Chapter Text
Sam was jostled awake by Zemo lightly shaking his good shoulder. Zemo had moved on to The Princess Bride, apparently. "It's just me, Sam," said Zemo, with that tone of voice and that tensed, ready stance Sam knew all too well from a lifetime of waking up comrades from nightmares. "I'm just checking the dressings."
Sam tried to sit up, but realized what an absolutely awful idea that was. Zemo seemed to agree, gently pushing him back down. "Hope I didn't bleed all over your couch," Sam mumbled groggily, keeping his half-open eyes on Princess Buttercup being menaced by eels.
"You haven't, but I've cleaned blood out of upholstery before," said Zemo.
"That sounded way more sinister than I think you meant," said Sam, his verbal filter absent. "Bit of a habit of yours. Hell, you make nursery rhymes sound evil."
If Zemo was offended, he didn't show it. "It's just a bit of dish soap and vinegar, Sam," he said. Sam wasn't sure if that was deflection or if he really did just want to explain how to clean up a murder scene.
"Hey, weird question," said Sam, after a long pause. He figured this was the perfect time for those, since he could write all of this off as the ramblings of an invalid if he needed to.
"My specialty," quipped Zemo.
"What's your angle?"
Zemo looked up from peeling off the dressing on his arm to shoot him a perplexed look. "My angle?"
"We're not exactly buddies," he began. "I spent the entire Madripoor and Riga mission counting down the minutes until the Dora Milaje threw your ass back into prison, where I still think you belong, for the record. If Ross or the Dora find out you spent your secret work release harboring me on what was, just between you and me, an unauthorized mission that went absolutely FUBAR, they'll throw your ass in solitary until the heat death of the universe. So what's in it for you? Otherwise, why all of this mother-henning me?" Sam barely paused to take the shallow breaths his ribs would permit.
"Nothing," said Zemo. "You came to my door bloody and bruised, and if you were coming to my door, that means you had no other option. You needed help, so I helped you."
Sam looked at Zemo. Zemo's eyes met his, then flicked back down to his task of re-dressing Sam's arm. Bullshit. That couldn't be the whole story. With Zemo, it never was. "I'm saying all this because you've never struck me as a goodness of your heart kinda guy," Sam said. Man, his filter was completely gone now.
"I'm not completely heartless," said Zemo, sounding slightly offended. "And since you've been so...vulnerable with me, I'll reciprocate: I care for you and James a great deal, though you may not believe that. I'd go as far as to say..." he trailed off for a moment, considering if he really would go so far as to say. "Since Oeznik passed, you two are all I've got left."
Sam couldn't think of a response to that. This felt deeply wrong and uncomfortable, like walking in on someone naked, or seeing your dad cry when you were a kid. He didn't feel too guilty for being a bit of a jerk to Zemo, since lord knows the guy deserved at least 90% of it, but how lonely do you need to be to count two people who hate your guts as your only friends? He did not have the bandwidth to deal with this, two gunshot wounds and a couple cracked ribs notwithstanding.
Zemo packed the spent dressing into a plastic bag to throw it away. "I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't burden you with such things."
Sam reflexively replied, "nah, it's OK." It really wasn't, but you can't exactly say that. He stared off at the TV again. Inigo and Westley were just about to have their duel. "Oh, this is my favorite part," he said, desperately trying to change the subject.
"Mine too," Zemo said softly, setting the medical kit down on the floor beside him and turning to the TV.
At least he has mostly good taste in movies, thought Sam.