#Bucky in every one of zemos safehouses

[notfics]

Background:

This image came across my computer. It's Riaño, Spain. A friend of mine who is obsessed with WinterBaron sparked the rest of this idea when we started talking about it.

The idea:

Zemo and Bucky are on a mission in a crowded place. It's not a huge city like Paris or Milan, it's just big enough to always be crowded but never crowded enough to disappear in the sea of bodies. Bucky is getting more agitated than usual and Zemo keeps calling him out on it and Bucky just keeps snapping that he's fine and Zemo should mind his own business. Well something in the mission goes sideways, Bucky gets hurt, probably gets overwhelmed by being seen and unable to hide with so many people around, and he comes close to hurting some civilians on accident while he's still reeling from whatever hit him. This causes him to go into a panic and Zemo has to calm him down before he can get him into a car and starts driving them away (extra points if Zemo hotwires the car because then Bucky can call him out on it and Zemo can say something like "Hotwiring a car isn't the worst thing either of us has done").

Bucky doesn't know where Zemo is taking them but the further they get out of town the more he can relax. The mission is a bust at this point and they need to regroup and gather more intel anyway. That's when Zemo takes him to Riaño. Bucky just assumes that it's a regular old safehouse, probably one from Zemo's old days or something. They spend a few days letting Bucky unwind and contacting various people for leads and waiting for people to get back to them with where they need to go next. In the meantime Zemo is showing Bucky around to help him get back to a more normal emotional state.

Eventually, Bucky starts picking up on things. Like how the house they're staying in isn't a rental. It's furnished like a family lives there, stays there even. Some of the doors are locked and he's felt the urge to pick his way into them, but Zemo always seems to be awake. He's paranoid that the other man is watching him and he doesn't know why. One day it comes out that it's not a safehouse. It's a vacation home that Zemo shared with his wife and kids. They would go there once a year because they loved the view of the mountains and lake. There's a caretaker that keeps the place in good condition when no one is around. Zemo hasn't been back since before his family died. He's always awake because he can't sleep in a home that he feels is too empty.

So, this fic gets to see Bucky being the soft one to Zemo. Comforting him. Offering to stay up and drink with him. Visiting places that Zemo finds too painful to go to alone, but that he wants to see again just to remember his kids and the way they played. And the two slowly start to get closer until one night Bucky offers to sleep in Zemo's bed if that'll help him get some sleep.

I'll let someone else fill in those blanks. Maybe Zemo can still be commanding by having it be the one thing that clears his head the most, giving orders so it feels a little more impersonal. Since he would feel guilty about sleeping with Bucky in a place he shared with his family. But he really wants it, and his wife would have wanted him to move on. She wouldn't want him to be haunted by ghosts until it drains him.

They get their next mission orders soon after. And Zemo and Bucky have to figure out how to work together now that they've crossed that line, but with Zemo liking to lead and Bucky not minding falling back into that subordinate role every now and then, it works out.

Details can be tweaked, since I'm not entirely familiar with this duo's dynamics. I just liked the idea of Zemo whisking Bucky away to a place that Bucky thinks is just a safe house but has a deeper meaning to Zemo.

[the-ravening]

*blinks* ...Michelle's Bday fic? ("It's a common name," she murmurs to herself, "so go ahead and put those hopes down.") (I have a doc on my desktop named 'For Shan' and no mistake about it it's something you will get someday. 😂 )

Thank you to everyone who tagged me in the latest round of the WIP game going around. I will not be participating this time because I never even finished answering my asks from the last time and it’s been dragging on my conscience ever since.

Speaking of which… Michelle! I’m sooooo sorry it took me this long to answer your ask from last year. Of course “Michelle’s Bday fic” was for you!!! You and me 🤝 starting bday fics for each other and not finishing them.

It was supposed to just be a small little hurt/comfort wound cleaning in the shower thing, but I didn’t get it done in time and I felt so self-conscious writing for you because your words are always so beautiful.

Anyway, I have almost 3k written but doubt I’ll be finishing it any time soon, so please accept this meagre offering of a long snippet (aka the first 1.6k of the fic).

Hope you’ve been doing well! Sending you love and kisses forever 💗💗💗

Three sets of heavy footsteps trudged through the front door of the safehouse, slow and lumbering in their exhaustion. The air around them was thick with the iron tang of blood and a persistent tingle of burnt gunpowder rattling around in their sinuses, as they slipped into the kind of quiet torpor that always followed a difficult mission seen to its end. Though it had gotten a bit dicey at times on this one, they’d earned the satisfaction of having completed their objective and made it back alive in one piece. Well, mostly in one piece, Bucky thought, running his eyes critically over Zemo’s broad back as the man stepped into the apartment’s living area ahead of him. There was a conspicuous tear in his beloved long wool coat, the fabric slashed and stained dark with blood below his left shoulder blade.

“All right,” Sam said, voice deep with weariness. “Let’s take a look at your back, Zemo.”

“Merely a shallow flesh wound. I’ll be fine,” Zemo demurred.

“Knowing you, that means they probably hit a major organ and you’re about to pass out on your own carpet,” Sam grumbled.

“Really, is there so little trust between colleagues these days?”

Sam and Bucky took simultaneous deep breaths and sighed heavily at the irony of this statement rolling off the tongue of this particular colleague of theirs.

Before Sam could come up with any further argument though, they were interrupted by a tinny sound blaring from somewhere in the depths of his leather jacket. It quickly developed into the sunny tones of a song Bucky only knew because Sam had once told him it was called “‘Fuck You’ by CeeLo Green… C’mon, man, you don’t know that one?” and only recognized from how often this personalized ringtone went off on Sam’s phone.

“Man, already? Doesn’t this guy have anything better to do than stick his nose up our asses after every mission?” Sam groaned as he fished his phone out of his pocket and tapped the screen with his thumb to answer it. “Secretary Ross. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

He turned to Bucky and rolled his eyes as he held the phone to his ear, no doubt listening to Ross droning on on the other end of the line. Putting his hand over the mic, he stage whispered to Bucky, “Take care of Zemo for a few minutes, would you? I have to deal with this,” and then he wandered off into the office and closed the door behind him.

Left alone with Zemo, Bucky glared at him, wanting nothing less than to have to babysit him in Sam’s absence. On the other hand though, he really didn’t want Zemo to die of organ failure today either.

“If it were serious, I wouldn’t be standing right now.” Zemo lifted his hands in that placating gesture he liked to do so much, the one that Bucky found particularly annoying when directed at him. But he couldn’t help noticing Zemo holding back a small wince of pain as his arms came up.

Bucky sighed. “There’s a whole lot of possibilities between ‘okay’ and ‘dead’, Zemo. At least let me take a look and help you clean it out. There’s no way you’ll be able to reach back there.”

“More than anything, what I need right now is a shower,” Zemo huffed and turned towards the bathroom, effectively ending the discussion.

Bucky scrubbed a hand over his face and wondered if this would be the day Zemo finally died for real on his watch. After everything they’d been through today, he didn’t have the mental energy to argue with the man, but what was slightly worrying was that it seemed Zemo didn’t even have it in him to bite back in that flirty, teasing, infuriating way he normally did. Bucky hoped that wasn’t a sign that he was secretly bleeding out internally. They were both covered in sweat and blood and grime and gunpowder, so maybe he could let this go for now and they could pick it back up once Zemo finished his little beauty spa routine in there.

“Well?” Zemo drawled, and Bucky glanced up in time to see the man looking over his shoulder at him as he stepped through the doorway. Zemo raised an eyebrow. “Are you coming?”

Bucky stood in stunned silence, watching Zemo disappear into the bathroom, leaving the door wide open behind him. The innuendo was clear, but Zemo was all innuendo all the time, and maybe Bucky was the one misconstruing it by considering for even a moment that there was any serious intent here.

He really did want to check out Zemo’s injury—though maybe want was a bit too strong a word there. What he wanted was to pour himself a whiskey neat and sit down on the couch and forget for five minutes that Zemo was his responsibility. But what he’d gotten instead was an opportunity to make sure their notoriously secretive parolee didn’t end up with sepsis down the line from an infected knife wound, or worse. Bucky sighed again and reluctantly made to follow behind Zemo, as if drawn forward on a persistent leash that he could never quite shake off.

The bathroom was overly large and opulent, as tended to be the case in Zemo’s scattered family properties-turned-safehouses, which they now took advantage of whenever their missions allowed—though a more pretentious person might call its design spacious and modern. As he stepped into the room, Bucky was hit with the loud hiss of the shower, its rushing spray battering the black tiles as it heated up to temperature in its glass enclosure.

In the centre of the room, Zemo stood like a dark and ragged headland dropping off into the sea, as he slid his coat over slumped shoulders to land in a heavy tumble of eroded rock at his feet. Bucky was certain that no matter the air of indifference that Zemo put on, he was well and truly far along the road of fatigue, because under normal circumstances the man he knew would never treat his favourite things with such lack of care.

Zemo drew a sharp breath between his teeth as he brought his shoulder blades together in a weak attempt to shrug his double shoulder holster off. Even the most incremental of movements seemed to exacerbate the pain of his injury.

“Here, let me just—” Bucky muttered as he strode up to Zemo and stopped him gently with a hand on his shoulder. He tugged carefully at the slide adjuster on the back of the harness, loosening it, and then reached around to slide his fingers underneath the leather straps, tucking them snugly against the meat of Zemo’s chest. Slowly and gingerly, he worked the straps over Zemo’s shoulders and slid them all the way down his arms, finally dropping the holster with its guns atop the heap of Zemo’s coat on the floor, gun safety be damned. It really was that sort of day.

Letting out a small sigh of relief, Zemo fumbled at the buttons of his ruined shirt with tired fingers. Bucky tried not to let the worst of his imagination run wild as his eyes tracked over the torn and blood-soaked fabric, hoping it looked much worse than it really was. Once Zemo got the shirt spread open, Bucky helped him slide it off too, revealing the expanse of his pale shoulders and a Pollock-esque smear of blood down his back, red speckled all around like so many more lurid stars dispersed amongst his freckles.

Bucky squinted scrutinizingly at the wound, its raw and red gape a wrathful mouth, lips split and spitting vitriol. Despite its gory appearance, it looked clean and fairly shallow—the blade had likely caught on a rib, sparing him from any deeper damage. It was still bleeding sluggishly, though not enough to be dangerous, already clotting. It’d certainly need a few stitches, but Sam could take care of that easily once they cleaned it up.

While Bucky was focused on assessing the cut, Zemo was dead set on shedding the rest of his soiled clothing, like a birch tree unraveling its bark layer by layer, to expose the smooth and fresh golden skin beneath. Muscular thighs flexed as he kicked off his boots, tac pants following in their wake, slipping his thumbs into the elastic waistband of his underwear and tugging them down over the firm globes of his ass. Bucky caught sight of a deep pair of indents on Zemo’s lower back—his dimples of Venus, his brain supplied unhelpfully—before averting his eyes. He told himself the flush of heat he felt on his face was a result of the rising temperature in the room, a consequence of the roaring shower. He swallowed around a lump in his throat that definitely wasn’t there.

Now shamelessly naked, Zemo tugged open the shower door with his right hand, muscles rippling over the uninjured side of his back, and stepped into the spray of water.

Bucky had a brief moment debating with himself the merits of just leaving Zemo to his shower and going to get himself that drink after all, but that was promptly quashed as Zemo let out a loud moan at the first cascade of hot water hitting his body from the rainfall showerhead above him. That deep, throaty sound hit Bucky dead-on and proceeded to run over him like a high-capacity freight train, and got him dropping his pants pretty fucking quickly. Making quick work of the rest of his clothes, Bucky stepped into the shower and pulled the glass door shut behind him with a soft click.

[laylainalaska]

Here I am, back to over-analyze specific creative choices in Falcon & Winter Soldier some more. This time it’s the way that Bucky, Sam, and Zemo are staged with each other in episodes three and four.

I mentioned in the Bucky glove meta that I feel like episode 4 is the one where the characters start to gel into a group, and I’m going to talk about one aspect of that, which is the way that the Sam-Bucky-Zemo triad are usually set up in physical proximity to each other and the way that it changes.

In episode 3 and early episode 4, in every scene they’re in, they’re generally arranged in one of two main ways.

Out in public, Zemo is in the middle - which makes sense because in most cases, he’s leading them somewhere, and Sam and Bucky are also trying to keep tabs on him, so one of them is on each side and perhaps a little behind. This is their basic arrangement for moving around in groups of people; they also do it in the Madripoor bar and to some extent at Sharon’s party. It’s a combination of Sam and Bucky trying to keep Zemo under control and also keep up with him.

The Riga walk-and-talk in 1x03 is typical.

When they're indoors somewhere relatively private, however, where they aren’t around other people or having to keep close tabs on Zemo, usually they're set up with Sam and Bucky in close proximity to each other, while Zemo is either over to one side, or circulating around the room. There's a distinct sense of Bucky and Sam being a unit while Zemo is the odd man out.

There are a number of examples of this - for example, on the plane:

Sam and Bucky on one side, Zemo on the other.

There's not a good long shot that shows it in Sharon's apartment - this is the closest I could find - but Sam pretty quickly gravitates to Bucky's side of the room, while Zemo stays on the fringes of things, over at the right.

And you see it a lot in the Riga safehouse: Sam and Bucky together, Zemo off doing his own thing, or circulating around them, but definitely on the outside.

In addition to underscoring that Sam and Bucky are a unit that Zemo isn’t part of, Sam and Bucky also tend to be steadily closer to each other in group shots as the two episodes go by.

Then Walker shows up. 

They’ve all been settling with each other a little bit over the last couple of episodes. (I have various examples of this - Bucky and Sam are obviously getting closer, but there are also little things indicating that Zemo is also loosening up around them, like the shift from joking about poisoning them early in ep. 3, to feeding them by the end of the episode.) It’s fairly subtle, though, a relaxing of tension, a slow getting to know each other.

And Walker, in some sense, pushes on this a bit, by forcing everyone to pick a side.

At this point there starts to be a distinct sense of “us” and “them” with the Sam-Bucky-Zemo triad vs. Walker and Hoskins.

UNHAND OUR VILLAIN, MISCREANT!

They could mix up, the way they mixed up in a group with Sharon. But they don’t. Bucky and Sam stick with Zemo, and Hoskins and Walker stick together.

This does break up inside, as Zemo gets handcuffed to the wall and everyone is running around pursuing their own agendas.

They’re still all kinda tuned in on what’s happening with each other, though.

Back at the safehouse afterwards, there’s a much looser vibe between all three of them, and one way this expresses itself is that there’s much less of a sense of defined, separate Zemo-space and SamBucky-space.

Technically Zemo’s still off to one side in this scene, but the way the spaces are blocked off, it feels like Sam and Zemo are one spatial unit in this scene, that Bucky then moves into and through.

As opposed to Zemo being completely separate, watching/listening, sometimes even talking with them, but not really a part of things.

And then when Walker and Hoskins show up - they all three close ranks, moving together and defining themselves as a unit.

Of course things fall apart shortly after, as the fight happens and Zemo goes his own way ... for a variety of reasons. Obviously it’s partly just because he wants to dodge the growing number of people who want to arrest and/or kill him. But he’s had plenty of opportunity to run before, and didn’t, and it’s not like things are that much more dire this time, or that the Karli situation is that much more resolved than it was before. And it’s right after Sam really hits him in the face with the question of whether he actually wants to kill Bucky or not. I think Zemo leaving at that particular point has at least something to do with noping out on all of this - the relaxing of tension, slowly coming together thing that’s happening here.

[myhaikyuuacademia]

Zemo x reader

Summary: Zemo and reader kiiiinda address the tension between them... Warnings: making out (but no smut), lap sitting Notes: This was literally the first thing on my mind this morning after waking up... Zemo brainrot reached a critical point

Things had been... kinda weird between you and Zemo since Madripoor. Taking the role as his arm candy for the evening led to some questionable decisions to avoid blowing the cover. Nothing too extreme, but it still changed things between the two of you. Now, staying in a safehouse in riga, you were left alone to babysit Zemo as Sam and Bucky were out running errands. If that was a good decision, you didn't know. Keeping a safe distance you kept stealing glances at Zemo who was sitting on the couch. A fed up sigh escaped your mouth before you could suppress it. Teeth scraping against your lips in an effort to distract you and calm your nerves. "What's wrong?" His head was slightly tilted.

''Nothing." You shook your head and trying your best at a nonchalant face. It was clearly written in his face that he did not believe you. "Come here." He beckoned you to come closer with his finger. Your tongue pressed against your cheek as you tilted your head in surrender, making your way over to him reluctantly. "What?" You were now standing directly in front of him. Close, probably too close, less than an inch and your legs would be touching his. Ugh, you couldn't believe that your heart started beating faster at that realisation. He simply patted his lap, without breaking eye contact. A few seconds passed before you complied, your knees hitting the soft cushions of the couch on either side of his lap, straddling him. You sighed in defeat, slowly, carefully, reaching up with one of your hands to caress the hair at the back of his head. His hands found their way to your thighs and it took every ounce of selfcontrol you had not to shiver at that. "This is about Madripoor, isn't it?" His eyes were watching you, surveilling you. ''Yeah...'' your voice was quiet. "Hmmm.." he was contemplating. "And what are we supposed to do about that?" He gave your thigh a soft squeeze. You stayed silent for a few moments. Opening your mouth you could barely bring out a whispered ''Kiss me.''. Scared that you had misread or misjudged the situation. Scared of what this would mean for your future, for you. But also so terribly desperate for the feeling of his lips on yours. Unlike you though, he didn't hesitate and completed your request before you could even blink. By the feel of it, he had been waiting for this moment just as long as you had, maybe even longer than that. Your hand gripped his hair tighter, the other coming up to hold his face. His hands were now resting on your ass. Pressing you closer, as if the space between you wasn't already practically nonexistent. You couldn't get enough of him, and he couldn't get enough of you. Days of tension had resulted in this. The pot was boiling over. Slowly you pulled away, your hand on his cheek, you still needed to touch him. "Sam and Bucky will be back soon." Your voice was quiet but firm. "I understand." You couldn't resist pressing a quick kiss on his lips, before sighing and slowly untangling yourself from him and standing up.

A/ N: definitely up for writing a part 2 Tag list: @lowkey-love-loki​

[sholiofic]

Curious about what you're working on at the moment? (any chance of a snippet o.o) xx

Sorry it took me a while to answer this one! Although I think when I originally got this ask (in early December) the answer was basically "a bunch of exchange fics I can't talk about."

My main WIPs right now are a couple of fics that started out as prompt fills but have, uh, grown. There's one which is combining a couple of different prompts about Zemo running a high fever/collapsing in the field (this one is a bit stalled out because, like a feverish Zemo, it keeps trying to wander off in different directions) and another one which was spawned out of a discussion on the Winterbaron discord about Zemo being given a drug that'll kill him if he falls asleep so they have to keep him awake for days, until it clears out of his system. Actually, I was working on that one last night, so here, have a little of it!

--

On night #2, Zemo decided to go on a safehouse-wide cleaning and reorganizing spree.

"This is really fucking annoying," Bucky groaned, lying on the couch with his arm over his eyes. Zemo was vacuuming upstairs.

"It's keeping him awake."

"He reorganized my ammo, Sam. He sorted it by manufacturer. Who does that?"

"Someone who's trying to avoid a lethal case of sleep," Sam said, which made Bucky grumble and roll over to change the channel.

This whole "sleeping in shifts" thing didn't seem to be working out so well. And it was impossible to go to bed anyway with Zemo vacuuming every bedroom and stuffing loads of sheets in the washing machine.

Zemo finally calmed down a little around 4 a.m. and threw himself down on the couch opposite Sam. Bucky had actually fallen asleep, and Sam had pulled a blanket over him. The combination of WWII plus seventy years of Winter Soldier-ing had probably given him the ability to fall asleep under almost any conditions. Sam had thought his years in the service had given him that, but apparently not.

"We're out of Febreeze and laundry detergent," Zemo said. "I left a list. You haven't obtained my items from this morning, either."

"Sorry if this safehouse isn't up to your exacting standards," Sam said, irritated. Five solid hours of vacuuming noises and slamming cabinets was getting to him. "I'll get your Gruyère in the morning."

"It's your own fault if you're forced to eat a dry omelet."

[madrifour]

Madrifour vibes

idea: scene with two characters eagerly stripping each other clearly about to bone, but they keep getting interrupted by finding carefully concealed weapons in each other’s clothing, so they keep just unholstering, revealing and unstrapping increasingly ludicrous amounts of hidden guns and knives as the clothes come off, and it’s lowkey killing the mood a little

[l4verq]

remnants (1)

ransom drysdale x reader

in which you have to protect ransom drysdale because he has the same face as steve rogers, your ex who’s gone back to peggy

warnings : fights, guns, hostage situation, tiny bit of violence

if you want to be added to the taglist, lmk in the comments💗

ʀᴇᴍɴᴀɴᴛꜱ

*not my gif*

-

ransom’s seen pretty much everything.

travelled around the world, eaten the finest delicacies, snapped away for five years into non-existence all because of a purple, ball-sack face alien.

or so he thought.

because sitting here cuffed to a chair infront of you barely conscious, he begs to differ.

how did the night get so fucked so fast?

“hey.” he extends his leg, trying to nudge yours desperately.

you were a sight to behold with your hair undone, dark locks tousled around your delicate neck.

but ransom can’t afford to marvel at you, in fact the first thing he needs to do is get the fuck away from you.

because the way you’d jammed that glass cup up that bartender’s throat without a second thought, you were no ordinary woman.

“psst, hey.” He tries again, eyes skimming over the room.

they probably were holding them both for ransom.

hell would freeze over before he gave any of his money to those fuckers who chained him up like a dog.

you stir around slightly as you slowly open your heavy eyes. a groan slips out when you try to adjust yourself, only tightening the hold on your hands.

“good, you’re up.”

you lift your head to see a bloodied ransom across you.

slumping back into your seat, your body cries out in pain at the slightest movements.

as soon as you’d tasted the martini, you knew it was an ambush, thankfully spitting most of it out.

but it was too late, the drug almost instantaneously taking action, making you groggy.

the last thing you vaguely remember is dragging ransom out only to be whacked out cold, seeing stars.

“what’s going on? hey, are you going back to sleep?”he asks, straining his leg out to nudge yours again.

“you just don’t shut up, do you?” you croak out, barely above a whisper.

“i’m being held hostage in this room,” his nose scrunches up, “so, I’m sorry if I’m just a little curious as to what the fuck is going on.”

he looks almost pitiful, dried blood on his forehead and desperation in his eyes.

reminds you of steve after missions when he would limp around, all bruised up.

your eyes flicker over to the one camera pointed right at you, but the way it was angled you knew your hands weren’t in view.

“do you know about the avengers?” you work on dislocating your wrist to free your hands chained behind you.

not exactly your favourite thing but it worked everytime.

he rolls his eyes and quirks an eyebrow.

“you think I don’t know the avengers? the whole ‘saviours of the world but we choose to remain anonymous’ crap?”

“well, you’re looking at one right now.” you give an umamused smile, slightly flinching at the wrench that causes a tear in your ligaments.

he probably wouldn’t have believed you if he hadn’t witness you take down six people with such ease just a few hours? ago.

“anyways long story short, you look just like captain america and for some reason hydra just can’t seem to get over that face of yours.”

he lets out a genuine laugh which only seems to intensify the throbbing pain in his head.

you were a whole other kind of crazy.

“steve rogers? no one’s even seen his face under that dumb cowl of his.” he snorts, noticing the slight shift in your face at the mention of steve.

“andy barber. jake jensen. colin shea. ever heard of them?”

another tear.

he shakes his head, his irritation only growing by the very second.

“a few months ago, each one of them started disappearing one after the other. the only thing they had in common was their faces. they looked exactly like you, like him.”

you clench your jaw as you position your wrist for the final twist.

the last one always hurt like a bitch.

“you’re crazy.” he huffs, in disbelief.

he knew he shouldn’t have gone to that stupid event, not let his mother get in his head like always.

he could be at home right now, in his lavish three bedroom villa overlooking the sylvan surroundings.

but here he was, tied up in a filthy room with an avenger.

you might have to agree with him on the crazy part because you’re regretting the whole dislocating thing when the last twist pulls through, pain nearly blinding you.

he can only watch in horror as he realises what you’re doing.

“no, like you’re actually insane.” he breathes out in disbelief as your hands slip out of the chain.

the door swings open, guns pointed right at you.

a particular face in the middle catches your eye as you recognise him.

“you know you’re not getting out of here that easy, right?” zemo chuckles, “broke those pretty bones for nothing.”

“you get blipped for five years and this is the first thing you do? somebody needs to get a life.” you slowly get up, hands raised (you think?)

you couldn’t really feel them anymore.

“sit back down.” he orders, gun pointed right at your head.

he yells at you to sit down again but the gun’s pointed at ransom now.

“holy fuck, dude, don’t point that shit at me. this is how 99% of the people in movies die.” ransom pleads, his eyes closed.

“he’s not steve, you know that. so, why are you doing this? I mean I know why I’m doing this.” you hesitantly sit back down, your ears pleased for once to hear the familiar whirring.

just a few more seconds. that’s all you needed.

he cocks his head, “doing what?”

“buying time.”

ransom’s seen enough action movies to know the probability of him accidentally being shot by any of the rain of bullets whizzing past you two right now is high.

too high for his liking.

he thinks he saw a red flying thing knock out zemo? before you pushed him down so hard the chair broke.

“jesus christ, are you trying to kill me?” He yells, his back throbbing in pain.

and all of a sudden, it’s quiet,a persistent ringing taking over his ears.

he opens his eyes to see you hovering over his face.

it’s weird, your lips seem to be moving but he can’t hear you.

and it’s all black.

“i just want you to know that what you did back there, that was stupid.” sam glares at you, in the rearview mirror.

“and dumb.” bucky chimes in.

you roll your eyes.

it was going to be a long ride to the safehouse.

the car bumps and ransom bounces around, his head hitting the top.

“jesus, hold him or something.” bucky turns around, looking at ransom’s unconscious body sprawled on the seat.

you scoot over closer to ransom, your hand guiding his head to your lap.

bucky turns back around, a grin creeping up to his face which you just want to punch off.

you look down at the bloody mess on Ransom’s forehead, fingers slightly grazing over it.

it was done with a blunt object, most likely the back of a gun.

you can’t stop staring at his face, the same lump forming in your throat again.

so you force yourself to look away, focus on the trees zooming past until sam stops the car infront of a small house, “we’re here.”

bucky hands you a bag of essentials, waving at you to go in, “we got him.”

the house is actually better than most safe houses you’re used to.

it has electricity and hot water and that’s already made it a top contender.

you head straight for the shower, stripping down to nothing while turning on the water.

you hiss in pain at the contact of water on your aching skin.

the water’s scorching hot but it’s the only way you feel clean.

you scrub off the grime and dirt like always, desperately washing away the dried blood under your fingernails.

a trail of reddish brown water as you wash your hair, nails scratching every surface of your scalp.

quickly changing into a set of clean clothes, you pull out a box of needles.

you’re sloppy with your stitches, maybe cause you’d gotten used to him doing it for you.

throwing your wet hair into a towel, you debate whether to clean his wound up or not.

but your hand is already reaching for the bag of first aid sprawled all over the sink.

“it’s just a nice thing to do.” you mumble, making your way to the living room.

sam’s passed out on the couch adjacent to ransom and you’re pretty sure bucky went out to get some food.

they’ve changed his clothes for him but the ugly bruise on his forehead only seems to be swelling up.

you sit down on the floor, rummaging through the box, pulling out cotton and antiseptic.

“am I dead?” he croaks out, slightly shifting.

you chuckle, looking back at him.

a few dabs of the brown liquid on the cotton.

“this is gonna sting.” You warn him before gently wiping the angry bruise.

he flinches, groaning in pain.

“where am I?”

“safe.”

“yea, that’s really comforting.” he looks up at you in annoyance.

you exchange to a new waft of cotton, still cleaning up the dried up blood.

it’s strange, how weird yet nice your gentle touches feel.

the way your lips slightly part and eyebrows knit together as you concentrate.

ransom never really had someone take care of him like this.

“wher’s Steve?” he asks the lingering question on his mind.

there’d been many conspiracy theories online, each one crazier than the other.

he again notices the slight clench of the jaw, the shift in your position at the mention of his name.

“gone.” you reply stoically, placing the gauze over the swelling wound.

a shit reply but he can’t bring himself to pry further.

you look down at his face, the familiarity of this catching you offguard.

after every mission, he’d force you to sit down and tend to your every wound, every scratch.

can’t have my girl walking around, all bruised up like that.

and you’d force him to sit down and do the same.

it was always so personal, standing between his legs, his hands around your waist while yours worked around.

“hey, you okay?” ransom lifts his head, regretting it instantly as pain shoots up his entire body.

you blink away the tears threatening to spill any second.

“yeah, I’m good. Get some rest.”

you fumble around, hurriedly picking up the first aid kit, your shaky hands doing little to help you.

you were clearly distraught and ransom had a sneaking suspicion why.

-

a/n : i dont even know if u can physically dislocate your wrist yourself lol, im just making shit up as i go lmao

[fanfic-archive]

Meeting the Baron (5/7)

Chapter 5. Vienna, Austria

Summary: Having the time to take a break from the action, Zemo aims to show you the comfort he can offer you. Even if you don’t really understand why he is doing so.

Warnings: NSFW

Word Count: 4524

After leaving Riga, the two of you didn’t travel far, having landed in Vienna, Austria, yesterday afternoon. Zemo had taken you to a property of his, another safehouse of sorts, but this was even nicer than the last. Like the one in Latvia, the furniture was modern but inspired by traditional Austrian designs. It appeared that he liked to pay respects to the countries that he inhabited in that way.

Once inside, he had suggested you take a bath to sooth your sore body before offering you some food and drink. Afterwards he took you to your assigned room to let you rest. When he left the room, you took some time to investigate the room. It was nicer than the one in Riga, the bed was softer than the sheets were silkier, but what really caught your attention was the closet. He had told you that there was a change of clothes in there, but you hadn’t expected it to be full, even though it made sense, you would be staying here for a while and didn’t have many clothes with you.

Zemo had definitely prepared the safehouse for your arrival.

Nearly as soon as your head hit the pillow, you fell asleep. Unsurprisingly, the fights and the travelling had worn you out.

Morning soon came but Zemo woke long before you. Eventually, he thought that he should check on you. You woke up to the sound of knocking on your door, you managed a tired ‘come in’ as you sat up in the bed.

The bedroom door opened and Zemo stepped inside, two cups of tea in his hand. “Good morning. Sleep well?” he asked, closing the door with his foot and approaching you.

“Yeah, I did” you smiled slightly at him, pushing your hair back out of your face. “Thank you” you accepted one of the cups of tea when he offered it to you, keeping the other for himself.

Leaning back against the headboard of the bed, you took a sip of your tea, smiling as you let out a content sigh.

“Do you mind?” Zemo asked, gesturing towards the bed. You shook your head and he sat down on the edge of the bed, taking a drink from his own cup.

“So, how many safe houses do you have?” you asked curiously.

“In Austria?” he attempted to clarify but you just stared at him for a moment. He probably had more than you even expected, multiple in one country.

“…how many countries do you have properties in?” you changed your question.

“Is there a particular place you would like to visit?” he answered with another question, basically telling you that If he didn’t have somewhere to stay in a country, he could get one.

“…I’m just going to take that as…most countries” you muttered before taking another sip, making him chuckle quietly to himself. “Do you have any permanent residences?” you asked.

“One or two” he nodded.

“One or two?” you couldn’t help but laugh to yourself.

“That amuses you?” Zemo looked at you, tilting his head to the side slightly.

“Not really, I just…you have one or two permanent homes, you have safehouses in multiple countries, a collection of vintage cars, a seemingly unlimited wealth at your fingertips…I’m just not used to the lifestyle” you confessed, shaking your head before bringing the cup back up to your lips.

“Well, Meine geliebte, I suggest you get used to it” the Baron smiled, “now, you need to heal and rest. If you need anything, just ask. Will you be joining me for breakfast?”

“I’ll be right out” you nodded, smiling at the man. He returned your smile before standing from the bed and leaving the room.

Running a hand over your face, you processed what was happening. So many questions were running through your mind. Why were you here? How long would you be here? What did Zemo want? Most importantly, why the hell were you so comfortable with it?

Days passed, your bruises healed, and you and Zemo were getting along well. He had been taking good care of you as you healed, not letting you lift a finger if he could prevent it. A part of you started to think that he enjoyed taking care of you, he didn’t seem burdened by it at all, and always insisted on doing things for you that you were perfectly capable of doing yourself. You couldn’t complain, it’s the best you’ve ever been treated.

Most of your time was spent around the safehouse since you were still healing but once you started to recover, every now and again Zemo would take you into town and show you around. This was definitely the type of vacation you had talked about with Sam and Bucky, and you were beginning to get used to it.

Time passed quickly since settling in and before you knew it, you were recovered from your injuries, at least for the most part.

You were in the kitchen, getting yourself a drink. It was still pretty early, so you were still in your pyjamas and robe, humming along to the quiet music that was playing. Hips starting to sway along to the music as you filled the cup, feeling more relaxed than you had for a long time.

“Enjoying yourself?” a familiar voice came from behind you, making you jump a little.

“Morning, Helmut” you greeted him as you turned to him, leaning back against the kitchen counter with your cup in your hands. He smiled at how you used his forename with such ease.

“You seem to be in a good mood” Zemo observed as he walked over to you. “Did you make me one?” he asked, glancing down at your drink.

“I did” you smirked, reaching behind you to slide the drink you made him down the counter and towards him.

“Well, thank you, Schatzi” he accepted the drink, leaning closer to you to pick it up.

Another thing had changed, the tension between you and the Baron had grown but neither of you had done anything about it, neither of you had made a move. You were both were aware that there was something between you and that was the reason you were vacationing in his safehouse.

“Will you join me for dinner tonight?” Zemo asked, sipping from his drink.

“I join you for dinner every night” you pointed out, cocking an eyebrow at him.

“Yes, but tonight I want to take you somewhere nice” he explained, increasing your curiosity.

“Well…okay then” you agreed to the dinner, not like you were even thinking about turning it down.

You had asked Zemo what kind of place you would be going for dinner, so that you could find a suitable outfit in your new closet, but he had told you not to worry about it. Next thing you knew, he was providing with an outfit he had picked out. You had given him a pointed look, but he reminded you that you didn’t have to wear anything you didn’t like or do anything you didn’t want, and so you returned to your bedroom with his gift.

After getting ready, you stood in front of the full-length mirror to examine your reflection. It was a different style to the one in Madripoor but had some similarities that made you remember the night. It was fitted and came down to just above your knees, just like the one that night, but this one had full length sleeves. The top was deep cut, showing off your collarbones and a subtle amount of cleavage. It was a classy black number, simple enough to not look like you were searching for attention but definitely enough to catch the eye. To match the dress was a simple pair of black heels. The cut of the dress perfectly displayed the simple but expensive diamond necklace that hung from your neck.

It was…a lot considering what you were used too, and you weren’t playing a character this time. It made you strangely nervous. Before you could dwell on it, you were pulled out of your thoughts by a knock on the bedroom door.

“Come in” you called. Zemo opened the door and stepped into the room, smiling when he saw you in the dress. “Do you enjoy dressing me up?” you questioned, still looking at your reflection.

“I enjoy treating you, you deserve it” Zemo answered, seemingly honest. “I have excellent taste, you look ravishing” he complimented when you didn’t say anything else. His words tinted your cheeks a light shade of pink, noticing the way he looked your reflection up and down.

You examined your reflection again, smoothing down the dress. When you still didn’t say anything else, Zemo began to worry that you didn’t like the dress.

“Do you like it?” he asked as he walked up behind you. You looked up, making eye contact with his reflection.

“I do” you assured him. “Let’s just not get too used to me getting dressed up like this, okay? It’s nice for special occasions and things but it’s just not me to do it every day” you added after a moment of hesitation.

“That sounds like a wonderful plan, Liebling” Zemo assured you with a sincere smile, making you smile in return. “Are you ready to go?” he asked.

“Yeah” you nodded.

“Perfect” he hummed, taking another moment to admire you in the mirror. “Shall we?” Zemo held his arm out for you to take, and you smiled up at him as you slipped your arm through his.

The restaurant you arrived at was, without a doubt, the nicest place you have ever eaten at. You felt a little out of place, even if you didn’t look it, but having Zemo with you made you feel more comfortable. Safe, even. The waiter escorted you both to the reserved table and Zemo had told you to order anything you wanted.

“Is this another one of the things I should get used too?” you asked, looking around the establishment subtly, not wanting to draw attention to yourself.

“Only if you enjoy it, Meine geliebte” Zemo assured you, making you smile as you shook your head at him.

“Cheers” you raised your glass of champagne.

“Prost” he raised his own glass, gently clinking it against yours before you both took a drink. You were thinking about something, he could see it in his eyes, and it seemed that you were thinking rather intently about it. “What are you thinking, Schatzi?” Zemo finally asked after a moment of letting you ponder in silence.

“Nobody’s treated me this well before…ever” you admitted with a small sigh, placing your glass down on the table.

“I will give you the world, it’s what you deserve” something about the way he spoke, the way he looked at you, it made you feel like something special, like you were the only person in the world that mattered. He was good at that, but it felt sincere at the same time, like he actually believed it.

“If you say so” you reluctantly agreed to the claim.

“I do” he insisted.

You didn’t get the chance to reply because the food arrived, which turned out to be as delicious as you expected it to be.

“What would your friends think if they saw us here together?” Zemo spoke after a moment of comfortably eating in silence.

“You sure know how to bring down the mood” you joked.

“There was a mood?” he asked with a smirk.

“There might’ve been” you shrugged playfully. “And to answer your question, they wouldn’t see us here. Why would they be here?” you pointed out.

“They wouldn’t be able to get in” Zemo agreed, making you roll your eyes fondly. “But if they did?” he prodded.

“There isn’t a chance in hell that they would approve. Bucky would take your ass to the Raft personally and I’d never hear the end of it from either of them” you told him, not even having to hesitate on the answer. Bucky would probably beat his ass before sending him to the Raft as well, and your two friends would chastise you until they were blue in the face, thinking you had lost your mind.

“Sounds accurate” he nodded, knowing you were right. “Now that’s out of the way, we can enjoy our date” he knew it had been bothering you, a little voice in the back of your head nagging you about all the reasons you shouldn’t be sitting opposite him right now.

“Date? I agreed to dinner, not a date” you mocked surprised.

“Apologies, I should have been clearer. So, I will ask you now. Will you join me on this date?” the Baron asked, gesturing to the food and drink sitting on the table in front of you both.

“…yes, I will” you nodded, smiling at him before continuing with your meal.

After a meal filled with light conversation, you and Zemo returned to the safehouse. He gestured for you to take a seat on the couch while he went to the kitchen to pour two drinks.

“I had a good time tonight…but you don’t have to take me to fancy restaurants or anything” you told the Baron as he approached you, handing you one of the glasses of liquor.

“I enjoy it. Is that a problem?” he asked with small frown. Even Helmut Baron could worry and now he worried that perhaps he had come on too strong or that you didn’t enjoy the lifestyle he was showing you.

“No, of course not” you shook your head before confessing, “…I’m just confused.”

“About what?” his features softened, wanting to hear what was bothering you.

“Bucky breaks you out of prison, you help us find Karli, you escape, and then you…come back for me to whisk me away to Vienna to take me on expensive…dates. Why?” you questioned him and you both knew that you had every reason to be confused about what was going on.

“You make it sound like I am doing this for no reason, like there isn’t a connection for us to explore” Zemo hummed, sounding confident in his claim of a ‘connection’. “You know why I asked you to come with me, it’s the same reason you agreed to it” you nodded thoughtfully, taking a drink as you thought over his words. “Just say the word and I’ll fly you back to the States, go my own way and that will be the end of it. But I would like it if you stayed” there it was, another chance to go home and put an end of this.

“I’m staying…” you decided a little too easy, “…but…you know that you don’t have to impress me, right?” you asked.

“I’ll keep that in mind” Zemo nodded, drinking from his glass.

You took a moment to take him in, admiring how he looked just sitting there with his drink. Dressed in a similar manner as he usually was but having hung his coat up by the door. He watched you too, curiosity increasing when you moved closer to him on the couch.

“So, what is that…‘connection’ you were talking about exactly?” you asked, head tilting to the side slightly.

Zemo’s gaze fell to your lips before flickering back up to meet your gaze again. Without saying a word, he took the glass out of your hand and lent forward to place the two drinks down on the coffee table. You watched him as he lent back, returning to you, something intense burning behind his eyes.

His hand lifted, the back of his knuckles stroking along your cheekbone before running his fingertips along your jaw. You remained still, still watching intently. He cupped your jaw in his hand before leaning in, his lips hovering over yours. Putting the power in your hands. Making your decision, you tilted your chin up and pressed your lips to his.

The kiss started slow, testing the waters, focusing on the electricity that coursed through your body. You brought your hands up, one resting on the side of his neck and the other against his chest, while he slipped his hand around to the back of your head to hold you closer. As the two of you relaxed into each other, falling into a natural rhythm, the kiss began to get more heated. The hand on the back of your head guiding you closer as he deepened the kiss.

The last remaining restraint you were both holding onto faded away as he wrapped his arm around your waist, and you manoeuvred yourself to straddle his lap, the hem of your dress bunching up your thighs. His hands held your waist as you made yourself comfortable, slipping your arms around his neck.

“Don’t feel obligated” Zemo spoke as he broke away from the kiss, his words making you frown a little. “I don’t want you to feel like you owe me something” he clarified. It was a sweet concern, and you could tell it was sincere, but a part of you wanted to scoff in his face for even thinking that.

“Helmut…we broke you out of prison, harboured you from Captain America, and I encouraged you to escape. I am well aware that I don’t owe you anything” you assured him, leaning back a little as you cupped his face in your hands, brushing your thumbs over his cheeks. “I am only here, in every sense of the word, because I want to be. I want this, and if I’m being honest with myself, I’ve wanted this since Madripoor” you confessed, finally fully admitting to what you felt around the Baron.

Zemo brought his hand back to the back of your neck, pulling you down to him and capturing your lips in a passionate kiss that you instantly returned, threading your fingers through his hair.

“Stand, Meine geliebte” his hands fell to your hips to guide you off of his lap, standing in front of him. As he stood up, he took your hand in his.

With a smile, you let Zemo guide you through the lounge, past your bedroom door, and towards his. Zemo opened the door and let you enter, stepping in behind you and closing the door as you turned back to face him.

Using his hold on your hand, he pulled you closer, his other hand landing on the small of your back as your body pressed flush with his, lips connecting again. You held onto him as he walked you backwards towards the bed, stopping just before your legs touched the mattress.

Hands caressed down your body before coming to a halt on your hips, squeezing them before pulling away from the kiss and turning you around. You sighed when you felt his chest press against your back, his hips press against your ass, your hands resting on top of his as they stroked up and down your waist.

Zemo pressed a kiss to your temple and lent back slightly, slowly pulling down the zipper on the back of your dress. Fingertips gently traced up your spine before gently guiding the material of your dress over your shoulders and down your arms, finally letting the garment fall and pool around your feet.

Light kisses were pressed to the back of your neck before travelling along your shoulder, a hand on your arm encouraging you to turn back around to face the Baron. You planted a soft, lingering kiss on his lips before kissing along his jaw, while your hands ran up his torso and started work on unfastening his shirt. You kisses moved down his neck before stepping back to help him remove his shirt. His hands smoothed down your arms as he let you work, looking down at you with a sense of adoration.

Arms circled your waist to pulled you closer, returning your lips to his. You smiled into the kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck to press your chest to his, relishing in the feeling of his skin against yours. With a gentle lift, Zemo was helping you lay back on the bed, not breaking the kiss as you shifted your bodies up towards the pillows.

His body pressed yours into the sheets, his touch and kisses making you writhe underneath him, only wanting more. He must have sensed it, causing him to chuckle into the kiss, squeezing your waist, a silent promise of what was to come.

Another peck to your lips and Zemo was kissing along your jaw, down your neck, over your chest. You ran your fingers through his hair, nails gently scratching his scalp, as his kisses continued down your stomach. His fingers hooked under your underwear, looking up at you as he pulled them down your legs. Looking for any hesitation, but he saw none.

Your underwear was discarded to the floor before Zemo made himself comfortable, laying on his stomach as he kissed along your hips. You watched him intently, skin flushing even more when he glanced up to make eye contact with you. Turning his head, he moved those kisses to the inside of your thigh as he guided your knee over his shoulder.

Your fingers curled in his hair, head falling back against the pillows, once his mouth was finally on you. One of his hands anchored your hips to the bed while his other hand caressed up your thigh. Your body tensed slightly before slowly relaxing, eyes fluttering shut contently before opening again.

“Helmut…” you sighed, back arching slightly as his tongue flicked expertly.

Your breath hitched in your throat before releasing a moan. One finger, then two. Knowingly curling against that spot inside you, tightening the coil in your gut.

Before you knew it, your release was flooding through your body, back arching off of the bed, gently pulling on the Baron’s hair as you moaned out his name. Your legs tensed and toes curled as Zemo helped you ride through your high. Your release hit you quicker than you expected, just another effect that this man had on you, or maybe it had just been too long since you had last been with someone.

“There you go, Vöglein” Zemo cooed up to you, his accent thicker than usual, voice low with arousal. He pressed a gentle kiss to the inside of your thigh, stroking his thumb over your hip when you flinched at the slight overstimulation.

Letting your legs fall apart to accommodate his body, you reached for him as he crawled back up your body.

“I told you, you look ravishing” he complimented as he pushed your hair out of your face, “you always do.”

The way he looked at you made your whole body heat up. A part of you worried that there was no going back after this, no more denying what you felt for this man, you had already crossed the point of no return, but you didn’t mind at all.

“Could say the same about you” you breathed, leaning up to catch him in a kiss. He smiled into the kiss, both of you groaning into the other’s mouth as he pressed his hips against your own. “Stop teasing” you complained with a small groan.

“Patience now, Meine geliebte” Zemo shushed you, chuckling to himself at the unamused looked you gave him. “It’s alright, my patience is running thin too” he confessed.

You felt cold when he climbed off of you, pushing yourself up on your hands to watch him as he removed his pants and underwear. Finally, with both of you undressed, he returned to you on the bed.

He positioned himself between your legs, his body flush with yours, faces almost touching. You cupped his face in your hands, as he lifted one of your thighs ever so slightly. You gave him a small nod, both of you gasping quietly as he pushed into you.

For a moment he just remained still, hips pressed against yours, holding each other. Once you both adjusted to the sensations, you pulled Zemo down into another kiss, which encouraged him to start moving, setting a steady rhythm with ease.

Hands roamed, somehow both aimlessly and with purpose. You shared heated kisses, soft moans of each other’s names, melding together like you were meant too. Zemo lifted himself up a little, gripping the top of the headboard in one hand and your hip in the other, changing the angle and leaving you arching beneath him, clinging to him. He peered down at your body, watching you beneath him, his gaze returning to your face when you moaned, taking in your pleasured expression.

Taking in the image of him above you only increased your arousal, dark eyes peering down at you, pink lips slightly parted, and his usually neat hair falling over his forehead. You instantly decided that you liked seeing him like this.

Eventually his rhythm faltered, and he suddenly returned to you, kissing you passionately, like you would both die if you didn’t.

“Helmut” you broke the kiss when you felt an intense wave wash over your body, arching into his body as your head lolled back into the soft pillows.  

As Zemo buried his face against your neck, you wrapped your shaky legs around his waist and your arms around his neck. “Y/n” he groaned your name, kissing and nipping at your sensitive skin as you rode through your highs.

For a moment, you both just lay there, sharing a few post-bliss kisses as you steadied your breathing and came down. But it wasn’t long before you had both settled in the bed, Zemo on his back with you laying beside him, head on his chest, his arm wrapped around you securely. Silk sheets wrapped around you both comfortably. It was silent, a comfortable silence.

“What does Vöglein mean?” you asked quietly, breaking the silence when you recalled the petname he had used for you moments ago.

“Little bird” he informed you, stroking his hand over your hair.

You couldn’t help but chuckle at the familiar petname. “Did you get that from Selby?” you asked playfully, looking up at him.

“Well, it appears that you do sing for me, I thought it was appropriate” Helmut hummed, lifting his other hand to caress your cheek. His comment instantly made you blush, burying your face back in his chest. “I won’t call you it if you don’t like it” he assured you, not sure whether you were embarrassed or just flustered.

“I don’t hate it” you confessed, smiling lightly to yourself, “I like your little petnames.”

“I know” he seemed confident in that.

“You do?” you asked carefully, looking up at him again.

“You would have told me to stop if you didn’t like it” he pointed out, fingers combing through your hair.

“That’s fair” you shrugged slightly with a smile.

“Sleep, Meine geliebte”

You settled back down against his chest, smiling contently as your eyes fluttered shut. The feeling of his hand stroking your hair or tracing his fingers up and down your back soothing you to the brink of sleep.

“Goodnight, Helmut”

Meeting the Baron Taglist:

@viviace @hannahbal-the-fannibal @multiplums @aliceblxck @sophiasescape @ikittiekat @greeneyedblondie44

(Just ask to be added!)

[lettalady]

6 secrets ask game: Zemo, Bucky and Reader from LJH if that's not too much?

Sorry it took me a little while to get this one typed up. I'd gotten started the other day and my computer decided to say: eh it's been awhile since we've seen tech fail Letta come screaming to the surface. (And we're not talking about the writing block. Nope.)

Six Secrets: LJH Edition

Zemo

An open secret, so long as those that comprised the EKO Scorpion unit he commanded still draw breath, is that he looked to the skies that day so many years ago now and smiled: The Avengers are here.

A secret those close to him know: He never hesitates to toss out the barbed response when someone dares bring up those he lost. Three days. Three days of digging through rubble, until his hands all but matched the family he unearthed only to bury them again shortly thereafter. So many know those details. Only those closest to him know how many nights he spent sleepless, or how he'd wake in a cold sweat clawing at the sheets (or whatever random surface he'd happened to collapse upon from exhaustion), or that sometimes he can swear he still feels the layers of debris jammed beneath his fingernails...

A secret he doesn't much care one way or the other if it gets out? That prison break. You know the one. Yep. Not his brainchild... he wasn't, of course, going to let opportunity pass him by.

A secret exactly one person knows anything about: Only Oeznik knows the details of the various caches and safehouses scattering the globe.

A secret nobody knows about and he sort of wants to tell someone: That prisonbreak. He... wasn't so confident that it could be successfully managed, not that he let it stop him from pretending otherwise.

A secret no one knows and he desperately wants to keep it that way: "Well - then it wouldn't be a secret, would it."

Bucky

A supposed secret that is, in fact, known to many people is that he is a nerd. Smart doesn't cut it, even when you consider that the serum amplified his ability to recall, mimic, etc. Give him long enough to get comfortable and stop scowling, maybe mention movies or books or whatever might have recently caught his attention as he tried to reup on everything he's missed out on over the years...

A secret known by those closest to him: He can remember just about every moment from every mission. Faces of assignments wait to reappear in his dreams. He also remembers being dragged, barely conscious, through the snow. Which he shouldn't remember at all, but does. And pain. Through the haze of body wracking pain, he remembers. Moments that are burned in. Moments frozen in time. All of it.

A secret he wouldn't care about getting out: How quickly he flipped from wary of the presence of the young woman that attached to their group in Madripoor who was clearly tangled with Zemo, to something else.

A secret exactly one person knows anything about: Steven Grant Rogers knows, and the punk knows to keep his mouth shut about it cause secrets burn both ways.

A secret nobody knows about but he sort of wants to tell someone: The rooftop garden at his apartment building that was a no-go until it suddenly was allowed - yea, that was all him. Not that he went toe to toe with the landlord or anything. He just... made sure that one morning all the needed supplies, equipment, starter plants... all of it was up there on the roof.

A secret no one knows and he'd like to keep it that way, thanks: While it is true that living with minimal décor is easy on the wallet, that's not the reason for his lifestyle choices. Fewer belongings and a go bag always packed means he's ready when the occasion calls for it. He's waiting, still, for the other shoe to drop.

Reader

Her open secret always has been and always will be her harbored crush on one Helmut J Zemo.

A secret those close to her know: That though she's terrified to the point of a visceral reaction of the thought of being forced to return to Sokovia -- she also yearns to go back to the place she grew up.

A secret she wouldn't care if it got out: She leaned heavily on that numbness to the world to survive even the most difficult of days. The things that were tied to her life with the Zemos were always felt, always mourned. Nothing ever seemed to dull those sharp pangs of loss delivered.

A secret exactly one person knows anything about: There was a beach vacation being planned to surprise Helmut. It was still in early stages, but even Carl was helping - and oh-so-excited to plan something for his favorite person in all the world. She's the sole keeper of the secret, now.

A secret no one knows about that she sort of wants to reveal: Is it a secret that she's remained distant from her family because she's now older and is hesitant to see recognition of that on their faces? Is it only something that has gone unspoken but everyone is aware of... and very much needs to be addressed. At some point. Maybe. Or perhaps never, because while it was painful to lose them and then chaos when everyone returned she might sort of like the fact that the sibling dynamics are all messy now.

A secret no one knows and she desperately doesn't want anybody to know: It's been easy enough so far to explain away feelings, or point to other reasons, but more and more it seems to be that there's a bit of a uniform fixation in play. If that's the case... if Bucky's actually flirting with her... and if he ever figures out that she's attracted to him, too? Yea. This could be a problem. (In that it wouldn't be a problem but it could be such a problem.)

[bestie-enthusiast]

A Means To An End

Summary: After chasing a lead into a neaby building, Sam and Bucky get to see a more... vunrable side of the Baron.

This fic is inspired by @morganbritton132

They had been chasing a lead, one of the cars that supposedly belonged to the Flag Smashers had been spotted outside of a small theatre. They had speculated it was a supply stop, or maybe a place to lay low. Zemo had taken them, in a surprisingly non-attention-drawing car, to about a block away from the theatre, and they started to walk the rest of the way there.

“It is privately owned, from what I understand.” Zemo explained to them. “The owners, most likely powerful and influential individuals, are either unaware of what's going on, or are actively supporting the group.”

Sam nodded, “Makes sense to me. Do we have to worry about them being there?” Zemo shook his head.

“Most likely not. They would have no reason to be inside unless they are also super soldiers.” Sam hummed in agreement and turned to Bucky, who had been silent.

“Are you good, man?” He asked quietly as they grew closer to the theatre.

“This feels like a trap.” Bucky grumbled, glaring at the small, but lavish, building that they had stopped in front of. “They’ve been staying at the camps and keeping supplies there. This feels out of character.”

Sam frowned, “Well maybe they needed a place to lay low, they know we’ve been tracking the houses they’ve been staying at, so maybe this is how they're trying to throw us off?” Bucky nodded, but didn’t look convinced.

Zemo led them into the theatre, effortlessly navigating the building. It was much larger on the inside than it appeared. As they wound their way deeper and deeper into the building, Bucky seemed to grow more and more agitated, until he froze.

“Bucky?” Sam asked worriedly, looking at the range of emotions passing over his friend's face.

“Shh,” Bucky hissed quietly, tilting his head towards a wall. Sam barely had the time to open his mouth when an explosion rocked the building. He felt something hit his head, and passed out.

-

Sam blinked awake, groaning at the dryness of his mouth. It took a few moments for him to remember what happened, but he didn’t feel too bad, so he assumed everything was good. He wasn’t completely covered in the ruins of the theatre, which is good, and after relieving himself of the rest of it, everything seemed to be intact, aside from some bruising and some cuts.

He looked around and spotted Bucky, who seemed to be just waking up as well, and walked over to help him up. Not that he needed it.

After the two of them had (somewhat subty) looked over the other for any signs of damage, they set about scouring the building for anything of use. Bucky was walking with a limp, and Sam had a minor concussion, but they were both still breathing and alive. They stumbled through, leaning on the other or on the nearest (standing) wall whenever they needed it.

That was when Sam remembered Zemo, and Bucky heard a voice.

“Fuck.” They said in unison, looking at the other in surprise.

“Zemo,” Sam explained in a single word, watching as Bucky let out a tense sigh.

“I heard someone.” Bucky said back, looking in the direction he had heard a whimper. It was very faint, but still present. “We don’t know who was in here. Could be a civilian.” Sam nodded and Bucky led them in the direction he heard the cry. As Bucky and Sam grew closer, Bucky was able to discern the voice as a sort of pained mewling, someone on the edge of hysteria that threatened to consume them. Sam also grew more concerned as Bucky led them into a more unstable and ruined part of the theatre.

The pathetic cry’s grew louder as the drew near to the source, and the weakness and vulnerability in them was the reason neither Sam nor Bucky thought that it could possibly be the missing Baron until they laid eyes upon him.

Zemo, in short, looked like a mess. A cut on his hairline was pouring blood down his face as the man curled in on himself. His hands were bleeding, the skin on his fingers rubbed raw after being used to scratch as concrete and metal. His appearance and injuries weren't the worst part though, no the worst part was what he was saying.

“Heike, Carl, Papa.” Over and over, like a mantra. Even as he choked on dust he continued to repeat the phrase. His voice sounded wrecked, ripped to shreds by screams no one had heard. It was very clear that Zemo just wasn’t there. He was not present as he repeated those three words even as he gasped for air and his voice cracked and crumbled.

Sam reacted before Bucky, gently calling out to Zemo. Even as he raised his voice Zemo did not respond, not even a flinch at the volume. Bucky tried next. He gently prodded at the Baron’s hands, once again not even eliciting a flinch. Bucky tried again with more force, pressing both of Zemo’s hands tightly against his chest. It was a very tense few moments as the Baron because lucid once again.

The usual sharpness returned to his eyes, although the tears were still present. Zemo blinked at them, and for once the Baron looked ashamed of himself.

“Apologies, you should not have seen that.” The man quietly apologised, wincing at the way his voice cracked. Sam and Bucky both just shook their heads, helping Zemo up. They all stumbled out of the rubble together, and Zemo spared himself a glance at the two men helping him. Bucky had a sort of empathetic understanding in his eyes, eyes far too soft to be looking at a criminal such as himself. Sam gave him a look of understanding, although it felt more like pity than anything. Zemo knew both men had experience with PTSD, but he never wished for them to know he struggled with it as well.

They staggered through the streets, Zemo carefully keeping quiet about the sharp pain in his ankle every time he took a step. It would be better if they just left him alone for some time once they arrived back at his safe house, and they would not leave him alone if they knew the extent of his physical injuries, let alone his mental ones.

And so he kept quiet. When they made it into the safehouse, Zemo let out a breath that he hadn’t been aware he was holding in. He let himself relax minutely now that they were in a safe location. It had been a taxing experience, and all he wished was for some space to once again grieve and mourn for his family. Unfortunately, it did not appear that Sam nor James would be giving him such a privilege, and so he continued to do his best to hold apart his now fragile mask. “So.” Sam said once they had all settled on the couch in the main room of the house. It was a tense, but not unwelcome intrusion into their silence, nevertheless Zemo flinched at the sudden noise.

“So.” He repeated quietly, knowing that as long as he spoke in quiet, quick sentences they would not be able to tell his voice was still quiet ruined and cracking. Zemo resisted the urge to curl up, to bring his feet into his person and rest his chin on his knees. It would be a very childish position and not to mention, vulnerable. It was a very tense few moments before Zemo decided to speak again.

“Do I have your permission to sleep or-” his voice cracked again as he thought of sleep. No doubt it would be nightmare filled. “Or do I have to sit in this st-stifling silence longer?” He could feel himself flush at his simple inability to speak a proper sentence, but silently hoped it would convince Sam and his sympathetic and pity-filled body to let him go.

“Oh, uhh, sure man. Whatever you want.” That was all he needed. He walked as fast as he could, without making it obvious he was eager to leave, to the closest bedroom. He locked the door behind him, relishing in the comfort the simple click brought him. He toed off his shoes and shrugged off all of his clothes sans boxers, and collapsed onto the bed. He started shaking with the effort that it was taking to hold everything, and so he let it out. Every single bit of pain and grief and anguish that he felt as he was relieving the memory. He could taste the dust in the air, remember the pain in his hands that he ignored as he dug his family from underneath the rubble.

It all felt so real, like it was happening again. Like he was truly relieving the worst moments of his entire life again. Like he was- he was experiencing the destruction of his whole world again, he could physically feel the pain in his heart as he recalled the memory.

He sobbed and screamed into the pillows on the bed, shaking like a leaf in a storm all the while. It didn’t take long for the pain to turn into exhaustion and numbness. For the grief to turn into mourning. He let out a shaky breath as his tears started to slow and his shakes turned less violent.

He felt nauseous but all too tired to even think about expelling energy to have something to drink, so instead he focussed on just passing the fuck out.

And hey! It worked.

Or at least he thought it did. He was pretty certain it did. Especially when he opened his eyes to see his papa’s ruined mansion in front of him. He inhaled the scent of dust and smoke, eyes already watering as he stared at the remains of his once luxurious childhood home. He stumbled down to the basement where he knew his bodies would be, solidifying the fact that this was a dream. In reality, it had taken him much longer to search the basement, holding out hope that the caved ceiling wouldn’t be covering their bodies. He stumbled down until he was directly in front of the spot he knew their bodies were buried, and started to dig. He dug and dug even as his hands screamed at him (or was it him screaming?) and the pain became near unbearable, until he was able to make out a small, pale wrist underneath all the rubble.

He clutched it like a lifeline, checking for a pulse for a very long moment. He already knew there wouldn’t be one, but every time he had this dream he still held out hope. He continued to claw at the remains, more careful now, until his entire family was uncovered. And just like every other time he had this nightmare, he carefully checked for pulses, breathing, anything, and just like every other time, there was nothing.

He allowed his tears to fall in the privacy of his family’s ruined home, and hoped to wake soon. If the dream continued on like this, he would be testing the theory of whether or not dying in your dreams can make you die in real life.

Thankfully, he woke up soon after. Although the way in which he woke up was not the most pleasant. He awoke to a loud thudding on his door and someone shouting his name. He felt somewhat delirious and wondered if he had picked up an infection. He grabbed a neatly folded bathrobe off of a chair and pulled it on, tying it loosely as he unlocked and opened the door.

Sam Wilson stood before him, looking uncharastically concerned. Well the man regularly looked concerned, it was just that he was concerned with Zemo that was abnormal.

“What?” Zemo asked tonelessly. He was too emotionally exhausted to use any snark or sarcasm.

“You were screaming,” Sam replied, stuffing his hands in his pockets awkwardly. Zemo suddenly felt awkward as well.

“Oh.” He was usually silent during his nightmare, but the day's events appeared to have affected his subconscious more than he had thought. “Apologies.”

“No it's fine, I just… you got me and Buck real concerned earlier, and I thought maybe…” Maybe he had gone into another flashback.

Zemo shook his head, “Just nightmares. I should recover just fine in a few days.” Sam looked nervous, but didn’t push it. He left soon after. As soon as he was out of sight Zemo let out a quiet brief, sagging against his door frame. He knew that the right thing to do would be to talk, to open up and spill out all his vulnerability so that they could pick through it like vultures and decide whether or not he was worth helping. He did not believe he was worth helping, and so he would not do the so called right thing.

He would not bear his soul only to have it crushed.

He would not let himself believe that maybe people did care after all.

Because he was only a means to a necessary end. And there was no need to complicate things further by adding his own emotions into the mix.

No. He would stay strong. This wouldn’t affect his performance on the field, and he would not let it affect his newly acquired acquaintanceship with the two men who assisted him in his escape from prison.

A means to an end. That was it.

[enkelimagnus]

Delacroix

Bucky Barnes Gen, 2565 words, rated T

Jewish Bucky Barnes, The Falcon and the Winter Soldier: Episode 5 Truth

Bucky spends a few days in Delacroix with Sam and his family. On one evening, as they both have a beer before dinner, watching the sun set, they have a conversation about life, about therapy, about work.

TW: US healthcare system and the military industrial complex, mental health

Read on AO3

Part 33 of Making a Home - the Jewish Bucky series

--------------

Sam’s family house is more of a home than anything Bucky’s lived in since he was deployed.

It’s warm and luminous, with big windows and light paint on the wood and the walls. There’s a poarch where they all end up sitting at the end of the day, when the sun sets over the bayou. The walls outside are blue and the roof is red. There are crayon drawings stuck with magnets to the fridge and mismatched furniture and containers. It’s been lived in, loved in.

A few days after his surprise arrival, Bucky stops feeling like a blood stain on the tapestry of life of the Wilson home.

Sarah’s nice and warm. He immediately takes a liking to her, and her to him, and he can see how much that infuriates Sam. What can he say? She’s a gorgeous woman, funny and bright and caring and her smile is honestly the kind that probably stopped a few hearts in her lifetime. Yes, she’s his sister, but he still has eyes, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t at least show appreciation. Besides, she seems to enjoy it. He’d stop the second he’d sense uncomfort.

He hasn't gotten to flirt and be comfortable with flirting in a really long time. It seems to be the same for her. What if they’re just… enjoying the flirtation? And enjoying infuriating Sam? Bucky considers it his duty as Sam’s friend.

Delacroix is unlike anywhere he’s ever been. It’s half an island and half a town. It’s relaxing. And the food… Bucky doesn’t think he’s eaten as much seafood in his life as he had in the past week.

It’s a slow end of day in Louisiana when Bucky and Sam find themselves sitting on the plastic chairs out back, with beers, watching the surface of the water. There’s music playing in the house, the kids are doing their homework.

It’s simple. Bucky breathes in and out, unobstructed.

He hears Sam’s intake of breath and knows a hard conversation is coming from that alone. No, that’s a lie. Sam’s shifted, ten seconds ago. He’s looked between his beer and the water four times in the past minute.

“We haven’t had time to talk about Madripoor,” Sam starts and Bucky immediately tenses.

He’d almost forgotten he’d told Sam they’d talk about that later. Because still, he’s not ready to talk about it. He’s not ready to talk about that part of his past. It’s still an infected wound in him. It’s still hurting. He can’t do it. He’s about to say that when Sam holds up his hand.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” he says, surprisingly. “I don’t need to know shit if you’re not ready to tell.”

Bucky goes back to breathing. It’s a reprieve. Even if one day, Sam might expect him to be ready… it’s extra time. He’s so thankful for it.

“I’ll tell you though,” Sam keeps going. “You need a new therapist. Because if I know one thing, after everything, and what I saw in that precinct? it’s that Raynor’s not working for you. You need better. You deserve better.”

Bucky looks up at him then. Sam is looking at the water, but there is that look on his face. The look of determination, of drive, the look that Bucky knows… there’s no use in trying to go against what he is saying now.

No one has ever told him he deserved better.

He’s told himself that a few times, in the few moments where the clouds parted and he didn’t feel like the worst person in the world.

But he doesn’t think anyone has ever told him that. Even Steve. There was a couple ‘you deserved better’, but they were all in the past tense, all regarding Hydra, not Bucky’s current situation. Because his current situation is good. It’s great, compared to the past seventy years. Maybe even compared to what was there before. Because he doesn’t break his back in the factory during the day and in the docks at night anymore.

He’s so silent and shocked Sam just keeps going.

“And don’t give me bullshit about not needing help or whatever. I know your generation didn’t do therapy but that ain’t gonna fly with me. You deserve a therapist suited to your needs, and I know that’s gonna be hard to find, with your trunkload of decades of trauma, but we’ll find them.”

He says it with such determination, like it’s his new personal mission. He has much better to do than try to help Bucky more than he already has, and yet… Sam looks at him finally, for a long moment.

“Raynor’s not a bad doctor,” he says. “She’s just not the right fit. And that’s not uncommon. We just need to find you someone that’s better. And someone that’s not me. Because I can’t be your friend and your therapist, man. And out of the two, I’d much rather be your friend.”

Bucky’s still staring. He doesn’t know how to handle this. Nowhere in his databank of social interactions is there something that prepares him for this. He’s had long talks with people before, hell, even with fucking Zemo, but this is entirely different and he has no idea how to handle it.

“I’m sure you’re a great therapist,” Bucky says quietly after a moment, before he takes a big swig of a beer.

Sam chuckles, shaking his head. “You do realize I ain’t a therapist right? I’m a counselor.”

“You’ll have to give me the difference on that because we were still using alienist the last time I heard about psychoanalysis,” Bucky points out.

“There isn’t much of one. I guess I’m more about… finding practical solutions for people to deal with their trauma than really knowing the root cause of it. Probably because, since I worked with the VA, I knew what the root was.”

Bucky hums, nodding. That makes sense to him. More than the ‘how does that make you feel’s. “Either way, I’m still sure you’re a great counselor.”

“It ain’t difficult, with your experience,” Sam shrugs, watching him. “You don’t know better, old man.”

Bucky snorts at that, watching the water again. Sometimes, his eyes catch motion, but he’s never sure if it’s wildlife under the surface or just a trick of the light.

AJ and Cass seem to be debating with their mother whether they can finish their homework later, after dinner. Bucky barely knows them, but he already knows it won’t actually get done if they follow their plan. Kids are kids. Bucky’s sisters could never finish their homework after the radio show either. Too distracted, too tired.

He turns his attention back on Sam after a moment.

“Walker is in a bad shape,” Bucky says quietly. “Now, and before Hoskins died too. The second we saw him in Germany, I felt it. That guy didn’t get help.”

Sam sighs heavily. “Yeah. Not enough of them do, when they come back. You wouldn’t, if you weren’t forced to.”

Bucky can’t deny it. “Yeah, but I’m 107.”

If Sam noticed the year added to his age, he doesn’t mention it. At least for now.

“Some of it hasn’t changed that much,” Sam explains. “The army… You know that culture of toughness, right? Gotta be strong, gotta be a man. Can’t cry, can’t show you’re struggling. I’m sure they had that shit too, in your day, probably even worse.”

He’s not wrong. There were a lot of issues in his day but that was part of things. Emotional outbursts that weren’t from anger were frowned upon. Once they got to the war, it was even worse at first, until it started really getting hard. And then there were two options. Either you fucking cry with your buddies, or you end badly. Bucky had Steve, and the Howlies.

“Men like Walker… Because they’re these tough white guys, they’re encouraged to be like that. Aggressive, emotionally-closed off, fight-hungry. They’re the ones that shove you and call you a pussy for not laughing at their frankly horrible offensive jokes. It’s like they think the trauma we all face just won’t touch them. Or that they can’t show anyone it touched them. So they keep it all in. And the only way they get to be… emotional is in combat.”

Bucky nods quietly. They’re worse off than he thought.

It wasn’t good in his day either, but it just feels worse now. It churned and churned and got bigger with every spin, and now it’s all a giant fucked up stick of trauma cotton candy, all twisted in itself and sticking to itself.

“When I work for the SRT… Sometimes I see these kids,” Bucky mumbles. “They’re what? 22? And I ask them why they’re here, you know, try to pass time. And they tell me they enlisted for college. Or healthcare. And it’s…” He closes his eyes. “It’s been eighty fucking years…”

He takes a swig of the beer again, shaking his head. “When the crash hit, in the 30s, things were bad. No one could afford shit, there was polio, there was syphilis… It was really bad. And they made plans. They tried to get healthcare on the way, and they half succeeded. And more than like… two thirds of the population was for it too. And we had basically none of the resources we have now.”

He looks up at Sam for a moment. “It hurts to see… that it’s still… We’re still here. At least on that issue. On other stuff… Rights and all, that’s getting better.” He finishes. “But healthcare… and college…” He shakes his head. “It’s criminal. That’s what it is. It feels criminal.”

Sam bumps his shoulder with his fist, chuckling. “Don’t say shit like that next to journalists, they’ll say the Soviets put communism in your brain along with the murdering.”

Bucky chuckles at that. “Nah. That was all America. Living in it. Dying for it.”

Behind them, AJ and Cass have lost their battle of wits with their mother.

“You happy with what you’re doing?” Sam asks after a moment.

Bucky takes a deep breath. The answer is easy. “No,” he mutters. “But I don’t have a say in the matter. Until they decide I’ve done enough to undo the damage I perpetrated as the Soldier… I’m gonna be clearing Hydra safehouses. And after the shit I pulled with Zemo, I’m gonna be at it for a while longer, I think. But… I was expecting that.”

He can feel Sam’s eyes on him. “You knew what would happen.”

“Yep. On all accounts. With the Dora Milaje, with you, with Walker, with the U.S. government, and the GRC, and everything… Still did it.”

Sam huffs loudly. “Stubborn ass.” He shakes his head. He’s smiling, beautifully, brightly.

Bucky smiles at that. “You know it. Wouldn’t be alive without it.”

The sun is starting to set over the bayou. Every evening, Bucky finds himself thinking he’s never seen anything quite like it before.

“Whatever happens,” Sam points out after a moment, looking down at his empty beer bottle. “You got a couch here. Somewhere to crash. Somewhere to rest. I don’t know what your situation is, up north.”

Bucky sighs a little. “I got a house,” he answers, looking back at him. “A townhouse, in Brooklyn.”

Sam’s eyebrows rise up to meet the descending sun. “Well excuse us, mister.” He teases.

Bucky shakes his head. “It’s not like that,” he starts. Sam looks even less like he takes him seriously. “It’s a former Hydra safehouse,” he adds, and now his friend’s eyes get a little sadder, a little darker. “The army got tired of me taking space in their housing, so the second we raided a place within proper commute distance, they handed it over to me.”

Said like that, it sounds even worse than it actually was.

“It wasn’t like.. Full of Nazi or Hydra shit, or anything. It was just a house. They got rid of the bodies.”

The emotional journey on Sam’s face as he talks is worth a good dozen of sunrises.

“And you live there?” Sam asks. He’s struggling not to let his bewilderment and horror show, but he’s failing.

It makes sense. It sounds like an absolutely terrible situation to be in. It is an absolutely terrible situation to be in. As much as owning a townhouse in Brooklyn can be terrible.

It’s been about four months now since he signed those papers and moved his bag of things into that pretty house with the marks in the doorways and the basement he still hasn’t stepped foot in. And now that he’s been away long enough…

He guesses he kinda misses it.

He doesn’t miss the house in itself, much. He does miss… everything else though. Charlie, Miriam, the neighbor whose name he still doesn’t know, the familiar commute, the Chinese place he gets a lot of very late night food at, the proximity to his childhood streets, the way life feels there. He misses his night jogs in the relative quiet. He misses the weather, and the oven he baked kugel in for the first time.

Brooklyn has become familiar again, in all of its differences with his memories.

And he didn’t even realize it was happening.

“You should come, one of these days,” Bucky shrugs. “I have a couple guest bedrooms.”

Sam punches him lightly in the shoulder. “Fancy ass ‘couple of guest bedrooms’.” He teases and Bucky smiles. “So I’m guessing I should try and find some good therapists for you in New York then,” he adds.

Bucky shrugs lightly. “I feel like… I have some stuff tethering me there.”

Sam’s expression shifts for an instant. “Like the SRT?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Nah. Like my childhood congregation, that somehow still exists, and has a shul not too far from where I live.” He points out.

“Shul?” Sam asks.

Bucky smiles lightly when he looks up at him. A few days ago, Sam spoke of his teetee and Bucky probably made the same face Sam’s making now.

“Synagogue,” Bucky explains. “Jewish temples. Shul’s yiddish.”

Sam makes a small ‘ah’ sound and nods. For a moment, they’re silent again. The noises of the world around them aren’t threatening to overwhelm them though, they’re… comforting. A warm tapestry in the background.  

“You’re Jewish, I take it?”

“No, I’m Mormon,” Bucky replies with the straightest face he can muster before chuckling.

Sam punches him again, a little harder this time. “Come on, dude.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m Jewish.”

That’s the first time he says that out loud in… He’s never said it like that ever. This is the first time in his life that he says it that way. The first time he’s not afraid of the outcome of such an admission.

It’s a heady, wonderful feeling. He never thought he’d ever be comfortable enough to do that. Somehow, he might have Zemo to thank for that. Zemo and his fucking questioning. Not that he’s going to be asking much more questions from the Raft.

He’s Jewish. That’s a truth that doesn’t deserve to be hidden right now. Not when he can carry it. Not when he is strong enough to bear it proudly. He feels like his heart is going to burst with something he cannot name.

“Did Steve know?”

Bucky bursts out laughing.

[sholiofic]

(1/2) I've got a prompt that might be a bit R rated and gory, so I understand if you don't feel like it. SamBucky and Zemo are in a middle of a fight, Zemo gets in a very tight situation and to survive he has to resort to violence too extreme even for him (for example by ripping out his enemies throat with his bare teeth). Sam and Bucky see it happen and, to put it mildly, are deeply fucking concerned. Zemo tries to brush it off with "well you know I'm a bad guy >:3" but inside he is shaken, +

(2/2) + not only by what he had to do, but also by the onslaught memories of what he had to endure during the war in Sokovia in the late 90s. On top of that Sam and Bucky saw him do it, and it bothers him for some reason. So basically three veterans from three different wars dealing with PTSD.

--

Also on AO3: Catalepsis.

--

Zemo was covered in blood when they got to him, leaning with his back against the inner wall of the HYDRA outpost. There were ten guys dead on the floor, at least. He'd rescued himself before they even got there, and every last person in the compound except for Zemo was dead.

It was Winter Soldier stuff, Sam thought, a little dazed. Or Sokovian death-squad stuff, was more like it. It shouldn't have shocked him. He knew Zemo had killed probably about this many guys on the Madripoor docks getting them out.

But ... not like this. That had been fast, with a gun and the element of surprise. These guys had been killed with hand tools and probably bare hands in some cases, and it showed. It really, really showed.

"You're late," Zemo said, straightening. He coughed a little and wiped his hand across his face, leaving painted streaks of lurid red.

Despite all of that, Zemo had himself fully pulled together by the time they reached him, and Sam just found himself staring. Zemo smiled back. There was blood all over Zemo's face and even on his lips and teeth, along with a split lip and a bruise on his cheek.

"You okay?" Sam said at last. "I need to check you over—"

"I'm fine. Oh, stop with the shocked looks. You know what I am," Zemo said, pushing off from the wall. There was a slight wobble, and then he got his footing. "I never lied about that."

Sam traded looks with Bucky, and was a little surprised and maybe a little worried that the former Winter Soldier looked one step away from being freaked out himself. Some of those bodies were fucked up.

---

They set fire to the place on their way out. Sam hated it, but he didn't fight it.

Back at the safehouse, Zemo vanished into the bathroom and was in there for a really long time. The shower ran and ran.

Sam made burgers on the general principle that they all needed to eat, and then regretted it, and regretted it more as the smell of barbecued meat filled the backyard and the interior of the kitchen. He turned off the grill and ditched the charred burger patties in the trash. He turned on the stove instead and put on a pot of water for pasta.

Bucky was sitting against the wall, lightly running his flesh-and-blood hand over the metal one.

"No need to feel sorry for them," he said, and Sam looked around sharply. "They got what was coming to them."

"I don't," Sam lied. On some level he was aware—he was always aware—that everyone they dealt with, everyone they fought, was someone like Karli, someone like Bucky or him, or Zemo: someone who had a different choice at some earlier point in their life and for whatever reason, didn't take it.

The pasta water boiled over. Sam turned off the fire under the pot and after a while he dug into the fridge again, found cheese and sausage, and crackers in the cabinet above the stove. He made a plate out of it.

Zemo was still in the bathroom. Bucky had found Looney Tunes cartoons on the TV and lay down on the couch.

Sam had a definite feeling that a snack tray wasn't going to solve their problems, but he made it anyway, finding some kind of satisfaction in laying out cheese slices. There was a jar of olives and he added those too.

The water upstairs finally shut off, and some time later, Zemo came down. He was wrapped in a robe and shaved, and also pale and tired-looking. The bruise stood out brightly on his cheek, along with the sharp line of his split lip.

"Oh, that's very thoughtful, Sam," Zemo said, with a glance at the cheese plate, and he went straight past it to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a crystal glass half full of something amber-tinted and strong-looking.

"You mind sharing?" Sam said.

Zemo glanced at him, and then poured another and handed it to him. "James?" he said over his shoulder.

"Why the hell not," Bucky said, sitting up on the couch.

Zemo passed drinks around. There were dark smudges under his eyes, and his smile was passing and perfunctory, not touching any other part of his face.

"You want me to look at anything?" Sam asked. "I'll trust that you're fine if you say you're fine. Keep in mind, though." He rolled the hand not holding the whiskey glass, and took a drink. It burned behind his teeth. "Pararescue," he said hoarsely.

"Ah, right. That's your damage, isn't it?" Zemo said. Before Sam could respond to that, Zemo sat on the arm of the couch and pulled the robe down from his shoulder. "I was wondering about this," he said brightly.

Sam knew exactly what was looking at. Electrodes left that kind of burn, and the resulting spasms that kind of bruise, rising to the pale surface.. The spasms could sometimes be hard enough to break bone.

"Mind if I touch it?" he said neutrally.

Zemo simply raised his chin in response. Sam explored with his fingertips, found no worse damage than what showed on the surface, aside from a slight heat that hinted at deeper bruising to come.

"It's not that bad," Sam said. "Put a little heat on it, might help it feel better in the morning." As Zemo twitched up the arm of the robe, Sam added, "We should've gotten you out earlier."

"You're not my keepers."

"No, we kinda are, actually." Bucky's voice was casual, but he was sitting up now. "At least according to the UN and Wakanda."

Zemo said something in what Sam assumed was Sokovian, guttural and soft and fluidly beautiful.

"Sorry, didn't understand that," Sam said.

Zemo looked a little surprised. "I'm sorry, that wasn't English, was it? A passing comment on brothers' keepers, that was all. Not worth repeating."

Sam got up and got the whiskey decanter, and also the cheese plate. He could still smell that barbecue aftertaste of the HYDRA compound, overlaid with all the blood on Zemo as they'd hustled him out of there. And behind that was the memory of finding Riley, years ago—or what was left of him, when they got to him. Different worlds, he thought, different war, but it didn't feel all that different, sometimes. He cracked open the jar of olives and laid the whole thing out on the coffee table.

"We've got like a hundred channels here," he said. "There's gotta be something on other than old cartoons."

"Hey," Bucky protested. He'd switched to the Flintstones. "I haven't seen these."

But it was a token protest. Sam took away the remote and skimmed quickly across the news, a romcom, and some sort of action movie with explosions and car chases, and settled on a cooking show. People making cakes and laughing, dumb escape kind of stuff.

No one objected. Instead, Zemo sat with his back against the couch where Bucky was lying. Bucky drowsed, and even Zemo was half asleep from the look of things, eyes fixed on the television and fingers playing across his mostly-undrunk second glass of whiskey. And after a while, Sam built himself a stack of cheese and sausage and crackers, and even had the appetite to eat it.

[enkelimagnus]

Literature

Bucky Barnes Gen, 1756 words, rated T for Hydra shit

Jewish Bucky Barnes, The Falcon and the Winter Soldier: Episode 3 Power Broker

Sam falls asleep on the plane over to Madripoor and leaves Bucky and Zemo alone. They actually talk to each other. I would say it's nice.

TW: brief allusion to past rape, internalized homophobia, brief mention of the holocaust

Read on AO3

Part 20 of Making a Home - the Jewish Bucky series

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It’s an eleven hour flight from Berlin to Madripoor, even with Zemo’s private jet. Once drinks have been served, food has been eaten and threats have been made, they all find themselves settling.

Sam has dozed off on a seat, seemingly exhausted. After all, they’ve already travelled the eight hours from the states, and the day has been stressful at best. At least, Sam trusts him enough to fall asleep while Bucky watches Zemo. He wasn’t expecting that. Or perhaps his human physiology is betraying him.

Bucky needs less sleep than a normal human on regular days, and he also can survive much longer sleep deprived. He’s well aware of the limitations of his body. Hydra tested them thoroughly and multiple times. Zemo would know as well, that Bucky might look tired but it doesn’t diminish his abilities as much as it seems.

The man in question is at his seat with his book, though he’s regularly looking up through the windows of the plane or around the cabin. There’s something quiet and wistful about the way he stares at a spot where the carpeting is not perfectly set against the wall to the bathroom.

The silence is good, especially after earlier, where Sam and Zemo somehow managed to gang up on him about Marvin Gaye of all people.

It’s not that Bucky doesn’t like Marvin Gaye. He just doesn’t like much music. He’s sort of lost the taste for it. His brain is usually unable to perceive it as anything but unnecessary noise that keeps him from being completely aware of his surroundings. And at least 40s music doesn’t have death and rape associated to it.

And he doesn’t need to know what Steve thought of it, whether Steve loved it or not. He’s not Steve. Steve journeyed light into the 21st century. Everything was something new to learn and experience, it was exciting and bright. Bucky is travelling with baggage. And he has memories attached to songs and tastes and sensations and events.

Bucky simply can’t use the notebook the way Steve did.

Sometimes, he wonders if Sam forgets Bucky wasn’t simply on ice for 80 years. The issue with him is that he lived through most of it, and it was all torture.

Or maybe not all . He woke up craving Karpov’s kasha the other week, and it makes no sense. He only tasted it during one specific time of his life, when Karpov and him got stuck in a safehouse in the snow, with no way to reach the outside world, for two weeks. The Soldier’s rations and formulas ran out long before they were able to leave. Karpov was too smart to let him starve, and perhaps that time alone with the Soldier, away from the world, with no way to freeze him or unplug him had made him see he was still a man. The kasha was warm, and thick, and sweet and sometimes, Bucky remembers that feeling and craves it.

The danger with people like him, America’s Super Soldiers, is that we put them on pedestals.

Zemo’s right.

In all honesty, Bucky believes he’s forgotten who Steve really was.

Memories become blurry when they age and no matter how desperate Bucky is to crystalize them, to remember them, to be sure of what he lived, all he manages to do is to frame faded photographs and fill in the blanks himself.

Steve and him didn’t have time. He found him after two years of searching, only for Bucky to be back on ice within two weeks. After that, Steve visited a few times during his recovery, when he introduced him to the goats he’d named after the sisters he finally remembered. And then, there was the War, and the Snap and once Bucky was back to life, Steve was shattered. And two weeks later, he was gone.

They didn’t have time to learn each other again. Bucky doesn’t know who Steve is anymore, half of his memories feel tainted by Smithsonian explanations, and he hates it so fucking much.

He hates that he can’t remember right, he hates that Steve’s slipping away from him every second of every day, that all that is left is the fucking shield and Captain America. That Steve’s legacy doesn’t seem to run deeper than that, else Bucky would have less of a single-minded focus on that fucking piece of useless fucking metal.

It’s only been three months. Why does Steve feel like he’s been gone for a lifetime?

Bucky breathes out a shuddering breath.

When his eyes focus again, Zemo is staring at him.

The book is open on his lap. Bucky can read the title. Same Sex Fantasies in Heterosexuals. Fucking hell. He doesn’t need that right now. At all.

“You’re a different man than the one I remember,” Zemo says quietly after a moment. His voice is soft, just slightly above a whisper. He knows Bucky has sharp ears. He knows he doesn’t need to wake Sam up.

Bucky dignifies that with a huff and looks away for a moment. Zemo’s eyes don’t leave him. He can feel them on him, on his face, on his throat, on his hands, on his body. They make him itch. They make him want to punch him for looking at him like that.

Like what?

You know exactly like what.

When Bucky looks back, Zemo’s indeed still watching him.

“You’re old now,” Bucky says eventually, in a vague answer to what Zemo said earlier.

“Eight years have passed, James. You cannot blame a normal man for something he has no control over.”

Eight years. So Bucky was right. Zemo wasn’t dusted. He stayed in that solitary confinement cell for eight years as the world moved on around him, as the world fought and lost half of its people.

Had he wished to be one of the ones that were snapped out of existence? Probably. After all, every second Zemo breathes and exists is a second more he wasn’t supposed to have. He tried to kill himself in Siberia, once his mission was over.

“Do you ever read normal stuff?” Bucky asks, a bite in his words.

Zemo raises an eyebrow, head tilting slightly to the side. His eyes are still glued to Bucky’s face. He still wants to punch him.

“I would need you to define ‘normal stuff’ to answer this question.” There is a hint of mirth in those brown eyes though. He knows exactly what Bucky means.

Bucky huffs and rolls his eyes. “Machiavelli, fucking… whatever this shit is,” he makes a motion of his chin towards the book. It’s in German, something about boundaries in relationships. Hilarious, really. It’s not like Zemo has anyone to set boundaries with. Unless those eight years of solitary have somehow driven a rift between Zemo and his own dick. “That’s not normal stuff. Novels, popular stuff…”

“I wonder,” Zemo starts. “Have you any recommendations for titles of ‘popular stuff’ for me?”

Everything Bucky can think of is old. He’d told himself he’d look into acquiring books but… he hadn’t had the time or the energy.

“I see your taste in literature has elected to stay with your taste in music, then.”

Fucking ass. Bucky closes his eyes and sighs so heavily he’s pretty sure Sam’s going to wake up.

“To answer your question, James,” Zemo starts, conversationally, as if they aren’t enemies, as if they are just old friends, so old they have become strangers. “I do read normal stuff.” The phrasing is foreign in his mouth, in that accented voice of his. “I’ve read all the classics, and children’s literature. Eight years are long. I practiced my Russian with translations of Harry Potter and the Lord of the Rings at first.”

Bucky hums, looking up at him for a moment. “I noticed your pronunciation had changed,” he says quietly. “Did you read it to yourself out loud? Pretended someone was telling you a story?”

It’s cheap. They’re both aware of how lonely the past eight years must have been. It’s cheap, and it’s low-hanging and Bucky almost feels guilty.

Zemo’s small smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Have you read Jules Verne?” Bucky asks, trying to erase his taunt with some more literary conversation. “Was obsessed with his work as a kid. Kinda like Tolkien, but even better because it was… full of invention, not of magic.”

There’s a floating moment, a few seconds of Zemo just watching him with that slight sadness in his eyes before it is washed away and replaced by a hum.

“I’ve read those books, yes. In the original French,” Zemo points out and Bucky is almost grateful for the boasting. “You should seek a new translation, if you’re not adept at the original language. The one I assume you read was a descendant of 1870 translations, riddled with errors and political censorship. They fixed that in the 60s. You’ll like the new ones better.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “I’ll take that under consideration, I guess.” He’s so sure he’ll like it.

“And if you find yourself in the north of France one of these days, you should stop by this little city called Amiens,” Zemo continues. “A fine place, old and new, in the way only Europe can be. Jules Verne died there. The city’s positively themed after the man and his work. You can even visit his house.”

Visiting a dead man’s last residence? “That’s kinda morbid,” he mutters and Zemo has a small chuckle.

“People visit Anne Frank’s house as if the walls aren’t hollowed with fear,” he points out. “Dying makes one the public’s intimate friend. You know that better than anyone else.” He gives Bucky a sidelong glance. They both know he’s talking about Steve, and the documentaries and exhibits and think-pieces.

Bucky nods quietly and looks back through the window. The sun is painted indigo and pink. It’s beautiful. He’s forgotten the sunset could be this beautiful.

When he looks at Zemo again, he notices the exhaustion written all over his face, in the small wrinkles and under eye bags and the way his eyes won’t settle on anything for too long, desperate to stay awake.

“I’m not gonna kill you,” Bucky says after a moment. “We need you.”

Zemo chuckles tiredly, a soft and muted sound. “If that is the one thing that is keeping me alive… I believe I shall keep myself useful, then.” It’s almost sarcastic. A man living on borrowed time, wishing desperately he could be executed.

“You do that.”