Chapter Text
It would be important to note, for anyone keeping score at home, that this decidedly was not how Sam Wilson had wanted their operation to go. A sprain in his left wrist, a bullet in Bucky’s right thigh, and Zemo having to be helped to the car with his arm around Buck’s shoulders. All things considered, though, they seemed to have been successful. Y’know. If the definition of successful was, “They’re all dead”. Sam still wasn’t sure how that had happened, and someone (Zemo) had some tall explaining to do, on the way home. Blood trails left every which way and that, one guy’s grey matter smudged against the ventilation unit, and enough standing evidence to make the local authorities cum in their pants.
And, Sam? Sam had missed all the fun, pinned down behind an upturned display table for most of the skirmish. It was a bit ridiculous to think about, that he had been surrounded by dozens of weapons that had spilled off of the surface, but hadn’t been able to make use of a damned one of them. A hail of gunfire pointed in one’s direction will cause those kinds of problems.
Fuck him, it had been a hell of a day.
The car was less than fifty yards away, and Sam was beginning to feel the questions pushing up at his throat. Typically, as of late, Zemo would be the one to give the recap of whatever nonsense Sam had missed out on. (Bullets, blood, brains, there was a definite pattern when he left those two alone). Bucky would throw in any missed details, or snide corrections, and, by the time the bickering began, anew, Sam had the distinct feeling of being back in high school. They’d fought, and won, and were down to gossiping like a bunch of teenage girls at a slumber party, while Zemo drove them the hell outta’ Dodge.
Taking one look at their furloughed companion, however, gave Sam the impression that today just might require a couple of tweaks.
“Uh, Zee, man?” he asked, eyes roaming over the injured party. The colour of his face was just awful, while his eyes were alternating between narrowed, and squeezed shut. Every few seconds, Sam caught Zemo biting at his lips, as though to either keep from crying out, or stop himself from expelling his breakfast at Bucky’s feet. “You want me to drive?” Zemo was a little… overprotective of his image, as was no secret. Sam expected to receive a snip back that Zemo was fine, that he was in perfect condition to drive. When Zemo merely nodded, and fished a stiff hand into his pocket for the keys, Sam began to worry that they had something of a problem on their hands. Checking for fever, even in jest, would have landed wrong, given the time and place. Instead, he simply accepted the keys deposited into his palm with a frown. He wanted to ask, he really did, but he also wanted to get the hell out of there before the task force arrived. (He was in no mood to answer a bunch of questions, and he wanted ice for his wrist, like, yesterday). As such, he nodded, and slipped his body under Zemo’s free arm. “Let’s get the hell outta’ here, then, huh?”
Bucky scoffed. “’Bout damn time,” he agreed, starting the three of them off, and toward the car. “This one’s getting pretty heavy.”
“My apologies,” Zemo rasped out, no less sarcastic for his current state. “Perhaps, you ought to bring the car to me.”
“Perhaps, you shouldn’t a’ thrown your stupid ass at a man twice your weight.”
Sam jerked his head up. “Who did what, now?” he asked, even though he’d heard Bucky, clear as day. The shake of the super soldier’s head said the same thing.
Zemo sighed, the sound a little unsteady. “I will be fine,” he assured the other two. “It is a-mng…” He flinched, between them, adjusting himself between his two support posts. They paused, allowing him a few seconds to settle. “A rib injury, at worst.” Zemo gave a little nod, and they resumed their journey across the pavement.
“Dumbass.”
“What is your fascination with my ass, exactly, James?” Zemo snapped, turning himself enough to glare up at the man. His chest was heaving, a bit, sending up a second red flag in Sam’s ever-growing catalogue of concerns.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Sam interjected, just as Bucky had opened his mouth for what was sure to be an unnecessarily harsh retort. For a man who lived for clamming up in the face of emotional confrontation, he could be surprisingly cruel when he put his mind to it. Besides, they were only a few feet from the car. “Let’s all take a breath, huh?” Zemo’s glare was suddenly turned on him, and Sam fought not to flinch. “Okay, sorry.” It might have been a little bit funny, though. If only privately. And, if also judged by the smirk on Bucky’s face. “Let’s just get him in front, Buck.”
Bucky’s smirk sank into a scowl, obviously affronted. “Hey.”
“What? You wanna’ sit in the back, and keep him from falling over?” Sam asked.
“He could lay down in the back.”
“Oh, yeah, that’d feel real good with a couple of busted ribs.”
“Gentlemen,” Zemo interrupted, in a forced hiss of sound. “Either shut up, and get in this car, or I’ll take the damned keys back, and drive myself home.” He was sharing a downright pissy look between the two of them, by then, sending Sam’s eyebrows to his hairline. “You two can stay here, and argue until dusk, for all I care.”
Bucky rolled his eyes, but gave a begrudged nod. “All right, all right.” He opened the front passenger door, and maneuvered a panting Zemo into the seat, with as much care as he was capable. He’d deny it, if asked, Sam knew, but Sam also knew a careful Bucky from a careless one.
Red Flag Number Three.
“Thank you,” Zemo sighed out, as he relaxed into the seat. Well, maybe relaxed was a bit of a stretch. He tipped his head back, and closed his eyes. Tried to get a handle on his breathing. Didn’t say another word.
Concerned, Sam turned his gaze on Bucky, who shrugged and looked away. He climbed into the back seat, not sharing a single detail. Fucking typical. Sam closed Zemo’s door, and stalked around to the driver’s side. A busted-up Zemo, a dismissive Bucky, and not a loose lip in sight. Oh, yeah. They were definitely going to be discussing this one, on the way back.
*
Despite Sam’s best efforts, no, they did not discuss the details of the tail end of their mission on the way back to the safe house. Which, when it came right down to it, was actually a decent accomplishment on the parts of both Bucky and Zemo. Sam was a right pain in the ass when he wasn’t getting what he wanted. While Zemo’s silence was probably a matter of necessity, Bucky’s was completely intentional. He was pretty happy, too, to sit and play the cold fish for a little while. Okay, not happy, per se, but… Well, damn it, he didn’t even know where he would start.
Peering toward the front, Bucky stole a glance at Zemo. The man had crowded himself against the door, which couldn’t have been all that comfortable. He couldn’t help but sympathize. Placed into a cramped space, knees (in Bucky’s case) shoved against the passenger seat, traversing some of the worst back roads he could recall ever having been on. To top it off, the drive was taking for-fucking-ever, but why wouldn’t their targets be hanging out in the sticks? Heaven, Forbid that they be more conveniently located. It was at least a forty-five-minute cruise between the scene of the crime, and the safe house, which meant that their lovely little journey of Twenty Unanswered Questions still had about ten minutes left to it. Just fucking great. More time for Sam to squeeze in more god-awful interrogation tactics.
Instead of giving him the opportunity, Bucky decided to let his mind wander. Granted, decided was probably a bit generous for his own sense of self. He liked to let himself believe he was in control, complete farce, though it was. He’d certainly been lacking in control, the last, oh, two hours or so. For fuck’s sake, he’d nearly had his head taken clean off by an RPG. If it hadn’t been for Zemo, leaping in at the last second, and tackling the man to the floor, Bucky would have been splattered across the back woods of Arkansas. And, he never would have seen it coming. That, in and of itself, was the scary part. He’d been so focused on disarming some jack-off with a nine-mil, he hadn’t even heard the dude with the propelled weapon sneak up on him. So, yeah, Sam would have to forgive him that he was a little bit shaken up.
Zemo, though. That little bastard had been his god damned saviour. A Guardian Angel in a fur collar. One minute, he was nowhere to be seen. The next, he was tussling on the floor with a guy big enough to make Bucky think twice. Bucky had been able to pay attention just as Zemo caught a heavily-booted foot to his side, causing him to cry out, and curl into himself in pain. The highlights of the ensuing brawl were pretty blunt, with him diving in, and getting the behemoth off of Zemo, fists flying, Zemo shouting. And, just when it looked like Bucky was going to have a bit more of a struggle on his hands than what he had bargained for, bam, there was Zemo again, this time to deposit a bullet in the National Bank of Brain Stem. The blood surely was still spattered across his face, mixed with his own blood, and the dirt and grime of their pleasant afternoon outing. With how hard the body had fallen on him, Bucky was amazed that he hadn’t broken any ribs.
Fuck, he just needed to fucking retire, already. He was too old for this shit, twice-over.
The safe house came into view, a few moments later. Bucky blinked, not having realized just how far his thoughts had drifted. If Sam had said anything during the rest of the drive there, he had been met with stony silence, both unintentional and not. Oh, well. Wasn’t the first time, and wouldn’t be the last. The relief Bucky felt as they pulled into the driveway, though, that was worth his attention. Zoning out, while helpful with Unwanted Acts of Sam, had also been a blessing to his ability to ignore his own injuries, at least for a little while. Dialing back in, he was being reminded. Forcefully. While he would recover from the piece of metal jammed in his thigh, it still burned like a bitch, and he’d just as soon have it out, thanks. He had to pause to remind himself that it could have been worse. Could have been, and almost was.
Sam killed the engine, and Bucky stole another glance at Zemo. The man had managed to fall asleep, at some point. His eyebrows were drawn into a pained expression, his obvious discomfort reflected in the glass of the window. Sam’s attention had been drawn to the passenger seat, as well, one hand reaching toward Zemo. Before contact could be made, Bucky shot out his own hand, grabbing Sam by the wrist.
“Let him sleep,” he explained to the startled look on Sam’s face. “I’ll get him.” Sam nodded, taking his hand back once it was released to his custody. With a small grunt of his own discomfort, Bucky hauled himself out of the car, a slight limp settling in alongside the stiffness. Fucking ride hadn’t done him any favours, either. He hobbled forward, shaking it off to ease the passenger door open. Thankfully, Zemo hadn’t been leaning against it, saving Bucky from having to catch him, mid-fall. Instead, it offered Bucky the space to slip his arms under the man, and lift him from the vehicle, bridal-style. And, Jesus Christ on a whole wheat cracker, shouldn’t a full-grown man be heavier? It wasn’t as if Bucky went around lifting men for sport – he called that ‘work’ – but he’d almost forgotten what it was to carry an average individual in his arms. Maybe, the new arm was to blame.
Maybe, he taunted himself, it’s not.
Sam went ahead and unlocked the front door, Bucky a healthy five or six steps behind. Zemo had been struck on the left side, so said Bucky’s memory, and it was presently his right side pressed against Bucky’s chest, but he was still as gentle as he could manage in maneuvering the man inside. Said man made a small noise of protest at the jostling of the porch steps, turning his face against the fabric of Bucky’s shirt.
“Sorry,” Bucky mumbled, needlessly. Zemo hadn’t woken fully, but the way he’d pressed closer had stirred up some measure of guilt in the man carrying him. He stepped inside, immediately making for the stairs. Zemo needed a bed, and Bucky needed a med kit. He could feel blood trailing down his leg, soaking through his pants, down to his ankle. He’d also be needing a fresh pair of socks.
Sam hung back and watched, closing the door and locking it behind them. “You know you’re gonna’ have to tell me something, right?”
“Yeah,” Bucky agreed, in a tone that dictated now wasn’t the time. He could picture Sam, hands on his hips, puffing up his chest, ready to go full-court press on the whole deal. The headache looming around his eyes just wasn’t prepared to deal with that. “When I can figure out what to say, I’ll let you know.”
*
“They’re not all dead, Sam,” Bucky argued, as he sat down on the couch with a bottle of beer in his right hand. He glanced around the living room, momentarily avoiding eye contact.
Sam looked up, following the other man’s line of sight around the room, while rolling the bottle Bucky had passed him between his hands. The military had set them up pretty nicely, this time. It wasn’t a grand piece of property, just a quaint little two-story, with four bedrooms, and a fenced-in backyard. But it felt comfortable, and relaxing. “Oh, no?” he replied, at last, looking back at Bucky and tilting his head to one side. “Which one do you think you left alive, exactly?”
“The, uh…” Bucky brought up his left hand, in a bad approximation of height. “The short one. The one with the goatee? Yeah, I don’t think I, uh, I don’t think I snapped his neck.” He lifted the bottle to his lips, which were clearly fighting not to smirk. “All the way.”
Sam snorted. “All the way, he says.” He took a sip of his own drink, and sighed. Rolling the bottle between his palms, once more, Sam winced in pain as the movement caught his wrist, just so. “So, what the hell happened when the gunfire started?” he asked, tone bordering on pleading. “We weren’t there to end lives.”
“Sam, we didn’t even know they were there,” Bucky returned, addressing one of the many elephants crammed into the room. “We got bad intel. Even you’ve got to admit it.”
It was true, enough so that Sam went in on downing half his drink. In fact, bad was probably an understatement, one he’d already been on the phone about. “Yeah, I know,” he gasped out, once he came up for air. “I already went up one side of Torres, and down the other.”
Bucky smirked. “So, that’s what all the yelling was about.”
“You got shot.” Sam gestured to where the older man had done a well-practiced job of wrapping up his bleeding thigh. “Zemo looks like he went two rounds with your stupid ass. And, I just watched my life flash before my eyes, while I cowered behind a table. All because somebody decided that fact-checking was above their pay scale.”
“No need to defend yourself. I get it,” Bucky assured. “But I can’t imagine that somebody being Torres.”
Sam shook his head. “Me, either. He’s looking into it, but, no matter who did it-”
“-Or, didn’t.”
“Right. No matter what, Torres has some responsibility in it, too.” Despite his words, Sam had left it all on the kid’s shoulders. He had a bit of remorse for the way he’d gone about it, but, shit, they’d been unprepared, and (mostly) unarmed when they’d walked in. No communications, no warnings, right up until the garage bay door had opened up for the entrance of half a dozen international terrorists. They’d spotted Sam first, which had led to gunfire, and battle wounds, and what Bucky kept referring to as 'a few slight cases of death'… Sam had never been one for asses in slings, but certain situations called for it. Their collective day was easily categorized as just such a situation.
“For the record,” Bucky continued, interrupting the sudden silence, along with Sam’s thoughts. “He’d have looked a lot worse, after fighting me.”
Sam furrowed his eyebrows. “Who?”
“Zemo.”
Sam’s only response was a grumpy, “Shut the fuck up.”