Chapter Text
The neon lights of High Town bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Sharon’s building's sixth floor, casting jagged streaks of violet and electric blue across the room. The bass was a physical weight, vibrating through the soles of Bucky’s boots.
On the dancefloor, Zemo was… doing whatever that was. A rhythmic, stiff-shouldered shimmy that spoke of old European ballrooms and too much confidence.
"Look at him," Sam chuckled, leaning his elbows back against the marble counter of the bar. "Man looks like he’s trying to shake a bug out of his clothes, but he’s having the time of his life."
Bucky didn't laugh. He gripped his glass of vodka, triple distilled, high shelf, and utterly useless against his metabolism, with a white-knuckled intensity. He looked less like a guest and more like a gargoyle tasked with keeping a very specific prisoner from hopping the balcony.
"He’s a flight risk, Sam," Bucky muttered, his eyes tracking Zemo’s every swivel.
"He’s a middle-aged man who likes fur-collar coats, enjoying a beat," Sam corrected, patting Bucky on the shoulder. "Lighten up, man. I’m gonna go see if Sharon’s actually got real food or just these tiny crackers. Keep an eye on the Baron. Don't let him start a coup by the DJ booth."
Sam vanished into the crowd, leaving Bucky alone with his grumpiness and a drink that was as effective as water.
A few minutes later, the Baron emerged from the sea of bodies. Zemo was flushed, his hair slightly damp at the temples, a faint, manic glint in his dark eyes. He didn't even look at Bucky as he slid into the stool next to him.
"A double. Scotch. Neat," Zemo told the bartender, his voice tight with exertion.
When the glass arrived, Zemo didn't sip. He tilted his head back and drained it in one fluid motion, the amber liquid vanishing down his throat. He slammed the glass back onto the marble with a sharp clink.
Bucky watched him, his brow furrowing into a deep V. He looked at Zemo’s throat, then back to his eyes, suspicious and silent.
"What?" Zemo asked, finally acknowledging him. He wiped a stray drop of scotch from his lip with his thumb.
"Nothing," Bucky said, his voice a low gravel.
Zemo didn't blink. He raised a finger to the bartender.
"Another. Make it a triple."
"Hey," Bucky snapped, his metal hand instinctively twitching toward Zemo’s arm. "Easy. We’ve got a mission tomorrow. We need to be moving at six. You’re gonna be useless if you’re hungover."
Zemo took the second glass, but he didn't drink it immediately. Instead, he turned his body fully toward Bucky, a cold, sharp smile spreading across his face.
"I spent eight years in a German prison cell, James," Zemo said, his voice dripping with a sudden, heavy bitterness. "Eight years staring at gray walls, eating gray food, and dreaming of the burn of a decent spirit. You will forgive me if I find your 'schedule' secondary to my desire to feel something other than boredom." He shrugged, a dismissive, aristocratic motion of his shoulders. "You cannot stop me from having a bit of fun. I have earned the right to lose my mind for a night."
Zemo downed the triple shot just as quickly as the first. He exhaled a long, shaky breath, the heat of the alcohol finally hitting his bloodstream. Without another word, he slid off the stool and smoothed his clothes. He gave Bucky a look that was half-challenge, half-invitation, and disappeared back into the pulsing heart of the dancefloor.
Bucky stayed at the bar, sulking, his gaze fixed on the back of Zemo’s head. He looked down at his own hand, then back at the Baron, his jaw set tight.
Bucky ordered another glass of vodka, the clear liquid sloshing over the rim. He downed it, the burn finally beginning to prick at the back of his throat, though it did nothing to quiet the noise in his head.
His eyes were locked on Zemo.
The Baron’s dancing had shifted. The stiff, rhythmic swaying had loosened into something fluid and dangerously uncoordinated. The alcohol was clearly winning. Zemo’s long sleeves were rolled back to his elbows, his hair damp and sticking to his skin, and his movements had lost their calculated precision.
That's when she appeared.
A woman in a dress that looked like liquid gold drifted into Zemo’s space. She didn't just dance near him, she clearly claimed him. Her hands slid up his chest, and Bucky watched, paralyzed, as Zemo didn't pull away. Instead, Zemo’s hands settled heavily on her hips. He pulled her in, his fingers digging into the silk of her dress, following the slow, suggestive grind of her body against his.
Bucky’s grip on his glass tightened until the vibration of the bass through the table felt like it was coming from the crystal itself. His blood began to simmer. It wasn't just the tactical guarding anymore. It was a sharp, jagged heat in his chest that had nothing to do with the mission and everything to do with the way Zemo’s head was tilted back, eyes half-closed, leaning into the woman’s touch.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
The beat of the house music was deafening, but Bucky could hear the blood rushing in his ears over it. He blinked, distracted for a fraction of a second by a flashing strobe light, and when his vision cleared, the simmer turned into a flash-boil.
They weren't dancing anymore. Zemo had the woman pressed against him, his hand tangled in her hair, and he was kissing her. There was nothing polite, nor romantic. It was a messy, hungry, drunken make-out session in the middle of the crowded dancefloor. Zemo was devouring her, his mouth moving with a desperate, uninhibited intensity that Bucky had never seen from the man.
Bucky’s throat tightened, making it hard to swallow. The heat didn't just stay in his face, it radiated downward, a mix of white-hot jealousy and a confusing, terrifying jolt of desire. He felt the phantom itch of his metal arm, the servos whining silently as his fingers twitched.
He couldn't stay on that stool. He shouldn't. He was supposed to be the "handler" tonight, the one in control, but watching Zemo lose himself to a stranger was tearing a hole through Bucky’s composure and chest.
Zemo broke the kiss, laughing breathlessly into the woman’s neck, his eyes wandering toward the bar. For a split second, his hazy, dark gaze collided with Bucky’s. Zemo didn't look ashamed. He looked defiant. He looked alive.
Bucky slammed his empty glass onto the counter, the sound lost in the music.
Bucky’s jaw was aching from how hard he was grinding his teeth, his eyes fixated on the way Zemo’s hands, pale and elegant, were hooked into the waist of that woman’s dress.
Then, the world fractured.
Out of the pulsing haze of the crowd, a man exploded forward. There was no warning, no shout of defiance, just a heavy, blunt crack as a fist collided with Zemo’s jaw. The Baron’s head snapped back, his body reeling toward the floor, the woman screaming as she was nearly pulled down with him.
Bucky didn't think. The Winter Soldier didn't need to. He vaulted over the bar stool, his boots hitting the floor with a bone-jarring thud. He tore through the dancers like a hurricane, his metal shoulder catching a man and sending him spinning.
By the time Bucky reached the center, Zemo was already surging upward. He wasn't cowering, he was grinning, a dark, manic smear of blood on his lip. With a jagged laugh, Zemo lunged, burying a left hook deep into the stranger’s guts. As the man buckled, wheezing for air, Bucky’s hand clamped onto the back of Zemo’s neck like a vice.
"Enough!" Bucky snarled.
He didn't just lead Zemo away, he hauled him. He dragged him through the sea of bodies, his grip unyielding, ignoring the Baron’s breathless, drunken chuckles. When they reached a shadowed alcove near the end of the bar, Bucky spun him around and slammed him back against the counter.
Bucky didn't move away. He stepped in closer, his chest nearly brushing Zemo’s. He planted both hands on the marble on either side of Zemo’s hips, caging him in.
The tension in the air snapped. It wasn't just anger anymore, it was a heavy, suffocating heat. Bucky was close enough to smell the expensive scotch and the sharp tang of adrenaline on Zemo’s skin. He was looming, his shoulders blocking out the rest of the party, his blue eyes burning with a possessive, frustrated fire.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Bucky hissed, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous gravel. "What the fuck were you doing out there?"
Zemo didn't flinch. He leaned back against the counter, his chest heaving, his dark eyes tracing the line of Bucky’s throat before settling on his mouth. He looked utterly wrecked and terrifyingly composed all at once.
"I believe," Zemo murmured, his voice a velvety rasp that vibrated in the small space between them, "that I may have kissed that man’s wife. Or perhaps his sister. The lighting here is... deceptive."
He let out a soft, huffed chuckle, his gaze drifting back to Bucky’s lips.
Bucky felt the air leave his lungs. He should have moved. He should have dragged him to Sharon's penthouse. Instead, he stayed rooted, his heart hammering against his ribs in a rhythm that had nothing to do with the bass. He closed his eyes for a second, a desperate, pained sigh escaping him as he tried to catch his breath.
When he opened them, Zemo was still staring at his mouth, his tongue darting out to lick the blood from his split lip.
The silence between them was screaming. Zemo cleared his throat abruptly, the spell breaking just enough for him to spin around, turning his back to Bucky to face the bar.
It was a mistake.
With Zemo’s back pressed firmly against Bucky’s front, the friction was undeniable. Bucky didn't retreat, he stayed braced, his arms still flanking Zemo, his body a solid, warm weight against the Baron’s spine. Zemo reached out with a trembling hand, snagging a forgotten drink from the counter and draining it in one go.
He let out a violent grimace.
"Ugh. That was... definitely not just vodka."
"That’s it," Bucky growled into Zemo’s ear, the vibration making the Baron’s shoulders hitch. He snatched the glass away. "No more drinking. The party’s over. You need air before you start another riot."
Bucky grabbed Zemo’s arm, pulling him toward the exit. Zemo stumbled, playing the part of the weary prisoner, but as they passed the edge of the bar, his hand moved with the ghost of a magician’s touch.
He swiped a full bottle of vodka, hiding it behind his back without Bucky ever seeing it.
"Lead on, Sergeant," Zemo murmured, his voice thick with a promise of more trouble to come. "I am entirely in your hands.”
Bucky caught the remark, entirely in your hands, and felt a jolt of something he didn't want to name. He turned away abruptly to the coat closet, grabbing Zemo’s heavy, fur-collared coat and throwing it at the man’s chest with more force than necessary.
"Put it on. We’re leaving," Bucky ordered, shrugging into his own jacket.
Zemo caught the coat with a languid grace, sliding it on and surreptitiously patting the heavy weight of the stolen vodka bottle tucked against his ribs. He followed Bucky out of the building, his steps slightly exaggerated as he navigated the transition from the heavy music to the calm night of the High Town streets.
Once outside, the humid Madripoor night air wrapped around them. Zemo stopped, tilting his head back and inhaling deeply.
"Ah. You see, James? High Town smells of jasmine and expensive sins. It is much more agreeable than the rotting trash and desperation of Low Town."
Bucky rolled his eyes, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
"It all smells like trouble to me. Let’s go."
They started walking down the neon-drenched sidewalk, the overhead mag-lev trains humming like a hive of angry bees above them. Zemo watched the way the blue light caught the sharp line of Bucky’s jaw.
"And where, precisely, are we going?" Zemo asked, his voice light, almost melodic with the hum of the alcohol. "To the beach to stare at the stars and wait for the sun to rise?"
"I don't know the layout of this city, Zemo," Bucky snapped, eyes scanning the shadows for threats. Why the hell was Zemo sounding almost romantic? "I’m just walking until I find a landmark that isn't a club or a weapon shop."
Zemo hummed, a small, secretive smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He knew Madripoor. He knew every winding alley, every rooftop shortcut, and every illegal gambling den tucked behind a noodle shop. And right now, the scotch and the mystery-mix he’d downed were screaming for something more than a quiet walk. He wanted the rush of the hunt. He wanted to see if the Soldier could still keep up.
"A pity," Zemo murmured, slowing his pace just a fraction. "Because I have a much better idea."
Bucky turned to ask what, but the word died in his throat.
Without a single word of warning, Zemo bolted.
He didn't just walk away, he took off with the sudden, frantic energy of a startled fox, his heavy coat flapping behind him like wings.
Bucky’s eyes went wide.
"ZEMO!" he yelled, the sound echoing off the glass skyscrapers. "Zemo, get back here!"
Zemo didn't look back. He took a sharp, reckless turn into a narrow alleyway, his laughter trailing behind him like a taunt.
"God dammit!" Bucky cursed under his breath, his boots slapping hard against the pavement as he shifted into a sprint.
His heart hammered against his ribs, not from exhaustion, but from the sheer, terrifying adrenaline of the chase.
The Baron was fast, but Bucky was a predator. He bolted after him, his metal arm pumping at his side, diving into the shadows of the alley as the hunt began in earnest.