It didn't take Olivia long to realize that Moriah Fox was going to make a great ally in the face of Captain America and his cronies. It had been Thursday night, the night before the event, when Olivia had gathered them all together to go over their outfits and the details of the benefit, when Steve had made some comment, something small, inconsequential, something she couldn't even remember now. But before Olivia could defend herself, Mo had stepped up and told Steve to lay off, that Olivia was just trying to help, and maybe he should just try listening to her.

As if she hadn't already, Olivia had decided right then that she liked Moriah. She had a lot of qualities that Olivia liked, some that Olivia wished she possessed herself; she was stubborn, hard-headed, but she was also infinitely kind and understanding. She never seemed to hold a grudge if Olivia snapped at her, which she honestly tried not to do. Olivia wished she possessed some of Moriah's kindness, she envied that part of the other woman. That, and she envied her height; she had mentioned to Mo, on one occasion, that she was jealous, that she bet Mo had never had trouble being taken seriously, and to that Mo had laughed.

"Girl," Mo had chuckled, "I was the only woman in my company. Don't even get me started on not being taken seriously. I could write a book on it."

And it was something they had in common, Olivia had discovered, and their bond was quick to solidify, complete with sly jokes and secret looks whenever any of the boys was being pig-headed.

The benefit was tonight, and Olivia was nervous. She prayed and prayed that everything would go smoothly. There would be a journalist and a couple of photographers there to take down every single detail, and she couldn't stress the importance enough to her teams. Mo seemed to get it, had told her to relax, that everything could be fine. Olivia has scoffed; Mo had yet to realize that Olivia Tate was very rarely relaxed.

And so Olivia stood and waited for them in her painfully high heels. Mo was in her room somewhere in the tower, and her text had informed her that she was almost ready. Tony had arrived already, looking impeccable; she'd picked their outfits, going for a casual-formal look, and Tony, of course, looked just as he should. It was the boys she was nervous about, but when they arrived, she let out a huge sigh of relief.

"You look amazing," she said, approaching them. "Oh, thank god."

Bucky smirked. She'd dressed him in black slacks, a white, collared undershirt, and a dark, burgundy blazer. His gray coat was gripped in one hand, his freshly cut hair styled up. He looked good, and the smirk on his face let her and everyone else know that he knew it.

"You look nice," Steve said to Olivia, and she thanked him. He did as well, the blue in his blazer bringing out the stunning blue of his eyes. She was startled by the compliment but reminded herself not to hold a grudge. This was a new day. Sam, dressed in shades of gray, grinned at Olivia and then looked up at the sound of Mo approaching. He whistled and Olivia caught her giving him a shriveling look, her upper lip curling.

"Damn," Sam said, scratching the back of his head. "Still mad, huh?"

"No," she said nonchalantly, then opened her arms and did a quick spin for Olivia. "Good enough?" She wore a knee length cocktail dress, dark red, vintage. It gave off the sort of old-timey look Olivia had been going for with all of them.

"Beautiful," Olivia said, gripping her arms. She gathered them all around. "Everyone's in there waiting," she said. "There's a few tables. Table 1 will be headed by you, Mr. Stark. Table 2 is Mo and Captain Rogers. Table 3 is Wilson and Barnes. You're free to move around and mingle at will, of course, but this is where you're starting. Now, remember to be pleasant. Tonight isn't about you. It's about them. These men have been through hell, many of them are amputees or disfigured, and they paid a great amount to be here with you tonight. Make it memorable."

There was an uproar of laughter, and Olivia smiled softly. That, she knew, would be Mo's table. Being an ex-soldier herself, she had a way with them; she and Sam both did. Steve and Bucky were getting on fine, but they seemed a bit lost. Neither of them had been to the Middle East, as it turned out, and it was something they didn't have in common with the others. Olivia hung around the outskirts, just watching, checking in with the photographers and journalists.

Mo's table and Sam's table were the loudest, though it was two different kinds of loud. Mo's table was prone to the uproars of laughter, while Sam's was hooting and hollering. Tony was doing well, too, making jokes about his time in the cave. So far, the night was successful. From what she'd heard, the soldiers were getting along well with Bucky, congratulating him on his freedom. They adored Mo, and they all enjoyed teasing Steve and Bucky about their age, poking fun, telling them how much war had changed since the 40s.

Olivia caught Steve and Bucky exchange a glance and Steve gave a nod. He excused himself from his table and traded places with Bucky, which made sense; Steve was basically the guest of honor, he was the big draw, and he needed to make his rounds. She also noticed that Mo stiffened, only slightly, as Bucky took a seat next to her, smirk in place, joining in on the conversation. Mo went along smoothly, but Olivia saw the sudden tension in her shoulders, noted the way she angled her body just slightly away from him. She caught Mo's eye and gave her a look, and Mo just rolled her eyes ever so slightly, the message clear: Relax, Olivia.

"Hey, there he is!"

Bucky was greeted with loud, masculine welcomes as he took a seat beside Mo. He was surprised at how friendly these soldiers were. There was a sort of brotherhood between them all, and he hadn't felt alienated for once. All of them were wounded in one way or another, a few of them missing limbs, and they didn't hide their fascination with Bucky's arm; he'd answered the same few questions time and again, and it was only now that he was starting to feel overwhelmed.

He knew Mo didn't realize it, but that was why he had come to sit by her. He'd gone a year without her help, but now that she was here, he still sought her out for comfort, even if he was quiet about it. And now, feeling overwhelmed by the noise and the friendly greetings, by the questions and the laughter, he and Steve had traded places, and just like always her presence was a gentle balm on his frayed nerves, even if she wanted nothing to do with him.

She was in the middle of telling a story about camel spiders. The other men shuddered and laughed, nodding their heads as though they knew what a camel spider was, but Bucky was lost.

"A what?" he asked.

"Camel spider, dude," said a man who had burn scars all over his face. He showed him the size with his hands. "Gigantic, nasty desert spiders."

"Didn't have those in Germany?" asked another.

"Nah," he said.

"Scariest shit about the war," laughed the first man. "Never again."

He was still a little lost, and it was Mo who took pity on him: "They're gigantic spiders," she said, "huge. Freakishly huge. Nasty bite, too, and a total menace out there."

And then she continued with her stories, how it was common for the men to catch them and set up camel spider fighting rings and bet cigarettes on the spiders. The soldiers were laughing and nodding; apparently this was a common practice. Mo was smiling, her hair swept to the side to show off her burn scars; along her jaw, her neck, her shoulder and her right arm. In the low cut dress, he could see that they continued farther down, over her chest. She cleared her throat and he looked up at her eyes, noting that she looked annoyed. He tried to give her his trademark, coyly-innocent smile, but she wasn't having any of it.

And then the conversation turned to him. Mo faked interest well enough, to her credit, her hand resting on her cheek, eyebrows raised inquisitively, nodding along as he discussed his arm, but he was growing tired. Agitated. He hadn't been surrounded by this many people since his trial, and it wore on his nerves then just as it did now.

The soldiers also liked to point out his Brooklyn accent, which, for whatever reason, caused him to try to hide it. He felt like he was shrinking; he wasn't ready for this, he realized. This was too much, all at once. And while he was "recovered," as they had testified, he wasn't ready to jump in like this. He could only fake it for so long before he began to feel trapped, like the walls were closing in.

He was looking down at his metal hand, examining it as they questioned him on it, those with clunky prosthetics clearly envious. It clenched, almost against his will, and he found himself biting his lower lip. His heart jumped in his chest. It had been a while, he thought, since he'd felt so amped up with anxiety, and he told himself to get it together. But the noise, the chatter all around him—

He started, only slightly, his leg jerking when he felt something touch it. He realized only a moment later that Mo had bumped his leg under the table with hers, casually, her eyes trained on one soldier who was asking if his arm could feel the way skin and bone could. She nodded and along with him, but for just a moment she looked over at Bucky and she caught his eye, just the way she always used to, and she gave him a look: Are you okay?

For just a moment he considered lying, brushing her off. But then he swallowed, smiled a little, closed-mouth smile, and shook his head, the tiniest motion, and Mo looked away again as though nothing had happened.

"Man," said the man enviously, "maybe I should get Hydra to take me. I'd kill for an arm like that."

It was just a joke. Bucky knew that. The logical part of his brain understood that no harm had been meant. But there was a sudden hitch to his breathing and his cybernetic hand tightened just a little, and there was a flare of anger and then Mo's hand was on his knee under the table, giving a comforting squeeze, and she cut in smoothly:

"Or," she said, "you could befriend the multi-billionaire sitting just over there. Have you talked to him yet?"

"I haven't," said the man, placing his napkin down and standing. He thanked them, said it was nice meeting them, and moved onto the next table just like that.

Before Bucky could open his mouth to thank her, another soldier, the one sitting on her other side, cut in. His name card said Albert Wallace, and Bucky glared at him reproachfully. Albert Wallace was blind in one eye, deaf on the same side. He was asking Mo about her time with Tony and she answered the questions kindly, joking around, laughing.

"I'm sorry about your friends," Wallace said. "Really. I know what it's like."

"I'm sorry," Mo said earnestly.

"We all know loss," said another, Brightman. The other two soldiers at their table, Cortez and Black, were nodding along. Black waved his stump of an arm in the air as an indication.

"It's a shame," Wallace said, shaking his head. "What happened to you. You were such a pretty girl—it's a real shame."

There was a beat of silence as his words really settled in. Bucky watched as Mo's face stilled, her eyes widening fractionally, her lips parting a little. She swallowed and looked down for just a moment, at her hands, and Bucky watched her eyes trace over the scars on her right hand, watched her lift that hand up, just slightly, casually, impulsively, to touch the scar that had taken her eye. Wallace's eyes widened as he realized what he had said.

"I—I mean—shit, I didn't mean that, it came out wrong—"

"I'm used to it," she started, but Bucky cut her off.

"Yeah," Bucky said, "I'm sure you were very handsome, too, you know, before. Or maybe not."

This earned a laugh from the other soldiers and from Wallace, too, and like that, the tension had evaporated and the conversation went on. But as Bucky watched, throughout the conversation, she carefully rearranged her hair, moving it so that it covered the scars on her face, hiding them as best she could from view.

He was furious at their tactlessness. She'd never said it aloud, but he'd watched her enough while they'd lived together to know that her scars were a tender, sensitive spot. When the first opportunity arose, Bucky stood, giving her one of those looks. He didn't care that it was abrupt; he suddenly wasn't a fan of subtlety. The conversation had died down, anyway, the soldiers talking amongst themselves. By this point, everyone was done eating. Music was playing and people had taken to lounging, adjusting their chairs, suddenly less formal. Mo looked up at him, confused, her eyes hard. He nodded in the direction of the bar, and she narrowed her eyes, and he widened his, giving her a look, and she rolled her eyes and stood. He placed a hand at her elbow and guided her through the groups of men until they were clear, but not so far away as to draw attention.

"What do you want?"

"Hello to you, too, doll," he said blandly.

She suddenly looked tired, slouching a little. A slight pout came over her lips. "Seriously," she said. "What do you want?"

He scratched the back of his neck, leaving his hand there, and sighed. "You alright?"

"Yeah," she said quizzically.

"I mean what that moron said," Bucky went on. She waved him off.

"Oh, that. I'm used to it. Happens all the time. 'Oh, you were so pretty!' Trust me, I get it a lot."

"But you're upset."

"I'm not upset," she insisted. "But if you don't shut up and leave me alone, I will be."

"Your lips—"

"I swear to god, Barnes, leave my lips alone." She had been chewing on them as soon as he'd made the comment.

They stared at each other for a minute before he went on. "You changed your hair to cover your scars," he said, and she huffed, fixing it the other way.

"There," she snapped. "Happy?"

"That's more like it," he said, chucking her under the chin with a finger; her upper lip twitched up in a snarl and he smirked. "Thank you, by the way," he added. "I know ya ain't my biggest fan anymore, but I appreciate what you did."

She said nothing, but the look in her eyes told him she knew what he was referring to: casually distracting the soldier from Bucky's arm after the Hydra comment, sending him off to meet Tony. It meant a lot; it meant that she still cared, on some level; it meant that she didn't hate him, at least not enough to leave him to the wolves.

There was a small crowd growing off to the right, and Mo shouldered past him to join it.

"For the record," he called as she went, "I think you look lovely tonight." She ignored him. He sighed and watched her go, hands in his pockets, and realized the crowd was growing around Steve. Immediately apprehensive, he set his shoulders and headed over.

While Steve appreciated their kindness and support, he was growing tired, down. He wasn't deserving of the praise, the warmth, the excitement, and it was wearing him down. He had just finished shaking hands with a retired general who had offered him an uncomfortable amount of praise, and there was a lull in the crowd for a few minutes when Olivia appeared at his elbow.

"How's it goin', Cap?" she asked, her large brown eyes looking up at him, a small smile on her lips. But there was something in her eyes, a sort of apprehension, and he realized that he made her nervous, and not because he was the great Captain America, but because he hadn't exactly been all that kind to her. She looked like she was waiting for a snide comeback.

He considered for a moment. "Not as bad as I'd anticipated," he said, hands behind his back, military stance. He looked around the room, and then back at her. He raised his eyebrows at her. She cleared her throat.

She gave a little sigh. "Some of the soldiers are asking to take pictures with you."

"For the newspapers?"

"No, for themselves," she said. "Personal. I think it'd be good for your image."

Steve sighed, then gave a curt nod and Olivia wisped away. He watched her go for a moment, wondering about her. She was always just there, it seemed, hovering just out of eyesight, coming and going but never lingering. Within moments she was back with a soldier, a young man who approached him shyly. Steve saluted him and he returned the gesture and, stammering, asked for a picture. Steve allowed it and Olivia took the picture.

"You could try smiling," Olivia suggested, handing the soldier his phone back.

"Not really in the smiling mood," Steve said, ducking his head as another soldier approached.

"Try," she said firmly, and before long people were lining up and Steve was deeply uncomfortable. He found himself wanting to bolt, and just when he felt like he was about to lose it Olivia appeared again, glass of ice water in her hand. She handed it to him.

"You look like you're in pain," she said dryly, then turned to the waiting soldiers. "Give us a moment, please," she called, and took his arm and led him a few steps away. "What's wrong?" she asked lowly.

"Nothing," he said.

"Cut the crap, Rogers," she said. "There's a line of people out there who really, genuinely admire you. This picture—to some of them, it'll be a memory they'll always look back on. Captain America. Why are you struggling with that?"

They stared each other down for a few moments. He was feeling hot, but clammy; sweat slid down his back. He shifted his weight and then ran a hand through his hair. "I'm not—" he faltered and blew out an irritated breath, then turned and motioned at the crowd. "I'm not who they all think I am. I'm just—"

Olivia seemed to study him for a moment, the pieces falling into place. She nodded slowly. "I can call it off," she said to his surprise. "Just say the word."

He turned and looked back at the soldiers, then shook his head. "I'll do it," he said. "It's the least I can do."

Olivia nodded. "Drink your water," she ordered, guiding him back. Tony and Sam had joined in now, and the sight of Sam made Steve feel immediately more relaxed. Scanning the room, he found Mo and Bucky talking near the bar, which was good, he thought. They needed to talk.

He went back to the pictures. Sam and Tony were taking goofy pictures with the soldiers, having fun. Olivia rolled her eyes and urged him to loosen up, but he was just as uncomfortable with this as he had been in the 40s, dressed in his uniform, posing for pictures with screaming babies.

It wasn't until one man approached him that he saw what Olivia had meant.

"Captain," said the man, and he pulled something out of his coat pocket, unfolding it hastily. It was an old Captain America comic book. "I was wondering—I promised my son—do you think you could sign this for him?" Steve took the comic book. "You're his favorite, see," the man explained.

"His favorite?" Steve echoed, perplexed.

"Avenger," the man said. "He just loves you, he loves your story. He's been sick, recently, and it has its ups and downs but he made me promise that I'd get his comic signed for him. He just loves the idea of the little guy rising up, you know?"

Steve's throat tightened. He was nodding. "Yeah," he said. "Sure, sure. What's his name?"

"Austin," said the man, smiling. Olivia produced a pen, handing it to him smoothly as the man spoke. "Thank you so much. He's going to be so excited."

Beside them, Mo and Bucky had joined in. Mo was posing with a couple of female soldiers. They were laughing, flexing for the camera.

"Can I see your phone?" Olivia asked the soldier, and he handed it to her. She looked at Steve, who was still a little shaken, and he posed with the man as she snapped their picture.

"Thank you," the man said, looking moved. "Thank you."

Olivia stepped up to Steve then. He swallowed, thrown, and she smiled at him, just a little, and he caught her eye and she winked. "Told you so," she said.

AN: A little progress here. I thought it'd be a nice touch that Mo and Bucky still have that silent communication thing going on… and how do you feel about Olivia and the way she handled Steve? It wasn't much, but for once they weren't going at each other. Their relationship will be exciting to explore. Let me know what you think! We'll definitely be getting deeper into Steve's problems in upcoming chapters.