Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Annie Hudson stepped into the examination room, the door groaning shut behind her. The linoleum floor was warped and yellowed, curling at the edges like it was trying to escape the corners of the room. Dust caught the light from the flickering overhead fixture, and the air smelled like alcohol swabs and late spring-damp walls. Somewhere in the building, a typewriter clacked out a report with no urgency.

She tugged at the cuffs of her borrowed shirt and kept her shoulders square, her eyes flicking to the curtained window. It was hot in Bangor this time of year. Hot enough that each breath felt heavy with humidity, even inside.

Although as hot as it was outside and in, it wasn't the reason for Annie's shaking hands and the sweat pooling in itchy drips down the back of her neck. No, she was anxious. But she wasn't given much time to dwell on her growing feeling of anxiety as the door creaked open again behind her.

A man shuffled in — or more accurately, lurched — like the floor was pitching beneath him. His coat hung open over a stained vest, and his eyes were bleary behind wire-rimmed glasses. The scent of whiskey hit before he spoke.

"Hello, Mr. Hudson. I'm Dr. Victor Langford," he said with a hiccup and a crooked smile. "I'll be handling your army physical today."

Annie gave a sharp nod, ignoring the way her stomach tightened at the sound of Mister. It still hit funny, even when it was what she needed. Especially when it was what she needed.

Doctor Langford wandered the room like he wasn't sure why he'd come in. He tapped his pen against the clipboard with a distracted rhythm, checked her ears and throat, pressed along her spine, and poked her knees with a reflex hammer a little harder than Annie really thought was necessary. In all of this, He didn't meet her eyes once.

"You're in perfect health," he slurred, scribbling something that looked more like a squiggle than a signature. "Don't know why a skinny boy like you wants to go to war."

Annie gave a noncommittal shrug. Her mouth stayed shut as she tried not to clench her sweating palms.

"There's plenty of... of..." He waved a vague hand. "Positions. God knows we need the men."

He was close now. Too close. The stench of booze burned her nose.

She resisted the urge to lean back. She needed this.

He handed her a folded slip of paper — enlistment approval, or something close enough — and stumbled toward the door. "Give that to the nurse," he mumbled. Then he was gone.

Annie got dressed slowly, fingers stiff with cold. She pulled her cap low over her cropped curls, tucked her gloves into her belt, and stepped back into the hallway. The old school building echoed with every step. Voices murmured from other rooms. One of them sounded like a boy crying.

At the front desk, a nurse with dark circles under her eyes and a cigarette smoldering in an ashtray took the paper without looking up.

"Thank you. Drive safely," she said, monotone, and dropped the form into a dented blue box marked 1A.

Annie paused. The corners of her mouth lifted into something almost like a smile.

"Thank you," she said. "Have a good day."

The nurse didn't answer. Didn't need to.

Outside, the wind bit straight through Annie's coat.

But she'd done it.

She was in.

Outside, sunlight seared through the thick heat. Annie shielded her eyes and let out a breath. Ninety-four degrees—unusually hot for Maine, and made worse by the stillness in the air. Even the trees looked wilted. She stretched her arms over her head, rolled her shoulders back, and crossed the gravel lot toward her father's borrowed town car. The tan paint shimmered in the sun like it was made of brass, and even with the windows rolled down, the vinyl seats burned against her legs.

The engine hummed to life with a low and old, yet familiar rattle behind the dashboard. She shifted into gear and pulled onto the road. The streets were nearly empty since most of the town's sons had already left for Boston—or farther.

Uptown, she passed the park where families lingered under patches of shade, clinging to what little joy remained. Children laughed. Fathers held hands with mothers like it was their last summer on Earth. Everyone else wore the same expression: drawn, distant, unsure.

When she reached the Malt Shoppe, she stared at the faded sign that creaked above the door: Last Stop Malt Shoppe, with chipped white paint curling off the edges. It had been named years ago by the owner's wife, Mrs. Dart, since it was indeed the last malt shoppe before the stretch up to Arcadia National Park.

Annie stared at the building for a long moment, just breathing in the faintly sour air and watching the little open sign flicker weakly from behind the gleaming glass window. Annie parked in the back, placed her hat and gloves on the front seat, and stepped out carefully, lifting the hem of her plain blue-and-white dress so it wouldn't catch in the car door like it always did.

Inside, the shop buzzed with life. The scent of sugar, cream, and scorched syrup filled the air. A fan clacked rhythmically in the corner. Soldiers on leave clustered in booths with their caps on the table as they sat eased back but anxious looking. Couples huddled over sundaes. Kids darted between stools that squeaked on the checkerboard tile.

Somewhere on the clustered shelf of photographs to the left of the large red counter, a black and silver trimmed radio mumbles swing music through static.

Behind the counter, Jane Dart worked the register, a white apron tied over a green cotton dress. Her red lipstick made her tan skin catch the overhead light in warm amber tones. She looked up and smiled as Annie approached through the bustling parlor.

Annie slipped behind the counter, tied her own apron neatly, and pulled on a paper dipper hat, tucking her curls in tight. Then she headed for the ice cream bar and braced herself for the lunch rush.

—

The bell above the door chimed again, letting in a gust of humid air that clung to the floor like a wet blanket. Annie didn't look up—she was wrist-deep in Rocky Road, the scoop slipping stubbornly against a dense vein of fudge. Behind her, Jane ducked low to grab cones from the rack, nearly bumping Annie's elbow and knocking her off balance.

"Careful, you almost took me out," Annie muttered, bracing the tub with her hip.

"I warned you not to lean that far into the freezer," Jane said, her voice sugarcoated for the customers as she handed off a triple-scoop cone. "Have a sweet one!" she added, all teeth and retail charm.

The customer barely nodded or even looked away from his brunette date.

Jane rolled her eyes the second they had turned away.

Annie wiped her forearm on her apron. The sweat was already drying there, leaving her skin tacky. "That's the third guy today who didn't tip." She pointed out dispiritedly.

"They're just mad we still don't have cookie butter," Jane sighed, grabbing the laminated 'Out of Stock' sign and slapping it back in place from where it had started to slide down the icy treat bucket. "I'm gonna start telling people you're the one who ate it all."

Annie snorted. "Fine. But I'm telling them you watered down the milkshakes."

"I did water down the milkshakes." Jane says back with her eyes wide.

They both cracked up, too loud for how close the next customer was. Jane turned back quickly, face flipping to a mask of neutrality. "Hi there! What can I get started for you?"

Annie scooped behind her, elbowing open the fridge door to grab more whipped cream. The fridge hissed as cold air poured out. A toddler shrieked, slapping the glass and pointing at the rainbow sprinkles like they were buried treasure. The two girls behind the counter try not to cringe at the small smearing finger prints. Jane passed off another cone, then leaned in during a lull, her voice quieter now.

"I meant to call you last night," she said. "You still coming Friday?"

Annie blinked. "Oh—yeah. Sorry. I just... things got weird."

"Weird how?" Jane's hands kept working, but her tone sharpened.

Annie's eyes drifted to the window, where kids and parents crisscrossed the lot under the dying sun. "I got this letter. From New York. My older brother." She hesitated. "Not great news."

Jane slowed just a bit, scooping more carefully now. "Is it bad?"

Annie shrugged. "Kinda. Just—you know. Makes everything here feel like a waste of time, you know?"

Jane looked at her. Really looked. Her expression softened, but the bell over the door rang again, and the moment dissolved like ice in a cup under the midday sun.

"Talk later?" Jane asked, already returning to the register to tend to the next group.

Annie gave a small nod and faced the freezer again. Her scoop landed with a heavy thud in the waiting cone. Her hands were sticky. Her chest ached a little in a way that didn't come from laughter.

The fan droned on behind her, drowning out the sound in her brain as she scooped out the next order.

*-*-*-*-*-*

The shop had finally quieted. Chairs were stacked, tables wiped down, and the last of the customers had long since wandered into the warm, pulsing night. The only lamp that was on was the Gumball machine shaped lamp at the end of the Ice Cream counter, glowing at the far end of the counter and casting soft amber light across the black-and-white tile. Outside the front windows, the street was nearly deserted, a lone moth batting itself against the glass with rhythmic desperation.

Annie folded her apron with practiced care, smoothing the creases before tucking it under the counter. She lingered there for a moment, her hands resting on the wood, watching the lamp's reflection flicker in the glass.

The weight of the day pressed in — the war, the letter, the conversation she hadn't had yet, more over wasn't sure she even should be having.

She blinked the dizzying thoughts away and reached for a tub of dishes, the cool plastic biting against her freezer numbed hands. Glass and silverware clinked softly inside in their own clinking melody as she carried it through the narrow hallway to the kitchen pass window.

In the back, Jane was finishing the last round of prep, wiping down the steel prep table in slow, tired circles. A cigarette hung from the corner of her mouth, the smoke curling upward in slow spirals, catching the low light. Whenever a small bit of ash would fall onto her pristine counter, she would swipe it away with an annoyed huff of smoke out of her nose. She looked up as Annie apprached.

"I'm sure glad you work here," she said, her voice rough with fatigue, the dark under her eyes deeper than usual.

Annie set the bin on the ledge near the foaming soapy sink and leaned into her elbows with a small shrug. "It's no problem," she said quietly. "Just doing what I can."

Jane gave a half-nod, then took a long drag and let it out toward the cracked ceiling with her eyes searching every corner for anything else she missed.

"I know it's hard. Knowing your friends are out there... risking everything. And all we can do is dish out scoops and platitudes." Jane said suddenly, pulling Annie out of the daze she hadn't realized she had fallen into.

Annie glanced up from the worn out kitchen floor, trying her best to meet her eyes steadily. Jane was usually quick with sarcasm, fast with a joke — but she was also the motherly type, and she knew when Annie's mind was running her in circles.

Jane held her gaze for a moment that felt like eternity as Annie tried to look pleasant and not stressed in the least bit, which couldn't be further from the truth.

"I've known you since you were 14 Ms. Annie." Her slight southern accent came out, almost in a threatening way if she didn't look so much like a concerned auntie. "I remember when they took your brother 'way and you didn't look nearly as worried then as you do now." She paused for another quick drag off of her cigarette, it making a slight pop as she pulled it back out to keep speaking as the smoke flowed from her mouth like a dragon breathing ancient wisdom.

"You worry yourself too much young'n and you'll not live to regret it." Annie broke the eye contact to start putting the dishes into the sink gently, trying to keep her mouth shut before she said too much.

"Sure it don't help, hell with this war goin' on, I can't imagine it feels like there is much else to do." Annie couldn'y restrain herself and said a little louder than she would have wanted "I just wish I could do-" She hesitated to find the right words as Annie stepped in beside her, rolling up her sleeves, "More?" she supplied. Annie sighed as she set in the last few spoons, "Why can't we do more?"

"I mean, hell," Jane muttered, smoke curling past her wrist. "They think we're good for bandages and burgers, and nothing else. But we give a damn too. We care just as much as any man with a uniform."

Annie gave a tired laugh, placing her palm over her heart, "Women care about this country, too. We give a damn because we're goddamned Americans."

Jane snorted, slapped a sudded and soaking hand over her own chest, and grinned. "Amen, sister."

They stood in quiet for a beat, just the freezer hum and the soft tick of the wall clock filling the space as Jane washed and Annie dried and put away.

It felt like the anticipation was building more and more. The anxiety and quiet finally became too much, and Annie said it.

"I went to the recruitment office today."

Jane looked up from where she was draining the sink, eyes flickering with interest as she used a wet hand to snuff out her cigarette on the rusted edge of the old sink.

"Oh, to be a nurse out there... Fat chance," she scoffed, flicking the butt into the trash can and attempting to light another of her endless supplies of Lucky Strikes. "They barely let us within ten miles of the front. We're either in an apron or an infirmary."

Annie hesitated, worrying the edge of the tattered and damp dishcloth in her hands.

"They made a mistake, I think."

Jane laughed bitterly.

"Yeah. By not letting us fight—"

"No, Jane." Annie's voice came low and serious. Jane froze mid-sentence, cigarette hanging from the end of her red lips.

Annie looked up.

"The doctor was drunk."

Jane stood up straighter. The humor drained from her face in an instant.

"He didn't do anything, did he?" she asked sharply, scanning Annie's posture like she could find harm written there.

Annie shook her head, lips twisting.

"No. Nothing like that."

Jane exhaled, shoulders easing. She took along drag and let it out slowly with a mumbled "Give a gal a heart attack, why don't you.."

Annie hesitated, then pressed on, "He thought I was my... my brother."

Jane choked mid-inhale and stepped back fast, eyes wide.

"Your brother?" she hissed, glancing instinctively toward the front windows.

Annie nodded slowly.

"The one in New York Hospital."

Silence stretched, thick as caramel on an ice-cold sundae.

Jane stared. Then leaned in, red lipsticked lips parted. The pieces were falling into place behind her large brown eyes. She took a final long pull and then stubbed the cigarette out in a ramekin on the prep counter, then rested on her elbows, looking at Annie like she was seeing her for the first time today clearly.

"So what does that mean?"

"I don't know," Annie said. "But—"

She didn't finish. She didn't need to, as Jane cut in whispering, "I'm sure they'll catch it—"

"What if they don't?" Annie asked. Her voice dropped again — deeper, firmer — and it didn't sound like a joke this time.

Jane blinked, stunned. Then... slowly... a grin bloomed.

"You can't—" she started breathlessly, then, "But you absolutely have to."

They both smiled wide and wild, like they'd just stepped off a cliff and found they could fly.

******************

The car rumbled softly under Annie's hands as she drove home. Headlights cut through the quiet dark, the wind curling through the open windows like a secret.

They'd made promises.

Jane would write letters. Watch over the family. Keep her name safe.

Annie would do what she'd dreamed of since the first newspaper headline: Serve. Fight. Be there.

She turned onto her street and pulled into the narrow drive of the only brick apartment building on the street, narrowly missing the birdbath — again.

Her father sat on the front steps, stubbing out a hand-rolled cigarette on the bottom stair. The cherry hissed against the baked, dry concrete.

Annie climbed out of the car, leaving the engine idling.

They hugged breifly and then broke away so Annie could see him clearly. He was Mute and couldn't speak so he used signs with his hands to communicate. He signed for good or bad.

"Another good day," Annie said lightly, smiling warmly at her father's worried expression. "How's the shop?"

He signed a so-so with one hand, then nodded. Annie smiled.

"Still slow, huh."

Another nod, but she noticed his faced looked lined and more exhausted than when she had last seen him. Alot of the orders being placed at his shop were orders for the war effort, hardly anyone was hunting for sport anymore, and the ones who were buying guns for home were doing it for protection or to feed their families off of the wild game.

"Well, I'll let you get some sleep." She yawned theatrically. He responded with an I love you sign before heading for the car with shuffling feet.

She watched his taillights vanish into the dark, the hum of the engine fading behind them.

Inside, she locked the door behind her and hung her cap on the hook. The room was small — just a twin bed, a kitchenette, a battered dresser, and a cracked mirror leaning against the wall

She paused in front of it.

Her reflection stared back: Soft skin, her lips were still rosy from the more natural lipstick she had put on during her break at the malt shoppe. Her eyes.. too wide. But the rest?

The rest looked like a boy. tall frame, broad shoulders. Annie had always been made fun of for her boyish figure, but now it seemed more like a blessing in disguise. If she did pass for a boy, it was a pretty boy. She wondered for a moment if she should cut her hair even further down to pass better.

She tugged at her hair, frustrated. It was too short now as it was. No going back.

Then — the phone rang.

Annie bolted down the narrow stairs and snatched the black receiver.

"Hello?" She said in a deep and breathless voice from the large leap she had taken.

"Yes, hello. Is this the home of a Mr. Hudson?" The voice was clipped. Military.

Annie's heart skipped.

"Who is calling, please?" Her voice was now stuck in her throat, and even deeper. She was silently and briefly thankful for her anxiety.

"I'm with an Army base in New Jersey. We just received your papers," the man said. "I think you might be a good fit for a unit we're assembling—called the Howling Commandos."

She swallowed.

You absolutely have to, Jane had said.

Annie straightened, dropped her voice half an octave, and answered:

"Well, I thought you'd never call."

The man chuckled.

"That's the kind of confidence we like. It says here you were in reserves for a bit before falling ill but it didn't list what kind of illness?" The voice was smooth and Annie couldn't help but think he sounded almost husky, she blamed the heat of the coming summer.

"Phneumonia, Sir. I had a bad case and almost couldn't shake it." Annie tried her best to keep her voice as deep and believable as possible, although she could feel her heart racing a mile a minute as she waited and listened to the sound of a pen scratching paper.

"Well, glad you shook it. We don't have a lot of other information, but I feel your training in military arms and weapons experience could be useful to the team. We plan to be doing more dangerous shit than the average soldier. Do you think you can handle that?" The longer he talked the more Annie wanted to meet the man behind the voice.

"Of course, Ain't nothing I can't do with a rifle sir," Annie said, and this time she was telling the truth. Her father owned the only guns and ammunition store in the whole greater Bangor area she had grown up knowing more about guns and their workings than she did about sewing and cooking.

"Fantastic. We'll be sending a train ticket. Can you write down the time?"

Annie reached for the pencil on its string, hands steadier now from the tremble that had started.

"Yes, sir."

Chapter Text

Tony stepped off the bus and immediately raised a hand to shield her eyes. The sun was brutal—high and hot, like it had something to prove. The airstrip wasn't much, and the sun beat down upon the whole scene with a heat that only cicadas felt like singing in.

Steeling herself, she marched towards the small Airport building. It wasn't much, just a battered wooden platform that tilted slightly to one side and a ticket booth that looked like it had been dragged from a carnival and forgotten. A tin sign creaked overhead in the breeze, its hand-painted letters barely legible through the peeling paint: Berlin Airway Station — as if putting the sign there was very official, that might convince someone it was a real airport.

Her duffle bag bounced lightly against her hip, the few things she did pack rolling around inside the space left empty, but she gripped it like a lifeline. Around her, men barked and jostled, the stink of old boots and sweat clinging to the humid summer air. Most wore uniforms. Almost all looked harder than she did, like this wasn't their first rodeo.

Tony squared her shoulders and set her jaw, trying not to draw attention to the fact that she barely reached the elbows of some of the other recruits.

The breeze kicked up again, stirring dust and exhaust into a swirl around their ankles like a school of filthy ghosts. A dog barked somewhere near the hangar, followed by the lazy clang of a dropped wrench. Someone coughed behind her, long and rattling as they exhale a long draw of smoke from a filterless Chesterfields.

Tony blinked against the sun more to clear her vision than anything, and stepped into the shade of the ticket platform. The wooden boards creaked underfoot. A half-broken station clock ticked loudly above a bulletin board where flight times were pinned with rusted pushpins and hand-cut cards.

BERLIN AIRWAY STATION — NEW JERSEY

Departures:

9:00 a.m. — MAYBE

9:15 a.m. — PROBABLY

9:30 a.m. — Military departures only

9:45 a.m. — WEATHER DEPENDENT

10:00 a.m. — COWS ON THE RUNWAY AGAIN?

Tony stared at the smaller added notes a moment before looking around at the surrounding fields. Sans cows for now. She reached into her trousers pocket for her ticket. She pulled the thin slip of paper from her pocket and unfolded it with care. The edges were already damp from her palms folding and unfolding it during the taxi ride.

9:30 a.m. — followed by a long black smudge where the destination had been. Whether from sweat, dirt, or a bad carbon copy, it was illegible now.

She folded it again and tucked it back into her pocket. The half-packed duffle bag was still in her hand, but it felt as light as air compared to the weight that had settled deep into her stomach.

Nearby, a group of men loitered at the edge of the dusty platform, half in the patchy shade of the station overhang, half blinking into the sun. Most were leaning against fuller duffle bags or crouched on their heels, talking low, trading cigarettes, and laughing too loud—like they were trying to outrun silence.

Tony hesitated a moment as she scanned the crowd. Finally, her eyes settle upon a ragtag group of men standing closer together than the other men did.

They weren't wearing olive green T-shirts like the rest of the recruits but instead plain white T-shirts, army-issue pants, scuffed combat boots, and dog tags that winked against the same white tee she wore. The number on her own issued white T-shirt shoulder matched theirs. That was all she needed to know.

She crossed toward them, the hot gravel crunching beneath her boots. Close up, they looked even more like they had lived through a different war entirely—hardened and half-wild, like they'd seen too much and slept too little.

She hovered near the edge of the group, waiting for a break in conversation. The most bored of them noticed her first: tall, red-haired, with a battered derby hat pushed back on his head like he'd just stepped out of a taxi from Glasgow.

"Fresh meat, is it?" he said in a thick brogue, "Ain't they gettin' smaller by the week?" elbowing the man beside him, who looked over with his own dark pencil mustache posed thoughtfully.

Another turned to look—a lean, dark-haired figure in full uniform, the chevrons on his sleeve marking him as the sergeant. His cap sat squared on his head, and his eyes narrowed slightly, not unfriendly—just... puzzled. Like something about her didn't match what he'd been expecting.

He studied her for a beat too long. Tony tried her best not to fidget under his intensely searching stare as he eyed the ill-fitting uniform. Tony had been grateful for the larger uniform when it had been given to her, but now she wondered if they had perhaps been expecting a larger soldier and not thinking of her comfort.

"Name?" he asked finally. Not barking—more like he needed to hear it aloud to believe it.

Tony swallowed.

"Hudson. Anthony Hudson."

The man didn't move as his gaze flicked down to the number on her sleeve, then back up to her face.

"You're the one who got A1?" his tone was incredulous now.

"I think so," she said, using all she could muster not to look away from his intense gaze.

Another pause. Then he extended his hand, slowly, like he wasn't entirely sure whether to shake or ask her again for the answer he really wanted.

"Sergeant Barnes," he said it more warmly, although his eyes still roamed over her again and again. His deep, steely blue eyes felt like they were seeing right through her. Tony couldn't help it any longer and fidgeted a little as she took his hand. Her grip was as firm and practiced as she could muster. She managed a small smile and forced herself to look back into the Sergeant's eyes.

"Tony," she said. Close enough.

The Sergeant gave her another once-over, a little more deliberate this time. His mouth tugged to the side in an almost mischievous smirk, like he was enjoying a private joke.

"Your voice makes you sound... taller over the phone." He finally says when he meets Tony's eyes again and sees the searching look.

Tony blinked, caught off guard for just a second, but recovered with a lopsided grin.

"Maybe the connection was bad."

He clicked his tongue. "Lying on your enlistment form? That's a federal offense."

"Maybe they measured me in the nurses' heels," she offered dryly.

That earned a short laugh. "Well, at least they got your attitude right."

Behind him, the rest of the team perked up with mild interest.

"Hope you brought earplugs," said the man with the pencil mustache, a bored lilt to his accented voice, "Dugan snores like a dying truck."

"I heard that, Frenchie," the redhead, Dugan, snapped without heat.

"You were meant to, mon ami," the Frenchman replied with a shrug and an enduring smile.

One of the others—a tall Black man with kind eyes and a pack of Old Golds in his hand—gave Tony a nod and gestured to the open circle as he tapped the pack and pulled another out, as well as a small matchbox.

"C'mon in, Short Stack. Ain't nobody here gonna bite."

Tony stepped closer, her tension easing just enough to breathe. The teasing was normal, she tried to remind herself. It felt more like an invitation than a hazing, but she couldn't help the anxiety in her stomach that maybe one or two of them were looking at her funny because they could see the truth behind her short hair and squared shoulders.

The group's laughter blended with the low buzz of the field around them—diesel and heat and chatter on the wind.

Then: a whistle, sharp and high.

"Move it, men!"

Tony watched as the men around her instinctively straightened, duffles in hand, boots snapping into rhythm as the team fell in. Bucky gave her a quick grin and slid in beside her as she moved with the group, shoulder brushing hers—steadying, almost protective. It made something twist warmly in her chest as she tried not to look up at him.

They walked as one. She followed a few steps behind with the Sergeant in step, still listening more than speaking, watching how they moved together. How they filled the air around them without trying.

They stopped beside a squat gray plane on the scorched runway. No banners. No sendoff. Just hot metal and hard orders.

Tony shifted her weight from foot to foot, trying not to look as nervous as she felt.

"First time?" a voice asked over her shoulder.

Tony turned. One of the men—tall, wiry, with a crooked grin—stood there like they'd been talking for hours already.

"Yeah," she said, managing a shrug like it was no big deal.

"You look like you walked into the wrong movie," he joked, elbowing her gently in the back.

Before she could respond, Dugan leaned in with a smirk that rode the line between teasing and testing.

"Ye sure yer in the right place, wee man? Ye look like a lassie, nae offense."

The words hit harder than expected—too close. "You know, now that you mention it-" Sergeant Barnes adds in with the same smirk on his face. Panic flickered behind Tony's eyes, but only for a second.

She planted her hands on her belt and gave him the driest look she could manage.

"Shut up," she managed to get out after a moment's pause.

The men around them laughed—not cruelly. Easily, like it was a rite of passage to sass back

Then a deeper voice cut in.

"Watch your mouth, Private."

Tony snapped to attention. A man in full officer's uniform stood nearby, arms folded. The silver bars on his collar marked him as a Lieutenant—definitely someone she couldn't afford to piss off.

"Sorry, sir," she said quickly, straightening up.

He nodded once, then looked at Sergeant Barnes.

"Sergeant Barnes outranks you. He can punish you if you get out of line."

Tony glanced back at Sergeant Barnes—who winked down at her.

Her pulse ticked up. Did he know?

"Come on, men!" the Lieutenant barked, followed by a short blast from a nearby whistle. "We need to get moving. Fall in!"

They boarded the plane in a flurry of boots and heat, and merciless shoving elbows. Tony stuck to the edge of the group, doing her best not to stand out while simultaneously feeling like she couldn't look more out of place.

Inside, she slid into a seat by the window and dropped her duffle at her feet. She almost crossed her legs by habit—caught herself—and shifted instead, draping one ankle over the opposite knee, casually as possible.

Sagreant Barnes dropped into the seat across from her and sprawled out like the cabin was his living room.

"So," he said, stretching, "where are you from, Tony?" He said, using the nickname like they were old friends.

"Bangor. Maine," she answered with a shrug.

"Ooo, a black bear, huh?" His grin widened. "Meanest things in the woods."

She smirked.

"Yeah. Bet I bite harder, too."

He barked a laugh. "Bet you do."

"Ready to kick some Nazi ass," she added, loud enough for the others to hear.

A chorus of whoops followed. Fists pounded on seat backs. Even the redhead—Dugan, she was starting to guess—grinned through his mustache.

It made something lift in her chest. A warm bloom of maybe.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

The plane jolted hard as it landed, bouncing like a rubber ball on gravel. Tony grabbed the seat in front of her, breath catching.

"Welcome to paradise," The Sergeant muttered, rising with a stretch and a smirk.

They filed off the plane into the blazing heat of training grounds in France. Dust whipped up immediately, clinging to their necks.

Tony squinted against the glare. Around her, the others looked... fine. Relaxed. Like this was just another Tuesday.

She internally wondered how the hell they could look so relaxed while baking in this late summer heat.

"Hey," someone said beside her.

A hand landed on her shoulder—firm and large. She turned and found Sergeant Barnes again, eyes shaded under his cap.

"Look, kid," he said low. "I saw your file. You're here because I—and the others—think you can handle it. So don't look so nervous."

His eyes flicked over her smaller form, lingering briefly here or there.

"Although I do think someone marked your height wrong. I'm not joking about that."

Tony let out a small breath, half relief, half nerves. He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze—more reassuring than commanding—and moved on.

She followed the others as they trudged toward the squat wooden building ahead. The sign bolted to the front read: Barracks C. The paint was half-peeled. The door hung a little crooked.

Inside, it was stifling. The air was thick with sweat, old soap, and gun oil. In the corner where a large metal washtub sits against the wall, a bucket sits under the ancient pipes, catching a constant drip of what looked like rusty water.

Names were stenciled above each bunk. One for each man, with only a single empty bunk left unmarked.

Tony found hers near the center: A. HUDSON.

A folded uniform sat on the mattress, with freshly issued boots beneath. She dropped her duffle and sat. The cot creaked under her weight.

Around her, the others were already shouting, stripping, tossing gear. Shirts hit the floor. Belts clattered against metal bedposts.

Tony kept her head down and her blush hidden. She hadn't considered this part of being in a man's army.

"Hey, you okay?"

The Sergeant drops haphazardly down onto his own bunk beside Tony's, cool as a cucumber while he starts to take the laces off of his left boot with the practiced precision of someone who had done it a thousand times.

"Yeah," she said quickly. "Just... nerves, I guess."

He nodded, a knowing look on his face.

"You'll be fine. Stick close. This group's got your back."

Tony smiled faintly. Grateful.

Sergeant Barnes leaned back on his bunk, folding his arms behind his head. The move made his shirt pull snug across his chest, sleeves tightening against his biceps. Not intentional—just effortless and unnoticed as he sprawls out. Like the kind of strength that came from survival, not vanity.

His face was the kind that could've been on a recruitment poster if it weren't for the tiredness behind it. Strong lines, square jaw, a mouth always halfway to a smirk with plump pink lips. But it was his eyes that betrayed him—steely blue and sharper than they should've been at his age. War-torn. They didn't dull when he smiled, though. They lit up instead, watching the room like he'd already read the ending and wasn't in a hurry to fix the mess unfolding.

Marv was arguing with Pinky about who had stolen whose soap in hushed undertones. "It's not your soap, Dernier. You stole it last week from Gabe." Marv insists with hisses of Canadian French scattered into his tone while trying to get the small bar from Pinky, who holds it out of reach with a cry of "I liberated it. Like all true Frenchmen!"

Meanwhile, Jim loudly insisted that technically, the floor was an acceptable place to sleep if it meant getting a bunk farther from Dum-Dum Dugan's famous snoring. The man whose soap had been stolen, Gabe, had claimed the corner of the room closest to Tony and was casually using his bayonet to carve the word "MEDBED" into the side of his bedpost. Not far from him, Dum-Dum was whistling off-key while trying to stick a pin-up redheaded girl to the underside of the bed above his bunk.

The Sergeant didn't interfere. He just watched with that lazy smirk, like the whole circus act was on schedule.

Barnes let out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes, throat stretching as his Adam's apple bobbed with a slow exhale. For a moment, he just... rested there. Loose. At ease. His breath rose and fell in steady rhythm, and every shift pulled tight across the lean muscle of his torso. It was hard not to notice how peaceful he looked when he wasn't talking—like the noise of the room couldn't touch him.

She caught herself staring.

Her stomach flipped. She yanked her gaze down and gave her head a tiny shake, like she could rattle the thought loose before anyone saw it land.

Get it together, Hudson. That's your Sergeant.

She faked a rummage in her duffle, busying herself with nothing in particular.

"My buddy Steve's at another camp," Sergeant Barnes said, eyes still closed as he made casual conversation. "He's the reason we're all still standing."

Tony glanced at him, unsure if she was the one she was addressing since her mind was still swirling and her cheeks felt hot.

"When he gets here..." The Sergeant shook his head, an easy smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Then it'll feel like a real team. He's the kind of guy you rally around, you know?"

She nodded, because she couldn't trust her voice. Her mouth was dry. Her face felt burning hot. She wasn't even sure what she'd say if she could speak.

Her thoughts were still trying to unstick themselves from the image of him reclined, loose and sharp-eyed—like a lion napping in the sun while everyone else scrambled around him. The kind of confidence you couldn't fake. The kind that made her want to look again, even though she knew she shouldn't.

Before she could spiral any further, a slow southern drawl cracked through the moment.

"Y'know, I always heard you Yankees couldn't hold your liquor worth a damn."

Tony turned slightly. The speaker leaned over his bunk, the dark-skinned man, holding his own bottle he had just pulled out of his pack and grinning, a half-chewed toothpick bouncing between his teeth.

She raised an eyebrow, catching her mental footing again, and dropped her voice with practiced ease.

"Better than marrying your cousin, Georgia boy."

The room erupted. Laughter bounced off the bunks. Dum-Dum slapped the frame of his bed. Someone whistled. Even the Sergeant barked out a laugh, shaking his head and finally opening his twinkling eyes.

"Well damn," the man drawled, throwing up his hands. "I got nothing to say back to that, boys." He grinned at her, broader this time. "Name's Jim."

"Tony," she said, returning it. "Still."

The men laughed again. The noise was comforting to Tony.

Dum-Dum, now digging through his kit, jabbed a thumb toward her still-folded gear.

"Oi, Tiny. You planning on getting dressed sometime this century? or just gonna roast in your skivvies till the flies carry you off,"

Tony fake-laughed and grabbed the uniform. "Yeah, yeah. Killing two birds with one stone." she said easily, already on her feet and headed towards the minuscule private toilet in the barracks.

"Don't fall in!" Barnes called after her, teasing.

She disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind her with more force than necessary. The mirror over the sink was cracked. The small, faded bulb that buzzed overhead cast a faded light. Her fingers trembled as she checked that the door was secure and then pulled off her shirt.

The uniform was stiff and scratchy—standard issue. A size too big, swallowing her frame just enough to hide what it needed to. She buttoned it carefully, checked her makeshift binder was still in place and holding tight, and ran a hand through her short hair. Her reflection looked back at her. Pink-cheeked. Sweaty. Nervous.

Just a boy. Just one of the guys.

When she stepped back into the barracks, someone wolf-whistled.

"Looking sharp, Hudson!" Dum-Dum called.

Tony flipped him off without hesitation.

The Sergeant's quick eye saw from where he was putting on fresh socks and finishing the laces on his boots, and he laughed—deep and genuine. It made her chest hitch in a way she didn't like admitting.

"All right, ladies, let's go!" someone bellowed from the hallway outside their little barracks.

Boots thudded on the wood floor. Zippers slipped shut, crates slammed quickly closed. The team was already moving.

Tony grabbed her gear and followed, heart still thudding in her chest. Not quite steady. Not quite safe. Not quite belonging.

But closer.

And that was enough—for now.

Chapter Text

They fell into line at the edge of the woods, where long shadows stretched across a clearing chewed up by boots and bullets.

A man in a battered cap paced in front of them, arms crossed like he could hold the forest back by will alone.

His uniform read EDWARDS, but no one needed the name. His scowl alone would tell you he's the meanest bastard within ten miles.

He wasn't an officer — not with that slouch and that voice like a pack of smokes ground into gravel — but the way the soldiers stiffened when he walked past made it clear: rank wasn't everything.

"You're here because someone thinks you can shoot," he growled, stopping just short of sneering. "Today, you prove it."

A table lay in the dirt, rifles lined up like bones. Old ones. Heavy.

Of course, Sergeant Barnes grabbed one first without hesitation. The rest scrambled after. Tony hesitated a second longer, then followed, falling into a crooked line with the others.

Edwards paced behind them like a shark. Waiting. Watching. Judging.

"WELL?!" he snapped.

Tony's stomach jumped. Her finger tensed involuntarily.

CRACK.

The shot echoed through the trees. The target — dead center — splintered.

For a moment, the whole forest went still. Every head turned.

Even Barnes blinked at her, brows rising.

Tony's mouth parted like she was about to apologize — sorry, lucky shot, won't happen again — but before she could, Edwards barked a laugh.

"Finally," he muttered. "Someone who knows how to act under pressure."

The rest started firing.

Tony steadied herself. Found the rhythm. The kick of the rifle, the smell of powder, the sound of her father's voice in her head — rough hands correcting her arms, a tap to her sternum where the breath should stay steady.

By the time the last target shattered, her shoulder throbbed and a few of the glances her way had shifted — not friendly, but different. Wary. A little impressed.

Edwards blew his whistle.

Edwards looks marginally impressed — or maybe just sunburnt. "Hand-to-hand next," he calls. "Let's see if you can hit something that hits back."

The hand-to-hand training that follows is brutal and endless — the kind of session that wrings every ounce of strength out of your body and then demands more. Sweat stings Tony's eyes, her muscles aching with every movement, but she pushes on because stopping isn't an option. Sweat turns the dirt to mud under their boots.

She's paired with Barnes — of course she is. Maybe it's luck. Maybe it's punishment. Either way, the Sergeant is patient, almost too patient, like he's been assigned to mess with her. Every time she slips, he's there, steadying her, guiding her hands and feet with a firmness that makes her chest burn for reasons she refuses to name.

The training yard bakes under a sickly gray sky, the air thick with the stink of sweat, gunpowder, and churned-up dirt. Tony's knuckles throb as she catches herself again on the hard-packed ground, breath hissing between her teeth.

Tony stands and squares up across from Buck for what feels like the hundredth time, wiping her soaking forehead on her sleeve.

He's patient — infuriatingly so — catching her wrist mid-swing, shifting her stance with short, silent corrections. It's not gentle, exactly. It's clinical. Controlled.

"You're telegraphing," he murmurs, sliding her elbow tighter into her side with his own controlled arm.

She grits her teeth and throws herself at him again, trying to tackle him.

He barely rocks back on his heels.

"Come on, Tiny," he teases under his breath, lips twitching.

By the fifth attempt, her shoulder aches and her pride is starting to curdle.

"You are fighting dirty, right?" he grins.

"I always fight dirty," she snaps, throwing her weight harder — and he dodges easily, tripping her with the end of his combat boot. Tony splutters in the dry gravel, her shaking arms slipping against her own sweaty palms when she tries to stand again — her breath escaping in a forced huff.

Across from her, Barnes rolls his shoulders loose, breathing hard through his nose. The way he's watching her — dark, bristling, wary — makes her nerves sing sharp and raw.

"Up," the Sergeant says with a cooler tone.

One word, Low and Firm.

Her hands ball into fists against the gravel-strewn and mostly dried mud. Every bone in her body wants to stay down — to stay safe —

But something deeper, something meaner, forces her to shove herself upright again. The Sergeant's mouth twists. Not quite a smile, but not quite a grimace. Almost pity.

"You're stubborn," he mutters. "That's good. It'll keep you alive. Maybe."

Then Barnes moves differently, no longer pacing himself to match her inexperienced swings and shuffling slow footwork. He moves fast and hard like a wall of sheer muscle barreling toward her.

Tony grits her teeth and braces herself against him — no plan, just pure blood-deep defiance — and when they hit the dirt together this time, it isn't clean. They hit the ground hard enough to leave Tony breathless as the air gets knocked out of her lungs.

Buck sprawls half across her, one hand pinned against her chest, the other on the ground beside her head to keep from crushing her completely. Barnes's motions freeze as his hand slightly grasps Tony's chest.

Tony goes still too — the sudden brutal intimacy crashing down between them as Barnes looks at his hand closed around the unmistakable. He looks up, his eyes locking onto hers — wide, startled and horrified with shock.

It's a second — maybe less — a heartbeat —

It feels like the world stops even if nobody spared them a sideways glance down in the mud.

The Sergeant scrambled back, hands up like he'd touched a live wire.

His face said it all — he knew.

Tony got to her feet as fast as she could, brushing off the dirt and trying to force her twitching face to be calm, act like nothing had happened. She didn't look at him. She didn't think she could trust herself. Hell, she knew she couldn't.

As the others around them continued to struggle against one another, the Sergeant didn't try to meet her eyes either, although the look on his face was saying more than words ever could.

When the whistle finally blew, Edwards didn't give them time to think.

"Form up! Jog formation, full perimeter loop!"

A collective groan rippled through the group as they took up a loose formation around Barnes and the other Sergeant, Barnes standing like he had been cut from stone, and his expression was just as cold.

Tony barely had time to catch her breath before they were moving again — boots pounding the packed dirt path, bodies filing into a loose single-file line as they started down a trail that wrapped through the woods and back toward camp. The sun had climbed high. The air was thick and mean. Sweat stung her eyes, clung to the fabric at her collar and dripped down her back.

Her legs felt like cinder blocks.

Somewhere behind her, Barnes fell into step. Not close — just far enough back that she could feel the weight of his stare on her shoulders.

She didn't dare look. But she felt it. Those glances — quick, sharp, searching. Like he was running mental laps and not just physical ones, trying to make sense of something that shouldn't be possible. Like he was wondering if he imagined it... or if he hadn't.

Tony let her steps falter just slightly, letting herself drop back behind him — giving him the chance to pass, to get ahead.

But he didn't.

He slowed with her.

When she risked a sidelong glance, she found him squinting at her, head tilted, wearing a look like he was trying to examine her stature more closely now.

Panic prickled up her spine.

Without a word, she pushed forward again — faster this time — weaving between Dum-Dum and Jim, who were too busy cursing the heat and each other to notice anything off.

She knew exactly what he must've felt during the last spar.

And she knew it didn't match what he saw, or thought he was seeing.

Her stomach twisted.

The Sergeant didn't say a word even though Tony's anxiety built. Just kept pace, steady as ever from where she had left him behind, his boots hitting the dirt in a rhythm that made her want to give up and scream the truth out so she wouldn't hear it pounding in her own head anymore.

By the time they reached the final bend, Tony was lightheaded. Her legs were shaking, but she stayed upright. She didn't stop.

Feeling inside that she couldn't stop even if she wanted too now. Not until it's safe. Not until he decided he imagined it.

She mentally saw herself as a little snowball already trying to outrun an avalanche behind her. She couldn't stop now, even if she wanted to.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Saturday night, all the men in their commando group and the surrounding company barracks are given leave into town. The streets smell like chilly summer air and chimney smoke, the warm buzz of life seeping from taverns and cafés. Tony walks stiffly, boots scuffing the cracked sidewalks, the weight of all the new training leaving her joints stiff.

"Whole pub to drink for the night, boys!" Hogan bellows, his red mustache aquiver as the group erupts in cheers and whoops.

Tony hangs back, peering into the dim, dingy window. Inside, warm lamplight spills across scuffed wood and sweating bottles. Tony smiles a little, excited for a cold drink after two days of working her ass off harder than it had ever been worked before.

The others pile through the door. Tony makes to follow, but a hand clamps around her wrist—quick, callused, unyielding.

She startles — breath catching in her throat as she's yanked aside hard enough to make her stumble over her boots.

She looks up, straight into the burning eyes of Sergeant Barnes.

"S-Sir—" she stammers out, but he cuts across her, tone low and eyes trained on the others who remain focused on their goal of getting inside for a stiff drink.

"I need a word, Private," he starts to tug her away from the door of the bar before he adds "Alone." The growl in his voice makes it clear: this isn't a request.

The others barely notice as he pulls her away — too caught up in their own noise. His fingers tighten, steering her toward a darkened alley between the pub and a café, rough enough to make her stumble once trying to keep up.

The narrow space is cool and shadowed, cut off from the streetlights. Across the street, a tall girl in an apron serves a fresh cup of coffee to a soldier who is talking animatedly to his sweetheart, laughter soft against the warm, glowing glass.

Then Barnes turns on her.

"You," he mutters, crowding her toward the wall.

Her spine hits the brick with a jolt, and she tries to act as casually as possible as her knees start to knock together.

"I wanted to think I was losing my mind, or you maybe were out of shape," He says it rushed, like he had practiced what to say, but now his steady voice was alarmingly thinned, his face strained in stress.

"L-Look I'm sure whatever it is-" Tony begins trying to slip away from the conversation in hopes that distance would make the sergeant forget, but no luck.

His hands land on her shoulders, pinning her lightly, but firmly in place as he looks down at her. Not cruel — controlled. His body radiates heat and tension, like he's holding back the urge to yell or collapse all at once.

His brown eyes burn down into her.

"Are you—" His voice seems to fail him as he hesitates, looking around the alley as if someone would jump out with the answer he wanted. He swallows hard, his large palms slightly sweaty against Tony's slightly trembling torso. "Are you a girl?"

Tony breathes out sharply— a humorless laugh and looks away a little too quickly, trying not to meet the sergeant's intense gaze. "What? No—"

But he doesn't wait for a full lie to leave her stammering lips. He holds her in place with his left hand more firmly than needed and reaches down quickly with his right, using his nimble fingers to tug her shirt up and out of its neat military style tuck into her too large pants in one rough movement — just enough to see the flash of fabric. The thin horizontal line of a homemade strap over her ribs, an unmistakable binder.

He drops her shirt like it burns him and takes two steps back so fast he nearly stumbles over himself. He stares at Tony, his blue eyes wider than she thought they should be able to go, with his lips pressed into a thin, silent line.

Sergeant Barnes stares at her like she's something he doesn't understand. Doesn't want to understand. Like an alien.

The wall behind her feels suddenly too warm, almost burning hot. Her shoulder still tingled where his hand had been while she tucks her white teeshirt back into her fatigues.

"Don't tell anyone," she rasps. Her voice shakes almost as badly as her body.

The sergeant scrubs a hand over his face like he's trying to wipe away what he just saw.

"You could be shot for this," he hisses after a short pause, stepping toward her again. His face was dark, his shoulders high and tense. "Court-martialed. Prison. You get that?"

"I know," she says. Her voice sharper now and steading by the moment. "I chose this. No one dragged me here."

His jaw clenches. His gaze cuts over her — fast, full of anger and something too tangled to name. He shuts his eyes almost as fast, closing his eyes like the sight of her brought him pain. His fists clench and unclench like he's fighting himself.

"You're gonna get yourself killed, Tony," he says finally. His voice is raw. "If that even is your real name-" Tony tries to cut across him, "It is-"

Barnes talks over her a little louder, almost a whisper shout, "You're not supposed to be here. You're not supposed to be—"

"Capable?" she snaps without thinking, her cheeks burning a bright red now. "Maybe you oughta worry less about what I'm supposed to be and start worrying about what I am. Cause I'm not going anywhere."

His eyes bore into her.

Trouble is what she is, he thinks, and the best shot he's seen in a long time, there was no denying that fact after the shooting he had seen over the last few days of training.

He lets out a broken laugh, shakes his head like that'll fix it. "You can't tell me what to do, I'm a Sergeant." After he says it, he throws his hands up and paces some more, muttering under his breath as if reasoning with himself.

He stops in front of her again, his feet restless and his eyes now looking more exhausted than Tony had seen them so far. "Why the hell would you—"

"Because someone had to!" Tony shouts, cutting across him and speaking louder than she really meant to. "Because my brother couldn't, and my father couldn't, and someone had to stand up." She wipes her sleeve across her face — furious at herself for the way her voice shakes. "There are men laying down their lives, Sergeant, and I don't have any right to ignore what I can do to help while I spin milkshakes in a goddamned tourist town."

Barnes stops pacing and stares at her.

A different look on his face now.

Like he's seeing someone else for a moment.

"Jesus," he mutters after a moment, his hand returning to rubbing his temple, the other crossed over his chest like a father considering a mess his child had made. "How the hell did you even pass the physical?"

Tony lifts her chin, mouth twitching into a bitter, half-proud smile.

"Drunk examiner. Short hair. Honestly, I would more consider it fate."

That finally breaks him. A sound rips from his throat — half laugh, half curse. He drags a hand through his hair, eyes wild with disbelief. He opens his mouth to respond—

"Buck!" someone shouts from the direction of the pub door, around the corner. "You two comin'? Dinner's gettin' cold!"

He flinches at the voice, like he'd forgotten the world outside this alley existed in the heat of his involvment.

He looks from Tony to the entrance of the alley with a torn expression. Tony looks at him with pleading eyes, and he lets out a barely audible groan.

"We're coming!" he calls, the charm returns like a mask sliding into place. He throws one arm around her shoulders, guiding her towards the entrance of the alley.

But as they walk, he doesn't let go, though he shifts so his hand slides down to her tense shoulders — firm, like he's anchoring her to him.

Just before they reach the bar door, his hand moves again — sliding from the dip of her shoulders to her waist in a slow, deliberate sweep. He stops her short with a gentle pull at her hip, holding her in place like he's not ready to let her go just yet.

Tony can feel the unbridled rage under the surface as she feels Barnes lean down from behind her, his breath warm at the shell of her ear. His voice was a murmur edged with warning.

"This conversation's not over."

Tony doesn't dare turn her head. Doesn't dare breathe too deep. She just nods once, stiffly, and steps into the light.

"One Allagash, please!" she calls to the bartender as they step inside, her voice bright and strained.

And just like that, they vanish back into the noise.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

The air at the guard post was thick with the weight of the day. The training tarmac had been abandoned hours ago, and the team now trudged across it noisily, boots dragging across it, shoulders heavy with fatigue and beer.

Most of the men were laughing — too loud, too loose — still riding the buzz from the tavern.

Tony lagged behind the group, her legs aching and the chilly mist clinging to her uniform like a second skin. The soft rumble of distant thunder rolled over the hills, promising rain.

She was staring down at the path, watching the dust kick up around her boots, she kicked a rock particularly hard and watched it sail ahead and land at the feet of the rest of the team, blissfully unaware of her inner conflict. She looks at them for a moment before she realizes that Barnes is looking back at her.

Her breath caught.

The Sergeant was glancing back at her over his shoulder — deliberately. His eyes met hers, and for a second, neither of them looked away.

He didn't smile. Didn't scowl either. Just... watched her. The others around him continued to laugh and walk on, Barnes's silence is lost in a new round of drinking that broke out when Jim produced a small jug.

The Sergeant's usually calm expression was puzzled, the stress of his newest problem causing his eyebrows to knit together on his forehead, like he was studying a problem he hadn't figured out how to solve.

Tony held his gaze for as long as she could before her combat boot got caught on an uneven part of ground. She looked away and didnt have the courage to look back at him again. The sounds of the others laughing ahead felt distant, blurred by the rush of blood in her ears now.

She blinked hard and focused on the back of Dum-Dum's head, walking a few paces ahead. The many old cement and wooden military buildings and broken down vehicles scattered around the base— Anything but looking again.

Though she could still feel Barnes's gaze —but tried her best to ignore how it burned into her skin. She wondered why he didn't look away.

Still not sure what he saw perhaps.

She didn't blame him.

She wasn't sure what he saw, either.

By the time they reached the barracks, the others had taken a considerable amount of swigs off the bottle Jim had brought for the walk back to base. The storm outside hadn't broken yet, but the pressure in the air made Tony feel restless.

Inside, the room was lit by a single low bulb. It buzzed faintly above their heads, casting long shadows across the wooden floorboards.

Dum-Dum had already pulled out the dirty old pack of playing cards. Marv and Pinky sat across from him, the shabby table between them crowded with socks and folded undershirts repurposed as betting tokens. Jim leaned back against his bunk, grinning wide, a toothpick between his teeth moving to the side of his mouth for the finishing sips off his bottle.

Tony kept to herself, trying to look busier than she really was just for the sake of not having to be involved.

She knelt beside her bunk and pretended to organize her gear — again. Her bag was basiclly empty since she brought next to no personal items. She rearranged it anyway. Just to have something to do. Just to avoid looking at him.

Barnes sat at the table with the others, dealing out the cards with the calm ease of someone who could win a knife fight or a poker hand with the same expert hands. He didn't say much, though he smiled and laughed with the others as the jokes came.

But his gaze lingered every once in a while.

Not always. Not openly. Just enough that she felt it — again and again — every time her eyes strayed his way they just seemed to meet. It gave her the impression at some points that he wasn't looking away.

After a couple hands of poker and the third time he had to ask Barnes if he was listening, Jim tilted his head and moved his toothpick to one side so he could call out, "C'mon now, Tony. You lettin' this man gamble alone?" His tone was deep, and he smiled in a warm joking manner. "Sergeant over here's gonna have all the socks if you don't come lose a round or two."

Tony glanced up, eyes darting to the Sergeant but for once he wasn't looking at her. Instead, he was looking down at his small hand of cards for the first time that evening.

The brunette in question didn't look away for a short moment and then he blinked slowly, leaned back in his chair, and stretched like a man who had ran a mile.

"Nah," he muttered. "Think I'm callin' it for the night. Just lost in thought, I guess."

There was a pause — durring which Marv let out a loud yawn. "Can't blame you, Sarge. Feels like I've been marchin' with cinderblocks strapped to my ankles."

"Storm's comin'." Dum-Dum says with a heavy sigh "My knee's been twitchin' like a rat in a pickle jar."

"More like your liver. Or what's left of it, mon dieu." Pinky quipped, earning a laugh that rippled through the group of men as they disbanded one by one, moving away to their bunks with groans and grumbles.

The Sergeant made his way to the cot beside Tony's, his gait even, unreadable. He said nothing as he sat down heavily, bracing his elbows on his knees in a thinking position.

Tony didn't move at first.

But then—quietly, cautiously—she shifted on her hips, twisting just enough to glance back at him over her right shoulder.

He had his back turned to her, pulling at the laces of his boots.

She let her eyes linger on the muscle across his back, the slope of his shoulders, the way his biceps flexed as he wrestled one heavy boot off, then the other.

Then, without warning, he turned too—half-glancing over his shoulder—and their eyes locked across the narrow space between the bunks.

Neither of them said a word.

Tony's breath hitched. She froze.

Barnes's mouth pressed into a thin line. He turned away again, slower this time, and began tugging his socks off without a sound.

The moment passed, sharp and wordless.

Marv hit the light switch with a metallic click and a strange popping noise from the ancient bulb, whose wires glowed red hot for a few long moments after darkness covered the room.

Darkness settled over them like a blanket. Outside, rain finally began to fall — soft at first, then harder, drumming steadily against the roof.

Tony lay flat, her arms crossed over her stomach, eyes wide open.

He knows.

He hadn't said a word seemingly to anyone yet.

And worse, it looked like the information was eating him up inside with how quiet and subdued he was acting.

The silence wrapped around her like a smothering second blanket, and with every flash of lightning outside, she felt it pressing tighter.

And Tony, staring up into the black, feels the terrifying weight of what's still to come as silent tears of fear come and don't stop

Chapter Text

The air was thick with dust and sun. Sweat clung to every soldier in the line as the drill Sergeant paced in front of the obstacle course like a warden looking for excuses.

"Standard perimeter dash, wall climb, pit crawl, rope swing, and hurdle finish," the Sergeant barked. "Anyone eats dirt, you're doin' it again. In your sleep, if I gotta make it happen."

Tony rolled her shoulders out, jaw set. The course looked brutal. Mud pits glistened in the sun like threats, and the final hurdle cast long shadows over the cracked dirt.

"You sure they didn't send us someone from the children's league?" a man whose Dog Tags proclaimed him 'Henry Burddock' muttered, his voice just loud enough for Tony to hear. "Hope you brought a step stool, shortstack."

Tony didn't bite. She just smiled, slow and calm, like someone who knew something he didn't.

When the whistle blew, they launched forward as one. Boots thundered against the ground.

Henry pulled ahead first. He was fast—she'd give him that. But he wasn't precise. He stumbled over the wall climb, missed a foothold on the pit trench, and landed hard in the mud.

Tony didn't.

She moved fast and low to the ground, efficient in every motion and quicker than anyone expected. Years of darting between rock walls and climbing trees in Maine paid off.

By the time she hit the final hurdle, her lungs burned. She heard Henry cursing close behind her — just barely —she was beating him, and that pushed her legs harder.

She vaulted over the last hurdle and hit the finish line one solid second ahead of him.

Henry landed hard in the dirt a beat later, covered in mud and panting like a dog.

Tony straightened, hands on her knees. Her heart pounded in her ears, and she was sweating worse than Henry. But she still had breath enough to say, between gasps, "What, was that supposed to be your best? Thought you were faster than a little kid."

The squad cracked up behind her. Dum-Dum let out a loud whoop. Pinky grabbed Jim's arm to keep from falling over laughing.

Henry froze, his own small group letting a few chuckles slip. He glared at them, and then his eyes locked on Tony like she'd just spat in his food. Mud streaked down his cheek, mixing with the blood from his scraped lip. His hand twitched at his side, curling and uncurling like he wasn't sure if he wanted to swing or scream.

"You little bitchboy."

The word landed like a slap across the face — sharp, ugly, and loud enough that even the last few stragglers still climbing the rope swing turned their heads. It echoed too much. Felt too close to something that hit below the belt.

Tony's heart stuttered. Her lungs locked. She saw red — not rage, not exactly, but something hotter. Sharper. Her vision tunneled like her body made the decision before her brain did.

She stepped in fast.

Her fist flew faster.

Crack.

Knuckles met jaw with a clean, brutal sound that cut through the buzz of heat, breath and tension. Henry's head snapped to the side — mud and spit flying — and he staggered back with a shocked grunt, blood blooming at the corner of his mouth. He spat blood onto the ground, hand going to his face like he'd just been hit by a truck instead of a barely-five-one private.

The laughter went dead silent for half a beat.

Then exploded again.

"Holy hell, Hudson!" Marv crowed, slapping Dum-Dum's shoulder. "That was a clean fuckin' hit!"

Henry raged, seeing the crimson on his hand from where his mouth was flowing steady drips of blood. "You—fucking—little—"

"Enough!" barked a voice from across the field.

Drill instructor Edwards strode toward them, his cap low over his brow, mouth a hard line.

"What in the goddamn hell was that?"

Tony stood straight, bracing for it.

But before she could speak, Sergeant Barnes stepped forward.

"Just a little competition, sir," he said smoothly. "Got heated. We've all cooled down now."

Edwards squinted at them, clearly not buying it — but also not interested in dealing with whatever the hell this had been.

"Try not to cool down anyone's jaw with your fists next time, Private," Edwards growled towards Tony with a squinted glare. "Dismissed."

He stalked off.

Henry glared daggers, but didn't say a word as he rejoined his little gang.

Tony watched him apprehensively for a moment before the rest of the team started pushing her forward, clapping her on the back as they headed off toward the mess hall, still chuckling and reenacting her punch like it was a scene from a war comic.

Barnes hung back as the others walked ahead, watching to be sure Henry's group stopped shooting looks at Tony within the Commandos midst and started walking themselves.

Dum-Dum fell into step beside Jim and muttered under his breath, "Well, that's a first. Bet he'll keep that hole shut for a while."

"God, I hope not," Jim added. "I want to see her do it again."

And they walked on, sun still blazing overhead, into the long afternoon.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

The barracks were quieter than usual that evening. The storm outside rolled low over the hills, thunder distant but constant. Rain tapped lightly on the roof in a steady rhythm.

Inside, the single overhead bulb flickered. The men had dragged the rickety card table to the center of the room and gathered around it in their usual loose circle. Socks and spare bootlaces served as betting chips tonight; a half-eaten pack of rations had been emptied and converted into the pot.

"Marv, if you fold again without lookin' at your cards, I'm gonna deck you," Dum-Dum growled, slapping his cards down. "Man bluffed through half a bar of soap yesterday."

"It worked, didn't it?" Marv drawled, smirking behind his hand.

Barnes sat with them, cards fanned out in one hand, the other resting loosely on the table. He didn't laugh at the banter, though he cracked a grin now and then. His eyes kept drifting — toward the back of the barracks. Toward Tony's bunk.

But it was empty.

Outside, the storm deepened.

Meanwhile, Tony slipped into the long deserted wooden hallway that held the doors to the individual barracks rooms, rain-soaked and holding a thin, battered copy of the Army Regulations Manual under one arm. Her hair stuck to her forehead in wet curls, and her boots squelched slightly with every step.

The long hallway was dark except for a single light that was streaming from under the door marked 'Barracks C'. She walked towards it, trying her best to keep her squeaky boots from making enough noise to wake the other Soldiers that didn't have the luxury of being able to bunk when they want, like her own humble special operations unit did.

Not every Barracks had as relaxed of a Sergeant as Barnes was towards his team of Howling Commandos.

When Tony finally reached the outside of the 'Barracks C' door, she took a second to shake the rain off of her short hair, and in that second heard it.

"You ever notice anything... strange?" Sergeant Barnes's voice was low and deep, hushed compared to the others' banter moments before.

Tony sucked in a breath and slid to the wall, so they wouldn't see her hoovering outside the wide open door, clinging to the frame as silently as possible as she slowly peeked her head an inch to the left so she could see the card table.

The only two people she could see were Barnes and Gabe. Neither of which was looking her way, focused entirely upon the game, it would appear. If the Sergeant hadn't been leaning slightly toward Gabe, she would have assumed she had imagined it. Gabe, who sat beside Barnes with arms crossed, had a puzzled expression that was nearly unreadable.

Gabe raises an eyebrow. "Strange? About what?" There was no joke to his tone, only quiet urgency as he looks intently down at his hand of cards.

"About Tony," Barnes said, more quietly still, which makes the others lean in with inquisitive expressions. "Anything that seemed... off?"

Tony's feet froze to the floor. The manual slipped slightly in her grip, and she had to force herself to grapple with the heavy book to not drop it.

Gabe glanced around at Tony's bunk and then glanced towards the door in a practiced tactical sweep, cautious now. "You mean besides the attitude?"

"I'm serious," Barnes said with an air of impatience. "There's something I—he's always careful. Real careful. Even off-duty. Like he's got something to lose." he seemed to be trying to find the right words.

Tony's breath caught in her throat.

Dum-Dum, half-listening now, snorted and dealt another hand. "Only thing I noticed is he’s shite at the nets. Swear tae God, it's like watchin’ a cat try tae swim."

That drew a round of laughter. Even Gabe cracked a smile.

Tony took a step back, heart pounding in her ribs like it wanted to run away itself if she wasn't going to.

The book slipped from her numbing hand finally as her head began to swirl with anxiety and hit the wooden floor with a flat, unmistakable thud.

Every head turned towards the noise at the door. Barnes's eyes snapped up his eyes locked with Tony's horrified gaze through the slight darkness that had moments before shrouded her entrance.

She moved fast.

"Tony—wait!" Barnes was already on his feet, the chair clattering backward.

But she pulled the door shut before he could reach her. He wrenched it open and dashed into the wooden hallway. He barely had time to see the edge of her sliding out of sight through the outside door at the end of the hallway.

Outside, the rain had started again — harder now, the kind that soaked through in seconds. Barnes hesitated at the threshold, then cursed and returned to grab his coat from the bunk peg.

"What the fuck is going on, Sarge?" Jim asks with a bewildered expression on his face that was mirrored by the others.

"I'll find him, I'll be right back." he muttered as an answer to their fully confused faces as he turned his back on them to face the door as he struggled into his jacket.

Behind him, the rest of the table had gone still.

Gabe walked over and leaned down, picking up the manual from the floor where Tony had abandoned it. He stared at it for a long second, then handed it to Jim, who had been watching silently from where he was still halfway done dealing another card to Marv with a heavy sigh and a shake of the head.

No one said anything else for a long moment.

Then Gabe quietly pulled his chair close to the table again and picked up his hand of cards with the manual on his lap.

-*-*-*-*-

"Tony, wait!"

The Sergeant's voice rang out behind her again — sharp, worried — but it already sounded too far away. The second her boots hit the dirt path outside the door, her body moved on instinct. Faster. Harder. Blinded by panic and the ringing buzz in her skull.

She ran like her life depended on it.

Rain slicked the gravel, turning it treacherous underfoot. Every corner she rounded bled into the next. Buildings loomed out of the dark like ghosts — hulking, featureless, washed in sickly yellow light that flickered with each pulse of thunder. She didn't know where she was going. She only knew she had to go.

The sky cracked open overhead — a bolt of lightning tearing across the clouds in a jagged scream of white. For a second, the whole base was laid bare in sharp relief: crooked bunkhouses, water tanks, the jagged lines of scaffolding — then gone again, swallowed by night.

Her boots slapped through puddles, mud splashing up her pant legs. She nearly slipped rounding a corner and caught herself against a stack of crates, breath hitching. Her lungs burned. Her chest heaved. But she couldn't stop.

Couldn't stop thinking.

Couldn't stop seeing Barnes's face when he had asked about her.

He knew. He knew.

And now he was asking the others questions. She took off again, full sprint into the gloom.

The wind shoved against her like a living thing. Weak leaves tore loose from trees and danced wildly past her boots. She pushed through the narrowing lanes between outbuildings, her feet dragging her somewhere, anywhere that wasn't near the truth waiting back inside that barracks.

It felt like the whole world was tilting.

She didn't feel the tears or even distinguish them from the rain already falling into her eyes until they hit her lips, cold and salty mixing with the rainfall.

Tony's breath broke into ragged gasps. The structures thinned around her — fewer tents, fewer lights. Just empty stretches of gravel and dark, wet grass. Her laces had come half undone and her steps faltered, tripping over weeds that clawed at her ankles. One boot sank ankle-deep into a sink of mud and she yanked it free with a sharp sob, stumbling forward.

Then she saw it — looming up in the dark like the edge of the world.

The fence.

Tall and narrow, made of thin metal slats topped with coiled wire. The outer perimeter. The place where the base ended and nothing but miles of trees in this direction began.

Tony slowed fully for the first time, chest heaving. Her palms curled into fists at her sides. Rain streaked down her neck, soaking the back of her shirt. Her whole body trembled, her knees threatening to fold under her. The distant shouts from Barnes couldn't reach this far — here, the world was lit by lightning and the low silver sheen of stormclouds reflecting distant light.

She reached out a hand and touched the fence.

It shuddered faintly beneath her fingertips — the metal cold and vibrating from the distant thunder.

She stayed there, head bowed, breath fogging in the crisp air, the sound of her heartbeat louder than the billowing gusts of wind.

And then—

Footsteps coming fast, crunching through mud and grass.

Someone was behind her.

She didn't turn around at first.

Didn't breathe.

The footsteps were too heavy. Too fast.

Not Barnes.

Barnes moved like he belonged to the earth, solid and clean. This was something else — sloshing, stomping and uneven stumbling almost. Her mind swirled with excuses as to why the hell she was out here this late when the voice that rang out caused her mind to slide to an icy halt.

"Well, well, well."

She turned — slowly, numbly — and there he was. Henry.

Soaked through. Mud up his arms from an apparent fall, his hair plastered to his forehead. His uniform was crooked, his eyes glassy and unfocused. He grinned — all teeth and malice.

"If it isn't the little bitchboy."

Tony stepped back on instinct, her heel catching on the tangled grass behind her. Her shoulders pressed to the fence. Cold metal met her spine.

"Get away from me," she warned, fake male voice a little less believable than she would have liked.

Henry laughed — a sound so bitter and loud it echoed in the storm.

"You think you're better than me?" he growled, stepping closer. "You think just 'cause you can run a little faster, shoot a little straighter—what? That makes you a real big man?"

He lunged.

Tony jerked sideways, but he was already too close. His hand fisted in the front of her shirt and slammed her back against the chain link. The whole fence rattled on impact, her teeth knocking together.

Pain flared in her ribs, hot and sudden.

"You run pretty fast," Henry hissed, his face inches from hers, and the stench of alcohol was almost suffocating from his breath. "But you ain't that fast."

She shoved him — hard — but he didn't move. He was bigger, meaner, drunker.

And angry.

"Let me go!" she shouted, panic snapping her voice as she flailed uselessly against his grip. He laughed darkly "You do sound a little unconvincing when your scared don't you, Doll." Tony froze with panic and dread filling her every inch of being. She puts all of her remaining effort into trying to remove Henry's hands from her but he moves faster.

One hand pinned her painfully to the fence by her throat as the other dropped low.

Too low.

She felt like she was paralyzed to the spot, unable to even breathe as her two hands hold onto the one holding her throat for dear life — his grip digging into the waistband of her soaked PT pants felt violating as his hand searches through her oversized boxers and the tighter white underwear underneath that.

Tony shuts her eyes tight like if she doesn't see it happening it will stop, "P-Please-" She stammers out, kicking her feet out against him a little and catching his knee cap hard.

A hard backhand that cracked across her cheekbone, splitting skin. The world spun as Tony staggered sideways, catching herself against the fence. She had been sliced by the fence but she couldn't see the wound on her hand, a place somwhere above her cheekbone also stinging from the contact. Her vision blurred with tears and rain.

Henry grabbed her again — by the collar this time — and flung her into the side of the nearby cement building. Her back hit with a heavy thud, knocking the air clean out of her lungs. Tony coughed and gasped for air as she saw stars.

"I should've done this the first day," he snarled, each word accentuated by a bone cracking hit from his fists "I thought you were just some wimp" Another uppercut "Just thought you were some little fucking nancy." this blow was off center and made Tonys ears pop and her eyes go unfocused as she fell against the fence roughly.

And then—

He pulled a knife.

Small. Black-handled. Regulation.

The kind every soldier was issued.

The blade flicked open with a hiss and caught the next flash of lightning, gleaming razor sharp.

Tony felt like a deer in headlights, too terrified to move but also trembling head to foot as she looked wide-eyed at the blade.

Rain coursed down her face, stinging the open cut on her cheek from the now dented fence.

Henry stepped close again, grabbing her roughly by the collar and dragging her upright like a ragdoll as he pressed the knife to her injured cheek — the sharp blade grazing it open further and making Tony hiss in pain while her feet kicked wildly to stand and keep herself away from the shimmering blade.

"You know what happens to freaks who lie their way in?" he whispered, voice low and poisonous. "They get found. And they pay for it."

Tony's mind screamed. Her body shook. But she couldn't move, couldn't even force her mouth open to say anything. She felt like her whole body had been dunked into icy water as she watched the blade glint in the lightning.

Henry shifted his weight and moved the knife closer to her throat. This was what her mind needed to finally make herself move. She grabbed at his wrist and shoved with all her might upwards — and the blade still drove at her like a javelin, dragging along her jawline and face, missing her eye only because the blade wasn't close enough to reach it, but slicing through her eyebrow thinly.

Hot pain still tore through her jaw harsh and stinging, and blood mixed with the rain that was pouring down her face and onto the dirt below their feet.

She cried out for the first time, the shock causing her to squeak, and attempted to knee him in the gut. He barely staggered — and came back twice as fast, his fist slamming into her ribs with all his body weight behind it. She heard something crack this time. She crumpled forward, the pain making her feel like she would surely black out.

Henery caught her by the hair and held her still while he laid blow after blow to her ribs with his large boot, the knife held aloft in his other hand. He pulls her up by the same fistful of hair, spitting into her bruised and bloodied face.

Her knees buckled under her weight as stars danced in front of her eyes again.

Henry pressed her forward, face-first against the concrete wall beside the fence, breathing hard. Henry breathed deeply and then let out a dark laugh. "I have a half a mind to-"

"Step away."

A voice, clear and cutting, snapped through the storm like gunfire.

Henry freezes, turning his head drunkenly.

A man stands a few yards away — broad-shouldered, wearing a heavy military cloak over a blue uniform, a shield slung casually against his back. He stood about 6' 3" and he towered over Henry who had no choice but to look up into the face of the stranger whos eyes bore down upon him like cold steel.

The stranger steps closer, rain dripping from his curly golden hair, looking Henry in the eye like he would like nothing more than a reason to lay him flat out onto the ground.

"Tony!" the sound of Sergeant Barnes shout cuts through the dark, shoving past the taller man in blue without even looking at him.

"Get the Fuck out of here-" Barnes starts but Henry shoves Tony roughly to the ground and says threateningly "I know HER little secret."

Barnes doesn't hesitate but throws a punch so solid and true that Henry falls backwards into the wall, denting it even further, eyes rolling. Sargent Barnes reaches down and pulls him up again with malice in his murderous face, "and if you ever mention it to anyone, I will personally see to it that you are left in cement shoes in a flood plain after I beat you within an inch of your life."

He lets Henry go and Henry staggers sideways and then stumbles into a run, the thunder rolling overhead and lightning snapping across the sky.

Buck turns, his eyes now locked on the crumpled form of Tony in the rain splattered mud "they werent gonna care, god you scared the ever living fuck out of m-" Then he freezes — realizing who the man standing there actually is.

"...Steve?"

The cloaked man smiles faintly. "Hey, Bucky. Good to see you didn't start the war till I got here. Is she alright?"

Barnes stares for one, two heartbeats — and then shakes his head like a dog shaking off water.

"Later," he barks. "Not now. HE'S fine. HE apparently just needs a goddamn babysitter." He seems to forget about getting Tony up for a moment as he lets go of her, trying to mentally process his little scrawny friend now being bigger than him. "Did you get even taller than last time?" He asks with his eyes narrowed to the rain pelting down on them all.

"You alright, miss?" Steve asks Tony directly, ignoring the Sergeant's question as he examines the cuts and bruises on her face. Barnes shakes his head, "SIR! She isn't a she. She is a He." He says quickly, not looking down at Tony as he shakes his head at his blonde friend.

Steve stares in confusion, "uh.."

Steve opens his mouth like he is going to say something.

Closes it.

Looks at Tony.

Looks at Barnes.

Back at Tony again.

"...You sure?" he says finally, squinting from Tony's figure in the dark and rain and then back to Barnes like maybe he's the one that's been concussed.

"YES, I'm sure!" Barnes snaps, jabbing a finger into Steve's chest hard enough that the shield on his back rattles. "You think I don't know my own goddamn soldier when I see him?!"

Steve holds up his hands in surrender, but his brow furrows stubbornly.

"It's just—he looks—" he gestures vaguely at Tony's soaked, muddy and petite form, "—looks awful soft, is all."

Barnes pinches the bridge of his nose like he's praying for strength with one hand and reaches down and pulls Tony out of the mud gently with the other.

"God help me," he mutters, then grabs Steve by the sleeve and starts dragging him back the way he had come, guiding Tony with a hand at the small of her back using the cover of the dark storm.

"Come on, Captain Horn-Dog. You can flirt after you pull your head outta your ass." Barnes chuckles.

"I wasn't flirting!" Steve protests indignantly, nearly tripping over his large red boots as Barnes steers him away. "I was being polite!"

"Yeah? Be polite somewhere else! I have a card game to continue. Knowing the others cheating though we—"

Tony stumbled between the two men, only half hearing them over the roar in her ears. Their voices felt distant — like conversation through fog. Every step jarred her ribs. Her vision wavered at the edges, tunneling in and out. The mud sucked at her boots and the rain stung like glass against the cut on her face, but it all felt far away. Like it was happening to someone else. A jolt of pain causes a sharp gasp to slip past her lips. The mud rushes up fast towards her face, but she doesn't hit the ground.

A hand catches her, firm and steady.

"Whoa—hey," Steve says, hauling her upright by instinct. "You alright?"

Tony tries to answer, but all that comes out is a wet cough, her mouth lopsided from the swelling already spreading across her cheek. Her eyes puffing shut; her jaw aches. Blood is crusted along her collar and blooming across her uniform like a sickening leak.

And then the world tilts again, Tony's eyes rolling back a bit into her pale face as she lurches forwards.

Steve catches her a second time before she hits the mud. "Jesus—Buck! He's out cold!" but his voice is far away as Tony falls down..

Down..

Down...

*-*-*-*-*-*

The rain hadn't let up. It soaked through every layer by the time they both got under the awning to the barracks. Captain America pulls short with a confused look on his face as he looks at Sergeant Barnes moving to open the barracks hallway door.

"We've really gotta get him to the medical tent," Steve says, urgency in his voice as he looks down at the weak body in his arms. His large red boots start to carry him past the barracks and towards the small line of white tents near the medical building "He's not just banged up, Buck—he's barely breathing."

Bucky stepped in front Steve, blocking the way with a low but firm, "No."

Steve stared at him incredulously "No? What the hell do you mean, no?"

"We can't," Bucky said firmly, though his face showed the internal battle he was having. Seeing the absolute confusion on his best friends face he looks around before adding quieter: "Not there."

Steve's brow knit as he ajusts Tony in his arms a little. "Why not? He needs real treatment. Gabe is not set up for this kind of—"

"I know that," Bucky snapped, too loud. He winced, then dropped his voice to a whisper, glancing around nervously again as if someone would come striding out of the soaking sheets of rain. "I know. But this is serious. You don't know-" But Steve didn't give him the chance to finish.

"I saw enough to know Buck," Steve said, tone sharp. "I saw a kid half-conscious and bleeding like hell after some jackass decided to attack him. You think the med tent's gonna ask questions past that?"

Bucky gave him a look — raw, uneasy. The thought hovered on the tip of his tongue—They'd have more questions than you think—but the downpour, the hour, the uncertainty of if someone was close enough to eavesdrop kept him anxiously debating internally.

Steve began walking towards the medical tent again, but Bucky stepped in front of him with a hand against his chest.

"No," Bucky said, now sounding strained. "We cannot take him in there. Steve please-"

Steve blinked, caught off guard and cuts across him. "What are you talking about? He's unconscious, Buck. He needs real help."

"I know."

"Then what the hell are you waiting for? Unless he IS a she-"

Bucky glanced around — storm still roaring overhead, water soaking them to the bone — and then hissed with a dry mouth, "Could you shut the hell up? Jesus, you never take my word for anything."

Steve reared back slightly, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "That supposed to mean something, or—?"

"She's a girl, Steve." Bucky's voice was low, panicked, His eyes trying to convey through the dim light how serious he was being "Tony's a girl."

Steve stared at him for a long second, his eyes briefly flicking to the form in his arms that only now felt strangely light compared to soliders he had carried before.

"I mean—people have their ideas, Buck, but a girl could never make it this far—"

"No. I know," Bucky cut in, shaking his head quickly. "I found out myself not even a full day ago, and I still don't know what the hell to do with it. I've kept it quiet. Nobody else knows. Not the squad. Not the other Sergeants. Nobody. Just me. And now you."

Steve stares at Bucky for a long time. Then his blue eyes drift toward Tony's slumped form in his arms. His face twisted — conflicted, troubled. After a pause he mutters under his breath "This is why I said we needed to vet our own guys. But oooh no, you said. Let the goddamn paper-pushers handle it. They'll catch anything 'important,' you said."

"You think I wanted this?" Bucky hissed, voice cracking with exhaustion. "You think I knew what I was getting into?"

Lightning lit up the sky again, casting sharp lines across both their faces.

Steve let out a long, frustrated breath. He looked down at Tony, still limp in his arms. "If we take her to medical—"

"They'll find out. That's it. The jig is up."

Steve was quiet for a beat as the gears in his head whirled, then nodded. "Alright. Barracks it is."

And without another word, they turned and trudged through the dark and desolate compound towards 'Barracks C'.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

The barracks door slammed open with a sodden Captian Rogers, Sergeant Barnes and out cold Tony.

Cards slapped onto the table as the Commandos looked up mid-hand, their laughter cutting off as they took in Tony's bleeding jaw and black eye.

"Yeesh," Gabe muttered, standing slowly as Steve passes the group with the bloodied Tony in his arms. "What the fuck happened to him?"

Steve didn't answer — just carried Tony in like a broken rag doll and laid her gently onto her cot. Her head lolled, hair sticking to the rain on her forehead. The droplets made little streaks down to her bloodied jaw and then carried the blood in striking stains down her throat where it joined the large blemish of blood that was soaking her t-shirt. Mud smeared over her elbows and forearms, and the bruises across her ribs were already beginning to purple through the white fabric.

"He's hurt bad," Bucky said, already moving past Steve and Tony, toward the rusted sink at the back of the room. He wrung out a hand towel under the freezing water, hands steady. "Henry did this. Caught him alone." He walked back and knelt by the cot, pressing the damp cloth to Tony's jaw, trying to stop the worst of the bleeding.

"Wait, Henry?" Marv gaped, "Henry Braddock, did this?" He asked as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. Gabe grabbed his medical supply tin from under his cot and hurried over with a tisk. "How the hell does this kid keep finding trouble?"

"I got no goddamned clue," Bucky muttered without looking up, before adding with a sigh, "trouble always seems to find him."

Gabe knelt, kit clicking open as he sorted through supplies. He reached for the hem of Tony's shirt, tugged it upward "Alright, hold him steady. I gotta check for broken ribs first, if they are, then his lungs could be-" He broke off, his voice dying in his throat like a kite without wind.

His whole body was frozen it seemed for one breath. Then two.

The compression bandages were obvious. The curves beneath them even more so.

Gabe's face drained of color as he jerked his body sideways, instinctively blocking the view from the others with one wide arm as chairs scraped and boots scuffled. "Shit—" he manages to get out before the others fully realize what they are seeing and press in for a closer look.

Pinky stood up so fast he knocked over his stool with a clatter. Marv shoves Pinky aside as his eyes pop out of his skull "What the fuck?"

"Shut up," Bucky barked, voice sharp enough to slice. He stood between Gabe and the other men in two steps, arms outstretched. "Everybody back the hell up. Now."

Steve moved too, putting a hand on Jim's chest and steering him backward, while Dum-Dum and Pinky exchanged wide-eyed looks, but took a step away from the cot.

Gabe hovered, hesitant now. His right hand was stuck to his head as if he couldn't wrap his mind around it, the other hovering with the shirt like he couldn't decide if he wanted to give the girl her decency or keep staring like a trainwreck he couldn't look away from "I—Christ, Buck. She's a mess. I still need to—"

"No shit," Bucky growled out, his focus on keeping the other men from getting a real eyeful of Tony's unconscious form. "You wanna try helping instead of gawking?"

For a long, hot second, no one moved. They just looked around at each other like men in a wild-west standoff.

Dum-Dum is the first to speak again "Ah didnae know," he says, hands out in surrender as he wanders back to the fold out card table and scattered cards. "Swear tae God. No till this. And even now, ah cannae be sure."

Steve folded his arms, glaring at the back of his head like an offended older brother, "Well, I'm sure for you."

Pinky finally finds his voice after shaking himself out of his shellshock "Sooo.. what happens now?"

"We protect her until we know what to do." Bucky said reasonably, his eyes flitting from face to face so he himself wouldn't look down at Gabe's work.

Gabe didn't look up from where he was carefully wrapping gauze around her torso in place of the binder, Bucky moving to help support her head and shoulders while he does. "She's lucky she didn't puncture a lung. I need to wrap these and stitch her jaw." Gabe cuts and ties the gauze with an edge to his voice, "You want to protect her? Start with shutting the goddamned door."

"Just don't see why she couldn't go to the med tent." Jim says in an undertone as he kicked the door shut with his boot, hard enough to rattle the frame with a small cringe.

Bucky scrubbed a hand down his face at the loud sound as he straighens up again. "She can't go to the med tent. If they find out—if anyone finds out—she's done for. They won't just kick her out. They'll throw her in prison. Maybe worse."

The men fell quiet.

Steve shifted uncomfortably, trying not to look at the mostly naked woman in the cot as Bucky and Gabe shifted her to the side so she's in a little more of the dim lights. glow for the stitches. "The Army doesn't want people like her. And she still volunteered." Steve's voice was almost a mumble, like he said a thought out loud.

Jim leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Henry found out before us, huh?"

Barnes glares at Jim before he answers, ignoring the slight disappointment in Jim's voice that they hadn't been trusted until necessity. Barnes's lips had been in a tight line before answering, "Henry pulled a knife on her. Would've killed her if we hadn't shown up, I think."

The room seemed to darken, but nobody knew what to say back to that.

Gabe peeled the towel away from Tony's jaw and winced at the deep, bleeding gash. "Doesn't answer how she ended up like this. What did he just want revenge for acting like a fool?" Jim says in his deep voice from where he stood still by the barracks door. "Aye, she looks like she just let ‘em have a go, so she did." Dum-Dum supplies with narrowed eyes.

"She fought back," Steve defends. "I mean, she tried to anyway. But he's bigger. Meaner, and from the smell coming off of him, Drunker than regulation allows him to be even during downtime." He said it as if the laws could somehow prevent people from breaking them.

Jim's voice cut in again, bitter: "And that's the danger shes in before the Nazis even get a shot at her."

No one had a snappy comeback for that either.

Bucky knelt beside Tony's cot again, lowering his voice as he looked around at the group. "No one else knows. Just the people in this room. We are all gonna keep it that way." The way he said 'we' didn't leave room for any argument.

Gabe's throat worked like he wanted to speak but couldn't.

Bucky met his eyes over Tony's limp body. "You understand?"

Gabe nodded without hesitation but took a second to find his voice, "Yeah," he rasped. "Yeah, I got it."

Gabe turned back to his kit, fingers moving briskly as he got to work, but the energy in the room was fractured—every eye burning a hole through the floor or the walls or the Sergeant himself as everyone sat with the new information.

"Alright," Marv muttered at last, "Somebody wanna fully explain what the hell is going on here?"

"Yeah," Pinky added, still pacing. "You two appear—like the bloody wind and rain themselves—you drop this... this bomb, and now we are simply meant to sit, yes? Sit and—what? Play more poker, as though nothing strange at all is happening here?"

Steve, jaw tight, folded his arms. "Don't look at me. I found out tonight too."

"Aye, but you’re wi’ him," Dum-Dum pointed out, nodding toward Bucky. , "Not accusin’, just sayin’ it plain."

"I am," Steve said with loyalty to his best friend adamant in his strong tone.

All eyes went to the Sergeant again. Bucky exhaled slowly, like the whole weight of the last few days had settled into his chest.

"I didn't know either. Not until our first spar training. And even then..." He scrubbed a hand down his face. "Look, I don't have a neat little story for you. I didn't ask questions. I didn't ask mostly because I myself can't understand it. But the Army's not kind to people who don't fit into neat boxes, and if she's found out—really found out—it won't be a discharge. It'll be a court martial. Or prison. Or worse."

Silence. The rain buzzed faintly through the tin roof like static.

Gabe dabbed at the large gash on Tony's face with an iodine soaked rag, the dark yellow fluid mixing stains with the blood. The gash was still bleeding, though slower now.

"But that doesn't answer what the fuck happened tonight, why he attacked her, or how he found out before us." Gabe said matter of factly, reaching for more gauze.

Bucky swallowed but shook his head, "Thats something I don't know. Steve was the one who found her before me." Everyone looked at Steve but he was looking intently at the floor now, his light blue eyes uncharacteristically dark and unreadable.

"Well?" Marv says after a long beat passes, durring which the only noise is the sound of the storm and Gabe's needle going in and out of Tony's fleash with a piece of reddening thread.

"He.." Steve blinked and then looked more towards Bucky than anyone else as he said slowly, "He was just laying into her, obviously I heard it since I just arrived through the B gate," He rambled a little at the end, Bucky could see in his nervousness that what he was saying was hard to relive.

"He picked her up and shoved his hand down her pants-" Before the Captain can continue Bucky steps forwards, his own face pulled in rage now, "And you let me let that Bastard just walk away?" Steve met his eye and they communicated without words.

Jim cursed softly under his breath and repeated into the silence, "And that's within an American base. What's she supposed to do when we're dropped behind enemy lines again?" He lets a beat pass and then adds in a more distressed tone "What are we gonna do?"

No one answered.

No one needed to.

Gabe leaned in and began cleaning the wounds fresh blood with slow, steady hands. "She's one of ours," he said quietly. "So we protect her."

Bucky nodded once, jaw set and eyes moving back to Tony's black and blue face. "That's all I'm asking."

No one disagreed.

Tony's body stayed limp on the cot, the only sign of life the occasional twitch when Gabe hit a tender spot near the edge of the gash and the slow rise and fall of her breathing chest. He worked with the needle in steady rhythm, brow furrowed, tongue between his teeth. Rain battered the roof harder now, punctuated by low rolls of thunder that rattled the walls and thin flooring.

Dum-Dum finally broke the quiet. "So... when the hell did you get here?" he asked, nodding at the Captain in the spangled uniform. "Last we heard, you were off playin’ science fair wi’ Howard Stark."

Steve looked up from where he stood near the end of Tony's bunk, arms crossed. "Couple of moments before all this happened. Just got on base and started walking here when I heard the comotion, and when I went to check it was.. well." He doesn't finish but nods towards Bucky, who was still standing and watching Gabes work with unwavering eyes, "He showed up to the scene just after me."

Marv raised a brow. "How the hell did you hear her over this storm? Was it really that bad?" He looks betwen the two men as he rubs a fist, looks of anger flit over the others faces as well as they all wait for an answer.

"Super soldier hearing," Steve said with a faint shrug. He looks away from their questioning faces and back down at Tony "Comes with the whole experimental science package."

Pinky snorted. "Well next time maybe use that super hearing to stop a knife before it makes contact, huh?"

Steve gave him a tired looking smile. "Working on it."

Gabe tied off the last stitch and sat back on his heels with a sigh, flexing his sore fingers. "That's the best I can do for now," he murmured. "If we're lucky, it won't get infected. But she's gonna be feeling that one for a while."

Thunder cracked overhead — loud enough to make everyone jump.

Jim exhaled sharply. "Alright. So what the hell do we do about Braddock?" His deep voice left a more full silence behind it.

Pinky leaned against the wall, arms crossed almost as tight as his lips. Finally he speaks up "We can't just let him walk."

"He knows," Marv added quickly. "That's not just a loose end. That's a landmine with legs."

"Could report him," Marv offered without any real conviction when nobody said anything.

Bucky shook his head. "He'd just drag Tony down with him. Turn it into a show."

Steve looked grim as he nodded his agreement, "We turn him in, she gets dragged through hearings. Headlines. Maybe worse. They'll put her in a cage faster than they'll even talk to us. I don't even want to think about the time WE would be facing for harboring her."

Dum-Dum shakes his head with a muttered "No' exactly the kind o’ press I thought we’d be gettin’ this time, lads." When Pinky gives him a questioning look, he says louder, "Just thought we’d be doin’ somethin’ a wee bit mair interestin’ by now, that’s all." his accent thick.

"Then what?" Gabe asked, drying his hands on a scrap of gauze. "We just try and keep her breathing?"

Bucky looked around the room — at all of them.

"We protect her," he said firmly. "That's what we do."

Steve gave a tight nod of agreement.

"She's one of us now," Gabe murmured again, smoothing the blanket over Tony's bruised frame, what little warmth it did give. "And nobody messes with one of ours like that."

No one disagreed.

Chapter Text

The world comes back in fragments as Tony begins to come around.

First: the sharp antiseptic sting of alcohol. The grit and itch of dried blood clinging to her neck. A wool blanket rough against her chin — scratchy, damp at the edges.

Then voices start to take shape, quiet and murmuring. Like they didn't want to wake her.

"She's not waking up?"

"He," someone corrects automatically. Gabe, maybe — the New York accent softened by exhaustion. "And he will. Just needs time."

Tony stirs, but it feels like dragging herself through tar. Her ribs grind when she breathes. Her jaw pulses like someone's knocking from the inside out. Her whole body feels swollen, stretched too tight.

She blinks.

The barracks are dark. Quiet. The storm has passed, but the humid, heavy air remains. Water taps gently against the ground outside, dripping from the eaves in uneven rhythm. Pale morning light slinks through the fogged barracks windows, soft and gray.

Everything smells faintly of gun cleaner, disinfectant, and soap now that she felt more alert.

Tony's fingers curl around the edge of the blanket. It's coarse. Military. But tucked in too neatly — someone else's handy work, and not her own.

"Hey," Gabe's voice says softly, closer now than before. "There he is."

Tony's head turns — slow, aching — toward the sound.

Gabe crouches beside the cot, looking tired but relieved. His sleeves are rolled up, and there's a bloody cloth tucked into his belt. He smells faintly like iodine and cigarette smoke.

"You scared the hell out of us, kid."

Tony tries to speak, but all she manages to make come out is a croak.

Gabe disappears from her view for a brief moment before returning with Tony's canteen, which he presses gently to her lips. "Just sip. Careful."

The water tasted like rust and rain, but it helped soothe the burning itch in her dry throat. Her jaw throbs painfully, and each breath is ragged and shallow.

"...how long," Tony finally rasps after several mouthfuls of the room temperature water.

"Couple hours. Maybe more." Gabe takes back the canteen and then adds in a lighter tone, "Long enough that Dum-Dum tried to start a vigil and Steve nearly paced a hole in the floor."

Tony's eyes flick to the side, her vision still fuzzy at the edges. The others are scattered around the room, each in their own pocket of silence — only a few sleeping but the ones awake are not fully present, just... lingering.

Pinky lies curled on the edge of his bunk with one arm hanging loosely off the side, his chest rising in soft, uneven rhythm. A faint snore escapes him every so often. His boots are still on, dried mud flaked around the soles like he'd collapsed without thinking to take them off.

Jim sits by one of the narrow windows, barely more than a shadow against the frame. He's half-turned towards where he had it cracked at the top, cigarette cupped in his hand, the end glowing dimly with each drag reflected against the dingy glass. The smoke curls in slow spirals, softening the outlines of his shoulders before swirling out of the small crack.

He doesn't move often, just watches the fog lift off the sodden ground like he's trying to see something far beyond it, before remembering his cigarette and taking a haul.

Marv is passed out, his whole torso on top of the card table while its legs groan under his weight, a single playing card stuck to his cheek as he drools a little.

Dum-Dum is slouched deep into a creaking folding chair he must've dragged over from the card table, a battered comic draped over his chest like a blanket. His derby hat's tilted forward to shade his face from the wavering light bulb above.

One of his boots taps absently against the floor as the only sign he wasn't sleeping, like his nerves still hadn't caught up to the silence. A small pile of dried mud was collecting on the ground under the tread of his boot.

Across the room, Steve sits with his back against the wall on the only cot that had been left open, now marked in charcoal drawing pencil: Captain S.R. His arms are crossed tight, shoulders squared, but his expression is unreadable. Not asleep. Not fully awake. He stares straight ahead at the door like he's guarding something invisible. Like if he stops watching for even a second, the world might let something slip in.

And Sergeant Barnes — Bucky, is on the floor next to her cot, one shoulder resting against the frame, head tipped back, like he fought to stay awake and lost.

Tony's throat tightens at the sight. Nobody had ever stayed up through the night for her, Let alone a whole group of strangers that likely knew what the fuck she was by now.

That thought strikes the pit of Tony's stomach like lightning. She closes her eyes tightly against the realization, both shame and fear making her heart hammer in her sore chest.

"Does it hurt that bad?" Gabe, as proclaimed by the little stitched name beside the little medic emblem on his uniform that Tony was only now noticing with their proximity, he leans down with a worried expression. He presses a hand gently to her ribs, and she jolts as pain flares sharp and immediate.

"I'm..." she starts, but the words get stuck as she tries to ignore the pain still radiating from her burning side.

"You're safe," Gabe says gently, like he's said it before. "That's all that matters right now. Don't worry about being sorry." He stands up straight with a small sheepish smile, "Not to assume you are sorry."

Tony nods but doesn't meet his eyes. She had been about to say indeed just that, that she was sorry. She draws her elbows and tries to sit up, immediately regretting it as a white-hot lance of pain shoots through her ribs.

Gabe lays a hand gently on her shoulder, steady but firm — enough to pin her without hurting.

"Don't be dumb, sweetheart," he mutters, the rebuke softened by the quiet tsk of his breath. It's not scolding, just tired concern threaded with something gentler.

Tony sinks back without argument, eyes squeezing shut as a fresh wave of pain rolls over her. Her ribs feel like they're wrapped in barbed wire.

There's a long moment where only the rain makes any noise — the distant patter on the roof, the occasional snore from Pinky.

Once Tony thought she couldn't stand to not know any longer, "What happened to him?" she asks quietly.

Her voice cracks a little and though she doesn't look at Gabe, he watches as her eyes start to brim with tears.

Gabe doesn't answer at first, letting go of her shoulder and poking around inside his medical bag instead for something to do with his hands.

She turns her head just enough to see the set of his jaw. The way his mouth is pressed into an inconceivably thin line. His eyes are fixed on some distant point on the floor instead of what his hands are doing, as if the words require precision.

"Gone," he says finally, after he seems to not be able to find a different way to say it.

Then, after a beat — he cleared his throat and spoke a little clearer, "We made sure."

Tony swallows, her throat raw and dry. When she doesn't answer, Gabe looks back at her face. He surveys it a moment, then leans in slightly, Close enough for her to see the shadow under his eyes, the fray at the collar of his undershirt, the way his breath still smells faintly of stale coffee and whiskey cigarettes.

"I mean it, kid." His voice is firmer now, more grounded. "You ain't gotta look over your shoulder here. Not no more. You got us." he points at her chest with meaning, "That bastard doesn't get to scare you again."

The words land like a blanket — heavy, warm, suffocating all at once.

Tony blinks hard against the burn behind her eyes. Her face flushes, blood rushing up through her bruised skin. She doesn't know if it's pain, or gratitude, or maybe some other complex emotion that doesn't have a name.

"Here, these aren't morphine, but they'll help. Drink a lot of water with them." Gabe hands Tony the small white pills he had been apparently searching for, and her canteen again, before heading back over to his crate by his cot.

She just nods, barely, and obeys his orders.

She looks toward Bucky again. He's lying on the floor between their cots, one arm bent under his head, the other curled in a fist against his chest. His hair clings in damp strands to his forehead, rain-matted and still unwashed, and his mouth is slightly open — breath slow, but not steady. As if even unconscious, his body's bracing for something.

His boots are still on, heels crossed at the ankle like he'd meant to stay there only a moment, but never moved again. His boots were covered in dried mud just like the others. Tony's eyes flick to Gabes' boots too, only to see them still damp from an apparent washing.

Everything about Gabe was always neat and orderly. Tony couldn't help but notice now that he was hovering over her under the guise of organizing his medical kit, again.

Gabe doesn't look up from his kit. "Something on your mind, Purple?" he says, casual — not looking at Tony but noticing her gaze anyway

"Do I look that bad?" Tony asks weakly.

He snorts, folding a tan washcloth with practiced care. "Like you mouthed off to a guy twice your size and got your ass handed to ya." He gives her a toothy grin as he walks over to the other medical crate, the tan washcloth in hand.

Tony smiles — crooked, cracked-lip, but real.

"Gee, thanks," she mutters, shifting again on the bed and biting down on a groan as her ribs stab back in protest.

Pinky shifts on his cot with a loud and groggy groan, rolling onto his side and stretching his arms up with an audible crack of his shoulders. The movement pulls his blanket askew, exposing his striped undershirt and a scar that snakes up his bicep — half-faded, old.

Tony raises a hand to her jaw, fingers brushing carefully along the tender skin where the stitches pull tight. The motion is slow — reflexive — but it catches Pinky's eye nonetheless.

"She's up," Pinky says quietly, like he's reporting a ghost sighting rather than a fact. His voice is soft — unsure — like he's talking to someone sick, or maybe someone too fragile to startle.

That single sentence breaks the stillness in the room like a pebble in water.

Across the room, Dum-Dum jolts a little in his chair. His comic book nearly slips from his chest, and he catches it with a half-hearted cough, blinking the bleary from his bloodshot eyes as he removes the hat from his face and swings his boots to the floor with a grunt.

From his spot by the medic's crate, they hear the familiar tisk. Gabe doesn't even look up before letting out a sharp, "Ah-ah—don't touch the stitches," he scolds, turning with a snap of his fingers and an exaggerated glare. He crosses the room in two quick strides and bats her hand away with all the drama of a harried nurse. "You think I stitched you up just so you could go tearin' it open again? C'mon, kid."

Tony flinches slightly but doesn't protest. Gabe softens — just a hair — as he adjusts the edge of the blanket around her shoulders.

Jim doesn't turn at first, his cigarette burns a little brighter — a deep drag and slow exhale as his eyes shift toward her, shoulders more relaxed now.

Even Steve stirs from where he sits, his gaze cutting toward her — sharp at first, then softening with quiet relief.

He stands, careful not to scuff the cot or jostle the fragile calm. His boots land soft on the floorboards as he steps over Bucky's sleeping form, moving with the kind of deliberate grace that says he's done it before.

"Hey," he says gently, hands loose at his sides. "How're you feeling?"

Tony recognizes him instantly — Captain America, larger than life. Up close, he looks too big for the room. Her whole body tenses on instinct. She tries to sit up and instantly regrets it — her ribs scream, and the stitches at her jaw tug unkindly.

Pain flares white-hot in her ribs, and the jaw stitches burn like rusted barbed wire in the heat.

"Jesus fucking Mary," Tony hisses, collapsing back onto the cot, pale with the effort.

"You alright, kid?" Gabe asks over his shoulder at her from where he was packing the brown pill bottle back into the kit beside her. "Don't! Stop tearin' yourself open. I'll have to stitch you shut again, and I'm out of whiskey." He pulls a dark green bottle from the bottom of the kit with a furrowed brow.

Tony shoots him a weak glare. "You stitched me up drunk?"

Gabe doesn't flinch. "No." A pause. He shrugs. "Not very."

Steve hovers nearby, uncertain — not sure if he should stay standing over Bucky or sit on the cot his friend abandoned. He clears his throat. "I'm Captain Rogers, you can call me Steve." Tony felt like the anxiety was going to suffocate her as she says, "Anthony. But you can call me Tony."

Steve nodded, looking stern before he asks, "Do you remember what happened?"

Tony looks closer at his eyes. They're bluer than she expected in person, at least compared to the posters that hung all over America. Though quite apart from the gentle baby blue eyes on the posters, his eyes were steely blue — sharp and serious. Not warm, exactly, but steady in a way that makes her fidget and become more aware of how she's sitting and breathing.

"Enough of it," Tony murmurs.

Her voice is low. The fear returns, blooming cold in her gut. This must be why a Captain was called. Lying on the forms. Being a woman in uniform. In this unit. That was enough to warrant execution, no doubt. The stressful thoughts swirl in Tony's mind, and she gulps, maybe worse.

But to bring out the Captain America?

She avoided looking at him — avoided the way he towered over the bed, the way muscle pulled under his sleeves even when he's relaxed.

Steve nods, but doesn't press. The look on her face said it was a subject she would rather not talk about. He couldn't say he blamed her.

The silence stretches on while Tony scans the room to avoid looking at the Captain.

The others pretend not to watch her. Dum-Dum polishes a rifle that doesn't look like it needs it. Jim is still on the same page of a book he hasn't turned in several minutes now. Pinky's halfway through a deck of cards, flipping them one by one in a muttered French monologue like he's doing a fortune reading for ghosts in the room.

Steve glances at them, then back at Tony. "You hungry?"

She nods slowly, considering if she really did want anything to eat and then end up having her last meal be shitty military rations. She briefly considered whether he would poison whatever he gave her.

Steve crosses to a stacked crate and digs out a dented can. He pops it open with a soft hiss. Just beans — lukewarm, probably old — but they smelled like food. Her stomach growls without asking permission, and Steve pretends not to hear it, even with his super hearing.

He hands her the can and a spoon without comment.

Tony holds it awkwardly, trying to figure out how to eat beans while lying on her back. After a moment, her eyes drift to the tall blond man still standing beside her bed, watching her.

She stares back. Steve blinks with a little confusion as the pressure builds.

"You're not gonna ask?" she blurts.

Steve shrugs. "I figure you'll tell me if you want to."

Tony shifts uneasily on the cot, avoiding Steve's gaze. Her fingers clutch the edge of the blanket, knuckles white. Across from her, Steve leans against the bunkpost, arms crossed but relaxed — trying not to loom.

"You feeling okay?" he asks gently.

"Yeah," she says too fast. "Never better."

Steve's brow rises. He offers a faint, knowing smile. "You say that, but I know the look of someone anxious. Worn it myself."

Tony looks at him — really looks — and tries to pretend the tears in her eyes are from the pain, not the fear twisting in her stomach like a wire pulled too tight.

The silence stretches until, through a cracked voice, she asks,

"So... am I gonna die?"

Steve blinks, caught off guard. "W-what?" he stammers.

From across the room, Gabe lets out a surprised laugh which he tries to smother. "Hey now," he says, looking over at Tony's trembling form, "C'mon, I didn't do that bad, alright? Went to med school, didn't I?"

Tony doesn't smile. She's still staring at Steve, face pale. "But... you..."

Steve steps forward, misunderstanding completely. Her expression spooks him — like she's seeing something she can't handle.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly, kneeling beside her. "I should've gotten there sooner. I really am sorry, miss."

The word hits like a gunshot. Miss.

Tony goes still. Her lungs clamp shut. Her body feels dunked in ice water. The room spins.

"Hey, it's okay," Steve says quickly, alarm rising in his voice. "You're alright." He reaches out again. "Your hand is ice-cold—Gabe?"

Gabe is already moving. He kneels fast, checking her pulse.

"Jesus," he mutters, brushing her hair back to feel her forehead while also taking one of her hands in his, "She's burning up at the same time."

Tony, half-upright now, glances down. The bandages Gabe had wrapped around her chest are straining — loose from the movement. A mortified blush rises as the thought hits her: They saw it all. Maybe all of them saw it all.

Gabe presses a hand to her clammy forehead with one hand and holds her shoulder steady with the other.

"You think you're gonna faint, Doll?" he asks, voice low but urgent.

Tony's vision narrows, a sharp tunnel closing in around the edges. The light above her bed seems too bright while the rest seems to gray. Everything spins slightly off-kilter.

She tries to answer, but it catches in her throat. Her lips move without sound. She grips the blanket tighter.

"Hey, hey—breathe," Gabe murmurs, crouching lower. "You're alright. Just keep your eyes on me. That's it. In and out, c'mon..."

Tony blinks rapidly, eyes glassy. "I..." Her voice is barely there. "I'm—sorry."

Gabe frowns. "Sorry for what?"

She sucks in another breath, shallow and wet. Her chest tightens, and the words come out in a hoarse rush.

"I'm sorry I was born a girl."

The silence that follows is so thick it could be cut with a knife. Just the rain ticking on the roof and the almost inaudible sound of Dum-Dum's clothing rustling as he turns to Jim with a 'would you get a load of this guy' kind of look on his face.

Tony doesn't dare look up. "If I wasn't—if I hadn't—lied... maybe I wouldn't've ended up here. You all wouldn't've had to—" She swallows hard, sounding like a child almost as she says, "I don't wanna die."

Steve crouches slightly beside the cot, his face unreadable but soft. "Tony," he says, voice low and gentle. "Nobody's gonna kill you." He glances sideways at the others and adds in an undertone, "Plus Braddock wasn't really any better than a Nazi himself, the fucking bully."

From across the barracks, Pinky mutters, "By God, we just killed someone else to protect you." as he lays another card down in his reading.

Tony freezes.

Her eyes flick to him, then to Gabe, then to Steve. "You guys, what?"

Gabe doesn't look away as he speaks, voice calm and unadorned while he rubs his hands together. "You're safe. That's all you need to know."

Pinky whistles through his teeth. "Secret's buried deeper than Fort Knox."

Dum-Dum, from his bunk, mutters around a mouthful of dry crackers, "Might've used a real shovel."

Tony stares, somewhere between horror and shock. "Well we might've not, too." He adds with a slight chuckle.

"You..." She exhales like she's trying to reboot her entire nervous system. "You buried a body?"

Steve doesn't flinch but answers her question honestly. "We made sure he won't talk."

"And you just—why? Why would you do that?"

Steve meets her eyes again, steady and quiet. "Because personally, I see a lot of myself in you."

Tony scoffs softly, overwhelmed so much her head was swimming without the rest of her body. "You don't know me."

A beat.

"No," Steve admits. "But I think I know enough."

"You don't know what I've done."

"I don't think I need to."

She finally looks at him. "Why?"

Steve tilts his head. "Because you didn't let that man kill you. And because Gabe didn't stop stitching until you were breathing steady. And because the guys didn't sleep until they knew you'd make it through the night."

Tony blinks. Her lashes flutter once, betraying a flicker of emotion she clearly didn't mean to show.

Steve adds, gently, "You don't get that kind of loyalty by accident."

Tony swallows hard. Looks down at her lap. Her hands curl tight around the can.

"You're not afraid of me?" she asks, voice thin as she thinks of what would happen to any one of them if she were to be found out by someone who would report it.

"No," Steve says. "You?"

She lets out a tiny, mirthless laugh. "Of you? You're like—America's ghost. You talk like a preacher and punch like a tank. Of course I'm afraid of you."

Steve lets a smile break his face fully as he laughs. "Well, that's fair."

She glances at him, surprised and uneasy.

"I'm not saying you shouldn't trust me," he says, serious again. "Just that you don't have to keep running if you're tired. There are people here that care about you and aren't scared to protect you."

That breaks something open in her, just a little. Tony looks away fast, as if she meets his gaze too long, it'll undo her completely.

The rain outside taps gentle fingers on the glass.

"Thank you.. I appreciate the fatherly talk." She says more to the blanket in her lap than anything, the burn on her cheeks bright red with the purple of the bruises.

Steve doesn't answer. Just nods, like he'll take it. Like he'll be whatever she needs, even if that's just a steady post to lean against.

A knock at the doorframe draws their attention. It's one of the MP's, already in uniform from his night watch, clean-shaven and bright-eyed in a way that shouldn't be legal this early.

"Captain Rogers?" he says, addressing Steve, who is already fully turned towards him to block Tony from view, "Yeah?"

"Your kit showed up at mail call. They want you to pick it up before noon or they'll lock it in storage."

Steve sighs like this is the fifth time it's happened this week. "Thanks, James."

He gives a short nod and watches the MP disappear, then turns back to Tony. "I'll be back in a bit," Steve says. "Don't let Dum-Dum give you any bad advice while I'm gone."

"Yae wound me, Rogers," comes a voice from somewhere behind the bunks. Likely the man himself, already half-dressed and drinking coffee like it's a survival tactic.

Steve rolls his eyes as he swings one of his large red boots into the thigh of the Sergeant, still passed out cold on the floor, causing his snore to turn into a cough while he tightens his eyes against the sun and then moves the blanket off his cot and down onto his head.

Tony looks down over the edge of the bed at his stirring form shifting the blanket, before a low, familiar groan sounds.

The blanket gets shoved back as fast as it was placed, and Bucky blinks blearily up at her — hair mussed, dog tags twisted around his throat. His eyes are sleep-heavy, but there's clarity under the haze.

"How're you doin', soldier?" he rasps.

Tony raises an eyebrow. "You look worse than me."

"That's my line," Bucky mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face as he heaves himself up onto his own cot. "You tryin' to sit up again?" Gabe's voice calls from over near the wash tub but Tony doesn't answer, just braces her arm and pushes — again. She gets halfway there before her ribs protest with a white-hot bolt of pain that steals her breath.

Gabe, who took silence as the answer from across the room, moved in long strides.

"All right," he says, shaking his head at Tony with a look of dismay, "Cut the solo act, huh? I'm literally right here."

"I've got it," Tony grits out as sweat pools on her ashen face.

"I'm sure you do," Gabe replies, calm and dry, as he crouches beside her. "Do me a favor, will ya?" He hooks one arm under her armpits and around her back. "And let me help you."

His hands are steady and warm, his other hand slipping under her arm and supporting her back with a practiced touch. Between her stubbornness and his patience, they manage it — Tony upright and panting softly, every breath still a fight but less impossible than before.

Bucky leans over to hand her a canteen. "Try not to pass out again. We just got the sheets clean."

"Asshole," she mutters, but takes the water.

He grins, slow and lopsided. "There she is."

The room hums with quiet motion. Someone boils a second pot of coffee on a small stove in the corner. Dum-Dum grumbles about someone stealing his socks. Marv mutters that they're probably under his damn pillow again.

And for the first time, Tony doesn't feel like a visitor. Not exactly one of them yet, but not alone anymore either.

Chapter Text

The sun crept gently through the barracks windowpanes, casting golden dirty rectangles on the wooden floorboards. Dust hovered in the warm light, shifting lazily in the still air. Somewhere near the back of the room, Dum-Dum let out a thundering snore that rattled his bunk frame. A beat later, Jim responded with one of his own, deeper and more thunderous, like they were competing in their sleep.

"Mon Dieu," Pinky muttered from the end of the room. He was already half-dressed, pulling olive trousers over striped nightwear and socks, as if he needed the extra layers in the baking heat soon to come. "One of these days I will smother both of them in their sleep, I swear on every Île Flottante I've ever loved."

"You say that every morning," Gabe replied from the corner, where he sat cross-legged beside his medical kit. He was pawing through the supplies inside with a tuneless whistle, careful hands moving from gauze to strange metal instruments. "And, I've never seen you eat an Île Flottante," Marv added with a quip from where he was still lying tucked into his blanket.

Tony stirred at last, a soft grunt escaping her as she blinked into the morning light. Her ribs still ached, but it wasn't the same raw pain as before, just a dull, hollow throb.

Gabe looked up, already reaching for the separate bottle of pills he'd set aside for her.

"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty," he said with a wry smile, rising to his feet. "You wanna heal, you gotta sleep more than four hours and stop trying to act tough all the damn time." he said dotingly.

"She's up?" came Steve's voice from his bunk near the back. He was lacing his boots, white shirt already tucked into his regular military green pants with that typical perfect precision. "We were about to send in the search party."

"Yeah, yeah," Tony grumbled, pushing herself up slowly. "I can feel the love."

Gabe approached and knelt beside the cot, offering the pills and her canteen. "Take these before you try anything heroic. And sip the water slow, yeah?"

Tony took them wordlessly, eyes still crusted with sleep. Bucky stood by the open barracks door, hands in the pockets of his neatly worn uniform as he watched the light stretch across the active base outside. He glanced back toward the sound of her voice, just briefly.

Tony blinked slowly, her head still fogged with sleep and the dragging effects of pain meds. Across the room, Bucky was already dressed in his sergeant's uniform—neat, sharp, commanding. He looked like something out of a propaganda poster. She didn't mean to stare, but her eyes lingered just a beat too long. He turned, catching her gaze. His jaw relaxed, and instead of looking away, he gave her a knowing little smirk—cool, casual—just before Steve stepped over and muttered something to him low enough that she couldn't catch it.

The mood was easy, warm. But beneath it, Bucky watched her more carefully than he let on, even as he and Steve talked through the day's training schedule.

Outside, the sound of distant boots on gravel signaled that a jog formation was going past. Training didn't stop just because someone got hurt. But this morning's pains didn't feel like punishment. Not today.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

The shooting range lay a short walk from camp — a flat clearing with sand-filled berms at either end and a half-dozen splintering tables set up under canvas tarps. The sun had burned off most of the morning haze by the time the Howling Commandos filed in, joking and elbowing each other as they unpacked rifles and slipped into place. Shell casings crunched underfoot, and the air already smelled like powder and metal.

"Satan's pants," Jim grumbled. "This heat." he raised an arm, dragging a sleeve across his brow. "I'd kill for a cloud."

"You'd miss and shoot the sun," Dum-Dum said, hoisting his rifle with one arm like he was showing off.

"You couldn't hit water if you fell out of a boat," Jim shot back as they arrived at the range, lighting a cigarette, and casually leaning against a support post.

Pinky, off to the side, was assembling a long-barreled pistol with slow, meticulous grace—fingers precise, motion almost elegant.

Jim raised a brow as he lit his cigarette. "You bringin' that fancy café piece again?"

Pinky didn't look up. "It is not a café piece. It is a precision weapon. Unlike that rusted farm tool you cling to like a security blanket."

"Farm tool?" Jim echoed. "Please. Yours looks like it should come in a velvet box with lace gloves."

Pinky gave a soft sniff. "Perhaps. At least mine doesn't misfire like it's afraid to commit."

Dum-Dum let out a low chuckle, slinging his rifle onto the table. "Christ Almighty, Pinky, you sound like you're tryin' to seduce the thing. Ye polish it wi' rosewater too, or just murmur sweet French nothin's into the barrel?"

Pinky adjusted the sight with forced calm. "She listens better than any of you ruffians."

Jim barked a laugh. "You're outta your mind."

Pinky smiled, slow and elegant, like a cat stretching in the sun. "So you keep saying, mon cher. Yet still, my shots always land."

Dum-Dum shook his head with a snort. "Aye, you're a proper lunatic, Pinky. But I'll give you this—you've got class."

Tony stayed near the back at first, the sunglasses Steve had given her to hide the bruising a little low on her nose, watching the group with a quiet detachment. She'd woken stiff and sore but more present than she'd felt in days. Gabe's morning dose of pills had begun to kick in, and the sharp edge in her ribs had dulled to a heavy throb. Her hand hovered near her side — more reflex than need.

She could feel herself easing back into motion. Still not at full strength. But better. Alive.

Her hands moved over the Garand with quiet precision, loading it by feel more than thought. The motions came back easy—like riding a bike, if the bike kicked like a mule and smelled like gun oil. It was muscle memory that moved her nimble fingers across the metal and wood. Comforting, in a strange, mechanical way. The soft click of the clip, the weight of the stock against her shoulder, the way her fingers curled just right around the barrel.

She remembered her father's quiet movements as he showed her how to care for this very type of gun in the shop when she was twelve, kneeling on an oil-stained cloth while her father watched. He couldn't speak, but his lessons told a thousand words. She'd known, even then, how important it was to do it right. It had been the first time she had cleaned her own gun, though she had owned it for years.

Now, as she chambered the round and checked her sights, it felt like slipping back into something she'd never really left behind.

"Watch and learn," Dum-Dum declared, stepping up to the nearest table and squinting downrange. "Bet I can hit that leftmost can before it tips from the wind."

"You couldn't hit a barn wall if it was right in front of your face," Gabe retorted as he settled in to watch the show.

Dum-dum shot haphazardly and managed to hit a can, but a can three feet from his spoken target.

As the laughter rippled, Tony stepped forward without fanfare, lifting a familiar M1 Garand. Her fingers curled around it easily. Solid. Balanced. The first weapon she'd ever owned. Her father had given her one for her birthday as a child. She couldn't remember how old she was when she'd gotten the one that now awaited her return at home. But even so, she'd memorized its weight before she could reach the pedals of the family farm truck. Learned its recoil in a field behind the junkyard out past the river.

She ran her fingers along the barrel and checked the sights. Everything came back instinctively, like breathing.

The rest of the group quieted as she took her stance.

"You ever done this before?" Steve asked, his eyes taking in her readying stance and square shoulders, the sun catching on his golden curls.

Tony smirked like she knew a joke he didn't. "Couple times."

Behind her, she caught a soft murmur — Bucky saying something low to Steve.

What she didn't see was the faint smirk tugging at Bucky's mouth as Steve started to step forward again.

"Just watch," he murmured, catching Steve lightly by the arm.

He'd seen this before, Tony bracing against recoil with narrowed eyes and impossible focus. She didn't miss. Not when it counted.

She inhaled. Exhaled. Squeezed.

The can at the far end of the range exploded off its perch.

Dum-Dum blinked but said with confidence, "Huh. Lucky shot."

Tony didn't answer. She chambered another round with practiced rapidity and fired. The next can toppled cleanly.

Then another.

Clean. Rhythmic. Like playing a song she already knew by heart.

By the time she lowered the rifle, her row of cans was gone, and the end of her gun was smoking slightly from the repeated loading and firing.

Jim let out a low whistle. "Damn. Remind me never to piss you off."

Steve gave her a sidelong glance, both impressed and curious.

"Where'd you learn to shoot like that?"

Tony's shoulder rose and fell in a shrug, her voice light. "Family business."

Steve smiled faintly, but his eyes stayed sharp. "What, you guys run an armory?"

She went to answer but hesitated for a second as a wave of pain radiated from where the gun had hit her shoulder down to her ribs. "Something like that." She ground out as she turned to reload, but her fingers had slowed. The rush had faded, and the ache had come back in soft waves. Her ribs still hummed under the bandages. She leaned a little heavier into the table.

Gabe was already walking toward her, canteen of water in one hand and that usual look of an overworked medic in his eyes. "Alright, sharpshooter," he said, eyeing her with mock severity. "Don't make me haul your stubborn ass back to the barracks."

Tony gave him a tired smile and took the water, sipping slowly as she leaned back against the splintering table edge, "I said I could handle it-"

"Yeah? And I said I'd start swatting you with a clipboard if you keep pushin' it," he cut in, gently pushing the bottle back up toward her mouth before she could keep talking. "Drink. Less backtalk, more hydration."

"And sayin' something and doin' something? Two different beasts, sweetheart," he says with an edge of sass.

Dum-Dum stepped up next with dramatic flair, rifle cocked. "Right, now watch me."

He fired for the second time. The can made a loud rattling but remained as stationary on the fence as a tree in a forest.

He stared. "Fuckin' can is nailed down, I bet." He spluttered out after a short pause, the gears working in his head.

"That wind's criminal," Jim says, clapping him on the shoulder while Pinky laughs.

Tony let herself smile, just a little.

As the others resumed their shots and chatter, she let herself settle — not fully part of the rhythm, but brushing the edge of it. The pop of rifles, the weight of heat, the smell of gunpowder and sweat. She let it all bleed in, becoming warm and familiar.

She wasn't one of them yet. Not really. But moments like this made it feel closer.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

The sun was high and bright by the time they regrouped on the sweaty tarmac, facing the loop trail. The dirt trail in question cut through camp, shimmering with heat. Dust kicked up around their boots as they formed a loose jogging line—Steve at the front, Bucky slipping into place toward the back.

"Three miles," Steve called over his shoulder, easygoing like it was a morning stroll. "We take it slow. Just shake the rust off for now."

"Speak for yourself," Pinky muttered, tugging a cap low over his brow. "The dust is already gettin' in my mouth."

"Beats snow," Marv shot back, cracking his neck. "At least I can feel my damn toes."

Tony kept near the middle, her steps stiff at first. Her ribs ached. Her jaw still pulled with every deep breath. But she kept her breathing as evenly as possible—she wasn't about to fall behind.

Bucky kept his distance for the first half mile, his eyes flicking toward her every few strides. Watching. Assessing.

Jim jogged ahead with Gabe, who had fallen into a steady rhythm, canteen bouncing lightly against his hip. Dum-Dum made it his personal mission to heckle Pinky for every missed step in their off-tune cadence call.

"C'mon, Frenchie," he called. "Even the captain's piss runs straighter'n you."

Tony snorted softly, unable to stop herself. The air was dry, but it felt clean in her burning lungs. Her boots hit the ground with a steady beat.

Halfway through the first mile, however, her pace started to falter. She pressed a hand to her throbbing ribs, breath hitching in lungs that felt too sore for each ragged draw. Sweat beaded at her brow, and the world got dark slightly around the edges.

Up ahead, Dum-Dum groaned and dropped to a crouch with a muttered curse—just in time for Marv to stumble straight over him with a yelp and a thud.

"Tabarnak," Marv snapped, hitting the dirt.

Dum-Dum let out a merry chuckle, barely glancing at the struggling form beside him, "Haud on, lads—I’ve goat a bloody knot in ma laces." Dum-dum wheezed. Marv spluttered in the dirt before replying, "If I had trip and broke my nose, Gabe would mount my skull on the mess tent wall."

The rest of the group slowed around them, falling into loose clumps along the trail. Jim was wiping his forehead with his handkerchief and looking up at the high sun.

Tony eased to a stop beside a patch of scrubby grass, bracing one hand on her thigh. Her other arm curled tight against her side. She kept her eyes low, focusing on her boots as her breathing rasped out in shallow, uneven bursts.

Gabe doubled back from the front and crouched beside her, scanning her quickly—eyes flicking from her pale skin to the rigid way she held herself.

"You good?" he asked, voice pitched low. "Talk to me."

She gave a shaky nod. "Yeah. Just winded."

"Uh-huh." He reached out towards her ribs, then pressed, light fingers skilled and searching. Watching her face the whole time.

Tony hissed and flinched as her whole body went taut at Gabes' probing touch.

Gabe swore under his breath. "You shouldn't lie to the medic. You should be flat on your back, not out here tryin' to win medals."

"You said I could jog if I took it slow," she muttered, voice hoarse.

"I said try," he shot back with a shake of the head. "I also said if they're cracked, we won't know 'til you're coughing blood," He points an accusatory finger at her. "And I told you to be honest with me when you started feeling worse. Which you haven't done." He wags the finger at her with a fake hurt expression.

Behind them, Bucky had stopped in place before he also ran into Dum-Dum and Pinky, who were watching Marv tie his laces with great interest. Barnes held his arms loose at his sides, expression unreadable. But his eyes were sharp, locked on Tony like she might drop without warning.

Gabe glanced at him, then back at her in a pointed manner. "You sure you can finish?"

Tony didn't speak. She just nodded again, breath still clipped short.

Bucky shifted his weight, "I'm still bringing up the rear." His face expressing to Gabe without words that he would watch her.

"Good," Gabe said curtly, turning away after a long look at Tony's flushed face. "Keep her upright. No hero shit." He directed the last part towards Tony who nods but doesn't answer.

Bucky didn't answer either, he just fell into step beside her again as the group started moving.

For a few minutes, they jogged in silence. Tony kept her eyes on the trail, jaw clenched, each step jarring her ribs a little more than the last. She didn't look at him, but she felt him there—close enough to steady her if she slipped, quiet enough not to embarrass her by offering.

That was until her foot caught on a root and she almost fell face first into the dry hot dirt. Barnes caught her by the elbow and pulled her upright, Tony let out a faint hiss of pain as the jerking action moved her ribs.

"You always this stubborn?" he asked, voice low, but not unkind.

Tony huffed a breath that might've been a laugh—or just another gasp for air. "You got room to talk?"

"Didn't say I wasn't," he said. "Just helps to know how much trouble I'm in for."

She shook her head firmly, sweat darkening the collar of her PT shirt. "I'm fine."

"Yeah," he murmured back with a small smirk evident in his tone. "I can tell by the way you're not blinking and walking like your ribs are full of glass, so don't lie, Private."

Tony didn't answer as her foot got on a root on the ground. Her breath hitched again, sharper this time as she slightly stumbled, feeling unbalanced as she tries to keep jogging on like nothing had happened. Bucky slowed his pace half a step and dropped his voice.

"You say the word," he said with a sideways glance at Steve who was effortlessly jogging several paces up. "We'll fake a busted boot or somethin'. Cap won't care."

She shot him a glance—grateful but as defiant as she could muster.

"I said I could finish."

Bucky nodded, just once, and tried to hide his eye roll. "Alright. Then I'm right here 'til you do."

They kept moving, the trail stretching ahead through the heat waves. Behind them, Dum-Dum was still grumbling about "sabotaged laces," and Pinky was dramatically warning the group that he'd now developed "early-onset desert lung." The others had spread into a loose column again.

As they crested a small rise and dipped toward the trees, the shift in temperature hit her like a balm. The air cooled across her face and shoulders, and for a second, it felt almost good to breathe again.

Up front, Steve slowed to a walk. "We're good here. Take five."

Jim flopped onto the ground with a groan. "Only captain I ever met who lets us rest for water."

Steve glanced over his shoulder, smirking faintly. "This was my least favorite part of training," he admitted. "Still is. I probably underdo it a little."

Everyone sagged with various groans and curses. Jim made himself comfortable in the grass where he had landed. Dum-Dum collapsed backward like he'd been shot, his boots coming up off the ground momentarily as he let out a dramatic sigh.

Tony bent forward, hands braced on her knees. Her shirt clung to her back with sweat. Her legs trembled underneath her.

Bucky handed her his hankerchief without a word.

She took it, mopping at her face with slow, clumsy movements.

"Next time," she muttered, breathless, "I'll lead."

He grinned. "Yeah? Can't wait to eat your dust." He said in a mocking voice.

Someone behind them let out a hoot. Marv waved dramatically like he was dying. Dum-Dum muttered something about being stuck in his uniform from the sweat.

Gabe started moving down the loose line of bodies, being sure everyone was drinking their water and making grumbling threats about heatstroke.

"Drink before I start pouring it down your shirts," he called. "And no, Jim, you don't get whiskey instead."

"Criminal," Jim said disdainfully.

Tony took another sip from her canteen. Her hands were shaking slightly. She let the weight of her body shift into a sit, legs stretched out in front of her. The dirt was warm beneath her and she let one hand fall behind her for support, feeling the warm dirt against her palm.

The woods ahead were quiet. The breeze caught the sweat at her temples and cooled it just enough.

She didn't speak again, but when someone cracked a joke about Dum-Dum's laces being booby-trapped, she smiled without thinking. And for the first time since waking up in that dim, dusty place, Tony laughed. Tired, aching, sore—but real.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

The sun hung low by the time they made it back to the barracks — shirts sweat-soaked, boots scuffed, and every last one of them quiet in that satisfied, aching way that followed a long day of drills. No one had spoken much on the jog back, just the occasional grunt, a muttered curse, or a sideways glance as they trudged over the packed dirt trails.

Inside, the air was warm and still smelled faintly of soap, gun oil, and the ghost of that morning's coffee. Tony eased herself down onto the end of her bunk, ribs complaining all the way. Bucky stood like he wanted to drop onto his own cot.

Instead, he let out a low groan, rubbing at the back of his neck like it owed him money. His breath was heavy but even, eyes flicking to her briefly before he headed off to refill his canteen at the crowded sink.

No one had said it outright, but she could feel it — that quiet pulse of awareness the team had toward her during these quiet moments. Whenever the team came in from training and undressed, or woke up in the morning for mess, PT or even just formation, there was always a moment where they seemed to check that she wasn't watching them go about their business that normally would have just been an average part of the day.

Tony did her best to ignore the ache in her ribs or the awkwardness that was behind her eyes as she sat forward, tugging at the laces of her too-hot boots. Around her, the others were getting comfortable again, shaking off the run and falling into their usual rhythm.

At the sink, Gabe and Pinky were bickering over who got to wash up first.

"My bed's closest, so I get dibs," Gabe declared, already rolling up his sleeves.

"Mon Dieu, you are so wrong, my friend," Pinky retorted, gesturing dramatically like a man defending his honor. "Seniority beats geography."

Tony might've watched longer, but her attention snapped elsewhere as Bucky approached again, rubbing his face but smiling a tired smile.

He took a deep drink from the canteen, letting the water run in little streams past his mouth and down his five o' clock shadowed face before leaking over his chin and throat. Tony blinked up at him while he drank for a moment before Bucky lowered the canteen again, closing its metal cap before tossing it onto his neatly made bed.

"What a fuckin' day," he muttered, fingers already undoing the golden buttons of his sweat-damp uniform.

Tony tried her best not to stare longer than she already had, but she realized too late that she was gaping. When the Sergeant turns his head to watch the argument between Gabe and Pinky, She looks down at her boots again, her cheeks burning while she fiddles with the laces.

Barnes chuckles and looks back down at his buttons from Gabe and Pinky's performance as he undoes all the small brass buttons on his uniform top. When it seems safe—Tony looks back again.

The Sergeant hums a little tune to himself as he takes each arm out of the overcoat he had put on for the mess hall dinner. He sets it aside neatly, then reaches for the edge of the thin undershirt that was skin tight.

From where she was sitting, Tony could see the white t-shirt sticking slightly to the sweat along his spine. When he pulls it off, the light catches the slick line of his back and shoulder muscles, flexing as he tosses the shirt aside and reaches down into his rucksack for a fresh white t-shirt.

Tony's hands stilled on her laces as she turned her head more fully, without realizing, as her eyes wandered.

His torso was lean but solid, cut like something from a goddamn poster. She followed the curve of his stomach down. Bucky looked down at Tony and caught her staring, a cocky smirk planting itself on his face as he looks at her slightly slack-jawed expression.

"Catchin' flies, Private?" he asked, brow arched.

Tony flinched, cheeks burning like the sun as she realized—too late once more—her mouth was slightly open, "N-No," she stammered, bending over her boots like they were suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.

Rations got pulled from crates and duffels with little ceremony — flat crackers, a tin of beans, a few lucky bastards managing to find preserved biscuits or canned peaches. Dum-Dum held up his biscuit with reverence, sniffed it, and grinned like he'd found buried treasure.

After much negotiation, during which Tony silently traded her beans for Dum-Dum's prize biscuit, they all finally settled into their food. It wasn't an easy negotiation but Tony knew Dum-Dum's affinity for the little tinned baked beans. He had blinked at her, then let out a contented "Aye, good trade, lad, ye ken me too well." His mouth was already full by the time he finished the sentence.

They sat in a loose circle — cots, crates, and floorboards acting as makeshift seats. Gabe plunked down on his overturned medical kit and started poking through the remnants of the coffee pot, muttering something about "swill" with a fond sort of disdain. Pinky perched nearby, shuffling his deck with quiet precision, like a man who could read fortunes just from how the corners frayed, but with the others eating around the folding card table, he didn't have anywhere to lay a spread yet.

Steve, finally settled among them instead of hovering nearby, unwrapped his meal and took a seat on the floor like it was second nature. He didn't act like a Captain. Just like one of the guys.

"Y'know," he said between bites, "Back in Brooklyn, there was this guy on the corner of Fulton Street who sold pretzels. Big soft ones, burnt on the bottom. One penny if you were honest. Free if you had a good enough sob story."

"Did ya ever pay?" Dum-Dum asked, mouth full, his biscuit halfway gone.

Steve grinned, but Bucky answered for him, "Maybe once. He got real good at sobbing."

Laughter rippled around the group — quiet but real. Even Marv snorted into his tin cup. Pinky didn't laugh. Just squinted like the whole story was nonsense.

"What is this 'sobbing'?"

"It means he cried like a baby," Jim offered, flicking a crumb off his pant leg.

"Ah." Pinky nodded sagely. "Dramatique Americans." He tuts before Dum-Dum cuts in "You were just shedding a tear about some damned wine."

"Château Margaux, 1934..." Pinky says almost like a lover looking at a memory of love, "I still dream about it. Like kissing silk soaked in sunshine." The men all burst into laughter.

Tony laughed too, a small sharp sound she tried to swallow — but it came out anyway. The motion jerked her side, and she hissed through her teeth as the laughter cut off in a sharp wince.

"Easy now," Gabe said from across the circle, not even looking up from the cracker he was buttering with what looked suspiciously like fluffed bar soap. "Don't go bustin' a stitch."

Tony groaned but smiled anyway, curling her fingers around her tin cup to hide the shake in her hands.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Night settled in like smoke — slow, quiet, and just a little too cold for the time of year. The barracks were lit only by the orange flicker of a low-burning oil lamp perched on an overturned crate. Most of the team had drifted off to their bunks in a slow, unspoken migration — not out of exhaustion, necessarily, but because the kind of quiet that lingered after a long day seemed to insist on at least a moment of solitude before sleep.

Tony sat hunched on her cot, a dull ache in her ribs anchoring her to the present. The wool blanket was scratchy under her boxer-clad legs. Her undershirt was damp at the collar from the bath she'd forced herself to take before anyone else could insist on it, since the stench of today's work was almost malleable before wash time.

A soft cloth moved over the barrel of her Garand — slow, precise. She wasn't cleaning it because it needed it. Not really. She'd already gone over it once that morning. But the motions were automatic. Calming. The curve of the grip. The glint of oiled steel in the lantern light. The familiar clicks as she checked the chamber again, even though she already knew it was empty.

It felt repetitive. Familiar. And even though it had too many steps to be considered fun, it kept her mind off her breathing.

Steve sat across the room, not quite watching her but never fully looking away, either. He was perched on the edge of his cot, one leg outstretched, one arm slung over his knee. His journal lay open in his lap, but the pencil hadn't moved in a while. He wasn't writing, just... being there.

He didn't speak. And she was grateful for it since she could see him thinking even from where she was across the room.

Next to the largest open window, Gabe stood in the moonlight, one foot propped on one of the card table's chairs as he flicked ash off the edge of his hand-rolled cigarette. He held it between two fingers like it wasn't meant to be inhaled, just burned down for company. The night air curled through the window and carried the scent of tobacco and the sound of distant crickets with it.

Bucky sat cross-legged at the end of his cot, humming low under his breath as he ran a cloth over his boots. The melody was slow and half-familiar, like something from a jukebox in a Brooklyn bar nobody remembered the name of. His hands moved with practiced ease, the rhythm of his motions matching the tempo of his voice. It wasn't for anyone else. It wasn't loud. But it filled the space like a lullaby.

Across the room, Steve finally spoke — soft, but clear enough to carry.

"How're you feeling, Hudson?"

Tony didn't look up from where she was, making sure the sight was straight as an arrow. "Wouldn't you like to know."

Before Steve could make a rebuttal, Bucky's voice cut in from his cot, crisp and mock-stern.

"The captain asked you a question, Private. Answer him."

Tony rolled her eyes, a lazy smile pulling at her lips as she absentmindedly mumbled, "Maybe I choose insubordination."

"Bold strategy," The Sergeant says, turning on his cot to face the smaller woman in question, "Let me know how that plays out in the morning." Tony let out a nervous laugh and lowered the gun finally to meet his warm gaze.

"You lay a hand on me in my sleep, and I'll break it, Barnes." She says with no heat, her eyes challenging. Bucky's eyes darken a little though his smile never changes its warm tone. He leans forward as he says loud enough for everyone to hear, "You know you'd enjoy it." Tony's face burns as fast as a piece of dry grass, and she goes back to working on the rifle in her hands, a snappy response not seeming to come to her.

"I'll assume from the amount of sass, that you're fine." Steve shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

Tony didn't say anything back, just enjoying the easy silence and trying not to look over at Barnes, who had taken back to reading the operations manual she had dropped the other day.

She looked around the room — the quiet gestures of men who were letting the day go — and felt something she couldn't quite name. It wasn't comfort. Not yet. Not trust, either. But it was something close.

She set her cleaned rifle beside her cot without a sound, watching as Steve blew his small oil lamp out and then listening to him shuffle back to his cot with a yawn and a "G'night all." that nobody returned.

Chapter Text

It had been three days since the attack, and Tony was still sore. Her ribs ached when she breathed too deeply, her shoulders flared if she moved too fast, and her entire body throbbed with the kind of bruises that never quite faded from memory. But rest wasn't part of the program—not when you were expected to keep up the act, not when you were a soldier, not when weakness could get you noticed in all the wrong ways.

The brass called it "field bonding," a special training mission meant to simulate survival conditions in unfamiliar terrain. To the Commandos, it was camping with knives. No tents, no rifles, not really enough rations—just whatever they could scavenge from the woods or fit into their packs.

They'd been marching since sunrise. The sun was starting to dip behind the pines, painting long shadows across the dirt trail and turning the air sharp with the scent of loam and pine. Summer or not, the chill had settled in early, and Tony could feel it slicing through her sweat-damp undershirt. Every step jarred her injuries like a loose nail rattling inside a can.

"Goddamn it," Marv muttered from up ahead, snapping a branch out of his way. "My uniform's getting all fucked up, Sarge."

Bucky, leading the pack with a lazy kind of confidence, didn't even turn around. "Not the only thing that'll be fucked up if we don't find camp before dark," he called back. "There are wolves out here."

Tony caught Gabe's glance just behind her—a flicker of amusement mixed with unease, his eyes comically wide. She didn't blame him. Wolves weren't exactly known for playing fair, and the woods had that too-quiet kind of silence that always meant something was watching. Her knife was strapped close to her side, although she had felt mostly at ease in the woods since she had grown up in the deep forests of Maine, but something about the forests surrounding the base felt off. Internally, she blamed her superstitious fears from having grown up in Appalachia.

Unlike Tony's ease, Pinky was constantly turning his head, fingers itching toward his own combat knife every time the brush rustled in a way he didn't like. His anxiety is getting the better of him. Tony smiles at the idea of the Frenchman in what was probably an alien planet compared to the streets of Fontainebleau and the like.

The trail Bucky was cutting broke into a clearing. A wide, sloping patch of earth blanketed in dry leaves and half-rotted moss. It was the first flat ground they'd seen in hours.

"This'll do," Bucky said, planting his hands on his hips as he surveyed the clearing, Steve standing at his side with an agreeing nod of the head as he also surveyed the area.

Tony was still standing at the edge of the clearing, trying to slow her breathing without making it obvious, when Bucky doubled back. His boots crunched over the leaves like the loud sound didn't bother him, like he couldn't hear how quiet the world had become around them in the absence of marching.

"You alright?" he asked, low enough that the others couldn't hear.

She nodded once, short and tight. "Just winded."

Bucky's eyes scanned her face, then flicked down to the way she cradled her ribs. He didn't say anything—just reached out and tugged gently on the strap of her pack, lightening it off her shoulders.

"I can—"

"Not asking," he cut in with a half-smile. "Army says no weakness, right? Doesn't say anything about being a dumbass."

She huffed out a breath, not quite a laugh, and let him take the weight and unroll her bedroll for her while she unscrewed the top of her canteen for a sip of water, trying to hide her embarrassment.

Behind them, a loud thwump echoed through the trees, followed by a tangled yell and the unmistakable curse of Dum-Dum Dugan getting the better of himself.

Tony turned her head to see Steve and Dum-Dum in what could only be described as a wrestling match with what looked like a massive canvas tarp. Dum-Dum had apparently lugged a tent along despite strict orders, and now it had him in a death grip.

"You brought a whole-ass tent?" Gabe called out, baffled.

"It's not a tent, it's a... strategic sleeping structure," Dum-Dum replied, fully upside-down in the shapeless tangle of military green canvas. Steve tried to help by lifting one corner, only to vanish beneath it with a curse as one of the ropes pulled his feet out from under him when Dum-dum had given an almighty heave in an attempt to release himself.

Marv was laughing too hard to be useful.

"Well, at least we'll die warm," Pinky muttered, "We can just set them on fire."

Bucky laughed from where he was helping Tony spread out the other bedrolls as the shadows started to pool in the corners of the clearing.

By the time the last roll was laid out and the tent situation somewhat subdued, the air had gone still. Too still. Tony froze, ears pricking.

Somewhere in the distance: a low, unmistakable howl.

Another answered it.

Every man in the clearing paused. Marv slowly lowered his canteen like he was afraid of making a sound, but still gulped the water in his mouth so audibly he almost choked.

"...Can we make a fire?" Gabe asked after a long moment.

"Oh sure," Bucky drawled, turning toward him with a brilliant sarcasm in his voice. "Should I just pull out my matches—oh wait—those got taken. Because this is a training exercise. And we are roughing it, remember?"

Tony sighed and rubbed her temples. "If I get eaten by a wolf, I swear to God I'm haunting the general."

The group lingered in silence for a long moment, the kind of moment that only came with real tension. Gabe shuffled closer to the pile of damp kindling Tony had scrounged from a fallen log, looking unsure.

"We could try a friction fire?" he offered, hopeful.

"Yeah," Marv snorted. "Right after we rub two brain cells together."

Tony crouched by the pile, her sore legs protesting. "We need drier stuff, or something with oil or flammable sap," she murmured, scanning the trees. "The moss is soaked through, even the bark's useless unless we split it down—wait here."

She stood, brushing her hands off on her thighs, and started toward the tree line.

"You shouldn't go alone," Bucky said, already following her.

"I won't go far. Just need some softwood to get this going."

Steve looked up from the tent, hair full of twigs, and pointed toward the east end of the clearing. "There's some pine over there. Dugan pointed it out earlier, I think."

Tony gave him a grateful nod and disappeared into the dark, Bucky at her shoulder.

They'd only gone a few steps into the trees when Tony stopped suddenly. She held up a hand. Bucky froze beside her.

"What is it?"

Tony didn't answer right away. Her eyes had narrowed, trained on something low between the trees. She took a slow breath, stomach knotting.

The wolf stepped out of the undergrowth like it had always belonged there. Lean, mottled fur, head low, teeth just barely visible in the twilight. Not large—young, maybe two years—but it didn't look nervous.

It looked hungry.

Bucky's knife was in his hand in a blink. "Back slowly," he said quietly. "Don't run."

But Tony didn't move. Her feet were stuck. The weight of the last few days—Henry, the pain in her side, the fear she was too proud to say aloud—pressed against her chest like a stone. The wolf bared its teeth. She couldn't breathe.

Then the thing twitched, and her instincts snapped back.

She threw her voice low and loud. "HEY!"

The wolf flinched, startled by the sound. A beat later, it lunged—not at her, but behind her.

Back toward the fire.

Shit. She thought fast as she turned.

They ran.

Tony burst back into the clearing, heart pounding, knife already in her hand. The Commandos looked up in alarm—then chaos. The wolf, emboldened or desperate, had lunged toward the pile of food scraps Marv had stupidly left near the packs.

Steve had already moved, shielding Marv with his body and shoving him aside. Marv shouted something that might have been "get behind me!" but no one listened. Bucky came in fast, reaching for Tony and pushing her aside when the wolf spun on its heels.

Then—

A clean crack.

Gabe, of all people, had swung a broken branch like a club, catching the wolf square on its head. It yelped, staggering.

Dum-Dum moved in next, kicking up a wall of leaves and noise as he swung the canvas tarp like a net. The wolf darted back, shocked, ears flat.

And then it ran.

Tony stayed where she was, knees bent, knife trembling in her hand. Her arms felt like jelly. She could hear her own pulse louder than the men shouting.

It was gone.

And she was still breathing.

"Everyone okay?" Steve called out, moving between the guys.

Tony didn't answer. Her legs gave out and she sat, not gracefully, in the leaves. Bucky was already crouching beside her, eyes scanning her face.

"Did it touch you?"

"No," she croaked. "I think... it was just hungry."

"Yeah," Gabe said, still holding the branch like a baseball bat. "So am I. I vote we eat before round two shows up."

Tony laughed, shaky and raw. "God, that was stupid."

"You're stupid," Bucky said, but there was no heat in it. He reached for her hand, gently prying the knife from her white-knuckled grip.

Tony blinked up at his laughing face, and he rolls his eyes, making her laugh too at the sheer ridiculousness.

"Get some rest," he added, lower. "We've got enough food for tonight. Let the wolves starve for once."

The others start to move again, still buzzing with the aftershock when Marv, breathing hard and pale around the edges, reached into his coat pocket with the solemnity of a man preparing for his own funeral.

He pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes.

Then, casually, a large silver lighter.

The group went silent.

Tony stared at him. Pinky's mouth parted in disbelief, and Steve muttered, "You've got to be kidding me." Even Dum-Dum, whose canvas tarp was still clutched in both fists like a heroic cape, blinked once, slowly.

Marv lit the cigarette. Click. Pffft. A cherry-red glow flared in the twilight. He took one long drag, exhaled smoothly and steadily, and looked up from lighting the end.

"What?" he said, perfectly neutral.

There was a beat—then chaos.

They didn't tackle him, but it was close. A chorus of "give me that," "you've been holding out on us," "you absolute bastard," rose up as the lighter passed from hand to hand like sacred treasure. Within minutes, they had a fire going—real flame, licking hungrily up from the pile of Tony's dry branches and carefully split bark. It caught fast and burned clean.

They sat around it in a loose ring, legs stretched out, shoulders relaxing for the first time all day. The smoke drifted up into the trees in lazy spirals, catching on the rising moonlight. The cold retreated a little.

Tony leaned back against a log, sore all over, but warm now. Her side throbbed in a dull, familiar way—nothing like it had right after the attack. It felt almost a lifetime away now, not a soul had mentioned Henry Burddock, besides when he was reported missing the next morning at mess.

"You know," Dum-Dum said, lying flat on his back with his hat pulled over his eyes, "We could just ration what we've got and call it a night. Sleep in shifts. Not like anything's gonna come closer now."

A distant howl split the silence. Low. Echoing.

Marv shivered dramatically. "On second thought, I vote we hunt."

"I vote you go hunt, I'm too damned tired," Gabe said, elbowing him.

Tony laughed, curling her knees up to her chest. "You guys are real brave until something doesn't come with a sauce packet."

"Then let's stay put." Bucky's voice was final, even as he pulled out a small pocket knife and started whittling a stick. "We've got jerky. A little hardtack. And Tony's stash of sarcasm, which we can chew on if things get desperate."

She snorted.

"Maybe tomorrow we track something. Tonight, we sleep. And maybe—if no one minds—we don't let anyone wander off alone anymore?"

A few heads nodded. No arguments.

The fire popped once, a shower of sparks spiraling into the dark. Jim passed around his Jug, refilled with a different alcohol now than the walk back from the bar. Someone else started quietly humming under their breath.

It was still cold. Still dangerous.

But for the first time since they left base, it felt like a camp.

*-*-*-*-*-*

Much later, when the fire had burned low and the others had succumbed to their exhaustion one by one, only Tony and Bucky remained awake. Dum-Dum's snores were rattling somewhere behind them like a slow, steady saw. Marv had somehow cocooned himself entirely in his bedroll, only a faint line of smoke curling out to prove he hadn't smothered himself.

Tony sat close to the fire, legs crossed, her coat wrapped tight around her shoulders. Her face was turned toward the flames, lit in flickering amber, the bruising along her cheek softened in the glow.

Bucky sat leaning against the log beside her, knees bent, arms draped loosely over them with his hands knitted together. He glanced over once, quietly, then again.

"Can't sleep?" he asked, voice low.

Tony shook her head. "My ribs are killing me," she admitted, breath visible in the cold. "And Dum-dum sounds like a freight train."

He smiled a little, looking toward the snores. "He's louder than the wolf."

"Also figured you wouldn't mind the company, seeing as you're on first watch." Her voice was lighter now as she rested her vocal cords. She felt like her regular voice sounded almost like a stranger now.

Barnes lets out a little chuckle and looks down at her sitting criss cross beside him, leaning into the log in an exhausted manner. "Thanks, doll. Always easier with company," he says with a smirk as he watches her cheeks turn pink.

They lapsed into a moment of shared quiet, the kind that felt easy now.

After a while, Tony spoke again. "You all know each other like you've been doing this your whole lives."

Bucky huffed out a breath, then glanced down at the stick he'd been absentmindedly turning over in his fingers. "Pretty much have. Most of us met during training. Different places, different backgrounds. But we stuck."

"You were already a unit?"

"More like a mess that gelled fast." His mouth tugged to the side, smile crooked. "First week together, Dum-Dum tried to bribe a drill sergeant with moonshine. The man drank it, passed out cold in the mud, and we spent four hours dragging him back to base before someone could notice."

Tony let out a soft, incredulous laugh. "He bribed a sergeant?"

"He swore it would 'buy goodwill,'" Bucky said, doing a passable Dum-Dum impression. "Didn't work. But we got stuck cleaning latrines for two weeks, and somehow that bonded us."

She laughed again, hand pressed gently to her ribs. "That's disgusting."

"Yeah. But it worked." He looked at her then, eyes steady. "They're good men. Loud. Idiotic sometimes. But they'd follow you into hell if you asked the right way."

Tony was quiet a moment, then nudged a bit of charcoaled wood more into the fire with her boot. "You always knew this was what you wanted to do?"

Bucky tilted his head, considering this as he looked back into the fire. "Not at first. It was just about staying alive, staying close to the people who mattered. Now that Steve is back..." He shrugged. "Feels like the right place."

She looked at him sidelong. "You're good at it."

His eyes found hers in the half-light, and he smiled—not with pride, but something softer.

"So are you," he said. "Even when you're holding your ribs and pretending you're not in pain."

Tony blinked, and for a second she looked away.

"You're the only one who sees it," she murmured.

He reached over, careful and slow, and brushed her shoulder lightly with the back of his fingers. "I see you, Tony." She turned her head to look at him, and they stared into each other's eyes.

Tony didn't move right away, even though she felt like she should look away. She just watched him, gaze steady, firelight reflected in her eyes. There was something quiet between them—he could feel it stretch, thread-thin but pulsing, dangerous. Her lips parted like she might say something else, ask something bold, reach past the edges of what they'd allowed so far.

Bucky felt his throat tighten, but she made no sound. She closed her mouth again. He looked at her—really looked—and then, abruptly, broke eye contact. His jaw shifted into a stiffer position. He cleared his throat once, sharply, like snapping out of something.

"You should get some sleep," he said, and though his voice was calm, there was a faint rasp to it. Then, more firmly: "That's an order."

Tony blinked, and a wry little smile flickered at the corners of her mouth. She didn't argue. But as she pulled her coat tighter and stood to go over to her bedroll, she couldn't quite ignore the little flutter of disappointment low in her chest, mixing with the strange flipping feeling she already felt somewhere near her heart.

Neither of them said anything else. The fire crackled softly between them as she settled into her bedroll on the other side of the fire, and the silence wasn't uncomfortable—but it wasn't as easy as it had been a few moments before either.

Bucky kept his eyes on the flames, his face unreadable except for the faint flush still warming the tops of his cheeks.

And beside him, Tony lay still, watching the stars through the treetops, wondering what she would've said if she had the guts. What he would have done if he hadn't looked away.

Chapter Text

The first thing Tony registered the next morning was the cold. Not sharp, not biting, but the kind that clung to her joints and made every breath feel heavy. Her arms curled instinctively around her head to shield her eyes from the morning sun but her ribs screamed in protest making her close her eyes tightly with a pained hiss.

Hearing the sound of scuffling footsteps and shushing, Tony blinked, groggy and disoriented, heart already stuttering in her ribcage like it didn't trust the space it was beating inside—each thump a flare of raw, bruised heat.

Squinting her eyes against the morning light, she looked around. The camp was already alive with action. The fire had been doused and covered like it had never even happened, packs cinched tight and slung over broad shoulders, and the men moved with quiet, practiced efficiency. They were already looking ready to make tracks.

She sat up fast—too fast. Pain sparked down her neck and through her ribs, sharp enough to make her eyes clamp shut. Her hand flew to her side as her breath caught, jaw clenched against the wave of nausea that followed. The world tilted slightly, and she half lay back down before it steadied.

"Jesus, Hudson," Gabe muttered, his voice suddenly close to her head, making Tony open her eyes in slight surprise.

He was already kneeling beside her with his lips pressed in a tight line. He reached one hand down to pin her shoulder back to the ground with a slight tisk under his breath, the other pulling open his battered med kit with the speed of habit. "I told you to take it easy when you woke up, didn't I?"

"I—yeah." She tried to shake off the fog in her skull, pressing the heel of her hand into her unbruised eye. "What time is it?"

"Sun's just up, about 4:50 am. We've got a long climb ahead." Gabe's voice was clipped now, more medic than friend. He dipped a bit of rag into a tin-capped vial of iodine, wringing it out as he spoke. "And you're not gonna make it halfway if you don't start being straight with me."

She started to speak, but Gabe cut her off with a look that had the edge of a scalpel.

"And don't fucking lie to me," he snapped. "I'm not blind, Hudson. I have the power to say when you have to stop, even if you don't want to." His stare could have cut glass as he continued, "So it's best you start being straight with me, before you don't have a choice in the matter." His accent was always thicker in the morning, his still sleepy voice as professional as he could manage.

Tony tried to ignore the twist of anxiety and guilt that settled into her stomach as Gabe lifted her chin just enough to get at the healing cut along her jawline, inspecting the stitches with a practiced hand before gently dabbing the area clean.

Tony flinched when the sting hit her senses, Gabe lightly slapped her forehead with a tut and a muttered "Hold still, Sweetheart." He cleans the area fully and then taps it dry with a second rag before helping pull Tony into a sitting position. He gives her a serious look, stopping her hand reaching towards her pack, "You so much as think of that wound tearing open again, you tell me. No hero shit. Got it?"

She gave a shallow nod, throat tight.

Across the clearing, the Captain was crouched beside the gear, checking the ridgeline against the map. Beside him, Bucky was tying his boot laces, laughing and saying something in reply to Pinky. Tony had only looked for a moment, but it was a moment too long. Bucky's eyes slide over to her as if magnetized, the edge of his expression unreadable. Sharp, not unkind—but something lingered behind his eyes, something she couldn't quite name.

She looked away first, focusing on rolling up her bedroll and tying it back under her pack so she wouldn't have to think about it.

By the time she attempted to rise fully to her feet, her knees nearly buckled again. The world tilted. She sucked in a breath through her teeth, willing the ground to stay still beneath her boots. Her pack shifted uncomfortably on her back as she tried to make it push less on her injuries.

A shadow passed over her making her look up into the face of Sergeant Barnes, who was holding a hand out to her. She took it and he pulled her upwards, but when she went to pull her hand back he wouldn't let go. His large hand felt warm around her small cold one.

"Give it here," Bucky said, already reaching for the strap of her pack with his free hand. Tony leaned that shoulder away from him with a furrowed brow, "I've got it."

"Sure you do," he replied. His voice was dry, but he didn't move, waiting for her to give in and hand him the pack.

Tony hesitated, her mind full of hate. She hated how Bucky was looking down at her, that look of knowing he always wore. She hated that he was right even without stating it. She hated how the straps dug into her shoulders, making it harder to refuse, but most of all, she hated how her pride always tried to get the last word.

But Bucky just raised an eyebrow like he already knew what she was thinking. "It's one pack, Hudson. I doubt you could pack all you're pride into it anyway."

Reluctantly, she shrugged it off and let him take it, not meeting his eye as she mumbles, "Hardy har har." He slung it over his shoulder with ease, barely adjusting his stride. "You don't get a medal for pushing through until something breaks," he added without looking at her as he walked back to where Steve was waiting for him.

Tony didn't answer. She didn't trust her voice, not with how hot the back of her neck felt with the burn of shame and something she really didn't want to think about with everyone watching and waiting to get going.

Ten minutes later, they were steadily moving along before Tony felt her brain was fully awake. The thin air burned in her lungs, and her legs trembled over each large rock or fallen tree. The others didn't say anything about it—they never did—but she caught Dum-Dum glancing over more than once, and Marv hovered a step closer than necessary as they started the slow climb up the mountain trail, muttering in low, disgruntled French.

The terrain was brutal. Loose shale, steep inclines, and patches of mud where snowmelt turned the path treacherous. The others handled it like second nature, even Pinky, who carried more gear than he probably should have. They moved like a pack of wolves themselves—surefooted and quiet, always alert.

Tony slipped twice in the first hour, catching herself hard with her hands, getting cut up by the jagged rock underfoot in the process. Her lungs rattled and her palms burned, and she caught herself bitterly thinking the lack of a backpack wasn't really doing much besides taking away her shelter from the sun.

The beating from a few nights ago still clung to her bones, and her injured ribs had started to ache in a way that made her vision haze at the edges as she pulled herself up onto a rock, not meeting the eyes of anyone who was trying to offer her a hand up but stubornly huffing and puffing until she lay up on the tabletop with them.

Only a moment's rest before she stood again, and they all continued.

By midmorning, the sun crept higher, and the heat began to rise off the rocks. The Commandos paused for water, crouching near a shaded outcropping. Bucky handed her the canteen from her pack without a word, and Steve tossed a ration bar into her lap.

She forced herself to eat.

"You good?" Jim asked, watching her with the same concern she'd seen when he looked at fresh recruits back at base throwing up from the heat and PT combination.

Tony nodded. "Just slow."

"We've got time," Steve said, overhearing their conversation. "We'll take it in pieces."

It didn't really come across as kindness, but it hit her like it was nonetheless after the day of hiking in the blistering heat. She looked up at the ridgeline. Still so far.

She wiped her face on her sleeve and took a long haul off of her canteen between bites of ration.

*-*-*-*

The afternoon sun beat down with a dry, merciless heat that made the shadows under every scrubby pine tree look like a promise. The sound of the odd bird cry and the whine of cicadas buzzing made the heat feel heavier than it had any right to be.

Sweat soaked through Tony's shirt, clinging to her spine and soaking through the shirt she'd barely had the strength to put on that morning, and every breath was a negotiation—tight, wheezing, barely enough. Her ribs pulsed in rhythm with her heartbeat, every jolt of her boot against the ground sending aftershocks through her core.

The trail narrowed along the ridgeline, thinning into a path that sloped steeply on one side and gave way to a sheer drop on the other. The Commandos adjusted their formation without a word—Bucky up front, Steve somewhere in the middle, Marv hanging back with her. Always just far enough behind to catch her if she slipped again.

Tony's vision wobbled, colors greying at the edges, and she bit down on the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste copper. She didn't say anything. Couldn't. Her pride didn't have the breath to spare. Tony was unaware of it, but Gabe was watching her with narrowed eyes.

By early afternoon, they passed a rusted hunting blind half-swallowed by trees and undergrowth. Steve called for a break, voice quiet but firm. The others settled without question. Tony eased down onto a flat rock and tried not to look like she was collapsing.

Gabe lingered close, always under the guise of something else—tightening a strap, adjusting his hipside medkit, or shifting weight in his pack like now. But Tony saw through it. She knew the look of someone keeping watch on her, and she wasn't sure whether it comforted her or made her feel weaker.

Bucky stopped for a moment to give Tony her canteen off her pack on his shoulder, an almost inaudible 'sip' leaving his lips before he moved over to refill his own at the small stream. "Don't suppose you packed a whole ambulance in that bag of yours," she muttered to Gabe in a weakly joking tone as she let the metal cool her sweaty palms.

Gabe looked over from where he had started refilling canteens. "Just a couple bandages and whatever's left of Dum-Dum's terrible sense of humor."

"That died in France," Dum-Dum said flatly, pulling a strip of jerky from his bag.

Steve crouched beside her to use the flat rock as a table, pulling a folded map from his pack and laying it flat across the top for everyone to see. "We're making decent time. If we keep the pace, we'll reach the river crossing by nightfall."

Tony nodded, too winded to do much else, and then promptly dropped her canteen. Her hands trembled when she reached for the canteen, and this time, Steve didn't let it go unnoticed. He didn't say anything—just pressed the cool metal into her palm after grabbing it from the ground swiftly and waited until she drank to look back at his map.

Tony sipped, thankful that Steve often found himself at a loss for words before she noticed that behind Steve, Bucky watched her with a look Tony couldn't quite name. Not pity. Something quieter. Something like recognition. His eyes were lingering on her ribs, and if she didn't have an injury, she would say he was staring at her boobs. She let out a small chuckle at the thought of someone like Barnes even noticing her as more than a little sister after the night before's strange change in tone and focused her attention back to the little stream bubbling past.

They didn't stop long. Five minutes, maybe. Just enough to breathe.

Then they were moving again.

The next stretch of trail turned sharper, rockier—switchbacks carved into the side of the mountain that tested even the most surefooted among them. Tony's boots scraped against loose stone, and once, when she stumbled and had to catch herself on a jut of sharp granite, she felt her vision go white-hot for half a second.

She didn't make a sound. She didn't let herself.

By the time the shadows grew long and the ridgeline finally dropped into a gentler slope, her limbs were jelly and her shirt was stained dark under her arms and down her spine. Once, Marv caught her arm when she nearly went down for real, gripping her elbow until she steadied.

"Careful," he murmured. He didn't wait for a reply, just moved ahead again, boots digging confidently into the shale.

"We'll camp near the river tonight," Steve called back at them all from where he was leading them, compass out and eyes fixed on the sun's setting colors. "Flat ground. Good cover."

Tony didn't answer. She wasn't sure she could.

The first real sign of relief came when Steve, still at the front, raised his hand to signal a halt. The group stopped in their tracks, each man turning his head like they half expected an ambush.

"Here," Steve said, voice low but certain. "Marked on the map. Second camp."

Tony could see it then—just off the trail, tucked behind a dense thicket of pine and low stone, a shallow basin of land that offered enough cover to shield them from casual eyes. The slope dipped gently inward, and the trees parted enough to catch the last of the light. It was perfect for resting. Not safety—nothing out on the real frontlines was—but for northern Appalachia, it was a good hidden thicket.

The Commandos began to spread out. Bucky, Gabe, and Marv cleared a space for the bedrolls, throwing sticks haphazardly into the surrounding brush. Dum-Dum set down his pack next to Jim with a grunt and disappeared into the trees to scavenge what dry branches he could find. Only Steve seemed to be unaffected by today's climbing as he sat barely even sweating and reading the map, referencing his small military-issued compass like a man would study a bible verse before a sermon.

Tony sank down onto a fallen half-rotted log near the edge of camp and untied her boots with trembling fingers, her vision a darkening tunnel. She hadn't even realized Gabe had knelt beside her until she felt his hand gently press against her side, testing for swelling with clinical precision.

"Still breathing," she said dryly, not looking at him.

He huffed a quiet laugh, not rising to the bait. "You're burning up. Not dangerously, but it's there. You've been pushing too hard."

"I didn't have a choice," she said out of gritted teeth, not meeting his eyes entirely.

"You do now," Gabe said, almost sounding as commanding as the Sergeant or Captain. "We've got a few hours before nightfall. Use them."

She didn't argue. Not this time.

As evening fell and the makeshift fire crackled to life, the men fell into a loose, quiet rhythm—eating, checking gear, murmuring a few words back and forth. The kind of companionship built not through chatter, but through presence. Through miles walked and silence shared.

Tony stayed close to the fire, blanket around her shoulders, eyes fixed on the flames, but ears tuned to the woods.

They still had a long way to go before this exercise was over. She looked up at the stars starting to peek out around the gold to purple sky behind the towering mountains around them.

*-*-*-*

The fire had burned low, down to glowing embers and soft crackles. Most of the men had settled into their bedrolls or were murmuring in twos, their voices little more than the hush of wind through the trees.

The fresh pine in the small fire sizzled and cracked, its scent mixing with the smoke from Marv's endless Cigarettes.

Tony sat with her knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them beneath the blanket. She didn't hear Bucky approach until he dropped onto the ground beside her, close enough to share the warmth but not enough to crowd.

He didn't say anything at first. Just stared into the fire, his expression unreadable in the low light. Then, after a moment: "Didn't think I'd see the day you'd keep your mouth shut all hike."

Tony huffed softly through her nose. "Was trying something new."

"Hmm, I don't think so." Bucky hummed as he reached down, picked up a small stick, and tossed it into the coals with his lips pursed like a mother scolding her child for eating a treat before dinner. "You were limping by mile two."

"I wasn't limping."

"You were doing a very convincing impression of someone who should've been limping, then." He glanced sideways at her scowl before he continued in a softer tone, "Why didn't you say something?"

She didn't answer right away. The flames cast her face in flickering orange, highlighting the shadows beneath her eyes and the tight set of her jaw. Eventually, she shrugged. "Didn't want to slow us down."

"You already were. Doesn't matter."

Tony grimaced, looking away to hide the burn of shame that was high on her cheeks. She wanted to say something, maybe sorry for slowing the team down, but she couldn't make her mouth do more than open and then slowly close again.

Bucky leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees to match her posture. "Do you want me to take your pack again tomorrow?" He asked coyly.

"No," Tony answered hotly.

"My mistake, I shouldn't have asked." He chuckles, but his voice is serious. "It's not weakness," he said, his tone gentling again. "Not after what you've been through."

Tony didn't move, but her fingers twitched where they gripped the itchy blanket tightly.

Bucky let a beat of silence pass, then added, more quietly, "I keep thinking about that bastard. Henry."

Her jaw tightened. She didn't speak but winced at the pain from the still-fresh stitches on her jaw.

"I should've pissed on his grave twice," He said it casually, almost like someone who had missed the last showtime for a good film that wouldn't play again for a while.

A small, reluctant laugh escaped her in spite of herself. "Classy."

He shrugged. "Wasn't trying to be classy. You should've seen the man's cot, fucking mess before we ever arrived. Honestly as Sergeant, I was just seeing through my duty-" Tony shoved his shoulder hard with more laughter escaping her pinked lips, the blush creeping further down her face. Bucky smiled a toothy smile down at her in return, his teeth a little crooked.

They sat in companionable silence for a while, watching the fire burn down further, until it was just a bed of glowing coals and the soft hush of breathing around them.

Bucky didn't press her again for an answer. But when she finally lay down for the night, her pack had already been set aside by him—quietly, without a word.

*-*-*-*-*

Morning broke gray and cold, the kind that seeped into bone and lingered even after the sun climbed over the peaks. They were already moving when the sky began to lighten—boots crunching over gravel, breath misting in the thin air.

Tony walked in the middle of the line, shoulders stiff beneath her damp shirt. Her limbs ached like she'd aged a decade overnight, and her ribs protested every deep inhale. No one said much. Steve and Bucky were up ahead, murmuring occasionally to each other over the map, but their tones were low and unreadable.

It wasn't the silence that made Tony uneasy. It was the glances. The way Steve would look at the ridgeline, then at her, then at Bucky again. Something was coming. She could feel it crawling up her spine.

They came to a crossing in the river just before noon.

It wasn't that wide, but the current was fast—cutting through the narrow gorge like a blade. From the edge, it looked deceptively calm, the water glassy and rippling. But closer inspection showed the deeper drag underneath, the slick stones that shifted underfoot.

Steve stepped in first, pack over his head. He moved steady, shoulders squared, water rising to his chest before he got across. Bucky followed, then Dum-Dum, Marv, Gabe, and the rest. None of them hesitated. Their weight and the gear they carried made them stable in the flow.

Tony looked left and right down the river, branches on trees hung low enough to make it hard to see more than ten feet in either direction. She mentally prepared, thinking of the rivers and lakes in Maine that she had been swimming in since she had learned to walk.

She stepped into the water behind Jim confidently, the others watching from the other side. The water was ice cold, and the rocks under her boots felt like they were made of smooth ice.

Tony hesitated only a second, maybe two—but it was enough. Her boots slipped against the rocks, the strong current caught her thighs, and the water rose fast. She tried to brace—but then her foot caught nothing but air. Her soaking too-large uniform dragged her back and sideways, her pack she had forgotten to remove, sinking fast and dragging her head with it, and she was gone.

The cold hit first—sharp, searing. Then the tumbling. Her head went under. Up. Under again. The river filled her ears, her nose, her mouth. Panic clawed up her throat, but she couldn't get a breath—

A hand clamped around her jacket collar. Another around her arm. She was yanked from the current like a fish on a line and dragged to the rocky bank, coughing and choking.

She lay there on her side, heaving, water streaming from her stinging nose as she coughed in the fresh air. Everything hurt.

Bucky stood over her, water pouring off him, his eyes dark and unreadable. Around them, the rest of the Commandos were shaking out their sleeves and slapping water from their coats, but none of them spoke.

"You alright?" Gabe asked quickly, crouching beside her and thumping her back to help get the water up.

Tony nodded, still gasping.

Bucky didn't crouch beside her, he didn't speak at all for a moment. Just stood there dripping and furious. "If you can't admit when you need help," he said, voice low, "you're more of a liability than I thought."

The words hit harder than the cold water had. Tony looked away, her jaw clenched even though the stitches there protested.

But Bucky wasn't finished. He crouched now, eyes level with hers, and added more softly, "You don't get points for drowning, Hudson."

It was the tone—not angry, but raw—that did her in.

She didn't cry. Didn't apologize. But nodded her head while trying to keep her aching jaw set. When Gabe offered a hand to help her up, she took it.

They walked on, soaked to the bone and silent. But Bucky didn't move far from her side after that.

Chapter Text

Tony was dreaming of rocks.

Her shoulders ached like the trail had never ended, and her ribs twinged every time she shifted. She barely registered the sound at first—sharp, insistent, military. A whistle blast cut through the dorm air like a knife, followed by the stomp of boots and the bark of a voice she didn't recognize.

"On your feet, ladies! You think the enemy's gonna wait for beauty sleep?"

The barracks came alive in a rush. Metal bunks groaned, boots hit the floor, someone cursed low under their breath. Tony sat up fast and instantly regretted it. Every part of her body screamed. The blankets stuck to her skin with sweat, and the bruise on her side throbbed like a second heartbeat.

She rubbed her face and squinted toward the door.

A man in fatigues stood there, all squared shoulders and righteous fury. His voice carried like a whip crack. "Let's go, let's go! PT formation in five!"

Marv groaned. "Didn't we just get back?"

"No one cares, Marv," Dum-Dum muttered, yanking on his boots.

Tony forced herself up, swinging her legs over the side of the cot. Everything in her body felt one step behind—like she'd left half of herself in the river. She managed to stand, barely stable, and grabbed her shirt.

The man by the door turned on his heel and stalked off.

"Who the hell is that?" she asked, voice rough.

"Drill Sergeant Flanksen," Gabe said, already dressed and lacing up. "New orders. Apparently, someone thinks we're not 'retaining combat discipline'."

Bucky came in from the hall, already in gear, a towel slung over his shoulder. "He's been sniffing around since before we got back," Bucky said dryly, stepping into the conversation with ease. "Doesn't like how we run things."

"He can't like how we run things," Steve added as he ducked through the doorway behind Bucky, calm and collected as ever. "I outrank him. Obviously, he hates seeing me back as a Captain while he's still a drill sergeant."

"Doesn't stop him from trying," Bucky said, smirking as he started stretching. "Apparently, I'm too soft on my unit. And Steve's just a propaganda poster come to life."

Steve shot him a look. "You are soft."

"And you don't even need to train," Bucky shot back. "Yet you get winded walking to the mess hall?"

Steve grinned, then sobered. "We're showing up because they're watching. Let's set the tone."

Tony grabbed her laces, forcing her fingers to move faster. Her legs were sluggish. Her arms still sore. She could feel the bruise blooming down her hip from where she hit the riverbank like it was reaching towards the bruises on her ribs intentionally. Every time she moved, it reminded her she was still here.

Still standing.

Outside, the air was sharp with early morning chill, but the drill yard was already packed. Flanksen paced like a wolf, eyes scanning the half-asleep soldiers with disdain.

The Commandos filed in last, but their formation was tight.

Steve and Bucky took up the front row beside the rest of the soldiers, boots planted. If Flanksen had a comment about rank, he kept it to himself.

Flanksen blew the whistle again, and Tony braced herself for a long morning.

The first set of exercises started easy—jumping jacks, pushups, core rotations. Just enough to loosen stiff muscles and separate the well-rested from the ones who hadn't slept right since the mountain exercises.

Tony moved like her joints were glued together. Each squat pulled at her ribcage, every bend or dip lit nerves that hadn't stopped screaming since they started climbing two days ago. She gritted her teeth and pushed through, one motion at a time.

Bucky was two paces ahead, rolling his shoulders like this was a warm-up before real training. His hair was greased back, sweat already collecting along his jaw. Every movement was efficient. Strong. Relaxed in a way that came from a thousand repetitions and too much war.

And beside him—Steve. Just as effortless, but precise. His shirt clung to his back as he pivoted through the drills, breath steady, face unreadable.

They weren't showing off. That was the worst part. They weren't trying to be impressive—they just were.

Tony looked away, jaw clenched.

She shouldn't be watching. Not like that. Not here.

Someone snapped the cadence count off-beat, and Flanksen barked something about discipline from the sidelines. The group reset formation and started again.

Tony's heart was still thrumming too loudly, and it wasn't just the exertion.

She dropped to the blacktop with the others for the next set—pushups until failure. Her shoulders burned by the sixth one, ribs shrieking by the tenth. She bit the inside of her cheek and kept moving.

No one helped her. No one was supposed to, she knew, but Bucky glanced over once—just once—his brows pulled tight for a second before he went back to work.

The sun rose higher, casting harsh shadows across the drill yard. Sweat dripped into her eyes. Her shirt clung. The pain faded into a dull rhythm she could manage.

Don't look. Don't fall behind. Don't give them a reason.

Flanksen barked the next set like it was a punishment. "Mountain climbers! Till I say stop—go!"

Tony's shoulders screamed. Her palms, still cut up from the hike, slipped once on the blacktop, slick with sweat and grime, and she scrambled to catch herself before her face kissed concrete. Flanksen didn't miss it.

"Sloppy, soldier," he snarled, voice sharp enough to slice through steel. "Maybe next time we'll let you sleep in after the war ends."

No one laughed. The silence afterward felt carved out, too still.

Tony didn't look up. She didn't trust her face.

Bucky's jaw tightened as he powered through the set like it didn't cost him anything. Steve didn't say a word, but his form became surgical. Perfect. A silent counter to Flanksen's tone—' this is how we lead,' he thinks to himself. Quiet, consistent. Controlled.

Flanksen stalked the line, boots heavy. "I don't care where you served or how many stripes someone pinned on you—this is the unit now. If you can't keep up, you don't belong."

Tony's lungs clawed at air. Her arms shook as she inwardly thought of how she was an undecorated Private who just happened to be a crackshot, welcomed into the Howling Commandos by chance.

Gabe stole a glance in her direction and looked away fast. He was red-faced and dripping with sweat, but the expression he wore was guilt more than strain. Like every time she slipped or broke tempo, she was undoing the hours he'd spent patching her back together.

"Pushups! Again!" Flanksen barked. "Let's see who's still got fight in them."

Down she went again. The blacktop was blister-hot now, and every drop of sweat stung on contact with her eyes. Her ribs protested, every downward motion like a hammer tap to her side.

By the seventh rep, her elbows quivered. Ninth, she was trembling. Twelfth, she was done—but she didn't stop.

Thirteenth. Fourteenth.

Fifteenth—

Her arms gave out.

She hit the pavement with a choked breath, shoulder first.

Flanksen blew his whistle, sharp and unnecessary. "Get up. You think the enemy's gonna wait for you to catch your breath?"

Tony pushed herself upright, movements slow and arms shaking unsteadily. Her palms were scraped so roughly against the ground that her palms burned and one leaked a little blood down her ring finger.

"Get back in line," he snapped. "You want pity, you're in the wrong damn place."

She stood, keeping her head down, and didn't look at anyone. Not Bucky, not Steve. Not Gabe, who looked like he was trying to bore holes into the pavement with his own glassy stare.

She rejoined the line, chest heaving.

The whistle blew again.

"Fall in!" Flanksen barked to the rest of the group as a whole, stepping back to survey them like he was inspecting livestock.

The group shuffled into a line, breaths ragged, chests rising and falling like they'd been dragging the sun itself on their backs.

Tony's arms were jelly. Her hands twitched at her sides, muscles refusing to calm. She was already shaking before Flanksen opened his mouth again.

"You want food?" he asked, pacing down the line. "Prove you earned it."

He didn't wait for a response. "Push-ups. As many as you can. Fail, and you wait." He looked around and then barked, "Well? What are you all waiting for, Johnny Cash to sing you a ballad?"

Tony's knees buckled before she hit the ground, catching herself barely in time. Her ribs flared white-hot in her side. Gabe was beside her in the line—he glanced over once, almost imperceptibly—but kept going.

One.

Two.

Three.

The pain blurred everything.

Four—

Her elbows collapsed under her, arms folding like pieces of wet paper. She barely caught herself on the way down.

She didn't rise.

"Pathetic," Flanksen said over her. "That's four, soldier. Four."

Tony tried to push herself up, but her hands, slick with sweat and now pooling blood on one, slid out from under her, causing her to slam her stitched chin into the ground with an audible thud. Gabe was the only one to look away, his teeth clenched like someone'd lit a match in a powder room.

Flanksen stood over her like a shadow. "Two hundred. Before you see a tray."

Someone cursed under their breath down the line. It might have been Marv. Bucky was stone silent, eyes on the horizon where the sun was beginning to turn the sky a deep pinkish red.

Then, the final twist of the knife.

"Rogers," Flanksen called, voice sharp and cold. "Take your unit to chow."

Steve's head snapped toward him. "Sir, with respect—" He looked like he'd swallowed broken glass, but his tone was firm and commanding.

"That's an order, Captain. And I'm afraid since I am the Drill Sergeant, what I say goes unless you have probable cause."

Flanksen didn't even look at Bucky as he addressed him next, "Barnes. Stay behind. I want a full count. She gets no favors."

Bucky's jaw ticked once as if he wanted to speak, but he didn't meet the drill sergeant's eye as he said in a short bark, "Copy."

Steve hesitated, eyes flitting from Tony to Flanksen like he might push back harder and sway his rank—but something about the air between them said it wouldn't help.

He turned instead. "Commandos, move out."

The others filed away one by one, boots scuffing the pavement. Gabe lingered for a beat longer than the others, guilt twisting across his face as he looked from the leaving drill Sergeant to Tony, before he followed the team reluctantly.

The court cleared out. It was just Bucky and Tony now, heat rising from the blacktop like breath from a furnace.

Tony was still on the ground, palms splayed. Her arms wouldn't cooperate. Her head hung.

"You gonna start, or should I pretend I'm counting the dirt?" Bucky asked. His voice wasn't cold. But it wasn't soft, either. It sounded like he was trying not to say more than that.

Tony weakly moved her head so her face was fully buried in shame on the tarmac. "You don't have to stay."

Bucky crouched next to her with a slight groan, "No, I do. That's the fun part."He said lightly, but she could feel the sarcasm dripping in every word, "I don't get to just walk away. I'm a Sergeant."

Tony closed her eyes. "God, I hate this." she said into the rocks below.

"Yeah," Bucky said. "Me too."

The sun beat down without mercy. Heat pooled in every crack of the pavement, shimmering off the blacktop like a furnace.

Tony pushed herself onto her palms again, rallying all her strength to get this over with. Her elbows shook. Her ribs screamed. But this time, she rose and with alot of puffing completed a full rep.

Bucky didn't speak right away. He stayed crouched nearby, elbows on his knees, watching like a man who knew when to wait and when to talk.

"You know," he said finally, "I've seen guys twice your size drop before they hit fifteen. And they weren't running on busted ribs."

Tony didn't answer. Her breath came ragged.

Another push, feeling like she was moving the world itself and not herself off of the world.

"You're not weak, Hudson," Bucky continued, glancing around the tarmac to be sure everyone else on base besides the far-off MPs had gone to mess. "Flanksen's just looking for cracks. Wants to see what breaks and what burns hotter."

She ground her teeth together. "I never said I was weak," she manages to extend fully again, this time her fingers dancing around on the pavement as she tries to bring herself to lower again, "I'm fine."

"No, you're not." Bucky's voice was infuriatingly calm, "And you don't have to be."

Tony dropped her head between her arms. Sweat dripped off her nose. Her lungs were on fire.

"I'm just tired," she muttered between her arms as if she were speaking to her knees.

"Yeah. And sore, I'll bet. And beat to hell. That's not weakness." He tilted his head a little as he rambled, hands almost moving to help Tony as she lowered herself a little too fast. "That's just Tuesday in the field." he said, looking over towards the mess hall where he could hear ruckus talking and laughter from the large building.

"You've got fire," he added as he looked back down at her struggling form, "Saw it the second you squared off with Henry. You didn't flinch."

"I was too pissed to flinch," Tony said into the pavement.

Bucky chuckled and crossed his arms, one hand going to his lips in a thoughtful manner. "Exactly. You think fire makes you a target. You're wrong. It's what keeps the rest of us warm."

Tony shoved herself up again, slower than she had before. Her arms shook like they were going to snap into little twigs.

"You've got more in you," he said, quieter now. "I don't care if it takes all night. We finish this, you and me."

Tony didn't answer. Her body was trembling like a leaf caught in the wind, and her energy was like a dying star. But her hands stayed planted.

The shadows stretched longer on the court. Bucky didn't leave her side. Not once. He just sat there, watching as she climbed inch by inch toward something only she could accomplish.

By the time the sun was brushing the treetops and stars were starting to wink and twinkle above, Tony was finishing the final few—grit beneath her nails, blood dried along her palms, breath whistling between her teeth.

And Bucky, silent now, just kept count in his head. One breath at a time.

*-*-*-*-*

The door creaked open on its hinges, slow and dragging like the day itself.

Tony stepped through first, shirt clinging to her back, Legs trembling with the effort of putting one foot in front of the other. Her face was pale and streaked with sweat and dirt. She looked so exhausted that it barely held any expression at all. Bucky followed behind her, silent as a shadow.

Inside the barracks, the others were still awake. Lights low. Pinky had his designated tarot deck of playing cards scattered across his bunk, where he was looking intently down at a jack of spades with interest. Marv had a book open but hadn't turned a page in a while. Gabe sat on the edge of his bed, hands steepled like he'd been praying or thinking—maybe both. The others were sitting quietly playing what looked like 'Go Fish'.

They all looked up at once.

Steve stood, expression drawn tight across his face. "I was about two minutes from finding Flanksen and giving him a piece of my mind."

Tony managed a weak smirk. "That why your fists were twitching, Cap? Thought maybe you had too much coffee at supper."

Steve didn't smile back. His eyes flicked to Bucky, who gave a slight nod to confirm—she did it. All of it. The woman in question was barely standing, her eyelids heavy and her arms drooping at her sides like they weighed more than she could carry.

"She okay?" Gabe asked, rising slowly with his hands already inching towards his medical box.

"She's standing," Bucky said as he guided Tony towards where their two cots sat side by side in the center of the barracks. "That's more than I thought she'd be after her first two hundred push-ups."

Tony shuffled over with Bucky's help and sat, or collapsed really. Her arm trembles so badly as she reaches for her canteen that Gabe reaches it for her, unscrewing the cap while shaking his head with dismay.

"I'll live," she mutters as a soft thanks to Gabe and puts the metal to her lips for a sip of the precious lukewarm water while he walks back over to his cot.

"You shouldn't have had to prove that," Steve said sharply, voice still low. "Not like that. That's called Exemplifying, and it's not permitted in the military."

No one disagreed.

For a long moment, the barracks were quiet again. Just the hum of the lights and the faint creak of wood shifting under weight. Then Dum-Dum cleared his throat.

"Yer late fer chow," he said, too lightly as he pulled a dirty handkerchief from his pocket. "Saved ye a roll. Might be a bit dry, like."

Tony snorted and looked at the small roll Dum-Dum had stolen her with appreciative eyes. "I'll take it."

Pinky took it from Dum-Dum and tossed it over, and she caught it with both hands. That, at least, didn't hurt.

Marv finally turned a page.

Gabe hadn't sat down again yet, he looked at Tony with narrowed eyes, as if trying to decide if he should ask or just act, since Tony hardly ever was honest about how bad she hurt anyway. "You need patching up? Your reflexes are good, so there can't be too much brain damage." He finally said with an almost joking tone.

Tony shook her head. "You say that like I already had some."

He nodded knowingly, "You'd have to be soft in the head to walk into this with your eyes open."

Gabe stepped away from his bunk and came over without another word, already rolling up his sleeves.

"I'm fine," Tony protested, though her voice barely carried around the roll in her mouth.

"Sure you are," Gabe replied, kneeling beside her. "Now stay still, Sweetheart."

He was gentle, peeling up her shirt and then tugging it over her head to get to the edge of the gauze wrapped around her ribs while blocking the view from the others. On Tony's other side, Barnes was watching Gabes work with mild interest from where he sat, casually raising his arms behind his head like he was relaxing while simultaneously blocking Marv's sneaky view over his book.

Gabe didn't say anything as he cut the bandage and slipped it away, assessing the bruise underneath and pretending to not notice the way Tony moved her arms to cover her exposed breasts, her face burning and her eyes fixed to the cot underneath her as if she could look a hole through it and disappear from view. Steve kept his back turned, loudly taking everything out of his rucksack and starting to fold it again.

"Could you..?" Gabe didn't finish his sentence, only put a couple fingers under her elbows and moved them upwards as a sign he needed to rewrap the gauze now that he was done. Tony closed her eyes like she did every day at this part, to try and forget the mental embarrassment, and raised her arms over her head.

Gabe looked over Tony's shoulder and met eyes with the Sergeant, who had been unabashedly staring at Tony's nipples, which were hard and pink in the cold barracks. Gabe raised both eyebrows at him but said nothing as he himself smirked a knowing smirk and began wrapping the gauze around Tony, being sure to give her the proper support and binding since she couldn't wear her homemade one with the injury.

Tony opened her eyes when Gabe muttered a low "You're good, Sweetheart." Dum-dum and Jim seemed suddenly very interested in their card game. Tony's cheeks burned; she knew they looked, but didn't really know what to say about it. Barnes was busy pulling back his blankets and fluffing his flat pillow, his back to her, trying to discreetly hide the hard-on in his boxers.

Gabe was level as ever as he poured some iodine onto a clean cloth and began dabbing at Tony's stitches. "These are healing well, won't be long, and we will be taking them out."

The cloth was damp, tinged rust-brown, and cold as it touched Tony's face, causing her to hiss.

Gabe worked efficiently, silent save for the occasional quiet instruction—"breathe," or "almost done." After he had finished dabbing at the torn skin around her stitches with the disinfectant, he began unrolling a fresh length of gauze.

Tony didn't look at him. Her eyes stayed fixed on the table where Dum-Dum and Jim were arguing over a full house now.

Bucky watched the whole thing from his bunk, expression unreadable. When Gabe started shaking pills out of a dark brown bottle for Tony, Bucky finally spoke, voice low and bitter.

"It's a damn shame," he said, "that we're out here training to bring the fight to the worst monsters in the world, and somehow the real battle's still happening on our own side."

No one answered. There wasn't anything to say.

Gabe turned Tony's head left and right with practiced fingers as he looked at the now clean wound, the pills in his free hand. "That's all I can do for tonight," he said. "You let me know if it gets worse." He handed her the caplets and her canteen.

Tony nodded, "Thanks, Gabe," she said before swallowing the pills and several mouthfuls of water.

He patted her shoulder twice and went back to his bunk without fanfare.

Steve sank down on the edge of his bunk, now that he had finished refolding everything, elbows on his knees and brow still furrowed. "Bucky stayed with you the whole time?"

Tony nodded, chewing slowly.

"Figures," Steve said with a ghost of a smile. "Man's got a hero complex."

Bucky shrugged off his Sergeant's jacket with a mischievous smirk on his face as he looked at Steve across the room.

"Don't pretend you wouldn't've done the same," Bucky muttered, shoving his damp-with-sweat sergeant's coat over Steve's unsuspecting head.

Steve let out a muffled groan, yanking it off and flinging it aside. "You're disgusting."

"Yeah? I like to think I'm pretty clean." Bucky grinned. Steve shoots him a sly look and then starts in a teasing tone, "Go ahead and act like you haven't been between the legs of every—"

Bucky was already swinging his stiff military pillow at him, laughing while Steve dances out of reach, "—woman in New York!" Steve finishes as he ducks the pillow swinging at his face.

The others watched the two, amused but not surprised, as the two old friends scuffled like kids in a shared bunk at summer camp. No real heat behind it, just something unspoken easing out with every punch and laugh and curse.

Across the room, Tony had tipped back onto her own pillow, watching through half-lidded eyes. The moment the pillow fight died down, her eyes fluttered shut like she had been switched off.

Bucky calmed first, breath slowing as he stood and adjusted his bedroll with one hand, the other absently smoothing out the creases. His eyes flicked toward Tony's bunk—she hadn't moved. Her body was slack with sleep, arm flung over her ribs like she was still guarding them. The blanket lay tangled at the foot of her bunk, where it was still rolled up from the morning rack routine before PT.

He hesitated for just a second, then slide across his cot to the side closer to her cot.

Carefully, he tugged the blanket up and over her shoulders. It caught slightly on her elbow, and he eased it down with a gentleness that bordered on reverence. His hand lingered there, tracing the line of her shoulder beneath the fabric—just long enough to feel the heat of her skin, the tremor still in her muscles.

Then his fingers hovered—just above her hair. So close. A breath away from brushing it back from her face.

But he didn't.

Instead, he let the warmth of her skin seep into his palm for a second longer, then pulled away like it cost him something not to make contact.

Behind him, Steve's voice came lazy and teasing: "Tony and Bucky sittin' in a tree..."

He didn't even get to the second line before the pillow smacked him square in the face.

Chapter Text

Tony didn't hear Captain Rogers approach. She only jolted when his voice cut through the silence, "Jesus, Hudson. You out here trying to melt?" He asked, his boots appearing on the ground a second after his voice did.

Tony blinked up at him, dazed and sun-struck. Her arms scrambled under her, spine locking straight as she threw a salute. Steve saluted her off in an annoyed manner and asked, "How long have you been out here? Why the hell are you out here?"

"More punishment push-ups, sir," Her voice rasped like gravel—hoarse, but still low enough to pass in case others were walking around this evening.

Steve looked toward the setting sun, eyebrows furrowing as he tracked its slow dip behind the tree line.

"How many?" Steve asked, tilting his head away from the sun's bright glare.

"One hundred, sir." Tony cringes into the tarmac, trying her best to not look up into his eyes and see the look of disappointment in them.

His brows lifted, though she couldn't see the look of surprise on his face. "And how many left?"

She squinted at the sky, trying to remember how time worked for a moment. "Twenty-five."

He hummed, low in his chest, and his eyes dropped to the pavement—where her handprints had been seared into the blacktop. The tar clung in places, flecks of it stuck to her blistered palms and swollen fingers.

Steve crouched slightly, eyeing her raw, reddened hands.

He nodded once, standing up again. "Then let's see 'em." He said it like he wanted nothing less in his life, but he stood firm beside Tony with his arms crossed.

Tony began again without hesitation. The pavement greeted her like fire, and she bit her cheek to keep from crying out.

"One... two..." Her voice barely carried. Her muscles were already at war—everything beneath her skin felt like glass and smelled like rust.

"Eight..." she muttered, each push-up felt like a small war. Her arms shook violently with effort, back aching, sunburned shoulders tight as cables.

Her body was done. Past done. Her muscles screamed with every movement, and still she forced herself through the motions.

Her chest lifted off the ground. Inch by inch. Her fingers curled and flattened against the searing surface. She was shaking from the effort.

"Seventeen..."

The next one nearly didn't happen. She dropped like dead weight, face pressed to the tar, arms twitching as she tried to regain control of them. When she finally got them to listen, she pushed.

Steve's voice came in a low, almost joking tone, "You got two left. Don't make me lie on the report."

Tony didn't laugh, though she wanted to. She closed her eyes which burned from the sweat dripping into them.

Twenty-four. Twenty-five.

When she collapsed, this time she knew even if she had to she couldn't make herself shove up one more time. She was face-down, burned and breathless, unable to make her arms even move to turn over.

Then Steve was crouching, arms strong under hers as soon as he recognized her defeat.

"Here you go. Easy now," he said, pulling her upright like she weighed nothing. "You didn't show up at mess. Barnes has been pacing like a nervous housewife."

Tony swayed on her feet as stars danced in her eyes, and she slowly toppled sideways. Steve caught her with a throaty laugh and set her right, brushing the dirt from her back before looking down into her bleary-eyed face with a searching look.

"You hurt?"

She blinked, lips too dry to answer, so she shook her head.

He gave a faint grunt and forced her to meet his eyes, "Don't be out here like this again, Hudson. We're not training martyrs, I don't give a damn what Flanksen says."

She blinked at him, barely keeping upright, and nodded dumbly. Steve looked down at her small frame and confused face for a moment, and then chuckled again at her dazed and drained looking form. He guided her toward the barracks, slow and steady.

"At least there is some good news. It's finally the weekend!" He patted her back—too hard, but not unkind—and she hissed through her teeth as it hit a patch of raw sunburn.

"Sorry," he muttered sheepishly.

She didn't answer. Just leaned slightly toward him as he guided her away from the blacktop and toward the barracks.

By the time they stepped back into the barracks, the sun had sunk low and the shadows inside were long and warm. Jim looked up from where he was propped against the far wall and raised a brow.

"Finally. What took so long?"

Tony didn't answer—just made a weak beeline for her bunk and promptly tripped over the corner of Bucky's footlocker. Her eye slammed against the edge of the box, and she let out a sharp groan as she collapsed in a heap.

"Just leave me here to die," she muttered, facedown against the wood floor.

Gabe rushed over, grabbing her arm and hoisting her into a sitting position. "Jeez, Tony, you've really got to watch that attitude of yours. If you keep mouthing off like this, you're not even gonna make it to the fight."

She gave him a limp glare as she fell back into her sheets, barely even caring about her boots being on her cot.

"Hey fellas! Great news!" Bucky's voice rang out cheerily as he strolled in behind them, eyes lighting up the second he spotted Tony. "Oh, good—you're back." He crossed the room and clapped her on the shoulder.

Tony had just barely started to sit up when the impact sent her crashing back into the mattress. "Owy," she hissed, shooting him a betrayed death glare.

"She's got a sunburn," Steve said with a smirk, dropping onto his own bunk. The humor in his voice made it worse.

Bucky winced theatrically but didn't seem especially remorseful. "Well, then, I guess this is good news. Flanksen says we've got tomorrow off. Saturday. Town leave."

That got the attention of every man in the room.

"He said he can't find a reason to withhold-" Steve cut in with a self-satisfied scowl on his face. "And fuck him." Bucky pressed on while Steve cringed at the harsh swear, "We can head out after breakfast, just gotta be back by midnight."

A collective cheer went up, and even Tony managed to throw a weak fist into the air. "Woo. Great," she wheezed, still hunched over her knees on her cot, her hair stuck to her temples with sweat.

"You look like the sunset," Jim added, stifling a laugh at Tony's redened face.

Tony nodded slowly. "Yeah, burning out fast."

Dum-Dum smacked her back genially with a smile. "Then I guess we've got you to thank for it, for sticking those push-ups out, huh?"

"Enough touching!" Tony barked in protest, and the room cracked up around her.

Grumbling, she hauled herself off the bunk and grabbed a change of clothes, limping toward the bathroom with the gait of someone twenty years older than she looked.

By the time she emerged, moving stiffly in fresh fatigues, the room had quieted and the lights had been put out. She rolled over on her thin cot mattress, her muscles already locking up. Tomorrow was town leave. Something normal. Something different. Something not this.

As she shifted under her blanket, adjusting her ribs against the hard mattress, she heard a voice murmur nearby—quiet, but pointed.

"I was looking for you."

Tony blinked toward the bunk to the right of hers. Bucky's silhouette was barely outlined by the moonlight sneaking in through the barracks window. He was laying with his arm propping his head up to look at her. Tony sighs tiredly as she sets her boots down in their usual spot.

"Cap said that, too. What?"

He made a wounded little noise and sniffed, "Well, maybe I won't tell you now, you sound like you don't wanna know." as he laid on his back, arms crossed behind his head while he stared up at the ceiling.

She huffed an exhausted laugh. "Don't be dramatic."

There was a beat. Then he spoke again, quieter. "I was gonna ask if you wanted to... maybe skip town with me for a bit. Grab a drink. Watch the dancing."

She turned her head, raising a brow into the dark. "Is that you asking if I want to dance, Barnes?"

A snort came from the corner. Then a loud whisper: "OoooooO."

Multiple stifled chuckles followed, someone thudding their pillow against a bunk in mock scandal.

Tony groaned and covered her face with her forearm. "You all suck."

Bucky grinned into the night air. "Didn't say no though."

She didn't. But she didn't say yes either—not out loud.

Internally, though? She was screaming.

What the actual fuck is going on. Barnes? Tall, dark, and handsome, decorated war-man Barnes just asked me to dance?

She stared up at the dark ceiling, eyes now wide open.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Saturday arrived, and even though the sun had been up for hours, the barracks building was full of the sleepy movements of soldiers not being screamed at. Boots thudded softly against wood, laces were pulled tight, and someone let out a long, unhurried yawn.

Although unlike normal, it was the sound of men happily pulling on their best's and shining their brass so they could go into the nearby town. Even though men walked past the door outside the barracks C, abuzz with their own daytime plans, nobody inside had left yet.

Tony sat up slowly, rubbing her face. For the first time in what felt like weeks, her body wasn't waking her up with pain. It still ached—of course it ached—but it wasn't screaming. She could live with this kind of soreness.

Across the room, Jim muttered, "Hot damn, it's like Christmas morning." then he paused after looking at his watch, "Or.. Christmas evening?"

Pinky was already dressed, collar buttoned all the way up despite the day's heat. Gabe was seated on his bunk, rolling up his sleeves with care and surgical precision in how he rolled the folds. Bucky and Steve were both halfway into their off-duty uniforms, chatting quietly by the window about how far the town was and what counted as "decent beer" in this part of the state of Jersey.

"Are we actually getting out of here? I can't believe it." Tony croaked, her voice still rough from sleep.

"Believe it," Bucky said, tossing her a clean shirt from the laundry that had been dropped off at their door in the night. "Figure we should be back before midnight unless someone gets arrested."

Marv raised a hand without looking up, "I call not it."

Jim groaned, "You're the most likely."

Laughter filtered through the space, light and easy for once. It felt like stretching after a long winter.

The walk-off base was slower than usual, not from tiredness, but because no one felt rushed. They moved together like a single flock of birds, lazy and laughing, veering off the path to cut through wildflowers growing between the trees at Pinky's request. The man in question picking a particularly beautiful purple coneflower, which he stuck into one of his front chest pockets like a military corsage.

Gabe handed out mint gum from a crumpled pack in his pocket. Pinky tried to flirt with a nurse they passed near the infirmary, failing in record time.

Steve had traded his stiff military coat for something lighter, and Bucky was rolling his sleeves up even higher with every step like he was daring the hot afternoon sun to do its worst.

Tony kept to the middle of the group, letting herself be carried by the rhythm of it so that others on base wouldn't look too closely at her in her plain white T-shirt and green army pants.

"What's the plan, Cap?" Jim asked as they passed the guardhouse, the little town finally visible on the horizon. The road curved down gently toward stone buildings and narrow alleys lined with laundry, red-tiled roofs, and small bakeries just beginning to open.

"Personally, I need to find a shop that sells charcoal pencils, and later, when it gets darker, see if we can find a dance hall," Steve answered. "After that, who knows."

Tony glanced toward Bucky, who was watching the busy town's afternoon ministrations more than listening. She couldn't read his face, but he caught her looking and gave her a faint smile.

Her ribs still twinged with every step. But the further they got from the base, the easier it was to breathe.

The cobblestone streets of the little village were still slick from an afternoon rain that had left behind a mist, the still weak sunlight not yet brave enough to chase off the larger banks of mist curling between buildings. It hung low, muffling the distant bustle of the market and softening the edges of the quiet town.

Tony's boots made soft thuds on the damp stone as she drifted, hands stuffed in her pockets, squinting up at shuttered windows and faded signs as everyone split up.

Steve had disappeared toward the market, talking about charcoal and paper like it was the most urgent thing in the world, although no one could argue his drawings weren't masterpieces. Bucky had clapped Tony's shoulder and mumbled something about catching up and to stay within the small market—and then running off after his golden-haired friend, leaving Tony alone, wandering down the street.

So she wandered.

She looked at the busy shops and, knowing she had no money, instead made her way towards the edge of town where it was quieter, poorer maybe—shadows longer, paint peeling from closed-up shops. Tony didn't mind. She liked the quiet, even if it gave her too much space to think. She passed an alley—just barely wide enough for a cart—when a voice broke the silence.

"Well, look what we've got here, boys."

A hand snatched her arm before she could turn. Another shoved her hard against the alley wall—shoulder-first—knocking the wind clean out of her. Her boots skidded on the slick cobblestone as she twisted, but it was too late. Three—no, four—shadows peeled from the fog. The same faces. Henry's gang. Now without a leash.

"She's the one," one of them sneered, his teeth yellow, eyes sharp with the kind of aimless hate that gets a man killed young. "Boss dies, and the freak just walks away? That doesn't sit right wit' us."

Tony struggled again, trying to kick at one's knee, but he dodged, laughing, helped one of the others in grabbing both her arms and pinning them beside her to the stone wall. The alley stank of garbage and wet stone, the mist that had once seemed mysterious and interesting now seemed more dangerous as it slunk past the alleyway, spilling into the alley like a toxic gas.

Tony's heart slammed against her ribs. She could barely see the street from where they had tugged her.

"No fuckhead's to protect you now," the first one growled, stepping forward. "Nothing fancy about you, you ain't even worth the dirt on Burddock's boots."

One of them reached for her chin, grabbing onto the stitched area of her jaw and forcing her defiant face upwards so they were all looking down at her. "Still got that little mouth though, yeah?" he sneered. "Bet it isn't so clever now, is it?"

The man grabbed her small face, his thumb pressed hard against her still-healing stitches. She let out a whimper through her clamped shut mouth, partially frozen in fear as her wide eyes filled with tears. "Cat got your tongue, doll?" someone breathed against her ear, too close.

Another pair of hands grabbed the hem of her shirt and yanked it up. She thrashed, but the men holding her arms firmly slammed her harder into the wall—her head cracking against the stone with a sickening crunch. Her vision became dotted with black, and her ears rang.

Tony felt herself almost choke, the world spinning as she tried to kick off the men. The one who was pulling her T-shirt up crumpled the front and then shoved it into Tony's mouth like some sort of cloth gag. Her jaw burned. She could feel tears streaming down her face, the world a blur of dotted vision from her head hitting the wall, and tears making her blind.

She struggled and twisted with all she had as the men wrangled her olive combat pants open, the zipper sound making Tony shut her eyes tighter than she ever had in her life. The feeling of hands with bruising pressure, grabbing and pulling them down her violently shaking legs, leaving her unable to do anything but wish it was all over.

"Hey!"

The voice cracked through the fog like a rifle shot—sharp, furious.

Tony didn't have to open her eyes to know who it was.

Bucky.

He hit the alley at a full sprint, boots slamming against the stone, fists already cocked. Steve was half a step behind him, his expression carved from marble.

The first guy didn't even have time to look scared. Bucky drove his fist into one of the men's noses with a sickening crunch, then grabbed him by the collar and slammed his head into the wall. Once. Twice. The man crumpled to the ground like a sack of grain after the second hit.

One of the others tried to pull a knife. Steve was on him in a blink, yanking his arm up and around with a bone-snapping pop that echoed off the alley walls. He flung the man into a stack of rotting crates with such force that they splintered beneath him.

Bucky caught the next one mid-turn, slamming his forearm into the back of the guy's neck. He dropped, stunned, only for Bucky to kick him in the ribs, hard enough that the man coughed, winded, and rolled over gasping at air. Bucky followed him down, straddled his chest, and punched him again and again, not stopping until his knuckles were raw and the man stopped moving altogether.

The fourth one ran. Smartest decision he'd ever made.

And still Bucky remained kneeling over the man below him, chest heaving as he laid punch after punch into every inch of the man's face he could reach, and when the man brought his arms up to protect his face, Bucky pulled one of them back and kept swinging with his free hand, blinded by rage.

"Bucky," Steve warned, voice tight with restraint. His hand hovered near Bucky's shoulder—but didn't touch him.

Bucky laid a few more blows before he stopped, breathing heavily and ragged as he looked down into the man's almost unrecognizable and bloodied face.

The alley went still except for Tony's wheezing breath. She wiped the trickle of blood from her lip where one of the men had bitten her. Tony shifted a little so she was half-sitting, propped on one elbow, her arms shaking too hard to push herself the rest of the way up. Her hands were numbly trying to pull her clothes right as harsh sobs started to rip through her throat.

Bucky was beside her in a heartbeat. He dropped to his knees, one of his slightly bloodied hands cupping her face, brushing back her damp hair with his hand slightly shaking. His eyes scanned her quickly—jaw, mouth, shirt, pants, wrists—and his expression twisted into something that barely looked human for a moment.

"You okay?" Bucky asked lowly, his voice rougher than usual. His eyes scanned her face again and again, like he was afraid he'd missed something the first dozen times. Then they dropped to her uniform—torn, rumpled, stained—and something in his jaw twitched.

"Did they—?"

"I'm fine," Tony rasped. Her breaths came shallow and fast, like she had to force each one through her teeth to stop the almost uncontrollable sobs that still made her body shake violently. She held them in like painkillers—if she let them go, she'd feel everything at once.

"You're not," Steve cut in, quieter now but still on edge. He took a step toward the mouth of the alley like he was about to go after the one who ran, but stopped himself with visible effort. His eyes flicked back to her—torn shirt, scraped knees, the swelling along her jaw. "You're not fine."

"I said I'm fine." She sat up straighter by instinct, like faking strength would will it into being—but she winced and nearly toppled.

"Don't," Bucky said with no room for argument. "Don't push it."

Tony nodded, barely. Her throat constricted tightly and her eyes welled, stinging with tears that came back hot and fast—and she blinked fast, hard, trying to push it all back down.

Steve crouched beside Bucky now, not touching, just watching the street outside the alley like it might bite again. "Let's get her out of here," he said. "We can send someone back for the bastard."

Bucky moved slow, like she was made of glass. He slipped an arm behind her back and eased her upright, his other hand finding hers and wrapping around it with quiet force—not painful, but anchoring.

Tony leaned against him, just a little, feeling as though her brain were a wiped slate, numb and tingling. As they stepped back into the street, the fog had started to lift—but the cold still clung to her skin.

"Bucky?" she croaked, her voice barely above a horse whisper.

"Yeah?"

She hesitated, then: "Thanks."

He looked sideways at her, jaw tight. His voice was softer when he answered. "If you think I'm leaving you alone in a town like this again, you're outta your damn mind."

They walked in silence for a moment longer.

Then he sighed through his nose, eyes flicking up to the light spilling from windows further down the street. "Let's go dancing."

Chapter Text

They stepped up to a narrow little restaurant tucked between two shuttered shops, its chipped green shutters a rich royal color at one point, now hung faded and cracked. The sign overhead had no name, just the word Eatery painted in blocky letters that had faded to ghost-gray. The windows fogged slightly from the warmth inside, where the clatter of dishes and soft jazz hummed beneath low voices.

Steve held the weathered door open for Bucky and Tony. A bell above the door jingled as Tony ducked inside with Bucky's hand lightly touching the small of her back. As Steve came in and the door shut behind them, it was hard to mistake the easy laughter and the kind of bone-deep fatigue only soldiers recognized in each other. The other Commandos sat in the corner where they had claimed a large corner booth.

Tony slid into the booth beside Gabe, trying not to wince as her freshly bruised hips made contact with the squishy seating. She kept her shoulders rolled forward, hiding the worst of the bruising on her face from the others with a feigned interest in the nearby radio that was playing 'Moonlight Cocktails' by Glen Miller.

Steve and Bucky took the seats nearest the wall, large backs to the room, so they could block Tony's smaller figure on the other side of the table. The others fanned out around them—Dum-Dum, Pinky, and Jim talking low over the menus while a waitress scribbled down orders.

"What are you going to have?" Gabe's voice was soft, and it made Tony turn to ask "huh?" but Gabe didn't get to answer, his jaw open and slack a little as Jim said in a carrying voice, "Oh, what the hell, Tony."

Everyone at the table turned to look at Tony's swelling black eye and now slightly bleeding stitches. "You guys wanna keep your voices down?" Steve asked, glancing around the diner as casually as he could manage while Bucky glared at Jim.

"I'm fine," Tony said in a hushed whisper. Gabe leaned in and whispered back, "And Dugan is the queen of England. You wanna tell me why my good work has been fucked up and who by, Sweetheart, cause I owe them a knuckle sandwich with extra pesto." He punctuated the threat with an uppercut motion, and Bucky chuckled darkly across the table.

"Sorry you didn't get to join the party then." His voice was dark, but his eyes were darker as he looked at Tony like he wasn't seeing her but a rerun of what had just happened.

Dugan, who'd been halfway through stirring five sugars into his tea, snorted and muttered just loud enough, "Queen of bloody England, is it? That's treason, Gabe — I expect a crown and better shoes." He pointed at Tony's face. "And you — next time you go knockin' heads, maybe duck once, eh? You look like you got slapped by a sack of bricks filled with regret."

Steve leaned in to Jim and Marv, "I need you guys to take care of it, Fern and Cottage near the old ivy wall. Quietly." Already rising to head out on Steve's quiet instruction. They didn't ask questions. They didn't have to.

Tony could hear a ringing in her ears that was drowning out the sound of the music steadily, as if it were getting louder and louder. She tried to focus on her surroundings. The air inside smelled like old wood and fried onions. A radio crackled faintly behind the bar. Waitresses flitted from table to table, lipstick bright and smiles practiced. Her eyes were locked on a point on the table with a gaze that was unfocused.

Gabe was watching her shake directly beside him, noting in his mind that she looked like a trauma victim, but not the kind he wanted to be seeing. He looked over at Bucky, who was also watching Tony's silent vibrations. The Sergeant's eyes flicked to Gabe's and, without words, expressed that it was more than he could explain right then. So Gabe let it drop and focused on Tony again.

"Here," He said, picking up one of the many glasses and filling it with beer from the jug they were all sharing, "Drink. It's not water, but- you look like you need this more anyway." Tony took the cup from Gabe with shaking hands and downed it in one.

Tony was still cradling the empty glass when Gabe refilled it without asking. The cold beer foamed up, golden and steady. She nodded her thanks, but didn't speak.

Dum-Dum watched each gulp, his mouth falling open as she finished the half-pint glass like it was water. He blinked, turned to Barnes, and barked out, "Whit in the name o' Saint Mags did ye drag her through — Helensburgh or actual hell?"

He flung his hands wide just as another pitcher landed in front of them, delivered by a pretty waitress who fluttered her lashes like she meant it. "Aye, this calls for celebratory imbibin', lads — real festive-like."

He leaned across the table, eyebrows bouncing like they had their own agenda. "Right then, troops. This round's on me — first one tae finish gets braggin' rights an' my undyin' respect, which, let's be honest, is worth more than a Victoria Cross round these parts."

Pinky raised his glass. "What do I get if I win?"

"A headache," Gabe muttered under his breath as he side-eyed Tony, having her glass refilled.

"I was gonna say dignity," Steve added dryly as he also picked up his foaming glass.

"None of us got dignity," Pinky cut in. "We're infantry."

The table broke into chuckles. Tony smiled faintly and raised her glass with them.

"To livin' fast, dyin' loud, an' leavin' a corpse too drunk for the medics to lift," Dum-Dum grinned, lifting his glass toward Tony with a wink.

Tony drained her third glass just a little too quickly, grimacing as it went down. "You guys suck," she muttered, wiping her mouth with her sleeve.

"You love us," Pinky said, grinning and waving her opinion off like an annoying fly.

They moved through another round. Then another. The ache in Tony's ribs dulled to a manageable throb. Her cheeks were pink now, warm from the beer and the company. She wasn't exactly relaxed, but she wasn't shaking anymore either. It felt like the attack by Burdock's gang was hours ago instead of only twenty minutes ago.

She leaned her elbows on the table and zoned out for a minute, watching steam curl off someone's stew bowl at the nearby bar, letting the jazz from the radio blur into a pleasant hum in her ears.

Across the table, Steve leaned toward Bucky, saying something too low for her to catch. Bucky shrugged, gave a cocky little smirk, and gestured with his chin toward the waitress. She was hovering near their booth, clearly waiting for something—probably not an order.

Tony blinked slowly. Wait. Are they—?

Before she could follow that thread, Dum-Dum shoved another pint into her hand. "Last one before we stumble into the next place. You in, Hudson?"

Tony gave a lopsided shrug. "Sure. What's the worst that could happen?"

Steve glanced at her, then Bucky, then back again. His jaw twitched with something between judgment and resignation. He didn't say anything, just leaned back in his seat with the expression of a man who had seen this movie before and hated the ending every time.

Tony took a sip, watching the noticeably busty waitress whisper something in Bucky's ear and then disappear toward the back. Bucky stood, stretched, and clapped Steve on the shoulder like a man making his exit.

"Gimme ten minutes," he said casually with a wink at the other men as Steve said audibly, "Jesus, Buck."

It didn't go unnoticed to Tony that he didn't meet her slightly drunken gaze as she tried to understand where he was going.

Steve rolled his eyes so hard it might've left a mark inside his skull.

Tony blinked again as the waitress took the Sergeant's outstretched arm, his face a mask of deepest charisma.

Wait. Wait, what?

But then Dum-Dum let out a wild cackle at something Pinky said, and someone shoved another pretzel in her hand, and the thought floated right back out of her head like the foam on her fifth—or sixth? beer.

The tension of everything that had transpired that week melted away the longer the men drank.

Tony was so buzzed she was sure her eyes were crossed as she half-listened to Dum-Dum and Pinky arguing over whether Jersey or Philly brewed better beer.

Pinky swore by a tiny place in Trenton with a cask-aged blonde ale. Dum-Dum called it "piss with a passport."

"Y'ever tasted something from Philly that didn't start a fight in your mouth?" he grumbled.

"You're just afraid of flavor," Pinky shot back, offended.

Tony smirked faintly, chin resting on her palm. The laughter felt good. Normal.

Gabe, beside her, leaned close and murmured, "You alright?" His eyes flicked to the side of her jaw, where the bruise was starting to show darker and the blood had dried, crusted around his once beautiful stitch work.

She gave him a look that was almost convincing. "Fine."

Gabe let out a real laugh, his own buzz apparent on his slightly flushed broad face. "I just figured since you were inebriated, you'd be a little more honest, toots." He says as he raises his glass for another deep drink.

She wasn't entirely sure when the music had gotten louder or why the table kept tilting—until she realized she was tilting.

Tony drained her glass for something to do and looked at the table for what felt like a moment, but the next thing she knew, Gabe was shaking her shoulder again, and Steve was looking across the table at her, his own beer barely making him have bad breath, let alone getting him tipsy.

"Wh-what?" Tony asked, her voice louder than she meant it to be. Gabe laughed like her confusion was the answer to his question and took her empty glass out of her hand. "I think that's enough of that."

The others were laughing about something, talking over each other as Gabe leaned in to discuss the next bar. Someone mentioned needing air, and like a school of fish, the group slowly drifted out the door.

Outside, the night was cool and soft, the sky stained deep indigo. Fog curled low over the street, haloing the lamplight. The sharp buzz of a streetlamp overhead filled the quiet, accompanied by a scratchy radio playing out from a second-story window. Big band—maybe Dorsey, maybe Goodman—fuzzy with static. The kind of sound that felt like leaning back in a memory.

Tony stumbled out behind them, blinking slowly. The air hit her hard, a slap of chill against her sweat-damp neck. Her head swam—pleasantly, but unsteadily.

She lowered herself to the curb, elbows on knees, hands cupping her face like it was too heavy to hold up on its own. Around her, the guys relaxed in a loose semi-circle under the streetlamp, watching foot traffic. Not leering. Just... men at ease. Soldiers watching the world spin without them for a minute.

Jim nudged her boot with the side of his own. "You good down there?"

She exhaled a long, slow breath. "I think my blood's beer now."

"Better than mud," Pinky said.

"This is more of a guy thing, I'm starting to think" Tony mumbled, half to her hands.

Jim grinned. "Then man-watch. But be cool about it, man." he said man in a funny way that Tony had never heard before and she giggled a little.

Tony gave a crooked, drunken smile and tried. Really tried. She let her eyes drift, catching the edges of faces—jawlines, shoulders, girls in nice coats, boys with clean-shaven cheeks. Her vision fuzzed in and out. Every time someone met her eyes, her chest jolted like she'd been caught doing something wrong. A few looked irritated. One woman tightened her grip on her man's arm. Tony looked away.

She gave up.

The sky was nearly black when Bucky came strolling out from a back alley, hands in his pockets, sleeves still rolled, his grin all teeth and secrets. The girl was gone.

Dum-Dum barked a laugh and clapped him on the back. "Somebody's walkin' lighter."

Tony stood slowly, her sunburn tugging tight across her neck. "What.. what happened to the girl?" She asked with a slight slur to her voice.

Bucky blinked like he'd forgotten she was there in his own excitement. He seemed to think for a moment, during which Steve harshly hit him on the shoulder with a glare, "Let's move," Steve muttered, already walking toward the next bar.

Dum-Dum sidled up beside Tony with a grin, "You do know what it means when a guy comes back without the girl, right?"

Tony frowned, wobbling slightly on the spot. "She got lost?"

Bucky, already passing her to follow Steve, slung an arm around her shoulders like they were old friends, his breath warm on her cheek.

"Means she can't walk anymore," he murmured, his voice close to Tony's ear as he spoke and began leading her away.

The words landed late. Her brain tried to swat them away like a slow fly. Then it hit—her spine snapped straight. Her face went redder than the sunburn on her shoulders.

"Oh," she squeaked, too quiet.

Bucky was already a few paces ahead, grinning at something Pinky said.

Tony just stared at the sidewalk, her stomach twisting. Somewhere far off, the radio kept playing.

Behind her, Gabe let out a musical hum. "I think she gets it," he said in a sing-song voice of mischief.

Tony's mouth opened, then closed again, then opened once more as if to say something — anything — but nothing quite made it past her throat. Her stomach twisted, sour and hot.

She walked ahead and once she reached Bucky's side, she drunkenly shoved his shoulder, but him being almost three times her size, it did little besides make him look down at her with a bemused expression. "God, you're such a dog," she mutters, trying — and failing — to sound dismissive. "Disgusting. Like all men. You probably infected her. She probably fainted from your stench. Now you're just... both.. germy."

She winced. That had not come out right in her drunken state, her tongue seemed to move slowly.

Bucky barked out a laugh, eyes gleaming. "That sounds like jealousy."

She nearly tripped over her own combat boots as she looked up at Buckys cocky expression. "What?!" she splutters exasperated while the others were already cracking up, catching the shift in her tone like blood in the water.

"I'm just saying," Bucky went on, trying to sound casual but watching her too closely, "you keep talking about germs and smell—but maybe you're just mad it wasn't you on my arm."

Tony's face went redder than a stop sign. Her mouth worked, trying to find the right comeback, but all she managed was a weak, "As if."

But Bucky didn't grin this time. His expression shifted, just a fraction—still teasing, but softer now, like he was looking at her and not the joke.

"Wouldn't've minded," he said under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear.

That knocked the wind out of her more than the teasing had. Her breath caught. For a second, she forgot how to blink.

"You wouldn't've what?" she asked, quieter now, heartbeat way too loud in her ears.

He shrugged, scratching the back in a too casual way as he looked down at her slyly, "Nothin'."

Marv's voice cut through before she could push the moment. "Lord, will someone please hose those two down before the sidewalk melts?"

The laughter doubled.

Tony's cheeks went hot enough to fry an egg. "You're—God, you're insufferable," she blurted, spinning around fast so they wouldn't see the look on her face. "Maybe I hope you've got germs. Maybe I hope they crawl into your face and stay there, Barnes!"

Her words were slurred, but she was sure they had understood and even if they hadn't it didn't matter; she didn't slow down her steps towards the bar door that Steve was already holding ahead of the group.

Behind her, Bucky let out a low, pleased chuckle. "That's fair," he said, smug as hell.

Gabe gave him a dry look. "Smooth, Casanova."

Jim whistled low. "That might be the first time I've seen anyone shut him up that fast."

"She didn't shut me up," Bucky called, catching up with them again. "I'm just giving her a head start."

"More like a red-faced retreat," Dum-Dum said, clapping him on the back.

Tony was already at the bar, gripping a beer bottle of Allegash like it's some kind of lifeline before the men had even made their way towards it. Her face was still burning, but she kept her eyes forward and her mouth shut. She wasn't going to give them the satisfaction — not yet, anyway.

She drains the bottle in one and then taps the bar gently to ask for another.

The bartender gave her a long look over the rim of his glasses, eyes flicking from her flushed cheeks to her uniform — probably pegging her as another glass-jawed soldier drowning in American liquor and self-pity. But he didn't say a word, just slid her the bottle with a muttered, "Don't spill it."

She muttered a thanks and twisted the cap off, mostly for something to do with her hands.

The rest of the squad filtered up to the bar beside her, all loud voices and snorting laughter.

Pinky peeled off toward the bar, slipping into easy French as he leaned against the counter.

"Alors, mon ami, toujours debout dans ce chaos, hein ? Donne-moi quelque chose de fort. "

The barman laughed, said something too quick for Tony to catch, and a moment later, Pinky returned to his conversation with Marv with a pastis in hand, looking smugly satisfied.

Bucky sauntered up like he owned the place, wearing that same crooked grin he always did after starting trouble — and for once, Tony had to admit she couldn't tell if she wanted to smack it off his face or kiss it off her emotions towards him were so mixed by alcohol.

She took a long pull from her bottle to avoid finding out.

"Don't look now," Gabe whispered, sliding onto the stool beside her, "but loverboy's looking at you like he's about to propose."

She didn't look. She stared into the neck of her bottle like it might hold salvation. "I swear to God, if you say one more word—"

"Alright, alright. I'm silent. A vault. Mum's the word."

Tony risked a glance sideways — just a flick of her eyes — and caught sight of Bucky leaning against the far end of the bar, one elbow resting lazily on the counter as he talked to Jim. His hair was dark and slicked back tonight, just enough to catch the low amber light above him, and the off-duty uniform shirt he wore clung tighter than usual across his chest and shoulders, thanks to two relentless weeks of PT. The fabric stretched with every subtle shift, every lazy roll of his shoulder as he laughed at something Jim said.

He looked comfortable. Unbothered. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

But every few seconds — almost like clockwork — his gaze flicked her way. Quick. Careful. Like he thought she wouldn't notice.

Tony looked away just as fast, like the bar suddenly needed her full attention. But the warmth on her face told on her instantly.

And when she chanced one more glance over — just one — he caught her looking.

And smiled.

That damned handsome smile, easy as breathing and twice as dangerous.

Her chest gave a funny little squeeze.

"Gabe," she said under her breath, not sure why she was saying it at all. "Have you ever felt like your whole body was trying to betray you?"

He blinked at her. "You mean like.. medically, or emotionally?" He looked a bit alarmed at the question.

"...Both."

He laughed, untensing, and spoke more quietly in his understanding. "Yeah. That's usually what it feels like right before you do something really stupid or really brave."

Tony groaned and dropped her forehead to the bar with a thunk.

"Brave it is," Gabe said, clinking his bottle gently against hers.

Tony barely had time to recover and process Gabe's parting words before she felt someone slide into Gabe's now vacant seat right beside her. She didn't have to look to know who it was — that familiar mix of cologne, sweat, and swagger settled beside her like second nature.

"I didn't... I mean, I didn't do anything with her," Bucky said, voice lower now. "Just walked her home. She was nervous of the walk back — said she only lived a few blocks away, but it wasn't. I made sure she got through the door and then came back."

Tony stared ahead, lips tight around the mouth of her bottle. The glass felt cold, her cheeks anything but.

"You don't gotta lie," she said finally, keeping her voice soft, even. "I'm not your girl. You don't owe me anything."

"I'm not lying," he said, quick — too quick. "I just... I didn't want you thinking—"

"I don't think anything," she cut in. Then sighed, and leaned back on her stool, tapping her bottle against the wood. "Look. It's not about her." Tony pauses a second to consider her words carefully, "Well, not entirely."

Bucky fell silent, watching her in profile. She could feel it.

Tony stared at the glass in her hands, then gave a bitter little smile without looking up. "Look, I've just never gotten around to... any of that stuff, y'know? I grew up with four older brothers. In a town small enough that everyone knows when you sneeze. My dad owns the only gun store for miles, and I spent more time fixing carburetors than going to school dances. If someone did get close, one of my brothers would be cleaning a shotgun on the porch before we made it past holding hands."

Bucky blinked. "You're serious."

She nodded, cheeks pink again but steadier this time. "Never even had a first kiss," she admitted, then huffed out a laugh. "Isn't that pathetic? Nineteen years old and the only thing I've ever kissed is an M1 barrel. I guess.. I guess seeing you act so casually around women makes me feel even more pathetic."

Bucky turned toward her more fully, elbow on the bar, "That's not pathetic," he said, softer now. "It's kind of..."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Kind of what?"

He scratched at the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. "Sweet."

"Sweet?" she echoed, dry.

"I mean it." He nudged her knee lightly with his own. "You've got more guts than most people I know. Doesn't make you less just 'cause you didn't have some dirtbag steal a kiss behind the bleachers."

Tony turned to look at him then, for real. And he was already looking at her — not smirking with blazing confidence anymore, Just looking at her like she was in a different light now.

Something fluttered in her chest. Her stomach dipped low and slow like an elevator missing the floor.

"You know," he murmured, eyes flicking down to her lips before coming back up again, "doesn't seem right you should go your whole life without knowing what it's like."

Her breath caught.

He leaned in.

She didn't stop him.

And just before his lips met hers—

"Oh Mon Dieu, just kiss 'im already!" A thick French accent rings out.

They sprang apart like guilty teenagers as laughter rippled through the room. The flashy-dressed flappers and other civilians in the back corner were grinning and gesturing at them, clearly delighted.

The rest of the Howling Commandos had stopped pretending not to watch. Gabe had his head in his hands. Dum-Dum raised his beer in a slow salute, the smile under his red mustache evident. Jim was whistling through his teeth.

Tony slapped a hand over her face. "For cryin' out loud." She cried, red-faced and mortified.

Bucky was still grinning like he'd just won the war single-handedly. "Well," he said, tilting his head toward her. "Wanna go make them really lose their minds?"

She elbowed him — hard — but she didn't say no.

*-*-*-*-*

The bar eventually spilled them all out into the misty cobbled street in fits of laughter and half-sung marching songs. Steve took the lead like he always did, guiding the way back toward base with the upright, ever-reliable posture of a super soldier that didn't get drunk off of just beer.

Gabe and Dum-Dum ambled behind him, joking loud enough to wake the whole block, while Jim slung an arm around Marv's shoulder and started mimicking a bad French accent that had everyone wheezing except Pinky who was holding a bottle of french sherry and signging a slow french song to the cloud sodden moon above the group.

Tony and Bucky drifted behind the rest, their footsteps quieter, more in sync. The air had cooled just enough to feel clean, the earlier fog thinning into silver wisps that clung to alley corners and sloped rooftops like wispy ghosts. The moon was high and pale even through the light layer of clouds, painting the streets in soft light and long shadows.

Tony's buzz had mellowed to a warm hum in her chest, softened by the rhythm of her boots and the sound of Bucky's voice close beside her.

"You know," he said, "you didn't exactly deny wanting to be on my arm."

She bumped him lightly with her shoulder. "You're never gonna let that go, are you?"

"Not a chance."

"Fine, then I'll never let go of you walking that waitress home, creep," Tony says back in a mocking tone.

Bucky starts to reply and then trails off into laughter, only managing to get out the word "creep?" Tony tried to keep a straight face but the alcohol still buzzing in her system made Barnes's laugh contagious.

Their laughter trailed off into a comfortable silence. The others' voices faded a little up ahead as the two of them lagged further behind. A wind kicked up gently, making the edge of Tony's thin military T-shirt ripple at the collars around her arms.

The sound of a tin can rolling away from a trash can makes Tony freeze mid-step, heart leaping into her throat. Before she could think, she reached out blindly— And grabbed Buckys hand.

Bucky stopped instantly. His fingers closed around hers without hesitation. His eyes narrowed into the darkness.

They both stood there for a beat, staring into the dark.

A black alley cat emerges a beat later and begins to lick at the can it had successfully taken out of the trash. The two breathe a sigh of relief, mixed with a weak laugh.

But Tony didn't let go.

And neither did Bucky.

His thumb brushed over the back of her hand, slow and deliberate like he was measuring her hand in his. She glanced at him, meaning to say something — something teasing or cool or clever.

But his expression and eyes made her forget what it was.

He was looking at her with those intense, dark blue eyes. He looked like he was seeing into her soul. Not the jokes, not the bravado — her. The girl from the middle of nowhere who hadn't been kissed, who could field-strip a rifle in thirty seconds but didn't know what to do when someone looked at her like that.

Her breath hitched just slightly, and she forced her eyes back onto the path where the group was almost leaving them behind now.

They kept walking, still holding hands.

They didn't speak again until the gates of the base came into view, glowing faintly under the perimeter lights, and when they had to let go, it left Tony's palm feeling empty and colder than normal.

Chapter Text

The morning sun hadn't even cleared the tops of the pine trees by the time the squad was halfway up the cargo net. Dew still clung to the grass below, but the heat was already creeping in like a slow slap, turning every breath into something thick and damp.

Tony's arms ached. Her boots slipped against the knots as she tried to maneuver down the far side of the net, ropes creaking under her weight. She was three-quarters of the way down, legs trembling and grip starting to falter, when one of her feet went too far forward when stepping down and straight through the net. The change in gravity caused her sweaty hands to lose their grip, and she fell over.

She didn't even get the chance to yell.

Gravity yanked her backwards with all the grace of a tipped scarecrow, and she plummeted like a stone.

Below, Steve and Bucky were helping Dum-Dum navigate his own descent—mostly by yelling encouragement and trying not to laugh at the big man's flailing limbs. They looked up just in time to see Tony falling directly toward them.

"Look out!" Steve barked, arms shooting upward.

Tony hit him like a sack of army-issued potatoes, knocking them both to the ground in a tangled pile of limbs, dirt, and airborne curses. They landed with a dull thud, Steve's back slamming into the packed earth and Tony skidding off him with a dry squeak, her shirt riding up just enough for the fresh rope burn across her lower back to sing loud and proud.

She groaned against the ground. "Why is it always me?" she asked the sky like it had some kind of vendetta against her personally.

Steve wheezed beneath her. "I asked myself the same thing every day before the serum."

Tony rolled halfway over, trying to get her bearings. Her ankle was still tangled in rope. Bucky crouched beside her, grabbing at the knot with one hand and failing to hide the smirk tugging at his mouth.

"I don't know, Tony," he said, tugging the rope loose with practiced fingers. "Maybe you're just built to be a crash test dummy."

The knot finally gave, flopping to the dirt like it was glad to be done. Tony sat up and yanked her shirt down with a mutter. "Next person who says the word knot gets a fist to the teeth."

Her legs, however, hadn't gotten the memo that the fall was over. She tried to stand—lost her balance—and ended up pitching forward straight into the nearest solid object.

Which, naturally, was Bucky's chest.

"Oh come on," she groaned into his shirt, a mumbled "Thank you Bucky, for being in the way." leaving her lips.

Bucky's hands settled on her shoulders to keep her steady as she tried to step back, and her legs wobbled beneath her, feeling like jelly from all the working. Bucky grinned, "Careful there. You've got sea legs."

Before she could come up with a clever retort, a shrill whistle cracked across the field like a bullet, and Tony froze. Reflex kicked in faster than thought did—she dropped to the ground with her arms over her head like the sky was about to fall. Her boots stuck out from behind Steve's shoulder, from where he was still lying tangled in some of the rope.

From across the field came a familiar, rage-thick bellow: "Where is that man?!"

The squad parted like Moses was making a return appearance, revealing Tony still crouched in the dirt like she was trying to blend in with the gravel, and Steve's red face attempting to free himself from the rope.

Sergeant Flanksen stormed into view, red-faced and looking like he'd already fought five battles that morning—and lost his patience in each one. His eyes narrowed as they locked onto Tony, who he outranked, unlike Captain America.

"What in blue blazing hell are you doing down there, boy?"

Tony peeked up through a tangle of cropped hair and embarrassment. "Would you believe me if I said I was checking my laces?"

The sergeant turned a new shade of crimson.

"Three hundred, Hudson. Don't sass me."

Tony sighed and began the slow shuffle toward the small black tarmac like a prisoner marching to her own execution.

"Not even gonna tell me what I'm doing?" she tossed over her shoulder, fighting to keep the sass out of her manly tone.

Flanksen blinked, confused. "What?"

"I'm assuming pushups, sir?" Tony said, in an attempt not to get sent with six hundred instead.

Flanksen barely faltered, pointing towards the Tarmac, bristling. "YES. Now MOVE IT OUT."

She threw up a sloppy salute and kept walking.

Behind her, Bucky muttered, "Bad luck."

Tony raised two fingers in the air without looking back—half salute, half kiss-off.

A moment later, she hit the tarmac with a skid. The heat from the sun-baked surface radiated up through her palms as she dropped. Her elbows followed. Then her ribs. Her whole body.

The skin on her hands cracked open almost instantly as she pushed herself up for the first count.

She hissed through her teeth.

Across the field, Gabe watched her through squinting eyes and nudged Dum-Dum.

"Well," he said in an undertone, scratching his jaw. "At least she stuck the landing." Dum-Dum looked around quickly with a hushing, "Nobody saw me fall, shut yer hole, aye?"

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

The sun had climbed high, scorching and pitiless, by the time Tony hit her hundredth pushup.

Her arms shook violently, elbows wobbling as sweat trickled from her brow into the cracks of her lips. The tarmac beneath her was hot enough to blister, and blister it had. Her palms had long since torn open—first the calluses, then the soft skin beneath. By now, her hands were more blood than flesh, tacky where they'd half-fused to the sticky tar.

Still, she pushed.

And pushed.

And pushed.

By the two-hundred mark, her shirt was soaked through and clinging to her back like a second skin. The blisters along her shoulders and lower spine—left from the rope net—had joined the party too, baking raw in the sun and stinging from the sweat.

She wasn't entirely sure she was on count, but she attempted to mentally keep track nonetheless.

Flanksen had disappeared hours ago, either bored or assuming she'd quit and crawl off to sulk.

But she hadn't.

She was still there.

Face-down on the tarmac like a good little soldier would be. Except unlike the other recruits she often saw doing punishments, she was now lying on the ground, rather convinced she couldn't go on.

The sky was a darkening blur now. Her mouth had dried into sandpaper. The world had shrunk to the hiss of her breath and the groan of her muscles.

When the boots approached, she barely registered the sound until they were scuffing to a halt in front of her. Tony turned her sunburnt face a fraction to look at the four boots, two dark brown combat boots and two dull red ones.

"...Is she still alive?"

Steve. His voice was pitched low, but edged with worry.

Tony cracked her head up an inch off the pavement. Her skin peeled as it lifted, sticky and raw. She forced a breath out.

"Define... 'alive,'" she rasped, lips dry and swollen.

Bucky crouched beside her and reached for her right hand. When he tried to lift it, it made a noise like Velcro pulling free.

"Christ," he muttered, wincing and moving her hand so he could look at her damaged palm. "Your hands are stuck."

Tony gritted her teeth. "I have... twenty more."

"You've done almost three hundred," Steve said, his arms crossed, jaw tight. "You've proven your point."

"I need to finish—" she whispered, her knees trembling as she tried to lower herself again.

Bucky didn't wait. He hooked an arm under her ribs and lifted. "Nope. You're done. We're cutting you off before the pavement takes permanent custody."

She tried to squirm, but her body had long since stopped accepting commands. Her head lolled against his shoulder, her breath shallow.

"What... time is it?" she mumbled, eyes half-lidded.

"Close to eleven," Steve said, checking his watch. "You've been out here since nine this morning."

"Ten... hours?" Her words slurred, swimming in the swamp of exhaustion.

"Sergeant Barnes here was surprised you got halfway through, I'm just glad Flanksen likes his early lights out," Steve said with all the annoyed impatience of a harassed Captain.

Tony didn't respond. Her brain had gone full soup.

Between them, they carried her toward the squat little medical station that stood in the shadow of the flagpole. The grass along the way was silvered with dew again—sunset to sunrise, just like that.

Steve knocked on the infirmary door with the back of his knuckle.

A moment passed.

Then the door creaked open. A tired nurse squinted at them, eyes bleary behind smudged glasses.

"What now?" she asked, not yet registering the shape in Bucky's arms.

"Severe sunburn. Hands melted to the ground." Bucky said flatly, and his tone made the nurse widen her eyes a little to take in the authoritative figures of the Sergeant and Captain.

The nurse sighed and stepped aside. "Of course he did. Inside."

The infirmary smelled like alcohol and iodine, dust, and sleep. Faint light glowed from a small oil lantern on the back desk, casting long, low shadows across the asbestos linoleum floor. Tony's boots barely scuffed the tile as she was guided toward the partition in the back, one arm slung between Steve and Bucky like a willowy sheet between two fence posts.

The nurse followed close behind, holding a clipboard like it might bite her if she loosened her grip. "Name and rank?" she asked without looking up.

Tony opened her mouth to answer—but the words stuck, thick in her throat.

Bucky filled the silence. "Anthony Hudson. Private."

The nurse nodded and scribbled something, then gestured sharply toward the back. "Alright, back here. Let's get you looked at."

Tony knew what was coming, although she couldn't deny that her sunburns were starting to feel more like a fever as her body shook. She knew it like a storm on the horizon—inevitable, rolling closer with every step. She was already trembling before they had even passed the curtain.

"Shirt off, soldier," the nurse said as she set down the clipboard and reached for gloves. "Let's see what the sun did to you."

Tony hesitated.

The nurse didn't look up—at first. "C'mon, soldier. I don't have all—" She paused, eyes narrowing when Tony didn't move.

Something clicked.

She stepped closer. Tony flinched as the nurse's gaze dropped to her frame—then met her eyes.

The nurse's voice softened, just barely. "You hurt worse somewhere else?"

Tony's throat tightened. Her fingers reached for the hem of her shirt, slow. Her arms were trembling—part exhaustion, part dread. Her whole body screamed for her to lie, to deflect, to run.

Instead, she peeled the sweat-stuck shirt away from her burned skin and let it fall to the floor.

The silence that followed was louder than a gunshot.

The nurse froze, mouth half-open. Her eyes darted from Tony's face to her bandaged chest and back again. Her fingers slackened around the jar of salve in her hand.

Tony reached for her shirt, panicked. "Please—"

But the nurse was already backing away, pushing the small rolling stool out of the way of the desk in the corner of the small medical examination room, as she reached for the ink black rotary phone.

No, no, no.

Tony scrambled after her, boots slapping the tile. She reached the nurse just as her hand hovered over the telephone receiver. Tony slammed it back down with a shaking palm and a resounding 'clink' of the bell inside, then grabbed the nurse's sleeve to stop her from running out of the curtained area.

"Please," Tony said, breathless and her voice barely above a whisper. "You can't. You can't tell anyone. Please." She was panicked and at a loss for meaningful words, but met eyes with the nurse with as much emotion and conviction as she could muster.

Out in the waiting area of the tent, Steve was holding Bucky back by the arm, as he had attempted to go behind the screen to intervine. "Stop, she's indecent, Buck," Steve said with a slight groan as he easily held his friend back.

On the other side of the screen, the nurse stared at Tony, stunned. For a moment, they both stood frozen in the eerie quiet of the infirmary—nothing but the buzz of a fly tapping at the window and the wheeze of Tony's ragged breathing between them.

The nurse seemed to be having a deep internal battle, thinking and weighing everything.

Then the nurse slowly, slowly, stepped away from the desk, now with a thoughtful look on her face, her eyes darting between Tony and the cloth separating them and the Captain and Sergeant outside.

She sat down on the stool she had kicked aside and let out a long breath. Her voice was quiet.

"You know," she said slowly, her own voice also barely more than a whisper, "I tried to do what you're doing."

Tony blinked in shock and surprise at the sudden turn, although not ungrateful, she finally manages to get out, "...What?"

The nurse smiled, soft and tired. "Snuck into the intake line twice. Got caught both times before I decided to just put my shoulder to the wheel, however else I could." She picked up the salve again, unscrewing the lid with a gentle hand and an almost too knowing look on her young face. "Didn't have the balls to go as far as you are now, but,"

Tony was ll shaking slightly from the fever, and the anxiety still singing inside her head. "So... you're not gonna..."

"No." The nurse met her eyes. "I'm not gonna say a word. But you need to let me help you now, mostly so I can get you back out of here before I have to finish the report, god, if someone sees you leaving or saw you come in, I could get in so much trouble." She didn't seem hesitant though as she gestured back towards the small white cot, "Sit."

Tony sat.

Her shirt was still off. She felt uncomfortable being only in a bandage before this woman she had never met, but the nurse didn't leer or look again. She simply dipped two fingers into the salve and began applying it to the burned flesh across Tony's shoulders, working with a methodical rhythm, and if she saw the bruises that still littered Tony's body, she didn't say anything about them.

The sting hit as instantly as the salve touched the sunburns.

Tony winced, shoulders twitching.

"It burns," she hissed.

"Means it's working," the nurse said. "First the pain, then the cool. Just breathe."

Tony did.

The nurse didn't seem to like to work in silence as she kept a slightly humming tune consistently flowing as she worked. The nurse applied ointment, then gauze. She was quick but careful, her movements practiced. The kind of care you gave someone when you didn't want them to flinch.

"Why do you hum?" Tony asked, after a short pause of quiet. "You're humming is lovely."

The nurse smiled faintly. "Helps me think. Helps patients relax. Though you're a tough one to soothe, I can tell."

Tony huffed a little and winced as her ribs pulled. The nurse glanced at them and gently pressed against her side.

Tony hissed again. "Jesus."

"You've got two cracked ribs," the nurse muttered. "Could've been worse. We'll wrap them up again, nice and tight. You're not firing anything heavier than a pencil for at least a week." She didn't ask how it happened or why Tony didn't come to the medical tent when it had happened, and for that Tony was thankful.

When the nurse finished with the ribs, she took Tony's hands last.

Tony winced just at the sight of them—red, raw, peeled in patches and coated in spots by half-melted tar.

"These'll blister more before they peel. Second-degree. You'll be lucky if you don't scar a little."

Tony tried to shrug. "I've got worse."

"You shouldn't have to," the nurse replied quietly. She grabbed a jar of herbs—green, dried, earthy—and held it up. "You see this stuff in the field? It's medicinal. But the wrong kind of leaf looks identical and can kill you. Learn the difference."

Tony nodded. "You were a field medic, too?"

"Not officially." The nurse smiled faintly. "But I had plans. Until I took a piece of shrapnel to the knee. Now I make myself useful around here, helping new recruits and returning men feel a little more sane."

She wrapped Tony's hands in clean bandages with practiced speed, then helped her into a loose T-shirt. "No PT. No weapons. Drink water and sleep. If you don't, you'll end up back here, and I can't promise who will be manning the post at which hour. Make sure to put your shirt on before you go out in front of the command."

Tony gave a faint, crooked smile as she thought about the fact that it was her command that brought her here. "Thanks."

The nurse raised a brow as she walked out from behind the flimsy cloth curtain first. "That better not be code for 'see you in 24 hours.'"

Tony stepped out from behind the partition, newly bandaged, skin hot and tacky beneath the gauze. The air outside the curtain felt cooler, like a small mercy after the inferno of the tarmac and the sting of salve. She blinked once, then again, finding the room sharper and dimmer all at once.

Steve and Bucky were still waiting on the small painted green metal stools that lined the wall closest to the entrance.

Steve looked up first. His expression shifted from stern to worried the second he saw her face. Bucky, standing near the doorframe with his arms crossed, straightened up and gave a low whistle.

"Well, don't you look like a bandaged-up baked potato," he said.

Steve smacked his shoulder as he stood. "Don't be rude, Buck."

Bucky grinned. "What? He's crispy."

Tony snorted weakly and rolled her eyes. Her hands were trembling under the bandages.

The nurse came out from behind the curtain with a short and wide brown jar, inside she was smoothing salve and then scews the cap on top. "For tomorrow, and the day after." She says sternly before saying "But knowing Gabe he will already be on top of it. He's a sharp one."

Tony watched as the nurse casually sat on top of the report she never finished, hidding it from view and waving them out of the tent. Tony stepped out of the tent, feeling the night air was much cooler and fresher away from the tarmac. Bucky and Steve flanked her as they walked out into the night air feeling majestic against her overheated skin.

Bucky was staring at Tony, his eyes a little wide. He could see her giving him a side eye every couple of feet. "What? Something in your eye?"

Tony gave him a flat look. "You're staring."

He shrugged. "Just impressed. You look like hell, but you're still walking."

Tony smiled a weak smile, "Thanks to my most wonderful leadership, I am being molded into a fine soldier." She said dramatically and Bucky smiled.

They walked on for a long time in silence, coming all the way to the door that led to the open hallway with the barrack's doors lined up like a chicken barn. Steve went in the screen door, it slamming shut in a gentle way behind him. A pause. Then:

"You thirsty?"

Tony blinked from where she was reaching for the screen door and looked at Bucky with raised eyebrows, "What?"

"Come on. You need water." He said without anymore explination, walking away in confidence she would follow. Tony looked inside the screen door where Steve was shaking his head and shrugging in an 'I don't know either' kind of way.

After a few moments' deliberation, she decided she would like drink and followed after Bucky at a slight jog to catch up. When she did, Bucky looked down at her with a warm smile reaching his twinkling blue eyes.

They made their way to the mess hall spout. Bucky held out the hundred-man tin cup. Tony filled it and drank some of the water, before pulling the cup away in shock.

"It's cold."

Bucky chuckled deeply, trying to keep quiet. "Yeah, I thought you might appreciate that."

Tony drained the cup and refilled it, drinking the cold water like she'd been lost in the desert. Water spilled down her chin and soaked the collar of her shirt, but she didn't care.

"I've never seen a girl drink so much," Bucky muttered.

She glared. "That better not mean anything."

He grinned. "Not all guys are thinking about that stuff all the time."

He waited a beat.

Then, just as she sipped again: "Just sometimes."

She choked, sputtering. "Barnes—"

He ruffled her hair like a kid brother. "That's what you get."

oooOOO..z..z..z..OOOooo

She didn't know what woke her. Maybe it was the stillness. Maybe it was the gut feeling that something was very wrong.

She opened her eyes and saw the pale square of the window glowing faintly. Her eyes were drawn to the door as if she couldn't look away, and there was a silhouette outside the door.

Tony sat up slowly, feeling like every movement was through quicksand, slow and costing more than it should just to cross the room.

She walked up to the door and blinked at the figure standing there. That grin.

"I wanted to tell you something," The man said, his face was familiar, and though Tony couldn't place where she had seen it before it still filled her entire being with dread just to see him standing there.

"I know you're a girl." He laughed. Cold and loud. Tony wanted to cover her ears from the sound, to look away. She crouched down onto the ground in the doorway and closed her eyes tight. There was a dropping feeling in her stomach that made her fall forwards onto the ground where dirt met her hands, it felt soft and unreal.

She opened her eyes in surprise and was blinded by intense sunlight beaming down upon her like a spotlight on a stage.

"Take aim!"

She looked around hurriedly, she was in a field. The wind that blew the thick air against her face made her look down and realize she was in just her boxers. She moved her arms to cover her chest but found her arms bound tightly.

She looked at the ropes in panicked wonder, and then heard the sound of many rifles loading. People lined up across from her whose faces she couldn't make out against the sun in her eyes.

She squinted hard into the light and made out the man standing closest to her. Henry stood in front of the rest. "I told you I knew."

She screamed. "No—!"

Gunfire.

oooOOO..z..z..zOOOooo

She bolted upright in bed, drenched in sweat, her breath hitching like a backfiring engine. Her ribs screamed. Her heart galloped.

For a few seconds, she wasn't sure it had been a dream.

The crack of gunfire still echoed in her ears, distant but sharp, like it might tear through the barracks wall. She clutched the blanket with shaking hands, staring at the opposite bunk like it might start speaking.

But the room didn't move. The shadows didn't reach for her. No one was laughing. No one was aiming.

Just stillness.

The morning sun streamed through the high windows in pale slants, catching the floating dust in soft gold beams. Outside, the distant sound of men shouting over drills echoed faintly—boots thudding, a whistle blaring, a voice barking commands. It was routine. Familiar. Safe.

Real.

Tony pressed her palms to her face, forcing herself to breathe. In. Out. Her skin felt clammy and tight with dried sweat, the cotton sheets sticking to her back.

Slowly, her eyes adjusted, and she realized she was alone. Tony sat up more and looked up and down barracks C, desolate.

On the nightstand beside her bunk, a glass of water sat waiting. A condensation ring had formed on the table around the stale glass. Beside it, a small folded scrap of paper.

She reached for it with cautious fingers, heart still pounding.

Hey Hudson,

The drill sergeant got a letter about your health and said you get today off. Don't spend it all in bed, okay? I got you this glass of water—it was cold when I put it here, sorry if it's not anymore.

—S. Barnes

Tony stared at the note. Tony blinked at the note, then at the glass. Her lips twitched. He was technically in charge of her squad—but still. She'd have to thank him for going out of his way.

Her chest gave a small shake, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. The edge of the glass steady in her hand as she drank. The water was warm.

But it still helped.

She stretched out carefully and flopped back onto the mattress. Her back gave a dull ache of protest, bandages pulling at raw skin. She stared at the ceiling, chest still tight with the echo of the nightmare.

So... What now?

Sleep wasn't coming back. Not after that.

She glanced at her watch. Noon.

Her stomach growled—petty, persistent. Noon meant food.

She rose too fast. The room tilted. She braced a hand on the bunk until the spinning steadied, then shrugged on her overshirt with slow, mechanical effort. The sun outside bled through a thin veil of clouds, throwing milky light over the base as she stepped out.

Around her, the base was alive, but subdued. Soldiers wandered toward the mess hall in scattered groups, the buzz of their voices flat and ordinary—some griping about drills, others grumbling over the usual slop. "Cabbage and potatoes again," someone muttered. "Could've sworn we had potatoes and cabbage yesterday."

Tony snorted to herself. Same war, different meal.

She filed into line with the others, grabbed a tray, and let the smell of boiled vegetables slap her in the face. A scoop of pale mush hit her plate. She grabbed a cup of water, then made her way toward the usual table—only to find it empty.

That wasn't just strange. That was wrong.

She hesitated. Scanned the room. No Bucky. No Steve. No Dum-Dum or Gabe or Marv. Not even Pinky, who could be counted on to occupy space with volume alone.

Tony sat anyway, more to anchor herself than to eat. Her fork scraped quietly against her tray as she toyed with the food, eyes darting toward the door.

Then—creaking hinges.

She looked up.

There they were.

Steve led the way, tall and unreadable. Pinky and Dum-Dum trudged behind him, their shoulders heavy. Gabe and Jim followed, quiet for once. Marv's cigarette bobbed between his lips, the smoke curling up towards the large metal fans that hung over the large enclosed mess hall. Bucky came in last, jaw tight and eyes on the floor.

Their boots echoed on the scuffed tile as they moved through the mess like ghosts, each carrying a plate with barely enough to count. They sat around her without a word, the clatter of trays and silverware strangely loud in the silence that followed.

Tony's chest sank. "What's going on?" she asked, barely above a whisper.

Bucky looked at her then. Just for a second. "We're being shipped out."

Tony blinked. "What? Where?"

Steve's voice was flat. "France. Forward position near Metz. We leave in three days."

"From there, they plan to reintegrate us into the 107th," Dum-Dum added. His voice was rough, like it had scraped against a wall on the way out.

Tony stared at them, heart climbing up into her throat. "Seriously?"

No one answered. No one had to.

She looked down at her food. The smell turned her stomach. The chatter in the mess kept going, oblivious. But all around their table, it felt like the air had thickened, like the war had suddenly closed the last bit of distance between them and it.

The mood turned concrete. Cigarette smoke curling at the edges. Eyes dulled with knowing.

From training to hell—just like that.

Chapter Text

Tony hadn't really spoken with a good chunk of the team on a deeper level like she had with Barnes.

It wasn't that she disliked them—just that it was hard to find the time, really, around all the drills and punishments for failing drills, keeping her busy. Either way, with deployment only a day away, there was a quiet itch in the back of her mind to get to know them better. Beyond the basics and regular banter, there were a lot of gaps in what she knew about her teammates. She had just started to learn their names by face, let alone by story.

She was sitting on the edge of her bed, staring down at the scuffed floorboards. Barnes had gone off to collect the mail—it was Friday, after all—and the rest of the guys were exchanging stories about home. Most of it was casual: favorite pastimes, annoying siblings, the best delis or diners in whatever city they came from. She figured this was how men braced for war. Talk about the normal, the mundane.

She could understand it though—her insides ached just as badly to be home. To have some piece of them to hold onto or word from home would be treasures. Last she'd heard, her oldest brother wasn't doing so well.

Tony exhaled through her nose, the smallest smile tugging at her lips as she thought about her brothers. She always called the youngest one ugly, just to rile him up. That was her job—older sister first, soldier second.

The door creaked open, letting in a wash of late-afternoon light as Barnes returned with a small stack of envelopes. About one for each of them. He handed out the mail, drifting from bunk to bunk with his usual disinterested expression. Then, with two letters outstretched between his pointer and middle fingers, he paused beside Tony's bed.

"Here. Came all the way from Maine," he muttered, distractedly sorting the rest.

Tony took the letters and recognized the scratchy trail of ink on top immediately—her dad's favorite old oil pen. It stained the page in all the familiar ways. She tore it open and began reading her father's chicken scratch letter smiling softly at the uneven lines:

Dear Annie,

How's the war? Have the soldiers been good patients? Have you been shipped out or are you staying in America? Your cat has been a menace to the local mice population and we find them on the doorstep daily. Your brother in New York is fine and healing well. We miss you a lot, and love you even more. We hope you can come home soon!

Lots of love,

Dad and Mom

There was a second, smaller envelope—the address to her was written in her youngest brother Danny's handwriting. She unfolded the page, but before she even read it, her chest tightened.

Her lips trembled. She sniffled, quietly at first, but not quietly enough.

Barnes looked up from his own letter, brows knitting in concern. "Hey. Everything okay?" he asked, his voice lower, gentler than usual as he nodded towards the letter in Tony's shaking hand.

Tony shook her head quickly. "It's nothing. I'm fine."

From behind her, Steve shifted and stepped closer, dropping down beside Barnes with that soft, serious look only he could pull off. "Obviously not. Come on, Tony, cut the shit. What happened?"

She didn't look up. Just swallowed hard and tried to smooth her voice to read allowed, because saying it in her own words felt too hard.

She read the letter aloud:

Dear "Anthony",

Annie, it was really messed up to do what you've done although the letter you left me seemed sincere, you have no idea the dangers of war. While you are off playing hero in Anthony's name, in New York, our oldest brother is going critical. His lungs are failing, and they've got some new thing attached to his heart just to keep it beating. Mom told me not to tell you, but I think, since you are closest to him, being his twin. I just hope you come home safely, no matter what.

I'll keep you posted, you do the same.

Danny

There was a long silence after she finished reading. The kind that swelled and ached in the spaces between breath. Tony kept her eyes on the letter, fingers trembling at the corners, blinking too fast to stop the sting. She hated crying. Hated doing it in front of people even more.

Steve didn't speak. He just laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, his hand large and warm, steady. It wasn't a soldier's gesture—it was something older, softer, and she hated how much it reminded her of her older brother, how it made her want to lean into it.

Barnes handed her a handkerchief from his coat pocket without saying anything. It looked clean. Or clean-ish. She took it anyway and pressed it to her brimming eyes.

The rest of the barracks had gone unusually quiet, and for a beat, Tony felt the weight of all those eyes she'd avoided meeting for weeks. Watching. Listening.

But then one of them—Pinky, she thought—cleared his throat and spoke up.

"I had a kid brother," he said, voice surprisingly even. "Lost him to pneumonia when we were little. Felt like the world ended."

No one jumped in with jokes or noise. Just that quiet acknowledgment, hanging between them.

Another voice—Marv, maybe?—followed, a little rougher. "My sister's in London. Haven't heard from her since the blitz started up again."

Tony wiped her eyes and swallowed hard. She looked up, and for once, she didn't feel quite so separate. Not so other.

"Thanks," she murmured, voice raw. "I... didn't mean to make a scene."

"You didn't," Steve said simply.

Barnes nodded. "Shit like this? It's the only real thing we've got. Although I am pissed you never told me your name was Annie." Tony felt her face flush of what little color it had.

"Shut the fuck up. It's Anthony." She says, her eyes dangerously flickering towards the closed door at the end of their barracks.

Dum-Dum chimed in, his Scottish accent curling around the words. "If ye ever fancy writin' someone, I got a wee cousin who's desperate for pen pals. She's fifteen, full o' drama, and convinced she's the next Shakespeare."

A laugh escaped her before she could stop it. It felt ridiculous and necessary at once.

"Thanks," she said again, a little steadier this time.

And somehow, it didn't feel like just politeness. It felt like the start of something.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*

It felt like no time at all had passed, and then they were being shipped out.

Deployment had gone from distant threat to immediate reality, and Tony could feel it tightening in her chest like a belt cinched one hole too far. Captain America was going with them—apparently, he'd insisted on it. Said the unit was exactly the kind of team he wanted at his back against Hydra.

Whatever that meant.

Tony didn't care about Hydra right now. She cared about her youngest brother, about Danny's worried letter, about the heaviness in her chest that wouldn't quite go away. And—though she wouldn't say it out loud—she cared about herself. About her survival. About making it home.

She'd heard the stories. Everyone had. The front lines weren't a place you walked into and walked back out of unchanged. Some didn't walk out at all. You either came back in pieces, or you didn't come back at all.

Their packs were already slung over their shoulders, weighed down with the basics—bedrolls, rations, personal items. The things they were told they'd need. As if anything could actually prepare someone for war.

They climbed into the transport plane one by one, the metal ramp clanking beneath their boots. Inside, the air buzzed with tension. Some of the men were quiet, faces set in grim anticipation. Others—Barnes, Steve—looked almost eager. Like they'd been waiting for this. Like they had something to prove, or since they were returning, something to finish.

The flight to France wasn't a straight line. It couldn't be—not in wartime, not in a lumbering military transport plane that vibrated like an old refrigerator on its last legs. They'd taken off in the dead of night from New Jersey, faces lit in brief flashes by red cabin lights as the transport rose like a coffin into the dark.

The hum of the engines quickly became a second heartbeat. It was a long haul.

First stop: Goose Bay, Newfoundland. A cold, cramped refuel. No one got off. No one spoke above a whisper. Tony barely slept, although there wasn't much else to do—her head against her pack, one boot braced against the wall to keep from sliding off the bench seat every time the plane tilted or pitched.

The next stretch was worse. They crossed the Atlantic in rough air, skirting ice clouds and listening to one of the co-pilots cough like he'd been born with a pack-a-day habit. The cabin had gone from cold to freezing. Tony wrapped her arms tighter around herself and stared at her boots. Gabe gave her half a wool blanket and told her to shut up when she tried to thank him.

At Prestwick Airfield in Scotland, they touched down for the second refueling. This time, they were allowed to stretch. Pinky wandered off to flirt with a Scottish Red Cross nurse. Dum-Dum pretended he didn't lose a tooth to a rock-hard biscuit from a vending crate as the nurse in question and a few others joined the flight towards the front lines.

Tony just paced the cold tarmac and watched fog cling to the nearby hills like a second sky. She didn't say much. None of them did.

The stopover in Scotland had turned into a longer delay than expected. Something about rearranging the cargo manifest—extra crates of munitions being loaded for the final leg to Metz. The others were helping the flight crew shift gear and re-tie the straps. Steve barked orders with the same calm urgency he always did, while Dum-Dum and Jim hauled boxes like it was just another drill. Gabe lit a cigarette and muttered about saving his back.

Tony stayed off to the side awkwardly.

She wrapped her arms around herself, boots crunching on the frost-slick edge of the runway. The air smelled like metal and sea salt and exhaust. A pale, sickly green sunrise was bleeding out behind the hills, lighting the fog from beneath like a dying lantern. Shadows stretched long and quiet. She could barely hear the others anymore over the wind.

"Hey."

Bucky's voice came low, his voice at ease. His boots crunched up beside hers, hands in his pockets.

She didn't look at him at first, just nodded slightly in greeting.

They stood together for a moment, saying nothing. Watching the hills vanish into the rising mist like the edge of the world disappearing in front of them.

"You nervous?" he asked after a beat.

Tony shook her head after considering her answer for a moment. "No."

"Liar."

That got a tiny, wry smile out of her. "Okay. Maybe a little."

Bucky didn't press. Just looked back toward the horizon, jaw flexing faintly. "Yeah," he said. "I was, too. First time's always the worst. Your hands don't stop shaking until you start firing they say."

She glanced sideways at him, quiet.

He gave her a faint, crooked smile. "Don't worry. I've got my eye on you."

Then he added, almost offhand but somehow heavier than the rest:

"Nothing can happen while I'm watching you Tony." Their eyes met and for a moment Tony wanted to say, 'you can't promise that here'.

Instead, Tony didn't answer, but she smiled more warmly up at the Sergeant, "Thank you, Bucky." She turned her eyes back to the horizon, the two of them watching the green light fade from the sky and settle into grey together.

A gust of wind whipped her hair across her face like a veil.

And somewhere—deep in the pit of her stomach—something turned over.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Back in the air the plane jolted hard, rattling the teeth right out of Tony's clenched jaw.

Outside, the sky was chaotic. Searchlights cut through the clouds like spears, and distant booms echoed beneath them—artillery fire from the ground, or maybe bombs hitting too close to friendly lines. The whole metal fuselage of the transport groaned as it dipped again, the tail end swaying like a drunk on a tightrope.

Tony clutched the straps of her seat harness tighter and tried to keep the nausea in check. Around her, the rest of the unit was braced in tense silence—some gripping their rifles, some murmuring to themselves, Dum-Dum whispering a prayer like a litany beneath his red mustache while Pinky looked at him in disgust.

Captain Rogers stood near the rear of the plane, hand steady on a support rail as if the turbulence didn't touch him. His voice cut through the noise with surprising clarity.

"Alright, listen up!" His voice was still loud even over all the noise surrounding the plane. "We are gonna land in four hours, and we are gonna join a camp with the 107th! from there, we are going to make plans to kick some Hydra ass!"

A few heads nodded. No one looked relieved.

Tony felt her gut twist—not just from the lurching of the plane, but from the word Hydra. She'd heard it in briefings, sure. Whispers about science cults with too much power and no conscience. But something in Steve's voice made it feel personal.

He continued, this time angling the explanation more toward Tony—the only one among them who didn't know Hydra firsthand, "I'm not gonna lie to you—Hydra's not just Nazis with new toys. They've been experimenting on prisoners. On civilians. They don't care who they hurt, and they don't believe in rules. Most of the men sitting beside you tonight were held in one of their camps."

Tony's eyes flicked toward Sergeant Barnes.

He wasn't looking at her—just staring at the metal floor, jaw tight. A muscle ticked in his cheek. Pinky, Dum-Dum, even Gabe—they were all silent, their faces carved from stone. But now the scene made her chill even more to the bone. They weren't afraid of the unknown. They were afraid of the known.

Steve's voice dropped a little, but carried just the same.

"They were captured, tortured, experimented on. And they survived. That's who you're walking into this fight with. Not just soldiers—survivors. And we're going to make sure Hydra pays for every damn thing they did."

The inside of the plane went very, very still. Not out of fear, but out of something deeper. A shared understanding. A weight dropped into the center of the team and settled there like ripples spreading from the center where a stone had been dropped.

Tony swallowed hard, her eyes flicking to each of the Commandos she barely knew. There was a quiet fury behind their calm. A history she hadn't seen, but could now feel humming just beneath the surface.

They weren't eager for battle. They were ready for justice. She understood more why these men acted like brothers.

Below the plane, flashes of light broke through the cloud cover like lightning—but it wasn't lightning. Not this close to the front.

They dipped over the English Channel, then swung east over the French countryside where as soon as they crossed the boarder Pinky could be seen with his nose pressed to the window closest to him, mumbling french curses as he takes in the devastation of small villages between the cloud formations, obvious even from this height.

The green of it was haunting—lush and wrong under the ghost-pale morning light fighting through the intense cloud cover. Somewhere below, shepherds still moved sheep across fields. Somewhere else, the front lines carved that same earth open like a wound.

The final descent was rough. Metz didn't have a proper airstrip for troops like them. Just a battered stretch of road near an old field command site, now cleared enough to catch tired metal birds and receive rations and ammunition.

As the plane banked low, Tony could see the ruined outskirts of the town—blackened roof beams, half-standing stone walls, and tents pitched where neighborhoods used to be. The earth looked torn, not just by bombs but by the weight of marching boots.

The landing knocked teeth and threw gear. When the transport finally groaned to a stop, the side door was hauled open by a corporal in a stained helmet and gloves stiff with fuel grease.

"Bienvenue à Metz," he said grimly, waving them out into the dawn.

The air smelled like ash and frostbitten leaves.

Tony stepped down with the others. Her boots hit the earth of France for the first time, and she realized she hadn't said goodbye to the States at all.

She hadn't thought to.

The crowds were a mess of noise and movement—shouting officers, barking dogs, soldiers jostling for space with gear slung over shoulders and rifles clutched in white-knuckled hands. Tony didn't know where to look first. The only thing she could focus on was the broad, familiar shape of Captain Rogers moving steadily ahead, cutting a clean line through the chaos with the large, round, and brightly spangled shield on his back.

Sergeant Barnes was already marching after him. Tony did her best to follow him, but a sudden swell of bodies pressed in from behind, dragging her backward. "Sergeant!" she shouted, struggling to push through.

Bucky turned at the sound of her mock male voice, eyes scanning the crowd before they found her. With a long-suffering sigh, he doubled back and grabbed her by the arm, towing her forward through the mass of people like a boat cutting through water.

"I swear, I need to put a leash on you," he muttered, amused.

Tony just grunted, too breathless to reply, her pack digging hard into her shoulders.

Eventually, they made it to a break in the noise—a long, low clearing dotted with pine trees and surrounded on all sides by dark forest. There wasn't much in the way of shelter, just a few poles holding up a sagging canvas roof, but it was enough. The camp they would be calling home until further notice.

"This is it," Steve announced in a mock sing-song, his voice carrying over the sound of boots on dirt.

Tony followed the others in and dropped her pack by a thin canvas cot—if it could be called that. It was more of a sack stretched over metal legs. She unrolled her bedroll, fingers moving on muscle memory. Her gun was overdue for a cleaning, but her hands felt clumsy, her mind distant. By the time she finished, the camp bell rang—just past one in the afternoon, according to Barnes' watch.

She collapsed onto the cot without changing. The day was cold, and the idea of peeling off even one layer was too much to consider. Her limbs ached with travel and tension, and the moment her spine hit the thin stretch of canvas, the weight of the day came crashing down.

She curled onto her side, hands still clutching her rifle across her chest like a lifeline. Around her, the others settled in beneath the low-hanging tarp they all pretended wasn't making strange noises in the light breeze. The distant sound of artillery and explosions rumbled across the mountains like a sleeping giant's growl.

Steve sat against a crate with a folded blanket under him, scribbling something in a small notebook. Gabe stretched out beside Dum-Dum, lighting a cigarette with one hand while the other rubbed a crick in his neck. Jim and Pinky argued softly over whether they should double the tarp lines, while Marv muttered about how the ground felt like it was biting him through the bedroll.

It wasn't home. It wasn't safe. But it was what they had.

Tony's eyes drifted shut.

For a while, there was only the creak of cots shifting under bodies and the rustle of leaves overhead. The faint scent of pine and old oil. Somewhere, just past the trees, a wounded soldier let out a cough that didn't sound good. Another barked something in French—too far off to catch clearly. The forest breathed around them, caught between lulls in chaos.

Her grip on the rifle loosened slightly. Sleep crept in sideways.

Bang.

A deafening crack split the cold air like lightning.

Tony had jerked upright and squeezed the trigger before she registered she was awake. The shot rang out, echoing sharp and angry into the treetops. Her heart thundered in her ears. Her legs scrambled beneath her. She landed hard in the dirt beside her cot, boots kicking up pine needles, rifle still clutched in her hands like it might save her.

The other soldiers nearby froze. Then—laughter. Not cruel. Just tired. Bemused. A few claps, a couple of whistles.

"Jesus," someone muttered from a nearby shelter. "Jumpier than a cat in a bathtub."

One of the men walking past shook his head, grinning and elbowing one of his comrades, "Fresh meat. You can smell it a mile off. Poor lad."

Tony's face burned. She tried to catch her breath, pulse racing like she was still falling.

From under the tarp, Dum-Dum groaned loudly and dragged his cap down over his eyes. "Brilliant, Hudson. Pure genius," he mumbled, voice muffled by exhaustion. "That’s it now, innit? Folk’ll no remember the coolshit — just the dafty that fired a rifle in his fuckin’ sleep."

Gabe sat up on his cot and raised an eyebrow at her, "You alright?" His usual 'Sweetheart' nickname swallowed since they no longer had the right to privacy.

Tony scrambled to her feet in embarrassment, brushing pine needles off her back. She nodded stiffly. "Yeah. Sorry. I—"

She paused. Looked down at her rifle. Her hands were shaking. "I guess I was dreaming."

The tarp flapped again in the wind. Somewhere behind the hills, more artillery echoed.

The laughter had already faded. The men were moving on, their boots crunching the forest floor as they disappeared into the passing crowds. The kind of soldiers who'd already seen too much to flinch. Men who'd long since stopped dreaming, or maybe just stopped waking up longer than it took to find out if they were safe.

Tony climbed back onto her cot with aching limbs and set the rifle aside—close, but not in her arms this time.

No one scolded her. No one mocked her. Not really. The silence that followed was quieter than any lecture could've been.

Pinky tossed a spare blanket at her without a word. Bucky, somewhere just out of view, hummed a bar of something slow and tired—maybe a lullaby, maybe an old war song. Steve didn't look up from his notebook.

The warmth of camaraderie hadn't left, not entirely.

But something colder had moved in at the edges.

And Tony knew—without anyone saying it—that the front lines were not just a place on the map. They were a state of mind.

She rubbed her face, the cold seeping through her boots and up her spine. Her mind drifted where she didn't want it to go.

She wasn't supposed to be here.

Not really.

A girl in a man's uniform, fighting a man's war in a place where there was no room for mistakes. She was going to be expected to take lives. That thought always hit hardest at night, when the world got quiet enough for it to settle in her chest.

"Can't sleep?"

She looked up.

Steve was propped on his elbow, blanket rumpled around him.

She shook her head. "Not really."

He sat up fully, feet finding the cold ground with a grimace and a yawn. "Bet you didn't know I've been here before."

Tony blinked. "Here?"

He nodded. "This camp, yeah. Few months ago. Back then, I was still the dancing monkey in tights. Just a face for war bonds." He gestured faintly around them. "This was where everything changed."

Tony sat up straighter, pulling her knees to her chest.

"They'd been taken by Hydra. The whole 107th. I couldn't stand it, knowing they were being held like that. So I found Peggy Carter, and I talked Howard Stark into flying me out. We dropped in behind enemy lines, and we pulled out nearly the whole camp. Most of the men were sent home to recover. But not all of them."

He glanced toward the slumbering forms around them.

"That's when I made this team."

Tony's eyes widened. "Wait. You made this team?"

Steve nodded. "Handpicked every one of them. Some of them were the guys I rescued. Some were new recruits. I read your file."

She blinked, startled. "You did?"

"You've got good instincts. You can shoot. You're tough, smart, and stubborn as hell. Reminded me of myself, before the serum."

At the foot of her cot, Bucky let out a quiet snort. "That's a low blow, Steve. You were a punk."

Steve chuckled. "And Tony's already better at this than I ever was."

Bucky stretched, his voice warm with pride. "You couldn't even do one pushup. Kid here's done over a thousand."

Tony smiled faintly. "Pure stupidity. That's all it was."

They laughed, quietly. It wasn't loud enough to wake anyone else who was resting during the day, but it was enough to warm the cold edges of the late afternoon.

Steve leaned back down with a sigh. "Get some sleep, Hudson. It could be a loud night and we have a big day tomorrow. Hydra base to find."

Tony settled under her blanket, tugging her boots off with a wince.

"It's Tony," she murmured. "You can call me Tony."

Steve's voice was soft as it drifted back. "You can call me Steve, if you want."

"I'll start calling you father if you keep telling me we 'have a big day tomorrow' like it's the county fair day." Tony says in quiet sass, earning a chuckle from Steve and Bucky, who was listening while he adjusted his pillow.

She shook her head with a tired grin and added, "Nah. I like calling you Captain. You earned it."

Steve hummed something like agreement before silence took him.

Tony listened to the rhythmic breath of the men around her, to the wind through the pines, to the sounds of a forest that didn't yet know what war would do to it.

Sleep came slowly. But it came.

Chapter Text

The forest pressed in tight and cold, breath steaming as the squad moved in silence. Frost crackled on the dead leaves beneath their boots, and the scent of wet pine clung to every breath. Tony's fingers flexed around the grip of her rifle. Her palms were sweating inside her gloves.

They'd been flown in under the cover of night and dropped miles behind friendly lines, no camp to fall back to—just trees, rock, and the target marked in red ink on Steve's crumpled map.

"My intel says it's just past the ridge," Steve said under his breath, crouched beside a frozen log. He unfolded the map for the others to see, the paper trembling in the breeze. "Hydra outpost—fifteen to twenty inside. One truck, two mounted guns. No radio tower. That's our opening." He pointed towards the small side door.

Bucky knelt beside him, eyes scanning the treeline. He had his sniper kit slung over one shoulder and a coil of rope over the other. "I can set up cover from the west bluff. Give me six minutes."

Steve nodded his approval. "Go. Take Pinky with you."

Pinky grumbled, "I don't like heights," but was already double-checking the strap on his sidearm as the two of them turned and started rushing into the thick trees again.

"Dum-Dum, Jim—you two circle left. Take the fence. If there's a break, wedge it and wait."

"Roger that," they cut off without further instruction.

"Gabe, Marv—you're with me. Front gate. Fast and loud once we get the signal."

The remaining team silently nodded their acknowledgment, rifles clicking into ready positions.

Tony stood back, breathing fog, the only one not moving. The only one unassigned. She had listened carefully, yet not heard a single mention of her name, like a child waiting hopefully to be picked for dodgeball.

Steve barely glanced her way as he turned to leave, his red boots shuffling quickly before Tony stepped out and grabbed his arm, boots crunching softly. "Uh—Cap," Tony said, tugging him gently back and taking a step aside to meet Steve's eyes. "What about me?"

He paused.

Tony shifted her weight. "What do you want me doing?"

Steve hesitated just long enough for the cold to bite deeper. "Stick here, watch our exit."

Tony blinked. "What? That's it?"

"You've got a steady shot. If you notice trouble, give us some cover." Steve's tone was calm, but there was a flicker of something behind his eyes. Worry. Or maybe guilt.

"And if I don't wanna do that?" Tony asked with her eyebrows raised, her rifle almost going slack in her arms from the disappointment.

"Then stay low," he said simply.

And then he was gone—melting into the trees with Gabe and Marv like ghosts. The others followed suit, scattering along the flanks like wolves.

Tony squared her jaw and moved to use some sharper rocks as cover to look down on the unsuspecting base.

The mission had begun.

Tony sat watching the ridgeline, eyes narrowed against the mist, waiting for the signal.

It came fast—a flicker of movement from the far slope. Just one flash from Bucky's scope, a reflection of sun off glass. That was it.

The others surged into motion below. Like clockwork, Dum-Dum and Pinky were first through the breach point, rifles raised and boots thudding against the frost-slick ground. Jim and Marv peeled left toward the back fence. Steve went dead center, shield already in motion.

Tony gripped her rifle tighter. "Good luck, guys," she whispered, though they were already out of earshot.

Then she was alone.

She shifted her stance and let out a breath. The cold had settled into her gloves, stiffening her fingers. The rocks around her were slick and silent. A faint trail of steam rose from a narrow crack in the earth—maybe some geothermal vent, maybe just the forest breathing. She glanced behind her once. Nothing. Just trees and snow.

A twig snapped.

Tony spun.

Nothing.

She turned back to face the ridge—just in time for someone to slam into her from the side.

She hit the ground hard, shoulder-first, and the air flew from her lungs. Her rifle skittered away down the rocks and into the brush below.

Five more figures emerged from the trees like ghosts, HYDRA patches on their black uniforms, weapons drawn but grinning like it was a game. Their boots crunched over the frost and leaves. The nearest one barked something in German, reaching down to grab her by the collar, Tony's eyes were wide with fear as she tried to kick her brain into action, but it was taking in everything slowly. She felt like a deer in headlights.

The man pulled her close and she felt his hot breath against her face as he looked down at her. Finally, she got her arm to move; she swung hard and hit the man in the side of the head.

From there it was a flurry of activity for a moment. She kicked, cursed, clawed—but they overpowered her fast. Two of them grabbed her upper arms. Another twisted her wrists behind her back. A third ripped the strap off her helmet and tossed it aside and shoving the back of her head so she was forced to look down, allowing her haphazardly cut hair to fall down into her eyes.

A voice behind her muttered something else in German. One of the others laughed and nodded, all repeating the same thing in their sentences, 'Fräulein'

The translation came, almost lazily from the man she had hit in the head first, whom was standing and examining his lip for any sign of injury with his fingers, "He says you're not a soldier. You're a little girl playing pretend."

Tony's blood turned to ice. She twisted harder, pure panic rising in her chest and settling in her throat.

"I'm a man," she spat, voice cracking though deep.

The man who had her wrists held tight, kicked her knees out from under her, and she landed hard on her kneecaps over the uneven stone. the man she had punched backhanded her across the cheek, not hard enough to knock her out—just hard enough to make her ears ring and stars dance in front of her eyes.

"Liar," the same rough English speaker of the group said, crouching low to look her in the eyes. "But cute that you try."

Rough hands began yanking at her gear, stealing her handgun and her knives.

"Stop!" she shouted. "Get the hell off me!"

Laughter again. One leaned in close enough that she could see his gold tooth, his Slavic accent almost spitting as he said, "You want to be man so badly. Too bad you scream like girl anyway."

From behind the treeline—beyond where Tony could see—came the crack of a rifle. One of the HYDRA agents fell, neck exploding in a blossom of red as the large round ripped through him.

Chaos erupted.

The others shouted, guns raised—but a second shot took another one out. They scattered. One dragged Tony up like a shield. She thrashed, screamed, bit down on his arm. He howled.

Another bullet flew with precision over Tony's shoulder and into the man, knocking him backwards from the force of the 45 caliber handgun Bucky was pointing while he ran at a full sprint into their midst, his sniper rifle slung over his shoulder.

Tony fell hard, shoulder first, again. Her hands scraped cold stone. She scrambled for her rifle from the brush. Someone else reached it first—and kicked it further away down the hill.

Then a boot came down on her chest.

She wheezed.

A pistol pressed against her temple.

"Don't," she croaked against the weight.

It was the English-speaking man, he looked down at her with his friend's blood smattered across his face, making him look like a man deranged. "Time to see what little lies bleed like."

Then—another shot rang out. The man's head seemed to implode from the front after the bullet had entered the back of his skull. Tony wanted to scream, wanted to do anything but her ears were ringing as she stared up into the sort of bloody cavity that moments before had been a man's face.

She shoved the limp, heavy body off of her with adrenaline, her whole body shaking from head to toe as she uselessly wiped at the blood that had soaked her face and hair, droplets of red clouding her eyes, stinging as she harshly tried to blink them away. Her hands shook so badly she thought for a moment she was watching a movie of everything around her, she felt unreal.

Bucky's voice was the first noise to come back to her ringing ears, shouting in rage as his fists laid into the two men trying to take him two to one.

Tony turned her head as the ringing picked up, this time her eyes blurred. She looked towards the treeline where the youngest looking HYDRA agent was stumbling away, a gunshot wound in his shoulder not stopping his escaping progress.

Tony wanted to stop him, but she felt sick. The world spun.

Somewhere, not far off, came the distant thud of a concussive blast—too loud to be stray gunfire. Tony didn't realize it then, but the siege was already over. The others were coming.

Tony blinked. Rain was falling down against her face and into her eyes, but she couldn't even find her body to make it sit up. She was looking up at the canopy of leaves above.

The next thing Tony heard was gunfire.

Sharp. Precise. Close.

She flinched into awareness with a gasp, her body screaming in protest as she coughed and spluttered. Her head throbbed with every heartbeat, vision slightly tunneled at the edges still. For a breathless moment, she thought she'd died and woken into some cold, grey dream.

But the shouting was real.

The boots pounding past her. The snap of branches breaking. The grunt of a man being thrown against a tree. The sudden, sickening silence that followed.

Then—

"Tony!"

Hands were on her. Rough at first, then gentler.

"Tony, speak to me!" The Captain's voice was frantic, but familiar.

She blinked against the fog in her vision, the world tilting violently as he hauled her upright, cradling her against his chest while his hands roamed her quickly to check for any injury. Tony wanted to speak but she felt so dizzy and sick that when she opened her mouth she felt like she was going to be sick.

Tony turned her head away from Steve and threw up bile onto the ground in a yellow puddle. Steve helped support Tony has she dry heaved, each gag ringing in the near silence that had taken place of the gunfire.

"Jesus—Tony, hey. I've got you. You're alright. You're safe." His voice was tight with worry and panic.

"Bucky—" Tony rasped. "They got Bucky—"

"I know. He's here. We got him. He's going to be okay. You're okay." Steve's voice cracked on the last word. "You're okay." He repeated it like he was more trying to convice himself.

Tony could barely hear him. Her ears rang with a high, dissonant whine. Blood buzzed in her temples and strange sploches swam in her vision as she heaved, feeling as though each gag was suffocating her and gasping for air. She spat out the bitter taste once she was more composed and she opened her eyes, seeing the dead men now scattered around.

Her vision blurred again. She turned her head away—pain shooting down her neck—and saw Bucky slumped against a tree. Blood streaked his face, but his eyes were open wide and staring at Tony.

Gabe was already at his side, med kit unpacked and a cloth in his hand so he could get the wound over Bucky's eye covered to stop the bleeding. Behind them, Jim and Pinky were looting the two of the fallen HYDRA agents, their weapons still raised. Marv stood a little farther off, panting hard like he had just run all the way up from the base below, scanning the other dead bodies near the tree line.

"I tried," she whispered. "I tried to stop them—"

"You did more than enough." Steve was already checking her for injuries, jaw clenched tight. "We should've stayed close. Should've never left you here alone—"

"I didn't hear them coming," she mumbled.

"I know." His voice was bitter. "I know."

She tried to sit up straighter and winced as the movement pulled at her ribs. Her shirt was torn—mud-slicked, stained with blood and sweat. Steve didn't blink. He just shrugged off his coat and draped it around her shoulders, tucking it in tight.

No one said anything about the way her shirt had ridden up during the struggle.

No one commented on how exposed she'd looked, or how close it had come to something worse.

If anyone noticed, they didn't show it.

One of the HYDRA men was still breathing—barely. Marv moved to stand over his weak and semi-conscious form on the ground, rifle slung over his shoulder, muttering something low in his Canadian French before glancing at Steve.

"What should I do with him?" Marv didn't seem perturbed by the idea of shooting the man in cold blood. Steve ensured Tony was okay standing on her own and then walked over to the mans tangled limbs.

"I've seen him before. We can take him in, I have a few questions I know he could answer." Steve said it bitterly as he eyed the man's many patches and medals.

"We taking prisoners now?"

Steve walked back over towards Tony and threw an arm around her shoulders, leading her back towards the trail they had used to arrive from. "Just that one."

The Captain could feel her trembling under his arm, but he just held her tighter, shielding her with the solid wall of his body.

"Easy," he murmured, looking back to ensure that Bucky was walking with the group. Bucky gives him a solid nod. "We've got you."

-------------------------------------

They didn't speak much on the way back.

Steve half carried Tony most of the way. She insisted on walking once, stubborn to the bone even with blood crusting at the back of her head—but her legs gave out after only a few steps. After that, she didn't protest when he picked her up.

Behind them, Marv hauled the surviving HYDRA agent with silent, deliberate steps. The man's arms were bound, his uniform jacket tied over his head like a makeshift hood, blood soaking through at the shoulder. No one looked at him. No one spoke to him. He was just a shadow trailing behind the wreckage.

Bucky limped beside them, jaw tight. Gabe had bandaged a cold compress rag against the swelling on his face. His facial injuries looked worse up close: bruised, bloodied, but the will in his eyes was unbroken. The others moved around them in a loose, protective formation. No one cracked a joke. No one smiled.

Dum-Dum and Jim were each carrying one end of their prisoner of war, not too worried about his lolling head hitting some rocks or fallen trees they climbed over.

The forest, once bristling with tension, now felt suffocating in its quiet.

Eventually, they reached the edge of the nearby allied camp. The tents they had set up were still standing. The plane that had dropped them off sat in wait, its engines quiet.

The team settled in around the small fire, a private moment for them to sit in silence ended up feeling more like hours. Tony stared at the ground, her eyes far away and wide, but her face vacant of any real expression.

Dum-Dum spoke first, voice soft. "We gonna talk about what just happened?"

"No," Gabe said sharply. He glanced at Tony, then looked away. "Not now."

"No," Bucky echoed, slower this time. "Later."

Tony stirred faintly at that and looked up at the matching looks on Steve and Bucky's faces—equal parts guilt and grief. Her voice wavered.

"You don't... have to look at me like that."

Steve paused where he was tending the small fire they'd built, the light catching in his eyes as he looked at her again. "Like what?"

"Like I broke." Her voice was small, but raw. "I didn't. I'm still here. Just.. wow."

Bucky didn't answer right away. His jaw clenched as he rubbed his knuckles along his thigh, like he was grounding himself. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but sure.

"You are," he said. His frame seemed to tighten at the thought, shoulders squared against the cold. "You're right here."

None of them said anything about what the Germans had called her. Or the way their eyes had lingered on her, not with confusion—but recognition. Not a mistake. A threat.

The word Fräulein still hung in the air between them like smoke from a fire that hadn't quite burned out. No one dared fan the embers. Not yet.

But the silence—they all heard it.

It was some time before they found the strength to stand again. No one rushed. No one spoke. When they finally rose and made their way toward the medic's tent, Tony walked on her own for the first few steps, jaw set like she was daring her knees to betray her again. They didn't—but it was close.

By the time they reached the canvas flap, she was swaying, her head bowed and held up by sheer willpower. Every movement felt like it took twice the energy it should have.

Bucky pulled the flap back ahead of them and said something low and firm to the nurse—too quiet to catch, but it made the woman nod without asking any questions.

Steve placed a hand between Tony's shoulder blades and guided her inside first, ducking in after. The others followed in staggered silence, boots soft against the cold-packed dirt.

Inside the tent, it was dim and musty, lit by a few oil lamps swaying from their hooks. The air smelled like antiseptic and damp canvas. The medic was already clearing a space.

At the back of the tent, Gabe stood apart from the others, arms folded, one thumb running idly over the edge of something in his hand.

Tony's dog tags.

They'd been left in the mud—torn from her neck when the enemy had tried to strip her, trying to confirm what they'd seen. The metal still bore faint specks of grime.

Gabe stared at them with something stormy behind his eyes, the tags catching the lamplight as they swung slightly in his grip. He didn't hand them back. Not yet.

He sat beside her cot instead, still holding them like they might burn a hole through his palm.

The medic leaned in to check the gash on Tony's head, murmuring something about stitches and disinfectant. Tony didn't flinch. She just stared past him, eyes tracking something none of them could see.

Outside the tent, the sun had begun to sink into the trees, casting long shadows over the edges of camp. The sky burned the color of spilled rust—tired, blood-warm, and fading.

Inside, no one said the truth out loud.

But they all knew it now.

Tony had survived—again. That should've felt like enough.

And yet somehow, tonight, it didn't.

*****************

Tony didn't remember falling asleep, but she remembered waking up.

Not all at once—more in fragments. The damp chill of morning air sneaking in under the edge of the tent flap. The steady rise and fall of distant voices. Boots squelching through mud. The aching stiffness in her ribs when she tried to shift.

She inhaled sharply when something cool touched her collarbone. She glanced down.

Dog tags. Cleaned and returned, looped neatly around her neck.

She blinked at them for a long time.

"Don't sit up too fast," came a voice from her right.

Bucky.

He was slouched on a stool just beside the cot, elbows on his knees, his hands clasped like he didn't trust them not to shake. A purpling bruise bloomed high on his cheekbone, the skin split just enough to crust with dried blood. His lip was cracked, and one sleeve had been torn and clumsily sewn back together with black thread. He looked like hell, but he was the kind that didn't complain about it.

He didn't reach for her. Just watched—steady, quiet, like he was holding something heavy he wouldn't let fall

"Didn't realize I was asleep that long," she murmured, her throat rough, as she glanced at the watch on the Sergeant's wrist.

"You needed it," he said. "Doc said you're lucky. Sore, stitched, but not broken."

Tony winced as she pushed herself a little more upright, teeth grit against the burn in her side. "Tell that to my everything."

Bucky huffed softly—half a laugh, half a sigh—and looked down at his hands. "If it helps, I look worse than I feel."

She gave him a crooked smile, then squinted toward the flap of the tent. "Where are the others?"

"Letting you rest. Gabe dropped off some soup earlier, but I think the steam scared you more than the Germans." He paused, then added, more carefully, "We've all been keeping watch. Just took shifts."

Tony frowned faintly. "You didn't have to."

"Sure we did. No one was gonna leave you alone here."

He didn't say it like an order. He said it like it was obvious. She glanced back at her dog tags. Brushed her thumb over the smooth metal. "You cleaned them?"

"I didn't," he said, too fast. Then quieter: "Just made sure they got back to you."

She turned to look at him again, and this time, their eyes caught. Held.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, barely more than breath. His brow furrowed. "For what?"

"For not being the man you all thought you were getting," she whispered. "The one on paper. I—I tried to be."

Bucky didn't look away he just kept her gaze, steady and unwavering. "That's not your fault."

"It sure feels like it."

He shook his head, slow and sure. "We were the ones who got it wrong on the forms. You just got the worst of the fallout. Honestly, it went better than it could have. Hydra is known for its ask questions later attitude."

Tony glanced down at her hands, at the bruises peeking out from her sleeves. "Yeah. It felt like it."

"I know."

Something about the way he said it—not really pity, just understanding—made her throat go tight.

Bucky leaned back slightly, arms crossed now, like he was holding something inside. "You didn't fail anyone. And if anyone says otherwise, they're gonna have to take it up with me."

She gave him a look—tired, disbelieving, but grateful.

He shrugged. "I've been in worse fights."

She cracked a smile at that. Small, but real. "Yeah? Name one."

He grinned faintly, a ghost of mischief in it. "Talked Steve out of jumping out of a plane once without a parachute."

She snorted, winced at the movement, then let the smile linger. "Reckless bastard."

"Birds of a feather," he said.

Their eyes met again. This time the silence between them didn't feel heavy—it felt like something understood.

Outside, the wind shifted. Boots thudded past the tent. Somewhere in the distance, someone called roll.

Tony shifted, her weight still unsteady.

"I should check in with the others."

"You've got time," Bucky said. "It isn't like they can go far."

She didn't ask how he knew. She just nodded. They sat like that for a while—close, quiet, and just breathing through it.

Eventually, the tent flap rustled as the medic returned, jotting something down on a clipboard.

"He's cleared," the man said with a pointed look at Bucky, voice gruff but not unkind. "Keep the bandage clean, and for God's sake, try not to get cracked in the head again."

Tony gave a dry hum of a laugh. "No promises."

The medic shot her a look, but didn't push it. He just nodded at Bucky, then stepped back out into the dusk.

For a moment, Tony didn't move. Her body was tired and aching and felt like it had been stitched together with threadbare string.

Bucky pushed to his feet and offered her his hand.

"C'mon, sweetheart," he said in a soft joking voice. "Let's go home."

She blinked at that. Home.

The word nearly undid her. But she took his hand.

His grip was steady, warm.

With a grunt and a wince, she stood. Her legs trembled a little, and Bucky tucked an arm around her back as she found her balance. He didn't make a show of it—just kept her steady while she walked, slow and limping, out into the camp.

The air was sharp with cold and the fading smell of gunpowder. Fires cracked in distant barrels. The last of the sunset had gone to ash across the sky.

Ahead, the canvas walls of the Howling Commandos' tent stood crooked and patched but solid. Warm light flickered inside, and the low murmur of familiar voices drifted out into the dark.

Tony hesitated a step outside the flap.

"You good?" Bucky asked, not pushing.

She nodded slowly. "Yeah. Just... nervous."

"They're still our boys," he said, gently. "Even if they're dumb as bricks sometimes."

That coaxed another smile from her, small and a little crooked.

He pulled the flap back.

Inside, the Commandos sat gathered around a crate, picking half-heartedly at their K-rations. Dum-Dum was telling some ridiculous story—judging by the sweeping gestures—and Jim had his head in his hand, clearly suffering through it.

Gabe looked up first. His face was still, unreadable for a moment.

The room quieted as the others looked up too. Marv froze mid-bite. Jim dropped his fork down into the strange gruel-type food in his metal bowl.

No one said anything.

Bucky stepped in behind her, close but not crowding.

"Evenin'," he said, voice casual as he smiled around at the others.

Tony's voice came rough as she added her own, "Hey all."

There was a pause.

And then Dum-Dum nodded once. "We saved you the gross peaches."

"Lucky me," she muttered trying not to meet anyones gaze as they all analyzed her.

Marv scooted over to make room on the large crate.

Gabe stood and walked over, in his hands a canteen of water and some small white pills.

The metal of the canteen was cold and familiar, and the water made her throat feel less sore.

Then she looked up—and caught them watching.

Not gawking. Not pitying. Just waiting.

Steve cleared his throat, awkward and gentle at once. "We don't bite, y'know."

Tony blinked at him. He offered a faint smile—crooked, a little tired.

"We've been through worse," he said. "And we're still standing. So are you."

She hesitated—then nodded.

Bucky brushed past her, dropping onto a crate like nothing had happened. He popped open a tin, gave it a sniff, and winced.

"Still not peaches," he muttered.

That pulled a low chuckle out of the group. Not loud. But honest.

Tony moved at last, careful and slow, and took the open seat beside him. Her knees shook. Her ribs throbbed. But she made it.

Bucky didn't glance her way, just nudged half his rations toward her like it was routine.

She let herself lean, just barely, into his shoulder. Just enough to say thank you.

He leaned back.

Chapter Text

Dead leaves rattled across the packed dirt like brittle bones. The fire at the center of camp crackled low, just enough heat to keep the frost from settling on boots and jackets. Dum-Dum leaned back against a crate, arms folded behind his head like he was trying to pretend he wasn't freezing. Pinky hunched into his coat, scowling every time the wind kicked up. Gabe smoked just outside the ring of light, gaze distant, breath white in the air. The others were quiet, heads ducked or tilted toward the fire—men too tired to talk, too cold to pretend they weren't tired.

The wind shifted again, and a swirl of dead leaves scraped across the ground. They skittered past the edge of camp, curling toward the mess tent and out to the old metal post near the center of camp.

The man tied there didn't move.

His head was bowed, the ropes cutting deep into his arms. Blood had dried in thick trails down his jaw, disappearing into the shadows of his collar. In the moonlight, he looked like something left behind—forgotten. A statue of spite. His eyes were open, but they stared at the blank space between his boots on the ground.

Tony lifted her head just enough to see him more fully from where she sat.

The moonlight was bright tonight, silvering the earth and catching on the silver metal between the rusted spots on the post where the man was tied. A HYDRA agent. His jaw was smeared with dried blood, head tilted low. His eyes—dark and recessed—were open but unfocused, fixed on something miles away. He looked angry. Hollow. Like a wolf waiting to chew through the trap.

She didn't realize her hands had curled into fists until a voice cut through the quiet.

"You shouldn't."

Tony jumped, twisting toward the foot of her bedroll. Bucky sat there, one boot off, half-laced and shirtless like he'd given up halfway through undressing. He wasn't looking at her. Just kept his eyes on the prisoner, his voice flat.

"I wasn't going to," Tony muttered, too fast.

He gave her a glance—tired, unreadable—and returned to lacing his boot.

"...Okay. Maybe for a second."

A different voice spoke before Bucky had the chance, tone sharp and low, "He's HYDRA and dangerous. You have no god damned idea, Tony."

Steve. He stepped into view near the tent flap, his arms folded tight. The firelight caught the edge of his shield where it leaned nearby, and the glare in his eyes made the air feel colder.

Tony didn't reply, though internally she was wondering what about seeing a man's head get blown off in front of her didn't confirm that she knew how seriously they took the threat these men posed.

Steve stared at her like he was trying to bore a hole straight through the side of her head as she kept her eyes trained on the bound man. "You think you're doing what exactly, by talking to him? He's not a story you can read through and understand. He's not like us."

"I don't know that," she said quietly.

"Good," Pinky cut in, lying back on his cot with one hand behind his head. "Let's keep it that way."

Dum-Dum scoffed softly. "He's not worth the breath. Nazi bastard won't talk anyway."

Tony looked down at the letter in her lap, which she had received that morning. It was from home, her younger brother updating her on things and home and thanking for her quick reply. The letter was dated weeks ago, she had lost track of time since being on the front lines. Soon, snow would be a daily occurrence in this part of France.

Her grip tightened. Then, without ceremony, she tore it into four pieces and shoved them into the trash bin near her bedroll. Her body was tight with emotion—too wound up to sit still, but too raw with unchecked emotion to trust her voice to speak.

She lay back, fully dressed. She hadn't done anything that day worth changing for. Her gaze traced the patched canvas overhead, listening to the others drift into an uneasy chorus of snoring.

She waited until the last of their breaths turned steady.

Bucky murmured something in his sleep—barely a syllable. A sign he was out cold.

Tony sat up. The tent was dark. Her blood was still hot and her head was swirling.

She stood, her bare feet against the bare cold ground, and padded barefoot to the flap. The night air slapped her face sharp and cold. Across the road, the man still hung there—tied like a scarecrow, his silhouette stark in the moonlight as she snuck through the shadows of neighboring tents.

From this close, it was obvious he had been beaten pretty badly. Dark red blood was still dribbling down his forehead, where he had a large gash with his hair and dirt stuck to it. His face was a pale color, accentuated by the purple bruise that was so dark it looked black in some places.

His lip was swollen and stuck out oddly, it wasn't hard to guess he probably had a tooth knocked out.

The camp was asleep. The moon hung low and heavy, casting everything in a foggy silver glow.

Tony stepped out from where she was watching the man and approached him in the moonlight, quiet as a ghost. He saw her gliding towards him and turned his face away, almost as if he was ashamed to face her.

"What?" the man rasped. "Come to finish what your men started?"

Tony didn't stop. She crouched in front of him, arms over her knees. "You think I wouldn't?"

He gave a dry laugh—thin and humorless. "No. I think you don't know what you want." He looked like he had an insult on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed thickly and instead focused on pretending she wasn't there.

Tony looked down at his defiant face. He couldn't be much older than she was, his face young even when it was strained in pain and war-torn. "I want to know why," Tony finally said, fighting to keep her voice level.

The man tilted his head, intrigued enough to look at her for the first time. "Why what?"

"Why men like you exist. Why you follow monsters and call it war."

That earned her a long look. His voice, when it came, was thin as paper, yet sharp as glass.

"I don't follow monsters. I follow orders. Like you, fucking idiot."

Tony's jaw tightened. "You are nothing like me."

He leaned his head back, eyes shadowed. "You think so. But here you are. Uniform. Gun. Questions. Blood on your hands already, perhaps."

"That's not the same." Tony started, but the man cut across her in a rushed whisper.

"No," he agreed coldly. "It's worse. Because you think it makes you good."

The words landed harder than she expected. She didn't flinch, but her hands tensed against her knees.

"I haven't seen a soldier like you before," he added after a pause, voice quieter when he spoke this time.

Tony eyed him apprehensively. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You don't belong here," he said, simple and cold. "You're not made for it. Even if you lie well."

Tony's spine stiffened. She didn't know if she wanted to talk to this man anymore, and she looked around nervously, as if someone would be watching her like an elementary school program.

"You are woman," he said.

She glared at him and instinctively looked around again before answering, "I'm not."

He watched her squirm with narrowed eyes, although when he spoke, his voice was still low and barely above a whisper. "You're hiding."

She said nothing, eyeing him with more and more dislike by the moment.

"Typical American," he murmured. "Rush into war with no thought of the cost. Try to be brave. Try to be man. And when you die, you leave the rest of us to bury it."

"You sound bitter," she said.

"I've seen enough of this to know it doesn't end with people like you making it home. In my country we call that waste."

Tony leaned back on her hands, her eyebrows raised. "You talk like you have a damn to give the enemy?"

He gave a breath of laughter that made a chill creep up her spine. "You want to be soldier. But you're playing dress-up. You don't even know what you are doing here."

"I know more than you think. Although you are wrong about me." She bit, trying to sound braver than she felt, though her false man's voice never sounded so weak.

He stared at her, dark eyes cutting. "Then why are you still here?"

Tony opened her mouth—to respond, maybe to argue—but a hand grabbed her arm and spun her around.

She gasped as she hit something solid.

Steve.

He didn't say anything as he dragged her away from the HYDRA agent and back towards where the rest of the team were sound asleep. Dum-Dum was snoring softly.

When Steve turned, his eyes were blazing. His whole body was tense, breath hissing through his nose.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he said low, furious. "You disobeyed a direct order."

"I didn't go far," Tony tried, wincing under his stare.

"You went straight to the man who would've killed you if he could stand," he growled. "You think you're invincible now? After what happened in that clearing?"

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

Steve stepped in closer. "You almost died two days ago, Hudson." Her name on his tongue felt like an indictment.

"You want to throw that away because your pride got a little bruised?" he asked, quieter now, the fury tamped under a layer of grief.

Tony looked at the ground.

He jerked his chin toward the open-style tent. "Inside. Now."

She brushed past him, face hot, jaw set.

Steve followed, sitting across from her cot hard enough to make the crate creak.

"We're having a talk tomorrow," he said. "And you 'ought to have a better answer than whatever the hell was going through your god damned mind."

Tony nodded, eyes down like a child who had been reprimanded.

Through the slit in the tent flap, she caught sight of the HYDRA agent leaning back against the pole, his head low once more.

She lay back, arms folded tight over her chest, tension still buzzing in her limbs.

Sleep came late, twisted between memory and fury, and when it finally did—it wasn't peace that followed.

It was the war.

*****************

Tony woke the way she expected to.

Roughly. Rudely. Someone yanked her blanket away, her pillow following, dragging the warmth off her body and leaving her exposed to the frigid morning air.

She groaned and pushed herself upright, bleary eyes scanning the space. The rest of the men were gone—off to find breakfast, maybe—but the two figures looming over her cot weren't strangers.

Steve and Bucky.

She blinked hard and grumbled, her voice still thick with sleep, which—ironically—made her boy voice even more convincing. "Shaking my shoulder works just as well."

Bucky didn't smile. His jaw was tight, his eyes sharper than usual. "You directly disobeyed an order," he said coldly. "From both a Captain and a Sergeant."

The last part came out quiet—dangerous quiet.

Tony pushed herself up slowly, rubbing her eyes as she stood to her feet, arms crossed against the morning chill. The fog had rolled in heavy. It curled low along the ground, thick and gray. Fall was coming.

"Look," she said, trying not to sound defensive, "he was tied up. Nothing was gonna happen."

Bucky didn't blink. He threw something down onto her cot.

She flinched as she looked down. After squinting to see what it was, she took a closer look.

"...Is that a—?"

Steve answered, his voice like gravel. "Regulation Nazi knife. And he was tied with ropes."

Tony's throat went dry.

"But he didn't use it," she argued, quieter now. "Why's everyone acting like—?"

"You think that's the point?" Bucky snapped, low and bitter. "You think this is about whether he used it?"

He pulled a crumpled letter from his coat, unfolding it with rigid fingers. His face was stone. "This came out of his pocket. So, guess where we're going?"

Tony didn't ask what he meant by 'this came out of his pocket' but presumed the prisoner had been questioned again that morning. She looked closely, scanning the German text. She didn't speak fluently, but the message was clear enough—place names, coordinates, orders.

Her stomach dropped. "Is this.. ?" She was looking at a second base, this one was closer than the last and accessible by truck.

Steve nodded, his shield already strapped to his back—like always. "We leave in ten minutes," he said, his tone clipped.

Then he paused—just long enough to let his words sink in.

"We could've cut you loose, Hudson. A dozen times over. We didn't." His eyes were harder than she'd ever seen them. "We risked everything to bring you in. Because we thought you understood what kind of fight this is."

Tony froze. Her mouth parted, but no words came.

Steve's voice dropped, rough with restrained frustration. "Don't make us look like fools for believing in you."

He turned and stepped into the fog without another word.

Bucky waited until the canvas flap settled behind him before he exhaled—slow and quiet. His shoulders dropped like the anger had drained out, leaving only disappointment behind.

He leaned in just a little. "I meant what I said the day we met you," he murmured. "This team watches out for each other. But you're not just a face in the crowd anymore. You're ours now. What you do reflects on all of us." His lips pressed into a thin line, and then he took a deep breath before he continued.

"We put our asses on the line by not reporting you the day we all knew, Tony." He looked deeply into her eyes as he said it, his brown eyes seemed deep and meaningful, "We risk everything in the hopes you will help us reach the goal of taking this organization down and all going home in one piece."

He took the letter gently from her hands.

"Be careful," he added, his voice softer. "This place doesn't sound like fun."

He turned to leave but Tony grabbed his hand in hers, "Hey," she said softly, trying not to look at the way Barnes's face softened. "You forgot this." She held up the Nazi knife.

Bucky looked down at it as if he was disappointed that was what she had wanted, then shook his head. "I know. Keep it."

And then he was gone.

Tony sat back down heavily. She tugged on her boots with slow, distracted hands. Her chest felt too tight for breath. The knife sat in her palm for a long moment before she slid it into the sheath on her belt.

She wasn't sure whose cot she should've left it on if he had meant for her to.

A truck rumbled to life outside. Someone shouted—"HUDSON!"—and she broke into a jog.

She caught sight of the vehicle slowly pulling away, Dum-Dum glancing in the rearview mirror to make sure she was coming.

Tony climbed in.

Chapter Text

Tony watched from the back of the truck as it slowed to a crawl, the view of the distant compound coming into sharper focus through the thinning fog. A knot formed in her stomach. Beside her, Pinky stared at his boots, his usual chatter long gone. Whatever was inside this base must be awful important, it mattered more than either Barnes or the Captain had let on anyway.

The truck rolled to a stop with a soft jolt. One by one, the Commandos jumped down, boots crunching against dirt and gravel. Steve pulled them in close, voice low and focused. He'd sketched out a plan, and now it was time to divide and move.

"Pinky, Dum-Dum, Jonathan—you're scouting perimeter," he said. "Jim, go with Marv. Check the doors, look for any structural weak points." He glanced at Gabe and Jacques. "You're with me."

For a moment, Tony thought he might skip her entirely. But then Steve turned, jaw tight, and said, "Think you can handle a distraction?"

Her first instinct was to arch a brow—then she caught herself and just gave a shrug. "Tell me what I've gotta do."

Barnes appeared beside her, already crouched. "We're gonna be the distraction," he said. "Yard patrol. Just try not to get shot."

They made it sound so casual. Like war was just a day job.

The team nodded, split off, and melted into the trees. Steve shot Barnes a look—silent confirmation—before disappearing into the woods with his group flanking him.

Barnes knelt behind the camouflaged truck, motioning Tony to join him. "Gun loaded?" he asked under his breath.

Tony crouched low. "No, I figured I'd carry a paperweight behind enemy lines during World War Two," she muttered, smirking faintly.

Barnes gave her a sideways glance and rolled his eyes. "Alright, alright—"

A dull metallic clink hit the ground behind them. A grenade.

Tony's head snapped around just in time to see the grenade land with a thud.

"Shit—" She grabbed Barnes and yanked him back, both of them tumbling down the incline behind the truck. They hit hard, rolling over and over down into the brush just as the explosion cracked through the air and shook the ground above.

They spun faster, crashing through snow-covered rocks, roots, and broken branches. Tony's leg slammed against a tree, then her head, then her spine—her whole body a blur of pain and motion as she flailed about trying to grab hold of anything while also keeping a tight grip on her rifle. Gunfire cracked from nearby. She could hear Barnes grunting as they fell.

They landed hard on the edge of what looked like a small snow-covered parking yard just outside the base. Tony groaned, breath catching as she rolled to her side. Barnes did the same beside her.

"Genius," Barnes muttered, wincing.

Before Tony could come up with a snappy answer, something stirred the snow behind them. More bullets rained down, coming from above near where the teams truck was still standing surrounded by Hydra agents.

Barnes lifted his rifle and returned fire. Tony pushed herself upright and spotted the team flanking the compound—Dum-Dum and Jim cutting down guards, the Captain's shield ricocheting like thunder.

She raised her gun, aiming at a soldier near the gate, but her vision swam from the tumble down the mountain. The best she managed was a shoulder shot. Her body throbbed with pain and dizziness as she readied for another target.

Then—

A burst of impact. Her left shoulder jerked back violently.

Barnes shouted something as he looked at Tony's torso with his eyes wide, voice pitched in alarm, but it drowned under the ringing in her ears and nearing gunfire. Tony looked down. Blood was blooming through her jacket and shirt. Her breath caught in her throat. Tears sprang to her eyes as the pain hit fully, a searing lance that ran from her chest and seemingly out through her shoulder.

She dropped to her knees in the snow, gun limp in her lap.

She had been shot.

Shot.

Another explosion rocked the ground around base. Barnes yelled again, covering Tony as soldiers poured from the front. She forced herself to her feet, one arm hanging useless, and fired her weapon one-handed, barely managing glancing blows.

The Captain burst through the front doors as they blew outward in a cascade of flame, shield raised. The rest of the team surged behind him, cutting down what remained of the enemy. There was a flurry of gunfire as the last few Hydra men attempted a failed getaway.

When the last soldier dropped, Tony let the gun fall from her grasp. Blood poured freely from her arm. Her fingers were red to the tips.

"YOU'RE SHOT?!" Dum-Dum's voice rang out as he sprinted toward her.

Tony swayed, her vision tilting. The world turned sideways.

She hit the ground with a soft thud.

Somewhere above her, voices grew frantic. She could almost make out Gabes rushed voice, feeling as though she were being moved but feeling numb. "Artery's hit—she's gonna bleed out—"

Shapes blurred in and out of focus. Then a pair of panicked blue eyes—Barnes—came into view.

"B-Barnes?" she whispered. Blood slipped from the corner of her mouth.

He glanced at her lips, then down at her torso again as he pulled Tony's combat jacket off.

That second pain in her chest—she'd ignored it, focused on the shoulder.

But now she felt it.

Deep. Hot. Spreading.

There was more than one wound.

Barnes cursed sharply as he saw the second hole, already tearing his unused handkerchief out of his pocket and ripping it into strips. Blood soaked through Tony's shirt and pooled beneath her, stark red against the white snow-crusted earth.

She lay sprawled out on the frozen ground, her breath coming in broken gasps that sounded too small, too wet. The world tilted above her, the sky turning thin and colorless. "A-Am I going to die?" Tony whispered. Her voice cracked high—frightened, reedy, younger than anyone had ever heard it.

"I wish I knew," Barnes muttered, not looking up from his hands frantic work at the wound site. His hands worked fast, but the bleeding wasn't stopping.

"If you're talking then you're lungs are fine but we have to move!" Gabe dropped beside Tony again, already hauling his kit off his back from his apparent trip up the steep hill to the truck. His eyes flicked over the wound, and his mouth pulled into a tight grimace. "She's crashing."

How fast was time moving? Or slow? She couldn't be sure as the pain and undeniable numbness took over her brain.

"I can't stop the bleeding," Barnes muttered hoarsely looking at all the blood pooling at the site and covering his hands and uniform. "I—Jesus, Gabe—"

"I've got it," Gabe said quickly. "You've got to keep pressure—don't let up." His hands worked fast and sure, peeling Tony's white undershirt open further from where it was already ripped, fingers slick with her blood. "We have to move now or we lose her."

Tony blinked up at them, vision tunneling in. The pain was so distant now, just a dull heat spreading across her chest and shoulder. Her limbs were heavy. "No, no! Tony, stay awake—eyes open!" Bucky shouted from nearby, his voice cracking with panic and to Tony growing further away. Gunfire snapped overhead, distant and close all at once. Was it even real?

Darkness crawled in from the edges of her vision, shadows curling like smoke around the faces above her.

Her hand twitched, fumbling weakly toward her jacket pocket. She grasped a haphazardly folded piece of paper from one of her military pants' many pockets and struggled to pull it free, her arm trembling with the effort. Her fingers left a reed smear across the paper as she dropped it onto Barnes's lap. Her blood soaked into the envelope and onto his shirt, where her empty hand still falls against his chest.

Barnes looks down at it, eyes wide with something that looks like horror. "No," he whispered, shaking his head. "No. Soldier, you are not going to die on me. You're going to be fine—you hear me? You're gonna make it just fine!"

"Steve!" Gabe barked. "We have to move now! Help me."

"I've got you," Barnes said, voice low and rough as he looped an arm around Tony's back. Gabe slid an arm beneath her knees. Together, they lifted her carefully. The pain was so intense that Tony cried out, what little strength she had left left her as darkness began to consume her vision.

Steve, Dum-Dum, Pinky, and the others scrambled up the hill, their eyes on the trees above where the first gunfire had come from.

Tony barely noticed where they were going now. Her head lolled against Barnes's shoulder, and all she could see were shadows. Smoke. And the look on his face, just before everything went black.

Bucky gathered her into his arms just as her body went limp.

She couldn't die.

She physically couldn't die—not here, not now, not like this.

He turned, ignoring the burning ache radiating through his own battered frame from the fall. Behind him, the team scrambled to cover them from the Hydra agents posted in the trees since the base had been busted, gunfire cracking through the smoke. They crested the ridge with a slight stumble, only to be met with a sickening reminder: the truck they'd arrived in was nothing but twisted wreckage, smoke curling from its blown-out frame.

Bucky swore under his breath.

Then—a rumble. A motor in the distance. Tires skidding. Heads snapped to the side as an all-black Hydra truck tore up the ridge with its large tank-like tracks, eating up the mountainside as it made easy work of it, barreling toward them. It swerved and halted with a squeal of brakes, and Jim leaned out the cab, waving wildly.

"Come on!" he shouted. "Get her in—now!"

Bucky didn't hesitate. With Gabes's help, he lifted Tony into the back of the truck. The others piled in fast—those closest to Tony stayed with her, Dum-Dum and Pinky flanking her on either side while Marv sat at the back, covering their escape from the final hidden Hydra agents.

Bucky resumed pressing his hand hard over the bullet wound in her shoulder, blood soaking through his palm as he watched Gabe continue to gather cloth strips to shove into the second hole in a gruesome sight that made Bucky grit his teeth to keep from gagging.

Tony's blood wasn't flowing as fast, but its dark crimson was on every part of Bucky, he was sure of it.

Steve dropped to his knees beside his best friend and looked over the situation, Tony's grey face and half-lidded eyes showing she was out cold. "Bucky..." he started gently.

But Bucky shook his head, voice thick and hoarse as he continued to apply pressure to the ever-bleeding chest wound. "No. No, Steve."

He couldn't say it aloud—but they both saw it in her color, her breath, the terrifying stillness of her body.

She was slipping. And he wasn't going to let her go.

********************

They reached the small base in a storm of urgency, snow and blood soaked into their uniforms, the truck skidding to a halt just outside the main perimeter. Steve was trying to tell Bucky that Tony might already be gone, but Bucky refused to hear it. He couldn't. He wouldn't.

Together, they marched toward the medical tent, ignoring the shouted orders of the gate guards. Bucky shoved the flap aside so hard the poles shuddered. Inside, a lone medic looked up from his paperwork, startled. His pen slipped from his hand as he caught sight of the limp figure in Bucky's arms.

"Over there—on the bed!" the medic barked, already scrambling for supplies. The cot stood empty in the corner of the tent, a rare stroke of luck given the usual crowd of wounded in recovery. Today, the worst cases were already moved to the adjacent long-term ward.

As Steve eased Tony down onto the bed, the medic pointed to the exit. "Everyone not treating her—them" He gestures to the other Commandos, "—out."

The others backed out one by one, leaving only Bucky, Gabe, the medic, and a young nurse who hurried in at the medic's shout.

"Tourniquet. Clamp. Morphine. I need suction and gauze—move!"

Steve sticks his head into the tent for a moment, trying to find the right moment to ask to speak with Bucky.

The medic's voice cut through the haze as he tore open Tony's jacket and began peeling away the layers beneath. When he pulled the shirt back and her chest binder with it, her breasts sit exposed beneath the bloody fabric.

Without thinking, Bucky slapped a hand over Steve's eyes.

Steve flinched, more annoyed than startled, as his face burned red with embarrassment. "Who the hell is covering your eyes?" he asked, deadpan.

"Fucking nobody, thank God," Bucky muttered.

The medic froze mid-motion, staring at Tony's chest with wide eyes. The nurse, too, stood stiff with shock for a second too long.

Gabe continued to work as if nothing were happening, pausing only to give the attending doctor a "Not now. Not like this." Look, that seemed to snap the doctor straight.

The assistant medic blinked hard, visibly resetting. "Clamp. Morphine. Suction," he barked again, snapping back to work with the nurse scrambling to catch up to grab the handheld manual suction piece that looked rather like a fire billows, except round like a hot air balloon.

Steve gently pushed Bucky's hand off his face, now focused not on Tony's body, but on Bucky's expression. His eyes narrowed—not with lust or confusion, but the kind of betrayed concern that only came from someone who knew you too well. Steve looks back outside the tent and sees a small bench, sticks his head back inside, and says gently, "Bucky."

Bucky swallowed hard and turned away, stepping out into the cold. Steve held the flap for him, knowing his friend all too well.

Once outside the tent, Bucky planted himself on the bench Steve gestured to just beside the tent, eyes fixed somewhere past the horizon. Steve joined him without a word, arms folded tight across his chest against the cold.

For a long moment, they said nothing.

Then, softly so nobody else could hear, Steve murmured, "She's going to be okay."

Bucky exhaled through his nose and eyed the area for any stragglers, and when he found none breathed deeply before responding. "She's a strong soldier. She'll pull through fine."

Steve tilted his head slightly, watching him. "You know," he said, voice easy but too careful, "I've seen you carry wounded men off the field before. I've seen you yell for medics, keep pressure on wounds. But I've never seen you shake."

Bucky didn't answer.

Steve went on, eyes forward now. "Unless you've gone more French than I realized while we were over there."

That earned the tiniest snort from Bucky, but he didn't rise to the joke. "It's different," he said eventually, low and honest. "I guess I knew that from the start."

Steve looked over at him, something like sympathy flickering behind his gaze. "You care for her."

Bucky clenched his jaw, shoulders tight. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I do."

That's when the nurse stepped out of the tent, moving quickly. "This fell out of your pocket," she said, pressing something into Bucky's hands before disappearing back inside, the flap swishing shut behind her.

He looked down. The letter. Blood still stained the edge, dark and tacky against the paper. Steve stared at it, then back at him.

"If she does die, though, is her name really Tony?" Steve asks, trying to lighten the mood with dark humor.

"Annie," Bucky replied without hesitation, eyes still on the letter but a strained smile coming to his lips. "I'm not fuckin' with you."

Steve blinked slowly, his face the picture of stone-faced disbelief.

"I mean it," Bucky added, exasperated at the look on his best friend's face. "Her name really is Annie. Anthony is her twin brother in New York Hospital."

"The same one I was in for-" Steve starts but Bucky cuts across him with a laugh, "Astigmatism, Pernicious Anemia, Stomach Ulcers, Scoliosis, High Blood Pressure, rheumatic heart disease, palpitations, Scarlet Fever and Rheumatic Fever."

Steve looks at him deadpanned "Okay I get it-"

Bucky presses on, his hands up now counting the illnesses as he continues, "Asthma, That one time you found out you had Fallen Arches- Oh and a nervous system failure once a month." Bucky looks at his friend who glowers down at him, now slightly taller than Bucky.

"You know, I hate you sometimes." Steve says with a laugh escaping him dispite himself. Bucky laughs with him and says "Yes, that hospital."

A beat of silence passed between them.

Steve made a small sound that might've been a cough or a scoff. "Okay," he said finally, in a tone that absolutely meant not okay, but I'll go with it.

He glanced toward the letter Bucky was silently reading and nodded towards it. "What does it say?"

Bucky cleared his throat and folded the letter closed hastily, elbows propped on his knees as he leaned forward.

"It's a good letter, Just a touching goodbye," he said, voice rough as he sat back up.

Steve nodded slowly beside him. "She does have a way with words sometimes. I almost don't wanna know."

He paused, then added dryly, "Too bad she didn't die almost. That would've made it real touching."

Bucky smacked him in the arm without even turning. "Shut the hell up."

From inside the tent came a sudden rise in voices, and Bucky's head jerked up at the sound.

"Go get the Captain!" the doctor's voice rang out, muffled through the canvas.

"Should I also get the Sergeant?" the nurse called back. The flap rustled open just seconds later and she appeared, breathless, hands smeared in blood. Her apron was streaked with it too, but her eyes were lit up.

"You there! Come on—we have her steady!" she called, motioning frantically.

Bucky was on his feet in a flash, his heart pounding as he followed her back into the tent.

On the cot, Tony was no longer lying still and grey, her face now more of a peaked pale.

She was breathing.

Chapter Text

Bucky approached quietly, his boots muffled against the packed earth under the medical tent. The low rustle of canvas and the murmur of distant soldiers made the space feel almost too still. His breath caught for just a second when his eyes found her—Tony, alive. Breathing. Bandaged and pale, but not gone. Not because of him.

That counted for something.

"The bullet wounds were, surprisingly, non-life-threatening," the doctor murmured, half to himself, flipping between notes and the chart clipped to the cot. "She'll recover in a few weeks, assuming she gets some rest. While she still can."

Bucky didn't respond. It didn't feel like good news. Not entirely. His shoulders sagged, the air going out of him. She wasn't going to die from the bullets—but she wasn't going home either. Not really. Not ever.

He didn't remember every line of Army regulation, but he didn't have to. He knew enough. Women didn't belong on the battlefield. Not unless they were nurses. If Tony was caught—really caught—best case, she'd end up in prison. Medium case? Dumped at a border and told to disappear. Worst case? They killed her anyway. Quietly. Neatly. Legally.

The doctor slipped out through the tent flap, wiping his hands on a towel stained dull brown and red. Bucky trailed after, then knelt beside the cot, watching the slow rise and fall of Tony's chest under clean bandages and a thin army-issued blanket.

"Hey," he muttered, voice low. "Sorry you got shot. And... sorry you're probably gonna be killed anyway. Even if the bullets didn't do it."

He winced. Not his best speech. But he meant it.

The tent flap rustled again. The doctor returned with a clipboard in one hand and a tired-looking nurse in the other. As he scribbled something onto a form, he read aloud absently: "Name, Anthony Hudson. Age, eighteen and a half. Sex—male..."

Bucky blinked. "Wait—what?"

The doctor looked up. "It is odd," he said, not missing a beat. "Most of the front liners are over twenty-four. I didn't think they were still sending eighteen-year-olds."

"No, I mean—" Bucky started, then stopped himself.

"I know what you meant," the doctor said, voice smooth and dry. He clicked his pen shut and offered a tired, knowing smile. "And no—I'm not reporting her. Anyone who made it this far, who survived those wounds and ended up in the Howling Commandos? That's someone with grit. More than most. That counts."

A grin tugged at the corners of Bucky's mouth before he could stop it. He dipped his head, watching the doctor scrawl a signature across the bottom of the page.

The tent flap opened again. Steve stepped inside, his posture hunched, eyes trained firmly on the floor instead of the half-dressed figure on the cot. Tony's uniform pants were still neatly folded on a nearby stool, boots beside them like they were waiting for someone else.

"Uh... can I talk to you?" Steve muttered, eyes fixed on the dirt. "Outside."

Bucky followed him out, boots crunching softly. The tent flap whispered shut behind them.

They stopped a few paces away in the pale light of the moon, far enough to be out of earshot but close enough that the hum of camp still clung to them. Steve exhaled, slow and steady.

"Did we make a mistake?" he asked, like the thought had been on his mind nonstop.

Bucky tilted his head slightly, as if he was considering it.

"Letting her come with us," Steve clarified, as if it needed to be said. His voice was low, but tense. "Not saying anything. Not... stopping it when we had the chance."

Bucky didn't answer right away. His breath fogged faintly in the cold. He looked toward the dark line of tents, then back at Steve.

"You think she'd have lasted if we had?" Bucky asked finally.

Steve frowned.

"If we turned her in at training camp," Bucky said. "If we dragged her to the colonel's office and let them do it by the book—what do you think would've happened?"

Steve didn't answer.

"Best case?" Bucky said. "Dishonorably discharged. Left on the side of the road with nothing. Worst case? Prison. Or worse than prison."

A long beat passed.

"You've seen her file," Bucky added. "You know why she came here."

Steve's jaw clenched for a moment as he bit back something. Then he smiled at a different thought, "She's not fit for prison. To be frank she wasn't really even cut out for boot camp."

Bucky snorted. "She's not fit for a day without cursing out an officer, let alone being locked in a cell for twenty years."

Steve tried not to laugh, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth anyway. "She'd start a riot by lunch."

"She'd run the place by dinner," Bucky said, voice deadpan but with a grin on his face.

That finally got a real laugh out of Steve—brief and strained, but honest. Then his shoulders sank, and he rubbed a hand over his face.

"It's just—there's no privacy anymore. Out here, in the field. Now I have to think about where I'm changing, who's watching—"

"If she starts acting different now, someone's gonna notice," Bucky said, shrugging. "And besides, it's not gonna kill ya."

Steve shot him a look, red creeping up his cheeks. "It's not like it's helping me either!"

Bucky just grinned and stood to walk back toward camp. His laugh echoed through the trees as he went.

Meanwhile in the tent, Tony only felt heavy. Her arm was weighed down by sleep, her eyes sinking too deep to lift. Her whole skull felt thick, like it was filled with mud.

Her brain hummed as it tried to reboot, to pull up the memory of what had come before this.

They'd been told they were moving out to rush a new base. That part she remembered. Then the truck exploded. She'd fallen—dragged Barnes with her—down a hill. There was a firefight. She remembered that too. Holding her rifle with hands that wouldn't stop shaking. She'd shot, sure—but she'd aimed not to kill.

And then... she'd been shot.

So she was alive, wasn't she? Must be. Either that, or her soul was stuck inside her corpse somewhere in the woods. That was grim.

Her left fingers twitched first. Then she tried to move her arm and pain lanced through her shoulder, sharp enough to make her gasp. Her face twitched, her chest stuttered with a shuddering breath—another mistake. Her ribs flared with agony. Right. Chest wound too.

She forced her eyes open. A dim, white canvas overhead. Medical tent.

She groaned softly and turned her head, her vision swimming. The pain was coming clearer now, pressing through the gauze of whatever they'd given her. Probably morphine, but not enough of it.

A man sat at a desk nearby, writing something under the warm light of an oil lamp. His gray-streaked hair glinted gold where the light caught it, though his face was still young—creased with exhaustion, but alert. The way his shoulders hunched forward, the way his pen scratched with care—it all told Tony this man had seen too much death in this tent.

He looked up when she groaned, a grin blooming across his tired face. He stood, his chair scraping over the makeshift floor. "Well, glad to see you awake," he said, placing a hand on her forehead. "Mild fever. But—you'll live."

Tony's voice came out hoarse and thick with sleep. "Where... where's my team?"

The man checked his wristwatch. "They've just turned in for the night. Your Captain is on a night watch on the perimeter. Want me to get your sergeant?"

She considered. Did she?

Tony looked down at her almost indecent form and felt more naked than she had in maybe weeks.

If Barnes was the one who got her here, he probably already saw everything anyway—bandages, bruises, no pants, and all. He hadn't left her to die at the bottom of that cliff, so he must've cared at least a little.

She wanted to cover her face in embarrassment at the idea of being the blunt end of not one but two missions in the field. Tony felt she owed Barnes an apology at the least.

She nodded her agreement finally. "Please."

The doctor gave her a small nod and turned toward the tent flap. He glanced back once as he carefully closed the tent flap again, before disappearing into the dark.

Tony blinked up at the tent ceiling. The pain was definitely getting worse. She tried not to focus on it. She studied the supplies stacked nearby, the labels she couldn't read from this angle—anything to distract her.

Then—footsteps. Voices. The doctor returned, Barnes at his side, his face dark and unreadable.

Barnes hesitated near the entrance as he looked over his shoulder once and then turned to lay eyes on Tony at last, then grinned. "Drat. I was hoping I wouldn't have to deal with you anymore."

Tony chuckled weakly, the involuntary laugh making her wince. "And I was hoping I wouldn't have to deal with you. Guess I'm outta luck."

The doctor returned to his desk with a quiet smile and resumed writing, his pen scratching loudly against the cheap, rough paper. Barnes dragged a chair over and sat beside Tony's cot.

He yawned behind the back of his hand. "Didn't expect you to be awake at..." He glanced at his watch. "One a.m.?"

Tony blinked. "Sorry. I didn't know it was that late."

He waved it off. "I have an obligation to check on my men," he said, then smirked. "Even the misshapen ones."

Her smile faded. She picked at the edge of the blanket, eyes lowering. "I guess... it doesn't matter if I lived or not. They're gonna shoot me anyway."

Barnes just grinned, like an idiot.

Tony scowled at him. "What? That funny to you?"

He nodded, his grin widening and blue eyes twinkling in a mischievous way. "Yeah. 'Cause you're not gonna get shot."

She shut her eyes. "Oh, great. Prison, then. Can't wait to die slowly from shame."

"Nope," he said, flicking imaginary dust off his shoulder with flair as he ignored her theatrics.

Tony opened her eyes to narrow them at Barnes. "What did you do?"

He just kept smiling, glancing barely over at the Doctor still in the room, engulfed in his literature. "Let's say there was a small... mishap with your medical forms."

She stared at Bucky. He smiled at her, waiting as it sunk in. Slowly, a grin crept across her face. "Really? I'm not going to die?"

He nodded.

"And you're not just saying that to make me feel better before they throw me in a cell?"

"Nope," he said again, eyes serious. Then, "But—"

She groaned. "There it is. The 'but.'"

"You do have to get better. You'll be back in action in a couple of days, maybe closer to weeks. Just eat, drink, heal—and try not to die of infection while you're at it?" He glowered at her as he leaned back casually in his chair/

Tony gave him a dry look in return, "Is this the punishment I get for pulling you down a hill?"

Barnes laughed softly and shook his head, raising his hands up in a mock surrender. "Hey, it was either that or get blown to smithereens. I actually should thank you. I have a long life to live."

Tony clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle the laugh that tried to escape her. Wincing in pain, she sighs out, "Haven't heard that one in a while. Smithereens..."

Bucky sat watching Tony, her bare arms and shoulders sticking out of the military blanket covering the rest of her. She looked paler than normal, though her eyes held that same light they always did.

Snapping himself out of it, Bucky stretches his arms over his head and yawns. "Well. I'm going back to bed. Unless Your Highness needs anything else?"

Tony gave a tight smile. "Painkillers. Please. Feels like I'm dying."

Barnes glanced at the doctor, who handed him a bottle and a grey canteen of water without looking up.

"Well, great service around here," Barnes muttered, counting out two of the white pills as per the handscript label.

"Thanks," Tony said as she shifted just enough to drink them, breath catching as her shoulder flared up again.

She eased back down, and Barnes stood, handing the empty glass and bottle back to the doctor.

"Thanks, Doc," he said, then turned back to Tony. "By the way, everyone's dying slowly. You know that, right?"

Tony rolled her eyes. "Don't remind me."

Barnes just chuckled and slipped out, the tent flap whispering closed behind him.

Tony shut her eyes and waited for the pain to fade.

******************

Healing, as it turned out, was never easy. Not in the way folks back home imagined—no gentle fade into comfort, no nurses in white pressing cold cloths to fevered skin. And the idea of having regular painkillers was near absurd as the military strained to get anything this far on the front lines. Out here, on the edge of the front, it was grit and gauze, and pretending it didn't hurt as much as it did.

Tony lay still on the cot, jaw clenched as another wave of pain crested through her side. Her shoulder ached deep in the bone. The bullet wound throbbed with every shallow breath she dared. She wished she was anywhere else. Hell, even the Jersey base seemed to come to mind in a soft and inviting light.

The constant threat of the front needing to pack up and move kept everyone on edge almost as much as the routine air sweeps did. The thick trees kept them hidden well, but they couldn't have any fires for heat until evening when the darkness covered the smoke fully.

Tony's shifted slightly, eyes turned up toward the patched and dripping canvas ceiling. A sliver of cloudy sky peeked through the flap overhead—gray, stubborn, like it couldn't decide whether to rain again fully or not. The hours had dragged. The whole day had that sticky, slow-drifting quality, like a fever dream she couldn't quite shake.

It had been nearly two weeks since the ambush. Since the hill. Since she'd collapsed in the dirt with Bucky's voice barely cutting through the ringing in her ears. The medic said she might be able to sit up on her own next week, maybe even stand, if she took it slow. "You push too hard, you'll tear it all open again," he'd warned, like she didn't already know.

But the worst of it wasn't the pain. It was being sidelined. Trapped here, while the boys were out doing the work she came to do. She was supposed to be helping dismantle HYDRA, not lying in bed like dead weight. Out there, she could forget for a while who she was pretending to be. In here, every breath was a reminder.

She heard the truck before she saw it—rumbling wheels grinding to a stop on the gravel path beyond the medical tents. Always the same spot. Midweek. Mail day.

Usually, the medic made a show of stretching his legs and picking up his own letters. Nobody ever brought them inside. So when she caught the sound of footsteps instead, slow and deliberate, she pushed herself up just a bit, just enough to peer toward the entrance with a flicker of curiosity.

Then the flap lifted, and Barnes stepped through with Rogers close behind.

He was smiling—just a little, like he didn't want to seem too pleased with himself. "Hey," he said. "Was hopin' you'd be awake."

His jacket was rumpled, one pocket bulging awkwardly. He reached in and pulled out a folded envelope.

"This was on the floor of the truck," he said, moving closer to the cot. "Dum-Dum must've knocked it loose when he yanked the bag down. Lucky I saw it."

"Lucky I saw it, jackass." Steve said with a roll of the eyes, "I'm the one who went in and got it too."

Tony blinked in surprise, then managed a faint smile. "You always dig around in the mail?"

"Only when something looks like it might be yours," Steve said while Bucky pulled the old chair up without waiting for her to ask. It creaked under him the way it always did.

She nodded once in the direction of Barnes, voice rough. "Could you... read it?"

He didn't hesitate. Just sat back, ripped open the envelope with one careful motion, and settled into the kind of silence that made the tent feel like it existed outside the war for a little while.

Barnes cleared his throat, then smiled softly before beginning to read aloud.

"Dear Annie,

How are you? I know you must be busy because we haven't gotten a letter back from you yet. I hope you're not injured, and that things aren't too hard on you. Your father hopes that everything will be okay for you—he's worried all the bloodshed of war will make you cry too much. Just remember that it's all for a good cause: your country.

We have news from New York. Your brother's... doing better. He still needs the treatment we can't afford, but I'm sure that as soon as you come home, it'll make him the happiest man on earth.

Your older brother said he also wrote to you—I hope he isn't giving you a hard time about you being accepted into the fight while he sits back and waits.

Write us back soon! We love you.

—Love, Mom and Dad."

Bucky folded the letter carefully and set it on the small nightstand beside her cot. His expression was thoughtful—half a smile, half concern. "So I'm guessing you haven't told them about being in the actual fight? Or that you've almost died... more than once?"

Tony gave a faint, wry smile, her voice thin and raspy. "No. Where's the fun in that?"

Bucky huffed a soft chuckle, then sat back in his usual chair, the one that creaked just enough to be familiar. "Well, I also brought some camp news. Want to hear it?"

She nodded slightly but flinched with the motion, jaw tightening. Bucky winced in sympathy.

"Go ahead," she muttered once the pain had dulled again.

"Alright..." He leaned in, lowering his voice with exaggerated importance. "Rumor has it—Howard Stark is coming here."

Tony blinked. "Stark? Why?"

"Supposedly to check something out," Bucky said, gesturing vaguely around the tent like it was classified. "But also—he's interested in meeting someone."

She narrowed her eyes. "Who?"

"Might be the Captain," she reasoned aloud. "They worked together back before training started..."

"And," Bucky said, straightening up for dramatic effect, "they're in this very room."

Tony looked at Steve, who put his hands up in a mock surrender with a muttered 'not it'. She let out a weak breath of laughter, "No one in their right mind's coming out here to meet you, Barnes. You're out of your gourd."

He scowled. "Fine, then. I won't tell you who it is."

"Okay, okay!" she said quickly, schooling her face into an overly apologetic expression. "I'm sorry for stating pure fact."

He narrowed his eyes at her, pretending to weigh her sincerity. "Alright. I believe you—but only this once."

He glanced around theatrically, then leaned in closer, lowering his voice to a whisper.

"The rumor goes... he's coming to meet you."

Tony scoffed. "Me?"

Bucky nodded, eyes wide with mock suspense.

She opened her mouth to answer—but then Bucky's face screwed up, realization dawning.

"Wait a minute—what do you mean, 'pure fact'?!" Tony blinked up at Barnes, startled. "He wants to see me?"

Bucky raised a brow. "Well, you did survive getting shot—twice. Most folks call that impressive. And you are the youngest Howling Commando."

Tony flinched and turned her face away. "But... what if he finds out about—"

"That you're a girl?" Bucky whispered, glancing toward the tent flap. He gave a crooked grin. "Come on. These are just rumors. You don't actually believe them, do you?"

Tony opened her mouth to answer, to brush it off as nonsense. Of course she didn't believe it. Stark probably wasn't even here—the rumors probably started because someone saw an engineer with a moustache.

But then the sound of cheering erupted from the other side of camp. A plane landed.

Bucky's eyes went wide. He slapped his hands to his face in mock horror and turned to Tony, practically vibrating. "I—it's HIM!" he gasped, then bolted out of the tent as someone shouted his name.

Tony's stomach twisted. Howard Stark? Here? To see her?

No. He was probably just here to review logistics. Weapons prototypes. Something important. Anything but—

The tent flap stirred. Bucky returned with another man, tall and sharply dressed, all charm and confident swagger.

Tony froze staring at the man in front of her with her jaw dropped like some kind of cartoon.

Howard Mother Fucking Stark.

Bucky closed the flap behind them and nodded toward the cot. "There he is."

Stark gave the tent a quick glance, then smirked. "Heard someone got their tits out. Can't believe I missed the show."

Tony flushed hot. Bucky coughed loudly and shot Stark a look, half scandalized, half impressed.

Stark grinned like he'd just walked into a party, completely unbothered. "Relax, Doll. I'm joking—mostly."

Then he walked over and pulled up a folding chair, giving Tony a once-over. "Geez. You look like someone ran you over and backed up to check the damage."

Tony glanced toward Bucky, who gave her a subtle nod of encouragement. She forced herself to sit up a little, just enough to look somewhat composed.

Stark leaned in, eyes glinting with something sharper than humor. "Heard about the whole 'cheated death' thing. Folks told me not to bother coming out, said you'd be halfway dead or halfway naked. Figured I'd roll the dice either way."

"You're so goddamned white Doll you look like I'm about to shoot you," Stark said, softer now. "I'm not. Your secret's safe with me."

Her eyes widened further.

"I didn't cross the Atlantic to out you," he added. "I came because I wanted to ask you for a favor."

Tony managed to rasp, "A favor?"

Stark pulled a folded letter from his coat pocket and handed it to her. "This showed up in my mailbox. No clue how. But I opened it before I realized it wasn't mine."

Her heart clenched as she recognized the handwriting—Danny's. The smudged ink. Her brother's careful scrawl bleeding into the paper from water damage.

Stark went on, his voice gentler now. "I read it. The part about your brothers. One sick, one laid up. No money. Treatment slipping through your fingers."

Tony stared at him, breath shallow.

"I want to offer you something," he said. "A deal. You help me, and maybe that hospital bill goes away."

A thousand dollars. Maybe more. Her heart nearly stopped.

She licked her lips. "What... what would I have to do?"

Howard leaned back slightly, adjusting the crease of his sleeve like he had all the time in the world.

"There's a file," he said. "Tucked away in a HYDRA facility up north—nothing flashy, just paper and ink. But the kind of paper that could change a lot of things. Names, coordinates, prototypes. Research I'd like to see with my own eyes before it ends up strapped to a rocket and pointed back at us."

Tony's brow furrowed. "So go get it."

"I would," Howard said. "But it's in a lab crawlspace half the size of your cot. Reinforced hatch, triple-sealed, designed for emergency data storage. One entrance. No room for gear, body armor, or anyone over five-foot-five."

Tony blinked slowly. "...Seriously?"

Howard nodded. "I sent a man once. Got stuck. Took four hours to pull him out and two weeks for the bruising to fade. Poor bastard looked like toothpaste in a uniform."

She stared at him. "You need me because I'm small?"

He held up a hand. "I need you because you're small and stupid enough to do it."

Tony scowled, but didn't argue.

When she didn't respond right away, he added, almost lazily, "And because Steve recommended you."

Tony's eyes shot up. "He what?"

"Back in the States," Howard said. "I floated the idea of a small-scale infiltration op. Steve said, 'I've got just the guy.' Didn't realize at the time he meant you. But now that I know... well." He grinned. "Here I am."

She opened her mouth, then closed it again, expression caught somewhere between shock and confusion.

Howard reached into his coat again, pulled out a small folded map, and laid it gently on the blanket beside her. "I got the intel I needed. Coordinates, guard rotations, layout. Just needed a person who could fit through the duct, grab the file, and walk out like they hadn't just robbed a war factory."

Tony stared at the map, jaw tight.

Then Howard leaned in just a bit, voice lowering, eyes glinting.

"I thought you were the kind of girl who did tricks for money." Steve holds his hands up, face red, "I did NOT say that."

Tony flushed instantly. "Excuse me?"

From across the tent, Bucky made a choking noise that might've been a laugh or a failed attempt to keep one in.

Howard raised his brows, feigning innocence. "What? I'm paying you, aren't I? Hospital bill gets cleared. No one finds out you're not little 'Tony' Hudson. That's a pretty fair rate."

Tony crossed her arms. "You're lucky I'm too injured to hit people."

"Lucky's my middle name," Howard said smugly.

She shook her head, half-exasperated, half-red in the face. "You're unbelievable."

"You're welcome," he said, standing. "You'll need to recover first, obviously. But I'll get the details squared away. Be ready in a few days."

As he made for the flap, he paused. "Oh, and just so you know... I'm not doing this out of charity."

Tony frowned. "No?"

Howard looked over his shoulder, a rare flicker of something genuine in his voice. "I just like betting on the kind of people the world underestimates."

Chapter Text

The storm rolled in just after dawn. Thunder cracked low in the distance, rattling the canvas walls of the medical tent. Inside, the small oil lamp flickered with every gust of wind, throwing dancing shadows over the maps spread across the crate between them.

Tony sat propped up on one elbow, blanket bunched at her waist, eyes squinting against the dim light. Her ribs still burned and her shoulder throbbed like hell, but she wasn't going to lie flat while they planned a mission around her.

Steve pointed at one of the hand-drawn diagrams Howard had left behind—a mess of blue ink lines, red circles, and pencil-scrawled guard rotations. "There's the duct entrance here," he said. "Security checkpoint here. But if we come in from the north wall..."

Bucky shook his head. "Too much elevation. We'd be sitting ducks on the ridge."

Tony's eyes flicked between them, brow furrowing.

Neither of them had asked her opinion. And something in the way they were talking—like she wasn't even part of the op—made her chest tighten.

Steve tapped the map again. "We hit the power station first. That'll give us a five-minute window to breach the crawlspace without triggering the secondary alarm."

Bucky nodded. "That's enough for me to slip in and grab the file."

Tony blinked. "You?"

Both men paused. Steve looked up, lips pressed in a line. Bucky gave her a glance like he was bracing for impact.

That's when Tony realized—they weren't planning on her going at all.

Her voice cracked through the quiet.

"I have to go with you!" Tony's voice cracked with urgency as she pushed herself upright, trying not to sound as desperate as she felt.

Bucky raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

She stammered, scrambling for justification. "Because... you don't know the way. I do."

Steve turned back, unimpressed. "Then you'll share the intel. That's part of your duty—report enemy positions."

Tony swallowed, shifting upright with trembling arms. "Come on, I can go... it's fine..."

The effort to sit up left her sweating, her legs barely holding steady beneath the weight of her own body. Pain flared, sharp and insistent. Still, she kept herself upright.

The two men exchanged a silent look, one of those long-range conversations forged in battlefields and foxholes.

Bucky stepped forward. "You can't. You need to heal, and you can't do that with bullets flying past your head again."

Steve gave a firm nod in agreement.

Tony gritted her teeth. "But Stark—he gave me something only I can do."

She barely got the words out between breaths, her body shaking from the strain.

Bucky looked like he might physically shove her back into the bed. "Lay down, you're gonna tear something open."

"I'm not going anywhere unless you wait for me," she said, voice ragged. "Give me a week. I'll be good enough to move. Otherwise, you're not getting near that base without me."

Another silent exchange passed between them—eyebrows raised, shoulders squared. Then finally, Steve sighed through his nose.

"Fine," he said. "But you're not doing anything stupid. You don't move unless we say so. I don't need you dying on me."

Tony let out a breathless, pained groan. "Worse. What's worse than this?"

"You could be dead," Bucky offered, too cheerfully.

Tony slumped back into the cot, beads of sweat rolling down her temple. "Point taken."

They both chuckled softly, then left her to the silence and the rustle of canvas walls. A few minutes later, the medic returned to check her bandages.

Later, after the medic had finished re-wrapping her shoulder and left the tent with a muttered warning not to push her luck, Steve and Bucky remained. The maps were still spread out in front of them, held down by a half-empty canteen and someone's forgotten gloves.

"We'll wait," Steve said finally, voice low but certain. "But only a few more days. The window won't stay open long."

Tony nodded, lips pressed tight. "That's all I need."

Bucky leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "In the meantime, we're not sitting still. There's a Hydra outpost not far from the crawlspace entrance—if we take it out now, we won't have to worry about reinforcements during the run."

Tony frowned. "You're going without me?"

"You're barely upright," Bucky said. "What are you gonna do? Bleed at them?"

"I could distract them," she offered dryly.

Bucky huffed a laugh but didn't budge.

"You're staying here. That's final," Steve said again, giving her a flat look

Tony narrowed her eyes. "Well, whose bright idea was it for me to skip regular basic training, huh?"

Steve turned to Bucky with eyebrows raised.

Bucky looked away. "She had... potential."

Tony snorted. "Yeah. Potential to get shot."

"Exactly," Bucky said, ignoring Steve's glare and seizing Tony's verbal weakness, "And you're not getting shot again."

He leaned over the map, tapping a corner of it with the back of his knuckle. "We'll hit this camp in two days. When we get back, if you're still upright and not leaking from anywhere new—we go after the file."

Tony nodded once, still wincing as she lay back down. "Fine. But don't get yourselves killed before I get my turn."

Steve smiled faintly. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Outside, thunder cracked again. The lamp hissed low in the wind, and the canvas walls breathed in and out with each gust like the tent itself was listening. Then the light dimmed, and the three of them fell quiet—planning a theft that could change everything.

**************

Turns out, getting shot more than once didn't exactly make for a speedy recovery. Everything hurt—sharply, dully, constantly.

The pain hadn't let up—not really. Some days it flared sharp and sudden, other days it gnawed at her slow, like her own insides were trying to stitch themselves back together. The medic reminded her, gently, that was more or less what they were doing.

What Tony didn't mind so much was the conversation. Talking helped. Talking got her through the worst of the pain.

The doctor—young, sharp, always tired—had a quiet sort of humor about him. Turns out, he wasn't writing letters home. He was writing a book. About the war.Said maybe—when it was all over—it'd help people understand what it was really like.

He didn't trust keeping his manuscript in camp, not with all the movement and uncertainty. So he mailed his chapters home piece by piece, each one packed carefully into a weatherproof envelope addressed to his wife in Mississippi. He never said what town. Maybe he didn't want anyone tracking it.

Tony had heard some of it—just a few lines, read aloud when the tent was quiet. It wasn't lacking in bloodshed. What it lacked, he said, was color. Humanity. He was still trying to find the words for that part.

From her cot near the center of the tent, Tony had a front-row seat to the worst of it. The newly wounded were brought in from the front lines—men screaming, men silent, men already gone pale and still. She watched them come and go, too many of them never walking back out again. These were the front lines, after all.

Her own team hadn't slowed down. If anything, they'd gotten sharper without her. The Commandos had taken out several Hydra installations in the past few weeks, at least from what she heard. Pulled off the kind of ops that usually took entire battalions.

They didn't need her.

She'd been brought in for her aim, for her edge, and yet she hadn't taken a life directly. Not once. And part of her wondered if that made her soft—or what was still keeping her sane.

Maybe she was just a coward.

But then—could you really call someone a coward for not wanting to end a life?

The enemy were soldiers too, weren't they? Told who to hate. Told where to go and when to pull the trigger. Most of them didn't ask why. Just like the Allies, they were following orders, trying to survive. If the lines had been drawn a little differently, if someone had told Tony a different story growing up—who would she be?

The war made things messy. Black-and-white on paper. Mud-slick and blood-streaked in practice.

Tony shifted under the thin army-issue blanket, wincing as her ribs pulled tight. She stared up at the canvas ceiling, willing the medic to return with good news.

Three weeks. She'd been stuck here for three weeks.

And Howard's promise—it hung over her like a storm cloud. The red file. The deal. The cure for her brother. Every day she spent in this bed, the timeline narrowed. It was a race she couldn't afford to lose. She needed to recover. She needed to get that file. Then somehow get it to Stark. Then somehow get what Stark promised back home before it was too late.

Every step cost time she didn't have.

Bootsteps thudded past the tent, too fast for a visitor. The doctor ducked in just long enough to grab his bag before rushing back out again, face grim. Another emergency. Another body in worse shape than hers.

Tony let her head fall back against the pillow with a sigh she couldn't afford. Even that small sound made her ribs throb. She blinked up at the top of the tent and listened to the weather turn. Rain now, soft and cold. Tapping gently against the leaves overhead. The fog had cleared, the thin early winter snow was melting.

It was quiet.

She closed her eyes and let the rhythm of the falling rain ease her toward sleep.

Chapter Text

After a few short days of healing, Tony was cleared for active duty by the begrudging doctor. The stitches in her side wouldn't need to come out in another fortnight, but the medic had finally deemed her fit enough to rejoin the unit after much harassment from Bucky and Steve.

She stepped out of the medical tent, blinking against the gray morning light. The sky stretched flat and cold overhead, and the air carried the scent of canvas, dust, and woodsmoke. As she stretched her arms over her head, her shoulder and ribs flared with sharp protest. Her lungs caught like rusted hinges. She groaned aloud, jaw clenched against the ache.

She felt like a busted-up car left to rust in the rain and sun—still able to turn over and move, but everything underneath had seized. The struts were blown, the wheel bearings ground down to nothing, and there sure as hell wasn't any oil left in the engine.

Her frame creaked with every step, and her breath wheezed out, like a cracked radiator hissing steam. Still, she was running. Technically. And that was all the cold, hard asses up in brass ever needed from their soldiers—to be running. Smooth didn't matter. Comfortable didn't matter. Just motion. And somehow, she was still moving.

The small dirt path through camp led her past rows of olive drab tents and parked trucks. Their team's transport sat just ahead, mud still dried along the tires from their last run. She grinned faintly. Word would spread fast now.

War left a stink that seeped into everything. Not just the sweat and smoke, but something deeper—like rust and rot and old fear. The kind of smell that clung to canvas, to uniforms, to skin, no matter how many times it rained.

Everything in camp was stained in dull browns and grays, bleached by sun, soaked by storms, trampled by boots that never stopped moving. Men hunched by fires with hollowed-out eyes, trying not to remember what they saw last time they left this place. And some of them never came back to try at all.

She passed a medic tent and caught sight of a stretcher being dragged inside. Blood still wet on the canvas. Another bad night. Maybe worse than hers.

This was the front line—not in the newspapers, not in stories, but in the grit under fingernails and the way everyone flinched at thunder. These men had seen hell. Some were still seeing it. And all of them had to wake up again tomorrow and do it all over again.

When she reached the tent she shared with the Commandos, she paused in the entryway, taking in the scene.

Inside, the team was animated—laughing, making gunshot noises with their fingers. Barnes pantomimed throwing something, maybe a grenade, and glanced toward the flap just in time to spot her standing there. His face lit up. The others followed his gaze.

"Look what the cat dragged in!" Dum-Dum bellowed, rising from his cot. He crossed the tent in a few quick strides and clapped her—mercifully gently—on the right shoulder.

"Good to see you up again," Pinky added, grinning as he followed behind.

Tony offered a crooked smile and stepped further into the tent. Her eyes landed on her cot, now buried beneath a pile of gear.

"Okay," she said, lifting a backpack and a folded uniform off the bed. "Who decided my bed was the new closet?"

Jim chuckled from the far end of the tent. "That'd be mine," he said, retrieving his things sheepishly.

With the bed cleared, Tony sank onto it, letting the familiar scent of canvas and gun oil ground her, thankful not to have to smell iodine or blood, at least for now. At the center of their little circle of beds, a map had been spread out on a crate. Red dots marked positions; black ones were circled in red.

"What's this?" she asked, nodding toward the map.

Steve looked up from his seat beside her cot, his expression sobering. He pointed toward a dark line winding through the mountains. "This is our next job. An intel base—Nazi-built, now HYDRA-owned. We're going in quiet." He dragged a finger along a dotted trail, freshly marked in one of his charcoal pencils. "Right through here."

"There's a ridge here—steep but climbable. We'll use the treeline for cover and cut around the north checkpoint. Once we're inside, we split. Bucky and I handle the ground floor. The rest hold the perimeter."

He tapped a spot just off the main compound. "This is where you'll go in. Small ventilation shaft leads to a locked data cache—Howard thinks the red file's inside."

"He said it's sealed in blue wax," Tony added quietly, eyes on the map. "Meant to be one of their fallback caches—stuff too dangerous to leave with the rest of the intel."

Steve nodded. "Stark thinks it's personal. Names, projects, maybe even prototypes. Whatever's in there, he didn't want it falling into the wrong hands."

Bucky muttered, "Which usually means it already has."

That drew a few grim nods. Nobody in the tent had to ask what happened to intel that dangerous in HYDRA's grip.

Tony stiffened, her pulse ticking faster.

Steve kept going, eyes still on the map. "Intel suggests they've got enhanced tech inside. Same blue-core energy signatures we saw in Lyon. Stark says it's stable, but volatile. We don't touch it unless we have to."

"There's a name behind the upgrades," he added grimly. "Red Skull. Johann Schmidt. HYDRA's main brain. Used to work under Erskine before he went full monster."

"And there's a second guy," Jim said, forehead scrunched. "Scientist. Real weird name. Like... Gherkin? Gruel?"

"Zola," Steve corrected. "Arnim Zola. We take out the file, we get out. If either of them show, we adapt."

That earned a few short laughs—tension-busting, nothing more.

Tony smirked faintly, but her eyes were on the map. Those red circles were close. Too close.

"We're closer than they want us to be," Steve said, catching her gaze. "If we do this right, we'll hit them before they know we're coming."

As Steve and Jim fell into a side debate about whether Zola sounded more like a cheese or a cartoon villain, Bucky leaned subtly toward Tony, his voice just low enough to cut beneath the chatter.

"How're you feeling?" he asked.

Tony blinked, then gave a shrug that didn't quite hide the wince. "Tired."

She didn't mention the burning. The two separate points of pain—one in her shoulder, the other deeper, near her ribs—hadn't eased since she stood. Every breath made her feel like a seam was about to split open. But she wasn't about to say that. Not while they were finally looking at her like she was still useful.

Bucky watched her for a second longer than necessary, then nodded toward the tent flap. "We won't have time for a brush-up in the morning. Figured maybe you'd want to step out for a minute. Get some air. Stretch your aim."

Tony arched a brow faintly. "That your way of saying I need the practice?"

He smirked. "Nah. You've still got the best shot in camp. Just figured we could both use the break."

Tony hesitated, then pushed herself into a ready position with a slow breath. "Alright. Let's go pretend I'm not held together by gauze and spite."

He slid a sidearm across the crate toward her. "Time to brush up."

Tony nodded, rising carefully. The stiffness in her side reminded her not to move too fast. As she stepped outside, Barnes fell in beside her.

"Honestly, I'm surprised they let you out of that tent at all," he said, flashing a grin.

Tony huffed a laugh, her voice still scratchy from disuse. She cleared her throat, deepening it reflexively as they passed two other soldiers by the mess line. "Pretty sure the doc just got tired of me complaining."

Barnes laughed. "That tracks."

They turned a corner, the mood quieting.

Up ahead, tied to a wooden post in the center of the path, sat a prisoner—thin, bruised, and filthy. His wrists were bound, head drooped forward as if the effort of staying upright had long since become unbearable.

Tony slowed. Recognition settled cold in her gut.

The same HYDRA agent. The one who'd once spoken to her across enemy lines. The one who'd been found with the Nazi knife.

"Is he still here?" she asked quietly.

Barnes nodded. "We let him off twice a day. Woods. Scrap rations once a day. Better than what they'd give us if we were in his place."

Tony didn't argue. But the sight of the man—his cracked lips, the hollow stare lifting just faintly to meet her eyes—sat uncomfortably with her. For a heartbeat, his expression softened. A flicker of memory, perhaps. Then Barnes shot him a glare that could peel paint, and the prisoner looked away.

They walked on.

The makeshift shooting range came into view—a half-cleared stretch of dirt, lined with plank targets swaying slightly on ropes strung between trees. The wood was already riddled with holes, splinters peeling from the center mass like dried petals. Empty shell casings glinted in the mud.

Tony checked the magazine of the sidearm she'd been given. Loaded. Her hand still trembled faintly from fatigue, but it steadied as she drew in a breath and glanced at Barnes.

He raised his brows and gave her a wordless nod, stepping back to let her line up.

She squared her shoulders and exhaled, bracing her legs.

The first shot cracked through the air—and sailed wide. Not by much, but enough to pull a sharp twitch from her jaw.

Barnes tilted his head. "Don't rush it," he said, his voice low, even. "You're aiming with your arms, not your body."

She huffed and reloaded, fingers fumbling slightly over the slide. "I'm aiming with what still works."

He stepped closer. "Mind if I...?"

She didn't say yes, but she didn't pull away either.

His hand came to rest lightly on her shoulder, careful to avoid the worst of the damage beneath her jacket. His other hand grazed her lower back, shifting her hips just enough to square her posture. The warmth of his touch bled through the layers of fabric. Steady. Grounding.

"Bend your knees a little more. Let the recoil flow through you, not against you." His breath was at her ear, quiet so only she could hear. "Don't fight it—ride it."

She swallowed hard to avoid speaking on the innuendo and nodded, resetting her grip. Another shot. Closer this time.

He murmured words of encouragement underneath his breath, "There you go."

"I didn't forget everything," she said back sarcastically, reaching back to him for another clip.

"No. Just needed the rust shaken off." He offered the ammo, his fingers brushing hers.

Barnes stayed beside her, not saying much—but he didn't step back either.

Tony reloaded, jaw tight, focus narrowing on the target. The metal was scarred already—she wasn't doing that bad—but her grip kept shifting, her stance slipping from muscle memory.

Bucky stepped up behind her. She didn't flinch—just exhaled, shoulders tense.

"Hey," he said softly. "Don't overcorrect. You're fighting the gun, not aiming it."

His hands didn't touch her at first. Just hovered—offering. When she didn't pull away, he stepped closer than before and placed his palms lightly on her elbows, guiding her arms back into a steadier line. His chest brushed her shoulders from behind, making her face burn and her mind wander from the targets.

"You always square up like you're bracing for a hit," he murmured, his voice closer to her ear than it had been before.

Tony's breath caught. Not from pain this time.

He lingered a second longer than he should have, then eased back. His hands slid away, slow like he didn't want to go, but the smell of his cologne lingered still.

She turned to look at him to see him still standing just behind her, close. Almost too close. He was looking down at her with those intensely brown eyes again, this time they seemed to swirl with something she hadn't seen before.

"You always look at me like you're waiting for something," she spoke softer than she meant to, but kept her tone even.

Bucky's smirk faltered—not gone, just softened across the storm brewing on his face. "Maybe I am."

He moved slowly, hands settling on her hips just above the beltline of her worn olive-green fatigues. His gaze pinned her there, heavy and unrelenting. She tried to look away, fidgeting under the weight of it—but he caught her gently, fingers curling under her chin.

He tilted her face up toward his. Smiling—but not cruel. Just... like he knew. Like he saw everything she was trying to hide and didn't mind a bit of it.

And still, he didn't press. Didn't lean in. Just stood there, breathing the same air, eyes tracing hers like a map. Waiting.

Tony closed the gap.

Just barely. A breath. A heartbeat. Her forehead almost touched his, and her eyes fluttered shut—afraid to see, afraid to move, afraid to ruin the moment that felt too big for her trembling hands to hold.

She felt him shift slightly.

Then a low, quiet chuckle.

And then—without warning—his lips brushed hers.

It wasn't rough. Wasn't fast. Just warm, and full, and real. She froze for a beat, too stunned to react—until his hand, still resting at her jaw, slid back into her hair, steadying her. Holding her in place while he kissed her, slow and unhurried.

She didn't move. Didn't quite know how.

When he pulled away, there was a soft, wet sound. He let her go, but didn't step back. His grin returned—lazy and fond.

"You really haven't kissed anyone before, huh, sugar?" he murmured. "You're supposed to move too, you know."

Bucky lingered close, his lips brushing hers once more before pulling away—slower this time, like he didn't really want to. His thumb ghosted along her cheek one last time, then dropped back to his side.

They stood there for a second. Maybe two.

Tony blinked up at him, still feeling the heat of his breath and the burn it left in her chest. Her lips parted like she meant to say something, but no words came.

Then, without a word, Bucky stepped back. A cocky smirk pulled at the edge of his mouth, but it didn't reach his eyes. "C'mon, sharpshooter," he murmured, low and easy. "Let's see if that kiss knocked your aim off."

She huffed a short laugh, trying not to let it sound like a breathless sigh, and turned toward the range. Her hands felt warmer than they should. She tightened her grip on the pistol and braced her stance again.

Bucky stood just behind her. She could feel the weight of his presence without needing to look.

When it ended, neither of them said anything.

She just turned back to the target.

He handed her the next magazine without a word.

Chapter Text

The fog was thinner tonight. Thin enough that it didn't quite hide the stretch of barbed wire fencing around the compound, or the distant glow of yellow floodlights washing over the trees like a sickly dawn. The air hung wet and cold, and every breath stuck to the inside of Tony's throat like cotton.

She crouched low behind a scraggly patch of brush, side pressed to Bucky's. Steve knelt just ahead of them, binoculars raised, his hand half-curled in a signal to hold.

Tony shifted slightly, raising her own scope.

The compound sat nestled between two narrow ridges, built right into the rock face like some kind of military tumor. It wasn't enormous, but it was busy—figures moved along the edges, rifles slung over shoulders, chatter leaking from cracked-open doors. HYDRA hadn't skimped on security. Which meant the file had to be here.

Tony scanned left—and then froze.

Near one of the outbuildings, under a harsh yellow bulb, a young man stood speaking animatedly to two larger figures. He was narrow-shouldered but clean-cut, a coat that was too nice for grunt work tossed over his arm. His left shoulder was stiff—held carefully—like something still healing beneath the fabric.

Tony's gut turned to ice.

"That's him," she murmured. "The one that got away."

Bucky moved his binoculars to get a closer look at the snake like face. "You sure?"

"Positive," she whispered. "The one you shot in the woods. Same face. Same stupid little smirk."

The man laughed at something his companions didn't seem to get. One of them nodded dumbly, and the other tripped over a bucket behind him.

Tony watched the way he flicked his fingers toward them without turning—dismissive, sharp, familiar.

"What's he saying?" Steve asked, still watching.

Tony adjusted the dial on her scope, catching just a few crisp syllables in German—and then, startlingly, English.

"...Don't touch that, idiot. We have guests tomorrow. I want the room spotless when the Skull returns."

She sucked in a breath.

"He said Red Skull was here," she whispered. "And that he's coming back."

Steve's brow furrowed.

"Probably just passing through," Bucky muttered. "They're too cocky."

Steve turned toward the group. "We move as soon as it's fully dark. Quiet. We get the file and get out before they even know we were here."

Tony's mouth was dry. But she nodded anyway.

Bucky leaned close to her ear. "You sure you're up for this?"

She gave a breathy laugh. "Not even a little."

"Good," he said, and his voice was steady now. "Means you're just scared enough to stay alive."

Once the stars above shone brightly in the moonless night, the group began to move.

They slipped through the trees like smoke, low to the ground and mostly silent, boots pressing careful shapes into the pine-soft dirt. Bucky led the right flank—Steve took the left. Tony, despite her injuries and the tight burn in her ribs, stuck close to the middle. She'd insisted on carrying her sidearm herself. No one had argued this time.

Tony couldn't shake the uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach.

The ridge was steep, but not unmanageable. They used knotted rope to rappel down the worst of it, dirt crumbling beneath their boots in quiet showers. By the time they reached the edge of the compound's outer perimeter, their breath was coming in white puffs, and the stars were being hidden by clouds.

Bucky pulled the wire cutters from his kit and knelt beside the fence. He worked in quick, practiced movements—snipping a small triangle just large enough for someone Tony's size to crawl through.

"This is you," he whispered, nodding to the cut.

Tony knelt beside him, fingers brushing the ground to steady herself. The pain in her side had flared again on the climb down, but she bit it back.

Steve appeared behind them. "Perimeter's quiet. Jim and Dum-Dum are in position at the treeline. Pinky and Gabe are circling the back to keep the exits covered."

Bucky looked at Tony. "You've got ten minutes from breach to return. We'll keep low until then."

Tony nodded once, already reaching for the small flashlight clipped to her belt just to be sure it was there. "And if I don't come out?"

Steve's face was hard. "We'll burn the place down trying to find you, Tony. Don't worry."

She gave him a faint smirk. "Comforting. Thanks."

Then she turned and slithered through the gap, elbows and knees scraping over the packed dirt. The inside of the compound was quieter than she'd expected—no patrols in sight for the moment. She kept to the shadows, slipping between crates and tarped vehicles until she reached the side of the main building.

A narrow grate sat just ahead, tucked behind a shed wall and half-hidden by a pile of coiled wires. The ventilation shaft. Just like the map.

Tony pried the grate free and crouched low. The opening was barely wide enough to fit her shoulders through—and crawling inside felt like being buried alive. The metal walls were cold and narrow, brushing her shoulders and hips with every inch she moved forward. Her breath echoed off the interior.

Tony clenched her jaw and kept moving forward, toward whatever was waiting in the dark. She wandered down the long dark hallway, seeing nobody and hearing nothing. After a long walk she found the second vent opening she had been searching for and pulled the small blowtorch and micro shaded lenses from her belt.

After a tense couple of moments with the tiny shield against her eyes as she cut into the vent cover as carefully as possible. She lowered the still-hot grate and then slipped inside feet first.

The shaft narrowed even more, the metal's rough cut edges biting into Tony's elbows as she dragged herself forward. Every movement echoed—too loud, too tight. She kept her breath slow, rationed in careful quiet gasps. Her side screamed from the effort. The stitches felt like they might tear, but she didn't stop.

Tony ducked low and slid into the vent, her breath catching in her throat as the metal edges scraped against her jacket. The hatch clanged softly behind her, shut tight by Bucky's gloved hands. Forward was the only option now.

It was cramped—barely wide enough for her shoulders—and the air stank of oil and something sourer, like old blood and rust. Her elbows slipped against the metal floor as she crawled, every shallow breath echoing back in her ears like someone else was right behind her. The shaft groaned once, long and low, like it was warning her not to keep going.

She paused. Listened.

A faint sound—a scuff of boots and dull laughter echoed through the vents seemingly from all sides, it was hard to tell what the voices were saying after that as they walked away from the vent opening.

Tony kept moving forward.

Ahead, dim red light bled through the seams of a ventilation grate. Voices drifted in from below—casual, confident. German. One of them sharper, younger. That was him. She recognized that mocking tone even when he wasn't speaking English. Dieter.

She slowed to a crawl, then stopped entirely. Her fingers curled tight against the grate's edge.

"...not here," one voice said.

"...Red Skull left already," another responded, bored. "Took the file copies with him."

Tony's breath caught. Copies?

The third voice—Dieter—sounded pleased. "Yes, but not everything. He trusts me. More than you, idiot."

There was a crack of knuckles. A shift in tone as they continued to walk further away. Tony slowed her pace even though her brain screamed to continue to follow them; the risk of falling through the ceiling or making too much noise was too much to risk.

A door shut somewhere below, and Tony used the moment to peel the grate open, inch by inch. Below her, the room hummed with energy.

Her eyes found the room below a strange shape—dimly lit, full of paper, maps, and one narrow table covered in strange equipment. The lab wasn't large—just a wide concrete space reinforced with steel, the walls half-covered in chalkboard formulas and blueprints pinned under broken glass.

A cluster of glowing machines pulsed softly in one corner, and beneath the only one not lit up currently, tucked inside a recessed hatch, was the cache Howard had drawn out by hand with a red wax seal on the lock.

She let out a small breath she hadn't realized she was holding as she tried to remember the plan. A wave of heat flushed through her—part adrenaline, part claustrophobia. The vent seemed to shrink around her shoulders, the air growing heavier with every second she lingered.

She twisted the vent panel loose with shaking fingers and dropped soundlessly into the room.

Her boots hit the floor with a muted thud. She froze. Waited.

Nothing.

Then she moved.

The cabinet was locked, of course. But Howard had sent the key—a custom-coded punch clip she pulled from her inside pocket. She slid it into place and held her breath.

Click.

The door opened on its hinges.

Inside: a single folder. Crimson file jacket, sealed in wax, just like Stark described.

Tony took it gently, slipping it into the satchel on her hip. Then paused.

Something else sat tucked beside it—a slim black booklet labeled in red ink. ZOLA, PERSONAL. Next to it, a small metal case with a cracked glass lid—inside, a glowing blue shard of something sharp and pulsing faintly.

Stark had said not to touch the tech. And maybe for once in her life, she listened to that kind of warning.

Tony touched the notebook instead.

She flipped it open. Inside, meticulous handwriting danced across the pages in tight German script. But one word stood out near the top, repeated again and again:

"Солдатский Проект"

She froze. Her eyes traced the entry beneath it. Coordinates. Test subjects. Names.

The name at the top: James Buchanan Barnes

Her blood ran cold.

Behind her, above the lab, a faint clatter echoed down through the shaft. Footsteps. Voices. Too many.

She shoved the notebook into her coat and bolted for the vent.

Tony scrambled up into the shaft, her breath ragged in the close dark. The satchel bounced against her hip with every crawl. Behind her, the clatter of boots hit the floor—louder now. Once they reached the lab she had just left, they became urgent. Voices rang out in clipped German.

They knew.

She crawled faster.

Halfway back through the shaft, she heard the first shot.

It ricocheted just behind her, sparking off the metal wall. "Shit. Shit. Shit." She hissed under her breath, her muscles screaming at her to stop for a rest, but her fear and adrenaline pushing her forwards, too scared to stop.

By the time she hit the far vent, her fingers were slick with sweat. She shoved it open, dragged herself out—and hit the ground just as another bullet hissed past her head.

"GO, GO, GO!" Steve's voice roared from somewhere ahead. The others had obviously noticed she had been found out.

Gunfire cracked like a whip through the trees. Bucky was already shooting, dropping targets behind a makeshift barricade. Jim yanked her up by the arm and started running.

Then she heard it.

Laughter.

Cold. Mocking. Familiar.

She turned, just long enough to see him—Dieter Metzger—standing at the edge of the tree line, framed by smoke and firelight. His coat flared like a cape, two guards flanking him like shadows. One of them lit a match off the barrel of his own rifle.

Metzger raised a hand in mock greeting. "Miss Hudson," he called, clear and smug. "Did you find something meant for grown-ups?"

Tony's heart dropped.

Steve shoved her behind cover. "MOVE!"

The ensuing explosion was so powerful that it felt like Tony had been shot from a cannon as she was pushed off her feet and further into the treeline, the massive complex behind her now burning and exploding as tanks of gas and abandoned vehicles blew from the unrelenting heat of the initial blast's flames.

The retreat turned chaotic. The Commandos fell back through the trees, laying down cover fire as the ones who had fallen scrambled back up again. Someone was shouting coordinates. Dum-Dum nearly got clipped. Pinky was dragging a wounded rifleman.

Bucky firmly grabbed Tony's pack and hauled her onto her feet like she was weightless as he shot rapid rounds over his shoulder at the retreating group of HYDRA agents that were on the opposite side of the tall flames.

"Don't lose it!" Steve snapped, pausing to pull the loose bag straps closer around her shoulders. "If it's what Stark wants, you hold onto it like your life depends on it."

"It kinda does," she said, breathless.

They kept running, and didn't stop.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

The truck groaned as it crested the hill, tires spitting gravel. Mud slapped against the undercarriage as they barreled back toward camp. Inside, the Commandos sat in tense silence, stained with blood, sweat, and the stink of gunpowder.

Tony sat slumped in the back corner, arms wrapped tight around the satchel. The red wax seal was still unbroken. Her hands trembled around it.

No one had spoken since they cleared the trees.

Bucky sat across from her, knuckles raw, jaw clenched so tight it looked like it hurt. Steve was at the front, hand braced on the roof, staring through the windshield like he could will the road to flatten. Gabe smoked in silence.

It wasn't just the firefight. It was Metzger.

That son of a bitch had smiled at her in a way that left a bucket of iced water in Tony's stomach.

"Hudson," Bucky finally said, breaking the stillness. His voice was low and military, hard to read. "You alright?"

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

Steve turned slightly. "We saw who that was." His words were even. "That's the same bastard who made off after Lyon."

"And now he knows we're hunting," Bucky added, eyes dark. "Next time we see him, it won't be a conversation."

Tony looked down at the seal. She could still feel Metzger's stare on her like soot on skin.

"I think this file's more than Stark let on," she said hoarsely.

Steve didn't argue with that, just raised his eyebrows in a silent agreement and continued to watch Jim drive the massive truck back towards safety.

Chapter Text

The barracks felt colder that morning—tense with something unspoken. Steve stood near the center table with a stack of rough blueprints, diagrams sketched in heavy charcoal. The rest of the team had gathered in a loose circle, most still half-dressed and bleary-eyed, but paying close attention.

"This is the target," Steve said, tapping the top sheet. "A HYDRA weapons train headed northeast through the mountain corridor. It leaves the Freiburg supply depot tonight and should hit the bridge crossing by sunrise."

Tony leaned in, eyes tracing the route. The lines were messy, but clear enough: rails winding through narrow cliffs, one marked with a red X.

"We're not boarding at a station, I take it?" she asked.

Steve gave her a faint, humorless smile. "No. The train doesn't stop. It's armored, heavily guarded, and running on HYDRA tech—Stark thinks they're using blue-core engines."

"Meaning fast," Gabe muttered.

"Fast and dangerous," Steve confirmed. "There's a gorge here—" he tapped the page again, "—and a maintenance line that crosses above it. Stark modified a set of cable drop rigs before he left. We'll rappel in."

"Like meat off a hook," Dum-Dum grunted.

"Exactly," Bucky muttered, crossing his arms. "Except we're the meat with guns."

Tony frowned. "What about exfil?"

Jim piped up from the cot, already checking his sidearm. "We'll uncouple the last car and ride it downhill. There's an old tunnel fork off the main line. If we don't get blown up, we coast it straight into the brush."

Tony looked back at the map. Her stomach twisted.

"Guess that makes today our ride-or-die," she muttered.

Bucky smirked across the table. "Emphasis on 'die' if you let go too early."

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

The back of the transport rattled as it cut across rough terrain, tires grinding over ice-packed dirt. Tony sat with her arms folded tightly against her chest, the sidearm heavy at her hip. Her legs were already going numb from the cold leaking through the truck's metal floor. She was glad she'd worked on her shooting the day before—without it, her nerves might've eaten her alive by now.

Across from her, Captain Rogers stared out past the canvas flap at the shifting gray sky, a furrow deepening between his brows.

"You alright, Captain?" she asked, voice soft but audible over the rumble of the engine.

Steve blinked out of his trance, glancing first at Tony, then over to Bucky beside her. Bucky had tilted his head in curiosity too.

"I'm fine," Steve said, adjusting the grip on his shield. "Just... something feels familiar. Like déjà vu, but heavier. Can't explain it."

Tony tried to offer a smile. "Probably just nerves. We're all feeling it."

He nodded slowly but didn't look convinced.

Tony looked at him for a moment longer. She'd never noticed before—maybe she'd been too busy trying to blend into the ranks or survive—but Steve really was something to look at. Blonde hair tousled by wind, sharp jaw clenched against the cold, blue eyes fixed on the horizon. She shook the thought off. Wrong time. Wrong guy.

The ride dragged on through the narrowing trail until the truck began to pitch upward. A steep climb. Then the brakes hissed and the vehicle lurched to a stop. Wordlessly, the squad climbed out, boots crunching into old snow and loose gravel.

Steve took point, leading them up a narrow, winding path that hugged the mountainside. Frost clung to pine branches. The morning fog clung low, swirling around their ankles like a second skin.

"Be careful," Steve called over his shoulder, arms extended slightly for balance. "The snow's slippery."

Tony frowned. Powder snow wasn't usually slippery—more like dry dust underfoot. But as she shifted her weight to step, her heel caught on a slick rock hidden beneath the snow.

Her balance gave out in an instant.

She yelped as her legs flew out from under her and she slid backward down a short slope, crashing into a low, half-buried tree. The impact knocked the air from her lungs. White scattered across her vision. She groaned, brushing snow from her face and hair, wincing as pain pulsed sharply through her shoulder.

Two pairs of boots stopped in front of her. Blue and brown.

Bucky's mouth twitched with amusement, while Steve knelt beside her with open concern. "You okay, Tony?"

She took his hand and let him pull her upright with embarrassing ease. Her shoulder throbbed in protest, but she nodded stiffly.

Steve's eyes darted past her, lighting up. "Hey—you found it."

Tony turned—and nearly reeled.

Behind her, just beyond where she'd landed, the mountain dropped away in a sheer cliff. Her stomach flipped. She stumbled backward instinctively, and both Bucky and Steve grabbed her arms.

"Jesus," she muttered, breath catching as they steadied her. The cliff edge was closer than she'd thought.

"You alright?" Bucky asked, not teasing now. Just quietly checking.

"Fine," she lied, rubbing her shoulder again.

She caught Bucky watching her, gaze unreadable. She quickly looked away—only to look back a heartbeat later. He was still watching.

The memory of the kiss flickered in her mind. His hand under her jaw. The way he'd waited, just barely closing the distance until she'd done the rest. His voice after, low and teasing. That chuckle.

Tony forced her eyes down the slope.

Below, the rest of the squad had spread out on a jagged outcropping, framed by windswept pines. Beyond them, the valley opened up—a vast sweep of snow-covered forest and distant, glinting peaks.

It was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.

And standing here beside him, heart still racing, she wasn't sure if it was the drop or Bucky Barnes that made her feel unsteady.

The rope stretched taut across the gorge, anchored somewhere in the trees behind them and vanishing out over the chasm like a lifeline—or a dare. Snow swirled gently through the mountain air, dusting the metal line like ash.

Tony crouched low near the edge, heart pounding in her chest as she looked down at the train tracks far, far below. They looked impossibly thin. She swallowed hard and turned her gaze back toward Steve, who was securing the line with practiced precision. He clipped a strange metal device to the rope—shaped vaguely like a coat hanger, if a coat hanger had ever been designed to hurl men into battle.

She stood and approached slowly, watching him work. "What does that thing do?"

Steve glanced at her with a flicker of encouragement, though his smile was tight. "It's how we're getting to the train. You hold this—" he gestured to the handle part, "—jump, ride it down, then let go at the right time. If the timing's right, you'll land on the roof."

She stared at him. Then back at the drop. "We're jumping onto the train?"

Steve nodded, but his voice softened. "Not you. You've still got a busted shoulder, Stark. You'll ride tandem. I'm not risking a fall."

Tony arched a brow, forcing a smirk to cover her nerves. "Don't patronize me, Captain."

That got a real smile out of him, faint but warm. He didn't answer, just stepped back and rejoined Bucky near the cliff's edge. The two men stood together in silence, staring down at the valley below. She caught Bucky glance at her once from the corner of his eye. Tony looked away quickly—but not before catching the faint crease between his brows, like he was thinking something he didn't want to say.

She knelt beside Dum-Dum, who was stroking snow out of his beard like he had all the time in the world. He gave her a sideways grin. "Ye ready to ride that death trap to the train, Annie?"

Tony exhaled a shaky laugh. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

From ahead, she heard Steve's voice drift back, light with nostalgia. "So this isn't payback for that time we went to Coney Island, is it?"

Bucky snorted. "Now why would I do that?"

Tony tried—and failed—not to laugh. "Watch it, Anthony," Bucky warned, glaring over his shoulder. "I'm still not over you."

She jabbed a thumb toward Steve. "Not while he's around."

Both men shook their heads, smiling as they turned back to the gorge.

Then the rumble came. A low, distant thunder—growing louder by the second.

"Here comes the train," Steve called. He stepped forward, clipped the device to the rope, and gave it a testing tug. "Seems so safe, Stark..."

He turned back. "I'm going first. Once I'm down far enough, Bucky goes—with Tony. Then the rest of you follow in order. Don't let go early. Stick the landing. We've got one shot at this."

Tony barely heard the instructions. Her mind was on the harness. On the drop. On the stomach-twisting thought of dangling above a mountain gorge at the mercy of gravity and momentum. She thought she'd be last—maybe even left behind. But before she could speak—

Strong arms locked around her middle, lifting her clean off her feet.

She gasped. "What—?!"

Bucky was already grabbing a fresh bar from one of the soldiers and clipping it to the line. His face was close—eyes serious beneath the sweep of dark hair, jaw tight.

"Hold on. I need both hands."

Tony hesitated. Then threw her arms around his shoulders and pressed herself to his chest, heart hammering.

She didn't know what was louder—the wind or the rush of blood in her ears as the world dropped out beneath them.

They were flying.

Snow lashed at her face, the cold a shock against her cheeks as they sped down the wire like a bullet. Bucky was gripping the bar tightly, the strain in his arms clear. The ground rushed up—too fast. The train was closing in below them, a blur of metal and steam and speed.

"Here's our stop!" he yelled.

He let go.

They fell.

The impact jarred through her bones—Bucky landed hard, knees hitting first, then rolling to shield her as she hit the roof of the train. She skidded across the cold metal and came to a stop with Bucky crouched over her, bracing her with both arms.

Tony wheezed. "I'm good. I'm—" She blinked, dazed, and reached for his arm as he helped pull her up.

Behind them, snow burst upward as Dum-Dum and another soldier landed heavily. Barnes tugged Tony toward a hatch on the roof, barking orders to the others as he moved.

Gunfire cracked from somewhere ahead.

"So much for surprise," Bucky muttered.

He turned to her. "Stay here. Gun ready." His eyes lingered on her for a beat too long before he took off down the roof, gun drawn.

Tony's hand clenched around the grip of her pistol. She crouched low, heart thudding. This was it. The real mission. The real danger.

Was she ready?

A shadow moved behind her.

Something black lashed out—too fast to dodge.

She cried out as she was thrown back into the curved metal wall of the train, pain spiking in her already-injured shoulder. Her vision blurred as snow scattered. A figure stepped into view.

Blond hair. Brown eyes. Broad-shouldered and pale, with a cruel twist to his mouth.

He raised a knife.

Tony scrambled to lift her gun, but he paused. His head tilted.

"You are Fräulein, posted in the American camp," he said in thickly accented English, smiling faintly.

Tony's blood ran cold.

How could he know that?

Unless—

Her breath hitched.

The captured agent. The one she'd spoken to.

He must've had a radio. A way to get word back.

They knew.

HYDRA knew.

Tony didn't remember deciding to pull the trigger.

She only felt her finger curl.

Felt the cold press of the barrel sinking into his coat, just under the ribs.

Then—

The shot.

It didn't sound like anything.

Her ears rang, high and sharp, like a kettle screaming in the distance.

The man's eyes widened. His gaze dropped in disbelief to where blood darkened his chest. It bloomed outward, then spilled over her hands like warm paint. It was thick. Too warm. Her breath caught in her throat.

He staggered back, the knife still clenched in his hand. He said something—ugly, jagged, in German—but she couldn't hear it.

Couldn't hear anything.

The world felt underwater.

Another crack. She barely saw the second bullet tear through him.

His body collapsed in front of her.

Then Steve—face pale and stricken appeared with Bucky hot on his heels and Barnes, gun still in hand, walking towards her fast and saying something but she couldn't hear him.

She didn't move. She couldn't.

Her ears still screamed. Her arms were shaking. Her hands—God, they were sticky with blood, blood that wasn't her own.

"Tony," Bucky said, trying to make Tony meet his eye by shaking her head between his hands, but her eyes wouldn't focus, her mouth slightly agape. She could see his mouth move, but the sound didn't land.

He reached for her wrist instead, using his gun filled hand to shoot another Hydra agent that came into the train cabin as he took cover, pulling her gently but firmly back into motion.

Everything came in flashes now—blurred crates, the jolt of her boots stumbling to keep up, the ghost of red blooming down the front of her jacket.

She had killed a man.

Not from a rooftop, not with a rifle and distance and the comfort of orders.

Up close.

Warm.

Alive.

She had felt it.

And he had looked at her like he was surprised. Like he hadn't expected her to be able to do it. Moreover, what disturbed her was that he looked like he expected her at all.

More shots rang out.

She flinched and turned to see three soldiers barreling toward the corridor at the end of the car. Bucky pulled her hard behind a stack of crates just as bullets sparked and ricocheted off metal. Steve stood in the open, shield raised, taking the brunt like it was nothing.

Tony peeked over the edge.

She could see them all, clear as day.

She raised her pistol and squeezed the trigger. One shot. The first soldier crumpled, dead before he hit the floor.

Another shot. The second one.

The third crouched out of view, but she was already moving, standing tall. "HEY!" she shouted.

He looked up to fire—too slow.

Her bullet hit center mass.

He collapsed across the other bodies in a pile of limbs and fabric, and the hallway fell quiet except for the ringing in her ears and the scrape of Bucky reloading beside her.

A low whistle broke the silence. She looked over to see him grinning like a wolf.

"Damn," he said. "Didn't know you were that good a shot. I heard rumors about you with a rifle, but—" he trailed off, clearly impressed.

She waved the pistol a little. "All types. Remember?"

He was about to reply when Steve shouted, sharp and fast—"GRENADE!"

Tony barely had time to duck before the blast went off. The train car shook as a wall of heat and debris slammed into her. Her ears screamed. Crates came down like trees in a storm, and the world went white.

When she came to, everything hurt.

Her chest burned. Her arms ached from shoving off shattered wood. The air was thick with dust, the faint crackle of flames and groaning metal filling the gaps where sound should've been.

Then—Steve's voice.

"REACH! COME ON, BUCKY!"

Tony's blood turned to ice.

She staggered toward the sound, boots crunching on broken glass. The side of the train had been ripped clean open. Wind howled through the jagged gap. And there—clinging to a strip of twisted metal, his legs dangling over the ravine below—was Bucky.

He was trying to reach.

Tony saw Steve, flat against the opening, arm outstretched, hand shaking with effort. Bucky's glove clawed for it, fingertips missing by inches.

He wasn't going to make it.

Tony couldn't hear her own breath, but she felt her lungs convulsing.

And then—Bucky's fingers slipped.

He fell.

It didn't feel real. It didn't look real. He dropped into the chasm below, his scream lost to the wind, body spinning as he disappeared into the snow and fog.

Tony didn't move. Couldn't.

All she could think was: He slid down that cable with a laugh. And now—now he's scared? Now he screams?

Her hearing came back in one violent rush—and with it, a terrible, raw noise.

A scream.

It echoed off every metal surface in the train. It filled the space with something ancient and broken. She turned and saw its source.

Steve.

His eyes were wild, bloodshot. His mouth wide with grief. He was still leaning out like he could chase Bucky down with sheer force of will. He shouted again, voice cracking, tears freezing on his face.

Tony grabbed his shoulder before he could tip forward.

"Steve—"

He looked at her like a man drowning. Like someone waiting for a miracle.

But she had nothing to give.

The train groaned. The wind shrieked. And from the hallway behind them, Dum-Dum burst in, out of breath and smiling—until he saw their faces.

"We've got the train," he said, then stopped.

He backed out without another word.

Steve didn't speak. Didn't blink. Just stared at Tony, silently begging for something—anything—that could unmake what had just happened.

She pulled him away from the edge and wrapped her arms around his neck. She didn't know what else to do. His arms came around her instantly, strong and shaking, pressing her close as if trying to anchor himself to something solid.

His face was buried in her shoulder, and she felt him nodding slowly, like if he said it enough times it might be true.

"He's gone," Steve whispered. "—He's gone."

Chapter Text

By the time the squad walked in from the tracks, grim-faced and hollow-eyed, the light had already faded. Snow had begun to fall—soft, slow, indifferent. The trucks had made it back ahead of them, engines still cooling, and the drivers stood waiting near their hoods, eyes scanning every face.

They counted heads. One was missing.

"Where's Sergeant Barnes?"

No one answered.

Steve shook his head once. Tight. Final. Then turned away from them all.

He walked straight to the barracks tent without a word, dropped onto his cot, and stared at the one across from him. Still neatly made. The pillow dentless. A bootlace curled where it had been looped hours before. Everything untouched, as if the man who slept there might walk in any moment.

The others looked to Tony.

She was the only one besides Steve who had seen it happen.

Her throat was raw, her mouth dry. "There was a grenade," she said, voice just barely audible. "It blew out the side of the train. He went with it. The Captain tried—" Her voice broke. "He couldn't reach him."

No one spoke.

Jim took off his helmet and held it under his arm like it weighed a hundred pounds. Pinky's eyes dropped to his boots. Even Dum-Dum had nothing to say.

Tony turned and walked away. Her throat felt constricted, and she didn't want to cry in front of them.

Snow whispered down around her shoulders. It melted against the heat of her grief, then froze again when the wind touched her skin. Her body felt heavy. Off-balance. There was a pressure building at the back of her skull—like a warning. The same kind of pressure she'd felt just before collapsing that day she got shot. The body bracing for pain before the nerves catch up.

But it hadn't come yet.

She thought maybe it never would.

The HYDRA prisoner was still tied to the post at the edge of camp, arms limp in the snow, head bowed. A lamp swung low overhead, creaking on its post. Crates flanked the makeshift holding cell. Two guards stood nearby, rifles slack in their hands. They barely glanced at her as she approached.

The prisoner looked up.

His eyes were steel-gray. No defiance this time. Just cold, predatory recognition.

"Come to poke more fun?" he muttered.

Tony said nothing. She pulled her sidearm and leveled it at his forehead.

Gasps. Boots shifted behind her. The guards straightened, their shock audible in their silence.

The muzzle met the man's skin. He flinched—but only slightly.

"You wouldn't," he said.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!" Dum-Dum's voice cracked through the air as he lunged to grab her arm.

Tony yanked back hard, planting her feet. "HE HAS A RADIO! HE'S BEEN LEAKING INFORMATION—HE KNEW ABOUT ME!"

The words tore from her like shrapnel, ugly and hot and unstoppable. Her hands shook. So did her voice. "They knew I was a woman. They knew. Before the train. Before the mission. His friends told me—Metzger knew!"

The guards froze.

Dum-Dum stared at her like she'd torn herself open. "How would you even know that?"

Tony turned the gun toward the ground, hand still trembling. "Because Metzger laughed. He knew I'd be there. He called me Fräulein. He said the file wasn't meant for children." She drew in a ragged breath. "That bastard had a radio, I swear it."

Before anyone could respond, thunder cracked.

"WHAT IN GOD'S NAME IS GOING ON HERE?!"

Colonel Phillips.

He strode through the snow like it owed him money, eyes blazing. The air around him bristled with command.

Tony straightened. Her gun wavered, then dropped to her side.

"Sir," she rasped. "This man's been leaking intel. I'm certain of it."

Phillips didn't blink. "Were you going to shoot him?"

Her voice faltered. "I—I don't know."

"Has he attacked you?"

"No, sir."

"Then why the hell is your weapon out, Private Hudson?"

Tony stared at the snow between her boots. "I don't know, sir."

He turned, voice like ice. "Dugan. Hudson. Bring the prisoner."

They moved. Cut the ropes. Dragged the man upright. He didn't resist. Didn't speak. His gaze locked on Tony, unreadable.

It wasn't hate.

It was worse.

It was knowing.

As they passed Steve's tent, Tony couldn't help glancing through the flap. He hadn't moved. Still hunched forward, hands limp, as though if he let go of grief, the whole world might collapse.

And for a second, she envied him. Because at least he had a name for what he was feeling.

Even when they reached the edge of camp and the prisoner was shoved to his knees in the snow, she didn't speak. She didn't flinch when the shot rang out.

What haunted her wasn't the execution. It wasn't the cold, or the way the guards looked away after.

It was Bucky.

It was the way he'd looked at her—Move. The way he'd shouted and she hadn't moved fast enough.

She hadn't moved.

And now he was gone.

That would be her ghost to carry.

The camp had fallen into silence now, besides the birds that enjoyed cold weather singing their goodnights as if they couldn't tell there was a war going on.

Snow had come and gone in the night, leaving behind a thin crust of ice that crunched underfoot. The trees around the camp stood bare now—stripped to bone by wind and winter. The few remaining pine branches sagged with the weight of frost. Smoke curled up from dying fires. Everything smelled like ash and wet canvas.

No birds. No voices. Just the sound of boots and breath.

The tent shelter was dim when Tony stepped underneath, canvas ceiling fluttering with every sharp breeze. The cot across from her creaked as she entered—Steve sat there, hunched forward, his elbows resting on his knees. He didn't look up. He didn't need to. She knew he'd heard her footsteps.

She stood still for a moment, unsure of what to say. Her boots were still muddy from the train, her jacket spattered with soot and blood—some of it hers, most of it not. Her satchel sagged with weight she hadn't dared unload.

Finally, she sat across from him.

For a long time, neither of them spoke.

"I know you miss him," Tony said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Barnes was a good man. I'll miss him too."

Steve didn't move.

"He would've wanted us to finish this war," she went on, softer now. "He wanted to fight. You could see it in his eyes."

That got a flicker—just a breath. Steve's hands curled slowly into fists, his knuckles white.

Tony's voice cracked as she continued. "They found the main HYDRA operation. The real one. The maps are in the Colonel's tent... and this—" She reached into her coat and pulled out a scrap of bloodstained paper. "It was in the prisoner's pocket."

That finally made Steve look up. His eyes were hollow, ringed in red.

Tony held out the note with trembling fingers. "I think... I think they're planning something. Something big. The map—it marked New York. Stark warned me. I don't know if it's a bomb, or something worse, but I know they're going to try."

He took the scrap and stared at it, jaw tight. The paper crackled softly in his grip.

When he didn't answer, she dropped her eyes to the floor. "He didn't scream," she murmured. "The prisoner. Not once. He just... looked at me. Like he knew something. Like we were the same kind of monster."

Steve exhaled, a breath that shook more than it should have.

"I gave the order," she whispered.

"I know."

"I didn't think it would feel like this."

He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. "It always does. If it doesn't... that's when you're lost."

Her eyes welled again. "I didn't even kill him. I just... I told them he had a radio. I told them he talked."

Steve nodded slowly. "And you were right."

"I think I hate being right."

There was a silence between them—not awkward, but thick, dense with everything unspoken.

Then she said, quieter still, "You remind me of someone."

Steve looked over, brow drawn.

"My brother," she said. "The one who was too sick to enlist. I signed up to take his place. I thought I was doing it for him. But now..." She blinked down at her hands, flexing her fingers like they didn't belong to her. "Now I think I was doing it for me, too."

Steve didn't interrupt.

"I see you like a real brother," she said. "Just as important as the one I left behind."

Something moved in Steve's face. Not a smile. Not quite.

"He's still sick," Tony whispered. "Back in New York. Or he was, last I heard. With our parents. I don't know if he's still alive. But Stark said—if I helped him, he'd make sure my brother got treatment. That's why I did all this. That's why I got the file."

Her voice cracked again. "If that bomb goes off in New York..."

"It won't," Steve said.

She looked up sharply.

He was already standing, folding the paper and tucking it into his coat. "We're stopping it. Whatever it takes."

Tony blinked. "Right now?"

"Unless you want to eat first?"

She let out a quiet, broken laugh and shook her head. "No. Right now."

He paused just before stepping out into the rain, glancing over his shoulder. "Stark's stationed near the front line. We'll pass through his sector on the way. This is the moment—if you've got that file, we'll hand it over."

Tony stiffened. Her fingers brushed the satchel still tucked near her cot. "I have it," she murmured. "Haven't let it out of my sight."

"Then let's give it to him on the way," Steve said. His voice had changed—still heavy with grief, but now focused like a blade. "Save your brother and make Bucky's sacrifice count."

She nodded once, loaded her sidearm, and put extra rounds into her pockets, then followed him into the dark.

Chapter Text

Tony crept down the corridor, the weight of the flight still pressing on her bones. The journey had been long, rough, and colder than she expected. Somewhere deeper in the compound, she knew, both Colonel Phillips and Captain Rogers were already moving—each one focused on the same mission: the bomb.

But something felt off. Not just danger. Not just nerves. The air itself was thick, almost suffocating, like the walls carried a pulse she could feel through her boots. She wasn't afraid of being shot. That kind of fear had burned off months ago. This was something deeper. A pressure. A pull. A sense that something unstoppable was already in motion.

She'd shot five—maybe six—men on her way in. One hadn't even seen her. She couldn't think about them now—couldn't afford to. If she did, she might stop. There wasn't time for guilt, not with what was coming. And the eerie déjà vu didn't help—like she was retracing someone else's steps.

She turned a corner, gun raised, but no one met her. Only bodies, crumpled and left behind, their weapons cold beside them.

Then she saw it—a door slightly ajar, flickering light seeping through. She pushed it open, heart thudding.

The room beyond was enormous.

Massive steel beams stretched overhead, framing an active runway. And at the far end—an aircraft. Not just any aircraft, but a hulking beast of Hydra design, already rumbling down the strip, preparing for takeoff. Near it, a jeep screeched to life, tires screaming against the concrete. Steve. Colonel Phillips. And a woman she didn't recognize. They were chasing it.

Tony didn't think—just ran.

She sprinted after them, boots pounding against the floor, and leapt into the open bed of the jeep just as it roared forward. The cold wind tore at her clothes as they raced after the aircraft, the plane's tail rising like a monster into the sky.

Steve turned, spotted her, and offered a tight, weary smile.

"Glad you could make it, Private."

Tony nodded back, breath catching, and looked to the woman beside him—her expression grave, her eyes never leaving the plane. There wasn't time for introductions.

The Captain shifted forward, bracing himself. He was getting ready. Preparing to board.

And Tony could only watch, heart in her throat, as the man she'd followed through hell leaned into the wind, and faced the impossible once again.

The wind roared around the jeep as it tore down the crumbling airstrip in pursuit of the rising aircraft. Tony crouched low in the backseat, one hand gripping the side rail, the other bracing against the jolting frame. The woman beside her—sharp-jawed and beautiful, with auburn hair flying wild in the wind—shouted over the chaos.

"You must be Private Hudson?!"

Tony nodded, teeth clenched against the icy gusts. Something jabbed her leg. She looked down—grapple spike. And rope.

Without hesitation, she tied the rope to the hook with trembling fingers and shoved it toward Steve. "Throw it at the plane's wheels!"

Steve didn't hesitate long. He stood, the wind nearly knocking him off balance, and hurled the hook in a wide arc. It whipped past both Tony and the woman's heads and latched onto the landing gear with a heavy clang.

Then—Steve turned. His eyes landed on the woman. He reached out, hesitated only a second, and kissed her hard on the mouth.

Tony blinked, stunned. She flushed and looked away. Steve pulled back, eyes blazing with determination.

Colonel Phillips, seated in the front, looked up from the dash. "Don't look at me. I'm not going to kiss you."

Tony snorted. "Me either," she muttered, wide-eyed.

The plane was lifting. Now or never.

"Go, go, go!" she shouted, giving Steve a push. He grabbed the rope and vaulted out of the jeep, soaring toward the plane.

Tony launched herself after him. The jeep skidded to a halt at the very edge of the tarmac as her hands caught the rope mid-air. Her shoulder screamed in protest, her bandaged chest throbbed with every jolt.

Steve's startled voice drifted down the rope. "Tony?! What are you doing?!"

"Following my leader to my death like they made me swear in boot camp!" she yelled back, climbing after him.

The rope swayed, lifting higher into the sky. Tony grit her teeth and climbed, lungs burning, fingers raw. Her vision blurred, and for one gut-wrenching moment, she wasn't sure she'd make it. But her hands found the edge of the hatch, and Steve reached down just in time to haul her inside.

The interior of the plane was dark, narrow, metallic. The roar of the engines became a dull tremor beneath their boots. Steve led the way, crawling into the guts of the aircraft. Tony followed close behind, blood roaring in her ears.

After several turns through the claustrophobic passage, Steve's hand appeared suddenly in front of her nose, almost clocking her in the face. She recoiled, grabbed it, and let him pull her up through a grate.

She rubbed her nose, scowling—until she saw the amused smirk on his face. He nodded toward her cheek.

Tony turned, caught her reflection in a smooth piece of metal—and groaned. A long smear of black grease slashed across her nose and cheek.

"Thanks for the heads-up," she muttered, lifting a hand to wipe it—

Then she froze.

The reflective surface wasn't just a stray panel. It was casing.

She stepped back, breath catching.

"Steve..."

His eyes followed hers to the bomb. A huge one. Gleaming, round-edged, unmistakable.

He nodded grimly. "Now we just have to find Red Skull."

They crept deeper into the plane. The shadows were long, flickering with red emergency lights. Then—movement.

Red Skull was at the cockpit, steering the aircraft straight toward the coastline. Home.

Steve didn't wait. He stepped forward. Words were exchanged—low, sharp, cold. Then fists. The two men launched into a brutal fight, the clang of metal and the hiss of hydraulics echoing around them.

Tony hung back, eyes flicking to the control panel. Something wasn't right. The plane had begun to pitch downward, subtle but unmistakable. The Atlantic loomed below, dark and glinting like a field of knives.

She bolted to the controls and yanked the stick back. The plane groaned in protest but leveled out. Her heart thudded in her throat.

This was not her area. She didn't understand bombs, or planes, or... whatever it was Red Skull had built. But she understood falling. And she understood dying.

A sound behind her—metal on metal, a hiss of energy.

She spun just in time to see the Tesseract—a glowing blue cube—hit the floor and burn through it. Sparks flew. Steel hissed and melted.

Her instincts kicked in. She turned and kicked the cube, sending it skittering across the floor. It ricocheted off the bomb's casing—didn't detonate, thank God—and tangled itself in a nest of chains. The metal sizzled. Doors clanged open with a metallic slam.

Tony's eyes widened. She pointed. "Steve! The doors!"

Steve glanced her way, caught sight of the bay doors yawning open, and slammed Red Skull backward.

Red Skull stumbled. His foot slipped on the floor. He fell.

Down. Gone.

Tony stood frozen, breathless. The cold air poured in from the open hatch.

They were still alive.

For now.

The Captain rushed toward the control panel, flipping switches with urgency as the plane began its slow, dreadful descent. Static cracked through the overhead speaker—then a familiar voice, frantic and broken.

"Rogers?!"

Tony froze, heart twisting at the sound of the woman's voice—Peggy, she realized. Her cry was nearly lost under the roar of wind and engine. Steve pressed a button and answered hoarsely, "I'm here!"

That was when Tony turned—and saw the bomb.

It hung suspended near the open cargo doors, tethered by thick chains. They groaned ominously, the metal straining as the weight shifted. Without thinking, Tony lunged, grabbing for the closest chain. The moment her fingers wrapped around it, the whole mechanism shuddered. One of the loops jerked tight, yanking her arm taut and slamming her leg against a support beam. Pain lit up her thigh like fire.

She was stuck. Her boot wedged between the pole and chain, her leg twisted at a sick angle.

"Damn it," she hissed through her teeth, sweat breaking across her brow as she tried to wriggle free. Her shoulder screamed in protest.

Somewhere nearby, Steve's voice filtered through the noise. "I have to put it in the water..."

Her stomach dropped.

It was all over.

Tony's back hit the cold floor, the chains groaning above her as the bomb began to sway. She could feel the shift of the plane—nose dipping downward, the Atlantic looming beneath them.

A sad smile tugged at her lips. Of all the dumb things to be remembered for—this was it. Trapped like a fool by her own heroic impulse. She blinked through the tears stinging her eyes and turned her head toward Steve.

"So..." she whispered, voice thin, "this is it, then?"

He looked back, startled. As if he'd forgotten she was even there.

Steve crossed to her in a few quick strides, dropping into a crouch. His eyes widened when he saw her trapped leg. "Yeah... I guess it is." His voice cracked. "I'm so sorry."

Tony gave a faint shake of her head, trying to bite down on the panic. "It's fine. You made the call to save people. I'd have done the same thi—"

A shriek of tortured metal cut her off. She cried out, the pressure on her leg shifting sharply as the bomb's chains pulled tighter. Her breath hitched in her throat. Below them, the ocean wasn't as close as it should've been. They weren't in the water yet—but she could feel the drag. The pull.

The bomb was getting heavier.

So was she.

Pain tore through her as her leg began to slide. Her boot slipped, caught, slipped again. The pressure reached a knife-edge—and then, with a snap, she lost her grip.

She fell.

Air whipped past her in a blur of screaming wind and rushing noise. Her arms flailed, searching for anything—nothing. Only open sky. Above her, the plane was already spiraling downward. She could just make out the massive black shape—broken, spiraling, doomed.

Something else was falling with her. Blue. Glowing.

She squinted. It was the cube. The same one that had melted through the floor. The same one Red Skull had—

Tony's breath caught.

"So you'll vaporize instantly. I don't even think they feel pain for more than a second... That's about the only comfort."

Steve's words echoed inside her head.

She blinked furiously against the wind and reached for it, her fingers burning cold before they even made contact. The ocean was racing up at her, infinite and dark. Time slowed.

Her hand closed around the Tesseract.

She didn't vaporize.

She didn't melt.

She didn't die.

Instead, light flared around her fingertips—blue and brilliant, blinding—and the cube pulsed like a heartbeat. Tony gasped, not from pain, but from heat. The water came next.

She hit it hard—but it wasn't cold. Not at first.

It was warm.

Then it wasn't.

The shock came all at once—temperature plummeting to freezing, ripping the air from her lungs. She clutched the cube tighter, her body screaming in protest. Her vision blurred. Still, she refused to let go.

The cold deepened, biting into her bones. The Tesseract hummed against her chest, colder than ice, alive in a way that terrified her.

Far in the distance, beneath the water, something flickered—lightning crawling from the wreck of the plane. Steve's plane. Already sinking.

Tony's lungs gave up. Her mouth opened. Bubbles escaped in a long, slow stream.

Her eyes fluttered shut.

And then—darkness.

Chapter Text

"Better here..."

*click*

"Better here..."

The voice echoed faintly through the speakers, crisp yet distant—mechanical. Cold.

Tony's vision blurred, then cleared, then blurred again in a slow, nauseating cycle. Her head throbbed. Her body was heavy. She couldn't move.

"Better one..."

*click*

"better two..."

She didn't know where she was. The lights overhead were too bright. Her limbs felt like lead. She couldn't tell if she was sitting or lying down—only that her chest was tight and her skin prickled with unease.

"Can you see now... or now..."

The voice was calm. Patient. Almost kind. But it wasn't the voice that unsettled her—it was the words the voice spoke next that left her feeling sick to her stomach.

"Can you see the image clearly, Z1?"

There it was again. That name.

Z1.

They'd called her that before. Over and over. She didn't know what it meant. Didn't know why they wouldn't just use her name.

"Answer with a nod... or a shake of the head."

A screen flickered in front of her—shapes shifting, sharpening, blurring again. She fought to focus, to think through the fog clouding her brain. When the image finally came into focus, she nodded.

Silence.

Then: "What do you see, Z1?"

Her stomach turned. Her throat tightened. The air in the room felt too thin.

She tried to breathe. Tried to steady herself. But something surged in her chest—poisonous, uncontainable.

She shook her head.

"Speak, Z1."

Her voice caught in her throat, her mouth tasting of bile and the coppery tinge of blood. She couldn't find the words—couldn't shape the horror into sound. Finally, hoarse and barely audible, she croaked:

"Where am I?"

A beat of silence.

Then, the answer came—curt and cruel.

"HYDRA, Ms. Hudson. HYDRA."