Sonny tries to wait patiently.
Okay thats a lie, he doesn't really try or care about that at all. But he does somewhat attempt to keep his mind occupied so that he doesn't go completely mental while he is shackled up in this small little box with the clock continuing to tick and Clay still MIA and God knows where.
So for his own sanity he mentally assembles and disassembles all his favorite firearms a few times, then he moves on to running through the new breach patterns that Jason's been drilling the team on lately hoping to have them polished and perfect for their upcoming deployment.
It helps for a bit but inevitably his mind keeps drifting back to Clay and none of the distraction attempts can ultimately keep his focus beyond that or quell the rising unease as the wait continues to increase.
Finally, after far too long he makes out some footsteps approaching and noises from the otherside of his wall as a door opens and Clay get dumped into the cell next to him.
Chains rattle, the door clangs shut again and he bites his lip anxiously until the footsteps recede again before he lets himself blurt out.
"Clay you there?"
"I'm here Sonny." Clay's voice is faint and muffled through the thick stone walls, but it's music to Sonny's ears.
"You ok?"
"Yeah all good."
Clay's responses are slightly warmer now, or at least have graduated to three word answers instead of one, which is a welcome improvement in Sonny's mind. He wonders if Clay might be as relieved to hear a familiar voice as he is or if Spenser just finally decided to stow their personal shit in the face of their current situation. Either way he will take it.
A small nasty voice in the back of his head provides another alternative though and has his stomach retwisting uncomfortably as he considers the other possibility that Clay might just be feeling too shitty to keep up with being pissy with him.
"They do anything for your leg?"
"Yeah they wrapped it up. It's good enough for now."
The fatigue and resignation in his voice doesn't exactly instill any sort of confidence in Sonny and he isn't willing to let it drop quite yet. He's learned from watching Trent, and sometimes Jason, that a more direct question usually gets better results so he spends a second formulating one that should be more enlightening. Or at least Clay should have a harder time dodging.
"Is it still bleeding?"
Again, there is just the slightest pause which tells him all he needs to know even before Clay speaks.
"A little bit, but not too bad"
Translation.. Yes. A lot.
Sonny scooches around on his butt testing the limits of his range but no matter where he manages to get to he has no angle through the slat to see Clay's cell door.
Great. Just what he needs to worry about the kid bleeding out on the other side of a wall where he can do exactly jack shit about it.
Slumping back against the shared wall he settles for sending back "Well keep pressure on it."
Clay rattles and clanks his chains in response.
Right. Smart ass.
"Its fine. They will come get us out eventually. Just have to let this all run its course and then Jason will be here telling these IDIOTS what a massive MISTAKE they are making right now."
There's a grunt from the cell over that he chooses to take as an affirmative but honestly most of that statement wasn't really for Spenser anyways. Sonny very much hopes that those useless guards still chilling out there caught every damn word of what he just said because he means it. If these useless boobs think he is a pain to deal with. Just wait till Blackburn and Jason Hayes come storming down here. Jason will tear a strip of off them guaranteed, but what they should be even more concerned about is what Blackburn will do.
Sonny Quinn has been known to test a few boundaries and a push lot of buttons in his life and even he has a healthy respect for Eric's limits and makes sure to toe the line carefully there. He's willing to bet Blackburn won't be satisfied until he climbs so far up their chain of command that every single negligent, obtuse, incompetant officer who had so much of a finger in this clusterfuck will never even be able to get a gig as a security guard.
Sonny very much looks forward to all of that. It's about the only thing keeping him sane and somewhat calm right now knowing that these assholes will get what's coming to them. Eventually at least. There's still unfortunately the minor detail of some lack of electricity and comms to slow things down a bit in the meantime.
His best attempt at a zen attitude doesn't last long.
His resolve quickly breaks and even the promise of future punishment can't come soon enough for him. Rapidly escalating boredom and frustration makes it impossible for him to sit still so he shuffles over to get the best view of the guards through that tiny little window and then entertains himself by attempting to disrupt their break time. He figures if he is going to be uncomfortable in here there is no reason they should get to sit there in peace and quiet out there.
They both studiously ignore him. One never even raises his head from the book while the other gives one shrug seeminling like he can't understand what's being said and then goes back to whatever the hell he is doing as he stares off into space. It just infuriates Sonny more because these dicks are pretending not to understand English when they probably speak it better than he does.
He starts off with a request to make a phone call and predictably gets ignored.
He moves on to asking for some food and water, and while that might be more reasonable it gets the exact same reaction.
Sonny then demands to talk to someone in charge and when that gets him nowhere he starts spouting sections of the Geneva convention at them because yes, while he may not be a walking encyclopedia like Spenser over there, he does in fact know a few things that he stored away thinking they might come in handy someday. He never imagined it would be for a situation quite like this mind you, but here they are and if anything these guys should care more about that kind of thing than the type of people he imagined might be taking him prisoner someday.
Getting annoyed now with their lack of response he ups his game and starts hurling out some insults. Picking on anything and everything from the one dude's stupid French mustache to the stinky cheese they probably ate for breakfast and when non of those cliche digs work he tries some classic your Momma jokes.
After he exhausts his surprisingly expansive repertoire of those and still gets no reaction he has to accept that maybe, just maybe these jagoffs actually legitimately don't speak english.
Well fine then.
Noise is universal as far as he's concerned so he settles for clanking this chains over and over and punctuates the loud metallic rattles with the few key french vocabulary he knows tossing in a random Fromage or Bier until apparently he strikes a nerve and Moustache man finally gets up off his lazy ass. The man ambles over and slams the cover over the slot in an attempt to try to dampen the constant barrage coming from within.
It shuts his cell into complete darkness which is annoying but Sonny also takes some perverse pleasure in finally having gotten a reaction. He is satisfied right up until the now dark, cramped space starts to remind him of the tiny, suffocating torpedo tube that he almost drowned in.
Sonny doesn't have the radio to communicate with this time so he just has to raise his voice as he deals with the extra surge of restless energy by reviewing the last UT football season in excruciating detail. He starts by educating them on the roster competition then moves on to running through the big games and the grudge matches and finally delivering some play by play of the top sequences with as much gusto as he can manage.
He makes it to the final game and then falls quiet, a little bit calmer and satisfied that he made his point that they can't shut him up that easily. His arms are aching, his throat is dry and scratchy but it was well worth it in his book.
Those minor discomforts also pale in comparison to how Clay must be feeling on the other side of the wall and as he considers that he realizes with a jolt that it's been a little too quiet in the next cell over.
"Clay?"
"Yeah Sonny."
"You alright? Pretty quiet over there."
"All good. Just tired."
"Bleeding slowing down at all?"
"Yeah, its fine."
Clay's answers are not exactly reassuring. Not at all really.
Sonny has a healthy distrust of the use of the word "fine" having relied on it more than a few times himself to slough off a question he didn't want to answer. He is also all too familiar with what Clay's version of "fine" is and the frightening range of possibilities that could encompass including severe hemorrhaging or shattered bones.
In fact if he's going to base his assessment on anything here it's the very telling fact that despite all the racket he's been making for the better part of an hour, Clay hasn't told him to shut up yet. Given the bad mood Spenser was in earlier and Sonny's ability to get on just about anyone's last nerve without even trying (and he certainly was trying here) Clay's silence says volumes.
So no he doesn't believe it for a second that things are "fine" over there. And it really REALLY pisses him off that there isn't much he can do about that right now.
He takes his frustration out by going back to yelling at the guards for a while. Shortly after Sonny makes an exciting discovery that if he twists just right and leans a certain way his feet can actually reach the door allowing him to take his game up a notch and slam his boots into the metal door. He proceeds to do so over and over and over again and takes great satisfaction in the amount of noise it can create with the heavy metal door.
He goes to work with that for a while and keeps it up until he can't any longer and needs a break. He's drenched in sweat, his stomach is cramping and ears are ringing before he finally has to admit defeat and slumps back down resolving to do more of those core workouts Davis used to try to make him do when he ever gets out of here.
Also would it kill them to give them some water in here.
They have to have been in here at least a couple hours now between the interrogation with all those damn questions, and now this delightful cell time. Surely at some point they will have to feed them right. Maybe a bathroom break if that's not too much to ask for. Judging by how things have gone so far It probably is but at the same time... THEY AREN'T DAMN TERRORISTS! And if he has to pee in a corner this is gonna swing loooonngg past the line of mildly humours and mostly annoyting to completely fucking insufferable.
On a good note, it has to have been at least 6, maybe 8 hours since they went off grid. He doesn't know what is going on with the rest of the guys but even if they lost comms as well did they would have regrouped by now, and more importantly noticed that Sonny and Clay failed to check in.
It may take them a bit of time to track down their location, but if there is one thing he trusts its that Bravo will find them, come hell or high water or underground French prison dungeon thingys.
He trusts Jason won't just accept that they are delayed. He trusts Ray to make sure Jason doesn't kill anyone in the process. He trusts Blackburn to demand some answers from the higher ups. He trusts Mandy to work her sources and get a lead and then as much as it pains him to even think about it he still trusts Lisa Davis to move mountains and make the impossible happen to track down their location even in the middle of a terrorist attack with communications and electrical capabilities compromised.
Even after all they've been through in the last few weeks he still trusts her to do that because through all of that, all of them, her professionalism at least never wavered.
His didn't either before, but ironically he actually did a better job at keeping the boundaries of their lives at work and at home separate back when they were a thing. It was her decision to try to separate the two that is now making it seemingly impossible for him to do so these days. He knows she needed to do what she did for her sake, for her to be able to function and excel in her new role, so maybe at least right now he can be grateful about that because she should have her head in the game and be able to compartmentalize just fine now that they aren't a thing.
"Sonny?"
For the first time Clay calls out to him, pulling him from his bitter thoughts and jolting him back to reality.
"Yeah Kid"
"I'm uh….. I'm not feeling so hot over here."
Fuck. That halting admission sends another sharp spike of panic through him because for Clay to be admitting to anything is a very very bad sign.
"What does that mean?"
It's painfully silent on the other side of the wall.
"Clay! Hey... you don't get to say that and then go quiet. Answer me!"
Desperation creeps into his voice and he feels the cuffs dig into his wrists as he can't help pulling futility against them. Just as he's considering gnawing the damn things off if he needs to, Clay finally answers.
"Im here, shhh.… Just feeling kinda funny, hot n' cold"
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
"You think it's infected?"
Clay doesn't answer but he also doesn't really need to. Sonny is vividly reliving the ride they took on the dirty floor of the van, stomachs and legs pressed into all the grime and muddy boot water runoff. Yeah, probably not the greatest thing for an open wound.
And it doesn't exactly sound like they did a whole lot of top notch medical treatment or disinfecting once they got here.
"Is it red or puffy? Can you see it at all?" He doesn't really know what to say but from his limited medical knowledge that seems like something Trent would ask.
It doesn't seem to matter if its a stupid question or not because he doesn't get an answer either way.
"Hey… hey!"
After a few heart stopping seconds Clay belatedly responds.
"Sorry what?"
The somewhat dreamy reply makes him highly suspect Clay nodded off in between and heightens his worry that much more.
He tries to keep Clay talking for a bit, the pit in his stomach growing heavier with each lengthy pause or increasingly vague or spaced out answer he gets. After a few more minutes he stops getting even an occasional grunt back though and no matter how loud he yells or how many insults he hurls Clay's way he doesn't get any sort of reaction at all.
That's when the panic really sets in because he is not going to lose his brother while he's sitting on his ass just a few feet away. Add to that the extra insult to injury that they are in a civilized country where they did nothing wrong and are only in this situation because some asshats can't be bothered to pull their heads out of a certain cavity so that they can listen to reason, and yeah this is so not going to fly.
Sonny swivels around and reattacks the door, this time with an increased urgency and purpose. He is going to get Clay some medical help if he has to break this door down himself. He persists in kicking the door long past when the effort has him panting and cramping but eventually he hears a telltale noise outside his door that tells him it might have worked.
He pauses his efforts. Listening intently and then embarrassingly jumping when someone bangs sharply on the door back at him. He hears someone fiddling around and then the window slides back open giving him a small view back to the outside world that is mostly obscured by Mustacheman's ugly mug peering in at him.
"ARRET! Ferme-le et..."
Sonny ignores whatever he is saying and cuts him off.
"Hey, my buddy needs medical help over there." He gestures emphatically, miming like an idiot just in case this moron truly doesn't speak English and willing to do whatever he needs to do if it gets Clay the help he needs.
Whether it's the words or the tone or the ridiculous amounts of pointing and waving Sony does, the dude thankfully seems to get the gist and turns away. He takes his sweet ass time but does eventually shuffle the few steps over and takes an exaggerated look through what Sonny assumes is the corresponding slot in Clay's door.
After a few seconds he turns back and comes back to Sonny's window, leans down and in crystal clear, obnoxiously perfect English says "He looks fine to me."
Sonny Quinn has never believed in visualization or meditation or any of that other airy fairy crap. Doesn't believe in feeling a moment or feeling a breath or any touchy feely stuff like that. He's never subscribed to the mindfulness craze or the holistic voodoo that people spend way too much money on. Sure, a head shrink or two has occasionally tried to peddle some of that garbage to him as a way to improve his skills as an operator but he flat out refuses to accept that seeing something first in your mind makes it any more likely to come true or makes you any better at shooting a target.
He believes in tangible things. In skill and training, action and results. In setting goals and plans and finding ways to achieve them. Right now for example he has a goal and he has a correspondingly very vivid plan of how he's going to achieve it. He's going to claw through this wall and wrap both of his hands around this motherfucker's throat and squeeze it as tight as he can until he keels over.
Sonny visualizes it over and over as the guard in question twists his waxed little mustache one more time before sauntering back over and resuming his seat at the desk leaving the window open so Sonny has a perfect view as the fucker reclines the chair again and pops both of his heels back up onto the desk. And as Sonny is left to fume in his cell, he decides that if visualizing the mans demise in excruciatingly graphic detail does somehow increase the chances of it coming true then he is willing to give it the good old college try.