Author's note: The theme song to this chapter is He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother, by The Hollies. It would also make a great Bucky/Steve theme song. If you haven't heard it before, or even if you have, you should go pay a visit to Youtube.
We Were Soldiers
38. A Matter of Trust
Bucky's head was aflame with thoughts which darted through his mind so fleetingly that they were gone before he could catch them. In his ears he heard whispers, but they were so quiet, so ubiquitous, that he couldn't make out the words, nor identify any single voice. To keep himself grounded, he focused on one thought.
Find Steve.
Steve would know what to do. He would help Bucky make things right. Together they could figure out who the real spies were. Bucky needed Steve's cool, logical head, because he himself had been poisoned, and so many innocents had been framed by the Nazis that he risked killing somebody who didn't deserve it.
Thud thud thud.
His heart had grown louder over the past hour or two, and the fire in his mind seemed to be spreading to the rest of his body. But that was okay, because Steve would know what to do about that as well. And best of all, Steve would believe him when nobody else did.
He tasted blood in his mouth. Had tasted blood since he'd left the camp. His gum was bleeding again. But that was normal. He was marching fast. Exerting himself. When blood pumped faster, it was under higher pressure. Only natural for the hole in his mouth to bleed a little. It would stop, soon enough.
Behind him, Wells came crashing loudly through the undergrowth. Why couldn't he be quiet? Didn't he understand that stealth was important right now? Only God knew how many Nazi troops were patrolling the countryside, waiting for their spies to report back about Bucky's progress.
Or… was that why Wells was making so much noise? Was he trying to lead the Nazis straight to their position?
Bucky shook his head. Trying to figure things out was hard. His thoughts danced in circles, like young girls around a maypole. Like children in the schoolyard, singing Ring around the roses and, Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down!
Ashes. Yes. That was how he felt. Like his mind was burning so hot it was turning to ashes. His body, too, was going that way. Legs that had moved easily were starting to grow heavy. Feet ached in his boots. His arms hung loosely by his sides, no longer free-swinging. Only the rifle slung across his back kept his spine straight. But Steve would make things right again.
He stumbled on a loose stone and caught himself against the trunk of a tree. Around him, the night air burned, a searing inferno. Taking several deep breaths, he gasped for something cooler, sweeter. Smoke; his lungs were full of smoke, like he'd been too long in a music hall, breathing in the fumes of other guys' cigars.
"You're starting to feel it, aren't you?" Wells asked. Bucky turned his aching head on his stiff neck, found his fellow sergeant watching him closely. There was something in his eyes… the look of a vulture watching its next meal slowly die. "Your body slowing down. Your heart racing like it wants to beat right out of your chest. Maybe your vision blurring around the edges."
"I'm fine," Bucky said. Or, he would be, if he could make out what those whispering voices were saying. Why couldn't they speak one at a time? He pushed himself from the comforting embrace of the tree and set off again. Each time he stopped, it was harder to get started. Don't stop. Keep moving. Find Steve.
Thud thud thud thud thud.
Wells followed, his voice cutting through the infuriating whispers. "Stark told me that you've got something in your blood. Something that's making you see and hear things. Something that's making you feel angry."
Bucky nodded. He knew it. "Poison." Could feel it coursing through him. Probably made his gum bleed, too.
"Maybe. But that stuff in your blood… it's killing you. Too much adrenaline. Your body can't handle it. Stark said pretty soon, your organs will start to fail. That your body won't be able to handle much more before it switches off forever."
Stark would say that—he was probably working with the Nazis.
"I'm fine," he insisted.
Wells took a few long steps forward, pushing past Bucky, almost knocking him over. He stopped right in front of him and planted his feet wide apart to bar the way.
"Barnes, stop," he hissed, his eyes angry. "You asked me not to lie to you, so why are you lying to yourself? You're not fine. Even you've gotta understand that. You're very far from fine."
"I've been poisoned," he agreed. "Gotta find Steve. He can help me make this right."
"Steve isn't here." Wells' voice was harsh, angry. "Steve is back home, in America. You are in France. You're not gonna find him."
"I—"
"No." Scowling, Wells took a step forward. Bucky considered his rifle… but dragging it from his shoulder seemed like too much effort. Everything was burning, now, even his fingertips. "Listen to me. You're sick. What's inside you is killing you. Soon, real soon, you won't be able to go any further. If I wanted you dead, all I'd have to do is watch you keep walking. Because if you keep walking, that's what's gonna happen.
"But I don't want to see you die. I don't want to have to write a letter home to your family. I don't want to have to tell them that their son died not in a firefight, not because he was carrying out his duty, but because he got sick, and wouldn't let anybody help him. Because he was too goddamn stubborn and paranoid to drop his guard for a moment and let somebody else pick up the reins. Ever since you reported for duty you've been helping everyone else, even when they didn't always want your help. Now it's time to let us help you. You may not want it, but you sure as hell need it. Let us help you. Let me help you."
Bucky looked into Wells' face, tried to find answers in his eyes. But there were none. Just worry and fear. The guy really seemed to believe that Bucky wasn't gonna make it.
"Think about your family," Wells continued. "Close your eyes and picture the faces of your mom and dad. Go on." Bucky obeyed, because his eyes wanted to close anyway. Wanted to drift off to sleep. In the darkness behind his eyelids, he saw his folks. They were smiling at him. So proud that he'd signed up. Hiding well the fear that he might not come back.
"You see your parents?"
Bucky nodded.
"Now, picture your brother and sisters. See them as they were on the day you left. You're their big brother, and they need you to come back to them. So does Steve. He's back home, waiting for you, too. Who's gonna pull those bullies off him if you die out here?"
He felt tears of lava leak from beneath his eyes. They burned his eyelids, seared his cheeks.
Dying. Wells was telling the truth. He could feel it. His body burning up from the inside out. Maybe it was because of poison. Maybe. Either way, it didn't matter. He was going to die out here, just like Steve's dad. And his folks would be heartbroken. Steve wouldn't have anyone to pull bullies off him. Who'd see off unsuitable suitors for Janet? Charlie didn't have the same flair for big-brothering as Bucky. Hadn't been doing it as long.
When he opened his eyes, reality came rushing back in. He didn't want to believe Wells, but he was too afraid not to. "I don't want to die," he whispered.
"You don't have to. That medicine I gave you can help. Give us a few hours to get you back to camp. Stark can treat you. But you're gonna have to trust me. Do you trust me?"
Bucky nodded. He didn't know who to trust. Didn't even know if he could trust himself anymore. He knew he could trust Steve, but Steve wasn't here. Wherever here was, it was Steve-less. Steve was like Bucky; a city-boy. He wouldn't be found in a bare forest like this. If he had to trust someone, it might as well be Wells. Better than trusting himself. He'd already messed things up so badly with Nurse Klein.
"Good. You still got that medicine injector?"
He nodded again. Used his free hand to reach into his jacket and pulled out the metal tube. Tried it ignore the way his hand shook. His whole arm shook. He could feel the burning spreading within him, an unstoppable wildfire that was eating him alive.
"All you gotta do is jab the plastic end against your thigh. It'll inject something into you which will make you feel better.
Bucky held it out. His hand tremored badly. "You."
Wells shook his head. "No. I want you to do it. You don't need me to save your life, Barnes. You can do that yourself. When Stark's cured you, I want you to be able to think back to this moment and know that you saved yourself. That even when you were dying, you didn't need anyone else to do that for you. And decades from now, when you're old and wrinkly with a few dozen grandkids, you can tell them about the guy who talked you into saving your own life when you were so sick you couldn't even think straight."
Hearing Wells say it like that made Bucky feel guilty. Wells made him sound strong, but he wasn't strong. He was weak, and afraid, and burning to death. What was in that cylinder might save him… or it might make him burn faster. His hand shook, fingers tightening reflexively around it. He licked his paper-dry lips.
"This… this will save me?"
"It will give you a chance," said Wells. And Bucky heard the words he didn't say. That it wouldn't definitely save him. "All I know is, if you take that medicine now, you might die. If you wait much longer, you will die. But either way, you won't be alone. I'll stay with you until you don't need me anymore."
He nodded. If Wells was willing to do that for him, Bucky could do no less. Mom and Dad needed their eldest son to come back from war. His brother and sisters needed their big brother. Steve needed him, to help out with those bullies. And back at camp, the hundred and fifty guys of the 107th needed him to keep fighting the good fight. To get them home.
He lifted his arm. Damn near killed him. The fires of hell seemed to burn in his muscles. Don't do it! his mind screamed. It's poison! He's trying to kill you! He closed his eyes. He was already poisoned. How much worse could it be, if this was more poison? No, no, don't do it, don't trust him, he'll turn you over to the Nazis! But… Wells had tied up Agent Carter. Taken her gun off her. Why would he do that if he was going to betray Bucky?
His thoughts ran around and around as his body burned and his muscles weakened. He thought of Steve and those grandkids, and gritted his teeth. Quickly, before his courage could fail him, he brought his arm down. Let gravity help. The head of the cylinder banged heavily into his leg and he felt something sharp tear through his pants, pierce his muscle. He would've cried out in pain, but he was too exhausted to do even that.
Ice pooled in his leg, a cold numbness that spread upwards and outward, dousing the fire, shocking his mind, turning his muscles to jelly. His trembling legs gave way, and Wells caught him before he could hit the ground, lowering him down to rest with his back against a tree. As the ice spread into his chest, he heard his heartbeat grow quieter. Slower.
Thud thud thud thud. Thud thud. Thud. Thud thud.
The moisture on his skin seemed to cool with the ice that spread through him, and he shivered in his cold sweat. How had the burning night turned so chilly?
"I can give you a couple of minutes to adjust," Wells said, sinking down to the ground beside him. "But then we gotta go. Okay?"
Bucky nodded, too exhausted for words. His shivers subsided as his body ceased cooling, and for a brief moment he wished he was still burning hot. Now that everything was cooling, he could feel the aches that had been hidden from him before. Ache of his legs, of his arms, his ribs, his lungs, his heart, even his mind. He couldn't remember ever aching so badly before.
"Here, drink," said Wells. He pulled a flask from his belt and held it out.
Bucky jerked his head sharply away. "Poison."
"It's not poison. See?" Wells drank from it, and when Bucky still wasn't convinced, he drew a handkerchief from his pocket and spilled water over it. The sight of the water ignited a deep thirst within him. Wells used the wet kerchief to dab at Bucky's forehead, bringing the blessed chill to his formerly burning skin. "Just water. Will you drink, now?"
When Bucky didn't object a second time, the flask was brought to his lips and he took several small sips before daring to try a deeper swig. Once he started, he couldn't stop; he drank so fast that water spilled down his chin.
"Take it easy," Wells instructed, stealing the canteen back before Bucky could drain it dry. "Save some for the hike back to camp."
For the first time in forever, Bucky could breathe easy without his lungs burning. He let the tree take his weight. Knew he was weak as a kitten; didn't care. He wasn't dying anymore. Wasn't burning alive. Was still poisoned, but he could deal with that in time. Years from now, this would make one hell of a story to tell.
"Do you really think I'll have those grandkids?" he asked.
"Yeah." Wells plucked the SSR-01 from his shoulder and, for some reason, emptied the ammo from it. Then he sat back down beside Bucky, just far enough that he was near without being too near. "I reckon you'll have loads of kids. Eight or ten, at least. Way more than Carrot. And you'll have to call one of them Danny, because it's a good name, very traditional, and a great tribute to me. Those kids'll have four of five each, and you'll be the grandpa of your own entire clan."
Bucky nodded along to Wells' vision of the future. Eight or ten kids. Sure, he could do that. Needed a wife, first, but his mom probably had a whole bunch of girls lined up for when he returned. Steve would be there, too. Uncle Steve. Maybe with a wife of his own. Steve didn't have much luck with dames, but Bucky's mom could probably find him one. A nice, sweet girl like Nurse Klein, who didn't care if a guy was kinda scrawny. They could take their kids to the park every weekend, teach 'em to play ball. Maybe get 'em a dog, or two.
"You ready to make tracks?" Wells asked.
"Can't I just stay here and play with my kids?"
"Sorry pal, but those kids need you to win a war first. Come on, let me help you to your feet."
Somehow, Wells managed to haul him upright. His legs still felt like jelly, but he tried his best to stand without wobbling. The simple act of standing was exhausting.
"You can lean on me," Wells said, "and use this as a walking stick." He handed over the empty SSR-01.
Bucky quickly shook his head. "Stark'll kill me."
"Then he and Carter can fight over who gets to kill you first. C'mon, don't be stubborn. We can always get more guns, but we can't get any more you."
"No more me," he mumbled. He didn't like the sound of that.
With the butt of the SSR-01's stock in the pit of his right arm, and his left arm hooked around Wells' shoulders so the guy could support some of his weight, they set off back the way they'd come, the moonlight guiding their way. As they walked, Bucky tried to keep his shivering minimal. He wasn't cold, but for the first time in his life, his body had failed him. For the first time, he knew what it meant to be weak, and frail, to be reliant on others, and he didn't like it one bit.
Was this how Steve had always felt? There were times, after particularly nasty fights in the back alleys of Brooklyn, when Bucky had practically had to carry Steve home, battered, bleeding and bruised. Too broken and exhausted to stand under his own steam. The mental image of their roles now switched brought a bubble of laughter to his lips.
"I'm Steve," he said. "And you're me. But just this one time. The rest of the time, I'm me."
"Fine by me," Wells replied. "I can be you, just this one time. As long as it's not all the time. Dames like me better."
He scoffed. Very nearly lost his footing because of it. "Bullshit."
"It's true." Wells aimed a grin at him. "When we get back to where I left Agent Carter, ask her who she'd rather punch."
"You tied her up."
"You shot at her."
"Oh yeah." He'd forgotten about that. And it had just been a warning shot, anyway. He still wasn't sure about her spy status. All signs pointed to her secretly being a Nazi, but they'd already framed Nurse Klein, so maybe Carter wasn't guilty after all. He'd let Phillips worry about that.
Thoughts that had once burned and raced now felt sluggish in his mind, like birds in a mid-winter torpor. His eyes wanted to close, and rest, but he couldn't rest while he was on his feet. Maybe he'd catch forty winks the next time they stopped for a drink. Or he'd catch twenty. Hell, he'd settle for ten.
"You still awake, pal?" Wells asked.
"Mm."
"Tell me about this friend you have back home. Steve. What's he like?"
"He's a stubborn S.O.B.," Bucky grunted. "You remind me of him, sometimes."
"Are you two close?"
Nod. "Like brothers." In some ways, closer than brothers. There were things he could talk about with Steve, that he couldn't with Charlie. His hopes, and what few fears he ever had, were shared most often with his best friend.
"It must be nice to have someone like that," Wells mused.
"You have brothers."
"We're not that close. Not like you and your pal. I mean, I'd never go looking for my brothers in the middle of Nazi-controlled France."
Bucky snorted. "South of Nazi-controlled France." Had he really gone looking for Steve? It had seemed so sensible at the time. It stood to reason that since Steve would believe him, Steve ought to be able to help him sort out his spy problem. Of course, Steve was back home. In America. Safe and sound. Drawing his illustrations, getting into fights without his best buddy to pull off the bullies, going to the cemetery to lay a bunch on his parents' graves…
"You must've got into some trouble together," Wells prompted, after a moment of silence.
"A bit."
"Tell me about some of it."
Bucky stumbled again, and managed to stay upright thanks to Wells and the SSR-01.
"Are you trying to distract me?" he asked.
"Yeah. You're getting kinda heavy. Feels like you're falling asleep on me. I don't think that's such a good idea. You need to stay awake."
"But I'm tired. Can't I just have a quick nap?" His head would feel less foggy after a short sleep. He was sure of it.
"No. I'm worried that if you go to sleep, you might not wake up. You've come this far. You can't give up now. So, tell me about Steve."
"Steve," Bucky sighed, "has the spirit of a bulldog in the body of a terrier. He thinks with his heart more often than his head, especially when he sees something he doesn't like. He has a way of mouthing off that gets him punched by guys who don't like to hear what he thinks of them."
"He ever punch back?"
"Tries." Bucky mentally chuckle over the memory of Steve's last stand, in the alley behind the cinema. The guy had been twice his size, but Steve had bounced to his feet like he had a piece of string attached to his back. When Steve said I could do this all day, he really meant it. "Every time I see him punch, I'm worried he might break his wrists."
Bucky's leg's turned to jelly again. This time, it happened too fast for Wells to react. He didn't so much fall, as slump in a Bucky-shaped heap of exhaustion.
"I need a minute," he said, as sleep tried once more to steal over his eyes. "Just a minute."
"Alright," Wells agreed. And even in the pale moonlight, Bucky could tell the guy was worried. Could hear the tinge in his voice. Not the same sort of worried like being caught stealing Dugan's hat… a different kind of worried. One that was too serious for laughs and jokes.
Wells brought out his canteen. Gave Bucky another sip. It helped. The water was cool. Refreshing. It temporarily invigorated him. Not as much as one of his mom's casseroles would have invigorated him, but it was enough to bring him back around, for his eyes to open and stay that way. His body still ached something terrible, but he clung to the moment of mental clarity the water had brought.
"If I don't make it—" he began.
"Don't think like that. You'll make it. You're too stubborn not to."
"But if I don't… will you write to Steve for me? I've got a letter already, for Mom and Dad, but I haven't had chance to write one for Steve, yet. Tell him… I want him to find the happiness he deserves. A wife and a bunch of kids. He'll be famous. An artist, probably. And I don't want him to think of me and be sad. He should remember all the good times. The Alamo, and Senior Prom… probably not the Cyclone at Coney Island. It made him sick a whole lot."
"You can tell him all that yourself. In fact, when the war's over, when we get home, you can introduce us." A knowing smile stole across Wells' face. "Then I can hear his version of how everything really happened. Now, on your feet, soldier. Don't make me find someone to make that an order."
He gathered what little strength was left and let Wells pull him upright once more. As he settled the SSR-01 in his grip, and focused on putting one foot in front of the other, his thoughts went to Steve. Until now, he'd never doubted that he'd see his friend again. But after the past twenty-four hours… he'd be happy just to make it to tomorrow.
: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :
To say Peggy Carter was ready to spit flames was a massive understatement. It felt like a year since the sergeants of the 107th had disappeared into the sparse forest. In truth, it had probably been closer to an hour, but it was an hour spent struggling in futility. She'd always prided herself on being resourceful enough to escape any situation… but the ropes binding her hands were beyond her. It was fuel on the fire of anger for the man who'd left her tied up and helpless. Now, she no longer regretted punching him in the face. In fact, the next time she saw him, she might do it again.
Beads of sweat trickled down her temples as she gave over struggling against her bonds for the tenth time in as many minutes. It wasn't fair! For the past three years she'd undertaken countless important tasks for the SSR. Infiltrated enemy strongholds. Rescued POWs. Saved Dr. Erskine from the clutches of Johann Schmidt. The idea of being foiled by a simple rope was… it was beyond the pale!
She had to escape. Somehow. And she had to do it quickly, before Colonel Phillips decided to send more men. Before those men arrived and found Peggy in need of 'rescue', like some bloody damsel in distress! She was no damsel. She did not need any man to rescue her. She was fully capable of getting herself into, and out of, her own messes. She could to this. She was a strong, independent woman. She could fight and march and shoot a man between the eyes at fifty yards.
She was also completely and utterly stuck.
A crackle of dry wood and loose stones, of something large and cumbersome moving through the undergrowth, froze her still. This area of France wasn't home to any predators large enough to cause her harm, but boars were prevalent, and they could be mean, temperamental things at times.
The stumbling form emerged and in the moonlight became Sergeants Wells and Barnes, the former supporting the latter, seemingly keeping him upright. Under Sergeant Barnes' right arm was the SSR-01, its long muzzle scratched and slightly bent as it supported the rest of his weight. Peggy just knew Howard was going to throw a fit when he saw that.
A pair of boars indeed!
"Agent Carter," Sergeant Wells said. She couldn't see his face clearly, but she thought he might be grinning. "Fancy meeting you out here."
She managed to slip a leash on her anger. "You have a lot to answer for, Sergeant. Now, untie me."
"Sure, sure. And Sergeant Barnes is fine for the moment, thanks for asking."
Guilt, or something like it, wound its way unpleasantly through her thoughts. She watched in silence as Sergeant Wells lowered Sergeant Barnes to the ground and settled him against an outcropping of bare rock. With the silver light playing across his face, Sergeant Barnes looked terrible. His face was grey, his lips tinged blue, and his breathing was slow and laboured. Peggy had seen a lot of people close to death before, but she'd never seen anyone who looked like they'd come through it and been spat out the other side. Perhaps she would save the tongue-lashing she'd been planning on giving until after they'd returned to camp. After Sergeant Barnes was recovered.
If he recovered.
With Sergeant Barnes secure on the ground, Sergeant Wells turned his attention to the ropes around Peggy's wrists. He very wisely avoided stepping within kicking distance of her legs, and she felt the rope move as he unplucked the knot. Despite her anger—which was swiftly cooling to a simmering annoyance—she couldn't help but feel some measure of grudging respect for the way he'd so thoroughly restrained her.
"That's a very sturdy knot you used," she admitted.
"Yeah, I thought you'd like that one. It's a sailor's knot. My brother Tim taught it to me. Gets tighter the more you pull it. The trick is to relax. Never thought it would come in handy. I guess relaxing isn't really your thing, huh?"
As the ropes fell away she prepared a scathing response, but Sergeant Wells was already on his way back to Sergeant Barnes; Peggy might not have existed. Instead of snapping back that she was perfectly capable of relaxing in civilised company thank you very much, she rubbed each wrist in turn, trying to ease some of the pain of the friction burn the ropes had inflicted on her.
"Here you go, pal. Have a drink. It seems to help." Sergeant Wells brought out his canteen and held it to Sergeant Barnes' lips. He drank deeply, and gasped heavily for air as it was taken away. Those damned sympathetic pangs had returned; the man must be in a very bad way, if the mere act of drinking left him struggling to breathe.
She approached the pair and crouched down on the other side of Sergeant Barnes. As soon as his eyes fell on her, they grew wide, panicked, and he seemed to shrink in on himself. If there hadn't been a stony outcropping pressed up against his flesh, she suspected he would have backed away from her.
"How are you feeling, Sergeant Barnes?" she asked.
He glared at her, his eyes no longer murderous, more like those of a frightened animal. She noticed his hand, the one closest to her, curl into a fist, his nails biting into his palm.
"Take it easy, Barnes," said Sergeant Wells. He poured a little water from the canteen onto an already damp handkerchief, and used it to dab gently at Sergeant Barnes' face. "Deep breaths, remember? No gettin' excited over dames. Agent Carter, maybe you should back up a bit. Barnes isn't quite himself."
She put aside dislike over being told what to do, even though it was phrased as a suggestion rather than the command it actually was, and took a few steps back. Sergeant Barnes didn't exactly relax, but he looked a little less tense as she retreated.
"How on Earth did you get him to come back?" she asked. When he'd suggested talking Sergeant Barnes down, she'd thought he'd been grasping at straws. That he had no chance of succeeding. The man had already threatened an unarmed woman with a weapon, taken a shot at Peggy, and saw German spies everywhere he looked. And yet here he was; quiet, unrestrained, and not trying to kill anybody. And Sergeant Wells hadn't needed to fire a single shot to bring him back.
"We just had a little talk. Right, Barnes?"
Sergeant Barnes said nothing. It seemed Howard was right; although the medicine in the injector had switched off the adrenaline coursing through his blood, he still wasn't in his right mind. Still paranoid; just less violent about it.
"Do you need any help?" she asked.
"I think we've had all the help we need from you, Agent Carter."
She couldn't help it. Since leaving camp he'd been nothing but prickly and irritable and… and… mannish! The way he snapped at her, and rebuffed all offers at help, it was as if he blamed her for this whole mess!
"Sergeant, do you have some sort of problem with me?"
He turned a scowl on her as he stood to face her. "I have a problem with anyone who'd shoot a guy who's sick. What happened to Barnes isn't his fault; he needs treatment, not putting down. You chased a man suffering paranoid delusions, with a gun. You could have scared him off, and then he would've died alone, and we might never have found him."
"Perhaps if you didn't hold such a childish view of the world, I wouldn't have to be the one to take the difficult actions," she shot back. "Soldiers you may be, but at times you act more like little boys than grown men! This isn't a fairytale. It isn't a story. It isn't a game. People will die. That's the harsh reality of war."
"Don't talk to me about harsh reality." The moonlight turned his blue eyes to cold chips of ice. "I don't see you storming any bunkers, shooting guys, watching them die, hearing their last breaths. Guess it's safer to shoot a sick man who's on your side."
Her hands twitched, itching to curl up into fists. He'd probably see a punch coming, but she didn't care. She'd just about had her fill of boys playing at war. Of soldiers strutting around like they owned the camp, and then crying foul when things no longer went their way. Of men who saw her as some sort of enemy, simply because she could do what they did as well as they did it. Of having to try five times as hard to get even a sliver of respect.
A croaking voice pierced the angry silence. "Thirsty, " gasped Sergeant Barnes.
"And now you've upset Barnes," accused Sergeant Wells.
He crouched down and brought out his canteen again. Peggy used his distraction to drink in a little calm of her own. Punching the sergeant wouldn't help. She was foolish to expect him to understand anything beyond his own sphere of experience; to see the bigger picture, and understand that no matter how much you wanted it, and how much it hurt to lose friends, you couldn't save everyone. Death's reach extended far beyond the front lines. Perhaps, in time, the men in the camp would come to realise that for themselves. Time was the best teacher. She knew that from experience.
"C'mon, we gotta get goin'" Sergeant Wells said. He took his canteen back and swung one of Sergeant Barnes' arms across his neck, hauling the sick man to his feet. They wobbled for a moment, and Sergeant Barnes seemed to rouse a little. He plucked at one of the buttons of Sergeant Wells' jacket.
"You're buttoned up crooked."
A grim smile played across Sergeant Wells' lips. "Yeah, well, a bit of notice would'a been nice. Next time you decide to run off on a Nazi-hunt, you might wanna let me get dressed, first."
They set off in a slow, stumbling shuffle, and Peggy could only watch them go. Inside, she felt again as she had on that tragic day when Doctor Erskine had been shot: a helpless bystander. Completely and utterly useless.