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The room held the hush of late winter—the kind of feeling that wrapped itself around bare skin and settled deep in the bones— both biting and strangely intimate. The fire in the hearth had burned low, embers glowing a dull red, flickering against the polished glass of an unfinished drink on the table. It wasn’t warm enough to chase the cold away, only enough to make the contrast worse.
Enough to remind them both that this wasn’t comfort, not yet.
Bucky sat with his back to the heat, gaze flickering over Zemo’s profile. He looked almost at ease in his chair, long fingers loose around the stem of a wine glass, but Bucky had learned how to read him better than that. He wasn’t still because he was relaxed. He was still because he was thinking.
And Bucky was letting him.
The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable. It wasn’t the heavy kind, the suffocating weight of something left unsaid. It was expectant. A pause between breaths, between words that neither of them were entirely sure should be spoken yet. The fire crackled, a log shifting in the embers, and in the dim light, Zemo exhaled, gaze sliding toward him with something that might’ve been amusement, or something sharper.
“You watch me too closely, Soldat.”
Bucky smirked at the deliberate word choice, though there was no heat in it. Just awareness, a thread of something taut between them. “I watch everything too closely,” he countered. “Keeps me alive.”
Zemo made a soft sound, almost a hum, taking a slow sip of his drink. “And yet, you stay. Here. With me.” His eyes didn’t leave Bucky’s face. “Why?”
The words curled between them, pressing into that unspoken thing that neither of them had named yet. Maybe because it didn’t need a name. Maybe because putting a name to it would make it something real, something that could be taken away, dissected, turned into something that didn’t belong in the space they had carved out between them.
Bucky didn’t answer right away. Instead, he let his gaze drop, let himself breathe through the moment. He could lie. He could make a joke, turn the conversation away, let it pass like smoke curling from the dying fire.
But he didn’t.
“I don’t know,” he admitted, voice low, steady.
Zemo didn’t move. He only watched, considering. He was good at waiting, at letting silence stretch until it became a living thing, pressing against the ribs, against the lungs. Bucky had spent too many years being filled with someone else’s silence, but Zemo’s wasn’t that. It wasn’t an absence.
It was an offering.
Bucky swallowed, shifting in his seat, and the movement was enough. Zemo moved too, just slightly—turning toward him, gaze dipping, thoughtful. “That is an honest answer,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly, like he wasn’t sure if he should smirk or keep whatever thought had formed behind his teeth. “Not one I expected.”
Bucky huffed out something like a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, well. You get enough bullshit in life, and you stop wanting to add to the pile.”
Zemo didn’t reply. He only lifted his glass, took another slow sip, and for the first time in a long time, Bucky felt something unfamiliar settle in the quiet between them.
It was something like ease— like a beginning.
The fire settled lower, shadows stretching along the edges of the room, softening the space between them. The warmth didn’t quite reach, but neither of them moved to stoke the embers. The moment felt balanced, precariously so, and Bucky wasn’t sure if shifting would tip it forward or break it altogether.
Zemo was watching him again—not the way most people did, with wariness or calculation, but with something quieter.
It wasn’t comfortable. But it wasn’t uncomfortable, either.
“You’ve stopped deflecting,” Zemo observed, tilting his glass slightly as he spoke. The light caught the dark, jewel tone of the liquid inside, fracturing against the cut crystal, before settling again. “I find that interesting.”
Bucky exhaled, letting his head tip back against the chair, staring up at the dark beams that crossed the ceiling. “I didn’t realize I was supposed to be entertaining you.”
Zemo made a low, amused sound. “You always have a choice. I never ask for anything you do not wish to give.”
That was a lie. Or at least, a version of the truth that suited him. Zemo always asked for something—sometimes with words, sometimes in the way he filled a room, in the way he could turn silence into something compelling rather than empty. He asked without asking, and Bucky was still figuring out why he didn’t mind that as much as he should.
He let his gaze drop again, back to Zemo’s, and this time, he didn’t look away.
“You ever get tired of waiting for people to come to you?” Bucky asked, voice low, curiosity threading through the words before he had time to second-guess them.
Zemo’s expression shifted, something sharp flickering just beneath the surface, gone before it could settle into anything recognizable. “No,” he said simply. “Anticipation is a patient thing. And patience has always served me well.”
Bucky scoffed. “That a fancy way of saying you like being in control?”
Zemo smiled, slow, deliberate. “You make that sound like a flaw.”
“Isn’t it?” Bucky asked, though there was no real bite to the question. Just something testing, something circling the edges of this thing that neither of them had pushed too hard against yet.
Zemo studied him for a long moment, then set his glass down with quiet precision. His fingers brushed against the rim, lingering, before he leaned forward slightly—just enough to shift the weight between them, just enough for Bucky to feel the heat of his presence as something tangible.
“No,” Zemo murmured. “Control is not a flaw. But you already know that, don’t you?”
Bucky swallowed, but he didn’t look away. He didn’t pull back.
Zemo had spent years mastering patience, and Bucky had spent years resisting the pull of someone else’s hands, someone else’s will. And yet, here they were, sitting in the space between those things, neither pulling nor pushing, only waiting to see what would happen next.
“I don’t like games,” Bucky said finally, voice quieter than he meant it to be.
Zemo’s expression softened— knowing. “Neither do I.”
A beat Passed. Then another.
The fire cracked, low and steady.
Zemo shifted again, rising smoothly from his chair. Bucky didn’t move, didn’t track the motion with his eyes, but he felt the shift in weight as Zemo moved past him, pausing just behind his chair. Close, but not too close. The air between them pulled taut.
A gloved hand settled lightly against the back of his chair, not touching him, but near enough to be felt. Bucky stayed still, let the moment sit, let himself measure what it meant that he wasn’t tensing against it.
Zemo’s voice was close, quiet. “Goodnight, James.”
The words were measured. Final.
Bucky closed his eyes for half a second, exhaling slow through his nose.
And then, before he could stop himself—
“You leaving?”
Zemo paused.
Bucky didn’t look at him, but he could feel it—that moment of consideration, the weight of a choice hovering between them.
Then, after a beat, Zemo exhaled, voice smooth as ever.
“No,” he murmured. “Not yet.”
And for some reason Bucky didn’t want to think too hard about, that felt like the only answer he needed.
The tension between them didn’t break. It stretched, pulled tight like a wire between two fixed points—too fine to see, too sharp to ignore.
Bucky didn’t turn around, didn’t track Zemo’s movements as the other man settled behind him, but he felt him. The air in the room shifted as if gravity had shifted with it, every inch of space between them becoming something heavier, something waiting.
Zemo had always been good at waiting.
Bucky had always been good at ignoring it. Until now.
He swallowed, but still didn’t turn, the hairs at the nape of his neck prickling as he felt the movement behind him, slow and deliberate. Zemo wasn’t crowding him, wasn’t pushing—but he was there. And that was worse, because it meant Bucky had to acknowledge the fact that he wanted him there. That he was waiting for him to move.
It was a mistake, but Bucky turned his head slightly anyway, just enough to see Zemo’s reflection in the dark glass of the window. Zemo wasn’t smirking, wasn’t needling, wasn’t making this a game.
He was just—waiting.
The moment stretched, held, and Bucky could feel the weight of it settle between them. The cold in the room was still there, but it was muted now, the firelight catching on the cut of Zemo’s jaw, the edge of his mouth.
Bucky wet his lips, didn’t look away. “You planning to stand there all night?”
Zemo tilted his head slightly, just a fraction, just enough. “Would you like me to?”
There was no mockery in the question. No taunt. Just something even, something waiting.
Bucky’s stomach tightened. His fingers twitched against his thigh.
He wasn’t good at this. At knowing what to say when things were this quiet, when there was no mission to focus on, no enemy to fight. He wasn’t good at knowing what to do when there was nothing but air between him and someone else.
But Zemo was.
And Bucky hated that, because it meant he had the power to end it, to walk away, to shift the balance of whatever the fuck this was. But he didn’t.
He let the moment breathe. He let it settle.
And then, finally, he reached out.
Zemo didn’t move or pull away. His eyes stayed on Bucky’s, steady, dark, unwavering as Bucky’s fingers curled into the edge of his sleeve.
“Sit,” Bucky said quietly.
The word felt heavy between them. Like something neither of them had touched before.
Zemo sank smoothly back into his chair, his movements as smooth and deliberate as always, but this time, there was something else behind it. Not calculation, but choice.
Bucky exhaled slowly through his nose, letting his fingers slip away, letting the warmth of Zemo’s skin through the fine fabric of his sleeve linger in his palm. He didn’t move away. Neither of them filled the silence with anything unnecessary.
It was easy. Too easy.
And then it wasn’t.
Then it was Bucky tipping forward just enough, until the space between them was gone entirely. Their mouths brushed together— The kiss was a simple thing, barely a brush of lips.
Zemo inhaled, a soft, barely-there sound, and then his fingers curled firmly around Bucky’s wrist, guiding, steady, grounding. And Bucky let him, let himself sink into the warmth, the weight, the certainty of it.
The fire cracked low behind them.
And neither of them pulled away.
The space between them shifted, narrowed, turning into something else. Something tangible. Something heavy with the kind of weight that had nothing to do with control and everything to do with permission.
Zemo didn’t push. He didn’t take. He only waited, breath steady against Bucky’s lips, fingers warm where they curled around his wrist.
Bucky exhaled, slow and deliberate, before closing the final distance between them.
This time, the kiss was deeper, more certain in it’s intensity. It wasn’t rushed, but it was careful, measured in a way Bucky didn’t usually allow himself to be. Zemo met him with the same patience, his mouth parting beneath the slow, deliberate drag of Bucky’s lips.
There was no urgency, only the inevitable weight of it, the way it settled between them like it had always been coming.
Zemo tasted like whiskey and something richer, something Bucky couldn’t name but wanted to chase, something that lingered when he pressed in further. Zemo let him. More than that—he allowed him, let Bucky push deeper, fingers slipping from his wrist to his jaw, tracing the sharp line of it before settling there.
There was no need for hesitation. Not anymore.
Bucky felt the moment shift as Zemo’s fingers brushed the side of his throat, deliberate and seeking. When Bucky didn’t pull away, Zemo’s touch became something firmer, something more certain, pressing into the warm skin just beneath his jaw as he tipped his head slightly, changing the angle, deepening the kiss.
Heat curled low in Bucky’s stomach, slow and insistent.
Zemo made a quiet sound, approving, just before his teeth grazed the curve of Bucky’s lower lip.
Bucky leaned in, groaning softly. He let Zemo feel the weight of him, let his hands slide lower, across the rich fabric of Zemo’s shirt, down the sharp cut of his waist. He felt the shift in Zemo’s breathing before he felt the tension in his fingers, the slight flex as he steadied himself.
Bucky knew the power in that. Knew what it meant.
So he didn’t hesitate.
He stood smoothly, pressing forward, pulling Zemo with him without resistance. The chair scraped slightly as Zemo rose to meet him, chest to chest, breath warm against Bucky’s jaw. Neither of them spoke. There was no need.
Bucky felt the flicker of tension in Zemo’s fingers when he reached for Bucky’s belt. The smooth undoing of it was deliberate, a slide of leather through metal.
He swallowed hard, watching the practiced movements, feeling the press of heat against his spine, against the inside of his ribs. His heart beat steady, but he could feel it quickening, feel the pull, the inevitability, the sheer gravity of Zemo’s hands as they settled against his waist.
They could still stop. But they wouldn’t.
Instead, he reached for Zemo’s collar, for the buttons, and slipped them open, one by one.
Zemo let him. And when Bucky finally leaned in, pressing him back against the edge of the table, it wasn’t a question.
It was an answer.
And Zemo took it.
—
The stumble toward the bed wasn’t a break in momentum—it was a shift, a recalibration, the moment between struggle and surrender, before something irreversible took hold. This wasn’t something that cracked all at once, like a foundation giving way. It was slower than that, more deliberate—a gradual unspooling, a series of moments slipping one into the next, each one making it harder for Bucky to pretend he wasn’t letting this happen.
Because Bucky had never been passive. Not in battle, not in moments like this.
As Zemo backed him toward the edge of the mattress, hands firm but not forceful, Bucky hesitated— body going a little stiff, unyielding for a just a moment. It wasn’t true resistance, not really, but it wasn’t in him to go down easy, to be led without testing the strength of the hands guiding him.
Bucky twisted against Zemo’s grip, catching him off guard just enough to shift their weight, enough to send them both crashing onto the bed. Zemo let out a quiet hnnph, caught beneath the solid press of Bucky’s body, his shirt open, belt loosened, lips swollen where Bucky had kissed him too hard.
Bucky braced above him, one knee between Zemo’s thighs, the other pressing firm against his hip. He was breathing harder now, hair loose around his face, chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. He didn’t say anything, only dragged his tongue across his lower lip, considering— deciding.
Zemo lay beneath him, gaze unreadable, steady. He could have pushed back. Could have shifted their weight, thrown Bucky off balance, turned the moment in his favor.
He didn’t.
He waited. Measuring, before he moved.
It wasn’t a sudden thing. It wasn’t forceful. It was a slow shift, a calculated press of his hands against Bucky’s waist, dragging him lower, closer, until there was no space left to pretend they weren’t doing this. Zemo exhaled, warm against Bucky’s throat as he tipped his head slightly, pressing his lips to the skin just below his jaw.
“You fight like it’s the only way to take,” Zemo murmured against his pulse, fingers tightening around the curve of Bucky’s hips. “But I am not taking, James. I am giving.”
Bucky shivered. He hated that. Hated the way Zemo made it sound like patience, like understanding, like this wasn’t something he had to be wrestled into. Like he didn’t have to lose in order to get what he wanted.
His fingers curled into Zemo’s open shirt, twisting in the fabric, knuckles flexing, as if he might pull him closer. Or shove him away.
Zemo tipped his chin, gaze dark, calm, knowing.
“What do you want?” he asked, quiet.
And fuck, the question sent something sharp and low through Bucky’s spine, something that hit too deep, too right, something that made his breath catch as Zemo shifted beneath him, pressing up, rolling them in a single measured movement that ended with Bucky flat on his back, Zemo’s weight settled between his thighs.
It made Bucky’s head spin.
Zemo held himself above him, letting Bucky feel the weight of him, the patience, the offer.
Bucky’s chest rose and fell— once, twice. His hands curled at his sides, fingers twitching like they wanted to fight.
Instead, they lifted, slow, deliberate, and settled at Zemo’s waist. It was answer enough.
Zemo’s breath hitched. Just barely.
And then his mouth was on Bucky’s again, hands sliding up beneath his shirt, dragging slow, firm heat over his ribs, his stomach, his chest. The fabric went first, pulled away, tossed aside, and then Zemo’s fingers were back at the waist of Bucky’s pants. He worked Bucky’s pants down with slow efficiency, fabric dragging over his thighs, leaving behind the heat of Zemo’s hands in their place.
Bucky exhaled sharply as Zemo pushed the fabric down, the cool air a stark contrast to the warmth of his hands, at the steady press of his fingers over Bucky’s thighs, his hips, down, down—
Bucky jerked slightly at the first brush of Zemo’s palm over his cock, involuntary, breath catching. Zemo didn’t smirk or tease—he only watched, cataloging exactly how Bucky reacted, how he liked it.
It was infuriating.
It was also fucking hot.
Bucky reached up, curled his fingers around the nape of Zemo’s neck, pulling him down, kissing him hard, rolling his hips into the pressure of Zemo’s hand.
Zemo groaned, low, approving, and then he was gone. His lips trailed lower, dragging along the side of Bucky’s throat, down the cut of his chest, the lines of his stomach, before he settled between his thighs, exhaling warm and slow against him.
Bucky swore, rough and low, hand tightening in Zemo’s hair. “You gonna—”
Zemo did.
Bucky’s head tipped back against the pillows, breath shuddering, fingers flexing in Zemo’s hair as heat curled through his stomach, sharp and unbearable.
Zemo was slow. Precise. Not teasing, but focused. And Bucky was undone beneath him, muscles flexing, thighs trembling as Zemo took him apart, as he worked for it, until Bucky was groaning low in his throat, hips pushing up into welcoming heat, hand clenching too tight in Zemo’s hair.
And then—Zemo pulled back.
Bucky made a wrecked sound of frustration, of disbelief, but Zemo only chuckled, dark and low, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the inside of his thigh.
“I told you,” he murmured, voice warm against Bucky’s skin. “I am giving.”
Bucky swallowed hard. “Then fucking give, Zemo.”
Zemo exhaled, lips curving against his skin. “As you wish, Soldat.”
And then he did, taking Bucky into his mouth with the kind of confidence that felt inevitable.
His hand shot to Zemo’s hair, gripping too tight, hips bucking instinctively, but Zemo took it, held him through it, pressing down firmly against his thigh, steadying him. Not controlling—grounding.
Zemo was methodical. Precise. He didn’t tease, didn’t play, didn’t make it about power or winning. He focused, taking Bucky apart in deliberate strokes, working at him, tongue pressing against the sensitive underside of him, lips tightening around the tip in a slow, rhythmic pull.
Bucky swore, breath shuddering, chest rising fast. His fingers tightened, then loosened, sinking deeper into Zemo’s hair, thighs trembling as pleasure curled low and hot in his gut.
Zemo made a quiet, satisfied sound, the vibration traveling up Bucky’s spine, and Bucky nearly whined, breath catching in his throat, back arching slightly into the touch before he could stop himself.
And then Zemo pulled back.
Bucky snarled, frustration sharp in his throat, but Zemo only chuckled, dark and knowing, lips pressing to the inside of his thigh.
Bucky barely had time to register the shift before Zemo moved, slow and deliberate, reaching for a bottle of lube from the bedside table. The cap clicked open, the faint scent of it mixing with the heat between them, and Bucky felt the moment settle, felt the weight of what they were about to do.
There was no hesitation— no, this was something else. Something heavier.
And zemo didn’t rush. He took his time, warming the oil between his fingers, pressing a firm, grounding palm against Bucky’s stomach as he slid his other hand lower, tracing over his entrance with careful precision.
Bucky’s breath stuttered, thighs tensing as Zemo pressed in, slow and smooth, working him open with the same measured patience, the same relentless focus.
Bucky exhaled hard through his nose, forcing himself to breathe, to relax into it, fingers flexing against the sheets.
Zemo felt the shift, the way Bucky allowed it, and rewarded him with a slow, deep stroke, pressing in just enough to draw a rough, wrecked groan from Bucky’s throat.
It was too much.
It wasn’t enough.
Zemo watched Bucky unravel beneath him, watched him take it, watched him want it, his eyes dark. And when Bucky was loose enough, open enough, when his body had adjusted—Zemo moved.
And Bucky welcomed him.
Zemo guided his legs up, settling between his thighs with a slow, steady shift of weight. His cock was thick and hard, the heat of him pressing against Bucky, poised at the edge of something irreversible.
Zemo exhaled, slow, measured.
Bucky met his eyes. Didn’t look away. Didn’t back down.
And then he nodded.
Zemo pushed in. He didn’t move for a long moment, but held himself in place— watching, waiting for Bucky to want what Zemo was offering.
Bucky’s body tensed, muscles flexing, breath catching sharp as he was stretched. His hands shot to Zemo’s shoulders, fingers digging into muscle, grounding himself against the sudden overwhelming sensation of it.
Zemo groaned, low and wrecked, head tipping forward, forehead pressing lightly against Bucky’s as he stilled, as he let Bucky feel it.
Bucky swallowed hard, forcing his body to breathe, to adjust, to take the slow, burning stretch of it. His fingers flexed, nails dragging against Zemo’s back, and Zemo felt it, shifting his weight, tilting his hips just so—just enough.
Bucky’s head snapped back, mouth parting on a sharp, broken moan. Sweat slicked his skin as his hips shifted, testing—and fuck, fuck—the way it felt, the way Zemo fit—
His breath stuttered.
Zemo leaned in, mouth brushing against the shell of Bucky’s ear.
“You resist,” he murmured, voice low, dark, knowing. “But you don’t have to.”
Bucky shuddered, whole body clenching around him.
Then, finally—Zemo moved. Really moved, this time.
He did so with precision, rolling his hips into Bucky with slow, deliberate strokes that pushed the breath from his lungs. It wasn’t mindless, wasn’t reckless—every movement was controlled, measured, dragging out the tension until Bucky felt the stretch of it, the weight, the inescapable fullness of Zemo inside him.
Bucky’s fingers tightened on Zemo’s shoulders, nails scraping against bare skin. He could fight—he could push, twist, force himself to take control, but it was wavering, unraveling between them like something slippery.
Zemo’s breath ghosted against Bucky’s throat, warm and steady, his weight pressing Bucky into the mattress with every slow thrust. His hands were firm—one bracing against Bucky’s hip, grounding, while the other slid up, tracing the ridges of old scars around his shoulder, mapping him with his fingers like he was memorizing him.
Bucky hated how much he liked it— his nerves lighting up in ways that should have hurt, but in the moment sent shocky, live wire tremors through his entire body.
He gritted his teeth, shifting his hips up to meet Zemo’s next thrust, forcing the angle, testing it.
Zemo groaned, quiet but deep, hips snapping forward with something heavier, something more deliberate.
Bucky felt it.
His head tipped back against the pillows, breath hitching, thighs flexing around Zemo’s waist. His body was adapting, taking, opening.
Zemo tilted his hips just so, brushing against something that wrecked him.
Bucky choked on a gasp, whole body shuddering as his hands clenched tighter, a sharp pulse of pleasure cutting through his spine like heat and lightning.
Zemo felt it—fucking felt it—because he did it again, slow and purposeful, dragging it out, letting Bucky writhe beneath him.
“James,” Zemo murmured against his jaw, voice thick, wrecked in a way Bucky hadn’t heard before. “Good.”
Bucky swore, a rough, broken sound, eyes screwing shut as Zemo kept it slow, kept it precise.
It was too much.
It wasn’t enough.
Bucky growled, frustration curling tight in his gut, in his chest, everywhere. He wanted—fuck, he wanted—but he didn’t have the words, didn’t have the space between his breath to say it.
So he moved.
He braced his feet against the mattress, his body tensing to roll them— trying to catch Zemo off guard. He had the strength, had the leverage, but Zemo was waiting for it.
He shifted with the movement, catching Bucky before he could throw him completely, one hand gripping his thigh, the other pressing to his chest, steadying, holding.
Bucky struggled, twisting against it, testing, seeing if Zemo would pin him, force him back, take it.
Zemo didn’t.
He only waited.
He let Bucky push, let him fight, let him feel it.
And then, slowly, steadily, he pressed forward, rolling his hips deep, forcing Bucky to feel it too.
Bucky’s breath broke, chest heaving, back arching against the mattress as pleasure surged through him.
He swore, shaking his head, fingers flexing, grappling, searching for something to hold onto—control, resistance, something—
Zemo gave him nothing. Only this. Only himself.
Bucky’s body trembled beneath him, muscles flexing, coiled with tension, with something on the edge of breaking.
Zemo watched him, felt him, didn’t let up, didn’t push—just kept him there, held him open, made him stay.
Bucky snapped.
His fingers shot into Zemo’s hair, yanking him down, kissing him hard, rough, wrecked. His other hand clawed at Zemo’s back, rolling his hips up as he did.
Zemo groaned against his mouth, deep and pleased, hips snapping forward, his control breaking for half a second.
Bucky shuddered—the shift, the weight, the fucking feeling of it—his cock hard between them, leaking, pressed to the heat of Zemo’s stomach with every thrust.
Zemo swallowed the sound that tore from Bucky’s throat, kissed him through it, took it.
And Bucky let him.
He couldn’t fight it anymore. Couldn’t hold onto it. His body was betraying him, shaking, breaking, his fingers grasping as if he could steady himself on Zemo instead of the inevitability of this moment.
Zemo shifted, slid his hand between them, wrapped around Bucky’s cock with steady pressure, stroking him in time with every deep, slow thrust.
Bucky shouted, breaking apart, fucking unraveling, fingers digging into muscle, pleasure surging through him so sharp it was blinding.
Zemo held him through it.
Through the shuddering, the tensing, the wreckage.
Through the moment Bucky collapsed beneath him, breathless.
And then Zemo followed, all pretenses of control slipping away from him in a way that, finally, made him seem fully human. Fully present— his hips rolling deep in a broken rhythm, breath rasping from his lungs, guttural and almost pained.
There was only quiet. Only stillness for a long moment after that.
Zemo’s weight above him didn’t feel oppressive. It didn’t feel like something pressing him down, keeping him there. It felt real, solid, something Bucky could feel—and he needed that. Needed the grounding of it, the warmth of skin against his own, the slow, steady cadence of Zemo’s breath against his jaw.
Bucky was still trembling, residual shudders running through his body, muscles loose and warm in a way he hadn’t felt in years. The pleasure still clung to him, thick and heavy, but it was fading now, settling into something softer, something quieter.
Zemo didn’t move for a long moment. Neither of them did.
Zemo was still inside him, still pressed close, forehead tucked against Bucky’s shoulder, fingers curled loose but steady around his wrist. His breathing was even, measured, but Bucky could feel the tension in him, the way his fingers twitched, the way he stayed in place like he was waiting.
Bucky swallowed, chest rising and falling in slow, deep breaths. His fingers flexed where they were still tangled in Zemo’s hair, shifting slightly, loosening.
Zemo noticed, and he exhaled slowly, shifting his weight, pressing a lingering, warm kiss against the side of Bucky’s throat. Not soft, but deliberate and grounding.
Then, with the same patience he’d had throughout all of this, Zemo eased out of him, slow and careful. Bucky exhaled sharply at the loss, at the emptiness of it, at the way his body still felt it.
Zemo watched him, gaze flickering, hands brushing down his sides in quiet, absent touches, present. Real.
Bucky knew he should move. Knew he should say something, should do something, but his body wasn’t listening yet, still loose and worn from the strain of it, the push and pull of what they’d just done.
And Zemo didn’t rush him.
Instead, he pulled back, shifting his weight onto his forearm, reaching for the sheets to clean them both off, his movements slow and methodical. He wasn’t lingering, wasn’t drawing it out, but there was no distance in it either. It was practical. Familiar.
Bucky let him.
The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It wasn’t thick with things left unsaid, wasn’t expectant. It just was.
Zemo exhaled, settling on his side, studying him. He didn’t speak immediately, didn’t reach for him, didn’t ask anything.
Bucky turned his head slightly, eyes half-lidded. His body felt too heavy, like the weight of what had just happened had settled in his bones, made him sink into the sheets, into the residual heat of the space between them.
He knew should swing his legs over the side of the bed, sit up, find his pants, leave. He should acknowledge this, put words to it, name what they’d done. But he didn’t know how. Didn’t know what he could say that wouldn’t feel cheap, wouldn’t feel like trying to explain something that didn’t need explaining.
So he just— didn’t.
Zemo watched him for a long moment, then reached out, fingertips brushing lightly against his own— an acknowledgement.
Bucky looked back at him.
Neither of them moved.
Bucky flexed his fingers against the sheets, rolling his shoulders once, shifting his weight. Zemo followed the motion, eyes flickering lower, not in the way someone studied a puzzle, trying to solve it, but in the way someone watched the tide to see which way it pulled.
Zemo was waiting.
Not for words. Not for an answer.
Just waiting.
Bucky swallowed, wetting his lips. He knew he could walk out of here and nothing would change—not outwardly. Zemo wouldn’t stop him. Wouldn’t push. Wouldn’t try to make this something more than it was.
But Bucky knew—knew—that if he left now, the space between them would never feel this quiet again. That Zemo would never touch him the same way again—not without something deliberate behind it, not without choosing to cross that line a second time.
And Bucky didn’t know if he wanted to wait for that. If he wanted to start all over again, to push and fight and lose before he got this again.
So he didn’t.
He let the moment breathe.
And so did Zemo.
A few more beats passed—quiet, steady, nothing but their slowed breaths filling the space.
Then, finally, Zemo moved. Not to get up. Not to put distance between them. Just to reach for the sheet again, pulling it up enough to drape it over them, his knuckles grazing lightly against Bucky’s arm in the process.
Bucky let out a slow breath, muscles unwinding, spine sinking into the mattress.
Neither of them spoke.
Neither of them left.
And that was enough.