We Were Soldiers

145. Tag

The mechanical ring of his alarm clocked pierced the veil of sleep and woke him from a dream of being back in high school. With a quiet groan, he reached out to silence it. Twelve o'clock. It wasn't fair. Why didn't anybody ever schedule missions for a sensible hour? It was always leave under the cover of darkness. Or return under the cover of darkness. In summer, darkness only lasted a few hours, which invariably meant a late start or an early finish.

He rolled out of bed and quickly dressed. The faster the mission started, the faster it ended, and the sooner he could get back to his bed. Get back to figuring things out.

Fully dressed, he left his room in darkness and made his way to Steve's room. There was no light shining from underneath it, so he knocked and called out, "Steve, you awake? Have you forgotten we have a mission?"

A moment later, Steve opened the door. His short hair was all mussed up, and he squinted at Bucky as if he'd just wakened. Steve didn't need much sleep, but he did need some. "Buck? What time is it?"

"Twelve. Just after."

"We don't have to leave until two."

"The early bird catches the worm," he pointed out. "Do you want me to wake the rest of the team?"

"Uh, not for another hour. Let them sleep."

"Fine. I'll go wait out front."

"But—"

He hurried away, letting Steve's objection fade behind him. Waiting in his room or waiting out front, it was all the same. He could think as well out on the sidewalk… pavement… as he could in his bed. Better, in fact. The bed was too comfortable, making it too easy for him to fall asleep. Out here was cool and damp and hard. There would be no sleeping on the ground.

With time to kill, he sank down onto one of the Strand's steps and turned his thoughts to the past. Specifically, to how he was going to make his past and his present work together. Wells was in the past. He was one of the things, the people, he'd put behind him, because thinking about all that hurt too much. Even when he'd briefly been back with the 107th, it had hurt, but he managed because Gusty and Biggs and Mex… and yes, even Hodge… were right there with him. They knew about the pain because they'd lived it. And when that mission had ended, Bucky had left the pain behind with them.

He couldn't leave the pain behind if Wells was here. His friend would be a constant reminder of it. Of losing Tipper to a land mine and Carrot to a bullet, of pulling Franklin and Davies out from under a ton of rock just to bury them again in the earth. Of Danzig being ripped apart by machine gun fire. Of Nestor's jeep going over a drop, and of Weiss going out on a mission and never coming back.

How could he leave all of that in the past when it was staring him right in the face?

But at the same time, he couldn't tell Wells to go away and never see him again, because Wells had given him something that he'd been missing for a very long time: hope, that sometimes things did work out. That this war wasn't all darkness and loss. That something lost could be found again, whether that something was a friend or a dream that tomorrow would be better.

He sat on the step and watched the sky slowly lighten. Dawn. A new day. Somehow, he had to make this collision of past and present work. He had to find a way to be friends with Wells without letting all that guilt and grief overwhelm him. Hell, he already felt a measure of it, because Wells was alive. That meant Bucky had left him behind. All his talk of not leaving people behind, of the 107th always having each others' backs, of no tags, no death, was clearly just bullshit, because Bucky had left his pal behind.

Left him to die.

He closed his eyes as his hand curled into a fist. The anger that flared was a brief, tiny thing that he wasn't able to fan into a real fire.

"Hey, Buck. You okay?"

He opened his eyes to find Steve staring down at him. "Of course. Why?"

"Well, you spent all of yesterday in bed."

"I was tired."

"You slept the whole day?"

"A large chunk of it." At least, when he wasn't busy wrestling with his conscience. If he kept seeing Wells, he'd eventually have to introduce him to Steve, and what if they got to talking? What if Wells told Steve all about the bullshit and the anger and the other stuff that would make Steve doubt his best friend's sanity? What if they talked about Krausberg? If Wells had even a tiny inkling of what had happened to him in there, then he'd just get more of those pitying looks, like the ones Steve used to give him when he thought his best friend was broken.

Concern played across Steve's face. "Do you want to see a doctor?"

Bucky shook his head. "Thanks. Not necessary. I just want to complete this mission."

"Alright. Let me know if you start to feel unwell on the mission though, okay? The rest of the team are on their way down."

"I will."

Maybe he was approaching this from the wrong end. Maybe he needed that catch up with Wells first. Talk everything through. Then decide how he was was going to make everything fit. If it even could. Maybe it would never fit. Maybe Wells being there would just be too harsh a reminder. Maybe the ghosts of the dead would refuse to leave him alone. Would he have to tell his friend to leave? Could he do that?

Or was he just being selfish? After all, whatever Wells had gone through, it probably hadn't been easy for him. He probably needed a friend to talk things over with. All the things he'd said in his letter, the awkward feelings stuff notwithstanding… hadn't he lost his family, too?

"I know something is very wrong with the world," said Dugan, stifling a yawn as he joined them, "when Barnes is awake before me. Could even be the sign of the end times."

"You're a riot, Dugan," said Bucky dryly. And thank God Miles wasn't here to hear that sentiment, because he'd probably try to measure the end times in peanuts.

Monty appeared before the big man could respond, looking even more chipper than usual. It was as if he felt he had to make up for being wounded on the last mission by being extra prepared for this one.

"I've roused the rest of the team and they'll be with us momentarily, Captain." Yeah, Monty's brown-nose mode had been engaged, alright. "Though I think Jacques is disappointed we won't be blowing anything up on this mission."

"Oui." The man himself came out through the front door and took a seat on one of the steps. "I feel as though I am useless on this mission."

"Me too, pal," Bucky agreed. "Kinda got used to the view through the SSR-03. It'll feel weird going into combat with an M1 again."

"You still forsworn guns, Cap?" Dugan asked. "What you said back in Normandy, I thought that was just a bit of role-model talk for our boys."

"What'd he say?" Bucky asked. Nobody had mentioned this before.

"A bunch of hoo-ha about not wanting to use a gun."

Steve cleared his throat as a blush crept up his cheeks. "Actually, it was a very rousing speech about power and responsibility, and about having the ability to take a life but choosing not to."

"Like I said. Hoo-ha. No offense Cap, but I see Krauts, I'm peppering them with bullets before they do for me."

"I think it's an admirable sentiment," Bucky said. "I mean, I'm peppering them too, but I think your outlook is a good one, Steve."

He understood. Perhaps he was the only one of the team that did understand. France, and losing men to Hydra, had broke Bucky. He'd tried to fix the pain with killing Krauts, but it hadn't worked. He'd still been broken. Steve, however… he'd been through that hell, now. Been on enough missions with the Commandos, and been in the thick of real war with the troops, to understand what a hopeless and bloody affair it truly was.

But it hadn't broken him. Steve had stared long into the abyss, then walked away without being changed by it. Back when Steve had freed those German prisoners from a Hydra cell, he'd thought his pal had made the wrong call, but time had proven him wrong. Now he understood why. It was because Steve was a good man. It was the core of who he was, how he'd been raised by his mother and influenced by the people in his life. More than that, it was deeply ingrained into his moral fibre. Steve would always fight for what was right, but he wouldn't succumb to the darkness to do it. Two wrongs did not make a right, and committing evil to combat evil did not create good. He would never become a bully to stop a bully. It just wasn't the person he was. Not in this reality. Maybe not in any reality, despite what Miles claimed about the multiverse.

Steve offered him a grateful smile. "Thanks, pal. I appreciate the support."

Further banter was cut off by the arrival of two SSR cars that would ferry them to one of the sea ports, and from there, Belgium. All Bucky knew about it was that it was small and filled with Nazis.

Once the rest of the team joined them outside the hotel, Steve paused in front of them until he had their full attention. "I don't have to tell you how important this mission is. We get this right, and it could provide our first solid lead on Schmidt since I got a look at his maps in Krausberg. Everything we've been doing since then has relied on chance; listening for whispers, tracking down dead-end leads, trying to catch a man who is always ten steps in front of us." He opened one of the car doors, and gestured inside. "Today, I intend to close that gap. Let's go, team."

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

"When you get to London, pay a visit to a pub called The Whip & Fiddle. It's a nice, quiet place to have a drink or two. And if you do go, please give my regards to Lizzie. She's one of the barmaids there; beautiful face, hair the colour of rich copper, you can't miss her. She probably won't remember me, but she offered me many words of wisdom when I was a young man far from home for the first time."

Danny's mind went back a couple of weeks to his last day in Italy with the 3rd Infantry. Lieutenant Grant had walked him out to where the plane was ready and waiting to whisk him and a dozen other injured soldiers off to freedom.

"She the one that got away?" he asked.

Grant nodded. "I think every man in London has chased Lizzie at some point. Maybe one day she'll let herself be caught."

He looked up now at the front of the pub where he'd met Barnes a couple of nights ago. Of course, he could've introduced himself to Lizzie then, but he'd preferred mystery and anonymity, especially in case he needed a fast out from a really awkward situation. With the Howling Commandos away on a mission, it was safe to visit the Fiddle without any chance of being identified by the miscreants who already knew him.

Although it was only late afternoon, the Fiddle was buzzing with activity. Maybe it had been a'nice, quiet place to have a drink or two' back when Grant was here, before the war really heated up, but now it was just another watering hole for soldiers and locals, and doing a very healthy trade in both.

Lizzie was already serving drinks at the bar, so Danny took a seat on one of the stools and waited until she was a little less busy. Grant was right; she was a beautiful woman. He wouldn't have described her hair as the colour of rich copper, though. More like a dark ginger. But then, he wasn't looking at her through the rose-tinted spectacles of young love. A man tended to see things at their best, when he had feelings like that. Obvious flaws became more subtle.

Like Rita Hayworth, he thought. Away from the movie screens, she's probably not as gorgeous as she looks.

He glanced over to the back room. Almost empty, at present. The table he'd elected to utilise two nights ago had strategic value; it was only big enough for two people to sit at, which discouraged crowds, and it was right in the corner, which afforded a good view not only of the entire back room, but also of the front door. From there, one could see who was entering and leaving. Always useful to know who might be loitering around when you were planning clandestine reunions.

He took a few peanuts from the complimentary bowl on the bar and toyed with them as he thought back. Maybe he oughtn't to have lied to Barnes about covering the night shift, or about being on sleep-in the next day. It would've been great to talk more. Better than great. It was practically the whole reason for him coming to London, notwithstanding the fact that he was less likely to be shot by Krauts here.

Only… all throughout high school, he'd watched lovestruck guys follow dames around, being all clingy, waiting for a scrap of attention to be thrown their way. He'd always attempted a more casual approach to women, sort of a let-them-approach-you method of showing interest. You didn't catch pigeons in Time Square by following after them, you did it by being real still and holding a handful of bird seed out. You won their trust that way.

Granted, he hadn't really known what love was back then, but just because he knew what it was now didn't mean he was gonna become that sort of needy guy he'd always rolled his eyes at and pitied. No matter his feelings, he couldn't bring himself to become the sort of guy who was available at somebody else's beck and call. Always leave the audience wanting more, his old high school drama teacher had said.

Of course, if Barnes really needed something… not just a catch up or a bit of conversation, but something important, he'd be there in an instant no matter the cost to himself. But that was only for big stuff. Important stuff.

Feelings were hard.

When the groups of soldiers ordering rounds finally slowed down a little, Lizzie made her way over to Danny and put on her best welcoming smile. "What can I get ya, hun?"

"Ale, please." It was too early in the day for something stronger. He would have time to work up to that.

She pulled the pint, handed it over, and took his money. Then she gave him a more thorough examination. "I recognise you," she said. "You're Sergeant Barnes' friend, right?"

"Good memory," he said.

Lizzie merely shrugged. "You've gotta have a good eye for faces when you work bar. You're staying off the rum tonight?"

"No, working up to it. I've got a twelve hour shift tomorrow, so I can't start too strong."

"Very sensible of you." She glanced around the room to make sure nobody needed her services, then said, "let's play a little game. I like to play this with new folks."

"I like games," he agreed. "What are the rules?"

"I try and guess your story. Where you're from, how you got here. And if I'm right, or close to right, you owe me a favour. If I'm wrong, I buy your next drink."

This ought to be good. She'd probably had Lieutenant Grant pegged from the moment she laid eyes on him. "Sounds like fun," he agreed. "You think you have me figured out already, huh?"

"We'll see." She stood tapping her chin for a moment as she considered him. "Okay, so I think this one should be pretty easy. I'm starting to get good with American accents. You're from Brooklyn, so I'm going to guess you're a friend of Sergeant Barnes from back home. He wasn't expecting to see you here, and I'd say he probably hasn't seen you in a long time. So, maybe you were friends from school, and you went your separate ways. You're not infantry—you would've been shipped out by now if you were heading to the front with the rest of the new troops. You've been in London a couple of months, maybe longer."

"What makes you think I've been in London longer than a couple of months?"

"You ordered ale. Most of your lot don't know what it is, and ask for beer," she said, clearly proud of her logic. "So, you have some sort of administrative job. You're not a scientist, so I'm gonna go with engineer. You design things. Maybe new vehicles?"

"Well, I was almost assigned to the motor pool, once," he mused. "Does that count?"

She shook her head. "This is my guess; you're Sergeant Barnes' old childhood friend from back home. You're an army engineer and you arrived in London three months ago and have been working at a desk ever since. How did I do?"

He gave a so-so hand wave. "I am from Brooklyn," he confirmed. "But I'm infantry. Didn't meet Barnes until last year; we served in the 107th together." He took out his tags as proof. "Saw a lot of combat with the SSR, and took a bullet to my shoulder while on a mission. I spent the past six months hiding from the Nazis, and the Italian Resistance helped get me back to a friendly camp. I've been in London for two weeks, and I'm currently working in logistics, on account of my injury."

Lizzie offered him her best pout. "Aw, I wasn't too far off, really."

"Yeah, apart from almost every detail being wrong."

She sighed. "Fair's fair. You want that drink now?"

"Sure. And I will take a rum this time."

When she poured him a glass, it was a generous measure. Nice to know at least one bartender in London wasn't stingy with their measures. After pouring, she left to serve more rounds, but eventually returned to refill his glass—not for free this time, unfortunately.

"Do you remember a lieutenant called Joe Grant?" he asked.

"Joe? Sure. One of Miller's men. He was reassigned to one of the infantry units and shipped out last year."

"I served with him briefly after I returned from being declared dead. He told me this is a nice place to drink, and asked me to remember him to you."

Lizzie smiled warmly. "I'm glad to hear he's okay. Such a lovely young man; I was worried about him, when he was reassigned. He didn't seem like the type of man who ought to be serving on the front lines."

"Yeah, he's still a patsy," Danny agreed. "But he's changed, too. He's a lot more world-wise now."

"The world seems a small place, at times," she said. "Isn't it funny how we sometimes meet people who know people that we know?"

"Hilarious."

She gave him a sly look. "So, if you served in the SSR with Sergeant Barnes last year, you probably know Sergeant Dugan, as well."

Danny wrinkled his nose. "Yeah, I know him too. The jerk."

"Why's he a jerk?"

"Oh, you know. He's just overly attached to his hat, and really mean to anyone he thinks has stolen it. Even if there's no evidence that they did."

She laughed, her eyes twinkling. "Oh, that sounds like a story or two!"

"No story, honest. Just a misplaced hat."

"I'm sure." With a smile, she leaned over the counter, revealing just the barest hint of cleavage. "So, are you going to ask me out?"

Well, this was a bit of a role reversal. Normally, he was the one hitting on dames. They didn't hit on him. Not this blatantly, anyway. Usually it was just the subtle stuff, like fluttering their lashes or playing teasingly with strands of their hair.

"Uh, maybe? I dunno. Do you want me to? Because honestly, everything that happened last year, plus getting shot and nearly dying, it's kinda put my head in a weird place. And I can't believe I'm saying this because I sound like a complete Grant-level patsy, but I kinna wanna focus on me for a while."

"That's fine." She straightened up, taking the nice view off the table in more ways than one. "I just like to know when a fellow's going to be trouble. A large portion of the soldiers who come drinking here ask me out at least once." She pointed with a tilt of her chin to a group sitting where the Howling Commandos had been sat two nights ago. "See that corporal with the blond hair? He's already asked me out three times within the past hour. I can already tell I'll have to bar him before the end of the night."

"I can't stand a guy who won't take no for an answer," he agreed. "Do you get a lot like that? Soldiers who are trouble and need barring?"

"Not usually. Their officers tend to step in before it gets to that point. And when the Commandos are here, it's different as well. Nobody wants to be scolded by Captain America."

"Yeah, I bet. What's he like? Captain Rogers, I mean."

The smile that spread across her lips was full of warmth. "Oh, he's lovely. Quiet, I'd even say a little reserved, but he's very polite and such a brave man. Agent Carter's a lucky woman."

So. Captain America and Agent Carter. It made sense. Though how the guy could put up with Carter's stubbornness was a mystery.

"Does Peggy come drinking in here often?" he asked.

"Usually only when the Commandos are around, or when she's been invited by Captain Rogers."

"She doesn't know about my return from the dead yet," he said. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention me to her if you do see her before I have chance to explain. Same for Dugan, too."

Lizzie made a zipping motion across her lips and gave him a wink.

"What about Howard Stark?" he asked. "I'd like to surprise him with news of my resurrection. Know where I can find him?"

"I don't, sorry. He has a lab in London, but I don't know where it is. But I think he's been called away on some other business; Sergeant Barnes was complaining the other day that he couldn't find Howard anywhere. He does put in an occasional appearance here, but not very often."

It was a small relief. With the Commandos away, Carter not a regular and Stark occupied elsewhere, he could at least stop looking over his shoulder and worrying about being recognised by somebody who knew him. For a couple of days, at least. Then he'd have to figure out when and where to meet Barnes, to continue their catch-up. Until then, he could gather intel.

"So, Lizzie," he said, tapping his glass for another refill. "Tell me all about Steve Rogers."

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

Their missions were never straightforward, and this one was no exception. Bucky squinted as the setting sun blinded his view of pretty much everything up ahead. Stupid Holland. Stupid boat. Stupid Hydra.

The plan had been for the boat to land them on the coast of Belgium, give them time to rest up for a day, then make their way to the train yard in darkness. It was one of those best laid plans that quickly became unlaid, and required some annoying or dangerous adjustment.

This time, the adjustment had been to land in a completely different country. Holland, specifically, which on his map looked about a centimetre north of Belgium. But that map-centimetre had turned into a whole bunch of kilometers. They'd found an old barn to rest in throughout the morning, but they had a lot more ground to cover now, and a border to cross. And Holland was flat. Like God had just smushed the whole thing with his thumb and made it boring and open and insanely dangerous. It didn't even have the gently undulating hills of Normandy, or the sparse forests of southern France. Only the fact that a large chunk of Nazi forces had been sent south to France had stopped them from being spotted so far. Night could not come fast enough.

His legs ate the kilometres like they were nothing. Other than his M1, he carried only a backpack filled with a few rations, aid kit, water canteen, spare ammo clips, and some of the tiny little radio-iso-whatever thingies that Stark had created. Marching over flat was considerably easier than marching through ravines and gullies and over mountains, so other than keeping a sharp eye out for danger, he was afforded time to think.

At times, his thoughts were circular, and they ran rings round him as he walked. But at the centre of his thoughts was a bundle of awkward discomfort that he was only starting to become fully aware of. He'd felt it before, every time Steve tried to bring up Krausberg, or his mission in France with the SSR. In the beginning Bucky had thought it was because of everything he'd been through under Zola's tender care, but now that he thought about it, he wasn't so sure.

When he'd gotten his orders to report to Last Stop, he'd left his family behind. He'd left them safe in the knowledge that so long as he fought, they would be safe at home. He'd left them behind, then immediately gained a new family. The men of the 107th had become his brothers in arms, and they'd looked out for each other just like brothers did.

But he hadn't been able to protect them. One by one he'd watched his family die. Felt the threads of their lives slipping through his fingers, and been completely powerless to stop it. He finally understood what that little bundle of discomfort nestled in his stomach was. Shame. Steve was his old family, and it was hard to admit to his old family how he'd failed to protect his new family. Worse; he'd been unable to protect his new family, so what if he was also unable to protect his old family? What if he let them down when they needed him?

Maybe that was it. Maybe that was why he couldn't bring himself to talk about Tipper and the others with Steve. Because to admit failure once might invite failure again. And because this was Steve. He'd always been able to count on his best friend, but now he couldn't. As much as he claimed he had Steve's back, and he'd be there until the end of the line… maybe that wasn't really true. Maybe those were just words that he would one day be forced to make into a lie.

"Hey, Bucky!"

The call jolted him out of his reverie. It was dark. When had that happened? His gaze turned inward, he hadn't even noticed when the sun had set. Not that it mattered; his dark-vision was pretty good, now. He didn't need light to see by.

He turned and squinted. Steve and the others were a good hundred metres back down the road, leaning against a fence by the road-side as they drank from their canteens. He waited, but they seemed to be in no hurry, and eventually Steve jogged over to him.

"We're going to take a twenty minute break," his friend explained.

"Okay. Want me to scout on ahead?"

Steve ran his eyes over him. "Don't you wanna take a break too?"

"No, I'm good." He just wanted to finish the mission, get home, and try to figure shit out. The rest of the team did seem to be flagging a little, though. Morita was bent over taking a few deep breaths, whilst Monty had visibly wilted against the fence. Jacques had simply opted to sit on the roadside and remove his hat to pour cool water over his head. Jones and Dugan were little better. Only Steve looked comfortable and unwinded. "Guess those ten-K races you've had us running almost every morning have really improved my stamina."

"Guess so. But you set kind of a fast pace for those past few miles; the guys found it hard to keep up."

"I was in front?"

Funny. He'd thought he'd been following behind Morita, who was supposed to be leading the way. Why hadn't anyone told him to stop walking so fast?

"Buck, are you okay?" Steve had worried-face again.

"Of course. I've never felt better, in fact. I'm not even hungry yet." He pulled back his sleeve to glance at his watch. "Look, we have a limited window, right? The rest of the team… well… I don't wanna say slowing me down, but that stop-over in Holland didn't do us any favours. I did a lot of forced marches with the SSR last year, I can keep going for hours. Why don't you give me all the radio-things and let me go on ahead. I can tag the trains and be back here before the guys have finished catching their breath."

"I can't let you go off into Nazi-controlled territory alone."

He offered his friend his best carefree grin. "Then come with me. It'll be just like the Alamo. With just the two of us, we'll be able to move a lot faster. The rest of the team can cover our six, make sure our exit route is clear or something."

His friend was torn. He could tell by Steve's entire posture. The need to keep the team together versus the need to get the mission done. In the end, the mission won out.

"Okay. I'll tell them to take twenty then follow behind at a more sensible pace. You and I can double-time it to the train yard. But please, no recklessness. Once we're there, we do it properly, not fast. We can't be seen, otherwise they might stop and check all the trains leaving. That means we leave no trace behind." No bodies, he said without saying.

"Wasn't planning to use this anyway," he said, patting his M1. "Go break the news to the team, I'll head on up the road and you can catch up to me when you're done."

He jogged on as Steve returned to let the team know they didn't need to kill themselves keeping up. No doubt Dugan would be pleased about that. And no doubt Steve would be assigning considerably more ten-K runs when they got back to London. Maybe Bucky could get himself a hard pass on that. After all, he was the only member of the team still fresh after their march. Not even Agent Carter would've been able to find fault with his performance today.

Steve caught up after a moment, slowing to a jog so as not to overtake him. Bucky chuckled as his friend checked his pace. "What took you so long?"

"Oh, I actually lapped you," Steve quipped. "I was just going so fast you didn't see me do it."

They jogged through the night as the moon slowly passed overhead. The heat was unpleasant, but the lack of rain was nice.

"How'd Carter like the chocolates?" he asked, when it occurred to him he'd forgotten to ask how they went down. Too busy thinking about the ghosts of his past.

"Very well, actually. I wasn't sure that chocolates in the shapes of little animals would be her thing, but she said they were her favourite."

"When's your double-date with Michael and Antje?"

"Day after we get back. I'm kinda dreading it," Steve admitted. The moon cast dark shadows over the planes of his face, so it was hard to see his expression. There was no denying the concern in his voice as he continued, though. "Previously, when I've spoken to Michael, Peggy and I were more… well, less…"

"More casual, less an unofficial 'thing'?"

Steve nodded. "What if he thinks I'm not good enough for her?"

"You saved his life, single-handedly freed Cherbourg from the Krauts, and knocked out Adolf Hitler over two-hundred times," he pointed out. "Plus you are probably the nicest, most genuine guy that I know. If you're not good enough for Carter, nobody is."

"You're only saying that because you're my best friend."

"Damn right I am. I know you better than anyone. Lemme ask you, who did you take to our senior prom?" Steve went silent as that sunk in, and Bucky pressed his point home. "And how many other guys have I approved of for my sister? If you're good enough for my sister, you're good enough for Michael's sister. You've already measured up to my highest standard, and that's what counts. And if Michael doesn't approve, I'll just punch him for you."

"Thanks, that's bound to change his mind," Steve said.

As they drew closer to their target, they slowed their pace and kept close watch for any sign of enemy troops. When Steve pointed to something long and silver in the distance shining brightly beneath the cold light of the moon, and made a 'follow me, stay close' gesture, Bucky nodded and stuck close to his heels, both hands ready on his M1.

The bright thing was a pair of steel tracks cutting across the landscape, running sharply east to west. To the west was Belgium's coastline, so it was likely this was one of the tracks that ran from there to the train yard that their aerial surveys had picked up.

"If I remember correctly," Steve whispered. He always remembered correctly, so it was a bit of a moot point, "this line curves widely and then branches, one branch continuing to the east, the other heading south, which is where we're headed."

"Why the wide curve?"

"Because it goes around a swamp."

Bucky wrinkled his nose. "I've done that before. Swamps are horrible, wet, smelly things that slow your pace to a crawl. Nothing says stealthy less than smelling of swamp water. Plus, mosquitoes. Trust me, we don't want to be going through that."

"Alright, we'll stick to the tracks and follow them to our destination." He gave Bucky a ten-year-old-Steve grin. "I've got some sprint left in me. Think you can keep up?"

"With you? Probably not," he scoffed. His legs were finally starting to feel those last couple of miles. "But I'll do a better job at not falling behind than the rest of the Commandos. Lead on."

So they ran. He hadn't been on a train since… what mission was it? Coventry, perhaps? The urban training that Carter had put them through to try and prepare them for fighting in bombed cities and towns? That had been a pretty tense time. Steve was unused to command, and Bucky was too used to it. Time and experience were great teachers.

They made it to the mid-way point of the curve before Steve slowed and asked, "Do you hear that?"

Together they looked back, at the lights following them. Sure enough, just a few seconds later, he picked up the clackety-clack of a train moving at speed. Great. Just fantastic.

"We need to get away from the rails," he said.

"Into the swamp," Steve agreed.

Bucky's heart sank, along with his boots. Water rushed in almost immediately, but there was no time to lament his wet feet. Out here, there was no cover, so they moved as deep into the swamp as they could then hunkered down near a rocky outcrop. It was possibly the worst disguise in the history of disguises, but it was that or nothing.

The train roared by, a behemoth of light and noise, but Steve didn't so much as twitch a muscle until it was well out of sight and he was certain no other train was following. When he finally stood up straight, Bucky followed his lead.

"Think we were spotted?" he asked.

The Commandos' leader shook his head. "You ever look out of a window at night, when the light's on in the room behind you? It makes the glass a mirror, and it's really hard to make anything out. I think we're good. Besides, it wasn't a passenger train, it was loaded with cargo. That means fewer eyes to pry."

Bucky sighed as they squelched their way back to the tracks. "I wish I'd brought a change of shoes. How long until that blimp goes up?"

Steve checked his watch, a frown pulling his brows lower. "An hour. We need to be quick. We should be less than a mile from the train yard, now."

Speed and sodden boots were not a great combination, but Bucky swallowed his complaints. It wasn't his first time marching with wet gear, and at least it was only his feet that were wet. Not like that time the SSR had stopped to camp in Italy during the mother of all rainstorms. Not even their army-issue ponchos had been able to keep them dry, and the foxholes had been more swimming pool than anything else.

When at last they reached their destination, Steve lowered himself into a crouch. Maybe he thought he looked less conspicuous, but a tall, broad guy wearing red, white and blue stood out against any skyline, much less the pancake-flat landscape of Belgium. "Can't believe I'm saying this," Bucky told him, "but I wish you were smaller. Maybe we can find you a mushroom to eat."

"Mushroom?"

"You know, like Alice in Wonderland? When she ate one side of the mushroom and shrank?"

"Well, I don't see any mushrooms around here. We'll just have to cope with me being me-sized. Besides, you're no pipsqueak yourself."

They stopped behind a broken rail car that had been dumped some way out from the yard. It was a sorry sight, its wheels all rusted and its wooden shell rotting away, as if time itself was trying to reduce the thing to nothing little by little.

The human body can take only so much punishment, and it succumbs eventually to the ravages of time.

Bucky closed his eyes and tried to push away the memory of Dr Zola's words. This was neither the time nor the place for dwelling on the past, and especially not on that part of his past. Krausberg always came back to haunt him at the most inconvenient times, but right now, he wouldn't entertain it. Maybe later, after he'd decided on how to deal with his whole new Wells situation, he could think about dealing with Krausberg. Maybe.

"Look over there," Steve whispered. Bucky followed his line of sight to a group of men who were busy unloading one train and splitting its contents onto three others.

"Seems we hit the jackpot," he whispered. "Take a look over to the right." Two more engines, neither of them hitched to any train cars yet, but being refuelled with enough coal to take them on a pretty long journey. "I bet if we have a poke around, we may find more."

"We're on too tight a schedule for poking. We'll tag the trains that we can see here, then head back to the rest of the team. We're gonna have to find somewhere to rest up during daylight; it's too difficult to travel in the open here."

"Okay. You take the ones on the right, and I'll take the ones on the left."

"I'm faster," Steve countered. "And there's more to do on the left. You take the ones on the right."

"You're the boss," he said with a mock salute. "Hope you can keep up."

Before Steve could comment, he left their hiding place and dashed to the next closest train car. This one wasn't half rotten, but it was empty, so he was able to climb up into it and peer out the other side. The two engines stood side by side, and the men loading them with coal were bringing it in by the wheelbarrowful from a truck parked at the front. He needed to put the tracker thingy somewhere it wouldn't be seen… so, probably underneath the engines. Great.

With a clear path to another train car a little closer to the steam trains, he left his hiding place and clung to the shadows as he made his way forward. There was something a little exciting about doing this sort of sneaky work. It was like sneaking downstairs on Christmas eve in the hopes of catching a glimpse of Santa. Trying to be as silent as possible to avoid waking mom and dad. Following in Mary-Ann's footsteps as she chose the quietest path. Carrying Janet over that one creaky step because her legs were too short to cover the stride by herself. Holding his breath as Charlie groaned loudly at a stubbed toe, expecting at any minute to see that light come on under mom and dad's door. This felt exactly like that, except instead of mom and dad, it was Nazis, and instead of getting presents, he'd get shot.

Trust me, when you're out there, just you and the enemy, that's when you're most alive.

"Get out of my head, Logan," he muttered to himself. "I'm nothing like you."

His sneaking had gone unnoticed by the Krauts, and now he was no more than two dozen metres away from the pair of steam engines. Already, he could make out the features of the men at work despite the limited lighting, could hear their heavy intake of breath as they shovelled coal from their wheelbarrows to the trains. It seemed such a shame to let the German war machine continue marching forward when a few well-placed explosives could've put this entire place out of action for years… but they lacked the ordnance to pull that off. Besides, hopefully the intel they got from this would offset the cost of letting the Nazis continue their shipments. And maybe, once they had that intel, someone else could come back and blow this place to hell.

Maybe he really had been spending too much time with Dernier.

His sense of urgency encouraged him to move now, to run to the trains and plant his trackers. His sense of caution forced him to wait. He couldn't believe a place like this was unguarded, and a few minutes later, his caution paid dividends. A pair of armed guards strolled by on the other side of the trains. They seemed at ease, their rifles held only by neck straps as they strolled by. Each of them puffed on a cigarette, and Bucky wrinkled his nose against the smell. Whatever they were talking about kept them entertained; they laughed easily, completely unaware that their enemy sat barely fifty metres away from them.

When they disappeared from sight behind another train car, he quickly assessed his odds. The workers were occupied with their task; they wouldn't notice him unless he was real clumsy when he got to them. If they spotted him, he'd have to kill them quickly and silently to avoid drawing attention. The guards were a greater risk. Even though they seemed at their ease now, they would be more alert to danger. If they managed to fire their guns, it would draw all attention to him. If they spotted him, he'd have to find a way to kill them before they could raise the alarm. Could he throw his knife that far and hit a target as small as a man's head? Surely it couldn't be all that different to darts…

There's a beast lurking inside you, one you keep tightly leashed. But you can't keep it leashed forever. You better learn to embrace it. Use it. Figure out how to control it. Or one day, it will control you.

He closed his eyes, trying once more to banish the words of the man who couldn't be killed.

No, he thought back. I won't be that person. I am my own man, and I control my actions. My destiny. Nobody will ever control me.

True madness is believing that your morals of 'freedom' and 'justice' are worth fighting for, when they don't even truly exist to begin with. They are an illusion, an elaborate means of control, one which Herr Schmidt wishes to expose.

As the voice of Zola echoed through his mind, he grated his teeth. Logan and Zola, they were both mad, but in different ways. Why did the voices of sane people never speak into his mind? Where were his father's words of wisdom, or the musings of Sergeant Weiss?

Anybody else got anything to say? he thought to the voices in his head.

Would you prefer comforting lies, now? asked the voice of Wells, an echo of their conversation two night earlier.

At that, the other voices fell silent, and the train yard came back into full focus. The moon. The steam engines. The guards. He'd let himself dwell too much on what he was doing, and what he might have to do, and gotten lost in the past. He would not make that mistake again.

With the coast clear, he moved forward in a crouch, M1 held close to his chest. The weapon was blacked to avoid reflecting light, but he would take no chances. The ground underfoot was dry gravel, and crunched loudly to his ears. The sound of the trains coming and going, and of trucks bringing fresh loads from nearby factories, ought to mask the worst of his footsteps, but he still tried to move as quietly as he could.

As soon as he reached the first engine, he sank to the ground and rolled sideways, coming to a stop beneath it. There was more room than he'd been expecting; other than the front of the train, most of it was held a good distance above the tracks. Probably to protect its vital parts from damage if it hit anything at speed.

From his pocket he pulled one of the trackers and used the wire threads poking out from it to fasten it into the underside of the train. One down, one to go. He quickly scanned the ground for feet, saw some a safe distance away, and rolled over until he made it to the next engine. Piece of cake.

Just as he was reaching for the next tracker, he heard somebody call something in German. There was a sound from above. It sounded suspiciously like a steam engine about to start moving.

Shit!

He fumbled, dropped the tracker into the stone chippings below, and groped for it in the darkness. A flood of relief hit him as his fingers closed around it, but at the same time, the train rolled forward. If he didn't act fast, he was gonna be seen.

With no better idea, he reached up to grab the underside of the train with his hands, then brought his legs up to wrap his ankles around some machine part that he couldn't see and could only hope that it wouldn't burn his legs off. He hung there for what felt like a week, then the train changed direction and began reversing onto a different track.

They're hitching it up, he thought. It'll stop in a minute so they can attach the carriages.

And stop it did, with enough force to cause Bucky to lose his grip and drop painfully to the tracks below. He bore his pain with a muffled groan, then reached for his pocket before anything else could go wrong. Luckily, the tracker was still in there. He'd half expected it to have fallen out with the way his luck seemed to be running today.

After fitting the second tracker, he looked underneath the train for an exit, and quickly realised just how sideways the mission had gone for him. Because the train had moved, it was no longer on the edge of the shipping yard; it was right in the centre of it. He saw booted feet all around him, the scuffed boots of workers and the polished boots of soldiers. All it would take would be for one of them, just a single man, to think about looking under the train, and he'd be spotted. But he couldn't move anywhere, because he was surrounded on all sides by feet, and to move would be to get captured or shot before he could even open his mouth.

There was only one thing he could do. He'd have to wait until the train set off, hold onto it again, and then wait until it had cleared the yard before letting go and hoping he wouldn't get crushed to death by the following carriages. That, or try to roll as soon as he landed and avoid the wheels behind him. Neither option sounded ideal, but a relatively quick death by train sounded preferable to a slow death by interrogation. He would not, not, let himself be captured. Not again. If was gonna die, it would be as a free man. Not chained to some Nazi table.

It took a good half hour for the train to be hitched and loaded. By his reckoning, Stark's blimp should be in operation by now. For the next twenty-four hours they should be able to track every train he and Steve had tagged. One of these had to lead them to Zola. To Schmidt. He knew, deep down in his heart, that he would be haunted by what they'd done to him until both men were dead. The nightmares, infrequently as they came now, would not stop until then. The voices in his head would continue taunting him until he could make things right.

It seemed to take an eternity for the train to be ready to move, but when it did start to move, it moved fast. So fast that it almost caught him unawares. It was all he could do to reach up, drag his legs up, and cling on to the underside of the train for dear life. This was, he decided as he saw his life flash before his eyes with every clackity-clack, one of those events that would never reach the ears of the Commandos. He could only imagine how long Dugan would tease him about this for, and no doubt he'd conflate the story when he told it to everyone else who crossed the threshold of the Fiddle.

When he judged the moment to be right, he took a deep, steeling breath and relaxed his arms and legs, letting gravity pulled him down. It did, and bumped his head hard on the rail tracks at the same time that it knocked the wind from his lungs. Idiot, he chided himself. Should've exhaled before landing. Haven't you learned anything by now?

CRUNCH!

He forced himself to open his eyes and watch his doom speed overhead. The underside of the carriage was close. Closer than he'd been expecting. If his nose was a little longer, or his chest a little bigger, it would've been very, very messy. Steve would be scraping him off the tracks from here to Düsseldorf, or wherever the hell this one was going. He could already see the headline now: Howling Commando Bucky Barnes crushed to death by thunderous demon of steel. Of course, Phillips would never allow word of their mission here to reach the press, not even to report on such a heroic and messy death.

The thunderous demon of steel passed on without harming him, and for a moment he just lay there, contemplating how very close he had come—yet again—to dying. They said a cat had nine lives, but surely he'd surpassed any cat by now.

He sat up and looked around. As he guessed, the train had carried him out of the yard, and it took a moment to get his bearings. Once he'd figured out where he was, he headed back, looking for the same spot where he and Steve had watched from. And if he was a little wobbly on his legs… well… that was perfectly natural after riding a train upside down and almost getting crushed to death. No shame in being wobbly after that.

Steve was waiting. When he spotted Bucky approach, the look of worry on his face turned to relief. Then anger. Then amusement. Then confusion. The many expressions of Steve Rogers, and Bucky was on the receiving end of them all at that one moment.

"What happened to your face?" he asked.

Oh God, had the train got his nose after all? He reached up to feel it. Nope, still there. But when he pulled his hand away, his fingertips were black. Ah yes. Soot. Probably from the engine. Stupid train.

"It's camouflage," he said. "You know, makes you less visible to the enemy's eye?"

"And where's your weapon?"

His…? Oh, right. His M1. Well, it had been around his neck right before he let go and bounced on the rails. Was that what the crunching sound was? He'd assumed it was his own head.

"I… um… a train ate it," he offered lamely.

"Did you at least manage to tag the trains?"

"Of course! What do you take me for?"

"Then that's all I need to know. What I don't know about, I don't have to put in my report to Phillips."

"Smart man. How about you? Any problems?"

"Oh. Err, no. Not really a problem. Just had a little difficulty carrying this back without being seen." 'This' turned out to be a heavy wooden shipping crate with the words 'ARMY SUPPLIES' stamped on in German. "Couldn't help myself," Steve explained. "Saw an opportunity to relieve the Nazis of some of their military strength, and took it."

The lid had already been prised off, then hastily put back slightly out of position. Must be important if Steve had risked being seen to carry it out. "What's in it?" he asked.

Steve's most sheepish expression put in an appearance, and he brushed a hand through his hair. "Err. Well. When I took it, I thought it would be weapons and ammo. Maybe grenades. But we can probably leave it behind. Wait, there's no need to—"

His objection came too late and would've been completely ignored even if it hadn't. Bucky pulled back the lid and looked at the two hundred packets of military rations.

"Well, we are on the continent," Steve offered. "About time we had a continental breakfast." Bucky gave him his blankest stare. "Oh come on, that was hilarious!"

"It was not." He grabbed a few handfuls of rations and shoved them into his pack and his pockets. "I'm not helping to carry your stupid crate. Let's just take as much as we can."

"Yeah, we need to meet up with the rest of the team ASAP," Steve agreed. "They're probably wondering where we are."

"They're probably sitting in some cushy barn playing poker and complimenting each other on being slow and not having to wade through a swamp. But that's fine. I'm not bitter. I am now the King of German Rations. I just hope they're not full of sausages."

Author's Note: Thank you so much to everyone for your lovely feedback during the last five chapters of the Reunion arc! It's fascinating to hear your musings about where Howard may be as well :) I shall now take a break from publishing for a few days, but you can tune in on this coming Thursday for Date Night arc, in which some slightly awkward stuff turns into extremely awkward stuff, and we learn the value of good communication.