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H/C Bingo for my "hostages" square
Falcon & Winter Soldier, Sam & Zemo, about 1300 words. Also posted on Tumblr.
--
By the time Sam got there, dropping out of the sky, the hostage crisis was already over. The half-dozen hostages had been reunited with their families, the surviving hostage-takers were in handcuffs, and the media was swarming the scene.
With his incredibly recognizable Captain America suit, Sam was immediately accosted by reporters and also by authorities who wanted to talk to him about what had just happened. There was no one here that he trusted enough to give a straight answer, or get one. However, the amount of side chatter he heard, about the masked vigilante who had burst through the window of a high-rise and taken out six people in a few seconds, confirmed what he had already suspected.
He fended off the questions and launched himself into the sky, escaping via what he had found to be a pretty effective technique for dodging the media (also, dramatic, if he did say so himself). He brought up the wingsuit's HUD and had it scan for nearby luxury hotels.
He got lucky on the second try.
*
Sam was a little surprised that Zemo actually opened the door when he knocked on it. For a moment they looked at each other. Zemo was wearing a bathrobe and holding a gun in one hand, not trying to hide it.
"I would've come in through the window," Sam said. "But you already did that, and I don't like to steal another guy's dramatic entrance."
Zemo looked amused and exasperated, an expression he excelled at. "Come in, Sam, please. I have champagne."
He was moving stiffly, limping a little. Sam closed the door behind them. Zemo's dark purple and black commando outfit had been discarded on a chair, and there was a scatter of first-aid supplies on the coffee table, along with, as promised, a bucket of ice with a champagne bottle in it.
"Were you hurt?" Sam asked.
Zemo didn't bother to answer that. He picked up two champagne glasses from the coffee table. There was a bottle of whiskey and a glass next to them, giving Sam an idea of what Zemo had actually been drinking before Sam showed up.
"It is convenient that you're here," Zemo remarked. "The staff brought two glasses without asking. I suppose the idea of drinking champagne alone is unusual to some. Take off your wingsuit and make yourself comfortable."
"What are you up to, anyway?"
Zemo was concentrating on pouring the champagne. He was having a little trouble moving his right arm, Sam noted. He was definitely hurt worse than he wanted to let on under that bathrobe.
"Sometimes a man just wants a glass of champagne, Sam," Zemo said, handing one to him. "What shall we toast to?"
"How about you going back to the prison you escaped from?"
"Not my first choice for a toast, but as you're the guest, you may insist if you like."
"Zemo," Sam said. "None of this makes sense. You broke out of the Raft three months ago, disappeared for a while, and then you start showing up—doing this kind of thing. Saving people from burning buildings, rescuing hostages ... everything but getting kittens out of trees, and that might just be because you haven't found one yet."
"Perhaps I've been inspired by you and James."
"Perhaps you're playing some kind of long con I haven't figured out yet," Sam said. "You know, the media hasn't figured out who you are yet, but it's only a matter of time."
"I like to stay one step ahead of the opposition," Zemo said. His voice was light, but there was a shadow of something Sam couldn't identify in his eyes. Anger? Unhappiness? Before Sam could decide, Zemo raised his glass. "To the long con, then."
"I'm not going to drink to that, but I'll drink to figuring out what you're up to."
Zemo clicked his glass against Sam's and took a sip. He turned away and sat somewhat heavily on the couch. The bathrobe was white, and Sam glimpsed red stains around the collar on the right side.
"For God's sake, let me take a look at your shoulder."
The look that Zemo gave him was tired and cautious—but then he smiled a little. "Only if you'll at least take those gauntlets off."
"All right, fine," Sam said. He hit the buttons that retracted the wings and body armor into the wingpack, leaving him in a black T-shirt, and laid the wings on a chair.
"Very nice tech," Zemo said approvingly. "Is it for sale?"
"It's Wakandan, so no." He sat on the couch, an arm's length from Zemo, and took a look at the contents of the first-aid kit. Unsurprisingly, it was as well stocked as if Zemo had raided a military supply depo—which might be exactly what he'd done. "Let's see it."
Zemo hesitated. Then he undid the tie around the bathrobe's waist and slipped the robe off his shoulders, baring the right one.
It wasn't too bad. He been creased with a bullet, and had already mopped away most of the blood and doused it in iodine. The gash was still seeping blood, however, and looked painful.
"You could use a few stitches," Sam said. He alcohol-wiped his hands and put on gloves from the kit. "You mind?"
Zemo made a wry "be my guest" gesture with his left hand.
Sam moved closer, wet a piece of gauze with antiseptic, and began cleaning the wound carefully. Zemo grimaced at the sting, gulped the rest of his champagne, and then reached for the whiskey glass.
"You do realize painkillers other than alcohol exist."
"Do you appreciate people showing up after one of your missions and criticizing your methodology, Sam?"
"Oh, I haven't even begun to criticize."
But he stitched in silence after that, while Zemo refilled his glass one-handed and sipped on it. Sam finished and stripped off the gloves.
"I would say be careful using it for a couple of days, but I've dealt with Bucky too long not to know you'll just ignore me. Look, Zemo. I didn't come here to arrest you ... much. You did good out there today. But I know better than anyone that this lone-heroing stuff is dangerous. Whatever reason you're doing it for—some desire to atone, boredom, who knows—you shouldn't be doing it entirely on your own."
"I don't know what other option you'd suggest, Sam," Zemo said. His voice was almost gentle. "I'm a wanted man; I can't call the police or the army."
"You could call me and Bucky."
Zemo didn't answer. Sam began cleaning up the contents of the first-aid kit to give him something to do with his hands.
He looked up when Zemo nudged his arm and offered him a topped-off champagne glass. The bathrobe had been pulled up to cover Zemo's shoulder again, and he was moving his arm a little less stiffly.
"I should probably get on the road," Sam said.
"Oh, come on. Even heroes—" There was a heavily ironic weight to the word. "—get to take a half hour off and have a drink sometimes."
Sam sighed. He took the glass.
"Drinking champagne with you doesn't mean I'm not still thinking about putting you back in prison. Where you belong."
"I would expect nothing less," Zemo said. He had given up on the champagne and was sticking with whiskey now.
"But you did good work today. I'm not going to speculate on your motives—"
"Excuse me, since when?"
"—but you helped some people, Zemo. That's not nothing."
"I hope not," Zemo said quietly.
Sam wished, he really wished, that there was any way to know for sure if this was calculated somehow, set up for his benefit ... god knew. For all he knew, the hostage takers had been working for Zemo too. But he couldn't maintain that level of skepticism, he just couldn't.
"To heroes," he said, raising his glass. "And finding them where you least expect them."
Zemo hesitated. Then he clicked his whiskey glass with Sam's.
--
By the time Sam got there, dropping out of the sky, the hostage crisis was already over. The half-dozen hostages had been reunited with their families, the surviving hostage-takers were in handcuffs, and the media was swarming the scene.
With his incredibly recognizable Captain America suit, Sam was immediately accosted by reporters and also by authorities who wanted to talk to him about what had just happened. There was no one here that he trusted enough to give a straight answer, or get one. However, the amount of side chatter he heard, about the masked vigilante who had burst through the window of a high-rise and taken out six people in a few seconds, confirmed what he had already suspected.
He fended off the questions and launched himself into the sky, escaping via what he had found to be a pretty effective technique for dodging the media (also, dramatic, if he did say so himself). He brought up the wingsuit's HUD and had it scan for nearby luxury hotels.
He got lucky on the second try.
*
Sam was a little surprised that Zemo actually opened the door when he knocked on it. For a moment they looked at each other. Zemo was wearing a bathrobe and holding a gun in one hand, not trying to hide it.
"I would've come in through the window," Sam said. "But you already did that, and I don't like to steal another guy's dramatic entrance."
Zemo looked amused and exasperated, an expression he excelled at. "Come in, Sam, please. I have champagne."
He was moving stiffly, limping a little. Sam closed the door behind them. Zemo's dark purple and black commando outfit had been discarded on a chair, and there was a scatter of first-aid supplies on the coffee table, along with, as promised, a bucket of ice with a champagne bottle in it.
"Were you hurt?" Sam asked.
Zemo didn't bother to answer that. He picked up two champagne glasses from the coffee table. There was a bottle of whiskey and a glass next to them, giving Sam an idea of what Zemo had actually been drinking before Sam showed up.
"It is convenient that you're here," Zemo remarked. "The staff brought two glasses without asking. I suppose the idea of drinking champagne alone is unusual to some. Take off your wingsuit and make yourself comfortable."
"What are you up to, anyway?"
Zemo was concentrating on pouring the champagne. He was having a little trouble moving his right arm, Sam noted. He was definitely hurt worse than he wanted to let on under that bathrobe.
"Sometimes a man just wants a glass of champagne, Sam," Zemo said, handing one to him. "What shall we toast to?"
"How about you going back to the prison you escaped from?"
"Not my first choice for a toast, but as you're the guest, you may insist if you like."
"Zemo," Sam said. "None of this makes sense. You broke out of the Raft three months ago, disappeared for a while, and then you start showing up—doing this kind of thing. Saving people from burning buildings, rescuing hostages ... everything but getting kittens out of trees, and that might just be because you haven't found one yet."
"Perhaps I've been inspired by you and James."
"Perhaps you're playing some kind of long con I haven't figured out yet," Sam said. "You know, the media hasn't figured out who you are yet, but it's only a matter of time."
"I like to stay one step ahead of the opposition," Zemo said. His voice was light, but there was a shadow of something Sam couldn't identify in his eyes. Anger? Unhappiness? Before Sam could decide, Zemo raised his glass. "To the long con, then."
"I'm not going to drink to that, but I'll drink to figuring out what you're up to."
Zemo clicked his glass against Sam's and took a sip. He turned away and sat somewhat heavily on the couch. The bathrobe was white, and Sam glimpsed red stains around the collar on the right side.
"For God's sake, let me take a look at your shoulder."
The look that Zemo gave him was tired and cautious—but then he smiled a little. "Only if you'll at least take those gauntlets off."
"All right, fine," Sam said. He hit the buttons that retracted the wings and body armor into the wingpack, leaving him in a black T-shirt, and laid the wings on a chair.
"Very nice tech," Zemo said approvingly. "Is it for sale?"
"It's Wakandan, so no." He sat on the couch, an arm's length from Zemo, and took a look at the contents of the first-aid kit. Unsurprisingly, it was as well stocked as if Zemo had raided a military supply depo—which might be exactly what he'd done. "Let's see it."
Zemo hesitated. Then he undid the tie around the bathrobe's waist and slipped the robe off his shoulders, baring the right one.
It wasn't too bad. He been creased with a bullet, and had already mopped away most of the blood and doused it in iodine. The gash was still seeping blood, however, and looked painful.
"You could use a few stitches," Sam said. He alcohol-wiped his hands and put on gloves from the kit. "You mind?"
Zemo made a wry "be my guest" gesture with his left hand.
Sam moved closer, wet a piece of gauze with antiseptic, and began cleaning the wound carefully. Zemo grimaced at the sting, gulped the rest of his champagne, and then reached for the whiskey glass.
"You do realize painkillers other than alcohol exist."
"Do you appreciate people showing up after one of your missions and criticizing your methodology, Sam?"
"Oh, I haven't even begun to criticize."
But he stitched in silence after that, while Zemo refilled his glass one-handed and sipped on it. Sam finished and stripped off the gloves.
"I would say be careful using it for a couple of days, but I've dealt with Bucky too long not to know you'll just ignore me. Look, Zemo. I didn't come here to arrest you ... much. You did good out there today. But I know better than anyone that this lone-heroing stuff is dangerous. Whatever reason you're doing it for—some desire to atone, boredom, who knows—you shouldn't be doing it entirely on your own."
"I don't know what other option you'd suggest, Sam," Zemo said. His voice was almost gentle. "I'm a wanted man; I can't call the police or the army."
"You could call me and Bucky."
Zemo didn't answer. Sam began cleaning up the contents of the first-aid kit to give him something to do with his hands.
He looked up when Zemo nudged his arm and offered him a topped-off champagne glass. The bathrobe had been pulled up to cover Zemo's shoulder again, and he was moving his arm a little less stiffly.
"I should probably get on the road," Sam said.
"Oh, come on. Even heroes—" There was a heavily ironic weight to the word. "—get to take a half hour off and have a drink sometimes."
Sam sighed. He took the glass.
"Drinking champagne with you doesn't mean I'm not still thinking about putting you back in prison. Where you belong."
"I would expect nothing less," Zemo said. He had given up on the champagne and was sticking with whiskey now.
"But you did good work today. I'm not going to speculate on your motives—"
"Excuse me, since when?"
"—but you helped some people, Zemo. That's not nothing."
"I hope not," Zemo said quietly.
Sam wished, he really wished, that there was any way to know for sure if this was calculated somehow, set up for his benefit ... god knew. For all he knew, the hostage takers had been working for Zemo too. But he couldn't maintain that level of skepticism, he just couldn't.
"To heroes," he said, raising his glass. "And finding them where you least expect them."
Zemo hesitated. Then he clicked his whiskey glass with Sam's.
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"But you did good work today. I'm not going to speculate on your motives—"
"Excuse me, since when?"
Zemo: "Footage not found."
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That was so sweet.
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Zemo gotta Zemo!
"Do you appreciate people showing up after one of your missions and criticizing your methodology, Sam?"
"Oh, I haven't even begun to criticize."
For real! He's just critiquing Zemo's first aid at this point, not the mission, and obviously he's better at it than Zemo, especially when Zemo is the injured party!
I would like to believe this of Zemo.