We Were Soldiers
109. Vive la Resistance
Bucky stumbled out of the jeep, muttering an apology to Morita for accidentally jostling him. He'd tried to deny it for a long time, but now it was time to face the truth that Europe was beating into him: he just wasn't a morning person.
Not like Steve. Steve could spring out of bed at four in the morning bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and ready to take on a platoon of Nazis. Bucky had got through the first six months of Europe on adrenaline, friendship, and the fact that sleeping rolls were not exactly conducive to a good night's sleep in the first place. Back with the 107th, getting up at 4am to march a few dozen miles was hard, but being part of a large company made it easier. The guys had looked out for each other and encouraged each other—granted, mostly with mockery—so that even on the longest days, everyone managed to get up at their appointed times.
London was different. It was comfortable. After six months in a tent, and an unknown number of weeks on a steel table, his body now resented leaving its cushy bed. Just a few more minutes, it would say, giving his brain permission to lapse back into sleep, until Steve or Monty took to banging on his bedroom door to wake him. These days, it felt like his body and mind existed permanently in a 'day after the night before' kind of state that no amount of coaxing or cajoling could rouse him from without at least six cups of coffee.
On the other hand, the rest of the Commandos didn't seem to be doing much better. Dugan had spent the whole drive from London to the airstrip yawning widely. Morita and Jones had managed a brief nap in the back of the jeep. Monty was making an effort, but the dark circles beneath his eyes betrayed how tired he actually was. Of all the group, only Steve and Dernier were awake and alert; Steve because of his shiny new enhanced physiology, and Dernier because his sister's safety was at stake—he'd spent the past twenty-four hours on the edge of his seat, and probably hadn't had much sleep either.
Two figures awaited them on the airstrip beside a large grey transport plane that looked as shiny and new as Steve. Peggy Carter managed to appear effortlessly glamorous in her field uniform, even though her trousers were a little on the baggy side; probably made for a other figure was Freddie Lopresti, and he'd wisely stashed his camera in a padded bag he carried over his shoulder. Less chance of the lens cracking on landing, like back in Norway.
"Good morning, gentlemen," said Carter. "I hope you've all had an early breakfast today; high winds have been reported over the Channel, so we'll likely be in for a rough ride."
Normally, the idea of a rough ride would've had Bucky—and the rest of the team—groaning and fighting over seats far away from Denier. But Bucky knew the guy hadn't eaten anything in at least twelve hours, so this was one journey on which they'd probably be safe from uncontrolled vomiting.
"Where's our pilot?" asked Steve.
"Making a head start on the pre-flight checks," came a familiar voice from the cockpit. A few seconds later, Captain Stone's head appeared.
"Captain Stone? I thought you swore you'd never fly us anywhere again?"
"Yes, well, that was before I was bribed with a top of the range spiffing new plane." He patted the body of the vehicle fondly. "She even comes with a lidded bucket, for your vomiting friend."
"Now that we're all here," said Carter, "I suggest we get started. Come along, Freddie; let's find somewhere safe to stow your equipment."
It was impossible to ignore the air of frostiness she left behind. As the rest of the Commandos made their way to the loading ramp, Bucky loitered behind with Steve.
"She still hasn't forgiven you?"
His friend sighed. "No. And I don't know how to make it up to her. It feels like everything I say and do is wrong. How can I make things right, Buck?"
"Give her time," he advised. "She needs chance to cool off."
"Maybe you're right. But I don't like this feeling hanging over us." Steve's case of pensive-face suddenly deepened. "I hope it won't affect the team."
"Remember when your trouble with girls was that you didn't actually have any trouble with girls?" He offered his friend an elbow-nudge to the ribs and a conciliatory grin. "The good old days, huh?"
"Life may have been a little less complicated when my girl-troubles were non-existent," Steve replied, "but I wouldn't go back to that for the world. I can't imagine what my life would be like without Peggy in it. I just wish I could tell her that without somehow messing up every time."
"Give that time, too. It took me a long time to figure out how to talk to girls without sounding like a bumbling idiot. Like, almost a month." Steve chuckled at that. "Y'know, what I don't get is, we spent practically our whole youths together. We grew up as close as brothers. How come none of my charm and sophistication rubbed off on you?"
"You had charm and sophistication?" teased Steve. "Why'd you never tell me?" But the moment of joviality quickly passed as his frown returned. "I guess I'll just have to figure it out when we get back; right now, Dernier needs us. I can't put my own troubles ahead of this, even if that trouble is going to be sitting five feet away from me for the next hour."
The dejected slump of Steve's shoulders as he strode up the loading ramp tugged at Bucky's heartstrings. It seemed wrong that Steve had spent all of his life being rejected by girls, only to feel that bitter sting again despite finding someone he could be happy with. To Bucky, the answer seemed simple: they should both stop being dumb, tell each other how much they cared for each other, and do something about the lingering sexual tension. Even if it meant getting married first. Waiting seemed stupid; anything could happen, in war.
But then, he had the benefit of being on the outside of his friend's problems looking in. It was hard to see so clearly from the inside looking out.
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The new plane was sturdier and better kitted out than the old one. Being larger and heavier, it wasn't buffeted quite as badly by the winds… but it was still far from a comfortable ride. Dernier, though pale, had managed to avoid his usual mid-flight vomiting session – further proof that his sister's situation was really weighing heavy on him.
On the bench opposite Bucky, Jones unbuckled his restraint so that he could turn around and peer out of the window into the early-dawn light
"Dammit Jones, sit down and stop rocking the plane," Dugan grumbled.
"In a minute. I wanna see if I can see it."
"See what? France? Believe me, it's down there. I can practically smell the garlic from here."
"Remember when we shipped out from Plymouth last year on that huge warship?"
"The King George V," Bucky nodded. Wells had been so excited to see that ship. Like a big goddamn kid. "It sank some battleship in some battle."
"And you remember that big swamp we landed in when we disembarked?"
"Ugh, don't remind me," said Dugan. "The skeeters, the boiled-egg smell, the constantly damp socks…"
"If you don't wanna be reminded, then you might not wanna look out the window," said Jones. "Because that swamp is right below us."
And just like that, Bucky was right back there, wading through water that came up to his thighs, swatting at a thousand biting flies, trying to reassure Carrot that it was physically impossible to drown in waist-deep water. They'd gone to France with no clue about war, and every lesson they had learnt had been learnt the hard way. And even after everything he had been through, Bucky knew that he was one of the lucky ones.
"You landed in a swamp?" Morita asked. "Glad I missed that part. Sounds pretty miserable."
"It wasn't all bad," said Bucky. He had a strange urge to defend the early days of the SSR's campaign in Europe. Sure, conditions had been pretty miserable, but they'd also made their own fun. They'd played poker and darts, they'd thrown a birthday party for Gusty, they'd had their daily bets on how many push-ups Carrot could manage each morning, and there had been Davies' syndicate to provide for their needs. Looking back, it was a wonder Agent Carter hadn't murdered them all for their often crazy antics. Antics that had seemed perfectly rational at the time, because it was always different when you were on the inside looking out.
"Oh yeah, we had some great times," Dugan scoffed. "Between digging all those latrine pits, and stopping to hide from stukas every five minutes. Regular walk in the park, it was."
"I hadn't realised Marseilles was so close," mused Bucky. So many of his friends were buried down there. And others, like Wells and Hawkins, hadn't even had that service. They'd simply died, their bodies never found. Europe had claimed so many lives…
"I hate to interrupt your walk down memory lane," Captain Stone called back, "but we're only a few minutes away from the drop point. I suggest you ready yourselves for the jump."
Bucky wrestled himself into the parachute and waited for Monty to come around and check everything was in order. Once upon a time, the mere thought of jumping out of a moving plane would've turned his olive-drab pants a darker shade of brown. But that was the old Bucky. New Bucky had felt horrors worse than gravity, and he hadn't forgotten the silent promises he had made to Zola and Schmidt on HYDRA's cold steel table. One day, he would make them pay. Not just for himself, but for every man who would not come home from Europe. For the 107th.
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Feeble moonlight filtered in through the grimy, barred window of the dockside warehouse. The whole place smelt of damp and dust and the stale stench of rodent urine. Peggy had found a mostly-dry barrel to perch on the edge of, one that was thankfully still sturdy enough to hold her weight, but most of the team loitered in the shadows, trying not to betray their impatience.
After landing near Marseilles, false papers and civilian clothing had gotten them into the city, while their uniforms had been left in a cache a short way off the main road. Jacques had gone—alone—to find his contact with the Resistance, who in turn had given them the warehouse address and told them to wait here until he could find the man who had recruited Jacques' sister, Céleste. That had been almost eight hours ago.
A large form stepped out from the shadows. Steve. He made his best attempt at feigning professional nonchalance as he sidled up to her. "Do you think something's gone wrong?" he asked quietly. "Surely we shouldn't have to wait this long. Right?"
"Your guess is as good as mine, Captain," she replied. "I have no more information than you."
Part of her hated that she felt the need to be so cool and formal with him, but the bigger part was still quietly seething. For as long as she'd known him, she'd thought Steve Rogers was different. That he knew what it meant to be told no. To be denied the chance to fight. But when push came to shove, he'd shown that he was no different than all the others. His words were just one more door closed in her face. And the worst thing was, he didn't even seem to realise how hurtful his behaviour had been. Each time she recalled what he'd said, that she wasn't needed, it was as if a knife was plunged into her heart.
Steve's sigh was barely louder than a whisper. "Look, do you think—"
Whatever he was saying was abruptly cut off as he clamped his mouth shut. A split second later, the warehouse door squeaked open, and new footsteps could be heard. Jacques was on his feet in an instant, and the rest of the team backed up, cradling the pistols they'd hidden in their jackets. Just because they were waiting for a Resistance member didn't mean this wasn't someone else.
The footsteps fell silent, their owner standing in shadow. He said something in French, and Jacques responded in the same. Peggy could feel the Commandos collectively holding their breath, ready to spring into action.
"You should not have come," the man said in accented English. "You are putting the entire Resistance in this area at risk."
"I have come for information about my sister, Céleste," said Jacques. "We have all risked our lives to get here and find answers. And we will not leave until you tell me what I want to know."
Peggy could sympathise with Jacques. From the moment she had found out her brother was alive, she had done everything within her power to save Michael. Even without the support of Phillips or the rest of the team, she would've found a way. Jacques was in the same position now, with Céleste. Her life was potentially in danger, and it was his duty to protect her. He had helped Peggy to rescue Michael, and now she would help him save Céleste. Why couldn't Steve understand that?
"Very well," the man said at last. "But you will wish you had not come." He stepped into the moonlight, revealing dirty, threadbare clothes and an unkempt beard covering gaunt cheeks. Times were even harder for Resistance members than the general populace. "There is no easy way for me to say this, but Céleste is dead."
It was as if the strings holding Jacques up had been suddenly cut; he crumpled to the ground, one hand clasping something white and crinkly; the letter his brother had written him. His eyes searched the floor of the warehouse as if answers could be found in the patterns of dust. Peggy's heart ached for him as a scene flashed before her eyes; the army officials who'd come to her home to deliver news of Michael's death. Her mother crumpling in tears, just like Jacques. And though she wanted to crouch down beside the man and comfort him, she held back. He wouldn't want to be comforted right now. That, she knew from experience, too.
"No… no, it cannot be. Not my Céleste. She is so young. So innocent. She cannot be dead."
"I am sorry, mon ami," the man said quietly. "She was a brave woman, and she died helping to free her home. She will be remembered as a hero."
The strings suddenly returned. Jacques was on his feet faster than even Steve could react, grabbing the man's shirt, pushing him back against a row of damp wooden boxes. The stack toppled precariously, and Peggy held her breath. If the boxes fell, the noise would not go unnoticed by the dockmasters.
Thankfully, they only wobbled. Dernier seemed not to have noticed at all.
"What did you do to her?" he growled in the man's face. "How did this happen?"
"Jacques, let him go," said Steve, coming short of pulling the two men apart. "This isn't the way. If we start fighting each other, we're just doing the enemy's job for them."
It took a few tense seconds for the words to sink in. When they finally did, Jacques slowly released the other man's shirt and took a step back. But he could do nothing about the anger in his eyes, nor the tears rolling down his cheeks. The Resistance man straightened his shirt before speaking.
"Céleste got in contact with me through one of my other operatives. She wanted to help, so I gave her small errands to run. Messages to deliver. She was very good. Very calm under pressure. You would have been proud of her."
"She was not killed delivering messages," said Jacques, that same anger forcing his hands to ball into fists. "Tell me what happened."
"After a while, she wanted to do more. An… opportunity arose. One which she was uniquely placed to exploit."
"What sort of opportunity?" Peggy asked.
If the man was surprised by her presence, he gave no indication. Then again, the Resistance was more open-minded than the military; to them, women could fight for their freedom as well as any man.
"A German commandant runs an extermination camp near Signes, in the Sainte-Baume natural park, a short way outside Marseilles. We heard that his wife, who had been suffering a lingering illness back in Germany, passed away suddenly, leaving their children without a parent. The commandant arranged for his children to be brought to the house he was given near the camp, and he wanted a French nanny to help him take care of them."
"Why would he want a French nanny?" Morita pondered. "Why not a German one?"
"Probably because using French servants helps to legitimise their occupation," said Monty. "They appear to be helping the local people and the local economy."
"Oui," said the Resistance operative. "It was too good an opportunity to pass up. Under our guidance, Céleste applied to become a nanny – we gave her a false work history, and one of our secret patrons provided a glowing reference for her. When she was given the job, she travelled to the house where the children had recently arrived. After a week, when she had gained a little trust, she was to recover an explosive that we had hidden in a nearby cache, and plant it in the commander's study, in the house. Then she was to make an excuse to go into town and purchase some food, while the detonation would ensure the commandant would not be able to oversee the deaths of any more men, women or children."
"Then, something went wrong?" asked Steve, concern described over his face as a web of frown-lines. It was at times like this that Peggy could almost forget how much of a bloody idiot he'd been. Almost.
"Very wrong. She was caught carrying the explosive by a guard. I cannot lie to you; she was tortured and questioned." The piece of paper in Jacques' hand crumpled so hard that it started to tear. "But she was strong. She said nothing. She did not betray her friends, her family, or the Resistance. She may not have succeeded in her mission, but she fought to the very end. Afterward, they took her body to the camp and burned it to ashes."
It was too much for Jacques. He crumpled to the floor once more, weeping quietly as he murmured "Céleste, Céleste, I'm sorry" over and over again. Peggy quickly wiped away the tears escaping her own eyes. To have a sibling killed in the war was hard, but to know your brother or sister had been brutally interrogated… tortured…
"If you don't mind me asking, how do you know what happened to her?" Monty asked. "If you had somebody on the 'inside' then sure you had no need to send Céleste in the first place."
The man shook his head. "Another Resistance member was sent to keep watch over her, and ensure the Germans did not find the explosive before Céleste could recover it. He saw from a distance how she was interrogated, but could do nothing to stop it; the guards were many and armed. He would have risked his own life for nothing."
"I'd like to talk to this man," said Steve. "I want to hear what he saw, in his own words."
"Sadly, he too was killed. It happened two weeks ago, on another mission. Death is only too familiar to those of us in the Resistance."
"Why did you not tell this to my brother?" asked Jacques. He looked up through red-rimmed eyes, a man who had lost something so dear to him that he might never be the same again. "Why did you let him go mad with worry?"
"We were concerned that grief might cause him to do something foolish," the man shrugged. "He might pick a fight with the first German soldier he sees. Or go after the commandant who ordered your sister to be tortured and try to finish what she started. He might have risked us all."
"I will finish it." Jacques pushed himself to his feet and shoved the tattered, tear-stained remains of the letter in his pocket. "You will tell me where to find this commandant, and you will give me the means to make an explosive, and I will ensure the bastard who killed my sister never has chance to take another life."
"That is not a good idea," said the man, shaking his head. "The house where he lives is remote and guarded. You would be throwing your life away."
"It is my life, and I will choose what I do or do not throw it away on."
"Jacques, this isn't what we came here for," Steve said quietly. "We came to save your sister, not to join the Resistance."
"Then I will do it myself. I do not expect you to help. Any of you. I must do this for my sister. I must do this so that her spirit can lie in peace. The rest of you should go back to England."
For a moment, there was silence. Then Freddie Lopresti stepped forward.
"I may not be a soldier, but I came here to get intel on German troops in France. If you can get us into this house, I'll do everything I can to help. And because I'm not a soldier, Steve can't order me to not help."
"Y'know," said Sergeant Barnes, "if someone had hurt Mary-Ann or Janet, I'd want to dish out some payback too."
Morita took a flip-knife from his pocket, and twirled it around his fingers a couple of times. "Not gonna lie; if someone hurt my sister, I would cut them up like a human jigsaw puzzle and mail them to their closest relatives, one piece at a time."
"Captain," said Falsworth, "I think I speak for everyone present when I say that although this may not be the mission we came here to carry out, it's the mission we're faced with. I don't know whether achieving it will prevent Mr Dernier from suffering sleepless nights, but if there's even a chance, I think we should take it."
Steve folded his arms over his chest and rested his chin on his hand as he considered the situation. Peggy knew what was going through his mind. Loyalty to his friends, or obedience to his commanding officer. A sensible withdrawal, or an attention-grabbing explosion.
"Fifty-eight years ago," he said at last, "the people of France gifted a monument to the people of America. That monument was the Statue of Liberty, and it was given in recognition and celebration of the abolition of slavery; a demonstration and reminder that every citizen of the United States has the right to freedom. Now, I think it's time we reciprocated that sentiment. If the people of France can't rely on the people of America in their greatest hour of need, when can they rely on us?"
Peggy's heart fluttered in her chest. Sometimes, Steve Rogers could be a complete oaf. But at other times, his sensitive side reminded her exactly why she'd fallen for him—and it was a side that, unlike many other men, he was not afraid to show.
"Thank you, mes amis," said Dernier. He turned to the Resistance man. "Tell me where to find the murderer who killed my sister. We will finish her mission and put her soul to rest."
The man shook his head and muttered something in French too quietly for Peggy to catch. "I can see that you won't be talked out of it. Very well. I will get you a map of the area, information about defences, and a bomb for you to plant." He glanced around the warehouse as if seeing it for the first time. "You should be safe here for a while. Keep quiet, and do not leave the warehouse. The Germans do not use this place, so as long as you do not make noise, they will have no reason to come in here. I will return tomorrow night."
"Alright, you heard the man," said Steve. "We're going to be here for a while, so let's try to get some rest. There are two ways into this building; the side-door and the loading bay, and I want a watch on each. Monty, Jones, you've got the first watch. Five hours, then wake the next two. If you see any signs of approaching soldiers, come get me immediately. Everyone else, break out the rations and let's try to keep talking to a minimum."
Peggy kept a watchful eye on Jacques as the rest of the team obeyed Steve's commands. He took himself off to an out of the way corner and pulled the letter from his pocket, focusing all of his attention onto the words he'd already read a thousand times. And when Morita held a ration pack in front of him, he merely shook his head.
Poor Jacques. And poor Gaspard. The brothers had lost their little sister to the Nazi regime, and their lives would never be complete again. Would Jacques still want to be a part of the Commandos, after this mission was done, or would he want to stay here in France, to be with his brother? She knew that Steve, and all of the team, would miss Jacques if he decided to stay, but Peggy would not have blamed him one bit. Duty, or family. Sometimes there was just no choice.
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Only once in his life had Steve ever felt so lost. When his mom died, he'd spent months drifting in and out of a fog, not really seeing where he was going, not really putting his heart and mind into what he was doing. If he hadn't spent the previous ten years being a studious bookworm, he probably never would've have gotten his highschool diploma. And if it wasn't for Bucky and his family, he probably would've forgotten the essential things in life, like eating and bathing. He would've faded away into nothingness.
Even last year, when Bucky had been declared MIA presumed dead, there had been no sense of being lost—just a laser-sharp focus on how do I get my best friend back?
This was different. Jacques had suffered a tragedy, and Steve didn't know what to say. Presumably, people had said things to him when Mom had died, but he could barely remember anything from that time. Words, names, faces, all blurred together. People had been sorry for his loss, but their sorrow hadn't made him feel better; it had simply made him feel even more empty. Those sorry people still had families to go back to after the funeral was over. Mom was all the family Steve had had.
Perhaps that was the way to help Jacques get through this. Remind him that he still had a brother who needed him. Or maybe there was nothing he could do, no words he could say, to help ease Jacques' pain. Maybe this was just one of those things that needed time.
He couldn't make things right for Jacques, but maybe he could make them right with Peggy. Learning about Céleste, about her sacrifice and her bravery… well, it kinda put things into perspective. As bad as it felt to think that Peggy didn't fully trust him as a Captain, he knew he would feel even worse if something terrible happened to her and he'd left this bad feeling between them. Besides, she'd been doing the army gig a lot longer than he; if she had some reason to doubt him, it must be a good reason. He should try to learn from her and correct whatever he was doing wrong.
She was curled up in a corner not far from where Dugan and Morita slept soundly. Though her eyes were closed, Steve could tell by the irregular pattern of her breathing that she wasn't yet asleep. If he knew her half as well as he thought he did, she was probably lying awake thinking about Dernier. About Michael.
"Hey," he whispered as he sank down beside her and assumed a cross-legged position. "Are you cold? Would you like my jacket?"
Her eyes flickered open, searching for him in the darkness. Sometimes he forgot that other people couldn't see as well as he could. To him, visibility in the moonlit warehouse was almost as clear as day, but to everyone else it would be a world of oily blackness and feeble shadows.
"I'm not cold," she said, pushing herself upright. The way she hugged herself, and the pale colour of her face, told a different story, but Steve let it lie. Peggy never complained about discomfort. She was tough, and brave, and the most intelligent woman he'd ever met. If she said she wasn't cold, then he wasn't going to take that away from her.
"I wanted to talk about what happened last night. In my room."
"I thought you wanted talking kept to a minimum?"
"Yeah. But I'm a hypocrite, so I'm allowed to disobey my own orders from time to time." He'd thought that might get a smile out of her, but the response was zero. He ploughed on. "Look, I just wanted to say I'm sorry. I've offended you. I don't know how, but I have. I need you to tell me what I've done wrong, so that I can make sure I don't do it again. Please?"
For a long moment, she was silent. When she finally spoke, her eyes had a misty, faraway look about them.
"Do you remember the day when you underwent Project Rebirth?"
"Of course. How could I ever forget? That day changed my life. And I lost the first man who'd ever believed in me. Even though I didn't know him very long, Dr Erskine was like a father to me. Sometimes, I wish that the project had failed. If I'd been a failure, Schmidt would've had no reason to kill him, and he would still be alive." It was a secret he'd never told anyone. The price of the new and improved Steve Rogers was another man's life, and he wasn't sure it had been worth the trade.
"Do you remember what we talked about in the car, on the way to the lab?" He nodded. "I told you that men had been closing doors in my face all my life. Telling me I wasn't needed. I wasn't wanted. And I understood what you'd been through, to get where you were that day."
"I remember that too."
"Yesterday, when we were making plans, it sounded like you thought you didn't need me along. Like you didn't want me to come on this mission. And it felt like just another door closed in my face."
Jeez, no wonder she was mad at him. He'd been thinking about keeping her away from Nazis. Keeping her away from harm. She'd thought he was just like every other man who'd told her she wasn't good enough to fight.
"Peggy, I know better than anyone how capable you are. And I admit that I believed the Commandos could accomplish this mission without you. I still do. And that's because you are the one who trained us. You and Howard Stark and Colonel Phillips… you made this team, and it's because of you that I have utmost confidence in every one of my men. Whenever I'm on a mission, I hear your voice in my head, prompting me to make the right calls. You might not be with me in person, but you're with me in spirit.
"And just because I don't think we necessarily need you on the mission doesn't mean I don't want you on the mission. I'm sorry if I gave you that impression, but I can't help worrying about your safety. I want to protect you and keep you from harm, not because I think you're weak or need protecting, but because I care so much about you and I've already lost so much… I couldn't bear to lose you as well. So please, take it as a compliment that I don't think you are a vital part of this mission. If we couldn't accomplish it without you here, that would reflect badly on the training you put us through. And take it as another compliment that even though your presence isn't necessary, it is wanted and appreciated. I'm sorry if that's not what you wanted to hear, but it's the truth, and I would never lie to you, Peggy."
She shifted position in a vain attempt to make herself more comfortable, and a tiny sigh escaped her lips, almost too quiet for Steve to hear.
"I suppose I can understand your position. And perhaps I was a little too… snippy. I'm just so used to people telling me 'no' that being annoyed is practically a reflex."
"Situations like this aren't exactly easy for me either," he told her. "Growing up, I was an only child, and my mom worked long hours at the hospital. I had a few friends, but people weren't exactly lining up to hang out with me. Bucky and his sister Mary-Ann, they looked out for me. Stood up for me when the local bullies tried to turn me into their punching bag… usually because my mouth had gotten me in trouble. Now that I'm… well…" He gestured at his new body, "now that I'm too big to be a punching bag, it means I don't have to rely on people standing up for me. I can take care of the people I care about, and top of that list is you. But I never really had anyone to care about like you before. I second-guess myself all the time. Am I doing too much? Is this going to fast? Am I smothering you? Being too clingy? Not doing enough to show how much I care about you? I can't promise that I won't make more mistakes, but I do hope you'll forgive me when I make them, and believe that I would never think you incapable of doing anything. As far as I'm concerned, you could run the whole SSR and do just as good a job as Phillips." He considered that for a moment. "Maybe even better." Certainly with less shouting and less sarcasm.
She reached out and took his hand in both of hers. Lord, her fingers were ice! Gently, he massaged them one by one, trying to work the circulation back through them.
"Thank you, Steve. For understanding. When I was engaged to Fred, there was an implicit understanding that I would stay at home and look after the house and bear his children. And once, that would've been enough. But I've seen too much and done too much and come too far to be that person again. Now, I can't stay at home. I won't."
"And you'll always have my support," he assured her. "Even if I don't like the fact that you're put in danger, I promise I'll never pull my face again."
"You know, I guess I am a little cold after all," she finally admitted.
He leaned forward and started to take off his jacket, but she stopped him before he could slide it down his shoulders. Instead, she shifted up to him and nestled in close to his chest so he could wrap the jacket around the both of them.
A flush of warmth spread through him, and the rest of the Commandos suddenly took a studious interest in examining the floor, the ceiling, the boxes in the warehouse—anything except the furious blush on their Captain's face.
Steve merely smiled. Sure, every minute they stayed here they were in mortal peril, but there were far worse ways to spend the early hours of the morning. Closing his eyes, his wrapped his arms around Peggy and simply held her close, letting the rhythmic pulse of her heartbeat lull him into sleep.
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After twenty-four hours holed up in the warehouse on the Marseilles dock, Steve was starting to feel antsy. The need to be up and doing something productive had driven him to pacing back and forth, counting out the steps it took to traverse the room. The rest of the team were huddled together for warmth—except for Peggy and Dugan, who were on lookout duty at each of the doors. Even though she wasn't a Commando, she insisted on undertaking the same duties as the men, and she did them every bit as well as any man. Mom would've loved her. He would've gladly endured the humiliation of a dozen shared childhood anecdotes if it meant Mom was around to meet Peggy.
But that was a daydream for another time and another place. Right now, he had a mission. He had to keep his head in the game. Neither Captain America nor Captain Rogers could afford to get whimsical right now.
He stole a glance at Dernier. The Frenchman had been largely silent over the past day and night. He'd eaten rations when ordered, and had gotten a few hours of sleep, but it wasn't good sleep. Fitful. Restless. He mumbled in French too swiftly for Steve to catch what he was saying. Not that he needed to know; he could probably take a pretty good guess at the subject of the nightmares.
The thought of anybody being tortured and interrogated made his stomach turn. Knowing that an innocent young woman, the sister of someone he considered a friend, had been subjected to that horror… He took a deep breath. Forced his hands, which had curled into fists, to relax again. The Nazis had to be stopped. Not just Schmidt and Zola. All of them. They were monsters, and they could not be allowed to reach America's shores.
"Cap'n, someone's coming," Dugan hissed.
In the near-darkness, the rest of the team scrambled to their feet and took positions behind rotting wooden crates. Peggy joined them, her pistol drawn, breathing steady. When her eyes caught his, she offered him a quick smile and a professional nod of encouragement that made his cheeks heat again.
Focus, Rogers, he told himself, squatting down behind a large wooden barrel that in more prosperous times had probably carried exotic fruits from halfway around the world.
As he waited, tensed for action, his senses amplified everything around him. The quiet breathing of the Commandos; Freddie's breaths a little more rapid. The pungent stench of rodent urine and the peaty aroma of rotting wood. The rhythmic drip drip drip of water from the aging gutter above.
The small side-door squealed open, then was quietly closed. Footsteps drew nearer. Not the heavy thud-thud of military-issue boots. Steve relaxed a little.
Their Resistance contact stepped forward, a duffel bag slung low over his shoulder. Squinting, Steve could just about make out the faded motif of the French postal service. So, that was one of the ways they were moving things around the city. It was risky. They were probably searched often. But sometimes, hiding in plain sight was the best option.
"Allo?" the man called out.
Steve and the rest of the team left their hiding places, secreting their sidearms away. Jacques strode forward, his face a mask of grim determination.
"Do you have what we need?"
The man carefully placed the bag on the ground. "Oui. But I must ask you again to reconsider. It will be a very dangerous mission. That is why we chose to go undercover in the first place."
"Let us worry about the danger," Steve told him. Besides, if it truly was that dangerous, he would have the rest of the team wait somewhere safe while he planted the explosive himself. He could be in and out before the Nazis even knew he was there.
"Let it not be said that I didn't warn you," the man lamented with a deep sigh. "Here, come see what I have for you."
The first thing he took from the bag was a map of the area. Their destination was roughly circled some fifty kilometers east of Marseilles. There was a main road running almost directly to Signes, but it would probably be very heavily patrolled.
An additional set of French identity papers were the next items removed from the bag. One for a woman, and five sets of men's. The Resistance man offered an apologetic shrug for Jones and Morita, who went paperless. "Nobody will ever believe you are French," he explained. "Just try not to get caught."
The final item taken out of the bag caused most of the team to take a step back. A square lump of explosive and a detonator. Steve had gleaned enough info over the past few months to recognise it as a delayed-time detonator… so at least he'd have a chance to get away before the fireworks started.
Jacques displayed no wariness towards the explosive. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands. "Qu'est-ce que… but this is a German explosive!"
"We are very low on supplies," the man explained. "But two weeks ago, we were able to raid a German weapons depot. We lost several men, but we gained a number of arms, explosives and helmets, as well as a small quantity of gasoline. It is not what you were expecting, but trust me, it will work as well as anything we could put together. And you must admit, there is a certain poetic justice in them being destroyed by their own weapons, is there not?"
"Hmph. It will do."
"What about the route?" asked Steve. He picked up the map and scanned the main road. A series of X's had been marked at certain points such as cross-roads. Probably guard-posts and military checkpoints. "Is this road patrolled?"
"Yes," said their contact. "You would be quickly picked up if you went anywhere near it."
"Then I guess we're going on foot, under the cover of darkness," said Peggy, craning over his shoulder to peer at the map. Back home, with her so close, the whiff of her perfume would've made him feel giddy, but out here, she was too smart to wear it. "The nights are still long… we could be there in two days."
"Maybe not," the man spoke up. "There is another way. A way that could have you there by morning."
"Sounds good," said Steve. "But what's the catch?"
Author's note: A couple of weeks ago, guest reviewer Rosamaria asked how long each 'book' within this story would be, and whether I would complete the story to the predicted length of each book. Sorry I missed your questions! The answer isn't an easy one to give. Book 1 was 60 chapters long - Book 2 is almost 60 now and still a considerable way off the 'end'. And I have no idea how long book 3 will be. I think of this story as a tree: I have one main plot for my story. I know where it's going and I could probably guestimate the minimum number of chapters I would need to get there. That story is the trunk of the tree. But as you go up the tree, you reach all the branches, which are sub-plots and side-plots and mini-arches, some of which are stand-alone to flesh out characters, while others tie into the main story and even into other sub-plots. And I can't always accurately guestimate how many chapters a sub-plot will need, because sometimes it will expand naturally as I'm writing it. For example, when I outlined the 'main' story I had put chapter 102 has happening in March, at the time of Bucky's birthday, but because some sub-plots expanded, it's probably going to be another 4 or maybe even 5 chapters until I reach that stage in the main story. Sorry I can't give a more concrete answer, but I hope that suffices!