Chapter 3
She just looked at him, and Clint could see the cracked walls around her conscience come crashing down. The guilt, self-loathing, shame, they all struck a chord in him. They were familiar companions, and he had the sudden urge to comfort, to shield her. 'Course that isn't very easy to do when you're tied to a chair.
Then a phone rang.
It was so sudden and such a…normal sound, that they both looked at each other in confusion.
It rang again.
"Is…is that my phone?" He wondered aloud.
It rang again.
Natasha carefully picked it up from the floor like it was something unspeakably disgusting, a dead snake maybe. Yup, it was his phone. Ohhhhh, this could be very awkward. It was rather ironic, he reflected in the back of his mind. As little as one minute ago, he would have given a great deal to hear from anyone from SHIELD saying that they had a squad en route to his location. Now, he was praying it wasn't someone he knew, mostly because he had absolutely no idea where to even begin explaining his situation.
Natasha put it on speakerphone, holding it reasonably close to him.
"Barton: who is-"
A chuckle rumbled out. "We wish to congratulate you on your catch." Deep voice, very heavy Russian accent. Well, at least it's not someone I know…
"Excuse me?" There was no need to fake sounding confused.
"We know that you have the Black Widow and that she's still alive. We have some…unfinished business with her." Clint noted the phone was shaking.
"I…I'm sorry, what?"
"We will arrive at your location in about four hours. You have until then to make a decision." The line cut off with a click.
The phone clattered to the ground.
"Tasha?" Her face was dead white (no, don't think of dead, nothing good can come from that) and her eyes were filled with a stark mixture of shock and gut-wrenching terror. Clint felt his stomach knot.
"I can't fight them." Her lips hardly moved and her voice was so quiet he almost didn't hear it.
"What?"
"It was part of my…training. I can't attack an employer, at least not until after the job's finished."
She was shutting down, Clint realized. Everything had collapsed around her; she was trapped, and so she was curling into herself. There was no way out.
…Actually…there is a way…
Nope, too crazy. He slapped down that idea very quickly.
…So you're just gonna sit back and let them kill you? Kill her?
No, but….She wanted to kill me!
And you almost killed her. Will kill her if you just let this sit. Ooh, he hated it when his conscience tried to guilt-trip him; it pretty much always worked.
Yeah, but…but-
No! No buts! You got her into this. You promised yourself you'd never let another child die.
…She's not exactly a child. She has blood on her hands.
So do you. Low blow.
…You suck, you know that?
Face it, you wouldn't survive without me.
He sighted and closed his eyes for a moment, half resigning himself to the fact that this really was the only option.
"Tasha, you have to let me go."
"What?" She stared at him blankly, looking as if she wasn't sure she had heard him correctly.
"You can't fight them, but I can."
Clearly, she had absolutely no clue what was going through his head. But that was okay, because Clint himself wasn't all that sure either. All he knew was that she seemed genuinely ashamed of what she'd done. Of course, she was a spy, so there was always the possibility she was faking. For all he knew, the whole thing might be a set-up, a way for her to accomplish some convoluted plan to gain some inscrutable goal. It didn't seem likely though. She was too…too raw, if that was the right word.
"Tasha, look at me." Clint caught her eye. "I swear to you on my life, they'll only get to you over my dead or incapacitated body."
"But your orders-"
"Were to neutralize the Black Widow. I'm fairly certain that's been done." If he hadn't, he was going to be in so much trouble. As if he cared anymore. "And anyway," He managed to crack a grin. "I don't remember anyone saying anything about Natasha Romanoff."
Her eyes widened, almost comically, as she realized exactly what he was intending to do. Admittedly, it was pretty ludicrous. Defending someone who wanted to kill you was not something the average person would do.
Since when did you ever want to be considered 'average'?
The decision was made rather quickly. It was simple for her really, he realized: she was a survivor; this was the only way to survive. Still, there was a slight hesitancy to her step as she moved around behind him.
There was a quick dry sawing noise and a snap. The pressure around his abdomen disappeared, followed a second later by the line around his chest. He slumped forward, and she cut his hands loose as well. He didn't feel anything for a moment as she moved around to free his legs; he simply let his arms drop down to his sided. Clint flexed his arms and then bit back a few choice words he'd picked up in the army as pins and needles and then searing pain rushed down his veins along with the blood. He reflexively curled them into himself, squeezing his eyes shut as a similar but less severe feeling swept through his legs. It took a few minutes for the pain to lessen a bit. He blinked and looked up at her, mouth moving silently.
"Ow," His voice cracked.
The barest hint of a smile flicked across her face. She was worried, probably more worried that he'd renege now that he was free. Not that she had anything to worry about in that area; he didn't willingly break a promise if he gave it.
Gently, he eased himself out of the chair and into a standing position. Pins and needles lurked in his stiff, unused muscles as he stretched them.
Ohhhh….That feels sooo good.
"Where exactly are we?" He asked, moving around and inspecting the room. Decrepit wooden floor boards squeaked under his weight. He'd always sucked at being stealthy close to a target.
"An abandoned warehouse complex."
"Clint nodded somewhat absently, peering up toward a window through the rafters and support beams. It took a bit of straining and grunting, but he got himself up closer, peering through a filthy glass pane at a nebulous…something that, quite honestly, could have been anything. He turned, peering at the door on the other side of the room, gauging the distance.
"Does the window come out?" He asked suddenly.
"Yes, it should." She sounded a bit confused. "But why would you want it out?"
He ran his finger around the outside of the semicircular frame, narrowly avoiding needle-like splinters. "Having the whole thing missing is a little less suspicious than shattered glass."
"Where do you get that?"
"If you see broken glass, you look for the window it came from, don't you?"
There was a moment of silence, a few light thuds and quiet grunts, and she was next to him, assisting in jiggling the pane out. Ideas were running through Clint's brain as he worked, weighing various strategies, placating several enthusiastic muses who were suggesting ideas that defied physics, mentally arguing with others whose ideas would work except for the absence of a few key factors, ironing out details of relatively fool-proof plans….
"You can't drop it on the ground you know." She commented after a moment, interrupting the genius that was the mind of Clinton Barton (Eesh. I am nervous.) "By your own logic, that would give the whole thing up pretty quickly."
One of the muses moaned slightly. Clint continued working out the pane. The pane of thick, rather sturdy glass, now that he thought about it.
"Put it over there." The two of them gently placed it over two the rafters, leaving a sort of bridge (perch). Straightening up slowly to keep his balance, Clint gripped the support beam above his head and eased his weight onto the glass. It held. Still clinging to the support beam, he placed his other foot beside the first.
One of his muses snickered. See? I told you. A predatory smile grew on his face. Yeah, this would work. With any luck, it would work beautifully.
"Did you happen to bring my bow too?"
She nodded, mystified.
"Good. I'm gonna need a few special arrows."
Fifteen, twenty minutes later, they were ready.
All that was left was the waiting.
Being a sniper, he was used to waiting in more miserable (boring) conditions. Natasha didn't seem to have much of a problem with it either. The only thing was the fact that it was an approximate three and a half hour wait with nothing to do except stare at the wall. In such conditions, it was nigh impossible to keep the mind from wandering, especially back to dark memories.
Natasha's thoughts seemed to be going along that route, from what little Clint could see. He put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently7, offering the comfort of someone who could commiserate (probably more than she knew).
It was about that time a pair of headlights cut the darkness and pulled into the old lot from the road.
Show time.
To answer a question put to me by Dani9513, Clint is in his early twenties.
Again, I don't own anything in the Marvel Cinematic Universe. More's the pity...
Sorry I haven't updated sooner, but I'm sort of waiting on the rest of my story, as it is in my editor's computer and she still has yet to finish it.
