Chapter 1
After the shit day he’s had so far, the fair is a welcome distraction.
Another attempt, his fourth, and another rejection. He’s not even surprised at this point. He knew the minute the doctor frowned during the examination that he was going to find a 4F stamped on his paper. Not even trying to cheer himself up by going to a movie helped, because he didn’t even get to see the cartoon they were showing, meaning he blew a quarter for no reason.
But at least Bucky seemed to be having a great day. The dates Bucky invited, both pretty as postcards, gravitated toward him as usual, fawning over him and brushing at his uniform, pitching their voices up ever so slightly when he asks them a question or excitedly talks about electricity this, and robots that. Joan was supposed to be Steve’s date, and though she’s nice enough, and Steve and Joan share a love for art, they've got little else in common. It’s… a bit of a bummer, but Steve never expected this to go anywhere, realistically. It’s just how it always is with Steve. Bucky tells girls how amazing his pal is, only to get… Steve.
Bucky gushes over the inventions, dragging everyone along in an excited pace. It’s nice seeing Bucky happy, at least. He’s been a bit down, a little grim as of late, and Steve hates seeing him that way, so he’s content to let the day be whatever it is to give him a nice night. He’s going to war, after all, alone. He should have a good last day, he shouldn’t have to deal with the sour mood Steve’s been dragging with him.
After they view Howard Stark’s flying car and its subsequent failure, Steve spots an enlistment sign.
It’s a terrible idea, he thinks, glancing at the back of Bucky’s head, but maybe…
When Bucky isn’t paying attention, Steve slips away before he really thinks about what he’s doing. He’s quick when he wants to be, and Bucky knows it, so he has to be quicker still to make good time. But… with every step he takes, doubts creep up on him, pulling at his ankles and arms, and climbing up his spine. By the time he’s at the entrance, these creeping doubts have built up and slowed his walk to a dead stop.
He sighs, looking down the hall contemplatively. They’ll just deny him again, just like earlier today. He can’t hide the bend in his spine, the flat feet, the heart murmur, the deaf ear and the trick joint. There's only so many times he can lie on his enlistment forms without getting caught. Luck only needs to run out once, after all.
So he stands there, and debates. How he could lie, what he could say, if it was worth the potential trouble. If there was something else he could do instead that would fill this need to just do something. He glances back to where Bucky would be, in the crowd over that way, wondering what Bucky would say too.
Someone asks something very close by, and Steve startles, flinching away slightly. “Christ!” he bites out, looking the guy’s way, turning his good ear more his way with it. “Jesus--! Don’t sneak up on me like that, pal, you almost gave me a heart attack!”
“I apologize. I thought you would have heard me walk over,” the man says honestly, a bit taken aback, and then Steve can’t help but notice how distinctly German that accent is.
Steve sighs, deflating. “No, no, I’m-- I’m practically deaf on that side. It’s-- it happens, sorry, it’s not your fault. You just startled me.”
“Ah-” the man says, and then steps around Steve to the other side. “Is this better?”
“Uh,” Steve fumbles. “Yeah, thanks. Sorry- uh, could you repeat what you said?”
“I asked if you were going to try to enlist.” The man motioned down the hall, where Steve glanced, before looking back to the guy.
“Well, that’s a loaded question,” Steve replies. “Why?”
“Well, you’ve been standing here for a few minutes and wondered what could keep a man so occupied in his own mind.”
Steve hesitates. “Well, if I’m being honest,” he admits, finally. “I’ve tried to enlist four times already. A fifth time is gonna have the same outcome as the other four or I’ll get arrested for lying on the form, which I have been… doing,” he allowed awkwardly.
The man huffed, a little amused.
“I’m- medically ineligible,” Steve explained. “Asthma. Scoliosis. And, well, you know, I can’t hear much out of my left ear. All that and more. I was just debating if it was worth it. I mean-- chances are I won’t pass the medical exam again, and at worse, I could get arrested, and that’ll be a pain in the a- uh, rear end. I’m sorta-- thinking about trying some other option, but I’m pretty sure you have to enlist properly to even get some kind of desk job but I can’t do that, because--”
“Because you’re medically ineligible,” the man agreed, nodding. “That is a-- a pickle,” he said, like he wasn’t used to the phrase, and was testing it out.
“Isn’t it though? I want-- I want to be useful, really useful, honestly and truly useful, not just-- going around collecting scrap and oil or whatever they’re asking for now, and since they won’t let me enlist... I just feel… useless like this. Can’t join up, no matter how much I want to put in my bit of effort, I’m just… stuck. I’d honestly take a desk job, be someone’s secretary, anything, if fighting isn’t an option for me. I’d probably be more useful like that, realistically. I mean- me? On a battlefield? I’d probably fire a gun and break my wrist. I’m awful in a fight. My friend Bucky says I’m a hot-head, and if I listen to him for a second and think about it, that probably isn’t a great quality for a soldier. I think-- if you asked me earlier today, I’d have told you that-- there are men laying down their lives over there, and I got no right to do any less than them because that’s true enough, but--thinking about it a little more, I’d just get in the way, get in their way. I don’t want that. I think-- after this option falling through again and again, I think I’m done with looking for a spot on a battlefield-- I just wanna make people’s lives easier, maybe I should see if they’re taking civilians in some kind of administration. I’ve done secretary work before, I’m pretty good at that. But I don’t have a clue about how to go about it.” He stared thoughtfully down the hall again, trying to think if he heard anything along that lines lately.
The man considered. “I might have an opening if you’d like.”
“Yeah?” Steve asked, glancing at him. “You got some contact that will let a guy like me in the army?”
“My name is Abraham Erskine. I represent the Scientific Strategic Reserve,” he introduced and stuck out his hand.
Steve shook. “Steve Rogers,” he replied, remembering hearing a thing or two, but not all that much. The SSR is pretty… self-contained, maybe. He’s not sure he even knows what they’re really doing about the war. “Nice to meet you.”
“A pleasure, truly. As it happens, one of our top agents and I both need a helping hand. Our last assistant was… well,” he made a kind of pained motion. “Technically it’s classified. The point is- if you’re looking for something in administration, I might be able to offer you a position.”
“I’d take anything at this point,” Steve would admit. “And it sounds like I’d be helpful. Like I said, that’s all I want.”
Erskine clears his throat. “It would be. It requires a lot of-- attention to detail. Would you say that’s a skillset of yours?”
“Definitely,” Steve said, giving a self-deprecating grin. “I was an art student. Top of my class, but had to drop out of art school to work instead.”
“You’ll need to be vetted properly later, of course, but if I think you’ll fit the requirement after we talk, I’d be happy to give you a chance. Yes?”
“Yeah, yeah of course. Thank you--”
“Hey!” Bucky calls out, and Steve jumps. “There you are!”
Steve huffs, and Erskine shuffles back a half step, glancing at Bucky carefully.
“I oughta keep you on a leash,” Bucky said, grabbing Steve’s shoulder and pulling him in a bit, making Steve scowl. Bucky looks over at Erskine. “Sorry about him, give us a minute?” he asked, apologetically. He looked back at Steve, frowned slightly. “I turn my back for two seconds and look at where I find you.” He motions to the recruitment area. “You’re really gonna do this again?”
“No, you jerk, I already talked myself out of it,” Steve said, pushing at Bucky’s arm. “Get off me.”
“Oh thank god,” Bucky said, putting his hands up and looking to the sky, and then planting a heavy hand back on Steve’s shoulder. “You finally got some sense. It’s a goddamn miracle.”
“I’m gonna punch you in the throat,” Steve huffed. “So help me god-”
“We both know you’re too short to reach my throat,” Bucky says, snidely, so Steve lightly kicks him in the shin without breaking eye contact. “And you, pal, are missing the point of a double date,” Bucky pointed out, motioning to ‘their’ dates.
“Blind double date, and c’mon, don’t play stupid, you know Joan doesn’t even like me,” Steve said. “You go and keep them entertained, don’t let a stick in the mud like me ruin their night.”
“I mean, she likes art like you do,” Bucky tried, and Steve gave him a flat look. Bucky sighed. “Yeah, alright, sorry. That’s my bad, really, I should have--- maybe been a little more upfront with them.”
“Hey, Sarge! Are we going dancing?” one of the girls called from a bit away.
“We sure are, doll, just give me a second and I’ll be sweeping you off your feet in no time,” Bucky says, a charming lilt to his tone as usual, and he turns back to Steve. “Fine. I’ll see you in a bit. Don’t do anything stupid until I get back.”
“How can I? You’re takin’ all the stupid with you,” Steve says back.
“You’re a punk,” Bucky huffs, amused.
“Go be tall and charming somewhere else,” Steve said, pushing at him. “I’m busy-”
“So you do think I’m charming.”
“Something keeps the ladies coming back, I guess, ‘cause it ain’t your looks.”
“You break my heart, Rogers,” Bucky said, clamping a hand over his chest. “You wound me.”
“Ask ‘em to kiss it better,” Steve tells him, and Bucky laughs, pulls him in for a brief side-hug.
“Alright, I’ll see you later, pal.”
“Be safe,” Steve offers.
“You’re the boss,” Bucky says and messes up Steve’s hair as he walks back towards the ladies.
Steve grumbles as he attempts to fix his hair and then looks to Erskine. “Sorry about him,” he says. “It’s Bucky’s last day here, he’s getting shipped out for London tomorrow.”
“It’s quite alright,” Erskine says with a smile. “He seems like a good friend.”
“He’s great,” Steve replies. “We’ve known each other for probably twenty years, lived in the same neighborhood as kids. I’m a little worried about him going over, but…” he shrugged. “He’s smart, level-headed, he’s a better fighter than me, at least.”
“Good qualities for a soldier,” Erskine allowed.
“God, I hope so,” Steve says. He lets out a breath and pushes his hair to the side.
“So. What are you going to do now that your friend has gone dancing?” Erskine motioned generally to where Bucky vanished.
“Well. He’s my ride, we live near the Brooklyn Bridge, so I guess I’ll just-- go look around.” Steve motioned vaguely. “You wanna come with? Unless you’re busy.”
Erskine hesitated, glanced back at the enlistment station, and suddenly looked resigned. He sighed. “You know-- I think I’m done here anyway.”
Steve frowns. “You sure? You sound a little-- upset.”
“Ah, don’t mind me. I was just hoping to find something tonight, but it doesn’t seem to be meant to be. I’d rather now wallow in that until I have to leave,” he says. “Besides, while we tour the expo, we can talk. So- what do you have in mind?”
“There’s something to look at every dozen feet, let's just start walkin’ and see where that takes us,” Steve offers.
They see quite a bit. They see Howard Stark and a few techs fiddling around in the engine of his flying car as the ladies flirt with the crowd to distract from that, they see the ‘Synthetic Man,’ and all these little interesting booths talking about time travel, advanced engines that don’t need gasoline, and cars powered by water, and phones that don’t need wires to work, and televisions that look like they’re from fifty years in the future. There are all kinds of things to look at and read about, all sort of presentations to listen to.
Steve doesn't mind looking around, but nothing is particularly interesting to him. At least a third of the booths are just junk being marketed as the future.
“You don’t seem particularly engaged,” Erskine noted as they passed something about chemicals that make plants grow three times their size.
“Ah, well-- it’s all fascinating, sure,” Steve said. “I’m just-- not big on all this science stuff, y’know? I’m no scientist. Bucky- he loves all those sci-fi pulps and dime-novels, which is why he really wanted to come, and hey, it’s his last day here, why not make it a lot of fun for him- beautiful dates, a whole fair full of all that junk, dancing the rest of it away. He’s livin’ the dream. Personally- I’m more a fantasy kind of guy. My ma got me- the Hobbit, um, a little before she passed. I loved it to bits. Still my favorite. What about you?”
“A bit of both,” he said. “The allure of technological advancement, but the escapism of fantasy. Both are marvelous in their own way. But, well, Germans- they love historical novels, so I’ve read quite a few in that genre.”
Steve nodded agreeably. “Sure, sure,” he said, tilting his head. “I can see it.”
“Hm?”
“Well- got more history than us, at least,” Steve said. “You know? Been there longer, more to talk about. And I’m gettin’-- Germans are a proud kind of people, yeah? So they sure wanna talk about what they’ve done, what’s happening around them.”
“A fair assessment,” Erskine replied.
“I wonder if there’s a place with a good view anywhere- so we can just watch the fireworks or something.” Steve glanced at the skyline around them, saw some buildings around that might be nice to sit on top of, but no clear way about it.
“That might be nice,” Erskine agreed slowly. “I may… have an idea.”
He leads Steve to a building a bit away, with a balcony above them and security milling around. Erskine briefly talks to one of the guards and he nods, ushering the doctor in. Erskine motions to Steve, who follows after.
“What’s this?” Steve asks.
“As it happens, I’m here accompanying Mr. Stark,” Erskine says. “This is his personal showroom, and some-- workspace in the main hall, but he said to meet him back here when we were both done.”
“Huh. Pays to know people, doesn’t it?”
They head up a staircase and Erskine opens a door to the most expensive looking balcony Steve had ever seen. Grand glass tables, chairs with elegant iron work and fancy cushions, beautiful crystal chandeliers, a well polished floor, pool table pushed off to the side, an open bar with no bartender.
An open bar, with no bartender. Well. There didn’t seem to be anyone around to stop him from taking something if he wanted.
Steve wandered in, looking around to where it might be nice to sit. There was a table by the windows, a great overlook of the park, good lighting, pretty close to the open bar… Steve motioned, giving Erskine a questioning look.
Steve tosses his coat on the back of his chair, starting to wander over to the bar.
“Must be nice to know a rich kid,” he said vaguely, as he ducked under the bar and started examining the alcohol critically. “What’s your pick?” he asked, looking back at Erskine.
“Are you-- are you stealing?”
Steve paused. “Well,” he said vaguely and motioned to the shelves of liquors. “It’s not hurting anybody. I wouldn’t steal money or food from a neighbor… but what poor person would give up the opportunity to mooch off the rich for a minute? So? You're a beer kind of guy?”
Erskin looks judgemental very briefly and then relents.
“I’m getting some of this rum,” Steve says, motioning to it.
“If they have any whiskey…” Erskine says, and Steve goes about getting them drinks. He comes back juggling two bottles and two glasses, then sitting.
“So,” Steve says. “Sorry I didn’t bring a resume or anything to the fair, but whatever you wanna ask, I’ll answer.”
“Of course, of course. You said you’ve worked as a secretary before?”
“Oh, yeah, about four times now. First time I worked for a small lawyer who pretty much just needed a receptionist who could keep everything organized just how he liked. Second time, a secretary for a tailor who did lots of commission-only work, so I had to take names, details, did a lot of writing for her. She would say measurements out loud for me to get down for her, keep those in customer files and the like. Had a whole sorting system. Wanted files on customers them sorted by size and deadline rather than alphabetically, which was a kind of hassle in it’s own way. Third time, well, I was kind of a bit of everything. I worked at an art store, did the transactions, stocking, cleaning, but also kept the guy’s files in order, kept track of orders, shipments, organized his office because he was such a messy guy, misplaced everything at least once. Did a lot of his paperwork for him, to be honest. Aaaannnd-- last time, I was only there for two weeks before I got pneumonia and they had to get someone else, but I was a receptionist for a newspaper publicist. Mostly just scheduling interviews, telling people where to go or who to talk to, writing letters for this person or that, taking calls, whatever they needed.”
“And what are you doing now?”
“Nothing steady,” Steve admitted. “Commissions and illustrations for that same newspaper. Freelance work. It doesn’t pay much, and it’s hard to find someone willing to pay for it, but they ask for political cartoons, or little comics, have me under a pen name so they can claim all the credit for stuff I don’t want to. It helps pay bills, at least. Last week I did a nice charcoal piece for a sort of upper-class-like lady who wanted a portrait of her cat. That paid pretty well, actually. Covered groceries for the next two weeks, at least.”
“Do you have any sketches or the like on you now?”
“Uh-” Steve thought of the notebook in his pocket. It was mostly studies and scribbles, but it was for use out in public, so nothing indecent, nothing queer, nothing intimate. “Yeah, actually.” He rummaged in his pocket and offered his notebook. “You can flip through it, if you like.”
Erskine took it with interest and did just that, quietly examining what he could in the dim light of firework flashes. “These are very skilled,” he said. “You were right about paying attention to detail.”
“I love details,” Steve said. “It’s what tells the most story. As much as they are a pain, I like working on pieces that are nothing but details. Kind of like those-- like the Sistine Chapel ceiling. Granted, I’m not sure how much I’d like spending years and years on one piece of work, but I like intricate things.”
“You seem to have mostly-- figures and studies, here,” Erskine pointed out.
“I didn’t bring my bigger sketchbook, it’s a pain to haul around. That one’s for if I want to practice something, or see something I wanna get down real quick on the bus, or the like. Here, lemme see it, and I’ll draw you. Give my hands something to do.”
Erskine handed it back and Steve pulled out a pencil, noting that the tip was chipped. He hummed and found a pen instead. “I’ve only got ink, hopefully I don’t fudge any lines,” he said and shifted how he was sitting to start at it. “So, where are you from?”
“Queens, 73rd Street and Utopia Parkway,” Erksine said snidely. “But, before that, Germany,” he allowed.
“Yeah, yeah, wise guy,” Steve said. “Fair enough.”
“You said you were from Brooklyn, if I recall correctly?”
“Yep. Born and raised,” Steve said. “My parents were both immigrants, but I was born here. Second Generation Irish-American,” he said. “I was raised by just my ma, though. My dad fought in the Great War.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Erskine offered.
“Ah,” Steve waved it off. “Barely knew the guy. Can’t miss when you don’t know.” He considered how he would detail Erskine’s hair with a pen, juggling a few options in his head before deciding to do some layering and shading and hope for the best.
“Have you ever worked a government job?”
“Can’t say I have,” Steve said. “Closest my job ever got to the government was doing taxes for the art store owner. I’m surprised he managed as long as he did without me. Shame I couldn’t keep working there.”
“What happened?”
“Too many sick days, mostly,” Steve said. “But also I couldn’t keep up with the stocking. See-- so, I can’t lift much with my right arm. I have a-- the doctors said it was either an underdeveloped or malformed elbow. Basically, it dislocates a lot. And it doesn’t take that much to do it. Lifting, or pulling something does it, laying on it funny too, and then I have to get it set again. So- all the unloading and lifting wasn’t good for that. And once I got a bad concussion and couldn’t work for over a week. I just missed too many days, and he had to hire somebody else to cover it, and then he couldn’t justify paying two people to do one job, so he had to just go with someone who could be more reliable. It was a shame. I get it, I do, but it still stings a bit. Because I- I am reliable, I just get sick pretty easily. Wish I had a job I could just do from home. Or, well, I do, that’s what the freelance illustration job is, but it’s not consistent with its pay.”
“Hm,” Erskine replied. “The job I would need you to do may allow for that, depending. At the very least, you wouldn't have to go far, if you lived on the base.”
“Exactly,” Steve insisted. “Bucky just thought the trip to work wouldn’t help any, make it worse, so he didn’t let me go, got a message sent to the guy by a friend. Most of the time I didn’t have any fever, just blocked sinuses and probably a cough or so. I could do paperwork like that easily enough. Just not all the-- the moving around, unpacking, lifting, talking,” he elaborated. “Made my throat sore and then coughing hurt.”
Steve examined what he had so far, the outline of Erskine’s profile, the lines of his face, the texture of his coat. “Hm. You said I’d be helping you and another agent?”
“Yes, one of our best,” he said. “Most of the time everything is under control, but we could use someone to pick up some slack to make our work easier. I think we both spend too much time buried in paperwork that we could put on someone else to prepare, but we don’t trust some of the other assistants to do it to our specifications, seeing as they work with other agents and supervisors more often.”
“I could do that. If I’m pretty much doing the same job, it wouldn’t be a hassle,” Steve said.
“Yes,” Erskine says. “We are both very independent people, so we like to do our own work, so we decided sharing an assistant gave us the support we needed without it feeling--- overbearing.”
“I understand that. And… This is as done as I wanna make it with a pen,” Steve admitted. “Don’t wanna try anything fancy and make a mess of it. What do you think?” He offers the page for the man to see, and he takes it.
“Na so was!” Erskine says, impressed. “You have very-- your work has a lot of expression and character. I like that.”
“Thanks.”
“So, your schooling, your grades, how were they?”
“Near the top of my class,” he said. “Wasn’t perfect, but did pretty well, especially in English, History… Not a huge fan of math, but I can figure it out well enough, and then-- good grades at my art school. I don’t have any of my report cards anymore, but I can get you the names of my teachers and schools,” he said. “They probably still have files. Maybe.”
“We will look into it,” he replied.
“Though, Mrs. Jennifer in middle school hated me cause I wrote with my left hand sometimes,” he said. “So if she’s still around, ignore that.”
“You are left-handed?”
“No, not quite. I can use both,” he says, raising them and wiggling his fingers. “Print, cursive, can draw with either, whatever.”
“Interesting,” Erskine says.
“Which is great, because if I dislocate this elbow badly I can rest that arm and use the other for a day.”
“That may be handy,” Erskine allowed. “Paperwork does tend to lead to repetitive motion injuries.”
Steve wiggled his fingers at Erskine again, pointedly, and Erskine laughed.
The rest of the conversation was a mix of personal and professional. Steve told Erskine about his life and skills, and Erskine sometimes wrote little notes in a small notebook he kept in a pocket. By the end of it, about the time Steve was supposed to be starting on his way to meet Bucky at the car, Erskine seemed pleased, and he patted his pockets, looking for something.
“Here. my card, you can-- use this to start the process,” Erskine said, pulling out what looks like a business card and a pen, writing something down, and handing it over, shaking it slightly so the ink dried.
Steve takes it. A phone number and an address.
“I’ll make sure they’re expecting you, of course. I’ll arrange it.”
“Thank you,” he says honestly.
“I’ll be seeing you soon, Mr. Rogers,” Erskine says, and Steve took his leave.
The next day Bucky is gone. Steve saw him off at the station, waved at him as the train traveled down the line, and shortly after Steve was tracking an address.
It doesn’t take long, and soon enough he’s walking into a very nondescript building and trying to soothe his nerves.
They’re already expecting him and with the way they peer at him he’s glad he got there a bit early. What follows is an interview unlike any other he’s had. They ask for his entire education career, from grade school to his few months in art school. After that, they have him outline every job and career, even volunteer work, he’s ever done. After that, they ask him about the several jobs he’s had as a secretary. They ask for names, dates, locations, phone numbers to call, or at the very least addresses. He’s absolutely certain they’re going to call, and they’ll find out that Steve worked his ass off, but got sick easily as they came, which made his employers look for others.
There’s a shift in their considerations, eyes glancing at each other, questioning looks, narrowed eyes scanning information on paper, and he explains.
“I have weak health, yeah, but part of that is just-- not having a stable job, not being able to keep one. If I don’t bring in what I need, I can’t afford medicine, I can’t afford enough food, can’t afford heating in an apartment with a draft and thin walls, and I get sick again, like an endless cycle. I imagine on a base, where there are meals available, and a clinic available…” he shrugs meaningfully. “I’ll be more consistent, and any cold I get can be managed before it turns to pneumonia, my work, it sounds like a lot of paperwork from what I understand, can probably be done from barracks, my room, whatever’s provided.”
“He has a point,” the woman who was observing said. “Mark it in that section, and we’ll see after making those calls. We need someone capable of this job, and soon. If we have to sacrifice this one thing to get everything else, it would be the best course of action.”
The man sighed but did.
They kept going until they knew a good chunk of his life story. His eyes felt dry, he was starting to get a headache and felt a little like his mind was brushed with sandpaper.
“Alright, that’ll do it for today. We’re booking another interview in two days, let's say- Friday at 1430, can you make it?”
“More questions?” Steve said, half surprised, half not. “Figured you’d know everything about me by now. It’s been over three hours.”
The man shrugged. “The devil’s in the details, right? What they tell us to do, we gotta do. Different kinds of screening, verification, paperwork- it’s all gotta get done before anything else.”
“Fair enough,” Steve says. “Yeah, of course, Friday works fine.”
“How do you know it’s been over three hours?” the woman asks, threading her fingers and calmly examining him. “You don’t have a watch, and we haven’t told you the time.”
“Oh, I, uh,” Steve fumbles, and motions to a patch of sunlight on the wall behind him. “I could tell by how much the light moved. Used to spend a lot of-- time in bed staring at walls when I was sick as a kid, bored out of my mind. Eventually, kind taught myself how to-- tell from how much the light from my window moved. Course I’m not gonna tell you-- how many minutes past the hour it is, I’m not that good, but I can make a half-decent guess?” he tried.
“How long did it take you to learn how to do that?”
“I’m not sure…?” he started, thinking. “A week or two? I mean, I was seven or so and when I was able to do something else, I did. Cause I just wanted to play with my friend, Bucky. Uh-”
“You told us about him, yes,” she confirmed. “Sergeant James Barnes, we’ll be checking on that information as well.”
“Figured,” he allowed.
“So when you came in you took note of the location of the sun?” she asked.
“Sort of? I have a-- an edict memory. If I look at it or hear it, I just-- remember it. I don’t forget anything, not unless I hit my head.”
“If you never forget anything, why did you seem unsure of how long it took you to learn to tell time by the position of light beams?”
“Well…” he said. “People seem to get nervous when I get too accurate, so I’ve just… learned to put things in a way people don’t get nervous hearing.”
“So how long did it take you to actually learn how to tell the time like that?”
“Eleven days,” he said. “I started trying to figure it out around seven o’clock in the morning on the fourth of may, which was a monday, and knew for a fact that I had it figured out around dinner time on friday, the fifteenth. So around six. My mom got off early for the first time in forever, and she made pot pie for dinner, and I got to show her I got a 97 on my math test. I only missed one question because I subtracted 109 from 224 wrong, because the 109 looked like a 108 when I got it, I think the ink was smudged. I put 116.”
They glanced at each other.
“And if you want to try to verify that, good luck, because god knows where that math test is now, and I think that teacher retired or died ten years ago,” he said, mildly exasperated.
“We’ll take your word for it,” she said, a little amused.
On Friday they already called and briefly interviewed every person that Steve listed, including some of his teachers. They’ve verified everything he said, and dug into any and all files they could locate on him. Every single file. Birth certificate, medical paperwork, high school transcripts, and… even the unfavorable.
Seeing it all laid out was… not fun.
“Well, shit,” Steve says as he looks down on a very familiar mugshot. Several of them. He looks up warily.
“Yeah,” the man agrees. “But you know what- here’s the thing. None of the things here are actually issues. We got a few street brawls, and one or two cases of getting arrested in pansy bars. Which- you know. Not great. The army doesn’t really want any fags in it, but-- but you know what this says? it says you were here. Says you can’t be some Nazi plant- they sure as hell wouldn’t have made up police files on you bein’ a fag seein’ how they hate ‘em too.”
“I’m-- not,” he fumbles. “Listen, it’s a…”
“Doesn’t matter,” he waves off. “Homo, fairy, it’s all whatever. I mean- if you’re caught on base, or-- whatever, that’s pretty much it, pal, but it doesn’t… you’re the only person on the list of potential hires, so we can’t be too picky with your police files, ya know? Our biggest concern isn’t weather or not you’re a queer, but weather or not you’re a Nazi, or a Nazi sympathizer, whether or not you could be a spy. That’s our priority, right now. Are you a spy, and if not, are you someone we can rely on with the kind of work we need and the secrecy involved, if you can meet expectations. Fact is- we hear you’re a damn hard worker and don’t make-- too much trouble, at least. These police files tell us you know how to keep a secret pretty well. Not a single one of the people we talked to said anything alluding to this, so you’ve kept it under wraps.
“And we’re not… we’re not quite the Army. The SSR can bend a few rules, just a bit, if we need to in order to get things done. So- about this? We don’t care. Just don’t make a show of it, mind your business about it, don’t look at men in any specific way. Don’t get caught. Don’t let it get out.”
Steve grimaced. “I like-- women,” he offers and knows he sounds awkward as hell saying it. He grimaced and rubbed his hand against his face.
“Makes some things easier for you, I guess? Just don’t mention this situation ever again. We do gotta ask about this one, though,” he says, and taps on the picture. “Ya punched a cop- two cops?”
“Yeah, about that one,” he sighs and rubs his head. “In my defense--”
And after that, he had to justify trying to enlist those previous times under false names and false home cities. The guy almost looked impressed, sort of.
And after all that verification, more questions, but this time less about his past and jobs and more about just him, which was a nice change of pace, at least.
And finally the actual next day he spent a decent few hours doing paperwork- both filling out specific files and forms for them to use, with a list outlining pretty much everything he’s already said, and then just… stuff. After that, they set him up with three back-to-back tests, though they did provide lunch after the second. The first was academic, which was stressful, the second was testing his skills- reading comprehension, sorting, all kinds of basic skills he needs when he’s filling out forms that need accuracy and focus, and the last was him actually filling out a full file of example forms, using the information provided in another file. Was it stressful? Yeah, but did he nail it? He’s pretty damn sure.
As he didn’t have access to a phone, he had to come in the very next day to find out if he’s got the job or not.
“Congratulations,” the woman says pretty much ten seconds after he walked in. “You got the job.”
“Really? Oh my gosh, that’s great,” he says, a little surprised that he’s in, he’s in the army. He’s in the army and it isn’t going to kill him. No physical labor, no fighting poorly on the front lines and dying to phenomena instead of a bullet wound. He’ll be able to actually help people out, make things go smoother for them, maybe work his way up to making things easier for a lot of people instead of a few.
He was plenty qualified and they couldn't find anything anywhere that even insists that he could be an Axis sympathizer or plant. His educational career is impressive enough, and he’s got several references who vouched for him, past employers who thought he was damn good, but too medically unstable, missing too many days to keep his job there. So they clear him, they don’t care about the medical aspect. He’s not going to be doing heavy lifting, and he’ll live on the base, so he can either get treated quickly or work from his bed, if they tell him to.
“Yep. And you’re being sent down to the base in three days, you’ll report here at 0700 on Wednesday with your stuff. You’ll be living on base in the administrative barracks, a little cozier than the soldier’s barracks, so you get a little more leeway. No more than one suitcase, and one briefcase or satchel, try to stick to just your favorite clothes, because a majority of the time you’ll be wearing a provided uniform.”
“That’s… short notice. But okay, I can do that, no problem,” he hastens.
“Yeah, sorry, but the timetable has kind of kicked up,” she shrugged. “Also, tomorrow you have to go and get measured for your uniforms, and also a secondary medical evaluation, just so we’re up to date. A real one, not a falsified checkup where you overeat before to meet a weight requirement. If we need anything else, you’ll hear it from that doctor. He’ll pass along a message.”
The next day he went and got measured, got another doctor's visit- and the guy gave him some really interesting looks the whole time, but Steve wasn’t trying to pass the medical exam this time, just gave an honest one.
“You shouldn’t be in the military. You shouldn’t be even considering it,” the doctor said as he filled out the file and frowned at what he was seeing. “But I’m not here to decide that, I’m just here to bring this file up to date, so congratulations- you’re in the Army.”
“Thanks…” At least he was honest…
Three days later, Steve packed a suitcase with some clothes, books, a few of his favorite art supplies, and a few pictures of Bucky and his mother and he’s sent down to New Jersey to be ‘Agent Carter’ and Doctor Erskine’s assistant. He wonders what this agent will be like. If he’s anything like Erskine, maybe this job will be pretty nice. Erskine was a pleasant guy, easy to get along with.
He arrives in the late evening and is outfitted in the uniform made custom to his size, provided with three more pairs of the same size.
Since it’s late he’s led to the administrative barracks and motioned into a room. It has two beds to the right of the door, well separated, but neither touching opposite corners, and desks opposite them, to Steve’s left. There’s a footlocker resting at the end of the bed, and some shelves for extra storage between the beds, which has some books and papers set in it already. There was a door between the two desks, likely leading to a personal bathroom, which was very fancy, and a small circular table to Steve’s immediate right, with some bits and bobs on it, and two chairs. There’s a woman at the nearest desk, frowning and scribbling at files and paperwork, the one closest to the door, and looks up when she hears it close.
She straightens. “You must be Private Rogers, my assistant, correct?”
“Uh, yes, ma’am,” Steve replies, immediately realizing his mistake, and quickly correcting. He brushes off the surprise and focuses. He’s brand new there, he doesn’t want any mistakes or slip ups. Doesn’t wanna seem like an idiot for not knowing the SSRs best agent is a lady, so he just needs to act normal and pay attention.
She nods at the second bed, the one in the far corner. “That one’s yours. Unpack, get settled. I’ll debrief you afterward.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Steve agreed and went to put his suitcase on his bed. He put his clothes in the footlocker, his pictures and books on the shelves he’s got above his bed. He puts the empty suitcase under the bed and sits, rubbing his aching back.
“All done?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Steve replies.
“Very good, now bring a chair over here, and I’ll do the explaining.” She turns her chair around and crosses her arms over her chest, waiting for Steve. Once he’s settled, she begins. “Starting tomorrow, we will be starting preliminary testing for a project known as Project Rebirth. You’re not yet privy to what the project entails. I, as Division Supervisor, will be working with the men and acting as a drill sergeant, among other things. You will do whatever I tell you to do, and record what they do on the papers Doctor Erskine will give you tomorrow. In the end, only one man will be selected for the testing phase of the project. I am not allowed to see these papers so I can’t help them achieve what Erskine is looking for. You will only discuss what you review with Colonel Phillips and Erskine, not the soldiers, and not me. Are we clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Now, the reason we need you is because our last assistant was revealed to be a spy, and nearly gained some vital information we could not have sold off or given to the Nazi party, or the enemies of the SSR. This is the reason you are bunking with me; so I can keep an eye on you. You go where I go and are not to be out of my sight, unless you’re supervised or simply accompanied by someone else.”
“I had wondered,” Steve agreed. “Thank you for telling me.”
“And if I’m being quite honest, part of the reason you were cleared to work for Erskine and I is the fact that you would be easy to contain,” she said frankly. “If you were any other man, you might be forced to bunk with two MPs instead.”
“...Ah,” he says, sighing. Well, it made sense. They needed someone who could do the job, but also posed little threat. Making sure he wasn’t a Nazi was a good starting point, but finding somone short and small and weak was a benefit if that was a concern.
“Now, if you were to try anything, I would be allowed to contain or restrain you in any way possible,” she looked at him carefully, the threat hanging above him. “Do you understand?”
She could definitely snap his neck. It’s a little terrifying. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Now, there’s an hour or so of daylight left, so I’ll get you started with something easy.” She pulls a crate of clipboards from beside her desk and a stack of papers from on it. “Each clipboard needs ten forms in order; I-3, 22-B, the medical consent form, the experimental consent form, the nondisclosure agreement, the 45-O, and the four briefing papers, which are numbered. There are twelve subjects so you should be done with that well before we go to bed.”
Steve takes the packet of papers, momentarily overwhelmed, and then nods- it’s easy, it just sounds like a lot. He comes back for the box after depositing them on his desk.
He separates each stack into the forms that Agent Carter specified and stacks them in the order specified. He clips the packet into each clipboard and is done in less than an hour. Carter is busy at work reviewing the files on each of the ‘subjects.’
“So,” Carter says suddenly, as he puts the last clipboard back into the box it came from, all the papers neat and in order. “What prompted you to take this job, anyway?”
“Erskine,” Steve replied. “But really, I needed something useful to do if I couldn’t go out on the front lines. I had tried- tried enlisting but I’m medically ineligible, so I couldn’t even get a desk job for the army. But Erskine- sounds like he pulled some strings for me, which was really nice of him. Working for you, the SSR, is good enough for me, honestly helping the effort along.”
“What were you doing before this?”
“Not much. It’s hard to keep a job when you look like a wind can knock you over and sometimes does. Uh, but I was doing some freelance illustrations for a paper or two while trying to find something steady.”
Carter hums. “Any hobbies?”
“Art, reading, mostly,” he offers, knowing that he’s sounding boring. “But my friend says I make a habit of going out lookin’ for trouble, if it doesn’t find me first.”
Carter hums, listening.
“I might be knocked over by a strong breeze every now and then, but doesn’t mean I can’t fight if I gotta.” He pushes his hair out of his face. “Doesn’t mean I win, but… So, what about you? Hobbies?”
She shows her file. “Paperwork.”
Steve laughs.
“But I engage in fisticuffs if the need arises as well,” she adds slyly, pushing her hair behind her ear.
“Yeah?”
“Rather fun, don’t you think?”
“Sometimes, yeah, but the fights I usually get in are because some as- jerk or another is picking on someone they think they have the right to pick on.” Steve shrugs. “Or picking on me. I don’t go out boxing for fun.”
“I know a bit about that. In my home town there were quite a few men who thought they could have fun harassing the schoolgirls while they were walking home, my friends and some of the younger girls. Troublemakers with a mean streak, so I gave them a piece of my mind and they complained to the headmaster while bruised and nursing black eyes. Mother had a fit.”
Steve laughed again, imaging it.
“Do you want any coffee? I've got some of the last assistant’s instant coffee pouches left.” She gestured to a portable burner on a table in the corner.
“Bit late for that,” Steve said lightly.
“Oh, forgot the time,” she admitted, looking out the window at the dimming sunset. She looked apologetic, so Steve smiled.
“I’m, uh, actually a tea kinda guy,” Steve admitted.
She blinked at him. “Really.”
“Yeah. My ma, she always had-- something in the cabinets, and-- it was good when I had a cold, something warm, herbal. And then I just never liked coffee. It just tastes like-”
“Burnt water,” she says, matter of fact, and smiles a little, all self-satisfied, and Steve falls a little bit in love. “I don’t see the appeal,” she says frankly.
Steve fumbles a bit and pushes his hair back again. He has got to stop doing that. “So, uh, other than fighting and paperwork, is there anything else you do for fun?”
“I’m rather fond of dancing,” she said. “And you?”
“Not too good at dancing,” Steve admitted. “Not many girls want to dance with a guy they could step on.”
“You must have danced?” Carter insists.
“Well, asking a woman to dance always seems so terrifying, even without the threat that I’d step on her toes. Or, you know, that she’d step on me. And the past few years just didn't seem to matter that much. Figured I'd wait.” He shrugged and didn’t breathe a word of dancing with men.
A trumpet playing taps sounds in the distance and they take that as a sign.
The door in the middle of the room does lead to a small personal bathroom that they’d share, so they both got ready for bed, one at a time. When Steve was sitting in bed, doing some reading about Napoleon's military strategy while Agent Carter finished up, she appeared in a white SSR shirt and some men's boxers. Steve’s unable to keep his eyes to himself, looks her up and down.
She looks strong, muscular. Like she worked hard for it. She has this marvelous grace in her step, like a real upper-class lady, with the control of her body that he knows fighters have. Steve might have stared a little.
She caught his eye. “They’re functional,” she says, defensively, motioning to her shorts and shirt. “They gave me a nightdress.” Her tone was so offended he couldn’t help but be charmed. “How can I be expected to fight and move in a nightdress?”
“For some reason, I can’t imagine you trying to wear one,” he agrees diplomatically.
“Exactly. It’s ridiculous!” She looks at the pictures Steve has up. “Who is this gentleman?”
“My best friend, Bucky Barnes. I mean, Sergeant James Barnes,” he then amends. “He got shipped out for London last week. The other one’s my ma.”
“A very beautiful woman,” she says kindly.
“Yeah, she was.”
Carter picks up on his sad tone and doesn’t push it. She wishes him a good night and switches the lights off. Steve saves his page, putting the book on the shelf again. He falls asleep easily and wakes up after no time at all to more trumpeting. Carter is standing over him, looking irritated.
“You snore,” she says, glaring.
That wasn’t news.
“That’s not news,” he says. His mouth is dry, his head aches a little, and the light kind of hurts his dry eyes. “Consider that a good thing,” he rasps, blearily and… a little offended? “It means I didn’t die in the middle of the night.”
She blinks, surprised.
“You read my file, right?” he asks because he assumed she got somewhat briefed on him. “I got asthma. Bad heart, bad back, bad feet, you name it.” Steve sits up and climbs out of bed. His body aches, but he ignores it. “Plus!” he adds after thinking, putting a finger up. “You know I’m still in the room with ya, and sleeping. That’s-- you know. Your whole ‘I’ll hunt you down and kill you where you stand’ speech. If I’m snoring, you know I’m here.”
Carter crosses her arms. “...Fine. But because I had to suffer through that, I get the first shower later tonight. The water is hotter then. Now I need to get dressed. Don’t move. The MP outside will stop you if you try to leave without me.”
“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he confirms and watches as she disappears inside the bathroom with her uniform. He makes the bed, gathers fresh clothes, and waits his turn at his desk, glancing over the information manual left in the bottom drawer of his desk about filing procedures and what certain papers are meant for. She comes out fresh and sharply dressed, her hair tied up, a snappy uniform on, wearing fresh lipstick. She looks like a million bucks, he’s pretty jealous.
Steve goes in next and dresses, washes his face, and does his hair. He looks in the mirror as he adjusts the collar and hat, only feeling a little stupid, and then glances at the space around the sink. On the left-hand side is a tube of lipstick, a few other bits of makeup he’s familiar with. Steve fiddles with the tube and reads the color. Red Velvet. Fancy. It looks expensive, quality materials used. Good brand.
Dressed and clean, he exits the room and joins Agent Carter.
“The box,” she says simply, motioning. He picks it up and follows after her.
They stop by the mess hall and sit at the same table near the windows, the box under the table by their feet. Breakfast is a little gross, you can tell the ‘eggs’ aren’t exactly real, and the rest taste pretty bland, but the best part of breakfast was the tea that Carter brought in a thermos that they shared between two mugs.
“The English really do know how to make a good cup of tea,” he says as he rolls the warm mug between his hands.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she replies.
After finishing up, they both left, climbed in a Jeep, and drove across the base. Nice having friends in high places, it would be a pain in the ass to walk that far with a heavy crate in hand. Instead, he just had it on his lap, watching buildings and people pass them by. They parked a short distance from a line of men, all facing away from them and chatting amongst each other. They climb out and Steve carries the box in his arms, following Agent Carter.
“Hand out a clipboard to each man,” she advises, and Steve nods. There’s a handful of pens in the bottom of the box to hand out as well, so they could fill out the information promptly.
When they’re right behind the line of soldiers, Agent Carter barks, “Recruits, attention!” and then all snap into position, chatter cut off immediately. She eyes them critically, up and down, looking for imperfections in their stances, getting an idea of what they look like, and starts. “Gentlemen, I'm Agent Carter. I supervise all operations of this division.”
Steve starts handing off clipboards and pens, following the line as instructed.
“What's with the accent, Queen Victoria?” some asshole pipes up. “Thought I was signing up for the U.S. Army.”
Agent Carter stops and turns those sharp eyes on him. “What's your name, soldier?”
“Gilmore Hodge,” the guy introduces, puffs up like a damn pigeon, chin tilted up. “Your Majesty.”
Steve walks around the pair and continues on. He’d give Hodge his last and let Agent Carter deal with his attitude. “Step forward, Hodge.”
He does so with a cocky swagger. Steve already hates him, but he hates that action even more. Like, what could he possibly expect? What, she gonna give him a fucking kiss?
“Put your right foot forward,” she says next.
“Oh, are we gonna wrestle? Cause I got a few moves I know you'll like,” he says flirtatiously, winking.
Agent Carter slams a fist into his face so fast he doesn’t have a chance to duck and he falls back into the dirt, sending up a big plume of dust and making pained noises, whimpering like a kicked dog. Steve knows for a fact that it hurt, he saw Carter’s arms last night. She clearly worked hard to keep a good amount of arm strength, clearly worked hard to be strong in a lot of ways. She had strong calves and thighs, strong arms…
Steve can’t help but laugh at the guy, too delighted to not, but manages to force it down to a snort by biting his lip. Carter notices and gives him a look of exasperated agreement, a hand coming to her hip.
“Agent Carter,” someone says behind them and Carter and Steve both look over.
“Colonel Phillips,” she replied, straightening and saluting. Steve would as well, as expected, but the box is kinda weighty and needs both hands on it. He notices Erskine behind the Colonel, and when Erskine spots him, he smiles and waves a bit.
“I see that you are breaking in the candidates, that's good!” Phillips has a really interesting way of speaking, vaguely commanding with every word, words precise and formal. Then, to Hodge. “Get your ass up out of that dirt and stand in that line at attention until someone comes along and tells you what to do.”
Hodge scrambles up, sniffing back a bloody nose and tilting his head up to decrease blood flow. “Yes, sir,” he replied and sniffs again. Steve finally passes him the last clipboard and pen to him.
Colonel Phillips surveys the line of men and starts a rousing speech. Steve rounds the group and heads over to see what Erskine has to say, keeping an eye on Carter in case she needs him to do something.
“So? Is this everything you wanted?” Erskine says mischievously.
“It’s a start,” Steve agrees. “Agent Carter is a hell of a woman.”
“That she is,” Erskine agreed. “I apologize for not greeting you yesterday, but I was working on last-minute arrangements for the project and needed to be focused.”
“It’s fine, really. You seem busy here.”
“But, I did manage to gather everything I need you to do, observation-wise. Agent Carter told you, ja? That you would be taking notes on the recruits?”
“Yeah, she did.”
“Good. Good. Here, this file has everything you’ll need to know. It’s clearly marked and I’ve written what you need to look out for.” He held out a large file and upon noticing Steve’s burden, put it inside the box. “And the other ones are the files to take note of and submit to me.”
“I’ll do my best,” Steve agrees.
“I have every confidence,” Erskine assured. “I looked over a good deal of the material for your interview. You did a marvelous job on the reading comprehension and note taking portions, the tests you had to do, and the interviews the SSR agents conducted with your past employers said only good things… except for frequent illnesses interfering.”
“There is that,” Steve agreed, with a sigh.
“So, while they begin warm-ups and such, I suggest you review your duties for the coming days.”
“Yes, sir,” Steve promised.
“Of course, we will also consult Agent Carter to confirm your notes, when the time comes. And, if you have any questions, just ask Agent Carter to see me, ja?”
“You got it, Doc.”
“And I’ll be borrowing you from her on occasion when the men aren’t busy with all their testing and exercises,” Erskine added.
“Whatever you need,” Steve agreed.
After Steve collected the clipboards from the men, Agent Carter started day one of training and Steve quickly went to work reviewing the packet Erskine handed him, to get an idea of the kind of notes he wanted and what he should be doing with the profiles he would be making for the candidates. It took him about fifteen minutes while Peggy was having the men do some warm-up exercises. Once ready, Steve, armed with a clipboard with papers for the first day of training and a pencil, observed from a fair distance away, sitting on or leaning against whatever was available. The papers were very tidy, with plenty of room for notes but also with blanks that needed filling out, so Steve put down his observations and recorded data. There were twelve files total, but only eleven candidates, allowing for a page to go missing, and on a whim, Steve kept a record of Agent Carter's equivalent performance on the extra sheet. Might as well, she’s pretty great, it would be interesting to compare their respective levels.
He found that comparing the two was like comparing street mutts to a finely bred hunting dog. Agent Carter did nearly every exercise with the men, having changed into military pants and boots because the skirt was in the way, and she did it faster, with more energy, with little or no complaining, even if she was actually the one to make the rules. She was stronger, more efficient, and, well, just good at everything she did. Steve could tell that every motion was backed by training, effort, dedication. Days, weeks, years of training.
During lunch Agent Carter and he both reviewed paperwork, though different kinds of paperwork. She was supervising the division, there were a lot of things to keep track of and updated on, especially as she was overseeing the candidates over her usual tasks.
“So, Private Rogers, how was your first day?” she asked, sipping some water.
“Call me Steve,” he insisted. “And pretty good. It’s a good thing I’ve got an edict memory because these files are really specific. I can definitely get them done before the end of the day, I just need a bit to get it all down right. Wanna make these notes perfect for you guys.”
She nodded, impressed. She glanced at his writing and then away, remembering that she wasn’t to see the notes. “You have nice handwriting.”
“Thanks. My ma was very insistent that I practice my cursive. It paid off, at least.”
She hums. “Any man in particular who you think is best so far?”
“Not really,” Steve admitted, thinking of the packet Erskine provided, what he wanted, what he was searching for. “But it’s only the first day, so I ain’t too worried.”
“I thought much the same,” she allowed. “It’s hard to tell, yet.”
After lunch there was more training, and once again, Carter blew them out of the water time and time again. Steve could tell that the men were trying to do better than her, but by doing so, they disregarded their fellow soldiers and purposefully put them down. None would make particularly good soldiers. Well, maybe they would, if the chance to be the chosen one, the subject in this mystery project, wasn’t clouding their view. The chance to be something great could make even good men greedy.
He thought about himself in this situation. It seems absurd, but he considered it for a moment. He had the chance to be a ‘super-soldier,’ maybe his medical conditions could be cured, maybe he could be a soldier, and fight, fight alongside Bucky, do his part to end this terrible war. Even he found it appealing, even he himself had a part of himself that wanted it above all else. He doubted he would be as dismissive and cruel as the soldiers were to each other, but he can’t say for certain that he wouldn’t try to one-up the assholes who would be picking on him.
Agent Carter was tough, ruthless, and took no shit. If someone protested, she shut them down in an instant. She took complete control of the situation, not letting anyone override her authority. Steve himself was perfectly content to watch and enjoy because she was an undeniable force of nature compared to these soldiers. Nothing, nobody disobeyed her command. He was kind of hoping to see her order the grass to grow faster and see it happen.
When dinner came around and they met back in the mess hall, they continued to do paperwork and fill out files in peace. It was nice, enjoying time with someone without having to fill the air with words. After they ate, they went back to the barracks, where Steve checked all the papers for the day once again and put them back in the day one folder. It would be collected in the morning and brought to Phillips and Erskine. That way they could monitor the progress and check his notes to see if he was performing adequately.
After finishing all the notes for the first day, he pulled out the thick packet detailing the next six and went through them, familiarizing himself with what he needed to look for, what traits were good and bad, how well they should perform, and so on. Erskine himself seemed to hold very little interest in the physical aspect, but a lot of weight rested on character and personality.
Erskine wanted someone who was capable, kind, helpful, sober minded, focused, reliable, competent, intelligent. Someone who would protect first and attack second, a person who put others before themselves. He actually wrote it out on paper, ‘someone with a good heart’. He said it was much more important than the data, how many push-ups, how far they can run, and how fast. He wanted-- a good person first, and a good soldier next.
Phillips wanted a good soldier first, someone who could take orders and get them done, and if they’re a decent person as well, why not? Seems he has simple tastes.
There was no specified reason for their preferences but it was apparently important. Steve was a pretty good judge of character, or at least he thought so, and he could definitely count how many pushups a guy manages to do, so all in all it seems like as long as he kept up with the notes, he’d be fine.
Steve tucks Carter’s paper into the desk drawer.
Once he was done reviewing, he asked Carter if she needed anything done and when she said no, the rest of the work was for her eyes only, he went over to his bed and grabbed his sketchbook, starting to doodle. Just lines at first, but soon it morphed into Carter on the rope ladder, helping the guy who slipped and hung himself upside down. (His glasses had dropped right off his face when he flipped over, so once they were all on the other side Steve had gone and snatched them out of the dust and got them over to the guy so the poor guy didn't spend five minutes squinting as he patted along the dust to try to find them. He was lucky neither lense had cracked.)
The graphite outlined her strong arms, sharp eyes, her hand grabbing the candidate’s wrist to give him some stability, hair tied back… It depicted her just right. After he finished that and shaded it carefully, he closed his book and grabbed a novel instead. He planned to ask some of the other assistants for any official manuals he might need to know about, see if he could learn the art of paperwork inside and out if he could. He’d be the best damn assistant Agent Carter would ever had if he was able to.
Carter, to his delight, made tea on a camp field stove and they enjoyed the time that didn’t need to be filled with work in relative silence. Carter was reading quietly when apparently a question became too much for her. “So, Pri- I mean- Steve. Why were you so keen to serve in the military?”
Steve glanced her way. “My dad fought in the Great War. Family legacy sort of thing. Always-- always wanted to be a soldier like him. Besides that, my best friend got drafted. I tried to get into the same unit, but again, medical issues. Kept getting rejected. I figured I should do my part, serve for real, not just- collecting scrap, or grease, or whatever they’re askin’ people to do. Course, clearly I’m not cut out for it, so-- when Erskine offered, I accepted. If being an assistant gets us closer to socking Adolf Hitler on the jaw, I’m all for it.”
Agent Carter laughs and then quiets, considering. “What happened to your mother? If it’s not too sensitive a subject, of course.”
Steve lets out a slow breath. “Tuberculosis. She was a nurse, she probably got it from-- well, she just-- couldn’t shake it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“S’okay,” he replies. “I miss her. Every day. But I’m… you know. Life goes on. It has to.”
She huffs a sad laugh. “It does. And Steve?”
“Yeah?”
“You can call me Peggy.”
Steve smiles. “Peggy. It’s nice. Fits you.”