therighttime | AU Milliways

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AU Milliways

The door opens from one pub to the next. A rosy-tinted, warm little English pub filled to the brim with uniformed soldiers and local girls, crowing and laughing and being alive, really feeling it for the first time in longer than any of them would like to admit.

The woman who is leaving that particular pub is tall - very tall, inches over six feet - shapely in her 1940s olive dress uniform. Her make-up is fresh, her tie in perfect order, her hair is even curled in classic victory rolls (it took three showgirls three hours to make it happen, but they're all used to it by now).

Stephanie Rogers is grinning, flush-faced and filled with joy as she waves to a dark-haired soldier at the bar and steps purposefully into -- another bar.

She recognizes a shift, a difference immediately, and keeps one hand on the knob even as she frowns thoughtfully at the room around her.

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There is a dark-haired soldier at the bar here, too. He looks up when she enters, with dark, watchful eyes, and assesses her coolly before returning his attention to the beer he's nursing.

Steph stops when she sees him. Her frown stays, eyes narrowing on the man before she looks over her shoulder.

There's a similar man sitting at the bar she just left.

Hesitant - is that a giant... rat? with a tray of drinks? - Steph approaches, her heels clicking on the polished wooden floor. "Buck?"

He turns, looking her over again, a tiny smirk appearing at the corner of his lips.

"Are you asking, or offering?"

'b' sounds like 'f' sometimes.

She frowns again, deeper, more worried than anything. Her hand curls at the edge of the bar as she moves to stand beside him, looking down at that smirk. Bucky always smirks but there's something about this one, not quite right. "What are you doing here?"

"Isn't that my line?"

He swivels the stool to face her, leaning back on the bar, eyes shadowed.

"Lovely lady like you in a place like this, and so on?"

Stephanie stares back, tilting her head. She's already been given the rundown on this place by a few other folks, doubles and alternates and universes, enough to make her head spin. But this is Bucky and it's worse, so much worse than just a few days ago when she'd broken the straps holding him down to an examination table.

"You don't remember me."

"Sweetheart, I'd never, ever forget you," says the soldier, with another sweeping gaze from top to toe, "if we'd ever met before. But hell, I'd sure like to meet you. Properly."

She's seen him give that look to so many girls over the years. There was a time when she would have liked - loved - to be the object of it. But that was long ago, before he dressed in uniform, before she could fit into hers.

Steph holds out her hand, to the side with fingers spread, expecting a shake and not a kiss. Her blue eyes don't waver from his for a moment and all the air seems to be thin in this room.

"Captain Stephanie Rogers."

He's certainly not in uniform now. He's wearing black, utilitarian clothing, fabrics not heard of in the 40s, and one hand moves strangely even if it looks like flesh.

"It's absolutely my pleasure," the soldier tells her, rakish grin slanting in her direction. "Jim Samuels. At your service."

Jim Samuels. And suddenly, she does take in his clothing, his appearance.

They'd told her there could be doubles, could be alternates - could even be twins of folks she knew, herself, anyone who were completely different people. Even wearing that face.

Steph feels sick. Her fingers curl around his palm when his hand touches hers and that's wrong in another way, too cool and too stiff for the way he's smiling at her, smiling the way a man would at one of the shows.

"I'm sorry," she says suddenly, apologies coming so easy. "I thought-- I mistook you for someone else. I'm afraid I'm new."

"It's no problem," he tells her, frown line appearing briefly, then disappearing again. "Pleased to be mistaken for a friend of yours, miss. -- Captain. Captain Rogers."

And then a frown again. Because - Captain Rogers. That means something to someone, and the man currently calling himself Jim is very good at paying attention to things that just don't seem quite right.

"Sticking around here long, Captain?"

"A good friend," Steph agrees, managing a smile. Bucky's fine - he's just fine. She left him behind in the pub on the other side of the door, smiling and smirking and teasing as he promised to join her team.

Bucky's fine, he's safe, he's back with her. This man looks similar but that's all. Just a look.

"You know, I really don't know," she answers after a moment's thought, grinning. "I just sort of wandered in, got the speech just a moment ago. A drink wouldn't be amiss before I get back, though, if it's true that no one'll miss me out there."

She lifts a hand to wave over the bartender. She'd bought drinks for her men outside and it's not like she has anyone back home to send her pay to. Another drink for herself won't break the bank.

"Sure. On me."

Jim nods at the bartender. He has no intention of paying his tab, of course. It doesn't seem to have been called in yet, and he just won't pay it when it is. If he's still around by then.

"Gin and tonic for the lady. Another beer for me."

"That's not necessary," Steph begins, gentle voiced. It's not personal, advice given to her on the show. Don't let a man get any ideas about how much you like him.

Except for what he orders for her.

"...that was a good guess, Mr. Samuels."

He gives her a cheerful, rakish grin. Exactly the same grin he gives any lady anywhere, ever. "You can buy the next round, Cap."

He's not Bucky. Bucky's fine, he's safe, he's on the other side of that door.

"Appreciate it," she says, and takes a seat on the stool beside his, ankles crossed and hands folded in her lap. For a moment, she studies the pattern of the wood at the bar.

He's not Bucky. Bucky's fine. He's safe. He's on the other side of that door and they're going to be on the same team, looking out for each other again.

"They say folks come from anywhere and any-when around here," Steph says after a moment, looking up at the man beside her with a smile. "That must make for some interesting small talk between drinks."

"Sure does," he agrees, leaning back on the bar, nodding at the bartender when the drinks arrive and reaching for his own. "Met a man the other night with blue skin. Not the kind of thing I'm used to seein' round home. You, though, you look like you're from somewhere I'd recognise."

"Do I?"

A woman in uniform, this uniform. It's not impossible, her clothes are just like Peggy's. But she'd said Captain and he didn't even blink and-

This is stupid. Bucky's fine. She found him and he ran from Schmidt on his own power. This man is someone new, maybe someone hurting just as much, just in a different way. A different man entirely.

"Were you in the service, Mr. Samuels?"

"Might have been." He sips his drink, thoughtful. "Hard to say."

Shady answer to a straight-forward question. Steph frowns and nods to the bartender when their drinks arrive, sliding the beer to Samuels and curling her fingers around her own cool glass. "Is it?"

"Yep."

His lack of memory doesn't particularly trouble him. It just is. He doesn't need to have a past or a name or any of that stuff. His purpose is different.

"Don't worry about it, it's pretty complicated. But what's a lady like you doing in the game?"

Don't worry your pretty little head, Lady Liberty.

Steph smiles and keeps her fingers carefully relaxed around the glass.

"Country's in need, a time like this- well, the time I'm from. Everyone's doing what they can. This is what I can do and I'm proud to do it."

It's not a game. There's nothing about what little of war she's seen so far that she would call a game.

"You're not sure about being in the service, but you certainly have an opinion."

"An opinion?" Jim raises an eyebrow. "For asking a question? Go on, then, tell me, what do you think my opinion is?"

She hadn't meant for it to come out combative. Encouraging, entreating perhaps, but not a fight. Steph blinks at him, honestly surprised by his reaction, and pulls out the stops for a bruised male ego.

(thanks, Elena)

"Oh no," she says quickly, drawing her glass closer to herself. "I didn't mean it like that. You sound familiar with the service, is all. I'm sorry, I don't mean to pry."

Jim is watching her - not aggressive, just interested. Not particularly bruised at all.

"No, go on," he suggests, brightly. "Pry away."

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