#robofic

“Sure,” said Steve, readily. “No prob—uh, happy to help.”

“Wait until you’ve heard what’s being asked of you before you agree,” Peggy warned.

Steve glanced around uncertainly. The teahouse wasn’t packed, but a few of the nearby tables were occupied.

“I know it’s an odd venue for this sort of a chat,” she said, “but I’d rather we don’t talk about this at the office. And our being seen here together can only help us, in the long run, with what I’m proposing.”

Steve nodded as though he understood.

The waitress returned with Steve’s coffee, and they paused the conversation until she’d deposited it on the table and left.

“Do you know who Sir Henry Chalfont is?” Peggy asked.

Steve vaguely recalled hearing the name in the newsreels before a picture. “Does he own a newspaper?”

“Several, in fact. Sir Henry was very vocal about his German sympathies before the start of the war. He’s been watched for some time now, and we believe that he’s been passing off information to HYDRA.”

“What kind of information?”

“The classified kind.”

“Right,” said Steve.

She paused for a moment, looking as if she was deciding how much more to tell him. Finally, she said, “Recently, he indicated in a coded message that he has copies of files related to Project Rebirth. Specifically, technical schematics for the Vita-Ray chamber. Howard was careless enough to leave them somewhere they could be stolen, which is how I became involved in all of this. I managed to track down the thief, but not before the plans had been sold to Sir Henry—who, by all accounts, intends to flip them for a tidy profit. Johann Schmidt is very keen to get his hands on everything there is to know about Captain America, and he’s offering a high price to anyone who can bring him information. Clearly, you made an impression.”

“It’s nice to be popular,” said Steve, dryly.

“Indeed.” said Peggy. “We have a general idea of where Sir Henry is keeping the files, and when he plans to pass them off. If we can swap his real files for false ones, we can track the false information as it makes its way through German channels, without giving the Nazis anything of value.”

Steve knew this was often how the game was played, but it struck him as unsatisfying—to see someone doing something harmful, and not be able to intervene directly. 

Peggy nodded, as if he’d made the observation aloud. “The other advantage this gives us is that we might be able to persuade Sir Henry to continue to feed his contacts bad intel, once he’s confronted with the evidence of his misdeeds. He is, ultimately, an opportunist, and I don’t think he’s willing to hang for his political beliefs.”

Steve drank his coffee, taking a moment to absorb what Peggy had told him. “So you need my help making the switch?” he guessed.

She nodded again. “Sir Henry is giving a party tomorrow night at his house, and I’ve come by an invitation. I’m to go to the party, break into Sir Henry’s safe, retrieve the technical schematics, and replace them with the false set prepared by Howard.”

It sounded like the kind of thing Peggy could handle on her own. “Where do I come in?”

“As I said, I had planned to have another operative with me, posing as my date. He was going to carry the documents, provide some cover for me, and back me up if I ran into trouble. He’s run into a spot of trouble himself, and he can’t make it in time for tomorrow. But I believe you’d be able to fill in. I’ll do all the tricky bits. Your part will be a lot of standing around, drawing attention to yourself, and making charming party conversation.”

“Wouldn’t Howard be a better choice for that?” Besides the fact that Howard was almost certainly better at charming party conversation than Steve was, Howard and Peggy were friends, and would easily be able to convince people they were more than that.

She shook her head. “The plans were stolen from Howard, and we don’t want to tip Sir Henry off as to our intentions, even indirectly. Besides which, there will be people at this party who’ve known me for years. They’d have a difficult time believing that I would be involved with the likes of Howard Stark.” She said it mildly, but the rebuke came through loud and clear. “And he’s a civilian. He could get hurt if something goes wrong. So I’m afraid you’re it, Rogers.”

Steve wanted to ask how it was that Peggy could have social connections to a known collaborator, close enough that she’d be invited to his parties, but he sensed that was the type of question she wasn’t about to answer. And it didn’t really matter.

She continued, “A month ago, you were on a stage, convincing people to buy war bonds.”

Steve grimaced. “Don’t remind me.”

“I only mean that you do have relevant experience. You’ll just be playing to a slightly smaller crowd.”

“Right. And if Hitler shows up, I can pretend to knock him out.”

“I’d prefer you didn’t pull your punches in that case, actually,” said Peggy, giving him a faint smile. 

“Okay by me,” said Steve, smiling back.

“Well? What do you say to a bit of socializing for the war effort?”

“I’ll do it.”

She looked relieved, and he realized she had expected him to say no. 

“A car will pick us up outside my flat at 1900 hours,” she told him. “If I tell you the address now, you’ll remember it?”

He nodded.

“Good,” she said, and recited it, crisp and precise. 

“Got it.” Steve didn’t know London well, but he knew enough to know that Peggy lived in a very upscale part of town. Not for the first time, he wondered what her life had been before the war.

“Wear your dress uniform. Have your sidearm loaded. Look smart. Don’t be late.”

“Is that how you make all your dates?” The words were out of his mouth before he realized how far out on a limb he’d gone.

“Yes,” she said. She sipped her tea, genteelly, then added, “I like to know whether a man can follow instructions.”

Steve was sure his ears were bright red. He couldn’t think of anything to say in response that wasn’t likely to get a cup of tea thrown in his face. 

“I’ll be there,” he said at last. “Inspection-ready.”

“Thank you, Steve. Really.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said, awkwardly. He was a little embarrassed that she was acting like this was some big sacrifice on his part. He had no problem whatsoever with taking Peggy on a pretend date. 

The challenge was going to be making sure he didn’t mistake it for the real thing.

*

As instructed, Steve was outside Peggy’s building slightly before seven, in full dress uniform. Given the direction to look smart, he’d put in some work polishing his boots and his brass, and had even found time for a haircut and an extra-close shave. 

He thought he cleaned up tolerably well; however, as he watched Peggy descend the front steps, he realized none of it mattered. Because as long as she was on his arm, no one would be looking at him.

Her dress was black, backless, and low-cut, accessorized with a simple string of pearls and a thin diamond bracelet. As she descended the stairs, smoothly and gracefully, the satin flowed over her curves like dark water—fathomless, perilous.

“You look really nice, Agent Carter,” said Steve, in perhaps the greatest understatement of his life.

“Thank you,” she said easily. “So do you. But you’ll have to remember to call me Peggy this evening.”

“Right.”

She handed him a thick, cream-coloured envelope, which he tucked into the interior pocket of his jacket. He could see now why she needed him to carry the files: she couldn’t exactly fit them down the front of her dress, and she wore no coat, only a long, gauzy wrap. She’d instructed him to carry a loaded weapon, and he wondered if she was also armed—and if so, where.

A black cab pulled up. Peggy looked at Steve expectantly, then cut her eyes towards the car. After a moment, he clued in and opened the rear door for her, waiting for her to tuck her full skirts into the car before gently pushing the door shut and walking around to the opposite side.

Once they were both settled in the back seat, the car pulled away smoothly.

“Let’s go over our cover story.” 

Steve glanced in the direction of the cab driver.

“You can speak freely in front of Martins. He has the appropriate clearance.”

Steve nodded. They really weren’t leaving anything to chance this evening, apparently.

“As far as these people know,” she continued, “I work for Colonel Phillips as his secretary. So we met when you came to his office for a briefing, two weeks ago. You noticed me, and asked me out to dinner. We’ve been inseparable since then.”

Steve blinked. “That fast?”

“You were kissing Howard’s secretary after you’d known her for about two minutes,” she pointed out, coolly.

He grimaced. “Sorry.”

Her expression, in the dim interior of the car, was inscrutable, but she gave a short shake of her head that seemed to suggest she didn’t care who he kissed, one way or the other. Either that, or she didn’t want to have this conversation in front of Martins-the-driver, regardless of his security clearance—even though she was the one who’d started it.

“So we’ve been going out for two weeks,” Steve reiterated. “How’s it going so far?”

“What do you think?”

He considered. “You must like me, if you’re bringing me to a party with your friends. But I think I’m probably more invested than you are.”

“I wouldn’t call them friends, exactly. And what makes you say so? You’re a handsome, charming officer—not to mention a hero and a minor celebrity. What woman wouldn’t be swept off her feet?”

He was grateful it was too dark for her to see him flush to the tips of his ears. “I just think, if we play it that way, it’ll be easier for you to explain to your—to people you know—when we break up after tonight.”

She nodded approvingly. “Good thinking.”

A small part of him wished she hadn’t gone along quite so easily.

*

The driver let them out in Mayfair, in front of a large, immaculate townhouse. The entrance was framed by tall columns, the stucco façade was smooth and gleaming white, and all the fences and trim looked like they’d had a fresh coat of paint just yesterday. It was elegant, thought Steve, in a blank-faced sort of way; from the school of design where wealth and character existed in inverse proportion to each other. He’d take plain old brownstone or brick any day of the week—especially if it came with window-boxes full of flowers, and kids’ toys strewn in the front yard.

He’d have to make an effort to keep those kinds of opinions to himself tonight, he supposed.

Peggy slipped her hand through his arm as they ascended the steps. “Don’t forget,” she told him. “Date manners. You hold my doors, you fetch my drinks, you light my cigarettes before your own.” There was something slightly disparaging in the way she recited the list, as though she considered it all a lot of unnecessary theatre.

“I don’t smoke.”

“Well, nobody’s perfect,” she said. “Now, smile, darling. It’s a party, not a firing squad.”

Having a Frenchman in their party opens all sorts of doors for Captain America and his Howling Commandos. 

On this particular evening, it will open the front door of a cabane en pierre sèche, known to residents around Digne-les-Bains and—thus far, at least—unknown to the German army. 

Using a three-pronged offensive of diplomacy, bourbon, and racy jokes, Dernier was able to coax the location from a cattle farmer who was skittish about hosting American soldiers on his property, but who eventually agreed to share directions to a stone hut that locals sometimes used as a hunting cabin.

“I think we’re lost,” says Dugan, for the fifth time. “Better let me see the map.”

Using the back page of Steve’s notebook, the farmer has drawn them a crude approximation of the path through the forest—cleverly concealed by Dernier with an even cruder doodle of a buxom blonde with Bambi eyes and a cartoonishly tiny waist. Unsurprisingly, everyone wants to play navigator.

“I’m the map,” says Steve, tapping his temple. “We’re right on track.”

Bucky claps Steve on the shoulder. “You should draw more sexy girls,” he says, solemnly, as if imparting important life advice. “You know, for morale.”

“I draw what I see,” Steve says dryly. “When was the last time we were within a hundred yards of a sexy girl?”

Bucky grins, and Steve realizes, too late, that he’s given his friend an opening. “Well, now,” he drawls, “that depends. Does Agent Carter count?”

She counts, for Steve, in more ways than one. But he knows better than to fall into the trap. “No,” he says shortly.

“Come on, Steve. You really never noticed that she was a beautiful dame?”

Steve has, in fact, noticed this—and what’s more, has told her so, to her face, in a moment of sheer lunacy that still makes him blush when he thinks of it. She wasn’t particularly impressed by his observation (or by him, generally) and he’s avoided making further such observations, either to Peggy or about her.

Bucky folds his arms expectantly. The other guys are quiet, seemingly occupied, but Steve knows they’re listening.

An ominous crackle of thunder gives him the out he’s looking for.

“Let’s pick up the pace,” he calls, increasing the length of his strides accordingly.

*

By the time the scrub and stunted oak recedes to open ground, they’re being lashed by the rain from all angles.

No one is entirely clear on the electrical conductivity of vibranium, so everyone gives Steve a wide berth as they cross the field. There’s a brief, uncoordinated scramble over some rocky ground, and then, at last, there they are.

The ancient stone hut isn’t much from the outside: a pile of rocks and moss that looks almost accidental. It’s easy to see why it’s been overlooked.

The inside consists of two rooms, each with its own fireplace. The back room contains a narrow cot, while the front room is furnished with a table and a few mismatched chairs, as well as a woodbox. Pelts on the floors of both rooms serve in place of rugs. The shelves are bare, aside from a miscellany of tableware, some hunting knives, and a couple of cooking-pots, to be used over the front room’s apron hearth. The window closures are just shutters and skins—no glass. Judging by the dust and cobwebs, the place hasn’t been occupied for at least a season.

Such glorified squatting is practically routine for the Howlies by now. Morita sequesters himself in the back room to tinker with his ailing radio kit; Jones starts a fire in each room, after checking to be sure the chimneys are clear; Dernier takes up a collection of ration-boxes and starts on dinner. The rest of the crew get to work securing windows, sealing up drafts, and chasing out wildlife. Dugan finds a stiff broom and redistributes the dust with unbridled enthusiasm until the others, eyes and noses streaming, beg him to stop.

Steve goes back into the storm to tackle the rusty pump. A solid ten minutes of super-powered elbow grease finally produces water that seems drinkable, if not aesthetically pleasing.

“Are you quite certain you found the pump and not the privy?” asks Falsworth, watching Steve decant the fruits of his labour.

Steve hangs the full pot over the fire. “Added vitamins and minerals.”

The fire is roaring, and it isn’t long before the water is boiled. Each man scoops a share, adding his own coffee or tea to make it more palatable.

There’s enough left for reconstituting their breakfasts in the morning, and for a quick wash, if anyone needs it—all of them almost certainly do, but they’re all tired, and too used to close quarters to care much.

Feeling warmer inside and out, they shuck off their uniforms and hang the essentials to dry. Everyone is wearing the standard woollen long johns as their base layer—everyone, that is, except for Steve, whose battle suit is twice as warm as standard issue. The same could be said for Steve himself, who endures the usual hooting and wolf-whistling when he strips down to his boxers and undershirt.

Dernier, supplementing the pitiful K-rations with some odds and ends from his own scavenging, has worked his usual magic over the hearth: a hearty stew of root vegetables in a wild mushroom gravy that looks more appetizing than anything Steve has made on his best day at home.

They portion it out equally among various plates, bowls, and canteen cups. Every flat surface becomes a seat, and nearly every mouth is too busy chewing to speak.

“Where the hell’d you find potatoes?” asks Dugan, who never met a companionable silence he didn’t feel the need to shatter.

“In the earth,” replies Dernier, his tone pure contempt. “Do they fall from the sky in America?”

Dugan makes a rude gesture.

Falsworth asks, “Do I detect fresh thyme?”

A torrent of rapid-fire French—something about herbes de Provence, and a few turns of phrase that Steve recognizes as generally unflattering, apparently aimed at English cooking.

Gabe translates, “Yep.”

The others laugh.

Morita emerges from the back room, the door slapping shut behind him. “Orders, Cap.” He squats over the hearth to collect his cup and spoon.

Steve pauses, his own spoon halfway to his open mouth, and waits.

“We’re picking up a friend.” Morita shovels stew into his mouth and swallows without chewing. “Should be here around 0200.”

Friend usually means British intelligence. 

Peggy Carter is, technically, part of the SSR. But she’s also on loan from the SOE, and occasionally they like to call in favours. She’s been out on an assignment for at least a few weeks now—doing what, he can’t be sure.

All around him, the scraping of cutlery on tin has stopped. Dugan and Barnes exchange a meaningful look before pivoting to face him. Steve can feel his ears turning red; he suddenly wants to tell them both to shut up, even though they haven’t said anything.

Carefully casual, he inquires, “Any ID?”

Morita nods, his face splitting into a wide grin. “It’s her.”