We Were Soldiers

144. Fiddle Me This

The bad weather was back, turning July in London into New York's December; grey, foggy, humid but cool enough that people wore their coats when walking outside. A blanket of mist had descended. It wasn't rain, but it was somehow wetter than rain. The city's inhabitants seemed unbothered by it, but Bucky hated the way it clung to his face and his uniform. It was as if the weather couldn't decide what it wanted to be, so it was trying to be everything, all at once.

Beside him, Steve readjusted his uniform for the third time since leaving the hotel. Bucky couldn't help the grin which tugged at his lips. Steve only worried about the state of his uniform when he went out drinking with the Commandos for one reason.

"What time's Agent Carter getting there?" he asked.

Steve gave him a guilty side-glance. "What makes you think Agent Carter's going to be there?"

"You. All nervous and fidgety."

"I am not nervous and fidgety."

"Oh. So Agent Carter won't be putting in an appearance tonight?"

"She'll be along around eight," Steve said, with a half-hearted glare. "And that was just a lucky guess."

"Riiight," Bucky rolled his eyes at his friend. Damn, Steve made the teasing too easy, but it was nice to see him finally enjoying the things he'd missed out on growing up. Like girls. And being tall. "Jocularity aside for a moment, when are you gonna stop dancing around her and start dancing with her?"

"You know I can't dance, Buck."

"Yeah, and you know I'm not talking about dancing. C'mon, the two of you have been doing this for what, six months? Technically a year, if you count from when you first met. You haven't even kissed her yet, right?"

"No, but…"

Bucky waited a moment for Steve to continue of his own accord. When he didn't, he prompted, "But what?"

"Well… I didn't wanna say anything… I know you're still a bit sore about it… but we have a date next week. Sort of… well… a double date. With Michael. And Antje."

"Oh, that." Bucky waved away his friend's concern. "Carter already told me that Michael's gonna ask Antje to marry him. I'm over it."

Steve's eyes widened by a fraction. "I… had not heard that. It kinda overshadows my plans, a bit…"

"What, you were gonna ask Carter to marry you?"

"Of course not!" Steve looked about ready to drop from a heart attack. "I told you, I've gotta get her dad's permission for that, and I still haven't met him. I did talk about family with Peggy though, just like you suggested. That's kinda how we ended up on a double date. I was gonna ask her if it was okay for me to kiss her. That was all."

"Or you could just surprise her with an unexpected kiss," Bucky pointed out. In his experience, dames made it real clear when they were open to a kiss.

"Yeeeaah… Peggy carries a gun in her thigh holster at all times, and I think I'm still in her bad books after that whole kissing incident with Private Lorraine. It's better to ask permission than forgiveness, especially when forgiveness may come at the wrong end of a bullet."

"You make a valid point." None of the dames he'd ever dated had carried a sidearm as standard. Steve definitely had it tough. "Just don't leave it too long, pal. In my experience, if you leave too much time before making a move, a woman starts to wonder if you've got cold feet. Most people don't take a year to get to a kiss."

"There have been… factors. It's war. We're not in London on a permanent basis. Besides, I don't wanna go rushing things. This isn't track, and I'm not running a hundred metre sprint. I just wanna… y'know… get to know Peggy and enjoy what time we have together without putting pressure on either of us to feel like we have to race towards some end goal."

"In my experience, a little running isn't always a bad thing. A hundred metre sprint every now and then gets the heart pumping and the blood flowing."

"Heh. Well, maybe one day you'll understand. When you find a woman who makes you feel the same way I do every time I look at Peggy, you won't wanna rush through things. You'll just wanna walk and enjoy the scenery."

"I can't believe I'm getting this off you," Bucky laughed. "Just do me a favour and don't talk like that in front of the guys. The last thing they need is more ammunition for teasing you."

"You mean you want all the ammunition for yourself, more like."

"You know me so well, pal," said Bucky, clapping his friend on the back of the shoulder.

Light and music spilled out from the Fiddle as the pair approached the door. Light and music always spilled out from the Fiddle in an evening, like the place had all the world's share of light and music inside and it just couldn't contain it all. It was especially true since the early victory in Normandy, as if the Fiddle contained a little extra joy since then.

With fresh troops arriving from the States every week, stopping off before heading out to bolster their forces in France, the pub was packed out once more. The freshly arrived men were full of hope and adventurous spirit, and more importantly, their wallets were full of cash. Soldiers, sailors and pilots from all Allied nations rubbed elbows with each other, and for once, nobody was getting tetchy about perceived slights. Amazing, what a massive win in the war could do for morale.

When Bucky and Steve stepped into the pub, the Commandos let out a cheer. They had their usual table and seemed to be on their second round of drinks, at least. Bucky waved to them, then herded Steve towards the bar to order the next round. As they went, a dozen well-wishers clapped Steve on his shoulder and toasted his health. Freddie had been spreading rumours that Steve had single-handedly taken Cherbourg back from the Krauts, and those rumours had finally reached the Fiddle.

At the bar, Steve ran a hand through his hair, trying to smooth it back into place, and said, "I just don't get it."

"You're a celebrity," Bucky told his friend. "And a hero. You should be used to it by now."

"I don't think I'll ever get used to it. And I'm not a hero… I'm a soldier. Just like anyone else."

"Well, not just like anyone else," Bucky said. "Don't forget, you've knocked out Hitler over two hundred times."

Steve's cheeks flushed a pale pink. "You're never gonna let me forget that, are you?"

"Nope," he grinned. "Two ales," he told Lizzie, when she appeared to take their order.

"Right you are, though you're going to have to drink them fast to catch up to your friends." She pulled the pints and put them down on the top of the bar. "By the way, Sergeant Barnes, there's a chap in the other room who asked me to send you over when you got here."

Bucky felt his eyebrows rise. Nobody ever asked for him. They asked for Steve. Steve was the hero. The celebrity. The one who signed all the autographs. Bucky was just Steve's best friend.

"Who?"

Lizzie shrugged. "A soldier, one of your lot. He didn't tell me his name, just asked me to send you over. He's been in a while."

"Guess I better go see what he wants, then."

"He's on the small corner table, nursing a glass of rum."

"Thanks, Lizzie." He turned to Steve. "Will you save me a seat and protect my ale from Dugan?"

"I'll guard it with my life," Steve assured him, and Bucky gave his friend a grateful smile.

He made his way past the upright piano currently blaring out a jaunty tune courtesy of the very skilled player who made his living tapping out songs soldiers could sing to. The back room was a little quieter, but just as full, and Bucky scanned the crowd as he entered. It wasn't just soldiers who frequented the Fiddle; there were just as many locals, usually labourers looking to relax after a hard day's work, and most of them were older men, too old to have been drafted into the front lines. A few pilots were there, though they tended to crawl the pubs rather than stick to a single watering hole, and Bucky could tell by the empty glasses around them that they'd be moving on soon.

When he spotted the table in the corner of the room, and the guy nursing a glass of rum, he felt the blood drain from his face and his heart suddenly skip several beats. The soldier watching him through calm blue eyes had short hair as black as coal, and he looked enough like Sergeant Daniel Wells that had Bucky not known his friend was dead, he would have sworn it was him.

He tried to make his legs move forward so he could go over and tell the soldier how much he looked his Bucky's dead friend, but they suddenly didn't want to work. Not only did his legs not want to work, his head didn't want to work either, because it felt all light, as if it was floating in a dark, hazy tunnel, one in which the sound of the piano playing, the voices of the drinkers around him, and the pervasive smell of beer, all fell away, replaced by a white noise and how could it be possible for someone to look so much like someone else?

"Jeez, Barnes, pull up a chair. You look like you're about to pass out," the guy who was definitely not Danny Wells said, edging a chair out from under the table with his foot.

God, the guy even sounded like Wells. Right from the inflection on his name, down to that familiar Brooklyn drawl. But it still couldn't possibly be real, because Wells had died last year. This couldn't even be the ghost of Wells, because ghosts did not drink, and this guy was drinking rum, which Lizzie had served to him, and he was pretty sure she wouldn't serve a ghost, not unless it was a real slow day.

"You're dead," he finally managed to blurt out, earning himself a few glances from the other patrons. Not-Wells fidgeted in his chair, in exactly the same way Wells always fidgeted when he was nervous, and aimed another pointed glance at the empty seat opposite him.

"For godssake Barnes, don't make a scene. And sit down before you really do black out," not-Wells insisted. It… it must be some sort of trick. A really realistic mask. Or… or… there was a thing called 'cloning', wasn't there? He'd read about it at the Expo in New York last year. Copies of thing. One day, maybe even copies of people. That's what this was. Somebody had made a copy of Wells. His blue eyes shifted uncomfortably as he took in the rest of the patrons. "Stop freaking out. Sit down. Pretend this is just a normal day in the pub."

Bucky's legs finally obeyed. He walked dumbly forward and dropped into the chair, his eyes scanning the face in front of him for some indication of a mask. How the hell had the guy managed to steal Wells' eyes, and his voice, and his whole face? Even his mannerisms were the same. This wasn't some cloned copy, this was somebody who had studied every aspect of Wells' behaviour closely. Bucky reached out, to pull the mask away and reveal who was really underneath, then stopped himself. The last time he'd seen someone pull a mask off their face, they had a red skull underneath, and that particular event still featured occasionally in his nightmares.

He was imagining it. Seeing ghosts. Had to be. And to prove he wasn't really talking to anyone, he picked up one of the square cork beer mats off the table and tossed it at the man in front of him. But the beer mat didn't go through him. It bounced off his forehead, and he said, "Ow. What was that for?"

"You're dead," he repeated more quietly.

For a reply, not-Wells reached down below the collar of his shirt and hooked his thumb around a chain, pulling out two jangling pieces of shiny, stamped metal.

"No tags, no death, remember?"

Bucky stared at the tags. They looked like Wells' tags. Had his name on and everything. But that didn't mean this wasn't some massive practical joke gone wrong. Or a dream. A really weird dream. Or a clone. A dream of a clone? Had he been spending too much time around Miles, lately?

"Haven said he saw you get hit," he said.

"And I did. You should see my shoulder, it's still a mess. But the bullet that had my name on it was kinder to me than it had been to Carrot." Wells pushed the glass of rum forward, across the table. "Here, you look like you need that more than I do."

Bucky didn't need inviting twice. He downed the rum and felt it warm his throat as it slid down into his stomach and started bringing reality back in a burning heat. He still wasn't sure this was really real, that he wasn't dreaming, or hallucinating, or whatever. But it was more real than it had been two minutes ago, when he'd felt the blood drain outta his head and his vision reduce to a dark tunnel.

He looked at his friend. His very alive, very here, very real looking friend. Wells had died, and that had been a shock. Now Wells wasn't dead, and that was a shock suspended between two mirrors, so that it repeated itself into an infinity of shocks. How could this be Wells? How could he be here? Had the past six months just been a lie?

"What the hell happened?!" he demanded.

Wells gave him a familiar, lopsided smile. "Now you sound more like you. What happened? I got shot. German rifle, right to the shoulder. Haven told you that much, right?"

Bucky nodded, then another thought hit him. If Wells really was here, and this wasn't just some hallucination, maybe he wasn't the only one. "The others? Hawkins? Jones?"

"Sorry, pal. I must'a blacked out when I got hit, because when I came 'round it was dark, and I was alone. Well, nearly. Hawkins was there, and Jones, and Martland from the 9th. But they were already dead. They weren't as lucky as me."

When he blinked his eyes, he saw it as Wells described. The men that they'd known and fought with, cold and lifeless on the ground, their eyes fixed in a deathly stare. "That… must'a been a hard sight to wake up to." Way to state the blatantly obvious.

Wells nodded sadly. "I took their tags and tried to find my way back, but I was out of it. Shoulder felt like it was burning up, and I was exhausted, dehydrated, in agony. I've no idea how far I managed to stumble, but before dawn, I collapsed. Next time I woke up, I thought I was dead. I was in a bed, real comfortable, with a patchwork blanket over it, and there was a nice yellow ceiling above me, and a chime in the window making quiet noise. I was still half out of it at the time, my arm had gotten infected and I wasn't out of the woods, but I was lucky. I'd been found by an Italian, an old truffle-picker who'd been out walking his dog the morning after our failed mission. He found me and took me home, then handed me over to his nephew and his family. They saved my life and nursed me back to health. Hid me from German patrols and got me back on my feet."

"Wait. This whole time, you've been safe and well? Not dead? Not captured? Not a POW?" The time he'd spent in a numb haze, unable to fully think about or process Wells' death… that had been for nothing?

Wells fidgeted again, then held up his fingers in a 'two' sign when Lizzie appeared to clear a few tables. He didn't speak again until she'd returned with two more glasses of rum and he'd downed half a glass.

"Safe and well isn't an entirely accurate summation. I was safe enough, for a while, and a lot better off than most of our troops. But the infection in my arm really took it out of me. Physically speaking, it took three months for me to recover from being shot, but in my head, I wasn't ready to come back. I'd had enough of it. Seeing friends die, knowing every mission might be my last, forced marches and going hungry and always being tired and on the edge. It was winter by this point, and I figured I'd stay where I was until spring. But, y'know, there were… factors."

Factors? "Y'mean a pretty girl?"

"Yup." Wells gave him a small, shameless grin. "Adalina. She was, as the Italians would say, molto bella. And she was sweet, and funny, and kind, and all those other things a girl should be. When spring arrived, she asked me to stay 'til summer. So I did. She and her family… they made me feel so welcome, even when they had to hide me from the SS patrols. That was kinda surreal. That somebody cared enough about my wellbeing to risk their own lives to protect mine."

Bucky couldn't help but smile. It sounded the complete opposite of the home Wells had grown up in. No wonder he didn't want to leave it. Bucky might even have felt the same, in his friend's place. Hadn't he only stayed here in London because of Steve? Without his pal to watch over, he might've been more eager to get home, to see his family again. But Wells didn't have that. He didn't have a best friend he needed to watch over, or a family that he wanted to see. All he had were the 107th, and they were long gone by that point.

"Summer arrived, and I felt like I'd been there forever," Wells continued. "So I figured I'd stay a while longer. Adalina was talking about marriage, and that didn't sound so bad, y'know? I could live in Italy, never go back, because I knew I'd been declared KIA so nobody would be looking for me. It would be a fresh start. Beautiful country, fresh air, amazing weather."

Bucky pulled his hand back from his glass. He'd been twirling it 'round and 'round on the table, hadn't even realised he'd been doing it. Obviously, something had gone wrong. Wells wouldn't be here, now, if Italy had worked out. Images raced through his mind, of the SS threatening the family, chasing Wells back to the Allied lines, or worse, of the house being burnt down, the family killed in retaliation for hiding an enemy soldier. He wanted to know what terrible tragedy had driven his friend back to the army. But at the same time, he didn't want to ask, in case there had been no such tragedy. In the end, he asked anyway, because even if he didn't ask, Wells was going to continue his story, and asking at least gave him some semblance of control.

"So what happened?"

A humourless smile stole across Wells' face, and he downed the rest of his glass. "The war found me again. Or rather, the Krauts did. I had a thirty second head start, and managed to get away, hide in a derelict house until the danger passed. But I knew I couldn't go back. Not while the Germans were still looking for me. Not while Italy is occupied territory."

"Oh."

Wells looked up at him, a very tired, resigned expression on his face. "Besides, the war's not over yet, and me being there put them in enormous danger. Germans don't take too kindly to people who harbour enemy soldiers. Figured I'd come back to the fight and finish what I started. After the war's over… well, maybe I'll go back and marry her. Or maybe not. Anyway, the family put me in touch with an informant who managed to smuggle me back to an Allied camp. Because of my injury, I've been declared medically unfit for combat, so for the first couple of months they had me working logistics on the front line. When I proved to be too competent at that, I got a transfer back here, and now I'm doing lend-lease stuff."

"How'd you avoid getting a dishonourable for going AWOL?"

Wells shrugged. "I told the brass that I'd hit my head when I got shot. Temporary amnesia. They can't disprove that. Hell, at first, they didn't even believe I was who I said I was. And in the end, I came back when my 'memories' returned. Nobody who wants to go AWOL comes back of their own accord, right?"

"I guess."

"So." Wells grinned like a kid. "Sergeant James Barnes, one of Captain America's Howling Commandos, huh? You're going to have to tell me all about that."

Suddenly, there wasn't enough time. There wasn't time enough to tell him all that had happened with the 107th after he'd been declared KIA. The missions he'd been on. The men he'd lost. The ones he'd saved. How he'd been captured at Krausberg. Everything that had happened since; Coventry and Antje and Blue and Overlord. Where should he start? The Commandos were already lined up for their next mission. "We're shipping out the day after tomorrow," he offered feebly.

"I know." When Bucky shot him a skeptical glance, Wells tapped his nose. "Logistics, remember? I hear things. But your mission won't last forever. When you get back, you can meet me here, and get me caught up on everything I missed while I was dead."

Wells wasn't dead anymore. Even the thought of it made his stomach feel queasy, like he'd had too much candy and soda together. Wells was here, and he was acting oblivious to the letter he'd left behind, like it hadn't even existed at all. Maybe it really had been one massive piss-take. After all, if Wells was even considering going back to Italy after the war and marrying a pretty girl who'd saved his life, then the things he'd written in the letter couldn't possibly be true. Still, it was a cruel joke to play on a friend, winding him up like that and then dying.

But… there was a very intense, knowing look in Wells' eyes that made Bucky's stomach feel even queasier. Like he'd just added a pound of chocolate to the candy and the soda. A pound of chocolate and the world's biggest burger. Wells was so full of shit. He loved tormenting people, making them feel uncomfortable. That was probably what this was. That was the point of the letter. And Bucky needed to call him out on it, because Wells was way outta line.

"I got your letter," he said at last.

"Yeah, I figured."

Bucky waited for the gleeful grin. For the 'ha, gotcha!' But there was no grin. No gotcha. Just Wells, watching him with that stupidly calm expression. The bastard wasn't going to say a damn thing. He was just gonna watch his friend flounder and not do a damn thing about it, because to Wells, that was funny.

"Should'a known it was full of bullshit," Bucky scowled.

Instead of responding, Wells downed the last of his rum, then caught Lizzie's attention and ordered another two. Bucky quickly drank the contents of his glass, so as not to be left behind. The rum was smoother than the whisky he'd taken to drinking after gettin' outta Krausberg. Why hadn't he tried it before?

"Y'know," Lizzie said to Bucky, depositing two more glasses of rum on the table, "the boys are still ordering pints for you each round. I don't know how much longer Steve can keep them safe from Dum Dum."

"I don't care," he told her. "Tell Dugan he can drink them. And send them another round on me." That oughta keep them busy for a short while, at least.

"He'll pay for this round too," Wells added, gesturing to the two glasses of rum.

Lizzie raised an eyebrow at Bucky. "Yeah fine, whatever," he said. "And bring two more, after you've sent the next round to the Commandos." He waited until she disappeared, then asked, "Well?"

"Do you remember last year, when we went out on a recon mission and found a baby?" Wells countered.

"I'm not in the mood for playing—"

"I'm not playing games." Wells' expression was suddenly serious. Too serious. It made Bucky wish that he was playing games.

"I remember," he said.

"Remember what we agreed after we gave her to the priest in Aureille?"

He frantically searched his mind. It had been a tense mission. They'd both said a lot of things. And those memories were tainted by everything he'd been put through in Krausberg. How did he know they were even real?

In the end, Wells answered for him. "You told me you didn't want words coated in sugar, to make them easier to swallow. You didn't want platitudes, or comforting lies. And from that moment, I never lied to you, or sugar coated the truth, or said nice things that I thought you might want to hear. I gave you the truth, even when it made me uncomfortable, even when platitudes would've been easier. So before I answer your not-a-question, let me ask you this: have you changed your mind? Would you prefer comforting lies, now?"

"No." He didn't even have to consider it. The truth was often hard, and painful, but it was real. After everything he'd been through on the table in Krausberg, he needed real.

"Alright. There was no bullshit in my letter. I meant every word. More than I've ever meant any other words in my entire life. I'm sorry. I know it was a pretty big bombshell to drop on you like that, especially with me apparently dying and all. But it wasn't bullshit, and it's like I told you before, the letter was only supposed to be a backup, in case I didn't make it to the end of the war. So that… you know… at least somebody in this life knew that I wasn't a completely heartless jerk. I guess I just wanted you to know that you were important to me. That you changed my life for the better."

That same light-headed, foggy feeling as before came back, though not quite as severe. Wells was a hundred percent serious. He thought he'd known his friend, but Wells had harboured all these feelings and somehow Bucky had not seen any of it. Had he been that oblivious?

"Why'd you never say anything before?" he asked.

"Maybe I did. Maybe you just didn't know how to listen."

"You know I hate your cryptic bullshit," he scowled.

"Yeah." Wells sighed and leant forward, scanning the crowd briefly before turning his eyes back to Bucky's face. "Look, it's complicated. I wasn't even sure how I really felt until I wrote that letter. As I told you, I've never had a friend like you before, and I didn't wanna risk losing that friendship. Besides, you know that kinda thing is the fastest route to a Blue discharge, and I'll be damned if I'm getting discharged just for caring about someone."

"Jesus, Wells. What you said in your letter… that's not the reason you came back, is it?" If it was, the guy was gonna be disappointed. His friend would have thrown away freedom and happiness for nothing more than friendship.

"I'd be lying if I said seeing you again wasn't part of the reason. But the whole reason? No. It's bigger than you, Barnes." Wells gave him an easy smile that, for once, didn't seem to have any bullshit in it. "I'm glad I got chance to see you before you shipped out, and I'm sorry if this has put your head in a difficult place right before an important mission."

"A difficult place?" he snorted. "Wells, I've spent the past year having no idea how to deal with you dying or what you wrote in your letter, and I still have no idea how to deal with it."

"Then don't," Wells said with a shrug. As if it was that easy. "Put it aside until after the war. Or for the rest of your life, if you prefer. I came back hoping we could still be friends, because despite anything else, I think we make a good team. But if that's asking too much, if you don't wanna go back, if you can't go back because it's too uncomfortable or feels too awkward, then tell me. I'll walk out that door tonight and you'll never have to see me again."

The thought of never seeing Wells again, after only just getting him back, made his stomach twist like he was back on the roller coaster at Coney Island. "Of course I wanna be friends." Hell, Wells was one of the best friends he'd ever made, and awkwardness or not, nothing would change that.

"Good." He glanced at the clock on the wall. "It's getting late, and I'm covering a night shift for a friend. Will you meet me when you get back? Tell me how fabulous life is as Captain America's sidekick?"

"I'm not a—wait, you're leaving?" Suddenly, it was all too much. Too fast. Wells was back, but now he was going. The day after tomorrow, Bucky would be shipping out on the next mission. He couldn't leave things like this.

"Yeah. Not all of us can have cushy jobs like you. The wheels of war never stop turning."

"But I only just got here!"

"An hour ago, yeah."

An hour? God, how had time flown so quickly? Wells stood up, a little wobbly on his legs, making Bucky wonder how many the guy'd had before he'd even got there. "What about tomorrow? If you're not too tired for lunch."

Wells gave a dismissive hand wave. "Night shift today means sleep-in tomorrow. My posting here's permanent, I'm not goin' anywhere. I promise I'll still be here when you get back from your mission." Wells gave him a convivial pat on the shoulder as he passed, then stopped in the doorway and rooted around inside his pocket. "Hey, Barnes." He tossed something soft and olive drab to Bucky, who caught it one-handed. "Washed and smelling fresh as daisies. I even had 'em pressed."

It was a pair of socks.

When Wells disappeared, Bucky didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He settled on 'numb', because it seemed the easiest thing to deal with. He drank his glass of rum and wandered rather more steadily than his friend back into the main room. Dugan and the others were well on their way to being merry. In fact, they'd passed merry three drinks ago and were now into 'sloshed' territory.

At any other time, he would have been tempted to join them. Right now, he needed to be alone with his thoughts. Wells was not dead. Not only was he not dead, he was very much alive! This was the best news Bucky had received in a very long time. But it meant that now, he had a whole can of worms to think about. Several cans, in fact. A mountain of worms and cans, all messed up together. For the first time since gettin' outta Krausberg, he somehow had to reconcile everything that used to be with everything that now is. He wasn't the same man he'd been with the 107th. He'd left that man behind, with what was left of his old regiment, back in Italy. It had been a different life, and by not talking about any of it, ever, he'd managed to keep those lives separate. But now, part of that life had come back. How could he make it fit with the life he had now? What if he couldn't?

He set off towards the pub's exit. Maybe some sleep would bring clarity.

"Hey, Buck," Steve called out. He was sequestered at a table with Peggy, as far from the rowdy Commandos as he could get. Steve gestured to a pint of ale on the table in front of him. "What about your drink?"

"Oh, I'm not thirsty. You have it."

"Where are you going?"

"Back to the hotel. I'm kinda tired. Want to get an early night."

Steve favoured him with a look that was seventy-five percent skeptical and twenty-five percent worried. "It's ten past eight."

"Yeah, like I said, I'm tired."

Steve offered no further objections, so Bucky slunk out and made his way back to the hotel. He had a lot of thinking to do before the mission.