"No, I won't touch Barton, not until I make him kill you! Slowly, intimately, in every way he knows you fear! And when he wakes, he'll have just enough time to see the work he's done, and when he screams, I'll break his skull! This is my bargain, you mewling quim!"
The words, violent, angry and cold, rippled through my mind. I ran. I had to find him. To save him.
Save him from what Loki had turned him into. He had become his toy, his pawn in this sick little game.
I found myself unable to say his name. That one name would not come to my mind – it was too hard, too foreign now.
Instead, I fought against the roaring of Loki's voice in my mind, tried to spit out the poison and fight on.
Fight on to live to see tomorrow, fight on to save the lives of others; fight on to clear my ledger of the hateful red.
But mostly, I fought on for him, as he had once done for me.
It was not in the same sense; he had saved me from the slow downfall that would consume me in time.
He had save my talents and brought them to a new light. For that I owed him.
But now, as I lay beneath that man who I fought so hard to save, who I still struggled against, I felt the fight in me die.
For the first time in many years I found myself hopeless, and yet, desperately hoping that something – someone – would save me.
Save me so I may save him.
My breathing was shallow, raspy, as I stared into those impossibly blue eyes that bore down on me.
They were not his eyes; they were clouded, clouded by Loki's will – a sickening blue that disappeared behind the oh-so familiar eyelids of his face.
I received no response, there was simply more pressure applied to my chest, cutting off my air.
I gasped, clawed and fought to get out but my arms were going weak.
Then it began; the torture.
The pain was slow and agonizing, as he pressed the cold steel against my skin, cutting and slicing, drawing sickening red blood.
Warm sticky blood that flowed slowly down my pale arms, chest and cheek, painting the floor and melding with my skin.
I would not fight him now, I could not.
Perhaps this was me, paying for all my sins.
Now I was receiving the same treatment I had given.
It felt right, in a sick and twisted way.
The fact that it was him only made it easier to give in as he moved the blade away from the particularly deep cut along my arm and move it to my neck.
He pressed down and lightened up, taunting me.
His face had remained stoic throughout it all, but now a small smile cracked at his lips and he pushed down along my jugular vein.
I cried out, finally breaking the silence.
"Clint!" Came my guttural reply and something inside of him must have snapped, for the blue in his eyes seeped out and there he was, watching the life drip out of my veins, a contorted expression of horror across his face.
Sweet penance for a sound,
It might explode in our hands.