The Sharpest Lies [Bucky x ReaderxSteve]

Forty-one

Cold, murky darkness and discomfort bordering on pain. That's what it feels like your world has shrunk down to. It's impossible to know how long you've been here, alone in the dark, but you can already feel it eating away at your sanity. Wasn't that supposed to take some time? Did that mean you'd been here for a long time?

After you'd exhausted your ability to strain your memory to figure out what happened to you, you'd spent some time seeing if you could do anything about your position. Which proved to be as fruitless as trying to remember what happened. There was almost no give in however they had you restrained.

You couldn't even sink back into the comfort of unconsciousness, to shut down and let your mind torture you with dreams of good things. Instead, your thoughts swirl around with thoughts of the unknown. Who took you, what happened to Steve, what was going to happen to you now, why hadn't anyone come to check on you, did whoever took you know you were pregnant. Around and around the thoughts ran.

To stave off what feels like encroaching madness, you alternate between humming and counting. But after a while even that becomes too much for you and you fall silent. You try to ignore the cramping pressure in your bladder, the growling complaints of your stomach, and the growing pain at every spot of your body that's in contact with the surface under you.

Isn't it bad to be on your back when you're pregnant?

You're pretty sure you read that somewhere. That after the first trimester it's recommended not to sleep on your back because of some kind of vein or something. What if you–

With an audible snarl you shut that thought down, refusing to let it form completely. You are not going to think that. You're not.

"Your daddy and uncle will come," you say out loud, wishing you could stroke your hands along your stomach as you spoke. Instead you have to satisfy yourself with the mental image of doing it. "So don't worry, little tadpole. They'll tear the world apart and burn the pieces into ash until they find us."

~*~*~*~

"Zemo!"

At the angry bellow, the Albanian looks up from the merchandise he's inspecting to see 6 feet of irate man bearing down on him. His men are already moving to intercept, and rather than see them dead, he calls for them to stand down with a short command.

"James, to what do I owe this unannounced visit," Zemo asks, barely blinking as Bucky grabs his vest and drags him close to his face, the barrel of his gun flush against his chest.

"Cut the shit, Zemo, you know why I'm here," Bucky's voice is harsh and when one of Zemo's men moves forward, he swings the gun in that direction. "Tell your men to back the fuck off or I'll end them all."

"While I know you are an excellent shot, James, I do think even you would be unable to hit everyone of my men before they gun you down themselves," Zemo says calmly, but he lifts a hand to signal the man back. "You know this will probably go better if everyone puts their weapons away don't you think?"

Bucky presses his gun back against the man's chest, his eyes dark. "Fuck that. Tell me where she is."

Zemo blinks. "I'm sorry? Where who is?"

"What did I say about cutting the bullshit? You know full fucking well who I'm talking about."

Carefully, Zemo reaches up and places two fingers on the barrel of Bucky's gun. "Shall I hazard a guess this is about your lovely lady?"

"Where is she?" Bucky demands again, poking Zemo's chest with his gun.

"Why would I know this?"

The sound that Bucky makes is somewhere between a snarl and a growl as his fist tightens on his shirt. "Because, you always seem to know way more than you ever have a goddamn right to know. And as far as I can determine, that only happens when people have their fingers in the pie."