bakerstreet | (no subject)

Small victory for Zemo, then. There's something satisfying in being the one to make Bucky feel awkward in return. "I'm just saying... you must be lonely."

He shrugs his shoulders. As for experience-- "I was married, James. I'm not entirely clueless. Although living with and experiencing it oneself is... unique. I didn't recognize myself entirely when I first looked in the mirror. A rather startling experience."

It's easier to push that aside and laugh at-- Bucky sounding exactly his one hundred years again. "It sounds like you've had some experiences, James. What happened?"

"I did reconnaissance." By which he means he set up four different profiles on different apps, from different phones, and catfished people while he tried to figure out how people hook up when they aren't going to dance halls. "And that's not the point. The point is that I'm not trying to get a date."

"Reconnaissance. Of course. Very thorough, James." And maybe there's a bit of a pang of sympathy mixed in there somewhere. Zemo hasn't quite been in a position to date, nor had any real desire to, but-- it must be daunting for someone adjusting to a very new world.

"Ah, and here I thought I was about to get an invitation to dinner one night." There's a slight twitch to his lips, something like a smile. Bucky has managed to direct this towards another awkward spot again. Or was it Zemo's doing? It's difficult to tell.

Whichever of them is responsible, Bucky is blaming himself for giving Zemo the opening.

"One dinner isn't enough? Or does it not count unless I pay?" And as is on cue, there's a knock at the door. Bucky stands, and maybe to drive home the awkwardness, to put it back to Zemo, he touches his knee casually as he passes. "And if I were trying to get you out to dinner, you'd know it."

"It depends on what you want after this one dinner," he challenges, even if the brush of a hand against bare skin, the words that follow is enough to quiet him down for a moment. It's almost an annoyance, feeling that off-kilter from a touch or from the mere suggestion of anything else.

No doubt Bucky is enjoying it. There's a slight frown before Zemo is pushing himself up -- a drink. That sounds like something needed right now, and they have the excuse of dinner. While Bucky gets their food inside, Zemo is going for the cabinet Bucky poured their earlier drinks.

Look. Bucky is enjoying it. Not all of it, not the whole weird situation, but it does feel good in a petty way that is definitely less than heroic, he enjoys being able to take a little control back and make Zemo feel as awkward as he makes everyone else feel.

And maybe, just maybe, it's fun to see Zemo a little flustered.

He comes back carrying a bag full of takeout boxes. And yes, it is gratifying to see Zemo getting himself a drink.

"Help yourself."

Hey, Bucky certainly helped himself to Zemo's very expensive scotch in Riga. It seems only fair that Zemo get to help himself to Bucky's-- much less impressive stash. It will do for now.

He does have the decency to pour a second glass when he returns to Bucky, quietly placing it down next to him. The food smells good, he has to admit -- or perhaps it's the fact he can't quite remember the last time he had a decent meal that wasn't whatever The Raft chose to give him.

"Are we enjoying our meal in front of the television?" He has little doubt that they are.

"Unless you want to eat over the sink," Bucky tells him as he pulls down plates from the cabinet. Real plates. At least he has that going for him.

That probably doesn't make up for the fact that Bucky's finest whiskey is more like his $40est whiskey.

"You're free to join me on the couch though."

Zemo takes a very long pull from his glass before he shrugs his shoulders... and if he happens to brush against Bucky on his way around him -- it's simply payback for earlier.

"Oh, of course. I would be glad to join you on the couch, James. We were getting to know each other so well."

If that's what we're calling payback. It gets Bucky's attention. Again. Or maybe Zemo never exactly lost it. There's something a little unfair about the fact Zemo's in Bucky's clothes.

"Is that what we were doing? I thought you were trying to convince me to pick up girls on the internet."

"I made a suggestion." It isn't often anyone surprises Zemo, really, but it seems Bucky is more talented than most. Surprises him, makes him question things. He's not entirely sure it's a comfortable spot to be in, but there's curiosity gnawing at him.

A sane man would put a stop to it, perhaps. Put a foot down before anything more than awkward can happen.

But Zemo has never claimed to be sane, really. Smart, dedicated... and apparently, hopelessly curious when it comes to one James Buchanan Barnes, if the careful prodding and pushing is anything to go by. He's not entirely sure what to expect as he hovers close by Bucky, under the guise of looking over his shoulder. "But you seem to have made it very clear you prefer something more... physical. Fair."

What Zemo truly expects is to be batted away at best, at worst, to find himself with a vibranium hand like a vice around his throat and a very angry glare. Or perhaps it won't be either of those things. It's the question that urges him to push a little. Even with his heart beating faster in his chest, his body primed to make a quick getaway if need be, he still lifts a far more slender hand to brush along the line of a strong jaw. Bucky is a rather handsome sight, even if Zemo's never suspected he'd be in this position. "It must have been a very long time since you've had a more pleasing touch... Anyone would miss it."

Every hair on the back of Bucky's neck stands on end with the way Zemo says physical. It's a tickle, almost an itch... an inside out sensation that upsets the balance of power between them again.

Moving a little too fast, Bucky catches Zemo's wrist in his right hand, flesh and bone and a grip that's still like iron all the same. He doesn't squeeze. He could. He could break Zemo's arm without much effort, and it wouldn't have anything to do with the body he's currently in. The difference a in strength between a man or a woman didn't mean a hell of a lot against someone with the serum in their veins. Instead, Bucky swipes his thumb over the pulse point in Zemo's wrist, and he twists the other man's arm to steer him around. To box Zemo's body between him and the kitchen counter.

Bucky stands straighter, nostrils flaring slightly as he looks down as Zemo, and oh, he does make a point of looking down.

"You're one to talk. Didn't you just get out of prison?"

It wouldn't take effort at all to break Zemo, male or female. There's part of Zemo that believes that Bucky wouldn't though, not unnecessarily. He's had so many opportunities to hurt him, opportunities to kill him, and yet there's always enough restraint given to avoid it. That doesn't mean that his heart isn't beating that much faster in his chest when his wrist is captured or when he's manhandled against the kitchen counter.

There's a muscle that twitches in his jaw as the hard counter bites into him and Bucky's body stands frustratingly tall in front of him. There's heat creeping up to his face and his lips part wordlessly for a moment. Too long.

There's no dignified response to that, no real way that Zemo can come up with to gain the upper hand back. Or perhaps there is, but it's hard to think when he's hyper aware of just how close Bucky is standing -- how solid he is, warm. It also isn't lost on him that he's standing in the other man's clothes... and somehow, that feels far more intimate than it had earlier. It's a conflicting feeling he's not entirely sure how to deal with for once.

"James," he starts, testing the hold the other has on his wrist. "What is it you want?"

He tips his chin up, a quiet challenge. What else is there to do besides push and hope he gains the higher ground again? "And are you going to actually take it or is it just a game you're amusing yourself with until I'm back in a cell again?"

If Bucky felt bad about escalating whatever game is going on between them, Zemo's reaction goes a long way toward assuaging the feeling. This close, he swears he can hear the way Zemo's heart races at the implicit threat, and oh Bucky knows he ought to feel bad about it. He ought to be disgusted with himself, Zemo or no.

Maybe he is, even. Disgusted, that is. Just a little with his own actions.

On the other hand, it is Zemo, and Bucky can still see that. As different as he is, it's still so obviously him, from the way he asks those goading questions to the way he tilts his head, to the way he seems like he wants Bucky to snap. Like he's still just waiting for Bucky to pull the trigger...

Would Zemo flinch if Bucky kissed him?

That's a thought that stops Bucky for a long moment, watching Zemo unblinking and torn between turning a way, dishing up their goddamn dinner and spending the rest of the night in silence or picking him up and sitting him on the counter just to see how Zemo would react. And maybe in that last urge they're not entirely different, because it's a sort of weaponized curiosity, the urge to make Zemo look as off balance as Bucky feels.

Bucky's grip is secure as he brings Zemo's hand back to his cheek, brushing the soft skin of his wrist against his stubble. He breathes in the scent, clean from the shower.

"I could take it," he acknowledges then, not quite answering the question. "If I wanted. I could bend you over the counter and take you right here. Or I could be a gentleman and finger you on the couch instead... You'd fit just fine in my lap."

The words came out of his mouth a little too easily, a little too much like when he'd asked Zemo if he'd like to see what Bucky could do with leverage. He didn't feel great about it; he was pretty sure he ought to have felt worse.

"What I wonder though... would you be wet?"

His mother would definitely have boxed his ears for that.

There's a shiver that travels down his spine as rough stubble brushes against his wrist, somewhere realizing in the back of his head that he's maybe stumbled in over his head. It wouldn't be the first time with Bucky either, would it? He can still remember the glass flying past his head and shattering against the wall, he can still remember what it felt like to have a gun pointed to his head.

The last one, he'd welcomed, desired even.

But they'd all had implicit violence promised, an undercurrent that promised what Bucky was capable of, whether he chose to do it in the end or not. He's not quite sure what this is. That's maybe what has him off balance most of all.

Is it something that's been there between the both of them? Something that's the result of a prettier, softer body and loneliness, or some twisted curiosity? Hopefully not merely a side-effect of whatever sort of spell he's under.

Either way, heat creeps through him, coils low in his stomach to the point he can't tell if it's all desire or a mix of shame in there too for getting tangled in this game. He can feel it creeping up to his cheeks as eyes narrow sharply against unbidden images flashing through his head following Bucky's words. Eyes break away from Bucky's, trailing unabashedly between them. There's no way to win this game, really. Like so many of their games. There's just seeing who flinches first, who breaks away from-- whatever this is.

Fingers curl back around Bucky's face, his thumb sweeps over skin almost delicately. And then he's shifting forward just enough to press them closer together, trying to ignore the jolt that goes through him at the firmer contact. Chest to chest. Perhaps it really has just been a long time since he's given any thoughts to desires that haven't centered around finishing his work, a long time since he's allowed himself close to anyone in a way that wasn't to engage in violence of some kind.

He shoves those musings down in favor of tracing his fingertips up over Bucky's other arm, tracing vibranium with interest.

"Oh, James..." He manages a purr of the name as he twists his lips into a smile. "Is that how I am in these fantasies of yours? Soaked, perhaps even begging."

Eyes finally return to Bucky's. "You didn't answer my question, so I suppose you'll just have to keep guessing at what state you've left me in."

Although, shamefully, he's rather certain his body is enthusiastically on board. At least it's rather easier to hide than it may be in his body.

He twists his wrist to try to pull it out of Bucky's grip.

But he sees the way Zemo flushes, pink in his cheeks that is somehow both wildly out of place and deeply fascinating. The idea that Baron Helmut Zemo is capable of blushing stirs a momentary wicked sense of victory. Among other things. Bucky doesn't try to tease apart where the pleasure comes from seeing the color rise up Zemo's cheeks.

He doesn't have long to ponder it anyway as the tables turn back on him, pressing against his chest. If Bucky had meant to emphasize how soft Zemo was like this, how small, how intimate their situation was, then Zemo now uses the same facts to how own fucking advantage, because they're no ignoring the sensation or how easy it would be to enjoy that sensation.

If it's been a long time for Zemo, it's been longer for Bucky. All the blood in his body heats, seemed to rush south. He's not a teenager to get hard at the sight of straight stocking seams or a casual touch, but he's also not stone. He lets Zemo twist away this time rather than risk him notice the physical effects of his closeness.

"Just gagging for it," Bucky says flatly, lip curled as he aims for deadpan sarcasm. But his voice rasps in a way that undermines the effect.

It doesn't help that he's picturing it now, and whether or not it's realistic to fantasize about Zemo begging for anything, let alone sex, but here he is. Here they both are, apparently.

Leaning against the counter top, both hands flat and eyes straying to the glass of whiskey poured and untouched near by, Bucky opts to redirect. "I thought we were eating."

He normally isn't facing Bucky threatening to bend him over a sink to fuck, honestly. The fact that he is-- it's just as unreal, just as out of place. This isn't a situation he could have ever planned for, anticipated. He's hardly inexperienced, but he does feel annoyingly out of practice in these matters, and lost when he's on this end of things.

It's a curious place to be in and Zemo is never one who likes to feel... unprepared. He's not one who likes to feel in over his head when he's usually steps ahead. Somehow, Bucky has managed to get under his skin for once.

As off-kilter as he is, there's satisfaction in that note to Bucky's voice, something a bit rougher. Unmistakable. Why there's a sick satisfaction in being able to turn Bucky on, to leave him feeling as awkward as Zemo feels at the moment is something he can't let himself dissect too closely.

Especially when he's in no better of a state, a just as sick curiosity gnawing at him about what Bucky's fingers would feel like on his skin, what things might feel like in this body.

Begging isn't something he's inclined to do, but there's another twist of satisfaction when simple words seem to have an effect on Bucky. It's in a far more satisfying way than the old words written in a book.

"Excuse me, James, but I wasn't the one pressing you against the sink. You seemed to have desires beyond food." But he needs something to do with his hands, so he takes the liberty of going to plate their food, even if that means having to be close to Bucky again.

"It's very flattering, of course."

If letting go of Zemo was supposed to clear Bucky's head, defuse the situation, then it's not working. And there's no pretending that Bucky hadn't reacted, that Zemo hadn't noticed. That this all isn't a terrible mistake.

Fuck. The only reason he doesn't say it out loud, sighed under his breath or gritted through his teeth, is that he refuses to give Zemo the satisfaction. Zemo would think it was down to him, that he's managed to get under Bucky's skin and get a reaction out of him, and to hell if Bucky knows what it would prove, but Zemo would be right.

He is under Bucky's skin, and shaking his self-control in ways that haven't been tested... ever, really. This isn't like flirting before the war. No coy dance, show a girl a good time, seduce her a little. He isn't stealing kisses or slipping his hand up a skirt.

This is a game of chicken, and Bucky isn't sure how to make Zemo swerve.

"Flattered," Bucky repeats, a little growl in the tone. "Flattered. Is that what you're calling it?"

Not exactly a strong retort. He can feel the control firmly out of his grasp—at least it seems that way, like Zemo has found a way to make Bucky's blood boil in a way that has less to do with anger than he'd like to admit. For a moment, it seems like all he can do not to break something. Bend the metal of the kitchen sink under his hand or crack the tile.

He bites his lip, then reaches for the glass of whiskey, tossing it back in one swallow and letting it burn all the way down.

He doesn't shatter the glass setting it down, either.

"You don't seem especially bothered. I might get the idea you like the attention."

Is there any satisfaction to truly be had here on either side though? It seems all they've succeeded in doing is getting under each other's skin, in pushing in discomfort and desire alike. Zemo doesn't feel much like the winner here. He doesn't feel as right as Bucky might assume.

He feels out of his comfort zone, unprepared for Bucky Barnes to even be remotely looking at him like he really would do the things he'd threatened. He's not prepared for the fact that the idea doesn't disgust him, whether it should or not. "What would you rather me call it, James?"

Flattered is polite. Flattered doesn't get into all the conflicting feelings about it or the morbid curiosity that follows, or the desperate clawing he's doing to get an upper hand that feels out of reach.

The comment gets a shrug of his shoulders. How is he supposed to answer that? "I've never been displeased with your attention, James. Although this has been more agreeable than some other ways you've shown it."

No hand around his throat yet, no threats on his life. A slight improvement. "Take your plate. Let's eat."

Bucky takes another deep breath, struggling with his restraint another short moment before he pushes away from the counter, trusting himself enough to turn and face Zemo again, to keep his expression from showing how shaken he is, or worse keeping the dark, twisting desire that threatens to get him half-hard.

Looking at Zemo, it does seem too easy to imagine testing that body. Seeing how he reacts to being touched.

See how much Zemo would let him get away with before demanding he stop. Or would he really ask for more...?

That line of thought isn't helpful; Bucky tamps down on it ruthlessly and takes his plate. He probably ought to worry that Zemo found a way to slip something into it, but to hell with it. If Zemo wants to drug him tonight, if he's gone through all this to do it, then he deserves his win. Eating is at least something else to do with his hands, an excuse not to talk more.

"I think I'd still call it wet," he says though, because he can't seem to let it go, from trying to needle Zemo back and get some of that control back. "Hot? Just seems like a weird way to say something gets your motor running."

While Zemo has never been opposed to playing the long game, even this would be going to a terribly desperate length for him. There's no drugs in the food, nor the drink, no insidious plots underneath the surface.

Perhaps part of him is a bit disappointed that Bucky's system will burn through the whiskey fast and it would be impossible to pour him enough to make him pliable, to lead him away from finding new ways to get under his skin.

Zemo takes his own plate and barely suppresses a roll of his eyes as Bucky seems to round back around to that. Lips purse as he goes to pointedly sit on the couch and pick at his food. "You are very eager to hear me say I am wet for you, James."

He brushes hair back over his shoulders, eyes carefully cast down towards the food rather than Bucky. "Does this approach usually work for you?"

"I wouldn't treat a girl like this." Which he probably ought to be ashamed to admit, because if he wouldn't trust a girl—a real girl—this way, it's probably a sign he shouldn't treat Zemo this way either. But Zemo is still Zemo, even if he looks different.

And in some ways, Bucky has a hard time getting past those differences. He can't pretend he doesn't notice how small Zemo is like this, slim, with though soft curves and that long hair, those legs—honestly fairly knock out legs, just begging him to run his hand up them. He can't not notice that Zemo's a dish.

But even if Zemo didn't still look like himself, he reminds Bucky of who he really is every time he opens his mouth.

He pokes at his food, spears a bite of lamb.

"If you were a real girl, I'd be charming. Ask you dancing. Make jokes." He shoves the bite of meat in his mouth, watching Zemo steadily. "Not make you pay for dinner."

"I like dancing." Not that Bucky is asking, nor does he think even if this was legitimately his body, that he would be quite so charming as he insists. Zemo doesn't really look over at the attention he's receiving, the steady stare he can almost feel on him, but there is the briefest twist to his lips.

"What a gentleman, James." Although he did offer to pay for dinner, to be fair.

"And since I am not a real girl, I get asked how wet I am right off." There's a short noise, something like a chuckle. This is an unbelievable situation.

"And threats to fuck you over the sink. If we're keeping track."

Does owning that make it better? The whole situation is more absurd by the moment. He could almost laugh too, because in that respect he can sympathize with Zemo. They're in that together.

Not that it keeps him from firing back. Antagonism is easier. Antagonism feels a lot safer than attraction.

"What, you want the whole girlfriend experience now? Put on some music?" His nose scrunches up a little then. "I've seen you dance. If you can call that dancing. This is probably better."

"Yes, James. I haven't forgotten."

It's absurd. It's like being caught in a dream that you can't quite wake from... although, admittedly, this is still better than the dreams he usually has at night for sheer fact that there are no crushed corpses or other dark memories to haunt him. It doesn't mean he doesn't almost want to pinch himself just to see if he can snap out of... whatever his life has become today.

There's an annoyed look that's thrown Bucky's way.

Although part of him is curious, deeply so, if Bucky would entertain anything more flattering than the threat of bending him over and fucking him, as he so eloquently put. "I'm simply saying a bit more charm couldn't hurt."

He frowns thoughtfully. "I was a good husband, you know. I would not have been a bad girlfriend. Not that I would be yours."

The Rule!63 Meme

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