Chapter Text
It was noon when Bucky arrived home, lowering his bag to the floor before striding over to the kitchen cabinets, hoping to find one of his super-soldier grade protein bars that Zemo made sure to keep on hand for times like this.
He was retired, technically. Him and Zemo both were – but Bucky occasionally accepted the rare call for his help, at least if the circumstances were dire enough. Unfortunately, his flight back from London hadn’t carried so much as an MRE on board, and he was starving. Bucky might be pushing fifty-one these days, but his enhanced metabolism was still no joke.
Opening the cabinet, he frowned slightly when he saw there was nothing there. Odd. Zemo had known they ran out of the bars before he left, and surely he’d have replaced them while Bucky was away this past week.
“Hey, Zemo?” Bucky called out, waiting for a response. When no answer came, he shrugged and headed for the refrigerator instead. He didn’t feel like cooking, but without something quick to tide him over, he wasn’t left with much of a choice.
He froze in place the second he opened the door to the fridge, his hunger suddenly forgotten.
Everything Bucky could see sitting outside of a carton or tub was rotten. Not mushy or old, but rotten. The middle drawer that contained the majority of their produce had liquified to the point that its contents were practically unidentifiable.
“Zemo?” He called again, worry coloring his voice this time. His stomach filled with mild dread as he began clearing each room of their home, hoping to find the baron nestled down with a book, or even napping somewhere.
He grew more concerned with each empty room he found. It was as though Zemo hadn’t been here at all while he was gone, which wasn't necessarily cause for alarm, but Bucky had a sixth sense for these things – something was wrong.
And then he heard it: a faint wheezing rattle, barely there, but just loud enough to grab his attention.
It was coming from their bedroom.
He bolted in that direction, narrowly dodging a hallway table as he skidded across the wood floors into their room, stopping short of their bed where he found Zemo asleep, buried under multiple blankets.
The relief he felt upon laying eyes on Zemo was short-lived when Bucky realized what was wrong. He was unconscious, not sleeping.
“Zemo,” Bucky said loudly, shaking the baron’s shoulder in a futile attempt to wake him. Zemo was pale and feverish, his lips tinted blue. Another wheezing breath came from between his lips, and Bucky ripped his phone from his pocket, dialing Sam’s number without a second thought.
“Hey, Buck. Well isn’t this a surprise, I thought–”
“Sam,” Bucky choked out, trying to keep his voice steady. “I need your help. I just got back, and Zemo is…something’s wrong, and we’re miles away from any hospital, I don’t know how long–”
"Hold on a sec." Rustling noises carried over the line, not long before Bucky heard the distinctive pulse of vibranium. “It’s alright, I’m gearing up now Buck. Stay with him. I’ll be there soon, I promise."
The line went dead once Sam hung up, throwing Bucky back into the unbearable quiet.
He saw where Zemo’s hand hung limply over the edge of the bed, and took it between his own, gripping it tightly as though he could anchor the baron's life to his own. “Sam’s on his way,” he said softly, pressing his forehead into Zemo’s palm. “Hold on for me, Helmut,” he begged, over and over, rocking back and forth on his heels.
He didn’t stop until he heard the sound of wings approaching.