Red (Helmut Zemo's Version)

Chapter Four: Золотце

As dawn creeps across a golden sky, the realisation that I, once more, failed to clean any of the skirts I own (and would need to wear the blue one again) comes rather abruptly. Much huffing and puffing follows but I soon give in to my logic and get dressed into something semi-presentable. Before I leave the house I check for one last time that the box wasn't just a figment of some sick fantasy I'd been too afraid to admit. The weight of a sleepless night is enough to reassure me that it hadn't been a dream and yet the urge to just check is too strong to make any attempt at resistance.

I slowly open the closet door and peer in. Shock shoots through my veins at the sight of the missing black pencil skirt hanging where I had last seen it. Not only that but the box remains, unmoved and glamorous in its own right. Either I'm legally blind or just incredibly stupid but I don't have time to question it as I rush to change my skirt and leave the house with just enough time to spare. The drive to the prison, as always, is filled with on the spot karaoke to either the local radio station or any of the CDs I happen to keep in my glove compartment, depending on which I'm feeling at the moment.

Upon arriving, I shuck off my jacket and take several deep, grounding breaths. The Warden takes my phone as he does each day and smiles politely before leading me down the well-lit hallway. Zemo stands to greet me when I reach his cell, a certain mischief hidden in his expression. "Good morning, Doctor. Would I be right to assume the assessment will be occurring first thing?" He asks, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips before disappearing once more. "Good morning, Helmut. Yes, you would be correct in assuming that. Allow me a moment to speak with the warden before we begin." I say, taking a few steps back and over towards the warden a little further down the corridor.

Over the years, the security that surrounds his cell each time I enter has begun to diminish down to only two or three prison guards. It's been found that the less people around, the less likely Zemo is to lash out when they get a tad too close and with my life potentially on the line they can't afford for him to do that. It's not that he has an issue with co-operation, per say, more so that he simply doesn't want to be touched, especially not by any of the skinhead guards the prison chooses to employ. (The first time I ever worked with him I had interrupted him yelling at one and telling them how they could not afford to touch him.) There were many objections when I first raised the subject, naturally, but after having seen first hand my interactions with the prisoner, the warden caved. I was put through a watered down medical training program to give me the basic knowledge and qualifications needed for such a job and sent on my way.

With the majority of prisoners, there would be inspections and assessments multiple times a week but with Zemo it had always been different. I like to think it was to avoid his restless nature and violent tendencies but deep down I've always known money was involved. There's no chance I would have ever been allowed to enter the cell without someone having bribed the prison board. Yet, while I know this, I don't seem to care. So, as I remove any potentially sharp objects from my person, I take a few more grounding breaths before allowing the guard to open the cell door.

Zemo takes a respectful step back as I enter, holding his hands up where I can see them to ease my nerves. The guard closes the cell door behind me, hand on his holster as he moves away. With practiced precision I place my makeshift medical bag on the cold ground by his bed before approaching him. "I'm just going to do some standard medical checks to start. Is that okay?" I ask as I guide him to take a seat on the bed, his skin like a naked flame beneath my fingertips. "Perfectly fine by me, Doctor. I'd never object to such gentle human touch" A ghost of a smile crosses his lips as I scoff. "Shut up and open your mouth" The upwards tugging of the corners of my mouth betrays my calm words. He does as I ask with little to no reluctance and the mischievous glint I noticed when I arrived burns that little bit brighter. As I reach for the thermometer at the top of the bag by his feet, my lips grow closer to his ear. Close enough to whisper "You got my dress size right. Makes me wonder how long you spend staring." without the risk of being heard by the guard. Unable to hide the smirk on my face as a redness grows on his neck and the tip of his ear, I cover my mouth with my hand and fake a small cough as I stand straight. Slowly I rest the thermometer inside his mouth and switch it on, stepping back as I await the beep. He watches me intently, thankfully choosing not to speak until I finish taking his temperature.

Once I have charted down the results, I glance back over at him and his eyes meet mine. "I mean who couldn't look. It may have escaped your noticing, Doctor but you are quite eye-catching". I laugh under my breath and roll my eyes with a fake exasperated expression. "You truly are impossible, Helmut. But thank you."

The second assessment is one of his reflexes which requires the small rubber hammer kept in the front pocket of the bag. I retrieve it and place my hand by his leg, my pinkie brushing against his thigh and lingering there for a few moments before I begin to lower myself onto my knees at his side. "Hmm, I had pictured this moment with a little less formality and medical gear but beggars can't be choosers, I suppose" He says lowly, his own fingertip almost gliding across my cheek as he places his hands on his knees. I glare up at him through my lashes before gripping his leg rather roughly, my fingers digging in ever so slightly. Beneath my grasp, I can feel his muscles tense and say a simple "oops" with a tiny smirk as I go back to my initial task. I hear him murmur "Well played, pet" but find myself too caught up in the task to pull him up about it.

The rest of the assessment passes by reasonably quickly with the occasional lingering touch or extended glance. Once each task has been completed I begin to pack the things away, bending over my bag and zipping up each individual pocket. I suddenly become acutely aware of the presence of his body directly behind me and snap back into a standing position, his face close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath against my neck, raising the skin in agonising anticipation. Each of my muscles tense, freezing me on the spot as I stare straight forward, unable to move and unsure where I would even go if I could. A click of fingers behind me rips through the air and what I can only assume is the sound of the guards shuffling away breaks the heavy silence. My eyes fall shut and my breathing quickens. Somehow my closing throat manages a question before panic entirely sets in. "Are you going to kill me?" I speak with as much confidence as I can muster which ends up being almost none. Being trapped in a cell with a vengeful serial killer tends to have that effect.

What feels like an hour but is most likely only a few seconds passes before I gain my response. His warm hand steadily climbs my back and settles on my jaw, tipping my head slightly to the side before he places his lips against the newly exposed skin. "Now why would I do that, pet?" The low vibrations of his words settle against my veins, sending shivers racing up my spine. "You know I could never hurt you, my darling. I know you feel something for me and I promise to protect you with every fibre of my being. I just need you to do something for me first. Do you understand, Золотце?" I can't help but nod as I lean back against him, the warmth of his touch almost unbearable. "I understand"