French Wine
Authors Note;
I saw his round mouth's crimson deepen as it fell,
Like a sun, in his last deep hour;
Watched the magnificent recession of farewell,
Clouding, half gleam, half glower,
And a last splendour burn the heavens of his cheek.
And in his eyes
The cold stars lighting, very old and bleak,
In different skies.
- Wilfed Owen [1893 - 1918]
The convoy thundered over what passed for roads in this part of France with a racket like the D train heading down to Coney island. The trucks kicked up dry dust spitting out exhaust fumes that stunk of diesel as they moved in a crawling herd over the pitted and pockmarked landscape.
The Howlies were packed into the back of a supply truck like sardines in a tin, but glad for it after days of trekking through Normandy on foot. All of them sitting where they could find space among the cargo, perched on crates of munitions like benches in an overpacked railcar. They were nearly knee to knee on all sides, each bump in the road jostling them into one another. Bucky had been smart enough to get in last, taking the back corner of the truck by the liftgate, his side was all mashed into Gabe Jones on one end and the metal siding of the vehicle on the other, while opposite him Steve's knees knocked into his with each pot hole they hit, Steve's feet sprawled out between his own.
From near the front of the truck 'Monty' sang under his breath, the thick English brogue of his accent muddled by the cigarette dangling from his lips, which had burned down far enough it seemed liable to light his moustache on fire. He was too preoccupied polishing his pistol on a rag to notice his cigarette. Bucky thought idly about making a comment about polishing pistols just for the sake of it.
"You know, man polishes his pistol like that in broad daylight, you'd think it never saw any action!" Dernier chortled, stealing any notion Bucky had about making innuendos himself, not that it surprised him. Jaques 'Frenchie' Dernier and Monty had a special relationship in prodding one another at any opportunity on mere principle. Nevermind an entire war on, god forbid an Englishmen and a Frenchmen be able to avoid bickering like children for five minutes.
Bucky snorted and leaned his head back, feeling the sunshine on his face as his eyes drifted closed. No need for him if Dernier was going to go around picking all the low hanging fruit.
"You eyeing another man's pistol now?" Gabe jumped in, his voice holding nothing but amusement while defending Monty, not that Monty deserved being defended.
Something they did pushed Gabe into Bucky's side, but he staunchly refused to open his eyes and give up his pretense of taking a cat nap.
"C'mon guys," Steve tried weakly. Even without looking, Bucky knew Steve's heart wasn't in it. He didn't really want to rain on their parade.
Someone shuffled, there was a thud, then Gabe yelped and jostled Bucky into opening his eyes and throwing a hand up to keep Gabe out of his lap. While Gabe might have been his favorite, excepting Steve of course, it didn't mean he wanted Gabe riding on his dick. Annoyed, he barked, "HEY! One of you idiots kicks these munitions crates hard enough to blow it, whatever bits of me are left behind are making the bits of you clean up the mess!"
A few mumbled 'yes mum's caught his ears but Bucky ignored them. Morita, who had apparently been trying to stay out of it, gave him a curt nod of thanks. Jim Morita was the shortest of the Howlies, and looked like a man who had drawn the short straw. He was packed in between Steve, who still forgot just how big he was, and Dernier, who simply didn't care if his wild gesticulations got in anyone's way as he spoke. Bucky could only offer Morita a quick nod in sympathy before he caught Steve's barely hidden smirk and kicked aside the other man's foot.
Steve chuckled. "What? I'm impressed they listen to you, that's all."
"Don't smirk, Rogers. You're the cat with the canary here."
"I don't know what you mean, Buck," Steve replied, putting on his best stern look even as he kicked Bucky's foot in return.
"Yeah right." Bucky slung his arms over the back of the truck and leaned back to soak up more sunlight. If he tried hard enough, maybe he could ignore the constant jostling and dust and pretend he was on a beach in Brooklyn, a handful of dollar bills in his pocket to go buy a beer with and nothing better to do than try and catch a tan."We all know your contact is Peggy, ain't it?"
He didn't need to look to see the color rising in Steve's cheeks, just the octave of his voice as he launched into his Captain America speech. So he'd been right after all. "Buck, you know none of us are to discuss our Resistance contacts. It's of critical importance for these next few weeks we each maintain the secrecy of our-"
"You ought to get her some roses. Maybe some french perfume if you can find any. Show a girl you're not completely clueless."
Gabe whistled at his side.
Bucky barely suppressed a smile.
"You sly dog," Gabe teased.
Bucky reached for his cigarettes, thinking vaguely as his fingers touched the crinkling paper packet that he needed to slow down on them. His ration only went so far.
"C'mon, it's not like that. It's not like when I do see Peggy we're going out on dates to the movies," Steve said over the rumble of the road.
Bucky flicked his lighter, suddenly desperate for the burn of tobacco.
"It need not be a movie to be a date, Captain. She does enjoy time with you, anyone can see that. 'Specially with how jealous Sarge gets," Morita chimed in unhelpfully.
Traitor, Bucky thought.
"Spend a few hours in a truck with you lot anyone could get jealous'a Steve catchin' a break," Bucky shot back around the cigarette hanging from his lips, keeping anyone else from cracking any more wise comments. Jim meant he was jealous of Peggy's attention, but he was too close to the mark for any comfort. "B'sides, how do you know my contact ain't a dame?"
Gabe snorted. "How do we know it is?"
A chorus of low whistles and jostling proceeded as Bucky affected the rake's smile he wore like a second skin, drawing the nicotine into his lungs and breathing out a stream of smoke with unhurried nonchalance. "You heard Steveie, boys. Can't talk about our contacts, but I'm not the one eyeing pistols around here."
Even though the sun had sunk beneath the treeline, the cool of night was slow to come. Heat still lingered on in the fields of Normandy, and Bucky's hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. July in France was hot, there was no getting around it, and the only mercy had been that he hadn't needed to wear his uniform for this mission, going instead in tattered civilian clothing. His fatigue pants and boots were military issue, but beaten down enough to look second or third hand while the tattered green shirt he had carried since Azzano had been pulled from the bottom of his pack.
He thought he knew what being hot and tired was from working the navy yard all through summer of '41 and '42, but there was no apartment with the windows open and a cold beer waiting for him at the end of this march. Just another endless trek across foreign soil that made the sweat clinging to his skin feel stickier and the weight of his rifle heavier than ever.
Not that it was all bad. France was beautiful; the time he'd spent with the Howlies crossing deserted countryside had shown him plenty of places where the war hadn't utterly destroyed everything. Fields full of waving, waist-high grasses, meadow flowers that made him think of his mother and the blossoms she pressed between the pages of her poetry books.
But fields would suddenly give way to burned land pocked with craters, studded with debris he dared not get too close to nor look at too long. It was a soldier's trick to let the eye slide off of the unpleasant, to see the apple tree and little stone well, not the shattered remains of what had once been a farmhouse or a man. Except, they always lingered in the background of thought, even if he couldn't force his eyes to focus. Or perhaps it was the ever-present sickly sweet smell of rot that followed like a shadow even where he could identify no source.
Steve had asked him their fourth night in France if he would want to see the country again after the war, but huddled around a small campfire, his clothing still smelling of sea water and battlefield from Omaha, Bucky doubted he would ever step foot in France and not see the war, not even if he lived to be a hundred. Azzano had been hell, but even with the beauty of French meadows surrounding him, Omaha was still too fresh.
The night made it easier, blurring away the harsh truths, but any rise of hill would just as soon give way from the rolling meadows of fallow farmland to the site of battles fought either days, months or years before. Perhaps it was his sense of cynicism that his mother had always chided, but Bucky doubted France would ever return to the place it had been before the war; even if it did, they would see him as little more than a ghost, returning only to remind the country of what it had been through.
The nearer he drew to the rendezvous point, the more houses that sat along the roadside. Many were whole, but many were in ruin. He saw more civilians, too, a haggard few left behind to tend to what remained of their homes, his tattered worn down clothes not out of place. He'd passed an old man some miles back. Bucky had offered the fellow a nod, hoping his somewhat-civvies and basic rifle might avoid suspicion, but the old man had glowered and hobbled away, lugging a sloshing bucket of water with him, too intent to be further away from Bucky to care how much water was lost in the process. Buck didn't blame any of them. Those people were like him now, hardened like cracked earth too long without rain. He felt their eyes watching him, the lone traveler crossing the edges of their fields and shuttering their doors and windows when he was near.
Yet another trial the gloaming eased. He loped around the outskirts of the village he sought, verifying his position with one battered, crooked roadsign. It was light enough to read, and not nearly dark enough to hide the fact that the place had been reduced to little more than heaps of rubble and a few standing buildings. A speck situated on a river crossing, its only importance was the bridge leading to a major road on the route to Caen. The roads had been plowed clear, first by Panzers then by shermans. The army had moved on days ago, the Germans routed to more fortified positions. From his vantage point on the hill overlooking the village's skeletal remains, the empty roads looked like white lines drawn in the sand of a demolished castle.
And somewhere down there in that rubble heap was a man called 'The Baron'.
Their rendezvous point was the village church, nestled right in the center of town, and one of the few remaining structures that had been spared by the assault, though Bucky knew it wasn't out of piety from any side and rather pure dumb luck.
A few lights shone from houses at the edges of the little town, but as Bucky descended the hill wading through the waist deep grass he noted that the center of the village, what must be the town square, was empty and devoid of any light. Too close to where the fighting had been.
Bucky clung to shadows when the tall grass gave way, leaving him to traverse the ruined town, darting from shadow to shadow. Each time he had to stick so much as a toe out into the open, his heart jackhammered in his chest. Slinking along and clinging to piles of rubble, he didn't look too closely at any of the wreckage of the battle, only the scent of decay told him what he knew to be true. There had been time to clear the roads, but not all of the dead.
This entire set up, the vagueness of this contact 'The Baron', the empty village and the still night, all had the feeling of a trap. He was too far from his own men for comfort. Too far from help even if he'd had a radio, and the secrecy of the mission required that not even Steve knew the rendezvous point.
Carter had told him little of his 'baron'. Bucky barely understood why he'd been sent alone to meet with this critical operative. When he'd asked, the only answer Carter had given was Steve's recommendation. Steve had called Bucky 'trustworthy', chosen Bucky like it was a medal of valor and not a damn noose around his neck. Worse yet, alone in that briefing with Carter, knife blade of a woman that she was, she had agreed with Steve's choice, but not on merit of Steve's faith in his schoolyard friend.
Bucky was the only one of the Howlies to survive torture. The others had been prisoners and forced into labor, but they hadn't been subjected to true torture and Carter's briefing had been clear. The Baron was too important an asset to be given up should Bucky or his team fail. The strength of Bucky's will would be put to a use other than staying alive.
Peggy must have seen the shake in his hand as he lit a cigarette that day in the command tent, yet she had still sent him. She had still asked.
They didn't shake now.
He could see the church as he rounded the corner, turning out from the narrow side street littered with stones and empty mortar shells, towards the main thoroughfare of the town where the tracks of tanks had redefined the road and left it a wide open clearing. Cautiously, Bucky drew his rifle from his shoulder, checking it once over to be sure it was ready. The cleared street and silent night provided him no cover; he would be completely open as he crossed to the church. If this was an ambush, he refused to go down without a fight.
His hands might tremble any other time of day without warning, for reasons he dared not name or think about, but the weight of the rifle turned his grip to steel. He studied the remaining hundred feet or so, and it became obvious there was no path to the church that would provide cover. He leveled his rifle and used the scope to survey the church and its darkened windows.
The moonlight was shining down on the village, but it didn't reach into the church. He knew with the training of a sniper that he could make the shot from the top of the church tower even in this gloom. He just hoped if this was a trap, the other guy was a worse shot.
"Come on Barnes..." Bucky whispered to himself as he scanned the empty village churchyard one more time. With a shuddering breath, he pulled a steady calm over himself and broke into a run.
The art of dashing headlong with a full soldier's kit on his back, rifle at ready, all while trying to remain silent, was an art nothing but combat could teach a man. As he raced through the moonlight, kit free this time, he was lighter than weightless, no longer feeling the ache in his feet, only the thunderous drum of his heart. Finally reaching the shadowy side of the church like a star player sliding victoriously into base at Ebbets field, Bucky dropped to one knee and peeked over the side of the collapsed wall, scanning the shadowed interior.
The church was old, stonework and heavy wooden beams thick as a man supporting what remained of the structure. The pews, half charred and tossed aside after their obvious use as barricades, were now fit for nothing but a bonfire. The pulpit was completely gone, the large window at the back blown out, the remaining stained glass like jagged black teeth. The thick double doors to the choir loft were stained and scarred, but they were still in service, which was more than he could say for anything else in the building.
His breath still came quick, his senses heightened, but no sound rang out, no gun fire, no shouts, just the deathly silence of the night, heavy as a freight train.
Determining the space as clear as it was gonna get, Bucky scrambled over the decaying stone work, managing to kick one or two loose stones free before he dropped to his feet in the empty nave. He swung his rifle swiftly from side to side, knees bent, heart pounding. Nothing. No-one?
There. His ears pricked at the first foreign sound, and he zeroed in on the doors at the front of the church.
He moved in silent measured steps, his weight on his toes should he need to drop or dodge or shoot someone. He approached what was left of the doors to the choir loft, crossing the nave on swift feet. One of the doors hung with a heavy list, its hinges strained; the other was only slightly ajar.
The sound from before drew nearer. He tucked himself against the heavy wooden doors and made a guess. A man, probably. A man in thick boots walking on creaking wood, not caring that he was heard and drawing closer by the second.
Bucky led with his rifle, slipping through the gap between the doors with a soft grunt. A small space existed between the main body of the church, housing the staircase like a tiny lobby with vaulted ceilings. A single broken window on his left allowed the moonlight to stream in, revealing the dark outline of a man descending the steps. A man in boots.
"Don't move!" Bucky spoke into the darkness, though he hadn't raised his voice the sound echoed strangely. Somewhere in the rafters, birds shuffled their wings and dust fell, but the figure didn't falter, striding down steady as ever. Bucky cocked his gun, slamming back and chambering a round at ready, hoping the unmistakable sound would be a clearer warning. The figure sauntered down the last of the steps and Bucky's blood ran cold as the moonlight caught the glint of metallic details on the distinctive grey-green uniform of a German soldier.
"Longing," an unconcerned voice announced, a male voice, rumbling with gravel over the rich tenor. "Seventeen. Rusted."
They were the code words Bucky had been given to identify his contact, but Carter had said nothing about a damn kraut!
"Better have a damn good explanation pal," Bucky called across the small distance.
His Brooklyn twang was a stark contrast to the eastern European note that replied back to him. "Is that how you greet all of your allies? Come now, surely you would prefer we talk like civilized men without pointing guns at each other?"
He didn't see a gun,but that didn't mean anything. Fucking Nazis. "I'd prefer you put your hands up and drop your weapons."
In answer, the man stepped into the open space, into that small square of light provided from the window, and Bucky could see him clearly. The man was young, maybe of an age with Bucky, with brassy blond hair that held a slight wave and a face composed of well-defined features. The upward tilt at the corners of his mouth was somehow infuriating and endearing, and in another life, Bucky might have thought the man handsome.
Without thinking, Bucky licked his dry chapped lips. Jesus, what he wouldn't give for a cigarette.
The man tilted his head to one side as he regarded Bucky, and even in the moonlight there was an odd sparkle to his eyes. "So which is it, put my hands up, or drop my weapons?"
"Shut up!" Bucky barked, rushing forward, his rifle swinging back to his shoulder by its strap as he roughly grabbed the man by the collar of his uniform, hauling the bastard around and slamming him into the wall, all the tightly coiled energy stored in his muscles finally breaking loose. The need to strike, to take control was too strong, too demanding. "Who are you?"
Their faces were close enough he could see despite the lack of light. There were moles on the other man's face and his cologne tickled Bucky's nose. What sort of dandified bastard wore cologne while at war?
The kind that insisted on that smug smile even as he held up his hands in mockery of surrender. He didn't fight back, letting himself be thrown and pushed, his entire attitude somehow implying he was still the one in control. "My code name is 'The Baron' as you might have been told. My Christian name is Helmut Zemo. Despite your misgivings, Sergeant Barnes, I am with the resistance."
Bucky stared for several long moments at the man, nearly chest to chest, breath too fast as he analyzed what little he knew. This was a German soldier. He knew the code words, he knew Bucky's name and rank, but the uniform and accent all had Buck's hackles up. Since Azzano, all it took was an accent to curdle his blood. Why would Peggy ever choose this one?
Maybe she hadn't. Then again, maybe she had. Bucky was under orders to make contact. If this was the right man...
Slowly, he uncurled his fingers from the uniform fabric and took a slow step back, his boots scuffing along the rough stone floor. He unslung his rifle, hands steady once again in a way they hadn't been when he had gripped the rough fabric of the enemy uniform. He didn't raise his firearm. He clutched the familiar wood and metal as though it were some perverse sort of worry stone, the muzzle pointed at the floor. "How the hell do you know my name? Start talking."
"My my, straight to business? Come, we can discuss this somewhere more secure, I doubt the answer will be anything as sinister as you're thinking," Zemo answered, gesturing back towards the stairs for Bucky to go ahead of him. He acted like a man holding the door for a dame at a dance hall, but Bucky's feet remained firmly planted. Zemo's dark brow quirked in private amusement before he moved past Bucky, back unguarded, and began up the stairs as if there was no such thing as war.
A heartbeat, then two. Bucky watched and counted before reluctantly following. The stairs faded into inky blackness, Zemo's feet ascending into shadows, but Bucky had his orders. Into the darkness Bucky climbed, eyes straining to make out shapes, but there were no windows to offer moonlight and only the sound of Zemo ahead to guide him. They climbed far longer than he thought it should take to reach the choir loft, when without warning, the floor vanished from beneath his feet. He fell through empty air, his heart giving a terrible lurch as — as his foot crashed too hard on the wooden landing, jolting through his bones. He'd expected another step, but they were at the end of the stairs. Embarrassed at his own panic, he nonetheless grabbed for his rifle. Before he could make a bigger fool of himself, the clouds mercifully parted and moonlight shone through the broken ceiling, limning Zemo in silvery light, tracing the line of Zemo's jaw and revealing the shape of the room all at once.
"What... is this?" Bucky frowned, studying the tiny square room. Through the holes in the walls, he could see far across the countryside. In the center of the room, an old bell hung by a series of ropes that had somehow survived the fighting, the curved brass catching the light of the moon. They were in the belltower. A bell was to be expected, he supposed. But there were supplies as well. A radio, some crates, strewn shell casings that glinted on the wooden boards, canteens piled up in corners.
Zemo bypassed them all and from beneath a crate produced a dark bottle of wine. "It is a nest, one of mine specifically. You must forgive me, my contact told me you and I had found the same niche within this war. I thought it might be a suitable meeting point, given our shared profession." Zemo used the wooden crate as a table, setting the wine bottle onto it and pulling up a smaller munitions crate to sit on, motioning for Bucky to join him.
"You mean as a sniper?" Bucky asked dryly, realizing his initial assessment had been right, that if this were a trap, Zemo could have shot him. "Seems like our contact gave you a lot more info than she gave me."
"Not entirely so, James. Your true name was not known to me. However, you are rather recognizable. Imagine my surprise when I realized the infamous 'Bucky' Barnes had come to meet me."
Bucky hated the way Zemo used his first name, but he didn't want to spend their time arguing. Get it done and get out, that was the plan. He shouldered his rifle again and grabbed another crate, dragging it over to sit opposite Zemo as the man uncorked the bottle. The sharp tang of alcohol floated up between them. "Yeah? You sure about that? Lot of men in this war. I could be anyone."
"And so could I. But I could repeat the code words if you'd like?" Zemo smiled again, that curl of his lips like a Cheshire cat from the illustrated Alice in Wonderland book Bucky and Steve had read over and over as children after Steve had won it in an art contest at school. Bucky hoped that didn't make him Alice, lost down the rabbit hole with no way back. "But nonetheless, Sergeant Barnes, unlike myself, you go parading about with Captain America. There exists quite a bit of information about you, posters and film reels and the like. With a record such as yours, I can see why you were chosen to be my contact."
Though he didn't show it, it bothered Bucky immensely that anyone in this whole damn war might recognize him or Steve, let alone a German sniper. That the Axis powers might be hunting them was a terrifying thought.
He dredged up an insincere smile as he grabbed the bottle. The thing was rough with dust and scratches, the label a smear of illegible French. It could've been rotgut, it could've been poison, but Bucky didn't stop to care. He raised the bottle to his lips and drank. The coolness of the wine was a balm against his dry throat and frayed nerves and he almost downed the whole thing, but he exhaled abruptly and thrust the bottle out to Zemo, trying for disdain. "Great. I can sleep better now knowing you krauts know too damn much about me and my men."
Zemo took the bottle, impassively amused. He shrugged a shoulder. C'est la vie, c'est la guerre. "It was your own people who put out that information. Blame them for sending a figure of their propaganda machine to meet me. Captain America and his Howling Commandos. A name worthy of the history books. But you didn't come to discuss your dear friend, did you?"
"No. I didn't," Bucky bit out.
He clenched his fists as Zemo put his lips to the wine bottle, drinking more slowly, more deeply than Bucky had. He wondered if this was a show of faith, that Zemo was willing to drink more, put himself at more risk of intoxication or prove it wasn't poisoned. If the bob of Zemo's throat, confusingly difficult to look away from, was somehow its own trick.
Zemo put the bottle down after another moment, setting it with a thud on the crate as if he'd made a decision. "Very well. I have documents, maps and telegrams that I've been able to copy. They are not originals, but I like to think my memory and copying skills are quite good."
"Quite good?" Bucky groused, narrowing his eyes at Zemo even as the bottle of wine was held out to him. Tersely he took it back, the liquid sloshing roughly inside the bottle as he lifted it to his lips. The next time he saw Carter, she was gonna get an earful. Putting Steve and the others in danger —! Bucky took quick swigs, barely tasting the wine, pausing only to snap, "Buddy, either these maps are worth a damn or they're not. How good is 'quite good'?"
Zemo leaned on the makeshift table, resting on his elbows. "You won't be disappointed. I risked my life for these maps, so when I say they are quite good, I mean they are very good. I apply false modesty for the sake of your tender American sensibilities. Do not underestimate the work that goes into obtaining these documents for you and your allies."
Bucky bristled at that and took another deep drink, not caring if he was being impolite, but Zemo said nothing. His gaze never strayed from Bucky's angry glare. In the moonlight, this close, the color of Zemo's eyes was revealed at last: warm, honeyed brown.
Something like desperation forced Bucky to break eye contact first. He took refuge in doubt, at the futility of this whole situation. Carter didn't know what she was talking about. She hadn't vetted this guy. He was a double agent or worse, he had to be, he was wearing cologne for God's sake!
"And I'm just supposed to take your word, huh? How can we trust these documents? You could be leading an army of good men into a trap!"
He jabbed the wine bottle accusingly in Zemo's direction, toward one of the broken slats that showed the eastern horizon, heat rising in his voice. Faster than seemed possible, Zemo's hand snapped up, seizing Bucky's arm, calloused palm against the hot skin of Bucky's bare inner wrist where his sleeve had ridden up. Unfathomably, Bucky froze, gaping — and Zemo neatly plucked the wine bottle from his grasp. He let go of Bucky's arm and sat back, the smugness gone from his tone, the smile erased.
"Because, James, for all you are welcome to call me whatever you please, I am not German. I'm Sokovian. My country was occupied in 1939 while I was away at university in Berlin. I did not put on this uniform out of duty, and I regret being so cowardly as to be coerced into it. But I was a child then, and for my friends who have already died for making braver choices than I, I will do my best to honor them, and do what I can to stop the march of these supremacists across Europe."
For all that Zemo's touch had startled him, the admission of his cause burned into Bucky, further stealing his voice. If it was true, then Zemo was a braver man than he, and Bucky knew himself to be a coward. It was only because he followed after Steve that he was cast in the borrowed light of bravery. But he didn't trust this man, not that easily. This so-called confession could still be a lie.
Buck's hands gathered in the fabric of his pants, his knuckles white and the tremor returning to grip. "I was drafted. I don't want to be here, I don't want this assignment. But I'm gonna do it, and I want you to know something. If these maps are a trap and get my people killed, I'll write your name on a bullet. Do you understand?"
Zemo's faint smile reappeared. He lifted the wine bottle in a toast before taking a long, deep drink, then holding it out to Bucky like a promise. "I understand. I'm glad then, that they sent me a sniper. I'd have it no other way."