Chapter Text
Sam’s first, horrified assumption is disproven almost immediately by Bucky bolting out of bed. The Winter Soldier would not startle like a cat - or like a recovering addict caught with a bottle of liquor.
The Winter Soldier would also not be smoking after getting down and dirty with - Jesus, with Baron fucking Zemo. Bucky crushes the cigarette stub in his metal palm, dropping it on the floor as he picks up a pair of discarded boxers. His movements are hurried, jerky, still in a panic.
Zemo, on the other hand, lies there naked and shameless and says, quite calmly, “Was there something you needed?”
Sam tears away his gaze from the evidence of who did what to whom that’s scattered all over Zemo’s hips and thighs in the form of fingerprints blooming into bruises and drying stains, and ignores him. He turns to Bucky, and stops him from barelling out of the room by blocking the exit.
It’s a bit like stepping in the way of a speeding car, because Bucky looks like he might just body check him out of the way. Sam raises his hand, palm up, and Bucky almost collides with it before flinching back.
“Woah, man, no way, we’re gonna talk about this.”
“There’s nothing to say,” Bucky snarls. “You’re not my fucking therapist.”
Sam scoffs. “Oh, you gonna give her a call then?”
“It’s a little hurtful that you seem to think congress with me requires a counseling session,” Zemo pipes up from the bed, and they both, without even looking at him, snap, “Shut up, Zemo.”
Bucky glowers at him, but in a way where he won’t quite meet Sam’s eyes. There’s a flush creeping over his neck, and he hunches, like he’s trying to hide, to protect himself.
Sam is a professional trauma counselor. He worked with a lot of guys struggling after coming home from their service, and a part of him has always been watching Bucky for the signs of it. The serum protects him from many bad habits, but not all - he’s known guys so hooked on video games or porn they wouldn’t leave their flat for weeks. Luckily, Bucky barely knows how to work a phone. He’s always been displaying other signs of a life spinning out of control. Isolation, neglect, anger, apathy. Maybe being so watchful is one of Sam’s own bad habits, because he’s supposed to be Bucky’s friend, not his counselor. Bucky has a therapist, as he just pointed out. What he needs is a buddy.
“Hey,” he says. “C’mon. I ain’t judging you but we need to - “
“I’m a fag and a psychopath, judge me all you fucking want, Sam, just get out of my way or I swear I - “
Sam could strangle Sharon for that pet psychopath comment. Well, not actually strangle her, maybe, but he wants to yell at her and say: look at what you fucking did, the man’s just a big ball of guilt and shame, of course he took you by your word.
Though maybe Sharon’s not entirely to blame for this. “Personally,” Zemo says, “I find the American obsession with labels a little tiring, but ‘bisexual’ sounds somewhat less crude.”
He’s the one who deserves to be strangled, but Sam suspects Zemo would enjoy it.
“Bucky, man, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but he’s got a point.” Sam glares at Zemo in warning. “This once.” He turns back to Bucky, trying to catch his gaze, but Bucky is avoiding it, his jaw muscles bulging with tension. He’s gonna crack a tooth, if he keeps doing that. “I got no problem with you sleeping with guys. If this is really just you having the world’s worst taste in men and blowing off some steam, fine, but I need ya to tell me that’s what it is.”
Bucky just falls completely silent. The flush has subsided, and now he just looks lost, and cold in his underpants, and like he doesn’t know what the answer is. He’s got that ‘no one home’ dullness on his face that happens when he withdraws into his conditioning. Sam sighs, and looks for a way to tell Bucky to clean up and relax before they go on talking about this that won’t undercut his agency.
Zemo is quicker than him. “Let him take a shower, Mr Wilson,” he says, like Sam is the problem. Okay, Sam thinks, maybe, whatever, we’ll try it your way. For some reason Zemo has patented getting under Bucky’s vibranium armor. He steps out of the door frame, giving Bucky space to pass. Zemo says something else, in soft Russian, and Bucky flinches ever so slightly, but shoulders past Sam, heading towards the bathroom.
Sam watches him go and then turns towards Zemo. The Sokovian hides a wince as he rises off the bed. Sam doesn’t really want to know what they got up to, not in that much detail. He turns away, stalking towards the kitchen, raiding the not so mini bar, and pouring himself two fingers of bourbon, because a cold one won’t cut it tonight.
Zemo is, technically, their prisoner. Well, they’ve sprung him out of prison, not that Bucky actually consulted with Sam about that until the deed was done, but they’re responsible for getting him back there. Bucky sleeping with Zemo complicates this in so many ways, Sam doesn’t even want to start having that headache.
Zemo comes out of his bedroom in a dark robe, apparently wearing nothing underneath except underpants (hopefully) and a little girly necklace. Which Sam probably shouldn’t be thinking, now that he knows it technically qualifies as discrimination. Zemo joins Sam, pouring himself a drink, and leans against the counter, regarding him with that annoying little head tilt.
Bucky could totally destroy him, without even breaking a sweat. It looks like he gave it a fair try.
Zemo is an annoying smartass, totally unrepentant, and exactly the sort of rich white asshole who creates half the problems this world has that aren’t purple space aliens. He’s Tony Stark with an accent. Of course psychologically, Tony was as much of a mess as a lot of guys coming back from Afghanistan, only he had fancier ways to deal with it than most. Zemo, on the other hand, was special forces for god knows how long, witnessed the destruction of his country and the deaths of his whole family, and spent the next seven years in prison. Sam isn’t sure the Germans even offered him any counseling, but he’s willing to bet no counselor got anywhere with Zemo if they tried.
The smart, capable ones are the toughest ones to help, because they think they have it all figured out.
Sam’s job is to stop Karli Morgenthau. Not to fix these two spectacular messes. “We got a job to do here,” he says to Zemo. “I thought finding the serum and stopping Karli mattered to you. Or is all that talk about principles just how you justify killing folks?”
Zemo tilts up his chin, offended, telling Sam that he’s found exactly the chink in his armor. He tries to tuck it away immediately, that little flare of temper and pride, hiding it behind aloofness once more, but it was there. “Your friend only just clawing his way back to humanity,” Zemo says haughtily. “Humans need to unwind. Do you really think it’s preferable to treat him like a weapon to be used?”
Sam lifts his brows. A cheap shot. “Ain’t that exactly what you’re doing? Using him?”
Zemo’s reaction surprises him. He actually shuts up for a moment, swilling the liquor around in his glass, before smiling thinly. “Perhaps so. We’re all using each other, aren’t we?”
Oh, damn, Sam thinks. He’s guilty about what he did. Doesn’t like having it pointed out to him. Not so remorseless after all. He thinks back to the scene he stumbled on, the split second glimpse he got of them before Bucky jumped out of bed. Smoking together. Thinks about the car ride, about Bucky sharing that little sliver of his past, Zemo gently prying for more.
He glances in the direction of the bath. The shower is still running. “Bucky’s been through hell, man,” Sam says softly.
Zemo laughs, but it’s not a callous laugh. Not exactly. He looks utterly drained, like his lean against the counter is more than an affectation. “I know far more than you about the horrors he survived.”
For a moment, Sam stops acting like a crisis counselor and lets his frustration show. He can hear the undertones in Zemo’s voice, and unless the rat bastard is manipulating him, there’s regret and compassion and quiet admiration. “So why the hell don’t you act like it?”
The Sokovian takes the last sip of his drink, and gives Sam a tired look. “He’s a free man, isn’t he? Free men make bad choices. Now, excuse me. If I’m to be hunting super soldiers tomorrow, I have a lot to sleep off.”
It’s a long time before Bucky comes out of his hiding place in the bathroom. Sam has already claimed the longest couch for himself. Bucky stares at him for a long moment, in that dead eyed way, like a shelter dog who knows he ain’t gonna be adopted, cause no one wants a second-hand pitbull. Sam rolls his eyes at him slightly. Fucking Zemo is a top tier dumb choice, but it’s not that bad, all things considered. “You can have the kiddie bedroom. Or bunk with Zemo.”
Bucky stares at him for a second longer, and then some life returns to his gaze. For an instant, it’s strange and intense, like he can’t figure Sam out at all, and then he scoffs. “So that’s how it’s gonna be.”
“Yeah, man,” Sam says, grinning, and closes his eyes. Bucky’s a handful, but he’s easy to manage once you have him figured out. “Never gonna let you off that hook.”
*
The next morning goes well in that by the time Zemo gets up, Bucky has already slunk away to ‘take a walk’, and when he gets back, they’ve got the Dora Milaje and the bombing to worry about. Bucky is his usual blunt and gruff self, barely looking at Zemo. He focuses on the mission, and really, it doesn’t surprise Sam too much. Of course Bucky is good at compartmentalizing. Zemo, less so - the little joke about it being sweet of Bucky to defend him from the Dora Milaje makes Sam wince in anticipation of a big blow up, and he cuts in before Bucky can take offence.
No, shit doesn’t hit the fan - or the cup doesn’t hit the wall - until a couple of hours later, when Zemo makes another, truly stupid mistake.
After his call to Sharon, Sam find the Baron sitting in on the couch, an assortment of shards staining the incredibly expensive wooden table before him with cherry blossom tea. He didn’t expect Zemo to pick up the mess himself, but apparently, he’s only done so to stare at it in gloomy contemplation.
“Dunno what you expected,” Sam scowls. “Did you really think extortion was a smart move?”
“It seems I miscalculated,” Zemo admits.
“Yeah, you just don’t get it, do you? Never mind your little lapse of sanity last night, Bucky’s got a debt to the Wakandans. A big one.”
Zemo looks up, whatever spell the broken cup held on him broken. “I am aware of that,” he says, his voice even raspier than usual. “Wakanda sheltered him when he was a fugitive. James told me last night.”
Somehow, the fact that Bucky actually talks to the man in sentences that aren’t three word nothings punctuated by a grunt continues to baffle Sam more than anything else these two have done.
“They did a lot more than that,” Sam tells Zemo, and it’s gratifying to see that the baron looks surprised and intrigued.
“I thought I recognized the make of his new arm -”
“I’m not talking about the arm. When we were on the run, Bucky was… he was barely in there. Steve got through to him sometimes, but only sometimes. And neither of us knew how to break the conditioning. The guy he’s now, that’s the work of the Dora Milaje. They even trusted him enough to fight for them, gave him a new name and everything. The White Wolf. So how about you don’t go joking about him buying you eight more hours of freedom or making a cheap play for more, huh?”
Sam expects Zemo to shrug it off with another clever retort, but instead, the Sokovian looks genuinely stunned - and worried, for a moment. He glances at the broken cup again. “I see. You’re right, Sam. It was a graver mistake than I thought.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you should listen to me about Karli, too.”
He doesn’t actually expect Zemo to do that, but Sam’s the kind of guy who at least has to try.
*
A couple hours later, they find Zemo lifeless on the floor amidst smashed vials of serum, John Walker just standing there looking unhinged, and no sign of Karli.
Bucky glances down at Zemo, then at Walker. There’s blood on the floor next to Zemo’s head. Sam has seen Steve kill aliens with his shield in exactly that fashion.
“You kill him?” Bucky asks. His tone, blunt and hollow, makes alarms go off in Sam’s head.
“He smashed the vials,” Walker says, then, suddenly, he puts the shield on his back and says, “Morgenthau got away.”
Bucky stares after him for a second, and Sam gets ready to grab him before he can lunge after Walker, but that doesn’t happen. Bucky bends down, checking Zemo’s pulse. “Alive,” he grunts, and turns Zemo around.
The wound looks nasty, and the guy is out cold. Instead of trying to wake him, Bucky pats down his coat, frowning. This is getting really, worryingly weird.
“What are you looking for?” Sam asks.
“The serum.”
It makes sense to think that for all his lofty talk, Zemo would be tempted to make that power grab, Sam supposes. At least, it makes sense when you’re as intimately familiar with the evil and corrupt as Bucky is. But somehow, Sam isn’t surprised that Bucky doesn’t find anything on the baron.
“Say what you want about him,” Sam sighs. “He stuck by his principles.”
Bucky is still for a long moment, hunched over Zemo’s prone form. Then gets up, his face still a blank mask. “I’m going after Walker.”
“To do what? You’re not gonna - “
“Gonna do what?” Bucky fires back, challenging, and Sam gives the unconscious baron a pointed look.
“I don’t know, man, what you gonna do?”
Bucky exhales. “Follow him,” he says. “I don’t trust him.”
So it’s Sam who takes Zemo back to the hotel. It’s a good thing the Sokovian wakes up after a couple of minutes, concussed and disoriented, but insisting that Sam puts him down. He’s heavy, and Sam is no super soldier, so he doesn’t object.He tries to support himself against a street light, but it’s just a very slow collapse to the ground. Zemo gingerly touches his forehead. “Walker?”
“Yeah.”
Zemo grimaces. His accent is heaver, his speech a little slurred. “The vials?”
“Looks like you got all of it.” Sam doesn’t say, ‘well done’, but he pats Zemo on the shoulder.
Zemo grimaces and looks around, squinting a little, his head listing to the side. “Barnes?”
“Gone after Walker.”
For a moment, Zemo closes his eyes and smiles. Sam knows exactly what he’s thinking. He’s fantasizing about Bucky taking revenge for him, which might be sweet, if it wasn’t utterly fucked up. These two.
With slow, ungainly movements, Zemo searches for his phone. “You may go after him,” he says, graciously, reminding Sam that he’s still an arrogant asshole. “Don’t worry about me. I shall be at home when the Dora Milaje come looking for me.”
Sam huffs. “You know what, I almost trust you. Almost. But you still got a concussion.”
*
Amidst the chaos of Walker embarrassing himself against the Dora Milaje, Bucky sees Zemo edging towards the bathroom. Their eyes meet for a fraction of a second. Bucky knows what Zemo is doing: he spotted the escape route on his first round of the suite, as soon as they arrived.
You fucking idiot, he thinks, and he glares at Zemo. Don’t do this. Ayo’s gonna have your head. And mine, too. But Zemo slows his step, turning, almost walking backwards for a moment to face Bucky, and shakes his head. He touches his chest with two fingers, like a blessing, and then the air displaced by a flying metal spear whips against Bucky’s cheek and distracts him.
When they discover he’s gone, Ayo probably knows that he allowed it to happen, but she doesn’t even pause to acknowledge him. Perhaps Walker’s stupid arrogance annoyed her too much to care - she hates disrespect almost as much as disloyalty. But perhaps it’s worse than that. This might be his punishment. She was midwife to his rebirth, and now he’s dead to her.
“Do you think they’re gonna catch him?” Sam asks, once they’re the only ones left.
“They might.” Bucky thinks that they will, sooner or later - Zemo is smart and well-connected, but he’s far less determined to be free than they are determined to bring him to justice.
He wonders if Sam has guessed that he let Zemo get away. Wonders what Sam is gonna say about that. But what Sam says is, “Do you want them to catch him?”
Bucky hadn’t thought about it. He rarely pauses to think about what he wants unless it’s something too revolting to ignore. He’s afraid of what the answer will be, if he looks at it too closely - but only for a moment. “Yeah,” he exhales, a weight lifting off his chest. “I do.”