Well, wasn't all this just fucking great? Jim was having the life slowly squeezed out of him by a bunch of rocks. This was how he was going to die. By suffocation, trapped under a caved-in house. They didn't write glowing articles about guys who died under rocks back home. God, that was just embarrassing.
Driven by the threat of a humiliating death, Jim put all his strength into pulling his foot out from the pile of fucking rocks it was stuck in. A bit stupidly, he shouted while he did it. Shouting made people stronger, didn't it? Or at least kept them from feeling so much pain?
"Gah, Christ," he breathed. His boot finally wiggled free, probably scuffed to hell. The rocks around him shifted as a result. One pressed onto his spine, pinning him on his stomach. "Fuck me," he said.
"That's not Jim Morita I hear whinging, is it?" a muffled voice said. It hacked out a few dry coughs.
"Shit, that you, Monty?"
"It is indeed."
Jim never thought he'd be so relieved to hear that Limey's voice.
"You stuck under all this, too?" Jim asked.
"Unfortunately."
"How bad?" He was panting a little bit now; that rock on his spine really fucking hurt. And it felt like the air was getting thin.
"I can move both my legs and one arm. You sound worse off."
"Got most of my arms. Got a foot at the price of being pinned."
"Lovely."
"I was jus' gonna say the same thing."
Monty said, "Alright," and then paused for a long time.
Jim did not worry.
"Alright," Monty said again. "I'm going to try to shift some of this debris and get to you. If you feel anything about to crush you, kindly speak up."
"Right," Jim said, dry as the dust coating every inch of him.
It was excruciatingly slow going. Jim was stuck there — the rock on his spine making his breaths shorter and shorter — with nothing to do but listen to Monty struggle, cough, and curse. There would be exciting moments when some pile of debris would shift, but they were quickly followed by bouts of terror when Jim felt the rocks around him shift in response, pinning him in new ways. It could have been his imagination, but it felt like the space around his head was shrinking every time Monty made progress. Jim thought he could feel his own breath bouncing back at him off those rocks.
"Oh — damn," Monty said. It was too fast; no one in the history of time had something good that fast.
Jim heard a large pile of rocks start tumbling, and he felt his heart in his throat. A grunt crawled out of him when a heavier rock than before trapped the leg he had worked so hard to free.
"Bad," Jim croaked. It was hard work not to curse.
"Right. Apologies."
"It's fine." It didn't sound one bit sincere. He was sure Monty would understand though.
Jim's vision was getting shimmery and dark by the time Monty reached him. Thankfully, the rock Monty moved first was the one on Jim's back.
"Ugh," Jim said when the pressure was relieved. Any tension in his body was released. He was a trembling pile of gelatine. Taking deep breaths hurt, so he settled for panting. "Fuck." He had enough breath for that. And this: "Thanks."
"My pleasure," Monty said. He laboured to get Jim's arms their full range of motion next.
They got it eventually, and Jim pushed himself up. He twisted around to look at his pinned legs. He supposed he ought to be grateful he could still feel them. Monty shoved the block of broken concrete and twisted rebar, and Jim strained until he wasn't being crushed anywhere for the second time.
When they were both completely free and breathing less dust-filled air, Jim stood as much as his aching legs allowed and looked at what he'd been entombed under. It was literally a fucking house. He said, "Lucky we're alive, huh?"
The discharge of a firearm answered before Monty could. Both of them dropped to the ground even though the shot was at least two blocks over. Jim heard someone shouting harshly in German — hell, all German sounded harsh to Jim.
"Let's move," Monty said. He coughed a few times.
Jim nodded and then stopped himself cold. "The fuckin' radio," he said suddenly. He went back for the debris and dug around until he found the thing and saved it from becoming ground up trash. (Well, it was already trash, being heavy as all get out.) All the while, Monty stood by, an anxious watchman.
The radio was obviously damaged, but Jim was confident he could repair it. He slung it on his back and followed Monty down the mountain of crippled house-debris. Corpses watched them go with their dead eyes. Not everyone in this war could be as lucky as the dead, Jim thought.
In what was once the street outside the resistance-held territory, Monty threw an arm out, stopping their progress. Jim peered around a pile of debris in time to see a German uniform shoot two young girls in their pregnant bellies.
"Ah, Jesus," Jim said. He twisted away from the scene. He wished the war had hardened him enough so that the girls' hysterical screaming didn't tear him up inside. Jim saw Chiyo. He saw his parents and Will. He saw whatever the fuck Manzanar was.
"Let's keep moving," Monty said, voice hoarse. "This way." It was away from the girls and the Germans and the fresh grief.
Patrols were everywhere. Jim felt like he was in a maze. They had to turn around and adjust their course nearly every block.
"We'll never make it to the safe house with all this," Jim said.
Monty looked back at him. He said, "We could wait them out. See if their patrols lighten up."
"Where we gonna hide, huh? Under those rocks we were just buried under?"
"We'll find something, mate."
Jim snorted. "They call us Howling Commandos. Not exactly a name that conjures images of a stealth team."
Monty shrugged. "We can be versatile."
"Whatever. You're in charge here." Jim didn't miss the way Monty's face contracted in response.
"Right. Seems the bloody castle's intact."
"Think they got transport? We could just bust outta here screamin' in one of their tanks."
"I think we can do better than that."
"We'd live up to our name if we did it my way." He made a face. "And it would be more fun."
Monty laughed and waved a hand: Move out. "You and this title they've given us."
"Not all of us get to be lords," Jim said in a low voice; a patrol was moving by them. "Howler is as good as it gets for guys like me."
Jim almost regretted saying it when Monty looked at him like that. Did it sound bitter? Jim hadn't meant it to sound like that.
Monty looked away and said, "As a lord, I can tell you that Howler is the superior title."
Instead of replying, Jim kicked a stone.
They made it to a building adjacent to the castle. There were a lot of Germans in the area — Barnes's uniform woulda been useful just then — but they were busy cleaning out the remaining HYDRA soldiers and searching the castle. Jim felt his stomach swoop uncertainly when he saw a Wehrmacht soldier weeping over the body of a HYDRA soldier.
What a time to be German, he thought and then resolved to forget that he'd ever laid eyes on the scene or thought that particular thought.
Because the soldiers were so busy, it was easy for Jim and Monty to squeal with delight undetected when Jan Novák hailed them from the window of a nearby building. They tiptoed through the trash and met Novák at the front door. They converged in the basement. Six others were tucked into the small space.
"Boy, are you a sight for sore eyes," Jim told Novák.
He smiled wanly and said, "Your friends have evacuated the city."
"We know where they went," Monty said. "It's our destination as well."
Nodding, Novák said, "Just so. I'm afraid your captain did not look well."
Once again, there was a reason, besides his ethnicity, that Jim was just a private. He was just not meant for a position of leadership.
Monty said, "Tell me."
Novák did. He told them about Gabe, Dum Dum, Barnes, and Cap leaving the castle. Frenchie wasn't with them. The first four hadn't looked in top shape. Cap hadn't even been conscious. Novák stopped talking abruptly. They all heard why: plane engines. Moment later, a building collapsed on Jim's head for the second time that day.
What the actual fuck?
"Sarge. Hey, Sarge. Barnes. Barnes, hey. Jimmy. Bucky!" Dugan shook his sergeant by both shoulders.
"Whuduya want?"
At least it was a response.
"The Army's not payin' ya to mope, you know."
Barnes shrugged and retreated further into his jacket to cough. He was still wearing the German uniform. Dugan had horrible memories of Krausberg and listening to his sergeant cough like that all night.
"Not moping," Barnes said.
Dugan raised his brows. "Oh. Coulda fooled me. What d'you call this?" He gestured to the gear Barnes had scattered around himself at the captain's bedside. Rogers still wasn't awake. All of his breaths were wheezy.
"Um," Barnes said.
"Might as well do somethin' while you're doin' nothin'." He dropped a map into his sergeant's lap.
A smile ticked Barnes's cheek. "I don't know maps, Dum Dum. I just shoot the long gun."
"You just shoot the long gun," Dugan muttered to himself. He snorted. Kicking a bunch of Barnes's shit out of the way, he sat. "You're number two. When the captain's away, you play."
Barnes blinked owlishly back at Dugan. "What?"
"When you know the captain since he was in short pants, you gotta be second-in-command. Can't believe no one's explained this to you yet."
It worked; Barnes kicked at him in response. "I'm not an idiot. But knowing Steve for a long time shouldn't have qualified me to be number two."
Dugan was amused. "Well, if Monty were here, you could argue that he should be in charge."
The sergeant got the hint and picked up the map. "Right. Rescue mission, take two."
"Two?"
"Whatever fuckin' number we're on now." He waved a hand. "Our whole lives are rescue missions. Go get Jones and Dernier. I want them in on this, and I'm not gonna repeat myself."
The sure sign that Barnes was going into command mode: He started calling everyone by their last name. Dugan held back his smile; he felt like he was back in the 107th with Sergeant Kid bossing him around again. Good times, except for that one time when they were captured.
So Dugan hauled himself back to his feet with a long-suffering sigh he didn't mean one bit. Frenchie was first. Poor guy looked awful. Probably coulda used about eighty more hours of sleep.
"Micks," Frenchie said when he accepted Dugan's hand up.
"Not Micks, Frenchie. Life."
It earned him a shove but also a nod of agreement.
"Sarge wants us," Dugan said. "Gotta round up the rest of Team James."
Frenchie slouched off and Dugan went on to Gabe.
"Sheesh," he said. Kneeling down, he shook Gabe. "Gotta get up, buddy."
A long string of coughs answered, and Dugan fought off more flashbacks to their shared captivity. Gabe looked absolutely dried up. His lips were cracked; those eyes looked about ready to sink straight through his skull.
"Can you even breathe through all that snot crusted on your nose?" Dugan said.
Gabe croaked, "Sure. Just gotta open my mouth."
The team was a grade A fucking mess.
"Whus goin' on?" Gabe slurred.
"Monty and Jim are still missing. Cap's still out, so Sarge is gonna get 'em. He wants your advice 'fore we go."
Gabe was nodding but his red-rimmed eyes were closing. "Kay," he said.
Dugan helped the man up and escorted him back to Barnes. Just to be safe, he kept an arm behind Gabe, ready for anything. At Rogers's bedside, Dugan kicked more of Barnes's shit out of the way so Gabe could sit.
Once his own seat was taken, he said, "That's everyone. Let's hear it, boss."
"Don't call me boss," Barnes groused. He flicked the map. "Anyone remember seeing either of these two? I sent Monty back to the boarding house before the attack."
Dugan was nodding and said, before Barnes was finished, "He was hackin' up a lung when he came and got me. As far as I know, he was still in the resistance block when the bombs started flying."
"And Morita?" Frenchie said. Even his words sounded bruised.
Fuck, Dugan couldn't even remember what Jim's assignment had been. Where was that little sour shit supposed to have been? It wasn't as if Dugan had been where he was supposed to be.
All of them shook their heads. No one knew what area he might have been in. Dugan suspected Rogers might have known.
"Great," said Barnes. He pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment. Dugan didn't miss the glance he threw toward Rogers. "You see the state of things at all, Dernier? The place still standing?"
Frenchie made a face and waved a hand. "Some," he said. "Most of it was localised over the German sections."
"Not terrible," Barnes said. "Know who had control in the end? On our way out, that Czech Novák, told us that HYDRA have been driven out, and it looked like the Germans were the ones in control. You see that? Think they'd be the ones with patrols?"
"I only saw a little bit," said Frenchie. "The chaos was just dying down when I left. Was not very interested in sticking around to see what would happen." He looked down at his hands and the bruises they bore. "I just wanted to get out of there, but the Germans . . . yes. They had control, yes."
Gabe tittered in French. It made Frenchie and him smile wanly at each other. Dugan hoped it was reassurance and comfort. The privacy of the foreign language would have made it ideal. But the moment was broken up when Barnes leaned across and held the map out to Frenchie.
"Everything you remember," the sergeant said.
Frenchie took the map and produced a stubby pencil from nowhere. Seriously, the French.
Barnes looked at Dugan and Gabe while Frenchie bent over the map. He said, "What do our supplies look like?"
It turned out that it wasn't much. They had plenty of ammunition for Barnes's Johnson, though. The pile of grenades was reassuring at least. And the improved explosives Frenchie put on the table — again, he pulled 'em outta nowhere.
In a turn of luck, one of their hosts turned up just then with a tray of something steaming. She stopped short when she saw the pile of munitions.
"Can you help?" Barnes said.
The woman set down her tray, wiped her hands on her skirt, and smiled one wicked smile. "Yes," she said.
They had big guns. Like, big guns. The woman explained that the resistance in Prague used to steal German weapons and dismantle them. A few pieces at a time, they'd hand-deliver the parts to the people in the suburbs, in houses like the one they were in now. The women would reassemble the weapons. A counterattack was brewing in this suburb. They weren't the only house rebuilding stolen guns. The whole goddamn place was a powder keg just waiting for its chance to blow, the right spark.
"Anything smaller?" Barnes asked the woman. "We can't carry something like this."
She nodded her head. Grabbing Sarge's forearm, she led him deeper into the basement. Dugan went in their wake. There were huge boxes of ammunition. A couple of Lugers sat in a pile. Dugan took one without invitation, a handful of magazines came with it. Between the two of them, they were able to collect just enough ammunition to comfort themselves.
"We don't want to deplete your stock," Barnes said when the woman tried to put more supplies into his hands. "Just . . . this is plenty. You have a fight to win, too. Thank you. You've already done so much."
Back among Gabe, Frenchie, and a sleeping Rogers, Barnes and Dugan dumped their newly acquired supplies into the existing pile.
"We've been restocked," Barnes said. He sat again.
Dugan followed suit.
Gabe raised an eyebrow, coughed, and said, "Krauts gotta keep a closer eye on their munitions."
"I'm not cryin' over it," said Barnes. "Alright. We're goin' in mostly blind, but here's the plan. Dernier, Jones, you two keep your lazy asses here and keep breathing. I'll take Dugan back into Prague with me, we'll find those boneheads, and we'll all go back to England and be done with the war."
"Sounds good to me," Gabe said.
Barnes looked back at Rogers. There was a pained bend to his lips. Dugan saw it before the sergeant could cover it again. When he faced the other two, Barnes said, "Dernier, look after our CO 'til he wakes up, will ya?"
Frenchie nodded.
Barnes stepped over his scattered gear and headed for the door. As he passed Dugan, he said, "I need a cigarette."
That was code for "get the hell away from me; I'm gonna explode." So, naturally, Dugan followed Barnes out of the house and into the back garden. Well, he assumed it would have been a garden under different circumstances. Dugan watched Barnes pace and struggle to get his lighter to ignite. He paused and shook the damn thing, cigarette dangling from his lips. Dugan wondered where the sergeant had gotten it; he thought Barnes had run through his ration already.
After another failed attempt at starting the lighter, the thing slipped through Barnes's hands and fell to the ground. Barnes yanked the cigarette out of his mouth and only just held back from shouting. His hands twisted in his hair and he crouched down. "Goddamn it!" he said.
Dugan kept his distance and said, "You don't have to do it like this."
Picking up the lighter and standing tall and straight, Barnes said, "It's fine."
Dugan dug around in his pockets. He tossed the lighter to Barnes when he found it. The sergeant caught it and lit his cigarette on the first try. The lighter made its way back into Dugan's pocket.
"These fuckin' things of Stark's are supposed to work every time," Barnes said. He was calmed already, smoke unfurling out of him.
"When it rains, it pours, Jimmy."
It made Barnes laugh, but not in a happy, funny way.
"Sure does," he said. After a smoky minute — was he gonna offer Dugan a smoke or what — Barnes said, "What do you think?"
"I think we're gonna go get Jim and Monty and we're gonna be fine. The war'll be over by Christmas."
Two-for-two; Barnes laughed again. The stars were out, so Dugan went for three.
"Don't think I've forgotten about our New Year's cake tradition. Deals made over dessert are sacred."
"We won't see each other if the war's over by Christmas."
"None of that, Jimmy. I'll track you down to your momma's house and force you to eat cake with me. You and Rogers never shut up about Brooklyn; I'll be able to find you. It'll be better that way. I'll be able to meet that sister of yours."
The look on Barnes's face would have had Hitler running scared. Dugan's laughter filled up the garden and bounced back on them.
"You come within ten miles of my sister and I'll have to knock your teeth out," Barnes said around his cigarette, but there was a smile there, too. "Becca's married, though, so I guess I don't have to worry about her."
"Ah, marriage don't mean anything. She'll be changin' her mind when I come to visit. I've served with Captain America. What's her husband ever done?"
"I'm going to punch you, Dum Dum. I've never been more serious about anything in my life."
They both filled the garden with laughter. It was what they'd always done. Since Boot Camp. They'd laughed in each other's faces and then they'd laughed together. The two of them were going to laugh their way through the war; that's what they'd said every time they found themselves at the bottom of the same bottle on their weekends away from Fort McCoy.
Waiting until the smiles had faded from their faces, Dugan said, "You know I'm gonna ruin this by telling you that you've got to get some sleep when we finish up here. You're walking a real thin line here."
There was only so long a guy could go on so little sleep, less food, and a lot of stress. Jimmy wasn't exactly a picture of health these days. It made Dugan nervous and grumpy. He hadn't been kidding when he told Barnes that he'd wear the kid like underpants if he started seizing during battle. Dugan was beginning to suspect that stress contributed to how often Barnes went funny like that. Fuck HYDRA and fuck Arnim Shitface Zola.
(And fuck the S.S.R. for sending Barnes back in the field. And — God knew Dugan loved the guy — but fuck Steve Rogers for asking Jimmy to come back in the first place. Kid shoulda took his honourable medical discharge and ran.)
"I know," Barnes said.
Dugan watched the smoke of his cigarette cloud out the stars. "How's it been?"
"No worse."
It sounded like he was being honest.
Sighing, Dugan plucked the cigarette out of Barnes's fingers and let it heat him up inside. "I don't know what we're gonna do here."
"Figure it out," Barnes said. He took the cigarette back but coughed dryly. Sounded like sandpaper was lining the walls of his throat. Dugan took the cigarette back.
"Can you even breathe?" This was just what the kid needed on top of everything else. It was disturbing how often Dugan had been asking his friends that.
"Talking, aren't I?"
Dugan shrugged. "Rogers has the magic serum on his side; I'm not so worried about what that gas did to him. You're just you, Jimmy. And don't even mention what happened in Novara with your hand — I don't care. Sure you're OK?"
"Just feels like a sore throat. It burns a little, but I don't feel poisoned or anything. Steve was in there a lot longer than I was."
Dugan watched Barnes run a hand up and down his throat. Kid probably didn't realise he was doing it.
"You were spitting blood and could hardly hold yourself upright when you got out," Dugan reminded his sergeant.
But Barnes shrugged. "Feel fine now. Look, I'm standing and everything."
Dugan playfully shoved him. "You don't have to be a smartass about it. You're my kid brother now, remember? It's my duty to be worried about you."
"Yeah, well, why don't you focus on being a corporal and not my brother, huh?"
"First of all," said Dugan, "not your brother, your big brother. Second, I don't see why I can't be a corporal and your big brother at the same time."
"At least you won't be able to try anything on my sister if you're my brother — that'd make you her brother, too."
Dugan made the face that had always made Barnes smile like a kid who'd just been given candy for the first time in his life. "Maybe we'll hold off on the brother thing until I get an eyeful of her."
Whatever reply Barnes was about to voice was cut off by the sounds of distant explosions. Both of their heads turned in the direction of the city. The flashes lit up the broken buildings from behind. They hadn't even heard the plane engines or the air raid sirens.
"Who's that?" Barnes said.
"Dunno," Dugan said. "Germans? HYDRA? The resistance? Us?"
Barnes turned back toward the house, slapping a hand on Dugan's chest along the way. "Come on. We gotta get going."
So he followed the acting commander back inside. Dugan knelt down to help Barnes collect all his gear and shove it back into his bandoliers and packs.
"Bring the Johnson," Dugan said when Barnes's hand hesitated over the barrel of the rifle.
A voice from the doorway said, "How can we help?"
Dugan and Barnes both turned toward the door. The women were crowded there. They looked ready to take on a dragon.
Barnes shoved the last of his gear in the pack and got to his feet. Call him biased, but Dugan thought his sergeant looked every bit as commanding and strong as Rogers did just then. It was sort of spooky.
"Look after them," Barnes said. "Keep them safe until we come back. Try not to attract any attention to this place, unless you absolutely must defend it."
The woman who had spoken first nodded solemnly. Maybe she could tangibly feel the weight of what Barnes had asked her to do. Frenchie was supposed to be in charge of the infirm, but that was just a title. Dugan felt better knowing that their wounded teammates would be tended to while they were away. In their current states, Dugan was confident that Rogers, Frenchie, and Gabe couldn't fight off kittens.
Barnes stomped through them all saying, "Move out."
Dugan flapped his hands — all his shit wasn't packed. He shouted at Barnes's back, "You're wearing that?"
"I'll blend in," was the reply.
Dugan really hated that Kraut uniform, and he was positively sick of seeing Jimmy in it. Kid looked a helluva lot better in blue.
Hurrying after his sergeant, Dugan muttered, "It'll get you shot is what it'll get you."
"Then it's a good thing you'll be there to drag me back."
Rescue mission, take one thousand and two.
Jacques sat in a green chair watching his friends sleep. He knew he was not unique in this regard — calling his comrades friends, that is. He supposed it was appropriate for him to call these people friends. They were not his fellow soldiers because he was not a soldier.
What did that make him?
A shift made Jacques look up. Steve's hands were clenching and his brow was pinching. The captain looked as bad a Jacques felt. It was possible that Gabriel looked the worst of the three of them, their lonely-hearts club. He got up and went to crouch beside the captain. The whole way over, Jacques's knees and legs protested. Age was getting to him prematurely. Jacques ignored the hurts and pushed Steve's hair off his face until the creased skin evened out.
It reminded him of his mute girl and her son.
In a world that didn't exist anymore, the mute prostitute would go out and work during the nights, leaving her son with Jacques. He didn't mind this. Though he had no love for the child beyond human decency, he fostered no ill will toward him either. Life had dealt the mute girl and her son a raw hand. The damaged son would have struggled even if his mother could have spoken to him.
More than once, Jacques took the boy and an old telescope out to a hill near his home. They'd sit in the grass and Jacques would show the boy the moon. Slow and hopeless though the boy was, there were wonders on his face when he looked through the lenses. Jacques would show the boy the heavens through a bit of curved glass. He told the child that they were seeing things no one else had before. Once, they picked a star out and named it after the boy's mother, their mutual love. They showed it to her several nights later. She smiled and held the boy close to her side.
Beautiful, the two of them. He never tired of having them in his home. Never. Not when the boy couldn't walk anymore. Even then, Jacques carried the little body. They'd sit outside and Jacques would tell that sieve in the boy's mind why the leaves on the trees were green, why flowers' petals weren't. He told the little boy why there were tanks in the streets. Never mind that the child couldn't remember and didn't understand in the first place. He'd always nodded and said yes. Yes, he understood; now what about this?
Before the tanks, Jacques would burn metals to show the child the colourful flames. This metal makes blue and that makes orange. The child would clap. Once, he'd ask if stars were like the flames. Jacques had told the boy yes and made up stories. There was something very special about telling a secret to a person who was doomed to forget — or to never understand.
When the boy died, Jacques didn't miss him. Not really. He missed what was no longer available to him. There were no more chances to tell secrets. No smile on his face because he, Jacques, had made someone happy. He didn't miss the boy, but he missed the feeling that making the boy smile gave him.
It was hard to miss him when there were tanks in the streets. It was easy to miss the mute girl, the boy's mother. It was easy to miss her, because Jacques had loved her.
He would miss Steve and Gabriel if they died, Jacques decided, crouched there beside the captain's bed. None of them were going to die here or today. It was just a thought.
"Tea?" a voice said.
Jacques looked up and smiled at the young woman who offered it. "Please," he said and accepted the delicate cup. The woman lingered, her eyes straying to Steve. "Sit, please, and talk with me" he said, "if you'd like."
She made a nervous face and sat. She smoothed her skirts. "Are you well?"
The tea didn't taste particularly good, but the warmth in Jacques's belly was pleasant and welcome. It made his hurts loosen up and relax. Swallowing, he nodded at the woman. "Am I not a perfect imitation of Adonis?"
It made her smile and duck her head. "I do not think I would go so far."
Jacques smiled and drank more tea.
The woman fidgeted and then spoke. "The others — they were wondering about the other one." She gestured to Steve's body. "He seemed to be in charge. The one without the moustache."
"The sergeant?" Jacques said. "The one dressed as a German?"
She nodded. "That's the one."
"He's no German. He is very, very American." Both of them laughed mutedly. "He wore the uniform to blend in while we were in Prague. They wanted him to trick HYDRA into thinking the Germans were instigating a battle."
"Ah," she said, "I see." Tension bled from her posture and she relaxed. She sipped from her own cup. "The uniform was making a few of us nervous. We thought he might be a prisoner of yours." In a tone that suggested it was an afterthought, she said, "He does not look well."
"He is not," Jacques said. He didn't want to discuss James with a stranger, for his own sake as well as the sergeant's. So he diffused the conversation by saying, "No one is."
The woman understood the meaning. "I did not mean to suggest . . ." She couldn't find the word in English.
"You did," Jacques said with a smile. "There is nothing wrong with it, but you understand."
Her cheeks flushed. She said, "I do. Allow me to apologise."
"There's no need for it, but I accept."
"If he is off limits, may I ask about you?"
"You may certainly ask."
"How did a Frenchman come to be in the company of three Americans and a black man?"
An unamused smile twisted Jacques's lips. "The black man is American as well. The other two just went back to find an Englishman and another American who descends from Japan."
The face of the woman was decidedly uncomfortable. "You have quite the team."
Jacques hummed. He was sure neither he nor the woman wanted to dive into the implications of that sentence.
"How did you come to be here?"
It took him a while to collect his thoughts. "It is difficult to talk about," Jacques said.
The woman looked down in sympathy. They both sipped their tea.
"I understand," she said. Her eyes went far away. "It was so normal at first. I had hardly noticed the difference. One day we were us, and the next day, we were suddenly them." She shook her head and looked for enlightenment in her tea. "There were parades in the streets. Some of the children, they actually cheered and smiled. It did not seem so bad at first. We weren't happy about it, but we hardly noticed a change."
Jacques remembered that. The invasion had been so swift and fast. One day they were in their garden and the next they were occupied by foreign troops. And it hadn't been so bad at first. Comparatively. Trucks and marching in the streets, but they were still mostly free to go about life.
It wasn't until people started disappearing and young girls lost their glimmer that they even thought to fight back. Why had they waited so long? They'd known what was brewing — not exactly, but they'd known something. But all of it, all at once. Dizzying. Jacques could no longer sit idly by as his friends and neighbours disappeared. Playing children were gone from the streets; their bones would be shining through their skin soon. Some were forced to house their captors, if their captors were decent. Others were not decent, and whole families were cast out from their own homes with nothing.
Jacques had played host to a small garrison. The mute prostitute was their favourite fixture in Jacques's house. He felt he couldn't protect her. The garrison did not take well to the simple boy in their midst. He could hardly speak. He could no longer walk. He soiled himself and cried at night. On one of the cool nights when the boy had cried the whole house awake, the garrison beat the boy to death with the butts of their rifles. They caved in his simple head before his mother. She didn't say a word or shed a single tear.
The body was left there in the bedroom. A few men of the garrison had gotten caught up in their blood lust. They raped the woman Jacques loved in the same room where her dead son's body lay. She never spoke. She hardly cried. She just stared and refused to say a word. The garrison moved on a few days later. The woman he loved would die where those men left her. Another wave of soldiers goose-stepped into the town. When they requisitioned Jacques's house, he demolished it with explosive plastic. He'd rather the place be ruined than used by abominations.
That was how Jacques ended up here.
Bucky was starting to think that being tired all the time wasn't so bad. Every soldier was tired, but every soldier could fall asleep almost at will. Besides him. Those soldiers didn't have their minds filled with static every time they tried to sleep. When they rested, they actually got rest. Bucky got mental twinging and little shocks.
But all that was starting to seem normal and not so bad now that he was disgustingly, sickeningly hungry. Turned out that his body cared more about food than sleep. That was good to know. But it wasn't good for missions, because his stomach was grumbling with such ferocity that he was sure someone would notice them before he and Dum Dum ever reached Prague again.
While they were standing in an alley waiting for a car with swastika flags to go away, Dum Dum whispered, "Do we need to stop for snacks?"
"No," he whispered back. "Shut up."
"I'm not the one with a monster in my belly." Dum Dum pressed a canteen into Bucky's stomach. "Drink something." His moustache was shaking with amusement. "Maybe you can trick your stomach into thinking it's food."
So he unscrewed the top and guzzled the water until the canteen was nearly empty. A little bit dribbled down his chin, but Bucky was past caring. It felt good in his throat but not entirely good. It reminded him why he was so hungry in the first place. His mouth and throat hurt too much when he ate. His lungs hurt like hell, too, but it wasn't as if his lungs had anything to do with eating. Well, if he was doing it the right way, his lungs had nothing to do with eating.
Bucky gave the canteen back to Dum Dum without screwing the cap on.
"Yeah, you're welcome," the corporal said flatly.
"Let's go," Bucky said. It took a little bit of effort to keep the smile off his face when he heard the canteen chain clanging around as Dum Dum screwed the thing closed. One bad thing about the Kraut uniform — besides the obvious — was that it didn't have nearly as many pockets as his own uniform. He'd been wearing the Wehrmacht get-up for a few days now, but he still wasn't familiar with all the pockets and buttons. It didn't help that, when he had gotten back to the boarding house, he'd changed clothes. The constant going back and forth kept his tired brain confused and his hands reaching for pockets that weren't there.
Bucky never thought he'd see the day when he would be complaining about not wearing the same clothes every single day. War sure did change people.
For most of the beginning of their journey, they didn't need to hide too much. The streets became smoky and dusty the closer they drew to the heart of Prague. Bucky could feel the residue in the air every time he breathed in. It stuck in his blistered lungs and threatened to make him sneeze; he really did not want to sneeze while his airways felt raw and burned. Dum Dum sneezed a few times, and just hearing the sound made Bucky cringe. Luckily, there wasn't anyone around to hear. Besides a few errant cars with those godawful flags, there wasn't anything moving out on the streets.
And the water hadn't tricked his stomach at all. The two of them must've made the sorriest rescue squad in the history of time. Both of them were dirty and bruised. One was sneezing and the other couldn't take two steps without his stomach grumbling.
Dum Dum said, "Is it just me, or do you feel really unprepared for this?"
Bucky raised an eyebrow and said with mock seriousness, "Are you trying to say something about my leadership?"
"Nah, you can't help how woefully unprepared we are. Don't even know what we're walking into."
"We're walking into Prague," Bucky said.
"I don't know."
"I know what you mean," Bucky acquiesced. "It's like this, the whole city's on fire and we're a coupla clowns who're gonna put it out with our water-squirting boutonnieres."
Dum Dum muffled his laughter. "Big fan of clowns, are you?"
The memory bloomed behind Bucky's eyes. He smiled and looked back at Dum Dum over his shoulder. "When we were kids, Steve and I were at this carnival-circus thing — I don't know where exactly. But some clown got Steve with that squirting flower gag. To this day, I have never seen a more unamused look in my life. Water dripping down his face — just entirely flat. The clown, I swear, he looked nervous. Steve decked the guy right on the nose. You know how the noses squeak? God, I nearly wet my pants from laughing."
A few chuckles bubbled out of Dum Dum. "I think I'd like it if everything Rogers punched squeaked like that."
"Me, too." Bucky's mind moved from Steve back to food and cigarettes, but he said absently, "Maybe it would show him just how ridiculous he is."
Their talking died down abruptly when they reached a blown-up tram. The thing was dumped on its side. A few bodies were lying inside the car and a few were hanging out the windows. That wasn't what stopped their conversations though. They stopped because of the sudden appearance of German patrols. The tram car was crawling with soldiers. Using mostly hand signals and facial expressions, Bucky and Dum Dum located all the soldiers around the tram.
Bucky pointed to himself and whispered, "On my mark."
Dum Dum nodded and then they split up. Bucky would consider himself modest, but he also had every confidence in what he knew. Stealth was something he knew. It was child's play to slip and slide around the tram and the gathered Germans, get to a location that had both elevation and cover, and take the first shot. The sounds of Dum Dum's Thompson joined the fray seconds after Bucky took the first shot. All the Germans were shot dead in less than a minute, and the two of them converged at the tram car.
"Not them," Dum Dum said after they'd looked through all the bodies.
"Good," Bucky said. He rifled through the German's packs until he found some cigarettes and canned food. There was an eyeball-sized ball of lard wrapped up in one dead soldier's bag. Bucky threw it to Dum Dum. The corporal caught it one-handed. "I get something of yours of equal value whenever I want," Bucky said.
"What, in exchange for this? No way."
"You caught it. You already accepted the offer."
Dum Dum sighed and slid the ball of lard into one of his pockets. "You were the oldest sibling, weren't you?"
"Still am."
"Jesus, Jimmy."
Of the eleven bodies, seven had packs of cigarettes. None of the packs were full, but between all the bodies, there was an appreciable amount. And they had lighters that fucking worked.
As they were heading out again, Dum Dum said, "You're gonna split those with me, aren't you?"
"We'll see," said Bucky. "These are Kraut smokes. You sure you want Kraut smokes?"
"I don't give a hoot whose smokes they are."
He plucked at his pilfered uniform. "Those are my compatriots. I'm the only with rights to their property."
Dum Dum shoved Bucky's shoulder. "You're a real shit today, Sarge."
"Here, want some of this sausage?"
They shared slivers of a dead German's sausage as they crept deeper into the city. It was a sock in his stomach's mouth, so the grumbling was reduced. A searing throat was worth that, wasn't it? Excitement was always warranted when they got to eat food that wasn't from a can. Bucky didn't know if he really wanted to hear Dum Dum moan with sausage in his mouth, but it definitely made a dent in Bucky's appetite.
The patrols were thicker. They moved a lot, especially after they heard the gunfire from Bucky and Dum Dum's attack on the tram patrol. Bucky elected to avoid as many patrols as they could; he was feeling conservative with the ammunition. They were also way outnumbered and wouldn't be able to win a fight against such a force. Bucky wasn't keen on being captured again, even if they were just run-of-the-mill Germans and not HYDRA. He wouldn't put it past these guys to sell him back to Zola and Schmidt.
With their backs pressed up against a brick building, Bucky caught a few dirty faces staring down at him from a window above. Dum Dum noticed when he saw Bucky's line of sight.
"Kids," Bucky breathed. He caught Dum Dum's eye. What they must think, seeing some guy in a German uniform sneaking around other guys in German uniforms.
The corporal tapped Bucky's chest with the back of his hand and shook his head. They kept moving.
The closer they drew to the resistance block, the closer they also got to the castle and where a majority of the fighting had taken place. The destruction was more and more apparent the closer they got. Dust and debris may have been evident at the outskirts, but it was nothing compared to the state of the heart of the city. Bucky's lungs were searing inside his chest. It didn't seriously take dust this long to settle, did it?
Just a few days ago, when he'd come into the city, it had been mostly intact. The same could no longer be said. Still, it was in much better shape compared to some of the other places Bucky had seen. It was a hell of a lot better than Novara — and fuck that place. There were probably more dead bodies than there were ruined buildings, which made sense in all its gruesome truth. A lot of the German patrols were going through the ruined buildings and pulling out the dead. They were helping the citizens lay the corpses of their families in the streets. Sheets and tattered curtains covered some of the bodies. Most had nothing to hide under. There was a lot of crying; Bucky was used to that and nearly immune to it. Not even the tiny matchstick arms sticking out of a quilt could get a rise out of him if he looked away quick enough.
Besides, some of the German patrolmen weren't helping lay the bodies out. They were frisking the citizens for weapons and food — some were blatantly groping the grieving people, humiliating them further. That never failed to get a rise out of Bucky. But he was glad Steve wasn't here; Steve wouldn't be able to walk by that and carry on with his mission. He'd stop and try to distribute some type of recompense or revenge.
Bucky wasn't like Steve; Bucky could turn a blind eye and the other cheek. When he needed to, when it was advantageous. Like now. He led Dum Dum away from the scenes and back to the resistance.
It wasn't hard to notice that their destination wasn't there anymore. Too close to the castle. Well, the castle wasn't there anymore. The thing was completely gone, flattened to white and grey rubble. Anything that was nearby suffered either the same fate or something on a lesser scale that was still devastating. The place was crawling with Germans: dead ones were being plucked at by dusty, dazed living ones. Safe to say that HYDRA would rather have all their work destroyed than risk someone else finding it and (possibly) using it against them.
"Well, I guess we know who bombed the place," said Dum Dum. They were crouched behind a pile of former buildings.
"No shit," Bucky said. His eyes were having a hard time understanding the utter destruction. The place was just gone. And the area that was hit was so small. Dust and damage were all over the city, but, really, this was the only area that really looked as if it had gotten well and truly bombed. "Jesus, HYDRA. We're in trouble if they can raid a city with that kind of precision."
Dum Dum peered over the edge of their cover. "Look like there's anyone in charge out there to you?"
Bucky copied Dum Dum's pose and looked. "Doesn't look like. They're just digging through the rocks. Lookin' for bodies or something to salvage?"
"Both."
"Right. I got an idea."
Dum Dum turned so his back was to the rock he'd just been peering over. "I know that tone. Whatever you've got to say, I'm not gonna like. Let's hear it."
"I have the uniform, don't I?" Bucky plucked at the uniform. "I think I could just wander out there and start looking through the rubble for signs of Morita and Falsworth."
"Did your momma drop you on your head when you were a baby?"
"Eh?"
"Jesus, Jimmy. I can't stop you, can I?"
"Nope."
Dum Dum sighed, and Bucky swore he saw the corporal's moustache flutter. "Where we gonna look?"
"Let's get as close as we can to the resistance block. That's our best bet, especially if that's where you last saw Falsworth. Hard to believe that he slept through the whole damn fight."
"Not that hard," said Dum Dum. "Guy looked like the walking dead."
Bucky hadn't forgotten. It was hard to do when Gabe was obviously suffering from the same thing. At least Jim had seemed in good health last Bucky had known. Jim was bitching and sassing them all just like usual. Really, it was probably the only thing that kept their team balanced while they prepared for the assault on the castle. God knew Bucky hadn't been himself that whole time — he still wasn't. And keeping the team balanced was his fucking job as sergeant. Thinking about it now made Bucky that much more motivated to get his act together.
Jim and Dum Dum: team glue.
"Right," Bucky said. "Follow the sound of the Limey coughing. Meet you there." He rolled to his feet and headed off into the thick of the ruins.
"Jimmy, you —" The rest of Dum Dum's words were lost; Bucky had already gone too far away.
The German uniform really worked wonders. No one gave him a second glance (except for the wary eyes of the citizens). None of the soldiers looked Bucky's way. Even though he was missing the helmet, he walked seamlessly among the Krauts. A few tossed a couple German words at him. Bucky understood only a handful, but none tried to stop him searching when he waved them off. The raid must have really shaken these guys since no one questioned his presence. Even in the 107th with all their men and frequent replacement troops backfilling the spots of the dead, Bucky would have recognised a new guy in their midst.
Methodically, Bucky made his way through the wreckage at the castle and toward the old resistance houses. It was better and worse. There were fewer Germans the further he went from the castle, but there were more and more citizens. Their gazes held such contempt. It made Bucky's insides crawl. He'd been among those people just a day ago, and they'd been the friendliest people. They'd slapped his back and called him fond and admirable nicknames. Bucky didn't like being the bad guy here, even though he really wasn't. Every second that they stared at him, seeing an enemy, seeing evil . . . it didn't sit right with him.
More than once he found himself preparing to shout at the citizens that it was just a uniform and that he was still on their side; he was fighting for them. But he kept his silence. It helped that, the closer that he got to the boarding house, a few of the faces recognised him. Their eyes lit up and they looked quickly away so as to not give away his cover. It felt better then. They knew it was just him, still him even though the uniform was wrong. They knew it was just for show; a disguise.
Better news was that a lot more of the resistance buildings were still standing. None were entirely collapsed, though some had taken some pretty bad hits. Good news for these people; bad news for him and the Army. HYDRA could really concentrate the destruction of their air raids. What kind of systems did they have on their aircraft? What kind of aircraft were they using anyway? Bucky was willing to bet that the blue light had something to do with it.
"You!" someone called from a partially collapsed building. Most of its eastern-facing side had been sheared to dust. The insides were exposed like a dollhouse. A man was helping women down from the second level; the stairs had apparently been on the eastern side of the house. "You, come help!"
The English really gave it away. There were only a handful of Czechs that Bucky had met that spoke English. And all of them knew what he looked like and who he was. Familiar faces were good. It was only lucky that no Germans were close enough to notice.
Bucky approached the guy who'd summoned him. "Yeah?"
The Czech pointed to the rubble he and a few others were shifting. "People below. Your friends." He mimed a moustache. "Englander. And the Jap."
"You don't have to say it like that," Bucky said waspishly. But he started moving the debris like his life depended on it. Restraint was necessary; everything in him wanted to start whipping bits of wood and stone behind him like a cartoon. But he was smart about it and shifted carefully, tossing the smaller pieces into a communal pile with the rest of the human excavators. His focus was singular and he hardly noticed anything until he heard signs of life from below the rocks. It wasn't English, but the Czechs around him were able to communicate to those buried beneath.
"Are Morita and Falsworth down there?" he said to the man who had hailed him.
The man gave Bucky an annoyed look and kept talking. The exchange seemed to take forever. An interruption came in the most beautiful sound Bucky had ever heard: Jim Morita's voice. It was muffled and came to Bucky through several layers of crumbled rock, but it was still clear to hear, "You look at us like that one more time and I'm gonna rip your eyes out, got it, pal?"
"Morita!" Bucky shouted. The Czech looked disgruntled.
"Sarge! That you?"
"Sure is. Falsworth with you?"
"I'm here."
"You guys alright?" That was the important question. Bucky's felt dizzy with relief that they were both still alive. And in the same place. What a stroke of luck. Never mind that Monty sounded sick as a dog and that the two of them were buried under half of a building. At least they were under the same building.
"We're fine," Jim said. "'Cept Monty keeps trying to throw up his lungs. And he smells."
Bucky laughed to himself. "Hang tight. We'll get you out."
It was Monty's voice that said, "Is it just you out there, Sergeant?"
"Me and some Czechs. Dum Dum's around here somewhere."
"The others?"
"Jones's sick but not injured. Dernier took it rough but he's still on his feet — in better shape than Jones, I'd say."
"What about Cap?" said Jim.
Bucky shoved at a boulder and said, "Was still out when I left. He'll be fine, though." The second part may have been a wish more than a statement of fact.
"Yeah, well, hurry up and get us outta here. It's the second time a building has fallen on us in twenty-four hours."
"We just don't belong here, do we?" Bucky said. It was too quiet for them to hear, but he meant it all the same.
Dum Dum turned up after ten minutes. Bucky was so focused that he hardly noticed the additional set of hands working beside him.
"They down there?" said the corporal.
"Jesus," Bucky muttered. "Didn't hear you."
"That Dum Dum?" said Jim's voice from below.
"You're damn right," Dum Dum said back.
"Hurry the hell up and get us out, you useless Mick."
They got a laugh out of it and continued to work. Dum Dum said casually and lowly to Bucky, "I think I may have found us a ride outta here, if you're interested."
"How much noise will it make?"
The moustache wiggled. Bucky knew what that meant.
"A whole lotta noise, Jimmy. A tonne of noise," said Dum Dum.
"Let me get a look at these guys before I decide to risk it."
Forty minutes, two bruised and nicked hands, and an innumerable number of curses later, Jim and Monty were free and back on solid ground (with nothing above their heads). Bucky grabbed each of them by the shoulders and looked them over. Jim complained loudly and Monty made exasperated faces. They were well enough to be acting like themselves. But then they started walking and Bucky realised they weren't well at all. Monty was as sick as Gabe, and, after badgering Jim in the same manner Bucky had learned was necessary from a lifetime of dealing with Steve, Bucky saw that one of Jim's ankles had swollen to twice the size of the other one. It was fat and bruised and ugly.
Bucky turned to Dum Dum and said, "We're gonna need your ride."
"Excellent," he said. "I'll lead the way."
Before they left, Bucky thanked the Czechs as best he could. He thought they got the idea even though they didn't have much common language. Bucky knew some German, but it was incredibly difficult to recall at the moment. His head felt full of hot water and cotton. Maybe it was relief that both Jim and Monty were alive mixed up with agitation that both of them were decidedly worse for wear.
Also, Bucky was hungry again and (still) tired. At least his brain hadn't tried to leave his body; that feeling wasn't him having a seizure, was it? No. No, Bucky hadn't lost any time, hadn't blacked out. He could account for everything. Everything was fine. They were all going to be fine.
Anyway, he thanked the Czechs, wished them luck in finding their friends and overthrowing the Germans, and said good-bye without feeling guilty about it. Maybe Jan Novák helped Bucky ignore the guilt. That guy had a way with people. Talking about missions and duties. Bucky really hoped that guy survived all this and lived a life untainted by what had happened there. It was a complete fantasy, but it was what Bucky wanted for that man. It was what he wanted for everyone on the planet that was living through this right now.
"Whaddya think?" Dum Dum said.
They were tucked like sardines in an ally staring out into a street that was halfway between the ruined castle and the resistance blocks — it had taken them forever to get that far with Jim's ankle and Monty's wheezing. There was a small German jeep sitting in the street; a long-barrel gun was mounted to the back. Probably some autocannon or garbage flak gun in case HYDRA decided to come back for a second pass. Four Germans were in the vicinity of the vehicle. One was leaning against the driver's side door.
"Alright," Bucky said after he'd taken in the scene. "I'll put the uniform to work one last time. Dugan, take out that soldier" — he pointed to the one smoking on a stoop that no longer led to a home — "while I've got the driver distracted. Falsworth, Morita. Which of you is the better shot in your condition?"
"Me," Jim said while Monty pointed away from himself.
"Fine. Think you can take out the two rooting through the trunks over there?"
"No problem."
"Dugan, you get to the truck as soon as your man is down. You're driving. I'll take the driver down. We'll come and pick you two up in the alley. OK? Do not leave the alley. Even if you get a better shot, don't leave here."
Jim gave Bucky a snarky look — God, what a relief. "Yes, sir, Captain America," Jim said.
He didn't know why, but Bucky ran a hand through his hair, mussing it up even though it wasn't in any particular order to begin with. Then he trotted out into the street and hailed the German leaning on the truck door by waving his arm. "Hallo!" he said loudly.
"Alles klar?" the driver said back.
Bucky really wished he had Gabe's brain right then. Guy could lie like it was the truth, and it didn't even matter what language he was doing it in. "Uh. Ich brauche Hilfe."
The Kraut rolled his eyes and stopped leaning on the truck. "Natürlich. Kommen Sie. Was brauchen Sie?"
Hungry, tried, worried, and agitated, there was only one thing Bucky's brain could think of to say in response to that in German. "Ein Bier bitte!"
Then he heard six gunshots echo from the alley he'd just left and there were heavy footsteps coming in his direction. Before the second shot rang out, though, Bucky had swung forward and slammed the driver's head into the top edge of the door of the truck. There was a dent in the door. Bucky chose to believe the chipped paint and red splatters had been there before he touched that soldier's head. Bucky hustled around the truck at the same time that he heard Dum Dum vault over the door and the Kraut body, landing right in the driver's seat (maybe Bucky felt the suspension bounce more than he actually heard Dum Dum). They were rolling in a matter of seconds.
At the alley, they paused but didn't completely stop. Monty shoved Jim toward Bucky's waiting hands, so that was who was hauled into the cramped trunk first. Dum Dum was easing onto the gas a little too soon, but Bucky managed to catch Monty's hand, too, pulling him into what little space remained next to Jim.
"Stay down," Bucky told the two of them.
Jim gave him a withering look. Monty coughed. Both of them curled up reluctantly. It probably didn't feel too good since they'd been cramped under two collapsed buildings today. Jim got himself folded into the trunk — impressive. Monty's legs hung out the back, and it didn't look like the Brit cared one bit. He coughed again. It reminded Buck of his own throat and lungs, so he coughed, too.
Bucky stole Dum Dum's Thompson from between the two front seats and passed his Colt back to Jim. Monty had his own Webley out. Dum Dum burned rubber through those streets. The chassis was groaning under their weight and bouncing every time they hit something (which was almost always; there were so many rocks and shit in the streets). Bucky used the Thompson to take out any uniforms that tried to get in their way. Jim fired at the ones Bucky missed; he only missed because Dum Dum couldn't drive to save his life, not because Bucky was a bad shot.
Obviously, that was the reason. Now shut up, Morita.
They ditched the jeep halfway between the city edges and the egress house. The walking was slow, and night was falling again. It was full dark by the time they crossed the gate of their safe house. Another one of the Czech women met them outside. She smiled when she saw that they had come back with the correct number of people (and that they were all alive).
Bucky didn't protest when she hugged him and kissed his cheek. She said with a heavy accent, "Captain is awake." She stepped to Dum Dum and hugged and kissed him, too. Bucky hoped the moustache scratched the lady's skin. She laughed and said, "He is cross with you both."
There were worse things to come back to.
"You keep glarin' like that and your face is gonna get stuck that way forever," Jim said to Rogers.
Dugan had been thinking it, but there was no way that he was going to say it. Besides, it looked funny. So he went back to tinkering with Jim's broken radio. The two of them were bent over the thing with a small collection of tools scattered on the table between them. Rogers was sitting in a third chair pushed further back from the table. He was bent out of shape over Barnes; what else was there for Rogers to get bent out of shape over anyway?
"He shouldn't have done that. It was stupid and risky."
"I think I've heard him say something like that about you," Jim said dryly. Shifting his swollen leg stiffly, he added, "A circle, the two of you."
"He was in command," Dugan said, trying to imitate Jim's frank and factual tone. "Nothing a commander does is stupid."
"Yeah, well." Rogers's voice was hardly raspy, unlike Barnes's. Apparently, all the healing was done while one was asleep. Now, exactly why Cap went down for so long Dugan didn't know. But he was pretty sure that sleep had to have something to do with why he'd recovered so quickly. Hard to believe that there were no ill consequences to Rogers being in that gas dome for so long, but that was what the reality appeared to be. For now, anyway. Shit always snuck up on them later down the line. Wasn't that some law of life or something?
Monty snored loudly from the other room. He, Gabe, and Frenchie had been out like lights the moment they were all reassured that no one was dead. God, Monty snored something awful. Dugan had almost forgotten. Or was it the illness making him so much worse?
From his spot at the table, Dugan could see the bright end of two cigarettes out in the back garden. He knew Barnes and a few of the Czechs were out there. Chances were high that they were making a dent in all those Kraut smokes they had collected on their trip back to the city. That reminded Dugan of the lump of lard in his pocket and his obligation.
"You know Phillips is gonna kill you, right?" Jim said. He pulled a twisted piece of metal out of the radio that he'd been working on for the past twenty minutes. He made a "huh" noise at it and then went back to work.
"I couldn't exactly contact him while I was passed out and without a working radio."
"Doesn't matter. He's still gonna kill ya. Especially after he hears about you and the Red Skull."
"I know," Rogers said.
"And then what's Carter gonna say?" Jim just didn't know when to stop. "She'll probably murder you and then kiss you. Can you imagine?"
Dugan laughed. "I'm sure they can have a proper reunion while they isolate Rogers in medical. Nothing gets a man going like giving blood samples."
"It'll be just like when we got back from Krausberg. You hear her with the 'you're late' line? Geez," Jim said.
"If you two have had enough," Rogers said.
"I'm never going to have enough," Dugan declared.
The radio was fixed a few minutes later. The signal was fuzzy and worse for wear, but it was good enough. Jim and Rogers talked to the S.S.R. while Dugan sat there and ate out one of his pilfered German ration tins. It was some kind of meat that might have been pork before the war. The first war, the Great War. Barnes and the Czechs came in right when Peggy's voice came on over the radio. Dugan was sure someone had gone to rouse her when Jim had first contacted base.
Barnes raised a hand in acknowledgement on his way to the room where Monty's snoring was coming from. Dugan mirrored the motion, and Jim jerked his chin in the sergeant's direction. Rogers frowned and concentrated on talking to the radio.
"Gimmie some of that," Jim said to Dugan. He swatted at the tin but Dugan jerked out of the way in time.
"Get your own."
"I was trapped under two buildings today."
"Too bad. A grown man ought to know how to exit a building by the time he's twenty."
"Asshole."
Dugan passed the tin over. "Don't say I never did anything for you."
It was a long time before Rogers signed off the radio. He handed it back to Jim rather abashedly.
"Get your fill?" Dugan said.
Which Rogers deserved.
"They want us to move out tomorrow evening for extraction," Rogers said.
Dugan said, "We gotta go far? The team's not exactly at its best."
Rogers shook his head. "Not far. We'll get a ride south. Stark's getting us."
"Great," said Jim, "I love dealing with that guy when we're fresh out of the field."
Dugan snorted and Rogers nodded his head in a conceding sort of way.
"Can I give you a bit of advice?" Jim said. That bite was in his voice.
With a sigh, Rogers said, "Sure." He looked like he was already regretting his answer.
"Talk to your sergeant."
"What?"
Dugan looked anywhere but at Jim or Rogers.
"Just . . . talk to your sergeant, Cap."
Note: I don't speak German, so I hope Google translate didn't betray me too bad. Thanks for sticking it out this long. Cheers!