Chapter 9
IX
Zemo had always been prone to strong mood swings, even as a youth. They came unannounced and left him unmotivated and apathetic, and he’d spend days on end wondering what was wrong with him before the feelings would subside just as unpredictably as they’d arrived. He had no idea of what triggered them – no concrete cause could be established – they were simply his ‘little bouts of melancholy’, which he had learned to bear. Or at least, that had been what his mother had called them, until she had drowned herself in the river that flowed near their property when he had been fourteen.
Ljuba, the old Czech family nanny who had seen him grow up along with Oeznik, had sat near his bed a few nights after the tragedy and told him, in a stony voice, that when you lose a parent young it stays with you for all of your life, sets you apart from everyone else: a burden that only those who have had the misfortune of going through the same will truly ever be able to understand. At the time, he had been too young and blinded by grief to see that she spoke from first-hand experience.
Perhaps that commonality had been what had brought him close to Heike, whose father had found his end at the bottom of a bottle after an investment gone wrong. Before meeting her, Zemo channeled those moments of numbness into EKO Scorpion, trying to focus them into the violent acts he committed there. But after their engagement, those moments gradually became few and far between, and by the time Carl was born he had almost forgotten about them entirely.
And then there had been the Battle of Sokovia, and his world had crumbled for the second time.
This time, though, he would join his lost ones in death. He only needed to accomplish one last mission first.
Or so he’d thought.
Prison was exceptionally dull, although it wasn’t as if he had expected any differently. Germany was known for treating its prisoners fairly; he was aware that all in all he’d been fortunate, but he still had too much time to think.
He attempted to kill himself again exactly once.
Afterwards, he spread the rumor that the attempt had been motivated purely by boredom. However, after a personal visit from the king of Wakanda himself – one of his last ones – he had given up trying and accepted to endure his punishment for as long as T’Challa saw fit. That didn’t mean he’d been happy about it, though.
Time passed tediously slow. He read practically every book the prison had to offer, and he’d remained as half of the world’s population had disappeared and then later reappeared.
And then one day, eight years after he’d – almost completely – fulfilled his plan, James Buchanan Barnes had appeared in front of his cell, simmering with anger under the cold façade he wore and looking so alive now that he was his own man (or was he?), and everything had become so much more interesting once again.
He finally had a new objective, finding and eradicating these new enhanced fanatics claiming to fight for a united world, and his travel companions were particularly amusing to dissect, too: Sam Wilson, the black man struggling with the crushing legacy that had been thrust upon him, that he’d naively decided to reject, and James, the Winter Soldier struggling with not just the absence of the man to whom that legacy had belonged, but so much more beyond that.
Falling for James had been unintended. He was supposed to despise him, like all the other super soldiers, but James was compelling in ways Zemo couldn't wholly explain, even to himself.
There was something so endearing about him, so extraordinary about the way he fought with himself, in the way he strained to find himself. His alluring desperation – visible from a mile away, even under the armor of hostility – was so familiar to Zemo it ached to look at – and still Zemo couldn’t help himself: he pushed, and pushed, and pushed him some more, like a sore in your mouth you can’t stop prodding with your tongue.
He wanted to see all of him. Wanted James to get angry again, to grab him by the throat with that wonderful arm of his and squeeze, punishing him for the way he had used him – of all people – to exact his revenge.
He wanted to hold his fear and self-loathing in his hands, to lick away every drop of his insecurities, to burn away his inhibitions and make him realize just how exceptional he was.
Wanted James to put a bullet through his head, if he thought that would make things even between them.
And then the mission was completed, Karli Morgenthau was dead, and he was back in prison again. Once he’d made sure that the Flag Smashers had been unequivocally stopped, he resigned himself to the boredom, and to the melancholy and emptiness.
Instead, an unexpected thing had happened: James had returned not long after, asking again for his help, and then he returned again, and again, and each time he was a little less reticent, each time, willingly or unwillingly, he opened himself up to Zemo a little more.
Feeling vulnerable again after so much time – it hadn’t been easy for Zemo. But clearly, James Barnes hadn’t intended to be captivated by him either, and in the end, that didn’t matter.
Zemo didn’t know how long he walked through the streets of Rome for. The light disappeared and night fell, and families trickled out of the restaurants, slowly leaving the city to the movements of the young. He marched onwards, fast-paced, and all he could think was that he should have known – of course it would come to this. He had known, in retrospect. This unnatural stasis couldn’t continue forever, something had to give, it was just a question of time.
And given it had, from what he’d seen at dinner.
His thoughts were racing and spinning in endless circles, like snakes eating their own tails. He passed groups of people getting thicker as he approached a main street and reached a square.
Ancient ruins rose at the center of it, towering over the crowd – millennia-old marble columns that retained none of their original splendor.
How appropriate, he thought.
Although he admitted to being loyal to those who were the object of his affection with a peculiar intensity, he’d never considered himself a jealous man. He’d never been jealous of James. He’d even encouraged him to try new experiences and situations with different people – anything he wouldn’t have had the chance to do in the forties; at a soirée or another, he’d present him one of his old acquaintances, who never failed to more or less veiledly make their interest for James known, and he’d gauge his reaction.
It now occurred to Zemo that maybe a part of him had wanted James to realize everything he could have, if he so desired, and still come back to him. And James had, always. He’d never even seemed interested in anyone else.
At least until Steve Rogers had made his miraculous return.
After the death of his family, he was supposed to have learned that happiness was not something he was destined to cherish for long. He should have known something would happen to make it slip through his fingers once more.
It seemed he was fated to loneliness.
On impulse, he darted into the first club he saw. It was late enough that he didn’t have to wait in a line, and he quickly found himself inside. The heat from the bar rushed at him, hotter and more moist than the summer air outside. The place was deafeningly loud.
Soon, he was getting lost in the strong rhythm of the pumping techno and in the mass of bodies that enveloped him. The music and blinding lights overwhelmed him in a way that almost let him stop thinking.
It still wasn’t enough.
He went to the bar and ordered a sambuca, then another.
He felt restless, itching for a fight. Self-destruction had always been a viable alternative for him when there had been nothing else to tear down, and so he set to search the crowd for a target. It was easy, just a few minutes later, to approach and rile up the huge Italian he’d chosen with a few choice insults about his mother and his sexual prowess.
He received an enraged warning, and then it wasn’t long before the first punch hit his nose, and he felt the warm, metallic taste of blood in his mouth. He thought about taking out the small knife hidden in the inside pocket of his jacket. His opponent was muscular, but he certainly didn’t have his military training.
He’d go for the stomach, pierce the skin, turn the blade before yanking it out, and disappear among the crowd before anyone would even notice something was wrong. Picturing the disappointment the news of his regression would bring to Wakanda’s young queen and Sam Wilson, seeing as they now believed him redeemed, should have perhaps amused him. Instead, he found the notion only sickening. And if he thought of James’ reaction, or of those who weren’t there to be disappointed anymore – T’Challa, who’d seen something in him he himself still couldn’t; Heike–
He didn’t want to think about it. He drained his glass, savoring the sweet burning of the alcohol down his throat, before pinning the Italian man with a smug smile, nudging and implying and pushing him some more. He’d always been good at that.
Another punch struck his chin. He barely spilled his drink as he received it and was forced to take a couple of steps back, his other hand edging closer to the blade.
He would go see the remains of Sokovia one last time before letting himself be brought back to the Raft, he told himself as he waited for the world to stop spinning, and then he’d spend the rest of his time there, as he’d been supposed to. He would let James have his epic, starcrossed, novel-worthy love.
The Raft’s fauna would provide some entertainment, at least for a time. And if one day he decided he had gotten tired… T’Challa was gone. Zemo had made no promise to his little sister. And James would be alright – he didn’t need him anymore. It wouldn’t be too difficult to find a way to finally end his existence, as he had originally planned – he had a couple of ideas in mind that would be feasible, even if they kept him in isolation forever. Then these last few years of his life, this final parenthesis of happiness he’d experienced, would become nothing more than a small detour from what had been long overdue.
He startled briefly, realizing he hadn’t gone down that train of thought in quite some time. But then, he reflected, he shouldn’t be so surprised that it would eventually re-emerge, after lying in wait for so long. It ran in the family, after all.
He didn’t take out the knife, in the end. Instead, he let the man pummel him some more, doing very little to avoid the hits or defend himself. There was a voice in his head, low and worried, telling him frantically to stop this, to leave, to react. It sounded like someone he cared about, and so he ignored it.
By the time James showed up Zemo was already more than a little tipsy and well on his way to being beaten to a pulp. He didn’t feel the pain in his nose anymore, nor the adrenaline of combat. He didn’t feel anything.
The last time he had been like this, he’d just buried what remained of his wife and child under a birch in the Novi Grad park where, a lifetime before, he’d asked Heike to marry him.
He prepared to take another punch – going for the jaw this time, his mind automatically supplied – and it was in that moment that a body appeared in front of him, metal arm shining under the stroboscopic lights of the club as James stopped the Italian in his tracks. Vibranium fingers closed firmly around the other’s arm, and although Zemo couldn’t hear, it seemed like James was trying to convince him to back down. It was useless: the Italian was clearly much drunker than Zemo and incapable of understanding anything that wasn’t violence, which the ex-Winter Soldier swiftly provided after the man tried to hit him with his free fist.
Watching James fight was always glorious, and the setting reminded him a lot of their first mission in Madripoor, of James making a clean sweep of Shelby’s men at his command. Still, Zemo found himself viciously hoping James would receive at least one good blow.
It didn’t happen, naturally. As soon as the Italian man was curled on the floor of the club, wheezing in pain, James turned to Zemo and pulled him against the bar by his shirt neck.
“What the hell are you doing?” he growled, raising his voice to be heard over the music.
He looked furious; his hair was mussed, his shoulders squared. And yes, Zemo thought as he stared at him from up close, this really was James Barnes at his best: inflamed, visibly vibrating with an anger that he forcefully kept under control. Restrained wildness.
It had been a while since he’d seen him like this – although there was also a hint of fear and confusion in his eyes, he distantly noted, behind the bristling aggressiveness.
He gave James a hard, sharp smile, his blood-stained lips probably creating a gruesome picture. His mind was pleasantly sirupy by now, but he knew what to say as he went through the motions, playing his role perfectly – or so he hoped.
“Why, having fun.” And there, he was the scorned lover keeping up the unaffected façade. How pathetic.
That was when the bouncers seemed to notice there was a man clutching his stomach near the middle of the dance floor, and before they could come for them James dragged him out of the club, holding his arm tightly enough to leave a mark.
Zemo offered no resistance. What would be the point?
He observed James, wondering if this would be one of the last times he would be able to do so. Below the streetlights, he looked wretched and pale when he spun on him, releasing his arm but staying close, as if afraid he’d try to run – a useless precaution. He glared at Zemo, left hand flexing like he wanted to reach for a weapon.
Zemo felt dreadfully sentimental all of a sudden, and he allowed himself to admit that he would miss James terribly in the Raft. His hands clenched and unclenched, and then James finally spoke.
“Well? What the fuck was that?”
Zemo forced out another toothy smile. His broken lips stung. He found himself wanting to press his thumb against them, just to feel the pain sharpen.
“Nothing,” he said, his tone completely flat.
“Zemo, what–” James took a deep breath, clearly trying to rein in his temper. “Why are you here? What were you trying to–”
Zemo averted his gaze, his strained smile vanishing of its own volition. James’ concern, his very presence was suddenly agonizing. He couldn’t stand it, but at the same time, he couldn’t stand the thought of him leaving.
God, he should not have gotten drunk. He longed for the numbness he’d felt earlier, and fought to drag himself back under control.
“Look, I was worried,” James added when he didn’t respond, voice softening. “‘S been fuckin’ hours, I thought Hydra might have found you.”
He felt the familiar pang in his chest that meant he was either feeling too much, or too little. He made himself ignore it, made himself put up a protective shield of rage.
At fourteen, he’d transformed his seemingly endless grief into furious blaming of his mother, on the grounds that she had chosen to leave him, and of his father, because he had never been the same man since.
Years later, raw anger had fueled him into joining EKO Scorpion, with the purpose of doing what was right for Sokovia.
When his family had been killed, rage had been what had given him the strength to plan his revenge rather than letting himself waste away.
Rage, he could trust, so he let it seep out.
“Listen, whatever you think happened–”
“As you can see, I am perfectly well,” he said, cutting James off, who clenched his jaw in frustration. “There was but a little equivocation with that man. Now, if you’ll allow me…”
“Zemo, please. We need to talk. Can we just go home?”
“Do you believe that to be wise? I wouldn’t want anyone in the house to feel like the third wheel,” he said caustically, keeping deliberately vague on who he thought would actually be that third wheel. James winced. Zemo tilted his head to the side, knowing how it irked him to feel as if he was being picked apart, and gave a derisive snort. “I understand Rogers finally declared his undying love, or am I wrong? Did you manage to forgive him for leaving, after all?”
At the mention of Steve Rogers, James’ frown darkened and he shifted uneasily. Zemo narrowed his eyes.
He thought he could see another layer to James’ tight expression. Strangely enough, there was less guilt in it than he would have expected if James really had betrayed him, and more bitterness than there had been before. His lips were pressed together, his arms tense.
Something else had happened while he was out, different from whatever had transpired between the two old soldiers before dinner. When he spoke again, his tone was mocking, hiding his morbid curiosity. “Trouble in paradise with the good Captain, James? Already?”
James stiffened even more, but he just kept looking at him evenly.
“Let’s go home,” he repeated, ignoring his taunt. “We’re vulnerable here. Hydra’s probably still looking for us. We should lay low.”
It wasn’t a bad excuse, but it was an excuse nonetheless, and they both knew it.
Zemo didn’t move.
He took James in: he had curled one hand into a fist, all vibrancy and repressed motion. He looked desperate for Zemo to listen. To come home.
It could be that Zemo had miscalculated. Whatever had or hadn’t happened between James and Steve Rogers…
He let out a long breath. Rage would be useless: this time, Zemo did not desire to hurt those who had made him suffer.
“Let us go, then,” he said, and started to walk without turning to see if James was following.
He knew James loved him, and he knew he had never wanted to cause him sorrow – it was just another thing, in their unforeseeable relationship, that had been unintended.