Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

my love, are you the devil?

RED HOOK - BROOKLYN, NEW YORK 1925

The ship had been cramped and scary. The roar of the ocean waves, the smell of sea sickness, the stale, dank air. Yelena wasn't sure if she'd ever see the sun again. It was cold and cramped in the cargo ship but her mamusia held her tight, whispering of all the things to come in America. Papa told her about his cousin Yakov and all the things he's accomplished in America. 

It helped until the family sardined in next to them starting vomiting from the constant rock of the ship. 

Then mamusia started to sing, a Yiddish song, soft and pretty against her ear. Relief and comfort washed over her, her mother's warm breath tickling her ears and hair. Lena joined in, quiet and exhausted until she slept. 

As they disembarked, Yelena was struck by the crush of people, the strange and unfamiliar language mixing in the air like a thick fog. The sea-salt of their clothes hadn't even dried, and here was a land of strangers who looked at them as if they were just another wave in the tide of humanity that had arrived before them. Her eyes were wide, unsure if they were moving toward hope or an even harder life than what they’d left behind.

Ellis Island had been overwhelming, Lena had to cover her ears and squeeze her eyes shut, assaulted by the tight quarters, and loud voices speaking a language she didn't understand.

Papa's cousin had been there, their sponsor and he swept them up in a warm welcoming hug. They spent their first night in America, sleeping in Uncle Yasha's living room. Papa was up the first thing the next morning, on the streets looking for work. 

A week later, again with her Uncle's help, their family moved into a small apartment in a tenement building. It was sparsely furnished but it was their stepping stone. 

At least it was supposed to be until mamusia got sick. 

Esther had developed a slight cough on the last days of their boat ride, not enough to be detained but it had worsened in the cold 10 days they had lived in Brooklyn. Mama was supposed to get a job as well, perhaps something in a Jewish grocer, just like the one she ran back in Poland. 

But as the days went on, her cough got worse, her skin was pallid and dull. Papa just started working, and didn't have the money to take her to the doctors. Uncle Yakov had spent the last of his savings, sponsoring their family and helping with the first month's rent of their apartment. 

Mama tried to rally her and her father, that this illness would soon pass. The rattling, crackling cough did not inspire confidence in Lena but mamusia tucked her dark curls behind her ear and promised that tomorrow, tomorrow, she would get out of bed and they would take in the real sights of their new home. America. 

After 40 days, mamusia was gone. Her cough had stolen her breath, her light, her life.

It had been six weeks since that moment, six weeks since the Rabinovich family set foot on American soil.

Papa didn't have much time to grieve, to mourn. Things were already going to be tight with both him and mama working but now, without her, he couldn't afford any time away from the factory. 

Which left poor, motherless Yelena Rabinovich sitting alone in the cold on the steps to their apartment block. Her birthday had come to pass, she turned 7 without her mama. Her Uncle got her a picture book, and his wife had knit her a scarf. All Papa could manage, between his grief and lack of funds was a few hard candies.

Her new book was cracked open across her knees, the sweet burst of cherry on her tongue as she read on the stairs. The air was still cold, but March had brought the promise of sun so she wanted to enjoy it while she could. Instead of sitting in the apartment. The place her mama died.  

Yelena was deep in her book, her fingers tracing lightly over the pictures, when a voice made her jump.  

"Whatcha readin’?"  

The sound of his voice made her head snap up, her dark eyes narrowing, assessing. Two boys stood nearby, watching her. The smaller one had messy blond hair and big blue eyes, his hands stuffed in his coat pockets, a coat way too big for his frail frame. The other boy, taller with dark hair, had a smirk on his face like he knew something funny.  

Yelena didn’t answer, gripping her book tight. She understood English better than she could speak at this point. Mama and papa had been teaching her, bits at a time. It would be her fourth language, between Polish, Russian and Yiddish.

The dark-haired boy nudged his friend. "See? She can hear. You said she didn’t speak English."  

Steve huffed, a flush creeping up his neck in embarrassment "I didn’t say that."  

"You kinda did."  

Yelena just stared at them, unsure if she should run inside. She had yet to speak to American boys, especially her own age.  

The taller boy plopped down on the step next to her, leaving some space. "I’m Bucky," he said, like they were already friends. He pointed to the other boy. "That’s Steve. He lives in your building, I live down the block.”  

Steve shifted on his feet. "We've seen you before. You don’t talk much."  

“Not good English,” Lena hesitated and then spoke brokenly, her accent heavy and obvious. “Yelena. Lena.” She added as an afterthought, hand to her chest as if introducing herself. Unsure of how to communicate but not wanting them to leave yet, she slowly held up her book.  

Bucky leaned over, tilting his head. "That got stories then Lena?"  

She nodded.  

"Yeah?" His grin widened. "Steve had this book once. But he threw it at my head."  

"It wasn’t at your head," Steve muttered, knowing his aim wasn't good enough to hit Bucky in the head..  

Bucky ignored him. "You like stories?"  

She nodded again. “Tak.” Her reply came out in Polish.

Bucky smirked, seemingly unphased by the foreign reply. "Good. I got a great one. Once, Steve tried to fight a kid twice his size over a nickel."  

Steve groaned. "Don’t tell that one. I just wanted my nickel back."  

"Why not? It’s funny. So, this kid—biggest kid I ever seen—picks up a nickel Steve dropped, and instead of letting it go like a normal person, Steve—"  

Lena blinked, watching them bicker. She wasn’t sure what to make of them yet, but something in her chest felt a little lighter.  

From there, the boys known as Bucky and Steve would occasionally join her on the staircase. She learned Steve's mother was a nurse and worked many hours, leaving Steve alone to wander their tenement building. Bucky's parents worked opposite shifts so someone was usually home but he had three younger sisters who drove him crazy, and preferred to hang out with Steve. 

It was difficult at first, with their language barrier but like most kids, they adapted. Lena would point, gesture, and then the boys would take turns trying to figure out what she meant. In turn, they would teach her how to say it in English and quiz her on it later. 

It became a fun game between the three of them. 

As her English improved, Lena’s loneliness ebbed. She got braver and ventured out further than her tenement buildings stairs. Her biggest accomplishment was going down the block to the corner shop to help Steve bring some things home for his mother. 

The late afternoon air smelled like fresh bread from the bakery down the street, mixed with the faint tang of car grease from the mechanic’s shop. Lena’s fingers curled tightly around the rough paper handles of the grocery bags, her palms a little sweaty from the summer heat.

“Where Bucky?” Her English was still a bit stilted, and her accent heavy but Lena was feeling more comfortable with the language. 

She carried 2 out of the 3 bags for Steve, much to his chagrin. They weren't very heavy but Steve was very small. 

“Dunno, probably helping with his sisters.” Steve shrugged, not bothered by his friend's broken English. 

As they walked, Steve kept sneaking glances at Lena, like he was trying to decide something. Finally, he cleared his throat.  

"Your English is getting a lot better," he said, adjusting the paper bag in his arms.  

"I talk good?" Lena beamed at him, she was determined to learn English before the end of summer, before her first official school year in America.

Steve winced, maybe not good. "Almost. You talk better."  

"English hard. Too many words."  

Steve grinned. "Yeah, I guess so."  

They reached a small puddle in the sidewalk, left over from last night’s rain. Lena hopped over it easily after a moment of assessment, but Steve hesitated, eyeing the water.  

"You scared?" she asked, teasing.  

"No," Steve said, scowling. But he still seemed unsure. He wasn't as coordinated as Lena or Bucky, he could easily end up with wet pants and a cold.

Lena tilted her head. She knew he got sick a lot. She’d seen him coughing some days, looking smaller and paler than he already was. Smaller than herself, even. So she shifted one of the bags to her other hand, then held out the free one to him.  

"Here. Now you jump."  

Steve’s ears turned a little red, but he grabbed her hand anyway, letting her pull him across. He was relieved she didn't say anything further, it was embarrassing enough.

"You strong," Steve sighed, conceding he was already regretting teaching her that phrase. He didn't even remember how it came up in their little language game, just that Lena latched onto it.

Lena grinned. "I real strong."  

They kept walking, and Lena started humming under her breath. It was a little melody her mamusia used to sing, soft and familiar.  

"You always hum like that?" Steve asked after a while.  

Lena shrugged. "Mama hum. I hum too."  

Steve was quiet for a beat. "I like it."  

Lena gave him a small, shy smile. It was still hard to talk about her mama but she liked these happier memories. Thinking of when her mama used to brush her hair before bed, always humming her a tune.

They were almost to their building when Steve finally worked up the nerve to ask something else.  

"Do you miss home?"  

Lena frowned, thinking. She had missed it, at first. The familiar streets, the market where her parents knew everyone. She missed the sound of Polish and Yiddish all around her, instead of English that was too fast and full of words that made no sense.  

But home had also been cold. Empty. There had been no food, no money, no future, at least by the time they packed up to leave. Papa said America would be better. He had to be right, didn’t he?  

"Sometimes," she admitted. "But here better. Papa say so."  

"Yeah. My ma says the same thing."  

Lena gave him a sideways look. "You miss home too?"  

Steve blinked at her, then laughed. "Lena, I am home."  

She wrinkled her nose. "Oh. Right."  

He nudged her with his elbow. "But, uh… I guess I know what you mean. I miss my dad sometimes."  

"Where he?" She asked, head cocked almost if she was trying to remember if she has ever seen Steve's father before. 

"He died," Steve said simply. "The war."  

Lena had heard about the war. Papa talked about it, in hushed whispers with mama. She looked at Steve carefully, at the way he said it like it wasn’t anything special, but could hear the hurt in the tone of his voice. 

"Sad," she said softly.  

Steve shrugged, but he didn’t look at her. "Yeah."  

They were quiet for a few steps. Then Steve sighed and muttered, "You're still carrying too much, y’know."  

 "I real strong." Lena smirked, proud of herself. 

"I already regret teachin’ you that." He groaned.  

Lena only grinned wider.  

Then—  

"Hey, I was looking for you two!"  

Lena turned just in time to see Bucky jogging toward them, his sleeves pushed up, hair a little messy. He was scowling—not in an angry way, more like an exasperated older brother.  

"Lena, why are you carrying all his stuff?" he demanded, planting his hands on his hips.  

"I strong." She lifted the bags a little higher for emphasis.  

Bucky shot a look at Steve. "You lettin’ her carry all that for you?"  

"She took them from me, Buck! You try arguing with her." Steve groaned again, exasperated that neither of his friends seemed to realize how stubborn they are.

"Nah. I don't wanna be lectured in Polish today."  

Lena stuck her tongue out at him. Bucky just laughed and reached over to take one of the bags from her.  

They kept walking, falling into step like they always did now. Lena had been nervous about making friends at first, but with Bucky and Steve, it had felt easy. Even when she didn't know the words, they had understood her anyway.  

"You coming to the park later Lennie?" Bucky asked.  

Lena hesitated. She hadn’t ventured that far yet, but her heart fluttered at Bucky’s use of the nickname. He was the only person who called her that.

Steve must've noticed because he nudged her elbow. "It’s not far. Just a few blocks."  

“Maybe… you take me?” Lena bit her lip, anxious about traveling out that far. 

Steve nodded like it was already decided. "Yeah, we’ll come get you."  

Bucky gave her a lopsided grin. "Just don’t run off like last time. Took us forever to find you."  

Lena huffed. "One time!"  

"One time too many," Bucky shot back.  

Steve just laughed, and somehow, the warmth of it made Lena feel more at home than she had since stepping off the boat.  

Chapter Text

i would worship you instead of him

RED HOOK - BROOKLYN, NEW YORK 1925, SUMMER 

The morning air was sticky. At some point in the night, Lena had kicked off her blanket but her nightgown still clung to her sweaty skin even in the early morning before the sun started to climb the sky. With the windows open to let in the non-existence breeze, it was the sounds of the city that aroused her.

Workers getting off night shift, day time workers going to first shift. The sounds of vendors opening their stalls, yelling to each other in English and then again in their own mother tongue. 

With quiet and quick feet, Yelena Rabinovich slipped out of her bed, scurrying on tip toes to the kitchen. There wasn't much food in the fridge but she took a quick inventory. A splash of milk, a few boiled potatoes, a little bit of homemade jam, cabbage, two eggs and the end of a bread loaf on the verge of going stale. 

She hurried to boil some water, taking great care to toast the last slices of bread. Most of the jam went on her father's pieces but she managed to scrape little on her own. The eggs and cabbage went into papa's lunch pail, along with the last piece of bread. It wasn't the most filling lunch, but it would do. She would be fine with just the leftover potatoes. 

The pot of boiling water always intimidated her but she watched her parents enough to know exactly how many tea leaves to add, and how long to let it steep. They didn't have a tea strainer so carefully with shaking hands she poured the tea into two small chipped cups. The rest papa could pack in his thermos, she wasn't confident enough for that. 

She had just set the cups down next to their toast and added the splash of milk to papa's cup when he emerged from the bathroom. 

His eyes were tired, heavy eye bags underneath them. But papa had splashed some water on his face, droplets trickling through his dark beard. His hair was usually just of a mess as hers, but he managed to tame and flatten it this morning. 

Mikhail regarded his daughter with a weary look and heavy sigh before sitting down at the table. 

“You know I'd rather you sleep in, little mouse.” He spoke to her in Russian, his first language, but a comfort to her ears. 

“I'll go back to sleep.” Lena simply shrugged, sliding into the rickety chair next to her father, slipping into the familiar language. This used to be her mamusia's job. Preparing breakfast, packing Papa's lunch pail. And more times than not, if Lena left him to it, papa would only take the bare minimum of food, wanting to leave the rest for her. 

For a brief moment, she wondered if it would always be this hard but shook the negative thought from her head.

“Your tea making skills are almost up to mine now,” Mikhail teased, trying to keep the tiredness from his voice as he drank. It was too hot for tea, the air already warm and wet but he knew he needed the energy. 

“You always get all the leaves out!” Lena praised, taking a bite of her too hard toast. “There is still some for your thermos papa.” She added, wiping the crumbs from the front of her nightgown.

It broke Mikhail's heart to see his little girl growing up so quickly, she should still be enjoying what she could of her youth. Instead, she woke up earlier than him, six days a week to try and fill in the gap left by her mother. 

“Are you able to do the shopping today, little mouse?” He asked, his voice thick with unspoken emotion. He knew their breakfast and lunch were the last remaining bits they had in the house. It wasn't much but he pulled some coins and a dollar bill out of his pocket and passed it over to her. 

Lena nodded, her dark eyes already whirling, thinking of what they’d need for the week and how to stretch it. It did not sit well on Mikhail’s shoulders, sending his little girl to the store alone, leaving her to cook and clean up alone. But working fourteen hour days stretched him too thin. 

“Yes, and I offered to do Mrs.O'Malley's washing for a few coins.” She said eagerly, even if she couldn't remember the names of American money. 

She drained the last of her tea, and reached out, her hand dwarfed by her fathers large, calloused hands. She knew how hard her papa worked, how much he didn't like leaving her alone but she was determined to show him that she could handle it. That even without mama, that they'd be okay. 

“Okay.” He said simply, his heart aching with the added responsibilities on his daughter's shoulders. He finished his toast in another bite, but didn't push himself up from the table quite yet. 

“You be good girl, yes?” He managed to communicate in slow stilted English. His girl was working so hard to learn the language, he could at least try as well. The English sounded heavier in his mouth, his accent thick. “No trouble, malen'kaya myshka?” His lips twitched in a barely there smile. 

“No trouble papa.” Lena reiterated in English, although she wasn't sure how well she could keep that promise given her only two friends. 

“Good.” Papa stood, leaned down to press a lingering kiss to the top of her head, grabbed his lunch pail and left Yelena for another long day. 

As promised, Steve appeared on her doorstep early in the afternoon. The sun was hot and uncomfortable but it beat sitting inside a stuffy room all day. 

“We can grab Bucky along the way. His sisters might want to say hi.” Steve explained at Lena’s confused look as they hit the hot pavement of the sidewalk. 

They had been to the park a few times now, Yelena wasn't quite so nervous on the long walk now but usually both Bucky and Steve picked her up. 

“How many,” Lena started, looping her arm through Steve's as they walked, trying to find the correct words to her question. Her English had improved leaps and bounds in the few months she had been in America. “How many sisters Bucky has?” 

She knew the structure wasn't quite right, but Steve would know what she meant anyways. 

Steve's ears were flushed, he still wasn't quite used to having a friend not only as affectionate as Lena but also a girl. 

“How many sisters does Bucky have,” he corrected her, his voice light and patient, stuffing both of his hands into his pockets as they turned into the lot by Bucky's building. 

“He has three,” he continued. “Bucky is the oldest. There's Rebecca, Alice and Ruth.” 

If Lena noticed the slight wheeze in Steve's voice as they climbed the stairs, she was kind enough not to say anything, she just slowed down to let him keep pace. 

“I wish for sisters,” Lena sighed at the top of the second flight of stairs. “Or brother.” She added with a shrug. 

Steve took a second to catch his breath before nodding in sad agreement, the kind that only another person with a dead parent would understand. “Me too.”

They turned the corner and went up one more flight of stairs before Steve knocked on the door. 

“Oh hello Steve!” A woman with kind blue eyes answered the door, before throwing out an arm to keep a little girl from running out. 

“Hi Mrs. Barnes, hi Ruthie.” Steve greeted in kind, a smile on his face while he watched Bucky's arm try to wrangle the toddler. “This is Lena, our friend from my building.” He said after a moment. 

Lena was grateful that Steve took charge and introduced her, she still struggled talking to adults she didn't know very well. She smiled softly and waved at Mrs. Barnes and the girl named Ruthie. 

“Oh come in for a moment sweetheart, Bucky is finishing cleaning up from lunch.” Mrs. Barnes ushered them in, swinging Ruthie up onto her hips. “It's so nice to finally meet you Lena. The boys only had nice things to say.” 

The door shut behind them, and Lena blinked rapidly, adjusting from the bright sunlight to the cozy dimness inside. The apartment wasn’t extravagant, but it was home—lived in, warm, and full of small signs of love. A few hand-sewn patches on the furniture, the scent of something hearty lingering in the air, a cross stitched onto the wall beside a small framed family photo. It reminded her of their home in Poland.

“Hi Stevie!” Another one of Bucky's sisters with thick dark hair popped up from the floor and rushed towards Steve, hugging him tightly. 

Then, she turned to Lena, eyes bright with curiosity. “Are you Lennie? Jimmy talks about you all the time now! I thought Steve was his only friend.” She giggled, nudging Steve playfully before breaking into full laughter.

Lena blinked in surprise, then huffed a small laugh herself. She wasn’t quite sure how to respond. 

“Aww, c’mon now, Becca.” Bucky finally appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, lips twitching with amusement. “Ma, can I go? Becca can dry the dishes.” He shot his sister a knowing look before ruffling her hair as he passed.  

“Hey!” Rebecca batted his hand away, her brown eyes narrowing in well natured annoyance. 

Bucky just smirked, already reaching for his cap by the door. “You’re the one who said you weren't a baby anymore. That includes chores!” 

Rebecca crossed her arms but didn’t argue. Instead, she turned back to Lena with an expectant look. “You don’t talk much,” she observed, tilting her head like she was studying a puzzle.  

Lena hesitated, feeling her face warm under the sudden attention. It wasn’t that she couldn’t speak, she just wasn’t used to so many voices all at once, all in English, all directed at her. She still had to take a minute to understand. In Polish, she would have had a quick answer. In English, she had to think.  

“I—I talk,” she said finally, frustrated that it took her a moment to answer. “Not as much.”  

Rebecca grinned like that was the funniest thing in the world. “Well no one can talk as much as James,” she declared, nudging the boy in question.  

Bucky groaned. “Becca—”  

“I like her,” Rebecca continued, undeterred. with the dramatic weight of a judge passing a verdict, she turned back to Lena.  

Lena blinked. “Oh. Thank you?”  

Steve snorted, and even Bucky chuckled, shaking his head as he swung the door open. “Alright, we better go before she starts making up rules for you to follow.”  

Lena, still processing Rebecca’s odd little seal of approval, let herself be ushered out the door with Steve and Bucky.  

“Bye-bye!” Ruthie’s tiny voice called as Mrs. Barnes waved them off.  

Once they were back in the stairwell, Bucky turned to Lena, walking backward down a few steps with an easy grin. “So, you survived meeting my sisters. How’s it feel?”  

Lena thought about it for a moment, then smiled. “Loud.”  

Bucky barked a laugh, nudging her shoulder as they reached the last flight of stairs. “Yeah, well. You’ll get used to it.”

“Why,” Lena started as they made their way to the park. “Why your sister—” She paused, annoyed that she couldn't find the right English words. Finally, she huffed and settled on, “Who is James?”

She didn't know why Rebecca would call Bucky a different name than her and Steve but she didn't have sisters so she didn't know the rules. 

“Ugh,” Bucky rolled his eyes, adjusting his cap. “Bucky is my nickname, like how I call you Lennie.” He grinned a little, bumping his shoulder into hers. 

“James is Bucky?” She raised an eyebrow, not sure how the two names correlated. 

“Bucky's full name is James Buchanan Barnes.” Steve interjected, a teasing look on his face. “Bucky is for Buchanan.” 

“Oh.” Lena tried to wrap her head around the explanation. “Silly.” She added, grinning. 

“Hey!” Bucky shouted, a good natured smile as he swatted after her but Lena had already taken off running, bounding straight to the park. 

“I'd beat her if I didn't hang back with you,” Bucky snarked, swinging an arm around Steve’s shoulder. 

“Yeah, fat chance Bucky.” Steve snickered, shoving him lightly as they trailed behind. 

Calling it a park was a stretch, the little patch of grass where the neighborhood kids could play stick ball without being in the streets. A group of other kids were already there with a ball and their sticks, bickering about who's turn it was next. 

Lena slowed once she noticed the group of unfamiliar boys, waiting for Bucky and Steve to catch up. She wasn't well versed in the way of American baseball, but both boys were avid fans. They were still teaching her the rules (at a snail's pace) but she knew she wasn't ready to play with these boys. 

And to be perfectly honest, neither was Steve, she thought watching the older kids take off towards makeshift plates. Instead she found the most shaded part of their patch and sat, watching. 

“You will play?” She asked both Steve and Bucky, using her hand to shield her eyes from the sun as she looked at them from the ground. 

“Nah,” Bucky started before Steve could pout. But he did anyway, driving a skinny elbow into Bucky's ribs. 

“Just because I can't play doesn't mean you shouldn't. Someone needs to beat Jack Donaghy.” Steve quipped, as good natured as he could, trying to hide his visible disappointment. 

“Alright, just one round.” 

Lena watched as Bucky took off, pulling her knees to her chest, glancing at Steve. “Jack Donaghy bad?”  

“Yeah. A cheat and a loudmouth.” Steve snorted distastefully.

“Why play with him?”  

“He got here first,” he sighed, picking at the grass. “We could wait for them to leave but it'd probably be dark by then.”

Lena hummed in understanding, watching as Bucky took a batting stance. A boy, probably Jack, stood in the center of their makeshift field, a cocky grin on his face. He wound up and threw, but something about the way he pitched made Steve tense beside her.  

“That almost hit Bucky,” Steve muttered. “It looked like he was aiming for him.”  

Bucky swung, missing, and Jack whooped.  

“You gonna cry, Barnes?” Jack called, tossing the ball lazily in his hand. “Maybe I should pitch like a baby like you do for Rogers.”  

Steve’s hands curled into fists, but before he could say anything, Lena leaned closer. “You fight?” she asked, not in warning, but pure curiosity. 

Bucky told her many stories about Steve getting into fights but she had yet to see it happen. 

Steve hesitated, as if he hadn’t thought that far ahead. “No,” he grumbled.  

The next pitch came, and this time, Bucky made contact. The ball cracked off the bat and flew past Jack’s head. Bucky took off running while the other boys scrambled after it.  

Steve grinned, but his victory was short-lived. Jack got the ball and threw it, not to the baseman, but straight at Bucky’s back.  

Bucky let out a sharp grunt, stumbling forward before catching himself.  

Lena gasped, but Steve was already on his feet.  

“That wasn’t fair!” Steve snapped, storming toward the field, with Lena scurrying after him. “You don’t throw at someone like that!”  

“You think you can talk to me like that, Rogers?” Jack challenged, taking a step towards Steve. 

“What the hell was that?” Bucky recovered quickly, his jaw tightening as he spun to face Jack, who only laughed at him.

His fists clenched, but he took a deep breath, trying to keep calm. He turned back to Steve.

“Stay back. I’ll handle this.”

Steve looked ready to jump in, but Bucky held a hand up, signaling him to hold off. He took a step forward, hands up in a gesture of calm. “Alright, Jack, enough. It was a mistake, no big deal.”

“Look at Barnes, sticking up for poor sickly Steve.” Jack taunted. “Did his mommy pay you to babysit?” 

Before Bucky could say anything more, Jack shoved him hard in the chest, sending him stumbling back.

Lena could feel her heart in her throat, her dark eyes wildly flashing between the boys. She didn't fully understand the barbs being thrown back and forth but she could read the glint in both Bucky and Steve's eyes.

“Bucky!” Steve charged forward, his eyes flashing, ready to go at Jack. “Don’t push him!”

Before Jack could respond, Steve threw a punch, but Jack dodged it, swiping Steve's feet from under him with a quick move. Steve hit the ground with a thud, his face contorted in frustration as he scrambled to get back up.

Lena’s blood boiled. She couldn’t just sit there and watch them fight. This wasn’t right. Steve was so much smaller, it wasn't fair. 

There was no second thought, not a second to consider self preservation over getting between an older boy and Steve Rogers who apparently liked to fight. Blood rushed in her ears as she threw herself between them, shielding Steve. Her heart raced in her tiny chest, battering against the walls of her rib cage. The impulse to protect Steve was instinctual, just as she was sure it would be for him to do the same.

“Stop!” Lena shouted, pushing against Jack’s chest with all her strength. She was small, but the force of her shove surprised him. “No fight!”

“What’s this? You gonna stop me?” Jack blinked, confused at her interference. “Do you have little girls fighting for you now?”

Bucky has back on his feet, scrambling to shove Jack away from both Yelena and Steve. But he didn't move fast enough, before he could blink, he watched Lena draw her skinny fist back and slam it into Jack’s stomach. 

“What the hell?!” The older boy cursed and sputtered, doubling over. It wasn't a particularly hard punch but it shocked him all the same. 

“Stop!” Lena shouted again, her voice sharper now, a blend of fury and protectiveness. “You hurt my friends!”

Bucky and Steve watched in stunned silence as Jack held his stomach, glowering at Lena. Jack looked like he might say something more, but then he seemed to think better of it once he saw Bucky on his feet again. He glared at all three of them, then turned and walked off, muttering under his breath.

“You’re lucky, Rogers,” Jack sneered, rubbing his stomach. “My ma taught me not to hit girls.” He spat on the ground before turning away, muttering under his breath. “Little freaks, all of you.” The sound of his footsteps receded into the distance, leaving behind the smell of sweat and resentment that still lingered in the air.

Lena stood there, breathing heavily, as she glanced back at Bucky and Steve, her eyes blazing. She had never hit anyone before. Never had a reason for it. But looking down at Steve in the dirt, reaching for Bucky's hand, she found this was a pretty good reason.

“Lena…” Steve started, his voice low, disbelief flickering in his eyes as he pulled himself to his feet. He was still brushing dirt from his pants when he met her gaze. “That was... that was... wow.” His grin spread slowly, as if the shock hadn’t fully worn off. He shook his head, a quiet chuckle escaping his lips.

“I can't believe you did that Lennie,” Bucky chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief as he helped Steve to his feet. 

Lena felt her face heat up, and she looked away, suddenly unsure of herself. “I... I don’t like him. Mean boy.”

“Well, you definitely showed him,” Steve said, still grinning. He brushed himself off. “Thanks, Lena.”

Bucky nodded, his tone softer. “You really don’t mess around, huh?” He paused for a moment and then groaned. “Please don't be like Steve.”

They stood there in the thick, buzzing silence for a beat, each of them catching their breath, still processing what had just happened. And then, as if it was inevitable, they all burst into laughter. It wasn’t a loud, carefree laugh. It was nervous and relieved, but it was a shared one.

“I do not understand this game,” Yelena chimed in, breaking the laughter, a grin wide on her face. 

“Maybe not. But I still got a hit.” Bucky bragged, throwing an arm around both Steve and Lena's shoulders, guiding them back out of their makeshift park. 

Chapter Text

i have no time for confession 

RED HOOK, BROOKLYN NEW YORK - SEPT 1925

It was Yelena's first official day at her American school. She had spent her first summer as an American with her new friends, Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes. Their friendship was a fast and easy one, steady and sure. She got up each morning to see her father off to work. Cleaned their apartment, do the shopping, do some washing for extra money. 

Then the boys would show up. If it was too hot, they'd sit inside in her empty apartment and play board games or go down a flight of stairs to Steve's home and watch him draw. If they could brave the summer heat, Bucky and Steve tried in vain to teach Lena baseball. Her English had come a long way but her sports knowledge did not. 

Sometimes they had just enough money to get into the picture shows. Or they'd duck into a store and window shop. Since punching Jack Donaghy, Lena hadn't need to step in to defend Steve since he usually dove in head first himself, with Bucky quick behind. 

They tried to keep the fights to a minimum when Lena was around but Steve wasn't the best at letting injustices pass.

It was a nice routine that they had, something familiar and safe for Lena. After a tumultuous arrival, and the upheaval of everything she knew, she found security in her friends. Nothing was too overwhelming with Bucky and Steve beside her.

Until the new school year rolled around. 

Lena spent the last few weeks studying English obsessively. It didn't come naturally to her like learning Yiddish or Russian did, but it had greatly improved. If it weren't for her heavy accent, and the occasional wonky sentence, no one would know she had only been speaking English for a few months. 

Still, she worried about what her teachers would think of her. She didn't want to catch a ruler to the knuckles which according to her new friends, was a thing. If she hadn't seen their red, bruised knuckles, she might think they were lying as a prank. 

Then there was the matter of Bucky. 

He was in a grade above them and Lena was unsure if she could handle Steve's hero complex on her own. Sure, he survived without her but he also got beat up a lot. Bucky was much better at handling it than her. 

And when Bucky couldn't wrangle Steve in, he could at least finish his fights. Lena didn't think she was strong enough to do that. 

Plus, it would be strange going about her day without Bucky on the other side of her, his good natured complaining about the heat, his sisters or even Steve.

She tried not to think about it too much, she was already making herself more nervous than she needed to be. 

Lena got up extra early on her first day. She fixed breakfast for herself and papa, a little bit of oatmeal and tea. Lunch for both of them, papa got the larger portion. And then she set about doing her best to make herself look presentable. 

Her new found friendships and routines had pulled the ache of missing her mother a little. But now, standing in front of her bathroom mirror, tears in her eyes, there was no one Yelena wanted more than her mamusia. 

Her soft humming and steady hands as she combed her hair, intricately braiding each strand. She didn't know how to braid her hair. Mama never got to teach her. 

That's how papa found her, standing on a box so she could just barely see herself peeking over the mirror, crying as she tried to braid.

“Come little mouse,” papa's deep voice broke through her thoughts, the comforting tones of Russian filling her ears. Papa had been speaking it more and more lately. 

He took her hand and led her back out into the living room, pulling her into his lap. More than anyone, he wished his Esther was here. To see their girl flourish and make friends in a way she hadn't in Poland. To see her dogged determination to learn English.

To take the responsibility off of her little shoulders. 

Papa kissed the top of her hair, smoothing a hand over her frizzy curls.

“My fingers aren't as nimble as mama's were but I can try.” Papa reassured her, his strong fingers working through her hair. “Mama always said you got your hair from me.” 

“And it was messy.” Lena sniffed, thinking of how mama used to tease them both. She closed her eyes as papa pulled her hair into a simple braid down her back. Mama would have done something more elaborate but it was something. 

She hummed an old lullaby, a song her mama would always sing while she did her hair. Her tears had dried up as she breathed through her nose, trying to steady herself. 

“There, my little mouse.” Papa said after a few minutes. “Go get dressed and we will eat together.”

Lena savored another few seconds of sitting with her father, a rarity these days. He was either working or recovering from work. She hopped up and went to her bedroom, where she had laid out her clothes the night before. 

A friend from papa's job gave him some of his daughter's old hand-me-downs and Mrs. Barnes was kind enough to mend and tailor them to her.

She slipped on a light blue dress, taking care not to mess up her braid. Lena slipped on her stocking that Bucky's mom patched. Her new (to her) Mary Janes were waiting by the door along with a well loved backpack that had come from Poland with her.

Her breakfast with papa was quick but he did his best to make her laugh. Lena made sure to brush the crumbs off her dress, making sure it laid nice and neat against her legs. She kissed her papa on the cheek and then bounded down a flight of stairs to Steve.

He was already waiting for her outside his door, his backpack looking almost comically large on his back. 

“Are you excited?” He asked her as they fell in step with one another. As always, Lena slipped her arm through his as they walked. They would collect Bucky and his sister on the way.

“Nervous.” She answered honestly. “I hope my English is good.”

“It's good Lena, I promise.” Steve reassured her. It wasn't perfect but it was more than passable. “Just remind all the teachers you can speak like a thousand other languages and they will be impressed.” He teased as they rounded the corner to Bucky's street. 

“Only three.” Lena said, a hint of pride in her voice, even as her fingers smoothed the front of her dress again—third time now.

She was grateful at least that the morning was cool, to keep her from sweating through her dress. The streets were loud and bustling as usual, the smell from the docks wafting through her nose, mixing with the smells from fresh baked bread from the bakery. 

“Nice of you two to show up. Becca got tired of waiting and ran ahead.” Bucky fell in step with them as they passed his building, pointing ahead where they could see the top of Rebecca’s head.

“Like you are in a rush to get to school, punk.” Steve jabbed as Lena slipped her other arm through Bucky's, cementing her in the middle between them. 

“Jerk.” Bucky countered with a smile before turning back to Lena.

Bucky smirked down at her and reached over, giving her braid a gentle tug. “Nice work, Lennie. Didn’t know you could look so fancy.”

“Papa did it,” she huffed, pulling away slightly to swat at his arm, before linking it back through his. “Don’t mess it up.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Bucky said, his grin widening. “I'd never hear the end of it.”

“I still do not understand what punk is.” Lena said after several beats of silence earning her two very loud laughs from her friends. 

A balm to her anxious heart.

Steve and Bucky managed to keep her thoughts occupied as they walked, bickering and picking on each other like only two best friend's could. But soon the school building was on the horizon and Lena could feel the anxiety in her throat. 

Her grip tightened on both their arms, her feet slowing. Bucky kept sneaking side glances at her, noticing the way her fingers curled into his shirt. He glanced over at Steve, who met his eye, he noticed as well. 

The school loomed ahead, big and imposing with its brick walls. Even from a distance, she could hear the chatter of students, the occasional shout from a teacher trying to corral students inside. 

Her tongue felt dry in her mouth, Lena swallowed trying to bring moisture to her mouth. 

“Alright, first day. No big deal.” Bucky bumped his hip into hers, injecting his usual confidence into his voice. “You and Steve will be in the same class. With his hero complex, he'll fight anyone who looks at you funny.”

“I do not have a complex,” Steve muttered.

Bucky cocked an eyebrow. Steve sighed, knowing there was no winning. Lena smiled, but her grip stayed tight.

In a few steps, she was about to step into a crowded building, surrounded by kids who had lived here their whole lives. Who grew up together and spoke English without having to think about it. Other kids who wouldn't trip over their tongue or have to scramble translate in their heads. She had been determined, worked so hard but would it be enough? 

“Lennie,” Bucky's soft voice cut through her thoughts. “You're gonna be fine. Better than fine. You're smarter than me,” he continued which earned a huff of disagreement from her. “At least you actually listen and try.” 

“And if anyone is mean to you, we'll handle it.” Steve added in, his face serious. 

“You will get in trouble.” Lena pointed out, the barest of smiles on her lips. 

“Like that's anything new.” Steve dismissed, with a bigger smile of his own. 

“What Steve is trying to say,” Bucky cut in, exasperated with his best friend's ability to make trouble for himself. “You aren't alone.” 

“Not alone.” She repeated after him, turning the phrase around in her mouth over and over, letting them settle. 

A sharp, shrill bell pierced through the air giving Lena a moment of panic, her short nails digging into both boys' forearms. 

“Let's get this over with,” Bucky groaned, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. 

Yelena forced her feet to move. She just had to make it until lunch. They all had lunch together. 

Walking into the school felt similar to being swallowed by a whale, at least Lena assumed it would feel the same. 

Students crowded around her, buzzing with excitement for their first day. Other kids bumped into them, unaware of their surroundings as they rushed to get to their classes. 

“Just make it to lunch!” Bucky called her to, pulling his arm free from her grip after another hard squeeze. He looked pointedly back at Steve before being swept away in a sea of older students. 

Between her and Steve's small frames, they barely cut through the other bodies, but Yelena clug tight to him, keeping them both upright as he bravely led the way. 

“You're gonna be fine, Ms. Donaldson is pretty nice.” He reassured her for the last time before pushing open the door. The final bell rang, leaving them the last ones to squeeze in. 

The room was already buzzing with chatter as students roamed around the room, trying to pick the best spof. Rows of wooden desks filled the space, the blackboard clean but dusty after a summer of disuse. A few kids turned to look at them as they walked in. Yelena tried not to wonder if their eyes lingered too long on her. 

Was it her dress? She wasn't the only one wearing obvious hand me downs but maybe hers was more out of style than she realized. Maybe it was her hair, she didn't see anyone else wearing a braid. What if papa didn't braid it neat enough? 

What if they could just tell that she didn't belong?

Steve tugged on her sleeve gently, breaking her out of her trance and steering her toward a pair of empty desks near the window. 

"C’mon, let’s grab these before someone else does.”

Nodding, she let little Steve guide her over, sliding into her chair. Her hands went back to her dress, smoothing out the non-existent wrinkles. 

She was not the first to sit in this desk, that much was clear by the doodles and initials carved into the wooden top. Her fingers tranced over some of the markings, before her eyes settled in on a set of initials at the very bottom. 

JBB. 

Her face broke out in a grin as her fingertips dipped into the letters, Bucky's carvings reminding her. 

Not alone.

Their teacher bustled into the room, a young woman with blonde curls, a thicker waist and kind but tired eyes. 

“Let's settle down.” Her voice was more firm than Lena anticipated but the class mostly listened, squirming in their seats as they faced her.

Her stomach twisted and her mouth dried out as Ms.Donaldsons's eyes swept across the room before landing on hers. 

“We have a new student joining us this year,” she gestured to Yelena, telling her to stand. 

She hesitated, feeling all their eyes on her. She met Steve's and he nudged her foot under their desks encouraging her to stand and speak. 

Her fingers found Bucky's initials again as she rose, tracing over the sloppily carved J. 

“I am Yelena Rabinovich,” her voice came out quiet and stilted, trying to find her words, careful not to trip over them. “My friends call me Lena,” she added just like she practiced. “I just came from Poland.” 

No. Moved. She should have said moved. 

Still, her teacher gave her a nod of acknowledgement as a few whispers broke out across the room. 

“Welcome to our class, Miss Rabinovich. You can sit.” 

Her cheeks flushed as she sank down into her chair, their teacher going back to the blackboard to begin writing their agenda for the day. 

“You did good.” Steve leaned over and whispered, motioning for her to pull out a piece of paper. 

Lena merely shrugged, and kept her eyes down, still reeling from the moment. 

Lunch couldn't come soon enough. 

As it turns out, class wasn't too bad. Math was universal, and it may not have been her best subject, Lena didn't need to translate math. 

There was a tense moment during their English period where Ms. Donaldson asked her to read out loud. She had fumbled over her words but despite some snickering, Ms. Donaldson was kind and patient. 

She would practice her English more tonight, Lena vowed as she walked arm in arm with Steve to lunch. 

Lena's lunch pail bounced off her leg as they navigated around other students to the cafeteria. Luckily Bucky sat right near the doorway, waking them over to join him and Becca. 

“How'd it go?” Bucky asked kindly, scooping out a sandwich from his pail, one for him and one for his sister. 

“Not good. English is still hard,” Lena complained as she sat opening her lunch as she went. She could have killed for some of her mama's pierogis right about now. Instead, hard boiled eggs, a slice of soft bread and some cold sausage awaited her.

“It wasn't bad at all. You did fine. You read better than Hugh and he's lived here his whole life.” Steve insisted, refusing to let his friend feel down. 

Lena, in turn, offered him a bright smile, it did make her feel a little better. 

“I think,” she started, taking a chunk out of her bead, overly cautious of her English as she spoke. “I am sitting at your old seat.” She directed towards Bucky, who had inhaled half his lunch already. 

“Your letters. JBB,” Lena clarified at his raised eyebrow. She couldn't remember the word in English. “Initials!” 

Bucky grinned, his mouth full of bread and cold cuts.

“See! Not alone!” 

It didn't take long for school to fall into a routine for Yelena. It wasn't as easy or fun as her summer routines but it was routine all the same. And there was comfort in the routine. 

A few kids laughed at her accent from time to time but all it took was a glare from Steve Rogers to shut them up. Not because they were scared of Scrawny Stevie, it was just more of an annoyance than anything. 

Especially if Barnes somehow got involved. 

Then after a few weeks, her accent was another novelty that passed. She still fumbled over words and took her a minute to understand when people spoke English at her quickly which caused some teasing.

But Lena could live with it. 

Her teacher praised her good work and determination. Steve was always by her side and in a way, it felt like Bucky was there too, his initials carved into her desk. 

That was the hardest part of her new routine, Bucky being in a higher grade. They didn't get to see him as often, only at lunch and recess. Lately they didn't even get to hang out much outside of school because he had to race home and help his mother with his sisters while his father worked late. 

But time passed quick enough, the first few weeks of school behind them as the cold months started to blow in. Mrs. Rogers sent Steve to school in heavy jumpers, jackets and multiple scarves to try and keep him warm but it couldn't keep the cold away for long. 

Lena had bound down to Steve's floor first thing in the morning like she always did, but Steve was not there waiting for her like he always was. 

She had looked around frantically, reasonably convinced that Steve maybe jumped into some situation that didn't involve him but all was quiet.

Until Lena's panicked knocks on his front door rang out. 

“Oh, I'm sorry Lena, Steve has a terrible cough, he can't come to school today.” Sarah Rogers explained to her kindly, reassuring her that she'd let her know when Steve was feeling better.

Still Yelena couldn't bring herself to move away from his doorstep. Steve was sick. 

Maybe even the same way her mamusia had gotten sick. 

And all she could think about on her walk to Bucky was what she would do if Steve died just like mama. 

Chapter Text

for i am too busy committing sins

RED HOOK, BROOKLYN - 1925

Yelena's feet carried her to Bucky's building in record time. He was just coming down the stairs when he noticed Lena standing in his spot. 

Pacing. 

No Steve in sight. 

Bucky sighed, hands jammed into his pockets and made his way over to her. Rebecca had run ahead as usual, sometimes she walked with them, other times she liked to see how fast she could make it to the school and claimed they were holding her back. 

“Steve sick?” Bucky called out as he neared her. He knew it was coming, between the cold front and school germs, it was almost like clockwork. 

“Yes!” Yelena nodded frantically, with a note that sounded like despair in her voice. “Mrs. Rogers said, jest chory, ma kaszel.” Her thoughts were in English but came out Polish. 

“Lennie.” Bucky said reassuringly, offering her his arm as he did every morning. “Despite your best efforts, I still don't understand Polish.” 

He was pretty sure she was speaking Polish, he couldn't always tell the difference between that and Russian. 

“Sorry, sorry.” Lena muttered, slipping her arm through his. “She said he is sick, that he has a cough.” 

“Sounds about right, he usually gets sick around this time of year. You don't need to worry. Ya know how many times I've watched that little punk get knocked and get right back up? A little cough isn't gonna him down.” 

Lena shook her head, anxiously chewing on her bottom lip. Bucky knew Steve a lot longer than she did, he would know better than her.

Still.

“Steve is so small.” She responded after a beat, her voice small and scared. 

“Hey, hey.” Bucky paused, and turned to face her. “Steve is way too annoying for a stupid cough to bother him. He's too stubborn.” He moved his arm around her shoulders, rubbing her arm.

Lena made a hum of agreement even if she didn't fully believe it. Bucky said he would be okay so he'd have to be. She leaned into him, letting their shared warmth ease her worry. 

School felt very different without Steve. He wasn't there to whisper help to their English lessons. And when she stumbled over words while reading out, the boy sitting behind her, kicked her chair and laughed at her. 

No Steve meant no one was there to threaten the other kids into not picking on her. 

Lunch lifted her spirits a bit, sitting with Bucky and Becca who both sensed her worry and did their best to make her laugh. 

She made a point not to tell Bucky about Kenny kicking her chair. 

The next morning saw Lena outside of Steve's door again. Mrs. Rogers had a sad smile on her face when she told her that Steve wasn't feeling well. 

Before she could close the door, Lena could hear his hacking cough from the hallway. She was beside herself with worry by the time Bucky met up with her outside his building. 

“Yelena,” Bucky rarely called her by her full name unless he was being serious. “It's only been a few days, Steve will be fine.” 

Lena really tried to believe him but by the fourth day of Steve's absence, she had chewed her fingernails down to the skin from anxiety. 

“He's not getting better, Bucky!” Lena's voice cracked. She couldn't voice her real fear, that Steve had whatever illness that had killed her mother and that he would die.

“We need to do something!” She impassioned, she couldn't just keep going to school and doing math problems while there was a chance that Steve could die. 

“So what should we do then?” Bucky asked her. Of course he was worried about Steve, he always worried about Steve but he didn't know where Lena's frantic worry was coming from. 

“There is special cough medicine, my bubbe used to make it.” She never got the chance to make it for her own mother.

“C’mon then. We can ditch school and go make it for him.”

Lena was surprised by Bucky's answer, turning to look at him with wide eyes. She never skipped school before. But…

There was a Jewish market down the street, she was sure they'd have what she needed. Mrs. O'Malley had just paid her for doing her laundry, so she had a few coins rolling around in her pocket. 

Lena looked at Bucky and then to their school that loomed in the distance. She didn't want to get in trouble but if she could help Steve. 

She turned back to Bucky, nodding fiercely. 

“Let's go!”

Lena took off at once, turning heel and marching back the way she came. Despite being smaller than Bucky, he struggled for a second to catch up, owing to her speed and determination. 

“Slow down Len, it's not like we have to sneak back into school.” He tugged on her arm to slow her down. “Steve’s mom doesn't go to work for a few hours so we can take our time.” 

As much as she wanted to race to the market and zip back home, Bucky was right. Mrs. Rogers would lecture them about missing school and definitely tell their parents. So Lena slowed her feet, leading Bucky down the street and through some tight alleyways to the shop. 

“So what puppy taught you this magic medicine?” Bucky asked as they dodged around a fallen trash can, a teasing grin on her face. 

“Puppy?” Lena responded, confused until she realized he was teasing her for her accent. “My grandmother!” She corrected him with a laugh. “Idiot,” Lena tacked on the way she heard Steve and Bucky did in the past. 

“It is not magic, just good for you when sick,” Yelena continued on. “Special ingredients.”

“Yeah, like what?” Bucky was still smiling but he did seem interested as he tugged Lena out of the path of a large puddle. 

“Honey. Lemon.” Yelena stepped in time with him, grateful her socks weren't soaking. “Sage,” she paused trying to remember the recipe. It had been a while since she had seen her bubbe make it. “Garlic!”

“Garlic with honey?” His eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “You're gonna make Steve have some bad breath.” 

“Good for coughs!” Yelena protested, sinking a small fist into his shoulder playfully. “When someone got sick, they would come to my bubbe, and she'd make it up. They will be better in days!” 

Yelena beamed proudly, her grandmother was known as a bit of a medicine woman and she was proud of how much she helped people. 

If only she could have helped mama. 

The thought wiped the smile from her face. 

If Bucky noticed, he chose not to mention it at that moment. Instead, he squeezed her shoulder and followed steadfast beside her. 

He wasn't as familiar with this part of town, so he looked around with curious eyes as Lena weaved them down the street. Despite being new to the city, she clearly knew this block better than he did. 

“Where are we going again?” He asked, watching as a chart carrying pickled herring and challah bread went past them, the vendor yelling at them in Yiddish. 

“Antshuldik!” Lennie shouted back, looking a little sheepish. “He said we were in the way,” she explained to a perplexed Bucky.

“We're going to Schwartz, it's a Jewish grocer.” She explained as they passed a shoe shop, where a man shined another's shoes in the open door way, the sounds of the radio wafting out behind him. 

“Never been there,” Bucky said, his head on a swivel taking in the street, taking it all in. 

“Is nice. Mr. Schwartz is very kind. He gave me some hard candy when I came and did our shopping.” Lena didn't look out of place as they rounded the corner, passing two older men arguing over checkers in an alleyway. 

“Right there, come on!” Lennie pointed ahead before slipping her hand into his and pulling him inside. She waved cheerily to the man behind the counter, who seemed to be in a heated discussion with a customer. 

““Ach, witam malutką Lenę!” [Ah, welcome little Lena!] He paused his discussion to greet her.

“Czy ty i twój kolega nie powinniście być w szkole?” [Shouldn't you and your friend be in school? ] Mr. Schwartz continued, his eyebrow cocked

“Oh.” Lena's cheeks flushed lightly as she looked towards Bucky. “To jest Bucky, mój przyjaciel. Nasz przyjaciel jest chory i potrzebuę składników, żeby zrobić mu herbatę. Nie mów o tym mojemu ojcu!” [This is my friend Bucky. Our other friend is sick, I'm getting ingredients to make him tea. Don't tell my father!] She shot off in rapid fire Polish.

The grocer gave them a kind smile and nodded them forward into the shop. 

“What did he say? What did you say?” Bucky was aware that he was grinning, he had never heard Lena speak so quickly or so sure of herself. Her English had improved but she still spoke haltingly, unsure of herself. It sounded so natural when she spoke in another language. “Which one was that? Russian or Polish? Or the other language you speak? I can't tell them apart very well.”

Lena flushed even deeper at Bucky's badgering, she was glad he didn't seem put off by her lack of English. She wasn't ashamed, but she did sometimes earn strange looks at school or adults when she didn't default to English. 

“That was Polish,” she informed him, her sharp dark eyes narrowing as she searched the shelves. “He said we should be in school. I said we were making tea for sick friend.” Lena plucked a small bottle of honey off the shelf and handed it to Bucky to carry. 

“And said not to tell papa,” she added with a grin as she walked over to the produce section. There Lena snagged a lemon, and a clove of garlic. “Already have sage from Mrs. Levine.” She thought out loud for her own benefit, running through her list of ingredients. 

“Come, tea needs time to steep.” 

The duo took their items to the counter where Bucky watched in fascination as Lena and the man conversed easily in Polish. He almost missed when she snatched up three strings with a little blue eyed charm hanging off of them. 

She had just barely enough to cover her purchase, including her impulse buy but Lena happily took the paper bag from Mr. Schwartz and motioned for Bucky to follow. 

“What were those string things you bought?” Bucky asked once they were back on the path to Yelena's home. 

A flush creeped up into her cheeks as she stuck her hand into the bag and fished them out. 

“Hand of Miriam,” she explained, showing him the small blue charm in the shape of a hand. “It's supposed to protect.” 

“Protection? From what?” Bucky's eyebrows were high on his forehead, doubtful. 

“Well, I saw and thought Steve,” Lena started and then trailed off. She didn't know if she fully believed in the superstition but her bubbe did. 

Maybe it wasn't real but maybe it was. 

“Maybe it would help Steve, keep him from being sick.” She finished after a pause. 

“And the other two?” Bucky asked with the teasing sort of smile he usually reserved for Steve. 

“For us.” Lena answered quietly. “You think it's stupid.” She said after they started climbing the stairs to her apartment. Maybe it was stupid but she couldn't stand the thought of losing her only friends. 

Lena pulled her arm free from Bucky's, hurrying up the stairs, unshed tears in her dark eyes. She didn't lock the door or slam it behind her, she didn't want Bucky to leave but she was embarrassed.

“Lennie!” He poked his head through the door, catching sight of her in the kitchen. “Why are you so upset??” Bucky didn't understand, they teased each other all the time. 

And the idea that a little charm could keep them from being sick seemed a little silly. 

Lena didn't answer him right away, focusing her hands on filling her kettle with water. She chopped her lemon in half and placed it in the water. Chopped up some sage leaves and sprinkled those in. It was only after she peeled the garlic that she turned back to Bucky, her eyes heavy. 

“My mama,” she started and faltered. The boys knew that her mother died but she never talked much about her or how it happened. 

“She got sick on the boat. Started with a cough,” she turned back to the stove, dropping in her garlic. “Cough like Steve's.” 

“Oh.” Bucky said simply, understanding immediately why she was so worked up about Steve getting sick and the little charms. 

“I'm sorry Lennie. I didn't mean to pick on you.” He crossed over the kitchen and reached into the grocery bag. He pulled out one of the strings, deftly tying it around his wrist. “Want me to put yours on?” 

They let the concoction simmer for an hour while they sat on the couch and read through the few books Yelena had. Mostly though, Bucky asked her questions about Poland and her life before she came to America. 

Finally when Lena decided everything had simmered long enough, she pulled the kettle from the stove and added in a generous amount of honey. 

“Okay, is ready, we can take to Steve.” Yelena decided it was good enough, taking great care to carry the hot kettle, her Hand of Miriam charm dangling from her wrist. Bucky jumped up and opened the door, walking slowly so they didn't spill anything. 

“Is that gonna taste weird?” He asked earnestly before letting himself into the Rogers apartment without even knocking. 

“A little.” Yelena still didn't fully understand what weird was or what it would taste like but she could understand the context.

“Steve! We brought you something to make you better!” Bucky yelled as they entered, closing the door behind him. “Don't get up, we will bring it to you!” 

Lena laughed at Bucky as she went about pouring a generous amount into a cup, following him back to Steve's room. 

Steve was buried partially under blankets, just the top of his hair visible. With some effort, Steve pushed himself up, eyes bleary with sleep. He didn't look as bad as Lena thought he might but there was definitely a wheeze in his voice when he finally spoke.

“What are you doing here?” He asked but not unkindly. 

“We were worried about you punk.” Bucky said, moving over to Steve's side and helping him sit up fully, tucking some pillows behind him. “So Lennie whipped up something to get you better.”

“Here Steve, is hot.” Lena handed over the cup. 

“You made this?” Steve said with an earnest smile. He took a cautious sip, eyebrows shooting up at the taste. But it did warm him up from the inside. 

“Lena also got you this,” Bucky dugout the third charm out of his pocket. “Lennie seems to think you need protectin’ from all the stupid situations you keep getting into.” 

Steve glared at him while Bucky tied the string around his wrist but looked at the charm with real interest. He took another sip of the steaming liquid and turned to Lena. 

“So what's the actual story behind it?” Steve asked, a tired smile on his face watching as his friend erupted into story, her hands moving wildly as she explained the folklore behind her charms.

Chapter Text

my love, you're something special 

RED HOOK, BROOKLYN, NEW YORK - DEC 1925

The match flickered between Lena's fingers as she stretched to light the last candle on the menorah. Her other hand cupped around the flame to keep the draft leaking through their windows from blowing it out before the last candle was lit. 

The flames danced in front of her eyes, a bit of warmth radiating off of them as Yelena settled back into her seat, closing her eyes. Their house should have been full of their family, as small as it was in New York. She should have been spinning dreidels and singing with her mama. Papa would have insisted on frying the latkes so no oil could bubble and pop up onto her or mama. Uncle Sasha would be dancing with his wife, waiting any day for their child to be born. 

Maybe, in her fantasy, Steve and Bucky were there too. There'd be enough food to go around, and she would teach them songs in Yiddish. 

But mama was dead. Uncle Sasha had to work since his wife couldn't, being so far along now.

Papa was already long asleep on the couch, he tried to stay awake but like most days, the moment he sat down, sleep took him. Lena had covered him with a blanket, and slipped a pillow under his head, wishing with all her heart that he didn't have to work himself to this point. 

There was no Steve and Bucky because she didn't know how to explain the holiday when there was no celebration to be had. There was no music, no laughter, no feast and no dreidels. If Mrs. O'Malley hadn’t lent them matches, there might not have been a menorah. 

At least there were latkes—the best Lena could manage anyways. Papa still fried them for her, not wanting her to get burnt from the oil. They weren't as good as her mother's but it still felt like she was there with them when she took a bite. 

There was a little silver lining though. She had her first taste of chocolate gelt. Their rabbi had given out a few pieces to each child as a gift and she had ended up with exactly three pieces which felt like a sign.

Lena had been sorely tempted to eat the whole lot, she couldn't remember the last time she had chocolate but she forced herself to savor her piece. Letting the chocolate coin melt on her tongue, holding it in her mouth as long as she could stand it.

She saved the last two coins for her friends, for the reason she didn't feel entirely lonely. Of course, Lena would have to explain but neither Bucky or Steve would mind a history lesson if they got a piece of chocolate for it. 

Lena leaned forward, knees pulled up against her body for warmth, and rested her chin on top of them, watching as the flames flickered, dancing and dying in the dark room. The shadows licked the walls, bouncing and stretching across the surfaces, reminding her of how empty it really was. 

Her fingers curled around her Star of David pendant that hung from her skinny neck, the pointed edges cutting into her palms. She thought wearing it would make today feel better, special. It had been her first Hanukkah gift as a baby, and she only wore it on special occasions. But even that didn't help. 

The candles burned lower. 

She watched the wax melt, drip down the sides and pool at the base. The smell of fry oil and latkes still hung in the air, heavy and thick.

The room was silent, safe for the occasional snore of her exhausted father and her own breathing. The cold had muffled everything else out. 

Lena closed her eyes. 

“Bucky, stop touching the tree!”

“I’m not touching it! I’m fixing it—”

Lena wasn't sure what she was walking in on but she let herself in anyways, closing the door to Steve's apartment behind her, the pan of rugelach heavy in her arms. 

It wasn't much, but it was something she could contribute to their little Christmas celebration since she didn't have enough money for gifts. 

A loud crash followed by Steve's gasp of exasperation and a sharp exhale from Bucky, had both Lena and Mrs. Rogers’ heads snapping around to the scene in front of them. Steve's hands were frozen in the air, obviously he had tried to grab the fallen tree. 

Bucky at least had the nerve to look sheepish as he nudged the tree. 

“It was crooked,” Bucky muttered, bending over to pick up the small tree.

“You knocked it over!” 

“Well it looks better now!” He insisted, setting it back up on the side table. “I fixed it!” 

Lena had already set her pan down, locked eyes with Mrs. Rogers, then broke out into a loud laugh, a laugh that bubbled up over her lips, and made her double over with giggles in the kitchen.

“Lennie thinks it's funny.” Bucky grinned after a minute, before joining in on the laughter. 

“Shut up, punk.” Steve made a face at him, slugging him in the shoulder as he walked past him and into the kitchen. “Thanks for coming, Lena. What did you bring?”

“It's rugelach. It's pastry, it has plum jam!” The pastries were certainly not the prettiest, her small hands had a hard time manipulating the dough but they would be tasty. 

“Plum jam?” Bucky asked curiously, poking his head over his shorter friend's shoulders. “Is it sweet? Can I have one now?” 

“Is tart,” Lena started, swatting away his hands. 

“After dinner, James.” Mrs. Rogers said good naturedly. “I'm so glad you could join us tonight Lena.” 

“It is my first Christmas!” Lena followed Steve and Bucky back to the living room where they plopped onto the couch together to listen to Christmas specials on the radio. 

She was hesitant at first, Lena never celebrated Christmas before, and didn't know if she'd really belong. But after a sad and lonely Hanukkah, she couldn't turn down the possibility of a real celebration. 

Plus Steve had insisted that she join him and his mother. She tried to explain she wouldn't have money for gifts but Steve told her it didn't matter, he just wanted her company. 

Bucky celebrated Christmas with his family in the morning, he told her about how mother made a special breakfast and his sisters tripped over each other trying to open their gifts. He was happy to escape to the quiet Rogers home for the evening. 

Lena wedged herself between Steve and Bucky on the couch, mostly to keep them from shoving each other too much while they debated what to listen to on the radio. 

“C'mon Steve! I want to listen to Eveready Hour. It's Lennie's first Christmas, she doesn't want to listen to A Christmas Carol!” Bucky insisted, arguing over the top of her head. 

“That's why it's a classic Buck! It's tradition, Lena should hear it!” Steve pushed back, shifting his knees under him so he could peer over her head. 

“I do not care what we listen to,” Lena cut across them, her lips upturned in a smile. 

“Boys,” Mrs. Rogers' warning came from the kitchen. 

“Fine, we'll listen to A Christmas Carol, but next year, we are doing something else!” Bucky conceded with an eye roll as Steve scrambled over to tune the radio. 

“Very nice of you, Бука.” Lena grinned, digging her elbow into his side. 

“What does that mean?” Bucky's eyebrows furrowed, unsure if it was a nice tease or something meant to be insulting. 

“Shh, it's starting!” Steve cut across them before she could translate, making Lena's grin even bigger.

As it turned out, Lena loved A Christmas Carol, dabbing her eyes with her sleeve by the end, which Bucky was sure to tease her on, especially since she wouldn't tell him what Бука meant. 

They decided to open gifts after dinner which Lena was grateful for, she still felt guilty that she didn't have anything to contribute.

It wasn't the most extravagant feast, a small roast chicken, a bowl of potatoes, gravy and fresh bread with butter. Lena could feel her mouth watering, it had been some time since she had a home cooked meal like this. 

Luckily for their stomachs, Mrs. Rogers kept grace short and they all tucked in. Steve and Bucky regaled her with stories about past Christmases, wondering which one their Christmas Spirit would take them to revisit. 

The boys wolved down her rugelach, claiming it was the best dessert they ever had which nearly had Lena swiping at her eyes again. They helped Mrs. Rogers clean up the kitchen before circling around the little Christmas tree.

Steve gifted his mother a pretty pendant he found at the dimestore. Bucky sheepishly gave her flowers, that still had roots and clumps of dirt attached. Which meant he pilfered them from someone's garden. 

Mrs. Rogers gave Steve a new set of fancy pencils. To Bucky, she gifted him a hand-knitted scarf. She even thought of Lena and gave her beautiful thistle hairbrush. 

Lena felt even more guilty when she realized that Bucky and Steve each got her something. Steve drew a picture of the three of them, arm in arm as they often walked down the street together. 

Just as sheepishly as Bucky presented the flowers to Mrs. Rogers did he hand over a poorly wrapped package to Lena. She took her time unraveling it, uncertain of what he could have possibly given her. 

The paper fell away to a small box that contained a silky blue hair ribbon. 

“Thank you Bucky,” Lena beamed at him with watery eyes. All of her hair ribbons and bows were left behind in Poland. Mama was supposed to buy her more after they got to America but it never happened. 

Bucky waved her off, a little pink in the cheeks. 

“I wasn't able to get gifts,” Lena explained, feeling completely unworthy of such beautiful thoughtful gifts. “But I thought I could sing you a song, from Poland.”

It had been too long since she sang regularly, probably since her mother had died. She hummed and mouthed along to songs she knew but music had stopped being a comfort once her mother was cold in the ground. 

But now, with a full heart, she could feel the music coming back to her. She could feel the song in her blood, almost like it was a part of her. 

Cicha noc, święta noc,

Pokój niesie ludziom wszędzie,

A u żłóbka Matka Święta,

Czuwa sama uśmiechnięta,

Nad Dzieciątka snem.

Nad Dzieciątka snem.

Cicha noc, święta noc,

Pastuszkowie od swych trzód,

Biegną w pośpiechu, opłacają,

Bogu dziękując, śpiewają,

Z radością w sercu.

Z radością w sercu.

Cicha noc, święta noc,

Boża Dziecina w żłóbku,

Błogosławi dziecięcą twarz,

Pokój niosąc wszystkim w darze,

W tym nocnym czasie.

W tym nocnym czasie.

Both boys stilled as she started to sing, the song spilling out of her mouth, low and sweet sounding. It felt like her chest was being cracked open, warmth bursting out of her. Like something had been sleeping inside of her and was finally stirring. 

Steve closed his eyes as she sang, sinking into the song, even if he didn't understand the words. He didn't need to understand the words to feel the emotion behind them. He only wished he had heard her sing sooner. 

As Lena's voice filled the small apartment, Bucky, for once, fell completely silent and still. He had heard her hum before, little snippets of melodies under her breath, but never like this. Never something so full, so unguarded.

His teasing smirk faded as he leaned back slightly, his arms loosely crossed over his chest, eyes locked on her as if afraid that if he looked away, the moment would slip through his fingers. The firelight flickered across her face, catching the sheen in her eyes as she sang, and something in his chest tightened.

She always carried herself like she had something to prove—sharp edges, quick wit, stubborn pride. But now, in the soft glow of the Christmas lights, she looked different. Softer. Like she had finally let her guard down, even just for a minute.

Bucky swallowed, rubbing the back of his neck. He told himself it was just the song, it was beautiful in a way he didn’t expect. 

When she finished, he exhaled like he hadn’t realized he was holding his breath. Then, before she could shrink away or brush it off, he nudged her knee with his.

“That was…real nice, Lennie,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. “Didn’t know you had that in you.”

He grinned, trying to keep things light, but the warmth in his gaze gave him away.

The flush in Lena's face went all the way up to her hairline in the after math of their praise. Steve and his mother clapped loudly, insisting that she sing more. 

“I don't know many Christmas songs, not in English.” She ducked her head shyly but as usual, nothing deterred Steve Rogers. 

He darted up and turned the radio back on, finding a station playing Christmas music. 

“We can teach you the words!” He buzzed excitedly, taking her hands and swinging around the living room, elicting a peal of laughter out of her. Bucky normally would have refused dancing, but when Lena reached her hand out for him, he had to accept. 

Outside, the snow kept falling, the night wrapping the city in quiet. Inside, Lena’s laughter lingered in the air, mixing with the smell of pine and candle wax. It was the warmest Lena had felt in months, with Steve and Bucky taking turns swinging her around the room. They sang loudly and poorly, before making Lena sing for them again. 

She had spent so long thinking Christmas was something that belonged to other people. But here, in this tiny apartment, with two boys who had become her family, she let herself believe it could belong to her, too.

It was her first Christmas and arguably the best. Lena hoped if she was ever visited by the Spirit of Christmases past, this would be the one they visited. 

Chapter Text

i've never met someone like you 

RED HOOK, BROOKLYN NEW YORK - SUMMER 1926

Eventually, the snow melted into grey slush, and by March, Brookyln felt the first hints of warmth. Both Bucky and Lena celebrated their birthdays just as the sun started to return. The school year went by faster than Lena could have ever guessed, her English nearly on par with other kids her age by the end of the year. 

Some of her classmates still poked fun at her, but Lena had learned very quickly not to let it bother her too much. For every Kenny who made fun of her accent, there was Steve or Bucky to back her up.

Even outside of her two best friends, Lena had made a few other friends. There was Elizabeth from the synagogue. Tommy, another immigrant from Poland who came to America a few years before her. Sometimes Tommy would sit with them at lunch and Lena could always count on finding Elizabeth in the library to share books.

As much as Lena liked having the daily routine, she was looking forward to sinking back into the cozy summer routine she established last year. 

The first day of summer, Lena woke up to the sounds of the city. Her window was thrown open, trying to coax a breeze in to help with the oppressive heat, but mostly it just let in the sounds of day shift and vendors starting their mornings. 

She knew her father would already be gone; he had insisted she sleep in on her first day of summer vacation. Just for one day, he promised he could pack his lunch and make his tea without her.

It was early afternoon by the time Lena heard a knock on her front door. She leapt to her feet and threw it open for Steve, happy to see Bucky already with him. 

“In, in.” She ushered them both inside, the apartment offering little to combat the heat. They didn't often linger at Lena's home, and sometimes she was embarrassed at the threadbare state of it. Especially considering how warm and welcoming both the Roger and Barnes’ apartments were. 

But neither of the boys ever judged or said anything so Lena tried to put it out of her mind. 

“Why do you wear those faces?” Lena asked suspiciously, as she pulled out the lunch she prepared for the three of them. She knew they had something planned for today but looking at their faces, she wasn't sure it would be entirely trouble free. 

Bucky raised an eyebrow at her, his smirk widening before opening his mouth. 

“You know what I mean!” Lena cut across him, slapping him on the shoulder as she set a sandwich in front of him. “Why do you have those looks on your face?” She corrected her English.

“Bucky took his dad's wrench,” Steve said in a way of explanation that made no sense to Lena before taking a large bite out of the sandwich she gave him.

“I do not know what that means.” Lena deadpanned, throwing her hands up in the air before sitting down at her rickety table across from them. “Explain, or you can get into your mischief alone,” she aimed a playful kick at both of them under the table before tucking into her lunch.

She had not a clue what they were plotting, but Lena was smiling anyways, the freedom of summer was so promising, picking up where they left off last year.

Most mornings, they spent at home doing chores. Bucky helped his mom wrangle his sisters and clean up from breakfast. Both Steve and Lena with their single parents pitched in to help around the house, cleaning, and shopping. Sometimes they did it together, waiting for Bucky to join them. 

They took turns eating lunch at each other's houses. Steve's was the best because Mrs. Rogers always had leftovers and they usually had the apartment to themselves. Eating at the Barnes’ was always a lively affair with Alice and Ruth fascinated by their brother and friends (Becca was used to them and had her own friends). 

Lunch at Lena’s was always simple and quick, which she didn't mind because it meant they would be getting out of the house quicker and onto fun things.

“We can use it to open the fire hydrant down the block!”

Lena blinked. “You want to do what?”

“It’s hot!” Steve added, as if that explained everything. 

Bucky grinned wider, clearly proud of himself and his idea. “C’mon, Lennie. It’s no big deal, half the neighborhood does it when it gets this hot.”  

“You mean the older kids do,” Lena shot back, chewing her sandwich slowly. 

“Yeah, and now we’re almost older kids,” Bucky said, like that was a solid argument. “It will be worth it, I promise!”

Lena sighed, giving them both a hard look, the kind her mother used to give her when she misbehaved. But when she looked at Steve, sweaty blonde hair plastered to his forehead, and felt the heat dampening her shirt collar against her skin, she gave in.  

“Fine,” she muttered, “but if we get in trouble, I’m blaming you.” She pointed a skinny finger in Bucky and Steve's  direction. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky only laughed, already stuffing the last of his sandwich in his mouth as he stood, ushering them to follow.  

The hydrant was down the block, just where the pavement sloped enough that the water would spill down the street like a lazy river. No one was paying attention to the hydrant, just milling around, baking under the fresh summer sun.  

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” Lena asked, arms crossed, eying the hydrant waringly and then back to Bucky who had the wrench tucked by his leg.  

“Sure,” Bucky said, crouching by the hydrant and pulling the wrench out fully. “I watched Tommy’s brother do it last summer. Easy.”  

“Easy,” Lena repeated dryly, “like the time you said you could jump off top of stoop without falling?”  

“That was different,” Bucky grumbled, fitting the wrench into place, pausing only to make a face at her.

“Yeah, ‘cause your knee bled for three days,” Steve chimed in, snickering.  

“Because he kept reopening it!” Lena exclaimed. “Kept trying to make that jump!"

“Quiet!” Bucky hissed. “I’m concentrating.”  

“You know he's gotta concentrate real hard,” Steve snickered behind his hand, making Lena break off into a fit of giggles too. Bucky did his best to ignore them both.

It took a few tries — the wrench slipped once, and Bucky nearly fell backward — but then there was a sharp crack and a hiss of water spurting out. For a second, it was just a thin stream.  

“Is that it?” Steve asked, sounding unimpressed.  

“Be patient,” Bucky muttered, twisting the wrench further — and then WHOOSH. Water exploded out of the hydrant, spraying high into the air before crashing down onto the street like a sudden downpour. 

Lena squealed and jumped back, but Bucky let out a victorious shout, already darting into the water.  

“Come on!” he yelled. “It’s great!”  

Lena hesitated — her dress was thin and light, and she knew her father wouldn’t be thrilled if she came home soaked. But then Steve bolted past her, arms flailing as he barreled into the spray, and she couldn’t help it.  

With a laugh, she ran forward, the cold water hitting her like a slap before it melted into relief. Her hair clung to her face, her dress stuck to her legs, but she didn’t care.  

For a while, it was nothing but splashing and laughing, the three of them shrieking every time the water sprayed harder. At some point, a few other kids joined in — Tommy from school, a couple of Bucky’s neighbors — and the street filled with the sounds of bare feet slapping against wet pavement and breathless giggles.  

“See?” Bucky shouted over the roar of the water, shaking his hair out like a wet dog. “Told you I knew what I was doing!”  

“You’re gonna get us in trouble!” Lena called back, but she was grinning.  

“Yeah,” Steve gasped, doubling over from laughing too hard. “But it’s worth it.”  

For a moment, it felt like the summer might stretch on forever — just cool water, warm pavement, and the best kind of mischief.

Just as Lena thought they might spend the whole afternoon there, a sharp whistle cut through the air.  

“Hey!” someone barked.  

Lena turned to see a man wearing an apron and a grumpy frown, emerging from his shop. 

“Oh shit,” Bucky muttered. “Run!”  

Lena stood there, frozen for a moment while Bucky pushed Steve ahead of them, giving him a head start before grabbing Lena's hand and yanking her along. 

“Oh shit!!” Lena laughed loudly, copying Bucky's curse, her shriek of joy fading into the midday sun.

The summer continued much of the same, early morning chores, and finding ways to beat the heat. They celebrated Steve's birthday by watching fireworks, and sharing hard candies under the bursts of lights. 

The days following his birthday were just as hot and sticky. Bucky's dad caught onto his missing wrench so finding another fire hydrant was out. Instead, the trio took to a shaded alleyway to play stickball. 

Lena still didn't really understand the rules behind hitting the ball with a stick (in her case, a broken broom handle). Steve and Bucky talked over each other, trying to explain innings, strikes and all manner of baseball things.

They rabidly tried to convert her into a Dodgers fan, their favorite team. Just to annoy them both, Lena purposefully pronounced their name wrong and said there were better teams. 

So she was more than happy to take her turn out and watch Bucky pitch to Steve. She leaned against the wall, the brick pressing through her thin dress, watching as Bucky made a big show of winding up his pitch. 

“You ready, punk?” Bucky taunted, a playful grin on his face. 

“Don't take it easy on him!” Lena chimed in, reminding him that Steve hated when he did. 

“I wasn't gonna!” Bucky retorted, even though they both knew that he totally was. 

“Oh just throw the ball already!” Steve groaned, his skinny arms holding tightly on their makeshift bat. 

Bucky just snorted and stepped forward, sending the ball flying. Steve just barely missed it, shooting Lena a dirty look as he tossed it back to Bucky. 

“You distracted me!” Steve grumbled which only made Lena stick her tongue out at him. 

Bucky pitched again and Steve hit the ball with a satisfying crack, sending the ball flying towards the building, bouncing off of the brick walls. 

“Nice swing!” Lena said encouragingly and scooped up the ball, throwing it the best she could to Bucky. 

“Wish I could say the same about your throw!” Steve snorted, clearly teasing, as he swiped his arm over his sweaty forehead. 

“Okay, last one and it's my turn. If you miss this one, I'm calling you a bum for the rest of the summer.” Bucky said, squaring off his shoulders. 

“Better watch it, Barnes,” Steve shot back, grinning wide, despite his sweaty hands. “I’m about to make you eat your words.”

Lena snorted at the bravado but stayed quiet as Bucky lobbed the ball again. They never seemed to tease each other quite as much as when they played ball.

Crack!

This time, Steve hit it square. The ball soared past Bucky’s head and kept going — too far, too fast.

All three of them turned to watch in horror as it sailed out of the alley, over the sidewalk, and —

SMASH.

The sound of breaking glass reached their ears making them all cringe, looking between each other with a look of panic. 

“Oh shit,” Steve muttered.

“Oh, shit,” Bucky agreed.

“Oh, shit.” Lena echoed. 

They bolted down the alley, skidding to a halt at the corner. The ball lay innocently on the pavement beneath the jagged remains of a shop window. A man — red-faced and furious — stood in the doorway, shaking his fist in their direction.

“HEY!” he bellowed.

“Run!” Bucky barked, grabbing Lena’s wrist and yanking her along as Steve bolted ahead of them. He knew from the last time they nearly got caught, he couldn't trust Lena to take off. 

“It's Mr. Abernathy, he's going to recognize us!” Steve wheezed as they darted down the alleyway. 

“Just keep running!” Bucky panted, the sounds of their shoes slapping against the hot pavement. 

They didn’t stop until they reached the far end of the neighborhood, ducking behind a row of stacked crates to catch their breath. Steve doubled over, hands on his knees, while Lena slumped back against the wall, breathless with giggles. How was this the second time they ended up running from an angry shopkeeper? Would there be a third? 

“You,” she gasped, pointing at Steve. “You are the bum.”

Steve groaned dramatically. “I told you I’d make him eat his words…”

Bucky just shook his head, grinning despite himself. “Next time, maybe hit it a little softer, huh?”

Later, the three sat together bent over a piece of paper, dictating an apology note in Steve's messy scrawl. He definitely misspelled some words but they left the note with a dollar bill under a rock in front of Mr. Abernathy's shop.

August brought the most intense heat of the summer, which meant the three of them prioritized staying cool over causing trouble. Bucky nearly got his ears boxed after the incident with the baseball. 

It had been the hottest day so far, Steve had strict orders to stay inside and not run around agitating his asthma. The three spent the day playing board games, opening all the windows in his apartment, praying for a breeze. 

They even piled up on the fire escape for an afternoon snooze, desperate for some air. 

Finally the sun started dipping down the horizon when Bucky got the brilliant idea of having dinner up on the roof. Technically, he wasn't leaving the building therefore not disobeying Mrs. Rogers orders. 

“We'll each bring something!” Bucky said enthusiastically before taking off home to find something to contribute to their rooftop picnic.  

Lena thought back to her threadbare fridge, and took off after Bucky. 

She didn't make a habit of this but she had a natural knack after watching Bucky pocket an orange for the three of them to share. On principle, none of them liked to steal but some days, there wasn't enough food to go around. 

Lena turned the corner, watching with dark eyes as the street vendors started packing up for the evening. She eyed Mrs. Blum's push cart, there was still a good amount of knishes that she wouldn't miss. 

Plus she had swatted at Lena with a broom last week, telling her if she wasn't going to pay to shoo.

With a promise to pay her back in the future, Lena strolled by causally, as if her head was in the clouds. While Mrs. Blum packed away some fruit, Lena's little hand darted forward, snatching two fat knishes, surely enough for the three of them.

Resisting the urge to run off, Lena forced herself to circle the rest of the carts and then shrug, acting like she couldn't find what she was looking for. Once she was out of sight, she took off running. All their mischief this summer had taught her the fastest way to get home. 

She climbed up the stairs two at a time, out of breath by the time she got to the roof. Steve had dragged up a blanket, and a bowl with a few pieces of cold chicken. It looked like Bucky had just gotten back, half a loaf of bread under his arm and a jar of jam in his hand. 

“Knishes!” She cheered triumphantly as she crossed the roof to them. 

“I don't wanna know how you got those!” Steve said before Bucky could ask. 

“She hit me with a broom, Steve!” Lena huffed as she sank down onto the blanket, snug between the two boys. 

“Are we a bad influence on you, Lennie?” Bucky snorted a laugh, carefully cutting a piece of bread for each of them, spending a thick layer of jam. Steve passed each of them a plate where they took a portion of chicken, knishes and bread. 

They sat in a comfortable silence while they ate, communicating silently by making faces as they chewed. 

“Do you want to hear a scary story?” Lena suddenly asked, brushing her fingers off on her skirt. 

“Scary?” Bucky's eyebrows raised. 

“Mhm, it is story that my babcia used to tell me.” Lena shifted, knees to her chest, elbows rested on them, watching their faces closely. 

A look passed between Steve and Bucky before they nodded in sync. 

The dim street light flickered, and it felt like the air shifted and cooled. Silence washed over them, the light dancing over Lena's face. 

“Babcia used to say there was a reason you must always lock doors at night. Not because of thieves or robbers…but because of Licho.” She dropped her voice into a hushed whisper, eyes darting around as if to make sure no one was listening.

“Lee-ho?” Bucky repeated, confused. 

“Licho.” She confirmed with a slow nod. “It's like a monster but worse. You can't fight Licho.”

“Worse than a monster?” Steve swallowed thickly, wishing they were telling this story inside his brightly lit living room.

“Much.” Lena emphasized, eyes wide. “It's skinny like a skeleton, with its skin stretched tight over the bones!” She spoke low, stretching out words for emphasis. “It has hair hanging in its face like spiderwebs. But the worst part?” She paused.

Letting the moment sit, leaning in closer to both boys. 

“It only has one eye. Right here.” Lena reached out, using both hands to jab the middle of both boys' foreheads. “And if it looks at you? Even just once, bad luck sticks to you like glue. You can't wash off, can't run. It follows you, no matter where you go!” 

“What kind of bad luck?” Steve shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the spot on his forehead where Lena had poked him, where Licho's one eye was. 

“Oh, anything,” Lena warned. “You trip on the stairs, burn your hand cooking, your roof starts leaking, small things, at first. But the longer it stays, the worse it gets. Crops die. The cows get sick. People start losing their money, their homes… folks say whole villages have been ruined because someone let the Licho in.”

“What do you mean ‘let it in’?” Bucky asked, narrowing his eyes, fully disbelieving this monster. 

“You don’t have to invite it,” Lena said darkly. “Just… forget to lock your door, or leave your shoes turned the wrong way by the bed, or..”

“Wait, what?” Steve blurted. “Your shoes?”

Lena nodded gravely. “If you leave your shoes pointing toward the door, it thinks you’re inviting it to follow you.”

“That’s dumb,” Bucky said, even as his eyes shifted down to his own scuffed boots. 

“Laugh all you want,” Lena warned. “My babcia knew a woman who got followed by a Licho. She tried to shake it off — left her coat behind in the woods, hoping it would take it instead but the trick didn’t work. The Licho caught up to her and followed her home. After that…” Lena’s voice dropped to a whisper. “…her baby brother fell down a well. Then their father lost job. And one night, when the mother tried to chase Licho out with a broom…” Lena paused for dramatic effect.

“What?” Steve asked anxiously.

“…she tripped and broke her neck.”

The boys stared at her in stunned silence, until Bucky scoffed, shaking his head. 

“That’s stupid,” he said, but his voice wasn’t as sure as before. “It’s just some dumb story.”

“Maybe,” Lena said, shrugging. “But I always make sure my shoes aren’t pointing to the door. Just in case, I do not want Licho to get me.” She said it so seriously, making both boys eye each other in apprehension. "That's why I never take off my charm." Lena held up her wrist, dangling it around for added affect as her tiny blue Hand of Miriam charm she had bought for the three of them hung from it's string.

Steve licked his lips nervously. “Yeah, well… maybe I will too.”

“You’re both babies,” Bucky muttered, eyes darting around the now dark roof. They didn't linger much longer after that, Lena's story promptly spooking them.

Bucky decided to sleepover at Steve's, not because he was scared but because he could tell Steve was. And because he didn't want his ma to know he took the rest of the jam.

Lena kissed both boys' cheeks good night, before bounding up the stairs to her apartment, but not without noticing Bucky had rearranged his boots to face the wall instead.

Chapter Text

you'd make me fall from heaven 

RED HOOK, BROOKLYN NEW YORK - NOV 1930

Time began to move quickly after that. Lena had her routine. She had her Steve and Bucky. The puzzle pieces fit snug, slotted nicely together from one season to the next. She grew to know what to expect. 

And grow she did. 

Both Lena and Bucky shot up several inches once they hit their pre-teens. Steve tried to act like it didn't bother him, especially now that Lena wasn't smaller than him. They were both gangly whereas Bucky's shoulders filled in and rounded out. 

This was an important year for Lena, she was going to be thirteen. She had been planning her dream bat mitzvah for three years now, going from a grand fantasy to a more realistic, achievable celebration. She was going to be a woman, finally. 

Papa still called her a little mouse, despite the fact that she had single handedly been taking care of both of them for years now. She wouldn't be little anymore. 

This year would be different. 

It started off much the same, luckily her and Steve had most classes together again, so she could always count on him for homework help. At least when he was at school, that was. 

His sicknesses seemed to start off early this year, they were barely two weeks into the start of the school year when Steve had to spend a week home battling the flu. His attendance hadn't gotten much better after that, missing days at a time. 

Lena missed him fiercely on those days. 

Maybe it was the lack of Steve, but even Bucky didn't seem to be around as much. He had gotten a paper boy job to help out his family, waking up early to roll and deliver papers. So more times than not after a school day, he was wiped.

Even still, Lena suspected he just didn't want to hang out with a silly little girl without Steve, since he had taken to sitting with some older boys in his own grade at lunch. 

But he still walked with her to and from school diligently, no matter what. 

Lena didn't know what to make of it. 

The wind had a sharper bite than the previous days as Lena tugged her coat tightly around her. It was second hand, truthfully probably fourth or fifth hand at this point but it was the best papa could afford after her growth spurt. 

Steve was sick, again. Which left Lena and Bucky walking arm in arm on the sidewalk to school. Bucky walked closest to the road, per usual, and Lena's other arm felt empty without Steve. 

“Should have worn a hat,” Bucky grumbled, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets, tucking Lena's hand tighter against his side that sent a strange tingling feeling straight to her chest that Lena wasn't used to.

“You always say that. Бука.” Lena teased lightly. “And you never do.” 

“When will you tell me what that means?” He asked, side-eying her as they crossed the street. 

“Never.” Lena simply shrugged, a small smile tugging on her lips. 

She may have missed Steve, and Bucky might have made some new friends, but some things wouldn't change. 

Bucky only rolled his eyes at her, knocking his shoulder into hers as they fell into a comfortable silence for a beat. 

“You gonna take Steve his homework?” He asked after a moment, acknowledging his absence. His tone was too casual, like he had gotten used to pretending Steve's coughing fits and fevers were normal. 

Lena nodded. “Maybe we could make him some tea again, that usually picks up his spirits.” 

“Uh.” Bucky hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck guiltily. “I was actually going to meet up with Eddie and John after school. I just wanted to make sure Steve was getting his work.”

“Oh.” Lena's disappointment was almost as palpable as her confusion.

Bucky didn't mean to be distant. It was easier when Steve was around, he could pretend that they were still kids running around on the streets.

But over the last few weeks, since summer really, he had become burdened with the knowledge that Lena was a girl.

A pretty girl at that. 

For the last year, he had really begun to notice girls. First it had been Hazel in homeroom, with her pretty red hair. Then there Mary, who smiled shyly at him over lunch trays. 

He didn't remember the day he started noticing Lennie, but the moment.

They had just left the movies, Steve had paid for his ticket and had yet to sneak around to let them in the side door. Something about the situation was so overwhelmingly funny to Lennie, she kept having to clamp her hand over her mouth to keep from giggling maniacally. At one point, she had leaned into him, burying her face against his shoulder. 

Her warm eyes danced with mirth, her dark curls frizzy from the summer humidity. She was all pointy elbows, and sharp bones when she hugged him but Bucky felt the earth shift all the same. Like something important finally clicked into place and he couldn't stop noticing her now. 

Of course, after the crushing blow of realizing he was in love with his best friend (which may have been a bit dramatic but Ma kept saying how he was just a simmering pot of hormones lately, whatever that meant), Steve would be the sickest he's been in ages. 

Which meant hanging out with Lennie one on one, eating lunch together, walking to and from school with her slender hand tucked against his ribs. 

It was a little too much to deal with, with said fresh teenage hormones. Especially when he couldn't even talk to Steve about it. It was easy to talk about other girls with Steve, about Hazel, Mary or Lucy. Steve had also started to notice girls, but he had been much more shy about it. 

But he couldn't talk to him about Lennie. Lennie who was their friend, who slotted in so seamlessly with them, even when they couldn't speak the same language. Lennie who Steve referred to as his sister on more than one occasion. 

It was too weird. 

Of course he felt guilty skipping out on hanging out with her, especially for Eddie and John who weren't even particularly fun. But he didn't know if he could handle being holed up in her apartment alone, even if it meant that they'd spend the evening with Steve. 

“I'll still walk you home and everything.” Bucky filled the silence, shifting his weight as they climbed up the stairs to the entrance of the school. 

“No, it's okay. I'll be fine. Go with your friends.” Lena smoothly pulled her arm from his, her voice steely as she moved away from him. 

“Lennie! Wait!” Bucky called out but they were quickly separated as the bell rang and a flood of students rushed between them.

Shit.

The day didn't get much better after that. Lena could barely concentrate in any of her classes which earned her a ruler to the knuckle more than once. 

There was no Steve in her English class to help take her mind off of their harpy teacher, who seemingly hated her. She constantly called on Lena to read aloud, and corrected her pronunciation of certain words, citing her “undesirable” accent. 

It didn't bother her usually because Steve usually had some very unflattering drawings of Mrs. Fritz to share with her but no Steve.

Apparently no Bucky. 

Her knuckles were red and painful by the end of class, and Simon Williams had thought it'd be funny to trip her on her way to lunch, mocking her accent as he passed her. 

What she wouldn't give to join Steve in kicking his butt. 

With tears in her eyes, Lena gathered up her fallen books and lunch pail. 

And was crestfallen when she saw their usual table empty. Watery eyes darted around the lunch room, seeing Bucky seated with Eddie and a girl named Victoria from his grade. Bucky didn't look exactly happy but he was laughing at something the girl said, not even noticing Lena as she sat at their table. She tried to ignore the burning sensation in her chest as she watched him laugh with her.

She could go sit with Tommy or Elizabeth but she didn't feel like very good company right now and quietly unpacked her meager lunch.

Lena was only a few bites into her sandwich when she heard Simon's nasally voice behind her. 

“Your bodyguards on vacation?” He sneered at her as he approached. Lena gave him a hard look, contemplating ignoring him entirely. 

But then she thought about Steve and what he would say. 

So she rolled her eyes instead. 

“Shut up Simon.” She swallowed her food and narrowed her eyes. “You talk big for someone with nothing between your ears, go bother someone else.”

Simon sputtered, looking around aghast that a girl would dare speak to him that way. 

“What did you just say to me, kike?”

Lena drew in a sharp breath and pushed herself up out of her seat with a speed that would have impressed the quick to brawl Steve Rogers. Her fingers curled into fists, her nails biting into her palms.

But before she could take the opportunity to hit him, another fist went flying first, colliding with Simon's weak chin. Lena watched as Simon crumpled to the ground, pulling a few chairs down with him.

“Bucky!” 

“Don't ever let me hear you talk to my friend that way again, or I'll be kicking your sorry ass all the way back to your Ma.” Bucky ignored her exclamation to lean over Simon who trembled on the ground, clutching his face. “Say sorry!” 

“Sorry!” Simon yelled as he scrambled up to his feet.

This would normally be the part if they were anywhere but school that they'd reach for each other's hands and take off, laughing as they avoided trouble yet again but the teachers supervising lunch were already descending on Bucky as the lunch room broke out in disbelief chatter. 

“You're going to get in trouble!” Lena cried, their earlier fight forgotten as she threw her arms around his neck in a hug. 

“It will be worth it then, he shouldn't have said that to you.” Bucky said in an embarrassed mumble but hugged her back all the time. 

“Mr. Barnes! Principal's office, now.” Mr. Hartmans's voice cut through them, making Lena pull back hesitantly. Bucky knew what that look on her face meant and he couldn't help herself, a smirk ticking up his lips. She was going to try to cover for him, like always.

“Don't Lena. It's fine. I'll meet you after class!” He called as the teacher grabbed a hold of his ear and dragged him off. 

The rest of the day went by in a blur, Lena thinking about the possible trouble Bucky got himself in for her sake. Which meant she ended the school day with a few more raps to her knuckles for not paying attention. 

As the last bell rang, she hitched her school bag up on her shoulder and tore out of the building. Oh her way out, she saw Simon with a nice big bruise blossoming on his cheek. 

Good.

Sure enough once she pushed through the front doors, Bucky was waiting against the fence of the school yard. She had to take a minute to catch her breath at the sight of him. He had slicked his hair back between lunch and now, casually leaning against the fence, hands in his pockets. 

She wasn't sure where the erratic beat of her heart came from but Lena shoved it down and ran over to meet him. 

“Oh Buck, did you get in a lot of trouble?” Despite her hammering heart, she hugged him tight anyways. The weirdness from earlier was gone, Bucky had thrown a punch and made a boy apologize to her. She couldn't stay frosty after that. 

“It's not a big deal, Len.” He reassured her, hugging her back. Too quickly he let his arms fall from her, but offered her his arm for their walk all the same. Bucky against the traffic and Lena tucked away from it. 

“Don't lie to me,” she cautioned, before stomping on his foot to prove her point. 

“Alright, alright.” He laughed and Lena could feel her heart doing that weird thing again. “I'm suspended for the rest of the week,” he started before shooting Lena down with a look as she opened her mouth to talk over him.

“It's fine though, I'll be able to help my mom with some patchwork.” Mrs. Barnes was a very talented seamstress and Bucky could sew better than any girl in her grade. “And I'll be to do some stuff around the building, get some cash for when Steve is feeling better.”

Her guilt soothed a little at that, Mrs. Barnes would be angry but she could definitely use the help.

“Between you and Steve, I'm going to be walking alone.” Lena grumbled, more to herself than to Bucky.

“Nah, I'll still walk ya.” Bucky said easily, glancing over at her with a smile that sent her blood rushing again. “Steve will be on his feet before long, especially if we make him your special remedy.”

“Oh,” Lena frowned slightly, wondering if she was having some kind of medical event that she should call the doctors for. “I thought you were hanging out with Eddie and John?”

“No, they are dumb. I'd rather hang out with you.” He said with such ease, Lena was sure she needed to talk to a doctor about her new ability to hear her heartbeat in her ears. 

Did he notice the effect he was having?

“Not like I'd knock out a kid for either one of them.” Bucky continued, knocking his shoulder into hers as they climbed the stairs to her apartment. 

“I could have done that myself, you know.” Lena managed to choke out, unlocking the door and letting them in. She went through the motions, kicking off her shoes, storing her bag, taking her lunch pail to the kitchen, Bucky close on her heels. 

“Oh, I know you coulda, sweetheart, but it seemed like the right thing to do.” 

Lena was reaching for the teapot, her hands stilling as the pet name slid right out of his mouth. 

For his nerve, Bucky at least had the decency to be beet red after he said it. 

“Can you get me the honey, Buck?” She asked after a moment, leaving herself to wonder. 

Is this what it felt like to have a crush on a boy? 

Chapter Text

but i know just what I do

RED HOOK, BROOKLYN NEW YORK - APRIL 1931

Winter hadn't left Brooklyn quietly, still clinging on as the days moved to March. There was snow on the ground when they celebrated Bucky's fourteenth birthday. Luckily as the daylight stretched out, winter slowly moved to spring. The air still had a bite in the mornings but the afternoons were finally warm again. 

Spring brought Lena her thirteenth birthday. Something she was equally as terrified and excited for. Her synagogue would host one of the first bat mitzvah for their community, hers. 

Bat mitzvahs had only recently begun to be recognized and celebrated and Lena was so excited and proud that she'd be one of the firsts. Luckily for her (and her father) that meant, the synagogue rented out their basement as a party space for free with many of her neighbors coming forward to celebrate her womanhood by making food.

Otherwise there wouldn't have been much of a celebration between more important things like bills and groceries. 

She had even been allowed to invite her friends and family outside the synagogue which meant Steve and Mrs. Rogers would be attending. Along with the entire Barnes family. 

Lena's heart jumped at the thought of Bucky being there.

As winter passed, so had the quiet certainty Lena had in her friendship with Bucky Barnes. 

Not that they weren't still them, still best friends but something, somewhere had shifted. They still walked to school together every morning, arm in arm. Still sat huddled together on the stairs of her building waiting for Steve when it was cold out. And still bickered like alley cats when they didn't agree on something. 

They were still them, in every sense but now there was an added layer.

Sometimes she'd catch Bucky looking at her for too long when he thought she wouldn't notice. Or the way she'd turn into a beet when he brushed against her and she wasn't expecting it. Words would catch in her throat, when she'd normally have plenty. And Bucky, Bucky who always had something slick to say, would end up stumbling over his own jokes, almost like he was thinking too much about them. 

And of course, Steve picked up on it almost immediately with his annoying innate ability to understand his best friends on a deep intimate level.

He hadn't said anything outright, least not to Lena. She shuddered to think if Steve ever cornered Bucky about her, the times that she wasn't able to meet up with them. It was bad enough that Steve always seemed to catch her lingering stares, or the times neither of them could quite meet each other's eyes. He'd get that stupid little smirk on his face, the one that said he thought he knew something that they didn't. 

It was infuriating. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” Lena remembered snapping at him just yesterday, after they had walked Bucky back to his building and were headed back to their own. 

It had been Lena and Bucky’s most awkward goodbye yet, each tumbling over their words before hugging each other good night. 

“I’m not lookin’ at you like anything,” Steve had replied, all innocent-like, with that dumb smirk on his face. 

Which was a lie, because Steve had exactly three looks, one for when he was about to start a fight, one for when he was about to lose a fight, and the one he gave her now, the one that meant you’re not fooling me. 

“Shouldn't you be nicer to me, I'm already nervous about tomorrow and you're picking on me for no good reason” she had grumbled, giving him a sharp glare.

He had just grinned. “I’ll stop when you and Bucky stop being weird.”

Lena had stomped away before she could dignify that with a response.

Now she stood in front of the dingy mirror at the synagogue, trying not to melt into a puddle of nerves. She had agonized over practicing her Torah readings, not wanting to stumble or trip over her words. She practiced until her mouth was sore from repeating them over and over. She drove Bucky and Steve insane, muttering recited words under her breath all the time.

Her father had bent over backwards to make this a celebration for her, he traded shifts, worked extra just to be able to afford to be off today. He used his extra money towards a new (to her) dress that Mrs. Barnes had altered perfectly to suit her. 

It was a beautiful pale blue, and although the original collar had been mangled, Mrs. Barnes was able to salvage it, cutting away at the old ripped fabric and replacing it with a soft cream lace. The bell end sleeves stopped short of her wrists, and the newly added lace trim extended the dress down to her knobbly knees. 

Her mother's Star of David laid perfectly against the blue material on her chest, Steve had taken a rag to it to make sure it was extra shiny for the occasion. 

All that was left was her mess of hair, which Lena managed to slick back with some water, tying it back nearly with a dark blue ribbon. She didn't wear the ribbon Bucky gave her on that first Christmas she spent with them, very often, afraid of losing it or it being torn. But she couldn't imagine a better moment than now to wear it. 

Her hands shook as she smoothed them down the front of her dress one last time. She could hear the chatter from the front room, neighbors, friends and her family all gathered to celebrate her. Lena could have sworn she heard the distinct shriek of Alice Barnes, which warmed her heart and made her hands shake even more. 

Lena took a deep breath, willing her nerves to settle as she turned away from the mirror. The muffled chatter from the front of the synagogue grew louder as the door creaked open. Her father stood in the doorway, dressed in his best shirt and freshly shaven, a tired but proud smile on his face.  

"Ready, mamaleh?" he asked gently in his mother tongue, Russian, a comforting balm like no one else could .  

Lena wasn’t sure if she was, but she nodded anyway, straightening her shoulders.  

Mikhail stepped forward, adjusting the Star of David pendant on her dress with careful fingers. "Your mother would be so proud," he murmured, switching back to Polish, the sounds of home, her mother's home. His voice was steady, but Lena caught the emotion flickering in his eyes before he cleared his throat. "Come, everyone is waiting."  

She followed him down the narrow hallway, her heart hammering against her ribs. As they entered the main room, all the sounds and movement, the rustling of coats, the shifting of chairs, the excited murmurs—blurred together. The synagogue was modest, the walls lined with well-worn benches, and the air carried the faint scent of candle wax and old books. The front of the room, where she would stand, suddenly felt impossibly far away.  

Mrs. Rogers sat beside Mrs. Barnes, both of them beaming at her, in a way only mothers could. Rebecca, Alice and Ruth were whispering animatedly, barely containing their excitement, fidgeting in their seats. Steve caught her gaze, giving her a small, reassuring nod. Then there was Bucky, sitting between Steve and his father. He wasn’t grinning like he usually did—no teasing smirk, no lighthearted joke to put her at ease. Instead, he just looked at her, eyes soft, expression unreadable.  

Lena quickly tore her gaze away before she lost her nerve.  

She took slow, careful steps toward the bimah, her palms damp. The rabbi greeted her with an encouraging smile as she took her place. A hush fell over the room, the weight of expectation settling around her.  

She swallowed hard.  

Then, she began.  

The first note of her voice was quiet, almost hesitant, like a bird testing its wings before flight. But as the syllables took shape, something in her steadied. The Hebrew felt thick on her tongue at first, the weight of it pressing against her ribs, but then—then—it came alive. It was just another language to conquer. 

Her voice was richer than she expected, not just strong, but resonant. The sound filled every corner of the synagogue, wrapping around the room like something tangible, something felt. It wasn’t just heard—it pressed into the air, into the people who sat before her, into their chests, their bones.

She didn’t just recite. She sang.

Not in the way she did when she hummed in the quiet moments of the day, not in the way she sang to herself when no one was listening. This was something else. A vibration in the air, a current in the space between breath and silence. It carried weight, warmth, something almost sacred.

And people felt it.

She saw the change in them. Her father, already dabbing at his eyes, Mrs. Barnes pressing a hand to her chest, Steve with his mouth slightly open like he had never heard her voice before. Even the rabbi, who had undoubtedly heard countless voices rise in prayer before hers, seemed momentarily struck still.

And Bucky—

Bucky, who always had a quip ready, who could crack a joke even in the most serious of moments—sat frozen, his lips slightly parted, eyes locked on her like he was witnessing something he didn’t quite understand.

When she reached the final verse, the last note lingered, stretching into the quiet like the echo of something more. And for the first time in her life, Lena felt the power in her own voice.

She had done it. 

As Lena’s voice faded into silence, the room remained still for a beat, as if no one wanted to disturb the lingering resonance of her final note. Then, all at once, the moment shattered—her father was the first to clap, his hands coming together in an unsteady but fierce rhythm, and the rest of the congregation followed. The small synagogue filled with warm applause, murmured blessings, and the soft rustle of people rising to their feet.  

The rabbi, his expression kind and knowing, placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Yasher koach, Yelena,” he said, a blessing of strength and congratulations. “You have honored your people and your family today.”  

Lena let out a breath, her cheeks burning as she ducked her head, the nerves she had carried all morning melting away into something lighter—something that felt a little like pride.  

Then came the part she had been waiting for, the part that felt both thrilling and terrifying: standing before her community as she was officially welcomed into Jewish adulthood.  

The rabbi led her in reciting the bracha, the blessing marking her new responsibilities under Jewish law. Her father, still dabbing at his eyes, was then called up to say the Baruch She’petarani, a prayer traditionally recited by parents to acknowledge that their child was now responsible for their own faith and actions. His voice wavered slightly, but there was strength in every word.  

The rest of the ceremony went by in a blur, Lena was vaguely aware of having to speak again, a short speech about what she had learned from the Torah, and how she would carry it with her going forward. It was short and simple, thankfully, Lena was anxious to get to her friends, and food.

Then, at last, the final part of the ceremony—the blessings from the rabbi, the congratulations from the community, and the long-awaited showering of candy.  

Lena barely had time to brace herself before small wrapped sweets rained down on her, tossed joyfully by the children of the congregation, meant to symbolize the sweetness of Torah and the joy of this new chapter of her life. She laughed as a caramel hit her square on the forehead, rubbing the spot as Becca cackled in victory.  

And with that, it was done.  

She was no longer just Lena, the girl who had come from Warsaw, the girl who walked to school arm in arm with Bucky Barnes and worried over Steve Rogers like a mother hen. She was Yelena Faiga Rabinovich, bat mitzvah, a daughter of the commandments, stepping forward into the next part of her life.  

She led the way down to the basement, where the celebration would actually continue. Someone had set up a record player, and several ladies from the synagogue had modestly decorated the space. There was a table of just food, several loaves of challah, kugel, and pickled herring, with a lovely cake at the center. 

Lena wasted no time, being the first to cut into the challah, and shoving it into her mouth to avoid having to make small talk with the rabbi and his wife. The challah was sweet on her tongue, perfectly buttery and fluffy as she danced around her father, making a beeline for Steve and Bucky. 

She was intercepted by Ruthie who insisted on Lena swinging her around to one of the lively klezmer instrumentals playing on the phonograph. 

Still laughing, she was able to pass Ruth off to a dancing neighbor and finally made her way to Steve and Bucky. 

“Hi,” she said breathlessly, eyes dancing with mirth. 

“You did great Lena!” Steve exclaimed, his skinny arms around her the moment she came to a stop in front of them. 

“Never heard anything like it Lennie,” Bucky's warm voice filled her ears as he joined in on the hug. 

Tears sprung to her eyes as she was enveloped by her closest friends. The two boys who welcomed her fresh off the boat, fresh in her grief, pulled her into their little world, and now they embraced her as she took her first steps into womanhood. 

She loved them both so much.

“Seriously Lena, you were incredible. I had no idea you could sound like that! I didn't even know what you were saying but I felt it.” Steve rattled on, as they untangled their arms from each other. 

“I guess practicing really paid off.” She sniffed, swiping at her eyes. 

“Glad you didn't listen to us complaining about it then.” Bucky teased lightly, as someone switched over the record. 

“You guys better get some kugel before it gets eaten up, I think your mom is on her second plate, Steve.” Lena couldn't help but flush at Bucky’s direct attention. 

“Not before we get a dance first!” Steve said enthusiastically as a Louie Armstrong song filled the air. 

He grabbed her hand and pulled her to the small circle of the room where a few people had been swaying. Her other hand latched onto Bucky's, tugging him along. Steve spun her into a clumsy but spirited dance, he wasn't much of a dancer but he certainly made up for it with enthusiasm. 

His movements were sharp and uncoordinated, making both her and Bucky double over with laughter. But Steve grabbed both of their hands and pulled them into his dance, his smile so bright they couldn't deny him. 

Steve gripped her wrist and moved her into a twirl, nearly sending both of them tripping over his feet.

“You're supposed to lead, punk!” Bucky called out over the music, expertly dodging Alice who tried to grab onto him.

“I am, jerk!” Steve huffed, his grin never faltering even when he tried to dip her, and nearly toppled on top of her. 

“Alright, alright, let's give the lady a proper dance,” Bucky cut in, grabbing Steve by the shoulder so they didn't crash onto the floor. 

“Mhmm,” Steve shot that annoying knowing look at them but backed up, easily melting in everyone else, no doubt making his way to the food table. 

Breathless from laughing and dancing, Lena found herself struggling to catch her breath still as Bucky's hands settled on her waist. 

It felt very different than all the other times they danced together, mostly because Steve was usually there between them.

He guided her through the steps with ease, his touch warm and steady.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see you nervous,” Bucky teased, tilting his head to catch her gaze.

“I’m not nervous,” Lena lied, swallowing thickly.

His smile turned knowing, a little lopsided. “Sure, Lennie.”

They swayed together as someone switched the record again, a slow song replacing the high energy jazz. The laughter and chatter of the guests faded into the background, all while Lena hoped Bucky couldn't feel the thump of her heartbeat. 

Bucky tightened his grip ever so slightly, just enough that only the two of them would notice, her dress wrinkled under his hands. For the moment, it felt like no one else existed.

He wondered if she could sense his pulse racing. 

The song ended and they quickly sprung away from each other, like they couldn't handle being in each other's arms anymore.

“Come with me,” Bucky muttered, his hand reaching out for hers. And as every other time, she took it without a second thought. 

They weaved through the crowd, over into the quiet coat corner where Bucky dug around until he found his. 

“It isn't much,” he mumbled as he pulled the poorly wrapped package from his coat pocket and thrusting it towards her. “But it's for you.”

She blinked at him, hesitating before tearing into the brown wrapping paper. Inside was a well-worn book, the spine cracked, the pages slightly yellowed with time. Great Expectations.

“I, uh, know you like reading.” Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, acting like he also didn't devour books at a time. “Figured you might like this one. I read it first, hope you don't mind.”

Lena swallowed hard. It wasn't just the book, it was that he picked it out for her. That he read it too, so they could enjoy it together. 

“Oh, Bucky, thank you,” she fumbled over her words, her fingers tracing over the cover before looking up at him. “I lo-”

Before she could finish, he leaned in, quick and awkward, pressing a kiss to her cheek. It was clumsy, barely there but it lingered. A stinging sensation left behind in his wake.

Bucky pulled back just as fast, his face almost as red as hers.

“Happy birthday, Lennie,” he mumbled, before practically bolting away, acting as if someone had called his name.

Lena stood frozen, clutching the book to her chest, the warmth of his lips still lingering on her skin.

Steve, who had been watching from the sidelines, seemingly materialized at her side, smirked knowingly.

“Not a word, Rogers,” Lena muttered, but she couldn’t stop the smile creeping onto her face. “Not a word!” 

Chapter Text

“angel,” he calls me

CONEY ISLAND, BROOKLYN NEW YORK - SUMMER 1931

The heat of June clung to everything, thick and heavy. Sitting inside was out of the question, collectively they all lived on the third floor or higher and the heat only seemed to get worse the higher they went. And there wasn't a fan between them. The fire hydrant on their block was under the watchful eye of Mrs. Jordan to make sure no one cracked it open. 

Their next resort was Coney Island. 

They had all been before, never on their own, usually Mrs. Barnes ushered all the kids down to the beach, with Lena keeping a wide berth of the ocean. Ever since they crossed the ocean coming from Poland, Lena had a healthy fear of it. 

They played games, walked the boardwalk but Lena could barely stand sitting in the sand next to the water.

Today would change that. 

Steve and Bucky pleaded, begged, all but got on their hands and knees for her to go to the beach with them, just once. Promised it wouldn't be anything like being on a boat. They could sneak onto BMT trains, save their money for ice pops, wait for the beach to clear out for a bit and cool off in the water.

That's how Lena found herself adjusting her bathing suit strap under her dress as they navigated through the crowd, a mad dash over the turnstile and into a crowded car.

The subway car lurched forward just as Bucky yanked Lena inside, sending her stumbling into Steve. Someone behind them swore loudly as the doors clattered shut, and Lena barely had time to steady herself before Bucky grabbed her wrist and pulled her further into the packed car.

"I hate this. I hate both of you." Lena hissed under her breath, tugging her dress back down over her knees. 

"Would you relax? We didn’t even have to run that fast." Bucky smirked, adjusting his cap like he hadn’t just nearly killed them trying to jump the turnstile.

"Not fast?" Steve wheezed, still catching his breath. He was leaning against a metal pole, looking like he might just pass out. "I thought I was gonna die back there."

Bucky clapped a hand on Steve’s shoulder, grinning. "But you didn’t, buddy. That’s what matters.” He paused. “Just think of good it's going to feel, diving into the ocean, punk.”

Steve just stared at him, deadpan. “If I live that long.”

Lena narrowed her eyes at both of them, squishing herself against the wall to avoid touching anyone. It was hot enough in the car without sharing body heat. The train was warm and sticky, full of families (who probably paid) headed to the beach, kids fidgeting in their seats, and women fanning themselves with newspapers. Somewhere toward the front, a man was loudly advertising ice-cold Coca-Colas, though Lena had no idea how cold they could really be in this heat.

She shifted, feeling the swimsuit under her dress bunch up uncomfortably. The closer they got to the ocean, the harder her stomach twisted. Thinking of the powerful waves that rocked their boat, day and night. It was hard enough hurtling through the ocean on a rickety boat, but going out in it on her own?

That was something for crazy people, she was sure.

"You're gonna love it, Lennie," Bucky said beside her, reading her nerves before she even said a word. His voice was quieter now, like it was meant just for her. “Don't stress.”

She scoffed, glancing sideways at him. "You don’t know that."

"I do." He nudged her arm lightly, a quick, casual thing. Too casual. "You trust me, don’tcha?"

And that was the worst part. She did.

Steve, watching them from where he stood gripping the subway pole, let out a long, suffering sigh and tipped his head back against the wall.

"I should’ve stayed home.” He thought to himself, watching as Lena's face went as red as a tomato. It was clearly painful for both of them to be around each other but clearly neither of them thought about the effect it was having on him.

Watching his two stubborn best friends dance around each other was equal parts hilarious and painful. Bucky didn't have any issues acting sweet on other girls. Just last week when Lena had to stay at home to finish laundry and shopping, they had struck out to the movies and Bucky had no shortage of flirtatious things to say to the girls waiting in line. 

It was very unlike the bumbling Bucky he turned into around Lena.

Steve had never seen Lena flirt or be sweet on anyone else, but he had seen her talk to other boys without so much of a hint of a blush or a second look to spare them.

Either way, Steve knew he was in for it today and it was his own doing.

The subway screeched into the station, and the packed car jolted forward as the doors rattled open. The rush of salty air hit them immediately, thick with the scent of frying dough, roasting peanuts, and something vaguely fishy.

Lena was the first out, eager to escape the heat of the subway, but she barely made it a few steps before Bucky grabbed the back of her dress, yanking her to a stop.

"Not so fast," he teased, grinning as he let go. "You're gonna get lost in the crowd."

She huffed, swatting his hand away, glaring at him but the hints of a smile still on her lips. 

“Of course, I simply can't navigate without you.” She rolled her eyes but did stop, letting Bucky and Steve slip into their respective spots, Bucky on her left and Steve on her right. As always, her arm slipped into theirs, hand hooking around their elbows.

Lena was too busy playfully shoving and bumping into Bucky to notice Steve's exasperated look. 

The street leading up to the boardwalk was packed. Kids ran barefoot across the pavement, parents corralled them with half-hearted warnings, and vendors shouted over one another, promising the best hot dogs in Brooklyn. The faint sound of carnival music and crashing waves blended together in the distance.

They weaved through the crowd, sticking close together so they didn’t lose each other in the chaos. Lena tried to focus on anything other than the smell of the ocean growing stronger, but her stomach twisted the closer they got.

Bucky, of course, noticed.

"You're good, Lennie," he murmured, slowing his steps to duck his head closer to hers. "Promise I won’t let you drown."

Lena shot him a glare, and Steve for his long suffering, rolled his eyes pointedly. 

Bucky ignored him.

"Come on, let's play somethin' first," he said, nudging Lena toward the game booths lining the boardwalk. "Make sure we got somethin' to bring home before we all get wiped out by the tide."

Lena hesitated, but anything was better than heading straight for the water. Maybe it would take her mind off of it. 

"Alright," she agreed. "What are you playing?"

Bucky smirked like he already had a plan.

"You'll see.”

The game was a classic—ring toss. Bucky tossed a coin to the booth operator, cracking his knuckles like he was about to throw a winning pitch for the Dodgers instead of throwing small plastic rings onto bottles.

Lena crossed her arms, unimpressed. 

"You can’t win these things," Steve muttered, watching as Bucky lined up his shot. “They are rigged.”

"Watch me," Bucky shot back, flicking a ring toward the bottles.

It bounced. And missed.

"That one was rigged," Bucky muttered, grabbing another, just Steve gleefully said “I told ya.”

Miss.

"Maybe you should try a different game," Lena suggested, biting back a smirk, even though it was in fact taking her mind off of her promise to swim later.

"Nah, I got it."

Another miss.

Steve sighed, glancing over at Lena like why do we put up with this?

Bucky squared his shoulders, determined, but before he could throw again, a voice called out—

"Rabinovich! That you?”

Lena turned, eyes widening slightly. "Tommy?" She usually only ever saw Tommy in class, sometimes at lunch when they ate together but rarely did she see him over the summer break.

A tall, lanky boy in a slightly wrinkled button-down grinned at her, holding up a massive stuffed bear. "Didn’t think I’d see you here! You wanna hold onto this for me?"

He barely finished the sentence before pushing the bear into her arms.

Bucky stiffened.

Steve, already sensing where this was going, exhaled sharply through his nose and muttered to himself, "This is gonna be a long day."

Lena blinked down at the stuffed bear in her arms. "You won this?”

"Of course," Tommy said with a cocky grin, shooting a look toward Bucky’s game stall. "Some of us have good aim."

Bucky bristled.

Lena laughed, completely oblivious to the way Bucky’s jaw clenched. "Well, thanks, Tommy, but you should keep it—"

"Nah, I already got my prize." He winked, hands in his pockets. "See you around, Lena."

And with that, he strolled off, leaving Lena standing there with a stuffed bear half her size.

Steve looked between her and Bucky, waiting for the inevitable reaction.

Bucky, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, went still for half a second, fingers curling slightly at his sides before he exhaled sharply. Then, without a word, he turned back to his game and chucked his last ring as hard as he could.

It bounced off three bottles before rolling into the sand.

He muttered a curse under his breath. Cursing that damn Tommy and his stupid bear. He barely even knew Lena, and he was being awfully bold, strolling up to her and shoving some stupid bear at her. 

If he had won, he wouldn't have picked the cumbersome big bear to carry around. No, he would have picked the stuffed dog with floppy ears. Because Bucky knew that Lennie's favorite animal was a dog. 

Lena, still holding the bear loosely, glanced at Bucky. He wasn’t grinning anymore, his shoulders a little tenser than before. She frowned. "You’re not mad you lost, are you?”

"Not at all," Bucky bit out.

Steve sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. He had half a mind to just tell Lena what was going on, but at this point, watching her miss every single sign Bucky threw her way was almost impressive. Yeah, today is gonna kill me. And they won’t even notice I’m gone.

After deciding another round of ring toss wasn't worth the coin, the trio drifted back to the boardwalk, the smell of fries and hot dogs leading them. 

“This stupid thing,” Lena cursed, struggling to maneuver through the crowd while also carrying a bear half her size, nearly knocking Steve over in the process. 

“You're hopeless,” Bucky grumbled, easily plucking the stuffed animal from her arms and slinging it over his shoulder. “Imagine explaining to Steve’s Ma that you flattened him with a stuffed bear.”

"If we ever make it home," Steve deadpanned, adjusting his hat, "it’ll be because you spent all our money on games and hot dogs.”

“I would never do that to you Steve,” Lena cut in sweetly, looping an arm around his neck and fluffing his hair affectionately.

Before Bucky could shove the bear back into her arms, she suddenly gasped and pointed ahead.

“Oh, that one! Can we ride?”

“The Scrambler? Absolutely not.” Steve recoiled immediately, looking at the ride with distaste. The first time he rode that, he ended up with his own puke in his shoes.

Lena turned back to him, her brown eyes wide and hopeful.

“I'd rather die.” He said flatly, not swayed in the slightest by her puppy eyes.

“Aw, c'mon Steve, it couldn't be any worse than last time.” Bucky grinned, referencing the exact memory he knew Steve was thinking about. 

“I'd like to keep my lunch down, thanks.” 

“Suit yourself!” Lena chirped, before grabbing Bucky by the hand and tugging. He was smart enough to unload the giant bear in Steve's unsuspecting arms, laughing as Lena barreled through to the ride. 

Bucky wasn’t particularly fond of The Scrambler, but the second her fingers curled around his, well… he wasn’t pulling away. 

Luckily the line is short and they squeeze into a metal car together, squished in tightly next to each other, shoulders pressed together. 

“Steve!” Lena called out, waving wildly while Bucky locked the lap bar.

Steve, barely visible behind the ridiculous bear, gave her a halfhearted wave back.

Then the ride jerked forward.

Lena slammed into the lap bar with a thunk.

“Oh,” she groaned. “I’ve made a mistake.”

Bucky lost it.

His laughter boomed over the rush of wind, drowning out Lena’s yelp as she desperately braced against the bar to keep from slamming into his side.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” she gasped, gripping the metal bar for dear life as the momentum managed to violently press her against Bucky's side again, making him laugh even harder, the little shit going as far to raise his hands over his head. 

“Live a little, Lennie!” Bucky shouted back, bracing as Lena's skinny frame was mashed against his. It's not exactly the best way to get close to a girl, but he found himself not minding too much. 

“I hate you!” She declared, the tiniest of smiles on her face, before pressing her face tightly against his shoulder to keep her head from getting whipped around as they were thrown around the corner.. 

Bucky just grinned, unbothered. "Nah, you love me!"

Another violent turn sent Lena colliding straight into him.

Before he could stop himself, his arm automatically came around her shoulders, steadying her.

For a split second, the chaos of the ride faded.

Lena stilled.

Bucky’s fingers flexed against her arm—like he had just realized what he’d done.

Then the ride lurched again, and Lena screwed her eyes shut, letting out a sharp scream that sent them both into hysterics.

Steve, watching from the safety of solid ground, let out a slow, pained sigh.

He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he knew. He knew.

He should’ve faked an illness. Or just left.

Because whatever the hell was happening between his best friends was going to kill him.

They killed a few more hours, loitering on the boardwalk, sharing lemonade and ice pops. The giant bear Tommy had gifted Lena was abandoned somewhere along the way.

They were having such a good time that Lena almost forgot about her promise to get into the ocean.

As evening crept in, families began packing up, but the sun was still hot, casting long shadows across the sand. The beach was quieter now, the crowds thinning as Bucky and Steve each took hold of one of Lena’s arms, dragging her toward the water.

“It’s not that bad, Lennie!”  

“We won’t let you get swept away!”  

“You promised!”  

“How are you so strong?!”  

The boys' voices carried over the waves as they coaxed, prodded, and half-dragged Lena closer to the water. After a few moments, Bucky locked eyes with Steve over her head, communicating silently.  

They both knew Lena was scared of the ocean, but they also knew she had no real reason to be. The water was warm, the waves calm, and if she just let go, she’d enjoy herself. Unfortunately, Lena had unmatched stubbornness, and so, a contingency plan had to be put in motion.  

Steve wasn’t particularly proud of deceiving his friend this way, but after having to endure whatever the hell was going on with her and Bucky all day, he didn't feel too terrible about it.

“Wait, stop that!” Lena cried out, digging her heels into the sand to stop them from pulling her along. “Stop doing that thing where you talk without talking!”  

Bucky shot a look to Steve, who gave a subtle nod. With that, Steve released Lena’s arm.  

“James!” Lena screeched as Bucky dropped her arm in favor of wrapping his arms around her waist, lifting her off the ground.  

“James Barnes, I’m gonna tell your mama!” Lena shouted, half-laughing, as she beat her fist against his shoulder. Her legs flailed in the wind.  

“Go ahead!” Bucky shouted back, running toward the water with her in tow, Steve laughing behind them.  

“I’m gonna tell yours, too, Steve!” she yelled, pointing an accusatory finger at him as he ran after them.  

“Wait, no, no! I lied! I don’t want to do this!” Lena screamed as the water splashed over her legs, her arms tightening around Bucky's neck. She cursed under her breath in a string of different languages.  

Bucky was genuinely enjoying himself now. “Sorry, Lennie!” he cackled, moving further into the ocean. Their original plan had been for him to just throw her into the water, but now that her arms were tightly wrapped around him, he wasn’t sure he could. Or if he wanted to.  

Instead, he settled for dunking them both into a lazy rolling wave, submerging them in the cool, salty water.  

They both came up for air, gasping, hair plastered to their foreheads. 

“I'm going to kill you, and Steve.” Lena's voice cracked as she sputtered out salt water. Another wave came rolling in, and Bucky couldn't help the grin when she tightened her arms around him again, bracing herself. 

“Who will keep you from getting swept out to sea then?” He teased, planting his feet in the sand to keep them from rolling out with the water. 

He could hear Steve splashing behind them, his short legs clumsily cutting through the water to catch up to them. Perhaps it was Steve's approach, but Bucky was suddenly all too aware now that he had Lena pressed up against his chest. 

Lena with her dark curls flat to her skull, ocean water clinging to her eyelashes. He didn't know how he never realized she was quite so pretty until now. 

The moment stretched longer than he expected. Her lips parted, and for a fraction of a second, time seemed to slow. She was staring at him, her breath steady against his chest, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders.

Then, as if the magic had been broken, Lena sprang away from him, pushing him under the water with all her might, her laughter almost drowning out her mock-threat. “Die, Barnes!”

He broke the surface of the water laughing, watching as Lena conquered her fear of the ocean, if only to grab Steve by the shoulder and attempt to drown him too. 

Chapter Text

does he know that i'm falling

RED HOOK, BROOKLYN NEW YORK - JULY 1931

The kitchen was a mess, flour everywhere, the faint scent of sugar hanging in the air, and a bowl of melted butter that had somehow found its way across the counter. But it didn’t matter. Not when the soft sunlight coming through the window illuminated the two of them, bent over the kitchen table like they had all the time in the world.

Both Bucky and Lena were covered in a light dusting of flour as the two of them inspected the note card between them. Bucky didn't know why he was bothering trying to decipher the slanted cursive writing, it was in Russian, which he couldn't speak and certainly couldn't read.

“This would be so much easier if this was written in English, Lennie.” He complained good naturedly but his eyes weren't on the recipe card. He watched carefully as Lena used a flour covered hand to swipe a dark curl from her face. 

“I would have rewritten it in English if I could read my babushka’s handwriting.” She fired right back, her nose wrinkling as she tried to figure out the next step. 

The cake for Steve’s birthday had started as a simple idea, but somewhere along the way, it had morphed into something bigger. Something important. Something to show Steve how much they cared without saying the words. 

Lena had dug out her paternal grandmother's recipe deck, something so special to her papa, he kept it tucked away in fear of losing it or damaging it. Scrawled on little note cards were recipes from Russia, recipes from her father's mama written in her own hand. Something he carried with him when he came to Poland and then to America. 

If only Polina Rabinovicha had better handwriting. 

“It has to be perfect.” Lena muttered, excited and insistent. Squinting again at the recipe, she ushered Bucky back over to the counter and started measuring out the sugar for the frosting. 

“You're sure about that?” Bucky asked, glancing sideways at her. The cake was successfully (he hoped) cooking in the oven after a lot of fanfare. He was happier than ever that he got that job delivering newspapers so he could afford the wasted flour that went into figuring that out. 

Lena raised an eyebrow, not even looking up as she flicked her hair over her shoulder. “You just follow my instructions, okay? You’re here for moral support.” She glanced at him for a second, the playful smile tugging at her lips. “Though I will admit, I’m impressed you managed to keep this a secret.”

Bucky grinned. “I’m full of surprises. You know that by now.” He reached for the sugar, pretending to measure it, but his movements were too distracted, his thoughts wandering as he looked at her.

Lena was focused, though, she always was when it came to things like this. She had a way of making everything feel just a little bit more special. And this, baking a cake for Steve, the one day that was all about him, was the least she could do to show how much he meant to her. To both of them.

He watched the furrow between her brow, the way she pushed out her upper lip into a pout when she was thinking. Things he had never noticed before, because before she was just his friend, not any different than Steve.

But lately his thoughts were consumed by Lennie, making him wish that he had never noticed her in this light. It was still easy, easy as anything to be around her, to laugh at her jokes. But he found himself tripping over what to say, tumbling over his thoughts when the light caught her face in a certain way. He found himself staring at her more often, like right now.

Bucky cleared his throat and focused, pretending like he wasn’t watching the way she worked. “You think Steve’s gonna like it?”

“He better!” Lena snorted in a laugh. Her eyes darted over to catch the upturn of his lips and had to look away before a flush threatened to take over her face. “After all those newspapers you delivered to pay for this! He doesn't have a choice.”

Lena nudged him with her elbow, hoping he knew how special it was that he put in so much work for Steve. She had been able to contribute a few cents, but he knew that her and her father lived even leaner than himself or the Rogers. So Bucky took on the brunt of saving for the cake. 

“I pay, you do the labor. Seems fair.” 

“We're baking it together,” Lena insisted, giving him a look. “A labor of love! Steve deserves it.” She added in a soft earnest voice. 

She had not expected to become so attached to either one of them when they approached her on the stairwell, fresh in her grief. The best Lena could have hoped for was maybe a few friendly faces around the building. 

But she had gotten more than she bargained for. 

She might not have known what to make out of her swirling rush of emotions for Bucky as of late but Steve?

Steve was her brother. 

Lena had tried to find words in English to convey how much he meant to her but nothing else seemed fitting. She loved him, but not in the way other girls talked about boys.

She felt it, deep in her bones. Steve could drive her crazy like no one else, his refusal to stand down, no matter the cost. His relentless nature and smart mouth. But it was all things Lena admired about him. There was nothing she wouldn't do for him.

And Lena knew Bucky felt the same. 

At first, she thought maybe it was because Steve was so small, sick and constantly getting himself in trouble. But over the years, Lena had begun to realize that her love for Steve didn't come from what he was incapable of but what he was capable of despite what held him back.

He didn't need another protector in Lena, Bucky was more than enough. And she didn't relish in finishing fights for him either. But there was nothing, nothing she could think of that could keep her from being by Steve's side. For either of them to defend each other with their sharpest teeth and words. 

“Thinking too hard over there, boss?” Bucky’s teasing voice brought her out of her thoughts, her hands idly mixing together the icing ingredients while she thought. 

“Like you would know what that's like, wiaderko.” She shot back, sticking her tongue out at him.

“Will you at least tell me what that one means?” He sighed, exasperated, quickly swiping his finger along the bowl to scoop up some of the frosting. “Quality control!” Bucky declared quickly before she could whack him with the wooden spoon. 

With narrowed eyes, Lena raised the spoon anyway, waving it in his general direction like she was going to smack him but refrained from doing so.

“That one means bucket.” 

The pair continued like that, bickering and bantering around the kitchen while the cake in the oven finished baking. Between the oven and the sweltering July heat, they had to open a few windows before they could keep chasing each other around. 

The cake came out of the oven golden and warm, filling the tiny kitchen with the sweet scent of vanilla and butter. Lena carefully ran a knife around the edges of the pan before turning it out onto a plate, exhaling in relief when it slid free without falling apart.

Bucky, who had been leaning against the counter, let out a low whistle. “Would ya look at that? We actually made a cake.”

Lena shot him a look as she reached for the frosting. “Of course we did. Did you doubt me?”

“No, I doubted me,” he admitted, smirking. “You, I trust.”

She paused for just a moment at that—not long enough for him to notice, but long enough for the words to sink in. Long enough to notice the bits of flour that still clung to his eyelashes. 

Lena swallowed and turned back to the cake. “Good. Because you’re frosting it.”

Bucky blinked. “Wait, what?”

“You heard me.” She smacked the butter knife into his palm, her eyes glinting with challenge. “You want Steve to know you helped? Then help.”

“I was just supposed to be the money man!” He whined but took the butter knife and the challenge. There was something about that spark in her eyes that Bucky couldn't quite bring himself to say no to. 

With another groan, he got to work before quickly realizing the icing was melting on the warm cake. Carefully, they moved the cake into the fridge to let it cool before continuing. 

“I'm not helping you clean up.” He bumped into her shoulder as he reached around her to grab a dish rag to wipe the flour from the counters. 

For what felt like the hundredth time that day, the movement made Lena still, and her heart rate quicken. She wished she could make sense of these moments, interjected between their normal playful banter.

Where something so simple as reaching his arm across her shoulder, tugging on her braid like he always did, elicited such a reaction out of her. Without consciously thinking of it, the memory of his clumsy kiss at her bat mitzvah came to mind. 

With a rush of impulse, Lena darted forward and kissed his cheek sweetly, leaving an imprint of her lips on the sugar there. 

“Thanks Buck.”

Bucky barely had time to register the warmth of her lips before she pulled away, already turning back to clean off the stove. He blinked, his brain catching up too slow, before finally managing a half-mumbled, “Yeah. ‘Course.”

The moment lingered for a beat too long before Lena cleared her throat. 

“Counters aren't going to clean themselves,” she teased, glancing over her shoulder quickly. 

“You got it boss.” 

The moment passed, as they have been, the two of them working in silence to restore Lena's kitchen back to working order. Enough time had passed to pull the cake from the fridge to let Bucky begin frosting. 

Between his careful spreading and Lena’s sharp eye for detail, the cake was finished. It wasn’t perfect, a little uneven, the frosting not quite smooth, but it was theirs. A cake made with care, laughter, and the few cents they could scrape together.

They stood side by side, surveying their work.

Bucky nudged her shoulder. “You think it’s good enough?”

Lena, with the softness she reserved for him alone, smiled. “I think it’s perfect.”

That evening, the small apartment was filled with the warmth of too many people crammed into too little space. The Rogers’ home wasn’t much bigger than the Rabinovich’s, but Sarah Rogers had made sure it felt welcoming, candles flickered in the dimming summer light, and the smell of dinner still lingered in the air.

Steve sat in the middle of it all, looking a little overwhelmed but pleased, his cheeks flushed with the attention.

“Alright, alright!” Bucky called out, grinning as he carried the cake over. “We slaved over this thing all day, so you better love it, punk.”

Lena followed with the single candle, half melted, they had managed to find, placing it carefully on top before lighting it.

Steve looked between the two of them, then down at the cake, something unreadable in his expression. Lena suddenly worried, maybe he didn’t want them spending what little money they had on something just for him. Maybe she should have just—

But then Steve looked up, his eyes bright, his voice thick with emotion.

“You guys made this?”

Bucky clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Course we did.”

Lena crossed her arms, smirking. “I made it, Bucky iced it. So, eat it, or we’ll never do it again.”

Steve laughed, shaking his head. “I don’t deserve you two.”

Lena and Bucky exchanged a glance, something quiet passing between them.

“Yeah,” Bucky muttered, ruffling Steve’s hair. “You do.”

“Make a wish,” Lena prompted, watching as Steve sat forward, considering.

For a long moment, he seemed to think it over, and then, finally, he closed his eyes and blew out the candle.

Applause and laughter filled the room, but Lena barely heard it.

She only watched as Steve smiled, surrounded by the people who loved him most, and thought…this is what family feels like.

Since most of their money went to the cake, they didn't have much in the way of physical gifts for Steve. Mrs. Rogers had pulled out all the stops, gifting Steve his father's old pocket watch she had been saving for his thirteenth birthday.

Steven had teared up and hugged his mother tightly after he opened it and both Bucky and Lena pretended not to notice the tear stain on Mrs. Rogers blouse. 

Bucky had managed to put together another gift for Steve, a handmade slingshot, something to use to defend himself other than his fists, Bucky explained when he handed it over. 

Lena felt a little silly about her contribution but she didn't want Steve to not have anything to open from her. Shyly she handed over a small battered box. 

With a raised brow, Steve opened it, revealing a small amber stone. It was the color of liquid honey, the edges rough but a rubbed out smooth spot in the middle. 

“It's from Poland.” Lena leaned forward and plucked it out of the box, taking Steve's hand, turning it over and setting the rock inside. “Tree resin. I brought it with me when we came to America.” She explained. “On the boat, I made it smooth by rubbing it all the time, whenever I was scared.” 

“Len,” Steve started, his thumb smoothing over the same spot that her seven year old hand had made. “I can't take this from you.”

“You can, you'll keep it safe for me.” Her hand was still over his as she closed his fingers around the stone. “I'm not scared much these days anymore.”

The night stretched on, their bellies full of cake, the apartment full of laughter. They practiced with Steve's slingshot, shooting paper balls across the living room, trying to beat each other in distance. 

Finally, as the sun began to set, Mrs. Rogers stood to clean up the kitchen, Lena trotting behind her to help. She had fed them dinner, it was only fair that she didn't have to do all the washing. Which is exactly what she told Bucky, tutting at his lack of help.

Steve, still seated on the couch, rolled the amber stone between his fingers, the warm glow of the candlelight catching on its surface.

Bucky nudged his shoulder, ignoring Lena's playful lecture. “C’mon, birthday boy. Get some air with me.”

Steve raised a brow but didn’t argue, pocketing the amber before pushing himself up. The two of them slipped out onto the apartment building’s fire escape, the metal still warm from the day’s sun.

Outside, the noise of the city was softer, the summer air thick but not unpleasant. Bucky leaned against the railing, stretching his arms over his head before settling in with an easy grin. “So, did we do good?”

Steve smirked, resting his elbows on the rail beside him. “You did great.”

“Well, like Lennie said, she did most of the work.” Bucky laughed, glancing back over his shoulder. “How does it feel, finally catching up?” 

As the youngest in their trio, Steve often had to deal with both of his friends babying him to some degree. Bucky tried to be more subtle about it, stepping in really only when Steve needed it.

Lena wore her concern and worry on her sleeve, almost as bad as his mother, wrapping scarves around him in the winter, tugging his hat over his ears. 

They never made him feel incapable though, just hovering on the sidelines, ready to jump in at a moment's notice. Steve liked to think of himself as a fighter, not a victim to his circumstances and illness but even he couldn't deny the relief he felt making it to another milestone, another birthday. 

“Pretty damn good.” Steve grinned. He didn't have a celebration like Lena did, but in his own way, thirteen felt like becoming a man. He knew Bucky understood the under current of his tone without even needing to acknowledge it. They had an eerily similar conversation last year when Bucky had been the first to pass over to official teen-hood.

“Now, don't start getting wild on me, punk.” Bucky turned towards him, wagging a finger in his direction mockingly aftee a beat. “My ma told me last year that thirteen is when everyone starts getting crazy about girls. You already fight enough, I don't need to break up anymore fights because you get sweet on someone else's girl.” He teased.

“Ha!” Steve let out an incredulous huff of laughter. “Like you oughta talk about going loony for a girl.”

“What do you mean by that, punk?” Bucky straightened before grappling with Steve, the sounds of their wrestling anf laughter drown out by street noise. All too easily, Bucky slipped Steve into a loose headlock. 

“Are you kidding me? Jerk.” Steve puffed out, knocking his skinny elbow in his ribs, breaking out of his hold. “Are you ever gonna tell her?” He panted slightly, jerking his blonde head towards the window where they could barely see Lena drying dishes.

“Tell her what?” Bucky deflected, trying and failing to sound unbothered by the accusation. 

“That you're completely gone for her,” Steve rolled his eyes, how thick headed was Bucky, really? “All you two have been doing is mooning after each other for weeks, it's driving me crazy.” 

Steve said it so nonchalantly, not actually truly bothered by his friends obvious crushes. Behind his joking tone, there was genuine encouragement there, he knew Bucky better than anyone. 

Another quiet beat passes by them as Bucky rubs the back of his suddenly red neck. “It's not like that.”

“It's exactly like that,” Steve groaned in response. “I think you two might be the only ones who don't see it.” 

He knew his friends were stubborn but he didn't realize they were stupid too. Steve may not have known how to properly talk to a girl, Lena was the only one he could carry a proper conversation with, without embarrassing himself. And that didn't even count, she was practically his sister.

But even in his cluelessness, he knew Bucky was being even more clueless. Any fella with eyes could see Lena was a catch. With her pretty doe eyes, and fiery spark, Bucky was about to be broken hearted if he didn't do something. 

“You should tell her one day. She’s not gonna wait around forever.” Steve added, giving Bucky a serious look. "Don't be such an idiot."

“Ste-” Bucky started but clamped his mouth shut as the window opened and Lena stuck her head out. 

“Will you get your behinds inside already? You successfully dodged cleaning.” Lena rolled her eyes at them, before ducking back into the apartment, motioning for them to follow.

Bucky looked up at her, framed in the window like something out of a dream, sun catching the curve of her cheek, brow furrowed in that way she always wore when she was trying not to smile. 

Steve let out a short huff of amusement, already heading for the window. “Better hurry, Romeo. Before she throws the dishwater next.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky muttered, dragging a hand through his hair to tame it. Not that it would help.

He lingered for half a second longer, gaze fixed on the now-empty window, before turning to follow Steve inside.

The window slammed shut behind him with a familiar creak, the sounds of laughter and clattering dishes already echoing from the kitchen.

And just like that, the conversation was over—left behind on the fire escape, sitting in the summer dust with everything else they weren’t saying yet.

Chapter Text

from the precipice that I tripped off long ago?

RED HOOK, BROOKLYN - AUGUST 1931

It started off with thread. Lena was only going to go out for thread. Her father's work shirt had a bad tear in the shoulder and she wanted to mend it. Bucky's mom had shown her how in the past, it was supposed to be something quick before she went out and joined Steve and Bucky on the search for ice pops.

Then Lena realized she didn't have any thread. Neither did their neighbor, Mrs. O'Malley. Mrs. Rogers wasn't home and Steve had already disappeared with Bucky. She thought about going over to the Barnes’ to borrow some but she knew Mrs. Barnes had her hands full and she didn't want to bug. 

So she resolved to go out and buy some.

And if Lena was already going out to the market, she might as well do the shopping for the week. That way if she wouldn't feel as guilty sneaking off to go fish off the docks later in the week. She was good at shopping now, she could get it done quickly and still have time to meet up with Steve go look for comic books. 

Money in pocket, Lena decided she'd do her shopping quickly, mend her papa's shirt and be on her way to hang out with her friends for the day. She wished she had known she was going to end up doing errands, Lena was certain she could have convinced Steve and Bucky to do them with her which made them much more enjoyable.

But her gut twisted at the thought of Bucky and she thought maybe it was better she was on her own today. 

Since he kissed her at her bat mitzvah, and she returned the favor when they made Steve's cake last month, it had been harder and harder to be around him.

On some level, Lena knew she had a crush on him. But she struggled knowing exactly what that meant, and how that affected their friendship. She couldn't bear the idea of ruining their easy as breathing relationship. And if things got wrecked with Bucky, where would that leave her with Steve?

All because her stomach did some stupid swooping thing anytime Bucky smiled in her direction? 

It was stupid. 

Boys were stupid. 

Down the street Lena marched, dodging vendors in their moving carts, people hurrying down the streets, Brooklyn was loud and alive around her. She nearly tripped on a cracked sidewalk turning down the street to get to Schwartz but at least no one had seen. 

It took a little longer to get to the Jewish market but Lena liked shopping there the best. She knew everyone there, from the soda boys to the owner himself. They usually had the best prices too. Plus if Mr. Schwartz was working, he'd usually slide in an extra goodie for her, for reminding him of home with their entirely Polish conversations. 

Ducking into the shop, she saw Henny Greenberg behind the counter today. She was nearly seventeen, her papa owned the kosher butcher next store, and Henny vehemently swore she'd never inherit the family business, it smelled too bad. 

So instead, she bagged groceries, complained loudly about the customers and expertly counted out change. She was usually good for a laugh or two depending on her mood. 

Today she looked bored behind the counter, chin propped up in her palm, her dark curls pinned back underneath a handkerchief. Lena was instantly jealous of how pretty Henny looked with her lips painted red, looking something like a movie star in her eyes. 

Lena had gotten her brother in Steve but looking at Henny now, really made her wish she had an older sister. Especially without her mother around. Henny always looked so put together and stylish. Ever since bat mitzvah, Lena had wanted the same but found herself not knowing what to wear or how to style her current clothes any better. 

Henny spared her a glance and a wave when the bell over the door rang, signaling her entrance. Lena waved back and then ducked into the produce aisle, suddenly feeling very subconscious about her threadbare dress. 

Here she was worrying about ruining a friendship with Bucky when she should have been worrying about why he'd be interested in someone like her when girls like Henny existed? 

With a dejected sigh, Lena started poking around the produce, picking out potatoes, grabbing a head of cabbage, a few beets and an onion. She considered apples for a moment but they were just out of her price range.

“Where are your shadows, lemele?” Hennys's came up from behind her, making Lena jump a little. She whipped around, face to face with Henny's smirking red lips. 

“I am not a lamb,” Lena grumbled, tossing a turnip into her basket. “And what are you talking about?”

“You know what,” the older girl rolled her eyes, teasing. “Barnes, and the cute skinny one.”

“You mean Steve,” Lena corrected instantly. She didn't like when people referred to him like that. That just because he was scrawny, he wasn't important. Even if she said he was cute. “They're at the comic book store.” She shrugged, moving away from the produce section and into the aisle of dried goods. 

She didn't expect Henny to follow her so she must have been really bored. 

“Why aren't you with them? Don't you three do everything together? They usually come with you?” 

“Since when do you pay attention to what I do?” Lena asked, a slight edge in her voice but not unkindly. She just didn't see why someone like Henny would care what she was up to. 

“Not used to seeing you on your own.” Henny shrugged, watching as she grabbed some lentils from the shelf. “You look lonely without them.” 

Lena just shrugged, carefully placing a bag of flour into the basket. “Maybe a little.” She didn't know why Henny seemed interested in her all of a sudden but she couldn't deny it felt kind of nice to have the older girl's attention. 

“Yeah, I feel that way with my older brother David off at school.” Henny hummed, bending forward to pick up Lena's basket, motioning for her to keep shopping. “I used to tag along with my brothers everywhere, drove them a little crazy.”

“Steve is like my brother,” Lena responded in kind, fondly. 

“Not Barnes?” Her eyebrow raised, tossing in a bag of kasha for Lena. She brought the same things every week, Lena wasn't surprised that someone as sharp as Henny remembered.

Lena hesitated, shifting her weight from side to side, eyes on the shelf, like she was contemplating prices and not what she was thinking. “Bucky too,” she finally landed on, even if it didn't feel quite right. 

Henny caught it immediately. “But not like Steve,” she mused, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips.

Lena frowned, glancing away to inspect a sack of dried beans that didn’t really need inspecting. “It’s different.”

Henny let out a little laugh, not unkind. “Yeah, it's like that sometimes.”

Lena paused, looking over her shoulder at Henny. Her perfect curls and pretty red lips. She let her response roll around in her head as she shuffled over to the next aisle, Henny still trailing behind her. 

“Like what?” Her curiosity got the better of her. She didn't have anyone else to talk to about this. She didn't want to burden her exhausted papa with her boy problems and was certain he wouldn't understand it anyways. It would be too weird to talk to Steve about it. 

For a moment, she briefly considered asking Mrs. Rogers, she had become something of a stand-in mother figure but even that felt too embarrassing. 

“Like when you have a boy you really, really like.” Henny said, causally, testing the waters. “There's a boy in my grade. Sean Callahan. I swear whenever I see him smile, I about melt into a puddle.” She sighed, a faraway look in her eye before snapping back. 

“Yeah, maybe something like that.” Lena snorted, teasing her only a little bit because she knew exactly what she meant. 

“Don't blame ya, Bucky will be real good looking when he gets older. Charming fella too.” 

It shouldn't have bothered her but a lick of jealousy burned in Lena's gut all the same. 

“Ooh, you've got it something fierce for that boy, don't ya?” Henny grinned widely, looking proud of herself. 

“Maybe. I don't know!” Lena snapped, and then groaned. She was hell bent on figuring this out on her own but Henny probably had a lot of boys who were sweet on her. And she clearly had experience dealing with boys. 

“Come on,” Henny cut across her thoughts, hauling her basket up to the counter. She waved Lena around the counter where there were a few upturned boxes to sit on. “Sit. This time of day is so slow.” 

Henny took the liberty of sitting down first, ankles crossed motioning for Lena to follow suit. They may not have talked much but Henny remembered when she first saw Lena hesitantly come into the store on her own, at seven years old, barely speaking English. 

The Rabinovichs’ may not have lived in Red Hook long but the community had come together when the news of Esther's passing came. Everyone felt for Mikhail, in a new country alone and with a young daughter.  

Luckily Lena had latched onto Rogers and Barnes quickly but Henny had kept an eye on her from afar, just in case. The Jewish community was extremely tight knit, and they all looked out for each other.

“I'm not going to bite, you know.” Henny rolled her eyes watching as Lena stood hesitantly, before finally sitting. 

“You don't have better things to do?” Lena questioned, fingers fidgeting in her lap. 

“Does it look like it?” Henny cocked an eyebrow again, and gestured around the empty store. “Plus Mr. Schwartz likes you, not like he will care.” 

Lena wasn't sure if she was interested because she was bored or because she pitied her. Lena wasn't sure which one was worse. 

Or maybe, just like Steve and Bucky approached her, it was an opportunity to make a real friend. 

“I've never really liked a boy before.” Lena finally settled on. “I don't know how to tell if he likes me back. Or if I even want him to!” And as soon as she started, she couldn't stop.

All the feelings she'd been repressing for the last few months came tumbling out of her mouth, grateful to actually be heard. 

“Why wouldn't you want him to like you back?” Henny focused on, crossing her knees and propping her elbows up on them. 

“Because if we like each other and then we stop liking each other, we won't be friends anymore.” She shrugged. “And if that's not bad enough, I'd probably lose Steve too.” And then she'd be alone again.

“I don't know if liking someone is worth that.”

Henny didn't say anything at first, humming to herself in consideration. She certainly wasn't an expert on boys, if Lena wanted an expert, she'd have to go find Anne Collier and her string of sweethearts. Henny had a million crushes but only one steady boyfriend, which naturally had fizzled out last year like most teen romances. 

“But you don't know that it's not, right?” Henny said after a minute of rolling her words around in her head. “My parents are highschool sweethearts. Been together since they were fifteen. You don't know what's gonna happen.” 

“But I know what could happen if it went wrong,” Lena pushed back, making the older girl frown.

“Now that's a real negative mindset lemele.” Henny studied the younger girl for a minute. Her messy waves pulled back by a blue ribbon, her full lips pulled into a frown. High cheek bones were hiding under baby fat, once she shed that, Henny knew she'd be a striking girl. Certainly capable of turning Barnes’ head. “Do you always assume the worst?” 

Lena opened her mouth to answer and then closed it. She supposed she did, although she never gave it conscious thought before. Anytime Steve got sick, she was beside herself thinking he was going to die. If her father was late from work, she assumed something horrible happened to him on his walk home. 

“Thought so.” Henny hummed, before standing up and began to ring up Lena's groceries. “I know bad things happen, that's just life. But good things happen too, or else you wouldn't be friends with those boys to begin with.” 

Lena stood up silently, bagging her produce from behind the counter, a furrow in her brow as she considered what she said. “I guess you're right.” 

“You don't know what would happen if you told Barnes you liked him, but do you really wanna be sitting on your hands and waitin’ to find out? Especially if some other girl swoops in?” She clucked, putting in her discount, knowing Mr. Schwartz wouldn't mind. 

Lena knew she was right, but still her gut churned at the thought. Those two boys meant the world to her and she couldn't bear the idea of messing that up. Still, she nodded, quiet and contemplative. 

“Henny? It's time for your break, honey.” Mr. Schwartz called, coming from the back room, surprised to see Lena behind the counter, handing over her change to Henny.

“Would you mind if I walked Lena home? Her bags are heavy and she gave her shadows the day off.” Henny teased, handing the lighter paper bag to Lena, and hoisting the other onto her hip.

“Of course, take your time.” Mr. Schwartz's smile was kind as he exchanged pleasantries in Polish with Lena before the two girls walked out together. 

“You didn't have to do that, I could have managed.” Lena said once they were out the door and onto the street. 

“I know you could have,” she simply shrugged. “Those boys don't need to be your only friends either.” Henny bumped her hip into Lena, making her laugh for the first time during ther conversation. 

“Thank you,” Lena said once she stopped laughing. For offering to be her friend, to helping carrying her groceries, for listening. 

“Anytime.” Henny replied easily, turning the corner to Lena's block. “If it makes you feel any better, boys don't get easier when you get older either.” 

“I don't think that makes me feel better Henny.”

The girls broke out in laughter again, climbing the stairs to her apartment. Their laughter was only broken up by the sound of footsteps rushing down the stairs to meet them.

“Len! You'll never guess the comic we fou-” Steve's excited rush of words was cut off at the sight of the older girl with her. “Oh. Hi?”

Bucky almost barreled into Steve in his haste to follow him down the stairs to meet Lennie, before stopping short before the girls. 

His blue eyes darted between them, noticing the smile on Lennie's face which sent his own heart rate racing. He couldn't help but wonder what Lennie was talking to an older girl about especially that had her smiling like that. Bucky could barely look at the girl he knew from the grocery Lena liked to shop at, having a hard time tearing his eyes away from Lena. 

“I gotta get back to the store, you boys mind takin’ over from here?” Henny cut through the silence, thrusting the heavy bag of groceries into Bucky's arms without waiting for his answer. “I get off early tomorrow, come on by and I can show you how I do my make up.” She gave Lena a swift hug before turning on her heel, her dark curls twirling and marching back to the store. 

“I didn't realize you two were friends,” Steve muttered, watching Henny disappear down the stairs. 

“We are now!” Lena shrugged happily, trusting both of to trail behind her back to her apartment. It was nice having another friend, someone else she could talk to. The warmness in her chest carried her the rest of the way home, Bucky and Steve talking animatedly behind her. 

Friends. 

Did she really want to risk losing this? This warmth, that tingled down to her finger tips? She could daydream about kissing about Bucky Barnes all she wanted. Could imagine telling him how she felt. 

But could she live with the reality of it falling to pieces? Could she handle coming up to her dreary empty home, carrying her groceries alone, no Bucky or Steve in sight all because she couldn't contain a crush? 

Henny told her she assumed the worse, but Lena had no reason not to. Had no reason to think that she could have both. 

Chapter Text

you're so pure, he says 

RED HOOK, BROOKLYN - SPRING 1932

The weather had started to shift, less biting wind, more warmth that clung to the edges of the breeze. Kids spent longer on the stoops again, chalk drawings reappeared on the sidewalks, and Steve had officially given up wearing his scarf by mid-April, which meant it was practically summer.

Lena had grown taller in the past year. Her hair was longer now, curling messily down her back, usually tied in a ribbon or scarf Henny had passed off to her. She still wasn't quite as tall as Bucky, not for a lack of trying though, only a few inches shorter. She had a little more sharpness to her smile these days, a little more awareness of when people were looking at her.

Bucky noticed. Of course he noticed.

Not that he said anything.

They had fallen into this strange rhythm, still thick as thieves, still walking shoulder to shoulder, Lena's arm tucked against Bucky's ribs, daring each other to hop trolleys for fun. Still sharing those quiet moments that felt like they should have meant something more. 

But nothing ever changed.

Lena never said anything. Never pushed any further, nothing beyond innocent touches and glances.

So Bucky, as confident as he could be about everything else, convinced himself she wasn’t interested. That he must have imagined the brush of her hand lingering too long or the way she smiled when she thought he wasn’t looking. Maybe that kiss on the cheek had been out of gratitude. Or affection. Or whatever it was girls did when they didn't like you.

So he said nothing, too.

Instead he teased other girls more often now, even smiled at them. He was a relentless flirt, a charmer. He had a string of girls who giggled behind their hands whenever he walked by. Lena tried not to let it bother her.

She told herself she didn’t want things to change. Told herself it was better this way, safe, predictable. She had too much to lose. If Bucky didn’t feel the same way she did, then at least she hadn’t ruined anything by speaking first.

So she didn’t.

Steve walked in step beside them, hands jammed into his coat pockets, his jaw tight, Lena's other hand curled around his skinny arm. He watched the way they moved around each other—their orbit so obvious it hurt to look at sometimes.

He’d asked Bucky about it once more, after his birthday. Quietly. Just the two of them on the fire escape, like they always were.

"You ever gonna tell her?"

Bucky had looked away. “She’d tell me if she felt that way.”

That had been months ago, and neither one of them had said anything since. Not to each other. Not to Lena.

Steve didn’t bring it up again.

He didn’t want to embarrass either of them. Lena especially. He knew how guarded she could be when it came to things like this—her feelings weren’t things she handed over lightly. And if she wasn’t ready, then Steve wasn’t about to push her. It wasn't his place, even if they were driving him insane.

Still, watching them now—shoulders bumping, eyes darting, smiles carefully managed—was enough to make him want to walk straight into traffic.

Luckily, a distraction had arrived, one the whole school had been buzzing about for the past week:

The spring dance.

Even the kids who pretended to be above it were whispering about who might ask who. Henny had already circled the date in bright red ink on her calendar, and Mrs. Barnes was in a constant state of organizing her schedule, trying to fit in all the girls who needed their dresses hemmed.

Lena wasn’t sure if she was going. She hadn’t said anything about it. But Steve noticed the way she’d started twisting her fingers together. Noticed how she kept glancing at Bucky when the dance came up, then quickly looked away.

Just like always.

Steve had no plans of going, he confirmed as much with Lena and Bucky. Oblivious as they were to each other, they both spent plenty of time trying to convince him that different girls liked him enough to say yes. 

Secretly, despite her acting uninterested, Lena hoped against hope that maybe Bucky would ask her. Or even ask her to go with him and Steve as friends. If only to spare herself the torment of seeing him dance with another girl. 

Henny told her that she was being dramatic, that she should just get over herself but Lena couldn't bring herself to do it. She opened her mouth plenty of times to try. Especially in those cold walks in the morning to school, days where Steve stayed home. 

But nothing ever came out. Her mouth worked against her, too afraid to ruin the two most important relationships in her life. 

Instead she had to endure frantic whispers from her classmates, hushed and fast wondering who was going to go with who. 

The dance was only a week away by the time Bucky finally settled on someone to ask, Clara Donnelly, a girl in his grade and who was positively over the moon about going with Bucky Barnes.

Lena walked herself home that day, much to Bucky's confusion and Steve's frustration. 

Lena was just about to join Steve in his dance boycott when Billy Kramer approached her at lunch. He was a classmate of Bucky’s, and someone she only spoke to in passing a handful of times.

So she couldn't cover up her surprise when he sauntered up to their lunch table and asked her to the spring dance in front of Steve and Bucky.

For a moment, Lena considered saying no. She didn’t know him, certainly wasn't sweet on him. The word was forming in her mouth when she thought about Clara slow dancing with Bucky. 

“N-,” Lena caught herself. “Sure.” She corrected quickly, her ears burning, avoiding Bucky's hard gaze, oblivious to the way his jaw clicked and set, his narrowed eyes.

“Great, I'll meet you there.” Billy grinned, flashing a toothy smirk at Bucky and Steve.

She left school alone again that day, except she went straight to Henny's house in a panic.

The older girl barely had her front door before Lena was pushing through it, rapidly telling her about Billy, about Bucky and the new feeling of guilt blossoming in her chest for abandoning Steve.

And most importantly, she didn't even have a dress. 

Henny couldn't help with much (despite her best efforts with Bucky) but she could help with the dress. They raided her closet until they found the dress. 

The dress was unlike anything Lena owned.

It was a soft shade of dusty rose, somewhere between blush and mauve, with a drop waist and a fluttering handkerchief hem that swished just above her knees when she moved. The fabric was crepe, light and soft beneath her fingertips, and it shimmered faintly in the light like it had a secret.

There was delicate beading along the neckline, stitched into tiny floral shapes that sparkled ever so slightly—elegant, not flashy. The sleeves were sheer, cut just at the elbow with a scalloped edge, and the bodice hugged a little closer than Lena was used to. Not tight, but grown-up.

It had once been Henny’s—worn only once to a cousin’s wedding—and she said it deserved a second life. Lena couldn’t believe someone like her was allowed to wear something so pretty.

The next few days passed in a blur, with both Bucky and Lena doing their best to act like nothing was wrong while barely saying a word to each other.

Lena tried to keep her head down and focus on her school work, instead of obsessively thinking about how she would react to seeing Bucky and Clara, hand in hand at the dance. Deep down she knew why she was upset but she had said yes to Billy, right? She should be thinking about him. 

Even though he did very little to acknowledge her as his date in the passing days. 

Finally the end of the week came, with no relief in the tension in their circle. Henny promised to come over after school to help her get ready. 

It made it easier for everyone, considering in a shocking turn of events, Henny asked Steve to go to the dance with her. He turned a brilliant shade of red and the awkwardness between Bucky and Lena faded for a moment to answer yes on his behalf while Steve stuttered.

Henny had long gotten over her crush on Sean Callahan, and was more focused on her last year of school (and getting into nursing school) to care about boys. Lena clearly felt bad that Steve wasn't going so Henny decided to take it upon herself. 

He was shorter and skinnier than her, but Steve was kind and respectful. She could’ve done much worse than a sweet underclassman. Plus, they could spend the night gossiping about their two stubborn friends. 

Henny brought over her pouch of make up, her dress for Lena to borrow and the girls spent the hour giggling together. Henny helped her hair hold a proper curl, pining it behind her ears. She painted her lips, and dusted on some light makeup, making Lena look decidedly more grown up than she had before. 

Steve came and promptly collected them for the walk back to school, fumbling over his words to compliment them both. 

Despite how pretty she felt, Lena bitterly missed Bucky's presence. It was nice to have Henny with them, her easy teasing made Steve nearly trip over his own feet outside their building. 

But it wasn't the same. 

“I'll wait here for Billy, go on without me.” Lena waved her friends forward once they got into the gymnasium of their school building. The lights had been turned down, music blasting from a phonogram. There was juice and a few finger foods set out, a few couples already swaying across the gym.

Henny put her arm through Steve's and dragged him over to get juice. 

And Lena waited. 

Waited long enough to see most of the girls in her grade arrive. She sheepishly ducked her head and turned, watching Bucky and Clara arrive together. She looked pretty as always, her blonde hair curled and pinned to perfection. 

Bucky looked striking, with his hair combed back. He wore a soft cream shirt she recognized as his fathers, no doubt tailored by his mother to fit. His suspenders made him look extra smart and sharp. 

If he noticed her waiting, his face didn't betray it. 

She watched as Bucky led Clara to get a drink, catching Steve and Henny along the way. Lena could have hugged Henny for the intimidating glare she sent Clara's way, entirely dismissing her. 

Lena desperately wished she was over there with them, instead of standing alone awkwardly. 

Almost as if sensing her thoughts, she watched Bucky's head swivel, eyes searching for her before settling on her by the door. 

Alone. 

“Where's Kramer?” He muttered to Steve, ignoring Clara for the moment as she tugged on his hand, exclaiming something about the song playing. 

“Dunno, she's been waiting.” 

Lena tried not to be obvious, watching as Clara dragged Bucky to the middle of the gym, intent on dancing. She pointedly ignored Steve and Henny's probing eyes as they followed in suit, tears springing to her eyes. 

She didn't understand why Billy would ask her to the dance and not show.

Or why seeing Clara Donnelly move her arms around Bucky's neck made a strangled noise come out of her throat. Lena turned heel, furiously blinking and pushed her way out of the gym. 

Bucky had felt bad enough, coming to the dance with Clara. He had asked her out on a whim, blinded by her open affection for him and eagerness to say yes, unlike the girl he had truly wanted to ask. His guilt grew even worse when he realized how annoyed he was by her. 

Clara hadn’t done anything wrong, not really. She was sweet—maybe too sweet. But Bucky found himself bristling at her every word, and worse, guilty for it. But after she clung to him the whole walk to the school, Bucky wouldn't have minded being rid of her. 

Then she went and dragged him to dance, her arms looping around his neck, looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to put his hands on her waist. 

But Bucky wasn't even looking at her. His eyes were trained over her shoulder, sharp and observant on Lena. 

Lena, who looked pretty as a picture with her hair pulled back and curled. He had to stop himself from doing a double take when he first walked in, not used to seeing Lena, his Lennie with make up on. She didn't wear bright red lipstick like Claea did, but a soft mauve to match her dress. 

“Bucky,” he heard Clara hiss under her breath at him, right as Lennie turned and pushed through the doors, tears threatening to fall down her face.

“Shit,” Bucky cursed, his hands flexing into fists by his side, damning Billy Kramer for doing this. “I'm sorry, I gotta go.” His apology came out rushed as he shook off her arms and tore after Lennie. 

He didn’t wait for Clara to respond.

He slipped past clusters of dancing couples and shoved open the gym doors, the music muting behind him in a heartbeat. The hallway was dim and quiet, the flickering lights overhead humming softly. He scanned the corridor, nothing but other students coming and going from the bathroom and teachers making sure no one was sneaking off. 

Panic nipped at the back of his neck.

“Lennie?” he called softly, hoping she hadn’t already started to walk home alone.

No answer.

His footsteps echoed as he rounded the corner and spotted the heavy door that led to the side stairwell. The one the janitor always forgot to lock. It was propped open, just barely.

He pushed it open and exhaled when he saw her.

Lena was sitting on the bottom step, her dress bunched around her knees, her elbows propped on them. She was staring at the ground, her fingers twisting around each other, like they always did when she was upset. Bucky resisted the urge to reach out and still them with his own.

She didn’t look up when he came in. But she heard him.

“I’m fine,” she said before he could speak. Her voice was tight, brittle, barely contained emotion.

Bucky leaned against the wall, heart still racing. “Didn’t ask.”

That got her attention. She looked up sharply, and the sight of her eyes—red-rimmed and shining—hit him like a sucker punch.

“Lennie…” he started, but she shook her head.

“You should go back. Clara’s probably wondering where you are.”

“I don’t care where Clara is.”

Silence stretched between them, their eyes meeting in the lowering sun, almost daring each other to be the first to look away.

“I got stood up.” Lena broke first, scoffing, the soft lilt of her accent more pronounced when she was upset. 

Bucky winced, imagining it might feel nice to slug Billy Kramer. “He’s an idiot.”

“Yeah, well. So am I.”

“No, you’re not.” His voice came out a little rougher than he meant it to. “You’re the smartest person I know.” 

The silence stretched out again as Bucky pushed off the wall and came over to her side, sitting next to her on the stairs. So close their knees could bump, their shoulders pressed against each other. 

Lena considered saying something smart, to cut the tension, to give them something to laugh about and pretend this wasn't happening, to avoid the looming confrontation. 

“You look nice,” he said softly, almost like it was a secret.

She didn’t look at him, the image of him walking into the gym in his nice clothes burned into her brain. “So do you.”

Silence again. Both of them fighting with themselves over what to say next. A way to navigate these weird icy waters they found themselves in. To push or pull. 

“I didn’t want to come with her,” Bucky broke first this time. “I asked Clara before I really thought about what I wanted. And by the time I figured it out, it felt too late.”

Lena was quiet, her jaw tense. “What did you figure out?”

Bucky hesitated. And then he said it.

“That I wanted to come with you.”

The air was still between them, charged. Bucky wished she'd say anything, even if it was to tell him to go to hell. He could feel her eyes on his face, while his eyes drifted down to her lap, where her hands sat unmoving, no longer twisting around each other.

“Why didn't you say something?” Her voice came out near a whisper, almost if she was asking herself the same question. 

“I was scared.” He shrugged, it felt like a lame excuse but by the sharp intake from Lennie, he thought maybe she understood. “Still am.”

Bucky looked up at her now, their eyes locking, like they were both seeing each other for the first time. Not as a frightened seven year old, not as two people who grew up together as best friends, but something else. 

The hallway inside from the stairwell buzzed with distant music and laughter, but in their little pocket of quiet, it felt like time had slowed just for them.

“I know I didn't bring you to the dance,” Bucky started, licking his suddenly dry lips, his voice soft almost if he spoke any louder, it'd shatter the moment. “But I'd still like a dance. If you'll let me.” 

“Here?” Lena hesitated only a second before she nodded, standing up with a small, nervous smile tugging at her lips, her hands already moving to smooth the skirt of her dress.

Bucky stood too, already holding out his hand. “Why not?”

The stairwell wasn’t much of a ballroom, but it didn’t seem to matter much to either of them.

There was a faint hum of music coming from beyond the propped open door, just enough to give them something to sway to, not enough to tell what song it was. Bucky took her hand and rested his other gently on her waist. Lena placed her hand on his shoulder, a little unsure at first, like they were figuring out how to move in a new way together. 

It didn’t take long.

Their steps were small, slow, just a gentle sway of bodies. The kind of dance that wasn’t about rhythm or skill, it was about being close. Breathing the same breath. Feeling the press of his palm through the fabric of her dress. 

It was different than all the times Lena had slipped her hand through his arm, different than when they squeezed behind a building, pressed together, breathless with laughter as they tried to evade whatever trouble they had gotten in. 

They had spent their childhood never shying away from each other, never feeling nervous or uneasy about taking each other's hand, letting a head drop onto a shoulder, or wrapping each other in a hug. 

And as familiar as both of them felt with the closeness between them, this was a new level of intimacy they hadn't experienced. But after a shuddering heart beat, it too, felt natural. 

“I’m glad you came to find me,” Lena murmured after a beat.

Bucky met her eyes, his voice quiet. “Always will.”

They slowed to a stop, barely rocking now, her hand still on his shoulder, his thumb brushing back and forth across her knuckles. 

He leaned in, just a fraction. So did she.

It would’ve only taken an inch more. An inch and one more minute alone.

But the stairwell door creaked open behind them, and a beam of light spilled in, the music growing louder, disturbing their pocket of peace.

“There you two are,” Steve’s voice called, relief plain as day. “You scared the hell outta me.”

Henny followed right behind him, eyebrows raised and an unmistakably smug smile tugging at her lips, but thankfully she said nothing. 

Bucky and Lena broke apart quickly—not guiltily, just with the startled awkwardness of teenagers who almost did something brave. 

“You okay?” Steve squinted into the darkness. 

Lena nodded, cheeks pink. “Yeah. I’m good.”

“We were just… dancing.” Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, with the hand that just held Lennie's. 

“Mm-hmm,” Henny drawled, unconvinced but amused all the same. 

“Well finish up, we've got some more dancing to do.” Steve said lightly, his pitch high and embarrassed, as if he didn't just interrupt them. Guiltily, he pulled the door shut and frantically began whispering with a cackling Henny.

Lena pulled her eyes away from the door and back to Bucky, wishing Steve had better timing. He met her eye and for a moment they stared at each other. They both broke at the same time, a smile unfurling on their lips, a breathless laugh out of the pair of them. 

An unspoken promise to revisit this moment.

Lena reached up, smoothing back Bucky’s hair that had slightly gone askew in his dash to find her. At the same time, Bucky moved to tuck a wayward curl behind her ear. 

“We shouldn't give Henny any more reason to gossip.” Lena smiled, even though she was reluctant to go back into the noisy gym.

“Steve's worse.” Bucky countered, shaking his head. He reached out a hand, offering to Lennie. “C'mon or he's gonna stand there all night.” 

Bucky should have felt some degree of shame walking back into the dance, a different girl on his arm than the one he arrived with. He did. A little bit, only because Clara deserved to have a nice time, it wasn't her fault he brought the wrong girl.

Luckily she seemed to recover from his rejection and was dancing with Eli Broker by the time they came back, alleviating Bucky of any remaining guilt.

They didn't dance as intimately as they did in the stairwell but they enjoyed themselves all the same. Steve and Bucky took turns spinning Lena and Henny around the edges of the dance floor, hair flying as they laughed and whooped in joy.

For however fleeting the feeling was, the tension had finally melted away. Lena didn't know what that meant outside of her hand in Bucky's as he spun her around to some jazz song she had never heard before. And maybe later she would analyze and agonize over every detail, but for now, she let herself scream with laughter as she crashed into her friends.

Chapter Text

does he know, i’m forsaken?

RED HOOK, BROOKLYN - SPRING 1932

The Friday sun was still high in the air when school let out for the weekend. Spring was in full swing, radios drifting music out of open windows, children shrieking with laughter as they raced home after the last bell. The breeze fluttered around the trio as they moved in step down the sidewalk.

Steve kicked a rock ahead of them as they walked, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. Bucky trailed just a step behind, his satchel slung lazily over one shoulder, while Lena walked between them, her fingers brushing the back of her hand against Bucky’s now and then like she couldn’t help it. He didn’t move away. 

“Alright,” Steve said, voice a little too casual to be innocent, “don’t shoot me down, but I might’ve heard about a place.”

“That sounds like something you say before you suggest something stupid,” Lena cocked an eyebrow in his direction.

“What kind of place?” Bucky snorted. 

Steve didn’t answer right away, just grinned and glanced sideways at Lena, like he was waiting for her to guess. When she just stared, unimpressed, he shrugged and added, “A speakeasy. With an open mic.”

“You’re joking.”

“Nope. Henny told me about it at the dance last week,” Steve said, a little smug. “Says it’s easy to get in if you know what to say. Quiet place, back of a butcher shop, real classy—if you squint.”

Bucky gave him a side-eye. “And why would Henny be telling you about speakeasies?”

“I think she pities me,” Steve said without missing a beat.

“She likes you,” Lena corrected, nudging him with her elbow. “She’s trying to help you to look cool.”

“She’s doing the Lord’s work.” Bucky teased, reaching across Lennie to mess up his hair.

“Shut up,” Steve muttered, smacking his hands away, but the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth gave him away.

“Point is, it’s this weekend. I thought maybe we could check it out.” Steve continued, bumping his shoulder into Lena's for good measure. 

“And if we get caught?” She questioned, noticing how they weren't factoring in this vital point. 

“We can blame Bucky,” Steve shrugged his skinny shoulders, laughing. Everyone thought Steve was such a goody two shoes, that he was always on the right side of the law.

Meanwhile, Lena and Bucky would say otherwise. Half of the stupid things they did were because of Steve. He was small and unassuming but he was the real trouble maker of the group. Sure, he didn't like bullies, people who pushed others around, people who took advantage or hurt anyone. 

But victimless crimes? Such as sneaking into picture shows, hitching a free ride on a trolley, and apparently illegal speakeasys for a bit of fun were right up his alley.

“Thanks a lot, punk,” Bucky muttered. He looked at Lena, the corner of his mouth twitching. He was truly no better than Steve though. “What d’you think, Lennie? Feel like getting kicked out of someplace fancy?”

Lena should’ve said no, should have been the lone responsible one. They’d already been skating the line lately, hopping trolleys without paying, sneaking into the movies, but her blood thrummed a little faster at the idea. Maybe it was the warmth of the air or the memory of Bucky’s hand in hers at the dance the week before. Maybe it was just wanting to live a little. 

Each of them carried different responsibilities. 

Bucky helped supplement his parents income, sacrificing his time to watch his sisters so his mother could take on more work. He was always on the lookout for ways to make make extra cash and take some weight off his parents’ shoulders.

Steve, who was sick all the time, carried the quiet burden of trying not to burden his single mother, or his friends, any more than he already did. Worrying about if this will be the cold, or asthma attack that takes him out. 

And Lena, who had spent the last seven years raising herself. For taking over for her long dead mother, watching as her father worked himself to the bone to barely afford to pay their rent. 

“Only if you’re buying me a drink.” She shrugged, eyes dancing with mischief.

Steve nearly tripped over the curb. “Absolutely not.”

Apparently he drew the line at underage, illegal drinking. 

They had decided they would go the following evening, give themselves enough time to prepare, or rather find a way to make Steve look older. Lena and Bucky were tall enough, their faces slimming out as they reached teen years. Steve was a little harder, with his slight skinny frame. 

The Barnes’ invited both Steve and Lena over for dinner which was a loud affair as usual but it meant that no one was really listening to what they were talking about. 

As long as Steve and Bucky kept their faces from looking too guilty for Mrs. Barnes to notice. 

It also meant that while Lena regaled his sisters (and truthfully his father who was listening in from the kitchen as he helped clean up) with her Licho story, Steve and Bucky snuck back into his parents room, pilfering some of his father's lesser worn shirts to wear. Bucky even remembered to snag his dad's old work jacket that were too small, hoping it'd help Steve look a little more built.

It was dark out by the time they carved out a rough plan for the next night, each unreasonably excited about potentially getting into a lot of trouble.

“I wish you could stay,” Alice whined, her dark eyes flashing over to their mother. “I want to hear more stories!” 

“Me too!” Ruthie huffed, hugging Lena around the middle.

“I'll tell you more stories next I come over, I promise.” Lena laughed good naturedly hugging each of his sisters while Steve pulled his jacket on.

“Nuh-uh, Jimmy hogs you the whole time.” Alice rolled her eyes, aiming a swift kick at her older brother which he just barely managed to dodge. Lena had to hide her laugh behind her hand, knowing how much Bucky hated being called Jimmy but let his sisters do it anyway.

“Go on and walk them home,” Mrs. Barnes nodded to Bucky, motioning for him to put on his coat. Now the sun was gone, the evenings carried a chill. “Too dangerous for you two to be walking alone.” 

“But it's fine for me to walk home by myself?” Bucky scoffed at his mother, a cheeky grin in place as he shoved on his shoes. 

“Hush.” Mrs. Barnes swatted him and waved them out of the house. 

The door clicked behind them, and as usual, Bucky positioned himself against the street, with Lena in between him and Steve, their arms looped together. 

“Do you really think we'll be able to get in?” Lena asked after a beat. They were able to get away with a lot but this seemed like more work than Steve sneaking them in through the fire entrance.

“Probably not.” Steve snorted, with a laugh. Sometimes Lena questioned if Steve had some kind of death wish. 

“Fun trying though,” Bucky chimed in after him a laugh of his own. He looked over at Lena, more excited at the opportunity to hear her sing again. “Jesus Lennie, didn't you bring a coat?”

“It wasn't cold earlier!” 

Without a word, Bucky pulled the group to a stop, shrugging out of his coat and slipping it around her shoulders. 

“I don't know who's gonna kill me first, you or Steve.”

“Leave me out of this. I'm wearing my coat.” 

“A jacket doesn't keep you from running your mouth, Steve.”

“Bucky, you're gonna freeze without your jacket on.” 

“I'll survive.”

Bucky and Steve picked up their bickering, leaving Lena to slip her arms through the sleeves of Bucky's coat, a small smile on her face. 

They dropped Steve off at the front door of his apartment on the second floor, with Bucky insisting on walking Lena up to the third floor to her door. 

“What song do you think you'll sing if we manage to get in?” Bucky asked, leaning against the door frame as Lena unlocked the door. 

“Hm. I don't know. Maybe something by Libby Holman. I haven't thought about it.” She shrugged, popping open the door and making a move to take off Bucky's jacket to give back. 

“Keep it.” 

Her hand froze where it rested on the top button of his coat, heart skipping in a way she was still learning to understand. 

Before she could respond, Bucky's lips were pressed against her cheek, pulling the door closed as he turned to leave.

“And think about what song you're gonna sing. I'm getting you in there, sweetheart.” 

The three of them met up for the evening at Steve's to get ready, just after sundown, nerves buzzing with anticipation. The warm spring breeze had returned, rustling through the alleys and whispering promises of trouble. The sun had barely disappeared beyond the rooftops, painting the sky with streaks of orange and pink, the kind of dusky light that made everything feel like a secret.

They’d done their best with Steve.

Bucky had stuffed the toes of Steve’s shoes with balled-up newspaper to give him an extra inch of height, then layered him in one of his dad’s old button-downs, sweater and a slightly-too-big jacket, sleeves rolled at the cuffs to make it look intentional. Lena had slicked back his hair with a dab of pomade from her papa’s drawer and even smudged a bit of charcoal under his chin for the faintest illusion of stubble.

“You look ridiculous,” Bucky said, squinting at him.

“I look older,” Steve retorted, adjusting the collar of his shirt like it was scratchy. “And it’s working.”

“You look like you’re wearing three people’s clothes at once,” Lena said, but her grin was fond.

“You better pray they let us in, ‘cause if they don’t, I’m blaming your tailoring.”

“Blame Mr. Barnes’ clothes,” Lena shrugged. “I’m just going along to sing.”

She looked the part, too.

She’d traded in her usual wool skirts and stockings for something Henny had helped her find, a silky navy dress borrowed from a cousin, with a scalloped neckline and a hem that flirted with her knees. Her dark waves were pinned at the sides, soft waves trailing down her back, and she’d painted her lips a daring deep red.

Bucky hadn’t stopped looking at her since she showed up.

He’d dressed the part too, slick hair, dark slacks with cuffs rolled at the ankle, suspenders, and a fitted shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbow. He looked like trouble and knew it, hands in his pockets, a smirk ready to go.

Together, they looked like they belonged to some version of adulthood they were only pretending to understand.

The butcher shop was tucked between two shuttered storefronts on a quieter street near the docks. Its windows were dark, but the soft thump of bass vibrated through the sidewalk. They slipped through the front door without hesitation, passing rows of hanging meat and a bored-looking kid barely older than them, flipping through a newspaper behind the counter.

“Back room,” the boy said without looking up, clearly recognizing the code phrase Steve had been repeating under his breath all afternoon.

The hallway beyond the butcher’s was narrow and dim, and at the end was a solid wooden door. No handle. Just a knock slot.

Bucky rapped twice.

The slot slid open. A pair of eyes glinted from within. “Password?”

“Liberty sent us,” Steve blurted.

A pause. Then the door creaked open just enough to let them in.

Either they didn't care that they were underage, or Lena had done a better job than she thought. 

They were hit immediately with a wave of warmth, jazz curling through the smoky air, the scent of whiskey and sweat and perfume thick in the room. The speakeasy was half-hidden in shadow, lanterns hanging low and casting flickering gold across velvet booths and the makeshift stage at the far end.

No one paid them much attention. A card game was happening in one corner, two women laughed over a bottle of gin, and a trio of musicians tuned their instruments, filling the room with a low hum of potential.

Bucky leaned in close to Lena’s ear, his breath warm. “Told you I’d get you in.”

She shivered as the warmth washed over her ear, her eyes on the stage ahead. Lena scoffed and lightly elbowed him. 

“Technically, Steve got us in.” 

They stood there for a moment, feeling out of place until Steve jerked his head over to an empty booth, tucked in a corner. 

“Bucky, you look the oldest, you should go order.” Lena nudged him, digging out a few coins from the embroidered clutch that once belonged to her mother. 

“What should I order?” He pocketed the coins, glancing around trying not to look as paranoid as he felt. 

“Isn't that pushing it?” Steve muttered, who did look slightly older under the dim lights. 

“This was your idea, Rogers.” Lena kicked him under the table. “Just go get something Buck.” She gave him a little shove from the booth. 

They watched, holding their breath as Bucky sauntered over to the bar, and exchanged their coins for three drinks. 

“Tom Collins for us and a Bees's Knees for the lady,” he set the drinks down in front of them, the picture of a cocky teenager who escaped notice.

At least for now. 

“Don't ask me what's in them, I was too nervous to ask.” 

They all laughed at that and hesitantly picked up their glasses. Lena eyed Steve over the rim, eyes sliding over to Bucky as she took her first sip. 

It wasn't the best thing she ever tasted. The cheap bootleg liquor burned her throat but there was a sweetness of honey that followed, soothing the burn. 

Steve sputtered slightly as he sipped, his eyebrows knitting. Bucky laughed before taking a swig from his glass, before wincing a bit himself. 

“Mine is pretty good, want to try?” Lena extended her glass to Bucky who traded her. She watched as he pulled the glass to his mouth, his lips slotting over the red lipstick stain she left behind.

“Much better,” Bucky agreed, also laughing at the look on Lennie's face as she tried the Tom Collins, taking her choking sip as a result of his drink.

They lingered in the booth, letting the music and slight buzz of their drinks wash over them. The band had picked up now as an older woman, in her fine silk green dress stepped up to stage. She spoke to them in a whisper before taking her place, a low sultry trumpet line weaving into a steady bass line that had their feet tapping under the table filled the room. The woman swayed as she sang, her raspy voice curling like smoke up to the ceiling beams. 

“She's good,” Lena watched with a keen eye, chin propped up in one hand, in clear admiration. 

“You're better,” Bucky didn't hesitate, the compliment spilling out without thinking. She blinked at him, a smile creeping up on her lips. “Well, I mean, we've both heard you sing.” He added quickly, gesturing between himself and Steve.

Steve only bit back a grin, and sipped his drink, wisely staying out of it. 

The song ended and the woman took a half bow to a polite applause from the crowd. She turned and spoke to the pianist in a quiet murmur before stepping down from the stage. 

“Looks like we got time for one or two more songs before the boss lady calls it a night,” he announced to the crowd, looking over the top of his piano. “Any takers?”

Immediately both Steve and Bucky whip their heads around to stare at Lena, with begging eyes. 

“I don't know,” she said immediately before they could open their mouths. She was enjoying the evening and didn't want to draw attention to them.

“C'mon, you said you would.” Bucky tilted his head at her. 

“I said, maybe.” 

“Don't you want to?” Steve pushed, his tone not teasing, just curious. “You're always humming and stuff. You should let us hear it for once.” 

Lena looked between the two of them, Bucky's eyes were warm and steady. Steve looked hopeful. They weren't pressuring her but nudging, giving her a moment…if she wanted it. 

“I don't know what song I'd do,” she hummed, feeling her heart begin to thump. 

“You thought about Libby Holman, didn't you?” Bucky offered. 

Lena considered for a second, biting her lip but grabbed her glass, draining the last of it in one go. 

“Oh man,” Steve muttered but didn't stop as she slid out of the booth, hands smoothing over her dress like she always did when she was nervous.

Bucky stood up with her, moving towards her like he was going to make a move but settled instead for a light hand against her shoulder.

“Knock ‘em dead Lennie.”

She smiled and made her way up to the stairs, nervous but her steps were steady. She exchanged a few words with the pianist, who nodded, fingers moving to the right keys already. 

With a deep breath, Lena turned back to the audience and stepped up to the microphone. The lights were warm against her face, the chatter of the other patrons quieting as the first notes of Moanin’ Low curled through the air. 

And she began to sing.

At first, her voice was soft.

Just a breath above the piano, a careful murmur that barely skimmed the edge of sound. Conversations slowed, like the whole room leaned forward to hear her. Even the bartender paused, halfway through wiping down a glass.

Lena stood there, one hand clutching the mic stand, the other hovering loose at her side. And then—

“Moanin’ low, my sweet man, I love him so…”

Her voice dropped into something heavier, louder. Richer. Like honey over thunder.

The effect was instant.

The piano player straightened in surprise, fingers smoothing out into the melody with reverence now. A couple sitting near the stage leaned in closer. 

“Though he's mean as can be…”

He’d heard her hum before. Heard her sing quietly while washing dishes or in the Barnes' kitchen when she thought no one was listening. But never like this. 

Bucky felt it in his chest like a punch. Not from the sound, though God, the sound of her voice made something ache behind his ribs, but from the feeling of it. The weight of her emotion. Like she was singing straight to him, or through him. 

Steve blinked hard beside him, not taking his eyes off her. “Holy hell…”

The room changed.

It was subtle, but unmistakable. The air had a charge to it now, humming like a held breath. Shadows seemed to lean toward her. 

“He's not true, he beats me too

What can I do?”

The note rang clear, shaking something loose in the room. Bucky’s knuckles were white where he gripped his glass, Steve watched her slack jawed. 

It was like Lena wasn’t just singing about heartbreak.

She was heartbreak.

A livewire of grief and love and longing so raw, it slipped beneath the skin of every person there.

“Lord above me, make him love me

The way he should…”

The last few words floated, haunting, desperate, beautiful. The pianist slowed to match her, and Lena let the final note tremble into stillness.

The silence afterward was so complete, so full, it felt like the world had stopped spinning.

And then. 

Applause.

Someone in the back whistled low and long, and the bartender muttered something that sounded like, “That girl’s got a devil in her lungs.”

Lena bowed her head, just once, her lips still parted, the ghost of a smile. She stepped off the stage, heart still racing. People were clapping, smiling, but she felt strangely hollow. Like she’d left more of herself up there than she meant to.

Her eyes immediately found Bucky’s through the crowd.

He looked like he might fall over.

Steve grabbed the edge of the table. “Okay,” he said, breathless. “Okay, so we should probably leave now.”

The celebratory moment was cut short by the appearance of a tall, burly man, who was glowering at Lena, not clapping. A look on his face that said he knew underage kids when he saw them. Steve's charcoal beard wasn't fooling him. 

“Who the hell let kids in here?” he barked, already pushing through the crowd.

“Oh shit,” Bucky hissed, sliding out of the booth, gripping Steve by his oversized jacket and hauled him out alongside him. He made a beeline for the stage, reaching up to grab Lena's hand so she could make the jump smoothly. 

They tore out of the room, Steve clumsily knocking over a chair on their mad dash out, barreling out of the front door, sure the bouncer was hot on their tail. 

“Split up!” Steve shouted as they broke out the door, taking a right. “The docks!” He ran as fast as his little legs could carry. An easy target for a vengeful bouncer, no doubt.

Bucky didn't drop Lena's hand, pulling her along as they took left, tearing down a narrow alleyway. Their shoes crunched over broken glass, nearly tripping over damp bricks, laughter and adrenaline threatening to bubble up from their throats as they ducked and darted through well known short cuts to the docks. 

Lena's heart pounded, not just from their chase but the rush of it all. Their illegal drinks, the music, the spotlight, the way Bucky looked at her when she was finished singing. 

Distantly, she could hear the furious voice of the man who chased them, no doubt trying to figure out which way they had gone. Luckily for them, they had spent all their summers playing in these alleyways. 

Bucky yanked her around another corner, past the back entrance of their favorite bakery to the broken chain link fence. Ever the gentleman, Bucky yanked on it first, holding it open for Lena to duck under, cursing as the skirt of her dress caught. 

They didn't stop until they hit the old lumber yard, only a block away from the docks, the East River glistening in the moonlight. 

Bucky still tugged her around the corner, behind a tall stack of wooden pallets, giving them a moment to catch their breath. Both of them bent over at the waist, hands on their knees as they sucked in air, only to use it up with hysterical laughter. 

“That was…insane.” She wheezed, straightening up to look at him properly. 

“You were incredible.” Bucky said it like a fact. Not teasing or flirty. Just like it was the truest statement he had ever made.

Her eyes found him, his face barely lit by the moon overhead. There was something in his eyes, those blue expressive eyes of his. Something open and vulnerable.

Lena barely had time to process before they were moving together. He moved forward and she met him halfway. 

For the briefest moments, they looked at each other, careful and nervous. The buzz of all their almost moments building, swirling around them. 

Then it passed. 

Their first kiss wasn't soft or hesitant. It was everything they had been holding back from each other. Bucky's hands tangled in her dark hair, the pins holding it place falling to the floor. Her fingers twisted in the front of his buttoned shirt, certain the ground was moving under their feet. 

He kissed her like he meant it. Like he’d wanted to forever. Like he didn’t care who saw or how fast her heart raced against his own.

When they finally broke apart, Lena’s lips were kiss-bruised and her breath came in shallow gasps. Her forehead pressed against his.

“I was gonna wait, until I walked you home,” Bucky said, voice rough. “I didn’t wanna mess this up.”

“You didn’t,” Lena whispered. “You didn’t mess anything up.”

Their hands were still clasped between them. She could feel his pulse pounding in time with hers. For all the times she imagined this moment before, Lena was grateful her mind was blissfully blank as they stood together, their breath mingling. 

Off in the distance, they heard a voice: “Len? Buck? That you?”

Steve.

“We’re gonna be in so much trouble.” Lena couldn't help the quiet laugh that bubbled up out of her mouth. If Steve realized they were kissing instead of finding him, he would never shut up about it.

“Worth it,” Bucky whispered, brushing a thumb across her cheek.

There was a clatter as a hunched figure tripped over a trash can into their sight, catching themselves just in time. 

“Ow! Damn it—guys?!”

As much as Lena wanted to go back to kissing, she reluctantly pulled away from Bucky, gesturing for him to wipe her smudged lipstick from his mouth. 

“Over here Stevie, are you okay?” 

Steve finally limped over to them, red-faced and slightly breathless, adjusting the too-big collar of his jacket. His cap was askew and there was a fresh scuff on one knee.

“What happened to you?” Bucky asked, grinning as he helped steady him.

“I went right like I said,” Steve panted, “but I doubled back when I heard the guy shouting. Hid in a barrel behind that fish stand on Orchard.”

Lena winced. “Steve.”

“It was either that or let him catch me! I heard him go stomping off the other way, cursing,” Steve huffed. “I waited a few minutes and then started looking for you two.”

Bucky clapped him on the shoulder. “Proud of you, Houdini.”

“What were you two doing?” His eyes narrowed, receptive as ever to the shifting energy between them. 

“Getting lost,” Lena said quickly, straightening her dress and ignoring the way Bucky was trying not to smile. “We were about to come find you.”

“Uh-huh.” Steve clearly didn’t buy it, but let it go, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Nice pipes, by the way.”

“Thanks, Stevie.” Lena bumped his arm affectionately. “Let’s go home before someone calls the cops.”

The streets were quiet as they walked, shoes scuffing the sidewalk, the excitement of the night settling into a warm, tired buzz between them. If Steve noticed that Bucky and Lena were still holding hands, he decided not to bring attention to it.

Steve yawned into his shoulder. “Ma’s gonna kill me if she finds out we snuck out.”

“She won’t,” Bucky said, confident. “Besides, she'd kill me first. Then Lena. Then you.”

“Oh good, as long as we’ve got a system,” Lena murmured, suppressing a yawn.

They reached their building, the stairs creaking under their feet as they climbed toward the second floor.

Lena paused halfway up. “Papa’s home,” she said quietly, spotting the light peeking out from under her front door. “I can’t sneak in like this. I’ll wake him.”

Steve didn’t hesitate. “You can stay with us.”

“I don’t want to impose—”

“C’mon,” he cut her off. “You know my Ma won't care. Besides, you’ll get breakfast.”

That sealed it.

Bucky opened the door to the Rogers’ apartment, Steve squeezing past him to rifle for the spare pillow in the closet. The familiarity of the place wrapped around her like a blanket, the cozy clutter, the scent of chamomile soap and old books, the comforting creak of floorboards beneath her heels.

She washed her face with cold water at the kitchen sink, watching as the last traces of her make-up swirled away. In the mirror above the counter, she caught her own reflection, caught the curve of her mouth, still kissed-red, and the gleam in her eyes that hadn’t been there this morning.

Later, she curled up on the floor next to Steve’s narrow bed, her borrowed pillow smelling faintly like Mrs. Rogers’ lavender sachets. Bucky lay on the cot across the room, his arm flung over his eyes, trying to sleep.

She turned her face to the ceiling, the sounds of the city soft outside the window.

For a few quiet seconds, none of it felt real. Not the jazz, not the lipstick, not the kiss that still hummed against her lips.

Maybe this was all a very elaborate dream she had cooked up and she'd wake up in the morning disappointed. But Steve's soft snores made her eyelids start to droop, and she didn't think she'd be able to fall asleep in her own dream. 

And Lena let herself fall asleep, smiling. 

Chapter Text

the original sinner 

RED HOOK, BROOKLYN - SPRING 1932

The sun was still high in the sky, by the time Steve and Lena left the library, weighed down by their books. It was still early yet, the sun casting a sleepy golden hue over the streets of Red Hook, but most of its residents were already up and bustling. Kids on stoops, vendors pushing their carts, drying laundry strung between buildings, fluttering in the breeze like flags.

They had gotten up early, to enjoy the library before anyone else could show up en masse. To kill some time until Bucky finished his morning shift on the docks with his father.

Lena walked in step with Steve, her arms too full to loop through his as usual. Their arms full, hers with a warm paper bag of bagels, his with a precarious tower of borrowed books. The library had been unusually quiet for a Saturday, save for a squabbling baby and Steve's furious pencil scribbling as he sketched in the margins of a newspaper. 

“You're going to drop those,” Lena teased gently, pausing only to slip her books into her worn messenger bag, leaving her other hand free to eat her bagel.

Steve shot her a sideways glance, adjusting his grip on his books defiantly, struggling to take a bite from his own bagel, leaving crumbs on his face. 

“I am not. Plus, you're only carrying about half the amount of books I am.”

“Quality, not quantity Stevie.” She huffed back at him, resisting the urge to snatch some of his books while he ate. “And you have crumbs on your face.”

He made a noise of annoyance, his mouth too full of bagel to argue back or even swat her hand away as Lena reached over and brushed away the crumbs on his cheeks.

“Plus, I'll actually finish all my books.” 

“I'll remember that when I save you from embarrassing yourself in history class after I read all of my books.” Steve swallowed his bite and shot back, a wide grin on his face. 

Before he nearly tripped over the overgrown sidewalk, nearly costing him his shin and two books, Lena's hand shot out and caught him, steadying him on his skinny ankles. 

“Thanks,” Steve said sheepishly, his cheeks flushing as he readjusted his grip on his stack of history books. “What would I do without you, Len?” 

“Probably bust open your chin, and bleed all over your books,” Lena answered quickly, a warm affectionate smile on her face, despite her teasing. Truthfully she didn't know what she'd do without Steve, not the other way around. 

She kept walking, only to stop short a second later when she realized Steve wasn't in sync with her. He was a few paces behind, staring ahead, his eyes narrowed, his mouth formed a perfect O as he surveyed the scene in front of them. 

Two older boys, probably a grade above Bucky, cornered a small boy, Lena recognized him as one of Becca's friends. They shoved him roughly against a brick wall, knocking his bag out of his hands. 

“Steve,” her voice came out as a warning. She knew that look on his face. Steve wasn't hard to read and Lena knew better than anyone that he was preparing himself for a beating for the sake of saving another kid. 

“Hold these for me, would ya Len?” Steve asked, passing over his books, his jaw set in determination. He didn't wait for her to say anything before taking off, his small skinny legs carrying him surprisingly fast across the street. 

“Hey! Leave that kid alone!” His voice bellowed out, sounding much larger than he actually was. Lena hesitated only for a moment, enough to sling her bag over her shoulder and take off running behind Steve. 

She couldn't just stand there and watch him get his behind kicked. Her dark waves flew behind her as she ran across the street, just in time to see Steve take a fist to the stomach. 

“Get out of here!” Lena shouted at the younger boy, watching as he scrambled to pick up the papers that fell from his bags.

Steve let out a grunt of pain, pushing himself up to his feet, instead of just staying down for once, leaving Lena to watch in horror as the other bully reared his fist back, aiming for Steve's face. 

“Oy!” She shouted again, trying to draw their attention away from Steve. She wasn't in much better shape than Steve to take a punch, she was just as gangly and skinny, just taller. She really wished Bucky was here. 

The two boys turned towards her, sparing Steve a punch to the face and giving him enough time to throw his body at the smaller of the two bullies, grappling him to the ground. 

Lena was forgotten again, forced to watch the boy she loved as her brother get beat up by two much bigger kids. 

With a wail of anger, she wretched her bag full of library books off of her shoulder and started viciously whacking and beating the larger of the boys with it.

“Get! Off! Of! Him!” Each word was punctured by a solid hit from her bag against his back, shoulders, even the back of his head.

For a moment, there were no words, just grunts of pain and yelling before the older teens decided it was no longer worth it, scrambling to get to their feet to escape Lena's furious beating and Steve's scrappy fists. 

Lena dropped her messenger bag at her feet, her hair frizzy and askew around her head, panting heavily. Steve was hunched over, his nose bleeding, his lip split, hands on his knees as he wheezed. 

“Thanks,” he huffed and puffed, wiping his nose with his sleeve.

“No problem,” Lena panted right back, straightening up to collect some of the books that flew out of her bag in her attack. Her hands shook slightly as she shifted them back into her bag, the adrenaline from protecting Steve slowly seeping out of her. 

“Come on, we oughta get you cleaned up Steve. If your mama comes home to you looking like this, she's gonna have a fit.” Lena slung her strap back over her shoulder, scooping up the rest of Steve's books. Her arm looped through his, this time, his other hand held diligently to his nose to stem the bleeding. 

The pair hobbled back to their tenement building together, back to Steve's apartment. Lena took a cool washcloth to Steve's lip, wiping his face clean of blood. 

“One of these days you're gonna pick a fight you can't win, Steve.” She lectured him lightly as she dabbed at the split.

“That's why I have you and your bag of books,” Steve shot back instantly, the both of them knowing there was never going to be a day where Steve sat back and let something bad happen. “Who knew reading could be so deadly? Bet those boys will start shaking every time they go past the library.”

Lena cocked an eyebrow at him, not tricked by his slick talking tactics to distract her from him nearly getting beaten up badly.

“You’re lucky I like you so much, Rogers.”

“Aw, just admit you'd be bored without me,” Steve teased gently, wincing slightly at the sting of the cloth.

“More like I'd finally get some peace and quiet,” Lena shot back softly, unable to hide her affectionate smile.

They both grinned at each other and finished cleaning up the bathroom, before retreating back outside, a book in hand for each of them. Bucky was due to get off from the docks soon, and they had taken to waiting on the stoop for him to come by. 

They settled next to each other, knees knocking. In the sunlight, Steve's face looked worse for wear but he didn't seem bothered by it. 

“You know Buck is gonna have a field day when he sees my face.”

“He'll probably just ask who threw the first punch, and then threaten to finish them off for us.” 

“Nah. Not when he finds out you jumped in. He'll probably lecture about dragging you into my fights.” Steve shrugged his shoulders good naturedly, watching the bashful look that creeped up on Lena's face. 

She wasn't always the easiest to read, but Steve could do a pretty good job these days. And he recognized that look in her eye, had grown uncomfortably aware of it over the last year. It only seemed to make an appearance whenever Bucky was brought up. 

“Speaking of Bucky,” he started, edging a bony elbow into her side, watching her face carefully. Sure, he had been there when Bucky kissed her at her Bat mitzvah, and had been third wheeling ever since, but it was never anything that Lena and Steve talked about.

It seemed to be the one subject that neither of them wanted to bring up to each other. Despite Steve's ability to tease Bucky in private about Lena, he couldn't quite bring himself to tease her. It was just an unspoken thing. 

“You two ever plan on talking to each other or will you just keep making eyes at each other until we're all dead?” 

Lena stilled, her fingers twisting around each other in her lap as she considered what Steve said. It's not like her and Bucky were exactly subtle, especially in the days that have passed since they kissed. 

But no. They hadn't really talked, just snuck glances at each other, held hands after they dropped Steve off at his apartment and Bucky had taken to kissing her cheek whenever he left her at her door.

And she certainly never talked to Steve about it. It seemed like that was somehow crossing an invisible line. Bucky had been his best friend longer than hers, and Lena worried about talking about it with Steve would somehow make it weird between the three of them. 

“Wouldn't it be easier if we just did the eyes thing?” She joked after a minute of silence. 

“Not for me!” Steve chuffed, elbowing her again. “I dunno if I can handle much more of you two. Back and forth.” He teased, knowing the only way he was going to break through to his sister was through humor. “I'd rather you both just kiss and get it over with.” 

“Well…” Lena started, a shy smile creeping up on her face. 

“Oh I knew it! While I was jumping in barrels, you two were being sweet on each other.” 

“It just happened, it's not like we planned it!”

“So you're telling me that Bucky kissed my sister, and hasn't even asked her to go steady?” Steve countered in mock outrage. Lena blinked at the word, heart twisting in a way she didn’t expect.

A beat of silence fell over them again as Lena considered what he said, and Steve worried if he said the wrong thing. 

“You really think of me like your sister?” Lena asked tentatively, bumping her shoulder back into his. 

“Of course I do!” Steve was surprised that's the thing she got hung up on. He thought it was obvious how he thought of her but then he remembered how long she and Bucky were dancing around each other. Maybe Lena needed more reassurance than he realized. 

“Seriously Len, I love you like my sister. Ever since you slugged Jack in the gut for me.” 

That broke the moment, making a sharp peal of laughter bubble out of Lena, reminding her that before she could even speak English, she would beat a bully up for Steve. 

“You're my brother too.” She said softly after she stopped laughing, leaning over to kiss his cheek. 

“Then do me a favor, sis,” Steve beamed. “Put Bucky out of his misery and tell him how you feel. You two are killing me.” 

Lena laughed again, dropping her head to Steve's shoulder. “I just don't want things to be weird between us.” She felt lighter somehow, like a weight she'd been carrying around quietly had finally eased. Maybe Steve was right. Maybe they really had been making this harder than it needed to be.

“Lena,” he groaned in disbelief. “It's already been weird.” 

“Not that weird.”

“Yes, that weird.”

“You're being dramatic, Stevie.”

“And you're being stubborn.”

They exchanged a playful glare before breaking into soft laughter, the bickering dissolving as quickly as it started.

Lena leaned comfortably into Steve's side, feeling more at ease now that awkward tension had finally been aired out. Her eyes drifted down the street, basking in the sun like a cat in a sunbeam. Steve, meanwhile, had taken back to his book, absentmindedly leafing through the pages, occasionally glancing over at Lena with a smile.

It wasn't long until they heard the familiar footfalls of boots on the ground, steady and secure as Bucky approached them. Her heart thumped in her chest at the sight of him, straightening up instantly, and moving to push her hair back off her shoulders. 

“Shut up,” she hissed at Steve and that stupid knowing look on his face. 

“Alright,” Bucky's tired voice cut across their bickering, his dark hair tousled from his day of work. Lena couldn't help but appreciate how handsome he looked. “Who am I punching for you and why now?” He may have sounded tired but there was amusement in his voice. 

“No need this time, Lena was extremely deadly with her bag of books.”

Lena had to laugh as Bucky's eyebrows shot up his forehead, and looked at her in confusion. “Don't ask, spur of the moment.” 

“I gotta get some ice for my nose, I'll tell ya all about it Buck.” Steve pushed himself up, giving Lena a very pointed look (and a very subtle nudge to her shoulder with his foot) before turning and trekking up the stairs. 

With Steve's back turned, Bucky swooped in, stealing his spot and planting a kiss on Lena's cheek in one fluid motion. She blushed a bright red, ducking her head, a pretty sight as far as Bucky was concerned. 

“You alright? You better not have gotten hurt on behalf of Steve,” he teased. 

“No. Well my hand hurts from swinging my bag,” she shrugged, enjoying seeing Bucky's face fold in with confusion. 

“I don't think I wanna know.” 

“Probably not.” She laughed, their shoulders brushing, making her heart thump wildly again, Steve's words of encouragement ringing in her ears.

“Are you sure you're okay?” Bucky pressed, picking up the shift in her mood.

“Just thinking,” she admitted honestly. 

“Should I be worried?” Bucky nudged her shoulder gently, his voice softening. 

“No,” she huffed a quiet laugh. “Well, maybe a little.” She teased but there was a current of truth in there. 

“What's wrong, Lennie?” His eyebrows furrowed slightly, eyes flickering with genuine concern. 

Bucky watched as she shifted in her spot, fingers smoothing down her skirt. Then she pursed her lips, opened her mouth to say something but closed it before she could. 

Lena peered up at Bucky, a good natured smile on his face as he waited for her to spit it out. Her heart raced faster, her nerves and his smile working against her. “Do.. do you think things will change?” She bit her bottom lip, chewing at the skin anxiously. “With Steve….and us?” 

Bucky paused, carefully studying her face. His expression softened into something warmer, understanding exactly what she meant. “Lennie, are you worried about us messing up our friendship?”

She nodded slowly, fiddling nervously with the edge of her skirt again. “It’s always been the three of us, Buck. What if we...what if it ruins everything?”

“Hey, Len. Look at me.” Bucky coaxed her gently, reaching over to still her anxious hands. “It's not like you twisted my arm into kissing you. I just…didn't before cause I wasn't sure you felt the same way.” His voice was steady and sincere. “But I want you to be my girl, Lennie.”

Warm blossomed in her chest, the heat reaching to her cheeks as Lena's eyes shot up to meet his, dark and unguarded. 

“You mean it?” 

“Of course I do,” Bucky insisted, full of sincerity but also mock offense. “Steve is my best friend and you're– you're different, special. I don't want to lose either of you,” he paused, taking a steadying breath, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “I really don't think that will happen.” 

The worries she had been carrying around, doubts of losing her friendship with Steve, ruining things with Bucky if she ever acknowledged how she felt, slowly melted away. Bucky didn't think it would happen. Steve made his feelings very clear about the two of them. 

Why was she holding back? 

She squeezed his hand gently, comforted at how naturally her fingers intertwined with his. “Steve pretty much said the same thing.”

“Trust Rogers to be right every once in a while.” Bucky laughed, squeezing her hand back. “You know it's bad when even he's tired of us dragging our feet.” 

“Maybe we're just really good at taking our time?” She laughed, meeting his eyes again, the doubt gone. 

“Maybe,” Bucky echoed gently, brushing his thumb over her knuckles again. “But I’d rather be slow with you than fast with anyone else.”

Her heart skipped slightly at that, a shy smile spreading across her lips. “Good answer, Barnes.”

He leaned closer, bumping their shoulders affectionately again. “I know. I practiced it all morning.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Yeah, but you still like me.” His grin was wide, confident, teasing, but his eyes were filled with genuine warmth as the tension melted away. 

“Yeah,” Lena said softly, leaning closer to him, her voice just above a whisper. “I really do.” 

Bucky met her halfway, their hands still intertwined, the kiss sweet and delicate.

Which is exactly how Steve found them a minute later. 

“Do you two need another minute? I can go and pretend to get more ice. Maybe hire a marching band to warn you when I'm coming.” 

Chapter Text

but soon you'll know 

CONEY ISLAND, NEW YORK - SUMMER 1932

It was supposed to be a date.

Bucky had been saving for weeks, hoarding nickels, picking up extra shifts on the docks, just so he could take Lena to Coney Island. Alone. Just the two of them.

But then Steve’s ma got called into work. And Bucky couldn’t very well leave Steve at home by himself on a perfect summer weekend, not without feeling like a heel. Not like Lena would let him leave him behind either.

So, he invited him,.under strict orders to bug off for a while so Bucky and Lena could maybe salvage a little alone time.

It wasn’t ideal. But it was something.

Then that morning, before Bucky even had both eyes open, his own ma was begging him to take his sisters out of the house. She had a mountain of skirts and dresses to hem, and Becca, Alice, and Ruth were driving her up the wall.

She didn’t know he was trying and failing to plan a real date.

She did know he and Lena were going steady, though. She’d been over the moon since finding out, already inviting Lennie over for dinner like she was part of the family. Bucky didn’t mind. Not one bit.

Still, this was supposed to be special.

But when Ma pressed a few extra coins into his hand, gave him that tired look only mothers can pull off, what was he supposed to say? No?

That’s how he ended up rounding up Becca, Alice, and Ruth, then trudging over to the tenement where Steve and Lena were waiting, with a plan for a date that had already turned into something else entirely. 

He was already grumbling to himself by the time they turned the corner onto Lennie’s block, Becca complaining that her hair was too frizzy, Alice was whining that she couldn't bring her doll (to the beach!), and Ruth swinging her arms like she was warming up for a boxing match.

Maybe he could just postpone the date to a different day and he could wring his sister's necks elsewhere.

And then he saw her.

Waiting just outside the tenement steps, shielding her eyes from the sun with one hand, her braid slipping over one shoulder, wearing that soft yellow dress he liked so much, the one that made her look like sunlight had a favorite.

Lennie was talking to Steve, laughing at something he said, but her eyes flicked up the moment Bucky approached. And just like that, all the irritation evaporated like steam off the sidewalk.

“Hey, Бука,” she called, grinning as she spotted the parade of siblings trailing behind him. “You pick up a fan club on the way here?”

Bucky rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop the stupid grin crawling up his face.

“Don’t start,” he said, but his voice was already softening. “Ma hijacked our date. You gonna hold it against me?”

Lena shook her head, coming down the steps to meet them, her smile bright and easy. “Not today.”

Bucky caught her hand as soon as she was close enough, squeezing it like it might ground him. And honestly, it did.

Because sure, this wasn’t the date he’d planned.

But with her fingers laced in his, the sun on his back, and Ruth already trying to convince Steve to buy her cotton candy, it was hard to be mad about anything at all.

They had made quite the show, Bucky's hand in hers and the girls fighting over who got to hold his other hand and who got to hold Steve's. Lena tried not to let it hurt her feelings that neither Alice or Ruth wanted to hold her hand.

Bucky made a big show of paying for his sisters’ tolls for the train as Steve and Lena deftly slipped the turnstiles to save a few extra coins. 

The boardwalk buzzed with laughter and music, seagulls circling ahead, ready to dive down and snatch french fries from any poor unsuspecting soul. Lena's sandals slapped lightly against the warm boardwalk, her fingers interlaced with Bucky's, swinging gently between them. 

Up ahead, the Barnes sisters circled Steve. Ruth was insistent that Steve could in fact carry her on his shoulders if he just tried hard enough. Alice was begging to ride on the tilt-a-whirl, like it was a life or death decision. Becca, the practical one, was pushing to ride the ferris wheel, while making not so subtle eyes at Steve. 

Lena nudged Bucky in the ribs, gesturing to the scene ahead. 

“Told you, you owe me cotton candy.”

“I was going to get you cotton candy anyways,” Bucky rolled his eyes, refusing to acknowledge anything that involved his little sister having a crush on anyone. 

“Steve is in denial just as much as you.” Lena laughed, bumping her shoulder into Bucky's as they walked, definitely being steered towards the ferris wheel by Becca. 

“Because he knows you don't mess with your friend's sister. Even if said little sister is not subtle at all about her crush.” 

“Then Steve was okay with you asking me to go out with you?” Lena teased, a sweet smile creeping up on her face. 

“Doesn't count.” He muttered back, pausing for a moment to make sure his sisters weren't watching and ducked down to kiss her cheek. 

“Jimmy! We need money!” Becca called out, breaking the moment causing Bucky to sigh deeply. 

“I don't want to ride the ferris wheel!” Alice whined, stomping her foot, while Steve shot Bucky a wild eyed look that clearly said ‘please do something about your sisters.’

“Well I do! No one wants to go on the tilt-a-hurl!” Becca shot back, her blue eyes blazing as she glared at her little sister. 

“Alice, Becca is right. Lennie nearly barfed on that thing last time.” Bucky laughed while digging out the coins needed for the ferris wheel.

“I'm not getting on that!” Alice insisted, her bottom lip poking out in a pout.

“I don't wanna either! It's too scary!” Ruth agreed, tugging on Steve’s arm. “Can we get ice cream instead?”

“Sure, great idea Ruthie!” Bucky perked up immediately at the idea, happily passing over the bag of coins to Steve. This could be a moment for just him and Lena. 

Lena laughed as Bucky grabbed her hand and pulled her into line at the ferris wheel. 

“You better have brought enough for me!” Becca cut across her laughter, popping up behind Bucky's shoulder.

“Seriously Becca? You don't want ice cream?!” Bucky groaned, not understanding how this date kept going off the rails. 

“Oh yeah I do, but after.” Becca simply shrugged, squeezing herself between Bucky and Lena. “Momma just said I shouldn't leave you alone with Lennie.” 

The line was mercilessly short but to Bucky it felt like an eternity as he feverishly tried to think how to turn this back into a date rather than a babysitting gig.

Becca had managed to wedge herself between him and Lena, keeping him from even holding her hand if he wanted, which he very much wanted to do. 

Lena seemed unbothered, amused even as Becca rattled on, and on about who knows what. Bucky had tuned her out the second she decided to play chaperone. He was trying to think of a way that he could ditch his sister before she got into the car. 

“Don't,” Lena caught the look in his eye, silently laughing as she tried to guess whatever he was plotting. 

“Come on Lennie!” Becca took his girl's hand and drug her into the metal car, of course fitting herself in between them. 

Couldn't hold her hand, couldn't put his arm around her, couldn't even have his own special nickname without his sister stealing it. 

The ride lurched forward and the car swayed with the motion as the ferris wheel began its ascension. Becca leaned out the side, like a dog leaning out a window.p

“Look, you can see the The Thunderbolt from here!” She pointed dramatically. “Alice! Ruth! Steve!” Becca shouted as they were nearly half way up, waving enthusiastically at them on the ground. 

“Would you sit down?” Bucky grumbled, grabbing the back of her dress and pulling her back down with a protective arm. “Before you fall out and Ma grounds me for life.”

Lena couldn't help but laugh, she knew Bucky was frustrated with how the day had been going but truthfully she was having fun. The sun was warm on her skin and Bucky’s hand was even warmer in hers. 

Bucky watched as she drew her knees up, her pretty yellow dress fluttering delicately over her knees. They caught each other's eyes over Becca's head, a flustered look of annoyance on Bucky's face, and a soft, a little smug smile on Lena's lips. Enough for Bucky's stomach to do a little flip.

Having fun yet? Lena mouthed at him, her lips fully turned up now. 

Before Bucky could answer, Becca cut across him again. 

“Isn't that where you and Steve threw up after you ate too many hotdogs?” 

“BECCA!” 

Steve looked up from his ice cream cone just in time to see Becca halfway out of the ferris wheel car, waving like she was trying to flag down a plane. He couldn’t hear what she was shouting, but judging by the look on Bucky’s face, it wasn’t anything flattering.

“I think Becca’s embarrassing him,” Steve muttered around a bite of cone.

Alice, swinging her feet on the bench beside him, rolled her eyes dramatically. “Becca always embarrasses him. That’s her whole job.”

“She’s very good at it,” Steve agreed with a grin.

Ruth tugged on his sleeve, tiny hand sticky from her melting cone. “Can I get a second one?”

“You haven’t even finished the first one yet.”

She pouted, bottom lip quivering. “But I dropped it.”

“No, you licked the side off and then smeared it into your dress,” Alice corrected with the merciless tone of a ten-year-old with a younger sister. “That’s not dropping it, that's being dumb.”

“Is not!”

“Is too!”

Steve sighed, glancing heavenward like maybe the clouds would offer him divine intervention. He suddenly felt very thankful that he was an only child.

“Alright, alright,” he cut in before Ruth could unleash tears and Alice could unleash war. He pulled a few coins from his pocket, holding them out like a peace treaty. “Go get another cone, Ruthie. And get Alice one too, since she’s been so helpful.”

“I have?” Alice blinked, delighted, already forgetting the argument as she grabbed the money.

“Don’t run,” Steve called, but they were already off like shots.

He shook his head and chuckled, stretching his legs out on the bench and letting the boardwalk breeze ruffle his hair. From his spot, he could see the ferris wheel still turning, the sun catching on the metal spokes. Just barely, he could spot Bucky and Lena near the top, Becca stuck right between them like the world’s most committed third wheel.

He smiled to himself, watching as the ferris wheel reached the top.

The car swayed slightly, metal groaning beneath them.

Becca was suddenly quiet, gripping the bar a little tighter.

Bucky looked over, brow raised. “What’s the matter with you now?”

“I forgot it stops at the top,” Becca muttered, eyes wide and bravado gone.  

Lena reached around her, gently covering Becca’s hand with hers.

“Just don’t look down,” she said softly, voice soothing. And even though Bucky wasn't scared of heights, he felt his jagged edges from the day be soothed all the same. 

Becca didn’t answer, but she leaned just a little into Lena’s side, head on her shoulder.

Bucky caught the motion. His eyes softened.

Maybe the date wasn’t what he planned.

But it was better.

Because Lena wasn’t just his girl. She was part of the family now, even if that meant a third-wheel little sister who refused to budge.

Finally the ferris wheel started its rotation again, the closer they got to the ground, the more Becca pried herself off of Lena's shoulder and started yammering again. The ride groaned to a stop and Becca leapt from the car the second the latch popped open.

“I survived!” She exclaimed, skipping away from the ride as if she escaped her fate on the Titanic. 

Bucky and Lena both laughed, their fingers finding each other without thought as they climbed out behind her, following the path she cut to Steve and the girls. 

Down on the boardwalk, Ruth was spinning in a slow circle, her second cone long since forgotten, chanting: “I want a bear. I want a bear. I want a bear.”

Alice rolled her eyes dramatically. “You say that every time and never win.”

Steve just handed Bucky back his bag of coins and muttered, “You’re lucky I like you.”

“Don't I know it, pal.” Bucky muttered, patting Steve on the shoulder.

“Jimmy,” Ruth whined, only stopping her chant to stare up at her brother with wide eyes. “Will you win me a bear?”

Lena couldn't help but laugh at the exasperated look on Bucky's face. He desperately wanted to get her alone but he could never say no to his sisters. She watched as he dug around in the bag of change before giving Alice a sharp look.

“Did you two convince Steve to get more ice cream?” 

“It really didn't take a lot of convincing, Stevie just kinda offered.” Alice shrugged. 

“Well now, I only have enough for the fair home.” No getting Lena a cone to share, or sneaking back on the ferris wheel alone together. He could have wrung his sister's necks, no wonder his Ma wanted them out of the house. “I'm sorry Ruth, we can't win a bear today.”

Any notion of further conversation was immediately drowned out by Ruth's loud wail of anger and her stubborn refusal to accept a lack of a prize as she started up her chant again, louder than before. 

“Come on, Ruthie,” Steve sighed, gently ruffling her hair. “I’m sure we can find something smaller that I won’t have to mortgage my soul for.”

Ruth's pout deepened dramatically. Lena hid her smile behind her hand, exchanging an amused look with Bucky. Just as Bucky opened his mouth to offer whatever meager comfort he could muster, a bright voice cut through the noisy boardwalk behind them.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite trio!”

They all turned simultaneously, finding Henny Greenberg leaning against a nearby booth, arms crossed, eyes sparkling with amusement. Her dark hair was pinned back in soft waves, and she looked effortlessly put together as always. Lena’s face broke into a delighted smile, quickly releasing Bucky's hand to rush forward.

“Henny! I haven’t seen you in ages,” Lena exclaimed, wrapping her arms around the older girl. “Where’ve you been hiding?”

Henny squeezed her tightly, laughing softly. “Oh, you know, buried in books and practicing stitches. Nursing school's no joke, but I decided to take the weekend off from studying. My cousin ditched me for a boy.”

She glanced over Lena’s shoulder, catching Steve’s gaze, eyes narrowing playfully. “Hey, Rogers. How’s my favorite troublemaker doing?”

“Hanging in there, Hen. You look, uh, you look nice.” Steve blushed furiously, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

Henny laughed, a teasing lilt in her voice. “Still sweet-talking older women, huh? You’d make a fine boyfriend, Steve Rogers, if only you were a couple years older.” She winked, leaving Steve red-faced and spluttering as Bucky openly chuckled beside him.

Bucky nudged Steve, grinning wickedly. “Careful there, pal, or you'll combust.”

Steve shot him a glare, muttering something unintelligible under his breath.

Henny’s gaze shifted warmly to Lena, squeezing her shoulder gently. “And look at you, lemele! Getting prettier every time I see you. Hope Barnes is finally treating you right.” 

Lena smiled shyly, shooting a glance back at Bucky. “He’s doing alright so far.”

“Good,” Henny nodded approvingly before her eyes dropped to Ruth, now clutching Steve’s pant leg mournfully. “And who’s this little heartbreaker?”

Ruth blinked up at Henny with hopeful eyes, not bothering with introductions. “I want a bear. A big one.”

Henny arched an amused eyebrow, glancing at Bucky and Steve, who looked vaguely guilty and helpless all at once. “You mean to tell me these boys couldn’t get you that bear?”

Alice crossed her arms importantly. “Steve bought us extra ice cream instead.”

Henny snorted lightly, shaking her head in mock disappointment. “Typical. Lucky for you, sweetheart, I’m here now.”

She turned back toward the trio, smirking mischievously. “Alright kids, step aside. If your sister wants a bear, she’s getting a bear even if we gotta bend a rule or two.”

Bucky sighed dramatically, though his eyes twinkled with humor. “Please, Henny, don’t get us banned from Coney Island.”

“Relax, Barnes. What could possibly go wrong?” Henny patted his shoulder reassuringly.

Bucky raised an eyebrow skeptically at Lena, who simply smiled and shrugged, her eyes brightening at the mischief ahead. Both of them knowing plenty could go wrong.

He shook his head with resigned amusement. “This day just keeps getting better and better.”

“Too bad I never kept that bear that Tommy gave me last year. Could have given that to Ruth.” Lena teased, her hand finding Bucky's instantly. 

“No, something was seriously wrong with that one.” Bucky darkly, barely able to keep the jealousy out of his voice. 

“At least he managed to win it, Jimmy.” Lena teased, her fingers squeezing his. 

“Alright, alright.” Bucky conceded, swatting after her with his free hand. “What's the plan?”

The plan was simple. Steve and Bucky would approach the booth, argue with the guy running it, while Henny switched out the rigged rings. Lena would present herself as a legitimate customer, and win with the proper rings and her superior aim (she could hit Steve between his skinny shoulders with a paper ball from clear across the room). 

The Barnes sisters were aware some kind of trickery was going on but Bucky made a point to keep from sharing the exact nature of what they were doing, knowing his sisters were blabber mouths and one of them would try to blackmail him. 

Bucky and Steve were already at the counter of the booth, each chattering loudly and on top of each other, arguing over if it was really rigged or not, much to the attendants annoyance. The 

“You're chasing away all my customers!” He tried to shout over the boys, but they persisted, pausing only enough to keep him engaged. Lena hung just out of sight, standing with Bucky's sisters, pretending all was normal while she waited.

Waited for Henny to rejoin them, which she did, a few minutes later with a wide smile, Lena caught a glimpse of something small tucked back into Henny’s purse, and knew it had worked. Which was just in time because it looked like Steve and Bucky were on the verge of getting banned. 

Quickly, Lena slid up to the booth, before anyone else could get ahead of her and take advantage of the proper rings before she could. 

“Excuse me, some of us are actually good at this game and can win.” She cut across the boy's argument with a grin. 

“Yeah right!” Steve scoffed, for good measure even as the attendant gave him a dirty look. Lena made a big show of getting out her money and sliding it over. She grabbed her rings, testing them in her hands. Turning them over and acting like she was really inspecting them, taking it way too seriously. 

“Any day now sweetheart.” The man behind the booth rolled his eyes which earned him a dark glare from Bucky which he didn't notice. 

“Sure thing.” Lena grinned, and took a step back, eager more than ever to win that bear for Ruthie. 

One, two, three rings hit their marks. The fourth nearly missed, Lena getting too caught up in the showmanship of it all. But she tossed her last ring, whooping loudly as it caught the neck of a bottle. 

“Your biggest bear please!” Ruthie chirped happily at her elbow, her arms already outstretched for her prize. 

The man gave her a calculated disbelieving look before grabbing the bear and thrusting it in the younger Barnes arms. And before he could realize he had been ripped off, the group tore off into the crowd, laughing wildly at their win. 

Once the girls finished retelling Lena's victories, Henny very kindly offered to pay for everyone to take a turn on the carousel in triumph. 

Bucky seized the opportunity, grabbing Lena's hand last second and dragging her away, much to Henny's delight, judging by her laugh that followed them down off the boardwalk. 

The pair slipped from their shoes, hiding them carefully under the pier as the afternoon sun started to die. 

Lingering sun and warmth filtered through the wooden slats of the pier, the rush of gentle waves lapping at the sand as they walked hand by the waters edge. 

“Remember how we had to drag into the water last year?”

“You mean when you carried me out into the ocean and tried to drown me?” Lena countered quickly, her dark eyes cutting over to him, smiling despite her accusations.

“Can't believe you didn't trust me,” Bucky teased, shaking his head. “Thought I'd let you wash out to sea.”

“No, I definitely trusted you or there was no way you would have gotten me in the water. I just had to be difficult about it first.” Her laugh carried out over the water, drowning out the waves. 

“I thought you looked so pretty.” Bucky let out a wistful sigh before he caught himself. A flush creeped up into his cheeks and he had to look away quickly and clear his throat. 

“I looked like a drowned rat.” Lena had tugged them to a stop, moving so she was standing in front of him, her mouth twisted into a smile. The sun was radiant behind her, a halo of light washing her features. 

“A pretty drowned rat.” Bucky corrected, grateful that Lennie was tall and he didn't have to lean too far down to kiss her. It was a sweet kiss, shy at first. Cool ocean water lapped gently over their toes, unnoticed as his hand tightened at her waist, the fabric of her dress bunching under his fingers, as Lena's arms moved to wrap around his neck. 

The sound of the boardwalk disappeared, the only sound was the rushing of blood in their veins. 

Until it wasn't. 

“Ew, gross!” Becca’s shrill voice cut sharply through their moment, making Bucky pull back with a sigh. He turned his head reluctantly, seeing his sisters and Steve approaching, clearly having spotted them from the boardwalk.

He really couldn't win today.

Steve had a hand covering his eyes, a theatrically pained expression on his face. “You two realize there are kids here, right?” he called dramatically, lowering his hand just enough to flash them a teasing smirk.

“I don’t care, look at my bear!” Ruth shouted over him, oblivious to everything but her prize, waving it wildly in the air. “Lena, I took him on the carousel!” 

“I’ve got sand in my shoes!” Alice complained loudly, dramatically hopping from foot to foot. “We gotta go!” 

Lena laughed softly, resting her forehead briefly against Bucky’s shoulder. “Five minutes was too much to ask for, huh?” she murmured.

“With this crew?” Bucky chuckled, slipping an arm easily around Lena’s waist. “We were lucky we got thirty seconds.”

Steve finally dropped his hand, sighing dramatically once more. “Seriously though, next time at least hide under the pier or something. Scarred for life over here.”

Lena rolled her eyes, reluctantly stepping away from Bucky’s warmth as Ruth practically hurled herself into Lena’s legs, still waving the bear proudly.

“I'm glad your bear got to ride with you Ruthie,” Lena smiled, taking the bear's paw gently. “Maybe next time we’ll get Steve one too, so he can finally have a real friend.”

Steve shot her a mock-glare while Bucky laughed openly, squeezing Lena’s hand again briefly before starting the slow walk back towards their shoes, family in tow.

Lena cast one last glance back toward the water as they made their way up the beach, the sky dipping into shades of soft purple and pink. She leaned slightly into Bucky’s side, letting out a quiet sigh. These were the moments worth holding onto. Even the interruptions, maybe especially the interruptions.

“Jimmy and Lennie, kissing in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”

Chapter Text

for if i'm going down 

RED HOOK, BROOKLYN - WINTER 1933

Lena tugged the frayed cuffs of her sweater down over her fingertips, blowing into her hands to ward off the early December chill. The steps of Steve’s tenement were cold beneath her skirt, the early morning sun providing little more than weak, pale light as she waited. She was surprised she was the one waiting, normally it was Steve who had to wait on her. 

"You're gonna freeze out here if you don't start dressing for the weather," Steve's voice came from behind her, slightly muffled by a coughing fit as he pulled the apartment door closed behind him.

Lena twisted around, eyeing him critically. Steve was paler than usual, his nose bright red and the rest of his face too pale. She frowned, watching as he settled stiffly onto the steps beside her, already wrapped in his coat and scarf. 

"I could say the same for you," Lena shot back gently, her eyes narrowed as she took him in. "You sound terrible, Stevie."

"Gee, thanks, Len," Steve muttered dryly, his breath clouding in front of him. He hunched forward, elbows on his knees, shivering even under the layers.

“Maybe we should go back inside.” Lena nudged him, gently trying to steer him back to his front door. "Or at least take the day off from school. Bucky wouldn't mind skipping out to stay home with you."  

“Nah, I need to keep you out of trouble.” Steve gave a small smile, trying to reassure her with a joke. Everyone knew he was more likely to get in trouble. "Besides, I miss another day and Mrs. Simmons is liable to show up at my front door and drag me there herself."

Lena laughed, despite herself but then frowned at the accuracy of it. Most teachers understood that Steve had health conditions but their homeroom teacher didn't seem to grasp it and seemed hellbent on giving Steve and his mama a hard time about his absences.

They both quieted, the sounds of the neighborhood slowly rising to life around them. Across the street, Mrs. O’Hara wrestled a laundry line into place, seemingly talking to herself she did it. In the distance, the horns from the docks echoed like clockwork, signaling another shift beginning, another day of labor, another moment when someone else’s father or brother or son would worry whether they’d make it home with enough money to survive another week.

“You think it’s ever gonna get easier?” Steve asked quietly, almost absentmindedly, as if their minds had linked up and had the same thought. 

Lena glanced at him, seeing the seriousness etched in his face, the shadows under his eyes. She understood, even without him saying so, that unspoken worry they all felt, especially as they got older and understood the world a little better.

“I hope so,” she answered honestly. “But I think you’re tougher than you give yourself credit for.”

Steve laughed softly, dissolving quickly into another coughing fit, making Lena’s heart squeeze painfully in her chest.

“Yeah, real tough guy,” Steve rasped, shaking his head ruefully. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Len."

“I’m serious,” she said stubbornly, bumping her shoulder against his, slipping her hand around his arm as she had always done. “Someone’s gotta keep you in one piece. Bucky would fall apart without you.”

Steve raised an eyebrow at her, smirking faintly despite his tired eyes. "Pretty sure you’d keep him together just fine, Len."

Lena felt her face warm, looking away quickly as Steve’s teasing grin grew wider. “Shut up,” she muttered, nudging him again lightly.  

Before Lena could think of something snarkier to follow up with, the sharp creak of the gate drew their attention. Bucky jogged up the walkway toward them, his cheeks ruddy from the chill, breath puffing in the air.

“What're you two bickering about now?" Bucky asked cheerfully, hopping the steps two at a time. He glanced briefly at Lena, his eyes lighting warmly, before his gaze settled firmly on Steve. “You look like death warmed over, pal.”

"Everyone’s a critic today," Steve muttered good-naturedly, even as he wheezed.

"He should stay home," Lena added pointedly, giving Bucky a look. "But he won't."

“Of course he won’t. That’d be too easy,” Bucky sighed dramatically, extending a hand to Steve. "Alright, come on, Rogers. If we’re gonna get there before the bell, we better get moving."

Steve took Bucky’s offered hand, letting himself be hauled to his feet, Lena rising quickly to help steady him.

They moved down the street together, Lena quietly sliding her hand into Bucky's, Steve rolling his eyes fondly at the gesture but saying nothing, not with her hand still tucked under his arm, anchoring him to them. The cold seemed less bitter, the world a little less heavy, as the three of them walked together—their shoulders bumping, their laughter mingling with the smoky breath escaping into the morning chill.

The classroom felt stuffy, the radiator clanging in the corner as it struggled against the bitter chill outside. Lena shifted uneasily at her desk, twirling the frayed end of her braid absently between her fingers. Beside her, Steve doodled idly in the margins of his notebook, sketching shapes that gradually took the familiar form of the Brooklyn Bridge.

Making her jealous again that she had no artistic talent. 

Mr. Davies cleared his throat and adjusted his round glasses, stepping out from behind his desk to lean against it. The chatter of the classroom quieted as his usually mild expression turned unusually solemn.

“Class, before we continue with today's lesson, I'd like to briefly discuss something important happening in Europe.” He paused, allowing the room to quiet fully. Lena sat up straighter, immediately attentive. Steve’s pencil stopped moving, his head tilting slightly toward their teacher.

“Some of you might have seen headlines or heard your parents talk about recent events overseas,” Mr. Davies began carefully. “In Germany, Adolf Hitler has just been appointed Chancellor.”

A confused murmur rippled through the class, some voices dismissive, others indifferent. Frankie Donovan leaned back in his chair, loudly whispering to the boy next to him, “Why's Mr. Davies gotta bring up politics? Who cares about some guy in Germany?”

A few students laughed under their breath, but Lena's brow furrowed deeply. Steve watched her reaction carefully, noticing the sudden stillness in her posture, the quiet intensity behind her eyes. He knew that expression, Lena was paying attention more closely than anyone else.

Mr. Davies raised a gentle hand, his calm presence immediately settling the class once more. “It might seem irrelevant now,” he said softly, his voice measured but firm, “but history teaches us important lessons about people who gain power by promising quick solutions to complicated problems. Hitler is an extreme nationalist. He has some very dangerous ideas about who belongs and who doesn't, about who's valuable in society and who isn't.”

Lena's hand shot in the air immediately, barely able to wait to ask the question when she already had a feeling of the answer.

“Like who?”

He hesitated, clearly weighing his words carefully. “He’s already begun speaking against entire groups of people—Jews, Communists, immigrants—blaming them for all of Germany’s struggles after the war. And while many might dismiss his rhetoric as nothing more than talk, words can have a powerful influence, especially when people are desperate or afraid.”

Lena’s heart quickened a bit, and she felt a quiet chill crawl up her spine. Her father had brushed it off at dinner just last night, saying, “It’s just talk, Faigele. Europe is always yelling and fighting about something. Nothing ever changes.” But her mother’s family was still in Poland. Would they be safe if this man was as dangerous as Mr. Davies seemed to think?

Mr. Davies sighed softly, adjusting his glasses once more. “It's important we understand these events clearly, class. Bigotry, even when it feels distant, can spread quickly. We can't afford to ignore it, even if it's far away. Many people did exactly that during the last war, and we know how that ended.”

The bell rang suddenly, breaking the uneasy quiet and sending the students scrambling for their bags. Lena packed her books slowly, distracted, lost in thought. Her throat felt oddly tight, and she struggled to name why this lesson had felt more personal, more uncomfortable than usual.

Steve hesitated beside her, his voice cautious and gentle. “Hey, Len. You okay?”

She blinked, startled out of her reverie, giving him a reassuring nod. “Yeah, just thinking.”

He frowned lightly, clearly unconvinced. “Alright,” he said slowly, but decided not to push further as they walked out into the bustling hallway.

Just outside the classroom, Bucky leaned against the wall waiting, arms folded comfortably, offering an easy grin as they approached. But his smile dimmed slightly when he noticed Lena’s furrowed brow and Steve’s worried glance.

“What's the matter, dollface? Davies bore you to death again?” Bucky teased gently, nudging Lena’s shoulder with his own.

She shook her head, forcing a small smile. “No, he was just talking about Germany and that Hitler fellow in class. It felt… serious, somehow.”

Bucky glanced between her and Steve, picking up on the subtle discomfort radiating from them both. Quickly sensing the need for distraction, he wrapped a playful arm around Lena’s shoulders. “You’re worrying too much, Lennie. It’s Europe, it's always something over there. What matters today is that Steve here is about to get pummeled with snowballs.”

“Ha!” Steve scoffed, visibly relieved by the distraction. “You’re dreaming, Barnes. I've got a strategy you won't see coming.”

“Steve is sick,” Lena cut across both of them, giving Steve and his red nose a pointed look. 

“I'm fine, Lena. I haven't even been coughing,” Steve immediately launched into his own defense with Bucky talking over him, trying to justify pelting his sickly friend with cold snow was fine. 

Lena laughed softly, her unease temporarily brushed aside as they pushed out into the chilly afternoon sunlight. Bucky’s words mirroring her father's gave her some relief. But even as she joined her friends, crunching through the fresh snow, Mr. Davies’s words lingered in the back of her mind:

Words can have a powerful influence, especially when people are desperate or afraid.

The snow was coming down steadily now, powdery flakes swirling lazily in the air and coating the sidewalks in a soft, glistening layer of white. Lena tugged her coat tighter, her breath puffing out in little white clouds as she hurried alongside Steve and Bucky, grateful for the warmth radiating from their close-knit trio.

Bucky caught Lena’s gaze, shooting her a playful grin as he scooped a handful of snow from a parked car’s hood, packing it into a tight, perfect ball. Lena raised an eyebrow, trying to look stern, though she felt a smile tugging at her lips.

“You wouldn’t dare,” she warned, stepping cautiously behind Steve for cover. If he was going to insist he was well enough, well then Lena hardly felt bad for using him as a shield.

“Wouldn’t I?” Bucky teased, tossing the snowball idly from hand to hand. His eyes sparkled mischievously. “You got exactly three seconds to pick a side, Lennie.”

Steve groaned, shaking his head in exasperation, though a smile betrayed his amusement. “Can’t we just have one peaceful walk home?” Their plan had been to wait until they got to Bucky's building, so his sisters could join and that way they'd be able to immediately retreat to the warmth when they were done.

Bucky shrugged dramatically, a mock apologetic look on his face. “Sorry, pal. Rules of engagement.”

Before Lena could properly respond, Bucky’s snowball flew through the air, narrowly missing Steve’s head as he ducked just in time.

“Not fair, punk!” Steve yelled, already diving behind a lamppost for shelter, scooping up his own snow as quickly as possible. He glanced at Lena sharply, gesturing for her to move into position behind the old mailbox across the sidewalk. “Lena, flank him—quick!”

Lena laughed, feeling her earlier tension ease even further as adrenaline kicked in. She scrambled into position, packing snow into a tight ball, her heart racing with excitement. Across from her, Bucky quickly realized his tactical error: he was stranded in the open.

“Wait, Lennie, come on—” Bucky pleaded, holding his hands up in mock surrender, eyes wide and imploring. “You wouldn’t betray me, right? Sweetheart?”

She grinned wickedly, heart thumping as she exchanged a quick glance with Steve. “Sorry, Бука. All’s fair in love and war.”

Bucky was good, but by this point, Lena knew when it came from a strategic standpoint, to always side with Steve.

Before Bucky could even protest, two snowballs smacked against his chest in quick succession. He stumbled backward, dramatically clutching his chest as if mortally wounded, before toppling theatrically into a soft snowbank.

“Got him!” Steve crowed triumphantly, emerging from behind his lamppost with a satisfied smirk.

But Bucky was only down for a moment. With surprising speed, he surged upright, shaking off snow and scooping another handful, determination glinting in his eyes.

“You’ll pay for that, jerk!” Bucky shouted, hurling a snowball with perfect accuracy toward Steve’s head. Steve ducked, but not quickly enough. The snowball exploded into powdery fluff against the back of his neck, making him gasp loudly.

“Cold! Cold!” Steve yelped, hastily brushing snow from his collar. “Alright, jerk, you asked for it!”

“Hey! He's sick, not fair Bucky!” Lena called out from her cover, barely concealing a grin.

Steve straightened suddenly, the playful amusement in his eyes shifting to something sharper, more focused. Lena recognized that look immediately, Steve was strategizing, wheels turning in his mind.

“Lena,” Steve murmured, voice serious but a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Move left, I’ll circle around right. We’ll catch him in a crossfire.”

Lena nodded quickly, unable to suppress her grin at Steve’s sudden shift into captain mode. She darted left, scooping fresh snow into her hands as she moved. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Steve expertly dodging around parked cars, timing his movements carefully to remain hidden.

Bucky’s attention was divided, eyes darting suspiciously between the two approaching sides, rapidly losing his advantage. Lena watched him closely, heart thumping as he faced off with Steve, not seeing her move closer.

“Alright, Stevie,” Bucky called out, preparing another snowball. “Last chance to surrender!”

Steve stood up straighter, unafraid even with his red nose, snowball poised and ready in hand. “Funny, I was about to say the same to you!”

That was Lena’s cue. With practiced aim, she hurled her snowball forward. It hit Bucky square in the back, bursting apart on impact.

Bucky spun around in shock, mouth open, clearly betrayed yet again. “You—!”

Steve took full advantage of Bucky’s distraction, nailing him with another snowball to the shoulder, sending him dramatically sprawling back into the snowbank a second time, utterly defeated.

Lena burst into delighted laughter, Steve joining in triumphantly. Together, they approached their fallen friend, Steve offering a hand to help him up.

“You two fight dirty,” Bucky grumbled, accepting Steve’s hand, eyes dancing with amusement despite his best attempt at indignation.

“We fight smart,” Steve corrected proudly. “Something you wouldn’t know anything about, pal.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky huffed, brushing snow from his jacket and trying to suppress a smile. “Enjoy your victory now, because it’s the last one you’ll ever get.”

Lena nudged Bucky’s shoulder lightly, warmth spreading in her chest despite the cold air biting at her cheeks. “Don’t be a sore loser, James. You started it.”

Bucky mock-scowled at her briefly, but his face quickly softened, gaze fond and playful. “You’ll get yours soon enough.”

“Promises, promises,” she teased back, laughter bubbling up again as they resumed their walk home, shoulders brushing, easy and warm despite the icy chill surrounding them.

But as Lena glanced up, catching Steve’s thoughtful gaze lingering on her a little too long, she knew his mind wasn’t fully on the game anymore. Steve had that look again, a quiet, knowing seriousness beneath his usual playful façade, a silent reminder of the things left unsaid.

“Come on, we need to get Steve inside before he turns into an ice pop.” Lena shook it from her mind, her hands moving on their own accord, swiping away the powdery snow from Bucky's shoulders and then Steve's. 

“I think he's faking it,” Bucky dramatically rolled his eyes, before they softened at the sight of his girl rearranging Steve's scarf around his neck, making sure his ears were covered, tucking the ends into his coat. 

There was something unspoken in the air, as Lena fretted over Steve, clearly trying to distract herself from something.

“There,” Lena said softly, stepping back to admire her handiwork. Steve was sufficiently bundled, only his pink nose visible above the scarf she'd adjusted carefully around him.

“You done fussing?” Steve mumbled, the scarf muffling his voice slightly. His eyes were amused despite his sarcastic tone. “You’re worse than Ma sometimes, Len.”

“Someone has to look after you two. It's practically a full-time job.” She just shrugged, unapologetic.

Bucky chuckled, nudging Steve gently. “You hear that, Rogers? We’re a handful.”

“Not news to me,” Steve grumbled lightly, voice breaking briefly with a cough he tried to hide.

Bucky’s smile dimmed subtly, glancing at Lena as if sharing an unspoken agreement. “Come on, pal, let’s get you warmed up. Ma’ll tan my hide if you catch your death on my watch.”

Steve rolled his eyes but didn't protest as Bucky and Lena gently steered him along, their steps quickening as the sky slowly darkened overhead, the winter night settling in fast.

Luckily the Barnes apartment was already radiating with light and warmth by the time they climbed up the two flights of stairs to get inside. There was just something comforting about Bucky's family apartment that could be felt even before you stepped inside. 

“You three look half-frozen!” Mrs. Barnes chided them from the kitchen doorway as they stomped snow from their shoes on the doorstep. “Hurry up inside before the heat gets out.”

“Yes, Ma,” Bucky replied with a mock-salute, guiding Steve in first. Lena followed quickly, savoring the immediate rush of warmth, the scent of stew and freshly baked bread filling the air and making her stomach rumble eagerly.

“Hungry, Lennie?” Bucky teased her softly, giving the end of her braid a gentle tug before helping extract Steve from his scarf.

“Why do I even like you?” Lena shot back with a scoff, carefully peeling off her snowy boots, being extra careful not to track snow into the living room.

“I've been wondering that myself,” Bucky retorted quickly, his eyes sparkling, as he darted out to the kitchen to make sure his mother wasn't watching. Bucky paused long enough to swoop down and kiss Lena's cheek quickly. 

“Can you two at least wait until I walk away?” Steve grumbled, good naturedly under his scarf that Bucky resumed trying to help him unwind, but not doubtedly was making it worse. 

“No.” 

Bucky and Lena answered in unison, grinning broadly at each other before Steve was free. 

“Go wash up, Lord knows what the three of you were doing out there,” Mrs. Barnes spared Steve from any further teasing as Bucky's mom waved a wooden spoon in their direction. 

By the time they emerged from the bathroom, shoving and teasing each other, Becca was already setting the table, while Alice badgered Mr. Barnes about some book she wanted but he thought was too scandalous for her age. Ruthie dragged out her prized heist bear and was making it boss Becca around as she set the table. 

“Ma,” Lena heard Becca moan in a warning voice while glaring daggers at Ruth. 

“Girls, enough,” Mr. Barnes shook his head tiredly, but still wearing a fond smile all the same. “Come on and sit now, food is gonna get cold.”

They all slid into their collective chairs, extras at the already cramped table squeezed in for Steve and Lena. Mrs. Barnes barely had time to say Grace before Alice and Ruth started bickering with each other. 

Lena felt herself relax as she pulled her bowl of steaming hot stew towards, exchanging a quick glance with Bucky as they settled around the table, the lively chatter washing over her, momentarily easing the quiet tension that had clung to her since class earlier.

Bucky’s hand brushed hers gently under the table, a quiet reassurance. Lena squeezed back softly, soaking in the warmth of this family, already feeling more at ease—even as something subtle in the set of Mr. Barnes’ shoulders hinted tonight wouldn’t stay carefree for long.

It wasn't until they were scraping their bowls clean, Lena on the verge of offering to help wash dishes when Mr. Barnes cleared his throat.

The table went quiet almost instantly, something in his voice commanding attention without effort. Mr. Barnes rubbed the back of his neck, looking older suddenly, weary in a way Lena hadn't noticed in him before. Even with his long hours, Mr. Barnes had always managed to look lively and spirited when Lena saw him. 

The way his face looked now reminded her of her own father. 

“There's something I gotta talk to you all about,” he began softly, his eyes briefly meeting Mrs. Barnes', whose face had already tightened with worry. “Today was my last day at the docks.”

A heavy silence settled around the table. Becca froze mid-motion, Alice’s eyes widened nervously, and even Ruth stilled, sensing the seriousness of the moment.

Bucky was the first to break the silence, voice hesitant but steady. “Dad, what happened?”

“Foreman said there just ain't enough work for everyone anymore. Too many men, too few ships coming in. They've been cuttin’ men loose all month.”

“We’ll figure something out. We always do.” Mrs. Barnes reached out, gently placing her hand over her husband's, squeezing tight. “There's always sewing and mending to be done.” 

“I can pick up extra shifts,” Bucky interjected immediately, determination settling in his features as he leaned forward slightly. “I'll talk to Mr. Callahan tomorrow. Maybe he can find me somethin' steady in the mornings, or some nights.”

“Bucky,” Mrs. Barnes said softly, worry clear in her voice. “You’re already workin' yourself to the bone, and you’ve got school—”

“I can handle it, Ma.” Bucky’s voice hardened with quiet resolve. “We need it.”

“I don't like askin' this of you, James. It shouldn't fall on your shoulders.” Mr. Barnes looked at his eldest son, pride and regret mingling on his face.

“You didn't ask,” Bucky said firmly, his gaze steady, mature beyond his years. “I’m offering. We're family, we stick together.”

Lena squeezed Bucky’s hand under the table again, heart aching with pride and worry all at once. Steve shifted quietly beside her, staring down at his empty bowl, jaw set tight. Lena knew without asking that he felt helpless, wanting to help, but knowing his health made him a burden more often than not.

“I could ask around too,” Lena offered softly, breaking the tense quiet. “Maybe someone in the neighborhood needs help with laundry or sewing—”

Mrs. Barnes gave her a gentle, grateful smile. “That’s sweet of you, Lennie, but you’ve got your own troubles to manage at home.”

“It’ll be tight for a while,” Mr. Barnes finally spoke again, his voice steadier, more resolved. “But we’ve faced worse. Long as we’re together, we'll manage.”

The table gradually relaxed, reassured by his quiet certainty. Ruth began to pick at her bear’s fur again, Alice slowly resumed clearing plates, and Becca cast worried but hopeful glances at her father.

Lena felt Bucky exhale slowly beside her, his shoulders tight but resolute, already quietly calculating what he'd need to do.

“We'll be okay,” Bucky murmured quietly, almost to himself, as much promise as reassurance.

Lena leaned gently against his side, silently agreeing as her thumb brushed softly across his knuckles. 

He shouldn't have to worry about this, she thought to herself. We're just kids, the thought flashed briefly in her mind. But hadn't she been running her house since her mama died? Doing the shopping? Packing her daddy's lunch. Doing the wash and then extra to make some extra money? 

And she had barely been seven when she took that on. 

Still. Lena didn't like the idea that Bucky's sisters would have to try and bring money into their house. That Bucky would sacrifice his free time in order to make sure that didn't happen.

She watched as Steve got up, and started clear away dishes, giving Bucky and Lena both a pointed look. Bucky didn't seem to notice, stiff in his chair, staring straight ahead. Lena could already tell he was trying to factor how much money he could make, how much he would need to make. 

“Come on,” she nudged him quietly. There weren't really any private spaces in the Barnes apartment, and Mrs. Barnes would have definitely noticed if they snuck out, even just to talk. 

Gently, Lena steered Bucky down the hall to his sisters' room, where all three girls slept. Only recently had Ruthie moved in with Alice and Becca, after Bucky volunteered to sleep on the pull-out in the living room—another quiet sacrifice he never complained about.

Lena left the door mostly open, careful to avoid scandal if his sisters found them. Before speaking, she stepped forward and wrapped her skinny arms around his middle, pretending not to notice how tightly Bucky hugged her back, how his fingers twisted into the fabric of her dress as if clinging to a lifeline.

The room was dim, lit only by the soft amber glow of the hallway light leaking through the half-open door. Quilts were haphazardly folded at the foot of each bed, Ruthie’s ragged stuffed animal perched atop a pillow like a sentry. It smelled faintly of soap, of old wood, of something warm and lived in.

Bucky hadn’t moved much since Lena hugged him—just held her close, his chin resting lightly on the top of her head. His breath was steady, but too quiet.

“I hate this,” he said finally, his voice low. “I hate that they’re gonna worry. That Alice might try to sell her dumb books or Becca’ll ask around for work. They’re just kids.”

Lena didn’t answer at first. She just leaned her cheek against his chest, eyes closed. Letting him say it out loud. Letting him admit what she already knew was eating at him.

“You’re just a kid too, Bucky,” she whispered after a long moment. “Even if nobody treats you like one.”

He gave a short, bitter laugh. “Feels like I haven’t been one in years.”

She pulled back enough to look at him, her hand sliding down to take his. “You’re not alone. You know that, right?”

He didn’t answer immediately, but his fingers tightened around hers.

“You don't have to fix everything.” Lena tilted her head, searching his face.

His eyes dropped to their joined hands, jaw flexing. “Somebody has to try.”

“You already are.” Her thumb brushed across his knuckles. “You're always trying. For your sisters. For Steve. For me.”

She said it without expectation. Not as a declaration, just a quiet truth between them.

Bucky lifted his gaze, met hers. “I don’t want to let anyone down.”

“You haven’t,” she said softly. “You won't.”

He reached up to push a strand of hair behind her ear, his hand lingering a second too long against her cheek. 

“You’re real good at saying the right things, you know that?”

“I try,” she murmured.

There was a silence, a soft hum between them. And then Bucky leaned in and kissed her, slow and steady—not like the playful pecks stolen on the boardwalk, but something fuller, deeper. Like a promise.

When they pulled apart, Lena smiled gently, forehead resting against his, grateful as always that she wasn't that much shorter than him anymore. That she didn't have to strain to look into his eyes.

“I’m gonna help, you know,” she said. “Whatever it takes.”

“I know,” he replied, eyes still closed. “But you shouldn’t have to.”

“But I will anyway.”

And he didn’t argue, just nodded slightly, because he knew she meant it. Because he knew she’d already done so much, carrying her own grief, her own family’s struggles, and yet still managed to find a way to hold everyone else together too.

From down the hall, they could hear Ruthie shouting something about Steve “using too much soap,” followed by Becca’s exasperated voice, and then Mrs. Barnes calling them all back into the kitchen.

Bucky exhaled, brushing a kiss to Lena’s temple. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go before they start rationing dessert.”

Lena took his hand again as they left the room, hearts still heavy but a little steadier than before.

The sun was already beginning to drop behind the tenement buildings, casting long golden streaks across the snow-covered streets as Bucky walked Lena home from school. There was no Steve to accompany them today, as Lena predicted after their snowball fight the previous day, Steve was too sick. 

After dropping Lena off in front of Steve’s apartment (no he couldn't just leave her in front of the building), in comfortable silence, Bucky gave her hand a final squeeze, then turned toward the docks without complaint—just a tired look in his eyes that she knew too well.

Lena waited until his silhouette disappeared around the corner of the stairs before she turned to Rogers' apartment, knuckles red from cold as she knocked lightly on the door.

A beat. Then coughing.

Then, “It’s open,” Steve’s scratchy voice called weakly.

Lena slipped inside, immediately greeted by the quiet hush of the apartment. Mrs. Rogers was still at work, an extra shift at the clinic, no doubt, and the place was dim, save for the soft afternoon light filtering through the lace curtains.

Steve was curled up on the couch under a thick quilt, his hair mussed and his cheeks flushed with fever. A book rested face-down on his chest, forgotten in favor of half-dozing.

“You look like death,” Lena said gently, easing the door closed behind her as she shed her coat.

“You’re the second person to tell me that in twenty-four hours,” Steve replied, lips twitching into a faint smirk as he pushed himself upright with effort. “My mother said the same thing this morning.”

“I warned you about the snowballs,” she murmured dryly, scooting in on the couch with him, and pulling his skinny legs across her lap.

He chuckled, then coughed, the sound rough and deep in his chest. Lena frowned, reaching forward without thinking and adjusting the quilt around his shoulders, making sure it was tucked in tight.

“You didn’t have to come,” Steve said quietly, watching her with tired eyes.

“Course I did,” Lena replied, voice softer now. “Someone had to bring you your homework.”

A beat of quiet stretched between them, the only sound the distant clatter of a streetcar and the occasional creak of the pipes.

Steve looked at her closely for a moment, something more serious creeping into his expression. “You alright?” he asked, his voice still hoarse. “You seemed off yesterday. After class.”

Lena hesitated. She hadn’t said anything, not really. Not about Mr. Davies’ lecture or the cold dread that had curled beneath her ribs when she heard that man’s name, Hitler. But Steve had seen it anyway, like he always did. Waiting for the right moment to bring it up.

“I don’t know,” she admitted at last. “It’s probably nothing. My father says it’s all noise, politics a world away. But it… it didn’t feel like nothing.”

Steve didn’t offer platitudes. He just nodded slowly, his expression grave despite the flush in his cheeks. 

“Sometimes… it’s the ones who talk the loudest that end up hurting the most people. You’re not wrong to worry.”

Lena looked at him, grateful for the quiet understanding in his voice. “I hate not being able to do anything,” she said, voice low.

“You’re already doing plenty,” Steve said firmly, though his voice cracked on the last word. “You've been self-sufficient long before me and Bucky. Pretty sure we'd be seriously maimed by now if it wasn't for you. You make the world feel a little less bleak. That counts.”

“Rest, Stevie. That’s all you need to do for now.” She smiled faintly, brushing a bit of hair from his forehead.

Steve gave her a tired grin. “Only if you stay for a while.”

“I’ve got nowhere better to be,” she murmured, leaning back on the couch as the winter light faded, settling into the silence beside him.

For a moment, there was no talk of dock layoffs or empty bellies or politics rising overseas. Just the stillness of the room, the low hum of city life beyond the windows, and the warmth of two friends holding fast to something soft in a hard world.

Steve had already drifted back to sleep, his breathing soft and even under the blanket, one hand curled over the edge of the quilt. Lena stayed seated, his legs over her own, the room dim now except for the last remnants of daylight spilling through the curtains.

She didn’t move right away. Just sat in the stillness, her own hands folded in her lap, listening to the faint tick of the wall clock and the faraway clatter of a passing trolley. 

Outside, gentle flakes of snow had begun to fall again, catching in the golden slant of the streetlight. They spun slowly in the cold air, quiet and delicate—like ash, Lena thought absently, though she quickly pushed the thought away.

She turned her eyes back to Steve, tucked safely on the couch, and let the quiet hold her there a little longer.

When she finally rose to leave, she paused at the window, pressing her palm lightly to the glass. The snow kept falling.

And somewhere in the distance, a ship's horn echoed from the docks, low, haunting, and full of things she couldn’t name yet. 

But she would.

She always did.

Chapter Text

i guess i’ll take you with me 

RED HOOK, BROOKLYN - MARCH 1934

The morning light filtered through the crooked blinds of the Barnes apartment, casting long stripes across the kitchen table like prison bars. It was barely past six, and the steam rising from Mrs. Barnes’ chipped teacup curled in the cold air like smoke from a match just struck.

Lena sat quietly at the table, fingers wrapped around a mug of weak tea, her boots tucked under the chair to warm near the stove. She had started coming over early the last few weeks, she was already up anyways, making breakfast and packing lunches for her and her father. 

Some mornings Steve would come with her but mostly he preferred sleeping in than having to deal with Bucky's sisters as the sun barely rose.

While she couldn't financially help the Barnes, she started popping over in the mornings to help Mrs. Barnes, who was taking every sewing, mending, laundry, tailoring job she could find. She often worked from sunup to past sundown to get it all done. Mr. Barnes had yet to find reliable work, just a handful of one off jobs. 

Of course, Bucky had his sisters who in theory should be self-sufficient to help make breakfast and pack their lunches but no one's patience could handle all three Barnes girls in the kitchen at once. 

Plus, his whole family knew that this was the only time Bucky and Lena got lately before he disappeared to the docks, or to any odd job he could scrape together before sunset.

She could hear him moving in the front room—muffled steps, the rustle of his coat, the dull thump of the pull-out cot folding up. But the real noise came from the other side of the apartment, behind the half-closed bedroom door.

His parents were fighting again. Not loud, not angry. Just that hushed, tired tone adults used when they thought you weren’t listening. When they were trying not to wake the kids.

“James needs to finish school,” Mrs. Barnes whispered, the edge in her voice sharper than usual. “He’s smart. He’s got a future if he just—”

“We need the money now, Win,” Mr. Barnes cut in, low and firm. “You saw the envelope. Rent’s due Tuesday. I told him it was his choice.”

“Like it's any choice to give! It’s not supposed to be his choice,” she hissed. “He’s a boy.”

“He’s seventeen.”

Lena didn’t flinch. But her grip on the mug tightened slightly, knuckles white against the ceramic.

The door creaked open behind her, and she turned just in time to see Bucky step into the kitchen, cheeks pink from the cold splash of water he'd thrown on his face, hair still damp where it curled above his forehead. 

He looked older today, she had to search his features to find the baby faced boy in her memories. Maybe it was the set of his jaw, or the tiredness that had started to linger around his eyes. Or maybe it was just because Lena knew she knew something was coming, even if he hadn’t said it yet.

“Happy birthday,” she said, voice soft, warm.

Bucky grinned at her, that real one she liked best, the one that showed all the way in his blue eyes.

“Thanks, Lennie,” he said, ruffling her braid lightly as he passed her to grab a slice of bread from the counter. “seventeen. Pretty much ancient now.”

“Practically an old man.” She tried to keep the teasing light, tried not to let her eyes drift toward the bedroom door.

“You two want eggs?” Mrs. Barnes asked suddenly, reappearing from the hallway like nothing had happened. Her face was a little pinched, but her voice was bright, forced cheer tucked into every syllable. “We got a few left. I can make toast too.”

Lena started to answer, but Bucky shook his head. “We’ll eat at school, Ma.”

She looked like she wanted to argue, but didn’t. Just nodded and returned to the stove, stirring the pot of oatmeal, Lena had started earlier for her as though her hands needed something to do.

Bucky dropped into the seat beside Lena, elbow bumping hers. She nudged him back, smiling faintly.

“You doing anything after school?” she asked, too casual.

He hesitated—just a blink too long—and then offered a lopsided shrug. “Might swing by the docks. Just to check in.”

Lena didn’t press. Part of her wanted to chastise him, he should have his birthday off, it was already bad enough it was on a school day. But she also knew the weight of worrying about money. 

Instead, she reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small, wrapped bundle, newspaper folded neatly, tied with a scrap of string. She placed it in front of him wordlessly.

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “You got me a present?”

“Don’t act so surprised,” she said, rolling her eyes, her lips turned up into a small smile. “It’s not much. But open it.”

Inside was a small leather keychain, simple, but carefully tooled, initials carved in faint, imperfect lettering: JBB. He flipped it over to find hers, YFR imprinted on the back. He ran his thumb over it, silent. 

Maybe he remembered how it was his initials carved in her desk got her through that first year of school. 

“It’s for your locker. Or your belt loop. Or your key to the city. Whatever,” Lena said with a shrug, suddenly shy about her nostalgic gift.

Bucky looked up, eyes a little too shiny for how early it was. He didn’t say thank you, just leaned in and kissed her, quick and warm and grateful.

“You always know just what I need.”

Lena smiled. But the words from the back bedroom still echoed faintly in her head.

He’s a boy.

He’s seventeen.

She looked at him again, and couldn’t help but wonder if they'd even get to keep their stolen mornings together.

The walk back to her building seemed a bit redundant but since Steve would rather sleep until he couldn't, Bucky and Lena walked hand in hand to pick him up. Luckily the sun was high in the sky today, so even with a chill in the air, she felt perfectly warm in her jacket, with Bucky's arm around her shoulders. 

It was almost enough to make her forget about the argument she overheard this morning. 

Lena wanted to ask, to interrogate Bucky on his plans, the anxiety of the unknown clawing at her throat. But more than anything, she wanted it to be a good day. Not that they were having bad days, they just weren't really able to have days at all.

With the exception of Sundays, Bucky spent most of his time trying to find work, for him, or his father. He was young and strong, so there was no shortage of people who would hire him but considerably less for his father which Lena knew he carried on his shoulders. 

If his father couldn't work, he would have to. There was no other option. 

So most days after school, he walked Lena and Steve home. A clap to Steve's shoulders that sent him stumbling much to his annoyance. And a much too brief kiss for Lena and he was off. 

His Saturday morning shifts now extended most of the day and by the time he was done, he was exhausted and just wanted to rest. Sundays were his only real day off and that's because Mrs. Barnes insisted that they attend church together as a family. 

Leaving not a lot of time for dates.

Lena was endlessly proud of him, but couldn't help but selfishly wish she had more time with her own boyfriend. It was a far cry from the trouble they were running into as kids. 

“Happy birthday, punk!” Steve's voice sliced through the comfortable silence and Lena's quickly spiraling thoughts, a smile creeping up on her face as she watched Steve race over to them. 

“I'm almost finished with your gift.” Steve wheezed once he caught up with them, his cheeks pink from the short distance he ran. 

Lena looked over to Bucky, his smiling mirroring hers as they met eyes, before turning back to Steve. 

“What did you draw?!” they chorused, and Steve immediately rolled his eyes like he regretted speaking.

It had become Steve's go to gift ever since he got fancy pencils and nice paper. He always drew Lena and Bucky a picture of something for their birthdays. Usually a special landscape somewhere important to them. Very rarely any portraits so the few she had were near and dear to Lena's heart. 

“It's not a surprise if I tell you,” he scoffed, falling in step with them. “And don't ask if I can just tell you either Len.” Steve warned, pointing a finger in her direction. 

“I wouldn't tell!”

“No you two share some kind of hive mind,” Steve grumbled, shaking his head. “Or you transmit thoughts anytime you lock lips.” He continued, trying not to laugh, ducking to miss Bucky swat at him. 

They spent the rest of the walk, Bucky and Lena taking turns trying to guess what Steve could have drawn Bucky for his birthday. 

The school loomed ahead, squat and unwelcoming, its brick walls already casting long shadows across the sidewalk. A few kids were gathered near the entrance, bundled in coats, chattering about a pop quiz or the cafeteria mystery meat.

Bucky’s steps slowed as they neared the gate.

Lena felt it before he said anything, how his hand slipped from hers like he was already gone.

“You’re not coming in, are you?” she asked, trying to keep her voice neutral.

He winced slightly, scratching the back of his neck. “Might still make it,” he offered, a bit too casually. “Just wanna stop by the docks first, see if Callahan’s got something. Could be quick.”

Steve arched a brow. “Since when do docks run on school schedules?”

“Miracles happen. It is my birthday after all.” Bucky gave him a lopsided grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Lena crossed her arms, unconvinced, but she didn’t push. Not here. Not yet. Not with other kids streaming past them into the building, the morning bell already ringing in the distance.

“You’ll meet us after?” she asked, quieter now.

“At the corner, like always.”

Steve was already trudging up the steps, muttering about algebra and early graves, but Lena lingered a second longer.

“You sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine,” Bucky said quickly, reaching for her hand again and squeezing it. “Promise.”

He kissed her cheek, lingering just long enough to make her chest ache, then stepped back, already turning toward the street.

Lena stood watching him a moment longer, his figure growing smaller as he walked away, not running, not dragging his feet. Just steady. Resolved.

Like someone who had already made up his mind.

Lena had gone through the motions all day, but her mind was nowhere near the blackboard, earning her a few knuckles rapps.

She kept her eyes peeled in the hallways between periods, half-hoping to catch a glimpse of Bucky lingering by the stairwell or leaning against his locker, like he used to when he’d wait to walk her to lunch. But he wasn’t there.

At lunch, she and Steve sat at their usual spot by the far windows, the air smelling faintly of chalk and cold mashed potatoes. Lena barely touched her sandwich, her gaze flicking to the door every time it creaked open.

“You think he’s alright?” Steve asked quietly, not looking up from Bucky's birthday drawing that he kept hidden behind his standing folder.

“He said he’d try to come in,” she murmured, peeling the crust from her bread. “Just weird not seeing him at all.”

Steve didn’t respond, but he didn’t have to. His pencil paused on the page for just a moment longer than normal. Bucky had told him in passing, that he was done with school, like it was nothing. Steve hadn’t realized until now that Lena didn’t know.

By the time the final bell rang, the March sky had turned a cold gray, the wind kicking up small flurries of grit across the sidewalk. Lena waited with Steve at the bottom of the school steps, pulling her coat tighter, heart climbing a little higher in her chest with every minute that passed.

Then, finally, she spotted him.

Striding up the street, collar turned up against the wind, hands in his pockets. He looked tired, windblown, but there was a sheepish grin tugging at the corners of his mouth the moment he spotted them.

“You look like you ran here,” Steve called, trying to sound annoyed and failing.

“I kind of did,” Bucky said breathlessly, skidding to a stop in front of them. “Sorry. Got hung up.”

Lena narrowed her eyes slightly, stepping into place beside him. “Hung up?”

“Ran a favor for Mr. Callahan. Wasn’t supposed to take long.” He shrugged, not quite meeting her eyes. 

There was a pause, just long enough for her to decide not to push. Not yet.

“Ready to walk?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Bucky said, falling into step between them like he always did.

They walked in silence until Steve peeled off at the corner, claiming his mother needed something from the pharmacy, promising to be back in time for dinner. Lena didn’t believe him, but she appreciated the gesture all the same.

By the time they reached his building, the sky had turned a flat, heavy gray. The kind of March evening that felt colder than any snowfall.

“Wanna go up to the roof for a bit?” Bucky paused outside the stoop.

Lena blinked at him, surprised. They hadn’t done that in weeks. “Now?”

He nodded. “Just for a minute.”

The rooftop door creaked as Bucky nudged it open with his shoulder, the late afternoon wind catching the edge of it like it had been waiting all day to steal through. He glanced behind him, making sure Lena was still there, then held it just long enough for her to slip through.

It wasn’t much of a view, just chimney stacks, laundry lines, rusted water towers, and the faint outline of the harbor in the distance, but it was theirs. The place they snuck for the smallest amount of privacy. 

Lena shivered and pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. Bucky had dragged it up with them, an old, fraying thing that usually lived on the back of the Barnes couch, but was thick and warm, smelling faintly of home. He sat down beside her on the tar-paper rooftop, back against the brick ledge, and held out one side of the blanket. She scooted closer without a word, her knees bumping his.

The sun was beginning to dip behind the buildings, casting long shadows and streaks of burnt orange across the rooftops.

They sat in silence for a while, the kind that didn’t need filling. Bucky’s hand found hers beneath the blanket, their fingers tangling with muscle memory more than thought.

Then he said it, just like pulling off a bandage.

“I dropped out.”

The wind didn’t stop. The world didn’t change. But Lena did freeze, her gaze still fixed on the skyline.

“I knew,” she said after a beat. “I mean—I didn’t know, know. But I heard your folks this morning.”

Bucky winced. “Didn’t think anyone was listening.”

“I wasn’t trying to,” she said quickly, eyes darting to his. “But they weren’t exactly whispering.”

Another silence fell, this one tighter around the edges.

He cleared his throat. “I didn’t want to tell you. Felt like I’d be disappointing you too.”

Lena turned her face to him then, really looking. His eyes were shadowed, tired, but steady. His shoulders curled like he was bracing for something.

“I’m not mad at you,” she said, her voice low and sharp like a cut made clean. “I’m mad that it had to be you. That you had to be the one to give something up.”

Bucky looked away. “Family needs it. Callahan said he’d keep me steady through the spring, maybe longer. I can help Ma keep the lights on, and hope my dad finds something else in the meantime.”

“That shouldn’t be your job, Bucky. You’re seventeen.”

“Tell that to the rent.” He gave her a lopsided smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

She wanted to scream, not at him, never at him, but at the world that cornered boys like Bucky Barnes and told them they had to be men before they were ready. That her smart, and capable Bucky had to drop school to do manual labor. 

“Promise me it’s not forever,” she said instead.

“I promise,” he said, and he meant it, even if he didn't believe it. “I’ll go back. I…once things settle.”

She didn’t believe him. Not really. But she wanted to. So she nodded. 

“You better. I’m not going to explain algebra to you every damn night.”

“Deal. Although I don’t think I use algebra on a daily basis,” he grinned, squeezing her hand under the blanket. “But I’d hope you’ll still marry me one day even if I’m bad at algebra.”

Lena froze, not visibly, not enough for him to notice. But inside, it was like someone had rung a bell in her chest. The word marry echoed in her ribs, soft and dizzying and a little terrifying.

He said it like it was nothing, like a joke. Maybe it was a joke. Maybe it was just Bucky being Bucky—sweet and thoughtless in the way boys sometimes were. He couldn’t actually mean it. Not really. Not with her.

Her throat tightened. She wasn’t Henny Greenberg with perfect curls and red lipstick. She wasn’t the kind of girl boys dreamed about marrying—not a girl with secondhand shoes and a half-healed accent.

Still, the idea curled inside her like a secret. Dangerous and golden.

She let out a breath that was almost a laugh and shook her head, hoping he couldn’t see how her face had gone hot.

“You’re full of it.”

“Full of what?”

“Full of something.” But her hand had already tightened around his, like her body didn’t care what her brain was screaming. Like part of her believed him. Wanted to believe him.

He leaned in and kissed her temple, soft and lingering. He probably didn’t mean for it to feel like a promise. But it did. And Lena leaned into it, eyes fluttering closed for half a second too long, letting it settle somewhere deep.

They didn’t talk about dreams in full. Not tonight. But they brushed against them like stones skipping across water. Lena talked about music, about maybe teaching one day. Maybe somewhere with a piano in the parlor and her father’s old records stacked beside it.

Bucky said he liked working with his hands. Maybe he’d fix radios, or bicycles, or plumbing. Maybe they’d find a place with enough space for a workshop and a piano. Maybe. Maybe somewhere with an extra room where they could convince Steve to stay.

Lena didn’t say it out loud, but the picture took root in her chest like a daydream she didn’t dare breathe too hard on. Bucky with grease on his hands. Steve napping on the couch. Sunlight falling across her sheet music. A home that felt like all three of them belonged.

It was stupid. It was impossible. But maybe—just maybe, that word he’d tossed so casually… marry… wasn’t so far off after all.

The sun sank low behind the rooftops, painting the sky in watercolor streaks of gold and rust. Wrapped in the blanket, side by side, they held onto the moment like it could carry them past whatever came next.

The Barnes apartment smelled like onions and something rich simmering on the stove when they stepped back inside. Warmth hit them instantly, both the physical kind and the kind that lived in the walls, in the bustle of too many people in too small a space.

Mrs. Barnes stood over the stove, her apron smeared with flour, cheeks pink from heat. “Wash up quick,” she called over her shoulder without turning. “Dinner’s just about ready.”

Becca poked her head out of the girls’ bedroom, eyes lighting up when she spotted Lena. “Lena! You’re here!”

Lena barely had time to slip off her coat before Becca dragged her toward the room by the wrist. “You gotta help me with my hair—Ma said we’re celebrating and I want it fancy.”

The room smelled like talcum and old newspapers, and the bed was a sea of discarded ribbons. Lena smiled as she sat on the edge and gently gathered Becca’s thick brown hair in her hands.

“You don’t need fancy,” she said. “You’re already prettier than half the girls at school.”

Becca beamed, and Lena began braiding, fingers moving with practiced care, grateful that Henny had taught her how to french braid last year. 

“Frances says Will McDowell likes me,” Becca whispered conspiratorially, like it was a state secret.

“Does he now?”

Becca nodded, grinning so hard it made her squirm. “He pulled my braid last week and then got detention. But I think he meant it nice.”

“Boys can be dumb. Don't let them pull your hair.” Lena laughed softly, tying off the braid with one of the discarded ribbons. "Does that mean you don't have a crush on Steve anymore?" Lena teased lightly.

“Jimmy always pulls on your braid.” Becca countered pointedly, ignoring Lena's question entirely, a flush up her neck that told her what she wanted to know.

“Not in a mean way though.” Lena paused and then gave Becca’s hair a soft tug. “At least not to me, maybe he's mean to you,” she teased thinking of how often Bucky and Becca fought like cats.

Becca rolled her eyes before getting up off her feet and looked at herself in the cracked mirror, admiring the braid like it was spun gold.

“Thanks, Lena,” she said, quiet now. “I’m glad you came.”

Lena swallowed a lump in her throat. “Me too.”

Back in the kitchen, the table was crammed full, chairs pulled from every corner, the good plates out, mismatched forks lined up beside chipped cups. Mr. Barnes said grace softly, his voice steady, and then they all dug in.

Bucky’s favorite: meat and potatoes, onions fried down with butter, canned green beans dressed up like something special. Not much, but it felt like a feast.

Steve showed up right as they started eating, slipping in with an apology and a sheepish smile.

“Got caught up finishing my drawing,” he mumbled, sliding into the chair beside Bucky. “Happy birthday, dummy.”

“Nice of you to show,” Bucky grinned, clapping him on the back. “Didn’t think you could get away from your adoring public.”

Dinner was loud—stories traded, teasing passed back and forth like bread baskets. Even Mr. Barnes cracked a rare smile when Ruth knocked her cup over twice in a row and insisted the table was tilted.

When the plates were cleared, Mrs. Barnes appeared with a small round cake. The edges were a little lopsided, the frosting spread with a butter knife, but there were three candles jammed in the center, flickering wildly in the drafty room.

Bucky blinked at it like he didn’t know what to say.

The rest of them turned to Lena expectedly, making her flush before she opened her mouth and started to sing, soft, under her breath at first, but clear.

“Sto lat, sto lat, niech żyje, żyje nam…”

Lena kept singing, the old Polish birthday song drifting through the room, the words curling around them. Her voice wove through the steam and laughter and candle smoke, something older and deeper than the noise of the day.

When she finished, no one said anything for a moment.

“Make a wish, birthday boy,” Steve said, breaking the silence, nudging him with an elbow.

“Yeah, and make it a good one!” Alice added, bouncing in her seat.

The room quieted as Bucky leaned forward, eyes flicking briefly toward Lena before he blew out the candles in one breath.

Then Bucky reached across the table and touched her wrist, thumb brushing the inside gently. “Thanks, Lennie.”

She only nodded, but her eyes shone. 

After dinner and cake, Bucky took his time opening his gifts. His parents gave him his grandfather's old time piece, while his sisters pooled together to buy him a ticket to the next movie. They finally got to see what Steve had been working on, all of their guesses wrong. 

Steve, who rarely drew people, drew a portrait of Bucky and Lena together, their faces soft and sweet. It wasn't her gift but Lena leaned over and kissed Steve on the cheek all the same. 

He gave them another gift by offering to help clean up, thoroughly distracting Mrs. Barnes while Bucky and Lena slipped out the front door with their coats on.

They had gotten in a solid five minutes of kissing and giggling with each other around the front door before Mrs. Barnes caught on and called Bucky back inside. 

“Happy birthday, James.” Lena whispered before sneaking one last kiss in as Bucky opened the door to go inside. He gave her braid a gentle tug before Steve slipped out behind him.

Steve only shook his head before offering Lena his arm for the walk back to their building. 

They didn’t talk much, just shared a quiet stretch of sidewalk in companionable silence. The streets were nearly empty, save for a stray dog sniffing around trash bins and the distant sound of the elevated train clattering past.

The stairs groaned under their feet as Lena and Steve climbed the last flight to the third floor of the tenement. The heat had finally kicked in—belated, overworked—and left the hallways stuffy with a mix of radiator clang and someone’s overboiled cabbage wafting from down the hall.

They walked in silence, the closeness of the evening still resting gently between them. Steve’s hands were in his pockets, shoulders hunched just slightly like he was trying to delay the goodnight.

When they reached her door, Lena turned the key softly, pausing before stepping inside.

“You want me to come in for a bit?” Steve offered, not pushing, just being Steve.

“It’s alright. He’s probably already asleep.” She smiled, small and tired.

“Bucky will be okay, ya know. His dad will find work and he'll come back to school.” Steve said after a beat, in a way that Lena wasn't sure if he was trying to convince her, or himself.

“I hope so,” Lena tried her best not to sound too dejected. “It's not fair, Steve.

“And since when has life been fair?”

Despite herself and the sarcasm in Steve's words, she couldn't help but snort out a laugh. “I forgot what a ray of sunshine you are, Stevie.” 

She reached over and hugged him good night, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“Go to bed, Rogers.”

He tipped an invisible hat with exaggerated grace, then turned back to walk down to the floor below, back home. “Night, Len.”

She waited until she heard his door close before slipping inside her apartment.

The air was cooler here, the kind of still that made her immediately lower her voice by instinct. Her father was slumped on the couch, head fallen back to rest on the couch cushion, glasses askew, boots still on. The little lamp above him cast a soft yellow halo over the pile of bills on the side table he hadn’t quite finished sorting.

The radio was still on, low, crackling with static and the smooth voice of a Russian broadcast, his favorite. 

“…ситуация в Германии продолжает развиваться… новый указ канцлера…”

Lena froze in place.

Germany… chancellor… new decree… nationalist support growing… Jewish businesses marked…

Her breath caught.

The broadcaster’s tone didn’t waver. He moved from one headline to the next with the same practiced calm, but something in it chilled her. Like news from a storm you couldn’t see yet, but felt in your bones.

Her father stirred faintly. In sleep, he mumbled something in Russian, something disjointed, half prayer, half memory. She couldn’t make it out.

Quietly, Lena stepped forward and clicked the radio off. The silence that followed was thick.

She knelt beside him, untied his boots with care, then fetched the old blanket folded up on the chair and draped it over his shoulders. The man had worked himself into sleep again, still dressed from his shift, his calloused fingers reaching for his half filled teacup.

Her eyes flicked to the envelope near the cup. It was creased and marked with a red stamp, another overdue notice. She didn’t touch the envelope. Just stared until the numbers blurred.

Then she crossed to the window.

Outside, Red Hook lay wrapped in darkness, rooftops quiet, chimneys smoking against the sky. Somewhere across the river, the world was shifting. And it was beginning to whisper its way even here, through paper envelopes, through crackling broadcasts, through the look in her father’s eyes when he didn’t think she was watching.

Lena leaned her forehead to the glass, closed her eyes.

Tomorrow, she’d tell Bucky about the broadcast. Maybe not the whole thing. Unburden her worries. Let him tell her that it was Europe's problem and they wouldn't have to worry about it. 

Tomorrow. 

Chapter Text

naked in that garden

RED HOOK, BROOKLYN - JUNE 1934

The last week of school always felt endless, like time itself had started dragging its heels just to be cruel. The air in the classroom was thick with heat and chalk dust, the kind that settled in your throat and made your clothes stick to your back. Lena sat near the open window, praying for a breeze that never came, while Steve scowled beside her, chewing on the eraser of his pencil like it had personally wronged him.

Their teacher was droning about geography, pointing halfheartedly to a map where Europe bled into gray smudges at the edges. A last ditch effort to drill some knowledge into them before it all leaked out over summer break. 

Lena’s gaze drifted past the window, to where a pair of birds fought over crusts on the fire escape. Her mind wandered further, down the street, past the tenements, toward the docks.

Toward Bucky.

He kept his promise, he still showed up each morning to walk her and Steve to school, but never crossed the gate into the building anymore. Some days he was able to get off in time to walk them home, but not always. Without ever knowing, Lena could always sense the days he'd be there, waiting. 

She hadn't been wrong yet.

Still, he was usually at Callahan’s by morning, hauling crates, rigging boats, running errands or fixing some broken machine with his sleeves rolled up, hands calloused from a full day of work. 

But lately, he’d been on time after school, more days than not. Callahan's sons had started helping out, letting Bucky switch to more weekday morning hours. And now, like a gift, they had him back on Saturday mornings, leaving his Saturday evening and Sundays free again. Lena would’ve skipped the last week of school just for that.

The bell rang, loud and final, and the classroom erupted in cheers. Steve shot out of his seat like he’d been launched, yelling something about burning his history notes. Lena laughed, grabbing her bag and ducking around the other students as they spilled out the door like water from a burst pipe.

He was there.

Bucky was leaning against the lamppost just across the street, sleeves rolled up, hands stuffed in his pockets. His hair was damp at the edges, like he’d run water through it to cool down. A bottle of soda was tucked under each arm.

He spotted them before they spotted him, Lena’s braid bouncing behind her, Steve already talking with his hands like whatever he was saying couldn’t wait. Bucky shifted the sodas and leaned into the post, trying to look casual. Not that it mattered. His heart always jumped a little when he saw them coming. Especially her.

He never said that part out loud.

He knew Lena would see him first. She always did. Like she had a sixth sense just for him.

“Finally,” he called as they ran up. “I thought you two were gonna make me melt out here.”

“We were watching a wasp try to kill itself in the inkwell,” Lena rolled her eyes dramatically. 

Bucky handed them each a bottle, the glass still cold from the corner store. His fingers brushed Lena’s as he passed hers over, just a second longer than necessary. She didn’t pull away.

She never did. 

“To surviving another year of useless facts,” he said, lifting his soda.

“To not getting caught swiping extra lunch rolls,” Steve added, clinking his against Bucky’s.

Lena raised hers last. “To summer.”

They walked the long way home, past the edge of the pier, tossing crumbs to gulls and talking over each other. They made fun of their teachers, tried to guess how long it would take Becca to get bored of summer break, and argued over whether Bucky could actually outrun Lena in a footrace. (The topic was still up for debate.)

Bucky let himself hang back a step, watching them bicker and laugh like nothing had ever changed. He didn’t tell them how much he missed this during the week. Didn’t say how quiet things got between shifts. How he caught himself watching the clock around the time school let out, hoping he could finish early.

They didn’t know he skipped lunch sometimes just to be here waiting.

By the time they found themselves perched at the edge of the dock, sharing a loaf of day-old bread and a hunk of cheese Bucky swiped from his mother’s counter, the sky had started turning pale with early summer dusk.

Lena leaned back on her elbows, eyes on the rust-colored water, her skin still warm from the walk. Steve had fallen asleep with his head propped against a wood beam, his pencil still tucked behind his ear.

Bucky stretched out beside her, legs kicked long in front of him, one hand shading his eyes from the sun. The light caught Lena’s hair, and for a second it didn’t feel like Red Hook at all, it felt like something softer.

He could hold this. For a little while longer.

Lena turned her head just slightly, watching him through the corner of her eye. The late light made everything softer, his profile outlined in gold, jaw relaxed, lashes casting small shadows on his cheek. His shirt was wrinkled, collar open, and there was a streak of dirt on his forearm she hadn’t noticed.

Sometimes, she caught herself wondering if he had any idea. If he even knew how easily he drew her in just by existing next to her.

She looked away before he could catch her staring.

For a moment, Lena let herself forget how quickly the world had started changing. How many of her father’s newspapers she’d read in secret. How often the words Jude or boycott or Germany showed up, bold and angry, even in print.

Later that night, she’d hear it again, low voices on the Polish radio, murmuring about professors being fired and bookshops shuttered. Her father would call it nonsense. Temporary. Political noise.

But here, in this moment, the only sound was the water, the gulls, and the soft snoring of Steve Rogers.

And Lena let herself believe, just for a little while, that this was the only future that mattered.

RED HOOK, BROOKLYN – JULY 1934

It was Steve’s idea. Which meant, of course, that it was also a terrible idea.

“You want us to climb *what?*” Bucky asked, arms crossed, squinting up at the old warehouse behind the railyard.

“I’m not saying *climb* climb. Just, get to the roof,” Steve said, pointing with his sketchbook like it was divine instruction. “The sunset’s better from up there. No wires in the way.”

“Or rules,” Bucky muttered.

Lena didn’t argue. She just shaded her eyes and looked up at the crooked ladder bolted to the brick wall. “You sure this isn’t someone’s roof?”

“Technically everything’s someone’s,” Steve said.

Bucky was already sighing.

But then Lena laughed, short and surprised, and said, “If I fall and break my neck, I’m haunting you.”

And just like that, they were going up.

The metal ladder was hot under Lena’s hands, the rungs rusted smooth from decades of use. Her dress caught once, and Steve cursed several times (once in Polish to Lena's delight) before managing to get it unstuck without ripping a hole in the fabric.

Bucky went first, grumbling the whole way. Steve boosted Lena up from below, and Bucky caught her arm near the top, steadying her with warm fingers around her wrist.

“Careful, Lennie,” he said as she scrambled over the edge. “Can’t have you breaking your neck before algebra ruins your life.”

When she got to her feet, heart racing from the climb, she turned, and found him already watching her with that half-grin that meant he knew exactly how he affected her. Which meant she had to pretend he didn’t.

“It’s geometry next year, genius,” she said, brushing her skirt off.

“I hate it already.”

She rolled her eyes, but smiled all the same.

They made it to the top just as the light began to turn that late-summer amber. Tarpaper stretched out in every direction, rimmed with chimney stacks and rusted water tanks. The city below looked different from up here. Smaller. Kinder.

“It’s perfect,” Steve declared, flopping down cross-legged and smug.

Bucky sat beside him, legs stretched out long, and patted the spot next to him without looking.

Lena took it.

They sat like that for a while, Steve sketching, Bucky leaning back on his elbows, Lena tugging her sleeves up and watching the pigeons swirl overhead.

Bucky glanced over and caught her in profile, hair loose from her braid, face lit soft from the sun. She looked like something out of a picture book. And it wasn’t fair, the way she made it seem like time slowed down just by sitting beside him.

He looked away before she caught him staring.

But she had.

Lena pretended not to notice the pink at the tips of his ears.

She let herself glance at him then, not for the first time. He looked tired, like always, but still, he was beautiful in a way she never quite knew what to do with. The kind of handsome that felt earned. Earned through callouses and sweat and the way he always, always showed up.

She liked the slope of his nose, the bend of his wrist, the way his voice went soft when he asked if she was cold.

It was almost a relief when the wind caught Steve’s sketchbook and flipped it open, right to a half-finished portrait of the three of them.

She saw it. Bucky saw it. Steve lunged to close it, face flaming.

“I wasn’t, it was just practice,” he muttered.

Lena blinked. “It’s… good,” she said, voice catching.

Then the sketchbook slipped right out of his hand and dropped between the slats beside the water tower.

“NO!”

Steve scrambled forward, but Bucky yanked him back by the tail of his shirt just in time.

“It’s down there,” Steve groaned, pointing to where the book had landed, wedged between a beam and a rusted pipe.

“I need that book, Buck. It’s got everything in it.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, already tugging up his sleeves. “Of course it does.”

“Don’t you dare!” Lena hissed as he started toward the edge. “Bucky! James Barnes, if you fall-”

“I won’t fall,” he called back, grinning. “I’m very graceful.”

She swore under her breath and got to her feet, heart in her throat.

He moved along the ledge like he’d done it a thousand times, all loose limbs and steady balance. It made her dizzy just watching.

Bucky reached the sketchbook and plucked it up like it was nothing, but when he turned back, he could feel her eyes on him, narrowed, worried, furious. It made his chest clench in the best and worst way.

By the time he swung back onto the roof and handed the book to Steve, Lena was right there, fists balled at her sides before taking a swing at him. Bucky let her, her fist colliding with his shoulder. 

“You’re an idiot.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“Don’t ever do that again.”

“Wasn’t planning to.” Bucky smiled.

“You’re still an idiot.”

But she was already sitting back down, muttering to herself, cheeks red and breath shallow.

She didn’t know if she wanted to kiss him or hit him again.

Maybe both.

Then a voice bellowed up from the alleyway—“HEY! You kids better get down from there before I call the cops!”

They froze.

Steve bolted first. Bucky grabbed Lena’s hand, tugging her after him. She shrieked and laughed as they scrambled down the ladder, adrenaline sharp and electric in her blood.

By the time they ducked behind a crate two blocks away, all three of them were breathless and doubled over laughing.

“You,” Lena said between gasps, pointing at Steve, “owe me ice cream.”

“You,” Steve shot back, “are probably right.”

Bucky flopped back on the sidewalk, arms sprawled wide like he was soaking in the heat from the pavement.

“Next time,” he said, grinning up at the sky, “we rob a bank. Probably easier.”

Lena looked down at him, at his flushed face, his wild grin, the smudge of dirt on his neck, and something in her heart ached sweet and sharp.

She flopped down beside him and said, “Only if I get to drive the getaway car.”

RED HOOK, BROOKLYN – OCTOBER 1934

Steve came home with blood on his collar and one eye swollen half shut.

Lena spotted it from down the hall and felt the same cold fury she always did when someone hurt someone she loved. But underneath that was something else, something lower, heavier.

This wasn’t the first time Steve came home bruised. But this one looked worse.

He eased himself down onto the bottom stair, breathing through his nose like it hurt to talk. His knuckles were scraped raw, and his left sleeve was torn at the cuff.

Lena crouched in front of him and pressed the cold rag against the side of his face without a word. He flinched, but didn’t stop her.

“It was during study period,” he said, voice muffled against the cloth, before she could ask. “Out in the hallway.”

Lena’s eyes flicked up to his, waiting. She had been suspicious when Steve didn't show up to walk home together but she had heard he got detention, she didn't think it was going to be this bad.

“He shoved Eli into the lockers and called him a kike. Twice. Loud. Like he wanted people to hear it.”

Of course she knew who he meant. Eli Silverstein. The only other Jewish kid in their year besides her. Smart, shy. Always brought extra pencils to share.

“I told him to knock it off,” Steve went on, jaw tight. “He laughed. Said Eli didn’t belong here. Said people like him were ruining the school.”

Lena’s stomach turned.

“So I hit him.”

Of course he did.

Lena didn’t say anything at first. She focused on wrapping his hand, trying not to let her fingers shake. “Did anyone help?”

“No one moved,” he said, bitter. “Even the teacher just stepped out and told us to break it up. Didn’t ask why.”

Her throat closed up.

“You were in math,” Steve added. “I didn’t want to make a scene.”

Lena had been two classrooms away, struggling through equations and resisting the urge to doodle Bucky's initials on the corners of her notes, like a lovesick teenager. All the while, something like this was happening in the hallway and she hadn’t known.

“You should’ve come and gotten me,” she said, softer than she meant to.

“What were you gonna do? Knock his teeth out with your textbook?”

“Maybe.”

“Ow. Don’t make me laugh.” That earned her a breath of a laugh, which he instantly regretted. 

She pulled the rag back and looked at the bruise forming across his cheekbone. “You’re lucky he didn’t break your nose.”

“Yeah. But I got in a couple good ones first.”

“I can tell,” she muttered. “Your hands look like you fought a brick wall.”

He looked up at her then, eyes glassy. “I didn’t do it just for him, Len.”

She stilled.

“I mean, I did. Eli’s a good kid. But it’s not just him. It’s you. And your dad. And—” He gestured vaguely, then dropped his hand. “I can’t stand the way they talk. Like it’s just a joke. Like no one’s listening.”

Lena felt something deep in her chest splinter a little.

She’d been hearing it too, on the streets, in the markets, even in their own building. Whispers behind hands. Sneers about “foreigners” and “their kind.” The way people flinched when her father muttered in Russian without thinking. The way even she flinched sometimes.

She was so tired of flinching.

Later, the three of them sat out on the stoop, Steve hunched under his coat, Bucky beside him, arms crossed, listening in silence. Lena curled her knees up to her chest, the cold iron railing pressing against her back.

Bucky hadn’t said much when Steve told them. Just listened, his jaw tight, a muscle jumping in his cheek.

Finally, he spoke. “It’s not just school.”

“What do you mean?” Lena looked over. 

“New guy started at the loading dock,” Bucky muttered. “He told Callahan last week that ‘Red Hook’s too full of names no one can pronounce.’ Said the Jews were gonna bring trouble here, just like they were in Europe.”

Lena felt her breath catch.

Steve blinked. “What did you say?”

“I told him if he ever said something like that again, I’d knock him off the dock.”

Steve nodded, quiet. Bucky didn’t smile.

That night, Lena lay awake long after her father started snoring in his chair. The blankets felt heavy. The air felt still.

She thought about synagogue. About how she hadn’t gone since last year. How she’d stopped wearing her mother’s Star of David because, well she didn't know why, one day she just stopped reaching for it..

She thought about Eli, Henny, her friend Liz from a grade below that she met at temple, and then the boys in their neighborhood who never said anything but always looked at her differently.

She wondered if she was allowed to feel this angry.

If skipping services and falling in love with a gentile boy and spending Shabbat helping Mrs. Barnes instead of lighting candles made her less Jewish. If being less Jewish made her less worthy of being angry at the injustice of it all.

Then she thought of Steve. Bloody and breathless and furious.

And of Bucky, whose fists were always ready, but whose voice went cold when he was angry.

And she decided:

She didn’t need permission to be angry.

She didn’t need to be perfectly Jewish to know what hate felt like.

And she didn’t need to prove her pain to anyone.

Later that night, when the house was still and the only sound was the faint rumble of the radiator, Lena slipped quietly from her bed.

She moved to the little tin box she kept under her dresser, the one with old bus tokens, folded-up notes from Steve, a dried petal from her mother’s grave.

She lifted the lid.

There, tangled in a loop of pale ribbon, was her mother’s Star of David necklace. The silver was tarnished in spots, the chain slightly knotted. She hadn’t worn it since last winter.

Her fingers hesitated, hovering above it.

Then she picked it up, slowly, and undid the clasp.

She fastened it around her neck.

It settled against her collarbone like it had been waiting for her.

She didn’t light a candle. Didn’t say a prayer. Just sat back down on the edge of her bed, clutching the pendant in her fist, and let herself feel the weight of it.

Not guilt.

Not shame.

Something steadier.

RED HOOK, BROOKLYN – JANUARY 1935

The cold that winter wasn’t sharp, it was heavy. It sat in Lena’s coat, in the breath that lingered like ghosts above coffee cups, in the ache that settled deep in her hands no matter how tightly she laced her gloves.

It even crept into the music.

Her voice cracked more often these days, tired, uncertain, like it was catching on something inside her. She hadn’t sung aloud in a while. Not really. Not with her full heart behind it.

Instead, she hummed under her breath when the stove was warming, or in the quiet before sleep. Soft things. Lullabies her mother used to hum, back when the house still felt full. Back when her voice didn’t feel like a fragile thing trying not to break.

Her father had taken more shifts at the factory, ones that left him stooped and silent by the end of the day. His cough was worse now, a rasping thing that clawed its way up his throat when he thought she was asleep. She found a pawn slip tucked into his coat one night, her mother’s brooch, the one she thought was lost. Sold for rent, or medicine, or both.

She didn’t ask. She just tucked the slip back into pocket and pretended she had never seen it. 

Pretending it wasn’t a warning. Pretending it didn’t mean anything at all.

On Sunday, the three of them, Steve, Bucky, and Lena, walked to the edge of the pier like they had a hundred times before. But everything was quieter now. The wind sharper. The river slower and darker, as if even the water was tired.

Their boots crunched on the crust of snow along the dock. The air smelled like salt and iron and something faintly metallic, like the inside of a penny jar.

The river looked frozen, but not fully. Cracks laced across the surface, water churning beneath, restless and waiting. It reminded Lena of herself lately, solid on top, splitting underneath.

She stepped closer to the edge.

“Careful,” Bucky said, his voice gentler than the words. “You fall in, I’m not jumping in after you.”

“Yes you are,” Steve said automatically, stamping his feet against the cold.

“I’ll try to get her,” Bucky replied, squinting out over the water, clearly teasing. “But I’m not freezing to death if she’s too stubborn to grab the rope.”

“Wow,” Lena muttered, raising an eyebrow. “Your chivalry is overwhelming.”

She almost laughed, but it caught somewhere behind her teeth. But she smiled, soft and real and leaned into Steve a little as he offered her the last of his roasted peanuts from the paper bag in his pocket.

Bucky hesitated, then reached into his coat and pulled out a small bundle, wrapped in newsprint and tied with the kind of string that usually came from the bakery.

“What’s this?” Lena asked, surprised.

“Open it,” he said, suddenly very interested in the ice beneath his feet.

Inside was a wool scarf, clearly handmade, the yarn a little uneven, one side longer than the other. It was brown and gray and ugly as sin.

It was also the warmest thing she’d ever held.

“Ma gave me the pattern,” Bucky said, rubbing the back of his neck, his ears going pink. “Tried it myself after work. Took me forever.”

Lena ran her fingers over it. It was scratchy, imperfect, and something about it made her chest ache.

“It’s terrible,” she said softly.

“I know.”

She looped it around her neck anyway.

“Thank you Bucky,” she said quietly, but what she meant was: for noticing. For caring.

She didn’t really know how to explain the feeling that had settled over her lately, that strange, weightless kind of heaviness. Like she wasn’t planted anywhere anymore.

It was everything and nothing at once.

Her father came home later every night, coughing into his coat. The rent notices were piling up. The news was worse every week. Her teachers had started talking down to her again, slower and louder, like they’d forgotten she spoke better English than half the class, or that she spoke three other languages on top of it. Mr. Sullivan still called her "Miss Radonovich" even after two years of corrections. And Steve had been in two fights already this month alone.

There wasn’t one thing to point to. Just a slow unraveling, thread by thread.

And the worst part?

She couldn’t tell if it was all really happening or if something inside her had just started slipping loose.

Bucky watched her tuck the scarf around her neck like it belonged there, like it had always belonged there, and felt something unspool quietly in his chest.

He’d messed up the stitches. The ends were uneven. His ma had offered to fix it but he’d said no, he wanted it to be his. And still, she wore it like it was made of silk.

“You gonna cry, punk?” Steve teased beside him, jabbing him lightly in the ribs.

“Only if you kiss me.”

Steve gagged.

Lena laughed then, a real laugh, not just a puff of breath. The sound of it wrapped around Bucky like warmth. He hadn’t heard it in days. Not like that.

And he’d do anything, anything to keep hearing it.

They stood there a while longer, watching the river churn beneath the ice, pretending they didn’t feel the shift in the air, or the silence behind the laughter.

Bucky didn’t say much after that. Just stood beside her, watching the water churn under the cracking ice.

He’d been worried about her lately, about the way her laugh didn’t come as easily, the way her hands trembled a little more when she was tired, the way she’d started humming instead of singing like she was afraid to take up space. He noticed the way she lingered at the window when the news was on, or how she tucked her sleeves over her fingers like they could shield her from more than just the cold.

She still smiled at him, still teased him, still reached for his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

But something in her was pulling back.

He wanted to ask her what was wrong. Wanted to ask if the scarf helped, if it made her feel even the tiniest bit safer, warmer, held. But he didn’t know how to put those things into words without sounding like an idiot.

So he just stood beside her and tried to match his breathing to hers. Tried to make her feel less alone without saying anything at all.

She didn’t look at him, but she stepped closer. Let her body melt into his, her head against his shoulder. 

And that was enough for now.

That night, the radio in their apartment crackled with another report, more marches in Berlin, more men in uniforms, more assurances that Poland has nothing to fear.

Her father turned the volume down. “Just noise.”

But Lena stood in the kitchen, staring out the window, the scarf still looped around her shoulders. The cold crept in through the cracks in the wall and touched her spine like a fingertip made of ice.

Across the city, lights were winking out one by one. Smoke curled from chimneys into the starless dark. The news hadn't said anything new. And yet somehow it felt worse. Heavier. Like they were running out of time and no one could see it.

She pulled the scarf tighter and closed her eyes.

Chapter Text

back at the beginning 

RED HOOK, BROOKLYN - SPRING 1935

Bucky shifted from one foot to the other outside the Rabinovich apartment, clutching a warm paper bag like it might shield him from nerves.

It was barely past eight in the morning. The hallway still smelled like boiled cabbage and old radiator heat. He could hear the soft hum of the radio through the door, something in Polish, or maybe Russian, he wasn’t sure. He still had a hell of a time telling them apart.

He hadn’t told Lena he was coming.

It had felt like a good idea the night before. He’d wrapped the poppy seed rolls in wax paper himself, traded two shifts for the morning off, and even ironed his shirt, sort of. But now, standing here, his knuckles hovering near the doorframe, he realized something: this would be the first time he knocked.

He'd been in the apartment before, of course. Plenty of times. To drop off books or fetch her for school. Usually with Steve. Mostly when Lennie's dad was at work. Occasionally he'd cross paths with the tall, near silent man. Mr. Rabinovich would nod, maybe make a comment about the weather in that heavy Russian accent of his and that'd be it.

But that was different. That was the neighborhood kid coming around. This, this was a boy knocking for his daughter on a Saturday morning with poppy seed rolls and no real reason except I wanted to see you.

Did Lena's father even know they were going steady?

He took a breath and knocked.

The door opened a moment later. Not Lena.

Her father stood there, sleeves rolled up, morning paper folded under one arm. His brow lifted slightly in quiet surprise.

“James,” he said, polite but puzzled. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah. Yes, sir. I—uh—I’m sorry to show up unannounced.”

Mr. Rabinovich nodded slowly, waiting.

“I just—Callahan gave me the morning off,” Bucky said, holding up the bag like an explanation. “I thought maybe Lena’d want to come out for a bit. I brought breakfast.”

There was a pause. Not awkward, not unkind. Just... assessing. Measuring something new between them that hadn’t been there the last time Bucky stood in this hallway.

From inside, Lena’s voice floated through the doorway. “Papa? Who is it?”

“Your friend James,” her father said, gaze still on Bucky.

Lena’s footsteps padded softly across the floor, and then she appeared beside him, hair half-braided, socks mismatched. She blinked once, surprised. Then her face lit up.

“Bucky? What are you doing here?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Kidnapping you. For the day.”

“For the whole day?” she asked, delighted.

“If you’re free.”

She turned to her father before answering. “I already helped with the washing and the tea. Can I go?”

Mr. Rabinovich looked at her, then back at Bucky. His eyes didn’t narrow, not exactly, but something in his expression sharpened. Recognition. Not of Bucky, the neighborhood boy. But of something else.

Something like intent.

He gave a small nod. “Don’t be late for supper, Lenochka.”

“I won’t,” she promised, grabbing her coat and slipping past them both. “Thank you, Papa.”

As she reached for the bakery bag, Bucky hesitated. Then offered it to her father instead. “There’s an extra one in there. Thought you might want it.”

Mr. Rabinovich’s brow lifted again, but this time, just slightly, he smiled.

“Thank you, James,” he said. “Be safe.”

Lena tugged Bucky’s arm as soon as the door closed behind them.

“You’re brave,” she said, beaming. “I thought you woulda bolted when he opened the door.”

“I almost did.”

“You handled it well. He likes you.”

“Yeah?” Bucky said, exhaling. “Think he figured it out?”

She smirked, lacing their fingers together. “If he didn’t before, he does now.”

The wind off the harbor still had a bite, but the sun was bright and sharp, turning every puddle into a mirror. Bucky walked slower than usual, not because he had to, but because he wanted the day to last.

Lena trailed half a step behind, tearing tiny pieces from her poppy seed roll and tossing them to the pigeons following them like royalty.

“I can’t believe you actually took the morning off,” she said, not looking at him.

“I’m full of surprises.”

She glanced sideways. “You hate surprises.”

“Yeah, but I like you more.”

Lena gave him a look like she was going to roll her eyes, except she didn’t. She just smiled into her sleeve and shook her head.

They passed the fruit cart near Carroll Street, where old Mrs. Feldman was arguing with a vendor about the price of cherries. Bucky grabbed an apple from the bottom of the barrel, palmed it like a magician, and kept walking.

“Bucky!” Lena hissed, pretending to be scandalized. “You thief!”

“What? I’ll come back later.”

“No, you won’t.”

He took a bite. “No, I won’t.”

She smacked his arm, but her eyes were laughing as she leaned over and took a bite from the apple in his hand.

A few blocks later, they detoured down Van Brunt just because the street smelled like baking bread and sun-warmed metal. A delivery boy on a bike nearly ran them over and shouted something rude; Bucky shouted back, and Lena tried to keep from laughing with her mouth full of stolen apple.

They ducked into a secondhand bookshop with a crooked floor and a sleepy cat. Lena found a Russian translation of Little Women and made Bucky read out loud from it in the worst accent she’d ever heard. He retaliated by loudly reciting poetry from a romance novel until the shopkeeper threatened to kick them out.

Then, by some unspoken agreement, they ended up down by the pier.

The wood was splintery and slick from the last rain, but they didn’t care. Lena sat on the edge, legs swinging, face tipped toward the sun. Bucky lay back with his arms folded behind his head, the half-eaten apple resting on his chest.

Neither of them said much.

A seagull shrieked overhead. Somewhere nearby, a kid’s radio crackled with a jazz tune from the city.

Lena tossed a pebble into the water.

“You ever think about where we’ll be a year from now?” Bucky asked, not really looking at her.

“Nope,” she said instantly. “I'm thinking about today.”

He turned his head, watching her. “Good answer.”

She didn’t turn to look back. But she smiled, and he saw it. He always did.

“Tell me again why we’re sneaking in when movies are a dime?” Lena whispered as they slinked through the alley behind the Neptune Theatre.

“Because,” Bucky said, gripping her hand, “I'm saving my dimes for a dame. For later.” He grinned, clearly proud of himself.

“I’m going to be banned from polite society.”

“You were never in polite society to begin with.”

He peeked around the corner. The back entrance was cracked open, a crate propping it ajar. A sleepy projectionist leaned against the wall, smoking and reading the Eagle. He didn’t look up as they crept past.

Inside, it smelled like popcorn grease, dust, and velvet.

They slipped into the back row just as the curtains drew back and a cartoon short filled the screen. Lena sank low in the seat, laughing behind her hand. “We’re going to hell.”

“Worth it,” Bucky whispered, grinning like a devil. “You owe me popcorn.”

“I’m the one risking my soul for Chaplin.”

“Chaplin wishes he had your comedic timing.”

Lena snorted. He beamed.

They stayed for the whole reel, two cartoons, a newsreel, and the first twenty minutes of a black-and-white romance Bucky couldn’t follow because he was too busy watching Lena’s face in the flickering light.

When they finally left through the front like normal people, the sunlight felt loud. Lena squinted and stretched.

“Alright, troublemaker,” she said. “What next?”

Bucky pointed across the street. “That.”

She followed his finger to the grimy window of the penny arcade. In the corner, a battered Photomaton booth sat crookedly, a hand-painted sign on top: 4 POSES - 5¢.

“No,” she said immediately.

“Yes.”

“I look like I crawled out of a coal chute.”

“You look perfect.”

“That’s not true.”

“Come on.” He was already dragging her by the hand.

The booth reeked faintly of cigarettes and cheap soap. Lena wrinkled her nose and perched on the tiny bench, Bucky crowding in beside her. He shoved a nickel into the slot.

The countdown began.

“Smile,” Bucky said.

“I am smiling.”

“No, that’s your I'm-gonna-punch-you smile.”

Flash.

Next frame.

“Now this one’s serious.”

They both tried to hold still. Bucky ended up sneezing.

Flash.

Third frame.

Lena turned to say something just as Bucky leaned forward.

Their noses bumped. Her eyes went wide. His lips caught the corner of her mouth.

Flash.

Fourth frame.

They were laughing too hard to pose. Her forehead pressed to his shoulder. His whole face pink.

Flash.

The machine whirred and spat out the photo strip with a hiss of mechanical pride. Bucky held it up, triumphant.

“You’re never allowed to lose this,” Lena said, reaching for it.

“Oh, I’m framing it,” he said. “Gonna hang it next to the clock like a family portrait.”

“Over your dead body.”

“Romantic.”

She snatched the strip and tucked it into her coat pocket before he could stop her.

They walked the long way back, weaving through the side streets where kids chalked on the sidewalk and laundry flapped above their heads like signal flags. The day was starting to lean into golden hour, the light warmer, softer. The kind that made even the cracked brick tenements look like something from a painting.

Bucky had dropped Lena's hand and moved his arm around her shoulders, proud to be the one walking her down the street. 

“You’re smiling,” she said at one point, glancing at him from the corner of her eye.

“I’m allowed,” he replied. “You’re not exactly terrible company.”

“That’s practically a compliment, James.”

“Don’t get cocky.”

She nudged him with her shoulder. He nudged her right back.

When they reached her stoop, she paused, turning toward him. The apartment windows above them were open, her father’s radio murmuring faintly in Polish. She could already smell something cooking. Stew, maybe. Or cabbage rolls.

“You gonna tell me where we’re going next?” she asked.

“Nope.”

“Am I allowed to guess?”

“No.”

“Rude.”

Bucky rocked back on his heels, grinning. “You gotta have dinner first. Then I’ll come back for you.”

She blinked. “You’re coming back?”

“Course I am.” He looked at her like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I’ve got plans for you tonight, Lennie.”

The words made her stomach flip, even if he said them with that cocky little tilt to his grin.

“What kind of plans?”

“Nice ones.”

“Oh, that’s very specific.”

“You’ll like it.”

She narrowed her eyes, trying not to smile too wide. “What should I wear?”

Bucky pretended to consider it. “Something that’ll make me nervous. A dress.”

She swatted his arm, laughing, and he caught her wrist gently, holding her there for a second longer than she expected.

“Be ready around six?”

“I will be.”

“Good.”

He dropped her hand, stepping backward down the stoop.

“Oh,” he added, pointing to her coat pocket, “and don’t forget the photo strip. You owe me half custody.”

“In your dreams.”

He gave a mock salute and turned, the grin still on his face as he headed down the block, whistling something tuneless and happy. 

Then he paused, turned around, and jogged back to her side. 

“Forgot something,” Bucky grinned and before Lena could ask, he kissed her sweetly on the mouth before taking off again. 

Lena stood there for a moment longer, hand still warm where he’d held her wrist, heart hammering like it was trying to memorize everything about the moment before it passed.

Then she turned and slipped inside.

The apartment smelled like onions and bay leaf, rich and familiar. Her father was still in his undershirt, hunched over the table, tearing a piece of bread to dip into his stew. The radio was playing something low and mournful in Polish, the kind of melody that had always made Lena’s mother hum along when she cooked.

Lena moved quietly through the hallway, closing the bedroom door behind her before slipping off her shoes and laying out her dress.

It wasn’t anything special. Just a pale blue number with a drop waist and scalloped sleeves, one she hadn’t worn since Henny’s cousin’s wedding last spring. But it made her feel like someone worth looking at.

She brushed her hair until it shone and braided it back loosely, letting a few strands fall where they wanted. Dabbed a little rosewater at her neck. Powdered the shine from her nose.

In the mirror, she didn’t quite recognize herself. Not in a bad way. Just different. Like someone halfway to something new.

From the kitchen, she heard her father shift his chair, then his voice: “Lenochka, come eat something before you faint.”

“I will,” she called back, smoothing the hem of her dress.

He appeared in the doorway a minute later, wiping his hands on a towel. His expression softened when he saw her.

“You look like your mother.”

Lena paused, her throat catching.

“She used to take hours getting ready. Always worried about nothing. But she never looked more beautiful than when she laughed at herself for it.”

Lena smiled. “I’m not worried.”

He nodded once, slowly, like he knew that wasn’t entirely true but didn’t want to press it.

Then his gaze drifted to the small suitcase tucked in the corner of her room, the one that still had her old sheet music and a few family photos inside. He looked like he might say something else.

But then he shook his head slightly and said, “You have time.”

She didn’t know what he meant by that. Not yet.

He kissed the top of her head and went back to the kitchen.

Lena sat on the edge of her bed for a moment, heart fluttering like wings in her chest. Something about the night felt unreal. Like it was borrowed.

Then came the knock.

Soft. Rhythmic. Two, then one.

Bucky’s knock.

She opened the door to find him there in a freshly pressed shirt, hair still damp from wherever he’d scrubbed it clean. He held a little bundle in his hands, another newspaper-wrapped mystery.

“What’s that?” she asked, eyeing it suspiciously.

“Emergency provisions,” he said solemnly. “In case the where we're going serves anything with raisins.”

Inside was a folded paper bag with a crusty roll and a hunk of sharp cheese.

Lena laughed, bright and surprised. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet, here you are.”

She stepped out onto the landing, letting the door click shut behind her. Her father didn’t follow, just called softly, “Be safe, малышка.”

Lena blinked. It had been a long time since he’d called her that. Baby girl.

She turned to Bucky, trying to shake the weight in her chest.

“You ready?” he asked, holding out his arm.

Lena didn’t take it right away. She looked at him, really looked, and felt something lodge itself gently, painfully in her ribs.

He was hers. And this night was theirs.

“For anything,” she said, and slipped her hand into the crook of his arm.

They descended the stairs into the violet-blue of early evening, laughter spilling down the block ahead of them.

From the outside, the dance hall looked like nothing much, just another faded brick building, squat and shadowy, tucked behind a boarded-up storefront. But as soon as Bucky opened the heavy wooden door, the place spilled over with music and warm, golden light.

Inside, the hall was alive with people. Couples spun across the polished floor, laughter mixing with the rich, honeyed notes of a trumpet. Colored lights, strung overhead, threw soft patterns onto dresses and jackets, and made everyone look like they’d stepped out of a movie scene.

Lena paused, holding onto Bucky’s arm a little tighter. “How did you find this place?”

He smiled down at her, proud. “Callahan’s nephew plays sax in the band. He owed me one.”

They stood just inside the doorway, letting the heat and sound wash over them. Lena caught glimpses of faces she recognized, boys from the docks, girls from the market, everyone transformed by soft dresses and pressed shirts, faces flushed and shining.

Bucky turned to her, leaning down so she could hear him over the music. “Wanna dance?”

She hesitated just a second, biting her lip. “You remember how bad I am at this?”

“Doesn’t matter.” He took her hand, threading his fingers firmly through hers. “You step on my feet, I won’t even flinch.”

“You say that now.”

He guided her out into the swirl of couples before she could argue any further.

The band shifted smoothly from a lively foxtrot to something softer, slower. Lena relaxed slightly as Bucky’s hands found her waist, her own arms sliding naturally around his neck.

“See?” He smiled, leaning close enough for his voice to brush warm against her temple. “You’re already dancing.”

“Technically,” she murmured, trying to hide her smile. “Barely.”

Bucky spun her gently, catching her again just as her laughter bubbled up and mingled with the music. He moved with an easy grace that always surprised her, a reminder that even though she saw him every day, there was still more to know, more to fall for.

She let herself lean against him, head resting lightly against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her cheek. For a moment, the room blurred softly around them. The lights, the music, the other couples, it all became something distant, gentle background noise.

When the next song came, a familiar melody, romantic and sweet Bucky hummed quietly along, just loud enough for her to hear.

She lifted her head. “I didn’t know you knew this song.”

“I hear it enough on the radio.” He shrugged, a little shy now. “And I figured someday I might get lucky and have a girl worth singing it for.”

Lena’s cheeks warmed. She looked away, biting back a smile. “You really are too charming for your own good.”

“Lucky for me, you like charming.”

She laughed, breathless, as he spun her once more, gentle enough that she hardly noticed the sway of her feet. When he drew her back, he held her closer than before, his thumb brushing softly across the back of her hand.

The band moved into another slow tune, the saxophone curling smoky notes into the air. Lena’s heart fluttered softly against her ribs. She’d danced before, plenty of times, but not like this not feeling every breath, every heartbeat, every careful touch as clearly as this.

She wondered, briefly, if he felt it too. The way everything around them seemed a little sharper, a little brighter, just from being close to each other.

Then, as if he’d heard her thought, Bucky leaned down just enough to whisper into her hair: “I’m really glad you came tonight, Lennie.”

She looked up into his face, at the way the lights played across his features, warm and familiar, yet somehow new.

“So am I.”

For another song or two they danced just like that, quiet, soft, easy. A private world carved out right there on the crowded dance floor, both of them silently wishing they could hold onto it forever.

The band picked up tempo again, the drums kicking into a snappy swing beat that sent a ripple of energy through the floor. Around them, couples came alive, spinning, laughing, clapping to the rhythm.

Bucky grinned. “Think you can keep up?”

Lena raised an eyebrow. “You really wanna test me?”

He stepped back just enough to give her a dramatic bow. “Miss Rabinovich, may I have this dance?”

She curtsied, smirking. “You may regret it.”

They dove into the song, their steps quick and uneven at first, more laughter than rhythm but they found their groove, moving in sync like they always did when it counted. Bucky’s hands were sure and steady, guiding her with practiced ease through a clumsy twirl, then catching her again with a boyish grin that made her stomach swoop.

She almost lost her footing when he dipped her, the hem of her dress brushing the floor, both of them breathless and red-faced when he pulled her back up.

“I thought you weren’t trying to impress me,” she teased.

“Too late,” he said, his smile softer now, a little shy. “I’m pretty sure I’ve been trying to impress you since I was ten.”

That stopped her cold. Just a second. Just enough to see the way he looked at her now, not like a friend with a crush, not like a boy hoping to charm, like someone who had made a decision and was standing in it.

Before she could find something to say, the music shifted again.

Slower this time. Gentle.

A love song, rich and low, filled with brass and longing.

Lena exhaled slowly. “One more?”

He didn’t answer, just pulled her closer, hand settling carefully against her waist again. She curled her fingers into the soft fabric of his collar and rested her head against his shoulder.

Everything else faded. Just the music, and the quiet rustle of their clothes, and the rise and fall of his breathing under her cheek.

She closed her eyes.

“You remember the first time we danced?” he murmured after a while.

“At the school social?”

“Your dress was blue. You were wearing your mother’s clip in your hair.”

She smiled against his chest. “You spilled punch on my shoes.”

“And you made me clean it with my handkerchief.”

“You didn’t even have a handkerchief.”

“I used Steve’s.”

She laughed softly, and he chuckled too, but it faded fast leaving something tender behind, like the echo of an old song.

He pulled back just enough to look down at her, eyes searching.

“Lennie.”

Her breath caught at the way he said her name like it was a secret he’d been waiting to say out loud.

His thumb brushed the edge of her cheek. Her hands tightened at his collar.

And then quietly, like a vow—

“I love you.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t a grand performance. But it landed somewhere deep, anchoring itself in the hollow space behind her ribs.

She didn’t say anything right away. Her heart was pounding too loud. Her mind was still catching up to the moment she’d imagined more times than she could count.

But when she finally looked up, really looked at him, it felt like something inside her clicked into place.

“I love you too,” she said.

His forehead leaned into hers, their eyes closed, swaying to the music like nothing else mattered.

And for just a moment, it didn’t.

The air outside was cooler now, touched by the quiet that only came late in the city when the streetcars had passed, when even the rowdiest taverns dimmed their lights.

Bucky shrugged out of his coat and draped it over Lena’s shoulders before she could protest. She didn’t hand it back.

Their hands found each other again without thinking, fingers twined. No teasing, no games. Just the simple joy of it.

The world felt different. Not bigger, exactly brighter. As if the lamplight shone a little softer now, as if the breeze had stopped biting just for them.

They walked slowly. Not because they were tired. Because they didn’t want the night to end.

“I still can’t believe you kept that ugly scarf,” Bucky said eventually, glancing sideways at her.

She smiled. “It’s warm. And terrible. And mine.”

He grinned, nudging her shoulder gently with his. “I’m terrible and yours too, then?”

She pretended to consider. “You’re warmer.”

They fell quiet again, the good kind. The kind where nothing needs to be said, because everything already is.

Lena glanced up at him every so often, catching the way he kept looking at her like he couldn’t quite believe she was real. She knew the feeling.

“I meant what I said, you know,” she murmured.

“About the scarf?”

She bumped his arm. “About loving you.”

He stopped walking. Just for a second.

Then he leaned in and kissed her, slow and sure and steady.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t loud.

It was theirs.

And when they started walking again, her heart felt too big for her ribs.

They reached her door too soon. The light inside was pouring out from the gap underneath the door. Her father always left it that way when she went out after dark, even if he didn’t say it aloud. The silhouette of him passed briefly in the window.

“I should…” she began, reluctant.

“Yeah,” Bucky nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “But, uh—Lennie?”

She turned back toward him.

His cheeks were flushed from the cold. His tie was crooked.

“I know things are hard right now. But this—” He lifted her hand. “This is the only thing that makes any damn sense to me.”

Her chest ached in that good, terrifying way again. “Me too.”

“I’ll come by tomorrow, okay? Maybe take you and Steve down to the pier?”

Lena nodded. “I’d like that.”

“Goodnight, Lennie.”

“Goodnight, Buck.”

He kissed her again, short and sweet, a goofy lopsided grin on his face as he turned to leave.  She waited until he turned the corner before stepping inside.

Her father was seated in his usual chair, one hand on a worn book, the other resting on the arm like he’d been waiting. His face was unreadable, gentle, almost. But tired.

“You look happy,” he said softly, not accusing, just observing.

“I am,” she replied, and for once, she didn’t hide it.

He looked at her for a long moment, eyes searching hers, then drifted to the coat still draped over her shoulders. Something flickered in his expression.

“Lena,” he said gently, in Russian. “Sit with me a moment.”

Something in his voice pulled the air from her chest.

She sat.

For a moment, he didn’t speak. He just looked at her, like he was trying to memorize something. Her face, her happiness, the way her shoulders weren’t curled in on themselves for once.

Then he set the book aside and folded his hands.

“I didn’t want to ruin tonight,” he said. “But you need to know.”

Her heart skipped once.

He didn’t look angry. He looked ashamed. He looked like a man who had run out of time.

“I lost the factory job two weeks ago.”

She blinked.

“Again?” she asked, too soft.

“This time it’s not coming back.”

She opened her mouth, but he held up a hand.

“There is no more work. Not for me. Not steady. And the rent…”

His voice caught. He cleared it.

“I’ve written to your uncle in Warsaw. Your mother’s brother. He agreed to take you in.”

The words hit harder than she expected, like slipping on ice in a place she thought was dry.

“You’re sending me back?” she said, stunned.

“To family,” he said. “To safety. For now. Just until until I can make things right here.”

Lena stared at him, the room suddenly too small.

“But you said—”

“I know what I said.” He looked down. “But I can't let you stay here and watch everything fall apart. You deserve better than this, Lena. Than me.”

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t cry.

Just sat there, still wearing Bucky’s coat, the sleeves too long, the scent of him still clinging to the fabric.

The joy in her chest folded in on itself like paper.

And somewhere, deep inside, something began to break.

Chapter Text

and now in your arms 

RED HOOK, BROOKLYN - SPRING 1935

Lena didn’t sleep.

Not really.

She lay awake long after her father’s footsteps faded into silence, long after the warmth of the dance had faded from her skin. Her dress hung carefully over the back of the chair. The flower Bucky had tucked behind her ear had wilted in a cup of water by the window. Her fingers kept brushing over the chain at her neck, over the Star of David resting against her collarbone, as if it might offer her strength.

It didn’t feel real yet. Not the night. Not the morning. Not the words she was about to say.

She waited until the sun had risen, faint and pale, before slipping her coat on and walking the few blocks toward the Barnes’ apartment.

Bucky opened the door before she knocked.

He looked like he’d just rolled out of bed, shirt wrinkled, hair mussed, one sock halfway on. There was a moment where his whole face lit up, like he was surprised and relieved to see her standing there.

Then his smile faltered.

“Len?” he said, quietly. “Everything okay?”

She didn’t answer. Just shifted her weight and said, “Can I come in?"

He stepped aside without another word. The apartment smelled like bread and coal smoke. One of his sisters was arguing in the kitchen. The radio was low, something jazzy playing under the hum of the stove.

Steve was already there, seated at the table, thumbing through the classifieds like he did every Sunday morning. He looked up, surprised. Sunday was usually her chore day, Lena didn't usually find them until the afternoon. 

“Hey, what’re you—” He stopped when he saw her face.

She sat down across from him. Bucky leaned against the wall nearby, arms folded. Waiting.

“I have to tell you something,” she said, and hated how small her voice sounded.

Neither of them said a word.

“My father…” She swallowed. “He lost his job again. Two weeks ago.”

Steve’s mouth opened slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

“He tried to find something else, but—he says it’s different this time. Harder. And rent’s already late and he—he sold my mother’s brooch.”

Bucky’s jaw twitched.

“I asked him not to,” Lena added quickly. “I told him I could help, that I could find work, that I’d quit school. But he said…” Her throat closed up for a second. “He said he already made up his mind.”

Bucky moved then. Just half a step.

“He wrote to my uncle in Warsaw,” Lena finished. “He thinks I’ll be better off there. With my mother’s people. He thinks—he thinks it’s best.”

The silence stretched out like a string pulled too tight.

“How long?” Steve asked finally, voice hoarse.

She looked at him.

“Two weeks,” she said.

Steve pushed back from the table like he couldn’t breathe, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.

Bucky didn’t move. Not at first. Then he turned, just slightly, and walked out of the room.

The door didn’t slam, but it felt like it had.

Lena sat perfectly still, fingers twisting in her skirt.

Steve stood there, pale and lost, until finally he sat down again. Leaned forward. Put his hand over hers.

“We’re not letting that happen,” he said, fierce and low. “We’re not.”

And Lena nodded. Because she wanted to believe that, too.

Bucky took the stairs two at a time. The cold outside hit him like a slap, but he didn’t stop. Just kept walking, down the block, around the corner, past the bakery and the butcher and the place where he’d kissed Lena with powdered sugar still on her lips last summer.

He needed to move. He needed to think. But all he could hear was her voice, soft and breaking, He already made up his mind.

Made up his mind.

Like she didn’t belong to Brooklyn anymore. Like she was something to be sent back. Like a package.

He kicked a loose stone hard enough to send it skittering into the gutter.

She hadn’t cried. Not in front of them. That somehow made it worse. He knew what it cost her to sit there, calm and still, like she wasn’t falling apart. He could see it in her shoulders, in the way she kept touching the chain at her neck, like her mother might appear and stop all of this if she just wished hard enough.

He turned down the alley behind Callahan’s and leaned against the brick wall, knuckles pressed to his forehead. His breath steamed in the air.

He felt helpless.

And he hated feeling helpless.

Two weeks.

In two weeks, she’d be gone. In two weeks, that laugh, that voice, those walks home, her gone. He didn’t know what her uncle in Warsaw was like. He didn’t care. All he could think was that Poland was too far. Far enough that she might not come back.

And what if she couldn’t?

He tried not to think about the papers his ma read at night. Or the way people in the market had started whispering when Lena got excited and started chattering in Polish. Or the new slurs on the dock wall someone scrawled last week and no one bothered to scrub off.

Brooklyn wasn’t safe. But he knew in his gut Poland was worse.

He pushed off the wall, eyes burning, breath sharp.

If there was any way to keep her here, he’d find it.

He’d pick up every shift, knock on every damn door, lie through his teeth if he had to. He didn’t care. She wasn’t going to walk away from this city thinking she was unwanted.

Not by him.

By the time Bucky got back, Steve and Lena were sitting on the roof together. Shoulders pressed close, heads bent low as they spoke in quiet voices.

They didn’t look a thing alike, Lena with her dark hair and long limbs, Steve all sharp corners and pale freckled skin. She’d stopped being shorter than him ages ago.

But looking at them now, Bucky didn’t see any of that.

All he saw was family.

The way Steve’s skinny arm curved around her shoulders, the way Lena leaned into it like she’d done it a thousand times, it reminded Bucky of how he sat with Becca that night their father came home and said there was no more work at the shipyard.

He didn’t know how her father could do it. How he could just send her away. Like she wasn’t already rooted here. Like she didn’t belong.

Like she wasn’t his.

Bucky cleared his throat, forcing himself to sound steady. Normal. Like he hadn’t just walked the length of the waterfront trying to hold himself together.

Steve and Lena turned at the same time, matching looks of worry written across both their faces.

“Hey,” Steve said quietly, not moving his arm from Lena’s shoulder. “You okay?”

“Sure,” Bucky lied.

Lena gave him a look like she saw straight through him.

He moved to sit across from them, legs stretched out and elbows on his knees. “So what’s the plan?”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “You mean you’re not going to storm the Polish consulate?”

“Thought about it,” Bucky muttered.

Lena gave a watery laugh. “We already looked. The boat’s paid for. Non-refundable.” She winced as she said it, like the word *boat* made it real again.

“We’ll figure something out,” Steve said.

“We’ve got two weeks,” Bucky added. “That’s fourteen days. A lot can happen in fourteen days.”

“Like what?” Lena asked, not accusing, just tired.

Bucky looked between them, his jaw set. “I get more hours at Callahan’s. Steve can ask around the printers, maybe get a few night shifts. I can talk to Mr. Resnick, see if he knows anyone looking to rent a room. What if we had the money?”

“It’s not just money,” Lena said, but her voice wavered.

“If we had enough,” Bucky pressed, “if we could show your dad you’d be okay here, maybe even better than in Warsaw, he might change his mind.”

Steve nodded. “We’d have to work fast. But maybe we could talk to his rabbi. Or your aunt. Someone who might talk him into it.”

“Make him see it’s not about disobedience,” Bucky said. “It’s about what’s best for *you.*”

Lena blinked fast, pressing her hand over her mouth for a second. Then she nodded.

“Alright,” she said, steadying. “Let’s try.”

Father Quinn’s office always smelled like incense and old paper. Steve tugged at his shirt collar, feeling far smaller than his fifteen years.

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important, Father,” he said, clutching his mother’s letter of recommendation in his pocket. “She’s practically family.”

Father Quinn sighed gently, adjusting his glasses. “Steven, I know Lena is a good girl. But this—this isn’t something easily changed. Immigration laws are strict. And if her father already made arrangements...”

“I know,” Steve said quickly. “But her family here is just as important. Isn’t there a fund or—or a sponsor we could find?”

The priest looked at him, sad and sympathetic. “I’ll make inquiries. But I can’t promise anything, son.”

Steve nodded slowly, shoulders sagging. He wanted so badly to believe in promises.

Bucky stacked the crates higher than usual, earning stares from men who’d never known him to work this fiercely. His knuckles were raw, his shoulders ached, but he ignored it.

“Barnes!” Callahan barked, waving him over. “You tryin’ to work yourself to death?”

Bucky wiped sweat off his forehead, breathing hard. “I need the hours, sir. Please.”

Callahan narrowed his eyes. “What’s the trouble?”

“It’s—it’s Lena,” he said roughly, voice thick. “My girl. Her dad, he's sending her back to Poland. I’m trying to earn enough, show her father I can help. That she doesn’t have to leave.”

Callahan softened just a fraction. “Wish I could help, son. But it ain’t just money, is it?”

Bucky swallowed. He shook his head slowly.

“No,” he admitted quietly, finally looking away. “I don’t think it is.”

Lena sat at the small table, pen in hand. The words blurred. Ink stains smudged the page. Tears had dried where hope had once lived.

Ciocia, please speak with papa. Brooklyn is my home now. My life is here, and I am safe, I am happy. Please help him understand.

Her hand trembled. She set the pen down, taking deep, shuddering breaths.

She wanted to write about Bucky. About Steve. About the family she’d built. But words were thin, and she knew her father had already written, made his case clear.

Instead, she folded the letter carefully and tucked it into the envelope, hoping her aunt might see what she couldn’t put into words.

Mrs. Rogers pressed the paper bag into Lena’s hands. “Take this home, honey. There’s extra potatoes, some cabbage. And I put a note in for your father.”

Lena swallowed, pride stinging. “You didn’t have to—”

“Lena,” Mrs. Rogers said softly, gently touching her cheek. “You’re ours too, remember that. I wish I could do more.”

Steve stood behind her, eyes downcast. Lena nodded, grateful and heartbroken all at once.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

They stood side by side, watching the dark water lap against the pier. Bucky’s knuckles were red, Lena’s eyes tired from too many sleepless nights.

“You’ve done enough,” Lena finally said, voice small.

“No, I haven’t,” Bucky argued. “Not until you’re staying. Until I know you’re not going anywhere.”

Lena reached for his hand, turning it gently in hers, tracing the raw skin.

“I don’t want you hurting yourself over me.”

“It’s nothing,” Bucky whispered fiercely. “Compared to losing you.”

They stood there quietly, letting the wind speak between them, because both knew the truth:

Time was slipping, and they were still no closer to an answer.

Steve sat hunched at the table, head buried in his hands. Lena was silent beside him, her eyes distant. Bucky leaned heavily against the wall, eyes shadowed.

“No luck at the church,” Steve said finally. “No sponsor.”

“Callahan gave me extra shifts,” Bucky said flatly, “but it’s not enough.”

Lena’s voice was small, nearly lost. “My aunt wrote back. She thinks my father’s right. She said Europe’s not so bad. That I should be with my mother’s family.”

“Maybe she’s right,” Steve said weakly, but they all knew it was a lie.

They stared at each other, each desperately hoping someone else would say the words none of them wanted to admit out loud.

“I’m sorry,” Lena whispered finally, her voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”

And there it was. The silent truth they’d all been avoiding:

They’d done everything, given everything, and it still wasn’t enough.

The apartment was quiet except for the muffled clink of dishes as her father washed up after dinner. Lena sat alone in the bedroom, her suitcase half-packed beside her, staring at the faded pattern of the wallpaper, her heart twisted tight and heavy.

There was a gentle knock at the door.

She glanced up as it cracked open, revealing Steve standing hesitantly in the doorway. He held something carefully in one hand, half-hidden behind his back.

“Hey,” he said softly, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him.

“Hey.” Lena’s voice came out raw, rough around the edges.

Steve looked at the suitcase. “I guess it’s really happening, huh?”

Lena nodded, throat tight. She gestured to the bed, and Steve settled beside her, their shoulders pressing together naturally, comfortably.

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispered finally, eyes on his lap. “I really thought we’d find a way.”

She leaned into him gently, shoulder to shoulder, taking comfort in the steady warmth he always provided. “You did everything you could, Steve.”

“It wasn’t enough.”

She reached down and found his hand, gripping tight. “It was enough for me.”

He managed a shaky smile, turning toward her slightly, and drew out what he’d hidden behind his back. It was a small, carefully folded square of linen, a handkerchief, edged in uneven blue stitches.

“I was working on this,” he said, voice tight, cheeks flushed pink. “It was supposed to have your name on it, but—”

“But you pricked your finger?” Lena finished for him softly, taking it gently in her hands. The cloth felt soft, worn, precious.

“How’d you guess?” Steve said, laughing a little despite himself.

“Because I know you.” Lena ran her thumb along the careful stitches. “I don’t need my name on it, anyway.”

“Yeah,” Steve said, voice thick. “You’ll remember it’s from me when you look at how bad the stitching is.”

She laughed softly, nudging his shoulder. “It’s perfect.”

They sat quietly for a long moment, hands clasped between them, the weight of tomorrow hanging heavily.

“Promise me you’ll keep drawing,” Lena said finally, her voice small. “Don’t stop, no matter how busy you get.”

Steve swallowed, blinking back the brightness that had suddenly filled his eyes. “I promise. And you promise to write.”

“Every chance I get.”

Steve squeezed her hand gently. “It’s not fair.”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she rested her head on his shoulder, letting herself sink into his quiet strength. “No,” she whispered, “but I don’t regret any of it.”

Steve exhaled softly, his head resting lightly against hers. “Me neither.”

They stayed like that for a long time, sitting quietly in the dim glow of the little room they’d known for so many years, neither willing to let the other go.

Finally, Steve stood slowly, reluctantly pulling his coat tighter around himself. Lena rose with him, still holding tightly to his hand.

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do without you,” he said quietly, finally looking at her fully.

“You’ll keep Bucky out of trouble,” Lena said, trying to smile. “Or maybe he’ll keep you out of trouble. Promise me.”

Steve laughed, soft and brittle, then looked at her seriously. “You’re my sister, Len. No matter where you are. That won’t change.”

Her breath caught. “You’ve always been my brother. Even before I knew you.”

He hugged her tight then, fierce and protective, like he could keep her safe just by holding on.

“I love you,” she whispered, voice muffled against his shoulder.

“I love you too, Lennie,” he said quietly, pulling back only enough to look at her again, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Always.”

And then he turned and quietly slipped out the door.

When Lena was alone again, she held the handkerchief tight to her chest, feeling the gentle ache in her heart, sharp and deep, knowing this goodbye was just the first of many.

Lena hadn’t said more than a few stiff words to her father since he’d broken the news. She hadn’t trusted herself to. The anger sat sharp and heavy in her chest, tangled up with a hurt she couldn't name, each day of silence widening the gap between them. She knew he heard it in the way she shut doors a little harder, how she avoided meeting his eyes over dinner, how she let his questions hang unanswered in the air.

He'd made the choice for both of them. But Lena couldn't shake the feeling that he’d taken something precious from her, not just Brooklyn, not just home, but trust.

Tonight, as the apartment fell quiet, Lena didn’t hesitate. She slipped into her boots, wrapped herself in her coat and the ugly knitted scarf Bucky had made for her, and quietly stepped out into the dark, empty street. The evening chill stung her cheeks, but she barely felt it. She moved quickly, silently, knowing exactly where to find him.

Bucky was already waiting by their spot on the pier, shoulders hunched, silhouetted by the faint glow of distant streetlamps. When he turned toward her, his breath fogging in the night air, his relief was tangible.

“You made it,” he said quietly.

“I wasn’t going to miss this,” Lena whispered, stepping into his arms without hesitation. Bucky’s arms tightened around her immediately, warm and strong and heartbreakingly familiar.

For a long time, they just stood there, wrapped up in each other, their breath mingling in the cold night air, neither willing to speak first.

Bucky finally broke the silence, voice rough at the edges. “I spent all day thinking I could say something—anything—to make you stay. But nothing seems right.”

Lena’s throat tightened painfully. She looked up at him, cupping his cheek gently in her palm, her thumb brushing softly over the line of his jaw. “You don’t have to say anything.”

“Yes, I do,” Bucky whispered fiercely, eyes bright in the darkness. “Because tomorrow you’ll be gone, and there’ll be a thousand things left unsaid.”

Lena pressed her forehead to his chest, gripping his coat. “Then just tell me one.”

Bucky took a shuddering breath, tilting her face up gently with one calloused hand. His blue eyes were softer now, open and vulnerable in a way he rarely let anyone see.

“I don’t know who I am without you,” he said simply, voice breaking slightly. “You're in everything. You're everywhere I look.”

Her eyes burned with tears, and she blinked rapidly to hold them back. “You’re in everything for me too, Bucky. I can’t remember my life before you. I don’t know how to live after.”

He pressed his forehead to hers, breathing her in, memorizing her, the warmth of her skin, the subtle scent of her hair, the way her breath trembled against him.

“You’ll find a way,” he whispered. “You always do.”

“Not this time,” Lena choked out. “Not without you.”

Bucky swallowed hard, thumb tracing gentle lines across her cheekbone. “Then promise you’ll try.”

She smiled faintly, leaning into his arms. 

“I’ll try,” she whispered, though it didn’t feel like enough. It didn’t feel like anything could be.

They stayed that way for a long while, swaying slightly with the wind off the river, tucked into the small cocoon they made of each other. Lena could hear the city humming behind them, faint trolley bells, dogs barking in the distance, a train rattling somewhere up the block, but all of it felt far away, like it belonged to another world.

Not theirs.

Bucky rested his chin lightly on her hair. “I thought maybe—if I saved enough, if I talked to the right people—we’d figure it out.”

“We tried,” she said, her voice breaking on the words. “You and Steve… you did everything.”

“Not enough,” he said bitterly.

“You were everything,” she said. “You still are.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his face drawn with the kind of helpless frustration that only came when there was no enemy to fight, no plan left to make.

“I wanted more time.”

“I wanted forever.”

A silence fell between them, filled with all the things they’d never get to do, trips never taken, letters never sent, birthdays missed, dances left undanced.

“I’ll write,” she said quietly.

“You better.”

“And I’ll find a way back to you,” she added. “Even if it takes years.”

His breath caught. “I’ll wait. I swear I’ll wait.”

Then she kissed him again, not out of desperation, but reverence. Like she was sealing something between them, something deep and unspoken that stretched far beyond the dock, the city, the year. A promise she’d carry with her across the sea.

When they finally pulled apart, the sky was paling at the edges, the stars giving way to the faintest hint of dawn. She could see it on his face, the moment he realized this was it. That there would be no more stalling. No more pretending it hadn’t come.

Bucky took her hand and pressed something into it. A tiny pendant on a fraying chain.

“It was my ma’s,” he said. “She gave it to me when I turned thirteen. Told me to hold onto it for someone who needed it more.”

Lena stared at the delicate silver cross, her throat thick with emotion.

“I don’t—Bucky, I can’t—”

“Don’t argue,” he said, tucking it into her palm. “Just keep it with you. For luck. Or something close enough to it.”

She nodded, too choked up to speak.

And then, because she knew if she didn’t leave now, she never would, Lena leaned forward and pressed her forehead to his one last time.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you more,” he replied.

And with that, she turned and walked away, scarf whipping in the wind, Bucky’s hand-me-down gift warm against her chest.

She didn’t look back, not because she didn’t want to, but because if she did, she knew she’d never make it home in time to pack.

And if she stayed a moment longer, she might not leave at all.

Dawn broke in soft, muted colors, gray, gold, pale blue as Lena stood quietly on the dock, suitcase gripped tightly at her side. The ship towered above her, a silent promise of the journey she didn’t want to take.

They were all there, clustered close together in a half-circle of familiar faces, the family she’d made for herself, a family she’d now have to leave behind.

Becca sniffled loudly, rubbing furiously at her eyes. Mrs. Barnes stood just behind her, hands tight on her daughter’s shoulders, eyes gentle with sadness. Lena stepped forward and hugged them both fiercely.

“Thank you,” Lena whispered softly into Mrs. Barnes’ shoulder. “For everything.”

“You’re always welcome here, Lena,” Mrs. Barnes said, voice steady, strong, gentle as ever. “Always.”

Ruth and Alice crowded around her next, holding onto Lena’s coat sleeves like they could keep her grounded.

“You’ll write?” Alice asked desperately. Lena squeezed her hand.

“Every chance I get.”

Becca hugged her again tightly, burying her face into Lena’s scarf. “Come back soon.”

Lena smoothed back Becca’s hair gently. “I’ll do my best. Take care of your brother, okay?”

Becca laughed wetly. “I’ll try. But you know how Jimmy is.”

Lena smiled softly, her eyes stinging. “Yeah, I do.”

She stepped away reluctantly, finding Mrs. Rogers waiting patiently, her eyes glistening with tears. Lena threw her arms around the small woman, breathing in the scent of soap and baked bread and comfort.

“I put sandwiches in your bag,” Mrs. Rogers whispered. “Don’t forget to eat.”

Lena’s throat tightened. “I’ll miss you so much.”

Mrs. Rogers brushed Lena’s cheek softly, motherly. “We’ll miss you too, sweetheart.”

Steve stood beside his mother, face pale, hands shoved deep into his pockets. Lena didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. She just wrapped him up in a fierce, silent hug, holding tightly until they both stopped trembling.

“You come back,” he whispered hoarsely. “Promise me you’ll find a way.”

“I promise,” Lena replied, voice barely audible. “Don’t get into too many fights without me.”

Steve choked out a laugh, reluctantly stepping back. “No promises there.”

Bucky stood apart, watching quietly, eyes unreadable beneath the shadow of his cap. Lena felt the ache inside her sharpen, almost unbearable. But she forced herself to move forward.

They didn’t speak, not at first. Bucky simply stepped closer, took her hand, holding tight. They didn’t need words, not now. Instead, he leaned in, forehead against hers, eyes closed.

“I’m still waiting,” he finally murmured, barely louder than a breath.

“I know,” she said quietly. “I’ll hurry.”

Bucky’s eyes opened, clear and steady, piercing right through her. “You better.”

She gave his hand one last squeeze, letting the warmth of his touch linger as long as possible, before she forced herself to step away.

Finally, Lena turned toward her father. He stood apart from the others, his eyes weary, shoulders stooped with a heaviness she’d never noticed before. The anger in her chest still burned hot, bitter, but beneath it she saw his exhaustion, his regret, his fear.

He moved forward hesitantly. “Lenka—”

She shook her head sharply, cutting him off. She couldn’t have this conversation, not now. Not here, with everyone watching.

He looked away, expression tight with pain. “Forgive me someday. Please.”

Lena swallowed, not trusting her voice. She leaned forward, pressing a quick, careful kiss to his cheek, her anger tempered by sadness.

“I’ll try,” she whispered truthfully. It was the best she could offer him.

Behind her, the ship’s horn sounded, sharp and final.

Lena lifted her suitcase, took one last long look at the faces gathered, her family, her heart, and then forced her feet to move forward, up the ramp, into the shadow of the great ship.

She didn’t look back until she reached the railing. They were still standing there, clustered close together, waving, crying, hoping.

And as the ship slowly began to pull away from the dock, Lena raised her hand, waving back, trying desperately to memorize them, to hold tight to each precious, painful detail.

She watched until Brooklyn became small on the horizon, until they were nothing but distant shapes blurred by tears and salt and sea.

Only then did she turn, facing forward, gripping the rail tight with Bucky’s cross warm against her chest, her mother’s necklace tucked safely beneath her coat. She took a breath, deep and shaking, and whispered to herself:

I’ll come back.

And as the wind caught her words and scattered them across the waves, she hoped—she prayed—that somehow, someday, she’d make good on that promise.

Chapter Text

you're faithless, for you pitched me

WARSAW, POLAND - SPRING 1935

The house was bigger than Lena had expected, whitewashed walls bright against the cool light of an early Warsaw spring, four square windows staring impassively out onto the quiet street. Her uncle Abraham’s broad frame filled the doorway as she approached, suitcase clenched tightly in one hand, heart clenched in the other.

“Yelena,” he greeted, voice low and gruff, almost swallowed by the rustling leaves that stirred across the modest garden. Not Lena. Not Lennie. Yelena, sharp and formal, placing her squarely in this new and unfamiliar life.

“Uncle,” she replied, forcing warmth into her voice, unsure whether to hug him or simply stand there. Abraham solved the problem by stepping back and waving her through the doorway, his posture stiff as though uncertain of the rules himself.

Inside, the house smelled of simmering broth and polished wood, the walls lined with faded wallpaper patterned in delicate, swirling vines. Lena took off her coat, glancing around at the family gathered in the parlor. Chana hovered near the doorway, eyes sharp, scrutinizing her from head to toe.

“So thin,” Chana muttered, shaking her head in a familiar gesture of judgment wrapped in concern. “No wonder, with what they feed you in America.”

Lena swallowed her reply, biting back the instinctive defense of her life in Brooklyn. She met the eyes of her cousins instead, Josek’s narrowed in wary suspicion, Ruta’s wide and admiring, and Chaim’s gentle and curious from where he hid half-behind his sister’s skirts. Her grandparents sat near the hearth, Leonard’s gaze drifting dreamily toward the window, Roza’s eyes sharp, accusing, full of unspoken reproach.

“Come, sit,” Roza said, patting the chair beside her. “You must be tired from the journey.”

Lena obeyed, nerves knotting tighter in her stomach as she settled into the stiff-backed chair. The family watched her, silence stretching until Ruta finally spoke, her voice bright with forced cheer.

“Did you really come all the way from America?”

“Of course she did,” Josek muttered, not looking up from his book. “Why else would she be here?”

Ruta’s cheeks flushed. “I was just asking.”

Abraham cleared his throat sharply. “Enough. Let her settle.”

Chana moved quietly, efficiently, pouring tea and setting out bread. Lena accepted the cup with a grateful nod, her hand shaking just slightly. The porcelain was thin and delicate, a stark contrast to the sturdy mugs back in Brooklyn. Everything here felt breakable, careful, tightly held.

“You’ll find life different here,” Roza finally said, eyes narrowed in assessment. “Harder, perhaps. America changes people.”

The words felt like an accusation, and Lena’s throat tightened. “I’ll adapt.”

“Adapt.” Abraham’s mouth twisted, a bitter shadow passing over his face. “Your mother believed she could adapt.”

A heavy silence fell, interrupted only by the soft click of Leonard’s cane against the floorboards as he shifted in his chair. Lena’s heart squeezed painfully, grief and anger and confusion coiling into a tight, tangled knot.

“I’ll help clear the dishes,” Lena said quickly, standing abruptly, her cup rattling slightly in its saucer.

“No,” Chana said firmly, already moving toward the table. “You rest. You've had a long journey.” Her tone made it clear it wasn’t an offer of kindness but an order, and Lena felt the sting of implied criticism, that she was too soft, too American, too different to handle even a simple chore.

She excused herself quietly, retreating upstairs to the small bedroom her aunt had shown her earlier. Ruta followed close behind, slipping into the room before Lena could close the door.

“Don’t mind Mama,” Ruta whispered, eyes wide with childish sincerity. “She means well. She’s just worried about you, Yelena.”

Lena forced a gentle smile, brushing Ruta’s hair back from her face. “I know.”

When Ruta left, Lena sank onto the bed, finally allowing herself to breathe. She reached into her suitcase, fingers brushing against the small packet of letters from Steve and Bucky she’d carefully tucked away. She didn’t open them now, she feared their warmth and familiarity would only sharpen the ache in her chest.

Outside her window, Warsaw stretched out in unfamiliar silence, streets she didn’t recognize leading to places she didn’t know. This was home now, her uncle said. But Lena knew better.

Home was a noisy street in Brooklyn, laughter spilling from open windows, the clatter of the elevated train, Bucky’s crooked smile, and Steve’s gentle teasing. Home was Lennie, not Yelena.

She pressed her hand to her chest, feeling the frantic beating of her heart beneath her palm. Home was a place she would return to, somehow, someday.

~

Dear Steve,

I don’t even know where to start.

Everything here is louder and quieter at the same time. The house is filled with voices, Polish and Yiddish and the creak of wooden floors, but I feel like I’m moving underwater. Like someone dropped me into a life I’m supposed to remember, but the edges are all blurred.

My family is... fine. Kind, mostly. But they look at me like I’ve been slightly spoiled. Like I spent too long in America and came back with soft hands and bad habits. I think my uncle was disappointed I didn’t know the proper blessing before eating an apple. My aunt corrected the way I set the table without saying a word, which was worse, somehow.

They don’t say it outright, but I hear it in the pauses. In the way they glance at each other when I speak too freely or laugh too loud. As if Mama’s death was the price of America and I came back still owing.

They lit candles for Shabbat on Friday. My aunt handed me the matches like it was a test. My fingers shook a little. I haven’t done that in so long, not since my mama died. Papa stopped asking, and I stopped offering. But here, the rituals matter. The rhythm of the days, the prayers before bread, covering your hair…

I didn’t realize how much I’d let go of until I saw it all laid out in front of me. I felt like I was impersonating a Jewish girl I was supposed to be.

But I said the blessing. I lit the candles. And no one corrected me, so maybe that’s something.

I miss our Saturdays. The dumb ones where we didn’t do anything. Sitting on the stoop with comics, passing a sandwich back and forth. You drawing, me humming, and Bucky talking nonsense just to make us laugh.

Are you still drawing? I hope you are. I think about your sketches all the time. Especially the one you did of Coney Island where we all looked like we were flying.

Write back to me if you can. Tell me how school’s going. I feel like I've been gone years already and it's just been a few weeks.

Love,

 Lena

 (Still Lena, even if no one here calls me that

The dining room table was already crowded when Lena stepped in, its surface cluttered with platters of pickled herring, roast chicken, braised cabbage, and bowls of thick barley soup steaming beneath the flicker of candlelight. The Shabbat candles had already been lit by Chana, and the soft glow cast long shadows across the walls. The smell of onions and dill hung heavy in the warm air.

Lena paused in the doorway, adjusting the borrowed cardigan she wore over her plain dress. Her hair was pinned up neatly. Her grandmother had made sure of that.

“Nu, Yelena,” Roza said from the head of the table, gesturing with a nod. “Don’t hover like a stray. Sit.”

She obeyed, slipping into the empty seat between Chaim and Ruta, across from Josek, who was already nose-deep in a book he’d hidden under the table. Abraham sat stiffly at the other end, folding his hands as he murmured the blessing over the wine. His voice was low, stern, practiced.

When the bread was passed, Lena instinctively reached with her right hand and tore off a small piece, before noticing everyone else waiting quietly, watching Abraham break it properly and hand it to each person in turn.

“Too quick, our American girl,” Roza muttered with a dry smile, not unkind but sharp all the same.

“She’s used to the hurry of goyim,” Chana added, handing the salt dish around. “No time for blessings there, just fast meals and faster mouths.”

Lena forced a tight smile. “Sorry. I forgot.”

“Forgot?” Josek looked up, eyes sharp behind his wire spectacles. “Or never learned?”

“I knew the blessings before you were born,” Lena shot back, then immediately regretted the edge in her voice.

The soup course passed mostly in silence. Abraham asked how her studies had been going, formally, as if she were a distant cousin, not the girl who now lived under his roof. Lena explained she didn't plan to continue school, that she'd rather focus on working. Finding a job as a tutor. 

Judging by look on her uncle's face, he did not approve.

“Still writing letters?” Chana asked casually, pouring tea into delicate glasses. “Your uncle says you’ve been using all his stationery.”

Lena stiffened. “Yes. I’ve been writing friends back in Brooklyn.”

“Ah,” Chana said. “The *boy*, you mean.”

Josek smirked. “The gentile.”

“He’s not just—he’s not just some boy,” Lena said, her fork clinking hard against her plate. “His name is Bucky.”

Chana’s mouth twisted. “And this Bucky, he’s not Jewish, I assume?”

“No,” Lena said. “But he’s kind. And he’s my boyfriend.”

A beat of silence. Even Roza paused mid-chew.

Abraham set his cup down carefully. “Yelena, you’re part of a family again. A Jewish home. It’s time to think seriously about your future, not cling to childish things.”

“He’s not childish,” Lena said, voice rising despite herself. “And he’s not something I’m going to forget just because you all want me to.”

Roza’s voice came quiet, but sharp: “Your mother left for that country and never came back. I won’t bury someone else.”

“She died of pneumonia,” Lena said flatly.

“She died far from her people,” Roza said, and that was that.

The second course was served, but the warmth had gone out of the meal. Lena ate in silence, chewing carefully, nodding when spoken to, heart burning in her chest.

They loved her. She could tell. In their way. But they didn’t know her. Not the girl who snuck into speakeasies, who danced barefoot on rooftops, who kissed boys she wasn’t promised to, who hadn’t said the Sh’ma in over a year.

They had welcomed her home, but the longer she sat at their table, the less sure she was of where home really was.

BROOKLYN, NEW YORK - SPRING 1935

The streets were still cold, lined with muddy patches and lingering puddles from yesterday’s rain. Steve rubbed his hands together for warmth as he climbed the stairs to the Barnes’ apartment, trying to ignore the strange quiet that had settled over their corner of Red Hook ever since Lena left.

The door was slightly ajar when he arrived, and the smell of something cooking, probably stew, knowing Mrs. Barnes, wafted through the narrow hallway. He knocked lightly, then stepped inside.

Becca waved at him from the kitchen, flour streaked across her cheek. "He's in there," she said, tilting her head toward the front room. "Doing his usual."

His usual meant Bucky was lying on the old pull-out, one leg dangling off the side, staring up at the cracked ceiling as though it might hold answers he hadn't found anywhere else. The radio played softly beside him, something scratchy and slow Steve couldn't quite make out.

Steve hesitated just inside the doorway, watching the steady rise and fall of Bucky’s chest. He hadn't seen him smile, not really smile, since Lena boarded that boat. He felt it too, the strange emptiness that crept into the spaces she used to fill. But for Bucky, it was like losing half himself.

"You know, staring at it ain't gonna fix it," Steve finally said, stepping further into the room.

Bucky shifted slightly, eyes flicking over without turning his head. "What?"

"The ceiling," Steve said, gesturing upward. "I don't think there's anything new up there since last time."

Bucky sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. "You ever wonder if she misses us as much as we miss her?"

Steve settled carefully onto the creaky armchair opposite him. "I don’t need to wonder. I know she does."

Bucky nodded slowly, but he didn't look convinced. After a beat of silence, he reached beneath the thin mattress and pulled out a letter, creased at the corners, ink smudged in places from how many times he must've read it.

Steve recognized Lena's neat handwriting immediately, and something tightened painfully in his chest.

Bucky cleared his throat softly. "She wrote how strange it feels there. How she forgets sometimes that we're not just gonna walk through her door. Said her family keeps calling her Yelena and she feels like someone else."

Steve didn't respond at first. He felt the ache of that too, hearing Lena reduced to words on paper and unable to comfort her. "She'll find herself again," he said quietly. "Lena always does."

Bucky's jaw tightened, fingers clutching the edges of the letter as if afraid to lose it. 

Steve hesitated. “I saw her dad in the market yesterday. He didn’t say much, just nodded. Looked older.”

Bucky’s face darkened. “He never even gave her a choice, Steve. Just packed her up and sent her away like she didn’t belong here anymore.”

“I know,” Steve said quietly. “He thought he was doing the right thing.”

“Maybe,” Bucky muttered. “She belonged here. With us."

He leaned forward, pressing his elbows onto his knees, staring down at the faded rug. Steve watched him silently. He'd seen Bucky angry before, frustrated too, but this quiet grief was different, heavier.

"Sometimes," Bucky said finally, voice low, "I swear I hear her laugh. Or the way she used to hum when she thought nobody was listening. Then I remember she's gone."

Steve nodded slowly. "I know."

Bucky sighed, dropping the letter carefully on the side table. "You think it'll get easier?"

Steve considered lying but Bucky would see right through it. "No," he said instead. "I don't. But I think we'll get stronger. And so will she."

Bucky glanced up, his gaze clearer than before, more certain. "I'm writing to her again tomorrow."

"Good," Steve said softly. "Tell her we haven't forgotten. That we're still waiting."

Bucky gave him a faint smile, the closest he'd come to one all week. "Always."

The garden behind the Warszawski home burst into color almost overnight, lilacs blooming heavy and fragrant, daffodils clustered along the edges of the fence, and the old apple tree in the corner scattering delicate white blossoms onto the grass.

Lena was crouched among the flowerbeds, pulling weeds from around the early sprouts of carrots and radishes Chana had planted. The sunlight warmed her shoulders through her worn dress, making her feel momentarily at ease. The earth felt familiar beneath her fingers, soft and forgiving, like tending Mrs. Barnes’s small pots of herbs back in Brooklyn.

Down the road, a man pedaled past with a bundle of Yiddish newspapers tied behind him. Lena caught a glimpse of the headline before he turned the corner, something about Berlin, and new laws tightening around Jewish life. The words stayed with her, even after the man was gone.

For once, she felt useful.

She paused, wiping a hand across her forehead and leaving a faint streak of dirt behind. She barely noticed Ruta approaching until the girl flopped down next to her, skirts splaying over Lena’s carefully tended row of radishes.

Lena sighed softly. “Careful, Ruta. Your mother won’t be happy if we crush these.”

Ruta shrugged, unbothered. “She’ll live.”

Lena smiled faintly. Ruta’s defiance reminded her a bit too much of herself at that age. “Was there something you wanted?”

Ruta's voice softened, shy but hopeful. “Can you braid my hair like you do yours?”

Lena hesitated, then nodded. “Come here.”

Ruta turned obediently, leaning her head back. Lena carefully smoothed the younger girl's hair between her fingers, slowly forming three even sections before beginning to braid. It felt almost like home, quiet and peaceful, the way she had often done with Becca in the Barnes’s kitchen.

“Do you miss America?” Ruta asked abruptly, her voice just above a whisper.

Lena paused, fingers still entwined in Ruta’s hair. “Of course I do. Every day.”

Ruta was quiet for a moment. “Mama says America made your mother sick. Is that true?”

Lena swallowed hard, her hands momentarily trembling. “No,” she said firmly. “America didn’t do that. People just get sick sometimes, Ruta. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

Ruta went quiet again. Lena resumed braiding, carefully and deliberately, until she tied the braid off with a small scrap of ribbon she’d saved. “There. Pretty as a picture.”

Ruta turned around, eyes shining. “Can I see?”

Lena watched Ruta hurry toward the small, dusty mirror propped near the back door, feeling warmth bloom briefly in her chest. Then the back door swung open, and Chana appeared, holding a wicker basket piled high with laundry.

“Yelena, come help with the washing,” Chana called sharply, setting the basket down on the stone step with a grunt. “You’ve spent enough time playing today.”

Lena stood quickly, brushing dirt from her dress. “Yes, Aunt Chana.”

Chana’s eyes narrowed slightly at Ruta’s hair, but she said nothing, only pushed the heavy basket toward Lena. “Take this to the basin out front. And be careful, no need to tear holes in things.”

Lena nodded silently and hefted the basket in her arms, following Chana toward the large wooden basin set up near the side of the house. It was backbreaking work, wringing clothes by hand, the coarse soap stinging her skin raw. But at least it kept her busy.

After a while, Chana spoke again, more softly this time. “You’re learning to keep busy. Good. Idle hands help no one.”

“Yes, Aunt,” Lena replied mechanically, scrubbing harder.

Chana hesitated, glancing toward the garden where Ruta still sat, twirling her braid proudly. “She admires you. You know this?”

Lena paused, uncertain. “Ruta?”

Chana nodded slowly, her expression conflicted. “Yes. You have a way about you. American boldness, I suppose. It isn’t always helpful, but it draws people in.”

“Ruta’s sweet,” Lena offered quietly, unsure how else to respond.

Chana’s eyes flicked sharply toward her. “She is easily influenced. Just remember that. She watches you. Mind your steps carefully, Yelena.”

Lena’s throat tightened. “I’m not trying to influence anyone, Aunt Chana. I’m just trying to live.”

Chana sighed sharply, shaking her head. “You don’t understand yet. You’re still a child in many ways. America didn’t teach you how fragile life is here. Be careful.”

Lena stared down at the dripping shirt in her hands, silent, feeling both misunderstood and strangely chastened. She knew life here was different, she felt it every day. The caution in Chana’s voice was something she hadn’t heard in Brooklyn, at least not in the same way.

It unsettled her deeply.

Later that evening, Lena climbed the narrow stairs to her room, hands still red and raw from laundry. She shut the door carefully behind her, breathing deeply as she sank onto her bed. A single letter lay on her pillow, the handwriting immediately familiar. Steve.

She tore the envelope open eagerly, reading the neat script that she’d known nearly as well as her own:

Dear Lena,

You wouldn’t believe how strange it is here without you. Everyone asks about you, Mrs. Barnes especially misses you. She said you were the only one who could keep the girls in line.

Bucky’s trying to hide it, but he’s not doing great. He’s quiet, and I catch him staring at things sometimes, like he’s just waiting for you to walk in. He won’t admit it, but I know he’s thinking about you all the time. We both do.

I drew you something, a little sketch of the pier where we used to sit. Maybe it’ll help remind you that Brooklyn’s still here.

Write soon. We miss you.

Yours,

Steve

~

Tucked inside was a small, careful sketch, the pencil lines soft and faint. Lena touched it gently, eyes burning. The pier was simple, the water carefully shaded, the wooden beams familiar and comforting. She could almost hear their laughter, feel the sun on her shoulders.

She pressed the letter close to her chest, eyes squeezing shut as homesickness crashed over her like a wave. She had never felt more torn, between the careful quiet of her new home and the loud, reckless love she'd left behind.

But beneath the pain, there was a small comfort. Brooklyn was still there, waiting. They hadn’t forgotten her.

She took a deep breath, steadied herself, and placed the drawing carefully beside her bed.

Tomorrow she would write back.

Chapter Text

against your holy father 

WARSAW, POLAND - SPRING 1935

The early morning sunlight spilled softly through Lena’s bedroom window, painting muted gold patterns across the worn wooden floor. Lena sat slowly upright, stretching her arms above her head, muscles stiff from a restless night. Sleep had been elusive, her dreams filled with fragments of Brooklyn, of Bucky’s laughter, Steve’s latest scheme before everything fell apart, and the warm, salty breeze from the pier.

Yawning, she padded barefoot across the cold floor, pausing briefly at her dresser to trace a gentle finger over Bucky’s scarf. She wrapped it carefully around her neck, inhaling deeply as if to draw comfort from the worn threads, before tucking it discreetly beneath her collar. It was much too warm to wear such a hot, itchy, ugly thing but it was the few things of Bucky she could carry with her. 

So she did.

She pulled on her dress and carefully brushed her long hair, twisting it into a tidy braid. Her reflection stared back, weary but determined. Lena took a deep breath, steadying herself against the day ahead.

Chores. Market. More chores. 

Stepping quietly into the hallway, Lena was startled by a small figure sitting cross-legged near her door, knees drawn tightly to her chest.

“Ruta?” Lena whispered softly, crouching down. “Why are you awake so early?”

Ruta lifted her head, large eyes filled with sleep and quiet worry. “I had a bad dream,” she confessed quietly. “About you leaving us.”

Lena’s heart tightened painfully. She reached out, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind her cousin’s ear. 

“I’m not going anywhere yet, kochanie,” Lena reassured her softly. “Not today.”

“Then why do you always talk about leaving?”

Lena felt her heart clench at the question. Ruta wasn't wrong, she knew that she was either talking about Brooklyn or about returning there.

“I miss my friends there, Ruta. It would be like if you left here, left behind your mama and papa, your brothers. You'd want to come back right?”

Ruta sniffled softly, nodding, leaning into Lena’s touch. “Can I help you get breakfast ready?” She seemed to understand for the moment. 

“Of course.” Lena stood, offering Ruta her hand. Ruta grasped it eagerly, following Lena into the kitchen, the silence of the house comforting around them.

Together, they moved easily through the familiar rhythm of morning tasks, Ruta carefully arranging slices of bread, Lena pouring tea into chipped cups. It reminded her too much of preparing breakfast for her father every morning. 

Her father who she hadn't spoken to since she left. Lena had started several letters to him. Most angry, raging at him for putting her through this. Some mournful, missing him terribly, missing her mother, missing home. 

But she couldn't bring herself to finish them. And even if she did, Lena didn’t know if she could send them.

As Lena sliced apples into thin, even pieces, Ruta hesitated, biting her lower lip. “Lena?”

“Yes?” Lena glanced over, noting Ruta’s thoughtful frown.

“Do you think you'll ever take me to Brooklyn with you?” Ruta asked quietly, eyes hopeful yet uncertain. “I want to see it. I want to meet Bucky and Steve. You talk about them so much, they almost feel real to me.”

Lena smiled, her chest swelling with gentle affection. “They would love you,” she said softly, placing an apple slice into Ruta’s open palm. “One day, if I can, I’ll take you there. We'll ride the roller coaster at Coney Island and eat ice cream until we're sick.”

Ruta giggled softly, the worried lines on her forehead smoothing away. “Promise?”

Lena knelt down, cupping Ruta’s small face gently in her hands. “Promise.”

Ruta wrapped her arms tightly around Lena’s neck, hugging fiercely. “I’m glad you're here, Lena. Please don't ever really leave me.”

Lena swallowed past the lump in her throat, holding Ruta close. “Even if we're apart, I’ll always be with you,” she murmured softly, pressing a gentle kiss to Ruta’s forehead. “Always.”

Later that morning, after helping clean the breakfast dishes and slipping quietly out of the house with her basket slung over one arm, Lena made her way to the market. The air was brisk but gentle, the scent of early spring dampness lingering in the cobblestones and budding branches.

She moved between stalls as she always did, careful, observant, choosing the ripest apples, the freshest rolls, listening for bits of gossip in hushed voices.

A stack of newspapers fluttered on the edge of a table, headlines half-obscured by bread loaves and fish scales. Lena caught sight of one in bold type: "Hitler Promises Peace Despite Expansion." Her stomach turned. She looked away quickly, she couldn’t think about Germany now.

It was near the baker’s stand that she paused…

The market notice board was cluttered as usual, postings for eggs, fabric scraps, piano lessons, lost cats. But one small flyer caught her eye. Neat handwriting. Clean edges.

The flyer was pinned between advertisements for fresh eggs and piano lessons, its corners curling from the market’s damp spring air. Lena stopped abruptly, basket heavy on her arm, as her eyes traced the neatly written words:

"Tutor Needed – English. Zieliński household. Twice weekly. Ask for Zofia Zielińska at 12 Smocza Street."

Her pulse quickened, a sudden warmth flooding her chest. She read the flyer again, committing the address to memory before quickly tugging it from the notice board and slipping it discreetly into her coat pocket.

Lena knew immediately her family would disapprove. They had already been tense about her persistent talk of returning to Brooklyn. Abraham called her plans foolish dreams, Roza murmured about ingratitude and shame, and Chana complained openly about the neighbors' whispers. Working openly for a non-Jewish family would only sharpen their anxiety. They feared attention, gossip, and questions that might lead to trouble. But Lena needed the money, and more importantly, she needed the hope.

She didn't tell them where she was going that afternoon. Instead, she slipped away quietly, dressed neatly in a simple dress, her hair pinned back, the ugly knitted scarf from Bucky wrapped around her collar as a silent good luck charm. Her heart pounded nervously against her ribs as she navigated the bustling Warsaw streets, pausing outside the respectable, ivy-covered brick townhouse on Smocza Street. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Lena knocked firmly on the polished wooden door.

It opened moments later, revealing a woman in her forties, with sharp eyes and carefully styled dark hair streaked lightly with silver.

“Yes?” The woman looked Lena up and down, her gaze assessing but not unkind.

“My name is Lena Rabinovich,” Lena said, hoping her voice didn't betray her nerves. “I saw your flyer at the market. I came to inquire about the tutoring position.”

The woman's expression softened slightly. "Lena. You speak Polish fluently, I hear. And English?”

“Yes, ma’am. English, Russian and Yiddish, if it would help.”

The woman considered her for a moment longer. “I’m Zofia Zielińska. Come inside and we’ll talk.”

Inside, Lena sat stiffly on the edge of a velvet-cushioned chair, clasping her hands tightly in her lap to hide their slight trembling. The room was neat, tasteful, a small piano gleaming in one corner. Lena wondered briefly if she'd ever been in a home so untouched by hardship.

Zofia took a seat across from her, folding her hands gracefully on her lap. “Tell me, Lena, why are you interested in tutoring?”

Lena hesitated only briefly before speaking honestly. “I want to earn my way back home. To Brooklyn. My family there needs me. I need them.”

Zofia studied her carefully. “And your family here?”

“They don’t understand,” Lena admitted softly. “They think my wanting to return to America is childish, reckless. They'd disapprove if they knew I was here.”

Zofia’s gaze was steady, penetrating, but Lena met it firmly, refusing to look away.

“And yet here you are.” Zofia nodded slowly, a thoughtful smile tugging at her lips. “Good. Determination is essential. My children need someone who won't give up easily.”

Lena exhaled, feeling relief spread through her chest. “Thank you, Mrs. Zielińska.”

“We’ll start next Tuesday. Two o’clock sharp.” Zofia rose gracefully, signaling the end of the interview. “Can you manage that?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Lena said firmly, already calculating how she'd manage to sneak away again unnoticed.

As Lena stepped back out onto the street, the cool spring air seemed lighter, the city brighter. She felt a spark of something she hadn't felt in weeks, hope, bright and defiant, burning stubbornly in her chest.

Lena pushed open the front door of the Warszawski home quietly, hoping she could slip unnoticed into her room to avoid questions until dinner. But her hope shattered immediately, her aunt Chana was already waiting in the small entryway, arms crossed tightly, her expression unreadable.

"You're late," Chana noted sharply, eyes narrowing at Lena's flushed cheeks and the excitement she couldn't quite mask.

"I'm sorry," Lena murmured, attempting to slide past. "I had an interview."

"An interview?" Abraham appeared behind his wife, his heavy brows drawing together. "For what?"

Lena squared her shoulders, steeling herself against the inevitable disapproval. "A tutoring job. For the Zielińskis."

"The Zielińskis?" Chana repeated, voice tightening. "You want to go work in a goyische home?"

"They need someone who speaks English," Lena said carefully, measuring each word. "I need the money."

"What do you need money for?" Abraham asked, suspicion edging his voice. He glanced at Chana, whose frown deepened knowingly. "This again?"

"I'm going back," Lena stated firmly, holding his gaze. "To America."

"America," Abraham scoffed, shaking his head. "And what will you do there, Yelena? Be a servant to Americans who don't want you? We are your family now. This is your home."

Lena felt anger flicker sharply in her chest, hot and defiant. "No. My home is in Brooklyn. It always was."

Chana clicked her tongue sharply. "You see? This is what America did to her. No respect for family. No gratitude."

"I'm grateful," Lena snapped back, her patience fraying quickly. "But I didn't ask to be sent here. My father decided to pack me up and send me away."

Josek emerged from the living room, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed in a mirror of his mother's posture. "So you'd rather bring attention here? To our family? Everyone will know the Jewish girl who goes to teach the Zieliński children. You think that's safe?"

"I don't think anything is safe anymore," Lena replied, softer now but no less firm. "But I'm not going to hide."

Ruta peeked out from behind Josek, worry plain on her young face. "Yelena, please don't fight."

"I'm not fighting," Lena said gently, giving Ruta a small smile. "I'm just not changing my mind."

"Enough," Abraham cut in sharply, silencing the room. He turned his gaze fully to Lena, and for a moment she saw beneath the stern mask, glimpsing uncertainty and worry there. "If you insist on this, you do so alone. Understand that."

"I already do," Lena said quietly. She stepped past them, heart aching yet certain, walking steadily to her room, closing the door firmly behind her.

She leaned against the closed door, breathing heavily. Her fists clenched at her sides as she let the quiet settle around her. Lena didn't want it this way, didn't want the divide widening between herself and the only family she had here. But she couldn't turn back now.

Pulling out her small, worn suitcase, Lena opened it carefully, pulling out the hidden stack of letters from Steve and Bucky. She unfolded one carefully, Bucky's familiar handwriting looping gently across the paper, a comfort and a promise.

"I'm coming home," she whispered to the empty room, holding tightly onto the letters as though they could somehow pull her back across the ocean. "No matter what it takes."

The Warszawski home quieted gradually as the night settled in, the final murmurs of disagreement lingering only as distant echoes in Lena’s mind. Alone at her desk by the window, Lena smoothed out the envelope she'd retrieved from the post that afternoon. The handwriting was unmistakably Bucky’s, rough, looping letters that tugged at something deep within her chest.

She opened the envelope carefully, as if afraid to tear more than just paper.

Lennie,

I swear I never knew paper could feel this heavy. Writing to you isn’t the same as talking to you, words don't come easy without your voice to interrupt me every few seconds. But your letters make it feel like you’re not entirely gone, like a part of you is still here with us, waiting around the corner.

Brooklyn feels smaller without you. Quieter, somehow. Steve tries to keep me busy, making me help with his errands, sketching terrible portraits of me when he thinks I'm not looking, but it doesn’t fix the space you left. Nothing does.

I’m working steady now at the docks. Callahan even gave me a raise. Don’t worry, I’m putting away every cent. If you’re working hard, so will I. We'll bring you home, Lennie. Promise me you won't forget that.

I saw your father yesterday. He doesn’t look the same either, more tired, less sure of himself. We didn’t talk much, but he asked if I’d heard from you. Said you haven't written to him. I think he misses you too, even if he doesn't say it.

Steve wanted me to send you a drawing, but he said nothing feels finished. I think he’s afraid the second he finishes something for you, it means accepting you’re really not here. I get it. But you'll get a stack of them someday soon, he promised.

Sometimes, at night, I walk down to the pier by myself. I pretend you're there beside me, laughing and telling me I worry too much. It's strange, Lennie. You've been gone months, but I still catch myself looking for you everywhere.

Keep writing. Keep telling me about Warsaw, about your family, even if they're driving you crazy. Let me know if they're being too hard on you. I'll come over there myself and straighten them out.

I miss you, Lennie. I miss everything about you, even the things that used to drive me nuts. Maybe especially those things.

I love you.

Yours,

Bucky

RED HOOK, BROOKLYN - LATE SPRING 1935

The summer heat crept into Brooklyn early, with an oppressive intensity, soaking the streets in shimmering waves and turning the cramped apartments into ovens. Steve wiped sweat from his brow, squinting up at the relentless sun. Beside him, Bucky heaved a box from the delivery truck onto his shoulder, grunting slightly under its weight.

“Careful, Buck,” Steve muttered, eyes narrowed in concern.

Bucky flashed him a quick grin. “It’s nothing. Just a box of groceries, not bricks.”

Steve rolled his eyes but kept silent, following behind with his own, smaller box. His chest was already aching slightly, each breath shallower than the last.

They’d taken this odd job delivering groceries when Steve’s mom fell behind on rent again. It wasn't glamorous, but the extra dollar here and there felt like gold coins lining their pockets. The money always vanished quicker than it came, though, disappearing into endless rent payments, food for the table, and shoes for growing sisters.

At the end of the day, Bucky slumped down onto the curb, stretching his long legs out in front of him. Steve carefully lowered himself beside him, coughing quietly into his fist.

Bucky shot him a look. “You okay, Steve?”

“Yeah,” Steve muttered hoarsely. “Just the dust.”

Bucky frowned slightly but let it pass, gazing out at the kids splashing through an open hydrant, shrieking with laughter.

“How much you think we got saved now?” Steve asked, more to distract himself than anything.

Bucky dug in his pocket, pulling out the small wad of bills. He thumbed through them slowly, sighing. “Maybe ten bucks, if we’re lucky.”

Steve winced. “We gotta do better.”

“I know.” Bucky rubbed his hand over his face. “But Becca needs stockings. Alice is outgrowing everything. I swear she got taller overnight.”

Steve gave him a weary smile. “At least you got something to show for it. Last night, Ma nearly cried trying to stretch what little food we had left. Had to give her everything we made yesterday.”

Bucky’s shoulders slumped slightly. “We’ll make it work. Always do.”

The words hung between them, unspoken tension heavy in the air. Neither mentioned Lena’s name, though she was always there, lingering at the edges of their thoughts, woven into every dollar they desperately tucked away. Each coin they saved felt like a promise whispered to the girl they both missed more than they ever dared admit aloud.

Steve nudged Bucky gently. “She’d be proud of us, you know.”

Bucky’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t respond. No, Lennie would be pissed that poor asthmatic Steve was doing manual labor in her name. Instead, he stood, holding out a hand to help Steve to his feet. “Come on. If we hustle, we can get one more job in before dark.”

Steve nodded, taking Bucky’s hand and hauling himself up, ignoring the way his chest tightened painfully. Together they headed down the street, shoulders squared, carrying the weight of families and dreams across their backs.

Lena's heart hammered lightly in her chest as she knocked gently at the polished wooden door of the Zieliński residence. She stepped back, smoothing her skirt with slightly clammy palms, swallowing against the lump that had formed in her throat. This was it, her first real job, her first chance to earn money and carve her own path back to Brooklyn.

The door opened to reveal a housekeeper, a small woman with a kindly face who smiled warmly. "You must be Lena. Panienka Zielińska is waiting in the parlor."

Lena nodded, returning the smile. "Thank you."

The parlor was bright, sunlight filtering through sheer lace curtains that softened the corners of antique furniture. Zofia Zielińska sat on a velvet armchair, watching over two children: Ania, who appeared about twelve, with sharp eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, and Stefan, younger, perhaps eight, his knees pulled to his chest on the sofa, clearly restless.

"Ah, Lena," Zofia stood, her smile poised but genuine. "Come in. Meet Ania and Stefan."

"Hello," Lena said softly, approaching cautiously. "It's nice to meet you both."

Ania sized her up with a curious glance, pushing her glasses higher up her nose. "Mama says you lived in America."

"Brooklyn," Lena corrected gently. "I was born here, in Warsaw, but moved when I was very young."

“If you left, why would you want to go back?” Ania asked, watching her closely. 

"Do you miss it?" Stefan asked suddenly, leaning forward, eyes wide with open curiosity.

Lena hesitated, appreciative at Stefan's interruption. "Yes, very much. But Warsaw is nice too. I'm learning to appreciate it."

Ania nodded thoughtfully, looking appeased for now.

Zofia watched the exchange closely, her gaze approving. "I'll leave you to get acquainted. If you need anything, Magda can assist you."

The door clicked softly behind her, leaving Lena alone with her new pupils. Her pulse quickened slightly, but she steadied herself. "What subjects do you both like best?"

Ania immediately brightened. "Literature and history. Mama wants us to speak English properly, too."

Stefan wrinkled his nose. "I hate languages. I'd rather play outside."

Lena smiled knowingly, softening her voice. "Then maybe we'll make it feel less like a chore. Have you ever heard of baseball?"

Both children's eyes widened in curiosity. "Baseball?" Ania echoed skeptically.

Lena leaned forward conspiratorially. "It's a sport we play in America. I can teach you English through the rules. It'll be fun."

Stefan perked up instantly. "Can we play it outside?"

"Maybe one day," Lena promised, feeling a little of her nervousness ease as excitement filled the children's faces.

The next two hours passed swiftly. Lena carefully guided them through vocabulary and sentences, weaving tales of Brooklyn streets and Coney Island, watching as their curiosity and wonder grew. Ania, precise and sharp, absorbed every detail. Stefan, restless but eager, giggled at Lena's impersonation of Bucky's exaggerated Brooklyn accent.

By the time Magda appeared to announce tea, the children had filled pages with careful handwriting, cheeks flushed with laughter and newfound knowledge.

As Lena stood to leave, Ania gently took her hand, her eyes serious but warm. "Will you come back soon, Lena?"

Lena squeezed Ania's fingers softly, smiling back genuinely. "Of course. I'll be here as long as you'll have me."

Stepping out into the sunlit street, Lena felt a glow of cautious hope. She had taken her first step forward, finding a small piece of herself again in the children's laughter and curiosity. It wasn't Brooklyn, but for now, it felt just a little like home.

Evening settled gently over the Warszawski home, the last of the sunlight spilling in through the curtains in thin, golden ribbons. The house had quieted since dinner. The tension from earlier had faded into the walls, leaving behind the soft clinks of dishes being washed, a distant murmur of voices, and the faint creak of old wood shifting as the night cooled.

Lena found her grandfather in his usual place, an armchair by the hearth, worn at the arms where his hands had rested for years. Leonard sat with his eyes half-closed, humming a melody that stirred something deep in her chest. It was an old Yiddish lullaby, wordless now, carried on breath rather than voice. Lena recognized it from her earliest years, from her mother’s quiet singing when the world was still whole.

She approached slowly, her steps soft against the floorboards. He didn’t look up.

"Esther," Leonard murmured without opening his eyes. "You’ve come back from the market already?"

Lena paused, then sat down beside him. Esther had been her mother’s name.

“Yes, Dziadek,” she said gently. “I’m back.”

He gave a small nod, his fingers tapping against the armrest in rhythm with his humming. His mind, she knew, was drifting, anchored in another decade, his only daughter. It hurt, but she didn’t correct him. Not tonight.

The two sat in silence, the lullaby winding through the dimly lit room like a ghost. Lena stared into the quiet hearth, her fingers folded in her lap, and felt time thinning around her, past and future pressing close, crowding out the present. Leonard’s breath was slow and steady beside her, as fragile as the paper of the letter tucked in her drawer upstairs.

When his humming finally faded into sleep, Lena rose carefully, pressing a kiss to his weathered forehead. She walked quietly to her room and closed the door behind her.

The small wooden drawer at her bedside creaked faintly as she opened it. Inside, she placed the neatly folded envelope from the Zieliński home, with her first payment, two złoty, next to Bucky’s latest letter. The two pieces of paper lay side by side, edges just touching.

Her fingers hovered there for a long moment, resting lightly on one, then the other.

One was her past.

One was her future.

And both, impossibly, were hers to carry.

Chapter Text

and it seems that i am winning

WARSAW, POLAND - SUMMER 1935

Ania Zielińska recited the final lines of *The Wind in the Willows* with theatrical flair, her chin lifted proudly as she hit the English vowels just right. Lena offered a small smile, genuinely impressed.

“Very good, Ania. You made Toad sound like a proper fool,” she said, closing the worn book.

“I like stories where the smart ones win.” Ania beamed, tucking her feet beneath her on the velvet settee.

From the corner, Stefan groaned. “You promised we’d do baseball words today.”

Lena turned toward him, where he was half-sprawled across the rug with a stubby pencil and crumpled worksheet. “We are. But first you have to tell me what a bat is.”

“A flying mouse,” he said, deadpan.

She laughed, despite herself. “A baseball bat. And in English.”

“Oh.” He smirked. “The big stick you use to hit things.”

“Close enough.”

Their laughter bounced off the walls of the parlor, warming the stately room with something looser and more alive. Lena saw it flicker across Zofia Zielińska’s face too, a quiet approval, as the woman entered with a tray of tea and set it down on the low table between them.

“That will be enough for today, I think,” Zofia said. “Children, wash up. Tea is for grown women this afternoon.”

Ania made a face but obeyed, dragging Stefan with her, who muttered about unfinished ballgames all the way to the stairs.

Lena moved to rise, but Zofia waved her gently back into her chair. “Please. Stay. It’s hot today, you look flushed.”

She wasn’t wrong. Lena’s cheeks burned, more from nerves than temperature. The scent of citrus peel and honey drifted from the porcelain cups. She sat carefully, smoothing her skirt across her knees as Zofia poured.

“You’re good with them,” Zofia said, handing her a cup. “Better than I expected, truthfully.”

“I’ve had practice,” Lena replied. “Brooklyn has no shortage of noisy boys.”

 “And yet you’re here.” Zofia smiled slightly, but her eyes stayed sharp.

“For now.” Lena glanced away, feeling the sting behind the words.

“You’re still hoping to return?” Zofia tilted her head.

Lena hesitated. “Yes. I’m saving.”

“It will take time.” Zofia looked at her with something close to pity, soft, but distant. 

“I know,” Lena said quickly. “I don’t mind working.”

Zofia didn’t push further. She simply nodded, tapping one manicured finger lightly against the side of her cup. “The children like you. That matters more than you know.”

The tea was sweet and hot and tasted faintly of orange rind. Lena let it linger on her tongue before standing to leave, her manners intact. As she pulled on her coat, she slipped her hand into the inner pocket where she kept her money pouch, just to check.

A few coins, worn thin. Maybe eighteen złoty, if she hadn’t miscounted. Her stomach sank with the weight of it. She’d need over ten times that. Maybe more.

She thanked Zofia, bid farewell to Magda the housekeeper, and stepped back into the afternoon light. The sky was thick with clouds and pollen, the air sticky and expectant. The tram clattered somewhere nearby. Lena turned and started home.

Later that evening, the apartment was thick with summer heat and the sharp scent of boiled cabbage. Lena had just returned from the Zieliński house, her coin pouch a little heavier, her feet aching from the walk.

She found Ruta curled on the floor beside their grandmother’s chair, absently braiding scraps of yarn into a doll’s tangled hair. The girl looked up and smiled when she saw her.

“Did the children behave today?” Ruta asked, as though she were the one responsible for checking in on Lena.

“They tried,” Lena said, smiling faintly. “The boy’s still convinced I'm making up all the rules for baseball.”

Ruta laughed and returned to her doll. “You should bring me with you. I’d make them behave.”

“You’d make Stefan cry.”

“I’d only pinch him if he deserved it.”

Lena chuckled softly and ruffled Ruta’s hair as she passed. She paused by the cupboard, tore off a piece of bread left over from supper, and climbed the stairs to the attic room.

When she opened the small wooden box beneath her bed, she counted the coins again. Seventeen złoty, and a half. 

She slid one fingertip along the scratched wood and stared at the numbers she’d written weeks ago: 300. The amount she needed, with some wiggle room.

She wondered how much Bucky had saved. 

Lena set the pouch down gently, then moved to the narrow window. Outside, the rooftops were bathed in fading gold, the city washed in shadow and smog and the buzz of far-off trams.

Behind her, Ruta was humming softly to her doll, a lullaby Lena half-remembered from her mother’s voice, Lena didn’t even hear her follow her up. 

“I’ll come home,” Lena whispered, the words catching at the back of her throat. “Somehow.”

She didn’t know if she was making a promise or telling a lie.

But she couldn’t stop saying it.

RED HOOK, BROOKLYN - SUMMER 1935

The air down by the docks always smelled like sweat, salt, and spoiled fish, especially in summer. The kind of heat that stuck to your skin like molasses and turned every shirt into a second soaking.

Bucky hauled the crate onto the loading pallet, grunting as the wood scraped against his forearms. His back ached, his hands were raw beneath his work gloves, and he’d stopped caring about the bruises blooming along his shins three hours ago.

“Barnes!” the foreman barked. “Keep movin’. That boat don’t load itself.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky muttered, dragging the next crate across the planks.

He was one of the youngest on the crew, but he moved faster than most of the older men. They’d stopped mocking him. Mostly. Now they just let him work, like a dog in the sun.

By the time the lunch whistle blew, his shirt was soaked through and his stomach was growling. He found a stretch of shade behind a stack of crates and dropped to the ground with a sigh.

A familiar cough echoed a moment later, and Bucky turned as Steve crossed the yard with a battered thermos in one hand and two apples in the other.

“You look like hell,” Steve said, wheezing a little as he sat beside him.

Bucky grinned weakly and took the thermos. “And you look like a ghost. Who let you out of bed?”

“I’m fine,” Steve lied automatically, despite both of them knowing his asthma was worse in the summer heat.

“You sound like a busted accordion,” Bucky shot back, nudging him with his shoulder. “Your Ma know you’re here?”

“Nope.”

“Great. Can’t wait for her to kill me.”

They ate in tired silence for a while, the noise of the shipyard stretching around them, shouts, hammering, the groan of ropes tightening on the cranes.

Steve leaned his head against the wood behind them. “How much do you have now?”

Bucky reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled wad of bills. He counted it slowly, mouth tightening with each number.

“Five dollars and twenty-eight cents.”

“That’s down.”

“I had to get your medicine, remember?”

Steve didn’t answer right away. “I’ll pay you back.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Bucky said quickly. “Seriously. Not one word.”

Steve frowned but let it go.

When the whistle blew again, Bucky stood, stretching his arms over his head. Every joint popped. His back throbbed like an old man’s.

As they walked back toward the loading dock, they passed the storefront on Van Brunt Street that always made Bucky slow down.

A travel agency.

The window was filled with posters of steamships and distant skylines. One showed the Statue of Liberty rising from the mist, bold letters promising New York Awaits – Third-Class Fares Now Available.

Bucky paused. Steve stopped beside him.

“Not even close,” Bucky muttered.

“You’ll get there,” Steve said, voice rasping. “We'll get there.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He just pressed his fist into his pocket, gripping the crumpled bills like they might mean something more if he held them tight enough.

Dear Bucky,

Stefan asked me today if Coney Island is real. I told him yes, and he said, “Only Americans would build a beach with roller coasters on it.” He’s convinced I’m making it all up. I didn’t argue. It does sound a little made up, doesn’t it?

Ania’s a different story. She wants to know everything, how the trains work, how big Brooklyn is, about different neighborhoods. She listens like she’s gathering intelligence. Honestly, if she ever met Steve, she’d quiz him into silence.

I like teaching them. It’s the only time during the day I don’t feel like I’m standing in someone else’s life. They ask questions, and for a few hours, I get to be the one with the answers.

After that, it’s endless dishes and hauling water and cleaning up after people who don’t look me in the eye when they speak. I wake up sore most days. I go to bed still tired. But I’m saving. Slowly. Carefully. I’ve got seventeen złoty now. Which is only around four dollars back home. 

It’s not enough. I know that. But it’s more than nothing. And that has to count for something.

I’m thinking of picking up another job. More tutoring, maybe. I don’t care if it means skipping supper or waking up earlier. Or even if it upsets my uncle. I just need to keep moving.

I’ve been carrying your last letter around in my coat pocket like it’s a lifeline. It makes me feel like you're here with me, in some kind of way. 

I keep thinking about the pier. You remember? That last night, the wind coming in off the water, the way everything felt like it was holding its breath. I feel like that all the time now. Like I'm just constantly on the edge waiting for something to happen.

I don’t know what I’m saying, except I miss you. I miss us. I miss who I was when I was around you. I know my family here loves me but it just feels like they expected me to be someone else. That they are disappointed I'm not my mother. 

They wanted Yelena, not Lena.

Tell Steve that I don't care if his drawings aren't finished, I still want to see them. I'd tell him myself but he listens to you better. 

I love you Bucky. I wish I could hear your voice. 

Yours, always, 

Lennie

The kitchen was a sweltering mess of laundry steam and clattering pans. Becca sat cross-legged on the floor near the table, one shoe off, her tiny foot sticking out as if demanding attention.

“It's loose again Jimmy,” she said, frowning. “I almost tripped coming down the stairs.”

Bucky wiped his hands on a towel and crouched down beside her, eyeing the scuffed little shoe with the sole peeling from the front. “You almost trip even when your shoes are fine.”

Becca stuck her tongue out at him.

He grinned, took the shoe gently, and inspected the damage. “I’ll fix it. But you’re gonna owe me a whole tap routine when I’m done.”

“Fine,” she said dramatically. “But only if you promise not to mess it up like last time. You stitched the sole crooked, and Alice laughed at me.”

“That’s ‘cause Alice is mean,” Bucky muttered, grabbing the sewing tin from under the cabinet. “And you’ve got fast feet. It’s hard to keep up.”

Becca leaned her chin into her palm and watched him work. “Lennie would do it faster.”

Bucky’s hands stilled for a second. He didn’t look up. “Yeah,” he said softly. “She probably would.” Even though they both knew she wouldn't, Lena never had the patience for sewing. She always bribed Bucky into mending things for her. Not that it took much to convince him. 

But still, the memories hurt to think of. It was easier to just agree. 

Becca was quiet for a beat. Then, “Do you think she’ll come back before my birthday?”

He tied off the thread too tightly and hissed as the needle pricked his finger. “I don’t know, Becca.”

“I miss her,” Becca said, not as a question or a plea. Just the truth.

“Me too.”

When the shoe was patched, Bucky slipped it back onto her foot and helped her test it with a few careful steps.

“Feels better,” Becca said. “Good job Jimmy.”

“Wow,” Bucky deadpanned. “A compliment. You feeling alright?”

She laughed and ran off, the tap of her feet echoing down the hallway.

Bucky stood, shoulders heavy. The moment she disappeared, his mother’s voice came from the back room.

“James.”

He turned. His ma stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her eyes full of that sharp mix of worry and steel he knew too well.

“You're losing weight,” she said. “You’re not sleeping. And that cut on your hand looks worse.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” she snapped, voice low. “You're working too much, James.”

“I have to.”

“For what?” she asked. “Rent’s covered, the girls are fed. What more are you chasing?”

He didn’t answer. He didn't need to. She knew the answer.

She studied him for a long moment, her face softening. “You can’t do it all. You’re not supposed to.”

Bucky nodded, but it wasn't an agreement, it was a way to end the conversation.

That night, after the house had gone quiet, he slipped outside with Lena’s latest letter in his pocket. The streetlamp near the corner buzzed like a tired hornet. He leaned against it, unfolded the paper, and read the words again. And again.

Her handwriting was smaller this time. Tighter. 

He reread the part about the pier last. Not the beginning, just the part she’d slipped in like an afterthought.

“That last night, the wind coming in off the water, the way everything felt like it was holding its breath…”

His fingers clenched around the letter. He didn’t cry. Didn’t even let himself blink too hard.

Instead, he pulled a scrap of butcher paper from his pocket and began to write by the flicker of the streetlamp.

The moment she opened the door, Lena felt the weight in the air, too quiet, too still. No kitchen clatter. No laughter from Ruta in the other room. Just Chana standing at the table, wiping her hands on a dish towel already clean.

“You’re late,” Chana said, not looking up.

“I stayed longer today. Zofia needed help going over Ania’s essay,” Lena replied, easing her coat off. Her shoulders ached from the walk, but she kept her voice even.

Chana nodded once, sharp, perfunctory. “You come in, you eat, and then you go straight to your room. You’re not part of this household during the day. Not unless we ask.”

Lena froze, her fingers still on the hook by the door. “Excuse me?”

Abraham stepped in before Chana could answer. He walked in from the hallway, his sleeves rolled, his brow furrowed, not angry, not cruel, just set.

“She’s saying,” he said calmly, “that things have changed now that you’ve chosen to work.”

Lena turned toward him. “I didn’t choose to work. I chose not to sit around waiting for someone else to solve my life for me.”

He exhaled slowly, as if gathering patience. “Yelena—”

“Lena,” she corrected without thinking.

That pulled a pause from him. A flicker of something behind the eyes, annoyance, perhaps, or disappointment.

He folded his arms. “Alright then, Lena. Since you’ve made it clear that you’re no longer a child in this home, we’ll treat you like an adult. Ten złoty, due at the end of every month. Rent.”

"You can't be serious." Lena stared at him.

“You work. You earn. You contribute. That’s how a household works.”

“I’m trying to save,” she said, voice low. “I’ve been saving since March. Every coin—”

Abraham raised a hand, not unkindly. “And we’re not trying to punish you. This isn’t about money. It’s about your focus. You talk about Brooklyn like it’s heaven itself. But you’re not in America. You’re here. With your mother’s people. With family who took you in when they had no obligation to.”

“I never asked to be sent away—”

“And we never asked to raise a girl with her head in another country.”

His voice wasn’t raised, but it cut clean.

Chana stepped forward now, setting the dish towel aside. “We brought you here to give you a chance to reconnect with your people. With tradition. With what it means to be a proper Jewish girl in her own land. This is what your mother would have wanted. Not some American who thinks she’s too good to light candles or speak properly or cover her hair.”

“I cover my hair,” Lena said, too fast. “I pray.”

“But you dream of leaving,” Chana snapped, and there it was, the raw nerve under all their cool restraint. “You think we don’t hear it in everything you say?”

Lena’s throat tightened. “I miss my father. My friends. That doesn’t mean I’m ungrateful.”

“It means you’ve never stopped seeing us as temporary,” Abraham said, quieter now. “You live in this house like you’re waiting to wake up somewhere else.”

Lena didn’t have an answer for that.

The silence between them felt thick, like cloth soaked in water, heavy, unyielding. Then Abraham turned slightly, his tone softening.

“Maybe if you had less money burning a hole in your pocket, you’d pay more attention to what’s in front of you. To what yyou could have here.”

She stared at him for a long moment, jaw clenched, fists in her coat pockets.

“Alright,” she said finally. Her voice was flat. “Ten złoty a month.”

Chana looked as though she wanted to say more, but Lena didn’t give her the chance. She turned and walked upstairs, her footsteps echoing with every step, a steady beat of betrayal and resolve.

In her attic room, Lena closed the door and leaned her forehead against it for a long moment.

She didn’t cry.

She crossed to her notebook instead, flipped to the back page, and scratched out the number she’d written just days earlier.

300.

She paused, then wrote:

300. — Subtract 10/month. Starting Friday.

The ink sank too deep into the paper, pressing through to the next page.

She stared at it for a moment, then slowly reached for her coin pouch.

Counted again.

Seventeen złoty. And now, less than that.

The walls of the attic were close tonight. Too close. She sat back in her chair and looked out the window, not at the stars, there were none, but at the smokestacks and crooked chimneys rising against a darkening sky.

They thought she was selfish. They thought she wanted to run away from being Jewish.

They didn’t understand, Brooklyn was where she had been fully, loudly, herself. She hadn't lost her heritage there. She’d carried it.

She hadn’t come here to forget who she was. She’d been sent here by someone too tired to hope for more.

Lennie,

You have no idea how much I needed your letter.

I read it once through, slow, then again just to look at your handwriting. It always slants left when you’re tired. I know you probably hate that I notice, but I do.

Seventeen złoty. Four dollars. God, Lennie. That’s not nothing. That’s seventeen times you didn’t give up. That’s seventeen days you dragged yourself through chores and rude glances and cold floors and still showed up for those kids. Don’t you dare call that nothing. 

I wish I could send something back. Just one dollar. Hell, even a single coin for your pocket so you wouldn’t feel so damn alone in it.

I’m trying. I’m working every hour they’ll let me. I load crates until my hands feel like rope and my back won’t bend right. I walk home with salt crusted in my hair and swear I’ll save every cent. But something always comes up, Steve got sick again, Becca’s shoes tore through, Alice needs books for school.

But I've saved up four dollars. That's nearly ten between us, that's not nothing, sweetheart. 

I’m stuck spinning plates while you’re across the ocean trying to balance everything on your shoulders alone. I hate it. I hate being this far from you.

And the pier, I think about that night too. You were freezing and pretending you weren’t. I’d give anything to go back to that moment. To fix it. To pull you close and tell you you weren’t leaving alone. That I’d find a way to follow because I couldn't stop your father from sending you. 

You’re not your mother, Lennie. You don’t have to be. You’re you. And that’s already more than enough. I don’t know what they see when they look at you, but I see the girl who could beat me in a foot race every time, who punched a kid twice your size for me and Steve when you barely knew us, who sings like an angel.

They may have wanted Yelena. I’m waiting for you.

As for Steve, I can already hear him muttering about charcoal smudges. But he started something for you last week. I’ll make sure he finishes it.

And Lennie, I love you too. I’d say it out loud if I thought it’d reach you. For now, I’ll keep writing it here.

Yours, always,

Bucky

The letter came tucked in between an electricity bill and a folded market notice. She almost missed it.

The envelope was pale and a little smudged, the ink faded just enough to suggest damp weather or a long journey. But her name was clear. Block letters—Yelena Rabinovich—written in her father’s hand, careful and square, like he was afraid of wasting space.

Her throat went tight.

She didn’t open it in the hallway. Just stood there staring at it, pulse thrumming beneath her skin. Her hands felt suddenly too warm, too heavy. She slipped it into her pocket, climbed the stairs to the attic, and waited until the door was closed behind her before she let herself sit.

The light in the room was soft and slanted, catching on the frayed edges of the blanket Ruta had left on the bed. She could hear voices downstairs, muffled. Someone was chopping something in the kitchen. Someone else was singing out of tune.

She opened the envelope slowly, carefully, like it might fall apart in her hands.

малышка,

I wrote to your aunt. She said you’ve found work. That you are teaching.

I’m not surprised but I had hoped by living with family, that you'd relax a little. You spent so much of your childhood taking care of me and yourself, I wished you'd let Mama’s family look after you.

But still. I am proud. Teaching is noble. I knew you’d make something of yourself, even far from home.

Things here are, changing. I’m still looking for steady work. The shop on Henry Street closed, and I had to move from our building. I’m staying near the docks now. It's not much, but it’s enough for me.

I saw James a few days ago. He asked if I’d heard from you. I told him no. I think he meant to ask more, but he didn’t.

 I hope you’re safe. I hope you’re warm.

Write if you can.

Love you,

Papa

Lena read it once, then again, slower. Her eyes stopped at the part about the shop. Then again at the line about moving.

She imagined it, the apartment gone, the rooms empty, the chipped blue teacup left behind or packed away. The sound of their old kettle. Her father’s boots by the door. The window that stuck in the winter. A stranger living above Steve's head. 

She tried to picture where he was now. A boarding house? Someone’s spare room? She could see him hunched over the table late at night, rubbing the back of his neck, trying to write this letter without sounding too lonely. Without making her feel guilty.

It didn’t work.

She folded the paper into her lap and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. The ache there wasn’t from crying, it was the kind that lived behind her ribs now. The kind that settled in when you missed someone so much it turned into something else. Something bitter and bone-deep.

She missed him.

But she hated him too, just a little. For letting her go. For not fighting harder to keep her. For putting oceans between them and calling it survival.

She thought about what Bucky would say, probably something too forgiving. He did what he thought was best, Lennie.

Maybe he did.

But it didn’t feel best.

It felt like being handed off.

It felt like being sent back into a country her mother had left for a reason.

She stared at the letter again, her thumb brushing over the word warm.

“I hope you’re safe. I hope you’re warm.”

She didn’t know if he had blankets where he was. She didn’t know if he ate properly, or if his cough was still bad, or if he’d gone through her old things and found the hair ribbon she forgot. She didn’t know if he ever said her name aloud.

Things she would have known if he had trusted her instead of sending her away. 

Lena folded the letter carefully and tucked it into the bottom drawer, beneath the envelope and the worn stack of pages from Bucky. She didn’t put it with the rest.

She didn’t write back.

But she didn’t throw it away either.

August came with heavy skies and thicker air. The attic grew hotter by the day, the floorboards creaking under her bare feet as she moved quietly through each morning. She woke before dawn now, sometimes to work on lessons for Ania and Stefan, sometimes just to think.

She taught twice a week. Carried groceries home every day. Cleaned dishes with her sleeves rolled to the elbow and her hair sticking to the back of her neck. When she could, she stopped at the market board and read every new flyer, hunting for anything, another tutoring job, errands, maybe translation work.

One flyer torn halfway down the middle still read: ‘New restrictions on kosher slaughter—’ before it vanished under a pinned poster for winter coats.

Sometimes, after the children finished their lessons, Zofia gave her an extra two coins. She never said why.

She didn’t ask.

At night, after Ruta was asleep and the house had gone quiet, Lena would sit by the window and write, pages and pages she couldn’t afford to send all at once. She folded each one carefully, kissed the edge of the paper before sealing the envelope. She kept the stack tied together with string, her name and return address always written in the same neat corner.

She had thirty-three złoty now. Then twenty-seven, after new boots were needed. Then thirty again. It went up. It went down. Never fast enough.

She counted anyway.

She wrote anyway.

Bucky worked until his hands blistered.

Mornings were dockside, lifting crates, moving freight, listening to the foreman’s voice drone like a hammer against the skull. Afternoons were for odd jobs: sweeping shops, running errands, even fixing the lock on Mrs. Romano’s back door for a few coins and a slice of peach pie.

He kept a ledger under the mattress, beside the worn bills in a coffee tin. Every time he added to it, he crossed out the last number and wrote a new one below it in pencil. 

\$7.42. \$6.19. \$9.08.

It never stayed still. Medicine for Steve. New books for Alice. Fabric for his mother. A jacket for his father. Groceries short. Always something.

He walked by the travel office almost every week now, just to look at the poster in the window. Third-Class Passage - Europe – $44.60. It might as well have said four hundred. Or four thousand. He didn’t know how the hell he was going to bring her home. The Statue of Liberty smiled down from a colored print, like a joke only he was in on.

Some nights, he stayed up late to write. Leaning over the kitchen table, scrawling words on butcher paper or the backs of flyers, anything he could find. Anytime he thought of something he wanted to say.

He mailed one letter every two weeks, even if he had nothing new to say.

Even if it hurt.

Summer faded, slowly, but not gently.

Letters crossed oceans, sometimes late, sometimes smudged, always folded with care. Lena pressed her fingers to the ink. Bucky carried her words in his coat pocket until the edges curled and tore.

The sound of his voice followed her into sleep. He said her name in his sleep.

They kept saving.

They kept waiting.

They kept writing.

One ocean. One promise. One impossible distance. And still, they reached for each other, word by word.

Chapter Text

i feel your hands grabbing my throat

WARSAW, POLAND - FALL 1935

The windows were open just enough to let in the breeze but not the dust, and the air in the parlor smelled faintly of lilacs and furniture polish. Lena stood by the piano, a pencil tucked behind one ear, watching as Ania carefully formed each letter on the page.

“The unexpected storm flooded the garden,” Ania said, rereading her sentence under her breath. “And Mama was very upset.”

“That works,” Lena said, glancing over her shoulder at Stefan, who had wedged himself halfway behind the curtains again. “Stefan, how’s yours coming?”

“I don’t like storms,” he muttered. “Or dogs. Or English.”

“You don’t like anything today,” Ania said flatly.

“I like apples.”

“You only like them because you don’t have to write about them.”

Lena didn’t interrupt. She let them bicker a few moments, there was rhythm to it now, a safety in their predictability. Ania would press, Stefan would grumble, and eventually they’d meet somewhere in the middle. Still, she walked over and knelt by Stefan’s chair, her tone low and even.

“How about this,” she offered, tapping his page. “The apple unexpectedly rolled off the table and hit my sister in the knee.”

Stefan’s head lifted slowly, eyes gleaming with possibility. “Can it hit her in the *nose* instead?”

“That’s even better,” Lena said, her mouth twitching.

He scribbled the sentence with exaggerated care, muttering the words aloud as he wrote.

Ania sighed and rolled her eyes, but her lips were curved faintly upward.

Lena leaned back, letting herself breathe for a moment. These moments weren’t easy, they demanded more than just patience. They required imagination, warmth, strategy. But they gave something back too. For one hour each time, Lena Lena was seen for what she knew. Not what she lacked.

The clock struck two, and the lesson wound to a close. Ania packed her things precisely. Stefan crumpled his paper but folded it once at the end, like it might still matter.

Zofia entered as they were finishing, her posture graceful, her eyes sharp as ever.

“Thank you, Lena,” she said simply. “You’ve drawn more from them than any of their other tutors managed.”

“I just listen,” Lena said modestly, slipping her books into her satchel.

Zofia’s gaze lingered on her, not unkind. “You do more than that. Would you stay for tea?”

Lena hesitated. Part of her wanted to refuse. There was always something waiting at home, another basin to carry, another meal to clean up after without eating much of it herself. But she nodded.

“I’d like that.”

They moved to the smaller sitting room, where a tray was already set: pale green china cups, delicate and thin at the lip, and sugar cubes resting in a small silver dish. Zofia poured without comment and passed her a cup. Lena noticed the extra one already prepared, it hadn’t been an impulsive invitation.

She took her tea with both hands, letting the warmth steady her.

Zofia stirred her tea once, watching the leaves settle. “How is the saving going?”

Lena lowered her eyes to the cup. “Slow,” she said quietly. “I’m trying not to spend anything. But... things come up. Rent. A new pair of shoes when the heel broke. Bread, sometimes.”

Zofia didn’t react with pity, only with calm interest, as though Lena had told her the weather.

“That happens,” she said simply.

Lena gave a small nod, grateful for the lack of sympathy. Sympathy softened people. She couldn’t afford to soften.

Zofia sipped her tea with the kind of ease that came from a life of certainty, of knowing the kettle would always boil, that the table would always be set. Lena mirrored her movements more carefully, trying not to rattle the saucer as she lifted the cup. Her fingers still bore faint soap lines from scrubbing that morning.

“The new boots,” Zofia said, not looking up. “They are nice, good quality.”

Lena blinked, caught off guard. “You noticed?”

“I notice many things.”

Lena didn’t quite know what to say to that. Compliments, even subtle ones, always felt like questions she didn’t have the answers to.

A pause. The ticking of a mantle clock. Then Zofia stirred her tea again, and her tone shifted just slightly.

“Have you been following what’s happening in Germany?”

Lena set her cup down. “A little. My uncle says it’s just noise. That things won’t spill across the border.”

Zofia’s mouth tightened in a way that suggested she disagreed. “Aleksandr’s colleagues are less certain. Some are moving their Jewish students to private instruction. Some are leaving altogether.”

Lena said nothing, only glanced toward the window, where the light caught in the etched glass. Even from Warsaw, you could feel the weight of Germany pressing closer, even if no one said it out loud. It wasn’t just talk in the newspapers anymore.

“I think people want to believe the world will right itself without their intervention,” Zofia said. “But power like that, hatred that open, it doesn’t just vanish.”

“He’s already changed the national anthem, the old verses are gone. They are marching with torches now.” Lena frowned. 

“They burn books,” Zofia added, her voice quiet but sharp. “And soon, when that isn’t enough, they’ll burn other things.”

A chill passed through the room, unnoticed by the tea. She wondered if her father heard the news across the ocean. Wondered if he felt scared about sending her to some place that others were fleeing out of fear.

Lena took another sip, slower this time. The conversation had dipped into something weightier than she’d expected. She studied the way the silver spoon in her cup caught the light, thinking of how everything in this house had a certain weight, a quiet legacy. Even the sugar dish looked like it belonged in a museum.

She felt the distance then, between herself and this woman who moved through the world like she’d been born to command it. And yet Zofia never made her feel unwelcome. Only studied. As though Lena were a riddle she intended to solve.

“I don’t mean to pry,” Zofia said, breaking the tension. “But does your family still hope you’ll stay?”

Lena hesitated. “They don’t say it outright. But I think they believe if I stay long enough, I’ll forget what I left behind.”

“And will you?”

Lena looked down at her cup. “I try not to think about what I’ll do. Just what I have to do next. But no. I won't.”

Zofia nodded, as if she approved. “That’s often the better way.”

She broke another cookie, offering half again. This time, Lena accepted it with a murmur of thanks.

The silences between them weren't uncomfortable, just full of thought. Lena realized she liked it here, in this room where the world was filtered through porcelain and soft-spoken truths. She didn’t belong in this house, not really, but she was no longer a stranger either.

“I’ve been meaning to ask, Aleksandr mentioned a colleague in Praga who needs a tutor for their eldest daughter. They asked if I might recommend someone.”

Lena blinked. “You gave them my name?”

“I did.”

“Thank you.”

Zofia inclined her head, but there was no flattery in it. Only acknowledgement.

“If the hours suit and the pay is fair, I’ll take it,” Lena added. “Even if it’s a long walk.”

“You shouldn’t have to do everything alone.”

Lena managed a small smile. “I think maybe I do.”

“For now,” she said. “But not always.”

Lena didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. This hadn't been what she expected when she accepted tea, talk of Hitler, finances. But it wasn’t unwelcome either, just unexpected, like her own loneliness laid gently on the table between them.

In the few months she had been in Poland, it was here that she felt most like herself. Where she was called Lena without having to remind anyone, no disapproving tuts, or backhanded comments. Where she could talk about New York and all the things she missed without it being misconstrued as ungratefulness. 

As she stood to leave, Zofia said, “I’ll send word to Praga tomorrow. I imagine the girl’s mother will want to meet you.”

“Thank you again,” Lena said.

Zofia gave the smallest of smiles. “It’s not charity, Lena. You’re very good.”

The words clung to her all the way home, gentle as the chill just beginning to creep into the late September wind.

The parlor had gone quiet after supper, the clatter of dishes replaced by the creak of settling floors and the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock. Lena moved carefully through the hallway, her arms still damp from scrubbing, her back sore from crouching beside the stove. She passed the curtained window at the end of the corridor, the light beyond it thick with the orange wash of an autumn dusk.

Roza’s door was cracked open. Inside, the room smelled of lavender soap and something more faded, old linens, polished wood, the hush of memory. Her grandmother sat by the window in her armchair, a knitted shawl around her shoulders, her hands resting loosely in her lap.

“Come sit with me, Yelena,” she said without turning. “My eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

Lena obeyed, folding herself into the low chair across from her. She tucked her skirt under her knees and tried not to wince at the pinch in her side. 

The window let in a thin beam of late light, dust caught in it like snow. For a time, they didn’t speak. Lena was learning not to rush these silences, they weren’t empty, just waiting.

When Roza finally opened her eyes, she studied Lena’s face as though trying to line it up with something remembered.

“You favor her,” she said at last. “My Esther.”

Lena didn’t answer.

“The shape of your eyes. Your mouth. Even the way you tuck your hair behind your ear, she did that too.” A pause. “But she would’ve never spoken the way you do.”

That stung, but not in a way Lena could name. She looked down at her hands.

“She was... quieter than you,” Roza said, as though searching for the right phrasing. “Not shy. Just... careful. She knew how to carry herself properly. Gloves on, knees together, head bowed in synagogue. She never interrupted.”

Lena stayed silent.

“I don’t mean it as criticism,” Roza added, though her tone was too tired to sound like reassurance. “I only mean, you are not the same.” 

“I know,” Lena said.

Roza’s eyes drifted to the photo on her dresser. A younger Esther looked back at them from the small silver frame, soft-eyed and smiling in a way Lena could never quite claim as her own. It made her ache. 

“She never should have left,” Roza murmured. 

“She wanted to,” Lena said, trying to keep her voice even. “She believed in America. She believed in... building something new.”

“Yes. And she died for it.”

The words landed flat. Final.

Roza’s hands tightened slightly over the fabric of her skirt. “We didn’t even know how sick she was. He wrote after she was already gone. And he never brought her back. Not even to rest with her own people.”

Lena’s throat constricted. “He didn’t have the money.”

“He had choices,” Roza replied. “And he kept her from us. Kept you. We waited years for a letter that never came. We had to mourn her like strangers.”

Lena looked down. She hadn’t known that. Not really. Her father had never talked about it, not the burial, not the silence. Not her mother, not ever, if he could help it. But now, she could see it. The gap between families widened not by hatred, but by grief never shared. Regret calcified over time.

“I think that’s why he never made me write to you,” she said softly. “Because he knew you blamed him.”

“And you don’t?”

“For my mother? No. Never. He loved her. He would have done anything to save her. He just….couldn’t.” Lena blinked back the tears, carefully leaving out how she blamed him now. Despite her anger, she wouldn't fuel the flames against her father.

Roza didn’t respond, but her gaze softened. Not warmly, just less sharp.

“We thought you could marry a nice boy here,” she said after a moment. “Settle down. Learn the rhythms again. You were supposed to come back to us.”

Lena met her eyes. “I was a child. I belonged with my father. You want me to become someone else.”

Roza didn’t argue. She looked at the photo again, leaving Lena to wonder how many letters her father received from her family insisting on sending her back. How much the guilt played into why she was here now.

“Your mother used to sing in the kitchen when she thought no one was listening,” she said, her voice thinner now. “Yiddish lullabies, Polish ballads, even little French songs she picked up at school. She had a good voice. Bright. Yours is stronger, but hers was sweeter.”

Lena swallowed. Her heart ached with the memory, not of the songs themselves, but of a feeling just out of reach. The sound of comfort before she knew what loss meant.

“I don’t remember what she looked like when she laughed,” she said. “But I remember her voice. When she sang to me.”

Roza nodded, quiet.

“She would have wanted you to be happy,” she said. “But she also would have wanted you to come home.”

“No, she wouldn't have.” Lena pushed back, even though she knew she shouldn't. “Mama believed in America, wanted to make a life there. I had a life there. She would have wanted me to be happy.” It came pouring out of her before she could stop it. A bitter heat rising up into her throat. “That was my home.”

Sick of the insistence that this was her home. Her home was Brooklyn. In the bare apartment she shared with her father. Home was sitting with Steve and bothering him as he tried in vain to draw.

Home was Bucky. 

“And yet, here you are. Whether you want to be or not.” Her grandmother said plainly. Not unkindly. 

They sat in silence a little longer. The day shifted toward dusk, and the shadows in the corners of the room began to stretch. When Lena finally stood, she glanced at the photo one more time.

The girl in the picture looked soft. Certain. Like someone Lena might have passed on the street and never stopped to speak to.

But that was her mother as a girl. Not the woman who married a man her family didn't approve of. That left their home country in search of something new.

Perhaps they had more in common than Lena realized. That, here, by their family, they were never truly seen. 

She left the room without another word.

RED HOOK, BROOKLYN - 1935

The apartment smelled like onions and starch, and the window was cracked just enough to let in a thread of chill air. Steve sat at the kitchen table, hunched over a wrinkled sketchpad, pretending to work on a drawing he had no intention of finishing.

The pencil rolled once beneath his fingers before he caught it. He had been trying to sketch from memory. The birthday cake Lena and Bucky had made for him for this thirteenth birthday. The terrible icing job that Bucky was proud of anyway. But the lines came out stiff. Hollow. Like he was tracing a memory that had already begun to fade at the edges.

He pushed the paper aside.

Mrs. Rogers moved slowly behind him, her joints stiff from the cold, stirring a pot on the stove. She had offered him soup twice already. He’d said no both times, but she ladled some into a bowl anyway and set it beside him with a look that brooked no argument.

“Eat before it gets cold,” she said, tapping the table once before sitting down across from him with her knitting.

Steve took a spoonful out of duty.

It tasted fine. It tasted like home.

But even that felt different now.

Brooklyn wasn’t the same without Lena in it. School definitely wasn’t. He still sat near the window, her spot, but it didn’t feel right. He hadn’t realized how much of his day relied on her until she wasn’t there anymore. The way she’d chew the end of her pencil when she was stuck on a word. The way she made Steve laugh in class, loud enough to get them both glared at. The way she lit up whenever something clicked, like she’d just knocked over a wall with her bare hands.

Now he came home and sat in silence with his mother. Bucky still showed up to walk him to school. Mostly because if Lena found out he wasn't, she'd box his ears herself. 

But even Bucky wasn’t the same. 

Steve had stopped by the Barnes’ place earlier that week. Bucky had been elbow-deep in engine grease, sleeves rolled up, jaw clenched like the bolts he was loosening were personal enemies. He didn’t smile much. Not unless one of his sisters was tugging at him, and even then it barely stuck. They talked about Lena in pieces. Careful pieces. A sentence here. A mention of a letter there. Anything more felt too raw.

Bucky had said, “She’s working herself ragged over there.”

Steve had said, “So are you.”

And that was the end of it.

Even if she wasn't there, physically, Lena lingered between them. In those hours where there was no work to be had, where they sat together, talking about nothing, Steve would make some kind of sarcastic remark, they'd both turn, expecting to hear Lena laugh.

They rarely had fun like they used to. There was no time to run around the neighborhood like before. They had tried. Ruth insisted they take her to the picture shows last weekend, and for a short while they had fun. 

Then he remembered Lena wasn't there when she should have been. That he was laughing where she couldn't hear him, couldn't join in. 

Steve never felt more guilty in his life.

Bucky was trying. Working double shifts, picking up odd jobs on the weekends. He was constantly calculating, how much they needed, how much they had, trying to anticipate any set backs before they happened, how much they were short. Steve knew he was counting the weeks until they could afford a ticket, but there was never enough. Something always came up. Rent. Groceries. His medicine. And Steve, he was still in school. He couldn’t pick up hours the way Bucky could.

But he was doing what he could. Sold some sketches. Ran errands for the woman down the hall who couldn't carry her laundry basket anymore. One of the neighborhood kids even paid him a nickel to draw a superhero with a cape and a baseball bat. It wasn’t much. But it added up.

He just didn’t know if it would add up fast enough.

Because something was wrong. Beyond just Lena being gone.

Steve glanced toward the radio. It was low, muffled behind the rustle of his mother’s knitting needles, but he could still make out the words: rallies in Nuremberg. A new law passed. Jewish professors removed from their posts. Again. The same sickness, rising louder each time.

He’d tried to talk about it with people at school. Only a few cared. The rest shrugged it off. It’s far away. It’s not our business.

But Steve knew better. If there was one thing he understood, it was how quickly cruelty could grow in silence.

And Lena was over there. In Poland. Just a border away.

He rubbed his chest like he could press the worry back down.

When his mother went to lie down for a while, Steve stayed at the table. The soup was cold by then, but he didn’t care. He reached for a blank sheet of paper and flattened it carefully. The pencil hovered for a second, just long enough for him to hear Bucky’s voice in his head: Just write what you’d say if she were sitting right here.

So he did.

Dear Lena,

It’s cold today. Not winter cold, but enough that I can see my breath in the mornings. I bet it’s colder there though. You always hated that, didn’t you? 

School’s strange without you. I still sit in the same spot, but no one talks. No one argues with the teachers or makes me laugh when I’ve got ink on my nose. I miss hearing you curse under your breath when you forgot to study. I even miss when you kicked my chair.

I know you’re working hard. Bucky says so, and I can tell by your letters. You’re probably doing more than both of us combined. But I want you to know we’re trying too. Bucky’s been saving every cent he gets. I’ve been doing small jobs where I can. We’ve got a jar now, your name written on it, taped to the lid.

I read every paper I can get my hands on. The stuff coming out of Germany... it’s not just noise, Lena. I don’t care what your uncle says. It’s moving fast. Faster than anyone wants to admit.

You don’t belong in the middle of that. You belong here. With us. In Brooklyn. I know it’s not perfect, but at least here, home, you don’t have to hide.

So don’t give up. We won’t either. No matter how long it takes. We will bring you home.

Write back soon. I miss your voice in my head.

Yours,

Steve

He folded the letter slowly, slipped it into an envelope, and scrawled her name across the front. Lena Rabinovich. Warsaw.

He didn’t know how long it would take to get there. Maybe two weeks. Maybe more. But she’d read it. She always did.

And until she came home, it was the only way he knew how to keep her close.

The moon had risen by the time Lena finished washing the last of the dishes. The house had mostly gone quiet, save for the muffled sound of her uncle and grandfather speaking low in the other room. She dried her hands and leaned briefly against the kitchen counter, letting her shoulders rest, just for a moment.

A soft knock tapped against the doorframe. When she looked up, Ruta stood there in her nightdress, a wool blanket dragging slightly behind her.

“You’re supposed to be in bed,” Lena said gently.

Ruta clutched the edge of the blanket and stepped forward. “I can’t sleep. My room makes weird noises at night.”

“It’s the wind,” Lena told her. “And the radiator.”

“But it feels like ghosts.”

Lena arched a brow. “What do ghosts even want with you?”

Ruta hesitated, then declared with full sincerity, “To steal my socks.”

That earned a real laugh, quiet, but surprised out of her.

“Well, then I suppose I better protect them,” Lena said, opening her arms.

Ruta darted forward without hesitation, curling herself into Lena’s lap as she sat at the table. The girl’s feet were cold, her hair still slightly damp from her rushed bedtime washing. Lena wrapped the blanket tighter around her and rested her chin lightly on Ruta’s head.

“You smell like soap,” Ruta muttered sleepily.

“You smell like raspberry jam,” Lena replied. “Very suspicious.”

“I saved you a cookie earlier,” Ruta offered. “But then I forgot and I ate it.”

“Tragic betrayal.”

A giggle. Then silence.

They sat like that for a while, the chill from the window creeping in but dulled by the warmth between them. Lena hadn’t realized how much she missed being near someone without having to talk. Just existing in the same space. She missed her father, Steve, Bucky, God, especially Bucky, but for now, Ruta was something soft and real and right here.

“I don’t think ghosts could get you,” Ruta whispered. “Even if they tried.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because you have that voice. And your mean eyes.”

Lena snorted. “Thank you?”

“That’s a compliment.”

“I’ll take it.”

Ruta yawned, sinking heavier into her side. Within minutes, she was asleep.

Lena carried her back to bed, tucking her in as gently as she could. When she turned to leave, she caught sight of the little dresser in the corner, on top of it, folded neatly, was a scarf. Blue and fraying at the edges.

One of hers.

She hadn’t left it there.

Heart softening, Lena returned to her room and lit the lamp low. A new letter sat on her pillow, the handwriting unmistakable. Slanted. Fast. Confident.

Henny.

She sat on the edge of her narrow bed, broke the seal, and read slowly, savoring every line.

Dear Lena,

I hope this letter finds you somewhere quiet, or at least somewhere you can sit down for a few minutes without someone asking for something. I imagine that's rare these days.

It’s strange not seeing you at the market. I half-expected you last week, frowning at bruised apples like they’d personally offended you. 

Nursing school is moving fast. We’ve begun clinical rotations and I spend most days trying to look more confident than I feel. I stitched someone’s finger last Thursday. Clean, straight, no shaking. You would have been terrible at it, it was delicate work, but final. No guessing afterward.

I was thinking about you on my walk home the other night. The sky had that early-winter sharpness to it, and I thought: She’d notice this. The cold, the colors, the smell of chimney smoke. You always paid attention in a way most people don’t. I hope you still are.

I don’t have much advice to give you, but since I’m practically a nurse now, I’m prescribing the following: one walk a day, something warm with your tea, and five minutes just for yourself. No chores. No family. Just your thoughts, and maybe a window.

You don’t have to write back unless you want to. I just wanted you to know someone here is thinking of you—not urgently, not expectantly. Just... steadily.

Warmly,

Henny

Lena folded the letter carefully, tucking it inside the journal she kept under her mattress. She didn’t cry, not exactly, but her eyes stung the way they sometimes did when she heard a song that reminded her of home.

She lay down, the room cool and quiet, and stared up at the ceiling.

Maybe things weren’t okay. Not yet.

But they were still hers to fight for.

And that counted for something.

Chapter Text

as you say 

WARSAW, POLAND - WINTER 1936

By the time the leaves gave way to frost, the shape of Lena’s life in Warsaw had hardened into something sharp-edged and quiet. Autumn had come and gone in a blur of wet shoes, blistered hands, and evenings folded over letters by candlelight. Letters from Brooklyn still came, but slower now, and always with the same undercurrent of strain, of hope receding slowly, like a tide no one could stop. The days were shorter, colder. She barely noticed the shift until her breath started clouding in the air and her fingers cracked at the knuckles. Winter had returned to Poland. And Lena was still here.

The snow had stopped falling hours ago, but the wind hadn’t let up. It clawed through the alleys and courtyards like it had a grudge, sweeping past Lena’s thin gloves and into the sleeves of her coat. She walked with her shoulders hunched against it, the heels of her boots worn nearly smooth. Slush soaked through the seams. Her toes had gone numb somewhere between Praga and the river.

She crossed into the older part of town with her head down, one hand gripping the strap of her satchel and the other clenching around a paper bag with a cracked bar of soap and two rolls she’d paid too much for. Her stomach pinched at the smell of them, fresh from the bakery’s back rack, but she didn’t let herself eat one. Not yet.

She’d worked eight hours that day. Two with Ania and Stefan, who were still mercifully predictable, Ania testing limits, Stefan refusing to admit he enjoyed English until he could form a perfect insult with it. Then three hours with Zofia’s husband's contact, a girl named Klaudia who lived in a grander part of the city with a piano in every room and parents who whispered too much about Germany, that it put Lena on edge. 

Then the rest of the time walking. Walking from home to Ania and Stefan's. Back home for lunch. Then to Klaudia's. Now back home for dinner. Her feet were tired, cold, but she didn't want to waste the money on the bus.

She moved carefully across a patch of ice, her legs stiff with cold. A tram rattled by and sprayed snow onto her coat. She didn’t flinch.

Her path took her past the old camera shop on Gęsia Street. The windows were frosted over, glass smudged with fingerprints and the warped reflections of passersby. She paused without meaning to.

There she was.

Or someone who looked like her.

Lena leaned closer, breath fogging the glass. In the warped pane, her reflection stared back at her, pale, sharp, older. Her cheeks hollowed out more than they used to be, eyes dark from too many nights awake. She blinked. The girl from Brooklyn blinked back, except she wasn’t that girl anymore.

She used to sing while she walked. She used to laugh too loud. She used to be someone whose voice filled up the whole street. 

The girl from Brooklyn rarely walked alone. Always sandwiched between two boys. Even in the most bitter cold days, she never felt it, sharing warmth with Bucky and Steve.

Now her voice was mostly spent on verb tenses and the right way to pronounce th. A polite kind of speaking. Nothing that stirred anything. Nothing that pushed too far.

Lena straightened and kept walking.

Two blocks later, she passed a newsstand. The paper at the top of the stack caught her eye:

“HITLER REJECTS DISARMAMENT TERMS — CALLS TREATY ‘A SHAMEFUL BURDEN.’”

Beneath the headline, a grainy photograph showed Hitler mid-speech, one hand raised, jaw clenched, the Reichstag behind him draped in banners.

Lena froze. She stared at the photo, then at the bold print again. It wasn’t the image that chilled her—it was the pattern. First conscription. Then the military parades. Now this. Each announcement louder than the last, like someone banging on the walls of a house everyone else pretended wasn’t on fire.

She reached for it automatically. The vendor barely glanced at her as she handed over her last coins. She tucked the paper under her arm and kept moving.

By the time she reached home, her fingers were red and stiff. The entryway smelled like boiled cabbage and coal smoke. The paper rustled with every step, brushing against her coat like a whisper she couldn’t quite ignore.

Someone had hung laundry near the stove, and steam curled around the cuffs of shirts like ghosts. Chaim and Ruta were playing a clapping game in the corner. Abraham was hammering something gently at the table. Leonard coughed from the next room, a dry sound that didn’t stop right away.

Lena hung her coat by the stove and peeled off her boots. Her socks were soaked. She crouched beside the heat and rubbed her feet, trying to coax sensation back into her toes.

She didn’t speak. Not yet. Just sat there, quiet, the newspaper resting across her knees like a second weight.

She flipped it open. 

The paper rustled in her lap as she unfolded it carefully, already half-cracked from the cold. The headline sat just above the fold:

“Germany Withdraws from Disarmament Talks – Treaty of Versailles ‘Null and Void,’ Hitler Declares”

Beneath it, smaller print:

French officials express concern; British press urges caution. Polish government declines comment.

Lena’s eyes skimmed the article, stomach turning. She didn’t need to read every word. Germany was growing teeth again. And the rest of Europe, as usual, was busy pretending not to see.

Lena folded the paper hastily, her jaw tight. She knew Bucky would have something to say if he saw it. Steve, too. But the last letter had taken almost three weeks to arrive, and even longer for her to answer. There was too much time between them now. Too much space. Even when they wrote, it felt like they were shouting across a growing chasm.

She tucked the paper into her satchel and stood.

The bread would need to be sliced. The soap tucked away before Ruta found it and used it for a “magic potion.” The rest of the night would unfold the same as always, quietly, tiredly, predictably.

But the war drums were louder now. She could hear them, faintly, beneath the sound of coughing and cutlery and the slow ticking of the clock over the stove.

And she knew: if something didn’t change soon, they wouldn’t stop at the border.

The fire in the parlor had burned low by the time Lena packed away Ania’s spelling list and Stefan’s half-finished paragraph about dogs. The children had been particularly restless that afternoon, arguing over grammar like it was a battlefield. Lena didn’t mind. There was comfort in their bickering, a rhythm to it.

She was gathering her things when Zofia appeared in the doorway, a wool shawl draped over her shoulders, her expression unreadable.

“Lena,” she said, “if you have a moment?”

Lena glanced up, startled. “Of course.”

Zofia led her down the hall to the study. It was a quiet, wood-paneled room Lena rarely entered. Shelves lined the walls, filled with heavy books in Polish, German, French. A single window was cracked open, letting in a ribbon of cold air. Aleksandr Zieliński was already inside, seated in the leather chair by the lamp with a glass of tea cupped in both hands.

“Evening, Lena,” he said, with the kind of smile that never quite reached his eyes.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Please, sit,” Zofia offered, gesturing to the settee opposite her husband.

Lena lowered herself slowly, her satchel still in her lap.

Zofia didn’t waste time. “We have something you might be able to help us with. A small job, but one that requires care.”

Aleksandr reached into a folio beside his chair and passed Lena a slim packet of papers. She hesitated before taking it.

“They’re already translated,” Zofia said, “but clumsily. From German into Polish. What we’d like is a clear, clean English version. For private records. Letters, mostly.”

“Who are they from?” Lena asked, brows drawing together.

“Friends of Marek’s, Zofia’s brother. He travels.” Aleksandr said evenly. “Travelers. Academics. People gathering information from across the border.”

Lena opened the packet slowly. The first page was dense with names, dates, and clipped references: Gestapo inquiries, Lehrer under suspicion, Łódź district, Judenschule surveillance.The tone was bureaucratic, dry, but the words weren’t. They carried weight. Familiar fear.

She looked up. “You said these were personal letters?”

Aleksandr exchanged a glance with his wife. “Fragments of them. Notes. Reports. They’re piecing things together. Quietly.”

Zofia added, “Marek believes the information may one day be important. If others are going to understand it, they’ll need someone who understands both language and tone.”

Lena nodded slowly. “I see.”

There was a pause. Aleksandr’s expression didn’t change, but his voice gentled slightly. “If you’d rather not, you can leave the packet here.”

“I didn’t say that,” Lena said, quietly.

She looked back down at the papers.

• One teacher missing after questioning.
• Two boys taken from school.
• A list of confiscated books.

It wasn’t new. Not entirely. But seeing it laid out so plainly, without commentary, without outrage, made her stomach twist.

“Will anyone else read the translations?”

“Only those who need to,” Zofia said.

Lena set the papers back in her lap and adjusted her gloves. “When do you need them by?”

Zofia smiled, just faintly. “Soon. But not tonight.”

Aleksandr added, “And you will be compensated.”

Lena nodded again and stood. “I’ll bring them back within the week.”

She tucked the packet into her satchel, her fingers lingering on the cover a moment longer than necessary.

“Thank you,” Zofia said gently.

Lena didn’t reply. She just offered a small, polite nod, then stepped back into the hall, the quiet click of the study door closing behind her.

Her bag felt heavier as she clutched it to her side. Her feet carried her home quickly, mind whirling about the little bit of information she gleaned from a quick glance. 

A rational part of her was scared at the implication. 

The less rational part of her, the impulsive anger she let simmer, wanted to write to her father, the first letter she would send since she left, to say: see, Poland isn't safe. You sent me away for nothing. 

She could be safe at home, in Brooklyn. An ocean away from conflict, but her father's guilt put her right into the frying pan of conflict. With a Star of David sized target on her back. 

The kitchen was warm, but only in the way too many bodies in too small a space could make it. Boiled cabbage lingered in the air, clinging to every surface. Lena sat wedged between Leonard and Ruta, her knees nearly brushing the table leg.

Leonard was humming tunelessly, using his spoon to trace lazy circles on the rim of his bowl. Across from her, Aunt Chana served herself with deliberate care, her movements sharp with disapproval.

“You should come to synagogue this week,” Chana said, not bothering to look up. “The Mieszkowski boy will be there. He just started studying at the university. Very respectable.”

Lena took a slow sip of her tea. “I’ll be working.”

“Working,” Chana repeated, like it was a bad taste on her tongue. “You’re nearly a woman now. It’s time to start thinking seriously. That family you work for, those people, they’re not our people.”

Lena bit back the first answer that came to her. “They treat me kindly. And they pay me.”

“That’s not the same as belonging,” Chana said.

Abraham cleared his throat. “Leave the rent on the table before you go up.”

Lena nodded, already expecting it. “I did. This morning.”

“Good.” He said it like a full stop. “You should be in school, Yelena. Not running across town to teach children who don’t need you.”

“I do need to work.”

“You need to grow up properly,” he countered. “A girl your age should be learning how to build a home. Not wearing out her shoes chasing other people’s errands.”

Lena looked at him directly. “School won’t pay for me to go back home.”

The room stilled for a moment. Only Leonard’s spoon continued its gentle tapping.

Roza set down her fork with a quiet clink. “Your mother would want you to stay, I know it. She was happy here before she left. She wouldn’t have run off to chase some American dream. Your father convinced her into going.”

Lena’s mouth went dry. “My mother wanted to go. She wanted to live in America.”

“She died there,” Roza said, not cruel, but flat. “Far from her family. Far from where she belonged.”

Ruta slid her hand into Lena’s beneath the table. Small, warm fingers in her chapped ones.

Lena didn’t say anything else, even when her throat burned to scream that she didn't belong here in the same way they thought her mother didn't belong in America.

After dinner, when the plates were cleared and the grown-ups settled into their usual evening rhythms, Lena climbed the narrow stairs to the attic room.

It was cold. Always was. The sloped ceiling creaked in the wind, and a draft slipped in beneath the windowsill no matter how she stuffed it with rags. She lit a candle stub, peeled off her damp stockings, and curled up on the narrow bed with the coin jar beside her.

She unscrewed the lid and counted the contents by feel. Fifty-two zloty. A few American coins she hadn’t been able to exchange. A folded scrap of paper with her projected total.

It wasn’t enough. It never was.

She reached for the newspaper from earlier that week, unfolded the front page again. No new letters had come. Not yet. But the headlines didn’t need translation:

Restrictions Tighten in Berlin

New Measures Against Jewish Businesses

Professors Dismissed on Ethnic Grounds

She’d tried to tell them downstairs. Tried to warn them.

“This is Poland. We have our own government. Our own laws. We don’t answer to Germany,” Chana said.

Lena stared at the paper, at the inked photo of a closed school, shuttered windows and all.

From the little tin box under her bed, she pulled out her savings, a folded envelope with a few zloty notes and a handwritten total in the corner. It wasn’t enough. Not yet. But it was growing.

She held the money in her hands for a long time, then set it aside and drew the folio from her satchel. The packet Aleksandr gave her. She smoothed the pages out one by one, laid them across her blanket like a puzzle, and took up her pencil.

The words were sharp, bureaucratic, dry. Names, dates, disappearances. A pattern with too few pieces.

Lena began to write.

There was no sound but the scratch of her pencil and the distant murmur of voices downstairs, softened by floorboards and memory. She translated until her eyes burned.

But she didn’t stop. Not yet.

The days bled into each other like watercolor left out in the rain.

Most mornings were spent tutoring, Ania’s endless questions, Stefan’s quiet mischief. Afternoons were swallowed by errands, and her other tutoring jobs. Picking up medicine for Leonard. Waiting in line for bread. Stretching every coin to its thinnest edge. Walking to Praga. Walking home from Praga. In the evenings, Lena translated until the candle guttered low, her shoulders stiff and fingers smudged with pencil.

She kept her earnings hidden in her attic room, beneath the loose floorboard under her bed. Neatly folded bills, carefully stacked coins. It wasn’t much, but it was hers. A quiet rebellion, growing one zloty at a time.

She'd bought herself a new coat earlier in the month, nothing fancy, just something thicker, lined and dark, second hand but sturdy. It still smelled faintly of mothballs and someone else’s perfume. But it held warmth. It made the wind feel less like a punishment.

The translation work had grown darker lately. Less coded. More certain.

A teacher was arrested for "seditious behavior." A school shuttered without explanation. Children questioned about their parents' politics. Books blacklisted and burned.

There was no denying what it pointed to. The words came from different places, different hands, but they all carried the same quiet dread.

She hadn’t written to Steve or Bucky in weeks. It wasn’t because she didn’t want to, but because she didn’t know how to explain the kind of tiredness that lived in her bones now. The world they knew wasn’t the one she woke up in each day. And she didn’t know how to tell them that, not without making it worse. 

They were already worried about her, she couldn't bare to make it worse by telling them the worrying things she had been hearing, translating, from Germany. 

So she told herself they’d understand the silence.

And then, one afternoon, a letter arrived.

She nearly missed it, tucked between a pharmacy slip and a folded receipt for coal. Her name was scrawled across the envelope in familiar, crooked letters. 

Bucky.

She turned it over in her hands once, twice. The edges were soft from being handled too much. As if he’d carried it with him, unsure whether to send it at all.

She climbed the stairs to her room and shut the door before opening it. The candle on her desk sputtered weakly in the draft. She didn’t sit. She stood there, coat still buttoned, snow still melting on her boots, and unfolded the page with careful fingers.

Lennie, 

I’ve started this letter three times and hated all of them, so if this one’s no good either, blame the ink.

Things are alright here. Steve’s back in school, winter break is over, still sketching all over his books. Says he’s working on something for you but won’t let me see. Probably a duck with a funny hat. You know how he gets.

I picked up another shift at the garage. It helps. Not much, but it helps. We’re still trying to get something together, Lena. Enough to bring you home. It’s just slower than we thought.

It’s strange without you, I don’t think I'll ever get used to it. Even Steve’s quiet. And I walk around thinking I’ll turn a corner and there you’ll be, arms crossed, waiting on me to catch up.

I miss hearing you laugh. Miss you humming when you’re thinking. Miss the way you used to argue with Steve about, well, really anything. 

It’s not the same here.

I keep thinking about what you said before you left, “It’s not forever.” I’m holding you to that.

Write soon. There's only so many times I can read your old letters, sweetheart. 

I love you.

Yours,

Bucky

P.S. Becca, Alice and Ruth all say hi. They miss you too.

Lena let the letter fall against her chest.

The paper was warm from her hands. She folded it carefully and set it on her desk, beside the candle stub and the last page she’d translated.

For a moment, the difference between the two felt like a chasm, one full of laughter, old jokes, and Brooklyn snow. The other is a world of missing teachers and shuttered schools.

She looked at the pencil resting beside the translations. Then back at the letter.

And for the first time in weeks, she uncapped her pen.

And began to write.

My Bucky,

Your letter found me on a day when I needed it most. Isn’t that always the way with you? Showing up just when things start to feel too heavy?

I read it twice before I even took my coat off. Then once more before I let myself cry a little. Not the sad kind. The missing kind.

Tell Steve I'm sorry for not writing more but that I save every drawing he sends me. My room is decorated with them now. I miss school sometimes, but it won’t buy me a ticket home. And I don't know if I can go back into a classroom without Steve. Tell your sisters I miss them too and that I hope they aren't bugging you too much. 

I’m working a lot. Tutoring mostly. Walking more than I’d like. Everything is cold and stiff and gray this time of year, but I bought a new coat last month and it helps. It’s a little too big and it smells like mothballs, but it’s warm and it has a pocket just deep enough for your letters. That counts for something. It looks nice with that scarf you made me. I wear it everyday. 

Things here are...quiet in ways that aren’t always good. People speak in whispers more often. Papers say strange things. I try not to dwell on it. I stay busy. I keep my head down. I remind myself this isn’t forever.

Sometimes I think about what it will feel like to see you again. To walk through Red Hook and know every step leads me home. To hear you laughing before I turn the corner. To not have to hold it all in my chest anymore.

You once said everything feels easier when we’re in the same place. I think about that a lot lately. I think about you most when it’s quiet. When I’m walking alone. When I’m falling asleep. When the city goes still and I feel like a thread stretched across the ocean, just trying to hold.

I don’t know when I’ll be able to leave, but I’m trying. Truly. Every bit of money I earn goes toward getting back to you.

So I'm sorry I'm not writing as often, I am doing everything I can to make money, to save. I'm coming home Bucky, no matter how hard it is. 

I love you.

Always,

Lennie

Chapter Text

my love, are you the devil?

RED HOOK, BROOKLYN - MARCH 1936

The sky above Red Hook was a dull wash of navy and soot. Clouds had been sitting low over the city all day, heavy with the threat of snow, but the night held off on delivering. From the rooftop, you could just make out the red blink of a distant radio tower and the faint pulse of the East River beyond the dockyards. The cold had settled in deep, the kind that found your bones and stayed there.

Bucky leaned against the brick chimney, legs stretched out, fingers raw from a double shift at the garage. His jacket smelled like oil and steel shavings, and he hadn’t bothered to scrub all the grime from under his nails. A cigarette hung loosely from the corner of his mouth, mostly for warmth more than anything else.

Steve sat beside him, hunched, sketchbook unopened in his lap. His scarf was half-undone, cheeks pink from wind. They’d been quiet for a while, listening to the creak of rooftop tarpaper and the distant clang of a garbage lid somewhere below.

“I saw him,” Steve said finally, breaking the silence.

Bucky turned his head just slightly. “Who?”

“Lena’s dad.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “You went to the boardinghouse?”

Steve nodded. “After school. Figured... maybe I could talk to him. Thought if we could help him find work again, if he had more coming in, maybe it’d help speed things up. Bring her back sooner.”

Bucky exhaled slowly, watching the steam of his breath curl upward. “Yeah? And?”

“He was drunk, Buck.” Steve didn’t say it cruelly, just quietly. “Middle of the day. He answered the door like he didn’t expect anyone, and once he realized it was me... he just looked tired. Real tired.”

Bucky flicked the ash from his cigarette, eyes narrowing.

“He asked if she's been writing us,” Steve added.

“She hasn't written him?” Bucky asked, surprised that in the near year Lena had been gone, she hadn't written to her father once.

“No,” Steve said. “He said he wrote her but hasn't gotten anything back. He's been getting updates from her aunt and uncle now and then, but that’s it.”

Bucky sat back hard against the bricks. The cold stung through his shirt but he welcomed it.

“She's been slower with writing back. For every letter I wrote her, I usually got two back,” he said, voice flat. “I send her something every damn week. Postcards, letters, even that record I found, remember? The one with that swing band she liked?”

Steve nodded.

“She hasn’t answered in three weeks,” Bucky went on, voice low now, like he didn’t trust it. “I know it’s not ‘cause she doesn’t want to. Something’s wrong. She’s not okay.”

Steve didn’t argue.

“I keep thinkin’, maybe if I work another shift, if I skip lunch a couple more times, we’ll finally have enough to send her a ticket. But it’s never enough. And meanwhile, he’s sittin’ there drunk in the middle of the damn afternoon.”

“Buck—”

“No.” Bucky stood up and paced a few steps, voice rising. “He sent her back. He said it was gonna be better, safer. But she’s working herself raw, Steve. I can feel it in her letters, when she was writing. She’s exhausted. And he’s not even looking for work?”

He dragged a hand down his face. “She’s over there freezing her ass off, teaching some rich kid how to conjugate verbs just to save for a boat ticket. And he’s here letting the paint peel off the walls.”

Steve rubbed his hands together, trying to keep the circulation moving. “I think he feels guilty, Buck. I think that’s what’s eating him. But that doesn’t make it better.”

Bucky didn’t reply.

“She’s still with family,” Steve offered gently. “Still got a roof. She’s not alone.”

“She feels alone,” Bucky said, almost a whisper.

The wind cut between them again. Steve shifted, then said quietly, “Do you think she’s mad at us? For not getting the money together fast enough?”

“I don’t think she’s mad,” Bucky murmured. “I think she’s scared. And trying not to worry us.”

They were both quiet for a while.

Then Steve leaned his arms on his knees. “You know... she used to hum when she was worried. Twist her fingers around each other. Remember that?”

Bucky cracked a small, tired smile. “Yeah. Used to drive Miss Weisman crazy at the library. Said Lena sounded like a beehive.”

“I miss it.”

“I know.”

The rooftop felt smaller suddenly, like the walls of the world had pressed in.

Steve glanced sideways. “You gonna write her again?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “Tonight.”

“What are you gonna say?”

“I don’t know.” Bucky rubbed his thumb over his palm. “That I’m still here. That we’re still tryin’. That I love her.”

“You think she still believes you’ll bring her home?”

“I think she has to believe it,” Bucky said. “Same as I do.”

Steve didn’t press further. He just nodded, pulled his scarf up higher over his nose, and said, “We’ll find a way, Buck.”

The two of them sat in silence again. The city below them breathed and shifted. Somewhere down the street, a radio buzzed with half-static jazz.

And overhead, the stars stayed hidden.

WARSAW, POLAND – MARCH 1936

The snow had started melting at the corners of the yard, enough to leave streaks of wet along the hallway tiles and the faint scent of damp wool wherever coats were hung. It was too early to call it spring, but something had softened in the air, just enough that Ruta convinced everyone to open the parlor windows for a while.

“Only for a little!” she’d pleaded, already dragging a chair closer to the light. “I want to feel the sun.”

The sun was a pale, uncertain thing behind thin clouds, but it spilled across the floor in a narrow beam, warming the rug and catching the dust motes as they danced lazily through the air.

Lena was stretched out on the floor, her stockinged feet half under the settee, her back braced against a pile of cushions that smelled faintly of cabbage and soap. Chaim sat on one side of her, carefully folding a paper into what he insisted would become a frog. Ruta was perched near the window like a cat, bare feet tucked under her skirt, while Josek knelt at the low table with a pencil in one hand and a wicked glint in his eye.

“No, no, if you move your knight there, I’ll take your bishop and check you next round,” Josek said, tapping the makeshift chessboard they’d drawn on a sheet of scrap paper.

Lena raised a brow. “You’re bluffing.”

“I never bluff.”

“You only bluff.”

“I only bluff when I know I’m right,” he retorted, grinning.

From the corner, Ruta added, “Mama says you’re not allowed to gamble anymore.”

Josek groaned. “It was one game of dreidel.”

“You cheated,” Ruta said sweetly.

“I won,” he corrected.

Lena laughed, more freely than she had in days, and pushed herself upright. Her back cracked as she leaned forward, studying the board. “Alright, wise guy. If I move my rook here, and you really do take the bishop, I still have two turns to block you.”

Josek narrowed his eyes. “Only if you’re thinking that far ahead.”

“I’m always thinking that far ahead.”

“You’re not thinking about anything,” he said, lightly, “except those letters on your desk.”

She stiffened just slightly, and the mood around her dipped a degree. Ruta noticed it too and piped up before Lena had to answer.

“Let’s play again after this one!” she chirped. “Only with buttons instead of coins, and Chaim gets to make the rules.”

Chaim, who had just finished folding his third attempt at a paper frog, looked up proudly. “This one jumps!”

It flopped sideways on the floor.

“It tries to jump,” he amended.

Josek snorted, and Lena reached for one of the mismatched pieces, running her thumb over the rounded edge. They weren’t real chess pieces—just scraps: a button, a spool, a shaving of wood from Abraham’s workshop. They’d been playing this game for weeks, each time with a new variation. The rules changed every night. The teasing stayed the same.

And for once, she didn’t mind it.

The room was warm from too many bodies and the stove clanking in the kitchen. Someone had left a half-eaten plum on the windowsill. The wallpaper was yellowing and peeling at the edges, and the air still smelled faintly of boiled turnips, but it was peaceful. Comforting. Familiar in a way that made her chest ache.

She leaned back again and let the warmth soak into her spine.

They weren’t her siblings. They never would be. Josek was too stubborn, too judgmental. Ruta was sweet but sometimes exhausting, all questions and curiosity. Chaim was barely more than a toddler, still inclined to bite when he didn’t like the rules.

But here, in this small window of quiet, Lena felt something like closeness. She caught herself smiling when Chaim offered her his broken frog. She let Josek win the next round of chess, and pretended not to notice when he cheated his way through the last.

Later, after the game had ended in a flurry of arguments and Ruta accusing everyone of cheating, Lena made her way back upstairs. The attic was cool again, the window rattling with the shifting wind. She wrapped herself in the shawl from her aunt, soft, well-mended, and sat at her desk with her hands still warm from playing.

Two letters sat open beside the ink pot. One addressed to Steve. One to Bucky.

Neither was finished.

They were already several pages each. Rambling. Messy in places. Full of crossed-out sentences and ink blots and little pauses where she'd just stopped mid-thought. She’d tried to write about the children. About her coat. About her work. But it all came out disjointed, like trying to thread a needle in the dark.

Steve would understand, she thought. He always did. She wanted to tell him how much she missed their walks home. How she thought of him every time she passed someone sketching near the park. She wanted to ask if he’d finished the silly drawing he was working on. She wanted to say she was proud of him. But none of it sat right on paper.

Bucky was worse. Not in feeling, but in words. She could say she missed him, yes. That she loved him, yes. But how did you explain the guilt? The feeling of wasting time every time you laughed? The way money in her pocket never felt like enough?

She had spent the better part of three weeks telling herself she needed to keep writing. That it was just a matter of time. That she had to finish the letters soon.

But time kept slipping. And the days kept folding in on each other. And every moment she spent writing, she wasn't working. Wasn't earning. Wasn't moving closer to the ship that would bring her home.

She pressed her forehead to her hands and exhaled slowly.

There was something wrong in all of it. Something that lived in the gap between her life now and the one she was trying to claw her way back to. She didn’t know how to close that space. Didn’t know if it could be closed.

But tonight had been good. For a few hours, she’d felt like part of something again. Laughter. Heat. Family, even if it was frayed and complicated.

She pulled Bucky’s letter closer and dipped her pen in the ink.

You’d laugh if you saw us tonight. Even Josek was tolerable, which is saying something. We played chess and used a thimble for a bishop and Chaim made a frog that he tried to make jump and failed. You would’ve made fun of him and then helped him fix it.

She smiled faintly.

I’ve missed writing to you. I just don't know how. But I’m here. I’m okay. And I’m trying, Buck. I’m really trying.

She kept writing, the scratching of her pen a steady rhythm in the stillness.

Outside, the wind kicked up again, rattling the attic window. But inside, there was warmth.

The letters were thick in her coat pocket. One for Bucky. One for Steve. She’d written them both by candlelight over the course of three nights, her fingers cramping, heart stinging with every crossed-out line. She wasn’t sure what she’d said in the end. Only that it had taken pages.

She had no ribbon to tie them, so she used string from an old parcel, knotted carefully, like the act alone could hold the contents together.

The afternoon was gray and cold, the kind of cold that bit under your fingernails and whispered under your collar. Lena moved quickly, boots skimming over patches of old snow, her scarf pulled high. She knew most of the shortcuts now, how to weave between stalls near the market square, which alley stayed clear of muck even in thaw, which streets emptied early on Fridays.

She didn't know the streets as well as she knew Brooklyn, but she was getting better.

The red postbox was only a few blocks from home. She thought of the letters resting close to her chest. Thought of Bucky’s voice when he laughed, how Steve held a pencil like it was part of him. She would write more, she promised herself. Every week, if she could. She was tired of silence pretending to be strength.

The postbox came into view, just past a tobacco stand. But something else caught her attention.

Raised voices.

Sharp. Mocking.

She slowed.

Across the street, near a lamppost caked in old advertisements, three boys were circling an older man. He was dressed plainly, a dark overcoat buttoned up tight, a felt hat, a yarmulke clutched in his hand. His beard was dusted with frost. His hands trembled as he tried to sidestep them.

One of the boys knocked the hat from his grip.

“Careful,” one said. “Wouldn’t want to dirty the sidewalk.”

Another snickered. “Look at his nose.”

Lena stopped walking.

The man tried to move past them, but they crowded him. He murmured something, apologetic, pleading maybe, but it only made them bolder.

“Don’t like the market, old man? Maybe you should shop somewhere else.”

Her stomach twisted. Something low and dark unspooled in her ribs. She looked around. No police. No shopkeepers. Just a few passersby hurrying along, heads down, pretending they didn’t see.

The air felt thinner somehow. Like it was waiting.

She thought of Steve. 

Not the Steve who drew ducks in his schoolbooks. The Steve who got knocked down five times a week and still spat his blood on the boots of bullies. The Steve who stood up even when no one else did.

She thought of how often Bucky had to drag him away from fights he couldn’t win. How often she’d been right behind them, breath ragged in her throat, quick to defend her brother. 

But there was no one here to drag anyone away.

So she stepped off the curb. Steve would have been across the street already. Bucky half way behind him.

“Hey!” She crossed the street without thinking, boots splashing through slush. One of the boys noticed her, elbowing the other. They turned as she approached.

“Knock it off,” Lena said. Her voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

All three boys paused.

There was something in her tone, not volume, not threat. Just something solid. A force behind the words. It rang out through the cold like a bell. Clean and clear and full. It made her think of Steve.

The man looked up at her, confused.

The tallest boy blinked. “What’s it to you?”

Lena held his gaze. “He’s just trying to get home, leave him alone.”

The wind rustled her coat. Her cheeks burned. Her heart was pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears. But her voice had come out level, firm. Calmer than she expected.

The smallest boy muttered something, not quite a slur, not quite brave.

But none of them moved forward.

In fact, one stepped back.

They looked at her again. Not as a girl. Not as a stranger. But as something else. Something that made them uncertain.

The moment hung there.

Then the tallest one spat near her feet. “Come on,” he muttered.

They turned, muttering, bumping shoulders, already pretending they hadn’t been scared.

Lena didn’t move until they were gone.

Only then did she let out the breath she’d been holding. Her hands were shaking in her gloves. She crouched to pick up the man’s hat, brushing off the slush before offering it back to him.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, first in Polish, then again in Yiddish. “They— They’ve been worse lately.”

“I know,” Lena replied. “Are you alright?”

He nodded. “I’ll be fine. But it’s good to know… someone helps.”

She watched him walk off slowly, disappearing into the market crowd.

Only after he was gone did she turn back to the postbox. Her letters were still in her pocket. She slid them in one at a time.

As the lid clanged shut, she glanced at her reflection in the metal.

She looked the same.

But something had shifted.

There was a tightness in her throat that hadn’t been there before. Not pain. Not fear. Just weight. As if something inside her had stretched, reached out, just briefly.

She touched her chest, then dropped her hand.

The street was quiet again. The city moved on.

And deep down, where her mother’s voice still lived, where old songs curled like roots, something stirred. Not ready. Not yet. But awake.

The Zieliński parlor smelled faintly of beeswax and paper. A fire burned low in the grate, casting lazy amber light across the carpet. She had finished with Ania and Stefan nearly twenty minutes ago, but Zofia asked her to stay, wanted to introduce her to someone. 

“He’s just arrived,” she said, with a small, unreadable smile. “Come.”

Lena followed her through the back hallway to the study.

Inside, the fire was stronger, and so was the smell of tobacco. A man stood by the window, half-turned toward the street, pipe in hand. He wore a wool overcoat with the collar turned up and thin leather gloves he hadn’t yet removed. He looked younger than Lena expected, mid-thirties, maybe, with a narrow face, quick eyes, and the kind of posture that belonged to someone used to slipping in and out of rooms without being noticed.

“Marek,” Zofia said simply. “This is Lena Rabinovich.”

He turned, smiled faintly, and gave a short bow. “Miss Rabinovich. I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”

“I hope some of it was good,” she replied before she could help herself.

He chuckled, stepping forward. “All of it, I assure you. Your translations have been precise. Intentional. You read for context, not just words. That’s rare.”

Lena wasn’t used to compliments that weren’t wrapped in correction or caution. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

Zofia moved to the sideboard to pour tea. Marek gestured for Lena to sit near the fire.

“I wanted to meet you,” he said, lowering himself into the armchair across from her. “Not just because of the work, though that’s part of it. I wanted to get a sense of the person behind the pencil.”

Lena nodded slowly. “I wasn’t sure what the work was, at first. Some of the pieces still feel like fragments.”

“They are,” he said, accepting the tea from his sister. “There’s no complete picture. Not yet. But the fragments speak. If you know how to listen.”

Zofia returned to the armchair by the window. She didn’t speak, but she watched carefully.

Marek took a slow sip before continuing. “I’ve been spending time in the west. Near Poznań. Sometimes Berlin. Sometimes farther.”

Lena tried to keep her face neutral, but she blinked.

“It’s harder now,” he added, as if in answer. “Travel restrictions tighten each season. This winter, they announced the new Reichstag Fire Day holiday. Hitler used the anniversary to consolidate even more power. Civil liberties in Germany have vanished almost entirely. Press freedoms are gone. The only voices left are the ones that praise him.”

Lena’s fingers curled around her cup. “And the people believe it?”

“Some,” Marek said. “Enough.”

He set his tea aside and pulled a thin envelope from his coat. “These are the next materials. Most are from Silesia, some from Upper Austria. Reports about Jewish school closures. Book burnings. Lists of dismissed professors. But it’s the language that interests me most.”

He handed the envelope to Lena.

“The propaganda?”

“Partly. But also the way things are justified. How normal it’s all starting to sound. There’s always an explanation. Public safety. Cultural integrity. National pride. You’d be surprised how many people find that comforting.”

Lena stared at the envelope in her lap. “Do you think it will reach here?”

Marek didn’t answer right away. “In Germany, they passed the Nuremberg Laws last fall. Jews stripped of citizenship. No marriages between Jews and ‘Aryans.’ Even children born in mixed families are being expelled from school.”

Lena looked up sharply. “I read that. A small column in the back of Gazeta Polska. No one seemed to care.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I do.”

He leaned forward slightly, his tone quiet but charged. “I collect these reports because someone must. Not for revenge. Not for glory. Just to remember. And one day, to show others that it wasn’t sudden. It never is.”

Lena swallowed. “Why me?”

“You’re fluent. Careful. Discreet. Smart.” He smiled, not unkindly. “And you’re already halfway in.”

“I haven’t agreed to anything.”

“No,” Marek said. “But you haven’t stopped, either.”

The fire cracked between them. Outside, a tram rattled past on frozen rails.

Zofia stood, smoothing her skirt. “It’s getting late.”

Lena took the cue and rose too. She held the envelope carefully, like it might bruise.

Marek stepped aside as she passed, but paused at the door.

“One more thing,” he said softly. “If anyone ever asks what you’re doing, say it’s practice. Schoolwork. Language improvement. Never mention names. Not mine. Not my sister’s. Certainly not anyone in the letters.”

Lena nodded.

“And if something ever feels wrong, if someone asks questions they shouldn’t, or follows too closely, burn it. All of it.”

She nodded again.

Then, softly: “Do you really think it will come here?”

Marek’s face sobered. “It’s already here. It just hasn’t put on its uniform yet.”

Lena left the house with the envelope tucked deep inside her coat.

The street outside was slick with old snow and city soot, but the sky was pale and open, and her breath came in soft clouds. She walked faster than usual.

And though her boots were worn and her fingers cold, her mind was sharper than it had been in days.

She didn’t understand everything.

But she understood enough to know she couldn’t look away.

Not now.

Not anymore.

Chapter Text

i would worship you, instead of him

WARSAW, POLAND - APRIL 1936

Lena hadn’t planned to stop. She was on her way to catch the tram after her afternoon lesson with Ania, her coat still buttoned against the last chill of early spring. But something about the bare windows caught her eye, no sign of the usual display, no curling pages of poetry pressed against the glass. Just empty shelves and a piece of paper taped to the door, the ink already beginning to bleed:

For lease. Owner emigrated.

She lingered longer than she meant to. Her breath clouded faintly on the glass. Last winter, she had ducked inside this shop during a snowstorm and spent nearly an hour paging through used English novels, pretending she could afford any of them. The owner, a soft-spoken man with a crooked smile, had asked where she was from and said, in Yiddish, that her Polish was “too accented to have grown up there” She liked him.

She wondered where he had gone. If he had family waiting in Paris, Spain, England. Or nowhere to go but anywhere that wasn’t here.

At home, her uncle scoffed when she mentioned the sign.

“People panic too easily,” Abraham said, hunched over the kitchen table with his evening paper and a chipped teacup. “Germany won’t dare cross our borders. France and England would never allow it.”

“They let them have the Rhineland,” Lena murmured, drying her hands with a rag. “No one stopped that.”

“Rhineland is not Poland,” he replied firmly. “And Poland is not weak.”

Chana clattered dishes loudly in the sink behind them. Whether she agreed or just wanted the conversation to end, Lena couldn’t tell. Her grandmother, sitting by the window, muttered a quiet prayer beneath her breath and didn’t look up.

Later that night, as Lena helped Ruta with her homework at the table, Josek leaned against the wall pretending not to listen. He had stopped talking about school weeks ago. Too many teachers replaced without explanation. Too many glances from boys who once ignored him now twisting into something sharper.

“Will we have to leave too?” Ruta asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Lena looked at her, pencil paused mid-sentence. The irony heavy in the air. She had been saving all these months, trying to leave. But now maybe she would be forced to go.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “But not yet.”

On her way to tutoring the next morning, she passed a group of boys crowded around a newsstand. They were maybe fifteen, maybe younger. One of them pointed to a headline and said something about Hitler. Another boy laughed like it was a joke. The tallest one didn’t laugh. He muttered something under his breath that made the rest go quiet.

Lena didn’t stop walking, but her stomach tightened as she passed. That silence, that brief, broken pause, it said more than the words had.

Warsaw hadn’t changed overnight. The trams still clattered. The milkman still shouted outside the Zielińskis’ gate each morning. But the air felt thinner somehow, like the pause between breaths.

Fear didn’t come with a shout. It arrived like this, quiet and slow. In half-empty shops, in clipped headlines, in her uncle’s insistence that nothing would happen.

Lena held her coat tighter around her as the tram pulled up. She didn’t look back at the bookshop.

There were years, she thought, that passed like dust. And others that waited like dry kindling, silent, still, until someone struck a match.

Lennie,

It’s been hotter than hell this week. The kind of heat where your shirt sticks to your back before you even finish breakfast. Mrs. Donnelly nearly fainted coming back from church, and Steve’s been rationing the lemonade like it’s medicine. I caught him adding more water to it yesterday when he thought no one was looking.

Work’s been fine. Long days. I smell like oil all the time. You’d hate it. My boss told me I’m lucky to have steady hands, but it just means I get stuck with the smallest, most miserable pieces to fix. I keep thinking how you’d be better at it. All that patience and squinting at details. You always saw what the rest of us missed.

I have about 25 dollars saved. Had more but you know, dad lost another job at the factory. It's getting harder for him to find something steady. But ma is working a lot though so it's helping me save a little more. 

I even went down to the consulate again. The guy barely looked at my papers before saying I don’t earn enough. Said I’d need a lawyer, or a sponsor with ten times what I’ve got. I almost asked if they’d take the shirt off my back. I'm determined to get you home before next year. 

Becca’s starting to get taller than Steve. He’s pretending not to notice. Ruth’s still bossing everyone around, and Alice has decided she’s a pianist now, which is great except we don’t have a piano. She’s just moving her fingers around in the air and acting like she's playing. It's driving everyone crazy.

Steve got a letter from Henny. She’s working at the hospital now, said something about delivering babies and then changed the subject fast. He turned red for a solid ten minutes.

I know you’re busy, but write back if you can. Or don’t, if you can’t. Just keep being okay. That’s all I want.

I miss you like crazy, sweetheart. I love you even more.

Yours,

Buck

Papa,

I wasn’t going to write. Not because I don’t think of you, I do. Every day. But because I still don’t know how to say things that aren’t angry.

You sent me here because you thought it would be better. Maybe it is. The streets are clean. There’s bread on the table. But I feel like I left something real behind, and I haven’t figured out what to build in its place.

I know you’ve written to Uncle Abraham. I can’t imagine what he's saying about me. He doesn't seem to like me very much, I think they all expected me to be more like mama and less like me. I wish you had thought about that before sending me here with no way back home.

But I still miss your voice in the morning. I miss making us breakfast and fixing your lunches. I miss your terrible whistling.

I hope you’re eating. I hope you’re sleeping more. I hope you're not alone.

—Lena

WARSAW, POLAND - FALL 1936

The Zieliński parlor was quieter than usual. The curtains were drawn tight against the bitter chill outside, and the lamps cast a pool of amber-colored light over Marek’s scattered notes on the table. Lena sat across from him, her eyes tired from squinting at pages smudged with ink and pencil marks. It was rare Zofia asked her to stay but for the last hour she had been working on various translations.

"How would you translate this?" Marek asked, sliding another paper toward her. "It’s about the Spanish fighters defending Madrid. ‘Their courage is stubborn,’" he read aloud. "No, more like, ‘Their courage is relentless.’ Which feels right to you?"

Lena considered for a moment, tapping her pencil softly against her chin. "Relentless," she said quietly. "Stubbornness is when you won’t move. Relentless is when you keep moving forward, no matter what."

Marek nodded thoughtfully, scribbling her words onto the page. "You have an ear for this," he said. "You should write your own speeches someday."

She almost smiled, thinking of Steve. "I think translating is dangerous enough."

Across the room, Zofia sat in her usual armchair, reading aloud softly from a newspaper that had arrived folded tightly in the mail earlier that day. Her voice was low, yet Lena could hear the tension beneath her carefully measured tone.

"'The Nuremberg Laws have been expanded,'" Zofia read slowly. "'Jewish-owned businesses are to be clearly identified and restricted. Further limits placed upon travel and residence.'"

The silence afterward was heavy. Lena felt Marek’s eyes flicker toward her, but she didn’t look up. She kept her gaze carefully fixed on the paper beneath her hands, tracing the edge of a sentence over and over.

Zofia folded the paper carefully, smoothing the creases with fingertips that trembled ever so slightly. "Lena," she began softly, almost cautiously. "Has your family considered leaving Poland?"

Lena finally lifted her eyes, startled by the suddenness of the question. It was the first time Zofia had asked anything so personal, so direct. The older woman's face was kind, but her eyes were grave, full of genuine concern.

"I’ve been trying to go back to America," she said finally. Her voice was steady, but low. "My uncle won’t allow it. He thinks it's foolish. Says Poland is still our home.”

Marek exhaled quietly, leaning back in his chair. "They always say it won’t happen here," he murmured, looking toward the window as though he could see something beyond the heavy curtains. "Until it does."

His words lingered in the silence, settling into the room like smoke, impossible to ignore. Lena shifted uncomfortably, fingers tightening around her pencil.

Zofia rose from her chair and moved toward Lena, gently resting a hand on her shoulder. It was the first time Lena could remember her touch feeling maternal, warm, protective. "If your uncle ever changes his mind," Zofia said softly, "Marek and I will help however we can."

Lena nodded, throat tight. She wanted to say thank you, but the words felt small compared to the weight of the offer. Instead, she just looked up, meeting Zofia’s eyes in silent gratitude.

When Lena finally left that night, stepping out into the icy darkness, she pulled her coat tight around her shoulders. Her uncle would dismiss it, she knew. He would call it worry, overreaction.

But Marek’s words wouldn’t leave her thoughts, drifting through her mind again and again:

They always say it won’t happen here. Until it does.

WINTER 1936

Len,

Sorry I haven't been writing. It's been tough since ma died. I never thanked you for the letter, for me and the one for mom. Bucky read it at her service, it was really beautiful. I wish you had been there to sing, I know she would have loved that. 

I'm doing some illustration work which has helped keep me busy. Since it's just me, I'm not able to help save as much but I know you understand. Doesn't make me feel any less bad about it. 

Bucky is doing his Bucky thing. Trying to move in, take care of me. You were always better at the mother hen thing. More subtle at least. 

I miss you Lena. I know I say it in every letter but I'm really feeling the weight of it now. 

But we'll see each other soon. I know it. 

Love,

Steve 

Warsaw, Poland — September 1937

Buck,

I found something today that made me think of you. There’s a little shop near the university, secondhand books stacked up high enough that I’m certain they'll topple if you look at them wrong. This one caught my eye, and I thought about you. About dragons, adventures, and all the things that feel far away right now. The shopkeeper told me it just came out earlier this month, some English professor wrote it. I skimmed a few pages in the shop and knew it had to be yours.

I spent way too much money on it, and even more mailing it but don't be mad at me for it. I know how hard you're working, you deserve something fun.

Read it out loud to Steve, will you? Tell him Bilbo reminds me of him, or at least the little bits I read. Always braver than people think. 

I wanted to let you know I’ve saved almost forty dollars (thirty-five now that I've sent you this). I counted it yesterday. I imagine between the two of us, we probably have just enough to cover my ticket, right? Now all I have to do is save a little extra, just in case. Then all I need is a sponsor right?? Have you had any luck finding one?

I hope so, it's been two years since I've heard your voice or gotten to kiss you and it's killing me. I want to be back home so badly. I know I don't talk about it a lot because I don't want you to worry but I'm scared, Bucky. The news is getting worse and I'm afraid of being trapped here. I'm okay, I promise. I just want to be home. 

We lost my grandfather Leonard last week. He was very quiet at the end, gentle in a way he wasn’t often in life. I held his hand, and it felt like paper. It feels strange, losing him. I didn’t know him very well, even living in the same house. But his absence is heavy now, in a way I didn't expect.

It made me think about what we choose to remember, and what chooses to hold onto us. You and Steve are in everything I do, even when I’m trying not to think about you. Especially then.

Write soon. Tell me if you like the book.

I miss you. And I love you more than ever.

Yours Always,

Lennie

WARSAW, POLAND - NOVEMBER 1938

The newspaper ink came off on Lena’s fingers.

She had read the article three times now, and still, the words didn’t feel real. She kept running her thumb over the grainy photograph—jagged glass strewn across a cobbled street, shop signs shattered, Torah scrolls burnt. A caption beneath it read simply: “Synagogue fires across Berlin.”

She set the paper down. Folded it. Unfolded it again.

Across the kitchen, Chana poured hot water into cups like it was any other morning. Josek sat at the table, silent, tracing the rim of his teacup. Even Ruta was quiet, her braids still half-undone. Leonard’s chair was empty.

“They won’t try that here,” Abraham said flatly, not looking up from his seat by the window. “Poland is stronger than Germany.”

“They already are trying,” Lena said, voice low. “We just pretend not to see it.”

Abraham exhaled through his nose, a sharp sound. “Fear makes people imagine things.”

“It wasn’t imagination that smashed those windows,” she snapped.

The silence that followed felt colder than the wind outside. Roza, sitting beside the stove, finally spoke.

“We’ve lived through worse.”

Lena didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure if that was comfort or condemnation.

Later, on her way to the Zielińskis’, she passed by the small synagogue near Nowolipki Street. Someone had drawn a swastika in chalk on the stone wall, crooked, but unmistakable. It hadn’t been there yesterday.

She didn’t stop. She didn’t look around. She just kept walking.

That afternoon, after tutoring Ania, who was unusually quiet and didn’t fight her brother once, Lena lingered in the parlor, fingers ghosting the keys of the untouched piano. Zofia came in without a word, handed her a cup of tea.

“They’re saying it was coordinated,” Zofia said softly. “Every city. Every town. Synagogues. Homes. Shops. Gone in one night.”

Lena didn’t answer at first. She watched the steam rise from the cup.

“How do you live in a place that’s already telling you you don’t belong?”

Zofia sat down beside her. “You live. And then, when you can, you leave.”

Lena turned her head just slightly. “Would you?”

“If I had to,” Zofia said. “If I thought it might protect my children, I wouldn’t wait for proof.”

The piano keys were cool beneath Lena’s fingertips. She didn’t press them.

That night, back at home, she took the newspaper from her coat pocket, smoothed its creases on the edge of her attic bed, and tucked it beneath her mattress. Not to save it.

Just to remember what everyone else wanted to forget.

DECEMBER 1938

Hey Len,

I’ve rewritten this letter three times now. Each one started off with something clever, or something I thought was clever, before it ended up sounding stupid. Now you’re just getting this instead. I figure you won’t mind. You've always been pretty forgiving when it comes to me and paper.

I got accepted into a WPA mural project. Don't laugh, but they want me to paint something at the library, like an actual artist. I can already hear you and Buck snickering, but joke's on you because they're even paying me. Not much, but it's something. They said it should be about "the American spirit," whatever that means. All I know is that it beats painting signs at the grocery.

Speaking of work, Bucky looks exhausted. He says he’s fine, of course, always says he’s fine, but he's been picking up extra shifts like they're giving them away. I caught him dozing off on the stoop yesterday with grease all over his hands. He misses you bad. We both do.

The papers here talk more and more about Germany. I read about Czechoslovakia. It feels far away, but then I remember you’re there. I try not to worry too much, because you’d probably smack me for thinking you can’t handle yourself, but you know me. Bucky calls it my chronic condition.

Speaking of which, Bucky has read that Hobbit book like five times now. He actually just read it, cover to cover. Out loud, to all of us. Becca made him do voices. Ruth critiqued his accents. It felt like you were here too. The story got under my skin more than I thought it would. Guess you’re right, I’m probably a little like that hobbit after all. Just don't let Buck call me Bilbo. I’ll never hear the end of it.

We’ll get you home soon. I know Buck’s already written to you about sponsors and visas and money. I wish I could do more. Feels wrong, us being here while you're there. But hang tight, alright?

Keep writing when you can. And don’t pretend you’re fine if you’re not. I know that trick too well. Learned it from the best.

We miss you, Lennie. I miss you.

Your brother always,

Steve

WARSAW, POLAND - SPRING 1939

Marek didn’t look up when Lena stepped into the parlor. He was already seated at the desk, sleeves rolled up, cigarette burning low in the ashtray beside a stack of half-sorted pages.

“Sit,” he said simply, sliding a folder across to her.

Lena took her usual place, flipping it open to scan the first few sheets. It was standard at first glance, Polish reports sourced from German documents, hastily translated, some barely legible.

But the content wasn’t routine.

She frowned. “Troop placements?”

“Movement reports from Reich border officers,” Marek said. “Filtered through Czechoslovakia before things locked down. If this is real, it confirms they’re preparing for Poland.”

Lena didn’t ask how he got them. That wasn’t her role.

She nodded once. “I’ll need a few days.”

“You’ll have one,” he said, glancing toward the window. “Maybe two if the rain keeps people indoors.”

She looked up sharply, and that’s when she noticed: he hadn’t poured tea. There were no extra notes waiting. Just the folder, and the cigarette, and a tension in his jaw he wasn’t trying to hide.

“You’re not taking this one back?” she asked.

Marek shook his head. “I’ve been seen too many times in that district lately. Especially near Nalewki. You're less suspicious.”

“Because I’m a girl?”

“Because you’re a Jew.”

It was raining lightly when Lena stepped off the tram in the Jewish quarter. The cobblestones were slick, and people moved quickly beneath umbrellas and shawls, heads down. She kept one hand tucked tightly over the folder in her coat, the other in her pocket, brushing the metal clasp of her coin purse like it might anchor her.

She followed Marek’s directions exactly: two blocks past the bakery with the blue awning, left at the corner where the butcher’s window was always fogged, then a small alley where laundry hung damp between shuttered apartments.

A woman stood beneath the archway, mid-forties, broad-shouldered, dark coat, no umbrella. She smoked like someone who’d been waiting, but not impatiently.

“Zieliński’s girl?” the woman asked.

“Rabinovich,” Lena answered, without flinching.

The woman held out her hand, palm up. Lena passed the folder to her wordlessly.

They stood in silence for a beat, the rain tapping soft rhythm onto the awning overhead.

Then: “You’ve been doing this awhile?”

Lena nodded.

The woman gave a half-tilt of her head, just enough to count as acknowledgment. “How much are you willing to do?”

Lena met her eyes. “Whatever it takes.”

No bravado. No hesitation. Just the truth.

That earned her the smallest flicker of something, approval, maybe, or interest, but the woman only nodded and tucked the folder under her coat.

“You can call me Basia,” she said. “For now.”

Lena didn’t offer her name again. She just turned and stepped back into the rain.

She didn’t walk fast, not because she wasn’t afraid, but because there was no point in running anymore. Not from this. The tram would be crowded, the coins in her pocket already damp, the air heavy with soot and cold. Life would go on, but not for long. Not in the way it had before.

She had spent the last two years saving for a way out. For ships and sponsors and stamped papers. For a future that was shrinking like the space between headlines. But she could see it now, clearly for the first time: she wasn’t getting out. Not in time. Maybe not ever. Not when the borders were closing, not when whispers turned into uniforms, not when the men on the corners watched her walk like they already knew who she was.

She didn’t want to die. God, she didn’t want to die.

But the mourning had already begun. Quiet, private, and slow. Not for her death, not yet, but for her life. For the Brooklyn stoop she used to sit on, for the sound of Steve sketching in half-finished sentences, for Bucky’s laughter when he thought no one was listening. For the pier. For the idea that someone might still be waiting for her on the other side of an ocean.

She missed them like breath. Like something she'd once had without thinking, and now noticed every aching second it was gone.

But she understood now that survival might not be hers to choose. What was hers, what still belonged to her, was the voice in her chest and the weight in her spine. If she couldn’t run, she would stand. If she couldn’t hide, she would make herself seen. If her life was to be spent, then it would be spent like a match, struck hard, lit bright, and burned down fighting.

Behind her, the alley had already emptied. The folder was gone. But something else had been handed off too, whether Basia knew it or not.

Lena wasn’t trying to leave anymore.

She was trying to matter.

Chapter Text

i have no time for confession

WARSAW, POLAND - AUGUST 1939

My Buck,

I don’t know when, or if, you’ll get this. I don’t even know where it will end up. But I needed to write it, just once more. To feel like I was speaking to you. To pretend there’s still a thread between us that the world hasn’t managed to snap.

Things are changing too fast here. Each morning feels like a held breath, and each night I wonder what we’ll wake up to. The rumors are no longer just whispers. People are vanishing. Stores boarded. It's only a matter of time before Germany crosses the borders. It's not an if but when.

I don’t think you’ll be able to write back. But I’m writing because I can't leave things unsaid between us. I still believe in the distance being temporary. In you, waiting for me on the other side of the ocean, even if the ocean feels impossibly wide now.

I miss you so much it makes me dizzy. Not just the way you looked at me, or how you held my hand. I miss the sound of your boots on the steps. The way you knocked on the door twice, then once again like a secret code. I miss the way we used to speak without saying a word.

I miss walking between you and Steve, my arms in yours. I never felt cold then, being between you two. I miss sitting on your rooftop, huddled together, laughing at something stupid Steve said. I miss swiping food from the carts and having picnics together. 

Do you remember that story I used to tell you and Steve? The one about Licho?

You teased me about it for weeks, said it gave you nightmares, and then begged me to tell it again the next night. The way I told it, Licho wasn’t just a demon that haunted unlucky homes. She came when people named her. When they said her name out loud, or whispered it in fear. That’s how she found her way in.

I used to swear I didn’t believe in any of it. That it was just an old tale from my grandmother, a trick to keep children obedient and quiet after dark.

But sometimes now, when I walk through the streets and feel that coldness crawl up my spine… I wonder if we called it in. Not with one word, but with thousands of little ones. With silence. With pretending we didn’t see it. Maybe Licho doesn’t wear horns or claws, maybe she wears boots and brass and a red armband.

Maybe she’s already here.

I keep trying to remember what I said at the end of that story.

Sometimes I think I told it wrong. Or maybe there was no ending. Just the fight.

I think that's what I’m doing now, Buck. Fighting. Not because I’m brave, but because the only other choice is to stop, and I can’t do that yet. I won’t.

You once told me you’d get me home. I believed you. I still do, even if I know now that home might be something I’ll have to carry inside me, wherever I go. 

I don't know what's going to happen here, Bucky. I'm scared. But I'm not going to lay down and give up. I’m still fighting. Still clawing my way toward the smallest chance that I can come back to you and Steve. But it’s going to be harder now. Maybe impossible.

Some nights, I pretend none of this ever happened. That I’m sitting with you on your stoop, the sun going down slow, drinking tea that’s gotten cold. Steve’s sitting beside us, sketching the street. I tell him he’s captured your nose wrong, just to see him pout. And when it gets too dark, you reach for my hand. We stay there until we can’t see anything but each other. It’s simple, but it’s perfect. Maybe in another life, we’ll get that.

I have so many things I want to say. Will you read this to Steve, too? I don’t trust sending more than one. If anything gets through, I want this to be it.

Let me start with the hard part.

I've been doing translation work for some time now. I haven’t told you because I didn’t want to put anything dangerous in writing. But it doesn’t matter anymore. The things happening here, what we’ve been hearing about Germany, about the Jews being targeted, it’s worse than anything the papers are saying. People are being tracked. Watched. Prepared.

But no matter what you hear, no matter what the news says, if America gets involved, don't you dare enlist with some stupid idea of coming over here to save me. Promise me that, Buck. You stay in Brooklyn. You take care of Steve. Of Becca and Ruth and Alice. Of yourself. I mean it.

I know you've been saving every cent, working yourself ragged trying to bring me home. But that money isn’t going to help anymore. There’s no amount that could break through what’s coming. So please, use it. Buy new boots. Buy Steve a warm coat. Alice a real piano lesson. Let Becca have a proper pair of shoes without holes in them. Ruth could use a book of her own that she doesn’t have to share.

And you, give yourself a day off. Go to the movies. Eat something you didn’t cook. Let someone take care of you for once.

I know you don’t want to hear it. And I don’t want to say it. But I need you to stop waiting.

Promise me you won’t keep waiting on me, Buck. I’m not saying I’ve given up. I haven’t. I swear to you I haven’t. I am still trying to come back. I will always be trying to come back.

But if I don’t, if it gets bad, if I disappear, I don’t want to go not knowing if you kept your life waiting for me. You deserve to live. You deserve joy. Even if it’s not with me.

I don’t want you to forget me. I hope you don’t. But please don’t wait. Love someone. Be loved. Let yourself be held. Let yourself go on.

Promise me you’ll dance with someone else. Not just once, but enough times that you learn their steps. I know it hurts to read that. It hurts me to write it. But you have music in you, Buck, don’t stop dancing because I’m not there. Keep going. Promise me that.

Promise me Bucky. Swear it to me. Even if you can't tell me yourself, I'll know, somehow. Like I always have. Just promise me. 

And if I come back, if by some miracle, I make it, I’ll find you. I’ll knock twice, and then once again, like a code. I’ll wait by the pier. I’ll find my way home.

But if I don’t, I want you to be somewhere warm. With laughter in your throat. With someone who knows how to hold your heart and not be afraid of it.

Now for Steve.

Tell him I still carry his drawings. The ones he made on that torn notebook paper, where my nose looked too long and my hair was wrong and it still felt like love.

Tell him I remember him fighting that boy twice his size for calling me a nasty name, even though it meant getting socked after. Tell him I think about that day in the alley and how scared I was, and how brave he made me feel just by standing next to me.

Tell him I am so proud of the man he’s becoming. And that no matter how small he’s ever felt, he’s the biggest soul I’ve ever known. He’s the compass. He’s the heartbeat. You’re the flame, Buck, but Steve is the match that lights it.

And if there’s ever a moment, someday, when the world starts to fall apart around him, I hope he remembers how much good is in him. I hope you remind him.

I love him like a brother. Like a piece of my own skin.

I love you like everything I ever wanted to protect.

Sometimes I close my eyes and I see us all at Coney Island again. You trying to win me that ridiculous bear. Steve, soaked from a rogue wave, pretending he didn’t mind. My cheeks hurt from laughing. I think that might’ve been the last day I felt like a child.

Hold on to that day for me. Keep it alive.

This might be the last letter. But it’s not the end of the story.

I’m writing this for you, but maybe also for me. To promise myself, in ink, that no matter how hard it gets, I won’t lose who I am. I won’t let them take the things you loved about me, the stubbornness, the hope, the laughter. I promise I’ll keep those safe, even when nothing else feels safe anymore.

I love you, Buck. I will love you across oceans and borders and lifetimes. You are in every breath I take.

And if I don’t make it, if I vanish like so many already have, know this:

I was yours until the end.

And I died loving you.

Yours Always,

Lennie

BROOKLYN, NEW YORK - WEEKS LATER 

The envelope was thicker than usual, but her handwriting was the same, sharp, careful strokes across the front, his name etched like a secret.

Bucky turned it over in his hands, smiling a little. It had been weeks since anything came. He’d already started checking the mail without hope, but there it was, creased at the edges, smudged faintly with what looked like ash or maybe dust. He didn’t care. It was from her.

He kicked off his boots and dropped into the worn armchair by the window, sliding a thumb under the flap just as the radio crackled in the corner. The dial was still tuned to the evening news. He barely heard the announcer at first, too focused on the way she’d signed the envelope.

Then the words broke through, sharp and breathless:

"—confirmed: German forces have crossed into Poland. Fighting reported near the western border. Warsaw under threat. Repeat, Germany has invaded Poland."

The letter slipped from his hands, landing softly in his lap.

For a long time, Bucky just stared at it.

He hadn’t opened it yet.

He didn’t know this was her last one.

Chapter Text

for i'm too busy committing sins 

WARSAW, POLAND - SEPTEMBER 1939

The sky had turned the color of old paper, gray and yellowed, smudged with soot and smoke. It had been burning for days now, ash drifting down like snow through the broken rafters of the Warszawski house. Lena didn’t know where the fire ended and the city began anymore. Everything smelled like smoke. Even the children.

She crouched in the corner of the cellar, her arms around Chaim, whose small body trembled against her side. Josek sat with his knees pulled to his chest, staring at nothing. Ruta, fifteen and silent, held a cracked enamel bowl to her lips but wasn’t drinking. The water inside was brownish, gone warm. Lena watched it ripple in her hands with each new blast from above.

They were running out of time. And out of everything else.

“Just a little longer,” she murmured, her voice hoarse from dust and lack of sleep. “We’ll wait for the shelling to stop, and then we’ll go look for bread. Or something.”

“From where?” Josek asked flatly. “There’s nothing left.”

“Then we’ll find a miracle,” Lena said, managing a weary smile she didn’t feel.

Above them, the house groaned again. Not from impact this time, but from old pain. From the split bones of its foundation and the weight of fear pressing down on every timber. There was a time when the walls had been filled with cousins and quarrels, the smell of roasted potatoes, Roza’s muttering about the damp. But now the rooms upstairs were jagged and burned, the front steps buried in rubble.

Roza had died the second night of bombing. No blood, no fire, just fear, and a heart that couldn’t take it anymore. She’d slumped in her chair, mouth slack, fingers still clutched in her lap like she meant to finish a prayer but never got there.

No one had screamed. No one had had the energy. Lena had closed her grandmother’s eyes with fingers that wouldn’t stop shaking and covered her with the only intact sheet they had.

She hadn’t cried. Not yet. There hadn’t been time.

Lena shifted against the wall, curling herself tighter around Chaim as another rumble shook the ground above. It was farther away this time. East, maybe. Or west. It didn’t matter. It would come back.

Across from her, Abraham paced in slow, anxious circles near the base of the stairs, like he was trying to walk off the shape of fear in his chest. Chana sat beside Ruta, her arm looped stiffly around the girl’s shoulder, both of them too still to be called comforted. The cellar was too small for air to circulate and too dark for time to pass properly. Lena couldn’t remember how long they’d been underground.

Chaim whimpered softly, his fingers curling into the fabric of her skirt. She stroked the top of his head gently, brushing back sweat-damp curls.

“Yelena?” he whispered.

“I’m here,” she murmured.

“I want it to stop.”

“I know, sweet boy. Me too.”

His breathing hitched, just once. Then again.

Ruta’s eyes darted toward them in the dim light. Her face was pale, smeared with grime, but there was something sharp in her stare, something protective that reminded Lena achingly of her uncle. Josek finally looked up too, his eyes rimmed red. He didn’t speak, but he moved closer, settling beside them on the floor, folding himself into the same corner of shadow like he belonged there.

Lena took a breath. And then, before she could talk herself out of it, she began to sing.

Just a low note at first, half-formed, unsteady. She wasn’t even sure what song it was until the melody found her, threading its way through memory like a ribbon pulling tight. A lullaby. Yiddish, old and worn, something Mamusia used to sing when the world was softer.

Her voice cracked on the second line, but she kept going.

Chaim’s breath began to even out against her ribs. Ruta rested her head on her mother’s shoulder, lashes fluttering closed. Josek pressed his palms together like he was praying, or maybe just trying to hold something inside.

Abraham had stopped pacing. He stood very still at the edge of the stairs, watching her.

The cellar didn’t grow warmer, and the air didn’t grow sweeter. But something changed all the same.

For a few minutes, the bombings faded. The waiting softened. The silence that had filled every corner of the house cracked open, not with a scream, but with a song.

And when she finished, Lena let her voice trail off slowly, like a candle flickering out.

No one spoke.

And in the dark, she finally let herself cry.

The streets looked unfamiliar in daylight.

Or maybe it was the smoke blurring the edges of everything. The air still tasted of ash and plaster, thick enough to coat Lena’s tongue. Her scarf was damp where she’d held it over her mouth, and still the stink of ruin pressed into her lungs with every breath.

She stepped carefully over a fallen shutter, one hand trailing the cracked brick of the building as if touching it might somehow steady her. Just down the road, a baker’s sign hung by one chain, swinging aimlessly in the breeze. The window beneath it had shattered inward. Flour dusted the doorway like the ghost of a meal that would never come.

Behind her, the cellar door groaned shut. She'd told them she was only going to check for water. That she'd be back in ten minutes. Chaim had looked at her like ten minutes was a lifetime.

She didn’t know if she could promise even that.

But Lena was the only one willing to step out of the house to look. Her uncle tried first but Chana broke down in hysterical, gasping tears that made Ruta and Chaim follow suit.

On the corner, a child’s toy lay half-crushed in the gutter, a cloth rabbit, its ear torn and muddied. Lena paused. She crouched down slowly, not to touch it, just to look. Just to see something other than rubble and smoke and fear.

No bodies, yet. But their weight clung to the air all the same.

A few buildings ahead, someone was shouting. A name, maybe. A prayer. The voice was ragged with dust, and Lena didn’t move toward it. There were too many voices now that led to nowhere.

Instead, she turned the corner toward what used to be the market. The stalls were all splinters and broken crates now. A wheel of cabbage rolled into the street, absurdly whole amidst the wreckage.

She almost laughed. But it caught in her throat.

Maybe if she just kept moving, kept looking, she’d stumble across something useful. Or at least not useless. Anything to avoid returning empty-handed.

Even walking was better than sitting in the dark.

As she made her way forward, her boots crunching through glass and gravel, Lena glanced once at the sky. Smoke spiraled above the rooftops like fingers. She thought of her grandmother then, Roza, stiff and pale, her last breath shallow with fear.

The dead were already with them. The living had to keep moving.

BROOKLYN, NEW YORK — SEPTEMBER 1939

It was early but the streets were already stirring. Trolleys clanged a few blocks over, and a newsboy shouted about Yankees scores and a storm rolling in from the coast. The city carried on like it always had.

Bucky stood in the narrow kitchen of the Barnes apartment, staring down at the letter like it might vanish if he blinked too hard.

“—reports confirmed—Germany has invaded Poland. Troops have crossed the border. Bombs falling on Warsaw. Repeat: Warsaw is under siege.”

The envelope was pale brown, slightly warped at the edges. Not the usual kind. She’d written Brooklyn in larger letters than before, like she wasn’t sure the world would remember where that was.

He sat down, letter trembling in his hands as he peeled it open.

He didn’t breathe as he read it. Couldn’t.

Each line landed like a stone in his chest. Her voice was so clear in his head, trying to sound brave but underneath, he heard it. That quiet resignation she never would’ve admitted aloud.

“No matter what you hear, no matter what the news says, don’t you dare enlist with some stupid idea of coming over here to save me. Promise me, Buck. You stay in Brooklyn.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. His jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

The letter crumpled slightly in his fist.

His chair scraped hard against the floorboards as he stood, heart pounding, vision narrowing. The apartment felt too small. Too quiet. Too far from everything that mattered.

He grabbed his boots, the letter, and bolted.

Down the stairs, out the door, three blocks over. He didn’t think, just moved.

He burst into the Rogers apartment without knocking.

Steve was by the window, sketchbook in his lap, a rough outline of the Navy Yard taking shape. He looked up, startled. “Bucky?”

Bucky didn’t answer. He just held out the letter.

Steve took it slowly, frowning as he scanned the first page. By the second, his breath hitched. 

He looked up. “She knew?”

“She knew,” Bucky rasped. “She knew and she still wrote it like she was trying to make it easier for me. She asked me not to come. Not to enlist. To move on.”

Steve read on, then set the letter down with a care that felt ceremonial. Like putting flowers on a grave.

“She asked you not to go.”

Bucky nodded, voice hollow. “Said it wouldn’t help. Said I’d be throwing myself into something no one could fix. I heard on the radio, they are dropping bombs there.”

Steve sat back, quiet, in disbelief. “What are you gonna do?”

“She wanted me to promise Steve. I can't-” Bucky dragged a hand through his hair. “I have to, right? Promise.”

He paced, not looking at Steve. “But Christ, Steve, she’s over there alone. And we’re sitting here like it’s just another day in the city while her city goes to shit.”

“It won’t stay just another day,” Steve said softly. “You know that.”

Bucky stopped pacing. “You thinking about enlisting?”

Steve hesitated, then nodded once. “Yeah.”

Bucky's breath caught. He turned away. “I’m not gonna do it.”

Steve blinked. “You’re not?”

“She asked me not to. Begged me not to. Said it plain.” He held up the letter. “Told me to take care of you. My sisters. Myself.”

“You always take care of everyone else,” Steve said. “What about you?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He sat down hard on the couch, rubbing the letter between his fingers.

“If I go,” he said finally, “it’s because they make me. But it won’t be because I broke a promise to her.”

They were silent a long moment. Then Steve said, “If they draft you—”

“Then I’ll go,” Bucky said, low and even. “But until then, I wait. Like she asked. I wait and I hope. I hold the line here.”

He looked at Steve, eyes red, voice thin.

“She asked me to live.”

Steve nodded. “Then we live.”

WARSAW, POLAND - SEPTEMBER 1939

It was hard to tell how many days had passed, another round of shelling and bombs sent them back into the cellar.

The cellar smelled of earth, sweat, and the lingering sharpness of fear. The candle stub flickered on a crate in the corner, casting shadows on the stone walls. They had burned through all the good matches and were down to the damp ones wrapped in newspaper. The air was thick and stale. No one opened the hatch anymore unless they had to.

Lena sat on the packed dirt floor with Chaim curled into her side, his face buried against her coat. His small hands trembled when the ground shook, whether from distant shelling or his own exhaustion, she no longer knew. Ruta sat beside them, knees drawn up, her chin on them. She hadn't spoken much since the second night. The last time their grandmother had called out. The last time she breathed.

Josek hadn't cried.

He sat across the cellar with his back against the wall, eyes fixed on nothing. His clothes were covered in soot from the fire that had caught in the neighbor’s yard. He had pulled a child out. They never found the parents, just aunts. He hadn’t said a word about it since.

Aunt Chana was muttering to herself, prayers, maybe. Or curses. Maybe both. Her hands were red and raw from wringing water out of old linens. Her face looked ten years older in the candlelight.

Abraham paced. He'd already walked the length of the room a hundred times. Now he was standing by the door, one hand braced against the wall, listening for something none of them could hear.

“How much longer?” he snapped suddenly, voice too loud in the tight space.

“No one knows,” Lena answered quietly, not moving. “But it’s close. The radio said German forces are surrounding the city.”

There was a long silence after that.

Then, finally, Abraham exhaled, sharp and bitter, and turned away. “Fine. We go up. See what’s left.”

It took them nearly an hour to push aside the beams they had stacked against the hatch for protection. The light that poured in was dusty, gray, and far too quiet.

The house was still standing, mostly. But one wall had crumbled in the kitchen, exposing the sky. Dishes lay shattered. The floor was littered with glass and ash. A pipe had burst in the pantry, soaking the bags of flour until they rotted in place.

Lena moved carefully, checking the remaining shelves, sorting anything salvageable, candles, canned fish, two boxes of matches, a small tin of salt that made her almost cry. Ruta trailed her silently, eyes wide, while Chaim picked up a broken spoon and asked if they’d still have dinner tonight.

“No,” Lena said, kneeling to kiss his forehead. “We’ll have something better. Soup.”

Chana stared at the empty hearth as if it had betrayed her. Abraham was outside, muttering about fences. Josek stood by what was left of Roza’s sewing chair, his hands in his pockets, looking at the place she used to sit.

No one said her name.

Josek hadn’t moved from beside their grandmother’s sewing chair. He was still staring at the worn cushion, dust coating his fingertips where they rested on the polished wood. Lena hesitated, watching him from across the damaged room. She had always struggled to speak with Josek, not because she didn’t care, but because he was closed off in ways she couldn’t always navigate.

She glanced around; Abraham had gone to inspect the fences outside, and Chana was helping Ruta clean what little remained usable in the kitchen. Chaim, quiet for once, hovered near his mother, holding tightly to her sleeve. They were all busy, focused on tasks that felt practical, tangible, real.

But Josek wasn’t moving. Not forward, not backward. He was somewhere Lena couldn’t quite reach.

She took a quiet breath and crossed the room, stepping carefully around broken plates and toppled furniture.

“Josek?” she asked softly, approaching as she might a wounded animal. “Are you all right?”

He didn’t look up. For a moment, she thought he hadn’t heard her, until finally he spoke, voice thick and distant. “She always sat here. Always sewing something. Always complaining about her eyes, but never stopping.”

“I remember,” Lena murmured. She stopped beside him, her fingers tracing the splintered edge of the chair. “At least she was some place familiar. Comfortable.”

Josek nodded slowly, eyes fixed on something far beyond the room. “She never liked change. Said it was never good, no matter what anyone promised.”

Lena swallowed hard. “Maybe she was right.”

“Why didn't you leave? You could have avoided all of this.”

She shook her head, feeling exhaustion deep in her bones. “I tried. Every day, Josek. I tried. But I couldn't save enough money. And then, when I realized how bad it was,” Lena paused, sucking in a breath. “Until one day, it just didn’t feel possible anymore. Felt too guilty to leave.”

His shoulders slumped, the anger draining away into something heavier, defeat, maybe, or acceptance. “None of this was supposed to happen,” he whispered. “None of us deserved this.”

“No,” Lena said gently. “We didn’t.”

Josek rubbed at his eyes roughly, letting out a breath. “I don’t know how to keep going,” he admitted, voice barely audible. “Every time I close my eyes, I just see—”

“Me too,” Lena said, stepping closer. Her voice was gentle but firm. “But we do keep going. Because we have to. Because someone has to.”

Josek stared at her, surprised by her steadiness. He’d never looked at her like this before, like he was finally seeing past his own walls. “How?”

She reached out slowly, carefully, and touched his arm. For once, he didn’t pull away.

“One step at a time,” she said softly. “One day at a time. We take care of each other. That’s all there is now.”

He stared at her hand, then slowly, almost hesitantly, covered it with his own.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For what I said. About you leaving.”

Lena gave him a small, tired smile. “It’s all right.”

Josek squeezed her hand once, then stepped back, turning his attention toward the doorway. Outside, Abraham’s voice rose sharply, and Chana responded, tense, urgent.

The spell of quiet shattered, replaced by the reality they had to face.

Josek looked at her, straightening slightly, some quiet resolve returning to his eyes. “We’ll figure it out. Right?”

She nodded. “We always do.”

Together, they moved toward the noise, toward whatever came next, no longer entirely separate, even if still uncertain.

Lena found the coat she’d hidden in the back of the cupboard. She slipped it on, the weight of the stitched-in coins suddenly feeling heavier than ever.

They were still a family. But something had broken. And none of them knew how long they’d be allowed to stay together.

Outside, the wind shifted. There were sounds in the distance, truck engines, barking dogs.

The Germans were coming.

Lena moved through the broken street like someone wading through smoke. Her skirts caught on rubble, dust clung to her lashes, and every breath tasted like ash. There were bodies on the edges of the road, some covered by blankets, others not yet claimed. She did not look too long.

A boy passed her, barefoot and wild-eyed, clutching a dented saucepan like treasure. Another woman called out for her child. A dog barked, sharp and scared, somewhere behind the buildings.

Lena kept walking.

She’d wrapped her scarf around her mouth to dull the smell of smoke and ruin. Her coat was too thin for the wind, but she'd stopped noticing the cold days ago. Her fingers were blistered from breaking boards in the cellar that morning, pulling out crates of what little food they had left. A few tins. Dried beans. Salt. 

Her boots crunched against broken glass as she slipped into what was left of the Wozniak's courtyard. It was mostly brick and shadows now. Books had been scattered in the yard, pages soaked from the rain and trampled by scavengers. The oven was cracked at the base, but if she could get it lit.

She knelt, pulled out a bundle of matches from the deep inner seam of her coat, the coat she had stitched herself, not that long ago, lining the hems with every spare zloty and grosz she could hide. It was supposed to be for a train ticket. For papers. For a future.

She stared at it now like a relic of someone else’s life.

In the last safe weeks before the bombs, she’d mailed a box of belongings to her father in America, photographs, most of her letters, her prized drawings from Steve, the blue ribbon Bucky gave her for her first Christmas, her mother's Star of David necklace. 

She had sent the briefest of notes, asking her father to keep it safe. The bitter, angry part of her hoped that her father would understand the irony. That she was in danger now, because of the choice he made for her. That she needed to send her prized possessions back to him to keep them from being destroyed. By bombs. By fires. By Nazis. 

Four years had passed but her anger still burned hot in her gut. But as quick as her anger was to set ablaze, it burned out just as quickly. No matter how angry she was, Lena would have given anything to be at home with her father. 

But she knew better.

Her translation work had peeled back the illusion long before the first bomb fell. She had read the German orders, the speeches before they were sanitized for the press. She had seen the trajectory, the tightening grip around Jewish lives, the bureaucratic coldness of it all.

She knew what occupation would look like. And it wouldn’t be temporary.

Lena lit the match. The flame bloomed, delicate and determined. Usable. 

If she was going to survive this, if she was going to keep Josek, Ruta, and Chaim safe, she would need that money now. Not for trains or ships or America.

But for bread. For papers. For favors.

Somewhere deep in her coat, a loose coin shifted in the lining. She pressed a hand there, anchoring herself. It was meant to get her out. Now it would keep her alive.

Above her, the sky cracked with distant gunfire. Or thunder. It didn’t matter anymore.

The war had arrived.

And Lena Rabinovich, once a girl dreaming of jazz clubs and a boy with kind eyes in Brooklyn, was no longer preparing to leave Poland.

She was preparing to survive it.

Chapter Text

my love, you're something special

WARSAW, POLAND - FALL 1939

The city had stopped breathing.

That’s what it felt like, anyway, like Warsaw had drawn one great, shuddering breath, then never let it go. Everything was suspended in smoke and silence, the air heavy with a strange, choking quiet. The rumble of artillery had finally ceased, replaced now by the softer, somehow more terrible sound of boots striking pavement in tight, disciplined rhythm.

Lena stood pressed against the cracked window frame in the attic, a pale scrap of curtain twisted nervously between her fingers. Beside her, Josek sat motionless, knees drawn up, his gaze locked on the street below. Neither of them had spoken in nearly an hour.

The house had been damaged but still livable. The back wall had buckled inward, bricks spilling into the garden that had once held Chana’s lilacs. The roof in her attic room was damaged, leaving her to share a bed with Ruta. The scent of smoke lingered everywhere, bitter and inescapable. Lena’s coat smelled of it, her hair, her skin. Her thoughts.

Below, the street stretched out in shades of gray, as though the bombs had leached the color from everything they touched. Windows had been shattered into gaping mouths, splintered shutters hung loose, and in the street itself, the neighbors moved in slow, wary clusters. They looked less like people now and more like ghosts, hollow-eyed, uncertain, drifting.

A distant roar broke through the silence, an engine grinding, then rumbling closer. Lena pressed herself harder against the window, the splintered wood biting into her palms. Josek finally stirred, rising stiffly to peer beside her. She felt his shoulder brush against hers, but he didn’t pull away this time.

“German tanks,” he murmured, voice numb.

Lena nodded, throat tight. A long, slow column of vehicles rolled toward the center of the city, armored trucks and personnel carriers, filled with soldiers who seemed impossibly young. They wore neat gray uniforms, clean boots, stern faces. Their expressions were impassive, utterly disconnected from the ruin around them.

But it wasn’t the trucks that stole Lena’s breath.

It was what came after.

Two soldiers moved swiftly across the street to the municipal building, their movements crisp and practiced. Lena watched helplessly, her heart hammering, as one soldier took hold of the Polish flag, her flag, their flag, and pulled it free from its pole, letting it drift to the ground without even looking at it. The second soldier reached into his coat, pulling out another flag. Lena knew what it was before he unfurled it, the swastika stark against the crimson fabric, its hateful geometry glaring like a fresh wound.

She heard Josek draw a shuddering breath. Below, a woman sobbed openly into her apron.

“Don’t look,” Josek whispered, but Lena couldn’t pull her eyes away.

No cheers greeted the German flag. No cries of protest either. Just silence, a stunned, aching stillness, as the flag rose slowly into place, the black and red fabric fluttering obscenely against the bruised sky.

They both flinched when Abraham’s voice cracked harshly through the room below them. Lena recognized the sharp edges of anger and disbelief.

“Poland is stronger than this,” he insisted, voice brittle and frayed. “The government wouldn’t just abandon us—”

Chana’s voice rose to meet his, broken with exhaustion. “They already have.”

Lena glanced at Josek. His face had gone pale, eyes unfocused, his jaw clenched as though holding something tightly inside.

“They’re scared,” Lena said softly, uncertain if she meant Abraham and Chana, or herself and Josek. Maybe everyone.

Josek’s voice was hollow. “We’re all scared.”

He pushed away from the window and retreated back into the shadows of the attic, leaving Lena standing alone, her gaze drawn inevitably back to the occupied building across the street. The German soldiers were already spreading through the city, their confident strides an insult to everything the city had suffered. Lena’s eyes dropped again to the fallen Polish flag, trampled now beneath careless boots.

She pressed her forehead to the cold glass, closing her eyes briefly, trying to steady the shaking in her chest.

When she opened them again, her gaze caught on a neighbor, Mrs. Sadowska, the seamstress who’d once hemmed Ruta’s skirt. She stood at the edge of the street, shoulders hunched, face pale. Her lips moved silently, as though praying or begging, Lena couldn’t tell. When one of the soldiers walked by, she lifted her head and said something softly, pleading, maybe. Or questioning. Lena couldn’t hear it clearly.

The soldier barely paused. He turned, raised his rifle, and in one sharp motion, brought the stock down against Mrs. Sadowska’s face. She crumpled instantly, a heap of skirts and frail bones on the pavement.

Lena’s breath caught sharply. Her fists curled into the torn fabric of the curtain, nails digging into her palms. Her ears rang with the silence that followed. No one moved to help. No one dared.

Below, the house grew quiet again. The argument between Abraham and Chana had fizzled out into exhausted murmurs. Lena’s heartbeat roared in her ears, filling the emptiness with a hot, angry rush.

“We can’t just watch,” she whispered to the windowpane, a promise as much to herself as to anyone else.

She stepped back slowly, the floorboards creaking beneath her. Josek had vanished downstairs. Lena followed, each step heavier than the last, the reality of the day pressing in from all sides. She found the rest of her family gathered in the kitchen, huddled around the bare table, their silence heavier than the rubble outside.

Chaim looked up, eyes huge in his thin face. “Is it over, Lena?”

She couldn’t lie. But she couldn’t break him either. “The bombing is.”

Ruta stared at her, waiting, voice trembling. “But what now?”

Lena swallowed, throat tight. She wished desperately for answers, clear, certain words that would somehow hold her family together, words that could soothe the fear and chase away the nightmares lurking at their doorstep. 

But all she could offer was honesty.

“We survive,” she said quietly, firmly. “And we don’t give them anything they haven’t already taken.”

The family fell quiet again, absorbing the stark, raw truth of her words. Abraham’s shoulders were slumped, his resolve broken by disbelief. Chana stared at the table, hands trembling. Josek had drifted to the far wall, silent and withdrawn. But Lena saw Ruta’s spine straighten slightly. Chaim scooted closer, seeking warmth.

It wasn’t hope, not yet. But it was something stronger than fear.

Lena lifted her chin slightly, forcing steel into her spine.

“Tomorrow,” she said softly, more to herself than anyone else, “we’ll find what food we can. See who else needs help. And then the next day, we’ll do it again. One day at a time.”

They didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. It wasn’t enough, it was never going to be enough but it was something.

And as Lena stood in the half-destroyed kitchen, the distant, rhythmic echo of boots drifting through the shattered windows, she realized something painful and certain:

The war wasn’t coming.

It was already here.

The shutters were nailed shut.

Lena stood at the gate of 12 Smocza Street, her gloved fingers brushing the iron latch. The house was still and hollow-looking, like someone had drained the life out of it and left the shell standing. She hadn’t meant to come here, hadn’t even realized her feet had carried her this far until she was staring at the chipped numbers on the gate. The ones Ania used to complain were always crooked.

She stepped through carefully. The front stoop had cracked clean through, and something sharp bit at her boot heel. She didn’t knock. She already knew no one would answer.

The windows were black from the inside.

Gone.

She hadn’t expected that to hurt as much as it did. She thought she had hardened against surprise. But the sight of the abandoned house twisted something in her chest. She’d once stood on this porch holding fresh translations, cheeks flushed from running, proud of her work, her speed, her usefulness. Marek had nodded and said she was fast. Zofia had brought her tea. That had only been a few weeks ago. A lifetime now.

She turned to go, almost. But then she heard the faint scrape of a heel behind her.

Lena didn’t flinch.

“I was wondering how long it’d take you to come looking,” Basia said from the gate, pulling her scarf tighter around her jaw. "For what its worth, they didn't have time to say goodbye."

Lena exhaled softly, not turning yet. “They’re gone.”

“Slipped out the night the Wehrmacht reached the Vistula.” Basia’s voice was even, but there was a flicker of something behind it, disapproval, maybe. Or envy. “Had help. A car, even. Probably made it past Kraków by now.”

Lena turned. Basia was leaning lightly against the gatepost, her coat too thin for the wind, her eyes sharp.

“I didn’t come for them,” Lena said. “Not really. I just needed to… know.”

Basia studied her a long moment. Then: “You still translating?”

“No one needs translations anymore,” Lena said quietly. “Not the kind I can do. The press is censored. The universities are closed. Half the people who needed foreign reports are gone. I only ever got work from Marek.”

Basia nodded once, stepping inside the gate. “Then it’s good you’re not just a translator.”

They stood in silence for a beat, the street behind them eerily quiet except for the distant bark of a dog and the low hum of boots on cobblestone.

Finally, Lena asked, “What do you need?”

Basia didn’t smile, but her posture shifted, something looser, more certain. “There’s a bakery on Krochmalna. Still running, sort of. You’ll go in tomorrow, ask for a dozen rolls, and say your cousin has been sick. That’s it.”

“What’s in the bag?”

“You won’t know. You won’t ask. Not this time.”

Lena nodded. “And after?”

Basia shrugged. “If it goes well, you’ll get another address. And another bag. We’re not looking for martyrs, Lena. We’re looking for people who know how to keep their mouths shut and their eyes open.”

“I can do both.”

“I know.” She paused, then added, “And don’t look so heartbroken. You’re not alone.”

Lena looked back at the Zielińskis’ house one last time. “It’s not that.”

Basia arched a brow.

“It’s just—” Lena's voice was thinner now, quieter. “I didn’t expect it to feel so final.”

“It is,” Basia said. “For a lot of us. But not for you.”

She slipped the satchel from her shoulder and passed it to Lena. It was heavier than it looked.

“Tomorrow,” Basia said. “Be early. Wear something plain.”

Then, without waiting for a reply, she turned and disappeared back down the alley, footsteps light and practiced.

Lena stood there a moment longer, the bag against her chest. The wind kicked up, blowing grit across the porch. She pulled her scarf tighter, adjusted the satchel, and turned toward home.

She didn’t look back this time.

She didn’t need to.

The next morning, the fog rolled in early.

It was a quiet, colorless sort of fog, the kind that made the city feel like it had been half-swallowed by silence. Lena walked with her collar pulled high and her scarf wrapped twice around her neck, the satchel Basia had given her tucked beneath her coat. Her breath steamed faintly in the morning chill, vanishing before it reached the cracked sidewalk.

She kept her eyes ahead. Not down. Not up. Ahead.

Krochmalna was only ten blocks from the house, but it felt longer with every step. The streets looked different now. Half destroyed buildings, rubble. Less foot traffic. No loitering. No musicians. Only the sound of boots on stone and carts rattling too quickly toward nowhere.

She passed a checkpoint without looking at it. One of the German soldiers coughed, but none of them stopped her. She didn’t speed up, just kept the pace of someone used to carrying errands and minding her own business. It was terrifying how easily it came.

The bakery was just ahead. Klein’s, though the sign had been painted over in the last week, the name scrubbed out. A faded chalkboard still clung to the side window, cracked down the middle. A single word—“bread”—had been scrawled hastily across it. That was all anyone wanted to see.

She stepped inside.

The warmth hit her first. The oven still worked, though it ran on coal now instead of gas. The air smelled faintly of burnt flour and something sharp, disinfectant, maybe. A tall woman stood behind the counter, her sleeves rolled to her elbows, her hands white with dust.

Lena hesitated only a second before stepping forward.

“I need a dozen rolls,” she said, voice steady. “My cousin’s been sick.”

The woman didn’t blink. She reached beneath the counter without speaking and pulled out a brown paper sack. She set it on the wood, then wiped her hands on her apron.

“That’ll be four zloty.”

Lena slid the coins across without flinching. How many weeks ago would that have gone into her ledger book, desperately keeping track of every bit of money she had. The woman made no move to check them.

Instead, she leaned forward slightly and said, under her breath, “You came early.”

“I was told to.”

“Good.” She slid the sack forward. “Be careful on Szczęśliwicka. Patrols are heavier there now. Take Jagielońska instead.”

Lena nodded once, fingers tightening on the bag. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Just walk straight out and don’t drop that bag.”

She did.

Out the door, into the street, eyes forward. One foot, then the next. The paper bag felt too light, too normal in her hands. Inside, she could feel the faintest give, like it had been packed with something soft and layered. Fabric? Paper? She didn’t know. She didn’t want to.

Her fingers itched to look. But she didn’t.

She took Jagielońska.

At one point, a cart overturned ahead of her, spilling potatoes into the road. She hesitated, waiting for the commotion to clear. A young boy darted out and tried to steal one, only to be cuffed hard across the face by a soldier who appeared from nowhere. Lena didn’t move. She stared straight ahead as the boy scrambled away.

She kept walking.

She passed a boy drawing in the dust with a stick, carving circles around his own feet. A dog barked behind a closed gate. Somewhere a woman wept, muffled and raw. The city had become a ghost that still made noise.

Her building came into view, small and crooked, clinging to its neighbors like a child too scared to stand on its own. She stepped inside the stairwell quickly, ducked under the beam that had shifted loose during the last shelling, and climbed to the second floor.

Once inside her attic room, she locked the door behind her. Then locked it again.

She didn’t unpack the bread.

Instead, she slid the satchel back into its hiding place beneath a loose floorboard, wiping dust off her knees with shaking hands.

Only once it was hidden did she open the paper sack.

The top layer was rolls. Warm, fresh, smelling of yeast and salt.

Below them, beneath a false bottom of wax paper, was something else entirely, three slim envelopes, sealed with wax, and folded into a canvas pouch the color of river stone. She didn’t touch them. Just stared.

So this was it. Not words anymore. Not letters or press releases or foreign headlines to decode. But messages of another kind. Plans. Names.

She folded the paper bag again, careful, precise.

In the corner, the kettle rattled faintly on the stove.

She stood slowly, shoulders stiff, then crossed the room to warm her hands over the flame.

This was only the beginning.

But it was no longer theory, or threat, or fear she could still outrun. It was real. And it had weight. And now, it had her.

The Yankees had lost again, but Bucky barely heard the newsboy shouting it. The headlines were all the same anyway.

GERMANY TAKES WARSAW.

CITY UNDER COMPLETE OCCUPATION.

NO WORD ON CIVILIAN CASUALTIES.

He sat on the steps outside the corner store, a bottle of Coca-Cola sweating beside him, going flat. In his hands, he rolled a worn-out silver chain between his fingers. It had belonged to Becca’s old locket, she’d snapped the clasp last week. He said he’d fix it.

He hadn’t.

He was supposed to be taking care of everyone. That’s what Lena asked of him. In her last letter, before the bombs started. Before the papers stopped naming neighborhoods and just called it rubble.

"Don’t you dare enlist, Buck."

"Take care of them."

"Promise me."

He had.

So he stayed.

He took Ruth to the fair last weekend and won her a stuffed elephant. Bought Steve new charcoal pencils from the art shop on Myrtle. Even splurged on a pair of brown leather gloves he didn’t need just to feel something new.

It didn’t help.

Every dollar he spent from the coffee tin in his closet felt like a betrayal. That money had been for her. For getting her out. For boat fare, bribes, whatever it would’ve taken. Now it just rattled around, useless, cold. He could feel it in his pocket like dead weight.

Steve had been walking beside him for five blocks, trying to fill the silence with small talk, gently steering him away from the latest newsstand. Bucky knew what he was doing. He just didn’t care.

He was halfway through lighting a cigarette when they saw Mikhail.

He was slouched on a bench outside the tavern near the docks, half-shadowed by the low fall sun, a bottle in his hand and another at his feet. His coat was frayed at the sleeves, beard patchy and untrimmed. He looked nothing like the man who used to make perfect tea for Lena, who worked himself to the bone at the docks.

Now he just looked hollow. Like a man carved out by grief and left half-finished.

Bucky stopped in his tracks.

Steve slowed too, sensing the shift immediately. “Buck…”

Bucky didn’t answer. He walked toward Mikhail without thinking, the cigarette dropping from his fingers and burning out on the sidewalk.

Mikhail looked up, squinting through the sun. “James?”

The sound of his voice made Bucky’s chest splinter.

“What are you doing here?” Mikhail asked, voice hoarse.

“What am I—?” Bucky’s laugh came sharp and humorless. “What am I doing? You’re asking me?”

Mikhail blinked, confused. “I—”

“You’re drunk.” Bucky’s voice cracked. “You’re drunk, while Warsaw’s gone to hell and your daughter’s still there.”

Mikhail stood unsteadily. “You think I don’t know that? You think I haven’t read every headline, scared for my daughter?”

Steve stepped closer. “Buck, maybe—”

But Bucky was already shaking, voice rising like a dam breaking.

“You sent her back. You sent her back, and we all begged you not to.”

“I thought—” Mikhail swallowed hard. “I thought it would be safer—”

“You were wrong!” Bucky roared, fists clenched so tight they shook. “You took her away from us. From me. You buried her before the war even started!”

A few people turned at the shouting, but no one came closer.

“I lost my job, I had nothing to offer her—”

“You think that matters? We would’ve figured it out! Steve and I—we were saving! You didn’t even give us time!”

“I didn’t know—”

“You didn’t care!” The words exploded from Bucky’s mouth, raw and ragged. “You gave up! And now she’s gone. And you’re standing here with piss on your boots and a bottle in your hand like it’s someone else’s fault!”

Mikhail flinched.

Steve stepped between them gently, palm raised. “Buck. He’s grieving too.”

But it was too late. Bucky’s hand curled into a fist, and before Steve could stop him, it swung.

It landed hard, square against Mikhail’s jaw. The crack of knuckles meeting bone echoed across the street.

Mikhail stumbled, hitting the bench behind him, the bottle slipping from his grip and shattering.

Steve caught Bucky mid-step before he could swing again, grabbing both arms, holding him back.

“Enough.” Steve’s voice wasn’t loud, but it was firm. “That’s enough. Do you think this is what Lena would want?”

Bucky’s chest heaved, the mention of Lena cutting his anger off at the knees. His eyes were red-rimmed and frantic, his breath catching in his throat like it couldn’t find a way out.

Mikhail stayed on the ground, one hand to his cheek, eyes shining, not with anger, but shame.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped, voice barely audible. “I didn’t know it would get this bad. I thought, Poland’s strong. I believed that. I still believed in the old country. Her mother's family, they made me think- I didn’t think—” He broke off, burying his face in his hands.

Steve let go slowly, stepping back.

Bucky stood shaking, every part of him vibrating with grief and helplessness.

“I’d trade places with her if I could,” Mikhail whispered. “I’d give anything to go back and change it. But I can’t.”

No one spoke for a long moment.

Then Bucky said, quietly, “You don’t get to feel sorry for yourself.”

Mikhail didn’t respond. He just nodded, once, twice, like each one hurt.

Steve put a hand on Bucky’s back. “Come on. Let’s go.”

Bucky didn’t move at first. Then, slowly, he turned away, jaw tight, eyes burning.

As they walked off down the block, Steve said, carefully, “You know she wouldn’t want you to carry all this alone.”

Bucky didn’t answer.

But he reached into his pocket and touched the corner of Lena’s last letter.

He didn’t know how to save her. But he knew he couldn’t live like she was already dead.

The potatoes were soft and bruised, the kind that turned before they ever hit a pan, but Lena almost cried with relief when the old man let her weigh them out. All she had left to barter was one of the silver buttons from her coat, decorative, useless now except as a shimmer of value. It was just enough.

She slipped the potatoes into her coat pocket and tugged the wool tight against her chest. The cold was sharp, a constant bite at her fingers and ears. The street was gray with ash and early frost. Across the way, a shopfront once owned by a Jewish tailor now stood empty, its windows papered over with proclamations in German and Polish.

She didn’t linger. She had learned quickly not to.

At home, the potatoes were boiled in silence. Chana peeled them with stiff hands while Ruta stirred what little was left of their flour into a thin broth. Chaim sat on the floor with his arms around his knees, humming quietly to himself.

Abraham said nothing during dinner. Just chewed and stared at the cracked plaster like it might offer some kind of explanation.

Josek hadn’t come downstairs in two days.

Lena brought him a chipped bowl and found him curled under a coat in the old sewing room. The glass in the window had blown out during the first round of shelling; her uncle had patched it with cardboard and nails. The cold still slipped through.

“You should eat,” she said.

He didn’t look at her. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine, Josek.”

He finally turned his head, and for a moment she saw something there, grief, maybe. Or guilt. Or that dull, resigned kind of anger that came from realizing you were powerless.

“I don’t want to get used to this,” he said. “That’s all.”

Lena didn’t say anything. She placed the bowl beside him and left.

Two days later, she ran the delivery for Basia.

The bakery had begun doubling as a message hub, code words scratched into receipts, parcels disguised in flour sacks, messages hidden in crusted loaves. This time, Lena carried a wrapped bundle of bread under her shawl, meant for a contact on the other side of the river. She didn’t ask what was inside. She never did.

The guards at the bridge were different now, stricter. Germans in ironed coats with long rifles. One of them pointed at her and asked a question she pretended not to understand. She bowed her head, murmured something about a sick cousin, and clutched the bread tighter.

He let her pass, but she could feel his stare between her shoulder blades the whole way across.

By the time she made the drop, the rain was coming down in sheets. Her boots were soaked through. She was certain someone had been following her for a block or two, but when she finally turned around, no one was there.

Back at home, she stripped off her wet coat and handed Chana half a loaf of bread, claiming she’d found it abandoned. She was still shivering two hours later.

The restrictions were tightening.

Signs in shop windows declared “No Jews Allowed.” Jewish-owned businesses had been shuttered or confiscated entirely. Despite all the damage done, no one called her uncle for repairs anymore, leaving her family without an income and no way to make money. A notice posted near the post office stated that all Jews must now register with the city administration.

Rumors spread, some said Jews would be required to wear identification soon, an armband or a patch. Others said forced relocations were coming. The Polish neighbors said nothing to Lena’s family anymore. Some didn’t even look them in the eye.

Lena avoided the main roads now. Her scarf hid her darker hair, her Jewish features, enough to pass sometimes, especially when she kept her head down and didn’t speak.

Once, in a bread line, a child behind her started crying. High, thin sobs that cut through the air like wire. The mother looked mortified, trying to hush him.

Lena knelt beside the boy and said something, she didn’t even know what. Just a quiet string of syllables, low and soft. Her tone steady, rhythmic. She thought maybe it was a lullaby. Or maybe it was nonsense.

The boy calmed.

The soldier who’d been pacing nearby paused. His hand hovered on his belt. Then, without a word, he turned away.

Lena didn’t think about it again.

The next delivery was worse.

Heavier than before. The checkpoint more crowded, the streets thick with people and soldiers. She made the drop under a canvas awning in the rain and walked home in silence, the ache in her legs and back the only thing grounding her.

That night, when she climbed through the back entrance and peeled off her wet coat, she found Ruta awake, sitting against the wall.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” Ruta whispered.

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

“You didn’t.” She paused. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Lena settled beside her. The floor was hard beneath the threadbare blanket. Chaim snored softly on the far side of the room. The air smelled of boiled cabbage and smoke.

After a long silence, Ruta said, “Do you think they’ll leave?”

“The Germans?”

“Yeah.”

Lena hesitated. She thought about the checkpoints. The signs. The families that had disappeared. The tightening curfew. The ration stamps. The glares.

“No,” she said quietly. “I don’t think they’re going anywhere.”

Ruta didn’t speak for a long time.

Then: “Then what do we do?”

Lena didn’t have an answer. Not one that would soothe. Not one that would lie.

So she said the only thing she believed.

“We live,” she whispered. “We fight if we have to. But we live first.”

Ruta nodded. Slowly, silently.

They lay down side by side, staring at the damp ceiling. Somewhere far off, a dog barked. Then the long, dragging silence of the occupied city resumed.

Chapter Text

i've never met someone like you 

WARSAW POLAND - WINTER 1939

Snow flurried in thin, ashy curls as Lena stepped over the curb and into the small square where the market once bustled with carts and bartering hands. Now it was a hushed skeleton of itself no tables, no bright fabric stalls, just small clusters of people exchanging goods beneath the dull sky, their movements twitchy and quick, like mice picking at crumbs in a trap.

She pulled her scarf higher around her face. Not because of the cold, she barely felt it anymore, but because of the bright blue Star of David stitched to her sleeve. It was new. Mandatory now. Issued by German authorities a week ago and “distributed” by Jewish councils under threat of punishment.

Chaim had cried when he saw his sewn onto his winter coat. “I don’t want to wear it,” he’d whispered. “It’s ugly!”

Lena hadn’t known what to say, it was an ugly thing, a symbol of faith turned against them. Marking them.

Now she walked with her arms crossed tight, hands tucked beneath her armpits to hide the marking as best she could. Everyone was hiding something these days, names, coins, truths, panic. Even hunger had become something to veil. You learned to chew slower, swallow quietly.

She approached a woman standing beside a basket of shriveled carrots, their skin pale and wilted like fingers left too long in water. The woman looked her over quickly, then down at Lena’s hands. Lena reached into her pocket and withdrew a silver sewing needle wrapped in paper. Her last one.

The woman took it. Wordless. She shoved three softening carrots into Lena’s palm, then turned away before anyone could linger too long on the transaction.

This was how it worked now.

No prices. No conversations. Just the trade of desperation.

Lena tucked the carrots into her coat and made her way toward the old church wall, where she'd agreed to meet a contact from Basia’s network, someone bringing extra bread, and information in from Praga. She scanned the crowd. Nothing unusual. Just faces like hers, tight with hunger, eyes cast sideways for danger.

And then she heard the boots.

Fast. Sharp. Coming from the southern end of the square.

“Hände hoch! Hände hoch!”

German soldiers flooded the street like smoke spilling into a room, rifles raised, shouting in thick, guttural commands. Panic exploded around Lena. Someone screamed. Baskets overturned. A child began crying. A man ran and was caught immediately, slammed into a wall with the butt of a rifle. Blood sprayed across the frozen stone like spilled ink.

Lena’s knees buckled instinctively. She dropped into a crouch behind a broken crate, heart slamming so violently against her ribs it felt like it might bruise.

A soldier barked at a group of women to step forward. “Papiere! Zeigen Sie Ihre Papiere!”

Her papers were in her boot, along with her forged papers. They listed her as Aneta Kaminski, Polish, not Jewish. A forgery from Basia’s contact, but a good one. The ink still smelled faintly of glue. If they caught her with two different sets of papers...

She yanked her coat from her shoulders and shoved it beneath the crate, crawling forward on her elbows like a feral thing, breath caught tight in her throat. Her bare shirt sleeves exposed only her skin. No marker. No proof.

She moved in shadows, behind a half-burned cart and a stack of old boxes, until she reached the corner of a pillar, heart pounding so loudly she thought they might hear it.

Someone cried out nearby. A woman begging in Polish. The soldiers ignored her and shoved her toward a cart already filling with prisoners. Lena’s stomach turned. She didn’t look away fast enough, saw the fear twisted on the woman’s face, the edge of her scarf soaked with tears.

A hand grabbed her wrist.

She spun, fists raised, but it was a boy. No older than Josek had been before the war. Freckled, eyes too large for his face. His coat was patched and torn, and he carried no basket. No bag. Just urgency.

“Don’t run. Just walk with me,” he muttered in Polish. “You’ll draw less attention.”

They moved as one, shoulders nearly touching, blending into the thin crowd that remained. He spoke again, just above a whisper. “There’s a bolt-hole near Zamenhofa. We’ll cut behind the old bathhouse.”

She nodded tightly, too shaken to speak. Her breath came in shallow huffs, and every second they moved felt like walking the edge of a knife.

They slipped past two German officers inspecting documents and ducked through a wooden gate nearly hidden by snow. Inside was a narrow courtyard with a stack of broken doors, a rusted basin, and a gap in the wall just big enough to crawl through.

They squeezed through, Lena scraping her elbow as she slid into the shadows. The boy followed, breathing hard, hands trembling.

They sat back against the wall, knees to their chests, silent for what felt like hours but was likely only minutes.

Lena finally spoke. “Are you with Basia?”

He nodded once. “First delivery?”

She shook her head. “Fourth. But this was the first time they came here.”

He let out a ragged breath. “They’re raiding more now. Searching for false papers. Jews without armbands. Bread smugglers.”

Lena looked down at her scraped hands. Her coat was still under the crate. Her forged papers. The little pouch of zloty sewn into the inner hem.

“Shit,” she whispered.

“You can’t go back now,” he said. “Not toda

She nodded slowly, blinking back the tightness in her throat. She didn’t feel brave. She felt stupid. Exposed.

But she was alive.

She looked at the boy again, his thin face, dirt-smudged collar, fingers picking absently at the seam of his coat. He couldn’t be more than fourteen.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

He didn’t respond. Just rested his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.

Lena folded her arms tightly over her ribs and let the silence sit between them like steam after a bomb. Information could wait, until both their hearts stopped racing.

The message was clear.

She wasn’t just wearing a star.

She was wearing a target.

The house felt smaller without Roza. Not emptier, smaller. As if grief had pressed inward on the walls, folded the air in half, made the corners sharp and the silences longer. Her absence was everywhere. In the unboiled tea water, in the threadbare shawl draped over the back of her chair, in the prayers that now went unsaid.

Chaim had stopped speaking during the day. He curled up on the mattress in the corner of the parlor and only whispered to Ruta after dark, small murmurs meant for no one else. 

Ruta, always quick to laugh, had gone quiet. She stitched together old cloth scraps from ruined shirts, turning them into soft, crooked-limbed dolls she lined up beside Chaim’s bed. Her hands never stopped moving. Neither did her eyes. She no longer asked about school.

Josek drifted like smoke. He sat by the window even when there was no light to see by, staring out into the street. He hadn’t looked Lena in the eye in days, hadn’t said more than a grunt when she passed him a half-slice of bread that morning. He wouldn’t leave the house. Wouldn’t even go down to the basement during the air raids, just sat still and waited.

And Chana, Chana folded.

She boiled water with nothing in it. Folded clothes no one had worn. Every movement was ritual, every routine a prayer of denial. Lena caught her once, smoothing the bedsheets as if Roza might return at any moment to lie in them. She said nothing. Just turned away and bit down on her tongue until she tasted blood.

At the center of it all was Abraham.

He sat at the table now, shoulders hunched forward, fiddling with the knobs of the government-approved radio like it might eventually say what he wanted to hear. German reports. Polish assurances. Nothing from Britain. Nothing from America. Nothing from the resistance, though everyone knew it was out there. The air pulsed with its ghost.

“Food will be regulated soon,” he said, not looking up. “Proper rations. Organized. Once the chaos settles, the Germans will want order. They’ll want quiet. If we keep to ourselves—”

“That’s not how this works,” Lena said. Her voice was calm, but something hot pressed against her throat.

Abraham frowned at the radio. “You’re young. You don’t understand.”

“No,” she said, sharper now. “I do. I translate their memos. I’ve read the orders before they’re posted. I’ve seen the lists they’re making.”

He looked up at her, eyes hard. “And what would you have us do? Throw stones? Starve ourselves for pride?”

"We're already starving." Lena took a step forward, her voice shaking, not from fear, but the effort to contain it. “I’m not asking anyone to fight. I’m asking you to see it This isn’t going to settle. They’re not looking for order, they’re looking for obedience. For silence. And we’re already giving it to them.”

“We’re surviving,” he said flatly. Then, softer, more bitter than before: “That’s what your grandmother would have wanted. To keep the children fed. The doors shut. Our names off their lists.”

Lena’s mouth opened, and shut again.

She felt it like a punch. A hot, hollow blow in the ribs. Because he wasn’t wrong. Roza would have said that. Roza, who always laid out her tablecloth even when there was nothing to serve. Who whispered prayers with trembling lips when no one else was listening. Who believed in dignity through order, not defiance.

And maybe, Lena thought, Roza would have begged her to keep her head down. To be small enough to survive. Small enough to starve to death in the streets. Small enough to take the butt of a rifle to the face for daring to look too long at a German soldier. 

For a moment, Lena couldn’t speak at all. Just stood there, swallowing hard, heat rising behind her eyes. Not because Abraham had insulted her, but because he had spoken the truth.

And it made her feel utterly alone.

“She’s gone,” Lena said at last, barely above a whisper. “And she’s not the one left to face what’s coming.”

Chana stirred behind her. “That’s enough, Yelena—”

“No, it’s not.” Lena turned to face her. “I’ve been quiet. I’ve tried to keep my head down, like you all want. But that won’t save us.”

“And raising your voice will? Drawing attention to us?” Abraham said, rising to his feet. His chair scraped loudly across the wood floor. “Is that what you think?”

Lena stared at him. “No. But at least I’m not lying to myself about what’s coming.”

They stood there, breathing hard, the room pressed in around them.

It was Ruta who finally broke the silence. “Can we stop?” she said softly. “Please.”

Lena blinked, the tension in her spine suddenly giving way. She looked at Ruta, her sweet cousin with thread-raw fingers and bruises beneath her eyes, and nodded.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “I’m sorry.”

Abraham sat back down. He turned the dial again, and the room filled with static.

But nothing came through.

Not the voice he wanted.

Not the peace he imagined.

Only silence.

And the sound of a house slowly folding in on itself.

The cold smelled like blood.

It always did near the butcher’s shop, even now that the glass was fogged and the windows half-boarded. Meat was rationed to nearly nothing, and only Aryan customers were permitted to enter. But the stink of bone and sawdust still clung to the cobblestones, rising like a ghost when Lena’s boots struck the pavement.

Basia was already waiting. She wore a wide brown coat, patched at the elbows, and a knitted hat pulled low. She didn’t look up when Lena approached, just flicked her eyes toward a narrow gap between buildings. “Walk with me.”

They slipped into the alley side by side, shoulders nearly brushing. Basia’s hands were gloved, but Lena could still feel the tension radiating off her.

“You ready for something riskier?” Basia asked without preamble.

“I’m already risking my life buying carrots,” Lena said dryly.

Basia didn’t smile. “I’m serious. This one’s a test. Not everyone gets asked twice.”

Lena stopped walking. “Then ask me once. What is it?”

Basia glanced behind them. No one. Then she reached into her coat and passed Lena a cloth bundle wrapped in a child’s scarf.

“Bread. Lard. A few boiled potatoes.”

Lena blinked. “That’s... a lot.”

Basia nodded. “For a family in Śródmieście. Jewish. Completely cut off. The father worked with us before, he’s been hiding since the raids on the post office. You’ll go through alley routes. No main roads. And you won’t be alone.”

From the shadows behind a rusted barrel, another figure emerged, a girl, maybe twenty, wiry and quick, with a long scar running across the back of one hand like a rope burn. She gave Lena a short nod.

“This is Perla,” Basia said. “She’ll show you the route.”

Perla had dark eyes, darker even than Lena’s, and a wary way of looking at people like she’d already imagined where she’d hide if you turned on her.

“There are checkpoints on Gęsia and again at Nalewki,” Perla said. “But we’ll cut through Stawki and double back. If you move fast, we can get there before curfew.”

Lena tightened the scarf around the bundle. “And if we don’t?”

Perla shrugged. “We run.”

They began walking, keeping close to the buildings. Perla moved like she knew every creak of the street, every hollow brick. Lena matched her pace but kept glancing behind them.

“You’re not just doing this for them anymore,” Basia called softly after them.

Lena paused.

"You know that, right?” Basia said. “This is more than helping neighbors. You’re one of us now.”

Lena turned back. “I know.”

She didn’t feel brave. Just cold. Cold and full of too many things that couldn’t be said aloud. She didn’t tell Basia that her uncle still believed the Germans would leave if they were obedient enough, or that every time she passed a soldier, she felt her heart throb like a war drum in her ribs.

Instead, she followed Perla through the maze of war-dampened Warsaw. They passed broken signs, shattered windows, and the empty shell of a pharmacy that once smelled of lavender and soap. Perla spoke rarely, except to give sharp instructions, “Left here.” “Don’t step there.” “Wait until the patrol passes.”

Once, they crouched together behind a gate while two officers passed, the glint of their rifles catching the last light of day. Perla didn’t breathe. Neither did Lena.

“You move quiet,” Perla said once they were safe. “Not like most.”

“I’ve had practice.”

“Good. You’ll need it.”

By the time they reached the delivery point, a crumbling apartment tucked behind a shuttered cobbler’s shop, Lena’s fingers were numb and her shoulders ached from the effort of stillness. The door creaked open only an inch when they knocked.

A child’s face peered out. Then a hand reached through, trembling, and snatched the bundle.

They said nothing.

Words were too dangerous.

As they turned to leave, Perla handed Lena a scrap of paper. “That’s the next path. Burn it when you get home.”

Lena tucked it into her boot.

Back at the butcher’s alley, Basia was gone.

Only the blood-smell remained.

The walk home was slower. More exposed.

Perla had vanished down a side alley with a parting nod, and Lena took the longer route alone, hugging the shadows. The sky was bruising to twilight, the lamps few and flickering, and the snow that had started falling at midday now lay in thin layers on rooftops and window sills like dust no one dared to sweep away.

She was two blocks from home when she heard the boots. Not like Perla’s. Not like hers.

German.

She kept walking. Steady steps. Shoulders down. But her fingers curled tight inside her sleeves.

“Du! Warum bist du draußen?”

The soldier’s voice cracked through the quiet like a shot. Lena froze, then turned slowly, schooling her features into blank confusion.

“I—I don’t understand,” she said in Polish, letting her voice tremble just enough to feel real.

He was already striding toward her, rifle slung, gloves stiff with cold. Not angry, just bored. Routine.

“Papers,” he said, this time in broken Polish.

Lena fumbled them from her coat pocket, the old paper already soft from use. He took them with a grunt, scanning the name, the address. His eyes narrowed, jaw flexing.

“You live close.”

She nodded quickly. “Yes. Just there, past the grocer.”

He didn’t answer. Just shoved the papers into her hands and stepped closer.

“Empty your pockets.”

Her stomach flipped, but she obeyed. First the outer ones, worn gloves, a few coins, a crumpled scrap of paper with a half-finished shopping list.

He grunted again, unimpressed. Then his hand darted forward, checking her inner coat lining himself.

Rough. Not cruel. But practiced.

He was going to search her boots next.

She knew it, his eyes had dropped to them already, and her blood roared in her ears. The paper tucked inside her right boot, the one with the smuggler’s route marked in faint pencil, it would mean the end of everything.

Then—

“Heinrich!”

A shout down the street. Sharp. Urgent.

The soldier stiffened. Someone else calling. Another patrol, maybe gunfire. He cursed under his breath, cast one last glance at her, then shoved her lightly backward.

“Go,” he barked.

She didn’t wait to be told twice.

She walked slow at first, then faster as soon as she turned the corner. Her legs ached. Her ears roared. The sound of his voice stuck in her chest like ash.

By the time she reached home, her hands were shaking so badly she fumbled the latch twice. Inside, the kitchen smelled faintly of boiled onions and soap. Her uncle’s coat hung by the door. The kettle was cold.

She slipped past the doorway, into the washroom. Closed the door quietly. Dropped to her knees.

And threw up.

Her stomach emptied itself in waves of nerves and bile, and when it was done, she sat slumped against the sink, cheek pressed to the cool tile, the silence humming in her ears.

Eventually, she stood. Washed her face. Rinsed her mouth. Pressed her palms against her cheeks to rub color back in.

Then she stepped into the dim kitchen like nothing had happened.

Chaim was curled beside the stove, half-asleep with a book on his chest. Ruta was sewing something into a torn hem. Abraham sat listening to the radio state-approved, always low. Her aunt stirred something watery in a pot.

No one looked up.

Lena crossed the room and took her place.

And didn’t speak a word.

By the time they reached the old storage building, Lena’s toes were numb.

Snow floated down in thin, spiraling flakes, catching in her lashes, melting on her cheeks before they could sting. She kept her scarf high, eyes darting to the alley’s corners. She didn’t ask where they were going. If Basia had wanted to explain, she would’ve done it blocks ago.

The building looked like it hadn’t been touched in years, rust blooming on the hinges, windows blacked out with soot and dust. But the lock clicked easily when Basia turned the key.

“Inside.”

Lena obeyed.

It smelled like damp wood and mold. The air was colder in here than outside.

She expected crates. Supplies. Another satchel of black-market bread to haul across town.

Instead, Basia reached into a corner and pulled out a wooden baton, plain, sanded down, slightly weighted.

She tossed it to Lena.

It slapped against her palms harder than she expected.

“Why?” Lena asked, breath curling in the cold.

"Because if you’re going to keep doing this,” Basia said, stripping off her gloves, “you need to learn how to keep your head attached to your body.”

Lena blinked. “I thought I was just running food—”

“You were.” Basia took a slow step forward. “Now you’re going to do more.”

The baton was slick from the cold. Lena tried to grip it tighter.

Basia circled her once, slow, then stopped. “First lesson. Break the nose, they can't see. Palm, not fist.” She raised her hand. “Like this.”

Lena nodded. Tried to mimic it.

“Again.”

She did it again. Then again.

Her hand stung by the third try.

Basia nodded once, then pointed to a low support beam jutting from the far wall. “Throat, knees, groin. Doesn’t matter how big they are. You don’t try to outfight them. You disable and run.”

She demonstrated, quick, low, brutal movements. No wasted energy. No warning.

“Can you do that?”

“I can try,” Lena muttered.

“Don’t try. Do it.”

Lena stepped up to the beam and swung the baton toward its base, like Basia had. Her form was messy. Too cautious. She gritted her teeth and struck again, harder. The wood cracked with a satisfying thunk.

Basia raised an eyebrow. “Good. Again.”

They kept at it. Ten minutes. Maybe longer.

Lena’s shoulders burned. Her breath came quicker now, fogging the air. She slipped on the uneven floor once, landed hard on her hip, and didn’t cry out. Just rolled back up and kept going.

Basia didn’t praise her. But she didn’t stop her either.

By the end, Lena’s hands were raw, and she couldn’t feel her fingers properly through her gloves.

“You’re not strong,” Basia said, casually brutal. “But you’re fast. And stubborn.”

Lena wiped her sleeve across her forehead. “Not the worst traits to have.”

“No.” Basia cracked a crooked smile. “Not the worst.”

She turned and started rummaging through a tool chest near the back of the room. A moment later, she turned and tossed something toward Lena.

Lena caught it out of reflex, a short, bone-handled knife, worn but balanced in her grip.

She looked down at it, then back at Basia. “What? Are we practicing stabbing people now?”

“If you have to ask, you haven’t been paying attention,” Basia said flatly. “We don’t have the luxury of being delicate anymore.”

Lena flipped the knife once in her palm. She’d never held one like this before. But it didn’t feel wrong. Not awkward. Her fingers adjusted to the grip naturally.

Basia watched her for a beat, then nodded to a sack of straw propped against a crate.

“Throat. Under the arm. Stomach if you’re fast. Knee if you’re not.”

She demonstrated with a second knife, quick and clean, slashes, thrusts, movement that came from muscle memory and instinct. Then she stepped back. “Your turn.”

Lena hesitated only a second, then moved.

She went for the sack’s throat first, blade forward, straight in.

Then under the arm, a sharp twist of her wrist.

Basia’s eyebrow ticked up slightly. “You’ve done this before.”

Lena shook her head, breath visible in the freezing air. “No, I haven't.”

“Doesn’t matter. Keep going.”

She did. For ten minutes, she struck and dodged, adjusted her stance and speed. Her breath turned ragged. Her arms ached. The straw sack tipped over twice from her force.

“Again,” Basia said each time. “You think the Germans will fall that easily? They don’t. You get one chance. One shot before they raise a gun to your back.”

Lena’s vision blurred from effort, but she didn’t stop. Her movements were clumsy in places, sure, but not unsure. The weight of the knife felt like an extension of her hand.

Finally, Basia called time.

They sat on the narrow staircase just inside the entrance, breathing heavy, letting the snow drift in through the gaps in the door. Basia reached into her coat and pulled out a cigarette, lit it with steady fingers.

She offered it to Lena.

Lena hesitated, then took it.

Her first drag was too deep. She coughed once, and Basia didn’t laugh.

“You’re angry,” Basia said, like she was talking about the weather.

Lena didn’t respond at first. Just stared at the smoke curling from her fingers. “Aren’t you?”

“Sure. But anger alone gets you dead.”

“What doesn’t?”

“Rage and caution in equal parts.” Basia turned slightly toward her. “You need to be scared. But not so scared you freeze.”

Lena took another drag. Smoother this time.

“I’m not freezing,” she said, voice low. “Not anymore.”

They sat in silence for a while after that. The kind of silence that wasn’t empty, but held something. Like breath. Like memory.

Lena’s body ached in unfamiliar ways, but there was something else under it too. A new heat.

Not power. Not yet. But defiance.

The snow fell heavier outside now. Basia crushed the cigarette under her boot.

“You should carry that knife now,” Basia said. “Keep it in your boot. Or your pocket.”

Lena nodded. “Thank you.”

“Don’t ’t thank me,” Basia muttered. “Just don’t hesitate when the moment comes.”

The wind howled through the broken window frame, rattling the old glass like bones. Lena had stuffed the cracks with cloth and paper, but nothing could keep out the cold entirely. Still, the floorboards were warmer with Ruta beside her, curled small, her breath fogging in the moonlight, and Chaim mumbling softly in his sleep just a few feet away.

Josek lay on the cot with Chaim, his eyes open and unblinking, staring into nothing. He hadn’t spoken all evening. Hadn’t touched his food. Lena wasn’t sure if it was grief or fear that had hollowed him out, but she didn’t press. They all survived this silence in their own way.

She whispered into the dark, her voice soft but certain.

“I’m not going to die.”

The words didn’t echo. They didn’t have to. They weren’t a promise, not exactly, just something to grip when everything else felt like slipping.

She reached under the mattress and pulled out a strip of worn cotton, the last shred of the dress she’d worn that summer in the orchard outside Warsaw, before bombs were dropped. 

The needle was already threaded. Her fingers were clumsy from the cold, but steady. She didn't need much light to see what she was doing, not anymore.

She stitched a hidden pocket into the lining of her coat. Tight, small, neat. Big enough for a name. A few coins. A folded paper. Something to smuggle. Something to save.

The last stitch tugged closed with a quiet snap. She sat back on her heels and ran her thumb along the seam, testing it. Strong. Invisible.

Like it had always been there.

And then, she reached for her satchel and pulled out a folded piece of notebook paper. The edges were worn soft from being opened too often. She didn’t need to see the words, she had it memorized. The last letter from Brooklyn. From Bucky.

Come home.

I love you.

Her throat tightened. Not from grief. Not even from fear.

Just missing.

It was unbearable sometimes. To know they were out there, somewhere. Warm. Breathing. Safe, for now.

Lena folded the letter again and tucked it into the new pocket. Not because it was practical. But because she needed it with her. Like a talisman. Like a map.

She lay down again, pulling the coat over her shoulders like a second skin. Ruta shifted beside her but didn’t wake.

Sleep didn't come easily anymore, but her fingers found her hidden pocket, felt the crinkle of paper beneath it, and she could hear Bucky’s voice so clearly it hurt. 

Lena closed her eyes and slept.

Chapter Text

you'd make me fall from heaven 

WARSAW POLAND - WINTER 1940

The door was unmarked, the alley forgettable. Just a sagging set of cellar steps between two bomb-scarred walls, where snow crusted the edges like white scabs. Lena slipped through the narrow passage with her satchel pressed to her chest, breathing in the sharp, sour scent of rotting cloth and old oil. She gave two short knocks, waited, and then one more.

The door clicked open.

A woman in a threadbare apron nodded her through without a word.

Inside, the air shifted. Warmer. Close. It smelled of iodine and boiled water, blood and starch and something cloying underneath, maybe soap or fevered breath. A low lantern glowed at the far end of the room, illuminating rows of cots tucked beneath racks of forgotten dresses. A dummy in a headless veil stood in the corner, its silhouette ghostlike in the flickering light.

“Put it on the table,” the nurse murmured, not looking up.

Lena moved carefully, fingers numb around the satchel's leather strap. She set it down and untied the knots. Inside: a handful of gauze rolls, two jars of salve, a chipped bottle of morphine diluted with something darker, and five sets of gloves wrapped in waxed paper. She could still feel the pressure of Basia’s warning from earlier that morning.

Don’t drop this one. Every drop counts.

A boy whimpered from the cot closest to the stairs. Maybe eleven. His shoulder was wrapped in a dirty bandage, red seeping through like rust in linen. He turned his face to the wall as the nurse leaned in to work.

Lena hovered, uncertain if she should stay. Her boots stuck to the floor in patches of dried spill. She was about to step back when the boy let out a thin, panicked cry.

“Cicho, cicho…” she murmured instinctively, kneeling beside him. She didn’t reach for him, just sat close. Her voice came soft, low, a tune her mother once used when Lena burned with fever in Brooklyn’s summers. “Cicho, maleńki… księżyc cię widzi…”

The lullaby slipped out like muscle memory, her breath a thread between verses. It wasn’t performance. It was survival. The boy stilled. His eyes stayed wide, but the sobs quieted. Even his breathing slowed, syncing to the rhythm of her voice.

When the nurse glanced up, Lena thought she’d be told to leave.

But the woman only paused, one hand on the salve jar, and studied her.

“Do you sing often?” she asked quietly, once the boy had settled.

Lena blinked. “Not really. Not much anymore.”

The nurse didn’t push. She just nodded, more to herself than anyone, and moved on to the next cot.

Lena stood, smoothing her skirt and stepping away to the corner where an old ledger sat open on a crate. Someone was already there, hunched over the page, pen in hand.

He wasn’t what she expected.

Young. Maybe her age. Wiry build under a wool coat patched at the elbows. Pale eyes that darted between the page and the supplies like he was memorizing both. He didn’t look up right away. He finished a line, capped the pen, and turned his head slightly toward her.

“You’re Lena.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”

He didn’t offer his name in return, but she caught it a moment later when the nurse called across the room: “Jakub, don’t let me forget to mark the syringes separately. We’ll lose count again.”

Jakub. So this was the one Basia had mentioned, the one who didn’t talk much but saw everything.

He closed the ledger and looked at her more fully now, eyes assessing but not unkind. “You’ve done five runs?”

“Seven,” she corrected. “Four last month. Three in the past ten days.”

He nodded once, filing that away.

“You’re not from here.”

“Yes and no.” She shook her head. “Brooklyn.”

That gave him pause. “And you came back?”

“My father sent me in ’35. To live with family.” Her voice stayed even. “He thought it would be safer.”

Jakub’s eyes didn’t waver. “It isn’t.”

“I noticed.”

Something in the corner of his mouth twitched, not a smile, exactly, but the ghost of one.

“You could’ve walked away. After the first time.”

“I know.”

He tilted his head. “But you haven’t.”

“Couldn't.” Lena shrugged, not with indifference but with finality. “There’s work to be done.”

That, it seemed, was the right answer.

Jakub didn’t nod again. He simply moved aside and handed her the pen. She didn’t ask what he wanted her to log. She just wrote the items from memory, down to the wax wrapping and the number of needle points.

“Good memory,” he said as she handed it back.

“Comes from reading lists. And ration ledgers.”

He didn’t speak again, but she felt his eyes on her as she crossed back toward the satchel. There was no suspicion in his gaze. Just acknowledgement.

She was here.

She was useful.

She would be back.

As she stepped outside into the dusk, snow catching in her lashes, the cellar door clicked shut behind her like the closing of a vault. She exhaled and pulled her coat tighter.

Only then did she realize the street had fallen silent.

A soldier stood at the corner, leaning just slightly into her path. Young. Blonde. Clean uniform. Rifle at his side.

“Where are you coming from?” he asked in clipped Polish.

Lena’s stomach lurched. She kept her face blank.

“Dress shop,” she said, nodding toward the shuttered storefront. “Mending an old coat.”

The soldier’s eyes drifted to her hands, still dusty from the crates.

“You’re out late.”

“I lost track of time,” she said, careful not to speak too fast. “I couldn't find thread.”

Her voice wavered, not theatrically, but just enough. Just real enough.

He squinted at her for a beat too long.

Then he waved her off.

Lena turned quickly, boots crunching over snow and gravel, forcing herself not to run until she reached the alley.

She ducked behind a stone stoop, one hand bracing the cold wall, and heaved into the gutter.

Her fingers shook. Her breath stung.

She waited until the bile left her throat, wiped her mouth with her sleeve, and straightened her spine.

Get used to it Lena. Stop being afraid. She chastised herself over and over until she stopped shaking.

By the time she walked through the back door of the house her face was clean.

Her voice steady.

Another delivery made.

Another day survived. 

The snow had thinned into ice-dusted grime by the time Lena passed through the outer blocks of the district, boots crunching softly on the frozen stones. Her satchel bounced against her hip, nearly empty now. The next infirmary drop had gone smoothly. No names, no chatter. Just bandages, a nod from the nurse, and Jakub’s pale, unreadable glance as he marked her delivery on the ledger.

Now she was cutting through the back lanes of Nowolipki to meet Basia. One more checkpoint, one more alley. Home could wait.

She adjusted the scarf at her neck and glanced down at her sleeve, where the pale blue Star of David armband had begun to fray at the corners. Mandatory. Shame stitched in public thread. Her own coat felt heavier each time she wore it.

A German patrol turned the corner ahead, two soldiers. Helmets, rifles, cigarette smoke clinging to their coats.

Lena kept walking.

One of them didn’t notice her. The other did.

He peeled off from his partner like a shadow breaking from a wall. Broad-shouldered. Angular face. Pale eyes that curved upward when he smiled. She knew him. Not by name, but by type and by memory.

Miła Street. The raid.

He had shoved a woman to the ground and laughed when her shopping bag split open like a crushed insect. That smile, slow and toothy, like he was amused by the noise of people breaking.

She looked down, kept her pace even.

He stepped in front of her.

“Immer noch spät draußen, hübsches Jüdchen?”

Still out late, pretty little Jew?

Lena stopped.

Her throat went dry.

She didn’t flinch, not visibly, but her fingers curled inward inside her gloves.

“I’m on my way home,” she said in careful Polish.

His gaze dropped to her armband, then lingered, too long, on her mouth. “Home,” he repeated, almost mocking the way she said it. “Such a shame to cover a face like that with a ragged old patch.”

Lena didn’t move. Didn’t answer.

He stepped closer. The street behind her had gone quiet.

“You’ve got a soft voice. Bet it’s sweeter when you ask nicely.” He reached out, not quite touching, just brushing the air near her sleeve.

Every hair on her body went stiff.

Lena spoke low, steady: “It’s almost curfew.”

He smiled wider. “Then you should probably run along, ja?”

She didn’t run.

She walked.

Even as her breath turned to smoke in front of her, even as her heart thundered in her ribs like a second pair of boots.

She didn’t stop until she reached the butcher’s alley where Basia waited in the dark.

Basia took one look at her and didn’t ask questions.

Lena pressed her hands flat to the brick wall, trying to will the shiver out of her spine. Her scarf was still damp with sweat. She didn’t want to speak. But she had to.

“He stopped me,” she said, voice low. “From Miła Street. A soldier.”

Basia’s brow darkened. “Did he follow?”

“No. But he... recognized me. Not just that. He—”

Lena exhaled sharply. “He called me pretty. Pretty little Jew. Said I must sound sweeter when if ask nicely.”

Basia closed her eyes for a beat. Then opened them with a look that could split stone.

“You didn’t speak to him before this?”

“No. Never. Not even during the raid.”

“Some just watch. And wait.” Basia muttered it like a curse. “Some of them... they enjoy the waiting.”

Lena’s hands had begun to tremble. “I don’t think he’s going to forget.”

“No,” Basia said quietly. “He won’t.”

She took a step closer and looked her square in the face.

“Listen to me. This isn’t about papers. Or forged names. This is about being a woman in a city full of uniforms who think we belong to them. You understand?”

Lena nodded once. Tight. Almost ashamed of how much she understood.

Basia’s voice gentled, not soft, but precise. “You need to stay invisible, especially to men like that. No extra trips. No extra glances. If he stops you again... you keep your hands where he can see them. You give him nothing. And you walk away.”

“I did,” Lena said, but it sounded hollow now.

Basia struck the match with a hiss. “If he looks at you like that again... you don't wait to find out why.”

Lena didn’t need to ask what that meant.

But she took the cigarette.

The stove gave off little heat, the fire inside dying down to stubborn embers. Abraham sat in his usual chair, eyes fixed on the small heap of potatoes stacked neatly in a basket by the pantry door. Lena had brought them home two nights ago, casually claiming they'd been given by a neighbor who owed a favor. He hadn't challenged the lie, just nodded once, gaze heavy, unreadable. Now, every time she walked past, Lena felt the silent weight of his suspicion following her steps.

At the table, Chana methodically folded rags, stacking and restacking as though the motion itself might somehow mend the growing holes in the family’s fabric. She glanced up at Lena, who stood near the doorway, pulling off her coat and gloves with numb fingers. Chana said nothing, but her lips pursed tight enough to hold back words she couldn't say. She turned her gaze downward again, fingers tightening on the fabric.

Josek watched from his corner seat, arms crossed tightly over his chest, jaw set. He had been sullen since Lena started arriving late and leaving early, the simmering anger beneath his quiet posture growing clearer every day. She didn't blame him for it. He carried resentment like armor now, shielding himself from hopes he was certain she'd shatter.

Lena turned from them all, moving quietly to the other room, brushing frost from her sleeves. The silence stretched like a thread pulled taut.

She stopped abruptly in the small bedroom where Chaim sat curled against the wall, his small frame outlined by moonlight that sliced through the single window. His thin finger traced a jagged crack in the plaster, up and down, a steady, anxious rhythm.

Lena knelt quietly beside him, touching his shoulder gently. He jumped at first, startled, then melted back into stillness.

“It’s late,” she whispered.

“I can’t sleep,” Chaim murmured, his voice barely audible, hoarse from days of saying almost nothing at all.

“Bad dreams?”

Chaim shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving the cracked plaster. “No dreams,” he whispered. “Just…waiting.”

Lena swallowed, a sudden tightness in her chest. She understood waiting. They all did.

“What are you waiting for?” she asked softly.

His finger paused mid-stroke. “For it to stop,” he whispered. “All of it.”

Lena took a slow breath and sat down beside him, drawing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them, mirroring his posture.

“It won’t be forever,” she said gently, though she knew the words sounded hollow. “Someday it will stop.”

He finally looked up at her, eyes wide, shadowed. “How do you know?”

She didn’t. Not really. But it wasn't certainty he needed, just enough hope to get through tonight.

“Because nothing lasts forever, darling boy. Not good things. Not bad things. Everything changes.”

He nodded slightly, unconvinced, and turned back to the wall, fingertip resuming its slow, anxious path.

Lena watched him a moment more, then began humming softly, without really deciding to do it, just something automatic, born from a deep, forgotten instinct. A lullaby Esther had sung, that Lena’s own voice remembered more clearly than her conscious mind ever could.

Remembering the comfort it brought her, when she was just a child, crossing the ocean to a new home. Sick and worried, her mother stroked her hair and drowned out the noise of the ocean with a song.

The notes filled the quiet, rising and falling gently, softly curling around the room like smoke.

Slowly, Chaim’s finger stopped tracing. His shoulders relaxed, fractionally at first, then more noticeably. Lena continued to hum, her voice soft, almost lost in the night’s silence, unaware that the gentle notes traveled beyond this room.

She didn’t know Josek had turned toward the doorway, his hard-set jaw loosening for the first time in days. She didn’t see Chana’s hands grow still over her folded rags, her eyes briefly closing as though she might finally rest. She couldn’t feel Abraham, who had leaned back slightly in his chair, tension loosening from his back as he listened without seeming to listen at all.

The house itself seemed to breathe more freely. Just for a moment, the creaking walls and thin windows were not barriers to fear, but to grief. It was Lena’s voice, calm, warm, unknowingly threaded with something deeper, that filled the space where tension had settled.

Only when Chaim’s head gently sank against her shoulder, eyelids fluttering closed, did Lena let her song fade away.

He slept, finally, breathing evenly and peacefully.

Lena sat still, not yet ready to move.

“You shouldn’t promise him things,” Josek said quietly from the doorway. Lena glanced over to see him watching her with unreadable eyes, the anger softened but not entirely gone. “You shouldn’t promise when you can’t know for sure.”

She didn’t answer immediately, gently shifting Chaim to the small mattress and covering him carefully. Only once she stood did she face Josek directly.

“Sometimes it’s not about knowing,” she said quietly. “It’s just about getting through.”

Josek looked down, jaw tightening briefly, then relaxing again. “He’ll just ask again tomorrow.”

“Then tomorrow,” she said simply, “we’ll find another answer.”

He said nothing more, but she saw the tightness around his eyes ease a bit. Lena stepped past him back toward the main room, passing Chana, who still sat with her fabric, eyes lowered, and Abraham, who seemed lost in thought, eyes no longer fixed bitterly on the potatoes.

They didn’t confront her about her late nights, her extra potatoes, or her quiet lies. But she knew, they all knew, something had shifted. Not acceptance, exactly, but an uneasy acknowledgment that whatever Lena was doing might just keep them alive a bit longer.

And for now, that was enough.

BROOKLYN, NEW YORK - WINTER 1940

The snow had fallen earlier, just enough to dust the sidewalks in a thin, brittle layer of white. It crunched beneath worn boots and wheeled carts, muffled the sound of passing voices, made everything seem just a little farther away.

Bucky sat on the third step from the bottom, his elbows resting on his knees, coat collar turned up against the cold. Becca was beside him, tugging at the laces of her new boots, thick leather, real soles, too big still, but she’d grow into them.

“I still think they make my feet look like a horse’s,” she grumbled, nose wrinkling. “Couldn’t you get me something less…barn-shaped?”

Steve snorted from the top step, leaning back on his hands. “Kid, you’ve never even seen a barn.”

Becca stuck her tongue out at him. “I’ve seen pictures.”

“Well,” Steve replied, solemn, “if those boots ever gallop away on their own, I’ll lasso ‘em for you.”

She rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at her lips. “You’re both ridiculous.”

“You love it,” Steve said easily.

Bucky didn’t say anything. He hadn’t said much all day.

Becca leaned her shoulder into his for a second. “Thanks for the boots, Jimmy.”

He nodded, barely, eyes still fixed on the street.

She stood and brushed off her skirt. “I’m going in. Ma’s making stew.”

“Tell her we'll be in soon,” Steve said.

Bucky didn’t respond. Becca hesitated, glanced at him, then at Steve, and disappeared inside.

The door clicked shut behind her.

For a while, the only sound was the creak of the wooden steps beneath them and the far-off echo of the elevated train. A kid down the block laughed as he threw a snowball at a lamppost. The light didn’t flicker.

“You alright?” Steve asked softly.

Bucky let out a short breath. “Yeah.”

Steve didn’t push. He just waited.

After a minute, Bucky spoke again, low, like the words had been sitting in his chest for weeks, finally working their way out.

“I spent it all,” he said.

Steve looked over. “What?”

“The savings,” Bucky said, still staring straight ahead. “The money we were setting aside to bring her back. I spent it.”

Steve’s brows drew together, but he said nothing.

“She told me to,” Bucky added. “In her last letter. She said I should spend it on the girls. On myself.” His voice caught slightly. “So I did. I bought Alice a new coat. Got Becca the boots. Even got Ma a bottle of that fancy hair oil she likes.”

Steve waited, sensing there was more.

“And none of it made me feel any better.”

The words came out flat. Tired.

Steve exhaled slowly. “It wasn’t supposed to.”

Bucky looked over at him, and there was something haunted in his eyes. “She made me promise I wouldn’t enlist. That I’d live. But I’m not sure I know how to without her.”

The cold bit at their fingers, their ears. The city buzzed quietly in the distance, indifferent.

Steve took a long pause. Then said simply, “You’re doing it, Buck. Even if it doesn’t feel like it.”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He just rubbed his thumb along the edge of his glove, as if trying to smooth out the ache beneath his skin.

“I keep thinking about her laugh,” he said finally.

Steve looked over.

“That stupid laugh she did when she thought something was really funny. Like she was trying not to, but couldn’t help herself. You remember?”

Steve smiled faintly. “Yeah. Like that time you nearly tripped over that fruit cart only to knock over me over instead.”

A breath of something like a laugh escaped Bucky’s nose. “She was always like that. Funny without meaning to be.”

Steve was quiet.

“I keep hearing it sometimes. Not really, but...you know. Like it’s still in the air somewhere. And I think, if I ever stop hearing it, if I forget the sound of it, then that’s it. She’s gone.”

Steve didn’t try to offer comfort this time. He just sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and let the silence speak for both of them.

He stared out at the dark, snow-dusted street. Then, quieter:

“I don’t even know if she’s still alive, Steve.”

Steve didn’t answer right away.

“I think about those bombings. The news. The silence after. I keep wondering, if she was in one of those buildings. If she was standing too close to the wrong corner, or trying to get food for her cousins, or just... there.”

His jaw tightened. “And I hate myself, because sometimes I want to believe she’s already gone. Just so I can stop wondering every goddamn day.”

Steve’s voice was steady, but soft. “You don’t have to stop wondering. That’s how we hold on.”

Bucky didn’t look at him. Just nodded once, almost imperceptibly.

“I just want her to come home.”

Steve’s voice was quiet, but firm. “It’s not your fault, Buck.”

“I know. Doesn’t stop it from feeling like it is.”

Steve nudged his shoulder gently. “She wouldn’t want you carrying that.”

Bucky gave a humorless smile. “Yeah, well. She doesn’t get a say right now, does she?”

Steve didn’t have an answer for that.

The snow began falling again, soft and slow.

“I miss her,” Bucky said, barely more than a whisper.

Steve didn’t say me too. He didn't need too. They both felt the ache of their messing tether. He just sat beside him, and let the silence speak for both of them.

Eventually, the window above them lit with the warm glow of a kitchen lamp. Becca’s shadow moved behind the glass.

Bucky stood, brushing snow from his coat.

“I’ll be in soon,” he said, out loud for Becca’s benefit. His voice was steady again.

Steve nodded, and followed a few steps behind.

Behind them, the snow kept falling, gentle and unyielding. Covering old footprints. Waiting for spring.

The train yard was nearly silent by nightfall, save for the distant groan of metal and the wind biting through broken slats of fencing. Lena kept close behind Basia as they moved through the frost-laced lot, boots crunching on gravel. A distant shadow crossed near the tracks, one of the couriers, a boy no older than Ruta, slipping a package beneath a broken pallet and vanishing without a word.

No one spoke loudly here. Not anymore.

Basia stopped near the remains of an old coal shed, her breath forming clouds in the cold. She lit a cigarette with practiced ease and offered the flame to Lena, who shook her head.

For a moment, they just stood there. Watching. Listening.

Then, softly, Basia said, “Some of the girls’ve started going further.”

Lena looked over, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Patrols,” Basia added. “There are patterns. A soldier alone, always cutting through the same alley. Always looking. It doesn’t take much. A glance. A soft voice. A blush and a stumble.”

She didn’t finish the thought. She didn’t have to.

Lena swallowed. “And then what?”

Basia exhaled, eyes fixed on the horizon. “Then he’s gone. Disappeared. Clothes stripped for barter. Weapon passed along. Body dumped in a place no one checks twice.”

Lena’s mouth was dry.

“They pick soldiers who’ve been cruel. Predators. No one mourns them.” Basia turned her head, eyes like flint in the darkness. “No one asks.”

A beat of silence stretched between them.

“I’m not asking you,” Basia said. “Not now. But it’ll come up again. They always come back to girls like you.”

Lena went still. The wind tugged at her scarf, and her fingers curled around the frayed edge. The corner of her coat brushed the inside of her thigh where the knife lay hidden in its lining, cool, silent, and solid against her skin.

“No,” she said, voice quiet but firm.

Basia didn’t flinch. Just nodded once. “Alright.”

She took a long drag from her cigarette, the ember briefly illuminating the lines around her eyes. “When you’re ready. You’ll know.”

They didn’t say goodbye. Lena peeled away from her down a side street, boots kicking up flakes of frost, shadows shifting like ghosts across shuttered shopfronts.

She turned the corner onto Gęsia Street and paused, just for a breath.

There it was again, the corner where the soldier had stood. The one with the smile that lingered too long. The one who had touched the sleeve of her coat like it was a game. There was no one there now, but Lena felt it in the air. The imprint of danger.

She reached into her coat slowly. Just enough to feel the knife’s handle beneath the layers of cloth. She didn’t draw it. Didn’t need to.

She just needed to remember it was there.

And keep walking.

Chapter Text

but i know just what i do

WARSAW, POLAND - EARLY SPRING 1940

The air in the house felt thin that evening, as if the walls themselves had shrunk inwards from the cold and silence. Lena stepped through the door, shaking the damp from her boots, but no one looked up. The fire in the stove was out. Chana was seated near the window, darning something that wasn’t really torn, her fingers moving slow and distracted. Abraham’s chair creaked faintly as he shifted, pencil scratching over ration papers. Josek stared at the floorboards like they might split open and give him a reason to move.

Chaim sat hunched over the little radio set, which hadn’t picked up anything in weeks.

It was too quiet.

Lena’s gaze swept the room again. One was missing.

“Where’s Ruta?” she asked, trying to keep her voice even. She shrugged off her coat, heart already starting to beat harder.

Chana didn’t answer. Abraham exhaled through his nose. It was Josek who tilted his head toward the stairs.

“She came in a little while ago,” he muttered. “Didn’t say anything.”

Lena followed his gaze, and climbed the stairs to Ruta's bedroom, their shared room since the bombs had damaged her attic bedroom.

Ruta was curled in bed, back pressed against the wall, knees tucked to her chest. Her coat was still on, though the buttons were undone. Her hair, normally braided with care, was loose and tangled. A smear of dirt crossed one cheek. A rip in her stocking. 

Lena knelt slowly, careful not to startle her. “Ruta?”

No answer.

She reached out and gently touched the girl’s sleeve. Ruta flinched, not violently, but enough. Her eyes were wide and red-rimmed, and when they met Lena’s, it was like looking at a stranger through glass.

“I’m here,” Lena said softly. “It's alright. What happened?”

Ruta blinked hard, as if trying to believe it.

“I went out to trade,” she whispered, sitting up. “Just to see if anyone had soap… for Chaim.”

Her voice cracked, and she pressed her mouth shut. Her hands were scraped. One wrist was ringed faintly in red, like she'd been grabbed hard and let go just as quickly.

Lena’s throat tightened. She tucked her skirt beneath her and sat beside Ruta, shoulder to shoulder, anchoring them both. “Did someone hurt you?”

Ruta looked down. “He said I was pretty. That I looked clean. He laughed when I said I had to go home.”

The words tumbled out in fragments, halting and thin. Lena didn’t press. Just listened. She pieced it together from the broken rhythm.

A soldier.

The one she’d seen before, the one who lingered too long and smiled like it was a threat. His patrol covered their street. If she had to guess. 

“He said I was lucky he didn’t take more,” Ruta whispered. “He said… he liked that I didn’t scream. Walked me home. Said he'd come back, tomorrow.”

Lena didn’t realize her hands were fists until her nails bit into her palms. She forced them open. She smoothed Ruta’s hair, tucking it behind her ear. “He won’t come back,” she said quietly, though she wasn’t sure if it was a promise or a prayer. “I'll handle it.”

Ruta didn’t respond. Her small frame sagged a little against Lena’s side. “Don't tell papa, please.”

“I won't.”

Lena helped her to her feet, guided her to the bathroom. She undid her braid, combing it with her fingers until it was knot free, and then redid the braid, nice and neat. Lena took a wash cloth and gently cleaned the dirt from her cheek. Cleaned the scrape on her jaw she didn't see until now. 

She helped her out of her clothes, tossing the torn stockings, no matter how wasteful it seemed. With a subtle look over, Lena found minor relief that it seemed as that Ruta wasn't majorly injured, just handled roughly with the threat of more.

He apparently liked to terrorize his prey first. Who threatened to come back. To do worse. 

After she was clean, and the silence stretched on, she led Ruta back to bed, and laid her down. Lena sat beside her until her breath evened out.

She didn’t speak to Abraham. Didn’t tell Chana.

There was no point.

There was nothing they could do. No justice in the courts, no safety in the streets. The Judenrat wouldn’t help. The Germans certainly wouldn’t.

Lena waited until the room had settled into sleep.

Then she sat in the kitchen alone, back to the stove, staring at the dark.

Her hands were still shaking.

She didn’t sleep.

And outside, beyond the walls of the shrinking house, spring whispered in with a cold breath, mud and smoke and blooming violence.

The sky was a murky gray by the time Lena reached the bakery. The shutters were still drawn, the door bolted. A smear of frost clung to the window glass, though the snow had mostly melted into a thin sheen of mud across the street. She stood there for a beat, the cold seeping into her boots, until the side door opened.

Basia didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at her.

Lena stepped inside, her hands tucked deep into her coat. She hadn’t brought the bread delivery today.

“I need to talk to you,” she said. Her voice didn’t waver.

Basia gestured toward the back, where sacks of flour were stacked in uneven columns and a coil of twine hung from a nail. A faint smell of yeast clung to the air, despite the ovens being cold.

They sat on two upturned crates. Lena didn’t bother with pleasantries.

“The soldier, he's going to come back,” she said flatly. “To the house. For my cousin.”

Basia’s face was still. “The soldier?”

Lena nodded. “The same one from Miła Street. I recognized him. He followed her during curfew last night. Touched her. Hurt her. She’s only sixteen.”

There was a long silence. Basia lit a cigarette. The flare of the match was the only burst of light in the dim storeroom.

“Did she tell anyone else?” Basia asked.

“No,” Lena said. “She didn’t want to. I didn’t either. I just—” She exhaled slowly. “I want to end this. Before he can do it again. Do something worse. To her. To anyone.”

Basia stared at her for a moment longer, then gave a slow, heavy nod. “There’s a spot two blocks north of the station. Bombed-out row house, half the second floor still standing. No foot traffic at night. You lure him there, and handle it. We'll help you after.”

“We?”

“I’ll send Jakub.”

Lena didn’t ask why Jakub. She didn’t care. All that mattered was that it would be over.

Basia passed the lit cigarette to Lena and then went to dig around in crates. She rooted around in a bag of flour before pulling out a small cloth bundle. She unwrapped it carefully: a pistol, compact and dull, with two rounds loaded.

“Only if you need to,” she said. “If something goes wrong. It's loud, will draw attention. Best to use your knife. You remember what I taught you?” Basia paused and then reached over, fingers digging into her ribs. Pinpointing the spot she taught Lena to jam a knife into.

Lena nodded but stared at the gun. It looked smaller than she expected. Lighter. She didn’t reach for it.

“I’m not trained.”

“Then don’t aim unless you mean to use it.” Basia’s voice was gentler now. “And don’t wait too long.”

Lena finally took it. The cold metal felt strange in her hand, too smooth, too foreign. She folded the cloth around it again and slipped it into the pocket inside her coat, the same one she’d stitched for money, then for food. Now this.

“Thank you,” she said.

Basia shook her head. “Don’t thank me. Just don't get killed.”

Lena stood. Her jaw was tight, but her hands were steady. “He said he liked that she didn’t scream.”

That was all she said before turning toward the door.

Outside, the frost had started to thaw. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell rang once, muffled by the damp. Lena didn’t look back.

She walked the long way home.

Tonight, she would wait.

And when he came, it would be her he found instead.

The night air clung like damp wool, thick with woodsmoke and melting frost. Lena stood just beyond the gate, back pressed to the crumbling stone wall, Ruta’s scarf knotted loosely around her neck. It still smelled faintly like her cousin, ash, soap, something sweet. She hadn’t asked to borrow it.

The silence was sharp tonight. Too quiet for Warsaw.

She held her breath when the sound finally came: the measured crunch of boots over frost, slow and careful. Not marching, creeping. Watching. Like a man who thought he was about to get away with something.

She didn’t move.

Then came the voice. Low, coaxing. “Mała dziewczynka…” he crooned. “Come out, little mouse. I know you're here.”

Her stomach churned.

Lena stepped out from the shadows.

His eyes flicked to her immediately, dark in the low light. Surprise first. Then a slow grin spread across his mouth, sharp and greedy. He recognized her. From the market. From the checkpoint. From every moment she had prayed he wouldn’t look too long.

“Not a little mouse,” she said quietly. “Older. Easier.” She tilted her chin, voice flat. “You don’t want trouble. You want quiet.”

He looked her up and down, like he was weighing something. “Du sprichst gut,” he murmured. “Pretty and smart. Much better.”

She didn’t flinch when he reached for her arm.

His hand landed heavy, fingers curling around her elbow. “You’re shaking,” he said in Polish, almost a purr.

“I’m cold,” Lena lied. “You coming or not?”

He chuckled. “Lead the way.”

She turned. Didn’t rush. Didn’t look back.

The alley behind Zielna Street was narrow and half-collapsed, one of the many Basia had shown her. There was a hole in the wall, bricks knocked loose by a winter frost, and just beyond it, a pit behind a burned-out butcher. That’s where Jakub would be waiting. That’s where this would end.

They passed the hole in the fence. She let him touch her waist.

Just a little further.

“Such a pretty Jew,” he said suddenly, fingers tugging her scarf. The scarf Bucky made her.

Her skin crawled.

He reached for her hip next, lower.

Lena let out an angry hiss but the boy must have taken it as a signal for more, trying to slide his hands up her shirt. Swallowing her bile, Lena’s hand fumbled as she pulled the blade from her pocket. 

For a brief moment, Lena thought he caught onto her, he paused but grinded himself against her other hand and groaned in her ear. Steeling herself, she took a breath, disguised at what she hoped was an enthusiastic sound. 

That’s when she moved.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t even clean. She yanked the knife from her pocket and drove it toward his side, but he grabbed her wrist. They struggled, he was stronger, taller, and for one dizzy second she thought he’d laugh again, that he’d win.

Then she twisted her hand and got the blade in under his ribs.

He choked. A wet gasp.

Lena yanked the knife back and stabbed again, once, twice, until he collapsed against the alley wall, sliding down into the slush and soot. His hands scrabbled weakly at her coat. He tried to speak, but only blood came.

He gargled and gasped, taking a staggering step back from her, frothy blood bubbling over his lips. Lena jumped forward, clamping her hand over his mouth, lowering his body to the ground. 

She staggered back, chest heaving.

She watched as he struggled, eyes wide in disbelief and then, just his empty eyes. Lena swallowed and tried to reach inside of herself to find an emotion. 

Disgust. Anger. Fear, no blinding terror. Pride. They churned around in her gut as she watched a Nazi bleed out in front of her. 

Was killing bad men the answer? Did she lower herself to their level by resorting to killing? The question clawed up her throat. 

The alley was still again.

Only the wet rasp of his breath remained, and then, not even that.

Lena stumbled behind the broken wall and vomited. Her hands were red, her knees soaked in muck and blood. She wiped her face with the back of her sleeve, breath hitching.

Lena stood over him for what felt like hours, her breath clouding faintly in the early morning air. Her knife still hung from her hand, slick and shaking, like it wasn’t sure what to do now that the worst had already happened.

Then she heard footsteps. Not boots, lighter, quicker.

Jakub emerged from the shadows of the alley, his face unreadable. His coat was open despite the cold, a wool cap pulled low over his forehead. He stopped a few paces away and looked down at the soldier’s body, then up at her.

“You alright?”

It wasn’t pity in his voice. Not even concern. Just a question. One she could answer honestly or lie through her teeth.

“I didn’t use the gun,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “I couldn’t risk the sound.”

Jakub nodded once, already kneeling to check the soldier’s pockets. “Good.”

Lena turned away as he worked, swallowing down the nausea rising in her throat again.

“First one?” he asked quietly.

She nodded. “You?”

He didn’t look up. “Enough.”

A pause.

“First didn’t go as clean either.”

She wasn’t sure if he was saying that for her sake or his. Either way, she was grateful.

Jakub stood, slinging a stained canvas tarp from his satchel. “Help me roll him.”

The body was heavier than she expected.

Not because of size, he wasn’t a large man, but because of what he meant. Of what she’d done. Of the sheer dead weight of it all.

Her hands moved before her mind caught up. They rolled the body together, one limb at a time, wrapping him like meat in paper. Her knuckles grazed his neck, still warm. She flinched.

Jakub noticed. “You don't have to touch the face,” he said gently. “No one likes that part.” He didn't ask for Lena's help as he stripped the soldier of anything useful. Most went into his bag, other things too big and obvious to carry, he stashed around the bombed out building, ready to be found later.

They tied the tarp shut with two lengths of wire. Lena pulled her sleeves down to cover the blood smudging her wrists. Her stomach still churned, but her hands had stopped shaking. Maybe that was worse.

“There’s a coal chute around the corner,” Jakub said. “Abandoned. We’ll dump him there.”

“Someone might find him.”

“Someone always finds them,” he said. “But not for a while.”

Lena nodded. Jakub grabbed one end of the tarp, she the other. Together, they lifted.

It took minutes to reach the chute. The sky was beginning to bruise with dawn, bleeding soft pinks over the soot-streaked buildings. They didn’t speak as they moved through the streets, only kept to the shadows, dodging patrol routes, heads low.

When they reached the chute, Jakub pried the rusted hatch open with a crowbar. It groaned like a dying animal. The smell of old ash and rot wafted up.

“On three,” he said.

They dropped the body into the dark.

It landed with a sickening thud, swallowed by shadow.

Lena leaned over, breath catching. She thought she might vomit again. Jakub held her arm, steadying her without a word.

They stood like that for a long moment, her bent forward, breathing hard, him just… there. Not hovering. Not consoling. Just anchoring her to the moment without making her name it.

Finally, Lena straightened.

Jakub reached into his coat and handed her a small flask. “Brandy,” he offered. “Don’t drink much.”

She hesitated. Took it. Sipped. Coughed.

“Burns,” she said.

“Good.”

They sat on a low stone wall, the kind half-eaten by moss and time. Lena tucked her coat tighter around herself. Jakub lit a cigarette and didn’t offer one.

After a beat, he said, “You did it good.”

She stared straight ahead. “I fumbled.”

“You followed through. That’s what matters.”

Silence again. A dog barked distantly in the Praga district. Somewhere, a bell chimed.

Jakub studied her from the corner of his eye. “Why this one? Wasn’t just any patrolman.”

Her jaw clenched. “He hurt someone I love.”

That was all she said. That was all she had to.

Jakub nodded once. “Understood.”

They sat a little longer. The wind picked up, and Lena could feel the stiffness setting into her joints.

Finally, Jakub flicked his cigarette away and stood.

“We walk back together,” he said.

Lena looked up at him, her brow furrowed. “Why?”

He met her gaze squarely.

“Because sometimes it’s easier after… not to be alone.”

Lena said nothing, but she stood and walked beside him anyway.

The sky was lighter now, the air colder.

But her step was steadier. 

The walk home was mostly silent.

Jakub kept a half-step behind her, letting the scrape of his boots on the frost-bitten stones serve as the only sound between them. Lena’s hands were shoved into her coat pockets, but she still felt the phantom weight of the knife pressing against her palm. The spot where he’d touched her shoulder earlier, to steady her, not comfort her, still tingled in the cold.

Neither of them said goodbye when they reached the corner near her street. He just paused, offered her a short nod, and turned into the alleyway.

Lena waited until she heard his footsteps fade completely before she moved.

Her fingers ached as she turned the latch on the door, shoulders hunched from more than the cold. The house was still, not peaceful, but paused, like the whole thing was holding its breath. She stepped through the kitchen carefully, eyes adjusting to the dark. No creaking floorboards. No stirred voices.

Upstairs, the air was warmer, heavier with sleep. Or the pretense of it.

She padded quietly to the washbasin tucked in the corner near her room. Her fingers moved automatically: dampen cloth, wipe the dried blood from her wrist, from under her nails. Unfasten the inside pocket of her coat where the knife had been hidden. She ran the blade under the water and dried it with the edge of a pillowcase. Not because she was afraid someone would see it, but because it felt like something she should do. Something real. Something final.

The knife gleamed faintly in the moonlight through the thin attic window. Clean. Ordinary. Small.

Lena stared at it for a long time.

Then she slid it into the space between two boards under the floor.

When she finally crept down from the attic room, Ruta was already curled under the blanket, her small shoulders rigid in sleep. Or maybe not sleep. Lena couldn’t tell.

She eased down onto the floor beside her, her limbs sore, her breath shallow. Her chest felt too tight to exhale, like if she let herself breathe she might collapse into sobs she hadn’t allowed yet. So she stayed still.

After a moment, Ruta shifted, just enough for her hand to brush against Lena’s.

Lena took it gently, curling her fingers around Ruta’s smaller ones. She waited a few more seconds, listening to the ticking silence. Then she whispered:

“He won’t come back.”

Ruta didn’t answer, but her grip tightened.

Lena leaned forward, her lips near her cousin’s ear, and said it again, firmer this time, but quiet. Steady.

“You don’t have to be afraid of him anymore.”

She didn’t say what she’d done. She didn’t say what it cost her.

But she felt Ruta relax by degrees, the tension uncoiling from her body the way steam drifted off a cup of tea.

Lena didn’t cry.

She just lay there, staring at the ceiling, one hand tucked protectively around Ruta’s, the other curled against her own chest where her heart still hammered.

In the dark, she tried to picture Brooklyn. The pier. Bucky’s laugh, half-muffled by the sea wind. The way Steve's sketchbook always had charcoal smudges along the edges, like he couldn’t help touching what he drew.

She used to think of them and feel tethered, like if she could just hold those memories tight enough, they’d pull her home.

But tonight… she couldn’t see their faces as clearly. And that scared her more than anything.

Would Bucky even recognize her now? Would Steve?

Would they still see Lena, or just the sharpness she’d had to grow around herself like armor? Would they understand the things she’d done, not for glory, not even for justice, but because there was no other choice? 

Would they still love her?

She had lured a man to die. She had let him touch her just long enough to kill him.

She had watched the light go out of his eyes.

And she hadn’t run.

She helped drag his body. Come home. Cleaned the knife. Washed his blood from her hands. And now she lay beside a sleeping girl like nothing had changed. 

But everything had.

She didn’t regret it.

But she knew she’d never be the same.

And neither would the world.

Chapter Text

devil, you call me 

WARSAW, POLAND - SPRING 1940

The sky was too bright for what the day would bring.

Lena didn’t notice it at first, only that the sun was out and Ruta wanted to come along. That alone felt like progress.

They hadn’t gone far. Just to the next neighborhood over, to trade a small tin of painkillers for bread and pick up a bundle of gauze. Ruta stayed close the entire time, nearly brushing Lena’s sleeve with every step, eyes darting like she expected the soldier from before to appear from every alley. But she didn’t ask to go home early. She didn’t freeze up when they passed a checkpoint. She even whispered a thank-you to the older woman who gave them half a loaf of rye.

They were almost back when Lena first sensed it, something wrong in the air, beyond the usual smoke and fear.

There were no children playing near the corner. No footsteps echoing in the stairwell. The windows on their street were shut like eyelids bracing for pain.

“Lena?” Ruta’s voice was thin.

Lena didn’t answer. She pulled Ruta against one of the neighbors' sheds just as the sharp crack of boots echoed down the road.

German soldiers. Five, maybe six. Rifles out, armbands sharp as blood against their sleeves. They were shouting in Polish and German both, herding people into the street, Jews. Neighbors. Families.

The door to her uncle’s house was already open.

Lena’s breath caught in her chest. She gripped Ruta’s arm so tightly the girl winced.

There was Abraham, his shoulders stiff, hands raised. Chana, clutching little Chaim to her chest. Josek with his chin up, refusing to cry.

A soldier barked something Lena couldn’t make out. Abraham didn’t move. The soldier repeated it.

Abraham shook his head.

And then it happened, so fast it almost didn’t register.

A single shot. Abraham’s body folded like paper.

Ruta gasped, tried to lunge forward, but Lena slammed her back against the wall and covered her mouth.

She couldn’t watch. But she did. She saw Chana scream, Josek step in front of Chaim, another crack, more blood. It was too fast. Too final.

The world narrowed to a point.

Lena held Ruta with both arms as the girl sobbed silently, her whole body shaking. She didn’t dare look again until the boots were gone and the screams were still.

When it was quiet, truly quiet, Lena didn’t move. Just held Ruta against the bricks and let the sun mock them with its warmth.

They didn’t move for a long time.

Not even after the boots were gone, after the street went still, after the last body hit the ground like meat dropped from a butcher’s hook.

Lena’s arms ached from holding Ruta back, but she didn’t loosen them. She was afraid if she did, Ruta would run toward what was left, and there would be no coming back from that.

That she'd join the rest of their family. 

Ruta trembled against her. Quiet now. Crying so hard she couldn’t make sound anymore, only little gasps that hitched in her throat.

“I—” Ruta finally managed, but her voice cracked apart.

Lena bent her head until their foreheads touched. Her breath was shallow. Cold sweat ran down her back.

“I know,” she whispered. “I know.”

They stayed hidden against the shed until the sun shifted and a crow landed on the broken fence across the street. It picked half-heartedly at a fallen loaf of bread before flying off again.

The world was still there. Indifferent. It made Lena want to scream.

She finally moved, gently unwrapping Ruta’s arms from around her waist. The girl was limp, dazed. She kept blinking like she was trying to wake up.

“We have to go,” Lena said softly. “Before they come back.”

Ruta didn’t answer. Her eyes were fixed somewhere past Lena’s shoulder. Somewhere behind her. At the house.

Lena turned to look.

The door was still open.

Blood soaked the threshold.

She turned back and cupped Ruta’s face, harder than necessary but she needed her to hear her. “Listen to me.”

Ruta’s mouth moved like she was going to speak, but no words came.

“They wouldn’t want us to die too. Do you hear me?” Lena said, firmer now. “They didn’t die so we could run into their bullets.”

“But—Chaim—he’s so little—”

“I know.”

Ruta broke again, curling in on herself with a strangled sound. Lena held her, rocked her, her own eyes burning, but no tears came. Her body was too focused on moving, surviving, getting them out.

Lena helped her stand. They crossed the street crouched low, staying to the edges. No one stopped them. No one was left. Just shuttered windows and red on the cobblestones.

Inside the house, the silence screamed.

The hallway was in chaos, drawers pulled open, broken cups on the floor, one of Chaim’s shoes kicked beneath the table.

She guided Ruta upstairs to her room, whispering instructions like she was speaking to a sleepwalker. “Get your scarf. Your good coat. Take only what fits in your pockets.”

Ruta moved like a ghost.

Lena quickly darted up to her attic room. The roof was too damaged for her to sleep there, but it hid her things well. She knelt by the bed and pulled up a loose board. From the space beneath, she retrieved a cloth bundle: a small stash of money, forged documents, Bucky’s mother's charm, the scarf he made her and an old photograph of her parents. 

They had survived everything, until now. She shoved them into her coat with shaking hands, feeling grateful that she sent things back to New York. She wouldn't have been able to shoulder the weight of anymore sentiments now.

She grabbed the small knife Basia had given her and tucked it into her boot.

When she stood and went back down the stairs, Ruta was still frozen by the window, staring at the rooftops like she expected her brother to appear across them.

“Ruta,” Lena said. “We have to go. Now.”

A pause.

Then, a nod. Just barely.

They left through the back alley. Lena didn’t look back.

She couldn’t.

The street was too quiet.

She gripped Ruta’s wrist, half-pulling, half-dragging her through the alley behind the butcher’s shop. The girl stumbled, breath catching on sobs that hadn’t fully broken through yet. Her shoes slapped the stones unevenly. A smear of dirt streaked her cheek, and her braid had come undone.

“Keep moving,” Lena hissed, trying not to sound as panicked as she felt.

“I want to go back,” Ruta cried. “We left them, Lena, we left them—”

Lena stopped so suddenly Ruta crashed into her. She caught the girl by both arms.

“We didn’t *leave* them,” Lena said, voice hoarse. “They’re gone. If we go back, we die too. Is that what you want?”

Ruta shook her head violently, but the tears were already spilling. Her breath hitched like a broken metronome. “They might still be—”

“No.” Lena’s voice cracked. “They’re not.”

Silence.

Then a fresh wave of sobs overtook Ruta, and Lena pulled her into her arms, cradling the back of her head like she used to do with Chaim. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. But we have to go now.”

The girl didn’t fight her after that.

They moved like shadows, ducking behind carts and fences, avoiding the open streets. Lena’s mind raced. She had to get them somewhere safe before curfew, before the same soldiers came looking again. Her lungs burned from holding her breath too long, her body still trembling from the gunshots echoing in her memory. Abraham’s shout. Chana’s cry. Josek and Chaim crumpling like paper—

Don’t think about it.

Just get her to Basia.

By the time they reached the back alley near Basia’s hideout, the sky had turned the color of ash. Lena knocked three times, then once more, sharp and quick. The door opened with a creak. A narrow face peered out.

Basia’s eyes swept over them, two girls, dirty and windblown, Ruta with blood on her sleeve that wasn’t hers. Lena with her fists still clenched.

“Inside,” Basia said without asking. She stepped back.

The door shut behind them with finality. The sound made Ruta jump.

“Kitchen,” Basia said briskly, already locking the bolts.

They sat in the small, dark room that smelled faintly of burnt sugar. A kettle hissed quietly on the stove. Ruta didn’t speak. She sat on a wooden stool, knees pulled to her chest, eyes fixed on the floor.

Basia poured two cups of hot water, no tea to speak of, but the warmth helped. Lena took hers with both hands, feeling it burn against her raw palms.

“They came for the house,” she said after a long silence. “We weren’t there. My uncle… he tried to fight. They shot him. The rest of them, too. I don’t know if anyone else was taken.”

Basia didn’t flinch. “I’m sorry,” she said simply.

Lena looked up. “Can you hide us?”

Basia nodded once. “You know I can.”

“And together,” Lena added quickly, urgently. “I won’t let her out of my sight.”

Basia glanced toward Ruta, then back at Lena. “I wouldn’t ask you to.”

That nearly undid her. Lena pressed her lips together, forcing the tears back. She hadn’t cried yet. She wasn’t sure she could.

“I have places,” Basia continued. “Families who owe me favors. One night here, then we move you. After that, we see what’s safe.”

Lena nodded. She felt hollow. Her tongue was dry in her mouth. Ruta sat curled in a far corner, knees to her chest, staring at nothing. 

Basia lit a small oil lamp and gestured for Lena to sit. “Come. Eat something.”

Lena didn’t move. Her voice, when it came, was cracked. “Is there anyone left?”

Basia paused at the box of rations. She didn’t lie. “Some. But fewer every day.”

Lena finally crossed the room and sat beside her, knees stiff. Her fingers trembled as she unwrapped a piece of bread Basia offered. She didn’t eat it, just held it.

“They didn’t even ask,” she said, barely above a whisper. “Didn’t give them a chance. They just—”

She couldn’t say it. Couldn’t speak their names. The image of Chana collapsing to the street replayed behind her eyes like a reel spun on repeat. Josek’s mouth opening to scream before the shot cut it short. Chaim’s arms flailing. Abraham’s body crumpling like a felled tree.

Basia looked over at Ruta. “She saw it?”

“She tried to run to them.” Lena shook her head. “I had to hold her down.”

The silence between them stretched.

Basia sat down on the floor beside her, folding her legs slowly. Her face was hard, but there was a weariness in the lines around her mouth. “I’m sorry, Lena.”

“We’re all sorry,” Lena said, quietly. Not cruelly. Just tired.

Basia didn’t flinch. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a flask. She took a sip, then handed it over.

“I can’t bring them back,” Lena whispered. “I know that. I know that.”

“No,” Basia agreed.

“But I can hurt them.”

This time, Basia didn’t respond. She only stared. Measured. Waiting.

Lena met her gaze. “Don’t look at me like I’m made of glass. I’m not. Not anymore.”

“I never thought you were,” Basia said.

Another silence. Deeper this time.

Then Basia leaned forward, her voice low, almost conspiratorial. “We’ve had… opportunities. Patrols that vanish. Men who wander off at night and don’t come back. Some have taken matters into their own hands, rather than wait to die.”

Lena’s breath caught.

“We don’t talk about it,” Basia added. “Not names. Not faces. But sometimes, it’s what has to be done. You see an opening, and you take it. Quiet. Final.”

Lena looked down at her hands. They were filthy. Blood under her nails that wasn’t hers. A scrape across her palm from where she’d fallen in the street, dragging Ruta behind her.

Basia continued, “I know what you’re capable of now. I knew before. But you’ve seen what this really is, haven’t you? It’s not going to stop. And none of us leave this city the way we entered it. Not anymore.”

Lena stared into the shadows cast by the lamp. Her voice was low. “I don’t want to be a killer.”

Basia leaned back. “You already are.”

Lena stared into the shadows cast by the lamp, the flickering glow deepening the hollows of her face. Her voice came out low, rough-edged with fatigue. “I never wanted this. To kill. To become, this.”

Basia leaned back, eyes steady. “None of us did. But now you've done it, and you'll do it again if you must. Because that's who we are now. Survivors.”

Lena’s fingers tightened around the edge of her coat, feeling the faint tremors still running beneath her skin. She didn’t regret the choice, she couldn’t, not when she thought about Ruta. But it didn’t make it easier to hold in her chest, that knowledge of what she was capable of.

“It changes things,” Lena murmured. “Changes me.”

“Good,” Basia said, quietly firm. “You needed changing. We all did. If we are meant to get out of here.”

Lena lifted her gaze, meeting Basia’s steady stare. She saw no judgment, only recognition, a silent acknowledgment of a shared burden.

Basia shifted slightly, voice dropping lower. “It’ll get easier, Lena. And if it doesn’t, well, at least you know you’re not alone. Whatever happens next, whatever you have to do, you won’t face it without me.”

The promise was simple, unsentimental, and it hit Lena with an unexpected wave of gratitude. She swallowed hard against the tightness in her throat, then nodded once.

“Thank you.”

Basia looked toward Ruta again. “She’ll need time. You both will.”

“I can’t give her that,” Lena said, and it broke her heart to say it. “We have to move. I have to work. I can’t sit in the dark and mourn.”

“Then don’t mourn,” Basia said. “Work in their name. Work in hers.”

Lena nodded. “Whatever you need. I’ll go out, I’ll run messages, whatever—”

“You’re already doing it,” Basia said, voice low. “And you’ll do more. But not tonight.”

Lena nodded again, then turned back to Ruta, who hadn’t moved.

She crouched beside her and whispered, “We’re safe now. Just for tonight. You can sleep.”

Ruta didn’t respond. Her fingers kept twitching in her lap.

Lena reached for her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I’ll stay with you.”

They curled up together on the narrow cot in the next room. Ruta pressed her face into Lena’s chest, silent now but still trembling. Lena held her close, her arms wrapped protectively around the girl’s small frame, but her eyes stayed open, fixed on a crack in the ceiling.

The room smelled like dust and oil. The old cot creaked beneath them. Somewhere nearby, a pipe ticked as it cooled.

Lena lay still, but the grief didn’t. It built slowly, a pressure behind her ribs, low and unbearable. The image kept flashing behind her eyes, Abraham reaching for the soldier’s rifle. Josek falling without a sound. Chaim’s tiny hand going limp. Chana shouting her children’s names. The thud of bodies hitting stone.

They were gone.

All of them.

She hadn't even liked Abraham half the time. He’d dismissed her at every turn, scolded her for working, for dreaming, for being too American. But he was family. He was hers. And they had done nothing wrong.

They weren’t in the resistance. They weren’t smuggling. They weren’t hiding anyone. They were just Jewish. That’s all it had taken. That was the crime. That was enough.

Lena’s jaw clenched so hard her teeth ached. She felt the weight of Ruta’s body against her, warm and solid and alive, and it only made the ache worse. They should all be alive.

It didn’t matter that they hadn’t always believed her. That they’d mocked her plans, shamed her choices. She would’ve protected them. She would’ve died for them. But she wasn’t there. She had gone out to buy potatoes and come home to an execution.

A tremor ran through her chest. She buried her face in Ruta’s hair, breathing in the faint smell of ash and soap. Her throat burned. She wanted to scream, to tear at the walls. But she couldn’t wake Ruta. She couldn’t fall apart. Not yet.

Instead, her tears came quiet and slow. She didn’t sob, there wasn’t enough air left in her lungs. Just a few salt tracks trailing down to her jaw.

She hated them for dying.

She hated herself more.

She’d hidden the extra bread, gathered the coins, made the contacts. She had trained to survive, to run, to fight. And she couldn’t stop this.

She could still feel the warmth of Chaim’s small hand from the night before. Could still hear Josek complaining about the cold, Chana humming over the stove.

She pressed her forehead against Ruta’s and mouthed the names in silence. A prayer, a curse, a vow. She didn’t know which.

Then, slowly, her breathing calmed. Not because the grief passed. It didn’t. But because grief had nowhere else to go.

She would carry it.

All of it.

The weeks blurred.

Lena moved like water between walls and alleys, shadows and cellars. She ran messages folded into cigarette boxes. She stashed pistols in the lining of a market basket. She hid ration coupons in her boots and tucked revolvers into piles of dried laundry.

Once, she helped drag a wounded partisan through three blocks of ruined buildings. His leg was bleeding so badly she slipped twice in it, her skirt soaked red. She didn’t flinch. Basia said nothing, just nodded once when Lena returned with the man still breathing.

Another time, she posed as a housemaid to deliver morphine sewn into a baby blanket. She made it back just before curfew, numb from the knees down, the blanket still damp from the child’s fever sweat.

She stopped keeping count of the close calls.

Each day bled into the next, danger stitched into dawn, fear folded into dusk. She became someone else, or perhaps just more of herself. The angry part. The part that watched her family die and didn’t scream. The part that wouldn’t break, not yet.

And Ruta—

Ruta barely spoke.

She followed Lena from safehouse to safehouse, pale and quiet, the bruise on her cheek long since faded but not forgotten. She flinched at boots on the stairs. She refused to walk to the latrine alone. She kept to corners, clutching a little clay figurine that Chaim had once pressed into her hand during a game.

Sometimes, she cried in her sleep and didn’t remember.

Other times, she remembered and didn’t cry.

When they were alone, Lena tried humming softly like before. Sometimes it helped. Sometimes Ruta just turned away.

One night, while hiding beneath a butcher’s crawlspace during a patrol sweep, Lena passed Ruta a piece of apple wrapped in wax paper. Ruta held it in her hands for a long time before finally eating it.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t have to.

Lena learned to move differently. Quieter. Faster. She braided her hair tight and kept a knife in her sleeve. She watched soldiers with new eyes, calculating who might be bribed, who might follow, who might not come back.

She carried explosives once.

Small. Homemade. She didn’t ask what they were for. She didn’t have to.

Basia gave her a new list one morning, a longer one, creased and smudged with sweat. Lena studied it in the dim light of a stairwell.

“Smuggling people?” she asked.

Basia nodded. “The old woman on Krochmalna. The student hiding in the bakery. A family on Dzielna. Get them to Praga. Quietly.”

She folded the paper and tucked it under her bra strap.

They shared a cot in a textile storeroom for a few days. Another week, they slept behind a curtain in a priest’s study. Then a cellar. Then a shed. Then another attic.

Lena never unpacked.

She didn’t dare.

Once, in the middle of a silent dinner, Ruta whispered, “Do you think they knew? Before they died?”

Lena paused mid-chew. “Who?”

“My mother. My brothers. Did they know it was coming?”

Lena didn’t answer right away.

She reached across the table and took Ruta’s hand. “I think… they knew you were safe.. That’s what matters.”

Ruta nodded. But she didn’t look comforted.

Summer came early.

The heat was heavy and thick with the smell of smoke and rot. The city sagged beneath it. Lena moved faster. Carried more. Ate less.

And when sleep came, it was short and shallow.

But every time she opened her eyes, Ruta was still there beside her.

Still breathing.

And that was enough.

For now.

The safe house was quiet when the knock came.

Too quiet.

One sharp rap. Then another. Measured. Not frantic like a neighbor. Not gentle like someone who’d lost their way.

Like soldiers who had been tipped off. 

Lena was already on her feet. Across the small kitchen, Jakub looked up from the dismantled radio parts in front of him, every muscle going still.

Basia didn't speak, she just reached for the latch that led to a closet with a false backing. Into a cramped room. 

Calling it a room was generous. It was more like a spacious hole in the cinderblock. 

A woman ushered two children inside, clutching at their coats, already pale. Ruta froze mid-step, her tea sloshing quietly over the rim of her tin cup.

Then came the boots.

Thudding. Marching. Nearing.

“Now,” Basia hissed.

Everyone moved. Not fast, but trained. Jakub helped the woman and her children through the panel. Another resistance member passed bread, blankets, water. Lena grabbed Ruta’s wrist and pulled her in behind them, the opening already closing.

The air behind the wall was damp and close. Earthy. Someone had tried to tamp it out with old straw and oilcloths, but it was still chokingly tight. Lena pressed her back against the block, keeping Ruta close to her side. The children were crying, soft at first, then louder.

Outside, the door burst open. Boots scattered across floorboards. Harsh voices, German.

A stomp. Another. A shout. Furniture scraping.

The girl beside Lena, no older than eight, let out a muffled sob.

Her mother pressed a hand to her mouth, but the shaking wouldn’t stop.

Lena’s heart pounded in her throat. They were all going to be heard. The soldiers would rip down the false paneling and shoot them where they crouched.

The sobbing grew louder. Panic clawed at the room like smoke.

Lena didn’t think. She just began to sing. 

Softly. Muffled by fake walls, and coats

Please don't find us, please don't find us. She thought to herself as she leaned over to the child, her voice in their ear.

A Yiddish lullaby her mother used to hum when the boats rocked too hard, when the lights flickered too low, when America had still been a rumor.

*"Oyfn pripetshik, brent a fayerl…"*

The words wrapped around the sobs like gauze.. Not sudden silence. But a settling.

The child’s breath hitched, then slowed. Another child pressed her face into her mother’s coat and went still. Ruta’s fingers found Lena’s arm and clung tight, grounding herself.

Lena kept singing. Her voice trembled at first, then steadied.

She didn’t notice Jakub, frozen across from her, watching her with an unreadable expression.

She didn’t notice Basia, crouched near the edge of the panel, eyes narrowed, head slightly cocked, as if listening for something more.

The boots continued outside, crashing into rooms, barking at walls.

Then silence.

The door shut. The boots faded.

And still Lena sang, a final low verse, like a hush falling across a fevered room.

When she stopped, no one spoke for a long moment.

Then the woman across from her mouthed, thank you, as if Lena had physically held her child’s panic in her hands and smothered it like a candle flame.

Later, when the false paneling had been replaced and the house slowly began to breathe again, Lena leaned against the wall, sweat drying cold on her skin.

Basia lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, eyes still narrowed.

“You ever think about doing that on the radio?” she asked, almost offhand.

Lena blinked. “Singing?”

Basia didn’t answer directly.

Jakub spoke from the corner, tone quiet but precise. “There’s something about your voice. Not just pretty.”

Lena shook her head, brushing hair from her face. “It’s just a lullaby. Kids were scared.”

“Maybe,” Jakub said. But he didn’t look convinced.

Basia took a long drag from her cigarette. “You ever heard of Warsaw’s underground broadcasts?”

Lena stiffened. “Rumors.”

“Well.” Basia exhaled smoke. “Maybe it’s time we make them more than that.”

Lena didn’t respond. She just looked down at her hands, still trembling and quietly reached for Ruta’s.

Chapter Text

but seems to be enjoying 

WARSAW, POLAND - FALL 1940

The attic was small, airless, and tasted faintly of rusted metal and dust. A single lantern hung from a cracked beam, casting weak shadows across brick and boards patched by blankets and newsprint. The roof sagged slightly above them, and the muffled sounds of street patrols drifted through gaps in the walls.

Lena sat on a makeshift chair, hands clenched tightly around her knees. Her heart pounded in rhythm with the distant march of boots on cobblestones. She eyed the radio Jakub had set up, a patchwork of wires and rusted metal, valves scavenged from smashed sets, knobs pulled from shattered equipment. It looked less like a machine and more like a jumble of barely contained chaos.

Basia paced slowly beside her, pausing only to peer down through a crack in the shutters, her voice gentle but firm. “It’s not as dangerous as what you’ve been doing,” she reasoned, glancing over. “Just words through a wire. Easy.”

Lena shook her head, her gaze never leaving the machine. “Nothing is easy anymore.”

Jakub adjusted a dial, his voice low. “They’re walling off the ghetto, you know. First bricks went up two days ago on Zamenhofa Street.”

Lena flinched. She hadn’t heard that detail, only the rumors, whispered in corners and cellars. Now it was real.

“They say they’ll finish it by winter,” Ruta added softly from the corner, arms wrapped around her knees. “They’re fencing us in like rats.”

No one argued.

The silence pressed in thicker than dust.

Basia’s voice cut through it gently. “All the more reason we have to try this. People are scared, Lena. They think no one hears them anymore.”

“They’re right,” Lena said bitterly. “Who’s listening?”

“Anyone who still has a radio hidden under their floorboards,” Jakub said. “Anyone still waiting for a sign we haven’t given up.”

Lena exhaled through her nose, her hands cold even beneath the wool of her coat. “I’m not a symbol. I’m a smuggler. I carry bread, medicine, sometimes guns. Not… signs.”

They were all silent for a beat. No one argued with her, but none of them agreed either. 

“We move every few days. We sleep with one eye open. We already have targets. This just makes ours mean something.” Basia carried on, as if Lena hadn't said anything.

Jakub handed her a thin sheet of crumpled paper, eyes calm. “They won’t trace it, not right away. Just read this. Short. Precise.”

Ruta came over then, silent until now. She placed her hand on Lena’s shoulder. “They took everything from us, Lena. Our home, our family. Don’t let them take your voice too.”

Lena looked at the script, the coded metaphors crafted to sound like idle poetry, safe phrases that meant “east of the river” or “safe house near the bakery.” At the bottom, Basia had written in small, slanted hand: Sing after.

“What do you want me to sing?” Lena asked, already dreading the answer.

“A lullaby,” Basia said. “Something your mother sang. Something Polish.”

“Why lullabies?” Lena muttered. “It’s a war.”

Basia didn’t blink. “Even soldiers need to remember why they fight. Every soldier had a mother.”

Lena looked at Jakub, who only gave a small nod. “We’re not asking for a concert. Just a voice. Yours.”

The room fell silent.

Finally, Lena sat up straighter and pulled the paper closer. “Fine. Just… get it over with.”

Jakub flipped the switch. The transmitter buzzed to life static like breathing. Lena cleared her throat and leaned in.

“This is Warsaw,” she began, her voice tight. “Fresh bread is still warm. The baker’s oven is lit. He waits in the east.”

She stumbled over the next line but corrected herself: “The river still runs. Water is clean and waiting. Drink deeply tonight.”

She let the paper fall. Her hands trembled. Her lips parted.

Then, she sang.

“Ach, śpij kochanie…”

The old lullaby poured from her in slow, trembling syllables. The attic stilled. Jakub froze at the knobs. Basia stopped pacing. Even Ruta, hunched in the corner, leaned closer.

It wasn’t flawless. It was raw, hushed. But it was beautiful.

When the last note faded, silence rushed in behind it like a held breath finally released.

“This is Warsaw. You can't kill us all.” 

Jakub turned the dial. The transmitter clicked off.

“Well,” he said quietly, “that’ll get their attention.”

Lena leaned back, her throat dry, her eyes burning.

“They’re sealing us in,” she whispered. “And I just told the whole city I’m here.”

Basia stepped forward, her face unreadable. Then she smiled, just faintly. “Good. Let them know Warsaw still sings.”

The safehouse burned behind them.

Smoke clung to Lena’s coat as she gripped Ruta’s wrist, pulling her through the narrow alleys behind the tannery. Jakub had warned them: the transmission had reached further than they thought. A patrol had already questioned the neighbor downstairs. Now the hiding place was ash, and the small radio rig with it.

They didn’t stop until they reached the back stairwell of a boarded-up bakery. Jakub was already there, arms crossed, pale eyes unreadable in the dim. He nodded once. “Third floor. Window facing south. You’ll move again by week’s end.”

Lena didn’t answer. Her lungs burned. Ruta coughed beside her, face blotched with soot and sweat.

Inside, the air was stale but safe, for now. The room had no bed, only a mat in the corner and a crate holding two chipped mugs and a dented kettle. Lena dropped her satchel beside the wall and peeled off her coat. Her hands were trembling. She hadn’t realized it until Ruta reached for them.

“You were shaking when you sang,” the girl murmured, staring up at her.

Lena looked away. “I didn’t want to sing.”

“But you did,” Ruta said, quiet but firm. “They listened.”

Lena wasn’t so sure. She wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

By the second broadcast, the rumors had grown teeth.

In another crumbling attic, this one two streets from the Gestapo offices, Jakub laid out a shorter message, then handed her a list of code phrases in Polish and English. This time, Lena didn’t argue. She read it cleanly, then hummed a lullaby under her breath while Basia adjusted the wires. Jakub didn’t comment. He just leaned back against the brick and listened until the signal blinked off.

Two days later, a courier whispered to Basia: “There’s talk of a girl. A voice through the wire. They call her the Warsaw Songbird.”

Lena spat into the street when she heard it. “Do I look like a bird to you?”

Basia only raised a brow. “Birds survive winter.”

She hated it, how fragile it sounded. Like a thing kept in a cage. Like her voice was soft and sweet and nothing else. 

But the name stuck.

They moved again. And again.

Each time more carefully. Each room a little smaller. The walls always thinner than they looked.

Sometimes Lena spoke into the mic. Other times she sang, just a verse, just enough to let the resistance know someone was still out there. Still alive. Still angry.

She stopped sleeping through the night.

Ruta insisted on staying close. At first it was just stubbornness, she didn’t want to be left behind. But Lena began to let her come. To let her carry messages. Watch doors. Learn the names of allies and traitors alike.

One night, they crouched in the hallway of a crumbling boarding house while Jakub pried open a sealed cabinet. Inside were tin cans, rolled bandages, and a cracked mirror. Lena reached in, sorted quickly, and passed Ruta the lighter supplies.

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” Lena muttered.

“I’m not a child.”

“You’re sixteen.”

“I’m not a child,” Ruta repeated.

Lena sighed. She pressed her forehead against the cold wood of the cabinet door. “You don’t have to be brave.”

“I’m not,” Ruta whispered. “I’m scared all the time.”

Lena turned. The corridor light was flickering again, but she could still see the stubborn set of Ruta’s mouth. Her eyes were damp but steady.

“I don’t want to be afraid anymore,” Ruta added.

Lena paused. Then spoke softly, more to herself than to Ruta.

“You can be afraid. But not still.”

They carried the message to four safehouses that week. Lena only sang twice, both times to frightened children who cried every time the floor creaked. Her voice soothed them, though she didn’t understand why. She wasn’t calm. She wasn’t brave. But the sound of her mother’s lullabies lived somewhere deep in her bones, and when she sang, people quieted.

Jakub said nothing when he heard. But that night he lingered near the stairwell as Lena unwrapped her scarf. “We’ll need a new rig,” he said. “And more reach. What you’re doing, it matters.”

“I’m just singing.”

“No,” he said. “You’re fighting.”

Lena barely slept.

Each time her eyes closed, she saw her uncle falling, her aunt’s last scream. She saw Ruta’s blank face as she pulled her away from the gate. The weight of what she had done to the soldier pressed heavy in her chest, but it was the weight of what she couldn’t do that kept her awake. What she couldn’t stop. Couldn’t save.

She didn’t cry. She couldn’t.

Instead, she sang.

And in whispers, the city began to answer.

The ghetto wall had started going up weeks ago. First it was barbed wire, then brick. Day by day, the streets closed in. Windows were boarded. Alleys turned into dead ends. The city didn’t feel like a city anymore, it felt like a throat closing.

Lena moved through it like a shadow, boots scuffing over frost-stiffened dirt, the weight of a satchel dragging at her shoulder. She’d memorized which bricks were loose, which gutters rusted enough to hide notes or pills. Where once she'd been a girl picking up bread, now she passed couriers with their faces turned to the ground and watched from doorways as German trucks rolled by, tires hissing like snakes.

She ducked into a basement bakery that hadn't sold bread in months. The chalk on the door was faint, an old resistance mark, but she knocked twice anyway, then once more.

A rusted shelf scraped back.

“You’re late,” a voice called.

“Had to take a longer way,” Lena answered, stepping in.

The inside was dark and damp. A single bulb buzzed above a trapdoor that creaked open under the floorboards. Basia appeared first, then a young man with ink-stained fingers and a crooked jaw, Janek, the printer.

“In the sewers?” Lena asked.

“Best place left,” he said. “No one thinks of newspapers anymore.”

She followed them down the ladder, the air thick and sour. The tunnels stank of waste and cold metal, but around the corner was a miracle of defiance: a table bolted between pipes, a battered press balanced atop it. Stacks of smudged leaflets sat in piles, thin, wrinkled, damp.

One had her words printed across the top.

You can't kill us all.

“Yours travel further than you think,” Janek said, noticing her stare. “We slide them through laundry lines. Hide them in scrap bins. Even the children help.”

Lena picked up a leaflet, her thumb brushing the crumpled edge. “Do you believe in it?” she asked quietly. “Any of it?”

Janek looked at her, something kind but tired in his eyes. “I believe it’s louder than silence.”

They were only there ten minutes. Basia didn’t like them staying underground too long. On the way out, as Lena hoisted her satchel back over her shoulder, a woman came from the shadows, mid-thirties, lips chapped, with faded lipstick trying to remember a better version of herself. She carried a roll of cloth under one arm.

“You’re the singer,” she said to Lena.

Lena tensed.

“I was in the cellar last week. Your song…” The woman trailed off, then reached into the cloth. She pulled out a stack of folded papers—IDs, forged and flawless. “Golda,” she added. “I make papers.”

Lena didn’t ask for more. Just nodded, and Golda clasped her hand.

"I remember your voice,” she said. “Thank you.”

They were almost back to the safehouse when it happened.

Ruta had stayed quiet most of the day, trailing behind Lena like a shadow. She no longer asked to stay behind, she insisted on being useful, though her hands still shook when folding gauze or sliding bread into sacks. But this was different.

A shout cracked down the alley ahead. “Hey!”

Two German patrolmen.

“Run,” Lena hissed.

They took off without thinking, cutting through a narrow lane behind a boarded-up synagogue, past broken crates and the husk of an overturned cart. Lena heard boots behind them, the call of a dog. Her breath clawed at her ribs. The alley split, one side collapsed, the other choked with coal barrels. She grabbed Ruta by the wrist and dove for the cellar door, yanking it open just enough to shove them both inside.

The door slammed behind them.

Pitch black.

Their breath filled the dark like smoke.

“Are they gone?” Ruta whispered.

Lena didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her chest hurt too much.

Above, the thud of boots. Muffled German voices. Then silence.

Ruta sat down hard on the coal pile and wrapped her arms around her knees.

Lena’s eyes were starting to adjust. She could make out the pale curve of Ruta’s face, the way her mouth moved soundlessly. Trembling. She was trying not to cry.

And then, the panic started. Ruta’s chest heaved. Her nails clawed at her sleeves.

“I—I can’t—” she gasped. “I can’t breathe—”

“Ruta.” Lena dropped beside her. “Hey. Look at me. Look at me—”

Ruta shook her head wildly, panic breaking across her like glass.

Lena didn’t know what else to do.

She hummed.

Just a note at first, then the next. A lullaby from long ago—“Bajka o śniegu,” her mother used to call it. A story about snow that whispered children to sleep.

Ruta’s breath caught. Her eyes flickered toward Lena.

The hum continued, soft and steady.

Gradually, Ruta’s arms loosened from her knees. Her shoulders dropped.

When Lena stopped, the silence felt safe again.

“Thank you,” Ruta whispered.

Lena reached out and touched her hand. It was still cold.

“We have to keep moving,” she said.

The safehouse was packed. Six to a room now, some families sleeping sitting up, others curled like animals by the stove. The food ration was down to crumbs, half a potato between three people. Water had to be boiled, if it came at all. Lice crawled through blankets. The walls wept mold.

Outside, the wall was getting higher.

Every morning, a new section. Bricks and mortar, brick and mortar. Pinned in by concrete and hate. There was talk the Nazis would seal it completely by the end of the year.

Basia didn’t say it out loud, but everyone knew, once the gates closed, they were already graves.

Lena pressed her palm to the cold brick one evening, wondering what it would take to bring it down. Not physically, but something bigger. She didn’t believe in hope anymore. But she did believe in sound. In vibration.

Warszawski Słowik, they were calling her now.

The Warsaw Songbird.

It felt wrong.

She was no bird. 

But the children repeated it. Mothers, too. Her voice had calmed people in basements, coal cellars, and now even the sewers. Her broadcasts moved through wires and mouths, reshaped and passed on. No one knew her name, not anymore.

But they knew her song.

Lena hated it.

But she carried it.

BROOKLYN, NEW YORK – LATE AUTUMN, 1940

The diner smelled like burnt coffee and grease that had sunk into the walls. There was music playing from the jukebox, something upbeat, brass-heavy, swinging in direct defiance of the mood at their corner booth.

Steve sat on one side, trying his best to smile, jacket pressed and collar neatly folded. Across from him, Bucky stared at his untouched soda, one hand clenched beneath the table. The girls, Anne and Mary, names Steve had mentioned twice, were sweet. Pretty enough. One of them, Anne, had curls pinned like a movie star and a voice soft as butter.

But all Bucky could think about was Lena.

Anne leaned a little closer, fingers wrapped around a chipped porcelain mug. “So, James, Steve tells me you work down by the docks?”

He didn’t look up.

Steve jumped in, quick with a grin. “Yeah, Buck’s the best hand they’ve got, he can load a truck faster than anyone I’ve ever seen.”

Anne laughed, trying again. “That true?”

Bucky finally raised his eyes to hers. “I guess.”

She smiled, but there was something faltering about it now. She stirred her coffee slowly. “You’re quieter than I expected.”

Steve’s smile dimmed.

“I’ll be right back,” Bucky said, standing abruptly.

The bell over the diner door jingled behind him, but he didn’t turn toward the bathroom. He kept walking.

The cold slapped him the moment he hit the sidewalk. Wind knifed off the East River, tugging at his coat, stealing his breath. He walked fast at first, then slower, shoulders tight.

He didn’t know where he was going.

The city lights blurred into a smear of gold and gray, and every corner held a memory. The stoop where Lena had once thrown a snowball at him, laughing so hard she nearly tipped backward. The bookshop where she made him wait an hour because she'd gotten caught up paging through old Russian poetry, pretending she understood it better than she did. The dock, always the dock.

He was close to the spot where he kissed her the first time. Panting and breathless from running. The taste of their illegal liquor on her mouth. 

The dock where they had said goodbye. 

He ended up there without realizing. The wooden slats groaned beneath his boots as he stopped at the edge, eyes sweeping the dark water.

He gripped the railing and closed his eyes.

Her laugh echoed somewhere in the back of his mind. The way she danced when no one was looking. The tiny crease that formed between her brows when she was trying not to cry. The scarf she’d worn that day, that ugly thing he was sure she was going to hate. The way she kept turning back until the gangplank pulled her from his view.

A soft step behind him. Steve.

He didn’t speak. Not yet.

Bucky didn’t turn. “I couldn’t sit there, Steve. I couldn’t pretend I’m fine. That I’m here, looking to start something new, like I didn’t send her away.”

“You didn’t send her,” Steve said gently.

“I didn’t stop it either.”

The silence thickened between them.

Bucky’s knuckles tightened on the railing. “Do you know what I heard last week? One of the Polish guys down at the docks… he got a letter from his cousin who got out. Said the Germans were building walls. Closing them in. Said there’s barely food. Said people are being lined up and shot in the street. Whole families.”

Steve looked away, jaw clenched.

“She’s in Warsaw, Steve. She’s in that.” Bucky’s voice cracked, low and raw. “If she’s not dead, if she’s not starving, she’s cold, and hunted, and alone. And we’re here. On some goddamn double date.”

Steve finally stepped beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder. “You’re not here instead of her, Buck. You’re here because of her. She made you promise to live.”

Bucky shook his head. “But this isn’t living. Not without her. Not like this.”

“She didn’t mean dancing and diner booths and pretending to smile.” Steve’s voice was steady now, stronger. “She meant breathing. Getting through it. You’re still here. Sometimes that’s all you can be.”

A pause. The wind picked up again, whistling between the slats.

Bucky bowed his head. “Do you think she’s alive?”

Steve didn’t answer at first.

Then quietly: “If anyone could survive that hell, it’s Lena.”

They sat down on the nearest bench, coats drawn close. Neither spoke. Somewhere above, through the second-story window of an old apartment, a radio played. The static came first, then a woman’s voice. Soft, low, in Polish. 

Bucky didn’t know the words, but he knew the tone.

He looked up, frozen.

“Steve…” he said slowly. “Do you hear that?”

Steve nodded. “Yeah. It’s… it’s beautiful.”

Bucky closed his eyes.

He could still remember the way she sang for them at her first Christmas, all those years ago, humming for Steve when he couldn’t sleep. The way her voice carried warmth even in the cold. For a moment, it was like she was right there, tucked between the static and the wind.

“She used to sing like that,” he whispered.

Steve’s voice broke slightly. “I know.”

They didn’t move for a long time.

Just two boys in the cold, listening to a song carried across a sea of silence.

The rooftop was cracked and uneven beneath Lena’s boots, the ledge chipped from the last storm. Warsaw spread out before her like a city made of bones, spires and chimneys, broken facades, burnt-out tenements huddled together in silence. Smoke curled in the distance from a barrel fire someone had dared to light.

Basia crouched near a rusted metal box, winding a hand-powered recorder with slow, careful turns. The scavenged machine stuttered to life, gears whirring softly as a ribbon of static crackled to the surface.

Then, her voice.

Faint but clear.

“Winter approaches. Rations are low in Sector D. Do not engage unless safe. Trust your neighbors, fear is what they want. We are still here. We are still here.”

A pause.

Then the song. Only a few lines of an old Hebrew song, her voice trembling, stretching out over the quiet. Words her mother once sang to her during storms. A comfort passed like a secret.

Lena stood motionless, breath caught in her throat.

She didn’t recognize herself.

The voice was hers, but distant. Warped by wires and wind, it sounded older. Stronger. As if all the softness had been scrubbed clean. It unsettled her.

“Do you think they know it’s me?” she asked, still staring over the ledge.

Jakub didn’t turn. “No,” he said simply. “But they’ll know what you stand for.”

Basia switched off the recorder, letting the silence stretch out between them.

Lena folded her arms tightly over her chest. “I didn’t want this.”

“I know,” Basia said. “But that doesn’t mean you weren’t meant for it.”

A wind stirred the ash near their feet. Lena looked down, then back to the city.

“They’re calling me something. Out there. Warszawski Słowik.” She said it like a bitter taste. “The Warsaw Songbird.”

Basia chuckled softly. “They’re calling you that because they think you give them hope.”

“I’m not some war-time lullaby.”

“Then be something else,” Basia said, standing. “They’ll shorten it. They always do.”

Lena didn’t respond. She felt stretched thin, like parchment pulled too tight across a drum. Everything hummed inside her: grief, rage, purpose. The echo of gunfire in her memory. The warmth of Ruta’s hand in hers.

As if conjured by thought, Basia glanced over her shoulder and said, “I’m sending Ruta out tomorrow.”

Lena’s body tensed. “No.”

“She knows the streets.”

“She’s not ready.”

“She’ll be with another courier. It’s just a medicine drop,” Basia said gently. “Not across the wall.”

“I should go.”

“I need you on a different route,” Basia countered. “Something harder. Weapons in from Żoliborz. You’re the only one who can get through the checkpoints. We have a forged paper that might hold up.”

Lena turned to her, eyes sharp. “She’s just a girl.”

“So were you,” Basia said, voice quiet but firm.

Lena looked away. The night air bit at her cheeks. She could feel her heart thudding in protest, an ache lodged behind her ribs.

“She’s all I have left,” Lena whispered.

“She’s not a child anymore.”

Jakub stepped forward then, offering her gloves. “You taught her how to run. Now let her walk.”

Lena took the gloves slowly, fingers brushing the wool. She hated how her hands shook.

She looked out over the city again, smudged with firelight and frost. She didn’t feel like a hero. She didn’t feel like anything more than a ghost holding onto a name.

But somewhere beneath them, someone would sleep easier tonight because of her song.

So she kept singing.

Even if it cracked.

Even if it hurt.

Even if no one knew it was her.

Chapter Text

the fruits of my labor that came to me too young

WARSAW, POLAND - WINTER 1941

The safehouse kitchen smelled faintly of coal ash and stewed cabbage. Pale morning light slipped between the boards nailed across the windows, catching the dust that never quite settled. Lena sat at the table with a stub of a pencil, sharpening it over a coded message until her fingers were smudged gray. The note wasn’t for her. She was only carrying it halfway another runner would take it the rest. That was how it worked now. She learned not to get too comfortable with the handoff, or the hands.

Behind her, footsteps paced in a tight circle.

She didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

“Ruta,” she said softly. “You’ll wear out the floor.”

The footsteps paused. Then a clumsy thump, Ruta bumping into the chair leg as she came to a halt beside her. “Doesn’t matter,” the girl muttered. “It’s not ours anyway.”

Lena turned. Ruta was already dressed: coat a size too big, layered with two sweaters and a thin underskirt tucked into boots too worn to offer much warmth. She had tied her braids tighter than usual, her mouth set in a line that tried hard not to tremble. But Lena could see it. In her fingers. The way she kept clenching and unclenching them at her sides.

Lena stood slowly and reached for the scarf hanging on a bent nail by the door. She stepped closer, wordless, and wrapped it around Ruta’s neck with deliberate care. Not tight, not loose. Just so. Her fingers lingered a second longer than needed.

“Too many layers and I’ll start sweating,” Ruta said, with the forced irritation of someone trying not to sound scared.

“Better sweat than shiver,” Lena replied, but her voice was gentler than her words. She tugged the ends of the scarf down and looked her over again, as if she'd missed something. Some hidden danger she could still shield Ruta from.

“You sure you remember the contacts?”

Ruta rolled her eyes, but it was shaky. “You’ve had me shadowing you for months. I know them. East corner, yellow shutters, first knock two short, second one long.” A pause. “And if he’s not there, I wait by the butcher’s and count to two hundred.”

Lena gave a small nod. Her lips pressed together like she wanted to say something more. Instead, she stepped back and folded her arms, watching.

Ruta swallowed. “You don’t think I can do this?”

“No,” Lena said immediately. Then added, quieter, “I know you can.”

She looked away. “That’s what scares me.”

They stood in silence for a beat. The air between them was full of everything neither could afford to say.

Then Lena moved suddenly, pulling Ruta into a tight hug. It was brief, too brief, but fierce. Like she was trying to brand the shape of her into memory. When she let go, her hands hovered just behind Ruta’s shoulders.

“Come back,” she said, not quite whispering.

“I will,” Ruta promised. Her chin tilted up. “You always do.”

That almost made Lena smile.

Almost.

She opened the door for her without another word.

Cold air slipped in immediately, brisk with morning wind, laced with coal smoke and distant shouting. Ruta paused in the doorway. She didn’t look back.

And then she was gone.

Lena stood frozen in the empty threshold, her eyes on the street even after Ruta disappeared around the corner. Then, slowly, she closed the door and leaned her forehead against it. Her breath came uneven. Not quite a sob. Not quite a prayer.

Her fingers curled in against her ribs like she could hold herself together by sheer pressure alone. Like she could keep anything from falling apart.

She turned back to the kitchen, sat down at the table again. The pencil lay snapped in half between her hands.

The sun was low by the time Lena heard the scrape of the gate.

She didn’t move right away. She was seated on a splintered bench tucked behind the half-collapsed courtyard wall, a basket of peeled potatoes beside her, long gone cold and brown. Her fingers had stopped working an hour ago. She’d just been sitting there, ears tuned to every step that wasn’t hers, every knock that didn’t come.

When the gate groaned again, she rose so quickly the basket tipped over, a few sad potato scraps scattering across the dirt.

Her boots were silent as she moved toward the side entrance, her breath shallow. She didn’t want to be seen running.

And then, there she was.

Ruta stood in the narrow alley beside the house, cheeks flushed from the cold, coat smeared with a thick stripe of mud down the back. Her braid was loose at one side, her scarf tied wrong. But she was upright. Breathing. Eyes bright and flickering with something that might have been pride, or defiance, or both.

“You’re late,” Lena said, her voice too sharp, cracking at the edges.

Ruta grinned sheepishly. “There was a checkpoint near the bridge. I had to wait it out with the chickens in someone’s yard.” She pulled a folded paper from inside her coat and handed it over. “They said thank you. And they gave me this.”

Lena took the paper without looking at it. Her hands were trembling.

She stared at Ruta for a long moment. The words stacked in her chest, how stupid that was, how she should’ve turned back, how checkpoints meant rifles, meant bodies.

But instead, she reached out and pulled her into a hug so tight that Ruta let out a small grunt.

They stood like that for a moment, hidden from the kitchen windows. Lena pressed her nose into Ruta’s shoulder, breathing her in. Damp wool. Dirt. Coal dust.

Alive.

She let go before anyone could see.

Dinner was thin cabbage soup with stale crusts, but Ruta ate with a hunger Lena hadn’t seen in weeks. She kept talking between bites, sharing every small detail of the run, how the contact wore mismatched gloves, how the butcher’s daughter had winked at her, how the chickens in the yard had all looked like Chaim.

Lena listened, smiling quietly, but her hands were curled tight in her lap under the table. Her knees were still weak. She hadn’t realized how tightly she’d been wound until the thread started loosening.

When Ruta offered her the last piece of bread, Lena waved it off.

“You eat it.”

“I’m not that hungry,” Ruta said, but her hand hesitated.

“Don’t lie to make me feel better,” Lena murmured, and slid the crust back toward her.

Later, after most of the house had gone quiet and the stove burned low, Lena sat cross-legged on her cot, shoulders hunched under a fraying shawl. She could hear Ruta’s breathing across the room, slow, even, worn-out in the best way.

Lena hadn’t cried when her uncle fell in the street.

She hadn’t cried when she buried the knife in the soldier’s ribs.

But now, here, in the stillness, when no one was watching, her chest trembled. Just once.

Because she knew what today meant.

Ruta was ready. Capable. She’d crossed the line from child to courier. The same path Lena had taken. The same road that didn’t let you come back the same.

She felt a flicker of something in her gut.

Hope.

It startled her.

Hope was dangerous. Hope made you hesitate. It made you soft. It got people killed.

But she couldn’t help it. For a moment, she let it warm her, this tiny, defiant thing.

The map was old. Frayed at the edges, stained with soot and rainwater. Lena stared at it beneath the weak bulb dangling in the corner of the safehouse basement, the route traced faintly in blue pencil, her breath fogging in the cold.

Basia’s voice was quiet behind her. “We need you on this one.”

Lena didn’t turn. “This route’s barely passable. There’s a breach near the tram station. If they’re watching—

“They’re not watching that part. Not yet,” Basia said. “But they will be. That’s why it needs to happen now.”

Lena finally turned. “Who else?”

“Milena and Irena. They’ve moved bread and papers before, nothing this long. But they’re sharp.”

Lena folded the map. “Why not send Jakub?”

“He’s already covering the southern line. And he’s too recognizable in this part of the city now. You’re not.” Basia held her gaze. “You’ve done it before. You’re the only one who’s seen that tunnel in daylight.”

Lena exhaled. She didn’t say yes, but Basia took her silence as the answer it was.

Later, back at the safehouse, Ruta met her at the door, coat half-buttoned, scarf already looped around her neck.

“You’re leaving again,” she said without preamble.

Lena didn’t answer.

Ruta stepped closer, face set. “Then I’m coming with you.”

“No.” Lena’s voice cracked like ice. “This one’s not for you.”

“You don’t even know what it is.”

“I do.” Lena knelt and began retying the laces on her worn boots with tight, deliberate motions. “It’s an old line. Near the station. I’ve been there. It’s watched, even if Basia says it isn’t. If we’re caught—”

“I’m not a child, Lena.”

“No,” she said softly. “But you’re mine to worry about.”

Ruta flinched. “Then let me do something. Let me help—”

“Not this.” Lena stood, adjusting the strap of the canvas satchel across her chest. “Stay. Please.”

The word surprised them both—please. It was the only weapon she had left.

Ruta said nothing, jaw set. But she didn’t follow.

The tram station was still smoldering when they passed it at first light.

Lena moved in silence, boots crunching over frostbitten ash and broken glass. Her scarf was pulled high, hiding the lower half of her face, but the sting of smoke and coal still clung to the back of her throat. She tightened her grip on the satchel under her coat. Two runners flanked her, Milena, tall and quick-footed, and Irena, smaller, with a nervous laugh that hadn’t surfaced once all morning.

They were moving through the bones of the city. Past a burned-out barber’s shop, past rusted tracks half-swallowed by weeds. Into the underpass that looked abandoned, but which Jakub had once shown her hid a narrow drop into the old sewer access tunnels.

They reached it in three synchronized steps, ducking behind a crumbling wall.

Milena crouched and looked to Lena. “This the part where we vanish?”

Lena nodded and shifted the bricks at the base of the wall, revealing the metal slat beneath. She braced her hands, lifted, and pushed it aside. The opening yawned, cold and damp.

Irena muttered, “Smells like death in there.”

“It’s better than dying up here,” Lena said softly, and climbed down first.

The tunnel swallowed them, one after another, the sounds of the street giving way to drips and echoes. The air was tight, and the ceiling low enough that they had to crouch as they moved. Their lantern, covered in cloth to dull the glow, flickered with every step.

There was no talking now.

Only the occasional tug of breath when a pipe hissed or the distant thud of boots above made them freeze. The packages in their coats shifted with every motion: medicine, stolen ration cards, bullets.

Lena had done this route before. Twice. Before more bombing made it hard to pass. It was tight and winding, but it spat them out near Nowolipie, close enough to slip into the edges of the ghetto without attracting notice. That was the plan.

Until the tunnel changed.

They reached a fork Lena didn’t remember. The wall had collapsed sometime recently, leaving rubble and a new set of footprints in the dust.

“Did Jakub mention this?” Milena whispered.

Lena shook her head.

They pressed on anyway, cautious, breathing through scarves and fear.

Ten minutes later, they reached the exit hatch, a large metal one, marked with chalk. It was barely legible now, but Lena spotted it. Relief edged in.

Milena climbed first, gently easing the lid. She looked out through the crack, then froze.

Lena pulled her down fast.

“What?”

Milena’s voice was a whisper laced with panic. “Checkpoint. Two of them. Wehrmacht. Rifles.”

Irena’s eyes went wide. “Here? That’s not on any of our maps—”

“They’ve changed the routes again,” Lena said. “Or they’re tracking where we come out.”

They pressed flat against the damp wall, breath held. Overhead, muffled boots crunched. The murmur of German voices drifted downward. Too close.

Irena’s lip trembled. “Do they know we’re here?”

“No,” Lena said quickly. “No. But if we go up there…”

She didn’t finish.

For a long moment, none of them moved. Lena closed her eyes, trying to listen beyond the fear. Were there only two voices? Were there more hidden behind the wall?

Milena ran a hand through her hair. “We can’t wait it out forever. We’ve got the drop on them if we act fast.”

“That’s suicide,” Irena said.

Lena pressed her hand to the cold metal of the hatch, forehead resting beside it. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

They had to make a decision. Go up and risk a shootout. Stay and risk being discovered anyway. Turn back and waste hours they didn’t have, with packages that couldn’t wait.

Her voice, when she spoke, was low and steady.

“Let me think.”

Lena’s breath fogged against the rusted hatch as she listened again. The boots overhead hadn’t moved. The soldiers were posted, bored, maybe, but alert enough. She could hear the clink of their rifles now, the scrape of boots on damp stone.

Milena crouched beside her. “We wait?”

“No,” Lena whispered. “They’ll spot us eventually.”

“They haven’t yet,” Irena argued, though her voice trembled.

“Not yet,” Lena said. “But they’re drunk. Jumpy. If someone stumbles too loud, if a dog barks wrong—”

She stopped. The options were thin.

Her heart pounded, but her voice stayed even. “We crawl west through the alley. It connects to another cut-through behind the tannery. That’ll put us past them.”

“Is it clear?”

Lena nodded, though she wasn’t sure. She’d used the side alley before. But that was weeks ago. Things changed fast now, checkpoints, fencing, new patrols.

Still, it was better than climbing out into open fire.

One by one, they slipped through the hatch, hugging the crumbled wall as they moved. The alley was tight, dark and broken, the cobblestones slick with runoff. A single street lamp flickered overhead, casting long, uneasy shadows.

They ducked behind a broken cart. Kept moving. The alley narrowed again, pinching between two collapsed buildings.

Almost there.

The drop point was two streets ahead, just past the tannery’s burnt-out shell. Jakub would be waiting. They just had to get through—

“Wait,” Milena hissed, holding up a hand.

Lena stilled.

A laugh echoed up the alley. Too close.

The moon hung low, filtered through smoke and ash. The alley stank of soot and old piss, the remnants of the tram station ruins rising like bones behind them. Lena’s hands gripped the strap of her bag tight. Irena was just a pace behind her, Milena beside her, breathing fast but steady. They had almost made it.

They rounded a bend.

And stopped.

Three more soldiers. Laughing. Staggering. Also Drunk.

Their uniforms were loose and wrinkled, their rifles slung low and forgotten. One of them tossed a bottle that shattered near Milena’s feet.

“Well, well,” one of the soldiers muttered in German, taking a step forward. “What do we have here?”

Lena’s gut twisted.

Irena tried to pivot, but the second soldier blocked the way. The third grinned, unslinging his weapon lazily, not aiming, just holding it, like a promise.

“Keep walking,” Lena said, her voice even. Too even. “We don’t want trouble.”

The first soldier stepped closer. “But maybe we do.”

Then everything broke at once.