We Were Soldiers

169. Ab Irato

There was sound. Movement. A faint stirring of air across his right cheek. He was cold; the surface beneath him, hard. For a split second he was back in Austria, on a metal table in a Hydra work camp. His eyes flew open and met a cloud of rising dust, the motes swirling with each exhale of his breath, sending the smell of age and damp straight to his nose. They danced before him, spinning this way and that, and his heart slowed a little as his panic began to dissolve. There had been no dust, in Krausberg.

Something brushed against his left hip. Prone as he was, his left cheek pressed against the cold, dusty floor, he couldn't see what was happening. The only thing visible was a narrow flight of steps, and at the top, a pale yellow light that gave off no warmth. What had happened? Had he tripped? Fallen? Although he ached a little, and his arms and legs felt like they hadn't woken up with his brain, there was no intense pain. No indication he'd broken anything. That was good.

Movement again. Something brushing against his right hip this time. There was a form beside him, looming over him. Rifling through his pockets. He licked his parched lips and tried to speak. A pair of blue eyes looked down on him, what warmth had been there before now nothing but cold ice. "Hurry up," the figure above him shouted. Alice. That was her name, right? "This one's waking up. I must've misjudged the dose. Just grab whatever money he has and let's go."

Dose? What dose? They were supposed to be dancing, weren't they?

He craned his head, trying to find whoever the woman was speaking to. A couple of paces away were two more figures, one of them lying prone like him, the other crouching above them, dipping their hands into pockets, tossing aside a few copper pennies, a sheet or two of paper, a handkerchief.

Events of the night came trickling back in. Darts. The pool game. The women. The drinks. The walk along the Thames. The blue door with the brass plaque. The stairs. The fall. Darkness. This hadn't been an accident. The women… Alice, Katherine… they'd done this on purpose. To… what, rob them?

He tried to push himself up, but whatever they'd done to him made his arms and legs feel like jelly. Less than jelly. Like water. His brain said move but his limbs didn't even answer back. They were mere dead weights attached to him. Alice made soothing noises and kept him down with one slim hand on the back of his shoulder. It was no use. He was too weak to move. Cold prickles of fear began to batter against him like hailstone. He was too weak to move. Unable to fight back. To say no. To make her stop. He might as well have been chained to a table again.

"Ugh. This one's got nothing but a wrist watch, and even that looks cheap," said a second voice, the one crouched beside the second form.

Rotating his head a little further, he looked to Wells. His friend was in no better shape. He too lay flat on his front, where he'd either landed or been rolled, and there was a purple bruise spreading across one side of his forehead. Licking his lips, Bucky whispered, "Wells?" And then a little louder, "Wells?" His friend had always been a heavy sleeper.

There was no movement, except that which was caused by the woman's rifling through his pockets. Bucky's eyes soaked in every scrap of available light as he watched the scene, a helpless bystander unable to lift a single finger in aid of himself or his friend. Wells, too, seemed to be awake, but he didn't blink. His face was pale in the darkness of the cellar, like the moon in the night sky, and his blue eyes stared emptily back at Bucky, fixed in an unseeing gaze.

Blink, he thought to his friend. Give me some sign that you're okay. That you're not seriously hurt. Please blink. This isn't the time for messing around, and it isn't April. Please just blink. Please.

Something inside him stretched like a rubber band. Something inside his head, or his heart. It stretched out as far as it would go, flooding every fibre of his being, enveloping his mind—and then it could go no further. He thought it was fear. Or terror. An aching feeling of helplessness and loss. He couldn't tell the difference. All he knew was that the light that had been in his friend's eyes was gone like a candle snuffed out by a single puff of wind. The thing inside Bucky stretched a little further, a rubber band pulled to its point of utmost tension. A red mist descended, filling the cellar, soaking everybody and everything in crimson, so that even the shadows became deeper shades of rouge. The outside world fell away, and then all that existed was red.

Snap.

The rubber band broke. Everything disappeared. Fear, terror, loss, helplessness, guilt… all gone. And in its place, anger. A white hot fury that spread from his stomach to his limbs, giving strength to his arms and legs, replacing the pain that had broken him time after time with something he could use. The hand on his shoulder pressed more firmly, trying harder to keep him down, but he pushed himself up to his knees and lashed out with his fist, a back-hand that sent the woman beside him flying. Her muffled cry alerted her friend, but Bucky was already on his feet, his muscles burning hot as the red across his vision deepened, feeding the flames that raged across his mind.

As the blonde woman turned, he reached out with his right hand and grabbed her by the throat, using his momentum to lift her and carry her backwards, slamming her into the wall so hard that a violent cloud of dust rained down upon them. Her eyes widened, fingers scrabbling at his hand as he tightened his grip on her throat and squeezed. Her breaths, already hoarse, cut off completely, and her face began to turn a deeper shade of red. Her nails, biting desperately into his hand, were a pain that he welcomed. She thought to hurt him, not realising that the pain only made him stronger. He fed it into the anger, and smiled.

The other woman returned. She yelled things at him. Things like 'let go', and 'you're killing her'. He heard the things she said, but they didn't touch him, not even when she tried to drive her words into him with blows of her fists, raining them down on his back, his arm, anywhere she could to make him let go. Let her try; it would be her turn, next. The blonde's face was deep purple, now, her eyes bloodshot, mouth foaming with the effort of trying to draw air through a windpipe that was held closed. He relaxed his grip a little, allowing her to draw in a deep gasp of air, then squeezed once more. She had hurt him, and now he would hurt her. He could only kill her once, but he could make her think she was dying a thousand times before he squeezed the life from her throat one final time. Until now, killing had never been personal. He'd done it. For the war. For freedom. For Phillips. For America. He'd never wanted it, and he'd never liked it. But this… this was a death he would savour. Before she died, she would know what it meant to lose something you cared about.

"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."

The words thrown at him with seemingly casual arrogance raced across his mind, sapping some of the strength from his limbs. He shook his head, trying to dislodge them. No. He wanted to hurt this woman. Wanted to hurt her. Wanted her to feel pain, like he felt it. Wanted…

The thing that had gone snap returned, slamming into him, bringing stinging hot tears to his eyes as the red mist evaporated to reveal desperate, bloodshot eyes staring up at him in terror. He released his grip, dropping the woman to the ground. Her friend dashed forward and dragged her away from him as she gasped desperately for air. They were both sobbing, crying hysterically, but he didn't care. Without the anger that had been feeding his strength, he could only stand there, wobbly on legs that were trying to revert to jelly, and watch as together they limped their way towards the stair case.

Their sobs faded and the dust began to settle. He forced himself to move. To turn back, even though he didn't want to. Even though he wanted to just stand there and pretend everything was okay now. They were gone. Everything was okay.

He returned to the still form of his friend and sank down beside him. His eyes were closed, as if in sleep. He'd always been a deep sleeper.

"Wells," he said, reaching out to gently shake his shoulder. His good shoulder, because his friend wouldn't thank him for damaging his injured one. "Wells, wake up."

There was no response, so Bucky rolled him onto his back and pulled him up, resting his head on his knees while he ran his fingers down the side of Wells' neck. He nearly laughed out loud when he felt it, a pulse, slow but steady beneath his fingertips. Only… he'd been so sure he'd seen Wells' eyes open, staring in death. Had he imagined it? Was his mind playing tricks on him, showing him what he feared?

For long minutes he merely sat there, trying to breathe away the fear, unsure whether he was even capable of standing. Every bit of him felt shaky, and not in a sick way. The anger he'd felt at believing he'd lost his friend for a second time was terrifying in its intensity, and the thought that he'd embraced it so easily, letting it damn near consume him… he shuddered. If Logan's words hadn't snapped him out of it, he would've killed her. Alice, too. And done it gladly, revelling in the pain returned to them, the justice he thought they deserved.

The pulse beneath his fingers was still steady, but he didn't dare take his hand away, because what if it stopped? What if his friend's heart stopped beating and he wasn't there to feel it happen? What if it stopped, and he couldn't get it started again? Fresh tears welled in his eyes and he took a deep breath, trying to will that train of thought away. Wells wasn't dead. He wouldn't die if Bucky let go. They had to get out of here in case the women came back with muscle.

On Bambi-like legs, he managed to make it onto his knees, then draped Wells' left arm across his shoulders to pull him up along with him. And maybe the wall helped a bit, too. Gave them a bit of moral support. A minute later, they were standing. Or rather, Bucky was standing, and Wells was a dead weight.

"I'm going to get you to someone who can help you," he told his friend. The bruise across his forehead looked like it would be sore tomorrow. "And then we're going to have a good laugh about how friends don't need to trade things. Because I think you did this on purpose. Last week you carried me back home, now I'm carrying you back home. I know you'll appreciate the irony."

The steps were a bit of a problem. He had to adjust his grip on Wells, hooking his hands under his arms to haul him up backwards, one step at a time. Wells' boots made a deep thud, thud, thud each time they went up a step. What would he do if the women came back with someone? He'd have to put Wells down to fight, but it didn't sound safe. Especially since whoever they came back with might be armed. Regulations forbid troops from going armed around the country, which put Bucky at a huge disadvantage.

Outside the building, he looked for the moon. Although it was obscured by clouds, he could tell in which direction it lay, so he put it to his back and set off towards the banks of the Thames. If he followed the river for long enough he'd come to a bridge, and from there it should be easy to get back to the Strand.

He staggered down the street for a few steps before realising he didn't have to stagger. Wells was lighter than he looked, which momentarily sent a tingle of worry down Bucky's spine. Wells looked like he'd regained the weight that he'd lost after being shot and doing a lot of forced marches last year, but he certainly didn't feel like it. But after a few more steps, he let the thought slide. This wasn't the time to be worrying about his friend's weight. Right now, he had bigger concerns.

London's streets were eerily quiet. They always were, at this time. But now, within each dark shadow, within each patch of fog drifting in from the river, lurked a hidden menace. He couldn't imagine the dames doing all this on their own. Maybe they worked for someone, like the thieves in the Oliver Twist novel that he'd read when he first got to England. Maybe there was a Fagin loitering in those shadows, or worse; a Bill Sykes. The thought spurred him on to greater speed.

He saw not a single soul until he reached the bridge over the Thames. Then, footsteps ahead caused him to stop in his tracks, his heart racing like the clappers. What should he do? He could put Wells down and try to fight, or he could try to lose whoever it was in London's warren of back alleys, or he could try to make it back to the hotel; it was only a few streets away, and Wells wasn't too heavy even as a dead weight.

Two figures appeared as he was still trying to reach a decision, and he very nearly melted on the spot with relief when he saw them. His experience with England's law enforcement so far had been close to nil, but the uniforms the cops here wore were very distinctive, right down to their funny helmets.

"Excuse me!" Bucky tightened his grip on Wells and stepped forward. "We need help."

"What in the blazes are you doing out at this time of night?" one of the cops asked. His hand had gone to his truncheon at the sound of Bucky's voice, but Bucky ignored it.

"My friend's been drugged," he explained. This was gonna sound stupid. It was gonna sound really stupid. Dumb American soldiers tryin' to make up excuses for gettin' drunk. Stupid men trying to make themselves feel better about being conned by dames. "Y'see, there were these two dames—women—and they bought us a drink at the pool hall, and then said we were goin' dancing somewhere, but the place they took us to wasn't a dance hall, it was a cellar, and they tried to rob us. Maybe the guy behind the bar was in on it too."

He expected the officers to laugh. That's what the Commandos would have done. Expected some sort of 'you fellas need to be more careful, this isn't the States, you know' kinda speech. Instead, the cops shared a glance, and one of them pulled out a notepad and pencil.

"What are your names, and where are you currently residing?"

"What? Why do you wanna know that?"

"You're victims in a crime and you may one day be called upon to provide further testimonial." The officer shook his head, and a tutting sound came from beneath his moustache. "You're not the first soldiers to be targeted in this sort of crime. I don't know whether it's the same ladies, or different pairs, but they seem to target foreign soldiers, mostly Americans, a few Australians. Strip them of anything valuable and leave them to wake up with headaches in the morning. How did you manage to get away?"

"I don't know. I guess whatever they put in our drinks didn't have such a big effect on me. Or maybe they didn't put as much in my glass. I felt a bit dizzy and sleepy, but I managed to fight them off."

"You're luckier than most, then. They don't normally wake until the morning after. All the soldiers in the past were drugged with a type of sleeping tablet. Now, your names, residences and names of your commanding officers?"

"Why do you need the names of our COs?" Couldn't they see that Wells was out of it? He needed help, not questioning!

The officer sighed in a way that made Bucky suspect it wasn't the first time he'd answered this question. "All crimes affecting military personnel have to be reported by the Superintendent to the CO or division commander of the personnel affected by said crime."

"Oh. Can't you… erm… not tell my CO?" God, if Phillips got hold of this, he'd never live it down.

"Sorry, but we have to follow regulations."

Great. "I'm Sergeant James Barnes, currently staying at the Strand Hotel. It's just a few streets away. My CO is Colonel Chester Phillips, of the Strategic Scientific Reserve"

"And your friend?"

"His name's Sergeant Daniel Wells."

"Where's he staying?"

"I… don't know." Guilt prickled his insides. He'd never asked Wells where he stayed.

"Then who is his CO?"

"I… don't know." The look on the police officer's face said, are you sure he's your friend? "He works on lend lease. I know that."

"Okay, Sergeant James Barnes, currently staying at the Strand, and Sergeant Daniel Wells, currently staying somewhere in London, I assume… can you tell me what these women looked like?"

He shuffled his feet in impatience, but the cops clearly weren't for helping more until they'd taken everything down, and Wells was heavier to hold now that they weren't moving. "There was a short brunette, about five-three, with blue eyes. The other was a blonde, about five-nine, and she had brown eyes. They were Wrens, and their names were Alice Nutter and Katherine Hewitt."

"Those names are definitely fake," the other cop said. "I recognise Alice Nutter from a newspaper article last year, which was talking about the hanging of witches several centuries ago. Nutter was one of them."

"We'll distribute these descriptions to the Wrens, see if anybody matches, but it's very likely they weren't real Wrens," the first said. "You said you met them in the pool hall."

"Yes. Just over the river."

"And this"—he consulted his pad—"cellar, that they took you to. What can you tell us about that?"

"It had a blue door with a brass plaque on it. But the name had all been scratched off. And the handle was a bit rusty, I think."

"Alright." The officer tucked his pad away. "Constable Smith here will escort you back to the Strand. I'll see if I can find this 'blue door with a brass plaque and maybe rusty handle.' We'll contact you at the Strand if we need your help with any further enquiries."

"What about my friend? Shouldn't he see a doctor or something? He's out cold."

"He should come 'round in a few hours," the officer said. "All the other victims did. You won't find a doctor at this time anyway. If you have a medic on your staff, you could take him there."

This was, he realised, the extent of the help he was gonna get. He nodded, and the officer went on his way. Constable Smith stepped forward.

"Come on, we're not far from the Strand." His voice was cheerful. Most London voices were. Bucky just couldn't figure out what they had to be so damn cheerful about. "Let me help you with your friend."

"No." He took a step back. "He was shot in the right shoulder last year. His arm still isn't right, and I don't want to put strain on it. I can carry him, don't worry about it. Could we just go?"

"Of course. Follow me."

He followed the Constable through the streets, glad that he was no longer alone, annoyed that he'd been put into this situation in the first place. Clearly this wasn't an isolated incident. It had happened before, and until the culprits were caught, it would probably keep happening. The next guys to get drugged probably wouldn't be as lucky as Bucky had been. By the sounds of it, most of the soldiers who'd been drugged hadn't woken up in time to stop their personal effects being taken. And that, too, made him angry. This was London. An allied country. They were supposed to be safe here.

"Shouldn't there be some sort of public services announcement?" he asked. "You know, something telling soldiers to watch out for dames drugging their drinks to try and steal from them?"

"I guess," Constable Smith agreed. "But it's not our place to tell military personnel to be paranoid of the locals. Something like that has to come from your own brass, and enough of them know about it by now. That they've chosen not to release any warnings… well, that's their business."

"And what's gonna happen to these dames if they're caught?"

"When," the Constable corrected. "We'll get them, don't worry. And when we do, they'll go up before a magistrate. They'll probably get jail time and be forced to remunerate their victims."

It was little consolation. He'd never hit a dame before today, unless she'd been trying to kill him. Maybe it wasn't a bad thing that he'd lost his mind for a moment. Maybe he'd scared them enough to make them leave the city. Make them stop doing this to men who did not deserve to be drugged, injured and robbed. Wells had done nothing to deserve that.

They stopped outside the Strand, and the Constable opened the front door. "Don't worry, Sergeant Barnes, it's only a matter of time before these women are brought to justice. We may be in touch again, for further information."

"Yeah. Sure. Fine." Don't worry? Easy for the cop to say; he wasn't the one being targeted by dangerous thieves. "Thanks for the escort."

Mr Chipperton didn't work the late night shift behind the reception desk, but Jack—or Charles; Bucky was never sure which twin was which—was on duty, and his eyes widened when Bucky half-carried, half-dragged his friend into the lobby.

"It's a long story," he sighed. "But I swear he's not drunk. He's just had a very bad night and needs to sleep it off. You couldn't get the elevator button for me, could you?"

As he rode the elevator up to the next level, he considered his options. Despite the cop's assurances, he wasn't so sure Wells was alright. Just because everyone else had woke up after a few hours, didn't mean his friend would. He needed a second opinion, somebody to reassure him and offer advice about what to do. But if he went to Steve, it would only concern him. Then every time Bucky went out drinking, Steve would worry that he was being drugged. Steve was a natural worrier.

Any of the Commandos were out of the question. They might eventually hear about it from Phillips, but there was no point giving them more ammo so soon. He could already hear their taunts. Bucky Barnes, tricked by a dame. So focused on the rose's beauty that he didn't see the thorns until they'd already cut him. Besides, those bastards didn't really have much in the way of medical expertise.

Peggy was… not in this hotel. And even if she had been, he wasn't so sure how sympathetic she would be. He thought she was slowly warming up to him, mostly for Steve's sake, but she still seemed to be carrying a grudge against Wells for the times he'd tried to hit on her. Or possibly for that time he'd tied her to a tree. Unfortunately, that left only one option.

It wasn't to his own bedroom door that he carried his friend, but to one on a different corridor. He stopped outside it and kicked it a few times, because he couldn't spare a hand to knock. A few minutes later, the door opened to reveal the sleepy face of Howard Stark, hair dishevelled and eyes half closed. He glanced from Bucky to the unconscious Wells, then stifled a yawn. Stark had been absent from the hotel for some weeks, but had returned for a few days to keep a close eye on Morita's recovery. Claimed it needed a personal touch.

"I'm sure there's a real good story behind why you're knockin' on my door at this hour, Barnes, but can't it wait until morning?"

"We were drugged," he replied, trying to get as much out as he could before Stark closed the door. "By two dames who tried to rob us."

"My condolences. Good night."

Bucky shoved his foot in front of the door as Stark tried to shut it. Over the guy's shoulder, he thought he could make out a woman's form beneath the bed sheets. Typical. Clearly, Morita's recovery wasn't the only thing that needed Stark's personal touch. He didn't know how the guy did it. Probably all that money.

"I'm worried about Wells," he said, putting thoughts of Howard's luck with women out of mind. "Can't you give him something to wake him up? I mean, you're a genius, right?"

With a sigh, Stark opened the door and stepped forward, reaching out to lift Wells' eyelids one by one to examine his pupils. Then he listened to the sound of Wells breathing, and finally felt for his pulse. Like Bucky would just be carryin' him around so casually if his heart wasn't beating!

"Yes, I'm a genius, but no, I can't give him something. Without knowing what he's been given, I could make him worse. Give me a shout if he stops breathing, though."

"How the hell does that help?"

"It's hard to make 'not breathing' any worse." Stark ran his eyes over Bucky, a calculating look in them. "Didn't you say 'we' were drugged? How come you're not a drooling vegetable?"

"I guess I just didn't drink as much as Wells."

"Really? You? Not drinking as much as somebody else? How very out of character."

"Thanks for nothing," he snapped, turning back down the corridor. "Should'a known you wouldn't be able to help."

"Probably best to turn him face down!" Stark called after his retreating back. Bucky heard the door close.

Back at the door to his own room, he readjusted his grip on his friend while he tried to fumble in his inside breast pocket for his room key. His fingers brushed against it a couple of times, but he couldn't reach further without unbalancing Wells. Frustration and annoyance finally bubbled over into a quiet bark of laughter.

"Y'know," he said to his unconscious friend, "if anyone was to come down the corridor right now, this would look really compromising. You'd probably get a kick out of that."

He finally managed to grasp his key and open the door. Inside, he flipped on the light and lowered Wells onto the bed as carefully as he could. Perhaps Stark was right. Face-down was the safest position for an unconscious guy to be in. He'd learnt that much in boot camp, during basic medical training. But what if Bucky put him face down and he suffocated on the pillow? Being unconscious wasn't the same as being asleep, Wells might not be able to turn his head himself.

In the end he settled for putting his friend on his back, but propped up by both pillows and the spare one he pulled outta the closet. But was that enough? He searched his memory, and came up with the first three letters of the alphabet, a mnemonic taught to aid soldiers in resuscitating their fallen comrades. Airways. Wells' airway was definitely not blocked. Breathing. His chest was rising and falling slowly, and when Bucky placed the back of his hand beneath his friend's nose, he could feel warm air. Circulation. The pulse in his wrist was slow but strong.

"Maybe you need some fresh air," he said. He opened the window, closed the curtains, then dragged the room's sole chair over to the side of the bed and sank down wearily into it. Finally out of immediate danger, he let himself relax and felt sleep tug at his mind. But he couldn't sleep. Not yet. He had to make sure Wells didn't stop breathing. Talking. That was what he needed. As long as he was talking, he couldn't fall asleep.

"Some night, huh?" he said. "Didn't expect it to end like this. And it'll be just my luck that Phillips tells the rest of the team. 'Let this be a lesson to you all.' I wish I was a convincing liar. Could'a made up a division and CO on the spot. But I never was very good at telling tales. Not like you."

There was no response. Wells probably couldn't even hear a word. He was out cold. How long would it take for the drugs to wear off? And why hadn't they affected Bucky like they had his friend? Maybe… maybe his growing resistance to alcohol had also helped him resist whatever drugs those dames had used. Yeah. That must be it. Or maybe the dames had miscalculated how much they'd put in his glass. Only given him a small dose. That made more sense, especially with what Alice had said.

His stomach turned uncomfortably at the thought of that cellar. Of the women exploiting a guy who couldn't defend himself. Unconscious on the bed, Wells looked somehow smaller, younger than he was when he was awake and making sarcastic, smart-assed quips.

He'd had it all wrong. Back with the 107th, he'd thought the guys like Carrot, who was naïve, and Tipper, who was young, and Hawkins, who'd lost his only brother, were the ones he need to look out for. And to some extent, they'd benefitted a little from him keeping his eye on them. But they'd done alright for themselves. They'd all made friends in the regiment, and they all had loving families waiting for them at home. All they'd really needed was a reassuring pat on the back every now and again, and to know that their sergeant was there for them if they needed anything.

It was the guy who seemed more than capable of taking care of himself, who most needed somebody to watch his back. Even when Wells made friends, he kept them at arms' reach. At first, Bucky had thought that the guy's blunt, prickly nature was the reason why nobody ever really got close to him. Now, he suspected that the desire to not let anybody close was why Wells had developed that nature. What had been an effect was now a cause.

"You're so full of shit," he told his unconscious friend. "But I think I'm slowly starting to figure you out. I can't pretend to understand all of your feelings, but I know how hard it must have been for you to come back. To look me up after that letter you wrote. You spent so long trying to push everyone away, and I wasn't supposed to read that letter while you were still alive. I know it must have been the most difficult thing you've ever done, coming back here, and seeing me again. Even more difficult than going into that mine to help dig out the men who got buried.

"And y'know, as much fun as you were back with the 107th, I think I like you better now that you're not trying so hard to pretend to be that guy who doesn't need anyone else. I like that you've mostly dropped the bullshit, and that we can have a laugh without you trying to be Mr Self-sufficient all the time. Maybe you were right about something, though. Maybe I do have an obsessive need to fix things. I want to fix that you don't have anyone to rely on, because now, you've got me to watch your six, and I'm pretty good at looking out for my friends; just ask Steve.

"I guess if you were awake, you'd be rolling your eyes and accusing me of making you into one of my 'reclamation projects', as you called it. Or maybe not. Maybe now, with you not trying so hard to be alone, you'd finally accept me being there to watch out for you. I don't know what happened in Italy, but you came back from it a different guy. Or maybe I see things differently, now. I'm not sure. But I'm glad you came back. And I think I lost my head a little earlier. In the cellar. I don't wanna lose you again. Losing a friend once is hard enough."

He closed his eyes for a moment and saw the scene again, Wells lying prone, his gaze empty, the woman pecking at him like a vulture. And again, that awful feeling of fear and loss stabbed its blade into his chest bringing a fresh round of anger and tears.

Opening his eyes, he cleared his throat and said, "You must be cold. I won't close the window, because I know you like to feel the air on your face, but I have blankets." They were still in the wardrobe, where he'd packed them away a week earlier, itchy grey woolen things that the English seemed to love so much. He unfolded them and draped them over Wells. "There. That's better, right?" He smiled as another memory came back. "I remember how you looked after me when I got an abscess on my tooth that made me all delirious. I even ended up in your camp bed, thinking it was mine, but you didn't wake me up to switch."

Sleep tugged once more at his mind. Perhaps whatever drug they'd used had affected him to some extent. Not enough to completely knock him out like Wells, but enough to make him real drowsy. Good job there was no run scheduled for tomorrow. If Wells wasn't awake by morning, there was no way Bucky could leave him. There was always that tiny possibility that his heart might stop. Or maybe he'd stop breathing, like Howard said.

Not on my watch!

He took his friend's arm from beneath the blanket and lay it on top, just like Wells had done when Bucky had been trying to get through the story of Krausberg. "Remember back in that mine, when you couldn't breathe? I made you take my hand and I squeezed it to tell you when to breathe in. Remember?" He lay his hand on top of his friend's and said, "I want you squeeze my hand if you can hear me. Okay? Can you hear me, Wells? Squeeze my hand if you can."

There was nothing, not even the tiniest of twitches.

"That's okay. We'll try again soon. We'll try every hour, on the hour. And only when I can feel you squeeze my hand will I get some sleep. Deal?" He took the silence as agreement and leant forward so the bed could take his weight. "Let's never tell Dugan about this, okay? You know he'll call you Sleeping Beauty for the rest of your life. Though, maybe I'd be upgraded to Prince Charming. Not sure if that's any better." Maybe just a tiny bit better.

"I don't need the strong soldier routine. All I need is for you to be my friend, and that means feeling comfortable enough to talk about things you might not feel like you can talk about with anyone else. If it feels overwhelming, you can be weak around me so that you can be strong for your team. And maybe at the same time I can learn to be a better friend as well. You know, less of that trading stuff, and more just… being there. Even if I can only do a desk job now, and I can't play darts properly or throw rocks up the Thames, I can be there. If that's enough."

"I can be there for you too," he said, tightening his grip on his friend's hand. "If that's enough."

Author's Note: Thank you all for your comments on ch.168 - sorry it took so long to update, but the usual RL shenanigans got in the way. Hope you've enjoyed 169 :)