A plague of witchcraft was spreading across Salem. Everyone knew someone who knew someone who was a witch, who slipped away from their in the dark of night and flew across the sky to gather in sabbaths and synagogues to dance with the Devil, to bathe in lust and blood and get drunk on their sins.
Outsiders were, of course, the first suspected and the first accused. No one had trusted the group of Sokovian immigrants who moved to Salem several months ago, even before the rumors began to spread. They were foreigners, hailing from a country no one knew much about. They stayed inside their house on the edge of the dark woods, they were quiet and foreboding, and strangest of all, they were two women living with one man.
Wanda, the youngest and the friendliest, had explained that after the death of her family, she was taken in by her aunt, Agatha Harkness, and Agatha’s brother, Helmut Zemo.
It seemed completely normal, but rumors started to buzz anyways. Whispers spread about how simply strange they were, which quickly spiraled into outright accusations. Hidden in the shadows, flickering in the firelight, everyone had seen a witch flying from the Sokovian’s little cottage.
Maniacal laughter rose from the house and filled the still night air. Their laughs whipped up storms, drawing in frigid wind and blowing orange leaves from every tree. The smoke that billowed from their chimney smelled of meat cooking.
Helmut Zemo, the man in the jail cell— a small, pale man, with long brown hair and wide brown eyes, eyes that were dark and beckoning and full of fear– did not look like he was capable of any of the atrocities he’d been accused of. Aside from the broad charge of witchcraft, he was buried beneath charges of murder, cannibalism, sexual deviance, sodomy, infanticide, basically anything the Governor’s Council could throw at him.
But here, huddled in the corner of his cell, shivering and crying softly, he looked completely harmless, completely innocent and terrified, not unlike a stray wounded kitten, limping along the side of the road.
The accused witch seemed to notice someone staring at him through the darkness, the only light being a few lanterns hanging on the wall, far away from the cell. How long since the poor creature had seen sunlight? Or any light?
“You,” he said, and his voice sounded raw and pained, like it hurt to speak.
“I see you here before. You never talk to anyone. You aren’t from Salem. What is your name, sir?” he says.
James Barnes–Bucky– looks into the darkness, staring at the dark spot where he knows the terrified witch is hiding.
“I’m not supposed to talk to the accused,” Bucky says.
He hears a whimper, and sees the silhouette of the man drag himself across the dirt floor, close to the rusty bars of his cell.
“Please, sir, please listen to me. I am not a witch. I haven’t done any of the horrible things they’re saying, all I’ve done is try to help.”
Bucky narrows his eyes. Zemo– the prisoner, the witch– sounds terrified, sincere. His voice is low and rough, like he hasn’t had water in days, and the English words sound unfamiliar in his thick accent.
“My niece, Wanda, she suggest we start selling the medicines she make so we could afford to stay in Salem. Our home country, Sokovia, it has been the sight of many tragedies. Massacres, war, arson. It’s unlivable now– it’s not the place to raise my family, and we had nowhere else to go, but Wanda’s brother left for America years ago, so we are here to find him. We thought…we thought this place would be safe…”
His voice wavers and trembles, like he was on the edge of breaking into sobs. His sentences were rough around the edges, occasionally mispronouncing a word or skipping one all together.
“I no- not know- do not know why they are calling me a witch,” he stuttered. The alleged witch sniffled, and Bucky could see the wetness on his cheeks, tears shimmering in the low light.
Zemo trembled as he spoke, as though his bones were being rattled in the wind, and he held his arms very close to his pale body, rubbing his upper arms in attempt to warm them.
Bucky realized how improperly dressed he was for the temperatures: Salem was cold this time of year, even colder in the stone jail cells, and Zemo had been stripped of any proper clothing, instead dressed in a thin white shift, tied around his shoulders, stained with proof of past prisoners. He had no shoes, and he had his legs pulled to his chest.
“Well…” Bucky spoke, and he saw a bit of hope spark in the prisoners eyes. “If that’s the case, surely you’ll be found innocent at your trial.”
His eyes looked dark and barren again as he shook his head, frantically, back and forth. “No. There will be no trial. Not a real one. Mr. John Walker has already decided I am guilty, he will do everything he can to put me to death.”
John Walker, righteous man of God that he is, has made it his duty to cleanse Salem– and eventually, the world– of evil, starting at the root: witchcraft, devil worship, other foreign forces of darkness that threaten his peaceful way of life.
“Well, why would John Walker want you dead if you’re innocent?”
Even in the low light, Bucky could see the way Zemo’s face hardened, the wave of darkness that passed over his features and settled in his eyes. “Because if I’m still alive, that means I can still talk.”
Bucky can feel his chest tighten. “Why would John Walker feel so threatened by your words?”
Long strands of lank brown hair are falling into Zemo’s eyes, hiding him. With the dark, stringy hair, and his ghastly pale complexion, he looks halfway dead already.
“You would never believe me if I told you,” Zemo says, softly, his voice shaking just the slightest.
Bucky considers his words. It sounds like a challenge, like he’s daring Bucky to believe him.
“Whatever you have to tell me can’t possibly be more unbelievable than the disease of witchcraft spreading throughout Salem,” Bucky says.
Zemo is silent, then begins to shift and lean closer to the bars of his cell– his cage. He opens his mouth, and before he can speak, the jail door is flung open, wood cracking against the stone walls.
“Mr. Barnes,” John Walker says, water shaking from his hair and clothes with each step. He had the annoyed look of someone who was just rained on.
“I’m going to need your help moving our prisoner for his hearing.” Walker gestures to Zemo, unhooking a torch from the wall and making his way over to the cell. He towers above Zemo, who is trembling on the floor as Walker waves the torch, thrusting it forward so the flames slip through the bars. Zemo gasps, trying desperately to scramble away from the bars and press himself against the stone wall of his cell, as far from Walker as he can get.
Bucky looks at Walker, who is probably the most physically intimidating man currently in Salem, then at Zemo, who is pale and shaking on the ground, trails of tears shining on his cheeks. In the new light, Bucky can see that the poor man is dressed only in a thin white shift, not unlike the undergarments a woman might wear beneath her dress, stained with filth and sweat and a few patches of what appeared to be dried blood.
It seemed unlikely that anyone would need help moving Zemo. He looked as though Walker could easily grab him by the waist and toss him over his shoulder, and Zemo could do nothing to fight it.
But judging from the look in his eyes, Zemo did not want to be left alone with Mr. John Walker, so Bucky just nodded and stepped closer to the cell.
He knew that feeling sympathy for the accused witch was a crime, a sin, but the man currently huddled in the corner of his jail cell looked so completely harmless, that Bucky felt it would be impossible for anyone with a working soul to not feel sympathy for the poor thing.
“He doesn’t look like he’d be any trouble to move,” Bucky says. “What do you need me for?”
Walker reaches for the heavy ring of keys hanging from his belt and begins to unlock the jail cell. The door rattles as he pulls it open, and Walker shakes his head when Zemo attempts to scramble away.
“One can’t be too careful when dealing with a witch. Especially one from Sokovia.” Walker leans down, reaching out to cup his face, running his thumb over wet streaks of tears.
“They’re scheming, wicked creatures. If he could, this thing would kill us all, burn our village to the ground just to appease his dark master.”
“So why can’t he?” Bucky asks.
Walker drops Zemo’s face and kicks him in the shins. Zemo is knocked out of his huddle position, onto his side, his face scraping roughly against the stone floor.
Walker looks up, gesturing to the cross hanging above the cell door, the Ten Commandments carved into the wooden beams.
“Witchcraft and sorcery are powerless in a house of God.”
Or he isn’t a witch, Bucky thinks, but he doesn’t dare say it. Anyone who voiced their concerns with this spreading epidemic of witchcraft was immediately shunned and ridiculed for being either stupid, or a heretic themself.
But Bucky stays silent and does as he’s told– Walker was law enforcement before he was on the Governor’s Council, leading the fight against witchcraft, and all of Salem respected him, believed him, and followed where he led.
“Get over here, Barnes,” Walker says, and Bucky does as he’s told, stepping into the cell and watching Zemo try to crawl away, only to find himself pressed into a corner. Walker grabs him by the arm and yanks him up, squeezing him so tight that Zemo begins to whimper.
“Quiet, witch,” Walker spits, shaking Zemo roughly.
Zemo gives a pathetic moan and tries to wrench his arm free, tries to slide out of Walker’s grip, but Walker holds him so tight that Bucky is certain his bones may snap.
“Please, sir, you’re hurting me–“ Zemo gasps, and Walker backhands him across the face, making him give a horrible dry sob.
“I said be quiet. Keep your wicked tongue to yourself and don’t speak unless you’re spoken to, unless you want to wear your bridle until next Sunday.”
Zemo’s eyes go wide with fear and he shakes his head, pressing his lips together, his face going stiff.
Bucky knew the device which Walker spoke of, he had seen other pariahs and prisoners forced into the iron confines of the unremovable muzzle that rendered them silent and subdued until whoever put it there in the first place decided to remove it.
Walker takes hold of Zemo’s wrists, latching heavy iron shackles around them, then shoving Zemo out of the cell, towards Bucky. Zemo gasps and trips over the dirt floor, unable to catch himself with his bound hands, instead falling against Bucky’s chest.
Bucky stumbles back, placing his hands on Zemo’s shoulders and steadying him. Zemo doesn’t meet his eyes, just looks at the floor, like he will be punished if he raises his head.
From behind them, Walker makes a disgusted noise, then exits the cell and slams the door shut.
“Such a typical Sokovian witch,” he spits, then grabs a fistful of Zemo’s hair, yanking him away from Bucky. “Always trying to corrupt good, honest men.”
“He only fell,” said Bucky.
“He’s trying to trick you. He’s done it before.”
Zemo, still silenced with the threat of the bridle, did not speak to defend himself.
“Get him to the courthouse. I‘ll meet you there, after I’m certain his sister and her scarlet-haired niece are still in their cells.”
“Why are they being held separately?” Bucky asks.
“Witches are most powerful in groups of three. It’s too dangerous to let them congregate together.”
Bucky nods, as if he understands, and Walker shoves past them, making his way past the cell and deeper into the jailhouse.
Once his footsteps faded, Bucky placed his hand on Zemo’s lower back and began to guide him out of the jail. At the touch of his hand, Zemo flinched, then looked as though he had committed some terrible grievance and was debating if apologizing was worth the threat of the bridle.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” he whispers.
Bucky blinks at him. His whole body is trembling, presumably both from fear and cold. The poor man’s extremities had the signs of early frostbite, and his lips were so pale they were almost blue.
“You’ve done nothing,” says Bucky.
Zemo stays silent, looking at his shackled hands.
“Come. We need to get you to your hearing.”
Zemo nods, letting Bucky lead the way, and Bucky is careful not to touch him again.
The courtroom– which had been used more in the past several months than it had in decades– was full, glassy-eyed Salem residents filling the room and gasping in horror at the sight of the accused Sokovian witch.
Bucky was tasked with bolting Zemo’s shackles to the floor with heavy chains, looping them around a metal ring buried in the wooden floor, weighing down their prisoner and holding him in place.
Bucky said nothing as he left Zemo in the middle of the room, to be examined and interrogated, though he was certain Zemo had been watching him with wide, teary eyes.
Judge Alexander Pierce watched from his seat above the courtroom floor, while Walker demonstrated his many methods of identifying a witch to the grotesque delight and fascination of the horrified crowd.
Everyone had already heard the evidence suggesting that Helmut Zemo was a witch– his status as a foreigner from an untrusted country, his family’s use of “ungodly” medicine and healing, his promiscuous and sinful behavior.
Walker explained how he had gone to the Sokovian’s cottage to politely tell them that they could no longer burn their fire throughout the entire night, simply because the consistent stream of smoke was becoming unpleasant. He told everyone how Zemo had said he understood completely, then kindly invited Walker into his home, offering him some odd Sokovian blend of tea. When Walker drank it, he said, he soon began to feel dizzy and tired, unable to resist the witch’s advances. He told how Zemo had placed him under a wicked spell, enchanting Walker and turning him into his mindless servant. He forced poor John to do horrible things, to kiss and lick at the most private and sinful parts of his body whilst renouncing the name of God.
But John, being the strong-willed, righteous man of God that he was, so full of faith and belief, was able to break free from the spell and escape the witch’s house, running to warn the rest of Salem about the dangerous witch that was hiding in plain sight.
“No,” said Zemo, after Walker finished telling his story. “That’s not what happen. I did nothing to him, he forced me– he forced me to—“
“Silence, witch!” a woman’s voice erupted from the crowd. Everyone turned to see John Walker’s wife, Olivia, risen from her seat, staring at Zemo with her face twisted in anger.
“You succubus!” Olivia cried. “This wicked demon has seduced and defiled my husband! He casted some evil spell to make him do…horrible things! Servicing that devil-man in the most perverted manner!”
“Silence, Mrs. Walker!” Pierce shouted, slamming his gavel against the bench.
“Mr. Walker, please control your wife at once.”
John looked apologetic to Pierce, then shot his wife a warning glare.
“I’m so sorry, Your Honor, my wife is very emotional at the time– you must understand how hard this has been for her, for all of us. While her outburst is inexcusable, she speaks the truth: Mr. Helmut Zemo did attempt to place me under his demonic spell, and it’s taken all my strength to stand before you all today, for it was humiliating and horrible to be under the control of such a wicked creature. But I knew I could not let him continue to spread his sinful activities, I knew someone had to stand up to his tyranny.”
“You are very brave for doing so, Mr. Walker,” says Pierce. “We all owe you our gratitude for bringing this to our attention. However…”
Pierce looks from Walker to Zemo, who is trembling so violently that the chains on his wrists are rattling.
“Without solid proof that this man is a witch, I cannot, in good conscience, sentence him to death.”
Walker grits his jaw and looks at Zemo, his face curled in disgust, then turns his attention back to Pierce.
“Then what shall you have me do, Your Honor?”
“Find some proof,” he says. “By any means necessary.”
Bucky looks at Zemo, hanging limply by his wrists, his feet just barely touching the ground. His arms are still shackled, this time above his head, the chain linked over the bars at the top of his jail cell, keeping him suspended in the center of the cell.
Walker is circling him like a vulture, surveying the array of bruises and cuts that adorn his pale body. He lifts the wooden rod in his hand and slams it down against the backs of Zemo’s calves, knocking him off his feet and leaving him to dangle from his wrists.
Zemo wails when the rod hits him, and whimpers when the handcuffs cut into his wrists. Bucky can do nothing but watch– Walker had instructed him to stand off to the side of the cell, claiming he would need the extra help subduing the witch.
As expected, Zemo had put up little fight, either too afraid or too weak to resist, leaving Bucky to simply watch in silence as Walker beat him repeatedly, slamming the wooden rod against every part of his body, paying special attention to the softest, most fragile parts– his stomach, his thighs, even occasionally smacking him across the face until his round cheeks were red and bruised.
Now, Walker was standing behind Zemo, studying his prisoner and trailing the rod up his legs, pressing it between them, rubbing it across his crotch, making Zemo whimper.
It seemed highly inappropriate, not to mention illegal, for Walker to treat a prisoner this way– to touch those private areas of his body, even if it wasn’t with his hands. The way he took his time sliding the rod back and forth, rubbing it between Zemo’s forcefully spread legs, made Bucky feel sick.
Even more so, the way Walker raised the rod and pressed it against Zemo’s backside, angling it between his buttocks, nudging it in just the slightest.
Zemo’s face seemed to crumple in horror at the slight violation, and Walker certainly noticed.
“So now you want to act shy? When you’ve already shown all of Salem what an evil whore you are?”
“Please, don’t–“ Zemo tries to beg, but Walker quickly smacks the rod against Zemo’s left shoulder, making him cry out and shift all his weight to his other foot.
“Quiet, witch!” Walker circles him, stopping once they were face to face, and he trails the rod up Zemo’s legs, thrusting it against his crotch, then dragging it up his chest and stopping once the end of the rod was prodding at Zemo’s closed mouth.
“All you have to do is confess that you are a witch, and this will all be over. I get no pleasure from doing this to you.”
The look on his face, a look of pure lust and rage, said otherwise.
“Confess your sins. Pray for your wicked soul and perhaps God will forgive you.”
Zemo is sobbing silently, breathing heavily, gone almost limp, hanging from the cuffs around his wrists.
He lifts his head, looks at Walker through strands of dirty brown hair.
“Thou shalt not lie,” he says, then says no more.
Walker grits his jaw, then nods to himself and tosses the rod on the ground with a clatter.
“Mr. Barnes,” he says. “It’s clear this creature has no intention of willingly admitting to his sins. Perhaps he will confess after a bit of persuasion.”
Bucky doesn’t look at Zemo, but he knows he’s still crying, still trembling. “What do you suggest we do then?”
“We look for his Devil’s Mark,” Walker says, circling Zemo again. “Every witch has one– the spot on their body they allowed Satan himself to kiss.” Walker cups Zemo’s chin, then runs his hand down his throat and stops when he reaches his shoulders. He grabs hold of the piece of Zemo’s white shift that’s tied around his shoulder, the makeshift strap that holds it up.
“Remove his clothes. We have to search him.”
Zemo’s head shoots up, finally shaken out of his sobbing, and he begins to frantically shake his head and beg for them not to.
Bucky steps forward, looks Zemo up and down. Walker is his superior, and his superior has given him an order.
As gentle as he can, Bucky tears the filthy, papery gown off Zemo’s pale, bruised body, unable to properly undress him with his hands above his head like this. Zemo whimpers when his only possession, the only thing offering him any sense of dignity, the only courtesy he’s been allowed, is stripped away from him, leaving him bare and trembling in the center of the cell.
Bucky feels horrible, perverted, sinful as he tries to avoid looking at Zemo’s abused body, but he can’t help his wandering eyes, drifting to the bruises on his ankles, his wrists, his thighs, like his legs had been roughly forced apart for an extended period of time. All the lashes and marks that Walker had left across his back, his soft stomach and his pale backside.
“Good Lord, Mr. Walker, what have you been doing to him?”
“Nothing he doesn’t deserve,” Walker spits. “Nothing he hasn’t been begging for. Now, get to searching him.”
Bucky really, really does not want to subject this prisoner to an assault of prying hands. He did not want to subject this man, who he was quite certain was innocent of all the crimes he’d been accused of, to anymore pain at all. If he really was the evil witch that Walker said he was, surely he would’ve escaped by now, he would’ve bewitched one of them and forced them to set him free. Even though John had his excuse about the cross in the jail cell, Zemo had been moved from building to building several times, he had been locked in the back of a carriage and driven from the jail to the courthouse– he had plenty of opportunities to escape, and he never did.
Bucky takes a deep breath and steps forward. He begins his search at the top of Zemo’s head, fingers trailing through his dirty hair and studying his scalp, looking for any mark or abnormality, knowing he would find nothing.
He tried to move gently, he tried to touch as lightly as he could, but it seemed even the smallest touches caused Zemo to shudder.
Bucky began examining a clump of dried blood tangled in Zemo’s hair, trying to untangle it without ripping the hair from his head, but only succeeding in making Zemo cry out when he pulled too hard on the knot.
“You won’t be able to search him properly if you’re too concerned about hurting him.”
Bucky grits his teeth and glares at Walker, then continues shifting his fingers through Zemo’s hair, searching his pale scalp. There are several fresh cuts and lashes, rough and bumpy beneath his fingers, but no permanent marks.
“There’s nothing on his head,” Bucky says, and Walker looks at him like he’s an idiot.
“Then search the rest of him,” he says. “I’m sure he won’t mind a bit of manhandling– isn’t that right, witch?”
Zemo says nothing, just looks at the ground.
Walker crosses his arms. “If you’re too weak and sensitive to finish the job, I can easily search him myself.”
“I’ll do it,” Bucky says.
He starts on Zemo’s face, his pale face still wet with tears. He takes hold of it, turns it from left to right, examining his round cheeks, his thin lips, then tilting his head upwards and examining his throat.
Finding some sort of special mark was a bit hard when his entire body was littered with bruises and cuts. Bucky was as gentle as possible when he ran his hands down Zemo’s bare chest, trying to brush away smears of blood and dirt. Occasionally, he would accidentally graze one of his fresher wounds, and Zemo would jolt and suck in a sharp breath of air.
“Be certain that you look between his legs, too,” says Walker.
Bucky glares at him. Walker couldn’t let him keep this one shred of dignity?
He runs a hand (that must be terribly cold) down Zemo’s chest, brushing away any body hair and examining the skin underneath. Along with all the injuries, Zemo’s body was dusted with light freckles, though they were nearly faded away with how pale he’d become.
He doesn’t want to do it, but he fears the consequences of what may happen if he doesn’t, so Bucky kneels down and slides a hand between Zemo’s trembling legs.
When he touches his genitals, they feel unnaturally cold. With gloved fingers (Bucky always wore gloves, he did not like to touch things) he moves Zemo’s penis, unsure of what exactly he’s supposed to be looking for. But aside from being cold and limp, his genitals seem completely normal, and Bucky doesn’t want to spend anymore time molesting this man than he has to.
Bucky doesn’t look up, doesn’t want to see the look on Zemo’s face, just continues trailing his hands down and brushing aside his leg hair.
“There’s no Devil’s Mark,” Bucky says as he pulls himself to his feet. Zemo is staring at the ground, sniffling.
“You did not search all of him,” Walker says.
“Then you do it,” Bucky snaps.
Walker looks strangely smug, and he takes a step closer to Zemo until he’s only a few inches behind him.
“Relax yourself, witch,” he says, then begins to roughly pry and prod at Zemo’s ass. Before Bucky can voice his disgust, Walker is spreading Zemo open, first with his fingers, and then he uses the wooden rod again, shoving the tip between his spread buttocks, not pushing it in deep, just enough to keep him open.
“You can see the difference between this man’s body, and the body of a man of God.” Walker doesn’t gesture to himself, but he might as well have. “This Sokovian witch– the Devil built him not for fighting, hunting or providing, but for luring in and seducing innocent people. See? Look at his curves, so soft and inviting…not built for any honest work. So typical of his kind to never fight for themselves, always tricking good, Godly men into doing their bidding.”
Walker has his hand on Zemo’s waist, dragging it downward and groping at his rear. His face is cold, but his eyes are burning with something horrifying– not hatred, but excitement.
“Hm. Nothing here.”
Zemo remains silent, though the look on his face is one of pure disgust, and it’s a look that Bucky shares.
Walker circles around again so he’s face-to-face with Zemo, who has his head angled downwards. Walker grabs him by the chin and forces him to make eye contact.
He narrows his eyes, leaning his face inches away from Zemo’s, his blue eyes locked on Zemo’s brown eyes.
“Here,” he says, raising a hand and pointing his finger dangerous close to Zemo’s eye. “On his left eye. There’s a spot that’s darker than the rest.”
With his thumb and pointer finger, he pries Zemo’s left eye open as wide as it will go, exposing the vulnerable eyeball and eye socket.
“It is birthmark, sir,” Zemo whimpered. “I have it all my life.”
“Shut up,” Walker says, then retrieves something from the pocket of his black breeches. Bucky can’t see what it is, Walker’s shoulder is blocking it, but Zemo lets out a panicked sob when he sees it, begins to thrash and shake his head, trying to back away, but John holds him in place.
Aa if controlled by some unseen omnipotent force, Bucky’s feet take two steps to the left to see what it is Walker is threatening him with.
His stomach drops when he sees that it’s a needle, long and thicker than any sewing needle, with a gleaming point, angled directly at Zemo’s afflicted eye.
Unable to stop himself, Bucky lunges forward and shoves Walkers hand away, and Walker turns to face him with a look of rage.
“Good God, what are you planning to do to him?”
“If your right eye causes you to sin,” Walker quotes. “Tear it out and throw it away.”
Bucky looks at him incredulously. “You haven’t a shred of proof that this man’s eye is somehow causing him to commit atrocities. You have no proof he’s even done anything you’re accusing him of.”
“A Devil’s Mark is numb, it feels no pain. If this…man,” he says with disgust. “Is indeed the witch I believe him to be, he will suffer no pain. And if he does indeed suffer pain, we will have proof he isn’t.”
“And if he isn’t, you will have just mutilated an innocent man’s eye.”
“An acceptable price to pay for ensuring our town is safe from the powers of the Devil.”
“Please don’t do this,” Zemo pleaded. “I will do anything, anything you want, with you or- or with him, or both of you, you can do anything you want to me, I not tell anyone, I swear it.”
Walker slaps his hand over Zemo’s mouth. “How many times must I tell you to be quiet? Your wicked Sokovian tricks will not work on us.”
“John,” Bucky says, the use of his first name catching his attention. “Surely there has to be a different test you can do. Something less inhumane and violent.”
“And what would you suggest?” Walker looks furious at Bucky for daring to question him.
Bucky looks at Zemo, who is still being held in place by Walker. His eyes are pleading silently, begging Bucky to do something.
“Have him recite the Lord’s Prayer,” Bucky says. “We’ve done it with other accused. Witches cannot recite it without error, correct?”
Walker nods. “It seems as such.” He looks at Zemo, considering him, then lightly, almost gently, caresses his cheek.
“Fine. Do your test. But if the results are inconclusive,” he raises the needle again, raising it to Zemo’s face and running it down his cheek, making him wince. “We will do things my way.”
“I understand,” Bucky says, then looks at Zemo.
“Helmut Zemo, do you know the Lord’s Prayer?”
Zemo nods hesitantly. “I- I think so, yes, but my English is not so good.”
So desperate to save Zemo from Walker’s needle, Bucky had failed to consider that.
“I’m sure you can do it,” he assures. He hopes.
“Go ahead,” Walker spits. “Prove you’re not a witch.”
Zemo swallows hard, nodding, then closes his eyes and tries to gather his courage.
“Our Father,” he starts. “Who art in Heaven, hollowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done–“
While his speech was stilted and his voice was wavering, all the words were coming out right.
“On Earth as it is in Heaven, forgive us our tr- trespa-“
He stutters, his voice breaking, sounding as if his tongue just can’t form the right shapes to finish the word.
“Our tres-pass-es,” he sounds out every syllable, going slowly. “And lead us not into ten- tenp- tenptation- temptation,” he finally says.
“But deliver us from evil,” he sobs. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”
After he finishes, he seems to hold his breath and wait for a response.
Walker studies him, considering his attempt.
“You made two mistakes, Mr. Zemo,” Walker says. “You failed.”
“No,” Zemo sobbed. “No, please, I know it, I know the prayer, let me try again, I just struggle with English words–“
“You appear to be speaking perfect English now. That leaves us with only one explanation: you are a witch, you have pledged your soul to the Devil, and that unholy union has left you unable to pray to God.”
Zemo shakes his head and Walker retrieves the needle, stepping closer to Zemo again, grabbing his face and prying at his afflicted left eye.
Before Walker can jab the needle into his eyeball, the jailhouse door is slammed open.
“John!”
Bucky recognizes the voice, it’s Walker’s friend, Lemar Hoskins, his right-hand-man in this witch hunt.
Walker growls, turning to face the door. “What is it, Lemar?”
“It’s Miss Harkness, and the Maximoff girl,” he says. “They’re gone, they’ve escaped.”
Walker’s expression doesn’t change, just as cold and frightening as ever, but his eye twitches and his teeth grind together.
“Barnes,” he says, turning to Bucky. “Keep an eye on this thing.” He gestures to Zemo. “I will hunt down that witch and her niece. Tomorrow, we will continue our test.”
He slips his needle back into the pocket of his white-collared shirt, shoving past Bucky and out of the jailhouse, following Lemar.
Bucky and Zemo are left in still silence– or what would be silence if Zemo wasn’t sobbing so loud. His whole body heaved, and that’s when his bodily position finally occurred to Bucky– his arms had been tied above his head for at least several hours. He was naked, shivering in the cold, with untreated cuts and bruises all over his body.
Walker had the only set of keys that could unlock Zemo’s shackles, and he had taken them with him to hunt for Agatha and Wanda, but Bucky knew he had to free Zemo from his current position. He steps forward and reaches for the chain on the shackles, and Zemo gasps when he feel Bucky brush against him.
“It’s alright,” Bucky assures him. “I’m going to try and break these chains so you can put your arms down.”
Zemo just nods, tears clinging to his long eyelashes.
Again, as if possessed by some great and unknown power, Bucky took hold of the chains that held Zemo’s wrists to the ceiling, and began pulling at the rusted metal. It was relatively old, grown weak and corroded over years of use.
Bucky can feel the chains bending in his hands, beneath this strength he’s never known before.
Finally, after his hands were sore and red with rust, the chains began to bend, enough so he could slip the shackles out of them.
Zemo began to lower his arms, but he winced in pain when he did so, his arms now more accustomed to being up than down, no doubt gone numb by now.
“It’s alright. Here, let me help–“
He took hold of Zemo’s wrists, helped him to lower his arms slowly to avoid any further pain.
The handcuffs were still clamped on his wrists, rendering him unable to stretch his arms and unlock his muscles.
Like the shackles, the chains on the handcuffs look old and rusty. Bucky took hold of both Zemo’s wrists, holding them tight to protect them, and then yanked them far apart, snapping the chain and making Zemo whimper.
“It’s alright, try to move your arms just a little bit.”
Zemo attempts to lower them completely, wincing in pain as he did so.
He looked so completely broken, so brutally beaten that simply moving his arms was painful. He was trembling again, standing naked in the middle of the cell, his wounds weeping and throbbing.
Suddenly, Bucky becomes very aware of Zemo’s lack of clothing. His shift lies on the ground, ripped from him and discarded.
“I have a coat,” Bucky says. “Would you like it?”
Zemo nods, and Bucky exits the cell, retrieving his long black coat from the corner of the jailhouse.
“Here,” he says, draping the coat over Zemo’s abused body, helping him guide his sore arms into the sleeves, then wrapping it tightly around him.
Buried in the coat, he looked even smaller, but as his trembling subsided, Bucky could see that it was definitely warming him.
“Would you like to sit?” Bucky asks, and Zemo nods. Bucky takes his hand, helps him into a sitting position onto the cold, rough floor.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Bucky says as Zemo curls in on himself, pulling his knees to his chest. “This isn’t right. I know you’re not a witch, and I’m going to help you get out of here. I will not let Walker kill you.”
Zemo shakes his head. “Walker will do whatever he wants to me. No one stop him. It’s always like this.”
Bucky’s heart breaks for this man– this man who is, sure as he is standing here, innocent of every crime he’s been accused. Bucky isn’t sure how he knows, but he simply does, that this man is not the evil creature Walker thinks he is. How could he be?
“Why does he think you’re a witch?” Bucky asks, and he realizes immediately it’s a very cold response to Zemo’s cries, but he’s already asked it, and Zemo is already looking up to answer.
“Because I am not like him,” he says. “He does not like that my sister was a Wiccan healer in our homeland, or that my niece is a member of the Romani. He says her father was a witch too, that witch-hunters kill him. And he blames me for…he says I seduced him because he doesn’t want to take responsibility for what he do to me…”
Bucky swallows the lump in his throat. “What did he do to you?”
Zemo is silent, staring straight ahead with wide eyes. “He– he come to my house while my sister is away, tell me he’s investigating accusations of witchcraft, ritual magic, human sacrifice. And he is so much stronger than I am…I could not stop him when, when he– he– he hurt me very bad.”
Bucky nods, letting Zemo know he doesn’t have to say anymore. “That’s enough. I’m going to get you out of here. I’m going to keep you safe.”
Zemo looks up at him with teary eyes. “You- you are joking. This is some trick, to see if I try to flee, he has put you up to this.”
“It’s not a trick,” Bucky says. “I swear, to God above, I am not tricking you, no one has put me up to this. I only want to save you from whatever terrible fate Walker has planned for you.”
Zemo stays silent for a moment, his lips pressed into a thin line, like he’s trying so hard to stop himself from sobbing. “Do you really mean that?”
Bucky nods. “I do.”
Zemo begins to nod to himself. “Yes, yes, I believe you. Please, sir– take me away from here, before he comes back– he will be back any moment…”
Bucky nods to himself. “Alright. Can you stand?”
Zemo attempts to pull himself to his feet, using the wall behind him to balance, struggling to stand. Bucky reaches forward and takes his hand, pulling him up until he stood on shaky legs.
“Let’s go. We can leave through the back of the jailhouse. My friend, he lives just outside Salem, he will let us stay until I figure out what to do.”
Zemo nods, letting Bucky guide him out of the cell.
Once they’re at the backdoor, it swings open before Bucky can touch the handle. Walker and Hoskins are on the other side, returned from their hunt for Wanda and Agatha, and from the looks on their faces, they have begun to realize what is happening.
Walker reaches for his gun, not saying a word, just pulling it out and aiming it at Bucky and Zemo, and Hoskins does the same.
“Mr. Barnes, I truly hope you are not trying to do what it looks like you are.”
“This man is innocent,” Bucky says. “I won’t let you kill him.”
“Innocent?” Walker scoffs. “Do you have any idea the evil you are trying to free? Don’t you see this is exactly what he wants?”
“Mr. Walker, I don’t want to fight you, but I won’t let you kill Mr. Helmut Zemo.”
Walker aims his gun at Bucky. “Then you may join him in the flames of Hell.”
Bucky, faced with no other options, is quick enough to disarm him, knock the gun out of his hand with a kick to his chest, sending him reeling back. Hoskins fires once, but when John falls against him, his aim turns to the floor and the bullet splinters the old wood.
Walker is up again, lunging at Bucky, who shoves Zemo out of the way to protect him. Walker lands on top of Bucky, his gun long abandoned, trying to get wrap his hands around Bucky’s throat, clawing at him like a wild beast. Bucky strains his arm, trying to reach for Walker’s discarded gun that lay sprawled a few feet from his head.
While Walker is too concerned with strangling Bucky, he manages to brush his fingers across the gun, and as if by some miracle, it spins toward him, allowing him to grab it by the barrel and aim it at Walker.
The blast, at such close proximity, takes off half his head, splattering Bucky with blood as Walkers twitching, gory body falls on top of him.
From a few feet away, Hoskins gasps in horror, trying to fix his jammed gun, but the trigger won’t work.
“Mr. Hoskins,” Bucky pants, pulling himself to his feet and keeping his gun focused on Lemar. “If you let us leave now without a fight, I won’t shoot you. Just let us go. Tell them what happened, that John died fighting for his town, and that we fled. It doesn’t have to end badly for you.”
There is a touch of morality in Lemar’s eyes, more than was ever in John’s, and his face is one of terror and confusion. In another circumstance, Bucky would likely feel sympathy for him.
“Please,” Bucky hears Zemo say from behind him, his voice so small and hesitant. “Please let us go.”
Hoskins goes still and silent, and just nods, more to himself than Bucky. He says nothing, just turns and exits the jailhouse, stepping out into the bitter cold. There was the loud rushing of wind as the door opened, only for a moment, and then it was gone, leaving Bucky and Zemo in silence, standing amidst the bloody carnage.
Bucky looks back at Zemo, who is staring at the obliterated face of the man who had been so cruel to him.
“We should leave,” he says, his voice soundly slightly stronger now that Walker was gone. “You said you had someone we can stay with? Until we can leave the state?”
Bucky nods, tucking Walker’s gun into his waistband and walking over to Zemo, guiding him again to the backdoor. Zemo remained close to him, huddled in Bucky’s oversized coat.
“Yes. Him and his sister are old friends of mine, they live just outside Salem, we can take one of the wagons and make it there by nightfall. Come, we have to hurry.”
Zemo follows him, Bucky holding the door open for him and remaining hovering over him, like the light snowfall may kill him.
He takes the first wagon they see, the same one that had been used to bring the accused witch to the courthouse hours earlier, led by a strong black horse.
Bucky takes Zemo’s pale hand, holding him as he reassures him that nothing bad will happen if he rides in the back, he won’t be taken to the courthouse, he won’t be brought to a hanging tree. It’s just safer to keep him out of view, and it’s far warmer inside than out. Even wrapped in Bucky’s coat, he was still rubbing his arms for warmth, occasionally shivering violently in the bitter cold.
As he leads the wagon out of Salem down an unbeaten path, Bucky’s hands burned with cold, for he had long since given Zemo his gloves, figuring he needed them more. His hands had gone red and raw, struggling to maintain his grip on the reigns, that only furthered the damage to his hands.
Finally, he saw the dark smoke billowing from a chimney in the distance, and knew he would be approaching the Wilson’s cabin soon.
They had moved out of Salem when the witch-hunt first began, seeing the oncoming trouble and worrying Sarah Wilson would be an easy target for witchcraft accusations, they returned to the small cabin built by their father before he died.
It was a short ways through a patch of woods before they would reach the cabin, and the sun was setting quickly around them, the temperature only lowering as Bucky urged on the horses as fast as they would go.
The tree branches were like clawed hands reaching across the pale full moon, poking through the clouds of fog that were rolling in and covering the ground. Bucky could only pray that it didn’t start to storm.
After what felt like an endless journey through the dark woods, Bucky saw the lights of a small house, an oil lamp hanging on the door and offering a glowing beacon to anyone lost in the dark.
He slowed the horse, stopping in the muddy patch of gravel outside the house. He took a deep breath, cold air filling his lungs, then trudged through the gravel and up to the front door, knocking on it.
“Sam? Sarah?” He called against the wood.
He could hear movement inside, then the sound of Sam’s voice through the wall, calling out Bucky?
“Yes. I know it’s late and this is unexpected, but I desperately need your help.”
He listens, hearing only silence for a moment, then the sound of locks clicking and the old wooden door creaking open.
Sam is in the doorway, a candle and a gun in either hand, Sarah slightly behind him.
“Bucky…” Sam says, looking at Bucky’s frosted hands, the remnants of Walker’s blood still on the collar of his shirt. “What have you gotten yourself into?”
Bucky sighs. “I’m attempting to prevent the baseless, needlessly cruel execution of an innocent man, and I need your help.”
Sam’s face twists in confusion. “What are you talking about? What innocent man?”
Bucky sighs, and gestures for Sam to step outside, leading him across the damp yard and back to the stolen wagon.
Before he opens the door, he knocks lightly, not wanting to startle Zemo, who may have been asleep.
“Zemo?” Bucky says, and he hears a quiet yes? in response, taking that as an invitation to open the doors.
Zemo is in the corner, wrapped in Bucky’s coat, legs pulled close to his chest.
“Mr. Barnes? Why have we stopped? Is everything alright?”
“Everything’s fine, Zemo. This is my friend, Sam Wilson, the one I told you about.”
Zemo just nods, looking from Bucky to Sam, though in the low light he likely couldn’t see either of them very well.
Sam looks at Zemo, who has obviously been locked up and abused for some time, then glares at Bucky.
“Bucky,” he says sternly. “What did you do?”
Bucky sighs. “I told you already, Do you see what John Walker has done to him? Do you understand what would have happened if I didn’t help him?”
“It is true,” Zemo said from his spot in the corner. “Mr. Barnes save me from…from the awful things Mr. Walker was doing…he was going to have me hanged…”
“Buck,” Sam says, putting a hand on his friends shoulder, who looks at him with disappointment. “Do you understand what you’ve done? Do you understand how dangerous this is?”
“We won’t be here long,” Bucky says. “Just overnight, maybe not even that, but if he goes without food and heat for much longer, he’s going to die.” When he says it, Zemo gasps slightly. Bucky looks at him and shakes his head. “But I’m not going to let that happen.”
Sam sighs and rubs his temple, obviously exhausted as well as conflicted.
“No one saw you leave with him, did they?” Sam asks.
“No,” Bucky says, shaking his head. “If they had, they would’ve found us by now.”
Sam nods to himself. “Alright. I’m not happy you did this…but I’m not going to let this poor man die.”
In the darkness, Bucky can see Zemo’s face soften slightly, almost smiling the tiniest bit. “Thank you, Mr. Sam Wilson, thank you so much. I can never repay both of you for what you’ve done…”
Sam nods at him. “Of course. Are you alright, Mr. Zemo?” he asks, even though he’s very clearly not.
“I am fine, Mr. Wilson, thank you. But can I…can I come inside now, please? It’s so cold out here, and I have nothing to wear but this coat…”
A bit taken aback by his forwardness, Sam could only nod. “Yes, of course. I’ll see if I can find you something warm to wear. And Bucky–“ he says, turning to his friend. “Help him out of there and bring him into the house.”
Without any other words, Sam leaves, walking the few feet that lead back to his house.
Bucky leans into the wagon, holding out his hand for Zemo to take hold of it, helping pull him out of the wagon and help him onto his feet again. It quickly proved to be the wrong decision when Zemo hissed in pain when his cold, obliterated feet touched the bare ground.
Almost instinctively, Bucky grabs Zemo from underneath his calves, swooping him up into a bridal carry, as it was the easiest way to hold him and walk him into the house at the same time.
Zemo gasped, but quickly wrapped his arms around Bucky’s shoulders, clinging to him as Bucky carried him across the yard and into the cabin.
Sarah is poking the coals in the fireplace when they arrive. The house was quickly growing even warmer than it was, and it might’ve been unpleasant if Bucky hadn’t been out in the frigid cold for hours.
Zemo quickly makes his way to the fireplace, sitting down in front of it and holding his hands close to the flames.
When Sam returns to the room, he shoves a heavy wool nightshirt into Bucky’s hands, along with a pair of long-johns, informing him they were the warmest thing he had. When Zemo thanks them and asks for permission to go into another room to change, Bucky tries not to dwell on it.
None of them are happy about what’s going on. Bucky feels awful for asking this of his friend, for potentially putting him and his sister in danger. He can feel anger radiating off Sam– anger at his friend for doing this, but also anger at himself for being so kind-hearted and understanding, unable to turn away the pale emaciated Sokovian that Bucky has brought him.
Sarah isn’t too happy either, but like her brother, she is too kind to just turn Bucky and Zemo away, knowing what will happen if she does.
When Zemo returns, he thanks Sam and Sarah profusely while telling them how tired he is. Sarah tells him he should eat something before he sleeps, and she offers him the soup she’d made earlier that night for dinner.
Eventually, rain begins beating down on the house, but Zemo doesn’t look frightened. Instead, he asks if he could step outside and try to wash away all the blood and filth that had accumulated on his body during his imprisonment.
“You could get sick,” Bucky warns.
“I will get much sicker if I don’t clean all these cuts,” Zemo retorts, and Bucky appreciates seeing him stand up for himself and argue for what he wants to do– it’s a refreshing change from how cowering and frightened he’d been before.
“He’s right,” Sarah says. “Bucky, go with him, make sure he doesn’t get hurt. And here–“ she reaches for a large, tattered cloth hanging by the stove. “You can dry off with this.” She lays it in front of the fireplace, so it will stay warm.
“Thank you,” he says. “Thank you both, so much. I can never repay you for this.”
Bucky helps him outside, staying underneath the awning of the house, keeping the nightclothes and warm towel away from the rain, while Zemo steps out and allows the showers to wash away the blood from his scabbed cuts, the light layer of dirt that covered his body, the dark stains on his feet.
Standing out in the rain, beneath the moonlight and primarily obscured by darkness, naked so he could fully clean himself, he did look a bit like a witch, like he was dancing around an altar, soaking up the power of the full moon. But Bucky knew otherwise, knew he was nothing but an innocent and mistreated man. If his behavior was odd, it was simply because he was a foreigner, and it seemed the most common reaction to foreigners was fear.
It wasn’t long before he was done washing, likely knowing that if he stayed out too long he would definitely become sick. Bucky was fully clothed and he could feel how cold the night was; it must’ve been absolutely freezing for Zemo, but he seemed determined to get clean.
Underneath the awning, he let Bucky dry him with the old cloth Sarah had given him, then allowed himself to be dressed in the nightclothes, lifting his bruised arms, wincing if he moved them too much.
Bruises had blossomed on his wrists like dark purple bracelets, and random red splotches of damaged blood vessels covered his body. It was only when he turned so Bucky could button his long-johns that he noticed the barely-healed lashes on his back– undoubtedly from some other inhumane punishment inflicted by John Walker. Bucky tries not to think about it, tries not to think about all the horrible things that must have happened to him in custody of the Salem government.
“Come,” Bucky said. “Let’s hurry up and get you inside. I know you insisted on this, but I’m still worried you may get sick.”
Zemo smiled at him. “I will be alright. As long as I have you to protect me. You keep me safe.”
Zemo places his hands on Bucky’s chest, looking up into his eyes. His behavior was inching past friendly and grateful, inching into something that most would find inappropriate, immoral, sinful.
Bucky just nods, placing his larger hands over Zemo’s smaller ones.
“Then I shall do my job as your protector by telling you it’s time to go inside and rest.”
Zemo nods back and allows Bucky to walk him back into the cabin. He’s able to walk, but only slowly, and occasionally he will wince if he takes a wrong step.
The Wilson’s didn’t have an extra room, but Zemo seemed quite fine with sleeping on a small pallet of blankets close to the fireplace.
“I would like to stay warm all night…so I don’t get sick.”
That solved the little problem very quickly, and Bucky quickly volunteered to stay in the living room with Zemo, watching over him as he slept. Sam told him he should get some sleep too, which Bucky barely acknowledged, promising he would take turns resting and watching Zemo.
As promised, he spent the whole night sitting in Sarah’s rocking chair, eyes fixed on Zemo, curled up on the floor and warmed by the dim fire. Occasionally, his eyes would droop shut and he’d doze off for a few minutes, but every time, he was shocked awake by a throbbing pain in his arm, likely from an unseen, internal injury he had sustained in the jailhouse fight. Even though it hurt, he was thankful for the sharp pain, for it kept him awake, allowed him to keep an eye on his fellow outcast.
When he awoke for the final time, having spent the whole night slipping in and out of brief fits of sleep, the sun had begun to rise and the sky was light grey. He looked to Zemo’s spot in front of the fireplace, only to see it empty.
Before panic could fully set in, the sound of shuffling in the kitchen caught his attention. Turning, he saw Zemo up and awake, pouring hot liquid into a wooden mug.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice still sounding a bit hoarse, but definitely an improvement since his imprisonment only a day before.
“I make you some tea,” he says, holding up the wooden cup, steam billowing off it.
Bucky just nods, standing up and hearing his joints pop. His whole body ached, and he was about to sit back down when he remembered how much worse Zemo must feel, and he was up and making tea, so Bucky kept quiet as he walked into the kitchen.
“That’s very sweet,” he says, taking the warm mug from Zemo. “But you should drink some too, it will warm you up.”
Zemo smiles. “I had some while you sleep. I want you to feel better too.”
Bucky looks at the tea; it’s a light brown, with a few leaves floating at the top.
“The recipe is from my country, it should help you heal quick.”
It tastes slightly bitter, but overall the flavor is nice, and the warmth is welcome on his tongue. Zemo must’ve collected rain water and boiled it over the fire, all while Bucky slept.
“You are too kind, Mr. Zemo,” Bucky says, looking at the man in front of him.
“You don’t have to be so formal. Please, just call me Helmut.”
Bucky nods. “Of course, Helmut.”
When he says his name, Zemo smiles, the dim candlelight highlighting the apples of his round cheeks.
“I wish I could repay you…but I have no money or land anymore…I lost it all when I lost my father, back in my homeland…”
His lip quivers like he may cry again, but quickly, he looks up at Bucky and leans forward, pushing himself up on his tiptoes and placing a quick kiss on his cheek.
When Bucky just blinks at him, Zemo says, “It is symbol of gratitude and friendship in my country. It’s all I have to offer for now.”
Bucky nods, smiling slightly.
The Wilsons are kind enough to give them enough food and water to make it from Salem to Fall River within a few days. Sam tells Bucky to write to him the minute he can, so he knows that they’re both alright.
Bucky rewears the same black clothing he’d worn the day before, even if it was a bit dirty, but Sarah insisted that Zemo take a set of Sam’s clothes to keep him warm.
After much thanking, that involved Zemo kissing both Sarah and Sam on the cheek, they said goodbye and Bucky helped Zemo onto the wagon, the two sitting side by side at the front of the wagon.
The sun hadn’t gone down yet, but it was beginning to, and heavy fog was rolling in. Bucky’s arm continued to ache, even more so as he held onto the reigns and steered the wagon down the winding forest road.
Every few minutes, he almost drops the reigns, almost goes stiff when a sharp pain shoots through his arm. The first few times, Zemo stays silent, though he does look at Bucky with worried eyes.
It’s only when Bucky drops the reigns and barely catches them before they completely slip away that he decides he needs to stop. They needed to get as far away from Salem as possible, it was true, but they couldn’t do so if Bucky could barely keep his fist closed.
He slows them to a stop, pulling off to the side of the gravel road. Zemo looks at him as he flexes his aching hands, gently placing a hand on his shoulder.
“What’s wrong, James?”
When his hand makes contact, Bucky winces in pain and Zemo pulls away.
“Are you hurt?” he asks.
“I’m fine,” Bucky says. “My arm is hurting…I don’t know why, but it feels like it’s…burning…”
“Oh no,” Zemo gasps, putting a hand to his mouth. “My poor dear, are you alright? Do you need to rest?”
Bucky nods, trying to steady his breathing and force the pain to subside, but it only grows stronger, like he’s being pushed into something burning– he feels like an animal being branded.
He cries out, gripping his arm, and tries to stumble out of the wagon, only half succeeding when he trips and lands in the dirt.
Zemo cries out and quickly jumps from the wagon, kneeling down next to Bucky, who is writhing in pain, horrible sounds of anguish growing louder. Zemo just stares with wide, frightened eyes, unsure of what to do.
Bucky thrusts his head back as he claws at himself, trying anything to relieve the pain, just praying that it will fade soon. It feels like when he would do something stupid as a child– climb a tree and fall out, antagonize a goat until it kicked him– but so much worse.
He’s burned himself before, his hands are rough with the scars to prove it, and this feels like that, but with the added pain of something sharp, like a blade, digging into him.
“Help,” he chokes out. “You have to…do something…put pressure on it before I–“
He groans in pain again as Zemo leans closer to him, taking hold of his injured arms.
“No, shh, it’s alright, James. I’ll make it all better, don’t worry.”
“W- what?” Bucky chokes. His vision is blurring, but he can still Zemo above him, running a hand along his upper arm, occasionally grazing the part that hurt the most.
“How do you know my first name?” he gasps.
Zemo’s attention is pulled from Bucky’s arm to his face. “What do you mean?”
“I never told you my name is James,” Bucky says. “How did you know that?”
“I overheard Mr. Wilson say it. Now, let me–“
“No you didn’t,” Bucky retorts. “Sam doesn’t call me that, no one calls me that. There’s no way you could’ve known that.”
Zemo blinks at him as his eyes fill with fear. “I don’t understand. You’re scaring me, James.”
A heavy understanding settles on Bucky’s shoulders as things begin to click together, begin to spark to life. He looks around and notices the fog is growing thicker, traveling closer to them faster than it should.
Hissing in pain, Bucky grabbed his arm, pressing down on the stinging spot and feeling it…move?
It wasn’t stinging, he realized. It was sizzling. Burning.
Finally, he managed to rip off his sleeve and cast it aside, craning his neck to see the burning spot on his arm.
In the center of his forearm is a red pentagram, burnt into the flesh, still hissing.
He looks at Zemo, who still looks terrified. “What have you done?” Bucky gasps.
“I haven’t done anything…I don’t know what’s happening…”
“You…you liar,” he says. “Walker was right, wasn’t he? You really are– what are you?” He grits his teeth in pain, but forces himself to sit up, climbing to his feet. “How did you do this?”
Zemo shakes his head as tears well in his eyes. “No, no, please, don’t do this– I thought you believed me– I thought you were going to help me–“
“I did believe you. I believed you about everything, but everything was a lie, wasn’t it? Acting helpless in the jailhouse…all the crying and whimpering, every time you would lower your head in shame…telling me that John Walker did something horrible to you…”
“He did!” Zemo cries. “When he came to my house, he forced himself on me! He did awful things to me!”
“You liar! You tricked me! You forced me to kill him…you manipulated me so I would set you free…”
His hands wrap around Zemo’s throat, tight enough to scare him but not enough to choke him, and tears spill down Zemo’s cheeks as his lower lip trembles.
Softly, his features change; his lip stops trembling, his eyebrows lower and straighten out, the tears clear from his eyes. His face looks suddenly cold, his eyes like glass marbles with nothing inside them, only the fleck of red that continued to glow against the brown.
Beneath Bucky’s hands, Zemo’s throat grows hot, burning, so hot that he can no longer choke him. He drops him and looks at his hands, seeing that they’re singed.
Zemo sighs like he’s disappointed, like he’s inconvenienced by this whole thing.
“Well, you clearly weren’t about to do it on your own. You just needed a little push in the right direction.”
Zemo stands up, brushing the dirt off his coat, then looking Bucky in the eye. The dark spot in his left eye, the one Walker had been so interested in…it was different than it had been before. Brighter. Almost completely blood red.
Still clutching his arm, Bucky stumbles back, tripping over his feet, and Zemo just calmly walks after him.
“James, please come back– let me help you.”
“Stay away from me!” Bucky growls, reaching for the gun on his hip. When he grabs it, Zemo just sighs, and then the entire thing seems to simply fall apart in Bucky’s hand. All the parts split, the bullets fall out, leaving Bucky with a shaking, open, empty hand.
“Oh my God…” Bucky says to himself. He feels as though his reality has been ripped from him, all while Zemo watches with disinterest.
“James, please, you have to understand– I had to. I had to get out of there. The things Mr. Walker did to me–“
“You made me kill him!” Bucky shouts. “You tricked me, you lured me in, acting so helpless and vulnerable…pretending like you couldn’t even speak English…but none of it was true, was it? Walker was right, wasn’t he? You…you are a witch.”
Zemo frowns, tilting his head to the side with disappointment.
“James…you’re not like him…you don’t really feel this way, do you? You’ve helped me so much, you’ve been so brave and kind…I just had to help you see the truth. And you set me free.”
Bucky remembers Walker’s warning from days before: Do you have any idea the evil you are trying to free?
He should have listened.
Bucky tries to turn and run, but his feet are stuck in place, the earth is wrapping around them and keeping him still. Zemo steps closer and places a hand on the burn mark.
“My poor Бели вук,” Zemo says. “I know it hurts. But I can make it all better. Here–“
“No, don’t you–“
Before he can finish the sentence, Zemo is waving a hand over the burn, and almost immediately, the pain fades, the sizzling stops, and he’s left with only a red pentagram burned into his flesh.
Little things that didn’t make sense before are suddenly falling into place, like why Zemo only seemed to mispronounce a few words, unable to say them right at one point and having no trouble the next. It had seemed so…cute at the time. He was like a vulnerable child, helpless, unable to protect himself.
Which is exactly what he wanted.
How stupid Bucky had been, falling for it, so easily persuaded by Zemo’s teary eyes and trembling hands. His sobs in the dark of the jailhouse, his nervous voice when he said what Walker had done to him.
But standing here now, it’s like every part of Zemo has changed slightly. His eyes are cold, he’s standing up straight, he doesn’t look as pale and weak like he once did.
“I have been more than kind to you,” Zemo says, stepping closer so he’s pressed against Bucky, who is still trying to free his feet, with no luck. “I let you feel like you were doing the right thing. I gave you the opportunity to be the hero. But I don’t have to be so understanding…I can just as easily turn you into my mindless slave, it would only take a simple spell. Just a few words and you would serve me forever…nothing but an unthinking, unfeeling servant…completely void of anything…is that what you want?”
“You made me kill Walker,” Bucky chokes out. “You’ve turned me into a fugitive. You endangered my friends. You have ruined my life, because…what? What have I done to you?”
Zemo laughs. He actually laughs.
“Oh, you didn’t do anything. I just needed you to escape. That thing Walker said, about how we can’t use magic in a “house protected by God”– it’s true. I never could’ve gotten away without your help.”
“I will tell them,” Bucky says. “I’ll tell Hoskins and the other witch-hunters what you are.”
Zemo scoffs. “Are you forgetting that you helped me escape? And that you murdered their head witch-hunter? How exactly do you think they’re going to respond to that?”
Bucky says nothing, for he knows it’s true. He can never go back to Salem. They would surely have him and Zemo hanging from side-by-side nooses.
“And even if you manage to convince them…well, you have the Devil’s Mark to prove your pact with Satan himself, don’t you?”
The pentagram. It must have began forming the minute Bucky had started helping Zemo.
“I’m going to free you, James,” Zemo says. “And you are going to stay with me. You are going to keep me safe. I never once lied about the things they did to me– I could so easily show you how that animal bent me over my own kitchen table and forced himself inside me. I could make you feel how it felt when he split me in half…fucking me until I was bleeding and begging, pressing his crucifix against my forehead so I couldn’t fight back…I could put horrible images in your head, images of him coming into my cell and raping me under the guise of protecting Salem. I could force you to endure all that pain and suffering if I wanted. But I don’t.”
The way he spoke about it, the vulgar words he used– it all sounded truthful, even if Zemo had been lying since they met.
Zemo waves a hand and Bucky is able to move again, but he doesn’t run. He just stands there, looking at Zemo.
He was right. Bucky had nowhere to go, no home to return to, no family or friends to miss him. If he set foot in Salem again, they would kill him.
“Come now, James,” Zemo says, making his way back to the wagon. “We should get going, before it gets too dark.”
Bucky can’t bring himself to reject. This is exactly what Zemo wanted. He tricked Bucky, manipulated him into destroying everything he had, until all he had was this witch who he had no choice but to serve.
“Why me?” he asks, and Zemo turns around to look at him.
“What do you mean?”
“You could’ve done this to anyone. Why did you choose me?”
Zemo smiles slightly. “You interest me. You aren’t from Salem. You live alone, you don’t have any family or friends, except for Mr. Wilson, and he clearly only befriended you because…what? He felt bad for you?”
Bucky wants to lunge at him, but he knows that’s not wise. He just lets Zemo continue to speak.
“There’s something in your past that you’re running from. It’s why everyone in town is afraid of you. I don’t know what it is, and frankly, it doesn’t really matter. What matters is you’re not someone who will be missed. No one is going to come looking for you, because no one even knows you. But that’s alright, James. We have all the time in the world to get to know each other.”
The smile on his face is so welcoming, so kind, that even though Bucky now knows his true intentions, he feels warm at the words. Everything he’s saying is true, and Bucky hasn’t seen someone smile at him like that in years.
“James…”Zemo says, his eyes welling with tears again. “I’m sorry I lied to you…but I had no other choice. What else could I do? Let them kill me?”
Zemo holds Bucky’s face in his hands, brushing a finger across his rough cheek. The steady circular motion was begging to lull Bucky into a sense of calm, despite what was unfolding around him.
“Look into my eyes, James.”
Zemo’s eyes are seem to be a deeper brown than they ever were, rings of red glowing within them, like the reflective eyes of a cat.
“Look into my eyes and know that everything will be alright. You want to help me. You want to protect me. And you will do anything to keep me safe. Isn’t that right?”
Bucky nods. All his thoughts slip away before he can form them, before he can grasp what’s happening. Nothing sticks fo his brain, everything just falls away, and he can’t even remember feeling a sense of betrayal or anger like he did moments earlier. The only thought he has is the same one he’s had since he met this poor, trembling, abused man in the jailhouse: protect Helmut Zemo, defend Helmut Zemo, keep him safe from the puritans that wanted him dead.
“Come now, James.” Zemo lets go of Bucky’s face and takes hold of his hands, pulling him in the direction of their abandoned wagon. “We should get back on the road before it gets too dark.”
A stray thought forces its way into Bucky’s head: a lone Bible verse he had long since forgotten until now.
And if thy right hand offend thee, he thinks, cut it off and cast it from thee.
He nods and follows Zemo to the wagon.