#Baron Zemo romance because thats what we want

[cherryblossomtease]

In The Fairest Season ~ Part 2

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~JUNE~

The first time you sing for the Baron you haven’t even met him yet. In fact, you have no idea that he is in the audience.

Your solo, the lone aria not sung by Serena, the lead vocalist who will never let anyone forget it, opens the second act and it is your chance to show the world, or at least the city, that you are meant for greater things.

You give the song everything you have. Living it, breathing it, exhaling it out across that stage until the audience is moved to tears. You can’t see them for the lights, but you can feel it.

Follow that, you think as you glide offstage, passing the undeserving diva who strong armed her way to top billing. You don’t like to fight amongst your own kind, but if she suddenly lost her ability to speak you wouldn’t be sad about it.

Curtain call confirms your intuition. You are pulled front and center by your cast-mates and their own applause is drown out by the roar of the crowd.

The people love you.

Accepting your praise with a truly humble heart, you curtsy under a wave of roses. All the while, one man sits watching from a private box.

He is the last to stand. Not because he disagrees with the ovation, but because he’s been rendered immobile since the moment you opened your mouth.

You didn’t know it then and neither of you would be certain right away, but it is clear to any who see the way he looks at the aspiring songbird dipping low as she thanks the audience with tears in her eyes— Baron Helmut Zemo is already falling in love with you.

While finding out as much as he can about you is easy for a man like the Baron, your only knowledge of him is gained the same way as most outside of the elite circles— through rumors and whispers— and those tell the tale of a powerful man who has gained the love and devotion of his fellow soldiers and countrymen while at war with an enemy state. Though some say his tactics were less than honorable…

Either way their war was too distant, both in time and setting to matter to anyone here, but it changed the Sokovian people forever, reshaping the land and claiming so many lives.

Zemo’s wife and child among them.

You’d heard the story in passing and found it heartbreaking but hadn’t felt the need to think of it again until today, thanks in large part to the kindness of Colonel Nicholas Fury and his wife, the Lady Valentina a former Countess through marriage with a taste for danger. It comes as little surprise to those in the know that the Colonel, or his Lady wife would know someone like the Baron, who happens to be a former Colonel himself, though there are many secrets kept about their history and just how such a friendship was made.

Today however, none of it matters as the Colonel and Lady Valentina are holding a lovely benefit for the local children’s home, and while it is a reason to show off their mysterious guest, as the Baron will be staying with the pair for the season, you’d agreed to entertain long before rumors of this Baron began to make the rounds. The Colonel pays prices most girls won’t see after a month of work, and with nothing expected from you but your voice at its best and your personality front and center to charm the upper class, this is the sort of performance you look forward to.

Accompanied by piano in the grand solarium, the performance is by your own standards a very good one; Understated, gentle on the ear, but, as is evidence by the looks on the faces of the Lords and Ladies in attendance, no less impactful.

“Haunting” Is what you’re told by those who greet you afterwards and you wear that word like a badge of honor over your heart as you mingle.

It is between sets while standing at the piano that you feel the lightest touch on your shoulder.

Fingertips, brushing your bare skin with a hesitancy but such longing that your attention is grabbed instantly.

You’ve been touched like this before, but this is different—you turn around feeling curiosity instead of dread.

You aren’t quite sure how long it takes you to speak. Maybe it’s seconds, perhaps some minutes or more before you find your words, the point is, time feels irrelevant.

His gaze is as bold as the sun and you are held there, left to feel the trails of heat along your skin in the wake of it—up your arms, across your shoulders and neck, your lips— you’ve never had a man look at you this way before and not felt the urgent need to run. Instead, you take a step forward.

“Madame. Allow me to introduce his Lordship, Baron Helmut Zemo.” The Colonel announces.

With a slow bow of your head you lower into a small curtsey to show respect for the man above your station. Your eyes lift to meet his as you rise up and watch his mouth curl into a hint of a smile.

“Madame y/n” He exhales when he says your name as though he is relieved to know it and you feel the little hairs on the back of your neck rise as if he’s whispered in your ear. “It is an honor.”

You smile and thank him “The honor is of course mine, my Lord Baron.”

“After today I’ve had the privilege of watching you perform twice now. But I was beginning to fear I might never meet you in the flesh.”

Something about his choice of words makes you feel warm all over. “It seems the stars have aligned and brought us together after all.” You say with a genuine smile.

He gives a hint of a laugh and glances at Fury. “Yes a, Man shaped constellation” He teases making the Colonel grin.

“Forgive me Barron Zemo,” You say a little timid. “I hope I don’t embarrass you or myself by speaking freely, but… your accent? Please, tell me the name of your country. I’ve heard it said before but can quite recall.” You’re unable to hold back your curiosity and the way he forms words has you eager to know more.

“Ah.” He flashes a quick smile. “Well, you see I am only here to visit my friend as you know.” He says glancing at Fury. “A summer abroad. A summer away…” You catch a hint of sadness but he presses on. “I am from Sokovia. A small country but there is none that can compare to its beauty.”

“Sokovia?” You say it slowly “Yes, in passing I’ve heard it said but I am ashamed to say I could not point to it on a map. Though I’m sure it’s as beautiful as the tone you take when speaking of it.” You pause to look him in the eye. “I can hear the love you hold for your homeland in your voice Baron.” You are being polite but the truth is, you are struck by it. He has a sort of rasping tenor that comes out in a hesitant whisper, as though he wants to say more but fears saying too much.

I can take it, you think and find yourself drawing your bottom lip between your teeth as you study his. He has a wonderfully wide mouth and the way his lips move when he speaks is hypnotic.

“I will never hide my love for my country. Not after everything we have been through.” He says.

You smile reading between the lines. “I see that. And while I’m only a singer who has had her travel limited.” You admit. “I hope to perform across the world. Tell me the best Sokovian stage Baron and perhaps I will stand on it one day.” You say, aware of how eager you sound but know that it’s the truth.

The Colonel laughs like all wealthy men do when they hear the dreams of women, but the Baron does not. No, he looks at you as though you’ve just spoken your deepest desires aloud and he feels blessed to have heard them.

“One day, yes. Perhaps you will.” He says and you hope he doesn’t notice how your breath catches in your throat, but the way his eyes fix on yours makes you feel seen.

The three of you fall silent and you’re very aware of Colonel Fury watching the two of you. You see his coy smile from the corner of your eye and its clear that he thinks the Baron will have you down to your stockings by the days end, but nothing is further from the truth.

Baron Zemo doesn’t try to take your dress off, not even when you wander inside and into the library alone with him. Instead he listens to you tell stories about the parts of your life that are easy to share and with what seems to be genuine interest.

You tell him about your mother who was a singer before you, though she never made it to the big stage. You still send money home to her and your sweet father who is too sick to work but still manages to paint when he’s feeling up to it.

“So you are the product of true love.” He says and while there is an edge to his voice, he is not trying to tease. You feel him watching you touch the spines of the many books along the shelves in the dimly lit room.

“Why do you say that?” You ask, your back still to him.

“A singer and an artist who marry do it for no other reason.” He says, confident in his statement. You can hear the smile in his voice and your own grows across your face. Coming from anyone else this would be an insult. Coming from him, it turns your ordinary origins into something romantic.

“Love, with the hope of fame and money.” You correct with a smirk and find him over your shoulder.

He is standing in the light of the large south facing window and you have no choice but to turn and face him. It’s nearly unfair that any man should be so beautiful.

You’d noticed the way the other women in attendance looked at him in his exquisite jacket and vest, looking the very picture of fashionable victorian masculinity; and done without effort it would seem. Just his natural air of confidence. Honestly you’re convinced Zemo could make a workhouse uniform look like the kings cape.

What would those women do now, you wonder. With his brown hair looking almost black in the library shadows, so thick and pretty as it falls in his eyes in lovely contrast to his fair skin.

As the clouds part and a strong band of light breaks through the windows casting a warm glow over the man, you smile imagining the socialites batting their lashes and dipping into quaint curtsies to attract him, but it seems none can manage to take his eyes from you…

They would all say it’s because you’re a stage whore, a woman of ill repute with the gift of song. But they are wrong. They always are.

“Tell me Baron Zemo, how long did you say you’ll be staying” You ask crossing the room to step into the sun with him.

He looks down at you and you notice for the first time the flecks of gold in his eyes. “I must return at the end of August.”

“Oh.” You look away. It’s already June.

His body language changes a bit, like someone has splashed cold water over him and he goes stiff. Quickly as if desperate to do so, he takes hold of your hand which startles you as much as it excites you. You try not to let him see the way he’s made your own body respond but your heart threatens to leap from your chest.

“Would it be forward of me to ask you to join our small party for dinner this coming Saturday?”

Your eyes dart up finding such hope in his. “Not at all. So long as you understand what it is you’re asking?” You hate to turn the mood, it was so nice, but this needs to be said.

“What do you mean?”

“Well dinner with a performer of course. I suppose it could be seen as the Colonel’s kindness… but Baron please don’t tell me you’re so naive to the ways of the country you summer in.”

He gives you a curious frown “I forget where I am often. Your ways here will always be a little strange. You see in Sokovia, to possess a gift such as yours would see you walk among the people who look down on you here. We lift those better than ourselves up in my country.”

You feel light headed at the idea. Imagine being seen as important for what you are born with, and not for what you are born into. “It sounds wonderful.” You say, fully aware of how soft your voice is when you’re standing so close to him.

Him, this man you do not know. You pull your hand free from his.

Taking a step back you give a small curtsy. “I must go back, we have a few more songs to perform, but thank you for the walk, and for the invitation. I look forward to it!”

He smiles politely and offers to escort you, but you know better. No need ruining his reputation or starting rumors about your own.

You go back to the solarium and take up your place next to the piano and proceed to sing the heartbreaking aria that can decimate even the strongest of defenses.

Your eyes scan the room as you sing, finding hapless victims to serenade until finally you land on the Barron standing behind the rows of chairs.

The man is stricken by your words of love and loss and you think perhaps you could have warned him about your song.

When you find him again, it is an accident.

You’d gone off looking for your pianist when you find the Baron standing alone in the garden just off the parlor.

You almost speak but notice the way he stands there without moving. He is looking down at a bush of flowers; large white Lillies.

You brace against the doorframe and lean in to watch him for a moment before you realize… he raises his hand and wipes a tear before slipping it back into his pocket.

Tears over flowers? No. Not flowers, and then you understand. The war you know nothing of, took everything from him.

You feel guilty. Of all the songs you had to sing you chose the one that could break a healthy heart, what had it done to this shattered thing probably held together by nothing more than string and sheer determination.

Your own ached for him and you’d never longed to hold anything or anyone so much in your life, but you did not know him yet and quietly slipped back inside.

Your last interaction with the Baron that afternoon had been no more than a sweet goodbye, but your thoughts are preoccupied with him over the week.

You find your self thinking of the way he’d touched your shoulder while you dress for your performances, and onstage when you shut your eyes you see his looking back at you, golden in the sun.

When Saturday comes around, you ignore the teasing of your best friend Brigitte who watches the way you’re fussing over your hair and pinching your cheeks after dressing in the small apartment you share with her over the theatre. Thankfully no one keeps watch over the costumes and so you wear the pale yellow dress from last years production that you think looks best against your skin.

Brigitte asks if he’s proposed yet just to set you off, but only because she’s never seen you nervous, but then she’s never seen you so excited over a man. Presumably because none has ever managed to hold your attention for so long.

The carriage arrives to pick you up and you try desperately not to be won over by the fact that he’s sent his own.

You know that it is his.

You run your hand along the silk lined walls, inhaling deeply, picking up the faintest scent of his cologne as you sink into the seat. Your smile grows wide with no one there to see as the driver sitting high above steers the horses through the city streets, the light jostle inside keeping you alert as you imagine the Baron standing at the threshold of the estate waiting for you. It begins to feel wonderfully indecent to be surrounded by him so intimately.

And what would it feel like if he really did hold  you close? Would it feel this warm and safe? Would you rest in his arms as you do his carriage, rushing past the world feeling untouchable?

Your eyes close for a moment; you are lost in a sea of daydreams until a wheel hits a large hole that jolts you back to reality.  Eyes going wide, you quickly blow out the tension built up in your chest through your lips and shake you head trying not to smile.  The man has held your hand one time old girl. Calm down!

You are still flushed and breathing hard when you arrive. When you see Baron Zemo waiting for you in the hall of the estate, in his dinner jacket and tie, you feel as though he knows every indecent thought you had on that incredible ride through town. If he does however, the Baron does not humiliate you, only showers you with complements on your appearance tonight.

And though the night is perfection, dinner in the city would not be dinner without a scandal. And so it goes that yours is candlelit and ripe for the pamphlets.

Colonel and Lady treat you as their guest of honor, though it is the Baron who attracts the attention of the others in attendance.

As he escorts you to the dining room, Baron Zemo dares to whisper in your ear. “If I could have entertained you and you alone, I would have made it so. But this is —not allowed —on these foreign shores.” He says and you see the way his dark gaze fixes ahead. You aren’t sure if it is Lord or Lady who earns his contempt but all you can do is hold back your laughter.

“It’s perfectly fine. The rules are there for them, so long as I am in their world I will play along. To be perfectly honest Baron… ” You look up at him in the door way and he lays his hand over yours, resting in the crook of his elbow. “This is exquisite.” You say. He smiles looking a little relieved and you notice that he’s been watching your lips as you speak and you feel yourself blush.

That however is not the moment to cause the scandal. Nor does it come from the Baron expressing his rather progressive views which he offers up like a complement to the soup course. It comes when he asks your opinion and you, shock of all shocks, give it.

The Lady Hawthorn who is also in attendance tries to cut you off, but the Baron hushes her and urges you to go on.

With him backing you, you find yourself feeling quite free to express your desire to see all people treated equally, and end your monologue by announcing that you know such a utopia could never exist so long as the wealthy are pleased and the poor too overworked to notice. This sends the Lady over the edge and Fury into a fit of laughter.

Only Baron Zemo hears the truth and he looks at you through the deep yellow glow of candlelight with pride.

Unfortunately that, is not what they print.

Rising star flies too close to the sun

“What a ridiculous thing to say” You huff carrying an armful of gowns over to the mirror in the little dressing area of your apartment.

“Maybe, but you’ll sing to a packed house tonight” Brigitte grins as she lounges on the settee in the middle of the small but colorfully decorated room. “The audience loves a spectacle.” Her French accent makes everything sound cute but it is nothing short of annoying in the moment.

“It’s hardly a spectacle Brigitte. Just bored, sad, empty headed people with nothing better to do than twist your well thought out words and opinions. My, well thought out words and opinions.” You speak with conviction while trying to ignore the sinking sense of embarrassment as you hold each dress up over your underclothes, one at a time. You are angry of course, those damned pamphlets are nothing more than a way for them to openly indulge in gossip and cruelty about you and your kind. Granted you’re not above reading them from time to time and this isn’t the first experience you’ve had with being a feature (poor Lord Quinn. He did fall in love so easily) but this is the first time that you care.

“You’re quite the radical aren’t you.” Brigitte says sitting up and sipping her tonic.

“Yes, a woman with an opinion, how will the world move on.” You roll your eyes and sling the yellow dress aside.

“Those aren’t costumes.” Brigitte says suspiciously and sits up on her knees, her arms hanging over the back of the sofa.

You look at her in the mirror and sigh. “No. I can’t keep borrowing them and besides, these aren’t for the stage.”

She’s waiting but you hesitate. “Tell me! Who are they for? It’s him right? Your Baron.”

“He isn’t mine.” You scold. “But yes, Baron Zemo has asked me to accompany him to the festival tomorrow night, and…” You pause glancing at yourself in the mirror. “I’ve said yes.”

“Of course you have, silly girl.” Brigitte giggles and gets up, coming over to you. She stands at your back, her long elegant fingers resting on your shoulders. She presses her cheek to yours and you feel the swell of love for your oldest friend rise.

The two of you have been through so much together. From escaping the cruel and often times corporal punishment of St. Augustine’s school for girls, to the deadly grasp of the streets. You’d been fighting along side one another until you both managed to sing your way onto the stage.

While Brigitte is technically better, you’re the one who sings with heart and that small edge is why your likeness will hang from the posts and not hers, but she is your friend in all things and as you gain notoriety, you have every intention of bringing her right along with you.

“I don’t know why I think anything will come of it. He’s a Baron for goodness sake.” You say scrunching your nose up at the lavender dress.

Brigitte is waiting, knowing you’ll answer your own suspicions.

“But, he looks at me and it’s as though these barriers don’t exist. I might as well be the daughter of a Duke when he smiles.”

“In his eyes, perhaps you are.” She says kindly. “Now, put those dresses away, you’ll wear my white one and look nothing less than angelic tomorrow. Tonight, you’ll sing like one and win your place in the Barons heart for good.”

As fate would have it, Baron Zemo was not at the performance last night. It means nothing though, that much is clear. He is as taken with you as you almost allow yourself to be with him. It is a dangerous game you play, one that could see you broken by the end of summer, but it is so hard to stay away…

You stroll causally behind The Colonel and Lady Fury through the park grounds along the pea gravel paths lit by paper lanterns with sparks flying from swirling machines and flames that shoot up from small bonfires.

Brigitte and your friend Eloise are bringing up the rear, but it feels as though there isn’t another soul alive. Just you and him and the beautiful menagerie that surrounds you.

The festival is one you’ve heard of but never attended and you’re almost happy you never have because as far as firsts go this one is magic.

A show of sight and sound engages every sense. There are acrobats, jugglers, stilt walkers and sword swallowers. You smell the food being sold from small carts and hear the music of the far off bandstand. You have a hard time not running around like a child as you point and shriek at the shocking, and squeal with delight at the fun. Each beautiful display of oddities and wonder that seem to never phase the Baron amaze you, though he does take great joy in watching your reaction.

When a fire breather spits yellow flames in your path, you jump back with a scream grabbing Zemo’s arm which makes him laugh.

You’re suddenly aware of how jovial his voice can be and when you look up, he smiles like you’ve never seen before and closes his hand over yours.

You think he might let go, but instead he begins to walk again, happy to keep you close.

You take in the sights on either side of the lawn, until it all begins to feel like a dream. Perhaps it was the champagne you had on arrival…

“Thank you my Lord, I’ll never forget this night.” You say under the cover of a trellis dripping with wisteria just outside of the wonderful chaos.

“It has been quite the show” He says looking back at the distant festivities before settling on you again. He quickly takes off his black topper, his hair falling into his eyes. “Unlike anything I’ve ever seen” He says looking at you with such an intensity that you can not hold the eye contact. You smile and look away spotting a servant with a large tray of champagne stacked like a pyramid of glowing gold.

Baron Zemo sees how you look at it and waves him over, taking two glasses from the top giving one to you, and raising his glass in salute.

“What do we drink to?” You ask.

Zemo thinks while looking into your eyes. Finally he raises the glass a little higher. “To the continuation of our friendship.”

You feel your cheeks flush and your mouth go a little dry. To declare a friendship between you is something you almost wish he wouldn’t say, but, it’s already been done. Still, what future can there truly be, you wonder looking up at this man who, had you been born into a wealthy family would have been yours weeks ago. But then, something about the Baron tells you not to fixate on what could have been, and to always expect the unexpected.

The sound of your glasses clinking is drown out by the boom of fireworks in the distance.

You tip your glass and drink. The champagne is sweet and cold and bubbly. You swallow with a smile only to shut your eyes when he strokes your cheek with the back of his hand, his thumb daring to glide across your bottom lip.

You inhale the moment and open your eyes to find his wanting, but not here. Not yet.

“To our future.” You say, needing him to know that you wish to push forward.

The Baron nods and takes another drink, watching you do the same over his glass. “I must insist on seeing you again, you understand?” He asks as he finishes.

“Yes of course.” You say. “I have one week, and then the show continues.” You tell him feeling sorry for it. It’s not easy to balance a life on and off the stage, in fact you’ve never really had too before, but for him you will try.

“A week.” He says it with finality. “Then let us have this week as our own.”

The next few days are a whirlwind of unforgettable moments. You are convinced any other man would be trying to impress you with his knowledge and access to things privy only to someone of his status, but with the Baron it feels as though he simply enjoys sharing his world.

From a private showing of the Kings’ collection of antiquities, to a small garden reading by one of your favorite authors who Baron Zemo happens to know personally, you spend your time together as near equals, exchanging ideas and thoughts as easily as you would with your oldest friends. It surprises you to find it so easy to speak to a man you’re only just starting to know.

Perhaps that is because he never once reminds you of the gap between your status. You are cautious to believe anything a man of such wealth says, but when the Baron speaks he seems to do so truthfully, and when he listens, he does so without judgement.

“How is it my Lord, that you seem to rise above the constraints of society while moving through it so elegantly?” You ask as he escorts you home to the theatre one evening.

You are arm in arm, the lamps are lit and the air has a certain joie de vivre that radiates from the passersby. You smile and nod hello to a couple before looking up at the Baron’s handsome profile. He walks in silence for a while and you know him well enough by now to understand that he is just thinking before speaking, which is something you greatly admire.

“I hope my manner is not offensive.” He says with a deep frown. “I simply wish to be as honest with you as possible. To pretend that I see you as someone unworthy of my attention would be a lie.”

You turn your face to hide your giddy smile but he stops walking, your hand slipping from his coat.

Confused, you spin to face him. “Baron? What is it?”

“Do not hide.” He says in all seriousness. “Your face, it’s so expressive. There is such an openness in the way you show your emotion and I fear someone has told you to keep it hidden?” He asks and you avert your eyes instinctively but quickly look back up at him.

Feeling sure, you confess. “When my parents were too poor to keep me, I was sent to Augustines as I’ve mentioned. It was there I was taught that to show joy is a sin. To cry is a sin, to be angry is a sin. Frustration, even a simple smile, all sins. Everything beautiful about who we are as living creatures must be suppressed” You say, still bitter.

The Baron scoffs shaking his head. “Nothing is a sin when you stop believing that there is someone to sin against. Your smile is a gift mala ptica, a glimpse at your pure heart, just as your tears are an expression of the pain you feel inside. People can be very cruel, and I am sorry you were ever told such lies.” He says and you see that it truly hurts him to picture you as a child, scolded for what comes naturally. “Please, do not feel as though you ever need to hide either from me. If I am the reason you smile, then I consider myself to be a fortunate man.” He pauses, looking at you as people pass by. “Conversely If I ever make you cry, well, the pain of hurting you will be my deserved punishment.” He says and though you stand apart on the dark sidewalk, you feel the warmth of his affection reach out and close its arms around you, holding you close enough that you can hear the drumming of his heart.

The week ends with a picnic, just a small luncheon taken outside with all the delightful indulgence of the spoiled upperclass.

You sit at the edge of a large blanket, covered by a spread of fruit and cheese and bread. There are biscuits and cakes, small sandwiches and of course tea— and what looks to be chopped pheasant being carried out by a young servant all the way from the house. You are thankful for the shade of the ancient tree you sit under with the women; Lady Valentina, her neighbor, who has brought her daughter-in-law, and their two cousins, all of you laughing as the men play a lazy but entertaining game of rugby in their shirts, their jackets thrown down in the grass.

You applaud for the Baron and Lord Wessex the neighbor’s son who has come home for a quick visit with his wife. They make a great team, and though the Baron insists he’s too old for sport—which he is most certainly not— he is fast and strong and shows just a glimpse of the man he must have been during the war.

“He cuts quite the figure.” One of the cousins says to the other with a wicked little grin.

You eye her prim face, almost jealous but the energy would be wasted. You know who he smiles at as he crosses the lawn.

“Yes, but I hear he’s engaged.” Says the other

“Oh? To who? Certainly not to anyone here.” Lady Valentina says sipping from her cup.

You are silent as you watch these women who you know in name only. You don’t know their hearts, but you guess them to be as cold as the pheasant.

“No. A Sokovian Duchess I believe.” The cousin says and you stare at her.

“Then why on earth is he here?” The daughter-in-law asks.

“Must not be a very happy engagement.” The cousin says, her tittering laughter joined by the others.

You smile but set your tea down and look over, watching Baron Zemo toss the large ball across the lawn to his partner. He trots backwards and calls something out, clapping a few times before stopping and resting his hands on his knees. As though he can sense your eyes on him, he looks over from his bent position, that lock of hair fallen out of place.

He told you just a day or so ago to never hide your feelings from him, and so you don’t. Honestly, given what you’ve just heard, you couldn’t if you tried.

You can only imagine how you must look because he stands upright, rakes his hair back with his fingers and stares at you, his own face long, his jaw tight.

He knows something has happened. Immediately the Baron calls for a break in the game.

You look away eyeing the women. “Please, excuse me. I believe my legs are going a little numb.” You shrug, feigning a smile at the ladies and quickly get up, brushing your skirts and walking off.

“Poor circulation from all that time standing onstage.” You hear one of them say.

“And lying on her back” Another whispers loudly to the shocked laughter of the others.

The insult stings, more so than it normally would, and you shut your eyes as you march off towards the house ready to leave.

Of course they think you’re just here playing the whore to the rakish Baron. Why you ever thought they would accept you as their own or that he would be better than the rest is beyond you.

But what truly shames you, is that you believe their gossip, even after spending time with him. And why shouldn’t you? Isn’t this what men do? Lie? Especially to women of your profession.

It’s when you’ve reached the manicured part of the lawn that you realize you’re hardly breathing and that your heart feels like it’s been run through with one of the picnic bread knives. You clutch your chest, angry at the pain as the tears that well in your eyes burn, and you curse yourself for letting him have such an effect on you at all.

“Wait.”

You gasp, startled by his voice vibrating deep in your own chest as he has come up on you by surprise; his body so close to yours you feel his breath along your neck as he takes you by the arms and pulls you into the shaded privacy of the garden trees before you can protest.

He turns you around and the look on his face is a mix of curiosity and worry, to which you find yourself surprisingly angry. “What’s happened? What have they said to you?” He asks.

“What’s wrong Baron? Are you worried that I’ve found out?” You ask and move to wipe your eyes, but you let him see, just as he’s insisted.

“Found out? mala ptica, I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t you?”

He just stares down and you realize you’ve never seen him confused before. “Baron? What do you think they said?”

“Some insult? A way to make you feel inferior as seems to be their casual form of amusement.” He says clearly very angry and possibly ready to march back and defend you.

You feel your anger falter. This is unexpected and you shake your head. Now you’re the one confused. “No. Baron… I—I’m afraid I’ve made something of a fool of myself if you truly have no fear of any secret being found out?” Your voice rises as you question it.

“You are not a fool y/n” He says with a hint of irritation in his voice.

You look down, steadying yourself before looking back up into his eyes. “I never expected anything from you, you know? Your friendship has been nothing short of wonderful, but I fear that in getting to know you, I’ve found it impossible not to let my romantic heart lead the way. But what can we expect from a product of love.” You toss your hands up flashing a sardonic smile.

The Baron steps forward and your eyes close reflexively when he lays his palm to your cheek. “What have you heard? Tell me.”

“That you are engaged.” You answer not wanting to prolong it. “To a Sokovian Duchess no less.”

He smiles, looks off then back down at you and you hope he never stops the gentle, rhythmic stroking of your face. “I was, and it was a mistake. I broke it off before I doomed us both to a loveless marriage.”

“I was under the assumption that people of your wealth marry to acquire more of it.”

“You assume wrong.” He says even closer “It is beneficial, but, should I ever marry again, it will be for nothing less than a love to repair what is left of my heart.”

You’re breathing faster. He is so close. It seems to happen so quickly. One moment you’re ready to leave, angry and hating that you’ve even come, embarrassed that you’ve been swayed by a Lords influence. And the next you’re standing in his shadow gazing up into his eyes…

“May I kiss you?” He asks in a way that would be very hard to refuse.

“You may” You whisper. His fingers inch along to the back of your head, his other hand pulls you in by the waist until his hips are pressed against you and his lips part; the heat of his skin so warm from running touching you before his mouth does.

It is the force and passion of his kiss that surprises you. Not overly aggressive or unwanted, it is unexpected, as though he has been longing to do this as badly as you have and now, he can not let another second pass without tasting more of you.

His tongue on your own is warm and soft as he gently enters your mouth and it is not the demure touch of society but of two people who feel a great many things, not the least of which is an urgency to do more.

The Baron pulls away, your lips leaving his slowly. You look at your hands resting on his chest over his white shirt. His cravat is a little askew letting you see a hint of skin and the shimmer of a very thin necklace that makes your stomach flutter. Your eyes flit up to meet his as he exhales very slowly.

“Thank you mala ptica” He says and kisses your forehead and you think there are many reasons for him to say this, but for now you let it be, though something else has always made you wonder…

“What does that mean?” You ask curious, eyes closed

He leans back to see your face. “What?”

“Mala… mala ti..”

“Mala ptica” He says with an amused smile. “It means—little bird actually.”

You scrunch your nose wondering why this is what he’s taken too calling you and he chuckles a little with a sigh. “Your voice is like the song of a bird, a thing of natural beauty. Forgive me for having been so familiar. It—slipped out.” He says simply.

You grin, you can’t help it and close your hands to fists in his shirt and pull him down kissing him again.

It is hard and fast but he is a most willing partner.

When you let the Baron go, you bite at the corner of your lip feeling such an urge to go down to the cool grass with him here and now, understanding why everyone seems so preoccupied by it, but the truth is no man has had you and you refuse to be the woman they expect you to be. You will not succumb, not even for a Baron, not even for this one. But he will challenge you to no end.

He smooths his hands over your face and sighs. “What now hmm?”

You mimic his movements smoothing the wrinkles you’ve caused in his shirt. “I can not go back. I don’t belong here.” You tell him.

He takes hold of your hand on his chest and holds it there. “No, I don’t believe I do either. Not today.”

“My next run begins in two days, I won’t have time to go on so many adventures with you.” You smile.

Zemo pulls your hand down but does not let go. “Then I will wait until you are free to enjoy the rest of the season with me.”

“Will you?”

“Of course.”

“It’s almost over my Lord, you’re going home at the end of summer.”

“Yes,” He says and tilts his head to find your eyes. You look at him and smile wide. “But perhaps I might persuade you to come with me.”