Road Trip

The car was just too fancy. That was Bucky’s first complaint. 

It wasn’t that he hated nice things. But the sleek, meticulously maintained vintage convertible Zemo had provided for their so-called spontaneous road trip was just too much. The leather seats were soft enough to sink into, and the damn thing purred when he started the engine. It was the kind of car that made a statement.  

Bucky wasn’t in the mood to make a statement. He was in the mood for a burger.  

But no. Zemo, lounging in the passenger seat with his sunglasses on and looking like he’d just stepped out of a magazine shoot, had other ideas.  

“You know, James,” Zemo mused, swirling the deep red wine in the crystal glass he had insisted on bringing into the car, “I do think you’d enjoy life more if you learned to appreciate the finer things.”  

Bucky tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “I would appreciate life more if you’d let me stop at that burger place back there.”  

Zemo sighed dramatically, taking a delicate sip of his wine. “That was not a burger place, that was a gas station that happened to sell something vaguely resembling food. I was trying to save your life, my dear.”  

Bucky rolled his eyes so hard he nearly swerved into the wrong lane. “I’ve survived brainwashing, war, and an alien invasion. I think I can handle a greasy burger.”  

“But why settle when we can do better?” Zemo countered smoothly. “There is a Michelin-starred bistro just twenty kilometers from here. They serve a Wagyu beef burger with truffle aioli…”  

“Oh my god, Zemo.”  

“What? You wanted a burger.”  

“I wanted a real burger. Not something with a damn aioli.”  

Zemo smirked, clearly enjoying himself. “James, I truly do not understand how a man with such refined combat skills can have such an unrefined palate.”  

Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose. He should’ve known this would happen. Agreeing to a road trip with Zemo had been his first mistake. Thinking he’d get to call the shots was his second.  

“I’m stopping at the next diner,” Bucky declared. “I don’t care if it’s got bad reviews. I don’t care if they serve the burger on a paper plate. I don’t even care if the damn place smells weird. I’m getting a burger.”  

Zemo didn’t respond right away. He simply took another slow sip of his wine, tilting his head in contemplation. Then, with a deceptively casual tone, he murmured, “Fine. But if we’re stopping for your food, we’re also stopping for my champagne tasting.”  

Bucky groaned. This was going to be a long road trip.  

*

Bucky had no idea how he let this happen.  

One minute, he was muttering to himself about overpriced, pretentious burger alternatives. The next, he was standing in some ridiculous vineyard, arms crossed, as Zemo sat at an outdoor table swirling a glass of absurdly expensive champagne, looking insufferably pleased with himself.  

The Baron had insisted on this stop, and since Bucky had gotten his greasy roadside burger (which Zemo had politely refused to touch), he figured it was only fair.  

But now, an hour later, Zemo was three glasses deep into his tasting session, looking far too content.  

“Okay, that’s enough,” Bucky said, reaching for the glass.  

Zemo smoothly leaned away, holding the flute just out of reach. “James, have you no appreciation for culture?” he chided, his voice just a little looser than usual. “This is a 2004 Dom Pérignon P2. One does not simply stop enjoying it. One must experience it.”  

“You’re experiencing it too much,” Bucky grumbled.  

Zemo smirked. “And what, pray tell, are you so worried about? I am not driving.”  

“No, but I am, and I am not dealing with a drunken Baron for the rest of the trip.”  

Zemo huffed in mock offense. “Drunk? Please. I am merely pleasantly relaxed.”  

Bucky narrowed his eyes. Zemo’s pleasantly relaxed state was dangerously close to becoming a full-on tipsy disaster.  

Then Zemo leaned forward, resting his chin on one hand, staring at Bucky with something suspiciously close to amusement. And maybe admiration. “You are rather cute when you’re all serious and responsible.”  

Bucky exhaled sharply, resisting the urge to drop-kick the champagne bottle off the table. “Alright, that’s it. We’re leaving.”  

He stood, used one hand to grab Zemo’s coat, which had somehow ended up draped over the back of his chair, and the other to haul Zemo to his feet.  

Zemo let himself be led, though he made a show of it, dramatically sighing as he swayed just slightly. “Where are we going, James?”  

Bucky muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like to hell, probably.  

*

Bucky hadn’t even parked the car before Zemo took one look at the neon ‘Vacancy’ sign of the motel and said, “Absolutely not.”  

Bucky gripped the wheel. “You don’t even know what it’s like inside.”  

Zemo turned his nose up. “James, darling, I have spent time in some of the world’s worst prisons. I refuse to willingly subject myself to a motel.”  

Bucky threw the car into park. “We just need somewhere for you to sleep it off. I’m not driving all night while you ramble about ‘the delicate notes of a 2004 vintage.’”  

Zemo hummed. “You were listening.”  

Bucky groaned. Still, he figured arguing was pointless. So, grumbling, he put the car in reverse and went looking for a place that His Highness would actually accept.  

Two more failed attempts (Zemo had scoffed at the second place’s lack of turn-down service) and one heated discussion about whether or not “authentic charm” was just code for “old and falling apart,” and they finally, finally, ended up at a boutique hotel that met Zemo’s high standards.  

“This,” Zemo declared as he walked through the marble-floored lobby, “is acceptable.”  

Bucky threw his hands in the air. “Oh, well, thank God.”  

They got a room. One room, because Zemo had insisted that they needed a suite, and Bucky was not dropping the extra cash just to sleep in separate beds.  

By the time they made it upstairs, Zemo was clearly enjoying the last bits of his champagne-induced haze, stretching out on the plush hotel bed with a satisfied sigh.  

Bucky, meanwhile, sat in an armchair, rubbing his temples.  

“You know,” Zemo mused lazily, “you pretend to hate my standards, but deep down, I think you appreciate them.”  

Bucky cracked an eye open. “Yeah? And what makes you think that?”  

Zemo smirked. “Because you let me have my way, every single time.”  

Bucky opened his mouth to argue, but, damn it. He had a point. Instead of answering, he just muttered, “Go to sleep, Baron.”  

Zemo chuckled, turning onto his side, watching Bucky for a moment before murmuring, “Goodnight, James.”  

Bucky sighed, shaking his head. “Yeah, goodnight, Zemo.”  

*

Bucky had been up for hours. His body was wired for early mornings, whether he liked it or not. Years of military conditioning, then assassin conditioning, then just general paranoia had left him unable to sleep in past sunrise.  

So he’d gotten up, taken a shower, and spent an unnecessary amount of time trying to work out the overly complicated hotel espresso machine. Why did it need so many buttons just to make coffee?

By the time Zemo emerged - well past what any reasonable person would call "morning" - Bucky was on his third cup of coffee and watching something mindless on TV.  

The Baron, unsurprisingly, had taken full advantage of the hotel’s amenities. He was wearing the plushest white robe Bucky had ever seen, the belt tied just so, the fabric draping around him like he was in some kind of spa commercial.  

He was barefoot, his hair slightly mussed, but in a way that suggested ‘effortless elegance’ rather than ‘just woke up late’. He looked obnoxiously well-rested.  

Bucky glanced at him over his coffee. “Morning, Sleeping Beauty.”  

Zemo, completely unfazed, just gave a lazy smile. “Good morning, James.” He hummed in satisfaction and moved to the hotel room’s beautiful balcony, where a table had already been set up, courtesy of room service.  

Bucky squinted. “When did you order that?”  

Zemo took his seat gracefully, adjusting the sleeve of his robe. “While you were struggling with the coffee machine.”  

Bucky scowled.  

Zemo gestured to the table with a smirk. “Come, James. Join me. It’s a glorious morning.”  

Bucky took a slow sip of his coffee. “You mean afternoon.”  

Zemo waved a hand dismissively, already pouring himself a mimosa from the silver carafe. The table was obscenely decadent. Pastries, smoked salmon, what looked like an omelette made by a culinary artist, and an actual plate of assorted fresh fruit that Bucky was pretty sure was hand-selected at dawn by monks.  

Bucky sat across from him, eyeing the spread. “You really went all out, huh?”  

Zemo smiled, buttering a croissant with delicate precision. “One must seize opportunities for pleasure, James. I suspect you haven’t had a proper breakfast in years.”  

Bucky scoffed. “I had a proper breakfast. It was coffee.”  

Zemo gave him a look of pure disappointment.  

Then, with a slow, calculating smirk, he picked up a perfect, ripe strawberry from the plate and took a deliberate bite, watching Bucky the whole time. “You really ought to expand your horizons,” he murmured.  

Bucky stared at him. Then at the strawberry. Then back at him.  

He exhaled through his nose and grabbed a croissant. “Fine. But if I hate it, I’m throwing it at you.”  

Zemo just chuckled. “Oh, James. You love it when I pamper you.”  

Bucky didn’t dignify that with a response. But he did finish the croissant.  

*

Bucky should’ve known. He really, really should’ve known.  

He’d spent the better part of the morning tolerating Zemo’s fancy breakfast on the balcony, rolling his eyes as the Baron made a spectacle of enjoying every last luxurious bite. And now, they were back in the hotel room, Zemo finishing the last sip of his mimosa, looking utterly content.  

Bucky leaned against the dresser, arms crossed, eyeing him suspiciously. “Alright. I gotta ask.”  

Zemo looked up, all effortless ease. “Mmmmm?”  

“This road trip.” Bucky gestured vaguely. “Where exactly are we going?”  

Zemo hummed, tilting his head slightly, as if considering his answer. Then, casually, “Nowhere in particular.”  

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Come on. You’re you. You don’t do anything without a reason.”  

Zemo smirked, standing slowly, crossing the room with a leisurely grace that made Bucky’s stomach do something annoying. “And what if the reason,” he said, stopping just close enough to be too close, “is simply you?”  

Bucky blinked. “What?”  

Zemo’s smirk deepened. “Oh, James,” he murmured, eyes glinting with undeniable amusement. “Surely you’ve figured it out by now?”

Bucky’s brain short-circuited for a second. “Figured what out?”  

Zemo gave a small, indulgent sigh, as though he found Bucky’s obliviousness particularly endearing. “There is no grand scheme. No ulterior motive. No hidden agenda.” He reached out, almost idly, to adjust the slightly askew lapel of Bucky’s jacket. “I wanted to be alone with you. That is the entire point of this trip.”  

Bucky felt warmth crawl up the back of his neck. “That’s. That’s stupid.”  

Zemo’s lips twitched. “Is it?”  

“Yes,” Bucky grumbled, suddenly very aware of the way Zemo’s fingers lingered at his jacket. “Because you, you could’ve just said that. Instead of dragging me across Europe.”  

Zemo made a soft, considering sound. “Yes, but where would be the romance in that?”  

Bucky scoffed. “Oh, so this is romantic now?”  

Zemo’s gaze dragged over him, slow and deliberate. “It could be.”  

Bucky swallowed. Hard.  

Zemo smirked, clearly enjoying watching him squirm. “You’ve gone rather quiet, my dear.”  

Bucky exhaled sharply, trying to ignore the fact that his pulse had definitely picked up. But damn it, if Zemo was going to flirt, then two could play at that game.  

He tilted his head, levelling Zemo with a considering look. “You know,” he said, voice deceptively casual, “for someone who claims to have no agenda, you sure put in a lot of effort.”  

Zemo arched an eyebrow. “Are you complaining?”  

Bucky let his gaze lazily drop to where Zemo’s robe was still draped around him, slightly parted at the chest. Then, slowly, he dragged his eyes back up.  

Zemo’s smirk faltered for just a fraction of a second.  

Gotcha. Bucky fought back a grin. “No,” he said, deliberately slow. “Just making an observation.”  

Zemo’s eyes darkened slightly, something sharp and pleased flickering behind them. “James,” he murmured, his voice a little softer now, a little more intent. “Are you flirting with me?”  

Bucky shrugged. “Maybe.”  

Zemo huffed a small, almost delighted laugh. “Then I suppose it’s only fair that I return the favour.”  

And before Bucky could think of a response, Zemo leaned in and kissed him.  

It was smooth, calculated, the way everything Zemo did was. But it was also unmistakably real. Warm and lingering, a teasing brush of lips that melted into something deeper, something that made Bucky forget every sarcastic remark he was about to make.  

Zemo pulled back first, just enough to murmur, “Was that acceptable?”  

Bucky stared at him, breath slightly uneven. Then, after a long pause, he muttered, “I mean, it wasn’t bad.”  

Zemo chuckled, his hands still resting lightly at Bucky’s sides. “You are insufferable.”  

Bucky smirked, but before he could make another quip, Zemo kissed him again.  

And this time, Bucky didn’t argue.  

*

Bucky had driven all of five minutes before he realised he’d made a huge mistake. He should have made Zemo drive. Or hell, he should have left him at the hotel. 

Because now, Zemo was in the passenger seat, lounging like he was on a damn throne, and watching Bucky with far too much interest.  

It had started subtly. Just a casual brush of fingers as Zemo reached for something in the glove compartment (which he had no reason to even be touching). Then a slow, pleased hum as he stretched his legs out, shifting just enough so that his knee barely grazed Bucky’s thigh.  

And now? Now, he was just outright smirking.  

“You’re staring,” Bucky said flatly, eyes on the road.  

“Mmm.” Zemo rested his chin on his hand, looking infuriatingly pleased with himself. “I was simply admiring.”  

Bucky sighed. “Admiring what, exactly?”  

“The way you drive,” Zemo said smoothly. “So focused. So controlled.” A pause. Then, lower: “So commanding.”  

Bucky nearly swerved. He shot Zemo a sharp look. “Are you seriously flirting with me while I’m driving?”  

Zemo’s smirk deepened. “Oh, James. I don’t flirt. I merely speak my mind.”  

Bucky exhaled sharply, gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly. “Yeah? Well, speak about something else.”  

Zemo tilted his head. “Like how stunning you looked back at the hotel, all flustered after I kissed you?”  

Bucky definitely ran a red light.  

Zemo laughed, low and pleased. “James, really. You’re going to get us pulled over at this rate.”  

Bucky let out a tight breath. “Only thing getting pulled over is you if you keep talking.”  

Zemo chuckled. “Oh, I do love when you threaten me.”  

Bucky dragged a hand down his face. “I swear to God.”  

“I do wonder,” Zemo interrupted, tapping a finger thoughtfully against his lip, “what it will take for you to properly surrender to me.”  

Bucky definitely wasn’t thinking about that. Nope. Not at all.  

“I mean,” Zemo continued, with faux innocence, “we could pull over somewhere secluded. Take a little break.”  

Bucky groaned. “We just got back on the road.”  

Zemo leaned closer, voice dropping into that low, silken register that had way too much power over Bucky’s brain. “And yet, you seem so tense.”  

Bucky gritted his teeth. “I wonder why.”  

Zemo exhaled an amused hum. “I could help with that, you know.”  

Bucky very stubbornly ignored the heat pooling in his stomach. His body telling him that he wanted to be seduced. Damn it, he really did. But he’d be damned if he let Zemo win this easily.  

So he shot him a look, one that he hoped conveyed something close to control, and said, “Nice try, Baron. But if you wanna seduce me, you’re gonna have to work harder than that.”  

Zemo’s eyes lit up. “Oh, James,” he murmured, delighted. “That sounds like a challenge.”  

Bucky just smirked. “Guess we’ll see if you’re up for it.”  

Zemo laughed, rich and thrilled, before settling back in his seat, eyes glinting with mischief and promise. “Oh, I think I’m up for it.” 

Zemo was playing the long game. He could have gone for immediate gratification, coaxing Bucky into pulling over somewhere right now, using a well-timed touch or a particularly devastating whisper in his ear. But no. That would be too easy. And Helmut Zemo never did things the easy way.  

No, if Bucky wanted him to work for it, then he would drag this out. Make Bucky suffer for that challenge.  

It started with more of those casual touches. Light brushes of fingers as he adjusted the air conditioning. A slow, infuriatingly casual stretch that resulted in his knee knocking against Bucky’s again. An accidental touch that lingered for just a second too long.  

Then came the compliments. Nothing too obvious at first. “I must say, James, you look quite striking behind the wheel.”  

Or, when Bucky had to make a sharp turn, muscles flexing ever so slightly: “Mmmmm. I do admire your control.”  

But soon, they escalated. “You do realise how devastatingly handsome you are, don’t you?”  

Bucky nearly choked at that one.  

Then came the voice. That low, warm timbre Zemo used when he wanted to unravel someone. “If you keep biting your lip like that, James, I may have to take drastic measures.”  

Bucky had definitely started avoiding eye contact after that.  

But the worst part? The damn subtle, strategic removal of clothing. 

At first, it was innocent. A slight unbuttoning of his collar. Then, later, Zemo sighed, rolling up his sleeves in slow, deliberate motions, exposing his forearms with a thoughtful hum. “It is rather warm in here, isn’t it?”  

Bucky didn’t respond.  

By the time they pulled into a gas station, Zemo had shed his jacket completely, leaving him in that ridiculously well-fitting undershirt.

Bucky had to take several deep breaths before getting out of the car.  

When he got back from paying for gas, Zemo was leaning casually against the hood, sunglasses on, smirking like he knew exactly what he was doing.  

Bucky stopped, exhaled sharply, and grumbled, “You are the worst.”  

Zemo just smiled, all satisfaction and dangerous charm. “And yet, you love it.”  

Bucky didn’t respond.

*

Bucky should have realised sooner. In hindsight, it was obvious.  

For hours, he’d been driving on autopilot, too distracted by Zemo’s calculated assault, the smirks, the lingering touches, the strategic removal of clothing. He hadn’t been paying attention to the damn route. 

And now, looking at the road signs, listening to Zemo’s directions, something clicked.  

“Zemo.”  

“Mmm?”  

Bucky tightened his grip on the wheel. “Where the hell are we?”  

Zemo, lounging in the passenger seat, sipped his water and glanced out of the window. “Oh, I suppose I should mention. We’ve been going in circles.”  

Bucky’s jaw dropped. “You what?”  

Zemo exhaled, feigning nonchalance. “I may have suggested a few scenic detours that conveniently led us nowhere.”  

Bucky just stared straight ahead, while his brain stuttered through every memory of this trip. Zemo making subtle suggestions about “quieter roads,” insisting on “exploring the countryside,” guiding them through town after town while Bucky, flustered and distracted, hadn’t noticed.  

“You mean to tell me,” Bucky said, voice dangerously low, “that we’ve been driving in circles for an entire day?”  

Zemo took another sip. “Yes.”  

“For no reason?”  

Zemo’s lips curved. “I wouldn’t say no reason.”  

Bucky exhaled so sharply his breath nearly cracked the windshield. “I knew you didn’t have a real destination,” he gritted out. “I knew you were up to something.” He shot Zemo a glare. “I just…” He gestured vaguely, furiously. “I just let you flirt me into oblivion so I didn’t think about it!”  

Zemo hummed, pleased. “It was rather effective, wasn’t it?”  

Bucky swore under his breath. “That’s it. I’m turning this damn car around.”  

And he did. A sharp, determined U-turn, gripping the wheel with all the focus and control he had left.  

But, of course, fate wasn’t done screwing with him yet. Because the sun was already setting. Despite his best efforts, they weren’t making it back tonight. And the next town over, where they’d have to stop, had exactly one hotel.  

And because, as soon as they checked in, Zemo stood in the doorway of their one-bed room, surveying the place with a slow smirk, and said, “Ah. Finally, a proper opportunity to seduce you.”  

Bucky dragged a hand down his face again. “I hate you.”  

Zemo just stepped closer, voice dropping into that register. “Do you? Really?”  

Bucky clenched his jaw. “You cheated.”  

Zemo tilted his head. “Oh, James.” He reached out, fingers grazing Bucky’s wrist. “You wanted me to win.”  

Bucky found he had nothing to say to that. Because Zemo wasn’t wrong.  

When Zemo kissed him again, slow and sure and completely victorious, Bucky let him. Bucky kissed him back.  

Zemo may have won. But Bucky had wanted him to.  

Zemo woke before Bucky. That in itself was unusual. 

Bucky was always up first, moving with that quiet, soldier-like precision. An ingrained habit from years of training and war. Zemo had expected to wake alone, maybe find Bucky already showered, dressed, and muttering about how they needed to get moving.  

But instead, Bucky was still here.  

Still fast asleep, breathing slow and steady, face half-buried in the pillow.  

And, more importantly, he was still tangled with Zemo. 

Zemo stared down at where Bucky’s arm was slung lazily across his waist. His warm metal hand, usually so tense, so controlled, was relaxed against Zemo’s hip.  

It was devastating. Zemo hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t expected to wake up feeling so fond. Hopelessly fond. And God help him, he didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to wake Bucky. Didn’t want to risk breaking this moment.  

But just as he thought that, Bucky stirred. A low, grumbling noise. A shift of muscles. A furrow of his brow. Then, bleary, rough with sleep, “You’re staring at me.”  

Zemo smiled. “Observing.”  

Bucky cracked one eye open, still groggy. “You watch people when they sleep?”  

“I watch you when you sleep.”  

Bucky made a face. “Creepy.”  

Zemo just hummed. “It’s endearing.”  

Bucky sighed. “You’re insufferable.”  

And yet, he didn’t move away. Didn’t pull back. Didn’t shove Zemo off, or throw back the blankets, or do anything except lie there, still tangled up, still soft in the early morning light.  

Zemo’s lips curled. “Mmm. But you like me insufferable.”  

Bucky exhaled sharply. “Yeah, yeah.” He paused, then murmured, “Maybe.”  

Zemo’s heart did something ridiculous. Completely delighted, he pressed a slow, lazy kiss to Bucky’s temple.  

Bucky huffed, but Zemo didn’t miss the way his fingers tightened against his waist.  

*

They got back to the city, back to reality. They had just walked through the door of the safe house, and Bucky was so close, so damn close, to making it to his room without incident. 

But Sam was already there.  

Leaning against the counter. Arms crossed. Watching them with very obvious suspicion. “Took you long enough,” Sam said.  

Bucky froze. “Uh.”  

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “What happened?”  

Bucky’s brain stuttered. “Nothing.”  

Sam’s gaze snapped to Zemo, who had notably said nothing yet. Zemo, for his part, just gave a small, polite smile. Sam looked back at Bucky.  

“Man,” he said slowly, “why do you look like you’ve been caught doing something?”  

Bucky panicked. “I wasn’t, I didn’t, it was just a road trip.”  

Sam’s eyebrows raised. “A road trip?”  

“Yeah.”  

“With him?”  

“Yeah.”  

Sam’s eyes narrowed further. “And you didn’t, at any point, think to text? Call? Let me know you were still alive?”  

Bucky gestured vaguely. “I was alive.”  

Zemo made a small, amused sound that absolutely did not help.  

Sam’s gaze flickered between the two of them. “Okay, see, this is why I know something happened.” He pointed at Bucky. “You look uncomfortable.” Then at Zemo. “And you look real damn pleased with yourself.” 

Zemo, completely unbothered, started making tea.  

Bucky sighed, deeply. “Look, Sam, it’s…” He exhaled sharply. “It’s not what you think.”  

Sam crossed his arms tighter. “Oh, okay. Then what is it, Buck?”  

Bucky's mouth opened, but his brain completely failed him. What was he supposed to say? “Oh yeah, Zemo manipulated the entire road trip so we’d have to keep stopping at luxury hotels, seduced me with champagne and smirks, flirted me into a damn coma, and now I wake up tangled with him every morning like it’s normal.” Yeah. No.  

Bucky floundered.  

Zemo, sensing his total collapse, finally spoke. “I simply wanted some time alone with James,” he said smoothly, setting out three cups. “To bond.”  

Sam blinked.  

Bucky shot Zemo a look. 

Zemo’s lips curved. “And I’d say it was quite successful.”  

Sam stared. Then, realisation dawned. His eyes widened. His mouth dropped open. “Oh my God,” Sam breathed.  

Bucky swore. “It’s not…”  

Sam grinned. “You like him. You like like him.”  

Bucky physically cringed. “I…”  

“Oh, this is amazing.”  

“Sam.”  

“I knew something was up! I knew it!” Sam pointed at Zemo. “Man, what the hell did you do to him?”  

Zemo just smiled. “I simply won him over, my dear Samuel.”

Bucky buried his face in his hands.  

Sam, absolutely thrilled, clapped him on the back.

Bucky groaned. “I hate you all.”  

Zemo just leaned in, voice warm with amusement. “No, James,” he murmured. “You don’t.”  

Sam didn’t tell anyone. Not Sarah. Not Torres. Nobody. And Bucky noticed.  

At first, he was waiting for it. Waiting for the smirks, the nudges, the offhand comments from someone, because that was just how things went, right? You let something slip, and suddenly, everyone knew. 

But days passed. And then weeks. And nothing happened. No one knew. Sam didn’t bring it up again. Not unless Bucky did.  

Which meant, it was safe. So, slowly, tentatively, Bucky started letting his guard down.  

Little things, at first. Things he wouldn't have done before. Like sitting closer to Zemo on the couch, their knees brushing. Like leaning into him when Zemo casually rested a hand against his back. Like letting Zemo fix the cuff of his jacket, fingers smoothing over his wrist, without immediately pulling away. 

And Sam, lovely Sam, didn’t say a word about it. Didn’t stare. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t make a big deal out of it. He just let them be.  

And one evening, after dinner, when Bucky was stretched out on the couch and Zemo, ever the opportunist, was comfortably settled with his head in Bucky’s lap, a book in hand, Bucky just went with it.  

Sam was right there. And it was fine. Sam caught his eye and grinned, not teasingly but warmly. Bucky shook his head with a small, helpless smirk.  

Sam just winked and turned back to his beer, pleased as punch that his friend was happy.  

And Bucky was happy. And for once, he actually let himself enjoy it.