We Were Soldiers
81. Kisses
Whitehall was quiet as Steve made his way towards the SSR's secret building. Phillips had sent a message to the hotel, telling Steve that in two days' time, he and the other men in his team would be commencing their special training. The message filled him with equal parts excitement and trepidation. One the one hand, he was looking forward to learning new things to help him in the fight against Dr. Erskine's murderer. On the other hand, he had a lot to prove, not just for himself, but for his team. He wanted this to work. He needed it to work.
As usual, the bunker was a hive of activity as he stepped out of the service elevator. He glanced around for a familiar face, and was disappointed when he didn't find it. He'd been hoping Agent Carter would be there to greet him, but either she was indisposed, or she hadn't arrived yet. Or maybe she just had better things to do. After all, she wasn't just his liaison to the SSR, she was also an accomplished soldier and spy.
Phillips' secretary was eyeballs deep in an old copy of The Stars and Stripes newspaper when Steve passed by the colonel's door. He hadn't seen any of the complex beyond the main hub and Phillips' office, so he decided it was time to ask for directions.
"Excuse me," he said, "I'm looking for Mr. Stark."
"He's in with Colonel Phillips." She glanced up at his face, and a smile that he could only describe as predatory slid across her lips. "Of course, you're welcome to wait."
He didn't want to wait. He didn't like the look of the smile. Even Rita Hayworth had managed a more genuine smile than that. But he could hardly leave now. His meeting with Stark was in five minutes, and there was no waiting area down here. So, he gestured at a mostly empty desk, and perched on the edge, hands clasped in front of him to stop himself toying with one of the buttons on his jacket.
"I read about what you did," the woman said, turning the newspaper to its headline and holding it up for him to see. 400 Prisoners Liberated. He hadn't realised they were still running that story.
"Oh, the… Yeah," he said, real smooth. How the hell did Bucky do this? Steve was just about coping with talking to Agent Carter, but she was easy to talk to. Straight-forward. And her smiles were sincere, her eyes soft and warm when she looked at him… not cold and calculating, like this Private's. He really wished his best friend were here right now. "Well, that's, y'know…" he offered. She continued to watch him, and he cleared his throat. "Just doing what needed to be done."
"Sounded like more than that," she said, reclining against her desk, leaning against it with one arm, giving him an open view of everything. God, where was he supposed to look? He couldn't look at her eyes, because they said they wanted to eat him alive. He couldn't look further down, because despite her shirt being buttoned all the way to the top, her pose accentuated her… curves. And even further down, her hand brushed against her thigh, whilst the foot of one leg, draped over the other, circled slowly, drawing his attention to what he guessed were very nice legs, if you were into that sort of thing. In the end, he settled for darting his gaze around the room, trying to find something to fixate on. "You saved nearly four-hundred men."
"Really, it's not a big deal," he said, breaking his awkward silence, praying in his head for somebody, anybody, to come along and help him out.
"Tell that to their wives," the private said. She stood, hips swaying as she approached, gaze heating up with every step she took.
Steve quickly crossed his arms in his best attempt to retreat into himself. Unfortunately, he had rather a lot of self these days. All he managed was to clench uncomfortably on the edge of the desk. "Uh, I don't think they were all married," he offered lamely. What would Bucky say?
"You're a hero," she said, stepping right into his personal space. Her spicy perfume made him want to sneeze; he held it back. Then he realised sneezing on her might've encouraged her to step back. Idiot.
"Well, that depends on the definition, really."
Her hand shot out, and before he even realised what was happening, she'd grabbed his tie. "The women of America, they owe you their thanks," she breathed huskily. Despite his height and weight, she stepped back, pulling him with her, his jelly-legs betraying him. Back and back again she stepped, until they were both obscured from the rest of the room by a pair of tall metal shelves. "And seeing as they're not here…"
It happened before he could stop it. With her free hand, she grabbed the lapel of his jacket and pulled him down as she stood on her tiptoes and rose up to meet him. Her eyes fluttered closed as her lips pressed against his, her mouth soft, her breath warm against his cheek. A thousand thoughts tumbled through his head, and fell silent. He'd never kissed anyone before, and he was completely and utterly lost. He wanted to reach out and stop it, but he wasn't sure how. He wasn't even sure whether he was enjoying it. All he knew was that he hadn't wanted it to be like this. When he thought of kissing someone, it wasn't some random blonde who'd read one too many heroic headlines.
"Captain!" a cultured voice barked.
Steve leapt back and felt his insides turn to ice. Peggy stood watching, hands on her hips, eyes unusually hard. Oh God. How long had she been standing there? How much had she seen? Surely she knew this was a mistake, right? After all, they'd had a moment, last night. She'd been staring into his eyes, shooting Bucky down, and she'd made him a promise, to go dancing. Had he ruined that? Should he have tried harder to push Private Whatevername away?
"We're ready for you, if you're not otherwise occupied," she said, her voice so frosty he was surprised it didn't start snowing then and there. And in that moment, he knew; he'd ruined it. He'd had a chance to go dancing with the most amazing woman in the world, and he'd screwed it up.
She turned and marched away while Steve was still wiping the blonde's lipstick from his lips. It was all he could do to keep up with her, and she didn't look back even once. She was angry. He could tell by the set of her shoulders. And that was fair. Anger, he could deal with. He just didn't want her to be disappointed. He couldn't deal with disappointment.
"Agent Carter, wait," he said as he reached her side.
"Looks like finding a partner wasn't that hard after all," she said, her gaze fixed on the door ahead.
"Peggy, that's not what you thought it was." He straightened his skewed tie and jacket as she quietly scoffed.
"I don't think anything, Captain, not one thing. You always wanted to be a soldier, and now you are. Just like all the rest." She couldn't hide the anger in her voice, and Steve suspected she wasn't even trying. It cut him, deep, that she saw him like that. That to her, he was no different to Hodge or—unfair as it might be to lump his friend in with guys like that—Bucky.
"Well, what about you and Stark?" he asked, recalling their innuendo-laden conversation in the plane over Austria. "How do I know you two haven't been… fondue-ing?"
He knew as soon as the words left his lips that he'd said the wrong thing. She stopped and turned, and if the look she'd given him before was frosty, this one had all the heat of a volcano; and not in a good, smoldering sort of way. Just as he thought she might actually lash out and kick him somewhere entirely deserved, she turned and opened a door to a science lab.
"You still don't know a bloody thing about women."
Steve hurried after her, lest the secured lab door slam closed in his face. Inside the lab, Howard Stark and a bunch of technicians were hard at work. Stark's lab coat was a little singed around the edges, and his face was a patchwork of soot, but as soon as he saw Steve, he took the coat off and tossed it at one of the other scientists. It landed on the guy's head, dislodging his spectacles. Stark seemed not to notice.
"Captain Rogers is here for his upgrade," Peggy told the billionaire genius. "I'm sure the two of you will have a great time, seeing as how you have so much in common."
And with that she stormed off without waiting for a response. Steve half considered going after her, but that would mean having that conversation in the middle of a crowded lab. He didn't want that. She deserved more than to be a public spectacle.
"Well," said Stark, both eyebrows raised in surprise, "I know I haven't done anything to piss her off for at least three days. It must be something you did."
"More like something I didn't do," Steve said with a sigh. Something like pushing the blonde private away before she could lock her lips onto his. In retrospect, he definitely hadn't liked the kiss. It had been empty. Meaningless. What made kissing special, he realised, was what made dancing special: the right partner.
Yeah, wax philosophical about something you have zero experience of. Real smart, Rogers.
"Those are the worst," Stark agreed, oblivious to Steve's inner turmoil. "Birthdays, anniversaries… there's lots of things a guy doesn't do that can get him in the wrong sorta trouble."
Steve eyed the billionaire warily. So far, Stark had proven himself to be an unpredictable ally, at least as far as rescuing Bucky had been concerned. He also had a lot of experience with women. Maybe he could help.
"Say, you're pretty knowledgable, right, Mr. Stark?"
"That's what they tell me." Stark grinned like a naughty schoolboy. "And what I tell myself. Every night before bed. To the mirror."
"What's fondue?"
"Fondue? That's just cheese and bread, my friend."
"Really? I didn't think—"
"Nor should you, pal." Stark gestured for Steve to follow him into another room. It only occurred to him after he stepped through the door that the thing was actually blast-proof. "The moment you think you know what's going on in a woman's head is the moment your goose is well and truly cooked." He gestured to a table full of objects, some of which looked wildly exotic and completely inexplicable. "Me, I concentrate on work, which at the moment is about making sure you and your men do not get killed."
Stark led the way to the first table and reached out to touch some sort of moulded material. Steve guessed it was body armour of some new design.
"Carbon polymer," the scientist explained. "Should withstand your average German bayonet. Although, HYDRA's not going to attack you with a pocket knife."
No, but Peggy might.
"I hear you're kind of attached," Stark continued, rapping his knuckles on the shield now peppered with bullet-holes and scorched by flames. Steve's adventures in Krausberg had not come without a price, and the shield was now useless.
"It's handier than you might think," Steve told him. It had certainly saved his life more than once.
"I took the liberty of coming up with some options," said Stark. He directed Steve to a row of shields lain out on a work bench. Some of the designs were so outlandish they wouldn't have looked out of place in a Flash Gordon flick. "This one's fun." He gestured to one with strange protrusions built into the front. It didn't so much resemble a shield, as a medieval torture device. In his head, Steve named it the violator. "She's been fitted with electrical relays that allow you to—"
"What about this one?" Steve asked, catching sight of something small, round, and less likely to earn him a whole new nickname.
Stark hand-waved the suggestion away. "No no, that's just a prototype."
Prototype or not, something about it appealed to the artist in him. He picked it up, surprised at how light it felt even for him. "What's it made of?"
"Vibranium. It's stronger than steel, and a third of the weight. It's completely vibration absorbent," Stark explained as Steve slid his arm through the hooks built into the back.
"How come it's not standard issue?" The thing was a work of art, and sounded practical to boot. Surely if every soldier was kitted out with vibranium armour, the war would be quickly won.
"That's the rarest metal on Earth. What you're holding there, that's all we got."
It was perfect. The rarest metal on Earth for the rarest guy on Earth. Thanks to Dr. Erskine's sad and untimely demise, there would never be another man like him, and Schmidt didn't count because he was evil incarnate. No wonder Steve had felt so drawn to the vibranium shield. It was fate.
A pair of heels clicking down the corridor heralded the approach of Agent Carter. If Steve had thought a fifteen minute break may have cooled Peggy's temper, her first words swiftly put paid to that notion.
"Are you done here, Mr. Stark? I'm sure the Captain has some unfinished business."
Hoping to smooth her ruffled feathers, Steve turned and held up the shield in front of his chest. "What do you think?"
She moved so fast that he barely had time to process it. One moment she was freezing him to the spot with her glare, the next she was picking up a gun from the workbench beside her and aiming it directly at what he knew was his heart.
BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG.
He didn't feel the bullets hit, because true to Stark's claims, the shield was vibration-proof, but he felt each bang inside his chest as clear is if she'd hit her target. This was definitely not something she was going to forgive easily.
"Yes, I think it works." She put the gun back on the bench and strode right past him with her chin held high. He stepped aside to stop her walking over him, because super-strength or not, he didn't think he couldn't stopped her right then.
Stark, who'd been sheltering behind a table during the impromptu weapons test, rejoined Steve, his gaze following the departing Peggy. Steve decided it would be a good time to change the subject.
"I had some ideas about the uniform," he said, handing over the notes he'd made before bed last night.
"Whatever you want, pal," said Stark.
Yeah, I wish, he thought. If only he could have whatever he wanted. Why did affairs of the heart have to be so hard? He put the question to the smartest mind in the room.
"Anything worth having is always going to be hard to get," Stark opined. "That's how you know it's worth the trouble. If it's easy, you know it's not worth the paper it's written on."
"Even for you?"
"For everyone, pal. I may be a genius, but do you think I got here without putting in a bucketload of effort? I grew up poor, and my folks had little to call their own. Blood, sweat and tears. That's how I got where I am today. It does help to be a genius, of course, but it's not always necessary, especially not when you're focused on the heart, rather than the mind. Just give Peggy some time. She'll come around."
"And if time doesn't help?"
"Diamonds. Lots and lots of diamonds." Stark gave him a quick visual once-over. "Though I guess on your budget it's flowers. Lots and lots of flowers."
Steve simply nodded. He wasn't sure if there were enough flowers in the world to make up for his mistakes. He wasn't even sure whether he deserved to be forgiven.
: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :
Inside her cupboard of an office at the back of the SSR bunker, Peggy fumed. She fumed at Steve, she fumed at Private Lorraine, but most of all, she fumed at herself. She'd noticed before the coy glances that the blonde-haired women had given to Steve, but when Steve hadn't reacted, she'd thought nothing of it. Of course, Steve had probably been completely oblivious, so that when Private Lorraine struck, he had all the chance of a rabbit in the headlights.
That she felt sorry for him only increased her anger towards him. He wasn't some helpless child, and he never had been. He was a grown man, and he was physically capable of stopping a kiss if he wanted to. That he hadn't stopped it… well, he was free to do whatever he liked. Just as she was.
To prove that she didn't owe him even another moment's thought, she picked up the telephone on her desk and dialled a number from memory. After three rings, a male voice answered.
"Agent Pollard."
"Francis, it's Peggy."
"Peggy? Well, this is a surprise. I didn't think I'd hear from you until our next check up with Kaufmann, and that's not for another week."
"I know. Actually, I'm going to miss that appointment; I have a new task, training some new recruits in military strategy." Funny that just a few hours ago, she'd actually been looking forward to working with Steve. Now, she was dreading it. Not that it would stop her from doing her job to the best of her abilities.
"Sounds like fun. Sorry I'll miss you next week."
"Yes. About that." She hesitated only long enough for the image of Steve with his hands on that woman's waist to come flickering back into her mind. "Would you like to have dinner tomorrow night? It's the only chance I'll have to get away before I have to leave."
"I'd love to!" There was such happy surprise in Pollard's voice that Peggy momentarily hated herself. But it was just dinner. And she was just going to dinner with Francis to prove to herself that she didn't owe anything to Steve. She could have dinner with a man and still have a good time. She could spend time with a member of the opposite sex and, unlike some people, not end up locking lips with said person. "What time should I pick you up?"
"How does seven sound?"
"Seven works for me. I'd say 'wear something nice,' but you always look stunning no matter what you wear. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," she agreed, and placed the handset back in its cradle.
That done, she sank down on her chair, and belatedly recalled Sergeant Barnes' offer to go dancing. She was half tempted to take him up on it… but then, as Steve's best friend, he would probably turn her down. She knew he'd only been joking when he suggested it the first time, and she'd already made it perfectly clear that she had no interest in him.
No, this was definitely the best way. The only way. A night out was just what she needed to remind her that the world did not start and end with Steve Rogers.
: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :
Bucky was staying true to his word. He'd agreed to meet Steve for a little lunch-time sightseeing, and so far he was stone cold sober. It hadn't been easy, but he'd left his hip-flask behind, and he was feeling… kinda okay. A little shaky, but probably nothing that a hearty lunch wouldn't fix.
As if on cue, Steve strolled down the street towards Regent's Park, two large newspaper-wrapped packets in his hands. Bucky stood up from the bench he was sharing with a curiously tame pigeon and went to greet his friend.
"How'd the Stark thing go?" he asked as he accepted one of the delicious-smelling packages. Fish and chips. The British couldn't do beer, but they had at least got fish and chips right.
"Long story," said Steve. He looked weary, as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders.
"You're full of those lately." Bucky started to unravel is lunch, then paused as something occurred to him. "Uh, if Stark told you any stories about me, they're all bullshit."
"He didn't even mention you."
"Oh. Good." He took a bite out of the battered fish. It was heaven. "So, should we do this?"
"Yeah. I wanna take my mind off things."
Together, they made their way towards the entrance of London Zoo. There was no queue, so as soon as they'd paid the entrance fee, they were ushered through the gates. It had been a long time since Bucky had been to a zoo; he and Steve had been to the Brooklyn Zoo during a school field trip, but that had been fifteen years ago, or close enough. As a kid, he'd loved seeing all the different animals, and he suspected that was why Steve had suggested this little outing today. Something to remind them both of home.
"Let's see the lions first," Bucky suggested, at the same time that Steve said, "We should go see the tigers!"
They both grinned, and suddenly they were eleven years old again, arguing about their favourite animal in Brooklyn Zoo.
"You always loved that Blake poem," Bucky said.
"C'mon, 'what immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry', even you've gotta appreciate that imagery."
"You're talking to an English major, pal. But you know the lion is the king of the jungle, right?"
"Ahh, but it says in this little guidebook," said Steve, holding up a thin paper pamphlet the lady behind the counter had given him, "that the lions on display here are African lions. So technically, they're kings of the Savannah."
Bucky glared at him. "I hate you so much, Mr. Always-Gotta-Be-Right."
Steve laughed, and in the end, they compromised. They went to the newly-reopened aquarium, and enjoyed the under-water displays. Steve brought out his notebook and sketched a group of seahorses bullying a starfish. Bucky tapped on the side of the tank, and those little seahorse bastards swam away in fright.
"I wonder where all the kids are," Bucky mused as they left the aquarium. Zoo on a Saturday ought to have been full of kids, but most of the people wandering the gently undulating paths were adults.
A nearby zoo employee, who'd overheard the question, offered an explanation.
"A lot of London tykes got evacuated out to the country," he said.
"Why?" asked Steve.
The zoo guy looked at him as if he was mad. "Because of the air-raids, ain't it? Keeps the kids safe if London gets hit bad-like. We mostly get adults or families who lost their pets at the start of the war."
"Because… of the air-raids?" Bucky asked, confused. How people could lose their pets in the Blitz but not lose their own lives was a mystery.
"Nah. On account of a lot of people took their pets to be put down when war broke out."
"What?! Why?"
That look again. Guy was probably thinking, crazy dumb Yanks. "To spare them from dying in agony or by starvation. Course, there's not much starvation, really. A lotta people who come here are real sad about killin' their pets, but it's good for business. Anyway, I have to go feed the marmosets. Cheerio!"
"Can you believe that?" Bucky asked his friend. "Who the hell kills their pet just because war's broken out?"
"Yeah." Steve looked devastated, and Bucky regretted the way the conversation had gone.
"Let's not think about it. Who knows, maybe some of those animals really were spared some suffering."
"It's not that," said Steve. "I've made a horrible mistake, and I don't know how to fix it."
Bucky gestured to a nearby bench overlooking the meerkat enclosure. "Sit. Tell me about it. Maybe I can help."
So they sat. Steve took a deep breath. Steeled himself. "Today, when I went for my meeting with Stark, I was a little early. And Phillips' secretary was there. You know the one?"
"Yeah. Blonde, about five-eight in heels? Killer pins."
Steve swallowed. "That's her. We got to talking. Really, she was doing most of the talking. She kept telling me I was a hero. And then… well… she kissed me."
Bucky reclined backwards until his back hit the bench, and let out a low whistle. "Good for you. It's about time you got a little action. Though I'm not really seeing the horrible mistake. Unless… did her mouth taste like ashtray?" He hated kissing women who smoked.
"The horrible part is, Pe—I mean, Agent Carter walked in on us before I could even think about stopping it."
Ahh. "That's… unfortunate." He knew how sweet Steve was on Carter. And vice versa. "Give her some time. She might eventually forgive you."
"She shot a gun at me," Steve said. "Four times."
Bucky ran his gaze over his friend, looking for bullet-holes. Thankfully, there were none. "You're bullet-proof, now?"
"No, I was testing a new shield."
He sat up a little straighter. "Really? How did it perform?"
"Bucky! Could you focus on my actual problem for a moment? I think I've really messed things up. How can I convince her to forgive me? I mean, it was just a kiss. I know it's a big thing, but it wasn't something I enjoyed, or even wanted. How long do you think she'll stay mad at me for?"
All his life, Bucky had been trying to give Steve advice about girls. And now, when his advice was most needed, he didn't know what to say. This was a problem he'd never had before. Sure, there were times when he'd liked many girls at once, but he'd never been dumb enough to go behind their backs. His dad would've killed him, for a start. Nor did he have any experience of 'accidental' or 'mistaken' kissing. He guessed that being caught in the act, like Steve had, was more akin to being caught stealing than anything else. That also was not something Bucky had experience of, but at least he could give some advice from there.
"All I know is, dames do things a lot faster than we do. I don't mean getting to second base or third base or anything like that, but by the time they've had a third date, they've already got their wedding dress picked out and the invitation cards written." Steve looked at him with equal parts horror and confusion. "Oh, and they try on your surname, too. Just to make sure if fits with their own name. So, even though you've only had two dates with Agent Carter—"
"One date," Steve corrected. "And it wasn't officially a date."
"What about that guy you killed together, back in Brooklyn?"
Steve stared at him long and hard for a moment. "Buck, if killing people together was analogous to dating, then you've been on more dates with Peggy than I have."
He had a point. "Alright, one sorta-date. But even if nothing happened, Carter's already planned about ten dates ahead. Like I said, women do things faster. So, that means you gotta do something really sincere to make it up to her, since she's just one date away from being engaged to you, inside her head."
"Stark suggested flowers."
Bucky waved his hand, dismissing that idea. "Flowers are too impersonal. Do you know whether she even likes flowers?"
Steve shifted on the bench, suddenly that awkward eighteen year old again, just about to ask Bucky's sister, Mary-Ann, to prom. "I thought all dames liked flowers?"
"Most, but not all. What if she gets hayfever? Or what if you pick a sort of flower that was laid on her brother's grave, or something sad like that?"
Steve looked even more wretched than before, and Bucky's heart went out to him. He wished he could give his luck and experience with dames to his friend—God knew he wasn't using it right now. But Steve had stumbled into his own mess, and only Steve could get out of it. He was pretty sure Agent Carter would be able to spot any advice he gave to his friend a mile away, and Steve was such a genuine guy that he really was better off figuring it out on his own.
"Look, I don't know how you're going to make things right with Carter, but I do know that you're not going to buy your way out of it. You might think of this as a mistake, but from her point of view, you stole her dreams. Stole them and trampled on them. That's not something you can just give back, and you can't use flowers as a band-aid."
"That's what I was afraid of," Steve admitted with a sigh. "Y'know, Stark told me something else. He said if something's worth having, it's always hard to get."
"I guess that's one way of measuring its worth. If you have to work for it, and if there's a chance of losing it, you'll certainly appreciate having it more. As for fixing things with Carter… be yourself. She'll either forgive you, or she won't, but you can't force the matter."
Steve ran his hand through his hair and let out a long, slow breath. His gaze was turned inward, away from the frolicking antics of the meerkats in their exhibit. "I wish I could go back and do it again. Do it differently. You ever feel like that?"
A quiet, humourless chuckle escaped his lips. "Every damn day, pal." But he wasn't gonna make the mood any more maudlin than it already was. "C'mon, let's go take a look at those tigers. I'll even let you recite Blake to me."
"Thanks," said Steve, managing a brief smile. "You're a real pal."
: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :
The goats hated Danny, and the feeling was mutual. One of the billies tried to gore him every time it saw him, and several of the nannies were adept at kicking over the milk pail whenever he switched them over. To get his revenge, he told them a fairytale his third-grade teacher had regaled to her class of impressionable young minds; the one involving three billy-goats, a bridge and a troll. Only, he changed the ending, so that the troll won the battle for the bridge and ate all three goats.
It didn't seem to be having much of an effect on Rosa's livestock.
"What's the trick to stopping them kicking over the buckets?" he asked Adalina, who was tossing down hay from the loft above.
Her face appeared, pink-cheeked, her dark hair shot with strands of yellow-gold hay. "Be firm. Show them who is boss."
"They are," he grumbled. "Stupid goats."
Adalina laughed, and came down to rescue him from his own ineptitude. Since his first visit to the village, nearly three weeks ago, he'd been twice more, once with Rosa, to help her trade some cheeses for other food, and once with Adalina, to the same place she'd taken him last time. Each time, he'd gotten suspicious stares, but the villagers seemed to be accepting his presence a little more easily now. At least, he hadn't been accused of being a member of the Gestapo again.
"Can I tell you something?" she asked, glancing up at him from beneath her lashes as she got to work on the next goat. Danny did a round of the stalls, to make sure they were all bolted shut.
"Of course. Do I have to promise to keep it a secret, or something?"
"Is not secret." She smiled warmly. "Is my birthday tomorrow."
"Why didn't you tell me earlier?! I could'a got you a birthday present when I went into the village with Rosa. Not that I have any money to buy presents with. But I could'a made you something, maybe." Was it possible to make moonshine out of cheese?
She shrugged. "Is no big… ah…deal?"
He nodded in encouragement. Her English was coming along in leaps about bounds; much faster than his attempts at Italian. He was understanding a lot more, but he was still far from fluent.
"Of course it's a big deal. Everybody should get presents on their birthday." Not that he'd had much in the way of that, growing up. When he'd been very young, one of his teachers had told him that being born on Independence Day meant he was special. He'd then gone home and told his parents that his teacher said he was special, and found out they didn't share that sentiment. From then on, he'd gotten a present every year, but the focus had always been on celebrating America, rather than celebrating the date of his birth.
"Well, there is one thing I would like," she said.
"If I can get it for you, I will," he promised. "What is it?"
She stood and faced him, brushing back a stray lock of hair, tucking it behind her ear. For the first time since meeting her, she seemed younger than her eighteen years. When she looked up to him and smiled, it was both hesitant and hopeful.
"I have never kissed a boy before."
"Then I'm afraid you're out of luck. I'm not a boy."
A perplexed frown creased her forehead. "You are a girl?"
"No, I'm a man." The deepening frown told him she didn't understand. "Paolo is a boy. Men are older than… gee, I dunno. Let's say, twenty."
"Ahh." The frown morphed into another smile. "I have never kissed a man before, either."
"What about Benito?"
"Benito?" He had to hand it to her; she had puzzled frowns down to an art
"He likes you." That much was obvious. Surely she'd seen it herself? Danny wasn't opposed to kissing dames, unresolved feelings towards his friend aside, but he didn't want to step on any toes or be the source of any bad blood. God knew, the last thing he needed right now was a jilted admirer to contend with.
"Benito likes me since we are little," she explained. "He is nice, but he is not like you."
"Like me?"
"You are not like other men." She reached up to brush some of the too-long hair away from his eyes. "You are funny and clever and fun to be with. And I would like you to kiss me, for my birthday."
It sounded do-able. Kissing. He could handle that. He was pretty good at it, too, or so he'd been told. He had but one caveat.
"Only if you promise to never, ever tell your father."
"Of course I never tell Papa!" She sounded so scandalised by the very idea that he decided it was worth the risk. Besides, it wasn't as if he had any other birthday present to give her.
"Okay. Then, close your eyes," he instructed.
"Why?"
"Because the best kisses are done with your eyes closed. That way you can pretend you're kissing somewhere with a nice view, instead of standing ankle-deep in goat manure."
She laughed at his suggestion, but closed her eyes just the same. In the near-silence of the barn, he could hear her breath come more rapidly in anticipation. Before he could talk himself out of it, he stepped into the gap between them, lowered his head, and met her lips in a ticklish-soft kiss. Unlike her, he kept his eyes open, afraid of where his mind might take him if he let the stable and the goat manure fall away. This was his anchor. His reality. It might not have been the reality that his heart wanted, but it was a good and sensible reality that any man in his right mind would be happy to have.
Adalina pulled away. She opened her eyes, and smiled. "That was okay?"
"That was perfect," he assured her, trying his hardest to match her smile.
"I think second time is better."
She stood on her tiptoes and leant into him, and there was little he could do but oblige her. This time, she was more confident, her kiss firmer, more sure. She let her lips mould to his, soft and giving, and his eyes instinctively began to close.
He stepped back quickly, pulling away before his mind could take him elsewhere. Adalina looked a mixture of shocked and confused.
"Sorry," he said, rolling his shoulder. "Bending like that, it hurts my arm."
"Oh!" She covered her mouth, eyes widening in horror. "I am sorry. I forget you are still hurting. I was…egoista."
"Not at all." He quickly took her hand before he could ruin the whole experience for her. "For a moment, for the first time since being shot, I actually forgot about the pain." It was the truth. He'd been so focused on staying in the moment that the pain had melted away.
At that moment, the goat Adalina had been milking kicked out at the half-full bucket, sloshing milk everywhere—including Danny's boots.
"Damn goat," he growled at it. "I'll make sure the troll eats you first."
Adalina laughed and shepherded the goat back to its stall. "You should go clean shoes," she said. "I will finish goats."
"Are you sure? I mean, I know what an immense help I am with them," he said drily.
"Am sure. Milk will get warm and smell bad. Need to wash out quick."
He took her word for it, and took himself down to the well. After trudging through the snow, however, all he found was the well frozen over, its bucket immobile. Instead, he grabbed a couple of handfuls of snow and did his best to wipe away the milk. Solid water just wasn't as effective as its liquid form.
The house was quiet when he stepped into the kitchen. Rosa and Matteo had gone to spend an evening in the village, and the kitchen fire was banked low. Paolo was nowhere in sight, and the light in the barn told Danny that Adalina was still working with the goats. Hopefully torturing the little devils.
With no other chores to be done for the night, he took himself up to 'his' room and stoked up the fire, tossing on an additional couple of logs. From the fire, he used a splint to light the oil lamp resting on the bedside table, then stripped into the clothes he was using for nightwear, removed the hot coal bed warmer from beneath his blankets, and climbed into the deliciously warm bed. After fluffing up the pillows so they propped him in a sitting position, he reached over to the bedside table and brought out the writing set that Rosa had given to him. Then, he started to write.
Dear Barnes,
Today, I kissed Adalina. It was her birthday, and she asked, so I did it. I did it and I felt nothing, even though she's a beautiful girl, even though she's warm, and kind, and funny, and exactly the kinda girl every guy wants to find. I used to like kissing dames. It used to make me happy. Now, it leaves me feeling empty, and that's your fault. I feel like I ought to hate you, but I can't even do that. You made me feel like girls aren't enough, but if I could see you again, even for a second, I'd forgive you right away.
I have no idea what you broke inside me, and I have no idea how you broke it, but you did. When I kissed Adalina, I had to keep my eyes open, because I was so afraid that I'd picture you instead of her. Do you know how wrong that is? Do you know that I'm going to Hell for that? And that I don't even care? That's how completely messed up I am inside. Sometimes, I think I'm going crazy. Sometimes, I wish… no, I can't say that. That's a lie. Never once have I wished that I never met you.
I figured something out though, today. You remember watching The Wizard of Oz, when it first came out? Of course you do. Well, that was my life, before I met you. It was black and white. Monochrome. It was plain, and it was dull. Then, I met you, and you were my Technicolor. Suddenly, I had all these different shades and hues, and I didn't have a clue what to do with them. I guess I squandered them. I don't know. All I do know is, the longer I'm out here, the longer I'm away from you, the more that Technicolor fades. I'm heading back towards Kansas, Dorothy, and as right and normal as it is to be there, I don't wanna be there. I wanna be in Oz, following the yellow brick road wherever it leads.
Guess this sounds kinda crazy. I don't even know if you're still alive. Guess you'll be reading this letter real soon, if you're dead. And if not… well, maybe one day I'll get a chance to tell you my crazy in person. Maybe.
Ciao,
Danny
It had become a nightly ritual. The first letter he'd written, he'd fully intended to send. Then he realised he had no way of posting it. He had no idea where Barnes was, and even if he managed to get it into Allied hands, chances were that Barnes would never believe he was still alive. Not after all these weeks.
Then, he planned to keep the letter, and to take it back in person. He realised how stupid that was when he recalled how close the Nazis had come to finding him in Rosa's house, that first night it had snowed. If the Nazis came again, and they searched the house, and found letters from an American serviceman, written in English, then Rosa and her family would be bundled off to some concentration camp faster than Danny could say auf wiedersehen.
So, he burned the letter. He let the fire consume it, and the smoke carry it up into the sky, where his dead words could be borne on high winds. And if Barnes was dead, maybe the words would reach him in heaven. Every night since then, he'd written a letter, and watched it burn. It was a cathartic process. To say the things he needed to say but couldn't. The things he couldn't talk about with anybody, not even with the guy who'd so thoroughly broken him in the first place.
"Enjoy tonight's batch of crazy," he muttered. Then, he ripped the note from the pad, crumpled it up, and tossed it into the flames. Just to be safe, he also ripped off the sheet below, and burned that, too. Anyone who'd watched too many noir films in the cinema knew how to take a copy of a note from a pad, and Danny wasn't about to be undone by his own lack of foresight.
"Good night," he said, settling down into the bed. "Sleep well, wherever you are."
Author's note: For more information about the treatment of (some) British pets during the war, please consult your Google for the British Pet Massacre. I believe writers have a duty to shine lights into dark places, so when my WWII research led me to this event, I knew I had to find some way to include it within the story.
Sorry for the lateness of the chapter. I was trying all Sunday to upload it, but the website wasn't having it. Tune in next Sunday for more post-kissing fun.