Greta Garbo
Author's Notes; If you're unfamiliar with Greta Garbo, please look her up. Absolute bi icon. I personally think she would be a fabulous fem!Zemo.
The smell of wood smoke and the flickering firelight were the first signs he had found his men. The warm glow stretched between the gaps of the dark tree trunks like a beacon. Not especially secretive. Steve must be incredibly sure of their safety to allow a fire like that.
Adjusting his step, conscious to make more noise than normal to announce his presence, Bucky crunched leaves beneath his boots and stepped on twigs. The relief to be back at camp was palpable, but getting shot by whoever was on watch was low on his priority list.
When he was close enough to hear the crackle of the fire, he paused at the base of a massive pine. He put two fingers to his lips and made a shrill bird whistle to let the others know it was him. Seconds passed before the call was answered, a returning whistle that far surpassed Bucky's own. Reassured he wasn't about to be mowed down by friendly fire, Bucky stepped out of the shadow of the tree and continued toward the camp. Fifty or so yards out, he spotted Gabe waiting for him, rifle slung lazily over his shoulder, though moments before it had probably been trained on him.
"Anyone ever told you, Sarge, you make a shit bird?" Gabe asked the moment Bucky was close enough.
The warm, teasing tone of the molasses-thick Georgia accent was like a strong shot of whiskey for Bucky's tired nerves, and he instantly began to relax. He was back among friends.
"Anyone tell you I'm from New York? The only bird we got is pigeon."
"Alright, city boy. I've got some coffee made. I was being a gentleman and making it for the next shift, but seeing as how you've been marching, you take priority. Just help me drink it all before we get caught." Gabe clapped a dark-skinned hand on Bucky's shoulder, smiling as he led the way back to camp and over to a fallen log that had been set up in front of their fire.
The campsite was tidily spartan. No-one had bothered to pitch tents; the weather was dry and clear, and he could see all the men at rest, scattered to one side of the firepit. This close, Bucky could hear the freight train snoring of Dugan and Monty. The smaller lump had to be Jim. Farthest from the fire, Bucky could make out the shape of Steve from the rise of his shoulders and the way he slept, lying on his stomach like his lungs were still giving him grief.
He sagged onto the fallen log, groaning with relief to be off his feet. The scent of fresh coffee wafted to him from the fire, and he was reminded once again why Gabe was his new favorite, outranking Steve by a fair margin. "Who's on the next shift?" he asked, finally allowing himself to reach for his cigarettes. The paper pack was nearly empty already despite his careful rationing. Even with the army handing them out like party favors, Bucky still managed to go through them at an imprudent pace.
"Monty, he's up next." Gabe picked up the coffee pot he kept just at the edge of the campfire and poured some into two tin mugs. He held one out for Bucky to take.
"Monty can manage then, he still owes me three D rations," Bucky groused, accepting the steaming cup.
Gabe sat heavily beside Bucky, tugging off his cap and dropping it between his knees before taking the first slurping sip of coffee. "I thought you didn't even like D rations."
Bucky hummed as the familiar burnt sludge taste of the rationed instant coffee slid down his throat, curling with heat inside of him. Not one of the men could make a decent pot of coffee, not out of this stuff. He sank lower until he was seated on the ground, leaning back against the log, warmth from the campfire seeping through the soles of his boots to warm his toes. Gratefully, he offered the crumpled cigarette packet. "It's the principal."
Gabe snorted. He balanced his coffee on the log and pulled a cigarette from the pack, then grabbed his lighter, flicking it several times before it caught. "Sounds to me like you wanted those rations for that mademoiselle in the resistance you met with."
Bucky ducked his head. He'd forgotten that particular little lie. He shoved the sadly thin cigarette packet back into his pocket. "C'mon, it's not like that."
"No? You smell like alcohol and you're sharing your cigarettes. Must have been a good night for you is all I'm saying."
Glowering, Bucky passed one of his hands in front of his face, breathing on his palm before sniffing at it. He mostly smelled bad coffee and stale smoke, but maybe there was a trace of alcohol lingering from that bottle of wine.
Gabe only laughed at him, deep and hearty. One of the men in their sleeping bags snorted and rolled over with a sleepy grumble, reminding them to keep it down, though all of them had slept through louder and worse. "It's alright Sarge, you don't have to kiss and tell. I'm just glad for you, you haven't had much of a break."
"None of us have had much of a break. Besides, what about you? How's that girl back home?" Bucky deflected, though it was only half a distraction. He was curious about the ongoings of Gabe's love life. How did he manage to keep a girl when she was so far away? The man always had the most mail out of anyone, and so had the most to talk about that wasn't related to the war.
Gabe took a long pull off his cigarette, and Bucky finally set his mug down in the dirt before fishing the pack back out again and setting a cigarette between his own lips, leaning forward when Gabe held out his lighter.
"Don't worry about Janice. We got an understanding." Gabe replied, sure and confident, his voice laced with an easy swagger as he flicked the lighter. "She knows I love her. She's waiting for me."
Bucky puffed on his cigarette until it lit and the familiar burn that had been carrying him through this entire war filled his lungs. "Only on account of the fact she hasn't let me take her dancing yet."
Truth be told, he couldn't imagine Gabe's girl doing anything but laughing at him if he tried. He'd never met Janice, but Gabe had told him enough stories he suspected he had an idea what she was like. She was in her early twenties, younger than either of them. She was a friend of Gabe's little sister. From the photos Gabe had shared, she seemed a straightlaced kind of gal, her tightly textured hair always in a perfect updo with ribbons and bows, wearing light sundresses for the southern heat. The pictures were in the normal black and white, but Gabe promised she was always wearing yellow, like a sunflower.
"You know you can do more with a girl than take her dancing. Don't make any smart remarks, you know what I mean." Gabe didn't even dignify Bucky's idle threat about stealing Janice with a real answer, though he did aim a kick at Bucky's hip. "You can swing girls around the dance floor on Friday night, but you might try sticking around till Sunday for once. Maybe this French girl could be good for you."
"Jeez, you sound like my ma. You tryna set me up, Gabe?"
"So I don't have to watch you keep trying to catch Ms Carter's attention? Yeah. It's just embarrassing. For you."
Carter. So he'd noticed Bucky mooning around Steve, and made the natural but wrong conclusion. Good.
Bucky groaned obnoxiously and elbowed Gabe in the knee, careful not to knock over his tin of coffee as the pair of them scuffled for a moment, Gabe shoving him back in retaliation, both men smiling despite themselves.
When they settled back to smoking and sipping their burnt coffee, not smacking each other like primary school kids, Gabe resumed his line of questioning. "So, c'mon, Sarge, tell me about her."
'Her.'
Bucky didn't want to lie to his friend. He and Gabe had shared a cell at Azzano. They'd listened to each other with the honesty of men who expected to die. He should tell Gabe the truth, that Zemo had been a kraut bastard and let Gabe make of it what he would. He doubted Gabe would even care. So why was it so hard to spit it out? "You know we're not supposed to talk about our contacts..."
"Don't tell me anything incriminating, then. You must like her, otherwise you wouldn't be so secretive. You forget I know you too well, if you didn't care you'd be bitching up a storm already."
Bucky had to wince at Gabe's assessment. It was accurate, that was the bad part. He really was in too deep, and maybe he could blame the wine for whatever thoughts were swirling around in his head like leaves in the wind, but maybe it was something else. Zemo was beautiful, but it didn't matter after tonight. They'd never see each other again, and this could just be another lie he'd have to own next time he was lost enough to wander into confession.
Bucky lifted the tin mug to his lips, resting it against his mouth as he rifled through the memories of his brief meeting. "... She's Sokovian. German army, dunno what she does."
"German army, no kidding?"
"No kidding. Brunette, with this sultry kinda voice. And eyes like... like Greta Garbo."
"Like Greta Garbo?" Gabe echoed with mirth behind his voice, smiling and trying not to laugh.
Bucky shot him a glare he didn't mean. "Swear to God, like Greta Garbo. And she... She wanders up wearing perfume in the middle of a battlefield and doesn't bat an eye when I threaten to shoot her."
"Ha, ballsy! No wonder you like this Sokovian girl. Our secret, I won't even tell the others you've got it bad for a fräulein."
"You sure as hell won't! And I just said she's Sokovian, not German."
"Yeah, but I don't know the Sokovian word for dame, so you get fräulein." Gabe held up his hands in mock surrender, cigarette between two fingers. "I got your back, Sarge, but maybe try not threatening to shoot your fräulein next time? Maybe if you don't run her off I won't have to watch you humiliate yourself trying to get Janice to dance with you at the USO."
"Only one humiliated is gonna be you! Besides, I'm not looking to bring anyone home. Can you imagine any woman putting up with me?" Bucky picked up his tin of coffee and drained the last of it before returning his half finished cigarette to his mouth.
"Not too hard to imagine, maybe the kind of bird who wears perfume on a battlefield could put you in your place. I can imagine you being led around by the nose by a future Mrs Barnes just fine."
"Now you really do sound like my Ma. Plenty of men get by just fine without getting a missus."
"Well, no offense, but ow good a friend he is you can't marry Steve, and someone oughtalook after you."
Bucky's stomach did an uncomfortable flip. It always did whenever one of the men said anything too close to the truth, especially when Steve was so near, barely thirty feet away. He tried to inhale more of the acrid smoke, but he mostly got heat and loose tobacco from the end, too little cigarette left to burn until he was tossing it into the fire, his insides gone sour.
"I get by on my own," he answered, hoping to come across as light and unconcerned, but too much of the bitterness had entered his voice like the last dregs of coffee.
Gabe gazed at him steadily, firelight flickering over them both. This close, it was hard to hide the truth. Back in Azzano, when their cell had stunk of fear and death, it had been impossible to hide anything from anyone. Bucky had somehow managed to hoard those few terrible scraps of himself that not even Steve knew about. He'd rather burn up like his cigarette in the campfire, return to dust rather than let a soul know he was bent.
"Sarge... Look, you and me done a lot of talking before. I can see the shakes you've got. You think I ain't lookin', but I've seen 'em. They're the same ones I have."
Bucky shrugged. "I know Omaha messed you up as good as any of the rest of us. No one 'round here has had their head on straight in a long while."
Beside him Gabe took a deep breath, sounding tired beyond his years. "I don't know what the hell we were doing on that beach besides throwing bodies at a damn wall. They can talk strategy all they want. Command thinks we can't understand what they're talking about. But I do, I can follow their battle maps and plans, and they ain't worth shit."
"No one's sayin' you can't understand."
Gabe ignored that. "But what I don't get is how they could call that a success. We got up that beach, but I don't know how. I still remember falling in the water and I thought I would drown. There were so many bodies I couldn't break the surface fighting against 'em. I just remember Steve grabbing me by my uniform and hauling me out of the water. After that it's all red. Every inch of beach painted red."
The stench of oil and seawater, copper and feces rushed back to Bucky as he stared into the fire. For all Gabe could remember only the color, that awful red, there were too many hues for Bucky to focus on. A kaleidoscope danced in the searing light of the flames, horrors painted in gore and viscera and intersected with olive drab, battleship grey, field khaki, and feldgrau. But for all that, it was the noise that stayed with him the most. The screaming, the roar of engines, the explosions and gunshots, an endless cacophony that chased him then and pursued him now, snapping at his heels.
Reaching for his crumpled pack of cigarettes Bucky found only one left, and for a moment paused before holding it out for Gabe. He'd had his stolen French wine, let Gabe have the last smoke.
Gabe shook his head in refusal, the haunted look in his eyes softening only slightly. "I'm not telling you what Omaha was like just to tell you. I know you were there, too."
Confused, Bucky shoved the cigarettes away. He pulled his knees to his chest, resting his chin on them. It reminded him of when he and Steve used to have sleepovers, sitting in front of the radio with Steve's mother, and something happened on a program they didn't understand. He missed being able to ask someone to make sense of things. "We all were Gabe, half the damn army was there."
"That's what I mean, though. We all were. So either every man who was out there is too shell shocked to get themselves a slice of something nice when we get home, or you and I ain't too broken for it."
Bucky swallowed. A part of him wanted to believe Gabe, that he was only as broken as the soldier beside him, but something inside his chest coiled tighter around his heart. He had come to the Army an oddity, with eyes only for Steve's slender neck and shoulders, but at basic training, his eyes had roamed across Daniel Foster's freckled chest and stomach. Now, unhelpfully, his mind flashed to the upward curve of Zemo's lips, the scent of his cologne. He'd come to war with something already broken inside of him, something most people took for granted, and he was unraveling at the seams.
The pause went on too long, stretched out uncomfortably. At last, Bucky forced himself to smile. "No point talking about what ifs until we win this war. You should get some sleep. Let me take this watch since I was the one who drank all of Monty's coffee anyway."
For once, Gabe didn't push. He patted Bucky's shoulder, keeping whatever disappointment he had to himself. "Alright. Just take some of that advice you keep giving Steve and try it on your fräulein for me, will ya?"
"You got it. Write Janice for me then, will ya? Tell her I got a dance saved for her."
Gabe let out a terse laugh as he got up, emptying the last of his coffee into the fire. The fire steamed away the cheap joe as he stepped around the log bench and toward his sleeping bag, quietly calling, "Night, Sarge!"
Bucky smiled again and waved. The logs in the fire popped, and artillery and gunshots echoed in his ears. The splash of the ocean came from the dark, though he knew it was only the rustle of a sleeping bag. For long moments he stared into the fire, trying to shake himself out of the spiral of memories, but the only thought that pierced through the hazy, clamoring flashbacks was that of Greta Garbo eyes watching him from across a makeshift table and a shared bottle of wine.
Anxious, Bucky twisted around to find his pack, opening the big flap and rooting around inside. Behind his clean socks he found his father's pocket watch, the silver casing cold to the touch. He pulled it out and ran one finger over the tarnished pattern engraved on the front. The solid weight was comforting, the soft, regular ticking soothing. It reminded him of better times, when he was protected and the world didn't hurt as much.
After a moment, he flipped it open to check the time, promising himself he'd wake Monty in an hour. He replaced it in its cozy spot in his pack and located the small pocket book and nub of a pencil he always carried. Settling back against the log, he propped the notebook open on one knee, turned to the next clean page and started writing.
July 8th, 1944
Took the third watch for Monty, I shouldn't have the bastard still owes me 3 D rations. I don't think I could sleep though. Gabe's just trying to help but I feel like hell lying to him. Why'd I have to go and tell all the guys I was meeting a girl with the resistance? Did I really think this wouldn't come back to bite me?
What's wrong with me?
If this is shellshock then maybe I oughta have taken that ticket home. But I don't like the idea of leaving Stevie, and what would I do but be a nuisance back home wondering if Steve was safe.
Lately I don't think Stevie would miss me all that much.
Maybe I am just jealous, but you go from having a monopoly on someone's attention to being an afterthought, it burns you up inside. I keep telling myself over and over, I'm glad for Steve, and a better part of me is glad he's finally getting the attention he deserves. But I'm terrified that after this war is all over, it'll just be a handshake and off he'll head to a good life with Peggy.
But me? What the hell am I? Only know back alley flings and how to pull a trigger? I'm a fucking liar and a worse friend.
I still keep thinking about that bastard.
I wish there'd been more wine, maybe it would finally get me drunk, but what kind of soldier would let themselves get drunk around a German officer? Or is he a Sokovian officer?
I don't even know where Sokovia is on the map.
There was a steady drizzling rain coming down when the convoy rolled into the army field camp where the SSR command had stationed itself for the time being. Occupying what had once been farmland, the camp was practically a city unto itself, criss-crossed with thoroughfares and neighborhoods of tents and mess halls. The rain had turned all of the dusty dirt roads into sodden mud pits traversable only by the large army vehicles, just like the one the Howlies were crammed into.
Bucky huddled in on himself as they rolled past rows of tents and troops jogging from place to place, running errands and stacking sandbags against the mud. Most of the Howling Commandos were quiet, the rain and wet uniforms dampening their spirits. Jim seemed the only one completely unaffected by it all and was asleep in the back corner of their transport, arms and legs crossed so he was even smaller than usual. How in hell he managed to sleep with the roads like this, Bucky had no clue, but he sure was envious of the skill.
Beside him, Steve was scribbling away in his own little notebook. Bucky craned his neck to sneak a peek and saw it was a sketch of Jim passed out with his arms crossed over his chest. Bucky didn't comment, not wanting to break Steve's concentration. He settled back against the liftgate, his usual spot, and dared the rain to do anything more to him. The weather suited his mood. He couldn't wait to deliver the papers from Zemo and let the rain wash away any more responsibility. He wanted to be done with the whole stupid affair.
At last the transport came to a rumbling stop, and Bucky could hear the mingled voices of the others, all groaning variations of 'thank god' or 'about time'. A couple of them stretched, and Bucky leaned over the truck gate to unlatch it, Monty doing the same on the opposite side.
"I could get seasick riding in these contraptions! Worse than a carriage over cobblestone!" Monty grumbled. The liftgate dropped with a heavy bang.
Bucky snickered. "Dunno if anyone told you, but this has been the mode of transport since the Great War. You're the only one riding around in carriages." He hopped out and landed on the sodden ground with a wet splash, his boots sinking into the mud. Steve jumped out next and Bucky wisely stepped back as the rest disembarked, spattering mud as they did.
"I know for certain New York has carriages! Steve told me about you stealing sugar cubes from carriage horses!" Monty groused back, adjusting his red beret.
"Steve, you told him about that?" Bucky demanded, faking shock.
Steve managed not to smile, but the effort crinkled up one side of his face. "Me? No."
Bucky adjusted the strap on his pack, kicking mud at Monty. "Stealing sugar cubes from carriage horses doesn't mean we go riding around in carriages. That cost money and I ain't —"
"— paying money to ride circles around the same streets we walk every day just 'cause a horse is hoofing it for us." Steve finished Bucky's rant for him.
Bucky shook his head. "That's it. Steve, you're fired, get yourself a new roommate when we get back to Brooklyn. Gabe, you're my new best pal."
"No offense, Sarge, but if I never have to listen to you snore again, it'll be too soon," Gabe quipped.
Dugan grinned, laughing. "You're livin' alone, Barnes!"
"All right, all right." Steve came up to join them, patting Bucky on the back good-naturedly. "We'll catch up with you guys later, gotta report to SSR on the missions. Unless someone else wants to volunteer —"
The words were hardly out of Steve's mouth before the men all hurriedly dragged their packs onto their backs.
"No, no! You two go on ahead!" Dugan said. Dernier followed with a sarcastic, "Have fun!", and Gabe added his own subtle 'no' before they were trekking away from the convoy as fast as they could, waving over their shoulders, leaving Steve and Bucky in the clinging, misty rain.
"Well, you sure know how to scare 'em off." Bucky shouldered his pack, wishing he could follow along to the mess hell or their staked out corner of camp. Anything besides what was coming next.
"I'm told I have that effect on people." Steve was already heading in the opposite direction, leaving Bucky to follow after him, their boots squelching in the mud.
"Then I gotta be the biggest knucklehead in New York to keep hanging around you."
Steve grinned at that. "Can't argue there, Buck."
Despite the foul weather and his own desire to do anything besides report in with command, Bucky found himself smiling too, he and Steve jostling each other playfully as they walked. They had business, sure, but walking with Steve was so normal that for a second Bucky could imagine they were strolling down Steinway Street in New York, heading to see Bucky's ma. Steve would insist they stop by the florist's cart for a handful of daisies, and Bucky would demand fresh fruit from the grocer's for an after-dinner snack. A couple of apples, a fistful of blossoms, and each other, that was all it took for them to be happy.
The daydream was sweet but fleeting.
Rather than rows of tenements and shops, they passed by field tents and shelters, the pedestrians merely uniformed soldiers going about their assignments. A few of the greener troops, all young fresh faced boys, got excited when they saw Steve walking past, shield strapped to his back so it was obvious who he was, and they all hurried to snap quick salutes.
If Steve picked up the pace after they strode by, Bucky didn't comment.
When they reached the tent, Steve ducked his head and went in first. The inside wasn't warm, but it was drier than anything else. It was also huge. Bucky figured a tent this big could hold a circus, and with all the activity, the dang thing might as well have been one. Tables and field desks were set up, typewriters clicking, radio crackling with the din of people's voices, talking to each other or leaning in close to a broadcast. Towards the back, Bucky could see the main desk where Colonel Chester Phillips was engrossed over a map dotted with little flags in different colors.
As they approached, Phillips was bent over his desk with a pensive look, several other officers at his side. Included among them was Peggy Carter. She stood out in the tent full of men in her perfectly pressed WAAC uniform, hair falling in soft brown curls around her shoulders, bright red lips that drew Steve Rogers in like a moth to a flame.
"Colonel," Steve said, saluting. Then, voice softening, "Agent Carter."
Peggy immediately looked up, a smile appearing at the sight of him.
Hell of a pair, these two.
"Captain Rogers, Sergeant Barnes." Peggy said it pleasantly enough, though there was a world of difference between how she said Rogers versus Barnes. "I'm glad to see you safely back from the field. Were you both successful?"
"Of course, I wouldn't want to disappoint," Steve replied.
Colonel Phillips finally looked up, his gaze sharp. Steve snapped another salute, followed by Bucky, which earned them nothing but a nod. "At ease. Let's have it then."
Steve was already reaching for his breast pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper that had been kept safe from the rain inside his leather bomber jacket. "Jim, Dugan, Gabe, and I were able to get all the scouting reports as requested. Gabe even found what we think might be a transfer point for supplies."
As he spoke, Steve unfolded the paper and handed it over. Colonel Phillips took it, going to the freestanding cork board behind them and pinning it on top of several other papers. It was a map, interspersed with hurried markings and lines drawn in by numerous hands. They'd all had a go at it — Jim, Gabe, and the like — but Bucky could tell which notes were in Steve's handwriting with no trouble at all.
Colonel Phillips harrumphed. "Not a bad job, Captain Rogers. I think we can help reduce their load and take a few of those supplies off their hands with this intel."
"Thank you, sir!"
Phillips swung his attention to Bucky, an expectant look on his face. "Sergeant Barnes? You're the man of the hour here. Were you able to retrieve the documents?"
Bucky grabbed his oilcloth messenger bag and pulled out the small stack of papers Zemo had given him, holding them out for the Colonel to inspect. "My contact said they were unable to get the originals, so these are copies made from memory." He hoped those words would infect Peggy and Phillips with Bucky's own doubts about his contact and his intel. Surely the brass could see this could all be a trap.
"And what did your contact say on the matter? Are significant gaps expected?" Peggy asked, going to Phillips' side and peering down at the papers in hand.
"Z — The contact said it wouldn't be an issue and the maps were good. But, er, how much do you know about them?"
Peggy blinked at him. "The maps?"
Bucky's skin heated, his cheeks tight. "The contact, ma'am."
"If you're asking if they're trustworthy, well. I supposed only as much as anyone in this room can be trusted," Peggy replied archly as she gestured to the dozens of people all at work inside the tent. "I assure you, Sergeant Barnes, this source has been thoroughly vetted by one of our operatives in the Resistance. Unless you know something I do not, I believe we have every reason to trust your contact, and much to gain from their cooperation."
Bucky shifted, uncomfortably put on the spot. He didn't have any reason to mistrust Zemo besides the awful twisting feeling he had the moment he'd met him. But he couldn't just voice his opinion on a feeling that he couldn't name.
"Just... making sure is all." He crammed his hands into the pockets of his coat.
Phillips handed over the papers and Peggy began leafing through them, eyes moving quickly over the data. Even at his poor vantage point, Bucky could see the precise, elegant handwriting that adorned the wrinkled sheets.
"Well?" Phillips asked after a few tense moments.
"They've done what was promised. These are the formations and plans we've been searching for. Very good, Sergeant Barnes. This mission was of critical importance to our campaign here in Normandy. You've done admirably."
She handed the papers back to Phillips. The man tutted at what he saw, but there was a smile beneath his moustache and hard-set brow.
Peggy went briskly to the desk and slid a manilla envelope free. "Sergeant, you will meet up with your contact in four days. These documents will have all of your critical information, and as before, this must be of the utmost secrecy and urgency."
Whatever pride or satisfaction Bucky had felt from Carter and Phillip's praise was quickly doused. The twisting feeling in his stomach returned tenfold. He couldn't do it, not with Zemo. The first time had been enough for him and he never wanted to lay eyes on the man again. "No offense, Agent Carter, but I'm not a spy or one of your intelligence agents. You have the wrong man for this job."
Phillips glanced up from the paperwork with a surprised and unhappy look. "You're getting close to insubordination, son. Are you denying an order?"
"No, sir," Bucky hurriedly said, realizing his misstep too late. Steve was looking at him oddly.
"Sergeant, do you feel unfit for this task that you carried out so admirably the first time?" Carter asked.
"No, ma'am. Or rather, how do we know —"
She cut him off, her tone cool. "Trust is hard earned in this war, Sergeant, but your contact has given us no cause to doubt and has been providing invaluable intel for months now. Do you have any further protests, or would you like to follow orders and do as you're told?"
That should've made him angry, but any argument died on Bucky's tongue, his surprise a speechless thud in his chest. Months? Zemo had been working with — with other people? For months?
Steve jumped to his rescue, putting a large hand on Bucky's shoulder so suddenly it sent a jolt down Bucky's spine. "Bucky is just being modest. He thinks he does his best work with the team, but he's good at this sort of work."
Peggy gave them both a look steeped in skepticism. Bucky bit down a retort. He could punch Steve, the knuckleheaded goon. Throwing him under the bus, drawing attention to himself. Idiot.
Phillips glared at first one, then the other. "The army is no place for modesty, Barnes. Will there be any issues with you completing this mission?"
It wasn't really a question. Bucky saluted quickly. "No, sir."
"Good. Dismissed, Carter give him the papers."
Carter nodded her agreement and passed Bucky the folder, the top sealed with cellophane tape. "Be careful, Sergeant."
Bucky gave another salute before turning to leave. Steve copied him and made to follow, but Carter's voice stopped him. "Captain Rogers? Stay, please. We have other things to discuss."
When it rained, it poured. Bucky glanced back, seeing nothing but Steve's apologetic expression.
"Go on Buck, I'll catch up." Steve promised, before turning back to Peggy. Just like that, Steve was out of his grasp, pulled into Peggy's orbit. Colonel Phillips was already walking away, and Bucky had a sick hunch that without the Colonel, those two would work even closer together than usual.
Shoving the manilla envelope into his jacket, he abruptly headed outside. He didn't need to hear Peggy's cultured voice murmuring something gentle, or see Steve's hands drift over to hers. He had other things to worry about.
In four days' time, he was going to have to see Zemo again, and Steve was behind him making cow eyes at Carter. Good. It was good, it really was. Steve deserved someone like Carter. She was beautiful, poised, sharp and just as fierce as Steve, and best of all, she was a woman.
The rain had lessened into a fine drizzle, almost nothing. It was frustrating. He wanted heavier rain, a downpour, thunder and lightning, and he wasn't going to get it. He didn't get anything he wanted.
He dug deep into himself, concentrated on the crunch of the folder inside his coat and the weight of his pack on his shoulders, and marched through the camp with grim determination. He hardly understood where he was going. Directions were a thing of the past, stuck in that tent with Steve and Peggy and their sweet nothings, but his feet seemed to know the way. Around tentpoles, skirting clots of men with their busy hands and rough voices, past jeeps and their fat tires flinging mud, they knew.
It seemed a miracle when he reached his team. Their camp was where it had been before they'd left, set up at the outskirts of the camp, one of the front lines of defense if anything ever happened. Monty and Dernier were singing loudly in French, earning dirty looks from the troops at nearby tents, and as he approached, Bucky forced himself to smile.
"Practically ran over, thought someone was torturing a cat back here," he called as he came into range, earning a few heckling shouts.
Monty and Dernier started the chorus over, this time louder and decidedly out of key.
Jim put his hands over his ears and shot Bucky an annoyed look as soon as the man came into glaring range. "Do you have to encourage them? That'll keep 'em going all night."
"I'll show you all night," Monty yelled.
Bucky shrugged, passing Gabe, who was valiantly trying to light a fire and getting nowhere with it. "They deserve a little fun."
"And I deserve to keep my eardrums intact."
"You're in the wrong place for that, Jimbo." Bucky ducked under a canvas tarp, finally out of the wet. He dumped his pack and fell into one of the empty spots under the makeshift pavilion, immediately back in the fold. The guys squabbled over the singing before Jim gave up and joined in. Even Gabe hummed the melody under his breath as he flicked his lighter repeatedly. The racket was comforting. Everything Bucky could want in friends or a campsite was here.
So what if Steve was missing? He didn't need Steve, and Steve no longer needed him.