Potential Triggers: implied/referenced torture, self-hatred, PTSD, suicidal thoughts, survivor guilt, period-typical racism, period-typical sexism, cisswap, angst, depression, explicit language, violence, graphic description

One Last Time

I feel like the moment I'll see you again, my heart will jump out of its cage screaming: "Love, it's you! I've found you!" and you'll put a bullet right through it. I won't mind. If anyone deserves to do it – it's you. You'd be doing a service. Nothing more than putting down an old, cold, dog that should have been dead long ago.

I.

Stella,

I'm sorry I haven't been writing to you as often as I should. In Basic it was easy – all we did was train. I had a lot of time on my hands, I was allowed to write more, and the only thing I had to worry about was surviving a few months without you. Now I have to worry if I'm even going to survive the night. Becca told me you got sick again in her last letter… promise me you're in bed getting better instead of going around and trying to join up with the Nurse Corps again alright?

I don't want to argue with you in a letter you damn punk, but Stella, you have to believe me, you don't want to be here… War isn't like it is in the newspapers. It's hell… Stella its hell. At least in Brooklyn I know you're safe and that's the only thing keeping me going right now… knowing that you're at home and safe. Well, at least as safe as a punk like you can get.

Tell me about home. You still visiting my Ma every Sunday? Becca said you aren't showing up as often as you used to… is that new job at the store keeping you busy? If you over worked yourself into a cold Stella, I swear to God –

Don't matter what I'll do… I just… Stay there for me, alright? If it starts getting real bad stay a few days with my folks. I don't care about your angry pouting Sweetheart – besides I already told Becca to drag you kicking and screaming if she has to.

I just realized it's been over a year that I've been stuck in this damn war and I miss you. I miss you so much. I keep trying to think of home… of the noises and the view outside our window but I haven't been sleeping too good lately. Draw it for me?

I miss you. I love you.

Always Yours,

Bucky

In a surreal kind of murky dampness, he realizes that Peggy is staring down at him. Pristine is her form, still perfect and sharp despite the chaos of the situation around them. She's good at attempting to keep herself composed, he realizes, despite the fizzing buzz of his drunken state. He tries to keep his swirling vision focused on her dark, glistening eyes. She's barely keeping it together. Dum Dum must have sent her… or Gabe since he'd told em' to fuck off; thrashing, and cursing, and sloshing all over the small bar like the damned liquor he kept downing.

There's a jingle in the tune that fills the small room; his melancholy sinking in with the lyrics he vaguely remembers.

"We'll meeeet again, don' know wheeere, don' know wheeen."

He rather feel the burn of bourbon over the burn of the pain he feels… So he takes another gulp of the smoldering liquid. He stares at the fragile glass in his hands, shaking the liquid to see how it moves. He's drunk enough to knock all the Howlies out for a week and yet he still doesn't feel drunk enough. It's more of an irritated buzz and he doesn't want his vision to swim. He wants to drown in it and he doesn't understand why it's taking longer than necessary to make his aching bones liquefy and disintegrate.

"Till the blue s-s-skies drive the dark clouds far awaaaaay."

"Sergeant," she cuts him off, although at this point he really doesn't give a flying fuck.

"A-Ashgent," he slurs, her body wobbling like a bad dancer. "If you could kindly f-fuck off an' leave a man to hisss fuckin' misery that'd be real swell a' ya'."

"James," she asserts, swallowing loudly before trying again, much more softly. "James, we… we know that this is a hard time for you – "

" – hard time?" he cuts her off with a sharp hiss, incredulously staring at her as his swirling emotions finally zeroing into anger. "Y-you callin' my wife f'ckin' fallin' to 'er death a hard time!?"

That shuts her up and he feels like he's being chocked all over again. Suffocating – because he can't breathe knowing that she's not there… That she'll never be there again.

"Stellaaa – " he moans before sobs slam through his body in a fresh wave of despair. It breaks him down all over again.

"James the war isn't over… We need you."

She stands before him, pity reeking over the stench of spilled alcohol and his own unwashed, unkempt body.

"She loved you," Peggy continues with resolve despite her own glistening eyes and shaking tone. He wonders if Peggy Carter even grieved over Stella for more than a second. He wonders if she thinks their grief is matched because they were close friends – because Stella loved her like the sister she never had. She'll never understand what it's like to lose someone who was the center of your entire world. For now, he doesn't want to hear it. She had always loved him too much… so much that Stella had been willing to throw herself after him the moment the pipe began to squeal; signaling its impending breakage and he was suddenly pushed up while she –

"She loved you so much that she must have thought you were damn well worth it. Allow Stella the dignity of her choice, James."

"I don't want this… I don't want this, Peggy!"

"It's what she would have wanted… and she wouldn't have wanted this for you."

"It was always s-supposed to be me… never her… God, why did it have to be her!"

The glass is cracking at his fingertips and he can feel his blood mingling with the electrifying sensation of alcohol. It hurts so, so, so bad. Worse than being poked, prodded, and violated with needles, beaten until he couldn't think straight, zapped like a buzzing fly until he lost coherency with Zola's twisted laughter howling like a crazed wolf in the back of his mind.

Peggy stands for a minute longer… a minute where he continues to drink, despite the blood coating his glass and the alcohol that spills through the cracks. A minute of watching him with an expression he doesn't understand – doesn't give a fuck to understand – before he hears the soft snap of her heels clicking away.

"We'll meeeet again, don' know wheeere, don' know wheeen."

Stella,

You damn punk, I hope you know I'm mad at you! My military pay is supposed to help you pay the damn rent, the doctor, and your pills, your asthma cigarettes, AND in case of a fucking emergency! How much did you spend on this care package?! I HOPE you know the minute I see your pretty scrawny ass – I'm going to kick it before I kiss it.

You didn't have too Sweetheart, or you could've just sent one with my Ma instead of a whole separate one… I appreciate it, seriously… And I know, I know, you "wanted to" and thanks Doll, but next time I rather get a bundle full of your drawings that smell like your perfume instead of a care package that's giving' me a heart attack. How much did all those Luckies cost you?! And the thick woolen socks?! Never mind, I don't want to know. Do you know how hard it'll be to fight off the guys? We've all been running low on cigarettes lately.

Don't mind me, I've been on the edge lately. Those Kraut bastards are pushing us hard in -REDACTED-… there's also rumors going on about some kind of crazy weapons they got… Not sure how much of it is true and how much is just a bunch of baloney. But we've been marching' to -REDACTED- for a few days now, and let me tell you something Sweetheart, I thought we'd get some nice warm weather and some sun but instead it's been raining the whole damn time.

I don't know when my next letter will be… I got… I got a real bad feeling about -REDACTED- but keep sending me yours. Keep sending me pictures of my folks, of my sisters and my little kid brother (he's so big now!), and of Brooklyn. Maybe next time draw a few more of our apartment and you. I have a picture of you with me Stella, but it's getting' crinkled and wrecked in this shit weather. Tell me how much you miss me. Tell me you love me. Promise me you'll be there when I come home.

I love you.

Always Yours,

Bucky

Everything has changed.

Little Stella Grace Rogers, the lovely Lady Liberty who danced and pranced during the USO tours was dead. Sleeping in a frozen grave and ravaged by a vicious ravine. The girl who wanted to do nothing more than to fight bullies was dead.

But Captain America… America's very own living legend just couldn't die.

"Sergeant Barnes, by all means you shouldn't be here at all. You're a POW that's gone through psychological torture and if it weren't for the Missus screaming bloody murder, I would have sent you home a long time ago. But… you're a damn good sniper, son. One of the best and a hell'ova good leader. Despite your little attitude problem and your inability to keep your wife at bay, you've still proven that you don't only excel on solo coverts, but also within a group. Ever since you gave yourself up in Azzano so the others wouldn't be harmed, your boys from the 107th have done nothing else but sing high praise of you and your work with the Howling Commandos is nothing short of impressive."

He licks his cracked lips, head pounding in a steady rhythm with every breath he took. He stared hard, glaring at Colonel Phillips as he itched at what to say.

"With all due respect, Sir," he eventually croaks out in a hoarse voice, "I don't really have anything to fucking go back to, now do I?"

Phillips' eyebrows shoot up at his blatant vulgarity before he shakes his head in a sad, almost weary manner.

"As much as I'd love to send you home, Sergeant, I'm afraid I can't do that."

It was his turn for his eyebrows to rise.

"You see, Stella may have been your little nurse wife, but out here she was Steven Grant Rogers – Captain America. Do you know what our enemies… what HYDRA would do if they found out our miracle super soldier was dead? Or that he was a woman?"

He's silent, anger slowly beginning its rumble at Colonel Phillips blatant disregard, dreading his next words before they escape from old, split lips.

"They want you to take the shield, Sergeant."

The air escapes his lungs like he's been punched in the gut. His insides twist inside out; the air shifting and he feels caught in sharp wind all over again. Picking up the shield, before being shot and blasted off the edge – Stella throwing herself over the edge; helmet gone with her military cropped hair blowing wildly.

Bucky!

Why had she done that…. Why had she done that?

"Sergeant Barnes, We need you to keep the legend of Captain America alive."

She should have let him fall, instead of dropping herself in a frenzy; using the remainder of her strength to push him from the breaking pipe onto the ledge of the train.

He can't breathe. He can't breathe.

"No," he whispers, breath erratic as he watches Stella fall. Not yelling, not screaming, just nothing.

"…I beg your pardon, Sergeant?"

"Nuts!" he spits with wild eyes and venom that he wishes he could burn Phillips with. "I said no. How dare you think that I would ever - ever – wanna lie about my wife and pick that fucking shield up –"

"Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes!"

He whips around, teeth bared and ready to savagely rip apart whoever was stupid enough to think he'd want to become "Captain Fucking America". Of course, it's Peggy – followed by Stark and the rest of the Howling Commandos. They're all fidgeting: breathing heavily in a drumming rhythm as if this were an intervention. It's much worse than that.

This is a kind of betrayal that shakes him to his bones.

Peggy takes a step forward, gentle eyes strong and fierce as she lifts her chin to look at him.

"You know better than to disrespect the Colonel, Sergeant, no matter how heart-wrenching your grief is."

She continues to take a few steps towards him and he clenches his fist in frustration, wanting to feel the bleeding cuts from a few nights before. He needs a distraction, before he really does become feral and attack Peggy. His senses are saturated and everyone's loud breathing was sending him into a frenzy of emotion. Stella used to breathe that loud, with her shit lungs, and when she'd get angry her nostrils would flare loudly like a dragon exhaling molten steam.

Your Ma raised you better, James Buchanan! She'd boom in a voice too loud and deep for such a petite woman. Dames callin' you a "gentleman" must be blind and dumb – you're just a sly Abercrombie, motherfucker! She had the dirtiest mouth in Brooklyn with the sweetest heart… never afraid to call him out, remind him manners, and put him in line when he was in the wrong. If she'd hear him now… wanting to beat the living shit out of her "friend" Peggy, she'd probably smack his ass to the moon… if only she was here…

"We are all mourning, James, and this," she gestures to his dirty body, greasy stubble, and angry, red eyes, "she would not have wanted this James. Neither for you nor for anyone else to feel your burning wrath."

His nails are biting through his skin at this point, blood just as sizzling as his emotions and he knows his eyes are welling up with tears.

"Oh Yeah? Well she was two parts stupid and eight parts punk who nev'a knew when to run away from a fight." Bubbling liquid spills into his fingers; spills over the barrier of his eyes; spills out in pangs of flying spit as he growls out, "Why the fuck did you give her that serum?! Why the fuck did you do that to her?!"

Peggy visibly swallows and he can hear the saliva moving down her throat. "We need more people like her."

"What?" he laughs, taking an angry step forward, "Idiots? An idiot that knew nothin' about combat? About the front lines? What kind'a idiot wears a colorful suit in war and doesn't know how to shoot a goddamn gun. She barley fuckin' made in through the "Basic" you forced her through since if a bunch a'guys saw a woman there with 'em, they'd lose their goddamn minds!"

They're all frozen, Peggy's eyes still trained, stupid stubborn just like fucking Stella's and suddenly a different kind of rage begins to rip out of his throat.

"If you're so fuckin' fond of her, Agent Carter, why don't you reveal that Captain Fucking America was a woman?"

Peggy's face falls; plump red lips tightening into a thin, controlled line. He's right and she knows it. He'd made Stella spill the beans the moment they'd had a moment alone and she was never one to lie. She'd described in quivering detail how she'd been in the training in the Nurse Corps during the day and gone through Basic at nights. She'd barely made through it with her frail body before her tenacious resilience made her the most favorable candidate over the other men that they'd considered for the serum. But because she was a woman their miracle soldier couldn't go into war, so they'd made her a show monkey under the guise of Lady Liberty; a pinup swinging her legs to increase war bonds.

It was once she found out he was captured that she'd bullied Stark into giving her the prototype, male super soldier suit. Even after she'd liberated their entire camp and brought it burning to the ground, they still refused to have a woman lead their men into war. So whenever around other soldiers, she was Nurse Barnes; Sergeant's James' little wife Stella who'd finally made her way across the Atlantic. To everyone else, she was Captain America. They'd cropped her hair, gave her the name "Steven Grant Rogers" and if she shut up and kept the helmet on, she really did pass as a male.

"You want me to dance around like some fuckin' monkey on a unicycle? Just like you made her as Uncle Sam's "Lovely Lady Liberty"?"

He's glaring at his friends now… guilt eating up their eyes and he hopes it devours them whole. He wants them all to burn with this hatred bubbling in him and their audacity to even fucking think it was right to approach him to take up the shield. His eyes meet Dugan's, that immediately down cast, unable to look him straight in the eye. Gabe reacts similarly and Falsworth pretends to inspect something on Dernier's shoulder. Shockingly, it's Morita who takes a step forward.

"Sarge, you know we got the utmost respect for you and Stella… but Peggy's right in saying this is what Stella would've wanted. The wars still not over and a lot of people are going to keep dying unless we do something about it."

Falsworth is the next to look up with courage. "Bloke's right, Barnes. And none of us would dare take the shield – not when that honor belongs to you."

"And some new intel's come up that'll interest you, man," Gabe whispered, eyes downcast before he inhaled sharply and began to speak again. "We've been digging around the Netherlands ever since the Airborne weren't able to liberate Holland during Operation Market Garden. Troops reported hidden Tiger looking tanks that destroy more than the regular kind do, and a shipment of guns that didn't look like regular weapons. We've suspected that a minor HYDRA base could be there, however, recent leaks suggest the Red Skull is seeking refuge there after our capturing of Zola in Switzerland."

"Believe it or not, Sergeant Barnes," Colonel Phillips quickly cut in, drawing his heightened emotions immediately, "HYDRA and the Captain America question aren't our only obligation. If the Airborne wasn't able to liberate Holland then there's something hiding there. Besides, this is a perfect opportunity to prove that Captain America is alive and well."

He's got a taste for blood on his tongue, the opportunity of revenge too sweet of a chance to give up so willingly. The mission or the reason isn't really important to him, no matter what Stella's self-righteous ass believed in. If he'd be able to get his hands on the Red Skull –

"I'll do it," he hisses, dried tracks of salt slowly pooling with liquid again. "Give me the details tomorrow," and he spins on his heel, pushing past a shockingly, stunned silent Stark and Peggy before the Howlies parted like the Red Sea and let him through.

"Oh and Sergeant!" he stops, looking back over his shoulder with a numb stare. "Despite your atrocious behavior, I have no choice but to promote you to the rank of Captain."

"Permission to speak, Sir?" he grunts, refusing to show to show a shred of respect, and to Phillips' own quirk of an eyebrow and a simple nod he continues, "I'd rather just stay a Sergeant."

He storms out. Eyes hot and heavy, with smoldering wet liquid freely swimming down his stinging cheeks. His breathing is disturbed and he forces himself to look at his hands. There's fresh cuts from his blunt nails and a mess of copper red smudged across his rough fingers. He still bleeds. He's still somehow alive despite how he feels himself dying on the inside.

But the cuts from a few nights before… when he'd broken the glass in his hands and let his blood mingle with alcohol…

Nothing more than pink stripes of healed skin.

Stella,

I know you were excited when I finally got drafted Doll, but let me tell you something – Basic training is NOT ONLY boring as shit, but also a pain in my ass. We have a Drill Sergeant breathing and screaming down our necks the whole time, doing the same things over and over again, and all we do is train and kind of eat with not too much sleep. I know they want to prepare us right for war and all, but it's real nasty when one guy fucks something up and then they'll take our weekend passes away just to fuck with us since "war isn't fair" so they won't be either.

I can't EVER imagine why you keep dreaming of a time when dames can fight the same way that guys can.

I thought I was in pretty good shape, right? With me being a boxing champ at the YMCA and all the heavy lifting I do at the docks, but turns out I'm not even close to being in whatever shape a "real soldier's" supposed to be in. Can't even begin to imagine what the higher ranking groups like the Marines and the Airborne are going through – hey did I tell you? We could have been really swimming in the big bucks Sweetheart. Before they split us up in groups they told us we'd be paid an extra 50 more bucks to be Airborne and jump out of a plane while being shot at. 50 MORE! I should have said yes… Mary, Joseph, and all them other Saints know we need the money but what can I say Stella?

I know, I know, I'll be off fighting the good fight for all the good, righteous, and moral reasons since Hitler and the Germans are being real jackasses – and fuck the Japanese. If I have to go to war, then I'll go. But I don't want to die… all I want to do is kick some Nazi ass Brooklyn style and come back to you as soon as I can. No way in hell am I jumping out of a plane while getting fucking shot at.

But I got some good news to match yours! You deserve all kinds of medals and praise for getting through this winter without getting anything worse than a cold! Well anyways, I've been made into a Sergeant and they pulled me aside when we were learning to shoot all kinds of guns. Sorry - I can't say much Sweetheart, but let's just say I'm better at it than most guys and it turns out most of them can't even do some basic math. Who would have thought that you, ragging on my ass to finish off homework when we were still in school, would have been a good thing, huh?

Love you tons and see you soon!

Always Yours,

SERGEANT Bucky

Ps. I'm still getting letters from Ma, Pa, and Becca you punk! So don't you dare think that I don't still have my eye on you Stella Grace Barnes! You try joining' the Nurse Corps again and I'll know and I am not going to be happy about it.

Ever since Stella's been gone, all her personal belongings have become his. He mostly knew what they were, since they practically lived in each other's pockets, but if there was one thing that punk ass "Stevie" was real stickler about was the privacy of her sketchbook. It was small, pocket sized, and she had kept it on her almost constantly. In fact… he's shocked that it was stuffed inbetween his things as if she knew –

The first drawing in the book is a monkey riding a unicycle: the first and one of the last sketches she'd shown to him since their reuniting.

I ain't got time to be drawing, Buck – get your fat face outta my book, ya' red-nosed piece of shit! She'd hiss out, both of them always shortly bursting out into laughs at the Howlies shocked faces during their frequent spats. That, and just how god honest Brooklyn they sounded – more so with Stella. They told her to ditch the accent when she'd become a show girl since "Lady Liberty" couldn't talk like that. She'd done a good job too but when she was real tired or pissed at him, she'd let it rip.

Fellas, you can take the girl outta Brooklyn but you can't take the Brooklyn outta the girl, a'right? Jeez, Louise, ya' really thought Bucky could out swear me?

Her drawings at first are nothing more than scenes from Brooklyn… mundane simplicities from their small apartment with occasional cameos from his folks and siblings, close friends, and neighbors. There's an entire page dedicated to her fellow show girls and another to the street cats that had prowled on their fire escape and in between dirty alley ways. Slowly… they morph into him. Some of these are memories: his first official boxing match with his fist raised in a killing blow that had knocked his opponent out, washing dishes, and coming back from the docks with his pals Tony Romano and Joey O'Sullivan. They'd all been drafted together before being split up in Basic. He hasn't seen a familiar Brooklyn face since Stella… before that since the Stark Expo and on the boat when they'd all shipped out to this god damned hell hole. Then it's his face… nothing more than a collection of expressions from pouts, to snarls, to glares that make him snort until he gets towards the last few pages.

The charcoal is smudged and the penciling gets darker… much darker. He's on the table – his face mucky but the whites of his eyes still bright on the page in a shock that shakes; makes him twitch and shiver in memory. There's one or two of the Commandoes, a few small drawings of Peggy, and more of these… changed photos of him. Sleeping in a tree with his sniper rifle, drunk and numb, dark circles slowly growing around his eyes, and more of a firm, military grimace then the light, carefree smile she used to sketch out of him. She noticed how much this war was killing him before he'd even accepted that he should think about it.

On the last two pages there's a mess of words with crossed out writing, rough erasing, and furious scribbling. There's a small note written amongst the chaos in her neat, artistic handwriting.

Bucky, I know you'll go through this you snoop. We're supposed to write these small letters and keep them with us for when we pass. I don't plan on leaving you any time soon and you sure as hell won't give up on me. I'm not good with words – that's YOU but you've been wanting a drawing of me for a while, right? A "self-portrait". Well I'm nothing without you. So what you're getting is a photo of both of us on the best damn day of my life. No matter what happens, how we come out of this war… remember us like this. All my love – "Stevie"

He flips the page and his heart stops.

Although small… it's a detailed photo from their wedding.

He's got a smart suit on and that cocky smirk finally ripped off his youthful face for a full blown smile: hair slicked back and pearly whites shinning off the page. She's just as pristine if not more. Hair tightly curled with a veiled bonnet resting on the top of her small head. She just reaches his shoulders, wearing her mother's old wedding dress – long on her small, fragile form with the delicate lacing so precisely drawn that when he touches the paper, he almost expects to feel the worn texture underneath his fingertips. She's holding a bouquet of flowers that had been collected and painstakingly wrapped by her artist friend, Rosie O'Donald, who lived a block over. Rosie always visited in the afternoons for coffee and she'd actually helped Stella land her second job drawing comics for the local newspaper. They both looked so stupid, loving, and joyful that it takes a sledge hammer to the shambles of his broken heart.

He stares at the photo for what feels like hours, forcing himself to burn the image into his scrambled mind. He watches his tears fall on the page. When a fat one falls on Stella's face and smudges down her entire dress, he's too late to save the drawing. It's ruined. He can't make out the detail he just destroyed – just like he's destroyed her by letting her fall into the cold, killing river.

The nightmares get worse that night.

He's been dreaming nothing but her… about the train and what he could – no – should have done to save her life. This time he fails her again. She's falling, swaying through the air like a rag doll just like she would've before the serum. She's not in that stupid, colorful clown suit anymore. She's in her wedding dress. She's screaming in a shriek that shatters his ears.

There is no river.

This time he sees her hit the ground – blood mixing with her hailed veil pillowed around her head.

She doesn't stop screaming.

He doesn't either, when he wakes up.

Nothing will ever be the same.

The rest of the "Howling Commandos", his friends, are scared of him. They've all come to slowly realize that there is a shift in his character; something darker curling out from the bowels of his belly that he's kept hidden since Austria. Dernier notices it first when they make their way towards Holland. He makes the others leave him alone when he broods in the darkness, or insists on scooping the perimeter alone. He doesn't sleep much and he doesn't talk much anymore. There are no more jovial songs, no easy nights around the fire, and no happy talk. There is only war.

And he's never hated himself so much in his entire life.

He's experienced in the front lines, fought there for a year until his capture in Italy, but he's always been a sniper. He knows how to fight with a wide variety of weaponry and as an infantryman, he's seen a lot of good men die. Young men. Stupid patriotic men who didn't know half of the situation, only that the Krauts were "bad" and Europe needed some saving. After elite units like the Airborne, they were the grunt guys coming in the clean up the mess, the distraction, and the ones who received the bulk of the Nazi and HYDRA forces muscle.

But he was still the designated marksman of their platoon.

He's the one who stayed back with the pressure of having to fire as many accurate shots as possible from a semi-automatic or face the consequence of watching a lot of his friends and fellow soldiers die because of his carelessness. When possible, he didn't stay back. He'd run up front; join the teeth to teeth, breathe to breathe, and fire to fire fight just like all the others. He was good and they knew it.

It's why he became a sniper within the Howling Commandos.

He'd rather slit his balls off and present them on a silver platter to Adolf Hitler himself then see a HYDRA commander even get close to his wife or let another sniper get the drop on her when she'd storm in recklessly. He never missed; perfect shots square between the eyes or straight through the mandala. Phillips had upgraded him to a real sniper rifle and his accurate kill count only grew. He'd been pulled for a few solo missions that involved taking on high-level targets and he'd often do them alone. His roots were in infantry and if someone got close enough to touch, they'd never touch again.

But he's still more accustomed to the shadows; lingering back with a level head and a critical eye to assess the situation and pick out targets by level of importance before bleeding his way down to the grunts.

He can't do that anymore with the damn shield and his "uniform" being nothing more than a big "shoot me!" sign plastered onto his body. He can't imitate Stella's aggressive, close combat fighting style when he doesn't even have enough strength to throw the damn shield hard enough.

He ignores Dernier's frantic, French shouting as he ditches the shield, pulls out the pistol from his pocket and starts firing out shots in every single HYDRA monkey's head before Dernier can even reload his submachine gun. He doesn't think about the dropped shield that he's left behind, the "out of character" approach he's dropped from Stella's thoughtless running and fist fighting to this methodological killing he's more comfortable with. He kills like a machine; every ounce of blood spilt compensating for his heartache.

He can't be her… he isn't her and he sure as hell isn't Captain America.

Stella is dead… Stella is dead and so is Captain America.

Sergeant Barnes, on the other hand, is a determined man seeking revenge.

Soldiers fall like flies, and when he breaks down the door with Falsworth and Dernier on his heels, his fist doesn't meet the HYDRA goon's face – but his knife does. He can pick out the leader of this small base within an instant and he sprints towards the man, trusting the others to keep any reinforcements at bay while he charges. The man doesn't stand a chance when he aims the pistol again and takes out both kneecaps in two swift shots.

The lieutenant, from the appearance of his stripes, is crying in a screech and withering in on the floor; blood pooling quickly around his worm like body that just refuses to stay down. The German makes an attempt to pull out a pocketed Luger but he's faster. He stomps on the man's hand; reveling in the crush of bones before he grabs and forcefully slams him onto his back, shoving his fingers deep within his throat before the bastard can bite through his cyanide capsule.

His fingers are covered in spit and blood as the soldier struggles out of his grip, biting on his fingers as he pulls the capsule out aggressively, throwing the pill back before backhanding the man in a loud smack.

"The Red Skull – where is he."

"Captain America," the man laughs cruelly, although winded and weak. "I thought that last fall would have killed you but like a disgusting little cockroach you refuse to die."

The comment makes him freeze, images flying through his brain a million a second before it all begins to drain into red.

"You're going to tell me where the Red Skull is and you're going to tell me right now before I make you bleed."

"I will not talk, Heil HYDRA! Cut one head and two more will grow in its place!"

"I can make you talk," he pulls out the bloodied knife, "you HYDRA bitches are like snakes, right? Well let's see if you shed like one too."

With a quick shallow slice, the lieutenant begins to bleed from his chin and he places his knife as if in a slot, angling it upward and begins to dig hard into the flesh. The man begins to scream, squirming underneath his body as he continues to cut up towards the lip – halting for a brief second.

"He's not here! He wouldn't be stupid enough to return to European battle grounds when he found something in the Alps! Something he's been looking for!"

"Where IS HE?!" he roars, knife quivering as the urge to cut further boiling in his hand. He should just skin him… feed his body to dogs and fly the skin as flag of his wrath.

"Not in central Europe – maybe Russia, maybe even to the Orient where even I do not know, Captain. Where is your gold and patriotic heart, now?!"

The knife drops, he pulls the man's own Luger on him and inhales.

"Dead."

The bullet glides cleanly between the eyes and he exhales, blood coating the entirety of his hands in a stark melodic contrast to the shinning blue star nestled on his chest.

"…W-well Barnes… a little… unorthodox and brutal but –" he knows Montgomery is scared. He can hear his heart beating in an attempt to escape from his chest. "Schmidt's not here, mate. Bloody bastard didn't even think to come here. Let's blow up this base and get the hell out."

His tone is desperate and Dernier's isn't better.

"Sergent a perdu son esprit! Il est fou!" Something has definitely changed within him.

His eyes are heavy, burned red with lack of any sleep and for the first time since Stella… passed, he's been grateful that they've been pulled from HYDRA duty with the final stands towards Hitler and his Nazi occupied Europe trumping in priority.

Colonel Phillips also thinks he's gone crazy in his grief, the Howlies treat him more like a prowling lion than a friend and comrade, and Stark thinks he's bat shit crazy and never recovered from his psychological torture in Azzano – they're all right.

He refuses to sleep ever since they'd taken on that base in Holland. Ever since he jumped a man like a crazed animal and began to peel his skin back in a thick wad of blubbery flesh. Stella talks now when he sleeps. She curses him, she lectures him, and screams at him for defiling her reputation and allowing himself to disintegrate to such a high level of decay – for betraying her trust.

Peggy was right… she wouldn't want this… hell, she'd slap him and drag him by his ear around a block or two for this. But Stella is still dead and he cannot change the past that's paved his future in steps of frozen blood. He thinks back to the meticulously drawn picture of their wedding; every detail and shade that seemed to jump off the page and he thinks hard about what her last words to him were. Remember us like this.

He can…. He can and it makes him cry because he misses home, he misses normalcy, he misses her and he'll never – never – be able to return to that kind of life ever again. Not without her.

Just like the wet tear drop that hit her face and scattered her graphite form into a slippery mess, his life has done the same and now, he's forcing solidification upon it. By freezing it.

Bastogne was a crucial junction point and the last important terrain that the Nazi's absolutely couldn't have. The Airborne boys had already been sent out into the woods surrounding the small Belgian city while infantry stayed within the city walls. It was more important than HYDRA… if the Nazis were able to capture the city… they'd be able to refuel the entire war and with it and give HYDRA a powered bulge that'd give them the edge to regroup and recover from ever blow they've dealt in these past few years. Everything: every death, sacrifice, and battle would have been for absolutely nothing.

So as the elite group of the Howling Commandos they were pulled – joining the Airborne in the misty, graveyard forest surrounding quiet Bastogne. They were to help lead and encourage the men in the Battle of the Bulge.

But he refused to continue wearing the suit… he refused to pretend to be what he was not and disgrace every hardship Stella had gone through in order to create her enigma as Captain America in order to do something good. He was just a Sergeant. Just a soldier and he'd left the shield with Peggy and the costume with Stark before Colonel Phillips had a chance to breathe down his neck. He was just Bucky Barnes and Phillips could fuck himself or lock him up before he gets drunk, mean, and spills the beans about who Captain America really was.

He wishes he were drunk rather than patrolling and holding a front in the middle of brutal winter with little clothing, ravaged supplies, and trying to keep the man motivated as the suffered from constant artillery fire from the Krauts just playing with them.

He used to hate winter. Winter was dangerous and with Stella sickly and small every winter was a battle ground for her survival. She'd get sick easy and one winter, a few years back, her wet cough turned into pneumonia. Within a week she'd had her final rights prayed out at least three times and he'd almost lost her. She loved it – treating the stupid, cold season like a challenge rather than Death exhaling onto her. She found every reason to be jolly, giving him near heart attacks on a daily when she'd stop giving a fuck and just enjoy herself in the snow.

They got married in the winter.

A month before her Ma died in January of 1940 – only a year and a bit before the Japs spat on Pearl Harbour and America officially entered the war. It was shortly after that he'd been drafted, went to Basic, and got shipped out into the bowels of hell itself.

When it's night and the mist settles between the trees; men pretending or trying to sleep in little dug out holes, he see's her. Dancing and twirling underneath the canopy of snow just like she did on their wedding day. He can see her mother's dress spinning wildly since it was too big on her. She's laughing when he's awake.

Her dress is torn, bloody, and screaming when he sleeps.

Stella,

I hate this place, I hate this war, I hate being here. Doll, you don't even know half of it. Those fucking -REDACTED- in the States are twisting it all up. Those news reels you revel in are a fucking lie Sweetheart, and I feel like you're just feeding into this bullshit. You're so good Stels, but you've got it all fucking backwards half the time. When we first landed in -REDACTED- during -REDACTED- I killed my first man.

At first it didn't matter, Nazi Krauts Germans were bastards and they were destroying Europe. We're in it to do good, right? Well let me tell you this – what fucking good is killing a man?! Would you kill my pal Joey when he'd make a lewd comment towards a dame? Would you kill that no good bully Eugene that used to pick on you in school? Would you kill me if we got into a heated argument? Fuck that shit Stella you wouldn't kill anyone so why the fuck do you support this war so much? How can you believe in GOD and keep up with religious enthusiasm when I all I do is kill and sin.

We finally made our way through the depths of -REDACTED- and I was so fucking scared Stella. I was so afraid that I would die and I'd never get back to you and instead just sink into this muddy grave in -REDACTED-and do you know what I think? I think the Krauts feel the same way that we do. They're just guys who are scared. Hitler screams -REDACTED-Roosevelt does. I shot a man straight between the eyes Stella. I'm the -REDACTED-and you know what? A buddy of mine in my platoon (I told you about him I think), Timothy "Dum Dum" Dugan just laughs and says "damn you got him good, Sarge! Hitler don't stand a chance!" and all I could think of was – what if he's got a family just like I do?

This war isn't black and white Stella just like you fucking think it is.

I think I'm a little drunk. -REDACTED- was a motherfucking success and while the guys are spinning with ladies and drinking, here in this little pub in l-REDACTED- I'm writing a letter to you – see what a good husband I am? I shouldn't even fucking send a letter like this – Army Redactors going to have a hoot with all the blotching he'll have to do (have fun you nosy motherfucker!)

But Babydoll, believe me… you'd be dead here. -REDACTED- is a fucking hell hole, -REDACTED- is a mess, and I can't even imagine what -REDACTED- must look like. God save the -REDACTED- on the other side – those poor bastards need it with the -REDACTED- coming in on their backside. Another buddy of mine, Gabe – he just got the news that his brother is dead in -REDACTED- and he hasn't been the same. He's taking in real hard... I've seen too many young guys with a lion's heart like you get ripped apart by bullets for being careless. I want to have someone to come home too… please Stella – PLEASE just stay in place for me, alright? I know you got bugs crawling up your ass and it isn't possible to sit down but if you love me you'll try. I know what the doctors said… but maybe… maybe when I come back we can try to start a family? They don't even have to be ours – maybe some punk ass street kids who seen too much hurt. Some kid with your attitude and my good looks and they could be ours.

Don't fucking listen to me I'm drunk. I shouldn't even send this – but if you ever appreciated anything it was my blunt fucking honesty.

But you know you have my love so send me back some too,

Yours Always,

Bucky

"What's with Sergeant Barnes? He never used to be this gloomy before Azzano!"

"His wife's gone, kid."

"Oh shit - she divorce him? 'Lotta guys been getting divorce letters lately…"

"No, Joe. His wife recently passed. She's gone.

"Yeah wasn't she with the Nurse Corps platoon in Holland? Apparently the Krauts have been bombing our girls out makin' sure the soldiers can't be treated… "

"You'd think that Captain America would be saving us instead of sending out his team and going on those solo coverts, am I right?"

"Shut up man! How'd you feel if you lost your wife? He's been nothing but miserable and I don't fucking blame him!"

He can hear them gossiping… although he knows that he shouldn't. The same way his toes should be frozen and decaying with his fingers bursting from the frost bite. He doesn't know what these changes are… but the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes that these… changes have been in him since Italy when needles made his blood turn into fire. He hadn't noticed - hadn't cared to notice since his main concern was keeping Stella's ass safe. But now that he thinks about it, something's been steaming in him for a while. He was a damn good sniper, but suddenly he just didn't fucking miss anymore because he could sense where the next guy would pop up. He had been able to keep up with running after Stella without wasting a breath, and his bruises and injuries would heal in weeks as opposed to months.

His hearing… his hearing was unnatural… supernatural with every twitch, whimper, and sigh he could hear, along with the stinging whistle of -

"Into your fox holes!" he roars, jumping to his feet and running back to where the majority of men were residing.

"Sergeant?!"

"Into your foxholes, NOW!"

Only a few listened, scrambling into their pathetic holes of frozen protection before the first shell hit. The loud whistle from before was screeching in his ears; the bombarding of fire always short and sporadic; but deadly enough to kill and maim a good handful of men at a time.

He swept through the exploding trees, the frozen chunks of wood often proving more deadly than the metal shrapnel from the Germans' artillery fire. Most of the soldiers had made it into their holes, but he couldn't be sure. He scooped the area like he would when looking for Stella within the chaos of taking down a HYDRA base with a buzzing of sensations before he could feel it - another implosion of artillery erupting a tree and the drumming of human flesh connecting with the ground. He forced himself to move, drowning out the howling of Dum Dum as he wailed for him to get into the nearest pit before he got blown to bits. He couldn't… it was a young one, Alfred. Young, scrawny, blonde haired; a big doe, blue-eyed child that had no place in a war. Too stubborn to go down without a fight. He was like Stella.

Kid was on the ground… still breathing as much as he could hear, and he didn't hesitate to barrel against the frozen tundra, grab the dazed boy in his arms and slide into the nearest foxhole with Falsworth screaming bloody murder of his name. The shelling continued… for a few more seconds… seconds that seemed to freeze in time… just like they used to on Coney Island during July 4th. Stella would always stare out the window wistfully, her deep blue orbs flashing with every clear spark in the sky. Alfred's blues were just as illuminated… sparkling with a sheen of fear that mimicked the vicious bursting of the trees around them. Sparks that left him choking. He could still see that spark when she'd furiously thrown herself after him, kicking him up with all -

Montgomery suddenly clapped his arm around his shoulder with a somewhat hysterical laughter bubbling from his throat.

"Bloody hell Barnes, you've really fallen off your rocker, haven't you?"

He shrugged in response, before looking down at the young Airborne sandwiched between them.

"You okay, kid?" he rumbled, watching Alfred stare at him as if her were the sun, nodding rapidly before his eyes darted towards Falsworth.

"T-thanks Sarge. For a second a really thought I was a goner!"

"Don't mention it," he grunts in warning, closing his eyes and trying to drown out the painful screech of the shelling as it blasted trees open and scattered bullet like wood that hissed as it flew through the air – this time not piercing a single one of them as far as he could tell.

They got lucky this time… Real fucking lucky. But he can't tell anymore whether if it's some kind of supernatural guidance, or if its tainted luck because of the curse he's been carrying with him since Azzano.

"How can you tell?"

"Tell what?" he mumbles around his cigarette, leaning into Gabe's shaking hand so the Private can light it.

"How can you tell when the shelling's about to go off?"

"Just a lucky feelin', I guess," he shrugs sucking on the filter greedily and exhaling before glaring at the way Gabe's helmet clatters against his head from the way he's been shivering. There was no way he was about to share that he can hear the click of the ammunition the moment before the shell fires. "Ya' know, some of that good ol' Brooklyn charm."

"Fuck you man," Gabe laughs, lighting his own cigarette before pointing the burning end at him seriously. "No for real, how can you tell."

"Sniper intuition ya' shit. Some goddamn HYDRA hoodoo voodoo - the fuck should I know?"

"It's weird."

"You're weird."

"Children," Dum Dum chastises from above, slinking into their foxhole. "Greedy children with a fuck ton of cigarettes, come share with your good pal Dugan -"

"You're too dumb to smoke Dum Dum! It'll fry the remainder of your pitiful brain cells ya' big, dumb, fuck."

"Retract those claws, pussycat!"

"The fuck did you just call me?!"

"You rationed sugar, Sugar? Give a man a taste."

"Shut the fuck up guys!" Gabe hissed, smacking them upside their heads. "You want those Kraut motherfuckers to hear where we've dug out our new foxholes? Jesus fucking Christ!"

"I got the hoodoo - remember Jones?"

"Who doo?"

"You doo."

"The-fuck-doo!?"

"Voodoo."

"Barnes here always knows when the shells are about the hit, Dugan. You don't think that's weird?"

"He's a weird guy and a crazy good sniper. Maybe it's just sniper intuition?"

"I goddamn told you so Jones."

Gabe only sighs deeply, stubbing out the remainder of his cigarette in ice before rubbing his hands together.

"I don't care how you can tell – I'm just fucking happy that you can. Major was tellin' me that they were losin' at least two guys a day from the shelling alone. And that's not just 'cause of the injuries. With practically no medical supplies they can't even create tourniquets to stop minor bleeding from getting worse. I think I saw Morita and the other medics begging guys for any medical supplies they could spare like morphine or even a pair of fucking scissors to make some more bandages with."

"Well we got no choice right?" Dugan grunts, snuggling closer to them and pulling down his helmet. They'd all ditched their "Commandos" suits before the battle, because he made them. He told them the night before their departure to Bastogne that he wouldn't touch the shield and that was final. Shockingly, they had listened and so here they were: dressed like all the other soldiers in pathetically thin coats not suited for the winter. Funny enough, Dugan definitely looked naked and cold without that stupid hat on and as much as he hated the impracticality of his iconic blue coat, he wouldn't mind having it now to share.

"Can't get any airdrops in so long as the sky ain't clear of that damn misted fog and when a few us went to talk with the Major, he said the Krauts got Bastogne completely surrounded. It's a contest to death boys and I sure as hell ain't going down without a fight. We've survived worse than this, right? So long as HYDRA doesn't decide to crash the party."

"Yeah, but what's a victory if half of us die, Dum Dum? Or if we all freeze and starve to death? Besides, lotta guys are getting shell-shocked too," he grumbles, taking a few more drags of the butt before he throw it out of their pit, ignoring the strange way Dugan looks at him.

"Quit ya' staring Dugan I ain't no fuckin' dame – and you know I'm right. So what if we win? What about the guys who go home with their minds and bodies lookin' like goddamn Swiss cheese, huh?"

"Well then I say thank the Virgin Mary and her blessed, bouncin', baby, boy Jesus that you got some kind of hoodoo voodoo Barnes," Gabe laughs despite the clatter of his trembling teeth. "Men feel safer with you around. Everyone looks less depressed and starving when they know your crazy ass will run out of a foxhole to save them and you're not even wearing the cowl."

Gabe grabs his shoulder, smiling at him weakly with thinned, blue-skinned, lips. "Glad that you're with us man," he genuinely speaks before wrapping his hands back around himself. Ever since they've arrived at Bastogne and reintegrated with some kind of normalcy – even within this stupid war – they've started warming up to him again. Started realizing that this craze of his was grief, the anger due to the unfairness and cruelty of forcing him to take upon the shield, and the numbness because he doesn't even know what he should feel. He appreciate their devotion… their friendship towards him so he'll fight with them – but that's it.

He doesn't share with them how staring at the half frozen, moaning bodies make him think of Stella dead and frozen… of whether or not she died upon impact or her last remaining breathes were prayers for someone to come and find her. Peggy had apparently sent some people to find the body but – nothing… so he doesn't join the others often. He's become reclusive – preferring to scope out their thin, warn out, territories and sniping stray Germans creeping forward into their older, blown out, foxhole trenches. He doesn't share that when he's alone he sees grief ridden delusions of her. The other soldiers think he's some kind of unstoppable force that isn't afraid of anything. He doesn't run from the living – he runs from the dead.

He's unstoppable because he won't let there be any more dead.

He doesn't tell them that the only reason he runs out is with the secret hope that maybe a jagged pound of tree might nail him. He doubts it'll kill him, since apparently, all he can do is survive. Maybe Stella's ghost was cursing them with the mist. He's already ditched the costume and despite his growing disgust with this war and the politics behind it, he's gotta try to do some good. If anything, for the naïve soldiers like Stella – those who still believe in good despite so much bad. He can deal with his self-hatred later. For now, he's gotta do some good. For her. For Stella.

Maybe then his cursed luck will bring some actual fortune because he doesn't quite know anymore whether or not his guilt is ravaging him alive like the ravine that killed her, or if her spirit is haunting him for not saving her. For abusing her cowl. For betraying her.

Gabe continues to shiver, pulling his hands out from where he'd shoved them under his armpits a few seconds ago and stares at the dark skin – more blue at the finger tips. Slowly he touches them, pressing down on the tip of one of his fingers before the frozen skin bursts and blood begins to flow.

"Jesus Christ Jones!" he sneered, ripping the thin gloves off his own hands. "If your fingers are fuckin' blue you don't just fucking pinch them Gabe! Morita already told you your frost bite was bad, ya' goddamn idiot!"

Dugan seems jolted awake, pulling a small handkerchief from his pocket and wrapping it around Gabe's cold-blooded finger. "Dammit Gabe you're supposed to be the smart one! You studied at Howard for Christ's sake!"

"I don't even know man," Gabe moaned staring down at his hand in shock. "Jim said it was bad but I just couldn't feel it anymore. I didn't know it was that bad!"

"Yeah? Well it's that bad," he hissed, before handing over his gloves. "Keep these on you, a'right? I know you gave yours up to Morita for some guy whose bite was worse. But these are mine and you don't fuckin' loose them."

"What about you, Bucky?"

"Me? Nah I ain't even that cold," he grinned weakly, shuffling closer to Gabe, pressing against him for warmth while Dugan wrapped the blanket tighter around the three of them.

"Barnes, even I'm cold. But now that you mention it, you're the only one who hasn't been shivering their ass off like the rest of us."

"I'm from Brooklyn, Timothy, some stupid snow ain't gonna get me cold."

"So..? - I'm from Boston."

"Boston winters ain't got nothin' on Brooklyn ya' stupid son of a bitch."

He'll never admit to them that he hasn't felt cold since Azzano.

"Ya? Well fuck you, ya' pompous New Yorker."

"Shaddup, Jersey fuck, whadda you know about the cold."

"Fellas my fingers and balls are about to fall off and I don't wanna die stuck between you two loudmouths!"

They finally fall silent… and he doesn't mean to get angry, but he can't help but dig his fingers into his skin a little deeper as their huddled breaths meld together. He hated winter and Brooklyn winters were the worst. Brooklyn winters were when work was slow so the pay was less and expenses were greater because of the cold weather. Brooklyn winters almost killed her every year with their shitty apartment that barley heated and how often he'd lose jobs from staying by her bedside until his mother finally found out a couple years back when he wouldn't let their pride rule them any longer. Then it'd been his mother, his eldest sister Rebecca, and Rosie taking turns since the job he'd landed at the docks was good fucking pay and Tony had given him the warning that he was close to getting fired because of the absences.

He remembers after her mother died they couldn't afford a new pair of shoes when the electrical bill went up and Stella had to stuff his old shoes with newspapers for size and warmth. It was only once summer rolled around and she'd gotten the newspaper job through Rosie and they could afford more. He thinks of how ridiculous she'd look in shoes twice her size stuffed the brim with newspaper just so her feet wouldn't freeze off…

"How about your feet?" He suddenly asks, thinking that if Gabe's hands were that bad…

"Freezing. Wet. Numb."

"You been listening to Morita, right?" He looks over, checking Gabe's neck for a pair of socks. "You keep two pairs and when the ones you wear get wet, you wrap them around your neck and switch out for a pair of dry ones. Cold dry is better and a lot fucking safer than cold wet."

Gabe curls into a ball shaking his head in a frost lulled sleepiness. None of them have been eating much – mostly lukewarm coffee and thick, gross soups and he could see the bags pushing out from under his eyes; his cheekbones getting sharper.

"Both of mine are wet man, ever since I fell into an abandoned, swamped trench with thin ice. Broke right through it got both of em' soaked since it was so fucking cold I wore both pairs that day. My dumb fucking luck, right?"

He sighs, untangling the warm dry pair from around his neck and handing it to Gabe.

"No way man – you already gave me your gloves!"

"I'll be fine Gabby. I ain't even switch out yet."

He didn't get cold; most he felt was a gentle chill. His feet were reddish pink with warm blood circulating his veins that even warmed up his socks if they ever got wet. He was changed and he can still feel the needle piercing his skin and fire exploding through him. He could still feel that heat.

"You're fuckin' nuts man. Crazy motherfucking Brooklynite – you absolutely sure – "

"Yes, Jesus Christ just take em'. I told you before," he mumbles, thinking of how he'd numbed down to his core, not really feeling anything anymore.

"… I ain't even that cold."

If they wanted to get out of Bastogne alive without being choked into a submission of death, then they needed to gain some leverage soon before they'd all starve and freeze to death. More so, not only was the small, nearby village of Foy completely occupied by the Germans, reports dictated that it was saturated with supplies ranging of food, clothing, weapons, and tanks and they just could not afford to wait for the skies to clear any longer. Foy was also closer to German territory and with their stubborn hold on Bastogne, gaining Foy back was a way to embody General McAuliffe's "nuts!" policy in regards to surrender. Capturing Foy was a bigger "fuck you" to the Germans than simply surviving Bastogne.

However, if they wanted to survive the Battle of the Bulge, this attack had to be successful. It had to be perfectly executed.

And yet they – the Howling Commandos - were forced to stay back.

He looks at the Major and General a few feet away from him; veteran Airborne soldiers combing through the frozen tundra slowly before a sniper would spot their position and blow the entire attack. But how the hell were they supposed to surprise a fortified town full of warm, fed, healthy Germans when they like sitting ducks through a god damn open field?

He clenches his clammy hand into a fist with the rush of warm blood pounding his body full of adrenaline. They should have been sent in – not these guys. He doesn't care how elite the Airborne boys are. Phillips had sent them to Bastogne as the one of the most elite special ops groups. They'd blow HYDRA bases to hell and back with less men, more Germans, and a million more dangerous odds against them. He didn't understand why they were forced to sit back and watch from over the hill. Were they treated as back up? If one of the soldiers fucked up they'd be sent in to clean up the mess?

He rather it be him. He rather he got shot at with the Commandos but have an actual strategy that would work instead of watching more men be ripped apart like useless rag dolls because of stupidity. The simplicity of the flank attack should work… but these boys were tired, hungry, cold and no matter how much the appearance of the Howling Commandos had increased moral there wasn't much they could do for combat exhaustion and shell shock. The human body had limitations.

Limitations he didn't have anymore… ever since he'd protected his men and offered himself as sacrifice so the Krauts would leave the rest alone. He'd volunteered without knowing the… modifications and torture he'd be forced to go through.

He's thought a lot about it… and it hurts him so bad to think about it. He's become a bastardized version of the shinning perfection of what Stella was.

Some kind of "super soldier".

He didn't have limitations anymore.

Morita bursts his bubble of withdrawn isolation by coming up to stand beside him. He was behind the group, not wanting to witness whether the flank would potentially go well or blow up in their faces. He'd tried to talk to the Lieutenant leading the group before the assault; tried to give the man some encouraging words and tactic strategies to ensure success and survival… but he'd known that his words would be wasted the moment he'd come up to Lieutenant Dike. He'd heard the man's heart viciously thrashing against his chest and seen the quiver in his eyes.

Fear. Uncontrollable fear.

Fear would get them all killed.

"It's not going to work," he mumbles under his breath as Morita stands beside him firmly, assessing his stance with a critical, medical eye.

"You should have more faith in them, Bucky," he mutters, gaze not leaving his own. "Just because they're not the Howling Commandos doesn't mean they aren't capable."

"Jim," he hisses, meeting warm, dark eyes. "You know better than I do as a medic… these men aren't in condition to fight against well-equipped Germans – " he cuts himself off, knowing that they've greatly overcome the odds in this war against "Germans". He doesn't mean that they don't have a chance – Stella had proven that they did. Inhaling deeply, he exhales his nausea of emotion before reiterating: "Dike's scared as piss."

"Lieutenant Dike?" the shorter men questions, eyes finally creasing in thought. "Found it weird that a Lieutenant was always hiding and was hard to locate. Spent a whole fucking day trying to track his foxhole down just to ask if he'd share some of his morphine, Jesus. You talk to him?"

"I did, just before we marched out. He'd asked if we'd be commanding the mission an' the moment I said "no sir, just here to observe with the General, sir," he'd almost jumped out of his damn boots like a fucking rabbit."

They stay silent, observing the men creeping closer towards the outskirts of the village before he speaks again:

"He's gonna get 'em all killed. And we're gonna have to take over and clean up the fucking mess."

"Bucky – "

"No Jim," he spits, finger nails biting through his fists. "You and the other Medics better get ready 'cause you'll have a lot of saving to do by the end of today."

The men begin to run, the sound of machine guns clattering aggressively drowning in his ears at the sound of German artillery bombing before the first whistle of a sniper spikes his attention. He jerks up, watching men begin to fall like flies as a sniper takes them out from in the village. From the shots, he can pinpoint the sniper… somewhere low; not at a high point and deep enough that he feels safe firing at a quick pace.

"Keep moving!" the Major screams at the sight of Lieutenant Dike stopping midfield – a few boys with him as the rest scatter like bugs, falling into disorganized chaos.

They didn't know what they were doing… why would he stop in the middle of a fucking field?!

"Jesus Christ," Morita breathed, taking a few steps forward at the horror before them. A few of the men were attempting to find cover, another couple of groups moving forward and trying to take out the Germans that were massacring them. It's faint… but when he concentrates, he can almost make out what they were saying.

Dike wasn't giving them any orders… like the rabbit he'd frozen at the sight of the wolf and had taken off – sitting like some goddamn ducks that were about to get slaughtered –

He can't take it. He rips his rifle off his back and begins to sprint forward, ignoring the calls of the General screaming "you get back here right now Sergeant Barnes" and Dum Dum immediately jumping in with the Major at his defense. He doesn't care at whatever discipline he'll have to face later. He can't just let them die.

He runs as fast as his legs take him, being aware of the shelling as it blasted a crater before him. He jumps over, whizzing past the artillery fire and the shrieks of bombardment to the frozen hay stack where Dike is quivering with fear. Soldiers are screaming around him, holding the radio, shaking him in an attempt to snap the man out of the shocking fear that'd frozen him to his bones. He slides against the snow, falling to his knees as sniping bullet zips past his head. He grabs Dike's shoulder, squeezing them firmly before speaking loudly, "I'm taking over."

He doesn't stay any longer, running over to the next stack, jumping as artillery fire explodes behind him and falling into a roll so that he's out of sight, crawling over to where a Sergeant under Dike's command sits, observing the situation in Foy from afar.

"Whadda we got?"

Relief washes over his face before he voices, "Sir, most of the company is spread out here. First platoon tried to go around but their stretched out and they're pinned down by a sniper. I believe he's in the building with the caved in roof, sir!"

"Okay," he inhales, before speaking quickly, "Mortars and grenade launchers on that building, till it's gone, when it's gone I want first to go straight in – forget going around. Everyone else follows me!"

He doesn't wait for a response, just begins to run through the open field without any thought of using the shambles of Foy as cover, knowing that at this point it was life or death. They've lost their element of surprise and everyone was scattered and confused. He'd need to hook up with the companies manually and even if he could run around the entire village without wasting a breath, he'd only be wasting time. He's seen Stella pull a move like this hundreds of times with her bullheaded recklessness. Usually, he'd lose his mind over her charging head first into battle but it did have one major advantage: It was shocking. So shocking because who the hell would just run head first against an army and its tanks? If anything, the Germans were easily flummoxed by Stella's headfirst charge – her signature move in tight situations where stealth wouldn't help them for long.

He may not be wearing the suit anymore, and he sure as hell wasn't Stella, but he runs.

Straight through the center of the village, passing by Germans standing up with their guns up and mouths down in absolute shock. He took the chance and sprinted with a force, using his speed to his advantage before bounding over the broken wall where the remainder of the company was hiding – picking up a distinct screech of agony the moment a few final grenades went off; effectively stopping the sniper that had pinned the company down in the beginning of the attack.

"You boys alright?" he smiles wickedly, unable to contain the absurdity of the situation. What Stella would say to see him follow her own crazy fucking tactics. "Pot meet kettle," she'd probably huff, pushing him firmly and bully him a bit when she'd get mad. "Here you are, givin' me some goddam lecture when you end up doing the same thing, Buck!"

"Sniper's down, forget going around. Hook up with E company and wait for my signal!"

And before he'd even processed the collectively shocked "Sir, yes sir's!" he's bounding over the wall again, coming back the way he came. This time, the Germans actually broke out of their haze and shot at him the moment their own disbelief dispersed and they still can't nail him. He can use their lingering confusion to his advantage for a few more seconds. Instead of going around the inactive tank, he jumps onto it – ripping open the hatch and ignoring the screaming frenzy of German as he pulls a grenade off his shoulder, throws the sucker inside before closing the hatch. He leaps off the tail end of the Tiger tank and shoots a man with a machine gun square between the eyes before the trigger goes off and slides home to where the E company was sitting.

They're smiling, grins only widening at the sound of the tank imploding. With the companies recommunicated, the sniper and the main tank in the center of the town gone, the situation was finally resolved and full of direction. The Airborne could now effectively move in and proceed with taking Foy as planned.

"Sergeant Barnes, you're one crazy motherfucker!" one of the Privates shouts out, laughing at him before bounding over the wreckage to assist I company in their storming of the town square.

"Holy shit Sergeant Barnes, the Germans still can't nail you even when you're standing there at point-fucking-blank range!"

"Obviously man! Captain America picked him himself to be part of the Howling Commandos! You think he did it just 'cause they were close pals?"

"Who needs that goddamn Captain America anyway!? We don't even need the Howlies with Sergeant Barnes here!"

"Nothing can stop the Sergeant!"

"Yeah! Not fucking Nazis, bullets, shells, hell – he even made this goddamn, freezing, winter his bitch!"

"The hell would we do without you?!"

"Fuck Captain America and his coverts – we got the Winter Soldier!"

Stella,

Now that I'm officially in war I don't know how often I can write to you - and I'm going to say sorry right now. I can't say a lot. They got army redactors monitoring what we say in these letters Doll, and I'm allowed to say much. But for now know this: I'm safe. Tired, but safe for now. Missing' you a ton.

Got some friends here that I met in Basic: Timothy Dugan and Gabe Jones. We call Dugan 'Dum Dum' since he's got this big stupid moustache right out of the 20s and a stupid hat he refuses to take off. Seriously. He argued with our Staff Sergeant for hours just to wear the stupid thing. Helmet's much safer then wearing a hat but they still isn't bullet proof. Dugan doesn't care much, says if he's going to get shot in the head, he's going to get shot in the head and there isn't anything to it. He's from Boston though – you know how they get.

Gabe's a smart, colored fella who studied at Howard University and I think you'd like him Stels. Big heart and he's fluent in both German and French. He likes to sing loud in that bluesy jazz you love so much and hates bullies who think they can walk all over people just because they got power. I told him he reminds me of my wife and he says "you getting sweet on me Bucky? 'Cause I hate to break it to ya' pal, you just ain't my type of dame."

It's like a whole other world over here in Europe, Stella. You know I can't draw for shit, but let me tell you about it: I never knew what "rolling meadows" meant till I saw it myself. The hills are small, bumpy, and they look almost like a wave – rolling in motion. Except instead of that sporadic sea water its flowers. Sweet smelling flowers with long grass that's so colorful I drown in it like an ocean. I tried pressing some that I collected during a weekend so you could see them. Let me know if they look alright? I wish I can bring you here one day when there isn't a war. We can go through these meadows together and just breathe in fresh air that isn't stunk up by the city. I love Brooklyn, Sweetheart – almost as much as I love you but this… this is something fresh that makes me feel alive.

You and these sights are what's giving me strength. We're getting shipped towards the front lines in a couple days and I'm not going to lie to you Stella… I'm scared. But we got a lot of good boys here and we're too stubborn to go down without a fight. Guess I took some of your stupid with me after all.

Don't you worry about a thing though Sweetheart, no need for your crazy ass trying to get over here through the Nurse Corps! We'll win this war before you know it!

Sending all my love pressed into these tiny colored flowers,

'Till the end of the line and beyond,

Bucky

"Johann Schmidt belongs in a bug house he thinks he's a god and is willing to blow up half of the world to prove it – starting with the U.S.A," Colonel Phillips begins in a toneless drawl as they discuss their next move.

After the Attack on Foy, they'd gained enough ground and supplies to survive for a few more days before the sky had finally cleared and they were finally able to have supplies airdropped. Bastogne was a success and the Allies were finally able to start chasing Hitler back into Germany. All that was left… was HYDRA and the Red Skull.

"Schmidt's working with powers beyond our capabilities," Stark continues, glancing at him nervously as he's donned the Captain America suit again. He hadn't been disciplined per say… but after the Bastogne soldiers took it upon themselves to calling him the Winter Soldier, the nickname had taken like wildfire and had already begun to spread amongst the ranks. Phillips had not been impressed with a new mythos forming while the legend and glory of Captain America still dominated – and he'd be damned if he lost it. So the Winter Soldier had to be erased; nothing more than a silly name for crazy Sergeant Barnes while Captain America and his Howling Commandos and "Winter Soldier" continued to work as a well-rounded unit.

"If Schmidt gets across the Atlantic?" Stark continued, shaking his head, "then he'll blow up the entire Eastern seaboard in an hour."

Eastern Seaboard… New York… home.

"How much time we got?" Jones asks, gaze flickering between him and Colonel Phillips.

"Well," he starts, pulling out a photo, "according to my new best friend under twenty-four hours."

"Where is he now?"

"HYDRA's last base is here – " he points to the photo. "In the Alps, five hundred feet below the surface."

"So what are we supposed to do?" Morita asks, the heavy weight of the air within the room finally crushing their shoulders. "It's not like we can just knock on the front door."

Stella would have. Stella would find a way to break down the walls and dive in head first with or without a plan. She'd do whatever she could to stop the Red Skull and his plan to blow up the world… the U.S.A… Brooklyn and home. I'm just a girl from Brooklyn she'd always smile sheepishly after blowing up a HYDRA base with her short, wheat colored hair blowing in the wind when she'd take off the stifling helmet. Healthy, thick, and strong yet still as thin and smooth as it had been when she was small and her strands had been long.

It was then that you could see her more feminine features: her long blonde lashes framing cornflower eyes like the sun would across the ocean and the gentle dusting of freckles that ran across the bridge of her curved nose like the course sand underneath. Her face was the one thing that hadn't changed after the serum – other than simply gaining a healthier glow to it. She still had high cheekbones and her nose would still crinkle the same way then she'd get irritated; thin, pastel lips pursed at him in dissatisfaction when he'd tease her relentlessly. Say what you want, but Brooklyn's my home and that's where I'm from.

His home was with her and he'd follow her to the ends of the earth… he should have followed her off the train. But if he'd done one thing right after her death, it was finally taking off the costume and doing some good just because it was the right thing to do and nothing else. If he was going to keep wearing this costume against his will, then he'd do it to honor her and their home.

He'd do it just like she would.

"Why not?" he questions, all eyes turning towards him in a snap. "That's exactly what we're gonna do."

He'd always hated when she rode a motorcycle. Bikes were dangerous and she could barely pilot a car on a good day. Bikes were volatile; open space, easy to destroy, with little coverage. They were also very useful when you need to jump off and fly down nose deep into trouble.

That's exactly what he does; using the shield of all things as a trusted weapon.

Plowing headfirst into Johann Schmidt's final stronghold, he's inducing a motorcycle rampage. Helmet tight on his head and sealing his identity, he uses the force of the bike's speed to his advantage and throws the shield as hard as he can, watching it bounce off one of the soldiers to his close left before catching it as it boomeranged back. He doesn't hesitate to continue his one man assault, releasing a trigger off the handle bar and ejected a line; catching a few other soldiers by the neck and bringing their bikes down. He's still brutal in the way he kills: driving up as close as he can to crack skulls with the blunt force of the shield, shooting out gas tanks and watching the explosion devour a cyclist within seconds, and finally, driving up the side slope of Schmidt's little fortress before vaulting himself off the bike and watching it crash into the main entrance in a fiery eruption.

There are so many… and can help but ignore his thoughts and let instinct take control. There are soldiers in massive bionic suits with flamethrowers attached to their arms and slowly creating a perimeter around him. It doesn't help that it gives him little room to fight his way out of this, shielding himself from the blue laser blasts from the HYDRA guns while firing off his pistol at a rate that leaves the barrel scorching the glove on his hand. He takes out five more before the flaming border is set in place with buzzing weapons pointed at his face. He can't get out this one.

But something twists in his gut; a kind of fighting spirit that tells him it's not over yet.

When he's dragged to the Red Skull… seeing Schmidt walk around the large room like a god makes him feel something snap within him; something deep and primitive with the sudden urge to kill the man by beating him to death with his wife's own shield.

"Arrogance," he drawls in accented English from afar, "may not be a uniquely American trait but I must say you do it better than anyone." Schmidt continues his prowl closer towards him and he can feel this beast inside him growling and snarling louder with ever step. "There are limits to what even you can do – but wait… – oh. Oh well isn't this a surprise!" The deranged Johann leers, cackling madly as he continues to walk towards him before he roughly rips the leather helmet off his head.

"Looks like our reports were correct after all. Your lovely Lady Liberty really did die when she fell off the train, didn't she?"

He doesn't react… he can't react because he doesn't want to return to that moment. He doesn't want to think about it…

"You didn't honestly think I couldn't tell that Captain America and Lady Liberty were the same person, did you? We had agents there who witnessed her very transformation! Did you forget our first meeting when she'd so foolishly saved you? We know everything about you and your little wife Barnes. But now I'm curious… did it hurt? When you dropped her?"

No no no no no -

"Zola said he could hear her scream – "

She didn't scream. She stared at him with those big doe eyes smiling.

Schmidt punches him square across the jaw and he doesn't react. Back hands him savagely, knees him in the gut excruciatingly hard until he falls over from the human pain beginning to blossom across his body and yet he's still frozen – can't react because he can still see her falling. It was never her who was screaming. He was the one who had been desperately screaming with his hand stretched out – the weight of the shield still against his arm as he called out her name only to have it drowned out by the screeching wind and the force of the train zooming away.

"Ahh but it does not matter anymore. Now that we have you there is no one who can take up the shield any longer. This time we will kill Captain America once and for all."

He lifts his head up, feeling the blood run down his nose and it reminds him that he's still alive… he's still human enough to bleed. Human enough to feel anger, grief, hatred and love for his wife… Stella whom he was trying to honour now instead of the dark twisting path he'd so quickly accepted before.

He stares Schmidt right and the eye and hisses through his bloodied teeth:

"Nuts!"

The Howling Commandos come crashing through the windows; guns blazing as they zip line through the glass in a chaotic flurry of hot barrels firing hundreds of rounds. HYDRA soldiers begin to fall as they continue their assault, only to have Schmdit run away in the pandemonium. Breaking the neck of the final soldier holding him down, he begins to run after him only to stop when Falsworth calls out, "Barnes!"

Turning briefly, he catches the shield thrown at him on reflex, staring down at it as Montgomery salutes him off, smiling sheepishly as he hollers, "You might need it!" before turning his attention back towards the rest of the soldiers that refuse to go down.

There's a certain gleam that catches the shield; a shine despite the scratched paint and scars that adorn it. He hates it. Hates what it represents, hates what it did to his wife, how it transformed her and yet –

It's still a piece of her that's left with him.

He nods curtly, slips his arm into the grip behind the shield, and runs off.

How he followed Schmidt, made his way onto the plane with Peggy and General Phillips help amongst the chaos of the battle is nothing more than a blur of adrenaline and this intense need burning in his bones to make Schmidt suffer. This darkness only continues to grow as he runs around the cockpit of the massive Valkyrie plane that looks like something from the future, dodging singeing blue beams with Stella's shield as the hellish mad man continues to taunt him.

"I've heard that you received a new name after Belgium?"

He bounces off another blast, gritting his teeth as it reverberates just inches above the Red Skull's head.

"Winter Soldier, is it? I know what runs through your veins, Sergeant!"

He tries angling the shield, running circles around Schmidt like an idiot as they try to tag each other. If only he could get some kind of opening –

"You are nothing more than a bastard of what she and I were!"

"You're fucking insane! No wonder Erskine abandoned you!"

"No, Sergeant, he was scared of my potential! And if anyone is losing their minds than it is YOU!"

He finally gets the angle right, and he's able to force Schmidt to move into the direction he wants him too when he pulls a knife out of his thigh pocket and throws it; watching it just miss Johann's trigger holding arm.

"The serum amplifies our qualities and yours is powered by your grief and torture! So hate me Sergeant! Let it fester and consume you as her arrogance and love for you consumed her!"

He snaps; uncaring of the opening he leaves as he throws the shield with all his power – shocking himself with the force. Schmidt unsurprisingly moves away, but the shield continues to twirl, smashing right into the glowing cubic device. Schmidt snarls at him, but his words are no longer understandable. The cube burns bright, pulsating spastically before a bright light erupts through the ceiling. He watches Schmidt as his red skin beings to shriek off his face and the man is obliterated out of this world; burning alive with an ear-splitting screech before the light vanishes.

The Red Skull is dead.

He doesn't dwell on it, uncertain of what he just witnessed and uncaring. He leaps in the pilot seat and feels his heart stutter at the set coordinates for the first bomb – New York City.

He looks up, vision swimming amongst the pastel skyline. It's so peaceful in contrast the anarchy that just happened, that's happening within him, and that will happen when this deadly cargo reaches its destination. He can't see the ocean beneath the Valkyrie's underbelly, but he feels enchanted by the uncaring softness of the clouds; gentle oranges and pinkish, warm hues that paint the horizon. It reminds him of the flower fields in Britain that he had so painstakingly tried to describe to her before they'd been shipped forward to the march of D-Day. The yellows, the aroma, the sheer tenderness of the petals beneath his fingertips as he tried to collect a few buds to press and send to her. Stella had loved them and he'd noticed a few stuck between the pages of her notebook.

She would have loved to see a sunset like this; something so large and bright that wasn't cast in the shadows of the city, of home. He wonders if Joey and Tony are still alive and if they are, all in one piece, he hopes they'll make it back to Brooklyn. They were both good guys and he wouldn't have traded friends like them for anything. He hopes Tony will finally grow a pair and instead of going on numerous dates that even left him shaking his head, and he'll finally ask Rosie out. She'd say yes. One time when she and Stella had been painting together he'd overheard them gossiping, Stella, dear, how'd you ever get Bucky to stop horsing around and finally let you make an honest man outta him? Stella had only laughed, loud and bright in response. I'll tell you a secret Rosie, Bucky and I – we've been it for each other since we were brats. Sure he used to be a ladies man, but you know what? When I finally dragged him by the collar and strangled the truth outta him he was a goner. Sometimes boys are just scared, you know? But Rosie wasn't all brash like Stella who just didn't understand the concept of defeat. But somehow he knows, if Tony made it back alive he'd make Rosie his girl.

He hopes Rebecca finishes school. She was good with numbers like him and Stella trained her from a young age to never back down from a fight. She could really make it in the world… he hopes Elizabeth continues to have a sharp head on her shoulder despite being only eleven, and he wants nothing but the best for his baby brother Kenneth; still too young and innocent to understand how rotten this world really is. He all hopes they'll be happy… that they'll all live long, healthy, beautiful lives at home... home he knows he won't return too. His mother will cry. She'll cry just like she had at Mrs. Rogers' funeral as she clutched onto Stella like her own daughter. His father… he'll understand. He'd been friends with Mr. Rogers before he'd passed and would always tell him and Stella stories of what'd he'd been like during the war. He'd known Stella was like her father… seen it in her stubborn eyes when they'd come back after getting into trouble and grumble under his breath: just like your old man Joe, Stella Grace. His father had always known he'd follow her to hell itself ever since he'd come home, bloody and bruised grinning madly with his swollen eye. One day, Pa. One of these days I'm gonna marry her.

Allow Stella the dignity of her choice, Peggy had told him.

She had made her choice, and now he's made his.

Fiddling with the radio he eventually speaks,

"Command? This is Sergeant Barnes, can you read me?"

There's a bit a fluster, noise of a ruckus and he hears Morita starting to talk before Peggy interrupts him,

"James! Are you alright?!"

"Schmidt's dead."

"W-What about the plane?"

He can't bring himself to speak more, the glaring white letters New York City burned into his head.

"Tougher to explain."

"Give me your coordinates, I'll find you a safe landing spot," she speaks quickly and he shakes his head, hands already gripping the steering.

"There isn't going to be a safe landing."

"I'll get Howard on the line, he'll know what to do!"

"There isn't enough time…" he stares out those soft clouds again; their cream white colour the same as her mother's old wedding dress. "I gotta put her in the water."

"Please – don't do this we have time. We can work it out!"

"Right now I'm in the middle of nowhere and if I don't do this now a lot of people will die."

He swallows heavily, hands twitching has he pulls briefly turns around to pick up the singed shield off the floor, placing it beside him before pulling out her old photograph from his pocket: her lovely, smiling face grinning out him with the smudged drawing of their wedding photo behind it. Even though her face and half her dressed are smudged with stained, blotches from his tears… if he looks hard enough… he can make out the ghost of the shy smile she had sketched out before.

"Peggy," he breathes heavily, staring at the photo of both their faces, so young and innocent. "Peggy, this is my choice."

He can hear her heavy breathing the moment he pushes the steering forward and the plane dips down; beginning its rapid decent as it cuts straight through the clouds.

"You still there Peggy?"

"… yes, James."

"She loved you like a sister, ya' know? She used to say that when the war would be over, we'd come visit you."

"I would have loved that."

"… Can you promise me something?"

"Anything."

"Tell the truth. If anything, let our family know the truth."

Peggy's silent and he continues to speak.

"If you loved her… if you respect both of us I need you to at least do this for h -"

He doesn't get a chance to finish or hear her response before the plane is seconds away from smashing through the water. He takes the shield into his hand and blocks his face before the ice breaks through and a tsunami of debris and water rush through the glass with explosive force. He's flung back like a rag doll and his body burns, hurts, screams as water begins to fill his lungs the pain makes him feel more alive than he has in months.

He slips his eyes shut and for the first time in two years… ever since he first shipped out, a single thought resonates down to his core.

He was finally coming home.

Stevie,

We're supposed to write these small letters and keep them on us in case we die in battle. I hope you never get to see this letter. I hope that I can survive this war and come back to you. There's nothing you don't know, punk and now that you're here with me I don't know what to say.

Sometimes I really hate what you did to yourself. You were safe in Brooklyn and I'm not saying this to be a jerk or anything, but Stella you have to realize that this place is hell. I know you're always looking out for the little guy but I never wanted you here.

You never listened to me. I hate that to get over here they changed your body, made you into a fucking pinup, and now that you've proven you can do anything a man can, you have to protect your identity. I wasn't kidding when you asked me in that bar if I'd follow Captain America into the jaws of hell. You're still little Stella Grace Barnes from Brooklyn, Sweetheart, and that isn't ever going to change. I'm not ever going to let it change.

I know I've been sour ever since you saved my ass in Azzano… but Stels, I can't tell you what I went through there. I haven't been myself since I left home and I'm not sure I ever will be. But you know what? When I was still loopy and thought you were a hallucination you told me this: Just because I look different, just because I act different, doesn't mean I am different. I'm still Stella, Buck. I'm still your wife.

We'll I'm still your husband, punk. Don't ever doubt my vows to you. I'm with you 'till the end of the line.

Always yours with all my love,

Bucky

He's in a sea of white.

Warm soft, white, light and he thinks that this is it. No more war, darkness, and pain. This is home and somehow they've made it. He listens and strains to hear Stella's gentle humming to the radios jazzy thumping. He tries to move, groaning instead when he tries to say her name.

"Captain Barnes?" a soft voice calls from across the room. The reeling white noise begins to make sense and he realizes that there wasn't any music playing. It was the stats on the latest ball game.

"Captain Barnes?"

"M'not Captain Barnes. I'm Sergeant Barnes."

Something's wrong. Terribly, horrible, excruciatingly wrong. His left arm feels like its burning and he forces himself to focus on the radio's buzzing and make sense of what it's saying.

" – But the Dodgers have three men on…. What a game we have today, folks, what a game!"

No… that can't be right… It was in May of '40… he'd been there with a bunch of boys from the docks and their ladies. He's lurching because this can't be real… he had been at the game with Stella. He, Tony, and Joey and a few other guys from the docks had gone to it with their ladies. He'd saved up for months – and hiding money from Stella had never been an easy thing to do.

"Captain?" the voice sounds nervous, and he struggles to force himself awake. His body feels like lead and his left arm is pulsing in pain.

"Who the hell are you people?" he croaks, blinking his eyes open. He's encompassed by a sea of white sheets, the light of the window illuminating a room that smells sterile and new unlike anything from home. The nurse in front of him is fidgeting with big nervous, doe eyes… there was something wrong. Something that she was holding behind her…

It could be a gun.

He tries to get up, weakly, and he can barely stand. But something isn't right. He's coming to a realization that something is wrong with his arm.

He looks down, the sleeve cuffed…

He's greeted with nothing.

The pain is unbearable; his vision tunneling and he can hear the sound of his heart ragging out of his chest.

"Captain Barnes!?"

He screams.

Special Notes:
"Nuts" - WWII slang that is essentially the equivalent to "fuck you"
"Kiki" - 1940s slang for lesbians (comfortable with either a passive or aggressive partner)

A/N: So FFN decided to screw up my formatting by not allowing me to "strikeout" certain aspects of Bucky's letters (FFN in general is hella notorious for screwing up formatting/not saving corrected formatting/ corrupting formatting). It looks a lot better on AO3 (that let's me format how I want, dammit!) but oh well. If you wanna see what was crossed out check out my AO3 page or if you have a better idea about what I can do here lemme know.

Thank you to everyone who read and enjoyed :)

HMU on tumblr! I just reblog like a mad man on my main blog, but I'm always posting song playlists, photography, poetry, fan fiction chapters, and answer prompt requests (anything from "hey can you write this? too a couple sentences of a "fic drabble" that I complete) on my writing blog. Don't by shy to fire off requests and prompt ideas at me!
See you there ;)

main blog: miod-jak-mela
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