Note: This is kind of departure from my usual style and subject matter, but it was a blast to write. I hope someone else out there likes it, too. Thanks for reading, and reviews are certainly appreciated!
Because this story takes place in France, there are a few French phrases included, but not understanding them shouldn't hurt your reading of the story. I'll include some translations in the notes at the end. If you have comments on my translations, PM me.
Disclaimer: Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes belong to Marvel. The title is taken from a Peter, Paul, and Mary song, which is essentially about being far from home, and seemed relevant to where Steve and Bucky are here.
Five Hundred Miles
Not a shirt on my back, not a penny to my name
Lord I can't go home this way
This way, this way, this way, this way
Lord I can't go home this way
If you miss the train I'm on you will know that I am gone
You can hear the whistle blow a hundred miles
October, 1944
Lyon, France
The night Bucky finally gets Steve to come with him to the dingy side street where Lyon keeps its brothels, it's at the end of an evening filled with too much alcohol, too many raucous stories, and too much heartache about the home they left behind.
"They call 'em maisons de tolérance here," Bucky tells him on the walk there, "Ain't that cute?"
"Sure." Steve shoves his hands in his pockets sullenly.
"Gimme a break, Stevie."
"Don't call me that."
"You don't like the girls in Brooklyn, you don't like the girls in Manhattan, and now Mother England's got you by the short and curlies. Live a little. These Frenchies are a little bit of alright, and they certainly know what a fella likes."
Bucky stops them under the yellow glow of a streetlamp, at a doorway painted the same drab color as the building it's attached to. How he ever found a place like this, how anyone did, Steve has no idea.
"I'm not doing what you think I'm gonna do in there," he glowers, but Bucky doesn't seem to notice. He's clearly still reeling from the three whiskeys he had had at the bar they just left, and chatters on, leading them inside.
"Best part about this one, aside from the dames, of course, is that Jerry's never been here. They went underground during the occupation. All Free French, all the way. Couldn't be happier to see Yanks like us."
They pass through a long hallway, finally coming to a green door at the end of it. Bucky knocks three times and it opens, revealing an older woman in a silk kimono with hair dyed a startling shade of red.
"Bonsoir, mes petits soldats," she says with a smile, and steps aside to let them in.
Despite what the outside looked like, the inside is cozy and warm, filled with lush sofas and low, golden light.
"Captain," Bucky announces, "May I introduce Madame Solange, the best woman in France and a true patriot."
She smiles and holds out her hand, and Steve has no choice but to take it and bow his head like a gentleman.
Bucky sidles up to her and pulls out his Army-issue French-English dictionary. He points to Steve, then points to a line in the book. The madame nods. Bucky flips through the pages, points out another word. Her eyebrows shoot up, and she looks at Steve in surprise, but gives Bucky a knowing smile.
When she disappears behind a curtain, Bucky turns to him with a grin.
"What the hell did you tell her?" Steve growls, growing more uncomfortable by the minute. He shoves his hands even deeper into his pockets.
Bucky's smile gets wider, "Just that you got a thing for brunettes."
"Bucky—"
"Trust me, Steve," Bucky takes him by the shoulders, his expression sobering, "You won't regret this. You really won't. When have I ever steered you wrong?"
Steve purses his lips, preparing his rebuttal, when Madame Solange leads a curvy bottle-blonde out from behind the curtain who sweeps him away. As Bucky walks down a hallway with his arm around her, he turns and salutes. Steve rolls his eyes.
Madame Solange's hand is on his shoulder, drawing his attention back to issue at hand.
"I have something special for you, Captain," she says, her red-lacquered fingernail clicking against the silver bars on his shoulders.
He has a feeling she's handling him, trying to give him what she thinks he wants, but he's too dumfounded to be offended.
They pass down a long hallway. Every open door has a girl standing in it, each in various states of undress. They look him up and down; under their appraising gazes, he feels his face turn red and sweat bead along the back of his neck. When one of them calls out to him in French, something saucy, by the tone of it, the madame shouts something back and they all disappear into their rooms at once.
At the end of the hall, she knocks on a door. When it opens, she pushes Steve forward, talking to the room's occupant over his shoulder.
"Je t'apporte un homme vierge avec des beaux yeux. Sois douce. Apprends quelque chose à lui."
"Oui, madame," she nods, ushering him through the door.
The woman before him is young, certainly not older than he is, and wrapped in a pale pink peignoir. She wears less makeup than the women they passed in the hall, and in comparison she looks fresh-faced and clean. The room is small, but tidy, with wood paneled walls and a large, comfortable bed.
She pulls her hair, long and dark, over one shoulder and pours them each a glass of watered-down Bordeaux. She says her name is Emmanuelle, and makes him say it three times before she's satisfied with his pronunciation. When she smiles at him, pleased with his progress, he smiles too, running a hand through his hair sheepishly.
He tries to tell her his name, but she stops him. "Never tell a woman like me your name," she says, taking a sip of her wine and looking up at him coyly, "We fall in love too easily. That's why they keep us here."
When she leans up to kiss him, he doesn't falter. He doesn't. When she puts her hands on his face, then winds her arms around his neck, his hands move to her waist involuntarily. When this happens, he spends a moment wondering how much of this will be instinctual, wonders if it might come more naturally than he'd thought, but then her tongue is in his mouth and every coherent thought flies out of his head.
She unbuttons his jacket and steps away from him to hang it on a hook by the door. Steve wonders at the absence he feels when she walks away. When she takes his hands, she feels how they tremble, and she refills his wine glass and gestures for him to sit on the bed next to her.
They talk for a while, until she runs out of English vocabulary and Steve realizes how little French he has actually picked up in the last month. She takes his glass, setting it alongside hers on the nightstand, and straddles him, one knee landing gently on either side of his hips. She kisses him again, and he feels bolder this time, raising one hand to hold the back of her head while her hands massage his shoulders.
"You have rubbers?" she murmurs, and he points dumbly towards his jacket. She rises, crosses the room and rifles through his pockets, at last finding the three-pack Bucky gave him. She crawls back into his lap, setting the package next to them.
She spends a long time kissing him, and he's grateful that she's going so slow with him. She pulls off his tie, unbuttons his shirt and pulls it down his shoulders, tossing both onto a chair by the door. When she pulls his white undershirt over his head, she lets loose a low whistle and glances up at him appreciatively. He blushes a little, still not used to being the source of such admiration.
She lifts his hand to the satin ties of her peignoir. A light tug is all it takes for the knots to come undone and the gown to fall open, revealing a vertical stripe of peachy flesh, punctuated at the base by a thatch of dark hair that makes Steve's heart shoot down to his stomach. He watches as his hands push it off of her slender shoulders, letting it land in a puddle of chiffon on the floor. And now there is a naked woman on top of him, all soft curves and full, rose-tipped breasts near his face.
Her fingers wind around his belt buckle, brushing against his bare stomach, and his breath catches. His head spins and his hand jerks out to her thigh because he needs to feel something grounding. She pauses a moment, pressing her forehead against his, her oversized, dark eyes are fixed on his as she opens his slacks.
"Okay?" she asks, and all he can do is nod, because then her little hand is wrapped around his erection and no one has ever touched him like that before. She taps his hip with her free hand and he rises up slightly so she can slide his pants and boxers out of the way. She takes out one of the paper packages and slides the rubber on. At the gentle stroke, Steve feels himself unravel, and suddenly thanks God for Bucky and his stupid ideas.
She shifts her hips over his, her hands guiding him, and lowers herself onto him. His hands grip her hips as she moves, and the still-conscious part of his brain reminds him to be careful not to hurt her, to control the strength he is still getting used to. The feel of her, hot and tight around him, is infinitely better than any of his fevered imaginings.
Her hand behind his head pulls him against her, and he buries his face against her bosom, stifling the shameless groan he lets loose as he comes. He blushes furiously. Even he knows it was over too fast.
But when he looks up at her, she's smiling down at him fondly, her fingers tracing the side of his face.
"I, um…" he begins, not quite knowing what to do next.
She glances at the clock on her nightstand, and presses a finger to her lips thoughtfully, as though she, too, is thinking of what they should do with their remaining time.
"Ah!" she finally exclaims, slowly lifting herself off of him. She disappears behind a screen for a moment, her muffled voice doling out instructions on removing and disposing of the condom in well-rehearsed English. Then she returns, lying back on the bed, and gesturing for him to join her. She watches as he steps out of his shoes and pants. When he stands and moves towards the bed, she sits up in alarm.
"Votre—" she begins, but is halted by her lack of English.
He follows her eyes down to his persistent erection, another unintended side effect of the serum. He hadn't thought it was possible to feel more embarrassed, or more abnormal, than he already did, but he was quickly being proved wrong.
He shrugs, and he hopes the gesture communicates that this is what is normal, now, for him. She flashes him a hungry smile and tells him that there's nothing wrong with it. Nothing at all.
He lies down next to her and she guides his hand between her legs, showing him with her hands what to do. When she cries out, her fingers digging into his biceps, her back arching, her internal muscles clenching around his fingers, it takes him entirely by surprise. No one ever told him that that would happen.
When her breathing slows again, she smiles up at him, "Voilà."
He knows he must look ridiculous, his mouth open, eyes unfocused, hair sticking out at odd angles. She hands him another rubber, lets him slide it on himself this time, just to show her that he has learned.
"Come," she orders, spreading her knees and pulling at him gently until he settles himself between her legs. She lets him set the pace this time, lets him position himself and push into her. He had worried that it would feel clinical, to do this with a professional. He had thought that it would leave him cold. But she's so warm under him, and her thighs are wrapped around his waist, and all he wants to do is bury his hands in her hair and kiss her until he can't see straight. She coaches him through it, her voice soft and encouraging. She teaches him about angles, about speed and depth and pressure.
"Excellent," she whispers into his ear, and it's the same in English as it is in French.
After he has shuddered and climaxed again, this time with her arms wrapped around him, holding him together as he flies apart, he is overcome with gratitude.
When he is wrung out, she sighs, a little ruefully, and kisses his cheek.
It takes him a while to dress – the dress uniform has so many buckles and ties and details to remember – but she just pulls the peignoir back around her shoulders and ties it at her collarbone.
He can't help but cup her face in his hands for a moment, trying to memorize it, knowing that this is one of those things he should never forget.
"Thank you," he murmurs, then remembers some of the little French he knows, "Merci, mademoiselle."
She smiles, "Je vous en prie."
When he finds him on the street, Bucky's tie is loose around his neck, his cap is crooked on his head and he has a cigarette between his fingers.
"How'd it go?" he leers.
Steve clears his throat and tries not to blush for the millionth time that night. "She was a nice girl."
Bucky laughs loudly and throws his arm around Steve's shoulder as they walk back to base.
"Vive la France."
Bonsoir, mes petits soldats: Good evening, my little soldiers.
Je t'apporte un homme vierge avec des beaux yeux. Sois douce. Apprends quelque chose à lui: I'm bringing you a virgin with beautiful eyes. Be gentle. Teach him something.
Je vous en prie: You're welcome.