We Were Soldiers

80. No I in Team

"He drinks a lot," said Falsworth, the next day. Steve had decided to let Bucky sleep in; he looked so peaceful huddled beneath his blanket that Steve didn't have the heart to wake him. He'd dressed as quietly as possible, then called on Falsworth for some company over breakfast. They'd found a bakery and bought themselves a couple of rolls of freshly baked bread. Now, they strolled down Leicester Square, devouring breakfast and avoiding the commuter rush.

"We all drink a lot," Steve pointed out. Actually, he himself didn't drink very much, as he no longer felt the effects, and both Falsworth and Jones drank a little less than everyone else. But drinking in the pub was still a regular ritual for Steve and his friends.

"There are different kinds of drinking."

Steve side-stepped a fast-walking woman, then rejoined Falsworth. "And what kinda drinking does Bucky do?"

"He drinks like a man trying to drown out his past." The worried frown creasing Falsworth's forehead spoke volumes.

"Has he opened up any? About Krausberg?" Steve had tried to get Bucky to talk about what he'd been through, but his friend clammed up every time the subject was raised. Said he didn't want to talk about it. In fact, Bucky was unusually taciturn about… pretty much everything. It was as if the past six months, everything that had happened since Bucky went off to Last Stop, USA, had been pushed into some giant black hole. As if none of it had ever happened. He'd gleaned more from brief conversations with Peggy and Dugan than he had from full conversations with Bucky.

Falsworth shook his head. "I tried to get him to talk about it. I tried questioning, I tried making casual observations about the place, I tried making myself available in case he randomly wanted to talk, I tried plying him with Scotch… he, err, accused me of hitting on him. After that, I decided it would be best to give him whatever space he needed."

"Thanks for trying. I appreciate you keeping an eye on him." He hadn't really expected Bucky to talk about his experiences in the HYDRA facility—he could be one heck of a stubborn guy, at times—but it had been worth a try. Now, though, Steve had more than Bucky to worry about. "How's everyone else doing?"

"Dugan, Gabe and Morita are enjoying their down-time." Falsworth's expression turned thoughtful, and he tossed his empty paper wrapper into a trash can before continuing. "But I don't think Dernier will stay much longer."

"Oh?"

"His country is still occupied by Nazis. He came here with us to report directly to the SOE and MI6 about French Resistance activities, but I think he's itching to get back to the fight. I suppose I can't blame him; he does have a brother and sister to think about. And it can't be easy for him, sitting safe in London while his people are struggling for their freedom."

Steve nodded in understanding. If Dernier really was itching to get back into the fight, then it made it all the more important that Steve get him on board with his new team. The man had considerable knowledge and experience, and he would be a huge asset. One that Steve couldn't let slip away.

"And you?"

Falsworth's eyebrows rose towards his hairline. "Me?"

"You just spent weeks toiling in an enemy work camp. How are you adjusting to everything after that?"

"It's nice to be back home," the major said. "Though I must admit, one does start to get used to the action. All this sitting around, waiting, recovering… I can understand why Jacques wants to get back into the fight. We still have a long way to go before this war is over."

After breakfast, and not wanting to return to the hotel and wake Bucky, he asked Falsworth to direct him to Kensington via the Tube, and spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon inside the British Museum of Natural History, marvelling over the displays. His favourite by far was the giant Diplodocus skeleton in the central hall, and he spent a good hour sketching it in a page of his notebook. He bought a couple of postcards with a picture of the dinosaur skeleton on the front; one for Bucky's family, and another for his acting buddy, Terrence. He figured Terrence's kids would get a huge kick out of a postcard from England, especially one depicting a dinosaur skeleton.

When the hour of his appointment with Colonel Phillips drew near, he left the museum—such a huge place that he'd only managed to explore a quarter of it—and headed back to Whitehall. This time, he didn't get lost. This time, Agent Carter wasn't waiting for him, but the guard had clearly been told to expect him, because he nodded at Steve and made no move to stop him entering the rickety old service elevator.

The underground facility was again abuzz with activity. Men and women manned communications stations, whilst others clustered around maps. They glanced askance at him as he passed them; he heard mutters of special treatment, and knew that it wasn't entirely unjustified. With the strings Brandt had pulled for him, and now his promotion from nobody to Captain, he'd cut a lot of corners. There were bound to be hurt feelings and bruised egos, over that.

Colonel Phillips' blonde-haired secretary wasn't at her desk, so Steve straightened the hem of his jacket, then reached out to knock on the door. In his chest, his heart was pounding rapidly, as if he was about to go rushing into combat. In a way, he was. Only, this fight was just as important as any pitched battle or clandestine assault.

"Come in!" a voice barked, and Steve had to fight the urge to salute then and there.

Colonel Phillips was sitting behind his desk when Steve entered, his stony face unreadable. Steve came to a stop and saluted, forcing his lips together so he couldn't ask the question he was dying to have answered.

"Take a seat, Captain Rogers," the colonel instructed. He put a dissatisfied twist on the title; Steve suspected it was going to be a while before he stopped being sore about Steve's promotion to Captain.

Captain Steve Rogers.

It still made him giddy to think about it.

He sat, and shuffled the chair a little closer to the desk, trying to ignore the way it scraped along the floor under his weight. "Sir, have you had a chance to look over my suggested team roster?"

Phillips grunted. From his drawer, he pulled out a brown file, a collection of dossiers, and dropped it onto the table. "Is this your idea of a joke, Rogers?"

Steve straightened up in the chair, forced his eyes to Phillips' face. A very nonmilitary thing to do, but what the heck; he'd only had three weeks' worth of basic training.

"It's no joke, sir. Each and every man in that file has proven himself, and some have very specific sets of skills which I believe will come in useful in the field."

"About the only two I can't find any exception with are Dugan and Falsworth… though Falsworth isn't a U.S. soldier, which might ruffle some feathers higher up the chain."

"I thought the SSR was an Allied initiative, sir? The British are still our allies, aren't they? I mean, Agent Carter works with you, sir, and she's not a U.S. citizen, either."

"I knew you'd be one of those overly attentive types who'd actually listen to everything his SO told him," Phillips grumbled. "Fine, Falsworth is in. As for the rest of your 'team'… where do I even begin?" He reached for the dossier and opened it, pulling out the first file. "Barnes ought to be shipped back to the States for R&R with the rest of the men rescued from Austria. He's barely fit for duty."

"He will be," Steve said, as his heart twisted painfully inside his chest. Bucky would never forgive him if Steve let his best friend get shipped home. Steve knew what Phillips knew; that Bucky had been through hell, and his recovery wouldn't be an overnight process. But at least if he was here, Steve could help him.

"It's not just the physical torture he was put through that concerns me, Rogers. It's his state of mind. The sorts of things Barnes went through are enough to break a man. When you go into a fight, you need to know that every man behind you is capable and willing. That he's not going to buckle under the pressure. One weak link can bring a whole team down."

"Sir, after what Sergeant Barnes went through, I can assure you he'll be willing. He owes HYDRA a debt of pain, and he wants to make sure it's paid back." The look in Bucky's eyes as he'd shot Krausberg's commandant been cold, frightening. For a moment, Steve had lost sight of his friend. "I need a sharpshooter, sir, and from what I hear, there's nobody better than Sergeant Barnes. Besides, he spent years pulling playground bullies off me; I know he's always got my back in a fight, and there is nobody in that dossier I trust more."

A weary sigh escaped Phillips' lips. "On your head be it, Rogers. But he'll need to pass a physical before I'll authorise him for combat. I want to hear from someone with an actual medical qualification that he's fit for duty."

"I understand, sir. And I agree completely. I'm sure Sergeant Barnes will do everything he can to ensure he's fit and sound." If he knew Bucky, he'd be doing push-ups before the end of the day.

Putting Bucky's file aside, Phillips' pulled out Dernier's, and ran his eyes over it before voicing the reservations Steve had already seen coming.

"Jacques Dernier is a criminal."

"He had a rough childhood, sir. Grew up in poverty, had to learn to look out for his family."

"He has three convictions for arson and one for burglary."

"Sir, if you're worried that he's not a very efficient criminal, he assures me there's a lot more he wasn't caught for."

The look on Phillips' face told him that wasn't what the colonel was worried about, so Steve hurried on.

"He was honest with me from the start about his record, and the time he did in jail."

"An honest thief is still a thief, Rogers. I've read that the man's handy with explosives, but we have demolitions experts in the army. You don't need to take on a crook to do that job."

"It's not just what he can do, Colonel," Steve said quickly. "Through his time in the Resistance, he's had access to a wide network of underground contacts and informants—networks which span several countries, sir. The sort of contacts who might prove useful, out in the field." He could tell Phillips wasn't convinced, so he pushed his point home. "Dernier assures me that his life of crime is behind him. All he wants now is to help free his country. I believe he will be a valuable asset. At the very least, he deserves a chance."

"A chance," Phillips agreed. "But he's your responsibility. And at the first sign of trouble, he's out."

A grin tried to tug at Steve's lips, but he forced it away. Captain America grinning like a schoolboy would not endear the colonel to his cause.

Phillips put Dernier's file aside, and lay the other two out side by side. "General Marshall will have my head on a pole when I tell him I've allowed a French criminal into an elite team of covert operatives. Do you have any idea what he'll do when I go and tell him you want these two?"

"They're both excellent soldiers, sir."

"Jones is black and Morita's a Nip. In case you hadn't noticed, this isn't Captain America and his Howling Commandos—"

"Maybe it should be." He kicked himself for interrupting, but pushed on before Phillips could upbraid him for it. "It doesn't matter to me, sir, what colour people are, or where their ancestors are from; all I care about is that they can fight, and that they're loyal. Jones and Morita are. If they're a problem for the brass, then I think the brass has got their priorities all wrong. I'll do whatever it takes to win this war, and I'll work with anyone who's willing to work with me. I know my choices are unorthodox—"

"Unorthodox?" Phillips growled. "Son, that's just about the biggest understatement I've heard all year."

"I know. Sir, you asked me to wipe those HYDRA bases of the map, and these are the men I need to do it. I'm sure you got flak for agreeing to work with Agent Carter—who ever heard of a woman serving in the Forces?—but you did it, and that worked out alright for you. All I'm asking for is a chance to prove myself, and I want that same chance for my team. Jones speaks German and French, and Morita's one of the best Rangers in the whole army; his record is spotless. Besides, I know you don't care about the colour of a guy's skin; I remember there was at least one coloured recruit in Project Rebirth."

"I don't care, but I'm also not the one holding the SSR's purse strings. What do you think will happen when Brandt and the other politicians hear about this?"

"I expect they'll want to win the war, Colonel. And if Senator Brandt has pulled strings to get me this far, to change his mind now and show no confidence in my choices… well, I don't think it would earn him any friends."

Phillips pursed his lips before reaching out and placing the two dossiers on the pile with the others. "You'll have to train, first," he said. "Not just you; your whole team. New weapons, new equipment, tactics, strategy, teamwork… it's not enough to put a group of men together and hope they'll make something of it. You need to know what every member of your team is made of before you go into combat."

"I understand, sir. Do I have permission to go and recruit my men?"

"Permission granted."

Steve saluted, and turned for the door.

"Oh, one last thing," said Phillips. He waited for Steve to turn back before dropping his final bombshell. "I've assigned Agent Carter to be your liaison to the SSR. I hope you and your men don't have any problems taking orders from a woman."

"I'll make sure it's not a problem, sir." One of those awkward hot flushes began to creep up his neck. He'd be working with Agent Carter? Reporting to her? Seeing her on a regular basis? His palms were already turning sweaty with nerves at the thought.

"Glad to hear it. You're dismissed."

Steve just about managed to keep the skip from his step as he left the office, but he couldn't do a damn thing about the smile plastered on his face. The only down side he could see to this whole arrangement was that Bucky would now have endless opportunity to tease him about Peggy. Still, if that was the only price to pay for working with the woman who spent a frighteningly large amount of time occupying his thoughts, it was a price he would gladly pay.

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

BANG BANG BANG.

"Barnes!"

Bucky opened one eye, squinted at the daylight pouring in through the open curtains, closed his eye, and rolled over in bed.

"Barnes, you lazy son of a bitch!" a cheery voice called through the door. The banging repeated, each BANG making Bucky twitch where he lay as it pounded inside his skull. "Don't make me break down this door and drag your ass out of bed, boy. I'm not your mom and this isn't your palace back home."

With a groan, Bucky pushed off the eiderdown quilt and slid out of bed, his feet landing with a heavy thud on the wooden floor. Some people just didn't know the meaning of R&R.

When he opened the door, he found himself looking into Dugan's grinning face. The man was a maniac. An actual maniac. He was one of the few people Bucky had met who hadn't had his soul dragged backwards through hell by the action on the front lines. Genuinely, a maniac.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?" Bucky groaned at him.

"Do you?" Dum Dum countered. "Damn near three o'clock, Barnes. Rogers is meeting us at the Whip & Fiddle in two hours. We figured you might need that time to do your hair and get your makeup on."

"Three o'clock?" A quick glance at the clock on the wall told him Dugan was telling the truth. An even quicker glance in the mirror showed him the image of a man who looked like he'd just gone ten rounds in a ring. "Why didn't you wake me sooner?"

Dum Dum snorted, the air rushing through his generous moustache. "We figured you had a girl up here." He stuck his head into the room and glanced around it. "You have her hidden under the bed, right?"

"You're an ass. Gimme ten, and I'll meet you down in the lobby."

"Take twenty," Dugan grinned. "Wouldn't want you to rush your lipstick."

Bucky closed the door on the strongman and took a deep, steadying breath. Dugan told a good tale, but Bucky knew the truth. They let him sleep all day because Austria had hit him hard… harder than any of the others. Walking back to the Allied camp after being rescued by Steve had taken every ounce of strength he could call upon, and had damn near killed him. Dum Dum, Gabe and the others… they'd recovered quickly. By the time they got to London, they were almost back to full health, the horrors of the HYDRA workhouse put firmly behind them.

But not Bucky. He woke up at nights with the shakes. Sometimes felt his pulse race, like he'd been running a marathon even when he was sat down doing nothing but talking shit with the guys. War hit some soldiers harder than others, but this felt like more than that. He'd tried to bury the memories of what he'd experienced alone on the table in a haze of beer. Hadn't worked. Now that Falsworth had introduced him to Scotch, it was easier to reach that numb haze… but not as easy as it should've been. Now, it took half the bottle to reach the haze. And Dugan and the others, they'd seen that, too.

He made his way to the washstand and splashed cold water onto his face, letting it shock his mind fully awake. He threw on the first shirt he came across, and pulled his dusty jacket over it. When he met his reflection in the mirror, it looked no better than when he'd first woken. His face had a tinge to it that he could only describe as 'ashen'. There was a tiredness in his eyes that wouldn't leave no matter how much he slept, and a tightness around them thanks to a perpetual, dull headache that had nothing to do with last night's bottle of Islay.

"You," he told his reflection, holding up an admonishing finger which was echoed back to him,"need to pull yourself together. You're not on that table anymore. You're not back on the front. What, you think you're the only soldier to get a little shell-shock? To have nightmares? At least you weren't in one of those Jap POW camps. Get it together. Your friend needs you, and you're not done yet."

He gave his hair a quick comb, then left the hotel room and made his way downstairs. Only Dugan was present in the hotel lobby. "Sent the others on ahead to get in a first round," the big man explained. "Don't worry, we'll catch 'em up. Just promise me one thing."

"What's that?"

"You'll follow each Scotch with a chaser."

"Fine, whatever," he sighed. Dugan held the lobby door open for him like he was a dame or something, but Bucky was too tired to object.

The people of London walked around like chunks of their city hadn't been recently Blitzed into little pieces. They casually ignored the rubble of bombed homes not yet rebuilt, seemed not to see the crews of men working to repair the few tube stations that had been hit. They just went about their business like it was perfectly natural to have a row of buildings reduced to rubble, a glaring gap in the skyline, whilst the buildings around remained undamaged. He'd even heard a couple of people say that they missed the nightly air raids, the chance to get down into the tunnels and catch up with friends whilst the Luftwaffe tried to actually hit something worth a damn. But that was the English for you; they were as crazy as Dum Dum.

"Got any idea what Rogers wants to talk to us about?" Dugan asked, as the Whip & Fiddle appeared at the end of the street.

Bucky shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine." It was, no doubt, about this whole 'take a team against HYDRA' business the brass had put into his head. Steve had left a note with the hotel concierge asking the guys to meet him in the Fiddle after dinner, and Bucky could think of no other reason for him to want everybody together in one place. He'd already made his decision. There was no way Steve was going to war without his best friend to watch his back.

"Here we are," said Dugan, pulling Bucky out of his night-before reverie. He stopped outside the front door and used his fingertips to smooth the ends of his moustache. "How'd I look?"

"Like a large, hairy, ginger slug attacked your face and still hasn't figured out how to let go."

"A sight better than you, then," Dum Dum grinned, giving his bowler hat a jaunty tilt. "Lovely Lizzie likes a man who cleans up well. Most girls do, Barnes. Keep that in mind for tomorrow night, and remember; chasers after each Scotch."

"Yes, Mom."

Dugan pushed the door open, and Bucky followed him inside. The Fiddle was always crowded. The British government had wisely decided not to ration beer along with everything else, and even the Germans hadn't been heinous enough to target Scotland's distilleries. London might be hungry, tired and in pieces, but at least they still had plenty to drink.

"Well, if it isn't London's favourite pair of trigger-happy Yanks," said the barmaid, when she spotted the duo arrive. "If you boys are as thirsty as your friends over there, I can see I'll have a busy night ahead of me."

"We only drink so much to keep you in a job and make you smile, Lizzie," Dugan said with a grin, making a beeline for the bar.

"Scotch," Bucky said, to the barman. When he noticed Dum Dum twirl one end of his moustache around his finger, he added, "Make that a double." Was there anything available to drink that was stronger than scotch?

"And he'll have a ginger beer, for his second drink," Dugan instructed. Bucky rolled his eyes.

"Aww, let him have his scotch," Lizzie laughed, coming to his aid. "From what I hear, you all deserve to drink as much as you like. You're all heroes."

"Damn right we are." Dugan puffed out his chest. Somehow, his moustache managed to puff out, too. "But Barnes still gets ginger beer for his second round."

Bucky took his Scotch and his ginger beer—closest thing the Brits had to rootbeer—to the back room, away from the noise and the revelry.

You're all heroes.

If only she knew. If only they all knew how quickly and badly he'd broken back in Krausberg. He wasn't a hero. He was a victim. Heroes saved people. Beat the badguys. Bucky had been captured and tortured. That wasn't heroic, it was pathetic. He hadn't even been able to get out on his own. Had barely managed to walk back to camp. The Fiddle was a freedom he didn't deserve.

But on the bright side, now he'd get his chance for revenge. With Steve and the rest of the team, he could hit back. Kill Zola. Kill Schmidt. Kill them all. Make the world a safer place. And maybe, just maybe, if he could stop HYDRA from doing to others what they'd done to him, he'd finally be able to get a good night's sleep.

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

Steve found his soon-to-be team in their usual night time haunt: the Whip & Fiddle. A haze of cigarette smoke lingered in the air, and a musician performed some jaunty tune on the piano. There was no space for dancing in the Fiddle, but that certainly didn't stop a pair of couples from giving it their best shot. They danced their way into every free space, and Steve almost tripped over them before making it to the table he was aiming for.

Bucky wasn't at the table, but Steve spotted him through the open door to the back room, nursing a glass of what was probably Scotch at the bar. For a moment, he put his friend out of his mind. Bucky was a given, but he first had five other people to convince to join him on his crazy mission to save the world from an evil scientific genius.

"Hey fellas," said Steve, as Dugan kicked out an empty chair for him to sit on. "What's happening?"

"We're playing a new drinking game," said Morita. He held up his pint of ale as evidence. "We all think of a number between one and ten, and take it in turns to call our number out. Anyone who has the same number, drinks."

Steve looked down at the mass of empty glasses on the table. "You seem to be guessing the right numbers a lot."

"That's because we're all picking seven," said Dugan. "You want in?"

He didn't, because all drinking lots of ale did for him was give him a full bladder, but he suspected this was one of those team-building activities he had to start participating in. "Sure," he said. "But first, there's something I want to discuss with you all." He took a deep breath. Prayed that they'd all say yes. Otherwise he was going to look like some kinda fool in front of Phillips, and then he'd probably have to put up with Phillips' definition of 'the best men.'

"Well, spit it out," said Morita. "I'm not getting any younger. Better looking, but not younger."

"Alright. See, I got a promotion. I'm a captain now for real, and—"

A cheer erupted, loud enough to drown out the piano and force Steve to wince in pain. The two men closest to him, Dernier and Morita, slapped him heartily on each shoulder, while Dugan called out to the barmaid, "Lizzie, a drink for Captain America!"

Steve instinctively hunched his shoulders, trying to make himself smaller. "Dammit, Dugan, keep quiet; I hate drawing crowds." Although it was pretty common knowledge in the Fiddle that Steve Rogers was Captain America, nobody much knew what Steve looked like beneath the mask. He was mostly able to drink in peace, and it was an arrangement he was happy with.

"Anyway," he continued, "the reason for my promotion is that Colonel Phillips wants me to lead a team of men to undertake covert missions against HYDRA." And it only occurred to him after he'd said it that perhaps an open pub wasn't the best place to be discussing his secret take-down-HYDRA plans. Oh well, at least the place was noisy enough that they were unlikely to be overheard.

"You've all been guests of Schmidt," Steve continued. "You've been in the belly of the beast, and you came out mostly unscathed. What I'm offering is a chance to strike back. To bloody their noses, as they've bloodied ours."

"So, let's get this straight," said Dugan.

Jones picked right up. "We barely got out of there alive, and you want us to go back?"

Reality came crashing back in like a sledgehammer to the head. But Steve couldn't lie to them. He couldn't dress this up as something it wasn't. It would be dangerous. There would be risks. Anybody captured by HYDRA a second time probably wouldn't be given the opportunity to make it a third.

"Pretty much," he agreed.

"Sounds rather fun, actually," said Falsworth, sporting a childish grin.

Morita belched loudly, and said, "I'm in."

Dernier rambled off something in French, and Jones responded in kind. Whatever they said ended with a laugh and a handshake, and Jones said, "We're in."

All eyes fell on the imposing figure of Dugan, his cheeks flushed pink under the effect of alcohol. "Hell, I'll always fight," the big man said. He raised his glass in a mock toast. "But you gotta do one thing for me."

"What's that?"

Dugan downed his half-pint of ale and slammed the glass down with enough force to shake the table; but not enough to shatter the glass. He wasn't a fool, and he didn't want to incur the wrath of Lizzie. "Open a tab."

As the rest of the men laughed, Steve collected the empty glasses and took them back to the bar. "Another round," he told the barman.

"Where are they putting all this stuff?" the barman complained. But it was a complaint filled with mirth; no doubt business had been good since Steve and his new team arrived in London.

With five little ducks already lined up in a row, Steve turned towards his last. Bucky was still nursing his drink alone, and he looked no better than he had on the journey back to camp from Krausberg. His hair was messy, his shirt was dirty and open at the collar, the jacket he wore hung off his shoulders, and dark circles ringed his eyes. Unlike the other men to come out of Krausberg, Bucky wasn't getting better. In fact, he seemed to be getting worse.

Maybe what he needed was a change of scenery. Get out there, away from all the Scotch, and get fit again. Fight some Nazis and put some wrongs to right.

Taking a deep breath, Steve walked towards his oldest friend.

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

The Fiddle had run out of Islay, but the barman had given him something called Glen…Glen…something. The Glensomething wasn't as smooth as the Islay, but it was nice enough, and a whole lot better than the warm pisswater the rest of the guys were drinking. It was a pity Stark wasn't here, with his two-hundred-dollar bottles of Scotch. Say what you might about the guy, he had excellent taste in whisky.

A large shadow fell across his glass, and a sardonic smile twisted his lips. "See, I told you. They're all idiots." He'd heard the cheers from the main room and already knew how Steve's recruitment had gone.

"How 'bout you?" Steve asked, sliding into the seat beside him. "You ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?"

"Hell no," Bucky scoffed. "That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight… I'm following him." After all, he'd known Steve a lot longer than he'd known Captain America, and super-serum or no super-serum, he was still Steve at his heart. Still that same awkward punk who wouldn't ask a dame to dance in case one of them actually said yes.

He took a sip of his Glensomething and leant towards Steve, as if sharing some great secret. "But you're keeping the outfit, right?"

Steve's gaze travelled across the room, to the Captain America poster pinned to the wall. It featured Steve, in his Star-Spangled Uniform, full on head-tilt, giving the cheesiest salute Bucky had ever seen. He could actually imagine what Wells would say, if he were here to see it. Gee, I bet that poster is pinned up in a lot of Navy lockers. The poster had a big 'Tour Cancelled' banner plastered across it. Captain America had been officially conscripted.

"Y'know what?" said Steve. "It's kinda growing on me."

Lizzie arrived with a glass of ale for Steve, then disappeared back into the crowd. In the main room, Dugan and the others began singing along to the piano song, half of them out of tune, the other half making up the words they didn't know.

"I'm gonna need you to cut back on the drinking, Buck," Steve said. "Phillips wants us to do training before he sends us out in the field, and I get the feeling it's gonna be pretty intensive. And when we're out there, there's not going to be any Scotch."

He grimaced. Should'a known getting back into the thick of things would mean sacrifices. "Is it too late to change my mind? I jest, I jest," he assured his scowling friend. "This glass of Glensomething right here will be my last drink. I promise." Luckily, he had a hip flask back in his room that was full to the brim. It might take the edge off the worst.

"Alright, but—"

Before he could finish, there was a cessation of singing—thankfully—from the main room. Bucky craned his neck around the doorway and saw a vision in red approach. Glossy brown hair, killer pins and a figure to die for… it was only as she stepped through the door that he realised it was Agent Carter. His eyes damn near popped out of his head. Carter in a dress? Was she sick?

Her eyes went straight to Steve's face, and she appeared completely oblivious to the silence she'd caused. "Captain."

Steve was on his feet in a heartbeat, straightening his jacket, aiming for an extra inch of height that he no longer needed. "Agent Carter," he said. Bucky could almost feel Steve's blush from where he stood.

When Carter finally glanced at Bucky, he offered a polite "Ma'am." She barely even acknowledged him; just went straight back to looking at Steve. Bucky suspected his friend was the reason for the dress. His friend was one lucky S.O.B.

"Howard has some equipment for you to try. Tomorrow morning?" she said. It sounded more like a personal invitation than a request for Steve to test equipment.

"Sounds good," said Steve. His eyes had the dewy, head-over-heels look about them. It was nice to see it in Steve. The few girls he'd been interested in back home had barely given him the time of day. In fact, he'd once asked one what time it was, and she'd practically blanked him. Maybe now, things would be different. Steve was no longer the underdog, and Agent Carter was definitely not the shallow, judge-a-book-by-its-cover type. Otherwise she would've fallen for Wells' bullshit months ago.

The singing resumed, alas, and drew Agent Carter's attention. "I see your top squad is prepping for duty," she said, managing to inject about a dozen undertones of disapproval into her voice.

"You don't like music?" Bucky asked. She'd certainly been a killjoy out in the field, but spoiling the fun of men enjoying what might be their last night of freedom was something else entirely.

"I do, actually." She managed to reply to Bucky without even looking at him once. In fact, her gaze was so focused on Steve, and his on her, that Bucky suspected the rest of the world had just stopped existing for both of them. "I might even, when this is all over, go dancing."

Bucky couldn't help himself. The words were outta his mouth even though he knew they'd be pointless, and he blamed Glensomething entirely. "Then what are we waiting for?"

A coy smile graced her lips as she continued to pretend he didn't exist. "The right partner. Oh-eight hundred, Captain."

She turned and sauntered away, and Steve called, "Yes, ma'am. I'll be there," after her.

"I'm invisible," Bucky joked. "I'm turning into you. It's like a horrible dream."

"Don't take it so hard," said Steve, giving him a consolatory pat on the shoulder. He managed to affect sangfroid despite red tint of his ears. "Maybe she's got a friend."

"Laugh it up, Rogers. I might be on the sidelines right now, but I'll be back in the game soon enough."

He wasn't sure if Steve believed it, but he didn't question it. Truth was, he didn't know what the game was anymore. Back home, it had been easy. Work hard, look out for his siblings, find a pretty girl to spend time with. It had been an easy game, and fun. Now, the game was deadly. It was finding enough to drink every night. It was trying to get through a day without having the shakes. He didn't think this was something that could be fixed with music and dancing. HYDRA had taken a piece of him, on that cold metal table, and he had to find a way to take it back.

Author's note: Very sorry for not getting around to responding to reviews this week; I've been really busy with various things. I'll try to do better next week!