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“Your analysis of Sun Bin’s influence at the Battle of Maling was masterful.”
Steve blinked. “Thanks. You read my thesis?”
“And your graduate seminar papers. Your earlier work has proven more difficult to obtain, since your undergraduate university’s institutional repository doesn’t archive most student papers, but we’ve reached out to your professors. I’m optimistic that some of them will have kept their own records.” Coulson’s face had the slow-dawning horror of a man who hears what he’s saying, but can’t make himself stop.
“Wow. That’s, uh. Very thorough.”
“Steve,” Bucky said, “will you get me more coffee?”
“Sure, Buck, what kind?”
Bucky’s eyes narrowed as he read the menu board. “Mocha whip.”
“Coming right up.”
As soon as Steve was out of his line of sight, Coulson slowly bent forward until his forehead was resting on the cafe table. He lifted and dropped it with a gentle thunk that rattled the cups.
Bucky watched him for a few moments, then reached out and gingerly patted his shoulder.
“Thank you, Sergeant Barnes,” Coulson said, his voice muffled.
“No problem.”
They stayed there for a few more minutes in silence, Coulson’s forehead pressed to the table.
“I can get copies of most of his papers,” Bucky offered, and Coulson’s head popped up off the table with a sticky velcro noise. “If you want–”
“I want them.” Coulson’s eyes darted to the side, where Steve was coming back with a mug piled high with whipped cream and sprinkles. “Sergeant, please keep me from talking. Lethal force authorized if necessary.”
“Ask him about Operation Mincemeat in World War II. You won’t get a word in edgewise for the next hour.”
Thank you, Coulson mouthed, as Steve sat down again.