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Zola was always remembered wrong.
They thought he was trying to imitate Erskine. To recreate what had come before. This could not have been further from the truth.
Zola never wanted to imitate, he wanted to improve. To surpass until he buried Erskine’s name so deeply that history would forget it entirely. He wanted to tear down all the doctor had built and rise from ashes ascendant.
Erskine created gods. But to kill a god, you needed the right weapon.
Zemo knew who was visiting before he’d ever heard the footsteps approach. It broke over him in waves, that dark, foreboding feeling that made the shadows of the room seem to come alive just to swallow him alive. The cell door beeped as his guest stepped through, atmosphere following like a storm front rolling in. Despite the mounting pressure against his skull, he did not falter.
“Longing,” he said, by way of greeting. “Rusted. Seventeen.”
“Those days are over,” James said.
“I know,” Zemo replied. “I just wanted to see how the new you reacts to the old words.” He stepped closer to the glass, tilting his head to study the soldier. He was sure that James could hear his heartbeat, even through the barrier, the way it was racing out of his control. And yet, there was a flash of fear in his eyes.
“Something is still in there,” he muttered. It was all the confirmation he needed that the pressure lessened at those words, and he eased back into another targeted jab. “At least you were not conscious for most of your imprisonment.”
His eyes darkened. “That time wasn’t exactly a picnic.”
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. It was never personal. You were simply the means to a necessary end.”
“Someone recreated the supersoldier serum,” James cut in, and now, he had Zemo’s full attention. He stepped forward.
“You are assuming Hydra has something to do with this. Which is why you came to me. Which means you are desperate,” he said. He shrugged the dread off his shoulders like water. After all, there was nothing to fear when you were indispensable. “Now, luckily for you, I know where to begin.”
Zemo smiled as he was handed the glass of champagne, and his book. Ah, yes, perfect. There, nestled between the pages, was a notebook, snatched, no doubt, straight out of James’ luggage. Around him, the conversation had lulled, and he let it carry him with it, throwing out a distracted response when called upon while flipping through the pages. It was extensive, and more than interesting, a thought which he voiced aloud.
“I’m sorry, I was just fascinated by this part,” he said, quickly giving up the pretense of reading anything else. “Who is Nakajima?”
Within a split second, there was a hand around his throat. His left—the metal one—just squeezing tight enough that it hurt to swallow. That feeling was back, like something crawling under his skin, trying to force him to look away from the blue eyes that pinned him down; an instinctual fear that seemed bone-deep. “Touch that again,” James growled, “and I’ll kill you.”
And though every inch of his body was screaming to run, fight, anything , Zemo squashed the fear down and met James’ eyes with a calculating look of his own. The pressure lifted from his throat. He smiled, though that strange fear still clung to him like a second skin.
Then, Sam cut in and steered the conversation back to safer territory, just as Zemo knew he would. He let himself fall into the pattern of gentle banter, ribbing James as much as he could be allowed without crossing into another death threat. James didn’t buy it. And the second Sam left, Zemo let his suspicions be confirmed.
“You think you are intimidating me,” he remarked in Russian. He’d gotten rather good at it, in all the long hours he spent in his cell. He got nothing but a grunt in reply. James busied himself, looking out the window at the endless expanse of clouds beneath them. “You would not have to use the arm if you wanted to intimidate me.”
“What?” he finally asked.
Zemo smiled thinly. “Though, I suppose you would not need the arm to kill me either, would you?” he mused. “No, you wouldn’t have to lay a finger on me at all.”
James turned to meet his gaze, and Zemo felt it, racing through him, electric in his veins. Fear. Paralytic terror that stopped his body from moving and caught his words in his throat but made his heart pound loud and fast in his ears. James breathed in, held Zemo’s gaze, and breathed out, and Zemo found he could breathe out with him, letting go of the breath he’d been forced to hold. “Who told you?”
“Karpov.”
James flinched at the name. “The Americans never knew it.”
“Good,” he replied, gaze raking over the man for a second before he broke eye contact. “The Soviets, at least, treated you as a weapon. The Americans saw you as a toy.”
“I am neither,” James growled.
“I know.” He didn’t offer any comfort, simply tilting his head for a better angle to study the soldier across from him. “But, you still need to play the part.”
Before either of them could say another word, Sam wandered back in. “What were you two talking about?”
The tension in the air dissipated back to a more acceptable level. James turned back to the window, and shrugged. “Nothing,” he mumbled, and wasn’t that interesting? Sam stared at him for a few seconds, before he turned to Zemo in silent question.
Zemo said nothing, and took another long sip of his champagne.
“I need to tell you something.”
Sam looked up from the coat, silently thanking Bucky for the distraction from the hideous garment. “What's up?”
Bucky didn't meet his eyes. He fiddled with the clasps on his vest, and wet his lips. “There’s parts of my past I haven't spoken about.”
Sam’s eyes darkened. “This must be bringing back some bad memories, huh?”
He didn't reply to that, but there was a certain anguish in his eyes as he stared at the mask laying on the table. He hadn't even touched it yet, but just the thought of putting it on was nauseating. With effort, he managed to tear his eyes away from it and meet Sam’s steady gaze. “It’s something else,” he said, voice strangled as if the words hurt to come out. “I’m— I’m not like Steve.”
Sam snorted. “The lack of blond hair really gave it away.”
“No—the serum. It wasn’t the same. What Zola… did to me, it was different. Sam—”
“Are you two ready?”
Both men startled as Zemo appeared in the doorway. “I did not mean to frighten you,” he said, sparing a quick look at Bucky. “But we have a schedule to move to.”
He turned to Sam. “The coat. You will need to wear it to pass for the man you’re playing.”
Sam swore under his breath and mumbled something about the colour, but slipped it on just the same and moved to exit the room. Bucky followed, only a step behind, pushing past Zemo as he did so, with a little more force than necessary.
“James?” Zemo called. “You seem to have forgotten a piece of your costume.” He gestures to the mask lying discarded on the table.
Bucky turned to glare, before backing the smaller man against the doorframe, vibranium fingers ghosting across his neck once more with a promise of violence behind them. “It stays.”
Zemo tilted his head despite the hold, and gave a quick nod. “As you wish, James.” His lips gave the tiniest twitch upwards as Bucky stalked away.
He’d led with the arm, after all.
They got an audience with Selby.
Of course they did, who was he to doubt Zemo’s plan? All it took was a dislocated shoulder, a few bruised ribs and choking a man halfway to unconsciousness. There was a part of him that preened at the praise muttered in Russian, the knowledge that it was his skills—the soldier’s skills—that made their plan succeed. He squashed that part down, and gave a short nod of the head to Sam’s question. He was fine. He was in control.
Selby didn’t hide far away from her bar, but the walk there seemed to take an age. He could feel Sam’s eyes darting back to look over him every few seconds, though he didn’t meet them once. The Soldier didn’t look his superiors in the eyes. Zemo didn’t even spare a glance, chin up and eyes forward, confidence in every move.
As they turned a corner, past cages filled with exotic animals, the baron muttered something, soft enough that it would slip by under the latent noise, but loud enough to be certain it would fall on supersoldier ears. “Strike fear into their hearts,” he said. Bucky set his jaw and didn’t reply.
There were many things he would do to achieve his goal. He would stand still and silent, let Zemo barter with his life, touch him in ways that reminded him uncomfortably of past handlers he’d tried to bury. But Zemo was not a handler. He did not have to obey him, stoop to the levels he wanted. He was in control. He was in control.
Sam’s phone rang.
Bucky froze. His eyes snapped to the guards: two with guns, flanking Selby. One by each exit. Another pointing his weapon at Sam’s head. Sam did well—really, he did—but there was no way to worm out of this one.
He breathed in.
“Sam?” Selby asked as the name came up, eyes flashing in realisation. “Shoot them!”
There was no gunshot.
He breathed out.
Around the room, the five men stood stock still, hands frozen before they could wrap them around the trigger. One by one, the guns fell from their grasp, and soon their bodies followed, eyes blown wide yet gazes fixed on nothing. Selby watched, uncomprehending.
“What did you do?” Sam demanded, turning on Zemo, who smiled and shrugged. His eyes were fixed firmly on Bucky.
“Perhaps that is a question better answered by your companion,” he suggested.
Bucky could hear the men’s heartbeats, wild and erratic in their chests like caged animals clawing to escape. They were shaking. Their breaths brought little relief, too shallow to drag any air into their aching lungs. Slowly, but surely, each body went limp as their hearts quietened down to nothing. Finally, finally, Bucky dragged his eyes to meet Sam’s broken gaze.
“Bucky?” he whispered. Bucky shook his head.
On the couch, Selby seemed to have finally realised how deep the deception ran. “What do you want?” She couldn’t keep the tremor out of her voice.
Zemo stood and stalked towards her. “The bakery,” he answered smoothly. “And you will give it to us, or it will cost you too.” He gave a sharp nod of his head; a signal, in Bucky’s direction. Bucky steeled himself, reached out, and found the taut thread of fear that hummed in her chest. He breathed in, grabbed it, and pulled.
Instantly, Selby’s breathing quickened as the fear flooded her senses. She looked up at Zemo with new terror in her eyes. “Nagel— he’s been receiving shipments at the docks. Some kind of lab, there. The Powerbroker makes sure he’s not disturbed— please—”
Bucky let the thread go and Selby keeled over like a puppet cut from its strings. A sob broke from her lips at the sheer relief, the absence of that crushing weight of fear. Zemo crouched to look her in the eyes. “Thank you,” he said earnestly. Then, in the same, light tone, “Kill her.”
Bucky clenched his jaw. “No,” he replied, his voice rougher than he anticipated. “Do it yourself.”
Zemo shrugged, then smiled faintly. He gently placed his hands either side of Selby’s face. Then, in one quick movement, he snapped her neck.
Sam turned away before her body hit the floor, pressing a hand to his mouth. The snake gizzard was threatening to make itself known, forcing its way up his throat once more. He swallowed it down with a tilt of his head, then spun to look at Bucky, keeping his eyes high and away from the couch where Zemo was gently laying down a corpse.
“How long?” he asked, choking on the words. “Since when have you been able to do—” he gestured to the fallen men, “that.”
Bucky broke his gaze first. “Since 1943,” he admitted quietly. The words hung in the air for a moment, digesting, before their phones vibrated. A bounty for Selby’s killers. Zemo stood suddenly from the couch.
“While I’m sure this is an important conversation,” he started. “It will have to wait. Follow me.”
They didn’t have a chance to continue the conversation until they were safely in Sharon’s studio. Even then, she’d barely given them a moment’s peace, never letting them out of her sight. It was only as the music thumped downstairs and she’d been swept away with clients that Sam and Bucky caught a moment alone.
Bucky was on the couch, drink in his hand and head hung. Sam moved to sit across from him, between him and the door. He sat, staring, and didn’t say a thing until the supersoldier finally met his eyes. “So, what happened with Shelby,” he began. “Bucky, what was that?”
“I was trying to tell you before,” Bucky admitted.
“What did you do?”
“I didn’t want to,” he continued. “I knew Zemo would try something like this.”
“Bucky!” Sam cut through. “What did you do to them?”
“I killed them.”
It was a whisper, and yet it echoed through the space oddly, hanging a moment too long and souring. “Their fear. That’s how I did it.”
Sam scoffed. “Buck. Even you can’t scare someone to death.”
“Can’t I?” he asked. It wasn’t a question. “I was an experiment, Sam. Hydra, Zola—they wanted something new. Something different. I don’t think even they knew what it would do to me, but I walked out of that lab and I could smell fear.”
“Do you mean that metaphorically, or—?”
A hard stare shut him up. “I wish I did,” he muttered. “But no. I can feel others’ fear. I didn’t know I could control it until the Soviets got me.
“They used me for interrogations. Turns out, it’s a lot easier to get information when you can force fear onto people.” His voice lowered. “And they taught me to kill with it.”
“And that’s what happened at Shelby’s.”
He nodded. “People have limits. A heart can only take so much strain. Give it enough fright and…” He shrugged, like it was simple.
Sam exhaled through his nose. “Steve know about this?”
“No. God, no. No one does.”
“The Wakandans?”
“Not even them,” Bucky admitted. “I couldn’t bring myself to say it. I mean, people were scared of me enough. And Steve—he built me up in his mind like I was innocent. Like the blood wasn’t on my hands.”
“Bucky…” Sam said softly.
“What would he think of me, knowing that they wove killing into my very DNA?” he pleaded. “Even unarmed, restrained, they made sure I could still end someone’s life.”
Sam folded his arms and studied Bucky’s face. “Then why didn’t you?”
“What?”
“When you were the Winter Soldier,” he clarified. “You could have used it against us. Why didn’t you?”
“The Americans never knew. The Soviets scrubbed it from the records when they sold me. They still wanted an advantage over them.”
“You still could have used it.”
“I wasn’t ordered to.”
“But you were ordered to kill us, right?” he pressed. “You could have. But you didn’t. So, maybe I’m getting this wrong, but you—even under Hydra’s control—made a choice to not use that power. Because you didn’t want to.” He fixed Bucky with a hard look. “That counts for a lot.”
Bucky didn’t say anything, but the tension in his jaw said he didn’t buy into Sam’s words. Sam sighed. “Look. If they weren't going to shoot me, would you have used it at all?”
“No,” he said quickly. Then, “Maybe. A little.”
“But you wouldn't have killed them.”
“No.”
“Okay then,” he said calmly, then stood, grabbing his glass from the table and clapping Bucky on the shoulder as he passed. “You gonna come join the party, or am I getting this drink alone?”
Bucky blinked. He opened his mouth, shut it again, before his lips finally settled into a small smile. “You know alcohol doesn't work on me,” he drawled, settling comfortably back into their familiar dynamic.
“Yeah, yeah. You wanna use up half of Sharon's liquor cabinet or not?” He held out his hand—a peace offering—and Bucky took it, purposefully making Sam stumble a little as he lifted himself off the couch.
Still, Bucky could feel that thread hum.
There was no chill, when he came for him. He didn’t even hear the footsteps. He only noticed when a dark shape moved in his periphery. “I thought you’d be here sooner,” he said, not looking, but giving the man a small tilt of his head as his only acknowledgement. “Don’t worry, I’ve decided I’m not going to kill you.”
“Imagine my relief,” James replied dryly. There was the sound of a gun in his hand, and finally Zemo turned towards him. James didn’t move as he stepped closer.
“The girl had been radicalised beyond salvation. I warned Sam, but he didn’t listen to me,” he explained, calmly, and stared into the eyes of his would-be killer. “He’s as stubborn as Steve Rogers before him.”
James didn’t even blink.
“But you ,” he continued, his voice taking on a more reverent tone. “You were made as a weapon against supersoldiers. They literally programmed you to kill. James, do what needs to be done.”
“With all due respect,” James said, with nothing but contempt. “We’ll do things our way.”
Zemo smiled softly. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
The safety on the gun clicked off. Zemo stared down the barrel as it slowly lifted, poised right between his eyes. It was a quiet morning, serene. The gun was clutched tight enough that his hand betrayed a tremor, though Zemo didn’t move. He was just as calm as the world around him. He knew that if James searched, he would not find death among his fears, and silently thanked him for giving the dignity to die so peacefully.
James’ gaze bored into him. His finger hadn’t come off the trigger, and gently, it pulled. The ignition clicked. Zemo closed his eyes.
Nothing came.
James threw him a wry smile, and opened his left hand, letting bullets spill onto the pavement, and it was the most terrifying sound he’d heard.
Sam found him sitting on the old jetty, legs swung over the edge and head tilted back to enjoy the view of the moon over the water. Sam wandered over, stopping right behind him, and though Bucky didn't speak, his posture opened to better welcome Sam beside him.
“Delacroix looks good on you,” he said. “Finally getting some colour into that pasty white skin of yours.”
“Fuck off, Sam,” Bucky shot back, though there was no heat in the words and he let him settle beside him.
“I’m being serious, though,” he continued, a little gentler. “You do look good. You look happy.”
“It’s nice here,” he said. “The people are good.”
“I told you, they don’t care if you’re a weirdo who wears leather jackets in summer and stares too long,” Sam laughed. “They’ll welcome you all the same.”
Bucky took a swig of the beer he was holding. “They don’t fear me,” he said quietly after a moment. Sam tilted his head and let that sit.
“You want to talk about that?”
“It’s just— They know who I am, they know what I’ve done. And—nothing.”
Sam smiled. “And nothing,” he agreed, sipping his own drink. “You're not the Winter Soldier, Buck. And it's hard to be scared of a grumpy, hundred-year-old man.”
“Sure,” Bucky replied, though it wasn’t quite agreement. They sat in silence for a moment longer, drinking and looking out at the water.
“Actually, I was wondering about that,” Sam said, breaking the quiet once more. “Your whole—” he made a gesture, wiggling his fingers, “thing. How do you do it?”
Bucky shrugged. “You just… feel the fear and tug on it.”
“Can you do it to me?”
He recoiled and stared at Sam as if he’d grown a second head. “What?”
“Hey, I’m just curious!”
“Sam…” Bucky warned, and the temperature dropped a degree around them, the cold creep of dread climbing his spine.
“See, you’re doing it now, aren’t you?” he said.
Annoyance flashed over Bucky's face, and instantly, the tension lifted. “That's not—” he began. “That's different. It just happens.”
“So, I’m asking you to do it on purpose to me,” Sam explained calmly. “I just want to know what it feels like.”
“So you know exactly what I do to people.”
“So I can help you,” he replied. “I’ve seen people with PTSD. It's messy. And if this is something that might come up—whether you want it to or not—I want to be able to help you. Plus,” he added. “Maybe I want bragging rights over John Walker.”
Bucky's eyes studied his face. Slowly, he breathed out a sigh. “Fine,” he said gruffly. “It’s not going to be pleasant, though.”
Sam nodded and opened his mouth to retort when the wave of terror crashed over him suddenly and stole his breath away. Bucky could feel the fear humming, growing taut by the second as he slowly pulled it out, heartbeat slowly rising. The drink in Sam’s hand shook, gently, though he didn't drop it. Somehow, through it, he’d managed to turn his head and meet his eyes; though the pupils were blown wide they stared into Bucky’s with absolute trust. Bucky held the thread there, feeling the power beneath his skin, then slowly exhaled out and let it drop.
Sam let out a shaky laugh, breathless as the tremors in his hands didn't quite still. “Wow,” he managed after a second. “That was intense.”
Bucky huffed, and downed the rest of his drink to try and hide his own fear.
“Bucky,” Sam said, and waited until the supersoldier had met his eyes. “It doesn’t change anything, okay? You’re not a monster.”
“But I—”
“Hey, I literally just experienced it, you don't need to explain it to me,” he shot back. “Besides, I did better than Walker, anyway. Didn't even drop this!” He waved his beer around and took a sip, victorious.
“You’re not scared?” Bucky asked hesitantly, and Sam offered him a smile.
“What do you think?”
Bucky reached out once more, not pulling, just probing, ghosting over the thread and studying it. And something settled pleasantly in his chest as he realised there was nothing there.