We Were Soldiers
82. Consequences
"How's the wine?" asked Francis.
"It's nice," said Peggy. A waiter was hovering near, just in case the answer was anything negative.
"And the steak? Is it well done enough?"
"Done to perfection," she agreed. It was half-eaten on her plate. She hadn't had much of an appetite, since yesterday.
Francis waved the waiter away, and leant forward over the table to speak without being overheard by the other diners. "Then why does this feel more like a funeral wake than a dinner between two friends?"
"Come on, my company's not that bad, is it?" It was, and she knew it. Even when she was trying to put him out of her mind, Steve Rogers was still interfering with her personal business.
"Not usually. But you look like a woman with the weight of the world on her shoulders."
"Just a lot on my mind."
"Anything I can help with?"
"I wish you could."
She picked up her fork and made a second attempt at the steak. It was rare—in the sense of not being common, thanks to the food rationing system—and a treat that she knew she probably wouldn't have the likes of again for quite some time. Francis must have twisted more than one or two arms to get seats for the Wishingwell Restaurant on such short notice, and she suspected those arms hadn't twisted cheaply.
The other couples dining existed within their own private bubbles. They all had that look about them. That gaze-into-the-eyes expression that she and Fred had once shared. But that had been a lifetime ago. She was no longer that mousy, timid codebreaker who'd forgotten about childhood adventures in favour of becoming a dutiful wife. Now, she held power and influence and had skills most women—most men—could only dream of. And for the first time since accepting the SOE's offer, she wasn't happy.
Francis cleared his throat. "So. Where will your training mission be taking you?"
"Coventry."
"Really?"
"Really."
"You do know that the city centre is still in ruins, don't you?"
Peggy smiled. "In fact, that's one of the reasons I chose it for the training site."
Francis finished his last bite of steak and put down his knife and fork. His brown eyes assessed her frankly. "You love your job, don't you?"
"How can you tell?"
"Well, that's the first time that you've smiled all evening." She opened her mouth to object, but he hurried on before she could get a word out. "Why do I get the feeling that you'd rather be anywhere else but here? I've been asking you out for years, and now that you finally accept, it feels like you're here under duress."
Peggy's heart sank a little further as disappointment with herself swelled. She should've been honest from the start. She never should have agreed to this dinner, certainly not in her present frame of mind. Anger had forced her into this, and though she was still angry, that anger was being doused by regret. If she was honest with herself, she'd only agreed to have dinner with Francis because she wanted to hurt Steve as much as he'd hurt her. But Steve had no idea she was even here, and the only person being hurt was Francis. Perhaps it was finally time to start telling the truth.
She took a deep breath. Stole a quick swig of the very nice wine. Looked him straight in the eyes, no matter how hard it was. "The truth is, I came here to prove something to myself."
"If you came to prove that you're not madly in love with me, I think that's something we've both known for a long time," he said. "So, what is it you wanted to prove?"
"I've been working with someone, recently." No point mentioning names. "And, for a while, I thought there might be something there. A chance at something between us. But now, I'm not so sure. So, I came here to prove to myself that I can still have a good time without him."
"And instead you've spent the whole evening being miserable," he finished.
"I wouldn't exactly say I've been miserable," she objected.
"Miserable is what I'd call anybody who doesn't eat a steak during rationing." He pushed his plate away, and sighed deeply. "Look, Peg, I'm not one of those people who believes in the one. Far as I'm concerned, it's a big sea and there are plenty of fish in it. So maybe you can still have a good time without Mr. Miserable—but if that's true, then I don't think that good time is going to be with me. Besides, I've known you long enough to know that if you're this unhappy about something, then it means a lot to you. I don't recall you being this miserable when you broke things off with Fred, and he was the guy you were willing to spend the rest of your life with. That tells me that whoever this guy is, he must be something really special."
Peggy gave a reluctant nod. "He is that, regardless of whatever else he may be."
"I thought so." The smile that he offered was full of warmth, but his eyes were tinged with sadness. "I'm going to stop asking you out to dinner. Not that I don't enjoy chasing the unattainable, but I'm not going to be that guy who keeps loitering around a lady who has no interest in him, just on the off chance she might change her mind. I'll always be your friend, Peg. So, if you need to talk, about work, or Mr. Miserable, or anything else, you know where to find a sympathetic ear."
Reaching out, she rested her hand atop his, and wished things could have been different. Francis was a good man, and he deserved to find happiness.
"I'm sorry for using you in my attempts to make myself feel better," she said. "I should've been more considerate of your feelings."
"We all make mistakes. That's what makes us human. Now, why don't I settle the bill and drop you back at your hotel? Something tells me you've got an early start for your journey tomorrow."
Peggy allowed herself a deep breath of relief when Francis went off to the cloak room to fetch their coats. On the bright side, she still had a good friend she could count on in a pinch. Unfortunately, she still had no idea what she was going to do about Steve Rogers.
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The British public transport systems were always over-crowded, and the train to Coventry was no exception. Most of the team had managed to find seats in the same carriage, but they were spaced out around it. Falsworth and Morita weren't doing too bad for themselves; they had table seats opposite a couple of Home Guard soldiers, and were making the most of their time with a game of poker. Dernier, the only man without a uniform, fit in with the civilians in more ways than one. At his window seat midway down the length of the carriage, he'd lowered the brim of his hat over his eyes and was snoring gently.
Steve had a seat behind a mother and her two little kids. The boy, no older than five or six, kept opening the window above him, which—because their carriage was directly behind the steam engine—pulled a back-draught of smoke and soot in through the open window, blowing it right into Steve's face. Each time, the mother upbraided the child and shut the window, but as soon her focus was her young daughter, the boy opened the window again. Steve was quickly acquiring a raccoon-like mask of black.
Dugan was only slightly better off. He'd drawn the short straw, and was sitting next to a guy who sneezed and coughed like he had the plague, and opposite an elderly couple who kept up a constant stream of conversation about their extended family, and how this war was different than the last war, and how a diet of 'tinned' prunes could help keep one regular. Every time Bucky looked over his shoulder, he caught sight of the expression on Dugan's face, and he couldn't help but smirk.
The man sitting in the window seat beside Bucky was deeply ensconced in his newspaper, which suited Bucky just fine. In his hands he clasped the letter he'd received yesterday, and each time he read it, it cut him a little more inside. It was from his parents, penned in his Mom's hand, describing how they'd believed him dead, and gone through the heartbreaking process of carrying out a funeral service for their beloved son. It went on to describe their joy at receiving news he was alive and well… and then came an impassioned plea, begging him to come home. They didn't understand why he wasn't returning to the States for R&R. They just wanted to see him again. They wanted him home.
He'd already penned a response and delivered it to the SSR's postal point, but he couldn't tell them the truth. He couldn't tell them how ashamed he was of what he'd gone through, and what he'd been willing to do to stop the torture. How could he explain that he couldn't go home until he'd atoned for everything he'd done and said and thought? Until he could look into a mirror and be happy with the man he saw looking back.
They wouldn't understand. They'd think he was crazy. So, he used his friend as an excuse. Told them that he couldn't let Steve keep fighting alone. That Steve needed him right now. He also promised them he'd come home. That they'd see him again. That he'd return after the war, and expect a slice of Mom's apple pie ready and waiting for him.
He hated himself for the lies and the promises he was afraid he couldn't keep. Hated himself for putting them through the heartache of his supposed death. But it was better to hate himself for the lies than to worry his family with the truth. Besides, Steve did need him. Who else was gonna keep pulling bullies off the punk?
And speaking of the devil…
"Hey," said Steve, wiping his face with his sleeve as the train rocked to a stop at some place called Leighton Buzzard. He stood beside Bucky's seat and glanced down at the letter in his hands. "Letter from home?"
"Yeah. Mom and Dad's 'glad to hear you're not dead after all' letter. It's pretty grim. I can imagine Mom crying while writing it."
Steve nodded thoughtfully. "Buck, if you wanna go home—"
"Not happenin'. Not until I've finished the job I came here to do. Things got rough, for a while—" Rough like the Monticello in that storm that'd almost killed him "—but I signed up to keep my family safe, and that's what I'm gonna do. Besides, you're my family, too, and you're gonna need me to watch your back, just like old times."
"Okay. If you're sure."
"I'm sure." He nodded back towards the mom and her kids. "Did you decide the seat was more trouble that it was worth?"
"I can still taste soot. I think I swallowed a lungful of the stuff. Anyway, we're not far out from Coventry. British trains might be crowded, but at least the country's small, and the journeys short. Can you imagine crossing America like this?"
He couldn't imagine crossing America like anything. Other than his winter training at Camp McCoy in Wisconsin, he'd never been further away from home than Pennsylvania. His Grandma lived in Scranton, and he and his siblings had spent a couple of weeks there each year for summer break, when they'd been kids.
"We should do that, when we get back," he said. "Coast to coast, just the two of us. Maybe spend a week in California before coming home. I think I've seen more of Europe than I have my own country. New York always seemed big enough, in the past."
"Sure thing. A cross-country road trip sounds like fun; but only if you lay off the clam chowder. You know that stuff upsets your stomach, and I'm not travelling across America with you being gassy."
"But it's soooo delicious." He sighed. "Fine, you big baby. I promise not to eat any clam chowder."
"Good." Steve's eyes darted around the carriage, and Bucky got an inkling of the real reason his friend had taken to standing. "Have you seen Agent Carter anywhere?"
"I think she's in the carriage behind ours," he said. "Why? You gonna try for an apology?"
"Begging and grovelling," Steve confirmed with a nod.
"Good luck. I hope shredding your dignity works."
"Thanks, you're a real pal."
Steve made his way back along the carriage with utterings of 'excuse me' and 'pardon me, ma'am' as he squeezed his way down the aisle. Bucky gave his letter one final glance-over, then tucked it into his pocket and settled back in his seat. Hard as it was to think of his family worrying over his safety, they would just have to wait. At least it wasn't forever. One day, when the war was over, he'd go home, and see them again. Knowing that his family were waiting for him gave him something to look forward to.
When Steve couldn't find Peggy in the next carriage, or the one behind that, he began to wonder whether she'd hopped off unnoticed at one of the previous stops. Or maybe she'd been kidnapped. Who knew how far HYDRA's grasp extended?
His heart began to pound as he moved between the carriages, scanning the faces of all the passengers for a familiar pale complexion. It wasn't until the final carriage that he found her, and when he did, he very nearly tripped over her. She was talking with one of the conductors in the space between the carriages, and he had to slam on the brakes to stop himself running into them both.
"Sorry," he said, his heart returning to a more regular rhythm now that he was sure she hadn't been captured by Nazis. "Agent Carter, could I have a moment of your time? It's about… uh… the mission."
The conductor excused himself, and Peggy turned to face him, her arms folding across the chest of her military jacket. Her knowing gaze pinned him in place like a butterfly in a display case. He'd seen them in the museum, in London, and now he understood how those butterflies felt.
"You're not a very good liar, Captain Rogers," she said.
"I know. I'm a terrible poker player, too." She didn't laugh at his semi-joke. Didn't even smile. Clearly, he had a lot of damage control to do. "I just wanted to tell you how truly sorry I am. When Private… err… Private…"
"Lorraine," she said coldly.
"Yes, when she kissed me, it completely floored me. I had no idea what to do or how to stop it. In hindsight, I should'a pulled away the moment her lips touched mine, but turning down women isn't exactly something I have experience with, and it took a little too long for my brain to kick in."
"And your inexperience is an excuse for your behaviour?"
"Not an excuse, no. Just… a mitigating factor," he offered lamely. "I was caught by surprise and reacted too slow. Much, much too slow."
"Captain, if you're that easily surprised by one transparent, unarmed woman, it doesn't bode well for your upcoming missions."
Before he could respond, a family of four walked through from one carriage into the next, and Steve pushed his body back to make room for them to pass. Peggy's words cut deep, because he knew she was right. He should've seen it coming. He should've stood up for himself. Grown a little back-bone. He was pretty sure that if some guy tried to kiss Peggy without her permission, she would'a punched him for this trouble. Steve couldn't punch a dame no matter the circumstances, but he could'a given a firm 'no.'
"You're right," he said, once the family were out of earshot. "And it won't happen again. Private Lorraine, she didn't care anything about me. She probably doesn't even know my real name, and she certainly didn't care about hearing what I had to say. I don't want you to think that I'm just another soldier, ready and willing to chase the first skirt that comes along. Nothing could be further from the truth."
"You don't owe me an explanation, Captain." There was zero indication that he was making any impression at all. Maybe Stark had been right. Maybe he should've brought at least one bunch of flowers to back him up.
"You're wrong about that. I owe you everything, and not just because you helped me and encouraged me throughout Project Rebirth. You were also the first woman to show any interest in getting to know me—not Captain America, just plain ol' Steve Rogers. And you did it even before Dr. Erskine made me into a whole new man. I still want to go dancing. I want you to teach me the steps. I want to laugh over how clumsy I am, and try my hardest not to step on your toes. I want to do those things with you, and no-one else. Because thinking of doing those things with you, it makes my heart skip a whole lotta beats. I can't imagine doing those things with anybody else."
Peggy's lips pursed, and a little of the annoyance from melted from her face.
"Are you saying you didn't enjoy your rather heated kiss?"
"Not even in the slightest. It was like kissing my grandma." He took a step forward and tried for his most genuine expression. "Just give me a chance to prove myself. I'll do anything you ask."
A half-smile tugged at one corner of her lips, and she stepped towards him. "Anything?"
He swallowed. "Yes."
She took another step. "If I asked you to commit murder, would you?"
"What? No, of course not. What kinda question is that?"
"Well, you said you'd do anything. You should be careful about unqualified statements like that, and you should never sacrifice your own morals, not even for something as grand as love. Any trained monkey can jump through hoops to prove itself. If you really are filled with remorse, then prove it by keeping your word." She prodded his chest with her finger, with enough force that old-Steve would've been sporting bruises. "No more 'inexperienced' mistakes. No more women who 'surprise' you. And no more excuses. If you make mistakes, own them. Don't try to wriggle out of them."
"I promise," he said. "No more wriggling. What happened with Private Lorraine was entirely my fault." Well, maybe about ten percent Private Lorraine's fault, but he didn't think Peggy would accept that. "You won't have any more cause to doubt my sincerity."
"Good." She gave a curt nod, and he guessed that, for now at least, he was forgiven. "Now, you should go and round up your team. Ours is the stop after the next, and I don't want to have to wait while your men dally around with their belongings."
"Yes ma'am," he said, issuing a regulation salute.
He hurried back to the main carriage, woke Dernier, and told the rest to gather their gear. Bucky made a beeline for him as he was grabbing his duffel from the overhead, and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
"So? How'd it go?"
Steve passed him his backpack, and tried to hide his happy grin. "I have a second, last and only chance to prove him not just another skirt-chasing soldier."
Bucky offered him a hearty shoulder-clap. "Glad you didn't strike out. And I resent that comment, by the way. You make the rest of us sound like we're girl-crazy nymphomaniacs. And worse, you make that sound like it's a bad thing!" A lady sitting nearby overheard the comment and gave Bucky a very dirty look, which he completely ignored. "But really, I'm happy she's given you another chance. Just make sure you don't screw this one up. If any dames start looking at you like they might want to plant one on the kisser, walk the other way. Or better yet, send them in my direction."
Steve couldn't help but laugh. It was good to have Bucky acting a little more like his old self again. And who knew, maybe if Steve really could send some dames his way, that might just be enough to remind him that there was more to life than shooting Nazis and drinking Scotch.
There was a familiar face waiting for Steve on the platform at Coventry station; one that he hadn't expected to see again.
"Hey, Mr. Rogers," said Freddie Lopresti. "Or, as I hear it now, Captain Rogers."
"Freddie? The heck are you doing out here?" he asked, shaking the hand the kid offered. Freddie was dressed in his usual smart trousers, blue shirt and brown bomber jacket, and, as always, a camera hung from a strap around his neck.
"Senator Brandt and the top brass have sent me out here to visually chronicle your fight against HYDRA." Freddie patted his camera for emphasis.
Dugan stepped forward, his face a roadmap of confusion. "Come again?"
"Freddie's a photographer," Steve explained. "He's going to take pictures of us."
"Ahh, why didn't ya say?" With a cheesy grin, Dugan straightened both lapels of his jacket, angled his head to the left and pushed his hat into a jaunty tilt. "You're going to want a lot of snaps of me, since I'm the best lookin' guy in the group, but remember to get my from my right side; it's my best."
"Actually, this is a video camera," Freddie explained. He held up the device for everyone to see. Thanks to his work in Hollywood, Steve knew a thing or two about video cameras, and this was about the smallest video camera he'd ever seen. He said as much to Freddie, who merely nodded in agreement. "Experimental technology. Very hush-hush. Part of my job is to field-test new equipment. See?" From his pocket, he pulled out a lanyard that had 'Official War Correspondent' printed on it. Underneath, in black marker, somebody had scrawled, 'and camera guinea-pig.'
"I'm not sure I like the idea of my every move being filmed," said Morita. He eyed up Freddie and his camera as if they might start shooting at any moment.
"And isn't it something of a security risk?" asked Falsworth. "I don't believe it's a wise idea to telegraph our plans, not even to Captain America's adoring public."
"Oh, this stuff is for top-level eyes only," said Freddie, his chest swelling with pride. "I'm talking Commander-in-Chief, General Marshall, Senator Brandt… and our allies, of course," he added, for the benefit of Falsworth and Dernier. "Freddie Lopresti, by the way, pleasure to meet you." He shook Falsworth's hand before the major could even blink, then aimed a cheeky grin at Dernier. "The camera loves your hat."
"Perhaps we can continue the introductions en route to the training camp," said Agent Carter. Like the men, she was kitted out with a backpack, sleeping roll and duffel bag; and she carried it all herself. Steve kicked himself for missing an opportunity to be a gentleman by offering to help her with her bags. She would've said no, of course, but it was the thought that counted.
"Hey, Agent Carter, can I give you a hand with those bags?" Freddie chirped.
Peggy smiled at him. "Thank you, Freddie, that's very kind of you." She passed over the duffel, and then gestured for the men to follow her. Steve stared after her until Bucky nudged his shoulder and gave him a very pointed 'get moving' glare. Jeez, just when he thought he'd got Peggy figured out, she always managed to surprise him!
A small bus was waiting for them outside the train station, a member of the Home Guard behind the wheel. Dugan and Jones loaded the bags into the luggage compartment built into the side of the bus, and they all climbed aboard to continue their introductions. Freddie got Steve caught up on what he'd been doing since they'd parted ways (a fat load of nothing in Sicily) and Steve reciprocated with the tale of how he'd saved three men from being crushed at Pirbright training camp.
The conversation stopped as Jones let out a whistle of surprise, and the rest of the team followed his gaze out the large window in the right side of the bus. The buildings lining the side of the road had been reduced to rubble. Here and there, one stood intact, but the majority were broken husks of stone, their steel bones rusted and twisted by concussive force. In the distance, the ruins of a cathedral stood watch over a city devastated by war.
"Welcome to Coventry," said Peggy.
"Looks like this place got hit pretty hard," Dugan remarked. His blue eyes scanned the debris, as if searching for signs of life.
"Hey, have you gotta do that right now?" Morita growled at Freddie. The kid's camera was rolling, capturing the faces of the men as they looked out at the devastation.
"Just pretend I'm not here."
"I could toss you out the window. Then I wouldn't have to pretend."
"Freddie," Peggy spoke up, "why don't you wait until we start the training exercises before testing the camera?"
"Fine, fine. But you can't stop the journalistic process forever." He switched the camera off and sat cradling it in his arms.
"The reason we have selected Coventry as your training grounds," Peggy explained, "is that it offers a good combination of urban, rural and industrial areas, and will also give those of you who haven't yet fought under such conditions a chance to train in a war-zone, the likes of which you will find in much of Europe. Men of the local Home Guard will stand in as proxies for your foes. Questions?"
"Yeah," said Dugan, pointing out the window to a pile of equipment unceremoniously dumped outside one of the few undamaged buildings. "What's all that?"
"That," said Peggy, "is your new home."
"You're kidding?"
She wasn't kidding. When they got off the bus, they found various poles and tarps and crates and tools, none of which included instruction manuals. Next to the pile, a silver Rolls Royce had been parked up, but Steve didn't think it was part of their supplies. On the bright side, at least it wasn't raining yet.
"We gotta live here?" Morita asked. He pointed his thumb at the intact building behind him. "What about that?"
"That is where I'll be staying for the duration of this training regime," Peggy said. "Along with—"
"Hey kids, glad you could join us for this little field trip." The voice of Howard Stark preceded him out of the building. He was dressed most fashionably in beige pants and a white shirt—like he was expecting to spend the afternoon playing polo, or something. "So, who've we got for this little shindig? Sergeant Moustache, Sergeant Snippy, Corporal Vaguely-Familiar," he said, gesturing at Dugan, Bucky and Jones in turn. Then he clicked his fingers and pointed at Falsworth, "British Guy," then Dernier, "Homeless Guy," and then Morita, "Guy-who-is-as-yet-without-nickname. And of course, Peggy," he added, sliding his arm around Peggy's shoulder with a wide grin. Peggy merely crossed her arms over her chest and rolled her eyes. "Not to mention Captain America and my fluffy camera guinea-pig. I'm sure we'll do great things together." He pulled out a pocket watch and shook his head. "We'll do great things later. Right now I have an appointment with a… ah… dental nurse. Yes. Let's go with that. For a check up on my… uh… fillings. Yes. I'll be back in a couple of hours, have fun assembling that mess."
And with that, he hopped into the car and sped off down the street. In her driest possible tone, Peggy said, "Ladies and Gentlemen: Howard Stark." Then, she clapped her hands, making everybody jump. "Well? Get cracking. You have a lunch to cook before we begin training."
"Cook lunch?" asked Gabe. His brown eyes had widened at the very suggestion.
"Surely you don't expect to take your personal cook out into the field," said Peggy. "For the most part, you'll make do with field rations, but on prolonged missions, it might be necessary to make something a little more nourishing."
"Not to worry, I'm a dab hand in the kitchen," said Falsworth.
"Ah!" A happy grin lit up Dernier's face, and he began patting down his pockets. "I have cheese!"
Morita raised his hand. "I'd like to suggest we ban Dernier from cooking."
"I make some mean scrambled eggs," Steve offered. "Bucky's mom taught me her own family recipe."
"Did she teach you her family recipe too, Princess?" Dugan asked Bucky.
"I was… uh… sick that day."
"Sick," scoffed Steve. "When his mom offered, he said, 'Why do I need to learn how to make scrambled eggs, when I'll always have you to make them for me?'" Mrs. Barnes had thought it a sweet sentiment, at the time. She'd probably expected him to go from college to married, and have a wife to make his scrambled eggs for him.
"Depending on what supplies we have, I could cook us up some gumbo," Jones offered.
"Perhaps you could make a start on your tents and then actually produce some food, instead of just standing around talking about it," suggested Peggy. "There are two tents and eight groundsheets, so you're four men to a tent, and I recommend you put the cooking stove—"
"Wait," said Steve. "Eight? I thought Freddie would be bunking with you and Stark, in the building." He was just a kid, after all, and a civilian at that. It was fine for a bunch of grizzled soldiers like Steve and his friends to go roughing it in the cold of a tent, but Freddie wasn't used to the rigours of military life. He'd just spent four weeks in Sicily, working on his tan!
"If Mr. Lopresti is to accompany you on missions to document your efforts, it only seems right he be part of the team right out of the gate," said Peggy.
What? Freddie? On missions? Behind the front lines? With only his camera? It was crazy.
"Agent Carter, could I speak with you in private for a moment?"
"Very well. The rest of you, make a start on those tents.
Peggy led him into the nearby building, which he quickly discovered was a post-office. The front counter was still intact, and looked like it had been used right up until the day the bombs fell. Behind the reception were dozens of pigeon-holes, and an old post cart on wheels was abandoned in the corner. Steve guessed the living area was above the post room. Peggy and Stark probably had real beds, with real eiderdown divans, and real hot water.
"I can't take Freddie into a war zone, Agent Carter. He's just a kid. A civilian! Nobody in their right mind takes an unarmed civilian behind enemy lines."
"Then I suggest you teach him how to shoot a sidearm."
"But—"
"This isn't my idea, Captain, and I have no authority to overrule it." She offered a small shrug, which was no comfort whatsoever. "The brass want your missions documented, and as far as I'm aware, it's a condition of your team's very existence. If it puts your mind at ease, Freddie won't be joining you on every mission. There will undoubtedly be some far too dangerous and high-risk."
"That really doesn't put my mind at ease."
"Perhaps not. But this is the way it has to be." Were all the British so ruthlessly no-nonsense? "I suggest you do everything you can to prepare Mr. Lopresti for the hardships of war, and focus on training your team to be the best they can be."
"I fully intend to do that," he agreed. "But I want to make an official note that I don't agree with this whole 'civilians on the front lines' deal."
"Colonel Phillips brought Howard with us behind enemy lines," she pointed out. "And isn't Mr. Dernier a civilian, too?"
He wisely decided to drop the subject. "I better go help the others with the tents," he said. "And the cooking." Maybe he could impress her with scrambled eggs. "Will you… err… be joining us for lunch?"
"No, I have things to do, and Howard has a stash of quick-cool meals I want to raid while he's gone. You have until Howard returns to get those tents assembled and eat lunch." She tapped her wristwatch and smiled. "Better get moving, Captain; time's ticking."
Author's note: Just a quick heads-up that I've set up a forum (the Constructive Critters Initiative... it's like the Avengers Initiative, only cooler and with more cookies) here on fanfic with the intention of helping writers develop their stories through the application of constructive feedback. If you're a writer looking for a bit of input on an aspect of your writing, or a reader/writer looking to help others, please feel free to stop by. Here is the broken link (because this website hates links), and you can also find us under General forums (or do a forum search, if that function works, I guess): forum/Constructive-Critters-Initiative/210219/
I'll also try to stick a link up in my profile so you can access it from there, if you like.