Written for a good friend. Standard disclaimer applies.
It had been such a simple plan, really, Clint thought as another fist impacted with his already bruised ribs. Get in, find out what was causing the weird emissions from the warehouse, disable it if they could or at least get viable intel if they couldn't, and then get out. Whatever it was seemed to be the cause of the drastic loss of control that anyone flying over the warehouse had experienced. Each instance had been with varying degrees of severity, and thankfully no one had been killed - yet - but it was only a matter of time.
He closed his eyes and tried to ignore what had long since moved from individual pains to one big, numbing ache all over. But apparently the goon who was interrogating him didn't seem to approve of that, and he immediately felt an open palm against his cheek several times in quick succession.
"Hey you." The voice was thick and accented, hailing from some Eastern European country that was not-so-coincidentally tied to Hydra. "You. Open your eyes."
He didn't want to obey. It had already taken him longer than he would've liked to zone out, and even though something in the back of his mind told him it was a bad idea to close his eyes while these idiots were trying to beat him into a more agreeable mood, he had been unable to stop his lids from sliding shut. He was weighing the chances of what would happen if he refused to obey when a sudden shout brought his eyes open.
He would recognize that voice anywhere, even tinged with pain and indignation as it now was. Her voice had come from above him, and a moment later, he had located Natasha. There was a platform approximately eight feet above the floor, positioned to the left side of the room. It was out of Clint's immediate line of sight, and he had to turn his head to even take it in. It wasn't surprising he had missed it when he was being dragged over to the chair where he currently sat; there were dozens of assorted shapes piled around the warehouse, some with dropcloths covering them and some without. There was so much to take in, and he had been a little preoccupied with the whole being taken prisoner thing anyway. But now he realized that one of the pieces he had missed in the warehouse spelled complete trouble for both him and Natasha.
There was a large, glass tank positioned directly underneath the platform onto which two burly goons had dragged her. Her eyes met his across the distance between them, and Clint bit back the question that immediately sprang to mind. Of course she wasn't okay. He was too far to see specific details, but even with the distance between them, Clint was pretty sure that was blood running down the side of her face.
She seemed to know what he was thinking, for a barely perceptible shake of her head told him it was best to play it cool and work their way out of the situation. Even though Natasha was being firmly held between two overly-muscular goons just feet away from the drop into the tank, she looked less like she was in pain and mortal danger than she did like there was a troublesome fly buzzing around her ear. She shot a sidelong glance at either goon before twitching an eyebrow in her partner's direction.
"Now that we're all together again," purred the man who had been questioning Clint, "let's try a different tactic, shall we?" And then before either Clint or Natasha could manage to find any words to respond, the goon nodded to his two men holding Natasha.
Clint knew what was coming and pulled at his bonds again, trying desperately to free himself, but even though there was the tiniest bit of slack in the rope, there was nowhere enough to free himself. And even if he did, he suddenly realized, there was no way he was going to take out three overly-muscled Hydra goons before one of them returned the favor.
The lead goon was watching Clint carefully and caught the tightening of his prisoner's jaw. He raised a hand to stop the other two men, who had nearly reached the edge of the platform at the top of the tank. "Do you have something to say to us?" he asked pointedly. "Like maybe telling us who you work for?"
Natasha shook her head at the man's question, firmly enough that even from across the room, Clint could see her determination. She drilled Clint with a stern look. "Don't tell them anything," she told him, her voice low and even.
"Oh, now we know what the lady thinks. But do you agree?" The man looked as if he didn't have a care in the world, as if threatening to drown trespassers was something he did every day. And who knew, Clint thought to himself, maybe he did.
Clint sighed deeply. He knew what he had to do, but that didn't make it any easier.
The man caught the look on Clint's face and smiled menacingly. "In that case, I am very sorry to have to do this." He turned and nodded to the men who were holding Natasha. "Proceed, gentlemen."
And with that, they dragged her the last few steps, almost oblivious to her efforts to resist, and unceremoniously dropped her into the water below.
Clint was scrambling in his head for something, because he was not about to just sit idly by and let his partner die like this. But he was more than a little tied up at the moment, and the two henchmen were standing on either side of the tank, with their arms crossed as they watched him watch Natasha slowly drowning. There was no way even if he managed to free himself that he could possibly get to her in time to save her. Then his eyes lit upon his quiver that the goons had not bothered to pick up after they had made him drop it when they first caught him. The idea that sprang to his mind might not be the best one he had ever had, but it sure beat watching Natasha die - and undoubtedly following soon after.
Twisting at the ropes that held his hands together behind the chair, he focused all of his energies on the little bit of slack that he had managed to find in it. It wasn't much, and he had been working at it periodically ever since they had bound him to the chair, but he had motivation to get it done now and so he gritted his teeth and pulled at it as hard as he could. He could feel the rough ropes biting into his skin, but he just ignored the pain. There would be time for all of that later.
The goon's focus was primarily on Natasha, and Clint risked one more look her way. The expression on her face as she tried to be stoic as she desperately held her breath lent a desperation to his movements, and he determinedly yanking one hand down and the other up at the same time. Something in his left wrist popped, but he barely paid it any mind. All he cared about was that the rope was now dangling from his right arm and his left was free from the coils. He took a deep breath and launched himself from his seat, hoping that Natasha would notice what was going on and be ready to escape. They only had a small window to get this right.
One of the men who had just stepped through a doorway near the tank yelled out as Clint sprang for his weapons, and both he and Clint's interrogator were already thundering towards their prisoner as his hand closed around his bow. Clenching his teeth and ignoring the pain that shot through his left arm at the action, he quickly selected an arrow and then turned towards the tank, notching the arrow and pulling the string back in one smooth motion. He let the projectile fly as he dropped to one knee, and it soared over the men's heads towards the tank.
They both paused to turn at the whizzing overhead, and they tensed as if anticipating something coming when the arrow hit the tank. But nothing happened. There was no explosion of glass and water, and the men both looked at each other and then chortled in laughter.
"I woulda thought you'd know how to use that thing," one of them snarked as he reached down and yanked the bow from Clint's hands.
"Yeah, well, maybe if your brains weren't so small I'd have managed to hit one," Clint shot back. He dodged the man's foot as it kicked out towards where he crouched on the floor, then launched himself up and at the goon. He knew he didn't stand much of a chance against two muscular opponents, but he still managed to land one solid punch on the man's jaw, then the other man was grabbing him around the waist and throwing him to the side. Clint spun to take on the second goon, his fists raised in front of his face in defense even as the first was on him again. Trying to keep his attention on both of his foes was enough to make his already-pounding head spin, but he knew he had to try. He had to buy Nat enough time…
He bounced on the balls of his feet, ignoring the pain in his side and keeping his focus on the other men. Even though he wanted to look over to see how Nat was faring, he knew he couldn't risk it. And so he put all of his energy into distracting his opponents, ducking and weaving as they attacked, and throwing out verbal jabs along with the physical ones.
"Does your mother know how bad a job she did of raising you?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow at the first goon even as he dodged a blow and threw his own right hook. He just barely clipped the man's jaw and was rewarded with a low growl. "I mean, really, you don't seem to know how to treat your guests with hospitality."
And now the second man was on him, pummeling him with both fists and making Clint grit back a yelp of pain as the man caught him on his already-bruised cheekbone. Clint blinked back the pain that clouded his vision, calling on all of his mental resources to keep going. He knew the men were already angry, and his playing with them was only serving to drive them further into an 'I'm going to kill you!" rage, but he also knew it didn't matter. He just had to give Nat enough time and she'd even the odds… just give her time… give her time… c'mon Barton, think and keep their attention off of her!
In his brief moment of distraction, he left himself open, and the first goon threw a left hook that landed solidly on Clint's chin and sent him reeling to the side. The goon followed it up with another blow, and then a kick to the back of Clint's knees immediately sent him to the ground with a guttural groan. As he hit the ground, he instinctively curled in on himself as the men began kicking at his fallen form. There was a blow to his leg, then his side, then his back…
And then there was an explosive shower of glass and water from across the room. The men paused in their attack as they spun towards the source of the noise, and Clint grinned to himself past the pain. They had done it.
His arrow had found its mark as certainly as Clint had known it would. It hadn't been the immediate shattering of the tank like the goons had assumed; Clint had known their luck with that tactic would have been much less sure that way. Instead, he had trusted Nat would know what to do with charge-laden arrow he had dropped into the tank alongside her. And sure enough, she was now charging out of the wreckage, sopping wet and bleeding from several cuts the glass had given her, the fury in her eyes enough to assure Clint that their opponents would be out of action within moments.
Unexpectedly, the pain and exhaustion of his ordeal washed over him, and the room began to grow gray at the edges of his vision. But even through the haze, he could see Nat jumping on the back of the first goon, using him as leverage to swing around and land a solid kick in center of the other goon's face. In a flurry of movement that was much too fast for Clint to follow in his current state, she somehow dropped both men in such a short amount of time that Clint had to wonder if he had missed something.
And then she was rushing for him, the worry on her face unmistakable even as his focus continued to fade. "Clint! Stay awake!" She patted his cheek. "Come on. Barton, don't leave me now!"
But Clint had never been very good at listening. He smiled to himself as he drifted off; he knew things would all be okay when he did wake up again.