At first he doesn't even open his eyes. He doesn't know if it's safe to be conscious. To let whomever know he's alert. To certain types of captures, "I'm awake" translates to "torture time" and Clint needs to be more in himself, more alert in mind and body, to face that.
All his body felt was cold. Metal. Bare feet saying concrete. There was an ache in his stomach he hadn't felt in years. His mind couldn't place it. Bright pain in his head. Nose a bundle of sharp pain and dull pressure.
Iron tasting bile in the back of his throat. He wants to throw it up, to make that nasty taste go away at any cost. The blood from his nose (he's realized that it must be bad enough to bleed) has drained into his throat. Blood and snot, in his throat and belly, wanting to be purged.
That's not all he's feeling in the pit of his belly though. There's a burning there, like after chugging whiskey from a bottle. He feels too warm and too cold at the same time, a feeling that's familiar and completely alien. It worries him. He has no idea what it is but knows, subconsciously that it's bad.
Clint's ass has gone numb. Sure it's not as worrying as being captured, as the terrifying stomach feeling or the bloody snot in his throat, but it really pisses him off.
It hits him then. Why he feels so cold. He's naked. It's his naked ass that's gone numb. His bare back pressed against the unforgiving metal of a chair definitely not made for comfort.
Could just be a dehumanizing tactic. Make him feel vulnerable and bare, and then intimidate information out of him. He's seen it before. Hell he's done it before. Or something similar at least. Though information gathering wasn't what S.H.I.E.L.D usually wanted from him.
So yeah, probably nothing to really worry about. Though he's realized by now that his hands and feet are handcuffed to the chair. One arm might possibly be broken. It's currently screaming with pain somewhere in the shoulder region. He knows he can't scream. Can't make a noise. He's gonna let who-the-fuck-ever thought it was a good idea to capture a goddamn avenger make the first move.
Eventually he does.
"Hey wake up, you lazy bastard!" and older man growls out before pulling Clint's hair. The voice has a twang, something familiar to that too.
Clint tries to open both eyes. Apparently the right one is out of commission but the left can make out the blurry shape of General Thaddeus 'Thunderbolt' Ross.
Well...fuck. That makes no sense. Clint's never even seen the man in person.
Clint's good eye rolls back a little before clearing. He coughs up some of that bloody phlegm and tries to smile. Clint knows he's been fucked up when no smart ass remark comes from his lips and all he can do is gargle a bit more of that nasty-ass phlegm.
"Cat got your tongue, arrow boy?" Ross sneers, "Just as well. Gettin' damn tired of all this talkin'. S.H.I.E.L.D talking sanctions against me, the Army brass talking bullshit about letting the proper channels handle it. Seems to me our countries biggest problems are all these fuckin' talkers."
Clint rolls his good eye and Ross finally lets go of his hair. He blinks as Ross wipes his hand on his uniform.
His eye clears a little more and Clint can see that Ross is tapping his right foot on the concrete. There's no rhythm to the motion, more like a subconscious tick. Aside from that the man is remarkably composed for having kidnapped someone who could kill him with a shoelace (if he had one).
"Saw you 'working with that...that animal out there, Barton. How can you stand it? Knowing that he could rip you apart any second?" Ross says, leaning in close.
Ah, now they were getting to it. Got to give it to the man, once he set his sights on something he was like a dog with a bone. A very big, angry green bone. That he wanted to lock up in a cage and do medical experiments on.
"Hulk wouldn't...wouldn't do tha'" Clint says, his lips feeling heavy and mind reeling. He knows it for a fact that big green wouldn't...couldn't possibly do anything to hurt them. He considers them family and Hulk's very protective of those he cares about.
Ross smiles like an ape, big white dentures displayed in a way that screams "threat" in Clint's mind.
"Course he would. It would. That's what you're working with, you and you're little band of freaks. He doesn't care about you, 'bout anyone. The Hulk is an animal."
With his various aches, Clint's surprised to find that he can laugh. "Guess we've met 2 differen' rage monsters then" He says, tripping over words. "My Hulk's differen'"
"Your Hulk?" Ross asks, getting quiet. "What would your Hulk do, if he could smell you right now?"
His heart starts to beat faster at that. Bells of alarm are ringing in the back of his mind. The heat in his stomach is worse but that's about it.
"Don' know what your talkin' 'bout Ross" he stumbles.
" 'Course you don't, idiot. Guess I'll haveta spell it out. How long has it been since you went in heat?"
Clint sits up ramrod straight at that. His legs quiver, just a little. He hasn't gone in heat in years. From various folk remedies to the current marvels of modern medicine, he never had to. To the point where, the warmth in his stomach, the fog in his brain...the new craving to be held...to be filled...
Would all be foreign to him.
He looks up at Ross with horror and the bastard laughs. When Clint gets out of this, Ross'll never laugh again. He'll make damn sure of it. Fuck pissing off the U.S. Army. Fuck pissing off Fury. The man was gonna suffer.
"Finally figure it out, didya? You're in heat, Omega-boy. Probably first time in years, given the age of that medicine pump the boys ripped out."
Clint is no longer up to the effort of looking Ross in the eye. The dead weight that his his head sinks to his chest and he struggles to think...to speak. " Th' pump?" he asks, hoping he heard it wrong.
"Yeah little Hawk, the pump. The little piece of machinery that was right here," Ross says, touching Clint's chest and then backing away quickly. Ross looks away from him, as if scalded and then looks back. Weird.
"Why...what's in it for you?" Clint asks before he can think. He would never question the motives of someone as clearly batshit as General Ross if he was in his right mind. Normally he'd just assume "crazy bastard has crazy motives" But now...now it's different. Now whatever Ross is planning spells t.r.o.u.b.l.e for one Clint Barton. And that trouble involves his dynamic.
Involves making him go into a heat. He wishes that 'heat' wasn't so literal right now. Clint's no longer feeling numb. There's sweat crawling down the middle of his back, across his brow and, embarrassingly, the crack of his ass. But the room is so fucking cold. He wants to cover up, wants someone to hold him and make him warm.
His body aches to be held, in a way it never has before. Oh everything would be so much better if someone would come and make him warm. Play with his hair, maybe. Whisper nice things in his ear.
Promise to protect him.
Clint digs his fingernails into the palms of his hands. The bright new pain forces him to focus. He never begged for anyone to protect him, to comfort him and he never will. It's the heat talking. The stupid fucking reality of the rank he was born into.
"What's in it for me?" Ross asks, gleeful. Clint hopes he never has to see the fucker gleeful ever again. It's terrifying. "I'm gonna prove a point, boy. Show you all what risk you're putting the world in, letting that freak spend one second out of a cage!" Ross points and gesticulates with every word, his skin reddening with the energy it takes.
He wants to shrink into himself at that and it pisses him off. In a fair fight he'd kick Ross' ass all across this barren fucking room. In a normal situation he'd call him off with a few smart-ass remarks and a devil may care attitude.
His body tells him to bow before the superior being. To surrender to the alpha in the room, give him what he wants. Before he knows what he's doing, Clint turns his head to the left, baring his neck to the General. If he was mobile, Clint would lay on his back, showing what a good little boy he's prepared to be.
Clint hates himself.
"After the boys figured out you're the teams only omega I got me a plan. The freak may be a monster but he's also an alpha. An alpha with the brain of an animal. Alpha's like me, ones that can actually think, have a code of honor. We aren't driven, like some others, to fuck any in heat omega in sight." Ross began, strolling about the room.
"But the Hulk is different. He's an animal with a human face. So when he gets a whiff of you, all ready to go, do you think he'll have restraint?"
Clint finally manages to turn his head, trying to follow Ross's progress. He starts up when Ross ends up behind his chair. The general puts a hand on his shoulder and leans in to whisper in his ear. His mustache tickles Clint's ear and this time he manages to fight the urge to bare his neck again.
He finally looks the madman in the eye. "Wha...what the fuck?" While his mind his reeling, his body is preparing. Clint can feel the first drip of lubricant slicking his hole. His stomach flushes at the thought. Hulk is the alpha to beat all alphas. He'd own Clint's body like no other alpha ever could.
He pictures Hulk holding him down and mating him, marking him as his property. It makes him harder, though he wishes it didn't. Isn't that why he got the pump in the first place? Not to be claimed turned into some alpha's fucktoy?
It's all an omega's good for, anyway It's what he's been hearing all his life. Before S.H.I.E.L.D, before the pump, everyone looked at him as fragile, as a nothing. Clint feels like nothing
Fuck! He thought he had more control than this. He wants to scream, a primal, terrifying scream but his throat closes up at the thought. Can't risk angering an alpha after all.
"He's coming for you Barton. I'll be long gone but you'll be here. Tied up and helpless. Smelling like sex. And I guarantee he won't remember shit about all the times you've fought together. He'll take what he wants, regardless of how much you scream." Ross steps away and walks around to face him again.
Ross nods to himself, smiling like it's a job well done. "Looking forward to seeing you S.H.I.E.L.D idiots and the whole worthless lot of "Avengers" learning the cold hard truth. You cannot protect our country and the world with a monster and a freak!"
Clint vainly pulls at his handcuffs, making them rattle. He's no longer human. An animal in a trap. He pulls and pulls, his wrists chaffing and actually bleeding. His right shoulder starts to scream at him, begging him to stop. But he can't stop.
Can't stop, never stop, Hulk is coming. He's coming to get me. To claim me. Can't let it happen.
Now he can truly relate to Tasha's horrific recounting of those moments on the hellicarrier. Knowing a mindless creature was coming for you. But Hulk was supposed to be better than that now. More in control, more caring. They're teammates, friends.
And not a damn bit of that will matter when he sees Clint, naked, hard and his ass seeping with lube. Ready and waiting to be fucked and owned by the first alpha who tried. Ross, the bastard, just laughs at his attempts.
He needs to show himself that he isn't completely whipped In one last act of defiance, he brings up one last bit of bloody spit and aims it at Ross's shiny uniform. It lands on his Purple Heart. He gives Ross a bloody smile.
Ross is on him in less than a heartbeat. His fist connects with Clint's bad eye, sending his head rocking. Clint bites his lip to keep from screaming. Doesn't stop a few tears from squeaking out of his very damaged eye though.
"That's not even close to what you're good buddy the Hulk's gonna do to you." Ross says, then clearing his own throat, he let loose a rain of spit on Clint's face. Ross then stretches up to his full height and tries to compose himself.
Ross walks straight past him, to a door that must be somewhere at his back. The bastards whistling while he walks away.
"You bastard!" Clint screams. "You can't do this to me! What's wrong with you?" Clint stops his feat again and practically howls. If only the chair wasn't bolted to the floor. He'd get free and break his fucking skull.
He doesn't even respond, just calmly leaves the room. Clint's completely alone. But not for long.
In vain, Clint pulls at the handcuffs again. His hand slips in blood. His wrists start to thump with his heartbeat. It's easier to point to a part of his body that doesn't ache. Old wounds and newer ones sing in a harmony of pain.
His nose is pressure, his head is a fog of dull pain. The shoulder screams with stabbing, screaming pain. And his wrists go along with it.
Clint laughs, the noise echoing in the empty room. It feels crazy and animal and he needs it. So he laughs louder and louder, the noise keeping him company. It blots out the noise in his head. He can't even think of escape. In his normal mind he'd be gone by now. Would've kicked Ross's crazy ass by now.
He sinks into the seat, so tired, so fucking tired. Fighting off his body's urges is becoming too much. It takes a gargantuan effort to keep his own goddamn head up, let alone trying to fight. He jerks up suddenly when his shoulder screams at him.
Get out, get out, move move move. But he can't, he fucking can't. His body is lead. His head is a rock on his shoulders. He aches to be held and mated and fuck he can't move. He's fully hard now and pre-come is dripping on his belly. He can feel his hole stretching itself, preparing for what it knows will happen.
For the first time since his first heat, he looks at his own cock in disgust. "You stupid fucking thing," he murmurs.
He's spent decades trying to prove that he's worth something. That an omega can do more, be worth more, than just being owned by an alpha. And for the longest time, he thought he succeeded. He defended the world from those who wanted to destroy it, took out the monsters who terrorized the innocent.
Until this. One fucking heat has wiped all that away. He's helpless and weak and can't even defend himself. Maybe the pump was the only thing that made him worth it. Unmedicated Omegas just weren't capable of anything other than being useful to the upper dynamics.
Clint hears rumbling coming from up ahead. It sounds like a fuckin' wrecking ball. Except wrecking balls can't run. He looks dumbly at the wall in front of him as it comes crashing down. The concrete dust obscures his view but his hearing is just fine. From the cloud comes growling.
Hulk steps from the rubble. His fists are clenched. He shakes with anger as he growls and punches the rest of the wall out of his way. He menacingly moves forward, seeing but not seeing Clint.
He advances and then stops. That great big head raises up and he sniffs the air. Hulk exhales, great big green chest heaving with it. His hands unclench and he smiles. He takes another great big breath and looks Clint right in the eye.
Clint can't face him. The look of sheer lust on his face is too much. He can see Hulk's body reacting to his smell. . A scream rises up in Clint's throat but he cannot bear to let it out.
Softly, or softly for Hulk at any rate, he states the obvious, "You're in heat."
Clint's first thought is to break his thumbs, get out of the handcuffs and limp to safety. But a limping, Clint Barton wouldn't be a match for mean and green. There's nothing he can do. His training, skill and strength are useless.
Clint screams. Vainly he pulls at his chains. He tries to lift the chair from where it's bolted on the floor.
He keeps jumping, up and down, faster, higher. All he knows is the heat and that he's trapped with Hulk. Trapped with an omega.
Pain everywhere. Too many places to note. Can't stop moving. Moving means alive and safe, still means trapped.
The chains clash and clang as he screams louder and louder. Hulk puts his large hands over his ears. Clint's throat hurts but he can't stop screaming. His thoughts are mush. TRAPPED! TRAPPED! CAN'T MOVE! DOOMED! DOOMED!
"Stop screaming!" Hulk commands, as he bounds over and crouches over him. Clint only screams louder.
Hulk takes Clint in his arms. Clint's head spins. The heat from Hulk's body is too much. His erection pressed against Clint's body is too terrifying. He can't think...can't breathe.
As Hulk brings Clint even closer, everything goes dark.