Chester: alright then, I assume we can start this meeting
Janet: wait where is Henry?
Peggy: and Howard hasn’t gotten here yet
Hank, tumbling in disheveled: sorry I was doing things
Howard, running in just as disheveled: HE FUCKING PUSHED ME DOWN THE STAIRS
Summary: Marshal James Barnes, waiting to meet up with an old acquaintance from the Iron Brigade about a matter of honour, takes part in a poker game that turns deadly.
Length: 4.2 K
Characters: James Barnes, Chester Phillips, Dernier, minor OMC
Warnings and other notes: Threatening behaviour ending in minor character death. Eternity box - casket. Swamper - Someone hired to clean the saloon and empty the spittoons. It was the lowest level of employee in such establishments.
<<Part 1
Three aces. He was dealt three aces right from the dealer's hand. What were the chances? James Barnes looked up from the cards in his hands, checking for tells on the other players at the table. All of them had their poker faces on, so he leaned back, pulled his pocket watch out of his vest and checked the time, hoping the man he was meeting wasn't early. Everyone had already paid their ante, now it was time for the opening hand.
"Check," he said, looking casually at the man next to him.
The man to his left, his face florid from the unseasonable warmth of a late March heat wave in Topeka, Kansas, bet a $10 chip on his hand immediately. Interesting. Either he was bluffing in a big way, or he had something better than three of a kind and couldn't resist making a big bet. The man to his left, a very young gunslinger, by the fact he wore two gun belts, criss-crossed over his hips, called, matching the amount to stay in the game. Guess he wasn't much of a risk taker. The next man, who Barnes suspected was a professional gambler, leaned back, his cheroot clenched between his lips. He held his cards close to his chest, fanning them out just enough to see their suit and rank, put his $10 chip in, then raised it $5. Barnes studied the man, watching the subtle tell of his tongue rub against the tip of the cheroot that was in his mouth. The next player folded, and it came back to him. $15 to stay in. A month's pay in some jobs. But three aces could be enough to earn him several times that.
The sound of the swinging doors into Sullivan's Saloon were audible in the background but he didn't look away from the table until the man who entered passed behind the players across from him. Distracted by the tall white-haired man who glanced at him and sat at a nearby table he tried to focus on his hand but couldn't. His concentration for the poker game had been interrupted by the early arrival of the other man and he sighed, then deliberately placed his cards face down in a neat pile on the table and picked up his chips, transferring them into his pants pocket.
"Fold," he said. "Sorry, gentlemen. I'm out of the game."
"Hey, come on now," said the gunslinger. "You haven't lost a hand and now, all of a sudden, you're folding? You in cahoots with someone?"
"Nope," said Barnes, standing up. "Just have to talk to a man about something more important than a poker game."
"I say you sit and give us a chance to win some of our money back," insisted the young man, who blanched when he heard the sound of a hammer being cocked and the tip of a muzzle pressed behind his ear.
"I say you sit, play your poker game without my friend, and consider yourself lucky that I don't take it further," said the white-haired man, who had been able to cross the distance without a sound in order to put that gun behind the young man's head. He looked at the other men in the game. "What do you say, gentlemen? You don't really need my friend in the game, do you?"
There were a chorus of noes and the distinct scent of fear, as they recognized who the the older man was. The young gunslinger didn't and pressed his luck, standing up and facing the man who still held the gun to his head, whose eyebrows raised slightly at this challenge. That's when the bartender came over with a bottle and two glasses.
"Colonel Phillips, he doesn't know who you are," he said. "He's just a stupid cowpoke who thinks he's the next Wild Bill. I don't need the sheriff around to close me down for the likes of him, so please take the bottle on the house, and you and Mr. Barnes can go on into the private office."
"What do you say Sergeant?" asked the older man.
"I like that offer, Colonel," replied Barnes. "But perhaps I should take this young'n's guns from him to keep him from making a big mistake."
"I like that suggestion. Do it." He leaned close to the young gunslinger. "Don't move now, son. I have a palsy sometimes in my trigger finger."
"I want to win my money back," insisted the younger man, turning to look at the other players for support.
Rolling his eyes, Phillips hit the younger man hard on the side of the head, knocking him out. Barnes held him, lowering the gunslinger into his seat, then took his guns, handing them to the bartender in exchange for the bottle and two glasses. Phillips placed his own gun back into his holster and followed the bartender to the back, where he opened a door and waited for the two men to enter before closing it behind them. Barnes put the two glasses on the table in the room, poured them half full of whiskey, and handed one of the glasses to Phillips. He raised his then paused, waiting for the older man to speak.
"Here's to the Iron Brigade," said Phillips. "There will never be another group of soldiers like them."
"To the Black Hat Devils," added Barnes, both men draining their glasses. He poured another half glass for each of them then sat down. The younger man studied the older man. "So, Colonel, it's been a few years. Almost didn't recognize you under that white beard and hair."
"Put a lot of distance into these old bones since the war. Chasin' outlaws all over the west makes a man age faster. Was thinkin' of hangin' up my spurs but looks like I'll have to wait."
"I figured you're here for someone to ride with you. Who needs our help?"
"Widow of Captain Stone," said Phillips, who sipped his whiskey. "He passed in suspicious circumstances almost three years ago, left the farm in Wyoming to his wife, son, and his family. The son, Thomas, who was a private in the Brigade before dysentery sent him home before Antietam, was killed almost a week ago by the foreman of a land speculator and rancher who's making low offers for all the land in that area. Railroad is coming through towards Montana, and they're looking to ship cattle to Omaha and Chicago to be processed. He's got the sheriff in his pocket; claims the son died in an accident."
"Damn," said Barnes. "I remember Thomas. How soon?"
"As soon as we can get there. I think we need two more. You know where Morita is or Dugan?"
"Morita is dead, septicaemia after he was shot by a jealous husband. Last I heard, Dugan was in Mexico living the easy life with a wife and two little ones. He won't leave them. Always spoke of having a house full of kids."
"Suggestions?"
Barnes exhaled. "I have someone in mind but he's not one of the Brigade." Phillips raised an eyebrow while he took a pipe and pouch of tobacco out of his pocket. He listened while he stuffed the pipe bowl with some tobacco. "A U.S. Marshal. Captain during the war with a New York unit." Barnes reached into his vest pocket and took out a badge. "Deputized me for some help rounding up some cattle rustlers in South Dakota about six years ago. Got offered the job for real and have done it ever since. Said if I ever needed help, I could count on him. Good man."
"Well, that's three then," muttered Phillips, as he struck a match and held it to the tobacco until it caught. He pulled his own jacket open, showing a U.S. Marshals badge, winking as he did it. "I'd rather go in with four men. You think he might have another to ride with us?"
"Only one way to find out. You got a place to stay in town?" The older man shook his head. "This place is clean, cheap and they provide a big breakfast. The brothel is just down a ways and the girls always smell nice." He drained his glass. "I'll head over to the telegraph office and send a telegram to where he has a room. They'll make sure he gets it. What day is it today?"
Phillips smirked. "Tuesday, March 30, 1875. Just in case you forgot the year. It was also Easter Sunday two days ago."
"I haven't been that out of touch, have I?" Barnes stood up and stretched. "You know who we're going up against?"
The older man took a long draw on his pipe, then blew the aromatic smoke out before sighing.
"I better tell you before you decide for real. Alexander Pierce. You remember the name?"
Barnes remembered the two days he was a prisoner of a Confederate Army unit only too well. Major Alexander Pierce was commanding officer of the unit who captured him several days after Antietam. The younger man endured two days of beatings on the orders of Pierce attempting to get information, before taking a chance when his guard turned to take a piss and Barnes jumped off a cliff into the river below. Took him another two days to get back to Union lines, barely sleeping as he dodged enemy units. His left arm ached at the memory of the bullet he took from the sharpshooter Pierce ordered to shoot him while he was in the river. He almost lost it but their unit doctor, a brilliant and caring man, did all he could to save the limb from amputation.
"Damn, he's the land speculator?"
"Yep. Missus Stone said there was bad blood between her husband and him from the moment Pierce showed up in their valley, probably because he recognized that her husband would fight for his farm. Captain Stone didn't return home one night after riding out to help a neighbour, almost three years ago. A few days later a search party found his remains, dead from a bear attack."
Barnes smirked. "Of course it couldn't be linked to Pierce." He shook his head. "He'll know us."
"You didn't give him your real name when you were captured," suggested Phillips, shrugging. "If I recall rightly you had a full beard and long hair then. If you shave and cut it short he won't recognize you. I was laid up with a bullet wound and wasn't on the front lines or in command of the unit when you were taken so he might not know me. He definitely won't know your New York man. It's your choice. I could ask someone else, but I thought you might want some payback."
"I'll look like a damn tenderfoot from the east." Barnes stood, rubbing his beard. "Fine, but we may need a few days to allow Marshal Rogers to get here."
Phillips shook his head. "Have him meet us in Kansas City as we'll have to take the train to Wyoming from there, unless he's already closer. I'll get my saddle bags and take a room here for the night as I want to leave in the morning. You contact your man."
Stepping out of the back room, Bucky focused on the swinging doors of the saloon that led outside, ignoring the men who were still playing cards or having a quiet drink. Then he heard a thump behind him and the distinct sound of a gun being cocked and pulled his own gun out as he whirled towards the sound, catching the young gunslinger aiming his gun at him. The bartender was just getting up from the floor where he had been struck down by the younger man. The whole place went silent as the two men faced each other, slowly circling around, sizing each other up. The younger man moved nervously, already betraying his fear.
"Did you not understand why my friend knocked you out?" asked Barnes. "What you're doin' now is gonna get you killed, boy."
"I'm not a boy," glared the gunslinger. "I demand satisfaction."
"Then we take it outside," answered Barnes. "I've got things to do and people to send a telegram to. You're holdin' me up."
"Or I could just shoot you here," retorted the younger man.
"That would be murder," said another voice from the doorway. "Jed Johnson, do you have any idea who you're up against?" The sheriff walked in, nodded at Barnes as he approached, then placed himself between the two men, facing Johnson, who now stood in front of the door with the glare of the sunny day silhouetting him. "This is James Buchanan Barnes. Unlike you, he is as fast as Wild Bill Hickok but a lot less likely to shoot you for just lookin' at him."
"He left the card game before I won any of my money back!" The young man's voice came across as shrill. "His partner knocked me out, made me look bad before everyone here."
The sheriff looked disgusted when the bartender announced that Colonel Chester Phillips was the man who knocked Johnson out earlier as he wouldn't take no for an answer.
"I don't know if you're drunk or addled in the head," declared the sheriff. "Either way, I'm inclined to arrest you for disturbin' the peace before you end up in an eternity box. Give up your gun and put your hands up."
Clamping his already closed jaw even tighter, Johnson doubled down on his insistence on shooting Barnes.
"You are one stubborn mule!"
Advancing towards him, the sheriff reached out just as Johnson pulled the trigger, catching the lawman in the shoulder and sending him backwards into a table. A shot rang out from the back of the saloon that hit Johnson between the eyes, making him crumple where he stood. Advancing from the back room, Phillips holstered his gun, then both he and Barnes knelt beside the sheriff, checking his wound.
"Get the doc," he ordered the bartender. "He'll live." Looking over at the dead man, he shook his head. "Damn fool boy."
It was an hour before Barnes was able to send his telegram, as they waited for the town doctor to come and treat the sheriff. His deputy, new to the job, took statements from everyone, nervously watching Colonel Phillips and James Barnes from the corner of his eye as he spoke to the sheriff first, then the bartender. Shown the marshal badges of the other two men he swallowed nervously before uttering his following words.
"You both staying long?"
"Leaving on the morning train to Kansas City," said Phillips, thinking that this deputy was a little high strung for the job. "We'll try not to kill anyone else until then."
The hapless deputy didn't take the joke well but he did allow the undertaker to remove Johnson's body, while witnessing the man search the dead man's pockets for enough cash to pay for the cost of the casket and burial. Within minutes of the body being removed the saloon was full of men drinking and playing poker, as a swamper scattered sawdust on the floor to soak up the blood before he removed it.
Colonel Phillips took his horse to the stable and returned to the saloon with his saddle bags, paying the bartender a dollar for the night's lodging and breakfast in the morning. He trudged up the stairs, opened the door to the room and sighed at the sight of a double bed in the corner, a dresser with a basin and pitcher of water on top. A small table next to the bed held a lamp. He had a similar place in a rooming house in St. Louis, somewhere to receive mail, and to have his clothes mended when he wasn't out chasing outlaws. If he didn't get shot in his line of work, he supposed he would die there, alone with no one to mourn him.
James Barnes, also known as Bucky, came out of the telegraph office and stood on the open boardwalk. He pushed his hat back on his head as he looked towards the brothel, wondering if his favourite girl Dot was working yet. He smiled as he thought of her red hair, of a shade that always reminded him of a summer's sunset. Then he remembered that Colonel Phillips suggested he get a haircut and a shave. Since they were leaving right after breakfast the next morning, he better get it done now and turned towards the barbershop instead. Another man was in the chair and the barber pointed towards the empty chair next to it. Taking a newspaper, Barnes read through it, shaking his head at the exploits of the James - Younger gang, who had robbed a bank in West Virginia a few weeks before. Their whereabouts were currently unknown, although several of the more ambitious lawmen and bounty hunters were looking for them.
After a short wait, the barber finished with his other customer and coughed to get Barnes' attention.
"What'll it be?" he asked, as he draped a cover over the long-haired man, who had undone the top buttons of his shirt.
"Cut the hair short and give me a full shave," said Barnes.
"All of it, for both?"
The barber wanted to make sure before he started chopping off the hair. He had been shot at before when he thought that's what the customer wanted but found out otherwise.
"Yep," muttered Barnes. "Make me look like a dandy fresh off the train." He reached into a pocket on his vest, feeling for the largest coin, a silver dollar, bringing it out in the open. "Throw in some of that nice smelling hair and face tonic and you'll get this."
"Yes, sir," grinned the barber. "I'll give you the best shave and a haircut you've ever had."
When it was done, Barnes had to admit that the man did a good job. Considering that most men in the profession picked it up as they went along, this barber claimed to have worked in Boston before coming out west. It showed as this visit to the barbershop was quite the experience. He had no idea that it could be so enjoyable to have his scalp massaged with a tonic then washed and styled with just the right amount of Morgan's Pomade. That was followed by the barber cutting away most of his beard with scissors, then wrapping his face in a hot wet towel before lathering on shaving soap whipped up in a mug. The man used the straight razor like an expert as not a single nick or cut was inflicted on Barnes' skin. The barber finished the shave by the light application of Florida Water, a refreshing concoction that smelled of lemon, sweet orange, lavender, and clove.
After redoing his buttons and placing his hat back on just right, Barnes stepped out into the late afternoon sun. He could get something to eat at the City Bakery or just go on ahead to the brothel and eat there before spending time with Dot then returning to his room above the saloon. With that settled, he strode across the dusty street to the covered boardwalk, tipping his hat to a pair of young women who giggled at his attentions. Several people who knew him did a double take at his clean shaven face and short hair, nudging each other at his new look. Ignoring them, he came to the door of the brothel, and stepped inside, temporarily unable to make out much in the dimmed interior.
"Well, hello cowboy," purred the sultry voice of the madam, Miss Josephine, as she came out of the parlour. He grinned at her as she frowned then peered closer at him. "Bucky?"
"Do I look that different?" he asked. "Thought I would come in early and have some dinner."
"You are earlier than normal," she commented. "You usually don't get here until later in the evening."
"I have to leave on the first train tomorrow." He looked over her shoulder to the parlour. "I'll pay extra for Dot to have dinner with me."
"She's not available right now," smiled the madam. "How about if Scarlet looks after you?"
"I don't want Scarlet. I want Dot." He frowned as Josephine fidgeted. "Where is she?"
"She doesn't come in until well after dinner," answered the older woman.
"Why not?"
The madam studied him. It wasn't like him to be this rude and she didn't like it.
"She has her reasons. If you don't want Scarlet, you can choose Violet, Daisy, or Pansy." He shook his head. "Fine. Since you're not interested in anyone else, I'll thank you to leave."
There was something in the way she said it that told Barnes that she would have no problem calling for her doorman, a big brute of a man, who occasionally had to throw out a customer who became agitated around one of the girls. As confident as Barnes was in taking care of himself in a fight, he wouldn't go up against that man, not when he had a matter of honour to deal with in Wyoming. Setting his jaw, he nodded and left, aware that Josephine watched him as he walked back along the boardwalk. There was something about the whole encounter that left a sour taste in his mouth.
One of the advantages of being a marshal was that it gave Barnes access to information. For a coin or two, he could find out just about anything. Making his way down a maze of the alleys, he soon found himself in a part of Topeka that most of the more respectable citizens wouldn't even consider exploring. Filled with small saloons, more brothels, gambling dens, shabby rooming houses, and laundries, he wandered around until he found the person he was looking for, the Frenchman, owner of one of the gambling dens that was a little wilder than Sullivan's Saloon.
"Bucky," greeted the smaller moustachioed man, putting the emphasis on the end of his name. "Comment ça va? You look very handsome with ze short hair and no beard. Looking for a new poker game? Maybe not. You might shoot ze dealer for drawing from the bottom."
He snorted in derision as Barnes rolled his eyes.
"I just need some information, Dernier." The Frenchman narrowed his eyes. "One of Josephine's girls, Dot. What do you know about her?"
"Nothing," declared the man, as he glared at Barnes. "Anything else?"
"Look, I'm not going to hurt her or anything. I'm leaving tomorrow and wanted to ask her to have dinner with me before we said goodbye. I'd make it worth her while. She's always been nice to me."
For the longest moment the Frenchman studied the younger man then he breathed out and shook his head, as if already regretting his decision.
"Not everyone who works in a brothel is there because they want to be," he murmured, his accent suddenly very muted. "Sometimes, they have no choice because of what life has thrown at them." He kept staring at Barnes before shaking his head again while swearing in French. "She is married and has children. Her husband cannot work because of ze war. It is still inside of his head but she loves him too much to leave him. Leave some money at ze brothel for her if you must but allow her to keep her home life separate from what she does to survive."
"How many?" asked Barnes, recalling the number of times he had been with her off and on over the past few years. "How many children?"
"Three," replied Dernier. "All his, if you must know. Her sister looks after them in ze evening after she gets home from her job in ze laundry."
Reaching into his pants pocket, Barnes felt the gambling chips that he had won earlier in the day but hadn't cashed in. Pulling his handkerchief out of his other pocket, he placed the chips into the centre of it and tied it up, then offered it to Dernier.
"Make sure she gets these."
He turned away, not wanting the man to see how the information about Dot affected him.
"Barnes?" He stopped but didn't turn around. "She liked you. She said you were always good to her. Her sister is my wife. We all have our dreams of a better life. Until then we do what we must to get by."
Barely acknowledging the man, Barnes kept going, stopping at the saloon to buy a bottle of whiskey. He took it up to his room and thought of the number of times Dot hadn't been at the brothel for several months at a time. Josephine had always said she had to go back home to deal with a family death or some such excuse. How stupid he had been. He drank half of the bottle before passing out on his bed.
Part 3>>
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Just a few of my favorite moments from Captain America: The First Avenger -
✨ ... Okay, pretty much every scene involving Bucky. Except the scene where he falls. That's just heartbreaking, especially knowing everything he goes through afterwards 💔💔💔
✨ Steve using his smarts to retrieve the flag.
✨ "Is this a test?"
✨ "Whatever happens tomorrow, you must promise me one thing: that you will stay who you are. Not a perfect soldier, but a good man."
✨ "I thought you were dead." / "I thought you were smaller."
✨ "I'm not kissing you." 😂😂😂
And dear goodness does this movie end on such a heartwrenching note: "Gonna be okay?" / "Yeah, I just... I had a date." 💔😭
I was talking to my brother about how much I love that Peggy named Shield after Steve and he pointed out that the American government has always had a thing for ridiculous acronyms and we came up with this scene where Peggy and Howard have decided they want the acronym to spell Shield and they have it written on a whiteboard but all they've come up with is "strategic" for S and maybe "division" for D and they're trying to work out the rest of the letters. And Phillips barges in and lectures them about being stupidly sentimental or smth and WE DONT HAVE TIME FOR THIS THERE'S MORE IMPORTANT THINGS THAN THE FRICKIN ACRONYM and then he looks at the whiteboard and he just goes. "Homeland intervention enforcement logistics." And then he leaves. And Peggy and Howard are like oh yeah that's it! And the energy is this is Peggy and Howard
Summary: As they await news of Michael Carter's surgery, (Y/N) and Jack discuss her unwanted connection to Arnim Zola and the feel of foreboding that the former Hydra doctor left in his wake.
Pairing: Jack Thompson X Fem!Reader, Peggy Carter X Daniel Sousa, Edwin Jarvis X Ana Jarvis
Word Count: 2.7k
Warnings/Disclaimers: None
A/N: Hi there! This week's surprise one-shot is gonna explore a little of Specs' whereabouts in the aftermath of Bucky Barnes' death in The First Avenger and we're gonna have some great moments between her and Jack, so buckle up! Thank you for reading, I hope you all enjoy!
Necessary Evils
January 1948
Los Angeles County Hospital, Los Angeles
(Previous One-Shot)
“I got you some tea from the hospital’s cafeteria.” (Y/N) was pulled out of her silent reverie by Jack taking a seat beside her and offering her a disposable paper cup, the concerned gleam in her boyfriend’s blue eyes accompanied by the smallest of smiles for her benefit. “Earl Grey and two teaspoons of honey; I know how much it helps when you get one of your stress headaches.”
(Y/N), touched by his thoughtful gesture, reached over and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Thank you, sweetheart.” She reached for the cup and after taking a long sip, she sat back in the uncomfortable waiting room chair with a frustrated sigh. “I hate this. The longer the surgery takes, the more I’d like to burst into that operating room and re-arrest that Nazi bastard before he tries anything funny with Michael.”
Beside her, Jack nodded as he patiently listened to her threats and threw Peggy – who was anxiously pacing across the hospital waiting room while Daniel unsuccessfully attempted to talk her into sitting down – a furtive glance before replying, “I don’t think this Zola guy would risk a lifetime imprisonment or execution by trying to bump off Carter mid-surgery, Specs. I mean, Stark and half a dozen MP’s are watchin’ him and the neurosurgeons like hawks as we speak, and he’s not gonna jeopardize the sweet deal the JIOA cut for him for something as low-stakes as this.”
“I wouldn’t call any of this ‘low-stakes,’ Flyboy,” (Y/N) murmured, looking around the fully-occupied waiting room and reflexively tightening her grip on her cup of tea; she, Jack, Peggy, Daniel, and the Jarvises, along with over a dozen uniformed SOE officers and SSR officials, were gathered at Los Angeles County Hospital for the long-awaited surgery that would theoretically restore Michael Carter’s mind to what it was before the brainwashing that Hydra subjected him to during the war. Several of the SOE officers served alongside Michael and had volunteered to travel from England to be with their fellow soldier in his time of need, but Peggy was understandably the most concerned of them all; Michael made his younger sister promise not to contact their parents about his staged death in 1941 and sudden reappearance until it was confirmed that the dangerous surgery was a success, wanting to prevent Harrison and Amanda Carter another heartbreak on the off-chance that Arnim Zola and the team of neurosurgeons failed and he passed away on the operating table. The Carter siblings spent several minutes alone with one another before they wheeled Michael into the operating room and since then, Peggy hadn’t been able to stay still. I’d be the same way if Freddie’s life were in the hands of that Nazi son of a bitch, (Y/N) thought to herself and one of her hands moved upwards to caress the locket containing her deceased brother’s photograph as she sympathetically watched Peggy continue to pace.
“You know what I mean.” Jack scooted closer to her side and when she finally looked over at him, the look of concern in his blue eyes was as prominent as ever. “Look, I get why Peggy’s taking all this personally…but I can’t figure why you are, too. You can talk to me, baby…” His hand moved to rest on her shoulder, and (Y/N) could feel the comforting warmth of his touch through the thin material of her blouse. “Whatever you’ve gotta say, I’m here. And if you don’t feel up to talkin’ just yet, then I’ll still be right here with you.”
(Y/N) lowered her gaze to her lap and spent several moments mustering the strength to speak, her voice wavering as she recalled some of the darkest moments of the war, the ones that she wished she could forget forever but sadly never could. “I helped capture Zola. I was deployed with the Howlies in the Swiss Alps, and we were tasked with finding and capturing Zola to interrogate him about Schmidt’s plans. Morita intercepted several radio transmissions from Hydra and after I decoded them, we had confirmation that Zola was on a train scheduled to travel through the same mountain pass that we were navigating. Steve, Bucky, Gabe and I used a zip chord to get onto the train while it was still in motion; Steve and Bucky left to secure the front train cars while Gabe and I stayed on the roof as their back-up, and that’s…that’s when…”
Her boyfriend rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together as he looked over at her. “That was the mission that Sergeant Barnes didn’t survive, wasn’t it?” She nodded, her eyes still diligently trained on the dark blue material of her trousers, but she could feel his compassionate gaze on her as he continued. “Barnes died a hero to his country. The bastard turned against Schmidt to save his own skin, and Cap and the SSR were able to end Hydra and the war. That’s gotta bring you and the rest of the Howling Commandos some satisfaction, right?”
“It did…” (Y/N) admitted, but she tightly pursed her lips as she recalled the aftermath of the fateful mission to capture Zola alive. “Right up until his interrogation, that is.”
The tunnels below the London headquarters of the Strategic Scientific Reserve echoed with the sound of (Y/N)’s standard-issue heels making contact with the stone floor as she approached one of many interrogation cells; her fingers tightly clutched the classified file in her hands in an effort to contain her swirling emotions but judging by the apprehensive expressions on the stationed MP’s faces whenever she passed by, she was doing a poor job of masking her true feelings.
“As requested, a copy of my mission report to D.C.,” (Y/N) announced as she came to a stop before Colonel Phillips, and she arched a brow at the tray of food he was holding. “Hungry?”
“Zola surrendered and didn’t try to do himself in with cyanide, so I figured that the usual interrogation techniques might not work on this wack-job. He should count himself lucky; I’ve got over a dozen SSR agents chomping at the bit to finally get their hands on a live Hydra operative.”
Just as Colonel Phillips balanced the tray on one hand to reach for the file, (Y/N) tightened her grip on it and blurted out, “Colonel, I need to go in there with you.”
“Agent (Y/L/N), you and the rest of the 107th tactical team have my condolences for Sergeant Barnes’ death, but I can’t allow you any access to-”
“Respectfully, Colonel, you’re the commanding officer of the Strategic Scientific Reserve; you can directly authorize an agent access to as many high-security prisoners as you deem necessary, correct? I’m only requesting access to one.”
“You don’t get to tell me how to do my job, Agent.” The sharp tone in the older man’s voice conflicted with the uncharacteristic compassion emanating from his dark brown gaze. “I’ll authorize you access to the observation room, but that’s it.”
(Y/N)’s jaw clenched as she forced herself to remain composed, but there was nothing she could do to keep her voice from trembling with barely-restrained grief. “Colonel, the man on the other side of that door is the reason my friend and God knows how many Allied soldiers are dead. I…I need to do all I can to ensure that he gives us all the intel we need to take Hydra down. I need to help end this war once and for all.”
In contrast with the strained working relationships he shared with Peggy and Howard, Colonel Chester Phillips seemed to have a soft spot for (Y/N) since the moment she was loaned out to the SSR from the OSS; Peggy often speculated that it was because she reminded him of his granddaughter back home and although she’d never admit it aloud, (Y/N) considered him to be the father-figure she’d always longed for. They got along with one another but more importantly, they shared a mutual respect and it was that respect that seemingly compelled the older man into finally giving her a relenting nod. With a brief command from Colonel Phillips, the MP stationed nearby opened the door and after taking a deep breath, (Y/N) followed the colonel into the interrogation cell.
A dim light from an overhead fixture illuminated the sparsely decorated cell, and the Swiss doctor whirled around to face them both as they sat down at the interrogation table; a surge of pleasure rippled through (Y/N) when she observed his colorless face and the way his hands anxiously fiddled with the sleeves of his prisoner’s uniform, and she maintained eye-contact with him as she crossed one leg over the other and leaned back in her seat. Colonel Phillips set the tray of food down onto the table and spun it around before gesturing towards the unoccupied chair across from them. “Sit down.”
With obvious trepidation, Zola followed his order and sat, his brow arching as he looked down at the steak, potatoes, broccoli and glass of milk laid out before him. “What is this?”
“Steak.”
“What is in it?”
“Cow!” Colonel Phillips looked incredulously between (Y/N) and Zola. “Doctor, do you realize how difficult it is to get ahold of a prime cut like that out here?”
The Swiss doctor shrugged. “I don’t eat meat.”
“Why not?”
Taken aback by (Y/N)’s pointed question, Zola fidgeted in his seat and replied, “It disagrees with me.”
“How about cyanide? Does that give you the rumbly tummy, too?”
While Zola’s brow furrowed in confusion, Colonel Phillips spun the tray back around and used the utensils to begin cutting into the steak as (Y/N) continued. “Every Hydra agent that we’ve tried to take alive has crunched a little pill before we can stop him, but not you.”
The colonel hummed in agreement as he feasted on the tray of food, raising his fork in the air and glancing over at (Y/N) with a look of exaggerated curiosity on his wrinkled face. “Here’s my brilliant theory, Agent (Y/L/N): he wants to live.”
“You’re trying to intimidate me, Colonel.” Zola’s beady eyes flicked between them as a sheen of sweat slowly covered his balding head, obviously growing anxious under the strain of his imprisonment and their unconventional interrogation.
Colonel Phillips scoffed. “We bought you dinner. Why don’t we cut to the chase and show Doctor Zola here what’s in that file?”
While the colonel cut the steamed potatoes into quarters, (Y/N) withdrew a single piece of paper from the file and slid it across the table, her red-lacquered nails drumming on the tabletop as she watched the Swiss doctor read the typed mission report aloud. “‘…and in exchange for his full cooperation, Doctor Zola is being remanded to Switzerland…’”
“I sent that message to Washington this morning. Of course, it was encoded.” (Y/N) leaned forward, resting her elbows on the tabletop, and fixed Zola with an unwavering stare. “You guys haven’t broken those codes, have you? That would be awkward.”
Zola’s expression remained neutral, but the lines between his brows were visibly deeper and she could practically see the wheels turning inside his head while he carefully considered his predicament. “Schmidt will know this is a lie.”
“He’s going to kill you anyway, doc.” Colonel Phillips punctuated his blunt reply with a shrug. “You’re a liability. You know more about Schmidt than anyone and the last guy you cost us was Captain Rogers’ closest friend, so I wouldn’t count on the very best of protection.” The sound of Bucky’s scream as he fell from the train and into the deep chasm below played on a loop in (Y/N)’s mind, forcing her to dig her nails into the skin of her palms to keep from reacting, an action she was no stranger to as a woman serving in a secretive branch of the Allied armed forces but one that she hated having to perform in the wake of her friend’s death. “It’s you or Schmidt; it’s just the hand you’ve been dealt.”
The Swiss doctor, taking note of the colonel’s grim tone and the obvious tension in (Y/N)’s shoulders, huffed out a humorless chuckle before nodding once and stating, “Schmidt believes he walks in the footsteps of the gods. Only the world itself will satisfy him.”
“You do realize that’s nuts, don’t you?”
Shaking his head, Zola huffed out a humorless chuckle at the colonel’s comment. “The sanity of the plan is of no consequence.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because he can do it!”
(Y/N), losing patience with Zola and his feeble attempts at providing them with answers, snapped out, “What’s his target?”
When Zola’s beady eyes focused on hers, a shiver of foreboding traveled up (Y/N)’s spine and it took every ounce of willpower she possessed not to look away as he simply replied, “His target…is everywhere.”
“He told us everything we needed to know; the exact coordinates of Schmidt’s secret base in the Alps, a detailed run-down of Schmidt’s plan to bomb over half a dozen of the world’s largest cities, how much time we had before Hydra’s scheduled attack on New York…and within twenty-four hours, Schmidt was dead and Hydra was finally defeated.” (Y/N)’s fingers were wrapped tightly around her now-empty cup and she was leaning against Jack’s side, taking comfort in her boyfriend’s sturdy form as she spoke in the lowest tone she could and kept a wary eye on Peggy across the waiting room. “But there was something about his eyes, like he knew some big secret that the colonel and I could never understand, and I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something we missed.” Swallowing thickly, she finally looked over at Jack and met his empathetic gaze. “That’s crazy, right?”
Jack shook his head. “Definitely not. Listen, Specs, we might’ve both served on opposite ends of the world, but all the horrible shit we saw and lived through during the war? It hasn’t broken us. We’re still here, and our experiences matter because they’re what shaped us into the people we are today: people who dedicated their lives to making this screwed-up world a better place.” The corner of his lip curved into a small smile as he affectionately bumped the side of her head with his own. “You were the one who taught me that.”
Looking into his clear blue eyes, (Y/N) felt the stiffness in her shoulders begin to melt away and she couldn’t fight the smile that slowly made its way onto her face. “I’m a pretty good teacher, aren’t I?”
“Oh, hands-down, the smartest and most gorgeous teacher I’ve ever had.” Her boyfriend’s flirtatious wink forced (Y/N) to mask her giggle with a cough and flash several of the waiting room’s occupants an apologetic look while he quietly continued. “If you think that Zola’s up to no good, then I believe you. There’s no easy way to handle a situation as delicate as Operation Paperclip; all we can do is our best and in this case, the best that we can do is to keep a close eye on him and every other scumbag Nazi scientist that they’ve recruited. How’s that sound, Specs?”
She took a deep breath and gave him a firm nod. “Like a pretty solid game plan, Flyboy.”
Before either of them could say another word, the double doors leading into the hospital’s operating room swung open and Howard strode into the waiting room, a grin on his face as he made a bee-line over to where Peggy stood. “Michael’s been wheeled into a recovery room and all preliminary signs are pointin’ to a successful operation. Your brother’s gonna be just fine, Peg.”
The younger woman’s anxious expression was overtaken by a look of overwhelming relief and she didn’t hesitate to throw her arms around the inventor in a tight hug. The rest of the waiting room collectively released the grateful breath that they’d been holding for hours and while the SOE officers and SSR officials talked amongst themselves, Jack wrapped an arm around (Y/N)’s shoulders and pressed a chaste kiss onto her temple; she closed her eyes and as she took comfort in her boyfriend’s supportive touch, she spoke a silent word of thanks to the universe for Michael’s successful surgery and for sending her a supportive and understanding partner in the form of Jack Grant Thompson.
A/N: They're gonna have their hands full keeping an eye on Zola and the other Hydra scientists 👀 Thank you all so much for reading and commenting! I've created a Spotify playlist inspired by this series, and I'll be updating it every time I upload a new one-shot! Enjoy!
