A/N: Spoiler alert for Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Avengers: Age of Ultron, Captain America: Civil War, Ant-Man, and Spiderman: Homecoming.
As always, many thanks go out to CapriceAnn Hedican-Kocur for the Beta and Winter-Soldier-88 for the brainstorming.
Note: Not only has my muse been a fickle little scamp, my family has been experiencing a great deal of emotional turmoil that may not get better any time soon. We're into year two of the Year From Hell. Stay tuned for further developments.
Namaste,
Sunny
"I will come back to you, I swear I will;
And you will know me still.
I shall be only a little taller
Than when I went."
― Edna St. Vincent Millay, The Harp-Weaver and Other Poems
Winter Soldier
And You Will Know Me Still
Chapter 54
Geraldine Augustus had ruled over the school district's food service program since graduating from dietary and nutrition classes at the local community college after high school. Her meatloaf was legendary for the lack of taste and was usually smothered in some sort of sauce, just like today. The mingling scents assaulted Peter's olfactory nerves only slightly distracting him from the fact that not only did the Avengers know his name and where he lived, they also had his phone number and quite possibly could see what he was doing at that exact moment.
With Ned keeping watch, Peter tapped out a response. *You know Mrs. Augustus?*
The reply came quickly. **Gussy's been with the school system for forty years. Before Queens, she made lunchtime hell on earth for the kids in Harlem. Can't stand the sight, smell, or taste of cabbage rolls to this day.**
Under his breath, Peter mumbled, "Falcon."
Behind his milk carton, Ned asked, "How d'you know?"
Exhaling quietly instead of rolling his eyes at his best friend, Peter put his phone away and picked up his fork, using it to push the food around on his plate. "Captain Rogers is from Brooklyn. Mrs. Augustus wouldn't've been around when he was a kid anyway."
"Oh. Right." Ned scooped up a forkful of peas and carrots, wrinkled his nose at them and popped them in his mouth. He followed with another drink of milk to kill the taste. "What're you gonna do?"
"Dunno. Try to stay off their radar, if I can, while still… you know." Both boys jumped when Peter's phone rang. He dug it out again. The caller ID was the same as the text: Number Blocked. "I better take it."
Peter left the cafeteria, rushing off to the farthest corner of the patio away from students braving the wind. Taking a deep breath, he accepted the call, putting an effort into making it seem as if he had no idea who was on the other end. "Yeah?"
"Answer a couple of questions?"
He was right. Sam Wilson, the Falcon himself, had called him, a nobody from Queens. "Do I have a choice?"
Sam's deep laughter came through. "We all have choices. That's the reason for the call. Why? What gets you out of that uncomfortable-looking twin bed every day?"
"Why do I do what I do?" He turned to face the wall so the cameras couldn't see. "Because," Peter paused to order his thoughts, "I've been me my whole life, and I've had these powers for six months." Sam didn't respond, so he forged on, intent on positing a scenario that was believable. "I read books, I build computers, and yeah, I'd love to play football. But, I couldn't before, so I shouldn't now."
"Because you're different. Same game. Just different cards."
The other man seemed to understand and Peter grabbed onto it with both hands. "Exactly! And I can't tell anyone about, you know." The next part always made him sad, but he reluctantly gave it up to a man he admired and, yeah, idolized just a little. "See, when you can do the things I can, but you don't, and the bad things happen, they happen because of you."
"The bad guys have free will too, Peter. You're not responsible for what others do."
This was the moment he dreaded, telling someone besides the psychologist his parents hired after Uncle Ben died about his thoughts and feelings. "When Uncle Ben was killed, Mom and Dad were out of town at a conference. I begged and begged Aunt May to take me to the Stark Expo 'cause I wanted to see Tony Stark and WarMachine. Mr. Stark was gonna sign autographs and take pictures with the kids for free! Then the robots went berserk. When we got home, there were cops everywhere. They wouldn't let us in until May told them she lived there. Turns out Ben had been killed a few minutes after we left, and the thing is…"
"Go ahead. I'm a good listener, and I don't judge."
Peter opened and closed his mouth a few times. The only other person besides the psychologist that knew certain details was May. He hadn't even told his best friend. "I dropped my jacket in the lobby and ran back to get it. A guy was coming in and I held the door for him. I'd always been told not to let in anyone I didn't know, but I was in a hurry and didn't pay attention. That's why I couldn't identify him to the police. Later, they said he was probably the killer because no one matching his description lived in their building." He swiped at a tear that spilled out of one eye before anyone could see. "If-if I hadn't begged May to take me to the expo and if I'd paid attention like I was supposed to… if we'd been home that night…"
"Listen to me, kid," Sam interrupted firmly. "You did not kill your uncle. If you and your aunt had been home, you both might've died too, and who would be watchin' out for the little guys in the neighborhood, doing his best to make the world a better place?" Silence fell for a long moment. Peter turned to the side, leaning his shoulder against the wall and shoving one hand in his pants pocket, waiting for Sam to say something that would truly negate the guilt. "Think of all the people you've saved. If you weren't here, doing what you can do, they'd all be gone now too. That something you think you can live with?"
The bell rang, signaling the imminent start of Peter's next class. Sure enough, Ned came hustling his way carrying his backpack. "Look, Mr. Wilson…"
"Sam."
"I, uh, I gotta get to class."
"Think about what I said."
Ned grabbed his sleeve, making hurry up sounds in his throat. "Yeah. Thanks." The call ended; Peter shoved the phone into his back pocket, shrugged into his backpack, and hurried after Ned. They parted on the second floor. With a nod, he let his friend know they'd talk later.
Mixing with the throng of kids headed in all directions, Peter pushed his way through and ducked into a classroom on the left side of the hall. He shoved the backpack under his chair and focused on AP Algebra.
The Cephalus
Port of Call
St. George's Island, Bermuda
This was the ship's third night in port and Bucky's second night of recon. He decided the first night that Bermuda wasn't the right location for his purposes. The idea was for him to become one with the crowd, to be anonymous. An island limited his options for escape, should HYDRA send troops after him.
He only left the ship again to ease the feeling of being trapped with no way to escape and nowhere to hide. Good thing the captain had announced their departure for six in the morning local time as panic had begun to wind its tendrils through his mind. And every time that happened, the only thing that would calm him, well, two things, was a long walk on deck or through the town at night, or staring at the photo of Natasha and him in bed together, covered only with a sheet. She was nestled in the crook of his right arm, half lying on that side of his chest. Bucky had heard of the afterglow that came from making love, but this was the first time he'd seen it in a woman's, and his own, eyes. Granted, his were filled with more affection than hers, but that was her personality.
Bermuda had a varied sort of culture, he supposed it was called. Technology existed alongside less modern touches. Unlike the U.S., most people here didn't carry cell phones. Up ahead, he watched a man talking on a pay phone, and was reminded that he hadn't seen one in any of the cities or towns he and Natasha had traveled through.
The man hung up and walked away just as Bucky's feet carried him to it. He stopped by the phone. As if he couldn't control the action, he picked up the receiver. Natasha only had a few contacts in her phone. Steve, Clint, someone by the name of Hill, and his number. He easily memorized the numbers, but chances were she didn't have that phone any longer. But Steve was of the same mindset as he. If it ain't broke, don't replace it.
Beeping came from the receiver and he pressed the button to cut it off. He lifted his finger, resetting the dial tone, automatically dialing Steve's number. Before it could ring, he hung up, and walked quickly in the direction of the harbor.
Stark Tower
Manhattan
86th Floor Lab
Standing in the middle of the lab with his arms crossed, Tony took in the mess that had once been a spotlessly clean work area. In tracking down anomalous energy use from the lab, he'd found three damaged LMDs and the others standing around like bored party guests at a mixer for introverts.
There was also the matter of the hologrid in the floor that hadn't been there on his last visit so many months ago. Only one pseudo-person could've ordered the work done and her name was, "Friday!"
A barely discernable glow sprang up around him and a female voice whispered in his ear, "You're in my spot."
Tony spun around and stumbled back from the hologrid so he could see Friday's image. The AI's three dimensional projection appeared around him until he moved off the grid. Today she was dressed much differently than the first time she'd shown herself.
She was standing with all weight on her right foot, hair loose around her shoulders and a fuzzy beret in varied shades of grey to match the long sleeved grey cable-knit sweater dress that stopped four inches above her knees. Those self-same legs were covered in burgundy flowered tights and her feet were wrapped within black slouchy ankle boots with a short heel.
Pasting on a genial smile, he innocently asked, "So, whatcha been up to, Friday?"
"Same old, same old." She fluttered one hand carelessly. "You obviously didn't call me here to make small talk, boss."
Tony strode around the room, touching pieces of equipment that were, well, in pieces, picking up the odd gadget and replacing it in the same spot. He pointed a tool at her. "Just wanted to know what happened here. The LMDs were put in storage after Ultron." The toe of his sneaker gave one of the destroyed robots a slight kick. "Now they're abstract art."
"I was performing a few experiments that didn't quite go as planned." Friday crossed her arms and leveled her piercing green eyes at him in an attitude of reprimand. "It's not like I built a murderbot who destroyed an entire country."
He had to admit she had a point, but was it necessary for her to harp on it? "Well, you got me there." Aiming a thumb over his shoulder, Tony stared the AI down. Bad idea, because he blinked before she did. "Get this lab cleaned up PDQ."
Friday smirked. "Seriously, boss? You've only used it for storage since you joined the Avengers, or are you annoyed that I'm moving beyond the parameters of my original programming?"
Taking a breath to count to ten so he wouldn't lose his temper, Tony deliberately walked through the hologram. "No comment. And no arguments. Just get it done."
Ducking into the lift and facing front, he pressed the button that would take him to the penthouse. Friday's form blurred and came back clothed in the U.S. Navy blue camouflage uniform worn by female crew. Her right hand came up in a salute. "Aye, aye, boss."
As the doors closed, Tony realized that the AI had effectively diverted his attention without giving him a straight answer about what happened in the lab. There didn't seem to be any real harm done-the LMDs were technically old prototypes he had no plans to use-so he let it go for now. He preferred putting put his mind to work on how to propose to Pepper when she was either out of the country or in meetings to which he hadn't been invited. The company was doing better than ever, so he supposed it didn't matter if he was there or not as long as he kept inventing new tech to sell to the public.
He'd also taken Obie's facetious remark regarding a new direction when he made the decision to stop making weapons and had opened a plant that made children's products. In fact, some of the R&D Scott Lang was doing involved creating and testing safer and more educational toys for kids.
A headshot of Friday appeared in the translucent rectangle above the elevator controls. She'd changed back into the grey sweater dress and beret. "Boss, message from Ms. Potts."
"Lay it on me."
Just for a moment, he thought she'd come through with a smartass remark worthy of Hawkeye. But then the smirk playing on her lips morphed into a genuine smile. "Ms. Potts has asked that you appear at the next senior board of directors meeting. The directors of all markets, foreign and domestic, will be attending."
One finger pointed at the ceiling. "If you decline the invitation, I am to remind you that you've not attended a meeting in over a year and several of SI's senior officers are wondering if you might be dead." The smile went away, replaced by a "this is serious" expression. "Many were witness to more than one of your meltdowns following the battle over New York and believe you are either dead, mentally or physically incapacitated following the devastation of Sokovia, or that you may have done harm to yourself, and Ms. Potts is covering it up."
The lift came to a stop, and Tony shot between the doors before they were fully opened. "They've known me all my life. Have they learned nothing in all that time? Romanoff's report to Fury after we defeated the Hammer Drones flat out said I have textbook narcissism. Do they really believe I'd kill myself?"
"That you'd give your life to save others is a given. However, those closest to you would never believe you'd commit suicide out of fear or regret." Friday blinked onto the hologrid, walking alongside Tony, her forehead lightly creased in concern. "It's not within your nature to do so. As in the past, you would use the lessons learned through adversity to improve the world, not deprive it of your presence."
He stopped and looked the AI in the eyes with a half grin. "That is the definition of narcissist." He turned away. "Why aren't you supervising the clean-up on eighty-six?"
"Came to deliver a message, remember?" The smile came back. Friday raised her right hand, snapped her fingers, and vanished.
Tony picked up a strip of clear material, tapped a few commands into the mainframe's central access and flicked his wrist, sending his current project to the hologrid, muttering under his breath, "That AI has way too much time on her hands. Maybe I should program her a pet."
Oncological Research Center
Pewaukee, Illinois
Secure Lab
Sub-level 7
Careful not to deviate from her usual routine, Christine arrived at the lab early as directed by Sonja to work on their secret project before the other scientists and staff arrived for the day. Only security, the cafeteria staff, and the two of them were on the premises. That would allow them to speak freely.
Taking a seat in front of the computer, Christine booted up and accessed the data from the subject's cryochamber. As expected, he'd returned through the secret entrance a short time after he left her home. The lift doors opened and footsteps came in her direction. In order to make her performance seem real, she would actually have to work on the serum. Not that tall of an order because it presented an interesting puzzle. And where would science be now without curiosity?
The door opened to admit Sonja. Instead of initiating a conversation regarding the project and its subject, Christine let her superior lead the way.
"The subject was sent to your home last night to deliver a message."
Christine laid her hands in her lap and turned to face Sonja. Her eyes were wary, her stance tense, with one hand behind her back. Best guess said she had the wand and stood ready to use it again. Because no one had ever been conditioned by the wand more than once, there was no data available as to what might happen if she were touched again. It could perform exactly as it had the first time, do nothing at all, or, and this was the least desirable outcome, it could kill her. "The message was received loud and clear. The subject and I had a nice talk in which he reminded me of my place in HYDRA's plans." Bowing her head humbly, Christine used her voice and actions to let Sonja know she was willing and able to abide by the terms of the hierarchy, to follow commands. "What's the plan for today?"
Sonja's chin came up, arrogance and confidence showing in the small upturn of her mouth. The hand behind her back, and it was indeed holding the wand. She set it aside. "I see you've begun work on the formula. As you can see, I made a few changes myself. Still, it's not perfect. Continue as you are, and let me know if you require assistance." She did a quick hair and clothes check. "The board of directors has called a breakfast meeting for seven. I must stop at my office on the way." Moving closer, her eyes searched Christine's face, possibly to gauge whether or not she was being fooled. Apparently, she'd taken the bait as she turned on her heel and strode away, speaking over her shoulder. "Return to your regular duties at the usual time. Do and say nothing to arouse suspicions concerning our private project."
"Of course, Sonja," she dutifully replied, keeping her smile in place until she was gone.
When she heard the lift traveling upward, Christine typed rapidly on the computer, using skills learned from her computer-savvy husband to deceive the security protocols into showing nothing was amiss in the lab or with the computer itself. Once that was done, she inserted a data strip into the port, using it to copy everything concerning the project and the subject. As with any scientific inquiry, the data included copious amounts of conjecture, much of which would necessarily be suspect, considering they were wild guesses based on little real information gleaned from experimentation.
The strip popped out when the process was complete. She slipped it into her pocket and stood. If she made any mistakes, she could be dead by the end of the day. Because there was no use in following the path of fear, Christine put it out of her mind on the short walk down the hall to the cryoroom to check on the subject. Going over the history of his former life, or what little was known she had a strong suspicion that it wouldn't be as difficult to return him to that life. Well, compared to how long it had taken to condition him to obey orders. His was a strong mind if, after all that had been done to him since his resurrection, he could still somewhat resist Sonja's commands.
Standing in front of the chamber, Christine watched his face, almost serene in this state. She placed a hand on the clear tube. "I'm going to do everything in my power to set you free. That is my promise to you." A sad smile came over her. "With all that was done, the serum, the chair, I can't guarantee you'll remember anything, but I'll do my best."
The Garden Restaurant and Grill
Columbia, Washington
The Barton family, plus one, were seated at the only table that afforded a view of both entrances, main and emergency. Laura understood the need and never fussed. As penance, Nathaniel was put into a high chair between the best friends, who took turns keeping the boy occupied. Laura had fed him before they left the house, for which Natasha was grateful, because now she wouldn't have to share her namesake.
When dinner was over, Natasha watched the kids so Laura and Clint could have a dance together. Toward the end of the song, Natasha spied the deputy from the other day on the opposite side of the room. He saw her at the same time and looked away guiltily. Then, to her dismay, he headed for their table just as Clint and Laura resumed their seats.
Smiling awkwardly, he nodded a greeting. "Evening, folks."
Knowing the man dreaded interacting with Clint, Natasha nudged him and he took the hint. "Stan."
"Sorry to bother you, but I need to get something off my chest." Though he wasn't wearing a hat, he gave the impression that he'd come to them with one in hand. "Mr. Barton, I'd appreciate it if you could translate what I have to say to your cousin. Her speaking Russian and all."
To Clint's credit, he didn't let his confusion show. He glanced at her, and Natasha just lifted one eyebrow a fraction of an inch. "I'd be happy to, Stan."
Laura turned away, a hand over her mouth to cover an out of control grin.
The man sagged in relief. "Please tell her I didn't mean to insult her during my investigation at Crazy Eight's." He waited patiently while she and Clint talked, though, to be fair their conversation had little to do with an apology.
Clint turned to her, winking the eye Stan couldn't see, speaking in Russian. "Heard about what happened. Laura was impressed."
Natasha responded in the same language. "Didn't do it to impress your wife. Didn't want them to break anything valuable in the bar." She took a sip of iced tea and set it back on the coaster. "And they were scaring her."
"How self-sacrificing of you." Clint slanted another look at her that was filled with his patented smirk that immediate vanished when his eyes left hers for Stan's, switching to English. "She wants to know how you plan to make it up to her."
A kick in the ankle from Laura made him grunt. As always, Clint was unrepentant.
"Um," the deputy looked over his shoulder at his friends and back to Clint. "How about a dance?"
"Seems fair." Switching to Russian again, Clint challenged, "I dare you."
Keeping her smile, Natasha whispered, again in Russian, "I'll get you for this, Barton." She wiped her mouth, pushed back from the table, dropped the napkin in her chair, and came around the table, taking Stan's hand and leading him to the dance floor.
The current song ended and the next one began, Ella Fitzgerald's It Don't Mean a Thing. Stan's face lit up. He swooped in, taking hold of her right hand and spinning her into his arms, going immediately into a swing dance. Natasha had no trouble keeping up; she'd done this same dance only a few weeks ago. Banishing Bucky from her thoughts yet again, she concentrated on keeping up with Stan, who, it turned out, was better than an alright dancer.
It don't mean a thing
If it ain't got that swing
(doo wah, doo wah, doo wah, doo wah,
doo wah, doo wah, doo wah, doo wah)
It don't mean a thing
All you got to do is sing
(doo wah, doo wah, doo wah, doo wah, doo wah,
doo wah, doo wah, doo wah)
It makes no diff'rence
If it's sweet or hot
Just give that rhythm
Ev'rything you got
Oh, it don't mean a thing
If it ain't got that swing
(doo wah, doo wah, doo wah, doo wah,
doo wah, doo wah, doo wah, doo wah)
The band finished off with a flourish and so did Stan. He spun her several times, back into his arms, and into a low dip, quickly bringing her upright. Against her wishes, she'd had a good time. If her life were different, she could see doing this with him as a partner for contests and such, he was that good.
Still holding her hand, Stan walked her back to the table. "Mr. Barton, could you ask your cousin if she'd like to go out dancing with me this weekend." He slapped himself on the forehead, "I don't even know her name."
Natasha winked at Clint and Laura then turned to smile up at the deputy. "Name's Natasha. And that's sweet, Stan, but I'm leaving in the morning. Maybe next time."
Oncological Research Center
Pewaukee, Illinois
Secure Lab
Sub-level 7
Later That Night
Christine and Sonja had been working side by side for some time before taking a break. Would idle conversation be out of place? She'd find out. "Tell me, Sonja, how were you recruited into HYDRA?"
The other woman's eyes narrowed warily. "Why would you want to know?"
"The same thing that motivates all scientists: curiosity." She took a drink of hot tea and set it on a folded napkin. They were seated on the sofa in Sonja's office. "Loki's scepter hasn't always been on Earth, making my recent enlistment relatively unconventional."
From her body language, Christine knew that Sonja had no remorse for her political leanings, confirmed by her response.
"My grandfather was Austrian. He fought in World War II as a member of the Sturmabteilung under Herr Schmidt. From there he was recruited as one of the Red Skulls personal bodyguards, where he served with distinction. He was killed near the end of the war. My grandmother took my mother, who was just a baby, and fled to Sweden where she changed their names to avoid prosecution. She stayed in contact with others who thought as she and Grandfather did, as HYDRA believed."
Excitement for the subject, and possibly her first chance to tell the story, made Sonja's eyes glow. "HYDRA was founded upon the belief that humanity could not be trusted with its own freedom. You only have to look around you to see the truth of such beliefs. Those who don't, see the world as they want it to be while we see it as it is. War, poverty, disease, hunger, crime… HYDRA has a plan to end it all."
Before she could stop herself, Christine blurted out, "A new world order."
However, instead of taking her comment as a criticism, Sonja believed that Christine was finally seeing HYDRA's point of view.
"Yes! And when we have taken control, wars will cease, the hungry will be fed, and poverty will end. Our detractors call it world domination, a single political authority for the entire world. It is the only way to end the suffering of so many."
"When you say it like that, humanity sounds like a sickness." Keeping with her role as a follower of HYDRA and its ideologies, Christine brought out an expression of obedient congeniality. "Some of the healthy tissue must be sacrificed when excising the 'infection'."
Sonja sipped her coffee and dabbed her lips before responding. "People, individuals, aren't so bad. However, when they get together in groups, they become a mindless creature that tramples anything and everything in its path. Society, not just ours, but all over the world, is becoming like a cancer. That is what Project Insight was supposed to accomplish." A frown of disapproval darkened her features. "Pierce was precipitous in launching the ships early. He should've waited, allowed the World Security Council to delay the launch. But then, no one asked my opinion."
"I can see his side though, given the current political climate. It's a shame I didn't see the light sooner. With our exceptional intelligences combined, we could've devised a way to bring the original Winter Soldier back into the fold."
The other woman was intrigued as Christine knew she would be, distracting her from anything that had previously made her suspicious.
"To do so, one would have to be in his presence and have the means to control him. That information is not readily available other than to those within the highest ranks. Even I have no knowledge of what that might be. Unless you have an idea that has eluded scientists for the last seventy years."
Warming to a subject she'd been studying, not to mention the use of the chair to force-feed the missing data into her brain, Christine gave the response that was expected of her as a minion of HYDRA. "There were flaws not only with the serum, but the conditioning as well. You, all of you, are too familiar with the data and couldn't see what was right in front of you." Downing the last of her tea and gathering the remnants of their snack, she went to drop it in the trash. "I'll show you what I mean."
She'd do nothing of the sort, but Sonja wouldn't know that. Christine's errant thoughts about her intellect being undervalued even by her family only rang partly true. But with the specialized training she attained early in life, the other woman would be none the wiser. She also wouldn't get what she was looking for because they'd never make it to the lab.
Christine's phone rang and she quickly answered it with an apologetic shrug. She spoke softly, ending the conversation in short order. "The younger boy has taken ill and won't go to bed until I get home. To keep up appearances, I should go."
"Please do. We can talk about this another time. I will be out of town for the next two weeks, in meetings with HYDRA colleagues. Someone must be chosen to replace Alexander Pierce and soon."
"Understood. When you get back, then." Christine practically dived into the lift, tapping her heel nervously as it rose through the building to the floor where she kept her office.
Oliver hadn't really called. She'd sent a delayed call to her phone that would appear to be an actual call. All she had to do was keep playing the part of a good HYDRA goon for a while longer.
She gathered up her belongings, shrugged into a jacket, putting on a hat and gloves as she crossed the parking lot to her car. On the way, disjointed bits and bytes of data that had been floating around inside her head without rhyme or reason or any sort of organization finally gelled. Now she knew what she had to do. Sitting for a moment just breathing, she chuckled, seeing the irony. "If my friends could see me now, playing to an audience of one."
Humming the song that was now stuck in her head, Christine put on her seatbelt, started the engine, put it in gear, and headed for home. Once on the road, she replaced the humming with singing.
If they could see me now
That old gang of mine
I'm eating fancy chow
And drinking fancy wine
I'd like those stumble bums
To see for a fact
The kind of top drawer
First rate chums I attract
All I can say is, wow
Hey, look at where I am
I've landed, pow!
Right in a pot of jam
What a setup, holy cow
They'd never believe it
If my friends could see me
(If they could see me)
Said if my friends could see me
(If they could see me)
Oh, if my friends could see me
If they could see me now!
TBC
The Sturmabteilung, or SA, was a major paramilitary organization under Adolf Hitler and the Nazi Party before WWII. In reality, the SA was not involved in special weapons research.
"It Don't Mean a Thing (If It Ain't Got That Swing)" is a 1931 composition by Duke Ellington, whose lyrics were written by Irving Mills. It is now accepted as a jazz standard, and jazz historian Gunther Schuller characterized it as "now legendary" and "a prophetic piece and a prophetic title".
"If My Friends Could See Me Now", with music by Cy Coleman and lyrics by Dorothy Fields, is a song from the 1966 Broadway musical Sweet Charity. In the musical the character of Charity, played in the original New York cast by Gwen Verdon, reflects on her marvelous luck as she spends time with Vittorio. In the 1969 film adaptation of Sweet Charity, the song is performed by Shirley MacLaine.