Chapter 5: The Right Partner
Bucky feels better after sleeping-really sleeping, in a bed and everything, with the relative quiet of London just outside his window. The sounds of the city are a lullaby to him and when he wakes, he keeps his eyes closed for a few moments to pretend he's back in Brooklyn. But then he opens his eyes and everything is bright and clear, piercing his brain, and he's in London.
He rummages around and pulls on clean clothes; he has to pull his belt a notch or two tighter than usual. He used to be a middleweight boxing champ back in Brooklyn and now he's getting as scrawny as Steve. Or, as Steve used to be. It's still hard to wrap his mind around the fact that Steve's pretty much doubled in size, and could likely trounce him in a fight if they went at it. The idea makes him grin.
All the other guys are down in the pub. The air is hazy with pungent cigar smoke and someone's banging on the piano, a raucous song that Dum Dum, Falsworth, Gabe, and Jim Morita are belting out. They're already tipsy, empty pint glasses strewn across the table.
"It's the Sarge!" Dum Dum holds up his half-drunk pint in salute. "We're gonna be the craziest team those Hydra sons of bitches ever laid eyes on," he says with a laugh, and the other guys all drink deeply to that.
"Maybe you'll finally find Fritz," Bucky says with a grin. "Show him your big stick." The guys howl with laughter. Bucky heads over to a quieter corner of the pub and orders a scotch. He needs the world to slow down, needs to take the edge off. It doesn't hit him as hard as it should, so he orders another.
"Hey Buck." Steve joins him at the bar and orders a pint. "The guys all just agreed."
Bucky rests an elbow on the bar and looks Steve over carefully. He's filled out, yes; but his eyes are still the eyes of the determined kid he rescued from back alley brawls so often. "What did I tell you?" he asks. "They're all crazy. Of course they agreed."
Steve's cheeks redden slightly. Maybe it's the alcohol. He sips his drink. "So… what about you?" Bucky raises his eyebrows. "Are you ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?"
Bucky can't help but smile at Steve's mock bravado. Steve's wearing a dress uniform now, hair swept neatly off his forehead. His jaw is set and his brows are slightly furrowed. He's trying not to blush. Captain America: it's kind of a ridiculous name when you get down to it. But that's how most of the troops know him; it's who's making the front pages of the papers back home. He's a symbol. Bucky can't follow a symbol.
"Captain America? No," he tells Steve honestly. Steve's forced grin falters and his cheeks get just a little redder. "But that little guy from Brooklyn? The one too stupid to walk away from a fight? I'll follow him."
Steve visibly relaxes and nearly sighs out his relief. Bucky smiles into his scotch glass. Like it was any question? He swore to Steve that he'd be there with him until the end of the line. Not to mention he owes his life to Steve. And now that Steve can hold his own in a fight, he's actually excited about the prospect of kicking Hydra ass with his best friend.
The off-key voices fade off and the piano goes discordant for a moment. Bucky's heart leaps in his chest and he drops his hand to his side, looking for a weapon that isn't there. In his recent experience sudden quiet equates to danger. He hasn't forgotten the firestorm on the field in Italy, nor the permeating silence of Zola's lab. Steve flicks his gaze to his friend and his brows momentarily crease with worry.
Someone in the other room exhales a low whistle. Heels click purposefully on the lacquered floorboards and then it's like poppies blooming in the doorway. He remembers seeing the Wizard of Oz, and what it was like when Dorothy opened the door to the technicolor magic of Oz, and seeing this woman is like seeing a little bit of over the rainbow here in drab, war-torn London.
"Agent Carter," Steve says, getting up off his stool and nodding in greeting. Bucky raises an eyebrow. Steve's back is straight as a board.
"I see your team is off to a good start," she says, lips slightly pursed.
Bucky takes in the curve of her waist, the way her red dress swishes across her shins. He'd love to get her out on the dancefloor, swing her around, feel her hand in his, hear the ripple of her dress over the music. "What's the matter?" he asks, setting down his glass. "You don't like music?" He gives her his best grin, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes just enough to make him look mischievous.
"Oh, I rather enjoy music," Agent Carter says. She turns her intense dark eyes back to Steve. "When this is all over I may even go dancing."
Bucky turns all the force of his sparkling blue-green eyes on her. He shifts on his stool, leaning forward a bit. "Well what are you waiting for?" he asks her, catching the corner of his bottom lip between his teeth.
Agent Carter doesn't even look at him. Not at all. But she hears him because she says, "The right partner." All the while her eyes are trained on Steve. "Eight o'clock sharp," she tells Steve.
"Yes, ma'am," Steve says. He stands at attention as Carter spins on her heel and saunters out of the bar, her dress swinging behind her. She gives Steve a final, over the shoulder glance before she exits into the night.
The music slowly starts back up again. Bucky slumps and shakes his head, holding out his glass for another drink. "I'm invisible," he proclaims, taking a deep swig. He swirls the liquid in the glass and shakes his head. "She didn't even look at me." Steve actually looks embarrassed, but Bucky finds it funny. "I'm turning into you," he says and laughs.
Steve relaxes again and laughs as well. "Don't worry. I'm sure she can find you a friend." He pats Bucky on the back. His hand is heavy and Bucky grunts under the weight of it. Steve bobs his head apologetically, but Bucky just smiles and clinks his glass with Steve's.
The next days are spent peering at maps of Europe and planning travel routes. Hydra has factories all over the continent, and Steve's elite team is going to hit them hard. Schmidt may be the Red Skull, but he can't be in all places at all times, and they're taking advantage of that. Bucky and the other guys share what they know, which isn't much. They were manufacturing machinery on a gigantic scale. A map in Zola's lab had locations of other such factories. Bucky wonders how many others have been experimented on in those locations.
He thinks about telling Steve. Steve would understand, look at the guy for crying out loud. He's a walking science experiment.
So am I, Bucky thinks. What will happen to him? No one knows. That's why they call it an experiment.
Steve finds him in the gym, hauling off on a punching bag. With each strike Bucky imagines Schmidt's leering red skull and Zola's round little face with the snub nose and thick glasses. Bucky wipes the sweat off his forehead with his arm and nods to Steve in greeting. "Feel like going a few rounds, like we used to?" he asks when Steve doesn't say anything, just watches him with his brows knitted together thoughtfully.
"You're not afraid I'll hurt you?" Steve asks at last, but he's searching for a pair of gloves that will fit him. "You did take a beating back in Austria…"
"I'm fine," Bucky insists, already climbing into the ring, and it's true. He should still be achy and sore after all the shit Hydra put him through, but he's feeling pretty good. "Besides, I want to see what they did to you."
"A few needles, some bright light, and a lot of confidence in the scrawny kid from Brooklyn," Steve tells him as he joins him in the ring. "Don't hold back, Buck."
"Take your own advice," Bucky tells him with a grin and then they're going at it like they used to back in Brooklyn, bobbing and weaving and striking and blocking. Steve moves fast: faster than he ever could before, and he hits hard. The first time he lands a blow Bucky stumbles backward, the air driven out of his lungs. He shakes his head slightly and keeps his footing, feinting a right at Steve, only to go in with a left hook. Steve blocks it easily. His face is that same mask of concentration that it always was when they fought at home. Steve is still Steve, just bigger and faster. He's still the perfect partner in crime.
Steve gets in an uppercut that flattens Bucky on the mat. Bucky stares up at the overhead lights, dazed and breathing hard, but when Steve rushes over to see if he's fine, Bucky springs up and gets a good hit in against Steve's ribs. Steve grunts and doubles over, but Bucky knows better than to take the bait. He goes at him with a right hook and feints at the last moment with a left uppercut, but Steve takes advantage of Bucky's unguarded left side hits him square in the cheek.
Bucky topples over and lands on his face on the mat, heart slapping his sternum and an ache blossoming in his cheek. "Remember how I used to say it'd take a miracle for you to beat me?" he asks, struggling to sit up. Steve offers his hand and Bucky takes it. When Steve pulls him to his feet, Bucky nearly goes flying. "Looks like miracles can happen," he says.
They head back to the pub for another round of drinks and some food. Bucky's ravenous. "Still making up for being half-starved by Hydra," he explains to Steve, who's on his third plate and looks at Bucky with a raised eyebrow.
"The thing is Buck," Steve begins, thoughtfully chewing on his food. "It's not even that good."
"Better than the shit rations we were getting, and definitely better than starving," Bucky points out, shoveling a spoonful of bland mashed potatoes in his mouth.
"I didn't give you a shiner, did I?" Steve asks, stacking his empty plate on top of the other two, and dropping his napkin on the table. The bartender visibly sighs in relief that Steve's done eating.
Bucky prods at his cheek. It's tender, but not swollen. "I think I'm good. You may be Captain America, but I'm still Bucky Barnes, Brooklyn middleweight champ." He grins. "Come on. Admit it." Steve looks at him, still so innocent in spite of his increased physique. These moments remind Bucky that his friend is still in there, and he feels a lot better. "You loved having me on the ropes."
Steve smiles and looks down at the table, embarrassed. "Yeah, maybe I did, at least a little. Especially since I know you used to hold back," he adds.
Bucky sighs and leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. "You had heart, but I didn't want to hurt you." Steve looks like he's about to say something, but Bucky raises an eyebrow and finally Steve nods his agreement. "So how's it feel to hold your own in a fight?" he asks. "You were always the little guy. I was always saving your ass, or bringing you home after. What's it like to be doing the ass kicking now?"
Steve is quiet for a long time, so long that Bucky wonders if he even heard the question. "I don't like it," Steve finally tells him. "I didn't want this because of some weird vengeance complex." He nods to the bartender, who promptly gets out two pint glasses and starts filling. "It's like I told Erskine, I don't like bullies, no matter what uniform they wear. I'm doing this because it needs to be done, and because Schmidt's the biggest bully of them all."
"The guy's got a bright red skull for a head and all you can say is that he's a big bully?" Bucky asks, incredulous. Then he laughs. "Sometimes I look at you and wonder if you're still Steve, and then you say stuff like that and I know you're the same guy."
Steve smiles. "Thanks, Buck. It actually means a lot to hear that. I don't want to be anyone else. I just wanted to be more effective."
"I think you've got that covered, pal," Bucky tells him, lightly clinking his pint glass against Steve's before taking a deep gulp.
"I'm glad you're coming with me," Steve says.
"Like it was a question?"
Steve grins and raises his glass in a mock toast. "To the end of the line?"
Bucky raises his as well. "To the end of the line."