what might have been lost

  It’d been a quiet few days in London. The Howling Commandos are relaxing in their shared bunk room in a small army installation in a small town just outside of London, where the dirt and gravel roads have turned to sludge from the non-stop drizzling rain that’s blanketed the city for the last week. The weather is pissing Bucky off the most. It’s not that he doesn’t like the rain, but he doesn’t like his boots getting messy with rain trodden grime.

  The rain is different in London. When it rained in New York, it usually came as a relief to sweltering summer heat, and the dark grey storm clouds could be seen rolling in over the Hudson. But here, the rain was oppressive, constant, and unyielding. It made the air smell like wet dirt and cast a chill over anyone who dared to step foot outside. 

  The only one of them truly accustomed to the miserable grey and soggy atmosphere is Monty. It doesn’t sit well with any of the others. They’ve all taken on a grey countenance themselves, the crows feet around their eyes fading since there’s no sun to squint at for days at a time. Color only returns to their faces after they’ve shared a drink, or a hearty laugh. Most of the time, it takes both.

  Steve can hear someone approaching their accommodation. Faint footfalls and the crunching of the gravel walkway grows nearer. He whistles softly as an alert, then there’s two perfunctory knocks at the door before their commanding officer strides in.

  There’s a kind of mutual disrespect, if there ever was such a thing, between Phillips and the Commandos. Steve stands up from his seated position on his bed to greet the elder man, but the others don’t stall their business: Dum Dum continues to pull at the ends of his mustache with a waxy balm he bought at a pharmacy, Dernier is napping with his face pressed flat into his pillow (how he breathes remains a mystery to all), Monty is still reading a tattered novel, Morita is stitching up a small tear in his rucksack with army regulation thread, Jones has his nose down in a notebook writing out a form, and Bucky is shining the toes of his boots with a spare rag, doing his best to dislodge the rogue rocks that have wedged themselves into the soles. 

  “Sir,” Steve says. “Any word?”

  “There’s whispers about another Hydra base just in Denmark, but nothing worth acting on at the moment.” Phillips takes the cap off his head and shakes it at his waist, sending the accumulated rain droplets to the floor. Bucky glances from the rag in his hand to the wet splotches on the floor and suppresses a scowl.

  “It’s too quiet. I don’t like it.” Steve says, wiping his jaw with an open hand and turning back towards his bunk to sit down. 

  “No need to get your panties in a twist Rogers. If we need you boys somewhere, you’ll be on your way before anyone else.” Phillips says. “And Dugan, mail for you.”

  Phillips tosses a small package across the room, no bigger than a loaf of bread. It’s been wrapped in recycled newspaper, and multiple travel and shipping tags have been taped around it, giving it a second layer for Dum Dum to tear through. There’s also a letter, securely fashioned to the backside of the package. 

  “Jones, I want that report on my desk by morning.” Phillips says.

  “Yes, sir.” 

  Without any further engagement, Philips flips his cap back on his head, turns and pulls the door closed behind him. Bucky leans back in his bunk to peer through the window to make sure Phillips is far enough away before he says aloud to the group, “Whatta fuckin’ big wheel. How old is he anyway?”

  Steve shrugs. 

  “It’s like taking orders from a goddamn dinosaur. Maybe one of these days he’ll turn to dust and we’ll know an ounce more of peace on this planet.” Bucky laments, not holding back.

  Everyone chuckles, and Dernier even turns his head out to the side and mumbles out, “Comme si être dans l'armée n'était pas assez misérable, il faut qu'on fasse rapport à ce connard.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Jones chuckles, shaking out his hand which is sore from writing. 

  “Still going on that damn paper, Jones?” Bucky asks. 

  “Well yeah, ‘cause apparently I’m the only one here who can tell a pen from a toothpick.”

  “Oi!” Monty swats at him with his book.

  “Okay,” Gabe amends, “I’m one of two people here who can tell a pen from a toothpick.”

   Bucky shakes out his towel. “Yeah, yeah, mister college education. I’ll have you know that Steve and I have a few years of college under our belts.”

  “Oh yeah?” Gabe looks to Steve, clearly not buying what Bucky’s selling.

  “It’s true. We put in some time at Auburndale Art School back home. Buck dropped out to work after his first year, but I stayed for two and a half. Still not a complete degree between the pair of us, but when it comes down to paying rent or paying for school, well,” Steve shrugs. 

  “Well, I haven’t gone to a fancy school and you fools have survived my medical practices,” Morita chimes in. He sucks a rivulet of blood from the tip of his forefinger, likely a result of catching the sharp end of his sewing needle.

  “You know Jimmy, I wouldn’t want anyone else patching me up,” Bucky lays on a cheshire grin. 

  The rain ramps up again outside, giving everyone pause as they look up towards the ceiling. They aren’t worrying about it leaking, but the noise is impressive, the swelling of large droplets acting in their own symphony as they make contact with the roof. An uneasy stillness falls across the room and Steve turns to Dugan, who’s uncharacteristically quiet.

  “Everything alright?” 

  Dum Dum exhales. “My old lady’s leaving me.”

  “What?” Monty leans forward, holding his page in his book.

  “I got a fuckin’ Dear John letter.”

  “I’m sorry, Tim,” Steve says.

  “Ah, it’ll be alright. I should’ve seen it coming though. War is a nasty thing to put a marriage through.”

  The men hum in agreement. 

  “So what was all wrapped up?” Bucky asks. “Big package for just one bad letter or—?”

  “Nah, my two kiddos, Sally and Robert, they sent me something. They wrote me a letter too, but I don’t know if I want to read it yet.” He wrestles the wrapped object out with the ghost of a smile on his face. “You’re famous, Sarge, or should I say, Bucky Bear.”

  It’s a plush bear, donning a blue jacket with a red collar and a black mask around it’s eyes — obviously a rendition of Bucky from the Captain America comic propaganda that’s sweeping the nation. 

  “Oh you gotta be shittin’ me.” Bucky hangs his head in laughter, color creeping up his face. 

  “Look at ‘em! Sarge is going pink!” Monty laughs and Dernier cracks an eye open to look at the commotion. 

  “Apparently we’re big news stateside,” Dum Dum says. “And by we, I mean Sarge and the Captain since they’re the big token American boys. The rest of us Howlies are just faceless Joes.”

  Bucky rolls his eyes. “If only they knew Steve grew up the son of an Irish immigrant and single mom, and that I’m a Jew. And the army higher-ups wanna to give us shit for integrating.” He scoffs. “There’s no one else on this goddamn planet I’d rather fight beside than you men.”

  “Hell, I’ll drink to that,” Dum Dum says.

  “Man, you’ll drink for anything, you don’t have to make me a reason.”

  “Wait, Sarge, I thought your tags say Protestant?” Morita asks.

  “What are you lookin’ at my tags for?”

  “Just saw them the other day when I was giving you a once over when we got back to camp.”

  Bucky’s posture relaxed. “Jewish on my Ma’s side,” he says. “But all my papers say Protestant because that’s what my dad is, and it’s just easier that way. I got the blood though.”

  “Blood will out,” Steve says quietly. It’s an old phrase his Ma used to say — Stevie, you never forget who you are or where you come from. Blood will out, my son, and people will either love you for it, or not. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is what’s in here — and she’d hold a hand to his chest, just over his heart. 

  The men nod in agreement and sit in the quiet, listening to the rain wash over the roof. Dum Dum turns towards the small window next to his bunk, tracking the water droplets as they race down the glass pane. His fist is curled around the felt sewn clothes of the bear, feeling the soft fur underneath and praying quietly to himself to hold his countenance. It is war, after all.

***

  The next day passes in with the same overcast and damp weather, however it comes with news for Steve and the other men. The Hydra camp in Denmark is now actionable, and the Howlies are meant to deploy under the cover of night, in ten hours. Steve returns to their shared house with the intent of letting his men know to pack their bags and prepare to be in intel and planning meetings until they take off. 

  He enters their space without knocking, half expecting to find everyone either sleeping after breakfast, or telling the kind of jokes that still turn the tips of his ears pink, but the only ones there are Monty, Morita, and Jones. Steve wipes the rain from off his forehead, and pushes his hair out of his face before speaking. “Where is everybody?” 

  “Uh, Dernier is working with Stark on something that probably blows up, Dum Dum is patrolling with some Tommies because he was getting twitchy just sitting around, and I think Sarge is sitting under the covered stage having a smoke,” Morita answers. “Why, we got something better to do?”

  “We will later,” he says. “Denmark is a go, so get your bunks wrapped up. Phillips has us in strategy meetings starting at thirteen-hundred hours, and we’re set to leave at twenty-three, if all goes to plan.”

  “I was really hoping we’d be here long enough for the new ASEs to come in,” Monty says, closing his book.

  “Maybe if you read slower, you’d have more of a book to read,” Steve says, leaning up against Monty’s bedpost. The Englishman shrugs. “Is that one any good?”

  “The Great Gatsby? It’s alright,” Monty says. “I’ll probably finish it tonight.”

  “I can keep an eye out for any others when I make my rounds. Is there one in particular you’re wanting?”

  “If you come across any Lovecraft—”

  “You got it.”

  Steve taps the post with his hand before he goes.

  Bucky is exactly where Morita said, sitting on the edge of the stage Steve ran his U.S.O. circuit on when he first came through to London. The banners with him on it have since been taken down, but the canvas tarp over top is still up and keeping the stage area mostly dry. The edges of the wooden platform are damp with yesterday’s rain, from when it came down at an angle the tarp didn’t cover. 

  Bucky’s wearing his standard issue short sleeve shirt, and his regulation khakis which are tucked into his untied boots. His left thumb is hooked around his dog tag chain as he sits and flicks the end of his cigarette, sending ashes to the ground.

  “Those things’ll kill you, you know?” Steve remarks, approaching from the side. He hoists himself up onto the edge of the stage, feeling the moisture in the wood under his fingertips.

  “Not if some Nazi Hydra bastard does it first,” Bucky replies dryly, taking another puff before letting the smoke trail up and out of his mouth. “You want one?” He offers with his free hand.

  “Nah, I’m okay. Thanks though.”

  “Good, more for me.”

  “Then why’d you ask, you jerk?” Steve shoves into him jokingly, but Bucky shrugs. 

 “I’m almost through my ration for the week.”

  “We just got them two days ago, Buck.”

  “Guess I’m picking up a habit.”

  The non-stop trickling of rain finally eases up, and Steve extends his hand out from under the cover of the canvas in disbelief. 

  “Did we get orders to march?” Bucky asks. 

  “Yeah,” Steve answers. 

  “I gotta be honest, I love that we get to wipe the ground with those deplorable goons, but I’m tired of it. I wanted a few more days in this soggy hellhole before walking out into the line of fire.”

  “Me too, Buck. Me too.” 

  “I’m ready to go home, back to our tiny shit hole apartment and watch you sketch plans for window paintings at the grocer.” Bucky fumbles with his box of cigarettes, ready to pull out and light another. 

  “Buck,” Steve says a little judgmentally, eyes flicking down between meeting Bucky’s gaze and the box in his hands.

   Bucky sighs and hops off the end of the stage. The grass squishes under his boots and by some miracle doesn’t splatter any rainwater or muck up onto them. He twirls a new cigarette in between his fingers and starts walking toward the mess hall for an early lunch, and turns back to Steve and calls, “If a cigarette or bullet takes me, maybe you can bribe Dum Dum for that bear of his.”

  He flicks his zippo and lights the cigarette as he tucks it between his lips, all while Steve gives him the single finger salute.  

  When they get back to their bunk, Steve says nothing as he tosses a small copy of At the Mountains of Madness to Monty, and slides his unopened box of cigarettes to Bucky.

***

  “Do you think two straps, or three?” Dum Dum asks, holding his bag out in front of him. The Bucky Bear has been fastened to the side of it.

  “You’re not serious,” Bucky says, shaking his head. “I cannot believe you’re going to take that on missions.”

  “Why the hell not? I’ve got plenty of room on my bag.” He turns his bag around for dramatic effect. “See, now if they make bears of anyone else, they can all keep the Bucky Bear company.”

  “You’re incorrigible.” Bucky leans over and pushes Dugan’s shoulder.

  “And yet ever so humble.” 

  The entire team laughs at that. “You, humble? Very funny.”

  Sure enough, the bear found a home strapped to the back of Dugan’s pack. Before they left their base camp, he decided that two straps were enough, and they held the bear to the bag from under its arms and around its waist. It surely didn’t follow the army dress code, but no one cared much. 

  As the Howling Commandos packed into the back of a small military vehicle that’s taking them to the airfield, Phillips catches sight of the red and blue bear. His mouth opens slightly as if he’s about to say something about it, but he quickly opts to keep quiet as the men salute him on their way out. 

  Dugan crosses his legs, his ankle resting atop his knee, and pops his bag on top so it isn’t resting on the floor. Steve sinks into his seat after pulling the back of the truck closed and looks from Dugan’s bag up to the man himself. Under his mustache, Dugan smiles. He pinches the arm of the Bucky bear between his thumb and index finger and waves to Steve, who smiles back. 

***

  “No, don’t—” But it’s too late, and the blunt edge of his shield hits Bucky’s knuckles, hard, before Steve can even finish his sentence.  

  “Son of a bitch!” Bucky says, shaking out his hand, then cradling it to inspect the damage. He could’ve sworn he heard them crack on impact, but he’s able to wiggle his fingers and it seems like they’re all in one piece. 

  “You gotta catch it like a frisbee, Buck,” Steve says. “Flat hands, on the top and bottom.”

  “Or through the gauntlets if you’re feeling ballsy,” Jones adds in. 

  “Gabe, do not encourage him, Steve turns and points. “We can’t afford to have anyone out on injury, not right now.” 

  The group is set up in a forest clearing somewhere in the Netherlands. They’ve been pushing further North recently, but had to detour around Switzerland, which added four days to their trek. 

  “I’m good Steve, I’m good,” Bucky smiles, clapping his hands to psyche himself up. “Okay, say I catch the shield through the gauntlets, what do I win?”

  “Well I don’t have anymore cigarette rations to pass you, so I got nothin’,” Steve says. He’s rolling his sleeves up, letting the still cool spring air to brush over his forearms. It’s simultaneously warm and cold, and the duality of the afternoon strikes the men as peaceful.

  “Well, what about givin’ up the shield?” Dum Dum says. 

  Steve runs his hands along the edge. The metal is smooth and cold to the touch, and he can feel the minuscule ridges of where the vibranium was filed down and shaped. “It’s technically not mine,” Steve says. “And also I think it would go against regulation is anyone but me carried it into battle.”

  Dum Dum strokes his mustache in thought.

  “It could still be mine, if I caught it,” Bucky says. “You would just carry it.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, why not?” Bucky shrugs. “I’ll take it.”

  “Alright then,” Steve smirks. They back up against the farthest trees in the clearing, and the rest of the Commandos sit in audience up against large bounders that mark the edge of their camp. Bucky cracks his knuckles. Steve takes a stilling breath, then throws the shield.

***

  Three months and four Hydra bases later, cool autumn weather was moving in and the Bucky Bear has become the unofficial mascot of the team. Bucky has even softened to the idea of it, and even had scolded Dugan for letting the bear get damaged. 

  “Okay, aside from the fact that almost losing its arm in enemy territory could’ve compromised our position, with the bear being representative of myself, I take this careless treatment in full offense, I’ll have you know,” Bucky says deadpan. 

  Steve, who’s sitting next to him, is struggling to keep a straight face. He loves watching Bucky get worked up over trivial stuff — he’d do it all the time back home, even if it was just for a joke. For the first time since Azzano, in this moment, Steve recognizes the old Bucky. The one from before the war.

  “Stevie, back me up.”

  “Of course, Buck.”

  “Would you ever let my arm fall off and not do anything about it?”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it, Buck.”

  They’re sitting around a small fire nearly five miles outside of the German border, working their way back to the Allies’ rendezvous point in Vichy. The fire is smoldering by design, as to not create a smokestack large enough to reveal their location but to provide them with enough warmth to sleep the night through. It illuminates all the mens’ faces in a gentle orange glow.

  The last few weeks have been hell on Earth and they’ve seen things they wish they hadn’t. There were times where they would wake up at different points in the night, afraid that the rest of the group had turned into more nameless corpses with broken fingers and flaming hair. Living almost didn’t feel real anymore because of the horror they’d seen, but the tide of the war is changing. Nearly half of France is occupied by the Allies, more and more German U-boats have been sunk, and the German army is hemorrhaging resources left and right, and in the twisted way of war, it makes the Commandos excited.

  Steve digs through his bag until he finds what he’s looking for — a small tin with a needle and thread.  “Dugan, give the bear here,” he says. 

   He obliges, carefully passing the bear and it’s severed arm around the fire until it reaches Steve’s possession. 

  “Alright gents, what’s your plans for when the war’s finished?” Dugan asks, swirling his flash and then tipping his head back to take a drink.

  “I imagine I’ll be given new orders,” Monty says.

  “Makin’ a career out of the military?” Bucky asks. 

  Monty shrugs. “It’s worked out for me pretty well so far. What about you, Sarge?”

  “Fuck no. We’re going back to Brooklyn.” He looks over to Steve, whose brow is furrowed in concentration as he stitches the bear’s arm back on. “Is that the stitch my Ma taught you?”

  Steve nods without looking up. 

  “You think they’ll let Steve retire?” Monty asks.

  “I don’t give a damn what they say, we’re both out after this.” Bucky says. “We can settle down, get ourselves a pair of good looking ladies, have a couple of good looking kids each, and die happy knowing that our hands won’t be any bloodier than they will be by the end of all this.”

  “Is that right?”

  “That’s about as close to a happily ever after as I think I’ll get,” Bucky rubs the back of his neck.

  “Hell, I might ride the army out for a while,” Morita says. “The battle field looks friendlier than home does.”

  “Amen to that.” Jones chimes in. 

  Dugan nods. “I’ll be right there with you fellas. I don’t know if I have much of a home to go back to at this point.” The group quiets for a minute. 

  Gabe turns to his right. “What about you, Dernier?” 

  “Marseille is already freed, so I might just go home and help rebuild.”

  “You all better share your forwarding addresses. I’m not planning on losing these friendships to distance,” Dugan says.

  “Friendships? Nah,” Bucky says. “Brothers.” 

  Steve bites off the end of the knotted thread once he’s finished, and flips the bear to face the group. He clears his throat, then in a very over exaggerated transatlantic accent, he mimics Bucky, raising the bear’s arms accordingly. “We are brothers!”

  “You’re such a punk!” Bucky says laughing. 

  “Yeah, I know.” Steve bites the inside of his lip and looks into what’s left of the fire, the image of Bucky’s profile illuminated by laughter and the warm glow of the flame. “I know.”

***

  Bucky’s eyes burn. The combination of the whipping cold winds, salty tears, and the friction of using the rough cuffs of his jacket to wipe them away has his skin red and raw. He’s never been more homesick in all of his time at war until now.

  They liberated a camp that day. Bucky couldn’t even tell who the people were that they saved. Civilians? Soldiers? Children? War has made his vision callous and fuzzy with ambivalence. There were so many people, room after room, cell after cell. Sinewy and all bone. Practically shells of the people they once were. He’s practically a shell of himself, which strikes him as ironic. What’s the difference between the people they’re saving, and themselves? Maybe they’re the ones who will need to be saved once this is all over.

  At the end of the raid, he and Steve cleared out the rest of the administrative offices, looking to round up any other Nazi prick for an arrest. He was supposed to watch Steve’s back, always. There was one Kraut left, and he got a shot off. Hit Steve right in the meat of his shoulder, so Bucky shot off a single round and the other man crumped into himself with a fresh hole between his eyebrows.

  Steve’s okay. A bit bloody of course, but the bullet went straight through and with the serum on board, it won’t even leave a mark. It doesn’t matter though.

  They’ve set up camp on a peak of a snowcapped mountain. Bucky’s not even sure where they are at this point — all he knows is that it’s so cold his nose feels warm. He’s been far away, his mind back in Brooklyn sitting on the docks, imagining mist from the Upper Bay is sprinkling across his face rather than snow and sleet. After pitching their tents, he wandered off to a more secluded area off to the side and fell to his knees. 

  He’s been crying too; he can feel the tear tracks nearly frozen against his cheeks, just as he can feel the snow melting through his pants and making his knees frigid. 

  “Bucky?” It’s Steve. Bucky didn’t even hear him come up. “Are you alright?”

  He tips his head in a way that’s mean to imply that he’s alright, but Steve knows better. Steve sinks down to his knees on Bucky’s right. Bucky doesn’t turn to meet his gaze. 

  “You remember a while ago when we were sitting around that fire in France, and Dugan asked what we were going to do when the war ends?” He asks Steve, who nods. “I said something about the two of us goin’ back home I think, but I can’t picture it now. I don’t think I’m ever going to get out of this damn war. There is no going home for a guy like me.”

  Steve’s hands are on him then, holding the sides of his face, his pinkies just under the sharp end of his jaw, and Bucky is forced to turn. His vision tracks from the ridge on Steve’s nose to his eyes, blue and as bright as the sky, as Steve speaks. “Listen, Buck. We’re going to make it out of this war. We’re going to win, and then we’re going to go home. Just think of your Ma, and your sister. We’re going home to them.”

  A shake, not even quite a sob, ratchets up from Bucky’s core, and Steve holds him up from under his arms, wrapping himself around Bucky’s chest until Bucky’s arms fall over Steve’s shoulder. Bucky breathes Steve in; his uniform smells of stale soap and open air, tainted by the iron of dried blood over the spot where he’d bled and healed over earlier. 

  “I wasn’t supposed to be this, Steve.”

  “Neither was I.”

  Later on that evening in camp, the Howlies spent time around a wider fire. Steve told them the story of how he and Bucky snuck onto the back of a freezer truck after they’d spent all their cash. They hadn’t wanted to spent the night on Rockaway Beach, and somehow the possibility of being confronted by a burly freezer truck driver wasn’t nearly as terrifying as being stranded by the docks and boardwalks overnight. 

  Bucky watches as Steve’s eyes twinkle, reflecting the light from the fire, as he laughs about how it was Bucky that blew all their money by trying to win a stuffed bear in one of the rigged carnival games. He smirks anyway, rubbing over the callouses on his hands. He never did tell Steve that he wanted to win the bear for him.

***

  Bucky is an echo. 

  A memory.

  They’re all back in London. All of them that are still alive, anyway.

  There’s been more bombings lately. Central London is a mess, and even though the Howlies are on leave, they’re still working everyday to help the locals recover the best they can. 

  Steve halts in his tracks anytime he sees any other guy from behind with short cut dark hair, or anyone wearing a blue coat. Jokes in the group fall flat. Their laughter is quieter. Smiles don’t quite reach their eyes. They don’t shine their boots as often anymore since there’s no one to mother hen over the smudges on the leather. 

  Steve’s grief is paralyzing.

  He’s never felt like this before.

  When he lost his Ma, he still had Bucky. Same thing with Erskine — he was on his way to Bucky. It’s not like those losses stung, because they hurt like hell, but this time it’s worse because he feels entirely alone. It’s like time has stopped completely, like his heart no longer beats in a steady rhythm and everyone else is passing him by. He feels adrift. Rootless. Detached. That might be the most dangerous ailment in this war. It’s impossible to survive without fighting for your life.

  Phillips even offered him an honorable discharge, quietly, after everything. But in a rare moment where Steve could bring himself to move, to speak, to act, to fight, he said no. He is going to see it through. He is going to burn Hydra to the ground, and he isn’t going to stop until the work is finished, or he’s shot dead. Either way he might know peace. 

  The six of them are standing outside of what’s left of the Whip and Fiddle. Just standing. They’ve finished their work for the day and are planning on turning in soon, but they’re just standing and waiting. 

  “He’s not coming,” Steve says quietly once he realizes. He walks out ahead of the rest of them, pulling his jacket collar up and around his neck, protecting himself from the brutal winter air. Bucky was always the last one out. Such a charmer, always the one to get the last word in, the last laugh, or the last drink. They’d always be waiting on him. 

  They always will be waiting on him. 

  Because Bucky will never come. 

  Dugan puts the Bucky bear in his personnel box in London. It hurts to carry it around — a sore reminder of losing his wife and children, and Bucky too. He might come back for it after the war’s finished, but he hasn’t decided yet. He doesn’t get to mull over the bear for long. They’ve got a lock on Schmidt’s base, hidden in the Austrian Alps, and they’re leaving soon.

***

  Dugan loves a good fight. The way the scent of gun powder floats through the air and the way adrenaline flows through his veins. It’s relentless, exhausting, and exhilarating all at once, and now that the fight is over, he’s left standing, chest heaving, with a feeling of finality.

  He’s finished his escort of Hydra scum to Allied armored vehicles where they’ll be imprisoned for war crimes and await their trials. It’s too light a consequence in his opinion. Anyone wearing the Hydra squid or a Nazi swastika deserves to be dropped off the highest peak and left to freeze at the bottom. Despite that, he can’t help the grin that spreads across his face when he sees Gabe, Morita, and Phillips standing in the hall. 

  The smile doesn’t last long. As he approaches where they’re standing, Gabe slides down the wall and sits with his head in his hands, and he can see that Morita is pinching the bridge of his nose. Through the crack in the door, he can hear Peggy Carter crying softly over the static of a radio. 

  He knows then, what happened. 

  Dugan rests his head against the wall next to several scorch marks from weapons that missed their intended targets. He kicks the toe of his boot against the baseboard. 

  “Damn it.” He says to himself. 

  He kicks the wall harder. 

  “Damn it! Damn it!”

  He’s swinging his arms at nothing in particular, just wanting to make contact with the wall maybe, to split his knuckles on something so he can feel something other than overwhelming grief, but then someone is hugging him, holding him tight until he feels like he’s crumbling to mere fractions of himself. It’s Jones, holding him, gentle but firm.. 

  The remainder of the Howling Commandos sit closely on the ride back to base. They don’t speak, save for necessary exchanges. The group, seven now made five in the last few months, was trapped in a shared feeling of melancholy. 

  They sit at their table at the Whip and Fiddle. It’s probably not the same table, since the bombings destroyed most of the original fixtures, but it’s close to being in the same spot. Everyone around them is celebrating, toasting to the victory in Europe and the end of the war on this front. No one pays the men any mind, oblivious to their contributions to the war effort, and the losses they’ve endured. 

  “To the Captain,” Monty says. They bring their glasses together.

  Dugan, usually never short of words, is rendered speechless. He can’t remember the last thing he’d said to Steve. He feels like he should’ve known. On that last day, Steve’s eyes were burning blue. The intent was there, almost as if he’d taken a page out of Bucky’s book: a sly smirk, a piercing stare, relaxed posture with his hands resting over his belt buckle.