We Were Soldiers

91. The Rocky Road

The hospital grounds were bare and bleak, full of skeletal trees bereft of their leaves, and withered bushes waiting for the turn of the season. A few weeks ago, Bucky would've found his view from the window depressive. He would've likened the trees to his own physical, mental and emotional state; bare and empty, dying from cold. Trapped in his own melancholy, he'd forgotten one important thing. The trees did not die, in winter. They simply waited, dormant, for the chance to put out new leaves and new roots. If the trees could wait out the cold and the dark, so could he.

For the first time since getting out of Krausberg, he felt a glimmer of hope on the horizon. Sure, Stark and the doctors had no idea what was wrong with him. For all they knew, he could be dying. Nobody said it, but they all feared it. And yet, Bucky no longer feared what was happening to him. Ever since his dream, the dream with the shadows and the fire, he no longer felt so alone. He didn't think for one minute that the shadows in the dream were the actual spirits of the friends he'd lost, but they served as a reminder that there were worlds beyond the one he could see and hear and touch. He'd always believed that there was something after death, and he knew that all the people he cared about would be waiting for him on the other side.

As his hope returned, so did his physical strength. Stark loudly proclaimed the protein bars he'd made for Steve a success, and put Bucky on a regimen of three per week, on top of what he already ate. Stark took blood samples, and spent long hours mulling over them in his lab. At one point he told Bucky there was a virus in his system; there, but inert. What it was, or how it had got there, he didn't know, but so long as it remained inert, Stark assured him it could do no harm.

During the five days Bucky spent in the hospital regaining his strength, he had a slew of visitors. On the first day, Morita and Dernier came by to cheer him up with stories they'd heard in some of the pubs of victories along the front. Morita also snuck a flask of whisky into the hospital in the pocket of his jacket, and Bucky enjoyed his first sip of alcohol since Christmas day; until a nurse caught them drinking and cruelly confiscated the flask.

One day two, Jones and Dugan paid him a visit. The first Bucky heard of it was Dugan standing in the hospital grounds beneath his window, shouting up, "Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!" Probably running out of fairy tale princess names to call Bucky by. But despite Dugan's tomfoolery, both men were full of sympathy. Dugan offered to post any letters Bucky had written, so he handed over the one he'd written to his family the night before. Might as well let them know he was still okay, even if that was technically a lie.

Falsworth came back from furlough on the third day of Bucky's convalescence, and made a visit to the hospital his first task. The major was a great source of military gossip, since pretty much all of his family were serving, and he kept Bucky's mind occupied for a full two hours with talk of various campaigns and scandals. It was a welcome distraction from the boredom of the hospital room.

Steve and Stark were daily visitors, though their schedules were such that they rarely ever visited at the same time. After three days of listening to Stark ramble on about his inventions, and how progress on them was going, Bucky wondered if Steve had purposely arranged it that way.

"Why are you telling me all of this?" Bucky asked at last. He'd spent the past twenty minutes hearing all about the advantages of certain unpronounceable alloys in weapons construction, and was both lost and perplexed.

Stark peered over the top of Bucky's most recent medical chart. "Because talking about my inventions with other people helps me with my ideas. Most other people leave after a half hour of my invention-talk, but you're confined to bed-rest, so you're not going anywhere."

"Don't you have… y'know… friends that you can talk to about this?"

With a grin, Stark reached out and slapped his shoulder. "Of course, pal. That's the other reason I'm here!"

Part of Bucky wanted to point out that they weren't technically friends. The bigger part of him realised Stark probably didn't have many friends. The people who worked for him were assistants. The people who worked with him were colleagues or associates. The only person Bucky had known Stark to socialise with outside of a laboratory setting was Agent Carter; he had a habit of tagging along with things she was doing… like the Christmas party.

Suddenly, his own situation didn't seem so grim. Sure, he might die at any minute thanks to whatever Zola had done to him or just because of the war in general, but at least he wasn't alone. He had friends who cared about him, and wanted to spend time with him. Nobody much wanted to spend time with Stark, because he had a habit of lording his intelligence over everybody else.

"By the way," Stark continued, "I'm close to a working prototype for those jet boots you wanted. What say we schedule a test once you're out of this dump?"

"Huh?" This was a new level of odd, even for Stark. "What're you talking about? I never asked for jet boots."

"Sure you did!" Stark put down the chart and rummaged in his pockets until he pulled out a sheet of paper, which he unfolded and handed to Bucky. There, in handwriting he hadn't seen since his jacket was taken from him in Krausberg, was a list of potential inventions, with jet boots written neatly at the top.

Bucky swallowed the lump in his throat as memories came trickling back in. The letter Gusty had written to Nurse Klein. The lists Agent Carter had requested for possible inventions for Stark to look at. The bullshit argument it had somehow spawned between he and Wells. Good memories, and memories full of regret over his behaviour. If he'd known back then that he'd lose so many friends, he would've tried harder to treat them better. Kinda like how he should've tried harder with Steve, during their team training. Well, at least he could take a lesson away from it now. No more stupid arguing. No more acting like a child about trivial stuff. Now, he would do better.

"This isn't my list," he said, holding it up for Stark to see. "It was Sergeant Wells'. See, it even has his name in the top corner."

Stark tapped his chin as he gazed at the paper. "Wells, Wells… wasn't he that black fella?"

Bucky shook his head. "Why do you do that? Why do you pretend you don't remember our names, and pretend to get us all mixed up, when you know perfectly well who we are?"

He'd expected some overly dramatic denial, some claim that Stark really did have a bad head for names and faces. But the guy merely shrugged, and said, "Mostly it amuses me to see you all so annoyed."

"And maybe that's one of the reasons why nobody wants to hear about your ideas." He gave the paper a little wave. "Mind if I keep this?"

"Sure. If you don't want jet boots, or a hover-tank, I have no further use for it."

"Thanks." He folded the paper back up and put it inside the drawer beside his bed. Then, he gestured at his medical chart. "So, how's everything looking?"

"Oh, good, good. Your vitals are close to normal, and you're not dead yet, which is always a bonus. Another couple of days and we can start to schedule some physicals. Just the basics; you'll need a few more days before you're back to full strength. If you keep up the good progress, we should have you mission-ready in a week."

"A week still feels like too long," he said. "I wish I could get out there right now."

"A week isn't that long, not after what you've been through. Plus, it's not like you gave yourself a proper recovery after we got to London. Too much alcohol, not enough rest. If you want to get back in the fight, you've gotta start taking better care of yourself."

"Yes, Mom."

An hour after Stark left, Steve showed up, and he wasn't empty handed. From his pocket, he pulled a familiar item.

"Thought you might need some entertainment," he explained, as he put Bucky's copy of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn on the bedside table. "Are you ever going to read it?"

"One day," Bucky assured him. "How did you get it out of my room?"

"I had Dernier steal the spare key from behind the reception." Steve, aged eleven, winked at Bucky. "The ol' apple-pie-distraction method."

"I'm glad you have Jacques putting his skills to good use. A use that the brass would most assuredly not approve of." And a reason to be glad he hadn't written anything serious in the journal Steve had gotten him for Christmas. If his friends had been snooping around in his room, there was no telling what they might've 'accidentally' read. "Guess what? Stark came by earlier and says I'm almost ready for some of my physicals."

Steve managed a smile, and squeezed his shoulder with what Bucky guessed was probably great care. "I'm glad you're almost back on your feet. It's been lonely without you."

"The Commandos aren't keeping you company in my obviously painful absence?" teased Bucky.

"Yeah, but first they see me as Captain America, and then as Steve Rogers. You're the only one who doesn't treat me like some super-hero."

"What about Carter? I'm pretty sure she doesn't worship the ground you walk on."

"You're not wrong." Steve pulled up a chair and looked for all the world like a man shouldering a great burden. "Some days I'll see her at HQ, and she'll barely even spare a glance for me. Other times, she'll smile at me, and it feels like it's a smile that's intended just for me alone, even though there might be a dozen other officers around me."

Bucky nodded sagely. "That's dames for you." And, because he'd had a lot of time over the past four days to think about everything that'd happened over the past few months, added, "It's probably not easy for her, either."

"Whaddya mean?"

He propped himself up in his bed, so he could better impart his wisdom to Steve. Somebody might as well make use of it, since all the nurses in the hospital were either Mom-aged or already married. London had a serious shortage of beautiful young nurses.

"Think about it. Agent Carter's been doing this whole soldier-agent-spy stuff for a while now. She's pretty determined to make a name for herself as a competent soldier-agent-spy… a little too determined sometimes, if you ask me." He hurried on before Steve, mouth poised open, could defend his criticism of her. "And you're already a bit famous, because of Krausberg, and because Jones and Morita like to tell stories about you in the Fiddle."

"They don't… do they?"

Bucky nodded again. "Don't lecture them about it, they do it because they draw in a good crowd and it gets us our own table on reservation."

"Alright, but what does this have to do with Pe—Agent Carter?"

Silently, Bucky prayed for the day when he wouldn't have to connect all the dots for his best friend. Steve was pretty damn smart, but where the fairer gender were concerned, he was still naïve as a newborn baby.

"Well, what if attaching herself to a guy—pardon the expression, pal—is like a step backwards for her? What if people start sayin' she only got where she did because of you? Or that she's given special treatment because you asked for it on her behalf? We all know it ain't like that, but you know how rumours and gossip are. Being Agent Carter and being Captain America's girl are two things that she's probably still trying to reconcile inside her own mind. How do you give your heart to someone without compromising your own dreams?"

"I never thought of it like that," said Steve.

Bucky could tell by the deflated set of his shoulders that he'd just given his friend a lot to think about. In truth, he'd only just started really thinking about it himself. Most women were expected to settle down and get married. For them, a husband and a family was supposed to be the dream. But how many, like Peggy Carter, had dreams of their own they wanted to fulfill? Thanks to the war, women like Carter, and Mary-Ann, were doing things they'd never had chance to before. They were working in jobs that had previously been closed to them. Was it fair to ask them to abandon those dreams and go back to being content with raising children and taking care of homes?

Steve offered a heavy sigh. "I just wish I could show her that those things don't have to be in opposition to each other. That they can go together. I can't ask her to sacrifice her dreams to be with me."

Bucky instantly regretted giving voice to his musings. Hope was to precious a commodity to be so idly taken away, and if anybody deserved some hope, it was Steve.

"Maybe it doesn't have to be like that," he said. "I mean, you're not average GI Joe, and Carter isn't some dame looking to sit behind the reception desk at her father's company. I'm sure that if the two of you put your heads together, you could make it work in a way that's mutually beneficial."

"That doesn't sound very romantic."

"Fine: mutually beneficial with candlelight and violin music. Has she at least accepted your invitation for the second half of your first date?"

"Err…" Steve's hand idly moved to scratch the back of his head in one of his most obvious poker-tells. "Well, see, the thing is… I haven't exactly gotten around to asking her yet." When Bucky aimed a pointed stare at him, he swiftly continued. "We were really busy with all our training, and then Christmas, and then the mission…"

"We've been back from the mission for, what, six days?"

"Yeah, but you've been in the hospital."

"And you need me to be there and hold your hand while you ask her?"

"Of course not! But I can hardly ask Peggy out on a date while you're not well. It wouldn't feel right. I'd be too worried about you to enjoy time with her, and that isn't fair to her. She deserves someone who can focus on her completely."

Bucky sat forward and put on his best Dad stare. His best friend was definitely in need of a little wise Dad-logic. "Steve, if you wait for the 'perfect' moment, or a time when you can focus one hundred percent of your attention on her, then you're going to be waiting forever. We're at war, and we might be at war for a very long time. Any one of us can die at any minute, and nobody can focus a hundred percent on any one thing. Carpe diem, pal. If you don't, someone else will, or it'll pass you by completely."

"I know, I know." Steve leant back in his chair, and his expression slid towards despair. "But for some reason, the thought of going out on a real date with Peggy is more nerve-wracking than the thought of going into battle. Taking punches, giving punches… that's something I know how to do. But talking to dames..? It's like heading into unfamiliar territory, and knowing there's no map go guide me through."

"That's the good thing about unfamiliar territory," Bucky pointed out. "You get to make your own map. Like Emerson said… go instead where there is no path, and leave a trail. You're already off to a good start with that drawing you did for her Christmas present. Don't lose momentum now. If she's worried that getting close to you might mean sacrificing her dreams, show her that it doesn't have to be that way."

"You're right," said Steve.

"I'm always right."

"I guess all I can do is be the best me I can be, and hope that's enough for her."

"She'd be a fool to pass you over," Bucky nodded. "Just promise me one thing?"

"Anything. Except naming my first son after you."

Bucky let that one slide. Steve's first kid was definitely being named after him. "Whatever happens to me, or anybody else, don't let that come between you and your happy ending. You deserve everything your heart desires, and I don't want to be the reason you miss out."

"Alright, but only if you'll promise the same thing." Steve held out his hand. "You deserve your happy ending too, whatever it may be."

"Deal." They shook on it, and Bucky settled back down into his bed. A happy ending? Sure, that would be nice. Six months ago, his happy ending would've been a well-paid job and a beautiful wife. Since then, war had sunk its claws into him. Now, his happy ending was much more humble. He wanted to get through the war without losing any more friends. That would be the happiest ending he could ever ask for.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Bucky paced the short length of his hospital room and tried not to let his irritation get the better of him. For the past few days, he'd been taking advantage of the hospital grounds to do walking and exercising. The doctors said the fresh air would do him wonders, and they were right. But a storm had blown in, bringing rain lashing against the windows and cold draughts whistling down the old corridors. A foul mood had infected doctors, nurses and patients alike, leaving the inhabitants of the hospital short-tempered and cranky.

Somebody knocked on Bucky's door, and he ceased his pacing in favour of sitting on the edge of his bed. He'd finally been allowed to wear his uniform instead of a hospital gown, and now he only took it off to shower and to sleep. If they were planning on taking it off him again, they were going to have one hell of a fight on their hands.

"Come in, I'm decent," he called.

The door opened wide enough to admit Steve's head, and the rest of him followed once he really was sure Bucky was decent. His jacket was damp and his hair was simultaneously wind-swept and plastered to his head. The answer to what kinda lunatic goes outside in weather like this? was resolved in Steve.

"Are you mad?" Bucky asked him. "One of the nurses told me it's raining cats and dogs out there. Probably horses, too."

"To answer your question," Steve replied as he took off his jacket and hung it over the back of the visitor's chair, "I'll point out that the first thing I did after you left for Europe was volunteer for an experimental gene enhancement therapy."

Oh yeah. That. Clearly he was mad. "I recant my question, but what're you doing here? Not that I'm not glad to see you, of course."

"Well, tomorrow's the big day," Steve pointed out, as if Bucky could possibly have forgotten. "I just wanted to check on how you were doing. And don't say 'fine', 'cos you know that won't fly tomorrow."

Steve was far too smart for his own good. Bucky patted the bed beside him, and waited for his best friend to sit down before giving a sitrep on his current state.

"I'm nervous," he admitted. He'd already passed the physicals with flying colours. A bunch of push-ups and sit-ups and a few laps around the hospital ground, accompanied by a medical examination overseen by Doctor Hopkins and Howard Stark. Tomorrow, though, he had his final hurdle to overcome. One final test to pass. The psychological. And he'd been told it would be administered by somebody who was actually versed in psychology. Not like the guys in the enlistment office, who'd been given a half-hour's worth of training on how to weed out the psychopaths and the homosexuals, but an actual doctor of actual psychology. He was pretty sure he was going to fail the exam, because how could you pass an exam given by somebody whose very purpose was to trip you up and make you expose the things you wanted to keep hidden?

"I hear ya. And for what it's worth, I think you'll breeze it."

"I didn't know you had such faith in my current mental state." In fact, he was pretty sure Steve had been worried about his mental state several times, what with the whole drinking thing, and then his insistence on not taking prisoners during their first mission.

"I have faith enough. And I'll make you a deal; you pass your assessment, and I'll ask Peggy out on that second half of our first date that we talked about the other day."

"Make me a better deal and ask her out regardless of how I do on my assessment," Bucky countered. "I don't wanna go in there with your love life riding on my passing the test. That's not the kinda pressure I signed up for."

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're right. I'm an idiot. Sorry, I know I shouldn't have put it on you like that."

"If you're trying to motivate me, try finding out whether there are any single nurses left in England right now. That way I might stand a chance of finding someone I can invite to that double-date we're overdue for."

He'd meant the comment tongue-in-cheek—he really had no desire to go on a double-date with Steve, because that would just be all kinds of awkward—but a tiny light came on in Steve's eyes. The same light that'd come on when America had joined the war, and the enlistment offices had opened up. The light that said Steven Grant Rogers thought this was A Good Idea.

"Oh!" Steve smacked his hand into his forehead, and reached into his pocket. "I almost forgot. The other reason I came to see you today. You got this delivered this morning."

He handed over an envelope on which was written Bucky's name, rank and regiment. A letter from home. The first he'd had since before Christmas. Half of him wanted to tear into it and find out what was happening with everyone at home. The other half anticipated more guilt-ridden pleas from his mother to accept a medical discharge and return to New York. To open the letter now, or to leave it until after his psychological evaluation?

"Want me to give you some time alone to read it?" Steve prompted. "I know how slow you are at reading stuff." He gestured to the book as yet unopened on the small bedside cabinet. "You know I can help you with big words, right?"

Bucky punched his arm, and not as lightly as he would've done to old-Steve. "Which of us is the English major here? And which of us studied pictures at college?"

"Art," Steve corrected. "It's language without words."

"Hush up." He slid a finger beneath the envelope flap and tore it open. "I have a letter to read. I'll let you know if I come across any complicated pictures that need deciphering."

Steve chuckled and repositioned himself in the visitor's chair while Bucky began to read.

Dear Bucky

We're all glad to hear that you're doing well, and still by Steve's side. However hard it is for us to think of you fighting out there, it's a comfort to know that you and Steve will be serving together. That you'll do your best to make sure you both get home safely, and we look forward to that day with all our hearts.

Things are much the same here these days. Mary-Ann is still in Baltimore, and celebrating the completion of her twenty-fifth ship. We're continually amazed by how fast those girls can build them… Dad says the Germans don't stand a chance against our Victory fleet. I hope he's right! Janet's already panicking about her senior exams, even though they're still a year off. We keep telling her that she's a bright girl, and that she'll pass them with flying colours, but she's still studying every single night. At least she is keen to succeed, even if her social life is suffering a little.

There's a bit of sad news we should tell you about now; Charlie and Linda have broken up. It was a silly argument, really, but an important one. You see, after we received the condolence letter stating you were killed in action, Charlie went down to the enlistment office right away to sign up. He got as far as the medical, but then was told he wasn't eligible to serve, as he was the sole surviving son of our family. He was disappointed, but accepted the decision.

After we received the happy news that you were alive and well, he again went to enlist—he wants so badly to join the war effort—but was told that he still wasn't eligible because even though we had a letter stating you were alive, the necessary paperwork hadn't come through from the Army officials to lift his restriction on enlisting. He's been again a couple more times, the last time just before Christmas, but it seems the wheels of war are slow to turn, and until the necessary bits of paper have been officially signed off, he can't enlist. As you can imagine, he's extremely vexed about this. He and Linda got into a frightful argument, and she accused him of caring more about fighting in the war and proving himself than he did about building his future with her. She begged him not to try enlisting again, but of course, he ignored her. You know how bull-headed he can be.

Anyway, Linda said she couldn't be with a man who chooses war over life, and so they broke up just after Christmas, in a most dreadful shouting argument. I feel like a traitor for saying this, but I'm glad the paperwork hasn't come through yet, and that Charlie is forbidden from enlisting. It's hard enough having one son in Europe; I don't think I could cope with my baby boy being out there, too. Or worse—for him to be sent to the Pacific. He doesn't have your common sense, and I fear what would happen to him.

That's about the long and short of it. We all miss you dearly, and can't wait for this war to be over so that you can come home and make our family whole again. Please take care, and pass on our love to Steve, as well. Let him know that we're visiting Sarah's grave every weekend, to make sure the wreaths are well-tended.

All our love,

Mom and Dad

"Is it bad?" asked Steve, as Bucky blinked back his tears. Instead of replying, he simply handed the letter over and let Steve read it himself. "Ah. Charlie, huh? I didn't think he wanted to serve."

"Neither did I," Bucky agreed. "Maybe he wanted to enlist before he could be drafted. Sounds more patriotic, that way. But I wonder why the paperwork hasn't gone through yet. The stuff needed to allow Charlie to enlist."

"Maybe Phillips is sitting on it."

"Maybe." Or maybe things really were disorganised, from an administration point of view. "Then again, they got my medical discharge wrong, and nearly sent the wrong guy home. Perhaps that mix-up's had something to do with it."

"Yeah, probably." Steve stood up, yawned and stretched. "Well, guess I better be getting back to the hotel before it starts raining elephants and rhinos."

The swift departure was very un-Steve-like, but Bucky let it pass. His friend was probably just worried the conversation would swing back around to Carter again, and he'd no longer be able to delay the inevitable.

"By the way, everyone sends you their good luck wishes for the assessment tomorrow. They're certain you'll walk it."

"There's the vote of confidence I needed," he scoffed. But he scoffed in a joking way. The guys meant well, even if most of them stood no better chance of passing a psychological evaluation than Bucky himself. It really was unfair that Bucky had to take the assessment, but Dugan didn't. Perhaps he'd point that out to Phillips, during the next briefing. Psych evals for all the Commandos! That'd show 'em.

Steve donned his still-damp jacket and aimed a resigned look at the weather outside the window. "I'll be here tomorrow, for when you're out of your assessment," he said. "And we'll celebrate your return to duty."

I hope so. "Sure thing, pal." At least now, he had another reason to pass. If Phillips really was sittin' on those official papers, then so long as Bucky was serving, Charlie was safe. If Bucky was sent back home, those papers might find their way back, too. He'd signed up to protect his family from the fighting, and he sure as hell wasn't going to let Charlie risk his life in his place.

Author's Note: Welcome back, Person543! I'm glad you're finding the story easy to resume. I would've replied to you personally, but you have PMs disabled.

WinterWidow - To answer your question, no, I haven't given up on 'And Then I Saw Red', or any of my other short/casual fics, but I started a new job in February which is sucking up a lot of the time I used previously to write those fics. As it is, I'm only just staying on top of We Were Soldiers, and since this fic is basically ginormous, I have to prioritise it or I risk running out of steam and losing all the stuff I have in my head for it. Until work calms down a little, I'll be focusing solely on We Were Soldiers. The other fics are something I can return to when I have the time to think about, and write, something else.

P.S. Sorry for the late chapter - I got distracted by some sunshine yesterday.