We Were Soldiers

86. Commandos Reborn

Bucky stifled a yawn and rubbed at his eyes. They felt like Italy eyes—the same gritty, heavy, tired feeling he'd experienced after the SSR crossed over from France into Italy and joined the war in earnest. Eyes that had spent too many nights in a foxhole, too many days roving the skies for enemy Stukas, eyes that lay awake staring at a low canvas ceiling because sleep was an elusive mistress.

They were Italy-like, but not Italy-exactly. For a start, there had been no digging of foxholes; the sandbags had served that purpose. As well, the food had been considerably better than on deployment, except for the one day when they'd allowed Dernier to cook, and the combination of French onion soup and odd cheese had made everyone violently ill the next day.

No deaths, either. Always a bonus when nobody died.

But his eyes were still tired. His muscles still ached and his hands still shook, on occasion. Worse, Steve had noticed. Even worse, it was coffee that had given him away; their last damn cup, too. Dugan had just made a fresh batch using the last of their supply, and handed a cup to Bucky. His hand started shaking, and near-boiling liquid slopped over the top. His hiss of pain had been too quiet for Dugan's ears, but not for Steve's super-hearing.

"You okay, Buck?" he'd asked, eyes full of sympathy, voice heavy with concern.

"Yeah, just spilled my coffee," he'd replied.

"Are you hurt? I mean, it looked like your hand was shaking."

"I'm just a bit cold." To prove how cold he was, he rubbed his arms and assumed a more hunched position.

Steve had gone to fetch him a blanket, so Bucky suspected his ruse had worked for now, but his luck wouldn't hold out forever. Steve wasn't an idiot, and he was too damn attentive for his own good. Eventually, he would put two and two together, and Bucky had no idea what he'd say if that happened.

Several times since arriving in England, Steve had asked if he'd wanted to talk about what happened in Krausberg. Each time Bucky turned him down, he saw hurt and confusion in his friend's eyes, and he knew he was the cause. They had always confided in each other. Always. But things were different now. Steve wasn't just his best friend; Steve was relying on him. If Steve knew what Bucky had imagined doing, back in Krausberg, and what he had wished to stop the torture, then he would lose confidence in Bucky's ability to remain strong. He would worry that if Bucky was captured again, he would break and tell the enemy things they ought not to know. And if he knew that in the darkest moment, Bucky had tried to blow his own brains out to put an end to the pain, he would doubt his desire to fight. He'd worry that, if things got bad, Bucky would rather die than hold on and keep fighting.

No, Krausberg was something he would take to his grave. Steve and the others, they needed him to be strong. To be unflappable and unbreakable. He wasn't gonna be the weak link. He wasn't gonna be the man too damaged by his experiences to keep serving his country. And he certainly wasn't going to be known as the guy who tried to take his own life, and who imagined his friends taking his place on the torture table just to stop the pain. He would rather die than tell them how he'd imagined them suffering in his place. Would rather be sent home in disgrace than present them with the truth of his cowardice.

"We should be back in London within half an hour," said Agent Carter, turning in her seat to address the men behind her in the bus. She had a notebook open on her knee, and a pen poised in her hand. Probably writing reports for the brass. "I recommend you all take advantage of the hotel's showers when we get back."

Bucky wrinkled his nose. He didn't smell that bad, did he?

"Except you, Captain," she added. "The colonel will want to see you right away."

"About what?" asked Steve.

"To debrief you on your training, and to discuss your selection of second-in-command."

Steve's brows creased into a frown Bucky hadn't seen much of recently. "Second-in-command?"

"Yes. You'll need someone to ensure your orders are carried out, in case something should happen to you."

"You mean, in case he's captured or killed?" Bucky clarified.

"Or otherwise incapacitated," Carter told him coolly. She turned back around and continued her notes, and every other pair of eyes swivelled Stevewards.

"For the love of God, don't pick me," said Morita. "I don't want to have to be the one to face Colonel Phillips and tell him I lost Captain America in some romp across Belgium or whatever."

"I guess I've got some thinking to do," Steve said. He looked no less frowny at the prospect of choosing a second.

"I feel like we should have a name," said Gabe. "You know, a code-name, or a team-name, or something."

"How 'bout The Allied Allstars?" Dugan offered the suggestion with a twirl of the corner of his bushy moustache. Dernier pulled his face, whilst Gabe shook his head and offered something else.

"The Rainbow Seven." When he was faced with a round of blank stares, he elaborated. "Because we're all different colours!" The whole bus was filled with loud groans.

"Why not just go with The Howling Commandos?" said Freddie. "After all, that was the name of Captain America's team in the movies and the comic books. It's already out there in the social consciousness."

"Howling Commandos," Morita scoffed. "More like Barking Mad Commandos, if you ask me."

"The Barking Mad Howling Commandos has a certain Jenny-say-qua," said Bucky, at which Dernier laughed. And, more slowly, the Frenchman enunciated, "Je-ne-sais-quoi."

"I'm not sure I trust you guys to name things," said Steve. "Next you'll be coming up with something cheesy, like 'Infinity Squad' or 'Allied Avengers'."

"Oh come off it, we're not that bad," said Falsworth.

Soon, London dominated the sky-line, but not in the same way New York did back home. Everything in England was smaller; the buildings, the roads, even the portion sizes. You didn't get as much bang for your buck, but then, he supposed things had been the same at home, during the Depression. He'd been old enough to understand that you didn't throw anything away without checking with Mom first. And that when you got a plateful of food for dinner, you left the plate so clean it looked like it had already been washed.

The bus dropped everyone minus Carter and Steve outside the hotel, then continued on to Whitehall. The 'Howling Commandos' picked up their bags and trudged wearily into the lobby. The slice of civilisation was welcome after two weeks in a tent, but it wasn't home. It would never be home. Nothing except the house he'd grown up in would ever be home.

"So, who do you think Cap'll pick to be his second?" asked Gabe.

Dugan puffed up his chest. "He'll need someone strong that he can rely on. So of course, I'm the natural choice."

Bucky snorted. "Steve needs someone he knows he can trust. Someone who spent years with him, and knows how he thinks. Plus, I have the automatic best friend bonus." But in his heart of hearts, it wasn't what he wanted. Whenever he led men, he inevitably got them killed. It was a heavy responsibility, and each loss added to his guilt. Let someone else carry that weight.

"That just means it's less likely to be you," Dugan countered. "Cap's fair. He won't want it to look like he's playing favourites."

"All I know is it won't be me," said Gabe. "A lowly private, and a black to boot. Can you imagine the fits they'd throw back home?"

"Hey Monty," said Morita. "Who do you think he'll pick?"

"Hmm?" For once, Falsworth was so distracted that he forgot to grimace over the use of the name. His eyes became more focused on the others, and Bucky could practically see him replaying the last five minutes of the conversation in his head. "Oh, I don't know. I suppose it won't be entirely his choice anyway. Like Jones said, some choices are more questionable than others, and Dernier is a civilian, so we can probably rule him out right away."

"Good." Dernier punctuated the sentiment with a stiff nod. He didn't care much for authority, and had only agreed to join the team because he saw it as a good way of contributing to the war effort. Plus the fact that Steve had single-handedly saved him from Krausberg certainly helped.

"Everything okay, Monty?" Bucky asked. "You look like you're a million miles away."

This time, Falsworth did grimace over the name, but he offered an explanation nonetheless. "Just thinking of home. Did you know, I've missed the last three Christmases with my family, because I've been on deployment, or in training? I'd hoped I might make it home for the holidays this year, even if it was just for a day. But I suppose we could be sent into the field at a moment's notice." He let out the deepest sigh that Bucky had ever heard. "I suppose it will be another year before I get a Christmas at home."

"Why don't you ask Steve if you can have the day to spend with your family?" Bucky suggested. "I'm sure one day won't hurt. What are the chances of us being sent on a mission on Christmas Day?"

The suggestion seemed to rouse Falsworth out of his mental fog. Shouldering his duffel bag, he fixed his gaze on the elevator door at the end of the corridor. "No, I'm afraid that the war must come first. There will be time for merry-making after the fighting is done. Besides, none of you will be going home to your families this year, and I'd feel just terrible being surrounded by food and comfort while you lot are slumming it here in the Strand."

Falsworth's words triggered pangs of longing and regret deep in Bucky's stomach. This would be his first ever Christmas away from home. The first ever time he hadn't spent the holidays surrounded by his family. Mary-Ann would come up from Baltimore, while Charlie would have a break from college, and Janet would moan about having to share a room with her sister again. They'd put their presents under the tree on Christmas eve, and wake up on Christmas day to the smell of Mom cooking oatmeal sweetened with honey, and of bacon sizzling on the grill. Bacon, fried tomatoes and poached eggs; their breakfast treat each Christmas.

They'd spend the morning opening presents, then head to midday Mass at church. After that, Mom and the girls would make a start on Christmas dinner, though the biggest chicken Mom could find would've been roasting slowly in the oven since just after breakfast. Dad would bring out his jazz records, because he hated listening to Christmas songs on Christmas day, and trumpets and trombones would he heard throughout the whole house and even from out on the street. Mom would complain at Dad to turn the music down, and Dad would respond by grabbing Mom and taking her for a dance around the kitchen.

Eggnog would follow, and then dinner. Chicken so tender it fell off the bone. Potatoes roasted in dripping, seasoned with rosemary picked fresh from the pot Mom kept in the back yard. Carrots and parsnips and Brussels sprouts. And gravy! Mom made gravy so thick you could put the sprouts on top of it and they wouldn't sink. And just when everyone thought they were so full they couldn't eat another morsel, Mom would bring out the apple pie, and somehow, everybody would find a little room inside their bursting stomachs. Bucky could practically taste the sweetness of the apple pie, and the explosion of the cinnamon which topped it over his tongue.

This year, things wouldn't be the same. Not just for Bucky, but for his family. He imagined the mood more somber. Maybe Mom would keep reaching for her handkerchief and dabbing at her eyes. Dad wouldn't play the jazz music. Mary-Ann, Charlie and Janet would look with sadness at the empty seats around the table, because not only would Bucky not be there, but Steve wouldn't be there, either. Having Steve over for Christmas day was practically a tradition. Ever since his mom had died, Christmases had been lonely for Steve, and not even Bucky's family had been completely able to fill the void.

"Hey, we should do a secret Santa," he suggested.

"Que?" asked Dernier, and he wasn't the only one looking perplexed.

"It's something we used to do in the office where I worked. We all put our names into a hat, and pick one out at random. Whoever we pick, we buy a Christmas present for. We could exchange gifts on Christmas day, and have our own celebrations." Maybe it would help to alleviate some of their home-sickness, too.

"Sure," said Dugan. "Count me in."

In the end, they all agreed, including Freddie, and Bucky agreed on Steve's behalf. They made plans to unpack, get cleaned up and meet in the Fiddle in two hours' time. Bucky left a message for Steve with the concierge, and hoped that Phillips wouldn't keep his friend too long with talk of official business; they had a Christmas to plan.

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

Outside Phillips' office, Steve was made to wait. The waiting was made more awkward by the presence of Private Lorraine, who eyed him over the top of her newspaper in a way that Steve could only describe as predatory. In the past, his dame-problems had mostly related to the fact that women didn't look at him twice, especially whenever Bucky was around. The only girl who'd shown any interest in him was Mary-Ann, but she'd been the closest thing to a sister Steve would ever have, and it would'a felt wrong to go out with her like that.

Now, he had whole new problems, and for the first time in his life he had to think of women in ways he'd never really thought of them before. There was no denying that Private Lorraine was attractive, but her beauty was marred by the calculating gleam in her eyes. As he sat there, Steve imagined their roles reversed. If Steve had been a dame, and Private Lorraine had been a guy, then her aggressive pursuit of a kiss would've been highly inappropriate and not at all something a respectful guy would've done. And it was worrying, because if she accepted that behaviour in herself, wasn't she also accepting it in men? Steve wouldn't stand for a guy being pushy with a dame, and now he decided that he wouldn't stand for the opposite, either.

"So, Captain Rogers," she said, her voice honeyed and sultry. The newspaper dipped a little so she could better peer over it. "How did you find your training?"

"Very effective, ma'am. I learnt a lot."

"Ma'am?" She folded the newspaper and placed it neatly on the desk. "That sounds so stuffy and old-fashioned. Why don't you just call me Lorraine?"

Steve could feel his control of the situation slipping. He needed a way out, and fast. What would Bucky do, in his place?

Flirt like crazy.

Right. So, his best friend was no help. What should he do? Why was it so hard to discourage one dame? He ought to be able to handle one woman; he was a Captain in the U.S. Army, for Heaven's sake!

Inspiration struck like a lightning bolt. Buoyed by his plan, Steve stood up and approached the desk. He looked down at Private Lorraine, and she gave a flutter of her long, dark lashes.

"Is that what Colonel Phillips calls you?"

"I—what?" The predator behind her eyes was now confused. It hadn't expected its prey to stop and turn from flight.

"I asked if that's what Colonel Phillips calls you," Steve said, groping for calm and, surprisingly, finding it. For some reason, Rita Hayworth's face flashed through his mind. He didn't think Rita got flustered about anything. Maybe it was time to take a page out of her book.

"Well, no. But he's the Colonel." He could see her resolve slipping as the ground beneath her became shaky. It seemed she didn't do any better than Steve when in unfamiliar territory. Probably wasn't used to things not going her way when she fluttered her lashes.

"And I'm a Captain," he said. "And it would be unprofessional of me to refer to you by your given name. And it is equally unprofessional of you to make overtures towards a commanding officer."

"But—I didn't—"

He was on a roll. He couldn't let her try to worm her way out of it now. "So, just this once, I'm going to overlook your indiscretion and give you a chance to act in a more professional manner in the future. If you don't feel you can restrain yourself, Private, I'm sure we can find some nice, quiet post for you to work at without distraction. Somewhere on the Eastern Front, perhaps. Is that clear?"

She licked her lips. Now, her blue eyes were wide with a combination of fear and confusion. Her flawless skin was a paler shade of white, and he could tell she desperately wanted to retreat. "Y—yes sir."

"Good. And remember, Private, that you don't just wear that uniform; you represent it. Everything you do while wearing it reflects on America, and neither I nor Colonel Phillips will tolerate any behaviour which reflects badly on our country or the fine men and women giving their lives in service. Understood?"

"Yes sir."

"Aren't you forgetting something?" he asked.

It took her a moment to remember to salute, and that was how Peggy found them as she stepped out of Phillips' office. Steve could only imagine what they looked like, him standing tall in front of the desk, while Private Lorraine was attempting to wilt while saluting. One corner of Peggy's lips tugged up into a smile, but it was gone in the blink of an eye. Still, Steve could tell he'd just done right for the first time in a long time, and he'd done it all by himself, without anyone else to prompt him.

"Colonel Phillips will see you now, Captain," said Peggy. And, without waiting for a response, she sauntered down the corridor in a way that made Steve's heart skip several beats.

It was with pride in his step that Steve entered the Colonel's office, and he couldn't help the ghost of a smile haunting his lips as he saluted and waited to be told to stand at his ease. Today, he'd won a battle. True, it was a small battle, and not one of any consequence for the war effort, but where there was one victory, others would surely follow.

"Take a seat, Rogers," said Phillips. Steve lowered himself into the chair in front of the desk, and it creaked beneath his weight. "Agent Carter tells me your training went well. She's scored you as eighty-nine percent on seventy percent of your missions, and ninety-two on the remainder." His bushy brows dipped into a frown as his gaze skipped down the report in his hands. "Except this one… the 'rescue the Allied scientist' scenario. Says here your men performed well below the expected standard."

Peggy had been keeping score? Damn. He should've expected that. "With respect, sir, there were mitigating circumstances. Mouldy cheese was involved." And it was only thanks to his enhanced constitution that he'd gone into that scenario with nothing more than a little indigestion. Poor Bucky and Jones had spent almost the entire day vomiting into a bucket, and nobody except Dernier had been much better.

"Hmph. Anyway, you've had a higher success rate than that predicted for standard GI troops when we ran the numbers, so your team's been given the go-ahead to commence missions. Before I start sending you out in the field, however, there's the small matter of your second-in-command."

Steve straightened in his chair. "Yessir. I've been thinking long and hard about the matter"—or as long and hard as one could think with only an hour's notice—"and—"

"And your consideration has been pointless," Phillips interrupted. "You need a second, and it'll be Major Falsworth."

"Sir? Don't I get a say?"

In his head, he'd already picked Bucky. His best friend had all the qualities of a great leader, and he had experience of leading men on covert missions. And even though they didn't always agree on tactics, Bucky could easily anticipate Steve's wishes, and had the presence to ensure others carried them out. There was nobody Steve would rather have watching his back, or acting as his second.

"Decision's already been made." Phillips closed the file and dropped it back into his drawer before looking up at Steve. "Men much higher up the chain of command than you or I have reviewed the options and determined that Major Falsworth is the best choice."

"Do you agree with that determination?" Steve pressed.

"Falsworth is the only commissioned officer on your team," the colonel pointed out. "He's served the longest, and has considerable experience. I not only agree with the decision, I support it. You played hard-ball on the team itself, Rogers. Do you have any idea how hard I had to argue for Dernier to remain, not to mention Jones and Morita? You got the team you wanted, and this is the price you have to pay. If you ask me, it's a damn small price."

Steve bit his tongue. Back in Coventry, he'd pulled Bucky up for not respecting the chain of command; not respecting his command. If he didn't show that same respect now, that same willingness to obey his superiors, he was nothing but a hypocrite. It was not a character trait he wanted to be known for. He would just have to do the best job possible with the resources he'd been given.

"Very well, sir. I'll inform Major Falsworth of the decision."

"Good. Now, Agent Carter has all Allied eyes and ears searching for HYDRA. In the meantime, there will undoubtedly be other missions for you and your team to carry out; missions to aid the greater war effort. As soon as I have something for you to do, I'll let you know. Until then, your time is your own. Ask your men to spend it relatively sober. This isn't furlough."

"Yessir."

"Dismissed, Captain."

Private Lorraine was gone from the desk when Steve stepped out the office, but he heard the coffee machine hard at work in the small break room. He suspected she'd been brewing coffee since the moment his meeting with Phillips began, but he preferred avoidance to her predatory gaze.

The winter chill of London nipped his skin as he left the SSR's secret HQ under Whitehall, but he barely gave it a second thought. Back home, cold winter air had been one of his many asthma triggers, but with his enhanced metabolism, he was pretty warm. Nobody else shared that sentiment; the Londoners wore long coats, woolly gloves and thick scarves, often from mis-matched sets. What was felt as the pinch of war back home, was out here a squeeze.

Though he didn't know for sure where his team would be, he could take a pretty good guess. His suspicions were confirmed when he stepped into the Fiddle and heard the familiar cheer of Dugan winning another arm-wrestling match with some hapless local or airman.

Sure enough, as Steve made his way towards their usual spot in the main room, a man who smelled like fish and wore the attire of a dock-hand was leaving the table with a scowl, rubbing his arm in a way that suggested Dugan had really given it his all. So far, the only person he hadn't been able to beat in an arm-wrestle was Steve.

"Hey, Cap," Dugan called upon spotting Steve loitering by the bar, "come join the celebrations!"

"What are we celebrating?" Sometimes, it seemed merely breathing was enough reason for his team to celebrate. They sure did like their drinks. Despite Phillips' request for relative sobriety, he would give them this night to enjoy themselves. The past two weeks had been hard on all of them, mentally as well as physically.

"My twenty-fifth consecutive win." Dugan beamed proudly. He pounded his fist against his own chest. "An undefeated streak."

"Bullshit," Bucky scoffed. He already had a glass of Scotch cupped within his hands. On the bright side, it was a small Scotch. And it had ice. "Steve beat you three weeks ago, somewhere before victory twenty-one and twenty-two, if I remember."

Dugan hand-waved the objection away. "Doesn't count. Cap's super-human, and I only wrestled to test the limits of his strength. Besides, when Morita joined in on my side, to try and take Cap down, it invalidated the attempt."

"And Steve still beat the two of you… and Morita was using both hands!" Bucky laughed, which lifted Steve's spirits. Bucky laughing was Bucky on the mend. He couldn't remember the last time he'd heard such happiness from his friend.

"Like I said: super-human! Anyway, to celebrate my milestone win, the next round's on me." He turned in his seat to face the bar and roared, "Lizzy! A round of drinks for Captain America and the Howling Commandos! Put it on my tab."

Morita quickly downed what was left of his drink to make room on the small table for the next one. "You know," he said, "this English beer ain't so bad, once you get used to it. I mean, sure, it's flat and warm, but it's got body."

"I'll stick to the good stuff," said Bucky, holding up his whisky tumbler.

Before anybody else could offer their opinion on British beer, Lizzy arrived with the first four drinks of the round. "Here you boys go," she said, favouring Dugan with a smile. "I'll fetch the others as soon as I've had chance to pull them."

"Thanks, Lizzy, you're the best," Dugan beamed. He doffed his hat and placed it on the table in front of him. "Put your tip for tonight on my tab, too."

She winked at him. "I already have."

Dugan's gaze followed her as she returned to the bar. "One day, I'm gonna marry that woman."

"Before we start discussing your wedding," said Steve, "I oughta tell you how my meeting with Phillips went."

He had their attention so thoroughly that none of them even blinked when Lizzy brought the remaining drinks and left them on the table. They were eager to learn who was going to be his second.

"First, Phillips is pleased with our training. He's gonna try to find a mission for us soon, even if it's not HYDRA-related." He paused, and a bubble of silence seemed to envelop the table, each man holding his breath. Steve decided to put a positive spin on his next words. There was no need for any of them to know that Falsworth hadn't been Steve's choice. If they thought this had been forced on them, they might resent it, and might not view Falsworth's leadership with the weight it deserved. Later, he would explain things to Bucky, and make sure his friend's feathers weren't too ruffled over not being picked.

"Second, Phillips and I discussed the matter of my second-in-command. Major Falsworth, you'll be in charge of the team should anything happen to me."

Falsworth nodded, but didn't seem overly surprised. "I had a feeling it would come to this. War is as much about politics as it is fighting, and I suspect the men who hold the SSR's purse-strings had already narrowed down your options considerably."

It was an astute guess, and Steve didn't bother trying to deny it. "Regardless, I know you'll do a great job. You're a good soldier, and a good officer."

Steve glanced around the faces of the other men. None of them seemed surprised or unhappy about the choice. Even Bucky managed a congratulatory smile for Falsworth. So, they toasted the Major's assignment, and ordered another round of drinks to celebrate.

He was starting to understand Phillips' concerns about the Commandos' drinking.

"Now that that's out of the way, we can get to more important business," said Bucky. From his pocket, he pulled out eight small strips of paper that had been folded in half. "It's time to select names for our Secret Santa. I have here all of our names, plus Freddie—"

"Just where is Freddie?" Steve interrupted. The young man was absent from the gathering… though he probably wasn't old enough to be served anyway.

"Mumbled something about Stark's lab and developing his pictures," said Morita. "I hope they're over-exposed and don't turn out."

"How does this Secret Santa thing work, Buck?" he asked.

"Our names go into a hat," he gestured at Dugan's hat on the table, "and we all pick one out. Whoever you get, you buy a Christmas present for. But, if you pick your own name, you have to put it back in and select another. Dugan, your hat, please?"

Dugan's eyes narrowed. "Wait just one minute, Cinderella. How do we know you haven't just written your own name seven times? We could all be buying you presents, and none of us any the wiser."

"C'mon, you really think I'm capable of doing something so underhanded?"

"Well, I've met you, so yeah."

Clearly holding back a sigh of annoyance, Bucky unfolded all the paper strips to show a different name scrawled on each one. With Dugan finally mollified, he folded the strips again and tossed them into the hat. That done, he shook the hat to mix the slips up, and held it forward to allow them to pick names one at a time. When it was Steve's turn, he reached in, grabbed a slip, and unfolded it behind his hand, so nobody else could see it.

BARNES.

He used his best poker-face to hide his grin. He'd already planned on getting Bucky a Christmas present, and Peggy had given him an idea about what to get. It would be even nicer to be Bucky's Secret Santa. When all the names were picked, except for the one left over for Freddie—they made Lizzy read it to be sure Freddie wouldn't be getting himself—the celebrations resumed. Satisfied that there truly were no hard feelings over Falsworth's appointment, Steve finally relaxed. He should've known the guys would be happy with whoever Steve chose. They were good men, and he was looking forward to their first official mission together.

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

Bucky shivered and pulled his jacket closer around himself. Above, the stars glittered in the cloudless sky. London wasn't particularly cold in comparison to New York, but it was damp. It somehow found a way to sink beneath his skin and chill him to his bones. Even with a belly full of whisky, he was cold.

Walking beside him along the river bank, Steve seemed to have no such problems. Though he was wearing his jacket, the top button of his shirt was unfastened, and his tie was skew-whiff. He'd always been useless with ties.

"What's so funny?" Steve asked.

Bucky smothered the grin… a little. "Just rememberin' all the times I had to help you with your necktie. You always were bad at tying the things."

"Unfortunately, that's something Dr. Erskine's formula couldn't fix. But I'll take no asthma over tie-tying any day."

They continued in a silence broken only by the lapping of the Thames against the river-banks, and the distant hum of a motor engine. When Steve finally spoken again, Bucky knew what he was going to say.

"About Falsworth being my second-in-command—"

"You don't have to explain anything to me, Steve."

"Yes, I do. Dammit, will you stop walking for just a minute?"

So he stopped and turned to face his friend. Steve had always been a worrier, and Bucky had told him time and time again that the worry would take years off his life. Steve was also terrible at listening to advice, and that, too, hadn't changed with the serum. Even now, Steve's brows were becoming a road-map of creases and frowns.

"I wanted to pick you," Steve said. "But I didn't get a choice in the matter. According to Phillips, Falsworth was the only one acceptable to the brass. But if I had my way, you'd be my second. I just don't want you thinking that you weren't picked because I don't have faith in your skills, or anything like that."

"Like I said, you don't have to explain. I understand why Falsworth was picked, and for what it's worth, he's a good choice."

"Then… you're not disappointed?"

"Not in the slightest." He could tell Steve wasn't convinced, so he drove the point home. "It's kind of a relief. Command is tiring. Having to think about variables and make contingency plans… it's a real drain, especially when you don't get a break. I'm looking forward to being Bucky Barnes: Sharpshooter Extraordinaire. Besides, you know I'll always be here if you need me. And on the bright side, I don't have to take orders from Dugan, so there really is a silver lining to every cloud."

Steve chuckled. "Alright. I'm glad you're not sore over the matter. Anyway, I didn't just ask you to walk back with me because I wanted to check on your feelings. I also wanna ask your advice."

"Then your question must either be about Scotch, or dames." Steve was at least as knowledgeable as Bucky about everything else. There wasn't much Steve needed advice for, overall.

"The latter." He set off walking again, and Bucky trotted after him until he caught up. "I wanna get something for Peggy. For Christmas."

Bucky whistled low. "Wow, you must be really keen on her. I only bought one dame a Christmas present before, and that was only 'cos her best friend let slip that she was gettin' me something." Buying gifts was pretty serious. Flowers and candies didn't count as real gifts when you were courting: they were the bare minimum. A way of expression interest without words. "What did you have in mind?"

"Nothing. That's the problem." Steve kicked a pebble and it landed in the Thames with a 'plop'. Bucky couldn't see anything that far out in the darkness, but he heard a couple of ducks quack in complaint of the stone. "I mean, I already know what I wanna get for my Secret Santa, but Peggy's different."

"Buy her a gun," Bucky suggested. "She likes guns. Or a knife. Who doesn't enjoy a good knife?"

"Could we be serious for a moment?"

Bucky snorted. "I'm being entirely serious. In case you hadn't notice, your girl isn't exactly Regular Sally."

"She isn't my girl." Steve cleared his throat and quickly continued. "I mean, we've been out for dinner, but I'm not really sure it was a date. Honestly, I have no idea what's between us. I'd like it to be more. Or at least clear. Every time another dame talks to me or even looks at me, I feel guilty and immediately wonder what Peggy would think. Which I know is stupid, because it's not even like we have something official. It's just… it's confusing," he admitted, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

Poor Steve, he really was clueless. He also had a lot of catching up to do, and hadn't exactly picked an easy girl to make a first attempt with. As soon as he met her, Bucky knew that Carter was going to be one of those dames who made a guy prove himself and work for her affection. Steve seemed to be doing an okay job so far, but they weren't exactly at that age anymore where they could just ask, "Hey, you wanna go steady?" That was teenager stuff. But one thing Bucky had figured out was, children lied to themselves. Told themselves, everything is easier when you're older. Everything is more fun.

It wasn't easier. It wasn't more fun. Mistakes were not so readily forgotten, and by the time you were Bucky-and-Steve aged, you were expected to know something about everything. Steve didn't really know how to talk to dames. And he still didn't know how to dance. He was just starting to learn what he should've started ten years ago. He had a Hell of a lot of catching up to do.

"Just make sure it's something from your heart," he suggested. "And something that you know she'll like. But nothing too heavy; like you said, you don't have anything official yet. You don't wanna go giving her jewelry when you're not even officially dating, because that'll make you see like you're trying too hard." Besides, he couldn't recall Carter wearing much jewelry. "If it helps, she likes dogs. She used to have a Lhaso Apso called Picasso, when she was a kid."

Steve nodded. "I'll keep that in mind. Thanks."

It wasn't until they reached the front door of the Strand that Steve spoke again. He stopped in the glow of light spilling out from the glass window and asked, "Remember when you used to take girls home to meet your mom?"

"Yeah?"

"Were there any she didn't like?"

"A couple, but she never actually said it. It was more how she acted that told me how she felt." Nobody could do stiff, over-politeness like Rosalie Barnes, and Bucky knew he wouldn't be bringing the girls in question back to the house for a second visit. "Why?"

Steve's lips tugged into a sad smile. "Just wondering what Mom would think of Peggy. It's at times like this, when I think of all the stuff other guys would be doing, that I miss her the most. Normal stuff, like bringing a girl home."

"Your mom would love Carter," he assured his friend. "Hell, my mom would love Carter. I can just picture the three of them sitting in one room together; the family albums would be out, and you and I would be cringing over all those old stories we hoped would never be told."

"You know, I'd give anything to have that scenario be real." The happy shine in Steve's eyes grew dull as reality crashed into the dream. "I guess I should be glad I still have you. You and your family have always been a second family to me."

"And when we get back, you can introduce Carter to my folks and we can sit through those stories for as long as you like," he said, offering a comforting pat on the shoulder for his friend.

"In that case, we need to find a girl for you, too. That way we can both be embarrassed in front of a dame."

"Tell you what, why don't we work on getting you and Agent Carter off the ground, then we can worry about my prospects?" he offered weakly. Six months ago, he would've leapt at the chance to find a nice girl to spend some time with. But that was before Krausberg. He was only just getting used to being around his friends without being crushed by the guilt that place had inflicted on him; he couldn't imagine being happy with a dame right now. First, he had to figure out what Zola had done to him, and why there were days when he only felt like half a person. First he had to find a way to put his pieces back together. After that was done, after the war was won, then he could think about the future.