Imprint

Bucky stands on the far left at the bedroom window passively watching the avenue outside for any signs that more men are closing in on them. A little silver hatchback trundles down the road. It could contain at least four operatives.

“Karli said it could take more than five days. We need to find a place nearby and lay low. Get off the radar.”

The flesh hand rubs its fingers together. The sensation of rough callouses scraping into the pads of the fingers is muted. It feels like he’s detached, floating, watching his body from somewhere else. The arm moves and the eyes rove over the smooth skin, searching for puncture wounds that might indicate an injection site. It’s pointless, but Bucky has no control over the body. It checks anyway even though any clues would be long healed.

“I have a place we can stay. A place they will never search. Oeznik can have us there before morning.”

Maybe Liv poisoned the Miso.

“You sure about that? Because you seemed pretty damn sure they’d go after Karli, but here we are with some guy telling us the Broker’s got it bad for Bucky!”

But it’s far more likely he’s just incredibly messed up. One too many brain scrambles has crossed his wires in a way that can never be fixed.

“Something’s wrong with me.” The words slip from the body’s numb lips. It sounds flat and distant in the faraway place Bucky observes from. “More than usual.”

“…Bucky? Hey, Buck, can you look at me?”

The head turns. Sam stands close to it. Zemo is by the bed, paused in the act of stuffing clothes into bags, watching shrewdly. Always watching.

Sam reaches out to the body and it flinches. He takes a step back, giving it space. His eyes scan the room, searching for something. “Gimme that.” He calls to Zemo. The baron tosses him a lumpy turtleneck.

He holds the cloth out towards the body. “Can you hold onto this for me?”

An arm reaches out, gingerly taking the garment.

“Describe it to me. Use all your senses.”

Bucky’s forced to look as the eyes stare down at it. “ ‘s purple.” There are patches of dark dirt and pale dried salt rings. The fingers brush over it. “soft.” He shifts it over to the vibranium hand and frowns at the dusting of grainy sand that clings to his palm. “dirty.” Other details trickle in, completely unrelated to the turtleneck; The dark stain of the wood floor, the plush rug beneath his feet, a gust of warmth from the heat vent ghosting along his arm, some awful modern music playing in the bathroom to keep the guy tied up in the tub from hearing them.

“That’s good. Anything else?” The soft timber of Sam’s voice is warm and calm. He sits on the edge of the bed, arm crossed loosely.

Bucky lifts it to his nose and sniffs. It smells like the sea, two days of BO, and the faintest scent of something else that teases at the edge of his memory. “Awful” he informs Sam with a grimace. A little piece of him wants to curl up and die of embarrassment when he takes another whiff, but that last scent is gnawing at him and he can’t- oh. Citrus. “Cologne.”

Gravity settles around him. A ragged breath shudders out of him as the emotional turmoil comes crashing back with it. What the hell is happening to him? Why won’t his body just fucking listen to him and, oh god, Zemo knows. He’ll use it, use Bucky again.

His legs turn to jelly, crumpling beneath him and sending him crashing to his knees. He slides the rest of the way to the ground and gasps, forgetting the turtleneck is still pressed to his nose and gets another lungful of awful stale sweat and cologne. He drops it before he can look like a total creep huffing Zemo’s sweater. It’s probably too late for that.

Sam slides off bed and scoots over to sit cross legged at his left on the floor. He leaves a good foot of space between them. “Welcome back, man.” He says encouragingly like it’s some kind of amazing accomplishment to be functional. Maybe for Bucky it is. “Want to talk about it?”

“No.” Bucky denies miserably. “But I prob’ly should.”

The corner of Sam’s mouth pulls into a smile and he looks so damn proud.

“Yes, I’m also curious to know what occurred in there.” Zemo finally pipes up, ruining the moment. He’s abandoned the pretense of packing and sits on the corner of the other bed, one leg slung over a knee. If seeing Bucky break down gives him any kind of satisfaction he doesn’t show it. He remains carefully neutral in his expression.

“Look, can you-.” Sam puffs, letting the aggravation bleed out of him before continuing more tactfully. “-give us some privacy?”

The Baron tilts his head considering, and there he goes shattering Bucky’s preconceived notions and expectations again, because instead of pressing the advantage and striking while he’s vulnerable Zemo only nods and rises to leave. “Very well. Join me in the lobby when you are-“

“Stay.” They both freeze at Bucky’s harsh order. “Please.” He adds softly.

 The neutral mask cracks a little as Zemo’s eyes widen with surprise. “Yes.” He says tentatively, another fracture in the façade. “Of course James. I will stay if you wish.” Bucky scoots over until he’s pressed against Sam, leaving a gap on his right just large enough for Zemo to fit in. He takes the implicit invitation, sinking down and sitting stiffly with his back resting against the wall and his legs sprawled out in front. His demeanor resembles that of a man sitting next to a wild feral beast, knowing that the slightest sign of fear will shatter the delicate truce and cause it to turn on him.

Sam peers at him questioningly. Bucky nods. He really doesn’t want Zemo here, rankles at the man seeing him so exposed. This isn’t about what he wants, though. It’s about what he needs and there’s a question only he has the answer to. Sam settles back and works an arm up to grasp Bucky’s shoulder reassuringly. The unspoken trust and support in his decision almost shatters the fragile resolve Bucky’s managed to scrape together. It’s easier to stare straight ahead, looking at neither of them as he haltingly walks them through the event. “When I shoved him I… my arm hurt. It kept hurting until I let go. Couldn’t even- my other one- “ He lifts the vibranium one and lets it fall back down. “I tried to make you let go of the gun.  Couldn’t hurt you. Which means it’s something in my head.” They’re nearing the question that made Bucky call Zemo to stay, the thing devouring him from the inside leaving dread to fill the hollow spaces. “I need to know if that’s in The Manual.” The Manual. The book on the How To Keep Your Winter Soldier. The book of words they scratched on the inside of his skull over seventy years. He clamps down on his knees to stop his arms from trembling.

 “Am I still programmed?”

The firm pressure of the hand squeezing his shoulder is the only thing keeping him grounded. He doesn’t want to look but he can’t prevent his gaze from darting over to the baron. He’s drawn up one of his knees, arms looped around it, and his lips pursed in concentration as he plunges his memory.

“There is no direct reference to what you described. However, there is an insinuation between the lines.” Zemo begins, either unaware or uncaring of the stillness that settles over the man next to him. “It read akin to a machine operating manual. Heh.” Zemo stumbles over his own words after the breathless incredulous laugh. It’s so jarringly out of the norm Bucky almost laughs too. “Apologies, that was not meant to be a joke. I - that was rude. ”

Intentional or not it’s a good joke. Funny. True, Bucky suspects. Too bad his throat is too tight to get the words out and let him know.

Zemo plows ahead, cutting through the silence. “Any deviation or malfunction and the Winter Soldier was to be turned over to the project leader.”

Darkness creeps in at the edge of his vision. An image of Zola roars to the forefront of his mind. They were afraid of him. All of them were terrified, except for him. Arnim Zola, always smiling, always happy to see him. “I have something new for you, Schlauer Bursche“. Alexander Pierce, so easily confident around the soldier. Confident enough to back hand him without fear. “Your work has been a gift to mankind.”

“You were an incredibly valuable asset, Instrumental to their future. Handlers, technicians, strike teams. They could all be replaced if a… malfunction occurred. You could not. The only scenario that called for immediate termination was critically injuring the project lead.”

“Breathe, Buck.” Sam coaxes with a strained rough voice. Bucky wasn’t aware that he’d stopped. He manages to gasp out and in, an act so monumental it uses his whole body. Once he starts he can’t stop, lungs working like a bellows. The room blurs and swims as tears obscure his vision before spilling over and rolling down his face. He draws his knees up to his chest, wrapping an arm around them tightly, desperate for the feeling of closeness. Pressing a fist to his mouth to stifle a pitiful whine he slowly leans into Sam’s warmth. Sam’s other arm pulls him in, wrapping around his shoulder. His chest stutters beneath Bucky. The muscles of Bucky’s back jump as a third point of contact settles on it from his right.

 “I was free.” He whispers brokenly into the crook of Sam’s neck. “I was free.”

Bucky remains in the shelter of Sam’s arms long after he’s stopped crying. Crust clings to his eyelashes, sealing them shut as he quietly leans into the comfort, listening to the thrum of the heartbeat beneath his ear and greedily breathing in the aroma of Cypress. The terrible music is still playing in the other room.

“A commercial flight is too risky. The Power Broker is bound to be tracking passenger logs. You will have to take the jet.” Zemo suddenly declares, making no sense at all.

The grit on his lashes breaks as Bucky slowly opens his eyes.

“Sam and I will drop you off with Oeznik and drive to Serbia.” He continues and it clicks into place.

 “No.” Bucky uncurls, shifting upright and allowing Sam the use of his arms again and shake them out, chasing away the pins and needles sensation where they fell asleep. Zemo’s arm slides from his back and returns to the man’s lap. Bucky fixes him with a flat mulish grimace.

“You are unwell. Staying near me will only exacerbate the condition. It is in your best interest to return to America.” Zemo implores, foolishly thinking reason and logic will win him this argument. Joke’s on him, nothing will work.  

“I’m not going home.” Bucky refuses persistently.

The baron leans forward, peering around Bucky, searching desperately for backup from Sam.

Sam snorts. “I already tried. Man jumped out of plane to follow me. If he wants to stay, he stays.”

The head tilts a fraction. His nostrils flare and his eyes narrow and it brightens Bucky’s mood just a little to see him getting flustered. “You are compromised. Your presence is a liability, drawing undue strife and attention to the operation.” He attacks Bucky’s insecurities with cold vicious precision. “The greatest threat to our welfare is your presence.”

Each declaration is like a nail being driven into his heart. It’s true, all of it. but he’s not going to stop. Shoving off the wall, he climbs to his feet and stomps halfway across the room. Spinning to face the others, he motions to Zemo to get up. The man remains in the floor, regarding him with guarded suspicion. “C’mon.” Bucky cajoles. “I wana try something.”

Tired as he is, Sam still manages to crack a weary smile, knowing that he’s about to witness Zemo being tested against the immovable object that is Bucky Barnes.

Zemo cautiously stands, smoothing invisible wrinkles from his slacks. “What are you doing?”

Bucky exhales, psyching himself up. He brings his fists up in a boxer’s stance. “I’m gunna hit you.” He announces determinedly.

A near week of living with Zemo must finally be clueing Bucky in on how to read him, because he can tell the Baron’s stare isn’t that of a carefully controlled blankness, but that of a machine trying and failing to compute. The eyes are just a little too round, the face slightly too slack. “We established that this is not possible.”

Bucky envisions it on his head. A quick jab to the cheek, just a little love tap that’ll clear up in a week. The muscles of his arm ache and his stomach flips queasily. He frowns, fruitlessly trying to shake the prickling throb away. Ok. Even thinking about hurting him can trigger it. Good intel. “Just shut up and take the hit.”

The blank confusion hardens into resolve. Zemo nods shortly and chooses to watch the blow coming, unflinching. Bucky can’t help but grudgingly respect it. He draws his fist back and lunges forward on his right foot, lightning quick.

Fire flashes through his entire body, searing him from the inside out. His legs fold from the pain but the momentum carries him forward and he crashes into Zemo in an awkward tangle of limbs, sending them sprawling to the ground. It’s possibly the most pathetic ‘fight’ of his life. They both roll away from each other, moaning in pain. Jolts of agony wrack Bucky, arcing from muscles to muscle. Zemo clutches his shoulder where Bucky’s caught him, completely off target. But even a glancing blow from a super soldier is enough to bruise to the bone.

With herculean effort Bucky reaches over and grabs Zemo by the arm, pulling him until they both lay on their sides, face to face, staring unwaveringly with eyes still red rimmed and puffy from crying. “I will not let this control me.” He annunciates each word clearly and drives home his point by slapping Zemo on the injured shoulder in a mocking imitation of the affectionate gesture traded between him and Sam- causing the both of them to hiss in pain.

“Right. You two good? Got your stuff sorted?” Sam asks, a coy smile vanishing beneath the hem of a fresh shirt he pulls over his head. The snot and tear encrusted one ends up discarded somewhere in the vicinity of the turtleneck.

Zemo rolls onto his back while Bucky climbs to his feet. Bucky offers a hand, which the other man regards thoughtfully. Whatever he’s deliberating in his head, he quickly comes to a conclusion and accepts the offer, allowing Bucky to pull him up. “Yeah. We’re good.” Zemo answers in possibly the most informal way he’s ever spoken.

It’s a relief when they pack up and head out. Bucky vainly props a few pieces of the front door in the frame and leaves the keys in the room, right next to a nice fat stack of Krones for all the trouble. They throw the bags in the back of a little rental car, pile in, and set off to the south in the direction of a smaller airport. Zemo, of course, insists on driving.  Sam’s repaired goggles and screen comes in handy, sharing many of the same functionalities of Redwing and allowing a degree of information of passing cars through infrared vision and tagging.

It particularly comes in handy when they near the airport and he pops the lever on his seat, forcing it back and ordering “Don’t turn. Keep going.”

Zemo remains cool, cruising along at the speed limit, blowing right by their destination and continuing down the long empty road.

Bucky slinks down in his seat, peeking out the back window once they’ve passed, spotting two black SUVs parked in a blind spot behind a large shrub. “Looks like we’re driving to Serbia after all.”