[ The men of the 107th literally drew lots to see who got to be on leave tonight and go see the show.
Names were plucked out of a colonel's steel-pot helmet while soldiers shifted their weight restlessly from foot-to-foot, bumping shoulders in disorderly lines. Order has broken down overseas, lost somewhere in their damp clothes and soggy boots and brittle coughs and those haggard shadows under their eyes. Not enough sleep, not enough reinforcements: fresh troops keep being promised and promised and promised, and every time they finally do arrive, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed from boot camp, they're ill-prepared and often just wind up being meat for the grinder. Most of them won't survive the next month.
War is hell, but for just one night, a few of them get to cluster together and listen to the tinny music and hoot and holler as the pretty women high-kick their way across the stage, led by their new supposedly-superpowered mascot.
James Barnes is one of the winners tonight, and like everybody else, of course he's seen the posters. (He doesn't recognise her in the pictures, behind the mask. This primped and preened and perfectly-coiffed creature doesn't resemble the Steph he remembers, and they don't put her name anywhere on the posters either. The symbol and the product matters more than the woman.)
He's tired, bone-deep tired, but knows that a few more hours of restless sleep back in his cot won't help, either. He's lucky to have gotten his name pulled. So he should enjoy this. The man beside him is laughing uproariously at the performers, Show a little more leg, darlin' — and once upon a time Bucky's sure he might have enjoyed this, he was a skirt-chaser, he always did like women, so isn't he supposed to enjoy this?
But it's when he finally sees her in the flesh, rather than grainy newspaper photographs or stylised illustrations, that Bucky suddenly leans forward on his bench, frowning at the sight. It can't be. Surely it's not.
It's like seeing Stephanie Rogers' taller sister up on that stage, all pin curls and smiles and glowing skin. Some of it is the blush; she had never bothered with makeup around him, not the boy she'd grown up with, the one who'd taken her under his wing like a brother (at least, they'd always both told themselves it was like a brother). She's taller, healthier, fit enough to keep up with all of the other athletic women on the stage. It doesn't make any sense, and neither does the way she's able to lift them without breaking a sweat, carrying a bench laden with other dancers.
He's leaning forward, hands against his knees, all of his attention riveted forward with an avid intensity. What, you never seen girls before, Barnes? someone else asks beside him, but he ignores them.
He drinks in this impossible sight, and he waits it out. After the show wraps (along with calls for encores), it does seem to have managed to revive the soldiers' spirits, at least a little. They disperse towards the mess tent, while Bucky goes and waits where the performers are. He sees some of them eventually file out, dressed in more normal clothes (there's fewer sequins, for one), but there's no Steph yet. He's fidgeting, worried about someone accusing him of being a peeping tom trying to sneak in on the dancers — but finally, he just goes ahead and asks an aide where Liberty Belle is kept. He's pointed in the direction of her own small tent being used as impromptu dressing room — and in lieu of having an actual door to knock on, he clears his throat and calls out instead. ]
Heard they were keeping a pain-in-the-ass named Rogers back here.
[ Is he about to accidentally walk in on her changing? Maybe. ]
yells i love it! mine also... spiraled out of control
Names were plucked out of a colonel's steel-pot helmet while soldiers shifted their weight restlessly from foot-to-foot, bumping shoulders in disorderly lines. Order has broken down overseas, lost somewhere in their damp clothes and soggy boots and brittle coughs and those haggard shadows under their eyes. Not enough sleep, not enough reinforcements: fresh troops keep being promised and promised and promised, and every time they finally do arrive, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed from boot camp, they're ill-prepared and often just wind up being meat for the grinder. Most of them won't survive the next month.
War is hell, but for just one night, a few of them get to cluster together and listen to the tinny music and hoot and holler as the pretty women high-kick their way across the stage, led by their new supposedly-superpowered mascot.
James Barnes is one of the winners tonight, and like everybody else, of course he's seen the posters. (He doesn't recognise her in the pictures, behind the mask. This primped and preened and perfectly-coiffed creature doesn't resemble the Steph he remembers, and they don't put her name anywhere on the posters either. The symbol and the product matters more than the woman.)
He's tired, bone-deep tired, but knows that a few more hours of restless sleep back in his cot won't help, either. He's lucky to have gotten his name pulled. So he should enjoy this. The man beside him is laughing uproariously at the performers, Show a little more leg, darlin' — and once upon a time Bucky's sure he might have enjoyed this, he was a skirt-chaser, he always did like women, so isn't he supposed to enjoy this?
But it's when he finally sees her in the flesh, rather than grainy newspaper photographs or stylised illustrations, that Bucky suddenly leans forward on his bench, frowning at the sight. It can't be. Surely it's not.
It's like seeing Stephanie Rogers' taller sister up on that stage, all pin curls and smiles and glowing skin. Some of it is the blush; she had never bothered with makeup around him, not the boy she'd grown up with, the one who'd taken her under his wing like a brother (at least, they'd always both told themselves it was like a brother). She's taller, healthier, fit enough to keep up with all of the other athletic women on the stage. It doesn't make any sense, and neither does the way she's able to lift them without breaking a sweat, carrying a bench laden with other dancers.
He's leaning forward, hands against his knees, all of his attention riveted forward with an avid intensity. What, you never seen girls before, Barnes? someone else asks beside him, but he ignores them.
He drinks in this impossible sight, and he waits it out. After the show wraps (along with calls for encores), it does seem to have managed to revive the soldiers' spirits, at least a little. They disperse towards the mess tent, while Bucky goes and waits where the performers are. He sees some of them eventually file out, dressed in more normal clothes (there's fewer sequins, for one), but there's no Steph yet. He's fidgeting, worried about someone accusing him of being a peeping tom trying to sneak in on the dancers — but finally, he just goes ahead and asks an aide where Liberty Belle is kept. He's pointed in the direction of her own small tent being used as impromptu dressing room — and in lieu of having an actual door to knock on, he clears his throat and calls out instead. ]
Heard they were keeping a pain-in-the-ass named Rogers back here.
[ Is he about to accidentally walk in on her changing? Maybe. ]