Sam didn’t think it was possible to get more chilled than he already is. Turns out he was wrong. On the floor, Steve shakes his head, spits blood. Hopefully, he just bit the inside of his mouth. Hopefully, it’s not a punctured lung. His breathing sounds okay, but with Steve, it’s hard to guess how much internal damage there is.
Steve is speaking, low and raspy. “You don’t need him,” he says. “You already got me.”
The man strokes the gun down the side of Steve’s face. His expression is curious, interested, like a child with a new toy. “And what would you offer, Captain, if we promised to let him leave unmolested?”
Unmolested, in this case, being maybe a little too accurate. And then Sam sees Steve’s face, the stubborn jut of his jaw, and he knows, he knows what that dumb asshole is going to say even before he opens his mouth.
“Anything,” Steve says, and yeah, they’re gonna be having a talk about this when they make it out of here. Not if. When. They will be making it out of here, if only so Sam can share a piece of his mind about dumbass captains and their high-handed, self-destructive, presumptuous-- “Anything you want. Let him go and I’ll do anything you want.”
“An interesting proposition. However, the last time you were in our custody, if I recall correctly, you killed six men in the process of escaping. I think I would prefer to keep--how would you say it? An insurance policy.” The man’s eyes flicker to Sam; he’s smiling in a way that turns Sam’s stomach. “If you are very good, when we are done I will not put a bullet in his head.”
Steve closes his eyes. “Fine. Just take him outside. He doesn’t need to see this.”
“Steve--” Sam starts, furious, but the man is already shaking his head. He looks amused.
“No. He stays. If you are both very lucky, he will not be required to participate.”
Required to--Jesus. Sam’s stomach flops over.
The man is no longer looking at him. He drags the muzzle of the gun over Steve’s face, up over his temple and down the bridge of his nose to his mouth, catching and pulling at his lower lip. Steve’s jaw is clenched, and he’s staring at a fixed point somewhere in the distance, and the thing is, Sam knows that look, it’s a look he’s seen more than once in the field, and at the VA. That thousand-yard stare.
Steve has gone through this before.
“Open your mouth,” the man says softly. Steve hesitates, his eyes flicking toward Sam, and Sam feels the cold muzzle of a gun push against his cheek. He keeps his expression as still and calm as he can. He might not have much leverage here, but he’ll be damned if he’ll let the bastards know how scared he is; he’ll be damned if he lets them use that as one more weapon against his captain. His friend, damn it, and when the hell did his life get so fucked that he’s sitting here, watching this happen to a friend? At least the insurgents would just have killed them both. This is some fucked-up white people shit.
Steve opens his mouth. The man slides the barrel of the gun past his lips, slowly, and begins pumping it like a grotesque parody of a phallus.
“Oh, you are pretty,” he says softly, the fingers of his free hand sifting through Steve’s blood-caked blond hair. “Even as injured as you are. I wonder how long you could last, before you succombed? An hour? Two? Imagine what we could do to you in an hour.”
Sam can imagine. He doesn’t want to, but he can. Steve shows no reaction. His gaze has returned to that fixed, distant point, and Sam can almost see him dissociating, distancing himself from what’s going on. From what’s about to happen.
Sam doesn’t have that luxury, but nobody other than the guy holding a gun to his head seems to be paying him any attention. He’s got a knife in his boot that nobody thought to check for. Realistically, he is not gonna be able to take down twenty armed guys in body armor with his boot knife, but it’s a start. If he can get one of their guns while they’re distracted--
If he can get the knife to Steve, maybe. If it were anybody else, he wouldn’t even think about trying this, but he’s seen how fast Steve heals. He’s in rough shape, but what Sam knows--what these guys apparently don’t--is that if Steve’s still conscious, he’s capable of fighting.
They’re gonna learn that, though, and if Sam has anything to say about it, it’ll be the last thing any of them learn.
There’s the sound of a zipper being pulled down, and Sam’s gut clenches. Somehow, even after everything, he didn’t really believe that they’d--that he’d--
He looks away as the man grabs a handful of Steve’s hair and drags him up, but he can’t block out the wet, obscene noises or the way the man groans in the back of his throat. The worst part of it is, Steve’s hands aren’t even cuffed. Even with a bullet in him, he could fight--but he won’t, because Sam is here. Because he doesn’t want Sam to get killed.
They’ll be having a talk about that once they get out of here, but for now Sam shifts his weight, as quietly as he can, and lets his hand drift toward the hidden knife.
Re: FILL 9/? to burn your kingdom down
Steve is speaking, low and raspy. “You don’t need him,” he says. “You already got me.”
The man strokes the gun down the side of Steve’s face. His expression is curious, interested, like a child with a new toy. “And what would you offer, Captain, if we promised to let him leave unmolested?”
Unmolested, in this case, being maybe a little too accurate. And then Sam sees Steve’s face, the stubborn jut of his jaw, and he knows, he knows what that dumb asshole is going to say even before he opens his mouth.
“Anything,” Steve says, and yeah, they’re gonna be having a talk about this when they make it out of here. Not if. When. They will be making it out of here, if only so Sam can share a piece of his mind about dumbass captains and their high-handed, self-destructive, presumptuous-- “Anything you want. Let him go and I’ll do anything you want.”
“An interesting proposition. However, the last time you were in our custody, if I recall correctly, you killed six men in the process of escaping. I think I would prefer to keep--how would you say it? An insurance policy.” The man’s eyes flicker to Sam; he’s smiling in a way that turns Sam’s stomach. “If you are very good, when we are done I will not put a bullet in his head.”
Steve closes his eyes. “Fine. Just take him outside. He doesn’t need to see this.”
“Steve--” Sam starts, furious, but the man is already shaking his head. He looks amused.
“No. He stays. If you are both very lucky, he will not be required to participate.”
Required to--Jesus. Sam’s stomach flops over.
The man is no longer looking at him. He drags the muzzle of the gun over Steve’s face, up over his temple and down the bridge of his nose to his mouth, catching and pulling at his lower lip. Steve’s jaw is clenched, and he’s staring at a fixed point somewhere in the distance, and the thing is, Sam knows that look, it’s a look he’s seen more than once in the field, and at the VA. That thousand-yard stare.
Steve has gone through this before.
“Open your mouth,” the man says softly. Steve hesitates, his eyes flicking toward Sam, and Sam feels the cold muzzle of a gun push against his cheek. He keeps his expression as still and calm as he can. He might not have much leverage here, but he’ll be damned if he’ll let the bastards know how scared he is; he’ll be damned if he lets them use that as one more weapon against his captain. His friend, damn it, and when the hell did his life get so fucked that he’s sitting here, watching this happen to a friend? At least the insurgents would just have killed them both. This is some fucked-up white people shit.
Steve opens his mouth. The man slides the barrel of the gun past his lips, slowly, and begins pumping it like a grotesque parody of a phallus.
“Oh, you are pretty,” he says softly, the fingers of his free hand sifting through Steve’s blood-caked blond hair. “Even as injured as you are. I wonder how long you could last, before you succombed? An hour? Two? Imagine what we could do to you in an hour.”
Sam can imagine. He doesn’t want to, but he can. Steve shows no reaction. His gaze has returned to that fixed, distant point, and Sam can almost see him dissociating, distancing himself from what’s going on. From what’s about to happen.
Sam doesn’t have that luxury, but nobody other than the guy holding a gun to his head seems to be paying him any attention. He’s got a knife in his boot that nobody thought to check for. Realistically, he is not gonna be able to take down twenty armed guys in body armor with his boot knife, but it’s a start. If he can get one of their guns while they’re distracted--
If he can get the knife to Steve, maybe. If it were anybody else, he wouldn’t even think about trying this, but he’s seen how fast Steve heals. He’s in rough shape, but what Sam knows--what these guys apparently don’t--is that if Steve’s still conscious, he’s capable of fighting.
They’re gonna learn that, though, and if Sam has anything to say about it, it’ll be the last thing any of them learn.
There’s the sound of a zipper being pulled down, and Sam’s gut clenches. Somehow, even after everything, he didn’t really believe that they’d--that he’d--
He looks away as the man grabs a handful of Steve’s hair and drags him up, but he can’t block out the wet, obscene noises or the way the man groans in the back of his throat. The worst part of it is, Steve’s hands aren’t even cuffed. Even with a bullet in him, he could fight--but he won’t, because Sam is here. Because he doesn’t want Sam to get killed.
They’ll be having a talk about that once they get out of here, but for now Sam shifts his weight, as quietly as he can, and lets his hand drift toward the hidden knife.