Chapter Text
You deserve to be there.
He’s not sure why he sends the first letter. Spite? Anger? Baron Helmut Zemo is rotting in some cell in Wakanda, where he will never escape from or be broken out of. There’s no reason for Bucky to contact him. No reason at all.
His first instinct when he’d woken up from a very poignant nightmare had been to fly out there himself and glare at his imprisoned image splayed across surveillance monitors, but he only just barely reeled that in and decided to send a letter instead. He knew his letter would reach Zemo, that Ayo would make sure of it.
The purpose of sending the letter in the first place still escapes him.
He doesn’t expect a response.
But sure enough, the following week, there’s mail in his box when he checks it out of habit more than anything.
I do.
What a fucking response. Two words? Even when put away for the rest of his sorry life Zemo manages to exude this stupid, aristocratic cockiness that gets right under Bucky’s skin. He crumples the letter in his vibranium hand so hard it sparks. He tosses it into the wastebin before he can cause too much damage.
Then, he grabs a piece of paper and a pen, sits down at his desk, and for some Godforsaken reason, writes back.
--
It must be difficult to not have your cherry blossom tea.
Why did he write that? Why did he send it? He can't treat the ultra-fast courier service like it's a texting app. Then again, he much prefers this to texting; there's just something about putting pen to paper that reminds him of the good old days. Besides, Zemo isn't living the high life in Wakanda. He's surprised the Dora Milaje are even allowing Zemo to communicate with anyone.
He wonders if anyone is reading the messages between them, making sure they're not scheming some half-cocked plan for Zemo to escape.
James already helped him once.
I know you are alluding to my presumptuous lifestyle but as it were, I am flattered you remember my preference.
Zemo's handwriting is neat, perfunctory. He writes in tiny, neat letters, all caps. The handwriting of someone with a military background. James' own scrawl is embarrassing. Zemo's personality and tone oozes off of the page and James briefly wonders if the other man can hear his voice in his head, too. Even with just these few exchanged words it's easy to imagine Zemo in the room with him, melodious voice floating to fill every corner.
Don’t twist my insults. You’re in there because I decided to spare your life.
The venom is half-assed. It's totally true that Zemo is alive because James wanted him to live out an imprisonment and, well, maybe… what, atone for his sins? Zemo knows what revenge is. What avenging is. But does he know what atonement is? Isn't revenge and avenging a form of it? A watered down, twisted version of trying to make a past wrong a right?
And so graciously, might I add.
Zemo manages to, through and through, never disappoint. He never surprises James. Even though his delivery changes and his silver tongue seems to get sharper, James, by now, can almost predict what the Baron will say. He could consider it boring but the truth of the matter is that it's oddly… comforting. Zemo knows him down to the very core and vice versa. They know each other now like no one ever has or ever will.
Steve loved the version of Bucky he went to war with.
Sam loves the version of Bucky Steve loved.
But what about the real Bucky?
The Bucky that Helmut Zemo has caught the most glimpses of and accepted without hesitation?
It's twisted, honestly. Unhealthy. Toxic. Words that his therapist would use if he ever felt like sharing his deepest thoughts with her. But he doesn't, so she won't. His knee-jerk reaction of thinking about what she would say is annoying. He'd rather settle into what he thinks.
And frankly, he thinks he has a huge fucking problem.
--
He stops writing for a bit. Allows an entire month to sprawl between them, added to the unfathomable distance. Wakanda sometimes seems as far away as Asgard. He knows it's closer than that, knows he could be there lickety-split if he wanted. He could steal one of those fancy military air crafts easily enough and just… take himself there.
But he doesn't.
Because he's not quite sure what he would do. Visit Zemo? Have tea on two sides of a glass wall? Would he even see him at all? Would anyone let Zemo have visitors? He supposes they're letting him send messages, but maybe James is the exception.
Then again who else in the universe would take the time to talk to Helmut Zemo?
Just James goddamn Bucky Barnes.
Wonderful.
After a month of not writing, Zemo initiates contact.
I think of you often.
I think of you little.
James lies.
The truth is that Zemo is crammed into his brain, every millimeter of it, every nanosecond of every day. Missions manage to keep him occupied, but only for so long. The second he has a moment to go into his own brain, all he sees is Zemo. All he hears, smells, and tastes is Zemo.
Ridiculous.
--
For all the luxuries once afforded to me in the world, I find myself yearning for only one thing.
Exhaling, Bucky slumps at his kitchen table. He props his elbow on the wood, cards his flesh fingers through his hair and stares down at the words on the page in front of him. This is stupid. He should never have initiated contact. It’s probably what Zemo wanted. He’s probably playing into some weird, sick trap, laid out for him the second the Dora Milaje escorted the baron away. He’ll always be suspicious, he thinks. Second-nature at this point. But there’s a part of him wondering…
What are they playing at? What does he--Bucky--want? From Zemo, of all people.
He grabs a new sheaf of paper and uncaps a pen.
A private toilet?
There you go, Bucky, deflect with humor. He folds up the paper, slips it into the same envelope they've been sending back and forth, then posts it to the outside of his apartment door. This is how the letters have been arriving ever since he responded to the first one, and he took a guess when he posted his next letter to the door. He never sees them leave or go, but if he cared, he might imagine a Wakandan drone traveling to and from. When the exchanges happen quick, it takes at most two days for a response to arrive.
He still wonders how and why Zemo is able to exchange notes with him. Aside from nearly annihilating the Avengers and being generally devious, Zemo, in his time with Sam and James, never did anything… too bad. Went off the rails slightly, but always hopped back on, and usually had a way to push them on to the next thing.
He imagines Zemo is an exemplary prisoner. After all, he hadn't even thought of escaping the last prison until James proposed it, and how effortlessly he pulled that off made it clearly obvious that he could, well… do anything. Only, he chooses to behave.
It's scarier than a leashed dog.
But James isn't good at metaphors.
So, whatever.
--
Zemo hasn't written back for two weeks. James figures he iced him out once, it's only fair. Though, James deludes himself into thinking that he can wait longer than Zemo did to initiate contact. Hell, he could probably never send another letter and be just fine.
Just fine.
Just…
Huffing, he grabs his blankets and pillow and slouches into the living room to lie on the floor by the couch. He's been doing better about sleeping in his bed, but on nights his brain can't quiet, this is usually where he ends up. He stares at the ceiling, tries to regulate his breathing. When he came home from the market today there hadn't hadn't been an envelope on the door.
Not that it matters.
He fitfully rolls over on the hard floor, draws the blanket up to his chin, and forces his eyes shut.
--
"You good?"
Sam's question makes James' head fall off of his knuckles so hard he nearly rolls away in his wheely chair. He'd been resting with his elbow on the table, knuckles to his temple, staring blankly at the open dossier in front of him. He doesn't even bother looking around the room to see the unamused gazes of his so-called superiors, instead sliding his eyes to Sam, who spoke so close to his ear James could feel his nostrils vibrate.
Sam arches his brows expectantly.
James closes the dossier, taps it twice with his fingers, then stands. He tucks the folder under his arm, saying nothing as he exits the briefing room. He hears the brief scramble of Sam gathering his own things and saying goodbye to the important people James should probably care about, and then his footsteps are quickly catching up with him as he heads to the stairs.
"Man, what's your problem? Got me lookin' like a damn idiot in there."
"You're not the idiot," James replies easily. He still doesn't wait as he starts quickly down the stairs at a half jog.
"I know you dislike the bureaucracy of our situation but you really gotta stop making people feel uncomfortable for even being in the same room with you."
"Then maybe they shouldn't be in the room with me," he suggests as he makes it to the bottom of the stairs. He makes a hard right, using his vibranium hand to smack open a set of doors, relishing in the satisfying metal-on-metal sound.
"Bucky." Sam reaches out to catch him by the bicep as they both emerge in the lobby of the building. James patiently turns to look at Sam, who is wearing an expression between pissed off and confused. "What's been goin' on? Your head hasn't been in the game lately."
James pointedly looks down at where Sam is holding onto him. Catching the hint, Sam quickly releases him. "I'm fine."
"Don't pull that with me," Sam says.
Looking around, James weighs his options. He can't hide much from Sam anymore; they've worked too closely together, spent too much time together. Clenching his jaw, he nods. "Drinks."
He turns to make toward the door, enjoying Sam's guffaw and answering, "You're an expensive date, you don't even get drunk!", that echoes through the crowd.
Thirty minutes later has them in a dive bar nearby. Hats low and shoulders hunched as they crowd toward each other to try and look as inconspicuous as possible, they nurse the first round in silence. There's a Dodgers game playing on the television, both of them doing their best to ignore it and not make it a big deal.
Finally, James idly turns his beer glass with his leather-gloved hands. "I've been corresponding with Zemo."
"What?" Sam's response is immediate. There was no stunned moment of silence as he absorbed the information, no request for a repeat. Just immediate understanding of the sentence, and immediate outrage. "What in the fresh hell are you doing that for?"
Expecting about as much, James lifts a hand to scratch idly at his nose. He keeps his eyes on his glass. "It's not a big deal."
"Right, and if I started wearing underwear over my tights it wouldn't be a big deal," Sam says, deadpan. "How the hell is anyone even letting him use a pen? Son'bitch could kill someone with it."
"You know, before I broke him out of jail, Zemo was the perfect prisoner," James says, like it’s obvious he would be rewarded for “good behavior”.
"Yeah I'm sure he was a real saint," Sam mutters into his beer.
"I can't explain why," James admits, gritting his teeth through confessing anything at all. "He just feels… familiar."
Sam seems to think about that for a moment. He sighs, rubbing his palm over his features before leaning in close to speak quietly, intimately. "Listen, Buck. I know life ain't been easy for you these past… well, shit, this past century. You just keep taking hit after hit." He pokes James gently in the chest with his finger. "I respect the shit outta you, man. Didn't at first, but I know you've got my back. And you know I've got yours, right?"
James does his best to not look his friend in the eyes. He knows what he'll see: the imploring puppy gaze of a man who thinks of him as both a friend and charity case, or maybe even his other friend's dying wish. He inhales deep, exhales slow. "I know."
"So you know when you do something reckless I gotta let you know what's up."
"I know."
Sam contemplates him for a moment, seemingly weighing his next words. "Has talking to him… helped anything?" The kindness leaves his tone and is immediately replaced with sarcasm. "'Cause I'm tired of your ass bringin' the mood down."
Pinching the bridge of his nose, James turns to face Sam a little better. They're still hunched for privacy, so the action brings their noses dangerously close together. "I'm sorry, are you trying to be a concerned friend?"
Sam rolls his eyes, not breaking their closeness. "You don't seem like the warm n' fuzzy type so I'm trying different avenues."
James rolls his eyes in turn. "It makes me feel better." He finally answers. He pushes his beer glass idly. "And then it doesn't."
Sighing softly, Sam pulls away, dropping the act. He puts his hand on James' forearm, not forcing eye contact but letting him know it’s readily available. "Look, man. Zemo's a complicated dude. I don't like him, but I see that. And you're complicated, too. And the two of you together?" He sucks in a breath through his teeth, then pats James' arm a few times. "Somehow your creepy asses balance each other out. So if you wanna send each other love letters or whatever, then fine. But you gotta watch out for yourself, too."
They fall into silence for a few moments, long enough for their beers to get refilled.
Then, as casually as possible and missing by a square mile, Sam asks, "What would your therapist say?"
James thinks for a moment. A scene months old plays in his head: the memorial, Zemo going without struggle, and a little red book. "I crossed him out of my book."
"And that's a good thing, right?" Sam confirms.
James can't help but let the corner of his lip tilt. "According to my therapist."
"Hey," Sam puts his hand on James' thigh. It had taken James a while to get used to Sam's casual affection, but now it's as natural as breathing. "I think what's messing you up is worryin' about whether it's right or wrong." He moves his hand to prod James in the chest. "What's goin' on in that cyborg heart of yours?"
"My heart is human," James growls for show, falling into their usual banter.
"Coulda fooled me, ice man," Sam preens, before laughing and picking up his sweaty glass for a drink.
--
There's an envelope on the door when James comes home after drinks with Sam. He hadn't been aware that he'd needed any sort of approval to be doing what he's been doing, but now that he's more or less got some sort of blessing, he feels lighter. It probably speaks to his years of obedience, that he needed someone to tell him that he could do something and be ok with it, but he's not quite ready to dissect that.
He grabs the envelope and unlocks the door. He takes off his jacket and hat, hanging them up neatly, then toes off his boots as well. Flipping the envelope back and forth over his flesh fingers, he stabs the corner of it into his palm before letting out a short breath and opening it. In the entryway, bathed in the dim yellow light, he sees a surprisingly long note, a little thrown off by the different format.
James,
He moves father into his apartment, sitting down on the couch. He turns on the lamp, settles back, and reads.
Forgive me if the change in tempo is a bit sudden. I've had a lot of time to think, and our little exchanges have only made the pistons fire faster.
The Dora Milaje have been very kind in allowing our correspondence to continue. When I received your first note I was touched. The contents of said note dulled the spark a little bit, but I didn't expect anything… different from you, I suppose. While I do enjoy the schoolyard runaround I thought, since you seem so keen on catching my attention, that you might actually have something to say.
Tell me < soldat >. What is on your mind?
Yours,
H. Zemo
Blinking a few times to dispel the slight disbelief of an actual letter, James re-reads it twice more before setting the page down in his lap. He tilts his head back, stares up at the ceiling, and feels a relief so palpable he's glad he's sitting down.
His subconscious quest for approval from Sam met with Zemo's unfettered ability to get down to the nitty gritty has his head floating in an interesting space. Being caught twice in a day is a bit of a rush, in a way he doesn't quite understand. Licking his lips, he looks at the letter again.
Filled with cool superiority, Zemo's self-confidence oozes off the page, the written letters almost dripping with it. Here is a man who knows exactly who he is. A man who never once questioned his existence or place in the world, someone who knows how to set goals and accomplish them. A man of infinite patience and cunning.
He's so dangerous.
James feels envious.
Ever since falling into the hands of Hydra he's been told what to do and who to be and he does, quite often, think about how easy it was for Hydra to break his mind and dig their greasy claws in. He used to think that before the war he'd been self-assured and confident with who he was as a person, but when he thinks back, the only thing he can properly process is… Steve.
Yeah, he had his own life, but most of his time was occupied with scrawny Steve Rogers. Fighting off bullies, lambasting him with encouraging words while hoping maybe one ounce of confidence would stick to those frail bones. Thinking about it, which he doesn't do often, James is faced with the reality that he hasn't ever lived his life for himself.
He's always been some sort of subservient, has always sought out directions and order for the sake of others.
Exhaling a little shakily, he makes sure to let go of Zemo's letter to let it rest on his lap. He doesn't want to destroy this one. Most of the notes he's been sent are in a desk drawer that he pointedly never looks in, but this one is… more.
He forces himself to get up and walk over to the desk. Leaving the letter open and in his eyesight, he sits in the slightly rickety chair, then pulls a notebook toward himself while grabbing a pen.
The message is short.
He folds it neatly and puts it in the slightly crinkled envelope, moving mechanically to the door to pin it on the outside. Feeling more drained than he has even in battle, he decides to trudge to the bedroom to try to sleep in his bed for once. His head sinks into the pillow, his eyes close, and he lets out a controlled breath.
How do I live for me?