We Were Soldiers

108. Frère Jacques

Bang bang bang.

Heavy thuds pulled Steve from a dream about being back in the USO. Or was it a nightmare? Jaunty songs, spangly outfits, tighter-than-tight tights… yeah, it was definitely a nightmare.

Bang bang bang.

With a groan, he fumbled in the darkness for the alarm clock by his bed. He could just about make out the hands… and they said it was nearly ten to five. Ever since Project Rebirth, he hadn't needed much sleep, but even he liked to get a solid five hours, and it had been a very late night.

Bang bang bang bang bang.

It had to be some messenger or other from Phillips. Probably coming to tell him that their down time was over. Nobody else would be knockin' at his door at almost-five in the morning. The Commandos didn't even know this time existed.

"Hold on, I'm coming," he called, before the knocker could knock again and wake the rest of the floor. He grabbed a clean shirt from the top drawer of his dresser, groped for the pants he'd left over the back of the chair, and hopped to the door as he wrestled with the trouser legs.

It wasn't a messenger from Phillips standing outside the door. It was Jacques Dernier, wearing a concerned frown and clasping a piece of paper between both hands.

"Sorry to wake you, mon ami," said the Frenchman. "May we talk?"

Steve stepped aside and opened his door wide enough for Jacques to step through. "Be my guest." Whatever this was, it had to be urgent if it couldn't wait until breakfast time.

Jacques graciously accepted, and Steve switched on the light. The brightness of the bulbs caused him to squint for a moment. He offered Jacques the chair, but the other man merely shook his head and grasped his piece of paper more tightly. Steve took a seat perched on the edge of his bed. "So, wanna tell me what this is all about?"

His fellow Commando hesitated. His gaze danced down to the piece of paper, and indecision ran fleetingly across his face. Whatever internal battle was happening was swiftly over. He held out the piece of paper to Steve, and said, "It is small personal matter. I must leave for a while."

Steve stared at the paper for a moment. He could see it was a letter, graced with a rough script, as if hastily written. He really didn't want to intrude on another guy's personal matters… but what could be so bad or so personal that Jacques needed to leave?

He took the paper. It wasn't as if he was going through a guy's diary. Jacques had offered this freely.

The script was in French. He could just about understand the opening greeting, but the rest of it was way beyond his level of comprehension. With a shrug of defeat, he handed it back to Dernier.

"I'm sorry, Jacques, I know you've been teaching us to speak French, but I can't read it anywhere near as good as I speak it. Can you translate it for me?"

"Oui, oui, of course." Jacques took it back and held it out in front of him, but judging by the faraway look in his eyes, he'd already committed the contents of the letter to memory.

"Dear brother," he began.

"Brother?"

"It is a letter from my younger brother, Gaspard. He says, 'Dear brother, I hope this letter reaches you - I do not fully trust the man who I've paid to deliver it, but I am now desperate for help. There is much I could tell you, but I will try to be brief. Several months ago, our sister defied your wishes and joined the Resistance. I reminded her several times that you had forbidden it, but I fear she is too much like you.

At first she merely carried out small tasks; carrying messages between Resistance members, for example. Women are stopped and searched less often than men, you see. But then, several weeks ago, they said they had a mission for her, one of great importance. They took her away for several days, for special instruction - it was over a week until I saw her again! The last time we spoke, she told me that she might be gone for some time.

That was five weeks ago. I don't know where she is or who she is with. I have tried to speak to the man who recruited her into the Resistance, but he refuses to meet with me. He sent me a message telling me to stop asking questions and manage my own affairs, but I cannot take this anymore. I must know what has happened to her. Please, help me. You know these people. They will talk to you. Help me to bring our sister home, before it is too late.

Your brother, G.'"

Steve nodded silently along, his heart sinking with each passing sentence. He could feel the distress of Jacques' brother over the welfare of their sister. He sounded like a man who might do anything to get his sister back. He might even ask the wrong questions of the wrong people and risk all of their safety. And if the Resistance found him to be a liability, would they take it upon themselves to silence him?

"I'll speak to Phillips straight after breakfast," he said. "I promise, we'll do everything we can to help your family."

Jacques shook his head. "Non, I cannot ask it of you. It is my problem, and I must handle it myself."

"Okay, then just so as I get this right, you're going to parachute into Nazi-held France, walk undetected to whatever town or city your sister lives in, find the Resistance, get them to tell you where your sister is, and rescue her – without backup?"

"Oui."

"No offence, pal, but that's a suicide mission."

Dernier sighed. "The things we do for family."

"Even if you could actually pull that off by yourself, Phillips will never agree to it. With everything you know about Allied operations, you would be too great a security risk if you got captured."

"You think I crack under torture?" he scoffed.

"No, but I think Schmidt can make guns that vaporise people. Guns that scare even Howard Stark. Who knows what else he can do?"

Jacques merely shrugged. "What he can do, what he can't do, it matters not to me. I must rescue Céleste. I am not in U.S. Military, Phillips can not order me to stay here. If he tries, I will go home and pick up where I left off, bombing Germans who have taken my country hostage. That is my right."

"It is, but please let me talk to him first. I don't want to lose you from the team, and I know Phillips won't either. Please don't do anything until I've spoken with him, okay?"

"Very well. I will give you one day to convince him. After that, I must make arrangements to leave. By the date on the letter, it has already taken almost a month to reach me."

"One day is all I need," he said, hoping desperately that it would be so. In truth, even one week might not be enough. But it was the least Steve could do. Like Jacques said: the things we do for family.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

The inside of the SSR's HQ at Whitehall was fast becoming a second home to Steve. He spent at least as much time here as he did the Fiddle, and considerably more time here—thanks to his enhanced biology—than he did his hotel room. When other men went to sleep, Steve worked. When other men arrived in the morning, Steve had already been there for two hours, poring over the maps, reviewing whatever new intel or aerial pictures had come in from MI6 overnight, consulting books written by men far more knowledgeable on the art of war than he.

He knew the names of the janitors, and most of their families. He could spot an SSR driver from a mile distance. When somebody made coffee in the kitchen, he could tell by the aroma which of the yeomans was 'brewing up'. And he'd quickly found his way into the good graces of the communications clerks by discreetly signing a few autographs when nobody was looking.

Everyone thought the SSR was brains and brass. Colonel Phillips. Howard Stark. Peggy Carter. Captain Rogers. And the dozens of soldiers, spies and scientists resident at Whitehall. In reality, the SSR was bricks and mortar. It was the little men and women who turned the wheels when the brains and the brass had gone to bed. It was the men who fixed the leaky plumbing so that nobody knew how close they came to a pipetastrophy every time the gents' toilets on the second floor were flushed. It was the women who typed up the minutes and the reports and who encoded the telegrams for sending. It was the men who made sure the cars ran smoothly, so that if Phillips wanted to drive out somewhere, he got there without a hitch. That was the real SSR.

It was early enough that when Steve stepped into the command centre, it didn't smell overly strongly of coffee, but late enough that a few of the typists were already at their stations, tip-tap-tapping away on their machines. One or two gave him smiles that had a touch of come-hither to them; the rest ignored him. Probably had something to do with the icy glares Peggy gave them if they ever looked over him while she was around. That, and her warning of, 'Ladies, if you're so short of work that you have time to gawk and stare at everybody passing through the room, I can find you alternative employment.'

As he neared Phillips' office, the aroma of coffee grew stronger. Another couple of steps, and he heard the colonel's gravelly voice.

"For heaven's sake, woman, you've burnt the damn beans again. This isn't the Front; a man should be able to get a cup of unburnt coffee in his own office. Take it back and bring me a fresh cup, and don't let the water boil this time."

Private Lorraine scuttled out, a steaming mug clasped between her hands. She gave him a furtive glance and a quick greeting of "Captain" before disappearing towards the kitchen.

Great. Barely even eight o'clock in the morning, and Phillips was already in a bad mood. And right when Steve needed a favour. This did not bode well.

He carried out what he was starting to think of as his 'Pre-Colonel-Phillips Routine'. He glanced down at his boots to make sure they were still polished; London's pigeons were known to cruelly spoil a soldier's newly polished boots from time to time. Then he squared his shoulders. Pushed aside one annoying strand of hair that simply refused to lie flat like the rest. Took a deep breath. Prepared to get knocked down, and get up again.

He cleared his throat as he stepped towards the open door. Phillips glanced up and grunted quietly. "Rogers, don't you do anything but work?"

"I could ask the same of you, sir," Steve's mouth replied before his brain could engage. Stupid.

"Hmph. Far as I'm concerned, I can put my feet up once we've finished all this nasty Schmidt business and given Hitler the boot for good measure." He sighed and gestured at the empty doorway. "The true meaning of irony can be found in this office. Carter's the only woman in the SSR who can make a decent pot of coffee, and she's the only woman who wants to do more than make decent pots of coffee."

"She does make good coffee, sir," he agreed. He'd once asked her how a person from England—a nation famed for its tea—had become so talented at making a good hot cup of American Joe. She'd replied that she'd once worked undercover in an American diner; he was pretty sure she was joking.

Probably.

For the first time that morning, Phillips seemed to remember who he was talking to. He made a show of shuffling some papers around his desk and asked, "Whaddya want, Rogers?" When Steve tried to grope for an innocent expression, Phillips merely scoffed. "It's seven fifty-five on the second morning of your down-time, you're in my office and I haven't sent for you. So, obviously you want something. Spit it out, I don't have all day."

Time to take the plunge. "Sir, I'd like permission to take the Commandos on a mission to France, to rescue a Resistance operative who may be in danger."

"All Resistance operatives are in danger, Rogers. They wouldn't be Resistance operatives if they weren't. In fact, it's on the job application form: 'Resistance Operatives wanted, must not be risk-averse, mortal danger inevitable.' In case you hadn't noticed, France is an occupied country. It's virtually impossible for us to put feet on the ground there. You'll just have to tell Mr Dernier that his cousin or whatever will have to get out of whatever trouble he's in on his own."

"It's his sister, colonel." He took a step forward. Get knocked down, get up again. Keep gettin' up. "Sir, you yourself led a considerable force across France, when you were dealing with HYDRA's communications network. I'm not talking about putting a whole army on the ground; just seven men. Seven men I have the utmost confidence in, and one who knows the territory like the back of his hand." Phillips seemed to be wavering—at least, he was no longer objecting loudly—so Steve decided to try and push his luck. "Really, sir, we'd be helping ourselves. We're all working towards a common goal. A success for the resistance is a success for us, and it will keep the Nazis, and maybe even HYDRA, distracted."

Phillips was still silent, but he had that look in his eyes. That look said he was already five plans ahead of Steve, and that Steve was at some point down the line going to regret asking for this. But what was the alternative? Lose Dernier? Not an option.

"Alright." Permission came so quickly that Steve's mouth was already open to offer another counter-objection before the approval sank in. "I'll sign the authorisation form today. If you can find a pilot crazy enough to brave enemy airspace to drop you and pick you up again, you can leave first thing in the morning."

Was this a joke? Phillips never gave in this easily. No, clearly not a joke, or Phillips would be smirking. Maybe Steve was just getting better at making well-reasoned, strategically sound suggestions. Yes, that was definitely it.

"Thank you, sir. I'll go and make arrangements immediately."

He turned for the door.

"One more thing, Rogers."

He turned back. Should'a known it wouldn't be as easy as that. "Sir?"

"Take the boy with the camera."

The boy with the… "You mean Freddie Lopresti, sir?"

"Yeah, him."

This sounded like a phenomenally bad idea. "Colonel, Freddie is a civilian. If we're caught, and they find his camera, they'll execute him for a spy." And on Steve's head be it.

"Then I suggest you don't get caught, Captain," was the curt response.

"But sir, what's the rationale for taking him along?" He'd barely even seen Freddie since getting back from that mission to Norway; the one where Bucky had taken a turn for the worse. The kid… young man… was obviously keeping busy with something, but Steve had no idea what.

"He's a war correspondent in front of the front lines. He's spent the past months sending home pictures of brave soldiers heroically marching down the streets of London, and pretty nurses caringly patching up the blistered heels of those brave soldiers, doing the sort of morale-boosting things that recruitment offices love… but top brass are itching to see for themselves what's going on behind the lines. We get communications from various channels on the mainland, but they want a real inside view of occupied territory. You'll take Freddie, he'll document everything, and you'll see to his safe return. And his camera's safe return."

The way he said it gave Steve the distinct impression that the contents of Freddie's camera were more valuable than Freddie himself. And Dernier's sister was simply a convenient opportunity. But if that was what it took to have the mission authorised…

Steve saluted. "I understand, Sir. We'll make sure Freddie returns safely, along with his camera."

"Then you're dismissed to make arrangements, Captain. Good luck, and Godspeed."

This time, Steve made it all the way to the door before he was stopped.

"Rogers."

"Sir?"

"On your way out, tell Private Lorraine to hurry up with my damn coffee."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"France, huh?" Bucky mused as he followed Steve down the winding suburban road.

"It'll be dangerous," said Steve, his face all frowny and serious.

"No shit."

"What I'm trying to say is, I'm giving all the Commandos a choice. I won't order anyone on this mission. This isn't an order from the brass, it's voluntary."

Bucky stopped, looking his friend straight in the eye. "If it was one of my sisters in trouble, I'd want a whole damn army to protect them. And I know that if I was in Dernier's position, he'd do the same for me. So count me in."

His friend's shoulders dipped in relief as he released the breath he'd been holding. "Thanks, Buck. I feel a lot better knowing you've got my back."

"Plus you don't have to worry about me drinking London dry while you're gone."

Steve grinned. "There is that."

Feigning ignorance, Bucky gestured at the grand houses around him. "So, which of these is Carter's?"

"Oh, right, it's up this road."

Steve continued, and Bucky followed. It had been his idea to check up on Antje and Ruben in their new temporary home. He'd told Antje that he'd show her around London, help her get settled in, and though he wouldn't get chance for that today—they had a mission to prepare for, after all—he could still see how she was handling things, and offer any reassuring words required. Steve had come along because he wanted to check up on Michael's recovery following his rescue, and ostensibly to show Bucky how to get to Carter's house.

The Carter residence looked much grander in daylight. Bucky had always thought his family home was pretty ritzy, but Carter's home was almost a palace. It had its own driveway that was practically the length of a street, and gardens bordered by a small orchard. The place seemed remarkably untouched by war.

It seemed the sort of house that ought to be carefully tended by a butler and a fleet of gardeners, but there was nobody in sight within the grounds, and when Steve knocked on the door, it was Michael himself who opened it, his face as gaunt as Bucky remembered. He knew, better than anyone, that the road to recovery was not a smooth, short stroll down the street, but a hike across a rocky trail longer than Europe itself. The emotional and mental journey was much longer than the physical one.

"Captain Rogers, Sergeant Barnes," said Michael. "What are you doing here?"

"We thought we'd come and see how you were doing, and how your guests are settling in," Steve replied.

"Well, I must say that the SSR's after-care is second to none. Even my own doctor has stopped visiting me at home. Come on in, then; would you care for a pot of tea?"

Both men shook their heads. Tea was carefully rationed, and neither wanted to use up any of the Carters' supply, especially since they now had two additional mouths to feed.

"How have you been?" Steve asked, as Michael shut the front door behind them and led them down the hallway.

"Oh, fine," came the flippant response. "Mostly I'm just eating and working on my book."

"You're writing a book?"

"Oh yes, though they're more like memoirs. Of my time in HYDRA's gentle care."

"I think it's great that you're writing about your experiences," said Steve. "It should help the healing process."

Bucky just knew that the words were actually aimed at him. A couple of days ago, Steve had asked whether he'd used the journal that he'd given Bucky as a Christmas present, and Bucky was forced to admit that he hadn't. Secretly, he didn't want to, but he gave the excuse that he hadn't been able to find the time yet, what with the Commandos going off and doing missions and stuff. Steve had never been good at hiding his disappointment, and that had not changed when he became a super-human.

"I'm glad you approve; you seem to be the only one who does," Michael scoffed. "My mother feels I'm wasting my time hiding away indoors when I should be out taking long, convalescing walks and breathing in the healthy London air. And Father's been angling there may be a desk job waiting for me when I can walk more than twenty feet without stopping for a breather. But you didn't come all this way to hear my griping. Our guests are in the drawing room, I believe; I'll show you the way."

The door to the drawing room was open, and Bucky heard Ruben and Antje quietly conversing in Dutch. It made him feel like an eavesdropper, even though he couldn't understand a word they were saying. But he could hear his mom's voice in his head; "Bucky Barnes, what have I told you about listening at doors?"

"Knock knock," said Michael. "Sorry to interrupt, but I found these two miscreant skulking around outside, and they claim to be here to visit you."

"Hello again," said Steve. "I hope you don't mind Sergeant Barnes and I dropping in on you like this."

Both civilians stood as the men entered the room. They looked a lot better now that they were rested and had a clean change of clothes. The transformation in Antje was almost miraculous; she looked much more feminine in a dress, and with her hair washed until the true colour shone through, she was even blonder than Steve.

"Captain Rogers," said Ruben. "We owe our lives to you and your men. As far as I'm concerned, you can visit any time you like, so long as it does not inconvenience our hosts."

"It's no inconvenience at all," said Michael. "Well, I'll leave you all to catch up. No need to disturb me when you leave." And without even waiting for a goodbye, he disappeared.

"How are you doing?" Bucky asked, dismissing Peggy's brother from his thoughts.

"We are safe, dry, and have food to keep away the hunger," said Ruben, his unseeing eyes fixed straight ahead. "I could not ask for more."

"Mrs Carter even arranged for her family doctor to check over Opa, to find out why he struggles so much with his breathing when he walks. He has something called… an-gi-na," said Antje, her lips stumbling over the unfamiliar word.

"He gave me medicine and told me to rest," Ruben continued. "That is one doctor's instruction I have no argument with. I feel as if I could just go to sleep and rest for a whole year."

"It's good to hear you're both recovering," said Steve. "And please, if there's anything we can get for you, anything at all, just ask."

"An end to this war is all I wish for, Captain Rogers," said Ruben. "So that all the families who have been forced from their homes can try to make new ones. I hope for peace, so that we can properly mourn our dead."

"Believe me, that's a dream I share. And we're doing whatever we can to make it come true. I wish I could tell you that the war will be over in six months, or a year, or even two. But I would be lying if I gave such an empty promise; all we can do – all any of us can do, is our best."

Bucky rolled his eyes. Though he didn't disagree with the sentiment, the way Steve said it—chin tilted at a photographic angle, shoulders heroically braced, feet planted apart in a post that oozed strength—made him look and sound like every conscription poster and advertisement Bucky had seen before leaving America's shores.

"And in the meantime," Bucky added, "we also hope to help you feel more settled here. I know I promised you a tour of London, but we've got to head out on another mission first thing in the morning. If you like, when we get back, I can show you everything worth seeing. Well, the bits that are still standing, of course."

Antje gave such a warm smile that it may have melted his heart just a little. "I would like that very much. Can Opa come too?"

"Of course," he replied. After all, a third wheel was better than no wheel at all. "I know you've spent time in London before, sir, but I'm sure much has changed since then."

"Bah," Ruben scoffed. "I'm sure much has changed indeed, but I could neither see nor enjoy those changes. Besides, Mrs Carter's doctor told me I must rest, and I'll hardly get rest if I'm dragged around London by you young people. But Antje, aren't you forgetting something? A promise you made?"

The young woman covered her mouth with her hand for a moment. "Oh, of course. Sergeant Barnes, Mrs Carter and her friends are teaching me many new sewing techniques, and I'm enjoying the needlework; it's been so long since I had anything to tailor except boys' clothes. I've decided that this is what I want to do; I want to be a famous tailor, a famous dressmaker. But I haven't forgotten that I agreed to take a look at your watch, back when you found Opa and I at our campfire. So, if you want to leave the watch with me, Opa will guide me one last time. Your watch will be the last timepiece I ever repair."

As she spoke, he rubbed his fingers against the leather strap. He'd forgotten that it had stopped. Most of the time, he even forgot he was wearing it. It was as much a part of him as his hand or his arm, and as he unbuckled it and handed it over, his wrist felt cold and naked.

"Thank you, I appreciate it," he said. "And don't worry if you can't get it working again; it was my father's during the Great War. It's pretty old."

"Sergeant, I have yet to meet a watch or clock that could not be made whole again," said Ruben, tilting his chin proudly. "Antje may not share my love for the craft, but she is steady enough with her hands and competent enough that under my instruction she will have it working even better than it did when it was first made. On that, you have my word as a craftsman."

"Thank you. That means a lot to me." He couldn't bear the thought of returning home with his Dad's watch broken. The whole thing felt like a bad omen.

Steve cleared his throat. "We'll have to leave you for now, I'm afraid. We've got plans to make and not a lot of time left. We just wanted to make sure you know you're not alone."

"Of course, of course," said Ruben. "The war waits for no man; make your plans, and I wish you a safe and successful mission. Antje, see Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes out."

Both civilians ignored Steve's plea that they didn't need to be seen out, and Antje ushered them towards the door.

"Thank you both for stopping by and checking up on us," she said, once they were outside. Then, she aimed an extra-warm smile at Bucky. "Good luck with your mission, Sergeant Barnes. I look forward to your return."

"As do I," he replied, tipping his hat. "Farewell for now."

They turned and walked back down the drive. Steve elbowed him not-so-gently in the ribs, and with a grin, said, "I think she likes you."

Bucky snorted softly. "She's not much older than Janet."

"And Janet's old enough to be courting."

"She'll have dozens of eligible bachelors knocking on her door in no time."

"All the more reason for you get your foot in the door early."

"I can't believe I'm getting advice about women from Steve Rogers," Bucky laughed. Though there was no denying she was a beautiful woman. And that she did seem to like him,

"I'm just looking out for you, buddy. I mean, when was the last time you even went on a date? If you've forgotten what it's like, I'd be happy to give you some pointers. In fact, I could even come along and prompt you, if you like!"

Now it was Bucky's turn to give his friend a not-so-gentle elbow to the ribs. Though it probably caused more pain to Bucky's elbow than to Steve. "Y'know, jokes like that were funnier when you weren't six-foot-two and strong enough to throw a Panzer tank over a house. In fact, if you had any had sympathy for us regular Joes, you'd never leave your hotel room. You'd just stay indoors, in the dark, where no dames could ogle you. Or at least do the decent thing and marry Carter so that you have to wear a wedding ring to let all the dames know you're unavailable."

Steve's ears went pink. "So, I've asked the rest of the team to meet us in the hotel foyer to discuss the mission. I didn't want them planning to infiltrate France while half baked."

As far as changes of subject went, it was about smooth as one of Captain Stone's landings, but Bucky let it be. As fun as it was to tease Steve about his new relationship and his new physique, he was still trying to find his feet with all of it. And besides, they really did have a mission to focus on. The sooner they got to France, the sooner they could rescue Dernier's sister, and the sooner they could be back in London so that Bucky could give Antje that tour he owed her. Now, that was the kind of mission he could get behind.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Steve's hotel room wasn't exactly large, but it was the largest room of anyone on the team. When voting for a secret headquarters from which to plan their new mission, the rest of the guys had unanimously voted for Steve's room. And somehow, Freddie Lopresti and Peggy had found their way there, too. They were packed in like sardines, with barely enough space to swing a cat. Not that he would ever do such a cruel thing to a cat.

"So, what's the plan, boss?" asked Dugan, once everyone had agreed to participate. "They're not just gonna let us waltz into Paris, y'know. And I don't like the idea of disguising myself as a Frenchie – no offence, Frenchie," he said to Dernier.

The Frenchman merely shrugged. "Is no need to go Paris. We will go to Marseilles, and speak with the leader of my cell. He can help find whoever recruited my sister."

"Are you sure they will help?" asked Jones. Dernier's letter was in his hands. "They've already refused your brother."

"But they will not refuse me. I am Resistance also."

Steve had to admit, as far as confidence went, Jacques had buckets of it. Every 'what if' the Commandos threw at him was deftly parried.

"I don't wish to rain on this parade," Monty spoke up, "but how exactly are we going to get to France in the first place? Even if Captain Stone was inclined to fly us, his plane is not currently airworthy."

"I may be able to help with that," said Peggy. "As you know, my father works for the War Office, and he has a certain amount of sway where logistics are concerned. He might be able to get us a plane."

"Are you sure?" Steve asked. "I don't want to put you in an awkward position if you have to start pulling in favours."

"I'd say saving Mr Dernier's sister is worth being indebted to my father."

"Merci, cherie," said Jacques, tipping his cap to her. "I appreciate your 'elp."

Peggy smiled back at him. "Then it's settled. Be at the airstrip at oh-six hundred. We leave at oh-six thirty."

Bucky opened his mouth to say something, but Steve held up a hand to stall him.

"We?"

"You don't think I'm going to just sit here and twiddle my thumbs while the rest of you pull off this rescue mission, do you?" Peggy asked coolly. "Besides, I've already cleared it with Colonel Phillips." Steve could tell she was annoyed with him because one elegantly curved eyebrow was half-raised. Even when she was annoyed, she was beautiful.

"Well, uh, it's not really my call," he stammered. To back-pedal or not back-pedal? That was the question. "I mean, uh, if this was an official Commandos mission then I'd love to have you with us. But, um, well, it's Jacques' family, so I'm uh, kinda following his lead on this."

Dernier stood up and offered Peggy a deep bow. "Agent Carter, with you on the mission, how can it fail?"

Damn traitor. Why didn't he see that the Commandos could do this without Peggy? There was no need to put her in danger as well.

"Okay then," he said. "I suppose that's settled too. We'll each bring along a civilian change of clothes in case we need to go undercover, and we'll meet at the air-strip at six-thirty."

"Six," Peggy interjected. "We leave at six-thirty. And I recommend carrying sidearms only. Rifles are too difficult to conceal."

The rest of the team had gone suspiciously quiet, and Freddie had taken to fiddling with one of the levers on his camera. Was it just his imagination, or was Peggy trying to wrest control of the mission away from him? Didn't she trust that he knew what he was doing?

"That's a good idea, Agent Carter," he said. "I was just about to suggest the same thing myself. And we're more than happy to go by your schedule. We'll be at the air-strip at six. Get a good night's sleep, all of you. That's an order."

One by one they filed out, wishing each other goodnight, until only Peggy was left. She stood in front of him, arms folded across her chest, the first signs of a scowl on her face.

"Steve, do we have a problem?"

Oh God. This was going to be one of those conversations where no answer he could give would be the correct one. Anything and everything he could say would automatically be the wrong thing. Might as well be wrong with honesty than try to cover things up.

"I just don't think your presence on the mission is necessary. The Commandos can handle this. There's no need to put yourself in danger."

"I know there's no need, and you probably can handle this without me. But I consider Jacques a friend — he helped me to free Michael, and now I want to help him find Céleste."

"We can probably handle this without you? Are you saying you don't have full faith in us? Or is it me you don't trust? Did Phillips want you to keep an eye on me? To take over if we hit trouble?"

"Steven Grant Rogers," she hissed, "you can be such an ass at times."

She stormed out and slammed the door so hard behind her that the walls shook. Steve sank down onto his bed. Whilst he was pretty sure that at least half of the argument was his fault, one thing hadn't escaped his notice: she had not denied that she she didn't trust him to carry out the mission. Perhaps she'd never even had faith in him at all.

Author's note: Hello friends! I've been somewhat quiet around here for the past few months, as I've got a new puppy and he's been keeping me super busy along with my other dogs. But I have managed to get some writing done, so it's time to start publishing again with a slightly more frequent schedule! We're heading towards an important turning point in both the story and the war: D-Day! The Allied invasion of Nazi-held Europe. But of course, Our Heroes are no strangers to European Operations by now.

Thank you so much to recent reviewers, especially those who've left guest messages that I can't reply to personally; it warms my heart to hear how much the story has touched people. Every once in a while I'll be asked "has this been abandoned?" and the answer is a resounding 'most definitely not' - I'm just an unfortunate slave to RL commitments, which should hopefully be easing a little over the next couple of months to allow me more time for writing. I've got some exciting and sad and poignant plans for the next dozen or so chapters, and I'm looking forward to moving this story along at a faster pace. Thanks for sticking with me over the past months :)