Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel comics or characters or movies, and am making no money off of this fic.
AN: Written for the October 25th Whumptober prompt: restraints.
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Talk Softly by luvsanime02
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If there's one thing that Clint Barton will never quite understand, it's when he wakes up after being jumped with his hands tied behind his back but his legs free and unrestrained.
I mean, really? If someone's going to be competent enough to get the drop on him, is a little common sense too much to ask for? Why even bother to restrain his hands behind his back if they're not even going to make sure that he can't move at all?
Clint gets a good feel for his restraints and sighs. Duct tape. Not nearly as hard to get out of as most people seem to think. All that you need is the right leverage, and some kind of friction. This is the moment where Clint would make a sex joke if he was kidnapped along with someone else, but sadly, he's alone.
Naturally, Clint uses this moment to begin whistling. Mostly to cover up the sounds of him rustling around and rubbing his wrists against his boots for lack of anything else to use lying handily near him, but also because Clint is utterly tone deaf, and was even before he became just plain deaf, and he knows that his whistling has to be getting on someone's last nerve. Preferably, the someone who is standing guard outside of this room right now.
It's always so much easier for Clint to break out of a locked room when the bad guys open the doors themselves first. Clint's all about taking the path of least resistance, when he's able to. So, a few more rubs, a few twists that burn his wrists but don't break the skin, and then Clint's hands are free. He walks over to the door, whistles louder just to be a shit, and then knocks on the door lightly.
He's not surprised when it's opened so quickly that it looks like the guy outside is trying to tear the door off of its hinges entirely. Maybe he is. "What?" the guy asks, and wow, he must be really cranky today or something, because he's already snarling and Clint hasn't even spoken to him directly yet.
Speaking of, Clint grins. "Hey, how are you?" he asks casually. "I just wanted to ask what tonight's dinner is going to be? Are you guys having a pot roast? Because I'll be honest, I might just stick around for a pot roast."
The guy's so angry, and then confused, that it takes him a good few seconds to register that Clint is probably not supposed to be able to talk to him at all. Poor guy. Before he can ask a question, Clint punches him in the stomach, and when he doubles over, elbows the guy in the back of the head, knocking him out.
Clint drags the guy's body inside of the room, takes his weapons, and then cheerfully walks back out, locking the door behind him. He's feeling pretty satisfied with himself, and decides to start whistling again. What he's not expecting is to hear a faint response now that he's out in the hallway.
He pauses, turns up his hearing aid, and then whistles the next refrain, hearing an echo bounce back to him after a few seconds. Well, looks like Clint's found his next playmate, and it's someone with a sense of humor. He walks down two hallways and some stairs, mildly impressed with the acoustics in this place, and then stops dead in front of another locked door.
The whistling is coming from behind it, and Clint hears an odd scraping sound as well. Now much more somber, Clint knocks softly on the door. "Anyone in there?" he asks, even though he already knows that this is where the other whistling is coming from. He doesn't want to startle someone.
"...Yes," someone calls out. A very young someone, by the sound of their voice, and Clint swallows heavily while he gets to work on picking the lock on the door. The guard that he knocked out earlier had a knife but no keys on him.
When the door finally swings open, Clint braces himself and looks inside. A small child is in there. The restraints keeping the kid trapped are much more effective than Clint's were, too. Solid chains fixed to the walls. What the fuck.
Clint puts his hands up in front of him, and slowly walks forward. "Hey," he says calmly. He has to keep calm. If he doesn't, he might puke. "I'm a friend," he says. "My name's Clint, and I want to get you out of here, okay?"
The child - and Clint honestly can't tell which gender the kid is underneath all of the grime, though that hardly matters to him - is eyeing Clint warily as he carefully crouches down beside them and examines the manacles. "Okay," the kid says eventually.
Good enough for Clint. He starts picking the locks on the chains, talking softly the whole time that he works.