"Democracy has no convictions for which people

would be willing to stake their lives."

- Dr. Ernst Hanfstaengl

media:

"American Salute"

by Morton Gould

May 28, 1944; New York City, New York

"I flew all the way from the South Pacific for this, so it had better be good." Clint mused over his beer. The back room of the the McAvery Bar was dimly lit, casting long shadows across the timeworn whitewash and dingy tables. Steve had sought out this particular establishment for its privacy, hiding the room's three occupants in a shaded back room away from any prying eyes.

"I won't lie to you. What we're doing isn't legal. We'll be outside of the law on this one. No backup, no friends in high places. Just the three of us." Steve admitted. Tony frowned down at his sherry, and Clint scowled at Tony. Not exactly the atmosphere of collaboration he had anticipated.

"Bottoms up, then!" Tony gave Steve a wry smile and lifted his glass in a toast. The room was completely quiet, save the steady drip of the sink in the far corner. Steve's confident grin began to sag.

Silence reigned for another moment before Tony rounded on Clint so quickly his drink splashed on his sleeve. "You might as well spit it out, Barton. No sense to just sit there and brood."

"What? I'm all peaches and sunshine, thank you very much. It's not like your Nazi pals killed most my friends on the Reuben James, or that their allies are picking off the ones left. Why wouldn't I be in a good mood?" Clint growled, eyes flashing. Steve looked away, unwilling to intervene as Tony spluttered with anger.

"You think that's my fault? Are you that dim-witted –"

"Enough," Steve intoned, but Clint leaped to his feet before he could end the tirade.

"Maybe I am! Maybe I am so stupid to think that you could have told your buddies in Berlin our course! It wouldn't exactly be a departure from the trend, would it?" Tony's eyes blazed, but he held his tongue as Clint jabbed a finger down at him. "Haven't got much to say now, have you?"

"Clint, I think that's enough." Steve stood, and Clint took a step back. Tony shot him a glare of pure malice before turning his nose up.

Barton crossed his arms, glowering down at Tony as he spoke. "Go ahead and ask him, Steve. Ask him if he's still dealing with them anymore."

Turning to Tony, Steve took in a slow breath before speaking. "Tell him, Stark."

Tony paled, fixing another weak smile on his face. "Well, not so much anymore..."

"Anymore?" Clint thundered, and Steve gave him a sharp look.

Waving off the exclamation, Tony crossed his legs and sat back in his seat. "You want the truth, Rogers? I'll tell you the truth. The Russians were my prime candidate before they tried to do me in," he began, and Clint muttered something beneath his breath that sounded like I don't blame them, "so then they were out of the question. I've been working with the Germans for a bit now, but they just threatened me too! I'm out of the business now, for your information. And that's all there is." He angled his chin up at Steve and Clint as if daring them to challenge him.

"That's all there is, huh? You were working with the Krauts!" Clint gawked at Tony's serene expression with shock plastered across his features.

"Yes, and they were decent business partners. Your point?" Tony replied primly.

Steve forced his way between the two, extending a placating hand in both directions. "Okay, let's take a step back. Tony, you said you're not working with them anymore, right?"

"Correct. I left a bit of nasty business behind, I'll tell you that. But I'm clean now."

"I don't work with traitors. Count me out." Clint shouldered his way past Steve and started for the door, but he grabbed the sailor's arm and pulled him back.

"Just hear me out, Barton. Please? Just a few minutes." Steve pleaded, and Clint released a short sigh through his nose.

"Fine. But just for you, Steve." He sat heavily in a nearby chair, anger darkening his twisted expression.

Steve closed his eyes and collected himself for the briefest second, then turned back to the dim room. "To be frank, I need your help. Captain America is a joke. All I wanted to do was serve, and I know I'm not going to be able to if things continue like they are. I'm taking matters into my own hands."

"That's all well and good, but where do we come in?" Tony asked, and Steve nodded at him.

"I'm getting to that. One of my friends is an airman stationed in England with the RAF. He's informed me about the operations they're running with the C-47s and the stockpiling he's been seeing in southern England. His best bet is a cross-Channel invasion. And we're going to be part of it." It had taken weeks of prying and weaseling to get the barest scraps of information out of Bucky in their many exchanged letters, and Steve felt somewhat treasonous walking around with such private information.

Steve could tell this had piqued both Tony and Clint's interests – the former looked like he was halfway through the process of scheming up the invasion himself, and the latter's eyes lit up with a wild sort of excitement. "From what Bucky's told me, I know where we can find a plane to give us a ride to the coast. That's about it for now. It's not the most fleshed-out plan, I know, but I figured we could work things out as we go along."

Clint whistled, long and low. "That's a helluva plan, Captain. I like it. But where do we come in?"

"Tony, you're the best mechanic in the business. You can bet we're going to be up against the greatest machines in the war, and we're going to have to drive some of them, too. I need you around to keep things running smoothly."

Stark preened for a moment, then dipped his head in acknowledgment. "A reckless mission into the heart of Europe, packed with certain danger? I'm in. Anything to get out of here."

"Clint, I've known you since the beginning of my journey. You're a solid man and a good soldier, and I need you around to watch our backs and keep us out of too much trouble."

Clint reached forward and pumped Steve's hand. "It would be an honor." His gaze drew back to Tony for a moment, unsure, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "You sure about keeping him around?"

"I'm sure," Steve nodded. Clint shrugged and raised his beer in a mock toast, downing the drink in a single gulp.

"So where's the rest of the plan? I'm not too keen on leaping into Europe with a blindfold on, if you understand what I'm saying." Tony mused.

Eyes flashing to the closed doors of the room, Steve dropped his voice and moved in closer to the two men before him. "Once we've made it to our destination -"

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Tony held up a hand, "You don't even know where we're going to land?"

Steve flushed slightly, wishing he had more concrete information to provide. "Calais or Normandy. That's all I can confirm right now."

"You're lucky my common sense isn't getting the better of me right now. Keep going," Clint grinned.

Reaching into his back pocket, Steve unfolded a world map he had brought from the nearby corner drugstore. Its folded creases stretched to reveal foreign countries and hostile waters, crisscrossed by faint submarines and airship routes and checkered neatly from row to row. "We get a ride to England, I know the base. Buck will have our ride waiting for us. Then it's just a hop, skip and a jump into Germany."

"You make it sound so easy," Clint leaned over his shoulder, peering at the countries with narrowed eyes. "But Tony and I aren't in the Army. We don't have any unit to report to."

Steve shook his head, one finger tapping against the jagged outline of the French coastline. "No units this time. We'll be freelance soldiers."

"I'm all for sudden death and danger, but this is a little too hands-off for my liking. We have no plan whatsoever? No objective? No exit strategy?" Tony's brow furrowed as he surveyed the map with a sour look on his face. He had every right to - half of the countries in view probably wanted him dead for some reason or another.

Palms up, Steve offered him a sympathetic shrug. "We leave when the fighting's done."

"Then we'll be there forever, Rogers."

"I don't care. I'm in." Clint leaned back on his heels, a familiar fire leaping back into his eyes. "I'm going to get into so much trouble for this."

"Don't worry about your superiors. I'll handle them," Steve waved his hand, and Clint whistled again.

"Friends with connections, I like it."

Steve turned to Tony, whose eyes were still locked on the map. He wondered if he was already drawing out plans of attack and strategy on the unmarked surface, unwilling to relinquish order and control. "What about you, Tony? Can I count you in on this?"

"Ah, damn this all to hell," Tony shook his head, eyes squeezed tightly shut. "I'm going to hate myself for this, but I'm in."

Grinning broadly, Steve settled back in his chair. For the first time in years he felt the same enthusiasm he had experienced before every enlistment opportunity, the call of battle, the yearning for purpose. He was so close he could taste it. Eyes alight and heart pounding, Steve traced the faded blue of the map's British Channel with his index finger.

Soon, he reassured himself as he looked up at his small squad, all illuminated by the same burning motivation. I'll be there soon.

(Can't wait to get into the action! Thanks as always for reading!)