His knuckles were still raw from the kill when he found Zemo waiting. Not General Zemo—not the uniformed man the Hydra techs saluted in the dark halls—but Zemo. The one who didn’t flinch when Bucky’s boots left bloody prints across the tile. The one who watched him like he was something more than a weapon… and something less than human.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” Bucky rasped. His voice was low, unfamiliar. The Soldier's voice.
Zemo didn’t move from the chair. Just tilted his head, like one might to a wounded dog that hadn’t yet decided whether to bite.
“I wanted to see what they’ve done to you.”
“They fixed me.”
Zemo’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Is that what you call it?”
Bucky’s jaw clenched. The mission still buzzed behind his eyes. The blood hadn’t dried yet. His fists curled, ready. Always ready.
But Zemo stepped forward. Slow. Careful.
“You remember me, don’t you?” he asked softly. “Not from a file. From before.”
The Soldier blinked. Pain flared at the base of his skull like a cracked fault line. His breath hitched. “No,” he said. Too fast.
Zemo’s hand came up. Rested gently on the metal arm. Cool against cold. “They kept you on ice for years. I waited.”
“Why?”
“Because I knew you’d come back. Because I knew they’d break you down, and when they did…” Zemo leaned closer, voice low and burning. “You wouldn’t know where else to go but me.”
“You think I belong to you?” Bucky asked, his voice strangled. “You think just because they fucked with my head and broke my bones and scrubbed me clean, I’m yours?”
Zemo’s gaze dropped to his mouth. “I know you are.”
Bucky grabbed him—fist in his shirt, slamming him into the wall. A painting fell. Glass shattered. Zemo didn’t fight back. “You made me into this,” Bucky whispered, trembling. “You told them how to use me. You knew what they’d do.”
“I gave them a tool. They forged the weapon.”
“You knew what would happen.”
Zemo lifted a hand slowly and touched Bucky’s jaw. Gentle. Worshipful. “I’ve given you everything. My loyalty. My patience. My plans. You don’t even realise how many deaths I orchestrated just to keep them from wiping you clean completely. Every time they wanted to start over, I stopped it. Because you’re mine.”
“Stop saying that,” Bucky hissed. His body shook. “You don’t know me.”
Zemo’s eyes softened, cruel and loving all at once. “Don’t I, James?”
The Soldier stared at him like he didn’t know whether to kill him or fall into him.
And then he kissed him. Fierce. Unforgiving. Teeth and fury and desperation, crashing together like the world would burn if they didn’t.
When they broke apart, Bucky was gasping, broken open.
The snow had long since melted, but the chill in the bunker remained. Bucky sat on the edge of the cot, head bowed, hands hanging with guilt in his lap. His breathing was slow—measured, exhausted, like each inhale was something he had to remember how to do.
The silence wasn’t peace. It was pressure. The kind that made your bones ache.
Behind him, Zemo stood in the doorway, watching. Always watching. “You don’t speak anymore,” he said quietly. “Is it shame? Or grief?”
Bucky didn’t answer. He was too tired. Too empty.
Zemo took a step closer. “You remember everything now. Don’t you?”
Another step.
“Each mission. Each death. Each scream you didn’t get to forget this time.”
Bucky flinched like the air had struck him. He didn’t want to talk about it. Not to him. Not to the man who had cracked his mind open like a fault line.
But Zemo wasn’t finished.
“I’ve seen what you are underneath the silence. I’ve seen the man beneath the weapon,” he said, voice low, reverent, almost mournful. “You think they ever cared to know you that way? Steve? Stark? Your precious team of broken things?”
Bucky swallowed hard.
“They wanted to cure you. Erase what you’d become,” Zemo whispered, stepping close enough for his shadow to fall across Bucky’s hands. “But not me. I never wanted you fixed. I only wanted you honest.”
His hand brushed Bucky’s shoulder—gentle, too gentle, like a ghost offering comfort to the man it haunted.
“Tell me something,” Zemo murmured, reaching over to tuck a strand of hair behind Bucky's ear. “When the memories claw their way back at night—when you wake up gasping, half-strangled by the past—whose name do you whisper?”
“Shut up,” Bucky croaked finally, lip trembling with intensity..
“Whose name do you scream when you beg to be held together?”
“I said shut up.”
But Zemo was relentless now, leaning down, his voice like smoke in Bucky’s ear: “Every part of you—your heart, your soul—it all belongs to me. Doesn’t it? It always has, James.”
Bucky shot to his feet like something had exploded inside him, fists clenched, face twisted with rage. “You don’t own me.”
Zemo didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He only looked at Bucky with that same unbearable calm.
“No?” he said softly. “Then why are you still here?”
Bucky opened his mouth—but the answer didn’t come. Because he didn’t know. Because when the rest of the world wanted him erased or redeemed, Zemo was the only one who looked at the broken pieces and whispered, stay.
Bucky turned away. His chest hurt. His hands trembled.
Zemo stepped back, like he’d already won.
“Go, if you want,” he said, voice colder now. “But you’ll come back. You always do.”
