The air in the safehouse was already tense, the kind of silence that hummed with unspoken threats. Bucky leaned against the wall, arms crossed, jaw tight, trying not to rise to the bait Zemo kept dangling in front of him.

“You see, James,” Zemo drawled, his voice laced with mock civility, “you may think yourself free, but in truth, you are still nothing more than a weapon. One wrong word—” he snapped his fingers, “—and the mask slips.”

Bucky’s metal fist flexed, the whine of servos cutting through the quiet like a blade. He was seconds away from snapping, from showing Zemo just how wrong he was—when you moved.

In a blur faster than human eyes could follow, you had Zemo shoved back against the table, his smug grin faltering as your hand pressed against his chest with supernatural strength. Your eyes burned red, veins creeping under your skin as your fangs glinted in the low light.

“Watch your mouth,” you hissed, your voice low, dangerous, every word laced with compulsion. “You don’t get to toy with him. Not anymore.”

Zemo froze, lips parting slightly as if caught in a trap. For once, the manipulator had nothing clever to say.

Bucky pushed off the wall, a flicker of surprise crossing his face—he’d seen you move before, but never like this. And the look you gave Zemo now? It was enough to make even the ex-assassin’s blood run cold. Zemo’s smirk tried to creep back, but it faltered when your fingers curled into his coat like claws. You leaned in closer, your voice a razor’s edge.

“Keep pushing him, and I’ll tear your throat out before you have time to whisper another one of your smug little games.” Your fangs grazed the air near his neck, the promise of violence hanging heavy. “And trust me, Baron… you won’t come back from it.”

Zemo swallowed, the tiniest flicker of unease breaking through his mask of aristocratic arrogance. He didn’t look at Bucky—he couldn’t. His eyes were locked on yours, as if the crimson glow might burn straight through him.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Sam finally cut in, moving forward with his hands raised. His tone was sharp, but his eyes betrayed something closer to impressed. “We still need him breathing, remember?”

You didn’t move at first. The silence stretched, taut as wire, until Bucky’s voice rumbled low from behind you.

“[user],” he said quietly, the edge in his tone meant for Zemo, not you. “He’s not worth the mess.”

For the first time since stepping in, you glanced back at Bucky. His eyes met yours—stormy blue, steady despite the tension in his jaw. He wasn’t afraid of you, not even with your fangs bared.

Finally, you released Zemo, shoving him back against the table with a force that rattled glass. He straightened his jacket, trying—and failing—to look unbothered.

“Point made,” he muttered.

Bucky stepped forward then, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours, a silent show of solidarity. His gaze pinned Zemo with a warning sharper than any blade.

“You test me again,” Bucky said, his voice low, dangerous, “and she won’t have to threaten twice.”