Chapter Text
When Ross realises Steve and Bucky are long gone, Sam laughs. A guard punches him in the face.
His teeth taste like copper and there’s a ringing in his ears. Needles run down his veins, stabbing pains gripping his joints as he fails to stand. Spasms, the medic in his brain recites. Numbness or tingling. Decreased coordination.
It’s much more than a punch. A baton. Electric.
The realisation hits Sam like the searing current. Fuck. He knows what kind of men he’s at the mercy of.
Sam Wilson is 50 meters below sea level, a traitor to his country, a criminal to his people, and completely defenceless. His blood drips onto the cold metal floor.
General Ross smiles.
Stark stops by. Against his better judgement, Sam tells him about Siberia. They don’t hear anything more after that.
The walls turn out to be too tough to make tally marks on. There’s no windows, and the lights never turn off. If he had to hazard a guess, Sam would say around 1 month and a half has passed, but who is he kidding- five minutes feels like hours in here.
He paces every inch of the cell. It’s not difficult really, since it can’t be more than 100 square feet. He’s got a bed a foot too short for him, a pointless metal table nailed to the floor, and a lovely little stripe of white paint across the wall. Ross clearly has an eye for interior design.
There’s no routine to anything. Meals come out scarcely, mostly meagre portions twice a day, rarely at repeating times. For three days- nights- sleeps?— nothing comes at all. The lights stay on, but nobody shows up. At one point, Sam even wished for Ross to show his slimy smug face, just so he could imagine exactly what it would look like after a good left hook to the jaw. Sam contemplates that image for a long while.
The ex-avengers can’t see each other from their positioned cells, but they can certainly talk. It’s a pretty pathetic rebellion, and maybe more trouble than it’s worth, but it’s better than counting threads in blankets.
Barton in particular shouts, and sings, insulting mothers and fathers and bloodlines until the guards drag him out of his cell. His meals are halved for a week. He keeps talking. Wanda’s meals are halved. He shuts up more often after that.
Scott, on the other hand, asks a lot of questions. Stupid, inconsequential things, like first day ice-breakers, or a dating app ‘get to know me’ section.
They start by listing their favourite colours, then musicians, then animals.
Surprise comes when Clint’s favourite colour is revealed to be blue, not purple, and Wanda apparently has a soft spot for cheesy euro-pop. Scott does stick loyally to ants as his favourite animal though. Sam refuses to share what he actually thinks about falcons.
Their kindergarten activities are good to piss off the guards, and do well to pass the time. They all know they can’t answer the things they really want to ask.
What happened to their damn human rights? Do the other avengers know where they’ve gone? Do their families?
What does Ross really want? How long until he gets sick of not getting it?
When is Cap coming? Is he at all?
Sam doesn’t think anyone would ask that last question aloud, even if Ross’ men weren’t listening in. They’re a group of stubborn, loyal bastards. Probably making life harder for themselves, really. They just have to hold on.
Instead, he and Scott talk about home. Sam tells the story of when he was a kid and he convinced his sister he could talk to birds. Scott talks about college exploits, the way he broke into the library through a skylight just to finish a project the night before it was due, only to fall asleep in front of a textbook. Scott is a good man. Fuck, he shouldn’t be in a place like this.
Clint doesn’t share about his home life, for good reason. Nobody wants to give the guards anything more to use against them. Sam hates thinking about what their families must be feeling, as they vanish without a trace. None of them had been given a trial or anything else resembling their sixth amendment right, so he doubts this imprisonment has been shared with the public. Both Barton and Lang have kids missing them. For god’s sake, Wanda practically still is one.
Somedays, the youngest avenger is full of spite and anger and life. She has perfected a brand of biting teenage sarcasm whenever Ross shows his face, one Sam will dread to see in his young nephews. She teaches them elaborate curses in Sokovian, and dutifully contributes to their list of ‘best and worst things outside of this stupid metal box’. (She contributes TV as her top pick; bottom, the government.)
The reality is though that most days, she says nothing. Sam hates those days more than when she cries or screams or throws herself against the bars. On those days, he can’t even tell if she’s alive.
He saw them drag her unconscious body in. She was drugged to the gills, so small and frail and in a goddamn straitjacket and shock collar. He’d made such a racket they’d brought out the baton again.
(Sam hates the baton. When they take him out- in random intervals, more frequently than Scott but less often than Wanda- it’s always there. Sometimes, the guards just knock him down, waiting for him to try and force himself back up before they shock him again. Once, his teeth clench so hard that Sam half bites off his tongue. When he wakes, it’s fixed. They need it intact for the interrogations.)
It’s been 4 meals and 2 sleeps since Sam’s last “questioning”. Scott’s was 3 nights before that. Wanda is on a lucky streak, as she goes a record 10 meals without being dragged from her cell. They’re still sedating her like a damn elephant, but at least Sam knows where she is. Foolishly, he thought they had reached a point of respite.
They took Clint in the morning.
It’s 2 meals later when the archer is marched back to his cell, mumbling insults through bloodied teeth. There’s a wicket cut along his forehead, and a deep bruise forming from his left eyebrow to his jawbone. His nose is undoubtedly broken. The guards are mostly dragging him along the floor, but he still makes a valiant attempt to put one foot in front of the other. He fails miserably, but still. A for effort.
They stand pressed against the glass, watching as Clint is unceremoniously chucked into the cell, waiting for the block doors to shut with an echoing clang. There’s a sickening moment where all they hear is the avenger’s shaking breathing. Sam recognises the pattern from VA meetings a lifetime ago.
In for 3, hold for 4, out for 5. Repeat.
After being stuck in this shitscape for over a month together, Sam thinks he knows Barton well enough that he wouldn’t want the rest of them sat listening to him stave off a panic attack. So he does all they can do, in this damn place: he talks.
“Did I ever tell you guys about the time I tried to out drink Captain America?”
Clint snorts. Quietly, voice wavering only slightly, he says, “I’ll bet ten dollars on you ending the night ass up under a table.”
Sam rolls his eyes with a smile. “Rude. I’ll have you know I hold my drink pretty damn well. Not my fault the super soldier neglected to mention that he can’t get drunk. Anyway, I take him out to a bar down in D.C— not like that Barton, I don’t fool around with coworkers— and you know, we order a couple drinks, chat a bit, he talks about Brooklyn, I tell him how much the dodgers suck, all a nice night. Then sue me, maybe my masculinity was threatened by the good catholic 40s boy, because he orders another and so of course I have to as well. It all gets a little fuzzy from there, at some point I’ve lost my jacket and left Steve and the bar and I end up perched on the end of a 20 foot street light. Apparently, I might’ve ran my mouth about my great skill at flying, and clearly I was going 2 for 2 on stupid decisions that night, because I took some assholes’ bet that I couldn’t make it halfway up. I took them for double their money, the suckers. But then they all wander off to the next bar, and I’m stranded up a street light in an empty street of D.C at 2am. Soon though, Steve comes running through like a panicked mother. And you know what the son of a bitch does when he spots me? He laughs. America’s golden boy stands and cackles at my misfortune. It took ten minutes to coax me down from there. And I never found that jacket either.”
Clint chuckles, then pauses. “What the hell was the moral of that story?”
“Don’t mix beer and spirits?” Sam tries.
Clint laughs. “Yeah, been there.”
Sam’s tone turns more genuine. “The point is, no matter what stupid situation you find yourself in, Cap will turn up to save the day. It’s that ridiculous hero complex of his. He just has to rescue the cat from the tree.”
“Or the falcon from the street light.” Scott chimes in unhelpfully.
“Thanks for the contribution Lang.” Sam retorts dryly. “This is what I get for trying to cheer you guys up. Don’t know why they don’t make these damn things soundproof.”
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Wilson.” says Clint. “I get the gist. Thank you, kitty cat. I’ll save you from a tree anytime.”
“Don’t make me blush, Hawkeye.”
Scott laughs loudly, and Sam swears he even hears a chuckle from Wanda’s cell. Despite himself, he grins.
“Well, it’s getting late guys,” Clint announces. “Maybe. Who knows. I just have to get my beauty rest, got to look good for Ross, you know how he is. See you losers in the morning. Whenever that is.”
Sam smiles and curls onto his bed.
“Night guys,” calls Scott. “Not that I wouldn’t rather be anywhere else, but I’m glad we’re all here together.”
“Goodnight.” Wanda murmurs.
7 sleeps and 6 meals pass when the cell block doors slide open and Tony fucking Stark walks in.
They all stand up— well, he and Clint do: they dragged Scott out for questioning after their meal and they’ve got Wanda on some new shit which keeps her practically comatose.
Tony stops this time, halting halfway in his steps once he gets a proper look at them. Something jaded in Sam enjoys that, making the iron man question himself. Something else wonders what the hell they must look like to make him hesitate.
“Don’t be shy, futurist. The animals only bite if you stick your hand in the cages.” Snarks Clint.
Tony’s gaze hardens and he approaches Barton. “What the fuck happened to you guys? You look like you went toe to toe with a pissed off Banner, blindfolded.”
“Where do you think Lang is? Ross had some questions to ask.”
“This isn’t Guantanamo Bay.”
“Isn’t it? We don’t really get outside much, couldn’t tell the difference from in here.” Clint bites back bitterly, gesturing towards his cell.
Tony keeps his eyes firmly on Clint. “I didn’t know they would do this.”
“You signed with Ross, man. Guess you should’ve read the fine print. Or maybe we should’ve, before joining your band of merry men in the first place.”
Tony looks like he’s going to strike back with something else, and Sam really can’t be bothered with the whole moral debate when he’s tired and hungry, so he cuts them off.
“Tony.” He says firmly. “Rhodey?”
Stark sighs, the anger deflating in him like a balloon. “Better. He hits the 2 month mark tomorrow, so he can finally try having the braces on permanently. He has his good days. Surgeries were a success. But he’s permanently paralysed from the waist down.”
In an embarrassingly uncertain voice, Sam asks, “It’s been 2 months?”
Stark’s gaze is confused for a moment, then understanding- and is that horror?- dawns on the man’s face. In the cell next to him, there’s a loud bang, and Barton curses loudly. Punched a wall, probably. Maybe tried to kick one those stupid metal tables.
Tony turns away from the cells. For only a second, he stops, like he’s planning to rip off the cell bars himself, like he might be the rescue they’ve been waiting for, but then he simply walks away. He doesn’t even look back as the doors slam shut.
Sam scoffs. Wishful thinking Wilson.
If they had to bet on someone helping them out of here, it sure as hell wasn’t going to be Stark.
They overdo it with Scott.
Sam’s not sure what information they want from the guy— he was only on their side for like 5 minutes before they all got cuffed. He’s got a sneaking suspicion that Ross might be doing something shady (big shocker there) and trying to figure out Pym’s tech. Whatever it is, Scott comes back, and Sam immediately knows it’s bad.
Goddamnit, he thinks, can’t believe he’s wishing Stark had stuck around.
One of Scott’s eyes is swollen completely shut, the other blown and unfocused. His half-conscious bloodied form twitches with aftershocks; there’s a sickening smell of burnt hair permeating the air. It doesn’t take a medic to see that his shoulder is dislocated. They’ve broken at least 2 fingers, and the way he’s clutching his chest indicates a broken rib, or worse. Sam tries to banish that thought away. There’s no chance of treating internal bleeding in a place like this.
“Hey!” Sam yells at the guards. “He needs medical help! You hear me Ross? If you leave him like this, he could die!”
There’s no response. Clint and start banging on the bars. Wanda is still out cold. Sam is pretty sure Barton is punching the glass again, shouting creative obscenities. The guards don’t even stop.
“Ross! Ross, stop this! You can’t kill a goddamn avenger!”
The harsh crackle of the intercom echoes through the space. “But he’s not an avenger. I’m not responsible for what fights an ex-con starts in a place like this, or how they end. Nobody cares as long as criminals are kept off the streets. And if I’m not getting answers, what’s the point in keeping you expensive freeloaders around? Im not wasting taxpayer money keeping scum like him alive.”
“For fuck’s sake!” Sam shouts angrily. Helplessly. “Okay, okay! I know where Steve is. He told me his old haunts back when SHIELD went down. These guys don’t know anything, all right? Leave them the hell alone. Bring me a first aid kit, let me help Lang, and I’ll tell you.”
The door opens almost immediately, quickly enough that Ross must’ve been waiting for Sam to fold. Bastard.
A troop of guards march Sam from his cell to where Scott is keeled over in the centre of the floor. Batons are jammed into his back, and he falls to his knees roughly next to the other man.
“Hey there Lang.” Sam smiles. Scott looks up at him with heart breaking fear in his eyes. Goddamnit. Sam never should’ve dragged him into this.
“Any trouble breathing?” Scott shakes his head slightly, wincing at the movement. Thank God, no pierced lungs then. Sam let’s out a breath he didn’t know that he was holding.
“Alright, deep breaths tic-tac, okay? It’s going to be fine. It’s all going to be alright.” Quieter, he whispers, “Look after yourselves, okay? Keep on going. And tell Steve I was sorry.”
Before Scott can reply, Sam wrenches the shoulder back into place. The sickening pop is covered by Lang’s loud shout of pain. Sam fashions a sling out of pure muscle memory, tightly securing the battered arm to Scott’s chest.
He splints the fingers next, then bandages the heavily bleeding wound at the base of his skull. As subtly as one can under heavy surveillance, he slips some spare bandages down Scott’s sleeve. No point doing all this just to kill the guy with an infection. Sam catches Clint’s eagle eye, who nods in grim understanding. Hopefully, he can coach Scott through proper head injury treatment. (Sam is banking a hell of a lot on hope.)
Suddenly, the sharp searing pain of the baton lights up Sam’s back. He does his best not to collapse onto Scott’s injured arm.
“Time’s up.” Ross’ voice calls from the intercom.
A bruising grip yanks him off the floor.
Sam glares at the guard. “Keep your hands to yourself man, I’m cooperating aren’t I? Just give me a damn second.”
With a deep breath and a prayer, Sam lets himself be strong armed out the door.
God, he was so fucked.
Hello, evil interrogation chair, his old friend. They deposit Sam onto the icy metal, and Jesus Christ, it’s still wet with Scott’s blood.
Ross walks in, that stupid smug look painted on his face. Sam’s wrists pull at the restraints on the chair. What he’d give to just get one good swing in.
Sam raises an eyebrow, “Not feeling mighty cooperative when you tie me down guys. Honestly, I’m hurt General, don’t you trust me?”
“I trust you know what’s best for you and your friends Wilson. Talk.”
Sam lets the fight drop out of him, visibly deflating. “Okay, look…” he all but whispers, “I just want out of here, alright. Let’s cut a deal.”
He keeps his head hanging low, refusing to look Ross in the eye as he steps closer, just inches away.
“Steve and Barnes.. I know where they’d go. Where they’re hidden.”
“Yes?”
Smiling, Sam rears his head back. He meets Ross’ impatient gaze head on.
He takes great joy in bringing the full force of his skull forwards, cracking into the general’s nose.
“ Go fuck yourself, Thunderbolt. ” He grins defiantly.
Ross curses loudly, tightly clutching his face. Sam’s laugh is mutinous, uncontrollable.
Batons are drawn. His nerves are on fire. His vision flashes a burning, brilliant white.
He doesn’t see anything else after that.
When Sam wakes up, he still can’t see anything.
It’s been so long since he opened his eyes to darkness, that for a moment he toys with the idea that he might actually be dead. Fuck, Ross could’ve killed him. He still could, easily. He’s clearly alone in here, this strange black void. The space is empty, ice-cold walls a few feet apart as he fumbles blindly for an impression. Moisture builds on his fingertips. It’s like touching the side of the freezer his father had kept the fish in. Sam is suddenly aware of just how thin his uniforms is.
Something’s not right. He shouldn’t be here. He needs to find them.
Find who? Where?
Maybe he’s still asleep. Sleep sounds nice right now.
Sam slips back under.
There’s an icy draft biting at his skin. It’s cold, too cold to be safe, and theres an echo in his brain that tells him that he should do something, that he can’t stay here. There’s nowhere to go. He needs to stay awake. He has to- he can’t- he shouldn’t fall asleep. Awake.
Got to stay awake.
Got to stay awake.
Got to—
Theres nothing, for a while.
Cold.
Dark.
It’s painful, dying. He never wanted to die alone. He doesn’t want to die alone-
Sam sleeps.
He dreams a knock on the door.
They bang again. And again. Persistent. Annoying. Who knocks at this time in the morning?
What could it be, at this time in the morning? Oh fuck- he's overslept, he’s going to be late-
What was he doing? What was he here for? He needed to do something. He had to stay-
There’s another bang, and a shout, what alarmingly sounds like an explosion and then-
Light.
Blinding, all-encompassing, far too bright light. Sam stumbles backwards.
A doorway. A silhouette.
He’s dreaming.
“On your left.” Says the shadow.
Sam rolls his eyes. This is decidedly not a good idea, he realises, his vision blurring. His eyes roll back into his head.
Sam passes out again.