Chapter Title: Rushing Headlong In
Author: Sam
Story: The Omega Trials: 21 of ?
Series: The Omega Rights (part two)
Note:
Setting: AU: November 3, 1943; Austrian Alps, Austria and Azzano, Italy
xxx
Translations:
Five-ton - five ton service truck - Military slang
Je ne parle pas l'anglais. - I don't speak English. - French
Qui appartient à Bucky! Il appartient au sergent Barnes! - That belongs to Bucky's! It belongs to Sergeant Barnes! - French
Il a obtenu il y a des jours de maladie. Il n'a pas retourné ici. Je suis désolé, mon ami. - He got sick days ago. He has not returned here. I am sorry, my friend. - French
POW - Prisoner of War - Military Acronym
Cariad - Love - Welsh
Je vous remercie de me prêter votre manteau, le sergent. Si jamais je peux vous rembourser, vous allez me dire, oui? - Thank you for loaning me your coat, Sergeant. If ever I can repay you, you will tell me, yes? - French
Voila - Here is - French
xxx
Setting: AU: Wednesday, November 3, 1943: Azzano, Italy
As the small troupe of long-legged ladies danced off the stage, Teresa lightly slapped Steve's well-formed ass, giving him a wink as she passed. "Knock 'em dead, Tiger," she drawled in a midwestern accent. The drumming of light rain sounded a rhythmic tattoo over the hastily erected wooden and tin stage.
Steve jumped slightly, a bright red blush running down his neck and he had to clear his throat to return his focus back to the audience of injured and exhausted soldiers. " . . . and so, buying war bonds puts weapons in the hands of our fighting men."
From the audience, one of the soldiers, sitting on the back of a five-ton, arm and head bandaged, cat called the well-built blond actor who apparently neglected to join his fellow fighting men. "Boo! Bring back the girls!"
Feeling mortified, Steve wished the ground could open up and swallow him whole. "I - - I uh . . . I think they only know the one song." He turned to look at his stage manager and then back to the soldiers, "but . . . let me see what I can do."
"You do that, Sweetheart!"
Luckily three girls rushed onto the stage, Teresa among them, as Steve rushed off. He hated this; he hated how these men were overseas and risking their lives every day fighting for the country while he danced around a stage and slept in luxury suites and tents. Grabbing his sketchbook and a pencil from off his folding camp desk, Steve hurried out of the dressing area. Once he found a semi-secluded area, he sat down and opened the book with a huff.
As the beautiful blond man tried to regain his skill in fine arts, Agent Peggy Carter strode over with an umbrella and a frown. Not one to wear artificial scents, the woman still smelled of something calm, woodsy, and alluring. She glanced down over Steve's shoulder and watched as he gracefully filled in the lines of a performing monkey on a tightrope riding a unicycle with a parasol. "They've been in the field a long time. They'll warm up to you," she assured calmly, though Peggy doubted these men really wanted to see anything more than a bit of leg and hip or home.
Looking down at his drawing, Steve shook his head, "you and I both know that isn't true."
She sighed and squatted down, knees pressed together and aimed to the side, keeping her skirt firmly closed so as not to flash any passerby. "You want to be out there with them."
"That's all I ever wanted . . . ever since the attack on Hawaii . . . I've just wanted to fight for my country." Steve sighed and looked up at his surroundings, the rain making the ground muddy and the tops of the tents sag with the weight of water.
"Why don't you?" Peggy asked, her voice devoid of emotion.
"Philips wants me in a lab . . ." Steve looked down again and let out a deep breath.
"And that's your only two choices? Lab rat or dancing monkey?" She looked at him disapprovingly. "Abraham had such high hopes for you." She looked over at the men gathered around the front of the stage in the drizzle, cheering the ladies in scantily clad outfits. "The colonel doesn't want to see you hurt, I suppose."
Looking up again, Steve's eyes caught on a military ambulance pulling up alongside a medical tent, soldiers rushed to help the injured out of the back. "They've been through hell . . ."
Peggy's eyes, too, fell on the bloody influx of fresh wounded. She frowned and rose gracefully to stand on her low heeled shoes. "These men more than most. They were trapped in Azzano and the tide turned. That's all that is left of the 107th infantry."
Steve's whole body froze. The 107th? No . . . no . . . that was Bucky's unit. There was no way - - this wasn't possible. "The 107th?" He asked sharply, rising to his feet.
"Steve?" she questioned. "There are only about a hundred fifty men remaining . . . the others were killed or captured. Maybe three hundred are unaccounted for."
Steve didn't even look back at Peggy as he bolted in the direction of Philips' tent. Memories of Bucky and him flashed before his eyes, this couldn't be happening. Bucky wasn't dead. No . . . he was fine. Maybe injured . . . but not dead. He'd know if Bucky was dead . . . he'd feel something . . . right?
Colonel Phillips looked up as the tall, gaudily dressed blond and the neat, uniformed brunet traipsed into his tent. "What are you doing here, Rogers? Don't you have a show to put on?"
"Sir, I need to know if a soldier is a part of the deceased for the 107th." Steve fought the waves of tears that wanted to show . . . he couldn't cry, not here. Bucky wasn't dead. He wasn't.
"I don't gotta tell you anything. You're a glorified chorus girl, Rogers."
Sighing, Steve closed his eyes and opened them, "please just one name. James Buchanan Barnes. B-A-R-N-"
"I can spell it!" snapped Phillips. He frowned and picked up a handful of typed papers. "I must have dictated hundreds of these this morning, but, yeah, the name sounds familiar." He glared at Steve, but sympathy showed in his aged eyes, almost as if the man felt protective of Steve despite his attitude. He turned to face a large map with markings of troop locations and former locations on it.
Steve's heart sank. No, men were still captured . . . Bucky wasn't dead. Bucky couldn't be dead. "There are men still captured. Have you started a rescue mission?"
"No," the colonel said crisply and turned back to his secretary, putting down the stack of condolence letters. "There isn't going to be one."
"Three hundred men, sir. We have to try something," Steve snapped, he couldn't believe this. They were abandoning all those men. They were abandoning Bucky.
"Don't take that tone with me, Rogers!" the aged Colonel barked back. Hardening his tone, but lowering his voice, the man in charge explained, though he wasn't in the habit of explaining, "I don't have enough men, Rogers. Most of those here are wounded or ill, sent back to recover or on the way to a new assignment. We're pulling out since we can't get Azzano. Those men are thirty miles behind enemy lines, in the Alps in some sort of fortified factory. It'd be a death run going after a group of men probably already dead. They were captured on October eighteenth."
"We can't just leave them!" Steve exclaimed. No, Bucky can't be dead. He'd know. He'd feel it. Bucky wasn't dead.
"I don't see what you think you can do. You can barely hold the attention of men sorely in need of any form of distracting entertainment. Go back to your dancing and let me worry about my troops." Philips turned away from the man and began to sit back at his desk. Slowly, taking an inordinate amount of time, the man said, "am I understood, Captain?"
Steve glanced over at the map, the location of the base at Azzano clearly laid out, he soaked in as much of the information as he could. "Yes, sir." Steve ground out before turning around and marching out into the rain.
"And you can wipe that look off your face, Agent." Philips straightened, not even turning to look at Peggy. "Don't you have something better to do?"
"Sir," she said and turned on her heel, following Steve.
xxx
Setting: AU: Wednesday, November 3, 1943: Austrian Alps, Austria and Azzano, Italy
"He's possibly a bit mad, but he's the best pilot around. We're lucky he was here delivering supplies and technology," Peggy said quietly to Steve as she made her way towards the cockpit.
Snapping the clasp shut on Teresa's stolen helmet, Steve nodded.
"We're almost there," Howard Stark, the inventor and playboy, called from the pilot's chair. "Not sure how close I can get you. There's enemy fire coming in." The man expertly maneuvered amid explosions and anti-aircraft bombardments.
"Just get me in as close as you can and then you two get the hell out of here." Steve's eyes hardened in determination. He was going to get Bucky back. Bucky was alive. He'd get him back.
"Oh, Peg, I was wondering, since we're in Italy, did you want to stop for a little fondue tonight?" Howard asked without looking over.
Peggy didn't even answered, frowning at Howard then looking back out at the war-torn skyscape through the windscreen.
Steve eyes snapped towards Howard and then back to Peggy. Didn't Peggy have a girlfriend? Lizette? Steve had always seemed to have a really great sense of smell . . . but ever since the serum, he could smell things so much more . . . especially people. A strong, pungent smell radiated from Peggy, one that seemed to match the annoyed expression she wore; whereas a sweet, light scent, almost floral, wafted from Howard. Steve couldn't help but think it was an odd cologne for a man.
Turning back to Steve, arms crossed and lips pursed, Peggy said "we should be able to get you to a drop zone soon. We'll have to fly in low to find a landing area near the factory."
"You're not landing," Steve stated firmly as he picked up a parachute across from him.
Worried, Peggy exclaimed, "Wait, Steve, you haven't been trained in paratrooping. Howard can . . ."
"No," Steve shook his head, "I'm not putting you two in any more danger than you already are."
"We might not be able to swing back and pick you up right away," Howard called back, glancing over at Steve from behind his almost ridiculous-looking over-sized civilian flying goggles. "But, we've got a transponder for you. You set it off, we'll come find you."
Steve nodded and slipped the straps of the parachute over his shoulders.
Peggy held out the little box with the single switch. "They're going to be heavily protected. Intel says they might be producing weapons from this factory, so they'll be well armed."
"I'll figure it out," Steve grabbed the transponder and slipped it into the breast pocket of his leather jacket.
"Wait until you're clear from the plane but before you hit the trees to pull the cord." She pointed out the primary chute release.
Nodding, Steve turned and opened the door, he felt the rush of cold wind hit his face.
Grabbing his shoulders, Peggy pulled him down for a quick kiss on the cheek. "Take care, Steve. Don't forget to call when you're free." The woman seemed to give off waves of protectiveness, as she often did around Steve since he'd been enhanced. Oddly, she hadn't done that much worrying before he'd transformed into a muscular, healthy adonis.
"I won't. Thank you for this." Steve took a deep breath and, before he could have any second thoughts, he jumped out of the plane. I'm coming Bucky.
Unfortunately, Steve's first jump didn't go exactly well. He managed to get his chute open, but he wound up tangled in the trees, harness pulling tight. Dangling among the branches, he would make a prime target for snipers and even the regular enemy gunman. Struggling, Steve managed to unclasp the shoulder straps and he tumbled to the ground, groaning softly as he hit with a hard thud. He quietly rolled to his feet and ran towards the compound.
Seeing a truck barreling down the road, Steve hid behind a large thicket of bushes and waited for it to pass. As he slid into the truck, under a flap, he froze when he saw two enemies in the back.
"Hello," Steve said and then before they could even raise their guns all the way, he grabbed them both, knocking their heads together, and threw them both out of the truck.
Once on the compound, he made way in through the front door, relatively easy. He made way down the echoing hall amid great machines, shelf after shelf of odd weapons lined the walls; Steve couldn't help but be fascinated by the strange blue glow they all gave off. He picked up something that resembled a very small gun clip, with a blue glow at the tip, and pocketed it.
Steve found his way into a large room with barred circles in the floor, looking down. Over one, he watched as a group of dirty, exhausted looking men were shoved into a round barred cell. A guy with a bowler hat growled,"You know, Fritz, someday I'll have a stick of my own."
The cell door clanged shut in the American's face: that accent couldn't be anything but upper east coast. The smell of angry, exhausted, frustrated men almost overwhelmed Steve's sensitive nose.
Making his way down to the prison level, Steve saw very few guards, which was both disturbing and surprising.
After disabling the guards surrounding the cells, Steve unlocked the cell doors asking, "Does anyone know a Sergeant Barnes?" He figured using Bucky's formal title would be safer for everyone, no one could suspect that Bucky and he were anything other than friends.
A tall, lanky man with a small mustache and a proper-sounding British accent, reminiscent of Peggy's, informed their erstwhile rescuer "There is an isolation ward in the factory. They take the injured and sick there. Men don't return from there."
Slapping the immense, tall redhead with the bowler hat on the shoulder, Steve said in the most commanding yet friendly tone he could muster, "get out. Start walking. Take down whoever you can. I'll meet up with you with anyone else I find."
Dugan sneered when he saw a Japanese man walking out of the the cell, "are we taking everyone?"
The man angrily lifted his identification tags and glared at the big redhead. "I'm from Fresno, Ace," Jim Morita growled back.
Steve froze when he saw a man walking out of the cell wearing Bucky's jacket, "Wait? Where did you get that? When?"
The small Frenchman looked surprised to be directly accosted by the American. He lifted his hands in a totally gallic gesture and shook his head. "Je ne parle pas l'anglais."
Gabe looked between Steve and Dernier as he translated for the Frenchman. "He doesn't speak English." He gave nothing away.
Steve stepped a little closer, eyes wide with fear, "That's Bucky's! Sergeant Barnes's!
Gabe turned back to Dernier to translate for the frantic American, as if he hadn't been the one to give away Bucky's jacket in the first place, "Qui appartient à Bucky! Il appartient au sergent Barnes!"
Looking troubled and very sympathetic, the French Resistance Fighter said, "Il a obtenu il y a des jours de maladie. Il n'a pas retourné ici. Je suis désolé, mon ami."
Gabe's eyes fell and he gave Steve a mournful look, "He got sick days ago. He has not returned here. I am sorry, my friend." He knew he should give his own account to this man, but Gabe still felt sick and guilty for letting his Sergeant go with that black-clad Serbian guard.
Steve's heart stopped. No, Bucky wasn't dead. He couldn't be dead. The blond turned away from the prisoners without another word and towards the wing the men had directed him to. He'd find his husband . . . alive. He began down the long hall.
Luckily the area where Bucky was being kept wasn't heavily guarded, and Steve only had to take out a few guards patrolling the nearly deserted, dark hallway. Just outside one room, he could hear a faint voice chanting:
"Sergeant James Barnes, three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight."
Before Steve could get inside, a small man in a suit and hat ran out, giving Steve a startled look before scuttling past him and down the hall. Inside the room stood a tall black-haired man doing up his belt.
The man seemed surprised to see Steve, and he grabbed for a weapon, but the blond threw his over-large awkward shield and knocked the guy across the head. The man went down onto his knees with a curse in an unfamiliar language. Rushing over, Steve brought his fist down hard on the man's face, and after just a few blows the guard's eyes rolled to the back of his head. As the man fell unconscious, and silence once again fell over the room, the chanting could be heard from the metal bed.
"Sergeant James Barnes, three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight."
On the bed lay a tall, malnourished brunet with hollow grey-blue eyes, covered in bruises on his neck and waist; his T-shirt hid anything on his torso. His feet were bare and his pants were loose and barely pulled up to his waist, and he was covered in old blood and other humanly bodily fluids. He smelled of stale semen, blood, feces and urine; what he didn't smell of was a human's natural essence.
He opened cracked lips and murmured, "Sergeant James Barnes, three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight."
It was Bucky!
Steve felt a swell of happiness at seeing his husband alive, but the joyful feeling quickly fell away as he took in the brunet's condition, his lack of Bucky's normal comforting scent. The blond muttered, "Oh my God, Bucky!" He made quick work of ripping the restraints off his husband and he ran over to grab the boots from the corner of the room.
Helping his lover to a sitting position, Steve knelt down and slipped the shoes on over Bucky's bare feet. "Bucky," Steve's eyes trailed down the brunet's body again, he tried not to focus on the semen that covered his husband's clothing. Grabbing some crumpled, dropped papers, Steve shoved them into Bucky's shirt for warmth.
Dazed, thirsty, hungry, and in severe pain, Bucky let his dull eyes fall onto the beautiful Adonis before him. Hell, he must be hallucinating. Steve couldn't be here. He was as beautiful as he always had been, but Bucky knew his husband was back in Brooklyn teaching art classes. Damn, Zola had managed to give him something that made him hallucinate now. "I thought you were smaller . . ." he told the beautiful mirage.
Cupping Bucky's face gently, Steve pressed his lips to Bucky's and smiled softly, "and I thought you were dead."
"Getting there," Bucky moaned and reached to grab his trousers before they slipped off his too-thin hips. He blinked several times, clutching the unfastened material, barely aware that his belt hung loose.
Steve's heart ached at the sight of Bucky's pants undone. He didn't want to think about what sadistic things they had been doing to his husband . . . but the evidence was really hard to ignore. He fastened the trousers and belt for his incapacitated husband.
"Predan thinks I'm pretty." Bucky spit on the floor, blood and dirt mixing as it spattered to the cement. His voice had begun to regain his normal defiance, and, hallucination or not, Bucky would happily follow his Steve out of this hellhole. "Don't like the rooms. The room service sucks. And the blue cocktails are to die for."
"Let's get you outta here," Steve grimaced and helped Bucky to his feet, completely unused to supported his husband's weight, which was far less than it had been when they'd seen each other in the summer.
"Yeah. Hey! I got friends here. Mind if we stop by and pick 'em up?" Bucky asked, leaning into the comforting strength of Steve. When did Steve get so tall? So solid?
Steve was starting to get worried. Bucky was acting like none of this was happening . . . that he hadn't been a POW and tortured for weeks. "I . . I already got em out, Buck. C'mon let's go."
With a nod, the brunet let Steve guide him from the isolation ward. As they made their way semi-stealthily down the corridors, Bucky asked softly, "What happened to you?"
Steve sighed softly and said quickly, "I joined the Army."
Huh, just like his stubborn ass husband to manage to get himself in this kind of trouble. Joined the Army, hunh? More like threatened them in a back alley. "Did it hurt?" he asked, thinking of how many fist fights Steve must have indulged in while they'd been separated.
"A little." Steve didn't think now was the time for this conversation . . . but Bucky seemed so out of it. His husband must be under the influence of something.
"Is it permanent?" he asked, once more referring to Steve's unexpected transformation. Actually, he looked as Bucky had always mentally pictured him . . . but his hands could now see what his mind always saw.
Steve bit back a groan, instead he answered nonchalantly, "So far."
Bucky nodded and buried his face in Steve's neck as they stumbled along. He inhaled deeply and murmured, "sweet, sweet, Stevie. You really are here." He blinked, his eyes focusing at last.
Smiling softly, Steve nodded, "yes, Buck. I'm here . . . I'm right here."
xxx
Setting: AU: Saturday, November 6, 1943: Azzano, Italy
After the cheers Bucky had demanded, the brunet nearly collapsed. The three day march appeared to have sapped what strength he'd gotten from realizing his husband had come to save him, defying all odds in the process.
Steve noticed the paling in his husband's skin almost immediately and caught Bucky before he could fall. "Hey, Bucky . . . let's get you to medical, yeah?"
The brunet nodded without comment, leaning heavily into the taller, sturdier man. It felt odd, but somehow right, to be able to lean on Steve. The other man had so much inner strength, it seemed like that strength had exploded outward into this new, muscular form. For the time, Bucky relished the idea of not having to be the strong one.
At the medical tent, the medic on triage shook his head. "Full up in here. Bring him to a tent and I'll come round and check on him. I'll be starting a round of tents in a few minutes." With that the man looked over Bucky and quickly wrote out a tag, handing part to Steve. "Attach it to him somehow so I can look at his papers when I get there."
The thick piece of paper said 'brown hair, grey eyes, multiple injuries, unable to stand without assistance, category two.'
"Back to your place, sailor?" Bucky joked, and the medic actually laughed.
"It's Captain America, right?" the medica asked. "If you can find him a cot, it'd be better, but it's mostly bedrolls and pallets available. Thank you for making my next week sleepless. These boys deserve it." The medic saluted Steve then turned back into the medical tent.
Steve flushed and gave the medic a grateful nod before leading Bucky away, towards his own private tent. Once they reached the large tent, Steve pushed open the flap and helped his husband inside, grateful to finally be alone with his lover. The blond led Bucky towards the large cot pushed to the side of the tent, "here, sit down, Buck."
"Sit?" Can't I collapse instead?" he asked softly, but obeyed with a sigh of relief.
Swallowing, Steve rubbed the back of his neck and turned to the desk on the other side of the room where a pitcher of water and a glass sat. Someone must have stocked his tent when the refugees had arrived . . . that was fast.
As if to himself, Bucky murmured, "he's still alive, ain't he?" He dropped his head into his hands.
Pouring the water into the glass, Steve walked back over and handed it over to Bucky, "who? Who's still alive?"
"Predan," Bucky answered, the word sounding Slavic.
Predan thinks I'm pretty. Those words echoed in Steve's mind; he wasn't dumb . . . he knew Bucky had been raped and the thought left a hole so painful in Steve's chest that it was nearly impossible to breathe. "I . . . I don't know, Buck. The whole place blew up . . . maybe he went down with it?"
"Good," bitter anger coursed through Bucky's voice. "I hope he rots in hell."
Steve had no idea how to deal with this: what he should say . . . what he shouldn't.
A knock on the piece of wood hanging outside Steve's tent interrupted the uncomfortable conversation. Without waiting, the medic opened the tent flap and walked inside, carrying a box of supplies. "Thought you might've come here, Captain. Nowhere else has room. A lot of the men are going to be sleeping under the stars tonight." He set the large wooden box on the camp desk and turned to Bucky, who still sat in the dejected pose. "Fortunately the able-bodied and walking wounded are giving over their tents to the category twos and threes."
Steve winced. He had no right to this large tent . . . the comfortable cot; he hadn't done anything. . . nothing to deserve such special treatment, while men who'd been captured and forced into slavery had to sleep out in the open that night.
With a nod, the medic smiled. "Well, seems you chose one of our more serious injured to give your bunk to." He strode over and reached for Bucky's shirt, pulling it off the man with absolutely no resistance from the brunet. Lashes, bruises, needle punctures, and swelling all seemed present, though fading. One would think Bucky had been tortured two weeks ago rather than three days. The crumpled papers fell from Bucky's T-Shirt, but the medic ignored them.
Steve looked at the injuries, he felt his hatred for Hydra grow exponentially. They did this to his Bucky . . . his love . . . his husband.
Wrinkling his nose at the stench, and the dried fluids all over the patient's flesh, the medic reached down to unfasten Bucky's belt and pants. The Sergeant's eyes shot to Steve, wide with alarm, and he began a low chanting, "Sergeant James Barnes . . ."
Immediately, Steve knelt down by Bucky's side and clasped his husband's hand in a comforting embrace. Steve didn't care about what the medic saw . . . he needed to calm his lover down. "It's alright, Bucky. You're safe. You're with me. With Steve. You're safe."
"This man didn't come from the field, did he? He's one of the POWs you brought in today." With a sigh, the man slid Bucky's entire uniform off. The patient's drawers had gone missing during his imprisonment. Quickly, the doctor laid Bucky down on his back and began an examination, despite the dirt and filth.
Steve tried not to focus on the blood, cum and grime all over Bucky's legs and ass. He tried to focus solely on his lover's face. Finally, the blond detected a different scent from Bucky: fear.
Bucky kept up his low chant, eyes fastened on Steve's face. He moved as told, turned over so the man could do an exam back there, then turned again, but never did he even glance at the man touching him in such intimate places.
Finally, the medic nodded. "He needs cleaning and medicines. Rest for a couple of days. He was sodomized about a week ago and tore. He will heal, perhaps another week will help. Until then, the area needs careful cleaning. He's malnourished and needs food, dehydrated so needs water, and he's been injected with something. I'd like to take blood to see if there are traces of it left."
"Bucky," Steve called out gently, "Is it okay if this man takes your blood?"
The Sergeant fell silent. "Needles? Yeah, don't mind needles. Go ahead. Better than Predan." Bucky looked to the ceiling and held out his arm willingly.
Steve wanted to go back to the factory and find this bastard named Predan and kill him. Nobody hurt his Bucky . . . Steve vowed to himself never to let Bucky get hurt again, not if he could help it.
With a soft frown, the medic gathered his supplies and drew several vials of blood. He took some medicines from his box and put them on the desk. "Look, you're a real nice guy, Captain, giving him your bunk. I'm gonna ask you to keep him here, without any other patients, where other soldiers don't hear what happened to him. Some people might think he asked for it and then he'd lose his career . . . and maybe be executed."
Steve's eyes flashed over to the medic, fury and pain swarming in those bright blue eyes, "he was tortured! He had no say in what they did to him! Surely they can't kill him for being forcibly . . . raped!"
"I understand, Captain." The man hissed back. "Keep your voice down. This is war. He can get shipped back to the states for such severe injuries. And if his combat fatigue is as bad as it seems," the medic waved towards the softly muttering brunet, "he can be institutionalize for his own safety. I'm trying to give you an alternative. Your records," the man shook his head, "yeah, I read them, says your next of kin is a man names Barnes. This is he?"
Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Steve nodded and looked back at Bucky, who seemed completely unaware of his surroundings ever since the medic had started his exam. "Yeah. This is James Barnes. Thank you, I know you're just trying to help. He'll stay here with me."
With an answering nod, the medic went on, "There is a theory going around in medical circles saying anal sex can make a man queer. Some even believe that anal rape can turn a man queer. That would get your friend killed. I don't think rape has anything to do with sexual preference. I'm willing to bet it might turn a man away from such future contact." He sighed and began re-packing his box. "But I have to fill in his file honestly. Best not to draw too much attention to the sodomy. So, if someone comes asking, let them know I recommended recovery close to the front for a couple of days or so then a return to active duty unless he proves a danger to our side." The medic looked up. "You need to wash him, feed him, and medicate him. He cannot be left alone tonight. The first twenty-four hours after rescue are prime suicide time."
"I understand. Thank you," Steve looked back at the medic, "I'll keep a close eye on him."
"Now, I will check on him again tomorrow, of course, but if he seems to take a turn in the night, come get me." The medic picked up his box and nodded. "The medicines have instruction sheets with them. If you need access to hot water, I recommend go to the USO, since they've got extra rations for those girls. You're a handsome guy. They might accommodate you."
"No," Bucky called out softly. "Don't beg for me, Stevie. I'm fine."
Steve actually rolled his eyes and let out a small huff of annoyance at his husband's stubbornness.
Snorting inelegantly, the medic shook his head. "As an officer, you also have extra rations, but you might have to give up your own bath water to do it." The man turned and scooped up the discarded rumpled papers then left, on his way quickly to the next tent over.
Slowly, Steve reached out a brushed a stray lock of hair out of Bucky's face. The man still muttered incoherently and the blond felt so completely and utterly helpless. "Buck . . . we need to get ya washed off. I can wipe you down if you just want to stay in the tent."
Falling silent at his name, now that he was alone with his husband, Bucky lifted his eyes. "Don't like doctors. Barbarians." The man pushed up easily from the bed, seemingly not exhausted in the least. "I can walk, Steve." The scent of fear lessened, changing slowly to one of a wounded man . . . reminiscent of Bucky after a more serious fight back home.
"You need to rest, baby." The word slipped out with much thought.
"I need to be clean, Cariad," he countered then looked directly at the tent flap a heartbeat or two before it opened.
Steve looked over, Bucky was still nude, and the blond glared at the sudden intrusion. Moving to cover most of his husband's body with his own, Steve stood up and said, "yes?"
The small Frenchman who had Bucky's jacket offered a smile. He'd proven himself quite inventive on the three day return to base, concocting explosives seemingly out of nothing. He slipped out of the warm, if dirty, jacket and held it out. "Je vous remercie de me prêter votre manteau, le sergent. Si jamais je peux vous rembourser, vous allez me dire, oui?"
Looking over his shoulder at Bucky, Steve looked almost cautious and a little confused . . . he had no idea what the other man had just said.
"Keep it," Bucky said then said it again in French.
With a smile, the man spoke rapidly, hand over his chest, and Bucky nodded. "His name is Jacques Dernier. He is a civilian in the French Resistance, Steve." The tall brunet seemed more at ease, more in control now that he was doing something so familiar to him as translating French to English and back.
Giving Dernier a friendly nod, Steve didn't move from his spot, still trying to cover Bucky as much as he could.
Dernier shot off more rapid French at the pair and hurried from the tent, slipping Bucky's jacket back on.
"He said he's going to get me some water so I can wash." Bucky sighed. "He also said I'm the only one that survived the isolation ward." The brunet ran a hand through his crusty, dirty hair then winced.
Turning back to look at his lover, Steve crouched down; he was thankful Bucky wouldn't have to walk to the bathing area. "You're the strongest man I know, Buck."
"Know how I wound up in the ward?" Bucky looked at Steve, his hollowed eyes tired again. "I got sick. For the first time since this war started, I got sick. I had some sort of stomach infection . . . was coughing up blood and pus and shit. I got pneumonia, too. That freak, Arnim Zola healed me somehow. I was in that place for almost two weeks." Shaking his head, placing his head once more in his hands, he moaned, "everyone else died before two days would end."
Steve didn't know what to say, he felt so lost . . . so helpless to do anything. While Bucky had been getting tortured and experimented on, Steve had been performing in fancy theaters and sleeping in plush beds. "I'm so sorry, Buck. I . . . I'm sorry."
"Why?" Bucky looked at his husband. "You came for me. I had no idea you were coming. I was waiting to just die." He stood, ignoring his nudity, and strode to the desk, picking up one of the medicine jars and studying it. He seemed to be moving easier than earlier. His scent remained wounded and weak, but it had begun to return once more, bringing with it a sense of relief to Steve.
Standing, Steve made his way over to his lover and looked down at the jar that Bucky held. "I missed you," the blond whispered quietly, not wanting to risk anyone overhearing.
Turning his head, Bucky offered a soft, sad smile. "I missed you, too, Cariad." He leaned his forehead against Steve's. With a soft chuckle, he said, "wow. You're taller than me, now. Rather late to get a growth spurt, punk."
"It was a serum," Steve offered on a breath; he needed to tell his husband the truth.
"Blue and glowing?" Bucky asked as if he actually knew. He didn't sound surprised in the least.
Looking down at the brunet with confused eyes, Steve nodded, "Uh . . . yeah? How'd you know?"
"Yeah, Zola shoved me full of blue shit every day. Figured our side wasn't above testing a few tricks on our boys, either." Bucky put the jar down, but kept facing his husband. He reached over and clasped his right hand with Steve's left.
"I know I shoulda wrote you about it . . . I'm sorry I lied to you, Buck. I didn't want to worry you." Steve's eyes fell from Bucky's face and he looked down at their entwined hands.
Confusion crossed the man's light eyes as he straightened. "Lied? Whatcha talking about? Steve, you already told me about the cancer." He reached for his husband with his left hand, too.
Cringing slightly, Steve shook his head . . . he really shouldn't be doing this the day they got back to base. Bucky was still hurt.
The tent flap opened and Bucky looked over, letting Steve's hands go but not moving. Dernier and Gabe came in carrying a huge basin of steaming water. It looked like something the cooks would use for potatoes. They set the large tub down.
"Voila!" Dernier exclaimed.
"Thank you, Dernier and - -" Steve looked at the other man, he hadn't gotten everyone's names yet.
"Private Gabe Jones, communications," Bucky introduced his radioman. He seemed unabashed by his state of injury, dirt, or undress.
"Thank you Dernier and Jones," Steve smiled gently and gave both men a respectful nod.
Bucky moved to the tub and knelt with a wince. He began soaping up a cloth. "Hey, Gabe, can you and Dum Dum come back in about half an hour? I want you to properly meet my best friend in the whole world when my balls aren't swinging in the breeze."
Gabe chuckled lightly, "Sure thing, Sergeant." And with that, the private grabbed Dernier's bicep; looking at Steve, Gabe nodded respectfully, "Captain."
Once they were alone again, Bucky let out a sigh and began washing his crotch before anything else. He then moved to achingly begin trying to wash his ass, hissing and wincing as he twisted to get it clean.
"Why don't ya go lie on the cot? I can help get your back," Steve offered, wanting to do anything to help his husband.
"Okay," Bucky agreed readily. He lay back on the cot with a sigh. "I feel him all over me, Steve. Inside me." He shuddered, wounded eyes meeting Steve's.
Taking up the cloth, ringing out the excess water, Steve knelt down by the edge of the cot and very carefully began to wash away all the grime from Bucky's pale skin. "I know, baby . . . we'll get you all cleaned up . . . you'll feel a lot better." He kept his tone low so that only Bucky could hear him.
Nodding, Bucky sighed and let Steve wash his face and arms before burying his face into his arms. Slowly, his body began to tremble and small noises broke from him, getting slightly louder and louder. Finally, Bucky broke into sobs.
Dropping the cloth into the basin, Steve immediately wrapped his arms around Bucky and cradled him close to his chest, "It's okay, Buck. You're safe. It's okay." He didn't know what to do . . . what was the right thing to say in these situations?
Steve ran his fingers through Bucky's, now damp, hair and with his other hand rubbed soothing circles on the smaller man's back.
After several long minutes of crying, Bucky fell into a quiet, shuddering state, lifting his face to balance his chin on his arms. His face was tear streaked but clean and he seemed less eerily calm and more controlled and self-assured. He rolled slightly to lean against Steve's wet torso. "Stevie . . . I love you," he said simply, barely whispering.
Pressing his lips to Bucky's hair, Steve murmured, "I love you too, Buck."
"I think I'm really messed up," he went on. "I'm afraid to sleep." He hadn't slept the entire three day march back to base.
Closing his eyes to stop the tears that wanted to spill from his eyes, Steve took a deep, shuddering breath. "You're not messed up, Buck. It'll be okay . . . it'll just take some time. I'll be with you tonight . . . I ain't leaving your side."
A knock on the wood outside Steve's tent signaled someone's arrival. Bucky barely glanced over, lying on his front on the wet, dirty bunk. He began pushing off the bedding. "Need a towel . . ."
Steve shook his head; he was getting really sick of all these interruptions. Standing, Steve decided to meet whoever had arrived at the entrance, not wanting everyone to see Bucky naked. He didn't think it had been thirty minutes yet . . . so it shouldn't be Jones coming back with Dum Dum.
Peggy stood, her side to the door so she wasn't looking inside. She held a duffle bag that seemed to be stuffed full of things. Under one arm, she carried fresh bedding. "Rogers?" she asked formally. "I understand you're housing one of our POWs. Here are replacement uniforms and other gear for him as well as linens if you need them. I've got a Major Falsworth with me with food and drinks for you both, if he's hungry?" She glanced up at Steve, not looking behind him, "we can leave them out here for you."
Steve glanced over at Bucky, who was trying to wrap a towel around himself, and then back at Peggy. He offered her a kind smile, "we're trying to get him all cleaned up . . ." Steve shifted awkwardly, he didn't know if he should announce that Bucky was nude, although the notion seemed to bother Steve more than it bothered Bucky.
"Major, place the box right by the door. Thank you." Peggy ordered the man, a man it turned out that Steve recognized from the prison and their march back to base. After the Major put down his burden, Peggy lowered the duffle and offered Steve the linens. "Shall I return tonight, Captain, to log him in? We're trying to do a full census."
"Yes, I want to give him some time to rest. Tonight will be great," Steve said.
"Might I say something, sir?" the Major interrupted softly. He kept his eyes respectfully on Steve and not inside the man's private quarters. Offering his hand, he went on, "Major James Montgomery Falsworth, sir. I'm what remains of Her Majesty's Third Independent Parachute Brigade. I would like to thank you, sir, for saving my life."
Steve shook the major's hand firmly and offered the man a smile; he was still not used to people thanking him . . . or calling him 'sir.' "I'm sorry about your unit, Major Falsworth. I'm glad I was there to help."
"Yes, and due to your heroism, my entire until was not lost. I will carry their memory with honor." The man gave a formal salute and turned, walking away quickly towards Peggy's tent, where Denier sat, as well.
Peggy smiled. "He wanted to meet you," she said to the darkness above Steve's shoulder, trying not to breach his privacy. "You're quite the hero, whether you wanted to be or not. Those men know they wouldn't have survived without you."
Steve flushed and rubbed the back of his neck, "I don't feel like a hero."
Sliding her eyes carefully to meet Steve's, she said, "how's it feel to serve your country?"
"I have no idea what I'm doing, Peggy," the informal name slipped out before Steve could stop himself, "I mean . . . Agent Carter."
"Peggy's fine, Steve. We are friends after all." She nodded. "I'll be back later. You take care of . . . James." She winked ever so slightly, letting him know she was quite aware he'd managed to save his husband.
Swallowing, Steve bent down, the sheets tucked firmly under his arm, and picked up the box of food, which held enough for six men. Turning back into the tent, he called out, "ya hungry, Buck? Peggy and Falsworth brought us some food."
Bucky walked over, the towel secure around his waist at last, and took the box from Steve, glancing with a puzzled frown at the duffle bag beside the door. His name was stenciled across the side, proving she'd managed to hunt up Bucky's own gear. "Peggy? The dame from basics?" For a moment it sounded like he'd referred to Steve's bootcamp, which he hadn't known about before, but he went on, "still pretty," proving he'd seen her before. Bucky turned and moved back to the desk to start pulling out the food.
Holding back the protest he wanted to speak as Bucky took the box from his arms, Steve smiled brightly and nodded. The blond turned back to grab the rest of the things piled outside his tent, "yeah . . . she's real nice too."
With a glance at Steve, Bucky snorted. "You finally find a pretty dame and she outranks you," he teased lightly.
Stepping back into the area fully, Steve set down the duffel bag near the desk. He walked back over to Bucky; quietly he murmured, "I don't need no dame when I got someone as pretty as you."
Bucky visibly cringed, hands freezing on the food.
Immediately Steve knew he had said something wrong. "Buck? I'm - - I'm sorry . . ." Steve looked at his husband with wide eyes. "I - - I don't know what . . . I'm sorry."
"Don't wanna be pretty," Bucky muttered and left the food, going to his returned duffle and beginning to roughly root through it until he found reasonably clean drawers and undershirt. He pulled them on quickly. He reached for trousers afterwards and began to pull them on, too, his identification tags swinging against his chest as he moved.
Steve didn't move, his mouth opened several times but no words came out . . . how was he supposed to respond to that? He didn't want to make things worse. "I - - I . . . uh . . ."
"Shut up, Steve," Bucky sighed. "Just change the bed, okay?" He reached into his bag and pulled out a shirt to put on, leaving his feet bare.
Eyes falling, Steve nodded and walked over to the bed and quickly stripped the dirty sheets. He had no idea how this was going to work . . . Bucky was obviously traumatized. Maybe being sent home wouldn't be a bad thing . . . Winifred could look after him.
A knock on the wood signaled the final return of Gabe with Dum Dum. Bucky opened the flap and, sounding surprised and just a little amused, the brunet said, "come on in. I'm sure Steve'll be glad of the more than overwhelming circus. But I ain't sharing my food, so hope you brought your own."
Steve really didn't feel like any more visitors but Bucky had asked them to come back. He didn't turn to greet the two men, instead focused on putting the clean sheets on the cot. However, Steve couldn't help but notice Bucky was happier when one of the other soldiers came . . . maybe his husband felt too uncomfortable to be with Steve alone right now.
A defiant voice answered back, "yeah, we brought plenty, Sarge." The sounds of many pairs of boots entered the dirt-floored tent. "So, you are as tall as I recall. Thought I was imagining things what with the unexpected rescue."
After he got the last sheet in place, Steve turned around and forced a smile to the five men and Peggy.
With a nod for Steve, Peggy gestured to the space, small but adequate enough. "Men, sit to eat while I take your information. Captain Rogers will be leaving shortly, so speak quickly."
"Leaving?" Bucky stiffened, eyes momentarily going wide then his expression slid back into his nearly carefree look.
Looking at Peggy with a sharp expression, "leaving?" Steve echoed.
"Colonel Phillips wishes to discuss that map you mentioned and the weapons your team recovered, Captain," she said crisply, sinking onto the foot of the cot.
Flopping onto the floor, the small Asian guy who'd claimed to be from Fresno looked up, chewing a bite of sandwich with a smile. After swallowing a long gulp of water from a canteen, he said, "Name's Private Jim Morita. Thanks for coming for us, Captain. I'm an Army Ranger."
Steve forced his eyes away from Peggy to smile at Morita, "Glad I could help . . . it's very nice to meet you, officially."
Bucky sank onto the bed near Peggy without really looking at her. He gestured towards his own unit members. "That's Private Gabe Jones, you met him earlier. And this is Sergeant Timothy Dugan. Dum Dum's been with me since basics, Steve. This is Steve Rogers, my best friend from back in Brooklyn." Some look transferred between Bucky and Dugan at the brunet's words, like an unspoken understanding.
Catching the look, Steve furrowed his brows and looked at Bucky and then at Dugan. "Bucky told me a lot about you when he got back from basics . . . it's an honor to meet you."
Dum Dum smiled brightly, "Only good things I hope . . . Sarge wouldn't shut up about you at bootcamp . . . though I do think he said you were a bit smaller."
Bucky snorted. "Yeah, well, Steve's gotten a bit taller than I expected, but it's not a problem. Now I won't crick my neck looking down at him and yelling." He drank some water.
Steve flushed brightly, the tips of his ears even turning a dark red.
Peggy and Falsworth had been speaking quietly, apparently doing her census. Finally, she looked over and smiled softly, then began quietly questioning Morita, leaving Monty to look at the main group. The British airman reached for a sandwich from Morita's stash and offered, "it must be a relief to have found your friend, Captain. Were you in different units?"
Choking slightly on the water he'd been drinking, Steve blushed more, "yeah . . . it's a big relief. And I guess you could say that . . ." he didn't really want to go into detail about how he'd only three days ago been a dancing monkey for the USO. Steve didn't want these men to find out how much of a fake he actually was . . . he didn't want Bucky to know how he'd lied to him again.
Dernier chuckled low, though he seemed unaware of exactly what was being said. He was sitting next to Gabe and chuckled once in awhile at whatever Bucky's private said in soft French.
Finally, Bucky shook his head. "Well, I'll never doubt him again." He offered his husband a smile. "I'm just glad to be in a real tent, eating real food, and breathin' real free air."
"Ain't that the truth!" Dum Dum hollered happily, bringing the last bite of his sandwich to his lips.
Bucky was already on his third sandwich, and he finally seemed to be slowing down a little. He might have been starving for two weeks or so, but that was more food than Steve had ever seen him consume. And with so recent an illness, it was highly probably it would come back up.
Steve watched his husband with worried eyes; he knew Bucky must be hungry . . . but he didn't want the brunet to push it. The last thing Bucky needed was to start throwing up, but Steve didn't say anything . . . he didn't want to embarrass his lover. He'd already said something incredibly stupid; Steve didn't want to add something else to that list.
"Captain Rogers? Do you have some time?" the colonel's voice sounded outside of the tent.
Sighing quietly, Steve looked over at Bucky apologetically and answered, "yes, sir." And then the captain walked out of the tent. He'd already broken a promise to Bucky; he'd told his husband that he wouldn't leave his side tonight. A wave of guilt rushed through Steve.
Dum Dum scooted closer to Bucky and pulled something out of his jacket pocket, handing the dirtied, wrinkled paper back to the sergeant. "Here ya go, Sarge," he whispered.
Bucky took the envelope back in trembling fingers. Steel-blue eyes widening, tears forming, he whispered, "thank God they didn't get this." He shuddered. "Thanks, Dum."
"I kept it safe for you, Bucky." Dum Dum said softly after a short pause he asked, "you didn't know about him . . . growing?"
"No." Bucky shook his head. "He might of said something about a serum, but I think I was hallucinating at the time." He sighed.
Peggy looked over. Softly, clinically, she said, "Captain Rogers was part of a military program that helped enhanced soldiers; however, we cannot duplicate the process. The captain is the only one to benefit from our work."
Thinking about that, frowning, Bucky drawled slowly, "couldn't have picked a better guy then." He slid the envelope into his dufflebag. "He ain't gonna get sick or somethin', right, ma'am?"
"He has passed all examinations and has proven very resilient. I believe he will out last the war by many years. However, please ask Steve about this further. He has permission to explain it to his next of kin." She nodded to Bucky then began questioning the other men there.
Eventually the mini 'I've been saved' party wound down and the men left the tent. Peggy walked from the tent just after the very large Bostonian.
Dum Dum stepped to the side leaning up against the strong, wooden support post on the left side of the tent. He'd volunteered to stay outside the tent until Steve got back, that way if Bucky needed anything someone would be there.
Bucky peeked outside the tent flap and offered Dum Dum a relieved smile. "You sure, Tim?"
"Quit askin', I'm sure. Get some sleep, kid," Dugan flashed the sergeant a bright smile.
Taking a breath, Bucky asked, "what do you think of . . ." he gestured with his head in the direction Steve had left. "Special, huh? Fought his fuckin' way into that hell single handed."
"Special, alright," Dugan snorted and shook his head lightly.
"Hey, I never said he was smart, just special," Bucky shot back and disappeared into the tent. Bucky slid into the bed and nearly hugged his body against the flimsy tent wall, eyes wide and watching the tent door for long minutes before the events of the past two weeks, and the major adrenaline rush of the last few days, clashed, sending the young Sergeant nodding off into an uneasy sleep.
Only about an hour or two had passed before Agent Carter strolled by and checked on Dum Dum. She nodded and lifted her foot to move off when a piercing, soul-wrenching shriek came from inside the private tent. "What the bloody hell?" She turned and flung the flap aside, running to the thrashing man's bedside, despite the darkness inside the tent.
Dum Dum jumped into action and followed Carter inside the dark space.
Knowing she couldn't wake him, but that she had to break through his haze of fear, his deep nightmares, Peggy did the first thing she could think of, the thing her mother had always done for her father when he'd returned with shell shock from the first great war. Peggy Carter sealed her mouth over Bucky's and began kissing him.
The screams cut off abruptly and Bucky sat straight up, looking dazed, confused, and terrified. He seemed unaware of the woman sitting on the edge of the cot. Instead, the Sergeant's eyes scanned, unseeing around the darkened tent interior, breath coming in racing pants, hands clutching the sheets. He seemed to be speaking in a foreign language, interspersed with a chanting of his name, rank, and serial number.
"What's wrong? I heard screaming!" Steve asked as he hurried into the tent.
"Nightmares. He's reliving his imprisonment," Peggy announced as she stood and moved out of the way. "I cannot snap him out of this." Peggy glanced at Dum Dum and pushed him gently on the chest to get him out of the tent just as the medic hurried in.
"He had a nightmare," Steve reported as he stepped closer to his lover.
"Everyone get back to your own damn bunks!" Phillips roared, apparently angry at having his debriefing interrupted.
The medic frowned and began examining Bucky, noting the odd chanting, then sighed. "Captain, he's worse than I suspected." The man shook his head. "We do try to keep these victims near their units, under a strict schedule and around familiar people does help. However, this man might be far too mentally scarred. If he cannot keep from shouting, and thus endangering his fellow soldiers, he will need to be institutionalized." Taking a deep breath, the medic continued. "These hospitals have reported success with electroshock therapy and water therapy."
Swallowing hard, Steve nodded, "he'll get better . . . he just needs some rest."
From the doorway, Peggy called, sounding angry, "No sane man could get through the first few nights without nightmares. The torture he went through!"
"Yes, I read the documents Captain Rogers retrieved from that prison. The beatings and rapes were bad enough. But their scientists combined chemicals and injected them, apparently at random, into him for God knows what warped reasons." The medic nodded. "Fine, I recommend he take rest and relaxation with some of his comrades for a couple of days to get over the night terrors. When he returns, I will re-evaluate him."
Steve couldn't let Bucky be sent away to an insane asylum. It was one thing if Bucky simply got sent home to be with his family and rest . . . but to be sent to an institution? No, Steve wouldn't allow his husband to be drugged senseless. "Thank you," Steve nodded at the medic before looking back at Bucky.
The brunet remained huddled in a ball in the middle of the cot, sobbing and chanting to himself.
Finally, the medic sighed. "I can give him a sedative for tonight if you wish, Captain."
"I don't know . . . he - - he can't really make that decision for himself," Steve felt hesitant at drugging Bucky without his consent.
Rolling his eyes, the medic looked straight up at Steve. "You are listed as his next of kin and his proxy. Any decision he is incapable of making falls to you." The man reached into his uniform medicine belt and pulled out a capped syringe.
Bucky needed to sleep . . . he needed rest. Slowly, after a few moments, Steve nodded once, "okay, give him the sedative."
With a firm nod, the medic administered the medicine, which quickly took effect. Sighing in relief as Bucky stopped chanting, stopped trembling, and slipped into an unconscious state, the smaller man stepped back. "If he cannot get over these night terrors, it would be best for him to be locked away until he can recover."
"He's going to get better," Steve said firmly, not even looking at the medic.
"I believe he might, if your determination is any indicator," the man replied encouragingly. "If you need me again, call. Good night, Captain." And the medic left, Colonel Phillips following while he grumbled.
Peggy remained in the tent doorway. She offered Steve a reassuring smile. "Father got better, Steve. With care and much talking."
Turning to look at Peggy, Steve gave her a small smile, "thank you, Peggy."
"Shall I tell Sergeant Dugan he can go back to bed in front of the tent? He'd told Bucky that was where he would sleep since you couldn't be here." Peggy glanced outside then back at Steve.
"Yeah, tell him thank you, please?" Steve felt exhausted but wide awake at the same time.
"Get some sleep. You've been working just as hard as everyone else." She closed the flap and left into the night.
Stripping off his uniform, Steve left on his underwear and undershirt and slipped into the cot next to Bucky, pressing himself flush against the side of the tent, leaving the open edge for Bucky. Wrapping his arm around the sleeping brunet, Steve pressed his lips to the back of his husband's neck. "I love you, Buck," Steve whispered against his lover's skin, relieved to note the calm scent emanating from the wounded man.
Bucky seemed to sigh in response, but that could have just been coincidence.
xxx
Continued in Chapter Twenty-Two: A Day and a Night