Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bucky caught sight of his own face in the bathroom mirror, and as usual, it made him cringe.

He looked ridiculous.

It wasn't so much the fuzzy dinosaur footie pajamas...

Well. Okay. It was in large part the fuzzy dinosaur footie pajamas.

But it it wasn't just the jammies. It was the jammies in combination with the patches of gray in his stubble... the deep bags gouged under his eyes... the haunted look he could never shake.

But the jammies were ridiculous.

And so was the diaper.

Said diaper was lukewarm and swollen. Definitely wet—also as per usual. No big shock there, but. Suddenly Bucky couldn't meet his own gaze in the mirror.

He was standing there, head hanging, treading and retreading the worn old mental path of just how he'd become this kind of man, when Zemo showed up in the bathroom doorway.

"I don't hear the sound of teeth being brushed," he said, in the most reasonable voice imaginable.

Bucky's face burned.

"Jamesy? Is something wrong?" Zemo asked attentively.

It was nigh impossible for Bucky to say it: I'm not Jamesy. I woke up big. I woke up normal. I don't wanna be your pathetic little man-baby swaddled up in footie pajamas with a goddamn butt flap!

"Uh... wet," Bucky mumbled instead.

This, said in a low throaty tone, was all it took for Zemo to realize it was not his surrogate child standing there like a malfunctioning robot.

"Of course," he returned, so smoothly it almost seemed like he wasn't at all surprised to walk in on Sergeant James Barnes in lieu of his little Jamesy. "That is to be expected in the morning. Perhaps a shower is in order."

A shower. Right. Not a bubble bath, upon which Jamesy would usually insist. Bucky would take off this stupid dinosaur onesie and then peel open the tabs of his mortifying Winnie the Pooh diaper and climb into the shower. Which he could do all by himself. Because he was a fucking grown man and not an incompetent kindergartener.

Zemo broke into his despairing mental spiral with a carefully neutral-sounding suggestion. "Or I can draw you a bath?"

Fireworks went off in Bucky's face. He didn't need help. He was an adult man. A super soldier. Super soldiers didn't need bubble baths.

"No," he snapped. "I got it. Bye, Zemo."

A polite nod and the baron took himself away again, leaving the bathroom door as he'd found it, an inch or so ajar.

It was hard to get moving. Bucky's joints had gone stiff with mortification. Even his vibranium arm moved with extreme reluctance. He unzipped himself from the onesie Daddy—Steve; not Daddy or Dada, Steve—had dressed him in for bed last night. The open zip revealed to the bathroom mirror not the plank-like chest of a child but a set of developed pectoral muscles.

Bucky peeled sleeves off his wide shoulders. Branches of red scar tissue reached out from under his vibranium shoulder. The fuzzy green material of his onesie had hidden his carved abdominals and the deep V that lead into his diaper.

He yanked his feet from the clingy booties of the pajamas. His adult mind noted the wear and tear on the thin rubber soles and the pills on the fabric from repeated washings. These were things he never noticed when he was a child. His pacifier swung on its clip. He yanked it off the onesie and threw it aside.

With no shortage of disgust, Bucky dunked the jammies into his hamper, on top of yesterday's play shorts and spaghetti sauce-stained t-shirt.

No self-respecting man wore the colorful stripes he saw in the hamper. Not even the so-called hipsters that had infested the streets of Brooklyn dressed like this. And they dressed like circus folk.

Next came Jamesy's diaper, heavy and bulky with soaked padding. Winnie the Pooh, scattered all over it in a dotty pattern, was clutching a blue balloon that only appeared when the diaper was wet.

Bucky wadded the hateful thing and crammed it into the special receptacle meant just for diapers. Used, disgusting, soggy fucking diapers. They had this receptacle in the bathroom just for him.

God, fuck his life.

Automatically the shower started.

"Thanks, FRIDAY," Bucky muttered.

"My pleasure, Mr. Barnes," FRIDAY answered. "Care for some music while you bathe?"

"No," Bucky said shortly. He was not in the mood to enjoy himself.

"You got it."

But by the time shampoo suds dribbled into Bucky's eyes, he had crashed into a different headspace altogether, without even noticing.

"Ow!" he complained. "FRIDAY, get DaddyPapa!"

(Either would suffice.)

"Alerting Papa now," FRIDAY assured him. "Jamesy, try putting your face in the water to wash the soap away."

"Owwww," Jamesy whined, though he complied, because FRIDAY was really smart. His eyes still hurt. He rubbed them over and over, but couldn't open them. His vision was watery and the water hurt!

"Dear one? What's wrong?"

Papa had come!

"Owwie, ow ow owww! Soap in my eyes, Papa..."

"Ah, my," said Papa from the other side of the shower door. "Try to stop rubbing them. You will only rub the soap further into your eyes. Tip your head back and try to focus on rinsing your face and hair clean. Do you need my help?"

"Nooo, I can do it," Jamesy whined stubbornly. "Just hurts..."

"Yes. I hate getting soap in my eyes!" Papa agreed. "But it will feel better in a minute's time. I promise."

"Don't like the shower. Wanna get out."

"You can get out as soon as the soap is gone," Papa assured him. "Did you get your bottom and your penis nice and clean?"

"Yeeees," groused Jamesy, although he didn't properly know. He'd probably soaped 'em up. But he was little now, and Bucky was the one who had gotten him into the shower in the first place, so he didn't really remember. He rubbed at his hair, trying to feel if all the bubbles were gone yet, then pawed at his crotch. It was all soft and squishy, and unlike his face, smooth and hairless.

"We don't want another bout of diaper rash, do we," Papa went on, embarrassingly.

Jamesy made a face. "Uh-uhn."

Finally Jamesy wasn't soapy-slippery anywhere. He said, "Done," and the water—as always, so ideal in temperature he never expected otherwise anymore—switched off again.

"Good work, Jamesy," said FRIDAY in approval.

"Indeed," said Papa. "Come here, dearest. I've got something for you."

Jamesy rolled the shower door open and saw Papa holding up a towel just for him!

Not even cognizant he was now beaming, he hopped over, and let Papa wrap him all up in the nice warm towel.

"Papaaa," he mumbled, for no other reason than he was glad Papa had come to help, and glad to be in Papa's arms, all snuggled up.

"My Jamesy," said Papa lovingly. "You woke up on the wrong side of bed today, as the expression goes. But you're feeling a little better now, aren't you?"

"Got soap in my eyes!" said Jamesy. He didn't want Papa to overlook his strife.

"You did. But you handled it beautifully, and here you are, all clean. Not one tear."

This made Jamesy cuddle in, fiercely happy Zemo was his Papa. He wanted to wrap his arms around Papa too, but they were all bundled up, so he just leaned himself in, indiscriminate of his weight and size. He felt little, so he leaned in without care, despite outweighing Zemo and having a good three inches on him.

"Let's dry you off. It's almost breakfast time," Papa said, hands rubbing the towel along Jamesy's arms. "The captain is making blueberry pancakes."

"BLUEBERRYPANCAKESTHAT'SMYFAVORITE!!"

"Really? Can this possibly be true?" asked Papa, in an amazed voice.

"Yeah! It's really really TRUE, Papa!" Jamesy insisted. "And you know it!"

Papa chuckled.

In Jamesy's bedroom, his favorite bedroom—because he had two, one for his big self and one for his little self, and obviously his little room was way better than boring old Big Bucky's room—Papa helped move the towel all over Jamesy with brisk hands, till he wasn't so drippy. He helped Jamesy pick out a Snoopy pull-up. And since Jamesy had a Snoopy t-shirt too, obviously he had to wear it with the Snoopy pull-up. Duh-doy!

Soon Jamesy had stuck his various limbs into every piece of clothing the way Papa told him to, and he was dressed, and feeling very warm and huggy. He twined his arms around Papa's neck, and for a minute they just cuddled by themselves. It was so, so nice... especially since Bucky had been a real grump just ten or so minutes ago. Jamesy wished Papa could carry him, like Daddy could—just sweep him up into his arms. But Papa wasn't a super soldier like Daddy, nowhere near as tall and strong. His wrists and ankles were actually kinda spindly.

But one thing about Papa was that he was always saying nice stuff and making Jamesy feel good, and wanted. He said, "My precious little one. You're such a good boy, wearing your pull-up without a fuss. Papa's very proud of you," and made Jamesy wiggly.

"So who shall we take to breakfast?" Papa finally asked.

There was a bevy of stuffies on Jamesy's bed, and even more which had toppled over on the floor, just hooting and hollering for breakfast. Take me, Jamesy, please! ... Nooo! Pick me, Jamesy! I love blueberry pancakes just as much as you do! ... I never get to go...

They had to take turns, see. Only one toy at the table.

Lamberquin (a very large and fuzzy lamb) had gotten to hang out in the living room just the other day, and play King Kong, knocking over towers of blocks. There was a stuffed Pikachu that looked as if he wanted some blueberry pancakes... and Jamesy loved him some Pikachu! Lots of Squishmallows vied for attention. A black cat with long arms and legs tipped in gray that Daddy had named Dusty Boots laid on his side on the floor. Jamesy had snuggled up with him sometime in the night, only for mean old Bucky to throw him out of bed.

Feeling affectionate pity towards him, Jamesy grabbed for Dusty Boots.

"Ah yes, good old Dusty," said Papa.

He took Jamesy's hand, and Jamesy dragged Papa and Dusty to breakfast.

Daddy, who was flipping pancakes and wearing his blue striped kitchen apron, was super duper happy to see them. His face got all bright.

"Mornin', Jamesy! Mornin', Dusty." And, less enthused but polite: "Zemo."

"Captain," said Zemo in much the same tone, and spotted Jamesy as Jamesy slid onto one of the stools at the kitchen counter. Then he went to pour himself some coffee. Yuck. Coffee made grown-ups' breaths sour and stinky.

"Daddy, guess what? I woke up big this morning," Jamesy announced.

"Did you, now? That musta felt funny."

"Yeah. I don't like diapies when I'm big."

A snort. "Sure don't, pal. You got right in the shower, I bet."

"Uh-huh. And I gotted clean, but I gotted soap in my eyes. Papa had to come'n help me."

"Well," said Daddy, almost in his Captain America voice, "it was good of him to help."

"Can I have blueberry syrup too?" asked Jamesy.

"That's a lot of blueberry. Sure you don't want maple?" asked Daddy.

"Bluuuueberries are blue. Blueberries are bluuue," burbled Jamesy, sing-song.

Daddy made a funny face, but commented, "You're in a good mood, huh bud?"

"Oh yeah! Me and Dusty woked up all wrong. But now we're gettin' blueberry pancakes with blueberry syrup!"

"Shall I scramble some eggs?" asked Papa. "It may help balance out the impending sugar rush."

Even though he sounded perfectly pleasant when he said, "Oh, you care about sugar rushes now? That's new," Jamesy could tell that Steve was kind of pissed off. Jamesy raised his brows and busied himself with stretching out Dusty Boots's long arms as far as they could go.

"If this is about the candy shop," said Zemo, "you have already lectured me. There's no need to do so again. Especially in front of the little one."

"No, no. No need at all," said Steve, fake cheery. He plated a pancake, and then another, and finally a third, then put a pad of butter on top like a little hat. Were these for him, Jamesy wondered??

They were! Steve brought the plate over to him, and said, "Alright, Buck—buddy. You can have some blueberry syrup." He interrupted the oncoming victory cheer with, "But you have to let Daddy pour it. Alright, pal? Your eyes are bigger than your stomach."

"Huh-uhh," protested Jamesy, at the idea his eyes and stomach were of comparable sizes.

"Yuh-huh," said Steve. He went back to the kitchen cabinet, taking in the sight of Papa cracking an egg one-handed into a measuring cup (one of Papa's coolest tricks, in Jamesy's opinion) even as he retrieved the squeezy-bottle of blueberry syrup. They had all kinds of syrups: maple, honey, strawberry, blueberry, blackberry. He brought the syrup over to Bucky and proceeded to drizzle what seemed to Jamesy an incredibly modest serving over the topmost pancake.

"Dada," complained Jamesy, "you gotta get the other ones. Not just the top one."

"Jamesy. This syrup has a lot of sugar in it, kiddo."

"But the top one's gonna be squishy and the ones underneaf are gonna be dry!"

"He is very sensitive to texture," Zemo spoke up.

Daddy's head gave a jerk, like he couldn't quite believe Papa would dare to say anything about that right now. Jamesy did his best not to giggle. It wasn't the right time to giggle. It would be like giggling in church. But that just made him want to giggle even more.

"Just a little more," Steve relented, and lifted the top pancake so he could add some syrup to the dry pancake below.

Angelically, Jamesy said, "You're the best daddy ever, Daddy!"

What Daddy would call "positive feedback" worked like a charm. He smiled sheepishly at Jamesy. Over at the counter, Papa shook his head and whisked his eggs.

"Does Papa get pancakes too?" Jamesy asked.

"If he wants," Daddy said, giving the bottom pancake a little kiss of glistening blueberry syrup too.

"He wants, he wants, he really really wants!" Jamesy answered. A proclamation: "He's gonna sit by me and we're gonna have pancakes 'n' eggs. Yuuummm."

"I'm sure that's just what Papa wants to hear," said Daddy.

"It most certainly is," said Papa serenely.

After (the incredibly good) breakfast Zemo reached for Steve's discarded apron.

"I'll clean up."

Generally if Papa cooked, Daddy did the dishes, and if Daddy cooked, then Papa did the dishes, so there was nothing out of the ordinary there. Zemo didn't really need to say anything about it. And he didn't really need to wear an apron to do dishes. But he put it around his neck and tied it around his back anyway, and Steve said, sounding stumped, "Thanks."

"You look funny in Daddy's apron," Jamesy told Zemo, giggling into Dusty's soft, fuzzy head.

"Oh, bud, let's wash your face before you get Dusty all sticky," Steve said quickly.

"Meeehhh," Jamesy tried to argue.

"No 'meh!' Pancakes are a messy food for little boys like you," said Steve, and this made Jamesy's tummy unbearably happy. It fluttered like it was a porchlight full of moths instead of the world's most delicious blueberry pancakes and most fluffiest scrambled eggs. He let Steve take him to the kitchen sink to wash his hands, while Zemo gathered their dirty dishes.

As soon as his hands were all clean and Daddy had gotten after Jamesy's chin and cheeks with a wet paper towel, it was time to play!

Okay, first it was time to brush teeth.

THEN IT WAS TIME TO PLAY!

There was a toybox in the living room. It didn't look like a toybox. It was a secret stash: LEGO and Tinkertoys and K'nex (Jamesy was very into building sets), plus some Avengers action figures and soft toys, of course. Jamesy had gotten the action figures for Christmas a couple years running now and had almost the whole lineup.

Mostly their quarters, a notably large suite of four bedrooms and a modest living area, looked clean and boring, like a bunch of adults that had wine and cheese parties lived there. The fun kid stuff was hidden away 'cause stupid Big Bucky cringed to see it lying around. The toys were stowed in a leather footstool, covered by a lid. Jamesy's books were in the massive bookshelf, on the very bottom shelf, where he could reach them easily from the floor, but they were hidden behind a fake row of spines for an encyclopedia set that didn't exist. It was all for Bucky's sake, just like the retinal scan required to access his "little" room limited that access to himself, Steve, and Zemo. Casual visitors to their suite—mostly just Sam nowadays—would never find out about Bucky's regressions. It could remain something private. Something just for the three of them.

Jamesy toppled the toybox and got to Tinkertoy-ing, while Steve sat on the couch with his laptop to do his work.

Currently Jamesy's ultimate jam was building increasingly large, lavish, and creative versions of hideouts and safehouses and compounds for his Avengers action figures. He had Captain America—both Daddy and Sam—and Iron Man and even the super small version of Ant-Man. The Hulk figure, huge and green and rubbery, was especially fun to use in the smashing process of whatever he built. He liked to combine all the building sets rather than stick to one kind. Some of his complexes were so elaborate, Daddy liked to take pictures of them with his phone.

By naptime, Jamesy was not sleepy. He wasn't!!!! Noooo. But the buzz of blueberry pancakes and of Steve calling him a little boy had worn into a sluggishness. So he agreed to lie down on the couch with a blanket and Dusty Boots and have some quiet time.

"On your lap?" he begged Daddy. He eyed the laptop undeservedly occupying the best pillow in the house.

Daddy looked reproachful, then sighed and said, "Alright. C'mon, pal."

And so, when Papa reappeared (where he'd gone off to was not something Jamesy had been tracking) he found Jamesy drowsing with his cheek on Daddy's thigh.

"Naptime already?"

"Sugar crash," Steve said, succinctly.

"Ah," said Zemo, coming around the abandoned block fortress to cup Jamesy's cheek with his gentle hand. "Well. It's made for a very contented little boy."

His thumb nudged at the corner of Jamesy's mouth. Only when it rubbed there with some insistence did Jamesy realize he was still a little sticky with blueberry syrup there. He let Papa finish cleaning him up before glomming onto his thumb to suck for the sweet trace of syrup. He heard a light puff from Papa—a fond little laugh. Papa let him lick and suck the flavor away, and suck and suck some more, even when there was nothing left but the taste of Papa's skin now.

His lips pulled Papa's thumb further into his mouth. He locked on and gave a deep suck.

"Zemo," said Daddy. A warning.

Papa's brown eyes flicked to Daddy's face. Papa had the kind of eyes that could see right though you, and see things others missed.

"You'll awaken the beast," said Daddy.

"We agreed," replied Zemo in his diplomatic way, "the beast deserves the occasional feeding. Did we not?"

Daddy only sighed.

Whether to awaken the beast was a pointless conversation. It was already awake, and feeding on Papa's thumb.

Zemo smiled, but Jamesy barely saw it. A moment later his thumb slipped from Jamesy's mouth, warm and wet with his saliva, and this got a whine out of Jamesy. But Zemo tutted and said, "There's something better for you to suck on, sweet boy. Roll over, now."

Oh!! Jamesy knew just what Papa was talking about. He squirmed all the way over from his right side onto his back, then onto his left side—his bad side, but Papa helped him adjust and settle with his metal arm out from under his ribcage. Clutching Dusty Boots under his elbow, he nuzzled into Daddy's lap, and—yep. Papa was right. There was something much better here. It was covered in the dorky khaki slacks Daddy was wearing today, but it was under there for sure, smelling so good and warm. As his nose rubbed at the bulge, Daddy gave another sigh. This sigh was sharper, hotter.

Jamesy opened his mouth and searched using his lips, trying to find the best place to put them. He mouthed at the bulk of the length he could feel hiding in Daddy's slacks, and earned gentle fingers sinking into his hair and rubbing at his scalp. A happy noise escaped Jamesy's chest.

"You know what to do, Captain Rogers," he heard Zemo say softly. "Show him it's alright. He is our sweet little boy... he can express himself however he likes, and we will give him whatever he needs."

"That's—that's right," Daddy said, but he was shaky. Arching into him, Jamesy tried to get a better fix on his crotch. Daddy liked this. He breathed, "Oh, little boy," and Jamesy's belly got that intense fluttering feeling again. He licked at Daddy's pants.

"If you wait much longer to let him have it, you'll miss out on fitting in his mouth entirely," Papa said. He was hovering over Jamesy and Daddy, watching, saying his magic words.

"What's it to you, Zemo," grumbled Steve, but he still moved to unbuckle his belt one-handed.

"By now, I simply know what you like, Captain."

"Well—do you have to watch?"

"Have to?" Zemo clicked his tongue gently, then shook his head once. "My thumb and I will not interfere."

"Fat chance," snorted Steve, but he must have given permission in some way, because Zemo stepped aside and took a seat in his favorite armchair next to the couch. Jamesy wished Papa would come a little closer. Maybe even sit right next to them on the couch, and tuck Jamesy's bare feet into his lap. Sometimes Jamesy fell asleep during movies and with his head in one of their laps and his feet in the other's.

But he didn't feel like asking. Not with Daddy unzipping his trousers and digging into them just for Jamesy. A few seconds of patient licking of whatever fabric was near his mouth and Jamesy was rewarded with the nudge of Daddy's prick against his lips.

From experience Jamesy knew Daddy could (and would) get a lot bigger and stiffer than he was right now. But for the moment, Jamesy could open up wide and glom on to the whole length of him. And that's just what he did, with a noise that sounded just like a cartoon: a big scrumptious AHMMM. He felt the humongous swell of his Daddy's chest above as he sank down around his prick. He didn't stop pushing his head forward till he felt the scratchy musky warmth of Daddy's hairs tickling his lips and nose.

"Look at that," Zemo spoke softly. It made Daddy hitch all over. His breaths, his belly, even his prick tried to jump in Jamesy's mouth.

"Mmph," Jamesy protested around it. Dada was getting bigger! He was gonna get too big to fit real soon! He tried to make the most of the moment, snuffling and slurping around Daddy's thing in his mouth. He stretched his jaw wider and wider, tried to swallow down the spit gathering quickly under his tongue.

Really soon, he had to yank his head back again so he didn't choke, and glanced up at Daddy with red-cheeked hope.

"Gosh, you're so good at that, kiddo," Daddy said, tucking his hair back.

As a grownup Bucky was capable of much more than that. As a little boy, he was uncoordinated and lackadaisical and had a sensitive gag reflex. He nursed from both Daddy and Papa 'cause it was comforting and made him super duper tingly in his tummy, sucking as he would on a bottle (he was too much of a big boy for those) or a pacifier (which he was also too big for, but loved): lips pulling in a sweet rhythm, hand curled comfortably around the shaft. Tongue snuggling up, tasting what leaked from their slits, dipping and swirling around at his leisure. In other words, it was for him more than it was for Papa and Daddy.

Daddy was ginormous and Jamesy's mouth felt little, so once Daddy was all the way big, he could only really manage to suck around the head. But that was okay, because the tip of Daddy was perfect to suck on. Fat and smooth, and tucked in at the neck, which magically complemented the curves of Jamesy's lips. That was where they wanted to really cling. He latched on and suckled.

"Oh god," Daddy breathed, his head momentarily rolling back. That meant he was feeling nice, Jamesy knew. "Buh—Jamesy. Baby boy."

"Mmh," Jamesy responded happily. He wanted to wiggle right out of his pull-up and shorts. He felt more than nice. Comforted by the sucking, by the intimacy, by the cozy blanket and Dusty Boots under his arm. But there was that achy funny feeling in his tummy too, the one that made him squirmy like he had to go pee. And Daddy tasted so much. His precum was leaking out. The hot flavor woke up Jamesy's taste buds; it didn't taste at all like the cloyingly sweet blueberry syrup. Instead it was musky and kind of bitter. But he still liked it. There was looots of it, and it made Jamesy's mouth really really wet, so that he slurped as he lazily nursed, and his tongue slipped around all smooth and slick.

He licked and sucked. Daddy's fingers ran through his hair again and again, his fingertips rubbing Jamesy's scalp restlessly. Jamesy's eyelids got heavy and dipped. His noisy slurping matched Daddy's pulls for breath. Jamesy could hear the sounds they were making together real well without Bluey or anything on the TV, and he knew Papa could hear it too. But it all slipped by in a rhythmic haze.

He thought he could fall asleep nursing, if it wasn't for the terrible squirm of excitement in his belly that kept him on alert, on edge.

"Quite the hungry mouth," Zemo commented. "And only one thing can satisfy it. Go ahead, Captain. Feed your little boy."

Daddy groaned sharply. His prick twitched, and a second later his cum started blurting.

It was a big, big load. It always was. Daddy cummed lots and lots 'cause of the serum—and 'cause he loved Jamesy so much, he said. But it was too much for a little boy to swallow it all. It had a weird texture too, really slick. Jamesy unlatched, forcing Daddy's cockhead to pop out of his mouth again, and it spurted its hot stuff across his cheek instead.

Jamesy didn't mind that. He let Daddy's cum get all over his face, sloppily licking his taxed lips and swallowing down what he'd gotten in his mouth. Daddy made all kinds of huffy noises and clenched at his hair. He was almost pulling it. But Jamesy liked the pressure. He liked Daddy huffing, "Oh, little boy, oh baby," like he couldn't breathe. He really, really liked it. So much he clenched his thighs together and wiggled around, on the verge of making a sticky mess in his Snoopy pull-up.

Like Daddy, he was real stiff now. His erection didn't compare to Dada's though. It couldn't, anymore. Not after all he'd been through. But that was okay. He was just a little boy. He wasn't supposed to be as big as a grown-up. He wasn't supposed to have hair down there.

"Feelin' good, baby boy?" Daddy asked, panting. "Or do you have to pee?"

The two sensations were not entirely dissimilar. Nor were the wiggles they pulled out of him.

"I'unno, Daddy," Jamesy managed.

"Daddy had better check," advised Papa.

Steve sighed, but didn't hesitate to reach down the sofa, down Jamesy's torso and under the blanket. "I'm thinking these are some good wiggles."

His big hand tucked over Jamesy's crotch and gave a testy little squeeze. Had Jamesy been even a little wet, there would've been a telling squish of the padding bundled around him. But Jamesy was dry. His prick poked insistently against the pull-up and Daddy found it easy, even though he couldn't possibly see it under the layers of blanket, shorts, and pull-up.

"Aw, yeah," Daddy said, sounding fond. "Someone's got a little stiffy."

"Nnghh," Jamesy groaned. He tipped onto his back and pushed his hips up at Daddy's hand. Feelings bloomed all through his body. It wasn't a delicate unfurling, but an uncontrollable surge of sensation that he felt all the way down to his toes.

It was almost too big a feeling. Whining, he stuck his thumb in his mouth, wishing he had his paci. Unfortunately he'd thrown it onto the bathroom floor that morning.

"Shh. Don't fret," Papa said gently. "Daddy will take care of you."

"So much for not interfering," said Daddy. He didn't sound mad, though.

"Your little boy requires comforting," said Papa. "A thumb? Tsk. Simply won't do."

"That right, pal?" asked Daddy. "You wanna suck on Daddy a little more?"

Jamesy nodded. That was way better than his stupid old thumb! He released it, wet with spit, and turned his head. Daddy helped fit his prick back between Jamesy's lips. He groaned quietly as they wrapped snug around him. He was still kind of big, the taste of his cum was still vivid on the satiny skin of his yummy pink cockhead. Jamesy suckled gratefully, taking comfort in the sensation of a full mouth and clutching Dusty Boots to his side while Daddy palmed him through his shorts.

He was steady, first petting Jamesy, then pushing with the heel of his hand. Jamesy's eyelids fluttered. He strained and stretched and rocked on the sofa, whining on every breath. He wanted to cum, he wanted to cum! The friction between his stiffy and pull-up was dull and unbearable at the same time. He couldn't feel Daddy's hand the way he wanted to with the dumb pull-up in the way. Yet the idea of spurting inside it stole his breath, made him clench with excitement.

"C'mon," Steve urged. "It's okay, bud."

Zemo backed him. "It's what your pull-up's for, my darling."

Choking on a broken noise, Jamesy twisted and squeaked around Daddy's prick. The feelings in him hit a hard peak; he couldn't have felt any gooder if he tried. His own stiff little prick twitched and sputtered hot cum against the padding and plastic suffocating it. The way Daddy was rubbing it made it do that even more. He cried out, but the sound was distorted.

Jamesy hazed out. For a second he felt like Bucky. Like he was doing something pathetic and perverse—he was too old to be wearing a fucking diaper, and what the fuck was he even doing, unloading in it in front of Steve and Zemo? But it was just for a second. The vertigo passed when he realized he was throttling Dusty Boots in the clamp of his elbow. Immediately he eased up on his companion, and at the same time, let Steve free of his mouth. A trail of saliva followed and slid down from the corner of his lips.

He paid it no mind. He was too busy sweating, throbbing, feeling the tickle of tears leaking from his eyes down his temples. His pull-up was full of warmth, and his face was covered with sticky cum. Daddy was rubbing his tummy now.

"Shh, shh. You okay, Jamesy? You with us?"

"Daddy," he squeaked.

"I'm right here, baby boy."

Jamesy sniffled and sighed and let Dada stroke his belly and chest through his Snoopy t-shirt.

After some time, his breathing evened out, and Papa stood.

"Come on now," he said, approaching the sofa. "Let's clean you up."

He put a gentle hand on Jamesy's flesh arm before applying some light pressure to his elbow. It was a directive to sit up, Jamesy knew. He did so with some difficulty. He felt awful floppy. But he wasn't supposed to sit around in a wet pull-up. That made him rashy.

Daddy put a hand on his back and helped him stay steady on his way off the sofa.

"Thanks," Daddy said again. "I'll get the next one."

Papa gave him a brief nod.

"I didn't go pee, Papa. I cummed," Jamesy told Zemo. In case there was any doubt.

"Oh, my dear. I know," said Papa, leading him and the long-suffering Dusty Boots to the hallway. "It felt nice, I hope."

"Nicer'n nice," Jamesy said. And: "Gooder'n good. Greater'n great!"

"My. A glowing review," Papa said with a smile. "I'll go get a wet cloth. Go sit on your bed, darling."

Zemo was on one knee, helping him step out of his shorts, by the time a fresh-faced Jamesy had more to say. "You didn't play."

"No. I thought I'd just let you play with Dada, for today," said Papa. "Big step. There now!"

The shorts were cast aside. Next came the pull-up, which bore Snoopy's face and looked a little bedraggled in the front. Papa hitched his thumbs into each side and eased it gently down.

Interested, Jamesy peered into it. He could just see the shine of what he'd shot off against the lining. He didn't cum as much as Daddy did. Knock-off serum, ya know. Steve had gotten bigger in every way. Bucky—well. He didn't know whether it was HYDRA's version of the serum that had shrunk his junk or if was decades of neglect, being frozen and unfrozen, pumped full of drugs... even locked in a small, clear plastic cock cage at times. Most of the time, when he was big, his dick didn't even work.

But it was the perfect size for Jamesy, and it worked for Jamesy pretty reliably, so even though his little boy-sized prick was right in Papa's face, he wasn't embarrassed. He wasn't even embarrassed when Papa ducked forward and smooched it. He just giggled.

"Step," Papa prompted.

"You kissed it!" Jamesy blustered happily.

"Well, how could I not? It's adorable."

This was a bemusing statement. "It is?"

"Extremely."

"You're so silly, Papa."

"Hm. You're right. Silly me," chuckled Papa. He lifted the cloth he'd used to wipe Jamesy's face clean and folded it over itself. "Here. Hold still."

And, carefully, he took Jamesy in hand and cleaned all the goopy traces off his sensitive skin. Jamesy tried not to stick any fingers into his own mouth as he was administered to. It was tempting. He needed his pacifier...

Soon Papa had a fresh Paw Patrol pull-up at the ready for him. He dragged it up Jamesy's legs, then dropped another kiss right on Chase's doggy face as soon as it was settled on his hips. Jamesy giggled and wiggled. So silly.

"And now, it's time for your nap. You too, Dusty."

"Awww," Jamesy said. A token protestation. He was still feeling melty. He could probably sleep.

He allowed himself to be herded into his bed by Zemo, dragging Dusty Boots along. Half of the bed was taken up by stuffed animals, all lined up against the wall. Jamesy's knees knocked into the stuffies as he settled down. Papa pulled his coverlet over him, as well as over Dusty.

Papa's lips flickered into a smile as Jamesy watched himself be tucked in.

"My Jamesy," he said indulgently.

"My Papa," said Jamesy, very serious. He wrinkled his nose. "Papa... paci?"

"Let's see," said Papa, and made his way to Jamesy's bureau. He fished around in the top drawer, then returned to Jamesy's bedside with a red and blue paci. Soft-eyed, he slipped it into Jamesy's waiting mouth.

Zemo's thumb dipped along the dent in Jamesy's chin, reminding Jamesy of the stubble there. Jamesy made a face mid-suck. It didn't go unnoticed.

"Would you like Papa to help you shave later?"

Jamesy gave him a sleepy nod.

"Well. We'll see if you feel like it," Papa said. "Who knows. You may wake up big again. In that case, you wouldn't like Papa to help."

"Dun wanna be big," Jamesy said, or something like it, around his paci.

"Big or little, you are very precious to me," Papa told him, and kissed him on the forehead.

"Dun mind sharin' wif Daddy?" wondered Jamesy.

"If I had to share you with someone," said Papa, "I'm grateful it's Captain Rogers. Can you guess why?"

Jamesy shook his head and clutched at Dusty Boots.

"Because he adores you." Secretively, Papa smiled and whispered, "Almost as much as I adore you. But not quite."

"Zemo," drawled Daddy from the doorway. "Let him sleep already."

Papa grinned. Busted. Such a goofy display of teeth from Papa made Jamesy smile.

"Sweet dreams, little one."

Daddy and Papa left the bedroom door open a few inches. Even if they hadn't, Jamesy would have been able to hear them bicker in the hallway.

"Captain, there is a delicate art to tucking a child in. I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't interrupt next time."

"It doesn't need to be a whole production, Zemo."

Feeling safe and loved and hoping he would wake up their little boy and not grumpy old Big Bucky, Jamesy soon fell asleep sucking his pacifier.

Chapter Text

When Steve had pictured retirement, he'd pictured... something else. A brownstone. Farmer's markets. Motorcycle trips. A quiet life, just him and Buck, growing old hand in hand.

Well, he held Bucky's hand often enough these days. But it was usually to take him potty or tuck him into bed.

It wasn't that Steve minded taking care of Bucky. Never. Bucky would have done it for him. Had done it for him, often enough.

But it wasn't anything he'd ever imagined. Not for himself, and definitely not for his handsome rascal of a best friend. And it wasn't anything he would have chosen for them.

But he guessed he was used it now, Bucky being "little."

Wasn't the weirdest thing about life in the future, really. Aliens walked amongst them. Sentient robots? An actual threat. Time travel was real. Magic, also real. Half the world had disintegrated, only to reappear five long years later. Buck had turned to dust, but had returned. He and Bucky had both miraculously survived World War II, survived the ice, survived the Blip. They'd each made it all the way to the 2020s, and now they carried minuscule supercomputers around in their pockets and interacted on a daily basis with artificial intelligence. And this was considered normal.

Regressing to a childlike state was probably one of the more sane and healthy coping mechanisms Bucky could possibly have developed to deal with everything he'd been through. Even if it didn't seem to be a voluntary coping mechanism, what was the harm? In Steve's opinion, it was better to stumble upon Bucky chatting in a high, soft voice to his stuffed animals than it was to find him sweating and trembling in a corner, victim of yet another horrible flashback.

If anyone deserved to turn their abused mind off for a while and enjoy something innocent, it was Bucky.

Still. It rankled, the way they were never alone. The way Zemo was as much a part of Bucky's life as Steve was, now.

It wasn't just the baron's constant presence. It was the way Bucky had bonded to Zemo during Steve's absence. Zemo, of all people.

It was the way Zemo seemed so at ease with Bucky's "little" self.

Steve wouldn't say he was jealous.

But he was... unsettled.

When it was just him and Buck, and Buck was his usual self, things were as close to normal as Steve had experienced since coming out of the ice. They ran some mornings. They'd cobble together coffee, bacon, and burnt toast for breakfast, and Bucky would read to Steve from the newspaper in his sardonic drawl. 'StarkTech CEO Snaps Up Historic Real Estate.' Well, whaddiya know? Another ugly Stark building. They'd do the crossword together, maybe. Wordle—great. They might hit the pavement again after that. Grocery shop, return library books, go for a walk in their ball caps and sunglasses and explore all the ways Brooklyn had changed in the last hundred years. Or they might part for the day. Steve had a lot of Captain America-related responsibilities on his plate, even having passed the shield to Sam. He was back-end now. Helped plan ops, consulted. He'd go to work, and Bucky to therapy. Sometimes Bucky would have dinner on the table by the time Steve came home.

Pretty damn domestic. Reminded Steve of the years before the war, of the two of them living in their cramped bachelor pad, burning their breakfasts and scraping by on odd jobs.

Only now it wasn't the two of them, but the three of them. Now there was Baron Helmut Zemo, tied to them permanently via a microscopic tracker embedded in his ankle. He was always around every conceivable corner, lurking. Observing. Waiting.

He was Jamesy's caregiver, and though Wakanda was no fan of Zemo's, they considered it unethical to keep parent from child. They also didn't want Zemo anywhere near their borders. Thus, Zemo was removed from the Raft and placed with Steve and Bucky in Brooklyn, and Steve had little choice but to put up with it.

When Bucky was himself, he didn't seem to like the baron any better than Steve did. Zemo was tolerated, at best. At worst, Bucky might call the man a manipulative bastard, a slippery weasel, a crazy fuck. He'd heard Bucky snap things like, "Stay the hell outta my room, Zemo," and "Gonna ship you back to the Raft if you aren't careful, pal. I'll call Shuri right now. Don't tempt me!" (Steve himself had bitten back worse.)

But when Buck was a kid—when he was Jamesy—he loved Zemo.

Adored the bastard. Thought he'd hung the moon.

Moreover, Zemo seemed to adore Jamesy right back.

To say the least, it'd been a massive shock to leave Peggy in the past only to come back to Bucky entangled in this whole bizarre... thing with a man who had once framed him for a deadly terrorist attack and used HYDRA's trigger words to take control of him. More than once Steve wondered if he'd made some kind of navigational error traversing the quantum realm back to the present. Maybe he'd accidentally crossed into an alternate timeline where Bucky was still somehow under Zemo's control, and that was why this was happening. It had been that tough to understand why Bucky would ever do this, ever want this.

At all! But especially with Zemo.

It helps me, Bucky had said, quietly.

He'd also said, another time, I can't control it, Steve. I don't do it on purpose.

And, I wish I wasn't like this. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is? That I can't deal? That I can't keep from pissing the bed like a fucking infant? You think I wanna suck my thumb and run crying to Zemo all the time?

And, I'm sorry, Stevie. Please don't... please don't leave again. I need it. But I need you, too. Please. Stay with me this time.

Shocked though Steve was at the whole situation, he hadn't taken long to land on Wakanda's page. It would've been cruel to keep Bucky—Jamesy—from Zemo. Zemo's feelings on the matter were of less concern to Steve; Zemo could take a long walk off a short pier. But Steve wouldn't, couldn't, deny a child their father.

So, Steve got Bucky. Zemo got Jamesy.

At Pepper Potts' invitation, they moved into one of Tony Stark's many old residences, occupying a highly secure suite that allowed Bucky to live his life both big and little, and allowed both Steve and Zemo to be with him. As part of the deal, FRIDAY monitored Zemo's location and interfaced with Wakanda's own AI.

Steve and Zemo traded Bucky off as needed. His headspace was unpredictable. Sometimes it fluctuated several times a day. Sometimes he stayed in one state or the other for days—long enough for them all to settle into a routine, only for that routine to be disrupted when Buck's headspace shifted again.

In his normal frame of mind, Bucky almost exclusively spent his time with Steve. If they weren't out and about together, they spent their time cooking, reading and drawing, and catching up on what people called the "golden age of television." (They'd missed a hell of a lot of television, but they had every streaming service on the market.) And, yeah, sure... they necked a little. Like old times. Bucky hadn't been ready for more than that yet, not then. But that was a-okay with Steve. He was happy Bucky wanted even that much with him, after everything.

And when Bucky would start to look foggy, like he wasn't totally sure where he was, Steve would have FRIDAY get Zemo.

Bucky's voice always retreated into an eerie lilt at the sight of him. Papa!

And Zemo would take it from there. Darling, there you are. Hello! Hello, my Jamesy. I am so happy to see you, sweet boy. Thank you, Captain Rogers. That will be all.

Steve would leave them be, eyes averted. Bucky clinging to Zemo was too strange to witness.

When Bucky was like that—little—Zemo read to him, Steve quickly learned. Children's books. Zemo did very involved readings, and sometimes character voices. Those were a big hit, if the giggles were anything to go by.

Well, Bucky always had been a bit of a bookworm. He'd read to Steve as a kid, and that tradition continued to this day. But when he was Jamesy, Zemo read to him.

Toys were a thing, too. Bucky had kept them out of sight at first. But before long, they were making regular appearances in the living room. Jamesy wasn't nearly as prone to compartmentalizing as Bucky was. Steve began to recognize a bright yellow stuffed animal with red circles for cheeks that Jamesy cuddled with while watching cartoons. He had an erector set. Wooden blocks. Marbles. (Bucky had been a sharp-shooter, back in the day.)

There were other trappings—things that hadn't been a part of Steve and Bucky's actual childhoods, but were, Zemo claimed, commonplace now. Fuzzy, soft pajamas with booties and hoods and animal ears. Children's TV shows, garishly bright and infantile and very alien to Steve. There were plastic and silicone pacifiers attached to clips that fastened to t-shirts with bright designs or cartoons on them. Jamesy had his own special cup, bowl, and cutlery in the kitchen cabinets.

Most jarring of all were the modern "disposable" diapers.

It was about as surreal as seeing a portal in spacetime as it was to glimpse his lifelong best friend curled up next to Zemo, snuggling his stuffy or giggling shyly at a cartoon, with the bulk of a diaper visible around his hips and rear.

Beyond strange to watch Bucky fumble with things as though clumsy and uncoordinated, whether it was a so-called "sippy cup" or a peanut butter and jam sandwich with the crusts cut off. Bucky, who'd always had stellar hand-eye coordination.

Befuddling, the easing of the heavy furrow otherwise permanently etched into Bucky's brow, and the way his normally guarded eyes would go bright and sparkling as he yammered to Zemo about this or that childish interest.

It helps me, Bucky had said.

And Steve could see that was true. As much as he faked otherwise, Bucky couldn't legitimately relax, find enjoyment in a meal, sleep more than four hours at a time. He glazed over during movies and TV shows, going elsewhere in his mind. He went wherever Steve wanted, did whatever Steve suggested they do. But beyond getting sucked into the occasional book or podcast, he didn't seem interested in much of anything living in the future had to offer.

Jamesy was almost the opposite. Jamesy was always eager to eat; he had favorite foods and liked to try new ones. Jamesy was curious about everything: their building, their neighbors, their street. Jamesy loved cartoons. Jamesy easily fell asleep while playing, and Zemo would often find him snoozing on the floor amidst his blocks and whisk him back to his bed for naptime.

Save stiff exchanges about whose leftovers were crowding the fridge or whatever, Steve and Zemo rarely spoke to one another, and Bucky would inevitably resurface from his littlespace and return to Steve's orbit dressed normally, speaking normally. Sometimes he wouldn't make direct eye contact for a little while. But Steve had quickly learned to offer him coffee or a beer and suggest they watch an episode of The Sopranos, or something. Stuff that was a little more... mature. That usually got them over the awkward hump and back into familiar territory. At those times, Zemo would lurk in the kitchen, retire to his room, whatever.

Yeah. It'd worked, trading Bucky back and forth.

For a little while.

But it wasn't long at all before Bucky called Steve "Daddy."

He'd been Jamesy at the time, obviously. And he hadn't meant to. He'd been pleasantly occupied with shooting marbles across the living room floor into a trap made from Steve and Zemo's jumbled shoes. Steve was minding his own business, making a grocery list in the kitchen, when a yelp sounded.

"Daddy, did you—"

It stopped. Then came: "Oops," and "Sorry," and "Want Papa." And Steve had ventured out from behind the kitchen island only to see Bucky tripping over the configuration of shoes as he scrambled, red-faced, out of the room.

Steve had been stymied. Stumped. Did he need to follow Bucky—Jamesy? (He had a hard time remembering to call the little version of Bucky by Zemo's name for him. Zemo said it made things easier to think of the child side of Bucky as his own individual. But Steve still couldn't adjust.)

He'd barely interacted with the kid. It was a shock to the system for Jamesy to speak directly to Steve at all.

And Daddy? Well, that just made Steve's face red, too. Hearing Bucky call Zemo "Papa" had been enough of an adjustment.

Grocery list forgotten, he'd waited, anxiously washing and drying his hands just for something to do. A few minutes later Zemo had brought Jamesy back to the shared living room, holding him by the hand.

"Jamesy has something he'd like to say," Zemo began, quite diplomatically. But Jamesy didn't need any further prompting.

"Sorry, Steve," he blurted in his "little" lilt, and tears raced down his face—which had already clearly been miserably soaked. He lifted his left arm to try and wipe the tears away into its black and gold biceps, muffling, "Didn't mean to."

"Aw, hey," Steve managed. "No harm done."

"You see?" Zemo placated. "Steve is your friend. He's not angry with you."

"'Course not," said Steve. "It was just an accident."

"Was a—a accident," agreed Jamesy, chest hitching.

"You were relaxed, feeling safe and secure," Zemo said. "Your mind was occupied with your game, wasn't it."

Sniffle. "The marble hopped into the shoe."

"Did it? How silly."

"... Steve's shoe."

Zemo smiled at Bucky as a conspirator would and swung their joined hands. "Wouldn't it be funny if Steve tried to put his shoe on and got a marble stuck between his toes?"

A clumsy gurgle of a laugh hidden in Jamesy's metal arm made it clear that would be pretty funny, yes.

"Let's not subject him to such an undignified fate," Zemo said. "Nor the marble. Can you get it out of his shoe again, darling?"

Bucky dropped down to his knees instantly, scrounging for the marble.

Zemo was casual about it as he touched the top of Bucky's head, but Steve thought it was a proprietary sort of gesture. "Apologies all around, Captain."

"It's no big deal, Bucky—buddy," Steve repeated, getting a shy glance from below. "Really. It's fine," he found himself saying, this time to Zemo. "Just surprised me."

A marble between his toes would've been less of a surprise.

"I can imagine," said Zemo. "But did you find it..." His head bobbled from side to side, either thoughtful or just plain calculating. "Objectionable?"

Very aware whose little ears were listening, Steve took a second to answer. "Well, it's your, uh—territory. And I'm not trying to cut in."

Zemo responded with nothing more than a smile, so bland that Steve couldn't really read it. Had that been the right thing to say?

Between them appeared Bucky's hand, with the offending marble clutched in his fingers.

"Ah!" said Zemo, lively now. He plucked the marble from Jamesy's grasp. "Well done! Shall we see if we can get the marbles to jump into Papa's shoes too? Hmm?"

Jamesy shifted on his knees and mumbled to the floor.

"Can you try that again?" Zemo prompted. "Papa doesn't have super hearing." He tapped at his own ear.

This time it was soft but clear. "Steve too?"

Zemo barely gave it away, but he was surprised. Steve could tell.

"You would like for Steve to play?"

A small nod.

"In that case," said Zemo, "you'll have to ask him nicely if he wants to play with you."

Oh, boy. Steve wasn't sure about this. He didn't know how to talk to any kid, let alone a grown man pretending to be a kid. He'd never been good with children or babies. In his day, kids were to be seen and not heard. And he couldn't even remember Bucky acting like a kid when he'd actually been a kid. He'd always seemed cool and capable to Steve, even at the tender age of seven. He'd never been shy, never cried, always knew what to do. Even then he'd taken care of Steve.

From the floor, quiet but hopeful: "Stevedoyawannaplaymarbles?"

What, was he really going to say no?

"Been a while since I last played marbles," Steve faltered. "You'll have to show me how."

It was as though Steve had said they could go sliding on a rainbow. Jamesy's eyes seemed to grow ten sizes. He burst out with, "Really?? You wanna?" and followed it up with a gasp, like he'd been holding his breath till then. "'S okay you don't know!" he wheezed, bouncing a little there on his knees. "I can teach ya!"

Steve shrugged inwardly. He supposed he'd better get on the floor, then, with Bucky and the other free-floating marbles.

It'd been a while since he'd gotten on the floor for any reason other than push-ups or sit-ups. He lowered himself with a thunk that reminded him just how much more muscle mass he had now.

"Shall I let you and Steve play?" Zemo inquired, holding Jamesy's marble out for him to reclaim.

Jamesy's reaction to this was nearly as big-eyed and breathless. "Nooo! Papa play too! Please, Papa?"

Not even looking over at Steve to see if there were any problems with this arrangement, Zemo gave a single nod and moved to join them on the floor. Steve shifted reluctantly there on his rear. Oh, boy. But elation poured off of Jamesy, a palpable energy that almost stifled him there for several seconds.

Steve wondered if Jamesy would be too shy or embarrassed to play with them both after all. But then the chatter came.

"Gotta get all the marbles! We all get some! STEVE! SteveSteveSteve! Papa got me two kinds! Clear and obake. Look! See??"

Marbles really hadn't changed in the last hundred years—they were just like the ones Steve remembered from his youth.

"I see. Some are clear and some are opaque," Steve said.

"Yeahclearanobake," Jamesy went on, scarcely breathing. "And see, the clear ones got swirls in 'em. You should have this one! Red an' blue! An' this one! 'S blue an' green! An' Papa can have the 'bake ones. An' I can have both! And see, the table's the starting line!"

Later that night, well after Zemo had put him to bed, Bucky appeared in the doorway of the living room. Steve had been flipping around late night TV's paltry offerings and considering bed, himself. He was unusually beat and suspected it was directly tied to having played two hours of marbles with Jamesy. (And Zemo. Couldn't forget Zemo.) Jamesy had made up a slew of games with random rules and talked a mile a minute. Even Zemo had told him to slow down. More than once, actually. It'd been a lot to keep up with, and Steve wasn't sure what to think about the whole afternoon, to be honest. But seeing that familiar face lit by the glow of the TV made Steve forget his scrambled thoughts.

Footie pajamas, Steve noted.

"Hi, Jamesy," he said carefully, muting the TV. "Did I wake you up?"

A shake of the head.

"Looking for Zemo?" Steve guessed.

"Nah."

Even though it was sort of tremulous, and there were those footie pajamas in play, Steve just knew: "Bucky?"

"Can't sleep," said Bucky, hovering in the doorway. He leaned against the jamb. "Sorry I made you play with me earlier."

Steve huffed sheepishly.

"Next time just tell me no," Bucky added.

"Wasn't that bad," Steve said.

"I made you pal around with Zemo," was Bucky's flat response. "I called you Daddy."

Oh. Were they going to talk about it again, now that Bucky was in his right mind?

"Buck, about that. It's really okay," Steve said, hoping his voice was even and kind. "You were in your—littlespace. Right?" It was new, to use the term out loud. Steve had only read about it, only seen it in online articles Bucky had linked to him. "You were busy playing, not paying attention. I get it. It's like accidentally calling the teacher 'Ma.' Which I did more than once. Always made you laugh."

Bucky smiled, but the expression looked pained to Steve.

"Wanna watch Colbert?" Steve asked, hoping for some familiar equilibrium.

"I," Bucky started. It took him a moment to go on. "Want to. But my headspace isn't really..."

"Oh," escaped Steve.

"Wish I could just stay normal for you. But I don't think that's in the cards tonight. And I can't ask you to babysit me again," Bucky continued, with that reluctant, regretful smile that was so like the one he'd plastered on before Steve had climbed into Bruce Banner's time machine with a case full of infinity stones.

"I know I'm not great at it, but I didn't think I was that bad," Steve said, trying for a little levity.

"Nah. You were great," Bucky said. "It was fun shooting marbles with you."

"It was?"

"Uh-huh. A laugh a minute."

"A regular riot," said Steve, eyeing his friend. "Glad it was fun. Listen, if you're needing to be little right now, that's alright by me."

Bucky swayed hard into the doorframe, wilting all at once. Steve thought he might tip right over, wind up on the floor again. But after a moment, Bucky righted himself in an equally funny sway in the other direction.

"Should we get Zemo?" Steve suggested. "Bet he'll wanna tuck you back in."

"Can I stay with you?" asked Bucky. It was in his full-on "little" lilt. He didn't lisp, or anything. But his voice seemed to retreat to sit a bit higher and smaller in his throat.

"If that's really what you want," began Steve. He wasn't exactly prepared for Jamesy—broad and solid, with one arm made of the strongest metal on earth—to rush in on his padded feet and spring onto the sofa. But all of a sudden there was a flurry of motion, and Jamesy landed on his knees on the couch next to Steve. The resulting bounce of the cushions beneath nearly had Steve catapulting off the sofa.

"STEVE! Hi!" Jamesy whispered excitedly, arranging himself with an uncoordinated squirm of legs onto his diapered bottom.

"Hi, bud," wheezed Steve, taking a hard knock of Jamesy's knee to the hip.

"Snucked out of bed!"

"Yeah, I can see that."

"Shhh! Don't tell Papa."

"Oh, I won't," said Steve. He wouldn't be surprised if the noise of a six-foot super soldier jumping onto the couch had made it all the way back to Zemo's room. "But we'd better find something more appropriate than Colbert to watch."

"Disney?" Jamesy asked eagerly.

Disney, huh? They had a whole streaming service full of cartoons and movies.

"Sure. But nothin' scary."

"'Kay!"

With some clicking around, Steve stumbled upon some Mickey Mouse cartoons from the early 30s, black and white stuff they would have played at the theater in front of movies when they were kids. He put one on, and right away it was achingly nostalgic. The exuberant orchestral music, the tinny sound, the character designs... all way more charming than the uncanny computer-animated stuff made for kids today.

"Remember when they made 'em like this?" he asked, already forgetting which Bucky was next to him.

Jamesy responded by resting his cheek on Steve's shoulder, with a small hum that could have been a yes or no.

His weight made Steve's chest ache twice as much as the old-fashioned animation did. It was just so thoughtless—easy and trusting.

They watched the six-minute Mickey toon and laughed throughout, just like they would've in the old days. Bucky's laughter bubbled out of him in bright and breathy giggles that were totally different from his usual sardonic, hard-to-come-by chuckles. But it was still nice.

Steve quickly found another toon for them to watch. This one was in color and had Donald Duck. As it got rolling, Steve noticed Bucky's giggles sounded different still, and glanced over to see he'd put a pacifier in his mouth. The plastic guard was red and had Captain America's shield in the middle.

All at once the sight was disquieting—uncomfortable, and maybe even borderline insulting (had Zemo bought this particular pacifier?? Like, as some sort of joke?)—and terribly sweet. The gleam of the cartoon lit Bucky's eyes. He looked endearingly dialed in. And innocent. And happy.

Steve tried not to stare. He put his gaze back on the TV, taking in the movement of the cartoon without registering exactly what was happening in it. He heard Bucky suck softly at the silicone in his mouth. Felt him bouncing his crossed legs contentedly. Listened for his cherubic giggling.

The toon ended and Steve barely noticed, but Bucky lifted his head and pointed at the TV.

"Like that one?" Steve asked.

"Mm! Dommal."

Donald, Steve translated.

"Another?"

Bucky nodded and settled right back down against Steve. His easygoing, snuggly energy was a sharp contrast to his earlier talkative excitement.

Well, no wonder they were called "pacifiers."

A couple of toons later, Buck was asleep. While the TV played out some final animated antics, Steve sat and listened to Bucky's breaths. Shallow and steady.

Again, he wasn't sure what to do. Should he just let Bucky sleep there on his shoulder? Or should he wake him up and get him back to bed?

All of this was way outside of his... in what terms should he think of it? Job description? Comfort zone? He'd not stepped foot in Jamesy's room once since they had designated it for that special purpose, and the idea of doing so now felt foreign, even invasive. Only Bucky and Zemo had access to it. It was what people today called a "safe space."

Plus, Steve knew there was a whole routine for bedtime. He knew the routine had a number of steps and it sometimes took Zemo and Bucky a while to get through them all.

But... maybe going through the whole bedtime rigmarole again wasn't crucial.

And... Steve had taken on armies of space aliens. Going into a little kid's room was nowhere near as daunting.

Steve squared himself.

"Alright. C'mon, pal," he murmured, tilting himself out from underneath Bucky's head.

"Mmuhh," croaked Bucky, mostly still asleep. The pacifier fell out of his mouth. It was on its lanyard, so it didn't drop farther than Bucky's lap, where it landed with a damp plastic plop.

"It's time to get back to bed," Steve told him, patting his leg. "Need you to wake up for just a minute."

He stood and offered Bucky a hand.

"C'mon, now. Up."

Droopy-lidded, Bucky grabbed for him, legs slipping free from their crossed position.

No sooner had Steve hoisted him to his feet than arms twined around his neck. Bucky pushed insistently up onto his toes and leaned into Steve.

In a moment of pure reflex, Steve aligned his nose with Bucky's.

But a kiss was not forthcoming. Instead Bucky mumbled, in that vulnerable voice, "Carry me?"

Steve almost laughed. At himself, mostly; how could he think for even a moment that Bucky was about to kiss him? But he was bemused at the sheer sincerity of the request, too. Really? Bucky wanted to be carried?

"Pleeease, Steve?"

"Just this once," Steve relented. It wasn't that far to Jamesy's room.

Oddly, picking Bucky up felt like a familiar maneuver they'd perfected long ago, which it was most definitely not. Steve leaned to brace Bucky's padded rear with one arm, and Bucky hopped right up. His legs came around Steve's hips. His ankles locked together.

And though he was carrying a grown man and not a child of however many years old, it was no strain whatsoever to carry Bucky from the living room.

Far more than his weight, Steve felt the extra padding there between Bucky's rear and his forearm. And even more than the pacifier or footie pajamas or the shameless clinging, that slight squish of what Steve knew was a diaper served to remind him of just how deep Bucky really was in this whole headspace. He wasn't just pretending, just putting on an act. He got so little he needed to wear diapers at bedtime.

The door to Jamesy's room had been left open, so they didn't have to stop at the retinal scanner. It was dark inside, but there was a dim yellow light in one corner. It was a night light shaped like a crescent moon, and it softly lit the corner where Jamesy's abandoned bed waited.

Steve glanced around a bit on the way to the corner, just to get the lay of the land and make sure he didn't trip over anything. But he didn't gawk. Although he was sort of tempted to.

"Here we are. Bed," he announced, leaning to let Bucky down beside it.

Bucky let out something that sounded something like, "Meh." His limbs, so thoroughly wrapped around Steve, did not so much as budge.

Oh, come on.

"We really gotta get you tucked in, bud," Steve tried.

"Nuh. D'wanna."

Steve considered for a moment.

"Don't make me get Papa."

Yes, a threat. And what a threat it was.

"Huuhh-ummm," whined Bucky. His arms tightened. "Wan' you."

"You do," Steve said. He wasn't sure how to take that. "Uhhh, alright. I'll stay with you till you fall asleep. But you gotta be in bed. That's how it is."

A pathetic noise.

Steve changed tack.

"Aw, kiddo, you're so tired! So, so sleepy, pal. It's gonna feel so good to snuggle up under your blanket with your, um..." What was yellow guy called? He settled for, "Pokemon friend."

"... Pikachu?"

Some interest there.

"That's right—Pikachu. Pikachu's been waiting for ya. He kept the bed nice and warm. Don't you wanna cuddle up with him?"

Finally Bucky grunted and uncoiled. Gratefully Steve set him down and patted the bed.

Flashing the rubbery soles of his footie pajamas as he did so, Bucky climbed with drowsy limbs onto the mattress. His stuffy was indeed waiting. Bucky fished him from underneath the coverlet and held him up for Steve.

"There he is," said Steve.

"He wants a kiss g'night," Bucky said.

"Better give him one, then."

"Noo." Bucky sounded put-out. "You."

Just how much was Bucky going to stall? ... Or was this part of the bedtime routine?

Steve couldn't resist asking. "Does Zemo kiss your stuffed animals good night?"

"He wants you t'do it," Bucky said sadly.

Steve sighed. "If it'll help him go to sleep, alright."

He grabbed the furry yellow toy and planted a quick kiss on the top of its fuzzy head.

Huh. Smelled like Bucky.

"There ya go. Sleep tight now, Pikachu. Sleep tight, Jamesy."

Perhaps hearing the note of finality in Steve's voice, Bucky finally settled under the covers, squeezing his stuffy to his chest. Triumphant, Steve backed off a step.

Then he remembered saying he would stay with Buck for a bit.

Alright. Was there a chair in here?

There was. It was a generously-sized rocking chair with wide, plush arms. A few kiddie books lay in its seat. Steve scooped them out and sat himself down for a wait.

The chair was shockingly comfortable. It rocked smoothly and silently, and was roomy enough that Zemo and Bucky could probably both fit, if they were okay with some overlap. Steve could maybe see the appeal of sitting there with Bucky to read books.

"Daddy...?"

Steve stopped rocking.

"Fun watchin' Mickey 'n' Donald with you," Bucky finished. The entire sentence was elongated, domed by an oncoming yawn, which burst free as soon as the words stopped.

After a moment Steve managed a response. "Thanks, pal."

There he sat, until he was sure the kid was asleep. Then he went to bed. It took him a while to follow Bucky to sleep.

The next morning, Steve got a late start. Sometimes, if Buck was big, coffee and the newspaper would be waiting for him. But there were no signs of adult life in the kitchen. Nope. Conversely, Steve could hear water running behind the bathroom door, and voices. Zemo's bedroom door was open a crack.

All signs pointed to Papa helping Jamesy into a bath—all signs pointed to Bucky still being little.

Steve dressed and left for a belated morning run. Zemo would see to Bucky.

Coffee and a bagel. That's what Steve would do.

He made himself scarce all morning, but Zemo successfully crept up behind him in the afternoon.

"So you put Jamesy to bed."

Steve didn't jump. But he did pause there at the sink, where he was washing the lunch dishes left by his housemates. After half a beat, he continued his sudsy scrubbing.

"How do you know that? Were you watching? From the shadows?"

He sensed the shake of Zemo's head.

"Jamesy told me."

So much for don't tell Papa. Maybe Jamesy had forgotten his plea. Or maybe, in the morning light, it didn't seem like much of a transgression to get out of bed and watch some TV. Well, either way, it was something he'd decided to do when at least somewhat adult.

"Did he tell you he was big last night?" asked Steve.

Zemo took a moment to answer that. "No."

"That's why he got up. To talk to me while he was big. Then he regressed again. Didn't want to get back in bed, but then he started falling asleep, so I took him to his room. Sorry about the late bedtime."

"The late bedtime is not what concerns me about this."

"But you're concerned."

"He referred to you as 'Daddy' again."

Steve tried not to let his spine stiffen too much. Tried not to drop the dish he was rinsing.

It was even more absurd to hear Zemo say it than it had been to hear Bucky say it. Last night it had grabbed everything in Steve's chest and held it tight, made it hard to breathe and even harder to think. He'd gone to bed confused about it. Confused about the whole day, really.

"This is concerning, is it not?" Zemo pushed.

"Yes," said Steve shortly. He had no explanation—and he did not particularly want to have this discussion. But he couldn't stop himself. "I don't know where it's coming from, or why. It's not something I've ever told him to call me."

Zemo crept closer. "I figured as much. You were startled by it yesterday. Jamesy even more so. He was driven to tears having said it."

Steve didn't need reminding. He slid the clean dish into the drying rack next to the sink, thinking of Bucky trying to wipe away his copious tears.

It was an accident.

Something about it had made him cry.

If it was so upsetting, then why had he said it again?

"How was it?" spoke Zemo, shaking Steve from his thoughts.

How was it, being called Daddy...? By his best friend of nearly a hundred years? He didn't know how to answer that question.

But Zemo quickly clarified. "Putting him to bed."

Easier question.

"Fine," Steve said.

In truth, it had been a bewildering and slightly uncomfortable experience. As well as a nice one, in some ways. He'd been clung to like a sleepy sloth. He had been made to kiss a stuffed Pokemon. He'd been trusted. And desired.

At no point had he known what he was doing. Everything about Bucky being little made him feel... inept. But he'd handled it. Buck had gotten back to sleep just fine.

Steve didn't want to unpack the whole thing with Zemo, even if Zemo was Bucky's caregiver. Unfortunately Zemo had a tendency to hone in on any chink in the armor he could find. And hone in, he did.

"Perhaps it was a peculiar experience. Perhaps it felt wrong, and you had feelings of disgust or anger towards him. He is pathetic, is he not? Once the most feared assassin in history, now he is helpless. Clingy. In need of so much attention. To be forced to indulge such delusions—"

"They're not delusions," Steve barked, shutting off the faucet with a smack. "You know that. You know he can't control it."

Both of Zemo's hands rose in a placating manner. "Or was it perhaps, on some level, enjoyable? Tucking him in, playing games with him. He is a sweet and loving little boy."

"For god's sake, it was fine," Steve snapped. "Was it weird? Yes. Is Buck a cute kid? Yes."

Zemo's hands came together and folded in front of him, lending him an infuriating air of businesslike patience. It made Steve uncomfortably aware of the full extent of his own fluster.

"It is conflicting, of course," said Zemo, as if sensibly agreeing. Then he finally got to the point. "Captain Rogers, if we want to put a stop to this, we must establish firm boundaries and discourage the unwanted behavior. If we don't, Jamesy will undoubtedly develop certain expectations. He will see you as someone on whom he can depend for affection and play. Already this is happening."

Boundaries.

Expectations.

Just tell me no next time.

"I urge you to be honest with yourself," Zemo went on. "Is it relief you're feeling, as I say this? We can right the ship. Fix things before they spiral any further. Or do you feel disappointment at the notion of James retreating from you and hiding this part of himself away forever? Which he will likely do, if we don't handle this with particular care. As you must know by now, his shame is profound."

Steve barely kept himself from shouting, Of course I know that! I've known him twice as long as you've been alive!

But Zemo shook his head. "No. I can see you don't have a clue."

"Oh, where the hell do you get off, telling me I don't know Bucky Barnes," snapped Steve. "Why don't you try telling me your play, here, baron? Which way are you trying to get this to go?"

Zemo's lips tightened minutely.

"You don't want Bucky calling me Daddy or coming to me to get his boo-boos kissed," Steve went on. He was damn sure of that. "You don't want to share him any more than I do. Just say so, instead of trying to manipulate me into whatever corner you want me to be in."

"Oh, I have no qualms saying this was all much easier when you were not here," said Zemo. "But the fact remains, you are here, and you appear to be staying. And I am a realist. It was only a matter of time before Jamesy gravitated towards you. He is still the Bucky you know, as you say. You are ever in his heart. He has been curious for a little while now, inquiring as to whether you might play with him. I've seen this day coming." A muscle flexed in the man's jaw. His chin jerked. "Though, I admit, not the part where he sees you as Daddy. That, I am still... accepting."

Steve stared.

Zemo stared back, bold-faced. "You cannot imagine how patiently I waited for him to call me 'Papa.' You think he's embarrassed by his little side now? He was poisoned by self-loathing and trauma when I discovered it. His child self would be unrecognizable to you. He hardly spoke. He couldn't play. Even when he allowed me to become his Papa, he couldn't say it out loud. So. That this endearment for you would come from him so easily, even though you clearly don't want it, is a bitter pill. One that could choke me, yes, if I allowed it. Does this make you happy to hear?"

"No. It doesn't," said Steve flatly. He'd crossed his arms though shielding himself from the barrage of Zemo's words.

"Then let us not insult each other by equivocating on where we stand in this matter. If you don't want Jamesy to see you as Daddy, we must act now to prevent it. If, instead, you are open to it, we should discuss our next steps."

"... Which are?"

"You would have to make some decisions about what you are and are not open to, in terms of caring for him," said Zemo. "Are you willing to engage in playtime? See to it there are enriching activities, and not just screens? Will you comfort him when he cries? Firmly maintain rules and schedules, but spoil him a little? Help him bathe? Help him dress and undress? You're aware I do all of this and more, correct?"

"Oh, I'm aware," said Steve.

"Have you ever changed a child's diaper?"

It didn't make him proud, but Steve felt his defiant resolve waver. Obviously he'd noticed the diapers under Bucky's clothes. Plenty of times. He'd never said a word about them, although he'd allowed himself to feel a certain amount of discomfort with seeing Bucky in them. But he had not fully acknowledged to himself that Zemo actually helped change Bucky's diapers.

That was... a lot.

"No," he admitted.

"It's not as scary as it sounds," Zemo had the audacity to say. "But there are tasks such as this you may not be inclined to undertake. And I would not judge you."

"I mean, Buck's not an infant," Steve heard himself saying. "He can change himself, can't he? When he's little?"

"He can. And he sometimes insists upon it," was the answer. "But it can be a comfort when Papa wishes to help. A fear eased by unconditional love."

Unconditional love?

Steve did well not to do a double-take. Zemo caught his startlement anyway.

"That is what it is."

Steve could only say, "Dirty diapers, though..."

"Wet ones," said Zemo dismissively. "He only has occasional trouble with incontinence. Anything more than that and we wouldn't be here, having this conversation, as I believe he would have violently removed himself from the equation years ago."

Alright. Maybe Zemo did know Bucky. Not just Jamesy, but Bucky.

"Probably."

Zemo gave him a particularly penetrating look that became uncomfortable within a few seconds. His eyes narrowed and roamed over Steve's face. It was as if he was memorizing Steve feature by feature so he could be sure and identify him out of a lineup.

"Despite my efforts, you're not being very forthcoming on your stance, here, Captain. Do you need time to think it through?"

"No," Steve said simply. And, as it occurred to him: "No. Bucky can call me whatever he wants. Whatever he needs. I'm here for him."

A skeptical look. "You're certain about that?"

"I love him," said Steve. "Unconditionally. Always have. Even when that would've gotten us both arrested."

At this, Zemo's expression relaxed. He nodded once.

"But I might need to ease into some of it," Steve said. "Like I said, never changed a diaper."

"At this moment we don't know if James would even allow you to. Let's first try incorporating you into playtime," said Zemo. "And perhaps you could see to getting Jamesy to bed again, when next he emerges. I can ready him, make sure he brushes his teeth, washes his face, takes his evening medication. After that, he can be your responsibility."

"Uh-huh. You serve, I'll spike," said Steve. He felt like he should be taking notes. "And how's bedtime go after that? For you?"

"It does vary. Sometimes he is unsettled and does well with a bedtime story, or some conversation. This can be about the day, or Bluey, or what have you. The things he says in bedtime conversation can be surprising. But at times he is already falling asleep and requires no more than a good night kiss."

"... I can do that."

"As you've proven," acknowledged Zemo.

A pause, then, that felt like a stalemate. Steve's skin was literally buzzing, and there was a lump threatening to block up his throat. He could barely swallow against a nervous energy he'd only really felt a few times: Before receiving the serum. Before facing Thanos in the Battle of Wakanda. Before going back to Peggy. He was ready. Ready to face danger and execute a ballsy plan. And not ready at all.

He saddled his hands on his hips and rolled his shoulders. It was hard not to feel like he should suit up.

"This has been an enlightening conversation," spoke Zemo, ending the silence. "I'm sure there will be more to discuss. But I believe this is quite enough for one day."

"More than," Steve said.

"He's most often big after therapy," Zemo continued. Steve already knew that. "But I suggest we forego any formal announcement as to your—shall we say—promotion. Allow him to regress naturally, and see how things unfold from there."

"Sounds like a plan."

Zemo knew Jamesy best, after all.

The baron inclined his head politely. "Until next time, then, Captain."

"You ever walk into a room," spoke Bucky later, "and get the feeling something just ain't right?"

Steve and Zemo both looked up to see him surveying them from the entryway.

"Getting that feeling right about now," said Bucky.

Technically Steve and Zemo weren't even in the same room. Steve was over in the kitchen, fixing dinner, and Zemo sitting a world away in the living room. But there weren't any walls separating the two rooms, and it was admittedly atypical to see them simultaneously spending time in the front of the apartment.

"The afternoon light is better in here," said Zemo. He shut his book and rose with a cordial nod to Bucky, then took his leave.

Steve didn't blame him for making a quick exit. Bucky could be pretty tetchy with him for no particular reason, just the mere fact of his being. (And boy, he understood why.)

All but scowling, Bucky eyed Zemo as the man disappeared down the hallway back to his room. Then he ventured in, shedding his jacket.

Dressed entirely in black clothing, including jeans so skinny they made Captain America's tights look baggy and steel-toed combat boots, Bucky was the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome. He had a bit more than a five o'clock shadow going.

When he looked like this, modern and mature—and a little badass—it became exponentially more difficult to accept he was the same man who'd turned up in footie pajamas and a diaper last night.

"How was therapy?" Steve asked.

"Barrels of fun," said Bucky dryly. "Raynor says hi."

"Oh yeah, I bet she does." Dr. Raynor was not Steve's number one fan. He went back to shredding marinated chicken. "Tacos for dinner."

"Guacamole?" asked Bucky, sliding into a seat at the counter.

"If you wanna make some."

"Aw, really? C'mon, I just sat down." Bucky made a big show of stretching tiredly. His vibranium arm gleamed in the golden afternoon light by which Zemo had been reading.

"You can mash avocados sitting down."

"Sure I can," said Bucky. "Sure I can, Rogers. If you bring 'em to me."

They prepped together, bickering good-naturedly. Bucky asked FRIDAY to play Glenn Miller, then hummed along, slightly off-key, while he made the guac. That was how Steve knew he was in a good mood. Despite his sarcasm, therapy must have gone alright.

"Doc says we oughta watch Succession," said Bucky when they settled in for some evening TV.

Steve had heard of it.

"We got a lot of Mad Men to get through first."

"Yeah, but. Add it to our list. That icon right there... with the plus sign, Steve."

"Okay, okay. Added. What are we feeling tonight? Drama? Comedy?"

"Let's check in with Sam and Diane."

They put on Cheers.

A few episodes in, Zemo cut past the television and puttered around quietly in the kitchen, assembling his own dinner. Unless they got takeout or something, he always ate later than they did.

Not a word was exchanged when Zemo was finished and strolled past them back to his lair.

"Gonna take a shower," Bucky eventually said. "Don't wait up."

"Alright," said Steve.

"Night, pal."

"Night, Buck."

The shower ran. Steve flipped around on Hulu for a while. Then he pulled out his phone and answered some emails. At no point—at least, not that he could discern—did FRIDAY alert Zemo to the presence of Jamesy.

Steve wasn't disappointed, per se.

Well. Maybe a tiny bit.

He had way too much energy to sleep, and now, nothing to focus it on. So he headed down to the ground floor gym and ran through a workout.

Without equipment designed for his speed, stamina, and strength, he couldn't work up a real sweat. But it centered him mentally. Steve zoned out as he went through rep after rep of push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups. Unfettered, his brain relentlessly replayed what the kids these days might call a "mash-up" of tucking Jamesy in last night and that afternoon's conversation with Zemo.

Unconditional love.

Jamesy giggling at Mickey Mouse. Jamesy falling asleep on his shoulder, a Captain America-themed pacifier wedged between his lips. Jamesy hopping into his arms, easy as could be.

You cannot imagine how patiently I waited for him to call me Papa.

The plastic Pokemon cup Steve had washed out, drying upside-down in the rack.

Back at home, Jamesy's bedroom door was closed. So was Bucky's. The scent of Barbasol lingered in the bathroom; Bucky had probably shaved while he had the coordination to do so himself.

"FRIDAY," Steve said.

The AI responded immediately. "Yes, Captain Rogers."

"Alert me when Jamesy shows up, please."

"Will do."

"I just want to be made aware," Steve said, more to himself than to FRIDAY.

"Aye aye, Cap."

Steve chuckled. "Wow, you sounded just like Tony when you said that."

"Boss did program me," FRIDAY said. "Should I be more formal?"

"Nah, you're fine just how you are, FRIDAY. Just don't call me 'Spangles.'"

"How about 'Daddy?'" quipped FRIDAY. "Congrats on the promotion, by the way."

"I guess we'll see about that," said Steve, blushing.

True to her word, FRIDAY alerted Steve in the early morning hours.

"Captain Rogers? Sergeant Barnes is awake and in Jamesy's room. I believe he's regressed."

It was still dark outside. Steve threw off the covers without hesitation.

"Is he alright?"

"Looks like it. Looks like he's searching for something. When I asked if he needed help, he declined."

"Well—should I check on him? Just in case?"

"It can't hurt," said FRIDAY.

The AI had the right idea, Steve decided. He rose, grabbed for a t-shirt and quickly pulled it on as he traversed the dark hallway.

Jamesy's door was open. The moon-shaped night light was on, offering some paltry light, by which Jamesy was rooting through the bottom drawer of his bureau. He was not wearing pajamas of any variety—not even a pair of sweatpants or boxer shorts. Just a diaper. And he was squatting in it.

It was the least dignified Steve had ever seen him look. And he'd seen Bucky pinned under a metal column, gasping and teary-eyed, half out of his mind. He'd seen Bucky strapped into a heavy-duty containment unit like he was the Hulk. He'd seen Bucky get rejected for a date by the prettiest girl in school... in front of all the other prettiest girls in school.

He didn't seem to have heard Steve approach, so Steve rapped softly on the jamb.

Bucky jerked around so quickly he fell with a muffled bonk of his diapered butt onto the floor.

"Hey, pal," Steve said. "Whatcha doin' up so early?"

"Uhhh. Jammies," was the timid reply.

"Looking for jammies?"

"Uh-huh." Shy.

"Well, I bet you've got it all taken care of," Steve said. "But I'm right here if you need help. Any kind of help. Okay, buddy?"

Jamesy didn't respond at first. He looked a little puzzled, sitting there naked save for his diaper, like the sight of Steve in general didn't make sense to him.

"Jammies," he repeated then, and he really was little. Oh so little. "Dino jammies."

"You're looking for dino jammies?"

A nod.

"Is that the jammie drawer?" Steve asked.

"Yeah, but..."

"... But what?"

"Don't see 'em," Jamesy said, in the world's saddest and most confused voice.

"You have dinosaur jammies, wow," said Steve. "Those sound cool. Got any other fun jammies in there?"

Jamesy took a few seconds, then offered, "Koala jammies."

"Koala jammies! No kidding! Can you show me?"

Jamesy could. He located them and pulled them out for Steve, who moved into the room to check them out. They were gray and thickly piled, almost literally furry, with paw pads printed on the feet, and a hood with shaggy round ears sewn on, plus eyes and the distinctive oval-shaped nose. Seeing the size of them, Steve only then really considered that these had been made for fully-grown adults. He wondered if Zemo'd had them made for Bucky, or if they just sold stuff like this for adults nowadays.

"Will you look at that," said Steve, laying it on thick. "Now those are some cool pj's."

"Wear these?" Jamesy asked.

"Great idea. We can find your dino jammies later, right?"

A nod.

Steve squatted carefully next to him. "Can Daddy help you put them on?"

Steve wasn't sure if Jamesy would even really notice him calling himself that right now. But he did. He blinked at Steve for several silent seconds, eyes utterly round.

Then he said, "'Kay."

Steve had to reach out and take the pajamas from Jamesy's clutching fingers.

"Great. Thanks, kid." He looked for a zipper, buttons, whatever. "Y'know, Daddy's never done this before. Might not be up to Papa's standards. But we can figure it out. Wanna stand up? Looks like you can step into these."

Jamesy complied, squirming onto his bare knees and then his feet while Steve stayed in his squat. From that vantage point he got a good look at the crookedly fastened tapes on Jamesy's diaper.

"Did you put this on yourself, pal?"

"Yeah. Papa says diapies at night."

Steve chose to go with, "Nice job."

The interruption of Bucky's muscular build by a diaper with Winnie the Pooh all over it was just as jarring as the interruption of his flesh by sleek cybernetics. Nevertheless Steve helped Bucky step, one foot at a time, into the booties of the pj's, and drew it up along his body so he could slide his arms into the sleeves next. With one long zip up the belly, Steve covered both diaper and vibranium, and then he reached to bring the hood up over Bucky's head.

Bucky—Jamesy—giggled.

"What a look," teased Steve, twiddling the round ears attached to the hood.

"I'm a koala," blustered Jamesy.

"Sure are, pal. C'mere."

Without more warning than that, Steve gathered Jamesy and hoisted him up, just like the other night. And just like the other night, Jamesy glommed around Steve with his arms and legs, as if he'd done it every other day of his life.

"You be the koala and I'll be the tree," Steve said.

"You're gonna be a tree?" Jamesy asked incredulously. But Steve could hear his grin.

"Yup. Just call me Groot."

"You're gonna get even bigger and taller!"

"Oh, I am?"

"Groot's really really tall!"

"Guess there'll be a lot of me for you to climb."

"Yeah! Yeahyeahyeah!" Jamesy bounced on Steve's arm. "Climb you all the way to the moon!"

"I'll really have to get tall to get you to the moon," Steve said. But, speaking of moons... "Okay, I gotta ask. Are you ready to get a little more sleep?"

"Nooo..."

"C'mon, the sun's not even up yet," Steve coaxed. "Everyone's still asleep."

"Not ev'ryone. Me an' you are awake."

"But Papa's still asleep. All our neighbors are asleep. Miss Potts is asleep. The president's asleep..." Steve needed to meet more people. "The Hulk's asleep..."

"Ant-Man asleep?"

"Deep asleep."

"Spider-Man?"

"Yup. Asleep in his web."

"... Dr. Strange?"

"All the Avengers are still asleep," Steve said, speaking as though he had a personal authority on the matter. "Captain America, Hawkeye, Wong... everybody. Everybody's asleep in their cozy beds. And you should be, too."

Jamesy groaned a little, but said, "Okay."

The bed was all ready for him, neatly made with the nearest side of the coverlet turned down and Pikachu waiting against the pillow. Reeked of Zemo coming in here and fussing. But Steve was appreciative. He carried Jamesy over and sat him down directly on the bed.

"Like when you carry me," Jamesy told him, looking up at Steve with big eyes.

Steve almost blushed again. "Good. Lie down for me now, bud."

Jamesy did. Steve drew the covers over him.

"... Daddy?"

Alright, Steve was definitely blushing.

"Yeah, buddy."

"Will you stay with me again?"

"'Course I will," said Steve.

Committed to the plan, he kissed Jamesy's forehead, then kissed Pikachu's, and he stayed in the nearby rocking chair till the sun began to rise and Bucky was fast asleep.

Chapter Text

"Close your eyes, dear one," said Zemo.

Cooperatively his little boy buttoned them shut.

Zemo laid a careful hand along Jamesy's forehead, sealing the curve between his thumb and forefinger to the damp skin there. With his other hand, he upended a cup full of warm bathwater. This he poured gradually over the crown of Jamesy's head, chasing away shampoo bubbles.

Froth slid, leaving behind shining dark locks, and cascaded down Jamesy's bare back.

Another two cupfuls did the trick. Jamesy stayed devoutly still throughout, face upturned and placid with trust.

"Et voila," Zemo said, smoothing back dripping wet hair. "Done."

Long lashes spiked with moisture lifted. Jamesy's eyes took a second to focus again. When they did, they flicked straight to Zemo, big and innocent.

"Wonderful job," Zemo told him, and booped his nose with a light finger. He chuckled at the reflexive crossing of irises that ensued.

"More, Papa? Please?"

Always well-mannered, his little one.

"Mm, we want to make sure the soap is all gone, don't we," Zemo said.

He refilled the cup with a scoop through the less soapy side of the bathwater and tipped it next to Jamesy's neck. The water rippled over his black and gold shoulder, over the thick red scar tissue rimming the vibranium, and down the deep fluting of his spine.

Zemo was rewarded with a happy sigh.

Smiling, Zemo ladled on, returning for cup after cup of water. He poured each over Jamesy's back, shoulders, arms, and chest in long, deliberate cascades. The motion was repetitive and—he hoped—calming.

What remained of the shampoo bubbles gathered in lacy rings around Jamesy's bare thighs. The bubbles popped and finally disappeared as Zemo disturbed the water.

Eventually gooseflesh broke out along Jamesy's flesh shoulder, and the plates of his metal arm shuddered along, a sure sign the warm bath was growing less warm.

Zemo reached over to flip the tub's drain open.

"I'll fetch your towel, my sweet."

The towels were kept in a large built-in cabinet. One day Zemo had walked in on one of Tony Stark's service bots placing a freshly laundered stack inside with mathematical precision. He thought of that bot every time he opened the cabinet doors to get his toothbrush or put away the plastic tub of Jamesy's bath toys and baby shampoo. Technically speaking, that bot had more freedom than Zemo himself did; it could go anywhere in the building, while he was confined to their suite unless electronically tethered to the former Captain America.

Pitiable, to be jealous of a machine.

The question remained, though: How much longer could the skeleton crew of mechanical servants remain operational without their master to continuously maintain them?

Zemo heard a splash as Jamesy shifted in the draining water, and turned back with towel in hand, expecting to see him up on his feet, ready to be bundled. Instead he found his little one lollygagging in the water, distracted by something in his lap.

Ah.

Poor thing.

Whether or not it was a correct assumption, Zemo thought it probable that at one time James had been more... statistically average in stature. But this was one physical measurement HYDRA had not kept in all their otherwise meticulous files. Every other possible statistic had been monitored and recorded while the Winter Soldier had been in the clutches of the Soviets, then the Americans. But in all his extensive research, Zemo had never run across any relevant measurements, or even marginal notes—not from any decade, not from any disparate branch of HYDRA.

There was no "official" documentation regarding James's penis, in other words.

But Zemo had read enough on the Winter Soldier program to build his own theory: HYDRA's version of the super-soldier serum—not to mention other cocktails of various steroids, hormones, and experimental drugs, administered in the massive doses required by an enhanced metabolism—had taken a toll. Disuse had likely compounded the issue; often catheterization, enemas, and MAGs had been the preferred ways of dealing with the Soldier's excreta. The repeated cycle of freezing and unfreezing that would have destroyed the tissues of normal men had probably played a part as well. Over the decades, this unfortunate organ had therefore greatly diminished.

It was not only external: The integrity of the Soldier's urinary system had also suffered.

They'd been forced to discuss the latter issue. Hence, Jamesy now wore pull-ups during the day, and diapers overnight.

The former issue remained unaddressed.

But James was almost certainly cognizant of his abnormal size. His little self had initially been reluctant to undress for baths, and very adamantly opposed to receiving help with diapers. Zemo had never commented upon anything. He only offered assistance at regular intervals. Given plenty of time and steady support, Jamesy had relaxed into both bathtime and diaper changes. At this point, he did not seem to pay any mind to his genitals.

But he was staring at them with some interest now, and Zemo could see why: Jamesy was erect.

Standing right up, in fact, between Jamesy's lolling knees. The tip of his penis was poking through the surface of the water, and the water seemingly shrinking from around it as the tub drained.

Startling a sight. Never once had this happened. Not to even the slightest degree.

Zemo had grown totally accustomed to the organ in its inert state. It was an appreciable mismatch to the rest of James's body, which of course was large and developed. Even with his prosthetic arm he resembled nothing so much as a statue of a young god, his height and shoulders imposing and his abdominal muscles quite as carved as that of some marble Colossus. He was even as smooth as marble, as from the neck down he was lacking in body hair. In this way, his small, soft penis was reminiscent of a classical figure's.

Erect, though...

Well, it was still rather petite, even in its alert state.

Jamesy didn't take his eyes off it. But he did ask, "Papa? Why?"

Zemo played dumb. "Why what, my dear?"

Jamesy leaned back and pointed directly at the matter.

Admittedly Zemo was a tad unprepared for this. But he did his best. "Well. Sometimes that happens, when a boy gets excited. His penis grows. Lots of things can make it do that, actually."

"'S funny," Jamesy said. His puzzled tone seemed to indicate it was not funny ha-ha, but funny strange.

"Isn't it?" Zemo asked. "Bodies are very funny. They do odd things."

Jamesy poked his erection with his index finger. It bounced resiliently.

"Huhm," broke free from him in a reflexive jerk of lungs, as if that had tickled.

He nudged at it again.

And again.

"Darling," said Zemo, "the water's nearly gone. Don't you want to get out?"

"... Huh-uh."

Now he was prodding, pushing, testing the strange behavior of his perked organ.

"Hm. Perhaps I should let you be for a little while," Zemo said, but it was to himself, because Jamesy was enthralled.

And why shouldn't he be? He had discovered a fun new toy.

With some bemused resignation, Zemo folded the towel so he could leave it on the nearby countertop for Jamesy.

This was all the time it took for Jamesy to emit a confused noise and ejaculate.

Startled by the suddenness of it, Zemo froze where he stood, as though turned to stone by some almighty force.

Below him Jamesy squeaked breathlessly. He yanked his hand back. But that didn't stop the enthusiastic spurting of his little spigot. Gouts of shiny fluid, visibly white, splattered onto his clean belly, slipped along the grooves of his abdominal muscles.

It all happened in only a blurry handful of seconds. At the same time, Zemo felt his inability to move as though it lasted for an eon. His mind groped without success for what he should say, what he should do.

Before Zemo quite knew it, Jamesy was bolting upright, seizing at either side of the tub.

No. It was no longer his little boy.

It was not even James—Bucky, as most called him.

Zemo had seen the Soldier up close, once, and recognized him again now: Eyes simultaneously empty and full of fear; expression devoid of all life, mask-like, and at the same time, a horrible pained grimace.

Still not totally in charge of his own body, Zemo staggered over, though he knew it was a major risk. That metal hand might be grabbing for his neck rather than the rim of the tub at any second.

"Hush, now," he soothed, or attempted to. "Not to worry. Everything's quite alright. Breathe. Breathe in with me, James."

Whether it was dogged old programming kicking in or because it was the only lifeline amidst raging currents of confusion, the Soldier latched on to Zemo's commands. He sucked for breath, the cavernously hollow look leaving his eyes and a wild, needy one replacing it as he looked to Zemo with dilated pupils. His expression was that of a man dying on a battlefield, in shock and desperate to see a friendly face as the world closed in on him.

"Breathe out—long breath. Two, three, four..."

Robotically James came under rein, taking every step Zemo laid before him. Zemo had him breathe in and out in a reliable rhythm, over and over. He kept himself from staring at the seed pooled on that deeply undulating belly. The tub was empty now. Their breaths were one.

"Very good," he finally said. "That's better, isn't it."

James didn't move. His fingers, flesh and vibranium, were locked around the rim of the tub.

"... Can you hear me, James?"

Only a vacant stare, which had wandered away from Zemo's face and into unfocused nothingness.

As gently as he could, Zemo said, "You spilled a little, didn't you, my darling. But that's no problem. We can clean you right up. Your towel is just here."

After a long moment James grabbed onto the proffered anchor: He was only a messy little boy, and Zemo his loving Papa. He nodded jerkily, and without being told to do so, shoved himself to his feet in the bathtub.

Zemo guided him out. The man was shaking at the knees, and to Zemo's surprise, he was still somewhat erect.

Lightly clicking his tongue, Zemo brought James his towel. It slipped from its fold. "There now. You're right here in your home. You just had a lovely bath. No need to be frightened. Papa is here to help."

He dabbed at James's stomach with as much delicacy as he could.

The second he was even slightly cleaned up, James yanked the towel out of Zemo's hands. He barely got it clutched around his waist before he turned and stalked away.

"James!" Zemo tried, but the man was out the bathroom door quicker than Zemo could speak.

A moment later Bucky's bedroom door slammed.

Zemo was left standing in the bathroom alone.

He was there for quite a while, heart pounding, ears ringing as though a grenade had gone off nearby. The bathroom grew cold, and eventually Zemo grew cold, too.

Zemo saw neither hide nor hair of James for two days.

He considered knocking on Bucky's bedroom door. Their rooms were directly next to each other's, sharing one wall. But he thought it better to give the man a thorough chance to process. To calm down. While Zemo could probably still take a punch, he was none too keen to give a super soldier a reason to use their enhanced strength.

Not to mention, there was that inhuman arm...

No. Zemo was a fan of having working windpipe, thank you. He preferred his bones all in one piece, and for his blood to stay in his veins where it belonged. In the years since the powers that be had refused to finally end his life, Zemo's survival instinct had returned like the loathsome cockroach it was. He would not risk his life spooking an already terrified creature.

Those two long days saw Zemo wandering through the apartment much more than usual, hoping to find James, hoping James would find him. Not because words of apology or stammered explanations or anything of that nature were owed. All Zemo wanted was to know that his little boy was alright... that he had not retreated back into his lonesome shell. They had made so much progress with getting him out of it. They had even weathered the emotional upheaval of allowing Captain Rogers in on their private arrangement. Zemo did not want all of that undone just because James's body had some sort of autonomous response.

Because that was all it had been. Zemo was sure of that.

Jamesy was Zemo's precious and innocent little one. But he had an adult's body, replete with an adult's hormones—just as he had a super soldier's body, a prisoner of war's body. Being little did not magically cancel out his PTSD, his superhuman strength, his demanding metabolism, his testosterone production. Jamesy could not help but sometimes forget his strength and break toys. He could not help but have nightmares about his time as the Winter Soldier, even when he was little and they were all the more terrifying.

And so, how could Jamesy help a physical response that came naturally to males of most any age?

It was nothing to fret over. And Zemo intended to tell James so.

But James, in any headspace, never appeared.

If Captain Rogers saw him, Zemo was not informed. He did not think it prudent to inquire, either. Despite allowing their co-habitation, and despite the patient understanding he'd thus far displayed towards his friend's child self, the captain did not trust Zemo. They were not comrades in this, not compatriots. The last thing Zemo needed was for Daddy to think there was a situation at hand. He would, naturally, blame Zemo. He would, naturally, try to step in and fix it—something that was not broken in the first place. He would shove Zemo aside and barrel along with no understanding of what had happened, no understanding of Jamesy's physical issues or sensitive psychology. That was not going to be of any help at all.

Perhaps on some level Bucky sensed the same, because it was not until Rogers had left the apartment that he dared emerge from his room.

The last of that morning's coffee seemed to be the siren that lured him out of hiding. His hair was disheveled and his dog tags were hanging down the middle of his back rather than down his chest.

Zemo made his approach. They were alone in the apartment, so he didn't hesitate, even when Bucky visibly cringed at the sight of him.

"James. I hate for you to brood. Think nothing of the other day. It's very typical for little boys to discover themselves—"

Bucky's mug, bearing the insignia of Stark Industries, crashed into the sink. Pieces flew everywhere. Coffee splattered over the countertop. Even though he'd rather expected the volatile response, Zemo jumped in his own skin.

"Fuck off, Zemo," Bucky growled, before he spun on the spot and stormed off.

There was not much Zemo could do other than clean up the mess.

After a spectacle such as that, it was a true surprise to receive a knock at his door only an hour or so later.

How Zemo knew it was Jamesy, he couldn't say. It was the soft and scattered quality of the knock, perhaps. If ever he knocked, Bucky pounded exactly twice with his fist and yelled through the door, "Food," or "Sam's here."

However, Jamesy seldom got anywhere near Zemo's room. He was more likely to ask FRIDAY for Papa, and wherever he was, Zemo would come to him.

How unexpected.

Zemo left his writing at his desk and went to open the door. Sure enough, Jamesy was standing there, his arms full, his eyes large and serious.

"Papa? Help please?"

Only too eager, Zemo swept the door aside. "Come in, dear one. What have you there?"

"Clothes. Need help puttin' 'em on."

There was no evident apprehension, no struggling to ask for assistance. It was as though the last few days had never happened.

Zemo gently took the clothes from Jamesy, cataloguing the selection. A striped t-shirt, a pair of blue "play" shorts, and three utterly mismatched socks. Adorable.

"Of course. Papa's always happy to help. But haven't you forgotten something?"

"... Huh-uh!"

"I think you did, my dear."

"Nuh-uh! I got top an' bottom an'... an' even socks! See?"

"Yes, there are quite a few socks to choose from here. Well done. But you need a pull-up too, silly boy," Zemo reminded him. "Unless you're already wearing one?"

"Oh. Uh-uh. Forgotted, Papa."

"Let's go get one. Then Papa will help you get dressed."

Down the hall they went, Jamesy slipping his metal hand into Zemo's along the way. Zemo gave him a smile. His little boy was still wearing Bucky's version of pajamas: a baggy sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off and a pair of sweatpants. At least his dog tags had been righted, and his hair somewhat dealt with.

Zemo wondered what had induced the shifting of headspace. From his observations, it could be as simple as a random sensory trigger—some sight, word, or smell—or the result of more complex internal mechanisms which James had never shared with him. Regressions sometimes seemed totally unprompted. Zemo wondered if James had regressed at any point in the past two days and stayed out of sight anyway, or if it had taken time for his little self to peek back out.

Personally Zemo hoped he had stayed big. It hurt to think of Jamesy hiding himself from his Papa, with no stuffies or toys to comfort him.

It hurt even more to think of Jamesy going to Captain Rogers for comfort instead.

Zemo reminded himself to keep heart. There was no evidence such a thing had occurred at any point over the last two days. Jamesy had yet to want Steve to bathe him, change him, dress him. He had come to Papa for help.

In Jamesy's room, Zemo fished a pull-up from its plastic packaging and got to work.

Jamesy let Zemo take his tags from around his neck and lay them safely on the bureau, then lift his sweatshirt up and off. The sweatpants were also loose, and whiffed easily down to his bare feet. Underneath were the body-hugging boxer-briefs James preferred. Jamesy scooted on out of them unprompted.

Zemo reached aside for the pull-up.

Then he stopped.

This time Jamesy only seemed to notice because Zemo had. When he looked down, his jaw dropped.

"Whuh?? Why?"

"Oh, my dear," Zemo was quick to say, "it's nothing to worry about. Remember, it's normal for penises to do that."

"But—" Red glowed in Jamesy's ears. "I didn't even do anything, Papa! It's just doin' that all by itself!"

"I know," tutted Zemo. "It's alright, I promise. Here. Can you step into this for me?"

It took him a moment, and he was quite off-balance when he did move, but Jamesy stepped into the pull-up while Zemo held it open for him. He reached to yank it up before Zemo could do it. Zemo didn't back away, as Jamesy seemed unusually wobbly, but did relocate his hands to the back of the waistband. Together they got it settled on his hips.

The garment fully encased Jamesy's erection. Even camouflaged it a bit, since there was a garish American cartoon printed on the front. But its attentive poke was still evident behind the modest layer of padding.

Clearly dumbfounded, Jamesy stared down at the anomaly.

Zemo eyed it a bit too.

"We should talk about what to do at times like this," he finally concluded. "Sit with me a moment, darling."

He took his seat in the familiar rocking chair, and Jamesy dragged himself over to sit with a downhearted plop on his knee.

"Oof! Careful with Papa," Zemo grunted, bracing the bare back at his right. "Now. Listen to me closely, please, Jamesy."

Jamesy leaned into him, the way he often did when they were sitting the rocker, reading together. This was more of a resigned slump than a cuddle, though.

Knowing the joint where vibranium fused to flesh would agitate James later if he didn't alleviate some pressure, Zemo helped ease his metal arm from between them, even as he said, "It's normal for your body to have these reactions. It happens to everyone who has a penis. They can have a mind of their own! Popping up and down, up and down, whenever they please. When this happens, you have a few options. Would you like to hear them?"

"... Mmh."

Noncommittal. But the response was not a stubborn huh-uh or nooo, so Zemo took it as permission to continue.

"Alright. One: You can leave it alone. Ignore it. The swelling will go away after a while, and you needn't do anything at all. Two: You can have a cold shower or bath. The cold will chase it away. Three—and if you ask me, this one's the most fun: You can touch it, as you did in the bathtub. If you touch it for long enough, in whatever way you like most, it will feel very nice. What happened in the bath will happen again. And once that pressure is relieved, it will go away."

An accepting, reassuring speech. And a practical one, Zemo thought, full of actionable advice.

But he didn't expect it to reassure to such an extent that Jamesy would take that advice right then and there. However, he did. He plunged his hand directly into his pull-up.

Well. One thing was obvious: Jamesy needed to be told it was not appropriate to touch himself in front of others.

But Zemo did not open his mouth to tell him that.

Again he was struck dumb and motionless, arrested by the shock of it, taken aback by Jamesy's total lack of modesty. Not only was it happening again right in front of him, his little boy exploring so curiously, but it was happening right on top of him.

What was there to be done? Between his greater size and weight, Jamesy took up Zemo's entire lap and pinned him to the rocking chair with the efficacy of Thor's hammer. Zemo could not simply stand up. He couldn't lift Jamesy into his arms and deposit him elsewhere like he could an actual child.

And he would not shame his little boy away from self-exploration by slapping his hand or shooing him. He would not scold him, or lead him to believe that what Papa had only just told him he could do was actually not something he should be doing. Not when Zemo had worked with such patient diligence to earn James's trust. Not when it had taken so long for James to overcome self-loathing so deep he had at first harshly rejected things in which he now found great comfort: pacifiers, stuffed animals, soft pajamas.

The thing to do was gently tell him Papa would leave him alone for some private playtime. Urge him to explore all he liked—but, by himself.

So why didn't Zemo do that?

His only movement his fingers digging into the arms of the rocking chair, Zemo watched the muscles in Jamesy's forearm flex and roll as Jamesy felt around in his pull-up. The snug covering lifted and moved over the bridge of his knuckles. Jamesy's bare chest hitched. Zemo thought this a sensile response rather than an alarmed or fearful one, since Jamesy didn't stop.

Slowly he tilted his head as best he could to try and see his little one's face. It was so near to his own, his head resting on Zemo's shoulder; they were so close their breaths had again synced. But Zemo could only get an impression of Jamesy's profile—heavy-lidded, mouth hanging open.

Zemo dared encourage. Just a bit. "There now. Does that feel nice?"

"Mmh," Jamesy let out again. The stretchy waistband of his pull-up crinkled quietly over his wrist.

"Good. It's meant to feel nice. It's your very own body, your own penis, and you can play with it all you like. But, my darling, it is something you mustn't do in front of others. In front of Papa, it's alright. But it's something people like to keep private. Like diaper changes. Do you understand?"

"Like diapies?" repeated Jamesy, gaspy. Only recently had he started calling them that, in his increased comfort with their ubiquity.

"Yes. You wouldn't want anyone but Papa to change your diapy, would you?"

"Huh... huh-uh..."

"But Papa can help because Papa loves you," Zemo went on, taking the opportunity to solidify this important groundwork. "Papa understands you need diapies and pull-ups. You're just a little boy. Accidents happen to little boys all the time, and it's nothing to be ashamed of.

"Papa also knows it's natural for boys to play with themselves. So it's alright. You can play with yourself in front of Papa all you want, because you are Papa's sweet little boy. As long as it feels good, and you know that you are safe and loved, that's all Papa cares about."

Again, he meant it to reassure. But it was as though Zemo was tugging at the strings of a marionette. Jamesy jerked on his lap, hips cocking and muscular abdomen crunching. His knees had fallen off either side of Zemo's own knees, leaving his bare thighs splayed. As Zemo watched, they pushed open even more.

All the enthusiastic movement was causing the rocking chair to sway silently beneath them.

"There now," Zemo breathed.

A responsive noise puffed out. Jamesy's knees tweaked further upwards, as though Zemo had bid them towards him with the words. His barrel of a ribcage swelled and his belly sank. Vibranium flexed against Zemo's throat as Jamesy felt around in within his pull-up, clutching and straining shamelessly towards the sensations he was giving himself.

Zemo felt dizzy. But it was not just the shoulder to his jugular that had him light-headed. There was a mounting pressure on the trigger. He could feel it exceptionally well with Jamesy atop him, squirming and tense. Their breaths were coming heavy, again intertwined. Any second now and Jamesy would climax again. All Zemo had to do was wait.

... Or he could apply just a little more pressure.

"It's alright. It's a big feeling, isn't it. But don't be afraid, darling," Zemo whispered.

A cry broke free. Zemo loved the whiny noise. The neediness of it, the littleness of it. It was a noise only for him.

"That's it. Let it out for Papa."

"Puh—Papa," uttered Jamesy. And again, seizing upon it like a talisman, "Papa!"

It was not like it had been in the bathtub, when he had instantly backed away from his body's sudden and startling eruption. This time he had his hand on himself, was rubbing and squeezing; this time the pull-up caught his mess, kept it contained and secreted away, out of sight. But Zemo knew what was happening. A series of whimpering gasps filled his ears. Shuddering tension gathered the muscles of Jamesy's thighs into hard bunches, so tight they looked cleaved from his bones. Padded though it was, his bottom clenched deliciously tight against Zemo's lap.

Temptation, tighter and hotter than a vibranium grip about the throat, strangled Zemo. He was hard as could possibly be under that diapered behind, and Jamesy was writhing on his lap, squeaking and wetting his pull-up with hot cum. How easily Zemo could follow him over the edge...! And how earth-shatteringly amazing it would feel to do so! Especially after so many years of nothing but the most perfunctory orgasms at his own tedious hand.

Never had he wanted anything so badly he could taste it like this, like a tang of molten copper in the back of his mouth. It felt like his head might split apart.

But an even greater instinct took over, throttled everything threatening to explode inside him.

This was not about him. This was not about getting his rocks off, however heavenly it promised to feel. This was about his most precious one discovering self-pleasure. And Zemo would not let it be about anything else.

With a loose, awed moan, Jamesy at last went lax in Zemo's lap. He'd made it to the other side of the peak. Dazedly he picked his head up from Zemo's shoulder to look down at his hand stretching the front of the pull-up to its limit, distending the cartoon printed on it out of shape.

A pause.

Utter stillness. Utter silence.

As if picking up on a drastic drop in barometric pressure, Zemo braced himself.

Another panic attack was sure to ensue. Another whiplash appearance of a side of James he refused to admit still existed somewhere within.

If not the Soldier mindset taking over, a terrifying default, at the very least Zemo anticipated some sort of mental shift. Some fragmentation, some clashing or warring of headspaces, given the peak and crash of hormones that accompanied orgasm. Post-orgasmic disgust—a jarring return to reality—was not unheard of in males with perfectly normal reproductive drives and zero sexual trauma.

Again Zemo's instincts proved themselves sharp.

Jamesy's hand slowly crept back upwards. As his flesh fingers emerged from the pull-up Zemo saw the shine and cling of semen on them, white webbed between knuckles. Zemo almost gasped at the sight; his belly and balls both tightened with desire.

But Jamesy heaved himself away. He was off Zemo's lap in the same movement, and without turning around, said dully, "Get out."

No longer Jamesy. Nor the Soldier. Bucky.

All Zemo felt he could do was nod, though the man wasn't looking back at him. There was a dangerous aura emanating from those broad shoulders.

Zemo performed a quick adjustment to hide his erection as he rose from the rocking chair, then immediately exited the room.

Like James, he didn't look back, didn't say anything else.

On swift feet he returned to his room and shut his door behind him.

Despite technically being incarcerated—only, in the luxurious former home of Tony Stark instead of an underwater prison—and possessing few items he could legitimately call his own, Zemo had a go bag at the ready.

He was willing to wager that both James and Captain Rogers did, too. Some habits were unbreakable.

Grabbing his bag and leaving was his very first thought.

Survival instinct kicking in again, no doubt.

Alas. For many reasons, leaving was not an option. Zemo was tagged like an animal. He would be found and taken back into custody within the hour, should he try and leave the tower by himself. Captain Rogers would probably run the recovery operation himself. Then it would almost certainly be back to the Raft—if not some other unimaginable maximum security facility. Say, a top-secret supervillain dungeon located in the center of the earth, surrounded by moats of churning magma. Yes. Someplace like that would certainly be where Rogers would bury him, for what he had just allowed to happen.

Zemo sat himself on his bed and tried to regroup.

Indeed. There would be consequences for this lapse in judgment. Zemo could imagine an entire spectrum's worth. The only thing he couldn't imagine was when exactly they would befall him.

Perhaps this was it, then: His last day in the tower, living this charmed life with his little boy. Perhaps he had just experienced his final moments as caregiver for the bright, amusing, and utterly love-starved little soul he had coaxed out from hiding amongst the wreckage of Sergeant James Barnes's psyche.

It was what Zemo had lived for, these last few years. The occasional messages, meetings, and missions with James and his team had kept him sane during his time in the Raft. But the unearthing of James's "little" self was what had breathed a new zest for life into him. Intrigue and possibility had filled Zemo's previously dreary waking hours. It invaded his dreams at night. He'd plotted and planned with consideration that had been all at once tender, ecstatic, and greedy; wiled away his time by going on flights of fancy cooped up in his cell. Whenever he gained access to an unmonitored connection, he researched. He... window-shopped.

Zemo's keenest wish ceased being to join his family in death. It became instead to give James what the man profoundly needed but could not allow himself: comfort.

Softness.

Innocence.

Each mission had become an opportunity to introduce these things, and Zemo had not wasted any of them. And every milestone along the road had been hard-won.

The first time James, so tremendously prickly and sour his television habits had been noticed that Zemo did not dare venture too physically close, had allowed Zemo to put a cartoon on for him. The current of silent rage that had filled the room had felt radioactive enough to set off a Geiger counter. But James had not grabbed the remote away to turn off the TV. He had not asked, What the hell is this? or What's wrong with you? Why do you think I would want to watch this? He had instead sat through two full episodes of Adventure Time. Amazing; his scowling and fidgeting were pure theatrics, which he'd forgotten to act out as he watched.

The first time, after a couple of failed offerings of Matchbox cars and action figures left in his duffel bag, James had participated in an activity one might consider play. A small LEGO set had been the key, and this key had unlocked many afternoons beyond Zemo's imaginings. He'd been pleased enough when James had actually built that first set. But subsequent LEGO offerings had James sinking like a stone into littlespace. Quite the stoic and soft-spoken littlespace, but nevertheless, it was a change in countenance evident like never before. One time James had been so far gone that he'd needed Zemo's attentive guidance with handling and clicking all the bits and pieces into place. They had assembled the set together. Unforgettable.

The first time James had allowed Zemo to lead him by the hand.

The first time he had acquiesced to being put to bed.

The first time Zemo had called him "my little one." James had blushed the most brilliant shade of scarlet.

The first time Zemo had called himself "Papa."

And, of course, the very first time Jamesy had called him "Papa," all on his own.

Now there was this.

Whatever "this" was.

It was either the end of the line—to borrow a phrase—or the start of something new between them. Another level of intimacy, right now so new it was oversensitive to the touch. Another first for Zemo to treasure.

But Zemo's life could not possibly be that charmed.

No. It was far more likely James was finally going to kill him.

"Baron Zemo, Captain Rogers wants you to know dinner's been delivered."

Zemo did not look up from his notebook. He had not written anything. Sitting down to do so was just a habitual pastime for him. The thought had occurred to him to write out a will, of sorts. But what had he to bequeath to anyone? And what did he care what happened to his corpse? He'd once been prepared for it to freeze in the Siberian wilderness. He'd also once thought it would be a grisly discovery made by visitors to the Sokovian Memorial and eventually dumped in a pauper's grave in one of the new border towns nearby.

The AI persisted. "Shall I tell him you'll be along?"

As though resurfacing from a considerable depth, Zemo gathered his wits.

It was rather late in the day now, he realized. A good deal past the hour his flatmates typically dined.

And it was not like them to include him in their take-out orders.

What did this mean? Anything?

Was it a way of drawing him out of hiding?

A trap?

"Is James eating?" he inquired.

"Yes, Baron."

Well, at least there was that. If James was cooperating with regards to food, he was neither self-isolating in his room again, nor waiting in a makeshift sniper's nest with the intention of dropping Zemo the moment he walked in front of a window.

Zemo considered telling FRIDAY to make his excuses. Then he shook his head. Why prolong it?

"Thank you, my dear. I'll be along in a moment."

Dinner was never an affair to dress for, even on the exceptionally rare occasion all three of them sat at the table together. And Zemo did not really have anything nicer to don than an old beige jumper and ill-fitting jeans. Again, he had few possessions; the majority of his clothes were oversized castoffs from his flatmates and did not truly belong to him. Nevertheless he quickly changed into clothes that were clean and pressed.

He would meet his end with dignity.

Out in the shared living room sat Rogers and Barnes. The coffee table was crowded with takeaway. Each of them were holding a cardboard container.

By habit, Zemo gauged the temperature of the room.

Tepid. His presence was not especially desired.

That was as per usual.

Also as per usual, Bucky aimed a singular stony glance at him before purposefully looking away. He pretended to be interested in his rice dish, poking at it with a fork.

No twin glares, either righteous or murderous. No immediate confrontation. Captain Rogers was merely blowing on some steaming pho.

Things seemed more or less ordinary, so Zemo greeted the two without fanfare. "Ah. Banhmigos."

"Yours is right there," said the captain. It was a factual sort of tone he took, cool but not overtly hostile.

One of the delivery bags was still tied shut. It sat on the floor near Bucky's feet.

Carefully Zemo bent to retrieve the bag. He didn't get a bullet in the head for it, or a boot, or a vibranium fist. He was able to straighten again and say, "Thank you. I will enjoy this."

A singular short nod from Captain Rogers. Zilch from Sergeant Barnes, who pushed his fork back and forth through his rice.

Adrenaline pulsing as though he'd just made it across a minefield in one piece, Zemo took his dinner and headed back to his room. In the hallway he let out a small breath of relief as silently as he could.

He would live to see another day.

"Did they screw up your order?" he heard Rogers ask.

"Nah," said Bucky.

"I thought you liked Banhmigos."

"I do. ... I like it."

"Okay, then. Try and eat some, alright?"

"I am. I will."

"For me," added Captain Rogers.

Bucky didn't reply.

So James intended to say nothing about what had happened. Do nothing.

Zemo could do the same.

And he did.

Days passed. Monotonously, without his Jamesy.

Zemo had his useless pastimes. After years in various prisons, he was skilled in wiling away his hours. Writing had become his predominant hobby. Notebooks were what he'd spent much of his meager commissary funds on. (Now, with limited access to his accounts, he mostly spent his money on books, toys, and clothes for Jamesy.) He wrote down his memories, his dreams. Things he wished he could tell his wife and son. Mundane thoughts and observations too. He kept lists of everything he enjoyed, from songs and films to words in various languages he thought beautiful or interesting. He'd become somewhat of a diarist in his old age, he supposed.

In another notebook he did various language exercises. FRIDAY helpfully sourced the exercises for him, and was an excellent conversational partner. Zemo spoke Sokovian, German, and French with her regularly, and she also helped him with English grammar questions and decoded for him the odd Americanism. At the moment Zemo was focusing on Wakandan and Japanese, but he intended to brush up on his Russian at some point, as James had once called his accent "ridiculous."

He had a notebook dedicated to his little one, though it wasn't labeled in any way as such. It noted Jamesy's preferred foods. Funny things he had said. The names he'd bestowed on his stuffed toys. Gift ideas. Meal plans. Things to research.

Besides writing, Zemo enjoyed reading.

This interest was one he and James especially shared. Jamesy loved to be read to, and they had an unending amount of newer children's classics to conquer, in addition to a pile of well-loved favorites often revisited. Discussing the stories, however simple, provided quite the glimpse into Jamesy's little mind.

But Bucky had never been receptive to discussing his reading material. He had noticed that Zemo would help himself to anything in the living room bookshelves and sometimes left a library book or two there. Even when the material was not to his taste, Zemo would devour them before they were due to be returned. At times Zemo had tried also leaving certain books out on the shelf for Bucky to pick up, should he desire. But to his knowledge such overtures had never panned out.

Zemo's other hobby was eating. Food offered both nostalgia and novelty. It was an unmitigated relief that he could now cook decent meals at any time, with the blessing of both Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes. He did not cook for them, and rarely ate with them. But whenever he could, he prepared meals for Jamesy—his adventurous eater, whose appetite was much better than Bucky's. So the cupboards were kept well-stocked. If Zemo ever lacked any particular ingredient, FRIDAY would order it, and it would be couriered over post-haste.

Usually Zemo could find things to do during those times Papa was not needed and he was left to his own devices. But he found it impossible to focus on a book. He tried several. He journaled some, but didn't think he ought to jot down the specifics of what had occurred with James in the bathtub or the rocking chair, so his sentences were vague on the page, and the act of writing did not help him to think things through. He made himself perfunctory meals that did not particularly satisfy.

He kept active, working out alone in his room, the same way he had in his prison cells.

He made small talk in various languages with FRIDAY.

He did his daily hiragana and katakana exercises.

He rearranged the spice drawer. Captain Rogers noted the change and objected to it, but didn't undo it.

By the time Jamesy re-emerged, Zemo had stopped counting how many days had passed.

It was his laugh that Zemo heard first. Not an alert from FRIDAY, but a gleeful giggle coming from the living room.

"Yeah, then you go like—psshh!"

A familiar crashing of various building blocks sounded. Another glorious chortle followed.

"Whoa. But you just spent twenty minutes on that, bud!"

Captain Rogers.

(Well. By the particular brand of kind patience in his voice, Daddy.)

Jamesy growled, managing to still somehow sound childish when he declared, "Hulk SMASH! Raaarghhh!"

More crashing.

Captain Rogers played along. "Oh no! Hulk's gonna trash the whole city! We gotta stop him!" And: "You know Bruce doesn't do stuff like this anymore, right, Buck?"

Cheery: "Uh-huh. He gots glasses now."

"Yup! That's right."

"'Sides, it's just pretend. Not for real."

"Right. Just pretend."

"But HE SMASH!! He smash you, Daddy!"

"Oh gosh! I need my shield!"

"Raaargghh!"

It was a lion cub roar, a giddy baby growl. When at last Zemo stopped lurking in the hallway and entered the living room, he saw the two of them on the floor, surrounded by the carnage of a big multi-set block build half destroyed. Jamesy was up on his knees. He had one of his Squishmallows in hand and was bouncing the soft dumpling blob anywhere he could manage on Captain Rogers: his shoulders, his head, his arms. The Captain was cowering, calling out, "No! Please, no!" Something Zemo was sure he'd never actually do, even with the real Incredible Hulk raining blows on him.

Papa took quick stock. It was immediately apparent his little one had dressed himself, as his t-shirt was on inside-out. A tag poked from the exposed ring of the shirt's collar. He had a pair of soft play shorts on.

Zemo investigated the fit of the shorts a little further, trying to ascertain whether Jamesy had remembered a pull-up this time.

It did not appear he had.

To Papa this meant one thing: It was a mere matter of time before there would be an accident.

That was not Jamesy's fault. Wetting was never voluntary, never a decision made by him. Nor was it a side-effect of regression specifically—though it did now mostly occur when he was little. In his adult frame of mind James was excessively careful. He could usually make it to the nearest restroom before there was too great a mess. If not, he could take care of the aftermath himself. But when he was little, his attentions were not ever tied to monitoring his bladder. Genuinely, Jamesy's accidents were just that: accidental.

They had not been an major issue since Zemo had coaxed Jamesy into pull-ups and diapers. And Jamesy had become quite a bit more comfortable with wearing protection of late.

Or so Zemo had thought.

"Look, look!" urged the captain, still dodging the Squishmallow attack. "It's Zemo. I mean, Papa."

Jamesy's merriment subsided all at once, as if he'd been caught misbehaving. He sat back on his calves and clutched his Squishmallow to his chest.

"Hello," Zemo said to him, friendly. "Oh, my Jamesy, I have missed you! And here you are! It's lovely to see you and Lolly having fun."

"Papa," responded Jamesy, "look, I builded New York and Avengers Tower and Brooklyn Bridge and, and—Lolly, she turned into the Hulk and smashed it all up!"

Heartened at the immediate and avid reply, Zemo pretended to be shocked. "My goodness. What destruction! Look at all this!"

He spotted, amongst the scattered wooden blocks and plastic LEGO bricks and TinkerToys, overturned Matchbox cars and prone action figures. Once rejected, they were now a regular part of playtime. Gratifying to see.

"Daddy played too!" Jamesy said next.

"That's wonderful," said Zemo. "Playing Avengers with a real Avenger! An expert in destroying cities. What fun."

"Uh, maybe we should play something else," said the captain.

Zemo parried. "Far be it for me to interrupt. I'll take this time to make him some dinner. You are hungry, aren't you, dear one?"

"YEAH! Papa, bacon egg sammich? Please?"

A request, even.

"A bacon and egg sandwich you shall have," Zemo said, playing at dusting his hands. "And a side of fruit, I think."

"FRUIT!" Not a shout, but an intense, almost amorous whisper.

"Yum," said the captain to Jamesy.

"Daddy? Didja know peaches make my mouf itch?"

"Sure I know that, pal."

"I still like 'em, though!"

"Never stops you, does it?"

"Nuh-uh!"

Zemo left them at it.

The accident did not occur during dinner, as Zemo expected it might, but thereafter, when Jamesy had been allowed to return to his re-build of the city with his Daddy.

Perhaps it was the noise of Zemo washing up in the kitchen—the running water. Or perhaps it was the full tummy, or the total distraction provided by his playmate. Mayhaps it was just overdue. But he heard Captain Rogers say, "Oh, bud, I think you..." followed by, "Oh, it's okay! It's okay, Bucky—buddy. Jamesy," and knew precisely what had happened.

Jamesy was stammering. "I, I—I didn't—I didn't mean to, Daddy, I—"

Zemo wasted no time. He swanned from the kitchen with a dish towel in hand.

As if he wasn't fully aware already—as if he'd not been waiting for this precise moment—he asked, "What's happened?"

Captain Rogers answered for his friend. He was not well-equipped to do so, bumbling through it uneasily: "Uhh, he, uh—had a little... accident, I think."

"Oh dear," Zemo said mildly. "Is this true? Let Papa see."

With much reluctance Jamesy, crouched on his knees amongst his scattered building materials and hunched over his lap, unfurled.

Even before he glimpsed the dark spot soaked through the soft fabric on Jamesy's left thigh, Zemo saw the deep miserable red of his little face as he turned it upwards to his Papa, saw his forlorn eyes threatening to overflow with fresh shining tears.

"Oh, darling," said Zemo, crouching next to him. "Yes, I see." Patting at the wet patch with the dish towel, he tutted, "Don't worry. Papa is here to help."

"Papa," Jamesy said tearfully. "Pull-up?"

"Yes. You need a pull-up, don't you," Zemo said. "Let's go get you one. Shall we?"

He offered a hand, which Jamesy took, vibranium clutching flesh and bone. Together they got to their feet, leaving Captain Rogers sitting cross-legged amongst the blocks on the floor, his blond brows working overtime. In the twisting and hiking of them, Zemo could read everything: Doubt. Concern. Sympathy. And something he was willing to wager was discomfort. Until recently, the captain had been ignorant of his friend's years-long struggle with incontinence. This was his first time witnessing it for himself.

And it was Jamesy's first time having an accident in front of anyone other than Zemo.

"It's alright, we'll get you all cleaned up, and then you can play some more," Zemo said, drawing Jamesy towards his bedroom.

Sniffling, Jamesy padded along, barefoot. Fortunately he'd not wet so much as to drip on the floor. That had happened before, with more drastic leaks. But the soaked spot next to his groin didn't appear to be darkening or spreading any further. That likely meant he had leaked all he was going to.

Zemo still asked, "Do you need the potty?"

Jamesy shook his head.

"It's alright if you do," Zemo reminded him.

Embarrassed: "Don't, Papa!"

"Alright, then," Zemo soothed.

A quick scan and Jamesy's bedroom door popped open for them. Zemo made sure to shut it behind them again, effectively blocking Captain Rogers from listening in. Diaper changes were not his purview.

Not yet, anyway.

"Let Papa help," he told his little one, and Jamesy complied, watching with a pathetic, trembling chin and a couple of fresh tears rolling as Zemo pulled his wet shorts down his legs.

James's boxer-briefs, today a heathered gray, informed Zemo of the exact path the urine had taken upon exit.

Zemo drew them down too. He got a warm whiff of musk and ammonia in the process. The smell never bothered him—unshowered military men all using the same earthen latrine was much worse, and this, he had smelled for years. The Raft, on certain days, also smelled like a sloshing bucket of piss and fish. By comparison this scent really did not offend.

He helped Jamesy step from the soiled garments, murmuring to him all the while, and dropped them along with the damp dish towel into the laundry hamper for the bots to deal with. He then retrieved a baby wipe from the box stationed on the bureau.

Knowing the wipes were chilly on sensitive skin still warm from being clothed, Zemo clasped it between his palms for a few seconds. Then he got after Jamesy's wet thigh.

Sniffle. "Papa?"

"My darling, yes?"

"Need pull-ups?"

"Yes. You forgot your pull-up," said Zemo, dragging the wipe along the crease of Jamesy's thigh and pelvis. "But that's alright. Nothing to worry about."

"Need pull-ups. 'Cause I... I have accidents, sometimes?"

He sounded unsure, Zemo noticed, repeating things his Papa had told him but lifting everything into a timid question. As though this was a lesson he was only just learning.

Well, it had been well over a week since he'd last regressed. That was an unusually long time for James nowadays. It could be that he was still mentally adjusting. Or mayhaps he just needed some reassuring after having an accident in front of Captain Rogers.

"Papa knows?" prodded Jamesy.

"I know, dear heart. It's alright."

"Need diapies at night. 'Cause I pee the bed. ... Papa? You know? Hafta have diapies?"

"Papa knows," Zemo confirmed. "Diapies help out a lot, don't they."

"'S okay to need diapies, Papa...?"

"Perfectly okay."

Wipe sufficiently sullied, Zemo disposed of it and pulled out a fresh one. He warmed this one, too, before he began to clean Jamesy's groin. His penis was in its usual state, flaccid and quite demure, and Zemo went about his duty clinically, as always. But Jamesy sighed. The weight of the exhalation was such that Zemo wondered if the boy felt relief at getting clean again, or if he was particularly despondent over his situation.

"Papa, lap?" he asked next.

"You want to sit on my lap?" asked Zemo.

Jamesy nodded and sighed a bit again. And in Zemo's fingers, with the wipe soft and wet and warm between their skin, his penis perked.

As soon as Zemo realized it was getting stiff, he unhanded it.

"Oh. Dearest..." He scraped his brain for the right words. He didn't want to overreact. "Would you like a moment by yourself? It looks like you might."

Jamesy didn't seem to hear the offer. "Papa, rock?"

"Rock?" Zemo echoed.

"Please?" Jamesy was dangerously close to sticking a finger in his mouth to suck, knuckle edging his lower lip. His eyes had rounded, pleading. "Sit on your lap an' rock?"

"Ah! Yes, Papa will rock you, dear one. Would you like to read a story?"

"Nooo. Play, Papa. Wif myself."

The breath that left Zemo's lungs was harsh enough to make Jamesy step backwards, sensitive to any hint of disapproval.

But Zemo quickly took possession of himself, spoke calmly as ever. "Oh, I see. Did you like playing with yourself while you were in Papa's lap?"

Jamesy nodded, big-eyed, chin tucked low.

"So you're asking to do it again?"

Another nod, this one hopeful.

"Alright," said Papa, the very picture of serenity. "We can do that again, if you like."

He discarded the wipe, nearly steamy with his own booming body heat, and moved to the rocking chair. He took care with every step not to startle Jamesy again.

But Jamesy didn't seem daunted at all. He came right over as Zemo sat, darling in nothing but his inside-out t-shirt, with his index finger now hooked into his mouth.

A pacifier was needed. Luckily there was one within reach, left some time ago on the bedside table next to the night light.

Normally Papa would have given the thing at least a quick rinse before allowing Jamesy to put it in his mouth. But Jamesy was already sliding bare-bottomed, bare-legged, right onto his lap, and he needed the comfort, the security. So Papa only gave the silicone nipple a once-over with the hem of that inside-out shirt before holding it up to Jamesy's lips.

The finger was quickly forgotten, and the pacifier taken in.

The ensuing settle of Jamesy against his chest and shoulder proved snuggly as ever—full of blissful sighs and the familiar rhythmic squishing noise of his mouth at work on the nipple. Zemo had made sure to acquire pacifiers specially manufactured for adult mouths, shaped to be clutched by teeth instead of a row of soft gums and sized to be filling, so the fit was perfect. The pastel yellow plastic shield moved in gentle bobs as Jamesy suckled.

"There you are, my sweet boy," Papa doted. "It's nice to have something in your mouth, isn't it."

A nod on his shoulder.

Zemo fixed his hands to the padded arms of the rocking chair. "Now. Let's see. Is your penis still standing up?"

Jamesy wiggled a bit, tilted his pelvis so Papa could see.

How unbelievably cute it was, too, all fattened up and poking upwards, but still so noticeably petite. His testicles, smooth and hairless and already blushing a ravishing pink, did not look out of place below it.

"My goodness," Papa marveled. "Look how excited you are."

It seemed Jamesy was following instructions. Nursing away on the pacifier, he peered down along with his Papa, and even tugged his t-shirt up so they could both get an unencumbered view.

Zemo eyed the peek of his ribcage, the slopes of bone dipping sharply into his taut belly, and the deep curves of musculature corded around his waist. All of it lead directly down in a V to his plucky little penis.

"See? You're all ready to play," Papa said. "Go on. Just like before."

Jamesy puffed.

This time it was his left hand that moved. Black and gold plating formed into the shape of a thumb, seamless enough it felt smooth to the touch, swiped and butted along the deep path cut by his Adonis belt until it reached his penis.

The thumb pushed clumsily, forcing the stiff organ to point away, then let it spring right back into place. Jamesy nudged it down again. Let it bounce back up again. He huffed another big breath through his nose, but this time, it sounded like more of a bashful laugh.

Zemo had seen him do this before, in the bathtub. He supposed it was rather entertaining.

"It likes to jump, doesn't it," he said with a warm chuckle.

Jamesy giggled along, then all at once, relaxed along Zemo's chest and legs. It was as though his body was easing open to the feelings touching wrought, welcoming them. His breaths blustered, all the louder for the way they whisked over the plastic shield of the pacifier just below his nose.

"That's right," Zemo encouraged. "You can do whatever you like when you touch yourself, can't you?"

At this Jamesy grew more confident. They both watched the stretch and curl of his vibranium fingers as they enclosed around the engorged little shaft, hiding it entirely from view. The prosthetic fist was much too large to do anything but utterly dominate it in size.

After a careful flexure of his metal fingers—a squeeze that was quite literally all-encompassing—Jamesy adjusted. His black and gold pinky and ring fingers splayed outwards again, leaving the tips of the thumb, middle, and index fingers to handle his length. They moved experimentally, not jerking or wringing, but rather trying out rubbing some clumsy circles that caused his foreskin to slide and slip like silk around a peek of the swollen pink cockhead it was protecting.

The sight jolted Zemo's entire nervous system. He wasn't sure whether it was the vibranium—the digits ingeniously crafted and articulated, and likely lethal even without super strength behind them—touching such private and delicate skin, or the little boy-ish organ they were fondling. But he had never seen anything so perverse.

Jamesy deeply felt the touch, however gentle it was. He gasped. Reflexively he wrapped his fist around his entire prick again, hiding it from sight. As if what he was doing felt too good and he had to hurriedly curb the unfamiliar sensations.

Zemo didn't interfere with suggestions or instructions. He would let Jamesy do what felt natural to him.

After a few panting breaths, Jamesy gave himself another squeeze, shifted, took himself in his fingertips and rubbed them along his shaft some more. A whimper tried to spill out. But it was plugged up, forced to stay behind Jamesy's teeth by his paci.

Zemo's cock, already thickening, surged fully hard in his trousers.

He forcefully ignored their physical proximity, the way he was hard against Jamesy's naked rear now. But he couldn't push away the harsh onslaught of arousal at Jamesy's noises. It would have been exciting enough to hear an unbridled, open-mouthed moan. But Jamesy was happily sucking on a pacifier Zemo had put in his mouth even as he was shyly masturbating, and the juxtaposition hit Zemo upside the head with the force of Captain America's shield.

Oh, he loved it, how small and sweet and needy James was for him—!

Zemo's instincts informed him he should not touch, lest he overstep some invisible boundary and bring what was happening to a screeching halt. Thus far his instincts not steered him wrong. He kept his hands firmly in place on the arms of the chair. But he let himself dote, murmuring, "My sweet little one. Papa loves to see you feeling so good."

And with a slight push of his feet, he set the rocking chair going for Jamesy, as requested.

The rocker didn't so much as squeak. But Jamesy did. He turned his burning face into Zemo's neck and clutched at himself as the chair swayed them together.

Honeycomb knuckles shifted as he fondled without any hint of know-how or habit. But it didn't seem Jamesy needed a particular rhythm or pressure to elicit shivering breaths from himself. He fisted and pushed awkwardly at his shaft, dropped it as if clumsy, grunted tense noises behind his paci. Zemo responded with soft clicks of his tongue and hummed under his breath, not knowing whether he was attempting to soothe or stoke. Regardless, every scrap of Papa's attention made Jamesy tremor in impressionable counterpoint.

All too soon even this, the most uncoordinated of fumbling, proved to be overwhelming. Jamesy gasped and groaned, prick spouting off in his hand like a miniature fountain, knees tugged so nice and wide.

"Ah, there! There, my darling," Zemo uttered, rapt, his own belly pulsing hard.

White streaked along the smooth skin of Jamesy's lower belly, landing in droplets, dribbled over the black metal of his clutching thumb.

Without warning the paci fell out of Jamesy's mouth. It tumbled down his rapidly rising and falling chest and landed somewhere beside Zemo's hip.

"Papa!" puffed his little boy, his whole body taut with the highest crest of his orgasm.

Fists tight on his inner reins, Zemo went on with his slow and steady rocking.

"Papa's got you. Papa's right here," he comforted.

Jamesy, one fist tangled in his t-shirt and the other curled around his throbbing little prick, mouthed almost it silently: Papa. Papa.

Zemo fiercely wished he could make the moment stretch on forever. Would have, were he in possession of the Time Stone. He wanted to bask like a cold-blooded creature in the sweltering sun of Jamesy's stunned pleasure. He wanted feel Jamesy's body falling slack with satiation for hours, not mere seconds. If only he could feel those trembling lips moving to shape that special word next to his throat endlessly.

His own body was caught in a riptide of feelings too intense and taboo to name; he would willingly drown in them.

But he couldn't. He couldn't linger. He must think ahead, and quickly—apply himself to what he was certain would happen next: a shift James's headspace.

Zemo had mulled over it, in his days of isolation. The abrupt sobering. The sudden snap from littlespace. It had immediately followed each of Jamesy's prior orgasms. Zemo thought it was not just a coincidence it had happened both times. He thought he could expect it.

And he thought perhaps he could step in. Act as shepherd in what was undoubtedly a moment of distress.

Now was the time to attempt it.

With one hand Zemo groped for the fallen pacifier. As soon as he had it, he lifted it to James's lips.

"My darling little one," he began, finding himself unexpectedly croaky. "Won't you stay with me a while longer? Papa doesn't want you to go away just yet."

There came nothing. No response at all. James didn't move, not even to breathe in or out. He laid totally motionless, spilled over Zemo's lap. In that moment they resembled nothing so much as a post-orgasmic Pietà.

Zemo pressed on. "Papa wants you to stay right here in his lap. We'll just rock for a while. Then we'll get you a fresh pull-up, and it will be naptime. Does that sound nice? To keep being little and safe with Papa?"

Regardless of James's state of mind, Zemo didn't expect a verbal answer. And he didn't get one. But after several silent and static seconds, Jamesy's head shifted. He gingerly accepted the clear silicone nipple of the pacifier between his lips.

With a push of his index finger, Zemo helped settle it back into his mouth.

They both sighed then, abrupt gusting lungfuls. Zemo didn't even feel a moment of passing amusement at the simultaneous exhalation, or how weighty it was. He was too busy feeling Jamesy sink into him.

"There you are," Papa purred.

He rocked them as they slowly settled from their heightened states. He hoped the repetitive motion was calming; things like this often were. Zemo couldn't begin to wonder whether Jamesy was at all aware of the sweaty, suffocated arousal against which his bare bottom was snug. Surely he could feel it. Surely he could feel the unrestrained pounding of Zemo's heart. Hear it, even.

The spell broke when Jamesy babbled around his paci. The words were too ruined, too "little" for Zemo to understand.

"What's that, my darling?"

Jamesy lifted his metal hand. Whatever he'd wanted to communicate, it was probably about the cling of cum left behind on the black and gold plates.

"What a mess," tutted Papa. "It got on your belly too. But don't worry. Papa will get you all cleaned up again."

Zemo watched as Jamesy looked at the globby glimmer on his hand. He turned it this way and that.

Again he showed it to Zemo, a knot of concern on his brow.

"Mm, yes, I see it," Zemo assured him, and took his vibranium hand. He brought it to his mouth to kiss its inhuman fingertips. "It's alright. Messes happen. And Papa is here to help."

Out in the living room, Captain Rogers was waiting, hands on his hips.

"Where is he? Is he okay?"

Very imposing.

"He is down for a nap," Zemo reported. In days past, he would not have said any more than that. But since Rogers was clearly unsettled, he added, "Accidents upset him. He'll feel much better upon waking."

"He might be big again when he wakes up," said Rogers.

Zemo detected something behind the statement.

"Did you miss him? The little one?"

Judging by the lift of his noble chin, that was not what Captain Rogers had anticipated hearing. And he didn't seem to have an immediate answer.

"Didn't see him all that long," was what he said after a moment. "And it's been a couple weeks. Unless he... Unless you've seen him...?"

"Mm. No. James hasn't been regressing as of late."

Of course the captain jumped right on that. "Why?"

"He's not said," Zemo said with a casual shrug. A side-step, but still the truth.

"... Is it me?"

Zemo felt his brows leap upwards. Of all the conclusions to which Rogers could have leapt, this was not one he'd imagined.

"He seemed really settled till lately," Rogers went on, crossing his massive arms over his equally massive chest. "Maybe he doesn't like being little with me after all. Maybe it's too much. Y'know, it's..."

Politely Zemo waited for him to continue. But Rogers shook his head, dismissing the thought.

"Please," Zemo prompted.

Rogers took his time, begrudgingly staring down Zemo all the while, but finally came out with it. "Maybe it's too much. The 'Daddy' thing. Being every single thing to each other, all the time."

He was speaking, again, of his love. Of the "unconditional" love he held for James—which to Zemo's understanding had taken many various forms over their lives. Playground companions. Brothers in friendship and in arms. Roommates. Lovers, if one believed the rumors. Now, parent and child.

Enmeshed, always. Even when "with" others, be they chorus girls or fellow agents of SHIELD or pretty sushi bar waitresses.

Zemo inclined his head in acknowledgement. It was obvious that even now James and Steve were something beyond dear old friends. He did not know the particulars of it. But one would have to be willfully blind to not see how they slotted themselves together, defined themselves by each other, as though puzzle pieces cut to match. Even if there were knobs and sockets on them both where others could comfortably fit into the picture, the two could not help but click into one when together.

Lesser men may have pried. Glimpsed a loose thread and pulled open such an obviously compromised seam. But Zemo went another direction.

"To your mind, how has his mood been the last few weeks?"

"Distracted," said the captain right away. He considered further. "Good, sometimes. Optimistic. But... not, other times. He'd get that look. Just sit and stare. Kept thinking he might regress at any second. But then he'd pull himself together. Smile. You know Buck—always says he's okay, even when he's not."

Yes.

Wasn't a nightmare. I slept fine. You don't have to do that, Zemo. Why don't you quit worrying about me?

"He doesn't want you to worry," said Zemo.

"Well, that's too damn bad," said Steve, almost laughing.

This was Zemo's position as well. But Steve worrying was not something Zemo wanted either.

"It seemed to me he was very much enjoying your play. There were some tears, but that's not unusual when there's an accident. I suggest we only worry if he continues avoiding regression or says something concerning. That may be a sign he needs something to change. And we will adjust for him accordingly."

"You outrank me, here, Colonel," Steve grunted.

Snarky. But Zemo accepted what was surely somewhat of a compliment: Captain America's deference.

He saw fit to offer a pat on the back. Metaphorically.

"Caregiving is not for the weak. But you're handling it well, Captain Rogers. You suit the moniker of 'Daddy.'"

"Yeah—I don't like it as much when you say it," Steve shot back.

"Noted," said Zemo. "Would you like to be the one to wake him from his nap?"

"Yes," said the captain without hesitation.

"He was promised more playtime. But then, as you said, he might wake big. You may be gruffly dismissed."

"I can handle that."

Zemo nodded, and satisfied he'd smoothed things over, took his leave.

Now Zemo was confident. James was not plotting his imminent demise.

Oh, no. That was not what was happening at all.

With that particular Sword of Damocles no longer swinging overhead, Zemo woke the following morning in an excellent mood. Jamesy's bed was empty by the time Zemo accessed his room; the covers had been left mussed, and Pikachu discarded on the floor. Captain Rogers was not in his room either. Neither Jamesy's modest ensuite or the main bathroom were occupied. Zemo concluded that the two had gone for one of their customary morning excursions.

He was used to not being invited along, as he could not properly keep pace with one super soldier, let alone two. No matter. Having the place to himself was a luxury.

Zemo made Jamesy's bed, then whipped up and devoured a decadent breakfast omelette. He was enjoying the last of the coffee in his preferred chair by the time his flatmates returned. They were both sweating through their shirts.

Bucky took one look at Zemo and muttered, "Shower." He took a hard left and disappeared down the hallway at what seemed like enhanced speed.

Though Zemo expected the cold shoulder from James at this point, and the captain surely must as well, Steve still murmured, awkward and apologetic, "Morning."

"Ohayo gozaimasu," said Zemo, polite. He sipped from his mug and made no further bids for conversation.

"... Okay," said the captain. He went about his business, wiping the perspiration from his face with his tightly-fitting athletic shirt.

Zemo waited.

At long last, James came to him.

By this time Captain Rogers had left for some sort of superhero meeting, and Zemo was in the kitchen, rustling around for a treat. Bucky came upon him just in time to glimpse him pulling a blue cardboard box from the cabinet.

"Those aren't yours."

Technically that was the case. The small bear-shaped biscuits were for Jamesy.

"Papa always has one or two," Zemo said, and ate a singular Teddy Graham directly from the plastic packaging, while Bucky watched with an incredulous sort of expression.

The biscuits tasted like chocolate-flavored cardboard. Preservative-heavy, but despite this, somewhat stale. Distinctly American.

Still, not too bad.

Bucky said nothing. But he didn't move away. He stared instead. First at Zemo, and then at the smooth countertop of the kitchen's island.

Zemo helped himself to another Teddy Graham.

Bucky's lowered stare held true.

Unruffled by both the staring and the quiet, Zemo turned and placed Jamesy's snack back in the cabinet. Such silent lingering reminded him very much of certain moments on missions past—those times when Bucky would approach him but say nothing, lockjawed with tension, ready to be little but not ready to do it without Zemo urging him on.

Zemo wondered if James was waiting to be held by the hand now. He wondered if he ought to step up and do so.

But Bucky spoke.

"We need to talk."

His voice practically dragged itself out of him, beyond reluctant.

"Alright," said Zemo. He turned to face Bucky, schooling his features into an expression he hoped was neutral but attentive. "What's on your mind?"

Opening up was a difficult thing for James to do. Certainly he didn't hold back his snide and sarcastic comments. And his opinions were often evident on his face. He did not try to hide his distaste, his irritation, his confusion, his amusement. But he didn't know how to share his desires, his fears. His deeper, messier feelings. Even after years of therapy, and more than one challenging conversation with Zemo, he still struggled with letting others in.

Zemo could see him struggling now. Bucky's mouth opened, then shut again, flattening into a grim, embittered line. He leaned against the island, bracing both flesh and metal hands against it.

If the lean was an attempt at casual body language, it was a spectacular failure. His glare bored into the counter as though it were a war table covered with maps and model troops, and failure to anticipate the enemy's plan James's personal responsibility.

What had Zemo but time and patience? He had waited long days already. He could wait a few minutes more.

"You gotta tell me no, when I'm like that," Bucky at last said. "Or it'll keep happening. I don't..."

"You don't want it to happen?" Zemo filled in, as though it was neither here nor there to him.

"No. God. Of course not," huffed Bucky.

"Ah," Zemo said. He felt outside his body very suddenly. Autopilot took over for him. "Very well, then. Thank you for telling me."

"But I don't know how to make it stop," Bucky barreled on. "Thing is, I can try and try and try to get it up on my own, and it doesn't happen. I've tried everything. And you've seen the internet. You know what kind of fucked up shit people do to get off. I tried all that. Tried with... people, tried alone, tried... toys. Nothing. Then, with you, I'm little and—it just happens. It works. And I—I'm so sorry. FUCK!"

The exceptionally loud curse echoed through the open kitchen and living room. In the growl of it Zemo heard the familiar self-hatred, the old shame.

"I'm sorry, Zemo," Bucky began again, hollow. "I don't know why it's happening. Or why I have to be like this now. Why I gotta fucking ruin this good, pure thing. But it doesn't matter. I shouldn't've—"

"James," Zemo interrupted. "I am not interested in treating this as something for which either of us must apologize. You've ruined nothing. It has neither hurt nor offended me to help my little one."

A flash of crystal blue; Bucky was looking Zemo's way again. His gaze was unnervingly sharp—a sniper's gaze, pinned to its target. But there was something tentative about it, too. Something fearful refracting.

"Let me reiterate what I told you before," said Zemo. "Boys finding comfort and entertainment in themselves is a natural phenomenon. There is no shame in it. However it happens. Whenever it happens. If you don't wish to deal with the phenomenon at all, that's another matter. I'm sure we can find a way to put a stop to it. But if you are at all enjoying it—if Jamesy is enjoying it—there's no reason you shouldn't take advantage."

"Take advantage," repeated Bucky, still hunched over the counter, his dog tags hanging in front of his chest.

Zemo nodded factually.

"As always, Jamesy's comfort remains my highest priority. If it's your preference, you can tend to future matters on your own. Of course. I would ask that you tell me to leave in such cases. But if you require help, then Papa will help."

"... Help," gulped Bucky.

"Yes. In whatever way is best."

A slow, almost suspicious blink. "Like... in the rocking chair?"

Zemo couldn't resist asking. "Was that of particular help? The rocking? Or... is it Papa's lap you like?"

No answer beyond a stiffening of shoulders and the quiet hitching of vibranium plates mimicking muscle tension.

"You'd rather I fuck off than ask you such questions," Zemo said. He offered a small smile. "Understandable. This is not an easy thing to discuss. But James, I am thrilled you came to me."

"... Thrilled."

If Bucky was going to do nothing but parrot him, then Zemo had best fill his mouth with words he wanted to hear.

But before he could attempt it, Bucky straightened from his heavy-hearted, heavy-shouldered lean over the counter. Now there was a particular steel in his eye. Whatever the look was—something in the vicinity of cool contempt, perhaps?—it had shuttered from sight the needy vulnerability Zemo had so been enjoying.

"Well," Zemo began, attempting to buy himself an extra beat to scheme out what to say next.

Bucky didn't let him finish.

"Thrilled. 'Course you're thrilled. Why would you be anything else? Just—listen to me, baron. You have to tell me no. If you don't actually want me to... be on your lap, or... wherever. Or if you don't want me to do it at all. Tell me no."

"Easily done," said Zemo. "And I expect Jamesy to make it known, if ever he's uninterested."

Bucky nodded once. Then he muttered, "God dammit," at the floor and stalked off.

At that point Zemo expected nothing less.

Only a few minutes later, Jamesy appeared. He was still in Bucky's henley, but he'd shucked the combat boots and was padding in Bucky's socks, carrying a fleece blanket under his metal arm and his stuffed Pikachu under his other arm. For some reason he'd persisted in wearing Bucky's jeans as well. The fit of the trousers was far too snug for the extra padding now crammed under the denim, so the added bulk of his pull-up was quite obvious.

Zemo said nothing about it. He just said, "Hello, my love."

"Hi, Papa."

Quite angelic, and in his breathy upper register.

Zemo smiled. This smile was heartfelt.

"Can I watch cartoons?" asked Jamesy. He was already piling himself onto the couch with his blanket and stuffies. He'd gathered more than just Pikachu, Zemo saw now. Lolly the Squishmallow was there under his elbow. So were the dangling legs of his first ever stuffy: a teddy bear with a velvety hide of royal blue. Zemo had picked it out because it was of decent size and well-stuffed. It was something Jamesy could hold and cuddle without feeling very much bigger than it. It had been imaginatively dubbed "Blue Bear."

"Yes. You may watch two episodes of whatever cartoon you like," said Zemo. "Then it will be time to turn off television and find something else to do."

Jamesy knew the rules about screen time. So he simply enthused, "Wanna watch 'Venture Time! FRIDAY, play 'Venture Time?"

The TV flipped on.

"Shall we pick up where you left off?" FRIDAY asked.

"Mm-mm. Jake the Dad."

"You've watched that one a lot," FRIDAY noted.

"Yeah, but it's the best one, FRIDAY! Pleeease!"

"You got it, kiddo."

A grin. Jamesy dove underneath his blanket. His lightness of being was wonderful to see, especially so soon after witnessing his shoulders as hunched and gnarled as an ancient oak bowed under the weight of guilt and shame and uncertainty.

"How would you like some juice, sweet boy?" Zemo asked.

From within the fleecy bundle of limbs: "Yeah! Juice please, Papa!"

Apple juice was summarily delivered in its proper receptacle: a sippy cup covered in a whole rainbow's worth of smiling Pokemon.

"Thanks, Papa," Jamesy sang out as Zemo handed him the drink. "Oh. Teddy Grahams too, please?"

One thing Zemo had never needed to teach Jamesy was pleases and thank-yous. He had impeccable manners; he must have had them drilled into him the first time around.

"Teddy Grahams for my Jamesy," Zemo agreed. He poured a reasonable helping of them into Jamesy's special bowl and delivered them.

Again, delight. "Thank you, Papa! Thank you, thank you, thank youuu!"

"You're very welcome," Zemo murmured, and let his little boy enjoy himself and slurp at his juice with a happy, "Mm!"

After that it was a very ordinary day. Their sort of "ordinary," anyway. Jamesy watched his allotted cartoons and devoured his snack, then proceeded to play with his stuffies on the sofa for a good while. Whether he was in the midst of a rousing game of imagination or if he was talking to them about Adventure Time, Zemo couldn't quite tell. But Jamesy draped his blanket across the sofa cushions in such a way that it made a cozy hiding place in the corner in which to squirm around. (Conceivably. In reality, his legs poked out of his blanket cave.) He giggled to himself and chatted on and off—and, at some point, lost one of Bucky's socks.

Zemo put in an effort towards locating the sock, shaking out the blanket and checking under all the cushions.

"Pikachu eated it," said Jamesy from the floor. It was more likely the couch had eaten it. But the idea his stuffy was the culprit was so incredibly funny to him that he snorted and snickered into the blanket, and repeated it several times. "Pikachu eated it off my foot! He slurped it up like s'ghetti!"

"Delicious," Zemo said indulgently.

Jamesy pushed his socked foot towards Zemo's face.

"Papa! You slurp up socks like s'ghetti too??"

"I prefer tortiglioni just this side of al dente," said Zemo, accepting a teasing nudge of nuisance toes on his cheek. "Have you ever had homemade pasta, silly boy?"

"I dunno," Jamesy said, his mirth uncontainable. He tried to stick a toe into Zemo's mouth, grinning big. Zemo caught him by the ankle to keep the attempt from being a success, but kissed the cottony sole of his foot while it was near.

"It's much better than your smelly socks, believe it or not. I'll make it for you sometime."

Jamesy was rolling around on the floor spouting goofy nonsense about spaghetti in his socks when Captain Rogers returned. Zemo saw him perk like a puppy at the noise of the elevator doors opening.

"Daddy!"

Captain Rogers was visibly delighted. "Hey, pal! You're back! What happened to your other sock, huh?"

"Papa eated it," Jamesy said, and cracked himself up.

"He... what?"

"HE SMOOCHED MY FOOT AN' HE EATED IT UP!"

"You've arrived just in time for a bout of the sillies," Zemo informed the captain.

Steve got it. "Oh, wow, yeah." He whistled. "Looks like a major case."

"Let's hope it's not contagious," quipped Zemo.

"Yeah. I'm not immunized," Steve joked back.

"The one shot they didn't give you, eh?"

The captain did not look to appreciate this quip quite as much. The exchange ended there.

Come bedtime Jamesy was tired. He'd had his sillies tickled clean out of him by Daddy, stuffed his face with dinner, won so many games of Go Fish he grew suspicious his competitors were letting him win and registered many complaints about it, and flipped through a record number of favorite books. Amongst all this, he noticed he was wet and crept off to change his pull-up twice. No tears, no fuss. He seemed, to Zemo, very happy to be little again.

He consented to Daddy overseeing his tooth-brushing and face-washing. Papa ensured he took his nighttime medications. At a snail's pace he changed into a diaper and Lightning McQueen pajamas in his bathroom all by himself, and while he climbed into bed, Papa picked up the discarded pull-up and clothing. The pull-up Papa dropped in its bespoke bin, but he set Bucky's clothes aside to return to the proper room.

"FRIDAY, night light please?" Jamesy asked.

A ceramic crescent moon lamp next to his bed lit up. The overhead light began to dim accordingly.

"Sleep well, Jamesy," said FRIDAY.

"Thanks," was the distant reply.

"You'll fall right asleep tonight," said Papa. He helped draw the covers up around Jamesy's chest. The boy's stuffed animal menagerie got tousled in the process. Papa righted them, so none would fall off the bed. Jamesy reached for Pikachu.

"... Papa?"

"Yes, dear boy."

"W'you help me? Please?"

"That's what Papas are for," Zemo assured him. "What do you need?"

"Um." Hands, one flesh and one metal, grasped at Pikachu the way Captain America would grasp at his shield. "I wanna play."

Zemo did his best not to smirk outright. There was no way his sleepy little boy was asking to slide out of bed and build with blocks. It was another toy altogether that appealed.

"Is that so?"

A nod against the pillow.

"Playing would feel nice, wouldn't it." Zemo often sat on the end of Jamesy's mattress when they were chatting before bed, and did so now, too, although it felt... abnormally intentional. He eased himself along. "How can Papa help?"

"Umm," said Jamesy, fidgeting. "My penis. I tried to wake it up, but... it didn't wanna."

"It didn't want to play?"

"Nope. It stayed asleep. But I think it's waked up now."

"It's awake now? You mean, it's getting stiff?"

"Think so, Papa."

The next steps seemed perfectly evident to Zemo. But it was still brand new, this activity. Jamesy required loving guidance. He had directly asked for Zemo's help.

"Why don't you check and see?"

Jamesy shifted under his covers. The room was all shadow and artificial yellow moonlight, the coverlet all ripples, like shifting sand dunes in a desert twilight. The dunes swelled until they resembled more a tall ocean wave; Jamesy was lifting the blanket with both hands to peer underneath.

"I dunno... I can't see it," Jamesy reported.

"Your diaper's in the way, isn't it," proposed Zemo. Diapers were thicker than pull-ups, and it was probably masking the understated situation. "Can you use your hand to feel?"

More movement. The soft fabric of Jamesy's pajamas mostly muted the crinkle of his diaper. But Zemo still heard the investigatory fondling.

"Mm? What do you think?"

"'S all pokey!" Jamesy breathed.

"Ah! And what do we like to do when it's like that?"

"... Touch?"

"If that's what you like, my darling," said Zemo. "It's your body, remember? You can do whatever feels nice."

Jamesy's legs shifted under the covers, and along with them, so did the very air. Zemo listened intently, and heard the gentle wrinkling of plastic and a sudden tension stifle Jamesy's lungs in his chest.

"You see? You know exactly what to do," Zemo praised.

"Um. I. Papa..."

"Yes? What is it?"

"'M all zipped up."

He was. A singular lengthy zipper spanned the distance between his groin and his collar, closing up his onesie pajamas.

"Unzip your pajamas, if you like."

"Unzip 'em?" whispered Jamesy, and paused to fumble for the loop on his zipper's tab. He was adorably clumsy, but managed it. Down, down, down it went, over his broad chest and under the edge of the blanket, all the way to its conclusion.

"That's better, isn't it."

Jamesy pushed into the opened slit and past the stretched waistband waiting beneath his pajamas. A moment later he groaned, the noise hitting the highest shelf of his throat. His eyelids fell shut.

Zemo's cock leapt uselessly against his trousers. "Oh, much better, I think."

Beside Zemo, Jamesy's feet squirmed under the blanket. Zemo resisted the urge to lay a hand on Jamesy's nearby leg and give it a soothing pat, as he sometimes did when they were having bedtime talks. He forced himself to be content with only gazing upon the treasure before him. James evidently had to be little in order to achieve this state at all. And, at least for now, Jamesy seemed quite dependent on his Papa's encouragement. Zemo would press for nothing else. Nothing more, nothing less, than whatever Jamesy needed.

He merely sat and watched as the exploratory touching gave way to Jamesy dragging his mechanical arm up and across his face, seemingly to hide behind it. Pikachu, hooked under his elbow, came along for the ride. The stuffed creature muffled his squeaking breaths. It stared at Zemo with an unchanging red-cheeked smile as Jamesy hid his face in its yellow fur. Again Jamesy's feet shifted compulsively beside Zemo.

"Are you alright, my dear?" Papa inquired.

"Uhhf. Uh-huh..."

"How adorable you are," said Papa, "squirming around under your blanket."

A breathy whine sounded from behind Pikachu.

Then, without so much as a warning, Jamesy dropped his stuffy. He pushed the coverlet down and sat up, flush-faced. In a mere second's time he had flopped over onto his hands and knees. And within another second, he'd shuffled down the mattress and clambered on top of Zemo.

As usual, Jamesy did not seem aware of his size, his weight. He pitched his knee crookedly across Zemo's thighs and sat right on his lap with a heavy thunk, jarring both of Zemo's femurs. Zemo's shins protested.

The thunk was followed by what Zemo could only conceive of as a bear hug: a shameless twining of strong arms around his shoulders and a big, eager squeeze.

For a moment Zemo was too throttled to do or say anything. Jamesy was hugging him with what felt like all his enhanced might. It was a challenge just to keep his breath in his lungs. Zemo was forced to brace against the mattress, planting his hands behind him so he would not just go over onto his back like a felled tree.

Then it occurred to Zemo to gloat—although he had little air with which to do so.

"Ahh. You like Papa's lap after all."

"Mm," puffed Jamesy. After a moment, he seemed to remember his strength and stopped clinging with such crushing force.

Zemo inhaled, relieved.

Then he lost the breath in a harsh rush, because Jamesy was pressing himself in tight once more—plastering himself to Zemo, hugging around Zemo's shoulders—and it became evident as he did so that he was rocking himself. Not to mimic the soothing motion of the rocking chair, but to push his front entirely up against Zemo's. His diapered rear sank back into Zemo's lap as he rocked back again, then lifted as he sought stimulation and grappled at Zemo in the process. His powerful thighs flexed in his Cars pajamas.

"Sweetheart," slipped from Zemo.

"Papa, mmh," breathed Jamesy, face pressing into his neck.

Oh my.

Well.

Zemo could not really detect much of anything as Jamesy pressed into him. Mostly the diaper, its ample padding bundled around Jamesy's groin. But the padding as it rocked into him was more than enough to stimulate his imagination.

And not just that.

"Ah. Oh, my. Oh, sweet boy. Does that feel nice?" he managed, getting only short breaths in.

"Mmh."

"Mm? Rubbing on Papa feels nice?"

An eager squirm. "Yeah, Papa. Feels nice."

A dangerous heat suffused Zemo's face. Below the belt he was equally flushed. Between the two he had little blood left for higher functions. He was only just managing to keep himself upright.

"Mm, yes, it does," agreed Papa, low and scratchy. "You're very stiff now, aren't you. Papa can tell. Your hard little prick is rubbing this way and that in your diapy."

Jamesy gasped. His movement stuttered. An embarrassed whine tumbled out.

"That's alright," he tutted in Jamesy's ear. "Papa wants his little boy to feel very good."

"Feel really good, Papa... I wanna..."

"Mm? Yes, my darling?"

Another whine.

"What is it? You can tell Papa," Zemo pushed.

"Big feeling," said Jamesy, so wobbly he sounded very little indeed.

"Ah, my," said Zemo. "Already? You would like to let it out?"

"Please, Papa. Please."

Always so well-mannered.

"Oh, darling boy. You can do it. Go ahead for me, now."

Zemo felt—then heard—the hot gasp puffing Jamesy's chest, followed by the formless little groan Jamesy smothered into his neck. By now the desperate spreading of his knees and the flex of his bottom was familiar to Zemo. It told him everything he needed to know.

"That's my good boy," Zemo doted breathlessly. "Let it all out into your diapy."

He got a sharp, almost startled noise. All over again Jamesy's bottom clutched, the flex pressing his pelvis tight to Zemo. What Zemo wouldn't have given to use his hands to hold Jamesy to him, to rock him through his peak like a good Papa should.

"That's right. Yes. Just like that."

"Papa," slurred Jamesy, adorably orgasmic. "Papa, I feel so good."

"Papa's very glad you do."

Another sweet groan.

Panting warm and damp on Zemo's skin, Papa's little boy sank slowly back down onto his perch on Zemo's lap. He turned his face out from Zemo's throat so he could breathe, but his arms lingered in a lax but trusting loop around Zemo's shoulders. His whole wrung body relaxed and sagged in his red Cars pajamas. His padded weight was an intense pressure on Zemo's groin. Zemo barely managed not to moan.

They were going to have to address this at some point in the future, Zemo knew. Should this keep happening, then it was inevitable that Jamesy would notice Zemo's arousal. Curious little boy that he was, he would ask about it. And then Zemo would have to explain himself. Probably twice over—once to Jamesy, and another time to Bucky, who would very likely shout at him.

But now was not the time to court James's wrath. Now was the time to ensure his little one was happy and comfortable.

"Darling, if you relax any more, you'll melt right off my lap and become a puddle on the floor," Papa chided. "Let's get your diapy changed."

"Wet," agreed Jamesy dreamily.

"I imagine so. And we cannot leave you in a wet diapy. This, we know."

"Uh-huhmm."

Jamesy was wet, indeed, Zemo felt then. There was a certain warmth between Jamesy's hips and his own—a certain heaviness familiar to him at this point. Then he realized there was also a dampness. That the leg of Jamesy's red pajamas was wet. Which meant the leg of Zemo's trousers was also wet.

Jamesy's diaper, normally trustworthy, had evidently leaked at one side. And it was too significant a leak to be only a bit of sticky little boy spend.

"Oh, my dear," managed Zemo. Only then did he become fully cognizant that his little one had actually just wet himself.

Moments ago.

Snuggled so lovingly close.

On Zemo's lap.

Zemo's weak-lunged gasp didn't seem to ruffle Jamesy. A filthy rush made his erection pulsate against Jamesy's diapered bottom. He could envision the soaked padding under those Cars pajamas: the lovely ecstatic blurting of cum from that eager little prick, followed by a helpless trickle of urine as Jamesy relaxed. Perhaps more than a trickle. Perhaps a full and hot bloom, if it had crept past stretchy plastic of the diaper to soak all the way to Zemo's lap.

Zemo could scarcely endure it.

"Sweet one," he uttered, "have you wet yourself? Hmm?"

A squeak.

"Hush now. It's alright. You were a very good boy, feeling nice feelings and using your diapy."

A sensitive tremor ran through Jamesy's thighs.

Zemo teetered, all but over the edge. He had lost his internal grip. In this moment it was difficult to even want to try and get it back.

"Can you say that for me, Jamesy? Can you tell Papa you wet your diapy?"

Jamesy complied, in a shy whisper. "Wet my diapy, Papa."

Disgracefully, this was all that was necessary to drive Zemo over the brink. Self-control smoking and spinning as he sailed into oblivion, he shuddered under Jamesy, cock pumping his load into his underwear.

Gasping for breath, yet trying not to make a single sound as he finished, Zemo fought to stay upright.

"Papa," Jamesy said, tremulous as he shifted his weight from knee to knee, "got my jammies wet."

"Yes—yes, my darling," Zemo huffed. "Papa knows. It's quite alright."

Jamesy was very wiggly now. "Got you wet, Papa!"

"Only a little."

Whimpery: "Sorry! Didn't mean to!"

"Don't worry about Papa," Zemo managed, still in the stratosphere. "Papa is quite happy right now, sweet boy."

This got the wiggles to falter. "You are?"

"Oh, yes. My Jamesy. Papa is very happy you felt so good and relaxed. You were so relaxed, you wet right in my lap, didn't you."

Though Zemo sensed his praise caused some fluster, coming from him unchecked and heaving, Jamesy still tilted his forehead in close. He rested it against Zemo's and breathed, so soft and little, "Uh-huh."

"My precious boy. My own heart," Zemo breathed back. "You are the loveliest thing imaginable."

Jamesy's nose wrinkled. "I am?"

"Yes, indeed you are."

"But... diapy."

"You're lovely and lovable in your diapy and your wet pajamas. Papa loves you very much."

Jamesy wiggled. "Really, Papa?"

"Yes! Really."

"D'you love me lots?"

"Terrible amounts. Much more than you can possibly understand."

Jamesy hugged him hard, and Zemo finally lost his balance and toppled onto his back, knocking several stuffies off the bed. He heard his little one giggle, and couldn't help but join in.

Jamesy's door had barely shut behind Zemo when Steve appeared at the mouth of the hallway.

"Zemo. Can we talk?"

Zemo's lap was still damp in two discrete places. He tried not to grimace in his displeasure at having to stop and interact with the captain right then. There was no real way to obscure the stains, and Zemo did not think they would go unnoticed by a man as observant as the former Captain America.

Still, he tried to cover the more incriminating one with his hand.

"Certainly. Allow me just a minute to change. There was a—minor incident."

"Oh," said Steve, blinking. "Of course. What happened?"

"Let's just say a change of pajamas was required. And now I am in need of a change also."

"Oh. Uh. Yikes."

"One minute," Zemo repeated with a polite nod, and continued on towards his room.

"We should discuss some strategies," Steve said after him. "We're a two-parent household now, after all. You shouldn't be the only one dealing with," he gestured, "'incidents.' I'm ready to step up and do my part."

Determined. Self-sacrificial.

Irritating.

"Ah," said Zemo. "Is that how you feel."

"I can help."

Eventually Zemo said, "We can discuss it."

"I'll let you get changed," said Steve, and bowed out.

Zemo shut himself in his room with a frown, mind racing. He looked down at the patch where cum had soaked through his trousers.

He supposed Bucky had said it best: Fuck.

Zemo was losing control. Of himself. Of the time he got with Jamesy. Of this entire damned living situation. This was unacceptable. He would not allow it. He needed to catch himself before he fell any further. And he would. He needed to regain control and ensure things with both Bucky and Steve went his way. And he would.

It would take time. And patience. But Zemo had both, in abundance.