Request for Miss-Union-Jack
“Mr. Rogers?” Her voice was gentle and cautious as she prodded him for an answer, a response, a something.
“Mr. Rogers?” A bit more firm now, establishing that her patience was not never ending and she wouldn’t stand for poor behavior in her company.
“Steve.” With a snap of Bucky’s voice, Steve was brought back into the real world, where she was really sitting in front of him, really asking for him, really getting irritated at his lack of a response.
Cheeks flushing, he rubbed the nape of his neck. “I’m sorry, miss,” he sputtered, clearly flustered, “If you’ll excuse me for a bit.”
And with that he was gone. She was a nice enough girl, yes, but she was sicked on him by Bucky Barnes, who could easily have any girl he wished go dancing with him and Steve, so long as he stayed. Steve was sick of being the loose end, the unlucky fella, the one everyone else pitied. He was sick of being pushed around in crowds and being pushed around by his friends. He knew Bucky didn’t mean anything by it when he offered to invite a girl out for him, but it just didn’t feel right.
He wanted to do something himself for once.
So when he was pushed along in the jazz club up to a small bar and right up against you, he wasn’t entirely sure if it was a sign or bad karma.
You jumped a bit in your seat when you felt his thin body crash against yours, not enough weight on him to force you forward, but enough that you certainly felt it. You tried to ignore him, but he took a while to get back up, muttering hurried apologies and excusing himself. He seemed harmless, so you invited him to sit up at the bar with you.
Cheeks red, he joined you, a quiet “Thank you, miss,” leaving his pink lips.
Smiling, you watched from the corner of you eye as he ordered a Manhattan, then coughed a bit at his first sip. You made no remark, just let the boy sulk in his drink. But he didn’t sulk. Instead, he sat up straight, making himself as big as he could (which, albeit, wasn’t that big) and asked you how your night was going.
Not if you were here with anyone, not if you were married or engaged or otherwise occupied.
If you were having a nice night.
“I’ll tell you what: it’ll be a lot nicer if you sit here with me a spell. You see, my pal left me to go dance with some guy, and now I’m stuck with the active duty.” You peered at him, sizing him up with seemingly bored eyes. “You ain’t active duty, are you?”
The stranger seemed a bit shocked by your brashness in speaking, but stuttered out an answer anyways. “No! No ma’am. I am not.”
You smiled over your drink. “I didn’t think so. You seem a proper gentleman.” Terrible at small talk, yes; doll dizzy, no. You figured you’d need to be the one to control the conversation here, a nice change to the usual routine you’d encountered with men at the bar before.
“You got a name, fella?”
Again, he choked on his drink and glanced at you, bright eyes shined by tears from his small fit. He apologized once more. “Steve Rogers,” he finally answered, holding out a hand to shake.
“How do you do, Steve?” You gave his hand a small shake before picking up your drink again.
He smiled, though it was slight. “I’ll say, miss, a lot better since I got here.”
He explained how his friend had returned from training for the army for a bit, and was already trying to set Steve up with some gal he had just met. Not wanting his only positive trait to be having connections with the Barnes family (as well as being a perfect gentleman, you added), he left and came over here.
You grinned at him, drink long forgotten at the bar. “So you did come here to have a go with me!” He, once again, blanched at your words, eyes blinking widely up at you until he realized it was a joke. Then, he laughed awkwardly with you.
“I suppose if you wouldn’t mind, yes.”
Shrugging, you winked at him. “I don’t think I’d mind, fella.”
The two of you glanced back at your only half way emptied glasses, trying to process what exactly had just conspired. Something. You heard him say your name, so you looked back over to him.
“How’s about we go join that friend of your’s on the dance floor?”
“Can you dance?”
He grinned. “Not at all.”