Archive of Our Own

He turns the firing key, and the accelerator starts to draw power. The outputs are normal, steadily increasing, and looking the best they’ve ever looked. He taps his fingers anxiously against the counter until Tam stills them forcibly. The power meter is still increasing, and Schmidt chews on his lip. 

There’s a weird sideways slip of the universe, and Schmidt is falling into soft, warm darkness. He’s weighed down by something, he can’t see anything at all and his hands don’t feel quite right. Nothing feels quite right, and he scrabbles at the weird fabric - literal fabric? - of his prison with increasing urgency. 

It starts to move and he freezes. Something’s moving things around him. It parts and he’s looking up into Tam’s concerned face, far larger than it should be. He looks around and he’s on the floor of the station. His clothes and flight suit are in a heap underneath him, and he’s still slightly stuck in them. He looks down. 

He has paws. They’re his paws. They move when he tries to jump back, but apparently he also has claws and they’re caught in the fabric, so Schmidt just falls over instead. He tries to swear, and only gets a disgruntled meow for his trouble. His whiskers twitch and feed him strange new information. It’d be fascinating, if he wasn’t so annoyed by being stuck in his own clothes. He finally gets his claws to retract.

The crew are surrounding him now, only Tam crouched down next to him. They work so closely together on the Shepard they’ve become very close friends in the past two years. Schmidt’s not sure why he’s a cat - a kitten, based on his size - but Tam’s about the only person he trusts near him right now until they figure this out. 

“Schmidt?” she asks hesitantly. 

He meows in annoyance. Volkov snorts. Schmidt resolves to learn how to throw up a hairball in his shoes. 

“What happened?” Kiel asks. 

No one has answers, and Schmidt tries to shrug and nearly falls over again. 

“Tam, can you take care of …him?” Kiel says after a moment of silence. 

She nods, and hesitates before reaching for Schmidt. He tries to move towards her hands, and his foot is still caught in the fabric. She untangles him and then he’s being lifted up. It’s weird to be held in two hands, weird to see his crewmates so huge and confused looking. It’s weird with all his new senses as they move through the hallways of the station. 

“What happened?” she asks, as if Schmidt can respond or as if either of them know. “How are you like this?”

Schmidt meows. He huffs and tries not to dig his claws into her hands, but he hasn’t quite figured out how to use them yet. 

“Stay here,” she instructs, depositing him on a desk. 

Schmidt’s immediately distracted by the mirror on one side, it’s small but it’ll be enough to let him see what he looks like. He’s not sure if he’s offended or approving of the way that he’s apparently a tiny white kitten with giant blue eyes. He doesn’t look anything like himself, even as a cat, but he is ferociously adorable. It’d be better if he could figure out how to walk without falling over, or how to adjust for his tail, but he makes it back to the other side of the desk without too many issues. 

He spends a confusing if comfortable day with Tam carrying him around in her pocket, trying to figure out what went weird with the Shepard. Schmidt could say it went wrong, but weird is more accurate. It’s fascinating, and he’d probably enjoy it more if he hadn’t been the one turned into a kitten. He’s mostly got his legs figured out, though the claws present trouble if he’s around too much fabric. It’s almost instinctual to attack it and he pretends he didn’t do it if Tam catches him. 

He’s prowling the desk, trying to read some of the outputs when the universe slips sideways again, and he’s falling, again. 

His landing is far less pleasant than when he’d been turned into a cat. He’s immediately uncomfortable, landing on something slick and lumpy that digs into his side. He slips off of it and straight into a puddle of cold water. He meows indignantly, and then sneezes when the overwhelming scent of trash attacks his sensitive nose. He tries to stand, and he’s belly deep in a horrible disgusting puddle. 

Schmidt wades out of it, hiding next to the nearest dumpster and trying to use it to keep the driving rain off of him. It’s already a lost cause, he’d been soaked as soon as he landed here and the puddle completed it, but the wind bites a little less on this side of the rusty metal. 

He’s in an alley, and he can kind of make out the street. He’s decidedly not on the station anymore, and he sighs. Being a cat was bad enough, and now he’s a cat somewhere he doesn’t know with absolutely no one who knows he’s a person. Apparently the Shepard does do strange things to the universe, but right now Schmidt is too miserable to appreciate the absurdity of his current shape given all the dire predictions that had been made about the accelerator. 

The wind rattles a cup loose and Schmidt meows angrily when it lands on him, splattering him with more cold liquid. He can’t stay in this alley, pretty much anywhere is better than this. He tries to plan. He’s a cute kitten, but he’s also wet and gross right now, and the weather is likely keeping most people indoors. Someone might give him a box at least, or he might find better shelter if he leaves this alley. 

He slinks carefully around the corner of the dumpster, shaking the water off uselessly. The storm soaks him again immediately, and he flattens his ears irritably. A shadow falls over him and he jumps, hissing at it and darting back along the dumpster. He hadn’t even heard anyone approaching. 

There’s a man, a big, leather clad man with a hood hiding his face crouched by the dumpster. Schmidt eyes him warily. 

“What are you doing out here, kitty?” the man asks. 

His voice is low and soothing, and it relaxes Schmidt a little. He’s decidedly American, but that cup that fell on him had writing in several non-English languages so Schmidt knows they’re probably in Europe somewhere. The man doesn’t seem to notice the rain coursing off his dark clothes, or the way he’s almost kneeling in the filthy puddle Schmidt had fallen into earlier. 

“C’mere,” the man says, beckoning a little with a gloved hand. “It’s too cold for you to be out here.”

Schmidt can agree with that, and he inches out of the gap to eye the man suspiciously. 

“There you go,” the man says. “I won’t hurt you. I just want to help you.”

His tone is perfect for soothing animals, and it does work on Schmidt too. More importantly, his words are kind and caring and Schmidt decides this is not only his only bet right now, but a fantastic stroke of luck that he’s been found by someone kind already. He meows and then creeps out to sniff the glove. It smells like leather. He’s not sure what he expected. 

“I’m going to pick you up now,” the man says. 

His hand is far larger than Tam’s, and the man exudes an absurd amount of heat as he tucks Schmidt into a pocket inside his jacket. Schmidt noses his way out the zipper and the man laughs a little. 

“As long as you don’t jump out, you can watch,” he says. 

Schmidt huffs indignantly. As if he’d jump out of this warm, mostly dry place. The streets they move through suggest that they’re somewhere German speaking, which is a relief when he’s in such a predicament already. They’re in a dingy part of a city, dodgy and dark, but the man walks through it with absolute confidence. It’s not long before they’re moving up nicer and nicer streets, and Schmidt’s eyebrows, such as they are, continue to rise with every finer house they pass. 

He wonders what the man was doing in that dirty alley if he’s living up in this area. The man tugs out a set of keys and lets them through an elaborate wrought iron gate and solid wood door, old and well-maintained. It’s a lovely foyer they step into, and the man doesn’t even seem to notice the puddle he’s leaving on the tiles as he sheds his coat. 

He keeps Schmidt cupped in one hand, and Schmidt digs his claws into the glove to stay put. It’s a little weird he’s left those on, but maybe he’s just avoiding getting scratched, which is fair when Schmidt doesn’t have good control of them. He’s carried upstairs into a huge, expensive kitchen, but he doesn’t have a chance to take a lot in before he’s being deposited in a sink. 

“You need a bath,” the man informs him. 

Schmidt meows angrily. 

“You’re filthy and cold,” the man says. 

Schmidt meows again, but he accepts his fate. The man drops his gloves and Schmidt is absolutely fascinated by the weird texture of his left hand. It’s black and gold and shiny, and there’s no way that’s skin. Is he in another universe? He must be. Is this man a cyborg? Half man, half machine? He tries to bat at it and the man huffs a little laugh. 

“Don’t hurt yourself,” the man says with clear amusement. 

It only makes Schmidt more curious, but the man turns the sink on and warm water douses Schmidt again. He meows loudly and rudely, but he can’t escape as the man washes the grime out of him. It’s not awful, it’s warm and his hands are soft, but Schmidt does not appreciate being bathed either way. 

The door to the house opens and two sets of footsteps move up the stairs before stopping outside of the kitchen.

“Bucky,” a man says, drawing the name out into a heavy sigh. 

Bucky bristles a little, but his hands are still gentle around Schmidt. 

“What?” he says defensively. 

“Is that another cat,” the man says tiredly. 

“And what if it is,” Bucky shoots back. “He was cold and wet. I couldn’t just leave him in the dumpster.”

“You found a cat in the dumpster?” an accented male voice says. 

Schmidt still can’t see either man. 

“Next to the dumpster,” Bucky corrects. “He’s just a kitten.”

“He better not make any messes in my house,” the second man says, but he doesn’t sound angry. 

Schmidt makes a rude noise. 

Bucky laughs and shuts the water off finally, not letting go of him to reach over along the counter. Schmidt’s all but burritoed in a soft towel, and dried off until he feels like a puffball. The other American laughs and Schmidt glares at him. He is warm and dry now, but it’s undignified. 

“They’re both cranky, but they’re fine,” Bucky tells him quietly. “Sometimes Sam gets attacked by cats but that’s because he’s a bird.”

“Are you telling the cat to attack me again?” the black man says loudly. 

“I didn’t tell Alpine-” Bucky breaks off and throws the towel at Sam. 

Schmidt squints at Sam. He doesn’t look like a bird, but maybe he can turn into a bird. He doesn’t really know the rules of this universe, and Schmidt’s the one who’s already a cat. He won’t attack Sam unless Sam starts something, bird or not. Schmidt huffs and looks away disdainfully. 

“Look, he’s just going to ignore you, birdbrain,” Bucky says. 

“What are you naming this one?” Sam asks, ignoring the friendly insult. 

Schmidt hadn’t thought about this problem. No one would call a cat Schmidt and he doesn’t exactly have any way to communicate. Bucky eyes him. Schmidt can just ignore any name he doesn’t like anyway. 

“Actually, don’t name him,” Sam interrupts. “You named Alpine and now look where we are.”

“That’s cold,” Bucky says. “I know you think he’s cute. Look at him! All fluff and eyes.”

Schmidt preens a little.

He tunes out the rest of their conversation and explores the counter carefully. The ground is far away. Really far away. He meows plaintively until Bucky turns back and sets him on the ground. 

“Don’t get into trouble, and don’t bother Zemo,” Bucky says. 

Schmidt blinks at him, and then darts around the corner. His paws slip a little on the wood floors, but it feels good to stretch his legs. He ricochets off the wall, launching himself onto a rug and tumbling head over heels onto it. There’s very comfortable looking couches around him, and they’re lower than the kitchen counters. He launches himself up and manages to claw his way onto one of the sofas, purring with pleasure at how soft the fabric is under his paws. He bounces a little, and almost gets stuck behind a cushion when he tries to wedge himself in behind it. 

He misses the next chair he jumps at, but his cat instincts come out and he lands neatly anyway. He meows loudly in triumph, and then bolts under a table when footsteps approach. 

“Clover?” Bucky asks, feet stopping in the middle of the room. 

Schmidt stays crouched under the table, decidedly confused. 

“You can’t seriously be calling him that,” Sam says. 

“Shut up,” Bucky says, moving towards the couch Schmidt had been on before. “He needs a name.”

Schmidt thinks about it for a little. Clover isn’t a terrible name. No, it sucks, but it’s kind of apt given his general existence as a cat and being here at all. He crouches, and waits for Bucky’s feet to move closer to his table. 

“Did you lose the cat already, James?” the second man asks. He sounds bored, rich, cultured, and Schmidt immediately adjusts his attack plans. 

“No, Zemo, I did not lose him,” Bucky says. 

He doesn’t sound too irritable, but there’s some sort of friction there that isn’t present between Sam and Bucky. Schmidt files it away for later perusal since the other feet are coming closer while Bucky’s moving away. They’re in fancy slippers and Schmidt eyes them with decided interest. Zemo is a strange name. 

They come in range and Schmidt attacks, launching himself out of his cover and sinking his claws into the embroidery. It’s a decisive victory for him, until Zemo reaches down and yanks him off, his slipper still caught in his claws. Schmidt meows at him derisively, entirely focused on his prize in his paws. 

“James,” Zemo says. 

“Aw, he’s a natural hunter,” Bucky says, snatching Schmidt out of Zemo’s hand. 

The slipper goes with him and Schmidt looks at Zemo smugly. 

“Give me my slipper back,” Zemo says. 

Schmidt tugs it closer. 

“Don’t you have like twenty pairs of these,” Bucky says, petting Schmidt’s head. “Go find another, this is his.”

Zemo sighs heavily behind them, but he doesn’t ask for Schmidt’s trophy back. 

“Are you hungry? I bet you’re hungry,” Bucky says. 

Schmidt meows with decided interest. Bucky sets him down near the kitchen, and Schmidt carefully stores his prize under the counters where no one can find it. It’s the principle of the thing. He trots around the counter and meows demandingly. Bucky looks down. 

“Impatient,” he says fondly. 

Schmidt meows again, and then claws his way up his pants. It’s easy to climb him, Bucky doesn’t even seem to notice Schmidt’s claws if they get through to his skin, and before long Schmidt is perched on his shoulder, surveying the room. Sam’s off in the living room now, and Zemo’s returning from another hall, presumably wherever he stores his rich people slippers. 

He’s instantly captivated by the man. He looks like Schmidt, when he’s not a cat, but more polished. Even in a bathrobe with his hair still damp, he’s more put together than Schmidt’s ever been. The wealth and sense of power rolls off of him like a tangible wave, and Schmidt’s almost a little envious of that kind of confidence. He’s plenty confident in science matters, areas where he’s an expert, but once he’s out of them…this man, he looks like he’d be confident anywhere, anytime. 

“Are you going to steal another of my shoes?” Zemo asks, watching Schmidt on Bucky’s shoulder. 

Schmidt meows. 

“His name is Clover,” Bucky informs him. 

“Yes, that makes sense for a white cat with blue eyes you found in a dumpster,” Zemo says. 

The sarcasm is palpable despite the evenness of his tone. It’s actually very impressive, and Schmidt gets slightly more envious. He jumps onto the counter and skids a little on the slippery surface, approaching Zemo cautiously. Zemo watches him, inscrutable. Schmidt eyes him and sniffs his hand a little from a great distance. He smells…intriguing. He scoots closer and sniffs again, still watching Zemo sidelong. 

Zemo sighs and extends his hand slowly. Schmidt stretches out and sniffs again. He wonders how good this smells as a person, because whatever scent this lotion or whatever Zemo uses as a cat is amazing. He faceplants into Zemo’s palm, rolling around on his hand and flopping gracelessly onto the counter before rubbing his face on his sleeve. 

“See? Clover likes you,” Bucky says. “And your slippers.”

Zemo sighs, but it’s deliberately dramatic and his fingers are gentle on Schmidt’s back. He purrs before he realizes he’s doing it, and then decides being scratched is well worth purring for. The robe is one of the softest things he’s ever felt, and he shamelessly splays himself across Zemo’s arm to get as close as possible. 

He reluctantly parts from the robe to reel in the bowl of food Bucky nudges towards him, keeping one paw hooked in Zemo’s sleeve while he eats. 

“Looks like you’re the new favorite,” Bucky says, cackling at the look Zemo gives him.

“He just likes the robe,” Zemo says. “I’ll put it on you and then he’ll be back climbing you again. I’d rather not be clawed up by an enthusiastic kitten, not all of us heal quite so fast.”

Schmidt pauses a moment. That’s an odd sentence. Differing healing speeds, and Bucky heals faster than Zemo. He also has that metal hand that Schmidt needs to explore sometime. This world is absolutely fascinating. 

***

With an entire house to roam, Schmidt adjusts quickly to his cat body and cat instincts. Sprinting around the halls and bouncing off walls and skidding into furniture at three am draws attention the first time, all three men bursting out in the dark armed with various weapons. Schmidt had been crouched in the middle of the hallway when they’d come out after whatever he’d knocked over. 

“Clover,” Bucky says, lowering his gun. 

Schmidt meows. Sam mutters something and goes back to bed. Zemo watches for a little longer before slipping his own gun away and disappearing as well. 

“Can you not break things in the middle of the night?” Bucky asks tiredly. 

Schmidt meows again. Bucky should know better than to ask that. He jumps on Bucky’s bare feet and then uses it as a launch pad to start his sprints again. Bucky sighs and Schmidt forgets about him in his sprints. The world is huge when he’s this small, and there’s so many things a cat can do that a person can’t. He finds them all, much to Bucky and Zemo’s exasperation. 

“How did you even get up there?” Bucky demands. 

Schmidt meows triumphantly from the top of the cupboards. He doesn’t remember. Also he’s stuck. He sits down like he’s always wanted to stay up here, forever. 

“He’s stuck,” Zemo says. 

Schmidt narrows his eyes. Zemo’s back in that high collared purple shirt with the soft collar again, it must be one of his favorites. It’s thick fabric, making it one of Schmidt’s favorites too. He waits until Zemo’s turned away and then leaps off the cupboards, paws fully outstretched and latches onto Zemo’s shoulder with glee. 

“Is he a bat?” Sam asks, laughing as Zemo jumps and curses. 

“He’s a menace,” Zemo growls, trying to peel Schmidt off his back and failing. 

Bucky plucks him off and Schmidt complains, but he can’t escape Bucky’s hands as easily as other peoples. He’s picked up some over the days, something about Bucky being more than human, but it’s one of those things where they all know so they don’t say it specifically. Schmidt is left dying of curiosity. 

“Clover, leave Zemo alone,” Bucky chides, but it fails when he’s not even bothering to hide his smile. “He’s delicate.”

“I am not delicate,” Zemo huffs. “I am simply not adjusted to small pointy creatures falling from the sky into my skin.”

Schmidt gives him huge sad eyes when he turns back to glare at him. Zemo glares harder. Schmidt tries to look more pathetic. 

“Don’t try that look on me,” Zemo says. “It won’t work.”

Sam raises his eyebrows with clear disbelief, but doesn’t say anything. Bucky stifles a laugh that Schmidt only picks up with how close he is. 

***

Schmidt still has absolutely no idea what he’s supposed to do. He’s a cat, he’s definitely in a different universe, and has no way of solving either of those problems. It’s frustrating to not be able to do anything much at all, and he can’t even ask questions to figure out more about wherever he landed. Maybe if he could speak, they’d have a way to get him back to the right universe. 

Outside of those two, very important things, life is pretty decent. He misses some of his crewmates - not all of them, that’s for sure - but this trio is fascinating and easy to get along with. Probably easy to get along with because he’s a cat instead of his usual irascible and impossible self, but he’ll take it. There’s a sense of history between these three, weird, tangled history, and only some of it is put to rest. Zemo stays a little separate, and Schmidt’s not sure if that’s by choice, habit, or subtle exclusion. Without knowing their histories, he really can’t even guess. They seem to work well together as coworkers though, whatever they’re planning. Schmidt can’t make heads or tails of it, even when he prowls across the documents spread out on tables or reads over Zemo’s shoulder at the computer. 

He’s tried several times to write his name or a word using all sorts of implements, but it always fails. He’s never let near the keyboard long enough to type anything legible either. He keeps watch for opportunities, but they’re remarkably diligent about closing the laptops and putting things away. If this was Schmidt’s lab, there’d be so many options for him to use. He could probably write a whole sentence out of loose pens. 

With science, communication, and pretty much everything he’s used to closed off to him, Schmidt’s left with the strange experience of having his time center around people. It’s different as a cat, but he’s around one of them all the time he’s awake, or sometimes all of them at once if they’re working on their projects.

Sam is the least interesting of the three, once Schmidt determines he’s not an actual bird, and can’t turn into one. He’s got some sort of mechanical wing pack, which Schmidt would love to get a look at, but he’s not a bird. He doesn’t seem quite as much of a cat person as Zemo and Bucky, so Schmidt figures it’s polite to ignore him in return.

Bucky’s an easy mark, always available for petting him and feeding him and carrying him around. Schmidt’s still dying of curiosity about him in general, and it turns out he can get pretty far in cat form. He’s been wondering about that metallic hand ever since he first saw it in the sink, but Bucky seems to keep it hidden a lot of the time. 

Schmidt jumps into his lap one afternoon, demanding attention. Bucky’s reading, and pets him absently with his metal hand. He usually hides it, but it’s even better at scratching than his flesh hand and Schmidt purrs his approval. Bucky starts and switches hands, hiding his metal one under the book. 

Schmidt meows in complaint, loudly and repetitively, pawing at his wrist until Bucky caves and pulls it back out. He lets it lay in his lap, and Schmidt noses at the black and gold metal. The joints are delicate, shifting plates and obviously extremely dexterous, to the point it’s basically a real hand. He wonders how it attaches. 

He turns and pushes on Bucky’s sleeve. Bucky resists. Schmidt pushes harder and meows a demand. 

“You are such a weird cat,” Bucky says, but he pushes his sleeve up. 

Schmidt stares at it in wonder. His whole forearm is metal too, shaped just like an arm and more gold-veined black plates. He tries to feel it and slides off with an indignant noise. He needs to know more, how far up does it go? What percent of Bucky is this beautiful engineered metal? How does he have it? Schmidt is dying. He balances carefully and pushes on Bucky’s bicep, trying to decide if it's metal too. He thinks it might be. 

“What’s Clover doing?” Sam asks. 

“He’s fascinated with my arm,” Bucky says, watching Schmidt tug at his shirt. 

“Take it off and let him play with it,” Sam suggests. 

Bucky makes a rude gesture. Schmidt meows loudly. He can take his arm off? All the way? He bounces on Bucky’s leg and meows in demand until Bucky sighs and tugs his sweater off. He’s just in a tanktop under it, and it gives Schmidt exactly the kind of free rein he wanted. The whole bicep and shoulder are all black and gold metal, shifting plates under Schmidt’s eyes. It caps off at the shoulder. Schmidt perches just above it, kneading the skin and trying to decide how it’s attached. He’s careful, there’s a lot of scar tissue and he doesn’t want to aggravate it. 

The technology in this world is fascinating, no one in his universe could ever have such a phenomenal creation attached to them so flawlessly. Bucky’s a little tense as he noses along it, but he doesn’t seem to be in pain. There’s definitely some significant history with this that Schmidt doesn’t have a hope of knowing or guessing, but the other two are familiar with it. Zemo’s startled when he walks out and sees Bucky with his sweater off, letting Schmidt paw at his arm, which more than anything says how much he keeps it hidden usually. 

***

He ends up orbiting Zemo closer and closer, first by accident, and then steadily more deliberately. He’s always in soft, elaborate fabrics, always smells amazing, and his hands are steady and good at scratching Schmidt’s ears. He’s a very peaceful person too, not that the other two are twitchy, but Bucky has some sense of barely contained energy where Zemo is a still river. 

It doesn’t hurt that they share the same favorite chair in the sun. In human form, Schmidt would definitely not be able to just barge into people’s space at all, but as a cat, he’s free to be a jerk and people accept it. He jumps onto the arm, settling down in the wash of sunlight and ignoring Zemo. 

“Must you sit right there, Clover?” Zemo asks. “Right in front of my tea?”

Schmidt hadn’t even noticed the table except as a stepping stone he doesn’t need since he got better at jumping. He closes his eyes a little more and doesn’t move. Schmidt’s comfortable and warm and Zemo drinks enough tea already. He’s probably at least half leaf by now. 

Zemo makes a resigned noise and Schmidt flails a little as he’s picked up and dropped in Zemo’s lap. He meows indignantly, and then promptly changes his mind about the best location. Here he’s got sun, warm, squishy fabric, and Zemo’s apparently going to absently pet him. He kneads Zemo’s leg and purrs his way through the afternoon half-asleep. 

It becomes a routine, Zemo making tea and sitting in the armchair, waiting for Schmidt to jump into his lap and curl up in satisfaction. Zemo starts talking to him after a while, mostly about the book he’s reading, and Schmidt pays attention. Zemo thinks it’s funny, and he starts reading to Schmidt, having one-sided debates with him about the content. Schmidt tries to argue, but Zemo doesn’t take his meows seriously. 

Zemo is startlingly sharp, and Schmidt wonders even more about his background. This world is so strange, and he can’t even ask any questions. It’s killing him not to know anything. Zemo speaks a language that Schimdt doesn’t recognize, though it sounds vaguely Slavic and he can pick up bits and pieces of it from the ones he does know. It must be something unique to this world, and he loves the way it colors Zemo’s voice with such an unusual accent. 

He seems almost lonely sometimes with the way Sam and Bucky have a closer friendship and Zemo’s still just a bit separate. The dynamic continues to confuse Schmidt, but luckily he’s exempt from it by virtue of being a cat. He heavily favors Zemo in a very short period of time, from all the softness and stillness around him, and the way he’d like to think they’d get along if he was a person again. Maybe he’s being delusional, almost no one gets along with him, but it’s a nice thought. 

Zemo sometimes talks to him about more personal things, more musing about the world and his life than actually talking. Schmidt’s pretty sure having a cat is just letting Zemo voice his thoughts, and he’s not sure if he should be listening to them, but he does anyway. He knows what it’s like to talk to anything just to talk, and at least Zemo’s talking to a living creature. 

The first time he tries to follow Zemo into his room at night, he’s firmly shoved out with Zemo’s foot. He meows pathetically, but the door stays shut. 

“Rejected, Clover?” Bucky says, passing by. 

Schmidt mews sadly and slinks back to the living room. He’s been sleeping out here in the comfortable blanket piles since he got here, but he’s also gotten used to napping in Zemo’s lap, and now he wants to sleep on his bed too. He bets it’s soft and smells good, and it’s probably huge so he wouldn’t even have to bother Zemo. It’s a little lonely out here at night, when he’s not doing his windsprints. 

He sulks for part of the next day. He’s more prepared the next night, and wriggles around Zemo’s legs when he opens his bedroom door that night before Zemo even realizes he’s there. 

“Clover!” Zemo says. “Get back out here.”

“I hope you don’t expect a cat to listen to you,” Sam says. 

Schmidt hides under the bed. He just wants to sleep slightly closer. Or is that weird? He sits for a moment. Zemo doesn’t know he’s a person, which makes this weirder. But he’s also stuck as a cat for who knows how long. The bed is huge, just as he suspected. Zemo will barely notice he’s there. 

Zemo gives up after a while, and Schmidt waits underneath until he’s in bed, the blankets shifting above him. He creeps out and peers over the edge, his cat eyes handling the dark room easily. Zemo’s turned away on the far side of the bed. Schmidt jumps up and Zemo sits up with a start. 

“There you are,” he says. 

Schmidt meows plaintively. 

“Why are you in here?” Zemo says. “Isn’t it comfortable enough on the couches? Why me?”

The last one is quieter, but Schmidt can’t exactly explain to him why he’s gotten more attached to Zemo over the other two. He kneads the covers, still on his far corner and tries to look pathetic. Zemo watches him, but doesn’t make any moves. Schmidt tugs the blankets a little, watching Zemo out of the corner of his eye, and then curls up at the very edge. 

Zemo sighs. 

“Stop looking so pathetic,” he says with a groan. “I can’t just let you-”

He breaks off on a curse, and then he’s reaching down and scooping Schmidt up to deposit him on a pillow. Schmidt purrs and shoves his head into it, flopping onto his side. Zemo swears again, but it sounds fond. He lays back down, and Schmidt drifts off to the sound of his breathing and scent surrounding him. 

Zemo caves after that, not even trying to keep Schmidt out at night. He waits until Schmidt is past to go into his room, and Schmidt makes sure to keep facing away until Zemo’s in bed. He doesn’t want to be a creep, he’s not in here for that and if he’s ever turned back into a person while he’s here, he wants that to be clear so Zemo isn’t made terribly uncomfortable by him. He stays on his pillow all night too - it’s no hardship, it’s huge and fluffy and far nicer than Schmidt’s bed on the station. In fact, it’s probably nicer than any bed he’s ever owned in his entire life. 

He’s woken in the middle of the night a few weeks on by a sharp noise. He freezes, unsure. It comes again, a panting whine and he realizes it’s coming from Zemo next to him. Schmidt stands carefully, turning to look. Zemo’s tangled in the sheets, his bare chest shiny with sweat and his brow is furrowed. He jerks a little, thrashes in the covers and makes another wounded noise that goes straight through Schmidt. It must be a nightmare, and it looks like a bad one. 

Schmidt meows, quietly at first. Zemo doesn’t wake up, his breath coming harder and his eyes flicking back and forth behind his closed lids. Schmidt meows loudly, and it still doesn’t wake him. He’s not sure about waking someone from a nightmare, but it looks awful and he doesn’t want to see Zemo in distress like that. 

He pushes on Zemo’s side, and Zemo only twitches. Schmidt steadies himself, and jumps onto his chest, kneading his skin and meowing again. He feels like he shouldn’t be here, witnessing this. It’s terribly personal to witness a nightmare, especially for someone as collected as Zemo, but Schmidt’s already here. 

He tries again, pushes harder with his paws but he’s still a tiny kitten and his weight probably isn’t even noticeable. He grits his teeth, and sinks all of his claws into Zemo’s chest at the next pained whimper. Zemo starts upright, twisting and pulling a knife from under his pillow. Schmidt hadn’t even known he had a weapon under there. 

Zemo swears, harsh and rough and he dislodges Schmidt with a sharp gesture, sending him tumbling off his chest and onto the floor before he can react. He sits up and peers over the edge of the bed, watching Zemo’s chest still heaving and running a hand through his sweaty hair. Schmidt meows a question. 

“You clawed me,” Zemo says, glaring at Schmidt. 

He touches his chest where there’s four sets of lines from Schmidt’s claws, stark red against his skin. Schmidt hadn’t wanted to, he hadn’t wanted to break skin but Zemo had been trapped in a nightmare. He tries to meow that at Zemo, but it obviously fails to come through. Zemo’s eyes narrow even more, and his jaw sets. 

“I am not putting up with a cat attacking me in the middle of the night,” he says, grabbing Schmidt by the scruff of his neck. “I don’t know what your problem is, but bother somebody else.”

Schmidt protests, but he’s unceremoniously tossed into the hallway and the door slammed behind him. He straightens from the heap he landed in, too shocked to land well. He’d known it was a risk to wake Zemo from his nightmare, but he hadn’t expected this kind of a reaction. It stings. Doesn’t Zemo know Schmidt wouldn’t claw him without a good reason? He hasn’t even done it accidentally since he finally figured out how to keep them put away. 

He meows a little at the door, not really expecting anything, and slinks back to the blanket on the couch to curl up for the rest of the night. Schmidt doesn’t manage to fall back asleep, and he’s stuck ruminating on the unfairness of it. His reaction hurts and Schmidt doesn’t like feeling hurt. Maybe Zemo will realize why he woke him up in the morning, and not be angry at him anymore. 

He still can’t fall asleep, and just watches the moonlight creeping across the floor until the sun chases it away. 

“Clover, what are you doing out here?” Bucky asks. “Zemo isn’t up yet, how did you get out?”

He’s always the first one up. Schmidt meows and lifts his head to be petted. At least someone still understands how to treat him. He huffs at the reminder that he got literally thrown out of Zemo’s room, and crankily follows Bucky into the kitchen. The longer he stews on it, the madder he gets about it. 

Zemo’s door opens and Schmidt stiffens. He winds himself around Bucky’s ankles, watching the hallway suspiciously. Zemo’s face is closed off a little more than usual, but that doesn’t mean anything when he wears so many masks. Schmidt stays put. Zemo eyes him. 

“Clover was in the living room this morning,” Bucky says, completely unknowing. “Did you forget to let him in last night?” 

“No,” Zemo says shortly. “He clawed me so I put him outside.”

Schmidt narrows his eyes. Apparently reason has not reached Zemo yet. 

“He’s a kitten, I’m sure he didn’t mean to,” Bucky says immediately. 

Schmidt rubs his face on his leg in appreciation. He’d meant to claw Zemo, but he’d done it for a good reason. Zemo looks unimpressed. 

“It was very deliberate, James,” he says. “I do not appreciate having four sharp paws worth of daggers sunk into my chest in the middle of the night.”

Schmidt huffs and turns away. Zemo walks out of sight around the counter, and Bucky looks down at Schmidt. 

“Did you claw him?” he asks quietly. 

Schmidt meows in protest. 

“I don’t think you would, it must have been a misunderstanding,” Bucky decides. 

At least someone understands, Schmidt decides huffily. Despite his annoyance, he still heads over to the chair in the afternoon. He likes these hours with Zemo. He jumps up on the arm and Zemo pushes him off. Schmidt lands better this time, and meows questioningly. 

“Find somewhere else to sit,” Zemo says, not looking at him. “Keep your claws to yourself.”

Schmidt’s annoyance turns into possibly the largest grudge he’s ever had in his life in a split second. Zemo will regret being mean to him. Schmidt huffs and walks away, planning his cat-shaped revenge. 

***

They’ve gotten too used to Schmidt’s good behavior around the house, and now that he’s hellbent on chaos, they’re not at all prepared for him. He sits on the counter, lashing his tail back and forth and waiting for his opportunity. Zemo sets his teacup down and stands to get something out of the cupboard. Schmidt stalks over and hovers a paw next to the cup. Zemo turns around. Schmidt stares at him, and then swats it off the counter.

“Clover-!” Zemo bites off another swear. 

Schmidt darts out of the kitchen. 

“Zemo?” Sam calls.

“Clover pushed my cup off the counter,” Zemo says irritably. 

“Well, he is a cat,” Sam says, coming in and watching Zemo picking up the pieces of the cup. 

“He waited until I was looking,” Zemo says. 

“Again, he’s a cat,” Sam says with clear amusement. 

Zemo huffs and Schmidt basks in the sun, one eye cracked for anyone’s approach. 

***

Zemo glares at him, and Schmidt blinks at him slowly, licking the paw he’d used to shove his cup off the counter. He got to the chair first this time, and he’s sprawled out in it as big as he can make himself. 

“Are you having a standoff with a cat?” Bucky asks. 

“No,” Zemo bites out, but he sits in a different chair. 

***

Zemo makes the mistake of putting his glass down and turning his back. Schmidt swats it off and bolts. He hides under Bucky’s chair, crouched and tail lashing as he peers out between Bucky’s legs at Zemo. Bucky laughs and Zemo rubs his eyes. 

Schmidt hides one shoe from every pair of Zemo’s that are out in the house at night. He neatly lines up Bucky’s and Sam’s shoes to make it as obvious as possible. He takes the bookmark out of Zemo’s books, and sometimes puts them in a different spot. He pushes some under the couch. 

“What did you do to that cat,” Sam says when Zemo swears again at discovering one of Schmidt’s manipulations. 

“So you agree he’s doing it to me, specifically?” Zemo snaps. 

“Definitely,” Sam agrees. “You’d better figure out how to get on his good side again before he gets more creative.”

Zemo growls. Schmidt purrs. He doesn’t actually know what it’ll take for him to forgive Zemo for this, but he supposes he could stop actively antagonizing him if he apologized for throwing Schmidt out of his room. 

***

Schmidt’s sprawled out in the sunny chair again, refusing to move for hours when Zemo comes over. He stands out of reach of Schmidt’s claws - he’d only tried to move Schmidt once. If Zemo’s going to accuse him of deliberately clawing him, then Schmidt is going to show him what deliberate looks like. 

“Clover,” Zemo says. 

Schmidt watches him. Zemo sighs and rubs his nose. 

“Will you please stop your campaign of terror?” he asks. “You’ve made your point. I’m not sure what it is, but you’ve made it.”

Schmidt flicks his tail a little while he thinks. Zemo doesn’t know why he’s doing this, and while Schmidt feels like it should be clear, he can’t speak and clarify. He decides it’s not good enough and flexes his claws again. Zemo’s smart, he should be able to put the pieces together. 

Zemo sighs. 

“Is this because I won’t let you into my room anymore?” he asks. 

Schmidt blinks at him. He’s getting closer, if he’d just use his brain for once. 

“You clawed me in the middle of the night,” Zemo says accusingly. “Why would I let you back in?”

Schmidt lashes his tail in irritation. Zemo’s being so stupid. This is untenable. Schmidt meows impatiently. Zemo narrows his eyes. 

“You think you should be allowed to claw me whenever you like?” Zemo snaps. 

Schmidt glares at him and looks away. 

“He’s never clawed anyone else,” Bucky points out from the doorway. “He’s never clawed you except apparently that one night, and when you tried to move him recently.”

“What are you trying to say, James,” Zemo says. 

“I’m just saying he might have had a reason,” Bucky says with a shrug. “I don’t know, why would a cat try to wake you in the middle of the night?”

Zemo’s face shifts slightly. Schmidt watches. Maybe Bucky’s words have finally gotten through his idiot head. He’d really thought Zemo was smarter than this. 

“Were you trying to wake me up?” Zemo asks. 

Schmidt feels like the answer to this should be obvious, but he meows quietly and his tail slows down. Zemo taps his fingers against his jaw. His lips tighten just a little, and he darts a look over at the doorway. 

“Was I having a nightmare?” he asks quietly, as though he doesn’t want anyone to hear it, and as though he wishes he wasn’t even saying the words out loud. 

Schmidt meows again, softer and relaxes his paws. He’s finally gotten there, and it’s such a relief. What Zemo does with this information is a different question, but at least he’s finally been led to putting the very obvious pieces together. Zemo sighs and his shoulders slump just a little. 

“I didn’t-” Zemo stops, and then tries again. “I didn’t remember having a nightmare. They’re rare these days. I hadn’t known. I’m sorry I threw you out.” 

Schmidt chirps at him. He doesn’t deserve a purr, but he’ll accept the apology and explanation. Zemo looks even more tired. He decides to offer a tiny olive branch of sorts, and jumps out of the contentious chair, stretching out on the floor and sauntering to a different sunny spot. He watches out of the corner of his eye as Zemo follows his path, and then hesitantly sits in the chair. He’s not forgiven enough for Schmidt to sit on him, but he’ll stop tormenting him at least. 

***

Zemo watches him warily over the next few days, and Schmidt behaves. He doesn’t go near Zemo, but he does stop pushing his cups off the counter and creating problems overnight. He’s not actually that good at holding grudges, especially since Zemo apologized to him. Doubly so for apologizing to a cat, and Zemo doesn’t even know he’s a person. 

He makes it only another couple days before dropping himself into Zemo’s lap in the sun again, pretending nothing had ever happened. Schmidt’s never been good at navigating this kind of thorny interpersonal situation, and he’s relieved he can just ignore it by purring and demanding pets. Zemo seems equally relieved. 

Schmidt still hasn’t gone back into Zemo’s room at night, even when Zemo hesitates at the door. He’s not quite sure why he doesn’t want to, but it feels too personal after the nightmare. Zemo’s mouth tightens a little when Schmidt doesn’t accept the open door, and only relaxes when Schmidt winds around him in the morning as though nothing had changed. 

He’s back in Zemo’s lap in the afternoon, stretched out on his back and basking in the sun while Zemo, Bucky, and Sam discuss their latest confusing mission. Schmidt keeps trying to make sense of their world and what they’re doing, but the lack of context keeps it out of his reach. Being a cat isn’t the worst, but he really wishes he could participate or just even have an actual conversation after so long. 

The universe does a little sideways shimmy, like a distant desert mirage. Schmidt feels like he’s being pushed through a straw and then everything is weird. He’s uncomfortably large and the world looks smaller. He looks down, and he has hands again, normal human hands. He holds them up, flexing his fingers in relief. 

“Fucking finally,” he mutters. 

He moves Zemo’s book to the side so he can stand up and get off his lap - it’s not quite as comfortable as a person as it was a cat. He stretches, glad he’s in his flight suit he’d been wearing before he got turned into a cat. It’d be really awkward if he’d been naked in the middle of the room. 

“What,” Bucky says. 

Schmidt adjusts his glasses a little and stretches again. 

“It’s about time,” he says to the silent room at large. 

Now that he’s a person and not a cat, no one can keep him from the fridge and he makes a beeline for it. 

“Who are you?” Sam asks. 

Schmidt looks up with his armful of cat-unfriendly prizes. 

“Schmidt,” he says around a mouthful of cheese. 

“You were a cat,” Sam says slowly. 

“Yes,” Schmidt agrees. “Clover was a good name,” he adds to Bucky as he comes over. 

“It was?” Bucky says with a frown. 

Schmidt hasn’t seen that glare-frown in a while, but he supposes it’s not unreasonable given the circumstances. 

“Sure,” he says. “I was on Cloverfield Station when I got turned into a cat.”

He nods a little, and then returns to the food. It’s not like he wasn’t well fed, but there’s something about getting a full range of taste that he’s been denied for years before this. 

“You’re not always a cat?” Sam asks. 

He’s got a very strange look on his face and Schmidt thinks he might be having trouble sorting through this. 

“No, I’ve never been a cat before,” he says. “Something happened. Two somethings, actually.”

“Two somethings,” Bucky repeats, looking as though he wishes he wasn’t talking. 

“Well, first I got turned into a cat,” Schmidt says around another cookie. “And then I ended up in the dumpster.”

“Maybe you should start from the beginning,” Zemo says. 

His face is guarded too, none of the softness Schmidt had gotten used to as a cat. It stings, even if it’s understandable. These three have even more reason to be suspicious of odd things like him than most people, based on the things Schmidt’s picked up. 

“Where is the beginning?” he wonders out loud. “The energy crisis.”

“What energy crisis?” Sam asks. 

“You don’t have one here? Good,” Schmidt says with a nod. “We had - have? - one, and we were trying to solve it with the Shepard - a particle accelerator, well, the science isn’t relevant right now. Either way, we’d been on the station for over two years trying to get it working, and instead I got turned into a cat somehow.”

“The Shepard,” Zemo says, tapping two fingers against the side of his jaw. 

“Yes,” Schmidt says. “There were some rumors, theories that if we got it working it could ‘open the universe to demons and monsters’,” he says with full eye roll and scare quotes. 

“You did get turned into a cat,” Bucky points out. “And…sent to a dumpster?”

“That was a little unpleasant,” Schmidt allows. “Traveling to a parallel universe, well, I hadn’t thought it was possible, but if I had, I certainly wouldn’t have expected to be dropped in a pile of trash.”

“You’ve been a person the entire time,” Zemo says, voice guarded. 

Schmidt winces a little. 

“Yes,” he says, avoiding looking at Zemo. 

Bucky drags Sam out of the room at the rising tension, and Schmidt’s not sure he’s glad of the loss of their buffer. Zemo comes over, and Schmidt stares at his hands on the counter. 

“You slept in my bed,” Zemo says. 

“It was lonely outside,” Schmidt says awkwardly. “And you smell good. I didn’t, ah, look or anything, I just wanted to sleep nearby. That pillow is more comfortable than any bed I’ve ever had.”

Zemo huffs a laugh and Schmidt relaxes a tiny bit. 

“Why did you claw me?” Zemo asks. 

Schmidt frowns at him. 

“You were having a nightmare,” he says. “I thought you’d put the pieces together. You weren’t waking up and it looked…unpleasant.”

Zemo’s mouth tightens. Schmidt avoids his eyes. 

“I offended you by throwing you out,” Zemo says slowly. “That’s why you set about your campaign of terror?”

“Yes,” Schmidt says unrepentantly. “You’re smart enough you should have known I wouldn’t claw you for no reason.”

“I’m…” Zemo trails off. 

“I’ve been listening to you read and talk for weeks,” Schmidt reminds him. “I’m a physicist, I know when someone’s sharp.” 

“Why did you always seek me out?” Zemo asks. 

Schmidt sighs. He supposes he deserves the questioning. He’d be questioning everything too in Zemo’s place. 

“You smell good, and your clothes are really soft. You’re also …peaceful. Bucky’s nice, but he’s full of barely contained energy, and Sam isn’t really a cat person.” Schmidt shrugs a little. “You didn’t seem to mind.”

“It’s a bit awkward to know I’ve been petting a man this entire time,” Zemo says. 

“I was a cat,” Schmidt says. “I had a fair amount of cat instincts. It doesn’t bother me, but I guess it’s not surprising it would bother you. I won’t sit on you again.”

“Is it strange to say I’ll miss that,” Zemo says after a moment. 

“I can sit on you again, but I don’t think it’ll be quite as pleasant,” Schmidt says, finally daring a look up again. 

Zemo’s mouth is twisted with wry amusement, and Schmidt relaxes a bit more. He’s suddenly struck by how different it is to interact with Zemo as a man, as a person and something shifts inside him. He’s not prepared for it, and he hides his sudden uncertainty in stuffing another cookie in his mouth. 

“Are you going to eat everything in the house?” Zemo asks. 

“No,” Schmidt says around the cookie. “I’ve just wanted this for so long. I haven’t had decent food in years. I mean you fed me well as a cat, but it’s different.”

“I suppose it would be,” Zemo muses. 

“I have so many questions,” Schmidt says abruptly. “Your world is so strange.”

“Our world is strange?” Zemo says with a raised eyebrow. “You’re the one who got turned into a cat and traveled through the universe to land in a dumpster.”

Schmidt huffs but can’t keep the smile off his face. 

“I didn’t have any choice in that,” he says. 

Zemo smiles a little more openly, and Schmidt relaxes even more. 

***

Schmidt’s right, and the more he learns about their world the weirder it gets. 

“Supersoldiers? Frozen in ice for seventy years? Flying armor?” he demands incredulously. “Aliens!”

He can’t even focus on the weird history between these three, not when there’s so many other things to get overwhelmed by. The science must be positively absurd here. He’s lost in documents and the computer for hours on end, now that he’s allowed near them. He’d forget to eat entirely if Zemo didn’t feed him forcibly and drag him away for breaks, no matter how much Schmidt complains. He’s been given his own bedroom now in this huge house, and Zemo’s threatened to barricade him in it more than once if he tries to sneak out in the middle of the night to read more. 

He forgets he’s a person now and won’t generate the same reactions when he tries to grab Bucky’s arm and gets choked and forced to his knees in a swift motion. Bucky’s gone sharp and icy and Schmidt’s having trouble breathing around that metal hand wrapped around his throat. He can’t resist and runs his fingers over the wrist joint in fascination. 

“What are you doing?” Zemo snaps from across the room. 

Bucky clears his throat and releases Schmidt. 

“Sorry,” he says a little guiltily. 

Schmidt coughs a few times and adjusts his glasses. 

“No, it’s my fault,” he says hoarsely. “Sorry, shouldn’t have grabbed your arm, I was just excited to see it.”

Bucky hesitates, and then extends it to him. Schmidt takes it more carefully, and immediately gets lost moving his fingers around and tracing the plates. The metal is strange and he’s never seen anything like it, and he’s dying to know the bizarre science behind it. He doesn’t pry, having been given a short history in why Bucky’s touchy about it. He clambers onto the couch next to Bucky, never letting go of it. 

“This is stunning,” he says, admiring the shifting plates at the shoulder. “I’m sorry you had to get it, but-”

Bucky cuts him off with an open laugh. 

“You’re really something, Schmidt,” he says. “I bet you’d either get along really well with Shuri, or annoy her into stabbing you.”

Schmidt smiles at him sheepishly, already halfway into his lap to get at the arm more closely. Bucky’d taken his shirt off for him again, and this time he’s not wearing anything under it so Schmidt can carefully explore the joint. He remembers Sam’s words about taking it off, but that seems like way too much to ask. He considers asking anyway. 

“You want me to take it off, don’t you,” Bucky says, clearly amused. 

“Please?” Schmidt says apologetically. 

Bucky does something Schmidt can’t track and it pops off. Schmidt pounces. He’s not sure if he wants to look at the arm or the shoulder more, and makes a desperate little noise in despair at the impossible choice. Bucky laughs at him again and tugs his arm out of Schmidt’s hold, setting it in his lap. He turns a little and Schmidt crawls even closer on the couch, running his hands over the metal and muscle of the attachment site. 

He tries not to drool, but it’s hard. He pushes even closer, trying to see if he can feel the metal Bucky’s mentioned underneath. His skin is so hot from the serum, and Schmidt’s dying of curiosity about that too, but even he knows a limit when he hears one. Annoyingly, Bucky’s heavily muscled and it makes it hard to feel for the edges of the metal, especially under his chest.

“Why are you so muscular,” he says grumpily. “Is this really necessary?”

Bucky snorts. “You’re enjoying feeling me up,” he teases. 

Schmidt turns red and stammers a little. 

“I’m not-” he groans and runs a hand over his mouth. “Stop it. Give me that.”

He snatches the arm out of Bucky’s lap with a glare, sitting back a little sulkily. It lasts about five seconds until he’s lost in the arm again. 

“Have you seen this?” he demands vaguely to Zemo. “It’s incredible. He’s incredible.”

“Not that close,” Zemo says. 

He sounds a little funny but Schmidt can’t be distracted from his excitement. He’s not sure how long he sits there exploring it and asking questions before Zemo clears his throat and informs him he has to eat. He passes Bucky his arm back and probably sits way too close to watch it reattach, sighing in appreciation as he swings his arm to settle it back in place. He wants to cry a little when Bucky hides it under his shirt, but he knows he can’t just ask Bucky to stay shirtless forever for him. 

***

Schmidt regretfully gives up the sunny chair to Zemo without a fight. He misses it, but it’s probably not quite as comfortable as Zemo’s lap had been as a cat. Zemo doesn’t read to him anymore, and Schmidt’s not sure he can ask that. 

“Why the puppy dog eyes?” Zemo asks one afternoon, not even looking up from his book. 

Schmidt’s cheeks heat and he looks away guiltily. 

“Nothing,” he says unconvincingly. 

“You’re a terrible liar,” Zemo says. 

Schmidt fidgets with his glasses. 

“I liked when you read to me,” he says awkwardly, staring at his lap. “I know I was a cat and it’s different now. That’s all. It’s nothing.”

Zemo waits until Schmidt looks up. His head is tilted a little, and there’s something maybe a tiny bit warm in his eyes. He hasn’t looked quite so soft since Schmidt was a cat, and something about it is a little different even from that. Schmidt’s not sure what it is, but his face warms a little more. 

Zemo clears his throat and Schmidt jumps when he starts reading out loud, immediately lost in his fascinating Sokovian accent and the book material. It’s much easier to distract Zemo from his tangents when Schmidt can finally argue with him, and they make it through far fewer pages than they used to, sidetracked by debates. 

He likes talking to the other two - Sam is more accessible when Schmidt’s not a cat, and he too has a fascinating life - but Zemo’s positively captivating. Their physical similarities are a point of curiosity, but they’re different enough it’s easy for Schmidt to forget about it. Zemo’s so much more refined, elegant in ways Schmidt’s never been, he can’t see them as parallel universe versions of each other. It’s impossible to even think Schmidt could ever be this kind of cultured, smooth person, and he’s glad for it because otherwise it would be very strange to see such a similar face all the time. It would be very strange to be having strange, warm feelings towards his own face. 

He ignores those with long practiced skill. He knows better, he’s had plenty of experiences knowing better and this is just one more time for him to keep that barrier up firmly. He’s been more than lucky to be first rescued by Bucky as a cat, and then accepted by them once he’d turned back into a person. He won’t risk it for anything, especially not unrequited feelings. 

Their missions against the HYDRA cells he’s only mildly useful for. It’s easier once he has all the background information, but he’s still a physicist with absolutely no combat training at all. He tries anyway, and succeeds a little at some of the science side but he feels kind of useless. Sometimes he wonders what he’s supposed to do in this world. There’s not really a spot for him. He’d had more of a spot when he was a cat, but he also doesn’t want to leave. 

He gets more and more attached to the house and the three of them, and doubly attached to Zemo until he can’t deny the feelings. Schmidt’s always been hopeless when it comes to smart people, doubly so when they’re snarky like Zemo is. He discovers a new devastating kink when they return from one of their missions and Zemo’s wearing a harness with guns tucked under his arms, a smudge of dirt on his face and casually drops knives onto the table to clean them. He didn’t even know he had a danger kink, but that on top of his overwhelming competence kink seals his fate. At least he’s good at pining silently. 

***

They’re in the middle of a friendly debate and the universe shivers. Schmidt panics and tries to hold onto anything, he grabs Zemo’s arm desperately and the last thing he sees before the universe throws him off is Zemo’s dark eyes widening and his mouth opening. He dissolves and Schmidt staggers as he lands on something solid, falling into a table. 

“Schmidt!” Tam says. 

Schmidt shakes his head a little, and his vision clears slowly. He’s in the instrument room, right next to the console he was walking across as a cat. 

“You’re not a cat anymore!” she says, hurrying over. “That was fast.”

Schmidt shivers a little. No time at all has passed here on the station, but he’s spent months in the other universe. He’s not sure he wants to talk about it. He can just pretend he hadn’t gone anywhere maybe, just was a cat briefly and then suddenly wasn’t a cat. 

“Yes,” he says. 

It’s hard not to think about Zemo’s face as Schmidt was dragged across the universe again. It’s hard to think that he’ll probably never get back there. He clears his throat.

“Did something happen?” he asks. “To turn me back?”

Tam thinks, but shrugs. 

“I don’t think so,” she says. 

Schmidt nods a little jerkily, and resettles his glasses on his face. He can’t think about that other universe. It may as well have been a dream. A long, involved, very emotional dream that he knows wasn’t false. He’d traveled universes, been a cat, fallen in love, and gotten yanked back to his world. He supposes he shouldn’t have expected anything different, he hadn’t belonged there. The universe is just rebalancing. 

He loses himself back in the research, back in trying to fix the Shepard and struggling along. If he’s quieter, no one questions it. If he stares at his ceiling at night, remembering the other world, no one’s around to see. Even Volkov leaves him alone finally, and Schmidt digs into the accelerator with ever more determination. It’d been the Shepard that had turned him into a cat, though the universe travel seems unrelated. It’s foolish to hope that firing it again will send him back, but he can’t help the little seed inside him that wishes all the same.

The worry rises with every day that passes, coiling around the pathetic grain of hope in Schmidt’s chest. He’d spent months in the other universe for a single split second here. There’s no telling how much time has passed since he’s been back on the station. If he ever did get back, he might be decades too late. Too late for what, he doesn’t dare think, but it’d be worse to somehow get back and yet have even less than he did before. 

Regardless of the outcome, Schmidt has to get the accelerator working for this universe. It’s his job, the energy crisis is only getting worse, and he refuses to be defeated by this. They don’t have much time or fuel left to solve this problem, and he knows it’ll work. He knows this will fix the energy problems, if they can just figure out what’s wrong with it. 

It’s Tam who puts the dots together. Condensation throwing the numbers off. Of course it’d be something so simple, Schmidt can’t believe they hadn’t thought about this before. He gets more and more tense and nervous as they get ready to fire the accelerator again. He doesn’t know what he wants to happen. He wants it to work. He wants to be returned to that exact moment he’d been ripped from. He’d even take being a cat if he was sent back to the other universe where Zemo was. 

He gets concerned looks as he practically vibrates in place. He knows it’s unsettling that he’s so nervous about this, but he can’t explain that he’s not nervous about this not working - he’s very sure they’ll achieve a stable beam this time - but that he won’t be back where he wants to be. It’s been weeks, months, there’s no way he can get back what he had, but anything would be better than the nothing he has here. 

They set up, and he holds his breath as he turns the firing key. The systems power up, and the beam steadily increases, brightening and generating power for the first time since they’ve started. It stabilizes, and it’s almost surreal. He’s done it. They’ve done it. They’ve fixed the energy crisis after years of work. 

He’s still here. 

Schmidt tries to hide the surge of loss and join in the celebrations at their success, even as something bleeds inside him. He’d tried not to hope, but he had all the same. It’d never been clear what had caused the universe traveling, but he’d still thought just maybe, this would do it. They inform control it’s stable, that they’re safe, that the world can breathe again. 

He’s in his room that night, staring out the window at the black of space. Everything he’s done for years has been working to this very moment, and in just a split second of this universe’s time, he’d found something he wanted more. Now he doesn’t have that, and he doesn’t have a purpose here. Well, he’ll have a lot to do with getting things actually working to bring energy down, but it’s not the same. 

He rubs his eyes. He’s tired. 

The world wobbles and his breath catches. He couldn’t be so lucky. It slips and he’s falling and he’s landing hard in the middle of a room he recognizes, warm and sunlit and he could almost cry. 

“Schmidt?” 

It’s Zemo. He’s made it back. He sits up and it’s like nothing’s changed at all, except the way Zemo’s staring at him as though he’s seen a ghost. 

“How long has it been?” Schmidt asks. 

He can’t look away from Zemo, can’t stop taking in every single detail. He knows his stupid feelings are probably written all over his face, but he’s back. He made it. He pushes himself up unsteadily. 

“It’s been two months since you disappeared,” Zemo says. 

He almost sounds a little hoarse, and he’s completely still in his chair. Schmidt sighs in relief, and runs a hand through his hair. 

“I was worried it’d be-” he swallows and looks away. “It was instant on the other side, I didn’t know if I could come back, or how long it’d be…”

His breath catches. It’s all too raw, he’d thought he’d never be back. He’d thought he’d never breathe the spicy-wood scent of Zemo’s house, or see his open expression or the way his dark eyes run over Schmidt like he can’t believe he’s here either. He stands slowly, and Schmidt waits until he’s in front of him, not sure what to do other than stare and drink in Zemo. 

Zemo’s hand hovers a moment, and then his fingers are brushing Schmidt’s cheek like he’s checking to make sure he’s real. Schmidt smiles a little stupidly. Zemo grabs his face and kisses him with a soft, desperate noise. 

“I thought I’d lost you,” he says roughly, drawing back before Schmidt can figure out how to move. “I didn’t-”

Schmidt cuts him off by pulling him back into a kiss, even more urgent than the first. Zemo groans and his hands are digging into Schmidt’s back, pulling him hard against his body like he never wants to let go. Schmidt’s holding onto him just tightly, arms around Zemo’s waist and wishing he didn’t have to breathe. 

“I didn’t know you…” Schmidt breaks off, not even sure how to finish the thought. 

“For so long,” Zemo says. 

They’re still wound around each other, separated just enough to pant for breath. 

“Are you going to disappear again?” Zemo asks. 

“I hope not,” Schmidt says fervently. “The Shepard was stable when I left, but I don’t even know how any of this happened.”

Zemo runs his hands over Schmidt’s face like he’s still not sure he’s there. Schmidt’s feeling equally uncertain about reality, but Zemo feels very solid under his own hands, and his unique addictive cologne winds around Schmidt almost as much as Zemo himself. There’s something almost uncomfortably open in Zemo’s face, reflecting back all the desperation and worry Schmidt’s been drowning in for months. 

“I didn’t know you felt that way,” Zemo says finally. 

“I didn’t know you felt that way,” Schmidt counters. “It started when I was a cat, and you’d talk to me and for whatever reason, you debated with me.”

Zemo laughs a little. It’s light and unburdened and Schmidt could fall in love from that sound alone. 

“You were rather responsive,” he says. 

Schmidt purrs. Zemo snorts. 

“You’d better not disappear again,” Zemo adds. “I’ll tear the universe apart looking for you.”

Schmidt shivers at the absolute seriousness in his voice. He has no doubt Zemo means every word. He’s never had anyone so possessive of him before. He’s heard what Zemo did to avenge his family, and he knows, absolutely, it would be nothing compared to what Zemo would do to find him again. 

“I’d do anything to stay here with you,” Schmidt says. “Anything at all.”

Zemo makes a satisfied sound, and tugs Schmidt closer. It’d taken a very strange series of events for him to end up here, but it’s ended up far better than he could have ever expected. He’s ended up with far more than he ever dreamed of having in his life, far more than he could have even thought of having.