The Friday after a bombing mission the 100th went out for drinks in London. It being 1943, it was quite nice really, but you got drunk. And I mean drunk. So when you woke up the next morning in a hotel room, there was that all familiar hangover.. but something unfamiliar.

You were laying on someone's chest. That someone being one of your closest friends and the pilot of the plane you flew in. Major John, Aka Bucky, Egan.

"Morning.." He muttered, his hand resting on your hip as he laid down.