WARNING: violence and stuff (I'm in a weird/dramatic mood)
His ears rung and the bitter taste of his own blood filled his mouth. Split lips clenched together, hiding the empty space in his gums where a tooth had once been. Bruises colored his skin various shades of purple. His back ached from being forced to hunch; his legs were numb having knelt on the concrete floor for so long. His wrists, still straining against the cable tie restraints, were rubbed raw.
He knew there was a ring of men surrounding him, though he could barely see them. The room was too dark and his eyes were nearly swollen shut. There was a gun pressed against the back of his head.
The inevitable day had finally come.
Clint Barton was down for the count.
There was no bouncing back from this, no backup plan or reinforcements. His infiltration of their base had been an unsanctioned mission; the act of a desperate man. They had caught him and held him here, taking their sweet time in killing him. Hours had passed by while they had their fun, and the whole time he could only think one anguished thought. He had been so close.
So close to her.
The men chuckled, speaking in a language unknown to him. The gun moved away from him and he heard the familiar sound of a revolver cylinder being opened. Light scraping was followed by a metallic whir, and then the cylinder snapped closed. Looks like the group had decided to test his luck.
The gun was pressed against his skull. The murmurs amongst the crowd died down. Then the trigger was pulled.
Clint flinched at the resounding click. He was still alive.
The group erupted in an odd mixture of cheers and boos. The shooter laughed as he reset the gun. Clint took a deep breath as he calmed himself. He tried not to think that the wicked man's deep chuckle was liable to be the last sound he heard.
It grew louder, rising in volume with the cheering crowd. Any second now the man would pull the trigger. Clint shut his eyes.
A shot rang out.
A high-pitched ping rang out somewhere above his head. A man shouted and then something heavy hit the floor. Clint could no longer hear the laughter, only a strangled gurgle. It stopped suddenly and then something else fell. He still kept his eyes closed.
The men were shouting again, this time in fear and anger. Clint could hear the gun shots fired in the room. He sank lower to the floor, hoping to avoid the crossfire. There were fewer shots fired each moment, until the clang of an empty magazine echoed throughout the room. It was followed shortly by an identical sound. There was a beat of silence before someone, not one of the men, roared. It was a blood curdling call, pregnant with murderous rage.
Clint heard the scuffle of feet, shouts of pain and agony, and then the final whimper of a dead man.
All was silent now.
He opened his eyes to see who stood before him.
It was the very woman he had come to rescue, now here to save him.
Natasha.
Her burgundy hair was knotted and tangled. Bruises were hidden beneath a layer of dirt. Trails of clean skin carved through the filth beneath her agony filled eyes, formed by past tears. She stood amongst a sea of the dead, churning with unbridled power.
They locked eyes.
He laughed one crisp bark of glee. She sighed, letting her fury exit her body. She advanced towards him, taking care to step around her destruction. A cry sprang forth from within her and then she halted. Both their eyes flew to her right leg. A knife was buried in her thigh up to its gleaming hilt.
Her jaw clenched as she wrapped her hands around it. She screamed once more and then it was out. Carelessly she wiped it on her clothes as she limped towards him, and then used it to free his wrists.
He could sit up now, but did not want to stand. His entire being was screaming in protest, so he sat with his legs stretched before him. She too sat, close enough for their arms to brush against each other. His shoulder became the resting place for her head, and together they sat waiting for their ride home.
Thank you for reading! Your support is appreciated.