We Were Soldiers Chapter 156: Decon, a captain america fanfic

We Were Soldiers

156. Decon

Bucky lay on the uncomfortable padded bench looking up at the tiled ceiling above. Some very suspicious stains graced that ceiling. How had they got up there? Was it dried blood? Or something worse?

"I don't like this," said Dugan, pacing the floor in his grey medical gown. "It isn't right. Tell me this feels right to you, Cap."

Steve merely shrugged. He had a padded bench of his own to sit on, and was taking confinement with more grace than Dugan. "It's protocol."

And if the protocol hadn't existed before, it certainly did now. The hospital where Morita had been rushed off to, and the Commandos brought to at a more sensible pace, was a brief 15 minute drive from the coast, and by the time they arrived one of the treatment rooms had been converted into what they were calling a decontamination chamber. They'd been told to strip out of their wet suits, which had been summarily burned in the hospital's furnace, and to change into the drafty gowns before being ushered into the sterile room. That had been four hours ago. In the first hour, a pair of nurses had come along to take blood samples from them all and to check the cut on Bucky's hand. He escaped without stitches, but they did put some sort of sticky tape over the cut to help keep it from opening up again with use. That done, they brought in some drinks—plain old boring water, even though Bucky could've murdered someone for a whisky right then—and disappeared.

He couldn't blame the brass for being cautious. This sickness, whatever it was, had the potential to decimate an entire population. It wasn't just biological warfare, it was psychological warfare. The crew of the U-boat had turned on each other, murdering and devouring their friends. What would happen if something like that reached the general population in London or New York? How thoroughly demoralised would a civilian population become if parent turned against child, and brother turned against sister? How could you fight and kill an enemy that you loved deeply?

He should've hugged his mom harder before leaving home. His dad, too. Should've promised his brother and sisters that he'd write or call them every week. At the time, he'd been so full of himself. Didn't want them to make a fuss of him leaving because he wasn't a kid anymore and didn't need mothering. His mind had been too full of the idea of adventure and heroics to understand the danger he was about to head into. Since arriving in Europe, he'd lived many moments of thinking that he'd never see his family again, but this was the first time it had truly hit home. He might never see his family again.

The door opened and Howard Stark stepped into the room. Everyone was on their feet in an instant, but he held his hands up to stave off their onslaught of questions.

Steve stepped forward, and everyone else fell silent. "How's Morita? Is he okay? Have you been able to cure him?"

"Private Morita is a very sick man," Stark said. Gone was the air of unaffected humour that he always wore around him like a cloak. Right now, he was all business. "We're working on a cure, but it's going to take time, and when it comes, it will be highly experimental. Now, I've tested all your blood samples and none of you are infected, so you're all free to get dressed. We've got some uniforms to send in shortly, and Phillips wants you back at Whitehall for a debrief."

"Surely you don't expect us to leave Jim alone in his condition," Monty objected.

"Orders are orders, pal. I'm just the messenger. But before you go, I need blood from Steve, as much of it as I can get without killing you."

"My blood can help cure Morita?" Steve asked, hope etched onto every plane of his face.

"Help cure him, no. Help keep him alive until we find a cure, yes. Your blood is… well, let's just say it's very efficient. How much iron it can bind, how much oxygen it can carry, how many red blood cells are contained in each drop of fluid… plus it's easier on Morita's body than that liquid iron we've been giving him."

"I'll give blood too, if it helps," said Dugan. The rest of the Commandos chipped in with their agreement.

"Sorry, but nobody else on the team is a match. We need a negative blood type, and the rest of you are positive. Steve's the only universal donor we have. Coupled with his efficient blood, it's Private Morita's best chance of staying alive long enough for us to finish working on a cure."

"Take as much as you need," Steve agreed.

"I'm glad you've said that, because we're gonna need a lot. The nurses will take you to a room and get you hooked up, then you can get changed and join your team on the drive back to London."

Stark disappeared before Bucky could collar him and ask where he'd been all this time, and why he'd left Miles with nothing to do in his lab except go crazy and invent ways of throwing peanuts into glasses. A pair of nurses whisked Steve off, and he didn't envy his friend the amount of blood he'd be losing over the next hour. Meanwhile, an orderly and two soldiers brought in a box of clean socks, underwear and undecorated US Army uniforms. They brought no civilian clothing, and no British Army gear, so both Jacques and Monty looked oddly out of place when they were finally dressed. Neither of them complained, though. It had been that sort of mission.

"I suppose we'd better go and wait for Steve," Monty said. "I don't expect they'll let us see Morita while he's so ill."

"I expect Phillips won't be happy with the outcome of the mission," Jones pondered morosely. "The sub gone. No intel gathered. Morita sick, and the whole team almost lost."

"On the other hand," Bucky spoke up, "we managed to destroy an enemy sub, take out over forty Nazis, bring back valuable information about a potential new weapon Schmidt's developing… not to mention we're now aware that the Krauts are interested in mapping the sea floor between Norway and Germany."

Dugan clapped him on the shoulder. "I like this new glass-half-full Barnes. Let's see more of him in the future, eh?"

"Come on, let's make tracks, as you Yanks say," said Monty. "The sooner we get back to London, the sooner this debriefing is over."

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

The car carrying Steve along with Bucky and Jacques was silent. Neither of them had spoken on the ride back to London, and he was content to leave his team to their own thoughts. Truth be told, the nurses had taken as much blood as they thought he could survive losing, and it had taken twenty minutes post-donation for him to be able to sit upright without wanting to pass out. They wouldn't release him from the hospital until he'd drunk two pints of water and eaten an entire packet of what they called Digestive biscuits, but he made sure they sent some down to the rest of the team as well. None of them had eaten anything more than a ration bar or two since the start of the mission, and they had to be feeling exhausted after the stress of the sub followed by the cold of the ocean.

When the car pulled up outside the SSR's headquarters in Whitehall, a pleasant surprised awaited him, and she smiled and stepped forward as he wobbled his way out of the vehicle.

"Peggy? What are you doing here?"

"Colonel Phillips rang me at my family's home and told me vaguely what had happened. I'm sorry to hear that Private Morita is so unwell." Her voice was warm, and it draped itself around his mind like a comforting blanket. Whether she was debriefing the team or just reading the newspaper aloud, he could listen to her talk all day. "Sergeant Barnes, Mr Dernier, it's good to see you both well," she added for them.

"How's Antje doing? Are you sure you should've left her for this?" Steve asked.

"She's fine. The sedatives have worn off, so she's awake and being doted on by Michael, as well as my mother. To be honest, there isn't much I can do for her right now."

"I'm not sure there's anything you can do for Morita right now, either."

She offered a small smile, then reached down to slip her hand into his. It was tiny, but so warm. "I'm not here for him."

God, how he wanted to pull her into his arms and just hold her. She had a way of making him feel safe despite the fact that he dwarfed her now. But… Phillips was waiting. And the rest of the team was arriving in the second car. They needed him to hold it together for the debriefing.

After the second car had deposited its occupants, they made their way into HQ, and onto the rickety old elevator that always provided a slow yet terrifyingly squeaky journey down into the heart of the building. He was certain that one of these days, the elevator would just stop working mid-journey, and it would probably be his fault. We weighed half again as much as anyone else, and old elevators were not designed to carry Captain America-sized people.

Before the mission, the Big Room had been abuzz with activity. Now, it was much quieter. Apparently the threat of impending invasion made everybody work much faster. It wouldn't surprise him if Phillips had noticed that as well. The SSR's commander was a remarkably shrewd man. He also wasn't in the Big Room; it was to his smaller office that Peggy led them. So, a private debriefing, then, where their failures couldn't be overheard by the rest of the staff.

The Colonel was seated behind his desk, poring over reports, when Steve and his team entered. Did it chafe the man to be stuck doing paperwork while everybody else was fighting? Maybe he and Phillips had more in common than he'd realised. After all, Steve had been preventing from joining the action, too.

"Men, come in and have a seat. You too, Agent Carter," Phillips said. He put aside his reports as the team filed in and took advantage of the chairs that had been brought into the room for them. The chairs said a lot; they said this wasn't a dressing-down. That Phillips wasn't going to make them stand like naughty children while they sounded off on the mistakes that had led to the sinking of the sub and the complete failure of the mission.

"I've already received a report from Sub-lieutenant Kessler about the parts of your mission he was privy too, as well as updates from Stark on Private Morita's progress, but I want to hear first-hand from the team that was down there exactly what the hell went wrong on this mission."

Okay, so maybe it was going to be a dressing-down. Just one that they could endure while seated.

"Sir, I honestly don't think this mission could've gone any other way," Steve told him. "In fact, I think we're lucky to have come away with only one team casualty. There's only one place I can see where we erred, and that's on me."

"Start at the beginning," Phillips ordered. "From the moment you left the Foley."

"Yes sir. We swam down to the U-boat as instructed, and together, Sergeants Barnes, Dugan and I were able to open the U-boat hatch and gain entry into the sub. It was immediately obvious something was wrong; the power supply wasn't working properly, so the sub was running on emergency lighting, and we thought the temperature controls had been damaged because it was hot as hell, sir. We found breathable air on board, so we removed our rebreathers and flippers to allow us to explore the sub unhindered.

"We quickly came across a problem; dead body. Kraut, looked like he'd been eaten alive by something, so we thought the sub might've been carrying some sort of animal aboard, either for transport, or as a stowaway. I sent Sergeant Barnes with Private Morita and Mr Dernier to check out the engine room while Sergeant Dugan and Private Jones went to look for intel, and Major Falsworth and I went to the control room to see if we could figure out what state the U-boat was in or how it had arrived in British waters. With main power out, there wasn't much we could determine. Sergeant Barnes can tell you what happened in the engine room."

"We'd just arrived," Bucky picked up smoothly, "and I agreed to give Jacques a boost up, so that he could check the engine consoles. Jim—Private Morita—stood guard at the door. Dernier said it looked like one of the engine consoles was fried, but before we could do anything else, Morita heard someone coming down the corridor. Before we knew it, a Nazi was on us. He wasn't armed, but he was violent, and as Morita fought with him, he was bitten on the hand. I lowered Jacques to the ground and helped Morita kill the Kraut who was attacking him, then reported our encounter over the ship's intercom. Just as Steve was replying, we got cut off, so we decided to rendezvous with him in the control room in case he was in trouble."

Steve listened as each of his team recounted their own sections of the mission, from Dugan talking about how he and Jones had found the weapons locker and double-timed it back with guns, to how Jones had gone up to the surface to report in to Kessler and take a blood sample from Morita to be analysed by a doctor, to how Bucky and Dugan had gone hunting for the crew and found the man who claimed to be called 'Wagner' hiding in the environmental control room.

When Bucky recounted the part where he'd gone off alone to bait the last few remaining crewmen and deal with them so that the sub could be safely surfaced, Steve kicked himself.

"I took one of the liquid iron pouch things that Stark had sent down," Bucky explained, "but before I could use it, I accidentally cut myself on a sharp bit of metal in the U-boat which caused my hand to bleed. I didn't have to wait long for the sick crew to arrive."

Idiot. The insult was aimed both at himself, and his friend. He should'a known Bucky would do something stupid like that. Sharp bit of metal in the U-boat was just a really vague way of saying knife. And he'd done it to avoid using up the last bag of solution that would've helped keep Morita alive. How could he have forgotten how wonderfully selfless and utterly foolish his friend could be at times? Hadn't Bucky thought that an open wound might be a route to infection?

Probably. He'd probably realised it, weighed up the risk, and decided it was worth it. Because that was the sort of guy Bucky was. He'd always put others first. He just didn't know how to live any other way.

His best friend went on to describe how he'd encountered Fregattenkapitän Howaldt, and how the man had alerted him to the fact that 'Wagner' wasn't who he claimed to be. At that point, Steve cleared his throat and sat forward in his chair.

"What happened next is my fault, sir. I'd believed that Wagner could help us find the Enigma code book, and I'd set him to checking through a few piles of things out in the corridor while Private Jones and I scoured the captain's cabin. I shouldn't have taken my eyes off him. The second my back was turned, he rabbited and went straight for the rebreathers. After he exited the hatch, he shut the door and locked it from the outside. Even if one of Kessler's team had released the lock, it took three of us to open the hatch the first time, and there wasn't enough room to do that from inside the sub. I'm the reason we almost lost the whole team."

"No, it's my fault," said Bucky. "I shouldn't have trusted Wagner in the first place."

"I was to blame, too," said Dugan. "I believed the Kraut as well."

"And I should've made sure our rebreathers were stashed in a safer place," said Monty. "Not just left lying around by the exit."

"There's more than enough blame for you all to share it," said Phillips. "Sub-lieutenant Kessler tells me there's no way we were ever going to salvage that sub, but if you'd thought to perform a dental check on Wagner, we might have ourselves a Hydra spy to interrogate right now. And if the spy hadn't escaped with one of the rebreathers, you might've found a way to bring Howaldt up with you, and then we'd have ourselves two Krauts instead of bupkis."

"Howaldt's the only reason we survived, Colonel," Steve told him. "He talked us through how to get out through the torpedo shafts in the flooded section of the boat, and then released the seals on the doors to the shafts. Sir, we brought up letters he'd written to the families of the crew of the U-boat, as well as one detailing Schmidt's treachery, which is to be delivered to his wife for passing on to the German leaders. I'd like permission to get them sent."

"MI6 will want to take a look at them first, but after that, they'll be sent on," Phillips agreed. "Now, as for Private Morita; Stark's working on it as we speak, but I don't want you to get your hopes up. He tells me this sickness is like nothing he's ever seen before. He's going to transfer Morita to a hospital closer to London this evening, and will do his best to find a cure. But we may be faced with the possibility that Morita may never come out of the hospital."

"Can we visit him?" Jones asked.

Phillips shook his head. "The medics are clearing out an entire ward so they can put him somewhere that there's no chance of this disease spreading. That means no visitors. Except Agent Carter. She'll liaise directly with Stark and will keep you all apprised."

"But sir," said Steve, "if I could just—"

"You can just nothing, son, you look like hell." Oh right, the blood donation had made him a little woozy. Phillips ploughed on. "I'm told that they may need more blood tomorrow, which means your first and only order for the foreseeable future is to rest, drink plenty of water, eat well, and regain your strength. Agent Carter will fetch you from your hotel if they need more blood from you. As for the rest of you, go and get some rest. You're off active duty until the situation with Private Morita is resolved one way or the other."

One way or the other. Either Morita got a cure, or he died. Phillips always had a way with words.

"Dismissed, men."

They filed out of the Colonel's office and reconvened in the Big Room, where a half-dozen army administrators were hard at work doing paperwork and filing and keeping things ticking over. Peggy turned to Steve before he could even open his mouth.

"The Colonel is right, you really do need to rest," she said. "Your team has been through a lot in a short time. Don't worry, I'll keep as close an eye on Private Morita as possible, and I'll let you know if anything changes, no matter how small that change is."

"Thanks, Peggy. Knowing you're there to watch over him eases my mind, and I know he'd feel better too, if he was aware you are there."

She took his hand again and gave it a gentle squeeze. "I'll be in touch."

He watched her go. Her calm confidence was reassuring. Peggy was the most competent person he knew, so having her there to watch over Stark and the medical team… he still worried about Morita, but that worry was lessened because it was shared.

"I am looking forward to seeing my bed," Jacques admitted. "And eating food. I know it is only just dinner time, but I am so hungry and tired that I am not sure whether I will fall asleep before I can eat."

"Shall we go, Captain?" Monty asked. "I now consider it my official duty to ensure the Colonel's orders are followed to the letter. You must be well fed, well-watered and well-rested so that tomorrow the nurses can extract what blood they didn't take today."

"Yeah, I guess we better head back to the hotel." He spotted his best friend hanging back, looking a little shifty. "You coming, Buck?"

"You guys go on ahead," Bucky replied. "I'll walk back to the hotel later. There's something I gotta do first."

"Okay. Don't stay out too late; you need rest as well."

"I won't. I'll see you soon."

Steve stepped into the elevator and Dugan closed the door behind him. Sometimes he really did wonder what was going through his best friend's head these days.

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

They filed out of the Colonel's office and reconvened in the Big Room, where a half-dozen army administrators pretended to be hard at work doing paperwork and filing and moving little flags around a map to show updates of enemy troops. Agent Carter stopped in front of Steve and put on her best concerned mother voice.

"The Colonel is right, you really do need to rest. Your team has been through a lot in a short time. Don't worry, I'll keep as close an eye on Private Morita as possible, and I'll let you know if anything changes, no matter how small that change is." In other words, she didn't expect him to pull through.

"Thanks, Peggy," Steve replied. He always got that dreamy love-struck look in his eyes when speaking to her, and today was no exception. "Knowing you're there to watch over him eases my mind, and I know he'd feel better too, if he was aware you are there."

She reached down and slipped her hand into Steve's, and Bucky tried not to smile. It was a tiny, personal gesture, but the fact that she was willing to do it here, in front of all the Commandos, in front of everyone in the Big Room, meant she was as hopelessly love-struck as Steve.

His smile slipped a little as the words he'd spoken to Wells a few nights earlier crept back into his mind. "I'm not sure I've ever felt like that about anybody… I just wanted some normalcy… just to be reminded that there was something more than war or fighting… I don't think it's fair to have someone waiting around worrying about whether or not I'm gonna come back home."

Steve and Carter made it work okay. They had that normalcy without the worry. How did they manage it? Bucky had worried like crazy whenever he sent men off on recon, so how much worse would it be for a dame being left behind to worry about her beau? How had his mother coped when his father was sent off to war? Maybe he was missing something.

"I'll be in touch," Carter said, then she strode off all business-like, back to the same old Carter he'd known since last year.

"I am looking forward to seeing my bed," said Jacques, stifling a yawn. "And eating food. I know it is only just dinner time, but I am so hungry and tired that I am not sure whether I will fall asleep before I can eat."

"Yeah, I guess we better head back to the hotel." Steve followed the rest of the team into the elevator, then seemed to realise there was someone missing. "You coming, Buck?"

"You guys go on ahead," he told his friend. "I'll walk back to the hotel later. There's something I gotta do first."

"Okay, don't stay out too late; you need rest as well."

Yes mom. "I won't. I'll see you soon."

Dugan closed the elevator door, and it rose out of sight. Bucky gave it a good count of thirty, then made his way through the Big Room to one of the smaller, cubicle-like offices at the back of HQ. SSR personnel were permitted use of the international phones, so long as they didn't say anything that might compromise the war effort when making calls. Glancing around to make sure nobody was eavesdropping, he picked up one of the receives and told the phone operator the number he wanted to reach. Then, he waited.

It rang. What time was it here? Dinner time, which meant it was around lunch time back home. There ought to be someone around right now. Though, his dad might be at the boxing club. Maybe his mom was out shopping, or visiting friends. Janet would be at school… so perhaps this wasn't the best time to call. Should he try again later, from the hotel? Mr Chipperton would let him make a quick call, wouldn't he?

"Hello, Barnes residence."

His heart suddenly skipped several beats and warm tears stung his eyes. He could picture her so clearly, standing beside the telephone, her long dark hair pinned up and wrapped in a kerchief, apron dusty with flour as she rolled out the dough for tomorrow's bread. "Mom?"

"Bucky? Is that you?"

"Yeah, it's me, Mom."

"Oh my God… Cal! Get in here, quickly! Bucky's on the phone! Oh Bucky… it's been so long since your last call, I've been so worried… and everything we read in the papers… but how are you?"

"I'm f—" He stopped the lie in its tracks. It was habit, now, to say he was fine. He said it when he was, and he said it when he wasn't, and now he wasn't even sure if he could tell the difference anymore. He'd been fine in the beginning, until the first death. Until Tipper. After that, it had been an avalanche of death and loss, with some torture thrown in courtesy of the Hotel Krausberg. "I'm… finding it hard," he admitted instead. "Sometimes it feels like 'right' and 'wrong' are all mixed up, and it's not easy making the right decisions when you don't even know what 'right' means anymore."

I want to come home, he thought silently to them. I want to come home and be a kid again. I want you to hug me and tell me that everything is going to be okay, and make the bad stuff go away by the simple fact that you're my parents, and nothing bad can happen while you're watching over me. But I can't. Steve needs me, and the war won't stop until we stop Hitler, and Schmidt, and all the other men who want to destroy everything that we hold dear.

"Have faith, son," his father said. He must be stood next to mom, his ear pressed against the phone too.

"I don't think God's out here, Dad," he replied. Not anymore.

"God isn't in a country or a place; he's in your heart. You took him with you, and maybe you forgot that along the way, but he's always with you, giving you the strength that you need to endure and the guidance to make the right choices. If you're ever unsure, if you ever need guidance, close your eyes and listen to that little voice inside your mind."

How could he tell them that the last thing he needed to do was listen to the voices inside his mind? That those voices were half the problem? When he closed his eyes and dug deep, all he heard was the admonishment of his conscience that he hadn't done enough, could've been better, tried harder, given more.

"One of my team-mates is sick," he admitted. "Really sick. I'm worried he might not pull through. I don't know how to make it right."

"Sometimes you can't," his dad said. "Sometimes all you can do is be there for the people who need you and hope that your presence gives them some comfort." Which was pretty much what Steve had said to Carter, really."I know that you can't see a problem and not want to put it right, but it took me a long time to figure out that some problems don't have solutions, and some require the help of others to overcome. Are the doctors there doing all they can?"

He thought back to Stark, who'd been absent for nearly three weeks on some top secret project, suddenly back the moment a member of the team needed him. "All they can and more," he agreed.

"If it helps, we'll keep your friend in our thoughts and our prayers over the next few days," Mom said.

"It does. Thank you, Mom."

"How is Steve doing?" she asked. "People are still going to his shows back here; they don't realise that the real Captain America isn't flying back home once a week to perform for them. We don't say anything, of course. Steve was adamant about maintaining his privacy, when we saw him. Is he eating enough? And getting enough rest? Has he caught the eye of any young English women yet?"

"As a matter of fact, he has. Her name's Peggy, and you'd love her. She's beautiful, intelligent, witty, and a cracking aim with a pistol."

"She sounds wonderful," Mom said. "I know Sarah would be happy to know that her son is finally living the life he deserves. But what about you? Have you met any nice young ladies during your down time?"

"Quite a few, actually." It wasn't a lie. He'd met several nice young ladies. Like Carter, and Antje, and Lizzie, and now he also knew Gladys at the Kettle & Drum. "But you know, we're away on missions a lot, so there's not all that much time for socialising." And what socialising he did do seemed to involve a lot of alcohol and crazy people. Time for a change of subject. "How are you coping with Blue? Is he settling in?"

"It's like he's always been a part of the family. He's looking forward to the day you come home, too. I think you'll be surprised at how big he's gotten!"

"I'm looking forward to seeing him again. To seeing you all again. I can't talk much longer, we're on a timer, but there's something I wanted to ask you both."

"What is it, Bucky?"

"Back when Dad was serving in the Great War, and Mom was at home… how did you make it work? How did you live with the worry of knowing you might never see each other again?" How did it not drive you crazy, like the way I'm probably being driven crazy.

"What you have to realise," Dad said, "is that life should go on in spite of the fighting. That's the difference between fighting as a job and fighting for a cause. The life you live, having something or someone to protect, that's why you fight. You can't just put it on hold, otherwise the only thing you have in your world is pain and loss, and that's not a good way to live. You need something light to balance out all that darkness, and for me, that was your mom. Does that make sense?"

"Yes, that's helpful," he lied. "Thanks, Dad."

"We miss you terribly," said Mom. He could already hear the tears in her voice. Between Bucky away fighting, Mary-Ann in Baltimore building the Victory Fleet and Charlie studying at college, Mom was fast running out of children to care for. The nest was undoubtedly emptier than she'd like. "It wasn't the same having Christmas without you. I'd really hoped that the war would be over by now, that we'd maybe see you for Christmas this year…"

Her hope trailed off, but what could he say? He'd already fought the order to return home for R&R, and now it was off the table. Normandy had been a victory, but success was not assured. "I'd hoped so too," he said at last. "But like Dad said, some problems require the help of others to overcome. I probably won't be home for Christmas this year. I don't know whether I'll be home for Christmas next year. But we will have a Christmas together. I promise."

"I'm going to hold you to that," she said.

"I'm sorry I can't talk longer, but I'm almost out of time. We just got back from an intense mission, and I need to shower and eat, and then get some sleep."

"Can't you stay for just a few more minutes?" Mom pleaded. "There's so much to tell you about Charlie and Janet, and how many new men have joined up at the gym—" Dad answered for him, and he silently thanked his father for it. "The boy's got to go, Rose. You heard, he's tired after a difficult mission and needs to get some well-deserved rest. Bucky, make sure you don't leave it so long before calling, next time."

Guilt gnawed at him. This was a call that was long overdue. "I won't, I promise I'll call again soon. It's been great to hear your voices. I miss you all."

"Remember that we love you no matter what," Mom said. "And please give Steve an extra big hug from me."

"I will. Love you both."

"We love you Bucky!" Mum said, firmly in repeat-love territory. Dad said, "Take care, son."

Bucky quickly hung up before he could get mired in some drawn-out goodbye. As soon as he replaced the receiver on its slot, his body slumped as the energy drained out of him. It was tiring, keeping up appearances. Trying to pretend he was better than he was so as not to worry them. The call home was supposed to be comforting, but instead he'd just worried about making his family worry.

Still, it really was good to hear their voices. To know that they were safe and well. Maybe his dad was right. Maybe faith was the one thing he'd been lacking all this time. But… it was so hard to find that tiny spark of faith when he saw so many good men die. Saw Jews starved to death in work camps. Saw men and women and children killed, shot by guns or crushed under buildings. How could he have faith in a God that allowed this to happen?

Fuck it. Tonight, he was going to pray. Not because he believed it would help, but because Morita was the kind of guy who believed it would help. And because right now, he would take any scrap of help he could get for his friend.