We Were Soldiers

142. London Calling

Steve closed his eyes as the scenery sped by, letting the gentle rocking of the carriage soothe his mind. He wasn't tired. Not exactly. But he was… weary. It had been a long night, filled with beer, and backgammon, and darts, and more beer. He couldn't get drunk but after a while the beer began to make him feel icky. Maybe because it was the warm, flat stuff the English called 'ale'. Maybe because his body couldn't metabolise it well after a certain point. Either way, he could've used a few more hours of shut eye that morning.

When Tiberius had asked him to stay for the night and join him and Willy at the pub, he'd leapt at the chance to just do something normal after so many weeks of fighting. It felt good to spend time with people who didn't see him as Captain America. Who weren't waiting for him to do something heroic, or didn't want to shake his hand or get his autograph. It had also been a good opportunity to get a feel for life in England outside of London. Maybe one day, this would be his home. He didn't have to go back to America. There was less for him back there than there was here.

The pub where Tiberius and Willy played backgammon was a friendly place, and the locals had welcomed him warmly. Everything here felt much smaller than it did back home. London didn't tower over him like New York did. People still stopped to greet each other in the streets. Yes, he could imagine living here. But if that was the decision he ended up making, how would Bucky take it? Would he understand, or would he insist on staying with him? He still had that overprotective brother mindset, and Steve was as much a part of his family as any of his real siblings.

"Next stop, King's Cross," the train conductor called from further up the carriages. "King's Cross is the next stop. If you're departing, please ensure you take all personal belongings with you."

He'd brought only a small overnight bag with him, so he slung it over his shoulder and made his way to the nearest door, grateful that his standard army uniform gave him some degree of anonymity. Anybody looking for Captain America watched for red, white and blue, not olive-drab.

His heart sank momentarily into his stomach. Kevin had provided him with a two-week schedule. Tonight he was penned in for dinner with some of the top brass, along with a dozen other soldiers who were being commended for their actions in Normandy. There would be speeches. Handshakes. Photographs. All the public-relations stuff that made being Captain America so difficult at times. He just wanted to get out there and do the job. Why couldn't they find somebody else to put on a pedestal?

At King's Cross station he hopped off the train and set off on a now-familiar route. London's streets no longer confused him, and he could even ride the Tube… the Underground… without getting lost. All thanks to Peggy. She'd spent a day riding it with him, teaching him how to navigate it. She really was one in a million.

It was too early for the Fiddle to be open, so Steve went straight to the Strand to catch up with the rest of the team. Maybe he could twist a few arms, try to get a couple of them to go with him to the dinner tonight. Surely Kevin could pull some strings.

"Good morning, Captain Rogers," said Mr Chipperton from behind the front desk. "It's good to see you back." His beady eyes roved quickly, and he didn't miss a beat as he took in the small overnight back on Steve's shoulder. "Might I take it that you had an enjoyable evening with Miss Carter?"

"Actually, I went to visit a couple of old friends outside of the city. Has… err… Miss Carter stopped by at all?"

"She has not, sir. But one shouldn't read too much into the absences of women. Likely she was taking the time to relax and wash her hair after your most recent escapades, yes?"

"Right." If he knew Peggy, it was more likely she'd spent the evening stripping and cleaning her sidearm than washing her hair. "Are the rest of the team still here?"

"For the most part, sir." Mr Chipperton's voice turned a little wry. "Eating me out of house and home. Not that I'm not well-compensated by the US government, of course. Still, Mr Dugan may soon be the cause of a nationwide sausage shortage if he carries on at this rate."

"Can't beat Krauts on an empty stomach," he pointed out.

"Very true, sir. Please do help yourself to as much breakfast as you'd like… assuming your team-mates have left you any."

He left Mr Chipperton to handle the queries of a few new recruits and made his way to the dining room. Things were definitely more lively right now, in the hotel as well as in London. Sending all their forces to France had freed up space for new recruits to be shipped in, and the brass were shipping them in by the… well… shipful. The numbers they'd lost in Normandy would soon be replaced by fresh troops carrying new gear. Every day, more arrived, which meant it was only a matter of time before they overwhelmed the Krauts in France. A foothold on the continent might very well signify the beginning of the end, at least for the regular army. The SSR still had to find Schmidt, and the head of Hydra was not and easy man to track down.

He found his team digging their way through a pile of bacon and toast, though only half of them were present. When they spotted him, they stood to salute, but he waved them back down.

"Welcome back, Cap," said Dugan. "I don't wanna alarm you, but that Kevin guy was here earlier looking for you, and looking mighty sweaty about it."

"I think he was worried that you were gonna be a no-show this evening," said Jones.

"Yeah," Morita agreed. "And that he'd have to settle for one of us instead." He offered a toothy grin. "Imagine me in the uniform. I don't think it'd fool anyone."

"Really? But we look so alike," he chuckled. "Seriously though, if any of you would like to come along tonight, you're more than welcome."

"I'd rather boil my eyeballs in acid than sit through some boring, back-patting session led by the brass," said Morita.

"And I'm still black," Jones added.

"Not really my sort of scene," said Dugan.

"There will be food. And drink. Lots of them both."

"Drink, you say?" Dugan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I supposed I could be convinced to sacrifice an evening to keep my pal company."

"How about it Morita? Jones?"

"I'd still prefer the acid," said Little Jim.

"And I'm still black," said Jones.

"Alright, no pressure. Where's everyone else?"

"Monty's visiting family, but he said you can call him on the phone if a mission comes up," Dugan explained. "You just missed Jacques by about ten minutes; Phillips wanted him to do a bit of translation work, something to do with one of his Resistance contacts."

"Bucky?"

The big man shrugged. "Haven't seen him since yesterday. He's probably sulking somewhere."

"Sulking? Why?" That didn't sound like Bucky. At least, not recent-Bucky, anyway.

"Because I told him to stop being a pissy princess and start acting like a real soldier. He stomped off in a sulk and said something about seeing a doctor."

Steve winced on the inside. Dum Dum could be a little too blunt, at times. "I'm glad he's gone to see a doctor like I asked," he offered. "But keep in mind, he's been through a lot—"

"Do you know who else has been through a lot, Cap? Everybody. I'm done with the coddling. We're all neck deep in the same shit here. Most of us understand that we're in the shit together, but Barnes is determined to believe he's the only one wading in it. Krausberg broke him, and him going to pieces every time we hit a little bump makes him a liability. I've gone along with your softly-softly approach because I thought it would help with enough time, but you can't stick a band-aid on a broken limb and expect it to do the job of a splint."

They were tough words to hear, not least because, in part, he agreed with Dugan's assessment. There were times when Bucky seemed to be back to his old self, when it was hard to imagine he'd been anything other than the strong, protective brother figure Steve had known all his life. But there were other times, like their mission at the Hydra dam with the 107th earlier in the year, and more recently just a few days ago in France, when the cracks showed.

"I'll talk to him," he said. "It seems like we'll have a week or two of down time, so maybe this will be a good opportunity for us all to just let off some steam. We've had an intense month."

He left the three men to their breakfast and made his way to the staircase. Though hunger was gnawing on his stomach, Bucky was more important. First he had to make sure his best friend wasn't going off the rails again. Food could come later.

On the corridor that housed all their rooms, he stopped outside Bucky's door and gave a quiet knock. There was no answer. Hoping against hope, he placed his ear to the door and strained for any sound. After a moment, he heard it. The sound of somebody sleeping fitfully. A quiet dream-mumble. A loud exhale of breath. Either Bucky was in there, or he'd found a replacement puppy.

"Bucky?" He banged more loudly on the door this time. "Hey Buck, it's me, your bestest best pal. Are you gonna wake up and open the door, or am I gonna have to make Mr Chipperton and his carpenter really unhappy with me?"

He put his ear against the door again. There was groaning. The squeak of a bed spring. Footsteps on the carpeted floor. A quiet curse of a stubbed toe. A moment later, the door opened by a crack and Bucky peered out. His blue eyes were bloodshot and he squinted against the dim light as he simultaneously tried to shield his eyes and rub his temples. Steve's heart sank a little. If his best friend had taken to drinking scotch all night again, he was definitely halfway off the rails already.

"What time is it?" he mumbled.

"Just after nine," said Steve. "The guys said you went out yesterday. What time did you get in?"

"Just before nine, I guess."

"You were on a date?" he asked hopefully.

Bucky gave a dismissive wave and opened the door to allow Steve to enter. His room was not as bad as he'd feared. There were no items of clothing strewn around, nor discarded whisky bottles to be tripped over. The curtains were slightly askew, but they had a habit of unfurling themselves once closed. "Nah. Out with friends." The glare Bucky aimed at him as he sat down on his bed was defiant.

"Friends?"

"Yeah, friends. I have them, you know."

"Err, okay. You and your friends had a few drinks, I take it?"

Bucky nodded, then clutched his head and winced. "I drank eight realities' worth of beer."

"Right. Dugan mentioned you and he had an argument?" he prompted.

"Nah. Dugan had an argument. I went out with friends. To a pub. Oh yeah, that reminds me." Bucky stumbled over to his closet and fished around inside his jacket pocket for a moment. The piece of paper he pulled out was crumpled, but he thrust it triumphantly at Steve. It was a medical assessment form, signed in black pen by Dr M. Sinclair, PhD. Further up the page, in a hand that looked like it was written by the same person after a considerable amount of alcohol, a note was scrawled in the margin. It said, "Sane as a fox in this and all other realities within the Multiverse."

"Who the heck is—wait, is that Miles?"

"Yup."

"He's not a doctor, Buck."

"He has two PhDs. And biology isn't a real science anyway."

He put the paper aside for a moment. Bucky was being intentionally obtuse in a way that was almost childish. Had Dugan's insult really cut him that deeply?

"I know you've had a tough time lately, pal," he said, reaching out to lay a hand on his friend's shoulder. "But I don't want you to feel like you can't talk to me. To us. You're one of the team, and nothing will change that."

"Ugh." Bucky rolled his eyes. "I know that, dummy. But I need some space. I wake up on the same floor as the team. I eat breakfast with the team. I hang out with the team. Eat dinner with the team. Do training and exercise with the team. Go drinking with the team. Get sent on missions with the team. I just… y'know… I want some time to not be with the team. Call it a change of scenery."

"Are you… are you saying you want to break up with the team?"

"Of course not. But I think we need to see other people. It's not healthy to spend so much time together. Why do you think Monty has gone to visit his family? It's not because he thinks his mom's a good cook, I can tell you that."

Steve nodded. Maybe Bucky was right. Hell, hadn't he just enjoyed a day away from all the madness of the SSR? A day spent on himself, and other friends? Did he have any right to refuse Bucky, or any of the others, that same freedom?

"I was gonna ask if you wanted to come to dinner with me tonight," he offered at last. "I mean, it's just a work thing, it doesn't have to be anything special. Shake a few hands, have some nice food, there may even be champagne."

"You know I've always got your back." Bucky's eyes were still bloodshot, but he sounded more like the same old Bucky he'd known all his life. "So if you need me there, I'll go. I kinda did have plans already. With my friends. But I'm sure they'd understand if I had to cancel."

"No, it's fine, I can handle the meet-and-greet stuff. It's just boring, that's all."

"Good. Besides, the person you really need to ask to accompany you is probably sequestered in a stuffy room with Phillips at this very moment."

"What, Jacques?" he asked, recalling Dugan's explanation of his team's whereabouts.

Bucky reached over and gave him a painful finger-flick on the forehead. "You're such a doofus. I'm going to pretend you didn't say that. Take Carter. Nice food, champagne, maybe even music. That way you can be bored together. And at the end of the night, kiss her to make up for it."

That did sound nicer than taking Bucky. Or Dugan.

"Okay," he agreed. "I'll go see if I can find her." He paused at the door, one hand on the handle as inspiration struck. "You'll have to see a medical doctor before our next mission, Buck." He rushed on as his friend scowled and opened his mouth to object. "It's not about you. We've all been through a tough time, recently. That's why I'm ordering medical assessments for all of the team, me included. I need to know that we're all in good shape. We need to pass muster with flying colours. If it helps, you can go last, but you will be seen."

"Fine," Bucky said, none of his former childishness present. "I guess if everyone else is having a medical, it's only fair I have one too. I'll head over to HQ tomorrow and arrange it."

"Glad to hear it. I'll leave you to get some sleep, now. Sweet dreams, pal."

Steve smiled as he closed the door on his friend. He should've realised months ago that Bucky's attitude wasn't because he thought his best friend doubted him; it was because he thought he was the only one Steve doubted. There would be no more special treatment… and that applied to everything. They all had down-time and they all got medical assessments. If Bucky wasn't singled out, he wouldn't feel like he was being doubted or punished. Dugan's blunt way with words had come in useful today after all.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

The building was much grander than Danny's hotel, made out of some sort of pale cream stone that probably would've looked much nicer if not for the nearby blitzing. Like much of London, soot featured heavily, but its ornamentation and eerie gargoyles were still impressive despite the layer of dirt. As with many of the official buildings, it was guarded by a pair of British soldiers, and the way they assessed Danny as he approached the main entrance suggested they thought he might try to single handedly invade it.

"I'll have to ask you to turn around," one of the men said. "This area is off limits to all but authorised personnel."

"I'm newly authorised," Danny assured him. "Sergeant Wells, working under Colonel Miller, over at the embassy. I've been asked to bring this report to Captain Coleman." He held up his dossier as evidence that he was definitely not trying to invade the building.

"Oh, you're Miller's new man?" Did everybody in London know the colonel? "Go on in, then, Coleman's waiting for you. Second floor, third door on your left."

"Thanks."

The inside of the building was a hive of activity, but nobody gave Danny a second glance. It was nice to be able to go somewhere without being pestered. Back with the Third, he couldn't go five steps without being watched by somebody who thought he was about to do something secretly heroic for Captain America. How the man coped with the constant attention was a mystery.

He found Coleman's door without issue, and a call of 'Enter' greeted him when he knocked.

Captain Coleman was busy reading reports at his desk, and he glanced up when Danny entered. He didn't look to be any older than Miller, and the way his uniform fight tightly across his shoulders and chest suggested he was a man who took fitness seriously. Probably concerned that he might be drafted to the front lines at any moment.

"Sergeant Wells, sir," Danny said, offering his best salute. Schuster had warned him that the British officers were big on formality. Sloppy saluting would earn him a chewing out. A year ago, he wouldn't have cared one bit, but his situation had changed drastically since then. He couldn't afford to rock the boat, because they might send him home, and that was fine when he was being shot at daily. But London was too cushy an assignment to lose, so for now, he had to play it safe and do his best brown-nosing Danzig impression. "Colonel Miller asked me to bring you this week's report."

Coleman returned his salute, and immediately said, "It's not enough. Tell Miller we need more rifles. Our factory in Wrexham is still being rebuilt, and Rhyll is behind production."

"Don't you want to look at the report first?"

"No need. As much as it is, it will never be enough." He sighed and gestured to the chair in front of his desk. "Don't worry, you'll get used to me sending you back asking for more. You know Oliver Twist?"

He bit back the sarcastic quip that jumped straight into his mind. Don't rock the boat. "Yes sir. One of my favourites. Mr Dickens was a great writer."

"Good. I can't abide a man who doesn't enjoy a good book." He put the report in front of him aside and sat back in his chair. "How are you settling in?"

"Just fine sir, thanks for asking." It had been four days, and he'd been kept so busy with work that he'd barely had time for any reconnaissance. Lend-Lease was more complicated than he'd thought it would be, and every decision that was made was mired in legalese. The team even had their own lawyers assigned to help them interpret all the technical jargon.

"Have you had time to see much of the city?"

"Not yet, but I plan to, when I get a couple of days off."

Coleman nodded in approval. "Well, I was born and raised here, so if you need to know anything, feel free to ask."

"I was hoping to find something fun to do during my down-time," he mused.

"Oh? What sort of things do you like doing for fun?"

"Well, reading, of course. London has libraries, I assume?"

"Several. I'll get you a list of the best ones. Some are no longer standing, but there are plenty to be going at."

"I also like playing poker," he said. "Know where any of my fellow Americans might go to do that?"

"Hmm. I'm afraid not. The pool-hall down on Cavendish Street is very popular with your lot, though."

Pool hall? It was a promising start. He had no idea whether Barnes liked the game, but if it was popular with American soldiers, then it was worth looking into. His intention was to avoid rocking the boat, and the fastest way to make waves was to go around asking about Captain America and his team. London was a big city, but it was a small place. He had to keep quiet about his real reason for accepting the position on the Lend-Lease program.

"Thanks, I'll take a look at it as soon as I have a day off." He finally handed the report over; Coleman merely tossed it onto the pile on his desk.

"I appreciate you bringing this over to me, Sergeant. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a lot of reports to get through."

Danny saluted and left the captain to his paperwork. At least now he had somewhere to start his search.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

July in London did not always smell great, so as Bucky crossed one of the bridges over the Thames, he held his breath. Back home, the docks of Brooklyn sometimes smelt like this. It was as if everything in the water had died and started rotting, and it was at its worst when the weather got too warm. Today was that sort of day; a sort of oppressive heat that settled over the city. Sweat and river. That was what London smelled like today.

"You know," said Monty, holding his nose against the odour, "I think I might just head back to my family's estate in the country. At least it smells fresh, there." He'd only been back a day.

"I think I might just come with you," Bucky said. But neither Monty's complaining nor the smell of the Thames could drag his spirits down today. In his pocket he had two sheets of paper. One said he was medically fit for duty, the other said he was perfectly sane. As if there had been any doubt.

Monty had been for his medical assessment at the same time. He too was fit for duty. And, surprisingly for a man whose idea of fun was jumping out of planes with parachutes made of silk strapped to his back, also sane.

"Were your family glad to see you?" he asked the major as they survived the perilous journey across the bridge and made it safely to the other side without being poisoned.

"Very much so," Monty said. He looked a little better than he had a week ago. A little less tired, a little less strained; not that he ever showed it. He was stoically British about such things. "They rather feared that I'd perish in the invasion of Normandy. My mother cried when she saw me. It was a tad embarrassing. You'd think I was still a little boy, grazing my knees while climbing trees in the orchard."

"I guess our parents always see us as kids," he mused. "Mothers do, anyway."

"Indeed. What about your family? Have you spoken to them recently? I imagine Blue is keeping them quite busy."

Bucky frowned as thoughts of home played across his mind. He hadn't spoken to them since sending the puppy on to them. He'd kept meaning to call them on the telephone, but then before he knew it the day was over and it was too late to call home. So he'd tell himself tomorrow, and then tomorrow also passed too quickly for him to remember to make the call.

"No," he said. "But I will. Tomorrow."

Up ahead, a group of soldiers in olive-drab uniforms laughed and joked with each other as if they didn't have a care in the world. And perhaps they didn't. They were newly arrived, and hadn't seen combat yet. One of them, a broad-shouldered, sandy-haired man, laughed in such a familiar way that Bucky's heart skipped a beat. Hawkins? No, it couldn't be. Hawkins was dead. Only… Bucky hadn't seen his body.

He jogged forward, his heart in his mouth, and reached out to tap the man on the shoulder, fully expecting to see the face of the young man he'd spent months running missions with. But a stranger looked back at him. Not Hawkins. Just somebody who looked like him from the back.

"Err, yes, Sergeant?" the private asked.

"Sorry," Bucky said. "I thought you were someone else."

The soldier and those with him offered salutes before walking on ahead again. Bucky took a deep, calming breath as Monty caught him up.

"What was that about?"

"Nothing," he told the major. "Thought he was someone I knew, but I was wrong."

"Oh, that happens to me all the time," Monty offered. "It's jarring, isn't it? To feel so certain that you've seen someone, only to find they're not who you were expecting?"

"Yeah." He ran a hand through his hair. Don't think about Hawkins, he told himself. Much as he could, he tried to keep the men who'd died behind a closed door in his mind. If he thought about them for too long, the soul-crushing guilt came back, and the only way he knew how to stop that was with scotch. "Wanna go get a drink? To celebrate?"

Monty consulted his watch. "Well, I guess the sun technically is over the yard-arm. But what are we celebrating?"

Bucky patted his pocket and smiled. "Sanity."

Author's Note: If you've noticed the quick pace of the updates, it's because I've been quite productive recently. Currently writing chapter 154, which is near the end of a super fun little multi-chapter mini-story-arc that I hope you all enjoy reading as much as I'm enjoying writing. Book two was emotionally hard to write, because I like to put myself in the heads of the characters, and Bucky's head was often not a happy place to be :( Book 3 will have more fun in it!