Approximate Sunlight
Now you are how you were when you were real.
They turn the lights off after he's dropped back into his cell and he's so relieved he thinks he might cry out of sheer joy. It's been too long. It's been far too long, and he can hear himself laughing and crying but it doesn't really feel like it's coming from his own body. He crawls over to the cot and bunches the sheet up to a makeshift pillow. He's gonna get a fever soon if they don't treat the electroshock wounds. Either way, now they are no doubt inflamed and he's as painfully warm as he is uncomfortably cold. He lays on his back and sleep takes him under soon after.
When the lights turn on he's given no time to adjust to being awake, just dragged from the room and to another. This one has the same set up as the electroshock room, but the table is replaced by a red chair, still with straps. One of the guards drags him over and makes him sit into the chair, which isn't an easy feat with his injured feet.
He lets them secure the straps in place and he's given another intravenous solution. This time, he feels the needle pierce his skin and grimaces, but does nothing to stop them. It becomes routine.
The guards don't talk much, or at all to him, at least. Sometimes he'll hear them as they walk down the hallway to get him from his cell. Sometimes, they'll make quiet chatter from the corner of the room when he's getting IV'd up full of something. Whatever it is, he heard them call it milk before, it's replacing his food. It's not replacing the gnawing hunger, but it's keeping him alert and alive. Functional, he hears Hank say.
They've probably given him antibiotics, too, since his feet are slowly becoming easier to use, and Malia's scratches are also healing up pretty nicely. And now, each time he steps, he's not whimpering, or screaming inside of his head. So he's healing, which is good. They gave him a cold shower with a hose just the other day, and gave him new clothes to go with it. They've kept the lights on/lights off schedule going, too. So all in all, things are improving. That's not to say they're great, because Stiles isn't an idiot who's forgotten there is a world outside of his prison, but they're not as bad as they were. And they're not as bad as they could be. Which is why, when the tables turn again, he's not at all surprised by it.
When the guards drop him into the room, the first room, where Hank lets him eat, he's almost excited. He's on his knees by the door, like he always is. There's a plate filled with eggs and toast across from Hank.
"Bring him in." Hank tells the guards.
The door behind Stiles opens at the same time Hank stands. The two guards in black are dragging a new man into the room. He looks out of it, probably drugged. His gaze isn't focused anywhere. His clothes are torn and singed black in some places and when the guards move away so he can stand, the guy's not very steady on his feet.
Hank unholsters a gun and points it at Stiles from where he stands, a good six or seven feet away. Stiles doesn't move from his place. He doesn't say anything.
The man they brought into the room is swaying on his feet still, both arms fastened behind him with cuffs. He doesn't look older than 40, a thick beard growing in dark color over his face. It couldn't have been more than a week since he shaved last, which means either they let some prisoners shave, or he's a recent addition to Hydra's captives.
When he tears his eyes away from the man to look back at Hank, he finally addresses him.
"Stiles." Hank's voice is startlingly clear. He chambers a bullet as he continues talking. "Kill him."
"What, Sir?" Stiles voice gets strangled on it's way out of his throat.
"Do as you're told." Hank growls and glances to his gun. "Kill him or I kill you. Now!"
"Yes, sir." Stiles says. He doesn't know if he's agreeing yet. He stands, strange energy enveloping his limbs. His bare feet slap against the cold tile as he steps forward to the bound man. He hesitates visibly and Hank shoots the tile by his feet.
"It's your life or his." Hank muses with startling clarity. "Think of it as a welcome party to Hydra. A test to see what you're made of."
Everything is moving too fast.
"This is serious." Stiles mumbles under his breath. "This is real. This is happening. This is happening."
"Stiles." Hank growls a warning.
"Yes, sir." Stiles says louder. "Yes, sir. Okay. I understand, sir. I just gotta..." He trails off.
Stiles has been here before. Kill or be killed. He's still freaking out a little bit. A lot a bit, if he's honest. If he does this, there won't be any going back. He won't be able to look anybody in the eye for the rest of his life. It'll be like the Nogitsune all over again, and he doesn't want to kill this guy. He wants to kill Hank, for putting him in this position. He wants to kill the white haired guy who put him here in the first place. He doesn't want to kill some no-name dude just because it's either his life or theirs. But it is. This is where he is right now. There's nothing else for him to do if he ever wants to see the sky again. He just has to bide his time, just has to wait for help to come, if it's coming. And if not, he just has to do what he's told until Hank trusts him.
He steps forward in a dulled march. He has no weapons. He doesn't need any, but it would be so much nicer for the guy he has to -don't even think about it. When he's in front of the guy, the guards also level their guns at him. The man slumps into the wall directly on to his bound hands behind him. He's barely standing straight but somehow manages to stare Stiles dead in the eyes as he approaches. Stiles almost says something to him, but stops after opening his mouth, snapping it shut with an audible clack.
Stiles squares his jaw, brings his fist back, and punches directly into the man's temple. The man hits the ground on his side and doesn't move again. But punches to the temple either cause unconsciousness or death, and he doesn't know which. Stiles is already committed. He's already made his peace with his actions.
He hits the ground hard on his knees, straddling the man's body, and grabs his skull in both of his hands. He smashes it into the hard floor until the skull is cracked - until he's sure, beyond a doubt, this man will never stand or walk or breathe ever again. He wipes his bloodied hands on the mans shirt to clean them off. He stands quickly after, moving away from the body. His chest is heaving with it's own heavy breaths. His pulse is accelerated, his mind foggy with a flood of endorphins. Nothing here makes any sense.
What was the point of any of it? Why try to convince him of Hydra's causes, why go to all this trouble only to give him an ultimatum like - don't think about it. Don't look at him. Don't look at the body. That definitely didn't just happen. I didn't just -
Hank puts an arm around Stiles's shoulders and leads him back to the the table with the food on it. His stomach twists and turns under his ribs, sending a roll of unease floating through him. He doesn't sit. Hank's saying something, but it slips away from Stiles as soon as it reaches his ears. He looks down at his messy hands and counts his fingers. 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10. 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10. Ten fingers. This happened. He just - fuck. He just - But it wasn't really a choice, not really. He didn't really have a choice.
"That wasn't your first kill, was it, Stiles?" Hank's mocking voice pierces through the fog.
"No, sir, I shot one of your buddies back in the tower straight through his fucking neck." Stiles snarls back, caution left the same place he left his mind.
Hank swings his gun directly into Stiles's face, forcing him down to his knees.
"Murderers always have the same fire in their eyes. I saw it in yours." Hank growls at Stiles. "You're no different from the rest of us. You do what you have to do."
Stiles hangs his head, all fight leaving him.
"That man was no innocent, if that's what's got your panties in such a tight bunch." Hank says. Stiles watches Hank's feet from his position on the floor.
"He spearheaded the campaign to kill Hydra on sight, following what happened at the Triskelion two years ago. He's got what was coming to him. You delivered justice. You did good, even if you're an insolent wreck, Boy."
"Yes, sir." Stiles nods numbly along with Hank's words.
"Come on now, up you get." Hank extends a hand. Stiles grips it without thought and is hauled to his feet. "You're going to be punished for your mouth, but then we'll see what else you can do."
"Yes, sir." Stiles agrees, thinking after killing some man, some innocent man, he deserves all the punishment he's going to get. And it's not like he can just say 'no', anyway.
If he thought constant light was torture before, it was nothing compared to constant darkness. Hank walked him directly to a literal hole in the floor and told him to get in. He did, without thought, and Hank levered a lid on top of him and that was that.
He's cramped in the small space, no bigger than a literal dog's cage. He can't lay down and extend his legs. He can't sit up straight. He can barely curl up on his side, and he's growing more scared with each passing second. There's nothing but unending darkness. He can't hear anything. He can't see anything. What if they leave him in here forever? Nobody will find him. Nobody will know he's even here. He doesn't even know where the air flow is coming from. He tries examining the whole area, but can't maneuver his body to reach every corner in the box.
It triggers a panic attack, and he's pounding at the ceiling, clawing, trying to find a release mechanism or crack to breathe through. He feels startlingly pathetic, wrapping his arms around himself in an approximation of self-soothing in wake of his wretched defeat, like he hasn't stopped feeling pathetic from the moment he woke up in Hydra's grasp. It still feels as fresh as it does every time he's put into a situation like this.
He sleeps a lot less than he thought he would in the dark. Every minute he's awake feels like an hour. It's an even worse solitary confinement than the cell, in any state of light, constant or otherwise. He pretends his friends are all here to talk to him, making up conversations in his head to keep himself occupied.
We're coming for you, Stiles, just hold on. Scott tells him, righteous anger burning through his entire body.
He imagines his friends all teaming up to make a plan together, stealing the blueprints of Hydra's prison from the city commissioner. No, Scott brings in his dad to help. The FBI get the blueprints, but Rafe brings them to the pack and begs them not to get hurt saving Stiles.
I'll get hurt as long as I get to hurt the people who took Stiles. Malia smiles, fangs protruding in defiance. I don't care.
We'll make them pay. Lydia promises Rafe. And we'll get Stiles out safely.
He imagines them storming Hydra's base, taking out guards left and right. Malia, blood shining on her teeth and claws, tearing through the building until they find Hank. Making Hank tell them where Stiles is, and then ripping out his throat. The hatch opening above his head, Lydia, with tears in her eyes, coaxing him from the prison and walking him out of the building to safety.
But it's bittersweet, because there never seems to be an end. He can imagine being rescued a hundred more times and nothing will change. He even gets so far down his personal rabbit hole that the Avengers sometimes take the place of his friends in his rescue. Sometimes, they work together. Everyone works together. He knows Lydia will like Natasha. He knows Malia will like Bucky and Steve. He knows Scott will like everybody.
But there's nothing solid to his fantasies, and they fade away every time he remembers he's never going to get help. It's already been weeks. It's had to have been. His feet are healed, and that must have taken at least two weeks. He misses search engines. 'How long do electrocution burns take to heal?' Two weeks sounds right. So, two weeks plus all of the unending lights. That was probably only two weeks, too, at max. So he's only been here a month? It doesn't feel like it, but there's no other guess he has. There's no other guess he wants to have, if he's being honest with himself. A month is still too long to have been here.
When they finally let him out, he's covered in his own waste. His shaky steps falter and he face plants on the floor, arms not working quickly enough to catch himself. The guards laugh at him as he pushes himself to his feet and waits for direction.
"Put your hands behind your head, Boy." A guard directs.
Stiles complies, bringing his hands up and clasping them together behind his head and waiting.
"Kneel!" The other one says.
Stiles drops down to his knees immediately, wincing when the exposed bones press against the hard concrete.
The two guards start chatting amicably, interspersing insults about Stiles into their easy conversation. Stiles can't bring himself to care. He's disgusting and sullied, he knows it. He can feel it.
"Back to your feet, hands behind your back. Now!"
Stiles does so, hearing his knees crack upon standing. He's taken to the showers, told to strip, and then sprayed with a power hose. It's as thorough as it is extremely painful. The stream bites at his skin like a vice. But again, he counters, it's better than being covered in his own filth. It's better than being in the box.
Then the sprayer's being turned off and he's given the same instructions: place your hands behind your head and kneel. He's naked, shivering and dripping water, completely exposed and anxious. It's like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop.
And drop it does, as Hank steps into the shower room. He surveys Stiles like he might be a threat, which is the most ludicrous thing Stiles can imagine.
"Stand." Hank commands.
Stiles does so, keeping his hands fastened tightly together behind his head.
"Follow me."
"Yes, sir." Stiles concedes, walking after the man, the two guards following behind him closely.
He feels naked, which is a stupid thing to feel like when he is naked. It's humiliating and vile, but nobody's touching him, so again, small allowances of relief and reluctant gratefulness bleed through the worst feelings.
He's lead to an examination room that looks over another room with a chair. Bucky walks in.
Bucky walks in and his heart stops because finally, fucking finally. After all this time, finally, he has a way out.
But Bucky walks straight to the chair and sits, crushing every newfound hope that Stiles managed to wrangle. Bucky lets the men around him fasten him into the chair. He takes a mouth guard and bites into it. And then the electricity starts, searing directly into Bucky's head. The closed throat holding back his cries - Stiles can hear it, faint and echoing, from where he stands bare and vulnerable. Bucky's entire body tenses and spasms. A man starts speaking in a heavy language. And then the electricity stops. Bucky spits out the mouth guard.
"Soldier?" The man asks.
"Ready to comply." Bucky responds.
Stiles's whole world drops out from under him.
He watches numbly as Bucky walks out of the room without hesitance, following orders perfectly. The last thing he sees before he's gone is the back of his head, and even still, Stiles can't get his mind around what he watched happen. He can't fathom why they feel justified. He can't.
"That's what will happen to you if you don't comply of your own free will." Hank laughs at him, or laughs at Bucky. Stiles can't tell. "We'll take you to the chair, scramble everything you have. Even if you survive it, you'll have nothing left in that pretty little head of yours."
Stiles imagines it now, forces the bile back down his throat.
"So can you be good Stiles?" Hank asks, leering.
"Yes, I will, sir." Stiles says, meeting Hank's eyes for the first time since the shower.
"That's good. I think you deserve a reward, don't you?" He asks.
"I -" Stiles starts, confused, frightened of overstepping. "I don't know, sir."
"That's exactly it." Hank beams at him. "I decide when you're rewarded or punished, isn't that right?"
"Yes, it is, sir." Stiles says.
"And you get a reward." Hank smiles.
"Thank you, sir." Stiles says.
Hank continues smiling. "Come along, now."
Stiles follows dutifully behind him as they leave the viewing room and travel a path to a wing of the building he's never seen. His arms are already starting to shake with the effort of holding them up.
They stop in front of a new cell, a different one than the previous in almost every way. The entire wing of the building is empty, like the last, but this one has a pillow and a real bed, one raised off the floor. It has a toilet and a sink. Stiles thinks, if this is where Hank's putting him, he owes him so much. It looks like heaven on earth, like everything he's wanted since he got here. Hank confirms his suspicions with that same smile.
"Welcome to your new home, Stiles!" Hank grins.
Stiles follows suit, unable to stop an ecstatic smile crossing his features.
"Thank you, sir, thank you so much. Thank you."
"There are clothes on the bed. Get dressed and wait for someone to take you to feeding." Hank tells him.
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Stiles sighs, pleased, and is let into his new cell.
When the cage door clangs shut behind him he doesn't even care. A bed! He has a real bed! And a fucking toilet! He finds a roll of toilet paper on the ground beside it! He checks the tap on the sink and finds it actually gives him water. He eagerly cups his hands and drinks his fill, finding it doesn't even taste badly.
He gets dressed quickly and sits on the bed, mind eagerly turning with all the possibilities he now has. And it hits him then, this isn't a gift. This isn't a reward - except it is - except it's not. This is less than he deserves. This is less than he's ever had. This is less than he's ever had. It sobers him like getting hit by a freight train. Hank's messing with his head. Alternating horrible torture with less horrible torture. And it's working, he thinks, fear shooting down his spine.
Even though he knows this means nothing, he can't stop the feeling in him that says it means everything. He can't stop feeling grateful, even when he knows he should only feel ire. And the anger is there, but it's far outweighed by the complacent thankfulness he feels. He grasps his head in both hands and pulls at his own hair, trying to center himself and really feel what he should be feeling, but he can't. That's almost as monumental a loss as losing himself had been when he was the Nogitsune. Almost.