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Chapter Text

A gentle summer breeze rustled through the alpine grasses and flowers. Soft, fluffy clouds chased each other across the blue sky. The air was sweet with the smell of aster, arnica, pasque flower, and alpenrose. Amidst the alpine splendor, a solitary figure picked his way across the meadow. His dark hair was beginning to come loose from its careful parting, with strands blowing across his face in the light breeze. At last, the figure paused by the bank of a mountain stream, settling carefully on the bank to observe the trickling water.

Bucky sighed happily, closing his eyes to feel the breeze and the sun play cool and warm across his face. Sometimes, he wished he never had to leave the Austrian mountains. He inhaled deeply, breathing in the clean air and savoring the scents of flowers and evergreen. The alpine meadows above Salzburg were one of the only places he had felt calm, happy, and complete since the Great War. Up here, no one judged him, or pitied him for his war wounds. Up here, he could be himself. He could relax, meditate, sing while no one could hear him.

He plucked an edelweiss and idly twirled it between his fingers, struck by the same rush of sadness and affection that the flower always inspired in him. He could not see the flower, smell its sweet scent, without being reminded of Steve.

They had been but boys themselves, almost twenty years ago, when they had last lain together in the peaceful quiet of the alps, albeit three countries away. In a rare moment of peace and relaxation, they had filled a picnic basket with what treats they could afford from a local French village and fled for the mountains. High in the alps they had picnicked, walked, held hands, kissed, and lain together in the meadows. Steve had plucked an edelweiss and handed it to him. Bucky had raised his eyebrows as he accepted it. Unfamiliar with the flower, he turned it in his hand with curiosity. “What’s this?” he asked. “Edelweiss,” replied Steve, gazing at him fondly with his lovely deep blue eyes. “It represents perseverance and… and dedication.” He blushed slightly at this, and looked down to fiddle with the grass in front of him. Bucky felt his heart melt with tenderness for the man who lay next to him. “Dedication?” he asked, feeling himself blushing in turn. Steve nodded, then turned and gave his irresistible half smile. Bucky could not help it, but leaned in to kiss him.

God, they had been so young, so sure that the world was a good place despite what they’d seen in the War to End All Wars, so sure that everything would be alright. But Steve had died in the Argonne forest a few short months after that—died in Bucky’s arms while he cried and pleaded with his love to stay with him.

The sound of church bells rang out from the valley, drawing Bucky from his painful reverie. Counting the doleful tolls, Bucky sprang to his feet in a panic. It was much later than he had thought—he’d lost track of time again. He needed to get to der Winterfalke, and quickly.

Bucky hurried back down the mountain. He was almost definitely going to be late for rehearsal. Not that it was that big a deal, to be frank. These days, der Winterfalke --where Bucky worked as a pianist-- rarely saw many visitors until later in the evening. As the threat of the Anschluss loomed and many Austrians began parroting Nazi opinions, fewer and fewer people felt safe visiting cabaret clubs, particularly political ones like der Winterfalke. Making it to the edge of town, Bucky hastily snatched his bicycle from where he’d hidden it behind some bushes and began pedaling rapidly through the streets. He reached the club sweaty and out of breath fifteen minutes later. Stowing his bike behind the trash bins in the backyard, he hastily ducked through the back door of the club. 

“Ah, Barnes,” drawled Heinrich, the owner of the club, raising his eyebrows over the cigarette he was smoking. “Nice of you to join us, finally. Hilde needs to get warmed up for her song, are you ready to go?”

“Yessir,” Bucky responded, moving towards the piano. Hastily he adjusted several of the catches on his metal hand, releasing some fingers so they were free to move and locking others in place. It was really a quite ingenious system that Dr. Samuel had designed, he reflected, sitting down at the rickety piano bench and playing a quick scale with his left hand to loosen his viable fingers. Despite all Dr. Samuel’s hard work in designing the perfect prosthetic hand, it had taken Bucky a good deal of practice to work out how to play piano again after he’d lost his arm. His mechanical hand was good for playing chords, and not much else. Therefore, Bucky had devised a method of playing in which he crossed his left hand under his mechanical right in order to play the melody with his remaining fingers, while at the same time supporting his prosthetic wrist as he played the percussive bass notes with his right. It hasn’t been an easy journey, reflected Bucky as Hilde began to run through her opening number.

As Bucky had predicted, it was a slow night. Nearly half the tables at der Winterfalke were empty, with the regulars hunched over their drinks in relative silence. Bucky was kept busy for the time that the club was open, playing steadily through the acts as his fingers grew progressively more tired. It wasn’t the most enjoyable music he’d ever played, but it was enough of a career. Losing his arm in the Great War had put most manufacturing and laboring jobs out of reach, so he had mostly been relying on odd jobs to get by in the intervening years.

The club had emptied by 11:30, and Heinrich made the decision to close up for the night. With a groan, Bucky rotated his left wrist in circles, loosening the stiff muscles, before he carefully adjusted the catches on his mechanical right hand back to their neutral position. Grabbing his jacket, he was about to exit the smoky club for the cool street beyond, but—

“Barnes, a moment, please,” called Heinrich. “I need to talk to all of you.” Surprised, Bucky turned back and stood at ease, his left hand holding his mechanical right securely behind his back. Hilde the soprano, Miles the tenor, and the dancers all gathered round as all. Heinrich ran a large hand over his balding head, seemingly wondering where to begin. At long last, he took a deep breath.

“Now, you all know that this has been a very rough time for us, ja?”

Nods around the circle. Business at the der Winterfalke had been poor for several months now.

“Well, unfortunately, times have become too rough,” admitted Heinrich, throwing his hands up in defeat. “We are closing down der Winterfalke.”

Gasps issued from several of the dancers. Miles let out a low groan.

“I am very sorry, everyone,” sighed Heinrich. “I know this was not what we were hoping for. Tomorrow night will be our last night.” With one last defeated shrug, Heinrich ambled away, no doubt to soothe his sorrows with schappes and a cigarette.

The now-former performers of der Winterfalke stared at each other in dismay for a long, silent moment. Then, slowly, the circle broke up, the dancers wandering away in twos and threes, whispering about the misfortune dogging the cabaret scene in the shadow of the Anschluss. Bucky hung his head, and permitted himself a pained sigh. Acting as pianist at der Winterfalke had been one of his last job options in Salzburg. What on earth was he going to do now?

Bucky shuffled out of the club, beginning the short trek back to his flat, which he shared with another American veteran. The night was cool and quiet, pleasant after the smoky heat of the club.

Dispirited, Bucky let himself into the small flat and collapsed onto his bed. His roommate, Sam, who had been reading by the light of the kitchen lamp, looked up at him in concern. “Something the matter, Buck?” he asked, brows drawing together in a frown.

Bucky, for the millionth time, swallowed the urge to respond with “don’t call me that”—he knew it had no effect on Sam. Bucky groaned, scrubbing his left hand across his face in exhaustion. “I lost my job,” he mumbled into his palm.

Sam hissed in sympathy. “Damn, man, you can’t catch a break.”

“I know,” muttered Bucky, still speaking into his hand.

After a pause, Sam continued cautiously. “Any idea what you’re going to do now?”

Bucky dropped his arm away from his face, staring up at the cracked and chipped plaster of the ceiling. What would he do now? Factory work was hard for him with his mechanical arm, and it wasn’t like there was much factory work in Salzburg to begin with. Bucky glanced over at Sam. The other man was staring at him, concern showing plainly on his expressive face. “I have no idea,” Bucky confessed, somehow compelled to tell the truth to that earnest, optimistic gaze. A hot flush of shame swept through him at the flash of pity that crossed Sam’s face. Bucky returned his gaze to the ceiling. “I could teach, I suppose,” he said jokingly.

“Wait, wait, actually, Buck, you just reminded me of something!” Sam sounded excited, eager, a tone which rarely boded well.

Bucky arched a suspicious eyebrow in the direction of the kitchen. “yeah?”

Sam leaned forward in his chair, elbows braced on his knees. “I heard this from a friend at work. There’s a local baron, captain, something—a wealthy man with a big estate out in the country. He’s looking for a tutor for his children.”

“A tutor in what subjects?” asked Bucky, interest piqued despite himself. Most of him thought this sounded like a horrible idea, but perhaps…

“Just general knowledge, I think,” shrugged Sam. “Reading, writing, history. You could totally do that, man!”

Bucky raised his second eyebrow to match his first. “Me, a teacher? Really?”

“Why not!” exclaimed Sam, standing up to pace in excitement now. “You’re actually pretty good at explaining things to people when you’re not being a mopey bastard.”

“Thanks,” said Bucky sarcastically.

The two lapsed into silence, Bucky still collapsed on his narrow bed, Sam watching him intently from the kitchen, practically vibrating with excitement at the prospect of his scheme. A tutor to seven children? Bucky thought to himself. It wasn’t the sort of job he’d ever expected himself to work, but, then again, his life had not gone according to anything resembling a plan. And it wasn’t as though he had any other options open to him at the moment. He already owed a considerable amount of money at the bank, and rent was due next week. If he couldn’t come up with the money…

“Well?” Sam asked, clearly impatient to hear Bucky’s answer. “Will you do it?”

“I don’t think I have a choice,” sighed Bucky, gesturing hopelessly at the ceiling. “So, who’s this Captain I’m supposed to be working for?”

Two days later found Bucky, suitcase in one hand and guitar in the other, boarding a stuffy bus that would take him from the center of Salzburg out into the country, where Austrian navy Captain Helmut Zemo’s family estate was located. The day was clear, cloudless, and sultry, the cool promise of spring finally giving way to the blazing heat of summer.  Bucky edged awkwardly along the aisle of the bus, finally settling in an empty row near the rear and cracking a window to allow some fresh air to blow across his face. With a massive rumbling of old engines, the bus roared to life and trundled out of the main square, heading for the greenery of the countryside. As they left the renaissance stone of Salzburg behind, Bucky had leisure to reflect on where he was going, and what it might be like when he got there.

“Now, remember, the captain is supposed to be very strict,” Sam had cautioned him as he hovered unnecessarily over Bucky’s packing, nervously refolding the threadbare stack of shirts that were waiting to be placed in the battered suitcase. “He was the commander of a U-boat during the war. My friend told me he doesn’t tolerate any sort of misbehavior or impropriety.”

Bucky sighed. The further from Salzburg he traveled, the more he doubted his decision. He hadn’t taken care of children in almost two decades, not since his little sisters were young. How on earth would he be able to manage seven children? Would Captain Zemo find him suitable for the job? What would a refined Austrian navy captain make of a crippled American Soldier?

Bucky had never wanted to be a soldier, necessarily. When he was growing up in New York at the turn of the century, all he’d known was that he’d probably be a mechanic like his father one day, and that he loved learning music from his mother and in turn teaching it to his sisters. And then he’d met Steven Rogers, and he’d been a goner. Ever since he first laid eyes on the tall, handsome, blonde boy with the beautiful blue eyes, he’d never wanted anything else. He’d never met anyone he loved so much.

When the war started, Steve was vocal in his desire for the United States to join the war, to help end the immense cost of human life they were seeing on the news every day. Bucky hadn’t really cared that much, but he’d cared because Steve cared. As soon as the American expeditionary force was announced, Steve had enlisted in the army, despite being barely a month over 18. Bucky had been panic-stricken. All he had known was that he could not let Steve go alone. He could not bear to be left behind. So, despite being only 17, he had falsified his enlistment form and prepared to follow his best friend, his love, to war. Before the war the two of them had barely exchanged brief, awkward kisses, carefully hidden from the knowledge of all their friends, but still, Bucky knew--with all the absolute certainty of youth--that Steve was the only man he’d ever loved. So, he followed him across the sea, to a training camp in France, and then into the trenches of the largest war in human history. Through the long months they had kept each other safe, loved each other in secret, and prayed that they would both make it back from the decimated fields of France alive. But they hadn’t.

Bucky had tried to return to the states after Steve’s death, and after the Treaty of Versailles restored peace to Europe. But peace was stale and meaningless to Bucky, now. Peace had come at too great a cost. Steve would have thought his sacrifice to be worthwhile, but Bucky never could. For, now, he was alone.

Bucky had grieved with Steve’s family, both for their son and for his own parents, who had died of Spanish influenza while he was abroad. At a loss, Bucky had traveled the country looking for work and a means to support himself. Unable to work many manufacturing jobs without his right arm, he scraped by as best he could. He took a few classes at Columbia in history, literature, and music, then continued searching for work. Accompanist, drafter, bank teller, line cook, he had tried them all as best he could. When the Great Depression had settled over the United States, he’d moved back across the Atlantic. It was probably better for him anyway, he thought. Better to be far away from New York, where he was constantly haunted by Steve’s ghost. First he’d tried England, taking a few classes at Cambridge before searching out work as an engineer designing cars. He found that he enjoyed engineering almost as much as music.

When things turned sour and jobless in Cambridge, Bucky made his way across England and into Europe, teaching music and drafting mechanical plans to keep himself afloat. Finally, after the closure of his latest drafting job in Bonn, he’d found himself in Salzburg. And now here he was, leaving his musical job in Salzburg for the Austrian countryside.  

The bus ground to a halt at the t-intersection of the main road and a quiet country lane. The driver caught Bucky’s eye in the rearview mirror and nodded—this was his stop. Bucky scrambled down the stairs and the bus drove off in a cloud of dust and exhaust. Bucky secured his guitar more firmly in his mechanical hand, picked up his suitcase in his flesh hand, squared his shoulders, and began to stride purposefully down the country lane. Pastures with grazing horses flanked him on one side of the lane while a row of genteel country villas stood on the other. Carefully following the instructions Sam had given him, he continued along the quiet lane until he reached number 53, and then carefully peered up the drive.

Wrought iron gates, twisted into the elaborate shapes of vines and Fleurs-de-Lis, blocked the entry to a broad gravel drive. The drive wrapped around a circular lawn surrounded by ornamental hedges, while large, graceful oaks flanked the view to either side of the courtyard. Beyond the drive, a great manor house rose solidly towards the sky, the cheerful yellow stucco of the façade not doing much to soften the impression of austere grandeur given off by the uniform lines of windows, the ornately carved door frame, and the intricate scrolled stonework of the uppermost gable. Bucky swallowed, feeling distinctly nervous. He had rarely seen so grand a house, let alone worked at one.

Carefully, he unlatched the giant gate, large enough for two cars to drive through, and carefully pushed one leaf inwards. He slipped through, and it swung shut with a loud clang behind him, making him jump. Nervously, he mounted the front steps. Well, here goes nothing, he thought, squared his shoulders, and rang the bell.

Chapter Text

Captain Helmut Zemo was deeply absorbed in his studies when Oeznik knocked softly at the study door. “Captain?” inquired the old butler, shuffling into the room.

“Yes, Oeznik?” replied Zemo, not looking up from the mess of maps, ciphers, letters, and notes spread out before him.

“Captain, the new tutor is here for your review,” said Oeznik. “I told him to wait in the foyer.”

“Very good,” replied Zemo, twirling his pen in his hand as he continued to gaze at the papers before him. “Please tell him that I will be down in a moment.”

“Of course, sir,” replied the butler, hobbling from the room and gently closing the door behind him.

As the silence stretched in the wake of the butler’s exit, Zemo set down his pen with a sigh, rubbing a hand tiredly across his face. He was not making as much progress as he had hoped.In the looming shadow of the Anschluss and in the midst of the civil unrest within Austria, Captain Zemo’s normal channels of information were becoming muddied. Normal informants were shy of sharing what they knew, and some had fled entirely. Old acquaintances could no longer be trusted, as many had become Nazi sympathizers. Nevertheless, he must persevere in his mission. If he could unravel this tangled web of secrets, plots, and informants, perhaps he could find who was to blame for the death of his wife and youngest son.

For the past two years, his all-consuming mission to find revenge had been the work of his entire life, to the neglect of all else. Captain Zemo considered himself a clever man, and as such he was turning up many clues and much information about the tragedy in 1934 that others may have missed. As soon as a hint had reached his ears that the Nazis may have had something to do with Heike and Karl’s deaths, he could not rest until he uncovered the truth. Perhaps, if there were someone else to blame, he could learn to bury his own burning guilt and ceaseless pain. Somehow he doubted that even finding the truth would free him of this pain, but he still had to try.

Despite himself, Zemo found himself sinking into bitter thoughts of the past. How could he have been so blind as to miss the looming danger of the fateful tragedy in Vienna? He’d thought all had been well, that the political dissension leading up to the Austrian Civil War was just murmurs, whispers, fire with no smoke. How wrong he had been.

On the twelfth of February 1934, a conservative para-military group raided a democratic socialist stronghold in Vienna, killing several socialist leaders and a few civilians. Within hours, fighting had spread throughout the city. The Austrian military was called, and artillery was fired at the Karl Marx Hof, reducing hundreds of civilian flats to rubble. By the time the democratic socialists surrendered the next day, hundreds had died.

Heike had been in Vienna at the time, staying at their flat in the doomed complex after taking their youngest son, Karl, to the doctor to treat his measles. Zemo, unfortunately, had not been with them. It had been days until he had been able to find their bodies.

Zemo braced his hands against the desk and sighed to himself. He had lost track of the number of times he had cursed his luck, that he had not been there the one moment that Heike needed him. A small voice in the back of his mind often whispered that there was nothing he could have done besides die beside them, but his pride, grief, and guilt always overrode its quiet murmurs. He was a captain of the Austrain Navy—how could he have failed to protect the ones he loved so completely?

Wrenching his mind from these bitter reflections, Captain Zemo stood abruptly from his fine mahogany desk. He took a deep breath, composing his mind back to the present, before striding purposefully for the door. Time to meet the American musician who fancied himself a tutor.

In the cool foyer of the grand manor house, Bucky shifted nervously from foot to foot. His impressions from the outside had been correct—he’d never seen a fancier house. A glittering crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, while Corinthian columns, topped in what looked like gold, marched around the grand foyer. At one end of the grand foyer, a forking staircase with intricate wrought-iron balustrades swept gracefully up to the upper level. There was a sense of grandeur, hauteur, and nobility about the manor, and he felt massively out of place.

The closing of a door on the upper level made Bucky jump, but it was just the old butler returning. “The captain will be with you in a moment, Herr Barnes,” the butler said. Without another word, he vanished deeper into the house.

Bucky stood in silence a few moments longer, listening to the regular ticking of a grandfather clock somewhere beyond his line of sight. He idly imagined what Captain Zemo would look like—older, severe, maybe a bit coarse, he thought. In his head he pictured Major Jennings, his and Steve’s old battalion leader in France. Jennings had been an intimidating figure, a middle-aged, beefy man with a thick neck, hardly any hair, and his face set into premature yet forbidding lines. His complexion was normally an alarming shade of purple as he bellowed orders at the soldiers under his command. Bucky shuddered internally. He and Steve had celebrated the day that Jennings had been reassigned.

Surveying the grand foyer again, Bucky’s eye was caught by a door that stood slightly ajar on the right-hand wall. Through the crack, he thought he could see the shape of bookshelves. Curious, he carefully set down his guitar and suitcase on the steps and padded softly across the foyer. Peeking through the door, he saw that his first guess had been correct—the room beyond was, in fact, a library. Fascinated and excited, Bucky pushed the door wider and slipped into the room. Sharp rays of light cut through the room from tall windows, falling on the spines of hundreds of books, arranged neatly on shelves that rose almost to the ceiling. Slowly Bucky paced along the rows, inhaling deeply to enjoy the scents of paper, leather, and ink. He smiled—the smell brought back memories of studying music in Cambridge. As he continued to pace along the rows, he spotted a cello perched on a stand, dusty from disuse, but beautiful all the same. Just seeing the instrument brought back memories of his sisters playing cello back in the states, while he and Steve listened. Longingly, he reached out his left hand to stroke the beautiful mahogany.

A small cough behind him made Bucky jump and spin around. A man in an impeccably tailored suit of deep navy stood in the doorway to the grand foyer, eyebrows raised in an expression of polite, disbelieving rebuke. His chestnut brown hair, lightly streaked with just a few strands of silver, was carefully parted to one side. His brown eyes glowed with a fiery intensity in a classically handsome face. Bucky hastily exited the exquisite library, and the well-dressed man deftly closed the door behind him. This must be the captain, Bucky thought. Now that they were standing almost close enough to touch, Bucky noted with surprise that the captain was a few inches shorter than he, and therefore obliged to tilt his chin upward ever so slightly to meet Bucky’s eyes. This seemed to trouble the captain not at all, however, and he continued to survey Bucky with such intensity and authority that Bucky felt himself squirming in discomfort. He surreptitiously straightened his tie, suddenly feeling extremely shabby in his second-hand suit jacket and slightly threadbare trousers.

“I am Captain Zemo,” said the other in a soft, refined baritone, stepping back to stand at ease, looking Bucky over from head to toe. “I presume that you are Herr Barnes?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Bucky, extending his left hand to shake while keeping his mechanical right arm unmoving at side. Zemo raised his eyebrows in mild surprise, but offered his left hand in return and shook Bucky’s hand with a firm, authoritative grip. Now that they were both in the light of the grand foyer, Bucky surveyed the captain with curiosity. Captain Zemo was nothing like the other naval captains of his acquaintance. Not only was he far handsomer than Bucky had imagined a few moments before, but Zemo also did not seem overly blustering, wooden, or cruel. In fact, now that Bucky’s first overwhelming impression of Zemo’s authority and power was fading slightly, he was struck instead by a sense of refinement, elegance, and sensuality. Glad that his new employer was not completely unbending and wooden, Bucky smiled slightly to himself.

“Why are you smiling?” the captain asked, arching his eyebrows sardonically.

Feeling a bit giddy, Bucky replied honestly “It’s just… you don’t look anything like a sea captain, sir.”

The captain smiled stiffly. “Well, you don’t look much like a tutor.”

Touché, thought Bucky, internally wincing at the misstep.

“Now, Herr Barnes, I have a few questions for you,” the captain continued.

Bucky straightened his back, doing his best to appear as though he knew what he was doing.

“Do you have experience with children, Herr Barnes?” asked the captain.

Bucky squirmed a bit. His experience with children was neither extensive nor recent. “Some, sir,” he replied cautiously. “I was the oldest of five, and took care of my sisters.”

Captain Zemo did not seem to react to this answer either with approbation or disapproval. He merely nodded curtly. “And, Herr Barnes, are you willing to maintain discipline amongst the children under your care?”

Bucky blinked. “Um, I suppose so?” he said tentatively. “Sir,” he added hastily, not wanting to sound disrespectful.

Again, the captain made no response, but merely began to pace back and forth. “How many languages do you speak?” he enquired abruptly.

“Four,” replied Bucky, a touch of defiance creeping into his voice.

“Which?” asked Zemo, not missing a beat.

“English, German, French and Russian.”

“Have you studied at a university?”

“Yes, briefly.”

“Briefly? For how long? What did you study?”

“I spent four terms at Columbia and two terms at Cambridge. I studied Literature, Music and History, sir,” replied Bucky, placing a slight emphasis on the last word. He was sick of being interrogated in such an abrupt, almost rude manner.

“Very good,” said Zemo, choosing to ignore Bucky’s irritation. “And I believe I understood you are a military veteran, Herr Barnes?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Bucky, surprised by the seeming non-sequitur.

“Very good, very good,” repeated Captain Zemo. He stopped pacing and stood at ease, hands tucked behind his back, facing Bucky with an air of cool command. Bucky had to fight the urge to stand at attention in response to such obvious authority. “Now, I wish to employ you as a full-time tutor for my seven children.” Zemo held up a gloved hand to forestall Bucky’s interruption. “I know that this is not the common way, but this is not a common situation. My children have managed to, er, chase off the last twelve governesses I have employed, and—”

“Twelve?!” sputtered Bucky, shocked and not a little alarmed.

“Yes, that’s what I said,” repeated Zemo, fixing Bucky with a severe stare from under furrowed brows. Bucky noticed, distracted, that Captain Zemo’s eyes were a pleasant shade of warm brown.

“As I was saying,” continued Zemo. “I have strong hopes that hiring a live-in tutor, especially one who, such as yourself, has served in the armed forces will help to promote discipline and order amongst my children. Your duties will include drilling the children in their studies of history, literature, composition, and mathematics, as well as supervising their daily exercise. I expect my children to conduct themselves at all times with the utmost order and decorum, is that clear?”

As Captain Zemo spoke, Bucky could feel his eyebrows creeping steadily higher and higher up his forehead, despite his best efforts to restrain his expression. “Excuse me, Captain,” he broke in finally, “but, when do the children play? Have free time?”

Zemo cocked his head slightly to one side, a severely incredulous expression on his face. “Did I mention ‘playtime’?” he asked icily. “No, the children are extremely busy, and you will adhere to the schedule I have set out, Herr Barnes.”

The captain removed a short silver whistle from the breast pocket of his jacket and blew sharply. Bucky started slightly as a thunder of footfalls began upstairs. Glancing to the balcony that surrounded the atrium at the upper level, Bucky saw a swarm of children in grey school uniforms spilling out of many doors and hurrying into a strict, precise line at the head of the stairs. Before he had a chance to count them, they marched briskly down the steps in strict military order, coming to a stop in front of the captain and himself. Now that they were still, Bucky counted only six children.

Then the last child, a girl, wandered out of the library with her nose in a book. Glancing up, she noticed all her siblings standing strictly to attention and blanched. Captain Zemo strode over to her and, without, speaking, held out his hand for the book, The Wind in the Willows. The girl handed it over meekly, then left her hand outstretched. Captain Zemo swatted her lightly on the hand with the cover of the book, then jerked his chin to indicate she could join the line of the others. She did, beet red with mortification. 

Ignoring his daughter’s embarrassment, the captain addressed the assembled youngsters. “Children, this is Herr Barnes. He will be your new tutor, understood?”

“Yes, father,” answered seven voices in unison.

The captain fished a silver whistle out of his pocket and held it out towards Bucky. Uncertainly, Bucky took it. “What do I do with this?” he asked, perplexed.

“Each child has a corresponding whistle signal. You shall learn them, and learn to call the children in this way. Let me demonstrate.”

The whistle sounded shrilly. The oldest child stepped forward. Then a different whistle pattern, and the next child. And the next, and the next–it all happened so quickly that the signals began to blur together for Bucky, although he made an effort to remember the names and faces of the children.

Liesel, age 16, who was growing into a beautiful young lady.

Friedrich, age 14, a fair-haired boy who was trying to look tough like a man.

Luisa, age 13, a girl with honey-blonde hair done up in neat braids and the glint of mischief in her eyes.

Kurt, age 11, a miniature version of his older brother.

Brigitta, age 10, the dark-haired girl who had been too lost in her book to notice her father’s summons.

Marta, age 7, a young girl with bright eyes hidden under thick, dark bangs.

And finally Gretel, age 5, who was almost too shy to speak her name.

“Now,” continued the captain once Gretel had stepped back into line, “When I require your presence, this is what you will hear.” The captain began a series of shrill blasts on his whistle. Bucky, unable to remain silent any longer, broke in to interrupt.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, holding up a hand. “I could never respond to a whistle. Whistles are for dogs and for horses and for other animals, but not for children, and certainly not for me.”

The captain regarded him with narrowed eyes and tilted head. Bucky did his best to keep his gaze level and not to squirm under such intense scrutiny. “Hmm,” he said at last, then turned to leave. Unable to resist temptation, Bucky blew a shrill blast on his new whistle.

Captain Zemo stopped in his tracks. His shoulders rose and fell in a half-repressed sigh before he turned sharply to face Bucky and the children again. He raised his eyebrows, giving a look that could cut steel.

“Excuse me, sir,” Bucky said, fighting to keep his face completely innocent. “But, I don’t know what your signal is.”

Zemo’s eyes hardened into a look of steely annoyance. “You may call me Captain” he replied in soft, clipped tones. He then turned on his heel and swept away, slamming the door to the parlor behind him.

A small ripple of shrill laughter echoed from the line of children behind him. It died quickly, however, when Bucky turned to face them.  

“At ease,” he said, dubious at the way the children were standing at attention.

The children instantly relaxed out of their rigid military stance. The youngest girl—Gretel, he remembered—started sucking her thumb. All seven of them were staring at him in open curiosity.

Bucky ran his viable hand through his hair. What on earth was he supposed to do now?

Luckily, at that moment the old butler Oeznik appeared from upstairs. “Come, children,” he called, clapping his hands briskly. “It’s time for your morning exercise.” Within moments all seven of the children had fallen into a neat line and marched, with the same military precision as before, out of the front door. Bucky stared after them, a bit perplexed by this austere efficiency. He could not help wondering privately how happy Captain Zemo’s children could really be, with such a coldly distant father and such strict regulations upon their behavior.

Once the door had closed behind the children, Oeznik turned to Bucky. “I can show you to your room now, Herr Barnes,” he said politely.

“Oh, right, thank you,” said Bucky, coming out of his reverie. Hastily he secured his guitar in his mechanical right hand, picked up his suitcase with his left, and followed the stooped form of Oeznik up the grand staircase.

As the two proceeded along the hallway above, Bucky could not help venturing a tentative enquiry. “Is it always like this? You know, with the children?” He wanted to ascertain if the concept of “fun” was even allowed in the intimidating manor house.

“What do you mean, Herr Barnes?” asked Oeznik impassively, leading him from the main hallway into the east wing of the house.

“Are the children always so, so…” Bucky paused, trying to find a word that was diplomatic. “so… strictly managed? Do they ever play, have fun?”

Oeznik paused his shuffling footfalls then, and fixed Bucky with a level, sad gaze. “Not since their mother died,” the butler said sadly. “Frau Zemo’s death changed the captain, Herr Barnes. Ever since she died there has been no happiness in the house. No laughter, no music, no playing, nothing that reminds him of her. I will confess, I think it is hard on the children. He runs this house as if he were on one of his ships again”

Bucky blinked, absorbing this piece of information. It seemed like a very sad and lonely way for the children to grow up.

The old butler finally stopped in front of a white door at the very end of the hall down which they had been traveling. Opening it with a gloved hand, he gestured bucky inside. “Your room, Herr Barnes. Dinner will be at 7 PM. If you require anything before then, you may ring for me and I will assist you.” With that, Oeznik shuffled out of the room and closed the door behind him, leaving Bucky standing and surveying the nicest room he’d ever been able to call his own. An ornate brass bedstead with a fine goose down duvet was framed by two large, curtained windows, which offered a stunning view onto the estate’s gardens. There was a handsome mahogany wardrobe, a writing desk with chair, and even a chaise lounge, placed under another large window, this one with a view to the lake at the rear of the house. A door off to the left led into a well-apportioned washroom. Now that Oeznik had gone, the only sound to be heard was that of birds singing in the distance, which was carried in through the open windows.

With a sigh, Bucky set down his battered suitcase and guitar on the sleekly polished hardwood floor. He felt spectacularly out of place in this ornate house, with a strict captain and a squadron of children who marched in better order than Bucky’s own brothers in arms in the 107th had ever managed. Running his viable hand through his hair, Bucky paced slowly towards the window overlooking the lake. In the distance he could see the jagged forms of the Austrian alps rising grey-blue towards the clouds. He could imagine the quiet serenity of the alpine meadows, the deep shadows of the trees, the chuckling of the snowmelt streams. The scene felt so much more inviting than his current situation. He could not help wishing, illogically and wistfully, that he could vanish into the mountains and never have to come down.

Chapter Text

The late evening sunlight falling orange across his face roused Bucky from his unintentional nap. Disoriented, he sat up in the ornate bed and scrubbed tiredly at his face. Glancing at the beautiful mantle clock on the dresser, he saw that it was time to get ready for dinner. Figuring he’d better unpack before changing, Bucky hoisted his suitcase onto the bed with his left hand, undid the clasps and flipped back the lid. His rather tattered clothing looked shabbier than ever against the elegance of his new bedroom. After his first paycheck came in, he would have to enquire discreetly of Oeznik about the possibility of obtaining some nicer garments. With a small sigh, Bucky stacked a pile of shirts on his mechanical arm and, balancing them precariously, turned to open the wardrobe door to stow them away. Seconds later, he had leapt backwards with an undignified yell, shirts spilling from his mechanical hand to land scattered pell-mell across the floor. A large, thick, dark green snake, at least three feet in length, was uncoiling itself from inside of his wardrobe, forked tongue tasting the air. It landed on the floor of the room with a frighteningly loud plop, then proceeded to make a beeline for the dark space under the bed. Unfortunately, Bucky was directly in its path. With another shout he scrambled backwards and out of the way, tumbling onto the bed in disarray just as the snake vanished beneath it.

There was the sound of rapidly shuffling steps in the hallway and seconds later Oeznik appeared in his doorway, out of breath and clutching a pair of fire tongs like a sword. “Herr Barnes,” he wheezed, gazing around the room in confusion. “I heard you shouting, what has happened?”

Still rather in shock, Bucky pointed shakily down at the gap underneath his bed. “Snake,” he rasped out.

Oeznik let the fire tongs fall to his side with an explosive sigh. “Curse those children!” he grumbled, shuffling towards the bed and bending with a groan to peer beneath it.

“You’re not saying the children had something to do with this?!” asked Bucky, slightly alarmed. Now that the initial shock had passed, Bucky clambered off the bed and stood next to Oeznik, prepared to help him wrangle the intruding reptile out from under the bed.

“Oh, almost certainly they did,” said Oeznik practically, still peering under the bed in search of the snake. “Snakes, toads, spiders…. Creepy crawly creatures of all kinds, the children’s favorite way to welcome a new governess. Or tutor, it seems.”

Bucky got down on his hands and knees and peered cautiously under the bed. The snake gazed back at him from the shadows, placidly scenting the air with its tongue. Bucky sighed in relief as he recognized the distinctive yellow ring around its neck—only a grass snake, not at all venomous. Wordlessly, he held out his hand to Oeznik, who, understanding what he wanted, passed him the fire tongs. Carefully, Bucky snagged the snake by its middle and began to pull it from under the bed. Terrified, the snake went limp, pretending to be dead as it emerged from its dark hiding spot. As Bucky pulled the reptile into the light, Oeznik gave a low whistle. “I’m impressed, Herr Barnes. The children must have gone to some trouble to find such a large and generous welcome for you.”

“Um, thanks?” said Bucky, passing the tongs with their scaly burden to the old butler.
Oeznik hoisted the tongs and the snake and began to shuffle from the room. “Just shout if you find another one, Herr Barnes,” he called over his shoulder.

Another one?? Suspiciously, Bucky opened all the doors and drawers in his wardrobe and desk. Seeing no more scaly intruders, he shook his head and began to dress for dinner.

Dinner at the Zemo table was an almost silent affair. All of the children seemed in too much fear of their father to do more than meekly eat. As Oeznik had said, there was no talking and no laughter. It made Bucky extremely uncomfortable, and even more conscious than usual of his prosthetic arm. He had covered the hand with a leather glove for dinner, but that did not keep him from needing to place utensils into the device with his viable hand, or from needing to reach awkwardly across his plate with his left hand to take a sip of water. Frequently, he felt Zemo’s level brown eyes observing him when he made these missteps in manners, and he felt a slight blush rise to his face. He felt extraordinarily out of place, out of his depth.

At long last, he determined to break the silence. “I’d like to thank you children for the incredibly thoughtful gift you left me in my room today,” said Bucky, layering sarcasm into every syllable. Dead silence met his words. Innocently, Bucky glanced up from cutting his steak to find all the children gazing at their laps in a mixture of embarrassment and nerves. Their father, meanwhile was regarding him with narrowed eyes.

“And what gift would this be, precisely?” asked Zemo, frowning suspiciously at each of his children in turn.

Crap. Bucky hadn’t meant to get the children into trouble with their father. “Um,” he stalled, toying with his fork. Another glance around the table showed seven pairs of pleading eyes watching him intently. “uh, it’s meant to be a… a secret, Captain. Between the children and me.”

There was an audible sigh of relief around the table, quelled quickly by their father’s cold, suspicious glare.

“I see,” Zemo said at last, silkily. “Then, Herr Barnes, may I suggest that you keep it and let us eat?”

There was silence again, except for the clatter of cutlery.

“Knowing how nervous I must have been,” continued Bucky, still heavily laying on the sarcasm. “A stranger, in a new household, knowing how important it was for me to feel accepted…” He deliberately turned his eyes to each child in turn, making them squirm in discomfort.  “It was so kind and thoughtful of you to make my first day here so warm and happy and… pleasant.” None of the children would meet his eyes now, but were all gazing in shame at their own laps. Good, thought Bucky. He meant to put them on alert that, while he would not tattle on them to their icy father, he also would not be easily cowed by their pranks and shenanigans.

Marta let out a miserable little sniffle as she pushed peas around on her plate, clearly affected by Bucky’s speech and remorse for her actions.

“I wonder, Herr Barnes,” said Captain Zemo, tilting his head to one side to survey Bucky with his penetrating stare, “If such a quantity of aimless chatter is considered essential at American meals?”

The captain was clearly judging him, which irritated Bucky. “Oh no, Captain,” he replied blithely. “My mother always told me it was polite to compliment others at the dinner table. What’s the phrase? If you have nothing nice to say, say nothing at all?” He looked pointedly at the captain. “Judging by how quiet this meal has been, it seems no one else has anything nice to say.”

The captain’s eyes flashed with a steely anger. Still in the heat of his irritation, Bucky chose to ignore this, staring the captain down. The captain exhaled sharply through his nose, then dropped his gaze back to his plate. Point conceded.

The rest of the meal passed in extremely uncomfortable silence. Bucky did his best to appear unconcerned by it, but it did lower his spirits that his first day at the estate had not been anything approaching easy.

As he climbed the stairs back to the second level that evening, Bucky could not help reflecting on Captain Zemo’s description of his duties, and reserved nature. He couldn’t understand why Zemo was so cold and distant with his children. They were his children, and they were obviously starved for his affection, so why did he withhold it? How could he be so strict? So unfeeling? It irritated Bucky in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

It had not been an auspicious first day, he reflected as he tossed and turned on the almost too-soft bed. Hopefully tomorrow would be better.

The next morning Bucky left his quarters in a bit of a rush, trotting towards the school room as he hastily straightened his tie. The school room was on the upper floor of the east wing, the same wing that Bucky stayed in. Natural light slanted across the desks from the high windows. Two columns of student desks faced the teacher’s desk at the front of the room. All seven children were sitting primly at their desks as Bucky entered, instantly raising his suspicions. In his experience, children waiting for a teacher were never this silent, unless they had some sort of prank planned.

Gazing at the students in his best “no nonsense teacher” manner, Bucky made to sit down at his desk. Immediately he leapt up again with a yelp of pain. Glancing down at his seat, he noticed a pinecone sitting innocently on the cushion. A repressed snicker ran around the room.

Bucky sighed internally. It was not going to be easy to win these children over. He was still determined, however, to not let their tricks get to him. Picking up the pinecone, he waved it back and forth in exasperation. “Seriously?” he asked the children, raising his eyebrows to emphasize how unimpressed he was. Tossing the pinecone into the wastebin in the corner, he reseated himself behind the desk. “Now, to business,” he said, flicking open the teacher’s ledger in front of him.

Luckily for Bucky, the children’s previous governesses had left extensive and comprehensive lesson plans, as well as notes on each child’s progress in their various studies. Even further in his favor, the first lesson of the day was mathematics, perhaps the subject he was most familiar with from his recent drafting jobs. He set the littlest ones to adding sums on their individual chalk boards, asked Brigitta and Kurt to demonstrate their knowledge of multiplication tables, and then turned his attention to teaching the oldest three the basics of algebra. Luisa and Friedrich were reasonably attentive, but Liesl merely sat with her arms and legs crossed, gazing pointedly out the classroom window without taking a single note. Bucky frowned at this behavior, but was not sure how to encourage her to participate in the lesson. After setting Luisa and Friedrich to graphing a series of lines on the chalkboard that spanned the entire wall behind the teacher’s desk, he decided to walk in a circuit and check on the younger students.

As he bent over Marta’s slate to check her work, he heard Brigitta’s shrill cry break the silence. “Kurt, how are you not done yet??” Bucky straightened to see Kurt, blushing furiously, trying to hide his barely started multiplication table from his younger sister. “Why are you so slow at math?” asked Brigitta in that same carrying voice.

“I’m not slow!” snapped Kurt, clearly embarrassed. “I just don’t want to do it!”

“I think it’s because you can’t,” teased Brigitta, trying to snatch Kurt’s paper.

“Can too!” cried Kurt, ripping the paper away from his sister.

Bucky, frowning, was about to interrupt the squabble when he felt a tap on his viable arm from next to him. “What’s that on your other arm?” asked Marta curiously, pointing at the leather straps and buckles that covered the metal framework of his prosthetic arm and bound it securely to his bicep. “Oh, this…erm…” Bucky found himself at rather a loss. He normally kept his prosthetic limb as hidden as possible, but in the heat of the morning sun he had removed his jacket, revealing the device. How could he explain to children of tender years how he had lost his arm? “Well, you know how your father was a captain during the war?” he began tentatively. Marta nodded attentively. “Well, I fought in that war as well, and—”
“Ooh, you were in the Austrian Army?" 
“Well, no,” Bucky said, feeling distinctly awkward. “I was in the American army.”
While Liesl and Friedrich looked rather surprised, none of the children’s faces hardened in dislike as Bucky had been fearing.
“You’re from America?” asked Gretel, eyes wide.
“Well, yes,” said Bucky.

“Why did you move to Austria?” inquired Kurt, as Luisa asked “What’s America like?”
“I still want to know about your arm!” protested Marta.

Slightly overwhelmed by the peppering of questions, Bucky chose to answer Marta. “I lost my arm at the elbow fighting in the war, so this is my prosthetic arm.” When the younger children merely frowned in puzzlement, Bucky continued. “My right hand is made of metal and wood, look,” he said, removing the leather glove that he often wore over his prosthetic hand and stretching out the hand for the children to examined. Completely entranced, all seven of them stood from their desks and stepped closer to examine the craftsmanship of the metal-clad alder wood. Bucky felt a sense of relief that none of the children had recoiled in disgust from his deformity. Their open curiosity was refreshing, when what he normally received from adults was a pitying and quickly averted glance.

After fielding a veritable firestorm of questions, Bucky finally managed to get the children calmed down and back in some semblance of order. They moved from mathematics to history, where he struggled to make the reign of Charlamagne capture the attention of his squirrely, hungry audience. Thankfully, after history was lunch, and then exercise on the manor’s sprawling lawn. This was overseen by Oeznik, leaving Bucky free to pore over the previous governess’ notes and lesson plans in peace for a precious few minutes. His brow could not help furrowing as he read entry after entry regarding Liesl’s recalcitrance, Brigitta and Louisa’s pranks, Kurt’s struggles with math, the obvious grief of Marta and Gretel over the loss of their mother… Really, all things considered, the fact that Captain Zemo’s children had made any progress in their education at all over the last year and a half was quite remarkable.

After the children had bathed and changed, it was time for reading and literature studies back in the school room. Marta and Gretel work working on practicing the alphabet and copying down basic vocabulary, while the older children read dusty lesson books of various levels. None of the children seemed very engaged in the task. Sleepy yawns and the quiet sound of fidgeting were more often to be heard than the turning of pages. Brigitta, however, was the exception to this rule. She was so deeply engrossed in her propped-up lesson book that she even ignored the spit wads Kurt kept tossing in her direction. Feeling suspicious, Bucky quietly paced over to her desk. Brigitta still did not look up. Bucky walked around behind the oblivious girl and began reading over her shoulder.

“All along the backwater,

            Through the rushes tall,

            Ducks are a-dabbling,

            Up tails all!

            Ducks’ tails, drakes’ tails,

            Yellow feet a-quiver,

            Yellow bills all out of sight

            Busy in the river!”

Bucky had to repress a laugh. Brigitta was not reading her lesson book at all. No, she had snuck her copy of The Wind in the Willows in, hidden in the old text. “Poetry isn’t until later,” drawled Bucky, observing Brigitta with hands on his hips. “But I admire your enthusiasm.”

Brigitta jumped and guiltily snapped the novel shut. She stared plaintively up at Bucky, clearly fearing a reprimand. “Herr Barnes…” she began anxiously.

Bucky raised his eyebrow.

“I’m sorry, it’s just… the lesson book is so boring, and The Wind in the Willows is so good… I promise I’ll catch up on my lessons later, only… I just had to finish this chapter! You’re not going to tell Father, are you?”

Bucky shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth in spite of himself. “No, no, I won’t tell your father,” he reassured the anxious girl. “I seem to recall that I couldn’t put down that book as a young lad, either.

Brigitta’s eyes lit up with astonishment. “You’ve read it??” she asked excitedly.

Bucky nodded his assent. “It was one of my favorites,” he replied. “Do you like it?”

“Oh, I absolutely love it!” gushed Brigitta. “It’s so funny and exciting and new! I wish Father would let us read more books like it!”

Bucky frowned. “The captain controls what you can read?” he asked, disapproving and incredulous.

All seven heads nodded seriously. “We never read children’s books,” said Louisa solemnly.

“Never?” asked Bucky, shocked.

Seven heads shook back and forth. “Father wants us to read books that are useful, that will help us when we’re adults,” said Friedrich quietly.

Bucky stared incredulously. In his experience, the best way to encourage children to read was to give them something they would enjoy. No child would learn to be a good reader if their reading material were strictly controlled by a no-nonsense parent. Why was Zemo so strict?

At dinner that night, Bucky took his seat at the foot of the table as the children filed in along the long edges. Even after all were seated Bucky continued to watch the door, waiting apprehensively for Captain Zemo to appear. Oeznik entered and began serving chicken and boiled vegetables, but still the Captain was absent.  Once Oeznik had left, the children began to eat, apparently with no expectation of their father’s arrival. Bucky, however, hesitated. He didn’t want to ruffle the proud captian’s feathers futher by beginning the meal without him. He coughed to clear his throat, then tentatively asked “Erm, shouldn’t we wait for your father to join us?” Seven pairs of eye snapped up to look at him, surprised.

After a pause, Freidrich replied “I doubt it, Herr Barnes,” he said with a shrug. “Father is probably working tonight.”

“Working?” asked Bucky, confused. “On what? Doesn’t he need to eat?”

“Captain Zemo is in his study and has asked not to be disturbed,” chimed in Oeznik, having reappeared at that moment to refill everyone’s water glasses.

Bucky frowned deeply.  “Is this common?” he asked the children as Oeznik once again shuffled out of the dining room.

“Oh, yes,” sighed Louisa sadly. “It’s a rare night when Father joins us for dinner.”

“He doesn’t want to see us anymore since Mother died,” added Brigitta mournfully.

“Brigitta, shush!” scolded Luisa. “You know we’re not supposed to talk about Mother!”

“Well, it’s true!” Brigitta protested.

“I wonder why he stopped liking us,” mused tiny Marta quietly. Bucky felt as though his heart were breaking.

By the time Bucky returned to his own room after the meal, his heartache for the children was transforming into anger at their father. They were obviously all still grieving the loss of their mother. Captain Zemo should be comforting them and loving them, not hiding himself way and keeping his children at arm’s length. Bucky’s memories of his own parents were beginning to fade with distance and time, but he was certain that they never would have treated him and his sisters as the captain was treating his children.  Plopping down on his bed, Bucky let out a sigh. Although he had initially been impressed by the captain, his initial respect for Zemo was fading to be replaced with disapprobation.

Bucky scrubbed his viable hand over his face. He could not immediately see a way to improve the children’s situation, but he was going to try his hardest. What he needed right now, he decided, was some music to soothe his painful feelings. Carefully, he extracted the battered old violin case from his wardrobe. Opening the case, he ran his viable fingers lightly over the strings before removing his father’s instrument and laying it gently across his lap. He carefully plucked and tuned the strings, then set the instrument aside. Taking the bow, he placed it in his mechanical right hand, then adjusted the catches to secure the bow in place. Swinging the instrument up to his shoulder with his left hand, he balanced the bow on the strings. Then he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and began to play.

--

Zemo was not sure what to think of his new tutor. His first impressions of the man when they had met in the foyer had been mostly in Barnes’s favor. For a cabaret musician, Barnes had been much less… flamboyant that Zemo had expected. For a veteran of the Great War, he was also much younger and less scarred than Zemo had expected to find him. In fact, he was rather handsome, in a quiet, shy way. To Zemo’s pleasure, a substantial amount of Barnes’ army discipline seemed to remain with him. He wasn’t polished or refined, by any means, but after that first interview Zemo had entertained high hopes that this man—an American military veteran—would be the answer to his problems. He knew he needed someone strict and intimidating to manage his children, and perhaps this tall American soldier would do the trick.

His opinion, however, had begun to sour over their first dinner. Barnes was frustrating chatty. Not to mention snarky, even going so far as to disrespect Zemo himself. This could not be borne. He would have to wait and see how Barnes worked out. He hoped that if he made it clear that he was the one in command here, Barnes’ army training would encourage him to fall into line.

As a positive for his new tutor, though, there had not been any disruptive outbursts from the children today to interrupt his research—more than he could say for five of the last twelve governesses. So it seemed that Barnes had at least managed to keep some semblance of order amongst the children. This boded well, despite his sometimes irreverent manner.

As Zemo was entertaining these thoughts he was slowly making his way back to his quarters. Suddenly, however, he stopped short, his heart twisting involuntarily in his chest at the sounds he heard emanating from the end room of the east wing.

Music. Barnes was actually playing music. Violin, by the sound of it. A white-hot anger rose in Zemo, covering the pain that the music evoked.  Turning on his heel, he stalked down the hall towards his new tutor’s room. Without bothering to knock, he burst through the door.

Barnes, dressed in just his t-shirt and trousers, was standing with his back to the door, eyes closed, deeply lost in the music. The fingers of his left hand danced gracefully across the strings, effortlessly drawing forth vibratos and trills from the slightly scratched instrument. His right arm, however…

Zemo could not quite swallow his shock as he took note of what Barnes had previously kept hidden. Barnes’ right arm ended at his elbow in a mess of angry, silvered scar tissue—obviously lost in an explosion during the Great War. Grafted to the stump of the limb was a complicated contraption of wood, leather, and metal, bound securely to his bicep with tight leather straps. Various catches, pulleys, and springs were visible underneath the framework of the forearm. These intricate mechanisms obviously allowed Barnes far more control over the prosthetic limb than the average war veteran could hope for. His silver-clad wooden fingers gripped the violin bow tightly, and his biceps flexed underneath the leather straps, moving the bow across the strings with well-practiced ease.

Grudgingly, Zemo had to admit that Barnes was rather mesmerizing to watch. The way that flesh and mechanics wove together to create the music, the obvious rapture and peace visible on Barnes’ face… it painted an evocative picture, one full of aching emotion.

For a moment Zemo stood frozen, entranced by the music. Then, however, the pain and anger surged through his heart again, and he stepped forward.

“Herr Barnes,” he snapped, using all the authority that his years of military service had given his shout.

Barnes started, his song breaking off in a painful screech from the violin as he whirled to face the captain. “Captain?” he asked, baffled and confused.

“What, exactly,” hissed Zemo venomously “do you think you are doing?”

Barnes took an involuntary step back in reaction to the acrimony in Zemo’s voice. “Erm, playing violin?” he said, the statement half a question. “Sir,” he added hastily.

Zemo leveled a glare at the tutor, and felt a surge of vicious satisfaction as Barnes visibly deflated under his gaze. “As this is your first day here, I will merely remind you of the rules rather than dismissing you for this infraction,” he snapped. “Curfew is to be strictly observed in this house. No noise shall be made after curfew, especially music. Music shall not disturb any common areas of the house. If you must play, you must stay in your room and keep the door closed so as not to disturb the house—do you understand?”

Barnes merely gaped at him, his face a mixture of shock, anger, and defiance.

“Do you understand?” snarled Zemo.

Barnes’s jaw clenched, his gaze steely. “Yes, sir,” he bit out at last.

Without deigning to speak further, Zemo turned and stalked from the room, slamming the door on Barnes behind him. He continued to fume over his new tutor’s behavior all the way back to his own chambers. How dare the man play music after curfew? How dare he disobey the house rules?

The small, rational part of Zemo’s mind argued that perhaps it was expected that a former cabaret musician would enjoy playing music. That he might, even, want to practice his art. An even smaller, secret part of Zemo’s heart longed for Barnes to keep playing music—to soothe the ache of loss he still felt even more than a year after his wife’s death.

Zemo gritted his teeth and forced this tiniest of voices into the back of his mind. No, music was a door to his heart that he could never allowed to be opened again.

Chapter Text

The leaves on the trees outside Bucky’s window were starting to fade from the painfully bright lime of spring to the muted emerald of summer. Three weeks had passed away, and Bucky was starting to feel more settled in his new life. Oeznik had taken the children to the lake to practice their swimming, and Bucky was relaxing in his room, enjoying a rare moment of rest. Struck by a sudden impulse, he crossed to his desk, set a blank piece of paper before him, and picked up his pen.

Dear Sam, he wrote, then paused, unsure how to proceed. Things were so different up here, what should he tell his friend? Finally, he set his pen to paper and began again.

Dear Sam,

Life up here at the Zemo estate has been nice, but a lot to adjust to. Captain Zemo has SEVEN children (thanks for telling me that, by the way). They’re little rascals for the most part, but I think I’m finally starting to win them over.

Well, it was half the truth. The oldest two, Friedrich and Liesl, still seemed wary, if not outright resentful of him (Liesl had rudely told him on the second day that she was too old for a tutor and stormed out of the classroom in a huff), but the little ones were starting to abandon their pranks and bad advice now that they’d discovered that Bucky would actually listen to them, spend time with them, and care for them, unlike their rigidly icy father.

The captain pretty much spends all his time in his study, so I haven’t really gotten to know anyone besides the children. Finally, some peace and quiet, now that I’m away from you.

Bucky could imagine Sam rolling his eyes when he read this bit. When they lived together, Sam had never shut up, something Bucky often ribbed him for. It was true that Bucky had not seen much of Captain Zemo over the last weeks. The proud, reclusive man seemed to spend most of his time shut in his office, poring over files and telegrams. With Oeznik constantly busy with his duties, there were no other adults in the house to Bucky to talk to. As much as he was loathe to admit it, he was starting to miss Sam’s constant chatter.

I have a couple favors to ask you. Could you send some of the things I left at the apartment to the estate for me? I’m playing the guitar a lot more than I thought I would, so could you send my box of picks and prosthetic tools?

Solitary guitar and violin playing—far from Captain Zemo’s earshot—had been Bucky’s way of finding peace and happiness in his rapidly moving, yet somewhat lonely, new life. And if the littlest children sometimes snuck into his room to listen, well, he wasn’t about to scold them for it.

Also, could you send a few of my books from the brown crate under my bed? Particularly The Wizard of Oz, as well as all the Anne of Green Gables books.

Bucky knew that Sam would be surprised by the large quantity of children’s books he was requesting, but he had promised Louisa and Brigitta that he’d do his best to get copies of these North American childhood delights that they did not have access to in their strictly controlled lives.

I hope all is well for you in town. Write back soon.

Bucky

The elegant carriage clock on his desk chimed quarter to seven. With a sigh Bucky rose from his desk, folded the letter, and began to prepare for dinner.

Over the past three weeks, dinner had become a much more enjoyable affair. Without the captain present, the children felt much freer to talk, laugh, and ask Bucky questions about life outside of the Zemo manor. Liesl was an exception to this rule, as she remained taciturn and sullen despite her sibling’s growing enthusiasm and volubility. Bucky supposed he could not blame her – she was a sixteen year old girl, what on earth could he, a 35-year-old American veteran, have to say that would interest her?

Tonight, however, the talk and laughter was abruptly cut off when the double doors at the end of the room burst open and Captain Zemo strode in.

All the children immediately sprang to their feet, standing rigidly at attention. Hastily, Bucky imitated them, his steak knife still gripped in his mechanical right hand. “Captain,” he greeted, feeling uncertain.

Zemo merely nodded to the assembled children, then took his seat.

In silent synchronization, the children sat back down as well. Belatedly, Bucky dropped back into his chair as the table fell into a heavy, tense silence.

Feeling as though he should try to lighten the mood, Bucky observed “I’m glad you could join us, Captain.”

Zemo, again, merely nodded curtly, observing Bucky coolly while cutting his steak.

From a determination to make the captain speak, Bucky continued “I hope you had a pleasant day?”

Zemo raised his eyebrows, evidently surprised at Bucky’s persistence. “Pleasant enough, thank you Herr Barnes,” he said at last, tone light and polite. “And yourself?”

“The children and I worked on history studies today,” replied Bucky, trying to imitate Zemo’s tone. Looking up, he found all the children staring at him blankly. “Isn’t that right, kids?” he prompted.

Zemo’s piercing gaze switch from Bucky to the children.

“Yes, Herr Barnes,” all seven children coursed in unison.

Bucky scowled. The children had never been this well behaved for him.

“And what did you study?” asked the captain, eyes fixing on Louisa as he waited for an answer.

“We learned about the history of the Roman Empire, Father,” Louisa said softly, her eyes downcast.

Zemo nodded again, then turned back to his dinner.

As the meal continued all the children were silent and subdued. One thing, Bucky thought, was exceedingly obvious: the captain’s presence did not set his children at ease.

“Excuse me, sir,” interrupted Oeznik in his quavering voice, peeking his head through the butler’s door. “I have a telegram for you.”

“Thank you, Oeznik,” said Zemo, deftly taking the telegram from the butler’s trembling hand. He unfolded the missive and surveyed its contents with furrowed brows.

“Oeznik, who delivered it?” asked Liesl in excitement. Bucky frowned, puzzled. Why would a sixteen-year-old girl care about a telegram for her father? Much less who delivered it?

“The young lad Rolf, of course,” replied Oeznik

“Father, may I be excused?” asked Liesl at once. Bucky’s frown deepened. He sensed there might be something going on between Liesl and this telegram lad.

Captain Zemo, however, was deeply absorbed in the telegram, so he merely nodded absently and said “as you wish” without looking up.

With a small smile on her lips, Liesl slipped from the room, Bucky’s eyes following her as she went.

“Children, I am going to Vienna in the morning,” he announced finally.

A general outcry of “oh no, not again, Father!” rang around the table. Zemo glared severely at his children, and their protests died instantly.

“How long will you be gone this time father?” asked Friedrich.

“I’m not sure,” replied Zemo in his soft, clipped way.

“Are you going to see the baroness again?” asked Luisa

“Yes, I am, Louisa”

“I want to see the baroness!” said little Gretl

“Why would she want to see you?” asked Kurt rudely.

Gretl opened her mouth to reply, but a look from the captain silenced them both. “Now, children,” he said sternly. “I expect you all to mind Herr Barnes very carefully in my absence. Do not neglect your studies, or your physical training. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Father,” sounded the dispirited chorus of voices.

“Very well, you are dismissed,” said Zemo. So saying, he rose from his seat and swept out of the dining hall without a backward glance. No kind words, no goodbye, no “I love you,” nothing to indicate that he was leaving his children alone with a relative stranger for an unknown length of time. Bucky could not repress a snort of disgust as he too rose from his seat and followed the dejected children back towards the east wing.

Much to Bucky’s displeasure, a summer storm blew in shortly after dinner. The loud rolls of thunder and the bright flashes of lighting always took him back to the battlefields of France.

Bucky lay rigid in his bed, all the lights still on, trying to force his mind to relax. It was no good, however. Every crack of thunder sounded like enemy artillery fire, and every flash of lightning was the blaze of a bomb lighting up the trenches. He closed his eyes against another flash of lightning and when he opened them, he was not in a cozy bed in the Zemo manor, but rather he was back on that blackened forest hill in France. In some distant, unimportant part of his mind he knew that this could not be real, that the War had been over for more than two decades now, but the majority of his mind had fallen back into being Sergeant Barnes. Frantically, he looked around, assessing the situation.

The air was thick with the scents of blood, mud, and smoke. Rain soaked his ruined fatigues and pinged off his shrapnel helmet. If he closed his eyes for a second, he could almost pretend that the ceaseless pounding of mortar shells and artillery was merely thunder. Harder to ignore, however, were the cracks of gunfire, the whine of bullets through the air, and the low cries of pain from his wounded comrades. They had been trapped in the pocket for more than a day now, and were running out of both food and medicine for the scores of wounded. Steve was beside him, a cut across his cheek from flying shrapnel.

“Fire!” shouted the voice of their commander, ringing above the cacophony of battle. Obediently, Bucky raised his rifle to his shoulder, taking careful aim through his scope. There, in the thick undergrowth above their line, a hint of movement. Adjusting his rifle to account for the wind, Bucky squeezed the trigger. A scream, and then an enemy soldier fell from concealment, tumbling down the steep bank to land sprawled and still in the dirt road. “Good shot, Bucky,” Steve said approvingly from next to him. Bucky ducked back below the muddy embankment, hastily pulling a fresh cartridge from his belt and reloading his rifle. “Won’t make a bit of difference if relief doesn’t get through soon,” he panted wryly.
Steve briefly gripped his shoulder. “They’ll get through, they have to.”

Suddenly, Steve cocked his head to the side. “Is that…?” he asked, an expression of hope suddenly lighting up his face. Bucky listened, then heard it too.

After months on the front lines, it was amazing how easy it was to distinguish between enemy and allied shells. He and Steve looked at each other and breathed a sigh of relief at the sound of American 75 mm shells exploding over the enemy lines to their rear. Their comrades were here to help at last. Their relief, however, quickly turned to horror as the trajectory of the shells kept marching inexorably forward, yard by yard, until the first American shell dropped amongst their own funk holes and exploded, spraying mud, shrapnel, and body parts across the pocket. After that, there was nothing for it but to pray. Bucky was sure that each next shell would be the one that struck him and Steve, huddled together at the western edge of the pocket. Time started to lose all meaning. The space between shells sometimes lasted for years, other times barely for seconds. Of all the pain they’d suffered so far, this was perhaps the worst.  

Panting and gasping, Sergeant Brown from Company H appeared at the rim of their funk hole. “Lieutenant Cullen said to come get you,” he gasped. “He says we’ve got to move left, towards K, or we’ll all be killed for sure!”

Another American shell screamed through the air, exploding with terrible force and tearing out a huge swath of underbrush. Hot splinters and embers from burned leaves rained down on Bucky and Steve in their funk hole, stinging their faces. Terrified blue eyes met terrified blue eyes. “To the end of the line?” Bucky whispered. “To the end of the line,” confirmed Steve. Bucky leaned forward and stole a desperate, fleeting kiss from his lover’s lips. Then, in unison, the two soldiers hoisted themselves from their funk hole and sprinted for their lives.

 Halfway to their destination amongst Company K, a high whine preceded another American shell. Steve dove left, Bucky right. A sickening sensation of no ground beneath his feet, a mad tumble, and then Bucky found himself flat on his back in a still smoking shell-hole. He allowed himself a sigh of relief before a whistle announced the arrival of another American shell. Before he could scramble out of the hole, the air exploded. Then, the earth swallowed him up. There was a cloying, chalky weight pressed against his nose, his mouth, making it hard to breathe. He tried to lift an arm to swipe the dirt away, only to find that he could not move it. Or his other arm. Or his legs. Bucky struggled to slow his breathing even as sheer terror flooded his veins. He had been buried alive.

Bucky was not sure how much time passed before the flashback faded, but eventually he found himself back in his new bed in Captain Zemo’s house, curled into a fetal position under the covers, his face damp with sweat and tears. Slowly, the pounding of his heart slowed, leaving a dull, aching weariness behind.

Realizing that sleep would be elusive tonight, Bucky rose from bed and crossed to the wardrobe. Picking up his guitar case from where he had leaned it against the mahogany furniture, he carefully carried the case back to his bed, extracted his guitar, and placed it across his lap. Thunder rumbled again outside, making him shudder as he carefully adjusted the catches and springs of his prosthetic hand to a shape appropriate for strumming chords. He wracked his brains for a hopeful song, finally selecting an old Irish lullaby, one that spoke of better times. Closing his eyes, he began to play.

Bucky managed to lose himself in the music, temporarily forgetting about the thunderstorm. He was not so lost to his surroundings, however, that he did not hear the latch of his window snap open and the two halves creak as they were pushed apart. Instantly alarmed, Bucky dropped his guitar, pulled his old army trench knife from under his pillow and stood crouched, facing the window.

There was a shriek, and the sodden figure who had been attempting to tiptoe across his room without being noticed stumbled backward in alarm. To his astonishment, Bucky realized that the bedraggled form was Liesl.

“Liesl?” he asked, incredulous, letting his knife drop to his side. “What on earth are you doing?”

“I was… out for a walk, and someone must have locked the doors early, and I didn’t want to wake everyone!” Liesl stammered, staring at Bucky with a wide-eyed, slightly too innocent gaze. “You’re not going to tell Father, are you?” She sounded quite desperate now.

“Hmmm,” said Bucky, frowning. He returned the knife to its hiding spot under his pillow. Struck with some memories from dinner, Bucky asked “Were you walking alone?”

Liesl bit her lip and started to nod her head.

Bucky raised his eyebrows, disbelieving.

Abashed, Liesl changed her nod into a head shake. She had not been alone.

Bucky let out an explosive sigh, running his viable hand through his hair. This was an incredibly awkward situation. With an internal sense of rising horror, Bucky wondered whether anyone had ever had “the talk” with Liesl.  “Erm,” he started, completely at a loss.

Liesl looked pleadingly at him.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell your father, it’s just… you know what you’re doing, Liesl? This is what you want?”

She nodded. “Oh yes, Herr Barnes! Rolf is very kind, he would never pressure me into anything.”

“Good,” said Bucky gruffly, still blushing. “But,” he added. “If he ever DOES make you feel uncomfortable, you come straight to me, you understand?”

Liesel’s expression softened as she smiled and nodded again. “Thank you, Herr Barnes,” she said, a bit shyly. “Thank you for letting me make my own choice in this”

Bucky nodded, feeling relieved that he had managed to navigate this conversation without disaster. “You should get cleaned up before you go to bed, to make sure no one notices,” he said, gesturing with his viable hand to the mud stains on her stockings. “You can wash up in the bathroom”

Looking visibly relieved, Liesl made her way to the bathroom. She paused at the doorway and looked back at Bucky. “I think I was wrong, before,” she said shyly. “When I said I don’t need a tutor… well, maybe I do.” The bathroom door closed with a click, leaving Bucky feeling warmly relieved that he had finally managed to soften Liesl’s dislike.

As the sound of running water issued from the other room, Bucky sat down on his bed with a sigh. Idly, he picked up his guitar again and lazily strummed a few chords as the next clap of thunder sounded. Then, with a crack almost as loud as the preceding thunder, Bucky’s bedroom door burst open and a small figure in a white nightgown positively flew into the room.

“Gretel?” he asked, surprised. “You’re not scared, are you?”

The stubborn five-year-old shook her head emphatically, until the next rolling clap of thunder sent her diving into Bucky’s arms in fear.

Bucky repressed a slight smile, patting Gretel gently on the head. “It’s alright,” he reassured. “Thunder can be scary sometimes. I mean, I still get scared of it now and then.”

Gretel stared up at him with wide eyes. “You do?” she asked, incredulous.

Bucky chuckled, but before he could reply another crack of thunder drowned his words. Gretel literally leapt into his arms, clinging to his middle like a small monkey. Bucky could feel the girl trembling almost as much as he had a few minutes ago. A realization suddenly struck Bucky – the children may fear thunder for the same reason he did – it reminded them of munitions in the recent Austrian Civil War.

“Where are the others?” Bucky asked, hoisting Gretel more securely onto his hip with his viable arm.

“They’re still asleep,” said Gretel sadly, hiding her face in Bucky’s shoulder. “They’re not scared of thunderstorms.”

Another peal of thunder sounded, almost masking the patter of tiny feet hurrying down the corridor outside Bucky’s room. Three flushed, frightened girls appeared in the doorway – Luisa, Brigitta, and Marta.

“Oh, no?” asked Bucky dryly. “Look,” he told Gretel, pointing towards the door with his metal hand. Gretel looked up and giggled, relieved that she wasn’t the only one who was scared.

Resigned to the fact that he would not be going to sleep any time soon, Bucky gently set Gretel down on the fluffy duvet and patted the space next to her. “Come on,” he told the other girls. “up you get.” All three of them hastily scrambled up, huddling with their bare feet tucked up under the hems of their nightgowns

“Now we just have to wait for the boys,” said Bucky, leaning his guitar against the footboard and perching at the end of the bed.

“oh, we won’t be seeing them, boys aren’t scared of anything” said Brigitta emphatically.

A boom shook the house as forked lighting flashed outside the window. All four girls clutched each other, ducking their heads as though to avoid falling debris. Bucky looked towards the door, just in time to see Kurt and Friedrich scamper into the room, eyes wide.

“You boys weren’t scared, were you?” Bucky drawled, trying to repress a grin as the four girls stared at their brothers in amazement.

“We’re not scared,” proclaimed Friedrich in attempt at a brave swagger, although the effect was ruined when his voice cracked into a squeak. “We just wanted to make sure that you weren’t scared!”

Bucky chuckled. “That’s very gallant of you Friedrich, thank you.”

“Were you playing music, James?” interrupted Marta from behind him. Turning, Bucky saw that she was pointing at the guitar leaning against the foot of the bed.  

“Oh please, would you play for us?” begged Brigitta. The other children crowded round, enthusiastically voicing their agreement.

“Oh! Erm, sure, I can play something,” said Bucky, a little taken aback. Picking up his guitar again, he settled himself in the chair by his desk as the six children arranged himself on the bed. Liesel, returning from the bathroom with a clean dress hem and towel-tousled hair, hurried to join her siblings, scooping little Gretel into her arms.

These children need to think about something happy, cheerful, thought Bucky. With this thought in mind, he deftly switched chords from the soft Irish lullaby to one of his own childhood favorites.

"Hi, said the little leatherwing bat

I'll tell to you the reason that

The reason that I fly by night

Is because I've lost my heart's delight"

Soon the frightened children were beginning to smile in spite of themselves. Gretel was even bouncing up and down in time to the happy tune. Smiling himself, Bucky began the last verse.

"Hi, said the bluejay, and away he flew

If I were a young man, I'd have too--"

The snap of the door closing made both tutor and children jump. Bucky whirled to the door, dropping his pick in the process. Captain Zemo, looking far more thunderous that the weather outside, was surveying the room with anger.

“Hello,” said Bucky, rather lamely.

“Herr Barnes, did I not tell you that bedtime is to be strictly observed in this house?” snapped Captain Zemo, his eyes like steel as he frowned down at his children

“But, Captain,” Bucky protested, “the children were frightened by the storm, so I thought, I thought…” Bucky faltered and tailed off as the full power of Zemo’s frown was turned onto him. “You did, sir,” he finished lamely.

“And do you or do you not have difficulty in remembering such simple instructions?” Zemo asked softly, one eyebrow raised in rebuke.

Bucky frowned, his temper rising. “Only during thunderstorms, sir,” he replied blithely.

The captain glared daggers at him. There was a small giggle from the assembled children. This caused their father’s gaze to snap to them, and they instantly fell silent.

“Liesl,” inquired the captain in a soft, dangerous voice. “I don’t recall seeing you anywhere after dinner.”

“Oh, really?” stammered Liesl, going beet red. “Well, that’s odd, because I… I...”

“Yes?” prompted Captain Zemo delicately.

“What she means to say, Captain,” cut in Bucky quickly, “Is that she asked me to help her with some of her advanced studies after dinner this evening. Isn’t that right, Liesl?” Zemo turned back to him, head tilted to one side and both eyebrows raised incredulously. It was clear he did not believe a word of Bucky’s cover-up story.  However, after giving Liesl a cold glare, his gaze snapped back to Bucky.

“Herr Barnes, you have managed to remember that I am leaving for Vienna in the morning?”

“Yes, Captain,” said Bucky.

“Is it also possible that you remember that the first rule in this house is discipline?”

“Yes, Captain,” said Bucky softly.

“Then, I trust that before I return, you will have acquired some?” the captain said. He then turned and, without another word, vanished into the darkness of the west wing of the house.

Bucky could form no reply to this barb. He merely stood and glared after the captain, jaw clenched in anger. How could the man be so cold and callous? Especially to his own children?

“Come on, everyone,” said Liesl, breaking the silence. “The storm is over, let’s all get to bed now!” Sluggish with fatigue, the seven children all clambered down from the bed and began to trudge back towards their bedrooms. Liesl scooped up Gretel, who could barely suppress her yawns, while Bucky hoisted droopy-eyed Marta and carried her down the long hall. “Thank you for singing for us, James,” yawned Marta, tucking her head against his neck as he carried her. “Mother used to sing for us too, before she died. Then Father didn’t want us singing anymore. I miss singing—would you sing to us again?”

Bucky felt as though his heart were breaking under the weight of grief in one so young as Marta. “Of course, Marta,” he said gruffly. “I’ll sing to you as often as you want.”

Chapter Text

Zemo left his estate just as dawn was breaking over the mountains, staining the mist rising off the lake a pearlescent silver-gold. He savored the peace and quiet of the early morning, when no one in the world seemed to be stirring except himself. He had always risen early, using the serene time before others woke for meditation, or to prepare a nice surprise for Heike. He had always allowed his wife to sleep late when he could, as she was often tired from the effort of caring for children.

Now he cherished the stillness as he strode briskly to the car, the fur collar of his car coat pulled up against the slight morning chill. As he started the engine and turned out of the gates, he struggled to embody the tranquility of the world around him.

It felt odd to be leaving, knowing that his children would be alone except for Oeznik and Barnes. He still felt a bit unsettled after last night. He had told Barnes not to play music, not to disturb the curfew, but yet he had anyway. And seeing his children listening so attentively, so happily…

Zemo could not help running a hand distractedly through his hair as he thought of his tutor. When he’d put out an application for a live-in tutor, he had not been expecting an American cabaret musician to apply. To be frank, James Barnes had not been what he’d been expecting in the least. Shabby, but well-educated. Disobedient, but polite. Coarse, but kind. Handsome, too. Something about this contradictory man always managed to infuriate Zemo. Barnes had been in the army, so how could he be so… so… undisciplined? He’d seen and survived the horrors of the Great War, so how could he still be so naively compassionate and optimistic? It baffled and frustrated Zemo. It would certainly do him good to have some time away from James Barnes.

The drive from his estate to Vienna took a little over three hours, giving him plenty of time to meditate on both the past and the present. The drive took him down from the mountains, trading the jagged peaks and pine forests of the alps for the magnificent buildings and bustling streets of the Vienna.

These days, there was an air of anxiety throughout the city. Pedestrians hurried by just a little too quickly. Paper boys cried their headlines of changes and war in neighboring Germany. Everyone was more wary, nervous, suspicious even. The city felt like the air before a storm—still and heavy, waiting for the devastation to come.

Zemo’s first task that had brought him from home was to call on an old navy acquaintance. Baron Strucker and himself had remained friendly since the war, and often exchanged information and whispered rumors about the political disquiet and the rise of the Nazis to the north.

The butler, Franz, greeted him at the door of Strucker’s impressive manor house, then led him through the ornate corridors to the parlor. The baron was sitting with legs crossed in an elegant high-backed chair, reading today’s newspaper with his monocle perched against his nose. When Zemo entered Strucker set his paper aside and rose, tucking his monocle back into his breast pocket before holding out his hand. “Helmut,” he said gruffly, shaking Zemo’s hand.

“Wolfgang,” replied Zemo, returning the handshake.

Strucker nodded, releasing Zemo’s hand and gesturing towards a vacant armchair next to the one he had just occupied.

Zemo, taking the hint, settled himself in the chair as Strucker walked to the door, calling to the butler. “Franz! Will you go fetch the package off my desk and bring it here?” Returning to Zemo and retaking his seat, Strucker gave Zemo a significant look. “I know why you’re here, old friend, and I think I have the information you’re looking for.”

Zemo leaned forward eagerly. “You managed to obtain the fragments?” he asked, his throat tight with anticipation.

Strucker nodded again. “It was… complicated… but I called in a few favors.”
Franz returned at that moment, bearing a paper-wrapped parcel about the size of a book. He handed the parcel to Strucker, who deftly undid the twine and peeled back the paper. Inside the paper was a wooden box, which he passed to Zemo. With bated breath, Zemo lifted the lid.

Inside the box were several scraps of twisted metal, blackened with ash and soot. The largest was perhaps the size of Zemo’s palm, the smallest no larger than his fingernail. Zemo stared down, unsure of whether to believe his eyes. “These are…?”

“…The fragments of the Karl Marx Hof bombs, yes,” replied Strucker, watching Zemo levelly. “All that I could obtain.”

Zemo looked up at his old friend, gratitude swelling in his heart. “Thank you, Wolfgang,” he said with emotion. “Perhaps now… now I can continue to find answers.”

Strucker nodded in understanding. He had been assisting Zemo’s vendetta against Heike and Carl’s killers for the past three years. “It was very hard to come by these, mind,” the baron said blandly.

Zemo understood his meaning. He, or his informants, were expecting to be well paid for this. Well, Zemo could certainly oblige.

“Who could tell me more about these?”

“Oh, you’d have to ask Stark for that,” replied Strucker. “No one knows weapons like Stark."

Zemo nodded politely, passed a pile of crisp bank notes to the other man, and bid him farewell.

That was the military business taken care of. Time for the social business. With the precious fragments tucked in a padded envelope inside his jacket, Zemo returned to his car, started the engine, and headed south into the heart of Vienna.

Driving by the former site of the Karl Marx Hof was still painful for Zemo, even though any damage from the Revolution had long since been repaired. After the revolution he had sold the Zemo townhouse, too distraught by memories to bear residing within its walls again. For him, the home would forever be haunted by the ghosts of Carl and Heike.

These days, anyway, he was more frequently staying with Baroness Sharon Carter.

Sharon Carter was different from Heike Zemo in almost every respect. Where Heike had been sweet and unassuming, Sharon was cool, poised, and calculated. Where Heike’s emotions had always been plain on her face, Sharon Carter’s face never revealed what she was feeling. While Heike had prioritized quiet family life, Sharon lived for the glamourous parties of town and the elegant high society of Vienna. She was polished, refined, witty, just the right amount of charming. She was a woman that it was very safe to chase, for there was next to no chance that she would ever let a suitor catch her.

In short, she was the perfect candidate for idle flirtations and sexual relationships with no strings attached. And Captain Zemo intended to take full advantage of that fact.

When Baroness Carter met him in the foyer of her grand townhouse with a genteel “hello, Helmut darling,” and a peck on each cheek, Zemo could tell that she understood their status quo perfectly. He bowed over her hand, kissing it, murmured “Baroness,” allowing his lips to linger for slightly too long.

Over an early yet elegant dinner, Sharon dropped a few hints about why such a charming man as himself was still, inexplicably, unattached. The subtext was perfectly clear—the Austrian elite were starting to wonder why the famous Captain Helmut Zemo, their hero of the Great War, was still single despite the ready supply of eligible—and often noble—ladies he often met with in Vienna. He would have to do something about that.

They enjoyed an opera together. Sharon adored the opera, and Zemo tolerated it to humor her. He hadn’t really cared for music since Heike’s death, to say the truth. Music had been a part of his life that died with his wife in the bloody streets of Vienna in February 1934.

The sex was pleasant enough, he supposed. Nothing special, but certainly preferable to being alone. With Sharon asleep on the elegant silk sheets once they had finished, Zemo rose, careful not to wake her. He pulled on a pair of trousers and paced to the moonlit balcony. With a sigh, he leaned against the railing, savoring the cool air against his bare chest.

If he knew Sharon, it wouldn’t be long before a whisper of their rendezvous began to circulate amongst the Austrian elite. No, he would have to make his move, and soon. There were already nasty murmurs beginning on why he hadn’t yet chosen to remarry, and whether his continued widowhood and lack of attachment could be viewed as a confirmation of those rumors about his… preferences… that had dogged him since his navy days.

She’ll do, he thought to himself as he surveyed the moonlit city. She’ll do just fine.

The captain had now been gone in Vienna for a week, and a tepid sort of dejection hung over the Zemo manner. The children were rather listless, missing their father and not understanding the point of studying. Even the weather seemed to be gloomy, with low-hanging grey clouds threatening a summer storm.

Bucky was sitting slouched at the teacher’s desk in the east wing classroom. Oeznik was down in Salzburg for his day off, and the children had slowly been driving Bucky further and further up the wall as the day progressed. He was NOT looking forward to attempting to teach them history. They had progressed from the Roman empire to the reign of Charlamagne, but Kurt had declared that the French were “boring”.

Bucky was drawn from his thoughts by the sound of a scream, several loud thumps, and a crash emanating from the hall outside. This was followed by more screams, and the sound of crying. Alarmed, Bucky leapt to his feet and sprinted from the room, half-formed lesson plans on French kings left forgotten on his desk.

A scene of pandemonium met his eyes as he rounded the corner to the grand staircase. Louisa, her mouth covered with her hands, stood immobile at the top of the stairs. Brigitta lay in a sobbing heap at the bottom, Liesl crouched over her, her expression frightened and worried. The other children were quickly gathering around, shouting and babbling and crying, which was only leading Brigitta to cry harder.

“Quiet!” shouted Bucky in his best military command voice.

Amazingly, all the children fell silent at once, looking up at Bucky in shock.

Swiftly, Bucky descended the stair and knelt next to Liesl and Brigitta, the latter of whom was clutching her arm to her chest. “What happened?” Bucky asked, turning to Liesl in search of answers.

“It’s all my fault!” sobbed Louisa from the top of the stairs.

“She waited by the staircase and shouted ‘boo!’ at Brigitta,” whispered Liesl, eyes wide.“Brigitta was reading, and she jumped, and then…”

“Did you fall down the stairs?” Bucky asked Brigitta

Tearfully, Brigitta nodded.

“And did you hurt yourself?” asked Bucky. “Where does it hurt?”

“My arm,” sobbed Brigitta, still clutching her left arm tight to her chest.

“Let me see, please,” instructed Bucky, holding out his viable hand.

Tearfully but trustingly, Brigitta held out her left arm for inspection.

Gently, Bucky examined the arm, running his flesh fingers along the bones to check for breaks. A large, angry bruise was already rising around Brigitta’s wrist, and she cried out when Bucky tried to move the joint. It wasn’t a severe break, at least, but he couldn’t rule out a fracture in the wrist. Oeznik was gone, the captain was absent…what should he do?

Feeling desperate, Bucky turned to Liesl. “Where is your father staying in Vienna?” Liesl merely stared at him for a moment, immovable from shock. “With Baroness Carter, I’d guess?” she squeaked. Bucky nodded, squared his shoulders, and strode to the phone in the hall. He took a deep breath, then lifted the receiver to his ear. “Operator?” he asked. “Could I get long-distance to Vienna please? Um, Baroness Carter?”

“One moment, please,” came the cool reply. After what felt like an interminable wait, a voice answered from the other end. “Hello, Carter estate, how may I help you?”

“Erm,” said Bucky, fiddling with the cord as he pressed the phone between his ear and his shoulder. “Is there a Captain Zemo there?” “Yes, there is,” replied the voice of what must be a maidservant. “Captain Zemo is currently taking tea with the Baroness.”

“May I speak to him?” asked Bucky. “It’s urgent.”

“Of course. Who’s calling, please?”

“Bucky—um, Herr Barnes. I’m the captain’s tutor.”

“One moment, please.” The scrape of the receiver being set down, then the muffled sound of someone walking away. Bucky bit his lip nervously. He didn’t know why he felt so anxious about calling the captain in this exigence—surely this was a situation that, as a parent, he should care very much about. But Bucky had never seen Zemo express the slightest bit of fatherly emotion towards any of his children. Would he be angry at Louisa? Angry at Bucky for letting this happen?

At last, the sound of footsteps returning from the other end of the line, a rustle, and then the captain’s smooth baritone voice sounded in his ear. “Captain Zemo speaking,”

“Sir, it’s me,” said Bucky hastily, straightening involuntarily as he held the receiver closer to his ear. “I’m sorry to call unannounced, but Oeznik is out today and, um… I’m having a bit of trouble here.”

“Trouble? What sort of trouble?” asked the captain, sounding concerned underneath his usual cool, polished tone.

“It’s Brigitta,” said Bucky anxiously. “She fell down the stairs and hurt her arm. I don’t think it is broken, but I’m not sure. Her hand is very swollen, though... I’m worried there might be a fracture in the wrist?”

“Ah, I see,” said Zemo, his usual tone of command back in place. “You were right to call me, Herr Barnes. Please telephone Doctor Bruce Banner – 662 0543. He lives in Salzburg, and should be up to the manor within the hour.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Bucky, feeling relieved. “Again, I’m sorry to trouble you.”
“It’s no trouble, Herr Barnes,” said Zemo. “Do call me later to update me on the situation—around 6 pm, if you would?”

“Yes, I will, Captain.”

“Do not worry, Herr Barnes. Herr Banner is an excellent doctor—he has treated our family for many years, he will be able to treat Brigitta as well.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Bucky, grateful for the captain’s calm reassurance. “I’ll call back at six.”

“Until then, Herr Barnes. Goodbye.”

And with that, the line went dead.

The next hour was a blaze of activity. Brigitta’s wrist was carefully immobilized, Doctor Banner was summoned, and the patient was carefully carried by Bucky to the comfort and seclusion of a west wing guest room. After seeing Brigitta settled in bed, with some ice from the kitchen for the pain, Bucky ran back downstairs to wait outside the great front doors for the doctor’s arrival, relieved to have a second of solitude. He took a deep breath, tasting the summer flowers on the breeze. This was the first time one of his charges had been injured on his watch. He hoped that Zemo wasn’t too angry with him. He felt as though he had failed.

Sooner than Bucky would have liked, the crunch of gravel on the road announced the arrival of the doctor. Doctor Banner was a quiet, unassuming man, one who could almost be overlooked. He arrived in a nondescript car, wearing a white coat over a tweed suit. As he stepped out of his car, he peered up at Bucky through square glasses. “Hello, who might you be?”

“Bucky Barnes,” said Bucky, holding out his left hand to shake. “I’m the captain’s new tutor.”

“Ahh,” said Dr. Banner, shaking Bucky’s proffered hand with a steady but gentle pressure. “And how have you found your charges? It’s been over a month since I’ve been called up to patch up some scrape or another, so it seems you’re at least keeping them out of trouble?”

Bucky could not help smiling slightly at the amused twinkle in Dr. Banner’s eye. “Erm, yes, it’s been an… education here, for sure.”

Dr. Banner lifted his leather doctor’s bag from the back seat of the car, then began to make his way up the front steps. His assured stride confirmed that he had, indeed, been here many times before. “So, what seems to be the problem today? Who am I here to see?”

“Um, it’s Brigitta,” said Bucky, jogging a few steps to keep up with Dr. Banner’s brisk stride. “She fell down the stairs and hurt her wrist. I’m not sure if it’s broken or not.”

Dr. Banner nodded stoically in understanding, then followed Bucky to the guest room currently occupied by Brigitta.  

Dr. Banner gently but deftly manipulated Brigitta’s wrist, noting which movements made her wince or cry out in pain. Finally, after what felt like an interminable wait, he sat back, pushing his glasses up his nose. “No broken bones, I think,” he said placidly. “it is merely sprained.”

Gently, Dr. Banner wrapped the wrist in a bandage to immobilize the joint and reduce swelling. He then passed Bucky a bottle of aspirin, gave him instruction on how often to re-wrap the wrist and distribute pain medicine, and with a final nod and smile to Brigitta, prepared to leave.

“I assume the captain asked you to summon me, today,” said Dr. Banner in his mild way as Bucky accompanied the doctor back through the manor. “Where is he, by the way?”

“He’s in Vienna,” replied Bucky as the two men slowly paced back from the west wing to the grand staircase. “He’s visiting Baroness Carter, I think.”

“Ah, that makes sense,” said the doctor.

“Why is that?” asked Bucky, perplexed.

“The captain is a lonely man, I think,” mused Dr. Banner quietly. “And Baroness Carter is very good at making men feel less lonely.”

Bucky frowned, not sure how to feel about this observation. It rankled him, for some reason. Why was the captain lonely, if he had seven children at home? Seven children… but no wife. “His wife… she… passed away?” asked Bucky tentatively, unable to repress his curiosity.

Dr. Banner gave Bucky a penetrating, considering look. “The captain hasn’t spoken to you about this?” he asked.

Abashed, Bucky shook his head, starting to regret asking the prying question.

But Dr. Banner only nodded to himself, as though in confirmation, before continuing. “Yes, Heike Zemo passed away almost three years ago. Was killed, actually. In the Austrian Civil War. She was in Vienna with Carl, the Zemos’ youngest son. Their apartment was struck with artillery.”

Bucky felt shocked, horrified. He had never known.

“The captain blames himself, I think,” continued Dr. Banner into the shocked silence. “He believes he should have known the civil war was coming. Or, at the very least, been with them at the time to protect them.”

“But, what could he have done?!” burst out Bucky. “How could he have known? If he’d been there, he would have died with them!”

“Nevertheless,” said Dr. Banner. “He’s bent on revenge, on determining what exactly happened that day, and who is to blame for the bombing. He feels that, if he can find out the truth, he might feel less at fault.”

“But it’s not his fault!”

“It’s not his fault, or yours, or mine,” said Dr. Banner sadly.  “Heike and Carl were in Vienna on my recommendation, did you know that? Carl was sick with the measles, and I recommended they go to Vienna to see a specialist.” Dr Banner sighed and shook his head.  “Somehow the captain has managed to forgive me, but not himself. Good people are funny like that, aren’t they? Always forgiving everyone else before themselves.”

Zemo was trying his hardest to appear unruffled and calm. In actuality, he could barely keep his thoughts on what Sharon was saying. As the golden hand of the carriage clock drew towards the hour, he could not help listening intently for the ring of the phone in the hall beyond the parlor.

Old feelings of failing as a father were rising to the surface again, like a tide lapping ever higher on the shore.  He was strict with his children—harsh, would probably be the word Barnes chose—but that didn’t mean he didn’t care. He’d been trying to distance himself from them, make them resilient and strong and self-reliant, so that they would never have to go through a similar pain to that of losing their mother again. If he were ever to die in a future war, he needed to be sure that his children would survive. What better way to ensure that than by teaching them to be self-sufficient? To make do without him?

However, this did not prevent him from caring. He was still completely unable to help the stabbings of panic at Barnes’s words “It’s Brigitta…” His curious, dreaming Brigitta, always off in Wonderland or Oz, always chasing imaginary fairies or prevailing over dragons. The thought that she had come to harm, perhaps because she had been dreaming too much, and he had not been there to prevent it…

The pleasant bell of the phone sounded from the other room. Zemo had to fight the inclination to jump up and answer it himself. It was torturous to wait for the maidservant to stroll calmly out of the kitchen, slowly pick up the phone, then unhurriedly make her way to the parlor. “Captain Zemo, it’s for you,” she said.

Zemo stood so quickly that Sharon started, following closely on the maidservant’s heels as she led him to the hall.

“This is Captain Zemo.”

The soft tenor of his tutor, rendered scratchy over the miles of telephone cables, met his ear. “Captain, it’s me. Or, erm, it’s Bucky. I’m calling to update you on Brigitta?”

“Please, go ahead, Herr Barnes,” Zemo replied, his stomach twisting with concern.

“Well, Dr. Banner came up after I called and looked at her, and he says nothing is broken—it’s just a sprain.”

Relief seeped through Zemo, dissolving the tension he’d carried ever since the phone call earlier that afternoon. “I’m glad to hear it,” he replied. “How is Brigitta feeling?”

There was a pause from the other end, then Barnes continued, sounding rather surprised at the question. “Her wrist hurts, so Dr. Banner gave her some aspirin too relieve the pain, and says to ice it for twenty minutes every two hours. She’s feeling better now, I think. Louisa is reading to her, since she can’t hold the book herself.” Zemo heard a note of fond amusement in Barnes’s voice as he spoke of Louisa and Brigitta together. “Overall, Dr. Banner said it should take about two weeks to heal, and she should keep it wrapped to decrease the swelling and limit mobility before then.” And now, he sounded like a soldier. How many comrades had he seen wounded on the battlefield, just as Zemo had?

“I see,” said Zemo, unsure how to express exactly what he was feeling. “If you would be so good, Herr Barnes, would you call tomorrow evening as well? I would like another update on Brigitta’s condition.”

Again, Barnes sounded surprised as he replied. “Oh! Erm, of course, Captain—I’ll call here tomorrow night at six?”

“Very good,” said Zemo, relieved.

“Well, um… goodnight,” said Barnes, almost shyly. “I should get back to the children.”

“Yes, thank you. Goodnight, Herr Barnes,” said Zemo quickly. There was a moment of silence, then the click of the line disconnecting.

Even as the night wore on, and Sharon guided him to her bed, guilt still gnawed at him over his absence from home. Here he was again, failing to protect his family. Sharon seemed to sense his ill mood. “Helmut, darling, what is it?” she asked, laying her chin on his shoulder from behind as he once again stood on the moonlit balcony.

Zemo reached a hand absently behind him, stroking her smooth cheek. “It’s nothing, love,” he replied softly. “Just missing the children.”

“I am so looking forward to meeting them,” sighed Sharon. Was Zemo mistaken, or was there the smallest note of wistfulness in the baroness’s voice? “How can you stand to leave them as much as you do, Helmut?” she continued. “Not that I don’t love your company, but… don’t they miss you?”

“I’m sure they do,” mused Zemo. “But, they must get used to it. It is for the best.”

“It also sounds rather lonely for them,” prodded Sharon gently. “With neither father nor mother there to take care of them…”

Zemo pondered this late into the night, long after Sharon had fallen asleep beside him. Where had this sudden concern for his children come from? It certainly seemed convenient, especially since he was planning to ask her to marry him. She seemed tolerably attached to him, and if she would also care for and love the children… This scheme to repair his reputation seemed more eligible all the time.  

*Sharon does have regard for him, maybe does have a genuine desire to be a mother—maybe she can’t have children?

Somehow, phone calls with his tutor seemed to become a daily pattern for Zemo over the next weeks. Hearing from Barnes every day seemed to have become an essential part of his schedule. Listening to the daily stories of the children’s escapades, updates on Brigitta’s slowly healing wrist, and being able to pass messages was serving as a balm for his aching soul that he didn’t know he needed. Through Barnes, Zemo felt more connected to his children than he had in many years, perhaps even since Heike died. And if he was coming to enjoy the sound of Barnes’ voice, the timbre of his laugh as he recounted the days anecdotes… well, best not to examine that too deeply. He was allowed to take some comfort in the refuge of home, especially with his days being so busy.

Zemo’s days in Vienna were, in fact, busy. Half the time was spent at elegant parties with Sharon, being seen holding her hand and sneaking a kiss by everyone who was anyone in Vienna. The other half was spent covertly passing messages between secret contacts, continuing his quest to find those responsible for Heike and Carl’s deaths.

At the beginning of his fourth week in Vienna, Zemo received a telegram from Strucker:

HAVE ARRANGED MEETINGS WITH WEAPONS EXPERTS INCLUDING STARK. PLAN TO JOIN ME IN LINZ FOR TEN DAYS. STRUCKER

With a sense of letdown that he couldn’t quite suppress, Zemo waited in the hall for Barnes’s call that night. As much as he tried to deny it, he was going to miss him.

Unbeknownst to Zemo, Bucky was also coming to value the daily phone calls with the captain while he was away. With each nightly conversation, he felt as though he were getting to know the proud, reclusive man a little better. Zemo’s careful queries about the children had begun to dissolve some of Bucky’s ill opinion of the captain. Perhaps, Bucky thought, the captain did care about his family after all.

With a flutter of nerves he could not entirely explain, Bucky excused himself from the children just before 6 PM, quickly descending the grand staircase and crossing the marble floor of the hall to the telephone. With rising anticipation he dialed the now familiar number for the Carter estate in Vienna and pressed the phone to his ear, waiting for the connection to go through. After only one ring, the captain’s cool baritone voice came over the line. “Carter estate, Captain Zemo speaking.”

Bucky smiled a little to himself. The captain had been the one to answer the phone for a little over a week now. It seemed that, now that their phone calls were a daily occurrence, Zemo probably waited by the phone in the hall. “Captain, it’s me.”

“Good evening, Herr Barnes,” replied Zemo. Was it just Bucky’s imagination, or had an unconscious warmth slipped into Zemo’s tone when he said his name? “how are you the children today?”

Bucky instantly launched into a history of the day’s events at the manor. Zemo occasionally asked a clarifying question, but mostly remained in companionable silence as Bucky explained how Brigitta’s wrist was healed, how Kurt had finally mastered his sevens in multiplication tables, and how Marta and Gretel had insisted they christen the neighbor’s barn cat that occasionally visited the estate “Snowbell”.

After Bucky fell silent, the captain cleared his throat. “I have news for you to share with the children,” Zemo said with an air of hesitation.

Bucky felt his heart inexplicably leap with excitement. Was the captain finally coming home?

“I will be gone on business for at least ten days,” Zemo said in his soft, commanding way. “Do not expect to hear from me until I return.”

There was a silence, charged with emotions that both men tried very hard not to examine.

“Alright, then,” said Bucky, trying to disguise the tiniest note of hurt he found creeping into his voice. “Well, good luck, I guess.”

A pause, and then “Thank you, Herr Barnes. Goodnight”

A click, and the captain was gone.

That night at dinner, the children asked about his phone call. “What did father say? Asked Friedrich eagerly.” “Is he coming home soon?” asked tiny Gretel hopefully.

Sadly, Bucky shook his head. “No, in fact he’ll be going north on business for ten days. I don’t know when he’ll be back, but it won’t be soon.” All of the children drooped noticeably.

That night, Bucky couldn’t settle. He took up his violin, played half a song, then set it down again, switching to his guitar. He strummed idly with his prosthetic hand, deep in melancholy thoughts. The children were sad and lonely. They needed an adult in their life, an adult who cared about them. Someone besides him and Oeznik. If their father wouldn’t be coming home, then Bucky would just have to do something about that.

Abruptly, he set his guitar aside and crossed to the desk. Pulling a fresh piece of letter paper from the drawer, he uncapped his fountain pen and began to write:

Dear Sam,

I have a favor to ask you…

Chapter Text

“It’s so lovely up here!” sighed Louisa in ecstasy. She was lying on her back on the picnic blanket, absently braiding a flower crown with the strands of meadow grass she had plucked. Kurt and Friedrich kicked a football back and forth with Sam, while Liesl showed the younger girls the different types of flowers. Bucky smiled at Louisa. “Isn’t it?” he asked. “It’s one of my favorite places in the whole world.”

“And you’ve been to so many places!” chimed in Brigitta, skipping over to the picnic basket for another piece of fruit.

Bucky chuckled. “I suppose,” he said.

“More places than us!” exclaimed Louisa. “We’ve never been to England… or France… or anywhere!”

“I’m sure you’ll travel the world someday,” Bucky reassured her.

Luisa beamed at him.

“I wonder when father will come back?” sighed Marta. “He’d like it up here too! Wouldn’t he, James?”

Bucky didn’t answer the second part of the question. Truth be told, he didn’t know whether Captain Zemo would enjoy the solitude of this alpine meadow when contrasted against the glamourous parties of Vienna that he was currently enjoying.

“I’m sure your father will be back soon,” reassured Bucky. “He’s been gone a month now, I’m sure he’s almost done with his business.”

“I bet he brings the baroness back with him!” giggled Louisa as Sam and the boys gathered around the picnic basket, drawn to the tantalizing sight of food.

“Baroness Carter?” asked Bucky curiously, laying back and tucking his arms behind his head. The soft summer breeze played across his face, and he closed his eyes to enjoy the sensation.

“Oh yes,” chimed in Friedrich. “Father is very fond of her; he’s always visiting her.”

“She’s so elegant,” sighed Liesl in awe. “She’s always taking Father to the opera, or to parties, or to some other fancy thing in Vienna.”

“A while ago, he said he’d bring her here!” said Louisa. “I’m so looking forward to meeting her!”

“I do want the Baroness to like us,” mused Brigitta.
“What can we do to make her like us, silly?” asked Kurt

“If she likes opera, you could sing her a song?” suggested Bucky, still reclined with his eyes closed.

Ringing silence met his words.

Surprised, Bucky sat up and looked around to see seven startled faces staring back at him.

“But Father doesn’t like us to sing,” protested Marta softly.

“We don’t even know how,” added Friedrich

Bucky frowned. “You… don’t know how to sing?”

All seven children shook their heads.

“Any of you?”

Another round of head shakes.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky swore under his breath, then sat up straight, suddenly business-like. “Well, I suppose I’d better teach you. Goodness knows, you should learn. Kurt, will you bring me the guitar?”

Kurt rushed to obey as Bucky adjusted the catches and clasps on his right hand to lock his mechanical fingers into a strumming position. Kurt handed him the instrument and he settled it across his knee. As the children gathered around him, he checked the tuning with his left hand before draping his right arm over the instrument. He glanced up, and found that his mind had suddenly gone blank. All the children were watching him with expressions that ranged from curiosity to barely contained excitement. Sam was smirking at him in amusement, clearly entertained by the proceedings.

“Erm,” he said, clearing his throat. How on earth was he supposed to teach music to children who had never sung before?

“Well, we’d better start at the beginning,” he said cautiously, and strummed a C chord.

And so, Bucky taught Captain Zemo’s children how to sing. Luckily, the children proved quick to learn, and quite naturally talented.

He started with the notes of the solfège scale, as they were easy to remember. From there, he encouraged the children to sing scales. This occupied all the rest of the sunny afternoon, as well as the long evening trek back to the manor house, much to Sam’s amusement.

“Look at you, Buck,” he said, falling behind to walk step in step with Bucky. “Those little rascals hang on your every word!”

Bucky blushed. “Aw, not really,” he said, demurring.

“Seriously, though,” Sam said, grabbing Bucky’s arm and forcing him to pause. “You’re doing a good thing up here, man. The children need you.”

Bucky, affected by the praise, merely nodded. Sam clapped him on the shoulder, then strode past, shouting down to the children “Seriously! If I hear ‘doe, a deer,’ one more time….”

Squeals of laughter echoed up the hill as Sam began to chase the children, who were still singing their made-up song. Bucky let out a deep, contented breath, smiling to himself.

“See, now that we’ve learned these notes, we can put them in any order we like,” Bucky explained the next morning as he, Sam, and the children wandered through the sunlit Salzburg streets, bound for the market.

“How do you mean?” asked Luisa.

“Like this,” said Bucky. Selecting a random song from his memory, he sang

“sol sol do, do re mi do, mi fa sol, sol fa mi”

The children watched him eagerly, excited to try singing again.

“Now you try,” he said. “Go on, repeat what I just sang”

Tentatively, the children echoed “sol sol do, do re mi do, mi fa sol, sol fa mi”

“Very good!” Bucky complimented, smiling as their faces lit up at the praise.

“But that doesn’t mean anything!” protested tiny Gretel, forever candid.

Bucky chuckled. “That’s because we haven’t added words yet! We add a word for every note we sing, then the song means something. Like this:” Taking a breath, he repeated his earlier melody, this time adding the well-remembered words. “’Tis the gift to be simple, tis the gift to be free…”

Dutifully, the children echoed him. “Tis the gift to be simple, tis the gift to be free…”

“Good job, kids,” he said. “Now, the rest of the song.”

They sang “Simple Gifts” all the way to the market. By the time they were turning back for home, the children had the words memorized, and were singing the lovely old hymn with more confidence.

Settling on the banks of the lake to dip their feet in the cool waters, Bucky continued their lesson.
“Okay, kids, so now you know how to sing the melody of a song, I’m going to teach you about harmonies.”

“What are those?” asked Marta, frowning adorably in confusion.

“The melody is the main part of the song, the most important part,” Bucky explained. “Like, ‘sol sol do, do re mi do, mi fa sol, sol fa mi’ is the melody of ‘Simple Gifts’. Those notes are the most important ones, but you can add other notes, a harmony, to make the song sound even more pretty.”

Seeing that the younger members of his audience were still puzzled, he beckoned Liesl to come sit next to him. With her sweet, clear soprano she would have no trouble helping him show the others.

“Liesl,” he asked, “would you sing Simple Gifts, just as we did this morning.”
She nodded, smiling, and took a deep breath. As she began, Bucky joined her, harmonizing below her notes in his clear tenor.

“’Tis the gift to be simple, tis the gift to be free…”

Liesl broke off, surprised at the added layer of resonance.

“That was lovely!” gushed Brigitta.
“May we learn?” asked Friedrich eagerly.

And so the lessons continued. Within a few days, Bucky had even little Gretel singing in harmony.

“Look at you, a regular little church choir!” chuckled Sam, shaking his head in admiring amusement.

“Why don’t you sing with us, Herr Wilson?” asked Kurt shyly

Sam laughed heartily. “Have you ever heard me sing, Kurt?” he asked.

Kurt shook his head, still looking confused

“Pray to God that you never get the chance to hear him sing,” broke in Bucky, elbowing Sam teasingly in the ribs. “He can’t carry a tune in a bucket!”

“I’m tone deaf,” explained Sam to Kurt, who still looked puzzled. “I can’t distinguish between notes, they all sound the same to me.”

“But, I thought you said anyone can learn to sing?” asked Brigitta, confused.

“Trust me, I’ve tried,” snorted Sam. “After the last time a girl told me to ‘stop braying at me like an ass,’ I gave up. Singing isn’t for me!”

The children all laughed heartily, and Sam gave Bucky a grin and a wink. With every passing day, Bucky became more and more grateful for his friend’s presence.

Sam had arrived three days after Bucky had sent his letter, loaded down with armfuls of books that Bucky had requested and sports equipment that he thought the children might enjoy. At first, Bucky had been concerned that he had been overstepping his bounds as a mere tutor by inviting Sam to stay with him at the estate. He was particularly worried about how Oeznik might react, and whether he would take steps to inform the captain of the manor’s unexpected guest. Oeznik, however, remained mild-mannered and impassive as Bucky, blushing nervously, introduced Sam to the old butler’s acquaintance.

“I asked if he could come up to keep the children company,” said Bucky, trying his best to make it look like he knew what he was doing.

Oeznik, whom Bucky had expected to at least frown in disapproval, merely gave him and Sam each long, searching looks before nodding slowly. “Very good, Herr Barnes. Now, Herr Wilson, would you like to rest in the lounge while I prepare a room for you?”

Occasionally, Bucky would catch Oeznik watching him and Sam playing with the children. The butler never said anything, but Bucky thought he caught the hint of a smile playing around Oeznik’s wrinkled face.

After helping his sister raise her boys back in the States, Sam had a way with children. Kurt and Friedrich especially were very taken with him, spending every spare moment following him around the estate like a pair of imprinted ducklings. Sam, to his eternal credit, didn’t seem to mind. He taught them, played with them, and answered all their questions with parental affection that Bucky had never seen from the captain. Every time Bucky saw Sam interact with the boys, he felt the contrast between his friend and Captain Zemo even more sharply.

Try as he might, Bucky could not quite banish thoughts of the captain from his mind. For some reason, he found himself counting down the ten days that Captain Zemo had said he would be gone. On the eleventh day he was battling with himself, trying to determine whether he should call the Carter estate again, or wait for the captain to call him. Bucky paced back and forth across the foyer, oblivious to the shrieks of laughter sill emanating from the grounds as Sam played with the children. Finally, Bucky squared his shoulders and approached the phone in the hall. Taking a deep breath to steady his suddenly racing heart, he dialed the now-familiar number. The whirr of the dial sliding back into place seemed overly loud in the cool shadowed silence of the foyer. Tentatively, Bucky held the receiver to his ear. After four rings, he heard the scrape of the receiver being picked up. A sudden thrill passed through his chest as he waited for a cool, baritone voice to answer.

“Hello, Carter estate, how may I help you?”

The thrill was instantly gone, replaced with a sinking feeling in his stomach. The maidservant spoke with a lovely low alto, but hers was not the voice he wanted to hear. “Oh,” he said, taken aback and disheartened. “Hi, um… this is Herr Barnes, I’m wondering if Captain Zemo is there?”

“I’m sorry,” came the polished reply. “The captain isn’t in right now—may I take a message?”

“Oh,” said Bucky, blinking in confusion. The captain isn’t in? Did that mean that Zemo had not yet returned from his travels? Or that he had, but was currently out of the house, probably romancing the baroness? Bucky’s insides curled with disappointment and the beginnings of shame. “Oh, uh… no, that’s fine, no message.” Before the maidservant could speak again, Bucky thrust the receiver back into the cradle, ending the call. His stomach seemed to have settled somewhere around his feet. How could he have been so foolish as to think that the captain would want to hear from him? He allowed himself one more pained sigh, then turned, his posture militarily correct, and headed back out the front door, towards the sound of laughter and merriment.

The disappointment and shame, however, did not keep him from calling the same number at the same time the next night. And the next. And the next. And each night, he received the same frustrating non-answers.

“The captain isn’t in right now”

“The captain isn’t available”

“The captain can’t come to the phone”

After the seventh call, Bucky stopped trying.

The idyllic summer sun continued to warm the manor grounds. June was giving way to July. On the Fourth, Bucky and Sam planned an American treat for the children.

“A holiday?” asked Friedrich, confused, as the seven children and two adults made their rounds of the Salzburg market that Friday, collecting apples, potatoes, celery, and wurst.

“Exactly!” replied Bucky, squinting down at a jar of pickles on display under a brightly striped awning.

“Like Christmas?” asked Gretel, eyes wide with wonder and excitement.

“Why would you have Christmas in the summer?” scoffed Kurt.

Bucky cast the younger boy a stern look before answering the group. “Hmm, Independence Day… It’s like Christmas in that adults don’t have to go to work, yes. But it’s not a religious holiday—you don’t have to go to church or anything.”

“If it’s not religious, what kind of holiday is it?” asked Liesl.

“Um, it celebrates American independence from England,” replied Bucky, handing over some change to the vendor and adding the pickles to the rapidly filling basket. “So, a national holiday, I guess?”

“But we’re not in America, we’re in Austria!” protested Marta.

“That doesn’t mean we can’t celebrate!” chimed in Sam cheerfully. “Hey, Buck, do you think this would work for ketchup?” Sam proffered a jar full of red paste for Bucky’s observation.

“Tomatenwürfel,” Bucky read, frowning. “I think that’s just diced tomatoes, not ketchup…”

“Ketchup?” inquired the pickle seller in excitement. “Ich habe hier Ketchup!”

Bucky turned back, surprised, as the old woman began rummaging enthusiastically in a crate by her feet. “Ah, hier!” she said proudly, straightening up. “Aus Amerika!” She offered Bucky a bottle full of bright red sauce, and Bucky could not help laughing out loud as he recognized the distinctive Heinz label.

“Danke schön,” he said, smiling. “Das ist perfekt.”

Sam let out an excited whoop as the ketchup was stowed carefully in the basket. Bucky smiled to himself. Even though he hadn’t lived in the States for almost a decade now, it was still nice to find a small piece of home.

The Fourth of July dawned bright and sunny, with the birds singing almost as loudly as Bucky’s old regimental band. Puzzled by the tantalizing smell of hot, sweet bread drifting through the house, Bucky dressed quickly and hastened down to the kitchen. There, he found Sam, shirt sleeves rolled up above his elbows, flipping pancakes out of a large pan while Oeznik watched, amused, from the sidelines. “American breakfast today?” asked Bucky with a grin.

“Herr Wilson has evicted poor Wilhelmina from the kitchen for the day,” chuckled Oeznik. “I cannot tell if she was more pleased to have the day off, or more afraid of the mess you two will make of her domain!”

Sam rolled his eyes. “We men do know how to clean up after ourselves, you know,” he groused good naturedly.

“Some of us do,” teased Bucky. “After living with you for a year, I’m not sure if I’d say you’re one of them!”

Sam glared as Oeznik laughed. “No pancakes for you, man,” he said sternly, gesticulating with his spatula.

After a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon, and American-style pancakes, Bucky and Sam herded the children outside for a day of fun and games. Sam began to teach the older children baseball while Bucky obligingly punted little Marta and Gretel around the lake behind the estate. “I like Independence Day!” sighed Marta happily, letting her fingers trail in the clear blue water.

As evening drew in, Bucky, Sam, and Oeznik spread a Fourth of July feast on the patio tables under the shade of the balcony. Wurst placed in sliced open Mohnflesserl rolls and slathered in ketchup served as hot dogs. Sam had made his sister’s potato salad recipe. Oeznik contributed coleslaw as his Czech grandfather had made it. For dessert, Bucky had made his mother’s apple pies, crusts crisp and golden and sprinkled with cinnamon. The adults smiled to see the children, wide-eyed with excitement, cautiously trying the strange new combinations of food. Kurt happily declared that he would never eat wurst without ketchup again.

After dinner had been cleared away, as the sun was sinking over the lake, the children begged Bucky for a sing-along. Obligingly, he headed upstairs to get his guitar.

As he was returning through the vast entry hall, the evening sun flashing off the polished marble floor, he heard his own name. “Herr Barnes!”

Turning, he found Oeznik shuffling up behind him. “A telegram for you, Herr Barnes,” said the old butler, proffering a sealed envelope. “From the captain.”

His heart leaping into his throat, Bucky took the telegram with trembling fingers. After so long a silence, what could the captain have to say to him? Carefully, Bucky slit open the envelope and unfolded the missive inside.

RETURNING TOMORROW. BARONESS CARTER AND HERR STARK ACCOMPANYING ME.

ZEMO

Chapter Text

“The mountains are magnificent, Helmut, really magnificent,” sighed Sharon, gazing around at the Alps on the horizon in apparent rapture as the car sped along the narrow country lane.

“I had them put up just for you darling,” purred Zemo.

“Even if it’s to a height of ten thousand feet, Zemo always believes in rising to the occasion,” quipped Tony Stark drily from the back seat.

“Unless the jokes improve, Stark, I’m taking back my invitation,” warned Zemo placidly.

Tony laughed. “Oh, Cap—you didn’t invite me to your villa, I invited myself!”

“Naturally,” drawled Zemo, trying not to let Tony’s cavalier nickname ruffle him.

“Don’t forget, you’re the one who came to me for help,” said Tony, raising an arch brow. “But this is a very eligible plan. Sharon needed a chaperone, and I needed a place to stay where the cuisine is superb and the price is perfect!”

“By ‘perfect’, you mean ‘free’?”

“Exactly.”

“Tony, you are outrageous!” said Sharon with a laugh.

“On the contrary! I’m a very charming sponge,” grinned Tony.

Zemo repressed an irritated sigh as he deftly navigated a curve between two hedgerows. He was already starting to regret agreeing to this arrangement. As much Tony may irritate him, though, he hadn’t had much choice in the matter.

The fleeting time that Strucker had managed to arrange with Stark in spare moments around the arms deals meetings had barely given Zemo time to cover the outline of his problem. He had scarcely explained the backstory of the bomb fragments before Stark had to leave. Desperately, Zemo chased after him, Strucker on their tail.

“Stark, would you be able to identify the bomb from its fragments? I need to know who manufactured the weapon,” asked Zemo, walking briskly to keep up with the departing eccentric genius.

“No can do, Cap, sorry,” said Stark breezily, already striding across the runway to his private plane—apparently, he had managed to obtain the as-yet unreleased Spartan 7W Executive. “I need to be in Paris in three hours.”

“Please, Stark.” Zemo was loath to beg for anything, but he needed this man’s help, needed it desperately.

Stark, with one foot already on the plane’s ladder, turned back abruptly. “You’re staying with Sharon Carter, right? In Vienna?”

Zemo nodded his assent, completely baffled as to how Stark could have come by this information.

“Good,” Stark had said, rubbing a hand over his goatee in thought. “I know Sharon, that will make things easier. Hang tight at her estate for a few days, I’ll contact you there. Let’s go, Jarvis.” And with that, the enigmatic engineer vanished into the depths of the plane. The propeller revved to life a few seconds later. Zemo stepped back to stand with Strucker, watching as Stark took to the sky.

He had thought, surely, that he’d missed his chance. Dejected, he and Strucker had returned to Vienna. But, to his intense surprise, Stark had kept his word. Five days later, Zemo and Sharon returned to the townhouse from another of her glittering evening soirees to find Stark lounging on her velvet sofa.

“Tony?” asked Sharon, her cool mask of composure breaking to let her shock and surprise shine through.

“Hello, darling,” crooned Tony, taking a sip of the amber liquor in the cut crystal glass he held. “Did you miss me?”

Sharon stepped forward, attempting a controlled but gracious smile. “I didn’t expect—”

“Oh, I was talking to the captain, actually.” Stark raised a sardonic eyebrow, enjoying the fact that he had stunned both Zemo and Sharon into silence. “But it is lovely to see you too, Sharon.”

“Stark,” greeted Zemo warily, sinking slowly into an armchair near the parlor door. “What are you doing here?”

“You said you needed my help,” Stark shrugged, swirling the liquid in his glass. “So here I am.”

It took a further day to settle the house and find time alone with Stark to discuss the fragments that Zemo had managed to obtain from Strucker. Stark was reluctant to give his opinion on the few fragments at hand, saying he preferred to unite them with the remaining artefacts at Zemo’s estate before passing judgement. A plan was settled between the two men that Stark would accompany Zemo home and remain as his guest for as long as it took to solve the mystery of the Karl Marx Hoff bomb. Zemo was only too happy to comply. It was high time he returned to the manor, to his children, and to James. With the sudden absence of communication ability during his time in Linz, Zemo found himself missing the daily contact with James—and when, exactly, had he come to think of the man as James instead of Herr Barnes? Zemo shook his head, trying to dispel these strange thoughts.

The plan, however, did not go over well with Sharon.

“I must return home,” Zemo explained, feigning more regret than he actually felt. “I have had a lovely stay, though.”

“Isn’t Herr Stark returning to the estate with you?” asked Sharon, raising one elegantly penciled brow from her seat in the parlor.

Zemo nodded in acquiescence.

“Well, I’m sure you two will have a lovely time… alone…” Sharon replied, placing slight emphasis on the last word. Her implication was clear. Gossip would spread if Zemo invited Stark back to the estate but not Sharon. Gossip that he and Stark were… involved somehow. And he was willing to bet that the gossip would be spread by Sharon herself. So, he really had no choice, did he?

“Baroness,” he started again, stepping forward and taking her hand between his. “I will be desolate to leave you. I know it is an imposition, but could you be prevailed to accompany me home as well? It would be my honor to have you as a guest.
Sharon’s smile was triumphant and a touch predatory. “Of course, Helmut darling. I would simply love to visit—and to meet your dear children as well. What fun we shall have!”

Zemo kissed her hand. “Well, my lady,” he said. “We leave when you are ready.”

“What’s that singing?” asked Sharon, rousing Zemo from his contemplation of the last fortnight and returning him to the country lane.

Zemo listened for a second, and then recognized the distinctive choral notes. “That’s the Nonnenburg Abbey choir,” he replied, endeavoring to keep his tone light.

“They’re good—very good,” mused Tony, cocking his head to listen. “I must scout this territory over the next few days. Somewhere an obscure little singing group is waiting for Tony Stark to pluck it out of obscurity and make it famous at the Salzburg music festival.”

“They get the fame, you get the money?” asked Sharon with a light laugh.

“It’s unfair, I admit it,” grinned Tony. “But someday, things will change. I’ll get the fame too.”

Just then, two shrieking children tumbled out of one of the adjacent trees and darted off towards the lake, still laughing madly.

“Good heavens, what’s all this?” asked Sharon, surprised.

“Oh, it’s nothing. Just some local urchins,” replied Zemo, waving a dismissive hand.

He glanced after the two children and suddenly frowned in consternation. The black braid down the girl’s back, the wild, tousled blonde hair of the boy—could that have been Kurt and Brigitta? Zemo put this thought from his head at once. His children were far too disciplined to make so much noise, let alone to climb trees.

Turning into the drive leading to the Zemo manor and passing through the wrought iron gates, Zemo felt as though he could breathe for the first time in a month. The stiffness and tension of Vienna and Linz that had settled slowly and imperceptibly into his muscles and bones was abruptly gone—evaporated like the mist on the estate grounds in the early morning.

Oeznik was there to greet them at the door, bowing and smiling as the trio made their way up the front steps. “Captain, it’s so good to see you home again,” he said, taking the liberty of pressing Zemo’s hand. “And Baroness Carter, Herr Stark, it is an honor to have you join us. May I offer you any refreshment?”

“Please bring us some lemonade to the back patio, Oeznik,” began Zemo, leading his guests through the main hall and towards the back of the estate, where the terrace faced the lake. “We’ll also take some—”

“Actually, what I need is a commode,” broke in Stark. “An hour on that bumpy dirt road? I think I’m going to explode.”
Zemo winced at Stark’s uncouth manner while Sharon laughed lightly.

“Of course, Herr Stark,” said Oeznik at once, looking mildly alarmed. “If you will follow me this way..?” he two set off down a side hall, Oeznik shuffling as quickly as his bad knees would allow. “Oeznik--” Zemo called after his the retreating backs “—where are the children?”

“I believe they are taking their exercise with Herr Barnes,” Oeznik replied.

With a sigh, Zemo took Sharon’s arm and led her through the rear doors and onto the shaded terrace. He would have to introduce her to the children later, once they had cleaned up after exercising.

A soft summer breeze played gently through the branches overhead as the pair paced across the patio and to the gravel path that led along the edge of the water. “This is really exciting for me Helmut, being here with you,” said Sharon, smiling coyly up at him.

Zemo shook his head, continuing to stroll along the shore of the lake. “Trees, lakes, mountains… once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.”

Sharon placed a possessive hand on his arm. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” she scolded gently.

“Oh, you mean me? I’m exciting?” asked Zemo, matching her flirtatious tone.

“Is that so impossible?” Sharon teased.

“No, just highly improbable,” replied Zemo, half in jest, half in truth.

Sharon glanced up from beneath lowered lashes, meeting his eyes with an expression both simmering and challenging. Zemo tilted his head to the side, matching her stare for stare. Sharon’s thoughts and intents were rarely easy to read from her face. This once, though, Zemo wished desperately that she were an open book. How much of this flirtation and hinting was sincere? Did she actually have a regard for him, or was this simply another one of her elaborate games to trap hapless suitors?

Just then, a raucous noise of shouting and shrill children’s voices reached him across the water. Zemo turned, and felt himself become nearly incandescent with rage at the sight that greeted him.

His children, his disciplined, ordered children, were punting around the lake in two ramshackle old rowboats. One boat was rowed by his tutor, the other by a tall Black man that Zemo did not know. Zemo drummed his fingers angrily on the statues of horse heads that flanked the gate to the lake, waiting for the children to draw within hailing distance. Luisa was the first one to spot him. “Father!” she cried ecstatically, springing to her feet in the cramped rowboat and waving happily at him. “Father, you’re home!” James’ head whipped around at Louisa’s yell, and he smiled at Zemo from his position at the helm. “Welcome home, Captain!” he called. Zemo’s heart twisted with a warm emotion that he resolutely refused to examine as the younger man smiled at him. Soon all the children were practically jumping up and down in their boats, crying out enthusiastic greetings. This, despite James’ and the stranger’s best efforts, proved to be too much for the stability of the boats. Zemo’s hand flew to cover his mouth as both boats tipped, rocked, and then unceremoniously dumped the children and the adults into the muddy shallows of the lake.

At that moment, Sharon appeared at Zemo’s shoulder, drawn by the shouts and squeals issuing from the lake. Zemo could see her working hard to repress her laughter, something for which he was intensely grateful.

“Come out of the water at once!” he snapped at his children, roughly opening the gates to the dock and standing aside so the children could scramble up the bank past him and onto the patio.

The children began to stumble and trip up the stairs, laughing hysterically and shoving each other around. Zemo was horrified. How had his children become so wild, so silly, so…undisciplined… in the short time he’d been gone? With a guilty twinge he remembered that he’d actually been gone for quite a long time—over a month—but he hastily shoved this thought down as he tugged the long-neglected silver whistle out of his breast pocket.

At the shrill blast of noise, all his children froze, startled and abashed, then hastened into their neat and orderly line. Suddenly there was no sound besides the distant chirping of birds and the steady patter of water onto the patio flagstones from wet clothes. Letting the silence swell, he paced up and down, observing the children narrowly. “This,” he said coldly to his charges, gesturing behind him, “is Baroness Carter.” The children glanced up nervously, then quickly away again. “And these…” he continued, turning to Sharon with a wry grimace. “…are my children.”

“Er, how do you do?” said Sharon, quietly amused.

Zemo turned back to the dripping line in front of him. “Go inside, dry off, clean up, and report back here.” When the children showed no sign of moving, he snapped “immediately!” The children, looking heartbroken and fearful, scurried off to do as they had been ordered.

Out of the corner of his eye, Zemo saw James’s jaw clench, and a look of disgust harden his features. His tutor, no doubt, disapproved of his treatment of his own children.

The two adults likewise began to move towards the house. “Just a moment, sir,” snapped Zemo, catching the stranger’s arm before he could brush by. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

“My name is Sam Wilson,” said the stranger, levelly meeting Zemo’s eyes. “And I’m here because Bucky requested some company for the children and himself since their father has been gone for a month.”

Zemo’s jaw clenched and his stomach swooped with anger at the insinuation, but he did not let his emotion color his voice in his response. “I see. Well, Herr Wilson, Oeznik will direct you to where you can freshen up before returning home. You are dismissed.”

The stranger, Sam Wilson, raised an unimpressed eyebrow, but turned and strode away with military precision.

James, still glaring, made to step past Zemo and follow Wilson into the house.
“Just a moment, Herr Barnes,” cut in Zemo coldly. “I require a word with you.”

Sensing Zemo’s barely contained anger, Sharon made her excuses and slipped away, leaving the two men alone, staring at each other while James’ soaking wet clothes dripped steadily onto the flagstones of the patio.

“Now, Herr Barnes, I want a truthful answer from you.”

“Yes, Captain,” returned James, the tight-lipped disgust not entirely gone from his face.

“Is it possible that my children have been… climbing trees today?”

“Yes, Captain,” replied James blandly, a steely glint in his eye.

“I see,” replied Zemo, beginning to pace. “And, Herr Barnes, did you invite this, um, Herr Wilson to my estate?”

“Yes, Captain,” replied James

“And who is Herr Wilson?”

“He’s a fellow army veteran from the War,” said James evenly. “We fought together in the Muse”

“And… you invited him here because you believed my children to be lonely?”

“Yes, Captain. He’s been accompanying us on outings to help chaperone.”

For a moment, Zemo felt himself go breathless with rage. “Do you mean to tell me,” he hissed, stalking forward, “that my children have been parading around Salzburg with a Black, American veteran, right under the nose of Austria’s Nazi sympathizers? Who are you to judge if they’re lonely? What gave you the right to risk tarnishing their reputation like that?”

“Tarnishing your reputation, if you’ll forgive me,” muttered James, half under his breath.

Zemo, shocked at his tutor’s tone, spun around on his heel. “I will not forgive you for that!”

“The children cannot receive all the companionship they need from their tutor alone!” James snapped, his temper evidently starting to break loose. “They need other adults in their life! They need adults who care about them!”

“I don’t want to hear another word from you, Herr Barnes,” warned Zemo in a low, deadly voice.

“I know you don’t want to, but you’ve got to!”

The lean, unassuming man was suddenly a striking presence in front of him, despite his soaking wet shirt and trousers. James’s blue eyes flashed under dark brows and anger seemed to radiate like heat from his body. Startled, Zemo did not have time to gather his thoughts before James began again.

”Now, take Liesl--”

“Don’t you say a word against Liesl!”

“--one day you’re gonna wake up and she’ll be a woman—you won’t even know her! And Friedrich, he’s a boy, but he wants to be a man like you, and you’re never here to show him how!”

“Don’t you dare tell me about my son!” snarled Zemo

“Brigitta could tell you about him, if you ever let her get close to you,” snapped James. “She notices everything. And Kurt pretends to be tough so that you can’t see how hurt he is when you brush him aside--”

“That will do!”

“—the way you do all of them! Louisa has dreams, but she’s too scared to tell you!

“I said that will do!” cried Zemo, practically shouting now.

“And the little ones just want to be loved, and to love you, but you’re never here!”

“I don’t care to hear anything further from you about my children,” barked Zemo, turning and striding back towards the manor.

“I’m not finished yet, Captain!” cried James, making to follow him towards the house.

“Oh yes you are, Herr Barnes,” snapped Zemo, spinning on his heel to come to a halt in front of James, blocking his path to the house.

Seeming to finally realize that he’d gone too far, James halted also, mouth slightly open as water continued to drip from his soaking clothes onto the flagstones of the patio.

“Now,” said Zemo stiffly, standing sharply at attention and fixing James with his most severe and commanding look. “You shall pack your bags, Herr Barnes, and leave this house this instant. You are dismissed from your post.”

James turned pale, his angry expression fading to shock in the face of Zemo’s tightly controlled fury.

Satisfied by the effect he had produced, Zemo made to turn back into the house. He froze, however, upon hearing the sound now emanating from the sitting room window.

“the hills are alive with the sound of music….”

Singing. The sound he heard was singing. He hadn’t heard anyone sing since… since Heike…

“What is that?” Zemo asked, completely distracted from his fury at his tutor.

“It’s singing,” said James softly, looking towards the house with a mixture of anxiety and sadness in his expression.

“I had gathered that much, Herr Barnes,” drawled Zemo impatiently. “But who is singing?”

“The children,” said James simply.

Zemo felt as though he had been struck in the stomach. There was suddenly no breath in his lungs. “The children?” he whispered. The children hadn’t sung since their mother’s death. Suddenly Zemo was lost in a flood of memories he’d tried his best to repress. He could see in his mind’s eye the many sunny, happy afternoons that his family had spent together before Heike’s death. He could see them singing and laughing together in the garden, hear Heike singing infant Karl to sleep in her arms, feel the warm arms of his wife wrapped around his shoulders. He remembered singing Austrian folk songs to seven attentive little faces, all beaming up at him while Heike smiled sweetly from the window seat. He remembered when his house had been a place of happiness and laughter. And then, after Heike’s death, there had been silence. No music. No singing. Only sadness. Abruptly, Zemo realized that he’d missed music. He hadn’t realized that a part of his soul had been waiting, dry, dusty, and hurt, for the sweet rain of music to revive it.
“I taught them something to sing for the Baroness,” said James.

The soft melody continued to flow from the open sitting room windows, exerting an almost irresistible pull over him. To his surprise, Zemo felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He had to see his children’s faces, listen to the song, revel in the return of music to his house. Involuntarily, he started for the door. Out of the corner of his eyes, he thought he saw James start forward, a placating hand outstretched. But he was beyond caring if he was rude. He was beyond caring that he was midway through dismissing his tutor.

The grand foyer was blessedly cool and dim after the blazing heat of the afternoon sun and the heat of his row with James. Quickly and quietly, Zemo strode to the open door of the sitting room and peered inside. Sharon, neat and elegant in her day dress, was perched on the sofa, ankles delicately crossed underneath her. Tony was leaning against the wall behind her, arms crossed over his chest as he watched the children with rapt attention.

The children, dressed in fresh uniforms despite their dripping wet hair, were gathered against the wall by the sideboard. Liesel held a guitar, and was gently plucking the chords of a song they’d sang together as a family years ago.

“My heart wants to beat like the wings of the birds that rise

From the lake to the trees

My heart wants to sigh like a chime that flies

From a church on a breeze

To laugh like a brook as it trips and falls

Over stones on its way

To sing through the night

Like a lark who is learning to pray”

It felt as though a layer of ice were cracking away from Zemo’s heart, allowing it to beat fully for the first time since Heike had died. This stinging, opening sensation almost stole his breath, but still, he stepped forward to complete the song with his family. Despite worries that his voice would be hoarse and rusty from disuse, the notes came out pure and clear.

“I go to the hills

When my heart is lonely

I know I will hear

What I’ve heard before

My heart will be blessed

With the sound of music

And I’ll sing once more”

The last chord from the guitar faded away, but the magic of the song remained in the room, almost tangible. The children’s faces were painfully hopeful, longing for affection from him, as he had been longing for music from them. He could not help it, but rushed forward and scooped them into his arms. Amid a tangle of small limbs, he allowed a few of the tears he had suppressed earlier to fall, hidden, into his children’s hair.

“Well, that was absolutely lovely!” Zemo looked up to see Tony and Sharon watching, Sharon with slightly misty eyes. “You never told me what a talented family you have, Helmut!”

“I never knew myself,” demurred Zemo quietly, turning back to smile at the children. They positively beamed at him in response, radiating joy.

From the corner of his eye, Zemo just caught a glimpse of James’s silhouette slipping past the door to the sitting room. He did not even realize his tutor had joined them. “Excuse me one moment,” he said to the group, giving Marta one last pat on the head before quickly making his exit. “Herr Barnes,” he called anxiously.

James paused, halfway up the forking staircase, and turned back to look at Zemo. His eyes glinted as blue as a glacier in the light reflecting off the lake and into the foyer. His expression was chastened, anxious, and yet slightly hopeful.

“I behaved badly, I apologize.”

James shuffled his feet, looking down in discomfort. “I’m far too outspoken. It’s one of my worst faults,” he returned, obviously not sure what to make of the captain’s apology.

“You were right. I don’t know my own children,” said Zemo, his voice laced with regret.

“There’s still time, Captain,” said James feelingly.

“You brought music back into the house.” Zemo continued, his voice low with emotion. “It had been so long, I’d forgotten… Herr Barnes, I want you to say. I… ask you to stay.”

James’s face suddenly bloomed with hope. “If I can be useful, Captain…”

“You already have been,” replied Zemo. “More than you know.”

James blushed, nodded, and made to finish ascending the stairs.

“James,” Zemo said softly, half reaching out a hand as though to stop the man. James turned, surprised at being addressed as his first name. “Thank you,” whispered Zemo, his voice trembling with emotion.

James’s face broke into a wide, true, smile. “You’re welcome, Captain,” he said with soft warmth.