Chapter Thirteen

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They had been fools.

That was Steve's first, wild, horrified thought even as he threw himself toward his brother, knowing he would be too late. They had been fools to hope that they were safe, to let their guard down even this much.

The shot rang out—a flurry of motion—a sickening crack…

A body hit the pavement hard. Two bodies, one on top of the other.

Then Steve's fingers were digging into Bucky's shoulders, and he hauled his thrashing brother back, off of the would-be assassin. The Howling Commandos flooded past to deal with the downed man, but Steve ignored them all.

"Buck," he panted, ducking the metal fist that automatically swung at his head. "Bucky, listen to me. It's okay. You're okay."

Bucky's teeth were bared, his face dead white where it wasn't covered by the slick sheet of crimson flowing down the side of his head. He struggled, nearly wrenched himself free; Steve tightened his grip.

"Let me see," Peggy was saying, reaching to press her handkerchief to the steady stream of blood. "I think—did he dodge?" Her voice shook, filled with utter disbelief.

Bucky's muscles were bunching, twitching beneath Steve's hands. His eyes were wild. He lashed out at Peggy; Steve only just managed to knock his arm up. Peggy gasped, stepped back out of range.

"It's okay, Buck," Steve said again. "It's Peggy. Agent Carter. You remember Agent Carter?"

A flicker of recognition eased back into Bucky's eyes—recognition and then stark horror. His knees gave out at once; Steve eased them both to the ground, refusing to let go.

"I'm here," he promised Bucky, tugging him close into a grip that was half embrace, half restraint, speaking low into his ear. "I'm here."

"Did I k-k-k-k…" Bucky stuttered through chattering teeth. "D-d-did I k-kill…"

Steve looked back to where the Commandos surrounded the silent form of Bucky's attacker. Dugan had a match lit, examining him. The body lay twisted on the pavement, gun knocked from an obviously broken arm.

Steve had never been so thankful to see white foam dripping from the corpse's mouth. God alone knew how much blood was already on Sergeant Barnes's hands, and it felt nothing short of a mercy that this life, at least, would not be on his conscience.

"He had a cyanide pill," he assured Bucky. "You just broke his arm—he did himself in."

But Peggy understood. Steve heard the rustle of her coat as she knelt beside them, slipping a gentle hand over Bucky's shoulder. He flinched violently, but she didn't let go. "I'm fine," she said softly. "We're all fine. You didn't hurt any of us."

Bucky choked on an indrawn breath. Tears mingled with the blood on his face; he pressed his forehead into Steve's shoulder and rocked back and forth, clenching a fistful of Steve's coat in his trembling hand. The metal arm lay limply at his side.

"Oh thank God," he whispered brokenly. "Thank God. It all went b-black, Stevie. I couldn't… I don't even…"

His stumbling words faded out as Peggy pressed her handkerchief to Bucky's head again in an attempt to staunch the bleeding.

"We've got to get out of the street," she said crisply. "That's the first thing."

Dugan shouldered open the door the assassin had shot from and they piled inside, Steve half-carrying the stumbling Bucky, refusing to let him go. The building appeared to be some sort of storage area, partly filled with scrap metal. Falsworth found a folded tarpaulin just inside; he picked it up and returned to the street to deal with the fallen man.

"Let me see," Peggy repeated, carefully easing Bucky's bloody hair away from the wound as he clung to her husband. "Does anybody have a torch?"

Morita, gritting his teeth against the pain their sudden rush had cost him, fumbled in his pocket and produced a flashlight. It flickered; he slapped it against his hand twice and the glow steadied. "Here," he rasped.

Peggy's handkerchief was completely soaked with Bucky's blood, as were Gabe's and Falsworth's, by the time she was able to fully determine the extent of the wound.

"It is a flesh wound," she confirmed. In the single heartbeat of time between the trigger finger tensing and the actual flight of the bullet, Bucky had somehow managed to dodge. She reached for her pack, fumbled for needle and thread. "Jim, can you…?"

Morita nodded. He was the best of them all at stitching up wounds. "If he lets me get close enough."

"He will," said Steve quietly, and spared a hand from his tight embrace to pull out the little black case holding the kimoyo beads.

With Steve and Morita involved in caring for their brother-in-arms, Peggy straightened and wiped at the blood on her hands. Her saturated handkerchief merely smeared it around. With a sigh she gave up, holding her hands away from herself as she moved towards the door. Falsworth held it open the slightest crack, keeping watch.

"Any sign of reinforcements?" she asked in a low voice.

He shook his head, not taking his attention from the street outside. "Nobody."

Peggy sighed, glancing at her watch. "We can't make the ship," she realized. "If they knew we'd be in the street at this time, then they knew our departure time. There may even be other operatives on board in the event we avoided this one."

Falsworth's mouth tightened. "It would seem likely."

Dugan stepped up to Peggy's elbow and offered her his bandanna, soaked with water from a canteen. She threw him a grateful smile as she accepted it and began to clean the blood from her hands.

He didn't retreat, even after she returned his bandanna. Instead he leaned against the wall and hooked a thumb through his belt, the casual posture contrasting sharply with his watchful eyes.

"Seems to me," he started slowly, "that we may have a solution on our hands."

Peggy tilted her head in wordless inquiry.

Dugan shoved his hat back a little and nodded at the tarpaulin-covered body that Falsworth had dragged inside and left in a corner. "They're looking for Sarge," he said. "I say we give them what they want."

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Morita cut the last thread and turned to rinse his hands in the bowl of water Gabe had brought. Bucky's wound was deep, laying the bone bare in one spot, but it was survivable.

"Thanks, Jim," Steve said quietly.

Morita nodded, and then caught his eye significantly, nodding towards the beads Steve was packing back into the case. It was the only way they had been able to calm Bucky enough for the stitching to take place. "You ever going to tell us about those?"

Steve considered, but only briefly. "No, I don't think so."

Morita opened his mouth as though to say something else, but Peggy cut him off, crossing the room with a quick, firm step. "Steve? We have a solution."

Steve listened to the proposal with all his attention, even as he kept a steadying hand on Bucky's shoulder. The beads had left his brother quiet to the point of drowsiness—he curled on the floor like a dog, the bandaged crown of his head just brushing Steve's knee.

"The guy looks nothing like Buck," Steve pointed out. "Not close enough to fool anybody."

Dernier shrugged eloquently and patted his knapsack. Dugan grinned. "All we need is some metal plates and bars from this here scrap heap to mock up a fake arm. Jacques has some stuff he swears will melt down the metal and make the body unrecognizable. Set a fire in here, and it'll explain everything."

"And his actual arm?" Steve asked.

Dernier shrugged again. "I can make disappear. Voilà. Is no issue."

"They're looking for a dead man with a metal arm," Dugan said quietly. "We give them that, maybe we throw them off Barnes's trail."

Steve bowed his head for a moment and thought about the young man he was dooming to eternal anonymity. Thought about the mother or sweetheart who would never know his fate.

And then he thought about Mrs. Barnes, about Bucky's father, his sisters. They would never be safe if Hydra succeeded in following Bucky home.

He set his jaw.

"Do it," he said grimly.

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It took hours. While Dernier and Dugan worked at the gruesome task of turning the assassin's corpse into a reasonable facsimile of Bucky, the rest kept watch and strategized their further movements.

The ship to America was out of the question. If even one operative was on their trail, that meant any other part of their plan had to be scrapped.

"They'll expect us to have Howard fly us out if we can't make the ship," Peggy mused. "Which means they'll be watching the ports and the airfields."

"Could we try for Ireland?" Jones asked.

Steve hesitated, but then reluctantly shook his head. "If we think of it, then we can take it for granted that they will too. We've got to do the very last thing they'll expect."

Peggy immediately caught his drift. Her eyes lit up. "We'll go the other way."

"But we're on an island," Morita put in. He leaned against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him, his arm shielding his wound unconsciously. The circles under his eyes were worryingly dark. "We gotta get off it somehow."

"Then luck is on your side, chaps." Falsworth smoothed his trim mustache with evident satisfaction. "I have just the thing."

Theoretically they'd all known Monty Falsworth belonged to the peerage. But somehow, amid the equalizing wartime realities of sleeping side by side in tents or slogging through knee-deep mud, none of them had ever really thought about it.

Well, other than Peggy, of course. But she was a Brit and a special agent, as Dugan pointed out, and that sort of insight was to be expected from her.

Still, even she hadn't expected this.

"You have a yacht?"

Monty looked terribly pleased with himself. "Pretty little thing. The Union Jack. Does fifteen knots in a pinch. Currently docked near Ramsgate."

Steve furrowed his forehead, thinking. "How fast could you get to Bremerhaven?"

It was Falsworth's turn to be startled. "Germany? But we just got out of there, old chap. Why would we want to go back that way?"

"Because they won't expect it," Steve replied, and patted the sleeping Bucky's shoulder.

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It was relatively simple to catch a train for Ramsgate, splitting into several small groups and boarding at different times.

Forty-five minutes after the train departed, a small but clever device hidden beneath a tarpaulin in an abandoned building burst into flames.

And the next day the following article appeared in the paper:

Fire was reported in a small building near the docks yesterday afternoon. One casualty: a man with an advanced metal arm prosthesis. Identity is unknown. Any persons with information as to this man's identity are requested to come forward…

"Hmmm," a well-dressed man with no hint of a Russian accent grunted, tossing the paper aside. "And you're sure it's him?"

"As near as I can tell." The man who replied lit a German-made cigarette. "Badly mangled in the fire, but what was left of the arm was the right size and shape."

"Hmmm." The well-dressed man shook his head. "The affair was badly handled. The fool shouldn't have killed the asset. He ought to have been at the ship with the rest."

"Indeed." A languid spiral of tobacco smoke accompanied the reply. "No wonder we haven't heard from him. He'd do well to run. Doctor Zola will not be pleased at the loss."

Unbeknownst to them, at that very moment four hundred miles away, Bucky Barnes stepped off Monty Falsworth's yacht onto German soil.

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As part of the surrender agreement, the Allied nations had taken occupation of different portions of Germany. The port of Bremerhaven was in the part controlled by the United States. Thousands of American soldiers bustled through the area; hundreds of troop transports moved in and out of the harbor.

It was an ideal place to lay low and blend in.

The Howlies found a place in a nearby town, and then Dugan and Peggy set to work straightening out all the red tape.

"I can get us on a troop transport," Peggy said, biting her pencil thoughtfully. "Morita will be invalided home. I may have go separately as a war bride, but the rest of you will simply be soldiers whose service is up."

"Absolutely not," Steve retorted instantly. "I'm not coming home from the honeymoon without my wife."

Peggy dimpled and bumped his foot with hers beneath the table. "I'll see if I can come as a WAC," she said, and bent over her clipboard with renewed determination.

"Good. Identification?" Steve asked.

Dugan slapped a wad of papers in his hand without a word. Steve didn't even try to ask where he'd obtained them.

"Good," he said again. "I'll wire Monty, let him know we're on our way."

Falsworth and Dernier had stayed with the yacht, sailing back to England as fast as they could manage in order to create an artificial trail purportedly left by Bucky's attempted killer. If Hydra tried to find the man, it would go cold, but it would also alert Monty, who could wire Steve at once.

"We've got your back," was the last thing the Englishman had said before his departure, and Steve knew it was true.

So it was with the confidence of knowing that he wasn't alone in this, knowing good men would keep an eye on this side of the Atlantic for any hint of danger to his brother, that Steve was able to step aboard the troop transport one week later with the remainder of his team.

The trip across the ocean gave them all a much-needed break. Sure, there was still the daily routine and regulation found aboard a troop ship, but it wasn't anything they hadn't done before. Morita slept for most of it, his exhausted and still-healing body finally able to relax.

In her character of a WAC, Peggy assumed an American accent that made Dugan snigger every time she said something. Of necessity, her sleeping quarters were separate from Steve's, but they still managed to satisfactorily make time together.

After all, it was a big ship.

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"What are you doing?" Peggy demanded, amusement quirking her lips at the excited expression on her husband's face. The sun was setting, and everyone else was at mess, but Steve had brushed by her in the dining area, his fingers skimming up the inside of her wrist in their own private signal. She'd followed a few minutes later, joining him on deck.

"Wanted to try something," he responded with a boyish grin. Their hands were firmly entwined; he tugged gently, leading her forward until they reached the prow. The sun was setting, brilliant colors splashed across the sky and sea.

"Stand here," he ordered, extracting his hand from hers to take her by the waist, positioning her in front of him. The railing was the only thing separating her from a steep drop to the churning water below; she leaned back against his chest.

"And this is…?" she inquired, trying to look up into his face. His hands at her waist kept her from turning.

"It's a thing from the future," he said. "Hold out your arms. I think it's supposed to feel like flying."

"'A thing,'" she echoed, deadpan, hiding her amusement at his odd vernacular.

"A thing," he repeated doggedly. "It's from a movie. I never saw it—" too much ice, people freezing to death in water so cold the very idea made his bones ache, his lungs seize up… "—but people would copy it, you know?"

Peggy laughed. He was so dramatic, this lover of hers. Then she let go of the railing, spreading her arms wide. The cold wind caught at the fabric of her coat, whipped her hair back, but she wasn't afraid. Steve would never let her fall. "Like this?"

His cheek brushed the side of her face, his lips at her ear. "Does it feel like flying?"

She turned her head and caught his mouth with hers in a brief kiss, laughing at the surprise on his face when she pulled back. Then she turned in the circle of his arms, slipping her own around his neck in order to kiss him more thoroughly.

"Does that?" she inquired impishly.

He wrapped her up in his arms, holding her still closer. "Yeah," he breathed unsteadily against her hair. "I'm flying all right."

They held each other close against the sunset sky, and in that single moment, it did truly feel like they were flying.

"You know," said Peggy much later from her comfortable perch on her husband's knee. They had left the prow when the wind got too keen, and found a seat in a more sheltered part of the deck from which to watch the remaining light fade from the sky. "It occurs to me that technically that film will now be copying us, since we did it first."

"Mmm," said Steve a little abstractedly. He was busy admiring his wife's profile and considering how he would do this moment in watercolors when they got home. "I'm not sure it works that way."

"Shame," said Peggy idly. And then, "How much time do you think we have before the others come looking for us?"

Steve tugged his wife back into his arms. "Not nearly enough," he said, "so we'd better make the most of it," and went in for another kiss.

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Bucky continued the kimoyo treatments. By the time they reached the halfway point, he was visibly improving. He still didn't join in conversations easily, and more than once one of the Commandos would catch him with a faraway look in his eye. But his episodes were becoming rarer—those instances when Bucky would leap to his feet, or grab for a weapon, or grow pale and trembling.

In those moments, Steve wouldn't let anybody but himself get near his friend.

"He's stronger than he knows," he explained somewhat awkwardly, but the others simply nodded and didn't press for answers. Steve knew his team had questions. He could see them in their eyes, feel them in the air. But whether Peggy had had a word with them, or for some other reason he couldn't fathom, they thankfully never pressed him for answers. Instead they banded around Bucky, ever mindful of his needs, watching keenly in case he felt overwhelmed at the press and bustle of shipboard life. At least one of them was always around, watching his back.

And Bucky, in the safe and supportive environment, finally began to heal. The rare twitch of his lips that passed for a smile became more frequent, especially when he beat Gabe in a game of shuffleboard. And the day Dugan realized with a roar of outrage that Bucky had been cheating at poker was the day they first saw the sparkle come back into his eye.

Slowly, slowly, little by little, their brother was coming back to them.

And it was good.

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For as long as he lived, Steve never forgot the moment the New York skyline came into view.

"Hey, Buck," he called, and when Bucky came over to him, Steve threw an arm around his brother's shoulders and pointed. He meant to say something lighthearted, but instead his throat swelled shut with unexpected emotion at the look on Bucky's face.

Because Bucky Barnes was staring at that skyline as if he was seeing the pearly gates themselves. Steve wasn't sure he'd seen a look of longing that keen on anybody's face before.

Peggy pressed up against her husband's other side, her hat slightly askew. He wound his free arm around her waist, smiling down at her with eyes that he knew were wet.

This—this was how he had imagined returning at the end of the war—the homecoming they'd never had.

"Home," Bucky whispered hoarsely, and Steve nodded, not caring that the motion spilled a tear down his cheek. He tightened his grip on his family; his voice cracked when he managed an answer.

"Yeah, Buck," he said softly. "We're home."

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Thanks again for all the kind comments! Y'all are the best readers a girl could ask for—thank you so much. (This is NOT the end of the story, in case you were wondering. There's a couple chapters left.)

I couldn't find a good way to work it in, but I headcanon that Falsworth's yacht was used in the Dunkirk evacuation. The Ramsgate port played a significant part in that operation. Also, the name of the yacht is a nod to Falsworth's alter ego in the comics.

Guest replies:

My-secret-garden: Yes it really was four months, and no you're not a lousy friend! You're definitely just used to reading fanfics—yup they take forever. Thank you so much for your understanding! (Also you're a fic writer too? That's so cool!) And mwahahaha—I am very satisfied at your cliffhanger reaction. :D

Ryn: Awww, thank you! And yes, I loved that line by Dernier too. Those men are brothers by virtue of the horrors they've faced together, and I will forever wish the movie had given us more of it.