Thank you for following, beautiful readers. And now...the sadness.

Chapter 25 - January 12, 1945 - Italy

It was the same bar. The bar where she had first brought her seven together and formed the Howling Commandos, where Bucky had said he'd follow that skinny girl from Brooklyn anywhere. The past year had reduced it to a blasted shell, windows broken out, furniture splintered. An apt metaphor, really. Or a horrible joke.

The mission had been easy - if you could ever call leaping from a steel cable onto a moving train easy. The intel, the setup, everything as smooth as you could ask for. She and Bucky had joked about it. Talked about riding the roller coaster on Coney Island when they were kids.

Joked. Stevie felt sick thinking about it.

She took another swig of her drink. Whatever it was, it was bright green and pungent, like a mouthful of thistles.

Isn't booze supposed to dull memory?

Hers was painfully sharp.

There had only been time for three of them to get onto the train - her and Bucky of course, with Jones as the third because he was the youngest and quickest on his feet. Jones would go on to the engine car and take control of the train, while she and Bucky would enter a car at the middle of the train to draw fire.

They walked slowly through gray and windowless cars, Stevie on point with her shield up, Bucky covering her with his rifle. Except for the train's constant clattering motion, everything had been silent, empty. Then a door had slammed shut between them, a huge Hydra soldier with what looked like a handheld cannon blasting bolts of blue-white energy at her. She knocked him out with some clever shield work, used his cannon to blow open the door. Then she and Bucky had downed his own attacker with a neat little combo maneuver, she pushing a crate over to drive him out of cover, Bucky downing him in one shot as soon as he emerged. Business as usual. He'd made another joke.

But then…

If only there was more work, something she could throw herself into. She'd spent the day digging out the bar, moving rubble, sweeping up, sorting out what was too damaged to save - until the barman had all but pushed her into a rickety chair and set a glass in front of her. He'd taken a second look and brought her the bottle.

Stevie felt like she was falling. She didn't know when she'd hit the ground, but when she did, she'd break into pieces. She poured herself another drink, held the cool glass against her forehead, eyes shut. Careful footsteps crunched across the floor, boots on whatever broken glass Stevie hadn't managed to sweep up. A chair dragged, and a glass clinked, and when she opened her eyes, Peggy was sitting across the table from her.

"You know," the other woman said, taking the bottle out of Stevie's hand, "Dr. Erskine once told me that the serum would work directly on your cells to create a protective system of regeneration and healing."

Peggy poured an inch of green liqueur into her own glass. "I'm afraid that means you can't get drunk."

She took a sip and winced. "God, that's vile."

They sat in silence for a moment.

"It wasn't your fault," Peggy said softly. "You did everything you could."

Stevie's hand was clenched around the glass. She could shatter it without trying, if she wanted to, might not even cut herself. She'd broken iron and bent steel with those hands. But when it counted…

"That's not true," Stevie said.

The man with the cannon hadn't been as unconscious as Stevie thought. She saw him rise out of the corner of her eye and shoved Bucky behind her, brought up the shield just in time to catch the blast. It bounced off the shield and blew a hole in one side of the car, throwing her into the opposite wall hard enough to make her ears ring. It took her four seconds to shake it off and get up.

"Did you believe in Sergeant Barnes?" Peggy interrupted her reverie.

"What?" Stevie looked up. Peggy looked intent, compassionate, dark eyes focused on her, hands elegantly folded on the tabletop. She'd found time and polish to paint her nails again, somehow. Dark, shining, crimson.

"Did you trust him?"

"Of course," Stevie replied.

"He chose to follow you. He damn well thought you were worth it."

Worth it. How could she be worth someone else's life? She had asked all the Commandos to put their lives on the line. For her, for her plans. What had it all meant - this year of playing cat-and-mouse with Hydra, with Schmidt? She had picked up the mantle of "Captain America" to rescue Bucky, and after everything, here she was, back at square one, and she'd lost him. What had all of this been for? What good are you?

Stevie had shaken off her dizziness and looked up just in time to see Bucky and the guard shoot each other - Bucky, holding her shield in front of him, got the guard in the chest just as a cannon blast flung him from the train.

"Bucky!"

The fear was ice water in her veins as she ran to the jagged rent in the car's wall. The metal had been peeled back like the lid of a sardine can, and Stevie felt her heart lurch in her chest as she saw Bucky clinging to what had been a handrail.

"Hold on!"

He didn't speak, eyes wide, hands white-knuckle tight. The car opened onto a sheer drop, hundreds of feet of snowy cliff, a silver glint of river far below. There was another handrail, close to her. Stevie tried not to look down as she took hold of it and stepped out of the car, feet braced on what had been the ridged interior wall. The motion of the train made the metal shudder and creak, but she slid herself toward Bucky as quickly as she dared, until the rail ended and there was nowhere else to go. He was only a few feet from her, using all his strength to hang on as the metal swayed and shook. Stevie let go with her left hand hand and reached for Bucky, as far as she could. Inside her right glove, her hand was sweating. She prayed she wouldn't slip.

"Grab my hand!"

There were two feet between them. Less. Bucky's face was pale with fear. He reached for her, slipped a little, grabbed the rail again, chest heaving. His whole body clenched; Stevie saw it - he was going to launch himself from the wall, use momentum to close the distance. She braced herself to catch him.

He pushed off, arm outstretched.

His fingers brushed hers.

And then the rail gave way under him, and he fell, mouth open in a scream she couldn't hear.

She didn't see him hit the ground.

Stevie looked at her own left hand, palm up on the table, closed it into a fist. She could feel the ghost of that last touch, his fingers on hers.

"We were going to be married," she said.

"Oh," Peggy breathed, set her gentle hand on Stevie's fist. "I'm so sorry."

Stevie felt her throat close painfully, took another drink and let the burn of the alcohol give her an excuse to cough it clear.

"We talked about going to California, getting a house."

The bottle was weeping drops of condensation and she traced lines in the water, trying to hold onto what composure she still possessed.

"What do you need?" Peggy said.

To go to sleep and never wake up again. To go home, back to when I was just Stephanie Rogers.

But I can't.

"I'm going after Schmidt," she said. "I'm ending this. I'm not going to stop until all of Hydra is dead or captured."

Peggy leaned forward, squeezed Stevie's hand in both of hers. Stevie swallowed around a lump in her throat.

"You won't be alone."

Astute readers may notice that Stevie and Peggy are drinking Centerba - the same liqueur Bucky drank back in Chapter 12. Continuity!

I'm not used to writing really tragic scenes, so you will have to tell me how I did.

Next up: The final chapter!