A Wizard Without a Hat

The alarm above blared and the guard swung the first door inward.

(Y/N) followed him to the end of a small passage where he looked up at the camera mounted on the corner.

He radioed in his name and the cell number. Again, the alarm sounded and the guard held the second door open.

She nodded in thanks and stepped into the small, dark room, lit only by LED lights lining the glass confines. There were no windows, save for a skylight. The only connection to the outside world. Sun poured down the wall and across the floor in front of the bed like banner and rug.

Zemo stood before the barrier between them. For how long, she wondered. Was it when he was notified of who was visiting? Or just when he heard the buzzing?

The reinforced door closed behind (Y/N), its click replaced by her heartbeat in her ears.

She'd never been alone with him. Not completely. Not like this.

He gave her that soft, reassuring smile. "Hello, (Y/N)."

She found herself grinning, too.

"Zemo..." was all she could say, her eyes quickly darted to his prison-issued slip on sneakers.

She looked back up when they got closer.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" the ends of his lips drew back onto his cheeks, a devious glint hidden behind his eyes.

He almost appeared... flirtatious?

Brushing it off, (Y/N) silently chided herself for imagining a life that will never happen. One in which he was hers.

"I wanted to tell you the rest of my story," she held her hands behind her back, shifting her weight to the heels of her boots.

"On a Saturday afternoon?" he asked, cheekily.

(Y/N) shrugged. "Not like I have anything going on in my life."

Prior to her impromptu visit, she made beef caldereta and rice for lunch. On the way out the door, she grabbed two pieces of Polvoron, eating one on her way to the prison.

Now the other sat all snug in the inner pocket of her leather knapsack, light blue letters printed on its half-yellow, half-clear wrapper. Had it not been for the wall keeping them apart, (Y/N) would give him that Polvoron in all its sweet, flower-shaped glory. The oblong cookies came in different colored packaging, designating its flavor. Only the original flavor was circular and lined with scallop edges.

"I... just felt compelled to tell you," (Y/N) said. "And I was also hoping to know more about you, too."

When he stared and blinked at her, she quickly added, "If you don't mind, anyway. I... didn't think this could wait 'til Wednesday. I hope I didn't interrupt anything."

Upon realizing how idiotic she sounded (what else would he be doing?), she continued. "Like, if you were relaxing or... taking time for yourself."

A smile formed across his face, like a crack on a frozen lake as he paced the cell. “Let’s hear it, draga.”

She sucked enough air into her lungs to tighten her chest, as if to trap the anxiety within her, which was only alleviated upon an exhale.

The previous night, she went over many different ways to go about laying the foundation of her story to Zemo, with two things in mind: the limited visiting hours and her tendency to break down when confronted with her past.

“I grew up in Sinalupa. Yeah, that one Asian island nobody cares about, except when we’re made out to be savages…” (Y/N) stopped, mouth open mid-sentence and eyes darted to the corner of the cell where his bed was.

When she met his gaze again, his brows knitted towards his nose, eyes narrowed.

“Sorry,” she shook her head, as if to coax the side comments off so only the essentials that made up her backstory remained. “Anyway, Hydra… got hold of it and…”

(Y/N) inhaled, blinking while her throat got lumpy.

“Draga,” Zemo began, tenderly. “Please don’t force yourself. I understand if it’s too painful.”

For a moment, she considered. No, she needed to press on. This was her only reason for being there. She didn’t want the trip to go to waste, no matter how sympathetic he seemed.

She gulped and started from the beginning. “One day, there was a knock at the door. My nana opened it and there were these two men in gray uniforms. They told us to pack a suitcase. We were going to the mainland, under the president’s orders.”

Zemo, listened intently, lips pulled down at the image painted for him.

“So we did. I went to the mainland with my family and half the population was there. We didn’t know what was going on or who those men were. I saw more people with those same uniforms. Most, if not all of them were white,” (Y/N) continued, crossing one boot over the other so the outer bumps of her ankles touched.

“The president was there and he revealed his plans for us: we have been chosen to participate in testing new technology that would enrich the country, maybe even the whole world,” she scoffed bitterly and swallowed again. “I still remember. He made it sound so grand.”

Zemo’s eyes saddened. “That necklace… was the ‘technology’.”

(Y/N) put her knuckles over her mouth and nodded. “F-For me, it was.”

He raised a hand and rested his fingertips on the glass.

She stopped, processing what the purpose of this could be. Did he want to say something?

Perhaps words weren't needed, for his eyes spoke for him: I wish to comfort you.

At least, that's the conclusion she came to.

She lifted the hand that would align with his perfectly, doing as he did.

They met eyes and, for the first time since she began retelling her history, that familiar smile crept back above his rugged jaw.

She heard another alarm some doors down, reminding her of what little time she had left with Zemo.

Not wanting to get swept up in the moment, her fingers curled into her palm, her arm reluctantly falling back to her side like a withering flower.

"So, uh..." (Y/N) murmured, mentally cutting her story down to accommodate the remaining minutes of her visit.

"You can tell me more on Wednesday," he assured, his hands folded over his stomach. “But if I may… I would like to know more about the necklace.”

She pinched her pendant, lifting it off her collarbone. “It was supposed to give me power to quickly absorb pain and inflict it just as fast. I took too long to heal and I couldn’t transfer the pain at all.”

With a shrug, she continued. “So I was labeled a failed experiment and had to be killed.”

Zemo asked, “Why does it change color?”

“Mainly to see if certain emotions made the process easier. Hell, I was navigating it myself even after they left the room, so over time, I could work out what color was for which emotion. Wasn’t much to do otherwise,” (Y/N) replied coolly, her words lined with resentment.

He squinted and bent over, bringing his face closer to the glass. “It’s pink.”

Standing up straight again, he asked, “What does that mean?”

Frozen, (Y/N) went over her options. She didn’t want to lie to him, especially after opening up to him in such a way that transparency had been established. She also didn’t want to be rejected. He’s her only friend. Her chance to prove to herself that maybe she was lovable in some way. That she deserved happiness.

It was crazy how a four-letter word could end it all. How fast she would return to being a loner. To have nothing to look forward to at work.

“Love,” (Y/N) blurted.

“… Love?” Zemo repeated.

She nodded, setting the pendant back down. In situations like this, she would try to shift her mood to hide how she really felt.

Not this time.

“Y-You met someone?” Zemo sounded optimistic.

See? He doesn’t want you. Who would?

“You can say that, yeah…” (Y/N) tugged at the sleeve of her black, corset-style jacket.

He smiled now, eyebrows raised enough to put some lines on his forehead. “Well? Who is it, draga?”

After what felt like decades, she spoke.

“You.”

The silence that followed was deafening. No footsteps in the background, no alarms.

All was quiet except for the voice in her head that screamed at her: You fucked up. You fucked up sooo bad. You never learn, do you?

“I…” she tore at the tension. “… love you, Zemo.”

His uncertainty seemed to vanish, pure happiness replacing it in the form of a touched smile, paired with a shimmer in his eyes.

"I feel the same way about you," he confessed.

This is a joke, right? It's gotta be a joke. It has t—

Through her tightened chest and warmed cheeks, she laughed.

She'd forgotten what pure joy felt like, so much so that she panicked when she began to cry.

Was she broken?

He managed to reassure her with a simple look.

"God, I'm so sorry," she squeaked and dabbed her sleeve under her eyes.

She swore she could see a small part of him crack, too.

You hesitate for just a moment before approaching him, your footsteps growing closer, more confident as you near him from behind.

“You should have woke me,” you scold, entering his periphery. He twists his neck just enough to watch you bend over and take something from the drawer.

“I felt it would be wise to let you sleep.”

He watches you disappear behind the wall once more, curious to see what it was you took from his drawer. Was it an article of clothing? Did he have anything that suited you? He ponders every possibility.

So when you finally return, Helmut drinks in the sight of you, checking you out from head to toe.

“Stop staring at me like that.” There’s a slight waver in your voice as you look at him, as you take notice of the wicked smile on his face.

“My apologies again, Драга,” he places special emphasizes the word, “I was merely enjoying the view.” Your clothing is your own, except for the socks.

“We shouldn’t linger,” Helmut imagines you fighting back a blush as you ignore his words. “The last thing I want is those two running around my house. What if they find all Anežka’s guns?” You move to step around him, to walk out into the hall, but Helmut takes your hand into his own and pulls you into his arms.

“Wait,” he instructs you, his voice leveled and controlled. You look up at him, confused—perhaps a little intrigued—by the sudden force of his actions. You brace your hands against his chest.

“Yes?” You still, but gaze shifts from his eyes to his mouth, down his jaw, and back up again.

Cрањеg, he thinks, because it would be so easy to kiss you, so easy to do anything with you as Sam and James wait downstairs. (They could take notes if they heard them.)

He pulls you in a little closer, lessening the space between your chests. It would have been so easy—but Helmut won’t start something he can’t finish. He has to leave and he could never leave you wanting him, not when he knows he’ll never see you again.

“There’s something I must tell you first,” he insists, breaking your intimate gaze.

“What is it?” Your voice is a breathless whisper, so sweet he nearly falters.

“I’m sorry but I must leave you again.”

“Oh.” The simple phrase hung in the air.

“I'm truly sorry, I believed—”

“No, it’s—I mean, we both knew we wouldn’t have much time together…” The world grew quiet around him, as though all the birds and the sun in the sky shared in his agony. “When will you leave?”

“We have but a few hours left together.”

“Where are you going?”

“Riga.” He brings a hand to the curve of your cheek.

“We have a place there, right?” You take a step backward, releasing yourself from his hold, and brush past him quickly. “I’ll call someone to have it ready for you.”

He wants to call you back to him, hold you in his arms, memorize your every curve and feature—but instead, he watches you go.

***

Before enacting his ‘diabolical scheme,’ as the media so kindly put it, he arranged for Oeznik to send regular updates about you.

The first broke his heart completely.

When Oeznik tried to deliver the paperwork he had for you, you sent him back with a very colorful message detailing exactly what Helmut could do with his money. You didn’t want it. In fact, you found the idea to be insulting.

“If he wanted me to be his partner, he should have stayed instead of treating our relationship like some sort of business transaction!”

Unwilling to stay in the Italian estate for any longer than strictly necessary, you called a taxi in the middle of the night and made the arduous journey to the nearest city. Eventually, you arrived in Venice where you stayed an entire week.

You booked travel west and spent another few days in Milan.

Oeznik had an easy time monitoring you, and Helmut suspected he enjoyed the chance to visit a few quiet cities with little urgency. But it seemed two weeks was where his patience ran thin.

After another few days of meandering, Oeznik, who you had been more than a little surprised to see, managed to sit you down and convince you to overlook the paperwork.

Helmut wasn’t sure what he could have said to make you agree—likely something to do with taking the money, if only out of spite or something more sentimental, invoking your fondness for Carl and Heike—but you agreed.

When you finally returned home and Oeznik reported you intended to remain there, Helmut hired Anežka, Oeznik’s great-niece, to keep you company. She was a sweet-tempered young woman who once shot a bullet between the eyes of a rampaging boar somewhere east of Siberia—allegedly.

Nevertheless, he trusted her to watch over you and focused fully on his mission.

*

News of the Avengers causing havoc in Lagos broke out and you weren’t there to discuss the headline or the harsher implications of their actions. (‘Think about the demographics of the area,’ he imagined you would say. ‘Of course they think they can just waltz in and do what they want. It’s like Johannesburg all over again.’)

He found Vasily Karpov in a sleepy suburb of Cleveland, Ohio, and traveled there to find him. You weren't there to greet him upon his return.

He booked a room in Vienna. You weren't there to eat breakfast beside him.

He enacted his scheme. You weren't there to intervene.

*

When it was over and he was caught, the joint terrorism task force transferred Helmut to a high-security prison in Berlin, where he toiled in boredom and misery.

He deserved it, of course, but the hell of sitting with his memories and reflecting on his regrets was unbelievably tiring.

He’d been in prison for nearly a week before he received any communication from the world outside.

It was a money transfer notice.

Eigengeld, the notice said, showing that the money was transferred to a private funds account.

He received the same notification two weeks later.

Helmut used his money to purchase books, deciding to brush up on his Russian by reading classic poetry. He then obtained a small radio and other odds and ends meant to make his cell more accommodating.

Every two weeks he received the same notice, nothing more and nothing less.

Every month he received a letter from Oeznik, though they functioned more as simple reports about your welling, the status of his assets, observations on the world, and such.

Then, after about a month and a half of imprisonment, he received a parcel in the mail; a thick book sent directly from a local seller about Anger and Grief.

He recognized the title; you had the same book, albeit an earlier edition, on your desk in your bedroom. It was easy for him to imagine you there, sitting on your bed, doing the work to unpack all your feelings—you wanted him to do the work too.

You hadn’t given up on him; you didn’t think he was too far gone.

He opened up to the table of contents.

*

He received a second parcel three weeks later.

This time you sent him a treatise on Contemporary Arts and a book about Rococo Architecture.

He understood the intent of the first one well enough; you wanted him to develop a greater appreciation for contemporary art. But the second? You were clearly just teasing him. He hated Rococo Architecture.

A third parcel came three weeks after that and it contained a book more aligned with his tastes, Fortuna ist ein reissender Fluß, Fortune is a River. He assumed it was an apology for the two before.

And so it went on; every few weeks he received something new—but then one day you sent him a letter:

‘Dear Helmut,’

Oeznik, Anežka, and I visited the Sokovian memorial together. I laid flowers for you, Carl, Heike, and Heinrich. I laid them right beside the flowers I brought for Dominik and my father-in-law...’

You told him that the land was set to be divided by neighboring countries, cannibalized before it was even clear of rubble. You mentioned donating money to charity, visiting his other estates at Oeznik’s behest, and working on art.

You drew a sketch of the memorial on the back of the letter but never mentioned what happened between you, only that you're well and wished for him the same.

He wrote you back, thanking you for laying flowers for his family, and didn’t expect to hear from you again.

So when the next parcel you sent was accompanied by another letter.

You asked about the books and his thoughts about them.

Your tone was perfectly cordial, perfectly polite, but there was clearly a sense of distance there. You told him of a book you read by a man named Garth Risk Hallberg. You complained it was about 400 pages too long but something about it stuck out to you, a quotes:

'And why love things you were destined to lose? Why let yourself feel things if the feelings were doomed to die?'

Helmut was far too smart to trick himself into believing your words weren’t meant to stir something within his heart, that they weren’t a clever admission of your true feelings. However, he was also too cautious to remark recklessly.

So in his reply, he mentioned a book as well, Il Principe, and he quoted Machiavelli's view of love:

‘...love is preserved by the link of obligation which, owing to the baseness of men, is broken at every opportunity for their advantage.’

You shouldn't love him, he thought, not after he broke your heart to achieve his own ends. You disagreed.

"Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom." You wrote, followed by a snippy, 'Shakespeare had a better view of love than Machiavelli.’

The quote was from Sonnet 116. (You sent him a book of sonnets shortly after that.)

The sonnet spoke of what love was, what it meant to love a partner for who they were, accepting their changes and their flaws, and welcoming all the obstacles of love.

Helmut wasn't presumptuous enough to believe you could ever come to love him so fully, but wasn't love at all a start?

Neither of you wrote 'I love you,' at least not directly. Had he said it, he knew something, that thing inside of him, that thing that always held him back from you, would finally break.

But little by little you opened up to him again, using your shared love of literature to express your true feelings.

Oeznik continued to send his reports as well—one every month—to check up and keep him informed.

*

Roughly two years after his sentencing, something changed. News reported some sort of invasion in New York City, then another similar incident over Wakandan Airspace. And then, suddenly, there was a panic in the prison. People turned to dust and vanish all over the world.

And he worried.

Mail delivery was in complete and utter disarray. It took about eight weeks to receive word from you. For eight weeks he was alone, trapped in a vicious cycle of fear and doubt, just like the days he spent digging for his family in the rubble of his father’s home.

He contemplated an escape, planned for every contingency, and wondered what he'd do if he found your house cold and empty. Could he handle that pain? Could he stand to lose whatever shred of hope he had left?

And what if you came looking for him? What if you came, and he wasn’t there?

He contemplated all of those things and as he did so, your letters came.

When the guard appeared before his cell, they handed him a bundle of them, each more desperate and hasty than the last.

You survived the decimation. You were alright. But Anežka and Oeznik were gone. You were so sorry, so scared.

Captain America made a speech on television that assured everyone that no one else would disappear, but you didn’t believe him. You didn’t even know if your letters would reach him; you didn’t know if he was gone too but you would keep writing until someone told you otherwise.

You attempted to call the prison; you visited the gate; you did everything in your power to see him and the moment you received news that he, too, had survived, you cried.

The emotions he felt were bittersweet.

You were alive and well; he hadn’t lost you—but Oeznik was gone.

He wasn't misguided, Helmut knew that it would come to happen eventually, but he never expected it to be so sudden, didn’t expect it to happen like this. The old man had plenty of years left in him—he should have lived to reach 100 at least.

But with him gone, he’d lost his most loyal companion and confidant. With him gone, you were truly all he had left in the world.

As his next of kin, you tried to make an appeal for him to attend a memorial, but apparently, the death of 'a butler,’ as the officials described, wasn't an adequate reason to allow for prison leave.

He was simply too dangerous a criminal.

You shared a little poem with him in one of your letters, something about being still and staying in place. You didn’t want him to escape his prison cell. With the world in such disarray, so many places descended into martial law. If anyone saw him, they’d likely shoot on sight. You didn’t want to risk that, and he wouldn’t make you worry.

You encouraged him to open up about his feelings, so in his grief, he turned to you.

*

Time passed.

*

Time passed.

*

Time passed.

*

All his time alone gave him the chance to work through his grief, come to peace with what happened to his family, and reconcile his feelings. The rage was still there. It hadn’t gone away, but it was less of a bullet and more of an ache.

He still worried for you, of course, but life moved on and you coped; You wanted to help, wanted to ease the devastation left in the decimation’s wake.

‘I feel like nothing I do is enough,’ You wrote. And you felt as though you were living through the fall of Sokovia all over again. He suggested you try a change of scenery, to go somewhere new to gain a better understanding of how the world was now shaped.

So you visited New York City. Your letters took more time to arrive when you were away, but you mentioned having met a young journalist there, a man with an interest in art. He had a friend who you claimed looked exactly like him.

'If you grew a beard,' you wrote, 'you'd be twins.' He highly doubted that.

Despite your insistence that he was simply a friendly acquaintance, Helmut assumed you developed a liking toward the man.

He tried not to let the idea bother him—you deserved to live a life of happiness, a life not shackled to him—but he loved you, and you loved him.

He may not have had a name for what you were to each other, but when you reported having returned home without incident (or new romantic prospects) he felt relieved.

*

Years went by.

Your bond grew stronger.

And then the world changed once again one day.

You were making tea in the kitchen when Anežka appeared right before your eyes.

'It was as though her body pieced itself back together.' You described. 'She doesn't remember what happened, neither does Oeznik. It's like time didn't pass for them at all.’

They called what happened ‘The Blip’ to describe the experience. Helmut thought it was a ridiculous name.

But the sudden reappearance of the people that vanished threw the world into chaos once again. There was so much chaos, in fact, that James Buchanan Barnes appeared before him a few much later.

(Apparently, he thought with some resentment, those affiliated with the Avengers could visit him but not his next-of-kin.)

*

Helmut’s last letter wasn't quite a letter at all.

He arranged for a parcel to be sent to you: waffles and a bouquet of your favorite flowers. He then asked Oeznik to send you a message.

He was coming home to see you, to be with you at last.

***

When Oeznik calls to tell him that the car is ready, you’re standing in the kitchen engrossed in a lively conversation with Sam.

You decided it would be nice to send them off with snacks, which somehow lead to a deeper conversation about your love of Beignets, the connection between food and culture, and the ingredients needed for Crawfish Étouffée.

Helmut isn’t sure he likes how funny you think Sam is, but he ignores that part of himself as he stands beside you, tracing circles into the palm of your hand.

James stands behind Sam, looking as sullen as a cat in the rain, but Helmut made the conscious choice to ignore that as well.

“It seems our car has arrived,” he cuts in, gently squeezing your hand. James stands at full attention and Sam nods his head. They’re ready to return to the mission.

“Helmut,” you turn your attention to him fully, “Could you hang back a minute. I promise it won’t take long.” You look between Sam and James. “I just need to give him something.”

“Yeah,” Sam nods, gesturing James toward the door. “Thanks for everything and hey—if ever you’re in the neighborhood come down to the restaurant, we’ll set you up straight.”

You wave him off with a smile, agreeing to do just that as James gives you a polite nod of acknowledgment

“Thanks.”

“Adiós,” you call to them, waiting for the two to shut the door.

“I’m almost sad to see them leave…”

“Really?” He raised a brow.

“Almost,” you repeat, taking both his hands in yours. “But I’m glad I got to see you again, Helmut — even if it was just for a while.”

“As am I.” You stare at each other, allowing the moment to settle around you. There was so much left to say and so little time to say it.

"I...I have something for you. Not...not a present but something I want you to keep." You slide your hands away from his take a folded envelope from your pocket. The paper inside is worn, but the letter is addressed to him, dating back to the spring of 2016.

"It's the first letter I was going to send to you but...I couldn’t. But I want you to have it now—just don't read it until you're gone."

"Thank you," He says after a moment. "I'll treasure it." And he would. He’d keep your words close to his heart.

"I wanted you to know I understood what you thought you had to do...that I forgave you and…" Your voice waivers but you continue, desperately trying to hold yourself together. "I just wish we had more time."

"I know." Helmut wrapped you in his arms and you remained there, your face buried in his shoulder.

“I must go now,” he tells you. You don’t let him go. You won’t.

Helmut presses a kiss to the top of your head with a chuckle. “Come now драга, it’ll be alright.” He pulls you back by the shoulders, looks into your eyes. “You’ve been so wonderful to me. I can’t envision a better friend.” Helmut leans forward, presses his forehead against your own, and enjoys one last moment of tender affection. It was a moment where words felt insufficient, where nothing else needed to be said except for maybe, “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” You whisper, and your words fill his heart with a strange new light.

But then someone—probably James—knocks on the door three times. A muffled argument between his companions begins outside the door, and Helmut sighs.

It’ll be a long trip to Latvia.

“Take care of yourself,” you tell him, “and don’t make any more trouble.”

“Trouble?” He asks innocently enough, as though he would never dream of doing such a thing. You roll your eyes and follow him to the door.

For a moment he considers running. Of taking your hand and leading you out through the back door. He could run away with you—but then he would never achieve his mission. And he couldn’t allow Super Soldiers to exist.

So he steeled his resolve and reached toward the door.

“Wait!” You reach for his hand.

He didn’t want to make this harder than it had to be, but he needed to listen to what you had to say.

“What is it?”

You take a breath as if to prepare yourself for something. “... Can I... Can we... Can I kiss you?” His heart aches. Helmut struggles to find an answer. But perhaps he was simply overthinking it. Perhaps there was nothing left to say.

So he nods. You take a step closer.

You move as though you’ve thought of this before; you place your hands on his chest, tilt your face upward, and press your lips against his gently.

It was a chaste kiss, a quick one that evoked the feeling of finding shelter in the rain.

You pull away, no doubt prepared to say something, but Helmut takes hold of your waist and pulls your body against him. The love between you grows into a burning flame as he kisses you, again and again, to help quench it.

Your lips part, your tongues meet, you run your fingers through his hair, but it only makes him hotter, hungrier, burning for something more. “Thank you for taking care of me, Helmut.” Your breath is heavy, and it mingles with his own when you part from him.

“I want you to be happy, драга,” Helmut confesses, voice low, accent thicker. “I am sorry to have caused you distress-”

“Stop it.” You cup his face between your hands. “You gave me everything you could.”

He kisses you again, and it’s fervent and zealous, it’s desperate in the way all final things are.

Another knock sounds unkindly at the door.

There’s no more time to be together—but you share another kiss anyway.

“Goodbye, my love.” He whispers on your lips because he knows that this is the end, that he may never see you again.

“Goodbye.” You step back, releasing your hold at last.

You open the door and he steps outside.

“Gentleman,” Helmut greets the others nonchalantly, as though he weren’t moments away from delaying the mission in favor of sharing something even more personal with you.

The sun is high in the sky, but the weather is deceptively chilly.

“What were you doing in there?” James asks, his voice full of unfounded accusations.

“Come on, Buck.” Sam shakes his head. He lets out a loud, exasperated sigh and starts toward the car.

“What?” James follows Sam toward the car, annoyed he must defend himself from some implied accusation.

“I was merely bidding farewell to my dear companion, of course,” Helmut answers truthfully, sending a mischievous little wink your way.

"Cuídate!" You call after them. Take care.

Helmut takes a last look at the home you once shared, one last look at you as you watch him from the doorway.

The kitchen is far too cheery now. The sun streams inside through the open curtains, and the smell of coffee lingers in the air. Helmut washed the dishes before he left, leaving only his favorite mug behind. It stares at you from its place on the countertop, its dark ceramic gleaming in the light.

You don’t feel your knees buckle or your hands shake, you don’t feel the mangled sob rising up from your chest, you don’t feel the tears that gather at the corner of your eyes and pour down your cheeks like heavy rain.

Your body lurches forward. You reach out to steady yourself but somehow manage to knock the mug over instead. It strikes the title with a sickening clink that echoes through the air.

It chips, but it doesn't shatter. The coffee spills from the mouth and spreads fans out in every direction, staining the tiles on the floor.

Helmut would never know you chipped his favorite mug—but you cry about it anyway.

You cry for the life you could have had together, one where you dumped the stale remnants of his coffee every morning, one where your first kiss wasn’t also the last, one where he held you every day, and you healed your hearts together instead of apart.

You cried because your feelings had no place else to go.

*

Time passes.

*

Time passes.

*

Time passes.

*

You’re alright; you don’t break, or bend, or toil beneath the weight of your grief. The world moves forward, and so do you:

Anežka returns. (“How was the Baron?” She asks you. “We’re the two of you able to… become familiar with one another?” You wish.)

You learn Helmut was taken to the raft. (You order his affairs and have his things sent over to him.)

Sam Wilson becomes Captain America. (He gives a speech that inspires the world to do better.)

The Flag Smashers are killed in a car bombing. (‘No suspects as of yet,’ the report says and your heart tightens at the thought of who might have been responsible.)

You carry on.

*

You receive a package in the mail one day, a thick brochure from The Raft outlining the specifics of a Prison Work Rehabilitation Program.

The front photo was disturbingly picturesque, framing the facility as less of a prison and more like a seaside resort.

'Propaganda,’ you think as you flip through the glossy pages. The program is endorsed by some guy named Thaddeus Ross. You think he was a general or a secretary or something but you aren’t quite sure.

The back of the brochure displays an image of a happy family reuniting and you roll your eyes. Prisoners on the Raft don’t get to go home to their families.

You toss the brochure away without a second thought.

*

A few weeks later, you’re sent flowers after an art show. It’s a beautiful arrangement; twelve thick-stemmed roses wrapped in gold foil.

It adds a classic touch to the modern look of the Visiting Artists’ Office, standing out amongst the dark tables and chairs. But it’s the card that catches your attention; it was left completely blank.

You aren’t sure how you feel about having a secret admirer but you take the flowers home regardless. They’d look nice in a vase near the window, the bright reds mixing with the autumn leaves.

The trip home is short and uneventful and you thank your driver on the way to the door.

You slide your house slippers on and are surprised to see Anežka’s pink one’s by the door as well. You can hear her in the kitchen, opening and closing the doors of the pantry as the air grows warm with the spices of her favorite tea.

“Anežka,” You call out, “I’m home!”

You set the flowers on a side table, barely conscious of the soft footsteps trailing in from the kitchen till Anežka sets her mug down on the coffee table.

“Look what I’ve got. A 'secret admirer’ sent them. Should we put them here or downstairs?” You take an artful picture of the arrangement.

“Neither is a wholly appropriate place.”

You freeze.

Your mind draws blank as it fails to process the words you heard someone other than Anežka speak.

You turn around quickly, knocking the flowers off the table as you do.

“Helmut?” Your voice lowers as a million feelings bubble up inside of you. They threaten to explode.

Helmut is there—right there—dressed in nothing but a bathrobe and his house slippers with a cat-like smile stretched across his handsome features.

He strides forward with confidence, stopping so close you nearly reel back.

“These are special flowers, драга, brought all the way from Ecuador.” He kneels before you, the hem of his robe splitting at the knee to offer a very seductive glimpse of his thigh.

He reaches around you, grabs the fallen bouquet, and sets them gingerly on the table as he stands. “We should place these in your bedroom so you may admire them every night.”

“What’s happening?” You finally manage to ask him, “what’s going on?”

“I’m home,” Helmut teases, speaking as though you failed to notice his soft brown eyes, his damp hair, or the heat that surges between you as he stands close enough to touch, to kiss if you wanted.

He brushes a hand against your cheek.

“Helmut,” you whisper again, but your voice is stern and more controlled this time. “How are you here? You’re supposed to be in Raft.” Despite your words, you lean a little closer, resting both hands against his chest, near the opening of his robe.

“It seems someone of great influence decided my sentence was better served outside the walls of the prison.”

“Like civil service?” You ask, but then you remember the brochure you received in the mail— the propaganda, or so you believed. “Or… Prison Work Rehabilitation?”

“Something like that. There’s a team,” he makes a flippant gesture with his hand before bringing it to rest on the curve of your hip. “Though I needed time to address the matter of my… financial limitations.”

“Limitations?”

“Of course.” He pulls you closer, encircling you in his arms. “The holder of my assets is quite a formidable woman. I thought it best to pay her a visit, to request access to the full extent of my resources. As stubborn as she is, I assume it will take a great many visits.”

“That would be wise,” You nod slowly, a wide smile coming to your face.

“I can’t be with you always, драга,” he tells you, “but I will be here.”

And you don’t quite remember what you promise in reply (or if you promised anything at all) because he kisses you.

Your fingers slide down his chest, brushing past his chest hair and the little charm he wears around his neck.

You don’t know how long you stay there, kissing, and sighing, and melting in the arms of the man you love, but you’re vaguely aware of being walked back against the wall, of the front door opening and closing at some point, and of Anežka pausing by the threshold, groceries in hand.

“Anežka,” He greets her, but his dark and hungry gaze lingers on you, only you.

“Hello, Baron… It’s good to see you.” Her voice waivers, but the sentiment is real. “M-Miss,” she nods in your direction.

“Hi, Anežka.” You’re not quite sure what to say.

“Why don’t you take a few days off?” Helmut suggests, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’ll take care of things here.”

“O-of course, Baron—Thank you.” Anežka glances between you one more time before setting the bags down near the door. “Good luck, Miss!” She calls out before leaving.

And as her footsteps grow quiet and hush in the distance, his eyes meet yours and his kiss finds its home upon your lips.

(And later when Helmut comes undone beneath your gaze and the rocking of your hips against his, you bring him home once again.)

And he keeps coming home to you.

***

And so we've reached the end. Thanks so much for reading! I appreciate all the support. This was my first fanfic in many years and I'm glad I could bring it to a close.

The end is a bit of wishful thinking on my part but I wanted to end on a happy note.

I'll probably write one or two bonuschapter that's basically just smut. So if you're 18+ and would like to remain on the taglist (or be added,) just let me know!

Taglist:

@actuallyanita, @fillechatoyante, @viviace, @buckyandlokicanhaveme, @sapphiredreamer26, @robur-bellicum, @apparrio

My face now casted between glimpses of dim lighting found overhead. I’d barely stepped through the lobby, but he stood in line at the concierge desk, offering this low chuckle and leaning his elbow along the marble counter to seem friendly.

I knew it was an act, the kind of facade that tricked average people. These poor witnesses fell victim to his charm, innocently playing along. This bastard weaseled his way into one of the most luxurious venues that I’d ever visited, career or not.

In line, I watched from the corner of my eye as this particular target had signed his name, saying goodbye to the vested employee who’d smiled all through, clearly clueless around who just entered this hotel.

“Excuse me, could you please help me with something?” I asked, grinning back to keep myself in character for the sake of this mission.

“Yes. How can I help you?” The employee's accented English reached me, answering my question. I’d already booked a hotel room for myself.

“I’m looking for my partner. He must’ve slipped away tonight.” I faked my own story and glanced around this lobby, hoping that the employee could understand me as time moved on.

“What is his name?” The vested employee asked, already looking through one guest log found perched on the desk.

“Helmut Zemo.” I whispered, biting my lip for a moment.

“Oh, right here.” The vested employee just briefly glanced towards this log, pointing Zemo’s name and even giving his room number.

“Thank you.” I winked, looking over my shoulder at the employee just before using one elevator to head upstairs.

______

Too easy. I thought to myself.

Now, all I’d have to do was shoot and go home. Rookies would’ve pierced a bullet right through the peephole and walked off, but its impact caused noise. Also, using silencers or suppressors weren’t enough to hide that damn ruckus, either.

I planned on introducing myself without giving too much away first and cornering him seconds later. At least I wasn’t foolish enough to raise my firearm in this hall and run him off. Initially showing violence would’ve ruined the mission altogether.

I knocked three times on the door and waited of course. One possibility of him not being in the room at all would’ve prolonged my assignment, leaving another time on location useless. Still, I could only be here, listening out for sounds from inside.

Just when I planned to make an update for headquarters, the door finally unlocked.

“Hello?” His Sokovian accent rasped towards my eardrum as we stood across from each other, barely speaking at first.

He then peeked near me from inside, opening that door just a little bit more than expected after a few seconds.

“I'm Erica.” I smiled, quietly hoping that his furrowed brow would disappear as this awkward greeting continued. He probably dreaded my American accent, but hid the disgust well.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Erica. My name is Zemo.” Despite using that charmed Sokovian accent again, His deceiving grin returned.

Leaning against the door, he folded both arms and stood in this grey sweater, but a black shirt layered the fabric. His nearly clean-shaven face glowed under ceiling bulbs, looking almost magical regardless of his devilish ways. One loose curl has dropped out of place from his light-brown hair that combed directly backwards.

“Glad we’ve met, Zemo.” I laughed to myself, immediately brewing more of my plan to arrest this bastard and bring home glory for the agency.

“Something funny?” His left brow arched upwards, but I wasn’t intimidated.

“No, it’s just that despite my vacation, I’m actually looking forward to going home this time.” I said, halfway-lying at this point.

“Why is that? Germany is a wonderful country.” Zemo narrowed his own brown eyes, matching my own glance towards him.

“Traveling is great, but I haven’t been home in quite a while because work has left me swamped.” I admitted this truth without giving the exact purpose of my visit tonight.

“That is unfortunate. My apologies for your predicament.” He frowned, almost looking adorable despite the current situation.

“I appreciate the apology, but I’m not here for pity.” I said.

“Why are you here?” Zemo rasped his voice again, facing me with something other than confusion.

If I confessed my true intentions now, he would shoot first and leave me bleeding out on this beautifully carpeted floor.

Instead, I ended the distance, letting his knee almost wedge itself between my legs. He welcomed our closeness, scoping me up and down with those perfect yet mischievous brown eyes.

“Because I want to be.” Whispering, I responded, allowing him to hold my face with both hands. Even strong cologne had then wafted towards me, emitting this woodsy yet citrus aroma.

His sweater heated my body as we embraced each other, giving warmth that the evening hadn’t offered. It would be criminal to move away from him, but I wanted to remember the mission, hoping that my objective wouldn’t be lost in a few days.

“Please stay..” He whispered, looking down towards me despite holding my face between both thumbs.

In that moment, his mischief vanished, revealing another emotion that I’d selfishly deemed him incapable of:

Their booth was too big for two people but wasn't that the point of being ostentatious.

A server was waiting and Christine waved hello as they approached, realizing she hadn't really stopped smiling since they got out of his car.

It was all so obnoxiously indulgent. Every inch of the place, of this entire island, felt so completely absurd. How do people live like this while others are dying and being displaced—tossed aside like trash?

No. No. She wouldn't think of that. Not now.

Tonight she would just submit to being spoiled and happy without so much as another thought for the pathetic state of the world. She deserved one damn night.

"Would you like a drink?" Zemo asked, but it took a moment for her to answer. He’d brushed her hair from her shoulders, gliding his fingertips down the center of her back until he pressed his hand to the place where her spine curved the deepest. His lips brushed her ear when he spoke.

All she could do was give a nod and shut her eyes as he kissed her temple before letting her go.

Zemo turned away and Christine watched him make the server laugh. The poor girl even blushed as he ordered. Fortunately she’d never been bothered by the curse of jealousy in fact she loved watching him charm other people. Maybe because it made her own feelings seem a little less foolish.

God— it’d only been a month.

She stepped back crossing her arms at the wrists, watching with a look of worry, not because the girl was now batting her lashes at him, but because in moments like this Christine could step outside of herself and see just how quickly her world with him seemed to move.

He’d been her enemy just a few weeks ago. She still knew what it felt like to point a gun at him and now she stood there trying not to look lovesick and give in to the little spasms of pleasure that flexed between her legs any time she thought back to just two nights ago. Their first time together— She could see him in the bath so vividly; the water on his skin, his wet hair nearly black and slicked back away from his face. She could feel his chest under her hands and how the muscle of his shoulders and arms moved as he did, how his hands felt on her hips, his fingers gripping too tight. She could still feel him so hard inside of her— Just the sound of his voice tossed her back into the moment, gripping her heart and her body.

Baron Fucking Zemo.