Athena
Zemo arrives alone, of course. No summons is ignored when it comes from Athena herself, but the invitation was oddly specific: Come as you are, bring nothing but your thoughts.
So he walks the stone path that curves up the mountainside, cool air brushing his coat, the sky pale and cloudless above. The temple is simple, by Olympian standards. Clean lines and quiet grandeur, columns of pale stone veined like marble lightning. Not a soul greets him. The silence is profound.
Inside, it’s vast and empty, save for the owl. It regards him from a high beam, head tilting once.
“She wonders if you’ll disappoint her,” says a quiet voice behind him.
He turns. She stands like she’s always been there. Statuesque, poised, more real than the temple itself. Her armour gleams faintly in the soft light. Her gaze is sharp and unreadable.
Zemo bows his head. “I hope she isn’t,” he says, evenly.
A faint curve at the corner of her mouth. Not quite a smile. “Good,” Athena says. “Then let us begin.”
She conjures a table from nothing, set with scrolls and maps, and gestures him forward. She asks him questions. Some philosophical, some tactical, some strange and twisting like riddles meant to catch him off guard. He answers every one. Not always perfectly. Not always wisely. But honestly.
And somewhere in that long afternoon, the air between them shifts. The interest sharpens. She watches him with that razor-edged attention of a general, a scholar, a god. And when she speaks again, it’s softer. “You would have made a fine commander in my army,” she murmurs.
Zemo doesn’t preen at the praise. He inclines his head again. “I have led armies,” he says. “But I am weary of war.”
Athena studies him. Then she gestures again, and drinks appears on the table. She takes one. Gestures for him take the other. “For now,” she says. “We talk.”
*
Zemo opens the front door and steps into the low warmth of home. He is greeted by golden light, a soft record playing in the background, the smell of garlic and lemon and something freshly-baked.
“That was a long one,” Bucky says mildly, not looking up from where he’s slicing herbs with deliberate care. “She keep you past your bedtime?”
Zemo lets out a breath that might be a laugh, might be exhaustion. “She asked me about the ethical structure of retributive justice through the lens of mortal failure.”
“Nice,” Bucky says, smirking now. “Did you impress her?”
Zemo removes his coat. “She didn’t throw me off the mountain.”
“High praise,” Bucky deadpans. “Maybe next time she’ll let you meet the owl.”
“Bubo? She’s a sweetheart.”
Bucky’s mouth twitches. “I see. So when do we get one of our own?” He tosses the chopped herbs into the pot. “Little Bubo. Athena Junior. Bubino. She can perch on the back of the couch. Glare at me if I eat too many cookies.”
Zemo crosses the room to him, fingers trailing lightly across Bucky’s back as he passes. “You’re joking” he says, but there’s a glow in his voice.
“Only a little,” Bucky replies. “I’m very proud of you.” Bucky glances over, eyes soft. “Seriously. That she even talks to you like that? Means something.”
Zemo nods, quiet, tilts his head and looks into those blue eyes.
They both smile, and the moment settles around them like a soft blanket. The kitchen is warm, the food fragrant, and outside the evening darkens without hurry.
Later, after dinner, Zemo sits at the table scribbling in a notebook. His thoughts from the day, ideas he wants to examine more deeply. Bucky leans on the doorframe, sipping coffee, watching him with quiet affection.
*
The chamber is high-ceilinged and cool, carved from marble that hums faintly with ancient magic. It’s lit by no visible source, yet it glows as if bathed in eternal twilight. Athena stands at the centre, robed in silver-edged armour, her owl perched silently on her arm. Her eyes are bright and unreadable.
Zemo bows, crisp and without flourish. “You summoned me.”
“I did,” she replies, voice like clear steel.
She gestures, and a great circular table rises from the floor, smooth stone etched with shifting diagrams. At its centre, a scene unfolds: a battlefield caught in motion, soldiers frozen mid-charge. Civilians cowering. Leaders with eyes narrowed toward some distant, unreachable peace.
“I have watched this particular conflict take shape for three hundred and forty-seven years,” she says. “Each attempt at resolution has failed. Every truce has broken. The cycle spins on.”
Zemo steps forward, studying the projection. “They both believe they are right?” he asks.
“Of course.”
“They both believe they are wronged?”
“Deeply.”
He exhales slowly. “Then it’s not logic that will free them. It’s ego.”
“Precisely,” Athena says. “But here is the question: do I intervene? Do I force peace and rob them of their agency? Or do I let them burn and claim it as free will?”
Zemo’s eyes flick up to hers. “Is that a binary, or is it a test?”
She smiles faintly. “Why not both?”
He studies the frozen moment, studies the flicker of rage and desperation caught in stone “You’ve already answered your own question,” he says after a time. “You wouldn’t have brought me here if you wanted permission to act. You want an argument strong enough not to act.”
Her brow arches. “Go on.”
“You are a goddess. Your strength is not in muscle or fear. It’s in the knowledge that the most powerful move is restraint. If you force peace, it will last until the mortals forget why it was needed. But if you give them the tools. Education, empathy, accountability. They might build it themselves.”
“And if they fail?”
Zemo looks at the table again. “Then at least they failed trying. Not because a god took away the burden of choice.”
The owl stirs on her arm, blinking slowly. Athena considers his answer. She walks around the table, eyes fixed on the shifting scene. “Your logic is elegant. But mortals are not always wise.”
“No,” Zemo agrees. “But we learn. That is your domain, too. Wisdom must be grown, not given.”
She stops. “You are clever, Baron.”
He inclines his head. “You asked for my mind. I left my sword at the door.”
She chuckles, low and rare. “You may return. When the moon is dark again.”
As he turns to go, she adds, almost idly, “You chose well, with the soldier.”
Zemo glances back. “I know.”
She watches him go, and the owl makes a quiet sound that might be approval.
*
The apartment is warm with the scent of spiced lentils and roasted vegetables, something earthy and simple simmering in the pot. Rain taps lazily against the windowpanes. Bucky’s sitting at the table, sleeves pushed up, a book open in front of him but long since forgotten.
When Zemo walks in, cloak damp with mist and face faintly flushed from the air of Olympus, Bucky stands. Doesn’t ask how it went, just walks over and wraps an arm around his waist, tugging him close like the answer might settle better in a shared breath.
Zemo presses his face into Bucky’s shoulder and exhales. “She invited me back.”
“That bad, huh?” Bucky murmurs, but he’s grinning.
Zemo nods, his expression somewhere between pleased and dazed. Then he straightened and said “She called me clever. I may never recover.”
Bucky snorts. “Don’t let it go to your head, wise guy.”
“She also said that I chose well with you.”
Bucky pulls back enough to look at him. “Yeah?” A blink. “Wait, Athena said that?”
“I told her you were smarter than me,” Zemo says lightly, “but you hide it well.”
Bucky bumps his hip, mock-annoyed. “She probably believed you.”
“She agreed with me.” Zemo kisses him then, slow and easy, hands framing his jaw like something precious. When they part, he murmurs, “She showed me a war she’s been watching unfold for three centuries. Asked if she should stop it.”
Bucky tilts his head. “Did you tell her to?”
“No,” Zemo says. “I told her to teach them. That was the only way peace would last.”
There’s a pause as Bucky digests that. Then, he leans in again, presses a kiss to his temple. “Still think we should get an owl?”
Zemo laughs, pulling him toward the stove. “Fine. But you’re cleaning up after it.”
“Deal,” Bucky says, already grabbing a bowl.
They eat by candlelight, limbs brushing, a quiet hum of contentment in the air. And though Zemo’s mind still rings faintly with divine logic and ancient voices, it’s Bucky’s laughter, low, warm, alive, that he anchors to. Every time.
Later, the dishes are washed and the apartment is bathed in the gentle glow of lamps. Outside, the rain has stilled to a soft mist, and the world feels wrapped in cotton. The quiet isn’t heavy. It’s companionable, the kind that grows between people who’ve shared the same spaces long enough to breathe in rhythm.
Zemo is stretched out on the couch, feet bare, robe loosened just enough to be informal. A slim volume rests on his chest. Some poetry, Greek, with his own faint penciled notes curling into the margins. He hasn’t turned the page in a while.
Bucky is curled sideways in the armchair, coffee cooling on the windowsill beside him. He’s got a novel in one hand and his other hand extended, loosely twined with Zemo’s fingers where they reach across the gap.
For a long moment, neither speaks. Zemo flips a page, though his eyes don’t scan it. Then he murmurs into the room “She asked me if love is ever a weakness.”
Bucky looks up, thumb still hooked in his book. “What’d you say?”
“I said it depends on whether you’re protecting it, or living in it.”
Bucky pauses, then closes his book. “You’re such a romantic.”
Zemo’s smile curves, slow and fond. “Only for you.”
He tugs gently, and Bucky obliges, abandoning the armchair to slide onto the couch beside him. Zemo shifts, wrapping an arm around Bucky’s shoulders and tucking him in close. Bucky nestles without hesitation, cheek pressed to Zemo’s chest, one leg flung carelessly over his.
“You smell like old libraries and smugness,” Bucky mutters.
“And you smell like applewood smoke and rebellion,” Zemo says. “We’re a perfect match.”
Bucky shifts to rest his head on Zemo’s shoulder. “She likes you,” he murmurs. “Athena.”
Zemo’s lips curl into something thoughtful, touched with irony. “I like her too. In her way. But I like you better.”
“Obviously,” Bucky drawls.
Zemo chuckles. “She said I was illuminating.”
“She’s not wrong,” Bucky says, snuggling in closer. “You light up a room when you’re being smug.”
Zemo presses a kiss to Bucky’s hair and lets the moment stretch out, rich with candlelight and rain-whisper hush. “Still,” he murmurs, “it’s good to be home.”
And Bucky, already halfway to sleep, smiles against his chest. “Told you I was worth staying mortal for.”
The rain starts up again, quiet and steady. The candlelight flickers, painting shadows on the ceiling. Bucky dozes, warm and safe, and Zemo watches the slow rise and fall of his breath, his hand trailing lightly through his hair.
“Chosen well, indeed,” he whispers, not to be heard, just to feel it settle into the room. And the night drifts on, slow and soft and golden.
*
Athena does not expect James Buchanan Barnes.
When Zemo returns to her hall, it is with the soldier in tow, clean-shaven, dressed plainly, his metal arm glinting softly beneath the folds of his jacket sleeve. He stands just behind Zemo’s shoulder, his eyes calm, posture at ease but never unguarded.
Athena raises a brow. “I hope,” she says coolly, “this is not a diversion.”
“It is a contribution,” Zemo replies, tone respectful. “And possibly, a surprise.”
Athena narrows her eyes, intrigued despite herself. “You know I dislike surprises.”
Bucky meets her gaze then. “I hope to be useful,” he says.
The silence stretches for half a heartbeat. Then, very slightly, Athena smiles. “You’ve been studying.”
“No,” Bucky says simply, “just paying attention.”
They talk. The debate resumes. Some ancient dilemma about justice versus mercy, some modern war tangled in old patterns. Zemo offers nuance like wine, Athena sips it thoughtfully.
But it’s Bucky who eventually shifts the tone. Just a small comment, a thread plucked loose from the weave: “Sounds to me,” he says, “like you’re expecting humans to behave like gods. But they aren’t. And maybe that’s not a flaw. Maybe that’s the point.”
Athena stills. Zemo glances sideways, his expression unreadable, though the twitch of his mouth betrays his pride.
Athena studies Bucky for a long, long moment. “You are not what I expected.”
“I get that a lot,” Bucky says with a shrug.
Later, as they walk down from the hall, sunlight slipping low through olive trees and wild thyme, Zemo bumps their shoulders together. “Sharp,” he murmurs. “Very sharp.”
Bucky grins. “Well. You keep the gods busy with philosophy. I figured someone should remind them of the humans.”
Zemo slips his hand into Bucky’s. “I’m very glad you came.”
“I know,” Bucky says, and squeezes gently.
*
Back in their kitchen, the sun is lazy through the curtains, striping golden slats across the floorboards. Zemo stands at the window, still turned inward, his fingers curled absently around the rim of a teacup gone lukewarm. He’s been like that since they returned, murmuring about Athena, about echoes of old philosophies still looping in his head like the end of a symphony that won’t quite fade.
“She didn’t dismiss the notion entirely,” he says, mostly to himself. “There was a pause. An allowance. The beginning of agreement, perhaps. Or reconsideration.”
Bucky doesn’t respond at first. He’s got the stove going, sleeves pushed up, butter sizzling in the pan. He’s humming something tuneless. The scent of browning batter is already filling the room, comforting and tangible.
“She’s been considering that dilemma for a few thousand years,” Bucky says, flipping a pancake with practiced ease. “I’m not sure we were meant to actually solve it.”
“No,” Zemo agrees, distracted. “But to shift a god’s lens, even a little. That’s something.”
Bucky slides a plate onto the table with a soft clink. “Then consider it shifted, and come and eat some pancakes.”
Zemo blinks, coming out of his reverie. He looks down to see a stack already waiting for him. Warm, golden, a curl of butter softening at the top.
Bucky sets the syrup beside it and then leans in, pressing a kiss to Zemo’s cheek. “You get philosophical,” he murmurs, “I get hungry.”
Zemo chuckles, and finally sits. He watches Bucky return to the stove, reaching for the next ladle of batter, his hair tousled from sleep and the soft morning light catching on his metal arm like a living poem.
Being invited to discuss the abstract notions of war with a goddess is all well and good, he thinks. But this here. This quiet morning, this man flipping pancakes, making sure he eats. This ordinary blissful magic. This is divinity.
***