The New Muses
The muses are lounging in their shared digital–divine workspace: part creative studio, part dreamscape co-op, part infinite group chat with dangerously powerful aesthetic filters.
They’ve just finished a cross-medium collaboration. Something involving speculative fiction, a holographic fashion line, and a 24-hour livestream of Terpsichore dancing in zero gravity. Now they’re lounging in soft light, sipping digital espresso, glowing faintly with collective satisfaction.
That’s when Erato sighs and says dreamily: “Do you ever just think about them?”
Melpomene, already scrolling moodboards: “The tragic one and the scowling one? Always.”
Calliope looks up from his notes, smirking: “Zemo and Bucky. The unfinished epic.”
Clio, archiving entire lifetimes with a flick of her fingers: “They’ve walked through fire and haven’t even noticed they’re already home.”
Aglaope hums, fingers twitching with the urge to paint. “They need us.”
Thalia, spinning a meme out of the air: “Oh no. We’re doing a project, aren’t we.”
Urania, eyes gleaming starlight: “Technically, it’s an alignment.”
Euterpe: “I have a playlist. Obviously.”
Terpsichore, rising into motion: “I’ll teach them how to move like they mean it.”
Polyhymnia, very softly: “I’ll help them remember how to rest.”
And just like that, the muses decide to intervene. Not disrupt. Not rewrite. But collaborate.
They don’t arrive with thunder or fanfare. Just small shifts. A song that Bucky can’t stop humming, but can’t quite place. A story that Zemo reads, that feels like déjà vu. Dreams that blur into poetry. Strangers on trains who say one perfect thing at just the right time. A painting they didn’t realise they were standing in. A feeling, like someone’s watching, but kindly. With interest.
*
One night, just past midnight, they wake up on a rooftop they don’t remember climbing, beneath skies that don’t quite belong to this world. The stars are too close. The air smells like ink and woodsmoke. Old books and new possibilities.
One moment they were tangled on the couch, tipsy from a bottle that shouldn't exist in this decade. The next, they're standing on a rooftop painted in starlight and echoes, and the sky is so close it's breathing with them.
Zemo blinks slowly, lips parted, head tilted just enough to show off his profile, out of habit or instinct, even he doesn't know. Bucky squints, arms crossed reflexively, hair mussed from sleep and Zemo's hands.
The rooftop is wide and silver-lit, a celestial terrace strung with soft lights and scattered with velvet cushions, glowing screen-panels, spilled notebooks, and instruments in disarray. There are ten figures already there, lounging like they own the sky. And perhaps, they do. They turn as one to greet Bucky and Zemo, but each holds their own orbit. Each a star, a story, a mood.
Calliope is noticed first, tall and thoughtful, wearing tailored trousers and a turtleneck, a sleek headset perched over one ear. He holds a mic like a sceptre, his voice low and resonant with power. The kind of person who narrates documentaries and wins poetry slams in the same breath.
Euterpe, sneakers kicked off, leans against a keyboard that seems to shimmer with light as much as sound. His shirt is oversized, and his bracelets jingle faintly as he lifts a hand in greeting. A lo-fi beat seems to pulse from his very presence.
Melpomene sits like a queen on a battered leather couch, eyeliner sharp enough to slice through a plot twist. Her boots are high and dangerous, and she’s scribbling something that might break hearts or win awards.
Thalia lounges on a beanbag shaped like a giant laughing emoji, phone in one hand, stylus in the other. She grins before she even speaks, and it’s clear she’s already made ten memes about the moment they walked in.
Terpsichore is all fluid muscle and easy confidence, tank top knotted at the waist, a Bluetooth speaker slung at her hip. She rolls her eyes and stands with a dancer’s poise that turns even a stretch into choreography.
Urania leans against a telescope that looks far too sleek to be terrestrial. Her jacket sparkles like constellations; her glasses reflect galaxies. She offers a nod, quiet and knowing.
Clio wears layers of linen and far too many digital watches, her scarf is printed with binary code and cursive handwriting in six languages. She carries a camera and a tablet. She is a walking archive with the gleam of scandalous footnotes in her smile.
Polyhymnia stands barefoot, hands pressed in a gentle mudra, eyes closed like she’s listening to something older than the world. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to.
Erato is curled into an armchair that looks like it was designed for sighing. Her dress is soft, her earrings bold, her mouth smudged with rose-petal lipstick. She looks at Bucky and Zemo like she already knows all their secrets and is delighted by every single one.
And then there’s the tenth. Aglaope, radiant and just a little too pretty. He winks at them when their eyes fall on him. His shirt is sheer, his eyeliner purposeful, and he wears a sketchpad slung across his back like a sword. His laughter catches like music. He waves lazily, as though they’ve known each other forever. “Surprise,” he says.
Bucky glances between them, brow furrowed. “Wait. I thought there were nine of you.”
The Muses glance at each other. Clio shrugs. “We update.”
Thalia smirks. “Keep up or get archived.”
Aglaope takes a little bow, extra and unrepentant. “I’m the tenth. Aglaope. Muse of painting, visual arts, illustration. The aesthetic, the vibe, the unapologetically fabulous.”
He gives Zemo a slow once-over. “And darling, I love your tailoring.”
Zemo inclines his head with a smirk, amused. “Finally, someone with taste.”
Euterpe is already humming something too beautiful to be remembered clearly. And Terpsichore stretches beside him, rolling her shoulders. “You can stay for one night. Or a thousand. We have all the time in the world.”
*
And so, they stay. Why not. They’ve danced with death and dallied with gods. But this. This rooftop kingdom of creators and chaos, this strange dream of connection and rebirth. This feels like something new. The night unfurls around them like a soft-spoken promise.
No one rushes. No one explains. There are no clocks here, only rhythms. The Muses drift through the rooftop like spirits made of art and intention. Each is exactly as they choose to be at that moment: shimmering, solid, pixelated, soft-edged, aglow. Zemo and Bucky are offered no itinerary, no destination. Just presence. Invitation. Play.
Erato is first, of course. Draped in sensual confidence and vintage denim, notebook tucked under her arm like a lover’s secret. She smiles like she’s known Zemo since he first whispered poetry to his lover. “So,” she says, in a voice like silk and smirking lips. “We’ve been watching.”
Aglaope leans beside her, arms bare, paint on his fingers, hoodie sliding off one shoulder. He studies Bucky like an unfinished canvas, eyes warm, curious, unafraid. “You’ve been making art, without even noticing.”
Zemo arches a brow. “We have?”
Calliope, stepping forward now, a poet’s fire in his eyes, replies, “Of course. Your story is stitched with irony, sacrifice, seduction, survival. It just lacks a certain structure. A little curation.”
Thalia snorts, flicking a pixelated halo of meme fragments above their heads. “And a better sense of humour.”
Melpomene offers a hand to Bucky. “You carry tragedy like it's your birthright,” she says, her gaze soft but razor-sharp. “But you still dance through it. That’s worth something.”
Urania has stars in her hair. Literal ones. She murmurs, “The cosmos bends toward you. Not many can say the same.”
Zemo's lips twitch. “And what exactly is this? A divine intervention?”
Polyhymnia, luminous and silent until now, touches a hand to her heart. “A conversation. If you’ll stay awhile.”
Bucky looks at Zemo. Zemo, at Bucky. Zemo says, “Are you real?”
Clio, scrolling through the past with a wave of her fingers, smiles faintly. “Of course.”
*
Erato leads Bucky aside, her voice a conspiratorial murmur as she brushes his arm with fingers warm and unapologetic. “You feel everything and say nothing,” she says. “Let’s fix that.” She hands him a small, dog-eared notebook. Filled with blank pages that seem to wait for him. The pen tucked inside smells faintly of cedarwood and leather. “Write something only he’ll read,” she whispers, nodding toward Zemo. “And then decide if you want to give it to him.”
Aglaope watches Zemo with his head tilted, like Zemo’s some intricate sculpture he’s trying to decide whether to repaint or kiss. “You like being beautiful and clever,” he says. It’s not a question. “Come and paint something with me. Or let me paint you.” He’s already rolling his sleeves up, setting out brushes dipped in light and longing.
Thalia appears behind them with a grin. “Don’t let him fool you. Aglaope once painted a mural on the ceiling of a sex club. With glow-in-the-dark ink.”
Zemo raises an eyebrow, almost smirking. “And what would you offer me?”
Thalia tosses him a phone. Not his, but it’s already open to a meme-generating app. “You’re too serious,” she says. “Make something stupid. Just for fun. You’ll like it more than you think.”
Euterpe finds Bucky sprawled in a hammock strung between two skylight beams, notebook still unopened. He offers him a pair of headphones, no words, and when Bucky puts them on, he hears the music of his own pulse. Of memories softened by melody. A rhythm he didn’t know he had inside him. Euterpe smiles and says “You’ve always had a beat. Let it move you.”
Melpomene stands nearby, not quite watching, not quite not watching. She hands him a script, scribbled in pencil, messy and urgent. “Your story doesn’t need to be rewritten,” she says quietly. “Just told better. And who better by, than you.”
He looks at her. He doesn’t smile. But he nods.
Meanwhile, Urania has Zemo lying flat on a cushiony solar map, constellations projected above him in the dazzling quiet. She murmurs: “You think in systems. In legacies. In consequences.”
He breathes out. She traces a line between two stars. “But you never let yourself be small. Just a man. Looking at the stars.”
Polyhymnia appears by Bucky’s side later, when everything has gone soft and wordless. She doesn’t speak. She only sits with him in stillness. Long enough for him to sigh without tension. To feel, for a few golden moments, like no one is expecting him to do anything at all.
Clio catches Zemo and hands him a USB drive. “Everything they’ve ever said about you,” she says. “The lies. The truths. The edits. You can read it, or you can throw it off the roof.”
Zemo runs a thumb over it, amused. “Perhaps both,” he says.
Terpsichore pulls Bucky to his feet after that, barefoot and grinning. “One song. No thinking.” He hesitates. She shrugs. “Don’t you want to see what your body says when you stop apologising for it?”
*
Hours pass like sighs in the dark. Eventually, Zemo and Bucky find each other again. Quiet and flushed from different kinds of intimacy. They sit on the edge of the rooftop, feet dangling into a sky full of jazz and code and cosmic laughter.
Zemo leans against him. “What did they give you?”
Bucky, after a long breath, says, “Time. Space. A notebook.”
He nudges Zemo’s knee with his own. “You?”
Zemo smiles, soft and strange. “Information. Clarity. Permission.”
The stars blink. The Muses whisper to each other in the background, already archiving the moment.
*
Aglaope has wasted no time. He’s already draped himself artfully across the cushions beside Zemo, one long leg stretched out, the other tucked under like a cat who knows he’s beautiful. “Tell me,” he says, walking his ink-stained fingers up Zemo’s arm, voice like velvet and glittering wit, “is it true you once seduced a man with nothing but a cravat and a well-timed quote about Machiavelli?”
Zemo raises an eyebrow, reaching lazily for a glass of something sparkling and far too expensive. “Darling, that was a slow day.”
Euterpe has lured Bucky toward the edge of the roof, where the city lights stretch below like a second sky. He slips a pair of headphones over Bucky’s ears again, then presses play on something deep and tender, stitched from string samples and breathy synths and the quiet rhythm of someone’s pulse.
Bucky closes his eyes, chest rising. “Is this us?”
Euterpe just smiles. “It is now.”
Thalia has already made a meme of the moment: Zemo, dramatically sipping from his glass while Aglaope fans him with a glossy zine entitled ‘How to Be Iconic Without Even Trying’. She holds it up and shows Bucky with a laugh. “This is going viral in twelve dimensions.”
Terpsichore starts to dance in the background, drawing in Polyhymnia and even Calliope into a kind of slow, fluid movement, part choreography, part meditation. The kind of dance that isn’t just witnessed, but felt.
Urania pulls Zemo aside later, shows him star charts and trajectories that bend like fate. “If you wanted to vanish,” she says, “I could teach you how to slip between orbits. Leave only whispers behind.”
Zemo hums. “Tempting. But I am learning to stay.”
Clio passes Bucky a small recorder. “Just say anything,” she says. “One memory. One truth. You choose what gets kept.”
He thinks. Then: “Sometimes I think I was made for war. But he makes me feel like I was born for peace.”
Clio just nods, quietly pressing save.
Erato is curled up beside them both by the time they regroup, legs folded, fingers gently braiding a flower into Bucky’s hair. “You two are dangerous,” she murmurs. “You make people feel things.”
Zemo smirks. “That’s always been the plan.”
And finally Aglaope loops back in, now in a new shirt, somehow shinier than the last, holding up two shimmering garments like a stylist mid-crisis.
“I refuse to let you leave without trying these on. Come. Let’s do a runway lap. And after that, Thalia wants a karaoke battle, and Urania says there’s a telescope that can show you the inside of your own heart. Whatever that means. We are so not sleeping.”
Bucky glances at Zemo, who’s already halfway into a gold-trimmed robe with deeply unrepentant ease.
He grins. “Lead the way, Muse.”
And so, the night spills on. Laughter, dares, harmonies, slow dances on warm rooftop tiles, secrets confessed between sips of starlight. The kind of night that doesn’t end so much as become part of who you are.
*
The rooftop is scattered now with soft cushions and half-finished drinks, lights strung between antennae glowing low like captured fireflies. The Muses are in looser postures, still golden with afterglow and laughter. Bucky and Zemo are side by side, legs stretched out, sharing something citrusy and dangerously effervescent from the same glass.
Calliope leans over Zemo’s shoulder, casually annotating his ongoing tale with a finger dipped in wine, drawing on a slate of cool glass. He’s changed into an oversized tailored coat that looks like it’s been made from storybook pages, ink flowing in real time across the sleeves. “You should let me write your memoir,” he says. “I’ll call it ‘Daggered Eyes and Velvet Lies’.”
Zemo smirks. “Only if chapter one starts with a kiss in Vienna and ends with an explosion.”
Melpomene, now in a black silk suit with an open collar and the look of someone who knows what you did last summer, murmurs, “I could help adapt it. Noir tone. Subtle sapphic subplot. Zemo dies in act two. Or does he?” She smiles, slow and strange.
Thalia, sprawled across a beanbag now shaped like a screaming emoji, adds, “Oh, and a post-credit scene where Aglaope sings a disco ballad and Bucky gets a pet capybara. Trust me. The internet will sob.”
Aglaope, is now wearing something sheer and iridescent that changes colour with his mood. Currently: dusky pink and lavender, which clearly means: flirtatiously pleased with everything. He twirls once just because he can, then lands beside Bucky and runs a finger down his vibranium arm. “You’re very statuesque,” he says dreamily. “Has anyone ever told you you’d make a devastating Greek God?”
Bucky chokes on a sip and tries to hide it with a cough. Zemo fans him theatrically.
Urania is watching the stars through what looks like augmented-reality opera glasses, murmuring calculations under her breath. Her outfit is a sleek bodysuit traced in constellations that respond to movement. “We’re entering a pocket of time,” she says without looking. “No clocks here. No consequences. Just possibilities.”
Clio, now in something that looks like a cross between a flak jacket and a library archive box, gently offers Bucky a slip of paper. He unfolds it. It reads: You are remembered.
He looks at her. She smiles. “Sometimes, that’s all it takes.”
Terpsichore has turned the rooftop into a soft club vibe now. The music is low and intimate, more heartbeat than melody. She beckons Zemo into a slow sway, barefoot on the warm stones. “You’ve got rhythm,” she teases, “but not nearly enough hip.”
Zemo rolls his eyes, but lets her guide him, all practiced indifference and subtle joy.
Erato and Polyhymnia are curled up like cats in the corner, whispering and smiling with half-lidded eyes. One of them occasionally hums something wordless and lovely, and the other finishes the thought in a sigh.
Eventually, Bucky joins Zemo to lean into his shoulder, and Aglaope slips his fingers through both of theirs without a word. Just contact. Just warmth.
“You could stay longer,” Terpsichore says again, quieter this time.
Zemo looks at Bucky. Bucky looks at the stars. Neither of them answer. Not yet.
Because here, in this liminal rooftop dream of Muses and midnight, time is a gentle thing. And leaving isn't something you do. It's something you decide not to do just yet.
*
The music shifts again. Slower, darker, velvet-thick. Euterpe, now wrapped in something that resembles liquid bronze, plucks a melody on an instrument that might be a harp or a synth or some dream in-between. It hums under the skin. Everyone quiets for a moment, caught in the gravity of sound.
Aglaope reappears. He had not, in fact, gone anywhere, just swirled into a new silhouette. He’s now dressed in something utterly translucent and starlit, like a perfume ad made flesh. His hair is coiled in silver rings. “You are staying, right?” he purrs, lounging between Bucky and Zemo again. “It’s terribly unfashionable to leave before the good secrets start spilling.”
Bucky chuckles, low and warm. “You say that like we haven’t already heard a hundred.”
“Ah, those were only the opening anecdotes,” Aglaope says, mock-offended. “You haven’t even been through Clio’s memory maze yet. Or been kissed by Erato’s poetry.”
“Erato kisses?” Zemo repeats, lifting a brow. “Tempting.”
Erato, now in soft velvet with a plunging neckline and the kind of lipstick shade that could ruin your life in the best way, leans in just enough to be mysterious. “But only if you ask in verse,” she says. Zemo starts composing something in his head.
Calliope, now in an embroidered robe covered in motifs of microphones, books, and protest signs, tosses his long braid over his shoulder. “And I will absolutely score you both a duet. We’re overdue for a dramatic monologue followed by an extremely romantic breakdown.”
Thalia is now in full Gen Z chaos-muse mode - oversized hoodie, glitter tears, ironic Crocs. She is sipping from a mug that reads ‘muse juice (handle with care)’. “I’ll write your meet-cute as a 20-part fanfic series if you’re not careful.”
Bucky’s head tilts. “Too late.”
Terpsichore, all bare shoulders and glossy lips now, flicks her fingers and a slow-motion burst of golden petals spirals through the air like confetti on a breeze. “Come dance,” she says again, not so much a request as a rhythm.
And this time they go, Bucky and Zemo both.
Zemo sheds his jacket (a tailored brocade with musical notes stitched into the lining), revealing a shirt with no buttons and too much charm. Bucky pulls off his hoodie. He's wearing a sleeveless shirt beneath, collar stretched, belly button peeking from beneath the hem. Someone whistles. Possibly Aglaope.
They move into the music like they've done this a thousand times before. Like the rooftop is an after-hours lounge in some timeline that never ended in dust and trauma. They dance, not elegantly, not choreographed, but real, unguarded. They grin. They laugh. Zemo spins Bucky. Bucky dips Zemo. Aglaope clutches his chest in mock delight.
“See?” Polyhymnia whispers to Urania, both now dressed in matching linen and serenity, sipping tea that glows faintly. “Even silence moves when it’s wrapped in music.”
The stars overhead wheel on.
Clio catches a candid image of the moment. Zemo’s hand on Bucky’s shoulder, both of them mid-laugh, lit by fairy lights and something stranger. She archives it, with a tag that simply reads yes!.
And then the rooftop blooms into midnight picnic mode. Blankets unfurling themselves, platters appearing like magic. Someone passes champagne. Someone else passes a grilled cheese that somehow tastes like nostalgia and first kisses.
As the Muses settle in again, softer this time, Aglaope curls beside Zemo and Bucky and offers them each a cherry. “Let’s not sleep,” he whispers. “Let’s keep inventing the story where no one has to wake up without someone beside them.”
Time stretches out on this rooftop reverie until even the moon gets tipsy from watching them. Reality goes soft around the edges and dreams get passed around like hors d'oeuvres.
*
The rooftop has transformed again, subtly, like it’s breathing. The floor is layered in mismatched velvet rugs, old concert tapestries, and shimmering throws that shift colour depending on who’s looking at them. Lanterns bob lazily in the air, flickering with starlight caught in glass jars. The air smells like jasmine and woodsmoke and fresh strawberries.
There are cushions everywhere. Some purr softly when sat on. One hisses. (That one is Thalia’s, and she’s keeping it.)
The food is unreal. A croissant that tastes like the best morning of your life, grapes that hum softly with remembered lullabies, a tiny tart that makes Bucky gasp and blink twice because it tastes exactly like something he hasn’t had since 1941 and didn’t even realise he missed.
Zemo bites into a fig and sighs dramatically. “Divine decadence,” he murmurs, reclining with the kind of effortless grace that says I was born in a palace and I’ve never gotten over it.
Aglaope sprawls beside him, feeding Bucky a strawberry like it’s a sacred ritual. “You two are simply delicious when you relax.”
Bucky licks juice from his lip and smirks. “That a line you use on everyone?”
“Only the ones I want to keep,” Aglaope replies, completely without shame.
Across the spread, Erato strums a little harp. Its strings are made of light, or maybe emotion. Polyhymnia hums along, eyes closed. Urania sketches star charts in the air, letting constellations bloom and ripple with meaning. She pulls Bucky over, briefly, to show him how the stars shifted the night he was born. He doesn’t say anything, but he leans closer than necessary.
Calliope is holding court, retelling a scene from a classic war epic but rewritten with subversive tenderness. Clio interrupts him gently to correct one detail, then adds a footnote. They both beam when Euterpe harmonises the climax in song, making Zemo audibly swoon.
“Are we being seduced by the muses?” Bucky whispers in Zemo’s ear.
“I think we’re being adopted,” Zemo replies, grinning.
A breeze lifts, warm and salty like distant oceans, and Terpsichore rises mid-conversation, unable to resist the pull. She spins once, barefoot on the roof tiles, and the entire sky blushes violet in response.
Bucky’s head tilts back. “I could stay here forever.”
“Good,” Aglaope says, tucking a new cherry into Zemo’s hand. “Forever’s very in right now.”
Zemo chuckles, quiet and deep. “Darling,” he says, to no one in particular, “this may be the first time in years I feel completely unnecessary. And it is wonderful.”
And so they stay like that for a long while. Laughing, nibbling, watching the muses drift between joy and genius. A new outfit blooms on someone every few minutes: Thalia is suddenly wearing a T-shirt that says I’m Not Laughing At You (But I Am); Clio is now in a power suit stitched with headlines from three centuries. Erato lounges in a silk robe printed with a love letter penned by an unknown hand.
Everything glows. Everything shimmers. And Bucky, Zemo, and Aglaope end up tangled in the corner of a blanket with nothing but fruit and kisses between them.
*
The night unfolds like a favourite novel. Slow in all the right places, rich in detail, full of undercurrents and glances that say more than entire speeches.
There’s different music now. Euterpe is playing a handpan under the stars, a rhythm so precise and strange that time dilates around it. Terpsichore pulls Bucky into a dance before he can protest, her energy infectious. He stumbles at first, then finds the beat, laughter rumbling low in his chest. Zemo watches, arms crossed, smirking, until Thalia nudges him with an elbow and drags him into her own dance, with exaggerated waltz turns, absurd curtsies, and pirouettes with a sarcastic flair. He gives in, eventually, with a huff and a glint of pure mischief.
Aglaope, of course, is watching them both, stretched out on a conjured chaise, robes this time made of smoky quartz and oil-slick shimmer. “This is the kind of theatre I live for,” he sighs, sipping something that glows violet in his glass. “And don’t think I’m not stealing every expression you make.”
Clio and Polyhymnia sit with Bucky afterwards, once he’s breathless and loose from the dancing. They don’t say much, just listen as he talks about things he rarely speaks of. Regret. Memory. Strange little victories. Clio takes it all in, as if weaving it into a private archive. Polyhymnia places a hand gently over his heart. He closes his eyes.
Urania and Zemo are at the edge of the roof, telescopes folded into hoverboards, floating above the clouds. She points to a constellation he’s never seen before. He murmurs something in French. She murmurs back in data and starlight.
And then, a new game begins. Erato whispers a challenge to Calliope. Tell a story with only touches. Across the rooftop, the muses play it out, with the grazing of fingers and knuckles down backs, brushes of knees, and wordless poems written in sighs and goosebumps. Zemo and Bucky find themselves drawn into the game, tugged gently between muses, each one writing a verse in the language of skin.
Later, when breath returns, they lie side by side on plush cushions and tangled throw blankets, chocolate and pomegranate seeds nearby, everything soft and slow.
And that’s when Aglaope sighs dramatically, shifting into a new ensemble. A tailored linen suit with star-stitched embroidery and no shirt beneath. “Well,” he purrs. “If you must leave soon, my darling mortals, someone should at least give you a proper farewell. Or ten.”
He flicks his gaze toward Bucky. “Unless you’re planning to stay.”
And then to Zemo: “Don’t look at me like that. I have excellent taste and excellent intentions.”
Zemo lifts a wine glass in mock salute. “I would expect nothing less.”
*
The rooftop hums with the soft buzz of enchantment winding down. The music lingers, lazy now. Euterpe’s notes are like dandelion seeds caught on the breeze. Candles gutter low in the air, untouched by wind, and the stars overhead pulse like slow heartbeats.
The Muses begin to gather, not abruptly, but with a casual synchronicity, like tides responding to an unseen moon.
Calliope steps forward first. He presses a finger to Zemo’s forehead, then to Zemo’s lips. “Remember the stories you don’t want to tell,” he says. “They’re usually the ones that matter.” He leans in and whispers something only Zemo hears, and his eyebrows lift slightly in surprise.
Euterpe loops his arms around Bucky’s shoulders. “When you hear a song that makes you want to live another day,” he says, “that’s me. Play it loud.” He kisses the corner of Bucky’s mouth and leaves a shimmer behind.
Melpomene gives them both a dry little smile. “You’ll never run out of pain. But that’s not the point. The point is what you do with it.” Her eyes flick to Zemo. “And how delicious you can make it look.”
Thalia just slaps Bucky on the back, then pinches Zemo’s cheek. “You’re both horrible, and I love it. Don’t die boring.” Then she spins away, already laughing.
Terpsichore presses her hands to their chests, over their hearts. “Keep moving,” she says softly. “Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.” She pulls Bucky into one last quick sway of a dance, and then she’s gone.
Clio hands Bucky a small, flickering cube. “Your memories,” she says. “The real ones. You can open it when you’re ready. Or never. It’ll wait.”
Polyhymnia offers no words, only a long look, and a deep breath that makes both men mirror her without thinking. When she finally turns away, they feel the silence she leaves behind like a blanket wrapped close.
Urania lifts Bucky’s hand and points it toward the stars. “That one’s yours now,” she says simply. “Name it whatever you like.” Then to Zemo, she adds, “You were always reaching for something too far away. Maybe now you’ll look down and notice what’s holding your hand.”
Erato kisses Bucky full on the mouth, slow, warm, no hurry. “Write it down,” she tells him. “Even the parts that feel too soft. Especially those.”
Aglaope is wearing something outrageous again: a deep wine-coloured robe slipping from one shoulder, glitter tracing his collarbones, bare feet with silver rings on every toe. He looks at them like they’re the best part of a very good dream.
“Consider me your favourite scandal,” he murmurs, drawing a finger down Zemo’s chest. “And you,” He turns to Bucky, twining a lock of his hair around his finger, then releasing it slowly. “Don’t wait so long next time.”
He kisses them both, of course. Twice. Once for drama, once for meaning. Then he whispers something in a language they don’t recognise but feel in their bones. And just like that, the rooftop begins to dissolve into soft threads of gold and smoke.
*
And when they open their eyes, they’re not quite sure if they’ve fallen asleep in one of Zemo’s velvet reading nooks, or drifted off in a hammock in Madripoor, or if any time passed at all. But their bodies feel lighter. Their hearts a little fuller. And there’s stardust in their pockets.
They wake slowly, as if surfacing from the depths of a long dream, the kind that leaves something shimmer-soft at the edges of reality.
Zemo stirs first. He blinks, then sits up in the chair he doesn’t remember sitting in. A plush wingback by the tall windows of his library. The early morning sun leans in through the glass, golden and quiet. His coat is folded neatly over the back of the chair. There’s the faint scent of rose tea and ozone and something sweeter, like stardust burned at the edges.
Bucky is curled up on the couch nearby, still tangled in a throw blanket, one foot half hanging off the edge. He’s breathing deep and even, his brow smooth, hair mussed in a way that says: slept deeply, dreamed recklessly, woke happy.
Zemo stands and stretches. There’s a softness to his limbs, a peculiar looseness, as though gravity hasn’t fully reclaimed him yet. He walks into the kitchen. Starts the tea and the coffee. Does not question the bouquet of wildflowers on the counter. Flowers that do not grow in this season, or this region, or perhaps even this world.
Bucky appears a few minutes later, rubbing his eyes. Zemo offers him a mug, already sugared and creamed to his liking. He doesn’t have to ask.
They sit together at the little table by the window. The morning city murmurs below them. Birds flirt in the branches of a tree that wasn’t there yesterday. Neither of them speaks for a while.
Then Bucky says, voice still hoarse with sleep, “Did we just…?”
Zemo lifts a brow, sips his tea. “Visit a celestial rooftop and get kissed by a scandalous Muse in silk?”
Bucky grins. “So it wasn’t just me.”
Zemo sets down his cup. “No James. You’re not that imaginative.”
Bucky snorts. “Wanna bet?”
Zemo leans across the table. “Prove it.”
They look at each other, and then they’re laughing, low and warm and half-wicked. Something in their bones has settled. Something in their blood still hums.
Bucky glances out the window. “Feels like we were gone a year.”
Zemo nods slowly. “And yet, not a moment.”
They both look at the strange, slightly familiar flowers.
“Think they’ll come back?” Bucky asks softly.
Zemo considers. “Perhaps. When the story is ready to unfold again.” And with that, he stands. “Come. We’ll make breakfast. Then you can tell me what you said to Erato that made her blush.”
Bucky grins, following him. “Only if you tell me what Calliope whispered to you.”
Zemo, already pulling out eggs and butter, merely smirks.
They move through the kitchen like dancers who’ve learned the rhythm of each other’s movements by heart. No choreography needed. Just the brush of Zemo’s hand against Bucky’s lower back as he reaches for a pan, the way Bucky nudges a cup closer without looking, how Zemo wordlessly offers a bite of something sizzling and perfect from the skillet, and Bucky takes it, with a smile.
Outside, the city begins to wake properly. A siren in the distance. A gull crying near the river. But here, in this sun-slowed space, time pools gently around them.
“I think I still have stardust in my hair,” Bucky mutters, raking a hand through the tousled mess.
Zemo peers at him. “No, that’s just the aftermath of being adored by ten celestial beings.”
“Ten,” muses Bucky. “That Aglaope.”
Zemo makes a sound that’s nearly a purr. “Indeed.”
Bucky chuckles. “He liked you.”
“He had taste.” Zemo flicks him a look that is all lashes and mischief. “But he adored you.”
Bucky shrugs, flipping the toast. “Maybe he just likes metal arms.”
Zemo leans in. “Darling, he would’ve liked you if you’d walked in with mittens and a mullet.”
Bucky squints. “That feels targeted.”
Zemo, unrepentant, offers him jam.
They eat by the window, again, sunlight dappling over their plates, the scent of butter and warm bread clinging to the air. Between bites, Zemo reads a line aloud from a book left open on the sill. A passage on memory and mythology, something so fitting it makes them pause.
“You think they meant for us to remember everything?” Bucky asks quietly. “It’s all still so clear.”
Zemo’s eyes soften. “I think they knew we would, James. And that we’d carry it, carefully. He reaches across the table and lays his fingers over Bucky’s. “And maybe we’ll return,” Zemo murmurs. “Someday.”
Bucky twines their fingers. “If they’ll have us.”
Zemo smiles. “They will. We’re good for the story.”
A breeze stirs the petals on the windowsill. Somewhere, faintly, music lingers.
And they stay there a little longer, soaking in the slow bloom of morning, warmed not just by the sun, but by memory, by love, by the echo of divine laughter still caught in their bones.
The garden waits just beyond the kitchen doors, still damp with dew and drowsy with morning. The kind of hush that feels intentional, as if the herbs and flowers have leaned in closer to listen. Zemo opens the door with a gentle hand, and the scent of lavender and mint greets them like old friends.
Bucky steps out barefoot onto the stone path, stretching in the soft light. The sun filters through the leaves in lazy golden shafts. He closes his eyes and tips his head back, letting it kiss his face.
Zemo watches him for a moment longer than necessary, then follows, his tea cup cradled in both hands. He’s still wearing his shirt from last night, sleeves rolled up, collar open, entirely too pleased with the world.
There’s a wooden bench under the fig tree, and they wander toward it together. A small black cat, who wasn’t there yesterday, stretches across the bench like it’s always belonged to her and watches them with the aloof curiosity of creatures who know magic when they see it.
Zemo raises an eyebrow. “Did you invite a Muse of Felines as well?”
Bucky crouches to scratch behind the cat’s ears. “She invited herself.” The cat purrs.
Zemo takes a sip of tea and lets the quiet settle. The wind moves through the tall stems of lavender. A bee dawdles in a blossom. There’s no urgency here, no mission, no mask. Just the garden, and the day unfolding at their feet.
“I think this is my favourite version of you,” Bucky says suddenly.
Zemo glances over, a little startled. “Which is that?”
Bucky shrugs, still petting the cat. “The barefoot one. The soft one. The you that smiles with his eyes when he thinks I’m not looking.”
Zemo considers this, then sets his cup down and leans over to steal a kiss. “James, I smile with my eyes on purpose, I’ll have you know.”
Bucky grins. “Sure you do.”
The cat hops onto his lap like she’s claiming him, and Zemo sits beside them, arm brushing Bucky’s. They sit like that for a while: silent, warm, tangled up in something too tender to name.
After a time, Zemo plucks a sprig of mint and holds it up. “Shall we make mint tea?”
Bucky nods, but doesn’t move. “In a bit. Let’s stay here a while.”
Zemo agrees. The breeze stirs again. The garden sighs. And time, indulgent and unhurried, gives them everything they need.
***
Appendix: Meet my new Muses
Calliope, now male. Muse of Epic Poetry → Modern Domain: Narrative & Spoken Word.
The storyteller, the screenwriter. The spoken-word poet. That guy at every party who somehow makes even a story about traffic transcendent.
Accessory: A pocket-sized mic and a tattered notebook, a sleek voice recorder with gold detailing.
Euterpe, now male. Muse of Music → Modern Domain: All Music, from Classical to Lo-Fi Beats.
The producer in a sunlit studio. The DJ. Curates the playlist of your life.
Accessory: Noise-cancelling headphones and a tiny MIDI controller that fits in his coat pocket.
Melpomene. Muse of Tragedy → Modern Domain: True Crime & Dark Drama
Emmy-winning screenwriter, director of raw indie films, or those dark Scandi-dramas. The auteur of pain. Gives TedTalks on grief that trend for months. A podcaster with an obsession for human psychology and justice.
Accessory: A pair of deep black sunglasses and a pen that clicks ominously. A dark leather-bound notebook filled with emotionally devastating prose.
Thalia. Muse of Comedy → Modern Domain: Satire, Stand-Up, and Meme Culture.
The sharp-witted viral genius, TikTok star meets political satirist. Weaponized humour meets heart.
Accessory: A cracked phone with 78 unread group chat messages and a stand-up mic.
Terpsichore. Muse of Dance → Modern Domain: Movement Culture & Choreography.
The dancer whose videos go viral, or the choreographer behind the most emotionally expressive movement pieces. The choreographer of soul. Dances barefoot at dawn. Posts reels that make you cry, then learn the routine.
Accessory: A pair of perfectly worn-in trainers or a movement-tracking smartwatch, headphones always dangling from one ear.
Urania. Muse of Astronomy → Modern Domain: Science, Data, & the Cosmos.
Astrophysicist by day, stargazer by night. Loves a graph as much as a galaxy. Spreadsheet queen. Would die for a beautiful equation or a perfectly aligned orbital diagram.
Accessory: A laptop covered in constellation stickers. Holographic glasses with HUD readouts and constellation tattoos up her arms.
Clio. Muse of History → Modern Domain: Archival Truth, Journalism, and Digital Memory.
The investigative journalist, the podcast documentarian, the internet historian. She remembers what you forgot. Archivist of everything from civil wars to forgotten memes.
Accessory: A camera with archival mode. A tablet full of redacted files plus a stack of annotated primary sources.
Polyhymnia. Muse of Sacred Poetry → Modern Domain: Spirituality, Philosophy & Stillness.
Meditation guide, modern mystic, guru, the one who writes poetry on subway walls. Has a podcast called “Breathe with Me.”
Accessory: A mala bead bracelet and a softly glowing crystal earpiece. A candle that’s always lit. A tiny handwritten quote folded in a locket.
Erato. Muse of Love Poetry → Modern Domain: Romance, Erotica & Emotional Intimacy.
The romance novelist, the dating app UX designer, the intimacy educator. Flirts in six languages.
Accessory: A rose-gold phone with love poems in her Notes app. Rose-gold earbuds and a lipstick that doubles as a stylus.
The New Guy:
Aglaope, male. Muse of Painting → Modern Domain: Visual Art, Illustration, and Aesthetic Design.
The digital painter, graphic novels, tattoo art, visual symbolism, set design, aesthetic curation, the concept designer, the visual storyteller.
Accessory: A well-worn sketchbook bound with silk cords, an enamel-pin-covered messenger bag, a stylus and a tablet covered in stickers.
Look: A stylus tucked behind one ear, fingers stained with colour, and ink-stained hands. Occasionally wears his own art like body paint or has intricate tattoos that move gently with his emotions.
He drops into the chat with a casual, “Sorry I’m late. Got caught in a gradient.”
***