Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

A quiet, constant sense of frustration plagued every waking thought. There was nothing to confirm to himself that the words of others were true or untrue, though they were the only ones he could rely on. The discomfort of slowly losing one’s sanity was starting to grow more severe, six months of the same routine hadn’t helped, no closer to finding a solution to make whatever had been done to him reverse, or simply stop.

Zemo was out of control, and it was the most unbearable feeling on earth.

“You’re quiet today.” Dr. Morrison commented, trying to prompt him into speaking. The old man sat across from him in a chair that couldn’t pass as comfortable no matter how tired you were. They were designed to make you hurt, as was everything within the walls of the Raft. Zemo shifted his gaze from where it had been, unfocused and uninterested, finally looking at the Psychiatrist for the first time that morning. White hair that was carefully combed and parted in the middle, accompanied by an equally white beard all worn on a pale face that, if any whiter, would be transparent. The Doctor looked more ill than Zemo felt.

“A keen observation.” He replied, focusing on the man’s black, thick rimmed glasses that had a visibly strong prescription, based on the thickness of the lenses. “Forgive me for the lack of interesting conversation, I’m afraid I don’t feel quite up to snuff today.”

“Do you feel worse?” The doctor asked, and Zemo fought down the usual sarcastic reply that he’d normally offer to such a pointless question.

“Yes.” He said easily, eyes falling back down to his hands, which were bound to the table that sat between them. An entirely unconventional situation, one that wasn’t offered to him before. Therapy, given to the man that was bound to lose all sense of self should things continue the way they are. For some reason they suddenly cared about his well being, the thought itself making him laugh, soft and bitter.

It probably had less to do with caring, and more to do with the fact that he was a free test subject for all the others recovered from Russia that were slowly showing similar symptoms. Or at least, a select few of them. What was happening made little sense and seemed to be progressing at random speeds among them. The brain was a complex organ, one that Zemo appreciated and valued above all others.

There was a close second, of course.

“It’s the first of July today,” Morrison noted, checking his watch to silently confirm his own words to himself, ignorant of Zemo’s slight smile from his own spiraling thoughts, “Another visit to the medical ward?”

“Yes.” Zemo confirmed again, quietly, “And they will say the same thing. I would prefer to not discuss the rather pointless tests they insist on running.”

“Well,” Morrison hummed, setting his pen down on the table between them, eyes falling to the moderately thick file that had slowly increased in size since the two of them first started talking back in March, “What would you like to talk about?”

“Nothing.” Zemo offered, but the man looked unimpressed, a face he himself was rather good at making. He smiled weakly, amused but not enough to produce more than the slight upturn of his lips. “I am sure you have a large collection of topics by now, Doctor. Why don’t you pick one.” He suggested, nodding towards the file.

Zemo had been reluctant at first, to the idea of speaking to anyone. He was perfectly fine with Therapy, having experienced it before as it was required after certain missions during his time in the Sokovian Military. It was far from a laughable occupation, in fact, it was one he respected. Carl had even spoken to someone at one point due to his rather vivid nightmares. It seemed to have helped, much to his relief at the time. His fear was simply surface level, the constant discomfort that came with the idea of sharing intimate thoughts with another person whom you do not know.

Although, he supposed, that was part of the appeal.

Doctor Morrison was kind for the most part. There had been several moments where he had to push to get a truthful answer. Clearly the man was familiar with Veterans and the resulting trauma. He knew what to say, how to say it, and perhaps most importantly when to say it. More than once had Zemo been backed into a corner, uncomfortably so, but ultimately he was aware it was for his own good. At least, he thought it was, now he wasn’t so sure. It hardly seemed worth it to continue when there was no sign of improvement after all this time.

If anything, all this did was make him feel worse about the things he thought he knew, but clearly did not. At first it had started with just one pesky memory, one that kept him up at night and plagued his thoughts until he was reminded that it never happened.

Until even that seemed to stop working.

Even more frightening was that his list of symptoms continued to get longer the more time passed and now he was constantly living in a fog, mind whispering things to him that he couldn’t recall. No longer was he able to trust himself, and if he couldn’t trust himself, who could he? It took an immense amount of willpower to believe a word these people said to him, but not fully.

Admittedly, the list of symptoms were not all true. Zemo had described things that he hadn’t actually felt, if only to create more distance between him and the people desperately trying to figure out what was wrong with him. He wouldn’t share the truth, he had to wait, wait until a familiar face showed itself and offered all the answers he so desperately needed. And even then, he wasn’t about to divulge what little information he still believed he had left.

He wouldn’t give up his leverage. Though part of him felt that the good doctor was aware that he was lying more often than not, which made their conversations rather interesting.

“How have you been sleeping?” The doctor asked, and Zemo shrugged.

“Hardly. Falling asleep is a chore, and very infrequent. When I do sleep, nightmares make sure it doesn’t last long.” He explained, exhausted by having to do so because he’d said the same words several times already.

“Your nightmares,” Morrison started, and Zemo winced before the question had even finished, “Are they still the same?”

“Always.” He nodded, fidgeting in his seat, that probably said something. Body language was, after all, a major window into the human psyche. Zemo’s hands gravitated towards each other, the right carefully cradling the left. “I believe we have long since established the source of my problems.”

“Of course.” Morrison agreed, although that wasn’t entirely true. Thanks to Everett Ross, Zemo was able to remember the ordeal that led to this situation. Clara Laurent, and her experiments on the human mind. He had fallen prey to it, and could remember well enough the moment it had happened. It was strange, being able to logically know that the memories lurking in the back of his mind were fake. Some moments he firmly believed them, and others he could identify that they weren’t real. But now, most of the time he was just confused and angry for not being able to know for sure.

Recently, a new thought had started to surface, tickling the back of his mind. What if none of this was real? What if he was perfectly fine, and they were the ones convincing him that he wasn’t? If this was all fake then they likely thought he was more damaged than he was, which was exactly what they could continue thinking.

The worst thought though, was what if he had never even been taken from the Raft to start with?

It was a very real possibility, which is why he hadn’t thrown it out the window immediately. The only thing that kept his mind open was the fact that there was a chance he was wrong, and he wanted to be wrong. He wanted to believe them.

If he didn’t then that meant nothing that had occurred over Christmas had been real. And that was the real thought that kept him awake at night.

As much as he pretended however, it was clear that something was wrong. About two months ago, he had woken up and couldn’t remember where he was. It only lasted a few minutes, and when he’d come back to himself a new sort of fear had its firm hold on him. It hadn’t happened since, thankfully. The doctors had pulled him off of the experimental medication that they assumed had only made him worse, but at this point he knew he was just a ticking time bomb.

He’d continue to lose himself until there was nothing left. Now it was only the occasional moment of confusion. A loss of a certain word or phrase. Depression and apathy had long since set in, making the days creep by at agonizingly slow rates, the only comfort hanging around his neck.

As soon as it popped into his head, Zemo instinctively reached for the dog tags that were secure under his shirt. His fingers grazed the top of the fabric, thin enough that he could feel the indentation. Proof that it was real. Unless they had faked this as well, which was a very real possibility.

Jaw clenching, Zemo forced his hand back down to the table, frowning at the way the cuffs rubbed against his wrists. There would surely be a bruise forming after the sudden movement, the chain barely long enough to give him proper maneuverability.

“Then why talk about it?” Zemo asked absently.

“Because it’s what bothers you most.” Morrison noted, and Zemo inclined his head in silent agreement. “More than you’ve admitted.”

“I think it’s obvious that anyone would be bothered by being tortured by a woman with motive that, quite frankly, made little sense..” Zemo mused.

“What bothers you is that you believe that lie she told you, or rather, you want to believe it.” Morrison said, and Zemo shook his head. “It’s easier to believe it than the alternative.”

“I don’t.” Zemo snapped, “I don’t want to believe it.”

“Then why do you?”

“Because,” He breathed, “If he was alive, then I wouldn’t be here, would I?”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Morrison hummed, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “James Barnes is a wanted man. He murdered a woman who, to the public eye, was entirely innocent.”

“She was hardly innocent.” Zemo said, halfway to rolling his eyes. His hands clasped once more, a nervous habit, “James may be wanted but,” Zemo paused, swallowing down the sudden throb of emotion that threatened to spill over, tamed only by years of practice, “He is also notoriously stupid.”

“And if you’re wrong?” Morrison asked, and Zemo scowled, jaw clenching as his thumb pressed firmly against the palm of his left hand, a steady, almost painful pressure.

“Then maybe it was all a lie.”

“Maybe?”

“Yes. Everything is a maybe when you can’t trust your own mind.”

Hours later found Zemo being led back to his cell after another visit to the medical ward where they asked the same routine questions, took the same routine scans, and sent him on his way like everyone else. The process was very familiar to him by now. They wouldn’t offer him any information on the results until Ross decided to grace him with his presence. Those visits growing less and less frequent in recent days, the man was busy, considering a majority of the world’s heroes were gone and now the crime rate was skyrocketing. There couldn’t have been a worse time for something like this to happen, according to him. The world was still getting back on its feet, used to the sudden return of so many after the five long years spent without them.

Zemo had a feeling nothing would return fully to normal, and now it would only get worse. He didn’t particularly mind that heroes were now an endangered species, though the fact that they were going to be used by the scum of the earth did put a rather large damper on it. Laurent’s plans were flawed, at least, as much as he could understand of them. Something had been off with her from the start, though he had a feeling there was more to it all than they had figured out.

Somehow she had managed to maintain her innocence, even in death. There was no evidence that pointed directly to her, but rather, one of her employees who was now serving time himself. Zemo couldn’t recall his name, though he knew it was all a lie. She was smart enough to keep her involvement buried, playing the victim.

Now James was forced into hiding, saved by Sam Wilson whose whereabouts were also unknown.

That is, if that all had happened. The bullet shaped scar just above his belly button suggested that it had, along with the occasional nightmare set in the cold snow, energy slowly being sapped away. Strangely enough, it was the one nightmare he could manage to sleep through, all because of the quiet promise made by the man he loved, holding him as he died.

Or at least, almost died.

“I don’t suppose either of you gentlemen would be interested in a game of Karnöffel?” He asked the two guards that led him back to his cell, neither of them answered, as usual. He poked at them each and every time they did this and was sure that one of these days the one on his left - Lindon? He couldn’t recall - would snap.

When the main door opened, Zemo’s eyes were immediately drawn to a familiar figure standing outside his cell. A hand on his arm told him that no one was informed about this little visit, which made him hum in quiet appreciation as the grip on his arm turned rough, pushing him forward.

And if he made a little provocative sound only to piss the man off, what of it?

“You aren’t meant to be here-” The second guard started to say as Zemo was manhandled through the door that separated the room from his cell.

“Don’t sweat it big guy, I already talked to Ross. You can go ask him yourself.” Agent Carter cut him off, gesturing to the file in one hand, “Business.” She clarified and made a shoo’ing motion. Zemo smiled even as he was pushed through the door, he was almost afraid the cuffs wouldn’t be removed in the scuffle but they were once he was through the door. Lindon then slammed the door shut and gave him a rather disturbed look when Zemo grinned at him, purposefully close to the glass and watching him back away with a smirk.

The two guards looked at each other and then finally they left the two of them alone after clearly deciding it wasn’t worth wasting Everett Ross’ time. That, and a likely fear of both other occupants of the room.

“Agent Carter.” Zemo hummed in greeting, rubbing at his wrists as he moved away from the door and more towards the middle of his cell, inclining his head in a silent greeting, “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

“A murderer.” She said with a dry yet vicious smile of her own. Zemo raised a brow at her and she continued, “What else? I’m interested to see if you know anything about a name that’s suddenly been whispered in the streets of Boston.”

“Boston?” Zemo repeated with a quiet laugh, “Chasing the Mafia now are we?”

“Actually,” Sharon sighed, “Pretty much.”

“Just because my family was involved with Madripoor does not mean we were friends with every little gang in the world. Especially not in America.” Zemo said with a subtle click of his tongue.

“I think you’ll be interested in this one.” She said, stepping up to the glass and sliding the file through the compartment that they gave him his food through. Zemo didn’t move to take it.

“What do I get in return?”

“Entertainment for however long it takes you to give me an answer?” She suggested, and Zemo rolled his eyes. She took quick note of it and folded her arms over her chest, “I’ll tell you the latest.”

“Forgive me for not jumping at that opportunity.” Zemo hummed, “Your word means nothing to me.”

“Well it’s the best thing I have to offer a terrorist.” She replied quickly and without any remorse. Zemo laughed just slightly, nodding in agreement with her words.

“Fair.” He conceded, “But you are forgetting that if not for me you’d still be a mindless slave in some far off land. What I want is real proof.” He said, stepping towards the glass so he could press a hand to it, leaning close, eyes scanning down the woman’s face as he searched for any hint of insecurity. He found none, which was just as telling as anything else.

“There is none.” She said, “If we knew where he was then we wouldn’t be having this problem, would we?” She asked, voice not lacking in snark. “You sure are taking a lot of credit considering from what I recall you were half dead the entire time.”

“Yes, because Ross would be so generous as to make us neighbors.” Zemo said in an almost mockingly giddy voice. “That isn’t what I want. Not this time.” He clarified, and that seemed to get her attention while ignoring the second half of her sentence entirely.

“Then what?”

“I want to see the video.” He said, and Carter frowned, confused and rightfully so.

“What video?” She asked, and Zemo’s lips curled into a wicked smile, finger pointed towards the cameras that sat in his cell. Her eyes were drawn to them but no clarity seemed to come.

“There is footage of my abduction. I would like to see it.” He said, and she looked bewildered for the first time since they had ever encountered one another.

“Why?”

“I am not interested in divulging that information. That’s what I want, if you can promise me that I will look at your file.” He said, nodding to said file that still sat untouched in the box.

Sharon sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose in clear frustration but she nodded eventually, “Fine.” She said, “I’ll try. But that’s really not my area you know. I might not be able to-”

“That’s fine.” Zemo said, already reaching for the box opening on his side to pull out the file, “If you can’t, that will be all the answer I need.” He muttered as he flipped the file open, eyes scanning down the page.

“Lenz Glas.” Sharon said the man's name aloud, “One of many alias’ that’s pretty outdated.” She explained and Zemo hummed, there was really not a lot in the file outside of a handful of different names and a few photographs that had him looking twice. Each of them were quite different, suggesting the man was very good at changing his look. None of them were familiar, nor were the names.

“Known to be involved with…” Zemo read down the page, brows raised, “Several different organizations.” He said allowed, scowling at the fact that one of them was all too familiar.

“Including Hydra, which is why I thought you’d recognize him.” She said, and Zemo shook his head.

“Not any of these names or faces.” He said, “But it is likely one of his many alias’ is on the list.”

“The list?” She repeated, and Zemo nodded, not looking up from the file as he tapped the side of his head with one hand. “What, like your shit list?” She asked, and that actually made him look up at her, face scrunched in confusion.

“My what?”

“Your- nevermind.” Carter waved it off. “Just tell me where to start.” She pressed, and Zemo nodded, shifting his gaze back to the file to flip through a few more pages, thumb tapping slightly against the manila folder as he thought.

“An alias this old, I doubt he still uses it.” Zemo said reluctantly, “Anyone worth their salt at subterfuge changes sporadically in a month's time. It is best to observe not him but those around him. Search for someone who is a common occurrence and seek them out first. Your man will never make a mistake, but his friends will.”

“A man like that has friends?” She asked, and Zemo flipped the folder closed, giving her a slow forming smile.

“Yes, we do.”

“Thanks.” She said, waving for him to offer the file back, her eyes shimmering with something unidentifiable. Zemo flipped it closed and moved back towards the box, tilting his head just slightly as he observed the woman before him. Once so determined to do what was right and yet so obviously tainted by her experience in Madripoor.

No one else saw it though.

“You know,” Zemo started as he fiddled with the handle of the box, “I’ve always liked you, Carter.”

“Yeah? Can’t say the feeling is mutual.” She said, crossing her arms over her chest, eyes shifting subtly between him and the file still in his hand.

“I like people who keep their priorities straight. I find that the more loyal people are the ones doing things for selfish reasons.” He explained carefully, “You survived Madripoor and came out without a scratch, most people don’t.”

“What can I say,” She said, opening her arms in a slight shrug, “My mother trained me well.”

“That she did.” Zemo agreed, finally he pulled open the box, “I’ve also noticed that it’s the selfish people who have the most to lose.”

“Yeah,” She agreed, stepping forward to open her side as well, hand outstretched and waiting. Zemo slid them forward until her fingers wrapped around the manilla folder, never breaking the eye contact that had turned into… something more. She smiled, slow and calculated as she leaned forward to say quietly, “You’re the perfect example of that.”

Zemo smiled, nodding his head softly in agreement, “True.”

Sharon stepped back from the glass, lazily flipping the box closed once more. Zemo expected her to leave, but she hesitated as she tucked the file back under her arm, dark brown eyes studying him intently. He couldn’t help but raise a questioning brow at her, and she took in a slow, steady breath of air.

“Why do you want to see that video?” She asked, voice softer than he’d ever heard it before. A twinge of annoyance sparked in his chest at the sound of it, he was so very tired of everyone’s pity, especially when it was so obviously fake.

He studied her in return, hands sliding to clasp behind his back. Sharon had experienced the same thing he had, but was showing significantly less distress from it. Or at least, wasn’t outwardly showing it. He on the other hand was, admittedly, hamming it up significantly more than necessary. Sam, he realized, could potentially be experiencing the same thing as well.

“Have you had any side effects from what happened in Russia?” He eventually asked, and Sharon frowned in response.

“No.” She said, “Have you? Outside of…” She made a dismissive gesture and Zemo rolled his eyes once again, he really was doing that a lot lately.

“That is the question, isn’t it?” Zemo repeated, lips pulling into a slight smile. Carter’s brow drew together, and he could see the gears turning in her head until eventually she seemed to reach some conclusion that was satisfactory. She smiled a half smile, and inclined her head.

“I’ll get it for you.” She assured, gesturing to the file, “Thanks for the help.”

“You’re welcome.”

Four days later, Zemo paced the small space of his cell, eyes scanning the few shelves he had that held a few belongings. Some new, others having survived the attack from the last time he’d been here. Unfortunately, some of his books had been taken, damaged by the blood was his best guess. Any and all evidence of his attack had been cleaned up, the room was spotless. Outside, of course, from the last six months he’d called it his home again.

Agent Carter’s visit had been, admittedly, refreshing and yet he was already growing restless once more. There was nothing to do. Nothing other than read, but he’d already done that. It was a good distraction from reality, which was slowly starting to slip away from him. All he could do now was wait for something to change, although the question was, what did he want to change?

When she returned with that video, at least he would have some peace of mind. The only trouble was surviving until then.

Wearing himself out, Zemo moved to the bed, slowly lowering himself down onto the mattress. The shot to his stomach had taken a long time to heal, and the severe hypothermia had him flirting with death, which, at the moment he would consider to be far better than whatever hell this was. It was fully healed by now, but he was still weak from the incredibly long recovery time. And of course, his slipping sanity.

He wasn’t exercising like he had been, feeling a distinct lack of desire to do so which was irritating in and of itself. Therapy was helping to some extent, it at least gave him something to look forward to, rather than just sit and dwell on the several mistakes that had led to this situation.

Alone again, and this time, it hurt more.

There was a lot he didn’t tell these people, mostly because he knew that they had to be lying to him to some extent. No one would offer him the truth and he knew it, years of experience spoke volumes, plus, he was a criminal. There was nothing to gain from treating him fair. Instead, they were playing a rather twisted game with him but Zemo would outwit them. He always did.

He caught his breath, eyes sliding up to the camera secure in the top left corner of his cell, directly opposite the bed. It was nearing the late afternoon by now, which meant the guard on duty was one of the few that really didn’t pay much attention.

How did he know that? Patience and many dangerous stunts that had the guards at all other times of day rushing into the room and forcing him into solitary for several hours.

He used to be well behaved, and he still was to some extent, but he had an advantage; he could fake insanity and get away with things he normally wouldn’t have. His memories were fuzzy, yes, and it was difficult to cope with the contradicting memories in his head but he wouldn’t let it hinder him.

Whatever the truth was, he wouldn’t be broken by it.

Zemo winked at the camera and pushed back on the bed to lean against the wall, hand slipping down into the space between the wall and the mattress to fish out a small notebook that had a soft pencil attached to it. He flipped it open and browsed through the pages that were filled with his own neat handwriting. It was about half full, and contained every detail he could remember from the end of Sokovia to today. A record of everything he thought to be true, but also untrue. His timeline was a mess, but having it held in his hands made it easier to understand.

All he needed to do was figure out what part of it was wrong, and then he would be okay. He took a deep breath and rolled the pencil into his left hand, finding the page he was last on to continue from, not daring to leave out a single detail that he could recall, because the details were the most important part.

He spent a good chunk of time scribbling words onto the pages, hand cramping after a while as he struggled through the more recent events, a headache forming behind his eyes and seemingly through his entire head.

It always happened, and it always forced him to stop.

Zemo squeezed his eyes shut and put the small journal aside, one hand moving to pinch the bridge of his nose, rubbing in a weak attempt to ease the pain

His attention was nowhere, eyes unfocused as they stared straight ahead at the wall opposite the old creaky bed that he spent most of his hours on. It was comforting to think of nothing, rather than of everything. At one point this had been difficult for him, bored easily, mind racing with a strong, itching desire to be free. But now it was different, like a sense of defeat had washed over him. He was content to sit alone and wait for as long as he needed to. It was better than having to face whatever the truth was.

He didn’t always have so much control, which was why he savored moments like these. Where his thoughts were at least semi-clear. Aware of his own inevitable insanity. An awareness that would soon slip away, and the fine line that divided truth from fiction would grow thinner and thinner, until he was no longer able to tell the difference.

Zemo took a long, steadying breath, and tired to enjoy the silence he’d grown so used to. He was good at staying in control, he wouldn’t let himself slip away, at least not as much as what all the doctors thought. He would play his cards right, and maintain the special treatment that he really didn’t need.

Only minutes ticked by before his peaceful silence was broken, and the door beyond the glass of his cell opened with a loud screech of unoiled hinges. The heavy door dragged against the floor and produced a horrible sound as it did. His brow furrowed, and his eyes drifted to the clock that sat on the shelf opposite his bed. It was the early afternoon, which was not a normal hour for anything to occur. No one came to see him unscheduled outside of Ross.

But when Zemo turned his head, it was certainly not Ross who stood before him.

Ross would never wear heels that high, or, if he was to be perfectly honest, dress near as well.

“Hello there.” The woman greeted, and Zemo pushed himself up off the mattress to step closer to the glass, eyes drifting over the unfamiliar face that wore a very well made mask of pleasantness. Dark hair pulled into a bun, pale skin, and eyes that told anyone who looked that she knew more than you. Her heels gave her an extra few inches, which meant she was taller than Zemo himself by nearly the same amount that James was.

He pushed the comparison out of his mind as quickly as it came and folded his hands behind his back, brows raised in muted interest.

“Good afternoon.” He offered in response, “Miss?”

“Contessa Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.” She produced the name smoothly and with a hint of musicality. Zemo’s lips twitched in an almost smile as she went on, “But you can call me Valentina. Val in your head if that’s easier. I know you, Baron Zemo.”

“I assumed so, otherwise you’re in the wrong room.” He supplied, she laughed, arms crossing over her chest. The gloved fingers of her left hand drummed against her arm, Zemo watched as she pursed her lips, taking him in as much as he was her. Her sharp eyes shone with mischief and playfulness that was all too familiar, it produced a mild amount of interest.

“True.” She said with a smile of her own, “You’re smaller than I thought you’d be.”

“Well, they said my stilettos could be used as a weapon so they were confiscated.” He replied easily and it drew a genuine laugh from the woman, she threw her head back, and a moment later, she started pacing the room in a way much similar to his own from only minutes ago. Her eyes were roaming around the room, looking everywhere but at him as if he wasn’t the most interesting thing there.

As if she wasn’t there for him.

He scoffed quietly to himself, he wouldn’t be played.

“Pardon my forwardness, but they don’t usually allow me any visitors unless it’s of dire importance.” He pressed, not moving from his spot.

“Luckily I’m an important woman.” She hummed, eyes still scanning the room until finally returning to him. “I have all the time in the world.”

“Lovely.” He agreed, offering a polite smile, “How can I help you?”

“I think the better question is, how can I help you?” She offered, coming to a halt in front of him once again, her eyes practically gleaming. “What would you say, if I could get you out of there?”

“I would advise against it, as it seems to consistently have fatal results for anyone who tries.” He answered, Val laughed once more, shaking her head.

“Not in a prison break sort of way, although that would be fun.” She hummed, “You see, I’ve been talking with your good friend Thaddeus Ross-”

“Friend?” Zemo muttered, but she just pressed on.

“-The world’s a little desperate right now. There is some… shall we say, nefarious things going on. And with no heroes to help solve these problems.” The tone of her voice shifted drastically as she spoke, theatrics were clearly her strong suit as she pulled her lips into a fake, over dramatic frown. “It’s amazing what desperation can do to a man. Make him agree to even the wildest of plans.”

“Which is?”

“I’ve been putting together my own little… group, shall we say. Ross wants them, now more than ever because there is no one else to turn to.” She explained, and Zemo felt he knew where this was going, his eyes narrowed, and rejection was already poised at the tip of his tongue.

There was no way he’d agree to this.

“Only problem is, of all the people I have. None of them are leaders.” She explained, maintaining eye contact. “They’re all like little lemmings, all with big personalities that clash quite terribly. It’s fun to watch, but there’s no possible way they could succeed without someone to guide them.”

“And you’re here asking me?” He asked, and she smiled.

“See, so perceptive. There are a few catches though.” She said a little wistfully and Zemo made a dismissive gesture.

“Of course there is. There is no way Ross would agree to let someone like me run free. I also highly doubt you have been in touch with the Wakandans, who are the ones with true authority over where I do and do not go.” Zemo explained, but Val looked entirely unperturbed.

“I have, actually.” She smiled, and he frowned respectively, “Ross won’t let you out of here right away, you’ll have to be more of a.. Consultant at first.” She explained and Zemo let out a dry laugh.

“You should work on your bartering skills. The answer is no, I will not help you.” He snapped, and she only shook her head.

“You are the perfect choice.”

“Am I?” Zemo asked, voice almost a whisper as he leaned forward, close to the glass, a smile of his own slowly appearing. “That’s too bad. Because unfortunately, I will never associate myself with any kind of group. Desperation doesn’t even begin to describe what I would call someone seeking help from a man who loathes this country more than his own miserable life.”

“Wow.” Val breathed, letting out a quiet whistle. Her smile never faded as she took him in, stepping back from the glass and looking him up and down with purpose. “You only get more and more right for the job.” She said, “I’ll come back, give you some time to consider. I would think anything would be better than waiting to die in a cell.”

“I won’t be changing my mind.” He said with a scowl, “Nothing would make me stoop to that level.”

“Nothing?” She repeated, pausing at the door. When she looked back at him, Zemo knew she had him long before she walked through that door. The look in her eye said everything before she opened her mouth, “At least you wouldn’t be bored any more.”

“There’s no change.”

Zemo hadn’t bothered looking up from where he was laying across his bed when the door opened and closed in the early evening. It was six exactly, which meant it couldn’t be anyone other than Everett Ross, who only ever came to see him at exactly six if he was coming at all.

“Imagine my surprise.” Zemo hummed, eyes focused on the ceiling, one arm folded up behind his head while the other picked at the chain hung around his neck. “No miracle explanation yet?”

“Not at the moment.” Ross sighed, clearly agitated that Zemo wasn’t moving from his bed. “Maybe it’s stopped.”

“I believe you said that four months ago, and then I woke up lost.” Zemo offered, “Do me a favor and keep your theories to yourself.”

“Nothing wrong with being positive.” Ross grumbled, and Zemo scoffed.

“Perhaps you are right, I should take a page from your book, Agent. Maybe if I believe something hard enough, it will come true.” He paused, purposefully adding a hint of sarcasm to his tone, “Oh wait, I think that my therapist had a name for that…”

“You should accept the offer.” Ross said, ignoring the mocking comment and changing the topic completely. Zemo dropped the chain against his chest and held in an annoyed sigh.

“No.”

Ross let out a loud huff that brought a pleased smile to his face. He was easy to annoy, the man never changed no matter how much the world changed. In a way it was nice, although Ross had been inexplicably nice to him over the last six months despite their previous animosity. At first it was fine, Zemo was never one to refuse a kind conversation when his entire world was reduced to a small cage that was submerged under the ocean off of the coast of New York.

Recently though, it was growing obnoxious.

“Why not?” Ross asked, clearly not going away, “I would have thought you’d jump at an opportunity to get out of here.”

“And risk my life for people I don’t care about?” Zemo asked, tone purposefully dull as he slowly swung his legs over the side of his bed, pushing himself up to finally acknowledge the man standing on the other side of the glass, hands resting on his hips like a disappointed mother. “What surprises me most is not the fact that any of you people would assume I’d be grateful for the opportunity, but rather, the fact that you’re desperate enough to send a lunatic off to lead a bunch of roughifans. Plus she made it quite clear I would not be leaving anywhere, not yet.”

“It would be a start. Your sanity is exactly why you should be doing this.” Ross pressed, “The only person that can help you is still missing-”

“Assuming that she would help me. You’re forgetting one very important thing, Ross.” Zemo said, stepping closer to the glass. “I made my peace with death a long time ago, past experience demonstrates my preference. If it came down to helping you, or wasting away in a cell you put me in for things your heroes do on a daily basis? I would choose to stay here every time.”

“You’ve helped before-”

“I wasn’t helping you.”

The almost crestfallen expression on Ross’ face made him chuckle, “It’s interesting, you only show an interest in me after I’ve proven myself as useful. Why are you trying so hard to help me now? How is this situation any different from before? The last time we were here, you mocked me. Now you’re giving me therapy and telling me I could make a difference. Why? I really do wonder, do you think showing me the slightest bit of kindness will make up for this country's twisted need to be the hero?”

“Really? It’s interesting that we’re trying to help you after you were kidnapped and tortured? I’m surprised by it too, just for a completely different reason. That being what an asshole you are.” Ross bit back and Zemo smiled at him. “What happened to Sokovia was not ignored-”

“The Accords you mean? Documents that were only created when Wakandans were killed?” Zemo laughed, “Sokovia was ruined by America long before Tony Stark decided to play god. The center of all its problems was your government sticking its nose where it didn’t belong with the intent to help, only to make things worse. We were on the brink of Civil War before it was destroyed.”

“What do you want to happen then? Hm? That’s a problem that can no longer be resolved, are you just going to stay angry forever?” Ross asked, “Wanda Maximoff had very similar desires in the beginning but she managed to do what you can’t.”

“And where is she now?”

Ross tensed, and Zemo laughed.

“You’re right. I can’t forgive, it’s my greatest flaw. But at least I’m self aware. I know what I am giving up, I have known from the minute I decided to tear the Avengers apart.”

Ross shook his head and Zemo smiled at him through the thick glass, he stepped back and returned to his bed, sitting down carefully at the foot so he could still offer a mild amount of attention. The way Ross stood spoke volumes. He was frustrated, angry even, which was more familiar than all this fake niceness that had been passing between the two of them for some time. As he had said, it was nice at the time. But now Zemo was nothing but irritated every time Ross looked at him with those sad, pathetic eyes of his. Feeling sorry for the man who couldn’t think straight.

“You’ll never find him if you sit here and rot.” Ross said, and it was Zemo’s turn to tense up. “You might not value your life but someone does, whether you can remember or not. I didn’t think someone who’s lived the life you had would be capable of hurting someone the same way that you’ve been hurt.”

“You have my sincerest apologies, then.” Zemo snapped, “For disappointing your high expectations of the criminal you keep in a cage. Trying to hurt my feelings won’t make me any more agreeable.”

“I’m not the one that will be disappointed.”

“That’s assuming there is anyone left to disappoint.” Zemo tried, and Ross just rolled his eyes, an action that made him internally bristle.

“Do you really believe that?”

“Then where is he?” He hissed for the second time that day, on his feet once again and moving quickly towards the glass, one hand coming to rest against it, he leaned closer, voice quiet but firm, “If he was alive and I found him, what would you do? Do you really think I would be so stupid, as to lead you right to him?”

“What other option does he have? Run his entire life?”

“Because for a second time you are attacking him for something that wasn’t his fault.” Zemo frowned and Ross raised a brow at that.

“Last time I checked, he was perfectly aware of what he was doing this time.”

And he was right. Zemo didn’t have an answer, he hadn’t been awake when Laurent was killed. The last thing he remembered that day was a blurry, barely there conversation that was clear some days, gone on others.

Switzerland.

He would have killed her himself, wished that he had. James had already suffered enough because of him and now here they were again, in the same horrible situation.

He was driven by revenge, his resolve not to kill weakened by Zemo’s presence.

It was his fault. Of course it was.

“You aren’t afraid of leading us to him. You know you could escape because you think that highly of yourself. I believe that you’re just afraid of what you might find.” Ross continued, not in the least bit bothered by a word that had come out of Zemo’s mouth.

When Zemo stayed quiet, Ross sighed, long and weary like a man who had lived far more years than he had. Zemo didn’t look at him as he moved towards the door, eyes trained on the dull grey floor beneath his bare feet. “You have an opportunity to do what the Avengers failed to do. They need a leader who cares with his mind more than his heart.”

Ross left without waiting for a reply, not that Zemo had one for him.

Anger was something he was familiar with, an almost constant buzz in the back of his mind ever since the death of his wife and child. Even before then, he could feel its presence dictating a lot of his actions. But Zemo was good at keeping it at bay, nothing but a mild whisper that he could combat with little difficulty. Showing that you were angry did nothing but reveal your hand to the enemy. But now, as his brain continued to deteriorate, anger was becoming more and more difficult to control.

He felt lost, and exhausted from fighting so hard to keep his composure. Something that used to be so easy but was now a chore.

Taking a slow breath, he scanned the small room. It felt smaller than usual, offering an uncomfortable feeling of claustrophobia. His eyes shifted from the glass wall to the one that sat across from him, the only space that was mildly decorated with anything that belonged truly to him.

He pushed himself to his feet once more and crossed the short distance to the shelf, eyes moving down the spines of the books that lined the shelf. Most were replacements for the ones he’d lost, though not as rare of editions or as visibly appealing to look at. Just off brand paper backs that someone had thought would be good enough compensation for what he’d lost.

When he found what he was looking for, his eyes narrowed at the small Penguin Classics edition of what he’d once considered a book worthy of everyone’s time. Now however, as he pulled down the pathetic copy of Wuthering Heights it felt heavy and unwanted in his hands.

When he’d first seen it sitting on his shelf he had laughed. The copy that had travelled with him to Wakanda was likely still there, left behind when he’d snuck aboard the jet to France. He’d left it on purpose, because even back then he was starting to not like it so much. Everything James had to say was negative, and the longer he thought about it, he was right.

So he thought, at the time. Now it seemed Ms. Brontë was right. Love was easily defeated by society and circumstance.

That, and one’s own twisted need to be right, or in his case, petty.

Zemo stared down at the book in his hand and felt his anger slowly starting to build, the exhaustion that came with fighting it off making him feel disgustingly small. It seemed as though he was always at a disadvantage lately. Weak, easily beaten and manipulated when it was usually him who was on top.

How did this happen?

A sudden, inexplicable desire hit him, and in a flash, he was pulling his arm back and throwing the flimsy novel across the small space of his cell. It hit the glass wall with force, and pathetically fell to the floor, pages face down and askew from the impact.

He was breathing heavily, and finally, Zemo allowed himself to do what he had wanted to the moment his eyes had been covered and reality was ripped away from him.

He screamed.

“Hey.”

“Good evening, Agent Carter.” Zemo murmured from inside his cell. He flipped his worn down journal closed and tucked it back in its place on the edge of the mattress, hidden from sight. He had had more visitors in the last week than he had in the entire six months he had been here. Although of all the visits, this was the single one he was actually interested in. It took very little time for her to do as he asked, or at least, that’s what he assumed considering she was back already.

He winced slightly as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, aware of the dull ache in his left hand from the rambunctious scuffle with… well, everything in his possession. After the guards had took note of his slight breakdown they had stripped the entire cell clean of everything that he owned. Or at least, everything that they could find.

Sharon took note of it without making any comment. Her eyes curiously shifted over the empty room before landing on him, eyes tactfully lacking any and all hints of what she was or wasn’t thinking. Something that irritated him, though, very few people were as easy to read as James, or Samuel, for that matter.

“Have you found anything about our Gentleman?” Zemo asked, stepping up to the glass and searching her eyes for a clue.

“Not yet, but your advice has proven useful.” she said, finally breaking her stoicism with a smirk. Her hands shifted until they were resting in the pockets of her dark raincoat, hair pulled into a rather haphazard bun that stuck out in several places. She didn’t look anywhere close to professional at that moment, which made him question just what it was she was doing.

“And?” He asked, hands finding one another behind his back, squeezing far more tightly together than usual. Nervous, he was nervous.

That rarely happened.

“And,” Sharon said, glancing almost nervously to the side herself. Zemo was hyper aware of the way she drew her bottom lip between her teeth, and the way she shifted from foot to foot. All signs of displeasure and awkwardness. Bad news. “I couldn’t find anything.” She said, and Zemo frowned.

“What do you mean?” He asked, and she shook her head.

“There’s no footage of what you were talking about.” She said again, and Zemo didn’t have an answer. She pressed on, “I asked one of the more talkative security officers… an easy bribe. Old habits die hard y’know.” She said, obviously referring to her time in Madripoor. “Told me there never was any footage to begin with.”

“That isn’t…” Zemo started to say, that isn’t possible. But wasn’t it?

“Listen,” Sharon said, stepping closer to the glass, tone dropping to an almost whisper as she glanced up at the camera’s in the room, “If this was an inside job, you and I are on the same side of things.”

“Just on opposite sides of the glass.” Zemo muttered, hardly seeing how their situations were mildly the same.

“My point,” Sharon stressed, “Is that I want to know what the fuck’s going on too.”

“No need to be crude.”

“I’ll keep searching,” she went on, ignoring his comment. She moved away then, intent on leaving once more, their visiting hours were coming to a quick end. She paused at the door, however, and Zemo opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, but was cut off, “I’m so sorry.”

“For what?” Zemo asked, frowning, but Sharon didn’t answer. She held his gaze, eyes shifting once more to the camera. The look in her eye said that there was something he should understand, but he didn’t.

She disappeared without answering him, and Zemo sighed in frustration.

The news was far from surprising and confirmed exactly what he wanted it to. But he was still disappointed by it, had fiercely desired for it to be untrue just as Ross had claimed. The damned man was far more insightful than he was given credit for and Zemo knew that he owed him for everything he’d done in the past. Not to mention the fact that Zemo had technically promised Ross that he would be on his best behavior after agreeing to let James go free.

Zemo sighed and moved to his bed once more, feeling significantly more aware of the camera looking down at him in his cell. If what Sharon said was true, then he was in more danger here than he was anywhere else. It wasn’t as if he enjoyed being stuck in a cell, but there was no way he could get out unless James by some miracle was alive and willing to come back for him.

That seemed less and less possible with each passing day.

The only other option was not one that he liked in the slightest, but what else could he do?

He had to get out of here.

Val returned a few days later just as she said she would. Before the door had fully opened Zemo was already on his feet, stepping towards the glass and watching with keen eyes as she stepped into the room, waiting to see the reaction she would have towards the state of his cell, once filled with several things now stripped down to the bare minimum. Everything that had once been of interest to her was now gone, and when she looked up, she paused.

Zemo smiled.

“Hello Contessa.” He greeted, and she quickly returned to her usual confident self. Ignoring the distinct change in the room and his attitude with well practiced ease.

“Baron.” She hummed, eyes dancing around the cell once more before landing on him, focused there rather than anywhere else. “Done some redecorating?”

“Yes, the items were all deemed hazardous to my well being.” He hummed, looking around the room himself.

“Have you reconsidered?” She asked, adding softly to the end, “It looks like you’ve done some hard thinking.”

“I have.” He said carefully, looking at her once more and seeing the beginnings of a pleased smile pull at her lips. “I just have to ask, why me? Surely you know what happened in Russia, my mind is far from reliable.”

“I think.” She started, tilting her head to the side as she stepped closer to the glass, voice dropping to a whisper that he could barely hear, “That you are a lot more in control than everyone thinks.”

Zemo huffed a quiet laugh, but didn’t give her an answer. He simply hummed quietly, “Wouldn’t that be nice?” He asked, then stepped back. “I’ve thought about it, and it seems my circumstances have changed over the last few days.”

“Clearly.” she laughed, and Zemo inclined his head towards her.

“If I’m going to help you however it is contingent on a few things.” He went on, she raised a brow at him, gesturing for him to go ahead, “When you say you need a leader, that means I’m in charge. I won’t answer to anyone else on this little team you’ve created.”

“Of course.” She agreed easily enough, “Although-”

“I’m not done.” He cut her off, and his smile turned into a slight smirk at the slight twitch in her brow. “My name stays out of the media. I don’t want to be associated with them, especially if you have picked out some atrocious name. If my name is ever released, I will stop. I will not work with any of the previous Avengers, though I don’t see that being a problem.”

“Is that all?” She asked, clearly put off. Zemo just smiled.

“You said I would be a consultant, but I want it to be clear that I am a consultant to you. Not Thaddeus Ross. It will be you asking for my assistance, and before you get access to me you will have to start with a proxy of my choosing.”

“Which I assume you have already picked?”

“Everett Ross.” Zemo answered, “Feel free to inform him of his new position at your leisure.”

Val didn’t say anything at first, instead she hummed softly and observed him through the glass, fingers drumming softly against her arm. “None of that should be a problem. So long as you are in here.” She said with a flippant gesture, “But if all goes well, you might have a lot more freedom to work with. Mr. Secretary and I will be having a lot of drawn out meetings to write up a fancy new contract for you.”

“You’re a lawyer?” Zemo asked, lips twisting into an amused smile, “Secretary Ross is far from the only one you have to convince.”

“Among other things.” She nodded. “The King of Wakanda was not an easy man to get in touch with,” She nodded, “But it seems he’s taken quite the shine to you, I wonder why.”

Zemo did too. He cleared his throat a little nervously and brought a hand up to rub a single finger gently against his nose, a nervous tick that irritatingly surfaced far more often now. The king of Wakanda had been far from unkind, and the memory of their brief conversation back in Wakanda resurfaced with a vengeance then.

A man as good as him shouldn’t associate with Zemo, that much was obvious. They were polar opposites in every way.

“It’ll take time, but don’t get too attached to this place. But this cell will hardly work for what you’ll be doing. I’ll have a little chit-chat with the other Ross.” She smiled, and Zemo smiled back. “Anything else?”

“Yes actually.” He nodded, “I forgot, if whatever theoretical job you want done conflicts with my own interest, I will not do it. And when it comes down to it. I decide who lives and who dies.”

“Like to play god, do you?” Val asked, tapping away at her phone which Zemo hadn’t noticed she’d pulled out.

“Only on the weekdays.”

A little chit chat was code for a list of demands, or at least, that’s what Zemo assumed when he was led from the place he had called home for half a year and relocated to a new room entirely. It was still a cell, but one that was significantly better. It was bigger and had a desk along with a bookshelf that his belongings had already been returned to despite his tantrum from what was now over a week ago.

The room however, was not the best part. Val had somehow managed to get him the freedom of walking around in the specific ward that they had put him in, so long as he had an escort. In order to offer his help he had to have access to computers, and they weren’t about to put any in his cell with him where they couldn’t monitor whatever he did. The next best option was letting him into one of the many security rooms as well as the conference rooms where, theoretically, he would actually get to meet the hooligans Val had put together.

He had a little card that let him in and out a total of two rooms, not including his own cell. As an added precaution they attached a small, white ankle monitor to his left leg. It was hardly noticeable, only an inch and a half in width and loosely strapped to his ankle. It worked like any other tracker, alerting them when he stepped foot outside of a certain radius and apparently would emit a non-lethal shock as well, strong enough to knock him out.

He wasn’t sure if that was a bluff or not, but wasn’t in the mood to find out.

Agent Ross apparently hadn’t been surprised by Zemo’s request of having him be what was essentially Zemo’s manager for this entire ordeal, and apparently had reluctantly agreed. Zemo hadn’t seen him since then, but knew the man had likely sighed heavily and rolled his eyes to the heavens.

A Saturday afternoon found him lounging in one of the conference rooms he was allowed in, hands blessedly free from their cuffs. He was sitting in one of the several chairs, eyes sliding around the room and eventually to the guard who served as his escort this time around. Lindon. He looked decidedly uncomfortable, and Zemo didn’t blame him, with as often as he came onto the man Zemo would be uncomfortable too.

But seeing him squirm was worth it, even if one day it would likely come back to bite him.

He was waiting for Val, who showed up fashionably late on purpose. He noticed it rather quickly even though they had only been familiar with one another for a mere week and a half. It seemed they had more in common than Zemo was really comfortable with.

“Sorry I’m late.” Were the first words out of her mouth when she finally did appear through the door, bidding a second guard farewell as she shoved the door closed the minute she stepped through. Under her arm aside from her usual over the shoulder purse was a stack of files that drew his attention immediately.

Those four files would tell him exactly what he’d have to deal with for however long this rag-tag team was going to survive.

“Are you?” He asked, peeling his gaze away from the manilla folders to look up at Val, who slid them onto the table and took a seat in one of the chairs across from him.

“Not really.” She cooed in response. Setting her bag down on the table along with the files, which she promptly slid across the space to him. Zemo’s hand twitched in anticipation. He wasn’t excited, in fact, it was more the opposite. He didn’t care who these people were so long as they could take instruction well. He wouldn’t ever have to deal with them in person if this first test run didn’t go well. Essentially, all he had to do was tell them what to do, which was something he was very good at.

“You don’t have to pretend for my sake.” Val went on, waving him to go ahead with one hand.

“Has Ross given you a task yet?” Zemo asked, pulling the stack closer so he could pluck the first one off the top and put it in front of him.

“Several.” Val answered vaguely, and when Zemo glanced at her next she was looking at her makeup in a small compact mirror.

“Not going to elaborate?” He asked, and she glanced at him, saying and giving him a smile. Zemo scowled, and refocused his attention on the first file. He flipped it open, and read the name printed in the top left corner of the page. A picture lay just below it, offering up a rather young looking woman that admittedly looked far from what Zemo had expected.

Yelena Belova

The more he read, the more his eyebrows climbed. Her file was far from small, but they were all quite big. There wasn’t a single detail missing, which meant he would have an advantage over all of them. His lips pulled into a pleased smile as he flipped through the pages.

Off to an okay start, he supposed.

Val didn’t say a word as he made his way through the rest of them. Although the look in her eye suggested she was waiting for.. Something. Which made him uneasy as he read.

Along with Ms. Belova there was also Antonia Dreykov and Ava Starr. Both with similarly distressing stories that meant that they would indeed have rather big personalities as Val had mentioned earlier. He almost had a headache just from reading their files and imagining the interactions, though Belova and Dreykov apparently had a history, which would either make it easier or significantly harder to deal with.

Despite it all, he wasn’t worried until he pulled the final folder over and flipped it open. Zemo didn’t have to read the name, his reaction was immediate as his eyes focused on familiar blonde hair and blue eyes.

“No.” He said, almost in reflex.

“No?” Val asked, sounding amused and like she knew exactly what was wrong.

“If you believe John Walker will willingly listen to me, this plan was doomed from the beginning.” He said, flipping the file closed without bothering to read it over. He shoved it back across the table towards her, brows drawn together. He was admittedly confused but not willing to say it out loud.

He thought Walker was dead.

He shot him.

“I shot him.” He said out loud, “I do believe that is a good reason to hate someone.”

“Don’t worry,” She said with a shrug, “He doesn’t remember what happened in Russia, in fact, I think the last thing he remembers is more about Barnes than you.” She said with more amusement than Zemo found acceptable.

“That hardly changes anything. Walker has made it clear in the past my services are not ones he is interested in.” Zemo pressed, “Nor am I interested in working with him.” Zemo hadn’t been there when it happened, but he knew. Walker had taken the serum the first opportunity he got, the ultimate sign of weakness.

Working with a Super Soldier was out of the question, and he said as much.

“At least, one that isn’t James Barnes?” Val asked.

“One that doesn’t use his power for selfish intentions.” Zemo fired back, “One that didn’t willingly feel the need to make themselves better than everyone else. I will not work with John Walker.”

“Fine.” Val said, and it actually took him aback. Zemo paused, brows furrowing as she pushed her chair back, slow but with purpose. She stood up and reached for her bag, and it clicked immediately what she was doing.

He was not happy about it.

“Wait.” He said, but she was still moving, going as far as to push her chair in and step towards the door, taking all hope of change with her as she moved towards the door. It forced Zemo from his own chair, one hand pounding down on the table as he snapped again, “Wait!”

Val stopped, turning back to face him with a smile that told him he was trapped. Zemo grit his teeth, only then becoming aware of the way Lindon was hovering behind him, firearm raised and ready to go off. Spooked from his outburst no doubt.

“Sit down.” He said, and Val did. “Lower that before you hurt yourself.” He said over his shoulder, and reluctantly, Lindon did.

“Are you done throwing a temper tantrum?” Val asked, and Zemo scowled at her, “Walker is admittedly a lot to handle but I figured you would rather have him close than out there doing whatever he wanted. Your little vendetta is adorable, and if he suddenly… has an accident, no one would be to blame.” She said, trailing off. Zemo stared at her, not quite sure if what he was hearing was right until she let out an almost shrill laugh, “Oh I’m just kidding. Or am I? You should see your face.”

He was working with a lunatic.

“Is he aware that you are recruiting me?” Zemo asked eventually.

“Yes.” She said, “He’s known for quite some time. In fact, the only reason he was captured was because he was looking for you.”

That was odd. Zemo sat back in his chair, legs crossing as his fingers drummed against the arm of the chair. “Willingly?”

“I think you’ll find he is rather good at taking instruction. Just a little.. Uncoordinated with his strength. But eager to learn, as are all of them.” She said, gesturing to the files. Somehow Zemo found that difficult to believe, but he sighed and nodded slowly.

As much as he hated this arrangement. He wanted out, and the only way to do that was to play nice. Ross was right, an opportunity like this couldn’t be passed up, especially when he was half convinced everyone around him was lying to him. There was a good chance this was all part of an elaborate scheme to get him working as Secretary Ross’ lap dog and the very thought sent a surge of pure anger simmering under his skin.

But even if it was, he would figure it out, and he would make them burn from the inside out.

Again.

Val explained a few more vague details to him about what was going on before she announced that it was time to go. She was, apparently, a very busy woman with very little time. She pushed herself from her seat, ready to leave, but paused to give the guard that stood stock still to Zemo’s left a rather suggestive glance, her eyes lit up with that same mischievous glint that his own did. “Don’t bother, he isn’t any fun.”

“Took him out for a spin already?” She asked, smiling at Lindon and giving him a purposefully exaggerated wink before refocusing her attention. “I thought you were a one man kind of guy.”

“I’m…” Zemo paused, his moderately amused smile going sour as his lips tugged into a puzzled frown. “How do you know?”

“Darling,” She said with a laugh, “Everyone knows. An Avenger doesn’t get in anyone's pants without someone snapping a photo and sharing it with all the major tabloids.”

“What photo?” Zemo snapped, sitting forward in his seat.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist.” She clicked her tongue and Zemo found it significantly less amusing now. “It isn’t-”

“Show me.” He pressed, palms pressed flat to the table top. He was aware of Lindon beside him, the man was tense, ready to take action if he needed to due to the way Zemo yet again seemed poised to attack.

Val, luckily, had already seemed to be ready to do so. Her phone was in her hands the moment she had mentioned the word photo and seconds later she was sliding it across the top of the table for him to see.

He almost didn’t recognize himself. Swimming in an oversized jacket and black sweatpants that both clearly didn’t belong to him. His face was hard to make out from where it was pressed against James’ shoulder, eyes closed and visibly sleeping.

It was a photo taken at the airport before their flight to Russia. James held a new copy of a classic thriller loosely in his hands but his attention was elsewhere. With a level of affection that couldn’t be faked, James was looking down at him in the picture, a soft smile that rarely made an appearance on the brooding man’s face was clear as day from the angle the picture had been taken from. It had clearly been captured on a phone camera, the quality was fine, if just a little blurred from trying to be discrete, not that either of them would have noticed…

Zemo had to squeeze his eyes shut momentarily as a slight ache formed in the back of his head, familiar and ever present whenever he forced himself to think about James. A wave of uncertainty pooled in his stomach as he pushed the device away.

Everyone knows?

Did they? Or was it all fake. There was no video. There never had been. James had said there was.

James was in on it.

“Are you alright?” Val was asking, but Zemo wasn’t listening, or rather, he couldn’t. The pain in his head was growing rapidly, far worse than it ever had before. He was aware that he was trying to stand up but wasn’t sure why. Adrenalin, perhaps, or fear.

Anger.

“Yes.” He heard himself say, “I’m fine.”

James wasn’t in on it.

I’m so sorry.

“Are you sure?”

Suddenly, the sorrow in Sharon’s eyes made sense. James never came for him because he had no reason to. Alive or dead, he was part of an elaborate scheme that had no real ending that Zemo could possibly understand. Another sharp stab of pain struck behind his left eye, and Zemo could hear a muffled groan in his own ears, unable to tell if it was him making the sound. His hand came up to press against the side of his head, the room spinning.

“Yes.”

He never loved him.

That was the very last thought he had before he felt his legs turn to liquid beneath him, unconscious before he even hit the floor.