Work Text:
Bucky keeps it together, because he has to.
First, they're running for their lives, a bounty on their heads for the death of Selby. There's no time to think of anything except for survival; his own, Sam's, even Zemo's. There's no time to think of anything except duck, run, punch, cover his partner—
And then there's Sharon coming out of the woodwork, far more bitter than she was the last time they saw her, not that she doesn't have a right to be. And so Bucky's focus is on her, and the memories of Steve that come with her. Keeping an eye on her, just in case she's changed enough to not be a true ally anymore. In case Sam's offer of returning home isn't the incentive it sounds like.
But then everything is quiet, for the moment. They're relatively safe in Sharon's apartment, and with nothing to do but wait. Wait for the party that's apparently coming, and Sharon's contacts that follow.
Nothing for Bucky to do but sit there, and remember.
Sam excuses himself to one of the bedrooms to get some rest before they'll need their game faces on. It's the soldier in him, understanding how important it is to get sleep where you can. Who knows when the next down moment might be?
Bucky understands that too, he does. He knows he should be following Sam's lead and grabbing some shut eye. But the apartment is silent and Bucky has nothing to occupy his mind and so—
So it returns to the bar.
It was just pretend. He was playing a role, a necessary evil in order to get the information they needed. He was undercover, it wasn't a big deal. The Winter Soldier is gone, and only Bucky Barnes remains.
Zemo was just playing a role, too. He knew none of that stuff would really work on Bucky, not anymore. Even gave it a test run from the inside of his prison cell. He knew the best way to get them in was to make it obvious to all the onlookers that he had complete control over the brainwashed assassin following him. He had to be powerful, and in control. And Bucky had to be just a weapon to be wielded.
But it was just. It was just pretend.
His name is Bucky Barnes. He is not the Winter Soldier. Shuri and the other scientists of Wakanda freed him, removed the triggers from his brain. He's free. Playing the role of what he used to be means nothing.
But it was maybe...easy, to slip back to the way things used to be. Maybe it wasn't as hard as Sam thought, or hoped. Maybe Zemo said '?' and Bucky felt something—click.
He was still in his right mind. He was still viscerally conscious, no blacking out. But he felt something settle inside of him, had to bite back the instinctive 'Yes, Sir' as they moved through the crowd. Told himself it was just muscle memory. Seventy years of muscle memory.
It was all pretend, a game. But it was so easy to sink down into it, let himself tune out the world at large and just follow Zemo's orders. He watched the crowd and when Zemo told him to attack, he was in motion.
Brutal. Efficient. Taking down every man who dared to come at him, beating the men Zemo tossed into his path without hesitation. Every moment it went on the easier it got, sinking him deeper and deeper, calmer and calmer.
And then he had the man pinned against the bar, and he didn't care. His metal hand wrapped around that throat, and the only thing in his mind was that he was doing what he was supposed to do. What he'd been commanded to do. And then Zemo was right there next to him, and he was saying something to Sam about staying in character, but that didn't matter not when it was followed up with, '.'
A hand on his shoulder, a face so close to his, and '.'
It was all so...simple. Elegant, almost. It felt like—like returning to something familiar. He spent more time under command than he ever did without, after all. He spent decades more following orders, living without freedom, than he did controlling his own life. And being that today—no, pretending to be that today—reminded him of what it felt like.
Being under Hydra's control was torturous. He still has nightmares, almost every time he sleeps. He still pictures all the horrors they had him commit, all the innocent lives taken, all the times they put him in that fucking chair. Always on a mission, or on ice. Never a moment without being told what to do.
Such an easy order. Zemo didn't ask him for anything impossible, in fact Bucky almost wishes he had. Because then maybe Bucky would've had more incentive to resist, maybe then he wouldn't have done what he was told without a moment of hesitation.
Maybe he wouldn't have stood deathly still as Zemo touched his face and promised to give him away like he was nothing more than a tool, than a weapon. Not moving, not looking, not resisting, allowing himself to bend to a commander's will—
But it was all just—pretend. He's fine. Undercover work, a necessary evil.
But now he feels...aimless. He sits alone in the silence with an unidentifiable itch under his skin and he wants a mission, a task, he wants someone to give him purpose and tell him what to do—
And that's far more terrifying than anything he's faced the last few days.
He shouldn't be wanting that. He should be relieved that it's over, that he doesn't have to follow orders anymore. He and Sam are a team, and Zemo a temporary ally. No one person is in charge. His name is Bucky Barnes, and he's free.
He forces himself to stand, to walk down the hall that leads to the bedrooms Sharon pointed out earlier. He can hear faint snoring coming from the one with the closed door, and sets his breathing in time with Sam's as an attempt to calm his mind.
It doesn't work.
He chooses a bedroom at random and shuts the door behind him. The room is large, nearly as big as the entirety of Bucky's apartment, with a huge bed and attached ensuite. It's really nice; Sharon's made something of herself in her exile. Not the best thing that ever could've happened to her, maybe, but fuck the US. Bucky might be forever tied there, but she can do whatever she wants.
Bucky doesn't want this big room and big bed, though. He runs his fingers over the soft top blanket and then grabs a handful and yanks it off. He grabs a pillow too, and then heads over to the far corner of the room. Clear view of the door, and the ensuite, and the window. Easily defendable. As safe as can be.
He lies down, curling up tightly. It's hard beneath him but it's good, it's familiar, it's everything Dr. Raynor would hate.
Exhaustion does, eventually, allow him to succumb to sleep, and follows him all the way down.
A nightmare wakes him, probably the most predictable thing in his life these days.
He's back in that box Ross put him in, strapped in tight. He's not fighting, because what's the point. He's not trying to run, because it's hopeless now. They have him, and they'll never let him go, despite what Steve wants. Not even Captain American can fix this problem.
And the therapist comes in. With his thin-rimmed glasses and neat stack of notes. Bucky doesn't care, doesn't want to speak to him doesn't want to hear the sympathetic words.
But the sympathy turns so quickly. There's a red book with a star on it, and Bucky can't believe his own eyes because no, no this cannot be happening—
He tries to escape. He rips out of the restraints, trying to ignore the words being spoken, the words that threaten to take away everything from him once again. His metal fist slams into the glass again and again, desperation flooding him that he'll get out before the man finishes speaking, before he can make him be that thing again—
But Zemo has him. The words are spoken, and he's just a weapon to be wielded. Zemo is smart, and ruthless, and now he owns him. Owns the Winter Soldier.
It's like an itch under his skin, when he wakes up. It's all fresh behind his eyes, the events of then and the events of now melding together and making it hard to think straight.
But it's. It's different this time. It is. Back then, he was programmed. Zemo actually controlled him. Now it's just—it's all pretend. Which is good.
So why does he long for that simplicity? Why does he wish for that quiet place in his mind to come back, to let him sink into it? Why does he want to let someone else take command? He's done it already, and it wasn't—bad. It was his choice, it wasn't like back then. People follow orders all the time, don't they? It doesn't mean he's the Winter Soldier.
It's different and you know it, a voice in his head says, and it sounds like Sam and Dr. Raynor and Steve and he wants them all to just shut up for five minutes and let him—
Let him what? Wallow in shit that makes no sense? Hate himself for replaying that fight in the bar again and again, the '', the fluid way he moved, the satisfaction at having a command to follow.
The concern on Sam's face, so poorly masked.
Bucky gets to his feet, the blanket suddenly feeling confining. He needs something to do. A mission, a job, hell fucking anything that will make him feel like he's doing something, like he's useful—
You don't have to be useful, Buck, Steve says in his head, words spoken years ago, during the rougher days. You just have to be you.
But he was useful earlier today. He protected Zemo and Sam in the bar, gave a strong show of force. He helped them get information from Selby by staying still and letting himself be bartered over. He obeyed Zemo's order and walked calmly out of there.
Sam hesitated. Zemo told them to leave their weapons, and Sam hesitated. He didn't want to do it; he, for at least a moment, doubted Zemo's order.
But Bucky had already been moving, dropping his gun, ready for the next command.
He pretended he didn't. He pretended he simply agreed with the request, agreed that it was the smart play for the moment. But that was a lie; there was no active thought behind it. There was no consideration. There was just the order given, and the order followed.
The main body of the apartment is silent, when Bucky emerges from the bedroom. Sam's door remains shut, and Bucky can still hear his quiet snoring that shows he's still asleep.
There's another bedroom door shut now, one that wasn't before. Zemo must've claimed a room, too. Decided to follow their lead. He probably loves the luxurious rooms. It's probably exactly what he's used to, exactly what he likes.
A Baron. Royalty. A fucking Baron is the person who put his everything into cracking the Avengers in two, who took Bucky's mind from him and then had the audacity to tell him it was nothing personal.
Who had the audacity to mean it.
"You were simply a means to a necessary end."
A tool to him. Nothing more than a tool. Just like everyone else before him, for the last seventy years of his life.
Bucky stands in front of Zemo's door, staring as if he could see through it to the man inside. Is he sleeping? Does he rest easy with everything he's done? He sure had a cushy prison cell, despite his dismissive comment about Bucky's own imprisonment. He doubts this man truly knows what it's like to live in hardship.
He doesn't know why he's here. He wants—he needs something to do. His skin feels like it's crawling, and he just needs a direction, he just needs to be aimed and then he can pull his own fucking trigger—
But there won't be anything, not until Sharon talks to her contacts. All there is to do is twiddle his thumbs and wait and hope that this'll end soon.
The door stares impassively back at him. If he focuses, he can hear the faint flip of paper inside the room. So Zemo is awake, and reading. Bucky wonders if it's Machiavelli again.
He finds himself turning around, shifting to stand with his back to the wall right next to the bedroom door. He falls automatically into parade rest, feet shoulder-width apart, hands folded behind his back.
There were many times, over the course of his time as the Winter Soldier, that he acted as a guard. He'd follow his commanding officer—or whomever he'd been assigned to—around, watch their six, make sure they were secure. He often found himself in positions just like this, standing outside a room, ready to defend.
It doesn't mean anything. It's just. It's just something to do. Sharon is gone and Sam is asleep and there's only waiting but he can do this. He can listen and watch and stand guard. A simple but always important job.
And it's his choice. What happened earlier was all pretend. He's fine.
Time passes without relevance. It's easy to tune it all out, to focus instead on his charge inside the bedroom, on the other man sleeping down the hall, on the silence of the rest of the apartment. No threats. No one here to attack them. And if anyone arrives, Bucky will make sure nothing happens. He has a job, and he will do it well.
There's shifting inside the room. Bucky listens, but it's not someone breaking in through the window, it's just Zemo moving around, so Bucky dismisses it from his senses and continues his watch.
The door opens. Bucky doesn't move; they never wanted him to. He was always seen and not heard. Never do anything without an order. A weapon, not a person. He doesn't need to turn to acknowledge his charge, he just has to be aware of him.
"." Zemo's voice comes as a low murmur.
Bucky's nostrils flare. His eyes snap to the side, locking onto the other man's. Zemo looks back at him with that same calm, vaguely interested expression he always seems to wear around him, just the slightest curve upwards at the corners of his mouth.
"Don't call me that," Bucky grits out.
His answer seems to amuse Zemo. The man leans against the doorjamb, sliding his hands into the pockets of his slacks as he observes Bucky. His posture is relaxed, perfectly at ease. Not the slightest bit threatened, despite being less than two feet away from one of the most dangerous men on the planet.
He's always been like that. Always so controlled, in command. Never afraid, despite being surrounded by superpowered humans. Never was afraid of Bucky, that's for sure.
He didn't have to be, his mind reminds him. He owned you; what was to fear?
"No?" Zemo questions. "Alright. Then tell me, James, what it is you're doing right now."
The words feel accusatory, but Zemo's tone never changes register. Maybe Bucky's just projecting.
His jaw works, and he breaks the eye contact, glaring at the wall. He...doesn't have a good answer for this. No one was supposed to know. He was supposed to leave before Sam or Zemo emerged, before Sharon returned. But he—he sunk into it, into his job, and even with warning that Zemo was up and about, he didn't leave his post.
He's not supposed to leave his post unless he's dismissed. But he gave himself this job. It was a choice. He doesn't need an order to release him.
But still here he stands. He could walk away. He could leave, avoid this conversation entirely. He doesn't owe Zemo shit, least of all any answers. He doesn't have to put up with any of this.
But he. He wasn't dismissed. And he wants to hear Zemo call him Soldat again.
Bucky tastes something sour in his mouth, disgust thick in his gut. He can't believe he's actually acting like this. It's pathetic, it's horrible, Steve would be so disappointed in him. So would Sam.
Steve left you. Sam told you he's going to do the same as soon as this mission is over. You don't owe them anything, either.
He does, though. He owes them more than words could possibly describe. After all that the pair of them did for him—he could spend a thousand lifetimes and never repay that debt. Not that either of them would acknowledge there's a debt at all, of course.
"," Zemo says, just as calm, just as in control.
Bucky practically swallows his tongue against the immediate urge to open his mouth and give the information Zemo wants. He holds it back, because he can, because his mind is his own and Zemo has no control over him and it's all fine.
He holds it back for eight full seconds. Eight seconds of Zemo's gaze hot on his face, expectant, waiting, sure. Eight seconds to prove that he can, that this doesn't mean anything, that it's all his choice, and then it bubbles out of him.
"Keeping guard," Bucky replies tersely, and doesn't realize until after the words are out of his mouth that he responded in Russian.
But that's fine. Zemo spoke Russian, so he responded in kind. It doesn't have any deeper meaning. It's just a language.
God, Dr. Raynor would be tearing him apart right now.
Well done, Soldier.
Bucky breathes in slowly. He's back in that bar, he's back outside that glass box, he's back to the last time he had a commander, one of the few who took any time to tell the weapon that it had done a good job—
"I told you to stop that," Bucky snaps, and turns his glare back on the other man, keeping it furious, letting none of what he's feeling deep down show.
He is angry. He's pissed off, at how easily Zemo manages to get under his skin. At the fact that there's a way to get under his skin at all. At the fact that so many have done this, have been able to, have used him for their own ends, and most of all he fucking hates himself for missing it.
The simplicity. The elegance in just acting, not deciding. He remembers all the people he hurt and he hates it, he hates it so much, but those decisions weren't his own and he has no goddamn idea what he's supposed to do now that he's free, and Steve fucking left so he's not here to straighten Bucky out, it's just Bucky and Zemo and a disgusting longing inside of him that won't go away.
"You don't have to make this so challenging, James," Zemo says, tilting his head. "Sam is not here, only me. And I will not judge you for following what you need."
"And what is it you think I need?" Bucky replies. He can feel his face contorting dangerously, the face that was often the last thing so many people saw, but Zemo doesn't flinch. Doesn't even blink.
"Orders."
"Those days are over," Bucky snaps. He's getting riled up, blood pressure rising, and he hates it. Hates that he feels so unraveled, and Zemo stands there like they're discussing the weather.
Zemo hums. "So you said before. Interesting phrasing, that. 'Those days are over', not something like 'I don't do that anymore', or even 'I don't want any orders'."
"What does it matter?"
"They don't have to be over if you don't want them to be," Zemo tells him.
Bucky turns lightning fast, wrapping his metal hand around Zemo's throat, slamming him back against the doorjamb, crowding close. Zemo chokes momentarily but calms far too quickly for Bucky's taste, staring up at him with that damned placidity, that superiority, like he will always know more than Bucky does. Like he will always have the power, even when Bucky could crush his windpipe with barely a fraction of his strength.
"I will never," Bucky says lowly, "be Hydra's weapon again."
"Then it is a good thing I do not work for Hydra," is Zemo's easy reply.
Bucky laughs, dark and dangerous. "So you just want me to be your weapon, then. Yeah, I'm sure that's so much better."
"You can hate me as much as you want, James, but it will not change the fact that your craving for direction was so strong that it brought you to my door, standing watch."
Bucky's fingers flex, the metal plates whirring as they shift.
He wants to do it. He wants to squeeze, to watch the life go out of this man who has brought so much pain. Killed King T'Chaka, framed Bucky for the murder. Controlled him. Used him to tear apart the Avengers. Friendships destroyed, relationships ended. All because of this. Man.
But he can't do it. He tries to tell himself that it's because of the mission, that they still need him, but he—he just can't. It's not about the goddamn mission, or about what they need. Bucky needs him.
Bucky needs him.
An order to be released. Bucky doesn't have to do it. He's free. His name is Bucky Barnes, he is not the Winter Soldier, and he is free.
Right now, only one of those statements feels like the truth.
Bucky's fingers uncurl one by one until his grip is lax and then gone completely, arm dropping to hang at his side. Zemo looks pleased. Bucky swallows thickly.
"," Zemo says. Approval, a blessing, everything Bucky wishes he didn't want.
"." Bucky thanks him automatically, uses the honorific automatically, and he sucks in a sharp breath as soon as the words are out of his mouth. Thank you, Sir, like that's what this is, like Zemo is his commanding officer, like any of this is in any way okay—
Zemo's smile grows. "See?" he says. "I told you when you first came to me for assistance—there's something still inside of you. A piece of the Winter Soldier will always remain, because despite how much you want to claim that none of it was you, it is not so easy to dismiss seven decades of service."
Bucky closes his eyes. It wasn't him. It wasn't him. They wiped his mind, brainwashed him, tortured him. He never had a choice, he was barely a person. It wasn't him.
It wasn't you, Buck. And I'll tell you that as many times as I need to for it to stick.
But Steve isn't here. Steve left to go grow old with Peggy and now he's dead and Bucky is alone with a fractured psyche and no goddamn idea what to do next. No safety net he trusts. No one he believes will truly have his back at the end of the day.
Sam cares about him, Bucky knows he does. But Sam cares about everyone, and Bucky isn't naïve enough to think he'll ever come first.
Zemo, well. Of course he doesn't care about Bucky. Of course there's no love here, or affection. But none of that matters, because Zemo at least finds him useful. Zemo won't toss him aside, not when he's the Winter Soldier. Not when having him gives him something no one else in the world has.
Or maybe Bucky's delusional. Maybe he's telling himself complete and utter garbage.
Maybe he's just damn tired of this itch under his skin, and he wants someone—anyone—to give him direction.
"," Bucky says hoarsely. Words he never thought would pass his lips again.
Zemo's eyes spark. He steps to the side and gestures inside the room. The request—order—is clear, and Bucky does as he's told, striding inside Zemo's bedroom.
He gives a perfunctory glance around, checking automatically for any threats or weapons, and then turns to face Zemo as the other man shuts the door behind him. Bucky finds himself slipping into parade rest again. Watching. Waiting for—for orders.
"Soon, we will go after Nagel," Zemo says. His hands fold behind his back too, but unlike the stance of a soldier, he makes it seem regal. "You will be what you were today again. You will threaten him if you need to. You will do whatever it takes to achieve our ends. ?"
Bucky shudders. He should stop this. He should tell Zemo he's insane, that he can't order Bucky around. That he's not his to command, he's no ones, he's his own person, not a weapon. When they go after Negal, Bucky will do what he thinks is appropriate, not go to the lengths Zemo wants him to. He will not be the Winter Soldier.
He opens his mouth to say that.
What comes out instead is, "."
Zemo nods his approval. It floods through Bucky in a rush, and he takes a slow breath through his nose to remain calm. Zemo just watches him, looking at him like he's trying to figure out what makes him tick.
No, no that's not it. Zemo already knows all of Bucky's innerworkings, better than almost anyone alive. He knows what goes on inside Bucky's head, knows exactly how to rearrange his insides and create something new, pull him out of his skin and shove something else back in.
But is it really something else? Or is it just another version of you.
So no, it's not trying to understand. The look Zemo is giving him is one of almost...fascination. A strange kind of light in his eyes at having Bucky standing there before him, ready to follow his orders. He doesn't looks surprised in the slightest to have Bucky in his grasp once more.
Bucky hates all the more for it.
Zemo walks closer, a slow, easy stroll. Bucky doesn't move, doesn't tense, lets Zemo get as close as the man wants to. His hand lifts, smooth fingers drifting down Bucky's cheek, like he did when he offered Bucky up to Selby. He will do anything you want, he said to her, soft and confident. Enticing. Suggestive.
Bucky holds still under the attention now the same way he did then, but this time his eyes are locked onto Zemo's face, watching. Part of him still feels moments away from attacking, from striking out to stop this psychopath from touching him or controlling him.
"Before you were his pet psychopath, you were Mr. America!"
Bucky forcefully pushes Sharon's words from earlier out of his head, hating that they came back to him at all. Hating that what he is is so obvious to everyone else. Zemo's pet psychopath. Hydra's killing machine. Captain America's loyal soldier. Always something that belongs to someone else, to another's legacy. Never Bucky Barnes for the sake of being Bucky Barnes.
Zemo's hand drops. "You wish to be useful."
It's not really a question, more a statement of fact, but Bucky gives a small confirming nod nonetheless. It feels like taking a final step, one he can't take back.
"Later the real job begins," Zemo says, and Bucky feels that restless thing rise in him again, the need to do something, to have a task, to be directed and commanded like he was in the bar—
But he finds himself settling far more quickly now. Because it's...out of his hands. Zemo is in command. What Zemo decides, Bucky will do. He has a job now. He just has to follow orders.
"For now," Zemo continues, eyes dancing, "I will make use of you. ."
Bucky folds to his knees as instructed, lifting his chin as to not break eye contact. Zemo's head tilts, observing him. Bucky wishes he knew what's going on inside the man's head, what he's thinking about all of this, if he has a larger ulterior motive that's going to hurt them all—
He lets those wishes go. He isn't supposed to have wishes. He's supposed to serve. No thinking, no hoping, no wondering; just the order to go to his knees. Just waiting for the next order to come.
So simple. So...familiar.
Zemo's hands go to the fastening of his pants, and Bucky doesn't flinch as the knowledge of what's to come truly hits him. There had been the possibly, but he hadn't known...
There were handlers who did this, in the past. Commanding officers who looked at the handsome doll under their control and decided to have a little fun. It wasn't frequent, but. But it happened, and Bucky remembers them all.
It was all...mechanical. Open your mouth. Spread your legs. Lie back. Bend over. Simple orders, easy to obey and send his mind far, far away. Not be present for what they were making him do, the same way he faded into nothingness when they made him kill.
It isn't like that now. There weren't any code words, he can't vanish inside his mind. He is viscerally, violently aware of what's happening, and the fact that he's letting it happen. He's letting Zemo take control, use his body how he wants to. He's letting a man who killed so many people access his very heart, and pluck at the right strings to make him do as commanded.
You will do whatever it takes to achieve our ends, Zemo told him, and he knows that he will. He knows he will follow that order.
There is a certain kind of relief inside of him. He's not directionless anymore, isn't making it up as he goes along. Isn't trying his fucking hardest to be the person Steve left behind, isn't trying to honor a man who chose an entire other time period over him.
He isn't the Winter Soldier anymore, not really, but he isn't just Bucky Barnes, either. He's something in between, and maybe that's a little scary, but it's far less so with someone else taking the reins.
"," Zemo says, and Bucky does.
He doesn't understand how everything Zemo says feels like a command when he never raises his voice, never sharpens his tone. Bucky is familiar with barked orders and shouted commands, but Zemo—he never does that. He just speaks, with the knowledge that he will be obeyed. Complete confidence that he will come out on top, and everyone else will fall in line.
Bucky, on his knees and with Zemo's cock slowly being pushed into his mouth, can't even say that he's wrong about that.
Zemo rocks his hips slowly, pushing in deep each time and dragging out. Bucky breathes through his nose, lets his gaze unfocus. Instead focuses on the feel of his commander on his tongue, the feeling of his hand threaded through Bucky's short hair, the other cupping the curve of his jaw. Holding him, firm but not painful. The confidence to know he doesn't have to physically force Bucky into place. The knowledge that Bucky will stay there simply because he was told to do so.
"Breathe," Zemo tells him, and it's the only warning he gets before the man pushes deeper, harder, fucking himself into Bucky's throat. And Bucky does as he's told; he breathes in time with Zemo pulling out, remaining calm when the man is deep enough to cut off his air supply.
He remains pliant, obedient, a good soldier. A loyal weapon. Anything his commander needs him to be.
Everything is going to be okay. Nothing major has to change, not really. He's still in control of what happens to him. He'll continue on the mission with Sam and Zemo, and they'll take down the Flag Smashers, and then he'll...decide what he wants to do from there. Because he isn't mindless, he isn't under control. This is all pretend. He can stop Zemo any time he wants. And Sam never has to know that Bucky's focus has—shifted, for the moment.
Zemo comes down his throat, and when he says, "," Bucky follows the order, not letting a drop of Zemo's cum go.
He's released, Zemo pulling out just as slowly as he originally pushed in, and Bucky pants, catching his breath. Zemo's fingers run through his hair, and Bucky leans into the touch, feeling—accomplished.
"Well done, Soldat," Zemo murmurs.
The hand that settles on the top of Bucky's head feels like absolution.
They find William Nagel hiding away in a shipyard.
Bucky shoves him into a chair and puts a gun to his head, emotionless as the man looks up at him. He refuses to speak and Bucky shifts the gun, firing a shot off by the man's ear. The next one will go in his leg if he remains silent, if the threat of what could happen isn't enough to get him to open up.
He answers the questions, until he doesn't, and Bucky digs his gun into Nagel's temple, impassive as the man closes his eyes and takes a shuddering breath. Bucky gets them the information they need, and then he doesn't blink when Zemo lifts the gun and shoots the scientist dead.
Sam and Sharon jump on him, wrestle the gun from Zemo's hand, but Bucky simply holsters his own weapon and tries to think of what they're supposed to do next.
Whatever it takes, Zemo ordered the night before, and Bucky will comply.