Red (Helmut Zemo's Version)

Chapter One: Dear James

Dear James Buchanan Barnes (wherever you may be),

In the wise words of the one and only Miss Taylor Swift, true love will drive you crazy. Whether your crazy is leaping into a vat of acid to prove yourself to a maniacal clown or driving a tad over the speed limit to reach your one and only that tiny bit sooner is irrelevant. What matters is those few moments of pure, unadulterated thrill that consume and blind you to all the suffering plaguing the world. I guess that's all love really is. Those small instances are lost to the ticking clock that hangs above the heads of each passer-by. Seconds filled with laughter only they can understand. A drop of gold in the ocean of taxes and missed dentist appointments. What no one talks about is the crazy that comes with losing that love. The obsession and desperation that fails to live up to romanticised expectations. The screaming and heartache that tears its way through your stomach and out through your throat.

This is not a love story. Not in the traditional sense at least. There's no stolen kisses under autumn leaves or trips to France to hold each other in the bright lights beneath the Eiffel tower. No early cuddles with morning breath banter. No candlelit dinners or evening strolls. This is as close to a love story as The Titanic is to a documentary. Elements may overlap yet the general concepts will never cross. This is a tale of an insanity born from the dust and rubble of a destroyed Sokovian apartment. From the innocent blood dripping beneath the stonework.

Baron Helmut Zemo had been a peculiar character for as long as I could remember. With a stoic, steely expression that never faltered, he would peer back at me through the heavy glass of his cell, never once breaking eye contact. His speaking would be minimal with only a "Good morning, miss" and a "Good night, miss" each day as I came and went. I discovered rather early on that any further communication would be reduced to nodding and small grunts of agreement or disagreement. Don't get me wrong, he was never rude. Just quiet. No questions ever went unanswered and no heavy sighs ever passed his lips. I liked to think he enjoyed the company and he never gave me a reason to believe otherwise so I would come back day in, day out.

As months passed and Spring gave way to Summer, his grunts slowly developed into words and then into full sentence responses. I will hold my hands up and say that the first time definitely took me by surprise and I still remember it to this day. I don't think I'll ever be able to forget it. I'd had a rough night due to a rather large spider sitting comfortably on the ceiling above my bed that I'd either been too afraid to remove or been far too comfortable beneath my sheets to. Instead, I elected to watch it and ensure it didn't begin to make its way any closer to me. So, long story short, I found myself lathering my face with foundation and concealer at 6am praying that my sleepless night would go unnoticed and that I wouldn't be ruled too 'mentally vulnerable' to be able to sit in with Zemo for the day. Settling into a routine was a key factor in the rehabilitation of prisoners and I felt that missing even one day could stunt the process entirely. Somehow it worked and a prison warden led me, as always, down the familiar route to his cell. Our session began the way it always did with our short greetings as I lowered into the seat facing him. I ran through the itinerary that I always ensured I brought and informed him of the layout of our day together.

People often refer to me as a psychiatrist, which I am. However, whilst most psychiatrists would have multiple patients working with them in a day, I had been assigned entirely to Zemo due to the high profile nature of his crimes and the psychological motivation behind them. This meant that my role was to spend as much time as possible assessing and working with him. After I had informed him of when our breaks would be and of what I had planned for us to do today, allowing him to nod along with me, I grabbed the pen from my pocket and began with the first task. Throughout our sessions I had become accustomed to mostly talking at him and deciphering his vague responses so when I asked whether he'd been having nightmares again and he said "Well, miss, not as bad as some nights but there were definitely some" I must admit I did flinch slightly. "My apologies, I did not intend to frighten you" he continued, having noticed my shock. I brushed my palms down my skirt and chuckled lightly  before speaking "No need to apologise, Helmut. However, I must inform you that if you're going to be talking more often, it is actually 'Doctor', not 'Miss'. I have my PHD" He nodded once more before simply responding "My apologies once more, Doctor" with a polite smile. I returned the smile before retrieving my pen and continuing to run through the questions with him, heartened by the major development.

The next notable instance occurred mere days after this. I arrived as normal and found him sitting on his bed with a sad smile painted across his usually expressionless face. Upon inquiry he informed me that it would have been his son's birthday and I felt my heart shatter within my chest. It took a second or so to return to the neutral state that was expected of me as I took my seat and asked the most cliché psychiatrist question in existence "Would you like to tell me about him?" There was a definite hesitance to his agreement so I decided to allow him to set the pace of the discussion rather than interrogate him. He told me of the sleepless nights (spent comforting the crying child) that he had complained about in the moment but now longed for more than anything. Of the gentleness of his wife and of how I reminded him of her in that sense. Of the surprise on his and her faces when they first held up a new-born onesie and saw how tiny it truly was. He spoke with such a fondness that I found myself leaning closer in my chair, both intrigued and heartbroken. Pride swelled in my chest against my will over the fact that he trusted me enough to display this level of vulnerability with very little noticeable reluctance. I'm well aware of the sheer number of codes I am in violation of when divulging these pieces of information but I suppose it doesn't really matter anymore.

With our conversations growing more intimate day by day, it is to be expected that there would be a few questionable exchanges that made me glad the prison guards remained out of earshot for reasons of patient confidentiality. One exchange that stood out to me, especially, occurred around a month after his first full sentence and remained out of any file I ever kept on Zemo. When I had arrived in the morning for our session at the prearranged time, trying to ignore the particularly bad breakup I had experienced only the night before, I was making an even more conscious effort to appear as though everything was entirely normal and fine. I thought I was doing a reasonably good job at it but apparently Zemo disagreed because, as soon as he saw me, he curled an eyebrow and stood, walking closer to the cell's glass until he was almost touching it. He beckoned for me to come closer which I know I should have ignored but something about the visible concern in his eyes made it almost impossible. So, with my body on autopilot, I obeyed and allowed him to study my face intently as I approached. "If you don't mind me asking, Miss. Sorry. If you don't mind me asking, Doctor. Who could be causing such a sad expression on such a pretty face? Whoever did should be brutalised for meddling with such art" Part of me wanted to laugh but the urge to cry matched it in the sense of temptation. At the risk of embarrassing myself, I gave him a small grateful smile before taking my seat. "I appreciate the concern but this time is meant to focus on you, not me." I expected this to be the end of the conversation but there was a definite defiance behind his eyes as they remained trained on me. When he finally looked away I let out a breath I hadn't even realised I was holding and began to read out the schedule for the day before I was interrupted by him clearing his throat and speaking once more "Give me his name and I'll have it dealt with" I stopped mid sentence and looked up from the paper, visibly confused "Helmut, you are already in prison so please don't say something so foolish" The hard lines on his forehead deepened in a rare show of genuine emotion. "I said, tell me his name. I appreciate your concern for me, Doctor but I will not ask again." Speechless doesn't even begin to express the string of silence that rolled across my tongue. There was no real threat behind his words, I knew this and continue to know that but I have to admit, it scared me slightly (in an embarrassingly attractive sort of way). Entranced, I lost my ability to form cohesive thoughts and, before I could even understand what had happened, I had spoken his name aloud and it would be impossible to cram the words back into my mouth.  The next day, the man was dead.

I fear that if I write anymore tonight my words may lose their impact so I will leave you with those final thoughts and allow you to take them as you will. I anxiously await your response and send my deepest condolences. I heard about Steve and I would really appreciate it if you could give me the details for the funeral so that I can pay my respects.

Best regards,

Y/N Y/L/N