usedtobesmoller

There's a plain canvas tote over one shoulder, as Bucky scanned the sterile corridor of the underwater prison with a look that was half-bored, half-wary. Mostly wary.

It smelled like salt and steel. The kind of place where silence had weight, and everything echoed more than it should.

He shifted his grip on the strap of the bag.

Books. That was what he’d brought. Nothing controversial—some history, a couple of classics, one newer novel he hadn’t read but figured Zemo might like. Things to keep a man busy in a place like this.

And maybe—maybe—to keep the visit from feeling too personal.

Bucky wasn’t exactly sure why he’d agreed to come. Curiosity? Guilt? That unrelenting itch in the back of his skull that Zemo had planted with those texts—the ones that straddled the line between insight and provocation, truth and manipulation. Zemo had always known how to pick the lock on people’s heads. Bucky just wasn’t sure if his was still locked.

He exhaled slowly through his nose as the guard led him to the visiting area. His jaw tensed as the door slid open, and—

There he was. Sitting like he owned the damn place. Calm, poised, like the walls weren’t closing in on him.

Bucky stepped forward, dropped the bag of books onto the table with a soft thud, and raised an eyebrows. "Zemo."

He didn’t sit yet. He just stood there, weight shifting slightly onto his left foot. Watching. Waiting to see if this was a conversation, a trap, or something even messier.