We Were Soldiers

114. Blue

When Bucky woke, he half expected it to be to the sight of canvas tent wall. His body ached like he'd been on a 20-mile march followed by a few hours of digging foxholes, then gone ten rounds in a boxing ring and topped it off by sleeping on hard ground without so much as a blanket for comfort. The ceiling of his room in the hotel came as a surprise—then he remembered the events of the previous day. The shaking. The aching. The bone-shattering cold. Somehow, he'd come through it without medical intervention this time.

He sat up and pinched the bridge of his nose. Lingering headache. Nothing he couldn't handle. But why had it happened again? Stark had said the high-calorie ration bars would give his body everything it needed to function. Perhaps… perhaps he really had been coming down with the flu, like some of the hotel staff. That must be it. He'd picked up the illness and his body was fighting it off. Bound to take a toll.

Now that he was no longer shaking, it would probably be safe to head down to the hotel's restaurant and get a bite to eat and a hot drink. Or perhaps two bites. God, he was so hungry he could eat a horse. And probably its rider, too. Just how long had he been asleep?

His clock was of little help. It said ten-past seven. But was that ten-past seven in the evening, or was it already the next morning?

Somebody banged on his bedroom door. A moment later, Steve's voice passed through it.

"Hey Buck, you in there?"

"Yeah, I'm here. What's up?"

"Just wondered if you were awake yet and wanted to get some breakfast."

So. It was the next morning. That meant he'd been asleep for about twenty hours. Possibly a new personal record.

"Yeah, breakfast sounds great," he replied. "Just gimme a few minutes to get dressed and I'll meet you in the lobby."

When he pushed back the divan, he found there was no need to get dressed; he already was. In a uniform that was considerably more wrinkled than it had been after he'd pressed it. But then, he had wanted to impress…

Oh God! Antje! He'd told her he'd come pick her up and show her around London. Then the shaking had started, and all thoughts of her had completely disappeared. He hadn't even had the wherewithal to ask Mr Chipperton to call the Carter residence and offer her an apology. His only thought had been to get warm fast and avoid anyone finding out what was happening to him.

Idiot.

He would have to find a way to make it up to her. Flowers. And chocolates. And diamonds. Possibly kittens. What else did dames appreciate? A heartfelt apology. He'd probably have to be honest with her. But then… he didn't want to face that look of pity in her eyes. He didn't want her to see him as something broken, to be nursed back to health. That was a burden nobody deserved.

Maybe he could… well… lie. Perhaps tell her he'd lost his room key and had to go get a replacement from Unsworth. It was a believable lie because Unsworth's Locksmith was a real place, even thought Antje didn't know it. Yes, that was what he would do. It wasn't being deceitful. It was protecting her from an unpleasant truth.

With his mind made up, he took a moment to stare into the mirror before grabbing his comb and trying to tame his hair. He did not look bad. Yes, he looked like he'd slept in his clothes, but he didn't look like he had after Norway. He wasn't pale and sweaty and he didn't have dark circles beneath his eyes. He still looked pretty healthy.

Down in the lobby, he found Steve skulking behind the staircase, trying his best to avoid Mr Chipperton. Bucky couldn't blame him. It seemed a guy couldn't walk past reception these days without being given a task to perform on behalf of the hotel. Unfortunately, past the reception was the only way to get to the restaurant, where breakfast was served until eight-thirty. Bucky let Steve lead the way, and hoped his newly big friend would distract Chipperton.

It didn't work.

"Ah, Sergeant Barnes," said Chipperton, when he spotted Bucky trying to use Steve as a human shield. "I trust you're feeling better today?"

"Yes, much better," he agreed.

"I'm glad to see the doctor wasn't needed after all."

Bucky glared at the man and hurried on. It only took a few seconds for Steve to catch up, the question written plainly on his face.

"Doctor?"

"I was feeling a bit under the weather yesterday," he replied stiffly. "Thought I might be coming down with that flu that's doing the rounds. Chipperton offered to call a doctor for me, but it wasn't needed."

"Buck, you thought you were coming down with the flu and you still went out on your date? Are you crazy?"

"Actually, I didn't go on the date," he admitted. "And later today I'll visit Antje and apologise to her for disappearing."

"You didn't go on the date and didn't call to cancel it?"

"It slipped my mind. Don't worry, I'll fix it."

"And you're sure you're feeling better now?" Steve asked, in that mother-hen tone that was becoming unfortunately familiar. Bucky half expected his friend to put the back of his hand against his forehead, to check his temperature. Mrs Rogers used to do that when she thought one of Steve's friends might be coming down with something.

"One hundred percent sure that I'm one hundred percent better," he confirmed. "When I thought I was getting sick I took a hot bath and went straight to bed, and look, it worked, because I didn't come down with flu after all."

"Yeah, but not showing up for a date with a dame… that's not like you."

"Would you have preferred I go? Feeling unwell? Possibly passing it along to Antje?"

"Well… no. Of course not. I'm glad you did the sensible thing and stayed in your room to rest it off."

"Really?" he scoffed. "You don't sound glad."

"Hey, I'm just worried about you."

"Don't be. I'm fine."

And to prove just how fine he was, he piled four slices of toast, three sausages, four slices of bacon, two fried eggs and a full cup of baked beans onto his plate. Steve watched with an expression of fascinated horror, and Bucky didn't bother to tell him that he'd probably be going back for seconds. Fighting off the flu had really taken it out of him.

Halfway through his first course, a familiar figure appeared and made straight for their table. Since giving up her room in the family home to Antje, Agent Carter had moved into one of the other hotels designated for the SSR's use. It was rare to see her venture so far from Whitehall. What could've brought her out here so early in the morning?

Oh yeah. Steve.

"Captain. Sergeant," she said, nodding to each of them. Steve immediately stood, and Bucky followed suit. Carter always seemed to hate it when guys did that in the past, but for some reason she let Steve get away with what other guys got scowled at for.

"Agent Carter," Steve replied. A hint of a small began to creep across his face. Bucky merely rolled his eyes. "Would you like to join us for breakfast?"

"Thank you, but I've already eaten. I just came by to let you know that Freddie's pictures have been developed, and as mission commander, Colonel Phillips would like you to discuss their contents with him." She pursed her lips as if sucking lemons. "Even though most of them were taken while I was also present."

"He's got a real bee in his bonnet about the whole Jacques thing," said Steve. "I think he's just trying to prove a point. I'm not exactly sure what that point might be, yet. Are you heading back to HQ now? I'll walk there with you."

"Want me to come too?" Bucky offered. But he kept his grip on his fork, a fat sausage speared on the end. "For moral support?"

"Don't you have some grovelling to do before anything else?"

"Oh yeah. I need to see if I can get a bunch of flowers or kittens or something."

Agent Carter's lemon-sucking expression suddenly became a lot more calculating. "You're apologising to Antje, then? For standing her up yesterday?"

"Jeez, how did you hear about it?"

"I hear about everything," she said, oozing smug. "And I know it's none of my business, but I'd like to ask you a favour: Don't apologise to her. At least, not yet. Give it some time."

"So she can think I'm the world's biggest jerk and stew in her anger and disappointment until she hates me?"

"Exactly."

He could scarcely believe his ears. Had Carter gone mad? This was no way for a guy to treat a dame, and she knew it! Hell, if someone stood her up and didn't apologise right away, she'd probably hang him from the ceiling with his own intestines. And he'd do the same if somebody stood up one of his sisters. There was a right way to treat a dame, and a wrong way. This definitely came under 'the wrong way'.

"You see," Carter continued, "after you failed to arrive at the house, Michael offered to take her out in your place. According to my mother, they had a wonderful time and Michael hasn't stopped smiling since they got home. He's even wearing real clothes again!"

Typical. Just when he thought he'd landed a break, fate had dealt him a hard, swift blow to the family jewels. While he really ought to be glad that Antje hadn't spent her day alone and miserable, he'd hoped he could find a way to make it up to her. If Michael had already been able to turn her mood around and show her a good time, she was less likely to want to rely on Bucky again.

Maybe that wasn't such a bad thing. While it was true that he liked Antje and wanted to spend more time with her, he also wanted her to be happy. And really, how happy could she be if she was waiting for him to get back from missions all the time? Or worrying about how his missions might be going? Whether he'd even come back at all?

This was one of the reasons he'd gone out of his way to avoid getting serious with a girl back home after signing up to go to war. Having a bit of fun was one thing, but he didn't want someone sitting at home, waiting and worrying. It was bad enough his family were going through that; it wasn't fair to put someone else in that position. Especially not Antje. Not after everything she'd already endured.

"I'm going to apologise to Antje," he said. "But if she and Michael can find happiness together, then I'm not gonna stand in the way of that."

"Thank you." The smile Carter graced him with was a genuine one. Steve was one hell of a lucky guy. "I appreciate your maturity. And your selflessness. And I know Michael and Antje will appreciate it too. Captain, are you ready to go?"

Steve nodded, wiped his hands on his napkin and dropped it on his empty plate, his face all sympathetic blue eyes. "Y'gonna be okay, Buck?"

"Of course." He forced a smile onto his lips. Hoped it looked real. "Like my Mom says; when one door closes, another opens. All that matters is that Antje is happy. Doesn't matter whether it's with me, or someone else."

"Well… alright. I'll meet you in the Fiddle later, okay?"

"Sure." Maybe Lizzie had a friend she could introduce him to. Somebody who just wanted a little fun and dancing between missions. Somebody who didn't mind waiting.

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

London's season changed slowly, with a dull, grey winter giving way to a dull, grey spring. The weather remained unpleasantly damp, and though the overcast skies meant little chance of seeing German bombers, it did nothing for the mood of the city's inhabitants.

Bucky's mood only became more somber as February turned to March. He'd gotten a letter from home, his mother's written tone frantic as she explained that Charlie was still going down to the recruitment office once every few weeks, to continue trying to sign up. Several times she'd begged him not to do it, but she was fighting a losing battle on that front. Apparently his mind was set. Luckily, whatever unprocessed paperwork that had stopped Charlie from signing up after Bucky had been declared MIA was still going through the system. Until it did, Charlie wouldn't be allowed to serve. Bucky hoped it never cleared.

The thought of his brother in combat filled his heart with dread. When he'd signed up, right after the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor, it had been an adventure. Every man worth his salt went down to the conscription office that day. Even Steve, though they refused to take him then.

Now, he knew better. Sure, travelling was an adventure. But war wasn't. Battle wasn't. Killing people and losing friends was no adventure; it was a terrible burden, one that he wished he could spare Charlie. He'd written back to his brother, explaining how hard it was out here and how difficult it was to see good men die. But he knew a good chunk of what he said wouldn't make it through the censors—if it even got sent at all.

Another dark cloud looming over him was Antje. The young woman had accepted his apology well, but his explanation that he couldn't take her out again a little less so. She'd been hurt. Angry. And it reminded him just how young she really was. Not much older than Janet, really.

Eventually she'd gotten over the hurt and anger and was having a great time with Michael. Bucky heard about them every now and again from Carter, though she was pretty respectful of his feelings and didn't convey news of their blossoming romance in a way that gloated over his loss. In fact, most of the time she stopped talking about them entirely when Bucky found himself in a Michael-Antje conversation, which was just fine with him.

London was not all doom and gloom. The team were sent on several more missions, and after the first two, something good finally happened; Jacques returned from Marseilles. Simply walked into the hotel and joined them for breakfast one morning as if he'd never even been gone. And though Phillips had been encouraging Steve to find another demolitions expert, Steve hadn't really given it the ol' American try, so Jacques was able to resume his duties on the team with immediate effect.

Of course, everything with Céleste had taken its toll on the man. He didn't smile quite as easily, and he rarely laughed anymore. He said Gaspard had been distraught to hear of their sister's demise, blaming both himself and Jacques in turn. But that was the price of the truth, and it was Jacques' debt to bear. Thoughts of family weighed even heavier on Bucky's mind, after that.

One grey morning in early March found Bucky strolling down one of London's newly-rebuilt roads, where a small trade market had popped up. Locals, and some from further afield, manned small stalls, hawking their wares and selling their services in exchange for the luxuries which were becoming so rare; cigarettes, fresh vegetables, thick slices of meat, or a well-soled pair of boots.

The pack of smokes in Bucky's pocket was so far unspent. In truth, he was walking just for the sake of it, looking for something to distract him. Tomorrow was his birthday, and normally he was a great believer in birthday cheer, but it was hard to find things to be cheerful about. War raged on. People died. Back home, Charlie was going to ruin his own life by signing up. Every blow the team dealt Schmidt and Hitler felt like it had no real impact on the overall war. The Commandos were like the biting insects that had plagued the swamps of France; an inconvenience. Not something to bring down a giant.

And that was ultimately why he'd been in an increasingly foul mood. He felt helpless. Useless. After each victory came another fight, with no end in sight. What was the point of fighting if you couldn't end it with a final win? How many lives had to be thrown at the German problem until it ceased to be a problem? Even one life seemed too many.

The irony of his situation didn't evade him. Last year, on the Monticello, he'd taken it upon himself to cheer up Wells on his birthday. Told him they'd celebrate both their birthdays this year. What had it been; drinking and dancing? That's what they'd imagined, back when war had been an adventure. If Wells was here right now, he'd be trying to cheer Bucky up too. But Wells wasn't here. Carrot wasn't here. Franklin and Davies and Tipper were not here, and never would be. Hell, he didn't even know what was happening with the rest of the 107th who'd been reassigned to Hawkswell's taskforce. Were they still in Europe? Were they still alive? Were Biggs and Gusty keeping the rest of the guys in check?

A high-pitched wail reached his ears, and he stopped walking. Something was crying. An animal, or a kid? Something that sounded like it was alone and in pain. Finally, he started paying more attention to his surroundings as he followed the sound back to its source.

There was a kid, standing outside a half-blitzed church. On the step beside him was a wooden box, and inside the box was a blanket, on which sat a small black and white bundle of fur. A puppy, throwing its head back to whimper and howl at the crowd who walked past and ignored it.

"Is that your puppy," Bucky asked the boy.

"Was," came the reply. "It was one of me dad's puppies what 'is dog had. He said we can't afford to keep 'em, so I brought 'em all here to find new homes for 'em. This is the last one that's left. You want 'im?"

"I'm a soldier," Bucky told him. "I don't think I'd be around much to take care of a puppy."

"That's too bad." The boy ran a dirty sleeve across his runny nose. Only then did Bucky notice the threadbare state of his clothes and the blue tinge to his fingers. Poor kid had probably been out here all day. "Dad says I've not to come back home until all the pups are gone, and if they've not found new owners by the end of the day, I've to chuck any what's left in the Thames."

A cold feeling of horror rose in Bucky's chest. "You'd throw a puppy in the river?"

"If I wanna go home again, yeh. I think this one's for the Thames anyway. Runt of the litter - got devil eyes, see?. Nobody wants 'im."

Bucky stepped forward to take a closer look at the tiny pup. The boy was right; it had odd coloured eyes, one dark brown and the other piercing blue. The tiny thing shivered as badly as the boy, maybe from the cold, maybe from loneliness now that all its brothers and sisters had been taken away.

He couldn't let it be thrown in the Thames. That was just too cruel. And besides, tomorrow was his birthday. The puppy could be his present to himself. He'd had a dog before, when he'd been a kid. Bingo. And Janet had an ageing spaniel called Bonnie, back home. He knew how to take care of a dog. No problem.

"I want him," he told the boy. "How much."

"They don't cost anythin', mister. Nobody wants to buy a dog. Whether you have him or the Thames does, means I get to go home now." The boy picked up the puppy and thrust him into Bucky's arms. "There ya go. Enjoy."

"Wait! How old is he? And what kind of dog is he?"

The boy scratched his head in a way that made Bucky immediately want to de-louse the pup. "'Bout seven weeks. Collie."

"Alright. Hey, does your dad smoke?"

"Yeh, who doesn't?"

"I know you're not selling the pup, but maybe your dad would like these in exchange." He fished inside his pocket with his free hand and gave the boy the unopened pack of cigarettes. "I don't smoke." And maybe it would earn the kid a spot by a warm fire, when he got back.

The boy looked at him as if he was mad, but accepted the packet then ran off with his box and the blanket.

"So," he said to the crying pup. "What am I going to call you? I know; I'll call you 'Blue'. Because one of your eyes is blue. I know, original. But my last dog was called Bingo, so I think the name you have is a little more unique."

He unbuttoned his jacket, put the pup inside so that it was cradled against his chest, then buttoned it up again as far as it would go. Finally warm and no longer alone, the puppy's cries subsided to a quiet whimpering, and then to a gentle snore as it fell asleep.

"Come on, Blue," he said. "Let's go and introduce you to my friends."

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

At two o'clock in the afternoon, the Fiddle was pretty quiet. Most of the crowds didn't hit the drinks until after dinner, and only a few seasoned locals graced the bar at this hour.

Bucky nodded to Lizzie as he made his way to the Commandos' usual table, currently and blessedly devoid of any Commandos. That was for the best; he didn't want to scare the pup until he'd been able to give it something to eat and drink.

Once seated, he unbuttoned his jacket and pulled out the tiny bundle of fur, checking for any unfortunate accidents. Thankfully there were none. He didn't fancy trying to wash the smell of dog pee out of his jacket today.

He set the puppy on his knee and stroked it gently until it woke up and yawned widely to display rows of tiny milk-teeth. At least it would be old enough to chew solid food. That was good. He knew puppies needed their mother until they reached a certain age, and cows' milk just wasn't an adequate substitute.

"Oi, we don't allow animals in here," said Lizzie as she sauntered over.

"You let Dugan in here all the time."

"You make a point." She crouched down beside his chair and tickled the puppy behind his ears. "Oo's such a cute widdle puppy wuppy?"

"He's a puppy, not a baby," Bucky pointed out.

"Oo's so much cuter than a widdle baby?" she continued to coo. "What'cha doing with a dog, anyway?"

"A boy was giving them away at the market," he explained. "Said his dad told him to throw them in the river if he couldn't find homes for them."

"Sergeant Barnes; saving damsels from distress and puppies from drowning. Every city should have one of you."

"Feel free to pass the word around. I can travel."

Finally acting like an adult again, Lizzie stood and straightened her apron. "I'll do that. So, what can I get you? We're fresh out of whisky, so if you've come for the ale, you're in luck."

"Nobody comes for the ale," he grinned. "But if that's all you've got, it's what I'll have. Oh, and have you had a supply of beef jerky delivered yet?"

"Yes, your boys brought it in this morning. But you can't feed beef jerky to a puppy, it's far too salty!"

"It's not for Blue, it's for me. Have you got any meat scraps he can have? Maybe some of those mashed potatoes you English love so much?"

"I'll see what I can whip up for the both of you," she said. "But if that thing piddles on the floor, you'll get the mop and bucket from the kitchen and clean it up yourself. Understood?"

He saluted. "Yes ma'am."

When she disappeared, he turned his attention back to the puppy. "You really are cuter than a widdle baby," he said. The pup merely watched him through serious eyes. "Please don't piddle on my knee. The floor is fine, it'll be easier to clean that. By the way, that was Lizzie. She's a nice lady who'll be feeding you a lot of scraps whenever you come here. Use your puppy-eyes to good effect.

"Hmm. I should get you a collar and a name tag. Don't want you getting lost. Maybe a leash, too. I think you're too young for walking very far right now, but my last dog was killed when he was accidentally hit by a car. I don't want the same to happen to you.

"I hope you don't cry at nights. It'll be hard enough to sneak you into the hotel; Chipperton has the eyes of a hawk, the ears of a bat, and the charitable personality of an overworked hotel manager who's been forced to cater to the likes of Dugan for the past few months. If you cry at night, somebody's bound to complain to him. Probably Dugan; he likes to complain a lot."

Lizzie returned shortly after with a glass of ale, a bowl of jerky, and a lamb bone that had bits of meat and fat stuck to both ends. "See how he likes this," she said.

When Bucky placed both dog and bone on the floor, he pounced on it and started to strip the meat with a ravenous hunger. At least now, all the food would be for him. He wouldn't have to share it with greedy litter-mates.

"Thanks, Lizzie, what do I owe you?"

"This one's on the house. Just don't tell those other miscreants you pal around with."

He tapped his nose. "It'll be our secret."

After he'd finished his jerky, and Blue had stripped everything edible from the bone, he took the pup out back where he could do his business without invoking the wrath of Lizzie. It was another hour before his friends started to show up, and Jacques was first to arrive at the pub. He called out to Lizzie for an ale as he made his way to the table, then aimed at a questioning nod at the pup now sleeping again on Bucky's lap.

"His name's Blue," Bucky explained. "He's my birthday present to myself."

Jacques shrugged. "I do not care much for dogs. They are noisy and smelly."

"No smellier than that awful cheese you like to eat. C'mon, are you tellin' me you never had a dog as a kid?"

"Céleste liked to feed some of the stray dogs back home," he replied, the barest hint of a smile gracing his lips. Bucky was just glad the guy could actually speak his sister's name again. "But our Papa would not let her keep one. He said they were full of parasites."

There was a thought. He would have to take Blue to a veterinarian, to make sure the pup got his worming medicine. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to make sure he got a quick once-over, too.

Next to arrive at the Fiddle were Monty and Morita. Bucky recounted the tale of how he'd saved the puppy, by which time Blue had woken up and resumed licking the marrow out of the bone Lizzie had brought for him.

"They're very intelligent, Border Collies," said Monty. "I'm sure you'll have no problem house-breaking him."

"You've seen this kinda dog before?"Bucky asked. "It doesn't look much like the collies back home. I figured the kid was confused about what it was."

"Oh yes, my uncle Winston owns some land in the West Country, on which he raises sheep. Border Collies are the best dogs for herding. Uncle Winston has a number of them."

Not long after, Steve arrived with Dugan and Jones in tow. The mustachioed madman took one look at the puppy and snorted so loud he scared poor Blue right under the table. "I guess it's a step up from the baby you came back from that mission with back in France," he offered.

"Baby?" Monty probed.

"Long story," said Bucky. "C'mere, Blue. Come on, don't be frightened." He leant down from his chair and waved the bone on the ground in front of the pup. "Dugan, your face is so scary that not even my puppy will come near you."

"Buck, why've you got a puppy?" asked Steve. Thankfully, he didn't try and sit down yet. His clumsy big-Steve feet would probably crush poor Blue.

"He's my birthday present." He glanced up and met one of those stares on his friend's face. "Also a long story."

"It's not that long," said Lizzie. She'd managed to fit an entire round of beers on one tray, and set them on the table for the team. "A lad was giving them away at the market, and was going to throw this one in the river if he couldn't find a home for it. Sergeant Barnes saved the poor mite."

"Dogs," scoffed Dugan. "What are they good for?"

"I love dogs," Lizzie said. She aimed a smile down at Blue, who'd tentatively crept out from under the table so that Bucky could scoop him up to safety.

"Ah, but you didn't let me finish," Dugan rushed on. "What are they good for, except companionship, unconditional love, and a friendship so faithful that it has inspired books and movies!"

"To be fair, I don't think the bar for inspiring books and movies is that high," said Morita. "I mean, just look at Steve,"

"Oh har-har, Jim," Steve shot back. But he did have the decency to look slightly embarrassed. "Buck, you're not actually planning on bringing a puppy along on missions, are you?"

"Of course not! That would be stupid!" Clearly they'd need to wait until Blue was a little older, and better trained, before he could go on missions with them. He could be… the team mascot, or something. He could be taught to sniff out Nazis, and perhaps even to bury Dernier's awful cheeses somewhere they could never be found. "But I'm gonna need your help to sneak him in past Mr Chipperton and the rest of the reception staff."

"If we stick the puppy on Dugan's head, we can make it look like he's wearing a toupee," suggested Morita.

"And this is why Stark didn't put you in charge of the spy kit," said Jones, with just a smidgen of smug in his voice. To Bucky, he said, "Blue's small enough to fit into a duffel bag right now, so you should be good for a couple of weeks at least.

Steve cleared his throat. "Anyway, puppy aside for one moment, we have something to give you. It's for your birthday."

"But it's not my birthday until tomorrow!" A speculative smile slipped across his face. "Does this mean I get presents twice?"

"Not likely," said Dugan. "We're giving you this now so that you don't make other plans for tomorrow night and miss the opportunity of a lifetime."

Yeah, right, because Bucky was all about making grand evening plans in war-torn London. He said as much to his friends, who tried to hide their sudden mad grins.

"When we heard about who was coming to perform at the USO show tomorrow," said Jones, "we all chipped in, and Steve pulled some strings, and we got you front row seats." He reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope, handing it over.

Excitement quickly bubbled within Bucky's chest. "If you guys managed to get front row seats to Rita Hayworth, I swear I will sing all your praises to anyone who'll listen between here and America."

"You're almost right," said Steve.

Bucky tore into the envelope and found three front-row seats to Mae West. Well, it wasn't quite Rita, but it was close enough.

"Thanks, pals, this is amazing. The best birthday gift a guy could ask for. Right after you, of course," he told Blue. "But what's with the three tickets?"

"Well, we wanted to take you as a team, but even with my connections in the USO, three tickets was the best I could do."

"We figured that you should take Steve with one of the tickets," said Morita. "You two are best friends, and it wouldn't feel right usurping his place. And with the last ticket you could decide who you want to go with you. Or do a lottery. Or even find one of those things… you know, what d'ya callem?" He snapped his fingers a few times before coming up with the answer. "Oh yeah, 'women'. You remember what they are, right?"

"You're on a roll tonight, Morita," Bucky told him. "I guess lottery it is. That way everyone gets an equal chance at seeing Mae West. And, of course, spending time with me on my birthday, which is the best part of the whole evening."

"All right." Dugan stood and rolled his shoulders. Bucky heard the crack of his muscles even from across the table. "Lottery it is. I'm feelin' lucky, so the first round's on me."

Bucky smiled as the big man ambled over to Lizzie's section of the bar under the pretence of generosity. He was so transparent. But perhaps this birthday would shape up better than he'd feared. Now, he had a puppy to raise, and a night at a show would be a welcome distraction from the gloom or war-weary London.

Author's Note: It was Jones who won the lottery, in the end. He was the only black serviceman in the whole of the USO theatre. Near the end of the show, Mae West recognised Steve and got him, Bucky and Jones up on stage, then invited them to her after-show party in her hotel bar. They had a great time until some jerk insulted Jones with a racial slur, and Steve punched him. As the MPs descended, Bucky, Steve and Jones made a dashing escape through the cellar. They had to hide out beneath a tarp on a fishing ship moored at one of London's docks while the MPs searched the area, but despite the fact that they all went home smelling of haddock, it was totally worth it.