Chapter Text
The bar was one step up from being a dive. Dirty, crowded, and noisy, smelling of sweat and cheap booze.
It suited Sam's mood.
They'd come back from Nigeria four days ago, and no one was taking *that* clusterfuck well.
He had his plate full trying to keep Steve from blowing a gasket. They finally all agreed on a moratorium on watching the news or Internet for a week, to give them all a breather.
Talking to Wanda was even worse. She had shut down, wasn't confiding in anyone. She stayed in her room nearly 99.9% of the time.
Anyone else, Sam would have dragged their ass to the nearest psychiatrist, but she'd made it very clear that she wasn't interested.
Sam was having nightmares himself. He didn't tell the rest of the team, but shit. He could happily have gone the rest of his life without the scent of people being roasted alive. He remembered that from his pararescue days, and the reminder was like a knife in his gut.
"Whiskey," he told the bartender curtly. "Keep 'em coming."
After his third round, he was pleasantly buzzed but no worse--better?--than that. He decided to switch it up, asking for Stochlinaya. Nat had mentioned it a time or two.
He chugged it, and started coughing. Okay, that's more like it.. The vodka burned going down, but thawed some of the ice that had been a hard lump in his stomach since they flew out of Lagos.
"You have expensive tastes," somebody commented. Sam glanced to his right.
Tall, dark-haired white guy, green eyes, athletic build--dancer or athlete, he'd have guessed, if he cared enough to wonder.
"Why settle for anythin' but the besth?" His tongue felt thick. "Sorry. Not really up for anything tonight but forgetting, man. Been a really bad week and eve'body's sticking their heads in the sand that it'll be okay. 'S bullshit."
"Understood. " The young man perched on a stool next to Sam's. "You're a fighter--a veteran?" he corrected himself. "Allow me to buy your next round, sir. Please."
Sam liked his accent, though he couldn't place it. "Okay. Thanks... I'm Sam Wilson."
"Gunnar." He offered a handshake. "Pleasure to meet you, Sam Wilson."
* * *
Sam was pleasantly surprised, when he woke up, to find that he didn't have a hangover.
He had no clear recollection of returning home, but he must have. He was in his own quarters at the Compound, his own bed, and still wearing last night's t-shirt and jeans.
Had someone given him a lift? He could dimly remember chatting with a couple of the other customers...Shit, he hoped he hadn't driven himself home. That was the last sort of worry the Avengers needed, especially if the cops or the media got wind of it.
He showered quickly, dressed, and went in search of his teammates and some breakfast.
Steve and Nat were at the table in the kitchen/dining area. The Compound had that whole 'open concept' trendy décor, courtesy of Stark. Sam rolled his eyes as he approached them. Honestly, this place was like a shrine to Tony Stark's ego, and the man wasn't even living here! Give him a home instead of a movie set anytime.
" 'Morning," he greeted them.
Nat gave him a wry smile. "Vodka?" she asked. "I can still smell It on you, a little."
"Oh. Yeah. Hope I didn't do anything too inappropriate, though really--I'd have to go some to top the stuff you've done as a 'Black Widow', and you weren't drunk."
He froze in his tracks as he heard the words that came out of his mouth. Nat blinked once and went poker-faced, carefully setting down her coffee mug.
Ohshitohshitshe'sgonnakillmeandIaskedforitwhatthehelldidIsaythatfor?!!!
"Sam!" Steve reprimanded.
"Come off it, Rogers. She's a grown woman, she can handle some harsh words. Or are you afraid people will figure out they really don't need you to charge in on your high horse and rescue them? God forbid anybody on this team shouldn't treat your every word like it ought to be the newest book in the gospel."
Sam clamped both hands over his mouth, staring at his teammates--his friends--in horror, hoping his expression conveyed how he felt. He gritted his teeth, refusing to let himself say anything else despite a fierce urge to keep talking....
Urge.
Compulsion.
But what the hell--
A sardonic laugh made all three Avengers turn quickly.
"Gunnar? What the...ohh, you've gotta be kidding me--" Sam blurted out.
"Loki," Nat hissed, and there was a gun in her hand pointed at the Trickster a second later. "What are you doing here?"
Loki smiled, baring teeth. "Mr. Wilson made a complaint, last evening while in my presence, that his teammates' lack of self-awareness was troubling him. So now, until I decree otherwise, you'll hear the truth and only that from him. Call it a challenge. I'm interested to see how well this so-called band of heroes manages when their illusions are stripped away."
He stepped backward gracefully, and disappeared.