*****

Early January 1944
Somewhere in France

Bucky lays flat on his back, staring at the puffy white clouds floating by. Ears ringing, he breathes in a lungful of wet smoke while he waits.

Calming breaths, they always say. Clear your mind. Focus.

The bullet whizzes through the broken front window and explodes an empty water pitcher, covering him in shards of glass and yeah, that did it.

He's fucking pissed.

"You piece of shit fucking asshole!" he shouts, flipping angrily onto his stomach and crawling toward another narrow window.

Hours of fighting and here they are, with Bucky stuck in the still smoking bones of a bombed-out apartment, unable to hit the sniper victoriously camped in the bell tower of the village church. Below him, Steve Rogers, Gabe Jones, and Timmy Dugan are crouched behind the burnt shell of a truck, waiting patiently for him to sort it out.

Well. Patiently might be a lie.

"Barnes, I'm hungry," Dugan calls up. "Thought you were a god damn sniper. It's not that hard, just point and fuckin' shoot."

Hunched now against a broken wall, Bucky grits his teeth while he reloads and calls down an insult.

"Maybe it's time you tried a god damn diet, shithead. I'm fuckin' working on it."

He waits until the next shot comes, a zinger cracking the frame of the window beside him, and then he pops up, fires into the bell tower, and ducks back down.

"Anything?"

The only response, is another bullet, fired through the retaining wall. It blows through siding, pelting him with chunks of wood. One particularly jagged piece smashes into his right hand, slicing it open and drawing a line of blood from thumb to pinky.

"OUCH! Fucking ouch! God damn chickenshit motherfucking cocksucker, fuck you," he yells furiously, briefly contemplating how many bars of soap his Ma would shove in his mouth if she heard his language. Switching the gun grip to an equally proficient left hand, he peers through the new hole in the wall, searching.

There.

An eagle-eyed gaze catches it, a momentary flash of skin through a chink in the stone tower. Holding his breath, Bucky finds his shot and fires.

Even from here, he knows it lands. There's a moment of suspension, before a body collapses forward, catching on the wide window ledge and flipping out. Whistling through the air, it lands with a sickening crunch on the bricks. Down below, the men grimace.

Smiling grimly, Bucky climbs to his feet and leans against the busted window frame, lifting his helmet to mop up the rivers of steaming, muddy sweat streaming down his face.

Christ, this helmet smells like shit.

Slinging his rifle around his shoulder, he looks down to where the guys are still crouched. He points down at Dugan and holds up a middle finger.

"You owe me a smoke. Jackass."

*****

Liberation creates a carnival atmosphere in the little French village.

Back on the ground, Bucky wanders through the crowds, accepting handshakes, slaps on the back, the occasional fervent kiss on the cheek. The flurry of excitement is tempered by a few harsh injuries, those who suffered before Captain America and his Howling Commandos arrived this morning.

Howling Commandos. Jesus H Christ, the PR war machine was sheer insanity, Bucky thinks contemptuously. Here comes Bucky Barnes, Captain America's right-hand man! He makes the shot! He saves the day!

If he has to see one more of those idiotic comic books, he'll fucking scream.

With a dirty towel wrapped around his still bleeding hand, he stalks the injury line, searching for Jim Morita, because he just fucking cannot sew it himself. Last time he tried, he puked up beans on his own boots and Dugan laughed at him for three days and he's not doing that shit again.

"Jim, can I get some help?" Bucky finds Morita setting a broken leg and drops to his haunches, unfolding the towel. Morita takes one look at it and shakes his head.

"No time. Sew it yourself or wait."

"Well I ain't god damn doing it. I'll fuckin' wait," Bucky growls irritably. Stomping off with a huff, he plops on a bench and pulls the make-shift bandage tighter, wincing at the sting.

He finally has a few moments to himself, so he sits and hangs his head. Closes his eyes and relives that final shot. His stomach churns at the memory and he takes those deep breaths now, in through his nose, out through his mouth. Like so many times before, today was no different.

Down to the wire, all on the line. Here comes Bucky Barnes. He makes the shot. He saves the day.

That fucker deserved to get his brain splattered, but sometimes...Jesus. Sometimes he gets tired of doing the dirty work like this.

Lost in his thoughts, he barely notices when clunky leather boots stop in front of him.

Annoyed with the intrusion, Bucky looks up to find a woman looking down at him. She's dressed in grey, dark trousers rolled up at the ankles, a light grey men's shirt that looks two sizes too big, and a tattered leather belt. A moss green coat drapes her frame, falling to her knees and she has a black scarf tied around her head. Dropping a pail of fresh water next to him, she kneels in the dust at his feet.

Without a word, she takes his wounded hand and gently unwraps the dirty rag. Digging in her pocket, she pulls a clean cloth free, dunks it in the water, and carefully cleans the cut. Once the blood and grime are washed away, she pats it dry and motions for him to hold the cloth in place. Producing a sewing kit from her other coat pocket, she finds a clean needle and unwinds a length of blue thread.

Bucky's so captivated by her efficiency, so mesmerized by the way she catches her tongue between her teeth, that he barely feels when she starts to stitch the skin together. Struck dumb, he gapes at her and let's himself be manhandled. Glancing up, she offers a quick smile, before going back to her task.

It all happens in a matter of moments, but to Bucky?

A lifetime passes.

Nimble fingers make neat little stitches, and far too quickly, she's releasing his hand. He swallows several times before he can finally make a sound. When he speaks, charm oozes from every pore, because he's James Buchanan Barnes, for fuck's sake. Shooting Nazis and hunting Hydra and talking to women are what he does best.

According to him, at least. Summoning his confidence, he pours it on.

In French.

"Bonjour," he says smoothly and gives her the adorable smile he reserves for beautiful women and his Ma, when she's really, really pissed. "Je vais avoir de la chance ce soir. Il y a de belles femmes en france qui ne m'aiment pas."

Standing a few feet away, Steve makes a strangled noise and drops his face in his hands.

"Je m'appelle Sergeant James Barnes," Bucky continues confidently. "Quel est votre nom?"

"Bucky," Steve sidles up behind him, hissing under his breath. "You fuckin' moron, you just said you're getting lucky tonight and all the women in France don't like you."

"No, I didn't," Bucky hisses back. "I said I'm lucky, because she's the most beautiful woman in France. I know how to speak fuckin' French, Rogers."

"Actually, he's right," she says. Clearly and in perfect English. "You need to make sure you keep that clean, Sergeant. I have fresh bandages if you need more."

Bucky's jaw drops.

Beside him, Steve, now officially his former best friend, starts laughing. Clapping Bucky on the shoulder, he gives the woman a grin.

"Sorry mam, we're still working on his French. Great with a gun, always makes the shot, but you know – bit of an idiot sometimes."

Swinging a blind fist behind him, Bucky punches Steve as hard as he can, which happily lands right in the balls. Steve backs away wheezing and Bucky smiles serenely up at her.

"Ignore him," he says conspiratorially. "He drinks."

Bucky feels his heart bounce wildly when she laughs. It sounds like music. He preens under her indulgent grin, before she moves along to help someone new.

On that cold January afternoon, covered in sticky blood and dirty sweat, and stumbling through terrible broken French, Bucky Barnes falls head over heels in love.

*****

Later that night, with their camp set up on the edge of town, the Howlies collapse. Plates of supper are passed around, followed by swigs from a beat-up silver flask; slowly and with certainty, the circle of men drifts from snarky, ribald jokes, into deep, dreamless sleep.

All except for two men.

Flicking the lid of his lighter, Bucky fingers the rusty coils. The night sky arcs like black silk above him and he thinks. About war. About death. About life and whatever the hell he's gonna do when this thing ends, if he makes it out alive.

Somehow, that last thought leads him back to the woman he met earlier. Pretty smile, pretty eyes, pretty stitching. Pretty far out of his league. Can't hurt to dream, though.

Lighting up the smoke he stole from Dugan's pack, Bucky takes a long drag. He makes it halfway through, before restlessly tossing it into the low embers of the campfire. He climbs to his feet.

"I need a walk. You fuckers snore so loud, I don't know how all've Hydra hasn't found us."

Keeping his eyes trained in the pitch-black night, Steve waves him away.

*****

White moonlight shines down into the clearing and she drops a basket of bloody, grimy cloth next to the creek. Singing under her breath, she dunks the cloth in the freezing water them and starts scrubbing. In the light of the moon, the rusty red blood turns black and for a moment, she can believe it's nothing more than dirt. Dark stains bleed away in the lazy flow of water and life begins to feel clean again.

A small blessing, after a day of bloodshed. As she works, the words to her favorite song drift in and out, peppering the tune.

"We'll meet again...don't know where...don't know when...but I know we'll meet again, some sunny day..."

The quiet snap of a tree branch, of a footstep in the grass, abruptly shatters the night.

Heart in her throat, she draws a knife from her belt and leaps to her feet. Wide-eyed, she whirls to find the dark-haired man with the brilliant blue eyes from earlier – Sergeant Barnes, he said.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes softly, raising both hands in surrender. "I didn't mean to bother you, I was just – I was walking and I thought I heard someone."

She considers him for a moment. He's taller than she thought. All lean muscle, moving with a slow grace that puts her at ease. A shadow beard covers his face, creeping down his neck, and his short hair looks smooth as black satin in the colorless night. He gives her a crooked smile and she lowers the knife, tucking it back at her belt.

"How is your hand?" she asks, her voice floating through the small clearing. Bucky glances down at the white bandage and flexes his fingers.

"Fit as a fiddle," he says with a grin. "Thank you. For earlier. Although you did such a good job, probably won't even scar. How'm I supposed to brag about my war wounds if you fix 'em up so nice?"

Her lips curve up. "Something tells me you'll find plenty more opportunities for trouble, Sergeant Barnes."

"Bucky. Please, call me Bucky," he ducks his head bashfully when he offers the nickname. Ambling toward her, he points to a smooth rock close by. "Is it okay if I sit?"

In the space of a moment, his voice has gone soft and shy and she wonders how a man who seems so confident, can demonstrate such a sweet vulnerability. It charms her far more than the swagger she saw earlier today.

"Only if you promise to help," she finds herself saying and he perks up.

"Anything you need," he offers, folding his knees under as he plops down.

She hands him the edge of a sheet with the instruction to hold tight. Bucky grips the fabric in his left fist while she twists it tighter and tighter, wringing every last drop of water from the cloth. When it's semi-dry, she hands him another, and another one after, until her basket is full.

They work in companionable silence. She glances up now and then, to find him watching her. Each time she meets his gaze, he gives her a slow smile.

As the last piece of cloth is dropped in her basket, she wipes her hands on the trousers and rubs sleepy eyes. Bucky jumps to his feet and reaches down, offering her a hand up. When she folds her cold fingers against his hot skin, the spark of electricity rockets down her back and explodes in her toes.

Oh.

Swaying slightly, she releases his hand quickly and steps back. Opting for distance between them, she picks up her basket and holds it in front, a useless barrier from the strange feelings his touch awoke. Her brain urges her to bid him goodbye, to walk away and not look back.

Her heart though. It has another plan.

"Would it be okay – could I walk you home?"

Part of her wants to say no. Beginning anything with a Soldier, it won't end well. She's been down this road before. She doesn't think she can survive it again.

But the nervous hope she finds in those blue eyes stirs her soul, and she says something unexpected.

"That would be nice, thank you."

Bucky insists on carrying the laundry basket and they move slowly through the trees. The walk is oddly comfortable, filled with shy glances and an occasional brush of shoulders that makes her belly swoop. Guiding him along the edge of the town, all too soon they arrive at her little cottage sitting at the dead end of a narrow street. She takes the basket from his arms and balances it on her hip.

Quiet words warm the cold air around them, both prolonging the goodbye neither wants to give. It's the ferocious barking of a dog down the street that finally makes her jump.

"I should get inside," she says reluctantly and Bucky nods, looking down to watch his boot drawing a circle in the dirt. "But, now that you know where to find me, maybe you'll come by sometime? Let me take a look at that hand?"

When he looks up, his smile takes her breath away.

"I absolutely will."

"Goodnight Bucky."

"Goodnight darlin'. Sleep well."

*****

Two days later, a tentative knock sounds on her front door. Wiping her hands on a dish towel, she opens it to find a soldier on her doorstep.

"Good morning," Bucky says hesitantly, brandishing a bundle of holly. "Hope I'm not bothering you. I, um – I was hoping, maybe you could have a look at my hand?"

"Come in," she beckons and Bucky steps inside, the smell of wintery air clinging to him. In the confines of her small home, he seems larger than life, this quiet American.

She collects a chipped white pitcher from her closet and fills it with water, arranging the holly and setting it on her kitchen table. Suddenly, she's overwhelmed by color – red berries and green leaves, blue eyes and brown hair.

He lays his hand on the table and she unwraps the bandage. Beneath the strips of white, she finds something peculiar - after only two days, the wound looks several weeks old. Staring for a long moment, she finally looks up in confusion.

"That's impressive."

"I – yeah, I heal pretty quickly. Good genes, I guess," he stutters. For some reason, she hears a twinge of panic in his voice.

"Well that's great," she says with a smile, her thumb brushing the thrumming pulse at his wrist.

"Yeah. I guess," he mutters to himself.

With quick snips, she removes the stitches and dabs a bit of Vaseline along the line of puckered skin before wrapping it up again. Over and done then, there's no real reason for him to stay longer, but – she doesn't want him to leave just yet.

"Would you like a cup of coffee?" she offers. "It's more hot water than coffee these days, but I have a bit left if you would like?"

Eyes brightening, Bucky happily accepts.

*****

"So, you're not from here," he guesses, wrapping his hands around the steaming mug. "Your English is perfect. Better than most've the soldiers I know."

She appears to choose her words carefully.

"No. My mother was French, my father was German, but I lost them both when I was young. After that, I found myself in London. I learned there." She runs her finger along the rim of her cup, not looking up.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. Without thinking, he reaches across the table to touch her hand, but pulls back at the last moment.

She thinks to herself, she wouldn't have minded. She clears her throat and tries to smile.

"Tell me about you. About America," she encourages. "I've never been, but always wanted to visit. What was Bucky Barnes like growing up in Brooklyn?"

Bucky leans back in the chair and crosses his ankles with a coy smile.

"Full of trouble, if you ask my Ma. But let's just say all my worst decisions came from growing up with Steve Rogers."

The late morning bleeds into early afternoon as they sit and talk. Conversation flows easily, punctuated with lazy grins and surprised laughter, and in her sunny kitchen, she feels a lethargic sense of peace. Something she hasn't felt in years. Since before they came, before her world ended. Since that November night in Berlin.

All too soon, the shadows are stretching across his face and the battered living room clock strikes the late hour. Both of them start at the sound, before realizing how long they've been sitting together.

"Dammit," Bucky mutters regretfully. "I better go, I'm on watch tonight."

"Okay," she says, disappointment in her voice. He reaches across the table again and this time, his fingers catch hers. He squeezes.

"Thanks for helping me today. Your bedside manner's a helluva lot better than Morita. He usually just tells me to quit whining," he gives an exaggerated eye roll as he rises from his chair and she laughs once more..

God. In one afternoon with him, she's laughed more than in the past year.

It's addictive.

Bounding down her back steps, Bucky heads toward their camp and she leans against the doorframe, watching. No more than a hundred yards gone, he spins around to see her one more time. Giving her a jaunty salute, he turns and takes off running.

It happens right there.

Shivering as the fresh air whips around her, she watches the silhouette of a soldier running toward the coming darkness. Slow as syrup dripping down her skin, the feeling sticks.

On that cold January day, wrapped in warm laughter and drowning in the blue of his eyes, she falls head over heels in love with Sergeant James Barnes.

*****

One of the small comforts in wartime, is consistency.

Each Sunday, the town still gathers in the small church to give thanks, an attempt for normalcy amid the increasingly bleak news arriving from the front. Here, everyone is welcome. Religion, race, nationality, none of it matters. She loves this progressive little village, where differences are celebrated, never shunned.

This sunny morning, she's late. Hurrying down the aisle as the buzz of voices begin to settle, she finds a seat near the front and slides inside. Pulling off her gloves, she glances around the morning crowd.

Her heart jumps when she sees them.

Side by side, the two broad-shouldered men sit in the pew across from her. Both have carefully combed hair, one