Maxbuus Baad Tahay
Clint Barton wasn't sure which body parts he was most worried about- his hands or his balls.
The operation had gone south; his three fellow agents had been killed outright in the chaos as they'd tried to get out of Hargeysa.
Clint had gotten rid of his bow and quiver before he was captured- something he was continually glad of since. If he'd been taken with his equipment he knew that each finger would have been systematically cut off in retaliation for the men he'd taken out.
As it was, five days handcuffed to a chair wasn't doing the circulation to his hands any favours.
His balls were another story, and one he didn't want to think about.
Five days handcuffed to a chair. Five days waiting to be rescued. Five days waiting to die.
They weren't coming for him.
Day one was interrogation. Being questioned, screamed at and threatened, usually in various languages he didn't understand.
Enormous men with angry eyes standing over him with machetes, threatening to cut his arms off at the elbow. The most frustrating part was not understanding what they were saying.
He started going inward, like he'd been trained to do; sealing his mind off from his body so the obligatory torture wouldn't loosen him up too quickly. He knew they'd get what they wanted out of him eventually, the trick was holding off as long as one could.
It was a matter of pride how long you could last before you cracked. Like swimming with friends when you were a kid; having competitions to see who could hold their breath and stay underwater the longest.
Day two the beatings started. The guy they'd brought into the room really knew his stuff, and Clint had developed a grudging admiration for the man's work.
He managed to bruise every part of Clint's torso and legs evenly, without breaking any bones or causing a fatal internal injury.
That was the only time he'd been let up out of the chair, which would have been a relief, if not for the fact he was having the shit knocked out of him.
His tormentor had saved Clint's face for last, casually and calculatingly breaking his nose and bruising up his eyes so badly Clint almost couldn't see.
Clint was pretty sure he'd knocked one or two teeth loose, too. They were inevitably coming out anyway, so he figured it didn't matter.
Day three the fun really started. One of his captors had wheeled something into the room on a trolley. Clint couldn't really see what it was, his eyes swollen as they were; but he thought he could make out something like a car battery.
Then he'd been stripped from the waist down, and the shoe dropped. He'd started laughing when they'd taped electrode onto his testicles, even though it was, without question, the least funny thing that had ever had happened to him.
The sensation went beyond pain, it was so spectacular that Clint vomited, and then promptly passed out.
His captors simply waited until he came around again, gave him a sip of water, and switched the battery on again. The repeated the cycle until Clint lost his ability to speak coherently.
Then they left him for the night, in that freezing little room, his pants still around his ankles, the electrodes still taped tauntingly to his man parts.
Day four started with more interrogation, with the threat of more electrocution held over him.
He still couldn't- didn't- give them what they wanted, so the fun began again.
Clint had been so surprised that electrocution could hurt as much the second day as it did the first. He assumed that eventually one would grow used to it, develop some kind of tolerance.
But it seemed like maybe it just worked the other way, and simply wore you down. The day became a blur of pain and humiliation, and Clint retreated as far into his own head as he could go.
Day five they just skipped the questioning, and went straight to switching the car battery on and off.
Clint wasn't present for most of it, but he could feel the pain seeping in slowly to touch him in his hiding places. He push it out, out, out, not wanting that place tainted by their efforts.
The vague conscious part of him was aware of the fatigue in all his muscles as he constantly clenched them in reaction to the voltage; the ache in his jaw as he gritted his teeth; the way his head pounded constantly, especially behind his eyes.
He was so empty that he'd stopped dry retching by that stage. He hung on to the pain, because it was real. He could use it as a shield; keep them out just a little bit longer...
He came around and it was dark. His captors had abandoned him to take their evening meal.
It was still and quiet in the darkened room, and Clint came out of himself just a little. Just enough to remember who he was. Just enough to realise he was damn thirsty, and there was nothing he could do about it. Just enough to realise that he was slipping.
It wasn't like passing out- it felt different. He felt like he was going somewhere very definitely.
A surge of panic ran through him. He tried to shift in the chair, to sit up, tried to push against the feeling. Adrenalin was hitting his system.
The feeling rolled slowly back, leaving him gasping for breath and hyper-aware of his body.
There was a tiny sound from outside the room, and Clint tensed, listening hard. Another sound, even softer, like something large and soft touching the ground.
Clint closed his swollen eyes, listening, wondering if now on top of everything else he was hallucinating. Maybe this was part of dying?
"Well, I gotta give these guys credit- they improved your looks."
Clint sighed, and opened his eyes. Before him was proof that he wasn't quite dead yet. God would never fashion an angel after Natasha Romanoff. And Satan would never dare have one like her as a minion.
"Took your sweet time, Tash" Clint managed to say.
"I was on vacation, Barton. Then I hear you screwed up, so I have to schlep my way here to Somalia to rescue your stupid ass." Natasha complained. She was looking him over, trying to decide how to proceed.
"First things first," she said, reaching for the electrodes. "You aren't going to like this, but try not to scream like a baby, okay?"
"Oh, hell" Clint muttered, realising what she was about to do.
"Like taking off a Band-aid. Deep breath. On three? One-"
She ripped the electrodes off. Clint bit his lips to keep from screaming. He shuddered from the shock. "You said on three, you crazy-" he broke off, breathing hard to calm down.
"Didn't want you to tense up" she said lightly. She yanked his pants up and roughly belted them around his hips.
He hissed with pain. "Seriously, I know I may never regain the use of my junk, but please at least try to be careful?"
"Baby" she spat. She leaned in to examine the handcuffs more closely.
"You can pick locks, right?" Clint asked her.
"Sure, but today I can do you one better" she reached into her utility belt and produced the keys.
"Lifted these off the guard outside. You're welcome."
Clint laughed quietly. "So when does the cavalry get here?"
"They're not coming" Natasha said casually.
"This isn't a SHIELD-sanctioned recovery mission?"
"Nope" she answered, undoing the handcuffs.
"Who did you bring with you?" Clint asked, incredulous.
"Just me. I'm my own monstrous regiment."
Clint gawped at her, open-mouthed. "Tash, there had to be forty guys guarding this place!"
"Forty-seven actually. Your recon skills suck."
"I'm sorry. Testicular electrocution plays havoc with one's memory." Clint said dryly. "You went through all of them? By yourself?"
Natasha said nothing. She ran her hands deftly over Clint's body, feeling for major damage, but not finding any.
"You're going to be top of my Christmas card list this year." Clint said lightly.
"I better get more than just a damn card" Natasha muttered.
Clint peered at her with his swollen eyes. She met his gaze. "Can you walk?"
"I... I don't think so" Clint said softly.
"Fine," Natasha said, leaning in as though to lift him. "I'm pretty sure I can carry you."
"Stop. Tash- I need to walk out of here, under my own steam. It's the only way I can keep any shred of dignity. If you carry me out, like a child... I'll never be able to look at myself in the mirror."
Natasha stared at him, concerned, and considered his words.
After a moment Clint smiled, even though it was a desperately painful gesture. "Nah, I'm shitting you. You can carry me. I don't care how we travel, just so long as we get the hell out of here!"
Natasha rolled her eyes, then grabbed Clint roughly, and hefted him over her shoulder and stood.
"Jesus, Barton. You have got to lay off the burritos" she grumbled as she carried him swiftly out of the room. She held him in place with one hand, and toted a gun in the other. Clint reached up and took her second gun from her holster, watching her back as she carried him.
"I like being carried. Affords a man a great view of your ass," Clint said casually. Natasha took a corner a little too tightly, smacking Clint's head against a wall. "Ouch."
They reached the ground floor. "So, how do you plan to get us out of Somalia?"
"The same way I got in- with quiet violence" Natasha told him.
"Sounds like a plan," Barton said. "I'll drive."
FIN
… … …
Author's note: In chapter 5 of my series "Stupid Cupid", Clint alludes to having been tortured by a Somali warlord. Somehow, one day I started thinking about how he probably got rescued by Natasha, and I started coming up with crazy dialogue. When I sat down to write that as a drabble, an exercise, this story happened. I was very surprised that there was a whole sequence with the torture, and Clint's actual experience; and out it came. And I'm really amazed by how it turned out. Hope I didn't disturb you too much. Thank you for reading!
Also, the title is Somali for "You are a prisoner".
Disclaimer: These characters are not my property, and I do not endorse torture in any way.