Chapter Text
Red Hook, Brooklyn - Summer 1926
The August sun beat down mercilessly on Van Brunt Street, the air thick with salt from the nearby docks. Laundry lines crisscrossed between the weathered brick tenements like spiderwebs, casting shifting shadows on the cobblestones below. The distant sound of ships' horns mixed with the clatter of horse-drawn delivery wagons and the shouts of dock workers heading home for the day.
Eight-year-old Effie Callahan stood in the middle of the street, gripping a broom handle that served as a makeshift bat. Her dark hair had escaped its ribbons, and a light sheen of sweat made her freckles stand out even more against her flushed skin. The neighborhood boys formed a loose circle around her, their voices rising in protest.
"Ah, come on! We ain't letting no girl play," Tommy Sullivan complained, spitting on the ground for emphasis. "She's barely bigger than the stick!"
"Yeah, she'll probably start cryin' when the ball comes at her," piped up another boy, adjusting his oversized newsboy cap.
Effie's green eyes flashed. She planted her feet wider, chin jutting out defiantly. "The only one who's gonna cry is you, Tommy Sullivan, when I knock that ball clear over to the docks."
A few boys snickered, but nine-year-old James "Bucky" Barnes stepped forward, his suspenders hanging loose and a confident grin playing on his face. He'd been watching Effie for weeks during their stickball games, noting how she studied their techniques from her perch on the nearby stoop.
"Let her play," Bucky said, his voice carrying the natural authority that already made him a leader among the neighborhood kids. "Unless you're scared she might show you up?"
Tommy's face reddened. "Fine! But when she misses-"
"I won't," Effie cut in, gripping the broomstick tighter.
Bucky moved to his position near home plate - a piece of cardboard worn smooth by countless shoes. He caught Effie's eye and gave her a quick wink. "Show 'em what you got, Callahan."
The pitcher, Mickey Donovan, wound up with exaggerated flourish. The rubber ball, salvaged from the trash behind Woolworth's, hurtled toward Effie. Time seemed to slow as she shifted her weight, just like she'd watched Bucky do a hundred times before.
CRACK!
The sound echoed off the tenement walls. The ball soared high and fast, sailing over the stunned boys' heads and bouncing twice before rolling to a stop near Coffey Street. For a moment, nobody moved.
Then Bucky let out a whoop. "Attaboy- uh, attagirl, Eff!" He turned to the slack-jawed boys. "Looks like we got ourselves a new player, fellas!"
Effie was already running the bases, her bare feet barely touching the ground, a fierce grin splitting her face. As she rounded third, she caught Bucky's eye again. Something passed between them in that moment - a spark of recognition, maybe, or the beginning of a friendship that would prove more important than either of them could imagine.
"Hey Barnes," she called out as she crossed home plate, slightly out of breath but radiating triumph, "guess size ain't everything, huh?"
Bucky laughed, genuine admiration in his blue eyes. "Guess not, Callahan. Guess not."
The other boys grumbled but couldn't deny her skill. As the game continued, word spread down the block. By sunset, other kids had gathered to watch the girl who could outplay most of the boys in Red Hook. Among them was a scrawny blond kid named Steve Rogers, who watched with particular interest as this fearless girl held her own in a world that tried to tell her she didn't belong.
Red Hook, Brooklyn - Spring 1928
The late afternoon sun filtered through the tenement window, catching dust motes that danced above the piles of fabric and half-finished dresses. The cramped apartment smelled of pressed cotton, coal smoke from the radiator, and the faint lingering aroma of this morning's coffee. A hand-cranked Victrola in the corner played a scratchy Bessie Smith record - "Empty Bed Blues" - though Mrs. Callahan had carefully screened which of Smith's records her children could hear.
Ten-year-old Effie perched on a wooden stool by the window, her legs swinging restlessly as she worked on hemming a navy-blue dress. Her fingers were quick but not quite as precise as she'd like, leading to the occasional pricked finger and muttered word that would've earned her a scolding if her mother had heard.
"Keep your stitches even, Euphemia," her mother reminded her without looking up from her own work. Margaret Callahan stood at her cutting table, pins held between her lips as she draped fabric over a worn dress form. Her movements were quick and sure, born from years of experience.
A regular customer, Mrs. Abernathy, stood nearby being fitted for a new dress. She was one of the better-off ladies from the Heights who'd discovered that Margaret Callahan could replicate the latest fashions for a fraction of department store prices.
"My, what a helpful daughter you have," Mrs. Abernathy commented, watching Effie work. "She'll make some lucky man a fine wife someday."
Effie's nose wrinkled at that, but before she could say something that would definitely get her in trouble, her mother shot her a warning look.
"Thank you, Mrs. Abernathy," Effie said instead, her tone sweet as honey but with an edge that made her mother sigh. "Though I'm thinking of becoming a sea captain myself. Much more exciting than being somebody's wife."
Mrs. Abernathy blinked in surprise while Margaret quickly jumped in. "Effie, why don't you go check on your siblings? I think I heard Tommy crying."
"But Ma, I'm almost done with this hem-"
"Now, please."
Effie set aside her work and slipped off the stool, but not before adding, "Did you know women can vote now, Mrs. Abernathy? Maybe next they'll let us drive ships."
She ducked out of the room just as her mother called her full name - "Euphemia Marie Callahan!" - in that tone that meant trouble. But she caught a glimpse of Mrs. Abernathy trying to hide a smile behind her hand.
In the narrow hallway, Effie leaned against the wall and let out a breath. Through the thin walls, she could hear Mrs. O'Malley's radio from next door playing a peppy dance tune, and below that, the familiar sounds of her younger siblings playing with marbles in the back room. No one was actually crying - her mother had just wanted her out before she said something else inappropriate.
"You're going to send all my customers running one of these days," her mother said later, after Mrs. Abernathy had left. But there was a hint of amusement in her voice as she sorted through her fabric scraps.
"Sorry, Ma," Effie replied, not sounding particularly sorry at all. She picked up her sewing again, this time attacking the hem with renewed determination. "But you heard what she said about-"
"I heard." Her mother paused, then added more softly, "You know, there's nothing wrong with being a wife someday. But there's nothing wrong with being more than that, either." She gave Effie a knowing look. "Just maybe don't announce your sea captain ambitions to all my customers, hm?"
Effie grinned. "No promises." Then, after a moment: "Ma? Could you show me how to do that fancy dart you were working on earlier?"
Margaret smiled, pulling her chair closer to Effie's stool. "Of course, love. Though I thought you weren't interested in sewing?"
"Well," Effie said thoughtfully, "maybe sea captains sometimes need to mend their own sails."
Later that evening, after the younger children were in bed, Effie sat by the window again. She could hear familiar voices from the street below - Bucky Barnes and some other neighborhood kids heading home from a late game of stickball. She touched the small calluses forming on her fingers from the needle work, then glanced at the navy dress she'd been hemming. Maybe being good at sewing didn't mean you couldn't be other things too.
She hummed along with the faint music still playing from next door, her fingers moving more confidently now through the fabric. Tomorrow she'd probably be back to raising hell with the boys in the street, but for now, in the quiet of the apartment with her mother's approving nods, she was content to master this skill too. After all, you never knew when it might come in handy.
Red Hook, Brooklyn - Summer 1933
The heavy summer air pressed against the tenement windows like a living thing. Fifteen-year-old Effie Callahan sat at her vanity - really just a salvaged mirror propped on a wooden crate - carefully pinning her dark waves in the style she'd seen Jean Harlow wear in the latest picture shows. The borrowed dress from her cousin Mary lay across her narrow bed, its deep blue fabric a stark contrast against the faded quilt.
Her hands trembled slightly as she checked the clock: 10:15 PM. The familiar sounds of her family settling in for the night had faded to quiet. Through the thin walls, she could hear her father's deep snores mixing with the distant rumble of ships in the harbor. Even during the Depression, Red Hook's ports never truly slept.
Effie slipped the dress on, the silk-like material cool against her skin. It wasn't real silk - nobody in the neighborhood could afford that anymore - but it moved like water when she turned. She studied her reflection with satisfaction. The dress fit perfectly, thanks to her own careful alterations. If she was going to sneak out to dance, she was going to do it right.
The fire escape creaked under her careful steps, each sound making her wince. The metal was still warm from the day's heat. Below, Red Hook spread out in a maze of shadows and streetlights, the dance hall's glow visible a few blocks away like a beacon.
Rosie waited at the corner of Van Brunt, practically bouncing with nervous energy. "Thought you'd never make it! Your ma didn't catch you?"
"Please," Effie scoffed, though her heart was still racing. "I've been climbing that fire escape since I was ten." She spun once, letting the dress flare. "What do you think? Worth the two hours I spent fixing the hem?"
"You look amazing," Rosie grinned, linking their arms. "Come on - I want to actually dance tonight, not just stand around like last time."
The Paradise Dance Hall was already alive with music when they arrived, the sound of brass and drums spilling onto the street. Inside, the air was thick with cigarette smoke and perfume, packed with other kids who'd snuck out or lied about their whereabouts. The Depression might have emptied their pockets, but it couldn't stop them from dancing.
Bucky Barnes stood near the entrance with his usual crowd. He'd shot up over the past year, all lean muscle from his weekend dock work, though he still moved with that casual grace that made girls whisper when he passed. He was mid-story when he caught sight of Effie.
The words died in his throat.
She stood just inside the entrance, laughing at something Rosie had said, completely unaware of his stare. The lights caught the waves in her dark hair, and something in his chest tightened at the way she carried herself - still their scrappy neighborhood girl, but somehow more.
"Earth to Barnes," Steve Rogers nudged him, grinning knowingly. Despite being too sickly to dance himself, Steve never missed a chance to watch his best friend make a fool of himself over Effie Callahan.
Before Bucky could respond, Jimmy O'Neill - all gangly height and clumsy confidence - was already making his way toward her.
"Can't let that happen," Bucky muttered, straightening his tie.
"Heaven forbid," Steve said dryly.
The band struck up "Mood Indigo" as Bucky crossed the floor, arriving just as Jimmy opened his mouth to speak.
"Evening, Callahan," Bucky said smoothly, positioning himself between them. "Been practicing those steps I showed you?"
Effie raised an eyebrow, a familiar spark of challenge in her green eyes. "Wouldn't you like to know, Barnes."
"Only one way to find out." He held out his hand, a silent dare in his smile.
For a moment, she just looked at him, and Bucky felt that same jolt he'd felt watching her hit that first stickball seven years ago. Then her hand was in his, small but strong, and they were moving together like they'd been dancing all their lives.
"You're awful sure of yourself," she said as he spun her, but her lips curved into a smile.
"Just sure about you," he replied without thinking, then added quickly, "I mean, sure you wouldn't want to waste your time with someone who's got two left feet."
"Is that what this is about? Saving me from Jimmy's terrible dancing?"
"Maybe I just wanted the first dance for myself."
Their eyes met, and something shifted in the air between them. They were no longer just the kids from the neighborhood playing stickball. This was different. Dangerous, maybe.
"You're still that same cocky kid from the street," Effie said softly, but there was no bite in her words.
"And you're still the girl who knocked that ball clear to Coffey Street," Bucky replied. "Just... in a prettier dress."
"Your sister's not going to tell on us for being here, is she?" Effie asked as they moved across the floor. Rebecca Barnes was in her class at St. Bernadette's.
"Becca? Nah, she's got her own secrets to keep." He spun her expertly, those weekend dock shifts having done nothing to diminish his natural grace. "Besides, she likes you better than me anyway."
"Smart girl."
The song ended, but neither of them moved apart right away. Around them, the hall buzzed with energy, with youth and defiance against the hard times.
Finally, Effie stepped back, her cheeks flushed from dancing. "Don't get used to this, Barnes. I still remember when you put a frog in my lunch pail."
"That was five years ago!"
"And I'm still plotting my revenge."
Bucky laughed, pulling her back as the next song started. "Guess I'll have to stay close then. Keep an eye on you."
"Guess you will," she said, and let him lead her into another dance, unaware of the way his heart skipped at her words.
From his spot near the wall, Steve Rogers watched them with a knowing smile. He'd seen that look in Bucky's eyes before, but never quite like this. But for now, he let his friends have their moment, spinning beneath the lights like the war clouds gathering across the ocean couldn't touch them at all.
Red Hook, Brooklyn – Fall 1934
The October sun cast long shadows over the cracked steps of the Barnes' brownstone. Steve Rogers sat hunched forward, his thin frame wrapped in a worn jacket as he sketched in the notebook balanced on his knees. Next to him, Bucky leaned against the railing, absently watching kids play stickball down the block.
The sounds of the neighborhood filled the quiet between them - the clatter of trucks from the docks, Mrs. Rossi yelling at her kids in rapid-fire Italian from a second-story window, the tinny sound of a radio playing somewhere nearby.
"So," Steve said without looking up from his drawing, "you gonna ask someone to that dance or just stand around like last time?"
Bucky smirked. "What, worried about me, punk?"
"Worried about all the girls you're gonna disappoint when you finally pick one," Steve shot back, adding details to whatever he was sketching.
"Actually..." Bucky shifted, suddenly looking less sure of himself. "I was thinking about asking Effie."
Steve's pencil stopped mid-stroke. He looked up slowly. "Effie Callahan?"
"You know another Effie?"
"Buck," Steve said carefully, "this is the same Effie who dumped water on your head last month when you tried to help her carry her books."
"That was different," Bucky protested. "I was being a jerk about it."
"And what makes you think this time will be different?"
Bucky ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "Because I'm not trying to show off this time. I just... I want to take her to the dance."
Steve studied his friend's face, recognition dawning. "You're serious about this."
"Yeah," Bucky admitted quietly. "I am."
Steve shook his head, but he was smiling. "Well, if anyone can handle you, it's probably Effie Callahan."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence, pal."
"Just don't come crying to me when she tells you off in front of the whole school."
Bucky grinned, his confidence returning. "Not gonna happen. I've got a plan."
"That's what worries me," Steve muttered, returning to his sketch.
The next day
Van Brunt Street bustled with its usual afternoon traffic - delivery trucks rumbling past, dock workers heading home, kids dodging between pedestrians as they raced down the sidewalks. Effie walked quickly, her worn leather satchel heavy with schoolbooks, dark waves escaping the pins she'd carefully placed that morning.
"Hey, Callahan!"
She didn't slow down at Bucky's voice, though her lips twitched slightly. His footsteps quickened behind her, and then he was there, falling into step beside her with that easy grace that made her want to trip him sometimes.
"What do you want, Barnes?" She kept her eyes forward, navigating around a group of younger kids playing marbles.
"Can't a guy walk with a friend?"
"A guy can. You, on the other hand..."
He laughed, and despite herself, Effie smiled. "Alright, out with it. You've got that look."
"What look?"
"The one that means you're about to say something that'll make me want to dump more water on you."
Bucky winced, but his grin didn't fade. "About that dance on Friday-"
"No."
"You haven't even heard what I was gonna say!"
Effie stopped walking, turning to face him with one eyebrow raised. "Fine. What were you gonna say?"
He met her eyes, and something in his expression made her pause. It wasn't his usual cocky grin or practiced charm. It was almost... nervous?
"Go with me?" He shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to look casual and failing completely.
"Why?"
"Because..." He shifted his weight. "Because it'd be fun. Because you're the only girl I know who can keep up with me on the dance floor. Because-"
"Because all the other girls already said no?" she cut in, but there was more amusement than bite in her tone.
"Because I want to go with you, Effie."
She studied him for a moment, surprised by his honesty. "You're serious."
"Dead serious."
Effie crossed her arms, tilting her head as she looked at him. The afternoon sun caught the gold flecks in her green eyes, making them spark with her usual mischief.
"And what's in it for me, Barnes?"
"My charming company?" He tried his usual grin, but it softened when she just stared at him. "Okay, how about this - I'll owe you one. Anything you want."
"Anything?"
"Within reason," he added quickly, remembering the last time he'd made an open-ended promise to Effie Callahan. It had involved three cats, a broken window, and a very angry Mrs. Rossi.
Effie pretended to consider it, though her mind was already made up. Bucky Barnes might be a pain in the neck, but he was her pain in the neck. And he was right - they did dance well together.
"Fine," she said finally. "But I have conditions."
"Name 'em."
"One - you get me real flowers. Not something you grabbed from someone's window box."
"Done."
"Two - no showing off. I mean it, Barnes. I don't want to spend the whole night watching you try to prove something."
He held up his hands in surrender. "I'll be on my best behavior."
"And three," she stepped closer, poking him in the chest, "if you try any of that smooth talk you use on other girls, I'm dumping more than water on you this time."
Bucky's grin widened. "So that's a yes?"
"That's a 'don't make me regret this.'" But she was smiling now too. "Pick me up at seven?"
"Yes ma'am," he said, backing away with an exaggerated salute that made her roll her eyes.
"And Barnes?"
"Yeah?"
"I mean it about the flowers!"
His laughter followed her down the street, and Effie shook her head, still smiling. What was she getting herself into?
---
The Callahan kitchen was filled with the scent of potatoes and cabbage, and the familiar sounds of her siblings squabbling over a game. Margaret Callahan stood at the stove, stirring a pot while humming along to the radio's scratchy tune.
Effie lingered in the doorway, watching her mother work. "Ma?"
"Hmm?" Margaret didn't turn around, focused on dinner.
"I need to tell you something."
That got her attention. Margaret turned, wooden spoon in hand, eyeing her daughter carefully. "What kind of something?"
"There's a dance at school on Friday." Effie moved to help with the cooking, needing something to do with her hands. "Bucky Barnes asked me to go with him."
The spoon stopped mid-stir. "James Barnes? The Barnes boy from down the block?"
"That's the one."
Margaret set the spoon down, turning to face her daughter fully. "And what did you say?"
"I said yes." Effie lifted her chin, ready for an argument.
Her mother was quiet for a moment, studying her face. "What's he like at school?"
The question caught Effie off guard. She'd expected immediate resistance. "He's... smart. Good at math and science. Works weekends at the docks to help his family. And he's Steve Rogers' best friend."
"The Rogers boy? Sarah's son?"
"Yeah."
Margaret nodded slowly. "Sarah Rogers is a good woman. Raised her boy right."
"So...?"
"So just remember you're a Callahan," Margaret said finally. "And Callahan women don't take any nonsense from boys - even nice ones who work at the docks."
Effie grinned, relief flooding through her. "Trust me, Ma. Bucky Barnes knows better than to try any nonsense with me."
"Good." Margaret turned back to the stove, but Effie caught her small smile. "Now help me with these potatoes before your brothers eat the table."
The Barnes House - That Evening
Rebecca Barnes sat curled in the corner of their worn sofa, schoolwork spread across her lap, when Bucky burst through the front door with more energy than usual. She didn't even look up from her textbook.
"Let me guess - you finally worked up the nerve to ask Effie."
Bucky paused halfway through shrugging off his jacket. "How'd you-"
"Because you've been talking about it for weeks," she cut in, turning a page. "And that's the same dumb grin you had when she agreed to dance with you at Paradise Hall last year."
"I do not have a dumb grin," he protested, dropping onto the other end of the sofa.
Now Rebecca did look up, smirking. "You absolutely do. So? Did she say yes?"
"She did." He couldn't help the pride that crept into his voice.
"Really?" Rebecca set her book aside, genuinely surprised. "Effie actually agreed to go to a school dance with you? The same Effie who threw water on you last month?"
"Why does everyone keep bringing that up?"
"Because it was hilarious." Rebecca's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Did she set any conditions? She must have set conditions."
Bucky slumped further into the sofa. "I have to get her real flowers."
"As opposed to...?"
"The ones I usually-" He stopped at Rebecca's knowing look. "Never mind."
"And?"
"And no showing off." He rubbed the back of his neck. "And no smooth talk."
Rebecca burst out laughing. "She really does know you."
"Thanks for the support, Becks."
"Hey," she said, her tone softening slightly. "You know if you mess this up, I'm taking her side, right? I have to see her every day at school."
"I'm not gonna mess it up." There was something in his voice that made Rebecca pause.
She studied her brother for a moment. "You really like her, don't you?"
Bucky didn't answer right away, which was answer enough.
"Well," Rebecca said, picking up her book again, "at least you finally picked someone with sense. Even if she's clearly lost hers, agreeing to go with you."
Bucky threw a cushion at her head, but he was grinning. "Just don't tell Ma yet, okay? I want to figure out how I'm going to afford those flowers first."
"Your secret's safe with me." Rebecca's eyes gleamed. "For now."
Friday
Bucky adjusted his tie for the fourth time as he walked up the Callahan stoop, the small bouquet of daisies and baby's breath clutched in his hand. The newspapers scattered on nearby stoops carried headlines about the WPA and relief programs, but tonight wasn't about the hard times.
As he raised his hand to knock, he caught his reflection in the window – hair neatly combed, his best suit pressed smooth despite its worn edges. Steve had helped him pick out the flowers, insisting that daisies meant more than the fancy roses he couldn't afford anyway.
Two sharp raps on the door, and he stepped back, rolling his shoulders to settle himself. The door opened to reveal Tommy Callahan, all of nine years old, standing there like a miniature customs officer at the docks.
Tommy's sharp eyes swept over Bucky before he crossed his arms. "You're the one always getting into fights with Steve Rogers."
Bucky bit back a grin. "Someone's gotta look out for him. Your sister does the same for you, doesn't she?"
"She doesn't need to," Tommy declared, though his proud stance wavered slightly. "But I saw you two chase off those jerks who were picking on the Klein kid last week. That was okay, I guess."
"Tommy!" Mrs. Callahan's voice cut through the house. "For heaven's sake, let him in before the whole neighborhood starts gossiping!"
Tommy stepped aside with the dramatic suffering only a younger sibling could muster. The warmth of the Callahan home enveloped Bucky immediately – the familiar scent of fresh bread and Mrs. Callahan's lavender soap, the faint hum of a radio playing somewhere in the back. The worn carpet runner still had fresh patches where Mrs. Callahan had mended it, and a stack of mending waited on her sewing table by the window.
Mrs. Callahan emerged from the kitchen, wiping flour from her hands. Her sharp eyes took his measure, from his carefully polished shoes to his neatly combed hair. "James Barnes," she said, her tone carrying the weight of neighborhood gossip about his reputation as both a charmer and a troublemaker. "Heard you've been working down at the docks with my husband."
"Yes ma'am," Bucky replied, offering the flowers with his most charming smile. "Mr. Callahan's been showing me the ropes. Says I might have a future there if I keep at it."
Her eyebrow arched at that, but she took the flowers. "Daisies," she noted, a hint of approval softening her expression. "Working on the docks is honest work, James, but it's hard living. My husband comes home with aching bones every night."
Before Bucky could respond, Effie's voice floated down from upstairs: "Ma, is that him?"
Mrs. Callahan's attention shifted, and when Effie appeared at the top of the stairs, even her mother's stern expression wavered.
Effie wore a pale blue dress she'd clearly altered herself – Bucky recognized the careful stitching from watching her work at the lunch counter. Her dark hair was styled in neat waves, and though she tried to maintain her usual confident smirk, there was a moment of genuine shyness when their eyes met.
"Well," she said, descending the stairs with deliberate casualness, "looks like you can clean up decent after all, Barnes."
Bucky, for once, found himself without a quick response. The clever line he'd practiced disappeared, replaced by a simple, honest, "You look beautiful, Effie."
A faint blush colored her cheeks, but she recovered quickly. "Careful there, soldier. Keep talking sweet like that and Ma might actually start to like you."
"Euphemia," Mrs. Callahan warned, though there was a ghost of amusement in her voice.
Tommy made gagging noises from his new post by the radio, which earned him a sharp look from his mother. "Thomas Patrick Callahan, don't you have homework to finish?"
"But Ma-"
"Now."
As Tommy slouched away, Mrs. Callahan turned back to the young couple. Her expression grew serious. "The dance ends at ten, Euphemia. Not ten-thirty, not quarter past. Ten." She fixed Bucky with a pointed look. "And I expect you to remember that even when my husband's working nights, he's got plenty of friends keeping an eye out."
"Yes, ma'am," Bucky replied solemnly. "I'll have her home on time."
"See that you do." She paused, then added with careful casualness, "And James? That Steve Rogers – you look out for him, don't you?"
"Always have, Mrs. Callahan. Always will."
Her expression softened marginally. "Good boy, that one. Too smart for his own good sometimes, but good."
Effie seized the moment of approval, taking Bucky's arm. "We should go, Ma. Don't want to be late."
As they stepped out into the spring evening, the sound of music drifted from open windows, mixing with the distant clang of the shipyard and the rumble of the elevated train. Bucky glanced down at Effie, his usual confidence settling back into place now that they were away from her mother's sharp gaze.
"So," he said with a grin, "your ma's worried about Steve too, huh?"
Effie rolled her eyes, but her smile was genuine. "Everybody worries about Steve. Ma says he reminds her of my uncle Dennis – too much fight in too small a package."
"Speaking of fights," Bucky said, his tone growing more serious, "Steve mentioned something about trying to enlist when he turns eighteen."
Effie's step faltered slightly. "The army? But there's no war on."
"Try telling Steve that. Says he wants to be ready, just in case." Bucky shook his head, his expression fond but worried. "Figure I might have to sign up too, keep him from doing anything too stupid."
She looked up at him, the mischief in her green eyes dimming slightly. "And what about the docks? What about..." she trailed off, gesturing vaguely between them.
"Hey," he said softly, stopping to face her. "That's way down the line. Tonight's about dancing, remember?"
Her smile returned, though something thoughtful lingered in her eyes. "Well then, Barnes, you better make it count."