
Zeus
Zeus sees Bucky first not in glory, not in battle, but in a coffee shop.
There, beneath flickering lights and the quiet hiss of steam, a mortal, carved of stillness and strength, waits patiently for his croissants and coffee. His hair is damp from the rain, his jacket collar upturned, and he’s reading the back of a sugar packet like it’s an epic poem. He doesn’t shine like Apollo or roar like Ares, but Zeus sees him, truly sees him, and desire coils low and certain in his immortal chest.
This one. This mortal, so quiet and self-contained, with his broad shoulders and rain-damp lashes. A small crease between his brows that speaks of a thousand silent wars, and a left arm, sleek and strange, as if Hephaestus himself had etched thunder into metal, and left it pulsing beneath mortal skin. Zeus wants him.
So he descends. Not as lightning, not this time. No peacocks or swans or golden bulls. No. He chooses a subtler form. A familiar form. The lover Bucky adores, dreams of, lives beside. Baron Helmut Zemo.
The door chimes as he enters, and Bucky glances up automatically, spots him and smiles. The figure before him is flawless, in a crisp black shirt, open at the collar, just rumpled enough to imply haste, desire, affection. That signature smirk, that predatory elegance. Zemo. Or so it seems.
“Darling,” the man says, sliding up to him, voice a velvet purr, “I woke without you.”
Bucky huffs a sleepy laugh, already undone, already leaning in, his hand caught between the stranger’s. “You got up early and came all the way down here for coffee with me?”
“But of course.” Fingers trail along his wrist. “Let’s sit. Let’s breakfast together. Do you like my new shirt?”
Bucky chuckles, eyes soft and warm. “It’s fancy. For breakfast.”
“Romance,” comes the reply, syrup-smooth. “Always romance.”
The banter flows easy. Their knees brush under the table. Bucky, charmed and sleepy and helpless against the familiar magnetism, forgets to question. Gods, after all, do not falter in their mimicry. And Zeus, king of them, can wear any skin he pleases.
“Let’s go to a hotel,” Zeus-Zemo murmurs, brushing Bucky’s knuckles with his lips, his eyes shining.
“Why?” Bucky says, blinking. “We’ve got a perfectly good apartment over there.”
“A change of scene,” comes the husky reply. “A little indulgence. For love. For me.”
Bucky smiles, slow and sweet. “Okay,” he says. And he follows him out of the coffee shop.
*
Up in their apartment, Zemo stirs. He slips out of their warm bed, barefoot, wraps a silk robe around himself, ties it low on his hips. He stretches, languid and feline, then pads to the window to watch for Bucky’s return.
And he sees himself. Across the street, leading Bucky by the hand, smiling. Radiant.
Zemo stills. There’s a long, long pause.
Then he mutters, entirely deadpan: “Oh, hell no.”
*
In the hotel room, two figures are entwined on the big four poster bed. There is kissing. There is heat. Zeus is halfway out of his shirt. Bucky is breathless and flushed, sprawled among pillows that smell faintly of bergamot and sin.
And then the door opens. Zemo stands framed in the doorway, perfectly composed, utterly unimpressed. He doesn’t storm in. He doesn’t shout. He simply leans against the doorframe, tilts his head, and purrs, “Oh, James. How could you think this pale imitation was me?”
Bucky blinks over at him.
Zeus freezes, hands around Bucky’s waist.
Zemo smirks.
There is a long silence as the illusion ripples, and then shatters. Zeus shimmers, expands, unfolds into his true form: golden skin, eyes like the heart of storms, hair flickering with lightning. He is devastating. He is radiant. But he is not Zemo.
He glances at Zemo with grudging admiration. “He wouldn’t have had me like this,” he says, a little rueful. “I’m not you.”
Bucky, still breathless, lips bruised, looks between the two of them.
Zemo strolls into the room. He doesn’t bristle. He appreciates. His gaze sweeps up and down Zeus with unabashed interest, then lands, sure and steady, on Bucky.
“Did you ask him?” he says mildly to Zeus.
Zeus looks blank. “Ask?”
Zemo doesn’t repeat himself. He just turns to Bucky and smiles, crooked, knowing, full of something wicked and warm.
He looks him in the eye, twinkles, and says “Have fun, schatzi.” Then he turns to go.
Zeus looks at Bucky. Bucky looks at Zeus. Bucky grins and calls over to Zemo’s retreating form, “Hey! Come and join us.”
And Zemo smirks. He closes the door behind him with a soft click, shrugs off his coat, and steps back into the gold-lit room as if it were his throne.
***