We Were Soldiers
171. In the News
"What is this place?" Bucky asked as he followed Wells through the drafty old building. It was the last in a connected row of small houses, but the inside seemed bigger than the outside. It took a moment for him to realise why; several of the internal walls had been removed, so what had once been one of the individual terraced houses of the type which were common all over England, was now two or three of the small terraces opened up into one discrete building. But each little room inside the building was empty, as if the occupants had moved out and then whoever was supposed to come next had simply forgotten to move in. A thin layer of dust coated the floor, and though footprints were visible in it, they didn't seem fresh enough to have been left within the past couple of days.
"Trust me, you'll like it," said Wells evasively. He seemed to be enjoying having a secret to reveal.
"The last time you asked me to trust you I ended up sat on the deck of a transport ship in the middle of the Atlantic ocean, right when a lightning storm hit, clinging onto the gubbins for dear life."
Wells grinned over his shoulder. "That wasn't the last time; that was the first time. I've done lots of trustworthy things since then."
"Such as?"
"Look, we're here!" He flung open a door in front of him like a magician revealing his greatest trick. In this case the great trick was a row of punching bags suspended from the ceiling in front of one wall, and to one side a row of tiered benches were spectators could observe. In the middle of the floor was a boxing ring, though it wasn't full size like the one his dad had back home. A full size probably wouldn't even fit in this room.
"Boxing?" Bucky asked.
Wells nodded. "Boxing. A couple of the guys from lend lease like to come here and go a few rounds, or hit the bags for practice. It belongs to the family of some batty old dame whose husband was a famous English boxer back in his day, and when he couldn't fight anymore, he started training others. But everyone who used to come here is off fighting for real, so this place has been opened up to some of the troops stationed here. It's never locked, so you can come here if you want to work out now that you know about it. Or, you know, if you just need to get something off your chest. See, I figure part of your problem is that you don't get to let loose. You're always holding yourself back. When was the last time you punched something—or someone—just for fun or practice?"
He said nothing. The last time he'd done anything like this, any boxing for pleasure, had been right before Wells had gone on that mission back in Italy, the one that had cost the 107th Hawkins and Jones. Since then, doing things for fun had felt alien. Oh sure, he'd played poker. He'd gone a few rounds of darts. He'd wrestled an arm or two, to warm up the crowds for Dugan. But those weren't things he'd been overly invested in doing. They'd just been a way to pass the time between missions.
Wells led him over to one of the punching bags and gave it a small push to set it swinging. The walk over to this place seemed to have cleared his head, and he was no longer wobbling when he moved. He'd gotten lucky. Real lucky. Head injuries could be tricky things; sometimes a bad enough blow to the noggin meant never waking up. But Wells was okay. He was alive, and on his way back to his normal, bullshitting self. Part of Bucky felt stupid for even bringing up what had happened with the women, but the weight of the guilt on his chest had been like some crushing force that he couldn't bear, gnawing at his conscience, chipping away at him little by little until it felt like he might burst if he didn't get it out there in the open.
He'd been afraid of this for a long time; that if he started talking about Krausberg, started talking about the men he'd known and lost, that it would open some flood gate that he couldn't close. And that seemed to be happening, and it was getting harder and harder to not want to talk about the bad things. It was easier to not tell Steve, because all he had to do was think of the fact that his best friend was counting on him. That he had to keep up the appearance of being strong, for Steve. But Wells didn't need him to be strong, and that permission to be weak and talk… it was scary. Because if Wells knew what Bucky had really wished for on that table in Krausberg, he wouldn't want to be his friend anymore. And now that Wells was back, Bucky wasn't sure what he would do if he lost him again. Back with the 107th, he'd been reliant on Wells to keep him balanced. To provide the bullshit to his own reasoning, and to provide calmness when Bucky wanted to be angry. Now he felt a similar sort of reliance creeping back in, and it was his friend's strength that he needed right now. Strength to face the memories of everything he'd lived through over the past year, knowing that he didn't have to revisit any of that alone. Now that the floodgate was cracked open, if Wells left, Bucky might find himself drowning again.
"From what you've told me, your dad taught you to fight calm with a clear head, right?" his friend asked. He placed a steadying hand on the bag he'd set swinging until it came to a stop.
"Yeah," he agreed. Dad always said that if you fought angry, your opponent could use your own anger against you. That anger led to mistakes. To win, you had to have a clear head.
"Then you're probably gonna hate this next bit," said Wells. "Because fighting with a clear head is fine when you're training for a match, but sometimes you just need to be angry. To punch what makes you angry, and keep punching until you're exhausted." He took up a supporting position behind one of the bags. "C'mon, give it a try. I'll spot you."
"Have you ever done this?" he asked. "Punched what made you angry, I mean."
"Sure. Only, I didn't have a punching bag growing up. So I'd punch the door, or my pillow, or whatever happened to be nearby. I punched a bale of straw, once. It hurt a surprising amount."
"Y'know, I don't think I've ever seen you angry before." Maybe once, back in Italy when Franklin and Davies had been crushed to death in a cave-in. He'd accused Wells of being uncaring. And Wells had punched him. Hard. But that was probably the only time he'd ever let his anger show. Insults seemed to run off him like water over a duck's back.
His friend offered a shrug. "I get angry. Not often, but sometimes. So I let myself feel it. I let it have control, briefly. Then I try to deal with it reasonably. I figure that's better than trying to pretend it doesn't exist. But you're stalling. Punch the damn bag already."
Because Wells had gone through the effort of bringing him here, it was worth a try, even if it was just for the sake of keeping up appearances. So he adopted a fighting stance and hit the bag, tightening his fist at the moment of impact. Wells grunted in disgust.
"C'mon pal, you can do better than that. You've gotta picture it in your head. Everything that's wrong with the world. Everyone who's ever hurt you. Imagine them standing in front of you, and hurt them back. Make them pay. Punch as hard as you can."
So he closed his eyes and imagined the crimson, skeletal face of Schmidt. The bug-like eyes of Dr Zola. The inhuman helmets of the Hydra guards who'd kept him chained to that table. He pictured them in his head, then opened his eyes and punched with force enough to shift Wells' stance back by an inch. The impact sent a tremor up Bucky's arm, and he felt it right in his shoulder.
"Not bad," said his friend. "I think you've gotten stronger. You might even be able to give me a run for my money, now. Try again—but this time, don't drop your elbow."
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Nunhead Cemetery was a place of quiet introspection, far removed from the busyness of Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens. Rows of tombstones and small mausoleums lined its neat gravel paths, the engravings on some so old that they'd long since eroded away, the names of the occupants known only to the men who kept their records safe from the weathering of time. Several had fallen into disrepair, their support stones cracked and moss-covered, but these were lean times, and the final resting place of the dead which had once been tended by an entire team of men was now under the sole care of a man who looked like only a few more years would see him taking his place amongst the residents of the graveyard.
Peggy strode down the paths, conscious of the way the gravel crunched underfoot. Any sound except birdsong felt a stranger here, an unwelcome intrusion into the supernatural peace that always seemed to permeate this place. She would've preferred somewhere else for their meeting; anywhere else would be fine. But finding somewhere away from prying eyes and listening ears was not always easy, and the nature of Nunhead's gravel paths made it impossible for somebody to sneak up without being heard. He'd always been shrewd like that.
The cemetery's roofless Gothic chapel was as dramatic as she remembered it, its elegant curves a pleasing dichotomy to its carved, blocky buttresses. A few pigeons sat perched on some of the highest arches, but they wouldn't be there long; the city employed a falconer to fly his bird around cemeteries and other buildings that had too much historical value to be ruined by the corrosion of pigeon droppings, and it was remarkable how quickly the pigeons moved on once they realised there was a bird of prey in the neighbourhood.
She spotted him at their usual bench, seemingly engrossed in a newspaper. His British Army uniform fit him snugly, especially across the shoulders where he'd always been broad—but it didn't suit him. Maybe because she knew it was only a formality, and not something he would've chosen to wear if he'd had any choice in the matter.
Knowing that he'd insist on the pre-arranged pass phrase, like he always did, she sat down on the bench beside him and asked, "Do you mind if I sit here? This is my favourite bench."
"Of course," he replied without looking up from the paper. "There's plenty of room for two."
That meant the coast was clear. Nobody suspicious had been lurking before she'd arrived. If he'd said "I'm sorry, but I'm expecting somebody" that would've meant it wasn't safe to speak, and they would arrange another meeting on a different day. It was stupid… but in times like these, stupid was sometimes prudent, and she couldn't begrudge him his paranoia. Not him.
"Anything interesting happening today?" she asked, peering over at the newspaper. Hopefully not. She had breakfast with Steve scheduled in half an hour, and didn't have time to waste dallying over the news.
He looked up and smiled, and ten year old Peggy Carter giggled silently in her head. He'd been her first crush, the first boy she'd ever dreamed about, and unlike most of Michael's sixteen year old friends, he'd taken the time to speak seriously with her every time he'd visited the house, treating her in a respectful way that had done absolutely nothing to curb her girlish infatuation. She'd never spoken of her feelings to any of her friends, because while at boarding school talk about boys was discouraged unless it was about the intricacies of arranging the best matches, of which having feelings played no part, but every time she saw him those old feelings stirred a little, even now. Even though it was Steve that she wanted. Her ten year old self had never truly gotten over her first crush, not even when she turned fifteen and heard that he was getting married.
"Plenty of interest is happening today," he said. "And none of it is in these pages."
"Does any of it relate to the favour that Colonel Phillips asked of you?" she asked.
"Indeed it does." He folded the newspaper up and handed it over. "I've circled an article you might find relevant."
"I thought you said there was nothing of interest in the news today?"
"It's not in the news. Not yet. But it might get there, unless you can prevent it."
She sighed as she browsed the pages for a pen circle. "Really, Reg, can't you just tell me in words, like a normal person?"
"And here I thought you enjoyed intrigue, Peggy."
The article in question wasn't long or prominent; it didn't even make second page. She found it on page four, a small side-piece under a large advertisement for Unsworth's Locksmiths, and read it aloud. "Last night a crime was committed upon two servicemen of the Australian 25th Brigade, whereby two women purporting to be ladies distressed by their broken vehicle did offer recompense for the repair of their vehicle by the servicemen mentioned. After purchasing drinks from a nearby public house, the two servicemen then found themselves victims of the crime of theft, with one wrist watch and a notable sum of money taken during the event. Investigations by the police are ongoing." She checked the date on the newspaper. "This is from last week."
Reg nodded. "A similar event occurred three weeks ago. The soldiers in question were Americans, and because they were black, it didn't hit the papers. I'm aware of two similar reports made to the police within the past six months, and I'm sure there are probably more that never reached the authorities. I suspect it's emasculating to report to your seniors that you were robbed by women. One thing not included within that article is how the women are able to rob their victims; they put some sort of sleeping tablet in their drinks. When the men lose consciousness, they strike."
Oh God, she could already see where this was going. "What happened?" she asked, handing the paper back.
"I received a report this morning from one of my sources that Sergeant Barnes filed a report last night. He and Sergeant Wells were targeted in this sort of crime; Sergeant Barnes managed to stay conscious and scare the women off. He gave a description to the police, which is more than what most of the victims have been able to do so far. Perhaps they might even be caught before they can strike again."
"Are they okay? Barnes and Wells?"
Reg shrugged his sizeable shoulders. "You know that's not a question I can ask. And you're better placed than me to find the answer anyway."
"Damnit, I was afraid something like this might happen." When Reg offered a questioning glance, she said, "Trouble always seems to follow those two. If they can't find it for themselves, it's sure to find them. But this is new. You couldn't have known about this when you asked to meet to report back. Is there anything else to report?"
"Very little. Sergeant Wells goes about his duties without complaint. He's on friendly terms with most of the men he works with. Occasionally plays a game of poker with them. Rarely goes out drinking, unless it's with Sergeant Barnes. In the few days I've been watching him, he hasn't visited any of the brothels, he hasn't sent or received any personal correspondence, and he hasn't made any phone calls. I've looked into the circumstances surrounding his arrival with the 3rd in Italy, but all I've been able to determine is that he had the help of the Italian Resistance in reaching them. Unfortunately I have no contacts there; it's not exactly my remit," he said, as if feeling the need to justify his lack of information in that area. "I did manage to borrow him for a few days; told his CO that I needed help with paperwork, and made up some nonsense about being interested in some requisition form he's devised. I gave Sergeant Wells ample opportunity to discuss his background and previous military experience, and offered a couple of casual probing questions so as not to arouse his suspicion, but he was fairly non-communicative about his history. What little he did answer was down-play about how boring life on the front lines is. Marching, waiting, trying not to get shot, etcetera. He literally said 'etcetera'." Reg tapped the rolled up newspaper on the arm of the bench and said, "I'd love to get a look at his file. The non-redacted version, I mean."
"It doesn't exist. You shouldn't even have seen the redacted version. You shouldn't even know it is redacted."
"I have my ways, as you know. But seriously, Peggy. I could use him."
"No."
He raised an eyebrow at the immediate dismissal. "Is that official? Because he's seen action on, or more likely behind, the front lines. He speaks two foreign languages—that much I was able to learn for myself. He knows how to keep his mouth shut, he's great with numbers, and literate enough to impress me. If I request an official transfer, I'm sure it will be approved."
"He's also injured enough to keep him bound to a desk," she pointed out. "Otherwise Colonel Phillips would have found a way to use him already." The irony was, Sergeant Wells wasn't a particularly good soldier, but he would probably make a great SOE agent. Where the army required discipline and obedience, the SOE valued creativity and ingenuity. It really was a shame he'd been so badly injured, because he could've put his talents at bullshitting to great use in the field. And she couldn't blame Phillips for wanting someone to keep an eye on him. Even here, he was a bit of a security risk. But maybe he realised how good he had it now that he didn't have to get routinely shot at. Maybe the potential loss of his new position would be incentive enough for him to keep quiet about the SSR's actions in France and Italy.
Reg inclined his head slightly. "As you wish. Do you want me to keep surveilling him?"
"I take it you think there's little risk?"
"It would be a waste of my time," he agreed. "Sergeant Wells is surface-level boring. If you won't let me have him, then he's of no interest or use to me." He paused, then added, "except maybe as an assistant if the paperwork starts to build up again. You can't imagine how unbelievably dull lend-lease is. I wish I'd been able to think up a better cover, but all the best posts were already taken."
"I'll let Colonel Phillips know that you've deemed him low enough risk that surveillance is no longer required." She smiled, and tried to throw him a bone. "And that you'd be keen to use his services in the future, if anything should change. Is there anything else?"
The tapping of the newspaper grew quicker in pace as he studied her through cool blue eyes, then stopped suddenly to leave a tense silence behind. "Yes. But you won't like it."
"This is war. I don't like a lot of things. But if it's something I need to know about, then I'd rather hear it now, from you. So spit it out."
"I saw Francis the other day. I think he's becoming sympathetic to the Germans."
She almost laughed out loud. "Why in God's name are you following Francis of all people, Reg?"
"Because he spends the majority of his time around Kaufmann's people. He's been approving more and more of their requests recently."
"It's his job to see to their basic needs," she pointed out. "It's literally what he's here to do."
"But the frequency at which he's approving their requests has increased," he insisted. "I had Wells run the calculations for me—don't worry, it was just numbers, I didn't tell him what they meant—and it turns out that Francis is approving sixty-three percent more of their requests now than he did when he started in that job. Besides, you know how I feel about the SIS."
"Francis doesn't work for the SIS anymore; he works for the SOE now," she pointed out.
"Just because he works for us doesn't mean he's one of us."
"Technically I'm not 'one of us' anymore either."
"Now that you mention it, when are you coming back? I know what your role in the SSR is, and I know that they're wasting your talents." He said that with a completely straight face.
"You think it's a waste of my talents to be the liaison between the top brass and the Commandos? The SSR's greatest asset, the team who are sent on the most dangerous and demanding missions against Hydra?"
"I think you should be leading those missions," he said. "Not liaising with the men who go on them. I didn't recruit you because you were my friend's sister, but because I saw your potential. Come back, and I can have you out in the field by tomorrow."
Her mind went back several weeks to the missions she'd been hearing about, the ones led by the Russians. Women were fighting amongst them. Flying, manning tanks, doing all the dirty work that men said women weren't able to do. The sad thing was, Reg didn't see her as a woman. He never had. She was a person. A resource. He'd single-handedly recruited more women into the SOE than any other operative, and many of those women were now stationed across Europe, waiting for the moment to rise up and help overthrow Hitler. They were fighters and couriers, communications workers and explosives experts. They were doing the work they needed to do, the equal of their male counterparts.
A decade ago, she would've given anything for Reg to see her as a woman. But he never did. And then along came Fred, who did see her as a woman, and expected her to do and want womanly things, like a nice home and children. He would never have understood her desire to stand up and make a difference, whereas Reg understood it all too well. Steve… he was different. He understood her as well as Reg ever had, but he saw the woman behind the soldier, and he wanted both parts. The fighter and the wife. To Steve, they were one and the same. And yes, maybe if she left her post in the SSR and went back to the SOE, she'd have the freedom to take more risks. She'd be on the missions, and not just liaising with the men who were. She wouldn't have to be a stand-in coffee-retriever for Private Lorraine, or listen to Howard bemoan how biology wasn't a real science. But she had helped shaped the Commandos into the team they were today, and she owed it to Abraham Erskine to ensure his dream stayed alive.
"Thank you, Reg. I'll always be grateful for everything you've done for me. But I have a job to do, and I intend to see it through to the end."
He sighed and nodded, as if he'd known that would be her answer. "You always were committed. But speaking of stubborn, how's Michael doing these days?"
"Well enough." Worried about Antje and obsessing over his book, but they were minor problems in context of the war. "Why don't you go and visit him? I know he'd be happy to see you again. With so many of his friends dead or fighting abroad, it would mean a lot to him to see one who's still alive and well."
"I might," he agreed, which meant he wouldn't. "I enquired with my police contact into the mugging situation for you. The police are still looking for leads, but they're constrained by the law. Would you like me to open up my own investigation?"
"No. Leave matters of crime to the proper authorities. The last thing we need is to step on any more toes; MI6 already think we're trying to take over their department, I don't want the police thinking that too."
"Of course. But consider my resources at your disposal should you change your mind. And keep in mind I would like first dibs on Sergeant Wells, if Colonel Phillips should change his mind there as well."
"I will." She stood and brushed off her skirt. It would be a cold day in hell before Phillips changed his mind about his plans for Sergeant Wells. "Good day, Captain Coleman."
He tipped his hat in formal salute. "Good day, Agent Carter."
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Operating under the old adage that everything which is not forbidden is allowed, Howard Stark had made the most of his time away from Kaufmann's lab to engage in as much everything as humanly possible. Blondes, brunettes, red-heads, even a pair of identical twin sisters, which was not a first for him, unless you counted the fact that they were English, in which case they were very much a first. He'd dipped his hand into every barrel of apples on offer, and spent many splendid evenings in fine company wearing very little clothing, and he'd done it all with the passion of a man who knew that he was on borrowed time.
As he strode down the corridor towards Colonel Phillips' office, he was painfully conscious that the last grains of sand in his hourglass of borrowed time were being hurried along by gravity. With Morita's final assessment scheduled for three days' time, he'd have no choice except to return to the lab and continue analysing the data from Jim's exposure to the serum before the real tests began. Weeks spent in a stuffy room with a dozen stuffy German scientists had helped him to appreciate the finer things in life.
Such as a pair of twins on the back seat of his Rolls-Royce Phantom.
Private Lorraine smiled warmly at him, and he switched on a little charm for her as he knocked on Colonel Phillips' door. But he quickly switched the charm off again when the Colonel called, "Enter." Charm was not something Phillips appreciated, and if he thought Howard was being frivolous with his time, he might just bring Morita's assessment date forward and send Howard back to Kaufmann's place. That was something to be put off for as long as possible.
The Colonel was at his usual spot behind his desk, perusing one of the local newspapers. He read them often. Maybe he was keeping abreast of local politics, or maybe he was looking for encoded messages. Maybe both.
"Shut the door," Phillips instructed. So Howard did. Then he sank down into the chair in front of the desk without waiting for an invitation, because when all was said and done, he wasn't military, and he didn't need to stand on ceremony. It was time the Colonel was reminded that Howard Stark was his own man, with his own will, and—
"I didn't bring you here to keep the Strand's staff busy providing you with room service for three," the Colonel said.
Damn. He knew about Fanny and Rita. He and the girls had spent a glorious forty-eight hours ordering champagne and caviar from his room. "I'm well aware of that, Colonel," he replied. Time for some damage control. "Rest assured I've been keeping a very close eye on Private Morita. After all, it's my reputation on the line if he keels over from the serum we gave him, or if he should suddenly decide to go on a killing spree because the effects of the cure were as impermanent as the serum itself."
"Hmph." Phillips seemed mollified for the moment. "How is he doing?"
"He's recovered as well as I'd hoped," he said. Time to big-up the science. He could make anything sound impressive, with science-talk. "I took another blood sample at the Private's last medical assessment, and it seems that almost all traces of the serum are gone. I've deduced that his hunger was a side-effect of the serum breaking down into simple protein chains, and was unrelated to the virus itself. His appetite is slowly returning to normal; a couple more days and it should be back to its original level. Remarkably, he hasn't put on any weight as far as I can tell despite consuming as many calories every day as Captain Rogers, but I'll make sure our next assessment in three days' time is very thorough."
"No other side effects?"
"None." Maybe he ought to not make that sound so final. "None yet, anyway. If we can get to his next assessment without anything untoward happening, then I'd say we're home free. I expect all traces of the serum to be gone already, but I can't keep taking blood samples without raising his suspicions. Discretion being the better part of science, and all that."
"Good."
"Now, if that will be all, Colonel, I told Miles that I'd give him a hand recalibrating the electron microscope." He stood as he spoke and inched his way towards the door.
"Actually, that's not all." God dammit. "I brought you here to inform you that tomorrow, Agent Carter will be taking the team for a two-day excursion to Scotland to carry out some training exercises. They've been through a lot over the past few months and I want to make sure that between the illnesses, the injuries and the other nonsense they've gotten themselves involved in, that it hasn't affected their ability to act as a team."
He did not like the direction this was taking. Scotland's roads were not great on the Phantom's suspension. Too many pot-holes. "That's a good idea, Colonel. It will make Morita's final assessment, in three days' time, a more accurate reflection upon how his body will handle action. And did I mention the assessment is scheduled in three days?"
"You'll be going with them, Stark," Phillips growled. "If something does go south with Morita, I want you close by to address it. Speak to Agent Carter about what supplies you'll need to take with you. The team don't know about the mission yet; we're testing their readiness as well."
Damn it all to hell and back. He was supposed to be taking Lady Agatha out to a private movie screening tomorrow night. What were the chances he could get back to London from Scotland, and then return before morning without anyone noticing his absence? Very slim. And he'd definitely be in hot water if something did go wrong with Morita while he was gone. There was still a slight chance that there may be serum-related complications.
"No problem at all, Colonel," he said. Maybe he could take Amelia. If he could find somewhere to land her, and get a couple of cross-country flights authorised with the RAF, he could still make the private screening.
Phillips eyed him up suspiciously. He'd probably been expecting a stronger objection. "I'm glad you're playing ball. I expect your final assessment report on Morita as soon as you return to London."
"Gotcha. Now, if that's all, Colonel?" If he was quick, he could get his supply order in with Peggy and find a way to have fun on his last night of freedom.
"One last thing." Howard paused halfway out of his chair and waited for Phillips to drop another unpleasant bomb. "Sergeant Barnes was apparently drugged last night. When you give Morita his checkup, give Barnes one too. I'm going to issue a caution to the team—in fact, to all SSR staff—about accepting drinks from strangers. And that goes for you as well. I don't want to come in one morning to a report that someone in a skirt has drugged you and stolen half your military secrets."
"Not to worry, Colonel. Howard Stark is a giver, not a taker. I make it a point to never allow a woman to buy my drinks; I'm very old-fashioned that way."
Another grunt from Phillips. "That'll be all, then."
"Yes sir." He paused at the door. It couldn't hurt to enquire. "Is there any word on when we can expect our package?"
"Not yet, but the situation is still volatile. When it arrives, you'll be the first to know."
"Great. I'm looking forward to it." Hopefully the situation would remain volatile for some time. Project Lazarus was moving much too quickly for his liking.
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A trickle of sweat slipped down his forehead and dropped off the edge of his eyebrow onto his cheek, but Bucky paid it no attention as he tightened his fist and hit the bag once more. His breaths came hard and fast, his punches slowing down. He'd already stripped off his jacket and shirt, and his vest was half soaked from the effort of taking out all his anger on the bag. In truth he'd already spent what anger he'd been saving, and now punched merely to exhaust himself. While he was fighting, he wasn't thinking, and it felt good to have a still mind for a change. Maybe if he could exhaust himself he could go to bed and fall asleep without lying awake worrying about things. That would make a nice change. He never lay awake worrying when he was on missions because the mission, and very often survival itself, kept his focus narrow. Coming back to London, being out of mortal peril… that was when he worried. That was when the guilt started to settle in.
He gave it another five minutes, until each breath came ragged and hard-won, then aimed one final punch at the bag, spending the last of his energy reserves. As he recovered his breath, he held the abused punching bag still, stopping it from swinging. The room seemed eerily quiet after the rhythm of punches he'd thrown, and it very almost prompted him into starting up again. The silence begged to be filled, but he knew his engine was running on fumes already. He'd only nibbled at his breakfast, and he'd need to eat again soon.
With no towel to wipe the sweat from his body, he simply donned his shirt and jacket and hoped that the moisture wouldn't soak through both layers, otherwise he was gonna get some looks from anyone who saw him. Only when his breathing started to return to normal did he join Wells at the tiered benches where he was absorbed in a small ASE book he'd pulled out of his pocket after getting bored of watching the bag swing. It was one Bucky hadn't read before, Reprisal, written by an author he'd never even heard of, but Wells seemed to be into it. He didn't even glance up as Bucky dropped heavily onto the bench beside him. His legs were taking on some definite jelly-like qualities now that he'd stopped moving around. It had been a long time since he'd felt this physically tired, but oddly enough, it was a good sort of tired, and he felt healthier for it.
Just as Bucky's stomach began to issue several quiet growls, Wells dog-eared his page and tucked it back into his jacket before asking, "Feel better?"
"I think I should be asking you that," he countered. "You look tired, and that bruise is turning a nasty shade of purple." Now that he'd stopped moving, stopped fighting, the guilt started gnawing at him almost immediately, churning its way through his gut like a worm eating through an apple. "I'm sorry I haven't been a very good friend today."
Wells gave him a look that suggested he was mad. "Whaddya mean? You saved me from getting pick-pocketed, carried me back to safety, let me sleep in your bed all night and fed me this morning. Granted, you didn't bring me any eggs with breakfast, and you do know they are my favourite. But that just means you don't have a future career in room service."
Bucky shook his head. Wells was far too forgiving, these days. The old Danny Wells would not have allowed him to wallow in self-pity like this. "I've been so wrapped up in feeling bad about how I lost my temper that I haven't even asked how you're feeling. How are you feeling?"
"Just tired. Slight headache. Nothing to be worried about, honestly."
"No, I mean how are you feeling? I mean, it was pretty scary last night. Right?"
"I guess so. Though, I was unconscious for most of it. I'm worried I might just have a gap in my memory. Maybe that's something I'll have to learn to live with. Maybe the memory will come back after some proper sleep. Or maybe it's better if I don't remember." He offered a small smile. "I noticed you still have the book."
"Book?"
"On your nightstand."
"Oh. That book. Yeah, sorry, I should've given it back to you before now." A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. It technically belonged to Wells, after all. He'd bought it outright from Gusty that first week at NYPOE. Bucky had only inherited it much later, and now that his friend was alive again, he had no reason not to give it back.
"What'd you think of it?"
"The story?" he asked, and Wells nodded.
It was a perfectly sensible question to ask… but Bucky had no good answer to give. When he'd inherited the book, he'd fully intended to read it. After all, he'd been pestering Wells to let him read it for months before that. Several times since it had come into his possession, Bucky had picked it up and turned to the first page. He'd read the first line, then put it down again because reading it at that moment never felt right, but until now he'd never truly stopped to think about why he couldn't read the damn thing.
When Wells had been alive the first time, it had become something of a game. Bucky would ask to borrow it, and Wells would say no. Bucky would try to take it from him, and Wells would refuse to let him have it. Being able to read it freely, without objection from his friend… that wasn't the game. It was too much like cheating. Without Wells there to object, there was no fun in it. The fun was in finally winning the game, not in losing your opponent halfway through the match.
And more than that, the book was a mystery. A big fat question mark. The answer to a riddle he'd been pondering since Wells had bought the book in the first place. Why, exactly, did his friend like the book so much? Why did he give and take in trade, every book except that one? What made that particular book special? Knowing that the answer lay in the reading meant that the mystery would finally be solved. He would finally understand why Wells kept the book and didn't want to let him read it. The mystery would be over. He could stop thinking about it.
Maybe part of him didn't want to stop thinking about it. Maybe part of him didn't really want answers. Maybe it was better to not be able to draw a line underneath his friend's life and say, 'this is done.' Maybe there was even a part of him that had never even wanted to read it in the first place, because by not reading it, the mystery was unfinished, and if the mystery was unfinished, then maybe Wells wasn't really gone. Maybe after reading it, he'd feel obligated to pass it on to someone else, and then the last thing he had from his friend would pass from his life forever.
Or maybe he'd just been really busy with being in London, which sounded a much better reason to give.
"I kinda hadn't gotten around to reading it yet," he said. Because what if there had never been any game to begin with? What if there was no big mystery to solve? What if reading it left him disappointed? "You know, being busy on missions and wallowing in self pity and all."
Wells nodded. "Then you can keep it until you've read it. I'll get it back from you after that."
And now that he had his friend's permission to read the book, he suddenly didn't want to. He wanted to give it back. To set the game back to how it had always been. "Are you sure? It might take a while."
"Of course I'm sure. It's a good book. Take your time, I'm in no hurry."
"At this rate it might even take years," he pointed out. Had Wells just changed the parameters of the game? Was the game now, have it but don't read it? Because that was a game Bucky could definitely win. "That's a long time to stick around for a book."
"It's a very good book. Besides, I got nothing in my schedule." He grinned, and it made him look a little less tired. "Except marrying Rita. You'll have to come to Hollywood for the service, of course. So just make sure you've read it by then, so you can bring it with you. And for the record, an old Armed Services Edition book that was originally mine to begin with is not an appropriate wedding gift."
"Noted." He nodded to the punching bag that was finally still. "Wanna turn? Maybe you can punch your way back to those memories you lost."
"Nah. Between the darts and the pool, my shoulder's had pretty much all it can take for now. Besides, I need to head home. Get some real sleep."
"Fair enough. But this time I am walking you back, and no arguments. I'm not convinced you don't have a concussion, so I'm going to make sure you get back to your hotel without any further incident."
"No arguments," Wells agreed.
They made their way back out of the old house and into the street. Sunlight hit Bucky's face, and he squinted against the harsh glare. It felt like he'd been hitting that bag forever, but in truth it had probably been only a few hours. He shivered as the sweat soaking his body rapidly cooled, and he could already feel his shoulders starting to ache from the effort of punching. A year ago, that kind of practice wouldn't have been so hard on him. But then, a year ago, he'd been training three times a week at his dad's gym. Since joining the army he'd only sparred once or twice, and done very little practice at all. Maybe tonight he'd have a hot bath. Not because of any illness, but simply to ease his aching muscles.
"Which way to the Parkgate?" he asked.
Wells glanced around to get his bearings. "This way. I think." He turned to face the other end of the street. "Or is it over there? Or wait, maybe that direction looks more familiar… hah, just yankin' your chain, pal. I can remember the way just fine."
He kept pace easily with his friend, watching Wells from the corner of his eye in case he looked like he might start wobbling again. But other than the bruise on his head, he seemed fine. He'd gotten lucky. A blow to the head, if it hit the wrong place, could be fatal. Did the women who'd done this know how close to murder they had come, or did they simply not care? What if next time they struck—if there even was a next time—they actually killed someone? Would the police be able to stop them before that happened? They hadn't even managed to find Antje's attacker yet. Hell, maybe they were even in cahoots!
"Can I ask you something?" Wells said, interrupting his train of thought.
"Sure."
He stopped and waited for Bucky to face him. A shadow of concern haunted his face, which meant it must be something pretty serious, if he was showing anything at all. He was a master of keeping his real thoughts private. "I know you always wrote to the families of the 107th, whenever we lost a member. I know you wrote Samantha, after we lost Carrot. You didn't do anything like that for me, did you?"
"The thought didn't even cross my mind," he said honestly. "In your letter, you said your family were more like strangers. That the 107th were your real family. So I kinda figured I didn't need to write anyone. Everyone who cared about you, and everyone you cared about, already knew."
"Okay. Good. Thanks." He set off again, a man suddenly carrying a lot more weight on his shoulders.
Bucky hurried to catch up. "Got something on your mind?"
"No. Just that I think I need to take things easy for the next couple of days. It's been a pretty full-on week. I forgot how much bullshit happens around you."
"Around me?! Wells, you're the master of bullshit!"
"Yeah, but I spent months away from you in Italy, and then with the Third. And nothing of interest happened. Other than the fact that I almost got discovered by the Gestapo once or twice, but that's just war, right? Everything was very boring. But in the space of just over a week, you've almost been turned into a vampire, nearly drowned to death in a U-boat, then there was that whole thing with you collapsing, and now this."
"Hey, this has been an unusual week for me as well! Normally things are much quieter around here. Even when we're on missions, it's not usually this kind of crazy." Which was true. The crazy always happened in small doses. Rescuing Blue. Discovering Jacques' sister was still alive. Saving Antje and Reuben. Rescuing Michael. Those weren't even crazy things. They were just normal missions. If there was a common denominator here, it sure as hell wasn't Bucky. "Maybe it's the 107th that's cursed," he said. "And whenever a couple of people from the 107th meet up, the crazy is unleashed."
"Maybe." Wells stopped on the bridge they were crossing and leaned over the side to look down into the murky waters of the Thames. Whatever was weighing on him, Bucky doubted it was the craziness of the past week's antics. Not after everything they'd experienced last year. This week was just par for the course, as far as the 107th was concerned.
He joined his friend in his leaning, and asked, "What's really on your mind?"
"It's awkward," Wells admitted. He transferred his gaze to the horizon, at the water that was growing slowly orange as the sun set above it. Out there, the Thames looked more like a river of fire, a golden-red ribbon that wound its way through the city, cutting it neatly in two. "I mean, I thought I didn't need to know. But maybe I do. Just so that I know whether it's gonna come back and bite me on the ass later." Bucky waited. He could recognise an internal conflict when he saw one, and whatever Wells was wrestling with must be big, because normally he didn't shy away from what he considered awkward. Finally, he said, "I wasn't expecting you to still have it. The book, I mean. And you know, if one thing can come back when I don't expect it, maybe other things can. I like my job here. I don't wanna lose it. I can't lose it. So I need to know. What did you do with my letter?"
"Oh." Of course he'd want to know. In the wrong hands, it could be damning. He was an idiot for having written it in the first place, but then, he hadn't expected to survive it. So maybe he'd thought it wouldn't matter. "I wasn't sure what to do with it at first," he admitted. "I didn't wanna keep it in my foot locker, in case someone went through my stuff and found it. So I kept it on me. It was in my jacket pocket when we got captured at Azzano. When I was taken to the back room… well, my jacket was burned. They said they were gonna burn it, anyway."
Wells grimaced. "I hope they did."
"Do you regret writing it?" He'd asked before, and Wells had dodged the question. Perhaps he hadn't been ready to answer. Perhaps he didn't even know the answer himself. Now, there was no such indecision, and his answer came easily.
"No. I think it's important to be honest before you die. And if I die tomorrow, at least I can say that I've done that. Been honest. It's kinda exhausting, wearing a mask. Hiding things. Keeping up appearances. Pretending you're one thing, constantly living in fear that someone will discover your secret. Don't you think?"
Bucky shrugged. "I guess so." But the words hit him right in the gut. Wells was right. Playing at pretend was tiring. Keeping up with the lies, spending smiles like they were cash, never knowing when the cracks would start showing in the veneer of normalcy he'd tried so hard to wrap himself in. And Wells knew. Of course he knew. For a brief moment, Bucky hated that his friend had been brave enough to tell the truth when he himself was still lying to almost everyone who knew him. But then, he'd told the truth to Wells, hadn't he? Most of it, anyway. There was always more truth, but he'd made a start. And Wells wasn't saying what he was saying in an accusatory way, he wasn't trying to make Bucky feel bad about keeping things from Steve. He was just being honest.
"But maybe it wasn't the smartest thing I've ever done," Wells continued, oblivious to his inner turmoil. "And I do regret not instructing you to burn it yourself. Or tear it into a hundred thousand tiny pieces and throw it into some river." He smiled wryly. "Hindsight, eh?"
In truth, he'd considered destroying it. But that would've meant destroying the last thing he had left of his friend, and so the risk of keeping it had seem fairly balanced. "Maybe I should've done that," he admitted. "But I thought you deserved more than having your words burned. Plus you agonised for ages over writing the thing, so I knew how important it was to you. I don't think you need to worry about it coming back. There wasn't much left of Krausberg, not after Schmidt blew it to rubble."
"Good to know. That's definitely a weight off my chest." When he stood up, his back was a little straighter, as if some great weight really had been removed. "C'mon, let's go. I'm tired and you look like you need a hot shower. You didn't do a proper cool-down after all that punching, did you?"
"No, I didn't. And you're right, I'm in dire need of a shower. So let's get you home and then I can go fish out my spare uniform and see how badly in need of ironing it is. Do you promise you'll see a doctor if you have any other issues with your memory, though?"
Wells rolled his eyes, but he smiled while doing it. "I promise."
Author's Note: I always enjoy it when minor supporting characters demand to have larger roles in the story. We'll be seeing a little more of Reg in the future.
I shall now take a short break from writing. I've got the next little arc planned out, plus the one after that - however, whilst thinking about things, I realised I might want to mix things up a little by doing some other stuff between the arc that I hadn't actually planned. So I'll need some time to play around with planning and writing and trying to figure out what works and what doesn't. So maybe I'll need a few days, or maybe I'll need a few weeks - who knows?! I'll update again once I've got the next 10-12 chapters properly figured out, because I hate when things get messy.
Rayne - Thank you for the compliments! I'm glad your re-read was enjoyable. I do try to do a lot of foreshadowing in my writing, and sometimes when you read back earlier chapters you might see them completely differently with the benefit of hindsight, and have a different interpretation of what they might mean than when you read them the first time around. Happy to hear this adds to the re-read value, as I personally do love to re-read stories that I've enjoyed, and in particular discovering "new" things that I missed on my first read-through. I do enjoy writing Phillips, and I think Tommy Lee Jones did a fantastic job at balancing a caring CO with a cantankerous officer, conveying somebody who cares but pretends he doesn't. Plus the dry sense of humour always gets me! I'm not sure I want to know how/why you've had many concussions in your life, so until I hear otherwise I'm going to imagine that you're an experimental NASCAR driver and that your many crashes result in head injuries, because that sounds like a pretty cool way to suffer multiple concussions.
Karina/Guest/Bonecreaker - I hope this little dose of Howard was satisfactory. You can enjoy even more Howard in the next couple of chapters too! :)
Pervy Guest - I think you have wildly misinterpreted this story's PEGI rating... and theme... -_-
Kaylee - We may never know the true cause of Danny's memory loss. I imagine it's a combination of being drugged and hitting his head. And yes, those walls are crumbly like a particularly fine feta cheese. He's basically me when I say to myself "Today I am going to be strong and not eat any cookies" twenty minutes before I eat a cookie. Except instead of cookie, it's Bucky. I can't really blame him though, because cookies. are. delicious.