Tomorrow
Italy, 1943

The cheers still echoed faintly as Bucky, a residual grin plastered on his face, weaved his way through the celebrating soldiers. He patted a few backs, exchanged a quick word here and there, but his mind was elsewhere. He was heading towards the field hospital, a small canvas structure tucked away at the edge of the camp. He'd promised himself that if he made it back, he'd see her. He'd tell her how much… well, he wasn't quite sure what he'd tell her, but he needed to see her.

The boisterous celebration outside faded as he entered the hushed tent. A few nurses bustled about, tending to the wounded. Bucky scanned the cots, searching for a familiar face, a flash of vibrant red hair. Where are you?

His gaze swept across the tent again, slower this time, taking in every detail. He saw a young private with a bandaged head, a grizzled corporal clutching his arm, a medic carefully cleaning a wound. But no Dr. Schulze.

Bucky walked further into the tent, peering around a makeshift partition. More cots, more injured soldiers, more nurses. But still no sign of her. A knot of anxiety began to tighten in his stomach. No, no, she has to be here. She wouldn't just leave.

He approached a young nurse who was sorting through a pile of bandages. "Excuse me," he said, trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice, "is Dr. Schulze around?"

The nurse looked up, eyebrows creased. "Dr. Schulze is unavailable at the moment. Are you wounded?"

Bucky shook his head, his throat too tight to speak. Unavailable? What did that even mean? He had pictured this moment a thousand times in his captivity, the relief on Gretchen's face, the warmth of her embrace. This… this wasn't how it was supposed to be.

The nurse hesitated, then leaned in closer. "She was called away on an emergency assignment a few days ago," she said, fidgeting with her hair. "The Luftwaffe struck several troop ships off the coast of Algeria. Lots of casualties. They needed someone with her expertise."

The air seemed to rush out of Bucky's lungs. "An air attack? Good Lord…"

A hint of envy crossed the nurse's face before she quickly composed herself. "She went with the Eighth Air Force." She managed a slightly strained smile. "She flew with them on a C-47. Lucky her, a comfortable ride in a big aircraft... though I suppose it's a different story when you're dealing with the aftermath of a bombing raid.". She added, almost as an afterthought, "Of course, I wouldn't be much use there, not being a surgeon and all. It's a good thing Dr. Schulze is." The nurse stopped abruptly, realizing she'd been rambling. "Gee, I'm sorry. Guess I got a little chatty there. Sergeant, are you alright? You look pale. Why don't you sit down?" She gestured towards a nearby stool.

Bucky insisted on standing. "No, no, I'm fine," he mumbled quickly. Algeria. That was a long way from the relative quiet of their base. He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to clear the fog of exhaustion and fear. "When will she be back?" he asked, trying to sound casual.

The nurse shrugged. "No news yet. Don't you worry though. She's in good hands. Those guys, those Air Force boys, they're well-equipped. They're surprisingly well-organized for a bunch of… you know… flyboys."

"Thanks," Bucky rasped, the words catching slightly in his throat. A sigh escaped his lips. "You've eased my mind, somewhat." His shoulders slumped slightly before straightening again with a visible effort. "I'll… I'll go find the others."

"You bet, and welcome back, Sergeant," the nurse chirped, offering a perfunctory salute. Bucky managed a weak smile in return and headed outside.

The festive atmosphere, the cheers, the relief on the faces around him—it all dissolved into a blurry background. Bucky felt so hollow, so utterly, devastatingly alone.

Steve's been looking at me funny. He knows something's wrong. He always does. But I can't… I can't tell him. Not yet. He'd probably say something like, "Buck, you've got girls throwing themselves at you back in New York. What's the big deal?" He wouldn't understand.

Steve took a swig from his canteen, studying his friend. He knew Bucky well, knew the subtle signs of something troubling him. The way his gaze kept straying towards the bonfire, the wistful look in his eyes, the absent-minded way he twirled the dog tags in his hands - it all pointed to one thing. Bucky is in love. But it's… different this time. It's… softer. More vulnerable. He's quiet, withdrawn, and that look in his eyes… .

"Hey, Buck. What's with the long face? Thought you'd be jumpin' for joy to be outta that Hydra rathole." He offered Bucky the canteen.

Bucky took it, a small, almost imperceptible nod of thanks. He took a long swig, the liquid burning a welcome path down his throat. "Yeah, well… joy's a fickle thing, Steve. Glad to be back, don't get me wrong. But…" He trailed off, staring into the swirling liquid in the canteen. He hesitated, fiddling with the canteen's cap. "It's just… things feel different, you know?"

Steve sat back, thoughtfully stroking his chin. "Hold on a sec. 'Different' how, exactly? Something's on your mind, I can tell."

Dugan ambled over, his gait a little less stiff than usual, but still carrying the weight of their recent ordeal. He dropped down beside Bucky, offering a sympathetic nod.

"Not much for celebrations tonight, Barnes?" Dugan asked, his voice low and gravelly.

Bucky grunted, hunching his shoulders and avoiding Dugan's gaze. "Just tired, Dugan."

Steve shrugged, his eyebrows arching in concern. "Yeah, he's been quiet since we got back. Keeps to himself." He crossed his arms, his eyes never leaving Bucky's face.

Dugan nodded slowly. He leaned in and nudged Bucky gently with his elbow. "Missing the sawbones, are we?"

Bucky's head snapped up, his eyes wide with surprise and a touch of panic. "Dugan, you old coot. couldn't keep a secret if it bit you on the backside, could ya?"

Dugan looked genuinely bewildered. "That you've got a soft spot for Dr. Schulze? I didn't think it was some state secret, Sarge. Everyone in the 107th knows. Besides," he added, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "between you and me and the tree, I think Captain Rogers already suspected something. He's got eyes like a hawk."

Steve chuckled, followed by a playful tsk-tsk. He reached out a hand, gently placing it on Bucky's shoulder. "So that's it, huh? You've been mooning over Dr. Schulze for weeks, and you couldn't bring yourself to tell your best friend? Ouch, Buck. That stings a little." He feigned a wounded expression, placing a hand dramatically over his heart.

Bucky's face flushed crimson. He avoided Steve's gaze, mumbling, "We're just friends, Steve. Just good friends."

A slow smile played on Steve's lips as the pieces clicked into place. That's why Bucky's been off. It's Dr. Schulze. Of course it is. Smart as a whip, beautiful. Any man would be lucky to have her. He clapped Bucky on the shoulder, offering a small, almost imperceptible smile. "Right," he said, his tone implying he doesn't quite believe him. "Whatever you say, Buck."

"Doc's alright. Always patched us up under fire, never flinched once." As Dugan spoke, he paused to adjust the brim of his trademark bowling hat. "That dame's got guts! She'll be back here before you know it. Probably with a story or two to tell that'll make your ears ring. Probably griping about the lack of decent coffee, too."

For the first time since they got back, a genuine smile spread across Bucky's face. "Yeah, she's got a particular fondness for the good stuff. Naples… after that bombing… not a drop of decent coffee to be found, thanks to the Jerries. Remember how she traded a whole week's worth of chocolate – her precious chocolate – for a single bag of beans from some local? Swore it was 'medicinal,' she did." Bucky let out a laugh, the memory clearly still vivid.

Steve smiled seeing the look on Bucky's face.

"Well," Dugan announced, clapping his hands together with a sharp, decisive sound "My throat's drier than a nun's knickers. Anyone else need a refill?"
Steve and Bucky shared a glance before shaking their heads in gentle refusal.

Dugan paused, glancing at Steve and Bucky expectantly before turning and striding off towards the mess tent, his boots crunching softly on the gravel path.

Steve's gaze softened as he watched his best friend. Bucky remained stubbornly focused on the scuffed toes of his boots, his shoulders slightly hunched. Steve reached out, his hand settling lightly on Bucky's shoulder.

"Buck," Steve began, his voice low and hesitant. "I know things are… different now. Me being all… Captain America-y. Hell, a far cry from that scrawny kid from Brooklyn, huh?"

Bucky finally looked up, his gaze meeting Steve's. A small, almost shy smile played on his lips. "Yeah," he breathed, the word barely audible. "Can't say I ever pictured you… like this. But it suits you. You deserve it, Steve. All of it."

Steve grinned, "Thanks, Buck. Means a lot." His grin softened into something warmer, more sincere. "Look, even with all this… Captain America stuff… I'm still Steve. Your best pal. Nothing changes that. Ever." He bumped Bucky's shoulder lightly with his own. "So, if there's something bugging you… you know you can tell me anything, right?"

Bucky gave Steve's arm a playful punch. "Nah, I'm good, Stevie. Just… you know… head's a little scrambled. Tired is all." He kicked a loose stone and exhaled. They sat for a bit, just comfortable with each other.

It's the quiet that gets me. The goddamn, suffocating quiet. Not the quiet of the battlefield, the kind where you can hear a pin drop and still feel the adrenaline pumping. This is the hollow, echoing quiet of… absence. And it's deafening. And yet, even as he felt the sting of her absence, he couldn't help but feel a twisted sense of pride. She was out there, doing what she loves. Maybe tomorrow, she'll be back." he thought, that tiny bit of hope the only thing stopping him from completely imploding. Just gotta get through tonight. This hollow feeling, this gut-wrenching ache... it wouldn't last. It had to end sometime.
To be continued.