[ Steve couldn't be sure by the look of the solo cup on the table, but the way Zemo moves, as though seized up under water, as though his limbs and joints have started to go soft, he knows that something is wrong. It licks dangerously at the nape of his neck, prickling at his skin and sending a warning rush of electricity up his spine.
Hunter isn't the sort of guy to take it easy on a date, regardless of the alcohol, and if he knows anything about this party, about the limber, strong man with a hand on his shoulder? He knows too well that it's not just jungle juice picking Helmut Zemo apart at the seams. He remembers his own hazy party here, feeling welcomed by the older student who kindly ushered a cup of something sharply strong into his hands. He remembers the stumble, the tug of a hand on his wrist, the brush of a mouth against his ear, his jaw, his lips, and more. He remembers the smell of the bathroom - a wash of bleach and old alcohol and bad, lemon-scented air freshener.
It makes bile rise hot into the back of his throat. ]
I am late. Had a bit of car trouble, but better late than never, right?
[ And yet Zemo throws the attention back to Hunter who, leaning in close, Steve makes out the line of his sneer in the dim. Carefully, he shifts between them, reaching to carefully pluck Zemo's wrist from the strong man's hand, blue eyes meeting Hunter's in the haze, his own brow set low and pinched. Something akin to danger crackles in the air between them. ]
That's not gonna happen. Unless you want me to get the campus security involved. I don't think the school would like that too much. You're on scholarship, right, Hunt?
[ The other boy's sneer darkens and even though he's given up the hold on Zemo's wrist (now blocked by the careful placement of Steve's arm, his broad palm on Zemo's bicep almost possessively) the hand on Steve's shoulder grips tight, clamping down hard. ]
Are you threatening me, Rogers? Can you believe this guy? [ Hunter looks to Zemo, almost as though he's politely offended at Steve's bulldog behavior. ] Here we were, having a nice conversation, having a good time, and he wants to ruin it for you. Tch.
[ Steve's arm slides down Zemo's, fingers curling against his elbow, forearm pressed into his side as he leans closer to the man, trying to murmur between them under the noise so Hunter can't hear. ] Let me take you home? Or we can go get a drink somewhere else, yeah? This guy's bad news, just trust me on this one. Please.
[car trouble. a valid excuse, and maybe steve is actually lucky zemo doesn't have all of his wits about him in the moment because if he did - he would likely let his wounded pride get the better of him. tip his chin up haughtily and go with hunter out of spite to let steve know that helmut zemo isn't someone to keep waiting. particularly not when zemo has let his guard down enough to allow that little spark of something bloom between him and steve rogers' apparent interest. but the alcohol and headiness of suddenly being a prize to be won between the two of them is enough to keep his mood light and pleasant, forgiving of an honest mistake. because steve has never been anything but honest up until this point, and though it hasn't been long....he feels like he can trust this wasn't meant to embarrass him or make him wait like some silly game.
his lips tip into a lopsided smirk, finger reaching out again to thunk against steve's chest and tap lightly in another tease.]
And that is why you should drive European. [a pause, lips pulling even further into a wry little grin.] But...I forgive you.
[his attention span flits from one man to the other, the suddenly tense air breaking through the cloudy haze of the way the drink has apparently effected him. his brows furrow as he looks between steve and then hunter - the tight fingers on his shoulder to the way he catches key words between them. campus security, scholarship, good time, bad news - trust me. there are warm hands shifting from wrist to forearm, to elbow - he can't keep track of whose. hunter is shifting the blame onto steve, but it's the note of something imploring in steve's voice specifically that has him looking twice, straining to focus on the undercurrent of importance in his soft words.
trust me. it's the one thing he thinks even in his clearly compromised state that he can do. his lips part, gaze flicking from the familiarity of steve's face back to hunter's. suddenly his features are that much less appealing - a mocking shift of his mouth, an intensity in his gaze that looks like it's never been told no. it's like putting an original next to its replica - seeing all the mistakes in stark contrast. hunter's jaw is nowhere near as defined as steve's, the bridge of his nose is too thin for the width of his face, cheekbones near gaunt in comparison to a specimen that may as well have been carved by a great like michelangelo himself.]
Alright, I -
[hunter doesn't seem willing to let it go yet though, unhappy playing second fiddle least of all to steve and worried about whatever response is about to finalize this choice. he uses the leverage from his hold on steve's shoulder to try and bodily yank him back, forcing zemo to stumble back against the wall again with an absent look of surprise.]
I'm not the only one on scholarship here though, am I? Rogers doesn't seem your speed. Things move pretty fast around here.
[zemo tilts his head back, a mistake when even the small movement makes the room spin again and something dazed shifts over his expression. he feels untethered at sea, floating between a rock and a hard place quite literally. but zemo takes one last look at the way hunter is trying to impose himself yet again, the other boy's nose scrunching unattractively and a low-grade simmer of rage seeping into his face as he can see the interest waning. that's all it takes to make up his mind. things need to slow down, not go faster right now. he leans into steve's space, one hand coming up to steady itself on one of his firm shoulders while his balance feels like quicksand.]
I trust you. You owe me top shelf liquor though, Steven. [he turns to hunter, smiling apologetically and trying to stay diplomatic even as he sways lightly in the tight space between the wall and both much taller men.]
[ Zemo seems unsteady on his feet the moment he tries to move and Steve watches the way he sways, the way his finger tips press against his chest, the way his lips curl in a smirk that lacks all of it's edge. The smirk that he's come to know as well as his own name called in a sneer across a classroom, over the study table, in the halls in passing. Whatever is in that cup has to go, and he needs to get Zemo out of here, something fiercely protective (though he wont question the why) rising high into his chest. He feels the urgency running hot through his veins, mingled with the simmering rise of fury.
Just as he turns again to say something to the smaller man, the weight of the hand on his shoulder jerks him back and he whirls, releasing Zemo altogether so that he can about face on Hunter, staring the fuming boy down with a quiet, but deadly, calm. Steve can't help the way his chest feels like it swells, the way his shoulders posture and broaden, the way his head lifts just so he can see Hunter better in the dim party lights.
The assessment comes quick, the flick of eyes that tells him he could put Hunter on the floor in one strike, what with the coupled problem of alcohol and poor training. He can already feel the soft of his gut on his knuckles, the crack of a temple across a bared palm. If the Reserves have taught him anything, it's how to use his body, how to defend himself. And that's the trick here, isn't it? He needs to defend himself, not attack. There isn't a side to choose when only one is in the right. He can't fight here, no matter how easily he'd win. ]
You really don't want to do this, Hunter.
[ A step closer, closing the space, and Hunter almost falters. After all, Steve Rogers hasn't exactly been known to be unfriendly, to be confrontational and this sudden, quiet severity even has knocked his opponent off kilter. It shows in the way Hunter blinks, the space between them suddenly smaller with no movement. Zemo's interjection does little to change the way Steve stands tall between them, making himself an immovable wall, a veritable shield should Hunter try and make an advance. And Hunter considers it; Steve sees it in the slight forward lean, the shift of a sneaker on the tacky carpet. ]
Yeah, sorry, Hunter. Looks like we're in for a slow night, but I'm sure your evening will pick up. I'll see you in class.
[ A tight, careful smile. His fingers flex against the small space where cashmere meets the rise of rough denim at Zemo's back. It's absent, where his hand has landed, acting only as an anchor to the torrent of the man's vision and swimming feet. He turns only when Hunter seems to stammer, trying to come up with some angry rebut, yet Steve doesn't entertain it. Instead he turns into Zemo, keeping the smaller man tucked in against his side as he urges him away, careful. ]
Top shelf liquor. Maybe not tonight, but got it. Think you can take a rain check for now? I think we should get back to the dorms. It's late.
[ Late, and Steve can tell that the longer they wait, the harder it will be for them to make a clean exit. Zemo's on the fast track to becoming a show in and of himself, and a part of him wants to shield him from the whispers and rumors that frat house dives like Hunter like to start. He also can't help the flip of guilt in his own stomach, knowing that had he been here sooner, he might have been able to prevent it. That had he been here when he promised, this night might have gone differently. ]
A rain check, really? Don't tell me you're afraid you - [is he slurring his words? they sound foreign to his own ear, lackadaisical and lacking their usual control.] You're afraid you can't hold your liquor.
[ironic, considering he's essentially being guided by strong hands and stronger arms at the moment. steve's broad palm splays against his lower back and it seems to wipe away yet another layer of comprehension or protest - has him leaning into it in some baser instinct of wanting the contact. if he thought they'd been close in his dorm days ago, now he's getting a much better picture of it from where he's pressed up against his firm, warm side. his feet aren't even straight right now, walking sidelong and letting steve lead the way through crowds of plastered undergraduates. there are more than a few eyes glancing their way, and it nearly feels like a hole is burning at the back of his neck from how cross - what was his name? - is at having been pushed aside.
maybe it was rude of him. oh well. there will be other parties, and zemo finds he doesn't quite care so much when he has steve rogers' full attention. the idea alone makes him dizzy - or maybe that's just whatever the hell was in his jungle juice. he tips his chin up, one arm lifting to grip at steve's biceps for support.]
You know, maybe I - [he's distracted by the solidity of muscle there and stopping mid-sentence with a small hum, eyes glancing down comically as his fingers flex in a testing squeeze around it.] Mm, very nice.
[that wasn't supposed to leave his internal narration, something that has him frowning as he keeps being lead to the nearest exit.]
I didn't mean to say that. What I meant to say is that maybe I underestimated this "jungle juice" of yours. Seems America does know how to party.
[when they make it outside to the cool air of a brisk fall night, zemo feels himself losing his coordination even further from the sudden shift in scenery - bumping nearly sidelong into steve and letting his fingers grip at his arm tighter even as he resolutely insists.]
I'm fine. If you wanted an excuse to put an arm around me, you can just ask, you know.
[ Steve lets the other boy ramble at his side, words a warm slur, breath smelling of alcohol on the air between them. He's well aware of the eyes that track their progress across the room, the way Hunter sneers at his back, but he ignores it until they get into the open air, helping the wavering, tumbling man at his side to the sidewalk. The longer they walk, it becomes evident that Jungle Juice hadn't been the only thing lurking in Zemo's cup.
It makes his stomach churn furiously, and he puts it in the back of his mind to do something about it later. To stop anyone from facing the the same kind of fate he's dealt with before, that he's dealing with even now. He's drawn from his thoughts when the man grips his bicep, pressing fingers around it, and he pauses to look down at him, his own face filling to the brim with heat. The arm around his waist holds true regardless, sliding to the curve of his back and hip if only to keep him steady on his feet. ]
If you wanted an excuse to feel my arms, you could have asked me, too. Putting my arm around you seems like it killed two birds with one stone.
[ It's a soft tease, one murmured as he makes sure Zemo steadies on his feet. ]
But you're definitely not fine. My car's just around the block. We can talk about how fine you really are once we get back to the dorms. Can you walk?
[ He's fully prepared to carry him, if he must, knowing too well that whatever it is that had been slipped in the boy's drink will soon be in full swing. He wonders, briefly, if he should take him to the emergency room first, if he should have a nurse or doctor look him over, but he doesn't know how it all works. He knows he'd been fine after his brief run in with Hunter, so all he can do is keep a close eye on him. ]
[zemo is about to protest that he didn't need an excuse, that he'd have to be blind not to have noticed them for how large and carefully carved they obviously are and he just needed something to hold onto for one quick moment and steve's arms were as solid as anything - exactly in that rambling order, but then he's told he isn't fine, and steve has made a very grave mistake in the moment. zemo digs his heels in, coming to a complete dead stop and extricating himself in what he thinks is a very graceful manner from steve's side. what he can't see is the way he's all long limbs and furrowed brows, anger only managing to muster a pout at somehow being told he's less than. can you walk, steve asks, like he's some newborn baby deer. please. as if this is his first "rodeo", or whatever idiotic thing americans say to one another.]
I am fine. Perfectly fine, perfectly capable of walking - see? And where is this car of yours, Steve Rogers? It is starting to sound much more like a getaway vehicle to me.
[his arms outstretch, hands held up as if to demonstrate and physically convince steve rogers how wrong he is, as usual. ta-da. only standing still makes it more than clear that the world is spinning more than usual, so the logical answer is to keep moving. keep walking towards whatever their goal was and wherever this car of his is - faster and faster until it's likely clear to anyone besides the confines of his own mind that he is in fact, not fine and cannot do this on his own without the risk of tripping or careening back and cracking his skull against the pavement. there are a few couples and stragglers on their way in and out, and he smiles pleasantly with a giddy little wave in their direction absently even as his legs keep pushing him back.]
Do you see? I'm - oh.
[he breathes it out on the realization that he's still moving, probably should not have made the effort to relinquish the mutual hold they had on one another. he's still fine, of course, just a little off balance. there is a difference - one he'd happily explain if he had the patience and the focus. both of which seem to have abandoned him completely, and blindly he reaches for steve again, knowing he's too far away.]
[ Steve knows this song and dance too well. He's helped Bucky down these sidewalks, stumbling over himself laughing, singing loudly to the sound they'd heard last at the party. Not that Steve has been an angel himself. How many times had Bucky hobbled him along the pavement freshman year, their heads bowed as they "whispered" (read: screamed) about the pretty people and the alcohol.
He doesn't have time to react when Zemo pulls away from him, a whirlwind of limbs and misplaced steps, and he apologizes to the couples that pass, who glance back warily at the flourishing drunk man on the sidewalk. College town, frat house, it all adds up and the passersby don't think twice. But all Steve can see is red flags and danger and the too many eyes who might take this as an opportunity to ostracize the new, foreign student.
Steve follows dutifully, arms halfway extended, waiting for the crash, and it's the admission of his arm that has him lurching forward to hook both round Zemo's waist, pulling him close to his chest to steady him, their fronts flush in a way that he's sure to analyze later. ]
Whoa, okay, I've got you. Do you see now?
[ Not. Fine. Steve looks down into the man's face, checking the color, the haze of his eyes, and he sighs. They have on more block to go to make it to the car, and he's sure that someone will get hurt along the way if he lets this continue.
They're out of sight from the frat house, from any immediate danger, which spurs him to dip and scoop a strong arm under Zemo's legs, bringing him up into his arms and against the broad plane of his chest. He's strong enough to carry him to the car, to give his loose limbs time to catch up with the spinning of his brain, but he waits a half a second for the protest before he continues on up the street. ]
I know what you're going to say, and trust me, this wasn't my first option, either. But I think it's in our best interest. So maybe it is a getaway car. We can make like Bonnie and Clyde, but hopefully we both make it out of this alive. Deal?
[there's a pause between each word, like it exists as it's own statement. they're punctuated by zemo pointing his finger once more at different points of steve's chest from where he's now pressed directly against it, once again held still by strong arms and the solidity of a built body supporting his limbs that simply won't cooperate all in the same direction. his head tilts back in a wobbling motion reminiscent of a bobblehead, eyes falling half-lidded and a dippy grin splitting his lips as he slings both arms around steve's shoulders in maybe the most responsible thing he's done since coming outside.
that's the only warning he gets before he's shifted up into those same arms, legs pressing together at the knees and startled but not displeased noise in the back of his throat. the only unfortunate side effect is the way it makes his vision lurch, his entire center of gravity shifted as it finally sinks in what's happening as steve starts explaining it. all he can think about his how strong steve is, how much easier it is to be lifted into his arms like he weighs next to nothing.]
You don't know what I'm going to say.
[it comes out wrapped in childish indignance that's only enhanced by his accent. his arms cling that much tighter, using it as leverage to tuck his face against the juncture between steve's neck and shoulder. before he can really register, he lets his cheek press against it and rub lightly like a cat nuzzling against a favorite toy. absently, he murmurs somewhere along his neck and near steve's ear.]
You smell good. And you're very strong, has anyone ever told you these things? If they haven't, they should.
[his head lolls slightly, trying to take in the scenery and failing beyond seeing strings of lights from behind windows that look impossibly stretched out and taller than they should be. there aren't as many people up this way, which is probably just as well though he hasn't the presence of mind to care at the moment. he doesn't know exactly what he's agreeing to, but he hears "best interest" and inherently knows steve can decide that right now.]
Normally I would need an attorney present, but deal.
[a pause, and he pulls back with a mild frown and tries to look at steve directly.]
Ah, but...if you're carrying me that means I'm Bonnie, no?
[ Listening to someone inebriated takes a certain type of hearing, and he's only halfway focused on Zemo's words as he carries him to the car. Instead, his eyes stay glued to the sidewalk, and his arms remain tightly curled around the man's thinner frame, keeping him tucked close into his chest for every loopy, swimming movement he makes.
What he does not account for, however, is the soft nuzzle against his neck and shoulder, the way he can feel hot breath and lips too close to his skin, to his ear, and it takes everything in him not to viscerally react to the way a line of white-hot electricity runs circuits up his spine. It makes his face feel too warm, and the complements from the man feel wrong. Like he's taking them without permission, like he's being let in on a secret he was never meant to hear.
(That does not change the way it makes his heart thump faster, the way his belly swoops pleasantly at the intimate touch, the way it affirms everything he'd been feeling before, despite the barbs and passive turns. But Helmut Zemo has been drugged, and anything he says now, Steve knows he needs to try and delicately erase it from his mind). ]
I'll be happy to talk to your lawyer in the morning for you and let him know I got you to safety in a time of need.
[ His voice comes out a little shaken, his laugh uneven as he tries to manage keeping Zemo close and safe, but also the way he speaks too close to his ear, to his neck, the way he presses in and leans... ]
You can be Bonnie, if you want. I'll make sure to call you that from now on. But that means I'm Clyde.
[ The car comes into view and while it's no speeder, it's sturdy enough for a Buick, having been maintained by the Barnes family since its purchase a decade ago. He approaches the car and sighs, moving to carefully set Zemo back to his feet, but his other arm stays looped round his shoulders, keeping him close to his chest even still as he fishes in his pockets for the car key. Once obtained, he looks back down at the man, his expression concerned by fond, worried but affectionate. ]
How are you holding up there? We're only a few minutes from the campus, so the ride won't be long. [ For emphasis, he reaches to open the passenger door for him, though again, he keeps close, keeps an arm wound tightly around him. ] You'll be tucked in and sleeping in no time.
[there's likely no doubt zemo is extremely inebriated at the moment, but the way he practically purrs that out without an inch of mocking lacing around it. nothing barbed about it, if anything it toes the line of genuine praise. his arms tighten lightly, too weak to really grip properly as he rubs his cheek against some part of steve's shoulder and neck again. his hair has pulled from its neat coif, a few locks hanging along his forehead and bumping against bare skin. steve might even be able to feel the way his lips shift into a confused frown, bodily resisting this bit of information.]
But I like Steve Rogers much better. Clyde is too old-fashioned - even for you.
[it's no time at all before they're in front of a car that's also:]
Oh, a real relic.
[it comes out nearly comically - lacking the bite of an insult and just mere unfiltered observation. there's a noise of protest when steve tries to put him down, arms clinging against and a soft don't - mumbled out at having to leave the comfort of steve's warm arms. he could get used to that, actually. why isn't that a preferred method of transportation available? eventually he's put back on two feet, hands clinging to the material of the shirt still at his fingertips and digging in lightly. he tips his head back again, a dazed smile when he sees steve looking back at him with something he perceives as positive. but if he squints the other way, his expression seems much too concerned, furrowed brow and all. one hand slides up his front without any care for how they catch along his pectorals, curving along his neck and patting lightly at his cheek.]
Mm, what's the matter? You look much more handsome when you smile.
[he lets himself be herded into the car, head lolling back against creaking leather and taking in the unfamiliar scents and overall tidy interior. not bad. his eyes slip shut as he pulls in a deep inhale, trying to get it all to stop the blurring spin of his surroundings. he hardly hears steve get in next to him or the rumble of the engine as they pull away from the curb. whatever was in his jungle juice is leaving holes, pockets of missing moments where he's entirely quiet before piping up with something near nonsensical. his hands are limp, occasionally lifting to gesture around vaguely with absent commentary. there's a slip of sokovian here and there. and then before he knows it, the car is pulling still again. he practically splays across the console with the gearshift to reach for steve's arm again and slur out something that sounds as if it belongs outside of the entrance to a family party.]
Will the gentleman be escorting me to the door?
Edited (sry for some truly ghastly typos) 2021-07-13 04:08 (UTC)
[ It feels wrong to go hot under the collar the way Zemo practically hangs over him, hands sliding up his chest, neck, to his face. The other boy is two sheets to the wind, by no fault of his own, and he can't help the shame he feels at liking the attention. Zemo's easy on the eye, he's intelligent, he's clever... but he'd much prefer to win his attention and affection the honest way.
During the drive he occasionally reaches to steady the thinner man, keep him from slumping over or hitting the door, but Zemo speaks in a slur of Sokovian to reassure him. Or what Steve thinks is reassurance. Needless to say, he's downright relieved when they arrive at the dorms. But yes, of course. Another problem, another obstacle, and if he was the swearing type he'd probably have named every one in the book at this point.
A hand reflexively falls to Zemo's to keep him steady against his arm, and he huffs something of a laugh. ]
I don't think the gentleman has a choice, considering your legs aren't as good as you think they are right now.
[ Steve makes a point to manually unlock his own door and carefully extricate himself from the boy's hold on his arm. Opening Zemo's door from the outside next, he steps in close to prevent him from going too far out of arm's reach. ]
Everyone's out partying, so we should be clear. We need to get you in, get you some water, and tuck you into bed. So come on, up and at em. [ With that he offers both of his hands to help and watches for any sign that the man's legs might still be at sea. He knows they will be, knows that he'll be an unsteady, noisy mess, but he glances over his shoulder at the dorm entry, relieved to see the attending RA has walked away for a little while. So once Zemo is out of the car? Steve dips right down to carry him again. ]
[zemo latches onto the first thing his mind can process - and it earns an indignant scoff.]
You don't like my legs? What's wrong with them? They're - long, especially for my height. Very appealing, or so I've been told.
[it's a slurred babble, accent more enunciated than usual as he defends himself against an allegation that isn't even on the nose from steve. before he even has time to process it, his attention is dragged to the opposite side, and zemo visibly brightens when he sees steve once more. he fumbles with his seatbelt a bit, clacking at it awkwardly before managing to pull it aside with a flourish. as if to say see? i can do it. he frowns mildly at the suggestion of bed, sluggishly murmuring something childish along the lines of not tired before gingerly placing both hands into steve's much larger, warm ones and attempting to pull himself out of the car.
and, likely to the shock of absolutely no one, his legs are utterly useless meaning he all but trips out of the car like a newborn foal with an honest to god giggle. thank god steve has the sense to pick him up once again, and he easily wraps his arms around steve's neck again, head lolling into the space that's become familiar. he lifts it briefly, lips brushing along steve's cheek with an affectionate murmur.]
Mm, I missed you.
[as if he hasn't been sitting next to the very same man the whole time.]
You give better service than staff on my family's estate - talk about white glove.
[he wouldn't know even if there was anyone there, but it's blissfully empty as they step inside and steve begins the winding walk through rich wooden halls. he's up on the third floor, as if adding insult to injury for steve right now. at least he's been here enough to know where to go, seeing as zemo giving directions right now would be nothing short of disastrous.]
You know...I would have gone home with you, Steve Rogers. How fortunate - fortu - [his brow furrows as he tries to formulate the right word and slumps against his shoulder briefly before popping up excitedly when he realizes he has it - ] Fortuitous that you're already here.
They are very good legs, yes. But they're not exactly working in your favor right now.
[ Steve does his best to handle the way the boy moves in his arms, cradling him close to his chest as he opts for the stairwell instead of the elevators. Fewer opportunities to run into other students, after all. But it's the brush of lips on his cheek, the easy weight of the head on his shoulder, against his neck, that send little sparks up his spine.
Again, it's chased closely by guilt, because he knows too well that the other boy wouldn't behave like this were it not for Hunter and the drug. To like the attention, the affection, feels wrong here and yet... it affirms much of what he'd been thinking, what he'd been feeling. He'll have to find a way to address it with him later.
Nearly to the third floor, he sputters when Zemo mentions going home with him. That implies more than just a carrying to the dorm room, but implies a crossroads they have not traversed yet. The comment brings heat up into his cheeks and he laughs good naturedly, trying his best to keep his composure. ]
Fortuitous, yes. [ He adjusts his arms, keeping him close as he starts down the hall, grateful that it appears to be otherwise empty. The idea that he could take him home lingers in the back of his mind for another time, another date, though... and the heat of it shows in his face. ] But it looks like you're taking me home, and I'd say by the time we get in your room, it'll be just about time for you to go to sleep and call it a night.
[ It's with great awkwardness that he actually manages to make it to Zemo's dorm and after some fumbling (instead of just asking, because there's no point when he's so drugged) he manages to procure Zemo's dorm key and carries him inside, kicking the door shut with a foot behind him. He sighs, managing the switch with the awkward brush and dip of an elbow, letting the overhead lamp light his way to settle Zemo on his bed. ]
Easy there, Helmut, alright? Let me get you some water. You need to stay here though. Don't try and go anywhere. Understand?
[it's no small wonder steve manages to make it up the stairs with him in his arms, but it's mainly only given that zemo is clinging quite tightly to strong shoulders and letting his head loll against his collarbone and shoulder. he slips in and out of consciousness a few times, jostled by the steps steve is taking through no fault of his own, especially when he's doing the best he can from this situation. and if zemo had any real presence of mind, he'd be much more appreciative of the way steve manages to support his weight all the way up. it's better he doesn't for now though, or he's likely to make yet another embarrassing or overly flattering comment that will just make steve feel guilty where zemo can't see it. he nuzzles into steve's neck as if he's sleepy, but really it's because everything is so unbelievably hazy and spinning that it feels safer to anchor himself to someone physical right now. someone strong and warm and right there, something he can't second guess.
at the mention of bed, however, he lifts his head with an indignant frown.]
I'm not tired. Not sleepy. Why aren't we at the party?
[what time is it is much too complicated to put together right now. he glances up again when he hears the door close behind them and sees the illuminating lights leading into a room so familiar that even his drug-induced state would recognize it anywhere.]
Oh - this is my dorm.
[by the time they make it to his bed, his limbs are that much more pliant and he uncurls from where his arms have been wrapped like an overeager octopus around his guest. instead, he splays out entirely against the bed, one arm dangling off the side and a dippy grin pulling aside his lips as he stares up at the ceiling like his focus is passing right through it altogether. someone is telling him something that sounds important, but he doesn't catch any of it. his name, water, does he understand? no, he doesn't. but he doesn't look in much condition to get up now that the effects are in full swing. if anything he's more docile this way, susceptible to any suggestion he does catch.]
Yeah. Not going anywhere, just like you said.
[whenever steve gets back the only thing he's done is attempt to sit up in a half-slump, feet dangling off one side as he makes the effort to slip out of his boots. one is on the floor already, the other loose but stuck under his heel as his limbs refuse to fully cooperate.]
I think the party was ending, so I thought it was best to get out of there before we were the last men standing.
[ Thankfully, he's been in this dorm plenty of times to know exactly where Zemo keeps his glasses, where he keeps aspirin, and other menial household items. He's quick to fill a glass half full (he knows too well it might get knocked over) and returns to find Zemo sitting, slumped, on the bed and fumbling to get his shoes off. He frowns, though it's more out of concern than anything else. ]
Here, take this. Take a few drinks for me, alright?
[ He carefully presses the glass between the boy's palms, keeping his own broad hands over the other's until he's sure it's not going to slip to the wayside. Only in that brief moment of surety he peels his hands away and kneels in front of Zemo instead, reaching to help him with his shoes, touch gentle and careful as he sets them both aside, neatly lined up near the foot of his bed. He considers whether or not he should just get him into bed how he is, but the clothes smell of smoke, weed, alcohol, and letting his bed sheets and room smell like that overlong? Seems like a bad idea.
Carefully, he peels off the man's socks as well, tucking them aside before he rises again to sit on the bed beside him, reaching an arm round his shoulders to keep him upright, to keep him from slumping back into the bed. ]
How are you feeling? Don't nod off on me yet, we gotta get you tucked in. [ The nearness, the compliments, all of it makes heat rise into his face when he recalls that Zemo had wanted to take him home, or vice versa. He blows out a sigh. ] Where do you keep your pajamas? You're gonna want to be comfortable in the morning, trust me.
[ He remembers waking with a splitting headache, feeling sick, lethargic, like a hangover gone sour a few hours too long. While the nausea passed he felt foggy for a day or so after, enough to interrupt his sleep and make him irritable for much of the week. Internally, he already knows that he'll get the brunt of it from the other boy. ]
[everything is a blur at this point. the room is spinning, his whole body feels like it's spinning. his limbs feel simultaneously heavy like they're filled with lead yet loose and pliant and ready to attempt to comply with the barest hint of suggestion. take this, drink for me washes over him so easily and lets out a small groan trying to sit up more and do as he's been told. there are warm hands around his own steadying and guiding him to take what's in his hand and follow it with a sip. it wouldn't make a difference right now if it was aspirin or some other nefarious party drug - he hardly even realizes anything is sliding down his throat at all. vaguely he registers the absence of them with a sigh that sounds wistful, at least until they seem to reappear along his boot and pull them off. the jostling of it makes zemo want to just flop back and close his already heavy eyelids even though he knows it will still be a spinning and disorienting black hole behind them.
but then there is that same warm solid figure beside him, propping him up. that soothing voice asking about pajamas and bed and the morning - all of it seems so far away and it's all he can do to slump against steve's shoulder, face tipping forward against his chest as he lets out a breathy laugh. The string of words that follows is a near unintelligible slur.]
'm feeling marvelous. But it's hot - and you want me out of these which is what I want too. You already know all about my robe. Pajamas, robe, underwear...over there.
[one hand waves vaguely off in the direction of the lefthand side of the closet across the way. he rubs his face against steve's chest momentarily with a soft hum, like a contended cat. for a minute it looks like he might just stay there, until somehow he manages to dig his hands into the lapels of steve's jacket and use them to hoist himself up, head tipping back to stare dazed and unfocused in the general direction of his face.]
You're comfortable. Wanna wear you to sleep. [wait - that's not quite right. he tries again.] Wanna bring you to sleep, actually. With me. Right here. [one hand slips and pats between steve's legs at the bed underneath them before giving up and bracing against his thigh.
he may or may not remember this tomorrow morning, but suffice to say - a sober helmut zemo would be utterly mortified.]
[ Steve's voice warms, bubbling with fondness through the concern. He's poised to get up again when that head rests against his chest, heavy and graceless, nuzzling like a warm, sated kitten. A hand raises before he can think twice of it, and gently cards through the man's hair, gently guiding it out of his face.
It gives him something to do when the next words come out a slurred, fussy mess. Wanna wear you to sleep. Between that and the hand that suddenly feels like it's caught the mattress on fire between his knees, raking dangerous heat across his thigh as he posts up. Again, if this were another time in a different context he might be lured in by such a statement, drawn by warmth and flirts and everything else in between.
Instead, he takes in a slow, deep breath to try and cool the fire creeping up into his neck and cheeks. Gently plucking Zemo's hand from his thigh, he gives it a soft squeeze and leans to press a kiss to the delirious boy's forehead. Maybe it's too much, maybe he won't remember, but all the same. ]
Not so sure about that, but you'll definitely be getting some sleep here soon. I won't leave until morning.
[ Though he knows he'll drag a chair over and settle at the side, or make a small perch atop the blankets, to ensure the drugged boy doesn't wander out into any more unfortunate adventures in the night. Better to make sure he's kept safe and well here, after all. ] So sit tight.
[ He's careful to help Zemo lean back against pillows before he slips away again, hunting out a set of pajamas, a robe, but he'll leave the ceremonial change of underwear to the other man later, when he's regained some sense and returns to a world of sense and propriety. Sitting back down on the bed, he reaches once again to touch his shoulder softly. ]
Sit up, you can lean on me if you need to. Let's get this sweater off.
[ Clinical, calm, warm. Like taking care of a sick friend instead of undressing a recent crush. He has to get Zemo down and resting so he can sleep some of the drug away come morning. He reaches for the hem of the sweater, surprised at how soft the expensive fabric is, and gently begins pulling it upward, a soft arms when the time comes, pressed against his hair, as he tugs the fabric free. Only then he starts on the buttons of the pajama top, fumbling them in a bit of a rush. ]
Pajamas will just have to be a suitable replacement for me for the night, alright? Once I get this thing undone.
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no subject
Hunter isn't the sort of guy to take it easy on a date, regardless of the alcohol, and if he knows anything about this party, about the limber, strong man with a hand on his shoulder? He knows too well that it's not just jungle juice picking Helmut Zemo apart at the seams. He remembers his own hazy party here, feeling welcomed by the older student who kindly ushered a cup of something sharply strong into his hands. He remembers the stumble, the tug of a hand on his wrist, the brush of a mouth against his ear, his jaw, his lips, and more. He remembers the smell of the bathroom - a wash of bleach and old alcohol and bad, lemon-scented air freshener.
It makes bile rise hot into the back of his throat. ]
I am late. Had a bit of car trouble, but better late than never, right?
[ And yet Zemo throws the attention back to Hunter who, leaning in close, Steve makes out the line of his sneer in the dim. Carefully, he shifts between them, reaching to carefully pluck Zemo's wrist from the strong man's hand, blue eyes meeting Hunter's in the haze, his own brow set low and pinched. Something akin to danger crackles in the air between them. ]
That's not gonna happen. Unless you want me to get the campus security involved. I don't think the school would like that too much. You're on scholarship, right, Hunt?
[ The other boy's sneer darkens and even though he's given up the hold on Zemo's wrist (now blocked by the careful placement of Steve's arm, his broad palm on Zemo's bicep almost possessively) the hand on Steve's shoulder grips tight, clamping down hard. ]
Are you threatening me, Rogers? Can you believe this guy? [ Hunter looks to Zemo, almost as though he's politely offended at Steve's bulldog behavior. ] Here we were, having a nice conversation, having a good time, and he wants to ruin it for you. Tch.
[ Steve's arm slides down Zemo's, fingers curling against his elbow, forearm pressed into his side as he leans closer to the man, trying to murmur between them under the noise so Hunter can't hear. ] Let me take you home? Or we can go get a drink somewhere else, yeah? This guy's bad news, just trust me on this one. Please.
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his lips tip into a lopsided smirk, finger reaching out again to thunk against steve's chest and tap lightly in another tease.]
And that is why you should drive European. [a pause, lips pulling even further into a wry little grin.] But...I forgive you.
[his attention span flits from one man to the other, the suddenly tense air breaking through the cloudy haze of the way the drink has apparently effected him. his brows furrow as he looks between steve and then hunter - the tight fingers on his shoulder to the way he catches key words between them. campus security, scholarship, good time, bad news - trust me. there are warm hands shifting from wrist to forearm, to elbow - he can't keep track of whose. hunter is shifting the blame onto steve, but it's the note of something imploring in steve's voice specifically that has him looking twice, straining to focus on the undercurrent of importance in his soft words.
trust me. it's the one thing he thinks even in his clearly compromised state that he can do. his lips part, gaze flicking from the familiarity of steve's face back to hunter's. suddenly his features are that much less appealing - a mocking shift of his mouth, an intensity in his gaze that looks like it's never been told no. it's like putting an original next to its replica - seeing all the mistakes in stark contrast. hunter's jaw is nowhere near as defined as steve's, the bridge of his nose is too thin for the width of his face, cheekbones near gaunt in comparison to a specimen that may as well have been carved by a great like michelangelo himself.]
Alright, I -
[hunter doesn't seem willing to let it go yet though, unhappy playing second fiddle least of all to steve and worried about whatever response is about to finalize this choice. he uses the leverage from his hold on steve's shoulder to try and bodily yank him back, forcing zemo to stumble back against the wall again with an absent look of surprise.]
I'm not the only one on scholarship here though, am I? Rogers doesn't seem your speed. Things move pretty fast around here.
[zemo tilts his head back, a mistake when even the small movement makes the room spin again and something dazed shifts over his expression. he feels untethered at sea, floating between a rock and a hard place quite literally. but zemo takes one last look at the way hunter is trying to impose himself yet again, the other boy's nose scrunching unattractively and a low-grade simmer of rage seeping into his face as he can see the interest waning. that's all it takes to make up his mind. things need to slow down, not go faster right now. he leans into steve's space, one hand coming up to steady itself on one of his firm shoulders while his balance feels like quicksand.]
I trust you. You owe me top shelf liquor though, Steven. [he turns to hunter, smiling apologetically and trying to stay diplomatic even as he sways lightly in the tight space between the wall and both much taller men.]
Apologies, maybe we can continue another time.
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Just as he turns again to say something to the smaller man, the weight of the hand on his shoulder jerks him back and he whirls, releasing Zemo altogether so that he can about face on Hunter, staring the fuming boy down with a quiet, but deadly, calm. Steve can't help the way his chest feels like it swells, the way his shoulders posture and broaden, the way his head lifts just so he can see Hunter better in the dim party lights.
The assessment comes quick, the flick of eyes that tells him he could put Hunter on the floor in one strike, what with the coupled problem of alcohol and poor training. He can already feel the soft of his gut on his knuckles, the crack of a temple across a bared palm. If the Reserves have taught him anything, it's how to use his body, how to defend himself. And that's the trick here, isn't it? He needs to defend himself, not attack. There isn't a side to choose when only one is in the right. He can't fight here, no matter how easily he'd win. ]
You really don't want to do this, Hunter.
[ A step closer, closing the space, and Hunter almost falters. After all, Steve Rogers hasn't exactly been known to be unfriendly, to be confrontational and this sudden, quiet severity even has knocked his opponent off kilter. It shows in the way Hunter blinks, the space between them suddenly smaller with no movement. Zemo's interjection does little to change the way Steve stands tall between them, making himself an immovable wall, a veritable shield should Hunter try and make an advance. And Hunter considers it; Steve sees it in the slight forward lean, the shift of a sneaker on the tacky carpet. ]
Yeah, sorry, Hunter. Looks like we're in for a slow night, but I'm sure your evening will pick up. I'll see you in class.
[ A tight, careful smile. His fingers flex against the small space where cashmere meets the rise of rough denim at Zemo's back. It's absent, where his hand has landed, acting only as an anchor to the torrent of the man's vision and swimming feet. He turns only when Hunter seems to stammer, trying to come up with some angry rebut, yet Steve doesn't entertain it. Instead he turns into Zemo, keeping the smaller man tucked in against his side as he urges him away, careful. ]
Top shelf liquor. Maybe not tonight, but got it. Think you can take a rain check for now? I think we should get back to the dorms. It's late.
[ Late, and Steve can tell that the longer they wait, the harder it will be for them to make a clean exit. Zemo's on the fast track to becoming a show in and of himself, and a part of him wants to shield him from the whispers and rumors that frat house dives like Hunter like to start. He also can't help the flip of guilt in his own stomach, knowing that had he been here sooner, he might have been able to prevent it. That had he been here when he promised, this night might have gone differently. ]
Just lean on me, alright?
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[ironic, considering he's essentially being guided by strong hands and stronger arms at the moment. steve's broad palm splays against his lower back and it seems to wipe away yet another layer of comprehension or protest - has him leaning into it in some baser instinct of wanting the contact. if he thought they'd been close in his dorm days ago, now he's getting a much better picture of it from where he's pressed up against his firm, warm side. his feet aren't even straight right now, walking sidelong and letting steve lead the way through crowds of plastered undergraduates. there are more than a few eyes glancing their way, and it nearly feels like a hole is burning at the back of his neck from how cross - what was his name? - is at having been pushed aside.
maybe it was rude of him. oh well. there will be other parties, and zemo finds he doesn't quite care so much when he has steve rogers' full attention. the idea alone makes him dizzy - or maybe that's just whatever the hell was in his jungle juice. he tips his chin up, one arm lifting to grip at steve's biceps for support.]
You know, maybe I - [he's distracted by the solidity of muscle there and stopping mid-sentence with a small hum, eyes glancing down comically as his fingers flex in a testing squeeze around it.] Mm, very nice.
[that wasn't supposed to leave his internal narration, something that has him frowning as he keeps being lead to the nearest exit.]
I didn't mean to say that. What I meant to say is that maybe I underestimated this "jungle juice" of yours. Seems America does know how to party.
[when they make it outside to the cool air of a brisk fall night, zemo feels himself losing his coordination even further from the sudden shift in scenery - bumping nearly sidelong into steve and letting his fingers grip at his arm tighter even as he resolutely insists.]
I'm fine. If you wanted an excuse to put an arm around me, you can just ask, you know.
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It makes his stomach churn furiously, and he puts it in the back of his mind to do something about it later. To stop anyone from facing the the same kind of fate he's dealt with before, that he's dealing with even now. He's drawn from his thoughts when the man grips his bicep, pressing fingers around it, and he pauses to look down at him, his own face filling to the brim with heat. The arm around his waist holds true regardless, sliding to the curve of his back and hip if only to keep him steady on his feet. ]
If you wanted an excuse to feel my arms, you could have asked me, too. Putting my arm around you seems like it killed two birds with one stone.
[ It's a soft tease, one murmured as he makes sure Zemo steadies on his feet. ]
But you're definitely not fine. My car's just around the block. We can talk about how fine you really are once we get back to the dorms. Can you walk?
[ He's fully prepared to carry him, if he must, knowing too well that whatever it is that had been slipped in the boy's drink will soon be in full swing. He wonders, briefly, if he should take him to the emergency room first, if he should have a nurse or doctor look him over, but he doesn't know how it all works. He knows he'd been fine after his brief run in with Hunter, so all he can do is keep a close eye on him. ]
If you can't, I'll help you.
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I am fine. Perfectly fine, perfectly capable of walking - see? And where is this car of yours, Steve Rogers? It is starting to sound much more like a getaway vehicle to me.
[his arms outstretch, hands held up as if to demonstrate and physically convince steve rogers how wrong he is, as usual. ta-da. only standing still makes it more than clear that the world is spinning more than usual, so the logical answer is to keep moving. keep walking towards whatever their goal was and wherever this car of his is - faster and faster until it's likely clear to anyone besides the confines of his own mind that he is in fact, not fine and cannot do this on his own without the risk of tripping or careening back and cracking his skull against the pavement. there are a few couples and stragglers on their way in and out, and he smiles pleasantly with a giddy little wave in their direction absently even as his legs keep pushing him back.]
Do you see? I'm - oh.
[he breathes it out on the realization that he's still moving, probably should not have made the effort to relinquish the mutual hold they had on one another. he's still fine, of course, just a little off balance. there is a difference - one he'd happily explain if he had the patience and the focus. both of which seem to have abandoned him completely, and blindly he reaches for steve again, knowing he's too far away.]
I want your arm back, I think.
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He doesn't have time to react when Zemo pulls away from him, a whirlwind of limbs and misplaced steps, and he apologizes to the couples that pass, who glance back warily at the flourishing drunk man on the sidewalk. College town, frat house, it all adds up and the passersby don't think twice. But all Steve can see is red flags and danger and the too many eyes who might take this as an opportunity to ostracize the new, foreign student.
Steve follows dutifully, arms halfway extended, waiting for the crash, and it's the admission of his arm that has him lurching forward to hook both round Zemo's waist, pulling him close to his chest to steady him, their fronts flush in a way that he's sure to analyze later. ]
Whoa, okay, I've got you. Do you see now?
[ Not. Fine. Steve looks down into the man's face, checking the color, the haze of his eyes, and he sighs. They have on more block to go to make it to the car, and he's sure that someone will get hurt along the way if he lets this continue.
They're out of sight from the frat house, from any immediate danger, which spurs him to dip and scoop a strong arm under Zemo's legs, bringing him up into his arms and against the broad plane of his chest. He's strong enough to carry him to the car, to give his loose limbs time to catch up with the spinning of his brain, but he waits a half a second for the protest before he continues on up the street. ]
I know what you're going to say, and trust me, this wasn't my first option, either. But I think it's in our best interest. So maybe it is a getaway car. We can make like Bonnie and Clyde, but hopefully we both make it out of this alive. Deal?
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[there's a pause between each word, like it exists as it's own statement. they're punctuated by zemo pointing his finger once more at different points of steve's chest from where he's now pressed directly against it, once again held still by strong arms and the solidity of a built body supporting his limbs that simply won't cooperate all in the same direction. his head tilts back in a wobbling motion reminiscent of a bobblehead, eyes falling half-lidded and a dippy grin splitting his lips as he slings both arms around steve's shoulders in maybe the most responsible thing he's done since coming outside.
that's the only warning he gets before he's shifted up into those same arms, legs pressing together at the knees and startled but not displeased noise in the back of his throat. the only unfortunate side effect is the way it makes his vision lurch, his entire center of gravity shifted as it finally sinks in what's happening as steve starts explaining it. all he can think about his how strong steve is, how much easier it is to be lifted into his arms like he weighs next to nothing.]
You don't know what I'm going to say.
[it comes out wrapped in childish indignance that's only enhanced by his accent. his arms cling that much tighter, using it as leverage to tuck his face against the juncture between steve's neck and shoulder. before he can really register, he lets his cheek press against it and rub lightly like a cat nuzzling against a favorite toy. absently, he murmurs somewhere along his neck and near steve's ear.]
You smell good. And you're very strong, has anyone ever told you these things? If they haven't, they should.
[his head lolls slightly, trying to take in the scenery and failing beyond seeing strings of lights from behind windows that look impossibly stretched out and taller than they should be. there aren't as many people up this way, which is probably just as well though he hasn't the presence of mind to care at the moment. he doesn't know exactly what he's agreeing to, but he hears "best interest" and inherently knows steve can decide that right now.]
Normally I would need an attorney present, but deal.
[a pause, and he pulls back with a mild frown and tries to look at steve directly.]
Ah, but...if you're carrying me that means I'm Bonnie, no?
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What he does not account for, however, is the soft nuzzle against his neck and shoulder, the way he can feel hot breath and lips too close to his skin, to his ear, and it takes everything in him not to viscerally react to the way a line of white-hot electricity runs circuits up his spine. It makes his face feel too warm, and the complements from the man feel wrong. Like he's taking them without permission, like he's being let in on a secret he was never meant to hear.
(That does not change the way it makes his heart thump faster, the way his belly swoops pleasantly at the intimate touch, the way it affirms everything he'd been feeling before, despite the barbs and passive turns. But Helmut Zemo has been drugged, and anything he says now, Steve knows he needs to try and delicately erase it from his mind). ]
I'll be happy to talk to your lawyer in the morning for you and let him know I got you to safety in a time of need.
[ His voice comes out a little shaken, his laugh uneven as he tries to manage keeping Zemo close and safe, but also the way he speaks too close to his ear, to his neck, the way he presses in and leans... ]
You can be Bonnie, if you want. I'll make sure to call you that from now on. But that means I'm Clyde.
[ The car comes into view and while it's no speeder, it's sturdy enough for a Buick, having been maintained by the Barnes family since its purchase a decade ago. He approaches the car and sighs, moving to carefully set Zemo back to his feet, but his other arm stays looped round his shoulders, keeping him close to his chest even still as he fishes in his pockets for the car key. Once obtained, he looks back down at the man, his expression concerned by fond, worried but affectionate. ]
How are you holding up there? We're only a few minutes from the campus, so the ride won't be long. [ For emphasis, he reaches to open the passenger door for him, though again, he keeps close, keeps an arm wound tightly around him. ] You'll be tucked in and sleeping in no time.
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[there's likely no doubt zemo is extremely inebriated at the moment, but the way he practically purrs that out without an inch of mocking lacing around it. nothing barbed about it, if anything it toes the line of genuine praise. his arms tighten lightly, too weak to really grip properly as he rubs his cheek against some part of steve's shoulder and neck again. his hair has pulled from its neat coif, a few locks hanging along his forehead and bumping against bare skin. steve might even be able to feel the way his lips shift into a confused frown, bodily resisting this bit of information.]
But I like Steve Rogers much better. Clyde is too old-fashioned - even for you.
[it's no time at all before they're in front of a car that's also:]
Oh, a real relic.
[it comes out nearly comically - lacking the bite of an insult and just mere unfiltered observation. there's a noise of protest when steve tries to put him down, arms clinging against and a soft don't - mumbled out at having to leave the comfort of steve's warm arms. he could get used to that, actually. why isn't that a preferred method of transportation available? eventually he's put back on two feet, hands clinging to the material of the shirt still at his fingertips and digging in lightly. he tips his head back again, a dazed smile when he sees steve looking back at him with something he perceives as positive. but if he squints the other way, his expression seems much too concerned, furrowed brow and all. one hand slides up his front without any care for how they catch along his pectorals, curving along his neck and patting lightly at his cheek.]
Mm, what's the matter? You look much more handsome when you smile.
[he lets himself be herded into the car, head lolling back against creaking leather and taking in the unfamiliar scents and overall tidy interior. not bad. his eyes slip shut as he pulls in a deep inhale, trying to get it all to stop the blurring spin of his surroundings. he hardly hears steve get in next to him or the rumble of the engine as they pull away from the curb. whatever was in his jungle juice is leaving holes, pockets of missing moments where he's entirely quiet before piping up with something near nonsensical. his hands are limp, occasionally lifting to gesture around vaguely with absent commentary. there's a slip of sokovian here and there. and then before he knows it, the car is pulling still again. he practically splays across the console with the gearshift to reach for steve's arm again and slur out something that sounds as if it belongs outside of the entrance to a family party.]
Will the gentleman be escorting me to the door?
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During the drive he occasionally reaches to steady the thinner man, keep him from slumping over or hitting the door, but Zemo speaks in a slur of Sokovian to reassure him. Or what Steve thinks is reassurance. Needless to say, he's downright relieved when they arrive at the dorms. But yes, of course. Another problem, another obstacle, and if he was the swearing type he'd probably have named every one in the book at this point.
A hand reflexively falls to Zemo's to keep him steady against his arm, and he huffs something of a laugh. ]
I don't think the gentleman has a choice, considering your legs aren't as good as you think they are right now.
[ Steve makes a point to manually unlock his own door and carefully extricate himself from the boy's hold on his arm. Opening Zemo's door from the outside next, he steps in close to prevent him from going too far out of arm's reach. ]
Everyone's out partying, so we should be clear. We need to get you in, get you some water, and tuck you into bed. So come on, up and at em. [ With that he offers both of his hands to help and watches for any sign that the man's legs might still be at sea. He knows they will be, knows that he'll be an unsteady, noisy mess, but he glances over his shoulder at the dorm entry, relieved to see the attending RA has walked away for a little while. So once Zemo is out of the car? Steve dips right down to carry him again. ]
Hang on tight.
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You don't like my legs? What's wrong with them? They're - long, especially for my height. Very appealing, or so I've been told.
[it's a slurred babble, accent more enunciated than usual as he defends himself against an allegation that isn't even on the nose from steve. before he even has time to process it, his attention is dragged to the opposite side, and zemo visibly brightens when he sees steve once more. he fumbles with his seatbelt a bit, clacking at it awkwardly before managing to pull it aside with a flourish. as if to say see? i can do it. he frowns mildly at the suggestion of bed, sluggishly murmuring something childish along the lines of not tired before gingerly placing both hands into steve's much larger, warm ones and attempting to pull himself out of the car.
and, likely to the shock of absolutely no one, his legs are utterly useless meaning he all but trips out of the car like a newborn foal with an honest to god giggle. thank god steve has the sense to pick him up once again, and he easily wraps his arms around steve's neck again, head lolling into the space that's become familiar. he lifts it briefly, lips brushing along steve's cheek with an affectionate murmur.]
Mm, I missed you.
[as if he hasn't been sitting next to the very same man the whole time.]
You give better service than staff on my family's estate - talk about white glove.
[he wouldn't know even if there was anyone there, but it's blissfully empty as they step inside and steve begins the winding walk through rich wooden halls. he's up on the third floor, as if adding insult to injury for steve right now. at least he's been here enough to know where to go, seeing as zemo giving directions right now would be nothing short of disastrous.]
You know...I would have gone home with you, Steve Rogers. How fortunate - fortu - [his brow furrows as he tries to formulate the right word and slumps against his shoulder briefly before popping up excitedly when he realizes he has it - ] Fortuitous that you're already here.
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[ Steve does his best to handle the way the boy moves in his arms, cradling him close to his chest as he opts for the stairwell instead of the elevators. Fewer opportunities to run into other students, after all. But it's the brush of lips on his cheek, the easy weight of the head on his shoulder, against his neck, that send little sparks up his spine.
Again, it's chased closely by guilt, because he knows too well that the other boy wouldn't behave like this were it not for Hunter and the drug. To like the attention, the affection, feels wrong here and yet... it affirms much of what he'd been thinking, what he'd been feeling. He'll have to find a way to address it with him later.
Nearly to the third floor, he sputters when Zemo mentions going home with him. That implies more than just a carrying to the dorm room, but implies a crossroads they have not traversed yet. The comment brings heat up into his cheeks and he laughs good naturedly, trying his best to keep his composure. ]
Fortuitous, yes. [ He adjusts his arms, keeping him close as he starts down the hall, grateful that it appears to be otherwise empty. The idea that he could take him home lingers in the back of his mind for another time, another date, though... and the heat of it shows in his face. ] But it looks like you're taking me home, and I'd say by the time we get in your room, it'll be just about time for you to go to sleep and call it a night.
[ It's with great awkwardness that he actually manages to make it to Zemo's dorm and after some fumbling (instead of just asking, because there's no point when he's so drugged) he manages to procure Zemo's dorm key and carries him inside, kicking the door shut with a foot behind him. He sighs, managing the switch with the awkward brush and dip of an elbow, letting the overhead lamp light his way to settle Zemo on his bed. ]
Easy there, Helmut, alright? Let me get you some water. You need to stay here though. Don't try and go anywhere. Understand?
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at the mention of bed, however, he lifts his head with an indignant frown.]
I'm not tired. Not sleepy. Why aren't we at the party?
[what time is it is much too complicated to put together right now. he glances up again when he hears the door close behind them and sees the illuminating lights leading into a room so familiar that even his drug-induced state would recognize it anywhere.]
Oh - this is my dorm.
[by the time they make it to his bed, his limbs are that much more pliant and he uncurls from where his arms have been wrapped like an overeager octopus around his guest. instead, he splays out entirely against the bed, one arm dangling off the side and a dippy grin pulling aside his lips as he stares up at the ceiling like his focus is passing right through it altogether. someone is telling him something that sounds important, but he doesn't catch any of it. his name, water, does he understand? no, he doesn't. but he doesn't look in much condition to get up now that the effects are in full swing. if anything he's more docile this way, susceptible to any suggestion he does catch.]
Yeah. Not going anywhere, just like you said.
[whenever steve gets back the only thing he's done is attempt to sit up in a half-slump, feet dangling off one side as he makes the effort to slip out of his boots. one is on the floor already, the other loose but stuck under his heel as his limbs refuse to fully cooperate.]
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[ Thankfully, he's been in this dorm plenty of times to know exactly where Zemo keeps his glasses, where he keeps aspirin, and other menial household items. He's quick to fill a glass half full (he knows too well it might get knocked over) and returns to find Zemo sitting, slumped, on the bed and fumbling to get his shoes off. He frowns, though it's more out of concern than anything else. ]
Here, take this. Take a few drinks for me, alright?
[ He carefully presses the glass between the boy's palms, keeping his own broad hands over the other's until he's sure it's not going to slip to the wayside. Only in that brief moment of surety he peels his hands away and kneels in front of Zemo instead, reaching to help him with his shoes, touch gentle and careful as he sets them both aside, neatly lined up near the foot of his bed. He considers whether or not he should just get him into bed how he is, but the clothes smell of smoke, weed, alcohol, and letting his bed sheets and room smell like that overlong? Seems like a bad idea.
Carefully, he peels off the man's socks as well, tucking them aside before he rises again to sit on the bed beside him, reaching an arm round his shoulders to keep him upright, to keep him from slumping back into the bed. ]
How are you feeling? Don't nod off on me yet, we gotta get you tucked in. [ The nearness, the compliments, all of it makes heat rise into his face when he recalls that Zemo had wanted to take him home, or vice versa. He blows out a sigh. ] Where do you keep your pajamas? You're gonna want to be comfortable in the morning, trust me.
[ He remembers waking with a splitting headache, feeling sick, lethargic, like a hangover gone sour a few hours too long. While the nausea passed he felt foggy for a day or so after, enough to interrupt his sleep and make him irritable for much of the week. Internally, he already knows that he'll get the brunt of it from the other boy. ]
I'll help you, alright?
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but then there is that same warm solid figure beside him, propping him up. that soothing voice asking about pajamas and bed and the morning - all of it seems so far away and it's all he can do to slump against steve's shoulder, face tipping forward against his chest as he lets out a breathy laugh. The string of words that follows is a near unintelligible slur.]
'm feeling marvelous. But it's hot - and you want me out of these which is what I want too. You already know all about my robe. Pajamas, robe, underwear...over there.
[one hand waves vaguely off in the direction of the lefthand side of the closet across the way. he rubs his face against steve's chest momentarily with a soft hum, like a contended cat. for a minute it looks like he might just stay there, until somehow he manages to dig his hands into the lapels of steve's jacket and use them to hoist himself up, head tipping back to stare dazed and unfocused in the general direction of his face.]
You're comfortable. Wanna wear you to sleep. [wait - that's not quite right. he tries again.] Wanna bring you to sleep, actually. With me. Right here. [one hand slips and pats between steve's legs at the bed underneath them before giving up and bracing against his thigh.
he may or may not remember this tomorrow morning, but suffice to say - a sober helmut zemo would be utterly mortified.]
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[ Steve's voice warms, bubbling with fondness through the concern. He's poised to get up again when that head rests against his chest, heavy and graceless, nuzzling like a warm, sated kitten. A hand raises before he can think twice of it, and gently cards through the man's hair, gently guiding it out of his face.
It gives him something to do when the next words come out a slurred, fussy mess. Wanna wear you to sleep. Between that and the hand that suddenly feels like it's caught the mattress on fire between his knees, raking dangerous heat across his thigh as he posts up. Again, if this were another time in a different context he might be lured in by such a statement, drawn by warmth and flirts and everything else in between.
Instead, he takes in a slow, deep breath to try and cool the fire creeping up into his neck and cheeks. Gently plucking Zemo's hand from his thigh, he gives it a soft squeeze and leans to press a kiss to the delirious boy's forehead. Maybe it's too much, maybe he won't remember, but all the same. ]
Not so sure about that, but you'll definitely be getting some sleep here soon. I won't leave until morning.
[ Though he knows he'll drag a chair over and settle at the side, or make a small perch atop the blankets, to ensure the drugged boy doesn't wander out into any more unfortunate adventures in the night. Better to make sure he's kept safe and well here, after all. ] So sit tight.
[ He's careful to help Zemo lean back against pillows before he slips away again, hunting out a set of pajamas, a robe, but he'll leave the ceremonial change of underwear to the other man later, when he's regained some sense and returns to a world of sense and propriety. Sitting back down on the bed, he reaches once again to touch his shoulder softly. ]
Sit up, you can lean on me if you need to. Let's get this sweater off.
[ Clinical, calm, warm. Like taking care of a sick friend instead of undressing a recent crush. He has to get Zemo down and resting so he can sleep some of the drug away come morning. He reaches for the hem of the sweater, surprised at how soft the expensive fabric is, and gently begins pulling it upward, a soft arms when the time comes, pressed against his hair, as he tugs the fabric free. Only then he starts on the buttons of the pajama top, fumbling them in a bit of a rush. ]
Pajamas will just have to be a suitable replacement for me for the night, alright? Once I get this thing undone.