[ It's different, performing for soldiers spread out on rickety folding chairs in a muddy field-turned-army camp. She's used to auditoriums, used to stage lights and an orchestra pit, used to not really being able to see the faces spread out in front of her because the light in her eyes is too bright and the rest of the room is too dark.
Doing the whole song and dance routine out in bright sunshine with dozens of weary faces looking up at her is like a punch to the gut.
She thought she was helping? She thought that The Liberty Belle was somehow assisting the war effort? No. These men were helping. These men, who fought, and who died, who gave up everything to defend the country they loved, they were the real heroes. She's just a chorus girl, pretty, and stupid, and ultimately useless.
She tries not to look at the soldiers' faces too closely. She doesn't want to see them either lusting after her or too dead-eyed to care. It unsettles her deeply.
Still, she's been doing this long enough that she can fake it pretty well now, and she's even memorized all her dialogue to such a degree that she can just shut herself down mentally and open her mouth to let the words fall out, ringing out across the assembled men hunched in front of her without the need of a microphone to assist.
Once the set is over, and after the multiple encores have been performed, she slips away as quickly as she can, trying to hide in the small knot of dancers so she won't have to keep up her public facade and smile and flirt with the soldiers milling around. It's not that she's unappreciative of their attention — this is the first time in her life any man other than Bucky has actually seemed interested in her, although most of the time men nowadays are more interested in her tits or her legs and not in what she has to say — but she's tired, and guilty for reasons she can't explain, and she wants to get back to her tent so she can write to Bucky.
Getting out of her costume is an easy enough thing after all this time, shucking the star-spangled skirt and her striped bustier, peeling her stockings off her legs and wiggling her toes now that they're released from their high-heeled prison, and then it's time to take off the rest of her get-up, starting with her war paint.
She's in the middle of applying cold cream to melt her makeup when she hears a man's voice call out near her door, a man's voice that asks for her by name, a man's voice that sounds like...
No. It can't be. ]
Hold on! [ she replies, taking a tissue and wiping at her face hastily to remove the cream and the makeup beneath, smearing mascara around her eyes until she looks like a raccoon. ] I'll be there in a second! [ Rubbing roughly at them with a fresh tissue, she gets the worst of the kohl removed and then hurries to adjust her civilian clothes so she looks presentable and won't give whatever soldier it is who's bold enough to loiter outside her tent a show he didn't sign up for before rushing to the 'door' and smiling as she pulls it aside. ]
Did you want an autogra—oh. Oh, Bucky. [ She stares at him for a moment, stunned despite the fact that she knew she recognized his voice, then takes a step forward, barefoot and uncaring about the mud, and flings her arms around him to hug him tightly while she tries not to tremble. ] It's really you.
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Doing the whole song and dance routine out in bright sunshine with dozens of weary faces looking up at her is like a punch to the gut.
She thought she was helping? She thought that The Liberty Belle was somehow assisting the war effort? No. These men were helping. These men, who fought, and who died, who gave up everything to defend the country they loved, they were the real heroes. She's just a chorus girl, pretty, and stupid, and ultimately useless.
She tries not to look at the soldiers' faces too closely. She doesn't want to see them either lusting after her or too dead-eyed to care. It unsettles her deeply.
Still, she's been doing this long enough that she can fake it pretty well now, and she's even memorized all her dialogue to such a degree that she can just shut herself down mentally and open her mouth to let the words fall out, ringing out across the assembled men hunched in front of her without the need of a microphone to assist.
Once the set is over, and after the multiple encores have been performed, she slips away as quickly as she can, trying to hide in the small knot of dancers so she won't have to keep up her public facade and smile and flirt with the soldiers milling around. It's not that she's unappreciative of their attention — this is the first time in her life any man other than Bucky has actually seemed interested in her, although most of the time men nowadays are more interested in her tits or her legs and not in what she has to say — but she's tired, and guilty for reasons she can't explain, and she wants to get back to her tent so she can write to Bucky.
Getting out of her costume is an easy enough thing after all this time, shucking the star-spangled skirt and her striped bustier, peeling her stockings off her legs and wiggling her toes now that they're released from their high-heeled prison, and then it's time to take off the rest of her get-up, starting with her war paint.
She's in the middle of applying cold cream to melt her makeup when she hears a man's voice call out near her door, a man's voice that asks for her by name, a man's voice that sounds like...
No. It can't be. ]
Hold on! [ she replies, taking a tissue and wiping at her face hastily to remove the cream and the makeup beneath, smearing mascara around her eyes until she looks like a raccoon. ] I'll be there in a second! [ Rubbing roughly at them with a fresh tissue, she gets the worst of the kohl removed and then hurries to adjust her civilian clothes so she looks presentable and won't give whatever soldier it is who's bold enough to loiter outside her tent a show he didn't sign up for before rushing to the 'door' and smiling as she pulls it aside. ]
Did you want an autogra—oh. Oh, Bucky. [ She stares at him for a moment, stunned despite the fact that she knew she recognized his voice, then takes a step forward, barefoot and uncaring about the mud, and flings her arms around him to hug him tightly while she tries not to tremble. ] It's really you.