Chapter Text
“In Greek, drakwn means ‘one who sees and watches’. The Greek form is undoubtedly based on the root that is clearly visible – derk – ‘to look, to watch’. It occurs in the words derkomai [δέρκομαι] ‘I see clearly’ and dedorka [δέδορκα] ‘I watch you’. The descriptions in myths emphasize that one of the characteristics of dragons is that they are always alert and see a lot. So the word ‘seer’ is an ideal name for one of these creatures – especially as a euphemism (or, technically, a ‘taboo name’: you don’t want them to hear you talking about them; for the same reason, the Greeks regularly called the Eumenides Furies ‘the merciful ones’ instead of their real name, the Erinyes).” New grammar comparative of Greek and Latin Andrew L. Sihler New York Oxford Oxford university press 1995
Phase Two
“A killer wearing the face of your sole friend,” Zemo breathes the last word, savoring it with a breathy emphasis, yet refrains from any further insinuation. “A clever move. Strong, original, possessed of rare ingenuity. One can hardly deny its artistry”.
“That’s not all,” Steve runs a hand across his brow. “I thought I killed him. But he lived. In the morgue I saw it myself — torn muscle knitting back together”.
“Ah! A super soldier, another one. How delightful,” Zemo appraised with genuine interest. “And what have you done with him?”
“Nothing yet,” Steve leans back in his chair, eyes moving to the grand projection of the Alps on the far wall of Zemo’s spacious cell. “Alive, he can tell me more than dead.”
“Reasonable,” Zemo inclines his head with a soft smile. “Try the raisins. Sweeten the moment”.
“Any sweeter, and my teeth will break,” Steve lets out a short laugh. “Someone close to me dares to dig up Stark Senior’s forbidden research, just to make a super soldier with Bucky’s face. They’re playing big, Helmut. And I admit — it stirs the blood”.
“I’m glad for you,” Zemo lifts his glass of cognac in a mock salute, sips, and frowns faintly as he studies Steve’s expression. “Heavens above... they succeeded already, haven’t they? I see it in your face. They wounded you. They prevail. How delicious. I confess, I rise in ovation”.
“I confess, too: your name stands near the top of my list. Honorable third place”, Steve replies evenly, raising his own glass without breaking eye contact.
Zemo gives a delicate shrug, his mouth twisting with theatrical petulance.
“I cannot decide… am I more flattered, or insulted?”
“Flattered, I suppose,” Steve grimaces faintly. “Finding a man’s weaknesses is your talent. But locked up here, your reach is too short”.
“After such a compliment, it feels almost shameful to confess that — for once — this game is not of my making. Gladly would I claim it, but you, my friend…” Zemo spreads his hands with eloquent helplessness. “You clipped my wings quite thoroughly”.
“I had no choice, and you know it,” Steve snorts. “Otherwise, I’d have had to kill you. And I’d have lost one of my most intelligent and honest enemies”.
“Forget not faithful and loyal”, Zemo laughs lightly, then tilts his head with sudden scrutiny. “Or are those two words synonymous in your language? In mine, there are finer shades: duration, conviction, depth.”
“That’s the reason I came to you”, Steve cuts him off, not inclined to entertain linguistics. “You hate the Dragon with all your heart, but you won’t become the Dragon yourself. And more than the Dragon, you hate every super-knight in history. Super soldiers.”
“Super gladiators. Human beasts exalted beyond nature”, Zemo adds with a thin smile. — “How pleasing, that you grasp the paradox. I despise you doubly: as a soldier made beyond men, and as a Dragon”. He spears an olive from the silver dish between them, places it in his mouth, and chews thoughtfully. “Yet I presume you visit not merely to regale me with news and courtesies?”
“Right,” Steve nods.
“Then I surmise you seek my judgment. Who contrives such a plot, and by what means. You come to me for counsel.”
“Partly. I bring you this puzzle, Helmut, so you won’t die of boredom. Especially since tomorrow they move you to the Raft.”
“Ah!” Zemo rounds his lips softly, lowers his gaze, then lifts it again, steady and cold with hate. “So I become your scapegoat? Your counterfeit Doctor Evil?”
“Third suspect on my list. You’ll look convincing to more than just me,” Steve raises his glass in a dry salute.
“I see,” Zemo, ever the master of composure, let his posture sag for a heartbeat before his lips curves again. “At least I gain a riddle: your failed assassin”.
“Hope it keeps you busy, Helmut,” Steve says gravely, rising. “I’ll see you get whatever files I gather on this case”.
“My gratitude,” Zemo inclines with solemn grace, then rests his cheek against his palm, eyes gleaming upward with frozen contempt. “Could you be so kind to add a photograph of yourself, won’t you? One where the pain is plain — pain that your foe wears Barnes’s face”.
Steve does not reply. Let him savor the crumbs of triumph left to him.
Baron Zemo is far too clever not to understand: he has no power to alter the truth — the Dragon will live forever.
Antiphase Two
There are five cameras in his cell: one in each corner, and a fifth above the door. There are also an iron bunk bolted to the floor, topped with a striped prison mattress.
The Soldier dislikes bunks. Beds never end well for him.
So he sits on the floor.
It ensures no safety should visitors come.
But nothing ensures him safety.
Heavy shackles and a collar of reinforced metal bind him. His prosthetic arm is twisted at such an angle that no motion of the bionics is possible. This, too, is nothing new. At least the arm is not shackled behind his back — when it is, the pain becomes almost unbearable once the restraints are removed. His legs are also pinned with bars.
This time, at least, they gave him a prison uniform. He is not shackled naked, as so often before.
But even that guarantees nothing.
At least the pain in his face has eased, the bones knit. Now only a dull throbbing lingers at the base of his skull, and his gut twists with slow, gnawing hunger. Stronger than hunger, though, is thirst. No one gave him water. Not once.
That, too, is nothing new. He knows how to endure hunger and thirst. He is well trained.
If only the head did not ache.
The pain clouds his efforts to recall: from where does he know the man on the bridge? From where could he know his scent?
This time he waited less than two days.
Most of that span he drifts in a half-dreaming state, letting the body heal itself, conserving what little strength remains. In such moments he resembles some frog or fish beneath winter ice, waiting out the cold in silence.
One day it ends.
It always ends.
Spring comes, eventually.
Spring comes to him in the form of a man built like an antique statue, clad in armored black leather with restrained streaks of blood-red. His fair hair and eyes blaze with the light of an angel of death.
The Soldier knows him at once.
This is the one he failed to kill on the bridge.
This is the one who desides his fate in the morgue.
This is the one who names him Bucky.
Awkward, like a rusted marionette, the Soldier shifts and drops to his knees, as befits the coming of a master.
The angel in black regards him long, then speaks at last, voice calm but tinged with cold displeasure:
“What is your name?”
Bucky, the Soldier thinks. You said so yourself.
“I have no name. I am the Winter Soldier,” he answers flatly.
“The Winter Soldier,” the angel repeats slowly, as if tasting the phrase. “And how many of you are there?”
“I’m the only one who remains functional,” the Soldier admits. He half-remembers others — later models — but knows nothing of their fate. They are long gone.
The guest snorts, closes the space between them in two steps, and crouches, studying his face up close.
The Soldier knows he is forbidden to look into a master’s eyes, yet this man’s gaze mesmerizes like a serpent’s. All thoughts fall away, leaving only the rush of blood in his ears, the shriek of wind, and the fading rhythm of a freight train vanishing down the tracks.
“Do you know who I am?”
“The man on the bridge. I think… I knew you?” the Soldier tries, uncertain.
The slap stings — not harshly, but with dreadful familiarity.
“A poor attempt,” the angel grimaces. “Pitiful. Try again.”
“You are my new master.” This time the Soldier does not doubt. The order of things is simple. Clear.
Yet his visitor arches a brow in surprise, leaning back slightly.
“Oh? So that is how you see it? Intriguing. And your last master never told you who I truly am?”
The Soldier blinks, drags his gaze away at last, fixes on a point above the man’s shoulder, and recites in crisp, mechanical cadence:
“Target of level eighty. Highest difficulty. Supreme Existimator Steve Rogers. Tyrant of nations, usurper of power and tormentor of all peoples on Earth. Your elimination will secure freedom for mankind, and end the horrors of slavery.”
He falters for a breath, oddly abashed, then adds softly:
“My work is a gift to humanity.”
“Eloquent,” the usurper notes. “Persuasive. But then you are no mere soldier. You are a selfless knight, are you not?”
“A dog-knight,” the Soldier replies automatically, even allowing the ghost of a smile. “History had such things, did it not?”
“A dog-knight, eager to trade masters,” Steve taunts, reaching out. His hand takes the Soldier’s chin, rough thumb pressing, pinching his lower lip. “Tell me — what did your last master bid you do, should you lose to me? What plan did he devise?”
“There was no plan. The Winter Soldier does not lose,” the Soldier recites, brushing his lips against the man’s fingers. He feels an unexpected rush of warmth, and admits softly: “Not usually.”
“Do not lie to me,” the tormentor warns gently. “I dislike lies above all.”
The Soldier smiles despite himself at the unspoken threat.
“I cannot lie. They broke my mind to make sure of it.”
To his own ears, the words sound almost like defiance. And since he has little left to lose — and the angel Steve smells so terribly, irresistibly good — he leans, extends his tongue, and licks the man’s fingers.
They are calloused. Hard. This feeling was worth a risk.
For a heartbeat, the tormentor of nations seems to pause. Then his hand clamps hard around the Soldier’s jaw, thumb thrusting rudely into his mouth, pressing down the tongue, nearly reaching his throat.
“Well then,” the Supreme Existimator murmurs, leaning closer, his voice conspiratorially tender, “if you refuse to speak, I shall tell you what the plan was. Let us begin at the heart — what you left unsaid. You are sent to kill me because I am the Dragon. And your former master is cautious, cautious enough to attempt it not with his own hand, but with yours. Since to best me in open combat is impossible, he fashions a fighter with the face of my lost friend — the only man ever dear to me. He sought a breach in my armor. And if none existed, he sought to forge one with your help. You were to become my weakness, and then strike. The problem, dog-knight Winter Soldier, is that I have no weaknesses. Nor shall I ever.”
The Dragon’s hand releases him, then strokes the cheek he had struck before. A reply is expected.
The Soldier has none to give. He recalls no such instructions. He is not to blame for this face. And he knows that if he is valuable, it is never in the sense this angel-Dragon, Steve Rogers, speaks of now. But he can recognize when certain responses are required. Even with a broken mind, he is not stupid. He tilts his head, presses into the broad hand, and without thought licks his lips before speaking:
“If you give me water, it will please you more.”
“What?”
“Give me some water, and I’ll give you the best blowjob of your life.”
“You offer to debase yourself for a sip?” the angel-Dragon sneers, withdrawing his hand in disgust and rising tall, towering over him to the ceiling. “Could they insult Bucky’s face more than this?”
“Well, I hope your Bucky never found himself starved of food and drink, with no choice but to trade sex to survive,” the Soldier snaps back before he can stop himself, stung by the contempt in those words, uncaring of consequence.
The Dragon’s response is swift as a strike. In a blur, the Soldier dangles in the air, body twisted, throat crushed in those still-wet fingers.
“My Bucky would never sell his body. My Bucky would never allow himself to be broken,” the Dragon hisses.
My Bucky was mine alone, the Soldier hears behind those words.
The next instant he is cast back to the floor. No longer pretending, he pulls himself to the wall, draws his knees to his chest, and says wearily:
“I’m glad your Bucky died before he could become what I am.”
The Dragon turns his back, steadying his breath.
“Because you are not Bucky,” he snarls over his shoulder. The thought pleases him so much he turns back again, stepping close. “Say it. Say, ‘I am not Bucky.’”
Someone is gravely mistaken, thinking he has no weaknesses, the Soldier thinks with a bitter inward smile. But aloud he obeys:
“I am not Bucky.”
For a moment, the Dragon’s flawless face twists, and only after a pause the Soldier realizes — it is the shape of a cruel, painful smile.
“Now that is your new name. I grant it to you, as your new master. You are Not-Bucky.”
“Yes, master,” the Soldier answers obediently. “I await your command.”
“Alas, I have no need of a Not-Bucky friend,” the tormentor of nations shrugs. “Nor of another soldier. But you amused me, Not-Bucky, and so I shall grant you one request. Choose wisely.”
“Water, for fuck’s sake!” the Soldier almost growls, cutting him off.
To his surprise, Steve Rogers falls silent at the outburst. Then he turns toward the door, and when the jailer appears, the Dragon orders:
“Bring him water and food. Double portions, three times a day. Remove his shackles. He does not leave this cell.”
“As you command. It shall be done. When do you intend your next visit, Lord Existimator?” the warden inquires obsequiously.
“Most likely never,” the Dragon replies coldly. “We have already settled everything.”
He turns his gaze upon the Soldier. This time, the Soldier does not look away.
He still remembers the taste of his fingers.
And when the restraints are removed, and two bottles of water and two trays of food are set before him, it feels somehow dishonest. For his part of the bargain has not been paid.
The Soldier dislikes receiving any gifts in advance.
For in the end, he must always pay double.
And worse — it stings. Because the Dragon is beautiful indeed.