Hello everyone! Thanks for your patience as I switch to a slower posting schedule. I will try to update every two weeks...which should be easier now that I'm done with my work for Denver Comic Con! Have I mentioned I'm going to Denver Comic Con? Because I am. Going to Denver Comic Con.

Also, I made some edits to the French in Chapter 14 thanks to comments from Aleera GiacoRavenne. Thanks for the help!

Warning: This chapter is 99.9% fluff.

Chapter 16 - December 20, 1943 - Falsworth Manor, Devon

Falsworth Manor was like something out of a storybook - outside, all gray stone turrets and chimneys at the end of a long gravel drive; inside, a picture of comfortable opulence: Persian rugs and Chinese vases, richly upholstered couches and cozy fireplaces. Lieutenant Falsworth had lent the use of his family's manor to the Strategic Scientific Reserve as a base of operations - it was secluded, surrounded by acres of well-tended parkland; practically unoccupied, since both his sisters lived overseas; with good access to the coast and plenty of space for everyone to work and plan.

"So, do all you Brits have manors?" Bucky asked Peggy one morning, as they sat at the breakfast table. Stevie punched him in the arm.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"Don't be rude!"

"You probably won't believe it," Peggy replied, spooning jam onto a scone, "but my family's house is a drafty old pile compared to this. Montgomery is an earl, and my father is a mere baronet."

"Yeah, I'm not even gonna pretend I know what that means," Bucky said.

"If your father's a baronet, what does that make you?" Stevie asked. "A baronet-ess?"

"Well, since my father and I aren't exactly on speaking terms," she sighed. "It makes me absolutely nothing."

"Well, look who finally rolled out of bed."

Colonel Phillips stood in the doorway to the breakfast room, incongruously dainty white china coffee cup in his wrinkled paw of a hand.

"It's seven-thirty, sir." Stevie said.

"Exactly. What do you think this is, a vacation? We have a strategy session. Look alive!"

"Yes sir!"

The strategy session lasted all morning and into the afternoon. According to representatives of the Bad Eyes Brigade, Hydra had infiltrated Nazi operations in Belgium, redirecting shipments of arms and goods to their own bases. The Colonel, Stevie and The Howling Commandos had spent hours bent over a large map, using chess pieces and poker chips to represent enemy units, debating the best points of ambush - where and how to intercept and sabotage supply lines. They adjourned only as the evening sun began to fill the room with slanting shadows.

It was only about an hour or two before dinner, and Stevie was pacing the corridors aimlessly, keyed-up and restless, when she turned a corner and found a massive, carved door in front of her, set into a stone arch, incongruously large and weathered, its black iron handle shaped like a lion's head.

"Mysterious, isn't it?" Falsworth had slipped up on her noiselessly. "If this were a fairy story, there would be a magical kingdom behind that door."

Despite a day spent in the study, hunched over and squinting at cargo manifests, the Lieutenant was as polished as ever, back straight, mustache trimmed, black hair combed back, ascot tied and red beret tilted just so.

"And what is behind the door, Lieutenant?" Stevie asked.

Falsworth replied with an enigmatic smile.

With a low creak, the door opened into a high-ceilinged room lined with bookshelves. Banks of narrow, arched windows filled the space with golden light. Carved heraldic beasts looked down from the roof beams - wyverns, griffins and stranger things.

"This room was built in the thirteenth century," Falsworth said in his soft voice. "It used to be a chapel on the old manor's grounds; it pre-exists the rest of the house."

Stevie gaped, wide-eyed with amazement. Everywhere she looked there was a new treasure - a tourney shield, black and yellow with three white birds; a pair of crossed battle axes; a suit of half-plate armor; and...

"Is that a cannon?"

"From the Spanish Armada, apparently. One of my ancestors sailed with Francis Drake, or, so goes the legend."

It squatted there in a slice of sunlight on a cart of wood and brass; heavy and black, pitted from where spots of rust had been scrubbed away. Stevie laid her hand on its rough surface, imagining the heaving deck of a Spanish galleon, the captain shouting orders to his gunners, the sulfurous stench of black powder.

"As a boy," Falsworth continued, "I would climb all over that cannon, pretending I was a privateer - no matter how much my father told me not to."

Normally, it would have been hard to imagine the reserved Lieutenant Falsworth as a playful child, but, Stevie thought she could see a shadow of the boy's mischievous grin.

"I don't blame you," she said.

There was a moment of companionable silence, and then Falsworth took a breath and squared his shoulders, as if steeling himself for something unpleasant.

"I have a confession to make, Captain," he said. His arms were behind his back, eyes front, not looking Stevie in the face.

"I have not been entirely honest with you, or with the team. I work for the Special Operations Executive. My membership in the 3rd Independent Parachute Brigade is a cover. My true mission has been to conduct espionage, sabotage and reconnaissance behind enemy lines. I…"

And here he faltered, for the first time. His eyes flickered to her, to the floor, back to a point on the wall behind her.

"I've been reporting on you, sir. To my superiors, in London."

Falsworth was...a spy?

"But," Stevie said. "We're allies. Why would they want you to...report on me?"

"Due to the nature of your...condition...MI6 viewed you as a potential threat to the Commonwealth."

A threat? Stevie had the sudden sense of dislocation, of seeing herself from the outside. If Dr. Erskine had been Russian, and project Rebirth made a Soviet super-soldier - wouldn't she have been afraid?

Falsworth spoke again, brow furrowed, soft voice full of conviction. "These are views that I do not share. I have asked to be released from my assignment and my superiors have agreed. If…" he paused for a moment. "If you wish to expel me from the team…"

"Don't be ridiculous, Lieutenant."

He looked right at her, for the first time, blue eyes large with surprise. "Captain…"

"You love your country and you want to protect it. How can I blame you for that?"

It was what she wanted to do herself - Ma Barnes, Sal and Doris, the beautiful wilderness she had watched from the train, every little corner deli in Brooklyn - she wanted to gather them all up and keep them in a box somewhere safe, untouched by fear and pain.

"Will you tell the...the others?" He said stiffly. If she did, it would never be the same. Would it disappear, that special combination, that camaraderie that made them so effective?

"I don't think there's a reason to," she said. "Do you, Lieutenant?"

Falsworth shook his head.

"Thank you, sir. Thank you for your trust in me. I won't let you down."

It seemed absurd for a man who was ten years older than her if he was a day to say that, but Stevie nodded seriously anyway.

"I know you won't," she replied. "Now...I heard a rumor that you're planning a Christmas party?"

Falsworth snapped back to his normal self like someone had flipped a switch - the slight smile, the air of a gracious host.

"Why yes...Actually, we were hoping to ask your help with decorations, if you don't mind. But you'll have to swear to absolute secrecy."

Stevie held up her right hand. "Scout's honor."

December 25, 1943

"What do you think?"

Stevie looked at herself in the mirror. The dress was a silky dark blue, with a full, knee-length skirt. Lieutenant Falsworth's servants must have made or altered it especially for her - from what, Stevie had no idea. She had trouble getting her hands on decent fabric back in Brooklyn. Her hair was growing out rapidly - already it was almost down to her shoulders, done up in pin curls and accented with a white silk flower. Behind her, Peggy had a figure-hugging, crimson dress that matched her lipstick and her nails. Her eyes were sultry and black-outlined.

"Well," said Stevie, turning from side to side, watching the skirt flare out around her knees. "It's not very...Captain-ly. Are you sure I can't wear my uniform?"

In the mirror, Peggy made a face.

"All right, all right." Stevie sat on the edge of the bed. "The shoes are too tight, though."

"You can kick them off when things really get going," Peggy said, sitting next to her and flopping backward,brown hair fanning out around her face.

"Peggy…" Stevie began. "A while ago you mentioned you and your father not being on 'speaking terms'..."

Peggy sighed. "He didn't agree with my choice of careers. Mother always goes along with him, so…" She trailed off and kicked her feet for a bit, giving Stevie time to feel embarrassed for prying.

"I have a younger brother, you know. Toddy - Theodore. He's in the Pacific Fleet. After the war is over, he'll get the title and the house, and I'll…" Peggy shrugged.

"Become a telephone operator in Newark, obviously," Stevie said.

Peggy smiled. "And have you given any thought to what you'll do after the war? When you go back home to beautiful Brooklyn?"

Stevie hadn't. War wasn't very romantic in real life. The last three months had been dirty, dangerous, cold and unpleasant. But all the same, she felt like she was living a dream. She was half afraid she'd wake up at the end of the war and be back to her old 90-pound self.

"No dreams of settling down with a certain someone?" Peggy asked.

"What? Howard?" Stevie said. "Can you see me throwing dinner parties? Besides, you're the one who told me he wasn't the 'settling down' type."

After Stevie's blurted confession, Peggy had given her a rather embarrassing set of carefully-worded cautions about Stark's reputation.

"Hmmm," Peggy raised an eyebrow. "About that, I've been thinking, and I've never seen him look so serious. Well, except when he's working on that flying car of his. He's on his best behavior around you."

"That's his best behavior?"

"You know, he put the moves on me once," Peggy said. "In London, when we first met. I threw him in the Thames."

Stevie laughed.

"I'm not planning on 'settling down' with Howard Stark," She said. She lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling next to Peggy. "Maybe we could be telephone operators together."

"Two single girls, sharing a flat."

"Breaking hearts."

"Answering phones."

"What are we talking about!" Stevie said. "We're war heroes! We'll walk into whatever job we want and make them hire us!"

"That's the spirit," In the corridor, a gong sounded. Peggy stood up gracefully and smoothed her dress. "And now, it's time to go down to dinner. Shall we?" She offered Stevie her arm.

"But of course."

Christmas dinner 1942 had been a humble affair. There wasn't much sugar, butter or fruit for cakes and sweets, and Stevie, Bucky and Mrs. Barnes had pooled their meat ration for a week to buy a decent-sized chicken. Real trees were scarce, and they didn't have the money for an artificial one, so Stevie had wheedled a roll of paper from the butcher and painted a tree on it with watercolors, big enough to fill a wall.

Christmas dinner 1943 was very different. Everyone, from Colonel Phillips down to Howard Stark's perpetually frazzled assistants, ate at one long table, bedecked with holly and silver candlesticks. There were buttery roast potatoes and parsnips, a chestnut stuffing fragrant with thyme and sage. Everyone had a little tube of colored paper on their plate that Peggy called a "Christmas cracker" - when Stevie and Peggy pulled on the ends it popped apart, releasing a paper crown, a celluloid cowboy, and an extremely bad joke. Stevie made Bucky help with hers, and, after enough pleading, even got him to wear the crown for a bit.

Stevie felt like she was at the center of a warm bubble of light. The clinking of plates and silverware and the buzz of happy conversation washed all around her. She counted at least ten roast birds of different sizes - when she asked where they got them all, Falsworth said his gamekeepers had hunted them right there on the grounds. Apparently, the manor also grew its own fruit, and for dessert there were sweet, flaky pastries filled with homemade blackberry jam. When dinner wrapped up they dimmed the lights and brought in a huge steamed pudding wreathed in blue flames, to the surprise and delight of the American guests. Falsworth smiled like a proud father as they oohed and aahed - a man accustomed to solitude, happy to finally play host.

They adjourned to the Great Hall for drinks, only to be brought up short by the sight of the tree - a massive fir, perhaps fifteen feet high. It glittered with tinsel, blown-glass baubles, and strings and strings of fairy lights.

"You did this, didn't you?" Peggy said. "And never breathed a word."

Stevie had, in fact, helped Falsworth and the groundskeepers haul the tree in, even helped decorate it, balanced on a teetering ladder, as Falsworth called directions up to her.

"Falsworth swore me to secrecy," Stevie replied.

"Well, well, well…"

Stark sauntered over to them. Where all the men were in uniform, he wore his tuxedo - sleek and black as a raven's feathers, with his habitual red carnation boutonniere. He had been on the opposite side of the table all evening, and they hadn't had a chance to talk.

In their month at the manor, Stevie and Stark had taken a few walks, had a few lunches together. They were too busy for much else. He had talked about his childhood on the Lower East Side, playing stickball in the street with the neighborhood kids, his father who sold fruit, his mother who sewed shirts. He hadn't kissed her again, not since their date in the lab. That thought reminded Stevie of another kiss entirely, and she felt herself blushing.

"The band's playing my song." Stark gestured over towards the piano where Jones was happily ensconced. "Would you like to dance, Captain?"

"I can't dance." Stevie said quickly. Stark raised an eyebrow.

"You can't dance?" He asked. "You? Sergeant Dugan told me that at Kreichsberg he saw you leap into the air and kick two men in the face simultaneously. He was moved; there were tears in his eyes. And you can't dance?"

"Dancing has...rules," Stevie said. "There aren't any rules for kicking someone in the face."

"It's easy," Stark said, putting a hand lightly on her elbow. "I can teach you how."

"I don't want to stomp all over your nice shoes," Stevie said, stepping back and nudging Peggy forward. "Why don't you two show me how it's done?"

Peggy gave Stevie a quizzical look, but she let Stark escort her to an open space on the floor. Stevie took a flute of champagne from a servant with a tray and joined Falsworth, Morita and Dernier where they sat on overstuffed couches and chairs. The irony of the whole situation, Stevie thought as she sipped, bubbles tickling her nose, was that Bucky didn't remember anything about the kiss. So he got to go on like nothing had happened, while she was blushing and stammering. And he was the one who caused the problem in the first place!

Where is Bucky anyway?

Peggy and Stark were flinging each other around the floor - all energetic spins and kicks. As the music got faster, the dance became more dramatic, until Stark tossed Peggy into the air, caught her, and flipped her over his back without missing a beat. The spectators on the couch cheered.

"Wow," Stevie said. "Peggy sure can dance, can't she?"

"And she fights like a demon," Dernier said, in heavily accented English, raising his glass in her direction.

"I'm not surprised," Stevie murmured.

"Talking about me?" Stark said, flopping down heavily next to Stevie and taking her champagne glass.

"We were talking about your dance partner, actually," Stevie snatched the glass just as he raised it to his lips.

"Ah yes, the second most beautiful member of the Howling Commandos," Stark said, raising an eyebrow in Stevie's direction.

"Second?" Peggy said. "I'm hurt."

"I'm first, obviously," Jones said, pulling over a chair and sitting with chin resting on the back. "Don't take it too hard, Peg."

"Now that the gang's all here," Stark said. "There's something I've been wondering. How did you come up with the name 'Howling Commandos'? Sounds like there's a story behind that."

"Oh, there's a story," Jones said. "And it's all thanks to this fine gentleman, here." He pointed at Dugan, who was returning from a sideboard with a bottle of golden liquor. He took a long swig and sighed with pleasure.

"Ahh - that's the stuff. Prime Kentucky bourbon. Surprised a limey like you has any in stock, Union Jack," Dugan said, indicating Lieutenant Falsworth.

"Well, once you're done with it, I'm sure I won't," the Lieutenant responded. "And...Union Jack?"

"It's a nickname," Dugan replied, pointing at each of them in turn. "Union Jack, Giggling Gabe Jones, Frenchy…"

"Oh, big surprise there," Morita said.

"Quiet, Fresno."

"Fresno? That's the best you could come up with?"

"And…" Dugan doffed his bowler hat to Peggy. "The lovely...Miss...Union Jack."

Peggy laughed. "No."

"I don't get a nickname?" Stevie asked.

"You've already got one," Dugan said, and the Commandos added, in unison, "Captain America."

"Oh, right."

"So...the Howling Commandos?" Stark prompted.

"Right!" Dugan said, pausing to take another drink before he continued. "I was getting to that. So…"

"There we were, duking it out, fighting for our lives," Jones jumped in, leaving Dugan with his mouth open. "When we heard the most blood-curdling, horrific shrieking."

"I thought it was a banshee," Peggy added.

"I thought it was a stuck pig," Jones continued. "And then we saw it." He started to laugh. "A tank, bumping along…"

"With the good Sergeant's head sticking out of it, bellowing for all he was worth," Peggy said.

Dernier, his command of English apparently not enough to describe the event, waved his hand up and down to illustrate the progress of the tank, and, presumably, Sergeant Dugan's head.

"That bowler hat…" Jones said,and dissolved into laughter again.

"I was shooting the cannon," Dugan said defensively.

"Now imagine being in the cockpit with him," Falsworth said with a grimace. "I thought I'd be deafened for life."

"I really liked that cannon."

"I can't believe you never told me that," Stevie said.

"Yeah, well I wish you hadn't," Morita added. "I used to think the nickname was tough, strong...Now that I know it's based on that idiot it feels kind of stupid."

"Oh like you're so cool, just because you're from California…" Dugan snapped his fingers suddenly. "The California Kid!"

"No!"

The party proceeded well. Peggy played Christmas carols on the piano until Jones took his seat back to play some "real music." Stark made an excuse and disappeared somewhere. Peggy danced with the Colonel, who wore the gold paper crown from his Christmas cracker, askew on his graying head. Dugan pulled a protesting Stevie to her feet and led her in a lumbering two-step in which they both stepped on each other's feet equally. Bucky finally came in from wherever he'd been hiding, cheeks red from the cold, to see Falsworth dancing the foxtrot with Jim Morita, while Stevie and Dugan, laughing, tripped over each other as each one tried to lead.

"I leave for a second…" he muttered.

Stark picked that moment to make a grand entrance, ringing the dinner gong that he had somehow persuaded two footmen to haul down from the corridor.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he called out, handing the mallet to one of the footmen. "Your attention please!"

The music stopped, the dancers stopped. Stark looked smug and satisfied, as he usually did when he was the center of attention.

"Christmas is a time of fellowship and good cheer, and we thank Lieutenant Falsworth for his hospitality and the use of his wonderful home…"

"Get on with it!" Dugan shouted.

"But Christmas is also a time for gifts!" Stark continued, ignoring the interruption. "And, if you'll follow me, I have a gift for the men - and women - of the hour - the Howling Commandos!"

With shrugs and muttered questions, they followed Stark out the front door, to where a lumpy, cloaked shape sat on the gravel drive. Stark moved to stand behind it, as everyone else shivered because they hadn't brought out their coats.

"I said this gift was for all the Howling Commandos," Stark said. "But that wasn't entirely true. Really, it's for their fearless leader." He winked at Stevie. "Hope you like it, Captain."

"Wrap it up, Stark," the Colonel said. "I'm not getting any younger."

Stark threw back the sheet with a flourish. The motorcycle gleamed in the moonlight, and, in spite of themselves, the assembled Commandos made a collective murmur of surprise. It looked muscular, powerful, unlike any other motorcycle Stevie had ever seen. She stepped forward and touched the seat, almost surprised it didn't move under her hand like a living thing.

"Hello, handsome," Peggy said, behind her.

"The base is derived from…" Stark began.

"A Harley-Davidson WL," Stevie interrupted. You didn't grow up with Bucky - or with her father for that matter - without learning a thing or two about motorcycles.

"Good old American engineering," Dugan said, raising his bottle of bourbon.

"Of course, I've made a few...alterations," Stark continued, regaining control of the conversation.

"Gatling guns here, here, and here," he pointed. "This is a magnetic grappling hook, this dispenses caltrops...and this, I'm especially proud of. If you'd all stand back…"

He pressed a few controls in the handlebars and twin jets of orange flame shot from two barrels near the bike's headlight.

"Flamethrower," he said, as the Commandos clapped. Even Bucky looked grudgingly appreciative.

Stevie felt like she should say something. "Thank you, Howard. He's beautiful."

"He?" Stark asked.

"Of course," said Peggy, stepping around the bike, running her hand over the white star painted on the side. "Strong, handsome fellow that he is. I think he looks like a Valentino, what do you think, Captain?"

"Valentino?" Stevie shook her head. "No. He's definitely a Flynn."

"Of course, a dashing adventurer."

"Want to take...him...for a spin?" Howard asked.

What with Bucky and her father both working as mechanics, Stevie had been around motorcycles most of her life. She had pestered Bucky to teach her how to drive one, but she'd never been big enough, or strong enough, to ride by herself. Until now.

"Oh, yes," she said, kicking off her too-tight heels and throwing her leg over the bike, cold forgotten. With her bare heel, she stepped on the kickstarter and grinned as it roared to life.

"Ready to go?" She said. Howard took a step toward her, but she turned and held out her hand to Peggy. "Agent Carter?"

"Don't mind if I do!" Peggy hiked her skirt up and sat behind Stevie, arms around her waist. Stevie flipped up the kickstand with her foot, and, with a twist of the throttle, they peeled out down the drive, spitting gravel behind them, laughing as the cold wind stung their faces.

December 26 - Bucky

In the silence of the morning, Bucky's breath and the crunch of his boots on the snow were the only sounds. A nightmare had awakened him just before dawn. No hope of getting back to sleep, but walking the grounds always helped him calm down. He found a stone bench next to a dry fountain and sat, the steam of his breath mixing with the smoke from his cigarette. The cold of the bench soaked up into his thighs, and he tucked his hands into his sleeves to try to keep them warm. As the sky filled with pale, pre-dawn light, Bucky's thoughts circled back to the previous night.

These days, crowds made him uneasy, so he'd slipped out after Christmas dinner. He'd been on the terrace, leaning against the stone rail when he'd heard the footsteps behind him.

"Got a light?" Stark had asked, behind him. His hair was disheveled, his bow tie undone.

"Not for you," Bucky said, solitude ruined. He made to push past the other man, but Stark took his arm in a surprisingly strong grip.

"Hold on a minute…"

"Get your hand off me, Stark, or you'll be hunting for your teeth."

Stark released him and held up with hands innocently.

"I know you don't like me, Barnes…" Bucky snorted at the understatement. "But I'm here to give you some friendly advice."

"Oh, yeah? And what would that be?"

Stark's smile was gone. "Tell her."

Whatever Bucky had been expecting, it hadn't been that. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Bullshit," Stark said. "That big brother act might fool everyone else, but it doesn't fool me. I'm telling you - man to man - tell the Captain how you feel. Because I'm not going to wait for you before I make my move."

"Make your move?" Bucky felt his jaw spasm. He took a step toward Stark, glared at him. To his credit, the man didn't back down. "If you hurt her, Stark, if you break her heart…"

"You'll break my legs, I know the drill," Stark said lightly. "There's no need for theatrics. I have no plans to break her heart."

"What, you're gonna bring her home?" Bucky said incredulously. "You gonna marry her?"

"Why not? You don't think she's worth it?"

Bucky went from hot anger to cold fury. The only thing that stopped him from hitting Stark right in his stupid face was the knowledge that Stevie would be disappointed. For his own part, Stark's grin had snapped back into place like a domino mask.

"Remember what I said. Merry Christmas, Barnes."

He heard her, before he saw her - a pair of heavy boots tromping along the way he had come.

"I'm always following you around these days," Stevie said, brushing the light dusting of snow from the bench to sit next to him. Her nose and cheeks were red, her hair, much longer already than it had been, tied back in a stubby and hurried braid.

"Well, I've been following you all over Europe for over a month. It's only fair."

"Touché," she said.

"So." He said. "You with Stark, now?"

She bristled. "You spent the better part of eight years setting me up on blind dates that went precisely nowhere. And now that I'm actually having fun with somebody you're upset?"

"It's not you being with somebody, it's him," Bucky said. This was all going wrong. He shouldn't be arguing with his best friend the day after Christmas.

"Ok, so who can I be with?" Stevie said. "Who meets your standards? Falsworth? Dugan? Colonel Phillips? Who?"

Me. Bucky thought. You could be with me.

He almost said it out loud, but then he remembered. He had already told her how he felt in the clearest way he knew, and she had let him down easy. How ironic - notorious ladies' man Bucky Barnes getting turned down by someone the girls in school had called "The Dateless Wonder." At that moment Bucky realized, bitterly, that he was a coward. He didn't want Stevie to reject him again, to tell him to his face that she preferred Howard Stark. He'd rather keep pretending that everything was still the same, the way he had done after that botched proposal on the landing, the day of her father's funeral. So he just stared at the fountain, a merman with snow in his hair, blowing a trumpet that made no sound.

"So," Stevie said, after a few seconds of less-than-comfortable silence. "There was a reason I followed you. Besides arguing with you, as much as I enjoy that."

She pulled a thick manila envelope out of her jacket and handed it to him. Bucky tore it open and tipped out the contents - bright, four-color comic books.

"Marvel Mystery, All Winners...Action Comics #64!" He laughed, a genuine laugh, the first in what felt like months.

"That one is Superman vs Toyman," Stevie added. "You've been missing issues since you left...I got in touch with some people, sent some telegrams, pulled some strings..." She shrugged and trailed off.

"That's incredible...Wait...some clown wrote on this one…" Bucky looked closer. Someone had written on the advertisement on the back cover in pen, who…? Then he noticed what it said.

Dear James,

I won't say you were my best student, but you were certainly one of the most memorable. You were always a brave boy, and you've grown up into a fine young man. We all wish you the best.

Mrs. Jenkins

There were notes on all of the comics - written on top of ads and in the margins of letters to the editor. Notes from old school friends, teachers - even a terse "Give 'em hell, Barnes" from Johnny Shotsman, of all people, who he had beat up more times than anyone else. He read them all. The last one was from his mother.

"Sorry I didn't get a chance to give them to you yesterday," Stevie said.

"No, it's great," Bucky cleared his throat and slid the comics back into the envelope, setting it carefully on the stone bench beside him. "I have something for you, too."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, white stone.

"A rock," Stevie said. "Thanks?"

"That isn't just any rock," Bucky said. "That's from an actual temple, from the Valley of the Temples, in Sicily."

He'd had a little time, after the initial push, when the fighting had calmed down. He knew Stevie would never have forgiven him for being within arm's reach of real Greek temples without seeing them - so he'd paid a local in chocolate and cigarettes to take him to the Valley of the Temples, which had turned out to be a steep ridge and not a valley at all. After he skinned his knees a few times scrambling up the slopes, Bucky had been almost disappointed - many of the temples were just weathered columns and almost-unrecognizable statues. But there was one temple, standing on the very top of the mountain, still tall and proud and almost perfect. Even he could imagine what it must have looked like, 2,500 years ago, shining with the light of hundreds of torches. He had taken the rock from the base of a column, a loose corner of stone that he'd been able to break off in his hand, and he'd been carrying it around in his pocket ever since, planning to give it to Stevie when he came home. Before she came to get it herself.

"They told me it was the temple of Concord. Real Greeks built that temple. Romans went there. For all you know, Cicero spat on that rock you're holding." Stevie was staring at it, turning it over in her hands. It was just pitted limestone, but she handled it like a diamond. Bucky ran his hand through his hair, embarrassed. "It isn't much compared to a motorcycle…"

"It's perfect," Stevie said, beaming. "I love it."

She tucked it into her pocket, and then, before Bucky knew what was happening, she reached behind them, grabbed a handful of snow, and tipped it down the back of his coat.

"Ahh!" He leaped into the air, clawing at his back. Stevie was already sprinting off toward the house.

"You're dead, Rodgers!" He yelled, running after her, forgetting for a moment about Stark, about the kiss, the nightmares, about whatever mission they'd be going on next. If she thought she could beat him at a snowball fight, he was going to show her just how wrong she was.

Thanks for reading! It's a bit of a break from all the action, I know - but I had some character work I wanted to get done, like giving Falsworth more personality, having the Howling Commandos bond a little. One thing I'm trying to avoid as well, in the Bucky/Stevie relationship, is the Chronic Misunderstanding Syndrome that plagues couples in romance novels - you know, where all their problems could be avoided by one, candid conversation. So here, I tried to present compelling reasons why they wouldn't just sit down and hash things out. You'll have to tell me how well I did.

I did a bunch of research on the traditional British Christmas. If you are British, please let me know how accurate I was.

Notes:

Despite their association with the 50's and 60's (the stereotypical aluminum Christmas trees) artificial Christmas trees did exist well before the 1940's, and gained in popularity during the war due to a lack of manpower and transportation for the live-tree industry.

Falsworth Manor is based loosely on Orleigh Court.

What Bucky calls the Temple of Concord (Temple of Concordia/Temple of Harmonia) is one of the most well-preserved examples of ancient Greek architecture. It was built around 450 BC. For a time, it was actually re-purposed to serve as a Christian church, which, unfortunately, involved the destruction of a lot of statuary.

Next time - The Howling Commandos go to Belgium, and it's time for: Motorcycle chases! More threats from the Red Skull! And an unusual train heist!