#basilone

It only took a few knocks before the door opened. She was wearing slacks and a button-down shirt, her hair tied back behind a scarf. "I ...brought a bottle of wine," Bucky offered, gesturing with it. "Man at the store said it went well with chicken, but I...I guess I should have asked what you were serving." He felt too tall and out of place. "It smells great."

"I ordered Chinese food," she said, matter-of-factly. "I'm...not very much of a cook. Colonel Harding said you liked it."

"Colonel Harding could have said just about anything and he'd be right," Bucky joked. "My mother used to say I just liked to eat." He smiled and looked down again at his shoes, chuckling a little. "We could keep doing this on the front mat but the neighbors might talk."

She remembered her manners and opened the door wider to let him in, taking the bottle of wine and spiriting it away to the kitchen, coming back for his coat so she could hang it on the hall tree. It was a tidy, sparse space, very much like her office - a built in bookshelf in the corner held a few solid shelves of engineering textbooks, while a drafting desk in the corner stood covered with drawings, an architect's lamp just waiting to illuminate her next project. No frills, or cutesy curtains - a plant by the window looked more dead than alive. The couch was a small one, flanked by two overstuffed chairs and a low coffee table on which the complete contents of his personnel file seemed to be sunning themselves. There was a room at the end of a short hallway with the door shut. Well, that answers that, Bucky thought to himself. Not even a look in at the bedroom.

She steered him in the direction of the dining nook and the small fleet of takeout boxes, handing him a plate and gesturing that he could help himself.

"So, where do you want to start?" she asked, going back into the kitchen for something and coming back with the wine, now opened, and two glasses, presenting him one and sitting down across from him at the other end of the table. The food stretched between them like a defensive fortification.

"Beginning seems like a good spot," Bucky offered, opening a few lids and poking at contents with a spoon before digging in and beginning to fill his plate. "We'll need a story - about how we met."

"I thought we might keep that simple - your first day at training. It's mostly true."

"Easiest lies to tell are the ones that are almost the truth," he agreed. "I saw you across the parking lot at Langley and couldn't take my eyes off you."

She scoffed. "And I played hard to get," she put in, like she was trying to salvage a little bit of her dignity.

"Makes sense," Bucky filled in, trying to match her tone. "Why shouldn't you? Plenty of good looking guys in that bunch," he added, helping himself to fried rice. "And you grew up around pilots. You know what we're like."

"That I do."

She was still giving him the cold shoulder and that wasn't going to get them anywhere. "Listen, we've got to meet more than half-way here," Bucky said, setting down his plate so he could look her in the eye. "We've got to sell it - to believe it. Those cameras are going to turn on and they're going to want everything. Hopes and dreams. The stuff you'd talk about in the backseat of a car late at night."

"Bold of you to assume we've been in the backseat of a car late at night."

"Everyone else will," Bucky said strongly. "Two beautiful people in love, when you look like you and I look like me? They'll expect it. We've definitely been in the backseat of my car late at night. More than once." Enthusiastically.

"Is our winning the space race dependent on the housewives of America being convinced we've had sex?"

Yeah, kind of, a little. It's telling them I'm already spoken for and they can't hope to compete. That I'm a steady, reliable guy who wants a family. "Listen, I know why I'm here. Why'd you say yes, if I'm so hard to like?"

"Blackmail." Her voice was flat and grim. "There's no more room on the project for a woman unless I help you out." She sighed, disgusted. "I've helped design half the capsule but I can't fly it. I can't even be a nameless engineer. But I can be a wife, apparently - your wife, even. The famous, handsome war hero." She scoffed and looked down at her plate. "It's always been easy for you - you read books about flying as a kid, and applied to flight school and went overseas and no one ever told you no, and that made you brave and maybe just a little reckless, and you got commended for it, promoted, even."

"But no one writes books about a female pilot, unless she's Amelia Earhart. No one told me I could do any of that, growing up. I got told no a lot, and that made me stubborn as hell, and they don't give anything to stubborn women except suggestions to smile more. And you're right. I didn't want anything to do with this until someone pointed out that we'd be on the cover of every magazine in America. So if everyone in the checkout line at Shop and Save is going to read all about me and my so-called perfect life and moon over my perfect husband, and tell their friends that they want to be me, then I'm going to tell them what I really am and that they can do it, too. That's why I'm doing this, Major Egan. To tell the women of America that they can. And while I'm doing it, I'll lie through my teeth telling them a man will love them for it, too. Or maybe that's too difficult to believe."

It was the rawest and realest he'd ever seen her - no false smile, no pleasant expression, nothing there to make him or anyone else feel better. Just Cordelia Callaway, speaking her truth - and joker that he was, he didn't know how he could match it.

"Gale Cleven would tell you I never did like anything easy," Bucky offered, after a few moments of silence. "Might even say I... like stubborn women, too." He tried to pause, take the conversation back. "So no. It won't be difficult to believe. You played hard to get. You know what pilots are like - and even after you turned down half the base I still couldn't take my eyes off of you. Couldn't get enough of a woman that flies."

Cord studied him for a minute, trying to decide what to say next. "Why did she leave you?"

Well, that hurt, but if they were being honest... "Didn't like knowing I might not come home," Bucky admitted. "Why'd he leave you?" There's a man who hurt you bad somewhere in there, and if we're going to do this, I need to know.

She chuckled. "Didn't want a wife who might be better than him."

Bucky felt like he knew the feeling. "Well, the only thing that would be better than an astronaut is being a lady astronaut," he said frankly. "How's that for telling them they can? Some magazine somewhere would love that - first couple in space." He leaned over the food and looked her dead in the eye. "We can make this work, Callaway. I know we can. And everyone can get what they want here. But we have to be on the same side."

She took a breath and stared at her plate, seeming to thaw a little, her shoulders coming down a fraction. Bucky didn't speak, too afraid to break the moment or her train of thought, and realized he'd give anything to know what she was thinking. "So where was our first date?" she said, finally. He stared while she reached for the duck sauce. "I did the first meeting - it's your turn. Where'd you take me? After you wore me down with your considerable charm."

"The bar just off base," Bucky said, without hesitating again. "I'm not very original. You wore a plaid dress and a cardigan."

"That was very boring of me." "You didn't trust me very much. Didn't want to give me the wrong idea."

A sniff interrupts him. Turning, he catches a shine on her cheek before she wipes it away, reaches for the cane resting between her thighs, and pushes back from the table as if to leave, but she stays seated.

“Mahalia?”

“No, it’s—I’m, I’m fine.” Her gaze is fixed on the small painted vase of wildflowers at the center of the table and he can see tears pooled above her bottom lashes — bright and golden from the glow overhead. A hand rests on the wood, flexing nervously.

His glass clatters into the sink and she jumps, tears running down her cheeks and darkening the cotton where they land. She gasps, surprised at herself, and swipes at her face with another sniff as he comes to a knee on the tile in front of her.

“Mahalia… hey, hey, hey.” He leans as she does, to the right, to the left, but she won’t meet his eyes, instead fussing at his collar and his hair with trembling hands.

“The radio,” she starts, “the radio said there was a fight. A man was killed.”

Resting her hands from his shirt, he takes them in his own and pushes his thumbs back and forth over her knuckles as she shakily exhales. “A fight?”

“After the game. They said a—a Yankees fan was drunk, they said they—they beat him to death.” Her voice cracks and the sound washes over him cold and stinging, like walking in October snow.

He kisses her knuckles and counts them, all ten, in his head. They’d left halfway through the ninth is what he hadn’t told her yet, worried about last call but the women at home most of all — Chip wanted to tuck in his girls one last time before sending them off to camp tomorrow and John was hoping Mahalia was still up so he could kiss her good night and look into her eyes and see that summer was getting to her, too. He didn’t mean it like this.

“I’ll call from Sal’s next time,” he says, but he doesn’t want a next time until he knows she won’t force herself to stay awake, alone in the dark, in a chair too stiff to rest in.

“Oh, don’t do that, I just—”

He cradles her face and she finally meets his eyes with tears tangled in the corners of hers. “They’re gonna have to do more than kill me, you know that?”

Her laugh is watery but real and the bubble of guilt in his chest pops as she pecks him on the lips and presses her forehead to his. It’s warm again, summer seeping through the tile below and rising to meet them. “How ‘bout the river tomorrow, you and me? You can see your fish.”

“You lie, John Egan,” she declares. “Those fish are nasty and smelly.”

Three weeks ago, his life had been fucking fantastic. Drinks, dances, dames, and not a worry under the goddamn sun. Now, he had boys watching him every hour, waiting for a sign of what to do. Watching him, watching Bucky with the sheepskin jacket, watching Major Egan the Air Exec. They watched, and John performed, and sometimes he couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t.

“Major Egan?” a smooth voice called. John’s head jerked up, and he started trying to tame his unruly curls. He then gave his uniform a once-over - his tie was crooked again, even though Gale had straightened it before he went off to dinner with Benny. John sighed harshly through his nose, and the voice sang out again.

“It’s Audrey, Major,” she said. “No one dangerous.”

John chuckled and peered towards the door. “Oh, I bet you’re plenty dangerous, Audrey. Come on in, sit down,” John said. Audrey rounded the corner wearing her typical blouse and dark wool trousers, with her blonde hair tucked up neatly.

“Thank you, Major, but I’m not staying. I’m on my way back to the barracks, actually. I have some letters to answer.”

John nodded, feeling his eyes glaze over. Letters, like the ones he still had to write. He felt another sigh brewing.

Audrey moved closer, the lamplight catching on her cheeks. “I told Major Cleven I’d look in on you,” she said, smiling conspiratorially at him. “He said you missed dinner.”

John let the sigh fall. “What else is Buck saying?”

“Nothing,” Audrey said. “Because it doesn’t take a genius to tell that you ought to take a break.”

John rolled his eyes, letting his stress fester. “And what? Go see Benny’s damn dog or some shit?” As soon as he finished speaking, he cringed. Audrey was one of those least deserving of his wrath, of anyone’s wrath for that matter. But she stood firm.

“What, you think I’ve never taken an attitude before?” she said with a raised brow. “I’m from the exact same Philadelphia as Benny DeMarco, Major. And his dog’s name is Meatball, remember?”

“He told you?”

“Nora did,” said Audrey with a laugh. “She won’t stop fawning over them - Benny and his dog.”

John let out a matching laugh, getting swept along in Audrey’s delightful distraction. She knew she couldn’t convince him to up and leave, but that probably wasn’t her goal. Just a change, a momentary reprieve, a stay of execution. And God, it was helping. She was more than people gave her credit for, Audrey Morris was.

“Thanks for coming, Audrey,” John said softly. “I mean it.”

“I know,” she said simply.

John smiled at her. More than people gave her credit for, that was for damn sure. John let the silence linger, and his voice was even quieter the next time he spoke.

“And it’s true, right? What Buck said to you, back there?”

Audrey sighed and smiled at him. “Of course it’s true. People don’t always worry because they’re angry. They worry out of care, and out of love. And it doesn’t take a genius to see that you and Major Cleven are like brothers and that you care and worry like brothers, too.”

John smiled back at her, overwhelmed. “Thank you,” he said.

So she jogged up to the diner just slightly frantic. Ron was sitting in a booth about three tables from the door. She slid into the seat across from him. 

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “It’s been a helluva morning.”

“It’s fine,” he replied. “What happened?”

The waitress interrupted and asked her for her drink order, and she quickly ordered a coke. She needed something to settle her stomach anyway. Then she looked at Ron, eyes suddenly blurred with tears. 

“I’m pregnant,” she blurted out. “And I’m scared to death.”

He blinked, taken aback. He stared at her for a long moment, saying nothing, expression darkening. She knew he hated the way Chris treated her, and now that she had another person coming into this, she realized he was right, and she couldn’t stand for it any longer. 

“I have to leave him, don’t I?” she asked. 

He nodded. “You do. And not just for you.”

“Where will I go?” she wondered. “I don’t have -”

“You’ll stay with me,” he said, and his tone told her he would not hear any arguments. 

They abandoned lunch and went to her and Chris’s house. Hastily, they packed up her things. She didn’t have much, just some clothes, a few pieces of jewelry, mementos from the Army days, and some trinkets here and there. Just as they were about to head out, they heard the crunch of gravel from the driveway. He was home early. She shot Ron a panicked look.

“It’s gonna be fine,” he said calmly. 

She swallowed her fear and called up her resolve. She had no choice. To give her child the life they deserved, she had to get out now. Chris came through the front door whistling, but stopped short when he took in the scene. 

“What the hell is going on here?” he demanded, gaping at the bags. 

She stood up straight and tall, looking much more confident than she felt. 

“I’m leaving you,” she said simply. “Ron was just helping me pack.”

“Leaving - what - how could -” he stammered before glowering at Ron. “You did this, didn’t you?”

“She decided on her own, but blame me if it makes you feel better,” Ron returned coolly. 

She swept past them both, bags in each hand, heading out the door to finish loading her car. Chris reached for her, but missed, so he stormed after her. Ron stopped him in the doorway, pushing him back by the chest. 

“No, no,” Ron said, the same way he would to a misbehaving dog. 

Then, Ron turned on his heel and followed her. Chris remained in the doorway, seething as he watched them pull away and start down the road. 

She had Ron drive since she was shaking so badly. With one hand on the wheel, he reached out with the other and took hers, interlocking their fingers, and offering a reassuring squeeze. She let out a slow breath in a desperate attempt to reduce her heart rate. 

“You’re alright,” he told her. “You’re fine.”

She nodded. Then closed her eyes and relaxed against the seat. 

“Thank you,” she said. “I couldn’t have done it without you there.”

“Sure you could,” he returned. “You’re looking like your old self again.”