𝐔𝐒𝐎 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋𝐒 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃.

That was Steve's thought as he ran a brush through one of the girls' hair, blushing madly as the talk flitted around him, letting him in on details no man had ever been able to obtain, and for good reason.

After every performance, the USO performers would retreat to the dressing room where, while removing makeup and readying for the night ahead—whether it be a late or an early one—chirped on about what adorable little child had spoken to them, or what brash man had tried to pull some moves, or practically anything they could. It was a whirlwind of discussion that Steve, who was a regular during these sessions, listened to quietly, opting to just stow away all information for a later date.

Who knew when the recipe Bernice's mother had sent with her was going to come in handy, maybe it would aid the war effort down the road.

"It was really disappointing, I mean, for all his strutting, there wasn't much there," one of the girls said into her mirror, causing the others to erupt into shrieks of delight, throwing their heads back and howling.

Despite his ears being much better than they used to, resulting in many a painful experience, Steve was glad that the girls were finding some light in the while situation—one would think that the war was over with the way they were hollering.

He felt bad for Bucky; if most women were like these, his dates must have had a lot to laugh about considering they never came back for another; save for Charlotte, of course, but he hadn't met her much.

"Any plans tonight, Steve?" one of the dancers asked, leaning over to smile kindly at him.

He blushed and shook his head. "No, same as always." He pulled away from the shiny blonde hair, letting another girl take her place, his hands moving up into her red locks.

"We need to find you someone fun," the red head—Jeanine—said, the others piping in their agreement, "Nothing major, Steve, just a dancing partner, at least."

Steve laughed nervously, trying to make himself as small as he used to be. "Dancing? N-no, I'm not—I don't really know—"

"Well, we can teach you," another one piped up, running a hand through her jet black hair, pulling out bobby pins and dropping them into a bowl, "It's easy once you get started. You just," she stood up, moving her arms and hips in a swaying motion, "Move to the music."

"There ain't no music, sit down!" one of the others called, throwing a rag at her head.

Steve continued to brush Jeanine's hair, more comfortable just listening to the conversation pan out. Now that they moved onto less intimate topics, it was nice to listen to them talk. They were all kind enough, but he knew never to mess with any of them for fear of the consequences lest he do something wrong.

Women were confusing.

Girls, really, though none of them were over the age of nineteen. All of them young and free spirited, so ready for life, yet the war. The war didn't stop them much, though, they seemed to find the joy in life despite it.

At least, some of them did. Steve pursed his lips as he thought of the times that one of the dancers would break down crying once she got off stage because she caught wind that her brother, cousin, father, or lover was missing in action or dead. It was a painful thing to see, the way a small piece of paper could drain the light from such a young woman's eyes, almost permanently.

"Steve, you're holding on a bit tight there," Jeanine said, teasing behind her words. He blushed madly, letting go of her soft locks entirely, covering his face with one hand.

The girls all cooed and made comments about how innocent and darling he was, only causing him more embarrassment. Their opinions of him had changed drastically since they had first started, despite them only having been together for a few weeks, the time even shorter if they were only counting the tour and not the rehearsals.

Steve couldn't dance to save his life, but he did have to be a show pony. So the girls worked with him as best they could, some flirting, others cold and snippy, the rest unwilling to talk to him. Over time, as it became clear he was in no way a threat or much of a nuisance, they invited him to join their little sessions in the dressing room and the rest was history.

Some girls had invited him to go dancing and, not understanding, Steve would always politely turn them down, saying he wasn't good at dancing and wouldn't want to ruin their night. The girls finally decided that he wasn't interested and the flirting ceased, which he was grateful for, albeit realizing too late.

His eyes flitted about the room as he looked at all the girls whom he dared to call his friends, wondering how he had found himself in such a situation. He tried not to linger for too long, lest they get the wrong impression, when in reality all he wanted was to find the hope that they had.

This was their dream. He didn't understand it, how parading themselves around for the enjoyment of others was in any way a source of joy, but it was. He wanted to find it, but he wouldn't find it with them. He wanted to go out, actually make a difference. Here, he was nothing more than a sham.

"What's wrong, Stevie?" Bernice, a shy thing who wore glasses when not onstage, asked, placing a hand on his arm.

He turned to look at her, forcing a small smile onto his lips. "Nothing, everything's fine."

"He's just upset because he's not fighting out in the war like everyone else," another one of the girls said, wiping the lipstick off her mouth.

"I'm making a difference," he argued, trying hard to convince himself as much as her, "We're getting the spirit into the common people, we're letting everyone know that they can make a difference to help.

"Alright, honey, save the speech for the stage," she turned to give him a smile before changing the conversation, leaving him to think over what she said.

The door opened, causing all of them to turn. Standing at the door was one of the newer dancers who had yet to join them on their daily bull sessions. Steve didn't know her well—he wasn't sure if he even knew her name—but she seemed as nice as any of the others, he figured.

She smiled brightly, brandishing a small bag. "Can I leave this here?"

"Yeah, honey, why not," one of the girls said, motioning for her to set the bag down wherever she wished.

She smiled and set it down before scurrying off, brunette hair trailing behind her as she slipped off and outside.

"She seems nice," Bernice said, and that was the final say on her for the rest of the time.

Steve listened as the talk went on, noticing that, while the topic bounced from anything and everything, all the girls purposely ignored mention of the war. Ever since the bombing at Pearl Harbor, the war was all anyone could ever talk about, the only topic worth mentioning.

With these girls, they had to sing with him every day about how Captain America was fighting the war, how the everyday person could aid the war effort through so many different ways. These girls needed to find something to cling onto to stay sane.

Singing cheerfully about a monster that killed the men of their family and so many others, no one could blame them trying to avoid the somber topic at all costs. Steve, who believed wholeheartedly in supporting the cause, didn't mention it himself; he wouldn't be so cruel as to deprive the girls of what freedom they had.

"Steve," a blonde dancer by the name of Evelyn said, after most had begun to retreat to their quarters to either sleep or go and get ready for a late night, "I'm going to get you a date if it's the last thing I do."

Steve smiled wryly, shaking his head. "Thanks for that, Evie, but I don't think that'll work."

"Why not?" she demanded, crossing her arms, "You must've gone on dates before this, there's no difference. A man in uniform, any girl would swoon, most of us already have."

He laughed, rising to his feet. "Believe it or not, I never got myself my own date, and the ones that were got for me never stuck around."

"Poor Stevie," Evelyn cooed, faux pouting, "Well, now that you're like this, you'll have no trouble at all. It'll be just like old times, except I'll be the one doing the asking."

"It sounds pathetic when you put it like that," he said, holding the door open for her as they walked out, the others having left a few moments before.

She reached up to pat his cheek as she passed, smiling. "It is pathetic, Steve. But some girl will love that about you, I just know it."

He smiled, feeling his face grow warm. Before the tour, he'd never had so many girls so focused on him, never so many girls smiling at him and treating him the way they treated all the good looking guys that used to beat him up back home. He didn't know how to act, how to treat them; he was very nervous.

He walked into his room, careful not to collapse on his bed, lest he break it. He had learned that the hard way the first time he tried on another bed. He thought back to his bed back home, not far away from where they were in New Jersey. He would have snapped that in two by just touching it.

He sighed as he stared at the ceiling, the room painfully quiet. Now that the sound of the girls' chatter was gone, all he could hear was the sound of the song. The song that, during the few short weeks they'd been together, had been ringing in his ears non-stop.

He closed his eyes, opening them again, wincing. He could see the faces of the people in the audience as they watched him, some delighted, others looking at him for what he was: a fraud. A fraud in a costume taking credit for the men who were risking their lives actually fighting for the cause.

Doing what he had wanted to do. But he had gotten what he wanted. Just not what he hoped for.

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄

( 12.29.18 )

I hope this was an alright start, it's a little different from what I'm used to. I'm really excited to write this, though, this is going to be a shorter book than I usually write.

So the tour was all over the nation and made it all the way to November of 1943 (that was when Steve went to go save Bucky in Italy) and by the end of it, they had done over 200 shows. This chapter is at the start of the tour.

This takes place in 1943 (as said by the wiki) so there's only two years left of the war, and Steve is eighteen years old (the comic and movie canon are different, so I just made it so he was eighteen. Besides, it would make sense that Steve would lie and say he was older, just as Peggy did, because this is Steve fucking Rogers we're talking about, and this just adds to his dynamic with Bucky who's so protective and it just works)

That's all I have to say so...thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed and stick around!