Imprint

The details of their journey are ironed out in the first few hours. Zemo taps into his seemingly endless supply of seedy underworld contacts and money to arrange crossings through the borders of Sweden and Denmark to Copenhagen. It’s a long haul, more than half a day, plus several more hours tacked on since they need to bypass normal border checks thanks to the fact that none of them have passports and Zemo is an escaped convict.

Sam lies in the partially reclined passenger seat giving his bruised ribs a rest, backlit harshly by the fading sun. The goggles hang around his neck casting a kaleidoscope of light dancing across his shoulder. He’s awake at the moment, but the increasingly slow and heavy blinks scream out the weariness he’s fighting off. A light brown suede jacket lies across him as a makeshift blanket.

Zemo’s military cut coat is long lost to the sea, now replaced by a dark red-brown fur trimmed bomber jacket. The light strikes his eyes in just the right way to bring out the warm brown normally hidden behind flinty layers of scheming suspicion. If he’s bothered by the fact that Bucky’s scrambled mind now views him at some sort of untouchable mission lead he doesn’t show it. His knuckles are pale where they grip the steering wheel a little too tight, but otherwise he looks relaxed. Focused. Like they’re out for a nice Sunday drive.

Now that all the preparations are finished silence fills the car, broken only by the loud whoosh of the heat vents blasting out too-warm air. Slouched in the center of the back seat with his arms crossed, Bucky watches out the window as the sun slowly sinking towards the horizon bathes the endless ocean and rocky coast in a warm orange light.  A bump in the road causes the pistol jammed in waistband of his pants to jab painfully into the small of his back. He digs it out, loosely holding it in his lap for lack of a better place to put it.

True to his word Sam isn’t pushing Bucky to talk, and it’s something of a relief because as messed up as it is this isn’t anything new for him. Putting the broken pieces of his life back together is a depressingly common occurrence. He’s old hat at it by now.

Nothing’s changed. The plan’s still the same. Stop Karli nonlethally, maybe take on a criminal underworld depending on how things go at the meet up, subdue Zemo before he can kill Karli or escape, make sure Sam gets through it all in one piece.

 It’s just going to be a bitch and a half to pacify Zemo when the mission is over. He’ll bring Zemo back to prison nice and gently, maybe part ways with a cocky wave to rub in the fact that he’s fre- he’s on the outside of the cell and Zemo’s on the inside, go make some more amends (preferably in intense violation of rule two), and if Shuri ever sees fit to forgive him he can go for a nice thorough brain scrub in Wakanda.

Buck’s thumb rubs over the coarse grip of the gun. There are spare holsters in the back. He spotted them in the bags when they were packing. It wouldn’t be much trouble to reach back and dig one out. It’s abundantly clear they’ve gone beyond the point where they can solve things with their fists or words, not with the broker.

He shoves the gun under the discarded coat lying next to him, close enough to reach if it’s needed but out of sight.

When he looks up Zemo is watching him through the rear-view mirror. The piercing stare is heavy with promise. Promise of what, Bucky can’t say, but his spine stiffens and he glares back, daring him to say something about it.

“Would either of you care for dinner?” Zemo asks instead. He’s the first to look away, forced to watch the road, but Bucky can’t bring himself to chalk it up to a win. It’s a technicality at best.

Sam stretches his arms over the back of the head rest until his spine pops. “Yeah man, I’m starving.”

Bucky bites down to suppress a yawn. They’ve been going since before dawn, he was recently concussed, and everything in the hotel was… exhausting. “Coffee sounds good. I could use one. They got a Starbucks around here?”

“Unfortunately Norway is one of the nations I have not had the pleasure of visiting, but I am sure we can do better than your American franchises.”

Bucky taps away at his phone, pulling up the ever handy Google. “We’re coming up in Kristiansand soon right? This place looks good.”

Not long after, with twilight covering the sky in a deep blue blanket, the group sits around a little café table eating pastries and sipping coffee, or in Zemo’s case tea. Sam’s beaming, showing off his cup, tickled by the falcon his barista has artfully drawn into the creamy foam floating on top. As the stars slowly fade into existence and Zemo primly nibbles on some fancy cookies Bucky can’t even pronounce, He thinks to himself Yeah. Yeah, I can handle this

It’s nearly eleven when Zemo finally gives up the driver’s seat. They shuffle around so that Sam is driving, with Bucky in the passenger seat and Zemo lounging in the back trying to catch a few hours of sleep before they have to meet up with his contact to cross the border.

Sam immediately fiddles with the radio, responding to Bucky’s annoyed glare by declaring “I’m driving, I pick the music. You can listen to your grandpa station when it’s your turn.”

It only takes ten minutes for Sam to start singing along softly.

“Friday night and the lights are low.”

Bucky suppresses a grumble. He turns away, resting his head against the window and hoping the hum of the engine is enough to drown him out.

“Night is young and the music’s high.”

Not that Sam’s a bad singer. The warm soothing timber of his voice translates smoothly into vocals.

“You’re in the mood for a dance.”

Movement draws Bucky’s attention. The soft light of the dash board dimly illuminates Sam’s slowly spreading smile as he bops his head and moves his body to the rhythm. 

“And when you get the chance.”

Bucky’s foot taps to the beat. It’s not bad for modern music.

“You are the dancing queen, young and sweet, only seventeen.”

Even Zemo’s raspy voice joining in on the chorus isn’t enough to ruin the mood.

Bucky lets his eyes slide closed, allowing the world’s strangest lullaby to lull him to sleep.

It’s just past three in the morning when they stop in a town called Tanum. The letters ICA sprawl across the front of the supermarket in blocky red font.  Zemo directs Sam to park in the back, well away from the light of the front window or cameras. “I do not trust the men who helped us across the border to keep quiet. We will acquire new transportation here.”

“I dunno.” Sam says doubtfully, turning the engine off. “They looked ready to piss themselves when we rolled down the windows and gave them the sink eye. Think they’d want to forget they ever saw us.”

They pile out and Bucky catches on fairly quickly when Zemo casually meanders through the lot, surreptitiously peering into car windows.  “They are loyal to money first and foremost, and the Broker is willing to pay any expense to catch us.” When he tries the handle of a rusted silver Volkswagen the door wrenches open with a squeal. He steps off to the side, motioning like a valet inviting the driver to take the wheel. “If you would, James.”

Sam groans, turning and marching away from the mess unfolding before him, running his hands over the top of his head. “Tell me we’re not about to steal a car.”

 “Borrow.” Bucky corrects cheerfully as he passes Sam, patting him on the shoulder. “We’re going to borrow a car.”

 Bucky crouches, twisting to fit in the tiny space under the steering wheel. He yanks out the bottom panel, exposing the electronic guts controlling the ignition. The car’s an old piece of shit for sure, but it’s the only unlocked car in the parking lot and he’s pretty sure nobody wants to drive for hours with the cold wind blasting through a broken window.

Sam drifts back and leans against the back door, resigned to the fact that this is what they’re doing now. “Steve teach you that?”

“Yeah.” A smile ghosts across his lips as he recalls a similar situation almost a hundred years ago. Except it was a HYDRA supply depo instead of a supermarket. For moment he’s back there, the icy slush soaking through his pants, eyes itchy and tired from sleepless nights, Steve’s now massive hand pointing out a wire from the thick tangle. ‘That one’s safe to touch.’ Bucky is brought back to the present as he makes the same mistake he did in the past and the wire he’s holding shocks him. He hisses and shakes out his hand. “He tell you that?”

“No. but I know that 'good ol' american boy' angle they like to push is a load of shit.” Sam reveals fondly. 

“Even when he got big, Steve was a little punk.“ Twisting two wires together, the car sputters to life. Life being a generous term. It’s more like a prolonged death rattle. Honestly, they’re doing the owner a favor by taking it off their hands. A hand lightly touches his shoulder, only for the briefest second, and Bucky slams his head on the panel above him when a quiet “Well done, James.” reveals it’s Zemo who touched him and not Sam. He whips out from under the steering wheel, watching Zemo walk around the car and climb into the passenger seat in open bewilderment.

Zemo smiles at him blithely.

“Uh-oh, you tripped his logic circuit.” Sam slaps his other shoulder to snap him out of it, and then hops into the back seat. “Come on Terminator, we gotta go before they call the cops on us.”

“I told you before, I don’t know who that is.” Bucky mumbles as he crams into the driver’s seat. The entire car rocks and dips. He has to tuck his arms in and even with the seat moved back to the furthest position his knees still bend awkwardly. It’s clearly not designed for super soldiers. The gear box clanks dully as Bucky shifts into drive and pulls out of the parking lot.

Sam tries to stretch out in the back, laying from one end to the other and still needing to tucks his legs and crane his neck to fit. “and I’m gunna keep making those jokes until you get annoyed enough to watch it with me.”

“The third one truly is an underrated film.“ Zemo interjects. 

The very small portion of the world visible in the headlights flies by in a blur. Red taillights shine far into the distance. The pale turquoise numbers of the radio clock tick up as time passes. Sam eventually drifts off to sleep, leaving Bucky alone with Zemo.

Which is fine by him. He’s been wanting to have a little one on one with the Baron. “You didn’t look happy.” He starts, voice hushed.

He steals a quick glance at Zemo, but it’s too dark to read any detailed expressions. Only his profile and a few major features are visible. “What do you mean?” He asks, equally as quiet.

“You know what I mean.”

Zemo sighs shortly, half exasperated, half amused.  “I'm flattered you think so highly of my skills, but I assure you, I am not a mind reader.”

“At the hotel. In the bathroom. When you realized…” Bucky struggles, trying to find the right word for it. The steering wheel creaks and the speedometer jumps. Bucky reigns himself in, easing off the accelerator. “… something was wrong with me. You’ve been pushing me to accept my programming throughout this whole mission. I thought you’d be pleased.” Thinking back, his expression was strikingly similar to the disgust he displayed when smashing the serum.

And his next words are spoken in a tone that could match that disgust. “I realize my past actions may have led you to believe otherwise, but I have no desire to command a slave.”

Deeply rooted in a dozen different memories an epiphany blooms, spilling out his mouth before he can fully grasp the shape of it. “But you do want to command me.” The realization punches all the air out of his lungs. It's not about the Soldier. It's about Bucky. 

 The pregnant silence in the wake of his discovery spurs Bucky to press on, calm, firm, and unrelenting piling pressure on Zemo untill he cracks and breaks his silence. “That wasn’t just an act in Madripoor. You enjoyed giving me orders.- No. You enjoyed me following them.” The windows of the old junker rattle in the wind. “Am I right?” Bucky pushes aggressively.

 “…Yes.” Zemo admits softly in defeat. “It isn’t the mindless assassin I desire. James, you are… remarkable. When you allow yourself to be unfettered by inane restrictions, that is. To have that skill, that power, your sheer force of will at my command.” Bucky doubts any normal person would have heard the subtle hitch in the Baron’s breathing. He sneaks another peek, catching Zemo in a moment of vulnerability. His head tilted back, exposing the column of his throat, eyes staring straight ahead at something unseen, hands clawed on his knees, jaw harshly clenched. It’s the countenance of an addict resisting temptation. “It’s intoxicating.”

It leads them to the elephant in the room. The topic both of them have known and danced around saying. The guillotine hanging above Bucky’s head. “and that’s why I have to die.”

“I haven’t decided.” Zemo confesses.

 “Wasn’t aware it was up for debate.” Bucky blinks, processing the surprising revelation. It's another broken expectation. It's another brick in the new foundation he's building to better understand the real Helmut Zemo.

Zemo smoothes over the wrinkles he created in his slacks.  “Neither was I.”

“Rise and shine.” Bucky hangs through the back window, shaking a cup of Cheerios next to Sam’s ear. The other man slowly blinks awake, sitting up from his uncomfortable position and rubbing his neck with a pained groan, quietly uttering ‘Shit’. “I got your favorite.”

“Thanks man.” Sam slurs sleepily. “How you doin’?”

“Good.” It’s not even a lie this time. Weird as the conversation with Zemo was, it cleared a lot of things up. He backs off to let Sam pop the door and join him outside. They sit on the hood of the car, munching on cereal while the sun rises over the trees to the east. A cacophony of seagulls hovers around them, their greedy cries clashing with the gentle rhythmic beating of the waves against the quay. “We made it to Helsingborg. Zemo’s squaring things away with his contact. Heard anything from your sister?”

Sam lights up, smiling broadly. “Yeah, I got some good news. I called in some backup and her and the kids were able to go back home.” He passes his phone over, letting the picture do all the talking. It must have been taken yesterday evening. In it, a giant man in red suit stands half submerged beside a dock, lifting a boat in the air like it’s a toy. Two young black boys cling to the rigging, caught in a moment of both terror and excitement. A Pretty woman stands on the deck with a hand covering her eyes. But she’s  smiling fondly. A fourth person, a normal sized teenage girl wearing a suit similar to the giant man, lurks in the background. Her arms are crossed sullenly and she’s leveling the cameraman with a murderous glare that could rival that of the Winter Soldier.

“…that your sister?” Bucky asks casually, watching the seagulls swoop and dive.

The smile drops, suspicion smothering it instantly. He leans forward, trying to intercept Bucky’s line of sight. “Yeah. Why?”

“Oh, nothin’, just… You always make her sound scary. Kinda expected some harsh girl with a face like a battle axe, but she’s really... cute.”

Sam leans further, resembling the bird he’s named after as he cranes into sight. “Are you- Don’t you dare flirt with my sister.” He demands warningly.

Bucky shakes his head. “Oh, no. No.” He confirms for Sam’s wellbeing, because that little blood vessel on his temple looks like it’s about to burst.

“ ‘cause I know how to make you disappear.“

“ “course. I’m just saying. She’s cute.”

“She is. Mmhmm” Sam nods his head rapidly “And you don’t need to say it like that.”

“Like what?” Bucky asks entirely too innocently.

“Like you’re gunna flirt with her.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good.”

“Good.”