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“No,” says Steve, firmly.
Bucky is shaking his head, but what he says isn’t—isn’t right. “We have to.”
“It’s—are you even listening to this? It’s too much of a risk.”
“It’s too much of a risk to leave them without a transmitter.”
“It’s not going to work.”
Bucky raises his eyebrows at that, leers. “What, you don’t think I could be convincing?”
Steve has to look away, can’t let Bucky meet his eyes. “That’s not the point.”
“It kind of is. They need to fix it. This guy—”
“Pierre,” Mathilde supplies helpfully.
“—this guy, Pierre, has the part. We go, we get it. End of story. Day saved. We’re heroes yet again.”
Steve knows, knows, that being a hero isn’t Bucky’s idea of a good time. “We’d be sitting ducks.”
“More like sitting pansies. Come on. We get in, we get out—that’s what he said!—and they fix their transmitter, and then we get—how many people?”
Mathilde says, “Forty or so.”
“Forty extra people for the run. You know we need that.”
And the hell of it is, he does know. Extra bodies on the run is probably going to mean the difference between distracting HYDRA enough to plant the bomb, and somebody having to stay with it to detonate. They can’t—Steve won’t send someone on a suicide run. Which does just leave—this.
Bucky leans in, intently, as he watches the thoughts crossing Steve’s face; Steve wishes he would knock that off, because he sits back, nodding, before Steve even says, “Okay. Yeah.”
The thing about Pierre is that he’s a queer, and he runs a queer club. And their former contact with Pierre was a queer man, too, but he took a bullet in the leg and then a short trip to six feet under, courtesy of the Germans, so Pierre has been gun-shy lately. He never wanted to deal with anybody but Paulie, because Paulie fit in, if you know what he’s saying, Paulie was a safe bet, and sure enough, even with a Kraut leaning on the bullet wound he didn’t give Pierre up. Pierre knows because if he had there’d be no Cafe du Nuit left. Paulie knew exactly what was going to happen to the boys if he gave them up, and Paulie died first.
So when the Resistance reached out to Pierre again his answer was simple: no. After some coaxing, he eventually modified it: send me somebody who fits in around here like Paulie did, one of the boys, and I’ll think about it.
The challenge, then, is finding somebody to send, because this particular pocket of the Resistance was always skirt-heavy, and what men there are left are missing limbs, almost to a man. The lone exception is Darien, who would, unfortunately, tend to stand out in that crowd, because he isn’t just black, he’s darker than Jesse Owens.
But this pocket of the Resistance knows the cell operating four towns over, was in radio contact, until they lost the radio along with the operator. But if they could get in touch again, there’s probably forty people they can take on the run, plus Mathilde said she’d go, with her lips pressed flat together in bleak determination, and she’s got at least fifteen women who would join them, Steve can tell from watching them watch her. And Mathilde—Steve’s seen her sparring and is pretty sure she could take on Agent Carter, which is really saying something. They even fight the same way, pure force, bruisers. They could really use the help.
So. Time to send in the boys.
It’s not that Steve doesn’t know how to do makeup. He does Bucky’s mascara for him, when Bucky just stares at the cake in mute alarm, frowning and brushing the crumbs out from under Bucky’s eyes with a thumb. He gels their hair into waves. It’s that he thought he was done with this when he left the chorus girls who taught him most of what he knows about being manly (because who knows more about it than people who have to be the opposite?).
It’s that he thought he was done with this. He’s gotten enough cat-calls. Everybody and their cousin thinks they’re the next Buster Keaton, shouting trash about Tinkerbell and Babycakes when he’s on stage, and even that isn’t much next to the crap he used to get on the way home, guys just a little older but a lot taller snickering drunkenly about hey check out the little fairy, what’s the hurry princess, didn’t know you pansies were so sensitive. Dodging punches, getting home, just because he lived near that goddamn hotel.
When he finishes, Bucky stares at them both in the mirror—made up, perfect pansies, loud suits that the Resistance somehow scrounged from who knows where—and says, “I’ve looked better.”
“But never queerer,” says Steve, shooting him a grim little smile. “Remember, this was your bright idea.”
“You’re supposed to keep me from doing stupid things.” Bucky can’t resist reaching up to his hair and Steve swats his hand away.
“You’re going to mess it up,” he says. “Let it alone.”
Bucky sticks his tongue out at Steve, and then they take their respective deep breaths before exiting the bedroom, to the whoops and cheers of the assembled Resistance members and the Commandos.
“Hot damn!” yells Dugan. “If I’da known you looked so good dressed up, you boys woulda been playing a lot more Juliet!”
Steve just smiles murderously at them and takes a few theatrical bows from side to side. Bucky flashes a flirtatious grin, batting his eyelashes, and Gabe has to cover his eyes, he’s laughing so hard.
“You still look so tall,” frets Mathilde, dusting carefully at his lapel. “If only you were smaller.”
“You’re about a year too late for that, honey,” says Bucky.
They have their directions; they leave from the far side of the building and slide through the city blocks in the darkness, just ghosts, until they get close enough that they can start to hear piano music. Should be a no-no, but dens of iniquity can get away with a lot in wartime, especially if they grease the right palms.
As they get closer, Steve starts to slouch, taking a couple inches off his height. Just in time. A woman looms up out of the darkness—well, as much as she can loom, since she’s a good six inches shorter than Bucky. Still, she leans forward, her bountiful bosom on display in a dress cut down almost to her nipples, and she says, in a husky voice, “Vous êtes Américains? Voulez-vous—” [You’re Americans? Want to—]
“Non, cherie,” says Steve, grabbing Bucky’s arm and giving her his best shit-eating grin. “C’est seulment moi et mon ami.” [No, dear. It’s only me and my friend.]
She laughs, shaking out her short dark curls. “Je vois! Pardonnez-mois!” It’s a little taunting, a little sinister, but not as cruel as Steve had pictured. [I see! Excuse me!]
Pretending to be already a little drunk, Steve drags Bucky down the street, leaning on him, and their soft knock at the door down below street level gets them a suspicious “Qui est là?” [Who’s there?]
“Des amis,” murmurs Steve. [Friends.] The doorman frowns out at them, then, as Bucky grips Steve’s sleeve a little tighter and smiles while tipping his chin down, lets them in.
“Remind me to learn better French,” Bucky murmurs, directly into his ear, and Steve has to smile and pet his arm as if he’s just made a joke.
Steve, still tightly arm in arm with Bucky, heads straight for the bartender, who is considering them speculatively.
“Pardonnez-mois,” Steve says, “mais où est Pierre? Un ami veut savoir.” [Excuse me, but where’s Pierre? A friend wants to know.]
“Dites-moi ton nom, et je lui dirai,” says the bartender. [Tell me your name, and I’ll tell him.]
Steve leans in and whispers, “Il est dangereux pour moi de dire.” [It’s dangerous for me to say.]
The bartender stares at him for a moment, then nods, and touches a button Steve had half-glimpsed under the edge of the bar.
A tall, slender, middle-aged man emerges from a practically invisible doorway to a back room. “Etienne? Qui est-ce?” [Who is it?]
“Quelques hommes veulent parler.” [Some men who want to talk.]
Pierre squints at them, trying to place them.
Steve says, “Nous sommes amis de Mathilde.” [We’re friends of Mathilde.]
That’s the magic word, apparently, and they get ushered into the back, where Bucky lets go of Steve’s arm and takes a deep breath.
“I see,” says Pierre, in heavily-accented but good English. “You are here for a package?”
Steve nods. “If you have it.”
Pierre sits down behind his desk, an ancient, carved-wood behemoth, and sighs. “I do. I am glad they found someone to send. I was—concerned.”
“They were as well.”
Pushing some papers out of the way in a lower drawer, Pierre pulls out the box. “Here,” he says, handing it to Steve. Bucky’s hanging back, still next to the door, clearly ready for an attack at any minute. He looks like he feels naked without a gun.
Steve starts to pull the cash out of his pocket, but Pierre holds up a hand. “I do what I can for our mutual friends,” he says.
With a jerky nod, Steve takes the box.
“I take it you boys will not stay to enjoy the atmosphere,” says Pierre. It’s not a question.
“No, I think we’d better be going.”
“That is for the best.”
They sidle out of the back office with contraband cigars prominently outlined in their jacket pockets—a good enough reason to be in a back room, if you were looking for one.
The pianist is just starting to get really jazzed up about whatever he’s playing, and for a minute Bucky’s eyes go soft. Steve leans harder into him (they’re pressed together, side to side, even closer in the small and smoky club now that there’s a package to guard) and flutters his eyelashes and says, under it, “No. We are not dancing.”
“It’s been forever,” says Bucky. But he doesn’t argue.
They make it out the door without more than a couple of half-hearted passes, one table shouting at Steve, “Qui est-ce? Jolie chose!” He gives them a sideways smile and points ruefully to Bucky, shrugging his shoulders exaggeratedly, and they laugh and wave him on. [Who’s that? Pretty thing!]
Outside, Bucky takes a deep breath of the cold, clear air. “Wow,” he says, “you’re a natural.”
“Oh, shut up,” mutters Steve.
“Not like that. I just meant I didn’t know you could act.”
“Chorus girl, remember?” Steve shoots him a smile, and Bucky hasn’t let go of his arm. “We might want to—”
Bucky suddenly stiffens. “Patrols,” he hisses, and a split second later Steve hears them, too, heavy bootsteps. They’re still so close to the club. They could easily get caught up in a raid.
Bucky knows German better than Steve does, and he listens for a second and then says, “Trust me,” and Steve does, so when Bucky grabs him and slams his back into a wall and shoves his tongue into Steve’s mouth, he goes with it.
Bucky heaves a theatrical moan, and when the flashlight beam cuts across their faces, he turns around and raises a hand over his eyes. “Was soll das werden?” he yells, then pulls the cigar from his pocket and tosses it at them. [What’s the big idea?]
“Nur ein paar Schwule,” laughs a painfully young German voice. “Raus aus der Straße!” [Just a couple of queers. Get out of the street!]
“Ja, ja,” Bucky calls back, a whining note in his voice. And the bootsteps move on. He pulls back and nods to the fence at the end of the alley, and they ghost back into the alley and cut through a couple different streets.
When they get back to the neighborhood of the safehouse, Bucky stops him for a second, hand on his arm, and Steve looks back, already looking for the threat. He doesn’t see one.
“Great cover,” whispers Bucky. “We should be queers more often.”
“Yeah,” says Steve, tightly, and he’s ready to turn and go again—crossing the street puts his hackles up, even when it’s as dark and quiet as it is tonight—but before he can, Bucky leans forward and kisses him again. And this time it isn’t like it was for the officers; it’s hot and silent, and Bucky’s hands are on his elbows, pulling him in, and neither of them makes a sound, and Steve would like to pretend it’s over quickly, but it’s not; they lean into each other in the shadow-within-a-shadow of a doorway in a bombed-out building.
When they break apart Steve twists his face away and looks down at the ground, and then looks up over the street and starts across it, pulling Bucky after him.
They make it back to the safehouse with no more problems.
Mathilde is so grateful for the radio part that it’s painful to watch, actually. Steve hands it to her and smiles and says, “Do you have a washcloth?” and she’s nodding and going to get some towels and a basin for them to wash their faces and rinse out their hair.
Steve hasn’t looked at Bucky’s face since they walked in the door. The Commandos are chatting with him in low voices about the situation, and Steve catches “—ran into a patrol, gave them cigars, no problem, but I wouldn’t count on getting away with that again.”
Jim says, “But other—” and then Steve is plunging his head into the basin, letting the hair cream rinse out as best he can.
That night they’re sleeping in the safehouse basement again. Night is a stretch; it’s three by the time the radio is repaired, and then they get in touch with the other cell, and confirm that there are actually forty-three Resistance fighters they can count on, plus Mathilde with her Amazons is still willing to lend a hand, so they’ve got planning to do.
It’s probably five by the time the Steve is ready to sleep. He’s still not ready to sleep. He heads for the basement, and his bedroll, next to Bucky’s. He can hear the men who came down earlier breathing steadily in the darkness—Jim’s snore, Gabe’s soft sighing breaths that come with a whistle on the end. Bucky had come down by four.
Steve, stripped down to a tank top and underwear, climbs into the bedroll. It’s chilly but not as cold as it should be from how it is outside, where there’s a thin frost limning the world; there’s a boiler somewhere that works just fine, so it’s humid, damp but not bad.
Bucky’s not sleeping. He knows because he knows the way Bucky breathes. Bucky’s just lying awake in the dark.
This isn’t the time. Or the place. So they lie awake, side by side, in the cool pitch-dark of the basement, listening to each other breathe.
When the bomb goes off two days later (God, what an awful trip across those four towns in the middle), Steve can’t bring himself to be too happy about it—he knows it took at least three people with it, and he’s okay with destroying HYDRA but it still gives him a twinge—but Bucky grins, though it doesn’t reach his eyes.
He looks back at Steve. His hair is still heavy, a little greasy-looking, from the pomade. There’s no trace of the mascara, of course, and he’s back in his regular gear.
That night they camp in the woods, a little space between the tents, though not much, and when they crowd into the pup tent together, open end facing away from the others, Bucky puts his mouth almost against Steve’s ear and whispers, “sorry.”
Steve just shakes his head. “it’s okay.”
“didn’t know you didn’t—”
and Steve has to almost laugh, his chest giving one brief stifled shake. “I do, though,” he whispers back. “thought you—you would know.”
There’s a moment of silence, and then Bucky’s lips press up against Steve’s jaw, and Steve opens his mouth, drawing in a silent breath, the key is not to try to grit your teeth and not to breathe too fast, they all learn out here—
“me, too,” whispers Bucky.
“too dangerous,” Steve whispers back.
Bucky’s response is another kiss, but they don’t move more than that; the rustle of a bedroll or a tent is more noise than they can afford. No matter who’s listening.
Maybe five minutes later, Steve takes one last risk: he slides his arm up out of the bag and wraps it around Bucky’s neck, in one quick motion that barely makes a sound. Bucky immediately turns his head to face Steve, and they sleep like that, the chill air penetrating around Steve’s bare arm, muscles getting sore, but it’s worth it, it’s worth it. He holds the ball of Bucky’s shoulder in the cup of his hand, until they wake up in the morning, awkard and stiff, and get up, Bucky crawling out first in his thermal shirt, the noise of the men stirring carrying through the woods.
Bucky looks back at him and Steve meets his eyes, this time, and they hold it for as long as they can before Jim starts to climb out of his tent.