If Bucky had thought the Howling Commandos' missions were borderline insane before, he has a whole new bar to set come the first half of 1944.
Stevie takes the mission plan they'd worked out over the holiday straight to the Colonel the minute they report back, and they get their approval to head for Italy. It's relatively familiar territory, because they spent two months out here leading up to the Allied invasion back in September. This time, though, they aren't there to sneak around and soften up German defenses; Phillips wants them on the front lines, attracting attention and being seen, so that's where they go.
Unfortunately, their reception is less than warm. Last time, they showed up with the entire SSR Special Operations Division, and had only limited coordination with the regular troops. The most they ever cooperated with the standard Allied units was to let them know which areas were now weakened, or to request that nobody on their side shoot at them as they crossed back over the front lines. For the most part, the SSR was an independent outfit, answerable to no one outside of their own hierarchy, and that had apparently ruffled some feathers among the normal brass. When they return to Italy in January of 1944, they find that certain officers among Allied Command have five-month-old grudges, honed through the long winter of bloody fighting inching toward Rome.
It manifests in subtle ways, as far as these things go; the Howling Commandos are by far the most famous soldiers in the entire European theater—maybe the entire war—and the constant presence of cameras and reporters flocking around them tempers some of the worst reactions. For instance, no one says a word about their non-regulation clothing, which (by now) has been immortalized in enough films and comics that they might as well be uniforms. No one tries to give Captain America any direct orders to go back to England, either, because she's still property of the SSR, no matter where she's stationed for the moment.
Still, it becomes rapidly clear that while the Howling Commandos might be heroes to the rank and file, they're something of a joke to the upper brass. Not a one of them makes the slightest attempt to take the team seriously as soldiers. Within five minutes of reporting to Allied Command, they get shunted off to the US Fifth Army group with orders to "find a way to make yourselves useful without getting in the way, if that's possible."
Bucky's honestly not that surprised. Before he'd seen Captain America in action for himself, he'd have felt nothing but pity and disgust toward some costumed imposter prancing around and taking credit for the things real soldiers were doing. It had taken a firsthand demonstration of her effectiveness for him to take Captain America seriously, to the point that he'd have agreed, at the time, with the reception Stevie had gotten on that stage from the 107th survivors (although he'd never say so where she could hear him). The rescue had changed all that, of course, and her war record spoke for itself since.
Unfortunately, several of the ranking officers in the Italian campaign seem to be under the impression that any parts of Captain America's official record that haven't been entirely fabricated by the military press office have to be exaggerated, at the very least. In addition, most of them are old guard, the kind of soldiers that look down their noses at covert operations as dishonest, bad form, or "unmanly." (Bucky doesn't miss the irony in that particular moniker.) It's not a question of usefulness or tactical value; it's just not actual battle experience, to them. While Captain America has been playing spy games for the SSR, they've been fighting the real war.
Besides, the one thing everyone knows about Captain Steve Rogers is that his officer's commission is just a publicity gimmick that somehow stuck. 'Captain' America isn't a real officer, or even a real soldier. The officers who don't just ignore her entirely tend to baby her, even without being aware of her gender. Bucky overhears more than one disparaging remark about being pulled from actual combat duty to 'babysit the press darling.' (The one thing everyone agrees on, from the top brass all the way down, is that letting Captain America get killed doing something stupid is vehemently not an option, real soldier or otherwise.)
Bucky might at least somewhat empathize with people who can't take Captain America seriously in that costume, but that doesn't mean the dismissal doesn't piss him off. He and Stevie (and Peggy, of course) spent half their holiday leave working out that mission plan, and now nobody wants to hear it, let alone approve it. Most of the brass adamantly refuse to let them see combat at all; the rest will allow it only under clearly defined "acceptable risk" scenarios. Of course, that defeats the entire purpose of coming to Italy; Captain America can't distract the Germans if nobody realizes she's here.
Stevie, of course, gets her way in the end, in suitably dramatic fashion.
First she bullies an American lieutenant into letting the Commandos accompany his squad on the first real push toward the German Winter Line. (By the time the higher-ups realize they're there, it's too late to cancel the attack or waste troops escorting them back.) Stevie is subsequently ordered to observe from the relatively safe rear, which lasts right up until the first shots are fired. Then she takes out a Panzer IV tank that had stalled the advance at a river crossing, with nothing but her shield, in full view of half a battalion of US troops. (The Commandos, used to her antics, are right on her heels in the thick of the fighting, trying to cover her.)
The attack ends up being an abysmal failure, and they're forced to retreat at dawn under heavy fire. Stevie is practically the last person back across the river, using her shield to cover the stragglers. (She saves at least two dozen lives in the last hour of fighting alone.) The casualty numbers are still horrendous, but several of the surviving officers grudgingly report that they would have been even higher without Captain America's rearguard tactics, or the superb sharpshooting of the Commandos watching her back.
Just a few days later, when the second attempt is made to breach the German line—this time by going through the mountains to take advantage of the high ground—Stevie lobbies hard for them to be included, even though the rest of the men involved in the first battle are still on stand-down. The brass aren't yet convinced Captain America is everything the papers claim, but they're a little more willing to give her an opportunity to prove herself. Stevie gets conditional approval to take her commandos along for the attack, provided that no reporters or film crews go with them.
That's how Bucky finds himself in the middle of the bloodiest extended battle he's ever fought. The Germans are entrenched all through the river valley and the surrounding hills, and gaining ground is a constant slog through freezing mud and machine-gun fire. The Allied artillery is almost impossible to move through the terrain, so they're often forced to advance with nothing but unsupported infantry, going up against tanks and fortified positions. It's a nightmare, the likes of which Bucky hasn't seen since he was last on the front with the 107th.
As a consequence, the casualty rates are astronomical, and it's not long before the field commanders are desperate for anybody with leadership experience. One week into the assault, as they prepare to strike for a foothold in the mountains, Stevie gets called to the rear and comes back with half a company of orphaned men who are suddenly under her command.
They have a few of their own surviving sergeants and corporals, but of course Bucky is the senior NCO, both by reputation and actual combat experience. He realizes immediately that he's basically forgotten how to be a 'real' sergeant, used to the much more informal structure of the Commandos. It takes him a day or two to adjust his thinking, and he has to split up the new men into manageable squads and attach each one to a Howling Commando, just to keep track of them all. They go from a team of six men under Stevie's loose leadership, to each of them in command of ten to twelve men with Stevie coordinating at the top, practically overnight.
It's disorienting for all six of them, to say the least, trying to go back to a more traditional kind of warfare. (It's strange, full stop, for Stevie, who's experiencing it for the first time.) After the first week, Bucky's not sure he's cut out for 'normal' soldiering like this, anymore. The time it takes to coordinate thousands of men into one coherent attack frustrates him, especially because he no longer has any sort of input into their tactics or objectives. He's used to his small team being responsive in the moment, and it's tough to go back to dealing with military bureaucracy, even the expedited version that exists on an active battlefield.
He'd also nearly forgotten what it was like to fight for hours or even days to gain a few thousand feet or take a single hilltop, often without being told the larger reason why. It's a sickening reminder of what war can really be. The Howling Commandos have been active since their rescue in April of '43 without losing a man, despite some close calls; in the first week of February in '44, Bucky loses over half his squad trying to dislodge the German defenders from a nearby ridge. Then, just five days later, it turns out to have been for nothing; the field commanders have had enough, and they withdraw.
The final count for the second assault is nearly three weeks of constant fighting, with only intangible gains (if any). The consensus seems to be that they're forcing the Germans to divert resources from France and possibly even the Eastern Front, but that isn't enough. Only three out of every ten men who went into the mountains makes it back down alive. Stevie's personal unit numbers are a bit higher, attributed almost entirely to the presence of Captain America drawing fire, but also to Gabe's keen eye; a significant portion of American casualties had been due to mines and traps placed by the Germans as deterrents.
They're exhausted, blood-soaked, and cynical by the time they crawl back to basecamp in mid-February. To make things worse, they aren't allowed to show it. One of the stipulations of SSR Command approving the Colonel's plan for Stevie to be heavily involved in the Italian offensive had been the constant presence of a film crew for publicity, both to boost Allied morale and to convince the Germans that Captain America was a serious threat to the Third Reich, not just long-since-gone-rogue HYDRA.
That means Stevie has to be flashy and noticeable in the field, even when that may not be the most tactically sound approach. She uses her shield when a gun would be more effective, wears her brightly-colored costume even when it makes her a target, and plants herself right in the middle of the heaviest fighting every time. It also means she can never lose her temper, sulk, or grieve properly for the men she's lost when they get back, because someone is always watching.
Bucky, mindful of the eyes and cameras around every corner, keeps a professional distance between them at all times, even though it kills him to watch her suffering in silence. He's never wished for anything quite as badly as he wishes Peggy would miraculously show up; by now the entire Western world has seen a picture of Captain America with his 'sweetheart compass.' If Peggy were here, she could comfort Stevie in the way that Bucky can't, with so many people looking. (The Commandos, loyal as ever, do their best to run interference when they can, but it just isn't worth the risk.)
It might be unpatriotic of him, but Bucky is actually relieved when yet another costly offensive fails in late February (during which Jim takes a bullet to the shoulder and has to be hurriedly evacuated back to basecamp). If nothing else, it proves to anybody with half a brain that the Italian campaign is going to be the sort of long, slow grind that isn't good for Stevie's primary objective of distracting the Germans.
By the first of March, Colonel Phillips makes the call to pull the Howling Commandos out of Italy altogether.
"It was a good idea, Rogers," Phillips says at their debrief back in England, after a few days of light duty to lick their wounds. "We got some good PR footage out of it, if nothing else. But you can't turn an entire battle by yourself, and you have to be seen winning. Decisively. Not being stalled at every turn by the German defenses."
Stevie, who's still on edge after nearly two months of bloody fighting, crosses her arms and glares at Phillips. The Stevie of just six weeks ago might not have done that, but staring down a senior officer isn't as scary after what they've just been through. "If you want me on the front lines, sir, Italy is the only game in town. Unless you want to loan me out to the Russians."
Phillips doesn't even dignify that with a comment.
"With respect, sir, I think we're going about this the wrong way," Bucky says.
Phillips glances at him, face impassive. (He's obviously surprised, because Bucky doesn't usually speak in front of him, saving his tactical input for when he and Stevie are alone with Peggy.) "You have a plan to go with that remark, Sergeant?" the Colonel demands.
"We're commandos, sir," Bucky reminds him. "Turn us loose and let us do what we're good at."
Phillips is unimpressed. "You're not going to scare the Germans by blowing up some farmland. You've been doing that for a year. We need something that'll put you on their radar, permanently."
Stevie looks suddenly thoughtful. She turns to Bucky, eyebrows raised. He can see the gears turning in her head as she tries to figure out his thought process. "That might depend on which farmland," she says slowly.
Bucky nods to let her know she's on the right track. "Antwerp?" he offers. "The port makes a convincing target."
"Maybe," Stevie says. "I was thinking farther south. Along the Seine, halfway to Paris if we move fast enough. This is supposed to be about an emotional response, not tactical value, right?"
"Captain?" Phillips prompts. "Care to share with those of us who aren't psychically linked to Sergeant Barnes?"
"The whole point is to be a diversion, right?" Stevie asks. She shrugs. "So let's stage a fake assault in advance of the real one."
Phillips pauses for a moment, letting that sink in. "You want me to authorize you to invade France with just six men?"
"I won't turn down additional resources," Stevie says, nonchalant. "I understand that might be difficult when you need every man for the real invasion, though."
Phillips stares at her in stunned silence.
"It would mostly be just for show," Stevie adds quickly. "We wouldn't try to hold any territory. Just make enough of a fuss to get their attention, force a response. Draw manpower away from the real landing zone."
The Colonel leans back in his chair. "You're crazy, Rogers."
Stevie shrugs again. "I thought that's what you liked about me, sir. Loud and flashy and lots of explosions, remember?"
Phillips is silent for another long moment. "You'd need a hundred men, at least, to make it even marginally convincing. It would still only work for a day or two, even with your penchant for theatrics, before the Germans realized it was fake."
"Volunteers only," Bucky interrupts quietly. "It'll take a special kind of stupid, for something like this."
"They'd have to be light infantry, too, or commandos themselves," Stevie adds. "We'll be moving too fast for anything heavier." She chews on her bottom lip for a moment, already deep in the planning stage. "And if we want the Germans to take us seriously, we'd have to lay the groundwork first, soften up defenses with raids like we did in Italy back in September. It would take some time."
Phillips scowls. "If that's an attempt to get a timetable out of me for the real invasion, you're wasting your breath. I don't know any more than you do."
She grins. "Worth a shot, sir."
Phillips is already shaking his head. "Get me a mission outline—a reasonable one, Rogers; remember you'll be using relatively normal men for this—and I'll see about kicking it up the food chain."
"Yes, sir," Stevie says smartly. "In the meantime, can we get provisional approval for the advance raids? We'll need some official backing to coordinate drops and retrievals with the Air Corps or RAF guys, and I'd like to get us moving sooner rather than later."
It's not that easy, of course. The SSR has an open mandate to counteract HYDRA in the field, but getting authorization for anything above and beyond that requires a whole slew of meetings and paperwork. Even the support of a relatively senior officer, in Colonel Phillips, only goes so far; Captain America spends more than three weeks pitching her distraction plan over and over, to higher-ranking officers each time, until she finally reaches someone with the authority to give her a straight yes or no answer.
While she's off fighting that battle with the upper brass, Bucky takes a map of France and goes looking for Peggy. Nobody knows where the main invasion is going to land—it's all highly secretive, of course, but Bucky gets the impression the final decision hasn't been made yet—so the two of them try to look at it from the Wehrmacht's perspective. Where do the German defenses feel weak? Where would a sabotage campaign do the most damage, draw the most reinforcements and attention away from a feasible landing zone?
By the time Stevie comes back with a final approval—and a list of eighty men to be placed under her command for the duration of the exercise—Bucky and Peggy between them have worked out a path of sequential raids up and down the occupied French coast. They call that Stage One, and it's in full swing by the first of April.
For a little while, it's like old times: parachuting behind enemy lines with packs full of explosives, trying to disrupt as many German units as possible for three- or four-day stretches at a time. They focus on anti-aircraft guns, flocks of tanks, ammunition depots, and other heavy or hard-to-replace machinery. Where possible, they coordinate with the French Resistance, who have been given orders to blow up or otherwise sabotage as many roads, railways, and bridges as possible. They have only eight weeks to work, and they make each one count. They cover hundreds of miles at a breakneck pace, moving from one coastal position to the next, doing as much damage as possible before disappearing into the night, either to a retrieval point or the next target.
The major difference from their normal operations, besides the lack of HYDRA targets, is that the team operates throughout the months of April and May at least one man short. The only person who goes on every single raid is Stevie; the rest of them take shifts staying behind to prepare for Stage Two. This mostly involves trying to get the extra eighty men ready to go into the field with Captain America and the Howling Commandos. Bucky, as the team sergeant, has to stay behind the most, to get everyone organized. His first shift is when the extra troops first report, his second is right at the halfway mark to assess progress, and the third is at the very end of Stage One, to be sure they're ready.
That third shift at basecamp, when the rest of the team is in the field near Calais blowing up radar stations in an effort to convince the Germans a bombing run is imminent, is by far the hardest. Bucky is never exactly comfortable with Stevie being in enemy territory without him, but he normally trusts his team to watch her back. This time, though, they've been constantly on the move in a way they haven't been since they were first formed a year ago. The last time Bucky saw Stevie, she was losing weight again and had dark circles under her eyes. He'd tried to convince her to take the last days off instead of him, or least with him, but she'd refused. After all, the point of this was to make it clear Captain America was up to something in France, and for that she had to be seen by the German survivors of their raids.
The night before the team is due back from the final raid, Bucky finds that he can't sleep. Everything has been checked and rechecked in advance of Stage Two, but if any of the men aren't ready it's too late to fix now; they leave for France in less than a week. Phillips had taken Bucky's advice to heart, and every one of them is a volunteer, but that doesn't necessarily make him feel better. This is going to be a one-way trip, and he knows it. If everything goes according to plan, they'll be left to harry the Germans from behind enemy lines when the real invasion hits, and that's the best case scenario. They don't have an extraction plan if they get into trouble, or if the invasion fails. They'll be left in enemy territory, with no option but to surrender or try to do as much damage as they can before being put down.
Bucky toys with the idea of spending a night at the practice range to calm his nerves, but too many people have figured out his habits, and there's almost always an excited crowd within a few minutes of him settling in to shoot. It's not peaceful, like it used to be, and getting cornered for autographs or interviews—the media is getting desperate, because Phillips has the entire SSR on lockdown until the real invasion launches, just to be safe—won't help him relax. He changes into old, ragged clothing instead and heads for Stark's workshop. Nobody outside of the Commandos and Stark himself know about Stevie's bike, so that should be safe.
Surprisingly, Bucky doesn't have to use the spare key Stark had trusted him with to get inside, despite the late hour. There are lights already on in the shop. When Bucky slips inside, one hand on his favorite combat knife—just in case—he finds Stark himself at a workbench, striking something held in vice clamps with a large hammer. It emits a steady clanking of metal-on-metal, which puts Bucky's teeth on edge. He debates turning around and leaving, but something about this doesn't feel right. He doesn't pretend to understand a tenth of what Stark gets up to in here on a daily basis, but even Bucky can tell that Stark isn't accomplishing anything by beating on that whatever-it-is. It looks more like venting frustration.
Against his better judgment, Bucky continues inside. He makes a wide sweep around the workbench, giving Stark ample time to notice him, before he pulls the cover off Stevie's bike and starts gathering tools. By the time he's got the engine casing opened up, peering intently at an imaginary problem, he's caught Stark's interest.
"Can't sleep, either?" Stark asks, sauntering up and taking the wrench right out of Bucky's hand. He promptly begins disassembling the engine, hands flying across bolts and screws like a master pianist across the keys.
Bucky shrugs, stepping back. The first lesson he learned about hanging around in Stark's workshop was not to get in his way when he started to get manic.
"Lot of that going around these days," Stark adds. He brushes some of his floppy hair away from his face with a grimace. "What's your particular ghost tonight, Barnes? And what are we doing with this thing?"
Bucky glances down to see that Stark already has the engine broken down almost entirely into components. "Um, nothing, really," he says, in answer to both questions. "I just wanted something to keep my hands busy for a while. Settle my nerves."
"Busy hands I can manage," Stark says, with his trademark showman's smile, the one that had been on the covers of magazines and newspapers when Bucky was still a snot-nosed teenager in his Pa's garage. "Nerves, on the other hand … Well, you let me know if you figure that one out."
For a little while, the two of them work in silence, save for when Stark asks for a new tool or instructs Bucky to hold something in place while he tinkers. It's a companionable silence, though, and one Bucky has come to appreciate over the last year. He wouldn't call Howard Stark a friend of his, exactly—that's more up Stevie's alley, with her officer's commission; Stark is a millionaire entrepreneur, and Bucky is nothing more than a medium-level NCO—but they work well together.
Stark, for his part, seems to have come to the same conclusion. "You've got good instincts, you know," he says, maybe an hour later. (The two of them have long since put Stevie's bike back in order, and are now tinkering their way through the workshop one machine at a time.) "How were you with math, in school?"
Bucky glances up. "What?"
Stark doesn't do anything so pedestrian as make eye contact, continuing to work his magic on the disassembled weapon—Bucky thinks it used to be a grenade launcher, maybe—in front of him. "Math. You know: algebra, geometry, trigonometry, calculus. Well, you probably didn't get through most of that in public school. Have you got a decent head for numbers?"
Bucky narrows his eyes. "Not like the Captain," he says. (Stark knows Stevie's secret, of course—he designed her uniform with the compression shirt and padding that hides her curves, after all—but it still doesn't feel right using her nickname in front of him.) "I did all right, though. Could have graduated, if I'd stuck with it. Why?"
"You're a good mechanic, Barnes," Stark says flatly. "But I bet I could turn you into a damn fine engineer, with a little work. If you could handle the math."
Bucky blinks. He's not sure he's heard Stark correctly. "What?" he says again.
"You got plans, after the war is over?" Stark asks him. "Because I'd be willing to offer you a job. Even if I can't teach you calculus, I can always use more mechanics around my labs. At least I can trust you with sensitive equipment; you've got that sniper's calm, and all." He holds up his hands long enough to wiggle his fingers a few times. "Steady hands."
Bucky is too stunned to say anything for a long moment.
"What do you say?" Stark asks.
Bucky swallows. "I'd … I think I'd really like that, actually," he says, caught off guard by how much of a true statement that is. He spent so long running from his father's garage that he'd forgotten how much he loved the work; it took Stark—and Stevie's prompting—to remind him that he was good at something besides shooting people.
"Good!" Stark flings a tool in the vicinity of his bench. "It's settled, then. When you get out, first thing you do is come see me, all right?"
Bucky's already shaking his head. "I don't think that's likely," he admits.
"What? Why not?" Stark looks personally offended. "You got a family business to run, or something? I could probably buy it out for you."
Bucky tries to smile, but it comes out bitter. "I don't think there's any 'getting out,' not for a long, long time."
"Nonsense," Stark says. "This war is won; the Nazis just haven't figured it out, yet. One more year, maybe eighteen months at the most, and everybody will get to go home."
"Not Captain America," Bucky says quietly. "She's too useful. The minute we catch up to Schmidt and HYDRA for good, we'll be on the next boat for the Pacific."
Stark shrugs. "Even that war has to end sometime." Something dark crosses his face, and he looks like he wants to hit something with a hammer, the way he was when Bucky came in. "I've been avoiding a weapons project for the US Army—I'm an engineer, not a theoretical physicist—but they're at the point now where they've got the science pretty much figured out. Now they just need a delivery system, which is where I come in." His mouth twists into a grimace. "It's going to change the way we wage war, as a species. If this mess isn't already over by the time we get it operational, it will be afterward."
Bucky doesn't ask. He knows a dirty secret when he sees one, and he has no desire to carry around anyone else's baggage. He's got enough of his own already. Stark will either learn to live with what he's helping create, or he won't, and either way he'll have to do it alone.
"It doesn't matter," Bucky says, shrugging his shoulders. "Even if the Germans and the Japanese surrendered tomorrow, do you really think the US Army is going to let Captain America, what? Retire? Get honorably discharged? Disappear into a civilian life?" He shakes his head. "There's always an enemy to fight somewhere, even if it's just on a stage."
Stark watches him for a moment, with those sharp, intelligent eyes. "And Sergeant Bucky Barnes, Howling Commando?" he asks. "Is he stuck, too?"
"He goes where Captain America goes," Bucky says instantly. "Always."
Stark slaps him on the shoulder. "Well, far be it for me to come between a fella and his girl," he says, obviously trying to lighten the mood. (He even manages to say it with a straight face.)
Bucky shakes his head. "It isn't like that," he says quietly. "Not entirely. I just—we're both of us better off when we're together, I think. It's been that way for so long that we don't know how to be apart, anymore." He smiles, and this time it sticks. "Maybe we never did."
Stark hums thoughtfully. "Well," he says after a moment. "If you ever change your mind, there'll be a place for you at Stark Industries, as long as I have anything to say about it."
"Thanks," Bucky says quietly, and means it. Even if he can't ever take Stark up on it, it's nice to know there might be a place out there where he could belong, if he ever got the chance.
In the end, he doesn't get any sleep that night. He feels better come dawn, anyway.
By the time Stevie and the rest of the Commandos show up the next afternoon, battered and dirty but flush with success, he's almost relaxed. Stage Two of Operation: Distract the Germans from the Real Invasion of France is about to launch, and it's the craziest thing they've attempted yet, but Bucky's strangely not worried. The tides are turning, according to both Phillips and Stark. They're going to win this war. They're going to burn HYDRA to the ground. Whatever comes next, good or bad, Bucky knows he'll be at Stevie's side. That's all that really matters.
Maybe Bucky should have known that meant everything was about to go straight to hell.
/~*~/
When Stevie storms out of their apartment in the autumn of 1940, she doesn't come back home for two whole days.
By that point, Bucky is frantic, checking everywhere he can think of and praying that she hasn't picked a fight out of spite and gotten herself put in the hospital (or worse). He keeps checking the recruitment centers compulsively, determined to catch her before some doctor does, or she slips through and gets shipped off for basic training. He tells all their neighbors that they had a falling out over a girl—which is, oddly enough, sort of true—and asks them to keep an eye out in case she comes by during the day while he's at work.
When she finally does come home, wearing the same clothes from two days earlier, Bucky is swamped by relief for all of three or four seconds before he's livid again. Maybe demanding right off the bat that she tell him where the hell she's been isn't the best tactic, but he was worried, dammit, Stevie. Doesn't she understand that he's been looking everywhere for her? If she wants to be mad at him, fine, but she shouldn't just disappear for two days and leave him thinking she's lying dead on a street corner somewhere—
Stevie doesn't hang around to listen to his rant; she turns right back around and storms out a second time, without ever saying a word.
This time, Bucky tries to follow her. She throws a punch on the landing, and while Bucky is busy regretting ever teaching her how to hit properly, she sneaks inside and locks him out (because of course he doesn't have his key on him). He spends about two hours banging on the door to no avail, until an aggravated Frank Dunleavy drags him back to his apartment across the hall and forcibly feeds him dinner, and then a fifth of whiskey. He lets Bucky sleep on his couch.
Stevie lets him back in the next morning, still without speaking a word to him. They move around their apartment like ghosts, avoiding each other as much as possible in such tight quarters. Needless to say, for the first time in almost two years, they sleep in their separate rooms. The most communicating they do is adding separate items to the grocery list in the kitchen.
By the end of the first week, Bucky has had enough. He tries three times to apologize, but each time Stevie gives him a coolly judgmental look and asks if he's ready to come with her to the recruitment office. Bucky won't take back his threat to reveal her secret, telling himself that it's for her own good; Stevie won't forgive him for it. They go on that way, strangers in a too-small space, strained and uncomfortable, with no end in sight.
When a month has gone by, Bucky has run out of excuses for their friends. He puts on his devil-may-care grin and hits the bars on Friday night with some of the guys from work. It feels like reaching for the next rung on a ladder and missing, not having Stevie at his elbow to joke and laugh and sling his arm over. He catches himself rejecting a potential date three times, just because she doesn't have a sister or friend for Stevie to double with.
The fourth time he starts to turn someone down, he changes his mind and kisses her breathless right there at the bar. He doesn't make it back home until late, well past midnight, reeking of cheap liquor and floral perfume. Stevie is still awake when he comes in, sitting with her sketchbook on the couch. They don't speak, but she watches him stumble toward his room with a clinical eye.
Part of him wants to kneel down next to her, take one of her hands, and ask her if she's still his girl. It's their ritual after a night spent flirting and dancing with dames, a reminder for both of them that no matter who they've been with all evening, it's really only each other that matter at the end of the night. He does it every time they come home after a date: pulls her into his arms and whispers into her ear, You still my girl, Stevie?
But he can't get the words out, this time. He's afraid she'll say no.
Instead, Bucky flicks off the light and climbs into bed, the scent of another woman filling up their apartment. He falls asleep to the sound of Stevie's angry silence.
The fight finally ends on a Sunday morning two weeks later, after Bucky's been out yet again without her. He's also nursing a hangover, because Frank Dunleavy and Chester Miller had made it their personal goal to get him drunk enough last night to forget that 'Steve' was still pissed at him. (Herbert Dunleavy is one of the many who have disappeared for basic training.)
It's Stevie's turn to make breakfast, which—after years of practice—she's finally mastered. She puts down a bowl of oatmeal in front of him by slamming it down on the table a little harder than necessary.
Bucky picks up his spoon and stirs it listlessly, trying to keep the smell from making him vomit. Stevie, of course, hadn't reminded him to drink water before going to sleep last night. They haven't said a civil word to each other in weeks.
Stevie sits down across from him, with her own bowl in front of her, and watches him.
"What?" Bucky asks nastily, after a long moment of her silent staring. "What is it? Do I have something on my face?"
Stevie sits back in her chair. "I hate this," she says suddenly.
Bucky does a double-take. He's gotten used to her ignoring him when he tries to talk to her. "This what?" he asks. "This oatmeal? You could have made eggs. Do we have any eggs this week?"
She glares at him. "Don't you start—" She bites off the rest of that sentence and visibly swallows her temper. "I hate this. Us, when we're fighting. I hate it. I can't do it anymore."
Bucky feels his beleaguered stomach do a stupidly hopeful flip. "Are you saying you don't want to be mad at me anymore?"
"No," Stevie says instantly. "Maybe. I don't know. But something has to change. We can't go on like this, Buck."
It's the first time she's said his name since I don't need your protection, Bucky Barnes, almost two months ago.
His head is pounding and his mouth is dry, and he's suddenly more afraid than he's ever been in his life. "Can't we just go back?" he asks. "Forget this whole stupid fight ever happened?" He swallows on a tight throat. "We were happy, before," he says. "Weren't we?"
"Yeah," Stevie says quietly. "Happier than I think I've ever been."
"Great," Bucky says. He's beginning to get excited. "It's forgotten. It never happened."
Stevie is already shaking her head. "No, Bucky."
"What?" he asks. "Why not?"
"You really don't get it, do you?"
Bucky looks at her, sitting calmly in her chair at their table, untouched oatmeal steaming slightly above the bowl with the chipped rim. Whenever she sets the table, she takes the broken one for herself. She says it's because Bucky never pays enough attention, and he'd cut himself on the sharp edge if he wasn't careful.
"So explain it to me," Bucky says. "Please, Stevie. Tell me how to fix this."
"I already did," Stevie says, voice firm. "You're the one who won't back down."
It's Bucky's turn to sit back in his chair. "I'm not going to the recruitment center with you," he says flatly.
"Why not?"
He doesn't want to get into it with her again, about her asthma and damaged heart and going to jail if she's caught as a girl. He offers up his other reason, instead. "Because me they'd actually take," he says. "Then what would I do?"
Stevie's voice falls into that sarcastic drawl that gets her into so much trouble in alleys and bars. "Fight for your country?" she offers.
Bucky shakes his head. "Not a chance."
Stevie studies him for a long moment, disappointment clear in her eyes. "I never pegged you for a coward, Bucky Barnes."
"Excuse me?"
Stevie sticks out her chin, stubborn as ever. "You heard me."
Bucky carefully puts his spoon down on the table, heedless of the oatmeal scum that gets smeared on the wood. "You think I'm a coward for not joining up?"
"Well?" Stevie asks. "What would you call it? All I've ever wanted is a chance to fight, to prove that I can. You've got that chance, but you're refusing to take it. If you're not afraid, then why?"
Bucky can't believe she doesn't understand. "I'd get shipped out," he says. "I'd be gone for months at a time, if not longer. I can't leave you like that."
Stevie goes very still in her chair. "I will not be your excuse to—"
"God damn it, Stevie," Bucky curses. "It's not an excuse!"
"Yes, it is," Stevie snaps right back. "I don't need to you babysit me."
"Right," Bucky says, sarcastic. He's losing his temper, even though he knows that's a bad idea. "So the next time you stop some asshole from beating up somebody else by taking the punches yourself, what's to stop them from leaving you bloody in the street? Without me there to end it, and to patch you up after, how long do you really think you'll make it before you end up in the hospital?"
"I can take care of myself," Stevie says.
"And the next time you get the flu?" Bucky asks. His voice continues to get louder. "When you're laid up in bed for three weeks, and you lose your job because you can't even hold a pencil with that kind of fever? How are you going to pay the rent? Who's going to sit up all night to make sure you're still breathing once it turns into pneumonia? Who's going to bring you warm water with honey for your cough, or walk to the pharmacy in six inches of snow to get a compress for your chest?"
"Bucky—"
"Don't," Bucky says, his tone clipped and harsh. "Don't expect me to sit in some army barracks halfway across the country and think about you here, bloody and broken on a street corner or struggling to breathe in some awful hospital ward, all alone." He realizes that he's shaking, and clenches his fists on the table. "Don't you ask me to do that. It's never going to happen. If that makes me a coward, so be it." He's breathing hard, and he makes himself lower his voice. "Losing you is the only thing I've ever been scared of, since I was nine years old. And every asthma attack, every alley fight, every heart murmur or winter cough—"
"Bucky," Stevie says again, cutting him off. She has tears in her eyes. She gets up, walks around the table, and puts a hand on the back of his neck. Her fingers are cool because of her poor blood circulation. "I don't need you to take care of me. I know you want to, but that's not your job."
He looks up at her. It's not far, even though he's sitting and she's standing up, because she's so small. "I can't help it," he tells her. "I've been looking out for you since I found you in that alley behind the grocer's." He shrugs. "It's who I am."
Stevie shakes her head at him. "You are James Barnes," she says firmly. "You have your own life to live. And you have to let me live mine."
"I'm Bucky," he whispers, because it's true; nobody but Stevie uses that nickname, but it's how he thinks of himself, inside his own head. "And I don't want my own life. I want this one, the one we share."
Stevie closes her eyes. If she's trying to stop her tears, it doesn't work, because they spill out onto her cheeks. "I don't," she says, and it comes out strangled.
Bucky is so stunned that he leans backward in shock.
Stevie is still crying, but her voice never wavers. "I can't just be the little guy who follows you around for the rest of my life," she says. "And I can't just be your girl, either. I have to … to be something. My own person, man or woman. The Army is just one way for me to get there, and maybe do some good while I'm at it."
Bucky turns in his chair, facing her. He opens his knees and reaches out for her waist, pulling her close. "But I love you," he says. That always fixes everything, in the stories. That should be enough. "Why are you mad at me for wanting to protect you? For worrying about you if I wasn't here?"
Stevie has both of her hands on his head now, threading her fingers through his messy, hung-over hair. Her touch is soft, but her words are hard. "I'm mad because you don't understand the difference between protecting me, and taking away my choices."
Bucky thinks about that for a while. "I just don't want you fighting a war," he whispers.
"That's not your decision to make." Stevie leans down and kisses the crown of his head, like a benediction. "This is my life, Bucky. I get to choose how I live it. You can disagree with me, argue with me when I have a stupid idea, try to protect me when it all goes pear-shaped—but you can't stop me from being who I am." She swallows again, and more tears trickle out to flow down her cheeks. "It hurts that you even want to try."
Bucky closes his eyes. "This all started because I was trying to keep you from getting hurt."
"I know," Stevie says. She sighs once and pulls her hands out of his hair. "I think—" She has to pause and gather herself. "I think I need to find my own place."
Bucky snaps his eyes open. "What?" he says, blindsided. "No. I'll fix this. I promise, Stevie. I'll find a way to make it right. You don't have to leave."
"I really think I do," Stevie whispers. "God, Buck, I moved in with you when I was seventeen. I won't say that was a mistake, because it was what I needed—what we both needed, I think—at the time. But now?" She takes a step back away from him. "Now I think we need a little space."
Bucky's chest feels tight, like he can't breathe. He has a fleeting thought that this must be what it's like when Stevie has an asthma attack. "But we're … us," he says. The idea of her leaving, of them being apart, is so foreign that it doesn't even seem real. "Bucky and Stevie," he says. "Always. Remember?"
Stevie nods. "I think that's the problem," she says quietly. "Steve or Stephanie, I've always been that Rogers kid that follows James Buchanan Barnes around. I need to figure out who I am without you."
"Jesus, Stevie," Bucky says. He feels like he's been kicked in the gut. "You being gone is going to be like losing a limb."
"I know," Stevie says, and he doesn't know if it makes him feel better or worse that she sounds as wrecked as he feels. "That's why I have to go, Buck."
Bucky swallows against the tightness in his throat. "When?"
"As soon as I can find a place," Stevie says. She makes a valiant effort to smile. "It doesn't have to be forever," she promises. "I don't want it to be forever. Just long enough to … to find some perspective, maybe. Give you a chance to do the same."
Bucky tries to argue, but—as usual—Stevie gets her way, in the end. He doesn't try to stop her as she packs up her things and goes out looking for a cheap one-bedroom apartment. He's learned his lesson about interfering in her choices; he just hopes he hasn't learned it too late.
The next thing Bucky knows, he's borrowing his Pa's car to help her move into her new place. It only takes a couple hours to carry up the boxes of clothes and toiletries and a couple pieces of the furniture that they bought together and have decided to split.
On his way out of her new apartment for the last time, Bucky can't help but pull Stevie into his arms before he gets to the door. He's beyond relieved when she doesn't fight it, even wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in his chest.
Bucky puts his mouth down by her ear and finds the courage to whisper, "You still my girl, Stevie?"
"Always, Buck," Stevie tells him, and squeezes him as tight as her tiny arms can manage. "The way I love you—it's a part of me. I don't think I could change that if I tried."
Then why can't you stay?
Bucky doesn't say it, though. If this is really what she needs, then he'll do his best to give her space, even though it feels like it's going to kill him. It's a truth very few people know, but he needs Stevie more than Stevie needs him. He always has. Somehow, everybody always thinks it's the other way around. Stevie included, but then again, her biggest blind spot has always been James Buchanan Barnes.
He kisses her cheek before he leaves, and she lets him.
"Stay out of trouble," Bucky says as he walks out onto the landing, trying to make it sound like a friendly request, and not the desperate plea it really is.
"Yeah," Stevie says. "You, too."
Bucky is all the way down the stairs before he hears her close the door behind him. He thinks maybe he can hear her crying, but he doesn't turn around to check.
/~*~/
As if lulling Bucky into a false sense of security, Stage Two gets off to a remarkably auspicious start. Even the most forgiving predictions suggested that they'd lose at least one out of every three planes during the drop, but for whatever reason the Germans are slow to react with anti-aircraft fire. Of the veritable fleet of paratroop planes and their part-escort, part-camouflage squads of bombers and fighters, only four don't make it through the coastal defenses. Bucky has heard the talk going around the Army gossip chain, but this is his first real indication that the Allied plan for air superiority is working; the Luftwaffe doesn't make an appearance, and they get through almost unscathed.
It still makes for a nerve-wracking night as they trek toward the rendezvous point after the jump, with no way of knowing if any of the Commandos were on the planes that did get shot down. Logic had made them split up, to decrease the chances of a lucky shot taking out the entire team at once.
(Bucky and Stevie had been on the same plane anyway, because the idea of losing the other one in a fiery explosion over which neither of them had any control … Well. Bucky had stood by what he said in that HYDRA factory, and Stevie had immediately agreed, tactical disadvantage be damned. No, not without you.)
Their worries turn out to be unfounded, though; they get to the rendezvous point and find each of the others waiting for them, no worse for wear. The headcount is only eleven men missing, out of eighty, with no sign that anyone was spotted parachuting in. It's a much better start to the mission than anybody could have hoped.
Those initial casualties still hit Bucky hard, harder than the men they'd lost in Italy. He'd helped plan this operation from the ground up, so he feels more responsible, somehow, even if there was never any chance of bringing everyone back alive.
Three days later, Bucky's starting to question whether they'll bring anyone back alive.
The good news is that the mission is a rousing success, in that reinforcements are pouring into northwestern France. Those same reinforcements won't be in position to respond to the actual invasion, which has been the whole point of this. Every time Gabe and his scouting unit reports another division or tank brigade is closing in on them, the Free French volunteers (who obviously have the most at stake) let out an actual cheer.
The bad news is that the mission is a rousing success, beyond anyone's wildest projections, and German reinforcements are responding in unmanageable numbers. By the time they've hit and retreated from three or four coastal defense emplacements, they're thoroughly surrounded and laughably outnumbered.
The original plan had been to hit several targets around the northern French coast, all the way up to Calais (the most prominent false location 'leaked' to the Germans), until the actual invasion hit. Then they're supposed to make themselves scarce, harassing the German defenders from behind if they can, until the Allies establish a beachhead. They would then slip through the lines and be evacuated back across the Channel via retreating landing craft.
By the third day, when they should be wheeling around to start heading south for Normandy—which Stevie (and therefore Bucky), but nobody else, had known was the real invasion site—they're boxed in by over a thousand men, with ten thousand getting closer every hour. They're running low on explosives and ammunition, and they haven't stopped moving long enough for any real sleep beyond catnapping since they were dropped. Of the eighty men they started with, barely twenty remain at the end of three days.
Some had been killed assaulting coastal defenses, and others had split off into small auxiliary squads to draw attention away from the main group. The worst part was that most had simply been wounded, and left behind. They were moving much too quickly to carry anyone, so the best they could do was pull the men who'd been hit out of the direct line of fire. Sometimes they left them with a canteen or a ration pack, if they had a chance. Those men would end up captured by the Germans, if they didn't bleed out or starve first. It went against every instinct Stevie had, but she'd agreed to the necessity. Every man who had volunteered had agreed to it, too, before being allowed to come. That didn't make it any easier to do, for any of them.
Two days later, on the evening of June 6, Stevie announces that the real invasion has launched, as of that morning. Their mission is officially over. The local troops will obviously continue to hunt them, but all reinforcements will already be headed south to face the larger threat. Not even the presence of Captain America can compete with a possible Allied beachhead on French soil. The element of surprise is long gone. Their only objective now is to survive.
That night, without knowing if the real invasion has succeeded or been repelled, Stevie gives Jim the order to break radio silence and request a hot-zone evacuation. The answer is exactly what Bucky had known it would be from the start; all craft, air or sea, are tied up in the invasion fleet. They're on their own.
On the ground, they have vanishingly few options. If they try to break through the troops immediately surrounding them, they'll just end up caught in the wider net farther inland. The idea of striking south to join the invasion forces is out of the question. It's too far, through too many German soldiers. None of them would make it. By that point, even counting Stevie and the six Howling Commandos, they're down to eighteen men, no explosives, and only enough ammunition for one serious fight.
With no other real choice, Stevie gives the order to dissolve the company into smaller groups of two or three men each. They're to go to ground as best they can, slipping around German forces and melting into the French countryside. If they can reach any Resistance contacts, they might even be able to lay low long enough to get an extraction. They change out of their uniforms in an attempt to go unnoticed, even though it means they'll be executed as spies instead of held as POW's, if they do get caught.
Most of them aren't going to make it. There's a good chance that none of them will, in fact. Maybe the surviving Free French, on their home ground and able to speak the native language fluently, but there's little enough chance even for them. Bucky can see that knowledge in Stevie's eyes as she gives the order, and in the company's eyes as they listen, but nobody says so out loud. Sometimes the illusion of hope is all that matters.
Captain America, of course, is going to stay behind in her red, white, and blue and launch one final attack to try to draw attention. Maybe she can create a gap for the rest of the men to slip through. At the very least it might buy them some time, keep some of them alive long enough that a suicidal pilot might be able to come for them. (It's a shame Howard Stark has been sent back Stateside, Bucky thinks; he's pretty sure Peggy could have talked him into it, for Stevie.)
The Commandos, to a man, immediately volunteer to stay behind with her. (Except for Bucky, who doesn't say a word, just checks the ammunition for his rifle and nods.) Stevie looks angry, but only for a few seconds before she accepts it. She doesn't try to argue with any of them. It's not like going to ground is much safer, anyway, and there's a kind of comfort in staying together.
The rest of the company disperses throughout the night, until by dawn it's just the seven of them left. For one wild moment, Bucky is almost convinced that everything is going to be fine. How many times have they—Captain America and her crazy Howling Commandos—survived in hostile territory against long odds? This is what they do. This is all they do, practically. What's a few thousand regular Nazis compared to HYDRA?
Then he sees the twitch in Jim's steady hands as he fiddles one last time with the radio dials. (Bucky had told him, privately, to keep sending the extraction request, not just on SSR channels but across any Allied frequency he could find.) Bucky notices that Jacques has both tears and a satisfied smile on his face, even long after the last of his countrymen have disappeared. Dum Dum is obsessively cleaning dirt off that stupid hat, like he wants it to look its best. Gabe has taken out the picture of his girl that he never looks at in the field, saying it's bad luck. Monty lights up the cigar that he's carried all across Europe and back, the one he's always said he's saving for the day the Germans surrender.
Bucky looks around at his team, and he knows. This is their final stand, and every one of them can feel it.
Bucky doesn't try to make an excuse, or slip away from the others. He doesn't have to, anymore. These men already know all his secrets. He just walks up to Stevie, undoes the clasps to take off her helmet, puts his hands on either side of her neck, and tilts her forehead down until he can reach it with his own. She doesn't pull away, or scold him for showing affection out in the open. She just puts her arms around him and waits, letting him lead.
There are so many things he could say, or do: sweep her into a dip like some Hollywood cliché, kiss her breathless, swear his undying love, promise her that everything will be okay even though neither of them are that naïve. What words could possibly sum up everything she means to him? What action could possibly express the truth of their relationship, in this moment?
Bucky chooses to look into her eyes and say, very softly but still audible to the Commandos around them, "You still my girl, Stevie?"
She laughs. (There are tears in her eyes.) "Always, Buck," she says. "You ever going to believe me, and stop asking that?"
Bucky shrugs his shoulders a bit. "Well," he says, a mischievous look in his eye. "I could ask you a different question, now that you mention it."
Stevie lifts one hand to smack him in the shoulder. "You jerk," she says, in mock-outrage. "Are you really going to propose right before we die?"
He smirks. "This just might be my only chance, darling," he says.
Her nose scrunches up in disgust. "Darling? Really?"
Bucky brushes dirty hair away from her forehead, sweaty and limp from where it's been under her helmet. "Sweetheart?" he suggests.
"No."
"Doll?"
"Don't you dare."
"Honey?" Bucky offers, raising his eyebrows inquisitively. "Sugar?"
She gives him a flat, unimpressed look.
"Any other cooking ingredients? Flour, maybe?"
She bursts out laughing. (So do a couple of the Commandos, who aren't even pretending not to listen.)
"Or, wait, is it just things that go in tea?" Bucky pretends to think for a moment. "How about Lemon?"
"James Barnes, you are the worst," she says around chuckles.
He smiles. "Bucky," he corrects gently.
Just like that, the humor vanishes from her face. "My Bucky," she says. She sweeps one hand through his hair, from crown to the back of his neck, and holds him close. "And your Stevie."
"Always," Bucky whispers.
He doesn't know who closes the distance between them—maybe they do it, like so much else, together—but they're kissing, then. (Neither of them notice, as such, but the Commandos rapidly step away or turn their backs, giving them the illusion of privacy.) For the first time, the true reality of their situation shows in the way they cling to each other, as if trying to cram an entire lifetime into one single kiss. But it's not harsh, or even desperate. It's sweet and warm and a little bit sad, an unwilling goodbye.
The silence is broken a moment later by Jim's voice. "Wait, say again?" he suddenly demands.
Bucky and Stevie turn, still holding onto each other.
Jim is fiddling with his radio dials, one hand holding the receiver to his ear. "Copy that," he says, eyes wide. "Stand by for encoded coordinates."
Stevie's grip on Bucky tightens. "Jim?" she prompts.
Jim glances up, grinning madly. "The landings yesterday were a success," he says, so rapidly that the words tumble all over each other. "Allied Command has just authorized a small extraction plane, to get Captain America back to friendly territory!"
Bucky releases a huff of breath, and it feels like all the tension in his body drains away at once. Jim's message had finally gotten through to the right people.
"Wait, what about the rest of the men?" Stevie demands instantly.
"They've already scattered," Monty points out quietly. "Even if we had a way to recall them, how would they find us in time?"
Jim nods. "It's us or nobody, Cap. Command was specific about that."
Stevie doesn't like it, but she isn't about to turn down a ride back to England for her team, either. She nods to Gabe, who has already pulled out his map, and he immediately starts calling out coordinates for Jim to relay over the radio.
When he's finished, Jim waits for confirmation, and then shuts everything down. "Our plane's already in the air," he announces. "Fifteen minutes, at the nearest open clearing."
"Then let's move," Stevie says quietly. "Gabe, you take point. Keep us out of sight."
Bucky forgoes his usual slot at the rear to walk at Stevie's side instead. "I'm sorry," he says quietly as they march carefully through the trees. "But every one of those men knew what he was signing up for." He hesitates. "They might still make it. We'll badger Phillips until he organizes retrievals."
Stevie sighs. "I just don't like getting preferential treatment. Why is my life more important than anyone else's?"
Bucky shrugs, like this isn't exactly what he hoped would happen when he encouraged her to keep the outfit, or when he led a cheer for Captain America, or every time he agrees to the publicity and pictures and interviews. "You let them turn you into a symbol, Stevie," he says. "That means you're more than just another soldier. You knew that going in."
Stevie just shakes her head.
"Bad timing, though," Bucky says, trying to lighten the mood. (Stevie's mood; the others are just on the professional side of jubilant at having escaped a suicide run.) "They couldn't give us five more minutes? We were right in the middle of our tragic goodbye." He pouts. "I was trying to propose."
She smiles. It's sad, but she smiles. "No, you weren't."
"Yes, I was," Bucky insists. "And you were going to say yes, too, because you thought you wouldn't have to go through with it."
She gives him a playful little shove. "Then I guess it's a good thing you didn't get your chance," she says. "What would we have done if—"
The calm around them is shattered by a loud crack that Bucky recognizes in his bones. His soldier's training has him dropping to the ground the moment the sound reaches him, but his sniper's instincts know it's pointless; the sound always travels slower than the bullet.
Right beside him, Stevie frowns. Bucky watches, paralyzed, as she lifts a hand to her chest, just a few inches from her heart. She cocks her head slightly, confused, and her mouth forms the shape of his name: Buck?
Around her fingers, thick red blood begins seeping through the uniform.
"No!" Bucky screams, reaching for her, but it's too late.
She falls.