Archive of Our Own

"It's not bad," Steve said, picking at the dry blades of grass beneath his hand. "We're busier than ever, and it's hard work, but Sir Nicholas Fury is indeed the best shield-smith in the land. It's no wonder people come from as far as Starkton to get a Fury-made shield. We don't make deliveries anymore, of course, not after what happened last year."

Steve shifted his position. His legs and back were starting to feel sore, a wretched combination of the week's labor and the way his knobby spine was pressed against the edge of the well.

"What else do I have to tell you..." Steve closed his eyes against the low-hanging mid-afternoon sun and pretended to see Bucky across from him, hanging on his every word, smiling warmly. But no, that wasn't right; in truth, Bucky would look dreadfully bored, eyes hooded, would probably have already taken to poking Steve with a stick to get him to shut up and go with him to the tavern or some other place crowded with people. Bucky loved crowds. Steve hated them. They made his lungs tighten and his heart unsteady. But for Bucky...he'd have followed Bucky anywhere. Even into battle, if only fate had let him.

Steve swallowed down his sorrow, heart aching for his lost friend and forced himself to keep going. "Peggy came by on Thursday. She commissioned a shield from us—never seen anything like it—perfectly round, like a full moon. Brought her own metal. It's—"

A falcon's call interrupted him. The bird circled up above Steve's head then dove swiftly, wings tucked in tight, and landed by Steve's feet.

"Hello, Redwing," Steve said.

Sam came striding around the corner. "Are you going to sit there all day talking to yourself, Rogers?" Redwing waited for him to get closer, then rose into the air with little more effort than a hop, and landed on Sam's arm.

Steve gave him a mock glare. "Well, that was my plan, but I suppose you have a better idea?"

"Don't I always?" Sam winked at him and reached down his hand. "There's to be a show outside the tavern tonight."

The arrow sped through the air in a wide, graceful arc and landed right in the center of the target disc: a perfect bullseye. A second arrow followed it a moment later, piercing the first through the middle.

The crowd gathered outside the tavern erupted in applause, Steve and Sam along with them.

"Thank you, thank you kindly, good gentlefolk," said Clint, one of the Two Hawkeyes. He bowed with a flourish, as Kate, his counterpart, fired one more arrow into the air. It sparked then exploded in a shower of purple light.

Another, louder round of applause rippled through the crowd and the performers began collecting donations.

"See, I promised you a good show, did I not?" Sam asked, grinning as he nudged Steve in the ribs.

"You did." Steve dug a coin from his purse.

"And did I deliver?" Sam dropped his coin into Clint's feathered hat as he passed by.

"Well, the Hawkeyes certainly did," Steve said, dropping a coin into Kate's hat.

Sam laughed. "Fair enough." He pointed over his shoulder. "Join me inside for another drink. The night's still young."

Steve shook his head. "If I'm to get to the forge before dawn tomorrow, I need my sleep."

"Before dawn?" Sam pursed his lips. "That's terrible."

"Yes, but at least I have money to spend on things like shows and drinks with you."

"An excellent point. Well then, go get your beauty sleep, Rogers."

"Good night, Sam."

"Indeed it shall be. Good night, Steve." Sam gave him a nod and headed towards the tavern's entrance.

Steve weaved through the lingering crowd and made his way to the road, pausing by the notice board. He looked every day, just in case there was some mention of Bucky, or any of those lost in the battle with Hydra years ago. But there were only two posts on the board. One for someone in need of a wheelbarrow and another reported sighting of the dreaded Winter Knight.

They'd stopped posting bounties and switched to warnings—every report had grown more and more harrowing. The newest report was accompanied by a sketch that showed the Winter Soldier wielding a broadsword, dripping blood. His face was obscured by his long, dark, unruly hair. His left arm was heavily armored, or, as many stories reported, entirely made of metal, as impossible as that seemed. The edges of the page fluttered as a gust of wind came up out of nowhere.

Steve had encountered the Winter Knight personally once. In fact, Steve was the only man in Lynbrook who'd seen him face to face and survived. According to Sam, that made him the luckiest man alive. But be that as it may, it wasn't a day Steve liked to think about.

He and two others had been on the road to Starkton with a delivery cart: five of Fury's shields, a custom-made suit of armor, and a whole variety of local food items other merchants had prepared. Lynbrook wasn't a center of commerce, but they did some things particularly well—well enough that the denizens of Starkton were willing to pay well to have them.

They'd made good time; it was still well before dusk and Starkton's high-reaching tower had already been visible on the horizon . Steve had been looking forward to spending a night in Starkton—their inns were well-known for being luxurious beyond anything on the outskirts of York. His belly had started to rumble with thoughts of food, but he’d ignored it, focusing on the task at hand. Soon enough they'd be able to rest and eat.

"A welcoming party!" Phillip had said from the front.

There were indeed riders coming towards them, but as they drew closer, it had become clear they were not from Starkton. What Steve had thought were horses distended by a trick of light, were bears—large powerful beasts with glowing red eyes that ran at them as though they had no intention of slowing. Only the one in the center had had a rider—a heavily armored knight wielding a sword. His left shoulder bore the sigil of the Knights of Hydra.

"Whoa! Whoa!" Phillip had cried, trying to get the horses to change course. But they'd never escape—not with a whole cart of heavy wares.

Steve had jumped down from the cart along with the others and grabbed his shortsword, ready to defend as best he could. But the knight was already upon them. Steve ran to the front to help, but just as he had rounded the corner he’d heard Phillip's groan of pain—the knight had his sword deep in the man's chest.

"No—" Steve said, horrified, as his arms began to shake.

The knight had taken no notice of Steve, had pulled his sword free from Phillip's body with ease and shaken it once, sending blood splattering to the dusty ground.

"Oh gods—it's him!" shouted Edgar. "The Winter Knight."

Steve had already been thoroughly frightened, but the name sent a new jolt of terror down his spine. His sword had trembled in his grip but he’d held it steady and darted forward, lunging between the knight and Edgar. The knight locked eyes with him, the rest of his face hidden behind a bevor. He lifted his left arm up high and in that moment, time seemed to slow—Steve saw with horrifying clarity that it wasn't armor covering the knight's arm, but that his entire arm, shoulder and all, seemed to be made of metal—dozens of finely crafted plates shifting as it came back down and brushed Steve aside with a powerful blow. Steve had careened through the air, landing heavily on his side a good ten meters away and watched in stunned horror as the knight laid waste to the rest of his group, took the suit of armor, and rode off, the other bears trailing behind him.

Steve could still hear the metallic clang of the Winter Knight’s broadsword echoing in his mind as he left the tavern. The night air had a biting edge to it now, and he shivered, drawing his thin coat tighter around him as he followed the familiar paths of Lynbrook back to his home.

The last bite of soup was as uninteresting as the first had been. But Steve could only do so much with potatoes, green onions and celery. He sighed as he leaned back in his seat and looked at his bed. He should head to sleep, early as he had to rise. And though his body was tired, his mind was still awake. Revisiting his memory of the Winter Knight had left him tense and nervous, and his mind drifted inevitably to thoughts of Bucky.

Steve wouldn't accept that Bucky was dead. Despite what Sam and all his other friends had told him. Bucky hadn't returned from the battle against the Knights of Hydra, but that didn't mean he'd perished. Perhaps he was being held captive, or he'd found a new life—a better life in another town somewhere far away. Steve swallowed down the painful lump in his throat—that last one was a lie. Bucky would have sent word by now. He would never let Steve think he was dead, not if he could help it. So that left only captivity.

And though Lynbrook had many brave citizens willing to fight and defend it, they just didn't have the numbers they would need to take on Hydra's citadel, where it kept its prisoners. Steve had petitioned their Regent, requested an audience with the king of York, but neither the Regent nor their King considered one man important enough to lay siege. Steve certainly did. Especially when that man was Bucky.

After rinsing his bowl and spoon, Steve slipped back into his boots and coat and headed out for a walk. It was a habit he'd had since his youth, walking to the well and back when he felt uneasy. The cold night air settled his mind, and the well reminded him of happier times.

The air, however, had grown so cold, that Steve nearly changed his mind and turned around, but as he neared the alleyway of the well, he heard a sound—an odd sound—something metallic, echoing. He paused, waiting until he heard it again and then stepped closer to investigate. He felt strangely protective of the well, had been since Bucky's—since Bucky's departure.

As Steve got closer, he heard another noise. He paused, and listened again and there it was—the croak of a frog. He walked slowly closer and watched, intrigued, as the frog in question poked its head over the rim of the well. Something metallic glittered near the frog's head, catching the light from the nearby oil lamp. A fish hook maybe, or something else that had injured it. Perhaps that was the cause of the clinking sound.

Steve moved closer to the well, trying to not scare off the poor animal. "It's okay," he said, palms out like a fool, as though the frog could understand him. "I'm here to help."

But the frog seemed to trust him and remained where it was, with its webbed front feet clinging onto the edge. "What is that?" Steve asked aloud as he got close enough to see the metal stuck to the frog. It wasn't a fishhook, or anything of the sort, but appeared to be attached to the frog itself—no, not just attached—the frog's front left leg was made of metal as finely crafted as a courtier's brooch.

"Amazing," Steve said, as he dropped to his knees so he could get a better look at the frog. "So that was you clinking about inside the well. Were you stuck down there?"

"Ribbit," said the frog, looking at him intently.

"And where are you headed exactly?" Steve asked. "The lake's miles from here." He sighed. "I'd carry you there, but not tonight. It's too dark."

The frog croaked at him and then hopped up, landing on Steve's shoulder.

"Whoa!" Steve said, surprised. "I just told you, I can't, not tonight. But perhaps tomorrow. If I get done with work early enough there might still be time." He held his open hand up to the frog. "Come on."

The frog obliged, and stepped into Steve's hand.

Steve lowered him back down to the well's edge. "Just stay here and I'll come back for you in the morning, all right?"

The frog looked at him, and wrapped his front legs tightly around Steve's hand. The frog's little metal fingers prickled like dull needles where they curved into Steve's skin.

Steve chuckled despite the absurdity of the situation, or perhaps because of it. "Not good enough, eh?" He sighed. "Well then I suppose I have no choice but to bring you home." He cupped his other hand in front of the frog and headed back onto the path home.

Growing up, only a few things in life had been constant for Bucky: No matter how hard they worked to stock up for the winter, supplies were always scarce by its end. His sister baked the best pie in the land. And Steve would always be the best friend anyone could have.

Steve—whose heart was bigger than any man's, who would face down a giant for stepping on a mouse—would always fight for what was right, even though his punches had less force than a strong gust of wind. Steve was small, and ill of health, but he fought like a lion. And since Steve would always be smaller than Bucky, it was Bucky's duty to protect him. It was a responsibility he gladly accepted and had to employ often, considering how many times Steve faced off against buffoons three times his size.

And yet here Bucky was, sitting in Steve's palm.

Bucky's life was strange. It had been since that fateful day on the battlefield, six years ago.

The kingdom of Hydra was known for its dark sorcery, but hearing about it all his childhood, Bucky thought most of it exaggeration—tales made wilder for the sake of good storytelling. Surely there couldn't be any truth to the rumors about the extent of their power: how their alchemists had achieved transmutations beyond anything conceived of, how their wizards had gained immortality, how their lord was a devil with a skull for a face. It was all too outlandish.

But in his very first hour on the battlefield, as Bucky stood with the other knights beneath the Howling Wolf banner of York, it had become clear that what he'd heard was no exaggeration. If anything, the people of York and its territories had vastly underestimated Hydra's power.

In the distance, moving towards them beneath a dust and ash-filled sky were abominations of flesh and steel—monstrous sea creatures that roiled across the land, bears the size of dragons with glowing red eyes and fiery breath, and griffons—part lion, part metal bird—that tore through their first three lines of defense in seconds.

Bucky had fought the urge to run, had called on all his skill, all his training, and had held his sword at the ready as one of the griffon-beasts swooped down from the sky, headed right for him. He’d parried the blow from its paw, trapping its claws with the side of his blade and ducking just in time to avoid being sliced in half by its armored, razor-sharp wing, but when it lashed out with its spiked tail, he hadn’t been fast enough. It had pinned him down and savagely lunged at him with its metal maw, tearing off Bucky's left arm and swallowing it down whole.

The last memory Bucky had of that day was of a round-faced warlock leering down at him, saying, "Yes, this one will suffice."

Steve's home seemed larger to Bucky, as did everything in his new form. The chill of the night had crept indoors, but Steve built a fire and within minutes the place started to feel cozy again.

He set a plate on the table, and laughed awkwardly as he brought out what food he had:—a hunk of bread, a wedge of cheese, and an apple. "I've already eaten dinner, this is what I have left. Don't have any flies or other insects—at least, not that I know of. Not sure what else frogs eat."

Bucky made a face at the thought of trying to eat a fly and hopped closer to the apple, hoping that made his intent clear.

"I'll cut you off a piece. What's the worst that could happen?"

As it turned out, the worst that could happen was the piece of apple nearly lodged itself in Bucky's throat. But, with some effort and his awkwardly long, but useful tongue, he turned the piece of fruit around and swallowed it.

Steve cut him off smaller pieces after that, smiling as he ate the rest of the apple himself.

"That's it for the night's entertainment, I'm afraid. Now it's time for rest." Steve stripped out of his work clothes and into his nightshirt. He looked much like Bucky remembered, though his back showed some new lean muscle. In the light from the fire, the goosebumps on Steve’s skin were visible. Bucky longed to wrap himself around Steve, offer him his own warmth, like he’d done in past winters. Not that he’d be much use now.

"It's warm by the fire, just don't get too close. I'm not a fan of frog legs."

Bucky croaked in rebuke.

Steve yawned wide and settled on his pillow, long lashes fluttering as his eyes drifted shut. Bucky hopped up onto the mattress right beside him. "Shouldn't let you stay here," Steve said sleepily. "What if I roll over on you?" He held out his finger, and Bucky briefly set his hand atop of Steve's knuckle in what he hoped was a reassuring manner.

However ludicrous the gesture appeared with his strange, tiny, webbed hand, it was effective, as Steve soon fell fast asleep. Bucky couldn't sleep: one of the more beneficial side-effects of being enchanted. It had allowed him to travel continuously from Hydra’s stronghold in the Eastern mountains all the way to Lynbrook, and now it would allow him to watch over Steve through the night, like he used to.

Bucky stayed on Steve's bed for a while and then hopped over to the windowsill to stand—or rather sit guard. An intricate spider-web spanned the upper-right corner of Steve's window.

The view from Steve’s window wasn’t much: a strip of muddied road, and the back of two other homes. But it was an infinitely better view than no view at all.

Bucky had grown used to waking up in a cell, often with a freshly healed wound. He couldn't remember much at all of his time outside of the cell—only flashes of memories: blood and death, his sword slicing one throat after the next, marching through corpses towards a goal that wasn't his. And through all of it, he had no control of his actions—he was a passenger in his own body, forced to watch as he carried out someone else's will. Hydra's will.

He wasn't entirely sure of the extent of what Hydra had done to him. They'd replaced his lost arm with one made of enchanted metal; no weapon could damage it, and, when under their command, it imbued him with strength far beyond what he'd been capable of before. He also healed quickly, or so he'd determined after cutting himself in a previous escape attempt only to watch the wound close within seconds, new skin stitching itself together right before his eyes.

Three days earlier, footsteps echoed down the corridor to his cell and Bucky had climbed to his feet, alert, ready to confront the guard the way he did every time, on the off chance one of them had a shred of decency or maybe just a weak will. He had to make every effort to convince them to set him free.

The guard was a woman, and as she drew closer, close enough for him to recognize her gait and the way she carried herself, Bucky's heart had leapt with hope. "Natasha," he’d whispered.

"James," she’d said, raised the visor of her helmet and smiled at him. "You're looking well."

He’d let out a bitter laugh. "Been better."

"As have I." Her face had turned grim. "I know you are as tired of being a puppet to these madmen as I am." She’d reached into her cloak and pulled out two small vials of a glowing purple liquid and passed one through the bars. "These are our way out, courtesy of the Scarlet Witch. It will transform you; let you slip the bars of your cell and escape."

"Is it safe?" James had eyed the vial suspiciously.

She’d cocked an eyebrow. "What in life is safe?"

"Yes, but—"

"Drink it now, before the next shift. I'm done being Hydra's captive." She’d raised her chin, challenging him. "Are you?"

Bucky nodded, solemnly.

Natasha had opened her vial, brought it to her lips and paused. "Go somewhere safe—someplace where you have an anchor—somebody who can remind you of who you are, no matter how deeply Hydra compels you."

Bucky already knew where he would be headed. He'd known all along.

"It's worth the risk." Bucky had decided, opening his own vial. "I can't spend another day like this—just some mindless, blunt instrument."

"You're more of a finely honed blade, like me. Good luck, James."

"Good luck to us both, and thank you," Bucky had said, brought his vial to his lips, and drank.

"Bottoms up," Natasha had said with a smirk, before tilting back her own vial.

The glowing liquid burned as it went down Bucky's throat and he’d felt different immediately—the potent magic taking effect at such a blinding speed that the whole world around him seemed to collapse in on himself. He’d felt himself fall, or rather—it seemed the room around him was growing, the walls becoming ever taller—an intense, terrifying feeling of vertigo. He fell and could see only darkness.

Bucky's body felt strange. His limbs had twisted awkwardly and he couldn’t turn his head. He pushed with all his might against whatever had covered him—a heavy blanket or tarp. Finally he had seen a glimpse of light, moved towards it, pushed through and found himself...still in his cell. Only it was a hundred times the size it had been. Panicked, he’d tried to turn his head, but instead found his whole body moving, his head still frustratingly low to the ground. It was only then that he’d noticed his hand was green and webbed. As best he could, he had tried to look at the rest of himself—limbs covered with green, shiny skin save for the front left hand which was still metal, just like it had been before he drank the potion. He tried to speak but all that came out was a soft, woeful ribbit.

A frog. She's turned me into a frog. It was such a ludicrous thought, Bucky had sat there for a good while longer contemplating what he'd done to deserve such a fate. Out of the corner of his eye he’d caught movement just outside his cell. A large spider—a Black Widow—pulling herself up her web. She had paused for a moment, and appeared to wave at him, then retreated into the darkness of the ceiling above.

Bucky had taken a deep breath, which manifested as a croak and hopped out through the bars of his cell.

Though he'd been transformed into a frog, Natasha's plan had worked. Bucky had won his freedom and made his way through forests, swamps and sewers, all the way back to Lynbrook, all the way back to Steve. Of course, in his dreams, their reunion had been quite different, and far more dignified.

But life had a horrid sense of humor, and so Bucky had his wish: he was free and back home with Steve. Steve, who was resting peacefully, breaths deep and steady despite the chilly air.

And Steve had no idea that Bucky had returned to him, probably assumed he'd just found an odd pet, one he'd surely get rid of in another day or two. The new challenge for Bucky was uncovering how the transformation was to be undone. He'd received no instruction from Natasha, and though she loved to be mysterious, he'd sensed that even she didn't know the answer.

He hopped down from the windowsill and crossed the floor, towards the lingering embers of the fire. It was a habit born of many years of stoking the fire throughout the night—something he had no idea how to accomplish in his new, frustratingly tiny form.

Steve let out a soft sound in his sleep, something pained, muffled slightly by his pillow. So Bucky hopped back up on Steve's bed, settled next to him and nestled by Steve's shoulder until he quieted and drifted back into a restful sleep.

Steve woke with a start and blinked into the light pouring in through his window. "Why is it so bright?" he muttered. "It's never this bright before—oh no !" Heart racing, he leapt out of bed, grabbed his trousers, and got dressed faster than he ever had. He'd overslept!

An inquisitive "Ribbit?" came from the bed. Right. The frog. He'd meant to wake up early, early enough to drop the frog off at the swamp. But now—now he'd be lucky if Sir Fury kept him on at all. "Just stay here. I'll bring you to the swamp tonight. Sorry!" Steve called over his shoulder as he raced out the door and slammed it shut behind him.

It was hard to tell just how dismayed Sir Fury was by Steve's tardiness. He didn't seem much more ill-tempered than usual. But then, Sir Fury was known for being chronically ill-tempered.

Steve had been tasked with smelting iron for the day. It was hard work, and by mid-day he'd worked up a thorough sweat. He was struggling to blink the sweat out of his eyes when Sir Fury set down his smithing hammer, put his hands on his hips and said, "Rogers, get that frog off of my windowsill before he falls into the damn furnace."

Steve set down his tool and stepped away from the smelter. "Sorry, sir, a—a frog?" He turned towards the window, more than a little curious.

"Ribbit," said the frog, small metal foot raised as though in greeting.

"Oh no," Steve muttered under his breath. He neared the windowsill adding, "What are you doing here? I told you to wait for me."

"Rogers, you know this frog?" Fury's one good eye glowered at him.

"Uh...I—it's a frog, sir."

"Quite the unusual frog." Fury moved next to Steve, and leaned down, squinting. "With an artificial limb. I've seen metalwork like this before."

"You have?"

Nick let out a gruff sound and grabbed one of the smithing hammers. "In the Kingdom of Hydra." He brought the hammer crashing down, aiming for the frog.

"No!" Steve cried, and grabbed Nick's wrist, deflecting his blow.

He needn't have worried, as the frog had already leapt deftly out of the way, and was clinging from the side of the window frame, looking at Sir Fury in a most defiant way—insomuch as a frog could look defiant.

But Sir Fury wasn't impressed, if anything he looked even more determined to crush the frog. "You're no fool, Rogers, you saw what kind of magic Hydra wields first-hand, and so have I." Fury flipped up his eye-patch, showing Steve the scarred remains of his eye. "We both survived, but I will not let Hydra into my home, no matter how insignificant the threat may seem. Now stand down, and let me do what must be done."

Steve lifted his hands and said. "Sir Fury, I agree with you, of course I do. But you taught me that this workshop must be kept as pristine as our work itself." He held his hand out to the window-frame and waited for the frog to hop into it, as he knew it would. "I'll take this vermin outside and deal with it personally, if you'll allow it."

Sir Fury nodded at him approvingly. "As you wish, Rogers. I suggest you take it back behind the butcher's shop."

"I shan't be more than five minutes."

"You shall. I have a delivery for you to make, at the far edge of town. Since you arrived late today, you might as well work an extra hour."

"Of course, Sir."

"Get rid of the frog, then bring this package to Doctor Banner. Fury handed him a small package, wrapped in linen.

Steve looked at the package curiously before slipping it carefully into his belt pouch. "Is it...fragile?"

Fury looked at him hard, discerning the impertinent curiosity behind the question. "No, it's a durable, custom item that required my particular skills to craft." Fury took a step forward, brow furrowed. "Are you going to question every order we have?"

"No, I just—we make shields, and—"

"And other items for those willing to pay and for those truly appreciative of quality. Do you know where he resides?"

"Yes."

"Then why are you still here? Go get rid of that frog, deliver the package to Banner and get here on time tomorrow."

Steve nodded, spun on his heel and hurried out the door. The frog, still safely in his hand, let out a soft ribbit.

Steve'd had to risk making a detour to the pond first. He couldn't bear the thought of Fury coming across the frog and killing it. "Go on," Steve said, nudging the frog with his boot.

But the frog stayed where it was, looking up at him with its strange grey-blue eyes. "Ribbit."

"You can live here. It's nice here. It's the nicest swamp I know. There's plenty for you to eat—flies and beetles and other crawling things. Plenty of other frogs for you to...to do frog things with. It's better this way." Steve sniffled. "If you keep following me around, Sir Fury will flatten you into a frog-pancake!"

The frog stayed silent and took a few tentative steps towards the swamp.

"Good. Just go on." Steve turned away and started to leave. Otherwise he'd do something dumb like chase after the frog. He swallowed down the lump in his throat and headed back to the muddy path.

As he neared the edge of the swamp, something jumped onto Steve's leg. "Hey!" Steve stopped and looked down. Sure enough, his frog was clinging onto his pant leg. It almost looked like it was smiling.

"You've got to stay in the swamp." Steve said, but there was no force behind his words, only relief. With a soft croak the frog climbed further up Steve's leg and into his smaller belt pouch, where he sat, head sticking out the top.

"You make a convincing argument," Steve said, and smiled as they headed back to Lynbrook.

Steve knocked again. Doctor Banner's house wasn't all that large, but the windows were all shuttered save for one, and Steve couldn't quite see the entirety of that room either. He headed back to the door, and raised his fist, ready to knock again.

A roar bellowed from inside—something animal and angry. Steve froze, knuckles just grazing the wood. From his belt pouch, the frog gave two loud croaks. "Shh," Steve whispered. He took a deep breath and waited. The sounds inside had quieted. And somebody was walking across the floor—heavy footsteps becoming fainter as they came closer.

The frog croaked again, more loudly.

"I heard it too. But we're not leaving," Steve whispered. "He's a doctor, I'm sure whatever it is, he's got it under control."

The frog smacked his metal hand against Steve's stomach.

"I'm not leaving. My job is already on the line. I'm going to make this delivery." Steve raised his chin. "It's not like I haven't faced danger before. After all, I survived an attack from the Winter Knight. Not many can claim that."

The frog's second eyelids blinked open and shut and it crawled back inside Steve's pouch, silenced.

The door opened. Doctor Banner looked rather frazzled, but pleased once he saw what Steve was holding. He took the package, without opening it. "Please tell Sir Fury that I'm grateful for his expedient service and for his discretion." Banner handed Steve a small sack of coins and something else, wrapped in cheesecloth, adding pointedly, "His and yours."

Steve didn't quite understand what there was to be discreet about, aside from the noise, the horrid mess in what he could see of Banner's home and his tattered clothing, but he accepted the gift thankfully anyway. Two sausages from the butcher, spiced with sage and apple. They smelled so delicious, Steve's stomach rumbled all the way home.

Steve warmed the sausages and added some sliced potato. He set down two plates and put a few spoonfuls on the smaller plate. The frog hopped up next to it, sniffed the food, and gave an approving croak.

Steve sat down across from him and took a bite, his eyes closing in bliss. "I haven't had meat in...quite some time."

The frog ate one of the pieces of sausage and then another and another.

Steve grinned at him. "It's good, isn't it?" He ate another few bites himself and studied the frog. "If Sir Fury is right and you really are a Hydra spy, then why are you hanging around me?"

The frog croaked, sounding dismayed, and swallowed a bite of potato.

"I think you're far too nice a frog to be a spy." Steve took another bite and then set down his fork. "Not to mention, I've seen animals of Hydra's before. Bears. They seemed angry, and miserable. I don't think they were loyal to Hydra, I think they were enchanted. Maybe that's what you are."

"Ribbit."

Steve blinked, as an idea took hold of him. "If you were with Hydra, maybe you—" He felt suddenly excited. "Did you ever see a man, taller than me, broad shoulders, dark hair, eyes like the sky before a storm, a smile that makes your insides go all swirly?" Steve cleared his throat, cheeks flushing. "He left here six years ago. His name is James Barnes. We call him Bucky."

The frog hopped closer to Steve and put his little metal hand on Steve's thumb.

"I don't know why I'm asking you," Steve sighed. "It's not like you can answer, or like you'd even notice, but I know he's still out there. I don't care how many people tell me he's dead. I'd know if he was. I'd feel it in my heart."

The frog set his head on Steve's hand and blinked up at him.

"You're a good listener, anyway." Steve looked down at his half-empty plate and sighed. "Want any more?

The frog tilted its head and croaked.

Steve went to pick up the plate, but the frog's hand was still on the edge of the dish, pushing it down with a force disproportionate to the size of its tiny limb. "So you are still hungry?"

The frog rolled the last of the sausage towards Steve.

"Me?"

The frog let out a ribbit.

"Well, it would be a shame to let this go to waste," Steve said and dutifully ate the last bite of sausage. When finished, he smiled at the frog and said. "It's nice, not being alone here anymore."

Even if Bucky's enchantment hadn't prevented sleep, he wouldn't have slept a wink that night. His mind was reeling, combing through the jagged shards of his memories, which seemed to splinter more and more with each passing day. Steve had survived an encounter with the Winter Knight. Bucky remembered enough of his past to know that was the name he'd been given—whether by Hydra or the people of York, he didn't know. And while carrying out Hydra's orders he'd encountered Steve! Nearly killed him, from the sound of it. The horrific guilt he felt was too great for his tiny form. He sat by Steve's pillow, uneasy, as flashes of battles passed through his mind—blood and metal and screams. So much death, by his hand.

A twig snapped, drawing Bucky’s attention back to the present. Footsteps—heavy boots, indiscreet and uncaring—just outside Steve's hut. They slowed and came to a stop in front of the door.

Bucky leapt up to Steve's bed and landed on his face in a desperate attempt to wake him.

It worked. Steve woke with a start, batting at his face before sitting up. "Agh! What—what's going on?"

There was a knock on the door followed by a gruff, "Open up."

Bucky’s sense of unease grew and he shouted, "No! Don’t open it!" but of course it all came out in a series of ribbits and croaks.

Steve stared at him, curious. “Well he’s not going to go away by himself is he?” he whispered. Steve swallowed and stood, pausing by his cupboard to pick up the shortsword there. In the light from the full moon, Steve looked even paler than usual. He held the sword carefully behind his back and opened the door a crack, greeting the looming man outside with a non-confrontational, "It's the middle of the night."

"Aye, it is. And night's the time when people go into hiding."

"I'm not hiding," Steve said, "Just sleeping."

"Don't get clever with me, lad."

Bucky recognized the man’s voice. He hopped forward on the bed, little fists curling. Steve was in serious danger.

The man at his door was large, battle-worn, and angry-looking, making Steve instantly wary. He'd never seen him before, but he knew his type. "Who are you looking for?"

"A fugitive. A dangerous man who kills like a scythe fells wheat. Completely ruthless.”

"Sorry," Steve said, "Nobody here but me."

"And I'm supposed to take your word for it, eh? Why don't you let me have a look inside."

"I don't even know who you are, I won't—"

"Name's Brock. Now you know me. And you should know to get out of my way," the thug said, shoving Steve aside. He stumbled, but caught himself before falling.

"What a sad little hovel," Brock said. "You're right. Couldn't even fit another man in here."

"It's my home, sir, and I won't tolerate anyone disrespecting it."

Brock guffawed. "Won't tolerate? That a fact?" He crowded Steve, glaring down at him and gave him another shove. "And what exactly," shove, "are you going to do about it?"

Steve raised his chin, defiant. "Nothing at all, if you apologize and leave."

With another raucous laugh, Brock gave Steve a harder shove, knocking him to the floor. "Oops. Sorry."

Brock sneered down at Steve then turned his attention to the table, where the frog was croaking furiously. "Disgusting vermin," Brock said. "No wonder it decided to join you in this squalor. Probably feels like home." He grabbed the frog, whose croaks grew even louder, and then, to Steve's utter horror, flung it full-force against the wall.

"No!" Steve cried, as the frog slid down the wall. "You bastard!"

"What's the matter?" Brock asked, chortling. "Just a frog. Get yourself another. There's plenty of them at the swamp." He threw open the door. "Or better yet, why don't you move there. It'd be a step up for you." He scoffed again and left, slamming the door shut behind him.

Steve stared, still in shock; the frog was unmoving and still. "Oh no," Steve said as he picked up the frog's limp form, cradling it in his hands. "Oh please—please be okay." He checked the frog's body carefully, moving the limbs, but there was no response, and the animal was so tiny, Steve couldn't tell if the small fluttering he felt from its chest was the frog's pulse or his own heart beating hard enough to feel in his fingertips.

"Please be okay," Steve repeated. Overcome by sorrow, he set the frog gently down on the mattress and pressed his lips to its head.

Something electric prickled against Steve's skin and a strange, purple mist surrounded him, shrouding his field of vision. He coughed, shielding his mouth with his arm as the mist dissipated. And there, where the frog had been, was a man with long, dark hair—naked, save for his left arm which was made entirely of metal.

But the shock Steve felt at the frog's transformation was immediately surpassed by the confusion, joy and horror he felt when he brushed the man's hair aside and looked at his face. Because he knew that face—better than he knew his own, he'd dreamt of those lips and those eyes for years.

"Bucky?" Steve breathed. It occurred to him in a fevered sort of panic that he'd dreamt of kissing Bucky for years, but certainly never under these circumstances. "Oh gods, Bucky..” Steve leaned down, pressed his ear against Bucky's naked chest, fingertips brushing against the strange ice-cold metal of his left arm, closed his eyes and listened for a heartbeat, but couldn't feel one.

"No, no..." Steve said, blinking through his tears. He pushed himself to his feet, so horrified he felt dazed, stuck in a dream. "I'll get help. I'll—" He yanked open the door and crashed into a wall of muscle.

The Hydra goon, Brock, smirked down at him. "You lying worm." He held up an amulet, a six-tentacled, skull-headed Kraken, the sigil of Hydra, and said a word— something guttural and low.

"Uh," Steve stuttered in response. There were two other men behind Brock, just as big, just as mean. Steve swallowed and steeled himself for a fight. He wouldn't let them in his house, couldn’t let them near Bucky, no matter the cost to himself.

"See, this tracks him, our fugitive. And it kept pointing here, right to your sad little rathole. So why don't you show me the cellar or wherever it is that you stuffed him.”

Steve took a breath and raised his fists. "You'll have to get through me first.”

Brock said nothing for a moment, then burst out laughing, the two men behind him snorting in agreement. "If you insist." He handed the amulet to one of his men, turned back to Steve, held up his own fists, and threw one big, meaty punch.

But Steve was quick and he dodged the blow. Brock's fist missed Steve's face and crashed into his door instead, splintering the wood. Steve took that split second to slam his own fist in an uppercut, landing a solid blow against Brock's jaw; it even sent him stumbling back a step.

Brock rubbed at his jaw, smiled through crooked, bloodied teeth, and said, "I'm going to kill you."

"You'll try," Steve said, heart racing. He raised his fists again, protecting his face and ribs. And then there was a loud clatter from inside his house.

"Nobody there, huh?" asked the goon holding the amulet. It was glowing with a bright, unnatural red.

Steve dodged Brock's punch, but the next one connected, struck him right in the stomach and sent him doubling over. He tried to catch his breath, struggling to stand up, but Brock grabbed him roughly and threw him to the ground. Steve's hand scraped against a sharp rock, and he barely kept his face from slamming into the dirt.

Behind him, he heard the door to his house creak open.

"There you are," Brock said. "Lord Skull will be pleased."

Steve called on the last of his rapidly fading strength, pushed himself up on his elbows and craned his neck, turning just in time to see Bucky coming out of the house, wearing a pair of Steve's trousers, and holding Steve's shortsword.

Brock looked over at Steve quizzically. "And why did he hide with you, I wonder?"

"Bucky," Steve gasped, forcing himself to his knees despite the stabbing pain in his ribcage.

The amulet pulsed with light as Brock took it back from his cohort and held it out towards Bucky, chanting. The sigil glowed more brightly, crimson veins running through the carved stone disc, and Bucky's eyes glowed the same, vile shade of red in response.

Steve got to his feet, his unsteadiness fading before the sobering horror of what he was witnessing.

Brock grinned at Steve, baring teeth, turned back to Bucky and said, "Kill him."

And without the faintest sign of hesitation, Bucky stalked towards Steve, sword at the ready.

"Bucky, it's me!" Steve said, raising his hands, palms out. "It's Steve."

But Bucky's expression stayed unchanged, deadly determination, not a flicker of recognition. He raised his sword, and Steve grabbed the closest thing he could find that would give him some sort of defense, the lid of a wooden crate. He brought it up in front of him just in time to catch Bucky's blade. But the force of the blow was painfully strong; Steve's arms were forced down, leaving him exposed, staring into Bucky's red eyes.

The sword was lodged inches-deep in the wood, buying Steve a few precious seconds. Before Bucky could pull his blade free, Steve slammed his full weight against the lid, knocking the sword from Bucky's grasp. It clattered to the ground, and Bucky looked at him, cold fury making his features even more inhuman. In that moment, it seemed to Steve that time slowed again. As they stood there, locked eye to eye, he tried one last time, putting all the desperation he felt into his voice. "Bucky, I'm your friend! You know me. You’ve known me your whole life."

His words had no effect. Bucky swatted Steve down with a strike from his metal arm, hard enough to send Steve crashing to the ground. He cried out in pain as his tailbone struck the cobblestones and the crate lid shattered on impact.

Before Steve could open his eyes, Bucky had him pinned beneath his knee. The weight of him was painful, any more pressure and Steve's rib-cage would crack. Bucky grabbed Steve by his shirt collar and pulled him up, drew back his metal fist, his mouth curved in a sneer.

A loud, sharp sound pierced the air—the cry of a falcon.

Bucky hesitated, and Steve knew what he had to do. Before he could think better of it, he pulled himself forward and crushed his mouth against Bucky's, put as much of himself as he could into the kiss, hoping it would be enough. Remember, Steve thought furiously.

Bucky froze, the red slowly fading from his eyes. He took a deep, shaking breath and said, "Steve?"

Steve’s heart was pounding so loudly he could barely hear his own words when he answered, "Yes. It's me." He smiled, staring at Bucky’s awestruck face. The kiss had worked, for the second time. Only this time, this time, it was Bucky's lips he'd kissed. Steve had dreamt of this moment for years, only in his dream they’d been in much calmer, far more romantic surroundings.

"Winter Knight!” Brock shouted, holding the amulet up high. “I order you to kill him!”

Bucky's eyes flashed red and he grimaced, fighting the magic's pull. "No," he growled, voice straining with the effort.

Steve clutched Bucky's hand, offering him what strength he could.

And then, fast as lightning, Redwing came swooping down through the first cold, clear rays of dawning light, and snatched the amulet's chain, ripping it from Brock's hand.

"Need help?" Sam called from the end of the alley.

"Yeah," Steve said, "We could use some."

"Why are you just standing there?" Brock snarled at his men. "Kill him and the bird and get that amulet back! If we lose it, we're as good as dead!"

The Hydra goons scrambled, running towards Sam; Redwing circled above him, amulet firmly in his talons.

Steve struggled to get out from underneath Bucky. They had one short, fleeting opportunity to run away intact, and this was it. "Bucky, we have to get out of here." But Bucky didn't respond, eyes still clenched shut, face twisted in pain.

Brock unsheathed his sword as he approached Bucky and Steve. "If you won't kill the little runt, I'll do it myself."

"No," Bucky said, steadier this time. He opened his eyes and thrust his left hand up and back just in time—Brock's sword clanged against it. Bucky grabbed hold of the blade and pulled it down, yanking it out of Brock's grasp and throwing him off balance.

Bucky stood, sweeping out his leg as he did, and sent Brock crashing to the ground, face-first. Bucky wasted no time, picked up Brock's sword and dug its point into the back of the man's neck, right where skull met spine.

"You can't kill me." Brock said. "You serve Hydra. We all serve Hydra."

"No." Bucky pushed the sword in, just a fraction of an inch. Enough to draw blood. "I have never served Hydra."

Brock laughed cruelly. "Of course you have. You killed hundreds in our name. Not even I can boast that kind of dedication."

Bucky pushed the sword forward another millimeter and Brock let out a cry of pain. Steve put his hand on Bucky's wrist. "Don't."

"Go ahead," Brock growled. "If you don't kill me, Lord Skull will. He does not tolerate failure."

"Lord Skull won't have the chance," Steve said. "You'll spend the rest of your days behind bars."

Brock scoffed. "You think a jail cell can protect me from Hydra?"

"You think we care?" Sam asked. Brock’s two men were sprawled on the ground, unconscious. Sam could throw a solid punch when he felt so inclined.

"Hydra is eternal, Hydra is everywhere, and we will—" Bucky's fist slammed against Brock's head, knocking him out cold.

"He talks too much," Bucky said.

"That we can agree on." Sam held out his hand. "Sam Wilson, and you are?"

Bucky hesitated and Steve jumped in. "This is my friend—my best friend, Bucky."

Sam cocked an eyebrow. "The Bucky I heard about every day for the last six years? That one?"

"Every day?" Bucky mouthed, amused. Though his expression looked far more haunted now than it had when they were young, his smile was just as Steve remembered.

"Not every day." Steve's cheeks flushed with heat.

"Steve," Sam crossed his arms across his chest. "You failed to mention that your dear friend Bucky was the Winter Knight."

Bucky's smile faded instantly.

"He's not—" Steve rushed to explain. "He was under their spell, you saw it yourself."

"You mean that?" Sam asked, pointing up to the roof of Steve's house, where Redwing was perched, watching them. The amulet dangled from his talons, its red glow gone. Sam whistled and Redwing sailed down to them, landing lightly on Sam's forearm.

Bucky took a step back, eyes locked on the amulet.

"All these years I thought—I hoped that Hydra's magic was a myth." Sam took the amulet from Redwing, studying it.

"It's not," Bucky said. "You have no idea what they're capable of."

"I've got some idea, now." Sam said. He held the amulet out to Bucky, who hesitated a moment before stepping forward and grabbing the stone disc. He cupped it in his metal hand, and then squeezed his fingers tightly shut. There was a cracking sound, a small shower of red sparks, and when he opened his hand again, all that was left was a handful of shards.

Steve moved closer to Bucky and touched his shoulder against Bucky's arm, just enough to let him know he was there. "You're free now."

Bucky let the shards fall to the ground and sighed, grimly. "No one is truly free. Not while Hydra remains."

"Friend Sam!" called a voice from the end of the alley. It was Thor, the Norseman, who was easily three times Steve's size, likely on his way to the stables. "Are you in need of assistance?"

"You've a splendid sense of timing, Odinson." Sam pointed at the two slumped Hydra men at Thor's end of the alley. "Help me take these three to the stocks?"

"With pleasure," Thor said. "I shall fetch my cart."

Sam turned back to Bucky and Steve. "Hydra still remains, but today they lost the battle. And these three will pay for what they've done, I promise you."

Bucky frowned. "Keeping them alive is a mistake. They'll escape, or worse, they'll poison others the way Hydra poisons everything it touches."

"We'll make sure that doesn't happen," Steve said.

Thor rounded the corner pulling a good-sized loading cart; he picked up the two fallen Hydra soldiers.

"We'll continue this conversation later. Try not to get in any more trouble before breakfast, if you eat that sort of thing?" Sam looked at Steve pointedly. He leaned down to pick up Brock's legs, Thor jogged over to grab his arms and together, they carried him to the cart, leaving Steve and Bucky alone. Steve swept the fragments of amulet off the cobblestones with his boot and examined his door. It was badly cracked, but not irreparable. He'd have to patch it before the day was through to keep the warmth in.

He turned back to Bucky, who hadn't moved from his spot, and was staring intently at the ground, fingers clenching and unclenching slowly.

Steve crossed the distance between them, put his arms around Bucky's waist and pulled him in close. Bucky's hands pressed against Steve's back tentatively at first, and then he sunk against him, breathing warmly against Steve's neck.

"Welcome back," Steve said, as joy and relief flooded his chest, filling him with warmth. He'd never entirely given up hope at finding Bucky again; it wasn't in his nature to give up. But the small part of him that had started to consider the possibility was relieved beyond measure.

He pulled back, and smiled up at Bucky.

"Steve," Bucky said, trailing his fingers over Steve's cheek. "I'm so sorry."

"For what?"

Bucky brow furrowed. "For...all of it. For what I did, for leaving, for coming back. I didn't want to get you wrapped up in all of this, but—"

"Oh, I thought you were going to apologize for hopping all over my pillow."

Bucky looked taken aback, but only for a second. "You said it was okay!"

"It is okay. You can, um...hop on my pillow anytime."

Bucky laughed, making Steve's heart full to bursting with joy.

Steve took Bucky's hands, noting the difference in their weight and feel, the way the metal of his left hand warmed in his touch. "I'm sorry. For what you went through."

Bucky scoffed. "If my memories are at all trustworthy, then I think I ought to be the one apologizing. I remember having you beneath my blade. More than once.”

"But you spared me. You spared me then, and you spared me now. You broke free."

"I had help. Natasha helped me escape Hydra's prison."

"Natasha? As in—"

"Yes. The mercenary, Romanov. She escaped as well. I'm certain of it," Bucky chewed on his lip, brow furrowed. "But there are others. Other captives. And Hydra's magic grows stronger every year, their reach extends further."

"We'll stop them, Bucky." Steve leaned up to kiss him. "I promise we'll stop them. Together."

Bucky kissed him back then, and this time Steve didn't wish for anything except that the moment would last forever.