after killing a high-ranking Hydra official, Zemo takes pity on the young woman who arrived home at the wrong time. he sees too much of himself and his past in her and just can’t let her go.
“This is boring,” she whined, lightly banging her head against the plush backing of the booth. Her hands gripped the edge of the table as her fingernails tapped restlessly against the wood. Zemo took another sip of his drink and, without even looking her way, grabbed both of her hands with one of his own, depositing them onto her lap.
“You wanted to come along,” Zemo reminded her. “I told you it would be boring, yet you insisted.”
Her cheeks puffed out in indignation, crossing her arms as she turned her gaze back down to the table. For a minute, she was able to sit still. But the sound of voices echoing off the walls of the bar mixed in with the clinks of glassware and pounding bass made her head hurt tenfold. She tried to keep still and listen, but her body remained on edge.
Zemo knew this— even he was getting annoyed by the rising decibel level of the bar. Maintaining composure was something he’d learned with age, he thought as he reminded himself just how young his companion truly was. While he was nearing fifty, she was just barely in her twenties. She simply hadn’t had time to learn how to tame her nerves.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as she squirmed in her seat, her head slightly craned to look around the bar. “Is your friend even here yet?” She asked impatiently.
“I wouldn’t say he’s a friend,” Zemo replied, checking his watch. “But he is running quite late.”
“That’s rude.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Especially when it’s already boring as balls in here.” She chided, shrinking down further in the booth seat. Her feet lifted to rest on the seat opposite her, the tips of her shoes just barely brushing the wood. “You won’t even let me dance or drink.”
Zemo shook his head in disbelief. “You are not here to get drunk or kidnapped. Besides, I bought you a cola.”
“You have whiskey, though—”
“Darling,” he lowered his voice as he gently pulled on her chin, forcing their eyes to meet. He could hear her feet slide off the bench at the sudden tone change, scrambling now for more leverage on her own seat. “Now’s not the time for the sass. Don’t embarrass me by being a brat.”
A cheeky smile spread across her face as a glint of mischief shone in her eye. “I like making you mad.”
Zemo didn’t react immediately. He let the silence stretch thickly between them as his fingers remained hooked under her chin, gaze steady. The music carried on around them, laughter bursting from nearby tables. But in their booth, the air remained quiet and slow.
“You enjoy testing my limits,” he calmly observed. She leaned forward, emboldened by the lack of immediate reprimand.
“Maybe I am.”
His thumb brushed slowly along the underside of her jaw in a warm warning. Her eyes closed at the grounding touch, practically purring under his hand. Briefly, Zemo’s gaze dropped to take in the way she was sitting: folded into the booth, coiled with relentless energy. Then his eyes returned to her face, this time much sharper.
“You like seeing how far you can push,” he said quietly, leaning in to whisper into her ear. “Yet the moment I give you the slightest of touches, you turn into a touch-starved kitten.”
Her breathing stuttered ever so slightly. Not because of the words, but because of how close he was as he said them. His voice was low and velvet-smooth, meant just for her. The bass from the speakers masked everything around them, turning his whispers into something intimate and private, just for her.
She swallowed, but didn’t pull away. “I do not,” she muttered, though her voice had softened entirely, the earlier bravado dissipating under his hand.
Zemo’s thumb shifted, tilting her chin just slightly higher. “No?” He asked lightly.
Her lashes fluttered. She was still perched too close to him with knees angled towards his thighs. Her previous restlessness transformed into a quiet tension: a coil in her chest rather than in her limbs.
“You complain,” he continued, “you provoke, you pout.”
His hand slid from her jaw to rest briefly at the side of her neck. She inhaled sharply at the contact and dropped her shoulders.
“And yet,” he added, his thumb brushing lazily against the sensitive skin just below her ear, “one little touch, a firm voice, and you melt.”
“I’m not melting,” she weakly insisted.
His lips curved into a faint smile. “No, you are trying very hard not to.”
He noted the way her pulse fluttered under his hand, sliding it away smoothly. The absence of touch was immediate and almost startling. To her, the air felt colder without it.
“Sit properly,” he instructed softly, smoothing his cuff as though nothing had happened. “Our guest has arrived.”
