Wintertide

Bucky has spent the entirety of the two weeks watching the world go by. Colours and garbled words fly past, a few distorted cheers at his betrayal. A strategy is developed, and he just nods and smiles along, the details turning into static. He ignores the way their eyes probe his face for answers: 'Why is he cooperating all of a sudden? Why didn’t he cooperate earlier? Has he been meeting Zemo regularly? Has he betrayed them?'

Bucky doesn’t let anything show on his face. He’s constantly on the edge of shattering into a thousand pieces, and he can’t let them see that. They can tell he’s off, so they don’t ask, except for a few offhand ‘are you okay’s.

It’s the day before, and the world suddenly screeches to a halt. He’s suddenly painfully aware of where he is, what he’s doing, and with whom. It comes to him in pieces: Manhattan. Brothel. Pliant brown eyes. The taste of sluggish blood on his tongue. He stares out the window. The unfamiliar buildings stare back. The sharp lines of the deteriorating brick cut into him, the faded red and rusted iron crushing his lungs. He feels like he’s drowning in concrete. This is the second time he has rushed out of the building. The receptionist is no longer surprised.

Once he gets back onto the subway, it’s like all will to fight, to act, or to even move has been drained out of him. He slumps onto the seat and lets himself be carried around New York, but he doesn’t see the buildings, the tunnels, the grey sky. He only sees sharp brown eyes filled with cold fire, cutting into him. They are full of betrayal and loss. It’s the way he looked the first time he saw Bucky at Steve’s side. Distantly, Bucky realises that he could only betray Zemo if there was something to be betrayed in the first place, be it trust, confidence or even love. The sun sets in a brilliant gold this evening, and Bucky wonders if it’s mocking him.

He is slammed against the wall the instant he enters the apartment. His head bounces off the wall slightly painfully, but it damages the wall more than it does him. Bucky wonders, not for the first time, how the hell Zemo gets into his apartment unnoticed. This time it’s extra impressive because he has somehow evaded the eyes of a dozen pairs of trained vampire hunters.

That train of thought is cut short when his lips are caught in a painful kiss. He tries to shove him off, but the bruising grip on his arm is both a warning and a command, and he can do nothing but to let him take whatever he desires. He can feel himself dissociating, the way he used to do with HYDRA, pulled violently back into his head once in a while by flashes of stinging pain. He doesn’t even realise when the kiss ends, until his gaze is ripped from those impossibly dark eyes.

He’s been slapped.

The shame comes a little belatedly, but it’s intense, almost drowning out the angry buzz of pain. He hates the flush he can feel rising in his face. It’s made worse by the way Zemo looks at him, seems to see straight past him, like he was just an object to be owned.

“Will you kneel?” It's a question.

It is pure, twisted curiosity, a chance for Bucky to display his submission. Bucky thinks about breaking Zemo’s neck, or even ripping off his head entirely. How has he not done that yet? But Zemo’s still watching him. Undivided attention. Confidence. Ownership. He stays stock still, like prey in the gaze of a monster. He is slapped again for his lack of obedience, on the other cheek. It’s such a demeaning act. The shame thrums into a roar, and he only realises he’s dropped to his knees when the pain reaches his brain.

“Good.”

The praise hits him harder than he had been slapped. He’s been praised even though he didn’t do what was asked of him at first. He wasn’t good, but Zemo had still said he was.

‘It’s carrot and stick,’ he screams at himself.

The exact tactic HYDRA had used, honed to perfection in him. Unconditional submission in return for a few meaningless words. It’s too easy to slip back into form, to get addicted to that praise. For a tiny glimpse of the kindness he had squandered. He struggles against the tide of surrender.

The clink of a belt and the rustling of clothing. This is all too familiar. Bucky clenches his eyes shut.

“No,” he whispers.

“Pardon?” The glee in his voice sounds like an impending storm. “Repeat what you just said, Soldat.”

“No.” his voice is shaking. He is burning up with panic and shame. His eyes are still shut, a reprieve from his reality. His thoughts tumble over each other in the silence. He brought this upon himself. He was the one who had made his sire angry. He hadn’t been good.

His face is knocked against the wall, and then against the cold floor. Pain blooms on his nose and his cheekbone. Zemo’s grip is suddenly gentle, keeping him down with the slightest pressure. His voice is achingly soft and forgiving, like a wraith in the cold night.

“Did you mean that? You can still apologise.”

Zemo was being kind. He was giving him a chance, even after his insubordination. Bucky would apologise, and Zemo would forgive him. Praise him, even.

“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’ll be good sir, please, I promise-” his voice is choked with tears. When had he started crying?

“Shh, it’s okay. It’s alright. You beg so prettily.” comforting strokes down his back. Bucky blushes from the praise and the contact. He opens his eyes a little, from his position sprawled out on the cold hardwood. He thinks about getting away from Zemo to patch up his wounds, now that he’s been forgiven.

“But I didn’t ask for you to beg.”

A boot comes down on his outstretched arm, merciless. A white void of howling, blinding pain. His ears are ringing. His throat is raw. Did someone scream? Was it him? A string of broken curses fall from his lips.

Why had Zemo done that? Wait. Bucky wasn’t supposed to question his handlers. He must have done something to warrant it, then. But everything else had been forgiven, hadn’t it? Maybe it was because he thought about leaving. He wasn’t supposed to think about leaving until he was dismissed. He would try hard to be better. He wants to be better, for Zemo. For his handler, his sire.

He is dragged up by the collar to kneel again. He lets his throat be fucked raw, suppressing his gag reflex. He lets his hair be pulled until his scalp throbs dully. He needs to be good. He stares up at Zemo with a dreamy adoration. He was one of the better handlers he’d had. He even forgave him for his earlier missteps. If he was good, he could have nice Zemo back. The one who had petted his hair and looked at him with a warmth no one else did. He wants to move his mouth, use his tongue, make it feel even better for him, but he wasn’t given orders to do that. His arm throbs in waves.

Zemo pulls away with a sound that is downright filthy, smearing Bucky’s split and bruised lips with saliva and precum. Bucky lets himself lick it off, tasting the mix of bitterness and iron. The whispered praise is almost reverent, and he lets himself bask in it. He thinks about how he can be better.

The realisation hits him like ice water. He betrayed his sire, brought him here to be captured. He had been so bad, so disobedient, he deserves punishment, but first he needs to be good now, to fix what he’s done, to apologise.

“Sir, I have something to tell you, please listen to me, you need to leave-” he gasps, voice still raw.

“Shut the fuck up.” a hissed command.

Bucky has no choice but to obey, hating himself for the relief he feels. At least this way he won’t be punished. He can just protect his sire when they come for him.

He lets himself be dragged out of the alcove and into the living room, and then thrown onto the couch like a rag doll. He gasps at the bright pain as his arm hits against the coffee table.

“Don’t make me say it again.” he sounds more angry now.

Bucky lets the reprimand wash over him, clenching his jaw to ride out the agony. He deserves this for not being good enough. He’s trying to be good, to be perfect for him, but he’s failing. A fear gnaws at his insides. What if he’s thrown away for being bad? He’s useless if he can't follow simple commands. He forces himself to be more pliant, lets himself be exposed to his sire. Bites his lip so hard he tastes blood when he pushes inside with nothing more than spit for lube. He feels all of his wounds tenfold. Still, he stays quiet like his life depends on it, because right now it probably does.

He’s not loose enough for Zemo to move properly, but he must have been close before because it doesn’t take him much to finish with a low groan spilling from his lips. Bucky doesn’t move. He will do whatever Zemo tells him. Zemo suddenly looks around, like he’s noticed something. As he cleans himself up and redoes his belt he leans down to murmur something in Bucky’s ear.

The next thing Bucky knows, when he can think coherently, is that there’s a glowing sigil on the floor and Zemo is standing in the middle, restrained by it, holding his hands up but still looking annoyingly arrogant with a dozen weapons pointed at him. Bucky is still sprawled on the sofa with a throw blanket over him, feeling more disgusting by the second. Sam is asking him if he’s okay.

Bucky realises they were watching the entire time. They probably didn’t step in until the last moment to spare his dignity. Fat load of good that did him. Bile rises in his throat. He needs to get away, but he feels paralysed. They tell him they’re going to put Zemo on trial even though he’s almost certainly slated for a painful death. His relief battles with his instinct to protect. Still, after all this time. After all he’s done.

Zemo smirks at him as he is taken away. The twisted pleasure on his face still makes him flush with gratitude.