Author's Note: some Big Feels coming up in the next few chapters.

We Were Soldiers

162. The Narrows

Danny lay on his back watching patterns of light dance across the ceiling to the accompaniment of Sergeant Schuster's soft snores. Despite blackout law, he'd forgotten to draw the curtains closed last night after getting home from the party. Schuster had been out, so Danny had assumed the other guy would see to it when he returned. Clearly he'd been in no fit state to attend curtain duty.

He glanced over to the other side of the room, to the snoring mound that was his new roommate. The snores were indicative of his night-time activities. Schuster had what doctors might call post-coital snoring, meaning he only ever did it after he'd visited a brothel. He liked to contribute to London's economy by keeping the working girls well employed, and visited them once during each four-day rest time. Claimed it was the best way to relieve stress, and given how stressed out he'd been by his former roommate's dementia, Danny was not inclined to argue otherwise.

Because he hated germs, Schuster would spend the rest of his down-time bathing and cleaning his side of the room, disinfecting it as thoroughly as possible in case he'd brought anything back from the aforementioned ladies. Sometimes he even swore that that was it, the last time, never again. Then the next set of off-shifts would come around, and he'd be right back up clap creek.

Schuster had given him the names of the best brothels in the city, the ones that had the best variety of girls, the cleanest rooms, and the most discrete staff. The old Danny Wells might have indulged his curiosity already and visited one or two of them despite the risk of getting the clap, but whilst he wasn't opposed to the idea of paying for services that were otherwise tricky to come by, the thought just didn't appeal that much anymore. He was definitely all kinds of broken right now.

He glanced at the clock on the wall, and it told him it was one in the afternoon. He never set an alarm on his free days, but he was usually awake well before now. Of course, he hadn't had all that much in the way of sleep, these past couple of days. The two hours he'd managed during his first day off hadn't hit the spot, and staying out till three in the morning had definitely not helped. It wasn't as if he'd planned it, though. Time had run away with him. It had a bad habit of doing that, especially when he was having fun. He'd managed to make it home for ten last night, but his body was now making him pay for those previous missed hours.

A smile tugged at his lips as he thought back to the party. As far as parties went, it had been okay. As promised, he'd been on his best behaviour. Toned everything down. Avoided making himself the centre of attention. Very thoughtfully gifted some chocolate to the subject of the party. Managed to avoid insulting anyone important, which was basically everybody except Dugan. And sure, maybe he shouldn't have tweaked Rogers' nose over Rita Hayworth when Carter was standing right there, but his self control only stretched so far and being good all the time was sometimes very hard.

The smile widened when he thought of the impending darts match. He hadn't played properly since getting shot. Would it affect his aim? Would he have to learn to play left handed? Hopefully Barnes wouldn't be stupid enough to challenge anyone to doubles until Danny learned to compensate for his injury. And if it took a long time to adjust, well, that was just fine. It just meant he'd have to play a lot of practice games to be back at his peak. Nothing wrong with playing darts. It was a normal thing to do. Lots of guys played it.

He rolled over onto his stomach and rested his head across his arms before closing his eyes and letting his mind wander. Darts. If his experience the other night playing throw stones up the Thames had shown him anything, it was that he'd need to start building up the accuracy in his left hand real soon. He couldn't throw for shit with his right arm, now… fuckin' Krauts. They had a lot to answer for.

Barnes' face appeared from the depths of his mind, his expression one of innocent curiosity as he looked at Danny across the pub table. "Can I see where you got shot?"

Jesus, but the guy made it real fuckin' hard to keep up that mask of normalcy, sometimes. Of course it had been an innocent question. Back with the 107th, when Barnes had had his tooth removed because of an abscess, half the regiment had asked to see the hole in his gum where the molar had been. And when Danny had made a miniscule miscalculation in juggling a couple of knives and ended up with one embedded in his hand, everyone had come for a look as soon as the bandages were off. Every guy in the tent had seen Biggs' shrapnel-leg from the mine Tipper stood on while the guy was getting changed in the barrack. It was just natural curiosity.

But those places were easily accessible to public view. Did Barnes think he was gonna take him somewhere private and let him watch while he stripped off his jacket and shirt and made himself available for a close-up inspection, lettin' the guy run his eyes all over him like that? Could he not see that there was no way that wasn't even just a tiny bit sexy no matter his lack of feelings? Even just thinking about it made him feel all tingly inside in a very pleasant but entirely unwelcome way.

No. The best way to maintain their friendship was with a constant, discreet distance of one to two feet. He would have to be on guard against further hugs, too. It had been entirely too nice. He could've stayed like that forever, frozen in that hug like an insect trapped in amber, and been very happy. But hugging breached that safety distance. Hugging. Touching. Inappropriate smiling. These were the things he had to avoid to protect his friendship. He would never forgive himself if he did something that made Barnes feel so uncomfortable that he left, and since the guy apparently had very little self-awareness about these things, Danny would have to police his friend for him.

With his serious thinking done for the day, he quietly stole out of bed, grabbed a clean uniform and made his way out the room down the corridor. The shower facilities were communal, which was a shame, but nothing he hadn't lived through for the past year. After stashing his clothes and towel safely out of the way of the water, he turned the heat on one of the shower dials up until the water was so hot he could only just tolerate it. Hot water was one of the greatest signs of civilisation; hot running water was the height of it. He didn't have Schuster's morbid fear of germs, but he had definitely missed daily showers out in the field. He had over a year of hot showering to catch up on, so he was not gonna scrimp with the heat now.

"Hey Sarge!" called a bubbly voice, as Danny was mid-way through washing the shampoo from his hair.

He ran his hands across his face to get rid of the bubbles, and opened his eyes to Corporal Bradley stepping into the showers a couple of spaces down, his blond hair immediately plastered to his head by the water streaming over him.

"Bradley, what have I told you before about shower etiquette?" Shower etiquette was very much like latrine pits etiquette, which was identical to the john etiquette on a ship. You didn't look at or otherwise engage with anyone who was going into or coming out of the facilities.

"Sorry Sarge, I know you like to shower in peace. Don't worry, I won't say another word."

He sighed, and resumed pretending he was still alone. Bradley was a kid somewhere between Tipper and Carrot on the patsy scale, a twenty-one year old who'd been in London for a couple of years because he'd passed basic training but not with enough confidence to let the brass send him armed into battle. He was a bit on the scrawny side and suffered from chronic short-sightedness, which meant he couldn't hit the broad side of a barn. He worked the same shift pattern as Schuster, so Danny usually only saw him in passing, unless he and Schuster had swapped shifts for some reason.

Once he was done showering, he grabbed his towel and walked around to the dry side of the room. Bradley immediately rested his arms atop the tiled divider and peered over, blinking water out of his eyes. "Hey Sarge, now that you're done with your shower, you wanna come get a few drinks tonight? I'm gonna try my luck at Ye Old Brown Cow, I heard it's a good place to find pretty English dames who like to dance. You wanna be my backup?"

"Not tonight, Bradley. I've got plans."

"Aw. Maybe next time then."

"Maybe." Corporal Bradley did not have the best luck with women. He wasn't a bad looking guy, but the glasses he wore were very old-fashioned, and he had a sort of perpetual squint because the lenses in them were probably not quite right. Bradley asked Danny to be his back up at least once a week, and he suspected it was because Danny didn't normally have any problems drawing in the dames, and if they agreed to dancing with him, they'd have to find someone to go with Bradley too. "If you're that desperate, why don't you just go with Schuster to one of the brothels?"

Bradley wrinkled his nose. "It's no fun if you have to pay for it, Sarge. Besides, I like dancing, and most working girls charge for the hour, right? I'm not gonna have fun dancing if I'm constantly checking my watch to figure out how much of a bill I'm racking up!"

"You make a point," he agreed. "But I'm still busy, so you're on your own with this one."

Bradley pouted and returned to his shower.

Danny revisited his room only to deposit his dirty laundry and pick up an Army Services Editions book out of their shared library. Schuster was still out for the count. Guy was a walking set of contradictions, but as far as roommates went, he wasn't too bad. As a germophobic non-smoker he was clean and never smelt bad, his favourite activity that didn't involve brothels was reading, which meant he was quiet, and he only snored once every eight days. All in all, it could be worse.

The Parkgate Hotel's dining room wasn't a large affair, with space enough for about a dozen tables and a generous breakfast counter. The counter was empty now, as were the rest of the tables, but when he opened the door to the kitchen a little and poked his head through, his favourite cook gave him a friendly smile.

"Afternoon, Mrs Cuthbert," he offered.

"Afternoon, Sergeant Wells," she replied. "I noticed you missed breakfast again today."

"Yes ma'am. Just couldn't wake myself up for it. Is there any chance of a quick bite before I head out for the evening?"

"Dinner's a way off yet, but I can fix you a bowl of porridge with a little honey in, if you like."

"That'd be amazing, thank you."

"Have a seat and I'll be with you in a few minutes."

When she finally brought the porridge through, a mug of hot coffee accompanied it. He beamed his appreciation at her. "This smells great, I hope I didn't put you out."

"Not at all," she assured him, then gave him a matronly pat on the head. Mrs Cuthbert had two sons, both serving in the British army, and she seemed to feel the need to feed everybody else's sons in their place. "You seem in good cheer today," she observed. "Did you have a good time with your friends last night?"

He nodded, trying to swallow the spoonful of porridge before it could burn his mouth. What the English called porridge was basically just oatmeal, though sometimes it seemed to have a slightly different texture. It was plain-tasting but made better with the addition of honey, and better than nothing at all.

"Yes ma'am," he replied. "It was great to eat some traditional American food; not that I don't appreciate everything that comes out of your pan."

"You boys must get so homesick sometimes." She nodded her head to herself, her grey bun bobbing up and down with the movement. "Yes, this is what I'll do. I'll ask around what some of the best American dishes are, and one night I'll cook something that you boys might like from back home. How does that sound?"

"That sounds like the best thing I've heard all week."

"Good. Just leave your cup and bowl on the breakfast bar when you're done, I'll come and clear them away later."

"Thank you Mrs Cuthbert, you're an angel."

He took his time over the porridge, savouring the sweetness of the honey. Sugar was getting harder and harder to come by on account of U-boats still disrupting merchant routes, but honey was readily available because the English could make it themselves. Or rather, the English bees could make it. It was definitely making a popular resurgence thanks to the sugar shortage. Franklin would not have approved.

He managed to stretch breakfast out a while, but by two-thirty he decided he couldn't wait any longer. He left his dishes on the bar and left the hotel for the beery ambiance of the Kettle & Drum. Time to find out exactly how bad he was at darts now.

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

Bucky hid a yawn behind one hand and used his other hand to rub the gritty feeling from behind his eyes. Fridays normally meant more time in the Fiddle, but the party had continued until after midnight, and the whole team had slept in. Everyone but Morita had woken in time for lunch; Jacques knocked on his door, but hadn't been able to interrupt the deep snores coming from the other side. Poor guy had definitely overdone it. He'd insisted on playing the peanut game until he won, and it wasn't until Steve left to escort Carter home that that actually happened. That dame did not like to lose.

Mid-afternoon found the team minus Jim lounging at ease in the Strand's small reading room. Everyone had found a book to dive into, except Dugan, who'd challenged Monty to a game of chess. Bucky grabbed a hefty copy of Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Seas written in its original French and sank into one of the comfortable reading chairs, propping his back up against one arm so that he could drape his legs comfortably over the other. Hopefully Mr Chipperton wouldn't come in to chastise him for desecrating the chair by sitting in it so un-Englishly.

"Got any plans for this evening, Steve?" Gabe asked after Monty checked Dugan in just six moves.

"Actually, yes. Peggy's got tickets for the theatre, so we're going to see a production of King Lear."

"Bah. I hate this game," said Dugan. He was the sorest of sore losers.

"So read a book instead," Bucky suggested.

"I hate reading. No patience for it. I'd rather watch a play than read a book."

Steve raised an eyebrow at that and peered at Dugan from over the top of The Great Gatsby. "Sorry, but Peggy only has two tickets, and if I let you go in my place, she may never speak to me again."

"Heh, don't worry, I wasn't anglin' or anything, Cap. I'm just not good at this sort of quiet relaxation. To me, the best way to unwind is to drink a pint and challenge the strongest guy I can find to a wrestling match. I quit." He pushed his king over, stood up, and stretched his arms out over his head. "Need to make some money to recover what I lost to that juggling bastard yesterday. Who wants to come help me wipe the floor with a few green privates with more money than sense?"

"I'll go," said Gabe. "Can't get into this book anyway." It was written in German, so a tough read whatever it was.

"Great. Monty? Frenchie? Barnes?"

"Sure, I'll tag along," said Monty. "Might as well earn a little extra money during our recuperation time."

Jacques shook his head. "I will go to the headquarters, to check if we have any messages yet from my contacts about that train thing Colonel Phillips is looking into. We may be off missions for now, but the intel could still come, and I have been negligent in checking in with them today."

"I'll pass too," Bucky said. "I'm meeting Wells for some darts practice. He's worried his injury may have affected his game." And it felt refreshing that he didn't have to lie about where he was going, now. Introducing Wells to the team had gone as well as he could've hoped for, and so far the ghosts of his past were thankfully silent. Maybe he ought to invite Wells to the next poker match. It wasn't as if it was a team-only thing. Freddie played with them quite often, and even Lizzie had joined a game or two—when she wasn't being bribed into distracting Dugan.

"Alright, just the three of us making money tonight then," said Dugan. "Let's go Gabe, Monty. Riches await."

"Guys," said Steve, before they could depart. "Everyone except Morita will be joining me for a ten-kay run tomorrow morning. Nine o'clock, on the dot."

"Are you sure you're up for that, Cap?" Dugan asked. "You're still lookin' a little peaky after giving all that blood to poor Jim."

Nice try, Bucky thought. But that's never gonna fly.

"I'm fine now, Dugan. We've had an easy few days while planning for Jim coming home, but now it's time to start training again. No exceptions."

Dugan grumbled quietly as he left. Honestly, had he joined the army expecting not to do any physical exercise? The guy was strong, sure, but strength and stamina were two different things, and the closest thing Dugan ever came to exercising his stamina was going on pub crawls around London. It wasn't exactly the same as a run.

Jacques grinned at the departing complaints, and said, "Grand singe roux." Then his grin slid, replaced by a more serious expression. "Steve, I may have to bring a note from my doctor for tomorrow. I have the cough." He held his hand over his mouth and gave a fake little cough for proof.

"Sorry Jacques, but the team can't be fighting fit if it can't even run a few miles. One day our lives may depend on it."

"Oui, oui." The Frenchman sighed. "At least I am faster than Dugan."

"It's not about speed," Bucky reminded him, lowering his voice a little to do his very best Captain America impression, "it's about endurance."

"Exactly," Steve agreed. "And that sounded nothing like me, by the way. My voice is much deeper and more manly than that."

Bucky laughed. "Sure pal. Whatever you need to tell yourself."

Jacques chuckled and returned to his book, but Steve's expression shifted to a frown as he looked over at his best friend. "Are you okay, Buck?"

"Yeah, of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Your hand."

He looked down at the book he was holding; it was shaking slightly. But that didn't mean anything. It was a heavy hardback book, and he'd already been holding it a while. Putting it face-down on his knee so that he didn't lose his place, he rubbed the palm of his left hand with his right thumb and felt a small twinge where a shiny scar had formed at the place where he'd cut it with a knife to attract the sick crew of the U-boat. It had healed quickly. Suspiciously quickly. But at least it had healed.

"It's just a little tender," he said. "The docs checked me over when I got back and said I might have gone through a nerve. But look." He held his hand up and flexed all his fingers and thumb. "Still moving. I might switch to a less heavy book."

"Perhaps you should ask a doctor for a second opinion," Steve suggested. "Just in case there's more damage than first thought."

"It may even be damaged enough to stop you from joining the run tomorrow, eh?" Jacques asked slyly.

Bucky shook his head. He didn't mind the running. Not anymore. So long as he didn't drink so much that he was completely hung over during the run, it was a tolerable activity. "I'll see how it feels tomorrow, after the run, and get it checked out if it still hurts. Probably just the weight of the book doing it." Steve opened his mouth, and Bucky could tell he was gonna start worrying about nothing, so he quickly consulted his watch and said, "I didn't realise it was that time. I need to go take a shower and get ready for darts. You'll wake me in the morning if it looks like I might oversleep, right?"

"Of course. Have fun with Sergeant Wells."

"Have fun with Agent Carter," he returned with a grin. Not even a blush from his best pal, this time. He really was getting more practised at this.

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

Maybe Steve was right. Maybe he ought to get his hand checked out by a doctor. After showering and dressing, his fingers of his left hand didn't seem to want to work properly, and he fumbled his shoe laces several times. At one point he even considered going down to the lobby and asking Mr Chipperton to fasten them for him, but he could already hear Dugan's teasing when he heard about that, and he imagined the name that might go with such a story would be Cinderalla.

With patience, he managed to do something that he'd been doing for himself since he was six years old, and with his laces firmly tied into triple-knots—just to be on the safe side—he left the hotel and made his way to the Kettle & Drum.

It was a beautiful evening, warm but with a tiny hint of crispness in the air. London did not suffer seasonal extremes to the same extent as the rest of the continent, and with August swiftly approaching, the setting sun promised more summer days up ahead. The blue-turning-red sky was a welcome sight after the fog and drizzle of the past couple of weeks, though the English actually preferred cloud-cover because it made it harder for Jerry bombers to target their cities. He couldn't blame them for that; he'd wish for low cloud too if the blitzkrieg threatened New York.

He reached the Kettle in good time, right as the sky began to transform to inky black, revealing the brightly twinkling stars that the sun had been hiding. A gust of wind blew down the street, ruffling his hair, and he pulled his jacket closed around himself. It sure was getting cold, without the sun to keep back the night. The wind's touch sent a shiver down his spine. Hopefully the landlord of the Kettle would have the fire lit tonight.

The pub was fairly quiet, and it didn't take him long to locate Wells; he'd found a spot right next to the fire—which unfortunately had not been lit—and was engrossed in an ASE novel called Country Lawyer. He didn't even glance up as Bucky took the seat opposite him.

"Be with you in a minute, pal," Wells said. "Just need to get to the end of this chapter before I mark the page."

So Bucky ordered two pints of ale from Gladys and made a start on his own while Wells read to the end of the chapter. Once he'd finally finished, he dog-eared the page, tucked the small novel into his pocket and glanced up. Then he frowned.

"You look like hell, pal. Just how late did that party go on?"

"I dunno," he offered with a shrug. "We were back at the hotel for one. It was a long night."

"I'll say. Did I miss anything exciting? Any more angsty science drama? Did Dugan punch anyone? Or did Carter decide her offer of amnesty to me didn't extend to you as well?"

"Nah, it was pretty quiet. After you left, we played more of the peanut game, Miles drank a lot, Stan drank more, Lizzie cut us all off at midnight, and Steve walked Carter home almost immediately after that."

"Sounds like you all had a good time. I'm glad. I hope Private Morita appreciates everything you all did for him."

"I'm sure he does. By the way, I meant to ask; how'd you end up with actual Swiss chocolate when the Swiss aren't trading?"

Wells offered a secretive smile. "Ahh, well, you can't run a proper economy without trade. So they're not officially trading, but there may be some unofficial trade going on. And the Swiss are definitely on our side, because we get all the best chocolate. My CO has a few contacts that he's shared. A perk of international supply chain. Why, you want some? I can get you some if you want it."

"Sure. I've never tried Swiss chocolate before." Something cold splashed over his hand; he looked down at the ale he'd spilled because his injured hand had been shaking on the glass. With a quiet curse, he dug his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the liquid away.

"You sure you want to try darts tonight, pal?" Wells asked. "I mean, if your hand's a bit shaky it's probably best not to be throwing pointy instruments of pain from it, right?"

"I'll be fine," he said. Bad enough that Steve was already worrying; the last thing he needed was Wells worrying too. "Just a bit tender from when I cut my hand a week ago. I'm right-handed anyway, so it doesn't matter if my left hand is niggling."

Wells shrugged. "You're the boss. And I mean that in a totally insincere way. You're not the boss, I just don't want you to feel awkward because I'll probably outrank you by the end of the year."

Bucky scoffed loudly, then shivered as rush of cold air raced down his spine. The air was so chilly that it even caused his right hand to shake a little, and he damn near spilled even more ale on himself. "I wish they'd hurry on in and shut the damn door; that wind has got some bite in it tonight."

"The door isn't open," Wells replied. "You were the last person to come in."

He glanced over his shoulder. His friend was right, the door was firmly closed. So where had the chill come from?

His right hand tremored again, and he knew. A knot of cold dread settled into his stomach. No no no, not now, he thought, closing his eyes and trying to will it to stillness. But it didn't work. It never worked. Only one thing could stop his body from plunging back into that same deathly cold that he'd felt for the first time in Norway. He needed heat, and lots of it.

All thoughts of darts fled. If this was like the time he'd fallen ill before his date with Antje, it might come on fast. He had to get back to the hotel quickly, before he was too cold and in too much pain to walk. Before Wells and Gladys and the rest of the Drum's patrons could see him and know how broken he was.

"You know, now that you mention it, I'm not feeling great," he said. "Ate a burger at lunchtime that seemed a bit undercooked; I think it just caught up with me. I'm gonna head home and rest. Sorry."

He rushed out without even waiting for a response. If he stayed, Wells would know he was bullshitting. He'd always said Bucky wasn't a good liar, and no matter how many times he told this lie, he never seemed to get any better at it.

The night air was bitterly cold, but the few people he saw out walking wore only light jackets, if any. Were they insane? Couldn't they feel the nip of ice and the freezing bite of each tiny gust? He tucked his hands beneath his arms, trying to keep his fingers warm. He lowered his head against the chill night and wished he'd thought to bring his hat. Maybe even a scarf and some gloves. Why hadn't he been more prepared for this?

He got as far as the bridge over the Thames, then had to stop. The shaking had reached his upper legs, tensing his thigh muscles as it spread outward from his stomach turning his insides as cold as his outsides. He stood for a moment taking deep breaths of air that threatened to freeze his lungs solid, trying to will his body to hold on and keep going just a little longer. Being on the bridge made it worse. It was open. Exposed. Anybody looking could see him. Nowhere to hide. Nowhere to crawl and disappear from the world, to make it all go away until this malaise passed.

His calves were cramping now. Tears leaked from his eyes and he gritted his teeth against the burning, freezing pain of muscle spasms, forcing himself to walk on. When he reached the far side of the bridge, he clung on to that small victory. He was almost home. Almost back to safety. Just a little further.

The main streets would take him there on a winding path, but he could cut through the back alleys—what the boys who played courier called The Narrows—to get there faster.

The fog in his muscles began spreading to his mind. He could feel it turning his thoughts sluggish. It was hard to think. Hard to remember. He needed safety, and quickly. Decision made, he left the open streets, lit well by the moon in lieu of the street lamps, and stepped into The Narrows. His vision was plunged immediately into darkness, but that didn't matter. He knew the direction. So long as he kept the moon to his left and travelled north, he'd reach the Strand. All he had to do was walk.

In The Narrows, the walls were his friends. They caught him each time he stumbled, keeping him upright, encouraging him on. Each time one alley ended and another began, the moon cut down from above, turning the alley corners into sharp angles and grey shadows. He tried to keep his senses alert, to be aware of his surroundings in case the guy who mugged Antje was still looking for easy marks, but his usually excellent night vision was failing him, and everything was growing dim, shadow and light blending together into a murky grey.

At the next alley he stopped and leant against the wall, trying to take a deep breath of frigid air, to make his eyes see the way he needed to go. Where was he? The cobbled alleys looked all the same. He'd been following the drain that ran centrally down it, remnant of a time when Londoners used the alleys to empty out their privy buckets, but where had it brought him? Squinting up, he looked for the moon. It was to his right, now. Hadn't it been to his left when he'd set off? Had he got turned around?

He angled the moon to his left and set off again, lurching like some drunkard as he pushed off from the wall. The pause hadn't done him any favours; his legs didn't want to move now that they'd had a reprieve from action, and each step brought agony with it, a freezing fire that ran up his spine sending icy daggers stabbing into his brain. He wanted to squeeze his eyes closed against the pain, shut it all out, pretend none of this was happening, but he had to walk. He couldn't sleep. Not just yet.

He glanced up at the moon. It was to his right. Somehow, in this maze of alleys, he'd gotten turned around again. Maybe he was going in circles. Maybe he'd been going in circles his entire life. Tears lined his eyes as despair set in. He couldn't do it. He couldn't make it back. Not this time. It was too far. He was too cold. Too tired. He couldn't think. Struggled even to breathe. Finally his legs betrayed him and he sank against the nearest wall as darkness draped itself over his tired mind.

Footsteps approached. He tried to be afraid. Tried to summon fear as a motivator. But even fear fled before the cold, and the darkness of the alley continued to creep in around him. Whoever it was, let them come. Let them take what they wanted from his body. He had nothing worth anything; a handful of bills and his room key, but they'd never get past Mr Chipperton. Even if they did, there was nothing worth taking in his room, either. Whatever thief approached would find him a poor mark.

"What the hell, Barnes?" demanded a familiar voice.

He opened his eyes and saw only an indistinct blur, but somebody grabbed him by the arm and hauled him to his feet, supporting his weight just like the walls before. The smell of camphor tickled his nose.

"C'mon pal, we need to get you to a doctor."

It was small agony to make his jaw work, but he croaked out, "No doctor."

"Barnes, you're sick, you need—"

"No doctor," he insisted, squeezing the shoulder that held him upright.

"Alright, then help me out. What should we do?"

"Strand."

It was the only thing he could picture in his mind. The hotel. Warm. Comfortable. Safe. Hidden. Door locked, curtains closed, fire lit, and nobody would find him. This would pass. By the morning, it would pass.

He hoped to God it would pass.

"Okay." Wells' voice was all uncertainty, but he adjusted his grip on Bucky's arm across his shoulder and supported him with an arm around his waist. "You drank too much on an empty stomach. It happens. Common sight. Come on, your hotel is this way."

Wells angled the moon to their right and set off. Bucky had been going the wrong way all along.