We Were Soldiers

79. Captain Rogers

When Steve arrived back in London, he decided that the fastest way to get to the SSR's secret headquarters was to take the Tube. He consulted a map. It ought to be easy. Just a couple of stops to get to Whitehall. Confident that if he could handle New York's Subway, he could handle London's Tube, he boarded the Underground at the nearest station, cramming himself and all his gear into the crowded compartment.

He got lost. Somehow, between the crowds and the noise and the chaos, he got on the wrong train. Or missed the right station. He got so badly lost that he finally had to ask someone how to get back to where he started from. A woman, out shopping with her young daughter, proved very helpful. She directed Steve back to his starting point, and the girl smiled at him through a huge gap in her front teeth, reminding him very much of Bucky's younger siblings at that age.

Back at the train station, he decided that his battle with the Tube didn't deserve a repeat, so he went on foot to Whitehall. No doubt he made quite the sight, hauling all his gear down the civilian-filled streets, but it beat getting lost on the Tube again. And with his enhanced strength and stamina, he didn't even break a sweat.

When he spotted a familiar figure waiting outside the building that housed the elevator down to the SSR headquarters, his heart skipped a beat. Even without enhanced vision, he would've recognised Peggy in a crowd of a thousand brunette women. There was just something about her, something that pulled his gaze towards her, and today was no exception. Even in her SSR uniform, she was stunning.

"Welcome back, Private Rogers," she said. "Colonel Phillips was expecting you forty-five minutes ago."

"There were… umm… delays on the Tube."

One dark eyebrow arched up. "You got lost."

There was no fooling that woman. He held up his hands, admitting defeat. "How'd you know?"

"Everyone gets lost on the Tube. No visitor to London should ever take the Tube without a local to act as a guide."

Dozens of different responses echoed around Steve's head. "Is that an offer?" "Would you like to show me around the Tube sometime?" "Maybe after this briefing we could go somewhere a little nicer than the SSR's underground bunker." Then, the voice of Bucky interrupted. "Pal, when you ask a dame out for a first date, you gotta have something nicer planned than the Tube."

"Err… duly noted," Steve said. And thank God his inner-Bucky had stopped him making an ass out of himself. He'd already had enough of that to last him a lifetime. To distract from any awkwardness, he entered the building and held the door open for Peggy, which wasn't an easy feat given how full of bags his arms were. In the end, he settled for holding the door open with his foot. Then she held the elevator gate open for him, which he guessed was fair. "What's the Colonel's mood like?"

"You mean, is he mad at you for jeopardising the SSR's greatest secret?" she asked.

Steve cringed on the inside. "You heard about that?"

"I hear about everything," she said, stifling a smug smile. She pulled the lever and the elevator began to descend. Only then did Steve realise how close he'd been forced to stand to the woman thanks to his mountain of baggage.

He cleared his throat. Tried not to inhale the perfume that always made his head spin in the nicest of ways. "For what it's worth, I don't think I'm that much of a secret anymore. I mean, HYDRA know about me. About Dr. Erskine's formula. Heck, I've met Schmidt and his chief flying monkey. The headlines when we got back from the front were 'Captain America to Receive Medal for Valour'. The cat's kinda out of the bag already."

"Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?"

A little of both, I guess, he didn't say.

They rode the elevator in silence, and when they reached the one and only stop, they stepped out into animated bustle. Something was going down; there was an electric charge in the air, passing from person to person, infecting them with some indefinable excitement. Agent Carter gestured for one of the loitering soldiers to take Steve's bags, then led him towards a large map laid over a table.

"Colonel Phillips would like you to pinpoint those HYDRA facilities you saw on their map in Krausberg. I know you've already given a report on their location, but big things are afoot, and we need something more solid to go off."

"Alright. You got a pencil?"

One by one, he marked them off. Northern Italy. The border between France and Germany. Greece, so much further south than any of the other bases. Then three close together, around Poland and the Ukraine. He mumbled to himself as he worked, recalling the image of the HYDRA map perfectly in his mind. Even before the serum, he'd had a good memory. Doctor Erskine's formula had only improved what was already there.

"I just got a quick look," he told Agent Carter, as another soldier took the map away.

"Well, nobody's perfect," she quipped. But she was smiling as she said it.

"And these are only the weapons factories that we know about." There was no point toiling under the belief that this was all HYDRA had, and that they'd conveniently pinpoint everything on a map. "Sergeant Barnes said HYDRA shipped all the parts to another facility that isn't on this map." He let out a deep sigh as his eyes danced over another map on another table. "And who knows how many more there may be?"

"Agent Carter," said Colonel Phillips, appearing like a puff of smoke from some dark alcove where he'd probably been watching everything happening in the room, "co-ordinate with MI6. I want every Allied eyeball looking for that main HYDRA base."

"And what about us?" she asked.

"We are going to set a fire under Johann Schmidt's ass." His gaze snapped up to Steve's face. "Come with me, Rogers. We're overdue a conversation."

Steve followed the colonel into his private office, and that cold knot of worry returned. When he glanced back and saw the sympathy in Agent Carter's eyes, the knot grew.

"Sit down, Rogers," said Phillips, once they were alone. Steve kinda wished he'd left the door open. But he sat nonetheless. "You had one job. One. Pass basic training. It was a simple job. Monkeys could do it. I'm pretty sure some of them have. What part did you struggle with?"

"Sir, I couldn't just leave those men to be crushed to death. The Nazis are killing enough of our allies as it is."

"And now tales of your exploits are reaching ears in high places, and the tales are getting bigger with each retelling." Steve groaned inwardly. He was willing to bet real money that Kevin and Senator Brandt were contributing to those tales. It would certainly improve their footing for asking for a bigger budget. "Now, General Marshall himself has taken an interest in you."

"In me?"

"Actually, in Captain America. He doesn't care about you, but he does care about what Captain America represents. An unstoppable symbol of peace. And so, with that in mind, he wants to give you a truckload of weapons and send you off to kill Nazis."

"And you don't see the irony in that, sir?"

Phillips grunted gruffly. "Of course I see the irony. But Marshall is willing to give the SSR access to resources, so if he wants you trussed up like a Thanksgiving Turkey, that's what he's going to get." He nodded towards the closed door. "There's a map full of HYDRA facilities out there, and it's your map. What do you say? Want to wipe them off?"

The knot of worry dissolved, and it was all Steve could do to keep the stupid, childish grin from taking over his face. He was already picturing what he could do with the right team and the right weapons. It wouldn't be like the escape from Krausberg. It wouldn't be death and chaos. It would be quick, surgical, and Schmidt would never see them coming. He was willing to bet the men he'd rescued from Dugan's cell in Krausberg would want a piece of the action, and he knew he could it work with those men; especially with a first-class sniper by his side.

"Sir, there's nothing I'd like more. But I'll need a team."

"We're already putting together the best men."

Images of Hodge and the guy who'd flashed his butt cheeks during the Italian USO show assaulted Steve's mind. He suspected Phillips and Marshall, and even Brandt, had very different definitions of 'the best men.' And if Steve was going to do this, it was going to have to be his way. He couldn't go into combat if he couldn't trust the guy watching his back. That wasn't what a team was.

"With all due respect, sir, so am I," he said.

He had to hand it to Phillips; the guy didn't miss a beat. "Who were you thinking of?"

"Six of the men I brought out of Krausberg. Sergeant Barnes, Sergeant Dugan, Privates Jones and Morita, Major Falsworth and Mr. Dernier."

Another grunt. "I know Barnes and Dugan, and I've written a condolence letter to Jones' parents, but the rest are a big fat question-mark. Still, I'll consider it. Come back here tomorrow, same time, and in the meantime I'll review their files. If they pass muster, you can have them. Otherwise, you go with our guys."

"Yessir." Steve stood and saluted. "Thank you, sir."

"Don't thank me yet. You might not like my answer. Now, you're dismissed, Captain."

Steve turned for the door, and stopped dead. "I'm sorry, sir, did you say captain?"

"Privates can't lead men, Rogers. When General Marshall said he wanted Captain America, he wasn't joking."

"But—"

Phillips stood and glowered, his voice a cold growl. "You don't want a promotion? You're just an ordinary soldier? No, you're not, and I think you've proved that more than once over the past few weeks. So, this is the deal. You suck it up and start acting like a soldier. You accept the promotion and lead a team against the greatest enemy the free world ever has and possibly ever will face. Or you go to that lab in Alamogordo and we try to squeeze as much out of your genetic code as we can in the hopes of getting someone better the next time around."

"I've always wanted to be a real Captain," Steve offered faintly. And maybe Phillips was right. He'd tried being normal. He'd tried being an average guy and a regular soldier. It had been his dream, ever since he was a sickly kid. To be just like everyone else. But pretending to be average and normal… it wasn't working. And more, it was belittling Dr. Erskine's work, and everything the man had done for him. Dr. Erskine had believed Steve had the ability to go beyond average. That he was better than 'normal.' Perhaps it was time to embrace that.

"Glad to hear it. I suggest you head back to your hotel and ask the concierge to get you a new room; we weren't expecting you back for twelve weeks, so we didn't bother keeping up the rent on it. I'll see you tomorrow, and we'll talk more about your team."

When Steve left Phillips' office, his mind was in a fog, as if this was all some sort of surreal dream. In the space of an hour he'd gone from an annoyance to an asset. Now he wouldn't be sitting on the sidelines, waiting for his name to be called; he'd be leading his own team. His own team.

"Is everything alright?" asked Agent Carter, damn near making him jump out of his skin. It was probably the first time she'd been able to approach without him realising. This whole 'Captain' business had really got his head in a spin.

"Oh, uh, yeah. I just, well…"

"You just found out you're going to be leading a team of soldiers to take down HYDRA and your head's in about a thousand different places right now?" she asked with that all-knowing gaze. "Like I said, I hear everything. Congratulations, Steve. You've earned it."

Steve smiled. Maybe General Marshall didn't care about the man behind Captain America, but Agent Carter sure did. And hearing her say he deserved this trumped any accolade General Marshall could give by quite a large margin. Perhaps it was time to throw caution to the wind. Today had been a good day. And now he wasn't just a lowly, awkward private talking to a beautiful dame; he was a captain. Still awkward, granted, but at least it was awkward with a commission.

"Thanks. I was, ah, thinking of grabbing a drink. To celebrate. Would you like to join me? To celebrate." Smooth, Rogers. Real smooth.

"You're not dashing off to get sloshed with your motley crew of soldiers and saboteurs?" she asked, affecting a casual air.

"Oh, I can catch up with Bucky and the others later. I mean, tomorrow. Plus, I just spent two weeks living in a communal bedroom with fifty other guys. Right now, I'd love the company of somebody more… uh… I mean less… uh…" Shutupshutupshutup his inner Bucky commanded.

"I see." She gave him the once-over then smiled. "I'll just go and get my coat."

Only after she'd disappeared into another office did Steve remember he still had all his bags and sleeping roll with him. And that he didn't technically have anywhere to sleep tonight. So much for tactics and forward planning. Still, he'd happily rough it on the street for a night if it meant spending an evening with Agent Carter. Especially if he managed to go the whole evening without putting his ginormous foot in his ginormous mouth. Again.

"So, where would you like to go?" she asked, reappearing with her jacket and her purse.

"Somewhere quieter than the Fiddle." God, anywhere but the Fiddle. If he walked in there with Agent Carter, he would never hear the end of it.

"I know somewhere quiet, and it's not far. But," she gave him a mischievous smile, and his spine very nearly melted, "you'll have to take the Tube to get there."

He offered his hand and she graciously accepted. "Then it's a good job I have a local to show me how it's done."

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

Bucky Barnes had a new best friend, and its name was Scotch. Scotch was great because it never changed, not even when other friends did. Steve had been a great best friend, but then he'd become somebody's science experiment, and now he sounded like Steve, and he had Steve's memories, but he didn't look like Steve, and he didn't always act like Steve. Steve-but-not-Steve was something Bucky was still struggling to come to terms with. Sure, he was thrilled that his friend was fit and healthy, but he missed the old Steve, and he wasn't even sure why. Old Steve had considered himself a burden. Old Steve was shy and twitchy around girls. New Steve… Bucky just didn't know. It was as if the universe had stood on it's head, and he was still trying to figure out what was up and what was down.

Wells had been a great best friend, too. So like Bucky in so many ways—apart from that whole liking men thing—but then he'd gone and gotten himself killed after promising to return Bucky's socks. And just as Bucky had figured out that he could probably survive the war if he and Wells stuck together, Wells had been taken away, and then Bucky had been taken away from the rest of the 107th, too. He'd willingly left his family back home to come and fight in this war, but then been wrenched away from the family he'd made here, and he hated that he'd had no choice in the matter.

For a few days, he'd thought Falsworth might be becoming his newest best friend, because the guy followed him absolutely everywhere. But it turned out Falsworth was just there to introduce him to fine Islay Scotch, which was just fine, too. Scotch was better than being followed around by Falsworth. It was better than arm-wrestling with Dugan, because the guy totally cheated somehow. It was better than Dernier offering him suspicious blue cheeses to taste. When everybody else left him, or changed beyond recognition, Scotch was forever.

Something heavy slapped him on the shoulder, and he damn near dropped his glass of delicious amber nectar. He turned, to glower at the guy sliding into the seat beside him, then blinked to try and clear his obviously failing vision.

"You're not Steve," he said. "Steve's becoming a man's man at Pirbright. Drinking tea with the Limeys."

"It's me, pal." Genuine concern danced in Steve's blue eyes. "How much have you had to drink?"

Bucky shrugged. "What time is it?"

"Just after eleven."

"Then I've drunk six hours, and they got better with each hour." A loud cheer in the background, followed by the sound of something crashing to the floor, told Bucky that Dugan had found someone else to arm-wrestle with. Some fool crazy enough to rassle with the mustachioed menace. Bucky's arm was still twinging where it'd almost been wrenched out of its socket.

"That's another win for Dugan the Destroyer!" called Morita. "Who's up next? Five bucks gives you a chance to win double back."

"I see the guys are having fun," said Steve, a merry twinkle in his eyes as he watched the men clustered around the table.

"Oh yeah. Dernier's been poisoning us all with mouldy cheese, and Dugan's been wrestling anyone dumb enough to sit opposite him. Morita's running the betting pool, if you want a piece of the action."

"I'll pass. I actually wanted to talk to you."

"Talk away, mon ami." Bucky gestured for Lizzie to bring a glass for Steve, and poured half of what was left of his Islay into it. "Whatcha doin' back so soon?"

Steve sighed, reminding Bucky very much of old-Steve, before his Big Change. "It's a long story."

"Sounds like we're gonna need more Scotch. Hey, Lizzie, bring the rest of the bottle!"

"Actually, I'd prefer it if we took a walk. You know, got some cool night air. Cleared your head. I don't want you tossing your cookies in our room and keeping me awake all night."

"Our room?"

A wry grin crept across Steve's face. "I don't have a room yet, so I'll need to bunk with you tonight."

"I didn't hear the magic word."

"It'll be just like the old days!"

Bucky decided to let the lack of the magic word pass. "Fine. But I get the bed."

"Wouldn't have it any other way, pal. C'mon, let's take a walk, and I'll fill you in on Pirbright."

Before Steve could drag him away, he downed what was left in his glass, then what Steve had left untouched in his. Ignoring the look of disapproval on his best friend's face, he followed Steve from the pub and wrapped his arms around himself to stave off the cold night air. Really, it wasn't any colder than New York at this time of year, but it was damp. The air seemed constantly saturated, which made the cold even deeper.

The alcohol helped. It suffused him with its warm friendliness. And he thought he'd drunk enough tonight to keep the nightmares at bay. Tonight, he thought he might sleep without interruption, which was good, because if Steve was bunking with him, the last thing Bucky needed was to wake and worry his friend with his night terrors.

As they walked, he noticed a brand new spring in his friend's step. Ever since his brush with science, Steve had been a new man; one less burdened with cares than the one Bucky had known for most of his life. But this spring, this was something new, and Bucky knew of only one thing that could put that kinda spring in a man's step.

"So, who's the dame?"

Steve damn near fell over his own feet, and Bucky suppressed the nefarious chuckle that wanted to erupt over tormenting his friend.

"What dame? Who said anything about a dame?"

"Nobody said anything. Nobody needs to," said Bucky wisely. "I can just tell."

"Well, I did just get back from dinner and drinks with Agent Carter." A guilty blush flushed across Steve's cheeks. "But that's all it was."

"I'm happy for you." Bucky clapped him hard on the shoulder. "Your babies will be smugly adorable."

"What? Buck, it was just drinks."

"And dinner," he reminded Steve with a chuckle. "Did you get the fois gras?"

"I don't even know what fois gras is. And for your information, we had vegetable stew."

"And pinot grigio?"

"Why are you speaking French all of a sudden?"

"Because Dernier has been lecturing—I mean, teaching—me about French cuisine. He thinks if he butters me up with fancy words like fois gras, I'll be more inclined to try those poisonous cheeses he keeps trying to force on me."

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose and visibly schooled his face to patience. Bucky guess he couldn't blame his friend for being a little frustrated. He couldn't really feel the effects of alcohol, and if all he and Agent Carter had done was eat stew and drink crappy ale… yeah, Bucky could imagine that frustration.

"Okay, anyway, I was going to tell you what happened at Pirbright, right?"

"Hit me."

So, Steve told him. About Falsworth's book, about making friends, about trying to fit in, about how much he held himself back, about saving three men and being ostracised because of it. And Bucky listened, all the time wondering about what Steve and Agent Carter had discussed over dinner. Had she told him how she'd saved Bucky's life that one time, back in France? Though, really it had been Wells who'd saved his life. Carter had just… helped.

Or maybe she'd told him about the bullshit. Had she told him about that? Had vampires been mentioned? Did Steve look at Bucky and wonder just how far off the reservation his friend had gone, all because of a few pranks? As Steve came to the end of his story—something about getting lost in a tube—Bucky decided to pry. Just a little.

"So," he said, clearing his throat once it was clear Steve's part in the tale was over. "What did you and Agent Carter talk about? Over dinner, I mean."

"Family, a little. Missions, mostly."

"She, uh, tell you about the missions we went on with the SSR? In France, and Italy?"

Steve shook his head, and Bucky felt himself relax. It was bad enough that Steve had pulled him off that table in Krausberg. That Steve had seen him weak and broken. Steve didn't need to know about that whole crazy paranoia incident. If he found out, he'd probably never trust Bucky again. Especially if he also found out how Bucky sacrificed people in his dreams to save himself.

"Why?" Steve asked. "Is there something you need to tell me about the SSR missions?"

"Nope. Just… y'know… killing Nazis. Battling HYDRA. I didn't know it was HYDRA at the time, of course. We… I… kinda twisted Phillips' arm." When he realised the conversation might be heading into dangerous 'dead friends' territory, he cleared his throat and deftly changed the subject. "So, what happened when you got back to London and reported to our fearless commandant?"

"Phillips finally wants to put me to use," Steve said.

'''Bout damn time," Bucky told his friend.

"For the first time in this war, we can get the jump on HYDRA."

"By 'we' you do of course mean Allied Bomber Command, right? You know how those fly-boys are just itching to hit something worthwhile." A group of RAF pilots had stopped by the Fiddle a couple of nights ago, complaining about how boring it was up there, how the Luftwaffe were barely giving them a challenge. They'd also made some rather disparaging comments about the quality of the Fiddle's most recent clientele… so Dum Dum had punched one of them, starting an impromptu bar brawl which had ended in a stalemate when Lizzie stepped in and threatened to ban them all for life.

"This is what I'm here for, Buck." Steve's eyes still had that wispy quality about them. He was still looking to fight the good fight. He hadn't been on the front long enough to know there was no good fight… only fight. He hadn't been there, at Azzano. Hadn't lived through the facility in Austria. "This is what I was made to do. But I can't do it alone."

"Twenty bucks says you could," he quipped to his friend.

"Maybe." Steve grinned, momentarily looking like his old, self-conscious self. "But even if I could do it by myself, I don't want to. Phillips wants to give me a real command, and I think I've got the right guys in mind for my team, but I wanted to get your feel for what they might say. You've known them longer than I have."

'Who'd you have in mind?'

'Dugan, Falsworth, Morita, Dernier and Jones. They came outta Austria the best off, and I can see them working together as a team. What do you think? Would they wanna follow me, maybe take the chance to strike back at HYDRA?"

Bucky scoffed. "Probably. But I should warn you… I think they might be crazy. There's only one way to tell for sure."

"And what's that?"

"Ask 'em to join your team. Anybody who says yes is a bona-fide madman. Think you could cope with that, leading a team of crazy soldiers?"

"I think you've had too much Scotch. But there's one other guy I want on my team, and that's you."

"Me?" Bucky snorted. "I'm definitely crazy. You don't want me on your team."

"Will you at least think about it?"

"Of course. Gimme a day or so to get my head around the idea, alright?"

Until they reached the hotel, it was all Bucky thought about. Getting back out there. Getting a little payback. Finding Schmidt, and Zola, and making them pay for what they'd done to him. For the weeks of torture and deprivation and humiliation. For breaking him so bad that he wasn't even sure if there was enough pieces of him left to rebuild.

Besides, Steve'd had a taste of war; now he was about to get a full meal of it. All the Carrots and the Davies' and the Franklins and the Tippers and the Wells'… Steve hadn't had them yet, but if he went to war against HYDRA, he'd get them. There was no way in hell Bucky could let his friend go through all that alone, even if it meant throwing himself into the breach once more.

The front door of the hotel was locked after ten o'clock, so Steve and Bucky went to the night entrance and rang the door bell. One of the night staff let them in, and they made their way up to their room.

"How are you, Buck?" Steve asked, as Bucky fumbled in his pocket for the room key. "I mean really."

Bucky stopped mid-fumble and looked at his friend. He had his serious-face on. Had his serious-shoulders on, too. Bucky guessed Steve saw what Bucky saw whenever he looked in a mirror: someone who looked like death warmed up. Someone who looked like he ought to be kicking back in some recovery ward, rather than walking around playing at normalcy. But then, weren't they all? Didn't every soldier have a history full of Carrots and Tippers, and an armful of emotional baggage they carried around because it couldn't be shared? Bucky just happened to have a little more of it than most.

"I feel frayed," he admitted. "Around the edges." And cracked and broken inside. "Sometimes I feel like this is all a dream." Sometimes I wake up thinking I'm still on that table in Krausberg. "All this waiting around, 'recovering'… it's not me. I need to be doing something. Anything." I need to make those sons of bitches pay.

"I hear ya. After Project Rebirth, all I wanted was to get out here and join the fight. Instead, they had me doing choreographed fighting on stage."

Bucky swallowed his next comment. That being on a stage, fighting for the entertainment of civilians, beat fighting for real hands-down. That at least in the movies, the good guys always came out on top, and death was never permanent. But Steve wouldn't see it that way. He hadn't been out here long enough to know hardship and loss.

"Still, at least we're together again," Steve continued. "Till the end of the line, right?"

"The end of the line," Bucky agreed. However long or short that line might be.

Author's note: My apologies for being a little slow to respond to reviews over the past couple of weeks; I've been very busy preparing for a potential new job, which I was finally offered on Wednesday, following a month of preparation work and a pretty gruelling interview period. Hurrah and huzzah! This is also the reason I haven't had chance to update any of my other fics.

On another good news front, I finished a chapter this week, and am due to finish (or almost finish) another this weekend, so the story is ticking along nicely. If you want to read any of my non-fanfic work, you can head over to my website (link on my profile) and there you can access links to many other great aspiring and accomplished authors. If you want to stretch your literary wings, feel free to join in the fun as well.