Hermes
Zemo
Zemo’s kitchen is peaceful. Filtered sunlight. A record playing something French and smug. Two cups of coffee, perfectly poured. Toast with cherry jam. Bucky still barefoot, leaning against the counter, reading aloud from something half-serious and a little inappropriate.
There is a sudden shimmer in the air. A sound like a bell dropped into a lake. And Hermes arrives. Uninvited. Dressed in leather and linen, with a messenger’s bag slung across his back and a grin so sharp it could slice fruit.
“Apologies,” he says, plucking a piece of toast from Bucky’s plate, “but time’s a bit thin, and he’s overdue.”
Zemo sets down his cup very slowly. “Overdue for what, exactly?”
Hermes turns to Bucky like he’s about to propose. “I’ve got a job. A real one. You’d be brilliant at it. The gods need a fixer, a walker-between-worlds. Someone who knows how to disappear and be felt anyway. Someone dangerous. Someone fun.”
He looks back at Zemo and smirks. “You’ve done wonders with him. You really have. So soft. Almost glowing. But I think he still remembers how to be sharp, too.”
And before Zemo can rise or reply, Hermes touches Bucky’s shoulder, and they vanish. A scent like ozone. A swirl of gold. Gone.
Bucky’s coffee cup is left steaming. It’s not the only thing.
The room feels hollow in the absence. Zemo does not move. Not yet. He’s staring at the space Hermes left behind. Like if he looks hard enough, he might unweave time itself.
Then he smiles. That slow, dangerous smile. The one that doesn’t reach his eyes. The one Bucky has kissed away a hundred times before. The one that should never return.
“He took him,” he murmurs, voice like silk drawn over steel. “From my home. From my breakfast table.”
The record keeps playing in the background. Something light. Ridiculous.
Zemo walks to the counter. Takes Bucky’s half-eaten toast. Tears a piece off, slowly, and chews.
“Sloppy, Helmut,” he tells himself. “Soft, like the god said.” He drains his own coffee in one long pull. Still calm. Still composed.
He picks up Bucky’s mug. Still slightly warm. He turns it in his hand. And he smashes it against the kitchen wall. Shards scatter like teeth.
“You arrogant little thief.”
*
Zemo doesn't chase blindly. He plans. Dusts off old maps. Finds the books even gods hoped he'd forgotten.
He writes. In Sokovian. In German. In Greek. In a cipher only two people alive still understand. Not letters. Not exactly. Not even warnings. Promises. One page, he seals in wax and presses to his chest before hiding it in a hollow book titled “Myths and Monsters: A Comprehensive Study”.
He calls in old debts.
In Copenhagen, a woman with stars tattooed onto her eyelids hands him a coin too warm to the touch. “It opens exactly one door.”
In Prague, a man in a peacoat gives him a key that doesn’t fit any known lock on Earth.
“He still owes me for Berlin,” Zemo says to a tailor in Frankfurt. “And now, I collect.”
In an alley in Vienna, he speaks to a mirror that doesn’t reflect him. “You’re being reckless,” the mirror says. “Good,” Zemo replies, fixing his cufflink. “He started it.”
He finally finds a disinterested seer who can help for the right payment. He says: “Tell me how to find this god.” And she looks him over, amused. “You don’t find Hermes,” she says. He just smiles. “I do.”
*
Zemo doesn’t make any dramatic threats. No furious declarations. He just takes measured breaths and gathers his resources.
A hidden compartment slides open beneath the floorboards. The room has no right to hum like this, but it does. Something old and vengeful stirs. He opens a case. Inside, nestled safely, is a slim silver dagger with a carved obsidian handle, a ring with an emerald cracked precisely down the centre, and a page of parchment that pulses faintly with living ink.
He fastens the ring to his finger, pockets the rest.
His wardrobe is obscene. Not just in quality, but in intent. A deep wine velvet jacket laced with runes. Gloves stitched with spells. A midnight black shirt with a collar that whispers secrets when folded just so. Cufflinks that gleam when lies are told.
He picks one outfit. Then another. He lays them out carefully, like battle plans.
Eventually, he sighs. “Fine,” he says out loud. “All of them.”
He looks in his mirror one last time. Hair: neat but swept back. Eyes: colder than winter. Smile: loaded.
He tucks the dagger beneath his coat, slides the ring onto his finger, and slips the parchment into a hidden pocket.
“You wanted war, godling?” He murmurs, his accent thick. “You’ll get elegance, fury, and inevitability.” He pauses. “But first, I shall take back that which is mine.”
***
Bucky
Bucky’s feet land on smooth stone. Not Earth. Not Olympus. Somewhere in between. The air tastes like ripe peaches and danger. The horizon bleeds gold and violet. Clouds roll like silk. Gravity hums around him.
Hermes is already five steps ahead, walking backwards, grinning like a god who’s never heard the word “consequences.”
“So. How does it feel to be wanted again, Soldier?”
“Not sure,” Bucky says, eyes sharp even as he moves with easy grace. “Still deciding.”
He’s wearing the clothes he left in. Jeans, a soft grey T-shirt, a hoodie that still smells like Zemo’s cologne. But around his wrist is a braided band of woven light. A gift. Or a claim. He can’t tell yet.
Hermes hasn’t stopped smiling. “You’ve gone soft,” he says, circling him. “Sharp at the edges, dull in the centre. He’s made you domestic.”
Bucky raises a brow. “You think I can’t be deadly and do the dishes?”
Hermes’ laugh is sunlight on broken glass. “I think you have forgotten what it feels like to move without weight.”
*
They spar. Not with fists. With speed. With language. With flirtation sharpened to a knife’s edge. Bucky is fast. Faster than a mortal should be, of course. Faster than even some gods. But Hermes moves like intent made flesh. Like a punch that never misses because it lands before you know it’s thrown.
Bucky grins. Not often. Not widely. But he grins.
“You’re enjoying this,” Hermes says, panting, pressed against him after a particularly complicated move.
“You’re not bad,” Bucky replies, his breath low against the god’s neck. “For a thief.”
*
The “tent” is absurd. Silk that shimmers like oil in moonlight. A bed big enough for a hundred regrets. Candles that flicker in colours Bucky doesn’t even have words for.
Hermes lounges. And Bucky, for now, lets himself listen. Stories. Secrets. The places between places.
There is even a kiss or two. Curious. Warm. Exploratory.
But every now and then, Bucky looks outwards, gazing into space. And there is a pause in the conversation. A shadow in his expression. He touches the braid on his wrist. He says nothing.
“He’ll come for you, won’t he?” Hermes says, eventually.
“You’d better believe it,” Bucky replies.
*
There’s no ground now. Just a stretch of starlight, winding through nebulae like a ribbon of purpose. Bucky walks beside Hermes, boots silent on the shimmer. Above: distant constellations shift, lean in, listen. Below: the echo of past selves, mission after mission, sliced across time like film reels on fire.
Hermes is radiant and unhurried, robes changed again: this time a sleek bomber jacket over celestial armour, winged boots barely brushing the ribbon-road. One hand tucked in a pocket. The other gestures toward infinity. “There’s a crisis,” he says. “A divine one. Delicate. Political. Dangerous.”
“So you took me on a date first?” Bucky deadpans.
Hermes grins. “You’re not the only one who enjoys a soft launch.”
They stop in the middle of nowhere. Or rather, the middle of everywhere. A table appears. Set for two. Spiced wine. Crystallised fruit. A folded scroll sealed in wax. Bucky picks it up. Doesn’t open it. Just watches Hermes. “Why me?”
“You’re a soldier who learned to love. A weapon who refused to stay broken. You’re adaptable. Loyal. Lethal. You know pain. And you know how to hide it.”
He pauses. Then shrugs, smiling. “Also, you’re gorgeous. And stubborn. And your hair’s doing that thing again.”
Bucky raises a brow. Hermes only smiles wider.
“This isn’t a war, Bucky. Not yet. But there are old powers stirring. Muses reborn. Mortals touching gods. And some of us,” his voice drops to a hum, “some of us need allies who know how to move in the cracks between stories.”
Bucky finally opens the scroll. He reads. Eyes narrowing. Then widening. “This is real?”
“Real as anything.”
“And if I say yes?”
“Then I’ll teach you how to steal from Titans.”
Bucky folds the scroll. Tucks it into his jacket. “I’ll think about it.”
Hermes leans in, mouth almost against Bucky’s ear. “Take all the time you need.” He breathes out. “But not too much. Some of us get impatient.” Then he kisses Bucky’s earlobe, and vanishes.
*
The ribbon of starlight twists through a celestial archway, blooms into a vast dream-space of moonlit marble and vines that whisper in forgotten dialects. Bucky is already there. Waiting.
Hermes reappears mid-step, hair windblown, jacket now gold-threaded like mischief. He looks smug, until he sees Bucky holding something glowing in one hand. “How did you..?”
“Found it where you dropped it,” Bucky says, tossing the object casually up and down. It’s an ancient coin pulsing with celestial energy.
“I don’t drop things.”
“Mmm. Odd.”
Hermes stares at him. And laughs. Genuinely. Sparkling with delight. “Ohhh, this is going to be fun.” He steps closer, slow. Circling. That same energy he wore when he first slipped through Zemo’s windows like a breeze and stole Bucky from the scent of coffee and silk.
“You move like someone who shouldn’t be able to. You think in spirals. You adapt faster than fate.” He pauses. “It’s not just the serum, is it?”
Bucky smiles. It’s soft. And dangerous. “Probably not.” He takes a step forward, and the celestial floor responds, stone blooming beneath his boots like it's eager to meet him. “I’ve had time. I’ve learned things. From gods, from monsters. From people who loved me. From people who tried to break me.” He looks right at Hermes. “And I’ve never let a trickster win.”
Hermes’s grin goes crooked. “Oh, darling. I don’t want to win. I want you to play.” And he snaps his fingers. A maze appears, formed from light and memory, shifting architecture and myth, a trickster’s game. “Find your way through. Or bend it to your will.”
Bucky looks at it for a moment. He walks in. Calm. Reading the walls. Touching the seams of unreality. He pushes once, and the whole maze rearranges itself to let him out.
When he steps through the final arch, Hermes is lounging on a vine-covered throne, looking utterly undone. “You solved it.”
“I didn’t solve it,” Bucky says. “I asked it.”
Hermes stands. Walks slowly over. No game in his eyes now, just some kind of awe, and something softer beneath. “You’ve been shaped by war and silence and kindness and rage. You’ve been remade and rebuilt and rewritten.” Hermes draws closer. “I was wrong,” he says. “Zemo didn’t let you go soft.” His fingertips graze Bucky’s metal arm, tracing lines he’s already memorised. “He let you become.”
Hermes steps back and holds out his hand, not in jest, not in charm. Open-palmed. Offered.
Bucky looks at it, then up at him. “Where are we going?”
“To the real reason you’re here,” Hermes says. “No more games.”
Bucky shakes his hand. They step forward together. And the stars fold like petals.
*
They’ve landed on the prow of a ship made of clouds and mirrors, sailing slow across the edges of twilight. Below, cities flicker. Above, stars argue softly in Morse code.
Hermes leans against the mast like it’s a balcony in Venice. Bucky leans back too, but warier.
The tests are done. The chase. The chaos. The games. Now comes the offer.
“You think you’ve seen everything,” Hermes says. “You think you’ve been everywhere. But there’s an entire class of conflict you’ve never tasted.” He tosses an apple between his hands like boredom is an artform. “The divine kind.”
Bucky snorts. “Gods fighting gods?”
“Gods fighting mortals. Mortals stealing fire. Corporations building altars. Influencers possessed by lesser demons of vanity. Honestly, it’s exhausting.”
Bucky’s eyebrow lifts.
Hermes grins wider. “I need someone who can walk in both worlds. Unseen. Unrattled. Someone who’s not easily impressed, or corrupted. Someone who can knock a war god off his high horse without starting a holy war.”
He steps closer, grin fading into something real. “I need you, Captain Barnes.”
“This is a job offer?”
“This is a recruitment,” Hermes says. “An invitation.” He steps around him. “You’d work with me. As a peer. A partner. No glamour tricks, no curses, no buried strings. You’d be free. And paid in more than gold. You’d get access to divine transport. I mean, come on, have you seen my sandals? You’d meet the wildest creatures this plane’s forgotten. You might even get answers. About power. About why you’ve survived.”
Bucky takes a long breath. The cloud-ship creaks beneath them. The sky tastes like secrets. “And Zemo?” he asks, eventually.
Hermes doesn’t flinch. “He’ll be livid,” Hermes says. “He’ll come for you. And that’s half the fun, isn’t it?”
Bucky tilts his head. He’s not smiling. But he’s close. “What’s the job title?”
Hermes beams. “Field Operative, Divine Logistics Division.” He takes a bite of his apple. “Code name: Winter Messenger.”
And Bucky, who has always hated code names, laughs.
***
Zemo
He doesn’t slam doors. He never shouts. But every time Zemo enters a room now, glass remembers it’s fragile.
He is always perfectly composed. Fresh gloves. Tailored coat. A ring that hums with low, watchful power. The quiet fury of a man not merely wronged, but disrespected.
“He stole him from my table,” Zemo says, to no one and everyone, stepping off the private jet like a curse made flesh. “At breakfast. With marmalade.”
The pilot does not ask questions. The stewardess leaves his tea untouched, still steeping.
The trail isn’t easy. Nothing about Hermes is. But Zemo knows how to follow what refuses to be found. Whispers in burnt-out temples. Wards that crumble under his gaze. A vineyard whose grapes suddenly bleed gold.
A message hidden in the static between radio stations: “He walks amongst gods now.”Zemo's eyes narrow. He doesn’t run. But his next step is faster. His coat lifts slightly with the wind, and doesn’t quite fall again.
In Delphi, he arrives uninvited. By the third question, the Sybil bites her tongue. “He’s not yours anymore,” she says, voice hoarse from prophecy.
“He was never mine,” Zemo replies. “But he chose to stay.”
He stops in a place someway between subway and dreamspace. A divine terminal where train lines speak in riddles and timetables are scrawled in constellations. A coffee shop appears where one shouldn’t. He ignores it. He’s getting closer. The scent of ambrosia is in the air.
The echo of Hermes’ laughter is faint but maddening. Zemo straightens his gloves. His next step will take him somewhere sacred, somewhere dangerous, somewhere with far too many mirrors. “Hold on, James. I’m coming for you,” he murmurs. “And for the god who thought this was clever.”
***
Bucky
Bucky is in a corridor that shouldn’t exist. One blink and it’s a hallway of columns, another blink and it’s a train station with no tracks. Every door leads somewhere forbidden. Every lock knows him already.
Hermes tosses him a sleek little device that shifts shape between a phone, a scroll, and a dagger, depending upon how you hold it.
“Don’t lose it,” Hermes says, walking backwards with infuriating ease. “It bites if ignored.”
Bucky rolls his eyes, catches it one-handed, slips it into a hidden pocket.
Mission 1 Singapore
A divine ledger has gone missing. An ancient book that keeps taboos in balance across realms. No one is supposed to touch it. But a mortal tech cult in Singapore accidentally trained their AI model too well, and now they’ve gotten their hands on something that shouldn’t even exist in this timeline.
“You’ll need to steal it back,” Hermes says, stretching across a floating chaise like a lounging cat with winged sneakers. “Without anyone realising it was ever missing.”
“So, a heist,” Bucky says.
“A heist,” Hermes grins. “With divine implications and extremely sexy suits.”
Singapore. 2am. The roof of a data cathedral.
Bucky drops in with a quiet grace no god expects from a mortal. The city below glows like circuitry. He moves through the security like the building itself wants to be impressed.
He doesn’t need a gun. He has experience. And the kind of speed that makes light check its rearview mirror. He retrieves the ledger with ease. No alarms. No bodies. No trace.
By the time the sun rises, he’s already sipping ginger tea on a divine tram with Hermes, who’s doing crosswords on a scroll that solves itself with sighs.
“You didn’t have to do it alone, you know,” Hermes says, not looking at him.
“You wanted to see if I could,” Bucky replies.
“Mmm. True. Also, you looked very good in that jacket.”
Bucky snorts. His boots are dusty with starlight. His hands still smell faintly of sandalwood and danger.
There is no warning. Just a shift in the light. One moment: Hermes is halfway through recounting a legendary flirtation with an archangel in Marrakesh while Bucky is eating a lychee tart. The next: A hush falls across the divine waystation. Ink runs backward in scrolls. Ambrosia curdles in midair.
Zemo appears. Dark. Exacting. Dressed like the storm before the opera. Cloak slicing through reality like a scalpel. Gloves pristine. Rings cold. Smile unapologetically curved.
“Well,” he says smoothly, eyes dragging over the divine with barely veiled disdain. “What an ambitious interior, Hermes. Always so tastefully garish.”
Hermes blinks. “How did you get here?”
“I asked nicely,” Zemo says.
Bucky stands. He’s windswept. Adrenaline still on his skin. He licks his lips.
Zemo turns to Hermes “If you were going to steal my partner, you could at least have sent a note. Or a better outfit.”
Hermes just raises his hands, palms up, dimple showing. “He came willingly. He’s magnificent, isn’t he?”
Zemo turns back to Bucky. Their eyes meet. All the gods fall away.
“You are not a weapon,” Zemo says, quiet and unwavering.
“It’s not like that,” Bucky says, putting his hands out. “Let me explain. It’s a job.”
Zemo crosses the final few feet, slow and deliberate. “You smell like ambrosia,” he says, brushing a thumb under Bucky’s jaw.
“Stole some from Hermes’ personal stash.”
“That’s my boy.”
They kiss. Brief. Grounding. Then Zemo turns to Hermes again. “I trust he’s being compensated for his time.”
“He’s on the payroll,” Hermes mutters, a little sulky.
Zemo hums. “The payroll?” He looks at Bucky, who nods, stifling a grin. “That is acceptable.” He nods once himself. “Good. Ready for home?”
“Wait,” Bucky says. “I have one more job.” He shrugs sheepishly, but his eyes shine. “I promised.”
Zemo sighs. Looks at him with that particular kind of fondness that means he’s already lost. “Of course.”
Hermes gestures for their attention. “Right. Time to clarify a few things.”
He conjures a map, not made of paper, but of shimmering cosmic threads, stitched through with divine intention. The threads rearrange themselves into a glowing schematic of divine influence on the mortal world.
Zemo looks at it once, arching a brow, and files it away for later.
“There are cracks forming,” Hermes says, pacing. “The old gods, the petty ones, the ones who can’t let go of their empires. They’re stirring. Meddling. Whispering in the ears of mortals with far too much power and nowhere near enough poetry.”
He flicks his hand. A flickering scene emerges: A CEO sipping ambrosia. A politician wielding a sword meant for Olympus. A weapons dealer muttering in a forgotten tongue.
“They think they can claim divine tools. Use them without paying the price. But we remember the price.”
Hermes turns to Bucky. “You know what it’s like to be used as a weapon.”
“Yeah,” Bucky says, jaw tight. “I do.”
“But you also know how to walk between worlds. How to slip between the sacred and the street. They wouldn’t see you coming. You’re not one of us. Not quite. But you could be something else.” He steps closer. “Winter Messenger. A new myth. Divine-adjacent. Officially unofficial. Helping restore balance, without all the Olympus red tape.”
Zemo, arms crossed, voice like velvet lined with knives: “And if he dies?”
Hermes doesn’t flinch. “He won’t. He’s stronger than most of us.”
Zemo looks at Bucky. “Do you want this?”
“I think I do.”
“And you trust them?”
“No,” Bucky says. “But I trust me.”
Zemo’s mouth twitches into a smile. “Fine,” he says, like he’s allowing it, like he hasn’t already memorised every escape route in this dimension.
“Why don’t you come along?” suggests Bucky, looking at Hermes, who shrugs. “Observe.”
“And if they so much as scratch you…” says Zemo.
“You’ll raze heaven,” Bucky says.
“Only the parts that deserve it,” Zemo replies.
Hermes claps his hands. “Great! Lovely energy! Fantastic drama!” He stands. “Your next assignment is in Venice,” he adds. “You leave in an hour.”
Zemo rolls his eyes. “Of course it’s Venice.”
“We’ll brief you en route,” Hermes says, already handing Bucky a divine dossier. “Costumes will be provided.”
Mission 2 Venice
Venice at twilight is a dream of shadows and glittering canals. Gold light leaks from rooftops, gondolas slice through the silence like sighs. It is the kind of place where gods leave fingerprints.
And into this decadent, whispering city walk two men: One in a high-collared midnight coat, walking like a secret you’re not allowed to know. The other in a sleek suit that shouldn’t allow movement, but does. Shouldn’t allow violence, but does.
Zemo and Bucky. The Winter Messenger and the Velvet Storm, the man who would burn heaven to keep him safe.
Their target is a floating masquerade, hosted on an antique barge. Invitations were divine-encoded and scented like wine. But Hermes got them in via “questionable yet flamboyant means.”
“This party is a leak,” he’d told them. “Someone’s selling god-coded tech. Little divine gadgets meant for other planes. If they fall into mortal hands, reality gets messy.”
Zemo’s smile had been dry as good gin. “Define messy.”
“Oh, you know,” said Hermes. “Time loops. Weather tantrums. Cities turning into opera scores.”
Now, on the boat, things shimmer and sway. Masked guests sip cocktails and gossip in Latin. A violinist plays chords that unspool time. The hostess wears a serpent around her neck and doesn’t blink.
Zemo fits in like sin in silk. Bucky is masked, gloved, tucked against the railings like a shadow waiting to be unleashed.
“Any sign of the devices?” Bucky murmurs.
“Not yet,” Zemo replies. “But our hostess is humming in Ancient Etruscan. I call that suspicious.”
A tray of glowing canapés floats past. Zemo takes two. They’re divinely illegal. He eats them anyway.
After a few minutes, there is movement. A ripple. A twist in the music. Someone slips into a side corridor with a box wrapped in glyphs.
Bucky moves. Zemo follows. Like thunder following lightning.
Inside an empty salon, the buyer is already waiting. A mortal. Rich. Dangerous. A little too interested in immortality. “What’s the cost?” he asks.
“Sanity, probably,” says the masked figure with the box.
“Try your life,” Bucky says, stepping into view.
There is a blur. Fists. Kicks. Shattered relics. One of the guards has a dagger that cuts words out of the air. Bucky catches it mid-sentence and breaks it.
Zemo retrieves the box amidst all the chaos, humming softly. “Let’s not let the timeline unravel tonight, shall we?”
They leap from the barge before it combusts in a light show worthy of the gods.
Later. On a rooftop. Venice sighs below them. The moon is draped in clouds.
“Did you have to kick him into the orchestra?” asks Zemo.
“He was going for the horn section. I did them a favour.”
Zemo opens the divine box. Inside pulses something living. Light and code. A whisper of storm.
“We’ll give it to Hermes tomorrow,” Zemo says.
“You trust him now?”
“No. But I trust you.”
Bucky leans into him. The stars hang low. Bucky’s kisses taste of moonlight.
***
Zemo’s townhouse. A Week later.
The door clicks open. Bucky steps inside, hair tousled by a wind that wasn’t earthly. He’s glowing. Just a little. Not visibly, not really, but in that way where the room notices before you do. He smells faintly of old starlight and fireworks that never quite exploded.
Zemo is sitting on the couch. Wine is poured. He is wearing a silk robe, and a jazz record is playing, very softly, like it might be eavesdropping.
Bucky drops his jacket. Kicks off his boots. Collapses next to him, one arm flung dramatically across the back of the couch. “We had to return a relic to the sea. Hermes said it would upset Poseidon if I didn’t do it personally.”
“So naturally you swam down with it yourself.”
“Of course I did. He told me I’d get gills.” Bucky groans. “He lied.”
Zemo turns to him. Takes in the slight shimmer clinging to his skin. His hair is still wet. His grin is stupid and lovely. “You are insufferable.”
“You missed me.”
Zemo sips his wine. “I missed the quiet.”
Bucky leans in to him. Nuzzles. There’s a little sea-salt behind his ear. A tiny static spark. “I brought you something.” He reaches into his pocket. Pulls out a gold coin that was not minted by mortals. It hums with potential.
“Hermes says it’ll get you out of any divine trouble. Once.”
“So it’s useless, then,” Zemo says, but takes it anyway. Holds it like a secret.
They sit like that for a moment.
“You’re glowing,” Zemo says.
“Still?”
“Yes. It’s obscene.”
“You love it.”
“I tolerate it.”
The lights flicker. Wind pushes at the windows. There’s a rustle. Of feathers? Or silk? And suddenly Hermes is on their balcony. Wrapped in golden light, sipping something ridiculous from a glass shaped like a lyre.
“Just checking in,” he says, stepping through the open door. “Still alive? Not smote? Good. Excellent. Bucky, darling, you’re due for a meeting with Eris in the morning. She’s dying to show you the new chaos draft.”
Zemo doesn’t rise. Doesn’t blink. “Get out of my house.”
“But I brought croissants!” He tosses a bag onto the table. Zemo scowls.
“Fine, fine. I’m going. See you tomorrow, Winter Messenger.” He winks. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” He vanishes in a breeze that smells like citrus blossom.
Zemo leans forward and opens the bag. The smell is divine. He picks out a croissant. Takes a bite. Chews. Grudgingly moans. “I hate him.”
“He’s not so bad.”
“You are corrupted.”
Zemo pulls Bucky close. One hand in damp hair. One thumb brushing over his jaw. “You’re home.”
“Yeah,” Bucky says. “But not for long.”
And Zemo sighs. But it’s not anger now. It’s inevitability. And a tiny, bitter-sweet pride. “Then tell me everything. While I still have you.” And Bucky does. Every glittering, absurd, god-haunted detail.
***
Some Time the Week After
It is late morning, in the kitchen. Zemo has just finished making tea. Quiet, elegant, methodical. When the door opens fast, with a gust of divine wind.
“Hi,” Bucky says, grinning, the faint shimmer of some celestial residue still clinging to his boots. Hair wind-tousled, jacket undone, cheeks a little pink from wherever he’s just zipped in from.
Zemo blinks. “James?”
No preamble. Bucky is already crossing the space, grabbing Zemo by the waist and kissing him like it’s a tether. Firm and full and a little desperate, like they’re stealing time from gods and fate alike.
Zemo makes a muffled sound of surprise, then melts into it. Hands on Bucky’s back, on his jaw, holding on like he’s still catching up.
When Bucky finally pulls back, breathless and bright-eyed, he says, “Can’t stay. Gotta go charm a minor storm deity out of declaring herself sovereign. Hermes said she’s very temperamental.”
Zemo just stares at him, lips kiss-bruised, tie slightly askew, tea cooling beside him.
“Be back before dinner,” Bucky adds over his shoulder, already halfway to the door.
Zemo touches his mouth. Smiles. Glows.
“Storm deities,” he murmurs, “Of course.”
***
Interlude of Little Mortal Things
Today is suspiciously normal. No crashing constellations. No Hermes on the balcony. No talking relics or vanishing islands. Just Bucky in a hoodie and sunglasses, trying to carry three tote bags of groceries through the park. Vaguely glowing again. Children wave. Dogs bark. Someone offers him a kombucha.
Zemo is at home, aggressively pruning a rose bush that definitely wasn’t there yesterday. There’s a scroll jammed under the doormat with “for the Glimmering Soldier and his brooding consort” written on it in gold ink.
Bucky returns home.
“Did you buy seven kinds of honey?” asks Zemo, helping him to unpack.
“Urania said one of them opens your mind to parallel thoughts.”
“And the others?”
“Just taste good.”
Zemo next unpacks some small earthenware pots. Lavender yogurt. Fireweed. Something labelled only in Etruscan. He sighs. Deeply. “One day, I’d like to make a sandwich without fear of cosmic repercussions.”
“I got bread, too.”
“Is it cursed?”
“No. Just crusty. Like you.”
Zemo throws a tomato at him.
Three divine acolytes show up at their doorstep later in the afternoon. They’re dressed in coordinated linen, humming a tune they swear was gifted to them in a dream. They ask for the "Winter Messenger" and try to offer Bucky a carved lyre made of cloudbone.
“We brought offerings of starwater and ethically sourced lightning.”
“I bought oat milk,” Bucky says, holding up a grocery bag. “It’s very similar.”
Zemo doesn’t even let them in. He shuts the door, muttering, “Absolutely not. This isn’t a temple, it’s a townhouse. And I am not your brooding consort.”
One of them slips a small, handwritten prophecy under the door: “A shadow wrapped in velvet shall rise, if the soldier ever breaks his fast before noon.”
Zemo reads it. Burns it. Eats a croissant out of pure defiance.
Later, Bucky tries to do laundry. The washer won’t start.
Hermes appears in a flash of lightning and goat cheese. “Oops! That’s my fault. The last pair of socks you wore are technically holy now. You’re welcome!”
He vanishes again. Bucky stares at the space where he was.
Zemo shouts from the next room: “Tell him if he reappears again during laundry time, I will salt his sandals!”
Bucky finally drops onto the couch beside Zemo, barefoot, hair damp from a normal shower.
“I tried to return the constellation map. Euterpe said keep it. Said I’ll need it for my next mission.”
“When is your next mission?”
“Next Tuesday. I'm not allowed to say the name out loud until midnight under a waxing moon.”
Zemo closes his book. “We are going to need a calendar.”
“A divine one?”
“No. A paper one. With cats. To mark your nights off.”
They retire to bed. The stars outside flicker in recognition. And under the mundane weight of warm blankets and brushed teeth and soft jazz, Bucky mumbles, “I love you, you know.”
Zemo hums. “Obviously.”
***
Mission: The Mirror of the Deep
There is a goat standing politely at the end of their hallway, holding an invitation scroll in its mouth.
“No.”
“Hel…”
“Absolutely not. Last time it was a peacock and I nearly lost a toe.”
“It’s a very polite goat.”
“It’s chewing your sock.”
The scroll reads:
“To: The Winter Messenger.
Mission: “The Mirror of the Deep”
Attire: Formal. Functionally dramatic. Dark palette encouraged. Bring your own blade.”
Zemo closes his eyes. “You’re going to wear another cape, aren’t you?”
“It’s not a cape. It’s divine protocol.”
“You like it.”
“It flows really well in battle. Why don’t you come along?”
“I would just be in the way.”
“Nah. You can watch me, and scowl from the sidelines.”
“That I can do.” He smirks. “I’ll bring my own cape.”
They arrive via mythic portal. A spiral of smoke and birdsong. They step out onto a moonlit shoreline. The lake is perfectly still. Not water. Not glass. Something older, reflective enough to remember forgotten gods.
Hermes is waiting, skimming a stone across the surface. The ripples twist into symbols.
“Welcome, my Messenger.” He then nods to Zemo. Zemo nods back.
Bucky groans and walks forward.
Hermes claps. Music swells.
“Oh my god.”
“Technically,” Zemo mutters, from the bank, arms crossed. “Yes.”
Hermes explains that a rogue oracle has taken residence beneath the lake’s surface, whispering ancient secrets into the dreams of power-hungry mortals. Chaos blooms. Stock markets wobble. TikTok trends get weird.
Bucky’s job is to find the oracle, and bring back the Mirror of the Deep which she has stolen.
Hermes, lounging on a floating chaise conjured from moonlight adds, “Be careful. The lake will try to remember you.”
“The Lake will? The actual Lake?”
“Yes. It will tempt you with visions. Echoes of what you were.“
“Like the Winter Soldier?”
“Like all of your selves, tangled in prophecy. But hey, wear the boots with the extra grip. You’ll be fine.”
Bucky dives in. Underwater, time folds. His eyes glow faintly gold. He moves like a memory given flesh: strong, fast, controlled.
The oracle is not a monster. She’s a child-sized figure made of whispers and kelp, with eyes like still puddles. She speaks to him in a voice that’s part Russian lullaby, part Brooklyn bar noise, part that soft gasp from Zemo’s mouth in the dark.
“You are many,” she says. “Which one shall I keep?”
Bucky smiles, grim and kind. “None of them. But I brought you this.”
He offers her something from inside his cloak. A memory that isn’t his, carefully gift-wrapped. It sparkles once, and the lake lets out a long breath.
Bucky emerges soaked, triumphant, wrapped in starlight and myth-sheen. He holds the Mirror of the Deep. His blade is still sheathed. And yes, the cape is slightly damp, but still flaring dramatically behind him.
Later, as they walk back through the portal, Zemo smiles at Bucky and brushes something kelp-like off his shoulder. “You wore a cape and saved the world, James. And you did so with style.”
Hermes is too busy flirting with a wind nymph that he met on the lake shore to hear them.
*
It’s a quiet evening. The city is wearing her twilight best, soft shadows, amber street lamps, the hush of twilight.
Zemo is in the library, sleeves rolled up, reading something ancient and obscure and utterly irrelevant to the modern world. He doesn’t care. There’s a new bottle of wine breathing on the side table. Dinner is warming in the oven. The clock chimes once.
And behind him: whoosh. A velvet shift of air, a fizz of displaced space. Bucky returns, barefoot on the carpet, still half-wrapped in divine shimmer, hair damp, shirt unbuttoned, grinning like a man who's just waltzed across the clouds.
“Hey,” he says softly.
“You’re early,” Zemo replies.
“Portal spat me out quicker than expected.”
“Did you thank it?”
“I bowed. Hermes said I winked, but I don’t remember that.”
Zemo closes his book. “You’re glowing again.”
“Hazard of the job. Want me to shower before dinner?”
“No. I find it charming. Like radioactive courtship.”
Bucky snorts and flops onto the arm of the couch, stealing a sip of Zemo’s wine.
Later, after food, after a kiss pressed to Zemo’s temple, after Bucky tucks himself into the armchair like a man at peace, he hears it. A soft sound. A breath. A voice, not Hermes’. Not anyone he knows. Not even spoken aloud. “He is not what he says.”
It comes from nowhere. From the folds of his coat. From the gleam on the blade he left by the door. It sounds like the oracle from the lake, aged and hushed, but more focused. Intent. “You’ve stepped out of time, Winter Messenger. And time remembers.”
Bucky straightens. Still. Alert. Something primal prickles at the base of his skull. He looks at Zemo, who is completely undisturbed, draped across the lounge like a decadent afterthought, flipping through some obscure poetry.
“Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“Nothing. Never mind.”
The next morning, Bucky wakes before the sun. Coffee. Silence. The rooftops are bathed in grey. And when he opens the drawer to retrieve his journal, tucked beneath his pen is a small, dark shard of mirror glass. Etched on it, faint but unmistakable, is a single word: Zemo.
He pockets it, heart thudding just once. No panic. Just awareness.
There is no drama in his voice when he later murmurs, “I need to check in with Hermes. Quick errand. Be back before lunch.”
Zemo doesn’t even look up from the stove. “Bring back figs. The good ones.”
Hermes is waiting on a rooftop in Istanbul. He’s fiddling with a sundial and eating pomegranate seeds one at a time. “Did the Mirror follow you?”
“You tell me.”
“Well. You’re the Messenger. The Mirror likes you now. Might show you things it wouldn’t even whisper to a god.”
Bucky drops the shard into Hermes’ palm. Hermes peers at it, then whistles low. “Oooh.” Then smiles. “That’s not prophecy.”
“Then what is it?”
“An echo. An imprint. Mirrors can hold memory. Emotion. Intent.” He spins the shard like a coin on his palm. It hums faintly. “But sometimes they mix up time. This is from your past.”
Bucky’s jaw tightens. “When?”
Hermes shrugs. “When you were the Winter Soldier. Before you became the White Wolf.” He flicks the shard into the wind and it disintegrates in a spray of silver sparks. “It’s just an echo. Not important.”
“You sure?”
“Darling,” he smiles genuine, guileless. “These things happen. I am adept at spotting them. Worry not.”
Bucky returns, just in time for lunch. Zemo is plating something absurdly delicate and European. There’s already a plate set for him. A linen napkin folded into a perfect triangle.
“Figs?”
“Didn’t get that far.”
“Disappointing.”
Bucky slips into his chair.
“My James,” Zemo says, holding out a fork, “try this. I have outdone myself.”
***
Business Trip, Godly Edition
The routine is absurd and sacred now. Bucky gets sent on “assignments”. Hermes never uses that word, of course. He says things like “pop by and make sure the River Styx isn’t leaking again” or “go remind the Oracle of Delphi she’s not retired” or “escort this minor deity to an awards gala in Paris. Yes, you’ll need a tux.”
Zemo pretends to be indifferent, of course. But Bucky always catches the corner of his mouth twitching with pride.
Today it’s Cairo. Or, more accurately, a liminal plane that overlays Cairo at twilight, between call to prayer and sunset, where divine bureaucracy gathers in suits that look like illusions.
Bucky gets dressed first, at home, with deliberate ease. Tailored suit. Black boots. A charm pinned inside his jacket Hermes gave him that one time after he outwitted a celestial tollbooth guardian.
Zemo watches from the edge of the bed, sipping his espresso. “You’ll be back for dinner?”
“If all goes to plan.”
“I’ve made no reservations, so there is no need to rush.”
“Do you want me to bring you anything?”
“Only gossip. And if you see Euterpe, ask her to stop stealing my playlists.”
“That was one time.”
“She looped Prince’s Controversy over my entire library. It was deeply confusing.”
Bucky kisses him, quick and precise, like sealing an envelope. “Back by sunset.”
Bucky steps into the shade of a minaret and emerges in a glowing atrium with no roof. The sky is a gradient of pinks and tangerines, and Hermes is waiting, lounging against an invisible wall, dressed like a runway model from the year 3027.
“You wore the charm.”
“You said the last guy who forgot it got turned into a paper crane.”
“Mmmm. He got folded. Bit different.”
They walk. Time loops oddly here. Bucky swears they pass the same pomegranate stall three times. But he’s used to it now.
The task is simple: negotiate a truce between two demi-gods fighting over an abandoned temple, make sure the local weather isn’t being warped as a result, and deliver a letter. Easy.
Bucky handles it all like someone who’s been doing this for a while now, which he has. And it’s fun, in its weird, sacred, exhausting way.
When he comes home, the apartment smells like basil and something faintly smoky.
Zemo is at the table, casually researching something he swears is not related to Bucky’s work (but is densely annotated with little scribbles about Hermes and stylised wings).
“You’re late, darling. Did everything go to plan?”
“I had to deliver a blessing. It came with tea. I couldn’t refuse.”
Zemo stands, crosses to him, and brushes his fingers through Bucky’s hair. Bucky is still glowing faintly around the edges. “You smell like lightning and mint.”
“That was the tea.”
They eat, and after, they sit on the couch. Bucky's head is in Zemo’s lap. Zemo is reading aloud from a book of very unhelpful star charts. Bucky half-asleep, murmurs commentary.
***
The Library of Smoke
Hermes sends a postcard. Bucky finds it on the kitchen counter. No stamp, no postmark, just a shimmer to the ink and a familiar, absurdly confident scrawl:
"Your presence is requested (urgently, but fashionably) at the Library of Smoke.
Avoid inhaling anything labelled 'Volume IX'.
H."
Zemo doesn't even look up from the stovetop as Bucky reads it aloud.
“Volume IX?” he asks.
“Last time, I think it made a priest sing opera about the heat death of the universe.”
“Mmm. Reasonable warning then.”
Bucky arrives through a very specific painting in Oxford. A painting Zemo once referred to as “deeply cursed, but tasteful.” It deposits him in a room filled with smoke. Not choking or thick, but theatrical, curling into words and paragraphs that hang in the air before vanishing.
Shelves reach into nothing. Books shift location when you’re not looking. Some volumes whisper. One growls.
Hermes is pacing backwards in a swirl of silvery robes and absolutely unnecessary gold eyeliner “There’s a loop. Someone’s been editing historical echoes. Rewriting memory imprints. Very rude. Very illegal.”
“Who’s doing it?”
“That’s your job to find out, darling.”
Bucky is very good at his job. He navigates dream-logic corridors, ducks false memories, defuses sentient paper bombs. A minor god of Nostalgia in a pinstripe suit tries to outwit him by bringing up every regret he’s ever had. Bucky shuts that down with a sharp “Already made peace with that. Try again.”
He finds the culprit. An ancient archivist gone rogue, tangled in her own memories. He gently untangles her using a touch of the charm Hermes gave him. Just enough to say: ‘you are seen, and you are done now.’ And he resets the loop.
On his way to the painting portal, a small, smoky book flutters down into his hand. Its title is ‘The One Who Came Back Every Time.’
He steps back through, emerging in their hallway. The light is soft, golden. Something savoury is in the air.
Zemo is setting the table. Two glasses. Candlelight. A playlist low and lovely in the background.
“You have smoke on your collar,” Zemo says as he greets him.
“Hazard of the job.”
Bucky sets the book down beside the wine. Zemo eyes the title, lifts a brow. “Is this about you?”
“Think it might be.”
“Then it must have a very happy ending.”
They eat. They chat. They laugh. And later, on the couch, Bucky reads the book aloud. It flickers between pages, telling his story and someone else’s, all at once. Until Zemo leans over, and kisses him quiet.
“No spoilers,” he whispers. “I want to live the rest.”
***
Zemo
It’s evening. Zemo is in the kitchen, preparing a pot of tea. Everything civilised and in order, until the door bangs open like the wind itself decided it was in love with him.
He barely has time to register the blur of motion before Bucky is on him. Warm jacket and colder fingers, wind-tangled hair and the unmistakable rush of someone who’s sprinted across realms just to touch him.
“James?” Zemo breathes, somewhere between startled and thrilled.
“Hi,” Bucky grins, and then kisses him.
Not a polite “hello” kiss. Not a sweet “I missed you” one either. No, this is the kind of kiss that presses, that asks, that claims.
Zemo’s back hits the counter, hands gripping the edge as Bucky’s body crowds in close. Zemo makes a low, startled noise as Bucky slides a knee between his legs and leans, just enough to feel the heat of it.
The tea is forgotten. Somewhere, something fragile clinks faintly on the tray and neither of them care.
Zemo’s hands slide up into Bucky’s hair, fingers tangling as he pulls him closer still. And Bucky’s hands are everywhere, greedy, like he’s been thinking about this for days and only now just got a break long enough to act on it.
When they finally pull apart, it’s barely. Lips brushing, breaths shared.
“You’re breathless,” Zemo murmurs.
“Mmmmm,” Bucky hums against his cheek. “Ran halfway across the Alps. Hermes wouldn’t portal me this time. Said it’s good for the thighs.”
Zemo makes a strangled noise somewhere between a scoff and a laugh.
“I just had to see you. Touch you. Kiss you,” Bucky says, a little wild-eyed. “Okay. Gotta go.”
“What?” Zemo is dazed, flushed, thoroughly mussed.
“Volcano spirit. Bit of a diva. Might erupt dramatically if I’m late,” Bucky says over his shoulder, already heading for the door.
He pauses just before he vanishes. Turns, winks, smirks. “You look good like that, by the way.”
The door closes.
Zemo exhales. Looks down at himself. His shirt is rumpled, lips tingling, one shoe is halfway off for some reason.
He turns back to his now-lukewarm tea. Smiles like he’s just been gifted a secret.
“Volcano spirits,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “Naturally.”
A few minutes later, deep in the volcanic caldera of southern Sicily. Bucky is crouched beside a mildly disgruntled fire spirit, who’s smoking (literally) with indignation about some territorial dispute involving a lava nymph and a misplaced sacrificial rooster.
He’s just nodding politely when his phone buzzes.
Zemo 💜 The message reads:
°You realise, of course, that you’ve ruined me for tea. I now expect it to come with ambrosia-scented kisses and a knee between my legs.
°This is entirely your fault.
°Fix it. Tonight.
°Or I’ll come and find you, wearing nothing but silk and the knowledge that you want me.
Bucky makes a small choked noise in the back of his throat. The fire spirit pauses mid-rant, narrowing its smoky eyes. “Are you quite alright, Winter Messenger?”
Bucky clears his throat. “Fine. Just some divine interference. Please, carry on.”
His fingers hover over his phone, then tap out a reply.
°That sounds like a threat.
°I accept.
°I’ll finish here by sundown. Home by midnight.
°Prepare to be ruined.
Somewhere, Zemo leans back in his armchair, silk robe just slightly undone, phone in one hand, and smiles the kind of smile that makes champagne jealous.
11:47 PM. The apartment is quiet. Lights low. A soft jazz record spins somewhere in the background. Old, smoky, Parisian. The scent of dark chocolate and cherry wine lingers like a secret.
Zemo is lounging. Not waiting, of course, because Zemo does not wait. He merely occupies time with devastating elegance.
He’s on the fainting couch, barefoot, in a robe that barely clings to one shoulder. There’s a book open beside him, unread. A single candle flickers near the window, caught in the slight breeze.
He glances at the clock. 11:49 PM.
The door clicks open. Bucky steps in, still in that god-kissed uniform Hermes designed for him: sleek, storm-dark, and kissed with starlight. There’s ambrosia clinging to his skin like a promise. His hair’s windswept, his cheeks a little flushed, his grin unapologetic.
He closes the door behind him. “I said midnight.”
Zemo looks up slowly, a lazy drag of his gaze from head to toe. “You’re early.”
“I made good time.” Bucky peels off his gloves, each finger tug deliberate. “Spirit of the sea owed me a favour.”
Zemo stands. Lets the robe slide just a little further down. “So gallant. So efficient.” He steps closer. “Did you bring me anything?”
Bucky leans in. “I brought you me.”
Zemo’s mouth curves wickedly. “Acceptable.”
And then, it’s all heat and silk and starlight, a collision of hunger and homecoming. Bucky’s hands slide under the robe, Zemo's fingers tug at celestial fastenings, breathless laughter between kisses.
Zemo murmurs against his lips, “You smell like smoke and thunder. Were you struck by lightning?”
Bucky grins. “Just a little divine approval.”
Zemo backs him towards the wall, eyes glinting. “Let’s see what else I can approve.”
The clock strikes 12:01 AM. The record keeps playing.
Sometime after midnight, the air in the apartment has gone soft and honeyed. The windows are fogged. One of Bucky’s gloves is hanging from a lamp like a forgotten ribbon. Zemo’s robe is barely clinging to the edge of the couch like it might be too scandalised to stay.
They’re on the rug now, because the couch was too far away and the rug was just right. Bucky lies flat on his back, his hair a tousled halo against the floorboards, his breathing steady, satisfied. One arm is folded under his head. The other, his left, is tangled loosely with Zemo's fingers.
Zemo, ever the cat in the sun, is draped across his chest, warm and decadent, cheek resting over Bucky’s heart like he's listening for secrets only he is allowed to hear. Neither of them says anything for a long while.
Eventually, Bucky speaks, voice low and a little scratchy, like the aftermath of something excellent. “I think I bruised time.”
Zemo hums, lazy and pleased. “Time had it coming.”
There’s a pause. Bucky presses a kiss to the top of Zemo’s head. “Did I miss anything while I was gone?”
Zemo lifts his head just slightly, eyes gleaming with that familiar amused sharpness. “Aside from me texting you my most scandalous thoughts and receiving only a thumbs-up emoji in return?”
Bucky grins, unrepentant. “That’s a good emoji.”
Zemo snorts softly, then rests his head back down. “Uncultured.”
They breathe together for a while. Long, languid exhales. Somewhere, the candle gutters.
“I like it when you come back,” Zemo murmurs.
Bucky runs his hand slowly down Zemo’s back, steady and warm. “Me too.”
Outside, the city sleeps. But in here, the gods are quiet, the stars patient, the moon smiling.
***
Text thread:
🧸 Bucky: you like dogs?
🎩 Zemo: I’m not opposed to them. Why?
🧸 Bucky: brb 💥
🎩 Zemo: James, what do you mean brb? What did you do?
Fifteen seconds later.
With the faintest shimmer of divine displacement and a soft, eldritch yip, Bucky materialises in the middle of the sitting room.
He’s breathless, wide-eyed, grinning like he’s just stolen fire from Olympus and licked the spoon.
And in his arms, squirming and adorable is a tiny, three-headed puppy. Each head yips at a slightly different pitch. One is trying to lick Bucky’s chin. Another is chewing the cuff of his sleeve. The third one just sneezed sparks.
“Hey,” Bucky says, like this is all perfectly normal. “Slight scheduling mix-up. Can you watch him for like, an hour? Maybe two? Hermes says I can’t take him into the River of Mist and it’s a whole thing.” He rolls his eyes dramatically.
Zemo stares. The puppy hiccups fire. Only a little.
Zemo stands, comes closer to get a better look. “This is Cerberus?”
“His kid,” Bucky says, holding the puppy out like he’s presenting Simba. “Meet Trikerion. Isn’t he precious?”
Trikerion growls with all the ferocity of a marshmallow.
“James,” Zemo says, “this creature has three heads, one tail, and has already scorched a hole in my rug.”
“I know. He’s perfect.” Bucky beams. “You’re gonna love him.”
“I am not a dog-sitter.”
“You’re not just a dog-sitter. You’re the dog-sitter. C’mon, it'll be adorable. Gotta go. Love you!” He plants a very distracting kiss on Zemo’s cheek, deposits the squirming puppy into Zemo’s arms, and poof he’s gone.
Zemo stares at the empty space where Bucky was. Trikerion yips again. One of his heads sneezes a little lightning.
“We are not bonding,” Zemo informs him.
All three heads lick his nose at once.
Later that afternoon. Zemo is walking in the park, holding the world’s most ornate leather leash. Trikerion trots beside him, three sets of eyes watching three completely different squirrels.
Zemo mutters under his breath, “If you eat one more pigeon, I will personally escort you to Tartarus.”
Trikerion hiccups.
They pass a small gathering of stylish city dwellers sipping espresso at a sidewalk café. One of Trikerion’s heads sneezes a puff of golden smoke. Another sniffs at a croissant. The third is busy barking at its own tail.
Zemo pinches the bridge of his nose. “Ne diraj to,” he mutters.
Instantly, all three heads freeze. Then, Trikerion sits. Perfect posture. Tail thumping. Eyes glowing faintly.
Zemo blinks. “Oh,” he says, tilting his head. “You do understand Sokovian.”
One of the heads lets out a happy little woof.
Zemo narrows his eyes. “You’ve been trained already. You have simply chosen to ignore me.”
A long, sheepish whine echoes from all three mouths.
Zemo sighs, crouches down, and gently adjusts the middle head’s collar. “I admire the chaos. But if we are to survive until James returns, we need a system.”
Trikerion licks his face. All three tongues at once.
Zemo goes still, then exhales through his nose like a man trying very hard not to fall in love with a demon-dog. “Fine,” he says. “You may have one bratwurst.”
Trikerion whines softly, and tilts his middle head, so his ear flops over.
Zemo looks at him. “You may each have one bratwurst.”
Trikerion wiggles with joy.
From wherever he is, probably wrangling a river spirit or racing Hermes through interstellar post routes, Bucky gets a blurry photo on his phone. It’s Zemo, sunglasses on, expression unreadable, sitting stiffly on a park bench. Trikerion is curled at his side like a flame-kissed pillow, one head in Zemo’s lap, eyes closed, tongue out.
🧸 Bucky
i KNEW you’d love him 😎
🎩 Zemo
He is insufferable.
He is loud, reckless, and apparently breathes sparks when excited.
He is your dog.
🧸 Bucky
😇
back soon!
bringin ambrosia snacks
xoxo
Time slips around Bucky like it’s in love with him. And now it’s late afternoon, golden light spilling through the windows.
Zemo is lying on the sofa like a man who has seen war. One sleeve rolled up, a bite mark (playful, probably) on his wrist, his shirt covered in smudges of glowing pawprints. His hair is slightly askew.
Trikerion is curled up on his chest like a warm, three-headed furnace, softly purring and making occasional little sleepy “wuff!” noises in triplicate.
Zemo’s phone buzzes. He picks it up with one hand, careful not to disturb the dog.
🧸 Bucky
omw
u ok? 👀
🎩 Zemo
No.
I am emotionally compromised.
Also: your son sheds embers.
Moments later. The door opens with the whisper of divine air. And there he is: Bucky. Windswept, glowing faintly, his pockets full of ambrosia chews and starlight biscuits.
He stops dead in the doorway. “You were going to keep him,” Bucky says, eyes wide and delighted.
Zemo sits up carefully, clearing his throat. Trikerion grumbles in sleepy protest.
“I was not,” Zemo says, absolutely lying. “I was counting down the minutes.”
Trikerion lets out a heartfelt whimper. One head starts licking Zemo’s hand. The other two continue napping.
“I bet you taught him Sokovian,” Bucky says, kneeling to scratch all three heads.
“He already knew Sokovian,” Zemo replies, voice lofty. “He just pretended not to.”
“Bet he didn’t pretend too long,” Bucky mutters, hiding a grin.
Zemo doesn't answer. He’s too busy smoothing his rumpled shirt and pretending he hasn’t been humming lullabies from the Sokovian royal nursery archives.
Trikerion lifts one paw and smacks Zemo's knee gently, like: up, now.
“I suppose,” Zemo says with a dramatic sigh, rising to his feet, “he has somewhere to be.”
“Yup,” Bucky says, throwing an arm around Zemo’s shoulders. “We’ve got training with Artemis. He’s learning to track starbeasts.”
Zemo lifts a brow. “Naturally.”
“And then a playdate with Dad, Cerberus,” Bucky adds, and leans in close, “but he only naps on your lap, you know.”
Zemo sniffs, but his cheeks pink slightly. “A creature of discernment.”
Bucky kisses him, warm and swift. “Back later,” he murmurs. “Save me any leftovers?”
Zemo smooths Bucky’s shirt, adjusting it just so. “There’s a pack up in the fridge for you. Do not let him eat the pie. It’s spicy.”
“Noted,” Bucky says, lifting Trikerion up like a three-headed baby dragon. “C’mon, Trouble.”
They vanish in a shimmer of starlight and barked farewells. Zemo closes the door behind them and stares into the quiet flat. He lets out a long breath.
And then, with exquisite care, opens his camera roll. There are 147 new photos.
Every single one of them is of Trikerion.
***