We Were Soldiers
99. Lizzie
"And then I made my way towards the explosion, hoping to commandeer one of the vehicles," Steve explained. "Unfortunately, they'd all been too badly damaged in the blast to be of any use, so I was forced to return to the checkpoint. I was lucky; they were still in disarray, and I managed to disable the men who were left. I tied them up inside the guard-post, and had one of them explain to me how to use one of the motorcycles; they were the only vehicles left, by that point. The soldier didn't speak very good English, though, so I pretty much had to figure it out by myself. I caught up with the rest of the team at the dock,we dispatched a small group of Nazis who'd tracked them there, and then we came home."
He had to hand it to Colonel Phillips' the guy could do deadpan like nobody else. It was all but impossible to determine what the Colonel was thinking by the expression on his face; it barely ever changed.
Beside him, Bucky shifted slightly. His friend probably took exception to the details Steve hadn't included in his report, such as the minor mutiny, and then the six U-boats the Tycho had almost not outrun. But Phillips didn't need to know that stuff. It wasn't mission-critical.
"Have you anything to add, Sergeant Barnes?" Phillips asked.
"No sir. It's all in my report." Bucky gestured at the typed report on the desk. He'd pulled his face when Steve had asked him to report to the Colonel, but Peggy had gone to the hospital with the rescued prisoners, and the rest of the Commandos were still aching from their stint in the mines. Bucky was the freshest, and he'd also been outside the compound, so would be able to give the Colonel a more rounded view of the mission. He'd complained about having to type up his own report, but once behind a typewriter, he seemed to get into it pretty quickly, and he didn't make nearly as many mistakes on his report as Steve had. Those typewriter keys were just too damn small and close together.
"Fine work, gentlemen. A few more missions like this, and you might start wiping some smirks off faces back in Washington. Your team can stand down for the next couple of days. Get some R&R. I want you fresh as daisies when I send you back out there."
"Yessir." They both saluted and, when dismissed, left the office.
It was a small weight off Steve's shoulders. Every time he submitted a report, he expected to be judged for it. So far, he'd given Phillips no reason to be disappointed in his team. He hoped it was a feat they could all keep up.
Now that the official stuff was out of the way, he could go to the hospital. Visit some prisoners. Make sure they had everything they needed. He wouldn't purposely seek out Peggy, because she had enough on her plate, but if their paths should cross… well, maybe he'd bring up the subject of that date. Or would it better to wait until Michael was back home and Peggy back at work? He didn't wanna be one of those pushy guys. He could be patient. But where would he take her? And what would he wear?
Your army uniform, idiot. You know you have to wear it while out in public.
As he and Bucky stepped into the elevator that would take them back to street-level, Bucky asked, "Do you think they ever served?"
"Who served what?"
"Those smirking men back in Washington. The ones who push paper around desks and pull our strings. Do you think they ever served? I mean, they call all the shots, but do they have any experience of what it's like on the front lines?"
"I dunno. I guess some of them did. You probably don't get to rise to a position of power like that without relevant experience."
Plus, he had to believe that the men giving the orders knew what they were doing. War was a crazy thing. Somebody had to be able to make sense out of it.
At the top of the elevator shaft, the doors creaked open, and he followed Bucky outside. The streets of London were quiet. Hard to believe that this city had once been the capital of the most powerful country in the world. If the Nazis weren't stopped, would New York follow? Would its men be thrown into war on home soil? Would its women walk teary-eyed down the streets and wonder how long it would be before they got a letter telling them their husband, son or brother would never return?
A nudge on his arm broke him out of his melancholy mood.
"You're awfully quiet," said Bucky.
"Just thinking about the war," he admitted. "They made me to stop Schmidt, but even if we take down HYDRA, it's not going to end there, is it? There's more at work here than one mad scientist."
"Yeah." Bucky smiled, but it stopped at his lips. His eyes still had that tired, haunted look about them. "Y'know, I think I preferred not knowing about HYDRA. Everything seemed a lot simpler, back when I was just fighting regular ol' Nazis. All of this crazy science stuff… its not for me. No offence. I'm glad you came out of it as you did."
"I suppose that is the one good thing to come out of all this. I finally have a chance to make a real difference in the war. We just went to Poland, and we came out alive. If we can do that, we can do anything, right?"
"Anything?" A familiar mischievous gleam shone in his friend's blue eyes, reminding Steve of ten year old Bucky about to do something naughty. "Even ask a pretty dame out on a date? I heard bits of your conversation, y'know. She's up for a good time, so you should show her one."
"What would your mom say if she knew you'd been eavesdropping?" he warned, shaking a finger at his friend.
Bucky was totally unashamed. "It's not like I did it on purpose. I was on the other side of the truck, and it wasn't as if the two of you were talking quietly. Anyway, you're avoiding my question. You're gonna ask her out, right?"
"Right." He nodded. Yes. He was definitely gonna ask her out. "As soon as her brother's back home with his family."
"Aww, c'mon—"
Steve lifted his hand to halt his friend's complaint. "Buck, I've been there. I know what it's like to have a family member in the hospital. Your whole life revolves around visiting times. Around what you can and can't bring in with you. Around when—if—your loved one is going to come home. Peggy and her family are going through so much right now, that I want them to have this time to adjust. Then, when Michael's settled in back home, and things are a little more stable, we can go out for dinner without her worrying that something's gonna go downhill while she's away."
"Alright. I guess you know best."
"Besides, I still need to find somewhere nice to take her."
"You should ask Monty," Bucky suggested. "He's bound to know all the best eating places in London."
"He probably does, but I don't wanna have to go running to the team every time I want to do something with Peggy. I should be able to go on a date with her without the input from five other guys." Besides, a date with Peggy would be away-time from the day job. Much as he appreciated a little advice from his friends, he didn't want them sitting over his proverbial shoulder, whispering in his ear during dinner.
Bucky stopped walking, his eyes alight with some momentary inspiration. "I just had a great idea." He gave Steve's sleeve a quick tug, then jogged down the road, shouting, "Come with me!" over his shoulder.
Steve jogged after his friend, because there was no stopping Bucky when something got into his mind. That was how Steve had ended up going to senior prom with Mary-Ann. Well, that, plus no other girl was willing to go with him. At least with Mary-Ann, things hadn't been awkward. She was more like a sister than anything else.
Bucky's pace slowed as they reached a familiar landmark. Steve almost groaned as they stepped into the Fiddle.
"Buck, it's one o'clock in the afternoon. Don't you think we should wait until after lunch to start drinking?"
"We're not here for the drinks."
They made their way to the bar, where a familiar face was busy drying freshly washed glasses with the cleanest bar-rag Steve had ever seen. When they pulled up seats, Lizzie smiled at them.
"Welcome home, Captain Rogers, Sergeant Barnes. And congratulations on your successful mission." She laughed when she saw the expressions on their faces. "Stand behind a bar, and you'll hear everything there is to know about this war. Just don't tell MI5 that this is the place to come for information. Anyway, what can I get you boys?"
"We're not here for drinks," Bucky told her. "Not yet anyway. The rest of the team are still napping. But Steve here could use some words of advice. It's about…" he lowered his voice and cupped his hands around his mouth, as if partaking in some great conspiracy, "…women."
"Then you've come to the right place. What's on your mind, Captain? Or should I say, who's on your mind? No wait, let me guess; brunette, about 5'6'', could stop a man's heart in a red dress?" She laughed again. "I've seen the way you look at Agent Carter. And the way she looks at you. It's about time you did something about it."
"I'll leave you two to talk in peace." Bucky gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, then hopped off his stool and disappeared out the door before Steve could even open his mouth.
Lizzie put down her glass and her rag, and leant against the bar to give him her full attention. "So. What in particular has got your knickers in a twist?"
Knickers in a…?
He cleared his throat. "Mostly, I need to know a good place to take her for dinner. After that, it's knowing what to say. And how to say it. And what not to do."
"What are you looking for in a venue? Clearly you're after more than ale, salted peanuts and the accompaniment of your team's noise in the background, otherwise you'd bring her here. Do you want music? Dancing? M—"
"Definitely no dancing!" he interrupted. "If I can find somewhere without a dance floor, even better." That way there wasn't even a chance of Peggy talking him into trying.
"Alrighty then. In that case, there's Wiltons, on King Street; their signature is oyster dishes, but they don't come cheap. Then there's Simpsons Tavern, off Cornhill, opposite Ball Court. They serve steaks, and again, it's pricey. If you want something that's not taken a hit from rationing, there's Rules, in Covent Garden. They mostly serve game dishes, so they're not quite as expensive as the others, but not every lady likes game; it tends to have a very strong flavour compared to other meat."
"Which would you prefer to be taken to on a date?"
"Well, I don't like seafood, so Wiltons would be out for me. I'd be happy at either of the others, though for a little extra, Simpsons will make your dinner extra special with a red rose and a small candle on your table. On the other hand, I'm guessing Agent Carter isn't your average date. She's probably eaten some pretty horrible stuff, out in the field, so maybe her expectations are different. If you really want something personal, why not do a picnic?"
"Uh, because it's January, and whilst I might not freeze to death sitting outside for an hour, Peggy would certainly feel it."
"Perfect. Offer to keep her warm in your arms."
He aimed one of those stares at the red-head. Lizzie merely chuckled.
"And we English have a reputation for being prudish. Is there some English in your ancestry, perhaps?"
"All I want is a successful dinner with no mistakes or interruptions," he explained with as much patience as he could muster. "Just dinner. It doesn't have to lead somewhere, or have an end goal. We just both need to have an enjoyable time."
"When you plan your missions, are they without some end goal? Do they not need to have an impact on the war effort?"
"Did you seriously just compare a date to warfare?"
She offered a quick shrug, and by way of explanation, said, "This pub is frequented by soldiers, sailors and fly-boys. I compare pulling pints to warfare. Dating is just the same thing on a different battlefield. Think about you. You both have your own hopes and expectations. You go into a date trying to figure out your opponent's plans and find a way to come to terms without it ending in a full scale battle."
"I don't know whether to ignore everything you just said, or offer you a job in the SSR's strategic office." Hitler would never see Lizzie coming. "Regardless, I appreciate your input on venues. Should I take her some flowers when I pick her up?"
Lizzie quickly shook her head. "No, save the flowers for something special. Her birthday, maybe." Steve made a mental note to find out when her birthday was. "Just keep it simple. You, her, food. The less you put into it, the less can go wrong."
Steve rested his elbows on the bar and ran his hands through his hair. There was more to dating that met the eye. Bucky had always made it look so easy. All he had to do was smile, and the dames fell over themselves at his feet. He'd never had to agonise over eateries, or whether flowers were too much. But then… Bucky had never dated anyone like Peggy.
"Topics of conversation I should avoid?" he asked.
"Well, I'd say 'work', but when work is war, and war is the current way of life, it's hard to avoid it. But if you have to talk about work, make it more about her than about you. Show interest. Compliment her when appropriate. Don't exaggerate your own deeds."
That didn't sound too difficult. How could somebody meet Peggy and not show an interest in her? She was the most fascinating person he'd ever met. She wasn't just smart and beautiful, but hard-working, dedicated, brave, and spontaneous. He never quite knew what she was going to say or do next. She was the sort of women who could keep a man on his toes for the rest of his life.
Lizzie clicked her fingers in front of his face several times, pulling him back into the pub.
"Thought I'd lost you for a minute there."
He offered a conciliatory smile. "Sorry. Just thinking about something."
"You don't say. Anyway, that's about all the advice I have for now. The rest is up to you."
"Thank you, Lizzie, you've been a big help."
"Any time, honey," she replied with a genuine smile. "Just let me know how it goes, okay?"
"Like you wouldn't find out anyway."
She laughed, at that. "Too true, too true. Say hello to Dugan for me, won't you?"
"Sure thing, Lizzie. See you later."
When he stepped out of the Fiddle, it was with a more confident spring in his step. He felt about as prepared for this date as he ever could be. Now all he had to do was get through it without messing it up.
: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :
Peggy's eyes fluttered open to sunlight streaming in through her bedroom window. Had she forgotten to close the curtains last night? She couldn't even remember. It had been so late when they'd brought Michael home that her mind was a fog. It didn't help that Mother had cried as he was discharged from the hospital. And during the journey home. And as Michael explored the house for the changes wrought since he'd last been there.
When the tears had finally ceased, there had been supper. It wasn't a very good supper—just crusty bread and a little broth—but that worked out well, because Michael was under strict instructions to limit his food intake until his energy-starved body could handle larger meals. During the five days he'd been back in England, he'd eaten six tiny meals per day, often no more than what could fit in the palm of his hand.
A familiar tune drifted from the ground floor of the house, rousing her fully from sleep. It was a song she hadn't heard in a very long time, and with it came a memory she had almost forgotten.
Defying the cold of winter, she ignored the full set of clothing folded neatly on the chair in the corner of the room, and instead opted to slip a bathrobe over her nightgown, and fluffy slippers onto her feet. Wrapped up relatively warmly, she crept out of the room that had been hers since she was born, avoided the creaky floorboards on the staircase so as not to wake her tired parents, and tiptoed into the drawing room.
"Is that Chopsticks?" she asked the figure at the piano.
Michael glanced over his shoulder, his face still pale and gaunt but no longer full of scruffy beard. "Glad you remember. Do you want the melody, or the harmony?"
"The melody, if I can even remember it. You were never any good at the melody."
He scooted over without missing a beat, letting her sit beside him on the stool. It took a few moments for the memory to come back, but her fingers remembered what her mind had forgotten. They moved almost of their own accord, gently dancing over keys as Michael played the less intensive harmony of the song. When he fudged a couple of notes, he merely said, "Guess I need a little more practice."
A few bars later, it was Peggy's turn to get the notes wrong. "Guess I do as well," she said.
For several moments she let her mind go blank as the tune wound its way through her memories, pulling her back to a time when, at the behest of their piano teacher, she and Michael had tried their first duet. It hadn't gone well. They'd argued for days about who would play which part. Michael had complained that her smaller hand-span meant she missed more notes than she hit; she'd complained that he purposely set too fast a tempo for her to keep up.
"I'm sorry," she said. They were words she hadn't been able to say, until now. In the hospital, mother or father were always around. The long overdue conversation had had to wait. Now, though, it was just the two of them. No interruptions.
"For what?" he asked.
She stopped playing, her melody falling silent. Playing was too hard when she needed to focus on her words.
"For not trying harder to find you. When they told me you were dead, I just accepted it. We all did. I should've dug deeper. I should've looked for you."
The harmony faltered and finally stopped as Michael turned to face her. There was a tiredness in his eyes that she'd never seen before. Not on him, at least.
"From what you tell me, these HYDRA people are very good at making folks disappear. You had no reason to believe I wasn't killed in action. And for what it's worth, I'm glad you found something you love doing. You were made to wear that uniform, Peggy. Now that you have it, you've got a chance to make a real difference in this war. You can save lives, just as you saved mine."
"It's true, I do love the job," she admitted. "You were right about that, at least. I would've made a damn good wife… but I think I make a better Agent."
"And speaking of the job, when are you going to get back to it?"
"When I'm sure you're well enough to be left alone," she said. "There's no telling what trouble you may get yourself into if I leave you to your own devices."
"Don't worry about me, little sister. I have plenty of spare time now. I'm going to plan out the rest of your life for you… when you'll get married, when you'll have children, where you'll live… it will give me something to do during my convalescence."
She slapped his arm with enough force to tell him that there would be no meddling in her life. He merely laughed.
"Seriously though Peggy, your work needs you. I have mother here, to… well… mother me. I suspect I'll be going along to all the ladies' club meetings. No doubt I'll be fattened up like a suckling pig soon enough."
The chime of the doorbell interrupted her response. "Now who could that be at this hour?"
"Probably the post man," he said. "Do you want me to go?"
"No." With a smile, she gestured at the piano keys. "You need the practice more than I do."
"Good idea. I'll stay here and practice the piano. You go answer the door. In your bathrobe."
Drat the man; he had a point. The neighbours would surely talk if she went to the door dressed as she was. Then again, the neighbours hardly needed any excuse to talk; they were all such nosy busybodies.
"Very well; you get the door." She gave an imperious wave of her hand. "Perhaps when you return, I'll make us a pot of tea."
She turned her focus back to the piano and plinked a few keys. Was it her imagination, or was the whole thing out of tune? Hardly surprising, if it was. Neither she nor Michael had played the thing since they were teenagers, and mother only kept it for the entertainment of guests. Mother often hired a pianist from London to perform when she entertained company… or at least, she had, before the war. The pianist had been drafted into the Army; only God knew where he was, now, or whether he was even still alive.
"Come in, we're just through here," Michael said. "Peggy, we have company."
Horror-struck, she turned and watched Steve Rogers, sweaty in an SSR exercise uniform, step into the room. What in the blazes was Michael thinking?! She pulled the bathrobe a little more closed.
"Ste… I mean, Captain Rogers," she managed. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"
Steve took the questions—and the sight of her sitting in her bathrobe—in his stride. "Yes ma'am, it's ten-twenty-five in the morning."
Really? It was that late? She must've been tired indeed, last night, to sleep so long into the morning. Then again, it had been a difficult few days for all the family.
"What brings you out here, Captain Rogers?" Michael asked. He was grinning. The idiot!
"Well, I went to visit you in the hospital earlier this morning, to see how you were getting on, but they told me you were released yesterday. And as I was passing by on my morning run, I thought I'd take the opportunity to see how you were settling in, and whether there's anything you need."
"Very kind of you, Captain! Isn't that kind of him, Peg?"
Later, she would kick her brother. Hard. On the shin. Both shins.
"Yes, very kind. Do you regularly run over this way?"
Steve nodded sincerely, and she realised that he meant every word he'd said. He really had been to the hospital to check up on Michael. And he really did come running here every day.
"It's part of my routine," he explained. I start off in the city centre before making my way up here… I like to run away from the traffic. I was actually on my cool-down lap when I decided to stop by. Didn't want to inconvenience anyone too early."
"The man who saved my life is welcome any time," Michael assured him. "Isn't he, Peggy?"
"Yes, any time," she said, trying her best to keep from glaring at her interfering brother. "As a matter of fact, Michael was released last night, and it was quite late by the time we arrived home and sat down to supper. Our parents are still abed, though I suspect they'll be up soon for a late breakfast."
"Speaking of breakfast, would you care for a cup of tea, Captain?" Michael asked. "I was just about to make us a pot."
"Oh, thanks, but I really need to get back to the hotel. Take a shower."
"Of course. Well, I'll go and put the kettle on. Peggy, I'm sure you can see Captain Rogers to the door. Can't you?"
"Yes. Be careful with the kettle, won't you? Don't scald yourself."
Michael took himself off to the kitchen, where he was no doubt congratulating himself over his transparent scheming. Peggy quickly stood, made sure her bathrobe was still closed, and gestured Steve out into the hallway. It was one thing to like a man, but quite another to let him see her dressed in such inappropriate attire.
"I'm sorry to catch you at such an inconvenient time," he offered as she led him towards the front door. "Perhaps I should've called ahead."
"Don't worry about it; there wouldn't have been anyone awake to take your call." But perhaps his arrival was fortuitous. "Are you heading back to the office later?"
"As soon as I've showered and changed."
"Will you tell Colonel Phillips that I'll be returning to work tomorrow? Michael's made it quite clear that he's more than happy for me to stop pandering over him."
"Sure, I'll let him know. It'll be good to see you back… the office isn't the same without you there." He hovered by the door, his hand resting atop the handle. "Since I'm here, and you're here… err, I wondered if it was a good time to ask you out for dinner. Soon. But not too soon, if you're busy. Or lunch, if dinner's not convenient."
"Dinner would be nice," she butted in before he could start rambling. "How does Friday night sound?"
"So… tomorrow night?"
It was Thursday already? The days since bringing Michael home had seemed to blend into one.
"I guess I've lost track of time," she admitted. "Would Monday night be okay?"
A smile lit up his eyes. "Monday night would be great. Can I meet you in the hotel lobby at eight?"
"Actually, I'll be staying here for a couple of weeks. Just until Michael has found his feet again," she said. "With my dad still working everyday, I want to be around in the evenings. Just in case."
"Oh. Right. Of course. How about I pick you up here at seven, then?"
"Seven o'clock," she agreed.
On his way out, his hand slipped right off the handle. When he finally had the door open, he stumbled over the threshold. As he waved goodbye with a dazed smile plastered across his face, he almost walked right into a lamp-post. It was hard to believe that this man was the greatest chance they had at defeating HYDRA. Or that he'd so quickly and thoroughly stolen her heart.