Zemo had travelled virtually all around the world, but he had never visited a place quite like Floris. In this bustling riverside city, every emotion was expressed through flowers, every inhabitant was captivated by the subtle art of floral communication.
A bouquet of yellow roses meant friendship, a sprig of lavender whispered devotion, and a single marigold told of despair.
On every street corner, flower trucks buzzed with people grabbing daisies to apologise, tulips to profess love, or irises to declare their admiration.
Zemo was quite fascinated by this, and chose to stay a while. He took a lovely house, mid town, and decided not to be just a casual participant in this city’s unique fragrant language. He became fluent. He threw himself into it, and it became his new passion, his paintbrush for life’s canvas.
And recently, he’d been using it with one very particular purpose in mind: that of James Buchanan Barnes.
Because, miraculously, Zemo had recently spotted Bucky in this very city.
Zemo had been idling the afternoon away in his favourite café, indiscriminately flirting with the waitstaff, when who should he see through the windows, but Bucky Barnes walking across the street.
They hadn’t seen each other for a few years now, but seeing Bucky again stirred something in Zemo. He wasn’t one to sit idly by when he wanted something. And he wanted Bucky.
So, naturally, in this city of blooms and blossoms, Zemo bought a flower shop. One that happened to be situated around the corner from where Bucky now worked.
It was quite a lucky find. Maybe fate was looking kindly on him for once. The owner had been planning to retire, and the shop was charming in its own right.
But Zemo’s main motivation for buying the property? To send Bucky a bouquet every single day until he cracked.
The first delivery had been modest: a few sprigs of basil tucked in amongst white camellias. Best wishes and admiration, the flowers represented. The small white card accompanying them had the name of the florist’s on one side, and on the other, just 2 single letters written in gold: HZ.
Bucky had stared at that card in confusion for a long while, before shoving it in his desk drawer.
The next day, Zemo sent a more vibrant selection: bright red geraniums for determination, orange lilies for confidence.
Bucky’s reaction to this was less than amused. He glared at the delivery boy and muttered something about clutter.
By the seventh bouquet - a cascading arrangement of pink carnations and sweet peas - Bucky had had enough. He stormed into the flower shop one crisp afternoon, the tiny bell above the door jangling furiously as he stepped inside.
Zemo, his sleeves rolled up and wearing a long apron dusted with pollen and petals, was behind the counter just finishing up tying a long orange ribbon around a sweet posy of chrysanthemums.
He looked up at Bucky with a perfectly innocent smile.
“You,” Bucky said, jabbing a finger at Zemo.
“Hello, James,” said Zemo, artlessly. “Do you like this ribbon?” He held up the bouquet and turned it in his long-fingered hands. “The vibrant orange goes quite well, but do you think I should use a pale leaf green instead?”
Bucky stalled, then grated “Why are you sending me all these flowers?”
Zemo tilted his head, feigning surprise. “Oh? You don’t like them, James?”
“It’s not about liking them,” Bucky snapped, though the faint blush creeping up his neck suggested otherwise. “What am I supposed to do with a new bouquet every day? My office looks like a greenhouse!”
“You could try enjoying them,” Zemo said, putting the posy down and stepping around the counter. He picked up a sprig of lilac, and twirled it absently as he moved closer. “Flowers have a way of softening even the hardest of hearts.”
Bucky opened his mouth to retort but paused as Zemo approached. His proximity, his teasing smile, and the perfumed scent of the flowers around them seemed to disarm Bucky totally.
“What do you want from me?” he asked, quieter now.
Zemo reached up and tucked the lilac into the lapel of Bucky’s coat. “I want you to stop being so grumpy, James,” he said lightly, though his warm brown eyes betrayed something deeper.
“And how you gonna make that happen?”
Zemo walked round Bucky and over to the shop door. “Let’s have a bit of privacy, shall we?” he murmured, in that softly accented voice.
Zemo brushed past a bucket of unusual wild flowers tucked behind the doorway - deep pink and scarlet blooms, with bright yellow stamens. As he ran his fingertips over the velvety petals, they released a burst of scent.
It was at first faint, then heady and intoxicating. Bucky couldn’t help but breathe it in. He felt invigorated, and then, suddenly, incredibly horny.
Zemo locked the shop door and put the sign to “closed”.
Bucky stood as if on tiptoes, vital energy coursing through his veins. He felt flooded with emotion. He clenched his fists, threw back his head and filled his lungs with the stuff.
Zemo watched Bucky through lidded eyes, waited until he came back to earth. Then he sauntered up to him, brushed his hand up Bucky’s metal arm, and whispered “Come into the back room with me, James.”
The back room was cosy - a snug area of respite away from the shop floor and storerooms. There were comfy armchairs around a little fire, a kitchenette, a back door leading out onto a pretty garden.
No sooner had Zemo closed the door behind them, than Bucky grabbed him by the front straps of his apron and pulled him close for a searing kiss.
Bucky released him, slightly breathless, and looked deep into Zemo’s eyes. “You taste delicious” he said, licking his lips. Then he kissed him again, thrusting his tongue into Zemo’s mouth, and moving his metal hand up to wrap his fingers around the back of Zemo’s head.
Zemo put his hands first on Bucky’s sides and then round and up to his shoulder blades, pulling Bucky close. Zemo returned Bucky’s kiss in kind, sucking on his tongue like it was nectar, and angling his hips closer to Bucky’s.
Bucky moaned into his mouth, making Zemo’s cock thicken, and moved his hand from Zemo’s apron strap up to Zemo’s neck, rubbing his thumb along Zemo’s jawline as he explored his mouth.
Still kissing Zemo like his life depended on it, Bucky manhandled him over to the nearest armchair. He broke off the kiss to turn Zemo round, press him up against the back of the chair.
Zemo put his hands on the chair back, widened his stance, let Bucky ruche up his shirt, pull down his trousers and fuck him fast and deep over the chair.
Later, lying together in an exhausted sweaty heap on the floor by the fire - Bucky wrapped around Zemo like a vine - hands still gently moving over each others bodies, breathing getting back to normal, Bucky murmured into the space between Zemo’s shoulder blades, “What was that flower by the door? That scent? Amazing.”
“It lowers inhibitions, my James,” said Zemo, running his fingers up and down Bucky’s metal arm as it lay over his stomach, Bucky’s warm sensitive fingertips making little circles around Zemo’s belly button. “It allows you to do the things you really want to do.”
“So, you’re saying, I really wanted to do you.” Bucky nuzzled against Zemo’s back, rubbing his stubble lightly over Zemo’s skin.
“Well, didn’t you?” asked Zemo, turning his head towards him.
“Maybe.” Bucky kissed his cheek. “Deep down.” He nibbled up to his earlobe. “Deep deep down.”
“Indeed,” rumbled Zemo. He closed his eyes. “Deep deep down, you say?” He smirked as Bucky breathed in his ear. He twisted around in his arms so that they were chest to chest, face to face. “Exactly how deep do you want it, James?”
They were interrupted by a sharp knock on the shop door. Tap tap tap.
“Ooops,” said Zemo, grinning. “That must be the people for the posy. Can you hear them, James?”
Bucky cocked his head, listening. “One is saying ‘he’s shut up early today’.” He paused. “The other says, ‘ok, we’ll come back tomorrow’.”
“They better make it tomorrow afternoon!” Zemo smirked, and reached for him. “Come here to me, my James.”
The evening shadows lengthened in Zemo’s back room, until the only light was the firelight illuminating their naked bodies. Zemo lay across Bucky’s chest and gazed into his forget-me-not blue eyes. “You know,” he murmured, a smile playing about his mobile mouth, “now that we have finally been intimate, maybe you should take me out for coffee so we can catch up.”
Bucky stared at him, torn between exasperation and amusement. He sighed, a reluctant echoing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Fine,” he said, grumpily. “One coffee. But you’re paying!” He lay his head back on the rug, then added “And no more flowers.”
Zemo’s laugh was soft and warm against his skin. “No promises.”
*
Their coffee date turned into another, then another, and another.
Before long, Zemo no longer needed to send Bucky flowers. Bucky started bringing them to him, from the flower truck behind his office - a habit he insisted was purely practical (less clutter) but which Zemo knew was entirely sentimental.
Bucky would bring Zemo irises that proclaimed his admiration, daffodils for his growing affection, and the occasional sunflower, which spoke of his joy.
Months later, Zemo was standing behind the counter of his flower shop arranging a wedding bouquet. The blooms were stunning: white roses for new beginnings, ivy for fidelity, and peonies for a happy marriage. As he added the finishing touches, Bucky appeared behind him, wrapping his arms around Zemo’s waist.
“Haven’t you finished yet, Hel?” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the back of Zemo’s neck.
Zemo put down the bouquet and turned to hug him. “Almost,” he said, kissing him back. He moved his head, indicating the bouquet resting on the counter. “What do you think, my James?”
“It’s perfect,” Bucky said.
“Just like us,” Zemo replied, smiling, and he kissed him again.
***