Chapter 11
XI
Bucky took a sip of coffee and winced at how bitter it was.
He had considered suggesting they move to Zemo’s room for more privacy, before deciding he would in fact prefer a more neutral field. Zemo sat at the other end of the table — precisely in the same spot where Steve had sat after he’d suddenly reappeared in Bucky’s life a few weeks earlier. Gazing into his own cup of coffee, illuminated by early dawn’s pastel colors, the Sokovian was a study in unconventional beauty.
“Why the crucifix? You aren’t religious.” Bucky hadn’t meant to ask, but he had never noticed the small silver figure hanging on the wall before. He supposed he was still stalling, after all, delaying — for as long as possible — their inevitable confrontation. “And from what I remember, they’re usually hung in the bedrooms,” he added after a moment.
Zemo shrugged. “It was already here when we bought the house,” he said indifferently. Bucky had expected some sort of sardonic, even blasphemous explanation, but it didn’t come. He thought there must have been more to its presence in the house than that, as everything regarding Zemo seemed to have a hidden meaning, but the Sokovian did not seem interested in revealing more.
Bucky sighed. Alright, then. Let’s do this.
“You were letting him hit you,” he accused, as quietly as he could, but automatically clutching the cup tighter between his fingers. Zemo quirked an eyebrow, but said nothing. “That man in the club. I’ve seen you fight before, and you weren’t— you were just standing there, taking it.”
“Was I?” Zemo assumed an affected expression of regretful embarrassment, and before Bucky could reply he continued, his tone perfectly conversational and bland, “I did drink quite a lot tonight. Wasn’t in my best shape.”
“No.” Bucky gritted the word out, tensing up, rejecting Zemo’s roundabout justification and the situation at large. “It wasn’t just that.” He knew what he’d seen, and he knew Zemo’s history. He was no psychology expert, but he knew from personal experience the sorts of dark places one could find themselves in, and he was scared, and Zemo wasn’t fucking talking to him. He’d seemed like he’d wanted them to fix this when they’d left the club to head home, but somewhere on the way, he’d withdrawn into himself again.
“God, stop acting like an asshole. Don’t— don’t do this,” Bucky pressed, barely keeping his voice controlled. Don’t shut me out.
Zemo stared at him expressionlessly. The shriveled thing in Bucky’s chest died a little more.
He started, “Why were you—”, and then failed, the words catching in his throat. But Zemo understood nonetheless.
“You already asked me that,” he said.
In the nightclub. What the fuck was that,Bucky’d demanded, panicked and angry.
“Yeah, and you didn’t answer,” he returned between his teeth, glaring.
Zemo’s smile was distant as he airily asked, “Why do you care?”
Suddenly so mad he was shaking with it, because Zemo didn’t get to say this, because he should know better, he should know him, Bucky grabbed Zemo’s collar and yanked him towards him. Below them, the ceramic cups clattered together from the sudden movement of the table. Zemo hung limply from Bucky’s fists, tilting his head up towards him, eyes watching him from under the heavy, inky sweep of his lashes. This had been their sole way of communicating in the beginning: with taunts and threats and violence. Zemo hurting him with his words, and Bucky retaliating with his fists.
He bit back his furious reply before it snapped out of his mouth. He counted to five. And then saw Zemo’s behavior for what it was.
“Only two things make any man an honest man”, Zemo had once told Bucky after a successful interrogation, by the end of which the Sokovian had procured himself the codes they needed along with a broken nose. “Alcohol and rage.”
Bucky slowly released his grip as he tried to let some of the tension drain out of his body.
Outside the nightclub, Zemo had looked mournful. Feverish. Scared. This was just bravado. It was Zemo’s attempt to not only cover what he felt, but to make Bucky angry, to have him show his cards.
What Zemo wanted was for Bucky to be truthful. Probably not just with him, or with Steve, but with himself. And that was — well. They had never needed many words to understand each other, and that had been something he’d always been grateful for, but maybe this time it would be worthwhile to be more open.
“I care because you’re one of the few good things in my life,” he said, and then realized how selfish that sounded, but it didn’t matter. It was the truth. And usually, in his life, the truth was pretty ugly. “That’s why. I still can’t fuckin’ wrap my head around it sometimes, ‘cause it’s so ridiculously unbelievable given — everything, our past, but if anything ever — we’ve both been through a lot, and if you feel—”
He stopped. He really wasn’t good at this. How could he put it into words when it was almost too much for his soul to bear? In a croaking voice, he ended with, “I do. Trust me, I do care.”
At least Zemo wasn’t wearing that crooked, terrible smile anymore. His eyes bored into Bucky.
“You know I do not give my trust easily, James.”
Bucky inhaled deeply. There was a spark of guilt in his stomach.
“I know. I swear, we didn’t kiss. It almost — but we stopped. I stopped it.”
Zemo shook his head. “I don’t care, James. If you never kissed him again for the rest of your life, what was between the two of you once would still exist. You love him.”
Zemo said it with such calm certainty Bucky remained speechless for a second, before he took a careful, measured breath. “Not like that. Not anymore.”
“Are you sure?”
Yes, Bucky wanted to reply. For a moment, he resented Steve with an irrational intensity he hadn’t experienced in years. He’d accepted he would probably never see Steve again the day he had told Bucky he was returning to the forties. And before that, he’d convinced himself they could never again have what they’d had during the war, before Bucky had become the Soldier.
He had dreamt about Steve sometimes, thought about him, missed him — Steve had been his best friend, after all — the one who’d found him and saved him too many times, only for Bucky to lose him in a new way — but recently he’d liked to think he had finally managed to move on.
And he’d just begun to believe himself when he thought that caring so much about Zemo wasn’t bad, that it wasn’t spitting in the face of his victims. That their happiness together was somehow earned. It still wasn’t easy, most days. But he’d had Sam’s support, and Sam was the closest thing to an example of moral goodness he had left. Fuck, why did Steve have to come back now and make him question everything again? Undermine all his progress?
The past didn’t go away, he thought hollowly, it just etched itself under your surface. He knew that. Or, he was supposed to know that.
Silence stretched out between them. With a blinding intensity, Bucky remembered standing in front of Zemo, a gun pointed at his head, Zemo keeping perfectly still, waiting for the bullet. The idea of anything happening to him now made Bucky feel shaky and insubstantial, like without Zemo he would blow away on a stiff breeze.
And shit, he was losing him, wasn’t he? He was. He’d been neglecting Zemo so much in the past days. He felt the sudden need to fall to his knees and beg... although for what, exactly, he wasn’t sure. Forgiveness, maybe. Or a chance to tell his version of what had happened, to be listened to. To explain what Steve had meant to him before and after becoming the Winter Soldier — as if Zemo didn’t already know.
“I’m sorry,” Bucky said, quietly, inadequately.
That unearthly look faded out of Zemo’s eyes a little.
“James,” he exhaled, and his tone had softened. For a moment, his expression was immensely tired. “All I am asking is that you reflect earnestly, meaningfully, on your feelings, and make a decision. Whatever conclusion you reach, I will accept it. If you wish it, I will step aside. I would even acquiesce to stay at the Raft again if that is what you would prefer. Perhaps with a few improvements to my detention room, if possible.”
What?
“What are you—”
“I need to say, however,” Zemo interrupted imperiously, whatever warmth had been in his voice gone in a heartbeat, “I never would have pegged you for a coward, James. You can’t act as he wants simply because you feel indebted to him, or guilty.”
“That’s not what I’m doing,” Bucky replied instinctively, stunned.
“Isn’t it?” A dark, tension-filled undercurrent rippled through Zemo’s voice, a warning, but his eyes were terrifyingly blank, like the inside of his head was a thousand miles away. “Isn’t that the main reason you went to therapy? Because you allowed your guilt over things that were out of your control to still affect your life?”
“That’s got nothing to do with Steve.”
Zemo snorted in derision. “Open your eyes, James. Steve is the albatross around your neck. He always has been.”
“He’s not—” he tried to say, but Zemo wasn’t finished.
“You believe you’re less than him only because he got the choice to use the serum to fight Nazis and you didn’t; you feel as if you owe him something because he took care of you after you were returned to him. All that, combined with whatever you had before and during the war, is holding you back.”
That— that made something hot and sharp twist in Bucky’s stomach, and he wanted to deny it, to defend himself, but Zemo would win against Bucky on something like this, if he really wanted to dig his heels in. Deep down under the shame, Bucky knew Zemo was at least partially right. Wasn’t it the same thing he’d been thinking just a few minutes ago? He was letting his fear of Steve’s judgment and his old feelings influence his new life and his relationship with Zemo — Zemo, who deserved much better than this.
But it wasn’t as if Steve was forcing him into anything. It was his own fault for being, as Zemo had put it, a coward.
“Steve isn’t — he would never take advantage of this.”
“I am not saying he does it in a completely conscious manner,” Zemo said, and his voice wasn’t as cold anymore. “But regardless of what you resolve to do, you have to be aware of the dynamic you two seem to have. That is the reason I’m telling you this.”
Bucky still wasn’t fully willing to believe Steve had as big a hold over him as Zemo thought, but he didn’t want to argue about it — and most of all he wanted to really reflect on what Zemo’d said, before. But first, he needed to address a much more important matter.
“I don’t need to make a decision, Zemo,” he said firmly. “I want to be with you. And you definitely won’t be going back to the fuckin’ Raft. I’ll tell Steve about us tomorrow, and however he reacts, I promise that won’t change things between us, okay?”
He could see Zemo’s wary disbelief, but the man didn’t reply. Dejected, Bucky lowered his gaze to his hands, heart sinking. God, he’d screwed this up. He’d screwed this up so badly. And to think that this situation had originated from something so meaningless; more meaningless than Bucky had imagined it to be, even.
He’d been so fucking stupid.
He chuffed a bitter laugh and looked down, abashed, when Zemo observed him curiously. “You know, it’s funny. He, uh. Turns out Peggy was the one who convinced Steve to come back.” His voice was clotted up in his throat.
“I see.” Bucky forced himself to look up. Something very similar to understanding had appeared on Zemo’s features, but strangely, he looked more aloof now than he had since they’d arrived home. His gaze was coolly detached, in the way that usually meant there was a strong emotion underneath the blankness that Zemo considered a vulnerability, and therefore would not risk showing. In this case, it was probably something close to hurt. Bucky had said the wrong thing again.
His confession hung in the air for a long moment. “So I assume that was the reason you decided not to return his affection,” Zemo said flatly.
“What? No. Fuck, no, that— that happened before he told me about Peggy.” Zemo shot him a dark look, limned heavily with skepticism, and Bucky screwed his eyes closed. “It’s the truth, he let it slip while I was about to go out to look for you, after dinner. I swear. It’s— it isn’t important. But I guess he… didn’t even care that much.” Not enough to jump through time for him, at least. He gripped the edge of the table with his left hand so hard the wood started to splinter under the unforgiving metal. Steve had probably been perfectly fine in the forties, as happy as Bucky had sometimes imagined him to be, and then, for whatever reason, Peggy had persuaded him to come around. And Bucky had let this—
He really shouldn’t talk about this with Zemo, of all people. It wasn’t fair. Although he didn’t know how not to talk to Zemo, either, not anymore.
Then, Zemo reached out and touched Bucky’s cheek, turning his face in his direction, effectively putting a stop to his musings. A change of emotions had occurred in his expression, and it was such a complete one-eighty from what he’d expected to see that it didn't make sense at first. Helpless, Bucky leaned into the touch. It was warm and real, and he let himself imagine it was an absolving one. Zemo scratched his fingernails all the way down Bucky’s jaw, rasping against his stubble, his thumb stopping under his chin.
“Let me clean that cut,” Bucky offered, his whole body suffused with static. It was an olive branch, and they both knew it. He waited.
“First-aid kit’s in the bathroom,” Zemo said finally. Bucky let himself breathe, and went to retrieve it.
“You should probably put a cold compress on it,” he said a few minutes later, as they sat on Zemo’s bed. “To reduce the swelling. Or, we used moistened tea bags in my time. That should work too.” He’d just finished cleaning Zemo’s busted lips with a wet towel. He faintly remembered doing the same countless times for Steve, decades earlier.
Zemo didn’t answer. He leaned in and brushed Bucky’s hair out of his eyes, slowly. Bucky watched, motionless, frozen, unsure if he should touch too. If he had permission. Zemo tilted his head to the side, fitting their faces carefully together, lips a hair’s breadth away from Bucky’s. He teased him, hanging delicately in the space between kissing and not kissing, leaving Bucky to teeter on a knife’s edge.
Finally, Bucky gave in and tipped his chin up a crucial fraction to meet Zemo’s lips. Zemo hummed in satisfaction and slid one hand around the back of Bucky’s neck, holding him still. His mouth was a soft, intoxicating pressure. Bucky felt himself relax at last, a strung wire unwinding that he had not known was this taut within him.
He carefully lifted one of his hands from where it’d been fisted in his lap, and splayed it over Zemo’s thigh. The divide separating them tonight had been frightening. This feeling was different, terrible, in the most archaic sense of the word. The limited touch was bordering between the atrocious and the sublime.
He should push Zemo away, try and understand what he was thinking, where they now stood with each other. Instead, he pulled him closer and tried to open his shirt without letting go — metal on skin, and it wasn’t enough so he added his other hand and he sat there, gently holding Zemo’s face, his thumbs brushing over defined cheekbones.
Zemo was kissing him like a drowning man suddenly rediscovering air. His lashes fell against his face in dusky crescents; his eyes remained closed even when he pulled away to speak.
“In my life, you are an extraordinary happenstance,” he murmured. “A happy accident.”
It took a few seconds for the words to register, and then they shivered through Bucky, down to his core, vibrating through him like an earthquake. His breathing hitched.
“Zemo…”
Zemo was staring at Bucky’s lips, looking lost. Bucky didn’t know how to deal with what he felt. Didn’t know how to answer.
“Kiss me,” he pleaded hoarsely, and Zemo dragged himself back from wherever he had gone, blinked at him, once, twice. His eyes got a little sharper, and Bucky only let himself be thrown off by Zemo’s mercuriality for a second.
“Undress, solnishko.”
The weight of the command on Bucky’s mind was weirdly pleasant. The best analogy he could come up with for it was a feeling of sinking backward into warm water, letting something else carry his weight for a while. He quickly stood up and took his shirt and pants off, and remained there, standing.
He bit back a moan as Zemo gently touched his left shoulder seam, where the few nerves that weren’t dead were extremely sensitive, and he wasn’t thinking anymore, not really.
Zemo pushed him back down against the bed, sliding himself between his legs, and then he sank to his knees, and not long after, sank into him.
Zemo was killing him; he was taking him apart, slowly, taking his time.
Zemo’s hands were digging into his hips, and Bucky knew if he weren’t enhanced he’d have bruises the following day. But that was it: with Zemo, he liked to give up control, as much as it was possible for him to. Zemo didn't treat him like he was fragile, like he could break.
Bucky was the one who should have been careful.
He left his own bruises on Zemo’s arms, and gripped him too tight, and tried to say something, anything, but each time Zemo kissed him to keep him quiet.
“Look at me. Good. Stay still, soldat.”
Zemo’s skin was pale and vulnerable, blue veins showing through in the crook of his elbows and the pulse point of his neck.
Soon, Bucky was moaning and sighing with every little thrust. When Bucky squeezed him a little harder Zemo groaned, buried his face against Bucky’s shoulder, and mumbled something that might have been his name against his skin, before lifting his head and gasping, his breath hot on Bucky’s neck.
Then Zemo bit his shoulder, and what they were doing suddenly felt desperate, excruciating, like a goodbye, like this was the last time they were ever going to touch each other, but then Bucky felt himself going blissfully over the edge and crashing, and he closed his eyes and forgot about it entirely. His brain short-circuited, and for a few seconds there was just this, Zemo’s impossibly hot fingers and his focus and —
He managed to kiss him a few more times as Zemo, trembling, collapsed on top of him. Bucky ran his right hand through Zemo’s hair, down the back of his neck, holding him close.
“I’ll think about what you said, ‘bout my feelings for Steve and guilt playing a role in all that,” he murmured after a minute of silence, his Brooklyn burr having become more pronounced. “And I’ll tell him about us tomorrow. But I can already promise ya, I have no intention of leaving, or sending you back to prison, short of you killing an innocent.” Again.
“Now don’t go give me ideas,” Zemo said as he got up to close the heavy curtains. His voice was hoarse and raw, and Bucky reveled in it.
“When things calm down a bit, we could go for a drive in the countryside. See a tree, or something. Just you and me,” he said.
“You want to take a holiday from our holiday, James?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
Are we okay? Bucky wanted to ask — in the dark, like the coward he was. But they’d made love, and Bucky wanted to think he was forgiven too much to let the answer crash his hope. He kept debating over posing the question though, and over its possible answers, for a while.
“Sleep, James.”
Zemo’s hand splayed, broad, over his chest, anchoring him. Zemo’s body was a beacon of warmth, and his breath tickled the hair behind his ear. In a matter of minutes, he was asleep.