We Were Soldiers

147. Stop Me If You Hate This

"Well, this brings back memories," said Steve. He glanced out of the taxi window as London's buildings passed by, silent witnesses to the start of their double-date. Tonight would either be great, or a complete nightmare. It would be real easy to put his foot in it with Michael.

"It does?" Peggy asked. She was wearing the red dress. The one that made his cheeks heat to think about the first time he'd seen her in it. Her flirting had been as subtle as a sledgehammer, but that didn't matter, because he knew she did not flirt like that with anyone else.

"You and me in the back of a cab?" he said. "Only last time, I was much smaller, and putting my foot in my mouth with just about every word I said."

"You're being a little hard on yourself." She smiled warmly. "It was only every other word you said, to be fair."

"Then you're remembering more generously than I am."

"In my experience, we always tend to be hard on ourselves when looking at our past actions. And those who aren't hard on themselves… well, they're the people who never experience personal growth."

"I couldn't agree more." It was amazing how often they agreed on things. Here was somebody who'd grown up on the other side of the world, and yet she understood him better than almost anyone he'd ever met. It was just a shame that it had taken such a horrific war for him to find her. "So, is there anything I need to know about?" he asked. "You know… British etiquette about double dates? Do we split the bill equally? Me and Michael, I mean. I don't expect you and Antje to pay. Not that you're not capable, but this is—"

"I'll stop you there," she said. "There is no etiquette for this. I've never been out on a double-date with my brother before, and to be honest, it's not exactly something I've been looking forward to. This was his idea, so he's paying. For all of us. If you want to dispute that, take it up with him."

His heart dropped a little. "I'm sorry to hear you haven't been looking forward to this. To be honest, on our last mission, it was pretty much all I could think about."

She reached over to place a hand on his. Her hands were so tiny. How did she even manage to hold a gun?!

"Steve, don't get me wrong; I've been very much looking forward to seeing you again. But a dinner date with you, and a dinner date with my brother, are two very different things. Antje is lovely of course, but Michael can be… well, I don't want to say pain in the backside, but if the shoe fits…"

"But I thought you and he were very close? I mean, that's the impression I got when you were raising hell with Phillips to mount a mission to rescue him."

"Oh, we are. Of course." She sat back and sighed, removing her hand from his. Odd, how cold he felt without her warmth. "But being close with my brother is very different to going on a double-date with my brother. He's far too insufferable at times. And he likes to meddle."

"He has your best interests at heart?"

"He thinks he does," she said wryly. "But my best interests, and what he thinks are my best interests, are often two very different things. Still, I suppose it's good that he's getting out of the house. He doesn't leave it often, which is why I was surprised that he even suggested this."

Steve nodded. Maybe this really would be the night when Michael asked Antje to marry him. If he hadn't done so already. "I'm glad that he's starting to recover from everything he went through. If anybody deserves to find happiness, it's Michael. And Antje too. She's lost so much, for someone so young." He, too, had lost family. But Antje had lost her home, her entire identity. He couldn't even imagine what that was like.

"Stop the car," Peggy said suddenly. "We're going to walk the rest of the way."

She thrust a few coins forward before Steve could even offer to pay for the cab, and stepped out before he could think about opening her door for her. All he could do was follow, and wonder what exactly he'd done wrong now.

"Um, how many blocks away from the restaurant are we?" he asked.

"This is London. We don't have blocks. But it's only a couple of streets." She set off at a fast march that he had to jog to keep up with.

Thank God it wasn't raining; he hadn't brought an umbrella with him, and he'd have no way of keeping her dry if it had rained. Well, other than sheltering her under his coat. It was certainly big enough for her to shelter beneath, but it would not have been the romantic start to the evening that he had hoped for. Not that this was; he planned to hop out and open her door once they pulled up at the restaurant. So much for that plan.

"Is there something wrong?" she asked suddenly, stopping to turn and face him.

"Well, I didn't think there was… but now I'm not so sure," he offered. But she didn't smile. "What do you mean?"

"Do you intend to ask to kiss me at the end of the night?"

It was as if she could read his mind. And what could he do, except be honest? "Yes, I was."

"Why?"

Funny how a single word could mean so many potentially different things. "Well, it's only polite—"

"Do you always do what's expected of you?" she asked.

He tried to think. To engage the part of his mind that was good at logic and thinking critically. But it quickly got lost in her deep brown eyes. Eyes that said she could fall in love with him or murder him depending on his answer.

"No, I don't," he said at last. "When I was a kid, and asthma stopped me from doing half of what I wanted, I did it anyway. When a dozen individual bullies knocked me down, I got back up. First time I was refused service after trying to enlist, it was expected that I find a helpful desk job somewhere quiet and out of the way. But I tried again and again."

"And yet you're still playing by the rules of others," she said. After a moment, she turned and resumed her march to the restaurant.

"Peggy, wait."

He caught up with her and stopped her with a hand on her arm. Maybe she was right. Peggy never lived by the rules that people gave her; she respected them, and followed them when required, but when her instincts and her own moral compass told her it wasn't right, she went her own way. So far, he'd been trying to be the perfect suitor. Polite. Chivalrous. Considerate. He'd put what he'd thought he ought to be doing over what he really wanted to do.

"You're right," he said. "I don't want to wait until the end of the night to kiss you. I want to kiss you now. I wanted to kiss you a half-dozen dates ago. Hell, from the moment I first saw you sock a guy on the jaw for giving you attitude, I wanted to kiss you just for being brave and strong enough to stand up to that. So, stop me if you hate this—I know you can—but I'm going to kiss you now."

And he did. She didn't try to stop him, and as his lips found hers, and he melted into her warmth and softness, he wondered at the stupidity of himself for ever holding back.

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

"You and I have very different ideas of the word 'fun'," Wells said.

They stood inside the doorway of the Eagle's View, and he was clearly not impressed. Bucky felt the need to defend his first truly independent drinking-hole.

"Trust me, once the pilots start drinking heavily, it gets more fun. It's like watching a clown fight at the circus, with front row seats."

Wells shrugged. "Fine. But tomorrow, I pick the venue. Let's find a table with a good view and get some drinks."

They ordered more ale, because Bucky still wanted to keep a clear head, and because Wells was too cheap to pay for anything else. Unlike the Fiddle, the Eagle's View only had one room, so they were forced to sit beside the bar, at a table that was wobbly no matter how many beer mats they shoved under its legs.

"I haven't agreed to tomorrow," he pointed out.

"Good, then it'll be more spontaneous when you do show up." Wells took a sip of his ale and pulled a face of disgust. "I think they water it down. Anyway, tell me something; how are the rest of the guys doing?"

"The Commandos?"

"No, I mean the 107th. I only saw Hodge, and he was not exactly what I'd call a helpful fountain of information. How's Gusty? Are he and Audrey still making googly-eyes at each other across the camp? Has Biggs managed to avoid sleepwalking onto a land mine?"

"They're all as good as can be expected," he said. "Gusty and Audrey are engaged, they plan to get married once they're back in the States. I'm gonna be his best man."

"You'll be great at that."

Bucky peered at his friend's face, looking for any sign of mockery. Surprisingly, there didn't seem to be any. Maybe Wells really had changed. "Biggs is good; he's a corporal now. Won't be long until he makes Sergeant, I reckon. Mex is still a mouth on legs, of course. I get the feeling the 107th became a less dangerous regiment once the SSR decamped back to London."

"Yeah, some of those missions we ran…" Wells shook his head and took another drink, as if trying to drown out the memory. "They were pretty insane. Like that time we dressed up as captives and Audrey had to paint fake blood and bruises on us."

"I liked that mission," he countered. "We didn't lose anyone."

"True." He glanced around the room and stifled a fake yawn. "This is really boring, pal. Wanna play a game?"

"I dunno." With Wells, a game could be something as simple as darts, or as dangerous as juggling knives. "What did you have in mind?"

"A fun game of one-upmanship that we can use to catch up without all that boring life history stuff. We each pick a theme, based on the most X thing we did, and then have to tell a personal story from it. For example, the most terrifying thing you did. But it's gotta be from the time when we were separated."

"Does the winner drink? Or the loser?"

"To be honest, I was gonna drink either way. So. Most terrifying thing you did since that mission where I didn't come back?"

Where to start? Practically every mission had been terrifying in some way. Krausberg immediately came to mind, but technically he could avoid that because it wasn't something that he did; it was something that was done to him. "Jumping out of a plane," he settled on at last. "A lot of our missions involve undercover work, but it's not always easy for planes to land in hostile territory, and not all locations are easily accessible by boat. So, we do a lot of parachuting. The first time, I was a nervous wreck. Now it's not so bad, it can even be fun when I know there's no flak incoming, but there's always that niggling little voice in the back of my mind telling me that this is the time the chute will fail."

"I'd love to jump out of a plane," Wells smiled wistfully. "With a working parachute, of course. My most terrifying thing was getting shot."

"That doesn't count. You didn't do that; it was done to you," he said.

"Oh fine, if you want to be all pedantic. Then… hiding out in a cellar from Nazis, while I was being passed around by the Italian Resistance. Had to stay in there for two nights. It was cold, dark and damp. At one point, the Krauts came down to commandeer the wine there, and I had a split second to hide behind a beer keg." Wells held his hand up, holding his thumb and finger a centimetre apart. "I was this close to being discovered. I don't think I've ever been so terrified in my whole life."

"That must've been hell for you," he offered. "I know you don't like small, dark spaces."

"It wasn't fun. I've actually started to get a little better with my claustrophobia though. Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't like to experience the Monticello again, but I can keep my cool a little better now. Anyway, your turn to pick a thing."

"Most interesting person you met," Bucky said.

"That's a tough one," he mused. "A few of the Resistance members were… unique. But I guess it would have to be Rosa, the woman who took care of me when I'd been shot. She was the only one of the family who spoke any English when I was dropped on her doorstep, so I got to know her first. She'd lived an interesting life, and was fully of really wise suggestions. Plus she was really, really scary. I think if she was in charge of the war on our side, we would've won it ages ago. How about you?"

It was a tough call. There had been Logan, most recently. But even if Wells believed his story about the soldier who couldn't die, he'd promised Logan that he wouldn't tell anyone about him. Although he was fairly sure that meant anyone within I Corps, it would still be breaking a promise to tell Wells.

"I guess it would have to be a guy called Leif. It wasn't his real name, of course. He was an SOE agent… Agent 24. That's about all we could get from him. A Norwegian in their Resistance who disrupted Nazi activity across the country, and helped us blow up a U-boat factory. The best part was, his main mode of transport was skis. He was seriously tough."

"I approve of blowing up Nazi stuff," Wells mused. "Okay, the most disgusting thing you've done."

"Eaten one of Jacques' cheeses," he said immediately. "I was young and foolish. Thought I could handle it, but I was wrong."

"Harsh. Mine… hmm, I guess it's probably helping to deliver a kid."

Bucky's mouth fell open. "You delivered a child?!"

"Not quite. Kid as in a baby goat. Still," he held his hands up, "if you knew where these hands had been, you would not have accepted that drink I passed you."

"You couldn't've warned me earlier?"

"I hadn't thought of the game earlier," he said with a casual shrug. "Your turn."

"Okay… how about your biggest regret?"

"Oh, that's a tough one. Gimme a minute." While Wells was pondering the question, Bucky ordered a basket of fries from the bar. They weren't actually fries, they were what the English called chips, big chunky things that usually accompanied a steak back home. He was actually starting to prefer them over regular fries. They definitely helped him hit his daily grease quota.

"Tick tock, Wells," he said, tapping his wrist watch.

"Okay, this is going to sound like a huge bunch of BS," his friend offered at last, "but I don't actually have any regrets. Everything I've done since getting shot, I could not have done any better. I think I made the best choices that were available to me at the time. I mean, maybe I could've tried to reach Switzerland before the winter got too bad, but I probably would've died in the attempt. And maybe I could've got the Resistance to help me back sooner, but then the Third wouldn't have been in their encampment for me to meet up with them. I theoretically could've tried harder to stay, but I think it would've been too difficult for me to remain near the town without being handed over by whatever informant relayed information to the Nazis about me in the first place. So, hard as it may be to believe, I don't have any regrets."

Bucky glanced around, to make sure nobody was close enough to eavesdrop. "What about your letter?"

"That was something I wrote before I got shot. So in the context of this game, it doesn't count."

"But do you regret writing it? Now that you're still alive, I mean."

"I don't wanna talk about it."

"But—"

"Look," Wells interrupted. "Can you accept that just as there are some things that you don't want to talk about, there are some things that I don't want to talk about?"

"I guess…"

"Good. As far as I'm concerned, it's in the past. No longer relevant. So please don't mention it again, okay?"

It's not the same, he wanted to object. What Bucky didn't want to talk about was an awful period of pain, fear and torture. Nothing Wells had written even remotely compared to that. Maybe he really did regret writing it. But if he did, why not just say that? Perhaps he was just worried about repercussions. That must be it.

"So," Wells continued, "what's your biggest regret?"

"Easy. Letting Haven talk me and Gusty out of going after you and Hawkins."

"And like I said before, you wouldn't have found me, on account of my feverish wanderings. The best you would've got for your trouble was a reprimand. Maybe even a court-martial. So pick a different regret."

"Okay." There was one. One that he had accepted, but the what-if still played occasionally on his mind. "I had a date with a girl, but I fell ill before I was due to meet her and missed the entire thing. Before I could put things right, she went out with another guy and kinda fell for him."

Wells winced. "That's not anything I can personally relate to, but if you want, I can punch the guy for you."

"Better not. It's Agent Carter's brother."

"What? She told me he was dead."

"Everyone thought he was. Turned out he was a POW. We—that is, me and Steve and the rest of the Commandos, along with Carter—we rescued him and brought him home."

"And he thanked you by stealing your girl?" Wells' blue eyes blazed angrily. "That definitely calls for a punching."

"He didn't exactly steal her. And besides, he'd been a prisoner for a long time. Been through hell, really. He and Antje… that's her name… they seem to make each other happy. So I'm glad they've been able to find some happiness. And in a way, it's also kind of a relief. I mean, I don't want another person to worry over whether or not I'm coming back from every mission. It's bad enough I worry my family like that."

"Know what I think?" Wells offered. "You're too selfless. It's okay to want things for yourself. And to be sad if you can't have them."

"That's just it. I'm not selfless. I think I was actually being selfish by asking her out."

Wells leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. "Alright, this should be a good one. Let's see how your crazy topsy-turvy logic has made you think asking a dame out is selfish."

"I just wanted some normalcy," he explained. "Some fun. A distraction from… well, just to be reminded that there was something more than war or fighting. I don't think my motives in asking her out were pure, or for her benefit. I think they were for mine. And that's no way to start a relationship."

"You didn't have this moral agonising when we were taking what's-her-face and what's-her-face out for drinking and dancing back in Plymouth last year," Wells pointed out.

"That was different. Those girls knew we weren't looking for anything serious. That we wanted a bit of fun, and they wanted the same. And that was okay. But Antje's much younger, and she's lost her entire family in the war. She wasn't looking for a bit of fun. She deserved more than that. And now she has it."

"Hmm." Wells watched him for a moment, his gaze suspiciously deep. Finally, he said, "I wish I could find fault with your stupid Barnes-logic, but I guess it checks out. Though, if you've accepted that your motives were selfish, why did you name this particular thing as your regret?"

He shrugged. "I guess the what if just plays on my mind sometimes." He cast around for another subject. One that didn't involve his circular logic being picked apart by the most illogical man he'd ever met. "Anyway, I heard you got shot?"

"Yeah, I wouldn't recommend it. It was the least fun thing I did last year."

"Can I see where?"

"Sure. It's a little patch of forest back in Italy, go knock yourself out."

"That's not what I m—"

"I know what you meant, and no you can't fuckin' see it," Wells shot back. "What the hell kinda question is that to even ask a guy?"

"I was just curious," he countered. "No need to get so defensive."

"Barnes, you are the king of finding ways to punish yourself for things that are not your fault. If I know you, you've probably been kicking yourself black and blue over leaving me and Hawkins and the others behind. You don't need to kick yourself over me getting shot, too. I'm fine. Just a little bullet, no big problem. I'm alive, I'm here, I'm no longer fit for combat, so as far as I'm concerned, everything worked out fine. Not only fine; better."

"Do you really think things are better?"

"For me, yes. And if that sounds selfish, it definitely is." He took a couple of chips from the basket and nibbled on them. "I don't deny that I was good at what I did. When we were working for Phillips, I mean. But that wasn't just me. That was you, and me, and the rest of the team. But the team is mostly gone. I'm injured, and you're Captain America's sidekick. If life is a river, then for a while there, we were up shit creek. I like where I am now more, even though it's not the same. Of course there are things I miss. People I miss. Moments of happy bullshit amongst the bloodshed. But I don't miss being shot at. I don't miss watching people die. But that's okay. Times like that aren't supposed to last forever. If they do, that means we're trapped in eternal war. That the world is trapped in war. Time has moved on. Some died. Some live. As much as I sometimes wish I could go back and spend more time with the people we lost, relive some of those happier moments again… it's just not possible. I can't fight change, so I try to go with it."

"That sounds like something Steve would say," he mused.

"Well then he must be a really smart guy." Wells fiddled with his empty glass for a moment, twirling it around on the table. "What was it like? Seeing him again, after all that time apart? Seeing him so different to the guy you'd known back home?"

Thank God! If this really was Steve, he could kill Bucky. Help put him out of his misery. Help him escape the pain and torture and experimentation. He spotted the gun in Steve's holster, and opened his mouth to ask for it.

"It was great," he lied. He could tell his friend didn't believe him, but Wells didn't push the matter.

"I'll buy the next round," he said instead. "But then we'll need to think about where we're going next. This place is no fun at all."

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

Steve's head was floating in the clouds as he opened the restaurant door for Peggy. Talk about Cloud Nine; he'd passed nine, ten and eleven three clouds ago, and was now high up on Cloud Twelve. She smiled her gratitude at him, and he caught a whiff of her perfume as she brushed by, which made his brain even foggier. He would've happily spent the whole night stood on that sidewalk, holding her in his arms, feeling the warmth of her lips on his. The kiss she gave him was nothing like the one Private Lorraine had subjected him to. It was soft, tentative, but also firm and confident, and it carried with it a hint of a promise that there may be another to come later.

Conscious as he was about the stupid grin on his face, he could not have done a thing to remove it even if he'd wanted to. He was going to look like an idiot in front of Michael. Make a fool of himself in front of Antje. But if that was the price of a kiss, it was cheaply bought indeed.

One of the staff carried their coats off to the cloak room and escorted them through the dining room. The restaurant was surprisingly busy, full of London's elite, and if their plates were not piled high, the food on them was at least high quality. Only those with money to burn could afford restaurant prices during rationing.

Michael and Antje were already there, sitting opposite each other at a table for four. They conversed quietly, and seemed for all the world like a young couple in love. Antje's smiles were small and secretive, while Michael smiled openly at her. Had he already proposed? There was no ring on her finger, so maybe not.

"Ah, my sister and Captain Rogers finally decide to join us," Michael said, as the waiter pulled out the chair beside Antje for Peggy. Steve kicked himself for not being fast enough to get there first. "What happened, Peggy, did your driver get lost?"

"Actually, we decided to walk most of the way, since it was such a fine evening," she said, and it was not a lie. "It gave us time to talk a few things over."

"I bet it did," He chuckled in a very Bucky way, then stood to shake Steve's hand. He seemed much recovered from his ordeal as a POW. He'd gained weight, and his skin looked a healthy shade once more. Add a shave and a haircut, and to look at him, you'd never guess about the things he'd been through. Also very much like Bucky. "Captain Rogers, it's a pleasure to see you again."

"And you too," he returned, shaking the hand Michael proffered. Then he turned to take Antje's hand. "Antje, I'm pleased to hear how well you're settling in to London. I trust your Grandpa is in good health?"

She smiled and gently shook his hand. "He's in the best health he's experienced in years," she replied. "And it is all thanks to Mrs Carter. And Michael, of course. The doctors they have brought to see him have worked wonders." After months in London, her English came much more fluently.

"Please, let's be seated and take a look at the menu," Michael said. "I took the liberty of ordering a bottle of wine for the table; it should be here any minute."

The menu was likely a shadow of its former self; with food production heavily controlled by the government, restaurants like this one had to operate with a limited choice. Despite the lack of choice, Steve didn't understand what half of the dishes even were. Filet Mignon? Turbot? Osso Buco? Were they fish? Meat? Vegetables?

"It all looks so interesting," he said. "I'm not even sure how to choose."

Antje saved him with a gesture at her own menu. "Michael, I have no idea what these things are!"

"Ahh, I'm sorry!" He ran through the menu, explaining what each thing was. The British seemed to love giving relatively simple things very complex names.

When the waiter arrived with their wine and to take their orders, Antje ordered "the fish". The man gave a derisive sniff as he jotted her order down. "You know, I think I'll have the fish too," said Steve. Peggy and her brother ordered the filet mignon, and the snooty waiter retreated to the kitchen.

"So, dear sister, how did your last mission go?" Michael asked.

"As well and as classified as ever, thank you for asking," she countered.

Michael merely laughed. "And you, Captain? I heard you and your team were kept busy in Normandy. Rumour has it you single-handedly captured Cherbourg from the Germans."

"The rumours are much larger than life," he assured him. He was gonna kill Freddie, when he got his hands on the photographer. "An entire corps captured Cherbourg. I was just one part of it."

"I was glad to hear of the success in France," Antje offered. "It means hope for my people. That one day soon, Hitler will be driven back from Belgium into Holland. Then back from Holland into Germany. And this time, I hope they stay there."

"I have no doubt our leaders are working on that very plan as we speak," said Steve, and she gave him a grateful smile.

"I think I'll go and powder my nose," Peggy said. "Antje, would you join me?"

"Yes, of course, Peggy."

He watched as the pair of them made their way elegantly through the dining room. They were complete opposites; Peggy, tall and curvy in her red dress, her dark hair cascading down her back in soft waves. Antje, shorter, slimmer, her pale cream dress hanging more freely from her, her blonde hair not yet grown out from having been cut like a boy's. They were both beautiful, in different ways. Peggy's beauty was an external expression of her fierce determination and strength. Antje's was a beauty that spoke of grace, courage and endurance.

"We are both lucky men," Michael said, as if reading his mind. His eye, too, was on the women. Or at least, one of them. "That such beautiful creatures deign to show us affection."

Steve nodded. This seemed the right time to bring up the proposal, before he put his foot in his mouth in front of Antje. "I heard that you and Antje were… well, that you were planning to ask her to marry you..?"

"You heard correctly. " Michael sighed and pulled a small box from the pocket of his waistcoat. "I've been carrying this thing around for weeks, waiting for the perfect moment. Each time I work myself up into asking, I get cold feet."

"Why? Are you afraid she'll say no?"

"Quite the opposite. I fear she'll say yes without hesitation."

This sounded complicated. "I don't understand what the problem is. Don't you want to marry her?"

"I'd like nothing more," Michael agreed jovially. "But I'm not sure it's fair on her. She's young, only just old enough to marry, really. And she's been through so much already. There is still so much of the world for her to see. She's a wonder with a needle, and has already started designing dresses for the daughters of some of my mother's friends. Mother's arranged to set her up with a little shop in London, where she can design, make and display her dresses. She could be very successful."

"And you think marrying you will take that away from her?" he guessed.

"Of course it will. With marriage comes certain obligations. Children must follow. The family legacy must continue. How can she pursue her dream if she's having and raising babies?"

"Lots of women have jobs and families," he countered. "Well, maybe not lots, but some. My mom was a nurse, raised me as a single parent and worked long shifts at the hospital. Bucky's mom had four kids and still kept her secretarial job. Maybe we do things a little differently back home. But you don't need to have kids as soon as you're married, right? There are ways around it. Wait a few years. Let Antje develop her business enough to support more staff who can help take care of things while she's raising kids. Or get a nanny to help so she can work at the same time."

"I suppose that's true." Michael's gaze became unfocused as he pictured it all in his mind. "And a wife with a successful business would take some of the pressure off me and allow me more time for my writing. I seem to have developed quite a flair for it, you know. It's not always a lucrative business, but it can pay, if it's done well."

"Well, I love reading. So if you'd like some honest feedback, I'd be more than happy to read some of what you've written. I mean, when you're ready for it to be read by others."

"Oh, I'm a few steps ahead of you there." Michael beamed happily. "I've got a reading planned for a few months' time. Mother's arranged a small audience, and I have an agent coming to hear my work." He pulled a small notepad and pencil from his pocket. "Let me know the address of where you're staying, and I'll have mother add you to the guest list and send an invite."

He gave his address, then asked, "But are you sure you want me there? I'd hate for Captain America's celebrity to detract from your reading."

"Then it's a good job I'm inviting Captain Rogers, and not Captain America, isn't it? Besides, this will be an excellent opportunity for you to meet Father, since you've already met our mother."

Steve's heart suddenly started a frantic beating in his chest. "Um, are you sure that's a good idea?"

"It's not only a good idea, but a very necessary one, if you plan to marry my sister."

The panic grew. "What makes you think—"

"She's my sister." Michael's gaze became more pointed. "She's intelligent, brave and beautiful. I'd be insulted if you didn't want to marry her." He quickly smiled. "Fantastic. I'll pencil you in. The reading is some time in October; Mother will send you the particulars."

"I can't guarantee I won't be on a mission."

Michael waved that away as if it was nothing. "I can always arrange another, quieter reading for when you're available. You know, just family."

The thought of meeting Peggy's father was a panic-inducing event, mitigated somewhat by the fact that he had Michael's approval. That was half the battle already won. Wasn't it?

"Maybe there is something you can help me with," Michael continued, oblivious to Steve's internal turmoil. "I still haven't been able to come up with a title for my book. I was thinking of There and Back Again; A Soldier's Tale, but I'm told Mr. Tolkien might take exception to that. After you've listened to some of it at the reading, perhaps you can throw some ideas at me."

"I'd be happy to help."

The women returned from powdering their noses. Steve got up to hold Peggy's seat out for her, but Michael took Antje by the hand and led her a couple of steps away from the table.

"Antje," he said, keeping her hand within his. "You have been a beacon of light in the darkest time of my life. When I got home, I was lost, but you found me and helped me relearn who I am, and what I have to live for. Because of you, I have a reason to wake up in the mornings, a reason to keep moving forward, a reason to keep trying to be at my best. I don't know what the future has in store for me, but I do know that I want to discover it all with you." He took the ring out from his waistcoat again, opened the box, and went down on one knee. Halfway to pushing Peggy's chair back under the table, Steve froze. Halfway to sitting on her chair, Peggy froze. It seemed as if the gaze of all diners on the tables nearby suddenly honed in on the couple. "Would you allow me the honour of becoming your husband?"

Antje's eyes shone with unshod tears. Her gaze danced from Michael's face to the ring, and then back again. Steve knew he was holding his breath, and he needed to take another real soon, but he didn't dare make any sound in case he interrupted the most important moment in both of their lives.

"I…" Antje seemed to be struggling with her English. "May I have some time to think before answering?"

"Yes, of course." The smile on Michael's face was tight. So sure of her immediate acceptance, he clearly had not planned for this. "Take as much time as you need. I'm not going anywhere."

Peggy sat down into her chair with a thunk, and Steve finally remembered to breathe. He pushed the chair forward then quickly took his own seat while Antje and Michael returned to the table. Where on earth was he supposed to look? What was he supposed to say? How could anything break this heavily silence without making it even more awkward?

Peggy cleared her throat and picked up her glass. "I'd like to propose a toast. To the victory of the righteous and the downfall of Hitler. And to a future filled with freedom for all the people of Europe."

Everyone at the table leapt at the toast, echoing her sentiment before sipping from their glasses. From the corner of his eye, Steve caught Michael mouthing thank you to Peggy, and she returned the sentiment with a small nod. Still, the happy mood from earlier was gone. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to kiss Peggy again tonight… it just didn't feel right. In fact, he wished he was elsewhere right now. Anywhere else would do.