Thanks to Marvel-Tolkien Fangirl, Whispers From A Silver Tongue, Oriana8, Ireland Ranger, Daisainan Neko, doesthatmakemepokey, GlOmP3R, Love2readFantasy and Suheyla for their reviews.
#
Two days after Clint had been moved to the larger cell, he had heard no further whispers about the mutiny. Clint spent his days stretching the kinks out of his body, pacing the cell; occasionally the aliens would take him out and put him on a treadmill of some sort. He was regaining his strength and dexterity, but he was careful; he didn't want them to know that he was in better shape than he pretended to be.
He was in his cell, stiffly shifting from one yoga position to another when the room went silent. He paused. The constant hum of technology was a given in the ship. He had become so accustomed to it that the lack made the hair on the back of his neck prickle.
Moments later, a kree entered the room. "Get up," he said, drawing his blaster. "We've made port, and Ver-Men is still deciding whether to keep you or sell you."
"Cax-Ure is no longer in command then, I take it," Clint replied coolly, getting to his feet.
"He doesn't know it yet, but he's a dead man walking," the alien replied with a grin. He unlocked the cage. Gestured Clint out.
"And how is Ver-Men going to decide what to do with me?"
"Don't know. He wants you doing your daily exercise, though, so let's head out."
The went across the corridor, to a gym of some sorts. The alien kept his weapon trained on Clint. Directed him to step onto the treadmill. It was route; Clint turned on the machine and started walking, a brisk pace that felt good but still caused his knees to protest slightly. At least they had given him his shoes back.
From down the hall, Loki screamed. The alien glanced out the door and sat down, looking put out. Clint focused his gaze straight ahead. One thousand. Nine hundred and ninety-three.
It had been Coulson who taught him this trick, shortly after he joined SHIELD. They were sparring, Clint clearly over his head, not wanting to admit it; street fighting was nothing against a man of Coulson's training. Clint continued to count, but the memory of that day invaded his mind.
"Barton, you are far too angry for a simple sparing session," Coulson observed mildly, easily blocking Clint's inexperienced blow.
"I'm always angry."
"I've noticed. In the field, anger will only get you killed. Anger, fear, pain- these are your enemies."
"You sound like Yoda."
"Yoda sounds like me."
Clint rolled his eyes, deciding to play along. "How do I stop it, then?"
Coulson caught the boy and flipped him onto his back. "You have to create little things to concentrate on instead, Clint."
"Like imagining you in Jedi robes when you spout mystical crap like that?" Clint asked, down but not beaten, attempting to kick Coulson's legs out from under him. One foot landed on Coulson's bad knee and with a grunt the older man fell. Clint rolled to his feet, elbowing Coulson in the throat as he passed- he snatched up his bow, fitted an arrow to it, turned- and found the barrel of a gun pressed to his forehead.
"Personally, I count down from a thousand by the sevens," Coulson said pleasantly. "But if you want to put me in Star Wars, go ahead. Also, never turn your back on the enemy, especially when you think you've beaten them."
Clint shook his head to get rid of his memories and concentrated on the steps and the numbers. Seven hundred and sixty-nine. He had only broken once, before he joined SHEILD, and he wasn't going to let cramped and stiff tendons change that-
Loki screamed again, his words indecipherable, but the begging tone clear.
Clint's guard groaned in dismay. "Why do they have to do that when I'll miss all the fun?"
Snap.
Clint's arms were around the man's head, twisting sharply before either of them knew what he was doing. Another snap, this one audible. Training kicked in. Relieve the dead guard of his weapon. Return to his cell, grab the blankets. He would need them. Ignore the protest of muscles.
He manoeuvred his way down the corridor, towards the sounds of screaming. Closer, he carefully checked around corners before continuing until he got to the cargo bay. Three men stood over a metal table, two holding the tiny Loki down while the third carved into his flesh and inserted metal rods under his skin. Was Ver-Men among them? No. Loki was sobbing, pleading, screaming. Cax was lying on the floor with a bloodied skull.
Clint shot two in the back as he rounded the corner, and blasted the third one's face off as he looked up in surprise. Loki did not move but for the shudders of his sobs. Clint walked over to him.
What are you doing? You've been wanting to kill him for – how long has it been? He's in pain. End it. Clint looked down at Loki, at the metal rods sticking out of his body. Like a porcupine.
He set the weapon onto the table and carefully began removing the metal rods. Loki shuddered, groaning, his hands flat against the table, palms pressing down, eyes squeezed shut, face twitching with pain, tears running down his temples, soaking into his hairline. Is it cruelty not to kill him right now?
Clint spied the little bag with its green capsules near Cax's body. Comet dust. He pulled the last rod from Loki's chest and grabbed the bag, stuffing it into his pocket. Could be useful. Turned back to Loki. Breathing shallow, chest heaving, but not bleeding as much as expected. Now what are you going to do with him Barton?
Clint heard a noise, turned- got a branding iron to the face. He recoiled. Cold. No burns. Still hurts like heck. He stumbled back, saw Cax swaying on his feet. The alien took a step forward, leaning on the table that held Loki, checked to see if he was alive, and stepped towards Clint again.
"What are you doing, human?" the alien muttered. "Trying to rescue him when you nearly killed him before we arrived?"
"There is a difference between killing someone and making them beg for death."
Clint grabbed for the branding iron. Cax was too quick; he landed another blow on Clint's head. The archer fell to his knees, the crack blinding him. His vision cleared to see Cax standing over him, expression grim, determined. The sound of a blast rang. Cax had a momentary look of surprise on his face before he fell.
Loki's little hand was curled around the handle of the blaster Clint had left beside him. It was still lying on the table, pointing now at Clint's head. He met Loki's gaze but saw only pain. Was he going to pull the trigger again?
Loki pushed the blaster away. It clattered to the floor. He pulled himself to the edge of the table and tipped off. He cried out when he landed on the floor, but pushed himself up again and crawled, trembling, over to Cax's body. He gripped the captain's sleeve. He sat there, skin white and red, blankly staring straight ahead at the wall.
Clint staggered to his feet. Blood trickled into his eye. Concussion. Probably worse. He snatched a container of the healing balm off the shelf and picked up the blankets and blaster from the floor. The blood knife was on the table. He took it. Loki hadn't moved, his fingers curled into Cax's sleeve.
"I'm not sorry," he murmured.
Clint hesitated only a moment. He tucked the healing balm into his jacket, wrapped Loki in the blankets and picked him up. Is it possible for anybody to be this small?
It took him a while to navigate the twists and turns to exit the ship, but he didn't run into any more of the Kree. When he finally found the exit, he peered out cautiously. The bright light made his eyes water, especially his left – no, that's blood. Stupid head wound– and a blast of cold air made him shiver.
The buildings that he saw looked like they were made of glass, shaped like the triangular prism that Cindy used to hang in her window (she'd call them wainbow cwstals. She was only three when her throat was slit. Clint was ten. He made his first kill shortly after-)
Stop. Concentrate. Stupid head wound.
Clint saw none of their blue-skinned captures, and dodged down into the city. He walked – running always brought suspicion – but quickly, Loki cradled like a baby in one arm, blaster half-hidden under him, ready to be used. He slipped between the buildings, alert, but nobody challenged him.
"I'm not sorry," Loki repeated. To Clint or himself? Clint ignored him and continued walking. "I'm not sorry."
#
It was dark before Clint found a place to stop for the night, and the cold was making him shiver. He had left the glass-prism district, finding himself among rough stone and wood houses, all of them the triangular shape. After wandering between these houses for a while, seeing aliens whose variety rivaled every space-based show or movie he had seen, he had at last found a park-like area. It had a trickle of water running through it that could be called a stream, and a grove of trees that would provide at least a little protection from the cutting wind.
Clint none-too-gently put Loki on the ground, unwrapping the blankets to see how the damage was. The inner blanket was dark, the tiny body still wet and glistened with blood, running down his legs and onto the ground. Clint shrugged off his jacket and handed it to him. Loki stared at it for a moment before accepting the jacket and wrapping it around his shoulders, and sinking to the ground.
Clint tucked the blaster into his waistband before he checked over himself. His legs and back were starting to seize from being cramped so long followed by strenuous exertion without having much warm-up time. He was feeling a weak from lack of sleep, food and water, but it was his head that worried him. Touching his forehead, he felt a two-inch gash just below his hairline. Definitely had a concussion.
Loki stared at the sky as Clint turned back to him to more fully assess how badly injured he was. The jacket hung loosely around the demigod's small frame, and his face glistened in the moonlight. He didn't resist as Clint kneeled and pulled him to his feet, pushing the jacket off his shoulders. The knives and metal rods had left deep gashes that were still bleeding. The burns were blistering. His arm hung limply at an awkward angle. Clint took it in both of his hands, frowning as he felt the lump of bone that meant it was already healed. He'd have to break it again to set it straight.
After pausing to wipe the blood that still trickled down his forehead, Clint pulled the jacket up around the boy again. He went through the jacket pockets until he found the container of the healing balm. Loki didn't move a muscle. The jacket fell to the ground again, exposing his slick, bloody body to the cold. He was still staring at the sky.
"Will this heal you?"
Loki silently looked at the container and nodded.
"Broken bone, too?"
A slight hesitation; a nod.
"Sit down," Clint muttered, dropping the container beside Loki. He searched the ground until he found three relatively straight sticks. Two were slightly more flat to make a splint, the third small enough to fit between Loki's teeth. Loki had sat and was watching him, but in the pale moonlight Clint couldn't see his expression.
"Just so you know," the assassin said curtly as he carefully tore the sleeves off the jacket to bind the split together, "the only reason I didn't leave you on that ship is because when I get back to earth I don't want Thor to kill me for returning alive and leaving you to be tortured to death."
Is that the only reason Barton? Clint didn't answer the question his mind poised to him.
Loki was silent.
He took the twig when Clint handed it to him, but otherwise didn't move. Clint ground his teeth together, tempted to just break the bone. He was trying to help, and Loki was being as uncooperative as he could possibly be. But Clint knew that after what he had witnessed on the ship, he couldn't wantonly add to Loki's pain.
He's probably in shock, or the drug hasn't left his system, the assassin thought. Or he's thinking that I'm going to pick up where they left off.
His little spiel about not leaving Loki behind because of Thor probably hadn't helped with that.
"Bite it so you don't bite your tongue," he ordered, inspecting Loki's arm more closely. The dim light and pounding headache made it difficult to see clearly.
The demigod was ridiculously small and thin. Breaking the bone would be easy. He glanced up at Loki, who had tucked the stick horizontally in his mouth, pushing it back against the corners of his lips, and wrapped his free hand around a nearby protruding root.
"On three," Clint said, settings his hands on either side of the lump of the bone. "One, two, three-"
Clint quickly twisted his hands in opposite directions. He felt the two halves of the bone separate again, feeling and hearing the crack. Loki gasped sharply and then let out a small, moaning whimper. Clint was quick to set the bone and slather on the healing balm. It smelled so greasy that it made his stomach roil. He put the splint in place and then set Loki back on his feet. The demigod swayed slightly, but was able to support himself.
"Start putting this on," the archer grunted, holding the balm out so Loki could reach it with his uninjured arm.
Loki stared at the container.
"Start putting it on!"
Loki was slow to address his wounds with the balm. With his own free hand, Clint began to apply the balm to Loki's back, mixing it with the fresh and dried blood. His hand soon began tingling. It must have some pretty powerful numbing agents!
By the time Loki's body was covered with the balm, he was shaking violently from the cold. Clint pulled the jacket up over him again, zipping it this time so that it wouldn't fall off. The demigod sat carefully, cradling his broken-again arm against his chest.
The archer washed his hands in the stream, exhaustion creeping in at the corners of his eyes. Staggering back to where he had left the balm, he frowned at how badly Loki was still shuddering, but there wasn't anything else he could do until he took care of himself. Digging out a little of the balm, he dabbed it onto his head wound.
"Helo sh-" he yelped. His head felt like it was on fire!
Dashing back to the stream, Clint struck his head into the water and rubbed at the wound until the burning subsided. Sitting back up, he gasped, the cold water trickling down his neck.
Those people are sick, he thought. The cure is worse than the torture-
Loki. Clint cursed. He wasn't shivering from the cold! No wonder he had been so reluctant to use the stuff!
Clint cursed again, rushing back, snatching Loki up. He all but threw the little demigod into the stream, yanking the jacket over his head as he did so. With one arm firmly around his chest, Clint began to wash the stuff from Loki's small, shivering body.
"You could have said something!" Clint grumbled when he pulled Loki from the stream. He began to undo the split, but Loki pulled his broken arm close to his chest and pushed away Clint's hands.
Clint sat back in his heels. "You're sure?"
There wasn't even a nod in response. It would have to be enough.
"All right."
He inspected Loki again. The bleeding seemed to have slowed significantly, but as he was still dripping water it was hard to tell. It was then that the full weight of the situation hit Clint. The kree would be coming after them, they had nowhere to go, it was freezing cold, his head was wet and Loki was soaked.
He stood up and walked a few feet away, looking upwards. There were four moons clustered together in the sky, forming a single point of light that was only about half the size of the moon back on earth. The stars shone brilliantly, but he recognised none of them. No duh, Sherlock. Different world.
Clint picked up the blankets. The one he had wrapped Loki in was dark with blood, but he found a dry corner. He toweled off his head, went back to Loki, patted the boy dry since he seemed to have no interest in doing it himself. Retrieved the jacket- luckily hadn't landed in the stream – turned it inside out, pulled it down over Loki's head again. Checked the demigod's temperature with a hand to his forehead. Unnaturally warm, but that could be caused by anything, Clint supposed, the torture, the drugs. He could be getting sick.
"It's too cold," Clint muttered, pressed a hand to his pounding head. He should use the balm, heal himself. Looked around but couldn't see it. "We're gonna have to share body heat to survive the night."
Why wasn't he moving? Clint looked down at Loki. Loki started straight ahead. Clint turned, followed Loki's gaze, saw nothing. Shadows dancing in the moonlight. One looked like a bunny. Was it a bunny? No, it wasn't a bunny, it was a shadow, what would an alien bunny look like? Stop thinking about bunnies, you're an assassin not a two-year-old. Loki's a two-year-old.
Clint grabbed the dry blanket and sank with a groan between two trees, leaning against the trunks. Loki finally moved, mincing his way over as though walking on broken glass. Stopped, just in Clint's reach. Still didn't look at the archer, who wrapped the blanket around his own shoulders and then grabbed Loki's arm, made him sit beside him, pulled the blanket around both of them.
Can't sleep, he thought, a hand on the blaster at his side while holding the blanket closed. I have a concussion. If I fall asleep, I could sink into a coma.
Loki unexpectedly moved. The demigod crawled into the archer's lap, curling against his chest. Clint made to push him off, but stopped. It was more efficient than sitting side-by-side. Loki's small body was warm, and Clint was able to tighten the blanket around them, putting his arms around the small body. Awkward, but effective.
Loki could pull out the blaster and shoot him in the chest.
Maybe he would.
Maybe he wouldn't.
