A/N: Hi all! So sorry for the slow updates lately. Life, work and university have really been kicking me butt! I'm in my last week of placement for teaching so I'm getting into the home stretch now and hopefully I can update a bit more regularly. I hope you are all still enjoying the story and loving the characters. This chapter is very action packed and loosely follows the events during the Normandy Landings of 1944. Read and enjoy, and please continue to review, they always light up my day! :)
45.
Sword Beach, France
June 6th, 1944
"Operation Overlord," Colonel Phillips had said. "Have you heard of it?"
Steve, of course, had heard of it. The operations had been in the works for months, since nineteen-forty-three. The largest seaborn invasion in history, they were expecting. He'd heard of it.
"Yes, sir. I have," Steve replies, standing awkwardly in the doorway of Phillips' office.
"Take a seat," Phillips offers, and Steve does. "I want you on that mission. You and those of your men who are medically cleared. It's the biggest operation ever conceived and you having a part in it would be a massive boost."
"But what about Hydra?" Steve asks.
"Hydra is a immense threat, but so are the Axis powers. We can take down Hydra, but what good would it be if the Nazis were to take over the world anyway?" Phillips asks quietly. "The Germans have occupied France since nineteen-forty. I think they deserve a chance of liberation, don't you, Rogers?"
Steve considers this. "How long will the mission be?"
"Depends how successful you are," Phillips allows. "I want you landing at Normandy with the infantries. It may seem odd, but you're going to Sword Beach with the 3rd British Infantry."
"Sir, with respect, I hoped to fight along the Americans…" Steve begins.
"And you are. The Allies, we are all one in this fight. There's no them and us," Phillips retorts. "The Germans would never expect Captain America to arrive with the British. Lead them, boost their morale, help them out. Stay for a few days if you want, stay a month. But just do something to help." Steve can barely argue with that prospect. "Get your men together, you need to leave right away. Landings are the morning of June sixth. And make sure none of them get too wounded or worse, killed; you all still need to be fit and fighting to take on Hydra when you get back. Hopefully by then we'll have more intel."
And that's how Steve, Bucky, Monty, Jones, Dernier and Morita find themselves aboard one of the large amphibious carriers en route to the shores of France. Their instructions had been clear – fight for as long as they want before contacting Stark to come pick them up. It hardly seems fair that they can pull out of the operation at any time, that when the going gets tough they can just leave, but they suppose that is what comes with being the first line of defence against Hydra for the entire world.
Steve knows that he isn't only wanted at the Normandy Landings to help the Allies advance – he knows that the publicity of Captain America fighting alongside the Allies, of taking down the Germans and helping to liberate France, is one too good to pass up. He can only imagine the new comic books and propaganda posters that will come of it.
When they departed, only a few hours after Colonel Phillips gave them their orders, they left Dugan at the base with his still-healing wrist and gave him the task of keeping Isabel company. He vowed to follow her around like a puppy until they return. Steve knows Isabel is mostly healed and capable of looking after herself, but he doesn't want her to get lonely. He isn't exactly sure how long they'll be gone for. Their usual missions to Hydra, though extremely dangerous, always have an expected time of completion. They know how far they have to travel back and forth, how long it might take to destroy the factory and how long it may take to apprehend any prisoners and hand them over to the correct authority.
This mission is extremely difficult and different, not just for the Commandos but for every other man involved. The number of goals the Army has set for its soldiers is beyond overwhelming, and the entire operation could take months or years to complete. It's mass chaos to get every infantry, each with their own set of instructions, on the right page and consistently performing, but somehow, it's all been coordinated. They can only hope there are no snags and the infantries remain on track. The basic rundown, without all the intricacy, is for the infantries to successfully land at the beach and continue to occupy areas of France, moving further inland, and pushing the Germans out of the country and back into their own. It's like an ultimate sheep roundup in thousands of miles of countryside, and there's millions of lives at stake if they're unsuccessful.
Still, as overwhelming as Operation Overlord seems, Bucky and the others have fought on the front like this, before Steve ever liberated them from Hydra. They know what it's like to work toward a goal, complete it, and be issued another straight away. They know the hardship of battle on the front, of living in trenches and of being constantly under fire. Steve isn't exactly as well-versed, but he's about to have a crash course.
The boat rocks heavily on the water as it moves across the open ocean. It's nearly silent except for the movement of the waves beneath them and the deep breathing of the men. It's eerie when the men have grown accustomed to the constant explosions and gunfire and screaming and crying–
Apart from one man at the front who scours the horizon with his binoculars, the khaki-covered soldiers from the Third Infantry Division look around them, trying to distinguish something, anything from the pitch black. The only light comes from the rounded moon above, reflecting on the ripples of the silvery water. They can't see much, only the faint curves of land in the far distance.
A lot of them have their eyes trained on Steve and his men. Steve knows he sticks out – not only is he wearing the American flag on his uniform, but he, Bucky and Gabe are the only people in the boat speaking with an American accent. It had been much more noticeable when they'd gotten on the boat in the early hours of the morning and Steve had introduced himself to the infantry Sergeant. Since then, eyes had been practically locked on him.
Steve is technically the highest ranked person aboard the mission, but he really hasn't much idea of what he's doing, and he'd told the Sergeant so within a few minutes. The Sergeant hadn't look surprised.
"Don't worry, son," he'd said, clapping Steve on the shoulder. "Leave it to us to keep with the strategies. You just do your thing. I heard you and your men aren't much for rules, anyway."
As the boat sails across the English Channel toward France, everyone is practically silent. A lot of the men are asleep, getting in the minutes of rest they can, and so Steve and the others try to remain quiet as well. Dernier is asleep against Monty's shoulder, whilst Monty, Morita and Jones lean up against the wall of the boat, mouths open with soft snores. The soaked flooring is hard and uncomfortable, the wall digging into their spines, but somehow they sleep soundly. They're all drenched from the rain that had pounded them only an hour before, their uniforms sticking uncomfortably to their bodies and their hair limp and cold.
After a while of silence and rocking and getting splashed by waves, Bucky shuffles around and pulls a cigarette packet from his breast pocket, offering one to Steve.
"Marlboros? You told me they were for dames," Steve asks, scrunching his face up.
"Don't have any then," Bucky says evenly, putting Steve's cigarette back into the box.
Steve shakes his head, snatching the cigarette from Bucky's grasp. They duck down low against the wind and Bucky lights the cigarettes. They take a long drag, the smoke swirling thickly in their chests along with a rush of nicotine and the sweetness added for the sake of the female tongue.
"They aren't terrible," Steve admits, eyeing it curiously. "Not that I have much experience with smoking to compare it to. I still can't get used to it, you know. Being able to smoke without coughing up a lung. How'd you find these, anyway? Peg get you hooked?"
Bucky takes another breath before answering, watching the shadows of his friend's face in the low light. "Sure did, on our first date. Well, our first proper one, when I took her out for dinner to that fancy Italian restaurant Howard recommended. I walked her home in the pissing rain, because, as you know, its always raining in England, and she offered me a taste. I haven't bought anything else since, honestly. Now I've had these, it makes all the others taste a little foul."
Steve offers a square of his ration chocolate as repayment for his stick, and Bucky lets the chocolate melt on his tongue, savouring the sickly-sweet taste. They've never been much keeping tabs on who paid for what or who owes who, at least, not until Steve got healthy. His need to prove himself and to be of equal to everyone else has stretched from larger goals like giving Isabel the life she deserves to making sure he pays everyone back for anything they loan him, even a cigarette.
They smoke their cigarettes down to the stubs with a splattering of quiet chatter to distract themselves from the mission. Still, it doesn't quite work. The boat nears closer to the beach. Steadily the men's breathing race and their eyes get a bit wider, swallowing down the lumps of fear in their throats. Bucky's breathing quickens slightly, but he looks calm as anything on the outside.
"Still can't get used to this, either," Bucky eventually admits.
"It's a little different to usual," Steve allows.
"You know this is a suicide mission?" Bucky asks carefully, his brow furrowed.
"Don't think like that," Steve immediately berates. "You know I wouldn't let that happen."
"Maybe not for me," Bucky allows, "but for everyone else? How can I not think like that? They're being thrown in, unprotected. The Germans will know we're coming a mile off. If we all don't get killed on the beach, we have to take the cities–"
"The beach has already been bombed, Buck. Bombers flew ahead of us a few hours ago. And again, the cities will be bombed before we advance. They're going to clear the path for us."
"Doesn't mean we won't get shot."
Steve sighs. "We have the shield. And if we lose the shield, I give you my explicit permission to use me as a shield. It'll only hurt a little. We just won't tell Belle that you hid behind me." Bucky huffs out a laugh. Steve sighs again, sounding tired. "All these men, they're nothing but a number, Buck. They're pawns on their chess board. If they get knocked off, they just replace them with a spare. All in aid of protecting the king."
"And what are you?" Bucky asks with a small smirk. "The queen?"
Steve bursts out a laugh, glaring playfully at Bucky. "The most powerful attacking piece on the board? Can move both diagonally and horizontally. Sure, I'll be the queen," Steve allows.
"I thought you weren't supposed to hurry the Queen into the game, since the opponent might try to attack it?" Bucky asks, entirely seriously.
"It's been nearly four years, Buck. I'm hardly hurried into the game."
Bucky nods at this, contemplative. "And what if we run out of pawns?" Bucky asks.
"Then it's up to the rooks and knights and bishops, and if all else fails… they still have their queen," Steve laughs. "You really gotta stop worrying. I won't let anything happen."
Bucky eyes Steve for a while, his blue orbs sad and his brow furrowed. "You ain't been out here properly, Stevie. You really got no idea."
Bucky looks like he wants to argue the possibilities a while longer when suddenly the quiet chattering around them falls silent, replaced with a yell from their commanding officers, preparing them for advancing on the beach. The men all snap awake, their eyes wide, and scramble to prepare their weapons. Bucky snaps his mouth shut, wide eyes staring toward the front of the boat where, in the dull pastel light of morning, they can see the shore of Sword Beach. It's empty, silent, the waves crashing into the sand in a foam of white.
Steve and Bucky stand from their seat on the floor. Steve unclips his shield from his back and holds it in front of them, standing at the front of the Howling Commandos, Bucky on his six. Steve makes eye contact with the Sergeant, who turns to look at him where they stand at the back of the boat. They nod to each other before their cold eyes move back to the approaching beach.
The boat, along with several others on either side of theirs, roll up lazily to the shallow water and stop with a heavy thud, throwing them all forward with a jolt. The door at the front opens and slams into the sand, a ramp for the soldiers to disembark.
Immediately the gunfire begins. Their attackers appear on the esplanade road above the beach, at the top of the large sand dunes lining the back. There aren't many Germans, the beach mainly cleared by the earlier air raid, but there's enough. Their bullets fly straight into the boat where the men can't escape, churning them up with a splattering of blood. Most of them don't even make it off the ramp before they fall face-first into the shallows, the water turning red. The Commandos can see more and more of the beach as the men in front of them drop like flies.
Steve, with his face covered in someone else's blood, grabs hold of Morita and Dernier's shoulders and push them off the side of the boat into the water. Jones and Monty follow, and then Steve grabs Bucky too and flings them both over the edge, out of the path of the bullets. They land in the shallow waves, discoloured red with blood, bullets hitting all around them with loud splashes. They quickly wade through the water amidst the rogue bullets, tucked in to make themselves small.
Beneath a beautiful display in the candy-floss morning sky, the Commandos and the British soldiers race up the beach in large groups, their rifles raised, and their heads ducked. Dozens of men go down with a shout, their shoulders and arms and legs blown out by machine-gun fire from the remorseless German defence.
The man running in front of Morita takes a shot to the head, the bullet hitting him directly between the eyes, and he falls with a thud to the ground, motionless. Morita jumps over him quickly, clearing the body, and then keeps running.
If Steve could drag Bucky along with him, right behind the shield, he would. He knows Bucky can handle himself, but he wants Bucky right beside him at all times. He doesn't want to risk anything, doesn't want to risk losing him in the crowd or a bullet flying over his shoulder right into Bucky. But Bucky runs right next to Steve, behind him and slightly to the left, keeping on his six as he always does. Steve chances a look back and notices all fear and uneasiness has dissolved from Bucky's face, replaced with anger, persistence, and a surge of protectiveness. As soon as Bucky's in the fight, he barely has to think about what he's doing, his body just moves. Steve can see why Bucky says he thinks he was made for this.
The Commandos dodge and duck as they hurry up the sand, their boots sinking into the churned-up ground. They dive at the last second into the sand dune which provides cover from the Germans on the road above. They get sand in the eyes and mouth, and hurriedly wipe it away, coughing.
With their backs to the dune, they have the chance to double check their loaded rifles, readjust their helmets on their heads, and watch the men who'd been behind them as they attempt to follow up the beach. There are more men fallen than standing. Those who are alive are screaming, clutching their wounds, clutching each other. One man walks around, dazed and confused, his right arm left with nothing but shreds from below the elbow.
The boats they'd arrived on finally follow behind, converting from boats into tanks that plod up the wet sand, engines whirring, and onto dry land. They begin to shoot, their thick canons blasting out explosives toward the German line. A few of the blasts miss, instead ploughing through the once-beautiful houses along the esplanade. Most of the fire hits its target, exploding into the Germans and taking out much of their defence, including the one or two tanks they had of their own. The men fly everywhere with the force, not always as a whole. Their tanks overturn, bursting into flaming fireballs.
The gaps created in the German defence give the Allies the room to move. From the bottom of the sand dune, those waiting negotiate the slope and emerge at the top in a surprise attack, forming a blocking line and shooting at the awaiting Germans. The Allies shoot accurately in a wave of bullets that plough through the unexpecting men.
Bucky, one of the best shots in the division and maybe even the American Army itself, aims at them as the last remaining flee like frightened cats into the town. He picks them off one by one, turning to the next before the last has even hit the ground. He gets so wrapped up in the adrenaline of the hunt, in staring through his scope, that he somewhat forgets to watch his own back, confident that someone will have his six and it will likely be Steve. He jumps, nonetheless, when there's two successive shots behind him, Steve's shoulder jolting lightly into his back with the force they're standing so close together. Bucky turns to see two Germans lying on the ground in front of them, Steve's pistol steaming slightly with the heat of the barrel.
Steve looks up to Bucky as though he were looking to an older brother for praise. Bucky takes a second to slap him on the back, smirking proudly. How strange, it seems, to be congratulating Steve on such a thing. Once upon a time, not so long ago, Bucky would've clapped Steve's back for finishing a painting, or for surviving that bout of pneumonia. Now, he does it for killing a man or two.
Bucky shakes his head to clear his thoughts and keeps shooting.
The seaside town of Ouistreham barely stands a chance as the British commandos clear the area of enemy strongpoints. Long evacuated in the light of the D-Day Landings, the town is empty of civilian life. Only the British soldiers and Commandos remain, standing amidst the smouldering ruins, the air thick with smoke and gunpowder.
Steve, Bucky and the rest of the Commandos are unharmed, but that notion doesn't extend to everyone. A quarter of the infantry, give or take, still lie wounded on the beaches and throughout the streets. Most of them are dead, unblinking. Those still alive cry out for their mammas as the final memories of their lives flood behind their eyelids like a calming film.
The medics follow through once all the carnage has died down, the gunfire has ceased, and all the Germans have been sought out from their hiding places amongst the ruins. Morita hurries off with Jones and Dernier to help them and to do what he can to fix the damage. Steve and Bucky help carry the wounded on stretchers and in their arms to the temporary camp nearby for medical treatment. They'll either be transferred to the closest field hospital or thrown back into circulation.
Once the majority of the beach has been cleared and the town has been scavenged for any survivors, the Howling Commandos join the rest of the healthy men as they are rounded up before their battle-hardened Sergeant. His face is pulled into a tight frown as he barks some orders. Then the group is off, marching together in two neat lines, their boots hitting the bitumen roads with thuds, a melodic beat. They move through the countryside on rocky and hilly terrain, hard on the legs.
Sounds fill the air – the crunch of gravel and grass, ragged breathing, the jingle of dog tags and rifles and heavy backpacks. Bucky adjusts the straps and keeps going. The trees blow lightly with the wind, the warm sun beating down on their backs.
When night falls and they stop to make camp, the Commandos set up their sleeping bags on the outskirts of the group. It doesn't feel so much unlike their usual missions, except rather than being deep within the thick forests, they're out in the open countryside with a million stars above them to search and watch. There's a salty sea breeze blowing toward them, whipping their hair and clothes and providing a relaxing howl.
Exhausted, everyone falls asleep rather quickly. Steve volunteers to be one of the men on watch for the first shift, and he sits alone on his sleeping bag, staring inland. His eyes roam over the deserted, grass-covered hills that would be so beautiful and green under the midday sun. His eyes travel up over the stars, over the tiny balls of light so far away that light up the land with their glow. He squints into the darkness when he thinks he sees movement, the shadow of a tree's branches dancing in the wind. And he listens intently to every sound.
Bucky's fallen asleep right next to Steve and he lets out a rather loud snore. Steve nudges Bucky's foot with his own and instantly Bucky rolls from his back onto his side and his snoring stops, plunging Steve into near silence once again.
Steve looks out at the countryside again, and he can just see the glow of the lights of Caen in the far distance, just before the city goes into its blackout.
?, France
June 12th, 1944
Night is beginning to fall as Steve and Sergeant Anderson stand over a small unfoldable table, two maps of Normandy in front of them, and plan the divisions' next actions in their efforts to take Caen. They plan and plot for hours, scratching their heads and frowning, corresponding back and forth with the officers on the radio. The Commandos watch from where they sit on their packs by the edge of a small stream, the water flow quiet and melodic. Eventually, Steve and the Sergeant salute each other, Steve rolls up one of the maps, and heads back over to his men.
"So, we're off to Caen?" Jones asks Steve as the built blonde walks into earshot.
"Yes," Steve replies, rubbing his forehead.
"You mean we have to leave these beautiful seaside towns?" Jones pouts, lifting his head to smell the salty, fresh air. It's unfortunate the smell is tainted by gunpowder, blood and sweat.
"We do. The beach operations are all linked up now. Juno, Sword, Omaha, they're all ready to go. We have to move forward from here." Steve explains, taking a seat beside Bucky on the grass. "Sergeant Anderson got word this morning. The key to the advance is controlling the road networks, and Caen and St Lo are our goals. Taking Caen has been named a key D-Day target by General Montgomery. The closest anyone has got thus far to Caen is the Canadians, but they were halted by the 12th SS Panzer Division and they've made no headway. Now it's our turn to have a crack at it since we're the next closest. We're to start toward the city, but it won't be easy."
"Dugan will be jealous," Morita notes with a smirk.
"Why?" Steve asks with a frown of confusion.
"Don't you know what Caen is famous for, Cap?"
"Frogs?" Bucky asks, entirely serious.
"Lingerie," Morita correct, eyebrows rising in excitement.
Steve's cheeks immediately flame red. "Yeah? So?" He tries, attempting nonchalance.
"Well, there's a thing called an employee discount. Just imagine, some French dame's been spending all day making cream-coloured negligees with a gathered empire waist, what do you think she wears to bed at night with her employee discount?" Morita continues. "Caen lingerie is the best there is."
"And how do you know this?" Bucky asks, looking doubtful.
"I've had girlfriends, Serge. Must've put out a little more than yours."
"I doubt they're making lingerie in Caen amid their rations and the invasion," Steve notes, ever the voice of reason.
"Cap, they'll always make something that's one of the three basic needs of a man – food, shelter and silk teddies. Besides, I'm sure Germans appreciate lingerie as well?"
Everyone laughs, and Bucky scoffs. "Dream on, Jimmy boy."
"Glad to," Morita says with a shrug and a smile.
"Alright, put your travelling shoes on and get your head in the game," Steve tells them. "The right game," he reminds Morita. "We're heading to Caen."
"Do we have to walk?" Jones asks, incredulously. "That's gotta be ten miles or more."
"Eight," Steve corrects. "And no, I dunno how far we'd make it on foot out here, the land is swimming with Germans. We got transport," Steve says as he stands again, hoisting his pack onto his back.
"Is it a 'thirty-eight Ford Roadster, hard-top, red with black interior?" Bucky asks with a smirk, watching Steve get up.
"White-walls?" Jones adds.
"No white-walls when there's a war on. No Roadsters either. Try a GMC CCKW," Steve says with a laugh, leading them to the back of a cargo truck where the men are piling in for the ride up to Caen.
"So how does this work?" Bucky asks once everyone's seated and the truck's engine has rumbled to life.
"Alright," Steve says, pulling out a map of Normandy that's been scribbled all over. "Although the Canadians are held up in the east, the German defence in the west is more chaotic. The main German unit holding the line in the area is the 352nd Infantry Division. They were strong on June sixth when they opposed the landings at Omaha and Gold beaches, but they've received no reinforcements since, and they had horrendous casualties. They've been weakened by the constant combat. Early this morning, we heard word that the German line broke about half-way between the towns of Caen and St Lo," Steve says, pointing out the spot on the map. "It's where the right flank of the 352nd Infantry Division meets the left flank of the Panzer Lehr Division in the east. The 352nd has fallen back south, but the Panzer Lehr has held their positions because they're occupied in battle with the British 50th Infantry Division."
Steve pauses for a moment, either for suspense or to gather his thoughts, the men aren't sure. "So, there's a gap?" Monty guesses, puffing from his pipe.
"A big gap. Around eight miles between La Belle Epine to the North and Caumont in the south."
"And you want us to run through this gap to get to Caen?" Morita asks, incredulous.
The truck drives over a large pothole and they all jump around in the truck bed, landing hard back down on their seats.
"Not exactly," Steve says, righting the map after he'd bounced around. "Montgomery sees this as the opportunity to regain the initiative in the fight to recapture Caen, but he's not sending us. He's sending the veteran British 7th Armoured Division through the gap in the line."
"The Desert Rats!" Jones says excitedly, recognising the name of the division.
"That's them. They left early this morning but apparently, they've had a few detours and delays. They haven't moved as far as would have been expected. They're still behind the new American front line and only four miles from where they started with twenty miles to go. We'd make it there before them, and we will. We've been given orders to head that way, and if we happen to get there first, then we start operations. But we're going to detour first, to here," Steve explains, pointing to the town of Villers-Bocage on the map. "Villers-Bocage, south-west of our current position. It's a minor but still important junction of the road networks, and it will provide us a path straight through to Caen. We'll be there by morning. We take that, we control even more of the roads."
"Well then, let's go get 'em."
Villers-Bocage, France
June 13th, 1944
At 0830 hours, the British vehicles, with the Howling Commandos aboard, rumble along the road approaching the town of Villers-Bocage. They face no resistance – there isn't a soul in sight. The most trouble comes, unsurprisingly, from the muddy roads and uneven terrain, the wheels of the trucks often getting stuck in the deep mud pockets, bogging the trucks. The soldiers, open to fire, are forced to jump out regularly and push the back of the truck to free them. Having the strength of Captain America certainly helps in that department, the man able to push a truck alone with ease.
By 0900 hours, they pass through the town, the trucks rolling down the debris-clad roads. In the back of the trucks, the men have their weaponry at the ready. Bucky's keen eye peaks out the flaps of the canvas tarp, keeping watch on any buildings or church steeples in search of snipers and soldiers. No one bothers them, except for a few isolated snipers that are easily picked off.
The trucks make it all the way through the town and back before they come to a stop in the middle of the road and the engines are turned off. A few brave souls go for a walk through the town and return only a few minutes later empty handed, reporting not having seen anyone.
"The town is ours," the Sergeant informs them all, walking past each truck and hitting the canvas to let everyone know they can disembark. "Take a break and wait for the rest of the Division to catch up."
The Commandos stay put in their vehicle as the rest of the soldiers jump down from the trucks, walking into the streets and shops. They search for food and water and somewhere to sit and wait. They relax their guard, secure that the point is strongly held. A few of them start to brew up their morning tea.
The Commandos watch them with uneasiness, an unsettling feeling washing over them. The atmosphere of the town feels strange and eerie. The hairs on the arms and the backs of their necks stand up, as though they're being watched.
"It's too easy," Steve says, his eyes dark with worry beneath his frown. "I'm going to check it out myself."
Steve jumps down from the truck, shield in front of him protectively. A few pairs of footsteps jump down behind him. He turns to see all of his Commandos following.
"We stick together," Bucky explains with a smile. "After all, someone's gotta have your six."
"Fine," Steve relents. "But be on the lookout. No messing around this time. This feels different."
In agreement, the men follow their Captain. They start off through the narrow town streets, past the houses and bakeries and cafes and schools. The feeling doesn't leave Steve, of being watched. He strains his ears to listen for any sounds, and from the building on their right he hears the shuffling of feet, the click of a magazine being loaded into a gun, and the murmur of talking.
Steve immediately beelines for the building. He scurries up to the closed front door of the house, listens through the wood, and quickly realises the men are just inside and off to the right. He tries the doorknob and it opens easily. He steps in, the floorboards creaking unintentionally below him, and that gets the men's attention. They jump up from where they were sat in the corner of the living room preparing themselves for an apparent ambush on the English soldiers who've just entered the town.
Steve flies inside and grabs the closest man by his throat, slamming him up against the wall and dangling his legs from the ground. Bucky follows around the door, immediately holding his pistol to the second man's head in warning. The second man backs up to the far wall, pressing himself flat against it with his hands spread out away from his body.
The rest of the Commandos hurry inside and close the door behind them, concealing the scuffle within the abandoned house.
The man under Steve's hand coughs and splutters despite Steve barely squeezing. Steve watches him for a moment, the way he struggles, before he speaks. "What division are you with?"
"101st Heavy Tank Battalion of the 1st SS Panzer Division," the man replies, slightly choked. His words are barely understandable with his thick accent.
"And what brings you to Villers-Bocage?" Steve continues, voice rising intimidatingly.
"Please, please, don't hurt me!" The man stutters.
"I won't hurt you if you tell me why you're here," Steve promises, lowering his voice slightly.
Tears begin to fall from the man's eyes, his eyes wide with fear. "We were in Belgium. The Fuhrer ordered us to move into Normandy. The Allies attacked our transport systems by air, so we had to come by tank, but we had mechanical problems. Only six Tiger tanks made it, the rest we had to leave on the road. We stopped here to fix them before moving into action with our line. But Wittman realised how important this place was. We were told to stay."
"And you came right to us," the other German sneers, slightly more confident considering he isn't being strangled by Captain America. "Stopped right under our noses. Didn't even know we were here."
"We do now," Bucky retorts.
"But it is too late now," the man replies.
Not two seconds later, the clock in the centre of town strikes ten o'clock. The chimes ring out loud through the city. And, not a second after that, a mass of bullets can be heard outside from a few streets away, back where they'd left the rest of the division. There's an echo through the streets of surprised and terrified screams, and the blasts of grenades exploding, and then a massive bang as one of the trucks explodes and tips, landing on its back with a clunk.
"Damn you all," Steve hisses, clenching his hand around the German's neck. There's a snap and then Steve lets go, the body falling limply against the wall. "Let's go!"
Before he leaves, Bucky slams the second man back into the wall, hard enough to knock him out but hardly enough to kill him. He lets the man slide down and slump in a sitting position.
The Commandos carefully exit the house and duck down behind the brick wall at the front yard, the entire road visible both ways. They watch as hordes of German soldiers file out of where they'd been hiding in the buildings, moving through the streets toward where the British had set up camp. A tank rolls by, Germans hanging off it and sitting on its roof to be driven to the site of the battle that's started up, if the sounds in the distance are anything to go by.
"What do we do, Cap?" Jones asks from beside Steve, watching them with dark features.
"If we can draw some of them to us here, we can take the brunt off the men down the road. We might be able to give them the advantage."
"How do we do that? A distraction?" Morita inquires.
"Don't need anything too fancy," Steve says.
He nods to Bucky, who smirks as he raises his sniper rifle above the top of the wall. Bucky lines it up, and then he shoots, a single bullet pummelling through the side of an unsuspecting soldier's neck. A burst of blood shoots out and the man's hands fly up to the wound. He gasps for a second while his comrades stare in horror before he topples backward from his perch atop the tank, landing in a heap on the ground.
"That should do it," Bucky notes.
The Germans, for the life of them, can't find where the shot came from. They begin to scramble, hiding behind the tanks, diving back to the houses. But the Howling Commandos let lose, a constant round of bullets that fly through the streets and collect up the men.
Once the Germans work out where the shots are coming from, they bunker down as best as they can and prepare for return fire. Some of them continue on down the street to the rest of the battle, but many stay to fight the Commandos, especially once Steve throws his shield into the fray and they realise exactly who they're fighting.
Bucky's eye is right up to the scope of the rifle, and his shot remains impeccable. Unfortunately, some of the other men on the German side are a good shot, too. Bucky pulls the trigger and hits his target, the very top of a man's head, just visible over the top of a brick fence on the other side of the street. But Bucky doesn't have time to watch the victim fall, or to find another. Before he can move, he feels a sharp pain across the top of his shoulder and he's thrown backward with the force, falling onto his back on the grass. He immediately feels the warmth of blood soaking the inside of his blue padded jacket. He looks down, and there, at the top of his left shoulder where the arm meets, is a gauge from where a bullet has whizzed past him, only just missing his actual shoulder. Had it hit a few inches to the right, it would have damaged his shoulder, possibly beyond repair.
Bucky grits his teeth and his head falls back on the grass. He takes a few deep breaths as the pain deepens and a burning sensation floods through his shoulder and into his chest. The feeling is slightly familiar, the only other time he was ever shot being when the one-oh-seventh had been captured by Hydra all those months ago. But this isn't nearly as bad. The shot to his knee would have been debilitating had he not been given the serum which fixed it. Without surgery, he could have lost his leg. This is just a graze. But that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.
But then, unlike last time he was shot, Morita is peering over Bucky and attempting to help him. The medic's face only inches from his own, saying something to him. Morita wraps his arms around Bucky's back and lifts Bucky into a sitting position, getting a look at the wound.
"It's only skin-deep," Bucky hears Morita say. "There's no major muscle damage. The bullet isn't lodged."
And then Steve's face appears, only momentarily. He's taken a second to check on Bucky, looked away from the fight. "Buck, you're gonna be fine," Steve promises, his voice slightly higher than usual with the stress of their situation.
"Just a flesh wound," Bucky agrees. "Startled me, is all."
Morita hurriedly shrugs the coat off Bucky's arm and works quickly, his well-versed hands stitching closed the gauge. The amount of blood that spills out makes the wound look worse than it truly is, which explains Morita's worry at first. It's still deep enough to be threatening, particularly for infection, but nothing terrible. Within minutes, Morita's got the wound closed. He wraps it in a sterile bandage and while Bucky struggles to get his jacket back on, prepares him some pain medication to take the sting out of it. Bucky takes the pills as directed.
"Just stay there, Buck. We've nearly got this covered," Steve promises.
Bucky isn't having any of it. After another minute to collect himself and shake away the fear, Bucky grabs up his dropped rifle and takes up his position again along their line. His arm only aches slightly as he raises the rifle again. The force from shooting jolts his entire body and makes him wince. But after another few minutes, the pain begins to ebb, whether from the medication or the serum, Bucky isn't sure. Still, the injury hasn't left him in the best mood.
Bucky's rifle runs out and he sits back down against the wall to reload. "I have an opinion on this," Bucky tells Steve suddenly, his hands working automatically.
"On what?" Steve asks patiently, looking at Bucky from the corner of his eye as he waits for a particular German soldier to chance emerging from the edge of the tank.
"On them having us here."
"I'd love to hear it. Can't think of a better time," Steve says, only slightly sarcastic.
Bucky glares at his friend, but continues nonetheless. "I guess I was a little apprehensive about coming out here, but now that I am, it seems to me this mission is a serious misuse of our valuableness as a military resource, especially you," Bucky grunts, spinning around with rifle reloaded. He continues to shoot, able to concentrate on the task at hand and have a conversation at the same time.
"Go on," Steve says, intrigued, using Bucky's re-emergence on the line to reload his own pistol.
"Well, by my way of thinkin', we're both a finely made instrument of warfare," Bucky explains with only a small smug smirk. "Meaning, get you inside Hitler's mansion, he doesn't stand a chance, and neither does his advisory party. Or, if you were to put me with this here sniper rifle anywhere up to and including one mile from Adolf Hitler, with a clear line of sight, the war would be over."
"I don't doubt that," Steve notes, ducking down as bullets fly toward him.
"If the entire resources of the United States Army were dedicated to one thing only, it should be putting this rifle on a rooftop smack-dab in the middle of Berlin and me at the other end, or letting you parachute straight into the Berlin Parliament building. I ain't one to question the decisions of the high, but this just seems like a waste of our God-given talents. 'Specially if I'm going to get my head blown off in the meantime."
"It ain't a waste, Buck," Steve argues. "We're helping the other soldiers."
"Well, no, it ain't. We're helping Caen and that. But takin' down Hydra seems more rewarding. At least for me. And it is a little reassuring knowing we are stopping another type of world domination that the average joe doesn't know about."
Steve thinks for a moment. "And do the rest of you feel similarly?" Steve calls to the other Commandos, most of whom had been listening to Bucky's rambling.
"Dernier doesn't mind what the mission is, long as he can blow something up," Jones notes, watching as the man in question stands momentarily, grenade in hand, and launches the explosive at a passing tank.
"I don't mind what we do as long as we don't get shot and killed," Morita mumbles.
"And I'm sure Dugan back home feels similarly," Monty adds.
Steve sighs, resisting rolling his eyes. "If only the others could gripe as well as you, Buck."
"I've had plenty of practice. But I guess that ain't really my job, is it, Stevie? I ain't here to kill Hitler single-handedly. I ain't even here to take down the Red Skull. I'm just here to keep a bunch of numb-nuts, including one frequently suicidal and tempter-of-fate Captain, from getting themselves killed."
"And don't you forget it, Serge," Morita adds.
"What about you, Stevie?" Bucky asks. "How do you feel about this?"
Steve pauses. He does agree with Bucky. While he'd always wanted to fight in the war like everyone else, his new mission has been taking down Hydra. He knows them fighting out here is helping the Allies progress toward victory, but he also can't shake the fear that if one of them was to get mortally wounded in this regular fighting, his team of Commandos to take down Hydra would be lessened in strength and ability, and he isn't sure where he could find another man to fill the gap when the team is already so formed and structured. Particularly if the person to get killed was himself, then there'd be no hope of stopping Hydra. But this is a part of his life now, to fight the enemy in whatever form it takes. So, if he and his men get sent by their commanding officers anywhere other than a Hydra facility, it's their duty to go, no matter how dangerous.
Instead, Steve says, "I don't gripe to you, Buck, I'm a Captain. There's a chain of command, and griping only goes up, never down. You gripe to me, I gripe to Phillips. How long have you been in the Army again?" Steve means it jokingly, though considering their ranks, it is technically true. Had Bucky not been Steve's friend, he likely never would have asked.
"Sure," Bucky allows, "but if you weren't my Captain, what would you say?"
Steve considers his response as he shoots at an advancing Kraut, hitting him square between the eyes. "In that case, I would say this is an excellent mission of valuable objective, worthy of our best efforts." Bucky rolls his eyes. Steve continues on with no signs of sarcasm. "It's just a few weeks of being in the field like everyone else, Buck. We've no leads on Hydra right now, so we may as well use our time valuably."
Bucky can barely argue with that. It doesn't look so good for the press if the world's most famous defensive platoon sits around a London base for weeks on end.
"In addition, as Morita mentioned earlier, Caen is famous for its lingerie and I'd hate to deny any of my men the opportunity to sample some of its finest products to see if they live up to their excellent reputation," Steve notes with a cheeky smile.
"Steve, your cheeks didn't even blush this time," Bucky says congratulatorily.
"Your humour must be growing on me, all of you," Steve smiles.
The two childhood friends stop talking, now that Bucky is satisfied. That's the thing about sergeants. Even if the plans aren't theirs', even if they don't agree with it, it's their job to put everything into action, and that's exactly what Bucky does and will always do, particularly for Steve. He assesses supplies, repopulates vacancies, soothes and disciplines rogue soldiers. The primary thing that makes the Commandos such a formidable force is first Steve's planning, and second Bucky's implementation. Bucky may complain or backchat, but it comes down to his comfortableness with Steve; if he'd been under any other Captain, there'd have been no argument. But generally, Bucky's problems with their orders generates from the one's given by those outside of the Commandos, not by Steve. His problem comes when their commanding officer fail to see the true potential of the Commandos and risk their safety on the mainstream fight.
Steve knows damn well that his men respect and follow him, but even with Steve's meticulous planning and research and triple-checking of intel, operations still go wrong. But things always worked out alright, sometimes even for the better, thanks to Bucky's scrambling to keep everything aligned, had Bucky not worried about clean socks or Isabel's medical kit being filled or the weather report or whether Gabe was paid back his loan to Dugan. Paperwork and politics comprised the greatest part of Steve's job, whilst Bucky saw to the men – their posts, letters, arguments, cigarettes, rations, mental health, physical health, happiness.
Because of this, from a distance, it certainly looked like Bucky and the Howling Commandos played while Steve worked. It looked like they spent their downtime playing poker games, drinking bourbon, reading pin-up magazines and attending dances at the Stork Club. But in doing that, Bucky knew his men inside and out, knew their strengths and weaknesses, their friendships and their abilities and their fears.
Bucky's a damn good sergeant, particularly to his men, and he's a damn good soldier on his own as well. So, he'll do as he's asked, at least this one more time, and he'll keep following Steve in whatever Steve decides to do. They aren't known for following orders, but if Steve decides to follow orders, then Bucky will too, and so, they get back to the fight.
There's still sounds of gunshots in the distance, but nowhere near as regularly as before. Just a bang here and an explosion there. Steve can only hope they're coming from the side of the Allies and not the Germans.
There's only ten or so men left in this area now, easy enough to take down. Steve could easily jump the fence and take them himself, but he isn't willing to risk it. They still have a long road ahead of them if they want to follow on to take Caen and he doesn't want to be injured.
The road is littered with bodies and blood, there's barely an inch of gravel visible. The remaining men are huddled down on the other side of the road behind a similar brick half-wall at the front of a house's yard. Steve can hear a few of them crying, and another praying. They just wait, now, for the men to emerge, to try to shoot, and then they'll take them down. Then suddenly–
"Grenade!" Falsworth yells from the other side of the yard as he sees the German throw it in a last-ditch attempt to take them down, and all of the Commandos scatter to the side. Bucky takes the moment to shoot the German who stood to throw it.
The explosive flies toward Steve and Bucky and over their heads, landing on the grass behind them, only a few feet away. Bucky will pay for shooting the man in that now he's out of time to run. He tucks himself into a ball, protecting his head, and just prays he'll make it out and curses his luck today.
But then, something hard and metallic smashes into Bucky and another body tucks itself around him. Steve's acted with impossible reflexes to prop the shield up in front of them both and wrap himself around Bucky, hoping the shield with take the majority of the damage.
The explosion detonates. The heat is unbearable, but they don't have to suffer through it for more than a second. It turns out the shield doesn't absorb all of the impact, considering the both of them are sticking out slightly on each side. The force of the explosion slams them both back against the brick wall with enough power to knock the wall over and into rubble, spilling them out onto the road. They skid across the gravel and over the fallen bodies, but Steve takes most of the impact with Bucky tucked against him, and his suit means he gets no gravel rash. They come to a stop in the middle of the road, unprotected.
Steve hurriedly throws Bucky off onto the ground in his haste to stand and protect them both. Bucky groans as he struggles to his feet while Steve rushes toward the remaining men who cower behind the fences. Steve clears the fence easily and lands in front of them. He slams the shield down into their heads and shoots the rest with his pistol, wiping them out in less than ten seconds and before any of them can ever fathom to shoot back.
Steve walks over just as Bucky's getting off the ground. Steve hurries around him in a circle to check for injuries, but apart from a bit of singing on the back of his uniform and maybe some bruising from going through the wall, Bucky's fine.
Bucky wipes the rubble and dust from his arms and shoulders roughly, frowning. "This hasn't been a very good start to my day."
Once the coast is clear, the Commandos make their way through the streets of the Villers-Bocage. It's nearly dead silent and incredibly eerie. There's no movement anywhere, not even the rustle of fallen leaves in the wind or the sound of gunshots in the distance. The town seems to have been purged of life.
They walk down the main road back to the street where the infantry had stopped to make camp. As they near closer, they can hear voices, and gratefully, they're speaking with British accents. There aren't as many voices, though, as Steve would have hoped.
The men round the corner of a building slowly with their hands raised in surrender, rifles slung over their shoulders. At the sound of their footsteps, thirty or so British soldiers turn toward them, a few with pistols raised. They immediately drop them when they realise who it is.
"Captain Rogers," Sergeant Anderson greets, hurrying over to meet them and saluting Steve. He looks dishevelled and stressed, his eyes dark. "We thought you'd been ambushed."
"Not quite," Steve says. "We witnessed the German soldiers coming this way. We kind of ambushed some of them."
"That's a little more than I can say for here," Anderson says, turning to survey the scene.
Steve and the others take a better look, then, and see that the streets are littered with the bodies of the rest of the Germans the Commandos hadn't fought, but also a lot of British soldiers. Most of them have been killed right where they'd been sitting and relaxing, cups of tea spilled from their hands, rifles still in pieces where they'd been cleaning them, bags still open where they'd been rifling through searching for their possessions.
"We didn't even see them coming. One second, it's dead silent. Next, they're running around the corner shooting us up. Most of the men didn't even have time to pick up their guns," Anderson explains. "Those furthest away from the ambush hurried to shelter and fought back, valiantly, I might add. We managed to take them all down, and their tanks." Anderson points to the tanks, one of which is on fire down the road, the others with broken wheels and smoking engines.
"How many of us are left?" Steve asks quietly.
The men remaining look dishevelled and hollow, their eyes widened permanently and their hands shaking. Some of them are collected up dog tags from the dead.
"By my last count, thirty-four in fighting shape," Anderson says, surveying his remaining troop. "There were fifteen wounded that the medics are attending to, but they'll get a section eight, if any of them make it. The rest were killed instantly."
Morita hurries off to the medics shelter that's been set up inside an abandoned shopfront down the road, his medic pack in hand.
"The rest of the division?" Bucky asks.
"Haven't arrived yet, thankfully. When they get here, we'll be about four-hundred strong," Anderson explains.
"Is that enough to continue on to Caen?" Steve inquires.
"Should be, sir," Anderson contemplates. "We won't be the only infantry going. Most infantries have managed to catch up to us. The assault will be happening from all sides of the city. And with you coming with us," Anderson continues, looking Steve up and down, particularly the star on his chest. "Well, we might just about be able to do it. You are coming, Captain?"
Steve shares a look with Bucky, who raises his eyebrows and shrugs, apparently convinced of their valuableness in this particular mission. Steve turns back to Anderson, who's eyes have filled with a slight amount of hope.
"We're in."
Once the remains of the division catch up, the four-hundred strong infantry begin the march toward Caen. They are instructed to walk as the trucks will cause too much noise and possibly give away their position. The men grumble and drag their feet as they stomp through the countryside, but at the same time they count their lucky stars that they were the ones to survive the earlier ambush.
By nightfall, the division takes refuge in a small town on the riverfront, so small it wasn't even on the maps. It's abandoned for the Normandy Landings, the town evacuated of all people in the days before. Everything is as how the people left it – cars still litter the streets, there's a smell of freshly-baked bread from the bakery on the main street lingering in the air, children's toys still lie abandoned on the front lawns.
The rest of the infantry ransack the bakery for food that hasn't expired, taking the slightly stale bread, and eat it along with their rations. They eventually move into people's living rooms to spend the night in some form of comfort and protection, the walls providing warmth and the couches a welcome change from sleeping on the cold, dewy grass.
Steve and his men bivouac in the ruins of a medieval church in the heart of the city. It still has a roof, albeit missing a few sections, and some of the walls are crumbling and the floor is a little questionable, the entire building leaning slightly to the right. The stain glass window has broken, allowing them to see the moon through the gap. Still, the church will provide enough shelter for them to spend the night.
Jones and Dernier stay behind on the streets for a while after the other men retire and return later once the sun has fully set and darkness has fallen over the town. They come with loaves of bread in hand and drop the stale blocks onto one of the sleeping bags laid out in the middle of the circle the men have made with their other sleeping bags.
Steve looks a little disapproving of them stealing the bread. Jones spreads his hands in surrender. "They'll only go to waste, Cap. Look, they're already stale and this one's even got a bit of mould on it already," he reasons, picking up said loaf and pulling off the piece with the small black spot on it. "Go on, eat it. The bread will fill us up."
The men all pick up a small loaf, since they've scavenged enough for one each. They eat in near silence, pairing the bread with their rations for a rather hearty meal that fills them up, just as Gabe had promised. Within minutes of finishing, the men are climbing into their sleeping bags and falling asleep, exhausted from their day of fighting and walking and being on guard. They've got an extremely early start in the morning, with the Sergeant wanting them on the road by 0600 hours. If they sleep now, they'll get a full six hours, a luxury for life on the front.
Bucky stays awake a while longer, carefully peeling the bandages off his arm. There's a small amount of blood staining the white, but when he removes the last layers, he finds the wound entirely healed, not that it had been very deep, replaced by a small red scar that will fade white by morning. He checks out his other bruising too, a small amount on his back, before lying down in his sleeping bag and closing his eyes.
While they sleep, Steve stays on guard. He gets out the maps and sits in the glow of his flashlight, studying the route and the towns and the lines he's drawn on it to show their intended strategies. After a while, however, Steve gets tired of it all and his eyes begin to sting. He rubs them, trying to rub away the tiredness, but it does no good.
He puts down the maps and instead, he gets out his compass, not to check their direction but to see Isabel's glowing smile looking up at him from the image inside. Steve finds himself smiling. He wishes he could talk to her, since it's been nine days since he's seen her. If only he could phone her or write her a letter and get the response straight away. He sighs and closes the compass, putting it back in his pocket. It's only making him sad.
Unbeknownst to Steve, Bucky is still awake. He lies in his sleeping back near Steve, watching him.
"You wish you could talk to her, right?" Bucky notes, breaking the silence.
Steve jumps a mile out of his skin. "Jesus, Buck! I thought you were asleep."
"Nope," Bucky says. He turns onto his back and crosses his arms under his head, looking up at the ceiling and the open hole that reveals the full moon above them. "I wish I could talk to Peg, too," he confides. "Miss her when we're apart. I can only pray she misses me the same amount. Or maybe I'm just a little sad."
"She misses you," Steve promises. "How could she not?"
"Yeah, alright," Bucky scoffs.
Steve looks over beside Bucky where his pack lies and notices some unopened letters that slightly stick out. Steve squints and just visible, he can see Winifred's handwriting.
"You ever going to open those letters, Buck?" Steve asks conversationally, looking back to the maps.
"Maybe."
"It's not normal, not reading letters from home," Steve pushes.
Bucky scoffs again. "Since when have things been normal?"
Steve huffs out a laugh. "You got me." He pauses then, and they lapse into a comfortable silence. "Are you afraid of bad news?"
"Nope, it's not that. I just… I don't open any new letters when I'm on a mission. I keep them in my pack where I can see them all the time, to remind me that there's someone in the world that's waiting for me. I wait until we get back to safety before I open them. It gives me an extra incentive to get back in one piece," Bucky explains. "And also, to not lose my pack."
"I thought the food in there would've been enough," Steve jokes.
"Hmm, touché." Bucky pauses for a moment. "You know, I was thinking. I got my unopened letters, you got your compass, but I heard about another tradition to make sure soldiers get home."
"What's that?" Steve asks curiously.
"Well, you can't die if you're wearing the wrong dog tags."
Steve looks at Bucky incredulously. "You can't swap dog tags. What if something happens?"
"That's the point, you don't let anything happen to you." Steve searches Bucky's eyes a moment, and he can tell Bucky is part-joking, part-superstitious, part-something else Steve can't name. "Come on, Rogers, trade with me," Bucky asks, untangling his silver dog tags from around his neck.
Steve hesitates before taking the tags from Bucky, looking at them a moment. Then, he unwraps his dog tags from his own neck and hands them over, putting Bucky's over his head and tucking it into his suit. It's a silent promise to each other that they'll make it back safely every time. Bucky's dog tags seem heavy against Steve's chest, but he feels somehow stronger, safer and braver.
Bucky looks satisfied, fiddling with the dog tags where they lie under his uniform. Bucky looks around at the men, then, most of them sleeping with mouths open. "You think they'll be alright?"
Steve looks up again from where he'd taken refuge in the maps. He looks at the men, and then turns his contemplative frown on Bucky, searching for something in his friend's eyes. "They're fine," Steve promises. "As long as they can gripe and duck and shoot, they'll be alright."
Bucky hesitates. "And what about you?"
Steve considers the question. "I'm fine, Buck. Of course, I am." He pauses. "What is this about?"
"Just making sure," Bucky says quietly.
"What about you then, Buck?" Steve asks carefully.
Steve watches as Bucky considers the question, frowns, and then looks away from Steve, staring back up at the rotting wood beams of the ceiling. "These guys wouldn't have been able to hold out until battalion showed up back in Villers-Bocage if we hadn't been there," Bucky says instead.
"Nope," Steve agrees. "Likely not."
"And taking Caen, they'll need all the strength they can get. Command wouldn't let them withdraw and the Germans sure as hell wouldn't let them surrender."
"Three for three," Steve says with a smile.
"If we stay, we'll make up the difference," Bucky nearly whispers.
Steve turns to face Bucky, frowning at him slightly. "You don't still think this is a waste of our God-given talents?" Steve asks, only slightly jokingly.
Bucky makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and another scoff. "Kind of think it all is. I was a pretty good hand at working at the docks, too."
Steve laughs. "And I was a pretty good artist," he agrees. There's a beat of silence. "Get some sleep, Buck. We got a long day tomorrow."
"Sure thing, Cap'n," Bucky says with a mock salute, rolling over in his sleeping bag to face away from Steve. "Night, Steve," he says, quieter this time.
"Night, Buck."