#i see that some folks have found my quilt tag & are reblogging.

[magicfemme]

"let love replace fear through you."

AIDS QUILT SERIES  |  VIEW THE QUILT

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Soft Target: Ch. 4

Summary: Bringing a public menace home for dinner.

Chapter 3: Link

Not strictly Zemo x reader, but so close they could kiss.

Chapter warnings: language, short medical exam, implied peril to children

A/N: Apparently tumblr isn’t showing chapters, even to tagged folks. Please help boost with comments and reblogs if you are so inclined. They mean the world (and if you comment we can CONVERSE).

Should I start a masterlist?

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“This is my family.”

Three children literally and telepathically shouting for her attention made a tremendous distraction, and she didn’t even notice a new pair of hands had joined the fray until he shouted more or less directly in her ear.

“Back, you heathens!”

The edge of a soft Texan accent made the order sound more playful than he intended. When the children didn’t follow his command, the burly man peeled them away, unwittingly turning the mobbing into a game. He hauled one child off only for another to reattach, and after a few fruitless rounds, he gave up, joining the attack by crushing the children and Triss against the car in an enormous hug.

With the skin of his forearm against her neck, she felt him murmur, Welcome home.

On the other side of the car, Sam was helping Bucky ease free of the car, and the soldier’s agonized groan reminded her why she came.

“I’m glad to see you, too,” she said, “but we have a bit of a medical emergency, actually.”

The man looked to where she glanced over her shoulder, turning serious as he caught sight of her guests.

“Okay, everybody. Introductions later.” The physician switch had been flipped. He stepped around the vehicle as the knot of children loosened around Triss, and he swooped under Bucky’s free arm for added support. “I’m a doctor. We’ll get you taken care of.” He looked back at Triss, waving towards the smaller house. “I assume they’re staying with you?”

“Yeah.” Finally disentangled, she power-walked ahead of them to the door. “First floor bedroom.”

“Right. Okay.” The man turned to his kids. “Head back in, and let your mom know we have guests. Liz? Get my emergency kit, and a saline drip, I think.”

A groan from the oldest child confirmed receipt of his instructions as Triss pulled the door open and pushed ahead. She had to make sure the damn bed had sheets. When was the last time she’d had company? When was the last time she’d bothered coming in this room?

Fortunately, the bed had sheets. She ripped off the old quilt to spare it some bloodstains and tried to ignore the surge of dust motes dancing in the sunbeams from the nearest window. It would do. It would be fine. James Buchannan Barnes, storied war hero, assassin, and Avenger, wouldn’t die in her guest bedroom. If he’d survived the trip, he’d certainly make it now, especially with medical help.

The three men lumbered in, and she barely had space to squeeze past them. Old houses had small bedrooms, and all three men had muscles to spare. She stopped in the doorway, waiting for an order like the children.

“Get my kit from Liz?” the doctor asked. To his patient, he said, “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

Triss nodded, already moving as Bucky mumbled something about enhancements and the doctor scoffed.

Zemo loitered in the living room, the only space between the guest bedroom and the front door, already studying her home. Looking for something to use against her. Seeking exits and opportunities to exploit. His eyes raked along her overstuffed bookshelves and the art on the walls, picking her private life apart with his hawkish eyes.

Fuck him.

Let him judge her tastes and preferences. His opinion was nothing to her, and she’d worry about the rest later, hopefully before he found a knife to stick in her back. She brushed by without a word, avoiding contact with the prowess of a seasoned server on her way to the front door. Before she could pull it open again, Liz shoved through, arms full of medical supplies.

“I’ve got it,” Triss said, rushing to take the burden. She didn’t want any of the kids to see more of Bucky’s blood than they already had. She certainly didn’t want them to see their father wrist-deep in his guts.

Zemo had the good grace to step aside as she hustled past this time. The doctor met her at the entrance to the guest bedroom, took the bag, closed the door, and went to work with Sam as his stand-in trauma nurse.

That left her alone. In the front room. With Zemo.

She hadn’t had time to spare him more than a passing thought since leaving the car, and the sudden recollection of his crushing attention nearly flattened her.

Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh –

She wasn’t – in fact – alone with him. Liz hadn’t left after surrendering the goods, and Triss turned to find her eldest nibling in a full-on staring contest with the rogue Sokovian. The teenager even mirrored Zemo’s patented head tilt as it drifted to the side. They stood there, studying each other, daring the other to look away first as the long green fringe atop Liz’s undercut drifted into their eyes.

Aw hell.

She marched between them, breaking line of sight to end the staring contest without bruising egos. Sucking in a deep breath – only half for show – she dropped a hand on Liz’s head and spun to address the baron.

“This is Liz. They are thirteen and act like it.”

Her gaze swiveled to the nibling. “Liz, this is Baron Zemo. He’s promised to be on his best behavior, but he is still very dangerous, so please don’t go out of your way to start shit.”

Liz’s eyebrows floated up, face flooding with contrived innocence as they turned wide eyes on Triss. “What if I don’t have to go out of my way, though?”

Triss’s eyes snapped shut against the violent fantasies spinning up from her subconscious. “Maybe just don’t, Little Bit.”

Nodding as Triss’s hand slipped away, Liz turned their shoulder to Zemo. Apparently now that he was off limits, he wasn’t as interesting – dangerous or not. Their aunt had their full attention, and their lips twitched with nefarious glee as a grin spread from ear to ear. “I’m taller than you now.”

Triss scoffed. She’d been gone all of four months. Even a weedy teen couldn’t possibly grow that fast.

“You are not.” A quick once over confirmed they were damn close, though. Very damn close. She straightened her posture, even lifting her chin for maximum gains. Her nibling did the same.

Then Liz went on their tiptoes.

Triss copied them.

They might’ve jumped next, but Zemo’s chuckle shattered the moment, and Triss crashed back down on her heels. She’d forgotten he was there. Just for a minute, but more than enough time for him to – what? – hurt someone? Careless. She’d have to do better.

His eyes sparkled over a smile, something almost warm in his demeanor that hadn’t been there a moment ago, when he scrutinized Liz.

“Your aunt is still a little taller,” he said. “But only just.”

Cold dread froze her gut until her stomach felt hard. She didn’t want him to know that. She didn’t want him to notice Liz, to taste the history of their relationship or imagine how the teen would continue to grow. He had no place in their past, present, or future. But she’d brought him into their home – not just hers. He already claimed a role in her niblings’ stories now. All she could do was minimize it and pray he remembered his promise to forget the way.

Liz took Triss’s hand, watching her expression. Their own morphed into something spitefully defensive, and they turned it on Zemo. His threat didn’t matter to them personally – they were thirteen and thereby invincible – but Liz didn’t like people who disturbed their aunt. They didn’t share with assholes who didn’t deserve her attention, and anyone who made her frown like that must be some kind of asshole.

Time to separate the combustible elements before a fire broke out.

Triss wondered, fondly usherng her nibling towards the door, what Zemo would think if he knew he fell into the same category as Captain America. Left to their own devices, there would be mischief, and it was better not to tempt fate. Anyway, they’d been in Zemo’s presence too long for comfort.

“Head back to your house.” She swung their linked hands out the door, letting go midair, like she could jettison the child across the space. In the last flash of contact, she felt the bubbles of a suppressed giggle interrupting the train of vengeful ponderings. “I love you. Get out.”

Actual laughter escaped as Liz crossed the yard and Triss closed the door. She stayed there for a minute, hands on the cool wood, back to the enemy, unwilling to share all the feelings dancing across thought and face. So, she identified them. Processed them. Buried them.

Happy to be home. Terrified. Concerned and a little guilty about Liz’s vocabulary. Anxious enough to be sick.

Her arm hurt. Her throat ached. Every time she took a deep breath, she fought the need to cough. And if she let herself be still any longer, she’d remember why she felt that way, and she might have to cry about it.

Get moving.

She managed to avoid eye contact with the elephant in the room when she abandoned her shelter and headed straight to the kitchen. What would a baron like to drink? Something expensive, of course, but did he like cocktails or did he prefer his liquor neat? Did she even care so long as she soothed the nagging instincts of a midwestern hostess?

Two fingers of bourbon – local, good, hopefully an interesting distraction – and all but shoved the glass in his hand. He’d followed her into the kitchen. He followed her out again, too. Eyes on the move, gathering intelligence, arming for the inevitable strike.

Because she needed something more to do, she filled the electric kettle from tea and coffee nook between the living and kitchen spaces. Flicked it on. Wondered if any of her guests even wanted tea or coffee in the first place. Huffed.

From the seat he’d assumed in the living room, Zemo purred, “They take after you.”

Sam may have a point about leaving her alone with him. Whatever angle he was playing, she could hear his timbre shift. Here. In the plane. He chose each word so carefully, and the suggestion of menace could so easily be mistaken for something else.

She really didn’t want to look at him. A twitched half-glance showed she was listening without fully surrendering. If he was kind he’d take the hint and drop the subject. “Pardon?”

“Liz.” She heard him take a sip. Her nails sank into the tea hutch’s varnish. “You must be close.”

“Stop it.”

“I am simply –”

“I know what you’re doing. Knock it off.”

He fell silent, and she left the kettle for the little bar where she’d poured his drink across the kitchen. Time to take care of herself. Whether the alcohol would play well with the frigid knot in her stomach was anyone’s guess, but she’d swallowed cheaper booze in worse conditions, so in her iron gut she would trust.

Two fingers of whiskey in the glass and straight down the hatch. It burned the trails of shredded skin along her bottom lip. Another two fingers for moral support and something to keep her hands occupied.

She’d dipped out of sight to fix her drink, but his eyes trapped her with an unbroken intensity when she returned, like he could see her through the wall and she’d never escaped that gaze at all. His head cocked to the side again, and a stern frown drew his expression tight.

“Do you still believe I’m a threat to your family?” It sounded like he really wanted to know. It seemed so obvious from her position. “Even after the promise you asked of me?”

A sip from her lowball glass gave him a second to come to his own conclusions, but once she’d swallowed, she had to talk. “No one’s safe around a man driven by vengeance.”

“Justice,” he corrected.

She shook her head, the whiskey in her empty stomach leaving her a little dizzy. “Vengeance.”

It was his turn to say something – maybe rage or monologue like a good little villain – but he persisted in his silence, demanding more with his posture and eyes and crossed legs.

If he wanted an explanation, who was she to deny him?

“Justice requires reparations,” she said, swirling the finger and a half remaining in her glass. “Rebuilding. Healing. You’re only in the business of tearing things apart, right? Buildings. People. Of course you’re a threat to the people I love.”

At last, his lips parted, and he took a breath to answer – only for the guestroom door to swing open and bring the discussion to a crashing halt. Triss straightened, Zemo turned, and the doctor emerged with Sam in his wake. Neither looked panicked, an excellent sign for the super soldier’s longevity.

“Based on what he said and I saw,” the doctor said, “he needs a week before you dive back into whatever trouble my kid sister pulled you out of.”

Well, fuck.

“A week?” Triss repeated.

He looked nearly as thrilled as she felt. “Yup. If he was anyone else, I’d be driving him to the hospital or digging a shallow grave. I hope you all aren’t in a rush.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Sam assured him, casting a lingering glance at Zemo quietly sipping his bourbon.

A whole ass week of Zemo digging his claws into every part of her life that could bleed. A week of questions. Could they tie the baron up and just feed and water him for seven days? He hadn’t even met the smaller niblings yet… She needed some distance.

Triss set her whiskey on an end table and moved to the stairs. The second floor was more of a balcony with doors to a bathroom and second bedroom, and she easily called down instructions as she made her escape.

“Kettle’s on if you want tea or coffee. Help yourself. Everything’s there. Zemo can show you the booze.”

The doctor scoffed, burly arms folding over his chest as he shouted after her, “And where are you going, my dear Lady Disdain?”

“To take a shower. I smell very literally like a kitchen sink.”

“Oh, nope. Nope, nope, nope. It’s your turn.” He patted the back of the couch. “Here.”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?” Sam asked. “You nearly drowned a few hours ago, and it wouldn’t hurt to have someone look at that arm.”

Triss blanched as the doctor’s eyebrows shot up. This was not how she wanted to come back to her family. And her tank of a brother didn’t need to know about her latest near-death experience. “Sam, you fucking snitch. I’m fine.”

The doctor leaned into his grip on the couch, daring Triss to lie again. In a light, nearly mocking voice he said, “I can give you a check up in your room if you don’t want your boyfriends to watch.”

She flipped him off, but nothing in his stance softened, and she knew she’d have to deal with his concern before he’d let their little drama progress. “Stop talking. I have to get clothes anyway. Let’s do this in my room.”

Chuckling – just a little darkly – he followed her up the stairs, kit in hand. They passed the second bedroom and bathroom, and Triss opened the door to the loft stairs. Her room.

Ascending the steps always felt like an escape, even with her brother shadowing her. She counted each footfall like the beat of her pulse, forcing her to slow down, breathe in time with her actions as her head cleared. Doodles marched along in sharpie, paint, and mutilated decoupage. Half-remembered stories carved into her walls like cave art. The safest place.

At the top of the stairs, the room opened into a finished attic with exposed rafters peaking between the plaster overhead. A sacred triangle of space as thoroughly marked as the stairs. The cacophonous colors and patterns rushing over the sloped ceiling welcomed her back. Spray paint constellations. Trees, and moons, and things too abstract to name. They’d grown organically, spreading with age and shifting dreams to echo the things borrowed, buried, and bleeding in her tangled thoughts. They all came from within, even if they didn’t begin in her head.

The art in the rest of the house hung in frames, picked up from local artists and clever friends. There was a lot, but it made some kind of sense. Triss’s room looked like an explosion to the untrained eye.

The doctor sat heavily on her bed, watching expectantly as Triss settled into herself. The colors looked best when she was drunk, and her mild buzz was doing great things, but now wasn’t the time. With a dramatic sigh, she flopped down beside him.

“Let’s see this arm first.”

He didn’t sound angry anymore, only firm. Doctor voice. Approaching brotherly, but not quite there. Not yet. He had to make sure she wasn’t dying before he could be anything but professional.

She shrugged off her jacket, cringing at the damp spots lingering along her torso as it peeled away from her t-shirt. The bruise still looked horrible, of course, and she winced as he prodded along the bone, hunting for deeper damage.

“It’s been like this for about a day,” she said. “Nothing’s broken. Just a bad bruise.”

He shook his head, not contradicting, just… upset. He wore disposable gloves, so she couldn’t read him, but he rarely kept his emotions off his face. She wondered if he wore the gloves out of habit or to spare her his thoughts. Too much frustration and no ready solutions. Anxiety and disappointment.

A stethoscope came next, and as he pressed it under her shirt to listen to her breathe, he asked, “Do they not have phones in New York?”

“It wasn’t –”

“Deep breath,” he interrupted.

She obeyed, folding her hands into fists. The next person to say “breathe” would catch a punch to the face. So help her.

Satisfied, he put away his instruments, and she took advantage of the quiet.

“I’m sorry. It wasn’t entirely on purpose. I meant to call, but…”

“But you were too busy running away.” Finally, brotherly understanding warmed his eyes. He hadn’t entirely forgiven her, but he held no grudges. He understood, even if he didn’t like it. “Yes, I know. Portia worried about you. So did the kids. Why might they have done that?” His pitch rose with the final question, teasing in a demanding way.

Triss rolled her eyes, refusing the guilt he tried to push on her. “Because we’re family.”

“And?”

“And we take care of each other.”

“No fucking shit?”

“Fuck off, Trevor.”

“Oh, I don’t think I will.” With a slap to his thighs, he rose, packing his gear to take with him. “You know your sister is going to tear you a new one, right?”

She knew. Maybe she should’ve drowned in the bar’s sink after all. Portia had months of worries to rage over, and no doubt Trevor would carry Sam’s report on her bumps and bruises to her ears.

Deadpan, she replied, “Can’t wait.”

“You won’t have to. Take your shower – because you do smell like a kitchen sink – then head over.”

As he left, leaving her alone in her sanctum to gather a clean change of clothes, she wished she was a better liar. She wasn’t though. Omitting details and pushing people away with prickly frowns and short words worked most of the time, but she’d never had a great talent for lying, even though she desperately needed it. Her ability brought into contact with strangers too intimately, too quickly. Even if the connection was one-way, it was real, and it nurtured an instinctive empathy that grew like slime mold over her sense of self preservation. Hard to hold onto anything so slick.

People like Sam were a problem. One good tug on her over-inflated conscience and suddenly it didn’t matter how many times she practiced saying “No.” She didn’t have to say yes. Everything just slipped out of her hands.

And when all this was over? Maybe he’d send her a follow-up text. Then he’d forget her number until he needed her again. Bucky would drop her and run, probably wiping his hands on his jacket as he went.

She could only hope the baron would drop and forget, too.

She made a point of ignoring her guests on her way to the shower, even when Sam cleared his throat in the living room below. They had booze, coffee, and a comfortable place to sit. They’d survive. And she needed to push them all back a step. She brought them home. They saw her family. Desperate times called for desperate measures, but it was time to remind them she wasn’t their friend. Time to remind herself.

The hot water felt nothing like the impromptu bath in the frigid sink. A little corner of her mind had worried it would, that she’d have a panic attack and make too much noise, summoning more attention and –

Enough.

No panic attack. Just the usual anxiety.

She washed in a hurry, but she took the time to blow dry her hair before leaving the bathroom. It wasn’t a huge thing, but if she looked put-together when she faced Portia, things may go smoother. Like at work, presentation mattered. She was an adult, not the troubled little sister.

Breezing down the stairs, towards the door, she tried to ignore the two men, but their voices stilled when the bathroom door opened, and her midwestern hostess genes itched.

Hand on the door, she shifted from one foot to the other, wondering how she could ever have a conversation in Zemo’s presence without worrying.

“I’m going to the other house to talk to my sister. You guys should stay here. I’ll come back, or send someone, or – Help yourselves to whatever while I’m gone.”

Sam lunged into the conversation to keep her from immediately rushing out.

“Sister? And the doctor’s your brother?”

“Brother-in-law, technically.”

“Good to know.”

His laughing tone finally drew her around, pulling her to face him. A big smile cracked his face. Now that he knew Bucky would live, that she wasn’t broken, and that they were all – for the moment – safe, he wanted to soften the mood. Put everyone at ease. It made him a great leader. It just made her nervous, though.

Friendship meant favors, and she’d given enough of those already.

“I have to go face the music,” she said, jerking her head towards the door.

“Yell if you need backup.”

“I won’t.”

She’d leave him to guess if she wouldn’t need backup or wouldn’t call as the door clapped into the frame behind her.

He couldn’t be her friend. But, more importantly, she was coming to realize he shouldn’t be Trevor’s friend, either. Not if she wanted to escape with her sanity or any shred of dignity at the end of the week. Both men liked to tease, liked to pick and irritate in a supportive way she couldn’t stay mad at. They’d get along like a house on fire.

Hands in her pockets, she tried to clear the hero, the villain, and the other hero from her thoughts as she approached the big house’s side door. She needed her head on straight when she talked to Portia.

The screen door squealed, clashing with Indila’s Tourner Dans Le Vide. Portia stood over the sink, back to Triss, but she knew exactly who’d entered her sanctum.

“Frankly,” she began, “I wouldn’t mind if you brought home friends, even dangerous ones. But they’re not, are they?”

Vegetables washed, she picked up a knife, and Triss began carefully working her way around the kitchen island. She wanted to see Portia’s face. They both knew she couldn’t maintain this kind of frustration long, and Triss knew which pins would deflate the bubble of rage fastest.

“Sorry I didn’t call.”

“Good. You should’ve.”

Okay. Ouch.

Portia knew exactly what Triss was angling for, and she let her red-blond hair hang past her face as she worked – irritating both of them, but keeping Triss from gauging her mood. It got in her way as she worked, and Triss spotted a hair tie on the counter by the phone, which had abandoned Indila for The Black Keys. She left the music alone – the cook called the tunes – but she plucked the hair tie and held it in Portia’s peripheral vision.

If she ignored it, she’d have to embrace the fact that she was just being stubborn. If she took it, maybe this conversation could go somewhere.

For a hot minute, she did neither. She stopped chopping the carrots and broccoli on the board to just stare. Instead of just taking the tie when her hand shot out, it captured Triss’s fingers.

I was fucking worried, you asshole.

The sisters’ eyes met, and Triss said again, “Sorry I didn’t call.”

She couldn’t apologize for eloping with herself to New York – again – and she couldn’t apologize enough for the mess with the Winter Soldier, Falcon, and an enemy of the state, so there was no point starting. She felt genuinely awful for failing to keep in touch, though. If Portia needed to hear an apology, she could offer that one all day long.

But her sister wanted more than contrition.

Dropping Triss’s hand, Portia wrapped her in a crushing hug, keeping skin contact with her cheek against Triss’s neck so she could pick up on all the things Portia felt too conflicted to say.

She worried about Liz, and Liz needed their aunt. The baby had gotten so big, and Triss had missed so many little things that Portia worried her sister would regret. And Trevor had told her about the drowning, the bruise. That wasn’t supposed to happen now that the family was all back together, and if Triss couldn’t tell these big heroes no, then she should get Portia on the phone and she’d give them a piece of her fucking mind along with a taste of her fist, and – Damn, she was happy to have Triss back.

Triss rubbed circles on Portia’s back as wiry arms cinched her closer. “I missed you, too.”

“I’m not feeding them,” Portia snapped, pulling away as she blinked a little too quickly, hiding tears. “Not tonight at least. Trevor is on his way into town to get pizzas for you. We’ll go shopping to feed your little army tomorrow.”

There was no point arguing, so she nodded along.

Portia sighed. She returned to the vegetables, but Triss stayed close, ready to offer a hand, or a hug, or whatever Portia needed. She’d been scared when Triss disappeared, and when Liz ran in saying their aunt was back and Trevor needed the emergency kit… Oh, and Helmut Zemo would be sleeping a few hundred yards away from her children, a few dozen from her sister.

“I need to figure out some boundaries,” Portia said. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that you brought him here.”

“I made him promise to behave,” Triss leaped to explain. Portia glanced over, incredulous, and Triss held up a hand, wiggling her fingers. “He won’t hurt anyone while he’s here, and he’ll never come back.”

“And you believed him?” It wasn’t a sarcastic question. Portia knew her sister.

“Yes.”

Nodding to herself, she looked back to her work before she chopped off a finger. “That changes things.”

“He’s still dangerous.”

“I know. So are the other two.”

“Not like Zemo.”

“Not like Zemo.” She dumped her work from the cutting board onto a baking tray. “Maybe worse.”

Triss kept her mouth shut. She wasn’t looking for a fight, and she agreed with Portia on heroes more often than not.

“Trevor and I will talk it over tonight, discuss things with the kids, and I’ll fill you in tomorrow.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Tires crunched over the gravel outside, announcing Trevor’s return. He must’ve left while she was still in the shower. She wondered how long after their arrival Portia had ordered. Apparently, regardless of whether or not they had a dead super soldier on the property, she had no intention of feeding the assholes her sister had dragged home. Not that night. Not until she’d calmed down. Despite that, she was still so thoughtful. No one starved on her watch, and she knew there was nothing in Triss’s fridge after months away.

“Thank you, Portia.”

“You’re welcome. You’ll be helping me to cook for the horde during the rest of your stay, though.”

She saluted, backing up towards the door. “Understood. See you tomorrow. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

The screen door shrieked again, and she was back in the fresh air. Trevor climbed out of the car, arms full of three pizza boxes, and nodded towards Triss’s house. “Wanna get the door?”

“Sure.”

They walked in on Sam and Zemo trying to pretend the other didn’t exist on opposite sides of the living area. Sam had – to Triss’s gratification – made himself some coffee. A cup steamed at his elbow and the French press sat next to the empty kettle. Zemo had a refreshed glass of bourbon in his hand as he perused her bookshelves. Kids literature on the lower shelves, where her niblings could reach, and a blend of classics, popular fiction, and obscure art books she liked to call eclectic higher up. Pinch-pots and framed doodles from niblings of all ages decorated the spaces between. Pretty rocks they’d pressed in her hands and little finds they’d pooled their resources to buy from antique stores and Etsy shops stood in places of honor. Old keys and a tiny clay dragon. A chunk of geode bought on a family vacation and a hag stone from the creek.

She couldn’t read his expression as he studied the collection.

“Pizza!” Trevor announced. He took the boxes to the kitchen, and Triss followed after him to get plates set out. “Cheese, pepperoni, and margherita. Help yourselves. My patient isn’t allowed to eat anything until I see how he’s doing tomorrow. I don’t think they hit anything but his liver. Better safe than sorry, though.”

Sam came through with Zemo, nodding to Trevor. “We really appreciate this.”

Trevor nodded back, made a light, friendly noise in response that wasn’t quite a thanks, and Triss got a peak at his own dissatisfaction with the situation.

Zemo cleared his throat, hanging back as Triss helped Sam fix his plate. “Might I ask,” he began, “why the nickname ‘Lady Disdain?’”

“It’s her name.” Trevor shrugged. “Shakespeare.”

Zemo frowned. “Triss?”

Oh. Oh no. She gave her brother a look. A single, wordless warning.

Scoffing, Trevor folded his arms over his chest and smiled at his little sister. “You didn’t introduce yourself?” He leaned over to poke her arm. “Are you being shy?”

“Trevor.” She all but growled his name.

Teasing, wheedling, his voice grew even higher. “Are you embarrassed?”

“I will kick your ass.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Though she be but little she is fierce!”

“Trevor!”

Grinning, he pushed on. “Her actual name is Beatrice Hermia Moore.”

Sam winced on her behalf, but he still smiled. “I get why you go with Triss.”

“Yeah.” She tried very hard to kill her brother with her eyes. “No shit.”

“It’s a lovely name,” Zemo said.

“Don’t even start.”

Trevor continued his mission to annoy the living hell out of her. Repeatedly poking her upper arm, leaning close, he asked, “So, you are embarrassed? Didn’t want to tell your boyfriends your real name?”

Irritation flared into offense.

“I’m going to kill you.”

Trevor whirled, sprinting past Zemo – who had to flatten himself against the kitchen doorway – giggling like one of his children. Triss launched after him, hurling death threats. Her guests could help themselves to the damn pizza while she eradicated a pest.

------------------------------------

Zemo ate because he needed to, though he hadn’t settled into his surroundings well enough to conjure any kind of appetite. Despite the discomfort of the unfamiliar, he enjoyed the show through the living room windows as Triss wrestled her brother-in-law. All bared teeth and blazing eyes, she made the perfect counterpoint to Trevor’s laughing faith in his own strength.

She snared him in a respectable headlock that ultimately ended the match, and he smiled, taking a bit of his slice as he turned his back on the spectacle.

He found Sam’s eyes on him. Hardly a surprise, and he tried to shrug off the glare with a breezy quip. “She has a… sweet family.”

Sam’s face was like stone. “Yeah. She does. You’re not gonna do anything to mess that up, are you?”

“I made a promise, Sam.”

The Falcon clearly had something more to say, but Triss chose that moment to sweep triumphantly through the door, and he let it drop. Interesting how invested the former Avenger seemed in her protection when he’d so readily yanked someone with no training or defense into a battle like theirs.

Once everyone had something to eat, their host showed them to a second bedroom up the stairs, next to the bathroom where she’d disappeared for her shower. It had a closet, a desk –

And a bunkbed.

“Liz uses this as their art studio,” Triss explained, clearing folders, notebooks, and loose pieces of paper from the mattresses. “It’s quiet. Sheets are clean. If either of you feel the need, you can take the living room couch, but I’m a night owl, so I might disturb you.”

Sam thanked her – “This is great, thanks.” – and claimed the lower bed the moment the door closed behind her. While he’d warmed much since their introduction outside the German prison, their current arrangement had the man’s protective instincts raging. “If you go anywhere in the night, I need to know.”

Zemo only raised his hands and accepted his lot. For the moment. He had no plans to run for the time being. Everything he needed shared this house with him – Bucky’s strength, Sam’s connections, Triss’s intel. He was sure the men who tried executing her touched her skin at some point, and whatever she gleaned would lead them back to the super soldiers’ trail. He did not enjoy waiting, but he had patience enough to spend a week in the American Midwest with people willing to give a soft place to sleep, plenty to drink, and food to fill his belly. Food and shelter were everything he required for the moment.

Perhaps not everything. He needed to have a discussion with their host. The moment the children burst from the house, he’d understood her demand for absolute confirmation of his promise. No words would ever be enough to safeguard such fragile treasures.

He enjoyed the riddle of her relationship with Captain Roger’s friends, and it had been a long time since he’d spoken with anyone who wasn’t a soldier, a guard, or a threat. Her warning on the plane assured him that, no matter how great her potential, she wasn’t a great risk to him. Possibly not as useful as Sam had hoped, but it was a setback in his favor. Had she been a willing interrogator, he had no doubt they would have asked her powers against him, and he did not like to consider the choices he would’ve faced then.

Once Sam fell asleep, twitching and grumbling with dreams, Zemo slipped from his bed and crept down the stairs. He wouldn’t have a better opportunity to discuss his concerns privately. Hopefully their host’s nocturnal instincts would drive her to the kitchen sooner rather than later. He settled in an overstuffed chair from her mismatched set of living room furnishings with a view of the lower steps and kitchen entrance.

He didn’t wait long. Not even dressed for bed, she came trotting from her place on high. She caught herself halfway down, cringing as she realized her guests may be asleep, and moved with more grace and less ruckus into the kitchen. When she flicked on the light, he rose. He didn’t want to startle her too badly. He hoped she’d hear his footsteps as he entered the room.

“I must be honest,” he said, watching her jump and turn. “The fact you believe I’d hurt children – disturbs me.”

It took a moment for her to catch her breath, a hand to her chest. At least she hadn’t dropped her mug. A short glare, and all was back to normal. Her hands even began the habitual patterns to brew a cup of tea.

She didn’t try to distract him with pleasantries, dropping straight to the heart of the matter. “It’s not like it would be the first time you killed innocent bystanders to accomplish your goals.”

He didn’t argue. She wasn’t wrong, though she’d turned her fear in a direction he would not venture.

“Adults. And I did not enjoy what I had to do.”

“There are adults here, too,” she said. Again, she wasn’t wrong, though her fear chafed him. But she wasn’t finished. “Maybe you just maim some kids. Or orphan them. Lines get blurry when they’re in your way, so I had to make sure when you cross them, it wouldn’t be here, with people I care about.”

He let her speak, watching from the border of the light as she laid out her reasons with razor-sharp edges. They begged to cut, and he wondered if she expected to bleed before this was over.

For a woman with no formal training – or training at all that he could tell – she had a survivor’s outlook. The world had already backhanded her, and she faced each new threat with a pugilist’s gaze, looking out for the next blow. Sure it would come, trying to predict when and where.

“If it makes you feel better, I want to like you.”

Did she? An interesting expression that could mean more than she intended to reveal.

He cocked his head, inviting clarification.

She didn’t meet his eyes as she continued. “There are lots of things about you to like: you’re intelligent, you’re funny. But I’d also like to live to see forty, and that just won’t happen if I let myself trust you.”

He flashed a wry smile she couldn’t see. “I see you’re taking Sam’s warning to heart.”

“Well, I never took a serum, but I’m still a freak, and as much as I’d like to just come out and ask if you plan to kill me, that would be pointless.” She set the kettle to boil and her heavy gaze struck him. The face of the condemned. Men resigned to death wore that look, not young women fixing tea with a houseguest in the middle of the night. “If you want me dead, you aren’t going to warn me. If you say you don’t want me dead, I can’t trust you.”

There was more here, and he would tease it out in time, but for the moment he would like to banish that expression. It told him why she could like the man who posed such a threat. She expected death. She must’ve brushed close before today. By anticipating it, she would soften the hurt.

“Then I must work to make my intentions clearer,” he said, stepping closer.

“Do you even know what they are?” she challenged.

She was asking about blood and death. An inkling of something very different stirred in a place he wasn’t prepared to search.

“Maybe not,” he confessed. A soft smile rose to banish the stiff horror in her eyes. “But it isn’t to murder my host while she makes a cup of tea.”

Chapter 5: Link

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