We Were Soldiers
166. Is All About Food
Danny yawned his way out of the hotel, then yawned his way to the embassy, and yawned his way to his shared office. He hadn't felt this tired since the 107th's week-long mission helping to take back Como last year, only this time the tiredness didn't stem from physical toil and fighting. He'd managed a full twelve hours in bed once he got back to his hotel, but they hadn't been restful hours. For the first couple, he'd been interrupted on and off by the obsessive cleaning of his roommate, who was convinced he'd seen lice crawling on him during the previous night, courtesy of his visit to the brothel.
Only when Schuster left to shower for the fifth time that day did Danny manage to try for a proper sleep. It was elusive, though. Every time he tried to chase it and invite it to wash over him, his mind took him back a few hours, to falling asleep with a warm hand holding onto his. He hadn't meant to nod off like that, but he was tired, the room was warm, the bed was comfortable, and he felt like he'd been put through the emotional wringer.
How could he possibly hurt so much for somebody else's pain? None of what happened in Krausberg had happened to him, but hearing Barnes talk about it had made him want to rip his heart out of his chest just to stop it from hurting. Even now he could hardly bear it. It had taken every ounce of self control he possessed not to throw himself at his friend and just hug him and hold him tightly and whisper to him those stupid bullshit platitudes that he promised he'd never speak. Somehow, the pain that he felt on behalf of his friend was greater than the pain and the fear he'd felt from being locked in the closet as a kid, and that was all kinds of messed up.
Worse, his plan to police his friend's lack of self awareness had fallen at the first hurdle. Undressing a guy who was sick to help him into the bath didn't count, that was just medical stuff, a necessity without any feelings involved. But he was pretty sure that holding someone's hand in private was worse than hugging them in public. And sure, there were mitigating factors involved. But it had happened, and now that it had happened, it had set a precedent. What if Barnes told him something else that was horrific and painful and needed some sort of consoling? Was a hearty pat on the back even acceptable after that?
He shouldn't have done it. It was stupid. Selfish. Wonderful. He'd just wanted to make everything right. To take some of that pain away from his friend. To help, in any way he could. And he'd been weak. Too weak to not reach out and search for even a tiny sliver of human contact. But because he knew his limit now, he could change the parameters of policing. Clearly the one-to-two-feet-distance rule was too generous. On top of that he'd need to make sure they never spoke of sad things anymore. Playing games like darts and pool, chatting about good times, generally just engaging in bullshit, those were safe activities that did not involve pain and sadness. They didn't require anyone to comfort anyone else. Personal space. No touching. No comforting. Those would be the rules by which his friendship thrived from now on.
When he arrived at the office, Sergeant Maxwell was just in the process of tidying up the desk. Hot-desk, they called it, because it belonged to a position, rather than a person. For two days and two nights, it would be Danny's, and on those alternating two nights and two days, it would be Schuster's. Then, during the four days they were off, Sergeant Maxwell and Sergeant Bright would be the Danny and Schuster of the alternating shifts. Surprisingly, Schuster didn't have an issue with the shared desk, so long as everybody wiped it down with surgical-strength ethanol before and after their shifts. Apparently the wooden desk had been well varnished at one point, but not anymore.
"Morning, Maxwell," he said.
"Morning, Wells," Maxwell returned. He glanced out at the small window behind the desk. "Looks like another nice day out there."
"Sure is. Bet you'll have great weather for your days off. Got any plans?"
"Might take the kid to the zoo tomorrow, if there are any animals left worth seeing."
Maxwell was one of those who'd found himself an English dame to settle down with after being stationed in London, the lucky bastard. They'd been married eighteen months, and little baby Maxwell was coming up on a year. Danny wanted to point out that it didn't matter what animals were left, because first of all the kid wasn't old enough to understand what they were, and second, she wouldn't remember it anyway. But he was tryin' real hard not to be that guy anymore.
"Nice. I bet she'll enjoy that." He'd enjoyed the zoo, the one time he'd been back in New York. Most of the kids in his class liked the big cats, such as the lions and the tigers, but they were boring things that mostly just slept the whole time. The penguins had been Danny's favourite. They looked like little businessmen wearing suits and seemed like they knew how to have a good time, always playing games, chasing each other through the water and sunning themselves by the pool. Plus they weren't likely to eat your face if you put your head to close to the bars, which couldn't be said of the tigers. "Anything exciting happen last night that I need to know about?"
"Nope. Business as normal. I reckon you'll be in for a quiet few days."
"That's what I like to hear. I've had enough action to last me a lifetime." War was a fine thing to be in, so long as nobody was trying to kill you.
"Ha!" Maxwell gave him a punch on the arm. "You crack me up, Wells. You're the only guy I know who would rather be in here chained to a desk than out there fighting the good fight."
I'm the only guy you know who's sane. He merely smiled and said, "I can fight the good fight just well in here. The number one is my sword, and zero my shield."
"True enough. Just make sure you don't add too many shields onto that tank requisition, otherwise you might bankrupt America, and the Brits will end up with twenty-thousand tanks by mistake."
"I'd never make such a rookie error." Not since the one time he'd made the mistake and accidentally sent five-thousand boxes of SMG ammo into British stores, instead of the five-hundred they'd been promised. All Miller had said was, be grateful it wasn't tanks. The rest of the team had given him a bit of stick for it, but so far it was the only mistake he'd made.
"Uh-huh. Sure." He yawned and stood up. "Well, seven o'clock again. I'm officially handing over the reins to you." He made a show of picking up some fake reins and handing them over. "Try not to have too much fun, okay?"
"And you try to have some fun. Enjoy the zoo. Say hi to the penguins for me, if they haven't already been turned into sausages." Which, given the state of the partial sausage he'd eaten yesterday, was entirely possible.
Maxwell left, and Danny sank into the chair, then went through the process of rearranging the entire desk. The guy was a leftie, which meant every eight days, Danny had to spend fifteen minutes switching everything over from the left to the right side of the desk. Halfway through shifting stuff, he paused. Maybe he should leave it set up for the left. After all, his right arm was shot. Literally. If he wanted to learn how to play darts with his left hand, he had to start using it more. Increase his dexterity. Train up his muscles and teach his brain how to make the left side work with the right. And so, he moved everything back over to the left. Let Schuster deal with it when they changed over in twelve hours.
The rest of the team arrived and began settling into their own hot-desks. First thing Corporal de Vries did was place a hot cup of joe on his desk and open up his copy of The Daily News. He liked to start off his day with coffee and scandal. Corporal Allaband said his daily prayer asking for God to watch over his family and his president. He was a Carrot kinda guy, was Allaband. Only less ginger. Private Patrick, meanwhile, was the exact opposite. When he stumbled into the office he was still half baked, but everyone gave him slack because he was Irish and Patrick was both his forename and surname. According to Patrick, it hadn't been intentional; the clerk who registered births had mistaken the family surname for the son's intended forename, resulting in Patrick Patrick behind the firstborn son of Eadaoin and and Conor Patrick.
"Says here that women in London are campaigning for equal pay," Corporal de Vries mused. He stroked his chin in encouragement of the beard he was trying to grow there. An English dame had told him he'd look good in a beard, and it had been his mission since then to grow into one. Unfortunately, the beard seemed to have other ideas.
"Anarchy," said Patrick. He folded his arms up onto his desk and dozed off.
"What do you think about it, Wells?" de Vries asked, because Allaband was stretching his prayer out extra long today. Smart guy.
"I don't think much about it, really," Danny replied. He actually thought it was a great idea, because women with money meant men didn't have to work quite as hard, and women spending their own money meant more spending power for the economy, which meant more jobs and more economic growth… but de Vries wasn't exactly a bigger picture kinda guy, and Danny was still trying real hard not to rock that boat. Being labelled a dangerous liberal was one way of rocking it, but de Vries liked his scandal too much to read a more conservative paper. "It's not any of my business what English women earn."
"Me, I think it's dangerous," said de Vries. "Imagine if the women back home got wind of it. They'd be all over that like a swarm of ant-eaters over a termite mound. Before you know it we'd have women uniting across the globe for equal pay. They're setting a bad example, these English broads. Someone should tell them to get back to their husbands and kids. That's proper womens' work, that is."
"I think most of their husbands are away in the war, fighting and dying a lot," said Allaband. He'd peeped one eye open to glance at de Vries. He was definitely in danger of being labelled a dangerous radical. "And England has a labour shortage right now. If they don't do the work, nobody will. But if they don't earn enough to pay the bills, they can't do the work. It seems an obvious solution to me."
"Look at this," de Vries said, holding up the paper a little. "It seems the Welsh are trying to set up their own governmental departments, to address 'Welsh concerns'. The next thing you know, they won't want to be part of England anymore."
Danny shook his head. He really did wonder, sometimes, how de Vries managed to get this job. He was a whizz with numbers. That must be it.
"Sergeant Wells?" Miller's head appeared around the office doorway. His gaze took in Patrick asleep on his desk, Allaband praying fervently to God, de Vries trying to pretend he hadn't just been reading the morning news on work's dime, and he shook his head. "My office please, Sergeant."
Uh-oh. This couldn't be good. The only time he'd been called into Miller's office was during the hiccup with the SMG ammo. Could he have made another mistake? No, surely not. He'd been extra careful since then. Double-checked everything he signed off on. Triple-checked it, sometimes.
Inside the office, the colonel invited Danny to sit, so he did. The guest chair was considerably comfier than his office chair, but it was also designed for important people to sit in. So Danny perched on the edge of it, and tried not to let dread show as he thought back over his last shift in search of what error had caused him to be dragged in here again.
"At ease, sergeant," said Miller. Danny allowed his shoulders to relax by a fraction. "How are you settling in?"
"Very well sir, thank you. Everyone has been very welcoming; I feel like I've been a part of the team my whole life."
"I'm glad to hear it." He steepled his fingers together and leaned back to rest in his chair. "And you're finding your way around London well enough?"
"Well enough, sir," he agreed.
"Excellent. How is your rooming situation? Are you finding Sergeant Schuster easy to live with?"
"Yes sir. We established some common-sense ground rules early, and he's pretty easy to get along with if you ignore the germ thing."
"That's good to hear. I was worried about him, you know. After the whole dementia thing… well… I'm glad the two of you are getting along. Now, down to the reason I asked you in here. It seems Captain Coleman has gotten himself in a bit of a pickle. Poor guy's overworked and understaffed. He's asked for some help in untangling some knots that have appeared on his end of the lend lease, and I agreed to let him borrow you for a couple of days. You'll report to him immediately and spend your next four shifts helping him to untangle any mess he's made."
Well, this was a surprise. A nicer surprise than being told he'd accidentally given the Brits a million cans of baked beans, anyway. But it was also unexpected.
"Sir, wouldn't one of the men who's had more experience with lend lease be more useful to the Captain in unknotting his knots?"
"Undoubtedly. However, he's taken an interest in your ES1 form. I told him about it, and he wonders if it might be adapted a little for use by British forces. It would be quite the feather in your cap to have a form you created in use by two armed forces, eh?"
"Yessir," he agreed.
"Good. You'll take an example of your form with you, show him what it's all about, untangle whatever tangles he'd created, and then have your usual four days off. This will be a good learning opportunity for you, sergeant. Once you understand lend-lease from the receiving end of the agreement, you'll have a better understanding of the process as a whole."
"I'll do my best."
"I know you will. By the way, the other reason I asked you in here is because it's long past time for us to invite you to dinner. Eve will be serving dinner at six o'clock sharp tomorrow, and she's looking forward to meeting you. I've already briefed Coleman that he'll need to let you leave early so that you can make your way back here in time. I'm sorry it's taken so long; normally I ask my new staff to join us for dinner sooner than this… but, well, to be honest, I wasn't sure you'd work out."
"Sir?"
"I didn't know how you could cope with the tedium of a desk job after the excitement of life on the front lines. I imagine you got up to all sorts of exciting missions out there, eh?"
"Mostly marching and waiting, sir."
"Marching and waiting don't get your file covered in black marker pen, Sergeant."
"I did say mostly marching and waiting. There was some fighting, of course, but I liked to do my bit and keep my head down. Try to avoid trouble as much as possible." Unfortunately he'd been assigned to a regiment full of lunatics. They were nuts, all of them, and always dragging Danny into their chaos. And somehow he got blamed for it all. It had been Barnes' idea to bake a cake, and bring a baby back to camp, and to drink Stark's bottle of Balvenie, yet Danny came off looking like the crazy one every time.
Miller's expression said he didn't believe a word Danny said, but it didn't matter. Now that he had a cushy job, all he had to do was behave so that he could keep it.
"Very well, Sergeant. I'll let you get off to Coleman now. Don't let him badger you into sending the Brits more supplies; he's never satisfied with what we offer, and one of these days he's going to have to learn that just sending back men asking for more isn't going to get him anything."
Recognising the dismissal, he stood and saluted. Had Miller somehow figured out that he'd served with three out of six of Captain America's Howling Commandos in the very recent past? The guy hadn't shown much interest in his redacted file until now. Still, hopefully that secret was still his. The men stationed in London didn't seem as excited about the prospect of Captain America as the guys in Italy had been, but that might change if they realised he personally knew the man behind the shield.
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Bucky stared across the table at his opponent and received a challenging stare in return. There was no official contest, no open declaration of war, and definitely no betting pool, but the struggle was real. He took a sausage from the pile of food in front of him and ate it in three bites. A moment later, Morita replicated his feat. Next was a slice of bacon; he managed to roll it up to fit whole in his mouth. So did Morita. He then selected a slice of toast, buttered it, crammed it with mushrooms and plum tomatoes, and ate his toasted mushroom and tomato sandwich in two huge mouthfuls. Not to be outdone, Morita did the same.
Nobody needed to announce Steve's arrival. Bucky could tell when his best pal had arrived because he just had a presence now, as if the room became quite a bit emptier by the simple fact that Steve was in it. But as his friend made his way to the breakfast bar, Bucky didn't alter his gaze. Now that the not-a-contest had begun, he couldn't look away. Couldn't let Morita even think about cheating. So instead of greeting his friend, he ate a few forkfuls of beans in contemplative silence.
When Steve pulled up a chair to join them, he found that he couldn't; they'd piled half the food from the breakfast bar on the table and were eating from it one item at a time, leaving no space for anyone else to sit. Steve was forced to sit at the next table over and eat his food the boring, old-fashioned, non-competitive way.
"Bucky, Morita," he said, after slurping down some of his first cup of joe. "What're you doing?"
"Eating breakfast," Bucky said. "I'm hungry. I slept for fourteen hours last night."
"I'm hungrier," Morita said. "I slept for thirty hours straight, after the party. Can you believe this guy thinks he's hungrier than me?"
"Gotta say, competitive eating is not a sport I thought I'd witness today." Steve's plate was of a much more sensible size, but then, he also ate more of Stark's high calorie ration bars. "I'm not even sure it's a sport at all. Can't you just enjoy breakfast without turning it into a contest?"
"Nope," Bucky said. And Jim shook his head too.
"That's a pretty big pile of food. How long have you two been sitting here?"
"Only about ten minutes," said Jim. He was finally coming out of the other side of his illness. Rest had done him the world of good, and clearly had restored his appetite to a healthy level. A very healthy level. Bucky thought he would've quit eating by now.
He ate another sausage, and waited for Morita to do the same. "How'd the dancing lesson go?" he asked his best friend.
"Oh… you know… it was fine." Steve quickly took another distracting sip of his drink. "Until it was time for me to leave."
"Ooh." This sounded interesting. "Is this story gonna end with Carter wanting to shoot at you again if she finds out?"
"No no no, nothing like that! Amelia is very professional. It's just… I fell down the stairs. But it's okay—my face broke my fall."
Bucky turned to look at his friend. The shiner he was sporting under his right eye socket made him look like he'd been ten rounds in a boxing ring with someone even bigger than him. Which, technically was true. Stairs were bigger than Steve. And clearly they'd ganged up on him, outnumbering him before he could throw up a defense.
"That's a doozy, pal. Remember what my dad said about bruising? Always apply something cold straight after."
"Well, I was so embarrassed that I just wanted to get away, so I kinda ran off before Amelia could come down and help. When I got back, I asked Mr Chipperton for some ice, but I think the damage was already done by then."
"I hope next time you go back you'll show those stairs who's boss," said Morita. The grin lit up his eyes. "Hey Barnes, stop slacking, it's your turn to eat."
"Fine." He picked up a hash brown and made mmmmm noises of appreciation as he shoved it whole into his mouth. For a moment he thought he was gonna choke on it, but he managed to avoid coughing bits of potato everywhere.
"You know what your mom would say if she saw you eating like that," Steve pointed out.
"My mom would be so glad to see me that she'd probably shovel food into my mouth for me." Or did that sound wrong? "Anyway, when's your next dancing lesson?"
"A couple of days. I uh… have homework." The tips of his ears turned pink. Hadn't done that since he'd started kissing Carter. "Amelia wants me to… uh… practice. With someone. So I thought, maybe if one of you—"
"Hard pass," Bucky said immediately. "I know how big and clumsy you are now. And I still don't want to give Dugan any more ammo against me."
"Also pass," Morita echoed. "For all those reasons, and also I don't dance with guys unless I'm really really drunk. Personally, I don't think there's enough alcohol in the whole of London to get me dancing with you, Steve. No offence, I like you as a person and all."
"Just ask Lizzie," Bucky said. "She's a dame. She's already your friend. Plus it'll annoy Dugan."
Morita high-fived him.
"I already did." Steve frowned over his coffee. "She laughed. Then she said no."
"Ouch." If only there was somebody else Steve could ask. A dame who knew him, and wouldn't mind him making a few rookie mistakes while he perfected his technique… "Wait a minute," Bucky said as the penny dropped inside his mind. "I've suddenly had a great idea!"
"Do tell."
So Bucky told, and Steve smiled in understanding. "You're right. That is a good idea. I don't know why I didn't think of it."
"It's because I'm the brains in our friendship."
"I just saw you almost choke on a hash-brown."
"I'm the brains and I like food."
"Guys, please, I just ate, I don't need to vomit right now. Let's keep the best-buddies-act for those life and death situations, huh?" Morita complained. He was clearly jealous. "Or is this just stalling for time, Barnes? If you can't eat anymore, just say the word, then I can start eating for real."
Bucky flipped him the Vs and picked up another slice of toast to make another one-slice sandwich. Morita was halfway through replicating his feat when Jacques arrived at their table. He looked glum. Didn't bother with any breakfast, not even coffee, and merely pilfered a slice of their toast before taking the seat opposite Steve at the next table over.
"Why so glum, chum?" Bucky asked him.
Jacques glanced around the room to make sure nobody was near, then leaned forward and lowered his voice. "I have received word. The Resistance operative who was sent to investigate that train destination in France, he has not checked in on schedule."
"Maybe he's just been delayed," Steve suggested. He was quite the optimist, for a guy who'd been given a black-eye by a staircase the night before.
"Maybe," Jacques agreed. "The Resistance, they will give him another forty-eight hours, just in case it is communications issues. But a feeling in here," he pointed to his stomach, "tells me this is not a good sign."
"Does Phillips know?"
Jacques nodded. "He said patience and caution are required. The operative… if he has been captured, he will not have given any information away. Not even under torture. A true Frenchman will never collaborate with the enemy. But Phillips is worried that if we send another, it may give away that we know about this location. And risk another life."
"Is there any indication whether this is a Hydra facility, or a Nazi one?"
"None. Not that it matters, at this stage."
A black cloud settled over the table. Bucky quietly took a sausage from the pile of food and merely nibbled at it this time. There was a time for bullshit, and a time to avoid it. The thought of a Resistance member captured, possibly tortured, all for intel for the SSR… sometimes he forgot that this was bigger than him. Bigger than the team. It was almost enough to stifle his appetite.
Almost.
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The embassy was never quiet. Even in an evening, there were men on shift, organising things, making calls, taking calls, ensuring the wheels of war ground ever-forward for those allies living in different timezones. In truth, there wasn't really all that much to do in the evenings, and the men usually spent their time playing poker. But Miller liked to be prepared. He'd liked to have plans, and backups, and contingencies. This wasn't the front lines, but he wanted to show that his men were ever ready, just like any soldier. If Washington made a call at stupid o'clock in the morning, somebody had to be available to handle it, and the team had to be ready to deal with whatever request was made.
As Danny entered at six o'clock, nodding affably to the MPs on his way in, the building was still bustling with the day staff's shift. With him absent, it would fall to Corporals de Vries and Allaband to hold down the fort. Hopefully they were managing without him, but to be fair, they'd been doing this job longer than he had. And it wasn't like Miller wasn't just a couple of offices away, if they needed someone in authority to refer to. Very likely, Miller would not have loaned him to Coleman if he thought Danny was not expendable.
The smell of something delicious wafted in on the air, tantalising his taste buds. Whatever Mrs Miller was cooking sure smelled like it had been stewing for some time.
He dodged the offices and made his way to the back of the embassy, where Miller had his living quarters. When he reached the door to the family's dining room, he took a moment to check his uniform over and straighten up his jacket. Until now, the need to make a good impression in the army hadn't occurred to him. He'd been a little cog in a big wheel in a machine that was desperate for manpower, and once the conscription offices had weeded out the criminals, homosexuals and other undesirables, they'd take anyone who passed muster. Until now, life in the army hadn't been about sucking up and making a good impression, but rather, surviving and trying to avoid any bullshit that might land him in too much trouble.
With this job, that had changed. He had to make a good impression. Not for a promotion. Not to make friends. Not even for the approval of his CO. But just to prove that he could do the job with his injury and didn't need sending ome. In hindsight, it had been a godsend that he hadn't been able to return to the 107th immediately after being shot. Chances were he would've been shipped back to the States and medically discharged. Because he'd stayed with Rosa and her family, he'd gotten past the worst of the injury and recovered well enough to be useful again. Sure, he couldn't hold a rifle, but he could move papers across a desk. His own indecision, coupled with the lingering winter weather, had saved him. Now all he had to do was not screw this up.
He knocked on the door. A moment later, Colonel Miller opened it and welcomed him in with a shake of the hand that Danny swiftly adapted from the salute he'd been trying to effect. Miller was not a man who stood on ceremony, but it never hurt to err on the side of caution.
"Welcome, Sergeant Wells," he said, uttering an 'oomph' of pain when a familiar child ran into his legs. "You remember my son, George?"
"Colonel George, if I remember rightly," he replied, offering the boy a formal salute. George giggled and returned it.
"Come on in, make yourself at home. Please, don't stand on ceremony on my account. Far as I'm concerned, we're off the clock right now."
He ushered Danny on in to the dining room, and what a room it was. High ceiling, richly decorated, all manner of portraits and landscapes adorning the walls. Despite the heat of the day, the fire had been lit in the chimney, and it burned quietly, its flames low. The scent it gave off said they were burning wood instead of coal, which was impressive. England was a big coal country, and most of its wood went to the war effort these days.
Mrs Miller approached from the kitchen when her husband called her out. When he said she'd be cooking, he hadn't lied. The apron wrapped tightly around her waist had a few cooking stains on it, and her hair had been tied up in a kerchief to prevent it dropping down while she worked, but otherwise she could've given Rita Hayworth a run for her money. Dark curls, doe-brown eyes and lips that pouted without any effort graced her face, and her skin was flawless porcelain. Inappropriate feelings for his friend aside, he could appreciate a beautiful dame as much as the next guy, and she definitely classified. In fact, he hadn't seen such a beautiful woman since he'd laid eyes on Agent Carter. Adalina had been pretty. Attractive. Sweet. A woman unaware of her true beauty. Mrs Miller was a woman who knew exactly how beautiful she was. The colonel was a lucky man.
When Miller made the introductions, Danny settled for a hand-shake, and said, "I'm sorry I've come without anything to contribute. If we were back home I would've fetched a nice bottle of wine along for dinner, but it's not easy to get hold of wine in England these days. I hope you won't hold it against me."
"Of course not," Mrs Miller replied with an easy smile. "You're our guest, and nothing is expected of you except to relax and enjoy the meal." When George clambered up onto one of the dining chairs and put his hands on the polished wood of the dining table, she reprimanded him in a language Danny was not familiar with. But he ran it through the language filter of his mind, and came up with a familiar sound, one that he hadn't heard since before he'd enlisted.
"You're Jewish," he said.
"Yes. I hope this won't be a problem?"
"No ma'am. Before I signed up, I worked for an accounting company in New York, and the man who owned the company—Mr Willis—was Jewish. I always found him to be fair." He was the father Danny wished he'd had, growing up. "Far as I'm concerned, people should be able to worship whoever they want, however they want." And the less he had to get involved with it all, the better.
"My parents raised me Lutheran," said Miller. "So it's not always been easy, but Eve and I make it work."
A high-pitched cry from another room interrupted the conversation. Mrs Miller said, "Excuse me, I'll go and see if I can get Oliver Junior settled before dinner."
Danny tried not to watch her go. Luckily, Miller opened up the drinks cabinet and distracted him with the most important choice he'd had to make all day. "Scotch, or wine?"
"I never drink Scotch before dinner," Danny informed him. His dad's rule. Whisky was a drink you had after dinner, a drink to be enjoyed slowly while you let dinner settle in your stomach. Like most of his dad's rules, it seemed to be stupid and serve no real purpose, but on the off chance it was rooted in some ancient military custom, Danny decided it would be wise to follow it.
"In which case, I'll get the bottle opener."
Miller departed for the kitchen, which left Danny under the careful scrutiny of George. The kid watched him like he was waiting for something amusing to happen. When he said nothing, Danny asked, "What? Do I have something on my face?"
"Do you need to use the bathroom?" George asked.
He resisted the urge to glance down. Mrs Miller was a beautiful woman, but he knew she hadn't had that effect on him. "Why would I need to use the bathroom?"
"When Sergeant Schuster came over last year, he had to use the bathroom twelve times before dinner."
Oh. That was definitely easier to deal with. He knelt down to George-level to tell the kid the truth. "You see, Sergeant Schuster knows how important it is to wash his hands before dinner. Your mom ever tell you to do that?" George nodded. "So Sergeant Schuster likes to visit the bathroom a lot before dinner, to make sure his hands are really, really clean. Nobody with dirty hands makes colonel."
The kid's eyes opened wide. "I'm gonna go wash my hands right now!" And he ran off through another door. Hopefully Danny hadn't created another Schuster-level problem right there.
Miller returned a moment later to pour three glasses of red wine, and when Mrs Miller came back cradling a sleeping infant in her arms, he handed one of the glasses to her, and another to Danny. "To good health and a swift victory," he offered.
They both repeated the oath and Danny sipped the wine cautiously. In his experience, wine was either amazing, or tasted like sour grapes. His caution proved to be unnecessary; this wine was amazing, the sweet taste of it exploding over his tongue. He would definitely savour this. Though he wasn't much of a wine drinker, the war had made it a greater commodity than beer or Scotch, which the British could make for themselves. Probably only rich or important people, like Howard Stark, could get ahold of wine these days.
"Have a seat at the table," Mrs Miller invited. "I'll just put this one down in his cot, and then dinner will be ready."
Danny's stomach grumbled at the thought, and he took the chair that Miller gestured to, depositing his wine glass on the table in front of him. He'd expected it to be some fancy affair, one of those events where you had multiple sets of cutlery and needed to work your way in. However, only one knife, fork and spoon were present at four set places, which was a pleasant surprise.
"Does Mrs Miller do all the cooking?" he asked. He'd expected a staff. True, Miller was only a colonel, but he was probably entitled to help of some sort.
"Most of it, yes. We have a cleaner who comes in to do a bit of dusting, and for the first few months after Oliver was born we had a nanny to assist. But Eve is a very hands-on woman, she likes to do things for herself and hates being waited on. Which serves me quite well, because the less staff we have coming in, the less of a security risk the embassy is."
"Do you really think the lend-lease program is a priority target for enemy espionage?" It was, after all, very boring to somebody who didn't like logistics and math.
"Of course!" Miller appeared shocked by the suggestion that anyone would find it otherwise. "If the Nazis know how much aid we can offer to our allies, it gives them an idea of how much additional strength we have to call upon, and the resources at our disposal. And if they learn what aid our allies are accepting, it then gives our enemy an idea how what our allies' deficits are."
He had a point. "Still, there may be some use in that, if you suspect a security leak at any time. Maybe the Nazis hear that our allies are less prepared than they hoped, or that we have greater strength available."
Miller grinned like a kid in a candy store. "I see where you're going with that. Allowing false information to fall into enemy hands to obscure the truth. Very sneaky, Sergeant Wells. Can I take it you've been involved in this sort of intelligence deception in your previous post?"
"Me? Oh no, sir. I was a simple infantryman. And then I worked with Lieutenant Grant for a bit. I never did anything deceptive." Unless you counted that time he and Barnes had played prisoner to get into a bunker. Or the time they'd snuck into a village in Italy to extract a spy. Or the time they'd convinced a bunch of Italians they were gonna shoot them to see how many would piss their pants. Or the time Phillips had intentionally leaked false info about the availability of a truth serum to flush out a Nazi saboteur.
He was saved from further probing into his bullshit by the arrival of George, who skipped into the dining hall, stopped before his father, held out his hands, and proudly announced. "I just washed my hands for five minutes. Now I can be a General and give you orders."
Miller laughed at his son's audacity then put on a very serious face. Clearly he was the kind of guy who didn't mind a bit of horsing around with his kids. George would hopefully understand how lucky he was, one day. "Very well, General. What's your first order?"
"I order dinner."
Mrs Miller pushed the dining room door open with her hip, a large plate of food in each hand. "All good Generals have to be seated quietly at the table before they can eat," she said, and George quickly hopped into the chair next to his father. But Mrs Miller put the first two plates in front of her husband and Danny, then returned to the kitchen for a plate for herself and her son. "Please don't stand on ceremony," she said. "We don't say grace, but you can if you like. Otherwise tuck in."
"Thanks Mrs Miller, this looks great," he said. He wasn't a lie, not completely. It looked… interesting. Like some sort of casserole. With four sons and a husband to feed, his mom had been big on casseroles, because a big one just about served everybody… though she always took less for herself. Maybe that was why she always looked so frail.
"You've outdone yourself again, Eve," said Miller, after sampling the dish. "What do you think, Sergeant Wells?"
He took a bite. It was delicious. Like casserole, but also not. He couldn't put his finger on what made it different, except for the fact it didn't look like it had been baked in the oven. "It's amazing," he said. "Some kind of casserole? Or is it a Jewish dish?"
"Actually, it's something I learned to cook here in England," she replied. "They call it hotpot. Initially it was a cheap and easy way for families to feed themselves on a labourer's wage, but I've added a few spices to give it my own twist. Of course we could bring in a wider range of foods to make fancier dishes, but I don't think it's fair that we dine finely while most of the English people survive on this or less. I've taken a liking to it."
"Plus it does the kids good to understand what everyone here is going through," Miller added, ruffling his son's hair as George tucked into his hotpot with gusto. "Good, honest food that'll put hairs on the chest, eh?"
"Hopefully not," said Mrs Miller, with a sly smile. She turned to Danny as her husband coughed up a pea he'd managed to choke on. "So, Sergeant Wells, do you have a lady waiting for you back home?"
"No ma'am. Before my number came up, I was very much focused on my career. As I said, I was an accountant."
"In a black marker pen factory, by any chance?" Miller asked.
"Hah. No, I worked as an auditing accountant for a well known firm in New York. Started pretty much straight out of college, and figured it would be a good way to spend my life. Then of course, there was the little matter of the war. Between this and that, I've not had much time for courting."
"A man with career goals," said Miller. "I can respect that. But you should have gone through officer training. You could've been a lieutenant by now. Maybe a captain."
Danny shook his head. "It would've taken too long. I was keen to stretch my legs, get away from a desk for a while and see a bit of Europe from the front."
"And now you're back at a desk again. Funny, how things turn out."
"Hilarious. Sir."
"Oliver tells me you've been working the past couple of days with Captain Coleman," Mrs Miller offered. "Helping him out of a pickle, he called it."
"That's right, ma'am. To be fair, the situation wasn't as pickly as I'd expected." The few small knots that'd occurred had mainly been because British stores weren't reporting back as quickly or accurately as Coleman needed, so by the time he'd requisitioned something through the lend-lease program, the order was already out of date and newer orders were piling up, creating a backlog that never seemed to be filled.
Coleman was a pretty easy guy to work with, for an officer. He listened to Danny's suggestions, readily accepted any advice he thought would be of use, and unlike Miller, didn't try to probe into his service history. He seemed grateful that anybody was on hand to help him slowly get through his mound of paperwork, and made quite a big deal over the ES-1 form. He'd tasked Danny with making a mockup of a new version, for use by the British army, and hoped it would speed up all the ordering processes. It was a bonus that while Danny was helping him, he'd have four day shifts, instead of two days and two nights, which meant he'd waste less of his first day off sleeping in. Maybe he should leave it till the second day before contacting Barnes. Guy might need some time to recover from all that emotional stuff he was so rubbish at.
"I'm learning plenty, though," he added, because the last thing he wanted was for his CO to think he was doing nothing important and recall him back for his night shifts. "And once we've unpickled his pickle, it should be easier to keep it depickled in the future."
George giggled. "Pickle is a funny word."
"That it is, Georgie," Miller agreed. "Now, get that dinner eaten up, every last scrap, or there'll be no apple pie for desert."
On hearing that, Danny wasn't sure who ate his hotpot faster; George, or him.
Author's Note: Chapter updates over the next week or two will be random, as my internet access will be spotty while I do a bit of redecorating at home. I'll try for every two or three days, if I can.
I don't normally like replying to reviews in author notes, but there are a lot of guest reviews that I can't respond to personally, so I'll just reply to everyone all at once to save time! And Guests, you're killing me! You know I can't answer all your questions without spoiling some aspects of the story. So you can be teased a bit instead. Here goes:
Bonecreaker - Matilda the baby? - Not in this fic.
Guest - Seeing some of the 107th again? - Kind of!
Continuing any of my other stories? - Not right now (see below for ramble about Method Writing). Maybe later.
Guest - See Adalina and Rosa again? - I haven't planned for that, but it's not outside the realm of possibility.
RRR - Please don't ever feel the need to write long reviews! That you're enjoying the story is enough :) Also I've been that reader, thinking "I just read a great chapter but I'm not sure what to write in my review without repeating myself". So don't sweat it! Email notifications are broken for me as well, it seems to be a common problem these days. I'm slowly transferring my story over to AO3 in case this place does implode, but it's slow-going as I'm trying to focus on writing right now. Thank you for the massive compliment! Not sure I'd agree it's the best on the site in the fandom, but I have fun writing it, and I'm glad people have fun reading it. :)
Billygoats - Thank you so much! Glad you're enjoying everything so far. Yes, you will definitely be seeing a lot more of Howard in the future. He's one of my favs to write, and he's got some important chapters coming up in the not-too-distant future. Danny and Antje? No, definitely not. Yes, I have an estimate for the length. The story will end within a few chapters of the 'canon' ending of the mission to bring down the Valkyrie. That happens in March, IIRC. It's currently August in the story. I average between 60-80 chapters to cover a 6 month period, and I've currently got upto chapter 176 written. So, I'm expecting the story to end around the 230-250 mark. It may go higher than 250 but I'm pretty sure won't go less than 230.
Anothr Guest - You can use whatever pronouns you like for me - I don't care! The good thing about the interweb is that you have the freedom to be as anonymous as you like (otherwise I would have disabled Guest reviews). I don't really like pigeon-holing and labelling. I try to see people as discrete entities and don't want to get hung up on the irrelevant (to me) things like gender identity, religion, nationality, ethnicity, age, etc. This also helps me with my writing, when I have to switch POV. I try to live inside a character's head while I'm writing from their POV, both to ensure they have their own distinct voice, and prevent too much of 'me' from bleeding through into the characters' thoughts/feelings. It's also the reason why I try as much as possible to avoid social contact when I'm writing - I hate getting dragged out of a character to deal with my own RL stuff, it just breaks the flow for me. I don't know if Method Writing is a thing like Method Acting, but that's probably what I do.
Guest 1010101 - I think it's hard to write female characters in this genre, sometimes, to get the right mix of strength and vulnerability. I like to write people, rather than characters. I see characters as a set of traits which dictate their responses and provide internal consistency. People are how those traits evolve over time. I suspect many writers fall into the trap of having traits define how their characters behave without changing how those traits act depending on the character's experiences. Using a couple of my own for example, Gusty started out as a gassy nervous guy. As his character gained experience, that changed. Wells started out as a smart-alec, but through experience started to see himself differently and realised he didn't have to keep everyone at arms' length to protect himself, so that changed too. Whenever I head-hop between different POVs, I also think about how other characters would perceive a character's words and behaviour. So if another character was looking at what I wrote and thought "WTF is this person doing? I don't recognise them at all" then the change I've tried to make or the way I'm writing the character is not consistent and needs re-writing. Additionally, I try to make sure that none of the characters I write, no matter how small their part, are subservient to the main character. Nobody should exist to make the MC seem "more X" or "less X", and no character exists solely to justify some aspect of another character. All the characters I write, I try to make sure they have their own goals and ambitions, their own internal drives. Hawkins did not exist just to prove how much of a big brother Bucky is, just as Carrot did not exist just to show how un-religious Wells is, and Hodge doesn't exist just to show how much of a jerk Steve isn't. And I try to make sure that my characters have plenty of personal growth regardless of their gender, but out of necessity this story has more men in it than women, because that's just the team and the time. That's my process in a nutshell, I guess.
Reign - Thanks! :) Hope you found your antihistamines! Regarding Steve/Bucky, don't worry, they will reconcile eventually. But I'm basing Bucky in this story on what we know of him from CA:TWS and CA:CW. After pulling Steve out of the Potomac, what's the first thing Bucky does? Is it to hug his best friend and tell him all about everything he's been through over the past 70 years? No, he runs away to the most nowhere-place he can think of, and tries to figure everything out for himself. He probably knows how much Steve has and would sacrifice to bring him home, but IMO he doesn't want his friend to see how broken he is until he's had chance to fix himself a little and figure out how to live with the guilt of what he was forced to do. And I kinda think that was a trait already defined within him, so we're kinda seeing that here on a smaller level. For me, his speaking to Steve about his experiences is the biggest hurdle for him to get over, and Danny is a stepping-stone on that journey (but not in a belittling way. More of a gateway drug sort of thing). XD