Author's Note: This story, like so many I write these days, is due to Bay and Erica being horrific enablers. I have an eternally-lengthening list of MCU fic requests they've given me in the years since Cap 2: Goodbye Sanity came out. I asked them recently which fic they wanted to read next, and they chose this idea. So blame them for what you're about to suffer through. I will, however, take responsibility for the Shakespeare. They told me not to do that bit, but… I couldn't help myself.

It was easy to gloss over Azzano.

Ironic, really. After all, this was the place where Captain America was truly born, and the adventure that created the Howling Commandos. One might be forgiven for assuming that the events of Azzano had been vigorously analyzed by war historians, political scientists, psychologists, military historians, and queer theorists interested in uncovering the truth of Captain Rogers' relationship with Sergeant Barnes.

And yet, in light of all the other daring missions the Commandos undertook, their origin story was often overlooked or handwaved away.

It was only partially the historians' fault. There was surprisingly little official documentation of the conditions at Azzano, either from the Germans who operated a munitions factory there or from the US Army after Captain Rogers liberated the camp. Many of the survivors had been sent right back out to war, and most of them didn't return home. Those who did survive were often reluctant to talk about what they'd seen and endured. Even the few family stories historians were able to collect were difficult to verify against official records. And so Azzano remained a silent, gaping black hole in the history of America's most famous elite special operations unit.

But the effect of Azzano, the lingering stain on the memories of its survivors and the psychological toll it took… that wasn't nearly as silent.

Shell shock, it had been called; or combat stress reaction. Genteel, polite names for a condition that was anything but. The condition was first noticed during the Great War, in which so many of their fathers had fought. Men came home from battle changed; anxious and jumpy around loud noises, angry and prone to flying into rages, staring blankly into the distance, unable to leave the horrors of war behind. Doctors couldn't decide if it was a physical problem or psychological, or if it was just a lack of moral fibre; either way, if a soldier tried to desert, it was a punishable offense; dishonorable discharge, court martial, or even facing the firing squad for cowardice.

It wasn't until after the Second World War that doctors and psychologists began to understand that what they were witnessing was not cowardice or a weak moral fibre, but a legitimate mental disorder that could and should be recognized and treated.

In the wake of this new understanding, scholars and historians began to look upon the heroes of the Greatest Generation in a new light. And while no smirch of anything as ignoble as mental image could touch the rapidly deified legend of Captain America, certain of his actions and those of his Howling Commandos began to make more sense.

Azzano had a dark and far-reaching legacy.

Though the most famous name to come out of Azzano, Sergeant James B. Barnes wasn't the only prisoner of war held there. All of the Commandos had been held in the same prison, and though not all of them developed full-blown PTSD, Azzano had marked them all.

But if Azzano was the fire of Hell they had all walked through, it was also the searing heat that forged them into a band of brothers, forming the bonds that would turn them into near-mythic elite fighters, Knights of the Round Table banded around their King Arthur.

And though they all carried the wounds and scars of a terrible war and all the myriad ways man could be evil to his own, they'd also all become strong enough to carry each other through the valley of death. They were Commandos, and they took care of their own.

Private James Morita took grim, dark amusement from the fact that he was locked in a steel cage. It felt almost like home. Jim's entire Stateside family was locked up in internment camps for daring to look like the enemy. He'd spent a month or so locked up in there with them in the wake of Pearl Harbor, until his father – his tranquil, pacifist father – urged him to enlist.

"They fear us because they think we are their enemy," Isamu – Richard, now – said. "We must show them we are not. We must show them we are friends, and Americans."

American, he reminded himself as his fellow prisoners sneered and spat at him. Not the enemy.

"You," the German guard said, tapping his baton against the cage bars before pointing to Jim. "What are you doing here with these Allied dogs, kamerad? Come here; let us return you to your unit and your Emperor."

Jim tensed as his cage mates muttered amongst themselves. If they believed him to be the enemy, they'd beat him to death in a second.

"Yeah, no thanks," he said. "I'm good here."

The German frowned. "But you are Japanese! One of us!"

Rolling his eyes, Jim pulled out his dog tags. "I'm from Fresno, Hans," he said for what felt like the millionth time since enlisting. Then, for good measure, he added a polite, "Fuck off."

The newly christened Hans glared, stepping back. "You will come with me now, verräter. Herr Doktor needs a new recruit."

"I'll pass," Jim said.

"Up! Get up!" the guard barked, slamming his truncheon against the cage.

"Pipe down, Franz. Some of us're tryin' ta sleep."

Hans snarled, spinning to face one of the nearby cages. "Barnes," he snarled.

Really, it was impressive how much loathing he could pack into one little word.

Jim followed Hans' glare across the way, to the cage where the other man had spoken. He'd stood to address the Kraut, leaning against the bars as casual as you please but for the burning anger in his eyes.

Jim's gorge rose as a cold pit of dread grew in his stomach. Oh no. Not this again…

Every prisoner in Azzano knew of Barnes. Most of them, because they were members of Barnes' unit, the American 107th Infantry. The rest of them, because Barnes had apparently made it his life's mission to stand up for the little guy and make himself a thorn in their captors' collective side.

"No," Jim shook his head as the world slowed down. "Not again."

He struggled against the cage bars, fighting against limbs that felt trapped in molasses. He had just dreamed this last night, and the night before that. He had failed, just like he always failed to stop what happened next, but he couldn't fail again…

Oblivious to his struggles, Hans approached the cage, unlocking the door and pulling Barnes out.

"Come then, Barnes. Let's see how you fare on Herr Doktor's table."

"NO!" Jim roared.

There were hands restraining him, dragging him down to the floor of his cage as the Germans swarmed on Barnes. Jim struggled against his unseen captors, managing to make at least one punch actually connect. He fought with renewed vigor; he couldn't watch Barnes disappear into the back room again…

"Jim!"

Jim gasped awake, his face stinging with the force of the slap as he struggled to breathe. He stared around blindly, fighting weakly against the iron-strong bands that restrained him.

"…There's five to one; besides, they are all fresh."

Wait.

Since when did the Krauts read Shakespeare to their captors?

Dragging in a painful lungful of air, Morita forced himself to take in his surroundings. Woods, glowing embers… This wasn't the cages. He looked down; oh, okay. Not iron bands; just Cap holding him from behind, probably to stop him flailing.

"You back with us?"

Jim looked up, drawing a shaky breath as he locked eyes with Sarge. Shit. Barnes. Not Azzano. The Commandos were out in the field. He'd been dreaming again.

"Shit," he hissed, slumping in Cap's arms. "Yeah. Sorry."

Cap let him go slowly as Monty crouched beside him, passing him a cantina of water that Morita greedily chugged down. Feeling a little more awake, he looked around at them all again.

"You gotta stop trying to play Exeter," he addressed Dugan, nodding at the small, ratty copy of Henry V they carried with them.

"I swear to God if you make one more Falstaff crack…" Dugan replied easily, snapping the book shut.

Rolling his eyes, Jim returned his focus to Barnes, wincing at the fresh shiner. "Shit. Sorry, Sarge."

Barnes shook his head. "I'll heal up. Who the hell were you punching this time?"

"Hans," Morita replied.

The Howlies exchanged glances before shrugging in acceptance.

They didn't bother trying to get back to sleep – it was getting close to dawn anyways. Instead, Dugan pulled out a bottle of contraband cognac he'd been hoarding since the last time they were near Calais, and they passed it around, watching the sky above them lighten.

The few times Sergeant Timothy "Dum Dum" Dugan was asked about Azzano, he would shrug his broad shoulders and deflect with a, "Aw, hell, it wasn't so bad. I wasn't a lab rat; the rest was just temporary discomfort."

To some extent, that was true. Dum Dum was a man inured to discomfort; traveling with a circus tended to accustom a man to rough living. He prided himself on his high tolerance to inconvenience, unpleasant circumstances, and generally less-than-ideal environs.

The trick of it, Dugan had found, lay in reminding yourself that it could always be worse. Sure, war wasn't a picnic, but he'd fallen into a band of the finest, most batshit insane men [and woman, because God forbid anyone suggest Agent Carter wasn't mad as a hatter] he'd ever had the good fortune to meet.

In the words of King Henry, If we are mark'd to die, we are enow to do our country loss; and if to live, the fewer men, the greater share of honour. God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.

And sure, the Howlies got themselves into some tight jams and sticky situations. Late [or no] exit strategy, battlefield surgeries, inadequate equipment [when they got it at all]… But they were a team. A family of sorts, however corny that cliché was.

It could always be worse. They could be back in those damn cages.

Now, to be fair, Dum Dum had never been a huge fan of tight spaces. He wasn't a small man, after all; big men and small spaces didn't always end well.

But after Azzano… yeah. Small spaces. Not good.

The Commandos, unfortunately, learned this the hard way.

Contrary to American history textbooks and the highly acclaimed HBO miniseries, the Howling Commandos did not always work in isolation. They liaised with Allied forces and national resistance groups often, particularly when they first moved into an area.

One of the Howlies' most valuable allies was the French courier service operated by the British SOE and the French Resistance. Several of Dernier's extended family had joined the Resistance in one capacity or another, and they were all more than happy to aid their kinsman. Surprisingly, Monty had several contacts within the SOE, and could usually arrange a liaison when needed.

On one of the Howlies' frequent jaunts through northern France on their way east, they traveled to Calais to liaise with an SOE courier known to them as Heléne.

Unfortunately, they weren't the only ones who knew Heléne was there. Two minutes after they met up, they looked up in alarm as the lookout whistled the code for approaching Nazis.

"Damn," Heléne hissed. "Up to the safe room, all of you."

"You as well, Agent," Monty jumped in. "Vera will be cross if you're captured."

All the Howlies did a double-take, and even Heléne blinked in surprise. Monty shrugged, a strange half-smile on his lips.

"If your superiors give you trouble, tell them it was Jack's fault. That usually gets you a bottle of good cognac for your trouble," he said, and while the Howlies continued to be mystified, Heléne seemed to understand.

"Right then," she nodded. "Gentlemen, if you'd follow me."

"Dernier, with me," Monty directed. "We'll keep them distracted."

There was no time to argue. Heléne led the mad scramble upstairs, to the secret room built into the guest bedroom.

There really wasn't enough room for them all. The hidden room had been built for maybe four people, and there were six of them and Heléne's and Morita's radios crammed in like sardines. [Though honestly, it was kind of worth it just to see Cap essentially in Sarge's arms, clinging to each other like they feared being separated.]

Dugan could ignore the discomfort, at first. Of course he was hopped up; there were Nazis approaching the house, his adrenaline was hopped up. Of course he was jittery; they had no idea what the hell had transpired between Monty and Heléne, but now he was off doing something stupid while the rest of them were crammed in here. Of course he was nervous; they had to be perfectly quiet and that wouldn't guarantee the Krauts didn't find them.

Of course the extremely close quarters were stifling. The room was tiny, and the walls were closing in around him like iron bars. The air was thick and hot and close and fuck, did he smell metal? Metal forges and metal guns and the metallic tang of blood. Dark enclosed abandoned space and fear and piss and blood. They'd escaped the Nazis once; who was that lucky twice? No one, that's who.

Hell, maybe they'd never left those cages. Maybe the last months were all a fever dream, and they were all gonna die in the dark, in cages, like the rats they were.

There were bands of hot iron around him, clamping him in place. He was a circus strongman, but he couldn't break these restraints. They were heating up and oh fuck the Krauts were gonna feed him to the fires before he'd even died, like they'd done to poor Adams—

"Breathe, Tim."

The words were hardly even a whisper, barely a breath. He couldn't hear for the pounding in his ears and he certainly didn't hear the instructions. But he felt them, and he tried to remember how to force air into his lungs.

Something was tapping on his wrist; a steady, slow beat. That felt real; something to grab onto in the midst of a nightmare. Dugan shuddered, matching his breathing to the tattoo of the taps on his skin.

Sunlight flooded his eyes, and Dugan flinched, rearing back further into the circle of Gabe's arms.

"Easy, old boy," he dimly heard Monty say. "Alright?"

"We're fine," Gabe replied.

Dugan was demonstrably not fine. His face was dead white, his skin cold and clammy. He had bit through his lower lip to keep silent, and he had a very familiar thousand-yard stare.

The Howlies exchanged worried glances, metaphorically closing ranks around their comrade.

Gabe sent them off with a silent flick of his eyes toward the door. The other Howlies, all recognizing the look in Dugan's eyes, made a concerted effort to head out the door as if nothing was wrong, as though everything were normal.

"Christ, Monty, what happened to you?" Cap asked.

Monty shrugged, absently wiping blood off his face. "Krauts wouldn't see reason, I'm afraid. They won't bother us again, but we should leave quickly."

When they were alone, Gabe returned his dark gaze to his still-silent brother. His wrist might be broken, he thought absently; he'd have to have Morita look at it later.

Didn't matter. Wasn't important.

"What was it?" he asked quietly.

Dugan shuddered again, but couldn't make a sound other than a hoarse croak.

"For me, it's my feet getting wet," Gabe continued calmly. "Reminds me of the piss and shit in the cages. Monty, it's the dark and the silence."

Dugan's teeth chattered as he came down from the high, but if his voice was thin and shaky, neither mentioned it.

"Walls closed in," he finally managed to say. "Like the cages."

"Mm," Gabe nodded. "Yeah, that'd do it."

Gabe pointedly did not move to help as Dugan staggered to his feet and out the door into the bedroom.

They wouldn't speak of it again, or say thank you. They never did; didn't need to. They'd all taken care of each others' nightmares; it was just what they did.

Once upon a time, Gabe Jones' favorite philosopher had been Friedrich Nietzsche. Gabe had fallen in love with Nietzsche's ideas – Apollonian and Dionysian had always been a particular favorite. Order and reason on one side, chaos on the other, and the eternal effort to fuse the two together into an artistic expression that affirms that life is beautiful and worth living.

People often joked that German was a harsh, ugly language, but Gabe had loved it. He'd loved the clarity, the simplicity… the word fledermaus. How could anyone hate a language that called a bat a "fluttermouse"?

But then had come war, and Nazis adulterating and perverting Nietzsche's ideas, and a POW camp disguised as a munitions factory. Then had come fanatical adherents of Nazism or HYRDA, screaming support of Aryan superiority instead of perspectivism and the act of valuing culture.

A Negro, an intellectual, an invert… Suddenly, there was no room for Gabe in German thought. Suddenly, his dream of living in Berlin was the height of foolishness. Suddenly, Nietzsche's idea of eternal recurrence was a curse, instead of a divine promise. Suddenly, he understood the people who thought German ugly.

Every syllable pounded in his head, punching him in the gut and ripping him apart from the inside out. Every harsh sound hit him in his core, bleeding him dry. Every clipped consonant told him the same thing.

Dirty. Different. Broken. Wrong.

And then the ugly, condemning noises began to make him angry.

Hands that used to flip the pages of Apollonian and Dionysian now began to punch and choke German soldiers.

Eyes that had wept for joy reading Thus Spoke Zarathustra now glared in dry-eyed fury.

A mind that once flourished with amused comparisons between Cap and the Übermensch now withered into ash and mud.

God is dead, and war makes monsters of us all.

War also makes for strange bedfellows. In what arena outside of war would the grandson of slaves and the heir to a barony ever have cause for conversation? But they'd bonded in those cages, Gabriel Jones and James Montgomery Falsworth, over debates between the positions of Leibniz and Schopenhauer, quoting and misquoting Kant over half-assembled artillery shells.

Gabe didn't speak as Monty took a seat beside him. Didn't acknowledge the Brit as he set down two bowls of surprisingly fragrant stew [Cap must've taken over cooking tonight and thank God; it should've been Barnes' night and their Sarge burned water].

"And gentlemen in England now a-bed shall think themselves accursed they were not here, and hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks that fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day," Monty quoted softly.

Gabe scoffed, waving his hand over the camp and woods. "The heaviest burden. The question in each and every thing," he quoted back [it was completely appropriate to counter Shakespeare with Nietzsche]. "Do you want this once more and innumerable times more?"

Monty nodded, leaning back against the felled log they sat against. "I suppose that's the question," he acknowledged. "Is it worth it to eternally fight for goodness and justice?"

Neither Gabe nor Monty spoke for the rest of the night.

But the next morning, Gabe dug a battered copy of Thus Spoke Zarathustra from his pack for the first time since Italy, and he began once more to read.

It was strange, now, to think about how much Monty had once valued silence.

Unlike every other member of the Commandos [with the partial exception of Dernier, who'd been Resistance], James Montgomery Falsworth wasn't so much soldier as he was spy. Though he preferred the term Intelligence Officer.

It was a family occupation; had been since at least the War of the Spanish Succession, when the Falsworths were granted their barony. Ever since, at least one or two in each generation had been involved in "government work." Currently, it was Monty [code name: Jack] and his sister Aurore [code name: Harry, for her nickname Harridan] doing the honors – well, more Aurore than him, these days and Lord, wouldn't she hold that over his head when next they met.

Silence was the great gift and ally of the spy. And Monty had once been perfectly comfortable plying his trade in the silent shadows – maintaining his own silence about his work and identity, determining the meaning in others' silences, reading the silence around him to know if anyone was near. [Don't listen to Harry; young Jack had been the family champion at hide and seek.]

Azzano had been a crash course in a whole new kind of silence.

A heavy, choking blanket, that silence had been; the helpless, hopeless silence of broken and defeated men. It was never quiet; the whirr of the machines, the heavy tread of the guards, the coughs and groans of sick men were a perpetual symphony. But aside from a few bright firebrands like Barnes who refused to be broken, each prisoner had eventually fallen silent, smothered beneath the weight of the horrors they endured.

Monty had fully expected to be killed at Azzano. Due to the nature of their work, spies naturally couldn't be claimed by their governments the way soldiers could. Had he been discovered by the Germans, he could only expect to be shot immediately. It had been his very great fortune, when he was caught in Lyons, that there had been a British battalion not terribly far away. He had liaised with them a few days prior, and had claimed to be a scout for them on his capture. But even so, Monty had been very aware he was living on borrowed time.

Then Captain America happened.

To his surprise, Captain Rogers had asked that Monty be one of the soldiers assigned to his special operations unit. Monty had managed to get in touch with his superiors back at the SOE in London, and upon explaining the situation they had agreed to transfer him to the care of the SSR, on the condition that he continue performing his reconnaissance and transmitting his findings back to them as often as he could.

Life as a Howling Commando wasn't as foreign to a spy's skill set as Monty might have thought. The lads had no idea of his true occupation, of course, but for the most part he could handwave away any inconsistencies between soldier and spy as a British thing. There was a lot of reconnaissance involved in being a special operations unit, and that was Monty's bread and butter. And when "show time" [as Dugan insisted on calling it] came, the Commandos often had to keep silence until the end, when more often than not they blew everything to kingdom come [they were really rather fond of that part].

Monty was pretty sure he could mark his days by the different kinds of silences.

The groggy, grumpy silence as the Howlies woke up and shambled around camp.

The tense, frustrated silence as Dad proposed a plan that Mother wildly disagreed with, and silently glared until Dad made the adjustments Mother wanted.

The expectant, impatient silence while they waited for Morita to coax some noise from Veronica.

The bored, monotonous silence of humping through the countryside.

The still, excited silence before a mission, while Mother and Dad briefed them and went over the plan one more time.

And then this, the worst of all silences – the tense, wary silence of standing guard at fuck-dark-thirty, deep in enemy territory. Knowing that you're extremely vulnerable, knowing what awaits you if you're recaptured. The malevolent silence where every rustle of leaves is a threat and every shadow is a German come to wrestle you back into the cages or into the back room, where the only sound was screaming—

Monty whirled on his heel, pistol cocked, primed and aimed before it dawned on him that he knew that off-key voice humming the Marseillaise.

"Dernier," Monty sighed weakly, flipping the safety back on. "Damnit man, don't sneak up on me like that."

Dernier tilted his head, his usually merry face solemn. "Le silence est difficile pour vous, non?"

Monty swallowed hard. Yes, the silence was difficult. Like hell would he admit that though, even to a brother.

He considered lying. He was a spy; he was very good at lying. Even to his brothers.

"Oui," he blurted out.

Oh, for heaven's sake.

This is why spies were warned not to form attachments.

Dernier nodded, leaning against a nearby tree and folding his arms. "Rather proclaim it," he said in his heavily-accented English, "Westmoreland, through my host, that he which hath no stomach to this fight, let him depart; his passport shall be made and crowns for convoy put into his purse."

Monty nodded in understanding, clearing his throat to finish the quotation. "We would not die in that man's company that fears his fellowship to die with us."

Dernier smiled. "Farewell, kind lord; fight valiantly to-day. And yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it, for thou art framed of the firm truth of valour."

"Now now, old boy, don't quote the thing out of order," Monty chided him with a faint smile.

"Ah, mais oui. Pardon," Dernier scoffed, tossing him a mocking bow.

Laughing softly, Monty chuffed Dernier on the shoulder. They sat against the tree, rifles balanced on their knees, and shared the watch until dawn. And though they hadn't dared to light a fire for fear of discovery, it seemed to Monty that the shadows receded back to their proper size, and the silence gentled itself in the face of their tenacity.

For a Dernier to fall out of love with explosives was practically a mortal sin.

Since time immemorial, the Derniers had dwelled in the Loire coal mining basin. For generations, they had studied, improved, and perfected the art of combustibles, until it was said among the locals that God buried coal for the Derniers to find, to keep them from blowing up Heaven.

All Derniers loved fire. There was an old family story that they had phoenix blood, and the firebird was the symbol of the family and their business.

Jacques, the third of five sons, had always been enamored of the family business. It seemed to him the work of God to create a spark of flame from nothing. And that so small a spark could demolish a mountain – c'est magnifique!

Of course, la flamme could be a cruel beauty, and destructive. The same fire that warmed your hearth could grow greedy and consume your entire home. But as the family often said, fire was a kind mistress to those who respected her. [As a child, Jacques had been sure his ancestors had worshipped fire, rather than God.]

It was difficult to give la flamme her proper due, after Azzano.

Dernier had joined la belle Resistance almost as soon as the first rumors spread that Herr Hitler had his eye on Paris. In a business of interfering with the German war machine, there was always need for a man who could blow up railways and rig car bombs.

Jacques could admit with minimal chagrin that he'd gotten caught because he'd gotten cocky. He and some amis had planned to blow up one of the major railway lines between Paris and Berlin. It was a good plan, until Maurice proved a traitor and betrayed the plan to the Germans. Philippe had been put on a train, likely to a labor camp. Jacques had been sent to Azzano.

Making munitions wasn't quite the same as crafting explosives. But there was enough overlap that he felt confident in teaching his fellow prisoners how to sabotage the shells – mix the chemicals incorrectly, solder a critical connection poorly. Small things, not easily spotted, but which would be devastating upon firing.

There was another duty to be performed at Azzano, one which wouldn't make it into history books – disposing of the dead.

Like most labor camps, overcrowding and poor conditions meant disease and death were rampant. The Germans had no desire to waste their laborers' time digging trenches – and anyway, it was getting cold. The furnaces must be fed.

Like everything, cremating bodies was taken on in shifts. Twenty four hours a day, corpses must be broken down into their composite parts and fed to the flames in lieu of firewood.

Dernier had long known that la flamme was a demanding mistress. But now he saw her cruel, ravenous nature, and hatred warred with love in his heart.

The night the brave Captain rescued them, never before had Dernier taken such pleasure in setting off explosives. They didn't dare light campfires when they stopped marching that night, but Dernier didn't care; it was too great a pleasure to finally have the sickly-sweet smoke out of his nose.

There was much to enjoy about being a Howling Commando – watching Maman et Papa bicker, sharing coffee with Dugan, sitting beside Gabriel's solid warmth and letting the man's beautiful velvet voice wash over him, driving out any thoughts of cold. So long as Dernier was never the one who had to cook whatever meat Maman managed to shoot for supper, all was well.

Jacques sat on a bale of hay in an abandoned barn in Austria, staring blankly at his incendiary supplies and ignoring the tremors in his fingers. The SSR had sent them ahead to clear out a nest of HYDRA so the Army could pass through. They'd have need of some heavy-duty explosives before the end; Papa did so love blowing HYDRA bases to smithereens.

And here Jacques sat, paralyzed. What Dernier was ever afraid of an explosive?

But mon Dieu, the smell… It was clogging his nose, his lungs, he couldn't breathe…

"Brought you a present."

Dernier jerked in surprise, looking up to see Barnes standing beside him, dropping a leather bag into Jacques' lap. Shaking himself back to reality, Jacques opened the satchel, eyes widening as he examined the contents.

Napalm, the brand new darling of the European theater. Thermite. Magnesium. Chlorine triflouride. Mercury (II) thiocyanate.

"Sacre merde," Dernier breathed. "How-?"

"Got a message through to your folks," Barnes shrugged. "One of the couriers owed me a favor."

After all this time, Dernier wasn't even surprised. No one knew the extent of Maman's network, but his ability to call in favors and wrangle supplies was fast becoming legend.

"Why?" he asked instead.

Barnes shrugged again. "Your pa seemed to think you'd like some new toys."

All of his new "toys" would affect the flames. Change the colors, the smells, react to heat differently than bodies did. All o fit would keep the memories of the furnace at bay.

"Merci, mon ami," Dernier said quietly.

Barnes nodded, clapping him on the shoulder. "All things are ready, if our minds be so," quoted quietly before turning to go.

Drawing a deep breath, Jacques fell to work. He was a Dernier, and he had a calling to answer.

When Captain America returned to base camp with the rescued 107th, all of the prisoners were ordered to the medical tents for examination.

Sergeant Barnes had deferred, refused to submit to the doctors until all of his men had been seen to. A lot of them were hurting, he said; his bruises could stand to wait.

Finding a quiet, private place in camp should have been impossible. Fortunately, Sergeant Barnes was Captain America's best friend, and Captain America had private officer's quarters.

He shut the door behind him, then braced a chair under the knob for good measure. Assured of privacy, Bucky frantically stripped out of his ratty green sweater, staring at his chest and arms. Thin, barely visible scars scored along his pectoral muscles, the crook of his arm.

Three days ago, those had been fresh cuts. Deep, too; into the belly of the muscles.

"Shit," he hissed.

What the hell had been in those needles?

It was a question that haunted him for the next fifteen months, as he kept finding new things that were off.

He'd never been able to hear this well, before. His vision was better, too – he could see farther, and in more detail than he'd thought possible. He tried not to think about it too hard; focused on the benefits – Jesus, the shots he could make now.

He did his best to ignore the rest. Like how he could keep up on a run with Steve when none of the others could. Like how he couldn't feel the effects of whiskey, no matter how much he drank. Like how he could hear Steve's heartbeat, if he was within arm's length. Like how he didn't feel the cold.

Like how angry he was.

It would settle over him in combat, saturating every nerve and pore and vein. It stripped him down, silenced his thoughts, quieted any conscience or inner compass. He was a weapon; nothing but instinct and reaction and silent, deadly accuracy.

When it was all over, the anger would roll back, and the world would envelop him again. But each time, it took longer to break out of the crystal clarity of his berserker mode, until he had to go to Steve and focus on the sound of his beating heart to guide him back to sanity.

What the fuck was he becoming?

He walked on silent feet to the perimeter of their camp. They were in relatively safe territory for once, so they'd left the fire burning as they all bedded down. Morita, who had the watch, stood at the edge of the fire's glow, calm and quiet as he lingered over a cigarette.

"Hey Sarge," he nodded. "Up so soon?"

Bucky nodded. Truthfully, he hadn't gone to bed yet. Almost thirty six hours without sleep, and he still felt just fine. [He wasn't thinking about it.]

"Steve still snores fit to wake the dead," he said as an excuse.

Morita snickered, because it was true. The serum apparently took its job of enhancing everything seriously. Of all the changes the serum had made, Barnes was perversely comforted by that one.

"Go on and sleep," he told Jim. "I'll take the rest of your watch. I ain't getting any rest through that racket."

Morita smirked, shaking his head. "Always gotta take care of everybody."

Clapping Bucky on the shoulder, Morita ambled back to the huddle, plopping down and probably falling asleep before his head hit the ground.

He watched the flicker of the flames for a minute, watching the play of light and shadow over Steve's face.

Dear God, don't ever let him know…

Bucky could play off a lot of the changes to Steve. He pulled a page from Steve's own book, said it was all just due to joining the Army [the sarcastic little shit].

It was harder to hide the effect of the syringes from the boys. They'd been in those cages with him; they were all intimately familiar with the abuses of Azzano. What's more, they all knew what Bucky had refused to admit – that not only had Barnes been in the back room, but that he was the only one who'd survived longer than two days.

Five, almost six days before Steve came for him.

The Howlies knew, in a way Steve couldn't, how impossible it was that Bucky not only survived, but showed no side effects from Azzano.

They'd closed ranks around him, keeping silent about what they knew or suspected. If anyone asked them about rumors of human experimentation, they lied or clammed up. When Bucky slipped up and pulled a feat that edged too close to Steve's abilities, they always explained it away in a haze of rose-scented bullshit.

Swallowing, Bucky took in the sight of his sleeping men. "If we no more meet till we meet in heaven, then joyfully, my noble Lord of Bedford, my dear Lord Gloucester, and my good Lord Exeter, and my kind kinsman, warriors all, adieu," he murmured.

Bucky didn't know what he was becoming. But he was the Howling Commandos' NCO. He could take Morita's words to heart; he could be the monster that took care of his band of brothers.

In the four years since waking up, Steve had developed an annual ritual. Every November 3, he traveled to Arlington National Cemetery, sat down at the memorial for Captain America and the Howling Commandos, and read the St. Crispin's Day speech from Shakespeare's Henry V.

Cliché, perhaps; especially in the wake of that Band of Brothers miniseries he still couldn't bring himself to watch. But the speech was a cliché for a reason.

The Commandos had been in London for Christmas 1943, completing the bureaucratic red tape to make them an official special operations unit. They'd gone to a USO show together [Bucky had made so many chorus girl jokes, Jesus], and one of the acts had been Laurence Olivier reading the St. Crispin's Day speech. It being a piece about the glories of war and the bond between soldiers, it was obviously well-received. But the Howlies in particular had latched onto it, and that scene in general, and taken the words to heart.

It had become, in modern parlance, a Thing. They took to quoting bits of the speech [and the longer scene, sometimes] to each other, and "crispin" became part of their private shorthand for a high-up officer who liked the sound of his own voice too much.

Steve sighed as he eased himself onto the bench. Sam had offered to come with him, but… Much though he liked Sam, this was a private thing, and he had to do it alone.

For a while, he just stared at the memorial. It was a domed pavilion, with one pillar for each Commando. All but two of the pillars were white; the last two – the two for Steve and Bucky – were black, in honor of their deaths. Inside the pavilion was an eternal flame, surrounded by the American, British, and French flags. Inscribed in the floor was the phrase We few; we happy few; we band of brothers.

It was ostentatious and ridiculous and so very, very Howard. Because of course Howard had been the one to design this monstrosity; Peggy had probably had a hell of a time scaling him back from whatever he'd originally wanted. [He'd have to go visit Howard before he went back to the Tower; he'd only been to his friend's grave once.]

Part of him was surprised that all the Commandos were buried here – or, in Monty's case, had part of his ashes interred here [the rest were in the Falsworth crypt]. They'd been a multi-national coalition and famed worldwide, sure, but… They'd all gone on and had long lives after Steve and Bucky died [or "died," as the case may be]. They'd all had families, moved all over the country or to Paris, in Gabe and Jacques' case… But they'd all chosen to be buried here, instead of scattered with their own families. Together in death, as in life.

Steve wondered sometimes, how much that was because of him, and how much was for Bucky. In so many ways, Steve had been the outsider in their little family – their CO, yes, but also the only one who hadn't been in Azzano. The boys had formed a brotherhood in the POW camp… and Bucky had been their leader, not Steve. For all that they'd been Cap's team, their heart and soul had always been their Sarge.

Steve cleared his throat as he pulled a small, battered book from his pocket. God, but he had been shocked when he found it among the possessions Howard had salvaged and boxed up. They'd carried this play with them for the entirety of their time together, they'd read it to each other more times than Steve could remember… Of everything, this falling-apart, beat-up old book made his past feel closer than anything else.

"I know I say this every year and you're probably sick of hearing it," he said, "but no man has ever been so blessed to lead a band of such batshit bastards. So… thanks."

He paused, throat constricting, but he pushed on as he focused on the black pillar opposite his own.

"I still haven't found him," he admitted thickly. "I'm sorry. I haven't given up yet, I just… He doesn't want to be found, I…"

The tears started then, and for once Steve gave in to them. Who else could understand his anguish, if not the men who'd loved Bucky almost as much as he had?

"Take care of him for me," he finally managed to choke out. "If he's not ready to see me, then fine, but… We don't leave our own, right? And we already left him once. I'm not doing it again, so just… Till he's ready to come home. Take care of him."

Drawing a shaky breath, Steve cleaned himself up from that little breakdown, and opened the book, its cracked spine easily opening to the correct page.

"By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,

Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;

It yearns me not if men my garments wear;

Such outward things dwell not in my desires:

But if it be a sin to covet honour,

I am the most offending soul alive.

No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England:

God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour

As one man more, methinks, would share from me

For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!

Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,

That he which hath no stomach to this fight,

Let him depart; his passport shall be made

And crowns for convoy put into his purse:

We would not die in that man's company

That fears his fellowship to die with us.

This day is called the feast of Crispian:

He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,

Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,

And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

He that shall live this day, and see old age,

Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,

And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian:'

Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.

And say 'These wounds I had on Crispin's day.'"

Steve drew a deep breath, swallowing back the memories and tears. But before he could continue, another voice – hoarse and cracking, still unused to speech – picked up the lines.

"Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,

But he'll remember with advantages

What feats he did that day."

Steve whirled around, dropping the book forgotten onto the bench. He stared, not daring to breathe, as Bucky walked toward him. Hands in his pockets, hair pulled back in a bun, still looking pale and gaunt but alive and free and safe.

Bucky paused just out of arm's reach, blue eyes searching blue. Whatever he was looking for, he seemed to find, because his shoulders relaxed and some of the tension bled from his face as he continued.

"Then shall our names

Familiar in his mouth as household words-

Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,

Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester-

Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.

This story shall the good man teach his son;

And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,

From this day to the ending of the world,

But we in it shall be remember'd-"

Tears brimming in his eyes, they spoke together.

"We few, we happy few, we band of brothers."

There was more to the speech. But the words clogged up in Steve's throat as Bucky took the final steps forward and wrapped his arms around him. Shuddering out a shaky sob, Steve flung his arms around Bucky, crushing them together as they hid their faces in each others' necks and clung to each other.

"You're home. You came back," Steve whispered.

"You get in too much trouble when I'm gone," Bucky replied, the joke belied by how tightly he held Steve.

"God, Buck…" Steve said, pulling back just far enough to see Bucky's face. "God, I'm sorry. I'm so fuckin'-"

Bucky shook his head, covering Steve's mouth with his hand. Steve made a muffled noise in protest, before something in Bucky's eyes shut him up. Nodding in recognition, Bucky dropped his hand.

"Wasn't your fault, Stevie," Bucky said. "You didn't ask me to stay. I volunteered. I knew the risks, and I stayed. That's not on you."

"But-" Steve tried to say, before Bucky clapped his hand back over Steve's mouth.

"No," he said simply.

Steve sighed, shoulders slumping as he relented. Bucky closed his eyes, resting his forehead on Steve's and taking a minute just to listen to Steve's heartbeat. Fuck, it had been so long since he'd heard that sound, since it quieted the anger and drew him back to reality…

"Will you stay?" Steve whispered.

Bucky's lips quirked in something like a smile. Trust the punk not to realize that the fact that he was here, making himself known to Steve, meant he was done running…

"Do we all holy rites," he replied, squeezing the back of Steve's neck. "Let there be sung 'Non nobis' and 'Te Deum;' the dead with charity enclosed in clay. And then to Calais; and to England then: where ne'er from France arrived more happy men."

Steve nodded, blinking back tears, before a weak grin lit up his face.

"You've been practicing that speech, haven't you."

"Shut up, punk."

"Jerk."

As they gathered Steve's things and walked away, the eternal flame glowed just a bit brighter for a moment, almost like a wink of approval.

Additional Author's Note: I apologize for the gratuitous Shakespeare all over everything. I got way into the Crispin's Day Speech; I blame Hiddles.

As a point of interest, the spy known as Heléne? That's Nancy Wake, aka the White Mouse. One of the most badass lady spies in the war, and the German's number one most wanted. Vera refers to Vera Atkins, one of Nancy's superiors in the SOE. Round about the time I first started working on this oneshot, I was reading a biography about female spies of WW2, and I wanted to find a way to honor them.