#howling commando bucky

Rating: As a whole, Stardust is rated E due to mature themes (smut, trauma, violence, etc.). Content warnings can be found directly on applicable chapters. Please be mindful of your media consumption; take care of yourself.

🌡️ spicy 🪭 smut ⚠️ content advisory/trigger warning

Author's Note 14 March 2026

1. Agent Magennis! 2. Sergeant James Barnes, ma'am. 3. ...you sure you can handle that, sugar? ⚠️ 4. 'Neets'. 5. Good Night, Sweetheart. ⚠️🌡️ 6. ...I want that with her. 🪭 7. So that is what all the fuss is about. 🪭 8. I'm a fool. 9. ...you're a man in love. 10. Buncha idiots. 🌡️ 11. My gal. 🪭 12. Fair enough, Agent Magennis. 13. Can you breathe with me, James? ⚠️ 14. ...time isn't promised. 15. Hope ya' dames don't mind drinkin' with us. ⚠️ 16. Oh, don't be lewd. 🪭 17. Ya' sound so pretty, darlin'. 🪭 18. Please let him come back to me. 19. And I'm sorry. ⚠️ 20. No, please...not my James. ⚠️ 21. I'm going after Schmidt. ⚠️ 22. I can't believe you're going to be my wife. 23. That's exactly what we're going to do. 24. I'll see you again soon, James. ⚠️ 25. ...there's a woman in the cockpit! 26. Put him on ice. ⚠️ 27. Again. ⚠️ 28. Zimniy Soldat. ⚠️ 29. Well done, Soldat. ⚠️ 30. Specimen 325-57038. 31. You're awake. 32. He wanted to get back to you, Danica. 33. And here I am. ⚠️ 34. ...heck, I'm frozen! ⚠️ 35. And you let them turn me into this! ⚠️ 36. ...hurry up and get ready! ⚠️ 37. Merry fucking Christmas. 🪭 38. And that's not him. 39. Don't make excuses. 40. Nothing happens.

41. And a semi-stable, hundred-year-old man. ⚠️ 42. Dust. ⚠️ 43. Come sit down, boys. ⚠️ 44. I miss him, too. 45. S'mores! 46. ...you're no longer welcome here. ⚠️ 47. I wish I knew him. ⚠️ 48. Can I have extra bubbles? 49. No point sugarcoating it. 50. ...and it's final. 51. Was. 52. I'm sorry I never made it back to you, doll. ⚠️ 53. Fine. 54. ...'blow up his phone'... 55. Why do you have Steve's phone? 56. Flabbergasted 57. Machines don't bleed. ⚠️ 58. That was almost a twenty-foot drop! 59. He has a kid, Sarah! 60. Alright, wiggle worm... ⚠️ 61. Why'd you hang up?! 62. This is why I need a good shrink. ⚠️ 63. Have you been eavesdropping? 64. Plus, the Internet's a thing. ⚠️ 65. Europe. 66. I wrangle an eight-year-old. 67. And I'm fucking tired of ghosts. 68. Fuck it. ⚠️ 69. I knew he'd be upset...I never thought he'd be cruel. ⚠️ 70. That's super soldier shit! ⚠️ 71. ...I know that this whole situation is my fault. 72. Do you even hear how ridiculous you sound?

...

*Stardust is ongoing; however, it is currently paused*

NOVEMBER 10, 1943 — DANICA

"Dani, you should have seen Steve's face when Stark suggested we have a 'late-night fondue'."

My tentmate by assignment and friend by choice—one Agent Margaret "Peggy" Carter—lets out a soft, ladylike chuckle as she rolls her eyes...no doubt at Howard Stark's shameless attempt at flirting. She continues speaking as she gathers two large photographs and exits our tent.

"Then he just leapt from the plane as if it was nothing!" She pauses, the small smile that had curved her lips slowly fading as we approach the main tent and hear Colonel Phillips speaking, along with the clacking of typewriter keys.

"...unfruitful. As a result, I must declare Captain Rogers killed in action. Period."

Peggy halts just outside one of the open side flaps, inhaling deeply before squaring her shoulders and stepping inside. I follow her inside but remain by the entrance, standing with my back to one of the walls as I watch her approach the Colonel.

"The last surveillance flight is back," she informs him as she places the photographs onto one of the tables set up inside the tent. "No sign of activity."

The Colonel picks up one of the images, staring at it while he dismisses the man who was typing. "Go get a cup of coffee, Corporal."

"Yes, sir."

As the Corporal exits the tent—giving me a short nod as he passes—the Colonel resumes speaking.

"I can't touch Stark. He's rich. And he's the Army's number-one weapons contractor. You are neither one," he turns to Peggy.

"With respect, sir," her tone is firm, "I don't regret my actions. And I don't think Captain Rogers did either."

"What makes you think I give a damn about your opinions? I took a chance with you, Agent Carter. And now America's golden boy and a lot of other good men are dead 'cause you had a crush."

'What an arse,' I think; though I refrain from reacting outwardly, I internally roll my eyes.

"It wasn't that. I had faith," Peggy asserts.

"Well, I hope that's a big comfort to you when they shut this division down."

He and Peggy engage in a staring contest of sorts; Colonel Phillips is the first to look away, a hubbub outside drawing his attention.

"What the hell's going on out there?" he strides from the tent; after a beat, Peggy and I follow.

"Look who it is!" a man shouts.

Peggy turns to me, and though she quickly schools her expression, I don't miss the hopeful look on her face. It turns out she's right to be hopeful, because the cause of the ruckus soon becomes apparent: Captain Rogers and a group of men are striding towards us. Colonel Phillips steps forward to meet them, and Peggy is right behind. Knowing that she'll want a moment with Steve, I hang back slightly, doing what I do best and fading into the background. Several soldiers move closer, standing in front of me, though they don't completely obstruct my view; I'm still able to see Steve...and the sinfully handsome, dark-haired man standing close to him.

"Some of these men need medical attention," the tall blond says; amidst quiet calls for a medic, he continues. "I'd like to surrender myself for disciplinary action."

"That won't be necessary," Colonel Phillips replies.

"Yes, sir."

The Colonel turns and begins to walk away. "Faith, huh?" I hear him ask Peggy as he passes.

She waits a moment, then steps forward. "You're late."

Steve holds up a broken radio. "Couldn't call my ride."

"Hey! Let's hear it for Captain America!" the dark-haired man shouts.

The troops all cheer and clap in response, with several surging forward to pat Steve on the shoulder...but he and Peggy just stare at one another. Meanwhile, I notice that one of the nurses has approached the other man and is standing close, speaking to him as she claps for Steve.

'Of course Charlotte would move straight for him,' I think, surprised at the surge of jealousy I feel. 'Don't be like that, Danica,' I scold myself.

Eventually, the crowd disperses, though Steve and Peggy remain. I watch as the dark-haired man follows Charlotte to one of the medical tents, the nurse tittering as they go.

'Yes, because a man who was just rescued from HYDRA needs to be bedding a woman.'

As soon as the thought enters my mind, I once again admonish myself.

'You don't get to dictate how someone reacts to trauma. And, honestly, can you really blame the man? He probably needs to shut off his mind...to feel comforting physical contact after what he's endured.'

'I'll happily provide that,' a part of me sassily adds, and I feel my cheeks pink slightly.

'Stop it.'

Peggy turns from Steve, catching me staring after Charlotte and the soldier. She gives me a pointed look, arching her brow; the expression on her face clearly tells me that she knows some—if not all—of my thoughts.

"Steve," she looks over her shoulder at the Captain before turning back to me, "this is Agent Magennis of SOE. D—Agent Magennis, this is Captain Rogers."

"Steve," he says as he shakes my hand.

"Danica," I reply.

After a few moments of exchanging pleasantries, the three of us part ways, with Peggy and I returning to our tent. As we begin to pack our belongings—though the order to clear out hasn't been given yet, under the circumstances it's obvious that a return to England is in the not-too-distant future—she attempts to draw me into conversation.

“Dani, can you believe that Steve rescued those men all by himself?! Isn’t that incredible?!”

“Mm-hmm,” I noncommittally reply.

“And can you…”

Peggy’s voice fades into the background as my mind drifts, and while I ‘mm-hmm’ and nod at appropriate times during her monologue, I’m content to let her blather on. She doesn’t seem to pay any mind to my near-silence, never missing a beat in her gushing about the Captain, which allows my mind to fully focus on the thoughts swirling within it…thoughts of that absurdly-good-looking, dark-haired soldier.

'Stop it,' I again tell myself. 'A man who looks like that is definitely an operator. I mean, it's obvious that he and Charlotte were going t—"

"Agent Carter! Agent Magennis!" Colonel Phillips's voice carries through the open flap of our tent, pulling me from my thoughts.

Peggy and I exchange a look, then—with matching sighs—make our way to the main tent.

APRIL 28, 1944 — LONDON — DANICA

“Where is he?!” I ask Steve as Peggy and I enter the lobby of the hotel—the one the United States Army requisitioned—that houses James’s quarters.

“Danica, he’s fine. He’s just gone upstairs to…”

Whatever he’s saying fades as I stride from the room, heading upstairs to James’s accommodations. While I know that Steve would not be standing in the lobby if James were grievously injured, I just…I need to see him.

When Peggy knocked on my door, telling me that Captain America and the Howling Commandos had returned home after completing their mission in the Danish Straits, I’d been thrilled…until I noticed the hint of nervousness in her expression. I’d asked her to tell me what happened, and she’d prefaced by saying that James was fine…and that he’d received a small injury during the mission. Before I could think it through, I’d bolted from my flat, hailing a taxi—just barely waiting for Peggy—and directing it to bring us here.

Reaching James’s room, I knock frantically on the door; I’m mid-rap when it swings open.  As soon as I see James, I fling myself as him, wrapping my arms around him and burying my head in the crook of his neck. I inhale deeply, and as his scent—menthol from the standard-issue Army soap, along with cedar, tonka, leather, and a hint of something uniquely him —fills my senses, the worry and concern I felt escape me in a flood of tears.

“Shh, sweetheart, it’s alright,” he soothes, one of his hands settling gently on the back of my head while the other softly strokes my back. “I’m fine.”

“I…wh-when P-P-Peggy told m-me,” I stutter between sobs, “I-I was s-s-so w-worried.”

I feel him press his lips to my hair, then rest his cheek in the same spot. “I’m right here, Neets. I’m here, and I’m okay.”

He holds me as my tears slowly fade; when my crying ceases, I step back, and he presses a handkerchief into my hand. Once I’ve dried my tears, I lift my eyes to his face, my breath catching as I fully register a large, purplish-yellow bruise and several scrapes on his left cheek, and a small gash along the right side of his jaw. The wounds look as if they’re more than a day old; if I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s had them for at least three.

‘You’re being silly, Danica. That’s not possible,’ I think.

“Are you sure you don’t need to see a medic?” I ask, pulling myself from my musings.

“I’m sure. Really, doll, I’m fine. A little banged up, but no worse for wear.” He pauses, a confident smirk curving his lips. “You should see the other guy.”

I shake my head as a laugh I can’t stifle escapes me. “You’re in—”

“—credible? Amazing? Won—”

“I was going to say ‘incorrigible’,” I reply with a small grin.

It’s quiet between us for several beats. I watch his gaze soften as his eyes rove over my face, and he gently cups my face in his hands, brushing his thumbs over my cheeks.

“I missed you,” he says, his voice low.

Warmth fills my chest. “I missed you, too. I’m very glad you’re back.”

“I am, too.”

He closes the distance between us, pressing his lips to mine in a sweet, tender kiss. My arms twine around his neck, and his band around my waist. When he ends the kiss, he rests his forehead against mine.

“I love you, Danica.”

“I love you , James.”

We stand together for a long while, taking comfort from our continued embrace.

The four of us—me, James, Peggy, and Steve—are at a table in Angel & Crown, enjoying our meals and one another’s company when Monsieur Dernier, Private Jones, and Brigadier Falsworth stop by to exchange pleasantries. Soon, they’re pushing a nearby table up to ours, settling in and waving the other Howling Commandos over.

“Hope ya’ dames don’t mind drinkin’ with us,” Corporal Dugan—who’s somewhat inebriated—remarks.

“Corporal, how could anyone resist such…charm?” Peggy asks.

“That’s Dum Dum…a regular charmer,” Morita remarks, promptly following his quip with a belch.

“Again, I say that you’re all idiots,” James states, shaking his head at the men.

“Buck’s right. There are ladies present,” Steve adds.

“Ah, c’mon, Cap…these broads’re around worse than us at work,” Dugan slurs. “We’re the,” he hiccups, “the picture-a dec…dec…o’ manners.”

“For a barnyard, sure,” Private Jones retorts, causing all of us to laugh.

The men regale me and Peggy with tales of some of their more decorous escapades…with Jones translating when Dernier gets so excited about an anecdote that he slips into French. Despite some of them being snozzled, they’re a pleasant group, and I find that I’m enjoying getting to know them a bit better.

Eventually, Peggy and I excuse ourselves; the men all stand as we do, and James takes my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Do you want me to walk you home?” he asks.

“I do…and I’d like you to enjoy your time with them,” I tip my head towards the other men. “Peggy and I can manage.”

He leans closer. “I’d much rather walk you home,” he whispers, his warm breath fanning over my ear.

‘Oh,’ I think as his low, husky tone causes my skin to erupt in goosebumps.

“Oh,” I repeat on a murmur, “well then.” In my normal tone, I continue. “Thank you for the offer, Sergeant Barnes. Agent Carter and I would be happy to have you accompany us.”

“Yes, thank you, Sergeant,” Peggy adds, casting a smirk my way.

The three of us say our farewells, and make our way out of the pub. A wind has picked up, and I give a small shiver. We start towards the Underground, settling into a companionable quiet as we go.

When we reach my and Peggy’s block of flats, James—ever-chivalrous—insists on escorting Peggy to her flat before we go to mine. I smile softly at the gesture, finding it endearing…of course, I find almost everything he does endearing.

‘Because you’re in love,’ part of me states.

‘I am.’

“What’s got that smile on your face, doll?” he asks.

“You,” I reply.

The simple statement hangs in the air between us, and as we walk through the corridor, I sneak a glance at James to see a hint of a grin curving his lips. When we arrive at my flat, I invite him in for a nightcap, which he accepts.

Once we’ve settled onto my sofa with our drinks—bourbon for him, tea for me—I ask him to tell me more about his life before the War. He begins regaling me with a tale of when he and Steve went to Rockaway Beach, and as he talks, I let my gaze rove over his handsome face. The gash, bruising, and scrapes are nearly gone, and I can’t help wondering if, during Zola’s experimentation, he was given some variation of the serum Steve received.

‘Again, you’re being silly, Danica,’ I tell myself…but this time, I don’t fully believe that.

I don’t have longer to mull it over, because the statement James just made causes me to burst into incredulous laughter.

“You rode home in a freezer truck ?!”

MARCH 27, 1944 — LONDON — DANICA

The past several months have been a flurry of activity.

Captain America and the Howling Commandos have already destroyed three HYDRA facilities: one in France, one in Belgium, and one in Czechoslovakia. After each of those missions, the men briefly return to London, strategising and having a brief leave before departing for their next target.

Over the months, James and I have built a rapport, establishing a friendship that is surprising in its steadfastness.

We often find ourselves in long discussions, covering a myriad of topics; it seems that we're able to talk about almost anything, and not grow bored. Sometimes we discuss literature—like me, James is an avid reader—or music, and others we discuss our earlier lives and our families.

I learned that he is the oldest of four children, and has three sisters, though he's only close with one: Rebecca. I learned that his father, George, died when James was twenty-one; he was killed in an accident at Camp Lehigh. His mother, Winnifred, passed not long after—'of a broken heart', according to James.

I told him about my father's death...the real story, not the 'societally correct' one: how he'd fought in the first World War, and had been so disturbed by the things he saw and did that he eventually took his own life. I told him about how seventeen-year-old me wound up caring for my mother, who began drinking after my father's passing, and how she—like his mother—succumbed to a broken heart, passing just over a year later.

A knock on the door of my flat pulls me from my musings; I open it to find Peggy in the corridor.

"I know you only have about an hour before Sergeant Barnes comes to call," she says, brushing past me, the garment bag she's carrying gently bumping me. "I was at the shops, and I saw this. It looks perfect for an evening out with a handsome officer."

I sigh. "Peggy, I have told you countless times: Serg—James and I are friends."

'Although I've wondered if perhaps we could be something more,' I silently add. 'I'd like to be.'

"Now, what sort of friend would I be if I did not even attempt to change that? Not a very good one."

"Oh, so if I were to suggest that Steve," I draw out his name, my tone slightly sing-song, "take you out for supper, I'd be doing my duty as a wonderful friend? Duly noted."

"I...that's...Captain Rogers and I are..." she shakes her head. "Would you just try this to see if it fits? It should; it's your size, but you never know."

"Mm-hmm. Deflect now...we can resume this conversation another time."

I take the garment bag from her, carrying it to my bedroom to change. I lay the skirt and blouse I was wearing across the bed, then unzip the bag, a quiet gasp escaping me as I see the dress inside. I quickly put it on, turning towards the full-length mirror to see my reflection.

'Oh, wow...Peggy really outdid herself.'

The royal blue dress is a ruched-shoulder, pintuck-pleated style, with long, puff sleeves. The hemline falls just below my knees, and the v-neckline shows just enough décolletage to be alluring but not too immodest.

The fact that I actually feel beautiful surprises me. While I suppose I'm fortunate that my face lacks the roundness typical to a woman of my body type, being...well, I suppose an artist would describe me as 'buxom', I'm no stranger to the way men perceive me. For Heaven's sake, I spend a large portion of my time around soldiers, and I've heard them laud thin women—especially petite ones—calling them things like 'girlie' or 'doll', and referring to them as a 'dish', 'knockout', 'tomato', or 'bombshell'; meanwhile, women who look like me don't get pet names, and are referred to as 'blimp', 'heifer', 'blister', 'jizzie', or even 'frump'.

"I got tired of waiting," Peggy's voice carries from my bedroom doorway. "Oh, Dani, you look wonderful!"

I appreciate the compliment, but as Peggy moves to stand beside me, and I see the differences in our reflections, the feeling of being beautiful fades.

"I knew it would suit you," my friend continues. "It really shows off your figure...you know, I'm a bit jealous. The only way I have a waist is by wearing things that give the illusion of one...I'd love to be shaped like you: an hourglass."

"I'm an hourglass, alright," I mutter, "An hourglass with extra sand."

"Stop that," she immediately replies, her tone firm as her eyes meet mine in the mirror. "You're beautiful, Dani." She pauses, and I watch her expression turn sly. "I'm sure Sergeant Barnes will think so, too."

'I wish.'

"He won't. I've seen the type of woman he prefers: petite, slim...the antithesis of me."

"No, you see the type of women who throw themselves at him. And he's much too polite to dismiss them, so he allows them to make civil conversation. What you don't see is the way his eyes follow you when you move about a room; the way they light up when you laugh, or smile."

She turns to face me; with her in her heels and me shoeless, we're the same height, and her eyes practically bore into mine. "Even Steve has mentioned something about that...it earned him a swift elbow to the ribs, but Sergeant Barnes didn't deny it, nor did he seem to genuinely mind the implication."

"Again, I remind you: we're friends."

"And again, I will remind you that I wouldn't be a very good friend if I didn't attempt to change that." She pauses. "Dani, I'd only attempt that if I believed—truly believed—he felt the same way. And I do believe that."

She pauses again. "Now, if there is something you're not telling me...if you only want to be friends, then I'll—"

"I...I don't know, Peggy. I mean, I..." I sigh, dropping my gaze to my hands, smoothing them over the skirt of the dress. "I do feel things for him. Romantic things. But we have this wonderful friendship, and I...I don't want to ruin that."

'He's become more than my friend; he's become my confidante, my refuge, my rock.... If I lost him, I...I'm not entirely sure I would survive it. It's better to just accept his friendship than risk losing him.'

"Dan—" A knock on the door interrupts her. "Oh, my, we've whiled away the hour. Why don't you finish getting ready, and I'll let Sergeant Barnes in. We'll be in the den."

As Peggy answers the door and sees James into my flat, I finish getting ready for the evening, freshening up my makeup before donning a pair of low-heeled pumps. I give myself a final once-over in the mirror, then make my way towards my den.

James, looking as rakishly debonair as ever in his slacks, shirt, and short jacket—and with no cover—stands as I enter the room.

"Heya, Neets," he greets me, smiling warmly.

"Well, I see that my hopes for you coming up with a new nickname for me remain dashed," I remark, but even as I roll my eyes, I can't help smiling slightly, remembering when he gave me the moniker.

"Agent Magennis, it's a pleasure to see you again."

I glance up from the file I'm reading to see Sergeant Barnes standing in the doorway of the office I share with Peggy.

"You as well, Sergeant Barnes."

"Please," he says as he steps into the room, crossing to my desk. "Call me B—"

"I'm not calling you 'Bucky'," I interject.

"Fine. 'James', then."

I give a small, quiet sigh. "Fine. I suppose that—during off-duty hours—I could call you 'James'." I briefly pause. "And yo—"

"No, no, don't tell me to call you 'Danica'. That's what Steve calls you."

"Well, it is my name."

He continues as if I haven't spoken. "And Peggy calls you 'Dani'."

"Yes; that tends to be the nickname I wind up with."

"Well, I'm not calling you what everyone else does." He cocks his head, his gaze assessing as it moves over me, and I will my cheeks not to flush. "Dah-nee-tsah, Dah-nee-tsah..." he mumbles my name as he ponders. "'Neets'," he grins. "Yeah, that's it. 'Neets' it is."

"You are not cal—"

"Oh, no, I definitely am."

"You alright?" James's question snaps me out of the memory.

"Yes."

"Y'sure? Ya' looked a little far away for a second."

"I'm sure. I'm fine. Really."

Peggy gives me a pointed, knowing look; luckily, James doesn't catch it. "Sergeant Barnes, take good care of her. Don't let her misbehave."

'Oh, she's going to hear about that later!' I think.

James chuckles and grins broadly. "Don't worry, Agent Carter. I'll keep her in line."

Heat ignites low in my belly as my delusional—and slightly traitorous—mind conjures up several ways he could 'keep me in line', and I feel my cheeks heat. I close my eyes, shaking my head to dispel the errant thoughts; when I open them, I see both James and Peggy looking at me...the latter with her brow arched and a 'you're-telling-me-where-your-mind-went' look on her face.

I cross to the door, holding it open for Peggy as she bids us farewell; once she's disappeared down the corridor, I turn to James. He's gathered my coat from the rack by the door, and is holding it open for me.

"Thank you," I murmur as he helps me into the garment.

"You're welcome," he replies as I turn to face him, his gaze on my hands as I do up the buttons and tie the belt.

"Let me guess...we're going to the local?"

"Actually, I thought we might try something else...."

'Something else' turns out to be the Bouillabaisse Club.

After a ride on the Underground, and a short walk, James and I arrive. Once we're inside, he manages to find a vacant two-top table in a corner, and leads me to it. He pulls out my chair and helps me off with my coat, draping it over the back; he waits until I'm seated before taking his place across from me.

"Well, this certainly is a change," I remark, my lips curving in a soft smile. "Thank you f—"

"Bucky!"

Private Lorraine appears tableside, along with two other women. Her upper lip curls in distaste when she sees me, but she quickly schools her expression, turning a saccharine smile towards James, who's stood to greet them.

"Would you be interested in dancing with us, Sarge?"

Her fawning tone grates at my nerves, though I keep my expression neutral, not letting my distaste for the woman show.

"O, beware, my lord, of jealousy; it is the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on," my mind decides to quote Othello.

'It's not that...well, not only that,' I counter. 'She grabbed Steve and kissed him, knowing that there's something between him and Peggy. Even if either one is unable or unwilling to admit it, it's common knowledge that they have feelings for one another, yet she just...mwah!'

'Mm-hmm.'

I pull myself from my inner argument just in time to hear James decline.

"Thank you for the invitation, ma'am, but my dance card is already full." He looks at me, a warm smile curving his lips, before looking back to Lorraine. "You ladies have a nice evening."

As the three disappear into the crowd, James settles back into his seat, his gaze on mine.

"You could have—"

"I didn't want to, Neets. Besides," he continues, "can't leave my best gal alone."

At his words, something bright flares in my chest...then my mind decides to snark some more.

'He's just being his usual self; he doesn't really mean that.'

'Quiet,' I tell it.

After several minutes of conversation, James excuses himself to go get us drinks. When he returns—with two Bushmills, neat—we again fall into our regular rhythm, discussing any- and everything.

"Oh, you didn't!" I exclaim as he finishes telling me about the time he convinced Steve to ride The Cyclone at Coney Island.

"I thought he'd have fun! I didn't think he'd get sick," he protests. "Honestly, I'm surprised they even let him on the ride to begin with."

As always, the warm affection in his voice when he speaks of Steve brings a smile to my lips. Over the past several months, I've learned that he still feels protective over him—even though the Captain is clearly capable of holding his own—and that level of friendship speaks volumes to the man he is.

'A wonderful man,' I think. 'One of the best I've ever met.'

The band begins to play "Hold My Hand", and James grins at me before rising from his chair.

"C'mon, Neets," he offers me his hand, and I hesitate very briefly before taking it, letting him lead me to the dance floor.

His right hand settles on my shoulder blade, and his left takes my right.

"Follow my lead, sugar," he says with a wink and a lopsided grin.

My heart stutters and my breath catches as heat zings through me; I feel myself blush, and I see his smile widen just a fraction before he leads me into a foxtrot.

After several fast songs, the band opts for a slightly slower piece. When they begin to play "Good Night, Sweetheart", James adjusts his hold slightly, his hand moving lower to rest below my shoulder blade as he pulls me closer...not so close as to be considered 'improper', but close enough that I can just barely smell his soap.

In my low heels, he's only an inch taller than me, and as I look slightly up at him, I can't help wondering why he wants to dance with me, rather than one of the daintier, more petite ladies. I'm suddenly very aware of several pairs of eyes on us, and I feel my cheeks pink again, this time in self-consciousness.

"Excuse me," I murmur, stepping out of his hold and making my way through the crowd to the ladies'.

The wooden door closes heavily behind me, and I let out a sigh of relief when I find that the lavatory is empty. I take several minutes to collect myself, then move further into the room, entering one of the stalls. Just as I'm about to open the door, I hear the main door open and close, and recognise Lorraine's voice. Not wanting to run into the woman and her two cohorts, I stay where I am, thankful that the stall doors go all the way to the floor.

'What are you doing, Danica? You're a field agent...you can break a man's nose with one well-placed hit, but you're hiding in the loo because of a little blonde woman,' I chastise myself.

'Admit it...you want to hear what they say about you when you're not around,' something else inside me chimes in.

'No, I—"

My mental argument is interrupted by what Lorraine is saying.

"And did you see Agent Magennis? I can't believe Bucky brought her...I mean, it's not as if he's desperate," Lorraine's words carry through the door. "He could get any woman he wanted, like that," I hear her snap her fingers, "He doesn't have to settle for a scag, especially not one who's also a butterball. I wonder..." she briefly pauses. "Maybe it's a pity thing. He is a nice guy; he probably noticed she doesn't get any attention from any of the men, and feels sorry for her."

Her cohorts murmur in agreement, and she continues.

"Or maybe she's a mouth artist. He wouldn't have to look at her if she was on her knees."

"I'd get on my knees for him," one of the cohorts titters.

"Any of us would," Lorraine affirms. "I wouldn't even mind running my stockings for that man."

While they discuss—in uncomfortable amounts of detail—the things they'd like to do to, with, and for James, some of Lorraine's earlier remarks refrain in my mind.

"Maybe it's a pity thing'...'scag'...'butterball'...'feels sorry for her'....

I hardly hear the rest of their conversation, too focused on holding back the tears that threaten to spill over. I know it's ridiculous to cry in the loo like I'm still in secondary school...but hearing their words makes me feel like I'm still that teenage girl, the one who did exactly that after having hurtful comments hurled at me.

Finally—blessedly—the trio leaves, and I emerge from the stall. I wash and dry my hands, studiously avoiding the mirror.

'They're just being cruel. Don't take it to heart,' I tell myself, to no avail; the words have already coiled around me like barbed wire.

When I return to the table, James is drinking another glass of whiskey; he stands as I approach, a smile forming on his gorgeous face...a smile that quickly falls as his eyes rove over me.

"Neets? You okay?"

I nod.

"You sure? You look...." he trails off, and I realise that, with him, I'm not good at hiding my emotions.

"Yes," I nod again. "Just...overwhelmed. It's gotten very crowded in here."

That's not entirely an untruth—the crowd has grown since I disappeared into the water closet—but it's not entirely a truth, either. Of course, I can't exactly tell James that the real reasons I'm overwhelmed are the way I responded while we were dancing, and what I overheard in the ladies'.

He studies me for just a moment longer, then tosses back the rest of his whiskey. With a nod of his own, he gathers my coat then gestures for me to precede him out of the building. Once we're outside, he helps me with my coat, and I again catch him staring at my hands as I do up the buttons, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows.

"James?" I ask as I tie the belt.

His eyes quickly dart to mine, and for just a moment, I think I see something...lustful...in his gaze.

'Don't be ridiculous, Danica.'

"Whaddaya say we go to the local after all?"

At my nod, he offers me his arm, and we head back towards the Underground.

NOVEMBER 13, 1943 — WHIP & FIDDLE — BUCKY

"Oh-eight-hundred, Captain,” Agent Carter says, before turning and making her exit.

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be there,” Steve replies.

“I’m invisible. I’m-I’m turning into you. It’s like a horrible dream,” I’m only half-kidding as I turn back to my best friend.

“Don’t take it so hard,” he pats my shoulder. “Maybe she’s got a friend. Actually,” he continues as we return to the bar, taking seats a bit further from the door, “she does have a friend.”

“I already met Charlotte…had to let her down easy.”

“I’m not talking about Nurse Lane. I’m talking about…wait, did you say you let her down easy? What’s the matter, finally found a skirt you wouldn’t chase?”

“One, you know I didn’t have to chase anyone…they just flocked. Two, I…” I trail off with a shrug.

‘Two, I happened to catch a glimpse of a knockout redhead in the crowd, and suddenly Charlotte seemed unappealing. And three, I know it sounds crazy, but I swear I could hear Charlotte’s heartbeat, and it was like a drum in my head….’

Since I can’t exactly say any of that, I come up with something else. “I just thought that maybe it wasn’t the time. And it definitely hasn’t felt like the time at any other point, so, yeah, I let her down easy.”

‘Great sentence there, Bucky. Real wordsmith you are,’ I internally roll my eyes.

“So,” I prompt Steve, “who is Agent Carter’s friend?”

“Agent Magennis—Danica.”

I’m quiet for a moment, pretending I’m trying to figure out who he’s talking about. “The redhead, right? I’ve seen her in passing a coupla times…never spoken to her, though.”

“Yes, ‘the redhead’. Don’t even think about it, Buck,” he adds, his tone stern.

“I—”

“Don’t say you weren’t thinking about it. You and I both know you get stupid around redheads.”

I’m about to reply when I hear Dugan, Morita, and the others start drunkenly singing again. I shake my head and take another sip of my whiskey.

“Again, I say that they’re all idiots.”

Steve shakes his head and chuckles at the men’s antics; when most of the pub’s other patron’s join in the singing, he makes a comment of his own.

“Apparently, they’re likeably convincing idiots…that, or everyone else started singing to drown them out.”

The clack of heels—which sounds strangely loud—has Steve and I turning slightly in our seats, watching as the aforementioned redhead enters the room. She steps up to the bar, and the bartender wastes no time in taking her order.

“A cognac, please. And a whiskey—Bushmills, if you have it—neat. Thank you.”

The bartender turns away to prepare the drinks, and Steve and I slip off of our stools and make our way over to Danica. I let my eyes trail over her, taking in her lush curves wrapped in the emerald-green fabric of her dress.

‘God, she’s a knockout,’ I think.

“Agent Magennis,” Steve greets. “Good evening.”

“Good evening, Captain Rogers.”

“Agent Magennis, allow me to officially introduce Ser—”

“Sergeant James Barnes, ma’am,” I interject.

“Agent Danica Magennis,” she returns.

“A cognac and a Bushmills, neat,” the bartender says, placing a snifter and a tumbler on the polished wood bar.

“Put them on my tab,” Steve tells the man, who nods before returning his attention to his other patrons.

“Thank you, Captain. I’m sure Agent Carter would like to thank you as well. Perhaps you could deliver her cognac?” Danica’s tone is pointed.

“You’re welcome. And I’d be glad to.” He nods. “Have a good evening, ma’am.”

He claps me on the shoulder, then takes the snifter of cognac and heads toward where Peggy’s sitting. As Danica turns toward the bar and lifts her glass, I speak.

“Whiskey…you sure you can handle that, sugar?” I lean on the bar, the smirk that always made dames pay attention curving my lips, even as I inwardly cringe.

‘Not my best opening line, but not terrible,’ I think, feeling oddly nervous.

“Yes.”

“Really?” I can’t help but be a bit surprised. “Figured a dame like you’d prefer wine, maybe gin…or cognac like your friend.”

“I see,” she turns to me. “And what else do you figure?”

“That a gal as pretty as you shouldn’t be sitting at a table in the corner.”

‘Okay, now that was a good line.’

“Maybe I like the corner.”

“Maybe you do.” I pause, my gaze again roving over her. “But I’d be more than happy for you to join me,” I gesture to where Steve and I were sitting.

“Hmm,” she hums. “No.”

“Wh—”

“I saw you and Char—Nurse Lane the other day. I’m not inter—”

“Were you watching me, doll?” I smirk.

‘She must’ve been…how about that?’ The thought has a spark of purely masculine pride flaring within me.

As I watch, Danica’s cheeks flush, and my grin widens. Watching her respond like that causes something inside me—something…‘primal’ is the word that comes to mind—to rear its head. She recovers quickly, though, barely missing a beat.

“You were in the middle of an Army camp, in broad daylight. Anyone would have noticed the pair of you.”

“But anyone didn’t…you did.”

“Being observant is part of my job, Sergeant . And again, the pair of you weren’t exactly discreet.”

“There was nothing to be discreet about, Agent .”

She scoffs. “Yes, I’m sure all you two did was discuss the weather.”

The bitter tinge in her tone isn’t lost on me. I open my mouth to reply, but before I can, she continues. “Good night, Sergeant Barnes.”

Drink in hand, she turns and walks away, leaving me standing there, alone…and slightly dumbfounded.

‘I really am turning into Steve…’ I let out a quiet sigh.

‘Or maybe you’re shell-shocked, and it shows,’ a part of my mind remarks. ‘That’d be off-putting to plenty-a folks, especially dames…even dames who’re field Agents.’

‘Shut up.’

I don’t want to think about my capture at all, and certainly not in a pub. It’s difficult not to, though, because…because I’ve been different since. Not just for the obvious reasons—like nightmares—but for strange ones. Things like—

‘Like not feeling anything from this whiskey. Like hearing heartbeats. Like being able to see near-perfectly in pitch black—’

Like my senses being…well, in a word, enhanced. I know that’s impossible…or that it should be. And before I shipped out, I’d have insisted it was…but after seeing Steve …well, it doesn’t seem far-fetched anymore.

‘But Steve said they put him in a big, metal case and zapped him with lights. Yeah, Zola injected me with all sorts of things, but the only lights they zapped me with were the—”

‘Stop it,’ I reprimand myself as my mind conjures up an image of sparking, metal plates descending toward my face. ‘Stop it, stop it, stop it!’

A boisterous laugh sounds, startling me. I catch the bartender’s eye and drop a few bills onto the bar, then rise from my seat and stride through the pub. I hear Steve call out to me, but I don’t stop, because I know that, if I do, the panic clawing at me will take hold. Even when I’m back in my room, I don’t stop walking. I pace the floor, but can no longer push the panic down; it digs its talons into me and rises up.

Unable to fight it, I sink to the floor, wedging myself into the corner as it overwhelms me.

“Sergeant Barnes…oh, hell…James!”

A woman’s voice pierces through the nightmarish maelstrom in my head, snapping me back to the present. I see Danica kneeling in front of me, her brow creased with concern.

“D-Da-Dan-,” I clear my throat. “A-Agent Magennis. What’re ya’—”

“If you ask what I’m doing here, I’m going to think you’re a dullard.” She pauses, her eyes scanning my face, her gaze assessing. “You nearly ran out of the pub…most folks were too inebriated to notice that you appeared upset, but Steve, Peggy, and I did. Steve was going to come after you, but…” she trails off.

“But what?”

She tilts her head, seeming surprised by my question. “I don’t mean to speak ill of Steve. I know he’s your friend.” She hesitates. “But he’s obviously not…adept…at interacting with women. Seemed a shame to interrupt his conversation with Peggy when I’m just as capable of following you.”

I chuckle slightly, but as her words fully register, shame and embarrassment wash over me, abruptly halting my laughter.

“J—Sergeant Barnes, if I might speak frankly,” Danica begins; at my nod, she continues. “I know that you feel you must be unshakable; that you must not show sadness or fear. That’s an unfortunate fallacy…especially during times such as these. Wartime is horrific, and…” she again trails off, softly shaking her head.

There’s sadness written plain as day across her face, but before I can ask why, she stands and takes a few steps back, giving me some space. By the time I’ve risen to my feet, all traces of that sadness are gone.

“Try to rest, Sergeant.”

“Bucky…call me Bucky.”

“‘Bucky’?”

“My middle name’s Buchanan.”

“I see.” She gives me an appraising look, then turns away, walking toward the door. She opens it, then turns back to me, her hand still on the knob. “Good night…Sergeant.”

With that, she leaves; the door clicks closed with a quiet finality.

I stand there for several moments, staring at the wood. Eventually, I turn and make my way to the window, looking out onto the street below. I’ve been put up in one of the hotels the Army requisitioned to house us; it’s located in the heart of London, just a few blocks from the pub, and while the relative normalcy should be comforting, it’s not…it’s jarring.

A flash of green catches my eye, and I see Danica emerge from the hotel, stepping onto the sidewalk.

‘I didn’t even offer to walk her home,’ I think. ‘But I can fix that.’

I rap loudly on the window; she must hear, because she looks up. I hold up a finger, and see her nod. I quickly turn from the glass and stride from my room, taking the stairs as quickly as I can.

“Sergeant,” she says as I join her on the sidewalk. “I suppose you’ve come down here to see me home?”

‘God, she’s something,’ I think. ‘Tough as nails.’

“Yes.”

She gives me another appraising glance. “Fine. I suppose a bit of company wouldn’t hurt.” Her lips curve into a closed smile. “Perhaps you’d tell me a bit about what Captain Rogers was like before his transformation.”

“A punk…he was a punk,” I begin, offering her my arm.

MARCH 28, 1944 — LONDON — BUCKY

Danica’s behavior has thrown me for a loop, and I’m not sure what to do next.

‘And the day started so well,’ I think.

I’d woken up smiling, and that smile had lingered all morning, until I saw Danica darting down the hall as if she couldn’t get away fast enough. I tried to figure out what had happened to make her react that way, but I kept drawing a blank.

When I’d gone to her office, hoping to speak with her, she’d been…curt. Brusque. Nothing like the woman I’ve been falling for over the past four and a half months.

Peggy had also been a bit abrupt with me as well, and I considered that perhaps it was the stress of the projects they’re working on, but I quickly discarded that explanation when I realized it didn’t account for Danica’s earlier behavior. Determined to figure out what exactly is going on, I spend my day sticking close to Steve, knowing that Peggy will come speak to him at some point.

‘Some point’ happens to be about thirty minutes before quitting time; when Peggy enters the room, she gives me a small, cordial smile.

“Sergeant Barnes.”

“Agent Carter.” I quietly clear my throat. “Is Danica…is Agent Magennis alright?”

“She’s…” she sighs. “Stubborn.” Looking around, she gestures toward the far corner. “Let’s not have this conversation in the middle of the room.”

I nod, and follow her to the corner, waiting for her to continue speaking.

“As I said, Dani’s stubborn. And after the things that she heard Private Lorraine,” her tone is one of disgust as she speaks the woman’s name, “saying last night, combined with the way you were looking at Agent Donaldson this morning, well…let’s just say that our favorite Agent is being mulish.”

“The way I was looking at Agent Donaldson…I’m sorry, Agent Carter, I’m not following.”

“Apparently, you were really smiling at her. According to Danica, your eyes were crinkled at the corners, which means it was a genuine smile, rather than a polite, professional one.”

“I was smiling at everything this morning…everything!” The brunette tilts her head in question, and I elaborate. “I was going to ask Neets to be my girl.”

“Ah. So that’s why you were so jovial…you’re a man in love.”

I feel myself blush—just slightly—but I hold Peggy’s gaze. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Then don’t let her push you away. She’ll try; she’ll insist that the two of you remain friends… only friends.”

I nod, the gloominess that had settled over me earlier dissipating somewhat as Peggy’s words give me hope. “Thank you.”

“I love her, too. She has this…talent for winning people over.”

I smile and nod. “She really does.”

We lapse into a brief silence, which I break as my mind backtracks a bit.

“What did Private Lorraine say?”

My blood is boiling, and I’m seething as anger courses through me.

‘How dare she speak about Danica that way? The absolute gall !’

Peggy had relayed what Private Lorraine had said, at least everything that Danica told her. She said she didn’t know if there was more, but it doesn’t matter; the vitriol the broad already spewed is damaging as-is.

‘God, how could she….’

My thought trails off as I realize how Danica could believe that. While she’s never shared specifics, she’s talked a bit about how unpleasant her school years were; how the children were cruel ‘in the way kids are’. And, the fact is, it’s not just kids. Plenty of men—hell, plenty of women —are quick to judge; quick to label others, with no regard for the pain their words can inflict, and I hold no illusions that she hasn't experienced that.

I know that, to counteract a lifetime of hurtful falsehoods, I’ll just have to take my time and prove to her that she’s beautiful: not just on the outside, but on the inside as well. And I look forward to doing exactly that…but first, I need to get ready for the evening. After all, I have a woman to woo.

I’m sitting at the front bar, facing the main pub door as I anxiously await Danica’s arrival. Earlier, she said we could talk, and Peggy promised to make sure she shows up here. Even with the reassurance, I’m on pins and needles because—like Peggy and I discussed this afternoon—my gal is stubborn.

‘She’s not your gal,’ something inside me snidely snipes.

‘She is. Maybe not officially…but I don’t want anyone else. I only want her .’

I nurse a bourbon as I wait, trying to ignore the ticking of the clock and the raucous laughter that randomly bursts from some of the other patrons. With my gaze locked on the door, I see her the moment she walks in. Having already paid for my bourbon, I toss back the rest and rise from my seat, meeting Danica before she’s even begun to unbutton her coat.

“C’mon, Neets, walk with me,” I say, taking her arm and leading her outside.

“Ja—Serge—”

“You were right the first time.” When she studiously avoids my gaze, I gently grasp her chin, lifting her head so she meets my eyes. “Are you going to tell me what happened between when I left you last night and when I saw you this morning, or am I going to have to take Peggy’s word for it?”

Her cobalt-blue eyes go stormy, and a small crease forms between her brows. “You spoke to Peggy …or, rather, Peggy spoke to you ?!”

“I was worried, doll. And Peggy was concerned.”

She huffs. “Well, if I’d known she was so meddlesome, I—”

“Stop deflecting.” I draw in a deep breath. “I’m not going to judge you, Danica. I care about you…I care about you very, very much. You can tell me anything, and that’s not going to change.”

She’s quiet for a few beats. “Well, I suppose that’s what friends do.”

“Yeah. It is. And we are friends.” I swallow audibly, nervousness settling over me. “The thing is, sweetheart, I want to be more .”

Her eyes widen. “Y-you what?” she whispers after a long moment. Before I can reply, she’s shaking her head. “No, I…I saw you. With Agent Donaldson. You were…you were smiling at her. Really smiling . Your eyes did that adorable crinkle.”

“Adorable crinkle’?’ I file that away for later.

“Danica…up until you ran out of the room like you’d been burnt, I was smiling at everything . I woke up in a great mood, because I was planning to ask the most incredible woman I’ve ever met if she’d be my girl…and I was pretty sure she was going to say ‘yes’.”

She gasps softly, her eyes searching mine…looking, no doubt, for any trace of guile or insincerity. “Y-you…you mean…?”

The uncertainty and disbelief I hear in her quiet reply cause my heart to clench.

‘Oh, sweetheart, I’m going to wipe every trace of doubt from your mind. I promise.’

“Since it seems to have escaped your notice…I’m sweet on you.”

“You are?”

“Yeah, Neets, I am.”

I’m about to continue when the pub door swings open, and several men drunkenly stumble out, no doubt having been cut off by the bartender. Thankfully, they carry on their way, ignoring me and Danica. Once they’re gone, I continue.

“This isn’t the place to have this conversation. I was just anxious to tell you, because I was a bit afraid that you’d run away.” The unspoken ‘again’ hangs in the air.

“I suppose we could walk to Hyde Park. Or,” she briefly hesitates, “we could, um…we could go to my flat. If you want.”

“You decide, sweetheart.”

After another short hesitation, she nods. I hold my arm out to her, and she tucks her hand into the crook of my elbow. “My flat it is.”

NOVEMBER 13, 1943 — LONDON — DANICA

I enter the building we use as our base, following the sound of Steve's voice.

"...and the sixth one was about here, thirty, forty miles west of the Maginot Line."

Under Peggy's observation, he makes a mark on a giant map, which is then whisked away by a Specialist or Agent I'm not familiar with.

"I just got a quick look," Steve tells Peggy.

She raises a brow at him. "Well, nobody's perfect," she replies, her lips curving briefly into a small smile.

She walks towards me, and I catch Steve's gaze lingering on her before he turns and joins us. We make our way to one of several briefing rooms; Colonel Phillips meets us there, and I see that the map Steve was marking is laid across the main tables. We approach, with Steve essentially acting as a narrator of sorts.

"These are the weapon factories we know about. Sergeant Barnes said that HYDRA shipped all the parts to another facility that isn't on this map."

In the days since Steve returned with the rescued troops, I've learned that Sergeant Barnes is the dark-haired man who called for cheers for Captain America. Apparently, the pair have been the best of friends since childhood...which explains Steve's determination to carry out that rescue mission.

"Agent Magennis, coordinate with SOE; Agent Carter, coordinate with MI6. I want every Allied eyeball looking for that main HYDRA base," Colonel Phillips says as he walks into another room, our trio trailing behind him.

"What about us?" Peggy asks.

"We are going to set a fire under Johann Schmidt's ass." He pauses as a blonde Agent—whose name I don't know—hands him a stack of papers, ogling Steve as she does so. "What do you say, Rogers? It's your map. You think you can wipe HYDRA off of it?"

Steve turns to the map, then back to the Colonel. "Yes, sir. I'll need a team."

"We're already putting together the best men," Colonel Phillips replies, perusing the papers the blonde handed him, lifting his gaze to Steve as he ends his sentence.

"With all due respect sir, so am I."

While Steve and the Colonel discuss, Peggy and I head off to complete our tasks of coordinating with our various agencies. The rest of the day passes relatively quickly, engrossed as I am in my work and the goings-on around me. When it's time to leave, Peggy comes to collect me for our walk back to our block of flats.

"I overheard several of the men talking about having a drink at Whip & Fiddle this evening. I thought that perhaps you and I would do the same."

The smirk on her face isn't lost on me, nor is the gleam in her eyes. "Oh, so you want to put on that red dress you showed me last night, and go see Steve," I tease, drawing out his name in a sing-song tone. "I suppose I could find something suitable to wear," I continue.

"Odds are good that Sergeant Barnes will be there...you can finally meet the man."

"Don't even attempt to play Cupid, Margaret," I snark.

"Call me Margaret again and I will," she retorts.

When we enter Whip & Fiddle, several of the men—who were engaged in rather boisterous singing—fall silent. As we move through the rooms, I spot Steve and Sergeant Barnes at the bar. I hang back as we approach, wanting to let Peggy have her moment. While she moves towards the two men, I settle into one of the chairs at a little table tucked into the corner, not too far from the bar doorway. Seated with my back to said doorway, I can't see what's going on, though I can hear—just barely—the conversation.

"Captain."

"Agent Carter."

I hear the clack of Peggy's heels as she takes the few steps into the bar.

"Ma'am," I hear Sergeant Barnes say.

"Howard has some equipment for you to try. Tomorrow morning?" Peggy asks.

"Sounds good," Steve replies.

There's a pause, then Peggy speaks again. "I see your top squad is prepping for duty."

"You don't like music?" the Sergeant asks.

"I do, actually."

I turn in my chair, looking into the bar as Peggy continues, seeing her gaze fixed on Steve.

"I might even, when this is all over, go dancing."

"Then what are we waiting for?" Barnes asks; Peggy ignores him, still looking at Steve.

"The right partner. Oh-eight-hundred, Captain," she says, before turning and making her exit.

"Yes, ma'am. I'll be there," Steve's response carries after her.

She joins me at the table, settling into the chair opposite mine. As I turn to face her, I hear Sergeant Barnes speak again.

"I'm invisible. I'm-I'm turning into you. It's like a horrible dream."

'Definitely an operator,' the thought flits through my mind.

"Don't take it so hard," I hear Steve reply. "Maybe she's got a friend."

I miss the rest of their conversation as Peggy and I fall into our own. Soon, the same men begin singing again, and it doesn't take long for most of the other patrons to join in. After a bit, I tell Peggy I'm going to get us some drinks, and she nods.

"I'll have a—"

"Cognac. I know." I pause, unable to resist a good-natured snark. "Ms. 'I like my alcohol made from grapes, not grain'."

Peggy shakes her head and huffs, but I see a grin tugging at her lips. "Thank you."

With a nod, I make my way to the bar, where the bartender immediately takes my order.

"A cognac, please. And a whiskey—Bushmills, if you have it—neat. Thank you."

The bartender turns away to prepare the drinks; in my peripheral vision, I see Steve and Sergeant Barnes rise from their stools and make their way over to me.

"Agent Magennis," Steve greets. "Good evening."

"Good evening, Captain Rogers."

"Agent Magennis, allow me to officially introduce Ser—"

"Sergeant James Barnes, ma'am," he interjects.

"Agent Danica Magennis," I reply.

"A cognac and a Bushmill's, neat," the bartender says, placing a snifter and a tumbler on the polished wood bar.

"Put them on my tab," Steve tells the man, who nods then turns his attention to his other patrons.

"Thank you, Captain. I'm sure Agent Carter would like to thank you as well. Perhaps you could deliver her cognac?"

"You're welcome. And I'd be glad to." He nods. "Have a good evening, ma'am." He claps the Sergeant on the shoulder, then takes the snifter of cognac and heads towards Peggy.

As I turn towards the bar and lift my glass, Barnes speaks.

"Whiskey...you sure you can handle that, sugar?"

"Yes."

"Really?" I don't miss the slight note of surprise in the Sergeant's tone. "Figured a dame like you'd prefer wine, maybe gin...or cognac like your friend."

"I see," I turn to him. "And what else do you figure?"

"That a gal as pretty as you shouldn't be sitting at a table in the corner."

'Don't swoon, don't swoon...keep it together. He might be a dreamboat, but he's also a rouser, Danica.'

"Maybe I like the corner," I reply.

"Maybe you do." He pauses, his eyes roving over me. "But I'd be more than happy for you to join me," he gestures to the barstool he vacated.

"Hmm," I reply, pretending to consider. "No."

"Wh—"

"I saw you and Char—Nurse Lane the other day. I'm not inter—"

"Were you watching me, doll?" he smirks.

Much to my annoyance, I feel my cheeks heat.

'So much for keeping it together,' I think.

"You were in the middle of an Army camp, in broad daylight. Anyone would have noticed the pair of you."

"But anyone didn't...you did."

"Being observant is part of my job, Sergeant. And again, the pair of you weren't exactly discreet."

"There was nothing to be discreet about, Agent."

I can't help but scoff. "Yes, I'm sure all you two did was discuss the weather."

The bitter tinge of my tone causes me to cringe inwardly. I see the Sergeant open his mouth to reply; before he can, I continue. "Good night, Sergeant Barnes."

With my drink in hand, I turn on my heel and walk away.