Chapter Text
„Handle so, daß du die Menschheit sowohl in deiner Person, als auch in der Person eines jeden anderen jederzeit zugleich als Zweck, niemals bloß als Mittel brauchest.“
Act in such a way that you always treat humanity, whether in your own person or in the person of any other, never simply as a means, but always at the same time as an end.
Immanuel Kant - Grundlegung zur Metaphysik der Sitten - 1785
***
James
“Please hold the line.”
His breaths rushed in hard and fast, his phone laying on the floor between his feet in front of him. He’d long given up on trying to hold it in his trembling hands. It kept slipping away.
James force a stuttering deep breath. He wasn’t sure if he was going to pass out. He wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol. He wasn’t completely sure how much he’d even had. The bottles, they were all over the place. Then again, he didn't know if he was seeing double.
He pulled at his shirt for the third time, trying to free his neck from the suffocating weight. But it was useless. There was nothing squeezing his throat, and still, he was running out of air. He’d opened the windows wide to let in the cool night draft, but he was still sweating like crazy. A cage was closing in on him, pressing on him, he couldn’t breathe. He barely heard the automated voice past the ringing in his ears.
“Please hold the line.”
He closed his eyes and knocked his head back against the wall. Truth be told, he didn’t know why he was doing this. Maybe this was some sort of last resort. The nightmares hadn’t stopped. Even after all this time. Not before therapy, not during, and not now, after. Or whatever this therapeutic hell was.
He knew if he called Sam, the guy would try to talk him down, even at times like these, when he’d call after one in the morning. But it didn’t always help. Sam listened, but he didn’t understand. Not really. And he’d called him too many damn times anyway. It made him feel like shit. Sam was out there actually doing something, changing things, and he was out here in the middle of nowhere, wasting away, crying at night and trying to drink it all away with some special concoction he’d found that actually still worked on him. It was pathetic. And Sam was always so worried, and James hated making him worry.
Most of all, though, he didn’t want Sam noticing the lack of progress. He wanted him to believe he was getting better. He didn't want him to know that it was getting worse.
The only solution that James found was to talk to someone else, where it didn’t matter what state James was in. And it was worrying how fast he’d come up with just who to call— fuck. He bit his thumb. There was one person he knew, for certain, who would understand him.
His fingers searched for a bottleneck. He took another swig.
The low tone emanating from the phone suddenly switched off.
A reassuring voice answered the phone. “I can’t believe you’re calling. White wolf! I miss hearing from you. You should call more often!”
James closed his eyes, transported back in time. When things were better. Calmer. He wished he could go back there. But after what he’d pulled at the start of the year, helping him out of prison, he’d probably never see another sunrise from those hills. Funny that it was precisely about him that he was calling.
“I want to — I mean, I need to... to talk to him,” James started, gnawing at his lip. Fuck it. “I need to talk to Zemo.”
He was out of his mind. Out of his goddamn mind. But he was at the end of the line here. He had no other ideas.
“And you called me first, instead of trying to hack into the system or breaking him out again?” Shuri teased. “My, you have changed.”
James desperately tried to let the soothing light-heartedness of her voice reach him. But it didn't get to him. “Can I?”
“I don’t know... I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Look, I gave him up like I promised, didn’t I? I did what you asked.” He only just held his voice back from cracking. He tightened his hold on the bottle, hating the way he trembled, how desperate he sounded. “Just one call. That’s all I’m asking for. I need him.” He gulped. “For information,” he quickly added.
A sigh came from the other end of the line. “I do not like what you are up to, James. But I trust you, so... alright. I will contact the guards, have them notify him. But it is up to him if he wishes for a call to be patched through to you. And the calls are definitely recorded. It’s the Raft, James.”
“That— That’s okay. Thank you.”
There was a short pause. “Are you sure you’re alright?”
James grimaced. It wasn’t like they hadn’t seen him like this before, distraught, a complete mess. But he couldn’t do it again. Disappoint them. Show them he was still a fucking failure after all this time, and all the effort, all the deprogramming, all the therapy. Worthless. “Y- yeah. Thank you, Shuri.”
“Don’t be a stranger, white wolf.”
The call ended and he cursed at himself, taking long gulps from the bottle. Whatever drink was in it was running low. He could open a liquor store with all this stuff. Well… could have. It was mostly gone now. He’d initially ordered the bottles to stock up the small wine cellar corner of the basement. To make it look nice. But then he’d somehow fallen into the bad habit of drinking whenever he woke up from the nightmares. Just to dull the pain, to make the memories blur. He’d never had this much, though.
He gazed out of the window, eyes drooping. What the hell was he thinking? This was such a bad idea. If calling Zemo of all people was the kind of shit he was resorting to, he’d surely become absolutely insane. So much for all the therapy, all the attempts at "reintegration."
He groaned as he set the mostly empty bottle down next to him. He wanted to forget, mostly. Forget where he was. Forget everything that had happened since Madripoor, the last time he’d felt alive.
James didn’t think it was possible at the time, but things had gotten so much worse than he could have imagined.
He stared at the blurry moon outside the window until its light faded.
He must have drifted off, because the next thing he knew, the phone was ringing, the sudden sound jolting him out of his skin.
“Fuck!” His metal hand knocked the nearest bottle down onto the floor. It rolled slowly before clinking against another empty glass.
James frowned at the screen. It looked official. But it couldn’t already be… could it?
He chest tightened as he swiped up and carefully lifted the phone to his ear. He hated that his fingers were still fucking trembling.
“This call is from a detainee of the Raft,” an automated voice began, “all calls are logged and recorded and may be listened to as a matter of security. If you do not wish to accept this call, please hang up now.”
God. Could it already be him? His eyes darted to the clock. He’d only drifted off for about twenty minutes.
The phone beeped as he was put through.
He tried to keep himself steady, though his heart was thumping loud in his chest, his throat tightening painfully, as if he’d been screaming for hours. And his breaths… his breaths were just as shallow as they had been when he’d had the brilliant idea to call up Shuri. He couldn’t control any of part of his body’s reaction. Just like the shaking in his hands—
“James?”
His breath stuttered.
He didn’t know why he was surprised by the soft voice. Nor did he know why the tears erupted then and there. It felt like he’d been holding his breath all evening, waiting for the rope to snap. And here it was. James pressed his hand to his mouth hard in an attempt to muffle it. This was Wakanda all over again. He’d broken down then, when he’d been freed from the words. And now he was coming apart all over again.
He was still broken. He was still the same.
Nothing had changed.
He sobbed into his palm, the tears wet on his fingers. He had no idea why it was his voice that had shattered him. That had brought on the sudden deluge of emotion. James was just so fucking exhausted, and tired, and drunk, and done, and his insides felt like they were melting, his composure like a dam collapsed, thoughts like sand slipping through his fingers. Fuck.
“James, what’s wrong?”
He regained some of his dignity, smearing the salty tears from his face with his metal hand, thankful Zemo couldn’t see him right now. James had no idea what he was doing. How much must he have had to drink to think calling Zemo would help?
He was out of his damn mind!
With that thought, James suddenly came to his senses. This was a horrible idea. He pulled the phone from his ear, fingers fumbling desperately to find the red “end call” button.
“James.” Zemo’s voice was clear and determined between two sniffs. “Talk to me. Is something wrong?”
James clenched his teeth hard enough to smart. He needed Zemo to tell him what to do. He didn’t know what to do.
“Talk to me.”
He shook his head at his phone, biting his metal thumb, seeking pain to ground himself. He didn’t know what to say. What was he supposed to say? That he was a failure? That he had managed to get drunk out of his goddamn mind despite being a super soldier? That all he had wanted was to hear that soft velvety voice— What the fuck was he thinking?
“I called you as soon as they told me you wanted to speak to me. Where are you? Do you need help?”
“It’s nothing.” The words slipped out before he could stop himself. It was nothing. Nothing really important.
“Ah.” James could hear the smile spreading. “There he is.”
Any other time, James would have punched that smug smile off that pretty face. But he was so tired right now. And Zemo wasn’t here. But dammit he wished he was —
Fuck. James really needed to get those intrusive thoughts out of his tipsy mind.
He had to stop this. All James had to do was press the button. He hovered his thumb over the screen, hesitating.
“James.”
James shivered, lucidity slowly returning to him after… whatever had brought on this impulsive decision. “I don’t know why I called, sorry.”
“I think you do. It is almost two in the morning, James.” A sigh. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”
“This…” This was so damn stupid. “Sorry for waking you—”
“It’s okay, James. I wasn’t asleep.”
James let out a big exhale of relief. He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to reach for another bottle an arm’s length away. He downed some more of… whatever if it was called. So many bottles were shimmering slightly in the dark, all laid out on the bedroom floor like post modern art, reflecting the dim moonlight.
“Were you having nightmares?”
His heart fluttered, the reply swift. “No.”
“James.”
He took a deep breath, trying to sound certain. “No.”
Well… emphasis on the try. He knew he sounded even less convincing than the first time.
“I can tell when you’re lying, James. How bad?”
He cursed at himself, trying to breathe. Fine. Whatever. “Bad.”
He didn’t know what was compelling him to tell Zemo, of all people. Maybe he just hated himself that much.
“Do you want me to come?”
His heart skipped a beat. “What?”
“Do you need me to come to you?”
“You... can’t.”
“Do you really think the Raft can stop me? You of all people should know how good I am at slipping away, James.” There it was again: that smile he could hear through just his voice.
But what was Zemo thinking telling him this? Weren’t the calls being recorded?
“The Raft is not the same as some German prison.”
“That is true. But I’m willing to take my chances.”
“Why?”
The line went silent for a moment. “Do you want me to come?”
He bit his lip. Now that he thought about it, he did want Zemo to come. Zemo wouldn’t care about the state he was in. James wouldn’t care if Zemo judged him for it. It was a different story with Sam.
Besides, anything was better than being stuck in this place, alone with only his thoughts to keep him company. If he hadn’t known that this was part and parcel of his new therapy plan, he might have assumed this was some Hydra torture.
A part of him also had a hunch that the baron’s presence would soothe him. Calm his paranoia, anyway. Zemo knew what it was like. But he was also… so fucking irritating. None of his gut inclinations to have him come made any logical sense. Maybe it was some messed up Stockholm syndrome shit. He didn’t even want to start thinking about the Winter Soldier implications… if some messed up part of himself somehow still saw Zemo as a handler, as a protector.
It was so fucking stupid.
“James? Should I come?”
God how he wanted to say yes.
“No,” he forced out instead.
“I just told you I can tell when you’re lying. You’re very bad at it, James.”
Despite himself, Bucky chuckled.
He could hear Zemo’s smile widen on the other end of the line. “If I manage to steal a transport, surely I could be there within an hour.”
Bucky’s heart beat so hard in his ears that he barely made out the second voice on Zemo’s end.
“Zemo,” they warned. It had to be one of the Raft guards.
Zemo’s voice became muffled as he turned away from the phone. “I was just flirting.” Then the voice became clearer again. “What do you think, James?”
James struggled to find his words for a moment, too caught up on Zemo’s jest. “Don’t— Don’t do that.”
“What, flirt?”
Oh my god. “No, I mean… Don’t get into any trouble.”
“Trouble?”
James couldn’t help it as his own smile grew. Madripoor was a mess but now that he thought back to it...
“Well then, I suppose I’ll be good for you and stay put.”
Fucking hell. Zemo was toying with his emotions here. And it wasn’t like James could control his own sharp inhales or the intrusive thoughts. He was drunk for fuck’s sake.
The line went quiet on both their ends. James realized that he found the silence comforting. He hadn’t had a lot of comfortable moments lately.
Then Zemo quietly spoke up again. “Tell me about the dream.”
James sighed. “Really?”
“Yes, James. I could use a distraction myself.”
“Okay.”
And so he started.
The words came slowly, at first. Like the first drops of rain on a summer evening. And then it poured. James didn’t just tell him about what happened in the dreams. Not just about those memories, mixed with fiction. Not just the blood, and the limbs, and the screaming. He also told him about the way the nightmares gnawed at him. How he’d wake up, feeling three times heavier, how he’d end up drinking, trying to forget. Telling him how horrifying it was, waking in the dark, how he tried crying without success, how he had screamed into his pillow, how he’d spent hours hitting a punchbag to exhaust himself enough to fall asleep, how he had to make his way through two bottles of the strongest liquor he could find before he could dim down the shaking enough to even manage to hold his phone. James tried to tell himself that his tongue was loosened by said drinks, but another part knew that wasn’t quite true.
“How much have you had to drink?”
“I don’t know. A lot of it doesn’t affect me that much anymore… so I overcompensated. I think I overdid it. It’s hard to tell.” His head was already starting to throb.
“Don’t drink next time. Call me instead, okay?”
He nodded, forgetting Zemo couldn’t see him. His eyes drifted up to the clock. Four am. They’d been talking for two whole hours.
“I should go,” James said apologetically. “It’s late.”
“I can stay up.”
“No, no. It’s fine.” James held back from thanking him. That was too much.
“Call me anytime James, I have nowhere else to be.”
***
“Why am I here doc?”
James hated being back here. Giving Raynor that list had felt like closure. But no, the government was keen on having him back in this horrible place again. He hated the forest wallpaper. The tree trunks made the room feel more like a prison than anything else. It wasn’t comfortable.
“You decided to stop therapy,” Raynor said, eyeing him over her tablet.
James didn’t let her get to him. “Walker authorized it.”
“Walker no longer has any jurisdiction here.”
“I gave you the list. I finished it. What else is there?”
“Finishing a list does not mean you are done with healing. Not to mention that during your little trip with Sam Wilson, you managed to break all three of the rules. Shall I list just one example for each one?” Without waiting for an answer, she looked down at her tablet and cleared her throat. “One: do nothing illegal.” She looked anything but amused. “You broke a convict out of prison. Two: do no harm. You shot and beat up numerous people in Madripoor. And rule number three…” She looked up at him. “You fought these people as the winter soldier, James. This is not part of your recovery. If anything, it’s set you back miles.”
James closed his eyes for a moment, letting the memory of playing the winter soldier rush through him. That feeling of power, of being able to let go and let it all out. That smile Zemo had given him, the look of pride on his face. He’d felt so fucking powerful again. Alive. What he wouldn’t give to feel it again.
Worth it.
“Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
James opened his eyes again. He gave a half shrug, trying not to smile. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had so much fun. He’d known he was breaking every single one of those stupid rules but he hadn't given a single fuck. Zemo had awoken something inside of him. Something akin to childish joy. The kind of intoxicating adrenaline that he welcomed rather than shied away from. Zemo was playful, something new in all this boring everyday greyness.
Raynor gave him an impatient look. “Well?”
“Am I free to go?”
“James… There are consequences to your actions. You of all people should know this.”
“So what, am I going to prison?”
What irony, if he was going to be sent away. If they were serious about this, he’d probably have to go to the Raft, being a super soldier and all. He only just held himself back from chuckling, imagining being brought into a cell right next to Zemo.
“What did you do this time?” He could almost hear the baron ask.
He wagered Zemo would help him escape. An eye for an eye, as it were.
But then James didn’t know if he could live with himself with Zemo still incarcerated. He already regretted turning him in as it was.
“James, are you listening to me?”
Shit. Raynor had been talking. “Hmm?”
“Your… let’s call it ‘lapse in judgment,’ does not warrant prison, but the government’s hold on you has tightened considerably. Which is understandable. You're going to need to make some concessions.”
“What do you mean?”
***
The hangover wasn’t quite as bad as James had expected it to be. It didn’t really compare to the hangovers he barely remembered from back in the day, when he’d only just been a kid. Plus, he could take it slow. It wasn’t like he needed to be anywhere.
Call me anytime James, I have nowhere else to be.
Shit.
The night came back to him like a thunderbolt. He pressed his head into the pillow, trying to suffocate himself. What the fuck had he been thinking? Really? Fucking Zemo?
With a groan, he pulled his phone from his bedside table, quickly sitting up and running a hand through his longer hair. Maybe it had all just been a dream – if it was, then he was definitely worried about his own subconscious - more worried than he already was. But if it hadn’t been a dream…
“Shit.”
Yup, there it was. Call history. Two hours and fifteen minutes.
He tossed his phone onto the table. It landed on the journal he kept. Well, that he was supposed to be keeping. He’d stopped writing in it a few weeks ago.
There was nothing quite as depressing as writing down improvements, and then, a few days later, writing down how you failed again and how you were back to square one.
He ignored the notebook and flung on his bathrobe as he made his way downstairs. It wasn't like he had to be presentable to anyone.
The sun was already shining through the light violet window curtains, which were moving ever so slightly in the summer breeze. It was quite uncanny, to think that only around two months had passed since Madripoor. It felt like years in this glorified prison.
He took his time meandering to the large open kitchen. He was on automatic as he got out the instant coffee, before hesitating and turning to get the ground coffee instead. He pulled the package from the cabinet, ignoring the gun stowed away between the cereals boxes.
Within minutes, the aroma of coffee beans had filled the kitchen and living room. James lounged back on the couch that was too big for just him, taking his time as he sipped the dark, strong coffee. He glanced up at the empty space above the fireplace mantelpiece. Normal people would have mounted up a flat-screen there. But the therapist’s new rules meant no TV.
James couldn’t begin to count how much time he had spent staring at that bare extent of wall, like he was doing a staring contest with it or something.
Thank god he still had a phone, else he would have gone completely insane. He had call privileges, which was good, because that was the only way Sam could reach him. He’d made sure to ask about who he could call. Turned out he could call anyone he wanted, as long as he followed those new and improved golden rules.
Maybe the part of him that had decided to call Zemo wanted to test the limits of what he was allowed to do. Maybe there was a part of him that was still eager to get back at the government and their stupid new version of mandated therapy.
He smirked as he sipped his coffee, imagining the look on Raynor’s face if she knew he had spoken with Zemo of all people, and that those two hours had made him feel better than all of their sessions ever had. Combined.
Once he was done, James strolled into the kitchen again. He tossed his mug into the sink along with the other mugs, still waiting to be washed up. The bin was overflowing again with empty takeaway boxes and wraps. He made a mental note to take out the trash, knowing he’d forget it anyway.
The country house they’d given him wasn’t half bad. It was already furnished and nicely decorated. Like a house out of a pamphlet. It had a spacious and open ground floor with hardwood parquet and lots of large windows with views of the surrounding forest. The basement had a small sports corner and a little wine cellar part, the bedroom upstairs felt open and big. The best part, of course, was the terrace that looked out on the garden and the field beyond. It was from here that he watched thunderstorms in the summer evenings.
During his first weeks at the house, he’d been paranoid that he was being watched, that dangers lurked outside, around every corner. He put up his own measures of security after he’d gone through every nook and cranny looking for cameras and mics. But nothing. It was weird, to be expected to feel safe after being caught off-guard so often.
In the beginning, he used the little gym to train, having at it with the punching bag, imagining Raynor’s face on it. But when no dangers appeared, and as time passed, his anger slowly simmered down.
He grew accustomed to seeing deer at the edge of the forest at sunrise. He became acquainted with every inch of the home, and his nerves settled. He was always ready for a nasty surprise, but he wasn’t spending his days waiting for it. He had enough trouble with his night terrors to be worried about any outside threats.
James forced himself to clean up the mess of empty bottles in his room before settling down on the sofa to start another book. It wasn't like there was much else to do.
He had just opened the novel when his phone on the coffee table buzzed.
He glanced over at the screen. A message from an unknown number.
Setting down the paperback, James leaned forward and picked it up.
Call this number next time. They won’t hear us on this line.
He stared at the words for a moment before replying. Did you steal a phone?
It’s no trouble, James. Like hell it wasn’t. Call this number next time.