Imprint

Bucky blinks slowly, laying on his back watching between the gaps of their shelter as the pale pre-dawn light illuminates the clouds far above. A cool breeze blows over them, carrying the scent of the sea. Growing up in the heart of Brooklyn didn’t present him with many opportunities to enjoy nature. It’s nice. Peaceful.

His gaze slides down to the sleeping blonde on his left. Curled tight, arms drawn in for warmth and huddled so close his face rests against the vibranium arm, totally relaxed. His pale skin is a stark contrast against the dark metal.

 Too comfortable he thinks again, but it doesn’t hold the same vehemence as it did on the jet. It feels like he should be bothered by that, but he isn’t.

He rolls his head to the right, checking on the other person he’s playing space heater for. Sam’s also on his back, awake and watching sunrise creep closer, a jarring juxtapose to Zemo: Shoulders and back tight with tension, lips in a thin line, staring up at the sky not in peaceful enjoyment but sightless anxiety, dark skin to Bucky’s white flesh arm.

“They’re gunna be ok.” Bucky murmurs. Sam glances at him, forehead creasing in confusion. “Your family.” Bucky explains.

Sam gazes back up at the sky. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “Yeah.” He says softly. Some of the worry lines around his eyes melt away. “Sarah’s tough as nails. They’ll make it through this. Just wish they didn’t have to.” He reaches across Bucky and slaps Zemo on the shoulder. The Baron raises his head sharply, inhaling in surprise from the abrupt awakening. “Time to go.”

They break camp and move inland. It’s as simple as kicking dirt over the embers of their fire and walking north. They have even less now than when they fled Riga. No food, or water, or wings. Definitely no coffee.

“Any idea where we are?” Sam questions. He keeps his arms tucked in close to his body, because whatever genius designed his wings didn’t put sleeves on his suit. Bucky thinks there must be some fairness in the world because nobody should be as perky and awake as Sam at the asscrack of dawn.

“We are on the southern coast of Norway.” Zemo informs them from where he leads, gesturing to the rocky green landscape they step into as they reach the edge of the forest. His normally neatly parted hair is in disarray, blonde locks clumping and slightly curling. It makes him look like much less of a ponce. After a moment of deliberation he holds his hand out flat and waggles it back and forth. “Or Sweden. In either case, moving inland will soon put us on a coastal road.”

“Nice work, Carmen Sandiego.”

Bucky hangs back a few steps from the pair, letting their voices wash over him as he stares ahead and walks in silence. Despite the rough conditions the rest has eased his mind and body. The sharp throbbing headache and nausea have passed, leaving only the light sting of the cut on his forehead. No longer running on a cocktail of adrenalin, panic, and head trauma, his nerves have soothed and rational thought has returned.

Bucky breathes deeply while running a hand up along his face and through his mussy hair. Raynor  warned him about relapses. Recovery isn’t a straight line. Bad days would happen. But no amount of warning could prepare him for it, or alleviate the guilt, self-loathing, and despair that lingered after, stoked by the crushing knowledge that wellness is still a far distant goal. Knowing that stumbles are expected doesn’t magically make the feelings go away. Confusion plagues him most because he can’t figure out why this, why now. He’d almost been ripped to shreds by freaky alien dogs in Wakanda, crumbled to dust and reformed, whisked away by a sorcerer (not wizard) to a battlefield with hundreds of people with bizarre powers to fight half a dozen different kind of aliens…and it’s a bunch of common gun toting thugs that get to him. It’s seeing Sam limping with an arm thrown over his abdomen, face set in a grim mask to fight off the pain-

A slap on his shoulder scatters his thoughts. Bucky looks over to his right where Sam has dropped back to walk beside him. “You’re givin’ The Rock a run for his money with that smoldering stare.”

It’s spoken with warmth and slyness and it’s an obvious ploy to draw Bucky out of his shell. He latches onto it like a drowning man to a life raft. He thinks, mind now mulling over the puzzle Sam has presented him with. Is it because rocks don’t blink? But they don’t have eyes in the first place so that doesn’t make any sense… “What do rocks have to do with staring?” He finally asks, stumped.

It’s immediately apparent that he’s just exposed his ignorance of some pop culture thing. Sam shakes his head, hands half raised, and eyes rolling so hard they could disrupt the rotational spin of the earth. “Have you watched any movies since the nineteen forties?”

“I saw Around the World in Eighty days.” Bucky retorts defensively.

“That Jackie Chan movie?”

“The Mario Reyes Ninteen FiftySix one.”

They find a road after only thirty minutes of walking. It’s old, pot-holed, sun bleached white with ambitious tufts of grass growing from cracks. From there it’s hours of walking. They pass through small derelict communities, sparse houses in the countryside abandoned almost six years ago when the inhabitants left to denser populations in the wake of devastating loss. Now they sit in disrepair, unsalvageable, unwanted.

“Favorite type of media.” Bucky rasps. His throat is dry and scratchy from thirst. Hunger gnaws at him, his fast metabolism acting against him in the absence of food.

“Movies.” Sam answers, head tilted back and arm flopping limply with every step.

“Film.” Zemo replies. He has given up his spot in the front to walk abreast with them.

“Books.” Bucky pounds a fist on his thigh in frustration. Betrayal. Complete betrayal. Zemo of all people should have been on his side for that one. “Nobody reads anymore.” He grumbles

“Face it Buck, movies are better.” Sam smirks and it’s just so insufferably smug. For the umpteen time Bucky wonders why got on that plane with him in the first place.

“It is the social aspect. Books are the superior method of conveying an author’s vision. But films. They are enjoyed together.” The Baron expounds. He pauses, humming as he ponders the next question. “Piece of media that had the most influence on you and why”

“Ah!” Sam shouts, pointing at Zemo like he’s just caught the man in a nefarious act “That’s two questions!”

“It is elaboration. That does not count.” The Baron defends ardently with a frown.

“Still two questions. But I’ll let it slide. To kill a Mockingbird.” There’s no hesitation in Sam’s answer. Bucky perks up, because he’s seen this one. It popped up when he’d searched for books on Google.  “I haven’t gotten to that one yet. No spoilers.”

“Sure thing, Buck. I won’t spoil the sixty year old book.” Sam deadpans. But he respects Bucky’s request none the less, pursing his lips as he thinks of a way to frame his second answer without giving anything away. “Hate’s easy. Harper could’a left out Mayella’s motivations and made her the villain. But she didn’t. She made her empathetic. Wrong, but understandable. Nobody hates just to hate. Made me realize it’s always rooted in a deeper issue.“

“ ‘You can never really understand a person until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it.’ ” Zemo quotes.

Sam’s gawks at him in evident shock. “Yeah. You read it? “

 “I had a great deal of time to catch up on foreign literature. “ The reminder of his near decade in prison doesn’t upset the Baron in the least.

Bucky’s turn is next, and a warm grin spreads across his face because he knows just the answer. “The Great Dictator. I saw it thinking it was just gunna be another Chaplin comedy.” He worked an extra shift at the docks and went back again the next night with Steve, because, god, he wanted to see the look on his face for Chaplin’s speech.  It was all passion, pleading, and righteous fury. “I didn't sign up for the war, but when I was drafted I remembered Chaplin's speech. I told myself ' this is the right thing to do.' and threw myself into it."

“The Count of Monte Cristo was a boyhood obsession of mine. “ Zemo declares when Bucky nods to let him know his turn was done. “The dichotomy of power and powerlessness, forgiveness and revenge, the sudden tragedies of life. It captivated me. I begged my father for fencing lessons to better emulate Dante”

Bucky's smile turns tight and he shakes his head because it…well, it explains a lot actually. “Well, you got the destructive revenge part down.”

Far in the distance a dingy blue truck trundles into view, a lonely speck on the grey ribbon of road bisecting the beautiful sprawling landscape. It’s still a few miles off so the game continues. “Favorite movie.” Sam states.

“The Wizard of Oz.” It’s another easy answer for Bucky. It was the first color movie he’d ever seen and it blew him away. It was gratifying to find out it was still revered today.

“Up.” Zemo says.

Bucky waits, thinking maybe the Baron hiccupped, but the incredulous stare Sam is giving Zemo clues Bucky in that something’s going on. “What, no long winded explanation?” Sam asks.

Zemo only shrugs. “It’s simply a delightful film.”

Sam glares at him, hunting for any hint that the Baron’s winding him up on purpose. Zemo’s poker face is impeccable. He narrows his eyes, biting out “Lord of the Rings.” when he detects no insincerity.

The truck is only a short distance away now, close enough to see the balding overweight man squeezed into the driver’s seat. Zemo raises an arm, flagging it down. The truck begins to slow, but as it draws nearer the driver gets a good look at the holsters wrapped under Zemo’s arms, and the butt of the pistol sticking out of one. The driver’s eyes go wide as saucers and he slams on the brakes and starts scrabbling for the clutch. Great. The guy’s going to try and peel out in reverse. This is the first car they’ve seen in at least two hours. No way in hell Bucky’s letting it get away. He jogs forward, ready to rip the guy out the window if he has to. but hopefully a little diplomacy will do.

The panicking civilian keeps darting his gaze darting between the gun and the clutch his shaking hand just can’t seem to properly operate. “Hey, hey, hold on!” Bucky calls, holding his hands up placating, and oops, he forgot his metal arm is exposed. The driver’s eyes snap to him and it’s an utterly surreal moment when he actually slumps back in his seat and heaves a huge sigh of relief, one hand pressed to his heart and the other wiping sweat from his forehead.

Bucky’s eyebrows are escaping to the stratosphere, because it is the first time in eighty years that anyone has been calmed by the sight of the metal arm.

 “Asgardians, ja?”

“Friends of theirs.” Sam corrects, coming to stand next to Bucky at the window. “Think you could give us a ride?”

“Yes, yes, anything!” The man exclaims. He’s done a complete one eighty, smiling widely and nodding excitedly. He sticks his arm out the window, grasping Sam’s hand and shaking it overenthusiastically. “For ones who bring my boy back, I take as far as need! My name is Anders.”

 Sam huffs a laugh and grins, subtly trying to pry his hand out of the zealous grip. “Always happy to help, Anders. And we just need get somewhere we can rent a car.” Any town large enough for car rentals would have everything they need.

“Stavanger have anything you need. En Time. “ He holds up one finger. One hour. He finally releases Sam, waving towards the flat bed of the truck. “Come, jump on. “

They hop up in the back and sit in different corners. The old truck shudders and belches out a cloud of exhaust as it struggles to life again. As Anders makes a wide U-turn, Zemo taps on the glass separating the bed from the cab and slides the back window open. “Excuse me, sir.” He says in a voice a few octaves higher than normal. It makes him sound younger, less threatening. “May we use your phone?” Ander’s grasp of English is clearly shaky, so he mimes holding a phone to his ear, thumb and pinky out.

“Ja, yes.” He slides an older model smart phone into Zemo’s waiting hand- which Bucky lunges forward and steals. Zemo narrows his eyes, frowning. “Rude.”

“Must have missed my etiquette lessons.” Bucky snarks before tossing the phone to Sam.

Sam nods his thanks and dials in a number he knows by heart. All the tense muscles and harsh lines of stress from that morning return as he waits for someone to pick up. A tinny little voice hesitantly asks “Hello?” and Sam lets out a long breath, leaning back against the truck. “Sarah.”

Zemo’s watching the landscape roll by through the front window of the truck, but Bucky doesn’t believe for a second that he isn’t listening in. It would be polite to look away and at least give Sam the illusion of some kind of privacy, but as he’s just demonstrated, he’s perfectly fine being a little rude.

Stravenger turns out to be the third largest city in Norway. After Sam finished his call to his sister he made another to a man named Torres. Then the phone is passed back to Zemo who, after a conversation in rapid Sokovian, directs Anders to drop them off in the parking lot of a hotel overlooking the harbor. After another round of enthusiastic handshakes and thanks they say their goodbyes and follow Zemo to a room on the second floor. It’s small, one room with two beds and a couch. There’s no TV, but a beautiful full window gives the perfect view of the bustling harbor down below. Quaint rustic townhouses line the jetty on either side.

“I hope you don’t mind but I took the liberty of having new clothes delivered. “ He informs while dropping the room key in a little dish next to the door. Bucky doesn’t even mind that he steals first shot at a shower. The thought of having a clean change of clothes after four days is enough to give him a pass in Bucky’s book.

Besides, it gives him and Sam a chance to talk.

“Are we going through with this?” He asks, sinking onto the couch and propping his elbows on his knees.

Sam leans against the double bed opposite him, head turned towards the window as he deliberates. “Don’t think we have any other options. Torres says Walker’s taken over the operation.” He runs a hand over his mouth, stare turning hard. “They beat him bloody, Buck. Lemar’s in the ICU. Might not make it.”

Bucky clasps his hands together tight enough to make his joints ache. Would that have been them if they’d had the chance to meet like Karli wanted? “Still think she can be saved?”

He’s silent for a moment, internally debating before finally facing Bucky. Bucky knows the answer before he says it, knows that determined look. “Yes.” Sam says with absolutely certainty.

“Then I might have something that can help.” Bucky unclasps his hands and pulls the little blue vial from his pocket. It wobbles and rocks innocently, refracted light dancing across his palm while he holds it out to for Sam to see. It feels heavy in his hand.

 Sam’s eyes widen and he automatically checks the bathroom door to make sure Zemo’s still away. “Where’d you get that?! ” He whispers harshly.

“Riga, in the factory. Zemo missed one. I promised it to the Wakandans, but you might be able to use it to convince Karli.” He keeps his hand out, willing Sam to take it, but the other man folds a hand over his, forcing his fingers to close back over it. The sound of the shower stopping startles them apart and Bucky quickly slips the serum back in his vest pocket.

“Hold on to it for now. We’re gunna talk about this more later.” And it’s the same hard no-nonsense tone from the night before, and Bucky adds it to the list of uncomfortable conversations he’ll need to have in the near future.

The Baron sweeps out of the bathroom clad only in a robe and a thin gold necklace. Steam clings to him, wafting from his pinked skin. All three stare at each other, Bucky and Sam clearly caught in the act of conspiring together.

“Have you come to a decision?” Zemo asks without preamble.

Sam and Bucky share a look before the former nods. “No alliances with the Broker. Either we convince Karli or stop her.”

Zemo smirks like he knew that would be their answer all along. Walking over to the floor-to-ceiling wardrobe, he flings it open and punches a number into a little electronic safe. He pulls two small objects and tosses one to each of them. Bucky turns it over in his hands.

Smart phones.

The screen flickers to life as he swipes through to the contacts section. All the numbers from his flip phone are already programmed in. Rage flashes through Bucky. He snaps his head up, glaring at Zemo, who looks completely unapologetic. He’s forced to relax his grip when the phone creaks in his hand. That smug look vanishes pretty fast when Bucky rises and crosses the room, looming over him. He leans in and Zemo stands his ground, refusing to back up in inch, matching Bucky glare for glare. Bucky reaches forward. Zemo’s gaze darts nervously to track the movement.

Bucky doesn’t break his stare as pulls a fresh set of clothes from the wardrobe behind him. “Don’t touch my stuff.” He warns quietly and turns his back on Zemo. He marches for the shower, slamming the door behind him.

The room is silent in the wake of the slamming door. Zemo hears his own heartbeat, thrumming fast in his ears. There was a time after the loss of his family that he looked forward to death. A small hope that he could join them again, either in the afterlife or the silence of the grave. When his chance was robbed from him, it became a cold acceptance. Death would come to him eventually, no matter if by his hand or not. All things die.

Something about James, though. It sets his pulse alight. The posturing and quiet promise of violence lurking just beneath the skin triggers an animal instinct Zemo thought long since dead in him. Fight or flight. The fear of death. A will to struggle and survive.

Idly, he brings his hand to his neck, recalling the first time he’d tested James by stealing the amends list. James’ reactions to his antagonizing were becoming markedly less volatile.

Another tally in his favor. A tip of the scales towards ‘good’.

He turns his attention to the other occupant of the room. Sam is still as a statue, surprise plastered across his face. His surprise morphs into a guarded suspicion because he is an intelligent man. “Don’t look at me, man. Whatever you did, that was your own fault.”

And because the man is a delight to debate, Zemo prods him too. “When this mission is over and he finally endeavors to kill me, will you intervene then?”

The question takes Sam off guard. He tilts his head, baffled for a moment, before laughing derisively “You think he’s gunna kill you?”

It’s Zemo turn to be baffled, because that has been the obvious outcome of all this since the beginning. Just as it is fated that either Sam or Karli will be dead by the end of this, the threat of returning Zemo to prison has been nothing more than a jibe.  “Of course.”

Sam studies the Baron with an unreadable expression. He eventually sighs, shaking his head and approaching. “You don’t know Bucky at all.” In a move similar to James he reaches past Zemo and grabs a jacket. Zemo’s pulse remains calm and steady, unperturbed. “No offense, but I’ve been cheek to cheek with you guys for four days and if I have to share the same air with you for another minute I’m gunna lose it.”

“None taken.” He waits until Sam has opened the door before calling out. “When you contact Karli, you must set the location. The Novigrad Memorial. Sokovia is gone, but I still have influence. She’ll find no help from her acolytes there. “

Sam nods once and closes the door gently behind him.

Zemo sits on the edge of the bed and pulls a worn black booklet from the back pocket of his discarded pants. The amends list, stolen again in Riga. He flips to the list and reads over it again. Half the names he recognizes: a bare handful of names from the left were on mission reports. Targets. Victims. The names on the right are more familiar. Hydra and Hydra pawns.

Tallies in favor. Tallies against.

You don’t know Bucky at all.

The score is breaking even.