We Were Soldiers

159. Awake

It had been months since he'd last been to Stark's lab under Whitehall—not since the whole April Fool's incident, in fact—but he'd already checked several places while looking for his friend, and this was the last place he could think to look. Bucky had gone to buy cake six hours ago, and he still hadn't returned. That probably meant he'd gotten distracted by a dame or a bottle of Scotch, and judging by his most recent behaviour, it was probably the latter. On the off chance that he'd come to visit his pal Miles instead, Steve decided it was worth a look.

The blast door was closed as usual, so he knocked and waited. After a few minutes he called out, "Hello? Is anybody here?" When that elicited no response, he pounded on the door with his fist until it shook. Maybe Miles wasn't here. Maybe he was out, or already home in whatever hotel housed him.

He was about to give up when a mechanical whirring sound announced movement. The blast door opened, but only wide enough to let him pass through sideways. Was it stuck, or was Miles just being peevish because he'd been disturbed? No doubt he was busy conducting many important experiments vital to the success of the war.

Music drifted along down the corridor as if welcoming him into the facility. It was familiar. Something mom liked to play after a tiring day on the ward while she soaked in the small copper tub they kept for bathing. Vivaldi's Four Seasons graced the air and Autumn had just opened, if he wasn't mistaken. He smiled at the memory of his mom humming along from the tub.

"Argh!" Something brushed against his foot and scurried off, and he got the briefest of glimpses before the thing disappeared. But it couldn't possibly be real. Rats didn't wear top-hats, not even white rats.

The music grew louder the closer he got to the main lab. There was something else too, a strange odour that assaulted his heightened sense of smell. It smelt like sweat, mixed in with lavender and some sort of citrus fruit. Something odd was going on. Why were most of the lights off? And where were all the staff? Sure, Howard was away doing something top secret that he wouldn't even whisper about, but what about everybody else?

He found Miles in the main lab, and kinda wished he hadn't. The guy's lab coat had several interesting splotches of colour on it, and thank God he was wearing it, because other than his boxer shorts and his grey socks, he was in a complete state of undress. He looked up from a microscope as Steve entered the room, the goggles over his eyes and his messy, uncombed hair giving him a sort of mad inventor air. He'd seen homeless people with better personal hygiene than this.

"Captain Rogers," he said. "What brings you down here? Minnie, please turn the music down," he shouted to across the room. "I can't hear Captain Rogers speak."

'Minnie' was a rat. She was sitting beside the gramophone that blared out Vivaldi, wearing a tiny flower that had been somehow stuck on the top of her head. And she wasn't the only rat present; several scurried around the floor, while more sat on various workbenches and shelves. Every single one of them was wearing some tiny item of clothing or accessory. How the hell had he got the particularly fat one to wear a tiny pair of spectacles?!

Since the rat wasn't listening to Miles, probably because it was a damn rat, Steve tiptoed his way across the floor, carefully avoiding their leathery tails, and turned the music right down himself. Then he turned to the man at the microscope and asked, "What the hell, Miles?"

"I'm sorry, you'll have to be more specific than that."

He must've gone insane. That was the only explanation. "Where are your clothes?" he asked. Then continued with, "What's that odd odour I can smell, and why are there rats running free around the lab? And wearing clothes, no less!" He suddenly spotted something in the corner of the room; it was a pile of MRE ration kits. Several of them had been nibbled open. "Are you living here?"

"I can see how this looks," Miles said. He removed the goggles from his eyes and rested them on his forehead. It did not make him look any saner. "Yes, I'm living here. I have heating, lighting, food enough to last a year, and more importantly, space. Back at my hotel, I have to share a room with three other guys. This is just easier. Plus I'm saving the SSR money because I no longer have to commute to work each day. With the rest of the staff elsewhere, it makes sense that I stay close and keep an eye on the experiments."

"Okay." It did made sense, in a way. "And your clothes?"

"One of the experiments exploded. So my clothes are in the wash, and I'm wearing this old lab coat until I can get them clean and dry."

"The smell?"

"The lab doesn't have a shower, okay? So I've been attempting to develop a sonic shower, using sound-waves to eradicate physical and biological detritus." He shouted over to the rat with the flower. "Minnie, please make a note that Vivaldi's Four Seasons doesn't seem to be doing the job."

"And the other smells?" he insisted. "Lavender?"

"We have a moth problem. It's a well known fact that if you hang lavender in your wardrobe, it discourages moths. They don't like the smell."

"I can smell something fruity. Maybe… orange? Or lemon?"

Miles shook his head. "No, you must be imagining that one. Oh, unless it's the pineapple you can smell."

"Pineapple?"

"For the piña coladas." Steve stared blankly at him. "It's a type of cocktail. Howard's favourite. I'm trying to grow pineapples in the lab, so that we don't have to rely on an unpredictable supply chain from the Bahamas."

"And the rats are loose because..?"

"It was cruel to keep them caged when they had no experiments to fulfill," Miles said. "Plus, the way they used to run in those wheels constantly was very annoying. I ran out of oil and the squeaking of the wheels was just too much to bear."

"Why are the rats accessorising?"

"I'm introducing culture to them in the hopes of jogging some sort of sentience in their tiny brains. According to my calculations, the human race will be extinct within the next seventy years, but I figure rats might actually stand a chance. If any civilisation deserves to continue into the next epoch, it's the rodent one. They've done so much for us."

Steve had met crazy people before. Great War veterans suffering from shell-shock, whose experiences had driven them to grief and despair. The man in the hospital where his mom worked, who couldn't accept that his family had died in a house fire. Men and women with mental illnesses, marginalised and pushed out to the fringe of society, rendered homeless by their inability to cope with the world. But he'd never met someone who'd gone from normal to crazy in such a short period of time.

He took Miles by the arm, led him over to the gramophone, shoo'd the rat away, and sat him down on a stool. "Miles, how long has it been since you last went outside?" he asked gently.

"Oh, I don't know. When did Stan go off to die in an experimental aircraft accident?"

"He's not dead. He's back, actually. And that was almost three weeks ago. Have you honestly not left the lab in three weeks?"

Miles shrugged. "Sounds about right. I haven't needed to leave the lab, see. Everything that I need is right here."

"What about companionship? People to talk to?"

"I have the rats."

"Rats aren't people, Miles." Time for an intervention. "Look, why don't you come to Morita's welcome back party tomorrow night, at the Whip & Fiddle?"

Miles blinked at him like some wide-eyed cricket. "Who's Morita?"

"One of my teammates. You met him during the April Fool's joke you helped Bucky pull on all of us."

"Oh yeah. The small, sarcastic one. Where has he been?"

"He was sick recently. Real sick. But now he's better, and we're having a get-together to welcome him back."

"I dunno…" He gestured to the many items of machinery lying around the lab. "I have lots of important experiments to do."

"But all of your friends will be there! Like Bucky, and Stan—"

"Plus, I don't really have any clothes to wear right now, since the experiment exploded…"

"—and Howard will be there as well—"

"Wait, Howard's going?" Miles' expression of vague insanity instantly transformed into a scowl. "That bastard owes me some answers. Like where he's been and where everyone else is and why I've been left behind to feed the rats."

Uh-oh. The last thing he needed at the party was drama. Though, knowing Morita's sense of humour, he would probably appreciate it. And Miles deserved some answers from Howard. It wasn't fair of him to abandon the guy this way. It was kinda like abandoning a puppy… a crazy puppy with genius-level intellect, but a puppy nonetheless.

"Howard should be getting there with Morita around five tomorrow night," he said. "So why don't you take the next day to get all your clothes sorted out"—Oh God, how he hoped Miles would put some clothes on before then!—"and swing by the Fiddle around then? We've got some food on, real food I mean, not these MREs, and there will be drinking and music and probably more drinking."

Miles considered it for a moment, then nodded. "Alright. I'll come. And I'll bring the game."

"The game?"

"The game. It's a drinking game that I invented a couple of weeks ago. A small machine launches peanuts into the air, and you have to see how many you can catch in your mouth. Loser has to drink."

This sounded suspiciously familiar. Hadn't Bucky told him something about this? Only, it wasn't a drinking game, the way Bucky had told it. It was some sort of experiment. "Is that anything like the experiment you were doing relating to peanuts and statistics?"

"Yes, but then I realised Barnes was right; it was me that was broken, not the world. So now the experiment is a drinking game. I'm going to leave the problem of long-term statistical analysis to the rats, them being better placed to deal with long-term statistical analysis and all."

"Well… I'm sure the game will be really popular," he said. In fact, if he knew anything about his teammates, the game might become even more popular than arm-wrestling, because at least then someone other than Dugan stood a chance at winning. "By the way, has Bucky been down here today?"

"No, I haven't seen Barnes since Stan left and I started working on my peanut launcher."

"Huh. Didn't you have drinks with him one night a week or so back?"

"I think I'd remember if I'd left the lab."

"Yeah, you're right. I must just be remembering things wrong." After all, Bucky hadn't explicitly stated that he was going for drinks with Miles. Everyone had just assumed it. "So, we'll see you tomorrow night?"

Miles nodded. "Tomorrow night it is. And if you're looking for Barnes, try the Eagle's View. He drinks there sometimes."

Steve merely thanked him and left. The Eagle's View had been one of the first places he'd tried, but his friend had seemingly disappeared. Hopefully he would show up in time for the party tomorrow. Hopefully he'd be sober. And hopefully he wouldn't forget the cake.

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

Steve tried not to bounce on the spot like a little kid as he watched the traffic coming down the road. Peggy had said she'd be back with the snacks for six o'clock, and she was running late. He already had Dugan pestering him for help with the throne, and Monty trying to collar him to help paint the banner. Somehow, in assigning jobs for everybody, Dugan had completely forgotten to give Steve a job, so now his time was being split three ways.

Relief filled him from head to toe when a taxi pulled up outside the Fiddle and Peggy waved at him from the back seat. He rushed forward to open her door, and she accepted his hand in climbing out. "I'm sorry I'm so late, I had a little trouble flagging a taxi down. The train I planned to catch departed too early, so I missed it, and everybody else had the same idea. Here, you can grab this box for me," she said, handing him a large box from the back seat beside her.

"This is quite heavy," he said. Not for him, but for a regular person it would've been quite the weight to carry. "It's probably a good thing you got a taxi after all, I can't imagine a journey on the Underground being much fun with this."

"Oh, it's not that bad," she replied, ever the strong soldier. "Wait, don't go anywhere." She dashed around to the trunk and opened it up to reveal more boxes, which she piled on top of the one in his arms. After the third box, he could not longer see in front of him. "Are you okay there?" she asked. "They're not too heavy?"

"No, they're fine," he said. "Though you're going to have to guide me around any obstacles."

"Glad to hear it. Just two more." Two more?! Just how many 'nibbles' had she bought? "There, all done," she said at last. "Thank you, driver, here's your payment. Come this way, Steve. Let's make sure these are delivered safely."

She placed her hand on his arm and he almost dropped every box right there and then. Through patience and practice his motor control had improved, but her touch just had a certain way of turning all his muscles to jelly, and as much as melted all over the pavement was not a great look for Captain America, it wasn't something he had any control over. He didn't want control over it.

Once inside the Fiddle, she let go of his arm to move chairs out of his way as Lizzie called out, "Bring it all down to the cellar!" She'd very graciously granted them permission to store their party supplies in the cellar until they were needed tomorrow. It meant extra time to prepare everything in advance of Morita's return.

The cellar was cool and dark, with only one gas lantern available to light the way. The Fiddle might be all modern convenience and electricity above, but the landlord's purse strings hadn't extended to paying for electricity in the cellar. You don't need light to store ale, he'd said, which was technically true. But without light, Steve didn't dare tackle the steps, not even with Peggy guiding him. He waited at the top until she'd removed the smaller boxes, then carried the last two down himself.

"Over here," she said, gesturing to a shelf set against the wall with the lantern she carried. "Lizzie has cleared the wine off of here for us. It's more than big enough to store everything for the party."

As he deposited the boxes on the shelf, he marvelled once more at how easy everything was for him now. The old Steve would've struggled to carry that first box for any distance. He'd probably have fallen down the stairs under its weight, and wouldn't have been able to lift it onto the shelf. The dampness of the cellar would've triggered his asthma, and he'd likely be stood here knuckling his back right now. Hell, the old Steve wouldn't have even been here at all. He'd still be back home, probably in a military jail cell after being caught falsifying enlistment forms for the ninth time.

Peggy surveyed the results of her shopping spree. That was the only way he could describe what she'd done. It was a spree. "Perhaps I may have overdone it just a little with the finger-food."

"We'll probably be feeding the whole Fiddle for days," he agreed.

"Hopefully Sergeant Barnes will find a more modest cake to accompany this feast."

Steve shook his head. The words Bucky, cake and modest did not fit together at all. "He left to find a cake after breakfast this morning… I thought he'd be back by now."

"You know how indecisive he can be," she pointed out. Which was true. Sometimes Bucky could agonise over a decision for days. Other times he was scarily impulsive. And which Bucky he got depended entirely on what sort of mood he was in. "He's probably just gotten distracted by frosting."

"Maybe." He didn't want to give voice to his fears, because that made them more real, but he really needed a second opinion right now. "I'm worried about him. I think the mission hit him harder than he's letting on. And that, on top of his memories of Austria starting to come back… I know he said he was going out to get a cake, but that shouldn't take nine hours. I worry that I'm gonna get back to the hotel and find him passed out with a bottle of Scotch in his hand. What if he goes off the rails again?" He'd already had the fear two weeks ago, when he'd come back from visiting Tiberius and heard about Bucky's argument with Dugan. And that was even before the whole U-boat mess.

Peggy sighed and rolled her eyes, and he could already hear her complaint about the drama of men. But she held off on that, and merely said, "I wouldn't worry about him. I saw him a couple of hours before I left the market; he'd been wandering around Hackney looking for a cake shop. I gave him the name and address of one my family has used in the past and sent him on his way."

What a relief! Unless he'd been wandering around drunk. He hated that he even had to ask. "Was he sober?"

"Yes, he appeared to be."

He felt some of the tension drain from his shoulders. Over the past year, he and his best friend seemed to have switched positions. Now, instead of Bucky worrying about Steve, Steve worried about Bucky. There had been times over the past few months that he had regretted involving Kevin in getting Bucky's order to be sent home changed. Instead of recovering with his family, he was right in the thick of it, and God only knew what he'd do when they finally caught up to Schmidt.

"Sorry," he said. "I know I shouldn't worry. Or heap my worries on you. It's just that all his life Bucky has been the one to protect others. His family, his friends, even strangers in need. And when he's not able to do that, he doesn't take it too well."

"I hadn't noticed," she said dryly.

"I've tried everything I can think of to get him to talk about the stuff he's struggling with, but he seems determined to do it all alone."

She offered him a warm smile that ran straight down his spine and ended at his toes. "Well then, it's a good job he has friends around him to be there when he needs them. For now, focus on your other needy teammates. Sergeant Barnes will be fine for the moment. Private Morita needs your attention more."

"You're right." She was always right, and he was grateful that she'd been assigned as his liaison. Without her, the team would not be what it was today. "I'll make myself available for Jim for the next few days. Phillips has already pulled us from missions until he's recovered from his ordeal and I've recovered from giving so much blood. I can't imagine the fear he felt, knowing he was infected, seeing what the sickness had done to the crew of the U-2540."

"Speaking of Phillips," she said, "has anybody thought to invite him to the party?"

"Yes, I did yesterday. He declined with thanks. Said the team deserved a night to relax without having to worry about saluting every five minutes." And it was a small relief, too. Phillips remained as business-like as ever, and if he'd warmed to the team at all, he didn't show it. "But he's opened a tab for us, and said drinks are on him tonight."

"Brave man." She fought back a smirk. "Does he know he may be bankrupt by tomorrow?"

"SON OF A WHORE!"

Dugan's yell, loud enough to make its way down the stairs into the cellar, was preceded by the meaty thunk of a hammer hitting a thumb. Peggy stifled a grin behind her free hand. "I suppose we really should get back to helping with the rest of the preparations. I don't think Dugan should be left unsupervised with tools, and I can already tell Major Falsworth failed finger painting classes at school. His banner lettering looks a little wonky. Perhaps he's the one who's not sober."

She reached up to the lantern hook above, standing on her tiptoes for extra height. But the ground wasn't exactly even, and she wobbled precariously as gravity considered whether to topple her over. Steve immediately stepped forward to place a steadying hand on her hip and reached up to wrap his fingers around the lantern handle. "I've got you," he said.

A quiet gasp escaped her lips, warm breath caressing his cheek, sending another shiver down his spine to his toes. Her wide brown eyes, so warm in the lamplight, invited him to jump in and drown himself in their depths. His fingers, holding not only the lamp but her own fingers as well, tingled like the time when his teacher had demonstrated how to make static electricity in class using friction between certain materials. Only now, it was the friction between his skin and hers which made that spark dance across his body.

You've got your hand on her hip, idiot, his brain pointed out.

Shhh, be quiet! he told it.

"I suppose the guys can manage without us for a few minutes," he said. "I mean, it's just a little craft work. Not that complicated. Lizzie can help."

With her free hand, she traced the hem of his sleeve from his elbow to his wrist, then lightly ran her fingers over the back of the hand still in place on her hip. If her guiding hand on his arm earlier had turned his muscles to jelly, this lighter touch set every inch of him on fire, a tidal wave of wonderful, torturous tingling flames that flickered across his skin and spread upwards into his mind. He closed his eyes and tried not to wobble on his feet.

"Is something wrong, Steve?" she asked.

He opened his eyes to unfeigned concern written all over her face and shook his head as he tried to make his unwilling tongue form words. "Sometimes I forget that it isn't just my strength and speed that Dr Erskine's formula improved. It's my senses, too, and that includes my nerves. Normally I'm not conscious of my sense of touch, but with you, I feel everything."

With a playful smile, she lifted his hand from her hip and placed it across her cheek, to cup her face. But she kept her own hand on his, using it to guide his fingers in tracing the edge of her cheekbone. "I don't think that's the serum. I feel it too. As if I've been asleep my whole life, and now I'm awake for the first time."

This time he needed no invite. He brushed her lips lightly with his and almost lost his grip on the lantern when she returned the gesture with more passion than he'd been expecting. But as he sank once more into her lips, all thoughts of the team and helping with the preparations fled from his mind. Right now he just wanted to be a man enjoying this moment alone with his girl.