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You were halfway through your morning coffee when the idea hit.
“You know,” you said casually, leaning against the kitchen counter, “I know we both don’t believe in marriage, but… let’s get married for tax benefits.”
Helmut Zemo didn’t even flinch. He continued polishing the silverware with aristocratic precision. “An excellent idea,” he replied smoothly. “Our combined income brackets would reduce liability significantly. Very practical. I will make the arrangements.”
You blinked. “That’s it? That’s how you’re going to propose?”
He finally set the fork down, looking faintly annoyed. “Was I supposed to bend the knee and produce a velvet box?”
“Yes!” you exclaimed, slamming your mug down with dramatic emphasis. “Helmut, listen—I know I said it was about taxes, but if you don’t even try to be romantic about proposing, so help me God. Try. Again.”
Zemo gave you one of those long, patient looks—the kind he usually reserved for people who annoyed him at cocktail parties. But unfortunately for him, you were the love of his life, and apparently you were also very stubborn.
With a resigned sigh, he crossed the kitchen and dropped to one knee. Picking up a grape from the fruit bowl as if it were the Crown Jewels, he held it out to you. “My dearest, light of my otherwise tragic existence, would you grant me the honor of—”
“Are you seriously proposing with a grape?” you interrupted, trying not to laugh.
“Organic,” he added helpfully. “Seedless.”
You snorted so hard coffee nearly came out your nose. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, you adore me,” he said smugly, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. His voice softened as his thumb lingered over your skin. “Truly, liebling, there is no one else I would ever conspire with—be it for romance, taxes, or anything in between.”
Your heart melted, traitorously so. “That’s… actually romantic.”
“Good,” he said, standing. “Then I expect your signature on the prenup by tomorrow morning.”
You shoved him playfully, laughing. “God, I love you.”
“I know,” he smirked, popping the grape into his mouth. “And fortunately, the government will now recognize that love as tax deductible.”
To his credit, Zemo actually did try to take your complaint to heart. Which is how, a week later, you found him in the kitchen, looking like a man on the brink of collapse.
He was surrounded by smoke. The oven was open, revealing a blackened, bubbling disaster that was once lasagna. The table was set with about thirty candles -- fire hazard -- and a vase filled with what looked suspiciously like stolen park flowers.
“Helmut…” you asked cautiously. “Is that… smoke?”
“It is,” he replied stiffly, pulling out the lasagna with oven mitts that said Purr-fect Chef --your purchase, not his. “An aromatic ambiance.”
“Smells like charred failure.”
He scowled but turned toward the table with a flourish. “I was attempting to create a romantic dinner. As one apparently must when making a proposal.”
“Oh, honey,” you giggled. “You could have just ordered takeout.”
“Ordering takeout is not romantic.” He pulled himself up straighter, eyes glinting. “But this is.”
From his pocket, he pulled out a Kinder Surprise Egg.
“Helmut!” you nearly collapsed with laughter. “Are you proposing with chocolate?”
“Chocolate and a toy,” he said with full seriousness. He knelt again, cracked the egg, and opened the capsule. Out popped a tiny plastic crown. “A placeholder, until I acquire something more… befitting.”
You laughed so hard your chest hurt, but when he slipped the crown onto your finger and looked up at you with something soft, raw, and vulnerable in his eyes—you melted completely.
“Yes,” you whispered, pulling him into a kiss. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”
He smiled against your lips, smug again. “Excellent. Soon, the IRS will rue the day they underestimated us.”
The courthouse wedding was supposed to be simple. Practical. Efficient. Exactly the way you’d both agreed.
It was none of those things.
First, Zemo showed up in a three-piece suit so sharp it could kill a man. You’d chosen a simple outfit, something nice but understated—until you saw him waiting for you, bouquet in hand, smiling like you’d hung the stars. Suddenly your heart wouldn’t stop hammering.
Then the pen they gave you to sign the papers exploded. Ink everywhere. Zemo looked personally betrayed.
“This is unacceptable,” he muttered darkly, dabbing at the blotch on his cuff with a handkerchief. “An indignity on the day of our union. Heads should roll.”
You laughed so hard you nearly dropped the papers.
Later, when the judge solemnly asked if he took you to be his lawfully wedded spouse, Zemo squeezed your hand and said, “With every fiber of my being.” Which was not in the script and made your throat close up with happy tears.
By the time it was over, you had smeared ink on your hand, your cheeks hurt from smiling, and Zemo—stoic, tragic, calculating Zemo—was beaming like a lovesick fool.
As you stepped outside together, papers in hand, you teased, “Well, husband, I hope you’re happy. We’re officially tax-benefit partners for life.”
He slid an arm around your waist, pulling you close. “Oh, I am more than happy, liebling. Not for the deductions… but for the permanent claim I now have on you.”
You rolled your eyes, but your smile wouldn’t fade. “That was almost romantic.”
“Almost?” He smirked, leaning down to kiss you in front of the courthouse doors. “Then let us go home. I have thirty more candles left and another Kinder Egg. Perhaps I will try again.”
And God help you, you knew you’d say yes all over again.