I do not own Captain America anything.

Or a soldier. Soldier wives are tougher than me.

After the Last Dance

1943

He hadn't really intended to go to bed with her.

Despite his skirt chasing reputation, he usually tried to comport himself as a gentleman.

A kiss or two. A light caress.

Murmured promises of future trysts perhaps.

That usually was the extent of it.

But he was shipping out in the morning.

And Constance . . .

"My friends call me Connie."

"My friends call me Bucky."

. . . Elizabeth Williams was terrific dance partner.

With sparking eyes, dark wavy hair, and that bright, gay smile.

And she looked so pretty in that dress.

So when he'd walked her home, bidding adieu to her clearly disappointed blond friend first, he'd felt a little unhinged.

A little out of touch with impending reality.

Kissing her a bit more eagerly than usual at the door.

Before beginning to turn away.

"Don't you want to come in?" she'd invited, cheeks flushed.

He smiled, trying to concoct a suitable excuse against those ruby red lips.

"No, better not. Shipping out early for England in the morning."

And she giggled.

"Then, I ought to send you off in style."

And pulled him inside.

"I'm the only girl," she was whispering conspiratorily. "I've got my own room since Granny died. But we still have to be quiet."

He nodded in the dark, feeling very much awake and alive in enemy territory.

And yet entirely unwilling to remove his hands from around the tiny waist of the slightly drunk girl in front of him.

She stopped and he bumped against her accidently, eliciting an another burst of muffled giggles from her.

She twisted the handle of the door they'd arrived at and turned to face him.

Reaching up on tiptoes to snatched his sargeant hat off his head and placed it smartly atop her own.

Then she tugged playfully on his tie.

And shut the door firmly behind them.

It turned out they both might have been a little more drunk than they should have been to finagle around all the loops and catches and hooks of all her involved undergarments.

He'd gotten down to her slip and hosiery before giving up.

And she'd manged his simpler shirt and pants down to his boxers quite nicely.

"Do you . . . do this . . . alot?" he murmured into the rich fall of the soft, dark hair near her neck.

"Is that . . . something you . . . usually ask ladies?" she surreshed back, nails lightly scraping the nape of his neck.

"No . . . I . . . guess not."

Then he stopped talking for a while.

"Oh . . . Bucky . . ."

She didn't.

"I really am shipping out early in the morning. I wasn't just trying to get you into bed."

She smiled, appropriately disheveled and satisfied, snuggled against his bare side.

"I know."

They stayed quiet for a few minutes, the room bathed in the soft streetlight coming through the laced window.

"Are you scared? Of going over there to fight?"

He shrugged a little.

"I guess I hadn't thought much about it. Just doing my part for my country."

She giggled, running her fingers through over the light spray of hair on his chest.

"You sound like those patrotic shorts before movies."

He smiled lopsidedly and didn't respond.

"Will you remember me while you're over there?"

He squeezed her arm, pressing her to him.

"Yeah, doll. Of course, I will."

She sat up, snatched his hat from its place on the bedside table.

Plopped it once more atop her own head jauntily.

"Will you write to me?"

He sat up next to her and grinned.

She sure did seem taken by that hat. Hadn't wanted to take it off at all.

"I sure will. Every week."

She giggled again, happily throwing her arms around his lipstick-smeared neck.

"I'll write you too! Maybe even send a picture if you're lucky!"

He hugged her back, fingers slipping lightly over the silk of her slip.

Then he spoke again, trying to be gentle.

"I'll really do have to go."

She drew back, mouth trembling a little.

"I know. I know you do."

She released him and he rose slowly, reaching for his boxers in a tumble on the floor.

She sat, head tilted, watching him appreciatively as he dressed.

Lip still trembling, eyes bright with sudden unshed tears.

Then she popped up, causing the brass bed springs to momentarily renew their squeak.

And in the dim light, she scratched out her name and address on a scrap of paper.

Tucking it mischievously into his shirt pocket as he adjusted his tie once more.

He gazed down at her, slip ashew, hair tangled.

And knew she was beautiful.

He took her head gently in his hands.

And kissed her softly, sweetly.

The way a beautiful dame like her should always be kissed.

He felt moisture on his thumbs and knew she was crying.

"Don't cry, doll. I'll come back to you," he murmured into her parted lips.

She nodded into his hands and drew back.

Smiling once more for him.

And trying to sound lighthearted and gay, like when they'd first met.

Less than twelve hours before.

"Take care of yourself, Soldier Boy."

He nodded.

Kissed her again.

And slipped quietly out the window.

She watched him, hat in hand, as he crept away from the brownstone.

Reached the opposite side of the street.

And turned.

Etched a perfect salute to her under the streetlight.

And she giggled out into the night.

Waved.

And smiled once more for him.

Until he turned away and was gone.

1945

Oceans away in the United States, somewhere in the myriad of apartment buildings and brownstones and hovels, a pretty young woman with dark wavy hair and sparkly dark eyes went about her days.

Tieing up her hair and donning overalls and going off to a nearby war factory to do her part for the cause.

In the evening she sat with a steaming cup of pale coffee and ran a red painted forefinger down the list of names that arrived with every newspaper.

They weren't updated as much as she would have liked.

But she checked them each and every time regardless.

Against the small but significant checklist in her mind.

Hoping against hope.

And dread.

And dismay.

Flooded with relief every time it proved to be a list of nothing but unfamiliar monikers.

Until one day.

Barnes, James Buchanan.

And she threw herself down on her squeaky brass bed.

And cried until she could cry no more.

And then she went to church.

And lit a candle for her Soldier Boy.

I like to think they wrote to each other, could have fallen in love if not for freakin' HYDRA screwing around with Bucky.

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