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The stench of the room was unfamiliar, particularly to the men that made up the majority of present company. It smelt of the upper class, expensive tobacco, high end whiskey and a hint of lavender lingering from someone’s cologne.
“This is weird,” Bucky muttered as he sat.
The room was filled with a long wooden table, surrounded by military men, the newly formed Howling Commandos, alongside several Generals who were revelling in the prestige of being in the company of one Captain America.
A Captain America that insisted his whole team attend the fancy dinner he’d been invited to.
“Not exactly hot dogs at Coney Island,” Steve smirked at his best friend. Bucky gave him a small smile, still feeling a level of discomfort. Steve had grown accustomed to this, the formal dinners, the attention of Generals and Politicians, the eyes that never strayed from them - expecting them to be the shining star of the U.S. Army.
The meal spanned for an hour, course after course even in a nation that was suffering tight rationing. Any anger at how disproportionate the treatment was compared to those outside was forgotten with the long standing British tradition of binge drinking.
Bucky himself had drunk one too many, yet he found himself fully lucid, his mind as clear as when he entered. His eyes flickered to Steve, who also appeared sober, his fingers drumming against the wood of the table.
Behind the large form of Captain America, the doorway of the room had been left open, allowing the sight of every individual who passed.
“Helen!” One of the generals called.
Two women stopped in their tracks. The one called Helen wore a standard British Army uniform, whilst you stood beside her, hair neatly curled and styled, donning a dark blue dress - casual enough to be worn anywhere but tight enough that it emphasised your form.
“Sorry,” she whispers to you and enters. She saluted. “Yes, General?”
“Heading home, honey?”
“We are going for afternoon tea, sir,” she keeps her expression straight, but her eyes are weary, fully conscious of how she was in a room of mostly drunk military men.
Behind her, you glance around, flickering between each of the men until your eyes land on a pair of startling familiar blue eyes.
All the noise of the conversation seemed to fall away.
Bucky Barnes, the man who had impressed you and charmed you, was alive. Your heart rate began to climb, the two of you unable to look away.
“Let’s go,” you barely feel Helen pull on your arm lightly as she speaks urgently.
“Oh, yes of course,” you allow her to drag you along, babbling something about needing to work early tomorrow.
“Buck?” Steve had his eyebrows raised. “What was that?”
Bucky’s eyes were still on the space you had been standing.
“Give me five minutes,” he gets to his feet.
“There he goes again…” the faint voice of Dum Dum follows him, smug in the knowledge Bucky would be longer.
You hear the call of your name, and freeze. “Keep going Helen, I will catch up.”
Helen’s eyes flicker between you and the soldier who was on your tail. Her eyes narrow.
“Okay,” she nods. “I will be in the foyer.”
You smile and nod, then turn to see Bucky in front of you.
He looks the same as in that pub almost six months ago, yet not.
The dark brown hair swept aside, the uniform, now with the black pin marking him as someone who had seen action. It was all the same.
Then there were those eyes, those blue eyes that no longer held boyish mischief, they held pain, sadness and desperation.
“Hello Sergeant,” you keep your voice steady, then swallow carefully.
His eyes flicker over you, taking you in.
“It’s you, it’s really you,” he breathed.
You shrug. “Did you expect me to be someone else?”
“I- I just,” he stammers, his hands fidget. “Hell, I thought I’d never see you again.”
“Bucky,” you breathe.
“I know, I promised but-“ he flinches, remembering everything he went through was secret. “I was captured, and never thought I’d get out.”
You frown, suddenly his absence made sense. “That’s why you never came back.”
“I can’t, I couldn’t,” he seemed flustered. “I could not face you without ending the war first.”
“That’s not your responsibility,” you tell him, hands on your hips.
“It is now,” his hand twitches as if wishing to grasp yours. “We’re going to end this war, or die trying.”
“What if that isn’t good enough?” You challenge him.
He recoils, eyes wide at your stern tone.
“You promised me a date,” you step forward, the memory of everyone you have lost in the past decade, your parents, your cousins, your friends. “I am done waiting. Every day I hear of someone’s brother, father, cousin, lover, who has died on the front lines. I do not want to receive that letter of condolence without a happy memory to match it.”
He leans down, something changing in his expression, face only inches from yours causing your skin to tingle.
“You free tomorrow?” He whispers, his eyes are pleading.
“Yes,” you whisper back, scared to break the tension that charged the corridor.
“You, me and theatre in town,” his tone leaves no room to deny him. “Meet me there at five, and dress nice.”
“Okay,” you gaze up at him. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, then leans down and brushes his lips against yours for a split second.
You gasp. “Hey!”
Bucky laughs, the sound warming your heart. “Had to steal one whilst I could, sweetheart.”
Your eyes narrow. “Flirt.”
He grinned. “Yes I am.”
There it was, the boyish charm that melted your heart. You sigh, slightly amused.
“I will see you tomorrow, Sarge,” you tease him and then quickly give him a peck on the cheek before turning on your heels.
Bucky seizes up for a moment, his eyes fixed on your form as you walk away before a smug smile crosses his face.
“Haven’t lost it completely, Barnes,” he murmurs to himself.
You stand outside the building, near the board marking today’s showing, legs twist back and forth to gain just a tad of warmth.
“G’evening ma’am,” you hear a voice behind you.
You quickly turn, just able to make out his outline in front of the sunset.
“Bucky,” you exhale in relief and step forward.
Bucky is in his uniform again, the pin was not present, or any of his medals of honour.
“Your uniform is different,” you note.
He reaches over to slide his hand into yours, warmth covers your fingers. “Don’t need ‘em here.”
You smile softly at that, pleased he wasn’t trying to impress you with shiny objects.
“You look beautiful,” he adds, his eyes flickering over your green dress, the neckline that didn’t quite reach your cleavage but hung low enough to be tempting.
“Thank you,” you squeeze his hand gently.
Bucky remains still for a moment, just looking, as if he was taking in that you were here.
“Are you alright?” You frown slightly.
“Hm,” he blinks. “Yeah, yeah… just been a while since I’ve seen something so pretty.”
Your head tilts, a faint blush appearing, but your heart tightens. You know you cannot even imagine what he has been since your first encounter.
“Let’s go inside,” you speak softly.
The two of you remain seated even as the credits roll, empty tubs of ice cream put aside, and you lean against Bucky’s right arm.
“You should have let me get you candy,” he murmurs.
“Sweets are a treat,” you respond. “I use my ration on getting them for the kids.”
Bucky sighs, adjusting his arm to wrap it around your shoulders.
“Of course you do,” he breathes, then pauses. “If I cannot get you candy, would you like dinner?”
You look at him. “Dinner too?”
He turns his head, face now very close. “Yeah, I promised you dinner. A happy memory, and this one to be as long as possible. All night, if I can.”
Your nose nudges him playfully. “That would be nice.”
His smile widens, eyes soft.
Dinner is quiet and simple, but in times like these quiet and simple is perfect. You talk about everything, anything. Your childhood, Bucky’s life before he enlisted, the smell of the air during harvesting season in your village, the fog that surrounded Brooklyn.
Never the war, anything but that.
“Turned out he’d snuck into a farmers field to pick them,” you laugh lightly.
“Damn, the kid has better game than I do,” Bucky chuckles. “Should have brought you flowers too.”
You shake your head with a small smile. “They wouldn’t have survived the train ride back.”
“Maybe not,” he paused, expression thoughtful. “But I would like you to have something to remember me by.”
“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t talk like this is goodbye.”
He stares again, expressionless. “Sweetheart, I am not naive enough to believe I will come back.”
You shake your head harder this time. “You won’t die. You’re too persistent.”
He lets out a short bark of laughter, leaning back and allowing a smile. “Yeah, kind of am.”
“Bucky,” you pause, unsure how to broach the topic, social norms mentally gnawing at you.
“Yeah doll?”
“Do you want to dance with me?” You ask, then fumble your words. “If- if you want to.”
He grins, appreciating your willingness to make the first move. “I would like that.”
It takes time to find somewhere open for you to dance, and when you do it is without any fuss.
The hall is filled with military men on leave, seeking respite with a woman to forget their pain.
Bucky was no different in that, except he was not loud nor drunk.
The two of you hardly move, his hands on your waist, yours on his shoulder. You away from side to side, occasionally stepping in rhythm of the music, eyes fixed on each other - no words required.
His hands are gentle against your waist, his body emits warmth so strongly like an open flame.
“Bucky,” you breathe.
“Shhh,” he murmurs, then leans down to place his forehead against yours. “Just dance with me, sweetheart.”
He pulls you closer, your chest now against his.
You remain like that for what feels like an eternity, or perhaps it was only five minutes, just you and him, and the faint music in the background. Nothing else seemed to matter.
Then the announcement came, warning of the hall’s closure in ten minutes, and the spell was broken.
“One night, just one,” he murmurs almost to himself. “It’s enough.”
“It’ll never be enough,” you whisper back. “Stay, please.”
“You know I can’t,” he replies, his eyes dropped down. “Steve is depending on me.”
That was enough. You knew that. This wasn’t about his country, it was about his best friend.
You remain silent, grasping his hand, weaving your fingers with his.
The air is tense as you collect your coats, walk in the brisk air to the hotel and allow him to walk to your room.
You open the door and allow him to enter, shutting it with care, and finally speak.
“Write to me,” you gaze into his eyes. You quickly pull out paper from a notebook on the desk, scribbling your address. “Just tell me if you are alive.”
His fingers grasp the paper, sliding it inside his jacket.
“Whenever I can,” he agrees, and steps forward. “And promise me, you won’t forget this, this one night.”
You reach forward, grabbing his hands with your own.
“I promise, I could never forget you,” your eyes started to water and your chest tightened.
He leaned down. “May I?”
“Please,” you whisper. His lips softly touch yours, gentle at first then fiercer. His arms encircle you, pulling you tightly to him as your hands move up to press against his chest.
Your eyes remain shut, intent on living in this moment. This one happy memory, even as the tears fell down your face, a reminder that even in this dark there was still some joy.