Steven G. Rogers (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thekidfrombrooklyn) wrote2012-08-05 05:00 pm
thekidfrombrooklyn) wrote2012-08-05 05:00 pm
Entry tags:
[movie canon: Peggy and Steve]
Italy, November 1943.
The European tour is not going well.
Steve has been looking forward to this for months--finally! being in Europe! near the front!--but he's not a symbol of hope to the soldiers. He's Tinkerbell. He's a laughing stock.
He's a dancing monkey.
As a dense winter storm pours down, Steve draws.
Making fun of himself doesn't help much, either.
"Hello, Steve."
It's the last voice he expected to hear, and one he hasn't heard for months, but there's no mistaking the tone, the accent--he turns with a surprised, "Hi."
"Hi," says Agent Carter as she picks her way through the props and trunks.
"What are you doing here?"
"Officially, I'm not here at all." She drapes her coat over a trunk to have a dry place to sit. "That was quite a performance."
Oh, hell, she saw it. "Yeah, uh," says Steve, "had to improvise a little bit. The crowds I'm used to are usually more ... twelve."
"I understand you're America's new hope."
"Bond sales take a ten percent bump in every state I visit." He can't look at her.
"Is that Senator Brandt I hear?"
"At least he's got me doing this. Philips would have had me stuck in a lab."
"And these are your only two options," says Agent Carter, "a lab rat or a dancing monkey." Ah. So she saw the cartoon. "You were meant for more than this, you know," she adds in a gentler tone.
Steve doesn't answer for a moment as the rain pours down.
"What?"
"You know, for the longest time I dreamed about comin' overseas and bein' on the front lines, servin' my country ... I finally got everything I wanted ... and I'm wearin' tights."
An ambulance pulls in front of the Red Cross tent across the road, and medics rush out to attend to the wounded. "They look like they've been through hell," Steve remarks.
"These men more than most." She pauses, clearly deciding how much to tell him. "Schmidt sent out a force to Azzano. Two hundred men went up against him, and less than fifty returned. Your audience contained what was left of the 107th. The rest were killed or captured."
"...the 107th?" A New York City unit. Bucky's unit. Bucky.
"What?"
"Come on!" Steve says, leaping to his feet, and they dash across the camp to the CO tent, where Col. Philips has esconced himself.
"Colonel Philips--" Steve begins.
"Well," says Philips, "if it isn't the star-spangled man with the plan. What is your plan today?"
"I need the casualty list from Azzano."
"You don't get to give me orders, son."
Steve tries to make his tone sound more like a request. "I just need one name. Sargeant James Barnes from the 107th."
Philips says to Agent Carter, "You and I are going to have a conversation later that you won't enjoy."
"Please tell me if he's alive, sir," Steve pleads. "B-A-R-"
"I can spell," Philips cuts in. He rises, holding the stack of papers. "I have signed more of these condolence letters today than I care to count, but the name does sound familiar. I'm sorry."
It's like a punch in the chest. Bucky. The last connection he has to home, the closest thing he has to family.
But there's still a hundred and fifty men stuck behind enemy lines.
"What about the others? Are you planning a rescue mission?"
"Yeah," says Philips, "it's called winning the war."
"But if you know where they are, why not at least send--"
Philips overrides him. "They're thirty miles behind the lines," he says, gesturing to the map on his tent wall, "through some of the most heavily fortified territory in Europe. We'd lose more men than we'd save. But I don't expect you to understand that because you're a chorus girl."
There's something about artists that Steve suspects other people don't understand: they have a great memory for visuals. And Steve's is better even than most.
"I think I understand just fine."
"Then understand it somewhere else. If I read the posters correctly you've got some place to be in thirty minutes."
Steve looks at the map again. "Yes, sir. I do." He stalks off, and behind him hears Philips tell Agent Carter, "If you've got something to say right now's a perfect time to keep it to yourself."
***
Supplies. Boots. Leather jacket, his shield. A gun. A helmet borrowed from one of the dancers. A Jeep he can commandeer until he has to walk, and then ... and then he'll improvise.
He's getting good at that.
"What do you plan to do?" Carter demands. "Walk to Austria?"
"If that's what it takes."
"You heard the colonel. Your friend is most likely dead."
"You don't know that."
"Even so, he's divising a strategy. If he detects--"
"By the time he does that it will be too late!" Steve pulls on his jacket, grabs a knapsack and heads for the Jeep.
"Steve!" Agent Carter calls after him.
The rain has let up, leaving a misty, bright day. Not the best for sneaking off. Steve tosses the knapsack and his sheild into the back seat of the Jeep and says seriously to Agent Carter, "You told me you thought I was meant for more than this. Did you mean that?"
Agent Carter says, just as seriously, "Every word."
"Then you've gotta let me go." He climbs into the driver's seat and starts the engine, when Agent Carter plants herself at his side.
She looks--excited, even proud. "I can do more than that."
To be continued...
The European tour is not going well.
Steve has been looking forward to this for months--finally! being in Europe! near the front!--but he's not a symbol of hope to the soldiers. He's Tinkerbell. He's a laughing stock.
He's a dancing monkey.
As a dense winter storm pours down, Steve draws.
Making fun of himself doesn't help much, either.
"Hello, Steve."
It's the last voice he expected to hear, and one he hasn't heard for months, but there's no mistaking the tone, the accent--he turns with a surprised, "Hi."
"Hi," says Agent Carter as she picks her way through the props and trunks.
"What are you doing here?"
"Officially, I'm not here at all." She drapes her coat over a trunk to have a dry place to sit. "That was quite a performance."
Oh, hell, she saw it. "Yeah, uh," says Steve, "had to improvise a little bit. The crowds I'm used to are usually more ... twelve."
"I understand you're America's new hope."
"Bond sales take a ten percent bump in every state I visit." He can't look at her.
"Is that Senator Brandt I hear?"
"At least he's got me doing this. Philips would have had me stuck in a lab."
"And these are your only two options," says Agent Carter, "a lab rat or a dancing monkey." Ah. So she saw the cartoon. "You were meant for more than this, you know," she adds in a gentler tone.
Steve doesn't answer for a moment as the rain pours down.
"What?"
"You know, for the longest time I dreamed about comin' overseas and bein' on the front lines, servin' my country ... I finally got everything I wanted ... and I'm wearin' tights."
An ambulance pulls in front of the Red Cross tent across the road, and medics rush out to attend to the wounded. "They look like they've been through hell," Steve remarks.
"These men more than most." She pauses, clearly deciding how much to tell him. "Schmidt sent out a force to Azzano. Two hundred men went up against him, and less than fifty returned. Your audience contained what was left of the 107th. The rest were killed or captured."
"...the 107th?" A New York City unit. Bucky's unit. Bucky.
"What?"
"Come on!" Steve says, leaping to his feet, and they dash across the camp to the CO tent, where Col. Philips has esconced himself.
"Colonel Philips--" Steve begins.
"Well," says Philips, "if it isn't the star-spangled man with the plan. What is your plan today?"
"I need the casualty list from Azzano."
"You don't get to give me orders, son."
Steve tries to make his tone sound more like a request. "I just need one name. Sargeant James Barnes from the 107th."
Philips says to Agent Carter, "You and I are going to have a conversation later that you won't enjoy."
"Please tell me if he's alive, sir," Steve pleads. "B-A-R-"
"I can spell," Philips cuts in. He rises, holding the stack of papers. "I have signed more of these condolence letters today than I care to count, but the name does sound familiar. I'm sorry."
It's like a punch in the chest. Bucky. The last connection he has to home, the closest thing he has to family.
But there's still a hundred and fifty men stuck behind enemy lines.
"What about the others? Are you planning a rescue mission?"
"Yeah," says Philips, "it's called winning the war."
"But if you know where they are, why not at least send--"
Philips overrides him. "They're thirty miles behind the lines," he says, gesturing to the map on his tent wall, "through some of the most heavily fortified territory in Europe. We'd lose more men than we'd save. But I don't expect you to understand that because you're a chorus girl."
There's something about artists that Steve suspects other people don't understand: they have a great memory for visuals. And Steve's is better even than most.
"I think I understand just fine."
"Then understand it somewhere else. If I read the posters correctly you've got some place to be in thirty minutes."
Steve looks at the map again. "Yes, sir. I do." He stalks off, and behind him hears Philips tell Agent Carter, "If you've got something to say right now's a perfect time to keep it to yourself."
Supplies. Boots. Leather jacket, his shield. A gun. A helmet borrowed from one of the dancers. A Jeep he can commandeer until he has to walk, and then ... and then he'll improvise.
He's getting good at that.
"What do you plan to do?" Carter demands. "Walk to Austria?"
"If that's what it takes."
"You heard the colonel. Your friend is most likely dead."
"You don't know that."
"Even so, he's divising a strategy. If he detects--"
"By the time he does that it will be too late!" Steve pulls on his jacket, grabs a knapsack and heads for the Jeep.
"Steve!" Agent Carter calls after him.
The rain has let up, leaving a misty, bright day. Not the best for sneaking off. Steve tosses the knapsack and his sheild into the back seat of the Jeep and says seriously to Agent Carter, "You told me you thought I was meant for more than this. Did you mean that?"
Agent Carter says, just as seriously, "Every word."
"Then you've gotta let me go." He climbs into the driver's seat and starts the engine, when Agent Carter plants herself at his side.
She looks--excited, even proud. "I can do more than that."
To be continued...