Notes: I am so sorry you guys! The last couple of weeks have been pretty hectic. But, look, a shiny new update for you! And it's a longer chapter to make up for the brief hiatus. See end as always for warnings.
Phil's fingers tapped against his leg. Clint's name, over and over. He was riding in the back of Tony's car, Tony next to him and Happy in the front. Coulson had called in every favour he was owed and offered a few of his own to get them a special pass interview Justin Hammer, despite the late hour. Phil stared out of the window, and watched the darkness flow past.
Tony kept looking at him as they drove up to the prison where Hammer was being held. Phil wasn't sure whether Tony knew he'd noticed or not. He decided to make it easy on him.
"Was there something you wanted?" He didn't look up from Hammer's file. Stark spluttered for a second and then laughed a little.
"Sorry. I know I was staring."
"Yes. You were."
"OCD?"
Trust Tony to just come out and ask.
"Yes."
"Does Barton know?"
"Yes. He's known for about a month."
"How bad is it?"
"It's..." Phil sighed and turned the page in the file, resolutely not looking at Tony. "It's not as good as it could be. I was pretty much asymptomatic before Loki killed me. I needed some routine, but I was coping. Then I died."
"Yeah, well, dying will really screw up your routine."
"Yeah. it will. Since then, I've been having problems. I was just getting under control..."
"When things got messed up again." Phil saw Tony nod out of the corner of his eye and assumed that was the end of it. For a moment, silence fell and it seemed like Phil was right. Then Tony opened his mouth again. "My Dad, he was... he had OCD. He wasn't diagnosed, with anything that specific. And he refused to take anti anxiety pills, he self medicated with whisky instead, but everything had to perfect. His lab was so clean, it was ridiculous. I mean, science is supposed to be messy, but his lab was always spotless. He was the only person I ever met who could work on an engine in a white button down and not get covered in oil."
"I'm sorry."
"No, no. I just... he was an asshole, my dad. But I'm trying to say that I get it. Or at least that I have some... experience. If, you know, you wanted to, whatever."
"Stark, are you offering to be a shoulder to cry on?"
"No! God no! No chick flick moments, dude. Besides, that's what Barton's for. I'm just saying if you need or want anything different, any considerations about the tower, you just have to ask."
"Thanks Tony." Phil was surprised at how raw and open Tony had been with him. He knew the man had to be sincere, and he felt... accepted. Which he hadn't been expecting. He'd spent most of his life hiding this part of himself; it was a shock to see it being taken so well.
They rode in silence the rest of the way.
Clint had dozed uneasily. He wasn't sure what time it was, but it felt late. He was pretty sure it was night time, although he wasn't sure why he thought that. His muscles all ached, but that pain was dwarfed by the pain in his burns and the needle marks under his nails. He just felt tired. He wanted to sleep, long and deep, and wake up in SHIELD Medical, with Coulson by his bed. He smiled humourlessly. It was the first time he'd ever wished to go to medical. Usually he was wishing for a way to avoid it.
The door to the basement room opened and in walked the Head Henchman.
"Awake, are we?" he said, moving to stand in front of the cage. "Get him out."
The guards lifted him out on cue, their touch stern and impersonal. It was getting boring.
"This is getting boring," he said out loud, smirking at the Head Henchman. And really, it was. He was ready to go home now. He was sick of the cage, sick of the pain, sick of the Head Henchman's smug face. He wanted to be rescued, break out of medical and curl up with Phil on their couch. He wanted Phil's fingers in his hair, Phil's voice in his ear. He wanted this to be over.
"That's why we're going to try something different. I do so hate being predictable." He smiled but his eyes stayed cold and hard. Clint shivered. The guards, with no further prompting, disconnected the chain that connected his wrists to his ankles. Clint immediately began to struggle. He whipped his hands up and connected with the jaw of one of the guards. The other three didn't give him chance to take advantage though; they descended on him, pressing him down to the floor. One of them pushed down onto one of his burns and he yelled. Bile came up his throat and he coughed, spitting it down onto the concrete. He hurt.
"Now, Clint," the Head Henchman said, shaking his head. He leaned down to run a hand through Clint's hair. "Where do you think you are going? Do you really think that myself or my dear friends here would let you get anywhere near the door? Really? We removed the connection between your wrists and ankles because you are no threat." He tightened his fingers and tugged hard at Clint's hair, then let go. "String him up."
They dragged his hands up towards the ceiling and padlocked them to a beam above his head. The chain between his ankles was attached to a ring on the floor. His whole body was stretched out. It hurt after so long bent up in a ball. He could just about stand up, if he perched on his tiptoes. He resigned himself to the idea of dislocated shoulders, when his strength gave out. But not yet though. For now, he balanced on his toes and took a deep breath, closing his eyes and centring himself. He could do this. His muscles screamed at him, protesting the stretch, but he ignored the pain and just tried to get his feet as solidly on the floor as he could. It took him a minute to get the balance right, to stop wobbling from side to side. The manacles dug into the skin around his wrists, but that was a small pain, laughable compared with everything else he'd been through lately. When his stance was as solid as he could get it, he opened his eyes. The Head Henchman was directly in front of him. He was sitting in an armchair, his fingers folded in his lap. He smiled when he noticed Clint's eyes were open.
"There you are, Clint. How are you feeling? Do you ache?"
"Fuck you," Clint ground out. Head Henchman stood up and took a step towards Clint, his hand reaching out. He ran his fingers lightly across Clint's ribs and began walking slowly in a circle around him, his fingers following his steps. It felt strangely intimate, even though it was just touching, and all above the waist. Maybe because it was the first gentle touch he'd had in... he wasn't sure how long. Or maybe it was the contrast. His body had become used to pain, and that made this gentleness all the more potent.
"You've suffered so much, my boy. And you know by now they aren't coming for you. That they believe you to be dead." He came to a halt in front of Clint, his hand resting warm and solid of Clint's hip. "It would be in your best interests to co-operate. They won't care that you betrayed them. in fact, they'll never know it was you who talked. How could you? You're dead after all."
"No." He wasn't just thinking of his team. He was thinking of all the Stark Industries employees who worked in the tower, and the non-combatants like Pepper, Darcy, Jane. He had no idea what the Head Henchman and his Boss wanted the codes for, but he knew it could be nothing good. His friends might think he was dead, he couldn't know for sure that they were coming for him. He had no control over that. But, he could control what he said. And he wasn't going to say anything that might put his team, his people, in danger.
"Very well," he sat back down in the arm chair and waved a hand in a lazy gesture to the guards. One of them stepped forward and punched Clint in the kidneys. Hard. Several more blows followed, bruises forming up and down his torso. He kept losing his footing and having to scramble to get solid ground under his toes. Every blow pulled at his shoulders and made fresh blood bloom at his wrists. It was strange, it was the least intense pain he'd been forced to endure the whole time he was here, and yet he felt more vulnerable than he had before. Probably due to the way his body was stretched out. Before, he could curl into himself, try and protect what needs protecting. But now, everything was on display, he couldn't even move.
The beating lasted what felt like forever. Longer than most of the punishments. They switched from hands to thick pieces of wood after a while. They felt to Clint like broom handles, and reminded him of his childhood. He was pretty sure he had a few broken ribs before they were done with those. After that, one of them grabbed an honest to God whip from the table. Clint's whole body shuddered as he approached with it. He'd been whipped a few times before. He'd live through it, but it wasn't the most pleasant experience.
"Wait," the Head Henchman said. He'd been watching proceedings closely from the comfort of his armchair. Clint looked over at him as he spoke and noticed that he'd got a china cup of tea from somewhere, and a plate of biscuits. He rolled his eyes. "Clint, do you have anything to say?"
"Not to you."
"Very well. Proceed." He waved his hand and then took a sip of his tea, shifting in his chair to make himself comfortable.
The whip cracked. Clint screamed. He'd promised himself he wouldn't, but he couldn't help it. Whips had always been one of his worst things. And being unable to pull away, to hide, was worse.
The whip came down again. And again. And again. Clint's whole body went limp. The whip didn't stop. He jerked with each hit and the weight of his body pulled his left shoulder from its socket as he wrenched aside to try and escape the lash.
"Enough." Head Henchman put his cup down and stood up. He waved the guards away, and stood in front of Clint. He reached forward and cupped Clint's chin in his hand. Clint didn't have the energy to pull away. "Look at yourself. Look at what you've put yourself through. And for what? For who? Your friends aren't coming. They don't care about you. You're disposable. A sad little boy with a bow. You're a dime a dozen, Barton. Replaceable. Not like the others. They're all special. You're just filling in the extra space." His fingers tightened on Clint's chin, and his other hand came up to stroke through Clint's hair. "Why do you endure so much for them? For people who take you so muc for granted? For Stark?"
Clint murmured something, but it was difficult to make out. The only words Head Henchman could hear were 'Coulson' and 'Please'. He sighed.
"Leave him strung up. I'll be back in an hour to treat his wounds and bring him down."
"Anthony!" Hammer smirked. He looked thinner, more diminished, in his prison orange. His hands were cuffed in front of him on the table.
"Justin." Tony sat down opposite him, and Coulson did likewise. "This is Agent Coulson."
"Charmed, I'm sure. Any friend of Anthony's is a friend of mine." He grinned smarmily. He wasn't wearing his glasses, Coulson noted. He wondered if the guards considered him a danger to himself or others.
"We have some questions for you, Mr Hammer."
"Of course, of course. But first, the formalities. How are you, Anthony? Well I hope. And the lovely Virginia?"
"I'm fine. Pepper's fine too."
"Good, good. I was beginning to think you weren't going to visit me. After all the years we've been friends."
"We aren't friends, Hammer. You tried to kill me."
"Frenimies then. And I never tried to kill you. That crazy Russian I hired tried to kill you. We have a friendly rivalry thing going on. We have since we were teenagers."
"Oh, is that what we have?"
"Of course. I never wanted you dead. I wanted you defeated."
"Of course."
"Do you know anything about Hawkeye going missing?"
"Hawkeye?" He tilted his head, thinking. "That little sniper you've been spending so much time with?"
"How do you know who I've been spending time with?"
"My dear Edward keeps me informed."
"Edward? You're butler?" Tony snorted.
"Yes, he visits me every Thursday. He takes care of everything I can't from in here."
"So what do you know about Hawkeye going missing?"
"Oh, nothing, of course." He waved a hand as though pushing the idea he could be involved away. "Why would I bother with the little sniper? He's nobody."
Phil's hands clenched into fists and he took a deep breath.
"Are you sure you have no information?" he asked.
"I'm sure. I barely took notice of the little bird. I may have mentioned to Edward how strange it seemed for a man like Anthony to spend so much time with someone like him, but a lot of the people Anthony considers suitable friends or sexual partners, I find strange." He shrugged, and his chains rattled.
"Well, Clint is missing. And we have reason to believe that you are involved."
"Clint, is it?" He smiled. "And what exactly is this evidence?"
"They were using Hammer Tech."
"My company is one of the largest suppliers of military and spy technology in the world. Try again."
"They seem to hate Tony," Phil offered.
"Who doesn't?"
"They must be rich, to hire as many people as they have."
"Many people are rich." Hammer waved a hand again, his chains clinking. "Besides, what could I do from in here?"
Tony and Phil exchanged a look. They'd been so sure. But now they were talking to Hammer, their evidence did seem weak. Besides, Hammer seemed so happy to have the attention.
They asked him a few more questions, but it soon became clear that they were getting nowhere. They decided to head back to the tower and think some more.
Clint held on. He held on and waited. Coulson was coming, he knew. He could feel the lines of fire on his back where the whip had hit and the itchiness of slowly drying blood on his lower back and upper thighs. His breathing was slow and difficult, the broken ribs pressing in. his shoulder screamed at even the slightest motion. But he held on. He had to. Coulson was coming.
Notes: WARNINGS: OCD and mental health issues, of course. Emotions, lots of them. Torture including suspension, beating, whips. The dreaded comfy chair. The reference to Howard as having OCD was inspired by a fic I read a while ago but I can't for the life of me remember where or when I read it. :/ any help in crediting would be much appreciated.
