Work Text:
G Callen guided the sedan he drove this week – there’d be a different one next week, or maybe next month; for reasons he didn’t bother looking into, NCIS rarely let him drive the same car more than a few weeks – through the morning haze toward the entrance to the Office of Special Projects.
Generally speaking, he preferred to walk to work, despite the ongoing Los Angeles smog, but since Hetty had bought him a house, sheer distance had taken that option away. So he’d argued – successfully – that since the house wasn’t his idea, he shouldn’t be forced to pay for a car. Of course, if Hetty didn’t mind it taking an hour and a half for him to jog in when an emergency call came in, that was perfectly all right with him.
It was one of the few arguments with Hetty that he’d ever won.
G parked on the street – the courtyard parking spot had been unofficially reserved for his partner and second in command of his team, Sam Hanna, since NCIS had moved in while G was recovering from a drive-by shooting – and walked the remaining distance. He turned the final corner into the courtyard and stopped at the sight of a visitor. Not that OSP never had visitors, but he usually had some warning that they were coming.
This visitor, who stood studying the door G intended to use, was a woman, judging by the smart indigo skirt suit and neatly styled shoulder-length graying hair.
G had learned long ago not to take anything for granted, but the three-inch heels she wore – chunky though they were – should slow her down a little if it came to a fight, so he offered,
“Can I help you?”
She turned – just turned, not whirled, and G wondered whether she might have heard his approach regardless of the soft-soled boots he wore – and offered him a smile with crimson-tinted lips.
“Oh, yes, thank you.” Her voice held a British accent of some kind. G wasn’t knowledgeable enough to pin it down further than that. “I was wondering whether I should knock or just go right in.”
“Going right in is probably not advisable,” G replied, “since just about everyone inside has a gun. Or three.”
Her smile became a smirk. “If I were twenty years younger, I’d take that as a challenge.”
Something about her manner made G grin back. “If you were twenty years younger, I’d sell popcorn for that. As it is,” he said more soberly, “what’s your business with NCIS?”
With two fingers, she reached carefully into a pocket of her suit jacket. “I’m here to see Henrietta Lange.”
She withdrew a wallet much like the one G himself carried and extended it toward him, still clasped in only two fingers.
G leaned more than stepped forward to take the wallet and flip it open. He recognized the stylized eagle emblem and the agency it represented – S.H.I.E.L.D. – but his jaw nearly dropped when he read the name on the card and realized he was in the presence of a living legend.
He met her gaze as he handed the wallet back. “It’ll be my pleasure to escort you, Ma’am.”
*BREAK*
Throughout her long and varied career, Henrietta Lange – “Hetty” to most people – had made it a point to arrive early wherever she was supposed to be. She left late only when her presence was actually necessary, and tried to encourage those whom she supervised to do the same. People exhausted by routine overwork could not be counted on to make good decisions when the real pressure came, after all.
So this morning, she’d arrived at her, well, desk, since she preferred not to have walls separating her from the rest of OSP, a few minutes before seven. She made a pot of tea – hibiscus this morning, though she didn’t feel her blood pressure needed the assistance just now – and sat down at her desk to review the reports that had come in overnight.
Perhaps her subconscious was warning her that the reports would be stressful?
With a sip of tea and a slight straightening of her shoulders, she reached out to turn on her computer.
An hour later, when she was relieved that none of the reports so far had spiked her blood pressure, a familiar voice broke into her concentration.
“Hetty,” Agent G Callen said. “You have a visitor.”
“One moment, Mr. Callen,” she replied without looking up.
Instead, she finished the last two sentences of the report she was currently reading before locking her computer. Finally, she looked up…and had to work to keep her expression neutral.
“Director Carter.” She rose to her feet and came out from behind her desk to offer her hand.
“Ms. Lange – no, sorry.” Peggy Carter took her hand in a firm grip. “I seem to recall you prefer Miss.”
Hetty gave a slight nod and gestured Peggy to a seat. “I’ve a pot of hibiscus tea, if you’d like a cuppa.”
“Or I can make your choice of Earl Grey, green, or Lipton,” Callen offered. “I’m going to make a cup for myself, so it’s no bother.”
Peggy smiled up at him. “It may be stereotypical, but I’d love some Earl Grey.”
“Ma’am.” Callen nodded to her and then to Hetty before stepping away.
During that brief exchange, Hetty had studied her … not friend, exactly, but certainly more than mere acquaintances. The years had been unexpectedly kind to her, as the lines in her face were soft, not etched by stress, and she still stood as straight as Hetty herself, if nearly a foot taller.
As Peggy adjusted herself in her chair, Hetty decided it was best to allow her to dictate the level of formality this meeting had. She said only, “How can NCIS assist SHIELD, Madam Director?”
“Actually, no assistance is needed,” Peggy replied. Before Hetty could wonder at the reason for the visit if not that, she added, “I’m retiring at the end of the month, and making a tour of many of the agencies to introduce my successor, Keller.”
Hetty made a show of looking over Peggy’s shoulder. “Has he mastered the art of invisibility?”
Peggy laughed. “No. At least, not that I’m aware of.”
Whatever else she might have said was interrupted by Callen’s return. He offered her a paper plate bearing a foam cup with steam rising from it. Hetty could just see the tag of the teabag dangling over the side. A couple of creamer packages and sugar packets were scattered on the plate, along with a stirring stick.
“Water’s just off the boil,” he said, “but I didn’t know how you take it otherwise.”
“Thank you, Agent…”
“Callen.”
“Callen.” Peggy smiled at him again and turned back to Hetty as Callen once again gave them privacy – as much as could be had outside the SCIF.
Before their conversation could resume, a small commotion drew Hetty’s attention.
Then Callen was back. “There are some SHIELD agents asking for you, Madam Director.”
“Asking?” Hetty slid a glance toward the entrance, where the commotion had come from.
“Asking,” Callen confirmed. “Forcefully, but still asking.”
“That will be our escort.” Peggy rose to her feet. “They don’t like it when I slip away.”
[[correct the previous part to note that she’s retiring as a consultant; her health hasn’t been what it was]]
“With all respect, Ma’am,” the man who approached managed not to sound either placating or sarcastic when he said it, “we can’t do our jobs when you don’t tell us where you’re going.”
“My apologies, Agent Rumlow,” Peggy said. “But I noticed that NCIS isn’t on my schedule, and since Los Angeles is our final stop, I wanted not to miss it.”
“SHIELD doesn’t coordinate with NCIS,” Rumlow replied, his swarthy features taking on a puzzled cast.
“Not usually, no,” Peggy agreed. “But there’s no need to overlook it, either.”
“As you say.” This time, Hetty noted, Rumlow’s tone took on a little something, as though he were humoring Peggy. “But we do have a schedule to keep.”
Peggy gave a small sigh. “I suppose we shouldn’t keep the others waiting.” Then she turned to offer Hetty a bright smile. “Thank you so much for taking a few minutes to see me, Miss Lange. It’s not often two old battle-axes like us can talk over a cuppa.”
The code word, arranged in what Hetty had thought was jest many years before, echoed in her awareness.
“It was my pleasure,” was all she said as Hetty took the hand Peggy offered, feeling something small and hard between their palms.
When the handshake ended, Hetty realized that Peggy had slipped her a memory stick. It was less than child’s play to secure the memory stick as she stepped forward to guide Peggy and her escort out of the building.
*BREAK*
It wasn’t until the workday was done and most of the staff had gone that Hetty pulled out the memory stick Peggy Carter had given her and inserted it into her computer.
Battle-axes.
That’s what they’d called themselves at a pub in London one night over drinks celebrating the successful conclusion of a joint operation between SHIELD and a forever-unnamed alphabet agency Hetty had left shortly thereafter. It was the only time she and Peggy had ever worked together, though they’d remained in casual professional contact since then, mostly to congratulate each other on a promotion or other achievement.
So why now, on the eve of her retirement from the intelligence community itself, not just SHIELD, would Peggy Carter make a special effort to seek her out?
The window detailing the contents of the memory stick finally opened, to reveal a video file labeled WATCH ME FIRST and a folder labeled BATTLE-AXE.
Hetty adjusted the sound level and started the video.
Peggy came into focus on the screen. Her bright blue suit made a stark contrast to the industrial-gray wall behind her. The lack of any other features made Hetty think Peggy had recorded the video in a secure compartmentalized information facility. After a moment, Peggy began to speak.
“Hello, Hetty. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I do apologize for springing this on you so suddenly, but I’m being retired, even as a consultant.”
Hetty’s eyebrow flew up at Peggy’s phrasing. In the next moment, Peggy smiled.
“Yes, I meant that. Whatever I may say when we meet in person, understand that my retirement is not by my choice. I’ve started having…lapses, you might say. The SHIELD medics have diagnosed me with dementia. Or possibly Alzheimer’s. I’m not quite sure, and it doesn’t really matter.”
How could Peggy be so blasé about the situation? Hetty certainly wouldn’t be.
Peggy pointed a finger at Hetty – or, rather, the camera she faced. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that I’m taking this far too calmly. Believe me, dementia is a better choice than some, even if it is artificially induced. But enough of that.”
Peggy took a breath, let it out. “Something’s happened to SHIELD. It’s lost sight of its mission and mandate. Everything I’ve found is on a memory stick that I will get to you, somehow. You’ll understand when you read it all. It’s rumored that the new director will be Nicholas Fury. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”
Indeed Hetty had. As choices for director went, Fury was as good as any and better than most.
“He’s the only one I’m certain is not compromised,” Peggy said, then frowned briefly. “I take that back. Phil Coulson is also clear. I wouldn’t advise trusting anyone else within SHIELD without extreme due diligence. You’ll see why once you review the information I’ve gathered.”
Hetty paused the video long enough to open the folder for a brief skim of its contents, and she couldn’t help but stare at the dozens of subfolders. Reviewing the information would certainly take a while.
She closed the folder and re-started the video.
“There’s a lot of information on the stick,” Peggy said. “Some interesting, some infuriating, and some frankly horrifying. I don’t know that anything can be done about any of it, but I felt someone besides me should know. Knowledge is power, after all.”
Peggy blew out a breath and said, “Finally, SHIELD is continuing the search for Steve – sorry, Captain America’s body. Officially, they want to bring him home. Unofficially, I worry that they might try to recreate Dr. Erskine’s serum using some of Steve’s blood to reverse engineer it. I hope you’ll keep a weather eye on that situation.”
“You have my word,” Hetty said aloud, as though they were having a videoconference.
“That’s it for me, then,” Peggy said. “I’ve used the SCIF as long as I should. Consultants have no need, you know.”
There was a sparkle in her eye as she said that last, and Hetty wondered how anyone could think Peggy Carter had dementia. Then Peggy’s words came back to her and she couldn’t suppress a shudder: even if it is artificially induced.
“From one battle-axe to another,” Peggy said, “Ave atque vale.”
“Hail and farewell,” Hetty responded as the video went dark.
For long moments, she simply sat, staring blankly at the blank screen, as she processed everything Peggy had said and, more to the point, everything she hadn't said. There was a lot of work to be done, and Hetty knew it. Fortunately, her team was up for the task.
*CHAPTER BREAK*
The apartment SHIELD had gotten for him was, according to them, small. To Steve Rogers, however, it was more space than any one person could need.
What a difference seventy years made.
The apartment had come furnished, which was a relief. There was enough for Steve to process in this new century already without adding furniture shopping to the list. A tour of the apartment revealed it had one bedroom with what he’d been told was a queen-size bed, one bathroom, a kitchen with a tiny dining table and two chairs against one wall, and a living room with a sofa and two chairs covered in a tan fabric.
There was enough room for Steve to set up an easel as well as bookshelves for all the books he’d need to catch up on recent history.
It was more than Steve had ever even hoped to have.
A knock on the door interrupted his musings.
He opened it to reveal a man in a brown shirt and shorts. Behind him, a brown truck with a yellow logo was idling at the curb.
“Delivery for Steve Rogers,” the man said. He had broad features, close-cropped hair, and blue eyes.
“That’s me,” Steve said even as he wondered who could possibly know where he was to send him anything.
“Just need a signature, buddy.” The man in the uniform – because that’s what it was, however little it resembled anything Steve thought of as a uniform – extended a small electric pad and a stylus.
Steve took the stylus and signed a horrible approximation of his name. “That doesn’t look like my signature.”
“Nobody’s ever does, but it’s good enough for me,” the man countered with a grin. He offered Steve an envelope made of thin cardboard and bearing the same logo as the truck and the man’s uniform.
“Thanks,” Steve said.
The man just grinned at him before turning to return to his truck.
Steve closed the door and turned toward the living room, which had the best light in the late afternoon. Moments later, he was seated in a chair with a letter in his hand.
It was handwritten, which he’d learned was a rarity this century, and he appreciated the effort. The paper, though…. The paper was so thin, almost translucent, that he was afraid he’d shred it unintentionally.
Carefully, he unfolded the letter and began to read.
Dear Captain Rogers,
My name is Henrietta Lange, and I am acquainted with Peggy Carter. That acquaintance is why I take the liberty of contacting you.
Peggy came to see me a year ago last November, just before she retired as a consultant to SHIELD. Previously, she had been its director, as well as its co-founder after the war.
I can’t include our discussions in this letter due to security concerns, so I ask you to meet with me in person.
If you agree, the gentleman who delivered this letter is one of my agents. He will be waiting for you at Café Ventana this evening between seven and eight p.m.
If you require additional verification that he is the correct person to meet you, you may reference the old battle-axe, and he will counter with a reference to a shield.
I look forward to offering you my thanks for your efforts during both the war and the Battle of New York in person.
Should you wish to destroy this letter, flushing it down your toilet will be effective thanks to the paper it’s written on.
Sincere regards,
Henrietta “Hetty” Lange
Operations Manager
NCIS
Why would he wish to destroy the letter? Steve considered the question briefly, but could only conclude that destroying it would be an abundance of caution.
That conclusion sent a wave of something unpleasant through him. Dread was too strong a word for it, and so was revulsion. Unease, maybe? Yes, that was closer. He was uneasy because of the implications.
The only way to find out whether he was correct in his conclusion was to meet this agent tonight.
*BREAK*
Much to Steve’s consternation, Café Ventana turned out to be far more formal restaurant than diner. Through the glass wall fronting part of the restaurant, he could see white tablecloths and waiters dressed in suits.
He could only hope his shirt and trousers would pass muster as he approached the maître d’hotel, a middle-aged man in a dark suit, who welcomed him to the café.
“I’m meeting someone,” Steve said. “Unfortunately, I’m not sure what name the reservation is under.”
“It’s no problem, sir,” the man replied. “Your colleague showed me a picture. This way.”
Steve followed him past a small bar area and into the restaurant proper. Relief swept through him when he realized that the patrons weren’t as formally dressed as he’d feared. He’d fit right in. At least his appearance would.
The maître d’hotel didn’t pause until he was at what must be the most secluded table in the place, tucked away in a corner. The table was angled so that two of the seats had their backs to a wall, and it was from one of those seats that the delivery man stood as Steve approached.
Rather than the brown uniform he’d worn before, now he was dressed similarly to Steve, and Steve wondered if that had been a deliberate choice to help put him at ease.
“Enjoy your meal.” The maître d’hotel offered them a nod and left to return to his duties.
The delivery man – no, agent, according to the letter – offered a hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Captain. I’m Callen.”
Steve shook the hand. “First name or last name?”
“Last,” Callen replied. He pulled a wallet from a hip pocket of his trousers and offered it to Steve.
Steve opened it to reveal an identification card for G Callen, who was an agent of NCIS. The only problem was, “What’s NCIS?”
“Naval Criminal Investigative Service,” Callen replied easily enough. “Descended from the Office of Naval Intelligence.”
Steve returned the wallet with a nod. He’d heard of ONI during the war, though he’d never worked with them directly.
Callen gestured him to the other chair with its back to a wall, and Steve took it, which had been his intention anyway. Whether wartime instincts still lingered, or whether Lange’s letter had set other instincts on alert didn’t matter; all of them suggested that having his back protected was a good idea right now.
Before Steve could ask what was going on, Callen asked how he was finding New York so far, and then proceeded to keep the conversation on similarly light topics until their waiter had brought drinks and taken their order.
Which, Steve admitted privately, was probably the right thing to do – not just to put him at ease, but also to minimize the chances of anything sensitive being overheard. Then he frowned. What could be sensitive, if they were discussing it in public?
When the waiter was gone, Callen gave him a somber expression. “I have some bad news for you.”
Steve’s lips quirked before he could stop them. “I’m aware that pretty much everyone I knew is dead.”
Except, just maybe, Peggy, to judge by the tone of Lange’s letter. Speaking of which, “I’m supposed to ask you about a battle-axe?”
Callen grinned. “That would be Hetty. She sometimes lets me be her shield. I wasn’t referring to dead people.”
“Then what?”
“The Dodgers left Brooklyn in 1957. They play in Los Angeles now.”
Steve blinked. That… hurt, in a way nothing else had. “Damn.”
“Sorry.”
Steve shook off the hollow feeling the news had brought him and managed to smile, a little. “Somehow, I think that’s not the worst of what you have to tell me.”
“Depends how you look at it.”
Callen broke off as the server returned with their appetizers, tuna tartare for him and crab cakes for Callen.
They ate in silence for a few bites before Steve prompted, “How do you look at it?”
“It’s been two weeks since the invasion,” Callen said. “What have you been doing since then?”
Steve gave a one-shoulder shrug and took another bite of crab cake before he answered. “Reading, mostly. SHIELD gave me their files on the Howlies, Colonel Phillips, and Peggy. And some historical briefing packets about major events since the war.”
“Have they gotten you in touch with JAG?”
“Judge Advocate General’s Corps?” Steve asked, just to confirm they were talking about the same thing. At Callen’s nod, he said, “No. Why should they?”
“Aside from seventy years of back pay?”
“Back pay?” Steve repeated. “Why? I was-“
“Listed as missing in action, per Colonel Phillips’ report at the time,” Callen finished. “Paraphrasing, Agent Carter reported that she was in radio contact with you, and the contact broke off, devolved into static. There were no sounds to indicate shots had been fired, or anything had exploded, or any other specific indicator of your death.”
Steve could only stare at the other man, fork suspended halfway between plate and mouth. “But why? He knew I was on a suicide mission.”
“And some of the kamikaze pilots survived, much to their lingering shame,” Callen observed. “My point is that without solid evidence, Phillips listed you as MIA, and recommended that a search be made, in case you survived. Once you were found and revived, you should’ve been restored to active duty status. At the latest, you helping fight off the invasion should’ve seen you restored to active duty. In any event, you’re owed pay for all those years, and somebody should’ve told you.”
“That’s…” Steve paused, began again. “I don’t know what to say.”
“To me? Nothing,” Callen answered cheerfully as their waiter returned to take their appetizer plates away. “To Hetty, say thank you. She’s been in touch with JAG on your behalf – just to remind them of their duty,” he added. “I’m sure they’re working on the details and will contact you when they’re ready. What else?”
Steve blinked. “What do you mean?”
“What else have you been doing since the invasion?”
“Helping with cleanup,” Steve answered immediately.
“Even you can’t be doing that all day, every day,” Callen said. “What do you do in your off time? Reading those reports can’t have taken you more than a few hours.”
Suddenly feeling defensive, Steve asked, “What else should I be doing?”
“Watching the highest-grossing movies of all time,” Callen replied. “Reading the Harry Potter books and Stephen King and Lee Child and other best-selling books. Listening to the top albums of all time.”
Steve’s defensive feeling had been replaced by a feeling of mild overwhelm. Still, Callen’s choices stood out, so he asked, “Not the Academy Award winners?”
“A few,” Callen allowed. “But going for the highest-grossing means you’ll be more likely to catch a reference when somebody makes one, because those are the movies that get referenced. A lot.”
I understood that reference. Steve winced internally at the memory and gave Callen a wry nod. “I take your point.”
“Also-“
“Even more?”
“Last one, I promise.” Callen grinned. “Getting a computer and checking a few news sites every day. You can use the computer for a lot of other things, too, but I’m focusing on the basics.”
The basics.
Steve had barely gotten out of that fake hospital room SHIELD had created for him before he realized that he wasn’t in Kansas anymore – and that New York alone was far more complex the he could ever have imagined back in 1945. To hear Agent Callen listing out what he called the basics gave Steve a figurative headache.
Thankfully, their waiter arrived with their main courses – steaks for each of them – so he had a few minutes to consider everything Callen had said.
“Is it safe to assume SHIELD hasn’t done any of that for you?” Callen asked quietly once the waiter had gone again.
“Not a bit of it.” Steve cut through his steak with more force than necessary. After he chewed and swallowed, he said, “They set me up with the apartment, and Fury offered me a job.”
“Doing what?” Callen asked, curiosity etched in his expression.
“Missions of some kind,” Steve answered. “Fury mentioned the STRIKE team.”
“That’s the last place you should go.”
Steve scowled at him. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you don’t know enough about modern warfare.” Callen’s blunt tone matched the words. “You don’t know how terrorists operate, let alone how cyber warfare works.”
“Or what cyber warfare is,” Steve muttered. It hurt to admit, but as his mother used to say, ignorance can be fixed; stupidity can’t. And Steve was not stupid, certainly not stupid enough to go into combat he wasn’t prepared for.
Now that Callen had pointed it out, at any rate.
He’d have to think about the whole situation – why Fury had thought that setting up a fake 1940s setting was a good idea, and why Fury wasn’t bringing up the points Callen had.
For now, though, he had another question. “Miss Lange – is she here?”
“She’s in Los Angeles.”
Steve quirked an eyebrow. “Thus starting with the Dodgers being there?”
“Figured it was the best thing we’d have to talk about.” Callen popped the last bite of his steak into his mouth.
That was true, Steve decided. The only question was, “What now?”
“Up to you,” Callen replied. “I can give you some thoughts, but I’m not making decisions for you. Neither is Hetty.”
Unlike Nick Fury. Oh, Callen didn’t say the words, but Steve could imagine them clearly enough.
“All right.” Steve angled his knife and fork on his plate and sat back. “Give me your thoughts.”
“Hetty asked me to make sure you have a laptop computer and a cell phone,” Callen said. “So, when we’re done here, we can get those. I’ll show you how to use them and a few websites that might be helpful for you.”
“Are these computers and cell phones expensive?” Steve asked.
“Depends on the type you get. I won’t let the store clerks rip you off.” Callen grinned. “That would make Hetty angry, and nobody likes an angry Hetty.”
Steve resolved to repay the cost of the computer and the cell phone as soon as he could. For now, “What other thoughts?”
“Fury wanted to bury you,” Callen said. “Not literally, but hide you away so deep inside SHIELD that people would forget about you.”
That didn’t sound so bad because, “I never wanted to be famous.”
“Nobody sane does.” Callen offered him a wry grin. “But you are, and it’s another weapon in your arsenal. Or tool in your toolbox if you prefer. How or even if you use it is up to you, but I wouldn’t let someone else make that decision for me.”
“That – makes sense.” Even if it added another thing to his ever-growing list of things to think and learn about. What did being famous mean in this new time?
“Following on that thought,” Callen said, “it seems like splitting your group up – you, Stark, and the others – is a bad idea.”
That made Steve actually blink in surprise. “Why? The aliens are gone.”
“For now.” Callen sat forward, shoving his plate away so he could rest his forearms on the table between them. “Last month, we thought we were alone in the universe. Oh, maybe some higher-ups knew differently, but for the average person? Earth was it. Now we know it’s not, and more to the point, we know that we are woefully underprepared to face an alien threat. Your group-“
“Stark calls us the Avengers,” Steve put in.
Callen gave a half-shrug. “I would’ve gone with Defenders or Guardians, but Stark’s a showman as much as he is anything else. The name doesn’t matter. That you’re a group that works together does. How can you work together if you don’t, well, work together?”
Flashes of drills in boot camp and after came unbidden to Steve’s memory, and he realized that the Avengers could become something like the Howling Commandos – with time.
War brought camaraderie and friendship quickly – even the brief war over New York had done that. But without the daily reinforcement of those bonds, as the Howlies had during the war – they would fade. Then, when the next invasion came, the Avengers might not be ready to fight it.
Still, “Fury was right that I need a job.”
He wasn’t expecting Callen to laugh.
Callen kept laughing while their waiter brought the dessert menu and took away their plates. Finally, Callen got himself under control.
“Remember that back pay I mentioned?”
Steve nodded.
“It’s about five million dollars.”
“What?” Steve shouted, and then felt his face heating when he realized he had. “Sorry. But – five million?”
“Give or take a few hundred thousand. And if that’s not enough for you – it can be, if you don’t go crazy buying things – you can always write a book. I’m pretty sure the publishers would offer you a seven-figure advance for it. Maybe even eight.”
Steve was past being surprised at the amount of money Callen tossed around. But, “I don’t think I could write a book. I wouldn’t know what to write.”
“There are people called ghostwriters who’ll write it for you,” Callen said. “You talk to them, and they’ll make what you say sound good.”
Steve couldn’t help shifting uneasily. “That seems dishonest.”
“You can always credit them as a co-author.”
That felt more honest. Still uncomfortable, but more honest. “That still doesn’t solve the problem of what to write about.”
“War stories,” Callen said promptly. “The fun ones – because there are always fun stories, even in a horrible situation.”
That was true enough, Steve thought, but Callen wasn’t finished.
“Talk about the Commandos, or maybe tell stories of your life before the serum. Stick with what you know, what matters to you, and you’ll be fine.”
Steve nodded an acknowledgment, his thoughts filled with memories of the Howlies and some of the stories he could tell about them.
Their waiter returned, and Steve declined dessert. Callen did as well, but suggested an after-dinner whisky.
“Woodford Reserve Double Oaked if you have it.”
Steve had no idea what that was, and his expression must’ve showed his confusion.
“Bourbon,” Callen said, and Steve nodded.
“I like the flavor, even if it doesn’t affect me.”
Callen seemed to be done with heavy talking. Or perhaps he just believed bourbon should be enjoyed without distraction. The silence felt oddly comfortable. Steve chose to take that as a good sign, even if he wasn’t sure what it was a sign of.
*BREAK*
G paced the small electronics shop Eric Beale had directed him to. Tucked off of Broadway not far from the Woolworth Building, it was the last place anyone would think to look for Captain America – or anyone else, for that matter.
According to Eric, the shop was run by a couple of friends who loved computers but hated the corporate policies of both Apple and Microsoft, so they’d launched their own shop building custom and semi-custom machines for regular people at a reasonable price.
So, after dinner, G had picked up a pay-as-you-go phone for Steve – and yes, he’d started thinking of the man as Steve and not Captain America or even Captain Rogers sometime during dessert – loaded the phone with five thousand minutes over Steve’s protest – “I don’t know enough people to talk for eighty-three hours!” To which G had simply replied, “Not yet.” – and headed for this little shop, Steve tagging along, quietly protesting the money G was spending.
G ignored that, instead pointing out a few things that were new since 1945 as they walked. Once he got to the shop, he handed over Eric’s list of requirements, and left Steve in the presumably capable hands of the shopkeepers while he went to check that they hadn’t been followed.
He didn’t expect that they had, but he couldn’t assume that they hadn’t. Not if what Hetty had shown him was possibly, however remotely, true.
So G paused by the window, scanning the street outside. He didn’t notice anyone in the same location or position that they had been during his last survey – but if SHIELD, or whoever might be tailing them, were any good, their tail wouldn’t be noticed so easily.
“Callen?” Steve’s voice cut across his thoughts. “We’re ready.”
G heard the hint of shame in Steve’s voice, that he couldn’t pay for the computer himself, and made a mental bet with himself that as soon as Steve got his back pay situation sorted out, he’d pay G back every penny for the computer, the phone, and at least half of dinner.
G concluded the transaction quickly, paying cash just to further confuse anyone who might be keeping an eye on them, and then they were back on a Manhattan street.
Night had well and truly fallen now, which meant the city was beginning to come alive again. Not so much here, though – they were far closer to the financial district than anywhere else, so while there was nightlife, it was a more subdued kind of nightlife than could be found in other parts of the city.
“So,” Steve said. “What do you have in store for me now?”
“Not a blessed thing.” G had to chuckle at Steve’s expression. He continued, “My remit from Hetty was complete as soon as you got your laptop. What’s next is entirely up to you.”
Okay, G felt like scum for lying to Captain America, even if it was a tiny lie and even if he’d tell the truth before they parted ways. But it was necessary – Hetty had assured him of that, and once he’d seen the files on the jump drive Peggy Carter provided, G agreed. Still, lying to Captain America felt awful. Hetty owed him for this. Big time.