Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

His father stumbles away in a cloud of sharp fumes, and Zemo straightens his robe again. The heavily embroidered collar lies flat along his skin, skipping over his prominent collarbone. It’s almost lucky, if he can call any of this lucky, that he can still wear his mothers old ceremonial robe. It’s one of the finest things left on the estate, and the only reason it hadn’t been pawned off too is because Zemo hid it years ago. 

The fabric is soft and a rich purple, bringing out the gold detailing. It’s definitely a lingering remnant of childhood optimism to wish that this would bring him the happiness his mother had in her marriage. Everything he’s heard said that Heinrich was a loving and doting husband to Zemo’s mother, and only spiraled after her death when Zemo was a child. He’s never truly seen that caring side of his father. 

He adjusts the robe’s ties again, even though they’ve been tied perfectly from the first time he’d put this on. Heinrich ignores him, too intent on raiding the fancy liquor cabinet in their room. He supposes it’d be too much to ask for Heinrich to not be stumbling drunk on today of all days. Zemo’s only here because of how much his father drinks. The only halfway calming thought is that Heinrich’s reputation as an alcoholic mess is so well known, the king is surely well aware and won’t hold it against Zemo. 

“They should be honored to have you,” Heinrich slurs from across the room. “A Zemo, we’re an old family.”

Zemo rolls his eyes. It’s true the Zemo lineage and barony is old, but it’s hardly respectable anymore. He’s lucky there’s any leverage or value left in the Zemo name. This marriage contract is the only thing that’s saving the estate at all, and that’s only because Zemo had snuck in a clause about it being managed by someone else in his stead. He’s not about to let Heinrich drink away this too. 

He might have been ready to be bartered off like a horse at the market all his life, but that doesn’t mean he’s any more ready to face his final buyer. He’s never even met King Pierce, all of this was arranged via courier. Zemo wishes, just a little, that he’d been able to meet the king before the ceremony, but the king has been very busy with no time for his political pawn bride. Zemo is well aware that for some circumstances, being ignored is far preferable. 

There’s plenty of talk about Alexander Pierce, even all the way out at the Zemo estate. Heinrich’s drinking and treatment of Zemo was an open secret in the little town outside their manor, and the townspeople had let Zemo hide at their bars out of pity. He’d listened to their stories and gossip, and ever more intently since his marriage bond had become public news. 

King Pierce rules with an iron hand, though he’s not necessarily cruel. He doesn’t have to be with his well-established reputation, no one would dare cross him and expect to live. His fanatically loyal troops bolster him even more, and the freedom Pierce gives them to take care of problems means no one is willing to make a single move against what Pierce decrees. 

It sounds terrible, but Zemo’s life is already terrible. Heinrich is capriciously cruel, and rigid rules and expectations would almost be a relief. Technically, very technically, King Pierce’s hands have been clean since he rose to power. He doesn’t need to do his own dirty work, not between his troops and his leashed beast of a bodyguard. It’s enough that the other nobility will receive him and he knows it, moving through the high society like a shark in the dark of the ocean. 

The king’s reputation is solid and doesn’t need to rely on rumors, not when it’s so blatant and clear. The stories about his shadowy silent bodyguard are far worse for their uncertainty. He’s never seen anywhere except next to the king. He’s a literal shadow. He’s a demon. No one’s seen his face and lived. No one sees his face, even when he kills them on Pierce’s orders. If he isn’t by Pierce’s side, he’s stalking the country like a wolf, no regard for borders, only caring about what Pierce wants from him. 

He never talks. No one’s heard his voice. He doesn’t even talk when he kills people, just materializes and if you see him it’s too late. Zemo’d considered asking where those pre-death rumors came from, if everyone dies as soon as they see him, but he lets the stories continue out of morbid curiosity. He’ll be closer to the bodyguard than anyone besides Pierce soon. The Soldier is a one man executioner squad, an assassin, an implacable force of nature. An ancient evil, harnessed by black magic. The rumors fly and they get wilder with every telling. 

Zemo sighs at himself in the mirror. He isn’t here to be executed, he’s a different kind of sacrifice. Seeing the Soldier won’t result in his murder, at least he hopes not. He shakes himself, stiffens his shoulders and his bored nobleman mask drops into place. It’s second nature to him now, maybe even first nature. Zemo doesn’t know the last time he had a genuine expression. 

There’s a discreet knock at the door and Zemo steels himself further. The first part of the ceremony is nothing but another social dance, another series of rules heavily entrenched in tradition. He’d memorized them easily, gone over them every night and in his sleep until he can navigate the vows without thinking. He’s been to plenty of boring rituals, though admittedly he’s never been married off before. 

His elaborate robe, no matter how elegant and refined, still gives away the second half of the ceremony. 

Cold sweat threatens to bead on his skin and he ruthlessly suppresses the nerves. The second half that King Pierce had insisted on is archaic and frowned on in most countries. The public claiming is to cement his place in Pierce’s family line, more permanently than the simple marriage contracts and vows do. It makes him a part of the kingdom, more than just a political spouse or half-hostage, depending on the circumstances. 

The security of the claiming goes both ways. Pierce won’t be able to simply divorce him should he tire of Zemo, though no one would be stupid enough to think something as silly as customs would prevent the king from disposing of Zemo should he wish to. The stronger public standing is still a shield of sorts, affording Zemo more social protection and power than he’d otherwise have. It also cuts Heinrich off from Zemo completely. 

He shakes the thoughts off again and opens the door to the perfectly calm attendant. She’s in the ceremonial rich blue and silver robes, and he follows her silently through the halls. Zemo doesn’t care if Heinrich follows or not, it’d be better if he drank himself unconscious in the room and didn’t attend but Zemo doubts he’ll be that lucky. 

His first glimpse of King Pierce is confusing. His own ceremonial robes are a bold black and red in his kingdom’s colors, vicious and brutal. The king himself is disarmingly normal, a kind but commanding smile for Zemo that Zemo returns with his own polite one automatically. The black and red look out of place next to his silver-blond hair, neatly styled but still wavy in a strangely soft way for a man with such a violent reputation. 

The sharp look in the king’s blue eyes as he scans Zemo finally ties the impressions together. That ice is the unrelenting, implacable ruler Zemo had heard about. Pierce’s expression is inscrutable otherwise, and he doesn’t seem bothered by Zemo’s older and less fine attire. He’s decidedly out of date with this robe, but it’s familial and that hopefully excuses him among these fashionable peacocks of courtiers. 

The king’s loyal guards are stationed around the hall, spectres of black and red positioned carefully and just as sharply attentive as the king himself. This close, Zemo can see the way the king presents himself as not noticing things is entirely a mask. He looks confident to the point of overconfidence, but Zemo has no doubt he’d end many threats himself if need be.

The ceremony is as simple as he’d known it would be, and King Pierce’s barely hidden boredom lets Zemo zone out without guilt. His attention is entirely caught on the claiming bed on the dias, just a few steps above where they’re standing now. It looks so big and it fills his vision like it’s going to consume him. It’s such a brilliant white behind the blue of the priest’s robes, all alone and waiting. 

Knowing about the claiming part of the ceremony and actually seeing the place he’s going to be publicly claimed are two very different things. Zemo’s never been touched before, being of noble blood and expected to remain so to be of any value on the marriage block. Another strange custom, but one Heinrich had insisted on. Not that anyone came close enough to Zemo to even hint at such a thing, but once again the vague knowledge becoming so absolutely real is nearly too much. 

The two acolytes in light blue turning down the sheets draws him in like he’s been hypnotized. He’s read about the act of course, did endless research, but actually experiencing it is so different. Zemo doesn’t want to look stupid and embarrass himself in front of the entire collection of important people on his first day in the kingdom. 

The king will probably be just as bored with the claiming as he is with the ceremony, even though he’s the one who insisted on it. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else, doing important kingdom business rather than wasting his time binding Zemo to him. He holds out hope that Pierce won’t be cruel to him, at least not here and now. Zemo’s still a political bargaining chip, somewhat important, though there’s no one to champion his treatment. If Heinrich even had any power, he wouldn’t use it to protect Zemo. Besides, no one crosses King Pierce. Zemo swallows nervously. 

He’s led up the stairs by one of the acolytes, and she helps him undo his robe. He’s naked under it, and now he’s naked in front of the bed and naked in front of the room. The acolyte helps him up the little stairs onto the high bed, made deliberately high to display him and his claiming. He pauses and then sits on the soft sheets, unsure what to do. 

King Pierce is standing next to the bed, and he hasn’t undone his robe. He taps his lip in thought, and Zemo’s fingers clench on the sheets with nerves. What if he’s not good enough already somehow? Did he do something wrong?

“Soldier,” Pierce snaps suddenly, and Zemo almost jumps.

He does flinch when the Soldier materializes out of a shadow, stalking forward silently in the sudden hush in the room. He’s just as terrifying as the rumors made him out to be. He’s tall, broad, unreadable. He’s almost completely covered in worn black battle leathers, heavy armor and weapons hanging off him like lethal jewelry. His hair is long and dark around his shoulders, and his face…Zemo shudders. His face is covered. His eyes are covered by flat lenses, no light going in or out, just blank spots where his eyes should be. His mask is more muzzle than anything, only serving to heighten the sense that he’s a barely leashed beast. 

The Soldier is on the opposite side of the bed from the king, standing silently and maybe watching Pierce for instructions. Zemo can’t tell, he can’t even hear the Soldier breathing and the only thing suggesting the direction of his eyes is the cant of his head.

“Do it,” Pierce says. 

Zemo frowns and scrambles back when the Soldier crawls onto the bed. He moves like a giant cat, all sinuous and deadly and approaching Zemo. 

“Wh-what?” Zemo asks, looking at Pierce in panic. “He can’t-”

“He’s of my line, he’ll claim you for me,” Pierce says, looking vaguely interested now. 

The Soldier is too big and too close and crowding Zemo up against the headboard and he freezes like prey under that blank mask. A leather-gloved hand wraps around his ankle, entirely engulfing it and yanking him down the bed and almost under the Soldier. Zemo yelps in surprise, not even trying to hide his fear. No one can blame him for being scared of the Soldier.

The strong hand lets go of his ankle, but Zemo doesn’t have a chance to move before the Soldier grabs his hips. There’s something wrong with the hands but he’s flipped immediately onto his belly, hips held up by the Soldier’s implacable and terrifyingly strong grip. He claws at the bed anyway, getting nowhere. 

It’s worse when the Soldier pins him down with only one hand, sharp and rough and wrong against Zemo’s bare skin. The sound of leather being unlaced spikes his panic again, but he gives up trying to get away. He can’t get away. He’s trapped and this is what King Pierce wants and this is what his contracts say, even if it’s not what he expected it’s still claiming him into the family line. He hadn’t known the Soldier was of Pierce’s line, but it makes sense with his unswerving and silent loyalty. 

The blunt, dry head of the Soldier’s cock presses hard against his ass and Zemo panics again. It’s too big, too dry and he’s used to pain but not this. 

“Stop,” Pierce says and the Soldier freezes immediately. “You’ll damage him.”

Zemo turns his head to look at the king, beckoning one of the acolytes over with a small opaque bottle. Pierce eyes Zemo dispassionately, still pinned to the bed with his hips held up humiliatingly. The Soldier’s cock is still pressed against his ass, frozen exactly when the king had ordered him to stop. The absolute perfect obedience is more terrifying than anything about the Soldier yet.

“Back up,” Pierce orders, and the Soldier scoots back without letting go of Zemo. 

The king’s fingers are slick and warm against Zemo’s hole, pushing in without warning and Zemo bites his lip against the strange, slightly painful stretch. The oil is lightly scented and feels weird running down his thighs as Pierce works it inside of him. The impersonality of the king fingering Zemo - the first time anything or anyone has been inside him - in front of everyone, looking so bored with him is mortifying. Zemo’s not even good enough to interest the king who just bought him.

It gets worse. Heinrich’s slurred, belligerent voice echoes through the muted hall, demanding to know why the king isn’t claiming his useless son. Half his words are unintelligible, but his tone is haughty and rude and Zemo wants to suffocate himself before this gets any worse. The king is eyeing Heinrich like he’s a disgusting worm, fingers still inside Zemo. 

“Get rid of him,” Pierce says. 

Two of his guards peel off the wall to frogmarch Heinrich out of the hall without a sound, his drunken yelling finally cut off by the solid doors shutting loudly. Pierce looks at Zemo finally, arching an unimpressed eyebrow. Zemo flushes and wants to protest but he doesn’t know how to apologize for something he has no control over. His face must communicate that, as Pierce looks satisfied and goes back to feeding oil into Zemo. 

He feels weird and cold and a little empty when Pierce pulls his fingers out and wipes them on the sheets. The room is a little louder with chatter now that Heinrich is gone, now that Pierce has stepped back and everyone can see Zemo pinned down and shiny and under the silent beast Soldier. 

“Go on,” the king says, folding his arms. 

The Soldier’s bulk spreads Zemo’s legs open more and he has no warning before the Soldier sheathes his cock inside him in one sharp thrust. Zemo gasps, the mild stretching by Pierce not enough to prepare him for something so big. If Pierce hadn’t stopped the Soldier earlier, Zemo would have been torn in half. It still feels like he’s being split in two, the Soldier fucking him mechanically. 

He’s far too strong, fingers bruising Zemo’s hips and his hips hitting almost hard enough to bruise Zemo’s ass too. Pierce watches for a little, mildly interested, before turning away and joining the circling crowds. Zemo’s been dismissed so publicly, and he can’t do anything because he’s being flattened into the mattress and claimed by the silent monster on top of him, thick cock buried deep inside. 

The Soldier grunts, the first noise Zemo’s heard him make and his insides are flooded with heat. He hates it, hates the way it’s trickling out around the Soldier’s cock, but at least it’s over. Zemo waits for the Soldier to get off him, but nothing happens. The Soldier is still hard, and he keeps fucking Zemo without pause. The king isn’t even watching, though some of the brightly attired guests are, whispering and observing as though he’s just a sideshow at his own ceremony. It’s the smallest consolation that the Soldier is so big and solid he shields some of Zemo from the onlookers. 

He gives up and lets himself be flattened entirely to the mattress, the Soldier adjusting to lay flat across his body. He catches sight of the Soldier’s left hand in front of his face. It’s wrong. It’s not human. It’s silver and scaled and there are talons coming out of his fingers. It’s half covered by fingerless leather gloves but Zemo can see enough to know it’s not human. The Soldier’s other hand is decidedly human when Zemo turns his head to check. 

He doesn’t hurt as much anymore, the oil and cum easing the way around the Soldier’s relentless movement inside him. The combat leathers and weapons dig into his skin sometimes, but it’s a small pain compared to the burning humiliation inside him. Even that is dying down under the lack of caring from anyone around him. No one but Pierce will ever command the Soldier, and unless the king gives him new orders, the Soldier isn’t going to do anything different. 

The party spins on around him, cheerful music and laughter and clinking glasses. The Soldier grunts as he comes over and over again, ceaselessly. Zemo’s soaked and in a puddle and sometimes he wonders if he’ll be stuck here forever, impaled on the Soldier’s forever hard cock while the world watches and ignores him. 

It’s many hours later, well into the early morning as people trickle out and leave and Zemo is still being fucked by the Soldier. He’s definitely not human, not with this stamina, but that hardly matters anymore. It’s been so long, Zemo is half-asleep by the time he registers the king coming up next to the bed. 

Pierce eyes him curiously. Zemo blinks back, too tired to do anything. 

“Get off,” Pierce orders, and the Soldier obediently pulls out. 

A gush of liquid runs out of Zemo’s open hole as the Soldier leaves him, stretched and used and sloppy and it’s disgusting but he’s too tired to care. 

“Go clean up,” Pierce orders. 

The Soldier climbs off the bed and vanishes without another look at Zemo. Zemo is discarded, uninteresting, used. He’s a little too tired to care right now, but the anger and humiliation will undoubtedly rise in the morning. 

“Someone will show you to your rooms,” the king says finally, gesturing at a servant and striding off without another look. 

The servant helps Zemo sit up, his face a blank mask and passes him another robe. This one is quality fabric, but unadorned and silky. Zemo’s glad he doesn’t have to put on his ceremonial robe, that reminder would be a little too much at this point. He stumbles off the bed, and lets the servant guide him through the winding corridors until he’s brought into a set of rooms. They’re nice, but all Zemo can see is the untouched and private bed and he ignores the mess on himself to fall onto it and into the blessed darkness of sleep.

Chapter Text

As soon as he wakes, Zemo regrets not cleaning himself up before falling into bed. His body aches, his lower half is simultaneously sticky and oily. He parts the robe and there’s perfect handprints across his hips, stark purple against his pale skin. The ones on his left hip look weird, nearly textured and little streaks of dried-red blood where the Soldier’s talons sank into his skin. He hadn’t noticed that happening last night. 

A quiet knock precedes the arrival of a flood of servants, carefully not looking at him as they set up a tub with steaming water in his room. He watches, distantly curious. They move like a well-oiled machine and before long it’s just him and one younger man, still at least ten years older than Zemo. Being older than Zemo isn’t much of a feat, if he’s being honest.

“Would you like to bathe, my lord,” the man offers deferentially. 

It’s less offer and more strong suggestion, and Zemo is not about to turn it down regardless. He slides off the bed with a pained groan, the servant materializing next to him and offering a supportive arm. Zemo takes it gratefully. He doesn’t intend to show weakness here where the waters are uncertain, but he doesn’t need to look perfect right now. Falling on his face would look far stupider than letting his servant help him into the warm bath. 

The water stings his abused skin, but it eases his sore muscles and it’s worth it when he can scrub off the residue of last night. The servant works to wash his hair of the little styling it had for the ceremony, and he sighs under the strong fingers. 

“What’s your name?” Zemo asks. 

“Jacob, my lord,” the servant says quietly. 

“What’s Pierce like?” Zemo asks. 

The fingers in his hair pause for the smallest moment before continuing. 

“The king is a fair ruler, and he keeps the kingdom safe,” Jacob says steadily. 

Zemo smiles wryly, moving bubbles around the surface. He hadn’t expected much else of an answer, but it was worth trying. 

“Are his rooms nearby?” he asks instead of discomfiting Jacob further. 

“Yes, his wing is next to yours, my lord,” Jacob says, the slightest hint of relief in his voice at the safe question. 

Zemo’s spent too long dissecting the smallest of movements and tonal changes to not pick up on those barely there shifts, even on such a controlled and perfect servant. Pierce wouldn’t assign him any less than the best, or anyone who couldn’t keep their mouth shut, but servants are still human. 

“Do you suppose he’ll have time for me,” Zemo muses, more to the water than Jacob. 

“The king is very busy but he’ll certainly have time for his consort, my lord” Jacob says firmly. 

“I’m sure you’re correct, Jacob,” Zemo says, soothing the servant’s ruffled feathers. He sighs, heavier than he needs to. “I’m just…well. I wouldn’t want to upset the king on my first day.”

The little sliver of vulnerability lowers the servant’s defenses exactly as Zemo intended. The tension in the room disappears and he can breathe a little easier. The last thing he needs is to get on the wrong side of servants by asking the wrong questions. 

“Did my things arrive?” Zemo asks, looking around the room. 

The room is downright huge, filled with furniture and wall hangings and wardrobes. It’s all very warm and harmonious, which strikes him as a little strange given Pierce’s penchant for the cold red and black theme everywhere else Zemo’s seen so far. It’s more likely Pierce simply hadn’t changed the furnishings in this room since he hadn’t had a consort until yesterday. 

While the space is lovely and far nicer than he’s ever seen before, Zemo still can’t see any of the trunks he’d packed to move here. He hadn’t had much, but he’d still packed carefully. Even with all the shelves and closets, he’d have expected to be able to see some of his things around. 

“The king saw fit to supply you with an entirely new wardrobe, my lord,” Jacob says, a little haughty sniff in his voice now. “As befits his consort. He ordered it immediately. My lord.”

“Ah,” Zemo says, thrown off. “How very kind of him.”

His things are - were, he corrects - on the shabbier side, especially when compared to the smooth elegance of the castle and its inhabitants. In truth, Jacob is better dressed than Zemo’s been in years. It grates that Pierce would replace everything Zemo owns without even consulting him, but Zemo resigns himself to more high handed decisions made without his input. Pierce has expectations, and Zemo doesn’t want to cross them, especially not over something as trivial as clothing. He’d needed the new wardrobe anyway, he’d be at a severe disadvantage if he’d been wearing his out of fashion and worn garments around the castle.  

“The king wishes to see you, my lord,” Jacob says as he helps Zemo out of the bath. 

His confidence returns now that he’s clean of the evidence of his claiming, and armored in fine clothing. He tries not to fidget with the fashionable detailing - finicky things that change with the seasons and never made it out to the estate. He’s sure these garments are the height of new fashion, likely even trend-setting based on the way the courtiers eyed each other last night. It’s a somewhat strange comfort to think that as the new royal, he’s incapable of being out of fashion. He’d never socialized enough to have that be a true worry back home, but it’s one less thing to worry about navigating while he’s adjusting.

Every step through the halls reminds him of last night. The bath may have eased some of his smaller aches, but he has to hide the urge to limp to lessen the pain inside him. Heinrich’s parenting methods, while not quite this type, have trained Zemo well to be able to hide pain in a casual saunter. Jacob directs him through the maze of stone corridors studded with doors and windows, and Zemo carefully commits every single one to memory. He’s not going to get lost in his own castle, and he’s also not going to remain reliant on anyone to find his way around. 

The halls are far from empty, and everyone they pass bows or curtsies deferentially. The look in their eyes or their expressions varies dramatically. Some have pity in their eyes, and he hates those the most. Some have avarice and calculation, and that he understands and expected. The best ones are the faces with complete disinterest, only recognizing him enough to execute the proper acknowledgements before moving on with their lives. 

The kingdom is known to be more militant, and the castle is well-protected even inside. Regular guards are studded along the walls and doors, flat black and grey gear keeping them from standing out. Pierce’s personal guards in brilliant red and deep black are bold and obvious where they’re stationed at critical defense points. Zemo’s a little impressed by the sheer competence and efficiency on display, though it’s a little worrying that Pierce wants such a heavy defensive presence. 

Though the rest of the castle has been anything but shabby, the decor and surroundings get even more elaborate and fine as they approach Pierce’s office. The amount of pitying looks on the fancily attired people increases as well, and Zemo commits them all to memory. He raises his chin a little, gifting everyone who dares look at him with anything other than respect an icy stare. 

They might have seen him naked and fucked by the king’s pet monster last night, but he won’t let them forget that it means he’s irrevocably part of the royal line now. It might have been humiliating down to his bones and the embarrassment still burning hot through his veins, but he’s not going to show any of it, and he’s absolutely not going to let anyone look down on him for what he went through. They can try getting used by that beast for hours in public before they try to judge him for it. 

Jacob stays outside when Zemo enters Pierce’s office. It’s large and busy with plans, large tables covered in detailed maps. Pierce and one of his personal guards are looking at a smaller map, studded with pins. Zemo barely registers the guard. The Soldier is against the wall behind Pierce, dark and foreboding and silent as he was last night. It’s still too close too soon and Zemo has to bite his cheek to ground himself. 

“Ah, Zemo,” Pierce says eventually, and Zemo yanks his attention away from the Soldier. “This is Commander Rumlow, head of my personal guard.”

Now that Zemo looks, he can see the finer detailing on the red and black indicating the higher rank. Rumlow’s face is sharp and weathered, confidence running through his loose stance. 

“Welcome to Hydravia, my lord,” Rumlow says, definite mockery in his amber eyes. 

Zemo didn’t expect anything besides the barest lip service to his higher rank from this man. Rumlow’s obviously far more powerful and valuable than Zemo, no matter his status in the royal line. He nods politely.

“Did you find your rooms comfortable,” Pierce asks, not looking away from his map.

“Yes, thank you,” Zemo says, hitching his empty smile back on his face. 

He stays silent as Pierce and Rumlow debate over their plans. He doesn’t recognize much of what they’re saying outside of a few country names. The politics of Hydravia are well beyond his knowledge, and he doubts Pierce is at all interested in bringing Zemo in on his planning. Rumlow is still respectful of Pierce, but the way Pierce listens to him and takes his feedback into account is fascinating to Zemo. Heinrich never took feedback, from anyone. 

“Soldier,” Pierce snaps. 

Zemo almost jumps at the sharp order. The Soldier steps forward and Zemo nearly panics that the blank faced creature is coming for him again before he forcibly calms himself. 

“You’re with Rumlow,” Pierce orders. 

The Soldier nods and fixes his blank mask on Rumlow. Rumlow looks unperturbed, but Zemo supposes he’s used to the Soldier and apparently has some degree of command over him too if Pierce’s order is anything to go by.  Zemo had no idea the Soldier’s command could be transferred so easily. It’s probably only to Rumlow though, with the trust Pierce has in the commander. 

The Soldier is blank. He’s never not blank, not with that muzzle and those flat glassy eyes that betray nothing. Zemo wonders a little hysterically if there’s nothing under there, if he’s a shell of a man or maybe that mask is hiding the face of a monster to match that silver taloned hand. He’s flesh and blood enough to claim Zemo for the royal line, but no one’s seen beneath that mask besides Pierce, and maybe Rumlow. 

Rumlow salutes Pierce crisply and Zemo lazily, leaving with the Soldier on his heels. Zemo barely avoids flinching when the Soldier passes by Zemo, even though he ignores him as if he’s a piece of furniture. Zemo still doesn’t relax until the heavy door shuts behind them. Pierce is watching him with no little amusement and condescension, but Zemo feels like he’s allowed to be a little jumpy about the Soldier this morning. 

“I suppose you have questions about the Soldier,” Pierce says, deceptively casually with his pale eyes sharp on Zemo’s face. 

Zemo hesitates. 

“Yes,” he says, opting for honesty. There’s no point in lying about this, everyone is curious about the Soldier. “What is he?”

Pierce sighs and sits back in his chair, waving at Zemo until he sits gingerly. 

“My men found him in a ravine some years ago, half frozen and nearly dead,” Pierce says, steepling his fingers. “They were able to keep him alive and bring him back. He turned out to be a competent fighter and very loyal, and quickly became my personal guard.”

“The mask?” Zemo asks hesitantly when Pierce doesn’t continue. 

“The Soldier has never spoken,” Pierce says, a little sorrow in his wrinkled face. “I suspect the trauma of his fall has rendered him mute. He prefers to keep his face covered.”

Zemo nods, feeling a little guilty for finding the Soldier’s mask so off-putting, but only a little. It’s still unsettling. Why someone would choose to wear a mask that so closely resembles a muzzle is beyond him, but that must be some decision lost to the Soldier’s silence. The flat lenses must be another shield between the Soldier and the world, the way the eyes often give away too much. It’s a little easier to understand the Soldier following Pierce around silently now, the unwavering loyalty to the man who saved his life and gave him a home despite never speaking. 

Zemo still isn't comfortable around the Soldier, not by a long shot, but it helps a little. Being brought into Pierce’s confidence about the Soldier, even of such basic information is even more stabilizing. He’s not entirely frozen out of the power structure if Pierce is willing to tell him this. 

“But enough about the Soldier,” Pierce says, clapping his hands. “I have business to take care of.”

Zemo stands at the obvious dismissal, but hesitates. 

“What would you have me do?” he asks cautiously. 

Pierce frowns at him. “What do you usually do?”

“I managed the estate, but…” Zemo shrugs.

It’s abundantly clear to both of them that Pierce doesn’t need assistance managing the kingdom, even if Zemo was capable of that.

“Well,” Pierce says after a moment. “Familiarize yourself with the castle and grounds. I’ll assign you a guard of course. Don’t get into trouble.”

Zemo nods and leaves the office, one of the palace guards peeling off the wall at Pierce’s barked order behind him. He stops in the hallway. He’s never been at such loose ends before, and his somewhat strange status here is both limiting and far too freeing. 

“What’s your name?” he asks, eyeing his newest babysitter-guard-spy. 

“Leo, my lord,” the guard says. 

He’s a lot more deferential than Rumlow, but that’s not surprising. He’s not in Pierce’s black and red uniform, just the black and grey of the palace guards, and he looks softer than Pierce’s personal guards. He doesn’t have that edge of barely contained violence about him, and he definitely doesn’t look like he’s more than willing to gut someone for looking at him wrong, or just for fun. Zemo nods and taps his fingers against his leg. 

“Is there a library?” he asks. 

He’s always liked libraries. The one at the estate was sadly depleted and out of date by the time he could start to appreciate books, but it’d still been a sanctuary for him during his lonely childhood. It’d been cozy and safe, the books never judging him or hurting him and he’d gotten lost in fictional worlds or historical stories for hours. 

He’s not prepared for the sheer size and elegance of the castle library here. It seems endless, tall shelves stretching out of sight into the huge room. He looks up and up and there’s even more books, a walkway circling the room with ladders to reach higher up shelves. He’s never seen anything like it. 

Zemo walks through the shelves in wonder, trailing a soft finger along the leather bound spines of more books than he even knew existed. His guard trails him, already looking bored but Zemo ignores him for once. The books are beautiful and he breathes in that wonderful scent of paper and ink and leather, a sense of peace settling across him for the first time in months. 

He picks a few random volumes, too many options among all these heavy wonderful books embossed in gold and silver and elaborate scripts. There’s soft chairs near the slim windows, carefully angled away from the shelves and loses himself in the words. He’s lost for hours in the pages, reverently taking in each new word and new book with the hunger of a starving man. 

The light finally dims enough it’s hard to read, and he sits back with regret. Leo is leaning against the wall and half-asleep. With his mind surfaced from other worlds, the loneliness and worry creeps back in. He stares out the little window at the lavender sky, not really seeing it. 

Being alone is hardly new to him, but the sense of isolation is worse here. He’s separated by status and Pierce’s reputation here, an island where he’s both protected and entirely alone. At his home estate, he could escape to the local village and pretend to be a part of their world, listening to their lives and letting himself dream of having someone who cared about him if only for a little while. 

He’s never been foolish enough to think he’ll have a friend in this world, not with his status and the use or be used nature of nobility. He wouldn’t trust anyone who wanted to be close to him. The impersonal kindness of Leo is likely the best Zemo will ever be able to attain, and maybe the polite conversation from Jacob in his rooms. Distant, polite and so, so lonely. 

***

He spends his days hidden in the library, Leo bored and asleep against the wall. Zemo’s ignored by everyone, and he hasn’t even seen Pierce since that first morning. He almost prefers that, though being ignored is its own kind of stress. Maybe Pierce truly only wanted that contract and doesn’t care about him otherwise - that’d be the best outcome for Zemo most likely. Pierce isn’t exactly the warm caring type, but the impersonal disregard is much better than active cruelty.

Hooves clatter against the stones in the courtyard below the library window, accompanied by the sound of metal and loud voices. Zemo peeks out curiously. The swirl of dusty horses and the familiar red and black uniforms are stark against the lighter stones, and Zemo’s stomach tightens when he sees the solid figure of the Soldier swinging off a large horse and waiting for orders. He’s gotten used to the Soldier being gone, and even with his new insight into the man, his return still sends chills down Zemo’s spine. 

He takes a steadying breath and sits back in his chair. There’s no reason for the Soldier or anyone to find him in the library. He’s still safe here, and as long as Pierce continues to ignore him he won’t have to see the Soldier either. Leo keeps watching out the window, and Zemo stares at his book not seeing the words. The constant noise won’t let him focus, and the image of the Soldier standing blank and muzzled haunts him. 

Zemo’s nearly calm when the library door swings open to reveal one of Pierce’s guards. 

“The king wishes to see you,” he says. “My lord.” 

Zemo stands, resigning himself to the endless disdain and near snubs of Pierce’s personal guards. He hasn’t been here long, but he already knows that Pierce won’t stand for his guards fully ignoring the honorific, but he won’t care if they make it snide and derisive. It’s not a battle worth fighting even if he were interested in it. 

Pierce is pleased when Zemo arrives at his office, Rumlow leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and equally smug. Zemo does his best to ignore the Soldier looming behind Pierce, dusty and dark and empty. 

“Rumlow tells me the Soldier did well,” Pierce says. “He deserves a reward, and I’m inclined to give it to him.”

Pierce looks like he’s waiting for something, but Zemo has no idea what he’s talking about. He nods hesitantly. Pierce’s smile broadens. 

“Good,” he says, turning back to his stack of papers. 

“Take him back and get him ready,” the guard who led him here orders, all but pushing Zemo out of the office. 

Zemo trails Leo through the halls, confused and nervous but unwilling to ask anywhere someone can overhear. Worry starts to set in when they return to his rooms, and Jacob is waiting inside. The look the two trade over Zemo before Leo steps out is even more nerve-wracking. He’d thought he’d gotten a little bit of a handle on his life here, but it’s clear that had been an illusion and he’s suddenly teetering on the edge of a cliff.

“Best to prepare yourself, my lord,” Jacob says with an expression that’s nearer a sympathetic grimace than a smile. “The Soldier is more animal than man, and you don’t want to get hurt accidentally.”

He sets a little opaque vial on the nightstand and Zemo recognizes it instantly in a cold rush of clarity. His breathing stutters and the humiliation burns through him fresh and hot as he puts the pieces together far too slow. The Soldier’s reward is him, again. He’d thought he was free of that after the claiming, but Pierce is apparently willing to use him as a treat for his loyal bodyguard. 

Zemo grits his teeth and lets Jacob help him out of his clothes, opting for a light robe so he isn’t entirely naked. The Soldier hadn’t been interested in him at all, not really, at the claiming and Zemo’s fairly sure that the silent creature won’t care if he’s partially covered as long as he’s accessible. He dismisses the servant with a nod, not wanting any witnesses to his continued indignity. 

He takes a deep breath and shoves the fear and anger away. He turns the little bottle of oil over in his hands, remembering all too well what Pierce had done to him. Figuring out how to arrange himself on the bed so he can reach down to run his finger around his rim is more difficult than he’d expected, but he’s not about to go face down and ass up for this. Even if he’s alone, he’s not going to start in that position. 

It’s awkward, trying to twist and angle himself so he can work a slick finger into himself. He ends up on his side with a leg hitched up, arched to work oil into himself. His face burns, and he tries not to think about how he’s opening himself up so a beast of a man can come use his ass without a single word as long as Pierce lets him. He keeps at it though, remembering how fast the Soldier had mounted him that first time. He remembers just as clearly how thick the Soldier’s cock was and does his best to add a second finger. 

There’s the barest of noises to alert him before his door opens and the Soldier stalks in. Zemo pulls his oily fingers out and wipes them on the bed, not wanting to be seen by anyone with his hand in his ass. That blank face turns toward him unerringly and he feels exposed by the lenses reflecting him. 

The guard shoots him an almost apologetic look. 

“You’ve got two hours, Soldier,” he says, shutting the door behind himself and leaving Zemo alone with the Soldier. 

The Soldier approaches him on the bed and Zemo steadies himself before turning onto his stomach. He’d considered staying on his back, but it’d be worse to see that horrible animalistic muzzle and his own face reflected back too clearly. This way he can close his eyes and bury his head in the soft sheets. 

His mattress dips and he parts his legs as the Soldier’s rough leathers drag up the inside of his bare legs. He’s pushed wider and he goes limp, letting himself be manhandled into whatever position the Soldier wants. The Soldier is freakishly strong, and he’s here under Pierce’s blessing. Even if he wanted to, fighting this would only make things worse for Zemo. His face burns hotter when the Soldier slides his robe up to expose him with a rough hand. He’s only being bared for those blank eyes this time instead of an entire room full of people, but that thoughts strangely not comforting with the Soldier’s claws digging into his side. 

The Soldier shoves into him with just as little finesse as he did during the claiming, and Zemo’s glad he’d stretched and oiled himself so well. It’s less awful this time, if only since he knows what to expect and how it’ll feel. The way the Soldier stretches him wide around his cock and thrusts into him mechanically is still unpleasant, but it’s not threatening to make him panic. 

Being flattened under the Soldier’s bulk is oddly calming. Zemo supposes it’s because the waiting was worse than this impersonal using, but it still feels wrong to ever think of a faceless monster as calming. The Soldier’s scent envelops him, and it’s the most human he’s ever seemed. He can smell the chalky dust from the road, the human sweat from the Soldier himself and the strong horsey scent, even a tang of blood still on the Soldier’s uniform as it drags against his skin. 

If he opened his eyes, he could probably see the Soldier’s mismatched hands again, pressed hard into the mattress on either side of Zemo. He keeps them shut, not wanting to see the flesh and blood hand any more than he wants to see that silver taloned one. He hadn’t thought of asking Pierce about the hand, and he’s not sure he’s curious enough anymore. He’d rather just not think about it once this is over. 

The only sound in the room is the Soldier’s steady breathing, the slap of his hips against Zemo’s skin, and the occasional grunt as he comes. Zemo’s distantly amused by how many times the Soldier can come - it’s unnatural and he hates the way he’s overstuffed with cum, but it’s nearly comical in its excess. He sighs into the sheets and the Soldier pauses for a split second before resuming his implacable rhythm. 

It’s an eternity of the Soldier crushing him into the mattress and fucking him until his door creaks open and the guard clears his throat. 

“Times up, Soldier,” he says. 

The Soldier pulls out immediately. It’s as disgusting a feeling as the first time, being wet and used but Zemo ignores it in favor of breathing in air unscented by violence. He tugs the robe back over himself as the Soldier leaves without a second look. Servants flood into his room as soon as the Soldier is gone, bringing in water for a bath. He’s touched they were prepared, it’s such a small kindness in this coldly lonely place where he’s all but powerless in his chains. 

***

His days spin on. It’s like it never happened, and Zemo goes back to roaming the castle and spending hours in the library uninterrupted. He doesn’t see Pierce or the Soldier or Rumlow except in passing, and no one talks to him outside of small impersonal conversation with the servants and his guard. Leo isn’t even pretending to hide his boredom anymore, and Zemo idly wonders if this position was actually a punishment assignment for him. 

The attack comes out of nowhere. It’s just after nightfall, the hallway lamps flickering in some unknown breeze as Zemo and his guard make their way back to his rooms. There’s a slight shift in the shadows and Zemo instinctively dodges, the cold brush of a knife across his arm where his throat was only seconds ago. Leo yells and draws his sword, engaging the masked attacker. It’s easy to see within seconds that Leo is far outclassed and it’s only a matter of time until he’s killed and the assassin goes after Zemo again.

Zemo eyes the pattern of the fight and picks his moment, darting in to steal a blade off the assassin and knife him in the neck in one smooth movement. The assassin grunts in surprise, collapsing onto the still form of Zemo’s guard on the stones. A pool of ruby red forms around them, and Zemo stares as he tries to pull his mind back together. 

Boots and weapons echo down the hall and several black and red armored men round the corner. They skid to a halt at the scene and Zemo supposes it must look a little strange if they hadn’t known about his training.  

“There was an assassin,” he says needlessly, gesturing at the bodies with the bloody knife. 

Rumlow blinks at him, but recovers a second later to bark orders until the hall is swarming with guards searching every nook and cranny of the castle. Zemo isn’t shaking from the adrenaline and shock yet, and he won’t let it start until he’s safely alone in his rooms. The thought that Leo, one of the few people who was always around Zemo is now dead on the floor from an attempted assassination has yet to sink in either.  

Pierce strides around the corner, his face a black thundercloud and Rumlow snaps to attention. 

“How did this happen?” Pierce barks. “How did they get so close to my consort without anyone noticing?”

“I’ll find out, my lord,” Rumlow promises, looking nearly as murderous as Pierce. 

Pierce steps around the bodies and puts a hand on Zemo’s shoulder. The touch is stabilizing, some physicality grounding him in this surreal moment. They stand there as the guards move around them, dragging the bodies away and conferring over the attackers hiding spot. 

“I can’t risk you,” Pierce says finally. “I’m reassigning the Soldier to be your personal guard, since your last one was so useless.”

Zemo wants to protest that Leo tried his best, but he keeps it to himself. It’s a testament to how out of it Zemo is that he hadn’t even noticed the dark wall of the Soldier behind Pierce. He nods, blinking at Pierce and hoping he doesn’t want him to speak because Zemo’s fairly sure words are beyond him right now. 

Pierce looks satisfied and returns to barking orders. The chaos flows on around Zemo still braced against the wall, but this time the Soldier stays next to him instead of following the swirl of Pierce’s robes around the corner. He turns the bloody knife over in his hand, watching it glitter. The Soldier is intimidating and nothing’s really changed, but Zemo feels an odd kernel of safety under the ominous presence in this single strange moment.

Chapter Text

His strange acceptance of having the Soldier trailing him evaporates quickly. The brief sense of comfort Zemo had gotten from the looming presence in the hall rapidly shifts to jumpiness and an ever present thrum of fear through his bones. Pierce had told the Soldier to protect him, but Zemo doesn’t know what that extends to. He obviously has no control over the Soldier. Hopefully whatever Pierce had the Soldier do as his personal guard is just what the Soldier will do around Zemo. 

The first morning Zemo wakes and the Soldier is standing by his wall, silent and blank he nearly falls off the bed in panic before he calms down. He has no idea when the Soldier sleeps, or how he eats when the mask never comes off, but that’s something Pierce must deal with. Zemo inches off the far side of the bed carefully, but the Soldier doesn’t move. 

Jacob is just as scared of the Soldier, shooting him constant nervous looks. 

“Is he going to do anything,” Jacob whispers.

“I don’t know,” Zemo admits just as quietly. “I hope not.”

They both eye the Soldier, who doesn’t react. Zemo looks down at the tub - he’s gotten more than a little fond of the constant hot water access, but stripping in front of the Soldier might invite things he doesn’t want. He has no idea what controls the Soldier and no one’s around to control him if he does something. 

Jacob seems to have the same reservations. He holds up a blanket to block the Soldier’s view of Zemo as he sheds his clothes and slips into the water, and Zemo thanks him profusely. He’s such a blessing in this impersonal castle. Nothing Pierce has done suggests that Jacob has to be so kind to Zemo but he took to him right away. Maybe it started out of pity for his situation, but Zemo can’t really be bothered by that when it gives him just a little human connection that he doesn’t otherwise get. 

The Soldier does nothing to either of them, not even moving or looking over when Zemo dresses hastily behind Jacob’s shield again. 

“He’s so weird,” Jacob whispers. 

“I know,” Zemo says. “I don’t know what to do with him, but Pierce said…”

They share a grimace. No one crosses Pierce, and no one controls the Soldier. Zemo’s trapped and they both know it. 

***

The Soldier trails Zemo as he wanders the castle and anywhere he goes. Zemo can’t help but keep checking over his shoulder and shuddering when he sees that lurking shadow behind him. He’s so big, but completely silent and it’s worse he can’t even hear the footsteps behind him. He can’t pick up anything from that muzzle and those flat lenses. The Soldier may as well be a statue come to life with the way he never reacts. 

His presence makes Zemo’s days a little more lonely, everyone skittering away from him as soon as they catch sight of the Soldier. It’d been those little tiny moments of human connection, much like the tentative bond he’d developed with Jacob that had sustained him through some of his bleaker days, but now the Soldier has ruined those too. Zemo glares at the blank man, heart racing and wondering if he’s going to set something off, but the Soldier doesn’t react to his impotent anger either. It’s probably like being glared at by a kitten for such a deadly man, but it makes Zemo feel a little better. Tiny, meaningless defiance has always been his lot. 

Despite the way all of his past interactions with the Soldier have been somewhere between humiliating and painful, Zemo adjusts to his silent presence slowly. It’s hard to stay permanently on alert, especially when the Soldier does absolutely nothing. If he hadn’t had first hand experience with how flesh and blood the Soldier is, Zemo would wonder if he was just an enchanted suit of armor and not even alive.

The first time Zemo realizes he feels pity for the Soldier he nearly walks into a wall. It hadn’t occurred to him before that the Soldier could be something - or someone - he could pity, not with the way their interactions have gone, but he pities the silent thing. Pierce had hinted at the traumatic experience the Soldier must have had, but Zemo starts to wonder just how bad it was to render the Soldier so empty. 

Pierce hadn’t even explained or mentioned the Soldier’s obviously inhuman hand. Zemo only catches glimpses of it sometimes, when the silver scales catch the light just right. He almost wants to ask Pierce, but somehow it’d feel like intruding. The Soldier doesn’t talk, so he can’t exactly tell Zemo himself, and there’s something so personal about that hand that Zemo doesn’t want to pry into. The Soldier didn’t seem to care when Pierce was talking about him in the office, but Zemo supposes he’s just a little more sensitive to wanting to keep things to himself than Pierce is. He’s also more than a little scared of what might have caused it, given the rest of the Soldier’s backstory. 

The days wear on and the Soldier does nothing. Zemo’s days are exactly the same as before. A week-long storm keeps him cooped up in the castle, and while it’s large, he’s gotten too used to wandering outside and he’s restless. He sets his book down finally, unable to focus on the words and frowns at the window. The rain beats against it incessantly, sheets of grey gusting against the panes. Zemo shivers a little. He might be going stir crazy, but it looks miserable outside.

The Soldier catches his eye when he looks away from the window. He hasn’t moved, still standing exactly where he always does when Zemo’s in the library, still watching the door. Probably watching the door, Zemo corrects himself, since he can’t tell where those lenses are looking. He taps his fingers against the book, his restlessness giving over into a spontaneously stupid idea. 

“So you don’t talk,” he says into the silent library. “But I suppose that doesn’t mean you don’t talk to Pierce. Or write to him instead. But Pierce already knows everything about me anyway, so what’s it matter?”

The Soldier hasn’t reacted at all. Zemo chews on his lip for a moment. 

“At least you can’t tell anyone else,” he decides. 

He’s pretty sure the isolation is getting to him now. Can he get cabin fever in a castle filled with people? 

“Can you get cabin fever in a castle filled with people?” he asks the Soldier. 

The Soldier ignores him. 

“I don’t know either,” Zemo says. “Basically only Jacob talks to me now. Since you started following me around. Everyone’s scared of you, but I suppose you already knew that.” 

His early burst of boredom-fuelled confidence fades and Zemo hesitates. The silence and muted beat of rain presses in on him until it’s too much. 

“What if I read out loud,” he says, picking his book back up. “Then you won’t be bored either.”

He has no idea if the Soldier even can get bored, or if he’s just tuning out Zemo entirely, but he ignores those thoughts and proceeds to regale the Soldier and the empty library with the history of a long-vanished country in a faraway desert. 

***

The Soldier’s complete lack of reaction is oddly encouraging. He’s just a little better than talking to the wall, and it keeps Zemo from feeling completely insane when he talks at the Soldier. He tells him stories from growing up, the way his father used to be, the way he’d go to the pub just to pretend to be part of the village. The Soldier reacts to none of it. Sometimes Zemo wonders if it’s getting back to Pierce, and if Pierce would even care if it did. Nothing Zemo’s telling the Soldier is really a secret, even if it’s personal. He ignores the strangeness of using a stoic blank suit of armor as a confidant and continues oversharing. 

It takes him longer to get through books when he’s reading them out loud, but it’s more fun. He picks books at random, having no idea what the Soldier would like. The library is endless and Zemo is interested in all of it. The Soldier doesn’t react no matter what he does while reading. 

Despite the way he talks at the Soldier, he’s still careful around him. He doesn’t entirely trust the silent man, and he does his best to not get too close. The Soldier makes it easy, almost instinctually pivoting away if Zemo changes direction abruptly. He’s so responsive Zemo wonders how he’s keeping an eye on everything all at the same time. Maybe the Soldier is partially inhuman and has special ways to track all the things in play. 

It starts to eat at him. It’s a little problem he can’t figure out, and the answer is so close but still out of reach. He knows the muzzle is there by the Soldier’s choice, but what about the lenses? He’s overcome with the need to know what’s behind them. He needs to know if the Soldier even looks human under them. The worry that it’ll be worse to know keeps him quiet for longer, but eventually curiosity wins out. 

“Does the Soldier have to wear the eye cover mask too?” Zemo asks Pierce one day.

Pierce is in a good mood for once, but Zemo’s still nervous asking him about anything to do with the Soldier. Pierce leans back in his chair, eyeing Zemo curiously. 

“Why do you want to know?” he says. 

Zemo hesitates. Pierce’s voice might be even and pleasant, but there’s danger under it. 

“They’re kind of…” Zemo hesitates again. “Weird.”

“Weird?” Pierce repeats, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t- it’s weird I can’t tell where he’s looking,” Zemo admits in a rush. 

Baring a weakness like this to Pierce is a risk, but Zemo’s skittishness around the Soldier is hardly a secret. 

“Unless it’s like his mask,” Zemo adds hastily. “I don’t want to cause problems.”

Pierce hums a little. The Soldier is silent behind Zemo. 

“You know he wants to wear the mask, right?” Pierce says. 

Zemo nods rapidly. 

“It’s enchanted, to me,” Pierce adds. “Don’t even try taking it off.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Zemo protests immediately. “You said he wanted it. But the glasses, I didn’t know…it’s like a bug.”

Pierce smiles a little finally. 

“Well, if you truly think it’ll help you be more comfortable with the Soldier, you can try to take them off,” Pierce says. 

Zemo nods again. Pierce’s wording is more than a little ominous, but he doesn’t have to take the glasses off now. He just could. He’s actually even less certain about wanting to see behind them now. He’s doubly unsure that removing those flat lenses will be helpful, not if the Soldier reacts poorly or if there’s something terrifying behind them, but he excuses himself from Pierce’s office to chew on his options.

It takes him the better part of a week to build up the nerve to try and approach the Soldier at all. He’s never gone near the Soldier willingly, and he’s definitely never touched him willingly. The Soldier continues to be blank and he may as well not have heard Pierce and Zemo discussing him. Zemo feels a little bad for talking about the Soldier like a piece of furniture, but he kind of is the equivalent of one.

The curiosity gets too strong one night when he’s alone with the ever-silent Soldier in his rooms. He approaches the Soldier slowly, but the Soldier doesn’t move. Nothing Zemo’s ever done, nothing he’s said has ever gotten a reaction out of him. 

“I’m going to take these off,” he says, his voice shaking only a little.

The Soldier doesn’t react. 

Zemo gets closer and reaches up slowly, just barely running a finger across the leather of the strap disappearing into the Soldier’s long hair. He frowns, squints and can’t tell where the clasp is. He’s already on his tiptoes and the shadows against the wall are making this nearly impossible. He steps back with a huff.

“Sit down,” he orders, before thinking about what he’s doing. 

To his surprise, the Soldier obeys and sits in the chair Zemo is pointing at. Zemo swallows nervously. The Soldier is still blank and Zemo can’t tell what he’s looking at or thinking, and that shakes him out of his momentary shock. He steps up next to the Soldier again, the closest he’s ever willingly been and leans in to look at the strap. It’s featureless, the lenses pressed tightly against the Soldier’s pale skin. There's only a sliver of skin exposed between his hair and the lenses, and Zemo wonders if they’re uncomfortable. Surely they’re not, if the Soldier is willing to wear them all the time. 

He moves the Soldier’s long hair out of the way carefully, tracing the strap around the back of his head. The Soldier somehow gets even more still, but he’s not reacting otherwise so Zemo continues. He finally finds the fastening at the back, so small it’s barely noticeable. It’s right above where the mask is fastened as well, and he pauses to look at that in confusion. 

It’s not a normal clasp, not at all. Pierce had said it was enchanted, but there’s something ominous about that red and black seal so tight against the Soldier’s head. He shakes it off. Surely the Soldier can take his mask off too, if he wants. It’s probably keyed to him and Pierce, since it’s so important to him to have his face covered. The uneasy feeling persists, but Zemo shoves it away firmly. That’s not his business. 

Zemo struggles with the tiny buckle holding the lenses on, so small he’s not sure how it’s ever undone. It feels almost rusty, the leather so deeply embedded in the buckles it’s like it’s never been taken off. That’s not possible though, there’s no way even a stoic blank slate of a man like the Soldier would never take his mask off. 

He finally gets it undone and winces when it takes a few hairs with it. He tugs it loose, trying not to pull on the Soldier’s hair any more and it takes way too long until he can pull them off entirely. They’re heavy, thick around the lenses and Zemo’s struck with new nerves about what the Soldier looks like under them. He stands for a long second behind the Soldier, before he rounds the chair cautiously.

He’s not sure what he was expecting, and somehow the entirely human eyes are both startling and vaguely disappointing. Zemo has to shake his head a little - did he want the Soldier to be inhuman, with slitted eyes or something? It’s still unsettling to know that the Soldier is even more human with every bit Zemo reveals. His eyes are vibrantly blue, watching Zemo steadily without turning his head. If he hadn’t taken the lenses off, he’d have assumed the Soldier was staring straight ahead, but he’s completely focused on Zemo. 

Cold runs through him when he realizes how many times the Soldier could have been staring at him while appearing to be facing somewhere else entirely. He’d known it was a possibility, but to see proof for the first time really drives it home. The Soldier is still quiet and unmoving on the chair, even with Zemo half-panicking next to him. 

There’s deep red lines pressed into the Soldier’s pale face where the lenses had dug in. Zemo doesn’t think before he runs a finger over them. The Soldier makes a noise and shifts into his hand and Zemo jumps back, heart racing in his throat. They both freeze, the Soldier slightly leaning towards where Zemo had been, and Zemo several feet back. 

There’s something tragically lonely in the Soldier’s eyes before they shutter over into blankness. Zemo blinks rapidly, trying to reconcile the last ten seconds with everything he’d thought he’d known. That noise hadn’t been threatening, it’d been more of a pitiful whine, like a starving dog. The Soldier hadn’t moved more than a fraction of an inch either, and froze as soon as Zemo leapt back. He’s still not moving, though his eyes are fixed on Zemo patiently. It might be his default setting, Zemo has no idea. There’s no threat in his body language or the half of his face Zemo can see now. 

He gathers his courage back together and creeps closer to the Soldier. The blue eyes track him, and the icy blankness seems to thaw a little the closer he gets. It takes everything in him to step up next to the Soldier’s leg again. The Soldier is incredibly tense, and Zemo can see little tremors running through his hands where they’re gripping his legs. His eyes continue to bore into Zemo. The longer Zemo stays still the more emotion the Soldier’s eyes betray, something almost scared in them. 

Zemo bites his lip and reaches forward to brush the tip of his finger over one of the quickly fading red marks on the Soldier’s cheek, just above his mask. The Soldier’s eyelids flutter, and he whines again, deep in his chest. Zemo stays still, breath nearly held and scrambling to keep up with how fast his world is being rearranged. He slides his finger slowly along the Soldier’s sharp cheekbone until it’s flat against the hot skin, the Soldier perceptibly leaning into his touch. 

It makes sense, in a terrible sort of way. The Soldier is terrifying, almost completely covered, usually stationed behind Pierce - who would get close to him, who would be close enough to touch him, if he even allowed it? The Soldier is touch starved, painfully so with the way he’s pleading with his eyes but not moving any closer. It also doesn’t make any sense - what’s keeping the Soldier from finding someone to touch him, even in the dark? That’s beyond Zemo’s ability to sort out, and he decides to focus on the immediate.

He hesitates again but turns his hand until he’s cupping the Soldier’s cheek in his hand. The rough leather of his mask blocks some of his palm, but with the way the Soldier is shaking Zemo’s pretty sure this is more skin to skin contact than the Soldier’s gotten in a long time, not counting when he fucks Zemo. 

That thought twists something in his stomach, even as he presses his hand more firmly into the Soldier to support his lean. There’s things going on that Zemo doesn’t have a hope of understanding, and he’s not pleased to be the Soldier’s reward for behaving, but there’s definitely something odd under the surface. The times the Soldier’s using Zemo might be the closest he’s been to another human in years. It’s an unsettling thought, and Zemo decides to ignore it. He can’t handle those kinds of questions and twisting perspectives right now, not when he’s still adjusting to the pathetic and needy way the Soldier is watching him, blue eyes hazy with pleasure at the barest touch of Zemo’s hand against his face. 

It’s so little, and yet it seems to be everything to the Soldier. 

***

He leaves the glasses off, hating the way those red lines looked etched into the Soldier’s surprisingly soft skin. The way the Soldier tracks him without moving is still unnerving, but now Zemo knows he’s always looking and he’d rather be able to see the Soldier’s eyes than those flat lenses. 

Jacob nearly jumps out of his skin the first time he sees the Soldier’s eyes watching him. Zemo hadn’t thought about how it would seem to everyone else, he’d been too focused on the way the blankness bothered him. The servants they pass in the corridors have a similar reaction when the Soldier trails Zemo without his lenses on for the first time - startled fear, and then surprisingly rapid adjustment to seeing a part of the Soldier they’ve never seen before. Adding that little bit of humanity back into him does wonders for making him less unnerving, though they’re still given a wide berth. 

Something’s shifted between him and the Soldier, or maybe just something’s shifted in the way Zemo sees him. He doesn’t seem as threatening, not when his whole body strains towards Zemo’s hand like a dog desperate for praise. He’s still plenty dangerous - Zemo isn’t stupid enough to think otherwise - but the Soldier might not be quite as dangerous to Zemo at the moment. 

He waits until they’re alone at night to touch the Soldier’s bare face. It feels like a secret. It feels forbidden, even though he’s just barely in contact with the Soldier. He leans into Zemo’s hand so eagerly, waiting until Zemo touches him to move at all but still so quiet other than his sharp, short breathing. The way his vibrant eyes fix on Zemo so desperately, like open wounds, keeps him doing it. He doesn’t really have a reason to stop, but the Soldier’s reaction is enough to keep going. Small kindnesses are what helps Zemo in this impersonal castle, who would he be to deny the Soldier the same?

Without his eyes covered, Zemo can see the way the Soldier watches him when he reads out loud, and the way he’s fascinated by Zemo’s dumb little stories. The Soldier’s always been so blank, but it’s clear now there’s life behind that muzzle-like mask. Zemo feels a little bad assuming he was something akin to an automaton for so long, but in his defense the Soldier has never truly seemed human until now. 

The Soldier gets closer slowly, trailing Zemo from less far away and standing just a bit more near when he’s posted up. Before he’d taken the glasses off, Zemo would have been scared and panicking but it’s almost touching now. The Soldier is starved for connection, and Zemo’s apparently the only one who gives it to him. He wonders a little how long the Soldier’s been with Pierce to get so desperate to be attached to Zemo of all people. Surely the Soldier should be wary of getting too close to Pierce’s consort, even if Pierce throws Zemo at him like a toy and otherwise ignores him? 

Zemo still gets those sidelong looks, smirks behind hands and whispers that threaten to heat his cheeks from some of the nobles and courtiers. Even after all this time, they haven’t forgotten his claiming. Or maybe they’re aware that Pierce lets his pet soldier use him. It doesn’t really matter what they know or think they know, the way they look at him is so hard to ignore some days.

The first time the Soldier moves up, blatantly threatening until the gossipers pale and flee, Zemo hsa no idea how to react. The Soldier hesitates and then steps back, almost a little nervously. Zemo throws him a grateful smile - he’s been alone facing those whispers for so long and it’s deeply satisfying to see them scatter like rats. He thinks briefly, and then acts on his impulse and touches the back of the Soldier’s flesh hand just briefly. He’s never touched the Soldier anywhere but his face, and the Soldier’s eyes widen for a split second and he twitches under Zemo’s fingers. 

***

Zemo’s gotten so used to the Soldier’s presence it’s startling when Pierce recalls him for a mission. Somehow having a normal, human guard is more unsettling after the complete silence and attention of the Soldier, and Zemo embarrassingly keeps far too sharp of an eye out for the return of the combat team. He understands the Soldier is first and foremost a combat resource, and important to whatever missions Rumlow goes on under Pierce’s orders, but that doesn’t keep Zemo from missing him. The realization that he’s gotten so attached to the Soldier after everything keeps him preoccupied for several days. 

When he hears the clatter of the returning combat team and the summons to Pierce’s office, Zemo goes a little too eagerly. He should know better, but in his haste to see the Soldier he hadn’t considered what it looked like. He’d forgotten, too, how Pierce is.

He makes the mistake of looking at the Soldier, and not being scared of him. Rumlow is next to Pierce’s desk, just as dusty from the road as the Soldier and Pierce looks dangerously thoughtful. The kind of placid exterior that hides strong undertows but Zemo has already stepped in too deep. He tries to recover, looking away from the Soldier but it’s too late to hide his first instinctive reaction.

“Zemo,” Pierce says. “The Soldier did well. I think he deserves a reward, don’t you?”

Zemo swallows. This time he knows exactly what Pierce means, but too, this time he’s almost gotten to know the Soldier more and maybe it won’t be so awful. He nods, and starts to turn when Pierce clears his throat. 

“Here,” Pierce says, tapping his desk in front of him. “Rumlow did well too, after all.”

Zemo freezes like a deer in front of a hunter. Pierce can’t possibly mean to-

“He won’t fuck you,” Pierce says at Zemo’s panicked look. “Not this time, at least. Soldier.”

He snaps his fingers and the Soldier steps forward. His glasses are back in place, face impassive and flat but Zemo knows the Soldier is watching him. He’s still not quite ready when the Soldier steps up behind him and pushes him inexorably into Pierce’s desk, bending him over the dark wood and holding him down with a palm to the middle of his shoulders. From this angle, all Zemo can see is Pierce and Rumlow and he wishes he could close his eyes, but he’s sure Pierce wouldn’t like that.

The Soldier tugs his pants down around his thighs, baring him to the room and it’s nearly as humiliating as the public claiming. It might be worse, with the hungry way Rumlow is watching him. It was impersonal for the crowd, and this is Zemo on display entirely for two. The Soldier’s cock brushes up against his ass and Zemo jolts.

“I-I don’t have any-” Zemo says, fear starting to take over at the thought of being taken dry and unprepared. 

Pierce looks at him for a long moment, so long Zemo thinks he’s going to deny him. 

“Very well,” Pierce says, and drops a little bottle of oil next to Zemo. 

Zemo takes it gratefully and his face burns as he opens himself up in front of the room. It’d be worse if he didn’t, but to be preparing himself to be fucked by the Soldier for Pierce’s amusement and Rumlow’s reward is degrading. Pierce clears his throat and Zemo pulls his fingers out of himself and holds onto the desk. 

The Soldier’s cock brushes against him and shoves into him with one firm snap of his hips and Zemo bites back the gasp of near-pain. The Soldier isn’t gentle, especially not now in front of Pierce and he uses Zemo relentlessly. The edge of the desk bites into his hips and the Soldier’s mismatched hands tighten around his waist. It’s not quite as rough as he’d expected, the Soldier isn’t being careful but he could so easily be much rougher. 

Zemo bites his tongue through the entire humiliating experience until the Soldier comes, grunting, inside of him and pulls out. The trickle of cum down the inside of his thighs compounds the burn of shame but Zemo waits until Pierce nods to pull his pants back up and step back from the desk. There’s a slight frown on his face but Zemo’s not sure why. He stays put until Pierce dismisses him, the Soldier staying behind. 

***

The Soldier returns to Zemo’s shadow once Pierce releases him. He stays back from Zemo, hesitant and almost like he feels guilty about the office scene. Zemo tries to tell him it’s okay, it wasn’t his choice, and he’s not sure if the Soldier believes him. They’re both trapped under Pierce, and that moment and the Soldier’s behavior now only convinces Zemo of that more and more. 

He starts to wonder if Pierce has something over the Soldier. His loyalty suddenly seems forced. He’s obedient to a fault, absolutely no rebellion in him but somehow Zemo doesn’t think it’s entirely willing. There’s no way he’ll ever voice that, it’s too dangerous to even hint at questioning Pierce and he doesn’t know how the Soldier actually feels. There’s some degree of softness still in the Soldier’s eyes when he watches Zemo, even as he holds himself back. 

Zemo’s sitting on his bed when Pierce strides into his room with no warning. He jumps and scrambles off to stand awkwardly under Pierce’s inscrutable stare. Pierce has never visited his rooms, and the twist in his mouth doesn’t bode well. The Soldier is frozen by the wall, eyes darting between Zemo and Pierce. 

“Zemo,” Pierce says, pale eyes evaluating him and finding him wanting. “I think it’s time I claimed you myself.”

Zemo’s mind stops. He’s already been claimed into the royal line by the Soldier after the marriage, but Pierce is still his husband. He has rights. Zemo had never considered this after that first rejection, and the way Pierce’s mouth curls more it’s clear the panic is showing on Zemo’s face. 

“Get on the bed,” he orders Zemo. “Watch,” he adds to the Soldier, who shifts closer to the bed obediently. 

Zemo can’t read the mask that’s dropped over his face, the way his eyes are suddenly terrifyingly blank. 

He climbs back onto the bed and pulls off his clothes under Pierce’s sharp stare. The trails of his eyes along Zemo’s skin feel wrong but he suppresses the shiver and lays back obediently. He has no idea what Pierce wants from him, or why he’s suddenly here. He hasn’t shown any interest in Zemo before now. He can’t help but look at the Soldier, but there’s nothing there, just blank eyes staring down at Zemo. 

The mattress dips under Pierce’s weight as he shoves Zemo’s legs wider. He grabs Zemo’s chin roughly, painfully hard and yanks him back to face him. Pierce’s mouth covers his and it’s not a kiss, it’s domination and ownership and Zemo lets him take his breath and slide his tongue past his lips. This is a show, a lesson, and Zemo’s heart sinks into his stomach when he realizes what it’s truly about. The Soldier had been too cautious with him, too eager to see Zemo in the office. This is Pierce punishing them both, making his claim clear that he can use Zemo any time he wants and take him away from the Soldier and make them both suffer. 

The rub of Pierce’s skin against Zemo is so different from the Soldier and he hides a shudder. He waits for Pierce to push his legs up and shove into him. With the vicious mood Pierce is in he knows it’s going to hurt. He doesn’t though, just bites more viciously at Zemo until he can taste blood on his tongue. 

Pierce sits back between Zemo’s legs and Zemo’s blood stains his lips, his glare dark and dangerous. Zemo doesn’t know what he did wrong now. His eyes flicker down and Pierce is still soft. Zemo swallows nervously, and Pierce’s eyes narrow. 

The backhand is a surprise and it takes long seconds for the splitting pain to register. Pierce smiles, cold and cruel. Zemo lifts a trembling hand and it comes away wet with blood from the impact of Pierce’s heavy signet ring. Pierce turns his hand in the low light, watching the blood on the gold sparkle and he licks it off. 

Zemo’s almost ready for the next hit, snapping his head to the side and more bruising ache rising fast. Pierce’s hand wraps around his neck and squeezes until Zemo chokes and claws at the bed. He coughs through the stabbing pain in his throat when Pierce finally releases him, darkness sparking on the edge of his vision. His eyes water and he yelps at the unexpected blow to his side. He doesn’t know what set Pierce off, but his pale eyes are intent and hungry as he hits Zemo ruthlessly. 

He doesn’t fight back, it’d be worse if he lifted a hand to defend himself, he knows that much. The Soldier stands next to the bed, watching, unmoving. His face is blank around the edges of the muzzle. Zemo’s brought back to himself roughly when Pierce grinds against him, hard now and hungry to break Zemo even more. 

“Choke him,” Pierce orders. 

The Soldier reaches out with his flesh hand and Pierce slaps it away. 

“Other hand,” he says, his smile twisting at Zemo’s rising fear as the cold scales and sharp claws wrap around his already bruised throat. 

He barely registers the slap to his face, open handed and derisive. The Soldier maintains the perfect pressure to let him draw just enough air to stay conscious but tight enough that he’s panicking helplessly under the implacable hold. His legs are shoved up and wide and the burning pain tears a broken noise out of him around the soldier’s fist as Pierce shoves into him without anything to ease the way. 

It’s sharp and stabbing, and Pierce’s hands dig into Zemo’s sides and bruise him deeper. Tears leak out of his eyes, unstoppable and it only spurs Pierce on. He leans across Zemo’s limp body, licks them off his face and bites his neck bloody just above the Soldier’s fingers. 

He doesn’t want to look at Pierce’s face, doesn’t want to hear those grunting noises, wants to black out entirely but the Soldier is too good at keeping him on the edge of consciousness. He pries his eyes open, blinks away the streaming tears and meets the Soldier’s pained ones. He holds the Soldier’s stare and reads something apologetic in their depths even as Pierce takes his mouth again, even as the Soldier's claws sink into Zemo’s neck and blood drips down his skin. He tries to tell the Soldier he forgives him, he doesn’t blame him, neither of them have a choice and their hands are tied, tries to make him understand through his eyes alone, but the guilt only compounds in the Soldier’s broken stare. He never looks away from Zemo’s face as Pierce bloodies and bruises him and makes him cry out in pain over and over again.

It’s almost a relief when Pierce groans and stills against Zemo’s hips, flooding him with unwanted heat that stings and dirties him. He pulls out deliberately rough, fingering his cum back into Zemo’s raw hole until another sob breaks out of him. 

“Good,” Pierce says, slapping his leg. “Much better. Release him,” he adds to the Soldier.

Zemo coughs and chokes when the Soldier’s claws pull out of his skin, the sting and tickle of blood barely noticeable around his other injuries now. He stays on the bed, weak and used and in pain as Pierce dresses and leaves. The Soldier steps back to his place on the wall, Zemo’s blood staining his claws. 

He doesn’t know how long he lays there in the mess and misery when Jacob knocks and enters carefully. His eyes go wide when he sees Zemo, and he rushes to the bed with words of concern. He spots the claw marks and the signature scale-shaped bruises on Zemo’s neck and whirls around to glare at the Soldier. It’s almost comical the way Jacob isn’t scared of the Soldier after the way he’s been around Zemo for so long. He’s no longer skittish, but willing to yell at the stoic blank mask about harming Zemo. 

“Jacob,” Zemo manages to grit out. 

Jacob spins back instantly by the bedside. 

“It was Pierce’s order,” he coughs roughly. “He didn’t have a choice.”

Jacob’s eyes narrow but he sighs just a little. 

“All of this Pierce?” he whispers, eyes darting around to make sure no one's listening. 

Zemo nods, and the motion makes him wince. Jacobs' face softens. 

“I’ll clean you up, and change the sheets,” Jacob says. “I know someone who has something to ease the pain, too.”

Zemo touches his hand gratefully, not willing to talk past the rawness of his throat anymore and lets himself fall into the caring touch, ignoring the Soldier with effort. He might have been ordered by Pierce, but the punctures in his neck are too recent to handle seeing him so close and the Soldier is staring off at the door.  

***

When Zemo wakes the next morning, stiff and pained, the Soldier’s eyes are covered again. He doesn’t acknowledge Zemo’s questioning sound, keeps his face turned away as though he can’t bear to look at Zemo even with the blank lenses hiding him. Zemo hurts too much to deal with the withdrawal just yet, groaning as he slides out of the bed on weak legs. 

Cataloging all of his injuries would take too long, and Jacob had bandaged him thoroughly the night before. He could so easily just stay in his rooms today while he heals, but Zemo still has some possibly idiotic pride. He stares himself down in the mirror. His face is swollen, the white bandage covering the cuts from Pierce’s ring stark against the deep purple bruises. Despite the high collared shirt, the edge of a bite mark - or the bandage over it - is still visible. 

He keeps his head high and goes about his routine, heading for the library and trailing the Soldier. The Soldier stays further back from him, nearly flinching if he catches Zemo looking at him. It’s lonely again and Zemo misses seeing the Soldier’s face, even if it was mostly covered. The muzzle and glasses are isolating and he doesn’t like what it says that the Soldier put it back on willingly. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” he says, quietly in the empty library. He doesn’t look up from his book, but he knows the Soldier is listening. “He ordered you. I don’t blame you.”

He doesn’t know if the Soldier believes him, or if the Soldier cares that Zemo doesn’t blame him. He has to try. He doesn’t want to lose their tentative connection and the bond forming that’s far deeper than he’d ever expected to find. 

Pierce summons him a few days later, and Zemo obeys promptly, not wanting to give him any excuse to hurt him or the Soldier again. 

His pale stare is heavy and satisfied with the way Zemo’s bruises stand out lurid green and purple, and the way the Soldier posts up at a large distance from him. Pierce smiles finally. 

“It’s important you know your place,” he says mildly. 

Zemo nods carefully. 

“There’s a delegation from Americana coming soon,” he says, tapping his fingers on his desk. “We’ve been in trade negotiations with them for a while, and this should solidify our plans.”

Zemo nods again, a little confused. They’re a neighboring country, but the Zemo estate was far enough away he’d never thought about them more than in a vague sense. He supposes he should pay more attention now that he’s in the royal line.

“You’re very important to this,” Pierce says, frowning at Zemo as though admonishing him for failing already. “They have some ideas about bonding and marriages, and I expect you to maintain them.”

“Sir?” Zemo asks. 

Pierce’s mouth twists a little in disgust. “They expect this to be a love match, or failing that, mutually appreciative. I expect you to make them believe it.”

“Of course, my lord,” Zemo murmurs, no matter how bitter the agreement is in his mouth.

Chapter Text

The formal robes are more elaborate than anything Zemo’s ever worn, including his marriage ones. Pierce is determined to put on a good show for the delegation from Americana and Zemo is the keystone. The entourage had arrived late last night, and Zemo had heard the clatter of wagons and horses and people unloading, but the formal reception is this morning. He hasn’t gotten a glimpse of the visitors yet, the throne room will be the first time he sets his eyes on anyone from out-country. He can’t even muster up any nerves about meeting another king, not when the threat is far closer to home. 

Pierce hadn’t given him any other instructions since he’d told him they were coming and would expect this to be a love match, or something less transactional than it is. Certainly something less dangerous than it is. Zemo had been able to infer plenty and he’d spent the last week leading up to this moment planning and rehearsing with himself, altering stories until he could lie convincingly about all of it without a pause. 

The last little yellow-green discolorations from Pierce’s hands are hidden under Jacob’s expert touch, blended perfectly into Zemo’s skin. They’re small enough now that even if someone noticed, they’re easily waved away as a silly accident in the library. Zemo’d practiced that story too, just in case. How silly of him, trying to get such a big book down from such a high shelf! A completely unremarkable story, a story that makes him look just a little foolish. He’d decided being a foolish boy would be a secondary shell, if for some reason someone pries too much and doesn’t buy his main cover. They have no reason to doubt, but Zemo prefers layers of preparation. He doesn’t want to find out what Pierce will do if Zemo gives the visitors cause to doubt his dedication to the marriage. 

Jacob had been concerned for him and Zemo had been touched, but one demonstration of his lying and complete shift in body language had convinced him that Zemo was more than prepared to play his part. The visitors don’t know Zemo at all, they don’t know what’s been happening here, and no one is foolish enough to talk to them about it. All they’ll have is what Zemo and Pierce give them, and Zemo isn’t going to be the one to slip up. 

He pauses just outside the throne room, straightening the tie on his waist and letting his false persona slide over him like a second skin he won’t be rid of until the delegation leaves. A slightly shy but well trained young man, he doesn’t want to seem too young, otherwise they’ll likely question the match more than he wants. 

The room is a swirl of people and colors from the delegation, but Pierce is all he can see. Zemo smiles and approaches Pierce near the dias, and Pierce stands from his throne to greet him. He takes Zemo’s hand, so gently, smiling down at him and kissing his knuckles lightly. His eyes are cold and the threat is clear. 

“Helmut,” he murmurs, loud enough the visitors can hear it but quiet enough it seems like he’s only speaking to Zemo. “I’m very excited to introduce you to our visitors.”

Zemo blushes and ducks his head, smiling up through his lashes. 

“I hope I’m not late, Alexander,” Zemo says. He’d decided to gamble on using Pierce’s first name, and Pierce using his cements Zemo’s choice and Pierce’s look shifts to satisfaction. 

“Of course not, darling,” Pierce says, straightening and moving Zemo’s hand to the crook of his arm. “You could never be late.” 

Zemo blushes more, and sends a tentatively adoring look up at Pierce. That one had taken a lot of practice, but Pierce looks even more pleased with his act, running a finger under Zemo’s chin so soft and caring. 

Rumlow clears his throat, and Pierce looks away from Zemo regretfully as though he’d forgotten the entire room when Zemo arrived. Zemo takes a split second to scan the room and spot the Soldier tucked into the shadows along the wall. He’s all but hidden, and only Zemo knowing where to look lets him even find him at all. He doubts the visitors will ever see him unless Pierce wants them to, and he quickly moves his gaze back to Pierce. 

Pierce helps Zemo into the consort throne, and Zemo arranges his robes carefully before looking up. It feels rude to have ignored the entire delegation just to sit down, but he’d planned on looking entirely absorbed in Pierce. He chases a little more red into his cheeks as though he’s embarrassed by it. 

“King Rogers,” Pierce says, meeting the tall blond man at the base of the dias. “It’s good of you to come.”

Zemo eyes the king curiously. He’s tall, broad shouldered and in good shape, much younger than Pierce. He’s in blue and gold and silver, starkly bright next to Pierce’s dangerous red and black. His blue eyes are sharp, even from the distance Zemo is at and he doesn’t like the way they weigh him and he hides it behind a shyly polite smile. 

“I didn’t wish to subject my new consort to the road so soon after our marriage,” Pierce is saying with a warm smile over his shoulder at Zemo. “My consort, Helmut Zemo.”

“Understandable,” Rogers says, shaking Pierce’s hand firmly. “It was no trouble to meet you here.”

He looks more like a warrior than a king to Zemo, but maybe his experience with royalty is a little narrow. Pierce might have looked that upright and hale years ago too, after all. 

“My advisor, Sir Romanov,” Rogers says, beckoning a small red-headed woman up. “The head of my personal guard, Sir Wilson,” he adds, and a stern looking black man steps forward. 

Pierce greets them the same, and Zemo takes the opportunity to get the measure of these two newcomers. At first glance Romanov doesn’t look dangerous, small and collected, but the longer Zemo looks the more danger he can see in the lines of her stance. He’s had a lot of experience reading people in his few years, and the Soldier has even less body language than this woman, otherwise she might be inscrutable. The watchfulness goes both ways, even if she isn’t currently looking at him, and he settles further into his persona. 

Wilson is more similar to Rogers in the way he stands, more military and trained. There’s less subterfuge in his body language, and less suspicion hiding in his eyes. He’s mostly stepped back and is watching the room now, noting all of Pierce’s guards around the walls. Zemo can tell he doesn’t see the Soldier, otherwise there’d be some reaction when he scans behind the dias. Zemo smiles politely at him when Wilson meets his eyes just briefly. He catches his name and tunes back into the conversation hastily. 

“Helmut knows the gardens very well, if your man would like a tour,” Pierce is saying. “As much as I prefer to keep him by my side, business needs.” He looks appropriately contrite and disappointed, as though he’ll miss Zemo for the hours of negotiations they’ll be doing. 

“I would be happy to,” Zemo says, right on cue. “They’re quite lovely right now.” 

It’ll be a relief to get out from under Pierce’s sharp eyes, even though Zemo knows being alone with one of the visitors means he needs to maintain his cover even more thoroughly. He’d be surprised if this Wilson doesn’t pry into the circumstances of his marriage to Pierce. That’s exactly what Pierce intends to happen, and Zemo expected it at as well. He’d practiced for this exact scenario. 

“I will miss you dearly, my boy,” Pierce says, kissing Zemo’s fingers before turning his hand over to press another into his palm.

“And I you,” Zemo says, blushing prettily and looking besotted as he curls his fingers around the touch, choking on the words. 

Pierce releases his hand finally, stepping back and letting Zemo move past him to guide Wilson out through a side door, one of Pierce’s guards peeling off and trailing them at a polite distance. 

“They’re not far,” Zemo says, offering Wilson a small smile. “Alexander has such talented gardeners.”

Their conversation stays light and surface through the halls, passing various courtiers and servants that stop to bow to them both. Zemo watches Wilson from the corner of his eye. He’s still reserved, but in a way that isn’t aggressive or intimidating. He’s evaluating the palace, and he’s definitely evaluating Zemo. They haven’t approached a subject yet that would give Zemo a foothold into reading his expressions better, but he knows it’s coming, likely once they’re outside.  

He amuses himself a little outside, talking to Wilson endlessly about the flowers and plants and castle and making it sound much warmer and welcoming than he’s actually found it. He does like the gardens, but not that much. He’s curious how long it’ll take Wilson to broach the subject, he seems scrupulously polite and unlikely to interrupt Zemo to grill him about such sensitive matters. 

Zemo finally takes pity on him after an uninterrupted half hour long monologue about flowers he’s half made up, and gives Wilson an opening. 

“Alexander is so kind,” he says, sighing happily and fingering the velvety petals of a blood-red rose for the drama. “It was hard for me to leave my childhood home, but he’s made it so easy to find a new home here with him.”

“You have a somewhat large age gap,” Wilson says carefully. 

Zemo sighs again, looking down at the ground as though he’s shy. 

“I was worried about that when I came, but it doesn’t matter to either of us now,” he says softly.

He darts a look up at Wilson like he’s nervous about his reaction. Wilson’s face is still controlled. 

“The circumstances of your, ah, ceremony reached us,” Wilson says into the brief pause. 

Zemo hides his smile. There was really no graceful way to bring it up, but he’s a little impressed Wilson forged on despite the potential offense he’s dancing around. He scuffs his shoe in the grass. 

“It’s archaic, I know,” he says without looking up. “A lot of people look down on it, but I’d always…it’s in all the stories. I always…thought it was romantic.” He darts another nervous look at Wilson, blushing a little in faux-embarrassment. 

“Romantic?” Wilson asks, his eyebrows rising. 

Zemo blushes harder. “It’s a stronger bond,” he says, a little defensively. “Alexander brought me into his line and to his side completely. It’s not just a social contract.”

He pauses long enough to look chagrined. “Not that, I mean, other marriages are proper too, but…it means more to me.”

Wilson smiles a little at Zemo’s stammering. 

“No offense taken,” he says. “But - forgive me for asking - the king didn’t claim you himself?”

Zemo fidgets a little. It’d be strange if he didn’t have a few hang ups about that scene. 

“It…yes,” Zemo admits. “He claimed me by proxy, his most loyal soldier. It’s not uncommon,” he adds, defensive again. “I’d…I didn’t realize that at the time.”

Wilson waits while Zemo searches for words. 

“Alexander explained it to me later,” he says finally, speaking quieter like he’s confessing a secret. “He didn’t want our first time to be so public. He didn’t want to taint our relationship from the beginning, and he was so terribly apologetic about it. The circumstances…he’d tried to pass them on ahead of time, but my father…” Zemo grimaces. 

He’s sure they’re aware of the contract and how much of a mess Heinrich is. Zemo can blame all sorts of things on Heinrich, and they’re all believable. 

“I never expected to be chosen by someone as important or kind as Alexander,” he adds before Wilson can speak. “With my station, I was always going to be in a political marriage.” 

He shoots Wilson a suspicious look as though he’s expecting judgment, but Wilson doesn’t react, no matter what he thinks about it. 

“I’ve been so lucky with Alexander. He dotes on me, and I’ve never been happier,” Zemo enthuses, trying to look dopily lovesick. 

It’s worth weaponizing his younger age this time to look like a starry-eyed romantic. It’s more believable, and he knows Wilson isn’t someone who’d try to take that away from someone so innocent as the facade Zemo’s putting up.

“I know that’s not how it works in your country,” Zemo adds, narrowing his eyes at Wilson. “But it’s what I always wanted.”

“I only asked from curiosity,” Wilson says, raising a hand placatingly. “As you say, it’s not something that’s part of Americana customs, and I apologize if I came off as anything but curious.”

Zemo huffs and smiles at him sheepishly. 

“I’m afraid I’m a little defensive of Alexander and our bond,” he concedes in a half apology. “Would you like to see the library? It’s one of my favorite places.”

***

The negotiations continue for several days behind closed doors, and Zemo’s presence is not required as much. It’s tiring to maintain his constant mask, but he’s not going to slip up for even a second. Every day that passes is another twist on the tension inside him, stretching him thinner and thinner as the stakes rise. A mistake now would be more disastrous than ever. 

It’s almost a painful relief when the kings announce their solidified trade contracts. Zemo doesn’t know the details, but all he needs to know is that this visit is almost over and he’ll be able to stop pretending soon. Every kind and soft touch from Pierce adds up, every time he forces himself to blush and look at him with adoration, bile burns in his throat. The beating is still fresh in his thoughts, and it makes it more sour to playact so much but also keeps him firmly in place. He’d told Wilson the bond was immutable, but unfortunately that means it goes both ways.

There’s a final banquet to celebrate the agreement before they sign the documents in the morning, and Zemo dresses carefully, his persona taking almost longer to pull on than the elaborate evening robes. Jacob can help him with the clothes, but no one can help him with the lies. One more day, he reminds himself, staring into the mirror. He fakes a smile, and it looks tight. He shakes it off and tries again, ducking his head and biting his lip. Better. The shyness he’d decided on is covering a lot, everyone used to him dodging eye contact and staring at the ground. 

Zemo had expected Pierce to be in a good mood with the completion of his plans, but it seems to come out in a desire to torment Zemo. He wraps his arm around Zemo’s waist, pulls him in against his side for all the conversations, never letting him breathe on his own. Zemo leans into his side a little, trying to hide the tremors and he’s sure Pierce can feel them. Pierce’s fingers dig into Zemo’s waist and he stills himself forcibly. 

He’s not sure how he manages the dinner, the conversation flowing over him and he responds but doesn’t hear what he says. He blushes, ducks his head, keeps himself turned towards Pierce and somehow no one notices. 

“Darling, I think you’ll like this one,” Pierce says. 

Zemo’s awareness sharpens. Pierce is holding out a fork with a small piece of food, almost a dare in his eyes. Zemo blinks and pulls himself together in a split second. He leans forward and takes the fork into his mouth daintily, but there’s no way for it not to look suggestive with the way Pierce manipulates it. The blush on his cheeks is real this time, and he stares down at his plate when Pierce leans back with vicious satisfaction in the corner of his smile no one but Zemo can see. 

The quiet of his room is a relief after being on display all night, and only the Soldier is present. He’s not quite sure why Pierce returned the Soldier to his side since he’s been ghosting along in Pierce’s wake the entire visit, but he’s back. He’s stiff and blank and fully masked, and Zemo watches him for a long moment before falling into bed with a tired sigh. 

A soft grunt of pain and the ring of metal on metal wakes him and he shoots upright, the knife hidden under his pillow in his fist. The room is cut into sharp silver and black from the moonlight and it’s hard to track the blurry shapes in motion around him. There’s another pained grunt and a person, masked and small, stumbles back into a spot of moonlight, holding their belly before collapsing unmoving to the floor. 

Zemo kicks the sheets off and springs into a crouch next to the bed. There’s still more attackers but as his eyes adjust he can make out the flashing bulk of the Soldier in the middle of the room, so graceful he’s almost dancing with knives and decorating the room with blood. One attacker breaks away and heads for Zemo, but Zemo’s ready and he ducks under the first swing, coming up under the man’s guard and knifing him easily in the throat. He dies with a surprised grunt, dropping at Zemo’s feet. 

The room is quiet except the panting from Zemo and the tiny drip of blood. The Soldier had dispatched the other three assassins by the time Zemo had killed his lone attacker. He stares at the inscrutable mask, clawing for words and getting nowhere. 

There’s a clatter of metal and boots outside and his door is flung open to a stream of red and black guards. Rumlow leads them, weapons drawn and they come to an abrupt stop at the carnage in the room. 

“Are you okay, my lord?” Rumlow asks, turning towards Zemo and scanning him with sharp amber eyes. 

“Yes,” he says. Shock keeps him calm, but he’s unhurt. “The Soldier protected me.”

“Good,” Rumlow says, turning back to evaluate the bodies. “This will not stand. Pierce will know.”

Cold runs down Zemo’s spine at the satisfaction and viciousness in Rumlow’s words, and stays back as they drag the bodies out with trails of blood the only evidence of what happened. It’s over in minutes, and then it’s just Zemo next to his bed and the Soldier in the middle of the room. 

“Are you hurt?” Zemo asks finally. 

The Soldier hesitates, and shakes his head. 

Zemo narrows his eyes and picks his way around the blood to examine the Soldier himself. He’s not lying, all the blood on him is someone else's and there’s not even any damage to his leathers. Zemo runs one hand down the Soldier’s chest absently, over the buckles of his gear and the Soldier trembles. 

He reaches up and tugs the lenses off again, the Soldier unmoving but his eyes are dark and fixed on Zemo with a painful kind of want in them. Zemo tosses them aside without looking, too lost in the sliver of the Soldier’s pale face glowing in the moonlight. He hesitates, but this moment feels like fate and he reaches up to cup the Soldier’s jaw around his mask and draw him down until he can brush a soft kiss against the muzzle. 

The Soldier shakes in his hands, a thready whine coming out of his mask and Zemo lets him go. The Soldier doesn’t move, eyes desperate. Zemo takes his hand and draws him back towards his bed with slow steps and clear intent. The Soldier trails him helplessly, as though the soft hold Zemo has on his fingers is a chain reeling him in. He might have been tossed to the Soldier as a reward before, but this is different. This is Zemo’s choice, and it’s not about rewarding the Soldier, it’s about them together in this cold and lonely place. 

He lets go of the Soldier’s hand and drops his robe, standing bare in the silver light and the Soldier watches without moving, even as his body strains towards Zemo. His hesitation decides Zemo and he reaches out to undo the Soldier’s buckles one at a time, until he can push the leather off his broad shoulders and see his bare chest and arms for the first time ever. 

The scaled arm goes all the way to the shoulder and Zemo brushes his fingers over the silver plates. Otherwise, the Soldier looks entirely human. Strong, heavily muscled and smooth, but human flesh under all that leather. Blood streaks his hands, black in the moonlight and the danger is the protection of Zemo and he backs onto the bed until he’s flat and legs spread. The Soldier doesn’t move until Zemo beckons him forward, and then he’s crawling hesitant and hungry between his thighs, hands ghosting so gently up his legs his touch is almost not even there. 

Zemo tugs the Soldier up and over his body and the blood on his own hand is startling, but they match now. They’re connected and Zemo pulls until the Soldier is laying across him, weight braced on his forearms next to Zemo’s head and one hand tentatively feeling his hair spread against the pillows. 

He wishes there was no muzzle in the way so he could kiss the Soldier, taste his silent mouth, but it’s a permanent barrier. He sighs at the softness of the Soldier’s hand on his side and hooks his legs around the Soldier’s narrow hips. His leather pants drag against Zemo’s bare skin and the Soldier backs up enough to tug them down his thighs. It’s the most of the Soldier Zemo’s ever seen or felt, and he’s never been more human under the forgiving eye of the moon. 

Urgency rises fast and Zemo needs to cleanse the memory of their last time together in this bed, the way Pierce had contaminated their connection. He twists to reach for the oil and the Soldier watches him as he opens himself up, tiny whining breaths escaping his mask. Zemo wishes with a sudden fervency that the Soldier was the one with fingers buried inside him, stretching him open but he doesn’t want to wait. 

“Please,” he breathes, sliding his fingers free and spreading wider for the Soldier. “Please.”

The Soldier chokes on a noise that could almost be a word behind his muzzle. He presses closer, rubbing the head of his cock against Zemo’s hole and sliding in slowly and gently. There’s no one around to watch, there’s no one to interrupt or demand, and the Soldier rocks into him so slowly and tenderly it’s unlike any other time, private and tender. 

Zemo moans as the Soldier’s hips meet his, their connection deep and this only the physical form of it. He winds his arms around the Soldier’s wide shoulders, one hand on the scales, pulling the Soldier’s face down into his neck and whispering praise and endearments as the Soldier makes love to him. There’s no other word for it, both of them bloody in the moonlight and alone in their chains and finding the only thing that lets them be human. 

***

The finalization of the contracts, all but set in stone by now, happens in the morning before the delegation leaves. Zemo dresses with care, one last show to put on for the visiting king and one last show to placate Pierce with his obedience. As if some strange, cosmic mirror, Zemo steps into the throne room and Pierce is waiting near the thrones like the first day. He extends a hand, takes Zemo’s and brushes a kiss across his knuckles. 

The light of triumph in his pale eyes is far brighter than Zemo would have anticipated for something like a trade deal, and uneasiness roils his stomach. He hides it, smiles prettily, and lets Pierce turn away. The subtle wrongness in the room becomes apparent to him as Pierce steps to the top of the stairs. There’s far too many red and black uniforms in the hall. The doors are all closed, including the one behind Zemo. The Soldier, big and black and ominous, stands at Pierce’s shoulder in a blatant display of power and threat.

“Your treachery knows no bounds,” Pierce says, voice ringing with anger and quieting the hall. “I offer you hospitality and the hand of friendship, and you try to have my beloved consort murdered in his bed.”

Zemo feels like he’s floating. It’s all clear now, far too late to do anything even if he could have ever done anything. He wonders how far back Pierce had planned this. Had he planned this when he chose Zemo, or was Zemo just convenient? The impact of the death of a young, blushing consort would be a greater outrage than an older one. Zemo’s fate was sealed the moment he caught Pierce’s eye, and only luck lets him still breathe the air this morning.

“What are you talking about?” King Rogers says, shock on his face. 

“Assassins you sent entered my consort’s rooms last night, and only the valiant defense by my most trusted soldier kept him alive,” Pierce says, loud and angry. “I will not stand for this betrayal.”

Pierce’s guards launch their attack, the accusation their cue. The hall fills with the ring of weapons and shouts of pain as the visitors engage the sudden onslaught.

The violence rages around Zemo and he’s a single spot of calm and silence above the hall. No one sees him, the guards busy engaging the Americanians, the Soldier whirling and protecting Pierce who stands at the edge of the dias in his triumph. No one can get near Pierce, not with the Soldier defending him. The fighting is desperate, too many red and black uniforms for the visitors to gain more than a momentary edge. 

Zemo draws the knife from his sleeve as if he’s in a dream, the slim blade he’d carried ever since that first attack. He walks up behind Pierce unseen and unheard, and slides his hand almost gently through Pierce's hair. It’s the work of a split second that stretches out to pull him back into Zemo’s chest, tilt his head softly into Zemo’s shoulder and open his throat into a river of red. Pierce dies silently with shock in his eyes as Zemo cradles his head through his last, gasping breaths. His blood coats Zemo’s hand and sleeve, spilling down the stone stairs when Zemo drops his body.

He stands above it, hand and knife dripping at his side and watches the chaos rage in front of him. The Soldier makes a noise like a wounded animal, clutching his head and staggering. Zemo settles into the king’s throne, resting his bloody hand with the knife on the arm and crossing his legs so casually he might be in the garden for all his involvement. The Soldier turns like a magnet drawn to him and pads over to stand at attention next to Zemo. Pierce had claimed him into his line with their archaic ceremony, and now the ownership of the Soldier moves to Zemo through that bond. He’s sure Pierce had never intended such a consequence, and he finds it oddly poetic.

“Kneel,” Zemo says quietly, and the Soldier drops to his knees obediently, facing the room.

Maybe he shouldn’t do this in front of everyone, maybe he should ask the Soldier, but Zemo hates that seal and hates that muzzle. His chilled and numb fingers find the red and black circle and it crumbles at his touch and thought, the mask falling from the Soldier’s face and hanging from Zemo’s hand. The Soldier gasps, broken and hides his face in his hands, hunching over further and his dark hair curtaining him away.

The room has gone silent since Zemo last looked up, the remaining living from the delegation watching the tableau on the dias and all of Pierce's guards killed or subdued. The Soldier raises his head slowly, facing away from Zemo and drops his hands.

“Steve,” he rasps, voice so rusty it’s a wonder he can speak at all.

Rogers steps forward, his eyes gone wide and wet and his face pale.

“Bucky?” he whispers.

The Soldier staggers to his feet and Rogers meets him at the bottom of the stairs, falling into a desperate hug and tears flowing unheeded down his face.

Zemo watches. Cracks spiderweb across his frozen heart.

“May I take that to mean you know the Soldier?” Zemo asks politely after a few moments.

Rogers looks up and nods, not letting go of the Soldier who’s clinging just as tight.

“He’s my best friend from childhood, I thought he was dead,” Rogers says, emotion choking his voice to roughness. “He fell in the mountains, there was no way to find him and no way anyone could have survived…”

“Pierce had told me his men found him half dead in a snowy ravine,” Zemo says. He can’t feel his body. “Perhaps it was not all untrue.”

Rogers nods, hands fisted in the Soldier’s leathers like he’ll never let go again. Zemo’s never seen so much love in an embrace before. 

Zemo lifts the mask up, distantly curious at the thing that kept the Soldier he loved from speaking, and the thing that made the Soldier exist at all. It’s so small now, black and brutal and empty. A blur of motion and it’s out of his fingers, pinned to the consort throne by a narrow knife in the exact spot Zemo’s heart would be if he were in it. He watches red bead up from the thin slice on the pad of his finger, watches it brilliant against his skin as it rounds and drips to the floor. 

He looks up slowly. The Soldier - Bucky, he supposes now - is staring at him, wild eyed and defiant before turning away again into Rogers’ shoulder. Zemo nods slowly. He didn’t need confirmation that his Soldier was no longer alive, but he has it now. He can’t begrudge him his freedom, even if it comes at Zemo’s loss. Frost creeps over his skin.

Zemo knows he won’t live long. With Pierce's death, he’s only the second domino in the sure chaos and power struggles of an unstable kingdom and he has no power base to stop it from happening. He’s never had power in his life, never been in control of his fate except in the one, bright moment of drawing that silver blade across Pierce’s throat. He only hopes his end comes quick, after everything.

“Perhaps you would be kind enough to reenter negotiations at another time,” Zemo says, voice perfectly even. “As you can see, my kingdom is in turmoil and we are unfortunately unable to move forward at this time.”

Rogers’ eyes dart around the room, and his lips thin but he nods tightly. Both of them know that Zemo doesn’t expect to live to see the sunset, let alone long enough to meet again. Rogers hesitates but turns and half-carries the Soldier out of the room, his people trailing after him.

Zemo stays on his throne, surrounded by death and silence.

Chapter Text

Zemo doesn’t die. 

He’s the only one surprised by this. 

His isolation at Pierce’s hands left him with a skewed view of the mood of the country, and the mood of everyone in the castle. He’d stayed on the throne after the violence, surveying the bodies and the blood of the attack, and the doors had crept open. 

Eyes wide, servants and even courtiers moved in, palace guards and they swirled around Zemo who sat unseeing and untouched and floating somewhere above himself. No one approached, some distant sounds of fighting and Zemo fully expected them to advance to the throne room and come for him. He’d fully expected Rumlow and the rest of Pierce’s loyal guard to come and execute him for killing Pierce. 

They didn’t. 

Jacob had finally come into the silent room and drawn Zemo to his feet, hand in bloody hand and led him through the halls and to his rooms. The halls had evidence of fighting, but far less than Zemo had anticipated. They were nearly silent now too, and anyone they passed only murmured his new title and bowed and Zemo acknowledged them with nods, the only response he could muster in the face of the way his life had been upended in so little time.

Jacob’s touch is soft and caring and he lets Zemo stand as though a doll under his hands, undressing him and cleaning him of Pierce’s blood. It pulls the confession out of Zemo unwilling, unprompted, something so painful he has to say it. 

“I loved him,” Zemo says. The words sound like they’re coming from someone else. “I loved him, and he was never real.”

Jacob pauses and looks up into Zemo’s face. 

“His mask,” Zemo says, staring sightlessly across the room. “It…he wasn’t mine, he was never mine.”

Jacob’s look of confusion fades into pure sympathy and he rubs Zemo’s shoulder gently. 

“I would do it again, and again, every time,” Zemo says. “I would always free him even as I have to watch him walk away.” 

“He may have left, but you’re not alone,” Jacob says into the heavy silence. 

It’s so unexpected it snaps Zemo out of his trance, and he frowns a little at the servant. 

Jacob smiles, kind and soft. “Everyone is on your side,” he says. “Everyone knew how Pierce was. Only his personal guard was loyal to him, and when you killed him and freed the Soldier, you set it all in motion. The people were just waiting for the opportunity, and you’ve always been their best chance.”

Zemo stares and blinks. It doesn’t make any sense. He’s done nothing, he’s just existed here in the castle, alone and used and useless. 

“They don’t know you, not that well,” Jacob says. “But they know you’re not Pierce. And…”

He trails off, looking a little uncomfortable. Zemo waits, curious. 

“The Soldier,” Jacob says finally. “He was terrifyingly inhuman, the shield in front of Pierce, but you humanized him. He was loyal to you. You loved him and made him real. You didn’t hear the talk, no one would speak loud enough to draw Pierce’s attention, but what you did has already solidified you in the public’s eyes.” 

“Huh,” Zemo manages finally. “I didn’t…that wasn’t my intention.”

“I know,” Jacob says softly. “And that’s why they rally around you in hope. You freed the Soldier.”

“Do they know about the Soldier? Who he was, really?” 

“There’s rumors,” Jacob says. 

Zemo chews on that for a moment. 

“I think I’d like it if the truth was known about him, for once,” he decides. “Could you…?”

“Of course,” Jacob says instantly. 

Zemo tells him of the Soldier and Pierce’s lies and his control and who the Soldier truly was, all this time. It’s the least he can do for the Soldier, make him clean and free of his unwanted reputation, make everyone understand he was unwilling and a slave to Pierce. Make them understand how Zemo could have loved him so deeply. 

Even if he doesn’t understand why the people trust him and think he’s worthy, Zemo decides to take it in stride. There’s no one else to step up. He’s already in the royal line, and he’s already seen as the new king. It’s a little surreal, and more than a little overwhelming. Much like he’d thought in the beginning, he has experience managing a small estate, but an entire kingdom - especially one in turmoil like Hydravia - is a completely different story. 

It’s an easy decision to send for Oeznik, the loyal butler-advisor who had mostly raised Zemo from his estate. Oeznik comes fast, as though he was simply waiting for Zemo to ask. 

“My boy,” Oeznik says when he arrives, wrapping Zemo in a tight hug. Zemo’s throat tightens and tears threaten at the reminder that he does have someone who’s known him his whole life and believes in him. “It’s been too long. I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing for you to be sorry for, Oeznik,” Zemo says into his shoulder. “I’m so glad you came.”

He leans back a little, and Oeznik smiles down at him, tears in his light eyes. The silver shines at his temples and streaks his dark hair, and it’s grounding to see him so unchanged despite everything Zemo’s lived through here. 

“I need your help,” he confesses. “I don’t know how to run a kingdom.”

“You’ll do better than you think,” Oeznik says firmly. “But I will always help you.” 

With Oeznik at his side, his trusted advisor, recovering the kingdom from Pierce’s death and the upheaval is much easier for Zemo to handle. He faces no challengers, only support and it’s surprisingly smooth. He shamelessly renames the entire country, and changes the royal colors. Maybe it’s extravagant, but when he informs the crowds below his balcony that this is no longer Hydravia, but Sokovia, and unveils the new brilliant purple and white and the golden eagle it’s received with raucous cheering and the city transforms before him. 

***

“It’s just like you to fall in love and let them go,” Oeznik says with a sad smile. 

Zemo had confessed his foolish love to Oeznik one night, far more than he’d ever told anyone else. He’d needed to tell someone all the ways he fell for a silent, trapped man and Oeznik is truly the only person he trusts to understand him. He’d been more a father than Heinrich ever had been, and he’d missed him dearly. 

“He didn’t belong here,” Zemo says. “He wasn’t-he wasn’t real.”

Oeznik fixes him with a stern look. “You don’t know that. He might have still been himself somewhere under that mask.”

“You didn’t see his face,” Zemo says, twisting his fingers together. “You didn’t see the knife.”

“True,” Oeznik says with a nod. “I’ve never seen him. But I find it hard to believe that all of his memories of you would be simply wiped away in a single moment.”

“It might be better that way,” Zemo says miserably. “One of us could be free of them.”

“They’re not all bad, are they?” Oeznik points out gently. 

“Are the good ones worth it?” Zemo asks. “No, don’t answer that, you know me too well.”

Oeznik smiles and ruffles Zemo’s hair like he did when he was a child. Zemo sighs and leans into his hand, wishing he could hide from the world a little longer, but kings have no time to mourn ghosts. 

***

Months fly by as Zemo settles into his role as king of Sokovia. It’s not always smooth sailing, but the bubbles of unrest and conflict are quickly subdued or redirected. The cold loss in his heart lessens a little, mostly hidden under the demands of ruling a country and bringing it forward from Pierce's bloody reign. Jacob had been right - maybe it’d started in the castle, but the opinion towards Zemo had spread out far into the capital city and slowly trickled through the outlying villages. Zemo’s not sure he deserves this kind of loyalty just for surviving Pierce, really just for the sole accomplishment of not being Pierce, but he chokes that down and focuses on doing what he can. 

He spins the golden pen through his fingers, not wanting to say it aloud but knowing it’s the next step. Oeznik waits, letting him build up to it.

“I think I need to approach Americana again, for new trade alliances,” he says, and the words sit heavy in his mouth. 

“He might not come,” Oeznik says, but they both know that’s unlikely. 

If the Soldier - Bucky - was as close to King Rogers as he said, he wouldn’t be one to let him step back into this palace alone, not even with Pierce dead and the country changed. 

“I don’t know him, Oeznik,” Zemo sighs. “My Soldier couldn’t speak, and I don’t know what else that mask did. He wasn’t real, except to me.”

“One problem at a time,” Oeznik says steadily. 

“Sokovia needs this alliance more than I need to hide,” Zemo agrees. “I just wish it wasn’t going to hurt so much.”

“You’re stronger than you think,” Oeznik says, patting Zemo’s shoulder. 

“I know,” Zemo agrees. “Not much can compare to Pierce. I’ll be fine. Maybe you’re right, and he won’t come. It’s already a lot to ask them to come back here, let alone for the Soldier to return to somewhere he’d been imprisoned for years.”

Zemo sighs and considers laying on his desk and ignoring everything. 

“We’ll find out soon enough,” he says, and picks up his pen to continue working through the never ending paperwork of running a kingdom. 

***

“Do you think the Soldier will want revenge?” Jacob asks the morning the Americana delegation is arriving. 

“I don’t know,” Zemo admits. “I hope not. Pierce is dead, and all of his personal guards are dead. No one else - except me - had any contact with him that I’m aware of.”

Jacob hums thoughtfully. 

“Well, he won’t be able to take any without a fight,” he says. 

Zemo smiles a little. 

“I hope that won’t be necessary,” he says, turning obediently for Jacob to adjust the robes. “I don’t want anyone hurt.”

His robes are simpler than the ones Pierce had favored, but rich in purple and gold. Maybe a little ostentatious, but Zemo hadn’t been about to refuse the creations the royal tailors had created specifically for him. They do make him look regal and in control, especially with the slim gold crown Jacob sets on his head. He’s still young, but this all combines to give him an aura of power he needs to run a kingdom and greet a visiting monarch who could very easily still be offended by the fact that Pierce had tried to kill him last time he was here. 

Zemo had done his best to make the throne room look as different as possible, from the simple presence of only one throne - not the one with a knife stuck in it - to the radically different royal colors, to the blatant fact that every single door stands open. There are still guards, of course, he’s still a king, but there’s far fewer and they’re concentrated around Zemo himself. 

Oeznik stands behind his throne, dignified and neat and Zemo’s glad for his silent support. He arranges his robes around his legs. It doesn’t really matter, not when he won’t stay sitting, but it’s something to do while he hears the sounds of the delegation approaching from the hall. He tries to steel himself for what he might see, what might happen, but there’s too many possibilities and the most he can do is school his face into polite stoicism. 

It hurts worse than he’d expected when he sees the Soldier - Bucky, he reminds himself viciously - walking just behind King Rogers shoulder. Like a bodyguard, but unmasked, willing, himself. Not Zemo’s Soldier, not at all, never again. He refocuses on King Rogers, standing and walking down the few steps to meet him in the middle of the room. 

King Rogers towers over him, but he doesn’t use it to intimidate. 

“King Zemo,” he says, clasping Zemo’s offered hand warmly. 

“Please, just Zemo is fine,” Zemo says. 

“Then you should call me Steve,” King Rogers says. “I believe you know my advisors.”

“This is Oeznik,” Zemo says, beckoning Oeznik forward. “My own advisor.”

The pleasantries flow far easier than Zemo would have expected. Steve doesn’t hold a grudge at all, which Zemo counts as a minor miracle. It takes everything in him to politely acknowledge Bucky, getting only a tiny flicker of those blue eyes in return, but Sam is as polite as last time. There’s almost an air of mutual relief that none of them openly acknowledge, but it eases the way even more.

Negotiations go much more smoothly as well, but Zemo suspects it helps that he actually wants this alliance, and isn’t just waiting to attack and betray Steve the way Pierce had. Steve is almost too generous given Zemo’s far weaker position, but Zemo isn’t about to turn down his noble sense of fairness or whatever motivates Steve. Even Sam interrupts Steve’s overly generous offers sometimes, and Zemo shares amused looks with Oeznik as they work out the minutiae of trade contracts. 

Bucky looms over Steve’s shoulder for several of the earlier days, and Zemo ignores him studiously. It turns out that there’s still some misunderstandings about Zemo’s earlier position here, and his relationship with Pierce that come out rather abruptly during a break in their negotiations. He wishes it was one of the times Bucky wasn’t in the room, but it’s too late. 

“Have you considered a marriage alliance?” Steve asks carefully. “It could be another way to stabilize your rule.”

It’s not that unreasonable of a question for someone in Zemo’s position, but he can’t help it and he snorts.

“Forgive me,” he says, choking back bitter laughter. “It’s a reasonable question, but I have no intention of seeking a consort at this time. I need to settle my country and, quite frankly, enjoy my freedom from Pierce.”

“Freedom from Pierce?” Sam asks, frowning deeply. “I thought-”

Zemo accidentally cuts him off with a sharp bark of laughter. 

“It was not a love match,” Zemo says with an empty smile. 

Sam is pale now. 

“You didn’t…”

“It was in my best interest to make you believe otherwise,” Zemo says firmly. “Pierce was…not a kind man.”

The room is silent in the wake of Zemo’s words and all it implies. He clears his throat a little. 

“My apologies for the bluntness,” he says. “I don’t wish for Pierce’s legacy to be anything but honest. No one would have spoken to you of it during your last visit, as he was…prone to retribution.”

“The claiming?” Sam asks, as though the words pain him. Zemo’s not surprised he’d question that immediately.

“I would have preferred that not happen, but I had no say,” Zemo says. “It did bring me immovably into the royal line, which in the end, has been beneficial.”

“And Bucky?” Steve asks. “The claiming was, he did the-”

“No,” Zemo interrupts with a kind smile. “It was the Soldier who did the claiming. Pierce had an unusual amount of control over my-the Soldier, over us both, and neither of us had a choice. I’ve never blamed him for any of it.”

He studiously doesn’t look at Bucky hovering behind Steve and Sam. 

“Any of it?” Sam asks.

“Any of it,” Zemo confirms. 

Based on their faces, whatever story Bucky told them had been far more censored, not that Zemo can blame him. 

“Anything else is not my story to tell,” he says. 

Oeznik clears his throat into the pause. 

“Perhaps we can return to the negotiations of through-travel?” he says

Steve and Sam grab onto the subject like a lifeline. Zemo lets the awkwardness of the too-personal conversation fade, and settles into working out details with his new allies. 

***

It turns out when they’re actually negotiating for trade, it’s positively exhausting. They’d agreed to take the afternoon off, to give all of them some breathing space after days of being cooped up inside squinting at stacks of paper. 

Zemo drops onto the bench in the garden with a tired sigh, rubbing his eyes a little. The gardens are ideal, a quiet space where no one bothers him and only birdsong and the hum of bugs in the flowers surround him. It’s nowhere near as stressful as the first time Steve and his advisors had visited, not with Pierce dead, but it’s still a relief to get a break. 

Footsteps approach and Zemo sighs a little, straightening and letting his social mask drop into place. It falters when Bucky steps around the corner, face as unreadable as it’d always been as Zemo’s Soldier. Zemo has no idea what to do, so he stays silent, watching Bucky come to a stiff halt a few steps in front of his bench. 

The silence stretches. 

“Is there something I can help you with?” Zemo asks carefully. 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says abruptly. 

Zemo blinks a little. 

“There’s nothing for you to be sorry for,” he says carefully. 

“No, there is, so much,” Bucky says, almost stumbling over his words. 

It’s strange to hear his voice after Zemo only knowing him as the silent shadow in his life.

“I meant what I said before,” Zemo says firmly. “I don’t blame you for the claiming, I don’t blame you for any of it.”

“It’s not just that,” Bucky insists. “It’s all the things I did as the Soldier.”

“I understand you weren’t yourself as the Soldier,” Zemo says. “I don’t hold it against you, I don’t hold anything against you. We were both prisoners under Pierce. You don’t need to apologize for that.”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Bucky says. “No, I-”

Zemo starts when Bucky drops to his knees in front of Zemo, hands hovering over his legs like he wants to touch but is scared to. 

“I couldn’t tell you, I couldn’t show you,” Bucky says, almost urgently. “I was trapped.”

“I know,” Zemo starts. 

“No, you don’t,” Bucky interrupts. “I couldn’t do anything, but inside, I was still me. I hadn’t been in years, but you found me and made me come back. You took care of me and I didn’t deserve it, any of it.”

“Of course you deserved kindness,” Zemo says with a sharp look. 

“I raped you,” Bucky says over Zemo’s words. 

“Pierce forced you,” Zemo says. “Both of us. And it wasn’t always.”

Something almost painful rises in Bucky’s eyes, and Zemo’s not sure what to make of it. 

“That last time,” Bucky says. “When you, when you wanted me. It was the best moment of my life.”

Zemo doesn’t know what to say to that. 

“I wish I hadn’t left,” Bucky says miserably. “I didn’t know what to do after Pierce died and you took my mask off. Steve was there, I’ve known Steve my entire life, I didn’t know if you’d want me around if you had a choice-”

Zemo cuts him off with a soft finger to his lips. Bucky’s eyes are wide and they search Zemo’s face. Zemo has no idea what his expression is. He lifts his hand, and takes both of Bucky’s in his own. Bucky twitches as though he’s going to pull the metal one away, but Zemo tightens his grip until he stops. 

“This doesn’t bother me either,” Zemo says softly, stroking the scales with his thumb. “In the beginning I was scared of you, but I haven’t been, not for a long time.”

Bucky looks like he’s going to say something else stupid and self-flagellating, so Zemo cuts to the chase and kisses him. It’s light, almost a question, but Bucky shivers under it and leans forward under Zemo’s touch like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

“I’ve loved you for a long time,” Zemo says finally, sitting back a little. “Maybe it doesn’t work like that when you couldn’t even speak, but it’s the truth.”

Some tangible wave of relief spreads through Bucky and tension bleeds out of him. 

“I didn’t think you could ever forgive me, let alone love me,” he says quietly. “I’d accepted that. I’d accepted you would never love me back.”

“Well, you’re wrong,” Zemo informs him. “You should stay with me, by my side. Don’t leave with Steve again.” 

Zemo doesn’t care if that’s too much too fast, he doesn’t want his Soldier to slip away again if he can help it. Bucky bites his lip. 

“I thought you didn’t want a consort,” he says hesitantly. 

“I do if it’s you,” Zemo says easily. 

Bucky laughs. It’s a little watery but it’s real and possibly the best sound Zemo’s ever heard. 

“Steve is going to be so insufferable about this,” he says wryly. 

“Steve later, holding me now,” Zemo orders, tugging until Bucky’s joining him on the bench and surrounding him in protective strength. “This will probably make a mess out of the contracts, but I find I somehow no longer care.”

Bucky smiles against Zemo’s hair. The sunlight feels warmer now that he’s found his other half, no matter what it took for both of them to get here.