Steve stands, waving, as the train pulls away in the pre-dawn grey, straining to see his friend's face for as long as he can. He waves until his arm is tired and he can feel the morning chill all the way through his coat, layered under Bucky's. The two fit well inside one another, and since Bucky won't be wearing it for a while, he's insisted Steve take it in the meantime.

When the train is completely out of sight, Steve goes home and packs his own bag, fishing the form out from under the bed and straightening out a crumpled corner. He tucks it under his arm and locks the door behind him; turning his steps toward the Brooklyn recruitment center - small battered suitcase in his hand.

He is to report at first light.

"Ah, Steven, wonderful. Right on time. I hope you had a pleasant evening?" Dr. Erskine is gratingly cheerful, waiting beside the front desk and gesturing Steve after him down a winding hallway to a small dark and dingy office.

"Sure, it was…uh…. I was too excited to sleep."

Erskine beams, eyes crinkling merrily as he unlocks the door and ushers Steve in, switching on the lights.

"Excellent, excellent, I am delighted to hear it. Now, we have just a few administrative details that must be dealt with and then you'll be off to basic training with the other recruits. You don't get train-sick, I hope?"

"Uh… well…" Steve hasn't ever really been on a train, but given his flighty stomach and keyed up nerves-

"You will be fine, I am sure of it." The doctor answers for him, jovially dismissing the concern with a wave of his hand.
"Now, these are your identification tags." A pair of gleaming metal tags on a length of chain are placed firmly in his hand. "We filled them in from your enlistment forms. The -ahem- correct version." He glances knowingly at Steve who chooses not to meet his eye. He has enough to feel guilty about his morning.
"Mr. Barnes is still your next of kin, correct?"

Steve nods numbly, still not sure he trusts that this is really happening.
"Sergeant."

"I'm sorry?" Despite the thick German accent, he can hear the confusion in the doctor's voice.

"Sergeant Barnes." Steve supplies, barely hearing himself. "He's a sergeant in the 107th."

"I see." Erskine regards him searchingly for a moment, then examines the forms. "You listed him only as ...a Mr. James Buchanan Barnes, I suspect to avoid sharing the blame with your friend should your deception be noted?" Steve doesn't answer. "But that should be no trouble." Erskine flicks the folder closed with a decisive snap, laying it on a desk to his right. "I do not expect you to be killed in action by basic training, so there is more than enough time to correct the listing before it becomes a problem.
Now-" A bundle of olive drab and shiny black boots follow the dog-tags into his arms. "please change your clothes and we can be on our way. We leave in roughly 10 minutes, Private Rogers."

"Yes sir."
Somehow Steve always imagined this moment coming with a bit more thrill, a bit more excitement. A sense of adventure.
… Instead he just feels cold, tired, and slightly sick. Situation normal.

He tucks his old, shabby clothes into his suit-case, empty but for a couple of books, his drawing pencils (much too precious to be left behind) and, most important of all: his two most prized sketches. One of his mother before she really began to succumb to her illness, still glowing with warmth and life. The other of Bucky, grinning in that stupidly charming way that always promises he's up to no good.
There had been no point bringing any of his other ragged and worn-out things. The army will provide all of that now.

He straightens his tie, tries for a jaunty angle with his cap, and snaps the latches of his case closed. Then he steps around the changing curtain and out into his new life.