Night Terrors
It’s almost midday when you wake up the next morning. Your exhaustion completely took over you and you find yourself surprised at having slept soundly through the night. It takes you another good hour of contemplating your life and the current situation until you finally crawl out of the comfort of the warm bed and into the bathroom to freshen up.
Your dreamless slumber and general fatigue didn’t necessarily leave you with much capacity to mull over whether you wanted to accept the invitation of staying with a murderer or strike out on your own and most likely get killed by other murderers but really, perhaps unconsciously you had already made up your mind.
As you head down the stairs towards the living room you find the house quiet and unoccupied. You decide to explore the space, perhaps finding Zemo in the dining room or wherever all the other paths of the mansion led to.
Carefully, almost as if you were an intruder you make your way through the dining room, where just the evening before you had dinner with a god forsaken terrorist. Another door leads into the modern kitchen, fully equipped with appliances you could only afford to dream of and a big island with stools on one side. One wall was lined with full glass, overlooking a lush forest which made you conclude that the house was most likely in the middle of nowhere. You stand in front of the windows, memorized by the scenery when Oeznik quietly enters the room, startling you as he interrupts your daydreaming.
“Would you like a cup of coffee, Miss Y/N?”
You accept eagerly, realizing you haven’t had your coffee fix in almost three days. Oeznik informs you that the Baron was out on an errand. He disappears shortly after handing you your cup and you decide to sit down in the living room once again, staring out of the windows there or roaming through the shelves of books while enjoying your freshly brewed coffee.
You were almost finished when you heard the front door open and close, expecting the Baron to appear shortly after.
“Good morning. I thought I’d get some of your belongings from your apartment so you’d feel more comfortable.”
You stare at the two duffle bags that he hauled onto the couch.
“So, you just assumed I would stay?”
“Aren’t you?”
His condescending tone once again annoying you,´; you challenge him, even though he is right. His whole demeanor oozes arrogance and a know-all attitude which pisses you off, not just on him but on humans in general.
You’re almost too proud to answer him, his face once again wearing a slight smirk.
Most likely with too much force and looking clumsier than you intended it to be, you snatch the two duffle bags and simply mumble a hasty “thanks” before storming off towards your room once again, leaving the Baron to huff out a quiet laugh at your temperament.
In your room you go through the duffle bags. They’re filled to the brim with clothes, surprisingly a lot of your favorites. Toiletries are also neatly packed, which makes you cringe a bit at the thought of this man going through your bathroom. You’re sort of at a loss when you discover your nowadays not so stuffed little plush duck in there. It’s a little greyish thing, used to be white but that was a long time ago, its head not really upright anymore. It’s usually hosted on your bed and you haven’t stopped sleeping with it since you were about five years old. You were oddly sentimental over this thing, holding it in your arms now. It gave you a sort of safety to know you had it with you.
You sort through the rest of the stuff, happy with having a bit of your life back but also unsure as the amount gave you a feeling you’d be staying for longer than you initially hoped.
The only thing that’s really missing in the bags is your phone, or your notebook. You suppose it’s because of the very obvious reason that technical devices would mean communications to the police or the outside world which most likely don’t overlap with the Baron’s plans for you. It still makes you frustrated.
Once you descend the stairs again you find the man who just an hour ago went through your private belongings sitting on the kitchen island, a laptop in front of him.
“I want my phone.”
He looks at you somewhat surprised that you would even dare to ask such a stupid question.
“Not possible.” He scoffs. “At least for now.”
You roll your eyes, once again annoyed and already regretting your decision to even come down here.
When you inquire about the duration of your more or less forced stay, or the progress in his strategy to get his enemies off your back he gives you cryptic, monotone answers. None the wiser and feeling defeated you sit down on one of the high barstools furthest away from him. Once again absently staring out of the window. Out of the corner of your eye you see him shuffling around the kitchen but you completely zoom out and don’t really take in anything he’s saying until a plate with food on it is placed in front of you.
“You should eat.” Is all he says before picking up his laptop, leaving you alone once more.
********
A few uneventful days fly by. In a weird, twisted sort of way your life found a routine. With your body still being in the healing process you spent most of your days sleeping, or dozing in your room. You couldn’t remember the last time in your life you actually had the time to just do nothing. No distractions, no guilty feelings about being unproductive. Even if you wanted to, there was nothing to do. The times you did wander downstairs to pass over the time, you usually found yourself drawn to the book shelves in the living room. Browsing through the titles and mostly being too afraid to touch vintage looking ones.
You were never a crazy reader, but you did go through your phases and always wished for more time for the activity. Often work or general adult-duties kept you from it and the forced technology detox helped you appreciate books more.
The Baron wasn’t around too much. Usually in the morning or rather midday Oeznik would offer coffee and breakfast to you and quickly disappeared out of sight once you sat down on the kitchen counter, staring out at the woods. You’d encounter Zemo randomly throughout the day, never saying too much and mostly trying to be out of his way as much as possible. Your trust in him was still uncertain and he didn’t seem to try to make much of an effort in gaining it. The only consonant was your shared dinner, usually something hearty, the two of you on the large dining table. It felt awkward, the only conversation usually being him checking up on your general wellbeing and health condition.
He’d always seem so unbothered by the tension in the room, while you were constantly in flight mode. Even though he had more or less shown you hospitality, always been polite and tried to stay out of your business, he still made you uncomfortable. He seemed so sure of everything, his position, your position while not really giving you any answers to your questions, yet still underneath concerned about you. You couldn’t figure him out.
You were relieved once these dinners would end and you could go curl up in bed once again – just to have a deep dreamless sleep.
It surprised you how easy sleep came to you, considering you were usually an overthinker with insomniac tendencies whenever your mind was occupied with personal struggles.
You should have seen it coming, there was only so many hours of rest your injured body would need before your unconscious mind decided to plague you with nightmares.
It comes on the fourth night at the mansion.
You jolt up chocking. Your lungs desperately grasping for air. It takes you a moment to realize where you are. The room, your room. Your head isn’t underwater. You aren’t back in the warehouse. You’re safe now, he said.
You drag your forearm across the top of your head, realizing just how much you sweated. Still not fully awake and back to reality you slump back down, breathing hard and trying to control your emotions. You’ve been rescued, your wounds are healing, the bruises are fading, you’re safe. But you’re also still locked up. Forced to stay in a safe house of a man who killed innocent lives.
You toss and turn for an hour or so, slipping in and out of consciousness, that feeling of fear, torture and pain always coming back. The clock on the little bedside table reads 3:38 a.m. when you decide to give up. You wouldn’t fall back asleep anytime soon and the room suddenly feels too claustrophobic, the chocking feeling in your throat becoming more intense as the minutes tick by.
You decide to head downstairs into the living area, selecting the book you started to read days prior. Only it didn’t quite manage to distract you from the night’s terrors.
Curled up under a cashmere blanket on the big leather couch your body was still tense and you couldn’t concentrate on any of the words in the book. You don’t know how much time has passed when a low voice interrupts your blank staring at the letters.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
The Baron entered, a steaming cup of tea in his hand, heading towards you.
You only shake your head, feeling uncomfortable in being called out.
He doesn’t ask you, just holds the steaming cup of what you smelled to be chamomile tea in front of you. Hesitantly you take it from him, not trusting his intentions.
It seems as if he’s giving you space to talk on your own, even though he sits down right next to you, close enough to make your body tense up again.
After a few sips in heavy silence you slowly begin to speak.
“Why are you up?”
He was still dressed in his street wear. Black trousers and a gray knitted sweater.
“Insomnia.” He answers with a shrug, turning his head to look in your direction, focusing his brown eyes on you and pursing his lips before he continues. “Let me guess… nightmares?”
You nod.
“It’s the natural reaction of your brain and body to all the horrors you’ve experienced in the past week.”
A nod again, this time faintly annoyed at his smart talking and prying into your personal matters.
“I am sorry for your pain. This might not help, but I do empathize with what you’re going through. I have had my fair share of nightmares and PTSD.”
“We’re not the same.”
You mumble and break eye contact, not being able to take his soft, pitying look anymore. You don’t want his empathy and you certainly don’t want to empathize with him. If he wants to open up about his past or his struggles he should see a therapist, not load it onto the woman he kidnapped.
You fumble around with the handle of the tea cup for a bit, wishing to just be on your own again.
“What are you reading?”
You show him the cover of the book. Walden by Henry David Thoreau.
“Can’t really concentrate on the words though.”
“Would you like me to read to you?”
You most likely don’t hide your surprise well but he only chuckles and motions for you to had him the book, still lying open in your lab. You do and not soon after find yourself half lain down on your spot, feet curled up and eyes fluttering shut as Zemo’s low, accented voice carried you into a solidary life in the woods.
You’re not sure at what point you fell asleep but as you drift in and out of a calm slumber his voice is always there, a consonant that your unconsciousness latches onto for distraction. A guide into a numb sleep.
********
You awake in your bed the next morning. Hazily trying to remember if you’ve only dreamed of the Baron reading to you and trying to figure out how you ended up in your room. It must have really happened as you faintly remember being pulled out of sleep for a second as he lifted you in his arm and carried you upstairs, brushing the hair out of your face softly, before leaving your room, letting your tired mind rest.
And you felt safe. And cared for.