Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Zemo doesn’t flinch when Bucky opens the freezer door behind him and grabs the same kind of popsicle he’s holding, except Bucky’s is red and neon green, its packaging rimmed in frost, unlike Zemo’s, which is artificial purple grape.

He watches Bucky peel the plastic back with his teeth and flick the wrapper into the sink like he owns the place. Like this isn’t Zemo’s safehouse. Like this isn’t Zemo’s kitchen.

The heat makes them both careless.

Bucky leans against the counter, one foot crossed over the other, naked chest glistening with sweat, and Zemo watches as he drags the popsicle up the length of his tongue. Slow, deliberate, showy. It leaves a wet sheen on his bottom lip.

Zemo’s mouth feels dry.

He takes another bite of his own popsicle, not as theatrically, and says, “What flavor is that?”

Bucky hums, letting the stick hover at the corner of his mouth.

“Cherry lime.”

Zemo raises a brow.

“Can I try it?”

There’s a heartbeat of silence. Then Bucky straightens, steps into Zemo’s space, and says with a grin, “Sure.”

Zemo thinks he’ll offer the popsicle to him, until Bucky tosses the red-stained stick into the sink with the wrapper, and towers over him, lips parted.

Zemo, reckless with heat, hunger, and whatever has been going on between them for the past few weeks, presses his mouth to Bucky’s and tastes.

Cherry Lime.

James.

The kiss is heated, sticky, and sweet; it tastes like summer and promise. Bucky’s smile curves right against Zemo’s lips. His hands stay tucked behind him.

Zemo pulls back only a little, out of breath.

“I think I like this one better than my own.”

Bucky slides a hand to Zemo’s hip and hums in approval, pressing their lips together again.

"There’s another popsicle in the freezer."

Chapter Text

The sun’s beginning to dip by the time Bucky finds him.

Zemo is in the pool, arms folded on the edge, shoulders barely above water. His head rests against the crook of his elbow, eyes half-lidded behind dark lenses. He looks calmer than earlier.

Bucky sits beside him without a word, letting his legs sink in. The water’s warm, last rays of sunshine glistening like diamonds on the water’s surface, the air thick with the softness of late heat.

Zemo doesn’t move, but Bucky feels the shift, that slight tension.

They’ve barely spoken since the mission went wrong the day before. No shouting ever since, only the kind of silence that feels like a held breath.

Bucky kicks his foot gently through the water.

“Didn’t know if you’d want company.”

“I don’t.”  Zemo’s voice is quiet. “But I don’t mind yours.”

Bucky huffs something like a snort, but it comes out not quite as bitter.

Zemo turns his face just slightly. “Are you coming in?”

“Maybe later,” Bucky says, watching the ripple of water across Zemo’s collarbones. “You gonna’ stay put?”

Zemo lifts one brow above his glasses.

“You make it sound like I’m gonna run at any second.”

“You might.”

They fall quiet again. The sun has lowered just enough to catch on the surface of the water, scattering light across the pool and Zemo’s bare shoulders.

Bucky leans back on his hands and sighs. It gets tiring, sometimes, all the fighting, bickering and posturing. Pretending to hate Zemo.

A droplet slides down Zemo’s forearm, trails to the edge of his wrist, and falls back into the pool. Bucky brushes the back of his fingers against Zemo’s. Just a touch. Nothing more.

Zemo doesn’t flinch or pull away.

He shifts, almost imperceptibly, until their arms are touching. Until the sky turns gold, then purple, then dark. Neither of them leaves.

Chapter Text

There’s a moment when the light hits just right, high, warm and golden, when Bucky can’t look away.

Zemo’s in the garden, splayed dramatically on one of the sun lounges with a book, shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rolled high. His skin glows warm under the sun, all golden tan and summer freckles. It isn’t pale like before, the sickly grey from back in the Raft, skin that hadn’t seen the light of day in months. 

No. This version of him is burnished. Luminous. Enveloped in fragments of gold, like this version of Zemo had been waiting under the pasty, colorless skin all along.

His collarbone glistens faintly with sweat. There’s a patch of sun across the wiry hair on his stomach, rising and falling with every breath. Bucky counts three freckles, then five, then gives up counting entirely.

He swallows. Hard.

Zemo doesn’t look up from his book, but he knows. He always knows.

“You’re staring,” he says, but his voice is amused.

Bucky shrugs from where he’s standing by the doorway, one hand braced on the frame like it’s holding him upright. 

“You’re glowing.”

Zemo finally glances up, startled, sunglasses low on his nose. Even from a distance, Bucky can see him blushing.

“Am I?”

“You weren’t always.”

That makes him pause.

Bucky steps out onto the warm stone with bare feet. He doesn’t sit; he lets the light catch them both.

“You looked dead, back then,” Bucky says pensively. “Like they buried you underwater and forgot.”

Zemo tilts his head, and the gold flares across his cheekbones, freckles everywhere. “And now?”

Bucky’s voice comes out rough. Honest.

“I’ve never seen you look more alive.”

Zemo watches him for a moment. Something fond passes between them. He then smiles coyly and goes back to his book. Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever seen him be at a loss for words, but the blush on his cheeks looks good on his newly sun-kissed skin.

Chapter Text

They’re meant to be undercover. Low-profile, discreet, eyes on the target. No deviations.

So when Bucky steps onto the deck and sees Zemo stretched out on the bow of the yacht, bathed in sunlight, wearing that — it takes him a second to speak.

“That,” he says flatly, “is not mission-appropriate attire.”

Zemo doesn’t even turn his head.

“It’s hot out, James.”

“You’re going to get spotted.”

“Good.” Zemo shifts slightly, his back arching as he props himself up on one elbow to look over his shoulder at Bucky. “Let them come. I could use a little fun.”

Bucky grits his teeth.

“You’re going to get shot. ”

Zemo finally looks over his sunglasses.

“James. We are in international waters. If anyone sees me, they’ll assume I’m exactly what I look like: a very rich, very well-oiled man enjoying his very expensive yacht.”

Bucky’s mouth opens, then closes, like a fish.

The swimsuit — if it can even be called that — is dark purple and tight, and leaves almost nothing to the imagination. Zemo’s tan is even. His back glistens, his thighs are toned and oily, and his almost bare ass – Oh Lord.

The way he’s lounging makes it clear he has no intention of moving anytime soon.

“You should at least stay out of sight—”

“Out of their sight? Or out of your sight?” Zemo teases.

“I’m assessing threats!” snaps Bucky.

Zemo smirks.

“Of course. My thighs are quite dangerous.”

Bucky exhales sharply through his nose and turns on his heel.

“James?” Zemo calls behind him. “Be a darling and bring some sunscreen?”

Bucky doesn’t answer.

He does, however, come back fifteen minutes later, grumbling, red-faced, and holding the bottle.

Chapter Text

“Distraction is in place,” Bucky hears through the comm. Zemo’s voice is calm, but slightly breathless. “You have ten minutes.”

Bucky slips into the villa’s side entrance. No guards or alarms, just the muffled rhythm of a tennis match somewhere beyond the stone walls.

And then, a low, strained grunt filters through the comm line. Bucky pauses.

Another one follows; sharp, guttural, chased by the sound of sneakers skidding hard against clay.

“You okay out there?” Bucky mutters.

Zemo doesn’t answer with words. Just another short, bitten-off exhale that somehow sounds dangerously close to a moan.

Bucky makes it into the office, shaking his head. He couldn’t just pretend to play, could he?

He glances out the window.

Zemo is shirtless now, the white polo abandoned on the sideline. His skin is flushed, golden with sweat. His chest rises and falls with each breath. The tight white tennis shorts cling, damp and low, to his hips.

He lunges. Grunts. Back arches. A drop of sweat rolls down his spine and disappears beneath the waistband. Bucky stares for a second too long.

Zemo makes another sound, a breathy, rough little gasp, and Bucky knocks over a decorative bowl of paperclips.

A low hum crackles over the comm, lazy and self-satisfied.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” Bucky hisses, yanking the blinds shut.

Zemo doesn’t speak.

But the next grunt comes louder, punctuated by the slap of racket on ball and a muttered curse in Sokovian.

Bucky rolls his eyes even if Zemo isn’t watching.

“Match point,” Zemo breathes smugly.

Bucky doesn’t respond. He plugs in the USB, waits until the file has infiltrated their target's computer, and then removes it before the sound of another ball hitting the racket, their target cursing, and the dirtiest sounding moan so far, comes through the comms. 

Bucky is already halfway out of the office, ears burning, muttering, “I’m gonna kill him. I’m gonna kill him slow.”

Chapter Text

Zemo doesn’t bother looking up from his book.

“James,” he says lazily, “would you be so kind as to help me apply sunscreen?”

Bucky pauses mid-step. He’s holding a glass of ice water and has every intention of not engaging.

“No.”

Zemo hums. 

“Charming as always, James.”

“You’ve got hands. Use them.”

“I suppose I will have to.”

He sets the book aside dramatically, uncaps the bottle, and leans forward in his lounge chair, rubbing the lotion over his legs, then his shoulders with calculated care; slow, broad strokes, because he knows Bucky’s watching, and he loves to put on a show, especially whenever he is wearing little to no clothing.

Bucky doesn’t comment; he walks past him towards the other side of the lawn, his face is unreadable.

But five minutes later, Zemo hears the bottle uncap again. There is a moment of silence, then he hears Bucky’s voice, right behind him:

“You missed a spot.”

Zemo turns his head, smug. 

“Did I?”

“In the middle of your back, you'll burn like a lobster.”

Zemo hums in appreciation and scoots forward slightly, making space.

Bucky applies the sunscreen without comment; palm flat, slow and steady, gliding across warm, freckled skin. Zemo’s breath catches, just enough to make Bucky feel a knot in his stomach and something else down south. He finishes the job, wipes his hand on a towel, and turns to leave.

But Zemo looks up, eyes shaded behind dark glasses, but his kittenish smile is sincere.

“Thank you,” he says, almost too genuinely.

Bucky huffs.

“I’m not doing it again.”

Zemo smiles again, faint and knowing. 

“We’ll see.”

Chapter Text

The sky is too blue, too bright, that’s the first thing Zemo notices. He uses his hand to shade himself from the sun. It’s a big contrast to the prison-gray and flickering fluorescent lights behind reinforced glass. Just… sky. Bright and whole and endless.

The island is humid and sweet-smelling. Palm fronds rustle overhead with the breeze. The sea glints silver through the trees at a nearby distance.

They’ve been here five minutes. Maybe less.

Zemo makes drinks, one for himself, one for Sam, one for James, and carries them with precision to the terrace. He sets them down neatly without a word, only a polite nod, and then he unbuttons his shirt, folds it, and stretches out on the nearest lounger like he’s done this a thousand times.

“Unbelievable,” Sam mutters from inside the villa. “He’s already horizontal.”

Bucky doesn’t look up as he rifles through the mission paperwork.

Sam moves to the doorway, drink in hand. 

“Hey, White Lotus! We’re meant to be on a mission!”

Zemo doesn’t move or even lift his head; he just lets the sun soak into his chest like he’s trying to breathe it in through his skin.

Bucky steps past Sam and looks at Zemo splayed under the sun like a lizard.

Zemo’s sharp edges are more visible against the afternoon sunlight; the pale collarbones, the sunken cheeks, the shadows beneath his eyes. He’s all bone and hollow skin.

Sam turns to head back inside, still grumbling.

“Let him have this,” Bucky says quietly.

Sam pauses. 

“Have what?”

“He hasn’t seen the sun in months.”

Bucky picks up his own drink, gaze still fixed on the lounger. 

“Just let him have this for now.”

Sam just nods once, understanding as ever, and disappears back into the villa.

Outside, Zemo doesn’t move. But his chest rises with something like a sigh; profound, sleepy, quiet, and almost at peace for once.

Chapter Text

The mission goes wrong fast.

A tripwire in an unstable perimeter. The explosion takes out the north wall of the villa before Bucky can even shout a warning.

He finds Zemo behind the smoke, half-conscious, curled against the ground, the sleeve of his linen shirt blackened and seared through.

“Zemo,” Bucky breathes, kneeling hard. “Talk to me.”

Zemo blinks up at him, unfocused, there’s a bleeding gash on his forehead, and half his arm is burnt to a crisp. 

“Hm,” he says vaguely, “Careful, there’s a bomb...”

Bucky doesn’t laugh.

He gets them out fast, down the stairwell, through the lawn exit, back to the quiet sanctuary of their villa. Zemo doesn’t protest, but his posture stays tense, jaw tight and fingers digging into Bucky’s arm.

Only once they’re safe, Bucky speaks again. 

“Take it off.”

Zemo lifts an eyebrow, even dazed. 

“Manners, James. You could at least buy me dinner first.”

“Shut up, asshole,” Bucky mutters and begins unbuttoning the ruined shirt himself.

The burn is worse than he expected; red and raw across Zemo’s shoulder and upper arm. The edges an angry red, the skin underneath tender, and peeling in places.

Bucky grabs the first-aid kit with a sharpness that makes Zemo wince before the antiseptic even touches him.

“Easy,” Zemo says, startled by the pain, he hisses when James applies antiseptic and covers the wound with a gauze.

“You could’ve died! Are you insane?”

“I’m alright,” Zemo argues, even though he doesn’t look okay. “It will scar, but I won’t die.”

“You almost did.”

Bucky’s hands pause, gloved fingers resting just above the wound. He doesn’t look up.

Zemo watches him attentively.

“You’re shaking.”

Bucky wraps the shoulder in silence. Not roughly, but not exactly gently either. When it’s done, he stands to leave.

“James,” Zemo says softly, his fingers gracing Bucky’s.

Bucky doesn’t answer, but he stops with Zemo’s fingers laced between his, and he stays there a second too long before untangling himself from Zemo’s touch and walking out.

Chapter Text

The villa is quiet when they return. They are all exhausted, grimy, and sweaty; the air is so hot and humid, with sticky heat pressing against their skin like a second weight. Sam says something about compiling the report the next morning, he is too tired. Bucky hums in agreement. Zemo has already disappeared somewhere in the villa. 

Bucky strips off his tac vest in the living room, shirt soaked through, dust streaked across his jaw, he kicks off his boots after undoing the shoelaces, and he’s already almost half naked as he makes his way to the bathroom with the good shower.

He doesn’t mean to pause at the bathroom door, but it’s ajar, and steam spills through the gap. Someone beat him to the good water pressure. 

“Don’t hover,” Zemo calls, voice echoing faintly off the tile. “You’re dripping sweat on my Italian tiles.”

Bucky frowns. 

“How did you get here so quick?”

“I needed to feel human again, and this shower has excellent water pressure.”

Right? Bucky thinks.

The shower turns off with a click. Bucky shifts as Zemo emerges from the steam with a towel around his hips, hair damp and curling at the ends. He can’t help but stare at the wet skin of his shoulders and the patch of hair on his chest.

He walks past Bucky slowly, deliberately, leaving a trail of warmth and the faint scent of citrus and lavender.

“You’re filthy,” Zemo murmurs, eyes drifting lazily down Bucky’s bare chest. “Even more than usual.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Zemo smiles, just a little.

“No need to be shy, James. There’s plenty of room.”

Zemo leans in, fingers brushing the metal of Bucky’s vibranium arm, ever so slightly.

“You smell good like this,” he says, voice low. “Sweat and gunpowder.”

Bucky exhales through his nose, he snaps his arm away from Zemo like he’s been burned, and he realizes a moment too late, he’s shaking like a wet Chihuahua.

God, how Zemo loves to rile him up.

Zemo steps back with a flirty smirk, towel covering him dangerously low.

“The water’s still hot,” he adds. “In case you change your mind.”

Bucky turns on his heel, muttering something unintelligible as he disappears down the hall, towards the bathroom with the below-average water pressure, still covered in sweat and the echo of Zemo’s voice in his ears.

Zemo doesn’t stop him, but he watches the door long after it’s closed, satisfied smirk still on his face. 

Chapter Text

He doesn’t feel like the Winter Soldier anymore.

Not here. Not like this.

Not with sweat rolling down the curve of his spine and the sun burning into his back as he leans on the railing of their villa balcony, shirtless and still breathing like the mission hasn’t quite ended.

He can hear the sea below. Hear Zemo in the kitchen clinking ice into a glass.

It’s too hot for thinking. But his body remembers — the cold of snow, the steel of a rifle, the command in a voice that wasn’t his own.

It feels impossibly far away now, like the memory belongs to someone else.

Zemo steps onto the balcony, drink in hand. Shirt unbuttoned, towel around his neck, skin still flushed from the heat. He leans beside Bucky, like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal for them to be like this, drenched in sunlight and heat and comfortable silence.

Eventually, Zemo takes a sip and says,

“You’re not very wintery anymore, Soldat.”

Bucky huffs. Why is he always reading his mind?

“Don’t call me that.”

“Then what should I call you?" Zemo glances over. "Darling?”

Bucky doesn’t answer because he doesn’t know if Zemo is riling him up again, or worse: if he means it.

Zemo waits, but not for long. He simply shifts and presses the cold glass briefly to Bucky’s forearm. Watches the way his skin jumps.

Then he turns back toward the sea.

Bucky watches him from the corner of his eye.

He doesn’t know what’s happening between them. Doesn’t know when the cold started to burn away. But he can feel it now; the ache behind his ribs, the longing to be near him, to touch him, to be touched by him—the part of himself waking up slowly, like it forgot how.

Not Winter anymore. Not quite Summer.

And Zemo… Zemo doesn’t know what he’s burning through.

Chapter Text

Zemo walks into the kitchen like nothing is wrong.

The problem is: his shorts.

They're a deep blue, made of some expensive linen blend, tailored within an inch of their life. They cling to his hips, ride high up his thighs, and leave Bucky with no safe place to look. Not the legs, not the stretch of stomach beneath his loose tank. Certainly not the way Zemo lingers in front of the fridge, bent just slightly at the waist.

Bucky drops the spoon he was holding.

Zemo turns, slowly.

“Everything alright?”

“You can’t wear those.” Bucky gestures.

“Why not?”

“They’re too short.”

Zemo glances down at himself. Lifts one brow, amused. 

“It’s like a hundred degrees outside, and they’re very comfortable, grandpa .”

Bucky grits his teeth.

“They’re criminal.”

“Then arrest me.”

Zemo walks past him, deliberately brushing against his arm. He smells like orange and some tropical fruit. His bare thighs flash gold in the morning light.

Bucky backs up a step in the tight space between the counter and the kitchen island.

Zemo opens a cabinet, then looks over his shoulder with a mock expression of innocence.

“Would you mind grabbing the glass from the top shelf?”

Bucky doesn’t move, and Zemo waits patiently with a self-satisfied smile on his face.

Eventually, Bucky reaches over him, not looking at every inch of exposed Zemo in front of him. Zemo doesn’t move away, letting him press against his almost bare ass and pinning him to the kitchen counter. Zemo takes the glass from him and shimmies away, smirking like a man who knows exactly what he’s doing.

Bucky grabs a dish towel, throws it over his head, and exits the kitchen without a word.

Zemo wears the same shorts again the next day.