A one-shot that I've been working on, on and off, for a while now. Hope you like it! Honestly I really wanted to keep Toph as a little kid but I was thinking I might expand this and I have some ideas about that and if I end up going through with them then, well, she can't really be a kid anymore so I had to age her up.

Anyway, hope you enjoy this!

She calls herself Toph, and makes very strict rules about what he can or cannot do, where he can or cannot sleep, and tells him that under no circumstances should he touch her jasmine tea unless she gives him explicit permission to do so.

Normally, he would be pissed off with someone giving him orders, considering that all he can remember are orders, missions, kills, death, no choice in the matter, you have to do this, you have to do that, kill because you must, this is your mission. But she is practically half his height and one third his size, a tiny figurine made out of much tougher stuff than porcelain and not as blind as her milky-white eyes would have you think, and he says, okay.

Truth is, she finds him when he's surrounded by a bunch of HYDRA agents, in a massive junkyard far away from everything, determined to take the Asset in to be memory-wiped. The only reason he gets caught is because he'd slowed down to take a look in some rickety old shop that'd been selling something Captain-America-related, and it'd pulled at him (blond hair blue eyes skinny boy running through the street next to him asthmatic falling down breathing hard – no wait tall and strong and running and running like the wind never falling down not once), and he'd been so engrossed that he hadn't noticed the HYDRA agent who'd chanced upon the shop while doing some window-shopping and who'd immediately called it in. He should know better than that, he thinks. Both eyes open, always, hands on a weapon at all times.

Anyway, point is, he's surrounded, and they know all his weaknesses, and he's a goner, he knows he is, he's going to go down fighting because he's never going back there willingly never again –

And then the ground opens up and swallows them up.

There's the sound of a footstep behind him, a slight scuffling noise, and he picks up a metal trashcan lid and throws it straight at the source without thinking.

He is slightly taken aback when the metal lid is snatched out of the air by a young blind girl, who looks like she's barely out of her teens, stomping towards him with bare feet and a scowl on her face. "Are you damned crazy?" she wants to know. "I get a dustbin-lid Frisbee to my face for saving your life? What the hell?"

(This is partly why Toph starts calling him Captain Frisbee. The name tugs at something in his head, in his heart – blond head of hair blue eyes skinny frame coughing his lungs out no not so skinny but bigger bulkier stronger but still the same heart still the same goodness still the same person in those blue blue eyes – but he goes with it.)

She throws the metal lid back at his head furiously, and he catches it easily, and he wonders, how does someone so small have so much strength? But he doesn't ask, and she yells at him for another two minutes before asking, "Who the hell are you, anyway?"

He doesn't know. Not really. Names do not cling to his mind, to his tongue, and there's a rattle of words around his skull – they called him the Winter Soldier, he remembers that name, but it's wrong, doesn't feel right, not really – he remembers a man, tall and big and different but the same, blue-eyed and blond-haired and a look on his face he'll always remember, but remember from where, where – and he remembers a faint voice calling Sarge and a sweet voice saying James and a familiar, familiar voice saying–

"Don't know," he says, almost uncertainly, and he looks at this tiny, fragile-looking girl who just about reaches to his chest at her full height, thin and small and petite and ready to pack a punch, standing in the midst of a junkyard full of crap, and he remembers someone else, someone thin and small and petite and willing to put up a fight all day.

She doesn't ask him why the guys are after him. She just says she'll get rid of their weapons and dump them at the nearest police station. He says no, it's fine, he'll just kill them and be done with it.

The girl pauses, gives him a stink-eye glare so intense, a lesser man might've stepped back, especially when confronted with that milky-white, unseeing layer of film that are her eyes. But he doesn't, not him. He is – he doesn't know who he is, but he does not back down.

"I'm not killing anyone unless strictly necessary," she says, and before he can say anything, she says, "And I'm not letting anyone else kill anyone on my watch, if I can help it. If not the police station, then where am I gonna dump 'em?"

They get sent to the station after all, in a metal trap they put together from the junkyard crap, and they leave a note: To SHIELD, even though she says that the organisation doesn't exist anymore, but he knows HYDRA has something to do with SHIELD in a bad way and SHIELD is his best bet at dealing with these agents and he knows someone (circular shield metal as strong as steel and a third the weight and bright star shining in front) will get it and she manages to form the letters, slowly, painfully, on a piece of paper, before they send it over.

When that's done, he follows her back to her campsite, and as she clears the area of all traces of her being there and pulls on her pack, she asks, "You coming, Captain Frisbee?"

He knows he has to get away. He has to leave, before someone (blond hair blue eyes fellow from Brooklyn bright smile) finds him.

He should go on his own. He's dangerous.

But then again – she's just taken out a group of HYDRA's best by stomping her foot on the ground. Effortlessly. Without a thought.

Helped him just 'cause she could. No ulterior motives.

He finds himself saying, "Okay."

She doesn't ask questions. He is grateful, because he doesn't know how he'll answer them anyway. He doesn't have any answers. Just – flashes, he thinks. He doesn't know what's real, and what isn't. All he knows is this strange kid – "I'm not a kid, you arse, just because I'm petite doesn't mean I'm a tiny kid" – and sipping jasmine tea whenever she finds the time to make it.

"It helps," she says, that first night they set up camp together, and she passes him a metal cup of tea. They have retreated into trees and cold hard ground and the rustle of the wind in the leaves, away from the bright, flashing lights of the nearest city, and they both visibly relax when they do. She tells him her name is Toph, just Toph, and she makes him tea and tells him to "Shut up and drink it", and then sits with him until she decides she wants to sleep.

She stamps a foot on the ground and creates a tent of stone. His hand is already at one of his weapons.

She stamps another foot, and another stone tent slides up.

"If you want it," she says, and disappears into her own tent and seals it off to the world.

Somehow, for some reason, he sticks around. He doesn't ask if he can stay, she doesn't ask if he's coming with her. They move together, go from one place to the next – it's an easy kind of thing, he thinks. No questions asked. Just keep moving together.

He's pretty sure she's searching for something too, he just doesn't know what.

That's okay. He doesn't ask, she doesn't ask.

They fall into step next to each other.

He asks her about these strange things she does, with the earth, with the stone. How she can see so clearly even when she is blind. She tells him it is her very own skill set, thank you very much, and if he has problems with it he can leave. The way she moves reminds him of a type of martial arts of some sort, a hybrid or combination or some obscure form or something, and it is fascinating to watch, fascinating watching the earth respond to her call as she understands it and it understands her. She does strange things with the earth, puts up walls and tosses boulders and one time sinks people halfway down in them, a cage of stone, and she likes to throw rocks at his head, and she can do so many things he's never imagined.

His mind screams threat, terminate immediately but something else says do not attack.

She glares at him, so furiously, and he is thinking of another time, another place, someone young and small and scrawny glaring up at him angrily because he was sad and hurting and tired and so, so mad at the world because everything was so goddamn bloody unfair and everything hurt –

"Thanks for the tea," he says, instead, the words coming out funny because he's pretty sure the right thing to do is to thank her but the words are croaky and long-unsaid, and she nods.

He is still trying to find himself. He needs to know. Who the hell is he? What's his name? What's he doing here? What's he done? And sometimes he sits for hours on end just staring out into the horizon, spends hours on end battering into the nearest tree he can find, and he says to Toph, "Go on without me."

She lets out a snort of disbelief at this. "Who am I going to beat up otherwise?" she says, and she is referring, of course, to how she consistently has him flying around like a rag doll whenever they undergo one of their 'training sessions', and he feels the corners of his lips twitch upwards. Sometimes, of course, he wins their bouts, because her feet are her most vulnerable point and any enemy will aim for them first, and he trains her to keep herself on her toes, to be especially wary of any attacks aimed at the ground towards her. "You gotta stick around. I haven't had this much fun since – " the slightest pause, and her lighthearted tone of voice doesn't falter as she says " – in a long time."

Of course, he's had reservations about training with her, when she tries to spar. Protested against it, said he's too dangerous; it's dangerous enough to travel with her, and sparring with her is even worse – until she throws a rock at his head, and he's attacking her relentlessly until she's got him captive in a pile of rock, grinning and letting out an excited yell.

He relents after that.

(This is also partly because of the six-hour long lecture on how she can take care of herself, thank you very much, and obviously she can protect herself since she saved his ass, didn't she, and okay maybe he's exaggerating and it isn't really six hours but she's yelling at him that she can handle things just fine and not to underestimate her and she's not helpless or fragile and it comes to him in flashes, blond skinny boy in patched oversized clothes telling him I'm fine I can take care of myself – )

It feels good to be able to take his frustration out on something, send it into a constructive training session where she doesn't just pummel his arse but she yells at him about what he's done wrong and what he can do better. It's a good way to release all his anger, his rage, his frustration, especially because he knows she can take care of herself; she's always got some trick or other up her sleeve, and yells so much in her annoying voice, tough-love shouts that insult him and keeps him grounded to him, to who he is, keeps him from slipping back to being the Winter Soldier. She grinds his nose to the dirt with the amount of hard work she puts him through every time they train, she makes sure he improves, because he may be the Winter Soldier – is? was? – but there are many things this deceptively innocent-looking girl shows him he can work on. She'd be a good teacher, he thinks, vaguely; not everyone can take her form of tough-love and brutality when it comes to training, but she'd be a good teacher.

And it's good, he thinks. What she's doing. Training him to be even better. Not training the Winter Soldier, or the Asset. Training him. Whoever he is.

He thinks that maybe her training sessions are one of the main things that keep him from switching back to being the Winter Soldier. That keep him focused, on track, keeps him on being himself.

That, and the jasmine tea.

(It's actually very good tea, though he'll never tell that to her face. He can already imagine the smug look on it.)

Sometimes they just sit around and talk, usually with a cup of jasmine tea. It is easy to talk to her; she talks a lot about her friends, though she never gives actual names, just tells him stories and sometimes she describes her friends and their personalities so vividly that they feel more real to him than anything else.

She never gives details, never gives locations or any kind of hint about who they really are. She tells him about the kind of people they are, occasional stupid things they've gotten themselves into without revealing anything more than necessary. She is very careful, when she talks about them, but she can't stop the love from slipping into her voice.

He doesn't ask why she's on the run all alone, if she's got friends like them.

Slowly, he talks, too. He tries to remember what he can – sometimes he thinks that she'll just run off and leave him because he can't do this right, he's just dragging her down – and sometimes he thinks she'll just yell at him about it because sometimes she yells at him when they train, shouting that she can't help him if he doesn't even want to help himself with his stupid scrap metal of arm.

But she doesn't. She doesn't pressurise him so much about his memories. Just lets him talk. Talk about what he can remember, which isn't much. Running around Brooklyn. Working at the docks. Training for the war. And running into alleyways to defend – someone? Yes, someone. And fighting, watching people through the scope and firing a shot, best sniper they had. Lots of laughter, smell of ash and cigarette smoke and the damp woods.

She listens. She doesn't force him to do anything. And she doesn't know anything about him, so she can't correct him, just lets him talk to himself and figure out what he's got confused.

At times like this, she's gentler. It's a different side of her that he doesn't see much, that he only ever sees when he starts to talk, when he starts to remember his past in bits and pieces.

But sometimes she catches him standing stiffly and looking out, and she leaves a cup of jasmine tea next to him and leaves him alone. Sometimes she throws a rock at his head, because she knows he'll catch it, and tells him that C'mon, Captain Frisbee, there's stuff to be done, don't just sit around being pathetic and useless, and he crushes the rock in his metal arm and follows her.

She gives him – direction, somewhat. It's better than nothing.

(That's what he tells himself.)

They get along well. Mostly because they don't ask questions, apart from their talks with jasmine tea. Even then, none of them really pry all that much. Toph sometimes asks questions to probe a little to help him remember, small things like what kind of plants were there around and whether it was raining and things like that, not really anything too personal that hurts his head hurts his heart to remember, and sometimes he asks her to clarify one or two things in her stories about her friends.

It works decently.

They work well together, getting food and surviving and keeping their eyes open (or in her case, her feet glued to the ground) for any possible undesirables who want to have them hunted down. He usually goes to get food, because he can pull a sweater and glove over his metal arm and he's a lot less attention-attracting than a blind girl, and she provides the money. Lots of times, though, she shoves on a pair of sunglasses and follows him when he gets food and whatever supplies they need, because she's bored and she likes to people-watch. He doesn't ask where she gets the money from, because her bag seems to keep an endless supply of things – metal tins and cups, cutlery, a never-ending supply of jasmine tea, and a bunch of spare clothes, along with many other odds and ends she occasionally springs up to surprise him with.

Once, she orders him to use the public showers and take a goddamn shower, because he stinks and her nose is very sensitive, thank you very much. They get him spare clothes and she drags up a bunch of toiletries like soap and all that and she pushes him in the direction of the toilet, surprisingly strong for someone so small.

It's more or less forced on him, but he's kind of grateful she did, because seriously, he feels a lot better after a hot shower. He's grateful she's so stubborn. She doesn't like to take no for an answer.

Besides, she gives him his alone time, and he gives her hers. So they're together but not together and they work.

"What did you do?" he asks, once, when she hauls him away from a nearby town because she senses some people that she doesn't want to meet there, and they make a run for it, as far and as fast as they can.

"People don't like me," she says. "What about you?"

"I exist," he says, and she nods, like she understands.

And strangely enough, he thinks she does.

Sometimes, they have nightmares. Toph can usually keep hers down, because she builds up more walls around her tent to prevent her cries from reaching his ears, but it doesn't feel right to him that she should deal with this on her own and he tells her so; he can hear her shouting, sometimes, screaming, and it twists him up inside.

"I can take care of myself," she snaps, angrily, and throws a rock at his head, which he catches unflinchingly.

"I know you can," he says. "I'm just saying I want to help, if you will let me. You don't have to do everything alone."

It feels strange, this. Offering help. Putting himself out for someone, because it's strange, weird, but it's right, he knows it is, this is how it's supposed to be. Helping people, being there for them, being there for his friends –

Friend – is Toph a friend?

There is an odd look on her face that he cannot read.

"Thanks," she finally says, and he thinks maybe, just maybe, she really means it.

When it's his turn to have a nightmare, things are quite different.

He's thrashing inside his stone tent when the walls come down and she barks "Wake up, Captain Frisbee!", standing a few feet away from him, because he's told her bits and pieces, and about the risk of possibly killing her on instinct, and she should be careful.

He pins her against a tree with his metal arm, watches her milky-white eyes bulge for a second as he tightens his grip on her throat, because threat must terminate she must be terminated threat –

And then some force of nature has taken control of his arm, has dragged it (and him, by extension) through the air and against the other side of the clearing where they've set up camp, and his metal arm is held up, frozen in place, as Toph collapses onto the ground, one hand massaging her neck and the other held up, palm facing him.

It takes him two seconds to realise that she's the reason why his arm is trapped.

Threat, his mind provides. Threat, to be dismantled, to be taken care of – must not put the mission in jeopardy –

"Snap out of it, Captain Frisbee!" Toph snaps, and when blank eyes fix on her and he continues to struggle, movements stiff, movements more Winter-Soldier than whoever-he-is the rest of the time, she seems to realise something is wrong.

She pins him there, pins him until the sun rises and she's talked for the whole night, talked and talked and talked about everything and nothing in particular. She tells him stories, stories about creatures called badgermoles and a whole different world, where people are separated by elements and there are people called benders who control these elements, and there is a young boy who can control all four elements and he is a reincarnation of every person before him who has controlled all four elements before, part of a never-ending cycle that is as old as the world itself. She talks about a girl who is beautiful and brave and kind and terrible, and a boy with the heart of a warrior and a heart of gold, and an exiled prince, and a brave female warrior, and a wise old man who helps anyone that he can, and a terrible war that lasted a hundred years and the young boy who finally brought it to an end with his friends by his side. She talks and talks and talks until he finally relaxes and a voice cracks out: "Toph?"

She drops any control she's had over his metal arm immediately.

This is when he finds out that Toph can control metal. She calls it metalbending, and she created it entirely on her own, using her knowledge of earth and stone. It's impressive, he will admit, but he is angry about not having been told she can control his arm.

"Why would I do that?" she says, and she refuses to look anywhere near him, staring at the ground instead, and its strikes him that he's never seen her look like this before, like an actual, fragile child to be protected. "It would have just made you paranoid. I never would have done it, never would have used it, unless I really needed to."

Like today, the words hang in the air, unspoken.

She sits in her stone tent the rest of the day, the air tense and silent, until he brings her a cup of jasmine tea he's tried to make, and she sips at it and touches her throat again.

"Worst tea ever, Tinhand," she says, and punches him in the metal arm, and he knows that this is her way of saying that all is forgiven.

It feels familiar, this punch on the arm, though he thinks, he's not sure, see, but he thinks that it didn't hurt so much, once upon a time, when someone punched him in the arm for doing something stupid that he's got to apologise for.

"Come on, sit with me," says Toph, and she drags him down with her surprising strength and they lean back against the wall of her stone tent – she gets rid of the opposite wall quickly, makes the wall they're leaning on vertical, so he's looking out at the sun moving across the sky, slowly, grey clouds creeping in, so it's not too hot, not at all.

"You know, Tinhand," she says, swirling the tea and drinking it, and he knows that his tea's not so bad, after all, if she's still drinking it, because if it's really that bad she'd have tossed it at his head; "you're not half bad."

"Yeah?" he wants to know.

She nods, brings one knee up to rest her head on, hands still clutching the tea. "Yeah."

"Why did you take me in?" he says, one day, and she grins at him slightly, turning into one her shit-eating smirks that he knows so well, now.

"Oh, so it's me taking you in now?" she says. "Not you taking me in?"

(It has been a point of debate for them, these past few weeks. Toph insists that she took him in, but he likes to argue that technically, he took her in and looked after her too, and he gets another punch for his troubles and sometimes a rock thrown at his head. He thinks, though, it's really her that took him in, more than anything. But it's a good topic up for debate.)

"Got to know when to admit defeat," he says, and finds the corner of his mouth twitching upwards slightly; she has this funny effect on him, Toph does, makes the corners of his mouth move up slightly. She yells a lot and she calls him stupid things and likes to throw rocks at his head and sometimes when she feels like training she makes him do things even strenuous for him as she practices what she calls earthbending, but it is – okay – pretty okay – being around her.

"Actually, it was supposed to be just the tea," she says. "I was in a pretty bad place, once, and this old guy I knocked down sat down with me and made me tea and we had a good talk. And it helped. Really helped. And you seemed like you were in a pretty bad place. So. My attempt at a good deed."

She shrugs.

"It was more than just tea," he says, and gestures around to the remnants of five months of travelling together. It's a pretty good deal, he thinks. He looks out for her. She looks out for him. They look out for each other.

Point is, it's not just tea, it's travelling, fighting, living, learning, forming bonds –

(Making campfires keeping a hand on their weapons at all times bonds forged in blood and war and fight and death – )

"Why'd you keep me around so long after the tea?" he wants to know.

"You're pretty decent to have around," she says, and there is a funny, warm feeling in his chest area and he looks at her and he wants to say something but he doesn't know what, and there is something good here, he thinks, it's a precious moment, a fragile moment; and then she jumps up and says, "C'mon, I wanna train!"

His eyebrow twitches but he gets to his feet, and he spends the next few hours defending himself against attacks from flying rocks and other similar projectiles and earth-based attacks.

She calls him out, one day, for being a coward and not even attempting to find out who he is. They have been travelling together for about six and a half months, now, and finally she snaps one day and they have a massive argument. It is pure luck that they are in a deserted canyon far from any cities or towns, because when she gets mad the earth starts exploding around her.

They yell and scream for what feels like hours and hours, and he doesn't know what to do because he thought she understood but here they are, opposite ends of a chasm, screeching their voices hoarse at each other. He thought she understood, thought she could accept him, everything that he is, bruised and battered and broken.

But she yells. She wants to help him, she can't help him if she doesn't want to help himself. Does he want to stay injured and broken and hurt? Because she's pretty sure he does, the way he's going about doing things. But that's just what he wants, isn't it? If he's not at full strength he can't claim responsibility for whatever he's done and what he has to do, doesn't he?

He shouts. It was her idea to keep him around, wasn't it? He'd wanted to leave, she'd made him stay – what, was she just a lonely little kid who needed someone to boss around because that was all she had in her life? He didn't ask for her help, she offered to stick around, and just shut the hell up because you don't know what you're talking about –

(Everything hurts, because her words slap him in the face, ring true in his ears. Doe he not want to get better? Doesn't he want to get better? Find out who he is? Doesn't he want to remember that blond idiot who could never run away from a fight – that's it, isn't it, stupid kid in Brooklyn who never knew how to back down from a fight he couldn't win – )

((And remember, even more clearly, all the people he's killed, all the harm he does, and the blond man with the blue eyes and the shield, and he has to pay for what he's done, he has to step up for it, doesn't he – ))

And they shout, and they yell, and they're both furious and mad and full of anger and words, nasty, awful words, are coming out of both their mouths.

He sees her cry for the first time, angry tears that spill down her cheeks now turning brown from the sun after travelling for so long. He has never seen her cry before.

They find different campsites that night, near enough to know where the other is but far away enough to not have to talk to her, and they travel this way for three days, never interacting but never far away, the air thick and tense between them, loaded with words said and unsaid, before he snaps.

He's got to apologise. Has to make this right.

He wonders why he's so concerned about this.

She's the only friend he's got, he thinks. She's the only one who's stuck around, the only one who's willingly been there for him, forced him into doing things and giving him direction, something to do with his life.

And, well, she was right.

He sits in the entrance of her stone tent as she marches back up towards it after a solo training session in a clearing not far away, and she crosses her arms and stares blankly in his direction and he looks up and stares right back at her.

There is a moment of silence, and then –

"I'm sorry – "

"I need to apologise – "

They stop, look at each other in something like surprise.

"Please," he says, and she takes a deep breath.

"I need to apologise for that day," she says, squeezing her eyes shut. "I was mad, and I was angry, and I was pissed with myself because I wanted to help but I didn't know how. I didn't have any right to say any of those things to you, I don't even know what you've been through. And. I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry."

"I'm sorry," he says, immediately. "You were right. I am trying to run away from responsibility. I can't even bring myself to find proper leads on who I am and who I used to be. I'm sorry I was so harsh. You didn't deserve any of it. You're – " he pauses, swallows " – you're good for me. Good to me."

"You're not so bad yourself, Tinhand," she says, finally, and she smiles, which turns into a shit-eating grin as she drops onto the ground next to him and punches his metal arm.

The corners of his lips twitch upwards.

He's going to sleep when he hears her singing, one night. He doesn't bother creeping around her, because she'll know he's there anyway, and he walks up behind her and leans against the stone tent that she's put up for him as she sits outside her own, drawing circles in the dirt and singing to herself.

"What's that?" he wants to know.

"C'mon, Tinhand," she says, gestures for him to sit next to her. She's doing a lot of this recently, he realises, calling him to sit with her, and he complies easily. Feels like it fits, somehow. Him sitting next to her.

He doesn't touch her, of course. Nothing too familiar. Doesn't look like she'll appreciate it, if he even so much as nudges her with his arm. No physical contact, none at all. They just sit together, and it feels okay, somehow.

"I knocked down this old guy on the road, once," says Toph. "And we became friends. He's kind of like a mentor to me. Pretty much like a dad. Took me in a couple of years back and looked after me," and she takes another sip from her cup of jasmine tea, and he wonders if she's got an addiction to the stuff. "Anyway. His son died. In a war."

He bows his head.

Smell of campfire, cheap drink, cigarette smoke fills him – a group of him, them, sitting around, enjoying the moment while they can, because you never know when you're going to die – never know when you're gonna get killed out there on the battlefield fighting for your country and your freedom and your life –

War. Sniper. Fight, shoot, laugh with your comrades, your soldiers, your friends, your family. Look out for each other, have each other's backs. He remembers – something.

Knows what it's like. Fight in a war. Risk your life every day.

What war did he fight in?

"He had this song he'd sing every year," Toph continues. "Anniversary of Lu Ten's death."

It's the first time she's ever let a name slip out, and he thinks that this song must be very important.

She hums first, slowly, softly. She hums, and then they turn into words, and she sings for him, and maybe her voice isn't that good, her voice isn't fantastic, but words flow over him, words and sadness and so much emotion what emotion, and she sings.

"Leaves from the vine, falling so slow; like fragile, tiny shells, drifting in the foam…"

He remembers. He remembers something. Is that – Dum Dum, he thinks. Dum Dum Dugan. 107th. Fought together, they did, longer than anyone else. Him and Gabe Jones, funny guy, good with languages, all in the 107th together. Dernier? Asshat liked to speak French just because they weren't so good with it, got to know English perfectly well. Falsworth with his stupid uppity accent, always had a go at the guy and his rich arse, always let them put a drink on his tab every once in a while. Jim Morita, great at communications, put up a good fight, looked after them, he did.

Laughing, talking. Fight. Complain about – Carter? He thinks her name's Carter – complaining about Carter's physical training together. And Colonel Phillips, likes to act the asshat, but he's okay, really. Good conversations. Tells them about – sisters? Yeah, that's right, he's got sisters. Pretty things. Always ready to punch whoever's looking at them funny. Complained they'd never get a date, what with him around, but they appreciated it. Tells them about – Brooklyn. He's pretty sure it's Brooklyn. Crappy place. Running through the streets, working at the docks. Got to make money, pile it all together, look out for each other.

"Little soldier boy, come marching home – "

Blond man – skinny kid, struggling to breathe, has to stop after a run – asthma? Yes, that's it – running along the streets of – New York? Brooklyn, is that Brooklyn – turned bigger, he did, got taller, don't know how – took care of him now, he did – watched each other's backs, still getting into fights, into scraps, they're brothers in all but blood –

"Brave soldier boy, comes marching home."

Home. What's home? Find his way, gotta find his way back. He's a soldier, isn't he? 107th – Sergeant – Sergeant what? He doesn't know, goddammit – he's got to know his name, he's going to find out – but he knows, he is a soldier, he's a good man, fights for freedom and individual rights and goodness, he knows he is –

And he's gonna make his way back home.

"That was – "

It takes him a second to realise the voice is his, choked up and raspy and difficult to form words.

"That was beautiful," he says, finally. It's all he can say, all he can manage to say.

"Brave soldier boy," she repeats, softly, "comes marching home."

Hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it! Do let me know what you think!