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Onwards ho to the chapter! :)
Chapter Four:
Clint isn't fond of desk jobs. He prefers to be out in the action rather than sitting on a chair and watching paint dry, (he hasn't actually watched paint, but it's an expression) and the thought of sitting in the Raft for the next twelve hours doing nothing but staring at a computer screen doesn't appeal insanely. Unfortunately, he doesn't have much of a choice.
Natasha is at his side, short hair pulled up into a small ponytail to get it out of her face, expression carefully masked. She isn't exactly the most excited for this and neither is he. Field agents. Not desk.
Natasha presses the code for the keypad to the side of the door and it gives a slight beep before she grabs the handle to the security room and pulls the door open. Two sets of voices immediately jump out, both in a slight tired slur.
"—It must be really, really tiny." Tony says.
"It could just not absorb light." Bruce argues.
Clint and Natasha stand in the doorway for a moment, staring. Tony is sitting on the chair to the left, coffee in his hands, feet up on the computer desk, head tipped back against the back and eyes closed. There's a cup at Bruce's feet, it doesn't smell like coffee and Clint's guessing it's some form of green tea. Bruce is leaning against his knees, dark hair covering his face from view, glasses on his head (rather than nose) as he idly plays with the edges of his jacket sleeves.
"Hmm." Tony says in answer to Bruce's argument, "That...that sounds good." He waves a hand, "Whatever it was that you said."
"You forgot?" Bruce asks without looking up. How long have these two been up?
Tony hums in conformation to Bruce's question.
"Stark," Natasha says when another second passes and it becomes quite clear that these two aren't going to realize they're here without some prodding. Bruce's head jerks up in surprise as Tony leans forward, hazel eyes popping open and both turn to stare at them.
"Oh, good; replacements." Tony says and sips his cold coffee happily, "Dark matter can only keep someone up for so long."
Dark matter? They were discussing dark matter? Why?
"When was the last time you slept?" Clint inquires curiously. Bruce and Tony share a look before Bruce mutters a few numbers under his breath, squints, then shakes his head in disagreement with himself and looks up, shrugging hopelessly. Tony drums his fingers for a moment then looks up saying: "Three days?"
Oh. Yeah, that will get this effect. Tony staggers to his feet looking horribly off balance for a moment before he steadies and Bruce drags himself up to a standing postion, the cup of green tea (or whatever it was) in hand and shoves his glasses onto his face properly with the other.
The two move towards the door and Tony pats Clint's shoulder twice as they exit despite Clint's slight tense and leaves with a "good luck" under his breath towards them.
Good luck on what? This isn't a hard job. They literally just sit and do nothing for hours. Thrilling.
Clint and Natasha step into the room and Natasha closes the door as Clint sits in the chair Bruce vacated and shrugs his jacket on further. Is the heating working properly? The temperature outside is a cozy below zero, but this doesn't feel much better.
Natasha doesn't seem affected by the chill, but that's just because Clint knows his partner greatly enjoys being cold. She sinks into the other chair and scoots it up to the desk flicking through a few screens before sighing quietly.
"Not much visibly." She notes, unhappily.
Clint draws his focus towards the computer and stares at the screens. There's the hall in front of Loki's cell, but not much else closer. There are men stationed outside, in the halls, but they can't see into Loki's cell anymore. Clint is grateful that they aren't in charge of the other prisoners, just Loki. There's a separate section of the Raft dedicated to the phycopath and one that Clint encourages, heavily.
If Loki escapes and needs to rally up allies, he won't get to it easily.
Clint can see a slight stiffness in Natasha's shoulders as she leans back into the chair, a picture of relaxation that is a complete and utter prevaricate. She's uncomfortable and doesn't want to be here any more than he does. Which is very low. Clint is, however, beyond happy to be out of Wyoming, though, so he'll happily take any desk job offered to him so long as it gets him away from Ms. happy-beyond-reason Smith and her group of hungry leech-vampires.
Despite his excitement to not be in Wyoming anymore, the hours pass slowly.
After six hours and twenty-six minutes, Clint is staring at the wall across from his chair, zoned out slightly in boredom as Natasha taps out the alphabet in Morse code, backwards with Clint occasionally telling her a letter to start on.
Clint is used to waiting for targets, on missions waiting is usually an important aspect, but Clint wants to tear his hair out in frustration. Bored and Loki aren't exactly words Clint would thought would be in the same paragraph, let alone page.
Natasha is on 'V' with her taps when she jerks upright suddenly, her spine stiffening with surprise and pain as she clamps a hand against her ear, eyes wide. Clint lurches up, locking his gaze on her in confusion. What's wrong? They're both wearing earpieces to connect them to the guards, but he isn't receiving anything and she looks in pain.
"Tasha, what—?"
"Clint!" Her voice is a gasp, her eyes wide and owlish before she slumps forward, hand falling off of her ear and Clint dives forward to grab her as her body, lax and unresponsive starts to tumble to the hard metal beneath their feet. Clint takes her weight easily and lowers her to the floor trying to stuff down the thrum of panic swallowing his stomach.
"Tasha?" He asks and flips her, tapping at her face to try and gain a response. Her eyes are closed, breathing deep and rhythmic. She's sleeping. Why on earth is she sleeping!? At least she's breathing, she could have been de—
Clint shoves the thought to the side and shakes his partner, "Wake up, Tasha, come on." He pleads, but she remains unresponsive in his arms.
What is going on!?
Is this Loki? If it is, Clint is going to excavate his organs, then leave the remains in a package outside his door with a big red bow. Natasha is off limits.
"Natasha, please," he whispers giving her another shake. Natasha's face doesn't even twitch, breath escaping her lips in a rhythm that's deceptively steady. Something moves from the corner of his eye and Clint jerks his gaze up recognizing a small dart flying from the vent. Instinct settles in before his brain catches up. He kicks Natasha's abandoned chair in the general direction of the dart, covering Natasha's body with his own.
He hears the sound of the needle slicing through the fabric landing a second later at the edge of his foot, off balanced from hitting the rim of the chair and lifts his head. This is an attack. Against them. Why? Is this Loki?
Footsteps pound outside and the door strains for a moment before it's thrown open and five men, masked in what looks to be something close to motorcycle helmets and wearing something similar to a S.H.I.E.L.D. issued clothing. He can't see their eyes, but feels their gazes zero in on him. Where the heck is General Ross's small army he always has on stand by?
The room seems to hold its breath for a second before the men leap towards him. Clint's eyes flit over everything for a moment before he kicks the chair towards the men and two smack into it the other three maneuvering away.
Clint leaps to his feet, pulling the dagger he has his upper left thigh and flicks the blade out. It's a admittedly pathetic weapon compared to their guns, but Clint has managed with less. One of the men fires a round of bullets that Clint dives to the left for and he ducks down from another round, glancing at Natasha. A slight hiss escapes through his teeth as two of the bullets graze his left arm. He didn't duck fast enough.
He can't get to his bow right now, but he needs weapons. His partner always has some on her person.
Widow bites. Where are her bloody—? Right, wrists. Clint grabs them from off of the bracelets, she has them on her belt as well, more of them, but he's short on time.
Clint flicks his hand up and tosses one of them at the man who first fired at him with his right hand. He lets out a loud yell, landing hard as the electricity courses through him. Clint flicks another in between the other two who weren't attacked by the chair before he leaps forward, dagger in hand towards the other two who are struggling to their feet. Clint slams one of their heads against the wall, knocking them cleanly unconscious before he turns towards the other and presses the dagger against his throat his arm twitching in pain from the bleeding wounds on his bicep. "What did you do to Widow?" He demands, lowering his voice dangerously.
The man just laughs, his voice sounds muffled by the helmet and Clint rips it off revealing sandy blond hair, but not anyone that he recognizes.
Clint presses the tip against his attackers throat, "What did you do?"
"Spoke to her," The man has a thick Spanish accent, but seems smugly pleased with himself. The man jerks his hand up, small knife in hand and Clint grabs his forearm twisting it, preventing the blade from smacking into his gut.
He's not going to give any information, just delay it.
Clint curls his right fist and slams it against the man's face, and his head hits the wall behind them with a loud clunk. Breathing heavily, Clint turns back towards Natasha, but pales as he sees the cameras, a low thrum of panic slipping through him.
Cats, cats, cats, cats, cats, cats!
The screen flickers black after another moment, but not fast enough for Clint to have missed it.
This isn't from Loki, it's for him.
There was men dragging him down the hall, away from the cell that they can't see into and Loki didn't look to be going willingly. He was a squiggling snake in their grip, sliding in and out as the men struggle to keep hands on him. They must have looped the footage, but stopped when they cut the power to it.
And he and Natasha completely missed that.
Now she's unconscious and he has no idea why.
Great.
He can't let them take Loki, the Asgardian is dangerous by his own hands, if he was directed by someone else? That would be repugnant. And it wouldn't even matter if he was directed, being out of the cell means he can abscond and escaping is bad for everyone. Especially if he has glowing weapons.
The scepter is not here.
Loki is still a sorcerer, just because his weapon is gone doesn't make him any less dangerous.
Clint worries his lip between his teeth for a moment before stuffing the few Widow's bites he has into his jacket pocket and crosses the room gently scooping Natasha into his arms, gritting his teeth in pain. He distributes her on the chair and her head tilts slightly, but it's the most he can do.
"I'll be back soon." He promises and gives her hand a quick squeeze of reassurance before he swings his bow off his back and quickly scampers over the unconscious bodies and steps outside into the hall where the low-light power is still present.
He takes off into a sprint towards the cell and crosses the distance in about a minute. Clint pauses at the end of the hallway, his muscles seizing.
The agents who were stationed outside are on the ground, unconscious or dead and more than a handful of men, some seven or eight are standing around a violently struggling Loki. He saw it on the screen, but there's something different about it in person. Loki's murky eyes are wild and jerking everywhere, but it's painfully obvious that he's not seeing anything. Loki is blind, this is the first time that he really realizes that.
He can't see what's going on.
His attackers are all large and bulky, armed to the teeth and clearly prepared for battle against the Asgardian. This was planned, that much is painfully clear. More than one of them are grabbing at his upper arms and trying to drag him back, but Loki isn't making it easy for them. Nor pleasant. His struggle is wild and violent, elbows ramming into noses and ribs as his hands—free from shackles that they are attempting to shove on him—never stop moving.
This is nothing like what he was when they took him to the Raft. Loki was...complainant? Calm? The word sounds strange, but it fits from what this is.
"Stop it!" One of the men hisses as his nose is once again rammed by the unhappy elbow.
"Stop struggling you—!" Another man starts to shout in frustration before Loki jumps up, using the men grabbing at his upper arms for balance and seeming to locate the speaking man solely by his voice smacks his legs up against him. He, the kicked man, stumbles back into the others, tumbling like dominoes and one of the men gripping his upper arms gives a loud growl of frustration before flicking out a baton and slamming it against Loki's abdomen. It would have broken any normal man's rib cage through and through or at least bruised it intensely, but the most it seems to do is violently wind the Asgardian. A loud wheeze jerks out through his nose and Clint's tongue untangles itself from the roof of his mouth.
"Hey!" He yells and the men stop fighting against Loki looking up at him, startled, clearly to see him there. He sees Loki still from the corner of his eye. Clint jerks his bow up and loses the arrow he had cocked and it hits the shoulder of one of the men closest to Loki, but not holding him.
He goes down with a cry tumbling into the one behind him. Clint draws back again, firing another as the remaining men, save two, forget their captive and draw guns.
Oh, yay.
How many times does he have to be shot today at before the universe deems it adequate?
He's not getting shot again, even if it is just another graze.
Clint dives to the side from a flurry of bullets and swings his bow back drawing again. The biggest man with a large rifle gets the next arrow. Alright, three down, four to go. Not a problem. Clint mentally braces himself before he races forward, slipping past another bullet and slams his bow against the faces of two men. He flings the remaining Widow bites he stole at the other two and they go down, jerking. He grabs one of the fallen handguns from another and lifts it up firing at the legs of those who still hold Loki captive. They go down, landing hard with groans, but not fatally wounded and without his captor's grip, Loki tumbles to his knees.
He's still wheezing, like he can't breathe right and Clint crosses the distance between them with a few steps and grabs at his shoulder, "Are you injured?" Loki jerks away from his touch like it's burning him and Clint mentally kicks himself.
Enemy, remember?
Not that he wants to be on the same side, but Loki under the captivity of someone else is dangerous and if he's about to die, Clint has no desire to start a intergalactic war by having killed one of the princes of Asgard.
Strange to think of him like that, a prince. He's just...very much a madman.
Clint forces himself into the present and grabs at Loki's shoulder again, "Breathe, it's Agent Barton." He says the last part after a small hesitation, but Loki has no way of recognizing him otherwise unless he reaches his hands out and feels it—which would be strange. This disability has crippled the Asgardian.
The thought doesn't feel him with as much pleasure as he thought it would.
Loki's wheezes don't stop, only get worse, but he doesn't pull away from Clint's touch again. His head turns in Clint's general direction, the glassy eyes searching for his, but failing. They settle on his chin, rather than his face and Clint forces his focus off of it. "Breathe, in out." He commands.
Loki attempts to follow the instruction, but the wheezing through his nose hitches and his chest heaves like he wants to cough, but can't.
Oh, gosh, he's going to suffocate. The man dispelled the air from his lungs and now the Asgardian can't retain it. Because of the muzzle. Is this really a bad thing? If he dies like this, it won't be anyone's fault, but his own. As soon as the thought crosses his head, disgust follows. He's not a murderer, he's an assassin, the line is thin, but there. He's not just going to let someone die out of spite.
Clint never thought twice about the metal contraption. Loki's words were definitely a threat and Thor recommended it, assuring that larger spells needed to be spoken, the look Loki had given him had been of slight frustration, but Clint didn't bother on digging for why. General Ross said that they hadn't touched him since they threw the trickster into the cell which means…
Which means...
Has it been on for more than month?
Has he had food, or water since the attack?
Clint shoves the thought to the side before making a split second, stupid decision. He removes his hand from Loki's boney shoulder before digging his hands through the ratty black hair ignoring Loki's tense and finds the latch for the muzzle. The keyhole quickly runs under his finger and Clint curses quietly before pulling his left hand back and grabbing a lockpick from his boot.
He lifts a layer of hair up and shoves the thin piece of metal through the small hole. Loki leans forward slightly, looking uncomfortable, but Clint has little care. He grabs Loki's shoulder and violently shoves him back into the original position, "Don't move." He says, sharply. Loki stiffens, and makes no further movement away from him.
He works the thin wire through the muzzle and less than a minute later, the metal gives a soft hiss as it opens and Clint grabs the edges ripping it away from Loki's face. The Asgardian jerks forward slightly from the force and the muzzle lands a few feet to the left of him, near one of the fallen attackers. Clint recoils slightly in disgust as he sees that a plastic mouthpiece attached to the outer framework is stained an unnatural red.
Loki lets out a few coughs that sound like they're ripped from lungs filled with fluid and sucks in air deeply, releasing a few more coughs. His face is lined with the edges of the metal, thin lines of red raw skin that's open and bleeding in some areas, especially under his nose. It looks painful. Then again, Clint doubts it was designed with comfort in mind.
Or long term use.
Loki releases a few more hacks, spitting out blood and then his head raises towards him. Clint knows he can't see anything, but he can still feel the stare digging through him. Confused. Not angry, not furious, confusion. Clint shoves the thought to the side, and forces himself to take several steps forward.
Loki licks at his lips and opens his mouth, like he's about to say something, but he remains quiet.
Good.
Clint grabs at his arm, "Get up and shut up. Tasha's in trouble and though I'm more than willing to leave you here, whoever attacked seems to have your capture in mind. Congratulations, you've created yet another problem."
Clint says the last part dryly before he jerks the Asgardian to his feet. Loki is a good couple inches taller than him so it's an awkward transition, but Clint ignores it. Loki's breath escapes him raggedly through his mouth, but he doesn't protest, letting Clint drag him forwards and quickly back towards the room he exited some four minutes beforehand.
He rips the door open and immediately scans it for threats, a knot of anxiety loosening as he doesn't see any beyond the fallen men on the floor. Natasha is still where he left her: leaning back in the chair, head rolling slightly to the left red hair falling across her face. Her breaths are deep and even, she looks peaceful. It's an illusion.
Clint kicks the chair he was sitting on a few minutes ago forward and bodily shoves Loki into it. The Asgardian stumbles into the seat slightly and Clint releases him turning back to Natasha.
"Tasha?" He asks and grabs the armrest of the chair leaning down in front of her.
Gah! He doesn't understand what's happening.
Think, Barton.
Sleeping. The only way someone can force her into sleep like this without chemicals is Red Room. Natasha explained about it during one of their missions a few years ago, about two years after he found her. Red Room had code words they would speak to get them to follow commands and one of those was to sleep instantly at the whisper of a few Russian words. Natasha never told him what they were, only how to wake her.
Clint wracks his brain for a moment searching for the right mash of Russian words before he leans towards Natasha's ear and whispers, "awaken, Spider, your master commands it" in Russian. Her breath quickens abruptly before she sits up quickly nearly colliding their foreheads together. Clint grabs her upper arms to steady her, "You're safe." He assures, still in Russian. She lifts her eyes towards him, wide and round. "Safe." He repeats.
Her gaze looks beyond him towards the room and the men laying in various positions across it, a frown on the edge of her lips. Her gaze rests on his face again, composed, but Clint can see that she's still anxious.
Red Room is supposed to be behind them.
She's not supposed to be affected by it anymore.
How did their attackers know about it, and for that manner, who are they?
"What happened?" She says, English, she's doing better, but there is still a vulnerability to her. If she hasn't gathered herself as much as she can, she'd still be speaking Russian. Her gaze sweeps across the room once more before landing on his face. "Are you okay?" She asks and her eyes flits across him, lingering on his ripped jacket sleeve. He can't feel the pain, masked with adrenaline, but he doesnt imagine it will be pleasent when he does.
Okay? Ha. Yeah, laughable, but he's not dead so…
"Fine," He reassures, "we got attacked."
"Loki?" She guesses, Clint pauses, his gaze flickering back up towards the dark haired Asgardian. He knows about Red Room, but only because Clint had to tell him. But why would he resist his own escape? That doesn't make sense.
"Behind you." He says and Natasha's head whips around to look over her shoulder where Loki is sitting, still and breathing deeply, hand pressed against his face to stem some of the worst bleeding.
Natasha turns her head back and stares at him before lifting up her hands and, in ASL signs, "Why is he in here!?"
Good question. Clint has no idea.
He doesn't want Loki to be taken captive or escape via the hands of their enemies, and sticking him in here where they can watch him seemed like the best idea at the time. Now? He's regretting it. Immensely.
Her hands lift again, though Clint notes that their shaking slightly. She doesn't want to have to deal with Red Room and it's not fair that she has to. Whoever attacked better hope that they can't be traced otherwise Clint may be going on a weekend cockamamie murder spree.
"Where is his gag?" Still ASL. Loki can't see them speaking, so their conversation will be private. Good thinking.
Clint lifts his hands, "He was suffocating."
""Suffocating?""
Clint bites his inner lip. "I'll explain later."
Natasha looks back at the Asgardian again, her eyes wary and mistrustful. Clint can't say his expression looks any different. Loki hasn't moved, still hunched in on himself slightly, hand pressed against the cuts. It does not look like the posture of a would-be-king, more like a defeated man. Clint shoves the thought to the side.
Natasha's hand movements catch his eye and he flicks his gaze back to her, but missed the sign. He spins his pointer fingers around each other then presses his hand against his open raised palm, "Sign again?"
Natasha repeats her signs, "Do we need to restrain him?"
He doesn't know! They don't exactly have any handcuffs in here, and seeing how Thor easily lifted cars, he doubts the metal would hold Loki for long if he decided to walk away. Augh! At the same time, it feels just wrong to not do it and simply hope that Loki stays put. He won't. In the tunnels, from what Clint can remember hazily, Loki didn't sit down or stop moving unless someone forced him to.
Clint shoves the thoughts to the side and buries the feelings of panic that rise because Loki is in the room with him. He's fine. If Loki tries anything, Natasha will easily remove his head from his shoulders and then they can all go home.
He doesn't want to leave Loki free to reign terror down upon them, but he's not moving right now.
Clint lifts his eyes to his partners and gives a slight shake of his head. They won't do anything unless Loki gives them a reason to.
Natasha doesn't look any happier with this than he does. Her fingers raise for the start of a question, but it's halted as footsteps pound outside of the door. Clint glances at the men laying on the floor and swings his bow up, a deep ache shooting through his arm, rising to his feet as Natasha rips a gun off her holster, clicking the safety off. They shift in front of Loki's form and Clint wants to laugh at the bizzardy of this. They are protecting Loki from being captured by these men. Not giving him to them on a silver platter like Clint would much rather do. Clint sees Loki tense slightly from the corner of his eye before a man rushes through the doorway, gun raised swinging through the room looking for threats, then lowers as he recognizes them.
General Ross.
Oh, good, timley, this fellow. He would have been helpful five bloody minutes ago!
"What happened?" He barks. His voice is demanding and Clint sees two dozen or so men behind him. Well, at least they're not dead.
"Where were you?" Clint demands, exasperatedly, lowering his bow and sees Natasha do the same with her gun. Her tense posture doesn't exactly relax, but it's better than nothing. This was supposed to be a boring desk job.
"The doors were locked, we just managed to get them open. What's going on, we were breached, was—what the bloody—!" General Ross's voice dies as it raises in a high pitch and Clint squeezes his eyes shut for a moment.
So he saw Loki, then.
Honestly, Clint is starting to have the same reaction.
Clint forces his eyelids apart and releases a breath as he stares at General Ross's face, the man's eyebrows are raised almost comically high and his lips curled up. A subtle movement of clear displeasure. His gun lifts in between them towards Loki's forehead and he sees several men outside take command from their leader's action and raise their guns.
Safety is flicked off and he see's Loki twitch at the sound.
They were all locked in a room. All of them, which means that everywhere else was also unavailable to the other guards. He was literally the only thing between this mission being a success or failure. Who are these people? They'd have to have a good layout of the Raft to know where the guards would be and where Loki was.
These aren't the average bumbling idiots.
Hopefully S.H.I.E.L.D. can get something out of everyone that's unconscious here. If not, they can always send them to Wyoming, a few weeks there and all of them will find it hard to stop talking as they begged to be released.
"What is he doing in here?" General Ross demands, voice rising. "Are you insane? Do you know what he's capable of?"
Cold fury ripples through his stomach and a humorless laugh escapes his lips, does he know? Yes, he is fully aware. General Ross doesn't understand it at all. He's watching from outside when the inside is a nasty battle. His eyes narrow slightly and his fists clench in his frustration, "Yes. I know."
General Ross's stormy gaze moves towards him, "Then why is he here and not in his cell, Agent Barton!?"
Because if he was still there, he would be gone with his would-be-kidnappers.
"There was an attack," Natasha cuts in before Clint can snap out a less pleasant, but no more truthful answer. "He thought it would be better if he was in here." Her voice is calm, but there is a threatening edge to it.
"In here!" Ross demands, his voice is still raised and he jerks his gun slightly in frustration. "That's like tossing a lit match into a gasoline tank and hoping it doesn't blow up! Fury said you were his most trusted confidants, the smartest on your group. What is this? Had a moment of stupidity and oops! Next moment you have half the population wiped out!?"
What does he think that this was? A move made because he enjoys Loki's company? Clint takes a step forward in anger, but Natasha's hand latches onto his shoulder keeping him in place. Her fingers are cold as they wrap around his jacket sleeve, but he stops, forcing out a breath.
He's not going to throttle Ross, even as much as he would like to.
Natasha releases him with a warning look, don't be an idiot.
"Loki's capture was the goal of their," Natasha gestures vaguely towards the fallen men, "break in. We don't know why."
General Ross doesn't look any happier about her assessment and his gaze raises to their faces staring intently at their eyes. Frustration bubbles in him as he realizes what the General is doing: Looking for the clouded blue from that the scepter gives.
"We're not under mind control, General." He grits between his teeth.
General Ross looks skeptical and glances to where Loki is sitting and rather than with a smug smile of pleasure that Clint half expects, his face is blank and he's slightly edged in on himself as if being smaller will somehow protect him from the verbal anger. Coward. Wasn't this what he relished in? Wasn't this what he was so happy about a few weeks ago? What changed? General Ross's lips curl, "I don't know if I can believe that, this was probably an escape attempt made to look like a kidnapping."
With what army!?
It's...absurd. The way he was struggling against those men...that was, as much as Clint hates to admit it, it was real. It wasn't acting. General Ross is paranoid beyond belief that this is somehow manipulation from Loki, apparently the Helicarrier incident struck him deeply. General Ross is terrified of the same effect happening to him, Clint realizes. This wasn't that. It just...wasn't.
"Sir, I really don't think—" Clint starts to say, but Ross's frame seems to snap out and he whirls on him.
"Don't think, eh!? Yeah, you've done quite a bit of that so far. I'll get you kicked off that little "Avenging" team for this ignorance! You're worse than Stark!" This statement is spat out like it can physically wound them. Clint recoils slightly and General Ross storms forward in between himself and his partner grabbing Loki by the front of his shirt and dragging him from the chair.
Clint tenses, prepared for stabbage, but Loki just seems to be startled because his eyebrows twitch up slightly and his frame tightens, unhappily. "And you!" General Ross growls towards him, "What was this, eh? You're second escape attempt!?"
Loki's lips press into a thin line, but he doesn't answer.
"You plan on making another? Let me tell you something; you aren't ever getting out of here, try as you might, you aren't getting out. So what's the next plan, we'll foil it right here." General Ross's anger grows across his features before he shakes Loki aggressively.
Clint's muscles are so taut, it's starting to get painful.
"Answer me, psychopath!"
Loki's silence doesn't break, but the general's patience does and he tosses Loki, sending the blind Asgardian toppling to the floor in a tangled heap of limbs and without looking back turns to stare at himself and Natasha.
"And what about you, Agent Barton?" He demands, his voice sharp and deadly as if he's made a connection he hadn't had before and is pleased with himself, but disgusted to whom the connection is for.
What about him? General Ross continues before he can voice the question: "You were never cleared for missions, were you?"
Yes...his point?
"What of it?" Natasha asks behind him, taking a step closer to his shoulder silently offering support. Clint's fingers clench into fists as Ross's gun swings towards where Loki's crumpled form is, as if the single swing of his arm will answer any question presented to them.
"You're trying to get him out of here! Trying to free your master, Barton? Trying to help the monster behind your strings?"
A cold wave of fury washes through him.
Does the general honestly believe he aligned with Loki because he chose to? That he would rescue Loki after what he did to his head? That everything was for show? He pretended to have the tendrils of magic crawling through his head and eating at him, the haziness that followed for hours after he was released? Yes, it was definitely by choice.
He'd willing rescue Loki because they're best pals.
Natasha may have been quick enough to stop him from leaping at the general earlier, but she doesn't catch his fist before it collides with Ross's nose. A sickening crack echoes through the air as the general stumbles back hand on his nose and he hears guns clicking and shifting towards him.
His left hand is shaking with pain and he clenches his fingers to quell it. General Ross wipes his nose, blood on his hand and looks up eyes wide, "Are you insane?" Clint hisses, ignoring Natasha's look of disapproval, "I would rather have my ears cut off and fed to me than willing work for that again!" He jerks his right hand out towards Loki, and forces a calming breath, but it doesn't help.
What if Loki did somehow force him into helping? What if it was all an elaborate plan so he could see where Clint's loyalty is and he walked ran right into it whooping?
He's going to be sick.
General Ross stares at his hand for another second before he looks up at him, "You wild, uncontrollable pr—"
Clint's seen Fury dissolve entire arguments with two words, seen Natasha stop attacks with a single move, but as far as he can recall back to, he doesn't remember anything silencing a room better than Loki's single word: "Barton."
His voice sounds like he's been swallowing mouthfuls of gravel, had a cold for the last six months, swallowed some spikes then topped it off by inhaling thirteen tons of smoke through two breaths. All in all: terrible. It's gravelly and quiet, but Clint can still hear his accent in it. The off-center-not-quite-British, but nearing it voice that's been haunting his dreams for weeks.
Clint stills.
Didn't he tell the trickster to shut up?
Didn't he tell him to not do anything? Why is he talking to him, Ross shoved him (not like Loki would know that) and, and—
"Barton." More strained, forceful, it sounds worse than before. Clint forces out a breath, a deep exhale and turns to look back at Loki's crumpled, defeated form. His hand is scrambling, as if he can't tell which is up or down before it slams to the ground palm first and he shoves himself to his knees head tilted in their direction. He's squinting, eyes flickering back and forth in a desperate attempt to see something that's clearly failing.
What is he supposed to do? He's not about to bow down and pledge undying loyalty to the Asgardian or...whatever else it is that Loki wants. Clint stares at him, watching for some sort of trick but there isn't anything beyond Loki slowly lifting his hand up to wipe blood from his face with the edge of the dirty sleeve.
The guns cock further and several red lights linger on Loki's forehead. General Ross turns towards Clint, frowning, but a sort of smug sneer on his lips, "He's recruited you again, Agent Barton, welcome back."
No.
No.
No!
Please, oh, please. His breath escapes in a ragged hiss that doesn't come out right and he can't breathe. This can't be that all over again, he can't have walked into some sort of an elaborate trap that now he's trapped in. He can't be stuck.
He's sinking, the cold is seeping into his chest as the edge of a weapon is tilted against it. His arm aches, his head is hurting. He wants out. He wants it to stop, he has to—
Look at the inept idiot as he tries to escape.
Doesn't he know he is trapped now?
Welcome to peace, my friend, here we offer rest.
He doesn't want this rest, he wants to be out to help Fury against whatever came through that portal, the person, there was a person, right? Yes, a tall man, with crazy hair that reminded Clint vaguely of an angry Christmas tree. Out. He wants out. But does he? Someone is speaking, his brain is struggling to understand, but what they're saying makes so much sense.
Stupid little Hawk, thinking he could escape us, we're hungry, always hungry for more,
Laura—
And Tasha—
He can't do this again, he can't—
And you are a feast.
Natasha's hand clamps down on his right shoulder, gripping him as if the muscles in her fingers alone will rescue him from dying. He's not breathing right. Gasping. He needs air.
Air.
Air, air, air.
His partner's hand doesn't lift, grounding him to now, reassuring him that he's not there, it's only a memory. She turns her head slightly, "Since you seem to have this under so much control, we'll be around if you need us." Her voice doesn't have sincerity, and she slides her grip down to his elbow and grabs him, dragging him towards the doorway.
A sharp look towards the men in front of it gives an opening and Natasha pulls him through the small gap and into the hallway towards the left. Clint forces himself to take a breath, and then another the ragged breathing all that he can hear.
He is fine.
It is just a memory.
Breathe, you idiot.
She drags him into a room, empty, but recently vacated and shoves him into a chair as she closes the door with her foot and then releases him. He doesn't want her to, he wants to grasp her to keep him from slipping under again, but he doesn't want to force her.
She becomes a slight flurry of movement for a moment, standing on desks and pulling things down before she flips her phone open, dialing a number and shoves it into his hand as it rings. Confusion washes over him. Who could she possibly have—?
"Nat?" A voice rings through the speaker and relief washes through him a slight strangled sound escaping his throat at his wife's voice.
"Laura." He breathes her name softly and presses the phone against his ear hearing her give a slight hitch of breath.
"Clint?" Her voice is hopeful, reassuring and there.
He nods, though she can't see, "I'm here."
"Clint," He can hear tears in her voice, "you okay?"
He isn't. Their conversation isn't anything of wondrous amazement, but it helps. It relaxes his racing heart, the ugly threads of panic that threaten to eat him whole, and allows him to properly breathe for what feels like the first time in days. As they speak, Natasha drags out a first aid kit and buises herself with cleaning and wrapping the bullet wounds. It aches, but it stops bleeding.
He doesn't want to stop talking to Laura.
But he has to.
They have other things to attend to.
Clint exhales through his nose slightly as they say their goodbyes after nearly fifty minutes before hanging up. He holds the phone in his hand for a moment, quietly grateful for Natasha's quick thinking before looking up at the redhead. She claimed one of the empty chairs about twenty minutes ago and has been sitting there quietly since. Her eyebrows are knit together in concern, but the edges around her eyes soften as she sees his relaxed face.
"Thank you." He says and hands the phone back to her.
She gives a nod and takes the device back from him before shifting in the seat she claimed earlier and clasping her hands together watching him closely. "You okay?" She asks. Is he? He's been running off of adrenaline and high levels of stress since Tony came to get him in Wyoming and he doesn't exactly know what he's feeling anymore.
Drained?
He gives a slight shrug, "Not terrible," he assures, "you?"
Natasha's gaze flickers to the floor and her lips press together tighter, but she exhales and gives a slight shake of her head, "It was supposed to be over." She whispers and looks up, "Red Room." She adds after a moment, "I—"
Natasha's phone gives a loud buzz as Clint's burner follows in the pocket of his jacket. Their eyes meet with some hesitation before they both reach for their respective phones. Clint presses the power button and the screen flickers to life with a single text from a blocked number:
Rooftop.
Natasha lifts her gaze up towards him, "Fury," she says in answer to his unspoken question and he rises to his feet giving her a this conversation is not over look before Natasha flicks her fingers across the screen to text a reply. "I just told him we're on our way."
He nods and mentally braces himself, drawing together his scattered pieces and pushes open the door for Natasha before following after his partner.
Author's Note: Until July 27th! :)