Chapter 6: Sniper Duel
They made it. Sometimes, it still felt like a dream. As they walked past the cheering men, Bucky shot a look at Steve. These were the same men who'd jeered Captain America and thrown things when he tried to entertain them. Colonel Phillips and one seriously well-put-together woman were up ahead.
Steve saluted. "Some of these men need medical attention."
That was an understatement. Pretty much everyone except Steve needed medical attention.
A medic yelled in the background. "We got wounded!"
Another shouted, "Right over here!"
Phillips stood wordlessly in front of them, and Steve, back straight, shoulders squared, said, "I'd like to surrender myself for disciplinary action."
Bucky already knew that wasn't going to fly. No way would Phillips punish Steve after the reception they just received, but just in case, he and the men were ready to make it known how they felt about the notion of Steve facing adverse consequences for walking single-handedly into a German weapons factory and saving their asses. He made eye contact with Morita, Gabe, and Dum Dum to confirm they were all on the same page.
"That won't be necessary," Phillips said.
"Yes, sir."
Everyone was shaking hands or hugging, while the medics tended to the wounded and carted off the dead when the woman in the tie walked up and mentioned they were late. The hum of excitement drowned out Steve's reply, but as Bucky looked around, he decided to make damn sure everyone knew exactly who was responsible for saving them.
"Hey! Let's hear it for Captain America!"
Cheers and applause broke out. Steve looked back at him, almost reproachfully, but with a tiny smile. Bucky joined the applause and flashed his eyebrows, offering a tight, teasing smile. Steve deserved this. After today, no one would call him a choir boy or underestimate him again.
The next few hours passed in a blur. The medical tent was full, and the less seriously injured were sitting on the floor, waiting for their broken bones and noncritical bullet wounds to be looked at. Steve steered Bucky toward the medical tent before being whisked away by Phillips, but once he saw the chaos inside, he shook his head and decided he'd heal fine on his own. All he had were some scrapes and bruises. He'd shaken off whatever Zola had done to him.
Instead, he headed to the rear and stumbled toward the showers designated for white enlisted personnel. Out in the open, he waited his turn in the line of men and, once he was up, stripped, and walked under the spray.
Goddamn, it felt good. Someone handed him a bar of soap, and he used it liberally. Weeks of dirt, sweat, and grime fell away with the suds. The water ramped up his thirst and hunger, and he opened his mouth, greedily taking in a few large gulps. He finished, dried off, and picked up a new set of clothes.
He'd just gotten dressed when he heard the bellow of a familiar voice of Master Sergeant Johnson. "Barnes, report to the command tent immediately!"
He sighed. All he wanted was food, water, and sleep, in that order, but those would apparently all have to wait. Looks like the Colonel wanted to debrief him ASAP.
Bucky made his way to the command tent where Colonel Phillips was seated behind a desk. Steve and the uniformed woman were there, along with Doc Martin, a tall lanky man with graying hair and glasses. A scale was set up in the corner, and a file sat in the middle of Phillips' desk. Barnes saw his own name on the cover.
But Bucky's eyes focused on the table near the rear flap where a metal plate filled with food sat next to a cup of water.
"Sir!" Barnes saluted, "reporting as ordered."
"At ease, Sergeant." Phillips pointed to the table.
Bucky dropped into the chair and went for the chicken first, tearing into the meat, barely taking the time to chew before it hit his stomach.
"Easy soldier," the doc said, "or it'll all come back up."
Bucky didn't care. He also didn't care that the chicken was the dehydrated, pre-cooked stuff that the guys added water to and put on a plate. It was the most delicious thing he could ever remember gracing his tongue. He devoured it, and the biscuit next, then the rice, and downed it all with the water.
"If you vomit in this tent, son, there'll be hell to pay," the Colonel said.
Bucky set the cup on the table and nodded. Steve put a hand on his shoulder, then sat in the next chair facing him.
"Hey, you up for a debrief?" Steve asked.
"Yes, sir," he looked between Steve and the Colonel. He still wasn't sure if Steve was an actual Captain.
"Rogers, why don't you go get cleaned up?" Phillips said.
"Sir, I'd—"
"That wasn't a request, son."
Steve gave Bucky a regretful look, then nodded and rose. "Yes, Sir."
"Sergeant, this is Agent Carter of the Strategic Scientific Reserve."
Carter walked up to the table and peered at him. "It's nice to meet you, Sergeant."
Now that his belly was full, he wanted nothing more than to lay his head down and sleep, but he pushed himself up and stood at attention. "Ma'am."
She smiled. "Sit down, Sergeant. This might take a while."
Gratefully, he plopped back into the chair.
"I understand you got a look at Doctor Zola's lab?"
He swallowed and stared at his empty plate. "Yes, Ma'am."
They wanted the details. He knew he'd have to go over it all eventually, he'd just hoped it would be later rather than sooner. Then again, maybe it was best to get it over with so he could put it behind him and sleep for a few days.
"Your friend told us that Zola had apparently experimented on many men before you, and that he found you strapped to Zola's table in the lab?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"What can you tell us about Zola's labs and his experiments?"
"Not much."
Colonel Phillips leaned forward in his chair. "Dr. Zola is one of the leading scientists helping Hitler fight this war. It's crucial we learn all we can about his work. So, when she asks you what you can tell us, we need more than 'not much.'"
Bucky took a breath. "Understood, Sir. I'll do my best, but I don't know what he was doing. When he put me on the table, I was sick. Cracked ribs, I'm pretty sure, and pneumonia. I probably wouldn't have lasted long. He injected me with something. I passed out. When I came to, he put stuff on my head, in my mouth, and did something. I don't know what, but it hurt like a son of a bitch, and I passed out again."
"Did he ask you any questions?" Agent Carter asked, dropping into the chair facing him.
"No. Not a single one."
"You sure about that son?" Phillips asked.
"He didn't ask me anything. I didn't tell him anything. I did what I was supposed to, Sir. I gave him my name, rank, and serial number."
Agent Carter's face softened. "We know. Steve told us you were reciting it when he found you."
"Do you know what he injected you with?" the doc asked.
"No. I figured some kind of medicine, something like that new penicillin. It must have cleared up my pneumonia." He thought back to that time in Zola's lab. Schmidt had come in, had words with Zola. "He did say something about trying to stimulate cellular growth. I got the impression that he might be researching battlefield medicines to heal injured soldiers."
Phillips flipped open the file on his desk and scanned it. "Says here, son, that you weigh 173 pounds, and you're six feet tall?"
"Well, I might be less now since they barely fed us in the factory, but in general, yes, Sir."
Doc pointed to the scale. "Please step up here."
He pushed himself to his feet, stifling a groan, and stood on the scale. Doc took his weight and height, wrote something in a chart, then nodded at him to step down. "Your current weight is one fifty nine, Sergeant."
The next three hours were spent answering questions, getting his vitals taken, his blood drawn, and his wounds tended to. When Phillips finally dismissed him, he shuffled out of the tent to see Steve standing twenty feet away, talking to a group of soldiers, and glancing his way. Extricating himself from the group, Steve made his way to Bucky.
"How are you doing?" his friend asked. He was clean and wearing a long jacket over fresh clothes.
"Tired. I could sleep for a week." His feet felt like bricks.
Like a relentless puppy, Steve followed along. "What'd the doc say?"
"He took my stats, that's all. They asked me a bunch of questions. I told them what I remember." God, all he wanted was a pillow. He didn't even need a bed, just a place to lie down.
Steve pointed to the right. "My tent's over there. It's got a decent bed, if you—"
Nope. He wasn't going to let the men see him getting cushy treatment. "I'm used to my cot, thanks." Hopefully, it was still there and hadn't been reassigned or redistributed.
"Okay."
When he finally ducked through the flap of his tent and saw the others already asleep, he made his way to what he hoped was still his cot and dropped face-first onto the pillow. The mattress dipped with Steve's weight.
Jesus, the guy couldn't take a hint.
"You sure you're okay, Buck?" Steve asked.
Bucky buried his face in his pillow. God, how he missed being able to stretch out and rest his head on something that wasn't metal. "Steve," he mumbled, "you're my best friend, thank you for saving us, but get the hell out and let me sleep."
"Okay, Buck." A large hand patted his leg. "I'll see you tomorrow."
Or not. He wasn't kidding when he said he could sleep for a week, if they'd let him.
-0- -0- -0-
The next couple of days were as blissful as he could remember since he'd gotten home to Brooklyn in June. He was granted a four-day leave, along with the other American soldiers who'd returned.
He didn't see much of Steve on the first couple of days and figured the brass was keeping the man busy, debriefing him and arranging the fastest medal ceremony in army history. Day three was when Steve came to check on him during lunch, where the meal rations seemed a helluva lot less filling than they had been. He left every meal hungry and figured the trek across Austria must have worked up his appetite.
"I swear they've cut back our rations," Bucky muttered, glancing up at Dum Dum across the table.
Dum Dum stuffed the biscuit in his mouth. "Never tasted better, if you ask me, especially after living off the crap the Germans fed us." He jerked his chin at Bucky. "You pretty yourself up, Sarge? Can't even see the cuts and bruises, anymore."
Yeah, he noticed that too while shaving. Weird, but he supposed the wounds hadn't been very deep. It was amazing what rest and food could do for one's recuperation.
"Attention!" someone barked, and everyone in the mess tent rose.
On his feet, Bucky spotted the familiar figure walking toward him. Holy shit. Steve looked as perfect a soldier as Bucky had ever seen in his brown uniform with the Captain's insignia and ribbons.
"At ease, everyone." Steve stood in front of Bucky as the others resumed their lunch. "How've you been?" He glanced at Dugan and the others. "All of you?"
"Great!" Dugan raised his cup. "Looking forward to another evening of freedom!"
Steve nodded. "You've all earned it."
Bucky had a hard time pulling his gaze off Steve. He really was a Captain. Leave it to Steve Rogers to not only figure out a way to bypass his 4F rating and get into the army, but to end up America's golden boy and make it to Captain in less than five months.
"Hey, you got a minute?" Steve asked.
"I'm on day three of my leave, so yeah."
Steve tilted his head toward the flap, and Bucky followed him outside. When they were out of earshot of other soldiers, Steve turned to him. "We're putting together a team to take out Hydra bases. I'd like you and some of the others on it—Dugan, Morita, Jones, Falsworth, and Dernier. Do you think they'd be interested?"
Why was he not surprised that Steve was itching to head back into the thick of a fight? Oh, right, because it was Steve. You could take the kid out of Brooklyn, but…
"You mean, after they just escaped, are they gonna want to head back into enemy territory and risk death or capture?"
Steve shifted on his feet, but his gaze was steady. "Yes."
"They're idiots, especially Dum Dum. There's a reason that's his nickname, after all, so, yeah. They're probably stupid enough to say yes." He eyed the medal ribbon on Steve's uniform. "I hear you blew off a senator?"
Steve looked suddenly uncomfortable. "I'm official. New uniform and everything."
"You earned it all. No one else would be crazy enough to get dropped behind enemy lines and single-handedly waltz into a heavily fortified German base. Nearly four hundred men are alive because of you, and now we've got a leg up on their new tech."
Steve ducked his head and smiled. "You're not upset that I'm here?"
"Hell, no. Okay, sure, when you were all 95 pounds and asthmatic, I didn't want you getting yourself killed. Now that you can bench press a car, I'm…well…" He couldn't exactly say he was happy Steve was on the front lines. War was hell, but… "…we need you, and frankly, it's just so damn good having you around. I missed you, buddy." Then he thought of something. "You're not still asthmatic, right?"
"Not so far. The serum seems to have cleared up all my ailments."
Bucky shook his head. "Unbelievable." And a miracle. He'd spent his whole life worrying that Steve would die young. The odds were that he'd never make it past 40, but here he was, healthy and strong. "Thank, God."
-0- -0- -0-
The bar was lively. The guys were at the table, drinking up their paychecks and being morons. Bucky sat alone at the bar, staring into his whiskey. It wasn't doing its job of taking the edge off the memories. They came in flashes, sometimes when he least expected them.
Paulie's face. His body being dragged away. The needle with the blue liquid. Zola's smug face. Schmidt peeling off his "face." The beam falling away with Steve still trapped on the other side.
He drowned the glass and nodded at the bartender for another. He kept an ear on the guys and smiled when he heard Dugan ask Steve to open a tab. A couple of minutes later, Steve was walking toward him.
Bucky pushed the dark thoughts aside and forced a smile. "See? I told you. They're all idiots."
"How 'bout you?" Steve sat next to him. "You ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?"
"Hell, no." He let that linger for a moment, thinking back to all the back-alley fights and boxing lessons. "That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight… I'm following him."
He looked over at Steve, still not quite able to get over the sheer magnitude of his transformation. The face was the same, just…broader. The jaw stronger. The eyes were 100% Steve Rogers from Brooklyn. Steadfast. Determined. They fit the new version of his face better.
The smile Steve gave was the same one he'd seen almost every day of his life. Understated, but meaningful, as if Steve never could let the lid off the deep well of his emotions.
Things were in danger of getting downright mushy, and Steve's big head was in danger of getting bigger. Someone had to take the Brooklyn kid down a notch.
Bucky leaned in and whispered. "But you're keeping the outfit, right?"
Ah, finally, a real reaction. There it was. The playful spark in the eyes served with the cock of an eyebrow and an exasperated smile.
"You know what?" Steve looked at the Captain America poster on the wall that declared the tour canceled. "It's kind of growing on me."
The drunk singing came to a sudden halt, which meant something was happening or about to happen. He swiveled on the stool and peered into the other room to see Agent Carter in the most form-fitting red dress he'd ever laid eyes on.
"Captain," she greeted.
Steve was off his stool. "Agent Carter."
Bucky couldn't help his wandering eyes as he approached her. It had been a long, hard few weeks shoved into a cage with a bunch of grumpy, smelly men. Agent Carter was all curves, and she smelled divine.
She glanced his way and he straightened, caught, and pulled his gaze up quickly to meet hers. "Ma'am."
She faced Steve. "Howard has some equipment for you to try. Tomorrow morning?"
She hadn't come all this way, dressed like that, to talk about equipment.
"Sounds good," Steve said.
Bucky looked back and forth between the two. Was there something there? Steve sure as hell seemed oblivious, and Carter was a hard one to read.
She looked toward the singing men, then back at Steve, a tiny smile lifting the corners of her mouth. "I see your top squad is prepping for duty."
Her attitude certainly matched her fiery outfit.
"You don't like music?" Bucky asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
Her gaze never wavered from Steve, as if he were the one who'd asked the question. "I do, actually."
Yeah, there was definitely something going on. The day had come. Someone had noticed Steve—and of course he was a helluva lot harder to miss these days—but it wasn't just any gal. It was the sassy, confident Agent Carter, a woman who seemed to have as much of a steel will as Steve.
"I might even, when this is all over, go dancing," she added.
That was an opening if he'd ever heard one. Steve didn't seem inclined to take a shot, so he took one.
"Then what are we waiting for?"
It was as if he didn't exist. She had eyes for only Steve when she answered, "The right partner."
Steve stood there like a big, silent, dumb moron. He needed a good, swift kick in the ass.
"0800, Captain," she said, then turned and walked away.
"Yes ma'am. I'll be there," Steve confirmed.
Bucky couldn't believe Steve looked like that and was still a dunce with women. He watched her leave. Never in his life had he been so blatantly brushed aside by a dame. Now he knew how Steve felt all those years.
"I'm invisible. I…I'm turning into you. It's like a horrible dream."
"Don't take it so hard." Steve patted him on the shoulder. "Maybe she's got a friend."
Well, look at that, Steve Rogers was still a goddamned punk.
-0- -0- -0-
The tide of the war shifted. The months were grueling, with long hikes through treacherous terrain and battle after brutal battle. Bucky's gift with the rifle grew, and more often he ended up positioned on the high ground, covering Steve's ass from a hundred yards away.
The Germans had their own snipers, and the bounty on Captain America's head grew with every passing month of Allied victories. Steve was a visible target decked out in red, white, and blue. The shield, though useful in so many ways, was also a liability. It was a brightly-colored marker easily spotted on any battlefield.
Bucky was on his stomach, eye to the rifle's scope, searching for threats. Good snipers were difficult to find. They knew how to hide and changed their position every two or three hits to avoid having their locations pinpointed.
He kept a lookout for muzzle flashes and scope reflections. As the battle raged on below, with the Howlies wiping out Hydra soldiers and Steve bulldozing his way through the enemy, Bucky remained silent and focused, searching both high and low grounds for any enemy with a gun that might get the drop on Steve or one of the Howlies.
He spotted a black-clad soldier stalking Steve from the high ground, partially obscured by what remained of an armory. Bucky aimed, held his breath, and squeezed the trigger, taking out the gunman. He was clearing the shell to load another round when Steve turned, looked up toward Bucky's position, and fucking saluted.
Goddamnit! Bucky rolled to his feet, slipped the rifle on his back, and took off in a crouched run just as a sizzle of energy spliced the air and decimated the area where he'd been laying. The outer edge of the blast knocked him off his feet, and he ended up with a face full of dirt.
Thank you so much, Steve. Didn't want this to be too fucking boring, you goddamned star-spangled idiot. Bucky pushed to his feet, keeping low as he hurried to a new position.
If he survived this mission, he was going to take the wide end of his rifle and shove it up Rogers' tight, dumb ass.
It wasn't too long before they were finished mopping up, Falsworth gave the all-clear, and the Howlies regrouped. Bucky was still coming off the adrenaline high when he approached, focusing on the brightly-colored idiot in the center whose head was swiveling around as he scanned the area. Finally, Steve saw him and seemed to shrink a couple of inches, his face crumpling into a mask of relief, then regret, as he left the Howlies and moved to intercept.
"Are you okay? I'm sorry, Buck—"
"You, me, over there!" Bucky jabbed a finger toward the treeline, not waiting for confirmation. He was vibrating with rage as he marched off. The crunch of boots on the ground told him Steve was close behind.
"Cap's in trouble!" Dugan roared with laughter. "Good to see you alive, Sarge!"
When they got out of earshot, Bucky spun to face Steve. "If you weren't a Captain, I'd fucking deck you! You almost got me killed!"
"I'm sorry, Bucky." Steve glanced down at his feet. "I didn't know I wasn't supposed to—""
Steve was many things, but he wasn't usually so completely clueless. "What? You didn't know you weren't supposed to broadcast your sniper's position to every goddamned enemy soldier within visual range?"
"Yeah," Steve sighed heavily. "That." He looked up and pulled his cap back. "You wanna deck me, go ahead. I deserve it."
Bucky rolled up his fist. He was tempted, but he'd probably break his hand on that steel jaw. A hint of pink touched the rim of Steve's eyes, and for just a second, Bucky thought he saw a suspicious glimmer in them.
Shit. Okay, so Steve screwed up. It's not like Bucky hadn't made his share of battle mistakes. Every soldier did, and Steve had risen to Captain without the benefit of extensive combat experience.
"Look," Bucky began, his shoulders deflating, "it's okay. No harm done. I trust it won't happen again?"
"It won't."
"Good." Bucky softened his next words with a hint of a smile. "Is there any other stupidly obvious shit you don't know that I need to school you about?"
Steve clenched his jaw and glanced at his boots. "Uh, I'm not sure." He looked suitably contrite when he added, "Probably."
Bucky slung an arm over Steve's shoulder. "I shouldn't be surprised. Hell, you didn't even know about fondue until recently."
Steve's face flushed. "You mean you do? How did you find out about that, anyway?"
"Howard's got a big mouth."
-0- -0- -0-
Two months and several destroyed Hydra bases later, the bounty on Steve's head had grown substantially. They were on the Italian-Croatian border intercepting a German transport of energy canons. Bucky was flat on his stomach at the top of a hill, in the middle of brush and trees, the rifle in front of him, his eye to the scope.
A German sniper had already taken out two Allied soldiers supporting the Howlies. The shooter was skilled. He'd relocated a moment before Bucky fixed his location.
Unfortunately, Steve was an obvious target, but so far he'd done a good job of staying mobile and using vehicles and trees—or the shield—as cover. Bucky spotted two Hydra soldiers about 20 yards apart, one high in a tree, the other on the ground, both taking aim. One had a line on Dugan, the other on Steve. Bucky fired a shot and took out the one in the tree, shifted his aim, and eliminated the second gunman half a second later, then he abandoned his position and hopped down the hill a few yards, taking cover behind a boulder just as the sniper fired. The bullet hit exactly where Bucky's head had been a moment ago.
Peering through the scope, he scanned the terrain. There! A reflection off the other guy's scope. Unfortunately, the shooter was well hidden by vegetation, and Bucky couldn't be sure of a headshot, so he aimed for the glint of light, held his breath, and squeezed the trigger.
There was an explosion of glass and a spray of red through the brush. The bullet penetrated the scope, sailed through the man's eye, and came out the back of his skull.
That evening, on a pass, Steve, Bucky, and the rest of the Howlies celebrated at a bar in Italy. A pianist played in the background—a light, cheery number that brightened the atmosphere.
"The one's on me, Jimmy!" Dugan set a shot of whiskey in front of Bucky and dropped into his seat, beer in hand. "That was one helluva shot!"
"Dugan, if you call me Jimmy one more time, on the next mission, I might sneeze and accidentally shoot you in the ass." He downed the whiskey as the men roared with laughter.
"Your counterpart never knew what hit him," Fallsworth chimed in as he raised his mug, and the others all gave a cheer.
My counterpart…
Steve was quiet, a proud smile on his face. He raised his own beer. "Good work, Buck."
Dugan waved, and another glass of whiskey appeared in front of Bucky. The first one went down like water, like all drinks these days. He'd apparently developed a high tolerance for alcohol. He even won a drinking contest against Dugan a few weeks ago, leaving the bar with a pleasant buzz while Morita and Gabe carried Dum Dum to the jeep.
He twisted the glass in his hand, staring at the light off the rim, like the glint of the sniper's scope. Steve and the others were proud of him because he was good at killing people, and somehow, that felt wrong. When he wrote to his folks and his sisters, he never mentioned combat. Most of it was classified, anyway, but he wondered what he'd tell them when the war was over, if he made it home.
Would they ask him how many men he killed? They'd know he'd taken lives, of course. Killing was inevitable in this war. It was kill or be killed…or get someone else killed.
Would his mother look at him the same way? Her voice rang in his head. "Say I'm kind, Jimmy."
But was he? After this war, could he still claim that? Would she see the change in him? Would she be proud of him, or would her heart break a little when she realized he wasn't the same man she'd nearly squeezed the life out of when he'd left for bootcamp?
"You want another drink, Bucky?"
Bucky looked up at Steve and recognized the more pointed question in his eyes. Steve knew him too well. "Nah, I'm okay. Thanks."
Steve rose. "I'm gonna head to the bar. Want to help me carry back a round, Sergeant?"
With a sigh, Bucky nodded and pushed to his feet. At the bar, Steve ordered the beers, and as they waited, he glanced over. "Are you really okay? You've been a bit quiet."
He forced a smile. "I'm fine. It's just been a long few months."
"Tell me about it."
Bucky watched the bartender pour beer into a mug. "Do you think he had a wife? Children?"
"Who?" Steve asked.
"The German sniper."
"You can't think about that, Buck."
"If he did, I wonder what his family thinks. Are his parents still alive? Do they think Hitler's right somehow? Do his kids believe their father died for a just cause? Or was he just some sap forced to follow orders?"
Steve was silent for several moments until the bartender set the mugs in front of them, giving Buck a long, sympathetic look before turning away to serve a customer at the far end of the bar.
"We need some real R&R," Steve said. "A few solid days off. We've all been going nonstop for months. I'll put in a request when we get back to base."
The only thing R&R would do is give him too much downtime in his head. He started to protest as Steve grabbed the mugs but thought of the guys. They sure as hell could use a few days off.
"Hello, ladies, do I deliver on my promises, or what?" Howard Stark's voice intruded.
Bucky looked over to see Stark with two young women, one brunette, the other blonde, both gorgeous. Of course. The blonde eyed Steve, a sultry smile on her face. The brunette, on the other hand, spared neither of them a glance and ordered a glass of champagne.
"Hello, gentlemen." Stark leaned against the bar and gestured to the blonde. "This lovely lady is Madeline, and her friend," he glanced at the brunette who lifted her champagne glass with a cocky smile, "is Edith."
Steve nodded politely. "Nice to meet you both, Ma'ams"
Ma'ams. Oh, Steve. Bucky ducked his head to hide his amusement.
Madeline slinked up to Steve. "Can you really lift a car?"
Steve shifted on his feet. "Well, uh, if I need to."
Howard slapped Bucky on the arm. "And Sergeant Barnes here is quite the sniper. I hear you made one hell of a shot."
Bucky didn't think it polite to talk about blowing a man's brains out in front of the ladies. "A lucky one."
"Well, I for one am glad you and Cap are on our side." Howard remarked, then slapped money on the bar. "This rounds on me, throw in a few more drinks, Pal, will ya? Make it fancy for Cap and the Sergeant here."
"Howard, you don't have to…" Steve began.
"Hell, I know that, but it's the least I can do since I work all nice and safe in a lab and you guys are out there putting your lives on the line." He smiled at the ladies. "Though, of course, my work helps keep them safe out there. I'm rather crucial to the war effort."
The blonde smiled at Steve. "Thank you for defending our freedom."
Steve gave her a shy smile. "Just part of the job, Ma'am."
Bucky was feeling invisible again. He couldn't compete with a rich playboy and Captain America, so he excused himself, grabbed a couple of mug handles in each hand, and carried the drinks over to the guys.