Chapter 6
VI
It was a euphemism to say Russian was second nature to him. His second nature, to be precise: the Winter Soldier had spoken almost exclusively in Russian for all of his seventy years of activity, switching only to English or other languages when missions or handlers required it. As Bucky slowly clawed his way out of the pit Hydra had buried him in, Russian was the language he’d dream in, and often, think in. Some days he’d wake up and only be able to speak in Russian, all of the other languages he knew momentarily forgotten. It usually didn’t last long, but during those times Steve would look at him with what the Soldier recognized as barely concealed, desperate panic as he helplessly tried to understand what he was saying, and attempted to make Bucky remember English – and himself. He must have felt as if Bucky was slipping away from him all over again.
Zemo didn’t try to make him speak in English. On those occasions, he remained calm and collected, replying in almost perfect Russian, explaining to him the grammatical and lexical differences it had with Sokovian, and, all in all, avoiding feeding Bucky’s fear that this time he was stuck, that he’d never be able to speak his mother tongue again, that he would be doomed to use only the language of his oppressors. Zemo always managed to make him focus on something else, so that he wouldn’t care what language he was speaking in. So that he could even come to appreciate it.
It all shouldn’t have made him sentimental – he should hate the language and the man who had used it to put him under his control, like all the others before him had. He tried not to think about what that said about him. In the end, Russian had become their language, the one they spoke to exchange information during undercover work as much as in the bedroom, the one that put Bucky more at ease than anything else. Even if it reminded him of his dreadful past, or perhaps because of it, he felt something unravel inside of him whenever he spoke or heard its soft, powerful, tantalising sounds, like a calming wave washing over him.
Bucky spent a good deal of time convincing Steve that no, his bare room wasn’t bare because he was still a depressed psycho who couldn’t enjoy anything in life (those hadn’t been Steve’s words, of course, but his devastated expression spoke loudly enough). He’d been in Steve’s bedroom a couple of times, and it already looked much more lived-in than his new one: with the passing of days more and more souvenirs had appeared: little snow-globes of the Pantheon and the Roman Forum, and, for some reason, of Venice’s gondolas, and colorful postcards he had attached to the antique oak closet – surely without Zemo’s permission. There was even a photo some tourist must have taken with an instant camera of Steve in front of the Trevi fountain, which now decorated the mirror’s frame.
“I’d only planned to stay here for a week or so, so I didn’t think to bring much with me,” he said in what he hoped didn’t sound like a defensive tone. He tried to relax his face muscles, to conceal his nervousness. He’d never been good in the art of pretending in the same way Zemo was. Even Sam was probably better than Bucky at lying now that he’d had a bit of experience with covert affairs. As a Hydra assassin, talking wasn’t a skill often required of him: he’d usually sweep in, kill the target, and disappear into the night. No careful deceit was needed, only a precisely applied combination of stealth and brute force – fearsome in its simplicity.
“You sure, Buck?” Steve didn’t seem to be persuaded. He kept shifting his gaze from the empty desk and nightstand to the bare walls, and then to the wardrobe, looking at it as if he could see the plain, mainly black clothes inside. When he turned to Bucky his caring, worried gaze made his conscience burn with remorse. He had to force himself to swallow before answering. Lies were such abominable creatures: they constricted his throat until there was no air.
“Of course, Steve,” he said after a moment, forcing a smile.
That hesitation was his first mistake. Steve seemed to zero in on it as a way to confirm his concerned suspicions. His expression shifted, adopting that patented, stubbornly determined look of his. Bucky thought he almost preferred the pitying one.
“Alright,” Steve said casually. He suddenly looked relaxed, his stance open and inviting. The ex-Winter Soldier, naturally, saw through it – but then, Steve didn’t seem to be trying to hide what he was doing that much. He, like Bucky, had never been good at deception. “You don’t mind if I come to sleep with you sometimes, then?”
“Uh… What?” He had to have heard wrong.
“I haven’t been sleeping so well these days. You know how I get, sleeping in new places.” Bucky did know. Steve hadn’t been able to sleep properly for days when he’d come to live with him after his mother had died, and when they’d arrived in Wakanda it had been the same. Still, his sudden desire to sleep in the same bedroom was suspect, to say the least.
“Pal, you really don’t need to–”
“Come on, Buck, it’ll be just like old times,” Steve encouraged excitedly, his voice switching slightly into his lilting Brooklyn accent, consciously or not, Bucky couldn’t tell. Either way, he couldn’t help but be warmed by the memories it summoned. When they still lived in a shoebox of a house, when Steve received bruises like gifts every damned week, they always, always slept in the same decrepit bed, the only one they had. It had been perfect for them.
“I’m not sure…” He trailed off as he realized he had no valid excuse to refuse that wouldn’t uncover his relationship with Zemo.
“Please, Bucky. For me? I swear I won’t snore.” Bucky was sure that when Steve said for me he meant more so that I can be reassured about the state of your mental health rather than so I can get some sleep, but even knowing that, he still wasn’t able to say no.
“Thanks, Buck,” Steve said after he’d gotten his reluctant acceptance, bringing a hand up to clasp his shoulder. “I appreciate it.” His tone and eyes were terribly earnest, as if Bucky had just consented to give him something precious. Bucky took a shallow breath.
“I’ll go take that shower now, yeah? I’d only come to ask you where I could find another bathrobe.”
Bucky gave him one and left him to go take his shower, feeling off balance and unsure of what he’d just agreed to.
That night, Steve had entered his bedroom late, when Bucky was already on the verge of falling asleep, and snuggled up to him after getting in the bed. He’d let him and they’d fallen asleep without saying a word.
Nothing happened beyond that.
The morning after, Bucky woke up to a room that was already extremely hot, and he realized they must have pulled down the sheets with their feet during the night. Steve was beside him, lying on his back, star-fished in an unconscious attempt to fight the heatwave, mouth slightly open.
He’d definitely aged a bit since the Blip. Although they hadn’t addressed the topic directly, Bucky estimated Steve must have lived in the forties for at least five years, judging from his appearance, as well as some things he’d mentioned. But Steve seemed adverse to talking about it.
Bucky spent a long time observing him, and then forced himself to look away so quickly that his neck cracked in complaint. He got up and went to take a morning shower. The night after, Steve came earlier, and they spent a good while speaking in hushed voices until they closed their eyes – just small talk, nothing too serious, like they had as teenagers.
He didn’t need to speak to Zemo about it: the look he gave him when he came in the kitchen to prepare breakfast, dressed in a burgundy silk robe, told Bucky he must have heard Steve climb the stairs during the night. His heart stuttered in his chest.
“Nothing happened,” he said honestly, trying to purge himself of his stupid, unreasonable guilt.
Something twitched in Zemo’s face. “I know,” he replied, the corner of his mouth lifted. His gaze was intent, eyes all the brighter for the dark hair hanging down around his face, still mostly wet after his own shower. Bucky blinked, slightly thrown by the answer. With slow and deliberate steps, Zemo walked up to him, the usual thin smile still on his face as he reached Bucky behind the counter. As he passed by it, his fingers brushed the edge of a kitchen knife, coming away with a small blood drop on the tip. Zemo drew close and purposefully brought his fingers to Bucky’s lips.
He obediently opened his mouth to suck them clean, stunned by Zemo’s apparently tranquil behaviour. He hadn’t expected him to start shouting or throwing things – that was usually how Bucky himself reacted when enraged, but this… The metallic flavour on his tongue tasted like forgiveness. He felt something inside him ease, something he didn’t want to examine too closely. “I know you wouldn’t, James.” Zemo withdrew his hand and lowered it to Bucky’s side. He pressed a light kiss to Bucky’s cheek before pulling back and opening the fridge to take out the milk, and that seemed to be that.
He should have known Zemo would retaliate in some other way.
Steve was whistling when he came downstairs, a wide smile on his face and a lightness to his step, and not even Zemo’s presence seemed to ruin his good mood. He stopped near the table and grabbed the mocha behind him before sitting, pouring himself coffee and grabbing one of the warm cornetti at the center of the table. “Good morning,” he said, still smiling, as he started to fill it with Nutella.
“Morning,” Bucky answered from where he was cooking himself an egg. He still hadn’t gotten used to the European country’s sweet breakfast. Zemo ignored Steve, continuing to read his journal. He was probably the only twenty-first century person who still read actual papers instead of online news, Bucky thought.
“God, this has to be Italy’s best invention,” said Steve as he stuffed another croissant with the chocolate cream. Hopefully the super soldier serum could prevent diabetes too.
“Debatable,” Zemo commented dryly from the other end of the long table. “James, what are your plans for today?” He asked then, appearing still engrossed in the paper.
“I’m not sure, I was thinking we could go visit that park with the museums and the zoo we went to last week,” he answered as he turned the heat off.
When he turned to serve himself the omelet and sit, it took him a second to realize something was off: Steve had lost his smile, and was now clearly on edge. Nothing had happened in the last minute, though. What…?
“Do you mean the Villa Borghese?” Zemo continued to inquire in that moment, his tone light.
“Yeah, I think so,” Bucky replied distractedly, still trying to figure out what was wrong with Steve. Only then did he realize they’d been talking in Russian. Steven hadn’t understood a word. He was gritting his teeth, staring at his ceramic plate like he was two seconds away from throwing it. Bucky could imagine the thoughts going through his head, from the simple frustration of being excluded from the conversation to the renewed doubt of Bucky still being under Zemo’s control through his conditioning words.
He looked at Zemo. Although his expression wouldn't have betrayed him to anyone who didn’t know him well, it was evident to Bucky that he was having the fucking time of his life. When he turned back to Steve, he caught him staring at him in the same way he had the day he’d arrived: with a mixture of suspicion and worry on his face, and coiled tension in the powerful muscles of his body.
“Stop it,” he growled at Zemo, still in Russian, trying to keep his calm. “This isn’t funny. Do you want him to attack you again or what?”
“I’m not doing anything, I’m just talking,” came the flippant reply, once again in Russian.
Zemo knew exactly what he’d been doing. This had been intentional, deliberately orchestrated to get a rise out of Steve. And it was working.
“I told you to stop it,” Bucky repeated more forcefully, this time in English. Zemo seemed to be slightly disappointed that he’d cut his game short, but this time he stayed silent, appearing satisfied like the cat that got the canary. Bucky chanced another look at Steve. He still wore that distrustful, dark stare. Was he thinking that this was an act? That him speaking in English, talking and acting and living as Bucky Barnes, was just the Winter Soldier pretending at normalcy?
Wasn’t that what he sometimes believed too?
He felt a rattle in his lungs. He rose abruptly. He needed air. He couldn’t stay there a second longer.
“You’re an asshole,” he grunted towards Zemo before marching out of the kitchen. “He can murder you, I don’t give a shit.” He didn’t turn to see either of the two men’s expressions, he just marched through the corridor and outside, and then continued to walk, switching to a fast run when that wasn’t enough.
When he got back home he’d released most of the steam that had powered him two hours before, and he had already begun to regret what he’d said. It wasn’t Zemo’s fault Steve was back and had come to disrupt their sojourn. In his shoes, Bucky didn’t know how he would have reacted.
And he didn’t really know what to do now, either. He could go stay somewhere else with Steve, but he didn’t want to leave Zemo alone. On the other hand, it was unfair to impose Steve in Zemo’s house. Knowing their history, he’d meant for this arrangement to only be temporary, but time was clearly running out and he still hadn’t decided what to do with his friend. Should he bring Steve back to the US with him? Accompany him to Wakanda? Did Steve have a preferred destination? Bucky had purposefully avoided the subject of Steve’s plans for the future, as well as the whole terrifying time travel discussion for days, but he really couldn’t evade it for much longer.
When he entered, the house was almost eerily silent, save for the sound of two voices hissing and snapping at each other. He followed them until he was just outside a door ajar. They were still in the kitchen, as if they had not moved since he’d left. He supposed the fact there was still a kitchen at all was promising. Or maybe not.
He couldn’t understand what Zemo was saying, but his tone was mocking. He did hear Steve’s furious answer, though.
“I don’t care what you managed to convince him and everyone else of, I don’t trust you,” he said, voice low and intense.
“I hadn’t noticed,” remarked Zemo sarcastically.
Steve went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “After everything you did, after Siberia, should I just believe that you’ve forgotten about your revenge? That you don’t blame us anymore for what happened to your family?” Bucky could picture Zemo’s expression turning somber at that.
When he answered, his voice was colder, and Bucky could practically see his hard, sharp smile and the tilt of his head. “Speaking of inconsistency. You chose to abandon him to return to your idyllic, simple life in the past, and then, after only a few years, you decided to come back. Why the change of heart, I wonder?”
“It’s none of your business,” Steve snarled.
“It’s a bit suspicious, to say the least. James thinks so too, but he is too scared you might take offense and leave again to dare to ask you outright,” the Sokovian continued in the same even, phlegmatic tone.
“And how do you know I haven’t talked about it with Bucky already?”
“Because if you had, he would have told me,” Zemo said confidently.
“Please,” Steve scoffed. “Why would he–”
“What the hell’s going on here? Are you two idiots really still at it?” Bucky would have felt ridiculously like a middle school teacher reprimanding his students if he hadn’t suddenly been so nervous again. Jesus fuckin’ Christ. Why did he have to deal with this again?
Cause you care about Zemo and Steve’s your best friend. Right.
Something in Zemo’s expression told him he’d probably known Bucky had been eavesdropping. He was leaning back on his chair, carelessly smoking a cigarette, which did a good job of disguising the fact that he was tense and poised to pounce. In front of him, Steve’s jaw worked a couple of times. He wasn’t looking at Bucky, who inhaled deeply through his nose, holding the breath for a moment before letting it out and attempting to pull himself together. He fought the urge to rub at his temples.
“Alright. Zemo. Can we have a fuckin’ word?” He gestured to the corridor with his head.
“How could I resist such a charming invitation?” Zemo drawled, bringing the chair back on his four legs and standing, while putting out the half-finished cigarette.
When Bucky looked again towards Steve, before closing the door, he was watching them with an unreadable expression, his fist on the table clenched.
They went upstairs. It was now unbearably hot, and Bucky could feel rivulets of sweat run down his neck and back after running under the May sun. They entered a large room which housed a beautiful, slightly dusty piano and scores on a small table nearby – an old music room, perhaps. Zemo closed the door behind him, and they were silent for a second.
“I can’t believe you’re still in that damned robe,” Bucky said, nonsensically.
“Is that what you wanted to tell me with such urgency?”
“It’s past noon,” he retorted flatly.
Zemo gave a wry huff, a smirk playing on his lips. “So? It is comfortable. And you like it.”
Well. He couldn’t deny that.
“Seriously, though,” he murmured, sobering up, the atmosphere turning immediately more serious. “Zemo. I’m sorry about what I said before.” He paused. Zemo gave him an evaluating look, but didn’t say anything right away. “But you can’t keep pulling these kinds of stunts, trying to rile him up,” he continued, folding his arms. Zemo’s shoulders tensed, and the twist of his mouth turned frustrated.
“You too desire to discover what he’s been hiding from you. The reason behind his return.” Zemo said it with the same certainty he’d used to assert that Bucky liked what he was wearing. He knew him too well.
“He’ll tell me when he’s ready,” he compelled himself to say, half-hiding a grimace born of his own frustration. “That doesn’t mean you can antagonize him, it’s not like that will convince him to speak about it any faster.”
Zemo reached out to slide two fingers along Bucky’s jaw. “I understand your fear of scaring someone dear to you away, James,” he said softly, shifting suddenly to Russian once again. “Though be aware, I will not be endlessly forbearing,” he warned in an equally quiet tone, although it had become sharper. Bucky flinched, a layer of something cold settling in his stomach.
The other man’s fingers caressed the side of his throat lightly before he turned and approached the black piano.
“I don’t think I’ve ever asked you – can you play any musical instrument? There should be an original Stradivarius somewhere here that I inherited from my mother.”
And just like that, the previous somber conversation was over, at least for the moment. Bucky wished he were as capable as Zemo was at compartmentalizing.