CHAPTER 2

The ground is all gravel and ice cold mud under Clint's feet as they are herded towards the house. Every step jars his back and shoulder. They pass the paddock. Dark and dormant light fixtures are mounted on the ten-foot chain link fence that surrounds the area. There's barbed wire at the top, and the sawdust on the ground inside is discolored. He's not getting the warm fuzzies here.

"What's a nice girl like you doing in a dump like this," he asks Natasha when she catches up. One side of her jaw is swelling, dirt and dust mingles with darkened blood under her nose and down her chin.

"I thought I'd see the sights." She shrugs one shoulder. "I'm not very impressed."

Clint agrees.

In stark contrast to the chill and the glaring white light outside, the interior of the old house is toasty and warmly lit. It's clean and the furniture is well-used and comfortable looking. It smells like food and there are even freaking lace doilies on the side tables they pass. Clint knows they're probably going to be interrogated at some point in the near future, and wow, these surroundings feel… wrong. Give him gray detention cells and deserted industrial warehouses any day over this place.

He maps the rooms in his head as he passes through them. Doors, windows, types of locks, light switches, objects that can be used as a weapon. He counts the number of steps between each door and knows that Nat is doing the same thing.

The kitchen at the back of the house is spacious and rustic, and just as eerily cozy as the rest of the house they've seen. They're pushed down onto chairs and the guards position themselves silently around the room. Out of immediate reach. He sees that Natasha is tied up with multiple zip ties as well. He catches her eye and gives her hands a quick glance. She shakes her head minutely.

Dammit.

Minutes go by in silence. He knows the drill. Let the captives wait, give them time to get nervous, let their own imagination run free. Used on a civilian, it's sometimes half the work. It is, however, a colossal waste of time on the two of them. Natasha gives him a small, wry smile. Clint returns it and sits back. He's used to waiting. He lets his mind go into a holding pattern of relaxed attention and waits it out.

"Can I have some water?" Natasha asks some time later.

Clint is willing to bet a month's pay that she's not actually asking for water. She's trying to get them talking, to interact. Trying to gather information in her own unique way.

There is no reply. The weapons stay trained on both of them.

People are moving around in the house. Steps and conversations too faint to make out bleed through the walls. Clint hears the occasional vehicle outside, tires crunching on the gravel. Eventually they're ordered up and out of the kitchen, and that's half an hour he'll never get back. They're taken down a concrete staircase, down into the basement of the house and okay, yeah, this is starting to look at little more like it. The cement walls are gray and greasy-looking, and there's a smell of dank and damp. Exposed wiring along the ceiling, bare light bulbs, closed metal doors. Heavy ones. The basement must have been extended, because the corridor is longer than Clint expected.

They're shoved into the last room on the left. It's… a room. A holding cell. Nothing more, nothing less. It's rectangular with naked concrete walls and a recessed, viciously bright overhead light that makes Clint's eyes and head hurt. No windows. A one-foot vent under the ceiling, narrow enough that he won't even get his hand inside. No furniture. And to top it off, a massive metal door that looks like something taken from the blast shelter of an end-of-the-world prepper.

Clint is directed to one wall and Natasha to another. As on cue, all weapons turn on Clint, and jeez, doesn't he feel special. He can almost feel the itch in the middle of his forehead. Keeping his shoulders relaxed takes some effort, even though he's pretty sure they're not being lined up to be shot. They wouldn't have gone through the trouble of taking them here if they were just going to shoot them.

"Turn around," a guy tells Natasha. "Face the wall."

She does as she's told.

"Don't move until I say so. Don't try to attack me. Your friend here will not like it if you do. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

He pulls a wire cutter from his pocket, and Clint hopes she's not about to do something stupid, because he's pretty sure his brain is going to decorate the wall if she as much as looks at them the wrong way. But she doesn't. Her ties are cut and she just calmly lifts her hands to her head when wire-cutter guy tells her to. The weapons move from Clint to Natasha. There is absolutely no opportunity for Clint to do anything without risking her life. He's told to turn, and he obediently complies. He still gets his face shoved into the wall. Asshole. Three snaps in succession and his hands are free. The shackles around his ankles follow. Bringing his left arm down from behind his back sucks pretty damn bad.

"Undress and kick your clothes over here."

Clint gives him a leer. "Kinky."

Natasha looks over her shoulder. "It's freezing down here."

"Don't worry, you'll get new ones. Come on, clothes off. All of them. You first, darling."

The semi-automatics are aimed at Clint again while Natasha undresses. Dammit. He hates being leverage. She's calm and efficient, there's no hesitation at all. Jacket, shirt, pants, bra, panties, everything hits the floor. It takes more than stripping down in front of strangers to rattle her. When she's done she kicks the clothes towards the door. Clint catches wire-cutter guy leering at Natasha. Not one of the professionals, then. When it's Clint's turn, he too strips and kicks his clothes towards them.

"Those, too," the guy says and points to the cut nylon ties on the floor.

They kick them towards the guards and are instructed to turn back to their respective wall. They do. They're such well-behaved children.

There are shuffles behind them, people moving, and then the sound of the door swinging shut on surprisingly silent hinges. There are four muted clangs as the heavy cam latches are turned on the outside. Clint glances at Nat, then over his shoulder. They are alone.