Chapter Text
Scott still wasn’t quite sure how this had happened.
One minute he had been roaming his house in his pajamas, telling himself that it was 2 pm and he really should get dressed, and the next moment he was waking up in a grey jumpsuit with a hell of a headache.
At first, he thought he was dreaming, because this had to be a nightmare. The metal walls. The glass with no door. The deafening sounds of the ocean pounding somewhere far, far outside his cell. Because he wasn’t back on the Raft—he couldn’t be.
He’d made a deal—house arrest. He hastily pulled the leg of the jumpsuit up and found the ankle monitor gone. That probably isn’t good.
He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to keep out the clawing cold of the cell. He peered out the glass, looking to see if any of the other rogues had been captured. His heart fluttered when he saw the other cells were empty. As relieved as he was that they hadn’t gotten to any of his friends, that information came with the sickening realization that he was alone.
Steve and the others were on the run, had been for months. They had no way of knowing he was here. This time, no red, white, and blue shield was coming to save the day.
Scott rapped on the glass. “Hello?”
There was no answer, just his ‘hello’ echoing through the empty prison.
“Okay,” he muttered, pacing the cell. He was already starting to shiver. “Don’t panic. Someone will notice. Cassie will notice. And she can tell Hank and Hope and they can—”
Scott broke off. They can what? Even if by some miracle Hank and Hope were able to find him, if they were even still up for talking to him after Germany, what were they going to do? Break into the Raft? Become targets themselves? And as much as Scott didn’t want to be stuck here, he sure as hell didn’t want that.
He leaned on the glass, trying to keep his breathing even, trying to rationalize through this. They wanted something from him. They had to want something, otherwise why go to the effort? Probably the suit—probably Hank’s technology. And while Scott had no intention of giving them so much as the designs for Hank’s coffeemaker…that was still good. If they wanted something from him, he had leverage. He had something to bargain with while he figured out how to get out of here.
A couple or several hours passed—it was impossible to tell in the windowless prison—when Scott heard footsteps approaching his cell. He unwrapped himself from the ball he had curled into, hugging as much warmth to himself as he could, scrambling to his feet as a familiar face appeared on the other side of the glass.
“Mr. Lang,” Thaddeus Ross said as he halted, hands behind his back, flanked by two official-looking men in suits carrying sidearms. Ross himself was dressed as though he were about to stroll into a board meeting, in a fine suit and expensive watch. “How are you finding your stay?”
“Not bad,” Scott replied, playing for time. "Only four stars though. I’m not a fan of the view.”
Ross let out a low laugh. “Humor. That’s good. I’ve been told that keeping morale high is important during extended stays in confinement.” Scott blanched at the word extended, and Ross noticed, smirking at him.
“I was on house arrest,” Scott stated. “We made a deal. I didn’t break it.”
“That’s not why you’re here.”
Scott waited for the other man to speak, not wanting to give anything away by accident. Ross signaled to the men, who left his side. That’s definitely not good.
The wall shifted and suddenly there was a door. One of the men drew his gun, aiming it at Scott. Scott raised his hands instinctively, backing into one of the cell’s corners. They wouldn’t go to all this trouble just to kill me. Right?
Scott glanced back at Ross, whose expression hadn’t shifted. The Secretary of State took out his phone, holding it up to the glass. “We’re going to do a little photoshoot. Smile."
The second man approached Scott, whipping out a baton as he did so. Scott swallowed hard, trying not to seem scared. Photos. Proof of life.
His heart sank. Not just a prisoner then. A hostage. It had to be Hank’s technology they were after. Scott’s mind was already racing, trying to think of a way to communicate to Hank not to give these guys a thing.
But Ross’s next statement put that line of thinking right out of his head. “Where is Steve Rogers?”
“What?”
The blow from the baton was sharp and sudden. Scott yelled as pain flared across his thigh. “We don’t have to do this, Lang. Just tell me where he is and I can have you home in time for dinner.”
“I…I don’t know.”
A second hit cut him across the ribs. “I don’t,” he said again through gritted teeth. “After the house arrest, I haven’t even spoken—”
The third blow on his shoulder was enough to drop him to his knees. “You know I was in prison right,” Scott gasped. “So this? Not my first beating. Not that it matters because I don’t know anything.”
“A shame,” Ross mused. “Well, if you’re not going to tell us how to get to your friends, I suppose we’ll have to go with Plan B.”
Scott lost count of the baton hits then. He covered his head as best he could, until it was finally over. He was vaguely aware of the clicks and flashes of the phone camera, and then Ross was gone.
Scott counted to a hundred before he uncurled himself, checking for damage. He winced as he took a deep breath—probably some cracked ribs then. Scott arranged himself the best he could, every inch of his body complaining at him to stop moving.
Steve got us out before, he reminded himself, allowing himself a glimmer of hope. Someone knows you’re here. Someone’s coming for you.
The hope was gone as soon as it was sparked. They’re expecting him. They’re going to capture him this time. Because of you.
And not just Steve. Natasha and Sam and Wanda. They wouldn’t let Steve do this alone. They’re going to get them all.
“No,” Scott whispered to himself. “They’ll win. They’re the Avengers.” Well, they weren’t anymore, not officially.
To me they are, Scott thought. It was the last thing that passed through his mind as he faded into unconsciousness.
Steve Rogers had not been prepared for a life on the run.
Luckily, he was with someone who was. Natasha Romanoff had taught the rogues everything she knew about laying low and staying off the grid and, so far, it was working.
After leaving Bucky in Shuri’s and T’Challa’s capable hands, the rogues had made their way to South America, vanishing from their previous lives as American heroes. It hadn’t been easy. Steve hadn’t blamed Clint or Scott for making the deals they did, for choosing to stay with their families. He counted himself lucky that, even in these strange times, he got to stay with his.
Most of his.
Steve brushed the burner phone he kept in his pocket at all times, as Sam thumbed through the small collection of books the rogues had managed to snag in the last city they had passed through.
“I really should have paid more attention in high school Spanish,” Sam grumbled, tossing the books aside. “Not sure I would have chosen the on-the-lam life if I’d known there’d be no Netflix.”
Steve gave a small smile as he looked up from his sketchpad, trying to swallow the guilt that still lingered in his gut. He didn’t regret his decision to not sign the Accords, knew the other rogues had chosen this as well but still…if Steve had never met Sam, had never dragged him into this, he would still be safe in his apartment back in D.C.
Sam caught Steve’s look and held it. “I was joking.”
Damnit. Sometimes it was like Sam could read his mind. “I know.” Steve gestured with his sketchpad. “We could split this if you like? If you’re looking for something to do.”
“What, you want a picture from me for the fridge?”
“The fridge is broken,” came a faintly Eastern European accent, and Wanda entered the room, a cup of tea in hand. Natasha had been teaching her American pronunciations, trying to make the accent less distinctive as they moved around, but the odd Sokovian vowel still slipped through. “What are you drawing?”
“It’s not finished.” Steve turned the sketchpad around to reveal a rendering of the tiny local boy who ran errands for them and brought them food in exchange for what limited currency they had left. The boy—Nicolas—was grinning up at them from the painting, his hands arranged in peace symbols.
“Oh damn,” Sam said, leaning closer. “You can actually draw.”
“Did you think I couldn’t?”
“I don’t know. Even Captain America’s got to be bad at something.”
“Girls,” came a new voice from the doorway, and Natasha joined them in the shabby living room of their latest safe house. “He still blushes like he’s asking the popular girl to prom.”
“You know what, Romanoff—”
He broke off when he saw her face, frowning as she looked at the drawing. Wanda followed her gaze. “Look! Steve drew Nicolas. Although…” She also frowned, cocking her head to one side. “I have never seen him do this.” She mimicked the peace symbols the boy was making in the sketch.
Steve didn’t meet Natasha’s eyes. He hadn’t even realized he’d drawn them that way. His mind had been thinking of someone else. “Look, hands are hard,” he complained.
“I don’t think his eyes are that big either,” Sam chimed in. “And the left one is a little wonky.”
“Everyone’s a critic.” There was a knock at the door—two taps, a pause, and then three more. “Speaking of Nicolas.”
“I’ll get it!” Wanda was already off the ragged couch and headed to the door. She had taken a shine to the boy, picking up enough Spanish to communicate with him over the past couple of weeks they had spent in the farming town they'd taken refuge in, and delighting him with hints of her chaos magic—although not enough to draw suspicion from the locals.
Natasha took Wanda’s place on the couch, eyes still on Steve. She raised her eyebrow at him. You okay?
He gave a tiny nod back. I’m fine.
“Liar,” she mouthed, but didn’t push further.
“Well, if there’s nothing to read...” Sam glanced about the mostly empty apartment. “I don’t know. Charades? Next stop we should get some playing cards or something.”
“Strip poker?” Natasha suggested, with a small smile.
“I knew it!” Sam pointed a finger at her. “You’ve been dying for a glimpse of what’s under this shirt, right Romanoff?”
“I just like watching Steve squirm.” Natasha shot a mischievous look at Steve, who took the teasing in good faith.
There were the footsteps of Wanda’s boots as their youngest member reentered the living room. “Finally,” Sam said, rubbing his hands together. “I’m starving. Please tell Nicolas snagged some of those arepas, those things are to die f—”
He broke off when he saw the look on Wanda’s face. She was holding a yellow envelope, already opened, and was staring at Steve with tears in her eyes.
“Wanda?” Steve asked softly. She handed him the packet. Glancing around at his fellow rogues, Steve slid the contents out of the packet onto the cardboard box they had been using as a table.
It was photos of Scott.
Scott on the Raft. Scott beaten, his face black with bruising. With the photos came a single line of text.
Time to come home.
“He made a deal!”
Sam hadn’t stopped pacing the apartment. Natasha had gone into full action mode, throwing what little belongings they had into backpacks and excusing herself, saying that she was finding them a ride and getting them out of the town, and hopefully the country, by the next day at the latest.
“House arrest, and they leave him alone,” Sam continued. “They can’t do this.”
“They can,” Steve said in a low voice. “They did.”
Wanda had been very quiet, sitting on the couch with her legs curled into her chest, but now she spoke. “It’s a trap.”
“Of course it’s a trap.” Sam finally paused, gripping the back of the couch. “The Raft. The one place they know he can’t escape from, but you can break into.” He turned to Steve. “If you go there, Cap, you’re not coming back out again. You know that right? They’re going to be ready for you.”
“I know,” Steve said, still in that low voice. “But Sam…we can’t do nothing.”
“I’m not saying we do nothing,” Sam replied. “I’m saying we be smart.”
“I mean, I hadn’t intended to be dumb.”
“That’s not what I…” Sam broke off, taking a seat for the first time since the photos arrived, so he was eye-level with Steve. “What I’m saying is, when it comes to your team, to your friends…That’s your weakness, Steve. It always has been—the Accords proved it. And whoever sent these? They know that.”
Steve was saved from answering by Natasha reappearing at the door, her face set. “I got a ride. Let’s move.”
Steve didn’t ask where they were going, just grabbed his bag. They stopped in the main town so Wanda could say a quick goodbye to Nicolas. Just before they pulled away, Steve handed Nicolas the drawing. The young boy beamed, throwing up the peace signs like Steve had drawn him, and Steve felt a pang in his chest.
“Let’s go,” he said, and Natasha drove them away.
She had found them an old cattle truck, borrowed from one of the neighbouring farms. She and Steve sat up front while Wanda and Sam crouched in the back, promising to swap out when they had a few hours headstart. An hour had passed, and not a word had been said between them. Steve had been tapping the burner phone in his pocket, not even realizing he was doing it, until Natasha said, “Are you thinking about calling him?”
Steve let out a long breath. “I don’t want to involve him. He had his reasons for staying on the right side of the law.”
“But?”
“But I don’t want to risk Scott either,” Steve replied, his voice low. “And if there’s a way Tony could get him out, legally—”
“I don’t think legally matters anymore, Steve.” Natasha’s eyes were fixed on the empty road ahead, her face impassive, but she was gripping the steering wheel tighter than she needed to. “Once you cross that line, there’s no coming back. Which we knew,” she added. “We all knew. And we would all do again.”
“Thanks, Nat.”
Natasha reached across and squeezed his hand. “We’ll get him back. I promise."
"We will," Steve agreed. Hold on, Scott. We're coming for you.