thread;; one night in high town; podchinyatsya

[helmut]

[ madripoor is just as zemo remembers it: in sight and smell, in the feeling too, the charged, frenetic energy that floods the neon-lit streets, suspended like ocean between high rises, street markets, and lofts with open floor plans. it demands one's energy and one's mind, sucks in those with ambition either to build them up or spit them out.

that's what happens in a town like this. madripoor's pirates' roots are still exposed, a modern day port royal in a silicon age of piracy. it stands as some kind of relic, in defiance of god and the rule of law, where respect goes only as far as clout and money can buy.

thankfully, zemo is in a position to purchase what he needs in either currency. outfitting his companions is as enjoyable as it is useful, zemo taking his time on the hours-long flight to select each piece himself - from the smiling tiger's beaded necklace to the winter soldier's buckled harness.

ah, the harness. it's the crown jewel of james' persona, the one piece that telegraphs everything one needs to know about him: that this is a weapon whose power is deadly - and controlled by one man. it's also the first piece that comes off in sharon carter's high town penthouse. it's a shame when it does, zemo's eyes roving across james' back and shoulders, over the edge of a crystal glass. he takes a long inhale of the scotch he’s poured himself as he watches, leaned back against a wide walnut dresser, taking a sip only when james turns and catches his eye in the warm, dim light.

though they're a couple of meters apart, zemo's sure of what he sees there - the blue of the man's eyes have darkened beyond what light will naturally do. the flickers he sees as the winter soldier's coat gets shed are ones zemo knows instinctively as the roil of resentment, anger, regret.

zemo knows because he's felt that sickening wave himself before. many times, following successful operations.

he takes another pull of the scotch, lets it sit and expand on his tongue before swallowing.

in the next room, sharon and sam speak in low, neutral tones. familiar, but wary. nothing exciting yet. it means zemo has a moment here to press this sliver of an opening to see what it yields. he's unable - or unwilling - to do anything less.

he lowers his glass. ]

You gave quite an impressive performance at the bar. Violent, efficient. I would expect nothing less from a man of your abilities. [ he might sound mocking, but zemo means it honestly. he gives a small nod of appreciation and lets the fresh memory of the incident curl the corners of his mouth upward just barely. ] To watch you is a rare gift.

Comments

shrieks back in response

[helmut]

[ were zemo more unfeeling, were he present only to watch the loosely-wound mind of a traumatized man unfurl into a ceaseless landscape of horrors, he might relish this. one little poke in just the right place could make the entire precarious display all come crashing down.

he'd know just how to do it, too - zemo is gifted with the uncanny ability to see into a person's deepest insecurity. the longer he spends with someone, the more vulnerabilities get exposed, and the more sharp his observations. every moment spent in james' presence is, for better or worse, another notch in zemo's favor.

his eyes pass casually over james as he speaks, searching for the subconscious reaction emotions elicit: tensing of muscle, stutter of breath. james' hand balls into a fist but he doesn't need to look at that hand to know it. the muscles in james' forearm tighten and darkness passes over him like storm clouds. ]

Perhaps. Do you blame me? [ he tilts his head, rolling his shoulders as if to say, and? he watches james stalk away, towards the bar where undoubtedly sharon keeps another store of alcohol at the ready. if the asking is enough to drive james to drink, then zemo's found something well worth exploring.

it doesn't help that pressing this particular topic of conversation gets the usually quiet nerves in zemo absolutely buzzing with electricity. the excitement in him only builds the stronger james' reaction, the more he looks for things to distract him. ​]

I have known men who have spent all their lives honing their bodies with rigor and discipline. Those who have dedicated themselves to the craft of bringing another man to his knees, all with their own strength. Or with the use of weapons. But you... you wield the strength of ten men. And yet you are able to do so unarmed, and without extraneous movement. Not one ounce of wasted effort.

[ he takes in a soft breath, not realizing he'd allowed enthusiasm to build in his voice.

and then, unable to help himself, zemo exhales, breathy and earnest with appreciation. ]

You are magnificent.

[podchinyatsya]

[ That regimen of brutality which honed his body and skill into the deadliest weapon imaginable isn't something Bucky finds magnificent. The beatings, the repeated crackling of electric pain in his skull, the sharp Again! commanded from on high whenever he botched a sparring match-- none of that is magnificent. Hearing Zemo nearly wet himself over it makes Bucky's skin crawl.

He downs a hefty pull of a liquor strong enough to be distilled from a neutron star, and grimaces. This one might actually get him buzzing if he tries hard enough. Bucky more slams down his glass than anything, dropping in two ice cubes and pouring another serving. ]

Yeah, feel free to join your closest HYDRA gym then.

[ He's not used to having his wires exposed this way anymore, meticulously scrutinized by a man so insightful, so keenly observant. And not only exposed, but analyzed, not in a clinical way but in the manner someone would appreciate fine art in a gallery. It reminds him of Alexander Pierce, and Bucky shudders within himself.

But even this truly isn't the root of his sour demeanor. What makes him want to throw this nice alcohol up all over Sharon's antique furniture is how it all felt. Not merely the beating of men, which he takes no pleasure in outside the abstract 'criminals bad', but the freedom of thought. Specifically--and this is the part that terrifies him--the lack of thought at all. He hadn't had to think, hadn't needed to strategize or enforce a moral boundary like no killing. There was only a simple command, to attack, and then he was let off his leash.

Too much of the fight wasn't the Winter Soldier, it was him. Bucky didn't have the excuse of a trance state to fall back on. Every kick, every broken bone was consciously selected and meted out with extreme prejudice. And beyond that, being granted the permission to do it all, even under the guise they were trying to sell, was like releasing a pressure valve. When they pulled him back from the edge, his eyes had been hard, laser-focused, his hand ready to squeeze the throat underneath it.

And god help him, it had felt good. ]

[helmut]

[ zemo needn't watch the way james metaphorically sniffs out the strongest of the liquor in sharon carter's cabinet to know the effect the evening's had on him, but there's much of interest there. he goes for the darkest liquid, the one that sits prettily in its elaborate crystal decanter. whatever it is - brandy, maybe? - must not be so palatable, because james pulls a face as it goes down. and afterward, out come ice cubes, almost as though james means to savor whatever he drinks next rather than take in the alcohol quicker than the serum is able to burn it out of his veins.

zemo takes a drink from his own glass in response, and marvels at the peaty flavor in his own liquor. ]

HYDRA is not the only organization in the business of crafting monsters out of men, [ he returns, even. it's not a challenge, because ultimately, james has suffered a fate the duration of which no ordinary human man can possibly fathom. and though he's tried to imagine it, even zemo can recognize there is no comparison to be made.

going quiet, zemo's eyes dart away, processing. ] Is that what I seemed to you, then? Did I feel like your handler?

[podchinyatsya]

[ Bucky also gives the decanter a hard, frustrated slam to the countertop. It's not enough to damage, but it makes his point all the same, a heavy thunk coupled with a hard gaze that might make weaker men's knees fail. ]

You're fucking with me, right?

[ He can't believe that someone as smart as Zemo wouldn't see it. He reveled in acting as though he held the Winter Soldier's leash, took such glee in commanding him so effortlessly. And then the pinnacle of his delight--Selby's offering--punctuated with a chin wag that may as well have been a man pulling the gums back to bare the teeth of his prize horse. Look! See how there is no damage here. My finest stock for your pleasure.

It was dehumanizing. Zemo must know that, must see how he'd nearly sold Bucky like a piece of meat. And yet he sits, behaving as if Bucky called him a particularly hurtful name. It boggles the mind. ]

[helmut]

[ there's violence in james' frustration, one that intensifies the longer zemo presses him. while it's not his goal to shake the instability loose from the man's mind, zemo seems to have this effect regardless of how measured his responses. it tells him that whatever is stoking james' heightened emotional state has less to do with zemo, and more to do with a legacy of guilt. ]

I'm not, [ he says, knowing how hollow that profession sounds, that there might be an edge of defensiveness even if zemo doesn't feel it himself. he speaks slowly; these are simple matters of fact. ] We had roles to play. Personas to sell. Everyone in that bar bought what you were selling.

[ he pauses again, watching james closely. ] What you did you did of your own volition. But if it would help to blame your handler, you can place that burden on me.

[podchinyatsya]

[ Bucky grinds his jaw, struggling to put words around why the reply makes him so mad. He doesn't have the vocabulary of mental health that Sam does, but he feels somehow deep down that this is being framed as his own fault. What's the difference between playing a part and having something done to you that you didn't necessarily agree to? Bucky had (perhaps naively, he now realizes) assumed it would be a situation of being the guardian, throwing a few punches maybe. Certainly not being displayed like an item at auction.

But Zemo had apologized for that already. He should have asked first. Bucky tries to remember that, to bury his frustrations deep down. It's over, and all that's left is to deal with the grimy feeling on his skin. ]

How far would you have let it go?

[ He says it after a very pregnant pause, whilst looking down into the geometric faces of the decanter. Maybe he's asking himself. ]

[helmut]

[ there is something sharp and dangerous buried under the skin, like james hides animal fangs behind his own set of teeth. it takes the form of this electric intensity that follows james wherever he goes, and in the wake of the ruin they'd left at the brass monkey bar, has only grown more ferocious with the drug of adrenaline to augment it.

james has always felt like this, zemo thinks. even caged in berlin as his scapegoat. but it's different now, like james may leap across the room and end zemo where he stands at any moment.

what he'd been lingering on were the memories of james' fists landing on flanks, kicks to arms and the small of a man's back. the performance of a gladiator. but what james asks now pulls zemo further into the events of the evening.

selby. james standing at attention, arms at his sides, awaiting orders. pliant under zemo's gloved hands.

zemo's chin raises just barely in recognition. his eyes narrow, thinking of selby, her arrogant taunting, her expectation of too much in exchange for very little in return. his lips pull back in a version of disgust and he fixes james with a look. ]

I would never have let her touch you. You would not have left the room. Or my sight. [ he nods, serious. it's a promise. ] You can be sure of that.

[podchinyatsya]

[ The relief he feels is palpable, something that loosens him in a way he hadn't been conscious of fighting against. They do this dance, circling around each other like cobras ready to strike, testing lines, feigning attack.

But no, Zemo would have guarded him, protected him like a precious jewel. He would have put his hand to the gun under his coat and had a bullet between Selby's eyes before she could lift a finger. Against all rationality, Bucky nods, believing Zemo. Taking comfort in his assurance. He imagines Zemo drawing a dagger and whispering deadly judgment before slitting her throat, or perhaps removing the fingers from a hand that would presume to sully this soldier with her perversions.

Bucky drinks this time, not out of loathing, but a secret satisfaction. There's something thrilling about knowing Zemo would burn a whole city for him. It gives him...a sense of pride, perhaps. Something he'd never had under HYDRA's thumb, when they'd passed him around like a communal bike. For once, someone would kill for the Winter Soldier rather than the other way around.

Maybe Bucky stands a little taller because of it. ]

[helmut]

[ it's nearly palpable, the way the energy shifts in the room. zemo wonders, briefly, if it had come from james, in how much he revealed himself by asking that one question.

how far would you have let it go?

as though it was zemo that was in control, not james. like zemo was dictating the events of the night, giving each player as wide - or narrow - a berth as he pleased. like james and sam were nothing but toy soldiers, moved into position at will by zemo's unseen hand.

in truth, the entire operation hinged on a cascading series of events, each one feeding into the next to hopefully land the three of them in an advantageous position. luck, and convincing personas had as much to do with their success as the strength of james' right hook. zemo controlled not one element save for their appearances and himself, but it appears to him now that james must consider him some kind of mastermind with hands on multiple levers.

it's just as well. feigning complete control over a situation has its own advantage. and if james thinks of him as having such a power, he won't dissuade the man of such a fantasy just yet.

a calm settles over james then, and when he drinks next, it's more measured, unhurried. what zemo's said has either pleased him, or better yet, offered a comfort. thrilled, he watches pride pull james' spine straight, then paces slowly over, closing the distance between them. at arm's length, zemo can more closely observe the tics of james' expressions. his voice lowers, one hand on his glass, the other settling thumb and forefinger lightly over the rim. ]

You weren't sure of my intentions. [ it's not a question. ] You thought it was a possibility I would have turned you over for information, left you to fend for yourself.

[ of anyone in the loft, or even on this side of madripoor, james barnes is the one person most capable of taking care of himself. but whether that's something james wants or needs or fears is another story entirely. zemo's eyes drop to james' mouth, to his chest, watching his breathing as he recalls leafing through pages of HYDRA intel. ] There was never a contingency plan for the Soldier, if he was captured or taken. You have never had someone promise not to leave you behind and mean it, have you?

[podchinyatsya]

[ Zemo walks over, each step as deliberate as if he'd planned them from birth. Even now, he stalks like a predator, a large cat coming to investigate its newest toy...or meal.

Again, his innermost fears are laid bare with simple words, the horrible truth of an unspoken fate should he be careless enough to get captured. There was no contingency because the Soldier would simply not be taken. The alternative was-- well, the end of the line.

Steve. Bucky almost almost puts it up like the shield he's struggled so hard to preserve, but the split second before a protest leaves his lips he remembers. Steve had basically crossed desert wastes for him, had been his delivering angel in Azzano. When Bucky was dying from pneumonia and cold and harsh labor, Steve had come for him. When Bucky was on the run in Europe just trying to stay alive long enough to get his head straight, Steve had come for him. Hell, when the battle for earth was to take place in Wakanda, Steve had come. Not for him specifically, perhaps, but he was there.

When Steve returned the borrowed stones, he never came back. He'd left Bucky and Sam to take care of one another, and gone off for his own life, his own happiness. He'd left Bucky to fend for himself in a world that barely made sense, just to chase a picket fence life. "To the end of the line" hadn't meant their line together, it had meant Steve's with Bucky.

Bucky stares down into his glass, feeling suddenly brittle. Something moldy and bitter has grown up within him, a weed never pulled. Steve watched him fall, but didn't come back for him. Unfair as it is, Bucky resents Steve for it. He resents him for wanting a good life with a family and leaving his real family behind.

Bucky keeps trying to scry with his drink, but no answers reveal themselves. He finds that he can't answer Zemo's question, but it's not a question, not really. It's just another fact he's pulled into the light, easy as taking a book down from the shelf. Bucky's silence and downcast eyes are likely answer enough. ]

[helmut]

[ a patient man, zemo has found much to appreciate and learn from silence. when it's all another person can give him in return for his insight, it's enough. it's plenty.

from james, the silence is a deafening response. to his credit, james plays most things close to the vest, and to an ordinary person, he'd probably appear as stone-faced or distant. detached, even. and while the man possesses shades of any of those qualities, he's unable to truly hide the turbulent whirl of emotion underneath his hardened gaze.

so while james says nothing, he confirms zemo's query anyway. ninety years of survival would torment any man's soul, much less as restless as the one living in james.

zemo averts his eyes, as though he means to give james a moment to collect himself. his fingers tap lightly along the rim of his half-full glass contemplatively, shaking his head. ]

You never heard me say it. You would never have known. For that, I'm sorry. [ what he's saying now may as well be thoughts spoken aloud than anything james needs to know. when he turns back, there's a sad smile hanging on his face. ] 'No man left behind.' That's what you American soldiers say to one another, right? I have never left a man behind and I certainly don't intend to let that happen now. [ mischief pulls at his mouth now. ] Even if you can take that bar apart with your hands.

[podchinyatsya]

[ The apology rings true, and it stirs something in Bucky he hadn't realized was so profoundly damaged until now. He knows Steve loved him, would do anything for him...but Steve still left him behind. When Bucky turned around and saw an old man, he saw someone who had lived an entire life without him in it. Bucky had swallowed that pain, shoved it deep down and buried it. But the weight of it kept growing until it collapsed in on itself and became a black maw, a void sucking the life out of him.

Bucky needs someone. He needs someone there to mitigate his chaos, to keep him right as he finds his way. And when Zemo declares he's never abandoned his men, Bucky knows it to be the truth as easy as the sunrise. He hadn't read much about EKO Scorpion, Zemo's death squad, but he knows enough about how those units function to know that they'd rather die than leave someone behind. Zemo reckons Bucky as one of his own men, and that sort of fierce loyalty plugs the gap that's been draining him bit by bit.

"Even if you can take that bar apart with your hands." Zemo believes in Bucky's capability. He would guide Bucky with a patient hand. Zemo would not leave him to fend for himself, would gently correct him if--

Stop. This is fucking insane. He can't be fantasizing about being the companion to a madman. For chrissakes, the Dora Milaje will hunt this man down given a little more time, how could Bucky throw his lot in with him? Ayo would have his head on a pike and rip that Vibranium arm right off his body and beat him with it. Bucky shakes his head no, as if trying to break a snake charmer's spell. Finally he's able to meet Zemo's eyes, even if he's far less confident than he was a few moments ago. ]

Stop trying to recruit me.

[ You almost had me, he doesn't say. He can't. He can't admit that he's so weak and broken that simple kindness (or the pretention of it) is enough to start seducing him. It makes him feel like prey. ]

heh

[helmut]

[ there is a whole inner world being explored behind james' eyes, and though zemo is privy to none of these thoughts, he does like to imagine it. there are times in james' brooding presence zemo tries to postulate on what form those thoughts take, which particular regrets james hovers over at any given time.

is it the year that left him behind? the best friend that did? are there unexplored horrors from the war that buffer the newer ones james racked up over the course of fifty years of bending history?

all are true, zemo knows. but some are more pressing than others. and right now, certain brands of his anguish are pushed to the forefront. he can read them in james' reaction, in the shaking of his head and the emphasis in his voice. that he pushes back, distills everything zemo's offered to something as crass as recruitment.

his brows lift, gesturing to the empty room, as though it's indicative of what he doesn't have. ]

Recruit you for what? I haven't anything of my own. No team to recruit you for and certainly no cause that you don't champion yourself.

[ now might be a good time to remind the man that they're operating out of the same location, that they're on the same side. ]

Your trust issues are just fine if you intend to keep yourself friendless and lonely, but they may become a problem for the rest of us if you continue to doubt my sincerity.

[ 'the rest of us' being him and sam. two regular men, without the benefit of a serum to keep them alive should james' darkness continue to cloud him. zemo's eyes drop, roaming over james' body like he can find anything there other than an impressively fitted t-shirt and the gleam of a vibranium hand. his chin lifts a fraction, knowingly. ]

What was it you felt, unearthing a persona you have spent so much effort trying to bury?

hnnnnnn

[podchinyatsya]

[ Hasn't anything of his own--says the man with a private plane and servant, who thinks people like him shouldn't exist. Bucky knows that at least before, he was a means to an end. Zemo did what he felt he had to, and that meant once again erasing the will of a man Zemo would sooner lodge a bullet between the eyes of...were he anyone else. Bucky doesn't occupy himself with why Zemo seems so fascinated by him, why he continually tries to unlatch the locks of his personality to see the toy soldier underneath. Why he suddenly seems so enamored of him and not merely biding his time for a chance to finish his work.

Maybe he feels he can't. Maybe he feels he shouldn't. Either way, Bucky's flat expression telegraphs just how full of shit he thinks Zemo is. The man has graduated to psychoanalysis it seems, going by his astute commentary on Bucky's alleged trust issues (commentary that somewhere, Dr. Raynor is emphatically co-signing). Bucky rolls his eyes, ready to tell Zemo just how his trust works in relation to their mission, but then comes the raking of eyes, the words that cut deep beneath his emotional armor.

What was it you felt?

The floor drops out from underneath him, and he fights to conceal the sudden unmoored feeling (likely failing in some capacity, if not all of them). Try as he might, he simply cannot ignore that roiling within himself, that feral violence and unmitigated rage at the injustices he suffered. Bucky knows this is an attempt to make him unsteady, but he finds that he can't fight it in spite of that.

In his mind, he's already wrapped a hand around Zemo's throat, and there's a split second where he blinks out of it when he realizes it's only a fantasy. Bucky's eyes darken, and he closes the distance, attempting to parry with his own query. Every fiber of his body radiates danger, the predator within demanding to be released. ]

What do you think?

[ His tone is low, rumbling like a damp stone hallway whose stones have begun to crumble. It dares Zemo to ask for the beast that would manifest itself. ]

[helmut]

[ there are better methods than these, surely, to soothe the mind of the savage beast. gentler methods, perhaps more nurturing ones, but zemo has seen the version of james barnes that he would rather deny exist than embrace. that is not a man that looks to be nurtured. that's one that longs to be acknowledged.

still, zemo's aim is hardly to knock the man off his feet. james's stability, while questionable, benefits them all, and to take it from him jeopardizes not only their safety, but the success of the mission.

but what he sees, in flashes of darkness and angst, is something zemo can't bear to let go of. like pulling on a loose thread, james' crisis of identity is something zemo longs to help unravel. and maybe, if he's careful, he can help james gather it back up again, form him into something new.

before he realizes what's happening, james is advancing on him, weight pitched forward, low. he's on zemo in a blink, and while generally he takes pride in his ability to school his reactions, he can't help the way his spine straightens, eyes widening in excited fear. the breaths he takes are quick, but his gaze hardens in the moment before he moves his head to very obviously give james another once over.

even if james can strike animal fear into him, zemo is still master over his own person. his chin lifts minutely and after a moment of consideration, nods. ]

I think you expected agony. The same pain that follows you into every dream and nightmare. But you did not find it, did you?

[ there's a challenge there that zemo knows is testing the limits of james' self control. if only he were capable of stopping himself. his voice grows more rough as the pupils dilate. ]

It was convenient. Too convenient. And that's what troubles you.

[podchinyatsya]

[ For the briefest of moments, Bucky's force of presence has the intended reaction and he revels in it: fear. The subtle way Zemo's muscles tighten, brain shouting to run or prepare to fight for survival; increased respiration, advancing oxygen to a body that needs clarity for speed of reaction.

Zemo keeps examining him and Bucky nearly screams to demand what the man finds lacking, what deep epiphanies he finds inscribed on a war-forged body. Bucky's lips press into a thin, angry line, one eye twitching as he struggles to maintain control over his temper. If he were a kettle, the rolling boil would be growing into a progressively louder whistle.

He clenches his fist as tightly as it can possibly allow to keep from wrapping his fingers around Zemo's throat. But he doesn't have the ability to keep from pushing further in, looming to test the man's mettle. ]

You don't know anything about me.

[ It's a lie, and he knows it when he articulates the words low and dangerous. At best it is wishful thinking, a mantra he could conjure into reality if he said it enough. But Zemo does know. He knows too much, and there's a lingering truth between them that simply cannot be given articulation: that violence, that brutality? Bucky had enjoyed it. ]

[helmut]

[ while certainly part of an act, james' size and presence exude precariousness and danger. it's enough to keep zemo's heart beating at a rapid clip, but whether that pounding comes from fear or arousal, it's hard to tell. impossible to pull the two apart now. zemo's not sure he minds.

he's also not sure he minds that james can read this, able to identify the stink of fear on him like a belgian malinois. a barely contained police dog, straining at the end of his leash, jaws snapping just short of zemo's throat.

but while zemo enjoys the rush of adrenaline that accompanies the danger of being throttled, the energy in the room could stand to turn down a degree or two. so he softens his voice, more intent on cutting to the truth rather than rattling it loose from james' mind. ]

Don't I? [ he murmurs, brows raising. ] Just as you don't know anything about me, having read whatever you could find before appearing at my cell. You have me well diagnosed, don't you? Some silver spoon dilettante, mentally and emotionally unstable after the horrors he's wrought in wartime. Unwell, crazy, even. Tell me, do I fit the profile?

[podchinyatsya]

[ Zemo is spoiled, pampered by wealth and his nobility. Perhaps not a dilettante, but someone who is used to being treated a step above other classes. But it's all a smokescreen, something flashy to distract from the hardened mercenary beneath, and Bucky's not fooled by it (even if he can enjoy the spoils of that very wealth).

A snarl that pretends to be a smile tugs at his lips, hinting at the fangs beneath. ]

You're no soft rich-boy. Unwell maybe. Crazy, definitely.

[ He rakes his own eyes finally over Zemo's frame, taking in the tailored clothing and the wrinkles in his finely-pressed shirt from where the gun holster had once sat fastened. Something pretty can be its own sort of weapon, a diversion of the eyes to offset one's guard. He won't kid himself with Zemo's flamboyance-- the man is dangerous, calculating.

And it's all the more deadly when someone has nothing left to lose. Without a family, Zemo is a one-man kamikaze, laser-focused on his target and utterly unassailable. ]

Your body count isn't as high as mine, but I know what you're capable of.

[helmut]

[ while manipulation isn't exactly his usual modus operandi, there's a certain satisfaction to be had when it's done successfully. when zemo lowers bait into the cage and the chained lion takes a lunge at it, as predicted. it happens now, as zemo makes himself seem vulnerable and seen. but even so, he can't help the knowing smirk that plays on his mouth, nodding in agreement with james' read on him.

and he'll let himself be physically seen too, james' eyes passing over him. he's being analyzed right back. james probably wants a read on his state of mind, unable to find it elsewhere. ]

I may not have lived as long as you have, but my crimes are likely as... [ here zemo rolls the wrist of his free hand, as though conjuring the phrase he's looking for, ] 'off the record' as yours are. On behalf of my country, of course.

[ but this is not the time to compare kill counts. and zemo's pride hardly lies in the number of people whose lives he's ended. likely james' pride doesn't either. only his guilt. ]

You know what that means, right? It means we have each seen things that will stay with us until we take our last breaths. That I know what it's like to cause fear. It also means that I know the look of a man who has skirted too closely to the precipice and has remembered what it feels like to be exposed.

[ zemo nods, like he's certain of the conclusion he's drawn. his voice softens. ]

There should be no shame in feeling pride in what you can do.

[podchinyatsya]

Pride?

[ The predator bares its fangs, his mind reeling at how Zemo could compare them, how he could possibly think his mercenary tactics would parallel to anything the Winter Soldier did. Nostrils flaring and eyes blazing, Bucky barely keeps his fists at his side. ]

You killed because you wanted to.

[ He didn't have that luxury, didn't have the capacity for choice. Whatever husk they made him out to be could never even conceive of disobedience. The punishment was too severe.

But here Zemo stands assured, firm on his self-righteousness, acting as if they're anything alike. As if Bucky decided to murder people wholesale. As if he furthered some noble cause.

As if the nightmares don't come for him every day. Bucky seethes, searching Zemo's face to try and discern his ulterior motives here. Is he trying to gain sympathy, or solidarity? Is he trying to ease Bucky's guilt in his own skewed way? What's the goal here? That feels more disorienting than the assessments themselves. ]

[helmut]

[ finally, something to give zemo pause.

not that james is right, because he isn't. zemo often labors under misrepresentations of who he is, and for the most part, it can work to his advantage. 'crazy.' that's a label that simply means others find him unpredictable. that his motivations are carefully concealed, all by design. but here, now, with james clearly struggling for purchase and in need of solid land to plant his feet, it isn't a classification he has any desire to argue with.

weren't they both soldiers, once? soldiers with orders, with duties to carry out. there is no arguing in the army, and moral grandstanding is grounds for discharge. or worse.

all zemo can do is shake his head, brow furrowed. ]

And did you hurt these men because you wanted to? Or because you thought I wanted you to?

[podchinyatsya]

[ Ah but it would be too convenient to pretend he was merely a pawn of his superiors, wouldn't it? Zemo must know that his personal hit squad wasn't subject to such oversight, to the whims of governments or politicians. That's likely the primary reason for its formation, in fact.

Unlike most men, Bucky knows what it is to follow orders because it's your duty, and also because you are forced. Perhaps there wasn't as much in the HYDRA literature about just how much arguing Bucky did in those early days with the Soviets, once his fractured memory started to heal. It wouldn't look as good as recording all the successes in breaking him, the lengthy process of hollowing a man. The Soviet regime was nothing if not a propagandist powerhouse.

At any rate-- ]

Did you forget the part where you told me to attack them, or am I suddenly making up the whole "act like the Winter Soldier so they let us in the bar" thing?

[helmut]

"Act like the Winter Soldier in order for us to get close to Selby," more like, but this is a distinction based on semantics and probably not worth debating.

[ he's stalling. whatever comparisons he's drawing between himself and james are too unpalatable to begin to imagine.

for months, in the dark of drab, rented flats or safehouses across europe and america, all zemo had was the work. in the unnatural blue light of his laptop screen, zemo first found a familiar target - the winter soldier - but quickly that target evolved. with every SHEILD file decrypted, every scrap of intel added to zemo's ever-growing folder, a portrait began to emerge: not a weapon, a soldier, or even a prisoner. just a man. a man who once had a home, a family and future, stripped of everything in a series of unlucky dice throws. what zemo produced from his research was a man he could connect with, one whose scant similarities felt like purposeful echoes.

both with happy childhoods. soldiers. men with families. and then all hope taken, a life upended in one moment.

james can't stand to imagine their similarities, but zemo can't bear to let them go.

it's just as well. perhaps the gulf between them will only widen throughout the mission rather than narrow as zemo anticipated. or hoped.

well. never hurts to try. even if the attempt gets him killed. he lowers his drink. ]

You never answered my question. What did it feel like to pull the shadow back on like a mask?