We Were Soldiers
148. Little White Lies
The secret to getting a good first portion of breakfast was getting down to the dining hall before the rest of the Commandos were even awake. Seven o'clock saw Bucky tucking into his first helping of sausages, beans, eggs, bacon and hash browns, with as much toast as he could fit onto his plate. He'd smiled at the cook and she'd given him an extra sausage, which made him hopeful for seconds.
When Steve arrived and went straight to the breakfast counter, Bucky observed him surreptitiously. His best friend had definitely changed in more ways than one since undergoing his transformation, but one thing that hadn't changed was that he seemed to think he was in the way no matter how big he was. He'd always apologised his way through crowds back home, and he was still apologising as he dodged a couple of servicemen and made his way towards Bucky.
"I take it your stomach's better?" Steve asked, taking the seat opposite.
"My stomach?" Oh yeah. The excuse he'd given for not wanting to go out drinking with the Commandos last night. "It's fine, thanks. I'm making up for it now."
"I can see." There was no hiding the humour in Steve's voice as he eyeballed the mound of food. Not that his own mound was any smaller.
"How did date night go?" he asked. "Did you kiss her?"
The grin on Steve's face said it all. "It was amazing."
He reached out to clap his friend on the shoulder. "I'm happy for you, pal. Today, kissing. Tomorrow, dancing."
"I told you, I can't dance."
"And yesterday you couldn't kiss, either. Nobody is born knowing how to dance; you have to actually do it, and then practice at it, to get better."
"Remember high school prom? How bruised Mary-Ann's feet were?" He pointed at his boots. "I don't know if you've noticed, but my feet are a lot bigger now, and I'm a lot heavier. I don't wanna break her toes."
"Hmm." He pondered the conundrum for a moment. Steve was technically right. He was very uncoordinated, even with his new body. The strength and endurance came naturally, but he sometimes still tripped over his own feet, much less somebody else's. "A dance tutor," he said at last. "Gotta be one in London we can pay to teach you some moves."
"And put some poor woman out of work when I break every bone in her feet? Why don't you just teach me the moves?"
"Because Dugan already has enough ammunition to use against both of us, and we don't need to give him even the thought of me teaching you how to dance."
"What's this I hear about dancing?" Monty asked.
Bucky jumped almost out of his skin; so did Steve. Falsworth could be sneakily quiet, when he wanted to be. Bloody Brits.
"We need to find Steve a dance tutor," Bucky said.
"Ah, perfect. My cousin Amelia would be happy to tutor you. She was going to pursue a career in ballet, before she had an untimely horse riding accident that resulted in a broken leg."
"If she tries to teach me how to dance, she might end up with the other leg broken, too," Steve said.
"If you tell her that, she'll consider it a personal challenge."
"How do we employ her services?" Bucky asked, before Steve could get in an outright refusal.
"I'll call her after breakfast," Monty said. "Her dance school is just a short Underground ride away from here, and she's been itching to do something since all of her students were evacuated to the countryside."
Bucky grinned at Steve's groan. But really, dancing ought to be one of those things he could master easily now that he had a brand new body to work with. It was probably just a case of coordination and muscle memory. A bit of practice and he'd be dancing like a pro in no time.
"By the way, Sergeant Barnes," said Monty, "we've been challenged to a darts match in the Fiddle tonight by a group of new recruits who think they have something to prove because their strongest man lost an arm-wrestling match to Dugan. It's doubles, and Gabe has informed me that you have quite the reputation as a competent marksman. Or should I say, dartsman?"
He blew across the top of his coffee to cool it, and said, "You should never say that."
"Fine. But can I count you in as our second? Morita swears he can 'kick their puny asses' with a decent second player to back him up."
Darts? It did sound fun. How long had it been since he'd last played? But that didn't matter. "Sorry, I've already got plans for tonight?"
"A date?"
"No, drinks with a friend."
Steve's face did the frowny thing. "Is Captain Stone back from Scotland yet?"
"Not as far as I know."
"Ahh, well give my regards to Miles," said Monty. "I'm looking forward to seeing this peanut launcher you told us about."
"I'll pass the message on when I see him," he agreed. Which wouldn't be tonight. But Monty didn't need to know that.
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Hyde Park was beautiful all year round, but summer was Peggy's favourite time to visit it. She was always reminded of the family picnics they had there, she and Michael with Mother and Father, and her little dog Picasso to run around trying to steal sandwiches from the basket. They were happier days. More innocent times. Today, not even the sunshine and greenery could fully lift her mood. A dark cloud was following Antje, and Peggy was starting to feel its effects too.
"Why don't you tell me what's troubling you?" she offered.
Antje was so deep in introspection that she barely even seemed to hear. She nodded, but then said nothing. Her gaze was fixed on the ground in front of her feet, and she was clearly wrestling with something big. So Peggy waited. Some things could not be rushed, and emotional turmoil was one of them. Whatever Antje was going through in her mind, she needed time to sort through it. Until then, Peggy would simply have to be a silent companion.
Perhaps she ought to be comforting Michael instead, but when she'd visited the house first thing in the morning, he professed to be just fine. Busy working on his next novel, he said, and stubbornly refusing to engage with her on the subject of the proposal. So instead, she'd asked Antje to go walking with her. Maybe she could find some way to help the girl to reach a decision… one way or the other.
"How do you know if you are in love?" the young woman asked at last.
"Oh. Well. Let me think." You just know. How could she put that into words? It was the least helpful explanation in the history of unhelpful explanations. Howard Stark could probably explain it better, and she was pretty sure the only time he'd ever experienced love was when he looked into a mirror. "I think first and foremost, you feel your heart beat faster when the person you love is nearby. And at the same time, you feel happy, and strong, like the world can't possibly knock you down because that person is there to catch you and help you back onto your feet."
"I do feel that," she agreed. "The heart beating faster. But… it isn't with Michael."
Uh-oh. This did not bode well for her brother. "Is there somebody else whose company you enjoy?"
She shuffled her feet and glanced down at the ground, avoiding Peggy's eyes. "No. Not really."
"Then, I don't understand."
The anguish in her eyes when she looked up was genuine. "All this time, I thought Sergeant Barnes would apologise for failing to meet me for our date. I was so sure it was just a matter of time, and he would ask me out again."
"I see. And he's the person you feel your heart quicken for?"
Antje nodded glumly. "Am I a fool?"
"No. You're a young woman, just starting to figure men out." And also maybe a little foolish, but only because of her lack of experience. Her mother should've been the one to tell her all these things… but her mother was dead. So Peggy would just have to do the best she could in the woman's absence. "Sergeant Barnes is a good-looking man," she agreed. "And it's natural to feel some sort of attraction to a good-looking person."
"Do you feel some sort of attraction to him?"
"God no!" she said, unable to stop the words from leaving her mouth. "I mean, I can appreciate how attractive he is, but I don't feel any attraction to him myself."
"Because you are in love with Captain Rogers?"
For someone who was maybe a little foolish, she was also very perceptive. "Quite. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is, when you're young, it's easy to confuse love and lust."
"My English is not that good," she admitted. "What is the difference?"
Peggy directed her towards the nearest bench and waited until she'd arranged her skirts so they were just right. Peggy's work uniform needed no such tiresome adjustments. The benefit of military attire. "Lust," she said, "is the physical attraction. Love is what is left when the physical attraction has faded. That deep feeling of caring and kinship, of knowing that the person you're with is not only somebody who you're happy to spend the rest of your life with, but is also your friend."
"Michael is my friend," Antje agreed. "I did not even know he felt that way about me, though. I mean, he hasn't asked to kiss me yet. Is that normal?"
Michael could be so dense at times. Brilliant at other times, but dense. Could it be that he'd concocted this all inside his mind? That when thought he and Antje were spending time together and falling in love, she had only ever thought of it as friendship?
"My brother isn't always very good at making his feelings known." Neither was Steve, for that matter. Or at least, he wasn't good at acting on those feelings. Sometimes men just needed a little push to get them going… and sometimes they needed a push off a cliff so that gravity could do the work for them. "I know that he loves you very much, and I'm sorry he actually forgot to tell you that before surprising you with a proposal."
"I feel… well, your family has done so much for me. So much for Opa. Would it be rude to say no? Knowing what we owe, I feel… I don't know the word. Required?"
"Obligated," she guessed.
"Yes, obligated. To say yes. It makes the decision harder. Like it is not just my decision, but also my grandpa's decision as well. I do not want him to stop receiving the care that he has."
Peggy took the young woman by the shoulders and looked into her eyes, to impress upon her the weight of her words. "Listen to me. You and your grandfather will not be abandoned. All that my mother has done for you, she has done because she is a good person and it makes her happy to help your grandpa regain some of his independence. And because it makes her happy to know she is helping you achieve your dreams. That help is in no way contingent on you saying yes to my brother. You won't lose your home, or our support. I make you that promise myself. I would not want a sister-in-law that I knew felt forced into the situation. It would be little better than slavery."
Antje offered a small smile. "I have always wanted a sister." She sighed. "What do you think I should do?"
"I think you should do what makes you happy. What you believe will make you happy for the future." She hesitated. It was never easy speaking of Fred. He'd been an almost-mistake, and she still felt uneasy about how she'd called things off. Her grief made her decision 'acceptable' to the rest of society… after all, a woman was prone to irrational behaviour when she became emotional… and allowed him to save face, but it still stung. "I was once in a similar position to you," she offered at last. Hard as it was to talk about, it might help Antje to make up her mind. "I was going to marry a man who proposed to me. He was nice, and from a well connected family, and I thought it was my duty to marry him because everybody said that it is the duty of a woman to marry and bear children. I thought that was how a woman becomes happy. When we were told Michael was killed in action, I called the wedding off, and looking back, I can see now that the marriage would not have made me happy. It would've been a cage, and I probably would not have known that I was in it. Not at first. But I would've felt the bars closing in over time, because despite his looks and his family, I was not in love with him."
"I thought everything was supposed to be easier when I grew up," Antje said. Her face was only just out of childhood; it would take another couple of years for her to fully mature into womanhood. "When I was younger, I thought adults had all the answers."
"Ah, that's one of the little white lies we tell."
"What is a little white lie?"
"It's a lie that isn't deemed as bad as a normal lie. It's little, because it's not too important, and it's white because the person telling it likes to believe they have pure intentions. For example, if I had a friend who was wearing a dress that did not flatter her, and she asked my opinion, I might tell her that it looked nice to spare her feelings. Little white lies are what we tell the people we don't want to hurt with the truth."
"If you had a friend with an unflattering dress, you could just send her to me, and I would make her a better one." A tiny smiled tugged at Antje's lips. She was starting to understand British humour a little better. She watched a couple stroll by arm in arm, then turned back to Peggy, her eyes pleading, and asked, "Does Sergeant Barnes ever speak of me? Or ask about me?"
"I'm sorry, but no." This was one time when a little white lie would not help the situation at all. "To be honest, I think he still feels bad about the time he fell ill and forgot to call you to rearrange your date." Which begged the question… "If you've still got some feeling for him after all this time, why haven't you spoken to him?"
Antje shifted on her seat, the very picture of a girl who's just been told how naughty she is. "Your mother… she said it's not seemly for a young woman to approach a man. That it gives a very wrong impression. That I must wait for him to come to me."
Peggy closed her eyes. Mother. Protecting the propriety of London's young women, and complicating situations greatly. She didn't seem to understand that times were moving on. A woman did not have to be introduced to a man by her male relatives before speaking to him anymore. She could strike up a conversation with anybody she chose. She didn't need a chaperon. Still, if it would help Antje to make her decision…
"Do you want to speak with him?" she asked. "To ask him yourself if he has any feelings for you?"
"I could not be so forward!" Mother's words were out of the young woman's mouth almost immediately.
"He won't consider it forward. Americans are a little different. They don't have the same etiquette that we do. It's not unusual for a young woman to talk about her feelings to a man."
"Oh." She plucked at the hem of her dress, the very picture of indecision. Mother really had made a bit of a mess out of this. If Antje had known months ago that Sergeant Barnes had no interest in her, she would not have spent all this time daydreaming over something that was never going to happen. "I suppose… maybe it would be good to hear from him myself. When he apologised for missing our date, he did not say that he would not ask again. I assumed he was waiting for the right time. He is away on missions a lot."
"Then we'll speak to him," she said. "I'll help. I have to go to work now, but when I'm done, I'll pick you up from home and we'll find Sergeant Barnes and find out how he feels about you. Does that sound okay?"
Antje nodded. "Thank you, Peggy. I appreciate you helping me. And not pressuring me into marrying your brother. If that is the decision I make, I want it to be my own."
"That's very wise." And hopefully her plan was equally as wise. Sergeant Barnes might find it an awkward conversation to have, but he would get over it, and Antje needed to hear for herself that he had no romantic feelings for her.
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It wasn't often that Peggy requested personal use of an SSR car, so when she put in the request form, Colonel Phillips raised a questioning eyebrow.
"It's for a family matter," she said. "I only need it for one night."
He stamped the form with Approved before handing it over to her. Under normal circumstances she would've asked Howard for the use of one of his, but he was eyeballs deep in calculations and tests, and swore he would murder anyone who disturbed him. Peggy did not want to test that theory, or her immunity to it.
A taxi was out of the question. If Antje was going to have her heart broken, there might be tears. The last thing she wanted was for some boorish taxi driver to gawk at the crying girl through his rear view mirror, or tut and shake his head over the fickleness of women. Antje deserved some privacy.
After she'd finished work, she visited the motor pool and picked out the car with the cleanest interior, then drove all the way to her family's home. She'd already told her mother that she was taking Antje out to see some of London's evening attractions, and dropped a hint or two that the opera might be involved. What Mother did know couldn't hurt her, and the less she knew, the less she could object and meddle. She would definitely not approve of this. A little white lie was absolutely required in this instance.
"I feel guilty not saying where we are really going," said Antje, as she slid into the front seat beside Peggy. She'd opted to wear a blue dress that was nice, but not flashy. She wouldn't look too out of place on London's streets, but it was on the lower end of the scale for a night at the opera.
"You're not doing anything unsafe or dangerous," Peggy replied. "It will be fine. Besides, you're with me."
Not many people drove to pubs in London, so there was plenty of room to park beside the pavement directly outside the Fiddle. As soon as she stepped out of the car she could hear the sound of the piano and the laughter of rowdy men. Very few women frequented pubs; it was not a place any respectable man took a woman for a date. What few women were present in them tended to be working girls, plying their trade to well-paid American soldiers. But few of those came to the Fiddle; it was a little too up-market for them.
"Are you ready?" she asked.
Antje nodded, looking for all the world like a soldier about to go to battle. "I am ready."
Although it was only early evening, and still light out, the Fiddle was unusually packed. She quickly discovered why. A large number of fresh troops were clustered around the darts board, where Private Morita was throwing the tiny missiles. The Commandos were there too, though Steve was absent. She tried not to frown at that. He'd said he'd be spending the evening with the team. Had he lied?
Don't be stupid. Steve Rogers never lies.
She pushed her way through the crowd, taking Antje by the hand to pull her with her. When she reached the Commandos, she had to physically tap Dugan on the shoulder to get his attention.
"Why, hullo, Peggy. And Antje? What a surprise!" His grinned his pearly whites at them. "Have you come to watch the game?"
"No, I'm actually looking for Sergeant Barnes. Is he in this crowd?"
"Barnes? No, he's not here. Really let us down; we were counting on him to win this match for us. Not that Morita and Jones aren't doing a good job. Would've been easier with Barnes, though."
"He mentioned going for drinks with a friend," Falsworth said. He was a champion eavesdropper, at times. "You might want to try Eagle's View. He and Miles have shared drinks there in the past."
"I don't think I've even heard of it," she said.
"It's a pilot's pub, so that's not surprising. Easy to miss, too."
After Falsworth had given her directions, she extracted Antje from the chaos and they made their way back to the car.
"This is for the best," she said, because the girl was starting to look a little worried. "With all the noise in there, it would've been hard to have a proper conversation. The Eagle's View will undoubtedly be quieter.
It turned out that it was much quieter. So quiet, in fact, that it had only five patrons inside it, none of whom were Sergeant Barnes. Peggy clucked her tongue. Trust Sergeant Barnes to be annoyingly difficult to find on the one occasion she actually wanted to find him.
"Can I get you ladies something to drink?" the bartender asked, in a properly respectful tone. Of course, her uniform helped. It was uncanny how often men behaved more professionally around her when she was clad in her work uniform, compared to a more casual dress.
"Actually, we're looking for someone," she said. "You might have seen him. Sergeant Barnes, from the 107th. He's about this tall, and—"
"Yeah, I know him," the bartender said. "Not often we get non-pilots in here; they tend to stand out. Sergeant Barnes and his friend had a few drinks here last night, but I haven't seen them today."
"Blast it." Maybe the man was mistaken; Steve had said his best friend was recovering from an upset stomach last night. "I don't suppose you've any idea where he might be?" She would check at the hotel, if she had to. Perhaps he was there. Perhaps Steve was there. Could they be planning something together? It would certainly explain their absences.
"Sorry, no. Though, you could check the Kettle & Drum," he suggested. "When they came in for drinks yesterday, that's where they'd walked from."
"Thank you very much, you've been a great help," she said, taking Antje by the arm and leading her towards the door.
They stepped out into the cool evening air. As the sun sank towards the skyline the temperature was dropping, and Antje had only brought a light coat. Should she give up now?
No. She would not be beaten on this. She would find Sergeant Barnes if she had to drive to every bloody pub in the city. He had to be somewhere.
"Peggy, maybe we should just go home," said Antje. "Perhaps it is fate that we can't find him. Maybe I am not supposed to speak with him and know his thoughts."
"We'll check the next pub, and then the hotel," she conceded. "And if he's not at either of those, we'll go home. I don't want your trip to the city to have been for nothing."
"Not for nothing." Antje smiled. "It's been fun to see the inside of pubs. Michael has only taken me to places that are quiet and have tables. I've enjoyed seeing this other side of London."
"Please don't admit that to my mother," she said dryly.
The Kettle & Drum was on the other side of the Thames, so it took longer to drive there. As they crossed over one of the bridges, Peggy let her thoughts stray to Steve, and their kiss the night before. It had been long overdue, but well worth the wait. Though she was no stranger to kissing, she'd never been kissed with such passion before. It was enough to bring a rush of heat to her cheeks even just thinking about it.
"Are you warm, Peggy?" Antje asked. "You look a little flushed."
"Oh, yes," she agreed, quickly winding down the window nearest her. "This work outfit is so stuffy at times."
When they pulled up outside the Drum, she took a moment to fix her hair, which the wind had blown a little out of place. If there was even a remote chance that Steve was there, she wouldn't want to be caught looking like she'd just been dragged in backwards through the hedges. That sort of thing was okay on missions and in the field, when personal hygiene was not quite as important, but one ought to look civilised in civilisation.
"You look fine, Peggy," Antje said. "And if Captain Rogers is in there, I don't think he would notice even if you were wearing nothing. Well, I mean, he would probably notice, but he would not care. Or he would care, but… well, you know what I mean, I hope," she added with a blush.
"It's okay, I know exactly what you mean." She squared her shoulders and march towards the door. "Now come on. Let's see what's behind door number three."
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"Tell me about your last mission," said Wells, as Gladys brought their fresh drinks over.
"I can't," he replied. "It's classified."
"I'm pretty sure that doesn't mean classified from me. After all, we went on a lot of classified missions together. I got a glance at my file when I arrived in London; it's mostly black. Bet yours is, too."
"Even if it wasn't classified from you," he countered, "it's definitely classified from everyone else in the Drum." And tonight, the pub was doing good business. Apparently they served some sort of ale that was popular in Australia, so a whole platoon of Aussie soldiers had descended on the place. That's how it felt, anyway.
Wells nodded. "Phillips always was really paranoid. Remember that time he hid those German double-agents amongst the 9th? How long we spent looking for them, and they were sitting right under our noses."
"Yeah. I remember how excited Tipper got when he saw them on the King George." He smiled at the memory of the young soldier's face, a mixture of excitement and panic. "I still have no idea whether they really were German double-agents, or British agents posing as Germans. Do you?"
"I don't think we'll ever know. Just like how we'll never know who really killed Matilda's parents, or what happened to that Italian spy that we escorted back to camp after the mission to San Vinadio. Maybe one day I'll write a book about all our exploits. Then hire someone in Hollywood to turn it into a movie. And find someone devilishly handsome to play the part of me."
"And die a quiet and unremarkable death when Colonel Phillips hunts you down and makes it looked like you choked on your own pillow in your sleep," Bucky said with a chuckle. "You know nothing you wrote would see the light of day, right? The army has scary men to make that kind of thing go away. They're called lawyers. Anyway, since I declined a darts match to be here, we need to figure out what we're gonna do next."
Wells grinned darkly. "Glad you asked, Sergeant Barnes. You see, I have this new game, it's called—Oh shit, this can't be good."
"That doesn't sound like it's gonna be much fun."
"No, I mean that." He pointed to something over Bucky's shoulder. When he turned his head, he found a very irate Agent Carter marching over, and she seemed to be on the warpath. A much more sheepish Antje followed behind her. A flash of panic seized him. What were they doing here? Had they followed him? He wasn't ready for anyone else to know Wells was alive yet, he still hadn't figured out how to make it all work. But he quickly pushed the panic away; he couldn't let it control him.
"Agent Carter, Antje, what are you two doing here?" he asked instead.
"Never mind what we're doing here," Carter said, her hands planted firmly on her hips as she stopped at their table. "What's he doing here?" She turned to Wells. "What are you doing here? You died in Italy, months ago. Why aren't you dead?!"
"Gee, nice to see you again too, Agent Carter," said Wells, employing a tone that was drier than the Sahara. "For your information, I was shot, but not killed. If you'd care to step into the powder room, I can even show you where."
"Wait, you'll show her but not me?" Bucky asked.
Wells gave him one of those looks. "Agent Carter is a beautiful dame. You are not. Anyway, I'm assigned here now, Agent Carter, so it will be kinda like the good old days, eh?"
"Agent Carter," Bucky said quickly, "please don't tell Dugan and the others that Wells is alive. Not yet, anyway. We're still catching up and… you know, figuring things out."
"He is," Wells said, entirely unhelpfully. "I'm fine with it."
"I won't lie," Carter said. She removed her hands from her hips and settled for folding her arms across her chest. It seemed to make her taller, somehow. "So as long as nobody asks me if Sergeant Barnes has been lying about his whereabouts to play catch-up with his formerly deceased friend Sergeant Wells, then you'll be just fine."
"Thanks, Carter. I appreciate it." He tried for a small, grateful smile, but it was met with pure stone. She could've given Phillips lessons, right then. "So, uh, what brings you ladies to the Drum?"
"Antje wanted to speak with you," she said. "So we've travelled over half of London looking for you."
"Ah, so this is Antje?" said Wells. He stood and offered his hand, which she shook cautiously. "Sergeant Danny Wells. I've heard so much about you."
"You've been speaking to your friends about me?" she asked Bucky. It was hard to tell whether she was pleased or scandalised. He opted for only good things.
"Just a little," he said. "You know, how the Commandos met you and your grandpa, and helped you to get to the safety of England. How talented you are at repairing watches and making dresses. And of course your recent engagement to Michael, and how great it is to know you're both happy."
The frantic, wide-eyed head-shaking that Agent Carter aimed at him stopped as soon as Antje turned to her. "Did Michael speak of this engagement to everybody but me? You, Captain Rogers, your mother and father, Sergeant Barnes… is there anybody who doesn't know about it? Did nobody think to ask my thoughts? To know my mind?"
"Please don't blame Michael," Carter replied swiftly. "I was the one who mentioned it to Sergeant Barnes. It just… came up in conversation."
"I see." The temperature in the room seemed to dip by ten degrees. Antje's face was definitely frosty as she turned back towards him. "Sergeant Barnes, I came here to clarify something. When you missed our date because of illness, and offered an apology, you did not suggest whether I should expect further invitations. I thought I would wait and see if any came, however, I am not as patient as I once was. So I have come to ask directly whether you want to make up for what we missed by asking me out again."
Jesus. Clearly something had gone horribly wrong during the double-date last night. Why hadn't Steve mentioned it? He looked into her face; the face of a young woman both innocent and wise, worldly and world-weary. He'd stayed away because Carter said she and Michael had hit it off and the sun shone on everything they did together. But she'd actually been waiting for him to ask her out again? Why had he ever listened to Carter? Why hadn't he told her straight that he couldn't burden her… or anyone… with a life of him maybe not coming back from the next mission?
"Do you… err… want to go somewhere to talk? In private?" he offered.
"There seems no point," she countered. "Since my affairs seem to be common knowledge. Let all hear this conversation, then there can be no whispers later."
Shit. He glanced at Carter, who'd taken a sudden interest in her own shoes, and Wells, who was busy counting the bubbles in his drink. There would be no help from either of them, and Gladys was leaning a little too far over the bar for his liking, too.
"Thing is," he said, "you are a wonderful young woman with many admirable qualities. You're intelligent, and brave, and—"
"I don't need to hear about my admirable qualities," she said. "I know my own worth."
"Right. See, you remind me of someone I know. Someone very close to me. My sister, Janet. And when I look at you, I get those same kinds of sisterly feelings. I'm sorry I didn't tell you this sooner… I guess it was insensitive of me not to tell you in person. As wonderful as I think you are, I don't have romantic feelings for you. But should you ever need help—"
"Thank you for your honesty," she said. "I am glad I have spoken with somebody tonight who could tell me the truth."
And with that she stormed out, letting the door of the Drum slam closed behind her. Agent Carter winced.
"I'm sorry if I put my foot in my mouth," he offered. How was he supposed to know that Michael's proposal had not gone down well? Nobody told him anything!
Carter sighed. "Don't worry. There's a lot of that been going around, lately." She gave the drinks and Wells a once over, then asked, "Where's Steve?"
"Watching a darts match with the Commandos. Do you, uh, want me to go after Antje, or…?"
"No, I have to go; I'm her ride home. Good night, Sergeant Barnes. Sergeant Wells. And please remember that little white lies often have a way of catching up with you sooner or later."
Bucky sank back into his seat as she left, and downed the rest of his ale. Not that there was much left; his glass had been near empty. What an awful night. And poor Antje… clearly she was in need of a friend. Some guidance. Hopefully Carter could fix whatever was wrong with her and Michael. And Bucky would be having some very choice words with his best friend on the subject of sharing information.
"Gladys, we're gonna need the whisky over here," Wells called.
"I'm fine. I don't need whisky," he said.
"Who said it was for you? I haven't been around a conversation that awkward since at least last night."
Bucky snorted quietly. "Sorry you had to be part of that. Hell, I'm sorry I had to be part of that. I really thought they were engaged!"
"Obviously." Gladys brought the whisky and two tumblers, and Wells poured a generous measure into each. Then he made a shoo'ing motion at Gladys until she returned to the bar. "But why'd you turn her down? She seemed keen, pal. More than keen!"
He shook his head. "Like I said yesterday, I don't think it's fair to have someone waiting around worrying about whether or not I'm gonna come back home."
"Sure, I guess that makes sense, but you can't isolate yourself from everybody. There's always gonna be someone who worries about you, even if it's just your teammates. That's kinda what separates us from guys like Schmidt, right? That we have people who care about us?"
"I wish you'd stop being so reasonable about stuff," he grumbled. "Can't you go back to talking a load of bullshit?"
"I've always offered reason and bullshit in equal measures."
Maybe that was true. He remembered a lot more bullshit. But Wells seemed to be handling his new life just fine. Much better than Bucky had handled his new life. Why was he the only one haunted by the past? Was Wells right? Did he really try to punish himself over things that weren't his fault?
"Mind if I ask you a personal question?" he asked. "And I'd like a reasonable answer, please. No bullshit."
"Hang on." He poured an extra measure of whisky into his glass, then said, "Okay, I'm ready. Shoot."
"Is any of this hard for you? Leaving last year behind? Being gone for months? Hanging out with me?"
Wells cocked his head to one side. "I'm not sure I follow."
"We lost a lot of people last year. Saw a lot of shit. Did a lot of… questionable… things. Then you managed to get out of it. Doesn't seeing me remind you of any of that stuff?"
"Well, yeah."
"And that isn't difficult for you?"
"Why would it be? For me, the bad stuff does not overshadow the good stuff. Like, I can think about Carrot and be sad. Or I can think about Carrot and all the fun I had yankin' his chain about his girl, or the time he baked that cake for Gusty, or how he drank the entire bottle of Stark's two hundred dollar Scotch."
"That was all of us, and you know it."
"Was it?" Wells chuckled and sipped some of the whisky from his glass, then pulled his face. "It's definitely not two hundred dollar Balvenie. Anyway, my point is, you never liked playing Remember after we lost someone, because you remembered the bad times and the loss. You remembered that you weren't able to stop it from happening… stop the men we knew from dying. Me, I don't mind Remember, because I remember the fun we had more than the bad stuff. If I get to the point where remembering the bad stuff outweighs the good stuff, then really, that means that person was a burden to me. That the sum effect of their life upon mine is misery and pain. And I kinda think the guys deserve more than than. Well, maybe apart from Davies. He was a bastard at times."
"I wish it were that easy for me."
Wells shrugged. "I figure in life, we all need someone to give us a hard time. Y'know, push us to grow, to make us or break us, or whatever. For your pal Steve, it was those bullies you used to pull off him. For me, it was my dad and the closet he used to lock me in. You… you give yourself a hard time. And I think that's probably the hardest thing of all to outgrow, because you can take the high ground with bullies and push back against your dad, but how can you overcome yourself?"
How indeed? Maybe Wells was right; maybe Bucky was his own worst enemy. The guy he needed to push back against. The beanstalk giant he needed to overcome to find the goose that laid the golden egg. And if that was the case, how was he supposed to do it? How were you supposed to overcome yourself without destroying yourself completely?
"Tell you what," said Wells. He pushed Bucky's glass of whisky towards him. "Let's play a game. It's called Remember. And maybe we can fill your head with enough happy memories that you stop blaming yourself for the deaths."
