Time After Time (Book 3)

What if...Bucky Never Fell?

"Steve's gone to give the mission report Bets," Gabe said quietly, but there was something about his tone that didn't sit right.

"When will they be back?" She asked.  "Dinner'll be ready soon."

"Betty...sit down would you?" Monty asked kindly, in his clipped British tones.

"Why do I need to sit?" She responded, but did anyway, dropping into the chair at the head of the dining table.

A faint buzzing started in her head.  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Gabe leaning over into Marghi's ear, whispering something in German.  Betty's heart began to race at the look on Marghi's face.  Dugan crouched in front of her.

"What's going on Timmy?" She whispered.

"Betty.  Fuck."  He smoothed his moustache in an automatic gesture and then grabbed her hands.

"Don't say it." She shook her head.  "Whatever it is, I don't wanna hear it."

"Betty, I'm so sorry..."  Dugan began, and then shook his head.  "Steve should be here for this."  The other guys moved to stand around her too.  Dugan tried again.

"We couldn't...I mean...fuck.  He's not here Betty.  I'm so sorry."  His voice cracked at the end.

"Who's not here Timmy?" she asked, although she didn't need to.

"It's Bucky, sweetheart.  He fell.  There was nothing anyone could do."  He was rubbing her hands, but she barely felt it.  She could hear sniffles from the room, but they didn't register.

"C-can I see him?" Her voice was barely a whisper.

"Yeah, he's...he's in the field hospital just outside town.  He broke his left arm, leg, and cracked two ribs when he fell out of the tree." Dugan sighed, shaking his head.

"He fell?  From a tree?" Betty stated, her face stony as she rose from the chair.  Storming over to the coat rack near the door she grabbed her overcoat and shoved her arms inside the sleeves.

"Gimme the damn keys Dugan," she demanded, holding out her hand, her fingers curling angrily around the metal when he tossed them to her.

Dugan shook his head and a relieved sigh escaped his chest.

"I'm gonna fuckin' kill him, the foolish bastard," Betty muttered, as she trudged out into the snow.

New York, 1948

Flurries of white whipped against the window panes, the howling wind causing Betty to shiver despite the warmth of the apartment. She stirred distractedly at the milk warming in the pan in front of her as she listened out for familiar footsteps on the walkway outside.  It was getting late and the sky had already darkened.

Reaching for some crusts of bread, she tore them into small chunks and put them into two little bowls decorated with Christmas trees and snowmen and then poured some of the milk on top of each, letting it soak into the bread.  Sprinkling some sugar and cinnamon over the concoction, she set the bowls aside to cool and began to wash up the saucepan.

Her ears pricked up and relief bloomed in her chest as she finally heard the sound she had been listening out for.  Stomping boots on the mat and the rattle of the door handle prompted a little voice to call out from the living room as the front door swung open.

"Papa's home!" The small blond boy rushed past the kitchen towards the swirl of frozen air and snowflakes that accompanied his father through the door.

"Woah, hold on there champ, let me get the door closed so we don't all freeze.  Can't have our girls cold now, can we son?"