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There were things between Zemo and Bucky that Sam knew nothing about.
Sam didn’t know, for example, how long Bucky was planning to break Zemo out of prison. It was a plan that had hatched in the back of Bucky’s mind long ago. He’d still been in Wakanda. He had been down by the lake, working on something that was close to meditation, when Shuri had come by to check on him. He’d asked after Zemo and he’d known that he shouldn’t have. He would be in prison the rest of his life, Shuri had told him, her tone cold. Bucky got it, of course. Zemo had - inadvertently, technically - killed her father. It wasn’t like Bucky was thrilled with the fact the man who had killed his own father - deliberately but without a choice, technically - had no punishment coming for it.
His meditative state had been ruined; he was distracted by mentally weighing Zemo’s crimes against his own. Zemo had bombed the UN and framed him for it. Once, Bucky had massacred an entire castle full of people in Sokovia. He still remembered the howls of fear as he’d made his way through the building. Zemo’s entire body count didn’t even equal one half-forgotten night in Bucky’s long life.
“That wasn’t you,” Steve had told him.
It was, but Bucky had long since grown tired of correcting people on that.
Zemo didn’t need correction on it. He’d known exactly who Bucky was, exactly who Bucky had always been afraid he was, since the moment they’d met. Bucky knew he shouldn’t have been thinking of Zemo back then, in Wakanda, when he was supposed to be focused on peace and freedom. And he had been; he’d been happy there, he’d started to become a person again and he’d had a life, for a time. But he had known then that he had a tie binding him to Zemo. Shuri had explained the surgery to him many times; she had removed the trigger words by rerouting his neural pathways using vibranium. It meant that his memories were left intact - too intact; Bucky would have happily given up the ones that haunted him at night. But it meant that there was still a special place in his mind for people who had used the words on him. Kapranov, Volkova, Federoff, Levitsky, Karpov. Zemo. Two of them were still alive, as far as he knew. The others long gone.
He was glad the Americans had never used the words, though he had no idea why. It meant that his years with them had mostly been hazy at the time. He remembered it now, of course. Pierce. Rumlow and Rollins and Reynolds, Sitwell’s nasty smile. But he had no urge to find them. No urge to return to them.
When Bucky moved back to Brooklyn, in his cold, small apartment where all he really did was sit on the floor and watch sports and feel absolutely nothing, he’d looked for Karpov and Zemo. Karpov had been found dead in his Ohio apartment years ago. The thought was odd; it was strange that Karpov would have moved to America, and Bucky wondered if he’d done it when he’d been sent there. Zemo was in Germany. He’d put him on the list of people he needed closure with for his therapy; he’d put him in the middle of the list so it didn’t seem like he was either the first or last thought. Dr. Raynor didn’t know about things between he and Zemo, either.
He wrote to Zemo; Zemo had written back.
They had hatched the breakout plan together months before it happened.
Sam didn’t know that.
As soon as he was in the same space as Zemo and Sam simultaneously, on the plane to Madripoor, Bucky had been instantly uncomfortable. He didn’t keep secrets well; Hydra had designed him otherwise. They hadn’t wanted a weapon who could deceive them. And it was clear from the moment that Zemo had pickpocketed his notebook that he was in the mood to play. Bucky wasn’t. There may have been something tying him to Zemo, but it didn’t mean he liked it. He didn’t like any of the Winter Soldier programming still in his head. And he especially didn’t like that Zemo seemed to be the only person on the planet, himself included, who didn’t mind it.
And then Madripoor had happened.
The mission had felt off from the moment they’d got dressed. Sam had been distracted by how much he hated his suit; he hadn’t noticed that Bucky had fallen silent from the moment he’d put on his own clothes. They were accurate; too accurate. Even the empty holster, the halter that he couldn’t put on himself, that he’d had to have Sam tighten. Zemo had produced the fucking muzzle from somewhere and tried to put it on; it was the only thing that Bucky couldn’t take, and he’d snatched it violently from Zemo’s hand, shaking his head.
For some reason, Zemo had found that amusing.
Sam hadn’t seen that interaction. Bucky was absolutely certain that Sam would have a major problem with how he and Zemo were, if he actually knew.
But the main problem with Madripoor hadn’t been he and Zemo; it had been the quick dissolution of the mission itself, the disaster in the back room. Bucky had been distracted by Zemo; of course he had been, by the feelings conjured up when Zemo had pretended - at least he hoped he was pretending - to sell him. The way he had said he will do anything you want. What that said Zemo knew about him. Bucky didn’t know why he was surprised; Zemo knew every one of Hydra’s secrets, and he was a good number of those secrets himself. But he’d been distracted, and things had gone badly.
Sam didn’t know that Bucky blamed himself for that.
Bucky didn’t even know why he did, when Sam was the one stupid enough to leave his phone on. But something similar had happened with the STRIKE team; they’d been on a stealth mission and Reynolds had taken a phone call in the middle of everything. (‘No, I can talk,’ Bucky remembered him saying, as Rumlow had grabbed the phone from his hand and hurled it against the wall, their cover completely blown.) Bucky had taken the punishment for it that night; Rumlow had been rougher than usual, angry, taking it out on him. Bucky had deserved that, too.
And all of that explained why, when they got to Sharon’s house, when Bucky had changed into a nice black suit that should have made him feel more like a human, and Sam and Sharon were downstairs talking, he’d gone to Zemo’s room.
Zemo looked at him, eyes narrowed, curious, his head tilted.
Bucky didn’t know where to start.
Eventually, Zemo had elected to ignore his sudden appearance in his room, going over to the large window over the bed and gesturing out with one hand. The views were amazing; Madripoor, or High Town at the very least, was gorgeous at night, all the lights reflecting over the water. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” He glanced at Bucky in the reflection. “Of course, when we have been in captivity a long time, everything looks beautiful.”
Sam had said, dozens of times, that Zemo would mess with Bucky’s head. What he didn’t know was that Bucky was completely aware of that, and most of him just didn’t care. He still found himself drawn to Zemo. He still followed him around; he still walked two steps behind him, he still automatically deferred to him.
And right now, he wanted Zemo to punish him, because the mission had been screwed up.
But he didn’t know how to say that, and so instead he just stared at him.
After a while, Zemo turned from the window, and took a sip of the whiskey in his hand. “Can I help you, James?”
Yes, was the answer, but Bucky’s mouth was too dry. He wanted Zemo to just know. He should have known. He’d used the words. He’d had the book. Bucky was sure that the book explained what happened to him after a mission went wrong. It hadn’t happened much with the Soviets; he’d been too sharp, too good. After missions he was petted and adored, his hair brushed, his baths pleasant and warm. But in the early years it had taken him a while to learn his obedience. Zemo should have known.
With a small laugh, Zemo stepped closer. “There is something you want, isn’t there?”
Bucky glared at him, before directing his gaze somewhere over Zemo’s shoulder. He could hear, distantly, Sam and Sharon talking. He couldn’t catch the words. They wouldn’t know about this. “The mission. It was my fault.”
Whatever Zemo had expected him to say, apparently it wasn’t that, because his head tilt deepened and even from the corner of his eye, Bucky could see him fix his gaze on him. “You weren’t responsible for that.”
There was silence.
Eventually Bucky flicked his gaze back to Zemo’s.
Understanding seemed to dawn, and Zemo shook his head. “Ah. Hydra would do that. Any fault on a mission was assigned to you.” He clicked his tongue, sounding disapproving. Even though Bucky knew the disapproval wasn’t directed at him, it still stung. He didn’t know if he was offended on Hydra’s behalf or it was just a Pavlovian response to a handler being unhappy. “You were not at fault tonight.”
Before he could stop himself, Bucky replied. “But I was.”
The silence hung again, heavy, as Zemo narrowed his eyes again. He seemed to be trying to work Bucky out, and for a moment, Bucky was irrationally pleased by the sight. He had a feeling that it was rare for Zemo to not completely understand someone; Bucky must have been an itch he couldn’t seem to scratch. He had no idea if Zemo knew how tied he felt to him; no idea if Zemo knew exactly how long he’d been thinking of him or how drawn he was. He didn’t want him to know. He wanted him to be as annoyed and frustrated by their connection as Bucky was.
But instead, Zemo took a step away, and another sip of his drink. “This was never documented in any files.” He paused, to glance back at him. Everything Zemo did was so orchestrated, so calculated, that it drove Bucky insane. “And as you know, I have read millions. But this… I assume this fell under their… off the books treatment of you.”
Bucky nodded, just once. He was under no illusion they’d written everything down. He couldn’t exactly picture Rumlow finishing with him and heading off to write up the paperwork. ‘Rollins missed a shot. I fucked the Soldier’s mouth until he cried. He seemed to get the picture.’
Once again, the heavy silence blanketed them, and it was almost too much tension for Bucky to stand. He wanted to lash out, wanted to tear the glass from Zemo’s hand and hurl it against the nearest wall. He wanted to turn on his heel and go back down to Sam and Sharon. He wanted to keep this secret from Zemo, as much as he still could. But Zemo simply sauntered over to the bedside table, which held a decanter of whatever he was drinking, and refilled his glass. He glanced back at Bucky. “Okay.”
Bucky just looked at him. “Okay? That’s all you’re gonna say?”
Zemo gave a half shrug as he sipped at the drink again. “Okay.” He gestured in front of him. “Do what you need to do.”
“That’s not—“ Bucky closed his eyes for a moment, frustrated. He knew that Zemo was doing this deliberately. He wanted Bucky to humiliate himself; wanted him to actually ask for it. When he opened his eyes again, though, Zemo was still looking at him with an open, neutral expression. It was a mask; everything Zemo ever did was hidden under a mask. Bucky heaved a sigh, and reported in a flat tone, staring into space, “You’re supposed to punish me for the mission going wrong.”
“And how would you have me do that?”
There was a note of something in Zemo’s voice that sounded almost like he was amused by this. That it was a game to him. Bucky was sure that it was; this absolutely seemed like something Zemo would see as funny. But all that did was make feel Bucky more annoyed. If he was going to be drawn to Zemo like this, it seemed only fair that Zemo play his part in return. But he didn’t seem to realise that. Or he did, and didn’t care. That somehow seemed much more likely. “I don’t know,” he said, frustrated, when what he meant was that’s not up to me.
There was another pause, and Bucky felt uncomfortably like Zemo was assessing him. Well, uncomfortable wasn’t quite right: the problem was that it felt totally familiar, like pulling on an old costume, like slipping the muzzle over his face. He felt himself stand straighter without realising he was doing it, raising his chin. He could have been back in Siberia, Karpov walking around him. He was, alarmingly, ready to comply.
He’d always known the trigger words weren’t the only tentacles Hydra had left furled in his brain.
Zemo had known it, too. Something is still in there. The words still echoed in Bucky’s mind. Another thing that Sam didn’t know.
“On your knees, then,” Zemo said, his voice soft.
Bucky had to fight a smile from spreading across his face as he dropped, too fast, to his hands and knees. He stared straight ahead. There had never been any rules about this; the STRIKE team had always liked when he scowled at them, angry even in his compliance. The Soviets had preferred him to look away. Zemo, he imagined, would want to see his face, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to give him that.
The room was quiet, and he heard Zemo’s footsteps as he came up to Bucky’s front. He expected a sharp kick; he expected a slap to the face. Instead, Zemo crouched in front of him. His glass was still held in one hand, and with the other, he took Bucky by the chin. His touch was too gentle. It shouldn’t have been. He tilted Bucky’s face up until Bucky had no choice but to look at him. He’d been this close to Zemo before, though it had been different: through the haze of the words in Berlin as he interrogated him about Siberia and the other Winter Soldiers. As he grabbed him by the throat on the plane, and seen a flicker of fear cross his expression. This was completely different. He expected to see something there: pity, probably, but he couldn’t read the look Zemo wore at all. “The things they did to you,” Zemo said, and Bucky couldn’t read that, either: it didn’t quite seem like pity, but nor did it sound like admiration.
Maybe just acknowledgement.
Bucky wasn’t sure anyone had ever actually acknowledged it like that before. But then again, who among his people knew all of what Hydra had done? Not Sam. Not Steve. Not Dr. Raynor. They’d been too afraid to ask. He’d seen it in Steve, the few opportunities they’d had to spend together before Steve had left for his new life. There was a certain look about him when he looked at Bucky. It was guilt, he thought, as if somehow everything that had happened was Steve’s fault rather than Bucky’s. Bucky could never have told him the worst of it. It would have destroyed him. Sam, too. Dr. Raynor he just didn’t like telling anything to.
But Zemo, Zemo already knew it all.
“Show me,” Zemo said, finally, standing up again. Bucky glanced up at him, and Zemo repeated, “Show me you can make up for what happened.”
It was horrible: something Bucky could only identify as relief dripped down his throat, pooling in his chest, and he felt almost like he had to gasp for air. He closed his eyes for a moment. His life had been so complicated ever since he’d left Wakanda: he hadn’t thought for himself in over seventy years and those parts of his brain had long since atrophied. He’d had to try and re-learn everything. He’d, somehow, been better at it in Romania. It was harder in Brooklyn: more people trying to contact him, more things to do, more things to take care of and consider. He felt like he was getting worse at it, not better, and part of that was the complications that Raynor added in. But this was simple: he’d screwed up, he would make up for it, and then they could go on with the night.
He reached forward, quickly, for Zemo’s belt, deftly undoing it with his right hand.
There was a mystery to this, a challenge to this: usually, he knew what would work for the particular person who was punishing him. Rumlow just liked to fuck him; Rollins preferred to absolutely terrify him by making him sit there silently while he played video games, not letting him touch him, just making him afraid of the anticipation for hours. Pierce liked him to debase himself, liked him to clean his shoes with his tongue. The Soviets, way back when, had been simple: he would be fucked, efficient and quick, and thrown into a cell by himself in the dark. But Zemo he had absolutely no idea.
And Zemo was apparently set on giving him no clues, because when Bucky glanced up at him he just looked almost disinterested, still sipping at his drink. He wasn’t disinterested - it was obvious that it was an act, because Bucky could sense the slight tension in his muscles, and the way his breath was suddenly a little more shallow. He couldn’t stop himself from glancing down at Bucky every now and then. Bucky smiled to himself, as he shifted Zemo’s pants down his hips. His cock was half-hard, and gorgeous; his thighs were more thick with muscle than he’d expected after years of being in prison. He had a dusting of freckles and moles across his pale skin that matched his face, and for a moment, Bucky was almost distracted by the fact he was also more than a little turned on. He hadn’t been aroused since he’d left Hydra. Not on any of the terrible, abandoned dates he’d been on. Not when he’d tried to get himself up, in the dark of his apartment.
It made sense, though. Of course Hydra had fucked him up this way too. There wasn’t any part of him they’d left untouched.
He glanced up at Zemo again, though he wasn’t giving any direction. Then again, he’d said it was up to Bucky to show him: he wasn’t going to help him. After a moment, Bucky reached up with his right hand and took Zemo in his grasp. A small, almost mewling sound came from Zemo, then: it was so quiet that unenhanced ears wouldn’t have heard it, and Bucky doubted Zemo even knew he’d made it. He guessed it had been an incredibly long time since someone had touched him. He doubted Zemo’s imprisonment was anything like Bucky’s in that way. He was glad, though, that it was positive reinforcement: there had been people over the years who had preferred Bucky to use his left hand, and he hated it. He didn’t want to do that with Zemo. The arm was a weapon and a risk; using it for something like this was stressful and made the punishment infinitely worse. There was also the risk that he’d hurt him. (How annoyed Sam would be, he thought, that Bucky even thought twice about the risk of hurting Zemo.)
Belatedly, he realised that what he should have thought was that he didn’t want to debase Wakanda’s gift to him like that. Even now, he sometimes forgot that the arm wasn’t Hydra’s any more.
Gently, he started to shift his hand up and down Zemo’s cock, careful of his grip, careful to not hold too hard. It was muscle memory to him now; he’d been holding himself back so long it was second nature. He remembered the first time he’d gone through a door after the experiments in 1943 and accidentally ripped the door handle off. Morita had been walking behind him and laughed. Bucky had been horrified.
That was a different life. A different him.
The real Bucky Barnes was the one kneeling on the floor right now, jerking off Baron Zemo to make up for a mission being screwed up. He almost shook his head at himself. He had no idea how the hell his life had come to this, but then again, he really had no idea how any of his life had panned out the way it had. He watched Zemo as he rubbed his thumb over the tip of his cock, and saw him swallow, hard, nothing to do with the drink he was still nursing. He could feel the tension in Zemo’s legs and shifted forward, moving his left hand up to cup Zemo’s ass, drawing him closer.
Zemo was hard, and Bucky drew his hand back to make room for his mouth, drawing him in. This time there was a reaction from Zemo; a curse in Sokovian, as his free hand reached vaguely for Bucky’s head, then fell back to his side. He took a swallow of his drink, and Bucky could smell his sweat, mingled with his cologne. This was something he was good at; he’d been good at it his entire life. He’d been good at sex since he’d been a teenager, and it was the best way he knew to make up for his own stupid mistakes. He’d show him. He took Zemo deep in his mouth, letting his eyes close. This, too, was muscle memory. It wasn’t like Zemo reminded him of anyone from Hydra; he wasn’t loud or rough like Rumlow, he wasn’t constantly talking like Reynolds, but he’d been in this exact position so many times that it just felt natural. He felt the back of his throat open and Zemo’s breath catch in response. He pressed his tongue against him and felt the muscles in his ass twitch. He was good at this. He was doing the right thing. He was making it up to him.
After a moment, Zemo’s hand twitched and Bucky reached for it, pulling it to rest it on top of his head. Zemo’s fingers curled in his hair and for a moment Bucky was rocketed back to all the times people had done that, hands twisted in long dark hair, yanking his head wherever they wanted it. He’d felt liberated when he’d cut his hair. It had taken him less than twenty-four hours to miss it. He’d kept it short ever since.
Zemo still wasn’t moving, even as Bucky did, began setting them a gentle rhythm, began fucking his own mouth on Zemo’s cock, guiding him in and out of him, letting his lips play across the top of him every time he nearly drew him all the way out. There were too many memories stirring in his head because he wasn’t quite getting this act right; this wasn’t quite like it had been with Hydra. It was a heady kind of mix of punishment/proof that he’d always had to do with the Americans, and something more long-forgotten. He’d never done anything like this with men back then; he’d kissed a few, but nothing more. (It still irritated him that Steve had never let him kiss him. He’d been very determined to be the one to teach Steve to kiss, and Steve had been stubbornly insistent that he didn’t need it.) But there was something about this that was more playful than it should have been, and that felt like long hot nights with girls, where the window would be propped open to let in some kind of breeze, and they’d be laughing to try and keep from being too loud and alerting neighbours. This shouldn’t have been reminding him of that, but Zemo’s hand on him was too gentle, and it was confusing.
A little rough, he tightened his hand on his ass and drew him in, trying to force Zemo to create a faster rhythm. He didn’t seem to get it, seemed determined to let Bucky control this. It made sense, he guessed; this was his punishment, he was the one who had to prove things to Zemo, not the other way around, but it was still annoying. (Then again, it was Zemo. If there was one thing Bucky genuinely didn’t care that people knew about the two of them, it was that he found Zemo deeply, truly annoying.) He swallowed around Zemo’s cock and was pleased that the hand tightened in his hair enough that it was just short of painful. Encouraged, he gently let his teeth scrape along his length as he pulled him from his mouth again. This time, Zemo’s hand finally guided him, shoving him back down. The relief pulsed through Bucky again as Zemo hit the back of his mouth almost too fast, almost too far down. He didn’t choke; he was better at this than that, but he had to press metal fingers into Zemo’s skin to keep himself from overbalancing.
Letting his teeth press against him, he pushed his tongue up, hard, and this time Zemo groaned, fully. Bucky was even more pleased with that. He was doing this right, he was making up for what had happened; he was staving off a worse punishment. It had been like that very early on; before he’d learned, before he was obedient, if he didn’t pay for mistakes like this, things would get worse for him. This was good. He hadn’t forgotten everything he had learned.
He was still aware enough to know that there was something majorly fucked up about that way of thinking, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. He shifted his other hand up to Zemo’s other side and drew him in further, as close as he could, closing his eyes as he opened his throat and took him in more than he had before. He could hear Zemo’s stifled gasp, as if he were taking a drink when it happened. Bucky should have been alarmed, he knew, at how clear his mind felt, here, like this, eyes closed and mouth filled with Zemo’s cock. But it came down to what he’d been struggling with: a complicated life where he didn’t understand any of the rules. This was easy, simple, straightforward. This was what they’d designed him to live like.
It was obvious that Zemo was close, as Bucky roughly massaged his ass with both hands; he could feel that telltale anticipatory tension in his muscles. Zemo’s hand tightened in his hair again and he tried to pull Bucky off, but there was no way; he scowled and pressed his fingers against Zemo, keeping him deep in his throat. Zemo swore, again, in Sokovian once more though this time it was directed at Bucky; he was calling him a bastard. That was more like it. Bucky let his teeth lightly clamp down as he twisted his tongue up to press along his length as much as he could, and finally Zemo came, spilling down his throat. Bucky kept him pressed close and didn’t relinquish his grip even as Zemo tried again to pull him off. When Zemo was spent Bucky let him go and sat back on his haunches, deliberately swallowing as he looked up at him, unable to wipe away his smile. He knew when he’d done a good job.
Zemo’s expression was unreadable as he looked down at him, but again there was something amused in his eyes. There was a sheen of sweat across his brow, though, and he looked more ruffled than Bucky had seen him before. He let go of Bucky’s hair as if it surprised him to discover that it was still there, and briefly touched his cheek. Bucky didn’t pull away from the touch, though it was a close thing. It hadn’t really been uncommon for handlers to be gentle with him; Karpov and Volkova especially had been, but not usually when they were in the middle of a punishment session.
Then again, he’d done well, so a reward made sense, too.
“On your feet,” Zemo said as he pulled his pants up and finally set his glass aside, and there was a small shake to his tone.
Without answering, Bucky got up. His mouth felt raw; it had been a while, and he’d taken Zemo deeper than was really necessary. It was a good feeling. It would remind him of what he’d done all night, until the serum healed it all over. He could swallow some ice, that might help, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to ease the feeling. It was all part of it.
Zemo was watching him, his eyes passing over every inch of Bucky’s face. Bucky was more comfortable with it, now. This would be added to the list of things nobody knew about the two of them. Zemo looking at him felt comfortable, felt easy. Zemo shook his head, and after a moment, Bucky felt him reach for his belt. He couldn’t quite catch the look of confusion that passed over his face. This wasn’t normal; this wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
“I have no intention of leaving you like this,” Zemo said, and his voice was low, rougher than Bucky had realised.
He took Bucky’s cock in his hand and Bucky nearly felt his legs go out from under him as he started to stroke. He could feel his mind rapidly trying to grasp for something that would explain this; maybe it was a reward for what he’d done, for the fact he’d been successful, he’d made up for the mistakes he’d made. Maybe it wasn’t, maybe it was just what Zemo wanted to do, and that too was fine; how Bucky made it up to him was up to Zemo to decide, not him. All in all it didn’t matter at all, it didn’t matter how he scrambled to justify it, because Zemo’s hand was hard around him and he was creating the most incredible friction. Bucky’s head fell back, his mouth open, and his breath was shallow.
Whatever Zemo wanted him to do to make up for what had happened was fine by him. His toes curled in his shoes, he could hear the vibranium in his arm beginning to shift and whir. Zemo’s hand was skilled; he knew just the pressure to use, just the right way to shift his fingers. He scraped a fingernail across the width of Bucky’s cock and the simple jolt of pleasurable pain was enough, he shifted on his toes, trying to thrust helplessly into Zemo’s hand.
It had never been this gentle before, not with Hydra; Rumlow had done this a few times to reward him for something or other but he’d always been rougher, his hands bigger, harder, more cut and calloused. Rumlow had also never looked him in the eyes the way Zemo was. Bucky could imagine what Sam would say - well, not about this specifically, but his general view of Zemo applied to this situation would say that Zemo was doing this deliberately, toying with Bucky, manipulating him. If this was what manipulation felt like, Bucky was fine with it.
He didn’t last long, but it had been a long time since his body had even felt like this; he came over Zemo’s hand and Zemo drew back, saying nothing, but giving him a nod.
Bucky stood there, pants open and cock beginning to soften, as Zemo walked through to the ensuite bathroom to clean his hand. There was a mix inside him of something like afterglow that combined with the knowledge that for once, for the first time in a long time, he’d followed clear rules, done the right thing, and someone was actually pleased with him. Bucky had been letting everyone he knew down ever since he’d left Wakanda.
“<Well done,>” Zemo said in quiet Russian as he came out of the bathroom, wiping his hands with a soft looking towel that he carelessly tossed on the bed. The praise washed over Bucky, adding to the warm glow. Zemo had his head tilted as he watched him. “Do you feel better?”
He did feel better; he felt like he’d made amends for what had happened, but somehow that felt like the wrong thing to admit to Zemo. It felt like too much leverage. For all the things between them he didn’t trust Zemo, not entirely. That, at least, Sam would agree with him on. But at the same time, he couldn’t quite lie and so he went for the minimum viable response; he nodded, sharp, and pulled his pants up. He fumbled for a second with the zipper, accidentally automatically using his left hand. Zemo came over and did it for him, fastening the button and reaching to touch Bucky’s cheek. Though it took him too long, Bucky pulled back, giving him a look. This wasn’t the play act from the bar any more; he wasn’t Zemo’s loyal Soldier right now.
Of course, he realised, there was some pretty compelling evidence in the past half hour that he’d blurred that line.
“Come on,” Zemo said, walking past Bucky toward the door. “Our friends will be getting suspicious.”
“They’re not your friends,” Bucky replied, automatic, not turning to reply. After a moment, he added, “Or mine.” He wasn’t sure if that aligned him more with Zemo, or more on his own. He almost opened his mouth to add that Zemo couldn’t tell them about what had just happened, but that, too, felt like giving him too much power. Once again, Zemo looked amused, and just gave Bucky a nod before he walked out.
Bucky let his head fall back, starting to feel the glow wear off, the relief drain out of him, and the familiar dread and existential discomfort fall over him again. Things weren’t simple. Things were far from simple, and about the only thing that he could count on right now was that he kept adding to his Zemo problem, and it was nobody’s fault but his own.
Sam was going to kill him.
He had a feeling that Sam wasn’t going to be as simple to make something up to as Zemo was.
He closed his eyes, sighed, and followed out the door before Zemo could get too far ahead. When he reached the hallway, Zemo was waiting, looking back at him with a smirk. Bucky scowled at him. Maybe he’d kill Zemo first, before Sam had to know a thing.
He probably wouldn’t.
But it was a nice thought.
Zemo turned to continue through to Sam and Sharon, and without thinking, Bucky followed.