falsworth had felt himself begin to regrow what he'd lost. Some of his bitterness was sweetening back to neutral. That hatred of his own men was beginning to subside. The pessimism eased like clouds after a storm. (He was an Englishman, though. Things wouldn't be sunny too often, but it wasn't always clouds and rain.)
But being separated like this was making it worse. He worried about the four Tommys that were still on the ground. Falsworth may not be in charge of lives anymore, but there were still Tommys around him that had the power to undo him. A whole complement of men had dwindled to six, but their weight had increased exponentially. Despite that, Falsworth knew it had been the right choice to abdicate the role of commander and take on a different responsibility. If any of these Tommys died, he'd be done for. But at least he wouldn't be losing them every day — watching pieces of himself turn dead and hard.
Falsworth, Dum Dum, and Frenchie had already landed outside Prague in their little plane, and the Pole was gone again. It had only taken a few hours to fly across those borders. No one even shot at them. Landing in the airfield had been a little tricky, but the resistance fighters met them soon enough and folded them into their ranks like honoured guests. There were celebrations nearly every night. There was never a lot of food; it was wartime after all. But there was always something going around to rot your gut with.
This night, Falsworth drank rubbish foreign ale, learned a new song in a language he didn't understand, and kissed a woman whose name he didn't know (not that that was anything remarkable or unique).
These people — all of these people. It was hard.
The resistance had a German prisoner. The woman whose name Falsworth didn't know had shown it to him; she was responsible for bringing him broth, water, and bread made in part of sawdust. Late that night, after she'd passed out, Falsworth left her and went back to find the prisoner. No one guarded him, not really. He was secure where he was. Falsworth sat across from the prisoner and where he was shackled to a support beam.
This was an appropriate place to be angry. This was an appropriate person to be angry with. Falsworth sat and stared at the prisoner while the resistance still celebrated the arrival of part of Captain America's team three days after the fact. The prisoner looked no older than twenty. Didn't have even the shadow of a moustache, no trace of a pending beard — hell, his face still hinted at the roundness of childhood. Falsworth forced eye contact and the prisoner spat at him. The liquid landed short of Falsworth's boots by about a foot.
No fire ignited in Falsworth's chest. His heart remained steady and cold. It didn't care about this.
Bombs had been dropped on London. So many times, the city would quake and shiver. Parts of it would collapse. It wasn't just London. In cities and towns, the sirens would wail. Falsworth remembered the screams as people panicked and fled for tunnels and underground cover. The unbridled panic in the air. The corpses of those who didn't make it underground would lie under rocks and he would help recover them afterwards. Sometimes he even had to drag the bodies of those who had made it out of rocks — shelter that had taken a direct hit and hadn't stood a chance.
Falsworth had had his hands stained with the blood of children as he lined up their bodies beside those of their parents on cracking streets after the sound of beating propellers and whining engines had faded. The Germans had done that. Because of the fucking Germans, Falsworth had to see these things every time he closed his eyes and let his guard down.
He'd had to write letters home when men who trusted him were blown apart in Africa. It took more and more out of him every time he had to sign his name on those letters. The stack of envelopes. The list of names that didn't mean anything anymore because of him — because of James Montgomery Falsworth, Major, formerly of His Majesty's 3rd Independent Parachute Brigade and currently of Captain Steven Grant Rogers's so-called Howling Commandos.
None of those letters would have had to be written if it wasn't for the Germans (and Falsworth's own ineptitude at commanding). Tommys died because of them, those fucking Krauts. The fucking wooden mines that the detectors couldn't pick up — how many lives did Falsworth lose because he'd sent his men into one of those fields that was supposed to be safe? The Germans and their fucking cleverness and eyes for design.
How many people had died because a lunatic wanted the impossible? How many were still dying? How much suffering was the world feeling this very moment because of a country full of people who refused to do the right thing?
Falsworth looked at the prisoner and didn't feel anything. They hadn't stripped him of his uniform. It wasn't even that dirty. There was a hungry, starved look about him. Defiance still in his blood. But Falsworth couldn't bring himself to be angry with the prisoner or what he represented. Did he know any better? Did he know anything besides the violent struggle it took just to survive? Youth. It wasn't his fault, what he was born into.
That didn't make him guiltless (didn't make either of them guiltless).
Falsworth stared hard at the prisoner, hand on his sidearm. The prisoner was watching that hand. Defiance still. Daring.
It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. Why had Falsworth hated his men and his home when it was this prisoner's fault that every terrible thing was happening? He didn't hate his enemies like he should. It wasn't fair. Falsworth had hated his men and had been relieved to be free of them. He had been happy when his countrymen died. He thought he hated the Germans for what their bloodlust had turned his home — had turned him — into.
That wasn't it, though. That wasn't who he hated, wasn't what he hated. Standing here now, it wasn't true. He didn't hate the Germans (he should, he should). He hated what they'd made Falsworth see in himself — the truth they'd made him realise. Falsworth stormed across the room and yanked the prisoner's head back by his hair, exposing his neck. Pulling out his Colt, he put the barrel flush against the prisoner's temple. Air was harsh in his throat. Falsworth snarled at the prisoner — there was finally fear in his eyes. The smell of urine tainted the air.
That defiance withered at last.
"I pity you," he growled at the prisoner.
At that child.
Dawn wasn't far away, and Gabe Jones sat beneath a tree with a letter in his lap. The paper was old and brittle now. It was years old. Years. Not merely two or three years old. He'd received the letter after he left for Howard University. Since he'd enlisted, Gabe carried the letter in his pack, folded up in a plastic sheet to protect it from the weather. Moments before he was taken to Krausberg, Gabe had liberated the old paper and tucked it into his boot.
The paper bore creases because of that choice, but at least Gabe still had it.
He was no fool. He knew the paper was old and that war wasn't a place where things were treated gently. When Captain Rogers rescued them from hell and led them back to Allied territory — the very night they returned, Gabe took the letter out of his boot and transcribed it onto a new piece of paper. It wasn't the same, but he now had a backup, a copy. He'd tried to replicate the handwriting as best he could by tracing the words. Later, he'd gotten the help of a journalist and was able to take a picture of the original letter. He carried the copy letter and the photograph with the original, all of them wrapped up in a plastic sheet and nestled in with his spare clothes.
Captain Rogers had retired for the night several hours ago. Gabe was supposed to wake Jim to take the final leg of the night watch, but Gabe had elected to let the man sleep. Jim would never admit it, but he was having a rough go of it lately. Gabe knew his friend could use the sleep. Besides, it was always nice to have someone in your debt when they got the vegetable stew ration and you were stuck with beans, beans, and more beans.
Speaking of C-rations, Gabe was kind of grateful for the splitting up of their team and getting to ride in a car. It was miles better than hearing Dugan and Barnes complain about how heavy the cans were. When the two of them were feeling grouchy at the same time — look out and plug your ears.
Gabe took a small, measured bite of a cracker in his B-unit. It tasted like cardboard. Gabe was almost embarrassed to admit that he was beginning to like the taste. It was better than his own souring mouth — they really needed to get better dental supplies. Maybe a better whetstone for his shaving kit.
And some more goddamn underpants. Gabe knew more than a one of the Commandos had decided to forgo the garment all together. Alternating the two pairs they were issued wasn't worth it to him.
Gabe's fingers played with the edge of the letter. He looked down at it. The light wasn't strong enough to read by, but it had been a long time since Gabe had memorized the contents. With the tip of his index finger, he traced the slight indent of the name at the bottom: Jung-sook Cho.
She'd been an elderly woman who lived on the opposite side of town as Gabe's family. Her house was the only house in her neighbourhood that wasn't inhabited by white people. Jung-sook was a widow who lived with her two grandkids. Their parents had sent the kids with her to the United States to see what they could do. They came from old money, and money is a universal language. The Chos lived in a beautiful house because they could afford it, but none of the neighbours so much as waved hello to her or the kids.
Jung-sook had a beautiful garden. Her lawn was immaculate. There wasn't a single smudge on the paint of her home. Hell, the birds didn't even shit in her yard. There were trees everywhere, but none of the branches were ever dead and hanging. The leaves never rotted in the grass as the seasons changed. Everything about Jung-sook's home was perfect except for — in the eyes of the neighbours — the colour of the people that lived inside.
Gabe had been seven years old when Jung-sook's grandkids moved out. She was alone in the big empty house. Age was stealing her functions. Once when Gabe was walking back from a charity event at church, he saw old Jung-sook lying on the sidewalk in obvious pain. People walked right by her and pretended not to see.
Gabe had gone right up to her and said, "Excuse me, ma'am, are you alright? Do you need some help?"
Jung-sook was proud and stubborn like all old folks, but she let Gabe help her up. Her ankle was injured, so he asked her where she lived and if it was OK if he helped her back there. He was worried, see.
It was the first time Gabe had ever been in such a grand house. To be frank, he'd thought Jung-sook was senile when she gave him directions to her home in the fancy part of town. But she had the key and it unlocked the door. It was so cool and serene inside. He'd never seen or imagined any of the things that decorated the inside.
He guided her to her seat and asked if he should go get anyone; was there anyone here who could help her? Jung-sook said it was only her now. Gabe asked if he could get her anything, if she was comfortable with him being in her home. She asked for water, so he got it for her. After a half hour, Gabe told her that he had to get home but he would like to check up on her the next day, if that was alright.
Jung-sook waved a hand and said "bah."
Gabe showed up the next day and hundreds of days after that. She taught him how to use chopsticks and attempted to teach him to speak Korean. It was his first true experience with another language and the concept that people could communicate in so many different ways. She would laugh and laugh at his pronunciation. It was a doomed attempt; he had no ear for it. But it was a language Gabe thought he regretted not learning. She had him try kimchi and let him watch as she made gomguk. There were hot days sitting out on her back veranda, privacy provided by her leafy trees, where they shared banchan and conversation. On Gabe's thirteenth birthday, she cooked beef marinated in gochujang and smiled at the faces he pulled. Afterward, she poured him some sikhye and asked him how school was.
It was the longest anyone in Gabe's family had stayed in school. His father was already impatient with him and wanted him to drop out so he could help out the family more. Help them out financially. Gabe already had a job doing mechanical repairs at the nearby farm — he'd been doing it since he was nine and they needed small hands to reach tight places. But when school was in session, he didn't have nearly as much time to do other jobs. Gabe knew his father resented it but he never forced Gabe out of school. His disapproval was made loud and clear in other ways. Never did he force his will though. He left that choice up to Gabe.
The decision to stay in school and draw the constant ire of his father and siblings was not an easy a choice to make. Jung-sook helped him. Gabe thought that he probably would have dropped out before he was twelve if it wasn't for her. She advocated education in her quiet, hard voice. If he ever stopped learning, Jung-sook said, she'd beat him senseless and never look his way again. If he stopped learning, he might as well be dead.
She paid for him to go to better schools. She made sure he was fed; Gabe Jones was the only one in school who ate hotteok at lunchtime. When Jung-sook thought Gabe wasn't learning what he ought to, she sat him down and had private tutors teach him. Education was important. Education and family. Gabe learned southern manners at his mother's side and a certain kind of +etiquette at his halmoni Jung-sook's.
His mother demanded to meet Jung-sook when Gabe was eleven. He escorted the old lady to their house on the other side of town. Their home was sweltering. But Jung-sook had looked around their cramped, hot little house with wetness in her eyes. They had chicken and dumplings, creamed corn, and collard greens Gabe's mother had cooked with ham hocks. There was discomfort evident in Jung-sook's posture, but only kind words formed on her lips. Gabe chalked it up to a new place and a room full of strangers.
It wasn't until after he'd graduated high school that Gabe really started to think of Jung-sook as a person who had lived a life and not just a grandmother figure. When faced with the idea of college — an unprecedented option for a man such as himself, where no one in his family had ever made it out of the fifth grade — Gabe went to Jung-sook for advice.
She didn't have much to say. And that was when Gabe understood that Jung-sook wasn't educated. She was never afforded the chance to learn. Her family had money and they took care of her because she was old and they felt obligated to do it. She cooked and watched over children. At her age, she had agreed to raise the grandkids in the United States because it was her only chance to get somewhere else and be away from the culture she both treasured and resented.
Gabe loved her harder for it, understood why she was so insistent that he pursue education if that was what he wanted. His family be damned.
Newly moved in at Howard, Gabe received the letter from Jung-sook. She said she was proud of him. She said she loved him like her own children (who were under Japanese control back home) and her grandkids (who were busy with their lives and didn't get to visit as much as she or they wanted). It was all very pleasant and warm, talking about forging bonds that bridged cultures and defied skin colours. At the bottom of the letter, she'd written that, when the white folks gave her dirty looks and refused to treat her with respect, she told them that if they worked hard enough and prayed every night that one day they could be as good a man as Gabriel Jones.
The wind in Poland picked up and ruffled the yellow page of Gabe's letter. He held in a sigh and traced Jung-sook's name again. The day the original copy of this letter was lost was going to be a dark day for him. Everything that had happened out here — everything that Gabe had done on these battlefields…. He just needed a reminder that he was a good person and he was making the right choice sometimes.
Even though hours in a confined space made his head stormy, Bucky couldn't say that he hated the car-motorcycle arrangement. Gabe woke all of them up and they mussed around like half-dead things for a few minutes until all their brains turned back on. The night had been like the last for Bucky. He breakfasted on two dextrose tablets, a half cup of shit coffee, and a cigarette. Steve was looking at him like his mother did when he came over for Sunday dinner but hadn't met them at church earlier. Bucky's brain was too fried from sizzling and freezing all night for him to put on a show for the captain; he smoked that cigarette until it was just a stub burning his fingertips.
Jim bartered a trade. If he had a little rest, maybe Bucky wouldn't have given away all his "Meat & Spaghetti in Tomato Sauce" for a single can of "Meat with Vegetable Hash", which everyone knew tasted like day-old ass. But hey, Gabe threw in his cigarette ration if Jim gave him a can of the spaghetti in exchange for a packet of the oatmeal cereal. So Bucky didn't feel like he'd been swindled too bad when it was all said and done.
Then it was time to get back on their feet, cover the foxhole as best they could. Steve headed out to ride ahead on the motorcycle. Gabe led Jim and Bucky to the car. They wheeled it back on a path, piled inside, and started out after the motorcycle. Sure, Bucky had a lot to say about the arrangement. But it wasn't all bad.
That was until the thing got blown halfway to hell. They were just motoring down the pathway when car was thrown onto its side. The three of them clattered around inside, banging into each other and the unforgiving walls of the cabin. Bucky's vision twinned and his stomach rolled. It was hot in the car. When the rolling stopped, he struggled to collect himself, lungs on fire. He eventually found an egress point in the place that used to be the back windscreen, and he fell through it in a heap. His body carried him several steps away before his mind ever came back to itself; it was still in the car laughing at Jim's imitation of Monty.
Gunshots were the first thing that he registered. There were shots sounding everywhere. It was like he was in the centre of a deadly circle. But then fire came into focus — the car was on fire!
"Gabe!" he tried to say through clumsy lips. "Jim!"
Fuck, his brain spluttered.
Crackling fire and echoing gunshots and there was a distant mechanical whine somewhere — Bucky went straight back into the burning car to retrieve his friends.
(He'd done this in Africa. He was supposed to be leading a scouting party. He was three bodies behind the point man. They had their rifles in hand but the barrels were pointed down. About three-quarters of a mile from the frontline, they hit resistance. Machine guns. Nonstop rattling.
Bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang until the belt ran out.
"Get down!" Bucky had yelled then. He had twisted his hand into the nearest private's field jacket and yanked him down. The bullets had zinged above their heads — it was so loud. But it wasn't enough to drown out the screaming.
The man on point had taken a hit. He had screamed and screamed.
"Be quiet, shut up!" Bucky had yelled then. "Take cover and be quiet!"
His men had moved like cockroaches fleeing the light; seeking out dark corners where no one would spill their innards. Still the man who had been on point screamed. Bucky could see him from the place where he hid. He could see the man bleeding from his guts. Four holes had been punched in that man's bowels. He never had a chance. He just cried, yelling out, "Momma! Momma!"
But Bucky had pleaded for the man to just shut up and be quiet. He made the others retreat. The bodies that had been in front of Bucky but behind the man on point escaped with the aid of Bucky's covering fire. They were all gone except for Bucky and the dying man.
"Momma. Momma," he said. He was quiet now. Bloody lips.
Bucky didn't know whether or not those were that man's last words. He had left; Bucky turned tail and ran after the rest of his men, leaving that last man to die alone.)
Coward, a voice screamed in Bucky's head now. Coward!
All at once, Bucky's ears filled with the rattling of a machine gun again.
Bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang.
The belts never ended — it never ended.
There was screaming, too. But it was different. Bucky looked around. He was fifty feet from the burning car somehow. Jim and Gabe were sitting on the ground at his feet. They were breathing hard and sweating, but they weren't burnt to a crisp. They didn't look dead or dying. They didn't call for their mothers.
How much time had he lost?
A gun fired in their direction. By now, Bucky's body reacted to that sound without needing any instruction. He dropped down on top of Gabe, who promptly groaned. Bucky didn't apologize because he heard the engine of Steve's fucking motorcycle again.
"Fuck me," he whispered.
"No thanks," said Gabe. He groaned and rolled out from under Bucky.
Bucky scrambled to his feet. His boots were moving forward before the rest of him was upright. He didn't know what direction he needed to go. Hell, he didn't even know what was going on. But he did know that Steve was out there and there were guns being fired — and the car had been blown up.
And he was a coward, such a big fucking coward.
Ambush? Was that it? Had someone recognized them in the car and blown it off the road?
He couldn't think — couldn't think. The motorcycle's engine tore what little focus he had into two. Bucky's feet started moving faster.
Why didn't he have any weapons?
What was going on? Was any of this real? Was he back—?
Something really fucking painful slammed into his back. The ground caught him and snapped his jaw closed on his tongue. Blood pooled immediately in his mouth. The world realigned itself and his missing time came back to him. It replayed in still frames behind his eyes:
Jim doing a mean imitation of Monty; Gabe and Bucky's laughter filling every last crevice of that car.
A loud bang that hit the back of the car, flipping it up and onto the side Bucky and Jim were sitting on. Bruises on their skin (well, more bruises), smoke in their lungs, flames licking their skin.
Bang- bang-bang. Guns shooting up the outside of the car.
Busting the back window with his elbow.
Crawling out of the car on the side where no shots were being fired.
Going back when he realized Jim and Gabe hadn't gotten out.
Finding Jim first, hooking an arm around his waist and dumping him out the window. It was hot. Then Gabe was out in the same manner.
He dragged the two them as far away as he could while they bitched at him that they were perfectly fine and they could walk on their own.
Steve out there, taking on the shooters on that godforsaken motorcycle — fuck you, Carter!
It was stupid. No one was watching Steve's back. The idiot made himself vulnerable when he shifted his defences to a spot that had been hurt before, leaving the place that had been well-defended before completely open.
Bucky looked up because he was hearing more screaming. It wasn't Steve. Steve wasn't screaming. It was everyone else. The sources of gunfire were being cut off one at a time. Focusing his eyes was hard, but Bucky was able to make out Steve on that stupid, stupid bike cutting through the shooters like a hot knife through butter. Vision twinning, Bucky shook his head, spat out a mouthful of blood, and watched Steve.
He jumped off the bike, kicking it at a machine gunner at the same time. The shield was in place. It cracked the head of a rifleman. Steve ran and planted both boots on the chest of one half of mortar team. He landed on the ground but spun immediately, catching the second man in the face with the heel of his boot. The shield cracked down on the man's face just to be sure.
Steve unholstered his sidearm and shot twice at another rifle man. He unhooked a grenade off one corpse, pulled the wire and threw the thing clear across the circle. Bucky watched in awe as the thing arced over his head and landed about thirty yards to his left — the throw had to have been damn near seventy yards total. And Steve hadn't even looked like he was trying too hard to throw it. Detonation and another machine gun was silenced.
But another one stared up right after the noise of the grenade detonation settled. A few sluggish seconds passed and Bucky recognized it as Gabe's Browning. He was firing back. Why wasn't Bucky firing anything? Why was he just lying here while everyone else was fighting?
The shield flew through the air and into a group of soldiers that were trying to set up artillery — Jesus, they were going to shoot Steve with an anti-tank gun. Bucky tried to get up but something heavy was still holding him down. He shouted in frustration until he realized it was Jim.
"Gonna knock it the fuck off now?" Jim said with acid in his voice.
"Get off," Bucky said. It came out as a snarl.
"Shut up."
He struggled some more but couldn't get any traction and his vision swam. Blood and bile came out in a stringy mixture when Bucky spat again. His eyes searched out Steve again.
The captain was in the middle of the anti-tank crew. The shield bashed heads. Steve's boots made the soldiers' knees bend in ways they shouldn't. His elbows cracked their ribs and orbital bones. Steve favoured hand-to-hand, close quarters fighting over shooting. Bucky couldn't fathom why. The greater the distance between him and death, the better. The shield knocked a soldier off his feet, banked off the anti-tank gun, caught another man in the groin, and jumped back into Steve's grip. Steve kicked one of them that squirmed and was running toward the last group of men standing.
They were neutralized in short order.
The only sound was the crackling of the burning car and it was too quiet. Steve was checking all the bodies. Gabe was probably doing the same. Jim got up and walked toward Steve without a backward glance at Bucky.
Bucky pushed himself up so he was sitting on his heels. Another mouthful of blood, bile, and saliva landed in the grass. He ran his tongue along the roof of his mouth, feeling the slices in it that his teeth had made. It stung and his jaw hurt.
He deserved it.
"Everyone OK?" Steve called.
"OK!" Gabe said.
"Fine," said Jim.
Bucky grunted and got to his feet.
The four of them converged on a hill where the anti-tank gun had been in the process of being setup. Steve frowned at them all.
"How far are we from Prague?" said Jim.
"At the rate we were going, we would have been there in a few hours," said Steve.
"How long now that three of us are walking?" said Gabe.
Steve shrugged and frowned. "You guys aren't walking to Prague."
"Carter leave you a magic carpet, too?" Bucky said.
"The bike's fine. I'll take it and ride ahead, see if I can find some help. Intelligence said we might be able to find sympathetic citizens. We're not quite close enough to contact any resistance OPs yet."
It was Steve's Giving Orders voice. There was no room for argument. A pity since Bucky had some good counterpoints to that plan.
"Get the bodies out of the open. Take all the supplies and papers you can, especially the weapons. Get about a mile away from here; head south. Hunker down. I'll come find you when I get some transportation."
They did as he said and it was awful. They didn't speak much to each other. It was no fun to have to lug bodies around. And it was no fun to add their enemies' supplies to the weight of their own. And then walk a mile. Gabe hadn't gotten much sleep last night; it was a wonder that guy didn't just drop down on the ground the moment they found a decent place to hide.
"Get some shut eye," Bucky said to him after they'd unloaded themselves and established a perimeter some twenty minutes later.
"Yeah. Yeah, OK," Gabe said. His jaw quivered as he held back a yawn.
Jim kept giving Bucky sharp looks, which Bucky steadfastly ignored. An hour and twenty minutes passed before Bucky said, "It won't happen again."
Jim made an angry, disbelieving sound. Bucky thought he deserved that, too.
They saw a wagon rolling toward them a few minutes later. Jim got up and held his grease gun horizontally above his head. Steve waved from the front of the wagon. There was another body beside him on the bench. It was a bearded man, they saw, when the wagon pulled up before them.
Their new wheels were powered by literal horses.
The animals stank and dug at the ground. One snorted at Bucky as he walked by. He jumped in surprise and dropped his pack. All the goddamn cans fell right on his foot. Everyone, including the man who evidently owned the horse-and-carriage, laughed. Bucky stared at them all. Then a breath broke out of his chest and he laughed, too. It felt good to breathe again. He wasn't underwater anymore.
"Even the horses are out to get me," he said while rolling his eyes.
Steve raised an eyebrow. "You're gettin' paranoid, Buck." He took the pack and put it in the back of the wagon.
"Let's just get to Prague," he said to Steve and shoved the captain lightly in the shoulder. Bucky settled into the back of the wagon next to his bag and Gabe. Reaching a hand out to the driver — is he called a driver? — Bucky introduced himself and thanked the man for his help. Whether or not the guy spoke English was up for debate. He smiled and nodded and shook Bucky's hand.
The wagon trundled south. Gabe fell asleep on Bucky's shoulder. Jim sat back and stared at Bucky, an annoying smile on his face and his eyebrows arched.
"Again last night," Bucky said lowly, so that Gabe didn't wake (but mostly so that Steve didn't hear).
Jim nodded and all the tension in the air evaporated. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"
"Fuck you, too."
They laughed.