#oeznik

little doodle of zemo and oeznik ❤️

AN: This is a yandere Zemo fic. That means that it will have dark content. I do not endorse these relationships and behaviour in real life. This chapter contains drugs and non-consensual drugging and canon typical attitudes and behaviours for the X men universe when it comes to mutants.

Translations:

“Нет. Вам не нужно входить.” - “No. You don't have to come in.”

“ты не тот, кого он хочет.” - “You are not who he wants.”

The past few hours had passed in a blur for Natasha.  She had half expected Zemo to board a plane with Oeznik and Carl and leave her alone in America to lament her failure to ensure Carl’s safety like she had vowed to Heike.

Instead, she found herself in the back of a car driven by Oeznik with the stoic man not engaging her in any conversation whatsoever.  Not that she had expected him to chat with her the second she was alone with him.  Zemo followed closely behind Oeznik in a car with Carl.

See Tropical Fluff Verse tag for other installments. (There's no particular chronological order.)

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It had been a constant, ever since they had been traveling with Zemo, that his butler showed up randomly wherever they went. Sam had never actually caught Zemo making contact with him, or figured out exactly what their method of communicating was; it could be something as normal as regular phone calls, or some completely bonkers Zemo thing, dead drops or burner phones or a private radio transmitter hidden in his teeth or messages written on tree bark in invisible ink, who knew.

In any case, they had arrived in the Colombia house to find the sheets turned down and fresh food in the refrigerator. There was a plausible non-Oeznik-related reason for this (a couple who lived nearby did regular caretaking on the place; they had already stopped in a couple of times to bring supplies and do light housekeeping). But nevertheless, Sam was deeply unsurprised when he came into the kitchen and found Oeznik restocking Zemo's liquor cabinet.

"Want a hand with that?" Sam asked as the elderly butler very slowly transferred one bottle at a time of assorted, probably very expensive cognac and Scotch from a padded crate to the cabinet.

"Very much appreciated," Oeznik said in his scratchy voice. He stepped back and then proceeded to give Sam specific directions about the placement of each individual bottle.

Bucky came in with a crate in each arm. "That's the last of it. Oh, hi, Sam."

"How much alcohol does one middle-aged terrorist need, exactly?" Sam asked. Those crates were bigger than this one.

Oeznik didn't appear put off by the phrasing. "The baron needs to be able to entertain. Those go to the wine cellar."

Bucky heaved a sigh and picked up the crates again.

"There's a wine cellar?" Sam said.

Oeznik pointed to the next bottle in the crate. "That one should be placed beside the fruit liqueurs. No, on the left."

Bucky was back a few minutes later, empty-handed. "Help you out here?"

"We're just finishing up," Sam said, arranging the last bottle to Oeznik's specifications and wondering how this was his life. "Where exactly is his baronial highness, anyway?"

"Napping in our—in his room, last I saw," Bucky said.

What he had started to say, Sam guessed, was "in our room," since they had all been sharing the master bedroom since the first few days they'd been here. It made Sam realize, with a slight drop in his stomach, that he had absolutely no idea how much Oeznik knew about the nature of their relationship, or how much it was safe for the guy to know, for that matter. 

Keeping his voice light, Sam said, "God forbid he should lift a finger to help. So you gonna just drop in, leave some booze, and head out again?"

Oeznik shrugged slightly as he carefully, at glacial speed, piled all of the shredded paper padding back inside the crate. "Might I prevail on you to carry this out for me, Mr. Barnes?"

Sam trailed them out into the afternoon heat and humidity, and found that Oeznik had arrived in a vintage delivery truck, pastel blue, in perfectly pristine condition, that looked like it dated to approximately the 1940s. Only a light spray of mud above the wheels marred its gleaming perfection. Bucky put the crate in the back with other empty crates, giving the vehicle an admiring look as he did so.

"You're just gonna leave without talking to him," Sam said.

"There's no need to. Arrangements have been made." Oeznik patted his pockets. "Ah." He found his keys and then turned to the two of them. "Might I have a word, gentlemen, before I go?"

"Yeah?" Sam said. Bucky looked up from an admiring inspection of the gently curving fenders of the truck.

Oeznik cleared his throat, smoothing down his lapels with small fussy movements. "The baron has been through a great deal of upheaval, tragedy, and loss in the past decade."

"Some of it self-inflicted," Sam said.

Oeznik didn't acknowledge this. Instead he went on in his light, cracked voice. "He has come to care for both of you, perhaps more than you know."

Well, way to make him feel like an asshole. Bucky was quiet, his metal hand resting on the truck fender. Sam said carefully, "Does he, er—talk to you about us?"

"I am not unobservant," Oeznik said. "I simply wanted to be sure that you both understand the baron does not give his trust or his ... consideration lightly. And—" His voice darkened a shade. "I will not see him hurt."

There was a brief pause as the butler opened the driver's side door, and Sam traded a swift glance with Bucky, who was wearing a slight frown. Then Sam said, "We aren't going to."

"See that you don't. I would hate to clean up the resulting mess."

"The, er, what?"

The car door slammed. Oeznik raised a hand in a palsied wave, and turned the engine over.

"Hey—"

The vintage delivery truck pulled away, navigating the turns of the house's sweeping crushed-shell drive. 

Sam looked at Bucky and said, "Was that a shovel talk?"

"I don't know what that is, but it sounded kind of threatening."

"How threatening, exactly? He's like ... ninety."

"I'm a hundred and seven, Sam."

"Shut it."

"Look, we both know he—"

"Yeah," Sam said shortly, because the Flag-Smashers' death was a can of worms they hadn't opened yet, and Sam wasn't sure he wanted to examine it closely.

"Yeah," Bucky said, his voice soft. "Anyway—"

"Ah, you're out here," said Zemo's voice from the shadowed doorway. They both turned. He was lounging in the entryway, wearing a loose bathrobe open nearly to the waist. His hair was tousled and sweat-dampened from sleep, and something in Sam's chest cracked a little.

Oeznik, I don't know if you'll believe me, but you've got nothing to worry about.

"Your butler was here," Bucky said.

"Yes, I know," Zemo said brightly. "There's fresh swordfish soaking in milk. It reduces the fishy taste, you know. Have you had it with mango?" His voice had the slight over-brightness when he was trying a little too hard to cover some emotion, which made Sam wonder what he was covering, exactly. But his eyes were soft, and the smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth was genuine.

"You're so weird," Sam said, but he went from the sun-splashed courtyard into the shadowed foyer, with Bucky on his heels. Zemo put up no resistance when Sam put an arm around his loosely robed waist and kissed him, then passed him neatly to Bucky.

"So that's a yes on swordfish," Zemo said, a little breathlessly, when Bucky was done with him.