The semester is finally over and I finished all my finals! Whoo! To celebrate, enjoy this chapter!
Chapter Thirty-Two: Fallen Angel
By the time they parted ways, the hospital cleared Suzie and sent her back to the frontlines. From where he stood next to Steve, Bucky watched his sister hitch a ride in a Jeep, the tires crunching against the dirt-stained snow. The sun shone in the bright blue sky on the first clear day they had in weeks. The way the light glistened on the drifts of snow stung his eyes and he had to squint to see Suzie rolling away.
Suzie swiveled in her spot to wave goodbye as a surge of worry swelled in his chest. Steve's hand on his shoulder stopped Bucky from running after his sister and pulling her from the Jeep.
"She'll be fine," Steve assured.
Bucky didn't believe him. He wouldn't believe anyone until the war ended and he, Steve, and Suzie returned to Brooklyn. Too many of his fellow soldiers died in front of him, either bleeding to death from a bullet wound or blown to bits from a mortar. The 107th suffered heavy casualties at the Battle of Azzano and never fully recovered from it. More died while at the Hydra factory and they lost several men on the long march after Captain America swooped in and liberated the prisoners.
During the few months he worked alongside the 90th, he witnessed the dead bodies piling up into stacks because they ran out of space to place them. Disease stole almost as many soldiers as regular combat deaths. When he first heard about Suzie contracting pneumonia, he had almost lept out of his foxhole to find her. He had caught pneumonia while at Azzano, and he would have died if not for whatever Zola did to him.
He could have died several times. From the pneumonia at Azzano to Zola's mysterious experiments which had killed who-knows how many men before him and hurt like hellfire in his veins, not all the brushes with death were in the middle of a battle. The drugs Zola had put into him had left him nauseous for weeks, and he worried every night would be his last.
One of his Privates had accidentally stepped on a mine and had blown up three other men. The Private had been only eighteen, and one wrong step had killed four soldiers—four good men whose families would mourn. The blast had fractured a nearby tree, which almost crushed him and several others. It had been his first encounter with death up close, and it had not been his last.
Hell, before Steve became all buff and large, a German blockade in a small town had surrounded Bucky's squad. The brass had sorely underestimated the numbers of the Germans, which cost countless lives. Only himself and five other men from the thirty who laid siege to the village survived. As the only remaining officer in the group, the role of leader fell to him. By some miracle, he managed to lead himself and the rest of the men out of the village, but he suffered a bullet in the shoulder and a shrapnel ricochet in the leg for his troubles. He could have died there—he should have died there. The odds were not in their fair, and the Germans had every opportunity to slaughter them.
But they didn't. They survived. And although it had broken something inside of him at the sight of most of his allies—and several of his friends—lying dead on the streets, bleeding on the ground or torn to shreds from shrapnel and mortars, he had pulled through and got the rest of the men out of there alive.
The wounds from the battle had hurt, but, now, he couldn't even see the scars anymore. Where there used to be evidence of puckered skin now felt smooth to the touch. His leg hair had even grown back over the jagged line on his shin, further obscuring the once-sore patches of scars.
Funnily enough, the bullet he took for Suzie at Hydra's fancy watermill base showed no signs of scarring. The pinpricks of track marks and angry, purple bruises from the thousand and one needles jabbed into his skin at the whim of Zola's psychotic mind had long since faded. The fire burning in his veins had cooled to a dull ache and surprisingly showed no signs of ever being detrimental to his health.
He felt stronger, quicker, and more aware of his surroundings. Sure, he could never seem to sate the hunger gnawing at his stomach, the blaring headache from something shining too bright or blaring too loud, or the constant nightmares and worry about Suzie. But hey, at least he didn't hurt otherwise.
Small victories and all that jazz. Yay…
Besides, his aim improved, he moved quicker on his feet, and he could spot an enemy sooner than everyone except for Steve. Sometimes he did spot an enemy before Steve because Steve tended to go in guns blazing and not really think about his surroundings. The serum thankfully hadn't changed Steve's personality. Still, he had yet to decide if he considered Steve's presence on frontlines a blessing or a curse.
On the other hand, he definitely considered Suzie's presence on the frontlines a curse. She should have been home, safe from the carnage of war. She shouldn't be seeing all the terrible shit soldiers had to deal with on a daily basis. She didn't need to know how it felt to shoot another human being, watch your partner bleed to death in a foxhole, have people blow up in a fiery ball of flesh and metal, or witness limbs detach from bodies, men crying for their mamas, and almost getting shot while using a tree as a toilet.
War sucked. And it was no place for dumbasses like Steve—super soldier or not—and innocent women like Suzie. Hell, it was no place for him either because Bucky sure as hell never enlisted.
He knew this war needed winning, but why couldn't Suzie have been a nurse? Nurses were not spared from the realities of war, but they did not spend most of their time on the frontlines risking life and limb to fight the enemy. If she had become a nurse instead of forging her enlistment papers, playing dress-up, and lying about her identity just on the off-chance she could find him somewhere in Europe, he probably would not have worried about her so much.
Probably.
Actually...probably not.
Her plan had been wildly stupid and downright unrealistic, and somehow—it had worked. If he didn't believe in miracles, he sure did now, because nothing else explained why Steve showed up out of the blue like an idiotic guardian angel to pull him free from the living hell at Azzano or why Suzie somehow passed all the basic training requirements and found him in the middle of France.
She had actually found him, and while they couldn't stay side-by-side forever, the few months they were together brought a bit of light as well as a whole cloud of darkness. The nagging presence of worry increased whenever he couldn't reach out to her to make sure she didn't fall victim to a bullet, stray shrapnel, or a mortar blast.
According to Alice—Bucky had interrogated her after he found out about her friendship with his sister—Suzie had suffered a few trips to the hospital throughout basic training and while on the frontlines. Alice seemed unconcerned about Suzie's willingness to fight, but worry still etched its way on her usually motherly stoic face.
He did feel better knowing Alice would keep an eye on Suzie, but he hated leaving her behind, especially while both Hydra and the Nazis were out there to wreak havoc on the world. He could only hope and pray for Suzie's well-being and a swift and peaceful end to the war.
Right now, while trudging through the hundredth damn blizzard of the month, any chances of a miracle happening seemed slim to none.
Two days after he said goodbye to Suzie, the team received word of a Hydra blockade pinning down an Allied battalion behind German lines. How the SSR expected Cap and his team to suddenly travel from the Western Front in France to the Eastern Front in Russia, Bucky had no idea. Still, they had orders and the brass expected them to follow it.
He hated traveling by airplane. The height, the feeling of dread, the rattling of the engine: he hated all of it. He spent most of the trip in a foggy blend of worry about the enemy shooting them out of the air, a healthy dose of panic about being high up in a metal container and thinking about Suzie sitting in a frozen foxhole along the German border. To make matters worse, the memory of his father dying from a malfunctioning parachute returned whenever he found himself somewhere high up. While trying to ignore the thought of jumping out of an airplane over enemy territory with a faulty parachute, he must have checked his harness and pack at least fifty times.
At least none of the men teased him about it, because they all had their own reservations about the mission.
Aside from Mortia's parachute tangling on a tree branch which took them the better part of an hour to cut him down, the drop ended uneventfully. Once they freed Mortia from the Gordian Knot of parachutes, they hiked through several miles of thick drifts of snow and not nearly enough cover to make Bucky comfortable at their potential exposure to the elements as well as enemy fire.
No enemy resistance came until they reached the blockade. Then, Steve, like the absolute moron he was, plowed headfirst into the blockade and took out several tanks before Bucky and the others could follow suit.
It took about three days to break the line, even with Captain America's help. The weather took a turn for the worst, leaving them hunkered down behind tall drifts which strangely reminded him of the snow forts he used to make in his backyard. Except now he couldn't go inside for some hot chocolate whenever he became too cold.
Stark's fancy gizmos and Frenchie's knack for "making things go boom!"—as he put it—blew a wider hole in the blockade. On the end of the third day, they wiped out enough Hydra soldiers for them to finally surrender—or, aka, chomp down hard on a cyanide pill before Steve or the others could intervene. Because of Hydra's poor sportsmanship whenever they lost, no extra intel came from the mission.
Once the blockade fizzled into a smattering of destroyed Hydra weapons and countless dead soldiers lay scattered on the soot and blood-stained snow, Steve marched right inside. Several miles past the line, they encountered the trapped Allied battalion.
After recreating the now legendary march from the Hydra factory, Steve led the nearly one thousand men to their rendezvous point. Celebrations were short as they barely had enough time to say goodbye before the brass whisked them away to London for another debrief before another mission.
From mission after mission, January flew by faster than Steve could throw his shield. Dugan, Frenchie, and Bucky complained about the back-to-back missions, but one stern lecture from Carter silenced them—well, not while in her presence. Bucky talked to Steve about the continuous work they had done, and he said he would talk to the brass about it. The brass did not relent because they saw a way to finally stop Hydra—and they took it.
One lucky breakthrough happened in mid-February. After months of surveillance, the SSR finally caught wind of Zola's whereabouts. Schmidt made like a ghost and disappeared, but for reasons unknown, the SSR located Zola all the way in the Austrian Alps.
The news of the mission to capture Zola left Bucky jittery the entire time they took to plan it. At night, he kept seeing Zola's face peering down at him and jabbing yet another needle into his already bruised arm. This time, however, once the mission ended, Zola would be the one in chains, and Bucky would be the one jeering at him. As much as he wanted to put a bullet through Zola's pudgy face, the brass would never let him because Zola, whether Bucky liked it or not, could lead them to Schmidt.
The high stakes of the mission made him restless and he spent most of his time outside of debriefs pacing or practicing his aim because the day of the mission couldn't come fast enough.
When the day of the mission finally arrived, he instantly regretted his decision to be one of the trio to board the train. Standing on top of a mountain, he stared down at the zipline tethered above the train tracks snaking through the frigid Alps.
His gut churned and his vision spun at the sight of the zipline and the dizzying drop to the tracks. If anyone missed the train or the line broke, they'd be dead in an instant. Something inside him warned him about the mission—a not-so-little voice whispered in his head about impending doom.
Turn around. Don't do it. This is the end.
Gosh, he hated heights.
"I'll be fine," Bucky thought and tried to push away the dread gnawing at him. "Think happy thoughts."
For some reason, his mind went straight to Suzie. Right now, she probably sat in a foxhole, listening to her red-headed friend chatter up a storm. She would love to know about this mission and the possible end to Hydra's reign of terror; which reminded him, he had yet to reply to her most recent letter.
Eh, he'll do it tomorrow.
Right now, his team needed his full attention. And he would be damned if he let Zola slip away. The psychotic bastard deserved to pay for the horrors he inflicted on him and the other unknown soldiers who died at the Hydra factory. The fate of the war hinged on this mission, and all Bucky wanted was to capture Zola, end the war, and go home to Becca with Suzie and Steve in tow.
Besides, how bad could this mission be?
It never should have happened. He still couldn't process it.
One moment, they were fighting Hydra soldiers on a train speeding through the Austrian Alps, and the next, a blast of blue light propelled Bucky out of the side of the train car.
Echos of Bucky's scream of terror when the metal bar he clung to gave way and he plummeted to his death still rang in Steve's ears.
Bucky! No!
Not Bucky.
Please, not Bucky!
He couldn't move, couldn't do anything other than clutch the battered side of the train car as the locomotive streaked along the tracks. The wind stinging his exposed face felt like nothing to him, not when something inside of him had shattered when his friend disappeared from view.
The wintery mountains flashed by in a blur of white and howling wind. He could still see Bucky's terrified face when he tried to grab Steve's outstretched hand.
He had been so close. He could have made it if Steve had been just a little closer—just a little quicker.
Bucky's scream repeated in his head as Steve rested his forehead against the frigid metal and squeezed his eyes shut in the hopes of this being nothing more than a cruel nightmare. He would wake up and hear Bucky snoring beside him wrapped in his sleeping bag cocoon. Bucky would tease Steve about a silly nightmare because that's what it was—a twisted illusion of his mind, not reality.
It couldn't be real.
Not Bucky.
He couldn't…
A hand landed on his shoulder and gently pulled him into the train car, away from the chasm torn in the metal. He looked up to see Jones staring at him with Zola handcuffed and defeated beside him. Any light of excitement at finally capturing Zola faded in Jones's warm, brown eyes once he saw Steve's face. His lips moved, but his question fell on deaf ears as Steve dragged a hand through his tangled hair and stumbled over to grab his discarded shield.
Soot from repeated hits smeared over the paint, tarnishing the once cheery and patriotic color. All sense of hope evaporated, and he stared unfocused at his darkened reflection on the cloudy metal. It stank of smoke and sweat, the leather straps hardened and splitting from repeated use and the winter temperatures.
The shield didn't save Bucky.
A tear rolled down Steve's cheek and splashed on the red paint below. It slid down the curve, soaking up the grime and leaving a thin trail of shining metal in its wake.
The train lurched to a stop and the rest of the team boarded the sleek vehicle. Rowdy voices hollered in victory at the sight of Jones guarding Zola. The "wahoos" and "hell yeahs" dwindled as Steve trudged through the cars and out into the snowy wilderness.
Dugan was the first to notice the somberness of Steve's departure. "Cap, what happened? Where's Jimmy?"
Bucky hated Dugan's nickname for him, but he couldn't roll his eyes at Dugan's teasing anymore. He couldn't tease anyone or do anything anymore, all because he fell from a damn train in the damn Alps while trying to capture a damn Hydra scientist who had experimented on him like a damn lab rat and—
"Where's Sarge?" Mortia asked.
"Captain?" Monty raised an eyebrow.
Steve ignored their concerned expressions, instead solemnly stepping out of the train and walking into the wooded area nearby.
Jones told them to leave him alone because Steve heard a loud expletive from Dugan, and his bowler hat thumped onto the snow. Frenchie muttered something in French Steve couldn't understand, and someone must have punched Zola because a slew of angry German curses followed a wet smack of a fist against pudgy skin.
The sounds of the men melted away the further Steve slogged through the thick drifts of snow. The numbness in his limbs and the fuzziness in his head dissolved into a churning rumble of torment when his legs finally refused to move anymore.
He stood there in silence, his chest heaving from his attempts to fight back the urge to throw something. He hated the helplessness weighing him down. Nothing could undo what had happened. Nobody could ever survive a fall like that.
He didn't want to think about Bucky's body lying in the valley, exposed to the elements and hungry wild animals. If not for the heaviness of complete and utter defeat cementing him to the ground, he would have turned around and marched right back into the mountains to bring his friend's body home. Bucky deserved a proper burial, not rotting away in a ravine in the middle of nowhere.
Closing his eyes, Steve lifted his face toward the sky and sucked in a shaky breath. Snowflakes kissed his skin as if Mother Nature had taken pity on him by sending little, sympathetic drops of condolences for his loss. The once howling wind withered to a light breeze, letting only the coldness of the void inside him drag him into a downward spiral of despair.
Images of Bucky's wide blue eyes and his outstretched hand flashed in Steve's mind. In hindsight, in the quietness of the woods, he realized Bucky had been too scared to even speak. In any other circumstance, Bucky usually made joking remarks to mask his nerves. On the train, his true feelings lay bare in the horrid realization of how one wrong move could end everything. His mouth had hung open and stark panic had flashed in his eyes in the brief moment they caught each other's gaze.
That's all Steve had caught: Bucky's gaze, not his hand. Not the hand Bucky had thrown out towards him, their fingers mere inches apart. Bucky hadn't said anything until the metal bar broke off from the train car wall, sending him plunging into the snowy abyss with a bloodcurdling scream. Even while he fell, his hands still reached out for someone, something, to grab onto. He had trusted Steve to save him and all Steve could do was watch.
They had known each other for practically their whole lives. Whenever Steve found himself in trouble—through either his own making or Bucky's willingness to occasionally encourage Steve onto wild adventures—Bucky always stood by his side. He helped him whenever Steve fell ill or found himself in over his head during a fistfight with a particularly rough group of bullies. Bucky never judged him or treated him any differently because of his laundry list of medical problems or when Steve had thrown up on Bucky on more than one occasion. Bucky's compassion matched his wit to the point where one moment, they would be laughing so hard they could shoot water out of their noses, and the next, Bucky would be helping Steve calm down from an asthma attack.
They were two sides of the same coin—two halves of a whole. Where one went, the other followed. There couldn't be one without the other.
And watching his best friend—his brother in everything except blood—fall to his death fractured him down to his very soul.
Unable to hold himself back any longer, Steve spun around and hurtled his shield at the nearest tree while letting out an anguished wail. The vibranium slashed through the tree trunk, and the crack of splintered wood ruptured the air.
As the tree fell to the ground, Steve collapsed to his knees and wrapped his arms around himself. Giving into the emotions tearing him apart, Steve squeezed his eyes shut and cried.
Peggy found him sitting amid the overturned chairs, shattered glass, and splintered wood of the bombed ruins of the Whip and Fiddle. The once merry gathering spot of the soldiers stood desolate and decrepit in the hushed streets of London. She could hear no sound aside from the loudspeakers warning everyone to stay inside. The citizens slept in quiet fear of another bombing while the soldiers remained on high alert. The Nazis and Hydra were getting desperate and had resorted to drastic measures to diminish the Allies' morale. The bombing had only angered the Allies and added fuel to the already raging hatred toward the Nazi organizations.
The team had not said anything after they landed back at SSR headquarters. Dugan had an angry scowl on his mustached face as they marched Zola into a containment cell. Mortia, who had been in charge of the radio, had not shared any details about what had happened in the Alp. Major Falsworth warned her that Steve would probably not be reporting to Colonel Phillips once they landed.
True to Falsworth's word, once the plane touched down on the tarmac, Steve had hurried away, brushing aside Colonel Phillips's questions. Despite the significant victory against Hydra and Schmidt by finally capturing Doctor Zola, the entire team of men stood downtrodden and defeated and answered questions in short, solemn replies.
Peggy had spotted the noticeable lack of Steve's best friend the moment everyone disembarked from the plane. She had known about Sergeant Barnes's personal animosity against Zola, and to see him not leading a handcuffed Zola out of the plane surprised her. Barnes's absence explained Steve's silent retreat to his sleeping quarters, the slumped shoulders and misty eyes of the men, and the visible bruise on Zola's jaw.
Peggy did not know Barnes well. Much to her lack of amusement, he had flirted with her on more than one occasion, but he backed off when Steve took a visible liking to her. Aside from his poor and rather annoying attempts at flirting, Barnes had been a great sergeant. He connected easily with the men around him without making his actions seem contrived or forced. Better yet, he led through action instead of shallow words and empty promises many officers had made countless times before. From what she could tell, she understood why Steve deeply respected and cared for him. If Steve's willingness to risk his life on the off-chance of finding Bucky alive at a Hydra POW camp didn't prove his connection with Barnes, then the way Steve sat in a lone chair in the middle of a bombed pub did.
In the few years she had known him, she had never seen him drink like this. Sure, he drank with the men for camaraderie, but he never had anything more than a couple of glasses. His modest drinking habits had been the subject of teasing from the men, mostly from Barnes himself, but they could never persuade him to try the stronger drinks.
No lights were on due in part to the blackout effective throughout London in the case of another attack. Everyone had to remain indoors until further notice, which Steve technically followed despite the caved-in roof of the pub and the gaping hole in the ceiling which left the room open to the starry sky above.
The stars dotted the darkness—minuscule flickers of light in the overwhelmingly black gloom. She couldn't remember the last time she saw the sky so clear in London. If not for the dejected captain sitting alone in the middle of the rubble, she could have stopped to cherish the brief yet beautiful view of the night sky.
As she stepped through the demolished doorway into the team's favorite room of the pub, Steve turned around to acknowledge her, his super-soldier senses picking up on her presence. Wiping a hand under his nose, he sniffed and turned toward the small, dusty table in the middle of the room.
"Doctor Erskine said that the serum wouldn't just affect my muscles, it would affect my cells," Steve said while he poured himself another glass. "Create a protective system of regeneration and healing, which means," he shook his head and stared at the glass in his hand, "I can't get drunk."
The whiskey contained more alcohol than Steve's preferred choice, but if he intended to drink to get drunk, he chose the right bottle. She had seen the way men reacted when they drank to forget, and it usually did not end well. The alcohol would never truly wash away the pain, only drown it for a few short hours before it all came rushing back.
"Did you know that?" Steve asked, his voice hoarse.
Peggy fiddled with the gloves in her hands before grabbing an upturned chair and setting it beside Steve. "Your metabolism burns four times faster than the average person." She sat down on the chair without brushing off the dust and slid her purse off her shoulder. "He thought it could be one of the side effects."
Steve's head dropped down again. Although he wore his dress uniform all soldiers had to wear while off-duty and had showered, his face betrayed his feelings. The way he dressed attempted to make himself appear put-together, but it fell short when she looked at his face. Even in the darkness, illuminated only by the stars, she could see his red-rimmed eyes and dried tracks of tears smeared over his cheeks. His fingers tapped against the glass of whiskey in his hands, and his shoulder slumped forward.
"It wasn't your fault," Peggy said, aware of how stupid and cliché it sounded. She had been in Steve's position when she lost her brother to the war and had hated the pitiful and empty condolences neighbors, friends, and even her own family offered. Words meant nothing when they didn't understand how she felt. They couldn't feel her pain, couldn't truly know how it felt to lose her brother and closest friend.
Letting him wallow in "what-ifs" would not alleviate the guilt of his friend's death plastered all over his face. Grieving had its own time and place, but the past could not be undone. He shouldn't sit here, trying in vain to drink himself into a stupor, but he also didn't need to mourn alone.
"Did you read the report?" Steve asked.
"Yes."
He scoffed. "Then you know that's not true."
"You did everything you could," Peggy replied. She had not been there, had not seen what Steve had. Yet, she couldn't sit by and let him spiral into a depression without trying to help him process the loss of his friend and seek a way through it. Guilt over what should have been would not do Steve any justice—would not do Sergeant Barnes any justice.
A corner of his mouth twitched, but he did not meet her gaze. His eyes remained glued to the table; her words were clearly falling on deaf ears.
"Did you believe in your friend?"
Her question garnered a reaction because he finally lifted his head and met her eyes.
"Did you respect him?" Peggy continued, taking the little shift in Steve's demeanor and running with it. "Then stop blaming yourself. Allow Barnes the dignity of his choice. He damn well must have thought you were worth it."
"I'm going after Schmidt," Steve muttered, gazing toward the table once again. "I'm not going to stop until all of Hydra is dead or captured."
When they had first met, he had said he wanted to join the army not to kill Nazis, but because he hated bullies. He had never been prone to unjustified violence or wild declaration. His sudden shift from someone trying to stop bullies to an almost revengeful statement was surprising but not unwarranted.
She had felt the same way when her brother, Michael, had died. The news of his death had been the final push towards her breaking off her engagement to her fiancé and joining the SSR. Michael had been the one to recommend her to the SSR in the first place, and she had joined completely alone and unsupported after his death.
Steve had a whole team supporting him, and he wouldn't be by himself in his desire to bring Hydra down. Dugan and the others respected Barnes, and they would willingly assist Steve in ending the war on behalf of Barnes's death. Schmidt and Zola had made a terrible mistake by poking a sleeping giant.
"You won't be alone," Peggy promised.
Steve said nothing as he rubbed at his eyes and took a gulp of the whiskey. His nose scrunched from the burn of the alcohol.
"I can still hear his scream," Steve mumbled as he ran a hand through his hair. "His face…all I could do was watch. He was terrified, and I can't…" His voice broke and he dropped his elbows onto the table, his head leaning into his hand with the other on the half-empty glass. "He…had to have been…awake…the whole way down..."
He shuddered from the thought, his voice catching in his throat again. "If I had been a little quicker, I could've saved him."
"War is unpredictable, Steve, and if we let ourselves fret about the past, then we cannot move forward." Peggy gently pulled the glass from his hand, causing him to look up at her. She poured more whiskey and took a swig herself.
"I shouldn't've let him come on the mission. Hell, I should've made him go home after Azzano."
"You know more than me he never would've let that happen," Peggy said. "He chose to stay, and none of it is on you."
"He stayed because of me. He's always so worried about me getting into trouble, and so he stayed to keep an eye on me. If I hadn't taken the serum, he'd probably still be alive right now."
"If you hadn't taken the serum, he probably never would have escaped the POW camp. None of those men would have escaped. Hundreds of men owe their lives to you because of your willingness to join Project Rebirth. Erskine chose you because he believed you would make a difference in the world—and you have. I've seen it first hand—Barnes has seen it firsthand—so don't let him down by blaming yourself for something you can't change."
When Steve said nothing, she added, "Did he have family?"
He nodded.
"I know you probably don't want to think about it right now, but a letter from you would mean more than Colonel Phillips or anyone else."
"I know." Steve's voice rose barely above a whisper.
She reached out to place her hand on top of his. "Whatever you need, I'm here."
A corner of Steve's lips curled upward and he rolled his hand upward to rest his palm against hers.
The wounds of a loss like Barnes's would take a long time to heal, especially with the bond he and Steve had shared. Nobody could easily shake off and move on from losing a life-long friend; Peggy knew from experience. She still missed her brother and longed for the chance to see him again; yet, she had long ago accepted the fact that she would only reunite with him in heaven. It would take time, but, hopefully, Steve could accept it with Barnes.
In the meantime, they could sit and grieve together. Tomorrow they would fight for the end of the war and prevent fewer families from mourning the loss of their sons, brothers, friends, and husbands. Right now, all they could do was push forward while never forgetting the reasons why they fought, to serve and protect their nations.
Peggy sat with Steve for the rest of the night, letting him take the reins in the conversation. Several times they lapsed into silence, but together, they sat beneath the stars and mourned the loss of their loved ones.
The Hydra mission in Russia was mentioned in a canon interview (Peggy Carter Smithsonian interview on YouTube). Peggy's brother, Michael, and her fiancé (his name was Fred, but he's not important) appeared in Agent Carter (a great TV show, I highly recommend).