Poseidon
The sea was loud that day. Louder than usual. And Bucky could feel it in his bones.
They were staying near the coast. Zemo had insisted. “You know, James, there is just something about the fresh salt air that clears the mind,” he’d said, in that offhand, I’ve-just-manipulated-you-and-you’ll-thank-me-for-it way. Bucky hadn’t argued. Not with the sun in his hair and the sea breeze brushing his skin.
Zemo had gone into town on some errand involving rare olive oil and an argument with a cheese monger. Bucky stayed behind, walking along the cliff path, boots crunching over rock and thyme. And that was when the wave rose.
Not just a wave, a wall of water. Towering, impossible, glittering like obsidian lit from within. And from it stepped a man. Though not quite a man.
He was salt and storm made flesh, seaweed tangled in hair like ink, skin glistening with ocean spray, eyes the colour of the deepest trenches, impossibly old and impossibly young. His trident shimmered like lightning in silver moonlight, and he looked at Bucky as though he’d found the one pearl the ocean had spent millennia searching for.
Poseidon did not smile. He surged. “Beautiful creature,” he said, voice like thunder breaking underwater. “You are wasted on land.”
And before Bucky could do more than blink, the wave came again, and took him with it.
*
Underwater it was warm. It shouldn’t have been. It felt like silk and sunlight and pressure in all the right ways. He wasn’t drowning. He was held.
Held in arms as strong as tide currents, carried through coral palaces and pearl-bone thrones, past sea serpents and silverfish and sea horses that sparkled like sapphires. Poseidon’s realm shimmered with impossible hues. Magic. Majesty. Depth.
And Poseidon himself was everywhere. In the water, in the light, in Bucky’s thoughts. He spoke in glances. In touches. In tides that pushed and pulled.
“You’re not mine,” Poseidon said, one night, lying over him, voice low against Bucky’s skin. “But I will make you want to be.”
Bucky should have resisted. He did resist. But gods are gods. And he was curious.
Poseidon showed Bucky underwater ballrooms and starlit trenches where the sea sang lullabies. He was, frustratingly, incredible. And Bucky, for a moment, almost forgot.
Almost.
But he kept one memory close. A flicker of laughter, the smell of cherry blossom tea, a voice in a sunlit kitchen saying “Try this, James. I’ve just outdone myself.”
Zemo. Always Zemo.
*
It was just after the third storm, when the sea had gentled into glass and Poseidon had gone quiet, brooding, perhaps, or contemplative. Bucky had wandered down the steps of his temple alone, barefoot, feeling the warmth of the marble and the salt air curling through his hair.
The tide had left odd things behind that day. Pearls nestled in seaweed, a harp-string caught on driftwood, and one very small, very squishy baby kraken, tangled in a net of golden kelp.
At first, Bucky thought it was a trick, some illusion of Poseidon’s. But then the thing squeaked at him, pitiful and flaily, one tentacle stuck up like it was raising a hand in class.
“Oh, buddy,” Bucky murmured, crouching. “You’re a long way from home, huh?”
The kraken blinked. Then blorped.
And then it did the most astonishing thing: it clumsily reached out a tentacle, patted Bucky’s metal arm, and curled around it like a baby monkey might. It let out a soft, bubbly hum and closed its eyes.
Bucky stared for a moment, then gently untangled it.
Moments later, Poseidon appeared behind him, silent as a wave. “It likes you,” he said, a touch of wonder in his voice.
Bucky looked over his shoulder. “What is it?”
“A child,” Poseidon replied, stepping closer, watching with fond detachment. “Abandoned, perhaps. Or simply curious. The sea births many strange things. He must have felt your warmth.”
The kraken purred, little bubbles rising through the water.
Bucky looked down again, “Can I keep him?”
Poseidon’s mouth twitched. “Only if you name him.”
Bucky considered for a long moment, then said with utter seriousness: “Squiggles.”
Poseidon stared. Then he laughed, a deep, thunderous, delighted thing that rolled through the sea cave and sent the baby kraken waking, wiggling with joy.
*
Bucky leant against a wave-slick rock, hair damp, boots off, pants rolled up. He was talking with Poseidon, eyes narrowed in teasing challenge. They were both barefoot in the shallows, the sun turning Poseidon’s seaweed-wrapped braids gold.
Squiggles was curled in the tide pool beside them like a puddle of violet ink, watching with big dark oval eyes. Occasionally, he burbled approvingly when Bucky smirked.
*
It was twilight. The sea reflected a thousand shades of mauve and rose. Bucky was crouched at the shoreline, tossing live sardines one by one into the foam.
A ripple surfaced. Squiggles snatched each fish with such enthusiasm, he splashed Bucky every time. Bucky laughed, shielding his face. “You’re such a klutz.”
From behind him, Poseidon spoke: “He only eats when you feed him. He’s grown attached.”
Bucky huffed a smile, brushing back damp hair. “I don’t believe that at all. I bet he has many other feeding grounds. Don’t you, Squiggles?”
Squiggles just blorped and chomped on his fish.
Later, Bucky sat on a salt-bleached rock, watching the horizon, pensive.
Squiggles was curled beside him, one tentacle lazily looping over Bucky’s ankle. They were both quiet. Just the sea between them.
Poseidon watched from the water, struck silent. It wasn’t the war-forged body or the stormlit eyes that called to him. It was this: this stillness. This companionship. That he could so quickly have the quiet loyalty of a creature who could wreck a ship, but chose instead to nap by his feet.
*
The sky was bruised violet, the sea restless beneath. Bucky sat on a salt-crusted stone at the cliff’s edge, hair damp, boots off, sleeves rolled to the elbow. His fingers absently traced the worn grooves of the ancient altar beside him. Poseidon’s name long weathered into suggestion more than inscription.
Far below, the tide lapped at dark rocks, foam fizzing against the shore.
He wasn’t alone. A shape shifted in the shallows. Not loud, not dramatic. Just a swell, a ripple, the hint of suctioned limbs and dark gleaming eyes peering up from the waterline.
The baby kraken didn’t climb up or cry out. It simply watched, tentacles fanned like petals on the current. Quiet. Present. An echo of the deep.
Bucky didn’t look down at first. He just sighed, long and slow, the weight of his thoughts thick as sea mist. But then he spoke, low and amused, without turning. “You always know where to find me.”
The creature stirred. Sloshed forward another few inches, careful not to be loud, not to interrupt. One long tendril reached out, not to grab, but to nudge something small into a pool of light beside Bucky’s foot. A seashell. Smooth. Opalescent.
Bucky huffed a breath, almost a laugh. Finally looked down. Met those dark, ancient eyes “Thanks,” he said, and meant it.
Behind him, the air tasted of lightning. Poseidon would come soon, all grandeur and command and storm-kissed charm. But for now, the sea had sent something quieter. Something small and strange and loyal. Squiggles slipped back into the waves without a sound.
*
A storm rolled in. Lightning flickered over the horizon. Poseidon was radiant in the surf, dramatic as hell, beckoning to Bucky like a siren in a cologne commercial.
Bucky rolled his eyes, but he walked out anyway, water swirling at his hips.
*
When Zemo came for him, it wasn’t loud. It was deliberate. Stylish. Unexpected.
He arrived on a sea chariot made of polished teak and brass, pulled by seahorses that winked, armed only with a wine bottle, a dagger made of mirrored obsidian, and the most annoyed expression Bucky had ever seen.
“Honestly, darling,” Zemo said, flicking sea spray off his coat. “Couldn’t you have been kidnapped somewhere with proper lighting?”
Poseidon bristled, power coiling like a tsunami beneath his skin.
Bucky sighed. “You two gonna fight?”
“Certainly not,” Zemo said. “I merely came to collect that which is mine.”
Poseidon’s trident glowed. “He stays if he chooses to.”
Zemo turned to Bucky. Met his eyes. “Of course. That goes without saying.”
Bucky, hair wet, cheeks flushed, still half-draped in sea-silk and longing, grinned. “What took you so long?” he said.
Zemo stepped forward, brushing a thumb across Bucky’s jaw. “I had to find the right shoes.”
And Poseidon, fierce, vast, eternal, closed his eyes and let him go.
Because some storms you can’t fight. Some tides you simply yield to.
*
The borrowed villa was all whitewashed walls and blue shutters, perched on the clifftop like a secret. The storm had rolled inland hours ago, leaving the air cool and damp and humming with sea-washed quiet.
Bucky stepped inside, barefoot, trailing saltwater, a stolen sea-silk robe clinging to his shoulders like a memory. He smelled like ocean and ozone and godly attention, something ancient and briny that clung to his skin.
Zemo was waiting in the lounge. The fire crackled low. Storm lanterns flickered gold in the corners. The room was full of shadows and warmth.
Zemo held a towel, soft, absurdly plush, definitely monogrammed. He didn’t speak right away. Just looked. Took in the picture of his soldier with damp hair, lashes dark from seawater, lips kiss-bruised by a divine touch.
“Do you want to explain,” Zemo said finally, voice lazy and low, “why you’re still wearing what appears to be Poseidon’s bathrobe?”
Bucky shrugged, a little smirk ghosting across his lips. “He said I looked good in seafoam.”
Zemo made a small noise in his throat and crossed the room. “You do,” he murmured. “You look good in anything.” He started to dry him. Slowly. Carefully.
The towel moved over Bucky’s arms first, firm enough to raise goosebumps. Zemo worked in silence, methodical, hands practiced, like tending to something sacred. His movements betrayed him, though. A little extra pressure. A pause over the curve of Bucky’s shoulder. A thumb lingering just a second too long on his collarbone. When he reached Bucky’s hair, he was even gentler.
“You okay?” Zemo asked, finally.
Bucky nodded, quiet. “It was beautiful. I didn’t want it to be. But it was.”
Zemo smiled without humour. “Gods usually are. That's how they get you.”
“Yeah,” Bucky murmured, voice low. “But they don’t look at me the way you do.”
Zemo’s hands stilled. The air between them stretched, crackling, soft-edged, salt-touched.
Then Zemo leaned in, kissed Bucky’s temple, the damp strands clinging there. Moved lower, to his cheek, the corner of his mouth. Bucky turned, caught him there, pressed forward. Mouths meeting, warm and searching, quiet and full.
When they pulled apart, Bucky pressed his forehead to Zemo’s. “I knew you would come for me,” he whispered.
Zemo’s hands were around his waist now, towel forgotten on the floor. “Always,” he said.
Outside, the sea murmured. Inside, two hearts beat quietly, in sync.
They moved to the couch, still half-wrapped in damp silk and defiance, and nestled together under a soft linen blanket. The storm lanterns flickered like distant stars. And in that stillness, in that hush, Zemo brushed a lock of hair from Bucky’s face and said, with a smirk “I find that my world is oddly incomplete without one ex-assassin scowling at me over tea.”
“That’s not as romantic as you think,” Bucky muttered, and kissed him.
A soft plop came from the open terrace doors. Zemo froze mid-stroke, fingers tangled in Bucky’s hair. Bucky blinked, lifted his head from Zemo’s chest with a sleepy frown. “Did you hear that?”
Zemo sighed. “I was hoping it was the wind.”
But then it came again, a squishy, unmistakable plorp, followed by a delicate, glistening squeee? They both turned toward the terrace just in time to see a tentacle, small, glossy, and lavender-hued, reach up and try to grab a stray olive off the side table.
The baby kraken had arrived.
It was about the size of a golden retriever, had eight wiggly arms and eyes the size of teacups. Seafoam clung to its skin. It blinked up at them, hopeful and drippy, then gurgled a happy little chirp and slapped one tentacle triumphantly onto the couch.
Bucky was already sitting up, grinning. “He followed me?”
“You imprinted on a kraken?” asked Zemo wonderingly. He rolled his eyes. “Of course you did.”
The kraken warbled again and slithered all the way in, flopping against Bucky’s lap with a happy little squelch. One tentacle patted his face. Another tried to steal the corner of the blanket. A third wrapped gently around Zemo’s ankle, testing the waters.
Bucky chuckled, utterly charmed. “He’s just a baby.”
“He’s damp.”
“He’s cute, though.”
“He smells like barnacles and hubris.”
The kraken made a purring noise, and snuggled deeper into the folds of the blanket, gooey and proud.
Zemo sighed like a long-suffering prince and sank back against the couch. “Fine. But he sleeps on your side.”
*
Bucky was in the kitchen, shirtless, hair still damp from his dip in the tide pool. He was trying to make pancakes. Zemo was perched on a stool, unhelpfully reading aloud from a cookbook and critiquing everything. Squiggles was snoozing on a wet towel in a bowl on the counter, his preferred napping spot, apparently. Occasionally he made a happy gurgle.
There was a soft knock at the door. Bucky went to answer, still holding the spatula. And there, framed by the sea-light, stood Poseidon.
He was barefoot, windswept, wrapped in sea-green silk. “I’ve come for the kraken,” he said, quite seriously.
Zemo leant back far enough to see from the kitchen. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
Bucky stifled a laugh. Poseidon’s gaze flicked to Bucky, then past him, to the bowl. “Squiggles.”
Bucky glanced back at the bundle of softly breathing tentacles. “You sure, Sy? He seems pretty happy here.”
Poseidon sighed. “He cannot thrive on land. He needs the currents. The deep. He will start attempting to ink the plumbing.”
Squiggles let out a tiny sneeze. A puff of misty brine sprayed upward.
Zemo raised an eyebrow. “Fair.”
Reluctantly, Bucky lifted the kraken from his towel nest. “You’re gonna be alright, little guy.”
Squiggles wrapped a tentacle around his finger and booped his nose. Bucky grinned. Zemo made a quiet, fond noise and pretended not to.
Poseidon cradled the tiny creature against his chest, adjusting his robe like a swaddle. “Zemo may have Bucky,” he muttered as he turned to go, “but I have you, don’t I, Squiggles. Yes, I do. You little rascal.”
Back in the kitchen, Bucky exhaled. “Think he’ll be alright?”
Zemo reached over, ran a thumb along Bucky’s wrist. “He’ll be spoiled rotten. Like someone else I know.”
“You’re just mad he never chose your arm to nap on.”
“Jealous of a kraken? Never,” Zemo lied smoothly, reaching for the maple syrup.
***