We Were Soldiers

74. Favours

Bucky had tracked down Colonel Phillips' office in London to an inconspicuous building in a place called Whitehall. The area reminded him of the Manhattan district in New York. Men wore suits. They walked quickly and spoke to no-one. The women were prim and business-like, and everybody seemed to be taking life very seriously.

He'd never much liked Manhattan. What was it they said? A nice place to visit, but I wouldn't wanna live there. Give him the vibrant life of Brooklyn any day. All work and no play made Jack—and Bucky—a dull boy.

He didn't much like Whitehall, either. The place seemed dire and grim, and not just because of the war. An air of self-importance seemed to suffuse the place, and he didn't get the usual nods and smiles from passersby en route to the SSR's office.

"Can I help you, Sergeant?" the corporal manning the front desk asked.

"I'd like to speak to Colonel Phillips, please."

The corporal consulted a large open book in front of him. "I'm sorry, but Colonel Phillips is fully booked today. I could make you an appointment for… let's say, next Tuesday?"

The letter carrying his orders seemed to burn within his pocket.

"Next week is much too late. I need to see him right away."

"I'm sorry, but—"

Bucky stepped forward, fighting the scowl trying to form. "Look, my names is Sergeant James Barnes, with the 107th. I was part of Phillips' command in Europe. My regiment served with the SSR." Suddenly, inspiration struck. He pulled the letter from his pocket and thrust it into the corporal's face. "This is a letter from General Marshall instructing me to report to my CO immediately. My CO is Colonel Phillips. Now, are you gonna ignore an instruction from the Chief of Staff himself?"

With a sigh, the man leafed through the book. "I'm not trying to be awkward, Sergeant, but he really does have a full schedule. However, if you'd like to take a seat and wait, I'll see if he can spare five minutes for you between any of his meetings."

"Great. Five minutes is all I need. Thanks."

He took a seat, and he waited. He waited, and he waited. He saw men admitted into the elevator which went down only God knew how many levels, and he tried to be patient for his own sake. He couldn't go into this with a hot head. He had to stay calm and make his case. Phillips was a fair man. And if he wouldn't listen to Bucky alone, Wells would always back him up—

He shook his head. No. Wells was gone. Gusty and the others were still in Italy. There was nobody left to back him up. Nobody to stand in his corner and push him back into the ring when the blows rained hardest. He would just have to do this alone. That was fine. He could do that.

Two hours later, and just as his stomach was beginning to grumble again, he checked his watch. Four o'clock in the afternoon. How much longer could Colonel Phillips be? Surely the guy had to go off duty some time… didn't he?

"Has the Colonel got any free time, yet?" he asked the clerk on the desk.

"If he had free time, Sergeant, you would've seen him by now. Please be patient; it may be some time before Colonel Phillips is available. If you'd like to try again tomorrow..?"

"I'll wait." No damn clerk was gonna keep Bucky Barnes from getting Colonel Phillips to change his orders. He resumed his seat, and his wait.

He didn't register the click click click of heeled shoes until Agent Carter appeared at the front desk. She didn't spot him at first, but as soon as she'd signed in, he leapt to his feet and insinuated himself between her and the elevator.

"Agent Carter, it's good to see you," he said, not fully a lie. He hadn't seen her since she'd dropped them off at the Strand hotel; hadn't even given her much thought, if he was honest with himself. He guessed she'd been busy with… whatever it was she did whenever she wasn't outperforming GIs on the front lines.

She ran her assessing gaze over him. "Sergeant Barnes. You're looking… well." For a spy, she wasn't a particularly good liar.

"Are you going down to meet Colonel Phillips?"

"Yes, I have an update briefing to give him."

"Great! I mean, would it be okay with you if I took five minutes of your meeting time to discuss something with the Colonel?"

She pursed her lips, and he could read the incoming disapproval. "That depends on what it is you want to discuss with him."

"It's… a personal matter."

"Then you'll have to come back tomorrow. I haven't seen Colonel Phillips in two days, and I don't have even a moment to spare for your personal matters."

With a sigh, he produced the crumpled letter from his pocket. So much for keeping this quiet until he could get the whole mistake straightened out. "It's about my orders to ship back home."

Carter's face immediately softened. An angry fire flared inside him at the pity in her eyes. It wasn't the first time he'd seen it, but it was usually reserved for when she thought he didn't notice. Bucky didn't need pity, not from her or from anyone else. Sure, he'd gone through things, but little worse than any of the other men on the front lines. No worse than the Hawkins family, who'd lost both their sons to the war. No worse than Franklin or Davies, who'd been crushed to death thanks to serendipity, and no worse than Tipper, who'd stepped on a mine, or Carrot, who'd eaten a barrage of HYDRA bullets. He was still better off than Wells, Jones and Hawkins, whose bodies were lying unburied in some Italian forest, and much better off than Gusty and Biggs and the others who were still living by their nerves on the front lines.

He hated the pity, but right now, it was a tool. He would be an idiot not to use it.

"So, about those five minutes..?"

"Yes, of course. I understand. Why don't you go down now and wait outside his office, and I'll give the two of you some time alone?"

"Thanks, Agent Carter." He injected a measure of sincerity into his voice. No telling when he'd need another favour. "I really appreciate it."

He shot a triumphant glare at the desk clerk and hurried into the elevator. It wasn't like the elevator in the Strand; it was merely a service elevator, draughty and small. The gears groaned ominously as the elevator descended past bare light bulbs barely giving off enough light to see by. Just before the elevator hit the ground, he wondered how long it'd been since the gears had last been oiled… and for how long he would plummet before meeting his end.

Another corridor greeted him at the bottom, this one bustling with service personnel. Bucky stopped one MP and asked for directions to Colonel Phillips' office. After a couple of minutes' wandering through the warren, he reached the waiting room and was greeted by a pretty blonde.

"Sergeant James Barnes, I'm here to see Colonel Phillips," he told her, hoping he wouldn't have to produce his letter again.

The blonde consulted the large diary on the desk in front of her. "I'm afraid I don't have you on the books for a meeting today, Sergeant. Perhaps there's been a mis—"

"I'm not on the books because Agent Carter has graciously allowed me five minutes of her meeting time with Colonel Phillips," he said through a clenched jaw. Jeez, why was it so hard to see his own CO for five damn minutes? Back on the front, he never had this problem; he could just walk into the command tent and talk to the guy. In fact, sometimes, it was hard to get away from him. There hadn't been all these clerks and secretaries standing as guard-dogs between Phillips and the outside world. "She's upstairs right now if you need to call up to check my story out."

He half expected her to smile and tell him that wouldn't be necessary. Instead, she picked up the telephone and dialled upstairs to make sure Agent Carter really had given up some of her time.

"What did you think, that I'm some sort of assassin come to make an attempt on Phillips' life?" Bucky scoffed, once the young woman had replaced the telephone on the desk.

"You can never be too careful," she said coolly. "If you'd like to take a seat, the Colonel's meeting is almost over."

Bucky took one of the hard plastic seats and tried to exude an air of patience. It didn't come easily. These people were obviously crazy if they thought Phillips was in danger of being assassinated in his own lair. If ever there was a line between security and madness, these people had not only reached it, but long ago crossed it. But that didn't matter. All he needed to do was get to Phillips and have his orders rescinded. After that, he'd be shipped back to the front, or reassigned to another regiment. Either way, he'd get back to the fight.

The bitter-sweet tang of freshly brewed coffee recalled his mind to the present, and he spotted a pot brewing in the corner of the office. The blonde was focused on her typewriter, on the tippy-tippy-tap of whatever letter she was writing. Bucky sniffed the air several times until her gaze came up to his face.

"Are you coming down with a cold, Sergeant? I have a spare handkerchief in my drawer, if you need one," she said.

Bucky glowered. "No thanks, I'm fine." He shouldn't have to ask for a damn coffee.

The memory of the coffee-stirring bullshit back at Camp Shanks came drifting back with the aroma of hot joe, down through the months. He'd forgotten about those early days, when everything had been new and fresh, and none of them had truly understood what war was about. Franklin had always made the best cups of coffee, as taught to him by his ol' grandma.

A smile teased its way across Bucky's lips. Franklin was gone, but his memory remained. Bucky could show Franklin's methods of brewing and stirring coffee to other soldiers. It would be a way of keeping Franklin's memory alive even longer. Men who hadn't known him would praise him.

Would anybody do the same for me, if I died?

He pushed the thought roughly aside. Stupid to think like that. Of course there would be people who'd keep his memory alive. Mom and Dad, his brother and sisters, Steve, and probably a lot of the friends he'd made whilst serving. Then there were his friends back in civvy life, some of whom had already gone to serve, and others who were waiting to be called up. In all his life, no matter where he'd gone or what he'd done, he'd never wanted for friends.

So why do I feel so alone?

He didn't have time to wallow in melancholy. The office door opened and a group of service personnel wearing several different uniforms filed out. Bucky tapped his booted foot as two of the younger men loitered behind to talk to the blonde.

"You can go in now, Sergeant," the woman said. She was already beaming a smile at one of the officers, as if Bucky didn't even exist.

The office was large, and each wall was decorated in its own unique way. One was covered with aerial photographs of Europe, and had been wildly defaced with a red marker pen indicating troop movements and enemy emplacements. Another wall held complex equations taped haphazardly on bits of paper and even a couple of napkins, their coffee-ring stains evidence of their original use. Bucky recognised Howard Stark's handwriting, though some of the equations were written in an unfamiliar hand.

The third wall held photographs clearly taken clandestinely. Most were blurry, the forms vague and shadowed, a few wearing Nazi uniforms; more wearing those of HYDRA. As Bucky scanned them, he picked out the scrunched-up face of Zola, and his hand involuntarily curled into a fist. Next to Zola was a taller man, dark haired, with a coldness in his eyes. A man Bucky had seen the true face of: Johann Schmidt. A monster the likes the world had never seen before and, if Bucky had anything to do with it, would never see again.

The final wall, the one which held the door, was unadormed save for two framed pictures. One was a portrait photograph of the president, and another was a painting of the Statue of Liberty. Home. Bucky's eyes were drawn to her face. Would he ever see her again? She was the one lady who waited for every soldier in this war. How much would he pay to see her still standing?

"Agent Carter, have you done something different with your hair?" Phillips asked from behind his desk.

"Sir, Agent Carter said it would be okay if I had five minutes of your meeting time," Bucky explained. "I wanted to talk to you about something important." He pulled the letter ordering his extended furlough from his pocket, and placed it on the desk. Phillips glanced at it briefly and offered an unsurprised grunt. "You knew about this, Colonel?"

"Of course I knew about it. Who do you think got the initial medical reports?"

"Sir, you have to change the orders!" Bucky stepped forward and managed to scrounge up a measure of calmness. He forced it into his voice. "I don't need rest, sir. I need to get back into the fight."

"The orders are final, they can't be changed. The paperwork's already been stamped."

"But you need experienced soldiers in this war. If—"

"Sergeant, I need experienced soldiers, but I also need men who are fit for duty—"

"Which I am!"

"Not according to your medical. Do you know what would happen if I sent a man unfit for combat back to the front lines? If you were to screw up and get men killed, it would be on my head. And you are not worth my head, Sergeant."

Bucky opened his mouth to protest, but Phillips charged right on.

"This is the way it has to be, Sergeant Barnes. Take a rest. God knows, you've earned it. Go home. Spend time with your loved ones. Then, in six months, or a year, whenever the medics say you're adequately recovered from what Schmidt and his goons put you through, you can return to combat."

Bucky unclenched his fist to stop his nails digging painfully into his palm. Phillips didn't understand. He couldn't go home. Not yet. He couldn't face his family. Not like this. Hell, he'd even settle for something away from the front lines, as long as he could be useful.

"Sir, there has to be something I can do here. Something that doesn't put men at risk. Some way I can contribute."

"You can. Go home. Rest up. Gather your strength. Like you said, I need experienced soldiers. If you like, I can see about getting you a spot as a drill sergeant at Camp Lehigh after three months of rest. You can put the new recruits through their paces."

Bucky's heart dropped. Drill sergeant? Yelling at enlisted men to make them run faster? Waking them at four o'clock for a gruelling crawl through the mud? Teaching kids how to hold guns without shooting themselves? Encouraging them to hit stationary targets so that they believed they were capable of defending themselves against genocidal Nazis? He couldn't imagine he'd make a very good drill sergeant. Like Agent Carter, he wasn't a very good liar.

"Sir, please—"

"I'm sorry, Sergeant, but you have your orders. As for your debarkation…" Phillips rifled through a pile of papers and came out with one that listed military ship activity at London's docks. "The S.S. Constance is returning to NYPOE next Tuesday at o'six hundred. You're report two hours in advance and present your official papers which you'll receive by courier within the next two days. Understood?"

"Yessir," Bucky lied. He didn't understand. Why was he being punished like this? Was it because he hadn't been able to free himself and the others from Krausberg? Because he'd been captured? It wasn't fair! Plenty of soldiers who got captured by the enemy weren't sent home.

It's because of Steve. The brass don't want you influencing their new hero. They want to be sure his loyalty lies with them.

It was a terrible thought, and he immediately felt guilty for even considering it. This wasn't Steve's fault. It had nothing to do with Steve. In fact, if it wasn't for Steve, Bucky would still be back in that work camp, probably still undergoing stage three of Zola's tests, whatever their purpose.

Bucky saluted and about-faced. There was nothing more he could do or say to persuade Phillips to change his mind. Now, he would have to go to the source of the problem.

The medical centre was bustling despite it being almost dinner time. Doctors and nurses carried clip-boards and boxes whilst orderlies pushed patients in wheelchairs and on cold metal gurneys that made Bucky shiver when he saw them.

This time, Bucky didn't stand on formality. If he was to be shipped back home, what did it matter if he did things in an unconventional way? They were hardly going to court-martial him.

He sidestepped the front desk before one of the clerks could even ask his name, and pushed his way past three nurses into the examination area. Two or three doctors were present, giving check-ups to soldiers, and Bucky spotted the doctor who'd sealed his fate. He strode into the cubicle, ignoring the shirtless soldier sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Doc, you gotta re-examine me," he said. "Tell the brass I'm fit for duty."

The doctor's face was thunderous. "I don't know who you are, but you can't just barge your way in here and make demands of me. I'm in the middle of a medical examination here."

"My name is Sergeant James Barnes. You examined me a couple of days ago and told my CO I'm not fit for duty. That was a mistake."

"Sergeant, I've seen over a hundred soldiers in the past three days," the doctor glowered. "And I don't make mistakes. If I've signed you off, then you're not fit for duty despite what you may think. There will be no further examination, unless it's a psychological evaluation which, judging by your current demeanour, you stand no chance of passing. Now, are you going to leave peacefully, or do I need to send for the MPs?"

"Please, doc, just gimme another chance. I can't go home," he pleaded. "Examine me again, that's all I ask."

"Request denied. Now, leave the hospital, or I'll have you removed."

There was nothing he could do but seethe as he left. Of course the doctor wouldn't examine him again. He'd find Bucky in perfect health and be forced to admit he'd made a mistake. It would make him look foolish. Incompetent.

He mulled over his problem as he made his way to the Fiddle, where he was due to meet Steve and a few of the guys for drinks. Alcohol was one of the few things that could banish the nightmares, if just for a short time, but right now, Bucky was in no mood for drinking. How could he sit there and drink when less than a week from now, he'd be forced to leave his friends to the fight? What if they thought him a coward? And how could he get out of it?

The Fiddle was packed to the rafters, and Bucky had to fight his way through the crowd. Dugan and Falsworth had managed to grab their usual table, but of the others, there was no sign. Dugan waved Bucky over, and gestured to one of the spare pints of ale.

"Saved you a drink or two," said Dugan as Bucky slid into a seat.

"Or four or five," Falsworth added with a smirk. "The proprietor wouldn't allow us to claim such a large table with only two of us drinking. We had to order a round to assure him we were expecting company."

Bucky nodded. "Where is everyone?"

"Dernier said he had some top-secret French Resistance business to attend to," Falsworth explained. "Personally, I don't believe that. Jones is out looking for a souvenir to send home to his family as proof he's safe in England for now. Morita's stuffing his face at that chip shop down the road, and the Captain's being measured up for his new G.I. uniform."

"I remember a time when most clothes wouldn't fit Steve because he was so skinny they hung off him like drapes."

"Hard to believe he was ever that small," Dugan mused.

"Believe it. I have pictures that I could show you, if we were back home."

"Got any embarrassing childhood stories we ought to know about?"

"Sure, but you're going to have to ply me with something stronger than this piss-water," Bucky told him.

Morita arrived before Dugan could put in another order with Lizzie, followed a few minutes later by Jones. The Private brought out a paper bag and showed off the postcards of Big Ben he'd bought to send home to his family.

"Wish I could send something nicer for my Mom," he said, "but the shelves were pretty bare. I had to go to three different shops just to find postcards."

"You got any family over here, Monty?" asked Morita.

Falsworth wrinkled his nose at the much-disliked nickname, but nodded in confirmation.

"I spoke to my mother the day after we arrived in England, and I've had a telegram from my father. Most of my family are serving in one way or another. Uncle Charlie's a General in the RAF, my cousin Reginald is in the Navy, and my other cousin, Thomas, is an officer in the Army. Then there's my second-cousin Beatrice, who's a Wren, and—"

"Excuse me," said Bucky. He nodded to a pretty brunette at the bar. "I fancy my chances tonight."

The guys chuckled as Bucky made his way over to the bar. All the talk of family was heading into territory he didn't care to visit right now. Family talk was too much like being-shipped-home talk, and that was a talk he wanted to avoid until he'd sorted out his little problem.

Because he needed to put on a show for the guys who were inevitably watching, he took the empty seat beside the brunette and offered her his most winning smile.

"I haven't seen you here before," he said. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"Thanks, but I'm not here to drink," she said. Her accent was American, which probably made her a Red Cross nurse, or a WAC yeoman.

"You've come to a pub to not-drink?"

"I'm waiting for someone."

"Ah." Just his luck. "You're waiting for your fella?"

"No, I'm waiting for Captain America." She pulled a notepad and pen from her purse. "I heard he drinks here on some evenings, and I was hoping to meet him. Get his autograph."

"Oh. In that case, you might wanna go wait with those guys at that table. They're his friends, I'm sure they can put in a good word for you."

She beamed widely. "Thank you!"

When she'd gone, Bucky ordered a glass of whisky from Lizzie and knocked it back. He ordered a second and took this one more slowly, savouring each burning sip. It was only when he reached his third glass, just after Dernier showed up and joined the guys and the dame, that Bucky remembered he hadn't had anything to eat since waking up.

For once, he wasn't hungry. His predicament seemed to have unsettled his stomach to the point that he had no desire for food. On his fourth glass, he remembered he was still supposed to be toasting the memories of the men he'd served with and lost. Who was next? Danzig? Weiss?

Thoughts of his senior fellow sergeant made his stomach churn with guilt. Sergeant Weiss would never go home to his family, and here Bucky was complaining about being sent back to the States. Maybe he was looking at this all wrong. Maybe he ought to be grateful that he'd get to see his family again, especially since they'd already been incorrectly informed of his death once already. It sure would make his mom happy to see him. What did it matter that he didn't feel ready to see them again? There were more people to consider than just himself.

And that's why you feel alone despite being surrounded by friends. Back on that table in Krausberg, you put them in your place. You would've let them suffer. You don't deserve them.

He knocked back his fourth Scotch and ordered a fifth. Maybe he'd toast memories tomorrow.

There was a commotion behind him, and Bucky didn't have to turn around to know that Steve had arrived. Even out of uniform, there were enough soldiers who recognised him. The brunette squealed in delight as Steve gave in to her request for an autograph. At least somebody was having a good time.

When a heavy hand was clapped on his shoulder, Bucky jumped and spilled some of his whisky on the bar. He fixed a scowl onto his face and aimed it at the man sliding onto the stool beside him. Steve offered an apologetic wince and removed his hand. He seemed to forget just how strong he was, sometimes.

"Are you okay, Buck? The guys said you've been drinking alone for over an hour."

"Huh. I didn't realise it'd been that long. Guess time really does fly when you're having fun."

"You didn't answer my question," his friend accused.

"Didn't realise I had to give you a daily sitrep."

"Humour me, Buck. Please?"

Steve gave him the ol' injured puppy eyes he'd always been so good at, and Bucky sighed. Sooner or later, Steve was going to find out about his orders, but maybe he had some suggestions about getting out of being sent back home.

He pulled the letter from his pocket and handed it over. He followed Steve's darting eyes as he read the letter twice. Steve had never been good at hiding his emotions; he wore his heart on his sleeve and his thoughts on his face. He tried very hard to disguise the disappointment, but the smile on his lips was too false to be real.

"Maybe this is a good thing, Buck. You could go home and see your family again. Get some rest and come back fighting fit."

"I'm already fighting fit. I am!" A few soldiers glanced over at his shout, and he lowered his voice. "I'm not ready to go home, Steve. Not with HYDRA out there. They've already struck once on American soil, and there's nobody but us to stop them doing it again. I just need a couple of weeks to get myself together. "

"Want me to talk to Phillips for you? Maybe I could get him to change his mind."

Bucky bristled at the suggestion. "I already talked to him. He said the orders couldn't be changed. I even went to the doctor who performed my medical, to try and get him to examine me again, but he point blank refused. Hmm… maybe I should'a put a gun to his head." Wells would've done it that way, he was sure. "Joke," he added when he spotted his friend's expression.

Steve's brow furrowed heroically. "Maybe I could see if Senator Brandt could pull some strings and—"

"No. You told me those politicians don't give anything for free, and I don't want you indebted to them even more than you already are. He'd pull some strings now only to pull your strings later. Besides, this is my problem, and I want to fix it myself."

"You don't have to do everything alone, Buck. Why don't you come and join the rest of the guys? Maybe we can put our heads together and figure something out."

Bucky shook his head. "I want some time to think this thing through. Please don't tell the guys about it. Not yet. I plan on getting those orders changed before I have to tell anyone else."

Steve finally relented. "Alright. But if you want help, all you have to do is ask."

When Steve returned to the table, Bucky ordered another drink. If he couldn't think his way out of his problem, maybe he could find the answer at the bottom of a glass. And if one glass didn't herald any answers, there were plenty more glasses in the bar.

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

Steve paced the office of the USO and tried to convince himself that he was doing the right thing. He hadn't slept at all last night, forgoing that luxury in order to mull over his best friend's new problem. He'd tried to put a positive spin on the orders and keep up a brave face. As hard as it would be to see Bucky shipped back home after their recent reunion, he truly did believe that New York was the best place for his friend to recover. Bucky tried to downplay his time in the work camp, but he'd been tortured for days or weeks, and he was in a bad way. Most soldiers by this point would've done anything to get home to their families, and he just didn't understand why Bucky was so opposed to the idea.

The fresh aroma of coffee heralded the arrival of Kevin. Dressed in a fine suit and polished shoes, Senator Brandt's most trusted assistant called out a greeting to his secretary and stepped into his office to find Steve standing nervously in the centre of the room.

"Steve," Kevin said, with a smile that actually seemed quite genuine. He didn't appear to be holding a grudge over losing his biggest star. "I never thought I'd coax you back into this office, much less see you here of your own accord. Have you changed your mind? You know we'd welcome you back with open arms."

"Actually…" Steve hesitated. By doing this, he was going against Bucky's wishes. But he was also fulfilling Bucky's wishes. Whether he did this or not, he couldn't do wrong for doing right. He took a deep, steadying breath. "I have a favour to ask."

"A favour, of little ol' me?" Kevin asked with a grin.

"Of Senator Brandt. You see, I have this friend, Sergeant Barnes—"

"Yeah, the pal you disobeyed orders and almost got court-martialled for. I remember."

"—and he's been ordered back home for a recovery period."

Kevin nodded in sympathy. "I saw the state of the guy when you pulled him outta Krausberg. I'm not surprised. It's for the best."

"I agree. But he doesn't wanna go. And I'm afraid if he's pushed into it, he's gonna do something stupid." Don't do anything stupid, Bucky had once told him. Now, Steve wished he could feed those words to his friend.

"So how can we help?"

"I was hoping Senator Brandt could use his influence to pull some strings with the brass and get Bucky's orders changed."

Kevin sucked in air through his teeth. "That's a pretty tall order, Steve. Senator Brandt has some sway with you because he funds the SSR. Without his backing, Project Rebirth never would've taken flight. But to meddle of the affairs of the Army and change an order handed down from the top… well, that's going to take some doing."

"I'll do anything necessary to make it happen," Steve assured him.

"That's very noble." Kevin glanced over Steve as if assessing his worth. It was a gesture that immediately put him in mind of Agent Carter, only, her assessing gaze was more benign. "Alright, how about this? We'll scratch your back now, and you scratch our back later? An IOU, if you will."

Steve nodded. He'd expected as much, and if that was what it took, it was a price he would gladly pay.

"Great. Then gimme a few days to work a little magic, and I'll see what I can do."

"It has to be quick," Steve told him. "Bucky's been ordered to report for debarkation on Tuesday. That doesn't leave much time."

With a knowing smile, Kevin clapped a hand on Steve's shoulder. "Don't worry, pal. Oiling the wheels of the machine makes them turn much faster. You just leave everything to me."