We Were Soldiers
161. It All Started With Cake…
It was done. Steve helped Peggy down from the stool and they stepped back to survey their handiwork. Dugan had finally fixed the throne, this time hopefully for good, and it was sat dead-centre beneath an arched banner that read WELCOME BACK PRIVATE MORITA in the most garish combination of red lettering on a yellow background that Steve had ever seen. It was deeply offensive to the artist within him, but since it was all Monty's doing, he couldn't complain.
The tables were laden with food, a cornucopia of Tootsie Rolls, Pixy Stix, Peppermint Patties, Slim Jims, Twinkies and Fritos all arranged in neat little clusters around the PB&J sandwiches. The cake had been moved to its own table, and Lizzie had even dug out a single candle to stick into the top of it. The pints were being pulled and Dugan and Monty had their hands full carrying them two at a time to the tables, while Captain Stone rifled behind the bar for a corkscrew to open his Scotch.
"I think it looks good," Steve said. "Do you think he'll appreciate the effort?"
"I'm sure he will," Peggy assured him with a smile. "And if he doesn't—oh damn." Her eyes slid past his shoulder and her expression shifted to a troubled frown.
Steve glanced behind him and spotted his best friend approaching; his seemed to be chivying along the man he'd been speaking to, and when he came to a stop in front of Steve, he said, "Steve, there's someone I'd like you to meet." He pulled his friend up to stand beside him. "Sergeant Daniel Wells, of the 107th. Recently returned from the dead."
"Any friend of Bucky's is a friend of mine, Sergeant Wells," Steve said, shaking the man's hand. "How does it feel to be alive again?"
"Call me Danny, please. And it feels pretty damn good, actually," Danny chuckled. "It's a real pleasure to meet you, Captain Rogers. I've seen all your movies to date. I especially love that one set in Africa, when you rode that camel. That's something I've always wanted to do."
"Since when?" Bucky scoffed.
"Since I saw Captain America doin' it," Danny grinned. "Lemme ask you a question: Was it uncomfortable? I mean, they look uncomfortable. Very bouncy. Did you have to wear a special costume for it? Extra padding in the pants area, maybe?"
"Actually, I only rode the camel for a few of the close-ups," Steve told him. And thank God for that. The man was right; he had been uncomfortable. "The distance shots were a stunt double. The biggest challenge was keeping my balance; it was still a work in progress back then." And still was a little bit now, if he was being honest with himself. There were times when he wobbled even coming down the stairs, because after twenty-six years of being short, they were suddenly a lot further away than he was expecting. It had been one hell of a long adjustment period.
Danny seemed disappointed by the confession of a stunt double, but he ploughed right on and asked, "And is it true that you were in a kissing scene with Rita Hayworth?"
"You were in a kissing scene with Rita Hayworth?" Peggy asked flatly.
He quickly turned towards her to douse that particular flame before it could become a fire hazard. "No, absolutely not! I accidentally wandered onto her set while looking for where the filming for my movie was taking place, but it was only the production crew there, she was off in her trailer." The fire in Peggy's eyes died away, and he ceased to fear she might reach for her sidearm. She'd already shot at him once for kissing Private Lorraine, he didn't think he'd survive her shooting at him for believing he kissed Rita Hayworth.
"Wells thinks he's going to marry her," Bucky put in. "The first time we met, he showed me a picture of Rita and claimed she was his girl."
"You never know, you might get chance to see her perform," he offered quickly. Maybe if he could put the idea of other guys meeting Rita Hayworth in Peggy's head, she'd be less inclined to make him suffer for it later. "Right after I spoke to her, she said she was heading off to do a USO tour."
"You were speaking to Rita Hayworth in her trailer?" Peggy asked.
"No no no, I just happened to bump into her at a club, and she helped a friend of mine get in. Terrence. He's coloured, and the bouncer didn't want to let him in, so Rita intervened and—" He shut his mouth fast. Peggy's face said she did not want to hear about Rita Hayworth, champion of the people. "S'cuse me guys, could I get a minute alone with Agent Carter?"
"Sure," Bucky said. He tugged at the sleeve of Danny's jacket. "Come on, let's go cheer Dugan up with news of your return."
As soon as they were gone, he refocused on Peggy's face. He had to keep from losing what little trust he'd earned back. "Peggy, I swear, nothing at all happened with Rita Hayworth. I didn't mention her before now because I barely even remembered the incident; it really was that unmemorable for me. A five minute conversation, and she was gone."
She tapped her lips with her finger as she considered his plea, the brown eyes that had carried such heat yesterday now all cool and contemplative. "I believe you," she said at last, and it was all he could do to avoid sighing out the breath he'd been holding. "But it doesn't matter. Even if you had been in a kissing scene with her, I wouldn't hold it against you. What happened before us is in the past. Hell, I was engaged to another man, once. We can't take back what came before. It's what happens now that matters. Besides…" she moved her hand slightly to run her fingertips gently across the palm of his hand resting by his side, and he shivered at the soft intensity of her touch. "I doubt Rita can make you blush quite as easily."
"You are a cruel lady," he said mockingly. "But it's cruelty that I'd gladly suffer all day." The sound of laughter at the bar drew his eyes up; Danny was making a show of juggling three Tootsie Rolls, and taking wagers on how many more he could manage before dropping one. Peggy shook her head with an exasperated sigh. "You didn't seem surprised to see Bucky's friend alive," he pointed out. "I mean, you must've known him from back with the 107th, right?
"That's right. And yes, I did know he was back; I saw him the other day. But Sergeant Barnes asked me not to say anything. He wanted to introduce you himself. I just wasn't expecting him to do it today of all days."
"What's he like?" he asked. With his piercing blue eyes contrasting starkly against his black hair, he looked like the kinda guy Steve had grown up envious of. Tall, confident, outgoing, and attractive enough to turn more than a few womens' heads when he walked into a room. Maybe even the kinda guy who might've shoved a scrawny Steve Rogers or two into a locker, in his time.
Peggy let out a dismissive sniff. "He's immature, cocky, irreverent, undisciplined and a smart-alec. But—" she said, her voice turning from scorn to grudging respect, "—very good at his job, and extremely loyal to his friends. He's taken more than one hit for members of the 107th. And I mean that literally."
So why'd Bucky lie? When he thought back a few weeks, he could remember Lizzie tellin' Bucky that someone was asking for him, and that's when Bucky had starting acting even more un-Bucky-like than usual. More secretive. Was Dugan right? Was it because his pal hadn't handled the losses in his regiment well? Was he struggling to deal with those memories? If so, he didn't seem to be struggling anymore; he was poised with another Tootsie Roll, ready to try and throw it into the circle of three being spun into the air whilst half backing away in case sweet goods landed on his head.
"You don't need to worry about your friend," Peggy said, watching where his gaze followed. He swore, she could read his mind at times. "He's in need of a distraction, and Sergeant Wells is very good at encouraging drinking, gambling, carousing, and general nonsense. So long as he doesn't encourage those things to excess, Barnes will be fine."
"And if he does encourage those things to excess?"
"Than I'll have words with him." Even Steve shivered at that vague threat.
A round of applause accompanied a small rain of Tootsie Rolls, ending the current round of gambling. Steve checked his watch. Just a few minutes to go. He turned back to Peggy and offered her his arm. "I may not be able to dance yet, but may I escort you over to the miscreants so we can get everybody in place?"
She accepted the invitation with a smile. "It would be my pleasure."
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"S'cuse me guys, could I get a minute alone with Agent Carter?" Steve asked.
"Sure," Bucky said. He didn't need a thermometer to know the temperature around the couple had just turned frosty. He tugged at the sleeve of Wells' jacket, dragging him away from what might very soon become a battlefield. "Come on, let's go cheer Dugan up with news of your return." Wells let himself be pulled away, and as soon as they were out of earshot of Steve, Bucky asked, "What happened to your 'best behaviour'?"
"Sorry, but Rita is a bit of a sore spot for me." Wells sighed. "Remember when we missed out on seeing Rita when she performed at Sicily last year?"
"Sure."
"Well, my lieutenant in the Third Infantry, he told me they got to watch that show. And you know, back-stage passes and all that. He met her and even shook her hand! And apparently Rita was full of stories of how she'd met Captain America and how he was gonna be in her next movie, and they were gonna do a kissing scene together. So of course I had to ask if it had happened."
"Maybe. But you could'a waited for a better time to ask." Steve had met Rita Hayworth and hadn't even mentioned it to him? He knew Bucky been sweet on Rita since he'd been old enough to hang pin-ups in his locker at the boxing club. It kinda stung that he'd spoken to her and said nothing.
Wells held his wrists up together whilst managing a completely fake expression of guilt. "My timing was bad. Slap the irons on."
"No irons, but please try not to instigate any wars while you're here."
His friend offered a salute. "You have my word as both an officer and a gentleman."
"You're an enlisted man," he pointed out. "And not a gentleman."
Whatever rebuttal Wells was cooking up was interrupted by the approach of Dugan. "Well well well," he said. "Do my eyes deceive me, or is there a dead man standing in the middle of my favourite watering hole?"
"Formerly dead man," his friend countered, shaking Dugan's hand.
"I've seen you get out of some tight spots before now, but how'd you weasel your way out of getting shot?"
"Oh, that's easy. You've just gotta be too bad for the guy upstairs, but too good for the guy below. When they can't agree on where to send you, the only option is to send you back. And that's pretty much how I survived a bullet."
Dugan threw an arm over Wells' shoulders as he led him towards the bar. After a quick glance back at Steve to make sure his best pal didn't need any sort of backup, Bucky followed.
"Y'remember you owe me five dollars from last year, right?"
"You're gonna have to do better than that if you want money out of me, Dugan," Wells countered. "It was my body that got shot, not my memory."
"Alright then." Dugan glanced around the room until his blue eyes fell on the plethora of food Carter had piled up around a plate of sandwiches. "Ah-ha! Tootsie Rolls. I bet you couldn't juggle five of them at once."
"You're on. But I'm gonna need a drink first."
"Lizzie!" yelled Dugan. "A drink for this bull-shitting lunatic!"
Whilst Lizzie prepared another glass of ale, Bucky prodded Wells over to where Monty and Captain Stone were deep in a boring conversation about aerodynamics, or something equally snooze-worthy. "Guys," he said, "this is Sergeant Danny Wells, an old friend of mine from the 107th. He's stationed here in London for a while. Wells, Major James Montgomery Falsworth and Captain Stanley Stone."
"Welcome to London, Sergeant Wells," said Monty, offering his hand.
"Major Falsworth," Wells returned, offering a quick informal salute before accepting his hand. "Barnes here has told me you know your way around a parachute. Gotta say, I'm a little envious. My first time flying was on a plane to here from Italy, but I suspect being on a plane and being in the open air are two entirely different things. Wish I'd had the opportunity to try it."
"Trust me, you're not missing much," said Captain Stone. "All the excitement is in the speed of the engine, not the speed of the fall."
"I beg to differ," Monty objected. "Anybody with a few braincells can learn to pilot a plane, but it takes true courage to surrender that control and submit yourself to gravity."
"Come on," Bucky said quietly to Wells. "They're going to be arguing about this for a while."
When they returned to the bar, Dugan thrust a pint of ale into Wells' hand and said, "Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow you may owe me a lot of money."
"Jeez, doesn't Phillips pay you?" But Wells took a deep drink before settling his glass on the bar. "Thanks, Lizzie. You always pull the best pints."
"Wait, how do you know Lizzie?"
Wells ignored him as he approached the Tootsie Rolls and selected three to begin with. "Alright, Barnes will have to handle the bets, because I can't take you for all your money while juggling five Tootsie Rolls. We'll start at three dollars for three rolls and up it a dollar for each one I can juggle. Who's in?"
"Are you sure you wanna do this?" Bucky asked him. "Remember the last time you took bets on juggling things?"
"Yeah but that was juggling knives." He waved one of the rolls at him. "These are delicious candy. What's the worst that can happen, I get a cavity?"
Clearly there was no talking Wells out of it. So he went around and collected bets from everyone who wanted in, then stood aside and watched as Wells completely failed to learn his lesson after his last juggling accident.
He managed three rolls without any problems, and they spun through the air with efficiency. Lizzie laughed and clapped her hands, and the action drew a few other drinkers over, men who clearly had little better to do than watch a madman juggling sweet goods in a pub. "Okay, that's three. Who wants to bet another dollar that I can do four?" Dugan and Stone bet he couldn't; Lizzie and Monty bet he could. And after a few more cycles, he said, "Barnes, throw another roll into the circle. Then get ready with another after I give the word. If I can do three, then five is just technically two more."
Bucky shook his head, but he grabbed a Tootsie Roll and waited for the best moment to throw it in. At a nod from Wells, he tossed it over then stood back to give himself room. Surprisingly, Wells managed to adjust to the fourth roll quickly, and they were soon flying gracefully through the air. Maybe ruminating on the meaning of life stuff, almost-marryin' a pretty dame and helping to deliver kids, weren't the only things Wells had had time for while recuperating in Italy. He had clearly been practicing.
As his friend's request, he threw in a fifth and final Tootsie Roll. Twenty seconds later, and showing no signs of dropping it, Wells asked, "Satisfied, Dugan? Or do you want to lose more money today?"
"Bah! Fine, I'm feeling generous, so I'll let you win this one."
"Glad you've learnt to lose with dignity." He tossed the rolls higher and let them come falling down around him, while his small audience applauded and collected their winnings.
It seemed war had been averted this time, because Steve strolled over with Carter on his arm, both looking smugly in love. Maybe having a few days of forced down-time would be good for them; Steve always talked about seeing more of England, and they were grounded with Jim still on the mend. He'd suggest it to Steve in the morning. A break from all the madness of the team might even give them chance to do a little dancing in private.
"Guys, Morita should be getting here any minute now, so let's be ready to welcome him back." He nodded to Walter at the piano. "Walter's ready with the music, he's gonna play Don't sit under the apple tree, Lizzie has pulled enough pints to keep him well hydrated throughout the night, and we've got so much food we're all going to be on a sugar-high for days. I want Jim to know how much we've missed him, and although this welcome back party is for him, I want you all to enjoy yourselves too. We've had some tough missions recently, and between Normandy and missions for Phillips, we've not had that much down-time. So make the most of the next few days."
"Great speech, Cap," said Dugan. "I'll drink to that."
So he did, and everybody else drank too. Lizzie thrust ales into the hands of Steve and Carter, so they could join in the toast. And at that moment, the pub's door opened.
Walter began playing, the jaunty melody of the Andrews Sisters' Don't sit under the apple tree filling the air. Everyone turned to welcome Morita back… and found Miles dressed in his finest suit, a strange looking contraption cradled in his arms. "Am I late?" he asked, peering around at the group standing beside the table. This was a surprise; Bucky hadn't seen the scientist for weeks, and the one time he'd gone to the lab to try and drag him out for drinks, the blast door had remained firmly closed. "I thought you said Howard would be here."
"He'll be here momentarily," Steve said. He left Carter's side to usher Miles over to the bar. Captain Stone strode over to give the scientist a friendly clap on the shoulder.
"Well now Miles, I see you've been busy whilst I was away. I don't suppose this contraption of yours is a very sophisticated corkscrew, is it?"
"No, it's a game."
If Wells had been a dog, his ears would've perked up at that, but he didn't get chance to ask about it because Jones dashed in through the door and shouted, "He's here!"
Walter restarted the song. Everyone in the group turned to face the door again. And in walked Morita, pale and unsteady enough on his legs that Jacques hovered right behind him, but alive and on the path to recovery. He'd been told to expect a welcome back party, because nobody wanted him to keel over in surprise, but he grinned when he saw the crowd of people and the mound of food. "Hey, this is much bigger than the party we threw for Barnes at the start of the year. That must mean you love me more."
His words elicited a round of laughter, and prompted Jacques and Gabe to help him get settled in the wobbly oversized throne-chair. The rest of the team gathered round to greet him with shoulder-pats, hand-shakes and in the case of Dugan, fond hair-ruffles. When Howard entered the pub and joined them, with Freddie following behind, Miles scowled and opened his mouth, but Steve put a hand on his arm and silenced him with a head-shake and the word 'later' mouthed silently. What was that about?
Finally, as the song came to an end, Monty spoke up. "How about a speech, Jim? As you can see, we've clearly missed your way with words."
"Oh, a speech, sure," he replied, still grinning. He looked tired as hell, but more alive than he had done two days ago when Bucky had visited him in the hospital. "Well, let's see now… this is a fantastic spread you've put on for me. I've gotta admit, when I heard about the welcome back party, I was really expecting some of those USO showgirls Cap used to dance on stage with to be drafted in for entertainment. But despite the lack of beautiful, scantily clad ladies, this is still a great party, and I'm grateful that you guys never gave up on me for even a second. I know I don't always come across as appreciative, but I couldn't imagine how this team could possibly go on without me. So, I'm glad I'm still here to improve all your lives with my presence."
Bucky clapped as hard as everyone else at the close of the speech. Very few people could blend genuine humility with over the top arrogance, but Morita was a master of it.
"Well put," said Steve. "Walter, play another song. Dugan, Monty, come help me get some plates from behind the bar, and we can all make a start on the food mountain."
Captain Stone stepped up to the throne and made an over-the-top theatrical bow. "Your highness, it's good to see you back on your feet. I'm not privy to the full details of what happened, but I understand you fell ill on a submarine. Let this be a lesson; you should never enter a vehicle that can't fly. Submarines are dangerous. Even cars can be iffy. Stick to planes from now on."
"Thanks, Stan," Morita replied. "Those are words of wisdom I wish somebody had told me five days ago."
"Also, I brought you some Scotch." He held the bottle out for examination. "I'm still trying to find a corkscrew. Imagine a pub with no corkscrew." He shook his head and wandered back to the bar to resume the hunt. It afforded Miles the chance to step up with his contraption in his arms.
"Welcome back, Private Morita," he offered slightly awkwardly. He was always a bit awkward until he got a drink or two in him. "I didn't even know you were ill until Captain Rogers came to visit yesterday. Because nobody tells me anything." He aimed a pointed glare at Howard, who raised his eyebrows, then continued with an explanation of the device. "I brought this for your party. It's not USO show girls, but you might find it mildly entertaining."
Morita squinted at it. It really was an odd-looking device, kinda like a small projector with a large spoon attached on a spindle. "Some sort of nut-cracker?" he guessed.
Miles brightened. "Close! It's a peanut launcher. Basically a bar game for people who are too drunk or too stupid to play poker. The machine randomly launches peanuts into the air, and you have to see how many you can catch in your mouth." He paused to contemplate something, then added, "I guess if you're afraid of choking you could catch them in a glass or something. Maybe I should invent a peanut-catcher to go with it…"
"You turned your statistics machine into a bar game?" Bucky asked.
"This was a statistical analysis machine?" Stark asked, stepping forward to poke at it. Miles snatched it back before he could touch it. "How'd you adjust for standard deviation?"
"I'm not talking to you," Miles said with a sniff.
"Me?! Why, what'd I do?"
"You left me. I was all alone in the lab, with only the rats for company, and too many experiments to manage on my own. Did you even know the electron microscope arrived? I assembled it myself. It works fine, by the way; not that you care about real science anymore, since you're so busy doing biology these days."
"I can't pick and choose where Phillips needs me," Howard told him. "You know how invaluable I am to the SSR. There just isn't enough of me to go around. But I'm here now, Miles. Why don't you tell me what experiments you've been doing with the TEM?"
They wandered off, already so deep in a conversation about wavelengths that Bucky didn't understand a word that came out of their mouths. But it did leave an opening into which he shoved Wells, bringing him to stand before Morita before he could object.
"Jim, this is Sergeant Danny Wells, from the 107th," he said. "He was with the regiment last year when we were escorting the SSR through France and Italy."
"Hey, I remember you," said Jones, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. "Didn't you die on a mission?"
"Rumours of my death, etc.," Wells replied. "The story of how I survived being shot is a long and exciting one, full of action and adventure and pretty dames. But it's also a story for another time, since this isn't my party. Actually, I never even got a party when I came back, so you're definitely winning those stakes, Private Morita."
"Did you bring presents?" Morita asked him. "Everybody else brought presents, so it seems like it's an established custom now."
Wells grinned. "As matter of fact, I did." He reached into his pocket and pulled out something thin in a foil wrapping. "Do you like chocolate?"
"Whoa, wait!" Bucky stepped forward and snatched the bar before Morita could take it. He should'a known his friend would cause mischief; sometimes he just couldn't help himself. "You can't give him that, Wells. He's been ill enough!"
"It's just chocolate, Barnes. Swiss chocolate, as a matter of fact, which is the best chocolate in the world. And also the rarest in the world, since the Swiss aren't technically trading right now." Wells tapped his nose. "I got contacts."
"I do like chocolate. Thanks, I didn't actually expect presents, but I appreciate it." He took the bar out of Bucky's hands. "Get your own chocolate, Barnes."
"Oh, don't mind him," said Wells. "He's just paranoid because I once gave a couple of racist privates a bar of laxative chocolate back at NYPOE. And then plotted to give some to a jerk of an officer who made our lives hell."
"I like him," Morita said to Bucky. "What other vengeful schemes have you concocted? Asking for a friend."
"Okay everyone," Steve called from the bar. "Plates are here, help yourselves to the food."
"And let's get a little game going while we dine," said Howard. "Miles has prepared his long term statistical analysis game; for those unaware, it's a skillful game of coordination and dexterity. So of course, Steve, you're going to lose terribly"—everybody laughed at that—"but the rest of us might be in with a chance of winning."
"What does the winner get?" Gabe asked.
"That's easy," said Morita. "Winner gets the first slice of cake."
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The bar was a comfortable place to sit and watch. Here he could be part of the celebration without actually needing to take part in it. He'd only managed four peanuts, but he'd planned to stop at six anyway. There was a difference between being good at something—such as juggling Tootsie Rolls—and being so good at something that you beat your pal's teammates during a celebration dedicated to one of them. Self-centred jerk he might be at times, but he wasn't entirely selfish.
The past forty-eight hours… hell, the past two weeks even, had been some of the happiest and most troubling days of his life. Anything more than friendship was off the table, and that was fine because at least now he knew where he stood, and it was on solid ground, but how could you be whole when the person you cared about most in life was hurting so much? It broke him a little inside to see how much pain Barnes was inflicting on himself. He hid his torment behind a mask of smiles, but it was a cracked thing, shattering a little more every day. It made a guy feel thin, that sort of pain. Like he was being stretched out beyond his limits, and sooner or later he had to snap. Most people, they snapped easily, in small doses, and bounced back just as easily. But Barnes was the type of guy to keep everything bottled up, and Danny had pushed his friend a few times last year to get some of that snap out. But he was still hiding things. Still hiding them even from himself. When he finally did snap, it was not going to be pleasant for anyone near him, so Danny had to make sure that he was real close when it happened. He had to help his friend find a way out of that darkness.
Looking at him now, laughing with Captain Rogers as Agent Carter cut herself a large slice of victory cake, he seemed not to have a single care. But all Danny wanted to do was run up to him, take him by the shoulders, yell 'stop pretending', and shake him so hard that whatever common sense was rattlin' around in the cobwebs of his mind finally came unstuck and he talked to someone about what was eating him up. It didn't even have to be Danny. His pal just needed to talk.
Lizzie flitted over to his side and replaced his empty ale glass with a newly pulled pint. Apparently Colonel Phillips had opened a tab, and Danny was well overdue a drink at the man's expense. Hell, he was probably overdue all the drinks at his expense.
"I haven't seen Sergeant Barnes smile like that since he sent his puppy home," Lizzie said, following his gaze.
"Puppy?"
"Yeah, he rescued a puppy that was about to be thrown into the Thames. Blue. But the puppy couldn't stay, not with the team away on missions so much, so Sergeant Barnes sent him home to live with his family."
"He's always rescuing others," Danny said absently. And yet he didn't seem to know how to rescue himself. Smart people could be so stupid at times. Stupid and stubborn and infuriating and—
"Hey, Sergeant Wells, is it?" asked a guy he hadn't been introduced to yet. "My name's Freddie Lopresti. Sorry I couldn't introduce myself earlier, I was otherwise engaged." He gestured to the camera around his neck.
"I'll let you boys talk," said Lizzie.
"Nice to meet you, Freddie," Danny replied, shaking the offered hand. Judging by the way the guy had followed Rogers around all night, this must be his personal photographer. He was young enough that he probably still got asked for ID any time he went drinking somewhere new. "Great party, huh?"
"Yeah, it's nice that the team managed to get everything together for Morita. But anyway, you probably want to know why I came over, so I'm gonna cut straight to it." He perched on the edge of the stool beside Danny and placed his camera reverentially on the bar. "How'd you like to come and do a photo shoot for me?" He held both his hands together, one upside down above the other so that they formed a rectangle he could look through. "You have a very photogenic face, I can already tell that the camera will love you."
Was he serious? Why the hell would he want Captain America's personal photographer taking pictures of him? Luckily, he had just the line for gettin' rid of guys he didn't want to talk to.
"Are you hittin' on me?"
Freddie grinned. "Not yet. Maybe later. No, I'm offering you work, Sergeant Wells. A way to earn a little extra money. See, I'm an official war correspondent, and we're on the look out for soldiers to feature as part of our campaign to reassure the folks back home that things are going well."
"Isn't that what you have him for?" Danny asked, nodding his head in Rogers' direction.
"Sure. And Captain America does a great job at increasing the sales of war bonds. Conscription rates go up wherever the show tours. Plus, the kids love him. But I'm talking more about the wives, sisters and parents of those soldiers who aren't brightly coloured heroes. Regular GIs with families worrying over them. We want real soldiers doing real things. You know, advancing bravely across the battlefield, resting in a barracks tent, cleaning their guns. Showing everyone back home that our forces are working hard and winning. You're the kind of guy who could be anyone's brother, or son, or husband."
"No."
At the point-blank refusal, the young man blinked a couple of times. "I'm sorry?"
"I won't sell lies. Find somebody else to be your poster boy."
"It's not lies. We are winning this war, Sergeant Wells."
"We're not winning the war," he countered, trying to keep the low growl out of his voice. "We're just losing more slowly than the other side. If you want some good-looking soldier to be the poster boy for the next conscription campaign, then head on down to one of the hotels where the new recruits are being shipped in. I'm sure you'll find plenty of fresh, eager faces who'd be only too happy to pose in make-believe of something they have no idea about. Real soldiers doing real things, only staged for the best lighting angle, all the blood and sweat and tears absent, no bandaged limbs or bullet holes in sight. Me, I've been out there too long and seen too much, lost too many friends, to take part in that lie."
"Not even if I offered you five dollars per shoot?" Danny stared hard at him. "Ten dollars?" He continued to stare. "Alright. The hard sell, I can appreciate that. My employer has a generous budget that I've barely tapped into. Name your price."
"Go away."
The photographer sighed as he stood, then reached into his pocket to bring out a small card that he handed over to Danny. On it was written Freddie Lopresti, War Correspondent, and the address of the hotel where he was being put up. It was a swanky one. Typical. "Fine, I can take a hint." When he was beat over the head with it. "Here's where you can reach me if you change your mind." He picked up his camera and offered another, smaller grin. "Or if you want to get drinks some time."
Danny pocketed the card before anyone else could see it. Hopefully he'd find a trash can on the way home and could be rid of it quickly. Neither photo shoot nor drinks appealed.
"Hey pal," said Barnes, as he ambled over with two generous pieces of cake on plates. "Grabbed you a piece. Don't look so annoyed, four peanuts is pretty good. I only got five myself."
Danny righted his expression as his friend sat down beside him and cast his mind back to the peanut-catching game. "I'm not surprised Carter won. She always was real competitive. Like that time we had a shoot-off to find the best marksmen in the regiments. She set a pretty high bar." And thirteen peanuts was a high bar, too.
'Finger food' by its very name precluded the need for cutlery, so Lizzie hadn't prepared any. He had to use his fingers to break off some of the cake, and it melted into gooey chocolatey goodness as soon as he closed his mouth around it. "Good call on the cake," he offered. "It's the best cake I've ever tasted. Seems to be going down well with the team."
Morita was already on his second slice, and Dugan was eyeing the thing up like he might try and eat the whole thing if somebody didn't stop him. In a quiet corner, Captain Rogers and Agent Carter were eating their own slices of cake whilst they gazed adoringly at each other; it was a surprise they weren't at that feed each other stage yet. There was definitely a lot of heat coming from over that way.
In a slightly less quiet corner, Stark and the scientist called Miles, who Danny vaguely remembered as having been one of the supporting characters on their march through France with the SSR, were having a heated debate on how to make the peanut machine launch two at once, so they could try for doubles matches. Watching them was like a tiny insight into his own life. Miles was clearly smitten within his employer, yet didn't seem to realise it. Neither did Stark, or anyone else.
"I wish you wouldn't smile like that," said Barnes.
Danny felt his eyebrows lift. "Like what?"
"Like that. All secretive. Like you know something nobody else does and you're having a great laugh about it at everyone's expense."
"I was just thinking about our time with the SSR last year," he said honestly. "And how overdue I am these drinks which Phillips has generously provided."
"Really?"
"I swear on Rita."
Barnes offered him an easy smile, and damn if it wasn't hard not to want to smile back. But the last thing this pub needed was another person gazing adoringly at someone, so instead he craned his neck over the bar and called to Lizzie, "We've got a man with an empty glass over here."
"Hey, Sergeant Wells," Morita said. He still hadn't moved from his throne. Looked like he probably couldn't move from his throne. Guy must have a solid steel bladder. "You served with these guys back with the SSR last year, right? Before fortune threw us together… and into a Kraut cell."
"That's right."
To his side, Barnes tensed up a little. It wasn't an obvious tensing, just a shifting of weight on his stool, and his grip tightening on his empty glass. Lizzie saved the day by plonking a fresh pint on the bar, which gave Danny an excuse to pry the empty glass from his friend's hand before he could break it and cut himself.
"You must have some stories to tell," Captain Rogers spoke up.
"Nothing you haven't heard a half-dozen times already, I'm sure," he replied. But the way Barnes fixed his gaze on a knot in the wooden floor, and Captain Rogers' expression became suddenly unreadable, said maybe there hadn't been all that many stories. And that made sense. Stories meant Remember, and Barnes had never been good at remembering the dead. Got all choked up about it. Not because he was soft, but because guilt was one heavy bitch to bear.
"There is one story I never heard told in full," Dugan said. "The story of how the 107th baked a birthday cake."
Captain Rogers leapt at that. "You did say you'd tell me about it later, Buck."
"Oh, that." His tone was light, but his grip on his pint said he didn't want to share. That he wasn't ready to speak about it. Of course, they'd talked about it when they'd played Remember before the Commandos went on their stupid U-boat mission, but talking about the dead with someone who'd been there and lived it wasn't quite the same. "Wells tells it better than me."
"Are you sure?" he asked quietly. "I'd hate to deprive you of the chance to tell it your way."
"Yeah, it's fine." He finally lifted his gaze, a tight smile on his lips. "I'll correct any glaring errors you make."
"Okay then. But I gotta warn you all, this is a story that might hit a little close to home. Because it contains references to vampires."
Morita laughed. He seemed to have the sort of twisted sense of humour that Danny could appreciate. "Oh, then this I gotta hear!"
He nodded, took a sip of his ale, and began.
"It all started one day last year. I think it was in August—"
"It was the end of July," Barnes corrected him. "Twenty-eighth. That's Gusty's birthday."
"Fine, it was the end of July, and we'd been in the south of France a couple of weeks. We tried to keep things as normal as possible between the missions, but it wasn't always easy. You miss the little things most. Mattresses. Food that hasn't been baked in a pan big enough to feed two-hundred. Working plumbing. But we did our best. Anyway, we realised it was Gusty's birthday coming up, and this guy," he said, punching Barnes gently on the arm, "decided we had to cheer him up with a cake. Gusty had been down lately, on account of seeing Tipper step on a land mine, and needed a bit of a pick-me-up. Only, this was the middle of—"
"South of."
"This was the south of Nazi-controlled France, so where the hell were we gonna find a cake? There was only one thing to it; we had to make one from scratch."
As he spoke, the team crowded a little closer, even those who'd been there to experience some of the fallout from that particular piece of bullshit. Captain Rogers was already on the edge of his seat.
"First thing we did was find ourselves a cook. We asked Biggs, because there was this one time back at NYPOE that he'd sleep-walked into the mess kitchen and tried to bake a cake for his mom, but it turned out Biggs couldn't replicate that feat while he was awake. So Carrot volunteered. Nice guy, total patsy, but he knew his way around a kitchen. We managed to get some of the basic ingredients, but there were a few things missing. You know how they say you can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs? Well, it turns out you can't make a cake without breaking a few eggs, either. So we went to Davies, who at the time was in charge of the 107th's syndicate—"
"Syndicate?" Captain Rogers asked.
Jeez, the guy was as clueless as Grant. Luckily, Carter stepped in to answer for him.
"A Syndicate is a regiment's unofficial trade system that allows the soldiers to get what they need without having to fill in a requisition form. The brass turn a blind eye, so long as too many supplies and equipment don't go missing."
"You mean it's theft of army property?"
"Nah," Dugan chimed in. "Nothing goes missing permanently, it just get moves around."
"Plus, Stark owned a third of it," Danny offered. Might as well drop everyone in it, if Rogers was gonna get all uptight about it. Officers tended to get uptight, and clearly Rogers was no exception.
"They had a still," Stark said with a shrug. "And since somebody drank my two-hundred dollar bottle of Balvenie, I needed something to drink." This was said with a glare for both of them.
"So anyway," Danny continued, "we went to Davies and he agreed to help us out, and then he told us what he needed to make everything happen." He paused, as realistion hit. "Wait, before I continue with the story, I need assurances of amnesty."
"Amnesty from what?" Rogers asked.
"Reprisals." Getting that cake made had involved a lot of… redistribution. Half the people here had been affected. And only when everyone present agreed there would be no reprisals did he continue with his tale. "So, the first thing Davies asked for was some holy water. We had a chaplain there, so this jerk"—he thumbed to Barnes beside him—"went to him and told him he needed some holy water because I'd been reading Bram Stoker's Dracula and was terrified of vampires now. The chaplain already hated me for not being very religious, so you can imagine how quickly he believed that stupid claim. I had to put up with him trying to preach to me about the un-Godly nature of the supernatural for weeks after that.
"After the holy water, Davies needed… I don't even know what it was. One of Stark's doohickeys. So we snuck into his tent and rummaged around until we found it. He came in whilst we were mid-rummage, and I had to distract him with some bullshit conversation while Barnes kept up the hunt."
"I remember that event," Stark mused. "But I don't remember any of my doohickeys going missing. What did it look like?"
"About thirty centimetres long with sort of a loopy bit on one end. It tapered to a point at the other end."
"Ohhh. That wasn't my doohickey. It was Miles's doohickey."
Miles shot daggers at them both. "You stole my doohickey? Do you have any idea how long I searched for that, you bastards?"
"Calm down, Miles. It's in the past." Stark's words brought the scientist's anger down to a simmer, but didn't stop the death-glares.
"So, we got the doohickey. No idea what it did or why Davies wanted it. Or how he even knew it existed, to be honest, but when your Syndicate leader says he needs a thing to make something else happen, you got no choice but to go along with it. Anyway, the next thing on the list was a perfume that one of the nurses wore, called Nicely Spiced. Now remember Agent Carter, you promised no reprisals."
"A promise I am swiftly regretting." She was glaring at him something awful. "What did you do?"
"Nothing! It was all Barnes!" Barnes shifted on his chair. Possibly he was about to make a run for the door to escape death by Carter. "All I did was stand watch, and express to you my concern about my friend's obsession with vampires."
She pinched the bridge of her nose between her finger and thumb and shook her head. "I did wonder why you were acting even more suspicious than usual. You were sneaking around the womens' tent and rifling through our things, weren't you?"
"Maybe just a little. Anyway, we got the perfume, and there was only one other thing Davies needed, which was a certain hat—"
"I knew you bastards stole my hat!" Dugan shouted with a scowl.
"Not us! Carrot! That was his job. And you can't speak ill of a dead man Dugan, it's real disrespectful."
Dugan muttered a string of profanities under his breath, then asked, "What did you even need it for?"
Barnes finally spoke up again. "We think Davies wanted to baptise the chickens, and wanted your hat as a font."
"That's the stupidest thing I ever heard. Which I guess means it makes sense for the 107th."
"So anyway, we managed to get everything Davies needed, which gave me and Carrot ample time in the kitchen to make the perfect coffee cake."
"Carrot made the cake," Barnes said. There was a mischievous glint in his eyes now that the story was almost over. "Wells was only helping 'cos Carrot promised to let him lick the spoon."
"No spoons were licked," he glared at his friend. "And you're never allowed to say those words again. It was bad enough Carrot saying it."
"Did the cake cheer Sergeant Ferguson up?" Rogers asked.
"Not as much as Audrey did," he finished. "Gusty did end up having a great birthday, though. And it all started with cake. But anyway, I'm owed a story. Barnes told me he played the best April Fools joke on you. What happened there?"
"Ugh, I still have nightmares about it," said Dugan.
"It was very mean," Jones said. "He got us all rushed down to Stark's lab with the claim we'd all been exposed to dangerous radiation on one of our previous missions. Everyone else was in on it too, so they'd made Captain Stone out to look like his skin was bleeding and peeling off—"
"I bet you got that idea from those fake bruises and cuts Audrey had to paint on us with Stark's fake-up kit one time," he said to his friend, and got a brief nod as confirmation. Very clever.
"Agent Carter showed us her fantastic acting skills, feigning concern for our lives," said Major Falsworth.
"Howard made us drink this disgusting concoction of something," said Rogers.
"And Miles escorted us off to get cold showers," Morita added with a shiver of remembrance. "Once the shock of not potentially dying had worn off, it was kinda funny. But it's set a high bar, so I'll be planning next year's prank for months to better that."
As the conversation devolved into an argument about who would be playing the best April Fools prank next year, Danny turned his focus back to his drink. They were a good group of guys, and it was nice to see their easy camaraderie. It was something he'd missed over the past few months. Being part of Rosa's family for a while didn't count, and you couldn't really find camaraderie with soldiers who were constantly watching you and waiting for you to announce the purpose of your secret mission. He hadn't expected to find it with the 107th when he'd joined up, but he had.
"Thanks," Barnes said quietly, so only he could hear. "I didn't think I could talk about Carrot and the others like that yet. But you told it well."
"You never told them, did you? Anything. About the 107th, and all the fun we had, and all the heartache, the missions we accomplished and the men we lost. Not even Steve."
He shook his head mutely. "Couldn't. It was just too hard."
"I understand." He nodded his head towards the team. "Thanks for inviting me. It was nice to meet everyone. Though I think Morita might've been making notes. I hope I haven't given him any ideas for April Fools. You should definitely not accept any chocolate that guy gives you." That pulled a genuine smile from Barnes. "I think I'm gonna head home now. I've eaten enough sweet things to last me the rest of the year, and I'm kinda beat after staying up till stupid o'clock playing pool."
"Want me to walk you home?"
"Would you?" he countered. "Could you hold the door open for me on the way out? And maybe shelter me under your jacket if it rains? And walk on the road side of the pavement so I don't get splashed by cars?" He rolled his eyes. "No I don't want you to walk me home, Barnes. I'm not some fuckin' dame who can't get back on her own."
"Fine, I was just being polite, I didn't know how much you'd had to drink." He eyed his teammates; they'd gone back for seconds of the cake. Probably the only thing stopping him from being there right now was talking to Danny. "What are you doing tomorrow night?"
"Not sure. There's still that poker match that might happen, but I haven't seen anyone to ask about it. Why, you think you can beat a poker match?"
"I noticed that the pool hall had a darts board nobody was using. It might be good for your arm, to get some practice in."
"I'm surprised you're not fed up of my company by now." Most people got fed up of his company pretty fast. He was trying to change, to be more accommodating and less sarcastic, but old habits broke hard.
"Wells, I spent six months in your company and didn't get fed up of it, so a couple of days isn't going to make much of a dint," he scoffed. "Besides, you'll be back at the desk soon, right?"
"Yeah. Two more nights of freedom, then back to the shifts."
"Then it's settled. Darts tomorrow. We can meet at the Kettle & Drum first, get a couple of drinks in before we head over there."
"Alright," he agreed "Darts it is." Besides, it would be just his luck that as soon as he got off his next shifts, the Commandos would be sent on some mission and wouldn't get back until his next shifts started. And while it was entirely possible to have too much of a good thing, sometimes you just had to enjoy the good thing while you had the opportunity, because there might be a day when that chance would never come again.