We Were Soldiers
100. The Date
"Tell me again," said Bucky.
Steve took a deep breath and schooled himself to patience. The story of how he'd made an idiot of himself by turning up at the Carter residence and catching Peggy in her bathrobe was quite a hit with the Commandos. He'd decided to get away from the constant friendly ribbing by taking a walk through Hyde Park. Bucky had come with him, and on the way they'd found a fish & chips shop, plus a bench on which to sit and eat their greasy dinner.
"You've already heard it three times."
"C'mon, this is a tale I'll have to tell our grandkids! How Grandpa Steve wooed Grandma Peggy. I want to make sure the details are right."
"Since when do details matter to kids?" he countered. "I'm pretty sure there were no wardogs or female Indians during the Alamo, but that's how we played it in your back yard. Besides, grandkids? Don't you think you're skipping a few steps?"
Bucky merely shrugged, and popped another fry… chip… whatever… in his mouth. On the outside, he looked more like the Bucky that Steve remembered than he had since coming out of Krausberg. He'd put on some of the weight he'd lost over the past six months, and his skin was back to a healthier pallor. A proper haircut had also done wonders for his appearance. But behind his friend's eyes, he still saw shadows of some dark nightmare. The shadows came and went fleetingly, and sometimes Steve wondered if he was merely imagining it. But he suspected that, deep down, Krausberg still had its hooks in Bucky's soul.
"So, where are you gonna take her?"
"For steak, I think. It seems the safest option."
"Good call. Are you looking forward to tomorrow night?"
Tomorrow night. It sounded so soon, so final, when it was said like that. Even though there had been no further missions, there had been intel to piece together. The weekend had run away from him, and he'd managed to avoid thinking about his upcoming date by focusing on his work.
"Partially looking forward to it, partially dreading it," he admitted. "Knowing me, I'll put my foot in my mouth at every available opportunity."
"Probably," Bucky agreed, in the worst display of solidarity that Steve had ever witnessed. "But then, you've already put your foot in your mouth plenty of times around her, and she was even willing to forgive your transgression with Private Lorraine—a woman who clearly has no taste." Steve's best friend was still smarting over the fact that Private Lorraine hadn't even offered to make him a cup of coffee the last time he'd been to see Phillips. "If Carter was so easily put off by your ginormous foot, she'd be a thousand miles away by now."
He hated to admit it, but Bucky made a pretty good point. Was it even possible for him to do anything worse than kiss another woman, at this stage?
"Wanna practise your compliments?" Bucky offered.
"No thanks, I don't need to practise. I'll just use my sincerity."
"C'mon, tell me I look lovely. If 'lovely' doesn't work for you, you could try 'amazing' or 'ravishing'."
Steve punched his friend on the arm and Bucky laughed. It was good to hear him laugh again.
"I guess you're right. You got this. And if you need a comforting thought to keep you going, just imagine how pissed Hodge would be if he found out you're going on a date with Carter. That ought to give you something to smile about."
The thought did indeed bring a smile to his lips. Hodge seemed to think that being a jerk was the best way to win a girl. It might win some girls, but not the type Steve was interested in. Not Peggy.
With a sigh, he tossed his empty wrapper into the nearest trash can, then stood and stretched his legs. "Thanks for the talk, Buck. You've managed to put my mind at ease somewhat. But I just realised there's one more thing I'll need before tomorrow night… and now I gotta go make a deal with the devil."
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He found Howard Stark in his lab within the SSR headquarters, burning the midnight oil; or at least, the late-afternoon oil. The inventor was tinkering with something that looked like a replacement for the electric chair, complete with ominous straps.
"Hey, Captain Rogers," Stark said, "come sit here for a moment, won't you?" He patted the chair.
"Uh, I'd rather not." Even though he had super healing powers now, he still wasn't sure he wanted to be exposed to whatever the strange straps and electrodes did. "What is it, anyway?"
"It's my patented teeth-brushing device. It runs off electricity! Think about how much time we waste each day brushing our teeth. Imagine how much more productive I could be if I had the use of both hands during those times! With the electric teeth-brushing device, we'll no longer be inconvenienced by oral hygiene; this invention will do it for us."
"It looks like a medieval torture device," Steve pointed out.
"Granted, there are a few aesthetics to work out before it goes on sale to the general public," Stark admitted. "I'll probably have to paint it. Maybe red, white and blue. The folks back home can then rest assured that by buying my machine, they're doing the patriotic thing."
"Just because you paint something red, white and blue, doesn't mean it's patriotic."
Stark gave him the old 'You're crazy,' look. "Clearly you know nothing about marketing. Anyway, if you didn't come to try out my device, just what are you doing down here? You didn't break something, did you?"
"Of course I didn't break something. I actually came here to ask a favour. See, I have a date with Peggy tomorrow night—"
"Ah yes, I heard." Stark winked at him. "The ol' 'Oops, did I catch you in your bathrobe?' routine. Very slick."
"It wasn't intentional; it was a genuine accident."
"Riiight. That's why you didn't call ahead first."
Jeez, Stark was worse than Bucky for insinuatin' bad stuff! Couldn't a guy just make a simple mistake without it turning into some sordid intent?
"Anyway, what favour did you need?" Stark continued. "Money for diamonds? The phone number of a good florist here in London? Dining tips?"
"Nothing like that. I just wondered if I could borrow your car. I told Peggy I'd pick her up from her house, and I'd rather not do it in an army jeep. It just doesn't convey the right—are you okay?"
Stark's face was a shade paler than it had been a moment ago. "Rogers, do you know the two things I love more in this world than women?"
"Yourself and your country?"
"That is an insulting and inaccurate assumption. It's actually myself and my cars. But my country definitely comes in at a close number four. My point is, I wouldn't let my own mother borrow one of my cars."
"Please, Mister Stark. It's just for one night, and I promise I'll be careful." He could see Stark's hesitation starting to wane. "How about I owe you one?"
"Two," the scientist corrected. "You already owe me one for Krausberg. I nearly lost Amelia during that flight… not to mention my life!"
"Fine, I'll owe you two. I always make good on my promises."
"And you also promise you'll keep the rest of those maniacs away from my precious baby?"
"If by 'maniacs' you mean my teammates… then yes, definitely. They'll have no reason to be in, or near, your car. If they are, something's gone desperately wrong."
"Well… alright. You can borrow Betsy. She's my Bentley. Don't even think about asking for my Roller."
"I wouldn't dream of it. The Bentley would be more than fine." He'd be driving around in a car that was probably worth more than a year's rent on his apartment. Maybe one day, he'd be able to afford his own car. Something sensible and practical. Something not a Bentley.
"Good." Stark opened up a desk drawer and began rooting through a pile of keys. When he finally pulled the one he wanted out, it came attached to a small, foldable corkscrew. "In case of emergency champagne situations. I doubt that's a problem you'll encounter." He pulled the corkscrew off. "Now, are you going to want the plastic covers for the seats?"
"What for?"
"For keeping the leather upholstery clean."
"No, we'll be eating in the restaurant. You don't need to worry about the seats."
Stark eyed him from head to toe. "You don't date much, do you?"
"No. Why?"
"Never mind." He held out the key. "Have her home by eleven."
"Sure."
"And remember, in England, they drive on the left."
"Drive on the left. Okay."
"Have you ever driven on the left before?"
"No, but how hard could it be?"
Stark snatched the key back before Steve could reach out and take it. "Alright, c'mon, I can spare an hour, and you're clearly in need."
"In need of what?"
"A driving lesson. I'm not having you crash Betsy because you were looking the wrong way at a junction. This war has claimed enough lives."
Mr. Stark really was taking this car thing way too seriously, but he was hardly in a position to argue. So, he followed the man out of the building and into the parking lot.
"Are there any other countries that drive on the left?" he asked.
"Australia, India, South Africa… mostly countries formerly or currently under the British thumb," Stark rattled off. "Oh, and Japan. Nowhere important, really." As they approached the only Bentley in the very small parking lot, Stark tossed the keys over the hood. "Here, you take the wheel."
Steve scrabbled for the keys as they fell, and managed to pluck them from the air with enough grace to make it seem like a good catch. When he shoved the key into the door lock, however, he discovered it wasn't exactly required.
"Um, do you know your door's unlocked?"
"It is? Damn. I keep doing that. Back home, I have my butler do all the driving; I'm not used to taking care of these things myself. Don't worry about it, the car has a tracker on it. That doesn't mean to say you have carte blanche to just leave it wherever you please without locking it up. Only I'm allowed to do that. Well, hop in!"
Steve hopped into an interior that seemed more befitting of some old gentleman's club than a car. He ran his hands over the glossy surface of the dash. "Is this walnut?"
"I see you know your wood." Stark smiled and gave the dash a fond pat. "Had it custom made. Now, start 'er up and we'll make tracks."
"Right." The engine purred to life as he turned the key in the ignition. "Where to?"
"Wherever the wind takes us, my friend. Oh fine," Stark added, when Steve subjected him to a stare, "I'll call out directions. But let's get moving before we both die of old age."
Life was a funny thing, he decided, as he pulled out of the lot and—after prompting from Stark—checked the traffic coming from the right before making a left turn. If somebody had told him a year ago that he'd be driving around London in Howard Stark's Bentley so he could practice driving in time for a date with the most beautiful woman in the world, he would've laughed at them. If only his mom could see him now.
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"Your tie needs to be longer," said Morita.
"Your boots are all scuffed," added Falsworth. "Here, let me polish them for you."
"Are you sure you want your hair like that?" asked Dugan.
If Steve had ever wondered how many grown men could fit into one small hotel room, he now had the answer. Every one of the the Commandos had squeezed themselves into his room to help him prepare for his big date. Bucky had already fixed his hair into what he claimed was an 'all the rage' side-parted style, while Jones had personally seen to the laundering and steam-pressing of his spare dress uniform. The rest of the team were determined to chip in, in some way.
"I still think you should give her flowers," said Bucky. "A single red rose wouldn't be too tacky."
"I have a rose waiting on the table." He winced as Morita pulled his tie a little too tight at the collar. "And Lizzie said to save the flowers for a special occasion. Which reminds me; Dernier, next time you're at HQ, do you think you could do a little digging through the files for me? I need to know when Peggy's birthday is."
"Is easier just to ask her, no?" the Frenchman replied.
"It will be more romantic if I can surprise her with the knowledge."
When Morita finally stopped fiddling with his tie, he stepped back to look in the mirror. He had to admit, he cut a pretty impressive figure. He looked like the kinda guy he'd always envied. Strong, good looking, successful… a shame that his guts were churning like a bucketful of worms. How could he be this nervous about one little date? He hadn't even been this nervous while jumping out of a plane over Austria!
Maybe the stakes were different then. I couldn't let myself be nervous because I had a bigger picture. I had to save Bucky. But Bucky's safe now. This isn't about him, it's about me. My happiness. Getting to know Peggy. Hopefully showing her a good time. It's not life or death, but it sure feels like it.
"Here you go, Captain," said Monty, handing back his boots. "Are you sure you don't want me to give Mr. Stark's car a quick once-over with the polish before you go?"
"Mr. Stark's car is already so clean that polish would probably dirty it," he snorted. Besides, Stark had made him promise not to let the Commandos near the vehicle, and it was a promise he kinda had to keep. "What time is it?"
Bucky consulted his watch. "Six-thirty."
"Six thirty?! I'm gonna be late!" He grabbed his jacket from his wardrobe and slung it over his shoulder, then picked up the car keys from his tiny bedside table.
"Don't worry, pal, it's fashionable to be late. Besides, everyone knows that dames take an extra twenty minutes to get ready. She won't be expecting you till at least seven-fifteen. You've got time to kill."
"But I made dinner reservations for seven-forty-five!"
The team followed him out of his room, down the corridor to the stairs, and then all the way into the lobby. The concierge at the reception desk tipped his hat and wished him a pleasant evening as he stepped out the front door.
"Good luck," said Falsworth, as Steve trotted towards the car Stark had kindly left out front for him.
"If I get a date, do you think Stark'll let me borrow 'Betsy'?" asked Morita.
"Remember to start on the outside and work your way in," Bucky called.
"That's no way to talk about a dame as classy as Carter, Barnes," said Dugan.
"I'm talking about cutlery, you mustachioed buffoon."
The rest of their banter was lost on him as he slammed the car door closed. The last view he had was of the entire team giving him the thumbs up—then he was off, into the night, to meet his destiny.
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"Peggy?" Mother pushed the bedroom door open wide enough to pop her head inside the room. "Do you need any help with your hair?"
"No thanks, I just need to pin it up, and it will be fine." It had been out of its rollers for almost half an hour now, and was finally ready to be tamed.
"Have you decided what you're wearing yet?"
"Yes, my blue dress with the black shoes." The blue dress would complement Steve's dress uniform nicely. Plus, it was one of the newer items in a wardrobe of clothes that she hadn't worn in several years. Most of the other dresses she'd worn when going out with Fred, and though they were nice dresses, she didn't want any reminder of Fred tonight.
"How about some pearls to go with those?"
"Pearls would be lovely, thank you."
When her mother disappeared, Peggy slipped into her dress, pulled up a pair of sheer stockings, and slid the shoes onto her feet. She was just finishing pinning up her hair when her mother returned with a pearl necklace and bracelet.
"Here you are, darling. These will look lovely with that dress."
"Thank you, mother." As her mother fastened the pearls around her neck, she noticed in the mirror that she, too, was dressed finely. "Are you going out somewhere?"
"Actually, your father and I are going to visit the Winstanleys. It's been months since we last saw them, and it's past time we caught up with them."
"And the real reason you're going?"
Her mother sighed. "Michael claims I'm being… overbearing. He said he'd like some time to himself, and since I don't want him leaving the house to find solitude and gallivanting around London in his current medical state, your father suggested we go out somewhere together. We haven't had any real time to ourselves since… well, that's in the past. I suppose it will be good to get out of the house together for a few hours."
"What Michael calls 'overbearing', I would call making up for lost time. Don't let his desire for privacy get you down, Mother. It will just take him a little time to adjust to being back home."
In truth, she felt rather helpless. The sound advice she'd given to Steve and Sergeant Barnes now went flying out the window, all because it was she and her brother in need of it. Somehow, it was easier to give advice than to take it, even when the advice came from oneself.
"I know." Mother stepped in front of her, to cup her face within her hands. "I don't think I've had chance to say it yet… but thank you. For bringing him home. I'm sure that if it wasn't for you and the SSR, we wouldn't even know that Michael would still be alive, much less have him with us today. I know I haven't always approved of your choices, but I have to admit that not only do you know what you're doing, you're doing it better than anyone else out there. I couldn't be prouder of you."
Peggy blinked back the tears pooling in her eyes before they could ruin her mascara. She knew she hadn't always been the perfect daughter that her mother wanted. She'd been unruly as a child, and just when it seemed she might settle down, she'd instead joined the SSR. Several times, Mother had lamented the fact that she'd never have grandchildren to lavish her care and attention on. It had made Peggy all the more determined to serve her country.
"Though," her mother said, with a conspiratorial smile, "I'm still not sure I approve of you dating an American."
"Oh, you'll get used to the idea." If her mother could finally accept her choice of career, accepting Steve ought to be no challenge at all.
"I suppose I will. Come on, let's finish pinning up this hair. You don't want to miss your dinner."
: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :
Light from the windows of the Carter residence spilled across the long driveway. Pulling up outside the front door, Steve took a deep breath before leaving the car. His watch said five to seven, but he'd had to drive a little faster than Mr. Stark probably would've liked to make it here on time. He'd only get one shot at a first date, so he really had to make this count.
He rang the doorbell, and waited. When the door opened, it revealed Michael, as pale and gaunt as he'd been four days ago. His road to recovery would be long indeed.
"Captain Rogers, please come in," said Michael. "It's good that you're early; Peggy hates to be kept waiting."
Thank God he hadn't listened to the Commandos. Turning up late to his first date would not have made a good impression. Not a good impression at all.
"Thanks." He removed his hat as he stepped over the threshold. "How are you settling back in?"
"My bed is too comfortable and the food too rich for me to eat very much of it," Michael admitted, "but I suppose they're small concerns in the grand scheme of things. And if they're the only concerns that I have… well, I'm doing alright for myself. Now, before Peggy shows up, I should give you the talk."
"The talk?"
"Yes, you know. Take good care of my sister, be a perfect gentleman, have her home at a somewhat decent arbitrary hour, and so on and so forth."
"I wouldn't dare be anything less than the perfect gentleman," Steve assured him. He'd heard enough of Bucky's 'the talk' speeches to know it was just part of an older brother's responsibilities—whether his sister wanted it or not. "And if it helps, I need to have the car back by eleven."
"Well, don't have her back too early. Mother and Father are going out, too, and this is the first real chance for me to have some time alone. I love my family, but a man needs time to himself, on occasion, to mull things over and relax without the constant watchful eyes of his kin looking over him."
The idea of wanting alone time was nothing new to Steve. After his mom passed away, he'd wanted nothing more than to be alone to be upset and mourn her in peace. Bucky and his family had practically moved Steve into their house, and that was when Steve realised that there was a difference between being alone, and being lonely. The Barnes family had given him the space he needed to mourn Mom. They'd let him be alone when he needed it, but they hadn't let him give in to the darkness and loneliness that wanted to consume him.
At that moment, the sounds of heels descending the stairs caught his attention, and he turned to a vision of beauty so stunning that she took his breath away. He hadn't thought she could look more beautiful than she did in the red dress that she'd worn in the Fiddle, but she somehow managed to outdo herself yet again.
"Peggy, you look… I mean… wow. I feel under-dressed."
"Well, it's not often that I get to wear a pretty dress and a pair of heels; I like to make the most of the opportunity." She squinted at him as she descended the last few stairs. "Have you done something different with your hair?"
He was gonna kill Bucky when he got back to the hotel.
"Just combed it a different way. So. Are you ready to head out? Dinner reservations are for seven forty-five, and my driving on the left is still a work in progress."
A smile tugged at her rouged lips. "Are you sure you wouldn't like me to drive?"
"I need the practice." Besides, he could already hear the guys ribbing him for letting his date do the driving. He offered his arm, and his heart fluttered when she took it.
"Have a great time, you crazy kids," said Michael.
"Don't throw any wild parties while we're gone," Peggy countered.
Outside the house, Steve hurried forward to open the passenger door for her, and she slid onto the seat with the grace and poise of a movie star. Rita Hayworth had nothing on Peggy Carter.
"Is this one of Howard's cars?" she asked, as he fastened his lap belt and started the engine.
"He calls it 'Betsy.' I decided not to ask why."
"That's probably a wise idea. So, can you tell me where we're going?"
"It's not exactly a surprise. We're going to a place called Simpsons Tavern."
"Simpsons?" Her eyebrows rose. "It's a lovely place, but a little pricey."
He cleared his throat. "Have you been there before?"
"Once, a few years ago." She toyed with the handle of her purse for a moment. "I've heard that the cost of dinner there has gone through the roof since rationing took effect."
Thanks to Lizzie, he'd been forewarned about the prices. Reservations had not come cheap, but little did, these days. "Well, I'm getting an army pay; I might as well spend it on something I know I'll enjoy." A moment later, he added for clarification, "I mean a nice evening with you. Not just a piece of steak."
"Yes, I guessed that much. Do you think—"
Her words were rudely interrupted by the blare of a car horn thrown their way because Steve had edged out a little too far at a junction.
"Um, maybe I should focus on driving, for now," he said, heart pumping like the pistons in a steam engine. Somehow, driving a dilapidated truck on a high-speed chase through Poland had been easier than this.
"Yes, that's a good idea."
Miraculously, they made it to Simpsons in one piece. There was no valet parking, but the British government—under the opinion that public gatherings were more dangerous in the era of Blitzkrieg, had closed a nearby square and changed it into a temporary parking lot for local employees. At this time of night, it was conveniently empty, and had the advantage of being a very short walk away from the restaurant.
It was a quiet evening, not too cold and thankfully free of rain. Once more, he offered his arm, and Peggy took it. When they passed the glass window of a jewelry shop, he barely even recognised his own reflection. For a brief moment, he wished that Freddie and his camera had been there to capture the image of the tall, uniformed stranger and the beautiful woman by his side.
What was he supposed to say? Every time he glanced down at Peggy, she had a dreamy, far-away look in her eyes. She said she'd been to this restaurant before. Had it been with Fred? Was she remembering her fiancé? Would she compare that experience to this? The very thought brought a lump to his throat, and it wedged itself there like a lump of modelling clay. Perhaps it would be best to walk in silence.
At the restaurant, the maitre d' took their coats and led them to their table. When he'd called ahead to make the reservation, Steve had asked for a quiet table in the corner, and the maitre d' did not disappoint. The table was in the cosiest corner of the whole restaurant, surrounded by soft lamplight, and with a candle burning merrily in the middle of the table. There was no rose, but shortly after they were seated, another waiter came along with the flower and a slim glass vase of water for it to stand in.
"A beautiful flower for a beautiful lady," the waiter said, and Steve almost heaved a sigh of relief. They'd asked if he wanted to give a message with the flower, and he'd been hard-pressed to think of something on the fly. That sort of thing was more Bucky's forte.
"A lovely gesture. Thank you, Steve," she said. "But you don't have to impress me with flowers."
"I know. But I wanted to be able to do something normal." He hurried to elaborate as she gave him a questioning look. This was one of those conversations that he could so easily bumble. "I mean, we didn't exactly meet under normal circumstances, what with you training a group of would-be soldiers, and me trying so hard to be picked for the experiment. And everything I've done since then… all the radio work, and the photo shoots, and now the Commandos… don't get me wrong, I appreciate every opportunity I've been granted, but I don't want to miss out on the little things, such as having dinner with the most amazing woman I've ever met, and being able to give her some small gift. I want to do all the silly and pointless and little things, because they remind me of what I'm fighting for."
"I had no idea you felt that way."
"I guess it's the way a lot of soldiers feel. That was part of the reasoning behind Captain America. To remind the guys out here of all the things they love about their homes. Freedom. Democracy. Apple pie."
"And yet for all that, freedom and democracy are not universal constants in America. One's ability to flourish is highly dependent upon a number of factors; namely, whether one wears trousers or a skirt, and the colour of one's skin."
"I'm not saying it's perfect," Steve agreed. And tomorrow, at some point, he'd take a moment to write another letter to Terrence and his kids. Maybe get one of those photographs Freddie had taken of him in the costume, and autograph it for them. "Just that it's a good idea. The execution needs a little work, granted, but in another fifty years, maybe all men—and women—really will be equal."
The waiter returned to take their orders and bring them their wine, and Steve decided a change of topic was in order. He didn't want to spend the whole evening defending his country's imperfections.
"How's Michael settling in?" he asked.
"As well as can be expected, I suppose." She took a sip of wine, then dabbed at her lips with her napkin. Would she want him to kiss her, at the end of the night? He'd never kissed anybody before. Not like that, anyway. "He's been through a difficult ordeal. He's not going to recover overnight. I know it might take weeks, or maybe even months, before he feels comfortable again."
"I know it's not easy, watching him go through all of this. All you wanna do is stick a bandage on where it hurts… but some things can't be bandaged, and some hurts run too deep. The best thing you can do is let him figure it out, and be there for him when he needs you."
"Is that the tactic you've taken with Sergeant Barnes?"
She was far too astute for her own good. But then, that was part of her charm. He didn't have to draw a whole picture for her; she was perfectly capable of extrapolating it from a basic sketch. Just like his tightrope-unicycling monkey.
"Yes. I've tried everything to get him to talk to me, to open up about what happened to him in Krausberg. Every time I try and open up those memories, he shuts them down and shuts me out. Eventually, I realised I wasn't asking because of Bucky; I was asking because of me. I wanted to help. I needed to help. To feel useful. Relevant. But what Bucky needs is time to process what's happened and talk about it only when he's ready. And if that's never… well, then it's never. I can't be there for those memories, but I can be there for everything else. If that's the best I'm gonna get, then I've gotta take it."
"He's very lucky, to have such an understanding friend."
"And Michael is lucky to have an understanding sister."
She smiled, a real smile full of warmth that might've melted him on the spot, had he not already been sitting down. "I can drink to that." She wrapped her slender fingers around her glass and lifted it in toast. "To our brothers."
"Our brothers," he said, clinking his glass gently against hers. "And to long lives filled with happiness for them both."
Author's note: Some people have asked when we'll be catching up with Wells. The answer is, next chapter. Fortunately for him, northern Italy is pretty quiet… [ominous pause] for the moment. For those of you looking for a Bucky/Michael heart-to-heart, you have that to look forward to next chapter as well. I'm having so much fun writing Michael, and I hope you enjoy reading about him too.
And I almost forgot—Happy 100th Chapter Birthday to my story! With this chapter, the story passes my previous 590K-word record, to officially become the longest stand-alone fanfic I've ever written, and I'm immensely proud that half-a-million words into my rambling, people are still reading and enjoying the updates. I know that the past thirty chapters have been very different in tone from the early days with the 107th. I do feel somewhat restricted in my portrayal of the Commandos, to try and keep them in-keeping with what we know of them from a canon POV, and I know I'm not the only one who misses the crazy, often BS-filled antics of the 107th. In another twenty or so chapters, the tone will change again. Bucky's gone through some pretty dark times of late, but it won't always be like this. Summer will bring Operation Overlord, and some big changes to the European Front, as well as to Our Heroes and to some old faces you probably thought you'd never see again. A massive thank you to everyone who's still reading, and I hope to keep you entertained for another half a million words.