"I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears, and sweat."

- Winston Churchill

media:

"We'll Meet Again"

by Vera Lynn

Washington, D.C.; February 15, 1943

"I gave you a chance, Rogers. I put my neck on the line for you, and I get this in return?" Colonel Philips bawled, slapping a thick file on his desk with enough force to make Steve flinch.

"I am sorry, sir..."

"I'll tell you where you can put your apologies! Shove 'em right back up your ass! What do you have to say for yourself, son?" Steely eyes bore into Steve's and he lowered his gaze to his shoes.

"No excuse, sir. May I submit myself for disciplinary action?"

"You can sit your ass down in that chair, I'll tell you what!" Philips huffed, and Steve dropped himself into his seat before the man could vent some more. A stiff pause crackled with tension, and he kept his gaze firmly fixed on his uniform shoes. If he even would be allowed to wear a uniform after this mess. The fabric itched against his skin as if it were affirming he didn't deserve to wear the military clothes.

"Howard and some of his army buddies approached me about the German scientist and his plans for the super-soldier. I thought sure, what the hell, we're going to need all we can get to fight the Krauts and the Japs. I asked you to do one thing Rogers – sell war bonds, do your duty for America. And what does this freedom get me in return? A kick in the goddamn teeth!"

Steve's head lowered. He couldn't bring himself to speak. "The press doesn't know it's you who stole those soldiers, but Army command does. They're angry at me for letting you loose. Can I blame them?"

"No, sir."

"No, sir is right!" Philips slammed his fist against the desk, knocking a mug off of his desk. The porcelain shattered, casting sharp shards across the office floor. The colonel didn't even flinch. "You've reached the end of your tether, Rogers. I have half the mind to disband you from the Army right now."

Steve's heart sank to his shoes. Being Captain America had fulfilled his dream of serving his country, and that was all going to be taken away from him in an instant. A spark of indignation drew his mind away from his dire predicament – hadn't he done something right? A blind man could have seen those soldiers weren't being treated as well as the Japanese soldiers had forced them to claim. Hadn't he done them a small service by saving them? Did no one understand that?

"You're lucky the soldiers all turned themselves in. They're in an Army hospital in New York at the moment, recuperating from their injuries." Philips stood and strode to the window, watching Steve from the corner of his eye. "Look, son, I understand your mentality. We all knew what was going on in Japan, but you can't strong-arm your buddies out of a diplomatic meeting because you were friends from high school! That's not how international politics work, especially not in wartime."

"There's no hope for a settlement?" Steve murmured, unwilling to meet the colonel's sharp eyes.

"Nomura was furious when he found out what happened, of course. Japan is as determined as ever to grind the United States under its boot." Philips scowled, clasping his hands behind his back.

"The papers say I condemned all those boys to death. That now Japan will show no mercy because I violated their honor."

Philips turned to him. There was no compassion or warmth in his eyes, but an inkling of understanding. "They're probably right. I'm not going to soothe your feelings, son. The next question is, what is there to be done about you?"

"Me?" Steve's mood brightened ever so slightly – maybe he wasn't being thrown out of the Army after all!

"Did I stutter? Yes, you. You're on probation, I should let you know. I'll strike a deal with you, Captain America. We'll keep your pal Barnes under our protection, and you'll go overseas to do your job."

Steve's eyes widened as the possibilities ran through his mind. Would they parachute him into Berlin as some form of punishment? Would he tour England like he did in the States? Was he joining the ranks of the everyday soldier? Neither sounded particularly appealing.

"Our boys just took a real licking at Kasserine Pass, and they could use a morale boost. Pack your things, Rogers, you're going to Tunisia."

Kasserine Pass, Tunisia; February 25, 1943

"How many of you want to help me sock old Adolph in the jaw?"

A breath of muggy wind was the only noise that sounded above the desert sands of Tunisia. The Dorsal Mountains formed a solid and taunting backdrop to the stage set up for Steve's performance purposes, mocking the soldiers who crowded in front of the wooden structure as a sign of their own insignificance. Less than a week ago American soldiers had been put to the test in their first major confrontation in the war, and less than a week ago they were slaughtered.

First Battalion, 26th Regimental Combat team sat in bloody and torn uniforms at the front of the state, with the 19th Combat Engineer Regiment behind them. Field artillery and Ranger battalions were mixed in among the rest of the troops, with too few soldiers left to form a seating area. The Army commanders stationed in Djebel el Hamra had thought Steve's intervention would bring a much-needed lift in the soldiers' morale. Looking at the deadened eyes staring up at him, Steve knew they couldn't be more wrong.

He fixed a fake smile on his face and looked out over the sea of dusty green. White bandages stood out against the faded khaki of anonymity. Even the grievously wounded couldn't all be cared for in hospitals, so the stretchers were positioned to the sides of the crowd. Those who could propped themselves up on their elbows to watch; those who couldn't stared at the overcast sky with slackened expressions.

Steve stood with his arms akimbo, looking out over the sea of uniforms and blood as the desert sand choked his throat. What could he possibly say to the men who had lost over six thousand of their own?

"All right, all right. You, the fighting men of America, have fortuitously defended this country – nigh, the world – from the threat of Fascism!""Yeah, and look what it did to us!" A heckler called back, and jeering cheers followed his exclamation. Steve's smile wavered – were they backing the cynical soldier instead of Captain America? A heavy feeling settled in the pit of his stomach, and he felt the unpleasantness grow as he strode across the stage. "I'm going to need a volunteer."

"Yeah, and look what we got in return!" A heckler called back, and jeering cheers followed his exclamation. Steve's smile wavered – were they backing the cynical soldier instead of Captain America? A heavy feeling settled in the pit of his stomach, and he felt the unpleasantness grow as he strode across the stage. "I'm going to need a volunteer."

"I already volunteered! How do you think I got here?" The same soldier cried, and first punched into the air to stir the heckler on. The hollering drowned out Steve's attempts to draw the crowd back under control. The sun beat down on his shoulders, making him sweat under his uniform, and the stench of decay was beginning to rise in the air and clog Steve's nostrils. The sensation was profoundly sickening.

"Listen, fellas," Steve began, but even the microphone in front of him couldn't overpower the volume of the taunting that struck at him from all sides. Whenever he opened his mouth a thousand more voices took his place until the mass of soldiers formed one great cry of derisive hatred. Steve's shoulder's slumped, his breath choked as the reek of the dead brought bile burning in his throat. Someone threw a rock that glanced off his cheek, and the rest of the soldiers took up the same actions.

They're stoning me, Steve thought as shock pulsed through his veins, and he ran from the stage before the barrage could continue. A few frantic-looking girls in Captain America showgirl getup darted up to the stage after him, and the cheers were nearly deafening.

Forcing his way past a traumatized Talbert, Steve found the nearest trash can and emptied his stomach. He could practically taste the rotting stink that hung over the base, and the mutilated crowds before him hadn't helped. He settled down on the back supports of the stage, where the cheers from the soldiers applauding the girls were only slightly muffled, and he pulled out his notebook from his back pocket. He leafed through the sketches for a moment, smiling at the drawings of planes he hoped to fly and guns he hoped to fire, his tiny diary of war. Look what war had done to him!

His pencil flew across the paper, sketching the performing monkey he knew he was. A shield hung from the faintly drawn arm, an audience with horse blinders cheering on with willful ignorance. He was so occupied by his work he didn't notice the familiar figure sit beside him.

"Steve?"

Jumping slightly, Steve turned to see Peggy Carter sitting beside him. Her once-pristine was tarnished with dirt and sand, and a streak of blood was smeared across her cheek, but she looked unhurt. Her eyes were a darker brown than usual, weighed down with the reality of the cost which remnants Steve had experienced on stage. Reflected in her irises was a profound sadness and anger, unlike he had ever seen in her before.

"Agent. I'm sorry, I didn't see you coming."

"Please, don't apologize. I've had enough of apologies." Her head hung chin to chest as she released a slow breath. "'Dear sir or madam, we regret to inform you that your son has been killed in noble combat against the enemy...' I've trained too many men and seen too few of them come back."

"I understand, ma'am."

"No, you don't." she hissed. "I have to live with his every second of my life. I trained these men for months, and now I have to wonder if there was some lesson I neglected, something I didn't do right that would have saved their lives."

Steve turned away, averting his gaze from Carter's burning stare. She sighed and laid a hand on his shoulder, drawing him back into the conversation. "I guess I wasn't done with apologies yet. I'm sorry, Steve. This must be hard for you."

Hard? Steve thought, hardly able to keep his scoff contained. He had condemned legions of Marines to death, alienated or lost his only friends, and had deluded himself into thinking that he was doing something for the war effort. This was the real war, not the stuff that he had preached back in the States. It was ugly, brutal, and all too real. How could he have been so ignorant?

"My job was to defend the American people. I was Captain America. I was the man who helped the little guy, who defended our country and preached to bring even more boys into this mess. And look what I've done! I brought the full wrath of Japan upon our necks and I've earned the hatred of every enlisted man. If I'm not Captain America then who am I, Agent Carter?

"If I can't do my job, the one thing I can do to contribute to this blasted war, then what is my purpose?" Steve pressed his palms against his temples, squeezing his eyes shut against the blood and the guts and the tears that drowned the African sands beneath his feet. Hopelessness and despair gripped his chest and squeezed with all its might, and though Steve hated himself for it, he couldn't hold back a single tear that traced a lonesome path down his cheek.

A failed experiment. That was all he was, and the soldiers' jeers were only a small testament to the utter uselessness of Steve Rogers.

Turning to face her, Steve took Carter's hand in his on an impulse and held onto it tight. "Please, ma'am. I only ever wanted to help my country. There must be something I can do that's not..."

Carter's expression was unreadable, a mask of muted anguish and eyes that were already so far away from the showboy sitting at her feet. Her mind was on other things. Stupid of me to think she cared, Steve though with a note of dejection, looking back to his sketches. The pencil strokes were already smudged. She's got bigger things to worry about. The world doesn't revolve around you, Captain.

"Don't you worry, Rogers. Your time will come," Carter replied absently, squeezing his shoulder and hurrying off to her next destination. A path of sand kicked up in the wake of her shoes, leaving Steve totally and utterly alone in the pounding heat of the African desert. As the cheers of the soldiers mounted again and the wind kicked spurs of sand across the dunes, the sounds mingled into a harmony of bitter defeat.