Zemo’s house hummed with artificial life, a quiet companion to his solitude. The glass walls adjusted their tint with the setting sun, the temperature held steady at the perfect degree, and the lights cast a soft golden glow as he entered his vast, immaculate living room.
His fortune had bought him everything - prestige, comfort, control. And yet, every night, he came home to an emptiness that no amount of wealth could fill. Well, almost.
“Evening, Hel,” a familiar voice greeted him. Bucky’s voice. “Hard day?”
A perfect replica of the man Zemo adored stepped out from the study, looking every bit as real as the original. The machine had done well, creating a form so close to human it made Zemo’s heart ache.
His synthetic Bucky smiled, lounging against the door jamb, his arms folded over his chest, licking his lips the way the real one did when he was about to tease Zemo about something. “Fancy a drink?”
Zemo sighed. “My James, you always know what to say.”
“I was made for you, Hel,” the replica replied, straightening up and moving into the room.
Zemo wanted to believe that was enough. That he didn’t need more. That this was safer, simpler. The real Bucky was his friend, his colleague. Admitting anything beyond that could ruin everything.
That night, he let the replica ease his loneliness, the way he had for months.
Bucky had never been to Zemo’s house before. Not really. He had dropped him off once after a late night at the office, seen the vast modern expanse of glass and steel, but he had never stepped inside. Until now.
It was a warm summer evening, and he had some reports Zemo needed. A flimsy excuse, really. He could have just sent them over digitally, but something in him wanted to see Zemo outside work, to break the unspoken wall between them.
As he approached the house, he saw movement through the enormous glass windows. Zemo, sprawled on the thick rug before the fire. And beside him…
Bucky stopped dead in his tracks.
Another him. An exact copy. Laughing with Zemo, touching him, holding him in a way Bucky had only imagined. A way he desperately wanted.
He took a step back, his heart pounding.
Zemo had built him. Or, rather, printed him. Some high-tech, eerily perfect replica. Bucky had heard of such things. Custom companions, artificial intelligence mimicking human presence. But this wasn’t just any replica. This was him.
Bucky turned away, pacing down the garden path, his mind spinning. Zemo wanted him. He must. Why else would he do this? But Zemo was too reserved, too careful to ever say it. So instead, he had created something safe, something that wouldn’t reject him.
Bucky exhaled sharply. Zemo didn’t need a copy. He needed the real thing.
He turned back.
Through the window, he saw the replica rise and stretch, then walk toward the study, leaving Zemo reclined before the fire. As Bucky approached the house, the replica paused at the door. And then, it looked right at him. It tilted its head and nodded.
The replica knew. Without a word, it stepped aside and opened the door.
Bucky entered. He walked through the sleek, silent house, his breath shallow, his pulse drumming in his ears. Zemo hadn’t noticed him yet, eyes still closed, a wistful expression on his face.
Bucky knelt beside him, brushing his fingers over Zemo’s cheek. Zemo sighed. “That was quick.”
Bucky smiled. “You tell me.”
Zemo’s eyes snapped open. His breath hitched, realisation dawning. The warmth of Bucky’s touch, the subtle imperfections of his voice, real, raw, human.
Zemo’s world tilted. The controlled, predictable life he had carefully constructed threatened to collapse in an instant.
Then Bucky closed the distance between them. Zemo's pulse thundered as Bucky lifted a hand to tuck a wayward strand of hair behind Zemo’s ear. This close, Bucky’s eyes were cobalt, the warmth of his body palpable in the space between them.
Bucky leaned forward slowly, slowly. Giving Zemo all the time in the world to demur.
Zemo’s pupils went wide. His control vanished. His mouth opened slightly. Bucky smiled then, and leaned in, capturing Zemo’s lips in a kiss, soft at first, then deeper, filled with everything he had wanted to say for so long.
Heat bloomed between them, real and undeniable. Nothing programmed, nothing artificial. Just the raw, human messiness Zemo had denied himself for so long.
And for the first time in a long time, Zemo allowed himself to feel it.
“James?” Zemo whispered, between kisses, his fingers curling into Bucky’s shirt as if to anchor himself.
Bucky murmured something into the hollow of Zemo’s throat and pushed him down onto the rug. Zemo melted into him, and as their bodies entwined before the fire, Zemo finally understood.
It was sweeter with the real Bucky. It always would be.
***