Work Text:
The device didn’t look like much. Flat, disc-shaped, maybe the size of a compact mirror, propped up on a pedestal. Ringed with six notches, its surface shimmered faintly like heat above asphalt. Inside it, something thick and green churned slowly - it looked nearly like acid. It glittered. It was mystical. It hummed.
An alien device the Guardians wrote off as more quirky than dangerous. A closed loop - a time device that couldn’t actually change anything.
“The Guardians want it intact,” Sam said when they found it. “They say it’s...sensitive.”
Bucky scowled. “You mean dangerous.”
Zemo folded his arms. “Alien. Dangerous is implied.”
It was a “closed loop time consciousness device,” Rocket had explained, with the kind of frown that meant even he didn’t love trying to explain it. Your consciousness was sent back into your past body, but you couldn’t do much with it. Try to kill Hitler? Your leg would seize up before you took a step. Your arm couldn’t raise the gun.
“Think of it like standing in a river,” he’d said. “You can wade in, maybe kick some rocks or redirect a little flow around your legs, but the water still rushes downstream. It always finds its way back to the main current. Even if you carve a small channel, it’ll eventually rejoin the riverbed - same destination, same water. Maybe it picks up some extra silt along the way, but the course doesn't change.” The big stuff would happen, the little stuff could be stretched away like an elastic band but in the end it would snap back into shape.
HYDRA, of course, wanted more. They wanted something permanent. Something that didn’t split the timeline or cause multiversal backlash - just rewrote reality itself, quietly and cleanly.
Rocket had said that wasn’t how it worked. You either stayed in a closed loop, or you jumped tracks entirely and made a new line. Anything else? That was paradox territory. Maybe even “universe folds in on itself” territory.
Which was… pretty on brand for HYDRA.
So yeah. The thing was dangerous.
They’d just started arguing about whether to wait for the containment unit when the gunfire started. HYDRA.
Zemo was too exposed. Bucky moved on instinct. One shot cracked too close. Zemo had been going for cover behind the wrong slab of rock as other HYDRA agents advanced from that side. Bucky lunged - pushed him hard, off-balance. They both went down.
Right into the device.
The world hadn’t exploded. It twisted. Stretched. Sound warped and snapped like elastic.
Zemo grabbed a fistful of Bucky’s jacket, knuckles white, his mouth parting like he’d been about to say something. His eyes cut sharply up to meet Bucky’s - fear and panic. A breath caught between them, and then the world dissolved into blinding white.
Bucky found himself somewhere he’d dreamed about many times before. Not so much these days. Selby’s bar. And he heard Zemo’s voice rattling around in his head.
Attack.
Bucky had already lunged before it occurred to him that it had been spoken in Russian. Zemo no longer needed Russian to command him. The way they work together, if Zemo said for Bucky to do something it didn’t need to be a command. Bucky obeyed Zemo because he wanted to. Not because he thought he had to. But it was a dance Bucky had danced before. Compliance and instinct merged as music thumped like a pulse through the floorboards.
A man lunged at him and Bucky pivoted to the side, caught the man’s arm, and drove a knee hard into his gut. Air whooshed from the thug’s lungs. Before he could recover, Bucky slammed his elbow down across the back of the thug’s neck, sending him face first onto a table with a dull thud. Glasses rattled. One down.
From the edge of his vision, Bucky saw a flash of steel. The second thug advanced with a knife, eyes wild. Bucky hadn’t flinched. He grabbed an empty pint glass from the bar and hurled it. It shattered against the man's cheekbone in a spray of glass and beer. The thug staggered, disoriented. Bucky closed the gap and twisted the knife from his fingers in a practiced move. He elbowed the man’s head with just enough force to send him crumpling sideways. Bucky caught him by the collar and drove his head against the bar to finish the job. Two down.
He sensed another man behind him. Bucky spun, grabbed a pool cue from the rack, and swept the man’s legs out from under him. The thug hit the ground with a curse. Bucky raised the cue and brought it down across his chest. He delivered two sharp punches - one to the gut, the other to the sternum. The thug choked on air.
Silence settled. Bucky stood in the center of the wreckage, breath steady, barely winded. A few patrons peeked over their drinks, wisely deciding not to get involved.
“Selby will see you now,” the bartender said.
Bucky’s mind cleared. Selby’s bar. Madripoor. A scene from over 10 years ago.
The device. Fuck.
Bucky traded looks with Zemo. His eyes were soft, familiar. He nodded slightly. His Zemo. This wasn’t the man freshly broken out of prison. This is his lover, his husband. They both were sent back.
As they were led past the wary stares of Madripoor's elite, Bucky leaned toward Sam.
“Phone,” Bucky muttered. “Put it on silent.”
Sam glanced at him, caught the tension behind Bucky’s stare. As if he wanted to scoff but thought better of it, glanced quickly at his phone, flicking a side button. He exhaled sharply, his eyes widening. How did you know? written across his features.
Zemo glided ahead of them like a man with too many lives in his pocket.
Selby sat like a spider at the center of a low, sunken lounge. Her voice curled with amusement. “Well, well. Baron Zemo. This is a surprise.”
If anything convinced Bucky that this Zemo was his, was that he didn’t keep to the script. He didn’t offer the Winter Soldier to Selby like a piece of meat. Zemo didn’t smile. He didn’t charm her. He dropped the pretense with a breath and looked cold enough to still the room. “The supersoldier serum is being recreated. We need the name of the person responsible. You know which one.”
Selby raised a brow. “And what do I get for-”
“Your club intact,” Zemo said. He turned his head slightly, eyes flicking toward Bucky. “You know who he is,” Zemo added. “The Winter Soldier doesn’t ask twice. You co-operate - or you die.”
Sam shifted uneasily. Even Selby paused, startled.
The silence that followed was familiar. Bucky registered the shift in weight first - Selby’s guards ready to draw weapons, eyes narrowed, the moment before chaos.
“You remember what I do to my enemies,” Zemo reminded her. “What lofty heights do you think I can achieve with the Winter Soldier at my beck and call?”
Bucky shifted, and his vibranium arm caught the light just enough to remind Selby and her lackeys what it was made for.
Selby sighed and held a hand up. Her guards relaxed their postures. “Alright, Zemo. As a show of good faith I will give you the name. Wilfred Nagle is the answer you seek. But you will need to pay for his location. I have a job for your… associate. Then I will lead you to Nagle. It’s not cheap to run afoul of the Power Broker and I will be compensated.”
What the job was, they never found out. History repeated itself.
The window shattered. One sharp crack. Her body jolted. Blood sprayed across the table.
Chaos erupted.
“Down!” Sam shouted, diving for cover. Zemo had already moved and Bucky snatched him by the collar, dragging him behind a crate just as more shots rang out.
The meeting had gone differently this time, but the result was the same. They had Nagle’s name, no location, and still, a corpse on the floor. Phones across the bar buzzed in eerie unison.
The bounty had gone live.
“You okay?” Bucky asked quietly, still crouched close beside Zemo.
Zemo nodded, voice calm. “Yes, James. I’m fine.”
Sam shot them both a sharp look, then jerked his head toward the exit. “Let’s move.”
They burst into the alley, sprinting through narrow streets as gunfire chased them. Every corner brought fresh threats. Footsteps thundered behind them. A bullet clipped the wall near Sam’s head.
And then - rescue.
“Drop it, Zemo,” came the sharp, familiar voice. Sharon.
The tension barely eased during the car ride. Zemo stayed quiet, calculating. Sam grilled her from the passenger seat, trying to piece together what she was doing in Madripoor.
By the time they reached Sharon’s place - a stylish, high-ceilinged gallery and living quarters upstairs - she was already half into a rant.
“They’ll lock me up if I ever set foot back in the states,” Sharon was saying as she and Sam argued about extradition and pardons.
Bucky got up, and stood next to Zemo who was pouring himself a drink. Their first moment in relative private. They couldn’t do anything outrageous with Sam and Sharon a few feet away, but they were occupied enough with their argument for Bucky and Zemo to have a quiet conversation.
Zemo passed him a drink without a word.
“I was fine, you know,” Zemo muttered. “You didn’t need to tackle me.”
Bucky scoffed.
“You at least could have pulled me to the ground instead of shoving me into an ancient, sentient, time travel device,” Zemo added, pouting.
Bucky smiled. “You look cute when you’re annoyed,” he said as he took a sip. “I’ll always protect you. I’m pretty sure there was something about that in the vows.” Bucky smiled at his husband.
Zemo fished something out of his pocket and placed it onto the drinks tray.
The device.
“You grabbed it?” Bucky gasped as he bent down to look at it.
“Not that I remember. It was in my pocket,” Zemo answered, barely above a whisper.
Bucky bent his head over, studying it. Zemo turned to face Sharon and Sam to block their view from what Bucky was looking at. He needn’t have bothered as they were both still arguing heatedly.
“Notice the green sludge stuff - it’s receding..” Zemo murmured.
“So when it runs out we flip back?” Bucky asked as he looked.
“Maybe. See the notches?” Zemo said. “They must have a purpose.”
“It just looks like a clock, I think,” Bucky added.
“What are you two doing?” Sam’s voice pierced the discussion.
“Nothing,” Bucky said, turning around. “Just having a drink. Long day, right?”
In the corner of his eye he saw Zemo retrieve the device and put it back in his pocket.
“Enjoy the party,” Sharon said, climbing the stairs. “Try and stay out of trouble.”
The three of them went downstairs to the art gallery. The music was louder than Bucky remembered. Something electric and strange. Zemo was already halfway into the crowd, pulling eyes with that practiced ease, his purple velvet sweater catching the light. Bucky leaned on a column and watched as Zemo moved to the beat, slow and fluid, like he had nowhere else to be.
Then a tall man with a gold collar touched Zemo’s shoulder and they started to dance. His hands moved to Zemo’s hips.
Bucky’s jaw clicked. He emptied his drink in one gulp. He set the glass down and moved.
Zemo saw him coming - smirked, unsurprised. Bucky took his hand, slid between him and the stranger, and didn’t say a word.
The music wasn’t good. Bucky didn’t care. He got close. Closer. And Zemo let him.
“James,” Zemo laughed. “What if Sam sees?”
“Closed loop, right?” he yelled, over the music. “If I’m not allowed to, I won't be able to.”
The kiss started quick, almost defiant. But it didn’t stay that way.
Bucky's fingers curled into Zemo’s purple sweater as their mouths pressed together again, slower this time. Bucky gripped the back of Zemo’s neck, fingers threaded his hair, tilted his head to deepen the kiss. The music vibrated through their bodies. Lights strobed over them in blue and violet waves. The crowd blurred into moving shadows, but Bucky only felt Zemo - solid, warm, tasting like whiskey and want.
Zemo made a noise against his lips, half-laugh, half-moan. It lit something in Bucky’s chest. He caught Zemo by the waist and pulled him close, closer, their bodies flush. The heat between them jumped. Zemo's breath caught; he rocked into him just slightly, hips meeting hips.
A hand slid under Bucky’s jacket, gripping his side hard, like Zemo needed to anchor himself. They kissed again, slower now, mouths moving with meaning. Bucky’s metal hand cupped the back of Zemo’s head, the other flat at the small of his back. Zemo’s mouth parted with a soft exhale as Bucky kissed down the edge of his jaw.
Zemo shuddered.
“You’re a much better kisser than dancer,” Bucky murmured, lips brushing his skin.
Zemo’s response was only a quiet, desperate sound, buried in Bucky’s throat as they kissed again.
And then he felt it. Bucky stepped back before he understood why, some invisible thread tugging at his spine, pulling him backward with a quiet urgency that had nothing to do with instinct and everything to do with whatever strange force brought them here. A compulsion.
His gaze shifted to the bar as Sam turned a corner. Bucky put some distance between himself and Zemo. Zemo’s gaze followed his own and looked at Sam briefly.
Zemo smirked, and continued to dance. Confident. Magnetic. Dorky. He danced like he was pleased with himself and pleased that Bucky couldn’t help but look his way.
“Hey,” Bucky heard Sam call out. Bucky turned and walked closer.
“Sharon’s got a lead but the guy won't be there until morning. So we leave at sunrise.”
“Okay,” Bucky said, his eyes not leaving Zemo and his dancing form.
“He looks like he’s having fun,” Sam said. “You good?”
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You’re kinda intense right now. What’s up with you and Zemo?”
“You know. Just making sure he doesn’t run off with anyone.”
“Okay,” Sam sighed. “I’m gonna go upstairs and rest. We go at sunrise, remember.”
Bucky didn’t answer Sam. Just watched him walk off through the crowd, weaving between Madripoor’s strange elite. When Bucky turned back, Zemo was already dancing with someone else.
A redheaded woman this time. Laughing at something Zemo said. Hands on his chest.
Bucky growled under his breath. He stalked forward and closed the distance and grabbed Zemo firmly by the arm.
“You’re done,” Bucky growled possessively. “Upstairs. Now.”
Zemo turned to the woman, still grinning. “Apologies, my dear,” he said with a theatrical bow. “My husband is slightly possessive.”
She blinked in surprise, then laughed as Bucky dragged him away.
They moved quickly, Bucky guiding Zemo up the narrow stairs and through the quiet hallways until they reached the room that had been assigned as Zemo’s temporary quarters.
Bucky pushed open the door, and shoved Zemo inside.
“James,” Zemo protested lightly, breathless from the pace. “I don’t think we’re at that stage in our relationship yet.”
Bucky smirked as he closed the door behind them. “We’ll manage. If you be quiet.”
He backed Zemo toward the bed and pushed him down.
“Did you pack lube?” Bucky asked.
Zemo blinked. “Well, I didn’t pack my bag. Other-me came from prison. This wasn’t exactly in my plans.”
“You plan everything.”
“Not time travel!” Zemo shot back, exasperated.
Bucky raised an eyebrow.
“There should be hand lotion in my bag,” Zemo sighed.
“That’ll do.” Bucky rummaged quickly through Zemo’s bag. He laughed as he saw that Zemo did in fact pack lube. Bucky threw it at Zemo, still sitting on the bed, who deftly caught it.
“Past you was mighty confident,” Bucky laughed.
Zemo hesitated, distracted. “James... if we snap back during this, our other selves-”
“It could be really, really bad,” Bucky finished. “We’ll have to be quick, then.”
Zemo rolled his eyes. “My dancing really does it for you, hm?”
“No,” Bucky said, laughing as he pulled off his gloves. “The opposite, actually. You looked ridiculous.”
Zemo raised his brows. “Then what?”
“I can’t want my husband all the time?”
Zemo’s smirk softened into something gentler.
“It’s just… remembering this time. I was so obsessed with you,” Bucky said, quieter now.
“And I have no idea when it moved from obsession to… affection.”
“I’ve always loved you,” Zemo said, voice low and fond.
“Always?”
“Love at first sight.”
“Sap.”
“Mm.”
Bucky narrowed his eyes, amused. “Better not have been at first sight, Zemo. You were my psychiatrist.”
“No, dear,” Zemo said smoothly, “I simply killed your psychiatrist.”
Bucky snorted. “So romantic.”
Zemo arched an eyebrow. “Strip for me, darling.”
That earned a grin. Bucky remembered the first time he’d done this for Zemo - it had been awkward, charged, and unforgettable. Now, he moved with confidence, hips swaying with an invisible rhythm. He tugged off his jacket slowly, deliberately. Then his shirt. Shoes. Belt. Pants. Boxers.
He straddled Zemo on the bed and reached for his sweater. He helped him shrug out of it and then moved to his pants.
“Use your teeth, love,” Zemo murmured, voice husky.
Bucky dropped to his knees between Zemo’s legs, fumbling with the belt. It took a few tries, but he got the zip undone.
“You gonna be quiet for me, sweetheart?” Bucky asked, voice rough as he slid off Zemo’s very expensive shoes.
“Yes, dear,” Zemo breathed, distracted as he ogled Bucky’s chest.
“Good boy,” Bucky whispered in his ear as he pushed him back onto the mattress.
Zemo whimpered, already flushed.
Bucky’s hands moved slowly, deliberately tracing the familiar lines of Zemo’s face, tracing down his chest and stomach. Bucky leaned in, as he pressed his lips to Zemo’s skin - not urgent, but insistent, slow. Bucky pushed him and Zemo shifted down the bed.
Zemo’s fingers curled into Bucky’s hair, anchoring him as Bucky shifted gently above him as his hands explored - hips, thigh - and then grasped Zemo’s length. Zemo groaned heavily.
Bucky flicked the cap of the lube open, lathered his index finger with it and pushed one finger into Zemo as he massaged his prostate.
“Fuck,” Zemo groaned. Bucky smirked.
“That feel good, baby?” Bucky teased, as he licked Zemo’s throat.
“So good,” Zemo moaned. “Don’t tease.”
Bucky pushed a second finger in. Bucky continued to push in and out as he spread lube around his hole. Zemo moaned, flexing his hips involuntarily.
“Fuck. I’m ready, darling,” Zemo gasped as he pushed a third finger in. Bucky pumped the digits in and out.
Bucky withdrew his fingers. He then lathered his cock with a generous amount of lube. Bucky hovered above Zemo and lined himself up and pushed in.
“Fucking hell, Zemo,” Bucky swore as he pushed in deeper. Zemo was tighter than Bucky ever remembered him being.
“Oh!” Zemo whimpered. “Please.”
Bucky picked up the pace. Zemo prettily begged under him. “Please, fuck, yes, yes, oh god, keep going, ah, fuck.” Bucky’s hands gripped his thighs so hard they would be sure to bruise. The headboard impacts the wall. Thud. Thud. Thud.
“Oh, fuck! Yes!” Zemo yelled - loudly.
Bucky moved at full pace now, as his cock rammed against Zemo’s prostate. Bucky moaned as Zemo’s tight hole pressed down on his cock. Zemo has been in prison and touch starved for years. He’s tight.
“So fucking perfect,” Bucky groaned in Zemo’s ear. He felt Zemo shudder under him. Zemo started swearing in Sokovian.
Bucky was close now. “Come for me, babe,” Bucky groaned in his ear. He grabbed Zemo’s throat with his vibranium hand as Zemo likes it and squeezed gently, licking up his earlobe. Bucky’s other hand pumped Zemo’s cock - once, twice - then he felt Zemo spurt under his fingers as Zemo screamed. Bucky roared and buried himself deep in Zemo as he came, spurting his load deep inside.
“Darling,” Bucky whispered. “You were not very quiet.”
Zemo laughed. “Can’t help myself when I’m being fucked by a super-soldier.”
Bucky only answers by licking his neck.
“Láska,” Zemo moaned. “I don’t have a super-soldier refractory period, remember.”
“I’ll be patient,” Bucky grinned against his skin. “I’m just amusing myself while I wait for you,” he purrs as he continues to lick his skin.
Zemo is no quieter for round two.
Morning crept in slowly, soft light filtering through the blinds. The city outside was just beginning to stir.
Sam stood in the hallway, blinking sleepily, a mug half-raised to his mouth - just in time to see Bucky slip out of one of the bedrooms.
Sam frowned, and looked at the door. Then back at Bucky. Then at the door again.
“Wasn’t that-?”
“Need coffee,” Bucky muttered, walking past him without stopping.
Sam opened his mouth. Closed it. Sighed.
“We not gonna talk about the fact you just came out of Zemo’s room?” Sam asked, stepping into the kitchen with narrowed eyes.
“No,” Bucky replied flatly, not looking up from the mug he was rinsing.
“Bucky,” Sam said, voice rising, “I didn’t sleep all night because he and whatever guest he brought upstairs wouldn’t shut the hell up.”
Bucky ducked at Sam’s long, pointed look. “You came from his room. He didn’t have a guest, did he? It was you?”
Bucky scowled. “Don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t hook up with Zemo. He’s an evil terrorist.”
Sam stared at him, incredulous. “Explain then!”
“I was mad,” Bucky said, sharp and fast. “I finally fell asleep, then I was woken up by... that. So I went in there to yell at him. That’s all.”
From behind them, a new voice chimed in.
“Yes, James is quite jealous of my paramour,” Zemo said smoothly, appearing in the doorway like he’d been waiting for his cue.
“You wish,” Bucky muttered, not meeting his eyes.
Zemo leaned casually against the frame, still somehow looking too put together for the early hour. “Just because the two of you went to bed early doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy Ms. Carter’s lovely party and facilities.”
Something shifted, suddenly.
Bucky straightened abruptly, eyes wide. A sudden pressure filled the room - like the wind picking up before a storm, only there was no breeze. Just the sensation of something that curled and twisted in the air.
He gripped the edge of the kitchen counter. Steadying himself.
The device. Was it happening again?
Were we going back?
The air shifted - greasy, colder, filled with the scent of oil and rust and something chemical. His boots scraped against cracked concrete. Bucky blinked, the fluorescent lighting above flickering faintly. Not Sharon’s sleek apartment. A warehouse. So not back to where they belonged then. Another glitch. Another time.
When Bucky felt stable on his feet again he realised he was standing in front of John Walker.
His hackles raised. He really didn’t like that guy.
Zemo stood cuffed to a rusted pipe near an oil barrel. Walker’s partner Lemar leaned against a wall. Walker paced nearby.
Bucky remembered. Sam was confronting Karli. They’d agreed to give Sam ten minutes. Bucky had stood at the door until Walker pushed past him and they’d chased Karli through the hallways.
Bucky wouldn't guard the door this time.
He walked over, slow. Purposeful. Zemo looked up.
“Well,” Zemo murmured, low enough that only Bucky could hear. “This is nostalgic.”
Bucky crouched, resting his forearms on his thighs. “I like you in handcuffs.”
Zemo’s mouth twitched. “You should’ve brought some last night.”
Bucky had the barest flicker of a smile. “We need to talk about the jumps.”
Zemo nodded toward Walker. “Quietly.”
“They’re not triggered by danger. Not by emotion.”
“Maybe moments where something was… decisive. Inflection points,” Zemo murmured. “Or… maybe we're pulled to scenes where we’re.. tangled.”
“Why would that matter?”
“We’re both being pulled along for the ride. Maybe when we’re being particularly emotive at each other.”
Across the room, Walker frowned, watching the way Bucky crouched close to Zemo, voices low.
“What the hell is this?” Walker muttered. “You two bonding now?”
Lemar cut a glance toward the two of them and raised a brow. “They’re... talking.”
“Yeah, weirdly close for ‘talking,’” Walker muttered, then shook his head. “I’m going after Karli before I arrest everyone.”
The door slammed behind him. Lemar sighed and followed him.
Bucky hadn’t even looked over. “I really don’t like him.”
“He’ll have serum in his veins before the week is out,” Zemo said flatly. “You know that.”
Bucky reached into his pocket. A lockpick. He held it up, then undid the cuffs, a soft click and scrape of metal.
Zemo rubbed his wrists. “Thank you.”
Zemo pulled the device from his pocket. “The green shimmer has moved.. past the notch. That must be the jumps.”
“Six notches, six jumps?” Bucky murmured. Zemo nodded.
Bucky stood. Then pulled Zemo close to him, backed him against the wall, and kissed him - firm and brief and real.
When he pulled back, Zemo’s eyes darkened.
“I still have to find Karli,” Zemo said. “And end the serum.”
“Get them all this time,” Bucky said, voice low. “That includes Walker’s.”
Zemo searched his face. “You mean that?”
“I’ve already lived through his bullshit once.”
Zemo nodded. A crash sounded in the distance. Karli was running through the halls. Zemo squeezed Bucky’s flesh hand and took off without another word.
The air felt heavy, like it still remembered the press of a storm. He sat where Zemo had been cuffed, elbows on his knees, fingers curled around the lockpick he hadn't pocketed yet. It was ridiculous - what was the point of being here if nothing changed? He was just a tourist wandering around in a past already shaped. Still, he wondered - when the past versions slipped back in, what would they think about losing time? Did they feel the echo of what he’d done with Zemo last night?
Bucky sighed. He was out of position to follow Karli through the halls with Sam, but really, the most important beat was that Zemo destroyed the serum and Karli escaped. Bucky had a gnawing feeling that he needed to go after Zemo and went down the hallway he had seen Zemo take.
He found Zemo among shattered glass, his foot stomping down hard - another serum vial crushed under his shoe. Bucky moved closer, just as another vial rolled across the floor, glinting as it came to rest beside a water container. They both saw it. Both locked onto it. It was the last one. Walker’s serum.
Bucky stepped forward - only, he couldn’t. His muscles strained, but something unseen anchored him in place. Not fear. Not hesitation. Something cosmic. He turned, catching Zemo's eye. The same strain was etched into the other man’s face. Zemo wanted to move, wanted to finish it, but he was pinned by the same invisible weight. Walker was destined to take that vial.
Bucky was so focused he didn’t see the blur of motion to his left.
John Walker swung the shield like a hammer. The metal hit Zemo’s skull with a sickening crack. Zemo dropped like a puppet with cut strings.
Something in Bucky snapped. He surged forward - this time, nothing stopped him. No cosmic leash. No frozen limbs. Just fury. He’s mine.
The air twisted. Roared.
Wind without wind.
Not now.
He lunged at Walker, ready to drive him through the concrete, but reality howled - and Bucky was at a standstill before he could make contact with Walker.
His vision stuttered, blurred - and cleared.
He was standing in front of Sam.
“Buck?” Sam asked, brow furrowing.
Bucky’s chest rose and fell like he’d run a mile. His hands curled into fists at his sides. The storm had taken him - again.
He stood in a garage. The garage reeked of cold oil and gunmetal.
“The hypothetical? What did you do?”
Slowly, it clicked. This was the garage they planned for, the rendezvous point after Zemo’s break. In Berlin. The quiet hum of the city outside felt distant, like a world apart. He and Sam had been having a discussion about Bucky helping Zemo break out of his Berlin prison.
He didn't remember the exact words, but the gist stayed with him.
“We need Zemo. So, I might have moved some chess pieces. You know.”
Sam blinked, incredulous. “No, I don’t know. What the hell, Buck? You broke him out?”
“Technically, no. I just nudged a few things already set to fall.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed. “Please don’t tell me what fell was Baron Zemo’s cell door.”
Bucky’s silence said enough.
“Are you serious?” Sam’s voice, sharp. “That guy’s a genocidal maniac! Blew up the UN, framed you, controlled you!”
Boots clattered softly against the floor - steady, deliberate. Zemo appeared from the stairwell, prison uniform still on, hands clasped behind his back with that same air of quiet command. He faintly nodded at Sam.
“Gentleman,” Zemo greeted.
Sam’s glare flicked between them.
“Sorry, Sam. But this is happening. And you’re coming with us,” Bucky said.
Sam’s jaw tightened. “There are going to be rules. So many rules. And when it’s done, he’s going back to prison.”
Zemo smiled faintly, almost amused. “Ah. Negotiations. I do love a team dynamic.”
“You don’t do anything without our say so,” Sam demanded.
Zemo hummed, calm as ever, moving past Sam. He moved with the precision of someone unpacking muscle memory: glove compartments flipped open, storage crates moved, clothing and gear laid out like instruments before surgery. Bucky then snorted as Zemo pocketed the bottle of lube they used on their first foray through time. They had thought at the time that past Zemo had packed his bags - but they hadn't realised the jumps were out of order. Things that hadn't happened yet could still happen - but in a future notch - in the past.
Bucky leaned against the hood of the car, arms crossed. Watching Zemo as his thoughts wandered.
Not tense. Not impatient. Just... watching.
Zemo glanced over once. They exchanged a look. Nothing more. But it lingered, the air around them briefly softening.
Sam’s voice snapped through it. “Alright, what the hell is going on?”
Bucky looked at him. “What?”
“You two keep doing that weird eye thing.”
Zemo raised a brow, folding a coat over his arm. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
“That thing. Like you’re having a telepathic conversation or whatever. What is this? How long have you been in contact?”
“It’s nothing,” Bucky said. Too quick.
Zemo walked toward the car. Bucky followed.
Sam let out a breath like he was talking to ghosts. “Y’know what? Fine. I’ll just be here. Processing.”
A long car ride later and they stepped out into the cool air, the city lights flickering dimly in the distance. Zemo led the way toward where his sleek private jet waited. Bucky’s boots hit the pavement steadily beside Sam.
The security on the airfield was minimal - a few scattered guards distracted by routine paperwork and the quiet hum of planes taxiing in the distance. Bucky’s eyes scanned the perimeter, alert despite the quiet.
They reached the jet’s steps. Zemo stepped forward with effortless charm, clasping Oeznik’s shoulder and greeting him with a quick, practiced kiss to each cheek. Zemo’s long coat swept as he boarded. Bucky followed, the low thrum of the engines greeting them inside.
Bucky settled, peeling off his jacket. Zemo perched in the seat opposite him. Sam took the seat next to Bucky, on the other side of the aisle. The plane shuddered as the jet accelerated down the runway, lifting smoothly into the night sky, leaving the city view far below.
Before long, the tone for the seatbelt sign dinged over the intercom. Sam’s voice cut through the low murmur of the engines. “I’m gonna hit the bathroom. Be right back.”
The bathroom door clicked shut behind Sam, leaving a sudden quiet between Bucky and Zemo. The device - the source of all their disjointed jumps - weighed heavy in Bucky’s mind. He glanced at Zemo.
“You still have the device?” Bucky asked.
“Yes. Each time it’s in my pocket.”
Zemo pulled out the device. The green acid, or sludge as Zemo called it, faded in the section from three notches, and was most of the way to the fourth.
“The notches,” Bucky said. “This is our third jump.”
“Yes,” Zemo said. “I think we don’t leave at a particular emotional time, just, however long it takes for the green shimmer to reach the next notch.”
“But the start points,” Bucky began, fingers twitching against the armrest, “this thing... it’s not because we’re in danger or emotional or whatever. It’s like-” He faltered, trying to find the right way to say it. “It’s like it’s looking for something specific. Moments where we’re connected.”
Zemo’s lips curved slightly. “Moments charged with... meaning. I’ve noticed. When we’re tangled up. Not just physically, but emotionally. The device seems to feed off that.”
Bucky nodded slowly. “Yeah. But does whatever we do in those moments matters?”
Zemo’s eyes were unfocused for a brief moment, then softened. “I don’t think so. Like with Walker’s serum. We can’t change what has already been. And that’s consistent with what Rocket told us.”
Bucky let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. “I changed Sam’s phone call when we confronted Selby. It’s still dangerous. HYDRA had it, and were doing experiments. Who knows what they did to it. We can’t trust it works as it’s supposed to.”
The click of the bathroom door diverted their attention. Sam was on his way back. Zemo quickly hid the device back into his pocket.
Sam spent the next ten minutes casting suspicious looks Bucky’s way. Bucky finally sighed, long-suffering. “What is it, Sam?”
“Nothing,” Sam said, way too fast.
Bucky gave him a flat look.
“See, that right there? That’s more normal,” Sam answered. “The way you’re glaring at me. That’s familiar. You’ve been weird. All this… smiling.”
Bucky grunted. “Therapy’s working, I guess.”
Sam snorted. “Buck, I’ve met your therapist. A few days ago! I had to sit in on one of your sessions after being arrested for not going to therapy.”
Bucky scowled.
Zemo, never missing a beat, piped up. “Oh really, Samuel? I’d love to hear all about it.”
“Shut up, Zemo. We’re having a private conversation.”
Zemo gestured mildly. “On my private plane.”
Bucky shrugged. “It’s nothing. I just missed a session so Sam got pulled into a session. We were just talking about Walker getting the shield. I’m over it now,” Bucky muttered.
“Sure you are,” Sam said, settling back in his seat - but not taking his eyes off him.
Bucky opened his mouth to retort - but then it hit.
The pressure dropped. Wind that wasn’t wind howled just beneath his skin. His vision swam. He gripped the armrest, blinking hard. It was happening again. The world began to twist, a familiar invisible force pulling at him, warping the edges of the cabin into a haze. His eyes met Zemo’s who shuddered similarly.
Focus.
His body lurched - then stilled.
He was sitting. Upright. The seat under his hands was different.
Dr. Raynor was staring at him, eyebrows raised. Her notepad was open.
“…so what were you thinking about just now?” she asked.
Bucky blinked once, twice. His mouth was dry. His heart was still thudding from the shift.
“Zemo,” he said without thinking.
Raynor frowned. “Zemo? That’s not where we left off.”
Bucky rubbed a hand down his face. “Yeah. Tell me about it.”
Dr. Raynor continued talking, but Bucky wasn’t really listening.
Not out of boredom - more like quiet amazement. For once while sitting in this chair, everything felt... calm. His shoulders were relaxed. His hands were open rather than balled into a fist. He wasn’t preparing to defend or deflect or fight.
Bucky hadn't been to therapy in years, in the future. He remembered when he had, he’d felt suffocated, like the walls were closing in inch by inch, threatening to crush him. But since he and Zemo had built a life together, the healing had come differently - slower, quieter, but steadier. Zemo hadn’t just accepted him; he’d challenged him, stayed with him through the nightmares, the silences, the setbacks. He'd listened without judgment, pushed when it mattered, and reminded Bucky - again and again - that his past didn’t define him and he didn’t need to apologise for what he had done when he was helpless. That he could still be a good man, even after everything.
Raynor raised an eyebrow. “You’re smiling.”
“I am,” he said, like he hadn’t noticed.
Her tone softened. “You look better than I’ve seen you. That usually doesn’t happen when people are running from their past.”
“I’m not running.” Bucky leaned back. “I just finally figured out that not all of it is mine to carry. I can separate my misdeeds from the ones I wasn’t responsible for.”
Raynor nodded slowly. “You’re talking about your amends list?”
“Yeah. You keep bringing it up like it’s some divine punishment. Like a grocery list of sins I can never pay off.” He met her eyes. “It’s reopening wounds that were never mine in the first place. I’m done apologising for what they made me do.”
Raynor went quiet. For once, she didn’t interrupt. Just studied him, brow pinched slightly in thought.
Helmut Zemo opened his eyes with a soft exhale and realised he was back in prison. In Berlin. One hand was down his trousers.
“Oh,” he murmured, wry.
He didn’t stop.
As he finished and cried out, the howling wind and cosmic force took him.
Bucky blinked, trying to clear his vision. The apartment was quiet, tucked above a narrow street in Riga’s old town. Stained-glass windows cast honey-yellow and orange light across the floor in a shifting mosaic, its panes warm with the sun. Zemo’s safehouse in Riga. Bucky stood near the window, arms crossed, watching the golden shapes stretch across the floorboards. Sam disappeared somewhere, he remembered - probably hunting coffee or avoiding conversation.
Bucky’s shirt was rumpled, hair still damp from the shower. He glanced over to Zemo already in the kitchen.
“Where did you go?” Bucky asked.
“Prison. You?”
“Therapy.”
Zemo laughed. Zemo was barefoot, sleeves rolled, inspecting the contents of a crate like it personally offended him.
“I thought royalty had people for this,” Bucky teased.
Zemo didn’t look up. “I do. You and Wilson just haven’t accepted the roles yet.”
Bucky walked over and nudged his shoulder. “Move. I’m making pancakes.”
Zemo stepped aside without protest, but when he passed behind Bucky, his hand lingered for a moment between his shoulder blades - light, grounding. Bucky relaxed into the touch.
Zemo looked around quickly to make sure Sam wasn’t around.
“I think we can safely say it’s not about us being physically together,” Zemo said. “You snapped into New York. I was in Berlin. Maybe it happens when we’re thinking about each other.”
“I don’t think of you in therapy.”
“Are you sure?”
Bucky squinted. “What were you thinking about?”
“It’s prison, James. I thought about you a lot.”
Bucky frowned. “What kind of thinking?”
“Pleasure, James. I was chasing my pleasure.”
“What?” Bucky choked, scandalised.
“Does it surprise you that I masturbated often to the thought of your body?” Zemo said, smirking, moving all too close to Bucky.
“What are you two doing?” Sam’s voice cut in from the doorway. He’d returned, phone in hand, brows raised. The kitchen was warm and chaotic - Zemo at the stove, angled toward Bucky, while Bucky ineffectively smeared flour across the counter with a rag that was clearly too wet.
“That’s not how you clean,” Zemo said without looking back at Sam.
“I was gonna get a dry towel,” Bucky muttered, gesturing vaguely. He obviously wasn’t.
“You better.”
“I said I would.”
Sam gestured between them, helpless. “Are you two - what is this? Why are you so… domestic?”
Bucky turned back to the countertop like nothing had happened as he cracked an egg into the mixing bowl. Zemo just gave Sam a mild, maddening smile.
They didn’t talk, but no one left the kitchen.
At some point, Sam eased onto one of the stools at the counter, phone still in hand, scrolling idly - except every now and then his eyes flicked up, watching the two of them like they were wild animals that might start biting. Or perhaps worse, flirting.
Zemo kept cooking. They moved around each other with an ease that was either suspicious or… practiced. Like they’d done this before. Bucky felt Sam’s eyes following them.
When the food was ready, Zemo served it neatly on mismatched plates and set them out like he’d done it a hundred times. Bucky passed Sam a fork like it was no big deal. Sam looked down at his plate. Rich, layered, something Eastern European he couldn’t quite place. Of course Zemo could cook. He took in Bucky’s plate. Pancakes.
Sam raised an eyebrow.
“James doesn’t like it,” Zemo supplied.
“What?” Bucky said, defensive, mouth full of soft pancakes and sugar. “I just wanted something sweet.” Bucky could tell that Zemo bit back a remark for Sam’s benefit.
They ate in relative silence, save for a few clinks of cutlery. At one point Sam caught Bucky hiding a grin when Zemo mock-scolded him for reaching across the table. Sam rolled his eyes.
They lingered over breakfast longer than any of them would admit - Sam sipping slowly at his coffee, Bucky scraping the last of something sweet from his plate, Zemo unhurriedly folding his napkin. Outside, the sky was already bright, the day warming.
Bucky set his fork down with a quiet clink as he checked his phone. “There was another bombing,” he said. “GRC depot. Eleven injured. Three dead.”
Sam’s head snapped up. “Shit.”
Zemo pushed back his chair. “Then we need to move. Karli’s escalating. That means she’ll be surrounded by sympathisers.”
Zemo and Sam started to argue about the merits of giving Karli a chance. An old argument, rehashed. Bucky didn’t pay attention as he cleared the dishes from the table.
Sam rubbed a hand down his face. “Regardless of how we deal with Karli, we have to find her. Find out where Donya Madani’s funeral is.”
Zemo moved toward the side table by the door, rummaging through a small dish before slipping something into his coat pocket. “Turkish Delight?” he asked, throwing one to Sam. Bucky hid a smile.
Zemo faced Sam. “There’s a small community square a few blocks east - markets, public benches, old men playing chess. We’ll start there.”
Bucky stood and reached for his jacket. “Let’s get moving.”
As they stepped out into the street, it felt almost normal for a moment. Three men on a walk.
Zemo walked ahead, coat flaring behind him. Bucky stayed by Sam’s side.
When they reached the square the children scattered at first - just like they always did when strangers approached. But Zemo approached and spoke in quiet, melodic tones, crouching to their level. Something about his cadence, his tone, the disarming softness of his voice - made them pause.
“Okay I’m going to talk to people upstairs. Watch him, would you?” Sam said. Bucky grunted without responding.
Zemo knelt in the middle of the courtyard, a soft smile on his face and his gloved hands outstretched, offering candy to the wary group of children. His voice, low and melodic, carried the gentle notes of ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep’ as he coaxed them closer. One by one, they approached, drawn by the kindness in his tone and the sweets he pressed into their palms. It was a disarming display, tender, genuine enough to earn the trust of the little ones.
A girl whispered to him, and he listened intently, head tilted, his expression solemn beneath the warmth.
Bucky approached.
“We didn’t need her to tell us,” Bucky said under his breath, arms crossed. “We know where the funeral is.”
The child skipped away clutching the candy to rejoin her friends, a red wrapper crinkling in their fist. Zemo watched her go, expression unreadable but softer at the edges.
“I know,” Zemo said without looking at Bucky, tone quiet. “But we need a reason for Wilson to believe we know.”
Bucky leaned on the railing beside him, watching shoppers move around the square. “You think he’s catching on?”
“I think he’s been catching on,” Zemo murmured, lips twitching with something like amusement. “He just hasn’t decided what to do with it.”
A moment passed in companionable silence.
“You okay, love?” Bucky asked, his voice lower now, private.
Zemo turned to him, brows slightly lifted. “Yes. Why?”
Bucky hesitated, then shrugged with one shoulder. “I never thought about it before. You’re good with the kids. Do they remind you of Carl?”
Zemo’s gaze softened, but not with sadness. “It’s sweet of you to think of it, James. But if the sight of children upset me, I’d be paralysed every time I went in public and be unable to do anything at all.” He paused. “Grief nearly drove me mad, once. But I’m better now. I’m happy. With you.”
Bucky reached out and gave his hand a small squeeze.
“Just… you’re good with kids,” Bucky repeated, almost sheepish.
Zemo looked over at him, brows arching faintly. “James, we’ve talked about this. I don’t want children. That hasn’t changed. I’m no less of a father now simply because Carl is gone.”
“I know. I know,” Bucky said quickly.
“You said you didn’t want them either.”
“I’m kinda fucked up,” James mumbled, kicking a stone on the ground.
Zemo tilted his head with a faint smile. “You’re less fucked up these days.” He paused. “Are you… have you changed your mind?” Zemo asked gently.
Bucky stared down at the stone beneath their feet. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “I’d be a terrible dad.”
“Sweetheart…” Zemo’s voice was almost a whisper.
“Conversation for when we get home, I guess,” Bucky said, offering a half-smile, trying to shake it off. But then, quieter, he added, “I’ve been wondering what we’re doing here. Why we’re going where we’ve been. Maybe it’s to show me this.”
Zemo looked at him for a long moment, then reached for Bucky’s hand again - not to pull, not to lead, just to hold. The square was nearly empty now. The day was shifting.
They stood like that, for a minute longer, before Bucky glanced toward the street.
“Come on. Let’s go find Sam before he tries charming old men with questions about revolution.”
Zemo smiled faintly. “He’s not terrible at it.”
“He can’t charm old men with candy,” Bucky said, lips twitching.
“No,” Zemo agreed. “I suppose not.”
Zemo was still humming the tune he’d sung to the children, low under his breath as they made their way toward the far side of the courtyard. Sam was up ahead, coming down a nearby staircase.
They left the community square in no hurry, letting the quiet hush of the streets settle between them. Sam and Bucky walked half a dozen steps behind Zemo, Bucky with his hands in his pockets, while Sam updated Bucky - that no one would talk to him. Zemo’s coat flared behind him with each purposeful stride. Sam caught the way Bucky’s gaze dipped down Zemo’s body, lingering with clear appreciation.
“C’mon man,” Sam groaned. “Tone it down.”
“It’s down,” Bucky said laughing. Sam groaned at the terrible pun.
By the time they reached the apartment building, the mood shifted. Zemo held the door open with a gloved hand and gave a small nod as Bucky passed. Zemo started to prepare tea.
Sam stood in the center of the room, arms folded, glaring.
“Zemo. What did the kids tell you? Where is the funeral?”
Zemo’s hands curled around a fresh cup of tea. Steam rose. He didn’t meet Sam’s gaze.
“I can’t say.”
“You won’t say,” Sam snapped. “There’s a difference.”
Zemo didn’t argue. His jaw was tight. Bucky knew the feeling - like invisible thread tugging at the edge of his lips, stopping them from forming the words. This wasn’t Zemo being manipulative. For some reason it had to happen like this.
“Sam,” Bucky warned.
“No, man, I’m done playing games. We’re wasting time we don’t have, and he’s sitting here sipping tea like-”
The cup shattered against the wall.
Everyone froze. Bucky’s hand was still outstretched from where he had hurled it across the room. Bucky gaped. He didn’t recall approaching Zemo, snatching the cup, or throwing it.
Zemo didn’t flinch. He just slowly turned his head and looked at Bucky.
Sam stared between them. “What the hell was that?!”
“I can’t explain it,” Bucky said flatly. “But he can’t talk.”
Sam threw up his hands. “Nope. That’s it. I’m done.” He grabbed his coat. “You two figure out whatever the hell kind of codependent bullshit standoff this is. I’ll be outside. I have to make a call.”
He stormed out.
The door slammed. “Must have been an important call,” Bucky said, watching the door Sam just walked through. A future defining call.
Silence settled, tense and electric. Zemo lifted a brow at Bucky.
“Well,” Zemo said. “That was dramatic.”
“Don’t laugh this off,” Bucky snapped. He still felt the tension under his skin.
Zemo’s eyes sparked with something sharp. “I’m not laughing.”
They were chest to chest now. Bucky’s breathing was ragged.
“You have no idea how much I wanted to do this the first time,” Bucky whispered as he leaned in.
“I do,” Zemo said, voice low. “Subtlety is not your strong suit.”
“Say it,” Bucky growled.
Zemo smirked. “I prefer to keep my leverage.”
Bucky grabbed the collar of his shirt and growled. “You wanna see what someone can do with leverage?” and kissed him hard, bruising and unrestrained. Zemo sank into it like it was inevitable. Zemo’s breath hitched, a hand slid up Bucky’s chest, fingers curled over the curve of his shoulder. Their mouths moved roughly, colliding again and again with frustration and desire.
Zemo bit down on Bucky’s lower lip. Bucky growled and deepened the kiss, dragging his metal hand up Zemo’s side. The sensation of cold metal through thin fabric made Zemo shiver, and Bucky kissed roughly, possessive and demanding.
Zemo let him, let himself be taken apart by it, gripping the back of Bucky’s neck, anchoring them together as their bodies pressed close. He could feel every taut line of Bucky’s form - heat and strength and tension as glass shards glittered on the floor beneath them.
The mystic howl of wind picked up again, strange and sharp, and Bucky let go of Zemo. If the theory about the notches and green shimmering liquid were correct, it would be the last one.
The door slammed behind them. Zemo stumbled, blood trickling at his temple. Bucky caught him one-handed and eased him onto the couch.
Bucky took in the scene. Zemo was concussed. Walker must have just hit him with the shield. Bucky pushed down his anger.
“Sit down. Don’t argue,” Bucky said.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Zemo murmured, lowering himself with a wince. “Though the bruises from Captain America’s handcuffs were a reminder I’m still a prisoner - just without the cuffs this time.”
Bucky shot him a look, but there was no heat in it.
Sam hovered nearby, arms crossed. “He’ll live. I’m not babying the guy.”
“You don’t have to,” Bucky said. Bucky disappeared into the kitchen to grab supplies.
Zemo let his eyes fall shut as he held his hand over his forehead, wincing.
Moments later, something cool and damp was pressed gently to his forehead. A hand adjusted the angle with unexpected care. Then a folded blanket was placed over his chest, tucked in.
Bucky sat on the table beside the couch, focused and silent, eyes flicking over Zemo’s features like he was cataloguing every bruise.
Zemo cracked one eye open. “Stop fretting, láska.”
Across the room, Sam sat down. “The hell did you just call him?”
“Concussion,” Bucky said without looking up. “He’s not making sense.”
“I’m not?” Zemo said, amused. “Then how did I manage to get under your skin so thoroughly?”
Sam pointed at them, mouth open like he couldn’t pick where to start, voice raising. “Okay. No. Nope. This has got to stop.”
“Then stop yelling,” Bucky said. “He needs quiet.”
Sam opened and closed his mouth. “He shot a guy in the head yesterday.”
“He’s also bleeding from his skull. Priorities.”
“I’m making a call,” Sam muttered. “To literally anyone else.”
He turned for the door but paused at the threshold.
Behind him, Bucky leaned in and pressed a kiss to Zemo’s temple - featherlight, reverent. Zemo, half-conscious, reached up to rest a hand on Bucky’s knee.
Sam didn’t say anything. Just stared for a second longer.
“Yep. Definitely from the future,” Sam muttered to himself, turning to leave. Then he paused. “Ah, fuck it,” Sam said, as he walked back towards the couple.
“Okay, so which of the three was it?” Sam asked Bucky.
Bucky glanced up in confusion.
“Androids, Aliens or Wizards?” he clarified.
Bucky laughed. “It’s always Aliens, man.”
Sam shook his head, rolled his eyes and walked out.
Bucky stayed where he was, seated beside the couch, watching Zemo closely. His breathing had evened out a little, but Bucky could still see the occasional twitch of pain flicker across his face. He reached up and adjusted the cold pack with slow, deliberate care, thumb grazing Zemo’s temple to check for swelling.
Zemo murmured something indistinct in Sokovian. Bucky leaned in, and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek. He reached for the water bottle and uncapped it, lifting it to Zemo’s lips. “Drink,” he said, soft. Zemo took a few sips before letting his head sink back into the couch cushion. Bucky used the towel to wipe the sweat from his brow, then just sat with him, keeping one hand loosely on Zemo’s chest, feeling it rise and fall. Zemo lay dazed and blinking up at the ceiling. Zemo lay there for a few minutes before he leaned to get up. Bucky helped Zemo straighten up.
Bucky then felt a shift.
Bucky’s head snapped up, expecting the rush of wind, but instead the room filled with a soft, glowing light. He stumbled forward, reaching into Zemo’s coat pocket and pulling out the device. The shimmer faded slowly, settling near the original notch at its top - the final jump concluding. Holding the device out, Bucky felt Zemo’s hand close over his. Their eyes locked, both hands gripping the device as a quiet click echoed between them.
And in no time at all, Zemo and Bucky were standing side by side, their shoulders brushing as they looked out over the scene - dead HYDRA agents all around them. The device - now inert - was clutched loosely in Zemo’s hand. The ring around its edge was empty. Whatever strange pull it had gone. They were back - in their time - in their bodies.
Sam stepped up beside them. He watched them for a moment, quiet. Then he shook his head, half exasperated, half amused.
“I knew you two went back,” Sam said, smiling.
Bucky arched an eyebrow. “Back?”
“Back in time. It’s always Aliens, right?” Sam gestured vaguely. “Either that or you had, like, five synchronised psychotic breaks during that mission. Which honestly seemed more likely at the time.”
Zemo glanced sideways, lips twitching. “Charming.”
Bucky looked at Sam now, a little more pointed. “Is that why - when you found out about us - you didn’t get mad? I remember thinking it was weird. You were just... accepting. Like you’d already made peace with me being a moron.”
Sam snorted. “You weren’t a moron. Well maybe a little.”
“I was. But you didn’t seem to hold it against me. I couldn’t figure out why. Now I get it.”
Sam nodded toward Zemo. “I saw you happy. I saw where it all ended.”
Sam let that sit. Then he laughed. “I saw how good you two were,” he said. “Took me a while to admit it, but... yeah. It made sense.”
The containment device had arrived while they were gone. Zemo dropped it in, and secured the latch. Ready for transport.
Sam patted Bucky on the shoulder and turned to go.
Bucky looked at Zemo. Zemo tilted his head, one last time.
Zemo touched his face gently.
“You’d be a great dad if you wanted kids,” Zemo said softly.
Bucky laughed. “I said we’d talk about it... when we got home.”
Zemo’s smile softened. “This is home.”
Bucky nodded, pulling him close. “Yeah. I guess we are.”
“So. Adoption? Surrogacy? Foster caring?” Zemo laughed, leaning in to kiss his husband.