Bucky Barnes struggles to focus on anything but the repetitive motion of his feet on the forest floor. They've been marching through the night, past a sunrise he wasn't sure he'd ever see again, and now it's close to mid-morning. It's been less than eight hours since Stevie pulled him off that gurney, but it feels like he's been walking for days. He's so far past exhaustion that he doesn't even really feel tired anymore; he's just moving, dreamlike, through the landscape.

Someone approaches the front of the column, respectfully, and says, "Captain? The men are slowing down. It might be best to find a place to hole up for a while, until it gets dark again."

Bucky registers the words—barely—but the only thing he's really aware of is Stevie's arm around his waist, taking at least half his weight off his battered feet. There hadn't been time, fleeing the exploding factory, to find him proper boots, but hell if he was going to ride in a vehicle when Stevie was out front in the line of fire. He'd been more worried about grabbing a weapon than shoes.

"We can't really hide a group this size," Stevie says, continuing to walk but at a slower pace, as if just now realizing that beaten, half-starved prisoners might not be able to keep up with Captain America: Super Soldier. "Not to mention the trucks. Or the tank."

Bucky's feet, which have long since gone numb, can't adjust to the new rhythm. He stumbles, and it's only Stevie's arm tightening around him that keeps him upright.

"Bucky?" Stevie asks immediately, sounding worried.

"I'm fine," Bucky says. It comes out almost a growl. "I can keep moving."

The more distance he puts between himself and that hell-hole, the better he'll feel.

"Don't be an idiot," Stevie says, voice fond. "You can hardly stand."

They stop, then, and it's all Bucky can do to lean against Stevie's shoulder and stay on his feet. There are discussions happening, he thinks, but he can't really follow them. Something about getting the equipment hidden in the trees as best they can, and working out a quick rotation for sentries and scouts among the healthiest survivors. There's mention of sending someone to look for water, which they all desperately need. The wounded are to be checked over, and found safe places to rest for a while.

It's clear to Bucky, even with the fog in his head, that Stevie doesn't have the training to organize a group this size. Still, the ideas are sound, and the men treat them like orders. The surviving officers take care of the rest.

Bucky might lose some time, then, because the next thing he knows he's lying down in a little hollow between two tree roots. There's a rolled-up cloth—somebody's abandoned shirt, maybe—under his head as a pillow. Stevie is standing over him, looking worried.

"Sleep, Buck," Stevie tells him.

Bucky doesn't want to go to sleep. The last hours have seemed like such a dream. If he closes his eyes, will he wake back up on Dr. Zola's table? Will Stevie disappear?

He doesn't realize that he's spoken out loud until Stevie crouches down and says, "If you were dreaming, would I look like this?"

Bucky snorts. It's not even the costume that confuses him, although he still can't believe Stevie went on a mission wearing something like that, and actually got real soldiers to take it seriously. (He supposes that freeing over three hundred prisoners of war and destroying a secret Nazi base, single-handed, is impressive enough no matter what the person doing it is wearing.)

Underneath the ridiculous clothes, though, it's still his Stevie. He can tell that much. Same eyes. Same stubborn chin. Even the same voice, if a bit stronger now that there's no asthma to fight. The height is new, and the wider shoulders, and more muscles than he can count properly, as woozy as he is ... but it's still Stevie. The body may be different, but the important things are all still there.

Aren't they?

Bucky retains just enough sense to glance around one time, making sure that no one is watching them closely, before he reaches out his hand.

Stevie takes it without hesitation.

"Under all that," Bucky says quietly. "The costume and the muscles ..." He swallows, his throat suddenly tight. "You still my girl?"

Stevie squeezes his hand, takes a moment to repeat his perimeter check, and smiles. It's as beautiful as he remembers.

"Hey," she says, pretending to be insulted. "You think I drop behind enemy lines for just anybody?"

Bucky doesn't smile back. He's not sure he can, just now. Maybe not for a while.

But he closes his eyes and falls asleep.

/~*~/

When he first meets her, she's eight years old, with scuffed knees and bloody knuckles, in the alley behind the grocer's. She's staring down a group of three boys, all older and much, much bigger than her. There's no sign of the mistreated dog he'll later learn was the reason for all the fuss. All he sees, when he comes around the corner on his way home from school, is a girl whose shoulders are shaking, with tears on her cheeks.

He realizes quickly that the shaking is from fury rather than fear, and the tears from frustration rather than pain. Not that it changes his reaction much.

After the three boys have been properly run off—protesting fiercely that they wouldn't hit a girl, even after she tried to throw a punch; they just pushed her around a little and she fell, honest—he holds out his hand and introduces himself, with all the superiority of his extra year and four inches of height.

"James Buchanan Barnes," he says proudly.

She doesn't relax her fists, although at least they stay by her sides. She looks ridiculous, all bony elbows and sunken chest and dirty skirts.

"I didn't need your help," she says. "I could have handled it on my own, thanks."

"Yeah, I know," he says without thinking. "I just sped them along a little."

He waits, but the girl seems determined to just stand there and stare at him. He wiggles the hand he's still holding out, trying to draw her attention to it. "James Buchanan Barnes," he tries again.

She rolls her eyes. "That's a dumb name," she says. "It's too long."

"It is not!" He scowls at her, but he doesn't drop his hand. His Ma taught him to be polite to girls. "Aren't you going to tell me yours?"

Finally, she reaches out and shakes his hand. Her fingers are cold, and her hand feels tiny in his.

"Stephanie Rogers," she says.

He grins. "Hey, that's just as long as mine!"

"Is not," the girl says quickly.

"Is, too," he says. He holds out his hands and counts syllables on his fingers. "James Bu—chan—an Barnes," he says, ending with an open hand. "Steph—a—nie Ro—gers," he adds, using the second hand. When he's finished, he spreads his arms. "See?"

The girl just stares at him some more. "Well, my Ma calls me Steph sometimes." She cocks her head at him, clearly thinking. "Do you want to be Jimmy?"

He wrinkles his nose.

"Maybe Barney?" she asks.

His face gets even more scrunched up.

She chews on her bottom lip. (It's the cutest thing nine-year-old him has ever seen.)

"How about Bucky?" she asks. "From Buchanan. I've never met anybody called that before."

He thinks about it for a moment, considering. "I could maybe do that," he allows.

"Bucky it is," she says, and for the first time, she smiles at him. "Bucky and Steph."

They've started to walk, leaving the alleyway behind them. It's understood that he's escorting her home, just to be sure nobody else tries to mess with her.

"You know what?" Bucky asks after a moment, kicking a rock down the curb. "I don't like 'Steph.' Your name should be two syllables, so we still match."

"I could go by Rogers," she offers, hands stuffed into her jacket pockets. "That's two syllables, and it's what everybody calls me at school."

"No," Bucky says instantly. "It's got to be a nickname, just for me and you, or it ain't special." He hops from the curb to the pavement and back, over and over, hands outstretched for balance. "What's your middle name? Then we'd really match."

"Grace," she says.

He watches her for a moment as they walk, rolling that name around in his mouth without saying it out loud. "Could you be Gracie?"

She shakes her head. "Don't think so."

"Okay," Bucky says. He keeps thinking, going Stephanie, Stephanie, Stephanie in his head. "Fanny?" he offers. He doesn't wait to see her reaction, just shakes his head. "No, that isn't right. Let me think."

They walk for a bit, occasionally bumping shoulders or elbows.

After a minute, Bucky snaps his fingers and says, "Hey! I got it. Stevie."

She looks at him funny, like that's the dumbest thing she's ever heard.

"I know, it's not really short for Stephanie," Bucky admits. "But it's close enough, ain't it?" When she looks like she's about to start arguing, he quickly adds, "It's really pretty. I like it."

She's still looking at him funny, but now it's a slightly different kind of funny. She's not looking at him like he's being dumb, but like he's said just the right thing completely by accident. It makes a strange warm feeling spread through his chest, and Bucky thinks maybe he'd be okay with her looking at him like that anytime she wants. Maybe forever.

"Stevie," she says finally. "Okay. If you like it, it's good enough for me."

From that moment on, it's settled. Bucky and Stevie.

Yeah. He likes the sound of that.

/~*~/

Bucky wakes up aching all over, but lucid in a way he hasn't been in days. Weeks? He doesn't even know how long it was between getting dragged out of the group cell for interrogation and Stevie appearing like some bizarre, patriotic angel to rescue him. His memory of the time in between is all a blur, a cascade of soft edges punctuated by bright, sharp points of pain that he refuses to think about. For the first time since Dr. Zola started putting needles in him, however long ago that was, his head is clear.

The sun is balanced on the western horizon, as if trying to decide whether it wants to set completely or not. The forest around him is already half-lost to twilight, turning the men around him into dark shadows. The only part of scenery that still has color is the red and white of Stevie's uniform top and the gold of her short hair.

Bucky sits up, rubbing at his face. There's a canteen next to him, propped against a tree-trunk, so he takes several long swallows to alleviate the burn in his throat. There's no particular part of him that's wounded, as far as he can tell, but he's stiff and he hurts. It's a constant low ache in the back of his mind, coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

There's nothing he can do about it, though, so he makes himself ignore it. He tells himself that it's just his body's response to exhaustion and stress; once he's in a safe place and he can really rest for a day or two, he'll be fine. He caps the canteen and puts it back where he found it, half-empty now.

Bucky turns his attention to Stevie, several yards away but close enough to see clearly in the vanishing light. She's got her arms wrapped comfortably around her knees as she sits in the middle of a circle of rescued prisoners. Her face is turned to where Bucky was sleeping, but she's listening intently as the men talk quietly around her.

They must be what's left of the various Allied officers, or else whichever men are well enough and sensible enough to take charge in the meantime: an impromptu command for their ragged company. Stevie is clearly the leader, by virtue of having saved everyone more so than her apparently being a Captain, although that helps. Bucky doesn't think any officers higher than Lieutenants ended up at the prison camp.

Bucky takes the opportunity to just look at her for a moment, as impartially as he's able. She's sitting right next to the normal soldiers she's trying to mimic, so it's easy to compare. Of course, she's had a man's posture and habits for years, at least in public. For her to even make it this far, to get through enlistment and training, she must have fooled an awful lot of people.

The new height helps. She used to be small even for a girl, which made her downright tiny for a man. Now she's maybe an inch taller than Bucky, although by no means the biggest person here. The new muscles have bulked her up considerably, but she was so skinny to begin with that she's still got a lithe sort of look about her.

Interestingly, the transformation—the serum, she called it—has given her more curves than she had before, which ought to make her seem feminine. She's still flat-chested, though, which makes Bucky wonder if there's something in that uniform top compressing her breasts. Why else would she wear something so colorful on a night op behind enemy lines? At least she had the sense to cover it up with a dull brown leather jacket.

It seems obvious to Bucky, but of course he knows what to look for. With a man's haircut, man's clothing, and a soldier's bearing, she can pull it off. She's uncommonly pretty, maybe, for a man—with a soft mouth and an almost delicate shape to her face—but it can be written off as a kind of universal attractiveness.

(As long as she's careful where she showers, or when she sneaks off to take a piss. As long as no one gets a chance to see her changing clothes, or washing out the cotton pads she uses when she's on her monthlies. As long as she carries a razor everywhere, and convinces people she's a stickler for shaving instead of being unable to grow any scruff.)

Bucky shakes his head. He doesn't know whether to be unbelievably proud of her for what she's accomplished, against all odds, or terrified that she's going to get caught somehow. Or just plain terrified of her being here, in a war he never wanted her to fight, despite knowing how much it meant to her.

He gets to his feet.

Stevie is keeping an eye on him, so he doesn't get three steps toward her little command council before she's on her feet and meeting him halfway. If she cares that she's ignoring one of the men around her, who was in the middle of giving her a report on something, she doesn't show it.

"Bucky?" she asks, reaching for his shoulder, as if she needs to remind herself that he's real. "How are you feeling?"

Bucky's eyes flick over to the little circle of officers, who are watching them intently. Even though all he really wants to do is throw his arms around her, he knows he can't do anything to jeopardize her authority. The last thing Stevie needs is people asking too many questions.

"Captain," Bucky says formally, shifting into something that's not-quite-attention, but still respectful. "Can I have a word?"

Stevie doesn't hesitate to mimic his posture, trusting him. (She always does, even when she shouldn't.)

"Of course, Sergeant," she says.

"In private, sir?" Bucky clarifies.

Stevie turns to the officers and nods at them, almost apologetically. "Excuse me for a moment, gentlemen," she says. Her attention returns to Bucky, and she adds, "Come with me, Sergeant."

Bucky follows Stevie into the woods, away from watchful eyes. They walk in silence, covering enough ground that the trees hide them from the rest of the makeshift camp. She makes sure not to go far enough that a yell won't reach them if something were to happen, but if they talk quietly they won't be overheard.

When she stops, Bucky checks to be sure they're out of sight. When he's satisfied that it's safe, he lets the military posture drop from his shoulders until he's just standing there staring at her. He drinks in the sight of her face, more familiar than his own. It's a little more filled out than he remembers, hollow cheeks having turned into a strong jawline. She looks healthy, for once.

He has to look up, just slightly, to meet her eyes. It doesn't bother him, exactly, but it does give him a sense of vertigo. Little Stevie Rogers, who Bucky could tuck under one arm almost without lifting it, is now taller than him.

"Stevie?" he whispers.

"Yeah, Buck," she whispers back. She's smiling, and it's still the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. "It's really me."

He moves to hug her, but his instincts are all wrong. She doesn't fit under his chin the way she used to. She doesn't feel like she's drowning in his arms that could almost circle her narrow shoulders twice. He can't pick her up and swing her around as easily as a child, now.

"Thought I lost you," Stevie tells him, voice low and earnest by his ear. "Jesus, Buck. I was almost sure you were gone."

Bucky shivers. He holds her tighter, tighter than he ever dared back when she was all skin and fragile bones, almost tight enough to leave bruises. He has to tilt his head back, now, to press their foreheads together, and it's familiar and strange all at once. He used to have to lean forward and tilt his head pretty far down, and even then he'd hit her head near the top, at her hairline. Now that they're almost the same height, the angle seems wrong. At least her eyes are the same, staring right back at him from just a few inches away.

"I think I was," he says. After a moment of just standing there, listening to her steady breathing, he adds, "Maybe I still am."

"Oh, for the love of—" Stevie pulls back just far enough to glare at him. "For the last time, James Buchanan Barnes. I am real, and you are out of that place. Okay?"

Part of Bucky almost wants to laugh, because that? That glare that's now turning into a look somewhere between bewilderment and exasperation? That's Stevie, all over. Come to think of it, the outrageous outfit? That's Stevie all over, too. Bold as brass, attracting attention, nothing to hide (except her gender). Even the new body feels right, like this is how she was always meant to be: strong, loud, healthy. And so beautiful that Bucky won't be the only one to see it, anymore.

"Are you all right?" Stevie asks, her voice gone a bit softer. "I don't—I can't even imagine what you've been through—"

"I'm fine," Bucky says quickly. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Buck ..."

"I'm fine, Stevie," he says again.

They pull apart a little more, just enough to have a conversation, not enough to let each other go completely.

Bucky stares at her for a long, silent moment. He wonders where he should begin.

At last, he gives a sigh, shakes his head, and says, "What were you thinking, coming after me like this? All alone, behind enemy lines?"

"What do you mean, what was I thinking?" Stevie demands, defensive. "I was thinking about you rotting in some Nazi dungeon, if you weren't already dead. Of course I was coming after you! I couldn't just leave you out here!"

"Keep your voice down, Captain," Bucky hisses. Which reminds him ... "How the hell did that happen, anyway? Captain America?" He raises his eyebrows. "What does that even mean?"

Stevie flushes, just barely, across her cheekbones. It's almost too dark to see it. "It's sort of a propaganda thing," she says quietly. "Sells war bonds."

Bucky blinks. "You pulled rank on an entire Allied company based on a stage name?"

"I didn't mean to," Stevie says. "It just sort of ... happened."

"Jesus Christ, Stevie," Bucky mutters. He wants to rub at his forehead, because his skull still aches, but he won't let go of her to do it. "Have you had any training at all?"

"Um, standard basic before the procedure," Stevie tells him. "Some tests after, but that was scientific more than anything. How much weight can I lift? How fast can I run? Things like that." She shrugs her too-broad shoulders. "Then it was all USO shows. You know, dancing girls and memorizing my lines and punching Hitler."

Bucky feels his stomach starting to sink. "I meant officer training," he says.

"Oh. No. Nothing like that." Stevie smiles, a little helplessly. "My tags say 'Captain Steven G. Rogers,' but it's really just for the show."

Bucky stares at her.

It's not that Stevie makes a bad leader, or anything. Nobody much gave her a chance to be one, before, but Bucky's been following her around for two-thirds of his life and doesn't regret a moment of it. Clearly her instincts have gotten her along all right so far, but how long is that going to last? Sooner or later the men are going to expect her to know things that have nothing to do with good leadership and everything to do with military protocol and regulations. For the moment, she's riding the wave of awe for the rescue she just pulled off. What happens when that starts to wear off?

"Do you even know how to fire a gun?" Bucky asks, his voice going oddly high-pitched and tense.

Stevie mumbles something.

"What?"

"I haven't touched one since basic, months ago," she admits. "It was too dangerous, with all the crowds full of kids, so I was never actually issued one."

"Jesus Christ," Bucky says again.

"I know I can do this, Bucky," Stevie says quietly. Her eyes are bright, all earnest honesty and conviction. "I'll figure it out as I go, if I have to." She hesitates, arms tightening just slightly around him. "Are you with me?"

"Of course," Bucky says instantly. His tone makes it very clear that he's insulted that she doubted him enough to ask in the first place. "Like I'd let you do this alone. Idiot."

She smiles. "Hey, watch it." Her voice is so fond that it's impossible to tell it's technically a rebuke.

They stand there for another moment, her smiling and him drinking in the sight of it, one he never thought he'd see again. (Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he tells himself that he'll never take it for granted again.)

"Okay," Bucky says after a while, businesslike.

She must sense the change in his demeanor, because she finally releases him. He does the same to her, and now they're just a couple of soldiers having a conference in the woods.

"We'll work on the technical stuff later—regulations, protocols, that sort of thing. For now, the most important thing you can do is be seen leading. Act confident; let the men see you as heroic, a bit larger than life. That's what holding the rest of us together."

Stevie's nose wrinkles a bit. "That sounds like the stage tour all over again."

"Stevie," Bucky says, and waits until she looks him in the eye. "You are an actual, honest-to-God hero. You busted every one of us out of that place, by yourself. Every man here owes you his life. You saved all of us." He can't quite make himself smile, but he thinks maybe the corners of his mouth lift up a little. "You saved me."

Stevie puts one hand on his head and runs her fingers gently through his dirty hair. "Well," she says, and her voice is sad and hopeful all at once. "It was finally my turn."

Bucky's eyes close at her touch, and he's suddenly so tired that he almost lets his knees give out, trusting to Stevie to catch him. He wants nothing more in that moment than to lean into her fingers. He'll go limp, and Stevie will hold him up, maybe kiss his forehead as she cradles his head, fingers smoothing away the memories of the last several weeks. Hell, the last year. There are a lot of things he'd like to forget, to let her touch erase.

Instead, Bucky opens his eyes and pushes her hand away as gently as he can. He gives her fingers a brief squeeze before he lets go, trying to let her know that it's not her fault.

"Be careful," he says quietly. "We can't ... Stuff like this could get you caught."

Stevie swallows once, but he knows she understands. It doesn't help the hurt he can see in her eyes, or the sharp ache that springs up inside his chest the moment her fingers leave his hair. It's going to be an entirely new kind of torture, to have her within arm's reach after months of being an ocean apart, but not being able to touch her for fear of being seen.

"Does anyone else know?"

That maybe should have been his first question, but Bucky hasn't really thought about it until now.

Stevie nods. "The doc who picked me knew from the start, but he's dead now." There's something in her voice, something painful, but she quickly moves on. "Anybody who was at the procedure and saw me change. It was ... uh ... a little hard to miss." She flushes again, but only briefly. "So, that's Colonel Phillips. Agent Carter. Senator Brandt. Some of their aides or assistants, probably. I didn't get a full count." She pauses for a moment. "Howard Stark."

Bucky rubs at his forehead, like he's been wanting to do for the last ten minutes. (Did she say Howard Stark?) "But the general army?"

"No," Stevie says. "They put out a silencing order on anybody who found out, and I'm not allowed to tell anyone else, obviously. Had to sign a bunch of papers saying I'd keep it a secret."

"Well," Bucky says, crossing his arms. "You've managed pretty well so far. At least now I can cover for you, as much as possible. It can't have been easy, all by yourself."

Stevie grins at him, the open, easy expression that means he's just said the right thing. "God, Bucky," she whispers. "I've missed you."

"Yeah," Bucky says, trying to shrug it off. He ignores the way the backs of his eyes are suddenly hot and prickly, or the way his throat tightens. "I missed you too, you little punk."

"Not so little anymore," she reminds him, playfully bumping into him with one muscled shoulder.

"Still a punk, though."

"Jerk."

"Come on," Bucky says. He nods back toward the makeshift camp. "We'd better get back before somebody gets curious."

It's full dark now, and Stevie leads the way back to the others with confident steps and head held high. Bucky watches her from half a pace back, afraid that how he feels about her is written all over his face. His Ma used to tease him about that, about the way he would stare after little Stevie Rogers like she was the center of the whole universe. Bucky never minded the joking, to be honest, because as far as he was concerned it was true.

Now, a look like that could get her caught. At best, it would get both of them dishonorably discharged. Bucky won't mess this up for her, not after how hard she had to work to get her chance.

It's a monumental effort, but he schools his face into a cold professionalism and follows her back.

The little circle of officers is right where they left them, now just dim shapes in the moonlight that's managed to filter through the tree tops. Stevie walks up to them without hesitation, Bucky still on her heels.

"Gentlemen," she says, voice firm. She politely waits for them to stand before continuing. "I'd like to get us moving, now that it's dark enough to discourage patrols. Agreed?"

There's a brief chorus of assent. If they're anything like Bucky, they aren't comfortable still behind enemy lines, liable to be recaptured at any moment.

"Very well," Stevie says. She turns to Bucky. "Sergeant Barnes!"

Bucky snaps to attention on instinct, and holy hell. Who taught her to use her voice like that? Bucky doesn't know whether to be impressed or jealous. "Captain?"

"Get this company moving, Sergeant," Stevie orders smartly. "I want us back in Allied territory by dawn."

"Yes, sir!"

/~*~/

The first time that Bucky kisses Stevie, he's ten years old.

It's a late summer afternoon and school is out for another two weeks, so the neighborhood kids are messing around playing ball in the empty churchyard. Bucky had convinced Stevie to come along, even though the heat is bad for her asthma.

Twelve-year-old Ernie MacMillan has declared himself the captain for today, via the time-honored tactic of making the most noise about it, and also being the biggest boy there. That means he's the one Bucky and Stevie walk up to when they arrive, because it's the captain's job to make sure the teams are divided as fairly as possible.

Unfortunately, Stevie had caused a ruckus with Ernie MacMillan last week for making Marcy Wallace cry in front of her friends. Normally Ernie would just ignore Stevie's attempt at a scolding, but Mrs. MacMillan had happened to come by, and she heard a bit of it. She'd asked Stevie to explain what had happened, and Stevie had told her, even though that made her a snitch. Ernie had gotten a strapping over it once his Pa came home, and he'd been nasty to Stevie ever since.

When Bucky tries to get them into the game, Ernie refuses to put Stevie on either team. First he says it's because they'd have an odd number, but even when Bucky offers to switch in and out with her—making his proposed teammates groan, because Bucky is big and athletic for his ten years, while Stevie is small and frail and only nine (and a girl) besides—Ernie still won't let her play. Instead, he pulls Bucky a little to the side to talk to him one-on-one.

"Come on, James," Ernie says, speaking softly so that Stevie can't hear him. "If it was any other girl, I'd let her try. We'd all get a laugh out of it and move on. But Stephanie Rogers?"

Bucky starts to get mad. "What does that mean?" he demands.

"Just look at her," Ernie says, following his own advice and staring at Stevie. "I bet she couldn't hit the ball if her life depended on it."

"She could, too," Bucky says loyally, even though silently he kind of doubts it, if he's honest with himself.

Ernie rolls his eyes. "Biggest mystery in Brooklyn," he says, shaking his head like Bucky's somehow disappointed him. "Why do you let her follow you around, anyway? She your little girlfriend?"

Bucky crosses his arms. "No," he says, maybe a little too quickly.

Ernie, sensing he's found a sore spot, starts to laugh. "She is, isn't she? And that's even sadder, because she has got to be the worst girl in the whole world."

"She is not," Bucky says. (He thinks to himself that it's just as well Stevie is over there not listening, because she'd probably have thrown a punch by now.) "She's as good as any girl in Brooklyn. In New York, even. Maybe better, because she's not afraid of spiders or rats or anything."

Ernie has a sneaky look on his face, now. "Yeah?" he asks. "So prove it, then."

Bucky senses that he's fallen into a trap of some kind. "What?"

"Prove you think Rogers is as good as a normal girl," Ernie taunts. "Go over there and give her a kiss, why don't you?"

"What?" Bucky says again. "No!"

Ernie shrugs. "You're the one who said she was as good as any other girl," he reminds Bucky. "You going back on your word, Barnes?"

"No," Bucky says. He's confused, because how did this go from arguing about letting Stevie play with them to whether or not she's worth kissing? "I just don't want to kiss her, is all."

Ernie laughs. "That's what I thought." He claps Bucky on the shoulder, like they're friends now or something. "Send her home, and you can play."

Bucky pushes Ernie's arm off him. "That isn't fair."

"Great, now you even sound like her," Ernie says, throwing his hands up. There's a dangerous gleam in his eye as he leans forward, dropping his voice even lower. "Come on, James. I dare you to kiss her."

Bucky hesitates. He has a feeling this is a bad idea, but dares aren't things to be taken lightly. The whole neighborhood knows James Barnes isn't someone who'll back down; with how much he has to step in to keep Stevie from getting pummeled, he needs a good reputation.

"I bet you won't do it," Ernie adds. "Too chicken, aren't you?"

That settles it. "Fine," Bucky says, and turns around.

Stevie is over by the brick wall where kids who are watching or waiting a turn sit with their legs dangling off. She's leaning against the wall instead of sitting on it, arms crossed, looking down at her shoes. She glances up when Bucky walks over to her, though.

"What did he want?" Stevie asks. "Why wouldn't he say it in front of me?"

Bucky licks his lips, determined not to lose his nerve. Before he can change his mind, he puts his hands on Stevie's bony shoulders to hold her still and presses his chapped lips to her cold ones. He has no real idea how to go about kissing a girl, so he just copies what he's seen his Pa or the older boys around the neighborhood doing. When he feels like it's been long enough to count as a real kiss, not a goodnight peck like his Ma gives him before bed, he steps back.

Stevie narrows her eyes. "What was that for?" she asks, her voice oddly cool.

A long time ago, last year maybe, Stevie made up a rule that Bucky could never lie to her. She even made him spit-swear to hold to it forever, or they couldn't be friends. So even though he wants to make something up, he dutifully says, "Ernie dared me."

Stevie considers this for a moment. Then she rears back and socks him in the jaw with one fist.

Somewhere behind him, Ernie is laughing so hard it doesn't sound like he can breathe. That's the cue for the rest of the kids watching to join in, complete with a few appreciative whistles.

"I'm going home," Stevie announces, and stalks off. "Have fun," she calls back over her shoulder.

Ernie is doubled over, hands on his stomach. "That was great," he gasps around laughter. "Did you see her face?"

"You're an asshole, Ernie," Bucky says, because that's his new favorite curse word, picked up last week from his Pa after a bad day at the garage.

Then he goes after Stevie, to the sound of renewed laughter echoing through the churchyard.

He finds her just one street over, because his legs are longer and, unlike Stevie, he won't stop breathing properly if he runs in this heat. He catches up, then immediately slows down and walks by her side.

"Hey," he says, slinging an arm over her shoulder like he always does, because she's so tiny she fits just right in the bend of his elbow. "I'm sorry, Stevie. I didn't mean to make you mad."

Stevie gives him another narrow-eyed look, but lets him leave his arm where it is. "Well, what did you think would happen?" she asks.

"I don't know," Bucky admits. "It was just a dare. I didn't mean nothing by it."

Stevie sniffs in his general direction. "Well how about next time somebody dares you to do something stupid, you don't?" She hesitates. "Or at least tell me about it, so I can help next time."

Bucky shrugs. "It wasn't that bad." He thinks maybe he ought to be a little offended.

Stevie looks away, but not fast enough for him to miss the little smile at the corner of her mouth. "Sorry I hit you," she says quietly. "That was mean. I didn't hurt you, did I?"

Bucky works his jaw for a second, rubbing at it with two fingers from the hand not around her shoulders. "You know, it just might bruise." He winces, maybe a little over-dramatically.

Stevie sighs. "You're not supposed to lie. Not even to make me feel better."

Bucky just can't win today. "Well, okay. No. It didn't hurt at all, actually."

"Figures," Stevie says, kicking absently at a pebble.

She sounds so sad about it that Bucky opens his mouth before he thinks better of it. "You want to learn how to throw a real punch?" he asks.

Her whole face lights up. "Really?"

"Yeah," Bucky says. "Just like my Pa taught me. Come on, I'll show you."

They spend all afternoon in the shade under the landing at Bucky's folks' apartment, walking through motions. She's got all the enthusiasm in the world, so it doesn't take long for Bucky to teach her what he's learned about throwing his whole body into a punch, so that it actually lands with some force. She's not going to knock anybody off their feet, but at least it'll get her point across a little better.

Bucky's arms and legs are sore that night when he goes to bed, but it's completely worth it. The next time Ernie MacMillan starts something in front of them, Stevie doesn't even hesitate. One swing, and she gives him a bloody nose.

Bucky buys her an ice cream later to celebrate. She makes him eat half of it, since he paid.

/~*~/

Their ad hoc company successfully makes it back to Allied territory by dawn, without encountering any patrols. A quick conference between Stevie and the officers results in the decision to press on and get back to the forward camp as quickly as possible, rather than stay at the front and wait for a pickup. It's another hour, maybe two, of steady marching, but the men are exuberant just from the prospect of returning somewhere familiar, if not exactly home. They're determined to keep going.

Bucky waits until they're just outside the camp perimeter, and then subtly shifts Stevie up to the head of the column so that she's literally leading them in. He stays glued to her left side the entire time. He's traded in his commandeered pistol for a captured HYDRA heavy-caliber, and he's determined to walk into the camp under his own power, no matter how exhausted he is. He's survived, and he's going to have this one victory.

Someone must have alerted the camp, because when they break the tree cover there are already people streaming out of tents and shelters to gawk at them. Somebody starts a slow applause, and the rest of the crowd picks it up. It's not a wild cheer, but a steady, respectful salute. They're honoring the fallen, and welcoming home the lost.

Stevie makes straight for the surly form of a man in a colonel's uniform, with graying hair and a stern expression. (This must be the aforementioned Colonel Phillips, operational head of the SSR and Stevie's C.O. on paper, USO tour notwithstanding.)

When Stevie reaches him, she stands at attention and gives a sharp salute. "Some of these men need medical attention, sir."

Bucky's lips twitch in a wry smile. Isn't that just like Stevie, worried about everybody else first.

Phillips waves absently in something that might be considered assent, and there's a sudden flurry of activity to pull the worst wounded out of the trucks.

Stevie stays at attention. "I'd also like to present myself for disciplinary action."

Bucky turns sharply. Somehow, it hadn't occurred to him that Stevie's little costumed jaunt behind enemy lines hadn't been authorized. It should have been obvious; she was supposed to be nothing but a chorus girl, a propaganda stunt. Why would the US Army let their only super soldier risk her life to save a couple hundred troops? Even if they didn't want to use her in the field, she was a valuable symbol and useful to the war effort.

Phillips glances around the camp, at the subdued clapping and the three hundred dirty, ragged, relieved men that everyone had already written off as casualties, irretrievable. Bucky sees it in his eyes, the moment he makes his decision.

"I don't think that will be necessary, Captain," Phillips says stiffly. He nods to let Stevie know she can drop the salute.

Stevie turns, and now she's talking to somebody else—a female officer, it looks like, which is odd this close to the front—but Bucky's not paying attention. He's focused on what he just saw in the Colonel's eyes, behind the annoyance and the grudging respect.

It was something ... calculating.

And right then, Bucky knows.

Never mind that she was acting against orders; this was Stevie's trial run, and she's passed with flying colors. The Strategic Scientific Reserve has the super soldier they always wanted, and she's performed above and beyond expectations. They know what she can do, now. They know that she's utterly wasted on the USO tour.

She's not just a symbol, anymore. She's a weapon.

They're going to use her like one.

Bucky is terrified. There's no getting out of this, now. No going back. No going home. Stevie has committed the cardinal sin for a soldier: she's irreplaceable. Bucky can see it in the face of Colonel Phillips, hear it in the whispered questions and quiet exclamations of the staff aides all around him.

She's not even Stevie anymore, not really, not to them. She's Captain America.

Bucky can't protect her, not from this. All he can do is remind them that, weapon or not, she's still a symbol first. She's earned the unconditional loyalty of an entire Allied company over the last two days, and he intends to use it to make his point.

Bucky spreads his hands, spins in a little circle to address the men around him, and yells, "Let's hear it for Captain America!"

The camp explodes. People crash in toward Stevie, clapping her on the shoulder or back, chanting out Captain! Captain! Captain! and cheering in the way they were too subdued to do for themselves. She's not just a hero; she's their hero. They laugh and yell and whistle and clap, and it builds to a roar that could be heard from the other side of the camp.

Stevie glances at Bucky, almost knocked off-balance by the people pressing in to congratulate her. Her face is radiant, with a smile the likes of which he's only rarely seen. This is everything she's ever wanted, her chance to stand up and fight, to make a difference doing the right thing. This is her moment, one she's going to remember for the rest of her life.

Bucky can't ruin it for her, so he makes himself smile back, doing his best impression of I'm so proud of you, Stevie. It's not even really false, because he is proud of her. More than he could ever say.

But the moment Stevie looks away, Bucky's face falls.

He knows this is just the beginning.