We Were Soldiers
69. Evergreen
The star-strewn sky was alive with flames, a beacon that would be seen for miles around. Of Schmidt and the other guy with him there was no sign, but that didn't mean they weren't preparing some nasty new surprise. As the factory behind him screamed its death throes into the night, Steve grabbed Bucky's arm once more and practically hauled his friend along the ground to the nearby clearing. They found countless dozens of men waiting, some in uniform, others wearing only civilian clothing. And men weren't the only thing in the clearing. How the heck had they got their hands on a tank?
"Barnes?! I don't believe it." The man in the bowler hat and a group of his fellow prisoners ran over to Steve and Bucky as they limped their way forward. Bucky stood a little straighter and tugged his arm back from Steve's shoulder as the group dashed up, but that was Bucky all over; stubborn as an ox.
The man in the hat slapped Bucky hard on the shoulder, damn near sending him sprawling, while the others clustered around with beaming smiles. Steve stepped back, allowing them their reunion with a twinge of jealousy. Even now, there were things Bucky could do that he couldn't. Bucky could walk into a room full of strangers and, within minutes, call them friends. Guys or dames, Bucky had a way with people that made them instantly like him.
"I swear," the man continued, "if you were a cat, you'd be on your ninth life by now."
"Well, I know how work-shy you are, Dugan," Bucky quipped. "Somebody has to continue the fight."
"What the devil happened to you in there?" the British man spoke up. "Are the rumours true? Are they working on new biological weapons?"
Bucky took a half-step back, flinching as if struck. He swallowed, then shook his head. "I don't wanna talk about it."
"Right. Of course."
"So, Captain America," a short, Japanese-American soldier said as he eyed Steve, "what now?"
A tired grin lit up Bucky's face, a twinkle of humour sparking in his grey eyes. For a moment, Steve saw his childhood friend beneath the soot and pain and despair. "Captain America?"
Steve cleared his throat. "That's a long story. Right now, we have to get away from this place before reinforcements arrive."
Bucky nodded, then gestured to the others. "Guess I better introduce you to my cellmates, first. Sergeant Dum Dum Dugan and Private Gabe Jones"—he pointed to the man with the hat and a dark-skinned soldier respectively—"were with the SSR too. Private Jim Morita got here just before us, along with a group from the 6th Ranger Battalion." This was aimed at the man who'd asked what to do next. "Major James Falsworth, who's a member of the Royal family—"
"What? I'm not—never said—" the major spluttered.
Bucky grinned. "And Jacques Dernier, French resistance."
"Bonjour," the Frenchman grinned with a perky salute.
"Steve Rogers, pleased to meet you," he said, shaking their hands in turn.
"Thanks for the rescue, Captain," Dugan said. "What are your orders now?"
"Well, I'm not technically a Captain." Probably best to be honest with them from the start. "I'm not even sure I'm a real Private." They stared at him as if he was mad. "So, err, if Major Falsworth wants to give the orders—"
"After you infiltrated a high security enemy stronghold and destroyed an entire building with your bare hands?" Major Falsworth asked, in a Britishly dry tone. "I wouldn't dream of it."
He looked around at their tired, sooty faces and realised he probably didn't look much better. His jacket had took a singeing in the blast that had cracked a rib or two—the pain already fading, thankfully—and his face felt itchy with dust and sweat. But he'd come here when nobody else had been willing, had opened their cages and given them a chance at freedom. Now, they were looking to him to finish what he'd started. Bucky gave him a small nod of encouragement, and that was all he needed.
"I have a map," he said, pulling it from his pocket. "We can get back to Italy on foot, but we're gonna need someone to scout ahead and make sure there aren't any nasty surprises waiting for us."
"I'm your guy for that," said Private Morita. "I'll gather a few of the Rangers. You pick your path, and we'll make sure it's safe."
Steve handed him the map with a grateful nod, and the man trotted off to find more soldiers from his battalion.
"Is everybody here capable of a long march?" he asked.
"Most, but not all," said Major Falsworth. A frown pulled down his dark brows over his narrow face. "Some are too injured, others too exhausted." He clapped a hand on Sergeant Dugan's shoulder. "Fortunately for us, Dugan was able to commandeer a tank. The worst of the men should be able to ride it for most of the journey… assuming it doesn't run out of petrol en route."
"Tout le monde ici n'est pas de l'armée. Il ya des gens du pays, aussi," said Dernier.
Private Jones provided a quick translation. "Yeah. He says there are locals here, amongst the soldiers. Not everyone will want to come with us. Lots of these folks will have homes and families to get back to."
"Then I guess we'll let the locals go their own way," Steve nodded.
"I'll pass the word around," said Jones. "I speak a little German."
"And I'll gather the wounded and get them safely onto the tank," said Major Falsworth.
Sergeant Dugan patted the rifle he'd taken off some downed foe. "And while everyone else is busy with logistics, I'll round up the men who've found themselves new toys to play with, and see if we can organise some sort of defensive guard. No point being sitting ducks while we travel, right?"
The group broke up, wheels set into motion. Confident they'd soon be underway, Steve turned back to his best friend. Out here, by the light of the blazing factory, Bucky looked even worse than he had strapped to that table. His skin was an unhealthy ashen grey colour, and his eyes seemed devoid of all happiness. He held himself tense, as if he ached but didn't know exactly where he ached, and thanks to his sensitive ears Steve could hear his friend's breathing wasn't exactly steady.
"Hey, if you want a spot on that tank, just say the word," he offered.
Bucky eyed the vehicle with open hostility. "I would rather crawl back on my hands and knees than sit on that thing."
"Alright. But you look like hell."
His friend merely nodded. "Don't worry about me. All I need is a good night's sleep and a hot meal. I'll be fine."
"You don't have to lie to me, Buck. I don't know what they were doing to you in that room, but you were pretty out of it."
"Like I said. Bed rest and a hot meal. Get me that, and I'll be good for another thousand miles." Bucky's defiant glare dared him to keep arguing.
"Alright. But stick close to me, okay?"
"Just don't walk too fast."
Steve gave a quick nod of agreement. He didn't care how slowly they walked, as long as he could get Bucky back safe and sound
: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :
Bucky sat in the shade of a dark green conifer tree, watching the sun slowly peep over the horizon. Sometime between being taken prisoner and being rescued by Steve, Fall had truly set in. The sun's light spilled over the dense canopy of the forest… but it wasn't a perfect canopy of green. The deciduous trees had turned yellow and brown, their sickly-looking leaves dying one by one. He knew just how they felt. Since being strapped to Zola's table, he'd felt parts of himself twist and warp and die off, replaced by hollow emptiness. He, too, was some withering yellow-brown thing, too cold and tired to hang on to the tiny bits which were dragging him down. Compared to the needled conifers, the deciduous trees looked frail and weak.
People should be like conifers, he decided; tall and evergreen. They shouldn't fade away with the changing season. They should grow all year and live forever in rich emerald hues. They should dance and sway in the wind, and not have to worry about winter's snow. It wasn't fair that people grew old and sick and withered and died.
Steve appeared to the sound of quiet footsteps, returning from the patrol he'd taken it upon himself to perform whilst the rest of the weary company rested. He lowered himself to the ground beside Bucky, his gaze sweeping over the faces of the resting men.
"Did you get any sleep?" Steve asked quietly.
Bucky nodded his lie. "A little." Every time he closed his eyes, he found himself in a dark room, on a cold bed. Though he'd fallen into sleep a couple of times, he'd been jolted awake, tears rolling down his cheeks. Part of him still couldn't believe he was free. That there would be no more experiments. No more injections. No more pissing into a bucket. No more German opera.
Part of him feared to sleep in case this was some beautiful dream. In case sleeping was really waking, and the dream was snatched from him.
"You wanna talk?" Steve asked.
He shook his head. No. He didn't want to talk. Not about what had been done to him. Not about what he'd tried to do. Not about how he'd tried to put a bullet through his own head, and not about how he would've gladly stuck anybody else on that table in his place. His gaze fell on Dernier, sleeping nearby, and a dizzying wave of guilt flooded his mind. Good men, all of them, and he'd prayed for one of them to be put on the table in his stead, just to spare him the pain. He didn't deserve to be here with them. He didn't deserve to be free.
"My family probably think I'm dead," he mumbled, as the thought hit him. Steve had told him how long he'd been in that factory. The letter would'a been sent long ago.
"The letter of condolence might not've reached them yet," Steve offered, ever the optimist. "When you get back to camp, you can write them. Tell them you're okay."
Tears burned in his eyes at the thought of his mom's shaking hands opening the envelope that she knew held bad news. Her cries as his dad tried to comfort her were daggers to his soul. His fault, again. He deserved to die, for the things he'd thought on that table. For trying to end his own life. For thinking, let it be someone else.
"Hey, don't worry, Buck. You're safe." Steve's hand fell gently on his shoulder, and Bucky scrubbed his sleeve across his damp eyes before wincing at the rising sun.
"I know." He bit his lip between his teeth, using pain to force the tears back. "Tell me about what happened to you. Full details."
"Really? Now?"
Bucky nodded. "Troops need their rest." And it might distract him from his darker thoughts, if only for a short time.
Steve let out a slow, deep breath. "Alright. But like I said, it's a long story."
"I got time."
Time was about the only thing he did have left, and he sat silently feeling time pass as Steve told his story. Meeting Doctor Erskine at the Expo. How he'd almost gotten arrested for falsifying his form. How he'd met Agent Carter, and been tormented constantly by a recruit named Hodge. Finally, Bucky found something to smile about.
"What?" Steve demanded at his friend's grin.
"You're never gonna believe this, but Hodge is with the SSR." The grin promptly slid. "Or… he was. At Azzano. I ordered him to fall back, along with a few others from the 107th. Dunno whether they actually made it back to camp."
Steve grasped his shoulder again. "You'll find out soon enough, pal. Is Hodge still…"
"Hodge?" Bucky chuckled. "Yeah. Though, he's not as Hodge-like as he was when he first joined us. I think we… I mean, I think he's picked up a bit of humility. But continue with your story. Obviously you got picked for the experiment at the end, but how?"
Steve continued with how impressed Erskine had been with his performance. Not as a soldier, but as a man. He told about the experiment, how Stark had funnelled power from the local grid into the building to operate the Vita-ray generator—the name tickled at something in Bucky's mind, but he couldn't think why—and how Steve had flinched at an injection of penicillin. Bucky managed a dry chuckle at that. Steve had never been a big fan of needles.
When he came to telling how Dr. Erskine had been shot, Steve's voice became thicker, choked up with emotion. Bucky didn't try to offer words of comfort. Despite having known the doctor for only a short time, Steve had clearly come to care for and respect the guy. Bucky knew how that was. You knew people, you became their friends, and then they died. It wasn't fair.
Steve moved swiftly on. Regaled Bucky with tales of the USO tour. And the comics. And the movies. He then made Bucky promise to never watch those movies. Lying through his teeth, Bucky agreed.
"And then I got the word I could come out and perform on the front lines," Steve said at last. "Flew out to Sicily, did a couple of shows and spent far too much time wandering around looking for you. When we reached mainland Italy and met up with the SSR, Agent Carter told me what had happened at Azzano." Bucky smiled again. Not because of Azzano, but because Steve's ears went pink whenever he mentioned Agent Carter. It wasn't the first time Bucky had spotted it, and now he suspected that the guy from the Project that Agent Carter had been sweet on was none other than Captain Steven G. America himself.
"So, Colonel Phillips sent you to rescue us?" Bucky asked, when Steve fell silent. Probably thinking about Agent Carter; his ears were still pink.
"Not exactly. We, err… we stole a plane. Though I guess it's not technically stealing. It was Stark's plane, and he was flying it. We started taking flak, and I had to parachute the rest of the way."
"You jumped out of a plane for us?"
"I jumped out of a plane for you," Steve amended. He ran a large hand through his short hair. "I didn't know how many men had survived Azzano and been taken prisoner. My first thought was to find you and get you out. I hadn't really planned on what to do if I found more prisoners. I don't think I'd make a very good Captain outside of the movies."
"I think you're doing fine," Bucky told him, mustering up some conviction and lacing it into his words. "I'm glad you ignored my advice, and went and did something stupid after all. Well, multiple stupid things, really. Phillips might make you a real private just so he can court-martial you."
"It was worth it." Steve smiled and cleared his throat. "So. What about you?"
"What about me?"
"Got any stories to tell?"
He shrugged. How could he explain about Tipper and Weiss and Carrot and Wells, and all the others, to someone who hadn't been there? Anything he could say about them would only paint them as pale reflections of the men they'd truly been. "Nothing you couldn't hear from listening to any random soldier talk about the war. Lots of bad food, lots of shooting Nazis, lots of waiting around."
The skeptical look on Steve's face suggested he didn't believe him, but Bucky was saved from having to tell his best friend that he didn't want to talk about it—again—by the arrival of Falsworth. The British man advised Steve that more of the troops were waking, and that they should probably set off before the Luftwaffe got lucky and spotted the exhausted men and their purloined tank. Steve nodded, and sent Falsworth off to rouse the rest of the sleeping men. As he stood, he brushed the dry pine needles from his trousers.
"I don't know what's gonna happen when we get back to the SSR's camp," Steve said, looking down at Bucky from above. From this angle, he looked even larger. "If you wanna talk about anything before we get back and I get thrown in some cell, just shout my name. You're not alone anymore, Buck."
He watched Steve trot off towards Morita, and wished he could believe that sentiment. Although he didn't doubt that Steve would be there for him in a heartbeat, Steve hadn't been on that table. Steve didn't know what Bucky had been through. Steve could never know what Bucky had been through, because if he found out that his best friend had tried to throw in the towel before the end of the fight, he would never trust Bucky again.
: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :
Bucky shivered and gripped the rifle in his hands more tightly, trying to send the shiver into the gun before it could take over his whole body. Steve hadn't been thrilled when Bucky demanded to take a turn at keeping watch with the rest of Dugan's 'guards', but there hadn't been much he could do about it, either. Bucky could walk—just about—and he was still one of the best marksmen in the bunch. Dugan had found a jacket for him, one that was a couple of sizes too big, but it helped. A little. Offered meagre warmth from the fall air. Helped to hide his shivering.
Several times over the course of the day, the shakes had come on strongly. Each time, he found a way to mask them: stopped to retie his boot lace; pretended he needed to water the trees; fell back to stare at the trail behind them, as if afraid of being followed. Each time, Steve's eyes tracked him. Glad as Bucky was for the rescue, and to see his best friend again, the over-protectiveness was starting to grate a little. He'd spent the past five months looking out for himself and his men; he didn't need mothering.
He'd managed to avoid talking for most of the day. Falsworth had found him in the morning, asked how he was doing, whether he needed anything. Bucky had offered a few gruff rejoinders, and Falsworth had finally got the message and left him alone. Whenever Bucky's gaze fell on the faces of the men around him, he saw them screaming, crying, tortured and twisted. He saw them as he'd imagined himself on that table; broken. And he'd put them there, with his desire for an end to the pain. He didn't deserve their kindness.
By late afternoon, it was all he could do to keep his feet moving one in front of the other. He was no longer walking but shuffling, a weary trudge of hunger and exhaustion. That might've brought Steve running with concern, save for the fact that Bucky wasn't the only one trudging. Some looked ready to drop there and then. Part of him wished they would. If one man collapsed from exhaustion, others could. If two or three went down, Bucky could finally give in to the need to rest. He just couldn't be the first to go.
Maybe the others felt the same. Perhaps they fed off each other's defiance. Each time one of the flagging men stumbled, he looked around, his face etched with guilt, and squared his shoulders before soldiering on. Soon, it became a competition: who could walked straightest for longest after stumbling. It was a competition Bucky was determined to win.
"Hey, Buck!"
He glanced ahead to where Steve was standing at the front of the narrow column, gesturing for his friend to join him. Summoning strength from his dwindling reserve, Bucky bade a silent farewell to his fellow trudgers and stumblers, and jogged forward, dog tags jangling reassuringly against his chest.
"What's up?" he asked, trying not to pant with exertion from the pathetically short jog.
"Private Morita just told me he caught sight of the camp, over the next ridge." Steve's gaze swept the crest of the hill ahead. "Thought you might want to be the first to step foot into it."
"Yeah. Can't wait to see the look on Phillips' face when you show up with all these men." Bucky fell in beside Steve, and they marched in silence for a while; Steve apparently lost in some deep introspection, Bucky focused on working deep breaths of air into his lungs. God, if he started shaking now…
"I'm glad I got to march beside you, even if it was just for a day," Steve offered at last. He glanced at Bucky from the corner of his eye. Probably thought he was being surreptitious. He was a bit big for surreptitious, now.
Bucky let a genuine smile pull the corners of his lips up. "Me too. And I'm sorry I doubted you. Should'a known you'd find a way to get out here. Just didn't expect it to be through some Frankenscience experiment."
When Steve stiffened, he knew he'd said the wrong thing.
"Is that what you think I am? Some sort of monster?"
Bucky's mind went back to Schmidt. To the peeled-off face and the red skull beneath it. "No," he lied. "It was a dumb thing to say. I'm exhausted and wasn't thinking straight. Forget about it."
The expression on Steve's face said he didn't want to forget about it. That Bucky's comment had hurt more than any back-alley punch. But at that moment, they crested the hill and looked down at the camp sprawled below them. It was huge! When Bucky had left, camp had comprised of the troops of the SSR and the remnant of the 6th Ranger Battalion. Clearly, that had changed.
They began their descent down the muddy trail. As the column of men approached, sentries cried out warnings. Men appeared from the tents, then flooded toward the camp gates. Bucky forced his back straighter. Forced his hands to grip his rifle more casually. Forced his feet to pick up higher and his legs to take longer strides. A metal, anti-vehicle barrier was lifted, and they marched along a path lined with cheering soldiers. Bucky scanned their face and found only strangers. Their uniforms displayed the shoulder sleeve insignia of a half dozen different regiments; but where were the 107th?
Their march took them straight to the heart of the camp, where men clustered around, patting the newcomers on the shoulders, welcoming them back from the hell they'd lived in. When Colonel Phillips and Agent Carter approached, both pairs of eyes fixed on Steve, Bucky stepped back. His mind registered Steve surrendering himself for disciplinary action and Colonel Phillips hand-waving away his insubordination, but his gaze was busy jumping from face to face, looking for someone, anyone, familiar.
His hand began to shake. He closed his eyes and willed it to stop. When he opened them again, he found Steve watching him in that motherly way. He could tell his friend was about to say something, so he shouted, "Let's hear it for Captain America!"
It was all the soldiers needed to throw up a loud cheer and crowd in closer to the man who'd disobeyed orders and saved their companions. The crowd pressed in, and Bucky shuffled back. A familiar voice reached his ears as he looked for a place to sit out his shakes.
"Sarge!" Gusty's face appeared, and Bucky blinked back tears. Thank God Gusty had made it! Behind him was Biggs, and they hurried through the throng to envelope Bucky in a rib-crushing group hug. "We knew you were still alive!" Gusty said. "We knew you'd come back."
Finally, Bucky gave in to exhaustion. As he slowly sank to the ground, Biggs lifted him back up. Concern danced in Gusty's watery eyes.
"Hospital, now," he instructed.
Bucky spotted the chevrons on Gusty's sleeve, and offered a feeble salute. "Yes, Sarge."
They chivvied him through the crowd—Biggs waded through first, physically moving people aside—and straight to the hospital tent. There, Nurse Klein offered him a dimpled smile and a rib-crushing hug. "Sergeant Barnes! We knew you'd come back. Oh, but you look terrible! Lie down here, right this moment."
She hauled him onto a bed whilst Gusty pried the rifle from his hands and set it aside. Nurse Klein prodded and poked him with gentle efficiency, and Bucky closed his eyes, swallowing his rising fear over being on his back again so soon.
"Gusty," he said, hunting for a distraction, "you got promoted?"
He opened his eyes to Gusty's nod. "Biggs too."
"Corporal," Biggs rumbled.
"Congratulations, both of you!"
"They only did it 'cos they ran out of Sergeants," Gusty replied. "And losing you, so soon after losing Wells… it's not like they had anyone else to promote. I don't think I make a very good sergeant, though. The men don't listen to me like they did to you."
"You do a fine job," Nurse Klein scowled at him.
Gusty's cheeks flushed red, and he ran a hand through his brown hair. "Err, we umm, saved your stuff. Biggs, go get his stuff."
Biggs hurried out. Nurse Klein noticed Bucky's shaking and fetched him two blankets, which she laid over him as if he was some sickly kid. "Are you hungry?" she asked. "I could get you some milk and cookies. Warm milk, even, if you fancy it."
"You're an angel, Nurse Klein. I'd love cookies and milk." Audrey dashed off to raid the hospital stores, and Gusty perched himself on the edge of Bucky's bed, taking care not to dislodge the blankets.
"What happened, Sarge? You look like hell."
The cold hand of dread squeezed his stomach unpleasantly. He could look at Gusty without seeing his face contorted in pain, but that didn't mean he wanted to talk about what he'd been through. He just wanted to forget all about it and move on.
"Your Audrey could teach the Krauts a thing or two about hospitality. That's all," he said lamely. "How have things been around here?"
Gusty allowed the change of subject to stick. He offered an unhappy shrug. "Could be worse, I guess. I think everyone feels a bit lost, especially since Phillips got most of his authority taken away by some brown-nosing Colonel with a direct line to Patton."
"How many made it back from Azzano?"
"Not enough." Gusty's eyes clouded with anger, as they always did when he spoke about men they'd lost. "Me and Biggs. Mex, Hodge, a few others."
"Tex?" Gusty shook his head. "Damn."
"Yeah." The corporal—no, sergeant—reached out to toy with a stray thread on one of the blankets. "Mostly, we didn't know who'd died. I guess now that you and some of the others are back, we'll finally know who didn't make it back from Azzano. I only know about Tex because I saw him get hit. He was covering our six, took a bullet to the neck. Nothing I could've done, even if I'd gone back."
"You did the right thing," Bucky said quietly. "You saved as many as you could."
"I know. But it still doesn't feel like enough."
Welcome to being a sergeant.
Biggs returned with a cardboard box which he thrust into Bucky's hands. "Your stuff." When Bucky pulled off the lid, he found the personal contents of his footlocker neatly packed away. The letters he'd written to his family. The packs of smokes he'd been saving for barter. Half a bar of chocolate, still neatly wrapped in its foil. His pen and ink bottle. He spotted the spine of an Army Editions book, and reached in to pull it out.
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.
"I never did get chance to read it before Azzano," he mused. "But I thought you put left books back into the library?"
"Yeah, but I know how much you wanted to read it. Besides, it wasn't borrowed. Wells bought it outright. It's yours."
"Thanks, Gusty." He clasped the book and set the box down on the table beside him so that he could thumb idly through the pages. He'd thought all of Wells had been lost when Zola ordered his jacket to be torched, but at least there was still the book. And now, he'd finally have time to read it.
"Here we are," said Nurse Klein, trotting back in with a mug of milk and a plate of cookies. "I'll get one of the kitchen staff to bring you some proper food at dinner time, but this should keep you going for now."
Bucky didn't need inviting twice. Nurse Klein set the cookies on the blanket across his stomach, and he took a long, deep drink of the hot milk. As he nibbled on the cookies—he wanted to shovel them down, but didn't think his deprived stomach would appreciate the rapid addition of so much sugar—the three of them regaled him with events from the past month. The missions they'd been on, the groups they'd met up with… the men they'd lost. Four cookies in to their catching up, Steve appeared. The worried frown melted into a smile when he spotted Bucky.
"I take my eyes off you for five minutes and you find yourself the comfiest bed in camp," Steve quipped. "I would've looked for you here first, but I know how much you hate hospitals."
"Guys, this is Steve Rogers," Bucky said, as Steve joined them at the bed. "Brooklyn's biggest pain in the ass. Steve, meet Corp—I mean, Sergeant Paul Ferguson, Corporal Frederick Biggs, and Nurse Audrey Klein." Steve went through the obligatory round of handshakes and 'pleased to meet yous.' The tops of his ears were pink, which meant he'd probably just come away from talking with Agent Carter. "I hear you avoided a court-martial?"
Steve gave a quick nod. "Phillips told the rest of the brass that he'd ordered Stark to drop me over enemy lines so I could try to rescue the prisoners from Azzano. I guess if we hadn't made it back, he would've reported that it was all my own idea and he ordered me not to do it."
"He covered your ass," Bucky told him. "I think he only pretends to be a crotchety old miser."
Steve smiled, his gaze flickering down to the book abandoned on Bucky's blanket in favour of cookies. "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn?"
"You've read it?"
"Yeah." Steve reached out for the book, but Bucky snatched it quickly before his friend could pick it up. No telling how much damage Steve's big new hands might cause to the delicate paper pages. "It's about—"
"Don't tell me! I wanna read it for myself."
"Alright, sorry." Steve backed up, his expression unreadable. "I'll go find Kevin, he'll probably wanna yell at me for running off. I'll come visit you again in a couple of hours… if that's okay, I mean."
"Yeah, of course."
When Steve disappeared, Bucky put his half-eaten cookie back on the plate. Suddenly, he wasn't so hungry.
"Kinda snappy, don't you think, Sarge?" Gusty said, breaking the uncomfortable silence.
"I guess." A deep sigh escaped his lips. "It's just… strange, having Steve here. All his life he wanted to be a soldier, just like his dad. I don't think it's hit him yet, what war is really like. When I look at him, I still see that eager kid from Brooklyn who hauled me down to the enlistment line the first time he tried to join up. He just feels out of place, here." When he realised he sounded maudlin, he said, "It's probably just me."
"Probably," Gusty agreed. "But why don't we let you get some rest, for now? No offence, but I've seen healthier looking corpses."
Bucky didn't argue. He hadn't caught sight of a mirror yet, but he could picture exactly what he looked like. A withered and brown tree, devoid of the beautiful summer leaves which gave it life.