[ when he'd first set off on this self-imposed mission to make things better, to make amends, he never thought he'd be doing it beside baron helmut zemo.
but zemo's resources are there. the knowledge and experience is there, and bucky's accustomed to making use of an efficient weapon when it's in front of him. sam had headed back stateside to tie up the last of their loose ends with the flagsmashers, and when he'd left, his brow had been crinkled in concern with a wary, are you sure, man? and bucky had only scoffed in return. i can handle some rich guy in a fur coat.
because they've still got work to do, barnes and zemo, and that work never ends: cut off one head, two more shall take its place. trying to eradicate HYDRA is like tearing out a persistent weed that just keeps biding its time and growing back to overrun the garden, and the garden is europe. they're forming a wary kind of alliance. there's a job that needs doing, and maybe bucky can't be picky about choosing his allies. that clear-cut searing black-and-white morality of the forties has been gone for a while now, after all, buried somewhere in ambiguities and shades of grey and blood on his own hands.
so their time together stretches out, as they're holed up in yet another pied-à-terre, another one of the baron's countless luxurious apartments scattered across the continent. bucky's always a restless sleeper, and this plump mattress is a far cry from a hardwood floor in a lower east side apartment. the rooms are dusty, in need of airing out and clearly haven't been used in the better part of a decade, but the unused apartment is still huge. his whole family, parents and four kids and all, could've lived here and had room to spare. it's infuriating.
he's lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling and feeling the long minutes tick away. the mattress is too soft. he can't sleep. he wonders if he should just curl up on the carpeted floor, and maybe that'll help.
but finally, bucky just heaves a frustrated sigh and swings himself out of the bed, and goes padding out towards the kitchen in defeat. they'd stocked up on supplies, so he figures he can either find some liquor or some kind of overcomplicated flowering tea which zemo insists is, quote, both good for the digestion and for restfulness, unquote. he stalks out, footsteps creaking on the unfamiliar floorboards, but then goes still once he sees a pool of light in the main room. for a fleeting second, he suddenly pictures the other man sitting in an armchair in the darkness, petting a white cat.
this is so fucking stupid.
when bucky walks further out into the room, he's rearranged his body language; still strung taut with tension, his jaw set, but he's trying to look aggressively nonchalant. (it doesn't really work.) it looks like zemo's just doing some late-night reading, but bucky doesn't realise yet exactly what. ]
Still up? No butler around to fluff your pillows for you?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
branchandroot
→ insomnia; you've got the devil on your shoulder.
Date: 2021-04-28 08:39 pm (UTC)but zemo's resources are there. the knowledge and experience is there, and bucky's accustomed to making use of an efficient weapon when it's in front of him. sam had headed back stateside to tie up the last of their loose ends with the flagsmashers, and when he'd left, his brow had been crinkled in concern with a wary, are you sure, man? and bucky had only scoffed in return. i can handle some rich guy in a fur coat.
because they've still got work to do, barnes and zemo, and that work never ends: cut off one head, two more shall take its place. trying to eradicate HYDRA is like tearing out a persistent weed that just keeps biding its time and growing back to overrun the garden, and the garden is europe. they're forming a wary kind of alliance. there's a job that needs doing, and maybe bucky can't be picky about choosing his allies. that clear-cut searing black-and-white morality of the forties has been gone for a while now, after all, buried somewhere in ambiguities and shades of grey and blood on his own hands.
so their time together stretches out, as they're holed up in yet another pied-à-terre, another one of the baron's countless luxurious apartments scattered across the continent. bucky's always a restless sleeper, and this plump mattress is a far cry from a hardwood floor in a lower east side apartment. the rooms are dusty, in need of airing out and clearly haven't been used in the better part of a decade, but the unused apartment is still huge. his whole family, parents and four kids and all, could've lived here and had room to spare. it's infuriating.
he's lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling and feeling the long minutes tick away. the mattress is too soft. he can't sleep. he wonders if he should just curl up on the carpeted floor, and maybe that'll help.
but finally, bucky just heaves a frustrated sigh and swings himself out of the bed, and goes padding out towards the kitchen in defeat. they'd stocked up on supplies, so he figures he can either find some liquor or some kind of overcomplicated flowering tea which zemo insists is, quote, both good for the digestion and for restfulness, unquote. he stalks out, footsteps creaking on the unfamiliar floorboards, but then goes still once he sees a pool of light in the main room. for a fleeting second, he suddenly pictures the other man sitting in an armchair in the darkness, petting a white cat.
this is so fucking stupid.
when bucky walks further out into the room, he's rearranged his body language; still strung taut with tension, his jaw set, but he's trying to look aggressively nonchalant. (it doesn't really work.) it looks like zemo's just doing some late-night reading, but bucky doesn't realise yet exactly what. ]
Still up? No butler around to fluff your pillows for you?