The Trouble with Gods

There’s a soft thump from the kitchen, followed by the unmistakable clink of something delicate landing on the tiles.

Bucky, mid-sip of coffee, freezes. “Tell me that was you.”

Zemo looks up from his newspaper - yes, an actual physical paper one, he insists on the ritual - one brow arched. “I haven’t moved.”

Bucky sets down the mug. “Right.”

They move together, trained instincts never quite retired. Quiet feet, soft steps, Bucky's hand brushing the edge of the counter. But there’s no threat waiting in the kitchen. No intruder. Just a cat. Perched on the windowsill, as if she’s always belonged there.

She is beautiful, of course. Not in the way kittens are beautiful, but in the way of a storm cloud or a flame. Elegant, wild, completely indifferent. Sleek and smoke-coloured, her coat shimmers like moonlight on ink. Her eyes are molten gold, unblinking. She stares at them like they are the ones who need to explain themselves.

Zemo blinks first. “How did she get in?”

“The window’s open,” Bucky says, but the words sound hollow even to him. That window doesn’t open easily. He’d bolted it the last time a raccoon tried to invite itself in.

The cat stretches, a long, luxurious roll of spine and paw, and hops down. She lands soundlessly. Her tail flicks once. Then she walks past them like she owns the place. No hesitation. No fear.

She winds around Zemo’s ankles, then makes a slow arc toward Bucky, eyes half-lidded, pupils slivered. She presses her side against his shin, tail curling around his calf like a promise, or a claim.

Zemo squats, offering his hand like a diplomat offering peace. The cat sniffs it, then butts her head into his palm with a purring hum.

“So we’re being adopted,” he says, with a faint smile.

Bucky watches her curl up in the sun-warmed spot beneath the kitchen table. “Seems like it.”

Zemo turns to him. “Do we feed her?”

“She’ll let us know.”

They go back to their morning, or try to. But she’s there now. Draped across the back of the couch when they read, peering from high shelves she shouldn’t have been able to reach. Sometimes Bucky swears he hears her talking, not meowing, but small, thoughtful hums. As if commenting. As if amused.

It only takes one day for Bucky to start referring to her as “Her Majesty.” It takes two more days for Zemo to buy her a ceramic dish and a cushion that matches nothing else in the house. Zemo finds a gold pendant tucked beneath the cat’s collar. Something ancient, older than language, shaped like a curling feline mid-leap. They both pretend it’s just a trinket. But that night, the wind outside stills. The moon rises heavy and low, hanging over the rooftops like a watching eye.

And when they sleep, they both dream of candlelight and silk, of laughter that echoes like bells, of eyes that are not quite human but entirely kind.

The cat watches them from the windowsill. And purrs.

*

Zemo is in the armchair, a book open on his lap but long forgotten. Bucky is stretched along the couch, socks mismatched, watching the cat knead the blanket at his feet before circling into a perfect curl. Rain hushes against the windows, gentle, steady, the kind of weather that invites silence.

“She’s dreaming,” Bucky murmurs, watching her paws twitch in sleep. “Probably ruling empires in her head.”

Zemo hums. “I believe she already does.”

The cat shifts. Her ears flick. Then, without lifting her head or opening her eyes, she says “I do indeed.” Then, she opens her eyes. “You have good taste in furniture. Less so in music.”

Silence crashes into the room like a wave. Bucky jerks upright, almost dislodging her. Zemo closes his book slowly, deliberately, and stares at the cat.

She lifts her head now, just a little. Golden eyes gleaming. Unbothered. Amused. “Don’t look so surprised,” she says, in a voice like velvet draped over teeth. “I’ve been very patient.”

“You talk,” Bucky says, because sometimes stating the obvious is the only anchor to reality.

“I do many things,” she replies. “You simply haven’t noticed.”

Zemo leans forward, elegant as ever, but there’s a wary edge to it. “And what are you, exactly?”

She stretches, a languid roll of muscle and silk, and hops up onto the coffee table. She sits, tail curled around her paws like a scarf.

“I am called many things,” she says. “But for now, you may call me Ailuros.”

The air thickens, subtly. Something ancient and warm coils in the corners of the room. Not threatening, never that, but undeniable. A presence that had always been there, now simply acknowledged.

“I like your home,” she continues, gaze flitting between them. “It’s peaceful. You keep the cushions in the sun. You smell kind. And you never once tried to name me.”

Bucky swallows. “We thought you might already have a name.”

Ailuros purrs, a pleased sound that shimmers like heat.

“You’re both clever,” she says, and steps lightly from the table into Zemo’s lap. He barely breathes. She looks up at him, then shifts her weight delicately into the crook of his arm. “I like that in mortals.”

Bucky leans forward. “Why us?”

She turns her head slowly. Her golden gaze settles on him with a feline weight that feels like being read. “Because you love without wanting to own,” she says. “Because you welcome without asking. Because your hearts are soft, but never foolish.”

Zemo exhales, slow and shallow.

“And because,” Ailuros adds, tucking her head under Zemo’s chin, “your bed is very warm, and I intend to stay.”

Later, much later, the room is dim with candlelight, flickering soft shadows along the bookshelves and across the rug. The storm has passed, leaving the windows streaked and the night outside washed clean. Inside, everything glows.

Zemo lies on his back, one arm bent behind his head, the other resting lightly against Bucky’s thigh where he sits cross-legged beside him on the floor. Ailuros has made herself at home between them, draped like living silk, tail flicking just enough to remind them of her presence.

“…and then the humans had the audacity to build a temple without a sunning stone,” she is saying, her voice a lazy purr, thick with disdain and amusement. “As if I would descend to a sanctuary with no proper perch. Please.”

Bucky snorts into his wine. “Guess you showed them.”

“I cursed them with mice,” she says, licking a paw and smoothing it over one ear. “They never did figure it out. Very satisfying.”

Zemo hums. “That was you.”

“Of course it was me,” she replies, stretching luxuriously, belly flashing briefly in the candlelight. “I invented vengeance. Long before the furies made it fashionable.”

Bucky grins. “You’re ancient.”

“I’m timeless, darling.” She glances toward him, eyes half-lidded. “As you both will be, soon enough.”

They don’t ask what she means. They’ve long since stopped trying to measure their lives by mortal rules, not since Olympus and underworlds and dreams that curled like ivy through the fabric of the universe.

She settles again, one paw resting lightly on Zemo’s chest like a claim, her voice dipping into something older now, richer, darker. She speaks of moon temples carved into mountain spines, of laughter echoing through marble halls where lions lounged beside lovers. Of the stars before they had names, of gods who bloomed and withered in the breath of centuries.

Neither man interrupts. They simply listen, caught in the rhythm of her voice, the slow sweep of history told by one who watched it all from shaded corners and sunlit sills.

Eventually, her tale trails off, fading like incense. The candles gutter low.

She yawns, showing teeth sharp and white, then curls tighter between them, chin tucked, tail wrapping over Zemo’s ribs. “Enough for now,” she says. “I require dreams.”

Bucky brushes a hand down her spine, gentle. “’Night, then.”

Zemo leans down, presses a kiss to her furred head. “Sleep well, little empress.”

Ailuros doesn’t reply. But the purr she gives them is like a blessing.

*

The morning is pale gold, slipping gently through gauzy curtains. Outside, the garden is still damp with dew, birdsong threading the quiet like delicate embroidery. Inside, Bucky wakes to the sound of something thudding lightly against the bedroom door. To the sound of small imperious paws.

Thud. Pause. Thud. Pause. Scritch scritch scritch.

He cracks one eye open. “Zemo,” he mutters. “She’s back.”

From beside him, Zemo makes a sleepy, displeased sound into his pillow. “She never left.”

Thud. Scritch. Drag.

Bucky sighs and swings his legs over the side of the bed. When he opens the door, the cat is sitting primly just beyond the threshold, tail curled neatly around her paws.

Behind her lies a little pile of goodies: a stolen cushion from the armchair in the sitting room, Bucky’s rabbit foot keyring, Zemo’s most ridiculous hat, the feather now drooping sadly, and, inexplicably, a silver spoon from the kitchen.

“She’s building a shrine,” Bucky says over his shoulder, voice low with reverent disbelief.

“I’ll burn incense,” Zemo replies, face still buried in the bedding.

Ailuros gives an elegant little meow and saunters in, brushing her flank against Bucky’s ankle. She leaps gracefully onto the bed, where she promptly begins kneading the blanket between Zemo’s shoulder blades. The claws are not gentle.

“I believe this is a demand,” Zemo groans, flinching slightly. “She wants breakfast.”

“I think she wants worship,” Bucky says, crouching to examine the loot outside the door. “But I’ll start with a saucer of cream.”

She mews and leaps from the bed, padding over to her hoard.

“And perhaps an apology to my hat,” mumbles Zemo, turning just in time to see her batting the feather between her paws, purring like thunderclouds at sea.

They meet eyes.

Bucky shrugs. “She’s perfect.”

Zemo sighs. “I know.”

*

Ailuros has spent the morning in her usual whirlwind of quiet domination: trailing sunbeams through the house, vanishing and reappearing at will, occasionally perching like a judgmental gargoyle on top of Zemo’s rare book collection. She’s currently curled on the windowsill, tail twitching as she watches raindrops race down the glass. 

Bucky is in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, brewing coffee. Zemo is fussing with the toast. Less out of culinary necessity and more as a petty claim of domestic superiority.

“She’s too quiet,” Zemo mutters, glancing over at the cat’s silhouette. “It’s always when she’s quiet.”

“She’s a cat,” Bucky says, pouring coffee. “Quiet is the default setting.”

Zemo lifts a single, arched brow. “Nothing about her is default.”

They both jump when the soft thump of paws becomes the soft whoosh of shifting weight. And then, there’s a sigh. A very human, very pleased-sounding sigh.

From the window seat, where a sleek dark cat had been a moment ago, now lounges a woman, hair the same inky sheen as the cat’s coat, cascading like midnight down her back. Her eyes, still that impossible, molten gold, flicker between them. She smiles. Slow. Knowing. Like they are prey that she has already caught, but kindly chooses not to devour. 

A bathrobe, Zemo’s bathrobe, is knotted loosely around her waist, a little too long in the sleeves. She stretches, lifting her arms and letting her head tip back as if to greet the morning with her throat bare and unconcerned.

“Well,” she says, voice like silk slipping over warm skin. “Hello.”

Zemo drops the toast. It lands on the counter. Bucky freezes with the coffee mug halfway to his mouth. “Uh.”

She blinks lazily, completely unfazed by their gaping. “Did you think I was just a cat?”

“We didn’t not think that,” Bucky offers, a little dazed.

Zemo is staring with a vaguely betrayed expression at his bathrobe. “That’s my… you’ve had thumbs this whole time? You could have made your own breakfast.”

Ailuros, still draped like a queen in her borrowed robe, smiles, slow and indulgent. “I could have,” she purrs. “But where’s the fun in that?”

She stands, gliding barefoot across the floor, unapologetic, familiar. Her fingers skim the back of Bucky’s neck as she passes. She dips one long finger into the cream left out for her on the table, tastes it, and murmurs “Mmmm. I do like being pampered.”

She plucks the toast from the counter, bites into it, and hums appreciatively.

“Needs more honey,” she purrs, licking a crumb from her lip. “And yes, I’ll still be sleeping on the windowsill when I want to.”

Zemo opens his mouth to argue.

“Because I like it there,” she finishes for him sweetly, brushing past, cat-quiet.

Bucky finally takes a sip of his coffee. “Well,” he says, watching her vanish down the hallway. “She did warn us when she moved in.”

Zemo groans, pouring himself a fresh cup. “Next time,” he mutters, “we’re getting a goldfish.”

Later, the rain has slowed to a mist, and the grey light filtering through the tall windows feels more like a hush than a glow. Zemo has finally conceded that Ailuros will be taking over the reading nook, and has grudgingly fluffed the cushions to her satisfaction. She, naturally, reclines in the centre of the heap, smug and luxurious in a far-too-fine silk robe that she has “borrowed” from Zemo’s closet.

Bucky brings pastries. He doesn’t ask, just places them on a low wooden tray and sets it within reach, retreating to sit cross-legged on the rug. Zemo settles beside him with a book in hand, though it lies forgotten in his lap, his gaze flicking between his partners.

Ailuros stretches out a long arm and hooks a pastry with one elegant finger, drawing it toward her with a smirk that’s far too pleased with itself. She takes a bite, all delicacy and decadence, and then reaches out without asking, pinching off a piece from Zemo’s tart.

“I was eating that,” he says, sounding personally offended.

“Yes,” she replies serenely. “And now I am.”

Bucky snorts and leans back, arms behind his head, watching the two of them with unabashed amusement.

“You’re impossible,” Zemo mutters, swatting her hand away half-heartedly when she goes for another piece.

“I’m divine,” she corrects, licking sugar from her thumb. “There’s a difference.”

Zemo opens his mouth to retort but is distracted as she turns her attention to Bucky. “Did I ever tell you about the time a Spartan king tried to put a collar on me?”

“No,” Bucky says, eyes glinting. “But I’d love to hear it.”

She smiles, sharp and luminous, and begins to tell the tale. Something about pride and paws and the lesson of never underestimating softness. Her hands are as expressive as her voice, sweeping and curling in the air like smoke, like silk, like the tail of a cat mid-pounce. Her eyes flash with memory, with mischief, and her stories stretch out as the afternoon slips by unnoticed.

At some point, Zemo stops pretending to read and leans his head on Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky drapes a lazy arm around his waist, eyes never leaving Ailuros as she paces the room in bare feet and delight, recounting ancient days with a casual intimacy that makes time feel thin and stretchable.

Eventually, she drapes herself across the cushions once more, her story finished, her fingers sticky with honey. She yawns, flashing teeth and satisfaction.

“Nap time,” she announces, already curling into a nest of pillows like she owns the place. Which, to be fair, she kind of does.

Bucky chuckles. “You gonna shift back, or are we just letting you take over like this?”

Ailuros doesn’t answer. She’s already snoring, faintly and theatrically.

Zemo sighs, and waves a hand towards the bookcase. “She’s moved the vase again.”

Bucky presses a kiss to his temple. “You’ll survive.”

Zemo grumbles something about tyrants in silk robes and houseguests with god complexes, but he’s smiling as he settles in beside Bucky, the three of them tucked into the golden haze of candlelight and crumbs.

Outside, the rain begins again, gentle and steady, as if the world is exhaling.

*

The table is scattered with the remains of a lazy dinner. Stone fruit pits, soft cheeses, warm bread torn with hands not knives, the kind of wine that doesn’t have a label but tastes like a secret. Zemo is still in his shirtsleeves, lounging in his chair with the long ease of a man who feels utterly safe. Bucky has abandoned his place entirely, sprawled on the floor with his back against Zemo’s legs, wineglass dangling from his fingers, lazily rolling it between his metal and flesh hands. The candlelight gleams off the plates of his vibranium arm like it was forged for this very purpose.

Ailuros is draped across the couch like spilled silk, golden eyes half-lidded, one foot tucked beneath her, the other grazing the floor. She hums as Zemo reads aloud, not anything grand or poetic tonight, but a small volume of obscure myths, the kind with endings that trail off mid-thought, as if the storyteller had been too content to finish. She likes those.

Bucky murmurs something that makes her laugh. Low and delighted, almost a purr. She leans over to tug a curl behind his ear. He tilts his head into her fingers, smiles slowly at her.

Zemo watches them both, his smile crooked and fond. “We’ve made a rather strange little temple of this place, haven’t we?” he says softly.

Ailuros doesn’t answer with words, just lifts her wineglass in a lazy toast to the candle flame. Bucky clinks his against it, murmuring, “Not strange. Just right.”

Later, when the dishes are forgotten and the night has deepened, they retreat. None of them say it, but they drift like planets pulled by shared gravity. Zemo goes first, shedding shirt and pretense, curling under the covers. Bucky follows, toes cold against Zemo’s calf, arm slung heavy and protective around his waist. Ailuros comes last, slipping between them like a sigh, like shadow, curling herself around them with the same casual entitlement she had as a cat. Her fingers trace idle lines on Bucky’s ribs, her back warm against Zemo’s chest.

They fall asleep like that. Wrapped in each other. Soft and slow and full of the kind of peace that isn’t always loud but is always deep.

They are home. They are chosen. They are loved.