12.

Brooklyn, New York

August 29th, 1942

Isabel strides down the corridor towards the exit, her small heels clicking against the grey polished floor. The hospital is stuffy due to the warm spring weather, causing a bead of sweat to transpire on the forehead of everyone within it. The air has an underlying smell of bleach that once would have caused Isabel's nose to twitch, but now doesn't bother her in the slightest. The walls are a dull yellow, the paint scraped and peeling in places from the hundreds of gurneys that have bumped against it. Pictures of uplifting country scenery line the hallways, but war propaganda has been stapled to the bulletin boards and plastered on the glass doors, ruining the comforting setting. Even in a place of repair and recovery, it remains impossible to escape the war that wages on across the oceans.

Isabel walks through the corridors away from the emergency department where she has just finished a tiring twelve-hour shift without a break. There's no time for the doctors and nurses to stop and rest. The soldiers on the battlefront aren't granted that kind of luxury, and those on the home front treat themselves no differently.

When the first lot of American men were shipped out, women were called up to work the jobs vacated by them. Isabel narrowly avoided factory work thanks to her career in nursing which she'd established a few years prior, although she often wondered whether the emotional toll of treating the wounded was better than a bit of hard factory labour. She was also rather fascinated at the prospect of wearing pants rather than her usual dress or skirt ensemble. Many of Isabel's acquaintances who took up factory spoke of the freedom and liberation involved, not just in wearing pants, but in working for a wage and not being restricted to the confines of the apartment, as was the norm for their parents and the generation before that. Women were being given a liberty they'd never seen before. It's been widely accepted since the war began that the contribution of the home front would indeed be the make or break of the war, so for the meantime, women have been given a little more freedom and a lot more work. Things have changed dramatically since Pearl Harbour, but every woman knows that once their men return, their lives will return to normal.

For now, their strong support will see the Allies victorious… Or at least that's what the government says. Isabel's faith in that is slowly slipping. It seems as though more men are returning home injured or deceased than are volunteering to enlist or drafted according to conscription laws. Those who had once been excited by the war have slowly shrunk away from the spotlight as the reality of war dawns on them, their innocent enthusiasm and gripping war fever diminishing as quickly as it had come. The draft has taken care of the diminishing number of enlistees, of course. Thousands of wary and unwilling men, Bucky among them, have been and will be herded onto ships and off to war before they can protest.

But surely, Isabel ponders, to fight for your country you have to have heart, and those who didn't enlist voluntarily don't possess that. Were those fighting to ensure the allied success really in it because that's what they wanted, or because it was their patriotic duty? War was not some exciting overseas adventure as the propaganda proclaimed. It involved sacrifice and suffering, and for most, it was a suicide mission. Isabel could name at least one person with the right mindset for fighting war, but she certainly wasn't going to be persuading him to enlist.

Isabel knows she can only do so much for some of the men she treats and comforts. Some of them have lost the will to live, so damaged mentally by the horrors they have seen that the idea of living with these demons seems impossible. "Combat Fatigue", the psychiatrists now call it, as opposed to "shell shock" as it was called in the Great War and as her parents still refer to it. A wound, albeit an emotional one. Nevertheless, that is one type of wound well above Isabel's pay grade. The physical wounds though, she can deal with. Or at least, some of them, depending on their extent. She isn't a God or a miracle worker. There are some wounds, as she's already experienced, that go beyond the realm of treatment. Those men have met their destiny, and no number of medications or procedures can bring them back from the brink of death.

In between the odd bicycle injury or workplace accident, over half of Isabel's patients are returned soldiers suffering with complications from their wartime injuries. Mustard gas poisoning, infected bullet wounds, weeping amputated limbs – Isabel has seen it all in her past three years as a nurse. And while at first it had rattled her to the core, she now doesn't bat an eyelid. She's desensitised to the war's consequences. She's numb to illness and death. Or at least, she likes to think she is, while she can safely return to her own bedroom at the end of the shift and forget the horrors she's seen throughout the day.

The cries of pain that echo through the hallways end abruptly as Isabel escapes outside into the warm air and the doors close behind her with a dull thud. The sun is still bright in the sky of pinks and oranges even though the day is nearing its end. Isabel sets off into the streets, walking quickly, the white dress of her nurse's uniform billowing behind her.

She finally spots the dimly lit diner on the corner ahead of her, its bright pink paint job sticking out like a sore thumb against the brownstone of Brooklyn's buildings. Her legs don't seem to be able to carry her as quick as she would have liked, but she stops herself from breaking into a run.

At the shop before the diner she pauses and checks her reflection in the glass, aiming to look presentable. Her hair is still in its curled state from that morning, although her white hat with a red cross still sits atop her head. She unpins it and places it in her bag, brushing down her flyaway hairs. Her eyes are rimmed with black bags from exhaustion, but she has no foundation to cover it. Pinching her cheeks to give them some colour, she shrugs and heads around to the diner's entrance.

Leaning against the wall by the door is a tall, dark haired man, his face hidden beneath the brim of his army issue hat. He wears his olive-green dress uniform well, earning the appreciative eye of passing females. At the sound of Isabel's familiar hurried footsteps, the man turns to her.

"Bucky!" Isabel can't keep the smile off her face or control of her legs as she runs to her brother and clasps her arms around his neck, accidentally knocking his hat off his head.

"Little Isabel," Bucky smirks, returns her hug tightly, lifting his sister easily off the ground and spinning them around in circles as she giggles uncontrollably. "You have no idea how good it is to see your face."

"And you, Bucky," Isabel says, her cheeks aching from smiling so hard.

She feels a weight lift off her shoulders at the sight of Bucky returned from basic training in one piece. But of course, he hasn't begun the most dangerous part of his journey. She forces herself not to think about it as Bucky finally puts her down, smiling down at his sister, his eyes crinkled at the edges. She hadn't realised how much she would miss her brother until he actually left. Now that he's back, even if it is only for a limited time, she knows she'll never take his presence for granted again. His absence for those few months had been hard on her, and for Steve, who thought of Bucky as his brother and had moped around with her for weeks before they'd finally settled again into reality. Still, Isabel wasn't sure if that had been the whole reason, or if Steve was still disappointed at not being enlisted as well.

"No Steve, yet?" Isabel asks, looking around for any sight of their blonde friend. Bucky notices her cheeks glow slightly at the mention of Steve. That was new. He chooses to ignore it for now and puts it down to the fact that she'd probably run halfway from the hospital. He'll question her later.

"Not yet," Bucky sighs. "Let's get a table."

He holds the door open for Isabel and she waltzes inside, seemingly high on life, choosing a booth by the window. Bucky sits opposite her and the two are silent. Isabel finds herself staring at Bucky, trying to pick out any differences in him. The way he holds himself is certainly different, his carefree slouch replaced by the stiff disciplined posture of a soldier. Even though his hair is slightly shorter, his eyes and his smile are still the same, and Isabel breathes a sigh of relief she didn't realise she was holding.

A red-haired waitress drops some colourful menus on the table between them, but they go unread. Isabel has so many questions she wants to ask Bucky; whether he is up for answering them is another question.

"So, what was it like?" She finally asks, a little hesitant.

Bucky sighs audibly and shrugs his shoulders. "It wasn't horrible, but it was tough. They have to train you for anything you might encounter over there. You know – weapons, ammo, living in the trenches, that kind of stuff."

"And how'd you do?"

"Pretty well, I passed all the fitness tests easily, though it felt like every muscle in my body was on fire the first few days, even muscles I didn't think existed. Working in the docks for all those years definitely helped with that. And it turns out I'm a skilled marksman as well. Guess we found that out at Coney Island, but they made me even better. I got accelerated through the ranks, like Steve told you. They made me Sergeant, said they hadn't seen anyone as sharp as me in months," he says smugly.

Isabel's eyes immediately flick toward his arms, where a silver and navy-blue insignia has been sewed onto the fabric. She doesn't know if she should congratulate him or apologise. She can only stare at the insignia. At basic, you shoot at sand bags and paper targets. Would Bucky really be able to shoot someone? She doesn't know if he could.

"Shooting a few targets is a little different than shooting at people. Will you be able to do that, Bucky?" She asks before she can stop herself, indirectly voicing her concerns.

Bucky looks at his sister with a sad gleam in his eye that has never been there before. The seconds pass by slowly and Isabel wonders if she's crossed some unspoken line, reminding Bucky of the sacrifices and inhumane actions he was going to make for his country when he finally is shipped away, reminding him that being a good shot means killing.

"It's a war, Isabel. If you don't shoot them, they'll shoot you. You know how it is," he finally says, his voice cold and his eyes devoid of their usual playful glint. Quietly, he adds, "They deserve it anyway."

Isabel looks down at her arms crossed on the table in front of her, feeling her eyes prick with tears. Her brother is such a kindred spirit, and he isn't a murderer. The thought of him being forced to do such heinous things is distressing. It is then that his last comment registered. They deserve it. And suddenly, she understands.

The tension between the two siblings can be cut with a knife as they stare at their own hands. Bucky shifts uncomfortably in the silence, guilt coursing through him for the harsh way he had spoken to his sister. She's seen her own terrors and treating the wounded cannot possibly be easy, but those soldiers who had shot and been shot were strangers. Now, they're talking about her family. Honestly, Bucky struggles to see himself killing a person. But shooting them feels less direct, less intimate, like a lesser act of violence. It's easy to pass off the blame for a kill to someone else beside you, to say, "That wasn't my bullet that hit, I missed by a mile. I didn't kill that man." At least, that's what he'll tell himself.

Reaching across the table, Bucky takes Isabel's small hands in his own. "I missed you a lot," he mutters, apology lacing his tone and evident in his eyes. A small smile tugs at the corners of Isabel's mouth, her own silent acceptance of his apology.

"I missed you more, Buck." She squeezes his hand tightly, offering a sympathetic smile.

Just then, the door to the diner opens behind Isabel, a bell ringing above it, and in walks the slight frame of Steve Rogers. He wears his usual camel-coloured jacket and tie combination, his blonde hair slightly windswept. Bucky offers a small wave as Steve spots them, his face lighting up at the sight of his friend. The pair exchange a quick hug and hard slaps on the back.

"It's good to see you back, Buck! It wasn't the same without you," Steve admits, sitting down next to Isabel, who scoots over slightly on the small booth seat. Steve smiles fondly at her. "Hey, Belle."

"Hey, Steve," Isabel replies, suddenly very interested in the menu in front of her. Bucky holds back a laugh, wondering what on Earth is going on between his sister and Steve. He wonders if he's missed something that happened since he's been gone, or whether they've finally realised the connection he's been aware of all along. Then, he remembers that Isabel is seeing Danny and all those thoughts go out the window. He makes a mental note to ask her about that later.

"It's good to be back," Bucky says instead. "Being home feels nice."

"So how was training?" Steve asks, leaning forward eagerly in his seat. Steve, so naive and willing and wanting to join the war effort, but denied at each recruitment agency in town. He doesn't seem to see that they are saving his life by rejecting him, because if he doesn't fall at the hand of a bullet or grenade, surely one of his many illnesses would take him out over there.

"Meh," Bucky says, giving the so-so sign with his hand. "The physical training wasn't horrible. It was more the strictness of it all. Having to follow the same routine day-in, day-out got tiring after a while. Our Captain wasn't the best either. He worked us like dogs and treated us worse. And the food was pitiful, I feel like I haven't eaten anything decent in months." Bucky picks up his own menu and skims it quickly.

Steve opens his mouth, presumably to ask for more information, when the red-haired waitress trots back up to their table, her appearance perfect besides the splattering of tomato sauce on her black apron. Her uniform, a tight pink dress that ends mid-calf, hugs her hourglass figure perfectly, and Bucky looks her up and down appreciatively. This doesn't go unnoticed and she flutters her eyelashes at the charming soldier.

"What'll it be, darl?" She drawls, pulling a notepad and pen from her apron pocket.

"Give me the best thing on the menu, doll," Bucky says vaguely. "And a chocolate shake," he adds, giving the waitress his most smouldering smile. Judging by the choked giggle she gives in response, he has her frazzled. Flirt.

"And you?' She asks Isabel, a bit strangled.

"A chocolate milkshake and a large fries, please," Isabel says, handing her the menu.

The redhead turns to Steve next, an eyebrow raised by way of asking him for his order. "I'll have the Manhattan burger and a strawberry milkshake, please, ma'am," Steve smiles, ever the gentleman despite the waitress' obvious preference for Bucky, and the waitress goes on her merry way, stealing glances at Bucky over the bar every now and then as she distractedly prepares their drinks.

"Doesn't it get tiring?' Isabel asks, a little sourly.

"Doesn't what get tiring?"

"Feeling the need to flirt with every woman you interact with?" Beside Isabel, Steve lets out a muffled snort. "I don't think its a coincidence that Buck rhymes with fuc-" Steve slams a hand over Isabel's mouth, holding in his laughter.

"Don't, Is," he reprimands. Bucky just laughs.

She laughs and moves away from his hand. She raises a challenging eyebrow at Steve. "Don't even try to say it isn't true."

"I'm not," Steve promises, laughter threatening to escape.

"Well, I have to make up for fourteen weeks without any dames to look at," Bucky continues, not fazed by Isabel's crude language.

"Oh, you poor thing! How did you survive?" Isabel mocks, splaying a hand across her chest.

Their milkshakes are put on the table in front of them and Steve dives hungrily into his, slurping down half of it in one go.

"You're just jealous that you aren't the most attractive Barnes sibling," Bucky explains with a sly grin, waving her off dismissively. Isabel aims a kick at his shin underneath the table. "Ow! I was only joking!"

"And it was mean. One day your smart mouth is going to get you killed," Isabel counters in a sing-song voice, fiddling with the ends of her hair innocently and taking a small sip of her milkshake.

"No, Steve's smart mouth is going to get him killed," Bucky corrects, directing his amused smile toward the blonde, who is leaning over his drink. "How many times did you get into a fight while I was gone?" He asks, only a hint of concern in his voice.

Steve squirms under the weight of Bucky's assumptions. "Three?" He answers, but it sounds more like a question. Isabel raises her thick brow at him in disagreement. "Okay, five times."

"And how many times did Isabel have to save your sorry ass?" Steve doesn't look like he was going to give an answer, so Bucky turns his attention back to Isabel.

"I was only there once, and I managed to talk the other guy out of it. I patched him up every time, though," Isabel answers, sending an apologetic look at Steve for tattling.

Bucky tuts like a disappointed middle-aged mother. "What are we going to do with you? You really are going to get yourself killed when I'm gone." Everyone falls silent as the other meanings behind Bucky's choice of words sink in. His own eyes widen slightly as he realises what he has implied.

"When you leave Brooklyn, yes," Isabel clarifies. "I'll try to watch his back, and then when you come back you can take over again. You've always done a better job."

"I don't need a bodyguard," Steve pouts.

"Yes, you do," Isabel and Bucky say at the same time, and the three break into laughter, the melancholy from seconds before dissipating.

Isabel clears her throat. "So, you're back now," for now, "and we are going to make the most of it. I have a lot of things planned for us to do," Isabel says, looking for a change in conversation.

"Oh yeah? Things that we have done a million times or new things?" Bucky baits.

"New and old things," she replies in a 'duh' kind of way, earning a chuckle out of Bucky.

"She wrote another list," Steve adds.

Isabel frowns. Her habit of making lists has always been helpful, she's never forgotten anything in her life. She pulls a small piece of paper from her bag, where, in her neat cursive, she's written out a list of various food joints, amusements and events for the three to attend. Bucky takes the list and skims over it, nodding his head in agreement to some of the plans.

"Another dance at St Bernard Parish? I thought you and Steve just went to one?" Bucky asks, pointing to Christmas Eve dance on the list in confusion.

"We did, but we can go to a dance more than once a year, Bucky. I thought we could go to the Christmas Eve dance this year since we have the money for the tickets. Also, it's the day after my birthday, so I feel like it should be my choice. There'll be mistletoe and gingerbread and mulled wine..." Isabel presses, trying to convince Bucky with a cheesy smile on her face.

"You're very convincing, I will admit. But that's a dance for Catholics, and in a Catholic church? Steve is the only Irish-Catholic here," Bucky points out.

"I understand that, but no one else knows that. It's not like we're openly Jewish or anything. We're half and half. We count."

Bucky shrugs. He knows Steve isn't overly fond of dancing, but he never rejects the idea. Bucky thinks he just likes spending time with his friends. Bucky, on the other hand, was convinced at the first mention of the idea.

"If there's dancing and dames, I'm in," Bucky smirks, handing the list back to Isabel who looks proud of her planning.

When the waitress returns with their meals, Bucky flirts just a bit more before they're left to eat in near-silence, comfortable in each other's company. Bucky seems to inhale his food, making almost inappropriate noises of satisfaction with every bite, and Isabel can't really blame him; she doubts they ever got burgers and fries at basic. When Steve can't eat anymore of his own burger, Bucky takes it from his plate and eats that too.

Later that evening, back in the comfort of their apartment, Bucky slides on the couch next to Isabel, who is trying to construct the typical exploding volcano science project for Robbie's science class. Robbie, like a typical boy, came to her only hours before saying he needed to do it by the following morning. Isabel had helped him get the materials out, but he'd grown bored within ten minutes and had locked himself in the boys' room to read, leaving Isabel to make it all alone.

"You should be doing this, you're the one who likes science," Isabel says. "Here, help me get this inside the volcano."

"Sure." She hands Bucky the cup of baking soda, and he proceeds to pat it down carefully inside. He remembers making his own version of a volcano in his own year nine science class. He'd placed first in the competition.

Isabel gets out some paint and begins slapping brown onto the outside of the volcano, a job that Steve would most likely cringe at. "Why do I always get stuck helping the twins with their homework?" She grumbles, grabbing the red paint and flicking it around the opening at the top of the paper-mache volcano.

"So, Steve told me that he found out you're going with Danny? Bucky asks conversationally, concentrating on the baking soda.

"Yeah, he found out at the hall. Danny was drunk and tried to get me dance with him, but he was just about ready to pass out, so..." Isabel trails off, and Bucky gets the picture.

"How'd he take it?"

"Steve? I think he was a little upset I didn't tell him and I feel terrible about it now. I just didn't say anything because I didn't know where Danny and I were going at the start."

"But you two are still going steady?"

It takes Isabel a moment to answer. "Yeah. We're, uh…pretty serious."

"How is Danny? Is he good?" Bucky asks sincerely.

"Mmhmm," Isabel says. "I met his parents the other night. They were really lovely, but I felt so out of place. They live on the Upper East Side, Buck. They're so wealthy, you and I could probably never imagine how much money they have. Their apartment was absolutely stunning."

"That didn't answer about Danny, that answered about Danny's money," Bucky laughs. "Either way, he sounds nice. But I want to meet him, be the judge of him."

"Bucky, I'm not ten years old. I don't need you chasing off the boys for me," Isabel berates.

"I'm not chasing anyone off. I just need to make sure he's right for you."

"Well, I appreciate the gesture, but it isn't necessary," Isabel reassures, deeming the volcano good enough and gathering up the paint. "You're only back for less than twelve hours and you're already causing trouble," she chuckles.

"I'm not causing trouble, I'm trying to protect you," Bucky argues, stopping Isabel from getting up by putting a hand on her arm. "Just answer my question, Is. I need to know that when I leave for the war you'll always have someone to look after you, someone you want to be with. I'm your older brother and you're my family, and one of my best friends. It's my right and my responsibility to make sure you're going to be okay."

"Bucky, that isn't your problem, you don't have to worry yourself about me," Isabel tries to reassure, but Bucky cuts her off.

"Do you think he's right for you? Do you love him?" Bucky asks bluntly.

Isabel's jaw drops as she stares at him, wide-eyed. It takes her another moment to form her answer. "Buck, don't ask me that."

"Why not?"

"Because… Because I don't want to answer. I don't want to talk about that. I don't have to if I don't want to," Isabel disregards him, standing up with the paint and moving to the kitchen sink to wash out the brush. The running water is loud as she roughly rinses out the brush, splashing water on the counter.

"But why? Do you not have an answer?" Bucky asks, moving to stand beside her at the sink.

"I don't know," Isabel says, putting her face in her water-covered hand. "Buck, I haven't thought about this sort of stuff."

"But why?" Bucky pushes. "Isn't that what people do when they're pretty serious. Think about their future together?"

Isabel shrugs, looking frustrated at her brother's questions. "I don't know anything, Bucky. We've only known each other a few months, it's hardly long enough to know whether I want to spend my life with him."

"It would be long enough if he was right for you. But that isn't really what we're talking about, Belle. At least not my first question. We weren't talking about a long-term commitment, I was asking if you're sweet on him and if you think he's right for you." Bucky pauses, looking at his sister's stressed face for a moment. "So that's it? You can't imagine a life with him?"

"Something just feels off. Like it isn't meant to be. But it should be right, he should be right for me. I don't know," Isabel says quietly. With another shrug of her shoulders she walks away, closing the door to her bedroom before Bucky can refute.

A/N: Poor Bucky. He returns home from a terrible time at basic training only to find that it isn't all sunshine and rainbows back in Brooklyn the way he expected it to be. I just love protective older brother Bucky, almost as much as I love flirty, womanizer Bucky. Maybe just give me all types of Bucky? Then I'd be happy no matter what day of the week it was ;) And Isabel, boy is she having some doubts. If you haven't noticed, I like to torture my characters just a little bit.