Le Dernier Train
Authors Note: The German in this chapter was provided by my amazing friends ApocalypticAwe and Sergeant_Alexej! The French was graciously provided via Don Ratman!
Compared to the first mission, this was right out of a paperback dime novel.
Bucky shifted lower on the wooden train depot bench. The platform was bustling with people, refugees from areas of fighting with their belongings shoved into potato sacks and old trunks, merchants moving goods intended for the front, women selling little cookies and loaves of bread. It was a familiar din. No different than any station in New York, if one removed the part about this country being in the midst of a war. People were going about their lives as best they could wherever they lived, even under circumstances such as these.
He used to be that way. Only a short year and a half ago he had been a working class nobody, keeping his head down and trying to get through another day. Now he was famous. Even the Germans knew him.
There was no way he was gonna be able to pull this off.
Carter had faith, though. Maybe she was trying to turn him into one of her intelligence agents after all. Before, he would have been thrilled at the idea of going into danger as a suave spy, or working as an undercover cop. But a year and a half ago he'd also thought war happened like it did in the comic books, flashy and fast and full of heroism. Neither impression had been correct. It was even less correct this time around.
While the first meeting with Zemo had been a simple set of coordinates with a general time, the second seemed full of complicated precision. The envelope Carter had given him contained fake travel identification papers, a train ticket, even a little cash. The plan had been detailed out on typewritten pages stamped 'For Eyes Only' and 'Classified.' He'd committed them to memory before burning them and leaving camp.
Bucky was to go to the station outside of Lisieux and catch the 5:00 p.m. line to Évreux. Two stops after that, Zemo would board the train and meet Bucky in the tenth compartment of the fifth car. They would have until the next stop to complete their transaction, at which point Zemo would exit the train. Bucky would then ride one stop further, disembark, and board the returning train to Lisieux. There, he would rejoin the Commandos.
Or at least, that was the plan as it had been laid out. Simple as catching a train.
Now, dressed in an old cap, patched brown trousers held up with secondhand suspenders, and a worn white and blue striped shirt, Bucky hoped he looked like he'd just come off shift somewhere. The only problem was none of the clothes were his, nor did they fit particularly well. And they smelled strange. Foreign. The scents of someone else's life. Even the shoes on his feet were someone else's, plain brown leather, not his military issue combat boots. After so long in uniform, the civilian clothing felt thin and unreal, a cheap costume that wouldn't fool a kid.
His only protection was a small pistol hidden in an interior pocket of his oilcloth messenger bag. He'd have rather had his rifle, but that would draw more attention than walking up here in his army greens. This close to Caen, everyone was on edge. There was a crackling charge beneath the surface. The towns nearby had been crushed, but the invincible German lines were being pushed back. They were still fighting in Caen, brutal and protracted, but there was hope.
They could win. Take Caen, then Paris. All plans sounded easy when you boiled them down to a couple steps.
A steam whistle cut through the noise of the crowded platform, turning heads. The train was approaching.
Bucky reached for his silver pocket watch, pulling it surreptitiously from his front trouser pocket. He flipped open the cover, checking the time to confirm it was his train despite it being the only one he'd seen in an hour. The watch displayed 4:55. Seemed the French were as determined as the British to keep their trains, if they could help it. Time to go.
The whistle blew twice more, the locomotive slowing as it came to rest, brakes hissing clouds of steam, at the platform. Six cars, not counting the coal car, and none of them in great shape. They formed a beat-up, ancient snake, flaking paint as though it were about to shed its skin, hauled by a black steam engine from the last century.
With the brim of his cap pulled down low, Bucky leaned back against the bench and watched as the doors opened, disgorging a paltry number of travelers. They were mostly women and old men, their faces worn and thin, some sporting bandages, clothing stained with dirt and darker things Bucky had no desire to examine. Cleaner, if no less healthier, patrons stepped in closer, waiting for their chance to board.
The conductor walked the small platform, calling in French for passengers to board. Instead of heading directly to each car like Bucky was accustomed to back home, people shuffled into one loose line, tickets in hand. Through the mostly-intact train windows, Bucky could see German soldiers sitting in open compartments and standing idly in the corridors, chatting or smoking cigarettes, laughing occasionally.
Casually, he rose from the bench, sliding the pocket watch away with a click of the engraved case. He fished his ticket from his pocket and stepped into the line, keeping his head down and shoulders slumped. He didn't have to fake the fatigue, but the adrenaline threatened to ruin everything.
He followed the line and approached the grated iron steps of the train. The ticket taker, a thin, older man in a crisp if ragged railway uniform, gave him a quick 'bonjour' without even looking up at him. Bucky handed over the ticket silently, nodding rather than open his mouth and let his American accent draw attention. His silence went unremarked as he climbed into the passenger car. The ticket taker said the same hurried 'bonjour' said to the next person to step up after him.
The car might once have been well tended, but not anymore. The wood paneling was splintered in places, and the glass that served as windows for the individual compartments was cracked. Scarred brass numbers over the sliding doors marked the compartments, two long, padded benches to each. The interior was overly warm in the July heat, the open windows the only ventilation. The cars smelled of sweat and smoke.
Nobody talked much. Someone yanked their child out of his way as he continued down the narrow corridor, out of one car and through the bellows to the next. A woman dragged a heavy trunk into one of the compartments and shut the door. He passed two soldiers on his way through the train, heart pounding, but they barely looked at him, choosing instead to lean against the wall and show each other picture postcards of half-dressed women. Glad of their distraction, Bucky walked on until he found his designated meeting point: Compartiment 10, just before the end of the car, and Jesus, he could see why the compartment was chosen as the one to wait in.
It was a wreck.
He had to force the door open to even get inside, though it slid shut again easily, mocking his efforts. The seats were in the worst shape he'd ever seen, lumpy and ripped with matted, dirty stuffing oozing out one side, and the window was stuck shut. Any sane rider would avoid this cabin, though some leftover cigarette butts and a crumpled newspaper on the floor proved someone had put this place to questionable use recently.
Bucky kicked the butts out of the way and snatched up the newspaper. He could barely read French beyond what he'd learned in the sixth grade for Culture Week, but the paper gave him a cover of sorts. Dropping his bag on the opposite bench to discourage any adventurous souls from joining him, he took a seat by the window, stretching out his legs and opening the paper. He wondered disjointedly if there was a sports section, but it quickly became apparent that it didn't matter. The war was splashed across every page. The date on the paper —only a couple of days ago — proved the Vichy propaganda machine was still in full swing.
The train whistle shrieked one last time, the noise echoing through the silence of the train car, and the train lurched into motion with a hiss. Bucky looked up as it started to pull forward, each rotation of the wheels adding momentum until the platform fell away, open country taking its place.
He pulled out the pocket watch again. Forty-five minutes until he was supposed to meet with Zemo.
"I want you to have this, son. It was a gift from my father the day I married your Ma."
His pocket watch. When he had been captured at Azzano and stripped of his uniform and gear, he'd been so grateful the little watch was back at camp. Maybe it was stupid to be happy about a watch being safe when he'd been about to die, but it'd been a victory of sorts. It was his father's watch, and he hadn't failed his family.
"Hold onto it. I carried it with me all through the Great War. This way, you'll have a bit of home with you." George Barnes rested one hand on Bucky's shoulder, squeezing through the fabric of his uniform. His voice was deeper than Bucky's, his grip still strong.
"Grandpa's watch," Bucky said. He'd heard the story often enough, about his grandfather who had worked on clocks back in England. He smiled at his dad, trying to look brave. He didn't want the watch, for all it had been ever present in the background of his life. He'd never thought of it as his.
"That's right. Your grandpa had it when he had to come here from Europe, and I had it when I had to go back. Now you'll carry it, and it'll keep you safe."
His father had always told him he would inherit it on his wedding day, just as he had, but here Bucky was, shipping out to war, and his father was giving it to him like he might not have another opportunity.
It felt wrong.
"Don't worry, I'll bring it back home, I'll be back before you know it."
"Bring yourself back home. We'll be waiting for you here."
They were still waiting, as far as he knew. Mail was spotty, but he hoped. When he saw his family again, would they even recognize him? Would they like who he'd become?
The countryside and little villages along the railroad passed by in a blur. Occasionally another passenger's voice would drift through and Bucky would catch snippets of conversation held in French or German. The soldiers in the sixth car, the one at the end of the train, laughed a lot.
At the next stop, more passengers got off than got on. The car was quieter after, less voices to fill the background, leaving the white noise of the train to take over. Bucky jiggled his leg, bouncing it as he checked his watch frequently. The newspaper offered incomprehensible words on incomprehensible subjects, and he took turns alternately glowering at it and the watch until the train whistle sounded again.
They'd arrived.
The stop where Zemo was to board was no more than a raised platform with a dilapidated ticket booth, upon which a small wooden sign hung featuring the name of the town. The train whistled loudly as it approached the station and Bucky shot to his feet, the compartment bench rattling in protest. He fit his fingers into the brass-lined depression in the busted door and wrestled it open cautiously, peering through an inch of open space. When he didn't see or hear anyone, he stepped out into the corridor and went to the window.
Passengers were already outside, towing their meager belongings and moving towards the end of the platform. Bucky scanned the crowd as those wishing to board fell into line to replace those who had disembarked. He didn't see Zemo.
Frowning, he studied the small crowd at the platform. There were less than two dozen people milling about, and none of them were Zemo. He scanned every man that could fit the description as well as any women or children that were the right height, but Zemo was distinctive, and with the war there were few young men around anyway. Most were older, wounded in some manner, or still babies in their mother's arms.
Panic shot through his gut. He went back and grabbed his bag, stepping out into the aisle again and weaving his way past the few passengers brave enough to come this far down the line. He looked through another window, hoping for a better angle, but there was still no sign of Zemo.
Bucky ducked into an empty compartment at the other end of the car and checked his watch. Fifty minutes since he left his original station, and the train had a schedule to keep. If Zemo was late, he could miss the meeting and the information Carter and Phillips wanted would be delayed. Men would die. The train would leave and Zemo might be missing and there was no way to contact him.
Bucky could stay behind. He could try to keep their appointment if Zemo was anywhere nearby, but he would be in uncharted waters and no-one in command would know he was. Nothing in the manila envelope had prepared him for this. There were no guidelines for something going wrong.
The train whistle blew, jolting Bucky from his thoughts. The edges of his father's watch cut into his palm. He had to decide, seconds were ticking by, he was wasting time. The whistle bellowed once more, and Bucky left the car, rushing towards the front of the train where the ticket taker was pulling the door shut.
He pushed his way through the incoming queue and barrelled out the door, calling a hurried "Pardon!" over his shoulder as he rammed someone in the shoulder. He leaped down to the platform, ignoring the ticket taker calling after him. Steam burst into the air, the train whistle sounding a warning as the train started forward, wheels turning, laboriously pushing onward. It pulled away as he stood there, tense, watching for Zemo's face in a window. He didn't see the man, and then the train was gone. He was off schedule and alone.
A few people cast odd glances at him, and Bucky had to quickly school his expression to something flat and unfrightened, tugging his cap back down over his forehead as he tried to scan the small crowd. It was mostly people heading towards the road, a few remained milling about. Strangers.
Damn Zemo to hell for being late, Bucky thought uncharitably as he shoved his hands into his pockets. His watch bumped against the knuckles of one hand, a hard reminder. His pulse was still fast, sweat trickling down the back of his neck. He'd made a mistake by jumping off the train that way, drawing so much attention. All he could do now was pretend he belonged here, in occupied territory where he didn't speak either French or German. Damage control.
This far from Lisieux, the little train depot had only two tracks and one platform, one side was for going to Lisieux, the other for going to Évreux. Taking a deep breath, he relaxed his shoulders and forced himself to walk to the only other signpost on the platform: the timetable. Luckily for him, it was mostly just hours and minutes, no translation needed.
He studied it, frown reappearing. There were three trains left for the day, if the schedule was still relevant. One at 7:00 p.m. heading back to Lisieux, one at 8:00 p.m. continuing to Évreux, and le dernier train, the last train, at 9:00 p.m. for Lisieux. After that, he would be stuck in Nowheresville until morning.
Not a lot of options. Bucky could wait for Zemo until the last train arrived. Maybe Zemo would appear en route to Lisieux. If not, maybe Zemo would be bold enough to contact the SSR and let someone know what the hell was going on.
Bucky looked out across the platform. Only a few weary travelers were waiting for the next train, which was an hour out if they were lucky. As much as he disliked the idea, the best course was to wait. He had already deviated so far from the parameters, there would be no point in turning tail and immediately running back to Lisieux. He'd just have to be careful to blend in.
Bucky drew another deep breath and sauntered over to a vacant wooden bench. He sat, wishing he had something to do with his hands. If he'd had more presence of mind, he would have snatched the newspaper from the train, at least that would have given him the appearance of a normal passenger.
Luck was on his side. Nobody bothered him. The few German soldiers that rolled up in jeeps kept to themselves or checked in at the ticket booth. Mostly, everyone stared at the ground.
The seven o'clock train came and went, taking the soldiers with it. Bucky's hopes rose and fell dramatically when there was no sign of Zemo. His nerves started to fray at the edges. Sitting here like this had to seem odd to everyone else. Why hadn't he taken the train to Lisieux? What was he waiting for?
Eventually, his worries seemed in vain. A person could stay afraid for only so long, and two hours was about Bucky's limit. The sun was sinking into the west, painting the sky in vivid orange and pink pastels, and he pulled his journal from his bag.
Why did I know this entire op was going to be FUBAR? Oh right, cause it involved meeting with Zemo. Dandy bastard probably missed the rendezvous because he was ironing his uniform and taking tea.
I don't know what Carter thinks she's doing sending me out here playing spy for her, let alone going after this guy.
I'm not cut out for this line of work.
I guess I always knew Stevie ought to have been a real big shot, but I'm nothing like Carter or Steve really. I can't believe what an idiot I was, jumping off the train in the middle of occupied territory.
They always say if you do a job badly enough they won't ask you to do it again. Of course, knowing my damn luck —
He was in the middle of a sentence when the eight o'clock train heading to Évreux whistled loudly and rolled up to the platform. By the time he looked up from the page, he was stuck.
He didn't care about the train to Évreux and so hadn't prepared for it, and that was a deadly error. Cold dread swallowed him whole, and he suddenly understood how a rabbit must feel when the snake stares it down, helpless to do anything, unable to move as twenty or so German soldiers filed out of the last car and stood beside it, waiting for something. They clustered in a group of feldgrau uniforms, all of them chatting and laughing with each other. They were unhurried, unconcerned they might be ambushed, getting a break from the last assignment or on their way to the next.
He wondered how quickly he could reach his pistol, then dismissed the thought. Twenty armed soldiers was too many even for Steve to want to tangle with.
The group remained at the far side of the station, smoking and joking with each other, it wasn't until headlights flashed and the roar of motorcycles announced a presence that had all the remaining passengers quieting down to hushed whispers. People pulled back into the benches, trying to make themselves unnoticeable as another jeep drove up beside the train, flanked by two motorbikes. The soldiers by the train straightened up and fell into line, but the motorcyclists continued closer, parking near the edge of the platform and climbing off their motorbikes.
They were wearing black uniforms and had polished guns at their hips. The pair were confident, swaggering up to the platform and scanning over the travelers, tapping gloved hands against holstered weapons.
They were doing a patrol. Whether this was routine, or whether they were looking for someone, Bucky couldn't tell, but as the eight o'clock train started to board, they went to stand beside the ticket taker at the front of the train. They took up positions opposite each other, one on either side of the door, and began asking questions.
He stole the moment their concentration was elsewhere and stowed his journal deep in his bag before adopting a tired attitude, gaze back on the dirt like everyone else. He watched from the corner of his eye as they stopped everyone in line, demanding to see papers before the passenger could board. He found himself holding his breath each time.
If this happened when the last train boarded, there would be no way he could lie. He didn't speak enough French to bluff his way through, and anyway his strong New York accent would give him away in an instant.
When the last passenger boarded and the steam whistle cried out, the pair returned to their motorcycles. For a moment, Bucky thought perhaps Lady Luck hadn't abandoned him. But no, they merely leaned against the black leather seats and shared out a packet of cigarettes, lighting up with the rasping drag of wooden matches. It made him crave a smoke intensely, but he waited, slipping a hand into his pocket to grasp the little pocket watch, the ticking against the palm of his hand a reminder to keep his breath steady, to wrap himself in the stillness of a marksman.
Then one of them looked up at him.
Realizing he'd been in the same place without any real movement for over an hour, Bucky stood and made a show of yawning, slow and heavy, another beat-down out-of-work villager. He rubbed the back of his neck, frowning at the gloaming as if realizing the time, and shuffled to the window of the ticket booth, now illuminated by a spotty light bulb, where a woman with frizzy brunette hair was counting out the money in the register.
"Bonsoir monsieur, vous avez besoin de quelque chose?" the woman asked, exactly as tiredly as Bucky was pretending to be. He put on his most charming smile for her. She looked like she was in her thirties, and, though there was no ring on her hand, likely married, but the old Barnes charm had never failed him before.
"Aaa…. Oui, oui, un...le dernier train?" he tried, hoping his imitation of Dernier's accent was sufficient. "A... Lisieux?"
The woman looked at him, pausing for a beat, but Bucky quickly held out the money he had been given in his packet. The woman still seemed unsure, but casting a glance to the side, she hurriedly took the cash and slid him a ticket and some change from her drawer.
"Merci," Bucky murmured.
She nodded to him in quick dismissal. He could see the relief drag her shoulders down as he turned away from her, pocketing the ticket and the remaining money. But it had worked, the German soldiers had forgotten about him, too busy with their own pleasure to mind some poor oaf purchasing a ticket.
He returned reluctantly to his bench to endure the next thirty minutes, the wait a hell of its own that passed slowly, time slowed to a crawl. When the longed-for whistle finally sounded, he had to keep himself from jumping to his feet despite his heart hammering in his chest. A quick glance over at the ticket both showed the woman pointedly not looking at him, locking and shuttering the little ticket window with alacrity.
The headlight of the train shone like a small star, the sound of the steam engine loud in the night air. The only other people waiting finally stood, and Bucky got to his feet at last. He was never again going to take a risk like this for Zemo. Zemo wasn't worth getting killed over, and he would punch the glamour puss the next time he saw him, which Bucky could only hope would be never after everything.
Steam rolled from the train as it came up to the platform, slowing down to a stop that rattled the ground as it did. The whistle bellowed, and Bucky watched from the corner of his eye as the soldiers drew nearer. They had finished their cigarettes, and Bucky could see the silver lightning bolts on the collar of their black uniforms.
Schutzstaffel. SS officers. What the fuck were SS doing here?
His heart thudded unevenly, so hard it hurt. He stepped into the line behind an old man with a bag like doctors carried. There were only three passengers boarding, and the silent tension in the air was thick as the pair of soldiers came up beside the train and ticket taker.
"Le vieillard! Présentez vos papiers!" one of them called, the older of the two. He had black hair cropped short in the military style, and even Bucky could tell his French had a heavy German accent.
The old man in front of him shuffled forward, clutching a black bag in one hand and holding out a small passport with the other. The second officer who hadn't spoken took the booklet and began looking it over. He said something in German and flipped it closed with lazy indifference, passing it back to the first.
"Quelle est la raison de votre déplacement?" the first soldier asked.
The old man looked tired, squinting at the officer from behind his gold-rimmed spectacles. "Je suis médecin, j'étais parti toute la journée pour un accouchement à domicile. Ma clinique est à Lisieux"
Bucky didn't understand a word, but apparently it was enough for the officer who spoke French. He boredly handed back the papers and the old man quickly shuffled forward, handing over his ticket to the ticket taker as fast as possible.
Bucky stepped up, trying to keep close to the old man as if they were in the same party.
The officer wasn't fooled. "Halte! Papiers?"
Bucky froze. He tried to look annoyed or worn out, however these poor people must feel as he reached for his messenger bag, fishing for his papers. He found the little booklet made by SSR of fake documents and prayed they were good. He hadn't prayed in earnest since Azzano, but in his head he was screaming the name of every saint he could remember.
He handed the passport over. While the second officer flipped through the papers, the first questioned him in a gruff tone. "Où allez vous? Et pour quelle raison?"
He didn't speak French. He couldn't say anything. Could he reach his gun fast enough? Would it matter? Where would he go?
"Oh! Réponds aux questions!"
Bucky's heart slammed against his ribs and sweat broke out along his spine. He couldn't breathe. Slowly, so slowly, he edged his hand towards his bag. If he could get a clean shot off, he might be able to take the two men and maybe steal a motorcycle before someone alerted the guards on board.
The officer smacked the brim of Bucky's cap impatiently, knocking it further back on his head. "Vous êtes sourd? J'ai dit —"
"Ah! Klaus! Ich dachte mir doch, dass ich dein Gebell da drüben gehört hätte!" a voice suddenly called from across the platform, and both Bucky and the officer turned.
There was Zemo. Zemo. Strutting up to them with a jaunty spring in his step and unhurried confidence, dressed in his dark gray officers uniform with a heavy trench coat over his shoulders. He was so clean, so well-pressed he might've been coming from a charity gala or an interview.
The first officer broke into a grin and waved Zemo over. "Helmut! Bist du endlich bereit für die Schutzstaffel? Eh?"
Zemo chuckled and shook hands with the officer, the two of them clearly familiar. "Nein, leider nicht, ich habe nur neue Befehle. Soll morgen nach Caen fahren. Zum Glück blieb mir genug Zeit, um noch ein paar Getränke zu besorgen, bevor ich mich ins Getümmel stürzte."
The first officer laughed and the second one shook his head, carelessly handing Bucky back his papers and waving him on. Bucky moved like he was on fire and the train was made of water, practically shoving his ticket at the ticket taker and climbing aboard the train while laughter floated to him from the three German officers.
Bucky rushed to the back of the car, to the tenth compartment as if this wasn't a completely different train, adrenaline making everything shiny and sharp. He yanked open the sliding door and threw himself inside, tearing the gun out of his bag and wrapping his fingers around the grip. White-knuckled, he whirled to face the door. He would be ready if Zemo failed. Or turned.
The train whistled, once, then twice. Bucky pressed himself against the door and peeked out the side window of the very functional and tidy compartment. Zemo was waving off the two officers and then climbing aboard himself, vanishing from view. Bucky stepped back, listening hard. Footsteps came down the corridor, and suddenly the sliding door opened. Zemo filled the narrow doorway, his tall black cap blocking out part of the corridor's light.
"Pardonnez-moi, is this seat taken? I've been longing to get off my feet all day, even on a rusted train like this." The code words came out seamlessly integrated, smooth as silk. Zemo gestured toward one of the padded benches with a vague smile that was more smirk than anything. "Do you mind if I move that bag?"
Bucky didn't answer. Zemo stepped inside the compartment and closed the door behind him and Bucky let him. They were boxed in by glass and old, clean wood, the echo of the ear-splitting whistle and the rumble of the wheels muted as the train began to move.
Bucky's hand remained locked around his pistol's grip. It shouldn't shake with steel to hold onto, but the tremor in his wrist was real. "Well?"
Zemo removed his coat, picked up Bucky's bag and laid it on the floor then sat, gray uniform stark against the faded red cushions. He set his coat and cap on the bench beside him and set to work tugging his gloves off, one finger at a time.
"You've got some nerve," Bucky ground out. He could see the gun strapped to Zemo's hip. He could see Zemo's soft hair, too, clean and styled, and his dark eyes fringed with long lashes. And there it was again, the scent of his cologne, filling the air between them.
"Some nerve? I'll need clarification, James. Some nerve saving you from being hauled off by the Schutzstaffel, or some nerve for showing up despite great risk to my life?"
"You —"
Bucky stopped and took a breath. Zemo was right. The realization of how close Bucky had come to being hauled off to another Azzano pressed on one side of him and Zemo's cologne pressed on the other. He shook his head to clear it, then pulled off his hat and raked his fingers through his sweaty hair. The gun went into his waistband at the small of his back, the fabric there just as damp as his hair, and he finally dropped onto the opposite seat, tossing his cap off to the side.
"What the hell happened is what I mean! You were supposed to be on the five o'clock train! I had to wait for you while Nazi scum crawled all over the station," Bucky hissed, fighting to keep his voice low as he leaned forward. There were still other passengers, otherwise Bucky was sure he would be grabbing Zemo by his collar and slamming him into the nearest surface.
Zemo's smile faded. He glanced towards the window. Bucky followed his gaze. The glass reflected the image of their faces back at them, the inky night turning it into a mirror.
"Unlike you, I am not a free agent at liberty to romp the countryside with a frankly startling amount of leash. I'm still a soldier and at their beck and call. There was an emergency meeting."
"A meeting."
"Did you not wonder why the Schutzstaffel find this tiny station so intriguing? They have interests to protect here, interests they will not surrender without a fight. I am willing to die for my cause, but not needlessly." He was more terse than Bucky had ever heard, his eyes hard and sharp in the glass. He was a soldier, and it showed.
Bucky drew in a sharp breath, holding it for a beat and then letting go again, forcing some of the tension to leave with it. His heart was slowing down, and as the danger lessened, the adrenaline drained away, leaving him unsteady. Clutching at the legs of his trousers to stop his hands from shaking, Bucky gave Zemo a nod of understanding. They were both soldiers, there was danger in everything they did, but the way Zemo acted made it easy to forget.
"I'm sorry, alright?" Bucky began, wishing he could force his tone to something more contrite, something kinder, but whatever kindness he had possessed so easily back home was hard won these days. "I'm not... I'm not a spy, or some special agent. This is all new to me."
"I understand, James. But you are a spy, or at least you are for now. You handled yourself well, better than I hoped for when Klaus and Fredrick approached you."
"I still — You had to step in. You weren't even worried."
"I don't think it is possible to grow accustomed to brushes with death, but I forget, you Americans are new to this war. This has been years for us now." Zemo turned from the reflection and looked at him, caught Bucky's gaze and held it fast.
The complete darkness outside made it seem as though they were trapped in a box, the only two living things in the world; the compartment's overhead light revealed everything. Zemo's eyes were serious and deep, but they weren't as dark as Bucky had previously thought. They were brown but with a golden cast, like good beer or dark honey. His hair was much the same. Where it glowed in the dim light of the rail car there was gold that sank into a deep chestnut. His brows were darker, the tip of his nose rounded, and his mouth was —
Bucky broke away first, forcing his gaze to the wooden floor. He was breathing Zemo in like the first whiff of spring after a long winter, but it was all wrong. Bucky had to stop this — this mooning, that's what Gabe had said. Bucky had gone too far with Gabe that night at camp, spinning a beautiful lie, entertaining the idea of an imagined version of Zemo that could be brought home to Bucky's family. Zemo wasn't a woman, and this wasn't a romance.
"Is that why you do it? You're risking your life so you can end the war?"
Zemo's smile made a wry, short reappearance. "If I believed the men I march for, then the quickest way to end the war would be for the Allies to lose. Perhaps we could all go home for Christmas then. No fighting to reclaim lost ground, no fighting in Germany at all. Just a new order for Europe. "
"I don't want to imagine that Europe," Bucky said, finally looking back to Zemo.
The other man nodded his head in agreement. "Neither do I. But for every step forward your men take, I must scramble backwards. For every step backwards that you and I celebrate, the harder it becomes for me to move freely."
"Did you know I would be waiting for you then?"
Zemo paused, seemingly caught off guard by the question. "...No. I admit, I had expected you to return to your command. It's what a more seasoned agent would have done. But I am relieved beyond measure to see you decided to wait for me." He turned to his coat. He fished in one of the pockets, pulling out a paper-wrapped bundle and holding it out to Bucky.
Bucky shifted uncomfortably on the bench seat, the words 'wait for me' still ringing in his ears as he reached out to take the small package. Hands steadier, he undid the simple knot in the twine and unfolded the crinkly brown paper to reveal a packet of German cigarettes. He looked at Zemo quizzically. "Is this it? Is there a secret message inside here? "
"Sometimes, James, a cigarette is just a cigarette."
Bucky shook his head and worked the packet open, taking one of the cigarettes and offering the rest back to Zemo. "I hung around because whatever intel you have, it's valuable. I don't want anyone getting hurt because I couldn't retrieve it."
Zemo smiled enigmatically. "Of course. I have everything you and your men will be wanting. And please, keep them. I am not one for them myself."
Bucky shrugged and reached for his lighter, flicking it until a tiny flame appeared, allowing him to take the first puff of acrid, wonderful smoke. Hazy white wisps filled the compartment as Bucky exhaled, making Zemo look like a mirage for a few brief seconds. He drew in a second biting breath, and realized with a startling clarity that Zemo had brought the cigarettes for him specifically. Zemo didn't smoke and the pack was untouched. Zemo was just sitting there, watching Bucky.
As if sensing Bucky's discomfiture, Zemo continued on, the other man's voice filling the silence created by Bucky's addiction. "I should inform you, however, that I won't be able to meet with my own Resistance contacts any further. It's becoming too dangerous to go through others to arrange our meetings. Every time I slip away, the next time becomes that much harder."
"So, that's it? You won't be able to give us anything else?" Taking the cigarette from his lips, Bucky frowned. "You backin' down after all that big talk about giving your life for your cause?"
"Not at all. But you and I will have to arrange our next meeting ourselves. Working with you alone minimizes the risk, since cutting out extra excursions means I am more likely to succeed."
Bucky hesitated. Arranging his own meetings meant more responsibility, more involvement in clandestine crap. Zemo was leading him down a path he had never meant to go down, a path Carter was steering him towards. "What if Command doesn't agree?"
"They will," Zemo replied calmly. He leaned forward and plucked the cigarette from Bucky's fingers before Bucky could stop him. He could only stare as Zemo brought the stick to his own lips, taking a deep drag.
Bucky's mouth seemed to dry out, voice rough. "I thought you didn't smoke."
Zemo smiled and held the cigarette back out to Bucky as he exhaled, his smoke twining through Bucky's in the small compartment. "I prefer other vices. However, one can't help but indulge on occasion."
Heart racing, Bucky took the cigarette, staring at it in disbelief. It felt as dangerous as a viper, a gesture so blatant and charged — and yet, by the same measure, it could mean nothing. He wouldn't have blinked if Steve had done the same, but from Zemo it was unexpected. Exhilarating.
Slowly, Bucky brought the cigarette up and closed his own lips around the end, taking a forcibly protracted draw. The tobacco was good quality, but he hardly noticed it. The lingering moisture of Zemo's mouth on the end burned hotter than the smoke.
Zemo was watching him again. "I hope you find those to your taste."
"You said we'll have to arrange our next meeting ourselves?" Bucky asked instead of answering.
Zemo nodded. "Yes. I'm being sent to Caen. But if your allies have used my information wisely, my hope is Caen will not hold for very long at all."
"They'll put it to use, don't worry about that. But if you're in Caen, that's gonna be trouble."
"Yes. That is precisely why I can no longer afford to meet with my Resistance contact. For our next exchange, we will have to meet in the city. It will be dangerous, but both of us will have to get away from the fighting somehow."
"You're the one who said I've got too much leash. Guess I should put it to use."
"My thoughts precisely," Zemo said. The soldier in Zemo was back. He was sure and steady, and Bucky could imagine him poring over maps and trading tactics with Colonel Phillips. He suspected even on the battlefield Zemo owned whatever space he occupied. "The meeting I attended before rescuing you involved strategic decisions relevant to Caen, as well as my own assignment. Snipers have been added to guard the bridges along the river. If Allied forces cross the Orne, then the city is lost to Germany."
Bucky nodded. "Sure, but near the bridges is where the worst of the fighting will be. And if there are snipers, I don't want to be caught on the ground."
"You do not. I would hate to find you in my crosshairs so close to my fellow soldiers. You would be asking me to make a choice between your life or my own."
Bucky shivered at the thought and quickly finished the last of the cigarette, stubbing it out in the compartment's tarnished ashtray. He had enough freedom that if their roles were reversed, he would be able to spare the bullet. But Zemo had no such luxury, and Bucky held no illusions about the value of his life when weighed against Zemo's intel.
"We'll have to meet somewhere else."
"I'm glad you agree." Zemo reached into his uniform jacket, pulling a folded sheet of paper from the inside pocket. "You see, I brought you something besides cigarettes."
"Thanks," Bucky said wryly. He took the paper and unfolded it. Another map, this one of a city and its surrounding area. Twisting roads and city blocks crowded across the sheet. The river Orne went from East to South below the city, and something called the Canal de Caen ran just above it and ended at Caen. Everything was labeled in Zemo's perfect, flowing hand.
The train whistle sounded. Bucky looked up, surprised, as lights appeared outside the window. Houses. The night wasn't eternal after all. They were almost out of time.
He studied the map a second longer, then jabbed one of the blocks with his finger. "Here. We can meet here. You won't be able to cross the river. I can, even if I have to go through combat."
The whistle came again. They both glanced out the window this time.
"It appears we have reached the end of our rendezvous." Zemo put his cap on and stood, grabbing his coat and folding it over his arm. "Believe it or not James, I greatly dislike the idea of putting you at risk. If there were other means, I would employ them."
"This is war," Bucky replied. It didn't matter what he liked or disliked.
"It is. But I should like to see us both alive at the end of this war."
"You make it sound like we'll be grabbing drinks in Berlin." Bucky tried for humor, but his voice was too uncertain to pull it off.
More lights appeared outside, windows and buildings visible. The train was slowing. Zemo looked out the window again, his lips pressed into a line. "I would rather like us to have those drinks. But first, Caen."