NOTE: This is an updated and edited version of a previously posted story with the same title.

The ropes of a pulley were banging against a flagpole when Peggy Carter emerged from intelligence headquarters. Hours in front of maps and reports so fresh the inky, stamped letters were smudged in places had robbed her of her ability to gauge time. It was that indiscernible time of night where one couldn't tell if the sun had just gone down or was about to rise again. Under normal circumstances, she'd never have let herself lose track of time. Peggy hadn't remembered to put her watch back on her wrist since taking it off for a self-appointed mission in which a reflection off of its components could have proven disastrous. There'd been much more pressing matters at hand.

Speaking of…

Cold and damp November clung to Peggy's hair as she set off into the sleepy camp, muddy footprints recording her progress. The base was as morose and tired as it had been when she'd arrived just days before. One might expect a rollicking good time, a celebration of the estimated 400 men returned to the Allies overnight; contraband should have been on full display, drinking, laughing, complete strangers hugging like brothers reunited.

Peggy had seen the type of thing before, but this camp was nothing like that. After the applause and shouting when the men had first arrived, led by Captain America, cartoon come to life, the men had become quite sombre again. They were tired, Peggy knew. The survivors of the prison camp were tired, and the men who had been here before were tired. From what Peggy had heard, nearly half the survivors of the labour camp were in bad shape and needed some form of medical attention. A good portion of those beds were already occupied by troops from the other units. The colonel had already issued an order to prepare room at a hospital in London and to move the survivors out of Italy at the earliest opportunity.

Meeting no one along the way to the aid station, Peggy shouldered her way inside. The floor was covered in bunks and improvised beds. Low lamps casted a glow over the sea of olive drab man-shaped lumps. It was as quiet in here as it was outside: a few murmurs among the patients who were still awake and rain beginning to plunk overhead. Peggy moved carefully between the rows with her head high. Red Cross nurses stretched their lips in an attempt at a smile if they caught her eye; otherwise they kept their heads down and went about their work.

Beyond a few makeshift walls, all the way in the back, Peggy was confident that she'd found what she sought. The reports said he'd been quarantined from the others, and there was no proper quarantine to be had out in the field beyond the canvas screens blocking the last bed from all the others.

Perhaps she'd been too eager or was properly exhausted, but Peggy didn't hear the voice speaking on the other side of the screen until she had already slipped between a gap and was inside the partition.

"Oh," she said, and the voice stopped.

A rather gruff-looking man was staring up at her from a wooden chair, his well-worn boots propped up on the end of a bunk. Another man was lying, apparently asleep, on his side on the bunk with his back to her, barely visible under a suspicious number of blankets. From the looks of it, the man in the chair was just as surprised to see her as she was to see him. It struck Peggy that he had the pinched look of someone who had lost a lot of weight in a short amount of time. There was a book in the seated man's hands, from which he had, presumably, just been reading aloud; Peggy could see several scribbled notes among the print.

She'd been expecting Steve.

"Pardon me," Peggy said. "I'll just—"

"Who's there?" mumbled the man on the bunk.

Both Peggy and the man with the book looked at the one on the bed.

"'S nothin', Sarge, just a—" the seated man took in her uniform with a gaze that was not unfriendly or indecent "—just a runner from HQ."

The man on the bed turned just enough so he could squint up at her with glassy eyes. Peggy was sure he couldn't actually see her, but he turned back over toward his companion and let out a forced exhale. "'M fine."

"I know," said the other.

"I didn't mean to intrude. I really should be go—" Peggy began.

"Lookin' for Rogers?" said the gruff one.

"Actually, I was."

He nodded. "Said he'd be back," the man checked a pocket watch open on a makeshift bedside table, "in T-minus fifteen minutes, if you wanna wait."

Deciding it would be a wasted opportunity to do otherwise, Peggy said, "I suppose I will wait."

The seated man stood and offered her his seat. He pulled a metal pail from under the head of the bunk, turned it upside down, and sat on the bottom. Holding out a hand toward her, he said, "Timothy Dugan. Friends call me Tim. And this big lump is Sergeant Barnes."

She shook his hand and took her seat. "Agent Carter."

"Agent, huh?"

She gave him a smile that was a touch brittle.

"Sorry about the runner bit," Dugan said. "I was going to say you were a nurse or one of them USO broads, but I thought he might try to stand up and be proper." His eyes were on his sleeping companion.

"I won't take it personally."

Dugan marked the page of the book he was holding (something from Agatha Christie) and set it on the side table beside a bowler hat. He said to her, "Agent of what, if you don't mind me asking? I'm a corporal in the 107th myself."

Deciding she didn't want to lie outright to him, Peggy said, "I think I do mind."

"Ah, one of them, huh?" Dugan didn't look amused. "You know that I spent God-knows-how-long in a factory building weapons that shoot blue light and vaporise people? A guy callin' himself Captain America — who I am convinced was an act of divine intervention — turned up and busted us out. Agent Carter, nothing surprises me anymore."

"What are you driving at?" she asked, amused and interested.

Dugan sat back on his bucket and shrugged. "I'm just saying I know both our guys and the bad guys have been getting up to no good."

"You think I'm up to no good?"

"You might be." Dugan shrugged as if it was no matter to him. "I'm no saint myself. Between you and me, Agent Carter, I didn't kill a man for the first time on a battlefield."

"Nor did I." Peggy could tell immediately that she'd scored a point on him then.

In a lower voice, Dugan said, "My sergeant was tied down and used as a human experiment. That doesn't sit right with me."

Peggy supposed that was meant to sound threatening.

He continued, "Not saying I know what all those Germans were doing in that factory, but I'm not that stupid to think our side doesn't have a little of the same thing."

"Corporal, Steve Rogers was never forced onto an exam table and his insides made into playthings."

"That what the reports say?"

"Yes. He'll tell you himself nothing happened to him that he did not agree to have done."

"Did he write the reports?"

She was beginning to quite like this Dugan. He could hold an interesting conversation. Unsure where this was going and rather interested, Peggy said, "No, he didn't."

"Reports tell you what happened, but they don't tell you the story," Dugan said as his eyes drifted toward Sergeant Barnes. "We ought to be able to choose who tells our stories."

There was a pause. Then Dugan spoke again, his eyes on Peggy and a grin cracking his face, "Like I said, I'm choosing to believe that Captain America was an act of divine intervention. So whatever secret division you work for, if they keep this—" he jerked his head toward Barnes "—from ever happening again, you're alright in my book."

"The lesser of two evils, am I?"

Whether she was or not, Peggy didn't find out. A new body appeared in the gap of the partition, and it was not Steve returned as Dugan had said. It was a regular Army officer.

Dugan jumped to his feet and saluted. "Lieutenant Springer—oh! Captain Springer!"

The man called Springer smiled genuinely at Dugan and returned salute. "Corporal! Can't say I ever expected to see you again, but I sure am pleased!" He looked as if he'd rather like to embrace Dugan but held himself back. The two shook hands.

"Congratulations on the promotion, sir," Dugan said.

"Thanks. But I think they actually ran out of bodies and had to start promoting everyone." Springer looked around the space. "How're you though? No wounds?"

"No, sir. I'm doing just fine."

Used to being overlooked by regular Army men, Peggy watched their conversation patiently. Steve should be returning soon, if Dugan was correct about the time.

Springer said, "And Barnes?" His eyes drifted to the sergeant who hadn't so much as snored at the new addition to his bedside party. "You wouldn't believe the rumours going around about him. If half of them are true…" The captain trailed off when he saw Dugan nodding.

"I'm not sure what all they're saying, sir, but they're not entirely wrong."

"Christ almighty. How's he been?" The sincerity in this newly minted captain caught Peggy's attention. It would make him popular among his subordinates but it could be a disaster if he allowed himself to become too attached.

Dugan shrugged. "He got through the worst of it on the march back here, sir. He's mostly just tired, like the rest of us. A few square meals and a lot of rest, and he'll be alright."

"Good, good," Springer said. Concern lingered on his face. "Keep an eye on him, will you, Corporal? If Barnes isn't getting something he needs, send a runner to me. I'll make something happen."

At last Steve arrived through the gap in the curtains. The makeshift quarantine was growing very crowded now. Peggy caught his eye and gave a wave of greeting. His acknowledgement was a look of mild confusion.

"Yes, sir, I'll do that," Dugan said.

"Right," said Springer. He looked on the edge of saying his thanks before he remembered an officer does not thank those ranked below him for following orders.

"Captain Springer," Dugan said while nodding to Steve, "this is the man you can thank for getting us out of there."

"Steve Rogers," Steve said to the captain. They shook hands.

"John Springer."

Dugan added, "Captain Springer is my and Jimmy's superior officer, led us since boot camp. After his promotion, looks like he's our new CO."

Steve and Springer did not exchange salutes, which Peggy knew spoke volumes. Springer did not think Steve was a proper member of the military. For Steve, anyone who was in command when his closest friend was taken prisoner was not worthy of a salute. A bit of a harsh judgement, she thought.

"I can't thank you enough for bringing those men back," Springer said earnestly. He nodded to Barnes. "And particularly for getting me my best sergeant back. We've had to promote Hodge in his absence. It's been a nightmare." This last bit was directed at Dugan, but Peggy and Steve exchanged a look of their own.

Breaking off his look with Peggy, Steve gave Springer an inscrutable smile. "I couldn't leave those men as prisoners after I knew they were there."

Again, Peggy thought that was harsh.

"Right," Springer said again. Cottoning on at last. "Corporal, I'll come back at a more decent hour, see how you two are holding up. Send a runner if you need to. You're sure you're doing alright after all this?"

"Yes, sir."

Captain and corporal exchanged another salute, Springer nodded in acknowledgement to Steve, said "ma'am" to Peggy, and disappeared.

"Good man, Springer," Dugan said to no one in particular. He resumed his heat on the upturned bucket. To Steve: "Oh, there's an Agent Carter here to see you."

"I noticed," Steve said.

Peggy stood. "Yes, I'd like to have a word with you. Perhaps we should take a step away though. I'd hate to disturb the soldiers' recovery."

For a moment Steve looked torn between consenting to the conversation and staying to watch his friend sleep.

"Aw, go on," Dugan said. "Jimmy ain't goin' nowhere."

"Everything been OK since I left?" Steve said.

"Hardly made a peep since things settled down. Look, he's not even sweating anymore!"

True: What Peggy could see of Barnes's skin was definitely not sweaty.

Lack of perspiration was apparently enough to convince Steve as well. He pulled an envelope from a pocket and handed it to Dugan. "If he wakes up again, try reading him this."

Dugan dropped the envelope on the side table and took up the book instead. "Yeah, maybe later. Me and Jimmy are a few pages away from finding out whodunit."

Steve rolled his eyes and signaled to Peggy that he was ready to go. She led the way back through rows and rows of the wounded. Neither of them spoke, not even after they'd exited the aid station and were walking along the muddy pathways. A dull glow was about the place; dawn was on its way.

"So what's up?" Steve asked as they walked toward the perimeter of camp.

"Perhaps I'm speaking too soon," Peggy said, "but I've gotten wind that Colonel Phillips has a mission for you."

"A mission."

"Yes, a real mission."

Steve said dubiously, "A mission more important than selling war bonds?"

The air was still heavy and plinking lazy rain down on them. Peggy thought it might be close to freezing by now. She took one more step and then turned to face Steve. "Perhaps. I'm telling you this because I thought you might like to choose the choir yourself this time around."

tbc