Chapter Text
The former citizens of Sokovia had been spread all over the world, their diaspora becoming a living nightmare for each of them. Some of them had gathered in small communities in New York, trying to retain their heritage while acclimating to a new world where they didn't know the customs, and sometimes not even the language. There was a meeting in Vinegar Hill once a week, a blend between trauma therapy and a course for cultural studies – all in Sokovian, of course. Bucky had gone a few times. He hadn't even known why himself. He sat in the back and didn't speak a word, only mouthing along to some of the sayings and songs he recognized. They'd never programmed Sokovian in its entirety into him, but he enjoyed the sound of it. A dying language now, spoken only by those who'd outlived its country of origin. Bucky wondered how long it would take until the language too was gone, how many generations of feeble imitation the Sokovian culture could take until it went the way of all things destroyed and left behind nothing but a foggy memory of better times.
He sent a postcard of the Brooklyn Bridge to Zemo on the Raft – he'd written it in Sokovian and asked one of the refugees to spell-check it for him. I'm learning your language, the card said, it sounds a lot nicer when you're not the one speaking it. He'd never gotten a letter back. He wasn't sure if Zemo was allowed to receive mail – and even if he was, he sure as hell wasn't allowed to reply, considering his wardens knew he needed just a few words to create a world of chaos. Still, Bucky had wanted to let him know. To prove to him... what, exactly? That Americans were not as dim-witted as Zemo believed them to be? That Sokovia's downfall was noticed, even mourned?
Weeks passed. Bucky lived his life – or tried to anyway. His mandatory therapy sessions were really the only social engagements he had. He walked around at night, visiting old haunts – or what was left of them. Most bars he had frequented back in his day had been closed for decades now, the buildings worn down and alien to him. He often wound up close to the Brooklyn Bridge, its stubbornly unchanged shape bringing him some comfort. He visited friends and family at the Green-Wood Cemetery sometimes. When he told his therapist he'd been the only one enjoying the class reunion she didn't seem to find it very funny.
A lot of his life was just... trying to be normal. It didn't come easy to him. When somebody put a light hand on him to squeeze by on a crowded bus he flinched so hard he almost broke a rib. It was embarrassing. He was a constant outsider, so desperately trying to be normal, and it just didn't work. He missed feeling sure of himself. He missed the feel of a gun in his hand.
When he couldn't sleep at night he sometimes cut into his flesh arm, just a little bit, until the first drops of blood appeared, perfectly round crimson marbles. The smell brought him some comfort. He didn't mention this to his therapist. He had a feeling she would disapprove, and he healed quick anyways. The next morning there was barely a scratch left usually, his night ritual just a secret between him and the TV that was always on because he found himself unable to sleep if it was too quiet.
He missed Steve so much it made him sick. He didn't know how to make connections any more, especially with people who were so (young. squishy. soft. naive) different from him. Steve had always just known – what to say, how Bucky felt, what to do. When he went somewhere by subway he stared at the other passengers, trying so hard to feel something, to feel anything for them. It was like they weren't even there. They were like ghosts to him, or perhaps he was like a ghost to them.
The Saturday meetings in Vinegar Hill were the only thing he found himself looking forward to. The people there greeted him with the inherent, helpless kindness of those who have nothing to give and nothing left to lose. He remembered a lot of people feeling that way during the war. It was an emotional state he could relate to, perhaps better than most. They seemed to sense it, too. Even though he didn't have a Sokovian accent, he was welcome to each meeting, and never turned away. He'd even started picking up some swear words.
His therapist was always telling him that he needed to deal with his past instead of trying to bottle it up, but that was an easy thing to say for someone who hadn't been used as a glorified Kalashnikov for half a century. He'd had nightmares for as long as he could remember, often unable to recall what he'd been dreaming about and waking up drenched in sweat with his heart going what felt like a mile a minute, but recently those nightmares had been tinged with something else. He heard Sokovian in them; sometimes he understood what was said during the dream, sometimes not, but he could never remember the words when he woke up.
Bucky didn't know what he was doing when he requested a visit to the Raft; it was like he was working on autopilot. He tried desperately not to let it get to him. It's not the same as it was , he thought, it's not . He wasn't trying to reconnect with his last handler. That's not what this was. He was just – tying up loose ends , the part of him that was still the Winter Soldier might have said, but he knew he was kidding himself.
He felt... he didn't know how he felt. He just hoped, desperately, that talking to Zemo might clear things up a little bit, even if it just reminded Bucky of who he was, and why he hated people like Zemo. And perhaps there was a small part of him that needed to … compare their guilt, somehow. Zemo deserved everything that was coming to him and then some but still Bucky wondered if they were that different after all. Zemo had done terrible things because he'd been hurt, and miserable, and angry, and alone.
Bucky had done terrible things for no real reason at all, except being controlled by outsiders, a puppet strangled by its strings, dancing along to a song it couldn't begin to understand. How could he really judge someone for the crimes they'd committed? Every mother who stole diapers, every hungry child who picked someone's pockets had more of a reason for what they did than he'd had, and yet he walked free. Perhaps Zemo had some thoughts on that. Perhaps Zemo might (not forgive him. never that) have some insight.
Getting to the Raft was a struggle. It took weeks for the visit to get approved at all, and the plane ride was a miserable affair. There was just him and two other people, an elderly woman who honestly looked like she might not survive the plane ride back and a man in his mid-twenties with tattoos covering every visible inch of skin. Bucky wondered if they went in knowing what they were going to get from their visit, or if they felt as lost as he did. The woman avoided his gaze. Bucky wondered if she was scared of him.
Being searched wasn't unexpected, but still unwelcome. Bucky didn't enjoy being manhandled by some guard he could break in half like a twig, but he... cooperated, Steve would say (хорошая собака, his handlers would say, good dog). The guard did a double-take as he checked Bucky's ID, seeing the year he was born.
"I know", Bucky joked weakly, "I look great".
The guard didn't react except to scribble something down in a thick binder. He made Bucky sign a bunch of paperwork that Bucky didn't really read. He was starting to sweat. Prison made him uncomfortable. The steel and cement reminded him of places he'd rather forget. The guard droned on about visitation rules. Bucky tuned him out. He was starting to regret coming here, but he wasn't one to half-ass anything, even if what he was doing turned out to be stupid. Steve had always told him that he desperately needed someone to second-guess him so he wouldn't trip on his own dick (but there was nothing stupid left for Bucky to do; Steve had taken all the stupid with him).
The Raft was a miserable place. Bucky hadn't really expected anything else, but it was still... unsettling. He could hear faint crying. Every cell was fronted by glass, but the surface was dimmed somehow, frosted. He could barely make out the shapes behind it. He didn't know if this was done for the sake of privacy for the inmates or the peace of mind of those outside of the cells. They'd cleared the glass on Zemo's cell for the visit.
It was strange seeing him again. Bucky remembered some of his nightmares suddenly, like seeing Zemo had reset that part of his memory. Zemo looked different than he'd looked in those dreams – thinner and paler. The clothes they'd put him in made him seem smaller, somehow. The prison uniform was grayish-blue, the slacks just a little long; Zemo was wearing them cuffed. He stood up as Bucky came into view, looking between him and the guard who'd insisted on escorting Bucky here.
"James." His voice sounded the same. Perhaps a bit hoarser than the last time Bucky heard it. It was safe to assume he didn't have a lot of opportunities for small talk here. Bucky wondered if that bothered him. The guard stepped to the back, granting them a smidgen of privacy.
Bucky ignored the chair that had been provided for him. He stepped up to the glass. There was something taped to the outside of the cell. He eyed it, immediately recognizing the back of the post card he'd sent, the Brooklyn Bridge looking gray and decrepit in the fluorescent light. Zemo followed his gaze.
"They won't give me the card", he said, "they believe I might hurt someone with it".
“And would you?”, Bucky asked.
Zemo smiled. “I don't know.”
Bucky suspected it was the first time Zemo had ever given him an honest answer.
“Everything they give to me they think is a weapon now,” Zemo continued casually, “whether I would use it against others or myself. I suppose they're not entirely wrong. Without stimuli a mind is prone to attacking itself, the same way an animal would gnaw off its own leg to escape a bear trap.”
“That's a cheerful thought”, Bucky replied.
Zemo's smile widened. Bucky had seen that smile in his nightmares, too.
“I seem to have lost my manners. Thank you for visiting me in my new home,” Zemo gestured to his cell with the gravitas of an old money host giving a tour of his excessive estate, “three meters by two-point-five. Almost exactly 60 square feet. An entire world. Once a week they let me outside to stare at the sky, where I can hear the ocean, but I cannot see it. The shower works for 10 minutes every other day, and the toilet flushes once a day. I was granted books until I whittled one of their spines down to a point and tried to slit my wrists with it.”
Bucky stayed silent. Zemo got closer to the glass, ever so gently resting one hand against it. His breath left a little cloud of condensation. “The King of Wakanda called it mercy, letting me live. But it was cruelty that stayed his hand. A much sweeter revenge to see those you hate suffer slowly. I just find it a tad hypocritical, don't you? When I hate someone, I at least make it quick.”
“If anyone deserves suffering, it's you,” Bucky said. He wasn't sure if he entirely believed it. He tried to force some conviction into his voice. “Did you really expect anything else?”
Zemo was eerily quiet for a moment. He was looking at Bucky intently, like he was searching his face for something. It was hard to say if he found it. “If you honestly think I haven't suffered”, he finally said, “then you're a lot dimmer than you look.”
“I've been accused of that before,” Bucky heard himself say. Zemo still looked at him with an inscrutable expression.
“I'm sure you have.” He stepped back from the glass, looking tired all of a sudden, like the few minutes of conversation had drained him. “Now was there something you wanted, or did you just come to stare and brood?”
“Figured I'd check up on you,” Bucky said. “See if you're miserable enough.”
That made Zemo huff out a surprised laugh. “Rest assured, I'm plenty miserable.” He sat down on his cot, his hands folded in his lap innocently like a child who'd been called to the principal's office. Bucky knew better than to fall for that act. Zemo nodded towards the postcard.
“You've been learning, yes? Here's a language exercise for you.” The next words Zemo said in Sokovian: “I wish you would kill me. Consider it a favor to the man I once was. I'm sure you could reach me before anyone could stop you if you put your mind to it.”
The guard who'd kept quiet so far interrupted before Bucky could think of something to say. “English only”, he warned, “you know the rules.”
Zemo looked at the man and very primly and politely answered in Sokovian – Bucky didn't recognize all the words, but he knew enough to understand it wasn't exactly a friendly greeting. The visit was cut short after that.
As Bucky retrieved his belongings – phone, wallet, and the knives he'd had on him (honestly he didn't know why they bothered; it wasn't like his metal arm was just for show) – he stopped to ask the guard who had frisked him before why he hadn't been alerted about Zemo's suicide attempt.
The man gave him a half-laugh. “Frankly, Sir, you're not even on his visitation list. It's a miracle they let you in at all.”
Bucky thought on this for a moment. Then he asked: “What exactly would it take to make me one of his emergency contacts?”
The air outside tasted like salt. Bucky felt ill in a way he hadn't felt in decades. He wished Steve were here. Steve would know what to do (would tell him what to do). He called Sam instead.
Reception was shit. There was a crackling sound when Sam picked up the phone.
“Sup?”, came a tinny and tired voice. Bucky realized he had forgotten about the time difference.
“They're killing him in there”, Bucky said. Sam's voice sounded like he was moving closer to the receiver. There was a concerned tone to his next words, and he sounded much more awake, so chances were he'd heard at least some of it.
“What? What did you say?”
The call took just over thirty minutes. It was longer than they'd ever spoken on the phone before. Bucky suspected neither of them were happy when they finally hung up.
The flight back home was quiet. He was alone this time except for the pilot. He stared down at the Raft until it became too small to see even with his enhanced vision, just a tiny blip in an angry ocean and then disappearing into the water entirely.
A lot of angry e-mails were exchanged. Bucky had seen them all because Sam kept passive-aggressively cc-ing him like he'd ever actually reply. Bucky made it a point to be extra-normal during the therapy sessions in case someone asked for his psychological makeup and whether he could handle added stress. Therapy was a breeze when all you had to do was lie about whatever you were asked.
Whatever Sam asked him to sign, Bucky signed it. He'd never been good at the paperwork. He'd never liked having to jump through bureaucratic hoops. He preferred joining in when it got to the grime and the dirt. He wondered what that said about him.
Sam especially had to squander a lot of goodwill. A lot of phone calls and letters went to him. Bucky went down to Louisiana for a few weeks to help out, even if all he ended up helping with was doing the dishes or small repair work around Sarah's place while Sam was stuck on the phone or on the computer, getting into arguments with people with impressive-sounding job titles. Bucky could swear they didn't have this many different jobs back in his day. If he didn't know any better he'd think Sam was making some of them up.
Bucky felt a bit bad sometimes, seeing Sam having to deal with all this. He hadn't told Sam what Zemo had done (tried to do) in so many words – he'd just told him that Zemo wasn't going to survive on the Raft much longer. That the place would kill him. That had been enough reason for Sam to intervene, because of course it had been.
Bucky wondered what it had been like for Sam when he was imprisoned on the Raft. If he'd ever thought about ending it himself. Sam didn't seem like the type, but Bucky hadn't really known him that long.
“What's our reason for getting him out”, Sam had asked Bucky at some point, “like, officially? Because I don't think they'll care much that we think he might get his white ass killed.”
Bucky had faltered at this. “Uhm”, he'd said smartly, “I overheard some Sokovian refugees talking about people going missing in New York. Might be nothing. Might be some bigger thing. People getting taken advantage of?”
It was a stretch at best, and they both knew it. “It'll have to be a bigger thing”, Sam said, “you get me?”
Bucky had nodded. He was no stranger to lying, even though he'd always found it easier to just keep his mouth shut instead of having to come up with a story.
Sam hated Zemo with the same passion with which he did everything, but he didn't want him dead. He didn't want him to suffer. He just wanted him contained. Sam was predictable in that way, easy to manipulate. Где то́нко — там и рвётся, one of Bucky's handlers used to say, the weakest link will break the chain. Bucky couldn't remember the handler's name or his face, but he remembered the man's voice, and his hands. Memory was a strange thing.
Just when Bucky feared he'd have to figure out a permanent residence in Louisiana instead of mooching off the Wilsons, they finally managed to negotiate a deal. It wasn't a great deal for Zemo in particular, but Sam figured it was the best they were going to get, and Bucky trusted him. It had taken them over six months of back and forth, but they got it done.
The next time Bucky visited the Raft, he wasn't alone. Him and Sam were escorted by several SHIELD members – they'd tried telling them it wasn't necessary, but their input had been pointedly ignored. Bucky had a feeling they weren't in anyone's good graces right now. As they were marched to their destination Sam's gaze wandered to one of the milky glass cells that appeared to be empty at the moment. Bucky wondered if it had been his.
Zemo stood up as they came into view, looking between them and their guards.
“A belated birthday surprise? You shouldn't have.” Bucky really hadn't missed the sarcasm. One of the SHIELD agents who'd been carrying a metal suitcase started fumbling with the lock to open it. Zemo eyed the suitcase (big enough to carry a firearm inside). “Don't tell me you had the... permanent solution to my predicament approved.”
Bucky was decidedly not going to deal with the expression on Zemo's face. He saw Sam open his mouth to ask what the hell they were talking about and quickly shot out a “Nope. We're gonna get you out of here.” It was one of the few times he'd ever seen Zemo's mask fall. He looked between him and Sam like he'd been told a joke and for the life of him couldn't figure out the punchline. Finally, he huffed out a laugh.
“I've been sentenced to 250 years in solitary confinement. They say time flies when you're having fun, but I dare say it hasn't been that long.”
A second SHIELD agent punched a number code into the keypad next to the glass wall. Zemo automatically backed away. Bucky wondered how many times they'd had to beat that reaction into him.
“Stand back”, the SHIELD agent warned. Zemo, having already done so, nodded carefully. He had his hands folded again. Bucky wondered if he did that to conceal his nerves. He looked like the picture of innocence as he stood at the back of his cell, not moving an inch as the SHIELD agent approached, backed by her colleague who'd produced some kind of metal gadget from the suitcase. The woman grabbed Zemo's shoulder and steered him to the cot, where she pushed him into a sitting position. The man branded the metal thing – the shape reminded Bucky somewhat of a nail gun, except it was a bit smaller and made of sleek metal.
“This is gonna implant a GPS tracker,” the man explained, “don't move. It's gonna sting for a second.”
The woman grabbed Zemo's right wrist and turned it so the inside was faced towards the man. There was a sound of flesh hitting a solid object, like a fist punching a wall. Zemo flinched, pulling his arm back as soon as they allowed him to. Bucky marveled at the lack of blood. There was a tiny red bump on the inside of Zemo's wrist, like he'd been stung by a bee.
Zemo had his brows furrowed, staring down at his wrist. It wasn't until the agents had packed away their device and closed its case again that he spoke up.
“What would happen if I cut my hand off at the wrist and survived? I would be untraceable then, yes?” The two agents in the cell exchanged a look with the third guard still standing outside. The man pulled out his phone and stepped away, leaving Sam and Bucky alone in front of the cell. The guy was having a nervous phone call that would have been out of earshot for anyone without super-hearing. Bucky carefully schooled his face into a neutral expression as he listened.
“Sorry to disturb, Sir. There's a bit of a problem. The prisoner says he's going to cut his wrist off to get rid of the tracker... yes. Yes, Sir, of course. We –... yes, sir, I understand. … No, we did not. … Possibly. I'll ask. Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”
Bucky stifled back a laugh. Whoever their superior was, he was not a happy camper.
The guard's footsteps got quieter as he left to find some other solution to their problem. The problem was sitting in his cell, roping the remaining two SHIELD agents into pleasant small talk. Sam watched this with the despondence of a dog owner watching their pet absolutely wreck an expensive toy. Bucky was standing at parade rest. He knew from experience that he could stand like that without moving too much for up to eight hours if he had to. Thankfully, it didn't come to that.
The SHIELD agent who'd left them about an hour ago returned carrying what looked like some sort of metal collar. Zemo looked like he regretted ever opening his mouth as the man stepped into his cell with it. The three agents managed to fasten it around Zemo's neck, even though it was clear from the way they fumbled with it that they weren't familiar with the technology. It looked chunkier and a hell of a lot more uncomfortable than anything the Wakandans or even SHIELD would have come up with, so it was probably provided by the Raft itself.
“There,” the agent said, “If you want to try to cut your head off to get out of this, be my guest.”
The other two gave him a look like he was being unnecessarily harsh on the poor guy. It was interesting to see Zemo's knack for bringing people over to his side in real time. No wonder they didn't allow him to interact with other prisoners.
Zemo was steered outside of the cell. His eyes kept wandering to the corridor Sam and Bucky had come from. There was a hunger in his expression that Bucky would have to keep tabs on.
The agent who'd produced the metal collar explained to them how it worked. He gave both Sam and Bucky corresponding metal bracelets. Bucky honestly wasn't listening that much, only bothering to commit the important bits to memory.
Zemo had 5 miles of movement and if he exhausted that, the collar around his neck would start administering shocks that would become stronger in intensity the longer he took to get back to one of them and / or the further he moved away. Plus he had to check in with one of them every 24 hours or the collar would start administering shocks automatically, intensifying until they were strong enough to incapacitate him. Oh, and there was a handy GPS tracker installed as well. All that would certainly make it easier to keep an eye on him this time around.
It was strangely satisfactory to see Zemo with a leash on him that lead straight to Bucky's hand. How the tables had turned indeed.
Zemo spent the better part of the air plane ride back to New York scoffing and fumbling with the machination around his neck.
“They've fashioned me a dog collar.”
It did work a bit like those shock collars that were supposed to keep dogs from running off, as much as Bucky had gathered.
“For what it's worth you don't remind me of a dog,” Bucky said, opening his eyes and abandoning his pretense of napping, “a dog is much better behaved.”
“And just plain cuter”, Sam chimed in. The look Zemo fixed him with proved their point.
“I suppose I'll wear a scarf,” Zemo muttered.
Bucky scoffed. “I'm sure the fashion choices available to you were the first thing they had in mind when they put that thing on you. Kind of stupid to tell them you'd cut off your hand. You might have given us the slip for a while.”
“It's an obvious design flaw. Have they never heard that freedom costs a hand?”
Bucky grunted in response.
Sam blinked. “Excuse me?”
Both Zemo and Bucky turned their heads to him. “Freedom costs a hand and a foot", Zemo answered with the air of a teacher patiently explaining something simple to a particularly slow child, “it's an old saying.” Sam turned to Bucky for help.
Bucky shrugged. “I've heard it. Might be a Sokovian thing.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “I'm so sorry for not speaking twenty languages.”
Neither Bucky nor Zemo answered him. In the next few minutes nobody spoke at all. Zemo had taken to looking out of the window, even though there was nothing to see except endless water. Bucky wondered what he was thinking about. Probably already trying to come up with new ways to give them the slip. It was going to be a challenge for sure, even for someone with Zemo's affinity for a dramatic getaway. But Bucky remembered the look on Zemo's face when he'd considered his own freedom – like a starving man being offered an extravagant buffet. He wasn't going to be satisfied with bread and butter for long.
“So when exactly are you going to ask why we got you out?”, Sam piped up.
Zemo didn't turn to look at him.
“I'd assumed it was because you missed my quick wit and good taste.”
Bucky and Sam exchanged a look.
“We got clearance to get you out”, Sam replied, “because there's been a few cases of Sokovian refugees going missing. And we need someone who knows the language, the culture, and who knows how to... handle themselves.”
Sam wasn't going to say that they'd... what? Taken pity on the guy? Sam was nice like that. Bucky wasn't, but he'd keep his mouth shut for now.
Zemo turned. His eyes were set between the two of them like he was talking to someone sitting in the empty space only he could see. “The word 'refugee' has its origin in the latin 'fugere', describing an act of fleeing or escaping”, he said, his eyes still far away, “which implies there would be a theoretical place to return to after the danger has passed. I don't think it's entirely accurate.”
Sam blinked. “What else do you want me to call them?”
Zemo smiled. It was one of his expressions that Bucky just hated, like he was understanding connections between things that they hadn't even started to grasp.
“That's the question, isn't it? I suppose 'survivors' will have to do for now.”
Sam looked like he already regretted his part in getting Zemo off the Raft, but his voice was calm as he said: “Okay. Sokovian Survivors have gone missing. Bucky found out about it, actually.”
Zemo looked at Bucky now. Bucky decidedly did not squirm in his seat. He cleared his throat, but his voice sounded off to him as he said: “Remember I mentioned I was learning Sokovian? There's a meeting every Saturday in Vinegar Hill -”
Zemo blinked. “Sponsored by an organization called Odbor za pomoč? “
Bucky nodded. He'd seen that name on the flyers.
Zemo shook his head almost imperceptibly, like he was hearing something incredible. "I support their efforts in New York... financially, I mean. I wasn't aware you were attending the meetings."
Bucky fell silent. The realization hit him like a wall of ice. The people he'd spoken to, the luke-warm coffee, the gentle companionship, the metal folding chair he'd sat in – organized and paid for by Zemo. His therapist had been right in more ways than one when she'd told him he was going in circles. The realization that his surroundings had been orchestrated, hadn't been what he'd thought they were, was unbearably familiar. He felt old strings tugging at him and the hum of old words (seventeen. dawn. furnace. ni-) becoming louder, a thick fog threatening to swallow him whole.
Luckily, Sam took over. As Zemo's sharp gaze left Bucky to refocus on Sam and they exchanged words (their voices becoming quieter and quieter, just part of the endless droning hum that was everything) Bucky subtly, very slowly touched the blade of his knife. The fog was loud, so he grabbed it tighter until the sharp sting brought him back to reality to the point where he could hear what Sam and Zemo were saying, until he felt his body again. His nose picked up on the scent of copper, he started hearing Sam's and Zemo's heartbeats again, the hum of the jet's engine, the pilot talking to someone via headset, the roar of air outside of the metal tin can they were sitting in, the vibrations that went through the machine. He realized Sam had asked him a question. Both Sam and Zemo were looking at him, with expressions he didn't have the energy to decipher.
He gave a grunt that was neither here nor there, hoping it would cover all the bases. He didn't need a lecture from Sam, and he certainly didn't need Zemo to sniff out weakness. It seemed to be good enough for now in lieu of an actual answer. Sam and Zemo resumed their back and forth, thinly-veiled threats bouncing off each other and evaporating into the recycled plane air. Bucky could smell the sweat from previous passengers. One of them had been bleeding.