Late December, 1944
Somewhere in France

The sky is a deep, leaden grey when she hurries from the back door. Stepping carefully over slick paving stones, she heads to the tiny chicken coop, where one scraggly chicken remains. Every day, she expects she'll arrive to find the poor thing dead, but against all odds, the hen has persevered.

As she walks, she picks at the fraying threads at her wrist. The moss green coat is looking worse for wear these days. Where the elbows have worn through, she's patched with mismatched cloth from one of her old dresses. It's not ideal, but still serviceable.

It doesn't matter, not really, she tells herself.

After five long years, the war rages on. Ravaging the countryside, turning the world to ash, leaving nothing but death in its wake. Nearly all the men who left the village remain on the front; those who returned, are buried under weathered gravestones in the little cemetery.

Letters are less frequent, but far too often, telegrams arrive. Their messengers clutch their hats in sweaty fists when they hand it over, and that tenuous grip on sanity is ripped from a family's fingers.

But here, through everything and against the odds - she survives.

And every day, she holds her breath, waiting for him to come home.

Sleep, wake, work, sleep. Every day a dogged routine. But even though the world is on fire, sometimes when she's sliding into that sweet headspace between dreaming and awake, she starts to think about the future.

It's an indulgence, but she has this daydream. About wearing a pretty dress that twirls when she dances. About painting her lips with bright red lipstick and dabbing a bit of perfume behind her ears. About holding a glass of deliciously fizzy champagne and seeing Bucky in a sharp black suit, the collar of his crisp white shirt open, a bowtie loose around his neck. About him pulling her onto the dance floor while the band begins a slow song, something full of nostalgia, because they made it through, the soldier and his girl. About how in the middle of the dance floor, in front of god and everyone, Bucky picks her up and kisses her breathless, his breath like honeyed whiskey. About that little bead of sweat rolling down his temple and her kissing it away.

It's a nice daydream.

"Good morning, little lady," she says under her breath, reaching the busted down chicken coop. Searching beneath the warm feathers, she finds a single egg and pulls it away. Stroking the bird lightly, she receives a sleepy cluck in return. "Thank you," she murmurs, clutching the warm egg in her palm.

Standing straight, she shivers when an icy breeze cuts through the thin dress and wool stockings. Latching the door shut, she trudges back to her house.

She pulls up short.

A soldier sits on the back step, staring at his boots, his hands folded patiently while he waits.

Bucky's hair is shaggier than her memories and a thick beard covers his face, but he looks like everything she's missed.

When the sound of her steps reaches him, he looks up and scrambles quickly to his feet. Standing in silence, he watches her nervously, strangely unsure of his reception, despite months of sweet words and declarations of love. Tucking his hands into his pockets, he swallows hard before he finally speaks.

"Hey darlin'. You look real pretty."

His voice is raspy, exhausted and broken, and she closes her eyes, because she's had this dream before. It was soul crushing when she woke up.

She counts to three.

When she opens her eyes, thank god, he's still there. She places the lone egg in the small basket she carries and sets it carefully on the ground. Bucky watches her, longing clear in his face.

And she runs to him.

Throwing herself in his arms, he catches her and lifts her up, pulling her legs around his waist and wrapping his arms around her. With no preamble, she finds his lips and kisses him with everything she has. It's sloppy and messy and frantic and Bucky savors it. Responding with a low groan, his mouth moves against hers, desperation in every twist of his lips.

"Oh god, I missed you," he breathes, when they finally come up for air. "I missed you – Jesus Christ, fuck, I missed you so god damn much. I'm not leaving again, not ever," he swears.

It's a lie, they both know it. But like her daydream, it's so pretty, they let themselves believe it. Just for a little while.

*****

"How long do we have?" she asks, pouring him a cup of weak coffee. It's the last bit she's been hoarding, but he looks so tired, so utterly obliterated, this seems like a good time. When she moves to sit in the chair across from him, Bucky makes a noise of dissent and scoots away from the table. Motioning to his lap, he gives her an imploring look and she can't help but smile. She sits gingerly on his knees and he rolls his eyes and tugs her close. So, she throws an arm across his chest, tucks her face into his neck. Bucky sighs happily, keeping one arm curled around her, the other gripping the hot mug.

"Just a couple days, then we're back out. Had to do a fair bit of sweet talking to get them to stop here," he says and presses dry, chapped lips to her temple. "Convinced command back in London this was a strategic stopover before we pick up the chase."

"What are you chasing?" She wraps the chain of his dog tags tight around her finger. It leaves an impressive ring of round indentions in her skin.

"Been searching for this guy, this sci – scientist."

He trips over the last word, body tensing at the statement and she tightens in response. She still doesn't know what happened to him as a POW, but this type of anxiety is all too familiar.

Scientists. Yes. She knows about scientists.

Sometimes he says things like this, about his job, and the confident mask falls. His breath comes fast and shallow for a moment, but then she squeezes him hard and kisses his neck. He remains rigid, but the soothing press of lips seems to help. Clearing his throat, he keeps talking. "Running after him for months now. He keeps slipping away."

"You're being careful out there?"

Bucky doesn't respond. He wipes the rim of the coffee mug with his thumb.

"Course I am," he finally answers.

There's a lie.

She wants to argue. Make him promise to put himself first, to be careful and cautious, to steer clear of danger in every way possible, because he's all that she has. But it would make no difference. War is what he does. A job he never wanted but one he picked up with horrifying ease.

Instead, she simply hugs him and changes the subject. Bit by bit, she coaxes him out of his head. Bit by bit, she brings him back to himself.

Himself. Someone he hasn't known in a long time.

*****

The next morning finds Bucky and Steve jammed shoulder-to-shoulder into a small room off the nave of the village church. Piles of hand-drawn maps litter the polished surface of the priest's desk and Steve sifts through the mess, setting aside the most relevant, while Bucky marks notes in the margins with a fat red pencil.

Dismantling Hydra across Europe has been swift and successful, but to keep going, they need more intel. And to get more intel, they need to find Arnim Zola. The game of cat and mouse between them gets trickier every day, as he slips through their traps, infuriating Bucky and sending Steve into fits of anger.

Hours pass as they add details from the local maps, using the roads and paths and markers unaccounted for in the debriefs from London to flesh out their search strategy. This has to work. This has to help.

They hope, anyway.

"You're sure it's okay?" Steve asks for the third time, looking up at the priest. Folding the maps, he clears the desk while Bucky tucks the pencil behind his ear.

"Take whatever you need," the priest confirms. "Anything to help."

Steve nods gratefully, stuffing the pile inside his jacket.

Leaving the stuffy air of the little office, the two men follow the priest down the familiar church aisle. As they pass the pew, Bucky automatically looks to where he saw her sitting that sunny Sunday. Clear as day, he recalls her pretty dress and her pretty smile and the way she peeked at him during prayers.

God, he loves that image. His dragging steps find a renewed bounce at the thought of heading back to her.

Coming into the dreary afternoon light, all three men pause on the front steps of the small church and Bucky hears the priest utter a nearly inaudible sigh. His white collar sits askew at his neck and he scratches at it absently, looking out over the dead grass in the small cemetery next to the church.

"Have you lost very many?" Bucky asks quietly. The town seems different than the first time they visited, the crushing fatigue of war bearing down harder than ever.

"Yes. We had a few boys come back last week from – from Italy. Had a hard frost a week earlier and couldn't get them buried, there's no way to dig through the frozen ground. Been tough on the families, having them wrapped up in the vaults below the church. They'll have to stay there, until the ground thaws."

This is not uncommon. This is how things work. Death in the winter is a grim affair.

Lips drawn in a tight line, Steve rubs exhausted blue eyes and looks over to Bucky; he raises an eyebrow in question.

Bucky considers him for a moment. He wants nothing more than to walk back to her home and crawl into the safety of her arms. But in war, and in life, it's common courtesy to repay those who've helped you. He thinks about the maps that will hopefully lead them closer to Zola, closer to ending this madness, closer to coming back to her for good.

He swallows hard and nods.

"We'll dig the graves for you. Least we can do for the help."

The priest hesitates with his response. "That's very kind of you boys, but the ground really is frozen. I don't think you can dig through."

Steve gives him a kind smile. "It's alright. We'll manage."

*****

Bucky drives the sharp shovel into the mound of black earth. Leaning heavily on the handle, he swipes a shaking hand over the line of cold sweat on his forehead.

"M'done," he says hoarsely to Steve. Four freshly dug graves line the edge of the little graveyard, waiting patiently for their occupants to arrive.

It took some doing, but between the two of them, they managed. Once they broke through the frozen layer, the rest was easy. Of course, it helps that Steve is stronger than the normal soldier and that Bucky is – well, that Bucky's strong as well.

Steve tosses one final heap of dirt and stretches with a low groan.

"Go on," Bucky urges, tugging the shovel from his hands. He needs Steve to sleep, because he hasn't in days. "Get some sleep. You know we gotta leave first thing."

"Yeah," Steve sighs. He claps his hands, brushing away the dry feel of dust. "Guess you're staying with your girl tonight?"

"Course," Bucky says with a tired smile. He toys with the button on his blue jacket. "Got something to ask her."

Steve squeezes his shoulder affectionately. "Really gonna do it, huh? Nervous?"

Bucky squints up at the pinpricks of starlight peppering the dark sky and gives voice to the doubt in his mind. "Yeah. I don't know. I've been thinking...about all the shit I've done, and I'm - fuck, Steve. You've seen me out there. I'm not exactly a good person. Not anymore." He looks over, weary confusion in his face. "Am I selfish? Wantin' her this way? Doesn't she deserve better?"

Steve just looks at him. That same penetrating gaze he's had since the day he found Bucky back in Azzano. Bucky still hasn't told him everything and Steve keeps waiting, but he knows it's in vain. Bucky Barnes is a master at stomping down his feelings.

So, Steve gets philosophical instead.

"You know, it seems like the world wants to romanticize this. The war. They write songs and poetry and tell all these grand stories, but we all know it's fuckin' bullshit. There's nothing romantic here. I smell like actual shit and all Dugan's toenails fell off last week and you got someone's fuckin' brains on your coat the other day." He wrinkles his nose in disgust. "None of us are getting out of this war without changing. That includes her. Don't go using that as an excuse. You love her and she loves you, and this world's so god damn fucked up, but you have that. Don't forget it."

Bucky tips his head back up, gazing at the stars. He thinks for a moment, then looks back at Steve and gives him a serious nod.

"Every now and then you're not a total asshole. Smell like one maybe, but - "

He ducks when Steve tries to cuff him.

"God you're a jerk," Steve states fervently.

"Damn straight," Bucky says. "Now go on. It's your dumb ass wanting to leave at dawn."

Giving him a mocking salute, Steve trudges back toward the make-shift camp the team set up on the edge of town. Bucky watches him walk, until the outline of Captain Steve Rogers is swallowed up in the encroaching night.

All he wants is to head back to her, but he needs a minute. Needs to clear out the dark thoughts vying for space in his head, because he sure as hell doesn't want to bring those within a mile of her.

Setting the shovels against the bullet riddled wall of the church, he drops to the frozen dirt and leans back. Digging inside his jacket, he fishes out the last smoke from the battered pack he keeps hidden inside. Holding it between his teeth, he pats his pockets, feeling for his lucky lighter.

"God fuckin' dammit," he swears softly, realizing the damn thing is still in his pack. Frustrated, he bangs his head against the wall and shuts his eyes.

Someone drops beside him. Bucky hears the metal rasp and a flame appears. Looking over, he finds the tired face of the priest giving him a wry smile. He leans over, tips the cigarette into the fire and inhales.

"Thanks Padre," he grunts in greeting.

"Sure thing," the priest says, snapping it shut. He leans against the stone next to Bucky and gets comfortable. "You know, the last time you were here, you were pretty intent on interrupting my service."

"Ah yeah. Sorry about that," Bucky says with a weak smile. He takes another slow drag. "Was awful interested in someone else that day."

"Yes, that much was clear," the priest says with a chuckle. Stretching out his long legs, he crosses the ankles, fiddling with his lighter. "So. How is it out there?"

What a loaded question.

How is it out there?

Hell. Black, bloody, brutal. The very worst parts of his nightmares magnified by a thousand. Humans are terrible and people are suffering in ways he never imagined, because war is fucking hell on earth. He wants to pack up his shit, break his rifle across his knee, get his girl and go home.

How is it out there?

It's motherfucking awful out there.

"It's - fine," Bucky says instead. He examines the bright red cherry on the tip of his smoke. Takes another long drag, blows the thin stream into the icy air. "Just gettin' tired. Trying to find a reason to keep fighting, I guess. I know it's the right thing to do. These rumors you're hearing. Camps and babies and...experiments. All of it's true. Every fuckin' word," he grimaces at the effortless swear and looks apologetically at the priest. "Sorry."

The priest just shrugs. "S'okay Sergeant. I've heard worse. Said worse, in fact."

Bucky gives a humorless laugh. "Sure, sure." He tugs at a loose string on his jacket and thinks. "Guess I'm having trouble finding something to follow, you know?"

"What do you believe in?"

Staring off into space, Bucky wonders. What does he believe in? A long time ago, he thought he knew. Life, liberty. Freedom. Fighting the good fight. But now? His morals are shot to shit and he has no idea which way is up. He's drifting along, half human while he chips away at his humanity a little more with each bullet from his gun. Each slice of his knife. What the hell does he believe in?

He can think of nothing, until he can. Until the one word that makes it all right rises to his lips.

"Love," Bucky answers honestly. He cocks his head to the side and considers to the priest. "I believe in love. Making the world better for other people. For my family. For Steve." His eyes drift the familiar path toward her house and he smiles without realizing. "For her."

"Then that's what you follow."

"You're telling me to follow my heart? Little corny, ain't it?"

The priest smiles faintly. "Maybe," he agrees. "Up to you to find out."

Renewed, Bucky drops the cigarette and grinds it with the heel of his boot. He climbs to his feet and offers a silent hand to the priest, hauling him off the ground.

"Thanks, Padre."

"Good luck Sergeant."

*****

Lugging the boiling water into the bathroom, she splashes it into the old porcelain tub. It's taken close to an hour now, of heating water over the fireplace and transferring it to the bath.

She's in the bathroom, adding the final bucket, when the backdoor opens. There's a rustling and she hears Bucky shrugging out of the blue coat, taking off his boots and lining them up in a military straight line. When he pads into the kitchen calling her name, the bucket slips and she hisses a frustrated curse.

"Wha – are you okay?"

She comes out of the bathroom off the kitchen and huffs out a breath. Sweat drips down her face and her arms are shaking from the effort, but she gives him a broad smile.

"You interested in a hot bath, Sergeant?"

Eyes going wide, Bucky hesitates for the briefest moment, before he's suddenly slipping over the cold stone floor of her kitchen, stripping as he goes. His shirt goes flying, he hops on one foot to remove each sock, his fingers scrabble furiously at his worn leather belt. By the time he reaches the tub, he's down to his drab, olive colored military issue boxers and an ecstatic smile.

"I hope you're serious, or this is gonna be real awkward," he jokes and she laughs. Motioning to the water, she turns around and gives him privacy, busying herself while he removes the boxers. It seems silly, considering what they've shared, but she doesn't want to presume.

There's a splash and then Bucky is stuttering out a long, satisfied moan. The sound makes her stomach somersault.

"Can I look?" she teases, her throat suddenly and intensely dry. He chuckles.

"Please do. Ain't much fun otherwise."

She turns to see him slouched in the water, and then Bucky takes a deep breath and ducks under, immersing himself completely. Under the film of water, eyes closed and dark hair floating around him, he looks like an angel. He holds his breath for so long, she starts to worry, until he breaks the surface with a gasping laugh. Water cascades in rivers of bright sparkles down his face and spiky clumps of black eyelashes frame his blue eyes.

"Like trying to bathe a child," she says, a mock stern note in her voice and Bucky gives her a crooked grin.

"Sorry, sorry. I'll be good, cross my heart."

Poking him in the ribs, he shies away and laughs again and my god, she missed that sound. It sings through her blood, a drug she never realized she craved.

Wetting her hands in the hot water, she lathers up a small chunk of soap. Bucky hunches forward and she lathers