Ares
The air splits like paper.
One second, Zemo is in his townhouse library, alone, blessedly quiet, fingers trailing the pages of a well-worn book on Balkan fortifications. The fire crackles low. A glass of red sits untouched beside him.
The next, the hearth erupts. Not in flames, but in heat. Thick, metallic, sharp as blood in the mouth. The room doesn’t burn, it boils. The temperature spikes, the shadows lurch. And through the wavering air, like something forged in the heart of a sun, a man steps through.
Not a mortal. A god. Ares.
Not in bronze armour or a chariot pulled by warhorses, but in black leather, bare-chested, boots dusted with ash, and a scar down one side of his throat like a sword kiss. Broad-shouldered, lion-maned, he takes up too much space just by being. There’s a grin on his face, teeth like a threat, and something in his eyes that says, You. I’ve been looking for you.
Zemo doesn’t flinch. He closes the book gently. He picks up the golden gun from the armrest beside him and levels it at Ares’ chest. Steady. Elegant. Pointless.
“I take it you're not here to discuss siege tactics,” he says dryly.
Ares chuckles, stepping forward. The heat follows him. "You’re clever. That’s what I like about you. That, and the way you make war look like art."
Zemo tilts his head, pistol unwavering. “And you must be Ares.”
“I am Ares,” There’s no thunder in his voice. “Colonel Zemo.”
Zemo sighs, lowers the gun. “No longer.”
Ares crosses the last few feet in a slow, deliberate stride. He doesn’t reach for Zemo, not yet. Just looks him over, like a soldier sizing up a rival general. “You orchestrated a civil war with a few files and a hotel room. That was beautiful. And you,” he gestures vaguely to Zemo’s whole self “are very beautiful.”
Zemo’s mouth quirks. “Thank you.”
“I don’t want you for worship,” Ares growls, and now he does step closer, crowding Zemo just slightly. “I want you for war. For skin. For blood on our mouths and fire under our fingernails. I want to see what you look like when you stop holding yourself back.”
Zemo smirks, calm and razor-sharp. “You may be waiting a while.”
Ares grins, teeth flashing. “I’ve got time.”
*
“Let’s try this again,” says Zemo. He lifts his golden gun and fires in the same breath. The shot cracks like a whip.
Ares doesn’t flinch. The bullet strikes his bare chest, bronzed and battle-scarred. It flattens on impact, like it’s hit something older than physics. It drops to the carpet with a soft metallic ping.
Zemo lowers the gun slowly.
Ares raises an eyebrow, amused. “That was adorable.”
Zemo exhales through his nose, his voice level. “I was aiming for your ego.”
“You missed.” Ares strides forward, boots echoing in a rhythm that feels like war drums. “Or maybe you didn’t. Maybe you just needed to make a point before you surrendered.”
Zemo, infuriatingly elegant even with a weapon rendered useless, raises his chin a fraction. “I do not surrender.”
Ares grins like a wolf. “We’ll see.”
And then he reaches out. No flourish, no magic spark. Just brute strength, iron grip, and the pull of divine intent. A sudden, shocking rush like being yanked through the eye of a hurricane. The world shifts.
Zemo doesn’t cry out. He doesn’t struggle. But the air bends, and the library, the city, the entire plane of existence slips away like ink in water.
*
The realm of the god of war is all iron and smoke. The sky pulses like an open wound, and the ground beneath Zemo’s boots is scorched earth, ancient and hungry. There are banners here, weapons half-buried in the sand, and a low, constant thrumming that Zemo feels in his bones.
He rips his arm free with a twist. Smooth, practiced, vicious. “If this is your idea of seduction…”
“It’s not seduction,” Ares interrupts, stalking around him like a lion, eyes lit with something unhinged and hungry. “It’s recognition. You are mine, Helmut Zemo. Every inch of you was forged for war. You belong here.”
Zemo's laugh is soft, lethal. “I beg to differ.”
Ares circles closer, nostrils flaring. “You want this. You just don’t know it yet.”
Zemo meets his gaze, unblinking. “You confuse discipline with denial. It’s a common mistake.”
For a heartbeat, they stand like that. Two forces locked in potential collision.
Then Ares moves. Fast, explosive, one hand tangling in Zemo’s shirt, the other sliding to his hip. Not cruel. Not gentle. Possessive.
Zemo lets it happen. Just for a breath. Then he steps back, digging the fingers of one hand into Ares’ wrist, twisting hard, whilst driving the heel of his other hand upwards, sharp as a knife, catching the god off guard and slipping out of his grip with liquid grace.
Ares is laughing even as he stumbles. “Oh, you are going to be fun.”
Zemo straightens his collar with clinical precision. “You, Sir, are deluded.”
Ares wipes blood from his lip, his own blood, and looks delighted. “I’m right.”
*
Ares throws Zemo into a grand, echoing war tent lined with silk and steel. Everything reeks of sweat and conquest. There are spears embedded in the ground like offerings, and flickering braziers casting shadows in the shape of stories no one tells anymore.
Zemo brushes the dust off his jacket, unperturbed.
Ares stands in the entrance, smirking like a man who already sees the ending. “You’ll stay here. For now.”
“Because you think James will come for me,” Zemo says, matter-of-factly.
Ares grins like a wolf again. “He will.”
Zemo smooths his cuff, slow and deliberate. “You misunderstand us.”
Ares narrows his eyes, taking a slow step forward. “He loves you. That makes him predictable.”
“No,” Zemo says. Calm as glass. “It makes him clever.”
Ares tries again, circling. “He’ll tear through my armies.”
Zemo raises a brow. “Only if you want him to.”
Ares’ smirk flickers. Just slightly.
Zemo steps closer, now fully in control. “You’re not after me. You’re after a fight. You want him to earn me. You want to be proven right about the kind of love that must draw blood to be real.” He pauses. “And that,” he says, voice cool and cutting, “is why you will lose.”
Ares stares at him, something shifting behind his eyes. Not fury. Something more dangerous. Doubt.
Zemo turns his back without fear, inspecting the tent’s spoils like a man preparing to redecorate. “I will not be bait,” he says. “And he will not be lured. We don’t play games we didn’t invent.”
And in that moment, Ares knows. He’s misjudged them both. Zemo isn't the prelude to war, he’s the refusal of it. He’s not a soldier anymore. He’s not a lover made soft by affection. He’s something Ares doesn’t understand: A man who already won by walking away from the battlefield.
*
Ares is pacing now, frustrated. Not with Zemo, but with the absence of response. Where is the crash of boots and breath and fury? Where is the white-hot storm of vengeance? Where is the Winter Soldier?
Zemo is seated inside the tent, legs crossed, quietly composed, reading a scroll he’s found among Ares’ collection of ancient war poetry. The parchment is older than empires, written in a hand forged during fire and conquest. Zemo hums softly, thoughtfully, running one finger along the edge of a stanza.
Ares storms back into the tent, restless, eager for battle. But before he can speak, Zemo looks up mildly and says, “This is quite fascinating.”
Ares blinks, caught off guard. “What?”
Zemo rises, still holding the scroll with a reverent touch. “The cadence here,” he points with a long finger, “very modern for something so ancient. May I borrow it?”
“You want to borrow my poetry?”
“It’s attributed to you,” Zemo says with a faint smirk. “But I suspect the meter owes more to one of your companions. A lover, perhaps?”
Ares splutters something vaguely outraged. And then, he feels it. The air tightens. A shift, a ripple, a presence moving like a ghost through the edges of his realm.
Bucky steps into the war camp without fanfare. No blaring trumpets. No swinging fists. Just boots crunching on scorched earth, a jacket slung over one shoulder, hair tied back loosely, and a calm that’s somehow more dangerous than any fury Ares has ever faced.
Zemo refolds the scroll neatly, and says, “Hello, James.”
Ares turns, grinning like it’s Christmas morning. “Finally,” he purrs. “Come to win him back, soldier?”
Bucky gives him a long, level look. Then, casually, he drops his jacket onto a spear rack “No,” he says. “I came to walk him home.”
Ares blinks. That’s not the opening move he expected. “You’re not even going to try?” Ares snarls. “He’s mine now. Don’t you want to prove yourself?”
“Why?” Bucky shrugs, stepping closer, unfazed. “He doesn’t want to be here. You took him. That’s not conquest. That’s cowardice.”
Ares’ eyes burn. “I could destroy you.”
Bucky nods. “You could. But it wouldn’t get you what you want.” And then he smiles. Smiles like a man who’s made peace with every part of himself, including the killer he used to be. He has known war far too intimately to ever glorify it again. “You want me angry,” he says. “You want the Winter Soldier. The violence. The drama. But I’m not your story.”
He glances at Zemo, eyes soft. “We’re not your story.”
Zemo tucks the scroll under his arm. He walks over, slow and easy, until he’s beside Bucky.
Ares stares at them both, something hollow echoing in his chest. No swords drawn. No blows exchanged. And yet, he’s lost. “You could have been magnificent,” Ares growls, voice low.
Zemo looks at Bucky. “We already are.” And with that, the two of them turn. They walk out of the war god’s realm without so much as a backwards glance. There are no trumpets. No fanfares. Just two men who chose peace over performance.
*
Zemo’s study is all warm lamplight and heavy books, velvet drapes filtering the late afternoon sun into honeyed streaks across the parquet floor. The fire crackles companionably in the grate. On the low table, is a tray of tea things, finest porcelain of course. An artful pile of biscuits accompanies them. Not store-bought. Bucky made them.
Ares is crammed into Zemo’s largest armchair, which creaks ominously under his bulk. His massive arms are folded as best they can be, one leg awkwardly extended because it simply doesn’t fit any other way. He’s frowning. Not with anger, but with intense concentration.
“And then you think it was the cavalry that turned the tide?” he asks, tapping a finger as thick as a bratwurst against the map on Zemo’s desk.
“I think it was the rain,” Zemo replies, leaning back, teacup balanced delicately in one hand. “Mud and poor communication did more to undo that charge than any blade.”
Ares grunts. “You might be right. I hated that mud.”
Bucky saunters in from the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, an oven mitt hanging loosely from one hand. He pauses, glances at the map. “They split their forces too early,” he says, voice casual. “No one could recover after that.”
Zemo doesn’t look up, but his mouth curves in appreciation. “Indeed.”
Ares watches Bucky disappear back into the kitchen, the faint clatter of oven trays following behind him. Then he turns back to Zemo and raises a brow. “Does he do that often?”
“Only when he’s feeling smug,” Zemo says, sipping his tea.
“He’s right, though,” Ares mutters, reaching for a biscuit with surprising delicacy.
Zemo hums, glancing down the corridor with a fondness that softens the edges of his face. “Yes. Infuriatingly so.”
Ares chuckles, low and rumbling. He shifts again, settling deeper into the armchair like a reluctant housecat accepting his fate. The fire pops. Another biscuit vanishes. The war map remains unrolled, slowly accumulating teacup rings and crumbs. And the two of them, god and mortal, resume their debate as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
They can hear Bucky rustling up dinner in the kitchen. “Ten more minutes,” he calls.
Zemo offers Ares the teapot. “Top-up?”
Ares holds out his cup. “Don’t mind if I do.”
***