𝐇𝐎𝐏𝐄

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November 6th, 1943

          PEGGY DROPPED into the seat across from her friends. She had postponed her work for that morning. It was unlikely that anyone would notice. She had some information that the other women would be interested in hearing.

"They could still be alive."

Alice looked up. She had been trying to get Gwen to eat at least some of her porridge. No one could live on coffee and cigarettes the way Gwen had been since she had lost Lawrence. "Who is still alive?"

"They were with the 107th and other Allied squads. We have intelligence that the majority of them were apprehended rather than killed. Last night, we received the decripts from London. It took me a couple of hours to double-check everything."

Alice's hand, which was holding the bowl, froze in mid-air. "Peggy. You could get into a lot of trouble if anyone finds out that you told us that."

But if it were true, and they were still alive...

"No one notices the women talking, and we need our nursing staff to work to their full potential." Peggy said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world for her to commit treason for her friends.

"Thank you. I can't tell you how much it helps. Hope is everything." Gwen said softly. Alice noticed a spark return to her friend's eyes for the first time since they had cried together.

Martha perked up on the bench next to Peggy. "We should all go to the USO show tomorrow. It'll be a welcome distraction. Keep you from being anxious about them. It was quite the spectacle, according to my cousin, who saw it in Detroit. The Captain America Tour, in her opinion, is the best show since "Top Hat."

Peggy made a sour face at the mention of the 'Captain America Tour'. "I may have work to do during the afternoon. War waits for no man."

"What's wrong, Peggy? You don't like a handsome man in stars and stripes?" There was something almost hopeful in Martha's question.

"Actually, I quite like the man in the stars and stripes. He's a nice man that I met while in the United States. I'm just not convinced that being a showgirl is the best use of his skills."

"I don't know that it is the best use of anyone's skills," Gwen commented dryly. As she grabbed the dish of porridge from Alice, her hands were jerky. She ate, however, with some of her old grit.

"However, if there are girls in the show to accompany the walking flag, which it appears there are, the guys will be singing whatever song they chose for weeks, and you know it will be annoying if we don't know the words."

Alice squeezed her friend around the shoulders. "I think that is unhappy-Gwen-speak for 'we're going'."
  

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November 3, 1943

Bucky wasn't sure how long he'd been there. The last few days had begun to blur together into an endless storm of drugs and pain.

He remembered being grabbed, how the diminutive scientist had pointed at him, and two Hydra thugs had seized his arms and dragged him away. He hadn't even been given the dignity of being able to walk himself to his end.

Of course he'd fought them, for all the good it had done. He'd previously been deemed unable to work due to his bruises and sores. Fighting two heavily armed troops alone had become nearly impossible, but he had no choice but to try.

And with each step his hope of escape had grown farther and farther away.

Because the rumors turned out to be true. The allied troops didn't matter to Zola, nor did any information the detainees could provide. No, he was looking for results.

For what, Bucky didn't know.

What followed was a brusque kind of physical, recording blood pressure, heart rate, that sort of thing.

He didn't remember much after that.

He remembered being in pain and hearing someone scream. His throat stung so horribly that he suspected it must have been him. He hadn't told them anything, though. He understood that even through the haze.

Just his name and the number stamped on his dog tags.

Barnes, James Buchanan, Sergeant, 32557038.

There were intervals of blissful unconsciousness in between. He had no idea how much time had passed; all he knew was that nothing hurt for a short time. And he had the ability to fantasize. Dreams of a June field of wildflowers, a warm smile, and beautiful blue and hazel eyes.

He was just about to fade out when he heard hurried footsteps enter the chamber.

He recognized Zola's frantic shuffling. The little man, however, did not approach him this time. He scurried around the room like a terrified mouse, opening and closing drawers, gathering files and scraps of paper before fleeing, leaving Bucky alone.

Then he heard another set of footsteps enter the room. Heavier, slower.

Even half-delirious, Bucky firmed his resolve. He hadn't broken before. He wouldn't break now.

"Barnes, James Buchanan, Sergeant, 32557038..."

He repeated it over and over, tongue stumbling clumsily over the mumbled words.

The figure rushed towards him, and at the sound of his name, he opened his eyes.

A tall man in a worn leather jacket and a helmet that, in better lighting, might have been blue, stood above him.

Bucky blinked blearily up at him. He knew that face. Why did he know that face?

As they saw how he'd been fastened down to the table, heavy leather bands bound his wrists and ankles, edges stained with blood from his repeated attempts to free himself, blue eyes peered down at him in terror.

"Oh, god!" The man sprung into action right away, unlocking the buckles that chained his ankles, wrists, and finally the hefty belt that hung over his chest.

Oh... now he knew that face.

"It's me," the man said desperately. "It's Steve."

"Steve?"

But it couldn't be Steve. Steve was back in Brookelyn. Steve was safe. Steve was small. Unless... 

Oh... that explains it. 

He was dead. He had to be.

They'd send an angel who looked like his best friend, of course. It couldn't possibly be anyone else. This was Steve at his healthiest, as he should have been all along. Bucky was bewildered as to why angel-Steve was clad in military uniforms.

This angel-Steve was unexpectedly strong, lifting him up off the table where he'd sat for so long that he was sure his body would leave an indelible imprint on it.

"Come on."

"Steve -- " Every movement hurt. Wasn't the pain supposed to end when you died?

Steve cast a short glance over him, gently placing one palm on his forehead before swiftly pulling away, relief seen in those familiar eyes. "I thought you were dead."

Bucky blinked at him again, his balance wavering. Oh. Perhaps he was still alive after all. From Steve's strong shoulders to his thickly booted feet, and back up to his face, his gaze traveled down his physique.

"I thought you were smaller."

The hall resonated with the distorted sound of explosions. Steve returned his gaze before refocusing on him. Then his eyes caught up something behind Bucky, and he couldn't bring himself to glance back since he was too preoccupied with not falling.

Steve flung one of Bucky's arms over his shoulders and helped him stagger out of the lab as gently as he could. "Come on."

Alright, so he definitely was not dead. If he was, he had a complaint to take up with big guy upstairs. But he'd reserve his grumblings till after they'd gotten out of there. And as they rushed out of the lab, he couldn't get one question out of his head.

"What happened to you?"

He felt more than saw his friend smile. "I joined the army."

The factory was in a state of disarray. As Bucky regained his composure, Steve revealed what he'd done: broken into the facility, freed the other inmates, and incited a riot. Bucky, on the other hand, was more concerned about Steve and his change.

"Did it hurt?"

"A little," he admitted. Which was Steve-speak for 'a whole hell of a lot'. The little punk never would admit to being hurt, even after yet another attempt to face down some big bruiser that was double his size.

Well, least the odds were a little more even now. It just figured that the moment Steve got big he'd set his sights on fighting an entire damn army.

"Is it permanent?" He wondered.

Steve shrugged again. "So far."

Suddenly, the factory floor was rocked by a series of explosions. When Steve and Bucky emerged from the tunnel onto one of the gridiron catwalks that overlooked the factory floor, they discovered the entire building was engulfed in flames. This time, there would be no way out the front door.

They ducked, recoiling from another blast that sent a gout of searing flame high into the air.

They'd have to go higher.

With Steve in the lead, they raced up the metal stairway to the third level, where a catwalk crossed to the other side.

Then a voice called out from the other side. Heavy, German, familiar.

Bucky's blood ran cold.

A tall man in a long, leather coat stood across the catwalk. They could make out his sharply sculpted features and dark hair swept back from a widow's peak even in the dim light. Bucky believed his name was Schmidt. Zola stood behind him, his tweed suit hidden beneath a wool cloak. Bucky's heart raced as he saw him.

"Captain America, how exciting!" The man's voice boomed over the crackling flames. "I am a great fan of your films."

As Steve moved to join them, he moved closer and stepped onto the catwalk. Bucky stumbled forward, scarcely able to stand, let alone restrain the wall of muscle that had grown around his friend.

"So, Doctor Erskine managed it after all," the man in the leather coat mused. "Not exactly an improvement, but still, impressive."

Steve didn't bother to respond at all. Instead, he took a step forward and slammed his fist into Schmidt's face.

Bucky couldn't help but smile a bit as the man fell back a few paces.

Yep, that was definitely Steve.

"You've got no idea."

Schmidt's hand came to his jaw, rubbing it contemplatively. Then he straightened. "Haven't I?" He stepped forward, swinging his fist towards Steve in return.

He was ready for the strike, raising his shield to deflect the impact. Schmit struck with such power that his knuckles left a definite imprint in the solid metal sheet, which he wasn't expecting.

Steve straightened, reaching for the pistol at his right side, but Schmidt was quicker, punching him in the face and knocking him to his back, the pistol skittering across the metal walkway and into the flames.

Schmidt took a determined step forward, focusing on the man in front of him, but Steve retaliated by slamming both booted feet into Schmidt's chest and pushing him back.

The walkway began to creak as both men got to their feet, dividing along the middle. Zola, it appeared, had pressed the retraction lever. Schmidt turned to give the little man a caustic, paint-peeling stare, irritated that their argument had been interrupted.

"No matter what lies Erskine told you," Schmidt called across the divide. "You see, I was his greatest success!" 

The crackling light from below flickered over his face, giving him a demonic appearance, which was exacerbated by the bleeding crimson ring that now surrounded his eyes. He yanked on his collar, and like a Halloween mask, his face peeled away, revealing a gleaming crimson skull beneath, muscle and tendon melded together like a second skin beneath the first.

Bucky stared in horror, unsure that he had really just seen what had happened, or if it was a nightmarish hallucination. "You don't have one of those, do you?" He asked softly. He hoped not. He liked Steve with his face on.

Numbly, Steve shook his head.

"You are deluded, Captain," Schmidt continued. "You pretend to be a simple soldier, but in reality, you are just afraid to admit that we have left humanity behind."

He threw what was left of his human face into the fire below, as if to emphasize his point. Then he turned around and joined Zola at the far elevator's entrance. "Unlike you, I embrace it proudly. Without fear."

"Then how come you're running?" Steve asked as the men stepped through the door.

Bucky shook his head, but the motion was enough to make him dizzy. When the building they were in was burning down around them, he could count on Steve to want to confront a walking nightmare.

Schmidt didn't respond; instead, he and Zola entered the elevator and shut the door between them just as one of the machines below detonated.

At the very least, this seemed to jolt Steve out of his trance. He had to get them out of there. He looked about, hunting for another way out, and his gaze dull upon a huge girder one floor about them.

It was their last remaining option.

"Come on," he said, guiding Bucky towards the stairs. "Let's go. Up."

He raced up the stairs, Bucky clambering close behind.

The girder was steady, solid enough for a heavy pulley to be mounted to the underside. It would carry their weight. It had to.

"One at a time," Steve instructed, keeping Bucky steady as he climbed slowly over the railing.

Bucky pressed his mouth into a firm line, gaze intent as he inched his way across the gantry. His legs shook with every step but he pressed on.

Another explosion rattled the beam beneath him, sending connecting rivets flying into the raging flames below. The beam jolted beneath his feet, dropping several inches. He was hardly able to hold his balance. Bucky sprinted the final distance, hurling himself onto the railing as the girder collapsed beneath his feet, leaving Steve trapped on the other side.

Bucky swung himself over the railing and clung to it, panting, glancing between his best friend and the burning factory floor between them. "There has to be a rope or something!"

"Just go!" Steve shouted, waving him away. "Get out of here!"

He could see clearly that there was no other option. He'd gotten Bucky out, though. The other soldiers were set free. He'd completed the task for which he'd come. And if this is the price he has to pay to do it, then so be it.

Bucky could see it in his friend's eyes, the resignation. And refused to accept it. "No! Not without you!" If Steve wasn't going to leave this factory, then neither would he. 

I'm sorry, Ally. 

She would understand. There was no way she would leave her friends behind either.

Steve looked around, searching for something he'd overlooked. Then he shook his head as a completely insane thought came to him. He leaned forward and twisted the railing in front of him to make room for him to move, then retreated to the platform's far end, bracing his hands on the metal railings that framed it.

Bucky could do nothing but watch in helpless disbelief as his friend steadied himself.

Surely Steve wasn't going to do what he thought he was going to do. That leap would be impossible for any man to make. But then he thought about Schmidt. Steve's change may have made him more than human as well. Bucky could only hope that it was enough.

He could see the moment that Steve decided to jump. That helpless shrug right before he launched himself forward to fly over the flames.

For a moment it seemed he wouldn't make it, and then a solid figure crashed into the railing right in front of Bucky. As he stepped over the railing, he instinctively reached out and grabbed the sleeves of Steve's jacket to anchor himself. They clung to each other for a brief while, trembling with shock.

He'd done it. Through some miracle, he'd actually done it.

But there was no time to celebrate, as they were well reminded as two more heavy machines exploded below. They had to go.

They raced for the stairs, skipping whatever step they could till they reached the ground floor, not trusting the elevator. Someone had closed the door to the factory level, preventing the destruction of the lower hallway. At the very least, the explosions.

However, it was evident that the lower floors had seen some intense action. The bodies were strewn across the floor, the most of whom were dressed in the black uniforms of Hydra soldiers, but a few of whom they recognized as escaped POWs.

No matter how badly they wanted to, they couldn't stop. They rushed through a door to the outside after racing through the halls. As the door slammed shut behind them, they paused, leaning against the concrete wall, taking a moment to catch their breath.

Bucky slid down the wall and slumped on the icy ground, his hands scrubbing his face. His aching body still shook from the adrenaline rush, but he didn't seem to notice. He was no longer a prisoner. He was alive and he was free, and Steve was here, strong and robust and, quite frankly, quite unbelievable.

He didn't even notice the relieved tears flowing down his face, and Steve, bless his heart, didn't even remark them.

As the released allied soldiers began a final search of the grounds, Steve just sat with him, resting against him in the dark. "We gotta move, Buck. We're too exposed and the others are waiting."

Right, waiting. They weren't safe yet. Wouldn't be until they passed back into Allied Territory. "Yeah. Give me a sec."

When all he wanted to do was curl up in a corner and sleep forever, it took more effort than he cared to admit to somehow get himself to his feet. Bucky was eventually able to pull himself upright after a fight that was far from graceful.

I'm coming back, Alice. 

God help me, but I'm coming.