Chapter Text
Heinrich Zemo is thin and straight-backed, cutting a shadow with his rigid posture and the dark charcoal of his pressed, designer suit. He is taller than all of the staff, and he levels all of them with an imposing stare upon his arrival, which is done surreptitiously, in the dead of night.
Heinrich’s expression reminds Clint of the imperious glare of a puffed-up turkey.
The rain outside is silent, quailing in the wake of the traveling Baron.
Thing is, he isn’t really a baron, legally.
Legally, Heinrich Zemo died over a decade ago, and the title has passed to his weird son.
-
“Oeznik.” The dead man says, kissing both of the man’s cheeks and packing an impressive amount of fondness and imperial condescension into his voice. Oeznik answers in affectionate Sokovian mutterings, his expression one of adoration. He must have raised this man himself; the butler looks old enough.
Clint makes himself scarce. After all, he’s a gardener, he’s got no reason to be up at night.