Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2755670.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, Gen, M/M
  Fandom:
      Captain_America_(Movies), Marvel_Cinematic_Universe
  Relationship:
      James_"Bucky"_Barnes/Steve_Rogers, James_"Bucky"_Barnes_&_Steve_Rogers,
      Steve_Rogers/Original_Female_Character(s), Steve_Rogers/Original_Male
      Character(s), James_"Bucky"_Barnes/Original_Female_Character(s), James
      "Bucky"_Barnes/Original_Male_Character(s), Peggy_Carter/Steve_Rogers,
      James_"Bucky"_Barnes/Howard_Stark
  Character:
      Steve_Rogers, James_"Bucky"_Barnes, Original_Characters, Peggy_Carter,
      Howard_Stark, Colonel_Phillips, Arnim_Zola, Timothy_"Dum_Dum"_Dugan, Jim
      Morita, Gabe_Jones, James_Montgomery_Falsworth, Jacques_Dernier, Johann
      Schmidt
  Additional Tags:
      Non-Consensual_Voyeurism, Period-Typical_Homophobia, Other_Additional
      Tags_to_Be_Added, Period-Typical_Racism, Period-Typical_Sexism, Captain
      America:_The_Winter_Soldier_Compliant, Torture, Dubious_Consent,
      Pseudoscience, Slow_Build, Sexual_Tension, Infidelity, Unrequited_Love,
      Unsafe_Sex, World_War_II, Underage_Sex, Underage_Drinking, Alcohol_Abuse/
      Alcoholism, Internalized_Homophobia, Canonical_Minor_Character_Death,
      Depression, Suicidal_Thoughts, Avengers:_Age_of_Ultron_(Movie)_Compliant,
      Holocaust, Concentration_Camps, Headcanon, Drug_Use, Stucky_endgame
  Series:
      Part 1 of Aetas
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-12-11 Updated: 2016-01-20 Chapters: 14/17 Words: 39595
****** Change of Time ******
by bulma90_13
Summary
     "When Bucky Barnes first met Steve Rogers on the playgrounds of
     Brooklyn, little did he know that he was forging a bond that would
     take him to the battlefield of Europe and beyond."
     - "A Fallen Comrade" Display at the Captain America Exhibit at the
     Smithsonian
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
***** Brooklyn, September 1930 *****
Chapter Summary
     He was twelve when he first met Bucky.
Chapter Notes
     Warnings for this chapter:
     Violence
     Religious persecution
He was twelve when he first met Bucky.
Some of the neighborhood kids, older than Steve, of course, maybe even in high
school, had him in an alley. He was outnumbered three-to-one, but Steve was
“tenacious.” That's what his mother called him. Steve thought that was just a
nice word for reckless. Or maybe stupid. But he liked to think he was brave. He
wasn't about to give over the money his mother gave him for the trolley just
because he walked down the Protestants' side of the street to get to the
butcher's shop. He was proud to be Catholic. His father was a Catholic. Even
had a nice headstone that the Army paid for down a few blocks at Holy Cross.
The largest kid came at him with a strong right hook that caught him square on
the jaw, and he spun backwards into the brick wall. His head hit the bricks
with a snapping sound and he fell hard on the ground. For a moment, he could
see little black spots all over his scuffed up hands. He was going to vomit.
His heart was beating like a drum so deep and fast he thought it was going to
explode out of his chest. He was already wheezing, sucking large gulps of air
through his wide open mouth as he struggled to breathe out so he could get more
air in.
Rough hands dragged him up by the back of his shirt. Steve wasn't heavy by any
stretch of the imagination, but the shirt was old, and the motion ripped the
collar in the front, busting out some of the buttons in the process. He tried
to scream at the boy for ruining his good shirt, the one his mother had bought
from a fancy shop in Hell's Kitchen, but his mouth was full of blood and he
spat it up in the process. The boy just swung him sideways by his shirt collar
into the other wall and he went down.
He was vaguely aware of a scuffle going on around him, but he was glad they had
momentarily forgotten him. What had drawn their attention away? Maybe they
thought he'd passed out. Wouldn't be the first time. Maybe now he had the
chance to hit the large one from behind, then he could at least even the odds
somewhat...
He staggered to his feet, head still swimming, but arms raised and ready to
strike. That's when Steve saw him for the first time.
He was large, but not like the ones beating him. Definitely played sports. He
had a strong jaw, with none of the childish fat that still clung to the cheeks
of most boys his age. His full brown hair had fallen over his eyes, but he
looked ferocious. And he was defending Steve.
He landed a punch on the largest boy's nose and it started dripping blood.
The boy laughed at the three of them staring at him in disbelief. “Why don't
you clear out now before ya really make a mess of yerselves?” His voice was
deep, too, with an easy drawl to his words. Just by his voice, Steve knew he
was a true New Yorker, a Brooklyn native just like him. Hope blossomed in his
chest. Was he really defending Steve? Maybe he was hallucinating, like he did a
few summers ago when he had scarlet fever. Surely he would have met someone
this extraordinary in his neighborhood by now? Then again, his mama kept him
home a lot. He got sick so easily, it seemed like every time he went somewhere,
he brought back whatever microbes he could and was laid up for weeks. He was
behind a whole year in school from all the sick days.
The largest boy sniffed some of the blood back up into his nose. He sounded
like a nasally mess when he spat, “This ain't over, Barnes.”
The boy, Barnes, just smirked. “We'll see 'bout that, Thomas. Now run along, I
think I hear your mama callin' you fer dinner.”
The large one, Thomas, looked like he wanted to take a swing, but one of the
others, now cowering behind him, held on to his arm, muttering “C'mon, Tommy.
He ain't worth it.”
Steve stumbled to stand behind Barnes, arms still outstretched and fists
clenched.
Finally, finally, Thomas relaxed his shoulders and spat at his feet. Then he
turned and stalked away with the other two. Steve waited until the three
bullies were out of sight before lowering his hands.
“Thanks for—”
“What the hell were you thinkin', goin' up 'gainst Johnson and his gang?”
Steve blinked to clear the black spots. Barnes' tone sounded angry, but his
face seemed amused. Or maybe that was the spots playing tricks on him.
“I just—”
“I mean, seriously, he's on the football team!”
Steve clenched his jaw and glared at Barnes. “Doesn't matter. I wasn't about to
give him my money just because I'm a Catholic.”
Barnes' eyes seemed to relax and Steve saw a smirk work its way onto his
handsome face. He scoffed in disbelief, then turned to Steve with a more
genuine smile. “You make a habit of standin' up to punks like him?”
Steve allowed a half smirk of his own, as wretched as it looked, what with his
busted lip and rapidly swelling jaw. He could only guess what his eyes looked
like if how he could barely keep them open was any indication. “What can I say?
Everyone needs a hobby.”
Barnes laughed. It was a wonderful sound. Steve smiled back.
“I like you. What's yer name, kid?”
“Steve Rogers.” They shook hands, Steve's bloody and scraped up palms didn't
seem to bother Barnes in the slightest. Steve paused for only a moment before
adding, “And I'm not a kid.”
He replied without hesitation. “James Buchanan Barnes. My friends call me
Bucky.”
Steve struggled to continue standing without swaying. Bucky steadied him
easily, throwing an arm across his shoulders and holding him upright, tucked
snugly into his side.
“Ya know, my house is right down the street. We should get ya cleaned up. Can't
have ya goin' home lookin' like a bum. 'Sides, its beef stew tonight. My ma
makes a mean stew. You'll love it. Looks like you could use a decent meal.”
Steve allowed himself to be steered out of the alley. “Thanks...” he started,
then his brow furrowed. “I think.”
Bucky smiled and genuinely replied, “No problem, pal.”
***** Brooklyn, July 1934 *****
Chapter Summary
     Steve turns 16.
Chapter Notes
     Warnings for this chapter:
     Alcoholism
     Underage drinking
     Underage sex
     Non-consensual voyeurism
“GOTCHA!”
Steve was just walking through the door, and had no time to duck and cover from
Rebecca throwing herself at him for a hug. She shrieked with laughter, a high
pitched sound that was swallowed up by all the activity in the room. Steve
could feel a bruise forming on his ribcage, but he loved being here. Loved
being surrounded by a full family with a mother and a father and so many
children running around with healthy sets of lungs and strong legs to carry
them. Bucky had three younger siblings, and all four of the Barnes kids adored
him. Bucky grabbed her off of Steve by her arm.
“Get off of 'im, Becca. You're gonna hurt 'im.”
Steve's face flushed without meaning to. He hated when Bucky babied him. “It's
ok, Buck. She didn't mean it.”
Rebecca's face fell. “I'm sorry, Steve! Are you ok?”
Bucky's other sister, Catherine, only just turned seven, came to see as well.
“Yeah, Steve, are you ok?”
Only the youngest, Patrick, stood there silently, looking at Steve with an
uncomprehending expression, teetering from side to side, sucking on his rubber
duck. But the concern was there nonetheless.
Steve laughed, “I promise, I'm fine.”
Bucky snorted. “Yeah, right. Let's just help Ma with dinner.”
Steve allowed himself to be steered toward the kitchen. The Barnes apartment
was far too small for a family of six, but it was miles bigger than the one
Steve and his mother shared. At the cramped table sat Bucky's father. He was a
soldier, like Steve's father had been, only he came home from the Great War.
Steve's father died two months before he was even born. His mother would tell
him stories from letters he wrote when he was overseas, and it felt like
perhaps Steve knew him. But it was nothing compared to having a real father,
like Bucky's. There was no war anymore, so now he had to work doubles down at
the docks to provide for his family.
“He stayin' again?” The man grunted from his seat at the table, head turned
down to scan the newspaper.
“George!” Bucky's mother squeaked. She looked at Steve apologetically. “Of
course Steve is staying for dinner. He's helping Bucky with his history.” She
paused, smiling at Steve.
His voice was low and sounded like gravel. “That boy's too dumb to go to
college, so who cares how he does with his history?” Steve wanted to look down,
to look away, but he was paralyzed, glaring at Bucky's father. He didn't notice
the bottle of booze at first, hiding behind the sheets of newspaper, but now
Steve could smell it with every foul word he breathed. “We don't got enough to
be feedin' a boy who'll be dead by winter.”
Bucky, who had been standing quietly by his mother, turned to his father so
fast, Steve thought he was going to take his head off. “You shut yer drunk
mouth!”
George Barnes stood up from the table, lifting it as he did, the bottle rolling
off and shattering on the floor. Patrick started to cry. He grabbed Bucky by
the front of his shirt. “Or what, boy? You gonna provide for this family, now?”
Bucky didn't struggle in his old man's grip. Steve's heart was jack-rabbiting
in his chest. “You're a man, now. You have to start acting like one.” He
released Bucky and pushed him back a few paces. “The sooner, the better. Like I
said, you ain't goin' to school much longer anyways.” He walked to the door of
the apartment, slamming it on his way out.
Patrick was still crying. Becca ran to pick him up and coddled him, shushing
him. Catherine ran beside her, stroking her brother's red head.
Steve couldn't meet anyone's eyes. He was staring down at his feet, at his
shoes that were at least 3 years old and had been someone else's old shoes
before that. He knew every winter was a struggle, but to hear Bucky's dad say
it... A boy who'll be dead by winter... Is that what everyone thought? Did
Bucky's mother resent feeding him? He didn't stay for supper every night, just
on Fridays when he stayed over, both of them huddled in the living room, the
couch cushions pushed together, whispering until the sky began to lighten.
Bucky's hand was on his shoulder before he even noticed he'd moved. “Forget
him, man. He's just a—”
“He's right.” Steve whispered. “I got no right to be here, eating the food he
works hard to put on the table--”
“You got every right. You're my best friend. You think I'm gonna let you go
home hungry when we got enough food here to feed the Army?”
Steve tried to smile. “But that's just it, Buck. You don't. Nobody's got that
much.”
Bucky's mother smiled down at Steve, face tight. Her mouth quivered as she
whispered, “Perhaps it's best if you and Bucky went to look after your mama
tonight, Steve. I'm sure she misses the company.”
Steve nodded. Everyone knew that his mother worked weekends, that he'd be going
home to an empty apartment with no food, but no one was going to argue with
her, least of all Steve. It wouldn't do if Steve was still there when Bucky's
father did finally come back home.
*~*~*
Steve let out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding after making the
short journey back to his own apartment he shared with his mother.
“Jesus, it's hot in here.” Bucky swore.
“M'sorry,” Steve muttered, moving to open a window. “You know...”
“If you're about to tell me that sonuvabitch is right, you can just put a cork
in it.” Bucky threw down his bag onto the rug next to the door, shrugging off
his button down. He stood in his thin undershirt and slacks near the door,
eyeing Steve. “And I don't want you thinkin' on it, neither.”
Steve struggled to keep the window open as he shoved the wooden rod in the
sill. “Fine.”
Bucky smiled, satisfied. Then his eyes glinted with mischief. “Do you know what
tomorrow is?”
Steve began unbuttoning his own shirt, fanning himself as he did so.
“Independence Day.”
“Wrong!” Bucky blurted. “It's your 16th birthday, Stevie. And I got something
real special planned.”
Steve groaned. “Oh, no. Please don't tell me it's another one of your double
dates.”
Bucky scoffed, “You love them. But no, I was thinking something
more...exciting.”
Steve folded his shirt and placed it neatly into the dresser in the bedroom,
“Like what?”
Bucky smirked, rubbing his hands together deviously, coaxing a laugh out of
Steve. “You'll see. It's a surprise.”
 
*~*~*
 
Steve had put on his best ensemble, the one that he actually tailored himself
to fit him better, and even shined his shoes. Whatever Bucky had planned had
him in his Sunday best. They took the trolley without Bucky telling him where
they were headed, but Steve thought he had an idea. When the lights of Coney
Island were visible from the open car, his face lit up. “Really?”
Bucky smiled back, “'Course. Nothing but the best for my best friend.”
Steve blushed. He had brought what little pocket change he had, but he knew it
wouldn't be enough for the kind of night he was sure Bucky had in mind.
“Where are we going first?”
Bucky laughed as they hopped off. “Wherever you want, punk! It's your birthday!
But allow me to make a few suggestions?”
 
*~*~*
 
Steve wasn't sure how Bucky managed it, but he was walking back to their bench
seat near the beach with two cups of frothy beer, a smile splitting his face.
Steve took a cup and tried to steady his hand.
He knew it was useless, but he had to try. “Bucky...”
“I don't want to hear another word about how you're not old enough. It's your
birthday, just enjoy it.”
Steve took a sip. It wasn't terrible.
“Besides,” Bucky continued. “I found us some friends.” He looked over Steve's
shoulder and waved enthusiastically, beaming. Steve dared to look.
It was two girls, a blonde and a brunette. They looked older than Steve, older
than Bucky, even, but his best friend had never had problems attracting the
most beautiful women, regardless of age. He suppressed a grimace. “Bucky!”
Steve hissed. “You promised! No double dates!”
Bucky, as expected, ignored him. The girls finally made it to their bench and
Bucky stood up. “Girls? This is my best pal, Steve. Steve, allow me to
introduce Miss Betsy and Miss Dorcy.”
They both looked down at him and smiled sweetly.
Steve hesitantly smiled back.
“It's his birthday, tonight!” Bucky announced, thrilled.
The brunette, Betsy, smiled at Steve, looking him over before asking, “You were
born on the Fourth of July?”
Steve nodded, taking another sip of his beer, thankful of his seated position,
hoping the girls had failed to notice how short he really was. He was turning
16, but his age hadn't helped his height at all, and he still only barely
reached 5' 2''.
“That is so cool!” Dorcy squealed.
Steve peeked at Bucky, who was wriggling his eyebrows.
Okay, Steve thought, what the hell.
*~*~*
Bucky's next genius idea was to finish their beers (the girls had gotten some
as well), then ride The Cyclone.
Halfway through the ride, Steve got so sick he threw up all his beer right on
Betsy, who screamed and smacked at him until the ride came to an end. She ran
away, still screaming.
Bucky, for his part, couldn't stop laughing.
“You gotta admit it, Steve...that was hilarious.”
Steve still didn't feel very well, so he excused himself to the bathroom of the
cafe where Bucky had bought their beers. Ironically, most of the puke had ended
up on Betsy, and Steve's outfit was relatively unharmed. By the time Steve had
cleaned himself up and made it out of the bathroom, Bucky was still outside
waiting, this time holding Dorcy's hand.
Steve smiled sheepishly at her. “M'sorry. You will tell her that, right? I
never meant to—”
Dorcy laughed. “She's such a prissy-girl anyways. A real killjoy.” She turned
to look at Bucky, biting her lower lip. “She wouldn't have been interested in
what I have in mind, anyways.”
Bucky looked her up and down. “And what's that, doll face?”
She smiled coyly.
 
*~*~*
 
The Tunnel of Love.
Steve was in a boat with Bucky and Dorcy in the Tunnel of Love. The man
operating it would never have let kids their age on it—it was only meant for
“sweethearts”, and they were far too young to be anything but friends in the
eyes of adults. The tunnel offered too many secluded areas where unsupervised
kids like them might get too...comfortable. But the moment the three of them
showed up in line, the man waved them on, laughing.
“It's not very exciting for a young bunch of kids like yourselves, but have at
it.”
Bucky had explained that Steve wasn't feeling very good, and needed a slower
ride. Steve shrugged. Whatever made Bucky happy.
It was only about 30 seconds into the tunnel that the light from outside dimmed
enough so that only the pale glowing pink light from the tunnel itself was
visible. Steve's poor vision could barely see what was in front of him. He
leaned back in his seat, enjoying the mellow atmosphere of the ride. Then he
heard something right across from him.
It sounded like breathing. He couldn't hear very well above the gentle
splashing of the water against their boat, but then they passed especially
close to one of the pink lanterns, and Steve got a perfect view of the two
people across from him.
Bucky had his left arm around Dorcy's shoulders, his mouth sealed to hers in an
open mouth kiss, just like the ones in the movies.
Steve's heart stopped in his chest.
Dorcy slowly curled her left arm around Bucky's face, drawing him in closer,
whining softly as he pulled back just an inch, only to connect their lips
again.
Steve stared, unable to look away. He was in shock. Bucky was...kissing a girl
he just met...and right in front of Steve! And she was allowing it!
Maybe they thought he couldn't see. It was the only explanation. Or, a sicker
part of Steve offered, maybe they thought he wanted to see.
It was still very dim, but Steve knows he did not, could not, imagine what
Dorcy did next.
She moved her hand slowly down Bucky's right arm, grabbing his wrist and
pulling it toward her...her...
Steve stopped breathing. He was in the Tunnel of Love, watching his best friend
do...that to a dame, and he was going to have an asthma attack. He tried to
suck in air through his mouth, but his lungs were protesting. He gripped the
side of the boat.
Bucky's hand was massaging her breasts, alternating between them. First the
right, then the left, then back to the right, then back to the left...
Steve imagined what her breasts would feel like beneath his hands, whether her
nipples were hard. He could only imagine that they were, there was no way to
tell in this light, but he was sure they were. Bucky knew what he was doing if
the sounds she was making were any indication.
His mouth moved from hers to press open mouth kisses to her neck, while her
little moans became louder without Bucky's mouth to swallow them down. They
sounded like screams to Steve, and he wondered how the boats around them didn't
notice. Didn't call out to them to stop.
Then she grabbed his wrist once again, and pulled it further down...down...
Steve tore his eyes away, clenching them shut. He couldn't watch this. There
was no way he was going to watch this. He heard the high pitched gasp that
meant Bucky had found whatever it was he was searching for underneath her
dress, and his stomach gave an involuntary clench. He was going to be sick.
He kept his eyes clenched shut, but couldn't shut out the sounds of Dorcy's
soft pants. It was more than Steve had ever imagined on his own, in his own
bed, while his mother was away, while Bucky was away, and when all of Brooklyn
was silent, when he allowed himself to pull down his pajama bottoms and gently
touch himself until he wasn't all that gentle after all and he made a mess all
over himself. This was so much more than that, and the fact that Bucky was
obviously so good at it, had obviously done this before, and had never told
Steve made him feel sick all over again. He wanted to scream.
Steve did really scream when he felt a small hand grasp his knee. He stared
wide-eyed at Dorcy, his eyes adjusted to the dim light, and saw her gazing at
him with glossy eyes, then throwing her head back as Bucky sucked on her neck
and continued touching her down there. He shoved her hand away from him, and
turned completely away, praying that he could just disappear into the side of
the boat.
Dorcy didn't seem to care. Her cries grew in volume, and out of the corner of
his eye, he couldn't help but see Bucky's arm moving faster and faster as it
disappeared under the folds of her dress. He saw her grab Bucky's knee and
squeeze as she cried out one final time, then grew silent except for her heavy
breaths. Bucky pulled his hand out from under her dress. Even in the low light,
Steve could see it shining, close to dripping with wetness. Bucky stuck his
fingers into his mouth and sucked on them, hollowing his cheeks and staring
right across the boat at Steve.
 
*~*~*
 
Steve didn't speak to him the entire ride back to his apartment. Bucky was
smart enough to know not to start a fight on public transit, so he waited until
they were back in the relative privacy of Steve's empty apartment.
“So...I guess you didn't like your birthday present?”
Steve stood in the middle of the room, visibly shaking.
“What makes you think...I would have liked that?”
Bucky stood rooted to his place by the door, dumbstruck. “I thought you
would've liked her. Would've liked her touching you...I just wanted you to have
a good time.”
Steve let out a humorless chuckle. “Watching you sodomize some dame? That's
supposed to make me have a good time?”
Bucky's eyebrows shot up nearly to his hairline. “Sodomize? Jesus, Stevie...”
Steve sighed, closing his eyes. “Please, Buck...just...don't ever do that
again.”
Bucky swallowed and walked hesitantly over to where Steve stood in the middle
of the room. “Sorry. I promise.”
“Good...” Steve cracked an eye open and peered up at him. “You're a jerk.”
Bucky smiled and punched him lightly on the arm. “Punk.”
Steve couldn't help it. Bucky was his best friend. He could betray Steve a
million different ways, lie, cheat and steal, kill thousands of innocent
people, and Steve would still forgive him.
Steve allowed himself to be enveloped into a tight hug. He closed his eyes and
just listened to the steady beat of Bucky's heart.
“You know...” Bucky began. “It's not even 8. We can still watch the fireworks.”
Steve smiled.
***** Brooklyn, June 1936 *****
Chapter Summary
     Steve graduates from high school...and won't go to college.
They didn't have as many sleepovers after Steve turned 16.
Bucky finished out high school and then got a job down at the docks, just like
his old man. He came around as often as he could, but he was supporting his
family now. He worked 12 hour days and came home exhausted and barely had the
energy to go to see a show, but somehow he managed it. He put on his best shirt
and slacks and treated Steve to a show whenever he could. Steve loved the
Hollywood dames with their red lips and curly hair.
“They're so elegant,” he'd whisper.
“Yer gonna meet a dame like that one day, Stevie.” Bucky would reply. “She'll
be a total knockout. Just aces. And every joe around will be jealous.”
Steve snorted. “Even you?”
Bucky smiled and winked. “'Specially me.”
 
*~*~*
 
As the end of school drew near, Bucky pressed Steve about college. Steve was
smart. So smart. He could probably get a scholarship and everything. Because
boy, could he draw. All those months spent sick and dying in hospital beds did
amazing things for his drawing skills, because even with a piece of graphite,
he could churn out a masterpiece.
But Steve wasn't going to college. He wasn't even going to try.
“I can't believe you!” Bucky practically screamed. “Yer not even gonna apply?”
Steve paced in the small apartment. His mother was home. He didn't want to
disturb her. He didn't want her hearing this.
“Would you shut up?” Steve seethed through clenched teeth. “It's none of your
business anyway.”
“The hell it ain't,” he raged. “You will always be my business. And it just
don't make sense! You could prolly get a scholarship! You know yer smart
enough!”
Steve sighed, dropping his shoulders. “Some things are more important than
college, Buck.” He walked toward the door. “I gotta run some errands.” His hand
was on the doorknob. “See ya 'round.”
The door shut quietly, but Bucky flinched anyway. He fidgeted where he stood,
itching for something to drink. He had started that lately, drinking. It helped
the muscle aches when he got home from work. He could see why his dad found it
so appealing. They had even begun bonding.
“James?”
Bucky turned his head toward the bedroom door. He was so angry he's forgotten
that Steve's mother was home.
“James?” she called again. Her voice was so faint.
He smoothed his shirt and walked into the room.
It had been a while since he saw Sarah Rogers in anything but her nurse's
uniform. She was under a thin blanket on the bed. The window was open to let
some air in, but it smelled stale and faintly of blood. Bucky hoped his face
didn't betray his slight discomfort at seeing her so...sickly.
“Come closer, James.” she whispered.
Bucky complied, drawing nearer and nearer to her until he was sitting lightly
on the side of the bed. She took his hand within her own cold, clammy one.
“Look at you.” she smiled. “So handsome and strong.” Bucky blushed. It was one
thing to hear it from a gal he was seeing, but to hear it from someone like
Steve's mother...
She squeezed his hand, though it felt more like her hand closing a little more
around his.
“I knew the first day Stevie brought you home after a fight that you'd be the
one.”
Bucky's brow furrowed. “Ma'am? I don't understand.”
She smiled. “Of course you do. You understood the first time you saved him from
those bullies.” She chuckled, seemingly to herself. “Stevie's always gonna be
picking fights, so he's always gonna need someone to patch him up.”
Bucky's head titled to one side. He supposed that was true. And he was uniquely
qualified.
“You see, Stevie is so strong, but at the same time, he is so blinded by his
idea of right and wrong that sometimes, he can't see the big picture.” Her face
lost some of its jovial smile. “He might get seriously hurt someday, if he
kicks the right beehive.”
Bucky nodded. Perhaps she had taken some medicine that made her say things.
Things that didn't make any sense. That she didn't mean to say.
She paused for a long time, just studying Bucky's face.
“I'm dying, James.”
Bucky's air felt like it had been punched out of his chest. He knew she was
sick, but...dying?
“How?” Bucky breathed. She was so young.
“Consumption.” she answered. Well, that explained the smell of blood, however
faint. “I don't have much longer.”
Bucky dropped his head. “I'm sorry.”
“I don't need your apologies, James. I need your word.”
Bucky looked up again, confused. “Ma'am?”
“Steve's not going to college because he thinks he's gonna stay home and take
care of me.”
Bucky nodded. It made sense. It's the right thing to do.
“I need you to make sure he goes to college. Gets a job. Meets a girl, a nice
one. I need you to make sure he gets enough meat. Stays out of trouble. Gets
the medicine he needs when he gets sick.”
Bucky's throat constricted. He felt his eyes welling up. He wouldn't cry. Not
in front of Sarah Rogers. Not in front of this strong woman who, in the wake of
her death, thought of nothing but her son and his well-being. Didn't even take
a moment to feel sorry for herself.
“I need you to take care of him, James.” she ended quietly. “You're his family,
now.”
Bucky couldn't help letting a few tears slip as he blinked. “I know, ma'am. I
will.” She continued to hold his gaze. He nodded, “You have my word.”
***** Brooklyn, October 1936 *****
Chapter Summary
     “Thank you, Buck...but I can get by on my own.”
     Any other time, Bucky would have laughed at his stubborn attitude.
     But Steve's pain was so evident in the slump of his shoulders that he
     couldn't even dream of making a joke of this.
     “The thing is...you don't have to.”
Chapter Notes
     Warnings for this chapter:
     Canonical Minor Character Death
Four months later, Sarah Rogers caught a cold, went to sleep, and never woke
up.
Bucky hated going to church. He knew he wasn't doing what he should, and being
there just made him feel like every saint in the stained glass was looking at
him with shame and disappointment.
But he was gonna be there because he was Steve's family now. Steve was in pain.
Steve was hurting. During the entire service, he never cracked. Never shed a
tear, never let a out a sob, didn't even shake when the priest closed the
casket with a loud thud. Risk of getting others sick, he explained quietly to
Steve, who nodded solemnly.
When the service ended, he looked for Steve. Most of the attendees were Sunday
churchgoers and other nurses from the hospital. It wasn't a large crowd, but
somehow Steve managed to slip away. He was about to ask the priest where Steve
went when his mother pulled on his arm.
“Let him be,” she said.
*~*~*
It was two hours before he found Steve scuffing his feet on the sidewalk toward
his apartment. His mother's apartment. Bucky sat on the stairs and watched as
his best friend walked closer, his shoulders heavy.
Steve muttered a “Hey, Buck,” and climbed the stairs.
Bucky continued after him. “We looked for you after,” he began. “My folks
wanted to give you a ride to the cemetery.” It wasn't a long walk, but he
didn't need to have gone on foot.
Steve muttered, “Sorry. Kinda wanted to be alone.”
Bucky bit his tongue. He knew that this was going to be exactly like he
imagined it. Steve would insist on going at it alone. He was too proud to ask
for help, or even accept it when it was needed. Bucky would have to make it
about him. About Steve helping Bucky.
“How was it?”
“It's okay,” Steve sounded numb. “She's next to dad.”
Bucky always thought it was nice that Steve called his father “dad.” He'd never
met the man. He died a few months before Steve was even born, but Steve kept
him alive in the memories of the stories his mother told. Now he'd have to tell
his own stories about the both of them.
“I was gonna ask...”
Steve cut him off before he could even get it out. “I know what you're gonna
say, Buck, it's just—”
“We can put the couch cushions on the floor like when we were kids,” Bucky
began. “It'll be fun. All you gotta do is shine my shoes, maybe take out the
trash.”
Steve was digging in his pockets for his key. It was a true testimony to how
out of it he was. He never forgot his key. Bucky bent over and got the spare
from underneath the brick.
“Come on,” he pushed.
Steve took it hastily. “Thank you, Buck...but I can get by on my own.”
Any other time, Bucky would have laughed at his stubborn attitude. But Steve's
pain was so evident in the slump of his shoulders that he couldn't even dream
of making a joke of this.
“The thing is...you don’t have to.” Steve looked up, a glimmer of what looked
like hope, and maybe just a little bit of desperation. Bucky tried to convey
that he was dead serious. “I'm with you to the end of the line, pal.”
Steve smiled, so small and tiny he almost missed it. He watched as Steve
unlocked the door and went inside. He followed.
Steve sighed again, shoulders slumping even further if possible. “I know I'll
have to give up the place.” Another sigh. “It's just...it's been home for so
long...”
Bucky took off his suit jacket, draping it over the back of one of the kitchen
chairs. “What makes you think we're giving it up?”
Steve turned to him, that small little smile back on his face. “We?”
Bucky rolled up his sleeves. “Yeah, we. I'm moving in, of course.”
Steve couldn't help but scoff with amusement. “So that's what you meant by...?”
Bucky laughed. “Of course! You think I would pass up the chance to move out of
my folks' crowded place? My family's great and all, but I can't exactly bring a
dame back to a full house.”
Steve's smirk morphed into a grimace. “And what makes you think you're gonna
bring 'em here, jerk?”
Bucky laughed. He strolled into the bedroom and stripped the bed of the linens.
“Aw, Stevie, you suck the fun out of everything. How else am I gonna survive
work, ya punk? I gotta have some stories to share with the guys, do my part to
contribute.”
Steve's shoulders seemed to ease up the slightest amount. Shaking his head, he
said “As long as you don't disturb the neighbors. I've got a reputation to
protect.”
Bucky laughed. “Yeah, yeah. Everyone thinks you're pure as snow. But ya can't
fool me, pal. I've known ya for too long.”
*~*~*
Bucky didn't go back to his parents that night. He knew his father would be
furious, telling him he was abandoning his family for a sick boy that would die
just like his sick mother, but it didn't matter to Bucky. Steve was his family.
His mother and siblings had his father, just like Steve had Bucky. It was how
it would be, and his father would just have to live with it.
He couldn't leave Steve by himself. He knew that the light banter had lifted
Steve's spirits a little, but he still had yet to let go of the tension he was
carrying around like a 50 pound bag of bricks on his back.
Bucky had changed the linens on both beds. When it was dark and they'd had
supper and he was sure that Steve had a glass of water and his cigarettes, they
both laid down, Bucky on Steve's bed and Steve's on his mother's. He closed his
eyes and was just starting to drift when he heard the first raspy gasp for
hair. He was already reaching for Steve's asthma cigarettes when the noise was
choked off by a soft whine. Bucky stilled instantly. Steve was crying.
He knew Steve would hate it, hate Bucky for seeing him, seeing him like some
weak dame that couldn't help but cry. But what Steve didn't know was that Bucky
had cried, too. And maybe because he had accepted Sarah Rogers' death months
ago, he wasn't crying now. But Steve was, and there was only one thing he could
do.
He slid out of his bed and crawled behind Steve who was curled up, facing away
from him, toward the wall, shaking with the effort of keeping his sobs in.
Bucky pulled Steve's back to his chest and held him tight while the sobs
wracked his 90 pound body with such force that Bucky thought he really was
going to have an attack.
And because his best friend was in so much pain, Bucky cried, too.
***** Brooklyn, August 1937 *****
Chapter Summary
     “Steve, what the hell happened to yer shirt?”
     “Got in a fight again. Some big fella was picking on a little guy on
     my way home.”
Chapter Notes
     Warnings for chapter:
     Rampant homophobia including slurs and self-loathing
     Rape (mostly off-screen, not in detail)
“Big day t'morrow.”
Steve looked up from the shirt he was ironing on the small kitchen table.
“Yeah.”
“Yer gonna wear that?” Bucky motioned to the shirt.
Steve's shoulders stiffened. “Yeah.”
Bucky shook his head. “No ya ain't. How're ya gonna impress a dame with that
old rag?”
Steve snorted. “I'm not goin' to college to impress anybody, Buck. I'm goin' to
get an education.”
Bucky rolled his eyes. “Maybe. But chances are...yer gonna meet somebody real
special. But she ain't gonna give you the time of day if yer wearin' that.”
Bucky grabbed his jacket off the peg on the wall. “C'mon, we're goin' out.
Gotta get ya a new one.”
Steve looked up again, exasperated. “With what money? You spent every last cent
you made just to get me into Auburndale.” He looked back down at the shirt. It
was only a little stained. “I'm so grateful, Buck. So can't you just—”
“Nope.” Bucky grabbed Steve by the arm and pulled him toward the door. “'Sides,
I got a little money set aside fer this.” He reached his hand into his pocket
and pulled out a few dollars.
Steve dug his heels in and turned Bucky to face him. “From where?”
Bucky had the decency to look down at his feet. “Down at the docks. You know
the guys like t'go to those bars where—”
“You fought for this money? Bucky, that's illegal!”
He looked back up. Steve was in full blown rage mode, but two could play that
game. “Yeah? And the meat you got off the back of Sanders' truck? That's not
illegal?”
“That's different and you know it! I need the meat! I don't need a new shirt!
Not until this one is threadbare and falls off!”
Bucky sighed, but said nothing. Steve's doctor told him that he needed more red
meat, which was something they could never afford. So Bucky had suggested
stealing it, and the next day, Steve walked home with a nice big cut in a brown
paper bag. He didn't ask about it.
“Just let me buy ya a shirt, Stevie.”
Steve said nothing, just glared up at Bucky.
Bucky went for the kill. “If I don't buy you a shirt, I'll just end up boozin'
it away.”
Steve snatched the money from Bucky's hands. “Fine. One shirt.” He turned to
the door. “But I'm picking it out.”
Bucky followed him out the door, laughing. “Yeah, right! You wouldn't know
what's fetchin' if it hit ya in the face.”
 
*~*~*
 
Steve loved college. He'd always loved learning, and now he was among his true
peers, those who, despite the depression, were able to afford school and pursue
something greater than a factory job. His hands couldn't write down everything
fast enough. He was desperate to capture every word his professors said. He
would spend hours pouring over books in the college's library. He would come
home and rave about how wonderful it was.
Bucky ate it up. He couldn't get enough of hearing Steve get excited about
something that he learned. It made his chest warm to hear him go off on a
tangent that he barely understood. It wasn't that Bucky wasn't smart—he could
have gone to college, too, if he had the money. But Steve was destined for
great things, Bucky knew, so he had to support him.
“I really can't decide which movement I prefer: renaissance or reformation.”
Steve was pacing in the kitchen while Bucky boiled some water on the stove for
their dinner. “They both brought about such drastic changes in how we see the
world and portray it in art. I mean, I love sacred paintings, but there's
something equally as interesting in the secular works from that time.”
Bucky smiled, “Mm hmm.”
Steve stopped suddenly, staring at Bucky. “Sorry, I got carried away again.”
Bucky watched the pot. “Nah, it's great. I love hearing you babble.”
“Jerk.” Steve walked over to him, nudging him with his arm. “M'not babbling.
Just excited.”
“I know, it's great. I love seeing you like this.” Bucky saw a flush of pink
appear suddenly on Steve's face. “So, ya meet any yet?”
Steve groaned. “No, Bucky. I'm not there to meet dames.”
Bucky shrugged. “I dunno, Stevie. There's gotta be a gal there that's smart and
funny and likes art just like you.”
It was Steve's turn to shrug. “Maybe. But none of them are interested in me.”
“Well they're idiots.” Bucky snapped.
Steve sighed. He was looking down at his feet.
“Steve?”
He didn't look up. The flush from his face was gone, and he had gone almost
deathly pale. Sensing Bucky's gaze, he turned his back to him.
Bucky turned away from the pot to grab at Steve's arms to turn him back around,
but Steve shrugged him off and stepped away. Bucky put his hands at his sides,
clenching his fists. “Steve, what is it?”
“They called me a fairy.”
Bucky saw red. He ground his teeth so hard he thought they would fall out. He
closed his eyes, exhaled sharply from his nose. He couldn't even speak.
“I was just talking to this girl. She's nice, says smart things in class.
That's all we were talking about, class. Then some big fella walks over and
puts his arm around her and calls me a fairy.”
“I'll kill 'im,” Bucky breathed, barely a whisper.
Steve shrugged. “Doesn't matter. She told him he was rude, but it doesn't
matter.” He turns back around to look plainly at Bucky. “That's what people see
when they look at me.” He gestured to himself. “A queer.”
Bucky shook his head, his mouth open to say something, anything, but Steve
continued.
“I've heard it whispered behind my back since I was thirteen, but it's
something else to hear it said right to your face, ya know?”
Bucky stood there, unable to speak.
The pot of water boiled over.
 
*~*~*
 
“Buck! You'll never believe it!” Steve burst through the door.
Bucky was halfway through a bottle. He hadn't expected Steve home for another
few hours. He closed his eyes and smiled, trying unsuccessfully to hide the
bottle underneath his newspaper. “Yeah? Whas'at, Stevie?”
“I have a date,” Steve beamed.
Bucky was instantly sober. “What? Who?”
He practically waltzed into the kitchen. “Her name's Theodora. She's in my art
history class. She's the one I was talking to, remember? The one I talked to
after class, remember?”
Oh yeah, Bucky remembered. The one that had stood up for Steve when her pig
headed boyfriend called him queer. Oh yeah. How could Bucky forget?
Bucky smiled. “Tha's great, Stevie! She pretty?”
Steve rolled his eyes, “Buck!” He shook his head. “Yes, she is.”
Bucky let his smile turn into a grin. “'Course she is. So when are ya goin'
out?”
“Tonight,” Steve answered, trying to mask his excitement. He went to their
room, took out his new shirt from their wardrobe and brought it back to the
table to iron. Steve went to move the newspaper and knocked the bottle with his
hand. He looked at Bucky.
Bucky grabbed the bottle and turned toward the sink. He capped it and put it to
the side. He could feel Steve's stare burning a hole in the back of his skull.
He closed his eyes and sighed.
Steve continued busying himself with getting the iron hot. “Rough day?” he
ventured.
Bucky shrugged. “Yeah.”
Truth was, Bucky hadn't had a single day off since Steve started school, and it
was starting to wear on him.
“Maybe you should take a day off.”
Sometimes, Bucky could swear Steve could read his mind.
“Nah, I'm fine. 'Sides, how else are we gonna afford a show for you and yer
best gal?”
Steve froze, eyes wide. “Bucky, you're not paying for my date.”
Bucky sent Steve a withering look. “How else are you gonna pay for it, punk?
I'm the only one workin'.”
Maybe Bucky wasn't as sober as he thought.
Steve clenched his jaw. “I never asked you to pay my way—”
“'Course you didn't, Stevie. But I wasn't gonna let you kill yerself tryin' to
hold a job and go t'college.”
Steve's eyes closed. Bucky realized it was to hold back tears. “I never asked
you to pay for my college—”
“I know. I insisted.” Bucky walked closer to his best friend. “I wanted to.
Still do.”
Steve's eyes were blue and glistening. “Why? You don't owe me anything.”
Bucky huffed a chuckle. “Don't ya ever listen?” He pulled Steve to his chest.
“End of the line, punk. You're my family, now.”
He held Steve until he felt long artist's fingers pushing at his chest.
“Get off, jerk. You stink.”
 
*~*~*
 
Steve walked to the Paramount Theater to meet Theodora for the show. He felt
bad for taking Bucky's hard-earned money and spending it on a girl of all
things, but then Bucky started whining about how he doesn't work as much as he
does so that Steve can sit at home and do nothing. So there he was. Waiting to
take a girl to the show.
She was right on time. She had a cab drop her off at the curb. She was wearing
a flowered dress and her hair was curled. She even had some rouge on her lips.
She smiled sweetly when she saw him. Steve rubbed his hands on his pants to
make them dry. It didn't seem to help.
“Hello, Steve. Thank you for meeting me.”
Steve could feel his heart hammering in his chest. “Of course. I'm just glad
you were free.”
She smiled again, motioning to the box office. “Shall we?”
He nodded and nearly tripped walking to the window. “Two for the seven-o'clock
show, please.”
He paid and they headed inside the darkened theater. He bought a box of popcorn
for them to share and he allowed her to pick their seats.
The cartoon shorts were playing when he noticed him out of the corner of his
eye. The guy he saw at his school that called him a fairy. He was sitting a few
seats down in the same row, glaring at Steve. He looked over at Theodora, who
had also noticed him. She looked back at Steve.
“I am so sorry,” she whispered. “I can't believe Randall followed me here.”
Steve glanced over and saw him—Randall—get up from his seat and move to get
closer to them. He knew the recipe for a fight better than anyone.
“I am so sorry, Theodora, but I'm gonna have to—”
“Well, well...if it ain't—”
Steve stood up to his full height, cutting him off. “We should go outside,
don't you think?”
From his sitting position in the spot next to his date, Randall still managed
to look terrifying. He grinned.
 
*~*~*
 
Randall slammed his body into the brick wall of the alley, then grabbed his
shirt collar and manhandled Steve so his back was against the wall.
“So this is Barnes' pretty little fairy, huh?” he breathed, looking at Steve up
and down.
Steve's eyes widened and he tried to catch his breath, “You know Bucky?”
Randall laughed, slapping Steve in the face. “'Course I know 'im. We work
together down at the docks.”
Steve felt the blood drain from his face. Bucky. He works with Bucky. He knew
he was friends with Bucky. He knew he lived with Bucky. He thought that...he
was Bucky's fairy?
“Bucky's not like that—” Steve began, but was cut off as Randall punched him
right in the mouth.
“But you are, aren't ya?” Randall shoved his head back against the brick. Steve
watched as little black spots danced in front of his eyes. “Bet you love it.
Bet he has you down on your knees every night.” Randall's hand moved from his
collar to wrap around his throat.
Steve struggled to keep his eyes open. His head was reeling. Did Bucky say
something to this man? Did Bucky talk about Steve at work? Make him sound like
some sort of live-in fairy that didn't work because...because he...
Randall's thumb pushed hard on Steve's throat. “Are you gonna tell me you don't
love sucking his cock?”
Steve could barely breathe, but he managed to croak, “Go fuck yourself. I ain't
no fuckin' queer.”
Randall just smiled and slammed Steve's head back against the wall. “Is that
what you tell yourself? C'mon now, sweetheart. Ain't no shame in admittin'
you're a nancy.” Randall began to undo his belt. “Bet your mouth's waterin'
just thinkin' 'bout it.”
Steve spit the blood in his mouth out on Randall's shirt. “You put anything in
my mouth, and I'ma bite it off.”
Randall smirked. He squeezed his hand harder around Steve's neck and landed one
solid punch to his face, and then Steve saw nothing.
 
*~*~*
 
Steve woke to the sensation of water being trickled on his face. He tried to
open his eyes and mouth, but some got in both, and he realized immediately it
wasn't water.
He could hear Randall's cruel laugh as he tucked himself back into his
trousers. “I've had better.”
Steve gagged, trying to throw up some of the piss that had landed in his mouth,
but it wasn't working. His throat felt sore and bruised. He licked his lips and
tasted something bitter and foreign.
Then Steve had no problem emptying the contents of his stomach.
 
*~*~*
 
Steve didn't come home until he was sure that Bucky would be in bed. As the
door creaked open, he noticed the rest of the bottle empty on the counter. He
stripped off his clothes and threw them into the sink, adding water and soap.
He shivered despite the warm air in the apartment.
Telling Bucky was never going to be an option. Ever. Steve had allowed that man
to put himself inside of him. He could have fought harder. Could've stayed
conscious long enough to fight back. Could've done anything but lie there and
take it.
He left the clothes to soak in the sink. Luckily, they were only covered in
blood and piss. The only place the man had spilled his seed was in Steve's
mouth.
 
*~*~*
 
“Steve, what the hell happened to yer shirt?”
“Got in a fight again. Some big fella was picking on a little guy on my way
home.”
***** Brooklyn, January 1939 *****
Chapter Summary
     Steve gets a job.
Chapter Notes
     Warnings for this chapter:
     Alcoholism
     Abuse of power
     Internalized homophobia
     Infidelity
     Unintentional, non-consensual voyeurism
Steve caught pneumonia mid-winter. It was bad. His lungs were so dry he was
hacking up blood. The doctor assured them that it wasn't tuberculosis, but
Bucky wasn't going to be convinced until Steve stopped coughing.
Bucky stayed home from work to take care of him. He boiled water constantly to
let Steve breathe in the vapors. The expensive medicine wasn't working. And the
money was running dangerously low.
“I told Frank that I'd have the rent by next week. But dammit, Stevie, if ya
don't get better soon—”
“I'm fine, Buck. Really. You don't need to stop working just because I'm sick.
This is n-nothin—” He broke off into a coughing fit.
Bucky got up from the chair beside Steve's bed and came back with a warm rag.
He wiped it gently across Steve's collar bone. “Yer a mess.”
Steve jutted his chin out. “I'm gonna have a job.”
Bucky froze. “The hell you are.”
Steve struggled to sit up higher in bed. “I am. I already talked to the owner
of the Brooklyn Chronicle. Took one look at my comics and offered me a job.
Don't hurt that I write pretty well, either.”
Bucky stared at Steve for a long moment. “'Course he did. He'd be stupid not ta
wantcha.” Bucky felt Steve's forehead with his hand. “Gotta admit, s'gonna be
nice ta have a day off once in a while.”
A knot settled in Steve's stomach. He would say something, but they'd had this
argument so many times, he could recite it word for word.
“'Sides,” Bucky continued. “Ya might meet a nice secretary.”
Steve rolled his eyes.
 
*~*~*
 
Steve still had a few months of school left, so as soon as he was able to walk
around the house without wheezing, Bucky was back at the docks and Steve was
trying to catch up on his school work. But he'd missed too much during the two
weeks he was bedridden, and he knew he'd have to drop out.
It made him sick to think of all Bucky's money he wasted. Steve Rogers was many
things, but he was never a coward, so he brought it up abruptly one night over
dinner.
“I have to drop out.”
Bucky didn't pause in his eating, shoveling the potatoes into his mouth. He
took a long swig of his drink. “I figured.”
Steve looked down at his food. “But I still have that job at the newspaper.
Talked to Mr. Owens. Said I could start tomorrow.”
Bucky looked up at Steve, then quickly looked away, biting his bottom lip.
“'Spose that was the point all along. T'get ya a job.”
Steve nodded. “It's a good one, too.”
 
*~*~*
 
Steve stormed through the door of their apartment. Bucky was just getting his
second drink. He still had his dirty work clothes on. He looked over at him in
alarm.
“What's wrong?”
Steve ripped off his coat, threw his gloves on the ground, and tossed his scarf
toward the table.
“A newspaper boy,” Steve seethed.
Bucky blinked. “What?”
“You heard me. A newspaper boy. That's my job. I don't even have a desk. Even
the secretary has a desk!”
Bucky tried to picture it.
“So...what, you deliver the papers?”
“Yeah!” Steve raged. “Just like the little boys down the street! I tie the
strings around the papers and ride my little bicycle around, throwing them at
everybody's door.” Steve put a pot of water on the stove. “I work with twelve
year olds, Buck. Literally.”
Bucky did not laugh. He did not.
“Don't sound too bad,” Bucky started.
Steve glared at him. “I never would have accepted the job if I knew. Mr. Owens
said when the weather gets better, I get to stand on a street corner with a big
sign on my neck and yell.”
Bucky choked back a snicker. “Maybe he just wanted to make sure yer a good
worker before he gives you a desk an' all that.”
Steve plopped down on one of the kitchen chairs. “I'm not giving up.”
Bucky smiled, walked over to Steve, put his hands on his friends frail, tiny
shoulders and began to rub them gently. “'Course not.”
 
*~*~*
 
Steve noticed from the very beginning that Mr. Owens was a very hands-on owner.
He didn't hire someone to run his business. He didn't rely on the journalists.
He reviewed all the articles himself. It wasn't a widely distributed paper, and
it didn't have that many pages, but it was impressive nonetheless.
Steve was also beginning to notice that Mr. Owens was a very handsy owner. It
wasn't anything inappropriate, and certainly nothing to cause Steve concern,
but it just wasn't that often that someone other than Bucky clapped him on the
back and told him he was doing a good job.
It was just past nine o'clock when Mr. Owens called to Steve from his office in
the back of the building. Steve paused in his tying of the bundles of tomorrow
morning's paper and walked briskly to his office.
It was a square room with a window on every wall that looked out into the
spacious room that housed all of the desks of the various journalists and
secretaries. The blinds were all drawn so Steve couldn't see inside. The door
was slightly ajar. He knocked.
“Come in.”
Steve opened the door and walked into the office. It was much more lavish than
he would have guessed from the outside. It had a beautiful mahogany desk with
two plush chairs in the corners and a large bookcase stuffed full of treasures.
Steve tried not to stare and fixed his eyes instead on his employer.
“Mr. Owens? You wanted to see me?”
He looked up from his desk, as if he forgot he had called Steve just moments
before. He took the reading glasses off his face, placing them down on his desk
and rubbing his eyes. “Ah, yes. Steve.” He opened them again to look plainly at
Steve. “How far along are you?”
“I have most of them tied. I only have five left.”
Mr. Owens smiled. “Good, good.” He looked down at Steve's shirt and jacket.
Steve had to force himself not to cross his arms under the scrutiny. It wasn't
his best ensemble, but it wasn't bad, either. He refused to feel embarrassed
about it. Especially in front of someone who probably was never poor a day in
his life. “How are you fitting in here?”
Steve cleared his throat. “Very well, thank you, sir.”
Mr. Owens tutted. “Now, now...there's no need for that. My name's George. I'd
like for you to call me that.” Mr. Owens smiled again. “Can you do that,
Steve?”
For some reason he couldn't explain, his heart started to beat faster. “Yes,
sir. I mean...George.”
Mr. Owens leaned back in his chair, still smiling. “Yes, that's much better.”
 
*~*~*
 
A week later, Mr. Owens was working late again, and Steve was once again tying
the papers. He heard him call again from his office. Steve quickly knotted the
last one and practically ran to his office.
Steve straightened his jacket before knocking on the door.
“Come in, Steve.”
Steve stepped through the doorway. Mr. Owens was leaning over his desk. Steve
saw that his jacket was hanging on the coatrack in the corner and that his
sleeves were rolled up. The top few buttons of his shirt were undone. His
forearms looked well-formed, Steve thought, for someone who worked at a desk
all day. Steve wondered what his chest would look like, whether it would be
filled out like Bucky's. While Steve was studying Mr. Owens' state of undress,
he hadn't noticed that he was staring back at Steve. He caught his eye and Mr.
Owens quirked an eyebrow.
Steve flushed scarlet. “Sorry,” he mumbled, not really sure what he was
apologizing for.
Mr. Owens smiled slowly. “It's quite alright, Steve.”
Steve shifted his weight nervously. “Is there something you needed, sir? I
mean—”
“Needed? No, no, nothing like that. I just wanted your opinion on something.”
Mr. Owens rose from his seat and came around his desk to stand next to Steve.
He placed his hand on the center of Steve's back. “Take a look at this and tell
me what you think.”
He was holding a copy of a contemporary painting and an article describing it.
Steve took both of them and tried to assess the picture and read the words on
the page, but for some reason he was having a difficult time focusing on
anything but the warmth radiating from Mr. Owens hand on his back. His heart
skipped a beat as Steve realized that Mr. Owens was going to stand there,
touching Steve, as he waited for Steve's opinion.
He closed his eyes and forced the air sharply out his nose before opening them
to really look at what was in front of him.
It was abstract, really a pretty decent representation of a lot of the men's
emotions after the Great War. According to the article, the artist was from
Brooklyn. The painting was wonderful, but the article about it was absolute
garbage.
“The painting is stunning,” Steve admitted.
“And the article?” Mr. Owens prompted.
Steve couldn't lie. Not even to his employer. “It's not as good as it could
be.”
Mr. Owens' hand moved slightly higher on Steve's back. “Could you do better?”
Steve snapped his head to look at Mr. Owens directly. “You mean, could I write
a critical analysis?”
Mr. Owens looked amused, his small mouth curling into a smirk. “Yes, Steve. A
critical analysis.”
Steve looked back down at the painting. “Of course! That is, I mean, if you
wanted me to...”
Mr. Owens chuckled. An involuntary chill ran down Steve's spine. “I do want you
to. Have it done by next Saturday.” He moved his hand away from Steve's back
and walked back around to his desk. “There will be some extra money in it for
you if it prints.”
Steve clutched the copy of the painting to his chest like a life preserver.
Extra money...
 
*~*~*
 
Steve slaved over the article. He barely slept and used up all of his paper
just to draft and re-draft it. It wasn't perfect, not anywhere close, but Steve
had come in to the office early next Saturday to have one of the secretaries
type it up.
He was a bundle of nerves all day as he monitored the printing machines, sorted
the pages and worked diligently to tie up all the papers. By the time the last
worker had gone home, it was just Steve and Mr. Owens.
Steve was bent over the table, tying a paper, when Mr. Owens walked up behind
him and placed a hand on Steve's upper back.
Steve had jumped only slightly. Mr. Owens didn't comment on it.
“I read the article, Steve.”
Steve could barely breathe.
“I have to say, I'm a little disappointed.”
Steve was frozen, rooted to the spot. He could barely manage, “Oh?”
“Yes, I was hoping for something a little more fresh. It reads like an old
textbook.”
Steve tried not to let his shoulders sag, but it was too much of a
disappointment.
“It's a shame that you put so much effort into it. I'd really like to pay you
for it, but it just wouldn't be fair to the other workers.” Mr. Owens stepped
closer to Steve's back, bending over slightly so he could speak right into
Steve's ear. “You see, they only get paid for what gets printed.”
Steve nodded. Mr. Owens' hand on his back was hot, made even more so by the
closeness of the rest of his body.
“But you're such a talented young man,” Mr. Owens continued, letting his hand
drag down ever-so-slowly to rest on the small of Steve's back. “Surely we can
work something out.”
Steve shivered. He wasn't stupid. He knew what people had been saying about him
since he was thirteen. He knew he had thick eyelashes and full lips and a small
frame that was slightly reminiscent of a dame's. He knew exactly where this was
heading. If he was completely honest with himself, he knew it the moment Mr.
Owens called him into his office all those weeks ago. Mr. Owens was offering to
pay him. For...whatever it was he wanted to do to Steve. He didn't know exactly
how things worked between two men, but he had some ideas...
But did Steve want this? He thought he knew Mr. Owens well enough that he
wouldn't hold anything against Steve if he just walked away, pretended like
none of this had happened. He hadn't done anything inappropriate, and certainly
nothing to cause Steve concern, and yet...
And yet.
Steve pushed into the hand on his lower back ever-so-slightly.
Immediately, Mr. Owens grabbed onto Steve's hips with both hands, pulling him
back against his much larger frame. Steve could feel something hard poking
against his lower back. He visibly shivered.
Mr. Owens chuckled darkly in his ear. “You feel that?”
Steve closed his eyes, nodding. If he was going to allow this to happen, his
eyes were going to be closed.
Mr. Owens' mouth suddenly connected with the delicate skin at the juncture of
Steve's neck and shoulder. Steve bent his neck to allow him better access. He
heard a low moan and realized with a shock that it came from him.
Mr. Owens chuckled, the vibration making goosebumps rise all over Steve's body.
“No one's ever touched you like this, have they?”
Steve shook his head, leaning back, allowing Mr. Owens to hold him flush
against his body.
“I'm going to make you feel so good, boy,” he whispered against Steve's neck.
“I'm going to make you scream.”
Steve swallowed, feeling the bulge in Mr. Owens pants begin to move up and down
against him. Experimentally, Steve pushed back, earning another low chuckle.
“You want it?”
Steve paused just for a moment. Hell, he could at least be honest with himself.
This wasn't about the money or the article. He wanted this man. Yes, he did.
As if he could sense Steve's sudden hesitance at his epiphany, Mr. Owens
grunted, “Don't get cold feet now, boy. Too late for that.”
Yes, Steve supposed it was.
Mr. Owens took one hand off of Steve's hips to slide it toward Steve's front.
He grabbed Steve through his pants rather roughly. Steve's body practically had
a spasm.
“You're pretty keyed up for such a little guy.”
Steve tried not to let that sting. Mr. Owens was just making an observation.
Steve was little.
Mr. Owens began undoing Steve's belt, still rubbing himself against Steve.
Steve felt his pants slide down his thin legs and pool at his feet. He didn't
move.
Mr. Owens then pulled back and Steve could hear him undoing his own belt. He
clenched his hands, then relaxed them again, not knowing what to do with them.
He was sure his face was red, and was thankful his back was to Mr. Owens.
George, he corrected himself. If he was going to allow this man to
do...that...then he was going to call him by his first name.
Steve was startled out of his musings when George suddenly pushed all of the
papers to either side of Steve's work table and practically threw Steve down on
it. He caught himself at the last minute with his hands to keep himself from
hitting his head on the wooden table.
George grabbed Steve's underwear and yanked. He was naked from the waist down.
George kicked Steve's ankles apart as far as his pants would allow. His knees
buckled.
“Relax and spread your legs,” George's voice sounded rough. Steve complied as
well as he could. “Good boy...”
George stepped up behind Steve, pushing his hips into Steve's ass. Steve
squeaked when George placed his hands on both sides of Steve's cheeks and
spread them wide. Steve clenched at feeling so exposed. George leaned forward
and placed his hard cock just in the crease of Steve's ass, then let his cheeks
close back around him. Steve squirmed just a little.
“I don't have time to fuck you proper, so this'll have to do.”
And then he began to move.
It didn't feel good, but it wasn't painful by any means. It just
felt...different. Wrong, maybe.
Until George reached around and took Steve's soft prick into his much larger,
much warmer hand and began stroking, gently this time.
Steve let out a low moan. It felt amazing. So much better than touching
himself. His hips began moving in little aborted thrusts, trying to match
himself to George's movements as he fucked himself against Steve's crack.
George ran his thumb roughly over the head of his cock, and Steve had to bite
his lip to keep from making more noise.
George, meanwhile, was panting pretty heavily into Steve's ear, attacking his
neck every once in a while with his lips and tongue.
“You gonna come? Gonna spill yourself all over my hand?”
Steve felt his balls literally tighten at the words. People didn't say things
like that. At least he never heard people saying things like that, not decent
people anyway. Except for Bucky, of course. Bucky always had a mouth on him,
and it only got worse when he had a dame over. He would start saying all sorts
of things...dirty, filthy things. And oh Jesus, Bucky had no place in his head
right now. That was just too much, because now he was thinking about Bucky and
how Steve knew exactly what his voice sounded like when he was balls deep in
some nameless dame, and how he would practically howl when he—when—
He came.
 
*~*~*
 
Bucky noticed something was different immediately the next morning.
They were eating some oatmeal for breakfast and Bucky turned to Steve, studying
him.
“What's goin' on?”
Steve snapped out of his morning reverie and looked at Bucky with wide eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you. Look at ya. Yer sittin' there, smilin' like the cat that got the
cream.”
Steve blushed and buried himself in the paper. “I don't know what you're
talking about.”
Bucky smirked. “Alright, then...keep yer secrets. But I know you, Stevie. And
if I didn't know any better, I'd say you met a nice secretary just like I said
ya would.”
Steve rolled his eyes. “It's not that,” he shuffled the papers. “My article got
printed.”
He pointed out his analysis in the art section of the Sunday edition.
Bucky beamed. “That's great, Stevie! I told ya! Didn't I tell ya? Of course
they printed it! They'd be stupid not to!”
Steve tried not to grimace. He tried to convince himself that he did really
earn it. He'd worked very hard on it. George was probably going to print it
anyway. He just wanted to...he just wanted...
Steve was fine with it. Really.
 
*~*~*
 
It lasted for months.
Steve tried not to get too emotional. What they were doing was illegal and
sinful and wrong and he knew it couldn't continue forever. George had young
children and a beautiful wife and a large brownstone in Manhattan. He had
everything he could ever want, and Steve was just convenient.
George didn't fuck him on the table anymore. He would lock them both in his
office with his mahogany desk and fancy scotch and offer Steve a drink, loosen
him up. Because, as George would say, he was always so tight.
He would strip Steve down to nothing, make him fold his clothes into a neat
little pile and put them on the chair nearest the door as George sat in his
chair, palming himself through his trousers. Most nights, he just wanted Steve
on his knees under his desk, sucking him off. Steve didn't like doing it, but
George would grab his hair and suck in air through his teeth and make all sorts
of noises, and it was easy for Steve to close his eyes and imagine someone
else's voice was making those noises.
He tried not to go there, but it was so tempting.
If one man who was successful and fucked women and to all other people appeared
every bit a man, but secretly liked to fuck a small boy on a regular basis,
then surely other men were the same? Perhaps even a ladies man like Bucky—
Steve shut down those thoughts. They had no place here.
Tonight, George wanted Steve to sit on his lap.
His legs were wobbly, having lost sensation from being on his knees. He wiped
the back of his mouth and reached for the tin of slick.
George leaned back in his chair to watch. “Get on with it, then.”
Steve still blushed when he reached around himself to push against his hole
with his finger. He closed his eyes and forced it in. George was really rather
impatient when it came to Steve's preparation, and if he took too long, he
would just force it in anyway.
At two fingers, he felt himself relax into the unfamiliar sensation of being
filled. No matter how many times he'd done this, it always felt strange.
“Get over here,” George mumbled.
Steve pulled his fingers out and walked over to George's chair. Climbing on top
of him, he put his hands on the chair's armrests rather than George. Steve
learned a while ago that while George loved putting his hands all over Steve,
he was not allowed to reciprocate.
Steve wondered if that was the difference between a fairy and a man. Fairies
wanted to touch, men just wanted to feel.
George lined his cock up with Steve's hole and pulled down on his hips.
The stretch was painful. Steve bled every single time.
Once Steve was literally sitting in his lap, completely filled, George pulled
him almost all the way off of him, only to slam him back down.
Steve screamed. Luckily, it was late, and they were in a business district.
 
*~*~*
 
Steve had his own desk by now. George hadn't published a single one of Steve's
comics, but that was fine. Steve had a job proofreading and fact-checking the
other journalists' work. He was making good money.
Which is why it really shouldn't have mattered that much when Steve saw who
George had hired as the new newspaper boy.
A young man, lithe and blonde, with wide eyes and a full mouth.
The moment he walked through the door, George's hand placed on his lower back,
Steve felt like screaming.
He must have made some sort of noise, because the secretary to Steve's left
turned to look at him. She followed his gaze to the new employee at the door
and then looked back at Steve with a sad, knowing look in her eyes.
Steve stormed out of the building.
 
*~*~*
 
He came back to their apartment in a rage, absolutely refusing to allow himself
to cry.
He slammed the door without thinking. Then he noticed the jacket hanging next
to Bucky's on the peg on the wall.
Then he heard the creaking of the bed. Then Bucky's low moan.
Normally, Steve would've left immediately. Bucky worked twelve hour days six
days a week at a shitty job that paid next to nothing and made him so sore he
could barely sit. He deserved to fuck whatever dame he wanted. Steve was beyond
caring. He grabbed Bucky's bottle of cheap whiskey and poured himself a
generous glass.
It was watered down and tasted pretty bad, especially compared to what he was
used to in George's office, but he drank it anyway.
“Yeah...ya like that?”
Steve's eyes darted to the closed door of their shared bedroom. He didn't hear
a response, but that wasn't unusual. Dames didn't talk the way Bucky did.
“...oh fuck, do that again.”
Steve drank another whole glass, still leaning against the counter, watching
the door.
The creaks of the bed became louder and more frequent.
“Mm yeah, tha's right...”
This time Steve did hear a small cry come from whatever girl he was fucking.
“Oh fuck...m'gonna come...” A low groan and then a loud gasp and he was sure
Bucky was coming.
The sounds died down. Steve could barely hear Bucky's labored breathing. Steve
drank the next glass in one gulp.
The door opened abruptly and Bucky was there in nothing but his briefs. His
eyes almost bugged out of his skull.
“Steve?!” Bucky hissed, whispering. “What the...what are you doing here?”
“I live here, genius.”
Bucky stepped into the main room, shutting the door behind him. “Yer supposed
to be at work!”
Steve began pouring his fourth glass. “I quit.”
Bucky looked around the room, “How long were ya out here?”
Steve shrugged. “I know you've got a girl in there, Buck. M'not stupid.”
Bucky let out a long exhale. “You can't be here when she leaves. Stevie, you
just can't. Just...please, please...”
Steve thought it was odd. Sure, it would be awkward when the girl did leave.
Dames liked to have sex with Bucky, but having their reputation ruined by
everyone knowing about it? Not so much.
He shrugged again. “Fine. Gotta take a piss, anyways.”
He carried the glass with him down the hall to the shared bathroom. Took a
piss. Splashed some water on his face. Almost walked right into a guy on his
way back to his apartment.
Maybe he should slow down.
Bucky was sitting on their couch, nursing a glass of his own. Steve plopped
down next to him.
“M'startin' to see why you like this so much,” Steve slurred, holding up his
glass.
Bucky said nothing, just swirled the liquid in his glass before downing it.
They sat in silence until Bucky cleared his throat. “M'sorry about...that...”
he motioned to their bedroom door. “I shoulda told ya I was havin' company.”
Steve shrugged. “I don't care.”
Bucky nodded, relieved. “So...what happened? I thought ya loved workin' at that
paper.”
Steve grimaced. “Turns out Mr. Owens is a real jackass.”
Bucky barked out a laugh. “I coulda told ya that, Stevie. The man's a rich,
pompous ass.”
Steve nodded in agreement. His head was spinning.
“M'sorry, Buck. I shoulda thought this through.” Steve sighed. “I'll get
another job, promise.”
Bucky smiled and wrapped his arm around Steve. “I know ya will.” He checked his
watch. “We still got time to catch a show, if ya want.”
Steve was drunk, but at least Bucky would be there to steer him straight and
back him up in a fight that he was itching to start.
“Yeah, alright.”
 
*~*~*
 
By next week, Steve had a job at The New Yorker as a colorist for their comics.
The magazine was owned and edited by a man that never once bothered Steve.
***** Brooklyn, May 1941 *****
Chapter Summary
     “...just an absolutely gorgeous day here at Ebbets Field. The
     Phillies have managed to tie it up at four to four. But the Dodgers
     have three men on...Pearson leans in. Here's the pitch. Swung on,
     wide to the right...Pete Reiser with a within the park grand slam! Oh
     my goodness, the crowd is going absolutely wild. The Dodgers take the
     lead, eight to four. Oh, Dodgers! Everyone is on their feet! What a
     game we have here today, folks. What a game indeed.”
Chapter Notes
     Warnings for this chapter:
     Dubiously Consensual Voyeurism
     Internalized Homophobia and Period-Typical Slurs
     Mention of Past Rape (non-graphic)
It was Steve's favorite time of year.
He had a steady job, the weather was perfect, and almost every Sunday, they
went to Coney Island.
Somehow, throughout the depression, they had managed to survive. Steve was as
healthy as could be expected for all of his ailments. Bucky was still working
down at the docks, but it wasn't nearly as much, and he didn't come home with
dark bags under his eyes. They laughed more. Joked more. Bucky went out on
dates, sometimes dragging Steve along with him. But today, it was just the two
of them.
Bucky laid down on the rough sand in his rented swimming suit. He grinned over
at Steve.
“This is swell, innit, Stevie?”
Steve was squinting, but he nodded, taking a large bite out of his candy apple.
“Real swell, Buck.”
Bucky stretched like a cat in the sun. “We should go to one of the funhouses
when it gets dark.”
Steve hummed, licking at the caramel. “So long as you don't make me ride the
Cyclone.”
“What about the Wonder Wheel?”
Steve considered, taking another bite. “Maybe.”
Bucky sat up, looking at his best friend. His bronzed skin practically glowed.
He nodded at the candy apple clutched in Steve's hand. “Yer gonna get sick if
ya don't slow down.”
Steve rolled his eyes and took another large, exaggerated bite. He quirked his
eyebrow and smirked, eyes challenging.
“That's it...” Bucky smiled deviously. “C'mere, you punk!” Bucky lunged for
Steve, but missed him as Steve spun into a roll, carful to guard his apple from
the sand. Bucky fell onto his chest with a laugh and grabbed for Steve's ankle.
Steve tried to shake him off, but Bucky hauled him closer by his leg and began
tickling him mercilessly.
“Ah! Bucky, s-stop!” Laughing, Steve tried half-heartedly to get away. “I mean
it, yer gonna make me drop my—”
The candy apple fell off the stick Steve was clutching, landing unceremoniously
on the sand.
Bucky stopped, wide eyes trailing up to meet Steve's enraged blue ones.
Steve huffed, rolled his eyes, and grabbed a handful of sand and rubbed it into
Bucky's chest, pushing himself up onto his feet and brushing himself off.
“You're buying me another one.”
Bucky wiped at his chest. “Whatever ya want, doll.”
Steve froze, his back to Bucky, and felt the heat rise to his face.
Bucky was already backpedalling, “Sorry, Stevie, I didn't mean—it just—”
“M'not your doll,” Steve spat. He tried to will his hands to unclench, but he
found it impossible.
“Jesus, Stevie, I know that, okay? It just...it just slipped out.” Steve still
didn't turn around to look at him. “Christ, I said m'sorry...what else do you
want me to say?”
Why did you say it at all...?
Did Bucky think he...that he...maybe Bucky thought he was...maybe Bucky wanted
him to be...
No. That was crazy.
“Nothing. I'll buy my own damn apple.”
 
*~*~*
 
Next Sunday, it was like nothing had ever happened. They were back on the
beach, this time with an umbrella and Steve's sketchbook.
Bucky waded waist-deep into the cool water, splashing everywhere as he
complained.
“It's too cold,” he whined.
Steve snorted, eyes on his drawing. He was doing a rough sketch of Mrs.
Petersen who lived just down the hall. She had so many wrinkles in her face,
Steve thought it would be challenging. And make Bucky laugh.
“Then why are you swimming?” he called out over the gentle waves.
Bucky didn't answer, just continued to brave the cold as he swam out so that
only his head poked out of the water. Taking a deep breath, he dove beneath the
surface, coming back up a moment later.
He flipped his head to get his wet hair out of his eyes. “C'mon in, the water's
perfect!”
Steve shook his head, shading his drawing with his pinky. He didn't notice the
man approaching over the sound of Bucky frolicking in the waves.
“Damn, that's good.”
Steve jumped and turned around, squinting up into the face of—
His breath caught in his throat and his chest seized with the lack of air. It
was—
“Randall!” Bucky called, already jogging out of the water to where Steve was
seated on the sand. His body was dripping.
“Barnes,” Randall nodded, not taking his eyes off Steve.
Bucky was breathing heavily, his hands on his hips. “Steve, this is Randall. He
works with me down at the docks.”
'We've met,' was just on the tip of Steve's tongue when Randall's face broke
into an honest-to-God grin and stuck out his hand, “Nice to meet you, Steve.
Bucky's told me a lot about you. Never shuts up about his best pal.”
Bucky was grinning and looking between the two of them so fast Steve thought
his head would swivel off.
Steve grit his teeth and shook Randall's hand. It didn't last but a moment.
“Yeah, well...” Bucky scratched his head, “Once you get to know 'im, you'll
never shut up about 'im either. Steve's a swell guy.”
Randall's smile never wavered. “I bet. It's not just anybody that can keep up
with you, Barnes.”
Steve felt like Alice in the rabbit hole. This was just not happening. He must
be hallucinating. He must be sick in bed, must have scarlet fever again, and
he's hallucinating.
“I dunno 'bout that,” Bucky continued. “It's Stevie here that gets me in all
the trouble.”
Randall literally threw his head back and roared. Bucky joined in. Steve
thought he must've missed the punchline.
When they finally calmed themselves a bit, Steve snapped his sketchbook shut
and glared up at Randall. “What're you doing here?”
Randall's smile finally faltered. “The same as you, I expect. Just blowin' off
some steam, strollin' the boardwalk, lookin' for a pretty girl to take on a
ride, maybe go dancin' later.”
“I'm sure,” Steve deadpanned.
Randall dragged his gaze back to Bucky. “Actually, I'm glad I bumped into
you...” Randall dug into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out pieces
of paper. “I got those tickets you asked for.”
Bucky's eyes shot down to Steve's. “Dammit, I wanted to keep it a surprise...”
Randall looked over at Steve for a moment, and his shoulders visibly sagged.
“Aw, shucks, I'm sorry, Bucky. If I'da known...”
“Nah, it's okay,” Bucky reasoned, holding out his mostly dry hand, taking the
tickets gently. “He was gonna find out soon anyways...”
Steve's sharp eyes darted between the two wearily. “Find out what?”
Bucky's grin split his face. “Randall's cousin works over at Ebbets Field
sellin' Cracker Jacks. He got us tickets, Stevie!”
Bucky waved the tickets in front of Steve's face.
Steve couldn't help but let a grin of his own spread onto his face. “Yeah?”
Bucky nodded, practically buzzing. “We're goin' to see the Dodgers!”
Steve grinned back, barely even registering Randall standing above him.
Bucky turned back to Randall. “I can't thank ya enough, pal...”
“Don't mention it...” he trailed off, looking down at Steve.
Steve refused to meet his sad eyes. As if Dodgers tickets could, in any way,
recompense for what he'd done.
Still, Steve wasn't going to pass up this chance. Even if it did somehow
alleviate Randall's guilt.
He was going to see the Dodgers.
 
*~*~*
 
Next Sunday, it was once again a beautiful day without a cloud in sight. They
had spent the day at the beach as usual, with Steve under the umbrella while
Bucky got bronze in the sun.
Now, Steve and Bucky walked along the boardwalk, admiring the view of the sun
setting on the beach, each of them holding a bottle of beer.
“Just think Stevie...this time next week, we're gonna be sittin' along the
third baseline, eatin' peanuts and screamin' our heads off.”
Steve smiled and sipped his beer. “Can't wait.”
Bucky leaned over and nudged Steve with his arm. “Ya know that goon that's been
pawin' after Becca?”
Steve steadied himself, “You mean Nathaniel Proctor, the fella that's been
courting your sister for the past two years?”
Bucky huffed. “Yeah, him. Well, apparently the fink had the gaul to ask her to
marry 'im.”
Steve smiled. “She say yes?”
Bucky nodded. “They're gettin' hitched in the fall.”
Steve grinned into his bottle. “That's just swell, Buck. Nate's a nice fella,
he'll make a hell of a husband for Becca, you'll see.”
Bucky did not look impressed.
“Yeah, and now Ma's been gettin' at me about settlin' down,” Bucky continued.
Steve's smile fell into a frown, “She's right. You could probably save up
enough money to afford a really nice ring—”
“I don't want—!” Bucky yelled. Several people nearby turned their heads to
stare. Bucky took a deep breath and lowered his voice. “I mean...I don't want
to get married. What the hell would I do with a wife?”
Steve snorted, “The same you do with any dame, Buck, only you wouldn't have to
wine and dine her first.”
Bucky smirked down at his best friend, “Steve, I'm shocked and appalled. That
is no way to speak about a lady.”
Steve shrugged. “It's the truth. Some men at the mag say they got wives that
have a warm meal all ready to eat as soon as they get home. That way, they're
one step closer to making some whoopee.”
Bucky cocked his head and thought a moment. “Hmm...guess that wouldn't be too
bad. Wouldn't hafta deal with your burnt meatloaf anymore.”
Steve said nothing.
 
*~*~*
 
They were at a pinball machine in one of the arcades when she first walked up
to them.
“You gonna hog the machine all night, or can a lady have a go?”
Bucky turned around to face her, letting the ball drop down the hole. Steve
slumped against the machine. Bucky had been really close to beating the high
score.
She was a red-headed spitfire with a burgundy dress and curly hair that fell
around her shoulders.
Bucky looked like he'd been smacked stupid. Sure, Bucky always had the
attention of every dame in the room, but this one was...something else.
“Of course, ma'am...” he recovered quickly enough, stepping aside to let her
play.
She smriked at him, winking. “Thanks, stud.”
Bucky turned to look at Steve in disbelief. He mouthed something at Steve, but
it was too dim for him to make out, but he got the message anyway.
“See ya later, Buck.”
He slipped out of the arcade and back into the busy bowery. He stuffed his
hands in his empty pockets and started walking back. It would take him a few
hours, but he didn't have money for the train and he didn't much feel like
hanging around here without Bucky.
He was still walking along the beach when he felt the pull on his jacket. He
turned around.
It was Randall.
Steve froze, but refused to run. He slowly took his hands out of his pockets.
His eyes darted around. This was much too public for him to try anything. And
he knew he saw a policeman just a few minutes back. Randall couldn't be looking
for a fight.
“I just wanted to say that I'm sorry,” he said with a frown on his face.
Steve just stood there with a blank expression.
Randall plowed on, “I was really drunk that night, and Barnes made it sound
like maybe...and then you were there with Theodora, and I just got so mad—”
“So you thought you'd put me in my place?” Steve finished.
“Yeah...I mean, no, not like that!” Randall seemed to be so uncomfortable. “I
just thought that you'd—”
“That I'd like it?” Steve offered.
Randall nodded, a pinched look on his face.
Steve's lip curled in disgust. “Even if I was a fairy, what makes you think I
would have any interest in a disgusting, pig-headed jackass like you? The only
time someone can stand to give you a suckjob is when they're unconscious.”
Randall looked around wildly to see if anyone was listening. Steve could care
less.
“And if you think gettin' those tickets for Bucky changes anything, you better
keep prayin' for forgiveness, because you're never gonna get it from me.”
Randall's face dropped.
“Now stay the hell away from me,” Steve seethed.
Steve pushed past Randall with a well-placed shove to his shoulder and walked
briskly through the crowd. Steve was buzzing, just praying that he would feel
the pull of that hand on his jacket, giving him an excuse to land the first
punch.
It never came. He walked back to his apartment alone.
 
*~*~*
 
“Steve!”
Steve bolted upright in bed at the loud shout from the doorway. “Yeah?” he
called back with a roughness in his voice.
Bucky almost busted the door off its hinges. “There y'are!” he slurred.
Steve rolled his eyes and dropped back onto his pillow. Bucky was drunk.
“I was lookin' for ya back at the arcade—”
“I needed some air, Buck. I went home.”
“But you never got to meet Ruth!”
Steve tried not to grimace. “So that's her name, huh?”
Bucky dropped down on Steve's bed heavily, squishing his small legs with his
weight. “She sure is somethin', Stevie.”
Steve was irritated from the entire evening being ruined, from Randall to
Bucky's new infatuation. He rolled over with his back to his friend and huffed,
“Yeah, you show her a nice time?”
Bucky laughed, pulling on Steve's shoulder so he was forced to turn and face
him. “I tried, ya know? But then, just when things were gettin' interesting,
she up n'left!”
Steve huffed in annoyance as he watched Bucky's animated telling of the story.
“Left me with a bit of a problem...” Bucky trailed off, looking down at his...
Steve glared at a crack in the wall. “Don't seem like that much of a problem.”
Bucky laughed, shoving Steve half-heartedly. “I know, I know...but I was hopin'
to have a bit of a helpin' hand...”
Steve turned over again, squeezing his eyes shut. “I'm sure there's some dame
out there that's got time for the infamous Bucky Barnes. It's not that late,
'specially not for the gals you go out with.”
Bucky, who was swaying back and forth on the bed from being a little drunk,
stilled instantly. “Wha's that 'sposed to mean?”
Steve ground his teeth, “Nothing, Buck. Look, I'm tired, and I got work in the
morning.”
After just a moment, Bucky got up, the mattress creaking loudly in the
otherwise quiet room. Steve could hear Bucky removing his jacket, then his tie,
his belt, his pants, his shirt...
Bucky's own bed creaked as he sat down on it. Steve tried to relax and go back
to sleep, but there was a pain in his chest that he didn't think had anything
to do with his asthma.
Not a minute after Bucky was under the sheets, Steve could hear the telltale
sound of Bucky beating off just inches away from him on the other bed.
Surprisingly, Bucky seemed to be trying to keep as quiet as he could. Given the
fact that he was drunk, he wasn't all that quiet, but Steve commended his poor
attempt anyway.
Bucky's breathing became heavier and the temperature in the room seemed to
skyrocket. Steve shamefully strained to listen, hungrily committing every groan
and shaky breath Bucky made to memory.
Then he heard a pause in Bucky's rhythmic strokes. He strained to listen
closer, but heard nothing. He almost sighed with disappointment until suddenly
Bucky let out a strained whine and began touching himself again in earnest.
Heat pooled in Steve's gut, but he refused to pay attention. His own pleasure
could wait forever if it meant he got to hear Bucky make that wrecked sound for
the rest of his life.
Bucky's whine was rhythmic and matched his movements, but Steve wished he was
brave enough to look, to see what Bucky was doing that made him cry out like
that. His voice kept going up and up in pitch, and Steve was worried a neighbor
may hear.
Then Bucky began to babble softly to himself, “Oh fuck...ah...oh—Jesus,
fuck...”
Steve grabbed the base of his own erection and squeezed himself so hard it
hurt. He would absolutely die if he came just to the sounds Bucky made.
“Oh god—oh god—oh god—oh!” Bucky chanted and with one last cry, Steve heard
Bucky try to quiet the scream of his release into their small bedroom. Steve
was so hard, he felt light-headed from all the blood redirected below his
waist. He bit his lip to keep from making a sound as Bucky stroked himself
through his orgasm. Steve heard him make one last whine as he settled himself
back onto his pillow and turned his back to Steve.
Steve waited, listening intently until Bucky's breathing evened out and he was
sure that he had drifted off before grabbing his own impressive erection and
giving it a few strokes. His climax was a painful release of all of the tension
he had, and he could barely keep the sound in as he bit his lip. He spared a
glance down at his absolutely ruined nightclothes.
Well, Steve thought to himself,
I guess I'm doing laundry tomorrow.
 
*~*~*
 
“Can you believe Pete Reiser? I mean, that was amazing! He knew there was so
much riding on that pitch, and he just absolutely smashed it!” Steve
practically skipped along the pavement on their walk to a bar after the game.
“Careful, Stevie, or I might think yer sweet on 'im.”
Steve ignored him. “Can you believe that game? The Phillies won't be able to
recover from a beat-down like that. The Dodgers have just got to have a chance
for the series now, doncha think?”
Bucky nodded, “Probably.”
Steve stuck his hands in his pockets and whistled, “A grand slam. And we were
right there to see it!”
Bucky smiled, “I'm just glad we finally got to go. I'm sure listening to the
game on the radio will seem dull now.”
Steve shook his head, “Nah, now I'll be able to picture everyone in my head.”
Bucky smiled and led Steve into a small bar. “I'll drink to that.”
Steve snorted and ordered two beers. “Bucky, you'll drink to anything.”
***** Brooklyn, December 1941 *****
Chapter Summary
     “...yesterday, December 7th, 1941, a day which will live in infamy,
     the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked
     by the Naval and Air Forces of the Empire of Japan...I regret to tell
     you that very many American lives have been lost...”
Chapter Notes
     Warnings for this chapter:
     Period Typical Racial Slurs
     Bashing the draft/the military
     Non-descriptive physical abuse
     Internalized homophobia
Steve jolted upright in his bed, eyes flying open as his airway suddenly and
completely closed. He wheezed and gasped until finally it seemed that he was
going to pass out. Then the cold grip on his lungs ceased and he was able to
gulp down small amounts of air again. He dropped back onto the mattress.
Bucky came rushing through the door, “Steve?”
Steve could only nod weakly as he continued to gasp, trying to reach for the
bedside table with his asthma cigarettes. Bucky took one out of his pack and
lit it, then carefully set it in Steve's mouth. He watched as Steve took a drag
with his eyes closed. He didn't have the strength to reach his hand up to pull
the cigarette from his mouth, but Bucky was right there.
“Better?”
Steve grimaced and nodded again.
“Jesus, Stevie...” Bucky turned to the bedside table and rearranged the
cigarettes so they were closer. “How am I supposed to leave ya here?”
Steve peeled his blue eyes open to meet his best friend's steely gray ones. His
voice sounded like gravel. “Easy, ya leave.” His eyes drifted close again.
Bucky put his hand on his friend's forehead. “I keep wakin' up in the middle of
the night thinkin' I heard you stop breathin' or somethin',” he muttered,
mostly to himself. “It's drivin' me nuts.”
Steve tried to snort, but it came out as barely a huff. “Pneumonia can't kill
me anymore. Got it too many times. Built an immunity.”
Bucky smirked. “Yeah, right. That's why you can barely move.”
Steve allowed a smirk of his own. “Least m'not dead.”
Bucky titled his head, consenting, “True, Stevie, yer not dead.” He started to
gently massage Steve's arms, starting with his boney shoulders and working his
way down. “You've been in bed so long, it's a wonder your muscles haven't
atrophied.”
“Careful, that hurts,” Steve grimaced in pain. “And you're being ridiculous.
It's only been three days.”
Bucky didn't stop, moving on to Steve's lower arms. “You need some blood flow
to these chicken limbs.”
Steve kept his eyes closed, but turned his head toward Bucky. “Yer gonna be
late.”
Bucky shrugged, finishing his massage of Steve's hands. “They'll live. I told
'em you got sick.” He moved to Steve's hipbones and began massaging down his
thighs.
Normally, Steve would be kicking his legs from being ticklish. He barely
registered Bucky's hands beyond the pain of blood being forced back into his
legs. “Somehow I doubt your boss cares about your live-in best friend with
pneumonia.”
Bucky smiled. “That's where yer wrong. Everybody knows 'bout ya, Stevie. They
understand.”
Steve opened his eyes and tried to keep his breathing steady. “Knows what,
Buck?”
Bucky met his eyes. “Knows that I'd just fall apart without ya.”
Steve tried to swallow the large lump in his throat. Bucky wasn't even ribbing
him. “Ya big sap,” Steve murmured.
Bucky beamed. “Yep, and they all know it.”
Steve rested his eyes again. “Ya mind turnin' on the radio?”
Bucky gave Steve's lifeless legs one more squeeze, “Sure thing.”
Bucky stepped out of the bedroom. “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” started blaring
from the small box in the living room.
Steve found himself wiggling his toes, partially to the beat, partially to keep
the blood circulating. He couldn't dance if his life depended on it, but he
still loved the music. Bucky, on the other hand...he was born to dance. One
look at a couple jitterbugging on the dance floor, and Bucky could copy the
moves, improvise, and steal the show. He never had a shortage of women batting
their eyelashes at him, practically tripping over themselves in a desperate
attempt to get his attention so he could ask them to dance.
“That was a great picture, wasn't it, Stevie?” Bucky called from the kitchen.
He was running water, probably preparing whatever food he would try to force
Steve to eat.
Steve knew Bucky couldn't see him, but he nodded anyway. Buck Privates was a
pretty big hit, and the song was very catchy.
Bucky started singing along, his voice not quite able to hit the high notes
that the Andrews Sisters could. Steve cleared his throat and yelled as loud as
he could, “Quit yer caterwauling!”
Bucky sang louder.
 
*~*~*
 
Steve was sitting on the couch facing the street, a blanket wrapped around his
legs and a bowl of steaming soup on his lap. Bucky was in the kitchen, trying
to do the dishes that had piled up over the week Steve was bedridden, making
all sorts of noise.
Steve leaned his ear closer to the radio that was placed right next to him. He
was trying to hear the game.
“The Dodgers are ready to kick off now,” the announcer narrated. “They just
scored...lead the Giants seven to nothing.”
Steve sipped his soup and listened to the result of the kick.
Suddenly, the radio broadcast of the game cut out completely. Steve was about
to complain to Bucky about their shoddy radio when the sound cut back in.
Another man's voice began in a hurried, important voice, “We interrupt this
broadcast to give you this important bulletin from the United Press.”
Steve's brow furrowed and he stared blankly at the face of the radio.
The serious voice continued, “The White House announces Japanese attack on
Pearl Harbor.”
Steve's heart stopped in his chest. The announcer was saying something about
further developments.
Bucky was standing next to him suddenly, tuning to radio to CBS, a scowl on his
face with the dish rag thrown over his shoulder. Steve just watched him, his
mouth hanging open.
Another man's voice, this time louder and more steady: “The Japanese have
attacked Pearl Harbor, Hawaii by air, President Roosevelt just announced. The
attack also was made on all Naval and military activities in the principal
island of O'ahu...”
“Motherfuckers...” Bucky whispered.
“We take you now to Washington...”
 
*~*~*
 
It was three-o'clock in the afternoon. Bucky just turned the dial on the radio
to off and silence spread throughout the small room of their apartment.
“Now the president will have to declare war,” Steve began. He was surprised at
the strength of his own voice.
Bucky scoffed. “Damn Japs made sure of that.”
“We'll go to Europe, too, I'm sure of it. Take care of those Nazis, too.” Steve
looked at Bucky. “Can you believe this is happening?”
Bucky looked away. The wind outside blew hard against the old window panes. He
heard a whistling sound and shivered.
Steve continued, “I'm enlisting.”
Bucky whipped his head back to stare at Steve. “Yer joking.”
Steve's mouth set into a grim line.
Bucky looked away again, this time rolling his eyes. “Of course yer not.” He
stood up from the couch, hands balling into fists and nails digging into his
skin. “Stupid fucking punk,” he breathed.
Steve didn't bat an eyelash. “It's the right thing to do.”
“The right thing—?” Bucky trailed off, circling the small room. He practically
ran to the cabinet and took a large swig of whiskey straight from the bottle.
Steve just sat on the couch, the blanket still on his legs, the cold soup Bucky
had made sitting forgotten on the floor.
Bucky's vision began to blur. He took another large gulp and rubbed his hands
all over his face, smearing the liquid that had begun to dribble down his chin
everywhere, rubbing at his eyes. They were wet, too.
Because of course Steve would enlist. They wouldn't take him, but of course he
would try. And make Bucky feel like shit for not doing the same. He'd never say
anything, but it would be there, the silent judgement for forsaking his country
and failing to do his duty so that he could stay home and provide for Steve.
Bucky spared a glance at Steve. Fuck. Those eyes, already sad and knowing.
He almost ripped his jacket when he grabbed it off the peg. He couldn't stay
and look at him for another moment.
“M'goin' out,” he managed to huff and slammed the door behind him.
 
*~*~*
 
Bucky came back that night reeking of booze and vomit. He collapsed face down
on his bed.
Steve said nothing.
 
*~*~*
 
The president made his announcement the next day. They sat side by side in
their drafty apartment listening to FDR make his case for war. As if the rest
of the nation wasn't already out for blood.
“How'd the Japs get the drop on us anyways?” Bucky wondered out loud.
Steve didn't answer. Maybe he never heard the question. “I'm going to wait
until this clears up,” he motioned to himself with a vague hand gesture. “Then
I'm going to the recruiting office.”
Bucky rolled his eyes and ground his teeth so hard he thought he'd break a
tooth. “You'd better wait at least a week. Don't want any trace of a cough.”
The hopeful look in Steve's eyes made Bucky want to vomit.
 
*~*~*
 
Bucky came home again late that night. This time, he could barely walk. He eyes
were swollen shut and his lip was split.
Steve hurried out of his seat on the couch as fast as he could, “Jesus, Bucky,
what happened?” He made it to Bucky's side and let him lean as much as he could
on him, sitting him down at the table while Steve got a wet rag to dab at his
bleeding face.
“Told Dad I wasn't gonna enlist.”
Steve froze for just a moment, but Bucky saw it.
Steve cleared his throat. “I take it he wasn't pleased.”
Bucky snorted and blood started pouring out. Steve pushed his head back and
made him pinch the bridge. “Told me I was a disgrace, a disappointment, and a
dumb fuck that likes to stick my limp dick in anything that moves,” Bucky
winced when Steve put ointment on Bucky's swollen lip. “Oh! And I won't amount
to a damn thing.”
Steve sighed. “Was he drunk?”
“S'ok, Stevie. So was I.” Even with a split lip, Bucky was disarmingly handsome
when he smiled. “I gave as good as I got, don't worry.”
Steve continued, not looking Bucky in the eyes, “I'm sure your mother was
thrilled.”
“About me not enlisting? Yeah, she was pretty damn happy about that.” He
sniffed some blood back into his nose. “Pat's too young, thank the lord, but
that husband of Becca's got it in his head that he's gonna be an officer or
something. Kept talking about how well it pays. I don't care how much they pay
ya, it ain't right. Killin' people...it ain't right.”
Bucky sniffed again, this time shifting to look right at Steve. “War's not
about killing people, Bucky.” Steve met his eyes. “It's more complicated than
that.”
Bucky smiled. It wasn't a kind look. “For the dumb fucks that are going to
enlist? The men on the front lines? Yes, it is as simple as that. They're gonna
tell me to shoot some Jap or some Nazi and I'm gonna hafta do it or be shot for
cowardice. And don't you dare tell me that isn't all sorts of fucked up.”
Steve couldn't look at him anymore. “You're oversimplifying it.”
“The bottom line is I'm gonna hafta go over there, wherever there is, and I'm
gonna hafta kill people. And there's not a damn thing I can do about it.”
Steve closed his eyes, “God willing, I'll be right next to you, Buck.”
Bucky snorted again. “If only that were true, Stevie, I think I might actually
survive.”
 
*~*~*
 
As soon as Steve was satisfied that his health was as good as it could be, he
headed to the recruitment center. The doctor took one look at his freckled,
frail chest and stamped 4F before Steve opened his mouth.
Steve debated ripping his stamped enlistment form into tiny pieces, but
eventually decided he wanted to show Bucky.
Bucky barely looked up from his card game, “Steve, I told you. They don't know
you like I do. They look at you, and they don't see a soldier. If only they
knew you work part time as Brooklyn's own homegrown superhero, the champion of
little old ladies and stray cats.”
“Bucky, shuddup.”
 
*~*~*
 
Bucky's draft letter came faster than he expected. It was supposed to be a
lottery, but maybe they were picking on young men from Brooklyn with no desire
to fight.
“Well, my number's up,” he strolled into the apartment one night not too far
into the new year.
Steve's head snapped up from the drawing he was working on. He practically ran
to Bucky's side, snatching the letter from his hand. The letter asking him to
report for active military service.
Steve finally looked at Bucky, “You okay?”
Bucky shrugged. “Maybe when I show up drunk tomorrow, they won't want me.”
Steve snapped, “You think you're the first one to try that? They'll sober you
up at basic. No booze on base.”
Bucky actually chuckled. “Shit. Guess m'really goin'.”
Steve couldn't help but smile. “Look, Buck. I know you don't wanna go,
but...I'm really proud of you. You're gonna be a great soldier. I know, because
you're the best pal a fella could ask for. You'll probably be promoted, become
an officer, even if you don't want to.”
Bucky was almost red with embarrassment. “Steve...”
“Let me finish,” he cut Bucky off. “People look up to you, Buck. And you're not
capable of failing at anything. So...I know. I know you don't wanna go. But I
can't feel bad about that because I know you're gonna be so damn good at it.
You're a great man, Buck. You're gonna be a great soldier.”
Bucky was smiling, face only a little red. “Well, shit, Rogers. You tell every
Tom, Dick and Harry that little speech and the enlistment lines will be around
the block.” Bucky chuckled, scratching his neck. “Shit.”
Steve smiled and turned back to his drawing. It was Bucky.
 
*~*~*
 
Bucky's basic training was in all the way at Camp McCoy in Wisconsin. It was
supposed to be even colder there than in Brooklyn. Steve shuddered at the
thought.
“They couldn't have sent me to a camp on the east coast?” Bucky whined, pulling
petulantly at his necktie.
Steve folded Bucky's undershirts into small piles and stuffed them into a
knapsack. “They're probably all filled up.”
Bucky pointed to the bag. “There's no point in packing all that. They're
probably gonna make me throw all my stuff away and wear Army regulation
briefs.”
Steve continued packing. “Probably. But there's a war going on. Maybe they
don't have enough money for all of that anymore. And won't you feel silly if
you didn't bring any underwear.”
Bucky rolled his eyes, “Yes, ma. Thank you, ma.” He turned back to the mirror
and a slip of paper on the dresser top caught his eye. He picked it up,
inspecting it. “Jesus, Stevie...when are you gonna give it up?”
“When they accept me. I can't explain it, Buck, but I belong over there. I know
I can make a difference.”
“And when they catch you for falsifying your enlistment form?”
Steve shrugged. “They need men. They shouldn't worry so much about the
details.”
Bucky bit his lip, but couldn't help smiling. “No offense, Steve, but I think
you'd make a terrible soldier.”
Steve snapped his head up to stare at Bucky in disbelief.
Bucky raised his hands, “I don't doubt yer fighting skills. I know you have a
helluva right hook. But Steve, you couldn't follow orders if they wrote 'em
down. You've always done yer own thing. What makes you think you would follow
orders in the Army? Especially if you thought they were bad ones? That's what
being a soldier is about—following.” Bucky looked away, back down at the
enlistment form. “My dad taught me that if nothing else.”
Steve stopped. He was looking down at his hands. “I guess...I would have
trouble with that.” He pulled the bag shut. “But I would do the right thing, no
matter what. Even if that meant disobeying orders.”
Bucky shook his head. “And that is why you would hate being a soldier.”
“Maybe...” Steve looked up at him again. “But then again, maybe I will be the
one giving the orders.”
Bucky smirked. “Yeah, I can see that now. Yes, sir, Sergeant Rogers, sir!” He
did a little mock salute.
Steve tried not to, but he smirked in return. “Shuddup.”
 
*~*~*
 

March 7, 1942
Dear Private Barnes,
It's Saturday, and you know what that means. I'm going to the motion pictures
by myself tonight since you went off and joined the Army. I bet you're learning
all sorts of exciting things. I sleep better at night knowing that you're
fighting to keep 4F's like me safe.
The commute to midtown is a pain this time of year, but I've been lucky because
suddenly I always have a seat on the bus. It seems that most of the men of this
fine city have left to defend our country. What that must feel like. Everyday,
I get stared at like a plague. (Even more so than usual, because the dames all
know why I'm still here)
I know it makes me sound like a sissy to write it, but I miss you. There. I
admit it.
I don't expect you to write me even though you promised you would. I'm your
best pal. I know you don't write letters. You probably won't even write your
ma. Don't worry, I'll write one and give it to her. I'll say you sent it in one
envelope to save on postage. You're welcome.
Well, it's only training, so try not to get injured or die or anything.
Your Best Pal,
Steve Rogers
P.S. Happy Birthday, jerk
 
*~*~*
 

March 29, 1942
Steve,
You know I dont write cause I barely finished high school and I hate grammer
and all that stuff. But here I am writing you so shove it.
All were doing here is a bunch of agility and strength training. I get fed more
here than I ever have so thats good at least. And guess what Steve. Randall is
here too! Remember him the one who got us the tickets to see the Dodgers? He
signed up himself. I thought Id be in a group full of conscripted soldiers but
were all put together. So at least I have someone to talk to.
Well I dont got much else to say other than I hope your keeping warm and dry
and I hope you found my note about the jar full of money. And dont ask where it
came from. Just be grateful you grouch.
I miss you too Stevie.
Your ONLY Pal,
Bucky
 
*~*~*
 
Bucky made it back to New York after his basic training. He came home wearing
his dress uniform. Steve was there to greet him at the bus stop.
Bucky enveloped him in a big hug that lifted him off the ground. He even
twirled him around in a big circle, Steve's feet flying out with the motion.
“Cut it out, Bucky!” Steve complained. “People are gonna stare...”
Bucky just smirked. “Let 'em.”
They walked home. It was a nice evening, not too warm with just the hint of a
breeze. They passed an alley that Steve had gotten beat up in before and they
both turned to look, just in case. Seemed like there was always someone waiting
to start a fight. But there was no group of thugs waiting. This time, Steve's
eyes bugged out of his skull and his face turned red.
There were two men down at the end of the alley. One was in his Navy uniform,
his back against the brick wall while the other was down on his knees in front
of him. It was obvious what they were doing.
“C'mon...” Bucky prodded Steve, pushing him forward. They hurried to their
apartment in silence.
When Bucky finally closed the door to their apartment, Steve huffed, “Can you
believe they were doing that right there where anyone could see them? I mean,
we did see them!”
Bucky just shrugged. “You 'n me are the only ones that look down every alley
for trouble. Most fellas just see 'em as a place to fuck.”
Steve flinched.
Bucky shoved his hands in his pockets. “You ever...”
Steve snapped his head to look at Bucky. “Ever what?”
Bucky sighed. “I dunno...ever thought about...what it might be like...kissin' a
fella...?”
Steve looked away. His mind went immediately to thoughts of bruises on his
knees from the unforgiving floor of George's office, of late nights spent
swallowing salty spurts of semen, of his anus bleeding for days after. Of
having to hide, to smile when George's wife came in to bring him his lunch. Of
the knot in his stomach whenever George's hand touched his back. Of the red-hot
rage he felt when he saw his hand on someone else's.
“It's not for me.” Steve seethed.
Bucky just nodded quickly. “Yeah, of course not. Not for me either.”
And then Steve's mind went to Bucky, of what it might feel like to press his
lips against the stubble on his jaw, of running his fingers through Bucky's
short brown hair and pulling, of pushing his tongue in his mouth like he'd seen
Bucky do to dames countless times. Of pushing Bucky to his knees, shoving his
cock into that wet heat, Bucky's lips bright red and swollen, his bright eyes
shining, looking right up at Steve as he hollowed his cheeks.
“I don't feel very well, Buck. I'm gonna go lay down.”
Bucky forced a smile on his face. “Yeah, okay, no problem, pal.”
***** Flushing Meadows, June 14, 1943 *****
Chapter Summary
     “Yer a punk.”
     Bucky had to hold him. As many times as he could get away with.
     “Jerk,” Steve answered. “Be careful.”
Chapter Notes
     Warnings for this chapter:
     Violence/Enjoying Violence
     Internalized Homophobia
     Period Typical Prejudice toward Catholics
     Some bad language
     Bashing the Navy (playfully)
“You just don't know when to give up, do ya?”
Steve was unsteady on his feet, but held his fists up. “I could do this all
day.”
The punch landed right on Steve's nose. He saw, rather than felt himself hit
the tin of the garbage can on the ground of the alley. He was having one of his
out-of-body experiences that happened only when he reached a certain threshold
for pain. He smiled into the grime on the ground. It was already so, so good.
And he was just getting started. He bet he could goad this asshole into hitting
him for a quite a while.
He struggled to his feet, enjoying the smarting pain spreading all over his
body. Then he heard a familiar drawl, “Sometimes, I think ya like gettin'
punched.”
Steve was irritated. Leave it to Bucky to save him from a good beating. “I had
'im on the ropes.”
Bucky prattled on about Steve trying to enlist again. But Steve wasn't really
listening. If Bucky was on leave, he probably didn't have much time, and Steve
doubted he wanted to spend it lecturing him.
Then he looked up. He was in full dress uniform. Not on leave then.
“You get your orders?”
Bucky seemed to be pulled back to the moment. “The one-oh-seventh.” Steve's
heart clenched a little bit. “Sergeant James Barnes shipping out for England
first thing tomorrow.”
All the adrenaline from the fight left him instantly. All that remained was a
bone-deep soreness that ached everywhere. He felt tired. “I should be going.”
It was true. It was his dream, his fight. Steve wanted it more than anyone. And
there Bucky was pretending that it was something he was proud to do. That it
didn't make him all kinds of terrified to know he'd be going over there to kill
people.
Steve thought the worst part was how Bucky didn't even try to tell him no
anymore. Because Bucky knew he belonged next to him. It wasn't fair.
“C'mon, man,” Bucky's face broke into a grin and he grabbed him roughly around
the neck with one arm, steering him out of the alley. “My last night! Gotta get
you cleaned up...”
Steve followed, played along, “Why? Where we going?”
“The future,” Bucky said cryptically, handing him the paper about the World
Expo.
They walked back to their apartment. Bucky got several looks from several
different women. He looked damn good in uniform. Some of them even called out
to him, calling him “Sarge” like they knew him or something. Bucky smiled back
at all of them, but always looked back at Steve. Steve didn't know what to make
of that.
When they made it inside, Bucky looked around slowly. He hadn't lived there in
months, and some of Steve's things were everywhere. He had drawings and pencils
everywhere. There were sketches hanging from every blank spot on the wall, and
almost all of them were of Bucky. Mostly in uniform.
“You like me in my uniform, Rogers?” Bucky called to him in the bedroom.
“Whatever takes the focus off your face, jerk.” Steve called back. Bucky could
hear the smile in his voice.
Bucky smiled. God, he missed Steve. Coming back to Brooklyn on weekends wasn't
enough. And now he was going to be an ocean away.
Steve came back out in a new shirt and tie. He smoothed his hair and gave a
small smile. “How do I look?”
Bucky looked, really looked. Took in his small frame and his blonde hair swept
to the side and his big hands with calluses from drawing with pencils and his
thick eyelashes and cherry red lips and blue eyes and pants with scuff marks on
the knees from getting knocked to the ground of every alley between his job and
their apartment and he wished he could tell him, Baby, you look great.
Instead he just smiled and nodded. “Let's go.”
 
*~*~*
 
Of course Steve made a fuss about Bucky getting him a date. But dammit, it was
Bucky's last night stateside, and if he was going to get lucky, he wanted Steve
to get lucky too. Preferably together, if he could manage it. But one look at
who Connie brought with her and he knew that wasn't going to happen. The blonde
had a pinched look on her face that could peel paint.
Connie was a fun girl. Since becoming an officer, Bucky had begun to frequent a
bar that the other sergeants liked and met her there. She was polite and
dressed nice, but she wasn't above going behind the bar and pulling up her
skirt. Bucky liked the way she dug her fingernails into his biceps and left
marks. He especially liked the way she wrapped her legs around him so tight it
felt sometimes like he couldn't breathe. But what he liked best was when she
put her mouth to his ear and whispered, “Harder.”
But it was fun, having a night out, a real proper date. They hadn't had the
chance to do it. Or maybe that was Bucky's fault, never asking her out
properly. He went along with a smile on his face when she dragged him to Howard
Stark's demonstration. Flying cars. He finally managed to pull it off.
“Holy cow.”
One minute Steve was there, the next he was gone. Bucky spotted a sign for
recruiting. Of course.
He tried to remind Steve that they were on a date, but he should have known
that would never work. “You're really gonna do this again?”
Steve steeled his shoulders. “Well, it's a fair. I'm gonna try my luck.”
Bucky couldn’t handle it. One night. He only had one night left and Steve
wanted to spend it trying to get himself in the Army so he could fight and die
in a country where no one will know or care.
“As who? Steve from Ohio? They'll catch you. Or worse, they'll actually take
you!”
Steve met his eyes, then looked down. Almost as if Bucky didn't think—
“Look, I know you don't think I can do this...”
As if that was the problem. As if Steve's ability as a soldier had anything to
do with Bucky not wanting him to enlist.
“This isn't a back alley, Steve!” Bucky cut him off. He thought of how his C.O.
described what it was like to kill a man, to know what it feels like to put a
bullet in a body. “It's war!”
“I know it's a war—” Steve started again, but Bucky was too keyed up to let him
finish.
“Why are you so keen to fight? There's so many important jobs!” Like the ones
Steve already had. Making the recruiting posters. He was helping in other ways,
safe ways, and he wouldn't even acknowledge it.
“What am I gonna do?” Steve fired back. “Collect scrap metal in my little red
wagon?”
“Yes!” Bucky couldn't deny that he was yelling at this point. “Why not?!”
“I'm not gonna sit in a factory, Bucky—Bucky!”
Whatever Bucky was saying or was going to say died in his mouth when he saw the
fire in Steve's eyes.
“Come on, there are men laying down their lives. I got no right to do any less
than them.” Bucky just stared at Steve. “That's what you don't understand. This
isn't about me.”
“Right...” Bucky fired back without thinking. “'Cause you got nothin' to
prove.”
The determined look on Steve's face only hardened at his words.
“Hey Sarge!” Connie suddenly called. “Are we going dancing?”
Bucky buttoned down his temper and turned back around. “Yes, we are!” He looked
back at Steve. His jaw was set. Stubborn as a mule, as always. Bucky just shook
his head. “Don't do anything stupid until I get back...”
He was already walking away when Steve called, “How can I? You're takin' all
the stupid with you.”
Bucky shook his head again, already moving back to him like a magnet. “Yer a
punk.”
Bucky had to hold him. As many times as he could get away with.
“Jerk,” Steve answered. “Be careful.” Bucky walked away again. “Don't win the
war til I get there!”
Bucky saluted, then turned back to both of the girls. Just touching Steve,
smelling his hair, had him half-hard in his uniform. He grabbed Connie around
the shoulders and practically ran to the dance hall.
Steve went further into the recruitment center.
 
*~*~*
 
It turned out Connie lived with her blonde friend in a nice apartment building
in Queens. Bucky didn't mind walking her back there. He was pretty sure he was
going to leave happy.
Connie led him straight to her bedroom that she shared with her blonde friend.
For some reason, Bucky couldn't remember what her name was. But she was nowhere
in sight when Connie locked the door and turned back to Bucky with a shy smile
on her face.
“Will you make love to me, Sarge?”
Bucky smirked, “Of course, doll. C'mere.”
He sat down on the edge of her bed, and she walked toward him until she was
standing between his legs. He lifted his hands to begin unbuttoning her dress.
His own uniform was a pain to get in and out of, but it was worth it to see
Connie's pupils dilate with every layer he removed.
Finally naked from head to toe, he pushed her flat onto the single bed and
kissed her, letting his mind wander as he closed his eyes. Her nails dug into
his arms and he groaned. He nuzzled his way down her neck to her breasts. They
were small, like the rest of her. He sucked gently on her left nipple and her
nails bit painfully into his arm as she cried out.
“Bucky!”
He just hummed and moved on to the other one. He kissed his way down her body,
pausing at her navel to look up at her, hair curtained around her head like a
halo, lips red from kissing. He grinned, moving lower.
She let him push her legs apart and he bent his head. Her hands shot up to his
head, pulling his hair.
“Ah!” she cried. Bucky moaned and grabbed her by the hips, lifting her off of
the bed. She kept her grip tight in his hair as he licked. Her legs were
quivering when Bucky finally sat up and reached for a rubber in the pocket of
his pants on the ground.
“M'gonna make you feel so good, doll,” he promised.
She just stared at him with wide eyes and her open, panting mouth.
He entered her without resistance. Every thrust made a squelching noise.
“You're so wet, dollface. That feel good?”
She buried her face in his chest and dug her nails in deeper. Her legs were
like a vice around him.
“C'mon, I asked you if you liked it...”
Instead of answering, she bit him. Not hard, but he felt it, all the way down
to his cock.
“Fuck!” he breathed and picked up his pace. He wasn't going to last long, but
that didn't matter. He could already feel her clenching around him
uncontrollably. It was almost enough. If he could just close his eyes and think
of—
“Oh yeah, oh fuck! M'fuckin' close...” He was sure he was bruising her hips
with his hands, but he couldn't bring himself to care. “Fuckin' close...”
She suddenly brought her hands down from his arms and sunk her nails into his
ass.
He howled and came like a freight train.
 
*~*~*
 
His breathing was almost back to normal when she sat up and turned over to look
at him.
He smiled lazily at her, “What issit, doll?”
She rolled her eyes, but said nothing, using her nails to just barely touch the
skin on his chest.
He kept grinning, “Ya know, a fella could really get used to a gal like you,
Connie.”
She smiled back sheepishly.
“I mean it. It'd be nice to have something to look forward to when I get back
home.”
She tilted her head, “What do you mean, Sarge?”
He sat up, huffing impatiently. “Now, I know I'm not doing this right, but I
mean it, Connie. You'd make a helluva wife. Would you be mine?”
Her eyes widened to an almost comedic level. “Oh Bucky...that is so sweet,
but...”
Bucky looked at her, “But...what?”
She looked down at her lap. “I can't get married to you.” She looked back up at
him. “A girl like me just doesn't end up with a guy like you.”
Bucky blinked. Several times. He couldn't make his mouth form words.
She looked at him, face radiating pity. “Oh, Bucky. You're a great guy. But my
momma would never approve of a me getting married to a Catholic Sergeant from
Flatbush.”
Bucky felt as if she dumped a cold bucket of water over his entire body. He was
shaking, but whether or not from rage, he didn't know. He pushed himself up off
the bed, getting dressed as fast as he could manage.
“Oh, Sarge...please don't be upset...” she cooed. “We had such a nice time
together. Can't you just enjoy that?”
Bucky could barely do the buttons on his jacket from his hands shaking so bad.
He left her sitting naked on her bed.
 
*~*~*
 
He stumbled through the door to their apartment after one in the morning. Steve
was still up, sketching on the couch.
“Fuckin' hussy,” Bucky slurred, making his way to the cabinet where he hoped
his liquor bottle would still be. It was a new one, God bless Steve.
Steve came to stand next to him, pouring two glasses after Bucky got done
taking a long drink right from the bottle.
“Who's that now?”
“Connie Daniels,” Bucky answered, taking the glass Steve offered him and
allowed himself to be led to the couch.
“She seemed nice enough,” Steve offered.
“I asked her to marry me,” Bucky blurted. He laughed at the look on Steve's
face. “Don't worry, she turned me down.”
Steve shook his head, “What a dummy. She must be crazy.”
Bucky smiled at Steve, feeling his cheeks heat but not caring. “Thanks, pal.
Means a lot to hear you say that.”
Steve shrugged. “Why'd you do it? You obviously weren't planning on it.”
Bucky nodded, “Yeah, yer right about that. I sure wasn't plannin' on it.” He
sighed. “I dunno, Stevie. She had just got my rocks off. I'm goin' off to die
in the morning. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
Steve sighed. “You're not going to die over there, Bucky.”
Bucky turned his head to look at Steve. “No?”
“No. You're going to die an old man, many, many years from now, surrounded by
your kids and your grandkids and your great-grandkids and I'm going to be right
next to you, just like we planned since we were little.”
Bucky, who had been smirking looked back over at Steve. “Who are you kiddin',
yer still little.”
Steve punched him in the arm. “Jerk.”
Bucky smiled and finished his glass. Steve took it and went back to the kitchen
to refill it.
“I got accepted,” he said, just above a whisper.
Bucky froze, looking out at the empty street. “What?”
“There was this doctor...he knew about me applying five times.”
Bucky stood up and walked to the kitchen. “Yer joking.”
“Nope, I'm serious. He said he'd give me a chance.” Steve pulled the 1A stamped
form out of his pocket like it was the most precious thing.
Bucky looked down at it like a death sentence. He closed his eyes. “Dammit,
Stevie, I ask ya not to do anything stupid, and what do ya do?”
Steve pocketed his form carefully. “I go to say my oath tomorrow.”
Bucky looked at him. “And miss sendin' me off to England?”
Steve smiled. “Wouldn't miss that for the world, Buck.”
 
*~*~*
 
Just a few hours later, Bucky boarded the ship at the Navy Yard that would take
him across the sea. He tried to pick Steve out from the masses of people that
had arrived to see off their loved ones, but it was impossible.
Another man walked up beside him wearing a bowler hat instead of his Army
regulation cap. He had a mustache and leaned heavily on Bucky, reeking of stale
beer. “I hate boats. I think I might throw up, Sarge.”
Bucky smiled at him. “S'ok. Just make sure to do it on the Navy fellas and
you'll be A-OK in my book.”
The man let out a bark of a laugh and held out his hand, “Timothy Dugan, 69th
infantry.”
Bucky took his hand, “Sergeant James Barnes, 107th.”
Dugan grabbed onto the railing, eyes scanning the sea of people waving goodbye
as the ship was pulled out of the yard. “You're not waving goodbye to anyone?
You got the look of a heartbreaker, Sarge. I imagine there's all sorts of women
down there just cryin' their eyes out 'cause you have to leave.”
It was Bucky's turn to laugh. “No, not today. I'm just lookin' for a scrap of a
guy. Five-foot-four, ninety-five pounds. See anybody like that?”
Dugan's mouth was a strange cross between a smile and a frown. “Is that him on
that pole over there?”
Bucky followed Dugan's line of sight, and sure enough, Steve was clinging to a
large metal pole that stuck out over the docks. He was swinging his jacket at
Bucky like his life depended on it.
Bucky's face split into a grin and he swung his arms back in response. “That's
him, alright. My best pal, Steve Rogers. He just joined the Army.”
Dugan whistled low. “They must be getting pretty damn desperate.”
But Bucky just ignored him and continued to wave until the tugboat had pulled
them so far into the ocean that he couldn't see Steve anymore.
***** Camp Lehigh, June 15, 1943 *****
Chapter Summary
     “Whatever happens tomorrow, you must promise me one thing: that you
     will stay who you are...not a perfect soldier...but a good man.”
Steve collapsed onto the bed he had re-made twice. His arms had never felt so
heavy. Sure, he understood the need for the drill sergeants to yell at him
while he stood on a straight line, how important it was for him to learn to tie
his laces just right. Really, he got it. It was about discipline. Following
orders.
But God, did he want to hate Bucky for being right. He couldn't stand it.
It felt like being bullied all over again, but the bully was an officer in the
U.S. Army, so Steve was supposed to bite his tongue and jump to follow orders.
One of the recruits was ordered to literally kiss his drill sergeant's boot.
And he did it. It took all of Steve's willpower not to yank him up by his
collar and slap some sense into him.
The only person he didn't feel was talking down to him was...Agent Carter. And
boy, was she something. Her nails and lips were painted red everyday and she
never had a hair out of place, but she wore pants and did push ups and could
probably kick the crap out of any man in the Army. The only person Steve could
remember looking up to that much was Bucky...
He rolled over onto his right side and looked out at all the other sleeping
recruits, most of them snoring away. Some of them thought nothing of the
physical tests. It seemed they were hand-picked to be the strongest. But there
were others that were less obvious choices. Some that didn't have the muscles
that the others did, who wore glasses and obviously were smart and logical.
Steve wondered where he fit in. The other recruits ignored him at best, and
taunted him at worst, and it was beginning to wear on him. He couldn't get into
a fight. Dr. Erskine told him that the first day. Any insubordination would get
him immediately disqualified as a candidate for the program. So he had to just
clench his teeth and bear it.
Luckily, it was only a week.
 
*~*~*
 
He thought about Bucky. He thought about writing him, too. But his drill
seargent had told them that any and all mail to or from anyone in their special
program was immediately confiscated and destroyed. This whole program was
Classified. Top Secret.
Not that Steve had much to say other than how tired he was. And how despite
being bullied constantly, he was the happiest he'd ever been. Here, in the
program, he had the chance to become something greater. He had signed a waiver
the day that he said his oath that gave the U.S. Army permission to administer
any treatments they created. They said they could make him into the perfect
soldier. Steve clung to that.
The written tests took him a while compared to some of the others, but every
time he turned in his essay of a plan of attack, Dr. Erskine would smile and
nod, and Steve couldn't help but smile back. At least he was doing something
right.
He hadn't passed a single physical test yet. Yes, Hodge had collapsed the
barbed wire tunnel on him, but it wasn't like he was going to make it through
in the allotted time. He had tried seven times before, and he was only getting
slower. And he was never going to be able to scale the rope ladder with ease.
His asthma was acting up, and they had confiscated his cigarettes as soon as he
said his oath.
He fell down at least twenty times while on their overnight jog, ate dirt more
times than he cared to count, but as soon as he saw all those men trying to
scramble their way up a flagpole, he nearly laughed. He could almost hear
Bucky's drawl saying, What a buncha dummies. Steve pulled the pin out and tried
not to look too gleeful at getting to ride back to camp.
Agent Carter smirked at him and turned back around, her hair blowing back from
her face as the car took off.
 
*~*~*
 
It was the final day. His shirt was sticking to his chest from all of the
sweating. They had been outside all afternoon, doing nothing but push ups and
crunches and jumping jacks and planks and lunges and if Steve had to go over
that obstacle course one more time, he was sure that he would pass out. It was
a miracle he hadn't already.
Hodge had begun to notice the smiles that Dr. Erskine sent Steve's way, so he
had gotten even more nasty than before. He even managed to spill Steve's lunch
all over him and made it look like an accident. Then Colonol Phillips had
thrown that dummy grenade. Steve's complete lack of self preservation finally
paid off. Dr. Erskine smiled proudly at Steve, and the next thing he knew, he
was being cornered in the barracks by three other guys.
“What makes you so special, Rogers?”
Steve said nothing, just stared steadily back at Hodge, watching out of the
corner of his eye as their drill sergeant came in to personally announce
dinner. They dispersed, grumbling to themselves.
The drill sergeant pulled Steve back at the last moment.
“Not you, Rogers. You have a special procedure tomorrow. No food. No fluids.”
Steve's face lit up like Christmas.
 
*~*~*
 
While everyone else was at dinner, Steve watched as no less than twelve
Military police officers came and stripped all of the beds, collected everyone
else's belongings and put them in their respective trunks before hauling it all
away. It wasn't like he had made any friends, but they were all whisked away
without so much as a nod goodbye.
And then Steve was alone. He was beyond words with joy at the opportunity to
become this “super soldier,” but he just couldn't stop wondering why, out of
all them, he was chosen. Was it because he realized the flagpole had a pin in
it? For his innovative thinking? Steve thought any one of those guys could have
done the same thing if they had only slowed down long enough to think. Was it
because he threw himself on that grenade? For his bravery? He wasn't thinking
at the time beyond the fact that everybody was about to be blown sky high, and
if he could save these men, the men that would go on to become the greatest
soldiers in history, maybe he could die happy and proud of himself.
But they were all passed over, and the opportunity was given to him, a 95-pound
asthmatic who can barely hear out of one ear, can't see colors right, gets
winded going up a flight of stairs, and has had so many flus, fevers and colds,
it's a miracle he's still alive.
He was just staring at the pages of one of his books that belonged to his
father when he heard the knock on the door. He turned around to see Dr. Erskine
standing in the doorway, trying unsuccessfully to hide the bottle and glasses
he had brought with him. The booze reminded him of Bucky. Oh God, what would
Bucky think?
You let them turn you into a lab rat?! What are you thinking, Rogers?!
But Bucky's voice disappeared as Dr. Erskine asked kindly, “May I?”
“Yeah,” Steve replied gruffly, because what else was he supposed to say? This
man said the serum would not only cure everything and make him healthy, it
would make him powerful beyond his wildest dreams. How could he refuse the
company of the man that was trusting him with that?
“Can't sleep?” he asked.
Steve paused. He wasn't even going to try to sleep. “Got the jitters, I
guess...”
“Me too,” the doctor admitted.
Steve turned and put his book to the side. “Can I ask you a question?”
Dr. Erskine unfolded the mattress opposite him. “Just one?” He sat down.
“Why me?” Steve asked.
The doctor looked away, down at the bottle he was holding. The label was in
German. “I suppose that is the only question that matters...” He fiddled with
the bottle he was holding. “This is from Augsburg, my city. So many people
forget that the first country the Nazis invaded was their own...”
Dr. Erskine began talking about Hitler trying to recruit him. Steve had only
read what was in the papers, but even he felt a shiver go down his spine at the
thought of someone as gentle and kind as Dr. Erskine being forced to work for a
murderer of children.
Steve focused again on Dr. Erskine as he began to talk about another man.
“...so he sends the head of HYDRA, his research division, a brilliant scientist
by the name of Johann Schmidt...”
Steve wondered what kind of man is Schmidt that he would receive such high
praise from someone like Dr. Erskine. Because Nazi or no, he just called him
brilliant.
“...he and Hitler share a passion for occult power and Teutonic myth. Hitler
uses his fantasies to inspire his followers. But for Schmidt, it is not
fantasy. For him, it is real.”
Steve didn't know much about Teutonic myth, other than it wasn't in the Bible.
Clearly, Steve thought, Schmidt is insane.
Dr. Erskine continued, “He has become convinced that there is a great power
hidden in the Earth left here by the Gods, waiting to be seized by a superior
man. So when he hears about my formula and what it can do, he cannot resist.
Schmidt must become that superior man.”
Steve's thoughts instantly jumped to the formula and its promised effects. He
felt small and selfish and scared. He couldn't resist interrupting, “Did it
make him stronger?”
“Ja,” he replied, as if the outcome could be anything but successful.
“But...there were...other effects...”
Steve's imagination ran away with him, picturing horribly disproportional
limbs. Or maybe his mind. Perhaps it drove him even more insane. As if Dr.
Erskine could read the worry on his face, he continued with his story.
“The serum wasn't ready. But more important...the man. The serum amplifies
everything that is inside. So good becomes great. Bad becomes worse.”
Steve fixated on that for a moment, but Dr. Erskine smiled again and nodded at
him. “This is why you were chosen.” He paused, looking meaningfully at Steve.
“Because a strong man who has known power all his life will lose respect for
that power. But a weak man knows the value of strength. And
knows...compassion.”
Steve felt his throat tighten ever so slightly just from the way Dr. Erskine
was looking at him...like he held the key to saving the entire human race.
Steve looked down, overwhelmed.
“Thanks...I think.”
Dr. Erskine smiled knowingly and motioned for Steve to hold out the glasses. He
poured the schnapps and continued, “Whatever happens tomorrow, you must promise
me one thing: that you will stay who you are...not a perfect soldier...but a
good man.”
He punctuated his statement with a fierce point at Steve's chest, right at his
heart.
Steve could only smile, “To the little guys.” They held their glasses out,
clinked them together lightly, and just as Steve was about to put the glass to
his lips—
“No, no, wait! Wait! What I am doing?” He took the glass from Steve. “No, you
have procedure tomorrow. No fluids.”
Steve tried very hard not to sigh as the doctor poured out Steve's glass into
his own. “Alright, we'll drink it after.”
“No, I don't have procedure tomorrow. 'Drink it after'? I drink it now.”
He downed it in one gulp.
Steve watched him with only a little envy. He suddenly felt very tired. Perhaps
he would sleep. But he had to know.
“So what's gonna happen to me tomorrow?”
Dr. Erskine lowered his glass, having refilled it but not yet taking another
drink. “We named this program 'Project Rebirth.' Do you know why?”
Steve shook his head.
“You will go into the chamber as you are now: weak and sickly. You will emerge
strong, physically perfect in every way you were ever meant to be. You will be
reborn.”
Steve watched him drink. “Will it hurt?”
Dr. Erskine smiled again, because he knew Steve knew the answer already. “Ja.”
Steve shrugged, but said nothing. Pain was a dear old friend.
***** Brooklyn, June 22, 1943 *****
Chapter Summary
     “That wasn't so bad,” he breathed out.
     “That was penicillin,” Dr. Erskine replied with a sad smile.
Lord help him, he was in the back seat with Agent Carter. He could smell her
perfume with every turn of her head. It was intoxicating.
His stomach growled. He hadn't eaten since yesterday at lunch. Dr. Erskine said
it was important that he undergo the procedure with as little in his stomach as
possible. His head spun as he was jostled. He dozed off at some point, jerking
awake suddenly as he smelled the familiar dank river. He knew without opening
his eyes he was in Brooklyn.
They buzzed past countless shops and diners. Steve blinked the sleep out of his
eyes.
“I know this neighborhood...” he said without thinking. “I got beat up in that
alley...”
Agent Carter looked as Steve pointed out the window.
“...and that parking lot...”
That's where Randall jerked off into my mouth...
“...and behind that diner.”
There was where Bucky and I saw that fella giving the sailor a suckjob...
But it wouldn't do to point any of that out to a woman. Good lord, why was he
even thinking about any of that? He needed to button it before he said
something stupid. The driver looked in his rearview mirror, catching Steve's
eye with a disapproving frown. Steve's stomach twisted. He was grateful it was
empty.
“Did you have something against running away?” Agent Carter's voice cut into
his musings.
He wanted to look at her, but every time he did, it seemed his heart got caught
somewhere in his throat. Best to look back out the window. He prattled on about
never running. It just wasn't in him to give up. Stupid. Stupid.
“I know a little of what that's like,” she responded in her clipped British
tone. “To have every door shut in your face.”
Steve barely held in a snort. What man would ever shut the door in Agent
Carter's face?
“I guess I just don't know why you'd want to join the Army if you're a
beautiful dame.”
Good lord, he must be drunk. Drunk on her perfume and lack of food. He did not
just say that. He had to be dreaming.
She turned to look at him, fire in her eyes. Oh shit. He called her a dame.
Dames didn't like that...shit, what would Bucky do? He was the smooth-talker,
what would he say?
“Or a beautif—a woman!” By the look on her face, that wasn't the right answer
either. “An agent!” he practically cried. “Not a dame...” Stupid, stupid. “You
are beautiful, but...”
God, could he just crawl into the trunk and die?
But the fire in her eyes had died, and she had the cutest smirk on her face.
“You have no idea how to talk to a woman, do you?”
By some miracle, she found him amusing? Go figure. He chuckled, “I think this
is the longest conversation I've had with one.” And because he was stupid and
couldn't stop himself, “Women aren't exactly lining up to dance with the guy
they might step on.”
Steve kept his eyes down. He didn't want to see the sad look on her face.
She added softly, “You must've danced.”
Steve shrugged, looking out at the familiar neighborhood. Of course he knew the
basic steps. Bucky had taught him that much, even let Steve lead. And yet...
“Asking a woman to dance always seemed so terrifying. And the past few years,
it just...” Steve paused, remembering stepping on Bucky's feet over and over as
he led them through a simple rock step, the radio going in and out. “Didn't
seem to matter that much. Figured I'd wait.”
Agent Carter was leaning toward him now, her perfume a constant presence. “For
what?”
Steve tilted his head in consideration for just a moment. “The right partner.”
Steve was too busy staring out at the road to notice Agent Carter's sly smile.
 
*~*~*
 
The facility behind the antique shop was like something out of one of Bucky's
science fiction novels. The whole place was chilled, which would have been nice
considering the weather outside, but he was currently stripping down to just
his pants, and he already felt cold.
The nurse that took his shirt and hat looked at him like an insect to be
dissected. He was certain his mother never looked so cold and calculating
toward a patient. Though perhaps he was looking at this all wrong. She wasn't a
nurse, she was a scientist. And he was the subject.
Dr. Erskine watched with his same small smile as Steve situated himself on the
gurney.
“Comfortable?” he asked.
Steve knew he looked anything but. “It's a little big,” he joked. But really,
it was. How large did Dr. Erskine think he could possibly grow? “Did you save
me any of that Schnapps?”
Dr. Erskine actually looked sheepish as he replied. Steve smiled. And then...
“Mr. Stark? How are your levels?”
Steve's heart nearly seized in his chest. Surely Dr. Erskine didn't mean...
The young face of the famous inventor loomed over him, inspecting him, never
meeting Steve's eyes. Dr. Erskine was working with Howard Stark? Steve would
have laughed if it didn't terrify him so much. He'd seen Howard Stark's “work”
at the expo. He wasn't exactly thrilled with his failed flying car. But Steve
steeled himself. If Dr. Erksine trusted him with his formula, Steve would trust
him, too.
“Agent Carter? Don't you think it would be more comfortable in the booth?”
At the mention of her name, Steve strained to look at her again. Damn, she was
beautiful. If he survived this, he was going to ask her to dance.
Steve felt goosebumps erupt over his entire body as he stopped fidgeting on the
gurney. He felt naked with just his pants on. He flexed his toes, trying to
reach the bottom of the gurney, but failed. He tried to calm his breathing. A
nurse came over with a syringe. Without any warning, she poked him. It burned,
but it was bearable.
“That wasn't so bad,” he breathed out.
“That was penicillin,” Dr. Erskine replied with a sad smile.
Oh. Well then.
“Serum infusion beginning in five...four...three...two...” Dr. Erskine laid his
hand down on Steve's collar bone. The words hadn't really penetrated his brain,
but the touch did. It was about to happen. “...one.”
Steve squeezed his eyes shut. It felt as if liquid ice was being pumped into
his veins, making his arms and legs and chest instantly seize up in pain. Then
it began to burn. How was ice so cold that it burned? The pushing pressure in
his veins stopped suddenly and left him feeling almost numb. His eyes shot open
in shock more than anything. The constant pressure was gone, but he was still
burning.
Steve's blood was pounding in his ears, but he heard “Now, Mr. Stark,” and
suddenly the gurney was raised so that he was in a standing position. The
chamber closed around him and for a terrifying moment, he had the thought that
he might suffocate to death. Then there was a hiss of pressure and he breathed
in some of the air. His lungs were on fire, but he couldn't stop blinking his
eyes. They were blurry in a way that he couldn't seem to blink away. And his
hearing was simultaneously better and worse at the same time. He couldn't hear
himself take the gulps of air he knew he was gasping for, but he felt like he
could hear Dr. Erksine as if he was whispering in his ear.
“Steven? Can you hear me?”
He was numb. He was numb and he couldn't move, but he had to let them know he
was alright. “It's probably too late to go to the bathroom, right?”
Steve could hear the smile in his voice, “We will proceed.”
He let out the painful breath he didn't know he'd been holding. Like somehow,
at the last moment, they'd realize they'd given the serum to the wrong man, and
pull him out of the chamber and send him back home.
The chamber around him began to hum with power. And heat rapidly. The light was
blinding, even when he squeezed his eyes shut. And it wouldn't stop. It
penetrated every cell on his body, burning him to the point where he didn't
think he could cry out, but he had to try. There was no other way to express
how much this hurt. He opened his mouth and screamed.
His body shook, and he swore for a moment, he was going to vibrate apart,
explode into pieces everywhere, but somehow, his skin kept everything together.
The pain was so much, he knew he was about to pass out. That's when he heard
it.
“Kill the reactor, Mr. Stark! Turn it off! Kill it! Kill the reactor!”
No. He could hold on for a little longer. Pain was an old friend. If his body
wasn't going to shake apart, he sure as hell wasn't going to let them stop.
“NO!” Steve screamed, the sound echoing in the chamber. His throat felt like
someone had ripped it raw. “DON'T! I CAN DO THIS!”
And the pain continued, but now he had succumbed to it. He let it wash over him
in terrible, blinding waves. Sweat dripped down his face, his chest, his arms,
off of his fingers, his toes. He was probably crying, too, but it didn't
matter. He could do it. He would. He didn't even feel the chest strap snap as
his body expanded in every direction.
After what seemed like years of agony, the machine finally cut off and the
light stopped. The heat was oppressive in the chamber, and it was like taking
his first breath of air as the doors opened. Hands rushed to stabilize him, and
he tried to put his hands on them. The angle was all wrong. He felt like he
would fall forward at any moment. He didn't have to open his eyes to know that
he had changed. Everywhere.
“I did it,” he whispered.
Dr. Erksine to his right, “I think we did it.”
“You actually did it.” That was Howard Stark. There were textures and layers to
their voices he had never noticed before. Or was it simply that he hadn't heard
them? Because suddenly he could hear everything. It was disorienting.
He opened his eyes.
There was Agent Carter...looking up at him. If he didn't feel like he'd just
been broken in every place imaginable and then remade, he would have said
something, something about how she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
He would've said now that he can see everything in perfect clarity, she's even
more breathtaking. Instead, he just managed to pant.
She asked, “How do you feel?”
He couldn't tell her that it felt like his skin was on fire. So he grasped for
something else, something simpler as he looked around the room. “Taller.” That
was true, at least.
“Um...” She thrust a shirt at his bare chest. He spared a glance down at
himself. Holy shit, he looked bigger than the muscle men at Coney Island. “You
look taller.”
He took the shirt and pulled it over his head, using his newly
acquired...muscles. Yes, he had muscles everywhere. It sent sparks through his
body when he moved. It felt...good to move. Nothing hurt anymore. The burning
was gone. He took a deep breath. There was no pinching wheeze from his asthma.
Somehow he knew that his heart was probably perfect, too. He smiled as he
looked down at himself.
It was short-lived.
 
*~*~*
 
Dr. Erskine was dead.
It had all happened so fast, and yet, Steve knew if he hadn't been so selfish
and preoccupied with his own narcissistic admiration of his new body, he could
have saved him. The nurse drew the final vial of his blood and he snapped,
“Think you got enough?”
He instantly hated himself for it. It wasn't their faults. His fingers felt too
big and he struggled to get his sleeve down again.
“Any hope of reproducing the program is locked in your genetic code.” Agent
Carter didn't seem bothered by his coarse manner. “But without Dr. Erskine, it
would take years.”
“He deserved more than this.” He deserved better than me. I failed him. I let
him die.
“If it could work only once, he'd be proud it was you.”
God, Steve wished he believed that.
 
*~*~*
 
Agent Carter was headed to Europe. And Steve was laying on his back in his
hotel room paid for by Senator Brandt.
Steve shook his head to himself, snorting in disbelief. How could he have been
so naïve? He thought he'd have grown out of it by now.
But Senator Brandt was a smart man, and he played Steve like a fiddle. And now
Steve really would have to sing and dance. He groaned, bringing his hand to
wipe at his face. Even his jaw felt different. It was a strange thing to
notice. Since he entered the chamber two days ago, he hadn't had a moment
alone. He realized that he was now. The Senator slept in the room across the
hall, and there was undoubtably someone on either side of the walls sleeping in
their own beds, but really, he was completely alone. He was anxious, and he
knew he needed to sleep. Perhaps a quick wank would help.
He ran his fingertips over his lips, enjoying the featherlight touch. He took a
breath and let his hand wander. His chest was warm and solid. He let his hand
drift to a nipple, and inhaled sharply at the touch. His eyes shot open as he
realized the effect this was having.
His cock literally made a tent in the sheets. Steve flushed immediately. It
wasn't as if he was self-conscious about his size, but now he was just
ridiculously huge. He was sure he'd never seen another dick as thick and long
as his when it was soft, and now that he was quickly stiffening, it was
downright obscene.
Fuck it, Steve thought, ripped the sheet away from his body, and reached all
the way down to wrap a hand around himself.
It was huge, but it fit well in his hand. Proportional, at least. The serum
didn't miss a thing.
He brought his hand up to the head, finding it leaking precome down the shaft.
He smeared it around and began stroking.
The pleasure was so intense and instant that his hips jerked up off of the
mattress without his permission. His balls felt tight and the pressure was
building too fast, but it was as if Steve had let a dam break and there was no
stopping it. He fucked into his warm fist a few more times before spilling all
over himself, shooting straight up onto his chest in thick ropes.
His breathing wasn't too heavy and he let himself float in the feeling. Fuck
it, Steve thought again. If Senator Brandt insisted on getting Steve his own
private hotel room, then he sure as shit wasn't going to waste it.
He didn't have to wait 30 seconds before the cold air of the room was tickling
his cock in just the right way. It was firm in another 30 seconds, and leaking
almost immediately after that.
By his sixth orgasm, Steve knew he had to get himself under control. He didn't
feel anywhere near tired. He'd begun to think about Agent Carter's red lips,
and that was no way to think about a dame. An agent, at that. He'd never be
able to look her in the eyes again. And boy, did he want to.
He jolted out of bed and went to rinse himself off in the basin that was
conveniently located in his room. He had been lucky that the sheets were mostly
left untouched. Steve sighed and laid down on the bed.
Maybe he didn't need to sleep anymore. Maybe the serum took care of that, too.
If anything, he was even more keyed up than before. His body seemed to love
that chase through the streets of Brooklyn after Dr. Erskine's killer. And it
certainly didn't mind the attention Steve had just given it, but he was tense
in a way that he didn't think was going away anytime soon. He longed for his
notebook and a pencil.
He wanted to draw a new picture of both him and Bucky in their uniforms.
***** USO Tour, July 25 - November 3, 1943 *****
Chapter Summary
     “Who will campaign door to door for America
     Carry the flag shore to shore for America
     From Hoboken to Spokane"
     -From the Song "Star-Spangled Man”
New York City, July 25, 1943
The very next morning, just after dawn, there was a loud knock on his hotel
room door.
Steve was already awake and dressed. He doubted he got more than two hours of
sleep, but he felt fine. It was Senator Brandt's assistant, Simon Garcetti.
“G'morning, Rogers. How'd ya sleep?”
Steve just nodded and smiled.
“Good, good.” Simon glanced down at his watch. “Well, we have the final fitting
for the costume in 20 minutes, then we're on stage at noon. Feel up to it?”
Steve just barely resisted sighing. He wasn't ever going to feel up to it, but
he appreciated the man's asking anyway.
“Good, good,” he said again, waving Steve down the hallway. “We'll eat once we
get there.”
At the mention of food, Steve felt his stomach seize up so painfully, he
stopped walking. Holy shit, he was hungry. It was the horrible, gnawing hunger
that he hadn't felt since...well, since his Ma got sick and they had started to
go without food for a while. Bucky's Ma had started sending him over with food,
but until she caught on, it had been a rough couple of weeks.
He pushed himself off the wall and began walking again.
“...you ok there, pal?” Simon asked.
“Yeah,” Steve lied. “Just getting used to this new body, is all.”
Simon smiled. “Yeah, you were pretty damn skinny before. Can't imagine what it
must be like to have all those muscles now.”
Steve smiled back. Yeah, his new body was nice. He shook his head to clear it.
The lack of food was making him dizzy.
 
*~*~*
 
It was over. People were clapping and cheering and somehow he had stumbled and
mumbled his way through his first performance as “Captain America.” The outfit
was ridiculous. He was literally wearing the flag, just like the chorus girls.
His boots were almost as outrageous as the heels the women had to perform in.
But then he was ushered backstage and Simon was clapping him on the back and
telling him what a great job he did, and Steve supposed if what he was doing
was helping the war effort, then maybe it wasn't all that bad.
He could give up a little of his pride so that the real soldiers would be well
supplied.
 
*~*~*
 
Hoboken, NJ, June 26, 1943
It was easier the second time.
But the chorus girls were a lot better at this than he was.
 
*~*~*
 
Philadelphia, PA, June 27, 1943
After the performance, the entire USO company went out to an automat on Senator
Brandt's dime. A brunett sat herself down across from Steve and smiled.
“I'm Gertie,” she said.
“Steve Rogers,” he held his hand out. His huge, massive hand. He prayed he
wouldn't hurt her. But she just laughed at him and put some of her hair behind
her ear, and he put his hand back in his lap.
“So is it true what some of the girls are sayin'? That you're really strong?”
Steve blushed. They were talking about him?
“Yes, ma'am. I'm not sure how strong...”
“Yeah, we're lookin' to incorporate some of that into the routine.” Simon saved
him, pulling up a chair right next to Steve. “We think the audience would
really like to see some more spectacle.”
Gertie's eyes lit up. “That sounds amazing! Like maybe Steve here could hold
one of us up over his head and twirl us around!”
Simon's dark, beady eyes locked with Steve's as he smirked. “Yeah, something
like that.”
It turned out that Steve had no problem lifting three of the girls sitting on a
motorcycle over his head. He didn't even have to twirl them around.
 
*~*~*
 
Buffalo, NY, June 29, 1943
Steve was on their bus, sitting next to Simon, when he saw him pull out a
notebook and pencil.
“You draw?” Steve was so bored. Normally, he would leave Simon alone, let him
work, but he was a nice guy. He seemed to like Steve. Maybe...
“Nah,” he began. “I just have to erase so much, I've taken to writing in
pencil. That's what happens when you work for a Senator. It's never right the
first time you write it.” He chuckled to himself before turning to face Steve.
“Why? Do you?”
Steve almost cried he was so happy. Simon was sharp as a tack. “Yeah, a little.
I miss it.”
“Well, say no more, Steve!”
 
*~*~*
 
Cleveland, OH, July 1, 1943
After the show, Steve went back to his hotel room and found his bed covered in
bound leather notebooks with cases and cases of various drawing pencils,
pastels, even some paints and brushes.
A simple card said “Happy Birthday, Captain America.”
 
*~*~*
 
Chicago, IL, July 3, 1943
Steve tried to draw the skyline as the entire USO company took a steamboat out
on Lake Michigan for some sightseeing after the show. His fingers were too
large and he broke the only pencil he brought in three places.
 
*~*~*
 
Milwaukee, WI, July 4, 1943
For the first time in his life, Steve watched the fireworks and thought they
weren't meant for him. He thinks they were meant for Captain America.
He couldn't help it. That night, he screamed into his pillow like a child.
He missed his Ma. He missed Bucky.
 
*~*~*
 
Minneapolis, MN, July 6, 1943
Steve was getting pretty good at his routine. There was even some talk of
adding an Adolf Hitler actor to the show to make it more exciting. The girls
were ecstatic at the prospect of having another man on the tour, if gossip in
the dressing room was anything to go by.
 
*~*~*
 
Spokane, WA, July 9, 1943
Steve was completely across the country and totally out of his depth. There
were people that actually stood up in their seats, clapping wildly, when he
came onto the stage. Like he was some sort of hero. He couldn't do anything but
wave with a small smile.
The first show with their new “Hitler” actor was a major hit. Senator Brandt
had even come to see it.
“That was a terrific performance, Steve,” Sentator Brandt slapped him on the
back. “You know you've been personally attributing to more than a five percent
increase in bond sales over last month. And you know what bonds mean, right,
son?”
Steve nodded.
“That's right! Bonds buy bullets. Bonds win us the war. I'm sure you've got a
brother or two over there, eh, Steve?”
Steve smiled and gritted his teeth. Steve didn't have any brothers. What he did
have was Bucky. He was certain that meant just as much. Maybe more, because
their bond wasn't based on blood.
But Senator Brandt was already talking to Simon about adding a marching band,
so Steve just sank back down in his seat as the girls flitted about the large
dressing room in their colorful frocks.
 
*~*~*
 
Seatle, WA, July 10, 1943
The venues were getting bigger. Steve sat in his own private dressing room and
sketched. He was so engrossed that he didn't notice Senator Brandt walk up
behind him.
“You can draw, Steve!” he exclaimed, like Steve had never been told that
before.
Steve rubbed his neck, hunching over his drawing some more to shield it from
the Senator's sharp eyes. “Yeah, I went to college for it and everything...”
“Well, this is certainly an opportunity!”
And just like that, he was illustrating for a new comic book series called
“Captain America.”
 
*~*~*
 
Sacramento, CA, July 13, 1943
After the first comic had been published and sold out, he was practically an
overnight celebrity.
Senator Brandt was taking pictures with him as often as he could, shaking his
hand and smiling wide.
The comic book series was a hit and for the first time, the show was packed.
The crowd roared when he knocked Adolf Hitler out cold.
 
*~*~*
 
Los Angeles, CA, July 16, 1943
After the show, he was ushered into a meeting with rich looking men in
expensive suits.
They wanted to make a motion picture about Captain America and his platoon of
soldiers. Steve had more or less resigned himself to his fate of being an icon.
It wasn't so bad. No one wanted to hear about Steve Rogers, and he knew what to
say as Captain America. He knew what to say and how to say it. He didn't enjoy
playing that game, but he understood the necessity for it. And really, Phillips
wanted to send him to a laboratory.
It wasn't so bad. Besides, he was going to be a movie star.
 
*~*~*
 
Los Angeles, CA, August 1, 1943
Dear Bucky,
It's me, Steve. I don't know where you are or when you'll get this letter, but
I just need to talk to you or I feel like I'll go crazy.
Sometimes when I'm up at night, I think
Never mind that. I wanted to tell you I'm making a war movie! We use prop guns,
but I saw the dailes and it looks pretty good. That is, if you can get over the
fact that it's my mug up on the screen.
Don't worry about our place, the Army had it all packed up and sent to be
stored away somewhere safe, according to Senator Brandt. He's the one I work
for, I guess. Maybe I should start at the beginning.
I'm different, Buck. Really different. I don't know if you'll recognize me when
you see me. But I’m so much better. I never get sick anymore. I can lift
motorcycles over my head and I know that sounds crazy, but it's true. I wish
you were here. I hope you're safe.
So now I work for the USO. It's safe, so you'll be happy to hear that. And I am
helping, but I just feel like with my new body, I should be doing more. I
should be out there on the front lines with you. God, I miss you like crazy.
Nobody here is half as clever as you. I miss your stupid jokes that aren't
funny. And it drives me up the wall knowing that you're out God knows where,
fighting the real battles, and I'm here play-acting at being some kind of war
hero. Everywhere I go, I'm signing comic books or trading cards like a baseball
player. They don't even let me illustrate the comic book anymore.
Enough about that. When I'm not busy making this movie, I'm doing a show almost
twice every weekend. There aren't just women on the tour with me, though I know
you'd probably like to hear about them. There's Senator Brandt's assistant,
Simon. He's a pretty swell guy, for a politician. He's getting together an
entire marching band to travel with us for when we leave Los Angeles.
Oh boy, Los Angeles. It's just as fantastic as you'd thought it'd be. I've met
some pretty famous people. I never know what to say, but when I'm Captain
America, it's like it just comes to me. I can just be the idealized hero that
they want me to be, and suddenly I can talk to anybody. Even famous dames!
You'd be so proud. And jealous. They're even more beautiful up close, even if
they do smell like cigarettes.
I feel like I have so much to tell you, but honestly, if you haven't come
across a Captain America comic by now, you must be living under a rock. Senator
Brandt had the first issue sent overseas to entertain the soldiers. The first
issue is pretty great. The cover shows Captain America knocking Adolf Hitler
out cold with one punch! I could probably do that now, I'm that strong. It's
true!
Well, I'm running out of room on this paper and I wanted to send you a sheet to
write me back. I feel like I'm going crazy not hearing from you. Please write
me back. Just tell me you're OK. Even if you're not. Just write down “Hi Steve,
From: Bucky” and throw it in the mail. Hell, a postcard, is that too much to
ask? I'm going to be at this address for a while, at least until we're done
with the film. So please, please write me.
Your best friend,
Steve Rogers
 
*~*~*
 
Las Vegas, NV, September 19, 1943
Vegas showgirls made the USO girls look like Nuns at a convent.
They had just performed at a pretty large venue, and just as soon as they
vacated the stage, women squeezed into impossibly tight outfits flitted
onstage. Steve enjoyed the show. Even lingered afterward, still mesmerized by
the glitz and glamour. He was actually having some luck chatting up one of the
dancers when Simon appeared at his side with a wry smile.
“Time to get back to the hotel, Steve. You do have a curfew, remember?”
Steve remembered. He remembered signing a very long and extensive contract that
he didn't think he'd have any problem upholding that included no romantic
liaisons while he was on tour as Captain America. But for the first time in his
life, he actually had a chance with a woman.
He couldn't help but sigh, perhaps a bit dramatically as the dancer walked
away. It wasn't as if every girl was throwing herself at him. Who knew when
he'd get another chance?
 
*~*~*
 
Indianapolis, IN, September 27, 1943
He was making his way back to his dressing room, barely managing to dodge the
throngs of people that were hounding him for his autograph. His head was down,
and he was handing a signed comic back to a little boy when a flash of burnt
orange appeared in front of him. He looked up.
She was dazzling. Her smile was blinding as she breathed a soft, “Hi.”
He looked down for just a moment to see she was holding something, perhaps
something for him to sign. She looked a little old to be a fan wanting an
autograph.
He did a double take. She was breathtaking. And she was still smiling at him.
“Did you want...?” He tried to motion to the notebook she was holding.
Her eyes were twinkling when she shook her head. “Oh, no, Captain, I just
wanted to talk.”
He swallowed the lump in his throat. He could hear Simon's voice a way behind
him, talking to some local politicians that had come to the show. Simon was
going to see him at any moment, and probably rope him into some photograph with
one of them.
The blonde wrapped her small fingers around his wrist. “Follow me.”
He followed her, weaving their way through the crowd until they spilled out
onto the busy street downtown. He didn't look behind him as she pulled him
further down the street until she slipped into a dirty bar that he would've
walked right past.
He was still wearing his bright Captain America costume as she strolled up to
the bar like she owned the place.
“Hello, Ernie. Two shots, please, then we'll be heading up.”
“Yes, ma'am.” The bartender answered.
They looked out of place in this dingy place. Steve looked around at the
patrons, but none of them paid them any attention.
“Here.” She handed him a shot. It was terribly watered down whiskey, but he
drank it anyway.
“Thanks, miss...?”
“You can call me Georgina,” she smiled. “And what should I call you? Captain
America?”
“Steve Rogers,” he held out his hand. She took his hand, her million watt smile
back on her face.
“Follow me, Steve Rogers,” she called over her shoulder as she led him through
the sparse crowd of people into the back where there was a door leading to a
staircase to the second floor.
For the first time since he followed her out of the theater, he paused.
She noticed. “What are you afraid of?”
He gulped. This was probably a really stupid idea. “There's this...impropriety
clause...in my contract...”
Her smile was blinding as she threw her head back to laugh. “You have a
contract?” She finally opened up the small book she had been clutching the
whole time. It was full of shorthand, notes scribbled in the margins of the
small pages. It all slid into place rather quickly.
“You're a reporter.”
Her smile wavered only a moment. “What gave me away?”
“I've been working for one paper or another since I graduated. I'm actually
ashamed it took me so long to figure it out.”
Her eyes flashed, and she looked him up and down quickly. “I'm sorry. I didn't
think you'd come with me if you didn't think I was...well...”
Steve flushed red. Yes, he was very, very stupid. Big surprise.
“Well, ma'am, thank you very much for the drink, but I've already violated some
terms of my contractual obligation to the USO and the Army, so I think I'll
just call it a night.”
She actually looked quite upset. “You can't answer a just few questions? I had
this entire piece planned!”
Steve sighed. “Please, don't. Everything I say or do as Captain America is
scripted. I'm not allowed to do personal interviews with beautiful women who
lure me to shady bars under false pretenses.”
She smiled, “You think I'm beautiful?”
Steve smiled back, “As my best friend Bucky would say...you're the bee's
knees.”
 
*~*~*
 
New York, NY, September 30, 1943
There was an article that was published in the local Indianapolis newspaper
that was reprinted in Time magazine called “My Drink with Captain America”
written by Georgina Simms. The article raved that the man behind the comics,
movies and USO shows was every bit the hero the nation thought he was, and a
downright, genuine gentleman.
That night, the show in New York City was sold out. Senator Brandt was there,
telling Steve that he doubled the previously projected sales of bonds for that
night. He didn't even scold him for Indianapolis.
Simon, however, knocked on his door after 3am that night.
“Just had to be sure,” he smiled. “Never know where you might sneak off to.”
 
*~*~*
 
Liverpool, UK, October 9, 1943
Steve didn't mind traveling on a boat as much as he thought he would. One week
to get across the ocean was nothing if it meant he was going to the front
lines. Some days, he had to pinch himself to be sure. All of those months spent
as a dancing monkey for Senator Brandt was paying off. He was going to meet
real soldiers on the front lines. And he had finally gotten his promotion.
Maybe Simon and the Senator had yet to hold up their end of him getting his own
platoon, but Steve wasn't complaining. There was bound to be some fighting
somewhere, and he would be right there in the thick of things, making a
difference.
At least, that's what he thought.
 
*~*~*
 
Sicily, Italy, October 25, 1943
Most of his time was spent waiting. And traveling. And waiting for the OK to
travel. They weren't exactly inconspicuous, and Steve was beginning to realize
that he knew next to nothing about the two-dozen women he had been performing
with for months. There were a few that were at least polite, but no one but
Simon went out of their way to talk to him. He wondered if that was part of
their contractual agreement.
When they weren't traveling, Steve spent his time visiting the hospitals that
had popped up in tents everywhere. His mother had taught him well. Some of the
men looked at him like they could scarcely believe it was him.
“I read about you in the comic!” they would say.
Or, “I really liked that film you made.”
Some of the smaller, weaker soldiers said, “You're a hero, you know?”
Every bandage he changed that a nurse didn't have to, he felt just a little bit
better about being there. Even if he wasn't fighting, he was still helping.
 
*~*~*
 
Bolzano, Italy, November 3, 1943
It was overcast, in the camp of Colonel Chester Phillips, just 5 miles from the
front lines, and Steve was once again told to go onstage.
***** European Theater, November 1943 *****
Chapter Summary
     “NO! NOT WITHOUT YOU!”
It didn't occur to Steve that these soldiers wouldn't take to him like the
others. In the other camps, they cheered for him, grateful for any distraction
from their lives constantly at war. But these men, it seemed, had just been
hardened one too many times.
“How many of you are ready to help me sock ole Adolf on the jaw?”
They didn't even crack a smile.
Steve's heart started pounding at the blank look from so many faces. Their
faces were cut from stone, hard and calculating and he felt a chill run down
his spine. He'd had some panic episodes before, but nothing like this, not
since the serum. He took a deep breath.
“Ok...uh...I need a volunteer!”
The only response was from way back in the crowd, he couldn't see who said it
in the mass of blank expressions. “I already volunteered! How do you think I
got here?”
They were witty, this bunch, he had to give them that. That got a reaction from
the crowd, coming alive suddenly, loud and almost violent in their jeering and
someone else yelled, “Bring back the girls!”
They roared. Steve swallowed. They looked up at him, practically salivating at
the idea of seeing the girls again. Ok, fine. They deserved that. They deserved
to see whatever they wanted. If they didn't want him to do his routine, no big
deal. But...
“I think they only know the one song, but, uh...lemme...I'll see what I can
do.”
He was turning away, already resigned to the fact that he wasn't needed, and
ready to give these men whatever would make them happy when somebody else
yelled, “You do that, sweetheart!”
He looked back out at the crowd. Man, it was like he was right back home in
Brooklyn, walking home on a late night after work, getting cat-called by some
jackass that thought that just because he was small and had red lips, that made
him a fairy.
Goddamn, Steve wanted to be angry. But all he felt was ashamed. He wanted to
hide.
“Nice boots, Tinkerbell!”
Ok, fine. They were right. He looked foolish, parading around in front of them
like he had any idea what it took to defend this country. And, ok, maybe they
hadn't had any decent company in months, but really, they didn't have to take
it out on him.
“C'mon, guys...we're all on the same team here...” Right?
“Hey, Captain!” Someone yelled. “Sign this!”
He barely had time to look away from the man's white ass before they were
throwing their shitty fruit rations at him.
Steve tried his best not to stalk off the stage.
And yet, he couldn't blame them. He hated himself, too.
 
*~*~*
 
Simon finally left him alone just as it started to pour, but only because he
had to coordinate getting the girls offstage and into their tents. Steve had
buried himself in his sketchbook not too long after, needing to focus his anger
on something. He drew a funny little cartoon of a monkey wearing his outfit,
riding a unicycle. Maybe Steve should start juggling, complete his circus act.
“Hello, Steve.”
The soft voice cut into his frantic shading and he looked up, shocked to see
Agent Carter looking down at him.
“Hi,” he replied, still shocked to see her. Goddamn, she was gorgeous.
“Hi,” she breathed back.
“What are you doing here?” Not that he wasn't thrilled to see her, but he
wasn't exactly in the best mood. He'd rather she didn't have to see that.
“Officially, I'm not here at all.”
It was only because he was feeling so rotten that her accent didn't immediately
warm him from the inside out.
“That was quite a performance.” she said, sitting herself down on a few steps
above him.
She went right for the kill. Steve shouldn't have expected anything less from
her. She kept prodding at him, questioning him in her own way, challenging him
for going along with Senator Brandt's idea to make him a walking billboard for
the war effort.
“You were meant for more than this, you know.”
Was he? Steve opened his mouth, then shook his head.
“What?” she prompted, almost impatiently.
Apparently, he wasn't done with the self-loathing and pity for today. “For the
longest time, I dreamed about...coming overseas, being on the front
lines...serving my country...”
She just stared at him, waiting for him to finish. He still couldn't meet her
gaze.
“I finally got everything I wanted...and I'm wearing tights.”
A horn sounded a few yards away, and they both turned. It was an ambulance,
rushing wounded out of the car. They were bandaged, but poorly. Steve saw that
most were missing limbs.
“They look like they've been through hell.”
She turned back to him, a grim look on her face, “These men more than most.”
Steve didn't want to pry. So much of what Agent Carter did was classified, and
Steve guessed that if she was here, and Colonel Phillips was the commander
here, then he was probably in an SSR camp, even if she couldn't say. It was
possible he wasn't allowed to know.
But she continued when he looked up at her, “Schmidt sent out a force to
Azzano. 200 men when up against him, and less than 50 returned. Your audience
contained what was left of the one-oh-seventh. The rest were killed or
captured.”
Steve's heart was caught somewhere in his throat, but he managed to get out,
“The one-oh-seventh?!”
Bucky. If his audience was the one-oh-seventh, Bucky would have recognized him,
right? He would have come to him right away. There was only one reason he
wouldn't have come. Oh Jesus.
Steve swallowed down the panic that was sweeping through his chest. “Come on!”
he practically yelled at her, sprinting through the muddy ground and the rain
to the command tent.
“Colonel Phillips!” he tried to keep the panic out of his voice.
The colonel responded with the same distain that the rest of this base seemed
to have for him, but they could hate him a million times over if it meant Bucky
was safe.
“I need the casualty list from Azzano.”
And really, Steve was done with his patronizing him. It was really fucking old.
“I just need one name: Sergeant James Barnes from the hundred and seventh.”
He didn't even have the decency to look Steve in the eyes, he looked and
pointed at Agent Carter, like it was somehow her fault. As if he wouldn't find
out what regiment he was staying with.
And he knew. He just knew the answer.
Steve only just managed not to interrupt a superior officer. “Please tell me if
he's alive, sir. B-A-R—”
“I can spell.”
Fuck. Fuck.
Steve hung on his every word, following him as he stood up to rearrange the
stack of letters he was still in the middle of signing.
“...the name does sound familiar. I'm sorry.”
He swallowed again. Fine. Agent Carter said “killed or captured.” Bucky was a
tough bastard. There was a chance he was the latter. A good chance.
“...are you planning a rescue mission?”
Because Steve was going. End of discussion.
“Yeah, it's called 'Winning the War',” the colonel huffed, almost laughing at
his sick joke.
That was unacceptable.
“But if you know where they are, why not at least—”
“They're 30 miles behind the lines, through some of the most heavily fortified
territory in Europe.” Colonel Phillips made a vague gesture to the map in front
of him. “We'd lose more men than we'd save.” He almost sounded upset about it.
Almost. He turned back to face Steve. “But I don't expect you to understand
that because you're a chorus girl.”
It sure was good that Steve was used to bullies. He didn't even flinch.
“I think I understand just fine.”
“Well, then understand it somewhere else...if I read the posters correctly,
you've got someplace to be in 30 minutes.”
The Colonel was walking away from him, and Steve was quickly memorizing the map
in front of him.
“Yes, sir. I do.”
 
*~*~*
 
Steve was already packing what he could when Agent Carter found him.
“What do you plan to do? Walk to Austria?”
Steve shoved the tactical belt he'd pinched from someone's tent into his bag.
He was thinking of taking a car as far as he could, but then probably running
the rest of the way. Not that he was about to explain that to her. He could
already tell she was here to dissuade him.
“If that's what it takes.”
“You heard the Colonel. Your friend is most-likely dead.”
Steve blinked. No. It wasn't possible. Bucky was stronger than that.
Instead, he settled on, “You don't know that.”
“Even so, he's devising a strategy. If he detects any—”
And Steve raised his voice to a lady, but dammit, she was wrong. They all were.
Bucky was alive. “By the time he's done that, it could be too late!”
She raised her voice right back, “Steve!”
But he was already shoving everything in the car he was taking, consequences be
damned.
“You told me you thought I was meant for more than this. Did you mean that?”
And damn, he didn't mean to be so...stubborn...but this was Bucky, for Christ's
sake.
But she was staring back at him, her face as steeled as his. “Every word.”
He turned away, getting into the car. “Then you gotta let me go.”
She clung to the frame, her face serious. “I can do more than that.”
Steve's foot was on the clutch, but he said, “How?”
“Howard,” she answered.
 
*~*~*
 
He followed her through the camp to a tent that was no more remarkable than any
other where the millionaire Howard Stark was laying out his underwear to dry.
He saw Agent Carter and smiled wide.
“Peggy! To what do I owe the pleasure?”
It made Steve's skin crawl the way he practically purred at her.
“Steve needs your help, Howard.”
It was then that he turned and noticed Steve at the entrance to his tent.
“Well, well, I really am ill-prepared to receive such a guest.” He beckoned
them both inside. “I'd offer you a drink, but I'm afraid I'm all out 'till that
little Italian boy comes back with his weekly supply. It's not as strong as
you'd like, but it's better than nothing, and unfortunately all I can get this
far from civilization.”
Steve hadn't felt this angry since he was small. He wanted to shake Howard
Stark until he shut up.
Peggy ignored him. “Howard, I need you to take us to Austria. As close to that
Hydra base as you can get us.”
At this, he sat down on his raised cot and smiled. “Is that so, Pegs?”
She didn't miss a beat, “Yes. Steve's going to rescue his friend.”
Howard looked up at Steve again, that stupid smirk still plastered on his face,
“Must be a helluva guy.”
“He is,” Steve answered. “Bucky Barnes. He's my best friend, best pal since I
can remember. And I know he's still alive.” He didn't know why he was telling
all of this to Howard Stark, but he was quickly unraveling. He needed to be on
the road. If this was a dead-end, he was wasting precious minutes he should be
using to get to Austria.
Howard looked down at his hand resting on his knee. “Barnes, huh?” he huffed.
“Don't suppose he's from Brooklyn, like you?” He asked, looking back up at
Steve.
Steve answered, “Yeah.” What did that have to do with anything?
“And you're going to rescue him?” Howard asked.
“Yes,” Steve answered.
Howard nodded once. “I suppose if anyone's capable of doing it, it would be
you.” He smirked again. “Alright, Pegs, I'm in. Just don't tell anybody. I
gotta go fire her up.”
Steve's breath caught in his throat. It was that easy?
Peggy looked at him and gave him a small smile. “Howard has a plane.”
 
*~*~*
 
Apparently, people just didn't say no to Howard Stark. He had to bribe a few of
the workers on the air strip, but most didn't think anything of Howard going
for a “quick spin” with a dame in his private plane.
Steve had never been in a plane before, let alone parachuted out of one, but he
was too pumped with adrenaline to be truly afraid. Peggy was there, explaining
to him about his transponder, a little piece of plastic that was supposed to
tell Howard where to pick him back up once he found Bucky. It was a little too
science-fiction for Steve.
“You sure this thing works?” he asked.
“It's been tested more than you, pal.”
Steve supposed that was only fair. He didn't have any field experience.
That rapidly changed as shots rang out all around them. Other planes were
firing at them from all directions.
Steve sprung into action, moving toward the door with his parachute.
“Get back here!” Peggy screamed over the noise. “We're taking you all the way
in!”
Steve ignored her. He only had a small window of time to jump before they would
take serious damage. “As soon as I'm clear, you turn this thing around and get
the hell out of here!”
“You can't give me orders!” She yelled back.
Steve was high on the adrenaline. “The hell I can't! I'm a Captain!”
Then he jumped.
 
*~*~*
 
It only took him the better part of an hour to find the road leading to the
base. They weren't exactly hiding it. It was easy enough to hitch a ride in the
back of one of their cargo trucks, and even easier to dispatch the guards.
There was a lot of activity at this “base.” It didn't look like any facility
that Steve had ever seen. Certainly didn't look military. It looked more like a
factory. Heavily guarded, for sure, but they weren't making soldiers, here.
They were making weapons.
And it seemed that the guards weren't too concerned with infiltration, because
no one was doing that good of a job looking around. It was almost too easy for
Steve to sneak his way through the compound.
After moving around the tanks that were branded with a symbol, some sort of
skull with tentacles all around it, he passed by some shoddily made long
houses, the soldiers quarters, he guessed. He approached the main complex at a
mechanically locked door. His heart hammered like it would pound out of his
chest, but he felt calm. He knocked on the door, the metal pinging loudly.
One of the guards stupidly opened the door, and Steve made short work of him.
The room beyond was massive, and it was definitely a large scale factory of
some kind. He grabbed what looked like a normal magazine, but was loaded with
bullets that glowed blue. Whatever they were doing here, Peggy needed to know
about it.
He made his way to the basement. He thought that's where any prisoners would
be. He wasn't disappointed. They were being kept in tube-shaped cells that were
too small for any grown man to lay down, and there were at least 5 men to a
cell.
Only a few guards patrolling the area, and Steve took them out as quietly as he
could. He didn't yet have to fire his gun.
He just barely resisted screaming out Bucky's name. He had to be here.
“Who are you supposed to be?”
Steve looked down distractedly at the young black man addressing him.
“I'm...Captain America.”
“I...beg your pardon?” Another man with an accent asked, but Steve was already
jumping down to reach the cells.
Methodically, he unlocked each and every cell with the keys from the guards'
bodies. The men scrambled out and gathered behind him. There were hundreds of
them, but no sign of Bucky.
“Is there anybody else?” He asked no one in particular. “I'm looking for a
Sergeant James Barnes.”
A Brit in a red beret answered him, “There's an isolation ward in the factory,
but no one's ever come back from it.”
“Alright,” Steve whispered to himself. There was still a chance. He raised his
voice so that it would carry to at least those immediately around him. “The
treeline is northwest, 80 yards past the gate. Get out fast, and give 'em hell.
I'll meet you guys in the clearing with anybody else I find.”
With Bucky.
He felt bad leaving these men unarmed, but they were all soldiers. They
outnumbered the guards and would eventually overwhelm them. Steve refused to
think about how many would be gunned down in the process. Colonel Phillips'
voice came back to him, We'd lose more men than we'd save... But fighting for
freedom had to be better than dying as a prisoner. He had an uncomfortable
thought, weighing their lives against Bucky's. Hell, he'd let them all fend for
themselves if it meant finding Bucky.
Because he was here, alive. He had to be.
“Wait!” The young black man called out, causing Steve to turn back around. “You
know what you're doing?”
No, Steve thought to himself, his thoughts spiraling wildly out of control. Not
really.
Instead he said, “Yeah...I've knocked out Adolf Hitler over 200 times.”
It wasn't a total lie.
 
*~*~*
 
Now that the men were free, he had to fight his way back through the factory.
There were too many of them to get out stealthily, and Steve was not going to
leave this place in any other state but destroyed.
The fact that the Nazis had facilities like this made his blood run cold.
Perhaps this was one of those death camps he'd heard whispers of. It seemed
likely that these men were being worked to their deaths.
With every slam of his shield against one of those bastards, he became more and
more vicious. They were dropping like flies. Their punches didn't even phase
him. Their bullets ricocheted off of his shield. And he was getting desperate
to find that isolation ward.
It wasn't long before he felt explosions shake the concrete floor and heard the
alarm blaring. Steve almost smiled. They were going to level this place to the
ground.
He didn't find anything on the first floor, so he ran up the stairs to the next
level and found a long, dark hallway. A small man ran out of a doorway,
clutching his valise to his fat chest. He definitely wasn't a soldier. Steve
ran after him, but stopped at the doorway he came out of. He wanted to question
the short man, but there was no time. Bucky could be anywhere.
He darted into the room, looking around quickly. It looked to be some sort of
lab. There were shelves with books and medical instruments even Steve wasn't
familiar with, and beyond that was a gurney with...
Oh Jesus.
“...Sergeant, 32...557...”
He was mumbling, muttering to himself, his serial number and his rank.
“Bucky.”
At the sound of his name, Bucky's eyes fluttered open. His pupils were dilated.
He looked drugged.
Steve looked down his body. There was dried blood around his wrists but no
signs of wounds. His entire body was strapped down. He reeked of piss and
vomit.
“Oh my god...”
Steve pulled up on the straps until they snapped off, the metal screws falling
to the concrete floor, pinging everywhere, and Bucky tried to focus his
attention on him.
“Is...issat...?” he struggled to ask.
Steve almost cried. “It's me. It's Steve.”
“Steve,” Bucky repeated with a lazy smile, still trying to focus. “Steve.”
Bucky's hands were on his shoulders and Steve tried to pull him up. “C'mon,” he
whispered. Bucky went willingly.
His head seemed to clear as soon as his feet were on the ground. Bucky still
clung to him, putting most of his weight on him, but his eyes were scanning
Steve's body.
Steve swallowed his panic and brought his hand to Bucky's face. “I thought you
were dead.”
Bucky's eyes grew large, and he licked his lips. “I thought you were smaller.”
Steve didn't have the time to smile before a large explosion in the distance
made him turn around. The floor was shaking. They had to go.
There was a map on the wall that he studied for only a moment before pulling
Bucky alongside him, still carrying most of his weight. “C'mon,” he urged
again.
Again, Bucky allowed himself to be pulled along, trembling. It seemed his feet
were having trouble getting under him. Steve wondered how long he had been
strapped to that table. Hours? Days? Weeks?
“W-what happened to you?” Bucky asked, his voice uneven.
Steve almost sighed. Bucky was the one that was tortured, and he was asking
about Steve?
“I joined the Army.”
It wasn't the answer he wanted to give, but he didn't have time to stop and
explain it. This place was going to come down around them, and they needed to
get out.
Steve lost his grip on Bucky's waist and he sank to the floor. Steve tried to
pull him back up, but Bucky just stared up at him, his expression blank. “Am I
dead?”
Steve shivered. They couldn't fight their way out if he had to carry Bucky.
“No, Buck. You're alive. But we're not going to be for long if you don't get
up. We have to get out of here, ok? You with me, pal?
Bucky looked at Steve everywhere but his face. He looked bewildered.
“But...how?”
Steve took Bucky's face in his hands, making him look at him. “Remember the
night before you shipped out? Remember I said there was a doctor that passed
me?”
Bucky licked his lips again. “Y-yeah?”
Steve smiled, “Well, he made me all better, Buck. I'm all better, now.”
Bucky just stared at him for a moment, then nodded. He struggled to get to his
feet.
Steve took that as the sign to get moving. He started back down the long
hallway after the short man that had run away. If Steve ever got his hands on
him, he wasn't going to just ask questions. He was going to kill him.
Bucky was struggling to walk, and he fell into the wall. But when Steve went to
help him, Bucky lightly shoved him off and pushed himself roughly off the brick
wall.
“Did it hurt?”
Steve wanted to go slower and make sure Bucky was ok, but they didn't have
time. The explosions were getting more and more frequent.
“A little,” he answered. Even on death's door, Bucky did nothing but worry
about Steve. He wanted to shake him.
“Is it permanent?”
Steve looked behind Bucky to make sure no one was following them. “So far.”
It didn't take them very long to reach the staircase that would lead them back
to the ground floor, but as soon as they were there, the facility began
exploding. The flames were too high. They had no choice but to go higher.
As they were rounding the second set of stairs, a voice called out from the
other side of the compound.
“Captain America! How exciting! I am a great fan of your films!”
He had an accent and wore a trench coat with that same skull and tentacle
insignia. And he was with the small, fat man from the torture room. Steve knew
immediately who it was, and motioned for Bucky to stay back, gripping his
shield tightly.
“So,” Schmidt continued, “Dr. Erskine managed it after all. Not exactly an
improvement, but still...impressive.”
They had been slowly walking toward one another, and Steve wasted no time in
winding back for a punch straight to his face. He didn't stagger as much as he
would have liked.
“You got no idea.”
Then his face started to slip, to sag, almost, and the tiniest bit of red was
showing under his right eye.
“Haven't I?” he replied before punching Steve's shield so hard, he dented it.
Steve grabbed his handgun, but Schmidt punched him, knocking it out of his hand
and sliding along the bridge into the fire below. Steve saw Schmidt advancing
on him, so he kicked him with both legs, sending Schmidt flying back.
Just then, the short, fat man activated a lever that separated his side of the
bridge from Schmidt's. He couldn't reach him anymore. Bucky was trying his best
to stand up, but was leaning heavily on the metal piping that served as a
guardrail.
“No matter what lies Erskine told you...” Schmidt continued. “You see, I was
his greatest success!”
And then he began to peel off his own face.
“You don't have one of those, do you?” Bucky asked.
Schmidt's face was an angry red skull with a hole for a nose and bumps on the
side of his bald head for ears.
“You are deluded, Captain. You pretend to be a simple soldier, but in reality
you are just afraid to admit that we have left humanity behind.” He began
walking toward the elevator shaft that surprisingly was still operational while
the entire compound was ablaze. “Unlike you, I embrace it proudly. Without
fear.”
“Then how come you're running?” Steve called back just as he closed the door
with a contempt smirk on his face.
Another few explosions caused him to back away from the ledge, and he caught
Bucky looking up at something. He followed his gaze to a door with a flashing
red light above it. Steve wasn't that great at German, but he knew enough to
translate the sign above it: EXIT
“C'mon, let's go! Up!” He raced up the stairs, feeling the heat of the fire.
Bucky struggled after him.
They were finally on the top level of the compound. The door on the otherside
was flashing at him teasingly. The metal beam connecting the two ledges was
already shaking.
“Let's go...one at a time.”
He let Bucky climb over the railing. As soon as Bucky got to the middle of the
beam, he knew it wasn't going to hold. It fell away from the ledge dangerously,
and Bucky just barely managed to run across and jump off to grab onto the metal
railing on the other side.
He watched in horror as Bucky climbed over and turned back around. Bucky's face
mirrored his own.
“There's gotta be a rope or somethin'!”
Steve wasn't going to let Bucky die in this place. He would find another way
out, but Bucky had to—
“Just go! Get outta here!”
“NO! NOT WITHOUT YOU!”
“Hell...” Steve whispered. Bucky didn't look so far away...maybe...?
He bent the metal railing back to give himself some room and stepped as far
back as he could. He gaged the gap, and watched as Bucky realized what he was
going to try to do.
But Bucky didn't shake his head. He just stood there, his mouth a grim line,
waiting for Steve to fly across the flames.
Steve gave one more quick shake of his head before sprinting across the gap. He
was almost there, his arms reaching out to grab the rail, but the hand that was
grasping his shield missed.
He was falling.
But Bucky caught him. He reached down and grabbed onto Steve underneath his
armpits and with a giant heave, Bucky pulled Steve over the ledge. Steve tried
to control the momentum, but he landed squarely on Bucky and knocked the wind
out of him.
“You crazy sonuva bitch!” Bucky was repeating over and over. “You crazy sonuva
bitch! How did you do that?”
But Steve was already pushing himself to his feet. “C'mon, Buck...We gotta go.”
The door led to another long, dark hallway. Steve guessed they had been running
down this hallway for at least a quarter mile before they finally reached the
end. The door at the end of the tunnel opened up right into the treeline.
The exploding of the facility in the distance continued to shake the ground,
but Steve managed to get him and Bucky to the clearing where he told the other
men he'd meet them.
There were so many escaped prisoners, it was impossible to miss. They were all
walking amongst each other, tending to the wounded as best as they could. It
looked like some of them even managed to hijack some of the cargo trucks with
food. Bucky pulled on Steve's arm.
“You saved everybody, Stevie?”
Steve shrugged, smiling, “I only meant to get you.”
Bucky shook his head, then leaned against a tree, dropping down so suddenly
Steve was sure he hurt himself.
They were still behind enemy lines, but by the looks of it, all those following
Schmidt were dead or on the run. And Steve doubted the coward himself was still
around. He made his way over to Bucky and plopped down beside him.
Bucky flinched.
Steve swallowed the lump in his throat. “Are you ok, Buck?”
Bucky smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. “Yeah, Steve, m'alright. Just gonna
shut my eyes a minute, ok? Will ya watch my back?”
Steve nodded even though Bucky couldn't see him. “Always.”
***** London, December 1943 *****
Chapter Summary
     “Me 'n Pegs?” Stark let out a true scoff. “I think of her more like
     the sister I never had! 'Sides, she's not into men like me.”
     Steve looked at him in disbelief. “Men who are rich, intelligent and
     use both to serve their country?”
     Stark smiled. “I mean men that are loose.”
Chapter Notes
     Warnings for this chapter:
     Period-typical derogatory slang/racism
     Alcoholism
     Pining
The march back to Colonel Phillips' camp took almost two weeks. They did the
best they could for the wounded, but Steve thinks they lost at least a quarter
of the men who originally escaped. They were slowed down by the shallow graves
they were forced to dig on the way back. Some of the men vowed to return to the
graves with proper markers once the war was over, but Steve knew the likelihood
of that happening.
Bucky didn't say much. Steve couldn't see anything physically wrong with him,
but he barely slept. When he would rest, he would sit between Steve's legs,
practically laying on Steve with his back to Steve's chest and simply close his
eyes. But every time Steve would whisper his name to see if he really had
drifted into sleep, his eyes would snap open, hands reaching for his rifle.
At first, it made Steve's throat close up, but after seeing it happen so many
times over the two weeks, he started to get used to it. It wasn't the first
time he'd seen shell-shock, but it was horrifying to see it in his best friend.
Their entrance into the camp felt like the first breath of fresh air since
they'd escaped that flaming compound. Nurses rushed in to help the wounded,
people were cheering, and Peggy was there, vibrant, smirking and so fucking
beautiful Steve wanted to grin like a fool.
He was whisked away into top secret meetings with Colonel Phillips and other
high-ranking officials of the Army and Navy. He told and re-told his story
about infiltrating then taking down the compound to the disbelieving faces
until finally they accepted it and congratulated him for a job well done.
Considering he had gone AWOL in the first place, Steve figured he'd made out
alright.
He looked for Bucky as soon as he could, but the base was too big, too
overwhelmed with wounded. He didn't find him.
The remaining members of the 107th Infantry were sent to London for a short
leave and evaluations. Steve was also sent there to receive a medal for valor
that Senator Brandt had travelled to London to bestow upon him. He hadn't seen
Bucky since the trip to England, and it was worrying him. The Army had put most
of the officers up in rooms above the many pubs that littered the cobblestone
streets near the underground SSR headquarters in London. He finally found where
Bucky had been assigned, and paid him a visit as soon as he could. His room was
pitiful. Steve tried to talk to him more about what had happened to him in that
facility, but Bucky didn't have much to say other than the men he was
imprisoned with were good people. They played a game of cards while Bucky's
roommate snored, then Steve left for his own room. Steve had offered to let
Bucky stay with him, but he turned him down, saying it wouldn't be fair. Steve
left it at that; it was late, and he didn't want to argue with him.
Steve travelled to the underground base the next morning to meet with Colonel
Phillips to discuss the precise locations of the HYDRA bases he saw on the map
nearly a month before. He was pleasantly surprised when it was Peggy instead.
He'd never really understood the idea of swooning that seemed to be so
pervasive in his favorite Hollywood films, but when Peggy told him with
sparkling brown eyes that, “Well, nobody's perfect...” he felt his knees
buckle. Which was just ridiculous, really. He figured that now his knees
wouldn't give out unless a tank ran them over.
She was walking away, so Steve put his pencil down to follow her when Howard
Stark appeared out of nowhere.
“Hey!” he exclaimed. He was holding the magazine of strange glowing blue
bullets that Steve had taken from the fallen facility. His expensive suit
looked sloppy. “Aren't you supposed to be receiving a medal right now?”
Steve had to force himself to relax. It wouldn't be right to raise his hackles
at Stark when it was his plane that took him all the way into enemy territory
for Bucky. “I've decided I'm officially off the press circuit.” He ended,
looking at Peggy, who smirked at him with approval.
“Rogers...” the gravely voice of Colonel Phillips cut through the fog of
watching Peggy smile at him. He whipped his head back to face his superior.
“You just embarrassed a United States Senator in front of a room full of
reporters and ten members of Parliament.”
Steve's face flushed, an automatic response, but Phillips was already
chuckling, handing him the closed box with his medal in it.
“You deserve a medal just for that!”
Steve accepted the medal with a small grin, but still felt ashamed. He felt
worse when Stark's face was plastered with a smug grin while Peggy's remained
stoic.
Phillips looked at the glowing bullets in Stark's hand. “Figure out what that
is yet?” he barked.
Stark held it up. “Well if you believe Rogers...it's the most powerful
explosive known to man.”
Christ in Heaven, Steve did not like Howard Stark. The guy just wasn't likable.
And for some reason, he didn't seem to think much of Steve either. He's the
type Steve would have fought with back home, no doubt about it. But there was a
war on, so Steve suppressed his natural urge to defend himself and settled on a
simple, “If?”
Stark looked him in the eyes. “Well, either you're wrong, or Schmidt's re-
written the laws of physics.”
Steve didn't think it was outside the realm of possibility. After the thing's
he'd seen, why not?
Stark seemed to think that was the end of the conversation and headed back
toward the metal door that contained his work area. Steve hadn't been in there
yet, but there was always loud welding noises coming from within.
Phillips looked back at Steve. “So, you identified five more HYDRA bases?”
Steve walked over to the largest table in the room. It was covered in a large
map that held little factory figurines with flags. “These are the weapons
factories we know about. Sergeant Barnes said that HYDRA shipped all the parts
to another facility that isn't on this map.”
Phillips walked away from the table. “Agent Carter, coordinate with MI6. I want
every allied eyeball looking for that main HYDRA base.”
“What about us?” Peggy asked.
A bored-looking blonde handed Phillips an important-looking stack of papers.
“We are gonna light a fire under Johann Schmidt's ass.” He took the stack
without looking at it. “What do you say, Rogers? It's your map...you think you
can wipe HYDRA off of it?”
Steve looked back at the table. The bases were spread out. It would take too
long for him to attack them alone. “Yes, sir!” he agreed immediately. “I'll
need a team.”
“We're already putting together the best men.” Phillips answered dismissively.
Steve wasn't about to lead a group of men that were hand-picked by bureaucrats
to do Phillips's bidding. He needed soldiers that had already proven that they
had what it took to go up against this rising HYDRA threat. He needed men that
he could trust. And he needed Bucky.
“With all due respect, sir...so am I.”
Phillips just harrumphed at that and turned on his heel. “They'll have to be
approved,” he called back to Steve, already turned toward another another desk
with more maps all spread out.
Peggy stepped in front of him, a twinkle in her eye. “This list of men you have
in mind...it wouldn't happen to include a certain Sergeant you risked your life
to save, would it?”
Steve smiled back, “Bucky's a helluva fighter. There's no one I'd rather have
on my six.”
The light in Peggy's eyes dimmed only slightly. “I don't know if he'll be up
for it, Steve. Some men don't—”
“Bucky's different,” Steve cut her off, his smile only slightly forced.
Peggy's cheeks flushed the most lovely shade of pink. “Of course, my
apologies.” She cleared her throat quietly. “If you're looking for him, he's
actually in with Howard.”
Steve blinked. “Stark?”
Peggy smiled politely. “Yes.”
Steve blinked again. “Bucky knows Howard Stark?”
Her smile now looked pinched, “Apparently Howard was eager to meet the man that
you call your best friend. Insisted on it, really.”
Steve frowned. He really didn't like Howard.
 
*~*~*
 
Howard had a makeshift workshop set up in the bowels of the Allies' secret
underground complex in London. It wasn't the size that Howard was used to back
in the states, but to Steve it looked enormously impressive. Stark's assistant
ran up to him the moment he came through the door, pulling his glasses from his
pale face and rubbing at the lenses with a greasy handkerchief.
“Excuse me?” The man squeaked. “May I help you...?”
Steve clasped his arms behind his back. “I'm looking for my friend, Sergeant
Barnes. Agent Carter said he was in with Mr. Stark.”
Acknowledgement washed over the man's panicked features and he all but yelled,
“Oh, Captain Rogers, sir, I didn't recognize you! Yes, yes...Mr. Stark is just
in here with your friend...”
The thin man took short careful strides over to the small square room with a
door that was placed in the corner of the room. Steve could only assume it was
a hastily constructed office. The assistant knocked briskly on the metal door
and then turned to look at Steve with an unreadable expression.
Steve heard some dull thudding noises within before the door creaked open to
reveal Howard Stark's face. “What?” he snapped, before looking beyond his
bewildered assistant to take in Steve. “Oh, Rogers! You've decided to join us!
Come in, come in!” Stark threw the door open wide to reveal Bucky sitting
haphazardly on a large metal desk holding a tumbler with amber liquid in it.
His face was flushed.
“Hiya, Stevie,” he slurred.
Steve repressed the urge to roll his eyes. “Hi, Buck.”
Howard shooed his assistant away and the door to the office slammed shut. He
walked back around to the other side of his desk and leaned back in his chair,
smirking and downing his own drink. “How 'bout a drink, Rogers?”
“No thanks,” Steve snapped, then took Bucky's appearance in a little more.
“Jesus, Buck, you smell like a distillery.”
Bucky giggled.
Steve sighed. “I need your help putting together a team...”
“Oh yes!” Howard interrupted, rising from his seat to pour himself another
glass. “Phillips was mentioning putting together a special force. Small in
number, but given free reign to...do whatever is necessary...”
Steve tried not to visibly bristle. Didn't he have something else to do than
refill Bucky's glass? Like investigate those glowing bullets, maybe? “Yeah...”
he looked back at Bucky. “I was hoping some of your men from the hundred and
seventh might be interested. If you think they're capable.”
Bucky just continued to smile at Steve, sipping his drink, and actually
succeeding in spilling it on himself more. “Sure thin'...pal...”
Steve glared at Stark. “How much has he had?”
Howard snorted. “A man that's been through what he's been through? I gave him
as much as he wanted.”
Steve wasn't interested in assuaging Stark's guilt over not fighting in the war
by letting Bucky get plastered. He took the tumbler out of Bucky's unsteady
hand. “C'mon, Buck. We're leavin'.”
“Where're we goin'?” he slurred, but his feet were steady beneath him.
“To the pub,” Steve answered under his breath.
“Really?” Bucky perked up. “Which one?”
Steve didn't bother saying goodbye to Howard Stark. The man was so self-
absorbed, Steve doubted he would noticed them leaving anyway. “Whichever one
your men frequent, ok?”
Bucky swallowed, and it looked like he instantly sobered. “Yeah. Yeah, ok.
Let's go.”
 
*~*~*
 
It was easy for Steve to convince Bucky's men to join him. They were eager to
get back into the fight. And they all had proved themselves more than competent
in the escape from the compound. Steve was already forming lists in his head of
who would be in charge of what in their small group. From what Steve had seen
on the journey back to the allied base, the frenchman would undoubtably be in
charge of their explosives. Jones seemed to be quite adept at languages, so
he'd be the one with the radio. The Brit in the red beret had some skill with
tracking, Steve had seen...
“See!?” Bucky exclaimed suddenly, pulling Steve from his thoughts. “Told you!
They're all idiots.”
Steve sat down beside him. “How 'bout you? You ready to follow Captain America
into the jaws of death?” he asked with a bit of distain in his voice.
Bucky shook his head. “Hell no.”
For a moment, Steve's heart seized in his chest. Maybe Bucky really didn't
think Steve could be a leader.
“That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a
fight...” Bucky smiled fondly, then turned to face Steve, meeting his eyes.
“I'm following him.”
The rush of warmth to Steve's face made him turn away. He could barely keep the
grin from his face. For the first time since he had come out of the Rebirth
Chamber, everything felt perfect.
“But yer keepin' the outfit, right?”
Steve's face turned an even darker shade of red, but he was sure Bucky couldn't
tell in the low lighting of the bar. “Ya know what?” He looked over his
shoulder at the disgraceful poster on the wall showing his canceled tours in
Europe and Northern Africa. “It's kinda grown on me.”
The loud singing coming from the main room of the bar suddenly stopped and they
both leaned back to see what had caused it. Steve had to shut his eyes against
the sight.
Agent Carter in a red dress. He and Bucky were raised right, so they both stood
as she walked up to them.
“Captain,” she greeted, her red heels clicking on the ground.
“Agent Carter,” he replied, keeping his eyes strictly on hers.
Bucky made an exaggerated showing of looking her up and down. “Ma'am,” he
greeted.
It was as if Peggy didn't hear him. Almost purposefully ignoring him. Instead,
she spoke directly to Steve. “Howard has some equipment for you to try.
Tomorrow morning?”
Steve nodded, “Sounds good.” He didn't like Stark, but at that moment, Peggy
could've said the sky was green and the grass was blue and Steve would've
agreed.
She looked back into the other room of the pub, and Steve took the moment to
take her all in. She was absolutely breathtaking. He made sure his eyes were
back on her face when she turned back to him.
“I see your top squad is prepping for duty,” she remarked dryly.
Bucky cut in, “You don't like music?”
Again, Peggy had eyes only for Steve. “I do, actually. I may even, when this is
all over, go dancing.”
Bucky wasn't about to step in front of the two of them, but he had to try
again. “Then what are we waiting for?”
Her eyes were practically devouring Steve. “The right partner.”
The corner's of Steve's mouth turned up just for a moment before he managed to
control his reaction.
Peggy had seen it anyway. Her eyes flashed again. “Oh-eight-hundred, Captain.”
“Yes, ma'am,” he responded. “I'll be there.” But she was already walking away.
“I'm invisible,” Bucky whined. “I-I'm turning into you, it-it's like a horrible
dream.” he stammered out. But he was smiling and looking at Steve with awe, so
Steve knew he wasn't too sore about it.
“Don't take it so hard. Maybe she's got a friend?” Steve teased him.
Bucky sat back down and emptied his glass. “So she's yer girl?” he asked in a
low voice.
Steve sighed, sitting back down next to him. “God, I hope so. Maybe.”
Bucky stared down at his empty glass. “Tha's good, Stevie. She's a total
knockout, just like I said ya'd find.” He had a pinched smile on his face when
he looked up at Steve. “Didn't I tell ya?”
Steve took the glass away from Bucky gently. “I think that's enough for
tonight, Buck.”
Bucky turned away, leaning back dangerously far on his barstool before whipping
back around to face Steve. “How come ya didn't tell me?”
“Didn't tell you what?”
Bucky just made a vague gesture to Steve's chest with accusing eyes. “That
ya...signed up to be a lab rat?”
Steve sighed again, more heavily this time. “I tried. It just wasn't the type
of thing I could explain in writing. What if the German's had intercepted my
letters to you?” Steve would have continued, but Bucky was just shaking his
head.
“I jus'...can't believe it. Little Stevie Rogers, built like a Coney Island
muscle man.”
Steve tried to keep up with Bucky's changing moods. “It's nice not having the
asthma anymore.”
Bucky's eyes almost bugged out of his skull. “Really?” He reached into his
breast pocket and pulled out a small pouch.
Steve frowned, watching him pull out a rolled cigarette. “Since when do you
smoke?”
Bucky snorted and lit a match. “Since I can't drink.”
Steve couldn't help it. “You didn't seem to have any problems finding a drink
or two earlier.” Bucky flat-out ignored him, so Steve kept going. “How do you
know Howard Stark?”
Bucky rolled his eyes. “While ya were busy telling Colonel Phillips about how
ya saved everybody, he jus' wanted t'be friendly and offered me a drink.”
Some more biting remarks were on the tip of Steve's tongue, but they were in
public, so he couldn't voice them. He let himself silently seethe before
finally looking away. “I really do have a pretty nice room, if you want to
sleep in a decent bed tonight.”
Bucky blew out a puff of smoke and looked away. “I already got a bed, thanks.”
Steve's stomach twisted in knots. For the first time in his life, he had no
idea how to talk to his best friend.
 
*~*~*
 
Steve arrived at the underground compound the next morning with a few minutes
to spare. He got into hot water with Peggy because that bored-looking blonde
secretary came onto him. He was only trying to work out the proper amount of
pressure to put on her shoulder to push her away from him without hurting her
when Peggy's voice snapped him into action.
Ok, fine, he wasn't going to push her away. Far from it. He was trying to work
out how much pressure he could exert to pull her towards him, but he'd never
admit that to anyone but himself. It just felt so good to kiss someone. Someone
who had soft lips and smelled like perfume. It was nice to just close his eyes
and enjoy something.
But now Peggy was stalking away from him, and he was trying to wipe the
lipstick off of his mouth and tuck his tie back in. He suddenly felt cheap.
So he was an idiot, of course, and lashed out.
“Well, what about you and Stark? How do I know you two haven't been...fondue-
ing?”
She turned around to look at him, and he realized he must've said something
incredibly dumb.
“You still don't know a bloody thing about women,” she said in the British
equivalent of a mutter and showed him through the door to Stark's lab, slamming
the metal door behind him.
Stark was in the middle of the room, his assistant holding out a notebook for
him to look at. He took one look at Steve and waved his assistant away.
“Rogers! Good morning!”
Steve noticed he was in the same suit from the day before, but he had taken off
his jacket and rolled up his sleeves.
“Mr. Stark,” Steve acknowledged.
Stark walked closer to him. “Why the long face, Rogers? It's too early in the
morning for anything bad to have happened yet.”
Steve sighed. “I might've just accused Agent Carter of being romantically
involved with you.”
“Me 'n Pegs?” Stark let out a true scoff. “I think of her more like the sister
I never had! 'Sides, she's not into men like me.”
Steve looked at him in disbelief. “Men who are rich, intelligent and use both
to serve their country?”
Stark smiled. “I mean men that are loose.”
Steve flushed scarlet and stumbled over his words, “B-but...when you said that
you two were going to fondue...”
Stark didn't even laugh. “Fondue's just cheese and bread, my friend.”
Jesus, Steve was an idiot. “Really? I didn't think—”
“Nor should you, pal. The moment you think you know what's going on in a
woman's head is the moment your goose is well and truly cooked. Me? I
concentrate on work, which at the moment is about making sure you and your men
do not get killed.”
Steve didn't believe him for a moment. But he was thankful that Howard Stark
wasn't currently courting Peggy. “Is that why you invited Bucky to your office
yesterday?”
Stark had reached for a piece of equipment on a table, but pulled his hand
back, placing it in his pocket. He turned to face Steve. Stark was several
inches shorter, but he met Steve's eyes as if he was towering over him. “Maybe
I just like his company.”
Steve's blood ran cold at the challenge in Stark's eyes. As if he was daring
Steve to ask what Bucky was really doing there yesterday. Steve refused to let
his mind speculate. “What have you got for us?”
Stark took his hands out of his pockets and turned back to the tables. “Carbon
polymer...”
 
*~*~*
 
Colonel Phillips looked down at the list in his hands. “Jacques Dernier, James
Morita, Gabriel Jones, James Falsworth, Timothy Dugan, and James Barnes.” He
blinked a few times to make sure he was reading this correctly. “Son, do you
have any idea what this list means?”
Steve sat in front of Phillips at his desk and tried not to fidget. “Sir?”
Phillips looked back down at the paper. “A Jew, a Jap, a Negro, a Brit, and a
couple'a Catholics.”
Steve's stomach clenched in rage. “Sir, I don't care about any of that.” he
replied evenly.
Phillips snorted, throwing the piece of paper across the desk towards Steve.
“The biggest bunch of misfits I've ever seen. Senator Brandt is going to have
an absolute fit when he sees it.”
Steve said nothing, waiting for Phillips to speak.
“You know this is gonna be more than just hunting down HYDRA. You're the face
of the war effort back home. People're gonna wanna see footage of you leading
troops to victory. You're not just Captain Rogers of the US Army. You are
Captain America, and try as we may, we can't afford this war without you
playing ball with those monkeys they call Senators across the pond. There's
gonna be a camera crew that follows you all around—that isn't negotiable.
They'll be watching your every move, documenting it all for us back at base to
look at, analyze, then edit to make war propaganda films for the folks back
home. But if I vouch for these men,” he motioned to the paper on the desk.
“...then you just might get the team you want to make this happen. Do you
understand, son?”
Of course he'd have to go back to publicity. But at least this time he'd
actually be making a difference. Saving lives. Taking down HYDRA. He nodded.
“Good,” Colonel Phillips barked. “Now get the hell out of my office.”
End Notes
     I have the dates and places planned out for all of the chapters, of
     which there will be 17. In the first part. The second part will be
     snippets of Bucky's life while he was in HYDRA's possesion. The final
     part will be my headcanon's happily ever after for our heroes. Stucky
     Endgame.
     I don't have a Beta so all mistakes are my own. If you happen to see
     any, please let me know.
     I have done hours and hours of research for this fic. I'm not from
     New York, I'm not from the 30s, I've never been in a war, I know
     nothing other than what I've been researching.
     Please tell me to add something to the tags if I haven't already
     warned for it.
     Title taken from Josh Ritter's "Change of Time."
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!