65.
London, United Kingdom
February 10th, 1945
In war, everything can change it just a minute.
Steve learns that the hard way.
Looking back on the security tapes, there's only a minute between when Bucky is first blasted out the side of the train and when his arm was disintegrated by the beam, and he fell to his death. Only a minute. One heart-stopping, gut-wrenching, pain-staking, soul-crushing minute.
Bucky held on for a minute. Truthfully, he's been hanging on and staying strong his whole life, but for that one minute he held in for dear life against the wind and the snow and the cold. And Steve, well, all he had to do was hold on for a couple of seconds, and he couldn't even do that.
In that minute, Bucky was lost. In that minute, Steve was lost. And in the minute after Isabel found out, she was lost, too.
It's amazing how much can change in one minute; Steve can ponder that now a few days after when it's getting a little easier to think about. Still not easy, but easier. But even now, he wishes that minute never happened; that he could go back and redo that minute over again.
Steve is sitting up against the headboard of his bed. It's late at night, nearing ten o'clock, and the world outside is dark, not that he can see it through the board covering the window for the blackout.
He's got his sketchbook in his lap, drawing a picture to send home and pair with the letter from Isabel, which she had sent a few days before. He hopes that a drawing of Bucky might soften the blow, or maybe will give the grief-stricken parents something to look at as a reminder of the son they want to remember. Steve just wants to make sure it looks like Bucky, their Bucky. Maybe not so much the new Bucky that was born on the battlefields of war. It was still Bucky, of course, but a different side, a darker side, that the Barnes family don't need to be introduced to. Steve is sure Bucky wouldn't have liked them to see him that way, covered in blood and sweat and dirt with someone else's blood under his fingernails and grenades dangling from his belt.
He's instead drawing the last Bucky they knew - determined, full of laugh and love and most importantly, happy. Or as happy as Steve always thought he was. He's beginning to think Bucky had a lot more demons and skeletons in the closet than he ever let on to Steve.
The room feels empty without Bucky in it. All of his possessions are still scattered around where he'd lazily left them – a shirt over the chair, pants lying on his trunk, his bed unmade – but Steve hasn't had the heart to clean it up yet. He'll probably even leave it until he's packing up the room to go home, and then he'll take it home for Winifred.
A knock at the door jolts Steve a little, and he makes a small line of black on the page. Luckily, it's where Bucky's dark hair is slowly being formed with dark pencil strokes, so he doesn't worry. He gets up and answers the door, smiling when he sees Isabel on the other side.
"Hi," she says quietly, before stepping in when Steve allows her. "What are you up to?"
"I was sketching this for your parents, to put with your letter. They'll get it a few days later, but I'll make sure they get it," Steve tells her.
He sits back on the bed and pats the small section next to him. Isabel climbs onto the bed and snuggles up beside him on the single bed. It's quite squashy, especially considering Steve's frame, but they're both comfortable.
Isabel takes the sketchbook from Steve and looks at the nearly finished drawing of Bucky, and her lips slowly stretch into a wide smile.
"It's good. Really good. They'll love it," she promises, handing it back so Steve can finish the drawing. She watches the pencil move across the page, as she always did. "You really weren't joking when you said we didn't need to pose for you to draw our likeness," she notes thoughtfully, watching the page. "You really know us that well."
"Yeah, Belle. I really do," Steve says with a small laugh. "You and Bucky have been my muse for almost as long as I can remember."
Isabel smiles at that and leans her head on Steve's shoulder. Steve takes his sketchpad back and keeps drawing, tiny little strokes along Bucky's hairline that come together into his tousled, unkempt locks.
"He was proud of you, you know."
Steve's hand pauses at that, not expecting it. Isabel puts a hand over his forearm comfortingly.
"Always. Even before you were Captain America. In fact, I don't think he was proud of the Captain at all, it was always Steve Rogers he was proud of."
Steve isn't quite sure what to say. Not a lot of people in the world are proud of Steve Rogers, and it still isn't something he can easily believe. "He was proud of you, too," Steve tells her, his voice slightly choked.
"But he was biased. I could've been a bum and he'd tell me he was proud of me. He was just that kind of person."
"Yeah, he was good. Pure and simple."
"I hope wherever he went, he'll be happy," Isabel whispers quietly.
Steve stops drawing and puts the sketchpad on the beside table – it's nearly finished anyway – and wraps both arms around her. "He will be, Belle, I promise. People like Bucky, they always get a happy ending. It's the least they deserve."
Isabel nods in agreement, her cheek moving against his chest. Steve looks down and sees a small, relieved smile on her lips.
They stay like that a long time, feeling some sort of contentedness at the idea that Bucky has gone somewhere better than the world they live in. They just pray that he's safe and happy and free of pain. Maybe wherever he went there'll be people waiting for him – Grandma Barnes, and Sarah and Joseph Rogers, and any other soldier Bucky made friends with who were brought to an untimely death. He won't be alone, and they're grateful.
Steve absentmindedly runs a hand through Isabel's dark hair, and she traces patterns on the material of his shirt. Steve almost even thinks she may have fallen asleep against him as the clock nears eleven. They've had a long few days, and it's been hard on both of them. But when Steve looks down, Isabel shifts and looks up at him, meeting his eyes curiously. He smiles at her and then sits back, his smile dropping from his face, replaced with a nervousness.
There's a small box in the pocket of his pants that he's planning on showing her, and the nervousness about it settles in his stomach and makes him feel a bit sick, like a million butterflies are flying around in there. He tries to think of how to bring it up, whether to do it tonight. But, he thinks he's waited long enough for things, and the loss of Bucky has brought it all up and reminded him just how short life is.
He'd shown the piece to Bucky and his friend had approved, saying his sister would melt at the sight of it. He'd also given his blessing – "not that you wouldn't have done it without it, punk," Bucky had said; "you ain't exactly one for following the rules". Steve thinks of that and it fuels him, gives him a bit of confidence he desperately needs.
Isabel must notice the change in Steve's energy from calm to anxious, and she sits up, looking at him. "Are you okay?"
Steve gulps. "Belle, can I give you something?" He asks eventually, his voice hesitant and nervous like he's a kid all over again. He suddenly feels very small.
But Isabel smiles encouragingly at him and all his nervousness melts away. She looks a little confused but trusting. "Anything," she promises, wiggling a bit more and leaning against his chest, propping her elbows up against him so she can look down at him. "What is it?"
Steve takes a deep breath and then reaches into the pocket of his pants, pulling out a small white box. Isabel looks at it and frowns, but she's still smiling. Steve flicks the lid open with one hand, the other wrapped loosely over her waist. Isabel gasps when she sees the ring inside. It isn't an engagement ring – she can tell that much for the style of it. It looks Irish, by design; small, with a gold band that turns into two hands that come together and hold a small heart that is topped with a crown. It's beautifully carved and intricate, sparkling under the lights of the room. It looks newly cleaned, too, as though Steve had been preparing for this.
"It's called a Claddagh ring," Steve explains at her confused and curious expression. "The hands represent friendship, the heart represents love, and the crown represents loyalty. It… it was my mother's. My father gave it to her before they were married."
Isabel's eyes snap up to him, and recognition dawns. She knew it was familiar, that she'd seen it before. "I thought I recognised it," she says quietly. She trails a single finger over it, delicately, smiling down at the gold ring.
"Ma wore it every day. She never took it off. That was until when I turned twenty-one, she gave it to me and told me to give it to the woman who I would marry, to the woman I loved. I have a funny feeling she always knew it would be you."
Isabel looks back at Steve, her eyes wide with excitement, and a bit of hesitance, and maybe just a bit of sadness.
"It's not the real thing. I wouldn't do it here, like this. Not after everything. I know the timing isn't great, the circumstances even worse," Steve promises quickly. "But it's a promise. A promise that once the war is over, I'll look after you and I'll keep you safe. I'll marry you. You'll be Isabel Rogers, if you want it. That's what the Claddagh is for, it's a promise for what's to come."
Isabel pauses, looking down at the ring again. "I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but why is it only a promise?" Steve frowns, confused. "Life is short, why do we keep waiting? Steve, sweetheart, you could ask me for real right now and I'd say yes in a heartbeat. We could go down to the registry office tomorrow morning and get married right there and then."
"We could," Steve agrees, "but it's not the way either of us imagined it, and I know it isn't the way you wanted. I love you, Belle. I want to do it right."
"It is right, Steve. As long as it's you and me, it's right."
Steve shakes his head firmly. "Not for us. I want to do it properly. I want to ask your Dad for his blessing. I actually asked Bucky first and he gave his blessing without hesitation. Then, he reassured me I'd have your Dad's too, would have had it even before all this," Steve says, motioning to himself and the serum. "I want you to have the dress of your dreams, to marry where we both want. I want your family to be there to see it. I want it to be the best day of your life. We can't have that here."
Isabel nods slowly, considering Steve's words. "I want that, too," she admits. "But I don't want to keep waiting."
"Besides, as you said, life is short and unpredictable. There's another reason why it's only a promise. When we get called up to go to the final Hydra base, it's going to be so dangerous..."
Isabel pauses and looks at him. "I know it's dangerous, but you've got to come back to me. You can't leave me," Isabel pleads immediately.
"I will do everything in my power to return to you," Steve promises, cupping her cheek. "But I think we all know that sometimes there are things that are out of our control. As long as it's in my power, I will always come back to you. That's what the ring is for, someone for me to get home to."
"You aren't promising anything," Isabel notes, her tone only slightly accusatory.
"I think we've also learned that's a mistake. I can't… If something were to happen to me, I want to make it easier for you to move on when you're ready. I don't want people to see you as used goods, because they will think that, you know they will. I couldn't ruin you like that, I love you too much to set you up. I… I don't want you to be my widow before you're my wife."
"Steve, you didn't have to marry me to ruin me," Isabel says, making Steve frown. "There isn't ever going to be anyone else that I'll love more, no one that can compare. Even if we aren't married, I'll still feel like your widow if you're gone."
Steve nods at that, looking a bit solemn. There isn't really anything he can do about that, not that he really wants to. Hopefully, the things that they're speaking of will never come to light. Hopefully…
Isabel smiles at him, forces his eyes up to hers, and then kisses him softly on the lips. When she pulls away, she holds out her left hand, fingers splayed. She raises an eyebrow, a smirk on her lips. Steve plucks the ring from the box, setting the box on the bedside table, and then hovers the ring over the end of her ring finger.
"Are you sure that's the finger it goes on?" Isabel teases, noting his hesitation.
But he hadn't hesitated for that. He hesitates as he thinks of what to say. "I'm sure," he says with a laugh. "Isabel Barnes, will you allow me to promise to marry you?"
Isabel pretends to think about it a moment before laughing, her eyes a little watery. "Of course, I will."
Steve absolutely beams as he slides the ring into place on her finger, and it's a perfect fit. Isabel admires it for a moment, a watery smile on her features, before she looks up at Steve.
"I'm yours, Stevie. Now and forever," Isabel promises.
Steve takes her cheek in his hand and brings her lips down to meet his. The kisses start small and gentle, just testing the waters. But as the time passes, they get more passionate, strong, their lips moving together in a beautiful synchrony. It's almost like a dance, and they're working together perfectly.
Steve rolls them over so that he's leaning over the top of Isabel, caressing her hair and the side of her face as he kisses her. He feels her hands running over his back and shoulders, and it's like he's on fire, her fingers leaving a tingling feeling across his skin. He's acutely aware as her hands trail down his back to the hem of his t-shirt, tugging gently. Steve pulls away and looks at her.
"Let's get this off," she whispers, tugging the shirt up to reveal his defined stomach. Steve sits up and quickly whips it off, throwing the white shirt to the floor behind him. Isabel's eyes widen at the sight as Steve settles back on top of her, careful to support his weight. "Jesus Christ," she breathes.
Steve's cheeks go red all the way up to the tips of his ears. He never, ever had a reaction even remotely similar to that before the serum, and he probably would never have anyway. It feels nice to be appreciated for his physical appearance when all he ever had to go for him was his personality, but he still can't get used to it.
Isabel smirks at him, raising an eyebrow, and Steve's cheeks go impossible redder. "I-… uh, you…? I–"
"Steve," Isabel says, interrupting him. She puts her fingers under his chin and gently pushes, closing his gobsmacked mouth. "Shut up and kiss me."
Steve smiles nervously but he does as she asks. He collects her lips again and Isabel kisses back enthusiastically. Slowly, he gets up the courage and his hand wanders down to grip the back of her thigh, her skirt riding up slightly. It lights a fire somewhere in his stomach, the feeling of her beneath him. His hand goes to the waistline of her skirt and untucks her blouse, his hand creeping onto the skin of her stomach and her side, holding her tight against him.
"You're so beautiful, Belle. Like an angel in disguise," Steve says against her lips, finding his courage.
He lets his lips wander down her cheek and then to her neck, caressing the delicate skin. He can feel her quickened pulse beneath his lips, her breathing fast, swears he can almost hear her heartbeat.
"You have no idea what you do to me, Steve Rogers," Isabel breathes, sounding breathless.
He pulls away from her neck to look at her, to make sure she's okay. She only smiles at him, looking flustered and breathless and breathtakingly beautiful. She's captivating. Steve could look at her all day every day for the rest of his life and he'd never get tired of the view.
"I love you, Steve," Isabel whispers, looking up at him. She gently brushes his fringe from his forehead.
"I love you, too, mo shíorghrá (my eternal love)."
Steve and Isabel are lying in bed together, a tangle of limbs and sheets. Isabel's head is resting on Steve's bare chest, her breathing slow and calm as she sleeps. Steve absentmindedly runs his hand through her hair, unable to sleep; not for dreams or nightmares, but just because he'd rather be awake in this moment to experience it all, to experience her. It's the first time he's woken up like this with anyone – vulnerable, content, bared totally to the world – and he wouldn't want it to be with anyone else.
The phone ringing on the nightstand ruins the moment in a split second. Steve jumps at the noise. Isabel groans and tucks herself further into Steve's side, hiding her face and covering her exposed ear.
Steve reaches across and answers it without moving either of them, holding in his own groan of discontent. He holds the phone to his ear. "Captain Rogers?" He answers, his voice a little gravelly.
"Cap? It's Stark. We need all the Commandos down in the meeting room, stat. We've got intel and we need to work fast. We've got our chance."
Steve sighs quietly, running a hand down his face.
"Who is it?" Isabel mumbles, looking up with bleary eyes.
"Stark," Steve tells Isabel, then back into the phone he says, "We're on our way."
Howard pauses for a moment on the other end of the line. "Wait, we? Was that Isabel? Ooh, did you two–?"
Steve slams the phone back on the receiver before Howard can finish his question, rolling his eyes. He can't help the blush that creeps up onto his cheeks.
"We've gotta go down, Belle. I think Zola may have spilled the beans about the final base," Steve says, shaking her shoulder lightly.
Isabel groans and moves off Steve so that he can get up, putting the pillow down on top of her head. Steve chuckles. She's never been much of a morning person, and neither was Bucky for that matter. Must be a Barnes thing. He hurries to the wardrobe and gets out his Army dress uniform, putting on his pants before Isabel has even gotten up. She practically rolls out of bed, taking the sheet with her. She wraps it around herself as she gets up like a dress and then circles around the room, searching for her items of clothing that had been thrown everywhere the night before.
She moves into the bathroom and Steve hears the water run for only a few minutes, and then a few minutes after that she re-emerges, dressed in the blouse and skirt from yesterday. She goes to the dresser and finds Steve comb, running it through her messy curls and wrangling her hair into something more manageable.
Once they're both ready, in record time, they head down into the elevator hand in hand. Steve steals another kiss in the privacy of the elevator, long and passionate, and by the time the doors open they've pulled apart, but their lips are red and slightly swollen. They stare at each other for only a second, a silent promise, before the duo makes their way through the base to their designated meeting room. Howard, Peggy, Phillips, Dugan and Morita are already present, the rest of the Commandos making their way down. As Isabel and Steve enter and sit down, Howard smirks proudly at Steve, who blushes profusely and answers any question anyone may have had.
Stark then raises an eyebrow at Isabel. "Still wearing last night's clothes?" Stark asks, his tone suggestive.
Isabel shoots Howard a deathly glare across the table, and then glares at Dugan and Morita as they giggle together, smirking at Steve's embarrassment.
"Honestly, you would think you were all fifteen," Peggy snaps, reaching across to whack Howard upside the head.
Eventually, the rest of the Commandos filter down into the meeting room, flanked by many SSR agents who will be coming along for the invasion of the final Hydra factory. They all look stern and determined. It will be the first mission of the Commandos that these agents have embarked on, since most of the time their small strike team has worked alone, and only once with the help of a nearby infantry.
"Johann Schmidt belongs in a bug house," Phillips begins, standing before everyone. "He thinks he's a God. He's willing to blow up half of the world to prove it, starting with the United States of America."
"Schmidt's working with powers beyond our capabilities," Howard continues. "The Valkyrie is powered by the Tesseract; we assumed it would be, Doctor Zola confirmed it. The shells and explosives are also made from Tesseract material, as are the rest of their weaponry. It'll be hard to disable them, but not impossible. But if Schmidt gets across the Atlantic with the Valkyrie, he will wipe out the entire eastern sea board of America in an hour and there'll be nothing we can do to stop it."
Steve reads one of the files on the table that has the information on it that Stark's just told them. He throws it back down onto the table, looking thoughtful.
"How much time we got?" Jones asks Phillips before translating to Dernier beside him.
"I've had another talk with Zola. The first interrogation, he told us what the Valkyrie was for. This time, he provided the date the plan will be initiated. According to my new best friend, we have under twenty-four hours."
Steve looks up at that, his brow furrowing.
"Where is he now?" Dernier asks in heavily-accented, broken English.
"Hydra's last base is here," Phillips says, holding a photo of the side of a mountain range, pointing to one particular spot. "In the Alps. Five hundred feet below the surface."
Phillips drops the photo in front of Morita, who picks it up and studies it. "So, what are we supposed to do?" Jim asks, looking to Falsworth beside him. "I mean, it's not like we can just knock on the front door."
"Why not?" Steve asks suddenly. Every face turns to stare at him, some of them admiring and others dumfounded. "That's exactly what we're gonna do."
Everyone pauses. "S-Steve? You can't be serious?" Isabel half-whispers to him, looking confused.
"I'm serious. I'll ride in first, alone, to the front entrance to the base. The army can follow me in once I've broken through their initial defences. We get inside, we take out the agents, we stop the Valkyrie, and we catch Schmidt. We defeat Hydra for good."
No one seems to have any arguments to this plan, or if they do, they don't voice it. There's a murmur of agreement.
"Suit up, everyone," Steve says when there's no complaint. "We leave within the hour."