An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Summary: It's autumn in the Bavarian Forest and Zemo is accompanied by a special guest for a tea ceremony and an intimate encounter.
Their path is obscured by a thick blanket of leaves that feels soft and welcoming underfoot. A gentle breath of autumn stirs them to dance — bright yellow sycamore, brilliant red maple and burnt orange ash swirl together and lift upward, touching the bark of their host trees with what feels like reverence and a bittersweet goodbye. The air is crisp and the afternoon sky is blue as a turquoise sea. As they walk hand in hand, she considers the sad pangs of autumn, which remind her that moments are brief — fleeting, and the passage of time slows for no one in the tumult of the world. She squeezes her baron’s hand just a little bit harder as an anxiousness creeps into her mind and works at the hairs on the back of her neck. Like all things and the seasons, these moments, too, shall end.
Helmut darts her a glance and a half-smile. “Everything alright, golubica?” He asks, returning the squeeze of her hand with one of his own.
“Yeah, of course,” she says, coaxing a full smile and a sparkling laugh that’s conjured by the butterflies in her stomach when he calls her dove in his native tongue. Her eyes glance over to find his, and she can’t help but feel as though their chestnut irises are auras against the landscape. It’s as though he embodies autumn with his warm stare and the golden-brown of his carefully groomed hair. His complexion is pale, but his brow is dark and defined; his lips, a line like a quiet and easy stream that hides unexpected depth and danger.
The Bavarian Forest is a mysterious, old and magical place — one that she never expected to see with him. She wonders how long the fantasy will last before he’s wrenched from her once again and thrust back into the consequences of his decisions. For now, though, they stroll — their boots pushing against the soft surface of the earth, and the ends of their coats tapping together in harmony.
“We’ll stop just up here,” he points to a small clearing encircled by spruce and fir trees.
In response, she shifts the pack on her shoulder and brushes errant hairs that the forest air has encouraged in front of her eyes. It’s clear that he’s been to this place before, and she wonders about with whom.
When they reach the clearing, it becomes obvious that although remote, it’s a known spot for passers-through. There is a variety of large rocks scattered throughout that have been flattened over time by the resting hides of previous visitors, probably over the course of many centuries.
Helmut hastens his pace ahead of her and sweeps over a few spots with his feet until the sole of his boot finds a ring of stones that at one time housed a campfire. He smiles with satisfaction, and gestures to her to approach and sit. He offloads the pack from his own shoulder and motions for the one that she carries. As he starts to build a tidy fire, she pulls her coat around her more tightly against the cooling of the late afternoon.
The sun filters its rays through swaying branches and sharp pine leaves, and it’s as though she watches him through a lens that progressively moves him farther and farther from her. His movements are calculated and meaningful; his fingers drift over the tea kettle, spoons, scoops and mugs like a composer’s. He is quiet as he works while they are serenaded by birds and an orchestra of air movement amid creaking bark, vines and leaves.
“Hela?” She starts, almost immediately remorseful. He hums at her in acknowledgment because he knows what she’s going to ask.
“Never mind, it’s not important,” she returns, and he pours boiling water from the kettle into a humble teapot over strong black tea.
Helmut returns to a standing position and rubs his hands together, looking skyward and scanning their surroundings for the first time since they arrived.
“I love this time of year,” he says. As he paces, lost in thought, the smoke of the fire and the steam of the tea rise and whirl about him as the hem of his open wool coat coaxes the elements into a choreographed ballet. Everything is in motion, and he becomes more than Baron Helmut Zemo. He is everything rich and ancient in the world — an alchemist, a conjurer, a druid, a seer, a Byzantine warrior, a Slavic fire god.
Returning to his task, he rinses the tea, replaces it in the pot with fresh boiling water, and allows it to steep for a few moments before adding mint and sugar. When he is satisfied, he pours the brew into two mugs. He stokes their little campfire before joining her on the flat rock that she selected as a seat. His leg presses against hers and he hands her the steaming elixir, which hits her senses with a recollection of something far away and unfamiliar — like a memory she could only understand in a dream.
He brushes her hair aside and contemplates her profile as she stares down into her tea mug.
“You are sad today,” he says.
She takes a sip of the tea and gazes out on the clearing before turning to meet the moon of his face, which is only inches from hers. Her eyes dart about, locating their favorite points — his lashes, the circles under his eyes that are just a little darker in the waning sun, the spread of his nose and cheeks, his clenched jawline.
“Sometimes, I don’t think I know who you are,” she says quietly, reaching up with a tea-warmed hand and touching at the flesh of his cheek.
He leans closer and rests his lips on hers. His touch is light and velvety, and she applies the tiniest bit of pressure to feel their heat. A desire begins to cut into her gut and work at the space between her thighs because like the fire, forest, smoke and ash, she moves at his command.
She pulls away to take another large draught of tea, allowing the mint and sugar to wash into her mouth and flavor her tongue. She rests the mug beside her and swivels to straddle his lap. He sets his own mug aside and weaves his hands into her coat. Leaning in slowly, she opens her mouth against him and the flavors of their lips meld — sweet herbaceousness and the bitter, primeval taste of the tea. In her mind and on the wind, she can hear music, a brooding lament invoked by the sounds of tagelharpa, drums, flutes and voices that she doesn’t know and can’t understand.
He presses against her center, eager to feel her warmth and lust, and he kisses her neck as his hands snake under her clothes to find the flesh of her breasts. She exhales forcefully as her eyes flutter closed and he watches her face as it turns from tempered delight to shameless yearning.
The campfire warms her back and she considers what it would feel like to be lost, naked and ensnared with him in the forest’s embrace.
“What did you want to ask me,” he whispers at her, his hot breath raising gooseflesh on her arms.
She pauses, her hands falling to his sides and pushing precisely against the muscles and sinew under his sweater.
“You’ve been to this place before,” she says.
“Yes,” he replies, studying her, awaiting her follow-up. As he does so, his fingers tighten on the insides of her thighs, and she shifts distractedly. “With my wife,” he continues.
She trembles slightly against her uncertainty, wanting and the approach of evening, and he takes her face in his hands. She makes to speak, but he quiets her. Sparks from the fire reach into the air and throw stars into the black mirrors of his eyes. Her heart strikes hard and she fights back emotion by closing her eyes and taking a deep breath of the late autumn evening on this, their forest walk.
“But it was never like this,” he whispers against the curve of her ear. Her hands tighten around his biceps because she aches to hear it. “Not like with you.”
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