Chapter Text
PART ONE
This is how it started.
When Zemo is processed at the Raft, there is a mountain of paperwork to fill out and a statement to take from the prisoner. He keeps his handcuffed hands in his lap, and neatly replies to every question asked, even if the answer isn’t perfectly satisfactory. The agent is new, and a little pale, but warms up because Zemo’s smile is kind.
“Next of kin?” is the final question, and Zemo’s smile fades for just a moment before he opens his mouth.
“I may write to him?” he asks.
The agent looks surprised. “Of course.”
That smile again, and he breathes in the recycled air. “His name is James Barnes.”
*
As soon as paper and pen are supplied, Zemo sets to his work.
Now, of course, the letters are read by agents, looking for damning phrases and finding florid ones. Sometimes the letters are in German, other times Russian, occasionally Spanish. The ones in Sokovian are rarely read as no one is fluent on board. Not all protocols are followed these busy, strange days. A GRC envelope is supplied and the pages featuring fine penmanship are folded within. The address is printed on a clean white sticker and affixed precisely. The bureaucracy in charge of the Raft has shifted over time and through many crises. So there are cracks in the system. And if those cracks have been exploited by others, no one has yet noticed.
And so, each letter is added to the mail pile that is collected weekly, and then it’s in the wind.
*
Within two months, an ignored mailbox in Brooklyn for a dusty apartment on the fourth floor of an elegant high rise is monitored by Oeznik’s team. The boss wouldn’t like it if the letters piled up, so five missives are slipped into a packet without a return label, and mailed to a specific residence in Delacroix, Louisiana. All future correspondence is arranged to be forwarded until further instructions.
*
There’s a song on his lips as he runs down the long driveway to the road, headed to the mailbox. It’s part of his keep -- grabbing the mail each day and helping them sort it (bills, fanmail, more bills, junk mail, political asks, charity asks, bills, magazines, fanmail). Bucky smiles because it’s a beautiful day, and the sun isn’t piercing yet, and the humidity is down. The song is an old one, something he and Steve used to hum in the old apartment. A good song with good memories.
And Sam likes it. The song, that is. Likes it when Bucky hums it while working on the boat. Smiles so warm when he looks up, catches his gaze.
The mail is a lot today, and there’s a few packages. Cars whiz by the highway at his back as he pulls it all out, puts it in the paper bag he brought for this purpose. He spies a large white packet and he gives it a look, curious.
It’s his name on the mailing label. That’s when the smile on his lips falters.
He opens it up to find five envelopes inside bearing the GRC emblem on the top left. The skin on the back of his neck prickles and there’s a cold and metallic taste in his mouth.
He opens the first envelope, pulls out the pages featuring fine penmanship.
Hello, James, it reads. Have the nightmares stopped?
It’s odd, he thinks, how quickly a house of cards falls. All that progress on a cracked foundation.
It’s odd, he thinks, how his hand immediately reaches for the metal around his neck, the decades old chain that once hung around Steve’s neck, with those military-issued tags bearing Steve’s name against the heat of his chest. His need for calm, exponential; his access to it, newly limited.
It’s odd, he thinks, that he thought himself free.
*
The letters continue to arrive.
*
And then, there are gifts.
PART TWO
It’s been several months now, and Bucky finds himself in the quiet of the Wilson’s guest room, quietly, quietly opening a small packaged box. This act, this weekly act of opening letters and sometimes packages is a terrible secret, and a horrible one because it is a secret. And a horrible one because it’s his favorite part of the day.
Oh, to be singled out, to be treasured, to be thought of. Coveted. And that no one can know about it. And that there is no way of returning the favor, no way of responding. God knows Bucky will never break the man out of prison again. (God knows, and certainly Bucky knows, that Zemo has the means to escape if he wishes.)
Next to him is a basket, the receptacle that he puts the things he receives by post. Inside: 13 letters; a fine leather jacket, the exact copy of Steve’s in the years just before they met again; five books in various languages from various centuries; a bottle of chateau d’yquem from 1917, his birth year; a vial of perfume oil from a flower that only grows in Wakanda; a record of 1940s jazz, the only music with only good memories.
I know you, he hears in Zemo’s voice.
The basket is like a black hole, relatively small but desperate to consume him.
(The trouble, of course, is: Bucky likes to be consumed.)
He takes a breath and reviews the new box. This newest gift.
The box is nondescript, unknown origin, but elegantly made. Easy to open. Within it is a platinum chain, bright in the morning sun streaming through the windows. The light catches black diamonds along the chain. A piece that would look subtle from a distance, opulent under scrutiny.
It’s not his style, it’s not to his liking at all.
He knows exactly what it is, and what it means.
There’s a note in the box: for you, pet.
He closes the box, puts it in the basket. Finds it difficult to breathe.
*
A week later, he wakes up from a nightmare. (It was 1969 when Pierce became his handler. When a man with Steve’s perfect face became his handler.)
His hand reaches for the dog tags around his neck, desperate for calm, and he shudders. Steve is gone. Pierce is dead.
Men like him aren’t allowed peace on their own terms.
It’s like someone else is taking control of him, making him reach up to carefully remove Steve’s dog tags from around his neck, place them on the bedside table. Honor them, but remove them.
It’s like someone else is making him put the new chain around his neck and easily slide it into place. His fingers sliding across metal and stone, the feel of it both foreign and a comfort to him.
Bucky doesn’t want to process this, doesn’t want to process how much the act of putting it on and looking at himself in the mirror brings him relief.
He hums three notes and stops. Breathes in and out. And remembers the taste of his cherry blossom tea from earlier— his newest guilty pleasure. His fingers slide along the chain, feeling its weight and texture. He pinches it slightly, to feel the slight prick of pain between the pads of his fingers. He considers how cold it is against his warm skin.
He shivers in the dark, overcome.
*
He can’t take it off; it feels strange but—
He likes feeling owned.
*
Sam’s been gone two months on a mission, and Sharon arrives at the doorstep one night to provide a situation report and to beg a home cooked meal.
They’re washing dishes when he notices her staring at the chain, mostly hidden by his shirt. He colors, watching her eyes widen.
She knows, she knows, she knows. How does she know?
It’s too fast how the mask slides back over her face, an easy effortless expression and she continues talking about Sam’s mission. But her lips slide into something like a smile.
*
It’s a text two days later from her: That Sokovian relic hasn’t been seen in a while. Priceless. Do be careful.
*
He can't stay in Louisiana. He's getting sour, getting unhappy. Sam’s still away, and everything feels topsy turvy now.
He can't have this around Sarah -- she's too kind, too good. He can't have this around the kids -- jesus, the kids. He has to protect them. This can’t touch them, hurt them. This is something for him to bear, to carry. Not them.
He packs up.
He doesn’t see Sarah’s worried expression.
*
This is the thing about Bucky: it was burned out of him by the Russians, by Hydra, by Pierce - he cannot see another person’s care. It must be felt, or it must be said. Truth is the palm slapping his face, truth is the words whispered in his ears.
*
--your work has been a gift to mankind--
*
It's been months since he's been in his apartment in Brooklyn. He expects dust, maybe some rats, certainly some very dead produce in his fridge growing some heinous variety of mold. He left so quick when Sam needed him.
The door used to squeak when he opened it, needing oil. It opens with ease now.
He steps into the apartment and his breath gets stuck in his lungs.
There’s the familiar chair, his TV, the cardtable. But there’s also a plush sofa with throw pillows and blankets, art on the walls. New light fixtures. A pop of color on the wall next to his kitchen.
In the kitchen, the fridge is stocked, the pantry is stocked, recently purchased and many of his favorite things. A large bottle of imported Sokovian paprika.
He goes into the bedroom to find a king-sized bed he never bought. There’s a closet full of clothes his size he never bought. The bathroom has a giant tub in it now, and piles of soft, clean towels he never bought.
He breathes in the air — slightly fragranced, a delicious smell unmistakably familiar from the house in Riga.
There’s a steady buzzing in his brain, a white noise keeping him part mad, part docile.
What he should do: leave. Call Sam. Hell, call Sharon. Get out. There’s likely hidden cameras, could be traps to kill him, or drug him, or worse. Leave.
What he does: drops his bags next to the door. Takes one of the blankets off the couch, feels how soft and well made it is. Settles in on the floor.
(He’s slept in a bed for months now; such is progress on a cracked foundation.)
His eyes close, and he tries to subdue the thrill he feels. Tries to ignore the way his dick feels heavy, needy.
It’s inevitable, what he does next. His vibranium hand pressing the chain against his skin, just enough to hurt, as his right snakes down to his dick.
Perhaps I’ll sleep fine after this, he considers, and squeezes enough to gasp.
He’s harder than he expected.
It’ll be quick.