The Trouble with Gods

Zemo doesn’t fall straight into Aphrodite’s arms. He drifts there, artfully, with all the finesse of a man who’s never been denied but knows precisely how to make desire feel earned.

He is a curiosity to her. Not just beautiful, though he is that, but sharp, subtle, full of pride and pain and humour that cuts through her illusions like silk. He plays her game without ever once forgetting who he is. And that makes her ache for him more.

And then Eros arrives to join the fun. Golden-limbed and laughing, with arrows like secrets and a smile that undoes kingdoms. And he sees what Aphrodite sees.

“You’re not heartless,” Eros tells him, lounging beside him in a bed made of star-silk and moonlight. “It’s just that your heart is already full.”

Zemo smirks, drawing slow patterns on Eros’s bare shoulder. “There’s always room for dessert.”

Zemo doesn’t give himself; he shares himself. On his terms. In rooms heavy with incense and divine laughter. There is wine and skin and whispered verses older than language. There are hands and mouths and want without consequence.

And through it all, Zemo waits. Knows. Because Bucky is coming.

And when he does, he walks into that temple as if it were his living room, expression unreadable, but his eyes are locked on Zemo like he’s the only thing that matters. “Are you comfortable?”

Aphrodite looks up, utterly radiant. She smiles, lush and full of sorrow, and says, “He is beautiful, isn’t he?”

Eros sprawls on the velvet divan and raises a lazy brow. Zemo sits up, kisses his shoulder goodbye, and walks to Bucky without hesitation.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” Bucky asks, eyes soft.

“Immensely,” Zemo replies. “But I missed you more.”

And Bucky, ever so cool, ever so composed, kisses him like worship. Like rescue. Like home.

“Schatzi,” says Zemo, like it’s a spell.

“Stay,” whispers Aphrodite, moving to run her hand down Zemo’s arm.

“Stay,” whispers Eros, moving to slide his palm over Bucky’s waist.

“Shall we?” whispers Zemo, eyes shining.

“Don’t see why not,” murmurs Bucky.

*

It’s the hour just before dusk, when the sky is flushed and slow, golden light dripping like honey through the trailing vines and gauzy curtains. The scent of crushed figs and jasmine rises from the cushions strewn across marble steps, and the air hums with lazy, radiant delight.

Zemo is reclining on a low divan, half-draped in indigo silk, bare feet on warm tile, a wine glass dangling from elegant fingers. Eros sits straddled across his thighs, feeding him cherries with an impish grin and whispering something that makes Zemo laugh, head tilted, lashes low, that rare, soft sound like velvet.

Across the terrace, Bucky is stretched on a pile of cushions beside Aphrodite, who’s weaving golden ribbons into his hair. He’s shirtless, flushed from sun and wine, garlanded in myrtle and rose, and glowing in a way he doesn’t even realise. Aphrodite hums as she touches him, admiringly.

Bucky is watching Zemo. A smile in his eyes. A private joy. And Zemo feels it. Mid-laugh, he shifts, catches Bucky’s gaze across the open space, and his smile changes. Slower. Deeper. He mouths, “Come here.”

Bucky rises with a lazy grace, kisses Aphrodite’s cheek, murmurs something that makes her laugh like water spilling over stone. Then he pads barefoot across the mosaic floor, kneels beside Zemo, and touches his arm like it’s home.

Eros laughs. “You could have all of this, too, you know,” he says, gesturing to himself, to Aphrodite, to the endless garden of delights. “You could stay.”

Bucky looks at Zemo. “I still might,” he says, and kisses Zemo slow and unhurried, tasting wine and promise. “But only if he’s staying too.”

Zemo hums into the kiss, hand sliding into Bucky’s hair. “Obviously.”

Aphrodite, watching from her alcove, smiles like a secret. She understands. She adores them.

Later, there’s more wine. More laughter. Aphrodite dances with Zemo beneath silvery starlight whilst Bucky leans against a cool marble pillar and watches, content and utterly besotted. Eros pulls Bucky away to whisper wicked things in his ear, and Bucky grins, amused and flattered.

*

The sky is pink and quiet, like a held breath. Sunlight dapples through the ivy lattice above the terrace, casting flickering shadows across the tangled linens and bare skin. The world smells of salt, citrus blossoms, and last night’s wine.

Bucky wakes first. He lies still for a long moment, eyes half-lidded, the weight of Zemo’s arm draped across his waist. A curl of Eros’ hair brushes his shoulder where he’s tucked against Bucky’s back, warm and faintly glowing even in sleep. Somewhere, a lyre hums a lazy tune, plucked absentmindedly by some divine hand. It might be real. It might be memory. It doesn’t matter.

He turns his head slightly, and there she is. Aphrodite, sprawled on the other side of Zemo, long hair fanned across pillows like molten gold, one leg bare and glittering. She’s already watching him, eyes the colour of sunrise. She doesn’t speak. Just smiles. The kind of smile that means I could ask you to stay, but I won’t.

Bucky smiles back. Slow. Honest. There’s gratitude in it. And affection. But not temptation.

Zemo stirs, breath ghosting across Bucky’s shoulder. “You’re awake,” he murmurs, voice low and full of sleep.

Bucky hums. “So are you.”

Zemo lifts his head just enough to press a kiss to Bucky’s temple. “James. I dreamed we were stars.”

“You always say that,” Bucky says, smiling as he turns into him.

“It’s always true.”

They lie like that for a while, limbs tangled, time curling around them like smoke. Eros eventually rolls over, tosses one leg over Zemo’s with a sigh that’s equal parts satisfaction and drama. Zemo doesn’t even blink. He just wraps an arm around Bucky’s waist.

“I suppose,” Bucky says eventually, “we could stay a little longer.”

Zemo raises a brow. “You’re not tired of wine and worship and ambrosial fruit?”

Bucky laughs, quiet. “Not quite. But I wouldn’t mind something small. Mortal. Messy. Like, I dunno, toast.”

Zemo smiles. “Butter and jam? How indecent.”

“Scandalous,” Bucky agrees.

Behind them, Eros groans dramatically and burrows deeper into the pillows. “You two are disgusting. I love it.”

They slip out of bed in no real rush, Zemo wrapping himself in a half-buttoned shirt, Bucky tugging on linen pants still fragrant with roses. Aphrodite watches them go, lounging like art, offering a lazy wave and a kiss blown on sea-wind.

“You’re welcome any time,” she purrs. “Next time, bring the jam.”

Zemo bows. “Only the finest.”

Bucky just grins.

And they walk out into the soft light of morning, hand in hand, gilded and glowing, choosing not eternity, not excess, but each other.

*

The kettle hums softly on the stove. Steam curls upward like an offering. Outside, the garden hums with bees and lazy golden light. It’s all very ordinary, and impossibly tender.

Bucky stands at the counter, barefoot, shirt creased, toast in hand. He butters it with idle care, watching the butter melt just right in the centre. Zemo is reading the paper at the table, wearing a robe that is far more expensive than it has any right to be.

There’s quiet between them. The kind that breathes. Unhurried.

Bucky brings over the toast and two mugs of tea. He sits. Sips. Looks out of the window at the wisteria climbing the fence, remembers a vine-wrapped terrace in another realm. Zemo’s foot rests lightly against his shin beneath the table, like an anchor. He remembers golden hands and laughter like flutes. 

Bucky glances at Zemo. “Do you miss it?” he asks, softly.

Zemo doesn’t look up. He adds honey to his tea, stirs once, twice. Then, “Sometimes. In the way one misses a fever dream. Beautiful, but it would burn if I stayed.”

Bucky considers that. Tears a bite of toast with his teeth. “It didn’t feel like burning.”

“No,” Zemo agrees. “It felt like being known. Entirely.” He finally looks up. His eyes are soft, still a little sleep-warm, and full of that same impossible, unshakable devotion. “But I don’t miss it enough to trade this. Here, I get the rest of you. The quiet. The mornings. Your bad tea. You, barefoot and beautiful, and completely mine.”

Bucky smirks around his tea. “You’re such a sap.”

Zemo reaches across the table, takes his hand. Kisses the back of it like it’s something sacred. “No, James. I’m just ruined.”

And Bucky, blushing, grinning, forever his, leans in and murmurs, “Me too.”

*

They go for an evening stroll. Dusk lilacs the sky, and the world has that hush it only gets right before the night truly takes hold. They don’t talk much. Bucky’s jacket is zipped halfway; Zemo’s scarf is artfully loose. The rhythm of their footsteps on the cobbles is unhurried. Comfortable.

They pass a bookshop neither of them has noticed before, tucked between a florist and a dusty tailor’s. The glass is fogged, the sign faded. Zemo pauses, tilts his head. “Do you suppose it’s cursed?”  

Bucky smirks. “Only one way to find out.”  

A chime sings when they enter. Inside there are old books, heavy with forgotten stories. The kind of place where magic might still hang in the air like smoke. Zemo finds a volume on folklore and quietly tucks it under his arm. Bucky flips through a graphic novel and grins at something private.

They leave just as the rain begins. Unexpected, silver-fine, slicking the streets like spilled mercury. Zemo immediately pulls a sleek black umbrella from seemingly nowhere. Bucky raises an eyebrow but says nothing. They duck under it together, shoulder to shoulder, a pocket of warmth in the soft storm. Zemo snakes his arm through Bucky’s as they saunter home.

The umbrella clicks closed with a shake of Zemo’s hand as they step into their apartment, home again, at last. Rain glistens on their coats, slicking their hair. Bucky shucks off his jacket and runs a hand through his damp curls, glancing over to where Zemo is toeing off his shoes with practiced grace.

Zemo disappears briefly, returning with towels, warm, of course, because he is the type to think ahead, to toss them in the dryer before they left. Bucky raises an eyebrow, amused.  

“Seriously?”  

Zemo hands him one, deadpan. “Have I taught you nothing about pleasure, James?”

They dry off in the living room, standing barefoot on the rug. Zemo fusses with Bucky’s hair. Bucky lets him. There’s laughter in their touches, affection in the way they bump shoulders, tug gently at towels, kiss without thinking.

Eventually, Bucky goes into the kitchen and returns with two mugs of tea. One is cherry blossom. Zemo’s, naturally.  

They curl up on the couch, knees touching. Zemo opens the book he bought, starts to read aloud some ridiculous superstition about fox spirits and moonlight weddings. Bucky listens with his head tipped back, eyes half-closed, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

The rain continues outside, a soft percussion on the window. The lamp casts everything in golden hues.

Zemo closes the book. “You’re quiet tonight,” he murmurs.  

Bucky hums. “I think I’m just happy.”  

Zemo leans over, brushes a kiss to his temple. “We should get you rained on more often.”

They sit there for a long while. No thrones. No lightning. No temptation but this, each other, this life, this love.

The gods may offer heavens. But this: tea and towels and shared rain, is paradise enough.

*

The window is cracked just slightly, the way Zemo likes it, just enough to let the rain whisper in, to catch the perfume of damp earth and faraway thunder. The streetlights cast soft amber shapes against the curtains, and everything feels blurred at the edges, like a dream you don’t want to wake from.

Bucky lies on his side, facing Zemo, both of them a tangle of bare limbs and shared warmth beneath the cotton sheets. Zemo’s hand rests lightly on Bucky’s waist, his thumb making a slow, unconscious rhythm. He’s already drifting, his breathing steady, his lips parted just so, lashes fanned delicately against his cheek.

Bucky watches him. Just watches. The way his hair curls slightly around that perfect mole behind his ear. The way his brow is smooth now, none of that sharpness he used to carry like armour.

Outside, a car passes slowly, its tires hissing in the wet. Bucky’s metal fingers, burnished in the soft light like the moon itself left a kiss upon them, graze Zemo’s cheek, and Zemo hums softly in his sleep.

He could think of gods, of storms, of laughter. Of slick skin and worshipful hands. Of gardens filled with impossibility. Of silk sheets and immortality offered like wine. He could.

But all Bucky thinks about, here and now, is this: the steady heartbeat under his palm. The faint scent of their shampoo. The quiet way Zemo had said, “I’m glad we came home,” before falling asleep. And Bucky smiles.

***