Author's Note: Hello everyone! Thank you for taking an interest in this story! :)
Rated for minor violence, references to torture, paranoia, and a overall darker feeling. No smut, no slash, nor anything inappropriate. Language is all K.
Summary: After the battle of New York, S.H.I.E.L.D. claimed Loki for punishment and consequently, also Hydra. As the organization attempts to lay hold on the younger Asgardian, something goes horribly wrong forcing the Avengers to assemble and deal with the fall out. Because, as it turns out, "Hulk smashing" did a little more than leave Loki breathless. (No slash, no smut)
Sorry for any grammer/spelling errors!
Disclaimer: I own nothing!
This story is co-posted on under the pen name "LodestarJumper" for those of you who are interested. ;)
Just a personal note, if you could refrain from using cussing/strong language if you comment (no offense to how you speak! Promise! =) It just makes me uncomfortable) I would greatly appreciate that. ;)
Pintrest Board (because I have achieved that level of nerdiness. XD) URL: /LodestarJumper/stygian-marvel-fanfiction/
Edited: June 5th, 2019.
"Please don't make any sudden moves,
You don't know the half of the abuse,"
-Twenty One Pilots, "Heathens".
Chapter One:
Clint doesn't like hospitals.
"Like" might to be simplistic of a word, though. He's grateful for them, admittedly takes them for granted more than he should, but he utterly despises them. He hasn't liked them since he was younger, and he doesn't think that it's going to change any time soon. He trained hard enough to not need to visit the infirmary often anymore in his desperate need to avoid the stupid doctors.
Needless to say, being trapped with doctors, nurses, and their annoying assistants every single day has driven him up to insanity and well beyond. Today marks the beginning of week four—day twenty-two—since it began, and he does not feel any more enthusiastic about it than he did at the start.
His sour mood is likely visible for a few miles out, but he does nothing to dampen it, nor attempt in the slightest to change. If he has to sit here and suffer, so does everyone else. They've learned nothing new anyway; there simply isn't a point to all of this anymore. He's still not sleeping, still has nightmares, has moments where he zones out into the memories, but he's recovering. He's managing. He would be coping better if they would just let him leave the inane S.H.I.E.L.D. base, but his protesting has gotten him absolutely nowhere.
Clint's focus is dragged out of his thoughts as a rather sharp prick of pain shoots up his forearm and he blinks rapidly to clear the remaining haze of his rumination and looks up at the nurse leaning over him with a needle pulling a small sample of blood from his arm. A blue fabric mask covers the lower part of her face reminding him strongly of a surgeon. It's unnerving to realize that, despite the cover, he can still easily picture her wide smile perfectly.
Burning a hole in him with her sweetness, as always. From the time he's known her, her wrath of positive is aggravating on it's best days and sanity stealing on it's others. That's that. No matter how much time he spends with her, Patrisha Smith never seems to get less galling.
She's always insistent on how these check-ups are "for his benefit" or "studying purposes", and it makes him want to throttle something.
What are they going to learn from his blood about something that was in his head? And magical for that matter? It gives him some comfort, he supposes—in the very, very far back distant part of his mind—to know that they aren't finding any sort of contingency plan Loki left in him, but he'd rather there was one so he could leave.
They aren't going to find anything because it wasn't science, it was magic. The line is thin, but there. Clint can never properly describe the sickly feeling of the magical worms digging through his brain and stuffing him out. Memories under the control is hazy, and he can't pick out any distinct details save vivid flashes and the constant thrum of another entity in his head.
There was something else in his head.
"Now," Patrisha pulls down her mask, and sure enough, her stupid smile with far to much lipstick is present. She pulls back the vile of blood and sets it on a desk a few feet from the bed that he's seated on. The vile rests beside other random equipment including a stethoscope, a thermometer, and a couple of other items he can't name by sight.
She peels off her terribly smelling plastic gloves and grabs a clipboard clicking a pen covered in a wide variety of smiley faces. He hates clipboards.
"Are you experiencing any pain today?"
Beyond that of excruciating boredom?
"No." Clint answers, his voice is flat. This must be the hundredth time he's heard this question, and he is completely and utterly done with it all. In his brief correspondences with Nat since he was checked in here, he's quietly been insisting that he's starting to hear them in his sleep.
He couldn't say much more than that—to discuss what really happens here, because they monitor calls. This feels so much more like a prison than an inpatient care facility.
He can't contact Laura.
Not without the threat of these demons learning who and where she is. He can't risk it, even as much as he would love to speak with his family beyond he and Nat's consistent usage of the ever secretive pet fish. These people must think him insane because he asks about his goldfish every time he calls Nat, but what else is he supposed to do?
He hasn't seen them since before Loki, and Nat's reassurances aren't enough anymore.
"Good!" Patrisha says enthusiastically, and flicks a check-mark into a box then grabs a stool, drags it over, and sits down on it facing him. Clint lifts his gaze away from her face to the obnoxiously white walls behind the nurse's head.
Is it a requirement for hospitals to have white walls? Personally, if he had a medical station, he would make it something less unsavory or more stainless. If someone bleeds out along a wall it must take forever to scrub out.
The paintings aren't his favorite either. He's been here so many times now that he could probably create an exact replica without consulting the original once, and his artistic skill levels are a little bit above stick figures. There's one in particular, located in the corner of this room, that he's grown to have a love-hate relationship with. It's a large waterfall pouring into a pond surrounded with animals that has a headline underneath that says in big, bold black letters, "PATIENCE". He for one has no idea what waterfalls and animals has to do with patience.
"How did you sleep last night?" Patrisha asks, and looks up from the rim of her large glasses to stare at him with wide eyes under a hefty dose of mascara and eye shadow. It doesn't blend in easily with the features of her face as a smaller amount would, and really just makes her eyes seem to pop out behind her glasses in a strange way.
Sleep. Ha. Funny.
Should he lie or answer honestly today?
Hmm. Choices choices.
The result will be the same either way; a month here has him properly experienced in that area. Last night he got the medal breaking record of three hours before jerking upright and called Nat in a panic, but he doesn't want to admit that to Patrisha.
They might finally force the sleeping meds on him, and he's worked so hard to avoid them the last month.
He hates drugs.
"Fine." Clint answers briskly to Patrisha's question. Patrisha's eyebrows curve downwards slightly and she sighs with the flare and dramatics of worthy of an Oscar.
"Mr. Barton," she starts, her smile straining—that probably shouldn't feel him with as much vindictive pleasure as it does. He's made a name for being difficult, and he can only hope that they'll grow frustrated enough to kick him out not caring for his well being—Patrisha taps her pen against the clipboard before continuing: "You know that these check-ups are for your own health and being difficult isn't assisting you or me."
The latter is kind of the point.
"Yes," he says snarkily, and flashes her his own wide smile, "I am aware."
Patrisha's lips thin and her eyes narrow, but her smile doesn't drop; it is considerably more plastic now, though. She sighs. "As long as you know that, then I want you to be honest with me, alright?"
Does he look like a five-year-old who needs her to explain every nitty-gritty detail to him? He, contrary to popular belief, is not an idiot. Clint's forced smile grows more stretched, but he nods. "Alright." He echoes in agreement. The lie tastes slightly bitter on his tongue, but he doesn't retract it.
Patrisha, however, is oblivious and pacified. "Excellent!" She cheers, "How did you sleep last night?"
"On my back with a blanket on a hard cot that sort of smells like rotting tomatoes." Clint answers immediately, and leans back a little, folding his hands across his chest. Patrisha's jaw clenches slightly, and a little crease settles in between her eyebrows.
"Mr. Barton—" She starts after several seconds, finally seeming to have reached the edge of her patience.
He's annoying, but he's not stupid. "Four hours, I think." He mutters. Patrisha nods and scribbles the number four onto the small blank line beside her asked question. Clint sighs and resists the disturbingly strong urge to bang the back of his head against the wall in frustration.
"Did you have any dreams?" Patrisha asks.
"No." He lies. What is there to say about it anyway? He hardly remembers the dreams when he wakes up save a faint voice whispering to him, and he knows that it's Loki. That fact is sickenly a relief—a grounding—because he never heard Loki in his head during the invasion; it was just the hideous tendrils of magic, but his dreams love to twist the reality into something worse.
"Our technology specialists report that you called Black Widow last night and talked to her about a dream, was this from a previous night?" Patrisha inquires, stuffing her glasses up her nose.
Clint's fingers clench and he represses a long, frustrated yell. Oh, he wants out of here. S.H.I.E.L.D. can be a nuisance with moderating, but nothing like this healing center. It's supposed to be the most advanced that S.H.I.E.L.D. has which is why Director Fury sent him here.
But Fury sent him here under the impression it would be a few days or hours.
Not weeks.
It wasn't supposed to become inpatient.
"Previous night." Clint grits between his teeth.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Patrisha asks.
"No." The word was supposed to be firm, but it instead comes out as a low hiss.
Patrisha is unaffected, "That's fine." She flicks at another box. "Your blood samples from last week show no signs of outside forces interfering, but we'll keep moderating it for a bit." She says.
Clint can't help the visible slump of his shoulders. Great. That means that he has to spend more time here. Maybe it would be more endurable if he had a freakin' end date, but he doesn't. He's stuck with the blood happy doctors until further notice. Nat keeps assuring him that she'll get him out of here, but he's really starting to doubt that.
Beyond physically strapping security down, dragging the nurses and doctors from the building, and turning off the power, there isn't much that can be done in the way of security. He knows, he tried.
"Have you experienced any random headaches today?"
Yeah, and she's giving it to him. Clint rolls his eyes up to the ceiling and lets them remain there forcing out a breath. "No."
"Good." Patrisha clicks off another box. She looks up at him, "Have you experienced any mood swings or anything else you might label as "abnormal"?"
He doesn't quite hide the roll of his eyes as well as he was hoping. Clint opens his mouth to respond, but is cut off as he hears voices speaking raucously from outside the door, probably further down the corridor.. Clint's eyebrows lift slightly and his bad mood is momentarily shoved to the side as curiosity takes its place. From what he can pick out, someone is arguing, loudly, with other people and there are many footsteps that sound rushed and getting closer.
What…?
Patrisha's smile finally breaks and it slips down into a displeased frown. "Will you excuse me for a moment, Mr. Barton?" She says and, without waiting for a response, she spins on her stool and rises to her feet before walking forward and grabbing at the handle of the door throwing it open. "What is going on out here?" She demands, her voice is still pleasant, but annoyance is obvious.
Hmm. Disappointing that the first thing she was actually annoyed at since they met wasn't him.
"Nothing that concerns you." Clint feels his eyebrows lift to his hairline in surprise at the voice.
That is Tony Stark. He hasn't seen the billionaire since before he was shipped off to Wyoming and that was after they got Loki properly locked in the Raft. S.H.I.E.L.D. made a claim for him, insisting that since his faults were on their planet that Thor's father had no right to punish him and they did.
Odin hadn't fought them, but, for a brief moment Thor looked like he might before he simply sighed wearily and lead his muzzled brother forward with the rest of them. That was some four and a half (probably more) weeks ago.
Clint has half a second to process this before Tony is grabbing Patrisha by the shoulders, and turning her to the side so he can slip into the room. His hair looks a little neater than the last time Clint saw him. Instead of a Black Sabbath T-shirt and jeans, he's wearing a two piece black suit that probably cost more than Clint's monthly paycheck. Sunglasses cover his eyes despite the fact that he's in a building and doesn't exactly have need to be wearing any. From what Clint knows of the man, it's very fitting of him, though.
Clint is suddenly very aware of his T-shirt with the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo printed in the center and sweatpants that are both rumbled and look far less professional than Tony's clothing. He's wearing socks and boots though, so there is that.
Tony flashes him a wide smile—like they've been friends for years rather than barely know each other—and takes several more steps into the room. Clint can't see him looking at everything from behind the shades of the glasses, but assumes he is because a moment later he snorts and points to the painting of the waterfall and the animals. "What does that have to do with 'patience'?"
"That's the same thing I've been attempting to tell them." Clint says dryly. Tony's head turns to look more fully at him. Clint's probably a sight to behold with his bedhead, shadowed eyes and overall exhaustion that pours off him. He hasn't looked in a mirror for a while.
Patrisha seems to get a hold of herself and her lips thin and eyes narrow. She takes several steps forward to Tony and Clint sees a glimpse of the other agents waiting outside of the room, looking, in the least, miffed at Tony's sudden appearance. How did he get in here?
Okay, better question: why is he here anyway?
"Mr. Stark," Patrisha starts, all sweet honey has seeped out of her tone, "I beg you not to bother our patients. Mr. Barton has been through a very hard time recently and it would simply be a curtsy if you were to leave—"
Tony lets out a laugh, one that sounds all lopsided and wrong and he shakes his head slightly, "Sorry Madam, but I am here by order of Director Fury."
He is?
Patrisha's nostrils flare, "I highly doubt that."
"Not exactly my problem, is it Ms. Smith?" Tony snarks, and his head turns back to Clint. Tony's posture looks slightly tired, now that Clint is looking for it, and he's shoulders are tense. He doesn't look like he's been sleeping any better than Clint has.
Why is he here?
"But it's mine." Patrisha argues, "This is my patient and his health is my responsibility—"
"Lovely." Tony smiles, "You're concerned. Now get." Tony makes a shooing motion with his hands and Patrisha's shoulders raise as her whole body tenses. Clint doesn't see it, but can almost sense the eye-roll as Tony grabs Patrisha's shoulders and bodily shoves her out of the room before slamming the door shut, flicking the lock and turns back to him.
Ignoring the sudden paranoia that races through him at the locks, Clint forces his posture to relax before he leans forward slightly. Tony pulls off his sunglasses and Clint's eyes widen slightly as he sees deep shadows that probably can't be covered by any amount of makeup. Tony looks dead on his feet, pale and fidgety; seconds from flopping forward and sleeping for the next twenty years. What has he been doing ?
Well.
That explains the sunglasses, he guesses.
"Wow, she's a character." Tony says and shakes his head slightly; he lifts his right thumb back towards the door. "You have to deal with her daily?"
As much as he'd love to sit here and trade insults back and forth about Patrisha...he's getting the impression that they don't have time for small talk. "Why are you here?" He demands, straight and to the point. Tony can verbally walk his way around his real reason as much as he wants to, but Clint is going to drag it back to the main purpose.
Tony's lips press together slightly and he sighs before folding the sunglasses and putting them in the front coat pocket. "Avengers business."
Ah. What is it now? Thor have a sister that decided she wants to conquer Earth mercilessly?
Clint sighs through his nose, "Well, sorry, I haven't been given clearance for missions yet. I think that the guy in the room next to me would be willing to help, though, he's an avid yo-yo-ist. Really effective."
Tony snorts, "I think that this takes precedence over 'clearancing', Barton." He says. Clint presses his lips together for a second before forcing his gaze up again. The multi-billionaire is staring at him through a slight squint and his arms are folded across his chest; he looks anxious. He's shifted positions so he's leaning back against the wall. It's likely an attempt to look nonchalant, but it just makes the strain on his shoulders stand out more.
Clint hums slightly and plays with his fingers for a moment before looking up at his "teammate". The Avengers had never been disbanded, per say, more like they agreed to only communicate with each other on missions maybe offer a quip here and there, and then, when it was over, they would possibly stop for food then go their separate ways again. There was no point of them getting closer. The world doesn't actually face major threats every other Thursday so "teammate" is a loose term. Associate would be a better name, or maybe distant-fellow-employee-working-towards-a-common-goal. Clint stares at Tony's brown eyes for second before sighing slightly, "I can't leave without a clearance."
"You can't or you won't?" Tony challenges half a heartbeat later.
"No, I can't." Clint presses, "They'll bodily drag me back in here; I've tried."
Tony's eyebrows lift slightly. "You're a master assassin and a professional spy, but you can't leave a hospital ?" Tony demands rhetorically. Yeah, it would sound stupid, if it was just a hospital. It's definitely not. "Humph, yeah, real impressive." Tony chides half a second later, tone flat.
Clint represses an aggravated sigh, "They put all the crazy people in here, alright? They've had too many slip through so they upped the security. They're listening to everything we're saying right now." Clint explains, voice clipped. Tony hums again, his stance shifting to looking strangely smug. What, he's happy that there is an inability for privacy here?
Tony lifts up his phone and waves it back and forth several times. "Ah, so they think." He assures, "Their programmers are terrible." He chirps. "I've been taking down the security since I stepped in here—well, Jarvis has." Clint feels his jaw fall slightly.
"You—?"
"Alright," Tony says and all facades of cheeriness immediately slip from his features, Clint didn't even realize they were there until the forced stance is gone. Tony seems to completely deflate from exhaustion. Has he eaten recently? Clint knows he looks terrible, but Stark takes all the cake leaving no crumbs behind.
Tony takes the needed steps to Patrisha's stool and plops down on it. His fingers idly tap on the seat for a second before he looks up. He seems to hesitate, pauses for a few seconds before saying: "Something's up at the Raft, the team's assembling to go check it out."
The Raft, as in The Raft?
Cold realization swims through his stomach: Loki.
No, no, no, no, no…
Clint opens his mouth to pour out his suspicion and demand answers, but Tony lifts up a hand, "Before you blurt it out; we don't actually know if it's Loki. General Ross," Tony's lip curls in displeasure at the name, as if saying it physically disgusts him, "just sent out an urgent call. Something's up, but he refuses to say anything until we get there."
We.
"We"?
He plans on taking him there? No. No. No and no. He's not willingly going to the place that Loki is held, he refuses to be any closer to the monster than he has to. On second thoughts, the medical facility is a fine place to spend the rest of his days.
Clint presses his lips together. "No."
"'No'?" Tony repeats, "No what?"
"I'm not going." Clint answers, briskly.
Tony's jaw clenches in slight frustration or something else before the multi-billionaire releases a breath. "Listen, alright; his scepter—" Clint can't repress his flinch. Half a second, and the man already knew what was bugging him, has he gotten that easy to read? "—is on the Helicarrier, with over five layers of security flying near Florida. The Raft is miles— states from that...Also, Miss Romanov is going." Tony adds the last part after a half a second and Clint feel his muscles lurch into tense adrenaline.
"She's what?" Is his partner stupid? Loki may not have the sc—his weapon in the invasion, but he's still, according to Thor, a skilled sorcerer and manipulator. He doesn't needmind control to do that. What is she thinking?
Idiot.
Tony ignores the outburst, seeming unfazed. He stares Clint in the eye for a moment before leaning back and his stance slips to the pretend relaxed again. Tony raises to his feet and Clint follows him with his eyes. Is he seriously leaving without a fight? No arguments? Tony watches him for another moment before grabbing his sunglasses and flicking them out. "You coming or not? I only have one shot to get you out of here."
Clint grits his teeth together in frustration for a moment. He does not want to go anywhere near Loki again. Something is just so terribly... off about the Asgardian. But...the scepter isn't there, Loki can't take his mind if he goes. Besides, he has to watch Nat's back. Nothing else. Ha, she'll be so happy that she did finally manage to get him out of here.
Clint stands. "I left my bow in my room." He says in answer. And his jacket. He didn't take any other personal possessions with him except a gun, but the gun was taken from him the moment he stepped into the facility; he refused to let them take his bow.
Tony shrugs lackadaisically, but Clint can see the barest edge of relief in his eyes at the veiled yes. He swings the glasses onto his face and pushes them up his nose, stuffing his hands into his pockets in a fluid movement.
"What? You have sentimental attachment to it?" Tony asks.
Clint hesitates slightly. Not really, but he doesn't know if there will be other weapons provided to him, and he'd rather not take his chances. "It—" He starts, but Tony waves a hand a hand in reassurance, the two lettered answer apparently all he needs. Clint can feel his eyes on him through the sunglasses.
"Don't worry about it, we'll just swing by on our way out." Tony assures.
If they let them leave.
"How do you plan on getting out?" Clint asks as he rises to his feet and comes into pace next to Tony.
The multi-billionaire smirks. "Straight through the front door, Legolas."
Clint blinks, aghast quietly. "Are you insane?"
Tony shrugs, "Jury's out." The way he flips it out so casually suggests that this isn't the multi-billionare's first time receiving the title. "Come." Tony makes a waving hand motion with his hands. It's ASL for come, that most people don't realize that they're making and the sight makes something in him twist uncomfortably.
"Go get your stuff, I'll keep the leaches busy." Tony says and Clint gives him a side glance. He should probably correct the man on the title, but it's by far a more accurate title than "doctor" or "nurse".
"Where should I meet you?" Clint asks. Tony shrugs slightly.
"Right here's as good a place as any."
Right. Clint gives an affirmative nod before Tony swings the door open and Patrisha immediately attempts to barrel into the room. Clint ducks out of her reach sliding through the small opening into the hallway. A group of at least thirty is present and in the back of his mind, Clint is slightly impressed with the number. It's pretty high. In the front, he quickly shoves himself against the wall moving out of the reach of their hands but not their voices.
"Mr. Barton—"
" Mr. Barton —"
"Hawkeye—"
A hand grabs at his upper arm with nails and the force of it halts his escape. Clint grits his teeth together to withhold a cry of frustration and turns to look back at Dr. Timson Timson, the head doctor of this facility.
Tony got the attention of the head doctor.
Impressive.
Then again, does the Stark know how to do anything quietly? "Mr. Barton," Dr. Timson says, his voice is slightly pinched, " where do you think you're headed off to?"
"The Atlantic." Tony answers for him as Clint opens his mouth to respond. Tony pops up beside him suddenly and rests a hand on his shoulder, although it seems casual, Clint can sense there's something strangely threatening in the gesture, not towards him but Dr. Timson.
Dr. Timson sputters and he hears Patrisha give a sound of displeasure, "The Atlantic Ocean?" Dr. Timson repeats, as if for clarification.
"Yes, that's what I said." Tony agrees, eyebrow cocking upwards.
"He's not ready for missions!" Patrisha snaps, "He's barely coping! You can't drag him off to the Atlantic! No! I refuse to let you take him!" Patrisha says, waving her hands out in a wide arc as she speaks and Clint's stomach sinks.
He sends a pointed I told you so look in Tony's direction, but the billionaire doesn't look at him, gaze zeroed on Patrisha. Tony peels Dr. Timson's fingers away from his forearm, and then makes a shooing motion with his hands back at him.
"Go get your trinkets, Barton." He commands and Dr. Timson and Patrisha start up another violent ray of protesting that Clint ignores quickly walking down the hallway. If it had been any faster, Clint would likely have labeled it "bolting", but he forces himself not to run. Yes, the goal is to get out of here as fast as possible, but running might attractother attention that isn't wanted and further the people they'll have to weave through.
Clint makes it to his quarters without any incidents and grabs his jacket swinging it on zipping up the front before snatching his bow's case from under the cot and flips it open. The bow is there along with about fifty arrows present in the quiver. Although most quivers only hold about thirty arrows, S.H.I.E.L.D. enhanced the capacity of his when he joined so it would be more effective. Clint grabs the folded bow and attaches it to the small hook next to the quiver on the right before pulling it over his head the strap crossing over his jacket and the tips of the arrows next to the right side of his head. If they're going to have to stop Loki at the Raft, Clint wants to be prepared for it.
He walks towards the door then pauses looking back at the small room that's been his living space for the last few weeks. When this is over, will he have to come back here or will Fury give him clearance? That probably depends if he doesn't die in the battle.
Hmm, happy thoughts.
Clint closes the door and doesn't look back as he begins to weave through the halls to return back to where Tony was. Hopefully, the multi-billionaire didn't ditch him here to suffer his fate. If he did, well...Clint doesn't really want to think on that.
When he reaches the hallway a few minutes later, Tony has not abandoned him, but is still talking with the nurses and Dr. Timson somehow managing to fend them all from leaving the area without being obvious about it. As soon as Clint comes into their line of site, Patrisha quickly shoves Tony to the side and moves towards him, her hands twitch as if to reach out and grab his shoulder, but Clint forcefully evades it.
"Mr. Barton," Patrisha says, "you can't be serious about leaving at a time like this! We've barely seen any improvement in you, you're just not ready to be out in the world."
That is just...so, so encouraging to hear.
Clint buries a shout of frustration. Is he? He feels fine— well, he's coping. What they're doing here isn't helping him. It hasn't since day one until now. If they continue he may just spontaneously combust and the clean up would be nasty.
"He is." Tony says and swings an arm around Clint's shoulders again, dragging him forward. He stumbles at little on the first few steps, but gathers his bearings.
Tony weaves through the people who are talking rapidly behind them, their words blurring into one mass that Clint can't pick out any of the details of. They reach the door to the facility and Clint half expects a SWAT team to appear and drag them back in, but none does and Tony opens the door.
The gust of fresh air after so long of the recycled medical's stale is relieving and Clint wants to sit still and just breathe it in forever.
Focus, Barton; remember?
Right.
Clint takes a few steps onto the walkway he's only tread once on his arrival here and sweeps his eyes across the grounds. There's a parking lot to the left of them and a large garden-looking area to the right; Clint knows it is a garden because one of Patrisha's greatest prides about the hospital was that they "grow our own food here, isn't that fantastic!?". Beyond the parking lot is the bare desert of Wyoming stretching out for miles, the only population likely a snakes, cactus, and tumbleweed. Maybe the odd rat.
Parked on top of the asphalt, though, is a Quinjet. It looks a little different than the one's that Clint remembers flying a month ago, but Clint can see only improvements. The angle of the wings has shifted slightly, likely for getting better drag and the entire shape seems a little thinner for gaining speed.
More than likely Tony's doing.
Tony releases his shoulders as they step onto the parking lot before whirring around, annoyance seeming to pour off of him like a wave. Clint turns, too, looking back at the medical personal who have halted looking slightly startled. There's about a dozen nurses and a few agents with Dr. Timson at the front who doesn't look happy. He comes to a halt and rests his hands on his hips, glaring.
"You can't just waltz in here and take my patient, Mr. Stark." He says, angrily.
Tony's eyebrow lifts slightly and he turns to Clint, "Is he serious?" After glancing at Clint's face he grips the bridge of his nose, "He's serious. Good heavens, Sir, I'm not taking him out for slaughtering. Shall I say it to you once more because your tiny, vacant mind can't grasp this: He has clearance from Director Fury." Tony huffs in annoyance before grabbing Clint's elbow and drags him the final few dozen feet between them and the Quinjet.
As they reach the landing pad, Clint can see someone at the top waiting in the ship for them. Clint pauses, but Tony walks forward without any hesitation and unintentionally drags him forward up the ramp. The medical staff is still talking behind them, less violently, more so in weak protesting. As they reach the top, Clint can see the figure clearly and feels his eyebrows lift slightly in surprise.
Bruce Banner.
It shouldn't be surprising, because Bruce and the Hulk are part of the Avengers team, but seeing him there is...weird. Clint never really had any interaction with the doctor during the invasion given the mind control, and Bruce showed up only long enough to trade a few remarks and then Hulk out.
He looks slightly stressed in his face, which is reasonable because of what they're headed off to do, but his stance is relatively calm. Dark hair is tangled around his face and glasses and he's wearing a red collar shirt with a heavy brown jacket, large pants, and a thick pair of boots. Around his neck is a yellow and blue scarf and Clint can't repress the slight eyebrow lift.
Cold much?
Tony pats Bruce on the shoulder as he passes, pauses for half a heart beat before stating, loudly: "Quit fiddling with your fingers, you're going to rip them off."
Clint's eyes immediately flicker down towards Bruce's hands where the man is indeed twisting his right pointer finger aggressively inwards. At the comment, Bruce's hands still and he looks at Clint for a second. His gaze sweeps him over, lingering on his hair for a moment, before he outstretches a hand for him to shake in greeting.
Clint takes it and is instantly impressed on just how cold his fingers are. It's like wrapping his hands around an ice cube. Clint withdraws and offers a tight smile, "Hi."
"Hey." Bruce answers and Clint jerks his head as he sees something fly through the air from the corner of his eye. Clint dives out of the way of the projectile, but Bruce catches the gloves from midair and they both turn to look at Tony who is standing a few feet away, sunglasses off, eyebrows lifted slightly with amusement.
"Those are for Barton," he says and Bruce awkwardly offers them towards him. Clint takes the cloth them pulls them over his fingers. They're warm, but not uncomfortably so. Clint sweeps his gaze over the plane. It's empty save them and Clint is filled with a sudden curiosity as to who flew it here. Or how they knew where "here" was, anyway. Fury gave him clearance, though, that's probably how. Tony clears his throat to fill the sudden awkward void of silence and turns back towards the pilot's seat.
So Tony flew, then.
"Alright, buckle up, children." Tony commands. Although the exterior of the plane looks altered, the interior remains the same as Clint remembers it: The pilot seats at the front and two benches on either side in the back with supplies in lockers above the chairs.
Clint slides towards one of the benches sitting on it stiffly and quickly grabs the straps to buckle in per Tony's order. Bruce slides into the one opposite of him, somehow managing to look out of place and does the same with the seat belts. The engine of the Quinjet roars and the door to the plane closes before Clint feels the slight jerk as it takes off from the parking lot, likely leaving a large burn mark.
A part of him is vindictively pleased by this.
The flight is long and slightly awkward, but beyond a few attempts at small talk here and there, it's taken in total silence.
It's not until Clint can see the Raft in the distance that he attempts to break the silence, "Are the others meeting us there?" He asks. Natasha is most definitely not on the Quinjet (unless she can suddenly turn invisible) and they haven't stopped to pick anyone up on the way there. Not Thor, or Captain America.
"Yeah." Tony answers from the pilot's seat, "Well, I assume so, anyway." The last part is less reassuring than the first.
Bruce's fingers drum again for a moment and he looks up at the ceiling, tilting his head back to stare. Clint personally doesn't find it interesting, but Bruce is staring at the metal above them as though it just revealed to him the answers to life's greatest mysteries.
Clint glances away, so he doesn't get caught staring.
Tony lands the plane less than five minutes later and Clint unbuckles the straps and gets to his feet and as Bruce starts to undo the seat belt to his. Tony walks away from the pilot's seat and flips one of the containers doors down dragging out a briefcase. It's red and looks uncomfortably heavy, but the multi-billionaire doesn't seem to really struggle lifting it. His sunglasses are still off, likely in one of the pockets of his suit jacket.
Tony glances between the two of them before striding forward and slamming a hand down on the button next to the door to open it. The ramp lowers slowly with a slight groan of metal and Clint is immediately hit in the face with a blast of freezing air. He purses his lips together and releases a soft breath through his nose before pulling his leather jacket tighter around himself.
"Wow, it is much colder than they told me it was going to be." Tony exclaims and begins to trek down the ramp. Clint and Bruce follow after him, the gamma scientist grabbing at his wide jacket and pulling it tighter around his frame.
There isn't a storm, but there is clouds, and plenty of wind to make up for it.
The Raft's dark coloring reminds Clint of a road, but it's not made of asphalt, some sort of reinforced metal and stone from what he understands. How they got it to float is beyond him, but the main idea is that it's submerged under water so that way if the prisoners do escape there's nowhere for them to go except into the freezing water and float up to the top, dead.
General Thaddeus Ross is waiting for them, flanked by about a dozen men with helmets covering their faces and rifles in hands. They look impassive against the storm, despite the fact that General Ross's nose is bright red. Clint sweeps his gaze away from them and towards where a helicopter is parked, dormant.
Thor is standing beside the captain, both engaging in what looks to be unpleasant small talk judging by the way both look like they want to flee the conversation. Thor is in his Asgardian armor minus the cape and his hammer is hanging off his belt, still at his side. Unlike before, his hair is swept back into a ponytail with a few pieces hanging out, but they aren't as likely to be in the way.
Steve is in a slightly darker outfit, probably one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s, and his shield is strapped to his back. The way he's holding himself is tense, but beside him, Thor doesn't appear much better.
Behind the two of them is Fury and Nat. Fury is standing with his arms crossed behind his back, his coat blowing in the wind, but he seems unfazed by the cold. Natasha is leaning against the helicopter, her S.H.I.E.L.D. suit zipped up to her neck making full use of the collar it provides. Her short hair is flowing around her face softly and she catches eye contact with him almost immediately.
Clint exhales quietly as he sees his partner, and, as Fury sees them, he moves forward, the rest of his party following. "Took you long enough," Fury says as he reaches them his eye holding slight frustration, "what'd you do, stop for coffee?"
"And fries." Tony quips immediately, but offers no other answer. Fury's gaze shifts towards him slightly. Clint doesn't bother to offer any truthful answers and offers: "They were good."
"Hilarious." Fury assures flatly.
"What's the situation?" Clint asks instead, and can see Nat staring at him. Her gaze holds a question that Clint can't decipher, and he doesn't feel awake enough to do it properly.
"We don't know." Steve says; his expression tinges with slight frustration, "General Ross refused to give any of the details until you arrived, we were only about ten minutes before you."
Huh.
That's annoying. Clint turns to look at the General expectantly and folds his arms across his chest. He sees the others gyrate as well, although Bruce seems to shift slightly behind Tony. The multi-billionaire either doesn't notice or care because he makes no comment or moves. Ross moves forward the few feet between them and his nose twitches slightly.
"I assembled you here today because—" General Ross's loud booming voice trails off suddenly as he looks beside Tony and his expression tinges with rage before he jerks his hand out and points at Bruce. "What the bloody heck is that thing doing on my boat!?"
This is a prison, and Bruce is a person not a thing. Clint opens his mouth to answer, but Steve beats him to it. "You asked for all the Avengers, Sir." He points out. His tone is calm and carefully even; much nicer than any way Clint would have counteracted the claim.
"Yes, I did!" General Ross agrees, his voice raised to near shout, "But I have never considered him, or the thing to be a part of your little vigilante group!"
Bruce shrinks backwards and Tony's expression darkens slightly.
"Maybe I should just—" Bruce starts to say softly, but is cut off.
"With all due respect Sir," Steve says, his voice still that careful placidness, "Bruce and Hulk are both Avengers."
"But—!" Ross starts and Fury shoots him a glare.
"Save your breath," Fury commands, "we're not here to make our statements about who should and should not be on the team, General. We're here because you called us in and I would like to know why."
Ross's mouth opens and closes twice before he exhales. With clear effort, he pulls his icy stare away from Bruce. "Fine. Fine. You're here because his brother—" Ross points an accusing finger towards Thor, "—is trying to escape."
Clint's stomach sinks and raw panic seeps through his nerves. No, not now. It's been a month, why would he wait this long? How do they know that? Why can't he just stay where he is? Why does he have to keep messing with Clint's life? Was ripping apart his head not enough for him? What is—?
"How do you know that?" Fury demands. "From what I've heard, he's barely moved let alone planned a dramatic escape attempt."
"Ha. Yeah, we all thought that, too. He woke up last night and kept rubbing at his face, I assume it was some sort of spell in the making because a minute later there's a flare of red, and then the whole ship deals with the aftereffects of an EMP. The camera's on his cell are dead. I have twenty men stationed outside of the cell waiting for him to make his move, and I called you all five hours ago! He could have been long gone by now, where were you!?"
Fury's jaw shifts to the right in a slight show of frustration that wouldn't be visible unless someone was either looking for it or knows him well enough as his knuckles twitch, "You didn't mention what the urgent matter was, General, we had no reason to assume it was this."
Beyond the fact that they had every reason to assume this. Loki is here. That's a pretty good reason to conjecture it was this.
General Ross inhales sharply, offended, obviously, and raises his hand to retort something probably nasty, but the Raft rocks suddenly and Clint staggers, barely managing to keep upright. It's not the waves, those aren't powerful enough to be rocking the ship this much, not enough storm. That—
Loki.
Thor comes to the conclusion faster than him because he grabs Mjolner from off of his belt the second the Raft's fake-earthquake is over and turns to Ross, "I fear we may be too late. Where is he located? Perhaps we can stop him before he reaches the surface."
Clint exhales and swings his bow off the side of his quiver with his right hand jerking it out until it snaps to full length before he draws an arrow. He sees Steve grab his shield from off his back and Nat pull out a gun from his peripheral vision.
Yeah, perhaps they can stop him. Maybe they can keep him contained here . Realistically though? Likely not.
Wont stop them from trying, though.
Author's Note: I hope to update this at least once a month, possibly less time (more likely less time) or more (just depends on how quickly I can write and edit the chapters) so, until the next chapter! :)