the metal on his belt feels like a solid brace holding him to the concrete floor as the dust settles around them. steve watches her rise from the crate, clear blue eyes tracking the neat, disciplined line of her shoulders. when she brushes that invisible speck of ash from her sleeve, he recognizes the gesture for what it is: a shield. she's pulling her defense back on right in front of him.
the compliment, small as it is, caught him completely off guard. for a second, he just stands there, as he's not used to people using the word decent around him anymore; lately, they use words like experiment or weapon. to hear her say it, with that precise british lilt that sounds like it belongs in a courtroom rather than a crumbling underground bunker, makes the skin at the back of his neck prickle with a strange warmth.
he doesn't know how to take it. part of him wants to tell her it wasn't necessary, that he didn't do it to earn a gold star or a soft look from the only woman in the sector. he did it because the map was right, and out here, being right means the difference between a kid from brooklyn breathing or choking on his own blood in a ditch.
"i've already done one tour with the army," steve taunts lightly when she mentions court-martialing, the testing smirk returning to his face in a defensive reflex of his own to counter the sudden shift in the room's mood. "i don't need the extended stay package."
he moves a step closer to the desk, picking up his helmet from where it rested beside the communications array. the green steel feels cold under his bare fingers, and as he looks at her, really looks at her without the rush of general staff barking orders in his ears, he finds himself thinking back to the first day he saw her at camp lehigh. back then, tucked inside his oversized uniform with ribs that clicked every time he took a deep breath, he hadn't understood. he'd been a kid from the tenements who spent his whole life watching men march off to factory jobs or breadlines, and the idea of a beautiful dame crossing an ocean just to stand in the mud and dust of a military camp seemed foreign, almost absurd. he'd wondered what kind of life she was running from, or what kind of ghost she was chasing.
but watching her over the last few weeks, seeing the way she handles the maps, the way she remembers the names of the scout units, and the way she doesn't flinch when the ceiling rains plaster down on her hair, the truth had emerged. she isn't running from anything. sheâs here because her brain functions like a swiss watch while everyone else is guessing, and because she has enough courage to force these old, stubborn men to listen to reality before they throw away another thousand lives. she belongs here more than half the officers wearing silver stars on their collars.
he keeps those thoughts locked away behind a polite, professional wall. they aren't friends, not yet, and the fragile peace between them could shatter if he pushes too hard or misreads the distance she so carefully maintains. they are colleagues in a very ugly business, and right now, the clock is ticking down to midnight.
in the end he just gives her a short, respectful nod, "thank you for the maps, peggy. keep the radio on."
the use of her first name feels significant in his mouth, a brief departure from the rigid military protocol they both use as a crutch, but he doesn't stay to see how she receives it. with a swift pivot, his combat boots crunch against the gravel as he pushes back through the canvas blackout curtains and heads down into the wet, cold belly of the staging area.
the midnight surrounding air just outside the bunker appears thick with smells of frozen pine and damp wool, and the howling wind through the trees barely masks the rumble of the trucks idling in the courtyard. the howling commandoes are already waiting for him, their faces smeared with greasepaint, expressions grim beneath the rims of their helmets. bucky, dum dum, and gabe are checking their ammunition clips by the faint blue beam of a hooded flashlight, their breath rising in white plumes that melt into the night.
"looks like the lady's path is our ticket in, cap," dum dum grunts, patting the side of his rifle as steve approaches. "hope she knows her stuff."
"she does," steve says simply, assured tones slicing through the pre-mission jitters that always seem to infect the air before a push. "we move out in five. check your gear, stay beneath the line of fire, and remember the eastern ridge has blind spots for a reason. if you see a searchlight, you drop."
the operation doesn't go smoothly. war rarely respects the neat red lines drawn on a blueprint, no matter how intelligent the architect.
by two in the morning, they're deep in the throat of the eastern ridge, the mud pulling at their boots like wet cement as they scramble up the steep, rocky incline. the automated artillery lines are exactly where peggy said they would be, their barrels silhouetted against the gray sky, but a sudden shift in the enemy's patrol rotation throws a wrench into the timeline. a routine sweep by a secondary squad catches the tail end of the commando line.
the first flare goes up with a blinding, white hiss, turning the muddy ridge into a stage under a spotlight.
"ambush!" bucky yells, his machine gun already barking as he drops into the freezing slush.
the world dissolves into a giant hell of noise, tracers, and screaming metal. the anti-aircraft guns they were supposed to disable begin to turn, their rounds tearing through the pine trees, showering the men with splinters and dirt. steve's on his feet instantly, his shield raised to catch a spray of machine-gun fire that sends sparks flying into his face. the impact vibrates down his arm, a numbing shockwave that he forces himself to ignore as he drives forward, using his frame to plow through a stone wall and into the trench where the enemy gunners are reloading.
he handles the first three men with a violent speed, striking bone and metal with dull thuds. but behind him, a concussive grenade hits the mud near the rear guard. the explosion is a deafening roar that throws gabe into a pile of shattered timber, his leg caught directly under a fallen support beam.
"cap! gabe's down!" dum dum shouts through the din, his own rifle firing blindly into the treeline.
the serum moves his limbs faster than his brain can formulate the fear. he sprints back through the crossfire, the mud splattering across the blue and red of his uniform as he dives beside the trapped commando. the wood is burdensome, soaked with frozen rain and slick with dirt, but steve hooks his fingers under the beam and heaves, his muscles straining until the timber cracks and clears.
gabe looks fucking pale, his face smeared with soot and a line of blood leaking from a tear along his temple. "i can walk, cap, i can--"
"save it," steve grunts, hoisting the man over his shoulder with one fluid motion. gabe ends up balanced against his collarbone, the iron tang of the soldier's blood soaking immediately into the shoulder of steve's uniform.
with his left hand gripping his defense and his right arm locking gabe into place, steve leads the retreat back down the secondary patrol route peggy had noted in the margins. it's a miserable goddamn lung-burning scramble through the brush, the enemy bullets clipping the leaves inches from his ears, but the blind spot holds. by the time the enemy mortar fire begins to bracket the ridge, the commandos are already slipping into the shadows of the valley, their exit covered by the very terrain she had told them to exploit.
they push forward, completing the objective by disabling the secondary radar station three miles down the line, but the cost is written on every face by the time the sun begins to offer a pale, gray light over the horizon. they had pushed the line forward five miles, securing the pass for the heavy vehicles to roll through later that morning, but they left two boys from the infantry support squad in the snow, their dog tags rattling in steve's utility pouch.
the return to the bunker is a slow, silent parade of exhaustion. the underground complex feels even more claustrophobic now, the air filled with the stench of wet wool, dried sweat, and the sharp antiseptic smell of the medical alcove where gabe was being stitched up.
steve finds a small utility sink in a narrow corridor near the latrines. the mirror above it is cracked, a spiderweb of lines distorting his reflection. he takes off his helmet, setting it on the damp concrete ledge, and looks at himself. his face looks covered in a layer of greasepaint, mud, and a spray of dried blood along his jawline that doesn't belong to him. his uniform is also a fucking mess-- the white star on his chest stained with gray slush, and the fabric at his shoulder stiff with gabe's blood.
he turns the rusted faucet, the pipes groaning before a stream of freezing water gushes out. he scoops it up in his bare hands, burying his face in the icy water to shock the fog out of his brain. the water runs pink down the drain as he scrubs the grime from his skin, using a rough block of yellow lye soap until his cheeks are raw and burning.
despite the fatigue, despite the ache in his lower back where an artillery fragment had ricocheted off his harness, the serum does its work. as he dries his face with a stiff paper towel, his skin clears, the symmetry of his features returning under the glare of the corridor lights. he straightens his tunic, brushing the dried mud off the brass buttons and adjusting the alignment of his belt. he is captain rogers; the men outside need to see him put together, unshaken by the night's ugliness, even if his mind is still stuck in the red flash of that flare on the ridge.
he eventually picks up his rolled blueprints from the bench, fingers tracing the sturdy fabric of his sleeve. he needs to get back to work. the line is moving, but the maps need to be updated with the new artillery positions they discovered during the firefight. strategizing is the only thing that keeps the noise out of his head. it gives him a track to run on, a purpose that isn't just about swinging a weapon or burying kids in foreign dirt.
he walks down the main thoroughfare of the bunker, heading toward the secondary briefing room where the maps are kept. the space appears relatively clear now that the general staff has moved their command post forward, leaving only a few desks and a large wooden table covered in grease pencils.
before he can reach the door, a figure steps out from the dark of the administrative alcove, blocking his path.
it's private lorraine, her uniform cap tilted at an angle that would have gotten her a week of kitchen duty under a stricter sergeant. she has a fresh pot of coffee in one hand and two porcelain mugs balanced in the other, her bright eyes scanning his clean face with an interest that has nothing to do with the morning logistics report.
"captain rogers," she says in a soft lilt that sounds entirely out of place. she steps closer, the scent of lavender soap briefly startling rogers. "we heard about the ridge; the whole pool is talking about it. you must be exhausted."
steve stops, his arm holding the blueprints against his side. "just doing my job, private. is colonel phillips in his office?"
"he's with the motor pool," lorraine says, setting the mugs down on a nearby crate and leaning against the frame of the door. she reaches out, her fingers hovering just an inch away from the stained fabric of his sleeve, her expression turning into something mimicking deep sympathy. "you look like you could use a break from all those maps. nobody's expecting you to solve the whole war before breakfast. why don't you let me get you a hot cup of coffee?"
she smiles, a clear, open invitation that assumes a man who spent hours in a frozen trench would want nothing more than a pretty face and some soft conversation to forget the blood on his boots. she looks at his uniform, at the broad set of his shoulders, her gaze resting on the blue of his eyes with a confidence that suggests she knows exactly what she's doing. she clearly figures that whatever he and agent carter spend hours discussing over those plans isn't anything serious-- just dry numbers and geographic coordinates that any man would get tired of after a while.
steve looks down at her hand, then back up to her face, his expression entirely neutral. he respects the women who serve in the corps, but he has zero time for the theater of a desk clerk trying to find a hero to talk to.
more than that, he secretly prefers working with peggy. when he's in a room with carter, there's no performance. she doesn't look at his shoulders like they're a display in a shop window; she looks at his eyes to see if his brain is keeping up with her calculations. she doesn't offer him a way to forget the war; she offers him a way to win it.
"i appreciate the offer, private," steve says, tones flat and professional. "but i'm on a schedule."
he pushes open the wooden door to the secondary briefing room and steps inside, the click of his heels signaling his arrival. peggy's already there, standing over the main map table, and steve just keeps moving on inside with that unbearably neat-looking uniform and dry blood still clinging to the fabric near his neck.
steve unrolls the blueprints across the wood between them, his frame looming over the paper as he looks down at the red circles she drew the night before.
"the third access point had a secondary machine-gun nest that didn't show up on the reconnaissance photographs," steve says without preamble, his eyes meeting hers across the table, the professional distance firmly back in place but the mutual understanding stronger than ever. "we need to adjust the vehicle route before the trucks hit the valley floor."
