We Were Soldiers

167. It Takes Two to Tango

The orchards of the Carter residence seemed particularly productive this year; as Steve walked up the drive, he spotted little red apples forming amongst their branches, and on other trees, pale green pears. Judging by the size of them, it would be a couple of months yet before they were ready for picking, but they'd make a fine feast once they were in baskets. His mom used to make the best apple pie in the world, and Bucky's mom had done a fair job at replicating it, once Sarah Rogers had taught her the recipe. She used a little more cinnamon than Steve was used to, but it was still tastier than anything his other friends' moms had made. Maybe he could try to make it for Peggy. Give her a taste of his home.

He wiped his sleeve across his forehead as he approached the front door. The nice weather was lasting, which made the folks of London peer up at the skies as if afraid they were gonna see the Luftwaffe come strafing at any moment, but it was nice to feel the sunshine on his face. His walk up from the train station had been interrupted by a group of nuns whose car had gotten a flat tire on their way to London. Their elderly driver was struggling to jack up the car, so Steve had offered to hold it aloft while he'd swapped the bust tire for the spare, the old man's mouth open in awe the whole time he worked. The nuns, grateful for his assistance, had pressed a small bag of hard-boiled sweets into his hands, and told him they would thank the Lord for his arrival in their prayers tonight.

Not long after that he heard crying, and found a boy and a girl standing beside a tree in a big empty field. When he asked them what was wrong the girl, through her tears, pointed up to the tree where their pet kitten had gotten itself stuck and sat meowing pathetically down at them. So he'd climbed the tree, rescued the kitten, and the girl had been so grateful she'd given him her handkerchief. Other than the tears, it was thankfully clean, but he didn't look forward to explaining to Peggy who "Louise" was, or how he'd ended up with one of her personal items.

Just when he thought he'd had his share of adventure, a black horse wearing a blinkered bridle had come racing down the road towards him. He managed to get hold of it and wrestle it into submission, only getting kicked once in the process, and kept a firm hold on the creature as he walked on up the road. It turned out the horse had been part of a carriage team, and had spooked when a dog ran across its path and barked at it. Its traces had snapped, resulting in it breaking free and bolting. The carriage's owner had been very grateful for the capture of the horse, and gave Steve a small handful of money in compensation for the kicking. The Commandos would not be hearing all about his adventures later.

Now, standing in front of the Carters' door, he wasn't entirely sure if he was doing the right thing. What if all the adventures he'd had along the way were omens? Signs that he ought to not be here? His mom had often said that God, and those family members with him, were watching down from heaven, sending signs to help guide him on the right path. But mom had been a loving soul who'd lost her husband young and raised a child on her own. Sometimes she seemed to need to believe that someone was watching over her, because who else would?

He knocked on the door and waited until someone answered. It was Michael, wearing what looked to be an oversized dressing gown. He eyed Steve up as if he was the one oddly dressed, sniffed a couple of times, and said, "What happened to you?"

"What do you mean?"

"You have oil smeared across your forehead, a number of small twigs stuck in your hair, and you smell like horse."

Damn it, he'd thought he'd managed to get the oil off his hands after helping to change the tire. He must've smeared it across his face when he'd wiped the sweat away. "Oh, I just had a series of unfortunate events happen to me on the walk up here," he said. "Nothing to worry about."

"I see. Well, Peggy isn't here, if that's what you're after."

"I'm not. Actually, I wondered if I could speak to Antje."

"Antje? I can certainly ask if she's amenable to seeing you. She's in a bit of a sulk at the moment."

"Is it because you're wearing a dressing gown at eleven o'clock in the morning?"

"This isn't a dressing gown. It's a writing robe." He wrapped it around himself. "See? Notice the embroidery on the hem? All the great writers have them. And no, she's sulking because Ruben had very stern words with her after the incident with the thief, and now he sits outside her door like a guard and follows her everywhere. He's terrified she'll wander off and be hurt again. I can't blame him, I worry for her too. But they are all they have left of their family. I'm not surprised he wants to protect her."

"Has she given any more thought to… you know…?"

"The proposal?" He shook his head. "I haven't mentioned it. She's going through a lot right now, and it doesn't help that the police are yet to catch her attacker. She's completely fearless, of course, but the last thing she needs is me pestering her for an answer. No, I'll be here when she's ready. So what was it you wanted to speak to her about?"

"It's kind of a personal matter."

"You know that Ruben will be listening with his ear to the door, yes? That's even if she wants to see you."

"It's not that personal," he explained. "But I'd rather speak to Antje about it first."

"Very well. Come on in, have a seat in the drawing room, and I'll go and find out what kind of mood she's in today."

The lack of cars on the driveway meant that both Mr and Mrs Carter were probably out, so Steve was able to walk through the house without fear of bumping into the man that he might one day need to convince to let him marry his daughter. The man who might one day be grandfather to his children. And if that was jumping the gun, well, a man was allowed to have dreams, wasn't he?

He didn't have to wait long for an answer. Michael came down the stairs, shaking his head and muttering quietly to himself. Steve's heart sank. He was so sure Antje would be able to help him with his little dance partner problem. "Well, this is very unusual. Antje will speak with you, but she's in no mood to come downstairs. So she'll receive you instead in her bedroom. Very improper."

"Don't worry, I've been in girls' bedrooms before," he said. Then he realised how wrong that sounded, and tried to put his mouth in reverse. "I didn't mean it like that. I just meant… growing up… Bucky has sisters… I spent a lot of time at his house… We were kids…"

"The impropriety of the situation was worth it just to see you all flustered, Captain. Come along, I'll show you the way. She's up in Peggy's old room."

His heart beat a faster rhythm as he climbed the stairs behind Michael. Peggy's old room. Of course, it was Antje's room, now. And as Michael had said, Ruben was seated outside it on an old wooden chair. It didn't look comfortable, but that was probably the point. The old man sniffed as Steve approached.

"Why can I smell horses?"

"I didn't set off smelling like this," Steve told him. "Some things happened on my walk here; let's just leave it at that."

"Hmph. Very well. Good luck with the girl, she is in a mood today." He raised his voice and shouted through the door, "She is acting very much like a child, instead of a proper young woman."

Something went thud against the door. Something that Steve very much suspected was a book. Hopefully not a Bible; he was pretty sure throwing a Bible was like breaking a mirror, and got you a few years' of bad luck.

"Antje, it's Captain Rogers," he called, knocking gently on the door that had already taken such a literary beating. "May I come in?"

"Yes. But just you."

Well, that was promising. At least it wasn't him she was mad at. At least she'd only thrown a book. The last thing Peggy had thrown at him was bullets, and she'd used a gun to do it.

He opened the door wide enough to admit himself sidling in, then closed it behind. Part of him had been expecting to see her laid up in bed, still recovering from her injury, making the most of having two doting men available to wait on her. Instead she was in a chair by the tall window, a piece of needlework in her lap. Judging from how much she'd actually completed, it wasn't going too well.

She smiled as he approached, but it was an empty thing, a gesture born of expectation rather than true feeling. "Captain Rogers, I'm pleased to see you. I never had chance to thank you and your team for coming to my aid so quickly when I was hurt. I appreciate you taking care of me."

"You're welcome any time." He gestured to the foot of the bed, asking permission to sit, and she nodded. "How are you feeling? I know it's been a few days since the incident. Sometimes when you're hurt, you don't really feel it until days later."

"I'm well enough." She held her hand up and pulled back her sleeve a little, revealing a cut that had been neatly stitched and was healing without any sign of infection. But her face was tired, her skin dull, her flaxen hair flat. Maybe whatever pain she was feeling wasn't physical, but emotional. Between the proposal, and confronting Bucky about his feelings, then being stabbed, now being guarded by her grandfather, she'd gone through a lot. And that was only the recent stuff. Before that she'd spent years on the run, trying to escape the Nazis, moving from one place to another, living rough half the time, pretending to be a boy. Steve always thought he'd been through a lot, between losing his parents and being plagued by ill health, but he could safely say that Antje was one person he'd met who'd had a much tougher time of it than him.

"You look tired," he said. "Have you been sleeping well?"

She grunted in a very unladylike way. "Sleeping is all I do! I can barely even go to the privy without being followed." She shouted something in Dutch at the door, but received no response. "If I am tired, then I am tired of being hidden away like a weakling. When we had to leave our home, I was hidden away from the Nazis. I was made to look like a boy, to keep me safe from any men we encountered. And now here, in the place I thought I would be safe, I am hidden away once more, forced to ask permission or be escorted if I even think of setting toe outside the front door. I am tired of the cage I find myself in. This is not the life in London that I hoped for."

"I'm sorry you feel that way. It's difficult sometimes, finding freedom when everybody around you wants to keep you safe. I know how stifling that can be."

"Thank you. I'm glad somebody understands. But you didn't come to hear me talk about this. What do you need? A watch repaired? Perhaps an alteration to some clothing? I would of course be more than happy to help; alterations are very easy, and I owe you much."

"Actually, it's something else that I need help with. And it's kinda… awkward."

"Oh?" She eyed him up. "Is it a sizing issue? I can add a little material to the legs of trousers, to provide more room."

He felt the blush creep up his neck even before she'd finished speaking, and no amount of willpower would make it go away. "No no no, hahah, no… nothing like that. The… um… sizing is fine. No, I came here to ask if you'd be willing to help me learn to dance."

"Dance?" The frown on her face betrayed her confusion.

"Yes. You see, I can't. Dance, that is. And I want to. I want to be able to take Peggy dancing. Someday. When I can. But right now, I can't. I have an instructor, but she told me I need to practice between our lessons, and I have nobody to practice with." Because Lizzie had laughed at him and his teammates were all jerks. "So, I thought… you know… you're a woman… and I know enough now to at least not break your feet… so maybe you could help me out?"

"But I do not know how to dance. Or… well… I know the dances of children. The holding hands with your friends and spinning in a circle, the ducking under each others' arms, and skipping arm in arm to music like during festivals. But I was too young to learn the dances of men and women when I left home, and it hasn't occurred to me to learn since I arrive. I've been so busy with my sewing…" The frown on her face deepened.

"This is perfect!" Steve blurted out before she could go right off the idea. "Why don't you learn with me? If you come to my lesson then my instructor can teach us both, and we can practice together between our lessons as well."

He could see her toying with the idea in her mind. Possibly weighing up whether her grandfather would approve of it. Finally, she gave a firm nod.

"Yes. I think it is time I learned to dance. After all, if I've been acting like a child, perhaps it is because nobody will let me be anything but a child. I will learn how men and women dance, and I will help you to practice."

He smiled in relief at the weight that was lifted from his shoulders. "Thank you, Antje. I've got a lesson booked in for tomorrow, so I'll borrow an SSR car, pick you up around six, and introduce you to Amelia. I really appreciate this."

"You're welcome. But I must ask you a question, first."

"Anything."

"Why do you smell like horses?"

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

Bucky glanced down at his watch. It was seven-fifteen. It wasn't like Wells to be late; he normally liked to arrive first, so that he could pick the table he wanted to sit at. The note he'd sent earlier that morning just said to meet in the Kettle at seven unless he was busy. Had he changed his mind? Maybe he wasn't coming. Bucky hadn't seen his friend since his awkward confession, and Wells had made a pretty hasty exit after gettin' woken up by Steve. Maybe he'd just decided this was all too awkward. That he didn't want this sort of touchey-feeley crap in his life. It had not been an easy conversation to have, even though Bucky had felt a little better after it. Getting some of that weight off his chest had helped him breathe a little easier… but he'd feel doubly bad if that weight had simply been shifted onto his friend. Wells was strong enough to carry a lot of crap, but maybe this was just too heavy a bag of crap to carry.

He gaze came up when the door opened, but it was a pair of soldiers wearing New Zealand uniforms that entered, not Wells.

Had he gotten delayed somehow? Maybe accosted by the same guy who'd attacked Antje? Or maybe… maybe stepped out in front of a streetcar and been knocked over. Or fallen in the Thames trying to do cartwheels across a bridge on a bet. God, this was Wells, so nothing was outside the realm of possibility.

The door opened again and Wells stepped in. Bucky let out the breath he'd been holding and stood down the emergency team in his brain, sending his paranoid thoughts of all the things that might've gone wrong back to sleep. As Wells ambled over seemingly none the worse for wear, Bucky pushed over the glass of ale he'd already purchased for him and said, "You're late."

"Am I?" He glanced at his own wristwatch. "Oh yeah. Sorry 'bout that, I got waylaid on the walk over."

"Anything I need to know about?"

"Not unless you need to know about international procurement chains," Wells scoffed. He took several gulps of his ale to whet his throat, and said, "A couple of guys who'd heard about a form I'm creating for the Brits spotted me and asked a couple of questions which turned into more questions."

"That sounds very boring. Who are you and what have you done with Danny Wells?"

Wells merely laughed. "I've always been boring and sensible, pal. It's your bullshit that gets me into trouble."

While Bucky spluttered out an objection, Wells ordered two glasses of rum and a bowl of peanuts from Gladys. Once she'd brought them over he asked, "So, what's new?"

"Nothing much." He took a few peanuts and popped them into his mouth one by one, splitting them in half with his front teeth like he always did when he was a kid. Back then, his mom always got them with their shells on, because it was as much fun breaking into the shells as it was eating the actual nuts. "Steve's taking dancing lessons. Morita's back on his feet and eating the Strand out of all its food. Phillips won't let us out on missions for at least another week, but Carter says she has a few day-trips planned for training exercises, get us back up to speed after all that happened during and after the U-boat stuff. How about you?"

"Sadly, my new is much more boring than your new. Got to work a few shifts with one of the British guys here on lend lease, which was a nice change. Oh, and I had dinner with my CO a few nights ago."

"How'd that work out?" He'd probably shot his mouth off and gotten himself into trouble. He tended to do that around officers.

Wells shrugged. "Not too bad. Ate some great food. Drank some nice wine. Got to look at a gorgeous dame all night. Oh, and my CO's eldest son was so impressed with my scar that he said he's gonna go out and get shot at the first opportunity."

"Wait, you showed your arm to your CO and his kid, but you still won't show me?"

Wells' response came in the form of two fingers. "Anyway, that's pretty much all that's new with me. The desk is still there, the job is still complicated, my roommate is still weird, and here I am. But we're actually gonna get to play darts tonight, right?"

"Definitely."

"Good. Because I've been practicing doin' stuff with my left hand to try and build up my strength and coordination in it, and I've got a feeling tonight is the night that I kick your ass at left-handed darts."

"Given that you already kicked my ass at left-handed throw-rocks-up-the-Thames, that's very likely," Bucky pointed out.

"I feel like you're pre-empting my win in an attempt to dampen down the excitement of it. Can't you at least pretend like you have a shot at winning? My victory is less sweet if you're already predicting your loss."

"Fine, you big baby. I'm gonna kick your ass so hard that when you don't show up to work, they're gonna have to look at next year to find you. Is that better?"

"Much. And appreciated. Now I'm certain to win."

"In your dreams, pal."

Wells helped himself to a few peanuts, and judging by the way his blue eyes roved unfocused over the table-top, he wasn't thinking about darts. After a couple of minutes of consideration, he asked, "Why dancing lessons?"

"Uh, what?"

"You said Steve is taking dancing lessons. Why?"

"Oh. He can't dance. Not without injuring those around him. And now that he's… well… bigger… his capacity for injuring those around him has increased a hundredfold. He wants to ask Carter to go dancing with him, but he wants to do it without breaking her feet. So, lessons."

"I see." Wells sat back in his chair, nibbling on another peanut as he watched Bucky. It was hard not to squirm under his gaze, because he already knew his friend was plotting something, and whatever it was could not be good, because this was Wells. "I bet it backfires."

"Huh?"

"The dancing lessons. Once he's finished them, and asks Carter to go dancing… I bet it backfires."

"What makes you say that?"

Wells smiled and tapped his nose. "I won't say for now, because maybe Carter will surprise me and it won't backfire. But that's the bet. Feel like placing money on it?"

"Sure." He'd never bet against a friend, but this was an easy bet. It wouldn't backfire. Once Steve had some moves on the floor, he'd be sweeping Carter off her feet. "What's the wager?"

"Hmm. Has to be worthwhile to have meaning. So… let's say ten bucks?"

"Ten it is. And we'll shake on it, because I know how elusive you can be when you owe people money."

"I think your memory is faulty, pal. I always pay my debts." He shook Bucky's hand and sat back again, this time with a self-satisfied smile on his face. "Now I just need to plan what I'm gonna spend your money on. I might buy myself something nice. A new smoking pipe, perhaps."

"You don't even smoke."

"Yeah but I can rub it in Dugan's face."

He laughed. "You'd waste that much money to tweak Dugan's nose?"

"Maybe. I dunno." He offered a noncommittal shrug. "Not like I have anything else to spend it on. So far I'm just saving for a rainy day. My back-pay from when I was missing finally came through, and I expect at some point I'll get a payout for this." He held up his right arm. "I was actually thinking about looking into stocks. After the war, y'know. Once the economy's settled down a bit. I've avoided that sort of stuff before on account of how Wall Street crashing nearly broke the world, but the right stocks might be a sound investment for the future."

"You could buy a share of Stark's company," he offered. "Judging by how rich he is, they've gotta be worth a lot."

Wells merely shook his head. "To sell on the exchange, he'd have to take his company public, and I think that between his private funding and his government contracts, he has enough money and security that he doesn't need to do that. It would put him at more risk, especially if people bought a lot to become majority shareholders."

"It all sounds very complicated. I can't believe you used to do all this as a job. It's so technical and precise."

"Oh, I didn't. Not really. Business accounting and auditing is nothing like investing in stocks and shares. But that kinda sounds like an insult, pal. Are you saying I'm not technical and precise enough to do a job like that?"

It was hard to tell whether Wells was actually offended, or just pretending to be offended so he could pull the ol' 'hah, you fell for it' gag. So he erred on the side of caution. "Let's just say I don't expect the average accountant to drag me out on the deck of a ship in the middle of a storm, or juggle knives for a bet. You gotta admit, you are impulsive at times."

"Yeah." Wells sighed and downed his rum in one long gulp. "Impulsiveness is my Achilles heel. But you know, there is a sort of honesty in numbers. They can't lie. One is always one, and it can never be two. Even if you split it in two, all you have is two halves of one. There is simplicity in that, and as you know, I am a simple man."

"Uh-huh. Sure." Simply full of bullshit was what his friend was, but tonight was not a sit around and bullshit kinda night. Tonight, he had plans to accidentally kill somebody trying to play left-handed darts. "Are you gonna sit here waxing lyrical all night, or are we actually gonna get some practice in?"

"Waiting on you, pal." He pushed Bucky's glass of rum towards him. "Drink up, and let's go. The darts board awaits."

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

The pool hall was nothing fancy. It had once been a factory of some sorts not far from one of the docks on the Thames. Once America had entered the war, and started shipping its soldiers to be garrisoned in England before they were needed on the continent, there had been a need to provide some level of entertainment for them. This big factory, and other factories and mills across the country, had been leased out to the US military to allow them to set up entertainment facilities. Some were used by the USO for stage shows, or converted into large-screen cinemas for regular movie viewings. One or two had become libraries of books donated by US citizens. The fate of this one was to become a pool hall, a place where all factory machinery was stripped out and replaced with thirty pool tables over two levels of the building. Pool wasn't the only game played there, but it was definitely the most popular. The five shuffleboards on the second floor saw some action, usually from teams of guys who came to settle scores with pucks instead of fists, but it wasn't quite as popular with the enlisted men. On the ground floor, which housed twenty of the pool tables, there was a little space at the back of the room where a couple of darts boards had been set up. Nobody came for the darts, because every pub in England had a darts board, which meant that Bucky and his friend had sole use of them for pretty much the whole night.

Bucky stepped up to the throwing line in front of the board he'd selected and hefted one of the small missiles in his left hand. It felt strange, there. Alien. He very desperately wanted to transfer it to his right, where it became a precise missile… but that wasn't the game. The game was left-handed darts, so he threw it and watched it land in nineteen. Not exactly what he'd been aiming for.

"That was better than your first one," Wells offered by way of encouragement. He could be a patronising bastard at times. Bucky's first shot had landed on the double ring of thirteen, just about as far away from eleven as you could get while still being on the board. "My turn."

Wells was playing on the next board over, so Bucky watched his friend step up to his own line, tease the dart between his fingers until it sat comfortably, and throw. He hit twelve, which was closer than Bucky's throw. His previous dart had landed in one, so he was already more accurate even though he hadn't hit eleven yet.

"I hate this game," he said, stepping up to his own line again. This time he threw without caring, and managed to hit bullseye. It would've been more impressive if he'd actually been aiming for it. Still, it was the closest to eleven that he'd come, and Wells offered an appreciative whistle.

"You hate not being naturally good at it," Wells countered. "It's no fun when you're losing, right? A lesson that we're starting to teach the Krauts." He threw his dart and it hit one of the wires of triple-three, bouncing off to embed itself in the nearby wall. Wells wrinkled his nose in disgust. "I hate this game, too. Neither of us has hit any of the numbers we've called out. Wanna switch to pool?"

"Only so long as we don't have to play left-handed."

"No problem."

The hall operated on a pay-per-play basis, and issued tokens which patrons could use to reserve tables. To make it fair for everyone who wanted to play, they had a strict three-plays rule, which meant that after three games the table was opened up for the next person who'd reserved it. More tokens could be purchased at the bar, but you had to find a new table to play at. While Wells purchased three tokens and found a nearby table to reserve, Bucky ordered their next round of drinks. Ale again. He was actually starting to come to like its smooth, hoppy flavour.

He'd definitely been in England too long.

"So, what'll we be playing for?" he asked, when Wells took the neighbouring bar stool and gratefully accepted his pint. "Money? Bragging rights?"

Wells considered it for a moment then said, "Fun."

"You want to play a game without putting some sort of wager on it?" Hard to believe this was the same guy who liked to bet at the drop of a hat. And he'd probably bet on how fast the hat would hit the floor, if he could.

"Crazy, I know. But see, I've figured something out. It's nice sometimes to play to win something. And knowing that you might lose if you don't give it your all, that kind of adds an element of danger and excitement to it as well. But maybe I'm getting boring in my old age, because the way I see it, for someone to win, someone else has to lose. And that's fine when it's the Dugans and Hodges of the world losing, but if my victory makes you feel bad about losing, then it's not really a victory. Not as I see it, anyway. Can't I just enjoy the game for what it is, and have fun without the pressure of a wager riding on it?"

"Why are you just assuming I'll lose? I'm better than you at pool."

"Uh-huh. Sure. But it works the other way too, right? The other day, you said friends don't always need to trade. So maybe friends don't always need to bet against each other, either." He shrugged, as if the whole thing didn't really matter. "That's just my take on it, anyway. We can bet on it if you want, I don't mind."

"Okay, fine. No wager. We'll just have fun playing the game."

When their turn at the table came up, Wells racked up and Bucky broke, sending the balls scattering over the green felt. He sunk one in a corner pocket and followed it with another in a side pocket, then missed his next shot. Wells also sank two consecutively and missed his third, which made them even again. Just as Bucky was lining up his next shot, the mood in the hall changed. The clack clack clack of balls hitting balls on tables around the room became less frequent, and several conversations grew a little quieter. He stuck his head up and looked around.

Two dames strolled over to the bar, watched by a large potion of the pool hall. If they were aware of the stares, they didn't show it. Engaged in quiet conversation with each other, they seemed oblivious to almost everything. Their uniforms said they were Wrens, British women serving in their navy—Jones had been out dancing with a Wren a few nights ago, so maybe these were from the same ship.

"Ogle the dames after taking your shot, pal," said Wells.

So he took his shot and missed, which didn't surprise him in the slightest. The Wrens had taken a seat at the bar and were quietly observing some of the games around them. The men who had just a moment ago been watching them were now hyper focused on winning their rounds.

Wells sank two more balls on his turn and Bucky didn't need a crystal ball to see how this game was gonna end. It wasn't fair, really. The women entering had distracted him, broke his concentration. He'd been in the zone, and now the zone was way in front of him, waiting for him to catch up to it again. The worst bit of it was, he'd told Wells he wasn't interested in dames right now. That he didn't wanna do the whole have-a-girl-waiting-for-me thing. Which was true. But the Wrens were pretty enough to make a guy look even if he had no other intentions. The shorter one was a gorgeous red-head with smiling blue eyes that said she knew how to have a good time, while the taller one with the perfectly bobbed blonde hair had sultry brown eyes that seemed to miss nothing as she scanned the room.

"You're drooling, pal," said Wells. He waved his hand in front of Bucky's face, interrupting his line of view to the Wrens. "Why don't you just go over and introduce yourself? That blonde one looks exactly your type."

"You're only saying that because you prefer non-blondes."

He held his hands up and grinned. "Guilty as charged. But I don't mind a change of pace if you wanna hand the table to the next guys waiting and chat to the ladies instead."

"No. It's okay. We're here to have fun playing, and that's what we're gonna do. Let's finish what we started." Besides, he wasn't sure how genuine Wells was being right now.

"Are you sure? I'm kinda kicking your ass."

"I'm just letting you think that, so that when I make my triumphant comeback, it'll be all the more impressive."

"Hah. Now that I'd like to see."

"You're about to. Be prepared to be amazed."

In the end, the only thing he managed to accomplish was an amazing loss, which Wells was gentlemanly enough to not gloat over, showing how hard he really was working at the friendship stuff. The loss didn't come as too much of a surprise despite his bravado; Wells was just too far ahead by that point, and played too consistently, denying Bucky a chance to make that much-needed comeback.

"Good job we're going to best out of three," Wells said as he handed the rack over to Bucky and leant his weight against his cue. "It'll give you a fighting chance to recover from being soundly thrashed by a guy who doesn't have full use of one arm."

"Hilarious."

"Excuse me, boys." The feminine voice behind him held the same cultured tones as Agent Carter's voice, but without the harsh bite that sometimes accompanied her words. "We couldn't help but noticing you're about to start a new game, and we wondered whether we might impose upon you to make a little wager with us."

He turned and found himself staring into the sparkling blue eyes of the shorter Wren. The taller one had sidled up to Wells, who fixed a smile on his face which said he wished it had been the other way around. The only blonde Bucky had actually seen his friend pursue was that one special coffee nurse back in Plymouth, and he wasn't entirely convinced Wells hadn't been in it mostly for the coffee.

"Good evening, ladies," he said, when it became clear Wells had appointed him spokesman. "What's this about a wager?"

"You see," she replied, offering him a secretive smile that made his mouth go dry, "we came out tonight looking to play a little doubles with some nice gentleman, and to maybe go for a walk down the Thames later, or perhaps to one of the dance halls. It's been so long since we were on dry land, and we're just looking for someone to show us a good time."

"The wager," the blonde said, tracing her fingertips down the cue that Wells was still leaning on, "is just for fun. You've got two tokens left, so two doubles matches, and the losers buy drinks. And if you're not fed up of buying us drinks by the end of the second game, maybe we could play again at another table."

Bucky smiled. He didn't know any dames who played pool, but their confidence was intoxicating. Of course, he wouldn't dream of taking their money when he and Wells won their games, but he didn't have to tell them that. Let them think it would be that way, and when he refused to allow them to spend a penny, they would be all the more impressed.

"What do you say, Wells?" he asked.

His friend shrugged. "Sure. Why not."

"Great." The brunette stuck out her hand and said, "I'm Alice Nutter. And this is Katherine Hewitt."

"Bucky Barnes," he replied, shaking her hand. If they weren't standing on ceremony, he would leave his rank behind for tonight. "And my friend over there is Danny Wells."

"A pleasure," said Katherine, shaking both of their hands in turn. "Well, should we flip a coin to decide who goes first?"

So they flipped, and Bucky won the toss. It didn't seem to bother the women. When the barkeep brought their drinks over—gin and tonic, and the man never brought drinks over for anyone playing pool—they took seats beside the table and watched as Wells set the game up.

"I hope you don't mind if we watch you closely," Katherine said. "You know, for pointers?"

"Watch as closely as you like," Wells replied.

"I can't wait to play!" Alice said with a girlish giggle. "Let's get started!"

Author's Note: Steve has a very good tailor. It is definitely not a sizing issue.

Eagles - Happy to hear you got a signal for a while and managed to get caught up on the story! Eid Mubarak to you and all my readers celebrating the end of Ramadan tonight, I hope you're eating something better than whatever they give you for national service o.O

Kaylee - Order is overrated IMO, you can respond to chapters however and whenever you like! Always happy to provide a few warm and fuzzies, because it's not something I do very often, usually preferring to torture my protagonists and all. I think your questions about what's going through Bucky's mind are valid ones, and it's something I'll explore a little more in depth over the next few (story-) months. I think Bucky is such an honest person, and he trusts Wells enough, that he doesn't think he's going to give his friend the wrong idea by keeping up a normal level of physical and emotional contact. I don't think it's so much that he's oblivious, but rather, he doesn't have a full picture because he isn't privy to Wells' thoughts like we are, and to be fair, the letter was a little bit vague about exactly what feelings are involved in the whole situation! Also this is the 1940s, and whilst guys might talk amongst themselves about how to deal with girls, and girls might talk amongst themselves about how to deal with guys, conversations were much less frank (in general) back then. As well, the army's "don't ask, don't tell" policy is probably on his mind - he knows Wells has *some* feelings even if he doesn't understand them fully, he knows Wells will be honest enough to tell him if any aspect of their friendship becomes a problem in the future, and other than that, he's just happy to have his friend back and is willing to go along with the business as normal routine that Wells is trying to establish. So, not so much oblivious, but just tactfully respecting his friend's wishes to not talk about it in more detail. But don't worry, I'll throw a few super-awkward events at them along the way.

RRR - Hotpot is such a great food, isn't it? I love it on cold winter days :D

Karina - thanks, glad you enjoyed the light-heartedness! It can't all be doom and gloom and big feelings, sometimes we just need a little break from the drama ;)

Rayne - It's a bit of a Catch22, knowing you're the sanest person in the room. I like to think that Wells sees a lot of things more clearly and with less bias than a lot of other characters, but to be fair, he does do some silly things which could make one doubt his sanity!

Guest - That is the one little bit of myself that I put into Danny - that people deserve to be treated equally regardless of gender, sexuality, religious beliefs, etc. Only by ceasing the oppression of people based on stupid, arbitrary labels, can society truly evolve. And the only people who don't deserve to be treated with equal rights are those who don't believe in putting pineapple on pizza. All of you pineapple-hating people can just leave right now. Start your own country in Lichtenstein or something.

Guest 10101010 - I agree that sometimes you just need trashiness. It's nice to mentally switch off and read (or watch/listen to) something that is easy to follow and doesn't require a lot of thinking. Fluffy stories that give you some good feels or provide a nice distraction from your mental woes are a godsend, and there's nothing wrong with a bit of light-hearted escapism every now and then. Stories that are deeper, more challenging, are fantastic, I love Philip K. Dick for that, he's my go-to author when I want to read something that will make me really think. Overall I find the best conflicts are the internal ones, human beings struggling with their own nature, trying to be better without knowing how. I try to provide a little of everything. A little fluff. A little cerebral thinking. A little light-hearted banter. A little torture. And then a little more torture. Hopefully this story strikes a pleasant balance!

Billygoats - I can kinda see the appeal of Danny/Antje. The sort of bonding that might occur over the fact that their love of one man is unrequited. That might even be a fun few chapters to play with, but ultimately I think they could never be anything more than friends united over lost love. I could shoehorn a romance in there if I was forced to at gunpoint, but it would be unnatural and icky.

Bonecreaker - Well, if you (and the majority) are happy with responses in the author notes, then I'll go with it. For me it feels like breaking flow/continuity a little, but TBH this story is marching nicely towards its inevitable conclusion so maybe a little real-life interjection wouldn't be a bad thing. Wells is one of those rare human beings who doesn't particularly like kids, but somehow manages to be amazing with them. I still don't know how he does it!