[zemo's dates never turn out like this either. he's tried both ways - the proper, planned ones that his mutual friends insist will hit it off with him, and the spontaneous exchange with someone who looked much better in dim lighting on a dance floor. they always end the same way - zemo charming them with ease, bored to tears on the inside and insisting on splitting the bill so no one walks away with the wrong impression that he'd want to do this again under the same circumstances of hopefulness. thank god he's never had anything too mortifying to follow it up, but what is it they say? when you know - you know. and he thinks a little disappointingly that if he'd met steve any other way and ended up in this same scenario...he'd know.

it's extremely unfair to be distracted from his own meal by the way he makes something as simple as eating an attractive art form, and zemo has to force himself more than once to focus on his own plate or reach for a sip of tea. maybe it was unwise to make mention of the unspeakable, especially when it brings steve closer and murmuring low and intimate. it makes him swallow hard, jaw slackening slightly in an attempt not to get lost in the combination of his eyes and the thought of defiling a bathroom or two hoisted up in his arms.

christ, maybe pietro was right about needing to get laid instead of holding out as some form of invisible retaliation against john. fortunately he's quick to recover.]

The kind of things that tend to correlate with "show" and not "tell". But you seem to have a vivid imagination - I trust you have the right idea. And luckily for you, so do the tailors.

[he smirks wryly, the briefest flash of teeth.]

I set one foot into the changing room a little too long, rumple their pins and needles, and they'll catch on quick enough. They are ancient, but they aren't blind yet.