We Were Soldiers
92. Less Travelled
The pale concrete corridor offered no warmth or comfort. It chilled Bucky to the bone, because he knew what awaited him at the end of it. This would be like nothing he had faced before. No foe he had overcome. No challenge he had risen to. Today, he would face his worse nightmare, and he wasn't sure he could best it.
At the end of the corridor, at the solid wooden door, he stopped. He took a deep breath. Heath pounding and mouth dry, he counted to ten, and knocked. When a man's voice called, Come in, Sergeant Barnes, he steeled himself and reached for the handle. It, too, was cold. Just like everything else in this place.
He opened the door. Stepped into the office. The man behind the desk looked like any other doctor in the hospital. He wore a white coat. He wore spectacles. He carried a clipboard. And when he saw Bucky, he smiled. In a Midwestern, he said, "Welcome, Sergeant. Please take a seat."
Bucky had expected there to be several seats. For his choice in seats to have some deeper meaning. But there was only one seat, a wooden chair in front of the desk, and that was how Bucky passed his first test; he acquiesced.
"My name is Doctor Stiles," the man said. "And to put your mind at ease, I'm not here to judge you. Merely to evaluate your fitness so you can return to duty as soon as possible. Okay?"
"Yeah. Sure. Okay." He didn't believe a word of it, but there was no harm in pretending. No harm at all.
"Very good. Now, before we start, would you like something to drink? A glass of water? A cup of coffee?"
"No thanks, I only just finished breakfast."
Dr. Stiles wrinkled his nose and relaxed back into his chair. "Ah, hospital food. One of life's great challenges. Am I right?"
"I've had worse, sir. And less."
"I can't argue with that. What're they serving today?"
"Scrambled eggs on toast, and a choice of milk or coffee."
For the first time since Bucky entered the room, the doctor glanced at his clipboard. "And you ate a full breakfast?"
Bucky nodded. "And went back for seconds. I've got a special note on my hospital records that allows it if I want it."
"Good, good. So." He spread his arms, gesturing broadly. "How are you, Sergeant Barnes?"
It was such a broad, non-specific question, that Bucky floundered. Where did he start? How the hell did he answer? How was in in comparison to what? Perhaps it would be best to just describe how he felt now.
"Bored," he said. "Now that I'm outta the woods, I don't like sitting around doing nothing. I oughta be out there, doing my job."
"So, you're frustrated?"
"Yeah. I mean, I can understand why I gotta take it easy, and why I have to go through all these assessments, but that doesn't really make the waiting any easier."
"Previous doctors have noted that you've suffered in the past from lack of sleep, nightmares and mood swings, predominantly as a result of your capture and experiences in Krausberg. Are you still feeling the effects of that time?"
"Nightmares, a little," he admitted. "But they're not as bad as they used to be, and they generally don't keep me from going back to sleep, afterwards."
"Any anxiety about going back to your duties?"
"Nothing but excitement, sir."
"So, you're eager to kill Nazis?"
"I'm eager to win the war so that I can go home and be with my family." So that he could make up for his past mistakes. His past weakness. "If I've gotta kill Nazis to do that… well, it's just a part of the job. It's what I've been trained to do. But if you're asking if I take enjoyment from killing them… no. I'm not that kinda man." Besides, he was reserving his enjoyment for Zola. The evil HYDRA scientist was the only man Bucky would enjoy killing. Sinking his knife into the man's neck, or emptying a round of bullets into his chest. Ridding the world of his evil once and for all.
"Well okay then." The doctor opened his desk drawer, and Bucky tensed. But all he pulled out was a stamp and ink pad, which he used to stamp something onto the form on the clipboard. He slid it over to the desk, and gestured for Bucky to pick it up. The stamped words read 'fit for duty' in dark green ink.
"That's it?" he asked, as relief and disbelief battled for dominance. Surely it couldn't be that easy. Couldn't the doctor see how broken he was? How he'd been damaged right down to his core by what Zola had put him through? Wasn't there some magical psychology glue he could offer to help stick Bucky back together again? Or at the very least, some psychology duct-tape? "Aren't you doing to… y'know… ask me about my childhood?"
"Do you feel you need to talk about your childhood?" The doctor's face was a mask of bemusement. Bucky felt like an idiot for even suggesting it.
"Not really. It was pretty average."
"Then I don't think it's particularly relevant. I'd like you to stay until after lunch time, to give the medical doctors one last chance to check you over—and give you one last hospital meal—but then you're free to return to your commanding officer for orders. Take this form to the medical administrator on the ground floor, and they'll inform your CO of the outcome. I know this might've seemed like a short assessment compared to your physicals, but you appear to be of sound mind, and I have another twelve soldiers to see before the day's over."
Bucky nodded in understanding. The doctor didn't truly care about him. By the end of the day, he would've forgotten Bucky's name and face. All he cared was that his patient wasn't a danger to himself or those around him. He wasn't here to stick emotional bandages over Bucky's hurts, but to make sure soldiers were mentally fit enough to fight. That was all that mattered.
He stood and saluted. "Thank you, sir."
Out in the corridor, an invisible weight disappeared from his shoulders as he made his way to the stairwell. He'd been worrying these past days over nothing. And now, he had proof that he was fit for duty. Nobody would be able to doubt him, now that his form had been stamped.
After handing his form in to one of the nurses, he decided to let Steve know the good news. Telephone communications in London were patchy at the best of times, but a generation of children earned a little money by running errands around the city. For a farthing, they'd deliver a message to anywhere within half a mile, and for another farthing, would bring a response back. The young couriers were cheaper than their adult counterparts, and faster than anything except couriers on horses. Groups of them loitered wherever locals or servicemen might need messages sent to and from, and the hospital was no exception. Bucky found a few of the youngsters in their mis-sized hand-me-downs hanging around in the reception area, and one of them approached him before he could even open his mouth.
"Run an errand for ya, Sergeant?" the boy asked.
"Yes, I need you to deliver a message for me." He borrowed a scrap of paper from the receptionist, and scribbled down, 'Steve, I've got a clean bill of health, being discharged from the hospital at lunch time. Bucky.' The paper and a farthing went to the boy. "Take this to Captain Steve Rogers at the Strand Hotel."
The boy's blue eyes widened as he reached out and accepted the items. "Cor, you know that Captain America fella?"
"You know Captain America?"
"Yeh, I ran an errand fer 'im last week." The boy tapped the side of his nose. "Can't tell ya what it was, 'course. Never know when Jerry spies might be listenin'. I got whats ya call disk-re-shun. Anyway, ya want a message bringin' back?"
"No, just the delivery."
"Owright, I can be at the Strand in ten minutes." The boy tipped his cap and darted off. Bucky had no doubt the boy could make it in ten. And hopefully, with Bucky back in play, Phillips would find some new mission to send the Commandos on. Hopefully it would bring them one step closer to striking at Zola.
: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :
After packing his duffel bag with everything Steve and the others had brought him to help him feel comfortable during his hospital stay, Bucky donned his jacket and checked his reflection in the mirror. For the first time in a long time, he looked like himself. Almost. His eyes still bore shadows beneath them, thanks to nights spent tossing and turning in the grip of Krausberg-themed nightmares, but he was no longer gaunt, his skin now a healthy colour rather than the ashen tinge it had taken on previously, and his hair didn't fall lankly into his eyes anymore. A visit from the barber had seen to that.
A knock on the door preceded it opening to admit Steve. "Thought I'd come and welcome you to freedom," he explained.
"I can't wait for things to get back to normal," Bucky said. "And by 'normal', I mean 'undertaking covert missions to battle evil Nazis.' Because that's some crazy kinda normal we have."
"I hope you won't go stir-crazy if you have to wait another couple of days for our next mission. Phillips is working on the logistics right now, but he thinks we'll be able to take a swipe at one of those facilities I saw marked on Schmidt's map in Krausberg."
Bucky couldn't help his smile. "And that's why we're gonna beat them. Because we're up against an enemy who marks the location of his secret bases on a map."
"Plus, we have the world's best marksman on our side." Steve threw an arm across Bucky's shoulders, picked up the duffel bag from the bed, and led him towards the door. "And speaking of our side, the fellas have prepared a little celebration for you in the Fiddle. They're waiting there right now with a big 'welcome back' banner. And Dugan's got a special surprise planned for you."
"What kinda special surprise?" Knowing Dugan, it would be something painful. Possibly something involving arm-wrestling.
Steve winked. "That's what makes it a surprise. Besides, I don't actually know. He just said to tell you it's part of the welcome-back celebrations." Definitely arm wrestling, then. "Everyone's looking forward to seeing you again. Lizzie even managed to get her hands on some pretzels and salted peanuts, for snacks."
"Sounds good. But there's something I gotta do, first. Can I meet you there in about fifteen minutes?"
Steve's eyebrows rose, but he didn't pry. "Sure. Want me to drop your bag off in your room on my way?"
"Please. I won't be too long."
Steve left, and Bucky made his way to the main staircase. The medical labs were on the fourth floor, tucked away down a quiet, little-used corridor. He'd only found them by accident one day when boredom had sent exploring his temporary home. He knew Howard Stark would be there because the scientist had told him, at great length, how the hospital's medical labs were superior to his own engineering labs for certain aspects of top secret, super-important stuff he was working on. Chocolate-flavoured protein bars were still a work in progress.
The medical technicians were the most territorial bunch of people Bucky had ever encountered, and they ruled over their labs like dragons over their hoards of gold. To avoid their wrath, he only opened the lab door a fraction of an inch, then slowly pushed it a little further. When it was wide enough for him to peer around, he stuck his head through the gap and performed a quick visual scan of the room. Three of the technicians were busy labelling blood samples in preparation for microscope analysis, while Howard Stark was occupied with titrating some sort of liquid into a beaker of brown.
"Pssst!" Bucky hissed.
Stark, his eyes protected by a pair of heavy goggles, frowned at the beaker of brown. "Pssst? It's not supposed to make that noise. Not yet, anyway."
"I made that noise," Bucky whispered loud enough for Stark to hear.
"Oh, Sergeant Barnes. Why are you hissing at me?"
"I just wanted to let you know I've passed my psychological evaluation. I'm fit to return to duty."
Stark grinned. "Congratulations. I never doubted your sanity more than I did any other man or woman fighting this war."
"The Commandos are holding a celebration kinda thing in the Fiddle."
"I'm sure they'll get you suitably drunk."
"I'm sure they'll try. But I wanted to invite you to come with us."
"Me?" Two black eyebrows rose up above the goggles. "Why?"
"Because I couldn't have gotten this far without your help and expertise," he said. Sure, Stark was an insufferable know-it-all, but it was time Bucky started showing a little gratitude. Besides, there had to be more to Stark than an ego in a sharp suit. All men had layers, no matter how well they hid them. "You helped save my life, back in France, and I'm pretty sure you've just done it again. Time and time again, you've come through for me. For us. Besides, I'm celebrating with my friends, and we are friends, aren't we?"
"Of course we are. But don't think I'm going to let you off that bottle of Balvenie you owe me."
"I promise I'll get it to you after the war's over." And it might finally get the guy to shut up about it. "So, you ready to celebrate?"
"Sure." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "These guys are a bore. I could use some entertainment."
The walk to the Fiddle with Howard Stark involved something Bucky hadn't planned for; a walk to the Fiddle with Howard Stark. The man whistled as he strolled, some tune that Bucky didn't recognise. With his hands in his jacket pocket, he nodded at any ladies he passed, and smiled at those who weren't accompanied by men. How long would it be before Stark disappeared from the Fiddle with a dame on his arm?
"So. Mr. Stark. You got any family back home?"
"Nope. It's just me."
"Isn't that kinda lonely?"
"I prefer it this way. I'm answerable only to myself. And the U.S. Government. But that's more of a contractual matter than a family one."
Was that why Stark spent so much time chasing dames? Was he lonely? He obviously didn't have many friends. And regardless of how annoying the guy could be, Bucky was determined to change that. Stark had proven his worth more than once, and now it was time for Bucky to return the favour.
: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :
"What the devil's taking him so long?" Falsworth grumbled. He'd spent an hour working on the 'Welcome Back, Sergeant Barnes' banner that graced the wooden ceiling beam above their usual table.
"I don't know," said Steve. "He just said he had something to do, and told me he'd meet us here." It was all very mysterious. Knowing Bucky, he'd finally found a pretty nurse who wasn't already spoken for. That was probably it.
At that moment, the Fiddle's door opened to admit two figures. One was Bucky, but the other most definitely was not a nurse. It was Howard Stark. The last person Steve had imagined seeing Bucky with. Perhaps Stark was taking his role as Bucky's personal physician a little too personally.
A loud cheer erupted from the Commandos, and Steve quickly picked up a clap to add to the cacophony. Bucky smiled wanly as he approached the table, once so happy to be the centre of attention, now simply tolerant of it. One by one, the Commandos clapped him on the shoulder and welcomed him back.
"It's good to see you all again," said Bucky. "Outside of a hospital room, of course."
"It's good to see you too, Princess," said Dugan. "And for this welcome-back party, I prepared a seat worthy of your esteemed personage." He stepped aside to reveal his surprise. It was one of the Fiddle's chairs, made by Dugan—through the creative application of cardboard—to resemble a throne. "To celebrate the first and last time we'll ever be carrying your heavy ass around on a mission," he explained.
Bucky merely laughed and sat in the gaudy chair. Freddie stepped forward and took a quick snap before Bucky could object. "Guess this makes you my handmaiden," he told Dugan. "How 'bout we get a round of drinks?"
"I'll get them," said Steve. He'd already had his moment with Bucky. It was time to step back and let the others welcome him back in their own ways.
At the bar, he ordered a round of ales, and waited for the barman to pull them. The Commandos' revelry was still loud to his ears, but as soon as the door opened again, his focus was entirely transferred to the familiar click of heels. He knew who approached even before he smelt the perfume that always made his head giddy with excitement.
"I hope I'm not late for the party," said Peggy, as she stepped up beside him and leant her arms against the bar. Clad in her uniform, she'd clearly come straight from the SSR's headquarters.
"You're just in time," he smiled. What he wanted to ask was whether Phillips was finally ready to give the go-ahead for them to move on one of the HYDRA facilities he'd marked on the map. But today was Bucky's day, and there was no room for work in the celebrations. Instead, he asked, "Can I get you a drink?"
Her brown-eyed gaze glanced over the pints that were slowly appearing on the bar. "I'll have what everyone else is having."
Once the barman had finished pulling the pints, Peggy helped Steve carry them over to the table. Bucky was still the recipient of some friendly ribbing, but he was taking it in his stride. The pints were passed around, and Dugan called out, "Let's have a speech from her Royal Highness, Princess Barnes!"
"Happy to oblige, handmaiden," said Bucky, as he took up his pint. The Commandos fell blessedly silent. "I want to thank you all for taking care of me when I wasn't well, and for looking out for me even after we got back to London. I probably wouldn't be here if it wasn't for each and every one of you. And I owe particular thanks to Mr. Stark, whose tireless work at the hospital helped get me back on my feet. I know I don't always appreciate everything he does for us, but I am truly grateful that he took precious moments out of his days to help me when even the doctors didn't know what was wrong. If anyone deserves to sit in this chair, it's Howard Stark."
As one, the Commandos peered at the scientist who loitered at the edge of the group. For once in his life, Howard Stark seemed speechless. Freddie took the opportunity to get a picture of Stark stood holding a pint of ale, his mouth agape. The flash of the camera seemed to bring him out of his surprise.
"Well. I. Err. Am happy to lend my expertise wherever it is needed," Stark said at last. "I may not be physically with you on your missions behind the front line, but I'm with you in spirit. Supporting the men who're taking on Schmidt is the least I can do."
"Three cheers for Mr. Stark," Bucky called. And the whole team obliged.
"Three cheers for Sergeant Barnes," Steve added. A round of 'hip-hip, hoorah's swiftly followed.
"Three cheers for Freddie!" Freddie added. The team erupted into laughter, but they cheered him anyway.
Lizzie appeared on the fringe of the group, her nose wrinkled in distaste. "You lot are noisier than the Luftwaffe," she complained. "Here, put some of this in your mouths; it might keep you quiet for a moment." She put a couple of bowls on the table, one containing a mound of pretzels, and the other a mountain of salted peanuts.
"Three cheers for Lizzy," Dugan commanded. The barmaid simply rolled her eyes as she was cheered, but there was a smile on her face as she returned to the bar.
With the official cheers out of the way, the Commandos pulled up chairs—and Dugan dragged one to the table for Stark—and broke off into smaller conversations. Steve was left standing beside Peggy, who smiled up at him before glancing back to her ale. He'd never been good at reading her thoughts… sometimes she seemed to disapprove of the most trivial things, and other times she overlooked what Steve might consider serious concerns.
"So. Agent Carter," he began. He'd promised Bucky that he'd ask her out for that all-important second date, and now seemed a fortuitous time to honour their agreement. "Are you… umm…" Dammit, why was this so hard? He knew the words to say. Would you like to get lunch tomorrow? or Would you care for dinner tomorrow night? But knowing them and saying them was a difficult mission when his tongue was so determined to get in his way.
"Am I what?" she prompted, after a moment of awkward silence.
"Are you… err… aware if the Colonel's heard anything more about that HYDRA facility he wants to take out?"
"If I was, I wouldn't be sipping ale here." Of course she wouldn't. Idiot. She'd be briefing the Commandos on their upcoming mission. "Rest assured, Captain, the moment I know something is the moment you'll know something."
"Y'know, you don't have to call me 'Captain' when we're off-duty," he said, inspired by his inner-Bucky. "'Steve' is fine. If you don't mind something more casual, of course."
"Are you sure you want something more casual?" she countered. Before continuing, she gestured at the seated Commandos, indicating the whole group with her mostly-full glass of ale. "Isn't this what you've wanted for a long time? To be something more than 'just Steve'?"
"Not to you."
The words were out of his mouth before he could even think about stopping them, but the moment he saw her lips curl at the corners, he knew he'd said the right thing… for once. Time to see if his five-second streak of not putting his foot in his mouth could hold out.
"Ever since I was a kid, sitting by my bedroom window and watching everyone else pass me by, I wanted the rest of the world to see me as something more than sickly little Steve Rogers. Now that they have Captain America, I feel like Steve Rogers is slowly becoming a memory. I don't wanna be a memory. I wanna be Steve. For you, and Bucky, and all my friends. The rest of the world can't—or doesn't want—to see past the uniform. That makes it all the more important that those who knew me before the serum remember that I'm not just a symbol to be paraded on a stage; I'm a man, and I have dreams beyond signing autographs and doing photo shoots."
"Steve it is, then. While we're off-duty, at least." She held out her glass in toast, and he—very gently—clinked his own against it. "I'm just sorry it took you so long to realise that there is nothing wrong with being Steve Rogers. There never was."
She meant every word, he knew, but he just couldn't agree with the sentiment. The old Steve had been emotionally and mentally strong enough to stand up to bullies, but physically frail. If he couldn't even protect himself, how could he ever have protected others? All his life, he'd felt like a half-finished painting. Like some two-dimensional figure with no light or shadow to give him depth. Then, along came Dr. Erskine, with a palette full of colours Steve had never even seen before. Abraham Erskine had made Steve Rogers whole. A finished piece of work.
Captain America had been a title applied later.
Knowing that she'd always seen Steve as enough gave him the strength to ask the question that only moments before had eluded him.
"Say, err… Peggy, do you—"
"Agent Carter?"
Steve could've killed the saluting serviceman who interrupted his question. The young man stood rigid at attention, and his arrival hadn't gone unnoticed by the rest of the team. Dugan, Falsworth and Bucky eyed the young man too, and the conversations being held by the others trailed off when they noticed the group's attention was elsewhere.
Peggy didn't miss a beat. "Yes?" she asked the private, pretending for all the world like she wasn't in the middle of a pub holding a glass of ale in her hand.
"Colonel Phillips asked me to find you and give you a message. He needs to speak with you urgently at HQ."
"What's so urgent that it can't wait until morning?"
"He didn't tell me that, ma'am. Just that I was to find you and tell you to get to his office double-time. Those were his words, ma'am!" the soldier squeaked when Peggy glared at his presumption.
Steve had to hand it to her; even though she was off-duty, she was the epitome of professional efficiency. "Very well. Tell the colonel that I'll be there shortly."
The private darted for the door, and was gone in the space of five heartbeats. It took only as long for Peggy to down the remainder of her beer and place the glass daintily on the bar. She turned to Steve with a resigned smile, and he just about managed to get his mouth closed in time to avoid looking like a gaping idiot.
"Well, I suppose I should go and see what the colonel wants. Perhaps between the last time I saw him, and now, there's been some big decision finally made," she said. She eyed him speculatively before adding, "Why don't you come with me, Captain? If the colonel's summoned me on my first night off in over a week, I can only assume it's HYDRA-related."
Captain. So. They were officially back on duty now. "If you're sure I'll not just get in the way."
"What about us?" Bucky chimed in. Judging by the tension in his shoulders, he was on the verge of rising from his chair, dashing out the door, and fetching all his gear. "Should we come, too?"
Steve shook his head. Colonel Phillips would probably be annoyed enough about Steve coming uninvited; he could only imagine how much worse the colonel's ire would be with his office full of Commandos. "Stay here and try to enjoy your welcome-back party. But, uh, maybe lay off the beers, just in case."
Once, not too long ago, Bucky would've pulled his face at the suggestion he stop at just one beer. It was a sign of how far he'd come that now, he simply nodded at the instruction.
Peggy set a fast pace, her heels click-clacking down the sidewalk at a speed an army could march to. But Steve still had to hold back to keep level with her, and he was reminded, once again, that there was nobody else in the world quite like him.
Would his kids inherit his new genetic makeup? The thought hit him like a streetcar, and he stumbled over his own feet. Peggy glanced at him, but didn't slow down. Steve quickly recovered and caught up to her, but his thoughts strayed to a place they'd never visited before.
Kids. He'd always known Bucky would find a pretty dame to settle down with and they'd have a family so large they could form their own baseball team, and carry on the Barnes' family traditions. The thought of seeing a half-dozen mini-Buckys and mini-Mary-Anns grow up had occasionally brought a smile to Steve's lips, and he'd pictured himself there in some sort of 'distant uncle' role.
Never before had he imagined he'd have that for himself. His family had always been small. Just him and his mom, and a grandma he'd seen all of twice in his life. Bucky and his siblings were the closest thing Steve had to brothers and sisters… but they weren't his. They belonged to each other, not to Steve. The thought of having his own children… it was completely alien to him.
Now, he had to think about it. He wasn't sure whether it was too soon to consider a family, but most dames wanted one. They saw babies and did that whole broody cooing thing. But if Steve's potential children might inherit his 'gifts'… well, it could be awkward. How the heck did you even raise a child who could probably lift three of his classmates and run faster than a motor car? Granted, there was some excellent sports potential, but would his children also become a target for military recruiters or America's enemies?
Did Peggy even want children? He glanced at her face, pale and pinched against a winter breeze so cold it was making her eyes stream. When she noticed him watching her, she asked, "Do I what?"
Steve's heart damn near leapt right out of his chest, and he stumbled again, this time over a raised paving stone he'd been too distracted to notice. He licked his cold, dry lips, and asked, "Umm… what?"
"In the Fiddle, you were about to ask me something."
Oh, that. Thank God! She hadn't somehow managed to read his mind and discern his thoughts about whether she had thought about having children in the future. Of course she hadn't read his mind. That sort of thing wasn't possible. Idiot.
"Oh yeah, I was, umm… going to ask…" How could he ask her out now? His mind was still reeling from the whole idea of having super-children. "Do you… ah… like your job?"
He could tell by the way both of her eyebrows lifted up that his question had caught her by surprise. He decided to elaborate, before she managed to read the question the wrong way.
"I just mean, you're a great soldier. Operative. Agent. Whatever the proper name is for what you do. Hell, with your experience, you ought to be leading the Commandos, not just acting as our liaison."
"Do you really think so?"
There was such hope and excitement carried by her voice and bubbling behind her eyes that, although disappointed with himself for chickening out on the date request, he was glad he'd asked the question he went with in its place.
"I've never meant anything more in my life," he said.
Peggy grabbed his arm without warning and pulled him closer to her; close enough to hear her quiet breath, and see the slight dilation and constriction of her eyes. His heart leapt into his mouth as the scent of her perfume tickled his nose and flooded his brain.
"Eyes on the street, Captain," she said, gesturing to a lamppost he'd very nearly walked right into. She let go of his arm, but the weight of her touch still lingered. "And to answer your question, yes, I like my job. I must admit that, at first, I was a little miffed that I'd been given a position that seemed little more than messenger pigeon, relaying orders and instructions to you and your men. But now I realise that in this war, there are no small parts to play. I may not get out in the field as much as I like, but on an operational level, I'm better equipped and more experienced to handle the organisation of your missions. Going into the field, you need to know that your intel is sound and your contacts will be in place. And coming out of it, you need to know that your extraction plan has been scheduled and we're ready to receive you back home." She gave him a warm smile. "On the bright side, at least I'm doing something more important than making Colonel Phillips' coffee."
The dig at Private Lorraine was not lost on him.
At the SSR's headquarters, they took the creaky service elevator down to the command centre. Steve had expected to step into chaos; men would be shouting for maps, officers would be making strategic plans, and everybody would be focused on striking at HYDRA.
When the elevator stopped, and the door opened, there was no chaos. There wasn't even a hubbub. Two or three people were manning their desks, but they were administrators, not officers. And Colonel Phillips wasn't poised ready to give an inspiring speech and send the Commandos straight into the field. He wasn't even in the room.
"It seems unusually quiet," he whispered. Why was he whispering? He cleared his throat. "Is it normally like the graveyard shift in the late afternoon?"
"No. But perhaps there's a good reason. Come on, let's go and see the colonel."
They found Phillips in his office, and the resignation on his face quickly changed to irritation when he spotted Steve looming behind Peggy.
"Rogers? What in the blazes are you doing here?"
Steve opened his mouth, but Peggy got there first. "I asked him to come, Colonel. I thought that with you summoning me from my evening off, you must have a solid lead on Schmidt."
Holding his breath, Steve waiting for the chewing out. For the, "You aren't paid to think, Agent Carter," or the "If I wanted Rogers here, I would've sent for him myself." But the dressing-down was suspiciously absent. Instead of giving both of them a piece of his mind, he gestured to the chair in front of his desk. "Sit down, Agent Carter."
"Sir?"
"I have news, and you're going to want to be sitting when I give it to you."
"Is it my parents? Are they okay?" The crack in her voice told Steve just how much her parents meant to her. She always tried to be strong, to be tough, unshakable… Steve wanted to reach out, to comfort her in some way, but he didn't dare. He'd probably do the wrong thing. Hurt her with his stupidly strong hands.
"To the best of my knowledge, your parents are fine. Now, are you gonna sit, or not?"
"The last time somebody asked me to sit down, it was to tell me that my brother was dead." She lifted her chin and straightened her back. "Whatever it is, just tell me."
"Very well. Agent Carter, your brother is alive."
Author's note: A big thank you to all readers and reviewers who're still with me. I hope you're still enjoying the story. I know things haven't been as exciting as the adventures of the 107th, but that will be changing shortly. On another note, for the next 2 weeks, I'm on Spaceman Annual Family Holiday^TM, therefore there will be no new chapters or PMs until I return on Sunday 3rd June. On the bright side, I have just over 2 weeks of annual leave from work in June, and I'm setting myself the personal challenge of writing 15 chapters in 18 days. I managed it easily last summer, so let's see if I can do the same again this year.