Dancing Monkey
“Wife, get my foot bath.”
It took Peggy a second to realize that Rogers was talking to her, and a second more to realize what he was talking about. It had been covered extensively during her classes—how women were supposed to bath their husband’s feet as a sign of care and submission. Rogers had smartly never asked her to do so for him, but she knew where the supplies for it were kept. Peggy went to retrieve them from the bathroom, feeling the Red Skull’s eyes bearing into her back.
When she returned with the filled basin and sponge, the two men had settled into chairs. she had, thankfully, paid enough attention to the instructions to know what to do. She kneeled down in front of Rogers, her back to Johann Schmidt and began to unlace Rogers’ boots. The subject had turned from her by then.
The Skull and his protégé were talking troop movement and their upcoming campaigns. They chatted for nearly an hour as freely as if Peggy hadn’t been in the room. She wasn’t sure if that was confidence or arrogance on their part. But she carefully logged away every detail of the strategy and plans they were discussing while she scrubbed at Rogers' feet well past the point that the water they were soaking in turned cold.
Finally, the Skull stood to leave. “Oh, I nearly forgot. Come here my dear,” he said, pulling a vile and a syringe out of his jacket pocket and gesturing to Peggy.
“Will that hurt an existing fetus?” Rogers asked. “There’s a very good chance she’s already with child. I’ve been exercising my husbandly rights as frequently as possible.”
Sighing, the Red Skull acknowledge that it could. “It is moments like these that I wish we did not have to put such emphasis on institutions like marriage. It would be more practical for you to take multiple mates. But if we are going to build our better world, you of all people will have to set a good public example.” Handing the needle and glass bottle to Rogers, the Skull added, “but privately is a different matter. If she is with child, have it removed. Then get this into her system. If you can only use one woman to produce, we’ll need her to produce in mass.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And ready her and yourself for a trip to Berlin. I’ll be marrying myself.”
“Congratulations, my lord. Madame Masque?”
“Yes. I’d like to make the wedding a very special occasion. This drug should not just increase the number of fetuses, but will also speed up gestation. Your wife should be halfway through term by my wedding two months from now. The visual of her protruding stomach and my happy affair will further increase our morale.”
“It will be a wonderful occasion.” Rogers stood at salute. “Hail, Hydra.”
“Hail Hydra.”
###
Since the Red Skull’s arrival, Peggy found herself with a whole new schedule. For all intents and purposes, they'd put her on a press tour. She no longer went to classes. Instead, an attendant arrived each morning to dress her. Everything she wore was carefully selected for the occasion. It was all showy and expensive. And she was given specific instructions on how to wear her hair and do her make-up.
Often times, Peggy went through multiple costume changes throughout the day, as she wore sundresses for brunches and gowns for evening cocktail receptions. She was transported alone, sans the driver, in a luxury car. It was showy and not just because of its plush seats. The gas such trips took was simply something that the Allies couldn't have spared.
Rogers generally arrived separately for most of the staged events so photos could be taken, but he tended not to linger. She’d not had a real moment alone with her “husband” since the Red Skull had appeared at the base. Most nights, he didn’t return to their room at all. When he did, it was clearly for show. They’d put on another performance of fake sex for whatever ears were listening in on them, then Rogers would depart again as quickly as he'd arrived.
He looked well. The serum saw to that, but Peggy got the sense that he was burning the candle on both ends. Between the real work he was doing for Hydra and the social appearances he had to make, he was running on little to no sleep.
The routine picked up even more after the “happy” news of Peggy’s pregnancy was announced. Rogers went from standing alongside her in the staged photos, to standing behind her. His hand splayed possessively across her stomach.
Peggy had no idea how Rogers had managed it, but he had the Red Skull convinced she’d been pregnant, had an abortion, was give his injections, and was now gestating triples for Hydra’s high command. Just what they were going to do when she should start showing and wasn't, Peggy had no idea. She hadn’t had the chance to ask Rogers about it, or any of the other questions she was desperate to pepper him with. His few nightly visits were too short and the times she saw him otherwise were too public.
In camp, Peggy was hearing whispers of some super weapon, something called Valkyrie. She couldn’t gather much intel on it, but she got the sense that whatever that weapon was, it was going to decide things one way or another. The idea of that Hydra could, and may well be, winning the war sat in her stomach like a stone.
After the announcement of yet another major Allied evacuation, Peggy was forced to a dinner and dancing affair. They’d dressed her a stunning red gown with reams of fabric that would have been used for at least six dresses on her side of the war effort. She was draped in stolen rubies-a necklace, rings, and even a tiara.
She and Rogers were meant to glide together across the dancehall floor that evening, like a fairy tale couple to celebrate her “conception.” It was the longest amount of time she’d spend with her “husband” in the past few weeks. She was hoping to have a chance to finally chat with him, but the other couples on the floor were too close for that to be prudent.
Peggy was lost in her own headspace, seething that she still had no way to demand answers and no recent opportunity to escape. So it took her a moment to realize that when the music started, Rogers had shifted his feet inside her own, silently indicating that she should take the lead. Surprised, Peggy looked up to meet the deep, penetrating gaze of his blue eyes. She started moving and he followed suit, never looking away from her face throughout the dance.
If anyone noticed Hydra’s golden goose being lead around the dance floor by his conscripted Allied-forces wife, nothing was said.
###
Two days later, Peggy was being ushered into her car again for another social occasion, a brunch for which she’d been put into a cupcake dress with so much tulle it practically stood up horizontally, when Rogers approached her seemingly out of nowhere.
“Some privacy with my wife.” He snapped at the driver.
When the driver had disappeared, Rogers pushed Peggy into the backseat, flat on her back. He motioned for her to put her legs up as if they were having intercourse.
“I only have a few moments,” he told her, actually rucking up her skirt, which was a shock to Peggy since Rogers never touched her more than he had too. “About ten miles out, the car is going to be intercepted. Give the armed men who take you hostage the password: compass. They’ll help you escape back to allied territory.”
She felt Rogers fussing with something inside her skirts. It took her a moment to realize he was pinning something in the endless masses of it. “Please get this to the name marked inside. It’s important.”
Peggy wanted to ask him what it was, why he was doing this-hell, what side he was on-but the Skull appeared behind him.
“Bedding the woman again?” He said with a laugh.
“Yes,” Rogers replied sliding off Peggy. He met her eye for a quick, but seemingly, endless moment before turning to the Skull and saying, “It’s the damn serum. Too much testosterone always pumping.”
Peggy righted herself as both men walked away laughing, making sure whatever was in her skirt was hidden well and good.
###
When Peggy felt like the driver was sufficiently focused on the road, she quietly pulled the envelope from her underskirts. Keeping it low and partly hidden in the fabric of her dress, while also keeping an eye on the driver, Peggy opened it.
The inside letter was in code-a code Peggy was all too familiar with. Even without the luxury of a translation sheet, she recognized who it was from and addressed to: Agent 13 from the Artist.
###
When the ambush came and Peggy was pulled from the car, she held her hands in the air.
“Compass.” She said to the man with the gun pointed at her. He lowered it instantly. From the look on his face, he clearly recognized her.
Laying the weapon against his shoulder as he stared her down, Peggy couldn’t help but stare right back. The man’s left arm was made entirely of metal.