Zemo tosses and turns a lot during the night, not able to find a comfortable position to rest in.
Finally, after more than an hour of him constantly stirring and getting on Sam's nerves to the point of him fantasizing about securing the Sokovian to the bedposts by his wrists and gagging him, Zemo turns over on his stomach, lets out a soft little satisfied moan then goes quiet.
Sam looks up and sees Zemo's left hand dangling from over the edge of the bed.
In the pale moonlight it looks ghostly white and delicate – though not exactly what Sam considers to be feminine: slim fingers with neatly trimmed nails and skin that looks soft to the touch, moisturized and well-kept, spared from the burden of ever having known hard labor that would have left it coarse and rough and aged.
He imagines Zemo on a fishing boat and how he wouldn't make it one day before his hands would crack open and bleed, blistering palms from pulling on ropes and fishing lines, the unforgiving sun hot on his neck. And how, when he finally had had enough of the hardships of working-class people, Zemo would drop down on the deck like a resentful child and refuse to move, plotting and scheming on how to exploit others and how to get them to do his work for him.
It reminds Sam that the threat Zemo poses to the World has never stemmed from his physicality but from his mind, cunning and vengeful, his opportunistic and fanatic persona, and the fact that he will stop at nothing to get what he wants.
Just a charming and seemingly innocent, plush little toy dog with the mind of a savage wolf.
Sam lets his gaze wander to the tiny, glowing star in the ceiling.
I won't mind.
Once again Zemo's words echoes through his mind.
Was Zemo even into men – likeat all? Or had he offered himself up to Sam out of boredom or a weird, self-destructive need to punish himself, doing something so extreme emotionally-wise as prostituting himself, knowing full well he would end up feeling used and shitty afterwards?
My wife and son are dead so I might as well set myself alight and go down with a bang – that kind of thing?
Sam had always been attracted to women the most but on a few occasions, a man with all the right qualities that appealed to Sam had appeared in his life and the temptation and his curiosity had gotten the better of him and he had acted on his impulses – always in secret of course as the US military didn't exactly look kindly on men sexually experimenting with each other (at least back then they didn't) – and only if he himself was single.
With guys (at least the ones he had been with) it was more a physical exchange than anything else and always one night stands, no calling each other afterwards, pretending to care.
Cumming and going and that was all there was.
Just as it was with women, some men liked it gentle and some rough, some were more direct or giving than others so there was no real particular unifier or reasoning for his attraction to them, except that in general they smelt and tasted a little different than women and usually felt somewhat firmer to the touch and that they always seemed to know their way around the male body which was sometimes all Sam wanted and needed.
Some of the best head he ever gotten was from the guys he had been with.
Maybe because they themselves had a dick, they knew just what it wanted.
The words parting from Zemo's lips hours earlier had been spoken in such a genuine manner that it had left Sam feeling utterly confused about his motives.
The Sokovian was extremely cunning and a gifted manipulator but even he had to be honest with his surroundings every once in a while, didn't he? Like a broken clock, being right twice a day and all that…
Or had it all been just a set-up? A ruthless little ploy to lure Sam into a trap?
The towel dropped onto the floor being a provocation that Zemo knew would lead to a confrontation and an excuse to tease Sam, toying with him for the fun of it and as an additional plus - if Zemo succeeded in finding the weakness in his armor and seducing him, maybe even gaining some leverage that he could use for later when his usefulness had been diminished so such extent that it came time for him to return to prison?
Or was Zemo just looking for some closeness and intimacy with another human being (just as Sam was), having been locked away for so long, deprived of it? Knowing that he soon, upon his return to the German prison, would be deprived of it again – and this time most likely forever?
Sam doesn't know what to think.
One thing he does know though is that it is dangerous and potentially destructive to his career and reputation (and even worse: a disregard of his own core values and the oath he has sworn to his country) to ever get involved with Baron Zemo, an unscrupulous murderer and an archenemy of not only his friends but of the US itself, in a way that could leave him compromised and open to blackmail or other kinds of exploitation.
The image of Zemo's tight little ass high in the air flashes before his eyes, round and alluring, just begging him to touch it, to feel its firmness.
Fuck. Shit.
Sam shakes his head once and closes his eyes, and tries desperately to think about something else.