Chapter 3: Putting on a Show

Captain Rogers and Captain Schmidt become two sides of the same coin, spinning a victory for the Allies regardless of who lands face up on a particular day. Every time Captain America carries the battle it puts them one step closer to Zola and the cube; every time he narrowly "escapes" the Red Skull (Erik rolls his eyes every time he sees the moniker in the papers) it buys them a little bit more time to keep the show rolling—and a show it is, since inevitably the two of them must have believable public skirmishes. Rogers, with his so-called theatre experience and natural charisma, may even be slightly better at it, Eric thinks. They dance across Europe, stepping from Hydra factory to armory cache to prison camp as quickly as they can without spooking Zola into taking off with the cube or blowing Eric's cover. The Allies are slowly but surely seizing all of the assets Zola needs to construct his weapons.

Of course, things don't go as smoothly as they look on the surface. Everything has to be choreographed ahead of time with Phillips and the rest of HQ, from details like how long Captain America needs to "recover" after a loss to the Red Skull to more thorny issues like deciding what parts of Erik's intelligence they can act on and what parts they have to ignore to keep his cover believable. That's usually where arguments start.

Rogers may be the perfect soldier, and a hero to boot, but he's a terrible, terrible spy. No mater how many times Col. Phillips, Erik and even Carter explain to him that the causalities they are forced to allow for the sake of preserving their most reliable source of intelligence are far less than the casualties would be without that intelligence, Rogers refuses to accept the compromise and move on. In every single strategy session he fights to have just one more win, spare one more battalion. Erik would attribute it to some absurd streak of competitiveness if it were anyone other than stupid, selfless, perfect Steve Rogers. No, Rogers just wants to save everyone, and in his naivety and security as a true-blue superhero, he thinks he can. It gives Erik a headache.

"You can't just play God like this, choosing who gets to live and who gets to die!"

"Rogers, if I were God, I'd send a flood and be done with it all. But since neither of us invincible nor omnipotent this is how it has to be."

(There is also the small problem of Rogers' unshakable loyalty, faith and optimism clashing with Erik's fatalistic, irreverent cynicism. Needless to say, the two rub each other the wrong way more often than not.)

It would be easier for Erik if he were able to truly dislike Rogers; Erik could roll his eyes and internally write him off like he does the sneering denouncements in the papers and people like the medics who look anywhere but at his monstrous face even as they treat him. Count on Erskine to find someone impossible to hate for the gift of perfection… It's not that Erik is jealous—whenever his thoughts wander to what could have been if he'd gotten the perfected version of the serum, Erik reminds himself that he'd still be a cynical bastard and leaves the idea to moulder alone—it's just that life would be easier if there weren't so much to be jealous of.

Hydra has just lost yet another weapons factory to Captain America and the Howling Commandos; Zola's getting jumpy and HQ decides that the Red Skull needs to give Captain America a very public smack-down to lull him back to complacency. So Rogers and Erik oblige with a small scale battle a stone's throw away from a contested city on the front lines. The Red Skull ambushes Captain America and the Howling Commandos with a squad of Hydra troops right by the river. The Commandos take on the Hydra soldiers while Rogers and Erik stage a very impressive (if a bit muddy) fight on the water's edge. If there are any reporters worth a cent in the whole city, they'll catch the whole thing from a safe distance.

The thing about war, though, is that things almost never go according to plan.

Erik is already off his game when the fight starts; he's stressed from tiptoeing around Zola and the side-effects from the serum have been acting up more often lately. It only takes one lucky shot from Rogers's shield to send Erik staggering to his knees, head spinning. Erik tries to get up, to focus, but there are shooting pains in his bones and now he's somehow let go of his gun and he's already trying to come up with an explanation to placate Zola for the fiasco this is going to turn into and this just serves to make him even dizzier…

"Schmidt, Schmidt. You're supposed to be clobbering me, remember? Schmidt! Are you alright?"

There's a supporting pressure around Erik's shoulders and Erik hopes Rogers is taking care to how this looks.

"Schmidt!"

"Serum," Erik finally chokes out.

There's a pause, then Rogers says, "I guess we're going for a swim," and pulls them both into the water and lets the current sweep them away.

By the time Erik's world has stopped rolling around enough for him to pull his own weight, Rogers has dragged him several miles downriver. They peel themselves up onto the bank and Erik alternates between shaking the water out of his coat and rubbing the tension out of his neck, while Rogers digs out his thankfully-still-working comm (God bless Howard Stark).

"We have to figure out what to tell—" Erik begins, voice a bit hoarse.

"Shhh! You!" Rogers interrupts sharply. "Stop thinking about strategy for one minute and relax before you pass out or something. Just—just sit down and breathe, okay? I got this."

Too tired to argue, Erik does as he's told. He listens quietly as Rogers hails Barnes on the comm. "…we're both fine, Buck. Mop up the rest of Hydra and then make a big deal of looking for me, okay? You and, say, Falsworth, can swear to God and any reporters that you saw Schmidt clean my clock and dump me in the river before strutting off. And you're all very cut up about it. I left my shield on the bank, so you can grab it. I'll meet you at Fallback B after dark. I'll explain to Phillips when I get back…"

Rogers, Erik thinks, is missing out on an excellent career as a politician. He knows exactly how to spin something grand out of nothing.

All too soon Rogers had wrapped it up with Barnes and is hunkering down next to Erik on a dry patch of grass further up the bank. "So…"

Erik resists the childish urge to growl. Instead he looks out over the water with tired eyes. "If I say it's just combat fatigue will you let it go?"

"Nope," Rogers says, popping the p and reminding Erik that this kid is only 20 years old. "You said it was the serum anyway."

Erik sighs. He's mostly fine now, save for a thundering headache. "Not much to it, Rogers. You already know the serum wasn't ready when Erskine gave it to me. I've got a lot more unpleasant symptoms than you do. Or did you think my charming complexion was all?"

Rogers shrugs. His posture is the complete opposite of Erik's: he's leaning back on his elbows, body alert but open, and he looks at Erik when he speaks. Erik is curled into a guarded hunch, gaze raking everything except his companion. Rogers says: "Not really, but Phillips kinda gave the impression anything serious had worn off a while back."

"That's because as far as he's concerned it has," Erik says sternly. "It only comes back when things get too… intense." Erik's hand ghosts up to his left shoulder, at the crook of his neck, where Rogers's shield had struck him. "And I think you hit me in a bad spot, jarred a nerve."

"Sorry," Rogers apologizes instantly.

Erik shrugs. "You've got nothing to be sorry for. You didn't just completely fuck up a mission."

"Hey, no harm done. I can pretend to be drowned for a few days until Zola gets the latest chip off his shoulder and I'll make a miraculous recovery in time for the next target you've got lined up for us. In the meantime, you should relax, you hear?"

Erik throws Rogers a doubting look. "Relax, in the middle of a war?"

"You cant be strategizing all the time you know? You've got to take a step back and remind yourself what you're fighting for."

Erik blinks. The statement sounds like something too old to be coming out of the mouth of someone who still likes to pop their p's, but it also somehow sounds very much like Rogers. And very true. "Wise words, kid. But I don't see you applying to
Phillips for leave to go back to New York City and relax."

"That's different. I've got Bucky and Peggy and the guys, but you, you're—" Rogers stops abruptly, biting his lip as if to bite back the insensitivity.

It doesn't take a genius to fill in the missing word.

Neither of them catch each other's eye for a moment, before Erik rescues the situation with the first banality that comes to mind. "You know, I've never actually been to the States. Sometimes I think I'd like to go, see what all the ruckus is about. Too bad I'd stand out too much."

Roger's reply is a bright-eyed apple pie smile. "You should! There's so much to visit: I was on tour constantly for half a year and I didn't see the half of what America has to offer," he says enthusiastically. "Definitely do New York first though," Rogers adds, tone softening fondly over the syllables of his hometown. It makes him seem a look younger. "And believe me, there are at least a few neighborhoods in Brooklyn where I can assure you no one will look at you twice."

As Rogers regales Erik with anecdotes of Brooklyn's not-so-secret queer joints, waterfront weirdos in Long Island, and adventures into Harlem, Erik thinks to himself that Steve Rogers is much less annoying than Captain America, so much so that he can kind of see why Carter is falling in love with him.

Erik Schmidt is starting to believe that they're going to win the war; that thoughts about leaving behind Europe, choked with memories and battlefields, to explore the States aren't just idle fantasies; that there's something to look forward to.

The thing about war, though, is that things never go according to plan.