Chapter Text
There were many things in his life that he regretted. There were things he would have done differently given the chance. There were things he thought about, things he would look at and perhaps try and change if he could. But none of that was possible. What happens, happens. There is nothing more to it. As much as someone might wish to go back and change the past, it was cemented into history and to think about what ifs would drive a man mad.
The first time he’d let himself think about death, truly think about it, was his first mission on EKO Scorpion. It had gone badly. Their team had gotten tied up in something they should not have. He remembered laying on the floor with a knife in his stomach, knowing that it was not a good outlook. He remembered one of his team coming up to help him, to pull the knife out and him rasping to leave it in. At least this way, he wasn’t bleeding out. If he kept still, the knife would hopefully not tear up his insides any more than it already had. But for that moment, it had kept the wound closed. He remembered waking up in a medical wing, the lights above him too bright and the stench of sterilization stinging his nose.
Then, death had been terrifying. He had thought so much of life.
The second time that death had come to the forefront of his mind was later on in his career with EKO Scorpion. It was not his death that faced him, but one of his team members. He had watched as a knife was lodged in his neck from their attacker, had knelt down by the body and gently cradled him in his arms, softly whispering that things were going to be alright as blood spilled from the mouth of the young man. He had tried to say something, but blood had gurgled from his lips. Zemo remembered gently brushing his fingers through the man’s hair as he let him pass into the veil.
They had killed so many while a part of that team, but it had been different. Watching someone you knew, someone he had worked with and started to see as an extension of his family, dying right before him, that was different. He had listened to the soft thump of his heart as it gave out and he had let out a shiver to that broken beat. But he had been a soldier. He had a job to do.
The third time he’d been faced with death, he’d been separated from his team. He wasn’t sure what had happened, but he’d been trapped in a room, the door locking behind him. This mission happened when they’d been taking out small portions of HYDRA that had been interfering with their countries' doings. They’d been sent to eradicate the base located just out of their borders. The team had split up and he’d heard the door lock behind him. He hadn’t even known there was a door to that room. He wasn’t usually that sloppy with his work.
The room had been bare, only a vent in the ceiling. His footsteps had been soft, barely making a sound. But it was too late. He’d heard a soft hiss, panic striking through him as he’d glanced up to the ceiling, watching it. Though nothing could be seen, he could guess what was happening.
Zemo had run to the door, pounding his fist against it, doing everything he could to get out. Nitrogen was dangerous. It could not be smelled or seen. It was a calming death, one that they had been talked through as it was a favorite use of some of their enemies. It seemed that HYDRA had been on that list. One would not know they were being poisoned until they passed out. Though he could tell, knowing the tale-tell signs of what was happening. The room was closed, soon, the air would be replaced with only nitrogen and he could feel himself starting to become tired. Five or six breaths of only nitrogen could make someone pass out, and he felt it. Felt the pull for him to sleep. Zemo let himself slide to the ground, head leaning up against the wall as his vision slowly started to black out. He had passed out then, his body drifting into unconsciousness. He would not be awake to know he was dying. That was the good thing about this.
Zemo remembered thinking that it was a peaceful way to die. To simply go to sleep and not wake up. He would miss his family, his wife and child, but if he were to die, this is how he would choose it. It would be one of the last times he considered any moment peaceful.
However, death had not been in the cards for him that day when he woke up to the door having been broken open and his team pulling him out.
The fourth time he had faced death had been after the destruction of Sokovia.
He had watched from afar. At the time, out on a mission, they had watched as their home came crashing down around them. Over and over again he’d assured his wife they would be safe if they could just get out of the city. If they could stay with his father out in his country house, they would be just fine.
Three days it had taken him. He’d gone home, gone to his father’s house and sorted through stones and dust until he found them, all wrapped around each other. For some reason, during that time, all he had felt was….numb. There had been nothing but numbness as his hands moved and sorted through the broken house, through the small meteors of rock and dirt that had decimated his childhood home. He had robotically searched through it all until he had found them. His father had tried to shield the others, tried to shield their bodies. But they were dead, almost preserved like statues in a museum.
It had been then that the dam had broken. He had laid down in the rubble, wrapping his arms around them as if holding their bodies could bring them back to life. As if he could wind back time and protect them with his own body. He had given so much for them, done everything he could to protect his wife and child. But it had been for nothing. For hours he had laid there in the dust and blood and held the remains of his family. And he had wept.
In the end, he had gotten up, his resolve hardened, wiped the dirt off of his hands, a plan already forming in the back of his mind.
The fifth time, death had been invited. So many times before, Zemo had waited around for death to find him, had waited for the scythe to take him. This time, however, he had welcomed the dark figure to meet him.
Zemo remembered the cold. He remembered the biting wind and air that had nipped at his nose and ears. He remembered sitting in the snow, waiting for someone to find him. He had yet to tell his story and it needed to be told. He had waited for the man whose father he had killed to approach him. He had not meant to kill the king of Wakanda, the life had been a regrettable one to take. But at this point, he did not care.
He remembered the way his breath made little clouds in the air. Remembered the snow beneath him. He remembered the weight of the gun in his hand, the way that it felt in his grip, loosely held. He remembered the numbness. Remembered that no matter what he saw, it all looked bland to him. He remembered telling his story, the anger boiling under the surface that couldn’t break through the absolute despair. He remembered the split moment of spite that ran up before he shoved the barrel of the gun up under his chin and pulled the trigger.
What should have been calm, should have been quiet, should have been the white nothingness that came with it all that he had felt before, there had been...silence.
It had taken him a moment to realize that his plan hadn’t worked. That he was laying on his back, a firm arm wrapped around his neck and keeping him from moving. One hand came up instinctively to wrap around the arm that held him, but there was no way to get out of this. His last change of quiet, of peace, had been ripped from him. Zemo lay there, staring at the gray clouds above him as the numbness overtook him once more.
There had been moments, up until his time of escape, that he had tried to shake death’s hand. He’d briefly gone on a hunger strike, only to wake up in the infirmary with a needle in his arm. He could not remember how he got there, but he had. There had been the time he’d grabbed one of his eating utensils and tried to slice his wrists open, welcoming the warm, nauseous darkness that had accompanied it, only to once again, wake up with thick bandages around his arms and strapped down to a bed for a couple of weeks. Every attempt had been met with longer and longer times tied down to a medical bed until he’d given up. Being forced down was worse than existing in a cell. No matter what he tried, they would not let him escape into the darkness he wished so much to embrace.
The words of the Wakandan king run in his ears. The living were not done with him, he wondered when they finally would be.
When he had escaped, there had been a purpose for him. He had been tasked in helping to eradicate something from the earth that he knew to be wrong. To wipe the blight from the face of the planet. It had given him something to look forward to. He had done what was needed, taken out those that needed to be taken care of.
That was how he found himself in front of the Sokovian memorial, looking up to it with sadness. He had always wished to die on the soil that was his home, even if his home no longer existed. Even if Sokovia was no longer a place he could actually go, the memorial was what was left for him. What was left of him. This was the last remnant of his life, of everything that he had once been. Of what he had been a baron of, of what he had killed for, of what had been taken from him. This was it. There was nothing else.
One hand had moved to gently touch the stone, tracing over the features and following the grooves with his gloved hand. This was where he would like to finally be released from this life. From the grip of existence. From the cold clutches that had hold of his heart. From the ache that filled him, kept him from feeling whole.
He knew the end of what was meant to come, the shift of feet against stone and the look in James’ eye when he saw him. A small smile crept onto his face as he nodded, looking down the barrel of the gun. Finally, he would be released from the clutches of his pain, he would be released from everything that had brought him anger and hate and everything he’d despised in people before him. He looked down the barrel of the gun and saw peace, hope.
Of course he had antagonized James. Of course he had belittled him when he could. He needed the man to have reason to end his life. He needed him to have a motive other than their years old grudges with each other. James needed a reason to hate him. To want him dead and so he had poked and prodded and needled until he could feel the tension rising from the other.
He had all but mouthed ‘do it’ at him. There was determination in James’ eyes and he had seen the hardening of his resolve. Finally, finally he would get what he wanted. He could die on the soil that he had wanted to live and die on for so long. Finally, he could hold his family in his arms and he could kiss them again. Finally, he could see those he had lived for, be at peace. He could leave the world better than how he had found it, rid of those that wished to create armies to tear apart families. If he could stop someone else like himself from losing it all, he would.
Zemo had given him a small nod, wanting the other to finally put him out of his misery. His smile had widened just the smallest bit, ready for release.
The gun had clicked.
And once again life had clung on to him by a string. Disappointment washed over his face briefly when he was not met with the quiet and peace that he so desired. Shock overtook him once more, his face dropping as he looked at the other. Why? Why torture him? Why leave him to suffer when what he wanted was just there out of his grasp? Why leave him grasping at something that he was not allowed to have.
Mercy, some would say. They would say that this was mercy, that he had been spared, that this was the right thing to do. But all he saw was a life dragged out into misery ever longer. Why was he not allowed to find his peace? To finally allow himself to sleep, to rest. To be in the arms of those he loved?
The second emotion that crossed his face was betrayal. Zemo clenched his jaw, steeling himself. What had been triumph on James’ face quickly turned to one of confusion and then a flicker of worry as he saw Zemo’s own features fall. Typical, he supposed. That was what his life was, one disappointment after another. There was a small rattle behind him and he turned slightly to look at the Dora Milaje. Of course, another cell, something else to shove him in and forget about him until he was needed. That was all he was these days. A chained dog in a cage waiting to be called upon.
He let himself be led off, not looking back, not wanting to see the worry on James’ face. He didn’t want to know what he looked like. Didn’t want to see pity and concern. Why was he not allowed to simply...go? Why could he not just be released? What good was pity if it were just for pity’s sake and not one that would lead to action?
But there was always something else wasn’t there? There was always something else. That was the thing that ran through his head again and again. He wasn’t done yet. Would he ever be? The wheel kept turning and turning and turning, forcing the gears of the world to grind on and on and so his life continued.
Sitting in the cold cell, the radio announced that his plans had been fulfilled. Zemo smiled to himself, slowly laying back on his bed and closing his eyes. He was done, there was nothing else to hold on to. He was done.
A small utensil lay concealed in his sleeve, cold against the flesh on his wrist. Soon.