Chapter Text
Well, this has certainly turned into an absolute shitshow, Sam thought as he made certain Valentina's goons weren't following him anymore. The intel was supposed to be ironclad: in-and-out recon mission, minimal resistance, fire no guns, shed no tears (Sam prided himself on knowing that song long before Cass and AJ started yammering about something called ShantyTok). Instead, he'd walked right into an ambush and found himself outgunned. He'd only just managed to shoot and limp his way out into the mostly deserted streets of Tallinn's Old Town. Thank God Tallinn had reinvented itself a bachelor party destination; he could pass off the limping and cuts on his face as a consequence of a few too many 1-euro beers.
There was no way he was going to get into a hotel (or hospital) without arousing some major suspicion. Not only would Ross find out he went off on a definitely unauthorized mission and have his ass for it, but a Black man covered in blood and carrying around some pretty fancy (and classified) Wakandan tech? Yeah, that would go over great, officially Captain America or not. There is...Sam mused. But is he even still in the country? Did the Dora Milaje still grudgingly tolerate him using that address as a safehouse during the emphatically-not-authorized work release the Dora Milaje were categorically, authoritatively not aware of? It was a long shot, but Sam was fresh out of other options. It had come to this: the only guy Sam could halfway trust (and halfway was being very generous) in this city was Baron Fucking Zemo.
Sam stumbled to the townhouse door and practically smashed the doorbell. "Please answer, for the love of God," he muttered. He leaned his head against the slightly cool wood of the door, and found himself nearly falling face-first into the entryway as it swung open.
When he found his footing again, he stood face-to-face with Baron Fucking Zemo. His hair was a little longer and wavier, and not impeccably styled like the last time they'd met in Riga, and he now had a pretty substantial beard. His bathrobe was half open (what else was new). He stared at Sam, looking absolutely baffled. "Sam?"
Sam opened his mouth to say something like "no shit" or "who else", but Zemo cut in. "You're hurt," Zemo said, sidling up to him and having the good grace to look concerned. Sam wordlessly crossed the threshold and willed himself to stay upright. Zemo placed Sam's arm across his shoulder and led him into the living room. Sam leaned on Zemo in spite of himself and wondered what strings were attached to all of this.
A movie was paused on the TV. Will Ferrell was in it, that much Sam could tell, but he was too exhausted and hurting to play movie trivia. But seriously, a Will Ferrell movie? Sam had always imagined that Zemo exclusively watched weird German black-and-white movies where everyone wears cloaks and talks about existentialism. Zemo deposited him on the overstuffed couch. "Just a moment while I grab my medical kit," he said.
"Yeah, not planning on moving much," said Sam after him. Zemo returned a moment later, smiling crookedly and holding the medical kit aloft.
"Where does it hurt?" Zemo asked. "Don't say everywhere."
Everywhere would have been a correct answer, but Sam leaned back into the couch and took stock. "Ribs," he said after a shallow breath. "Think I took a round in the right arm. No arteries or I wouldn't be talking to you right now. Definitely one in the right leg too. Calf. Don't think bone's broken but no way to know."
Zemo nodded and sat down beside him. "I'm afraid that despite my substantial connections, I don't have an X-ray or MRI," he said. "But we make do." He pulled a bottle of saline from the kit and made quick work of slicing through Sam's sleeve with trauma scissors.
The jet of saline hit the bullet wound and Sam swore through gritted teeth. "Motherfucker!"
"It's always fascinated me how universal profanity is," Zemo mused as he put the saline bottle down. "In Sokovian, we say--said--kurva mat, which means the same thing."
Distracting me from the painful part, Sam thought. It felt safe to know how things went, to know what Zemo was doing. He could play along. "Koorva Matt?" he ventured.
"Kurva mat," Zemo repeated. "Master that and idi prdele, and you'll be conversational in Sokovian."
"I assume...idi per-day-lay is a nice, friendly greeting?" Sam asked, eyeing Zemo cautiously.
"It means fuck off," Zemo said, tearing open a disinfectant swab.
"How many words for fuck are there in Sokovian?" Sam asked, studiously ignoring the sting of the disinfectant on the edges of the wound. He was tempted to grab the medical kit from Zemo and do this part himself because he could guarantee he could do it better, but his good arm felt like lead, and his bad arm throbbed something awful. He hated being at Zemo's mercy, if the guy was capable of such a thing. He kurva matting hated it.
"Sokovia was in a constant state of war until the day your friends came and turned it to ash," said Zemo. "Just one word for fuck wouldn't suffice." He pulled a sterile bandage from its packaging. "This one isn't bleeding much," he said as he stuck the bandage on. "How's the one on your leg?"
Sam slowly extended his leg and craned his neck to get a look. A definitely-can't-cover-that-up bloodstain marred the carpet where his foot had rested. "Kurva mat," Sam said. "Or is there a better word for fuck I should use?"
"You're a quick study," said Zemo, smiling slightly.
"You're doing it," Sam said as Zemo got off the couch to crouch by his injured leg.
"Doing what, Sam?"
"That Pikachu smile thing you always do when you're about to start shit."
"Does that annoy you more than the--what was it you called it--stupid head tilt?" Zemo asked, tilting his head nearly 90 degrees for good measure. "Hold still and try to relax your calf muscle."
Sam tried. His fingers dug into the couch and he tried to visualize the Paul and Darlene on a warm summer day, not too humid, the sound of light, lapping waves buffetting the boat. Didn't make much of a dent in the pain, but it was worth a shot.
"Would you like something for the pain?" Zemo asked as he readied the saline bottle once again.
Like hell he was he taking anything mind-altering while alone in a room with Zemo. "No, I'm good," Sam said.
Zemo looked up from his bloody leg, put down the trauma shears, and met his eyes. "You have every reason not to trust me, Sam --"
"Understatement of the fucking century," Sam interrupted.
"But I have no reason or incentive to harm you."
"Gee, thanks."
Zemo deflated ever so slightly. He shrugged and frowned exaggeratedly. "Fair," he said and sprayed the saline as gently as he could. Which wasn't very gentle at all. "Apologies about your trousers, by the way." Zemo gestured to the remnants of Sam's right pant leg, which was now strewn on the carpet in bloody strips.
"I'd ask to borrow a pair of sweatpants, but you don't strike me as a sweatpants guy," said Sam.
"And you hate being beholden to me," added Zemo.
Yeah, that.
"If it helps," continued Zemo, "you cared for me after Walker knocked me unconscious with what's now your shield. Call it even now."
That doesn't help. "Yeah, guess so."
Zemo pulled out a needle and thread from the kit. "I'll have to close this one up," he said "Are you sure you don't want anything for the pain?"
"Very sure," said Sam, taking as deep a breath as his ribs would allow.
"Did you know," Zemo said as he threaded the needle. "That profanity is a natural analgesic?" Saying something like that while handling medical equipment made him sound way more Bond villain than usual.
"Learned that on the job," Sam said with the barest hint of a chuckle.
"Would you like another Sokovian swearing lesson, then?" asked Zemo, wiping his calf with a disinfectant swab.
Sam shrugged, wincing as it pulled at his ribs and bad arm. "Eh, why the hell not?" What the hell else was there for distraction, besides whatever Frat Pack comedy Zemo was inexplicably in the middle of?
"Ja jebe tvoyu svati mrtvai," Zemo said with theatrical flair.
"Do I wanna know what that means?" Sam asked, gritting his teeth through a wave of pain.
Zemo did that little shit-stirring Pikachu smile again. "Excuse me, where is the train station?"
Sam couldn't help but laugh a little, but it broke off in a groan as Zemo jostled his leg.
"I'm kidding," said Zemo; kidding came out haltingly, like the word didn't quite sit right in his mouth. "It translates to I fuck your ancestors-in-law."
Sokovian trash talk truly was on another level. Zemo started the first stitch. "Ya yehbeh tuh-voyu suh-vatty murt-vai," Sam muddled through the phrase. Zemo was right; it was strangely helpful. The needle went in for another stitch. "Kurva mat!"
Zemo's smile broadened as he worked with a military efficiency Sam kicked himself for being surprised by. The guy used to run an elite kill squad; of course he'd know how to do stuff like this. "Does it help?" Zemo asked.
"Yeah," Sam admitted. He paused for a moment. "Thank you." Another final stitch. Kurva mat. Zemo just nodded wordlessly.
Businesslike, Zemo packed the bloodstained disinfectant pads, the shreds of Sam's pant leg, and the discarded bandage packaging into a plastic bag, which he quickly sealed up and tossed in the kitchen garbage, before disappearing into what Sam presumed to be his bedroom. Sam contemplated helping clean up, but he was that kind of bone-tired where even contemplation exhausted him more. He blinked and a pair of neatly folded, soft charcoal-grey sweatpants seemed to materialize in his lap. Zemo was already on the other side of the living room, pouring two glasses of whiskey. Just whiskey, no poison. Good. Sam blinked again, and Zemo had set one of the glasses down on the coffee table in front of him. "I'll let you change," Zemo said quietly, heading towards the bedroom again.
Sam studied the sweatpants (Hugo Boss? Seriously?) and dreaded the movement required to put them on, but they were better than sleeping in his mangled jeans. One, two, three -- he forced himself upright enough to kick off his shoes and shuck his jeans to put on Zemo's absurdly fancy sweatpants.
"I'm decent," he called towards the bedroom as he fully laid down on the couch and tossed a few of the decorative throw pillows onto the floor. Zemo poked his head through the doorway and tentatively entered. Zemo pulled up an armchair and placed his whiskey on the coffee table after taking another swig.
"Would you like to pick something else to watch?" Zemo gestured to the TV, which by now had switched to a screensaver.
"Surprise me," said Sam, holding in a yawn that made pain flare in his ribs again. Before his brain could catch up and stop him from saying it, because he was definitely not planning on letting his guard down around Baron Fucking Zemo, he added, "Just don't kill me in my sleep."
"Kill a sleeping, injured man? You know I have more honor than that," Zemo teased. He busied himself with the remote, cursing softly in Sokovian (one Sam hadn't learned yet) when he mis-typed.
Sam briefly fought against his eyelids drooping further, but the familiar lilt of Concerning Hobbits soon lulled him into a dreamless sleep. He was dimly aware of Zemo placing a blanket over him and giving his uninjured shoulder a tentative squeeze. Perhaps it was a sign of growing trust that now he was more worried about sleeping through the Balrog than he was about Zemo backstabbing him. Or front-stabbing him.