Author's Note: Oh my goodness! Thank you so much for your support! I'm sorry this took so long, writer's block sucks. ;) Also, it was great fun to learn how many people like cranberries, thanks for your responses guys! =)
Warnings for: Violence and some gore.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Sorry for any grammar/spelling errors.
Chapter Eleven:
"It's gurgling, Clint; is it supposed to be gurgling?" Laura's voice is wary.
Gurgling?
Erm.
That's not good.
Clint presses his lips together, "No." He admits.
Laura gives a sound of distress on the other side of the phone, and Clint can almost see the pressed-lip look of concentration on her face. There's a loud whack and Clint winces slightly for the dishwasher's sake before there's following sound of Laura moving her head, likely shaking it with disagreement at her action. "That didn't help."
"Yeah, I don't think so." Clint agrees and pauses for a second, attempting to figure out what can be done to help the thing. Dishwasher repair wasn't exactly a required course on his S.H.I.E.L.D. training, nor was it a skill he picked up over the years. Honestly, he would probably just toss the thing if he was present; it's older than what is acceptable and it's been pushing it's time away from the grave for long enough. Laura is attached to it, though, because it was her parents and she took it after their death.
She's pushed the thing's lifespan to an admirable amount, but it's well beyond stepped into its grave and waiting to be buried.
"Did you check the motor?" Clint asks, re-positioning the phone as he pauses his pacing.
Laura makes a hum of confirmation. "It was just replaced last year, I don't know why it would be working up."
Because the rest of the dishwasher is older than both of them combined?
Clint bites at his tongue to keep the thought private and continues to pace. What are the other parts of a dishwasher? There's the drain, a timer and other—belts. Clint doesn't think that they've replaced the belt yet. Everything else on the other hand... "What about the belt?"
"The what?"
"The belt." Clint repeats, "Did you check that."
He hears her shifting and there's a slight grunt, "Where is that supposed to be?"
Clint blows out a breath and runs a hand through his hair. He's fairly certain it's next to the motor. With all the times he's worked on the bloody thing, he should know this by now. He's never really bothered to memorize the blueprints of one, though, and he's not even certain the layout of this particular model even exists anymore.
"Try finding the water hose instead," Clint suggests, "it's next to the motor where the belt should be."
Laura pauses, then sighs with defeat. "Clint, I can't take apart a motor. I barely get the lawnmower running without lighting a house on fire."
Clint releases a laugh and lowers his hand to stuff it into his pockets, flicking his gaze up to the clock resting on the bedside table. It's a little after one PM which means that he and Laura have been talking for somewhere close to two hours now.
They've been jumping topics rapidly in an attempt to keep speaking, but he's honestly not certain when the broken dishwasher was brought up. It was probably after Laura finished telling him the story of how Cooper managed to get one of Lila's Polly Pockets stuffed down the sink's drain. According to his wife, Lila was devastated and is currently still not on speaking terms with her brother even after two days.
Laura is a little done with the attitude, but admittedly, Clint finds it funny.
"I don't think it's something that I can talk you through over a mobile." Clint states and hears Laura heave a sigh. The dishwasher hasn't been working for a week and she's not looking forward to washing cutlery. If Clint were back at the house, he would assist with the dishes and attempt to fix her beloved dishwasher, but he's not.
"Well, it wasn't exactly realistic in the first place. My skill resides solely in teaching." Laura states. Clint gives a disagreeing sound, but Laura plows forward. "It'll have to wait until you get home." She stops and both of them go quiet.
It's not something they discuss often, but there's not exactly a rule against bringing it up. Clint doesn't stay home as much as he wishes he could and the times he can slip to Iowa are often brief. Often he feels more like an estranged uncle than a husband and father. Laura however, never complains about it, it's one of the many reasons he loves her.
"Do you know when you'll be able to come back?" Laura asks. He hears her move, then the clunk of something being set down on a hard surface.
No.
He doesn't.
It's impossible to tell right now.
With he and Natasha unable to get in contact with Fury for days and with this "vacation" from the Raft looking a lot longer than originally planned, he can't say. Officially, he hasn't even been cleared out of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s mental hospital yet. He knows that Tony came in waving words around about clearance and permission from Director Fury, but he has yet to see it.
It could be a few more months, and he's dreading this prospect. It's already been five or six months since his last visit, and he honestly doesn't want it to stretch any further. He misses them more than the ache in his chest can accommodate for.
Clint works his lip between his teeth, "I don't." He admits, his voice is quiet.
"...How are things going there?" She asks and Clint releases a heavy breath. They've been texting since Clint was given a phone again, but it's not exactly the same as talking. He's not comfortable discussing this over a mobile neither he does not want to talk about it period.
Loki's…It's...strange.
What is he supposed to think about this? Relief? Anger?
He's confused and he doesn't know exactly how to understand or deal with this. He's been assisting Bruce, yes, but that doesn't mean he knows why. Loki has been his enemy since he saw him for the first time, it wasn't supposed to change.
The entire thing makes him nauseous.
He's seen what torture can do to people, and the scepter is one of the worst ways he knows on how to do that. There's nothing more terrifying than losing control to an unknown source. And despite that, Loki's back and torso was a mess of webbing and burns—it reminded him of Natasha, admittedly. When he met her for the first time and the scars she bore from Red Room.
He doesn't know what he thinks about this, he doesn't want to try processing it, but just ignoring it is nearly impossible.
"Fine." Clint states, his voice doesn't hold the sincerity for the statement.
Laura makes a sound of disbelieving disagreement.
There's little that they haven't already discussed via text. He doesn't want to talk about this any more than he has to. Laura's going to push until he tells, though, so it's just easier to give into defeat. He slides his free hand into his pocket and grips the extra fabric between his thumb and forefinger. "Loki's sight is returning." He reveals.
"What?" Laura says, "Since when?"
"Last night." Clint answers, "Dr. Banner looked into it, but he couldn't see any major improvements. According what Natasha said he said the most they can hope is that it keeps making advancements like this. They're pretty sure it's a side effect from his magic returning."
Which is amazing; they've fueled their possible enemy with a weapon and now he's starting to see his targets again.
Loki was easier to manage when he was blind. Grumpy and not exactly pleasant company, but they didn't have to worry about him wandering off or vanishing.
"Oh." Laura breathes. Clint gives a slight nod of agreement with the assessment. "Oh" indeed. "Did you—" Laura's voice crackles suddenly, the signal jumping and Clint pulls the phone away from his ear in confusion.
He's not exactly certain where Natasha got the phone from, but he didn't question it. He's not out of minutes, is he? Why would the signal suddenly come to a halt?
Clint's thoughts come to an abrupt stopping point as the lights in the room flicker, power humming before snapping off as if shot at. Clint pauses, warily staring up at the ceiling and looks down at his phone again staring at the frozen image of the phone symbol, the time the phone call is frozen at one hour, forty seven minutes.
What is going on?
Is this some sort of system reboot?
He doubts it.
Clint hesitantly ends the call before swiping out a quick text:
"Something's going on. I'll call you when it's safe."
Not sent.
Clint turns the phone off and shoves off as much paranoia as he can as he quickly crosses the room to find his bow. The light filtering in from the windows is plenty to see by even without the power so he doesn't trip over anything on his way over to the other side of the room.
Clint tugs his travel pack open and finds the bow case tugging it out. He flips the latches open and grabs quiver, swinging it over his shoulder just as the emergency lockdown of the Tower falls into place.
Tony briefly explained it to them over the last month, Clint can't recall when exactly, but something about the Tower being able to turn itself into an emergency bunker. Windows becoming covered and access between rooms nearly impossible from the outside. It's like one of those things that seems only probably in movies, but Clint has seen it enough at S.H.I.E.L.D. bases that it doesn't phase him to terribly. The light, however, completely vanishes from view and this isn't welcomed.
What the heck is going on?
They were wary of threats from Hydra, but they haven't had contact with Fury in several days and—what on earth is that smell?
It's some sort of sharp acidic taste mixed heavily with chlorine and a thick perfume.
What is going on!?
Clint staggers forward, pressing a hand against his mouth, gagging.
Door. He's looking for door. Why is he looking for a door? He doesn't like doors. Out. He wants to get out of this room and find someone to explain what's going on. Natasha. He needs to find Natasha and—what is wrong with his brain? His thoughts are suddenly jumbled in a way he can't decipher.
The smell. Is it some sort of gas?
Clint presses a hand against his hand further, taking in short, shallow breaths.
He needs to get to a more open space. He's going to suffocate in here.
Clint's hand slams into a doorknob and he hisses at the pain, but grasps it and tugs backwards. A long, dark hallway greets him in response. It's thick, inky and nearly impossible to see through. If he hadn't already been down this place dozens of times now, he would be at an utter loss on where he is.
The air is less thick with the acidic smell in the hall and Clint moves forward to his right, warily.
He has no idea what's going on, but he has his doubts that this was intentional. What happened to Jarvis? Are the others okay? This...this isn't somehow Loki's doing, is it? He doesn't know what exactly the trickster would have to do to trigger such a response, but he doesn't see it being below him and—
Stop.
What is he doing?
He saw the scars, he himself has tasted the scepter; why is he attempting to pin the blame onto Thor's younger brother without any evidence?
It's easiest, and Loki did run rampage through New York a few months ago. Exactly, months.
Clint moves forward, shaking the thoughts from his head. That doesn't matter at the moment, what does is who actually did it and what the heck they're doing. His muscles are painfully tight and refuse to release from the rush of adrenaline that is grasping him.
He needs it to stop.
Adrenaline is going to slow him.
Clint's footsteps are the only thing he can hear in the stillness, and he doesn't like it. He's grown used to the humming noises of Tony's machines around him. The very Tower itself seems to sing and the lack of its voice is unpleasant. Unwanted.
Clint forces himself to exhale sharply and grimaces at the sharp tang of the smell.
A loud whirring noise sounds behind him and Clint spins, startled and barely sees the repulsor blast in time to dodge it. He rolls to his feet and stares at Tony incredulously. The man is completely covered in the Iron Man suit and it's glowing in a way Clint is honesty impressed he missed. The arc reactor isn't exactly dull light.
"Tony!" Clint hisses, relief wrapping around his anxiety like a warm blanket. Tony should know what's going on. This is his tower, he might have access to Jarvis and the outside world or—
Clint dodges the fist by instinct more than thought.
What on the—?
The repulsur blast smashes into the wall behind him and singes the paint.
"Tony!" Clint repeats, "What are you doing? I'm on your side!"
Tony ignores him, taking a swing towards his face. Clint dodges that by turning to the left so Tony's hand slams into the wall. What is happening?
"Insufficient data." Tony hisses. His voice sounds strangely raspy and...wrong. Usually there's a life to it, but now it sounds metallic and removed of all color. It makes Clint more wary than he already is.
Data.
What data?
What is going on?
The Iron Man fist smashes into his gut abruptly and Clint releases a loud hiss of pain as he feels something grind inside of him.
Bloody—
He can't fight the Iron Man suit hand-to-hand, nor does he have time to draw his bow and find something that will actually be helpful for this situation. Fortunately, he doesn't have to. Tony slams him against the wall and lifts his repulser towards Clint's face.
His breath is not returning the way he needs it to, something feels broken along his ribs.
"A machine does not offer clemency." Tony states lifelessly.
The repulser starts to whir and Clint panics.
He doesn't want to die. He has no idea what's going on. He needs an escape. Think. He can't take an elevator because the powers out and he doesn't know where any stairs are, but—vents. There are vents in this building and since it's and office building (technically) they're big enough for human bodies to shuffle through.
He can feel a draft coming from somewhere above him. To his left. He needs to move quickly and escape Tony's grip, but something needs to remove the lock on the cover. He doesn't have time to unscrew the nails...like a repulser blast. He flicks his gaze up to the ceiling and faintly sees the outline of the shaft from the glow of the arc reactor. Clint twists in Tony's grip and slams his feet against Tony's chest leaning back against the wall.
The force of the blow knocks him backwards and the repulsor blast goes flying up towards the ceiling as Clint makes a leap for the vent. The blast smashes against the vent, as intended, and the nails break letting the cover swing open. With either a great deal of luck or mercy being bestowed upon him, Clint's fingers manage to grip the broken grating from Tony's miss.
He tugs his weight upwards, ignoring his ribs and manages to scramble into the shaft. The metal is slippery beneath his fingers and the fetid smell even more prominent. Clint's hands slide and panic scrapes through his stomach. He has no idea what's going on, but something is wrong with his teammate. He doesn't know—nor does he want to find out—what will happen if he and Tony become within touching distance again.
"That was painful!" Tony calls up at him, his voice still that horrid monotone. "Clemency is not offered to the cowardly, come down and fight me."
He hears the repulser being charged again. Whatever seems to have infected the Tower also slowed Tony's equipment. He needs to get out of the way and quickly.
Clint forces himself to scramble up, but the faint pain from the bullet wounds a few weeks ago flares suddenly and his ribs aren't helping anything. Move, you idiot, or die.
Clint shoves upwards and his fingers slam onto the edge of a horizontal vent. Clint grips it and swings his other hand onto the ledge and tugs himself up onto the metal shaft crawling forward on his stomach as the blast smacks into the roof of the vent. The sound vertebrates throughout the space and Clint winces, his hearing aids growing uncomfortably tight for a moment.
Clint exhales quietly in and out of his nose, attempting to keep his breaths short as his head fogs from the malodorous stench.
His hands are shaking slightly and his ribcage is pulsing from pain.
Oh, gosh, he has no idea what he needs to do.
Clint squeezes his eyes shut and forces out a breath. The awful smell wracks through his nose as he inhales again.
Does he move forward? Attempt to talk to Tony? Find the others? What the heck does he do now?
Draw conclusions. Coulson's voice rings through his head suddenly, as clear as if he was whispering it to him; the memory sharp at the forefront of his mind. What have you discovered so far, work with that. You aren't always going to get all the evidence you need.
Conclusions.
Right.
Well. The power's out, the building is on lockdown, he can't find anyone but Tony—who just tried to kill him, and he's locked in a ventilation system with some sort of gas that's make it hard to focus or think straight.
What does he need to do? Find a source, a reasoning, and the others. Are all of them like Tony, or has something happened to the only the multi-billionaire? He's in the ventilation and he needs to move quickly so Tony's scanners (if they're still working) don't pick him up and give Tony a reason to join him.
Where does he go?—is that even a question? Anywhere from here.
000o000
He doesn't know how long he stays in the vents, but by the time he finds another grate, his entire body is stiff and sore from crawling and awkwardly shuffling himself between the shafts without slipping and accidentally falling to a broken bone or a snapped neck. His mind is beyond scattered now, and focus is a distant dream. His senses are heightened unpleasantly and there's some sort of haze to his vision that he doesn't understand. It's the drug, though, that much he can grasp easily enough.
The room he dropped into isn't one he knows right off the bat. It's dark—so dark it's thick and strangely suffocating. His breaths are coming out quietly, but they sound as though he is exhaling into a microphone. Echoing out around him. This is ridiculous, he's not even breathing any louder than normal.
Clint forces his fraying nerves to settle. This is fine. He just has to find someone, and then they can explain what's going on. Hopefully.
This is not normal.
Tony's—
Clint trudges forward, swinging his collapsed bow into his hands and snapping it out. He swings an arrow from his quiver and moves forward with his stiff muscles.
Breathe, you idiot.
He's had enough experience with S.H.I.E.L.D. to realize when something's gone south, and this seems to be a little beyond reaching that point. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and forces himself to shove the thoughts to the side.
He's just paranoid and this is all just some sort of—That was definitely a footstep.
Clint stills, lifting his bow and straining his ears. Where did it come from? It sounded to his left, but it was so faint it really could have been anything. Only, people who assume as such either die or get impaled, and Coulson grilled that enough into his head he's not shoving it off as paranoia.
The sound doesn't repeat, and Clint takes another hesitant step. His heart is beating do rapidly in his ears it's hard to focus on anything else. Is it Tony? Did he find him? Is he here for round two? At least this time he'll have a better chance at defense with his bow actually out in the open instead of strapped against his quiver.
There's a slight shing of metal whipping through the air behind him and Clint spins to lift his bow as the glint of metal slams onto it. Without his block, it would have landed between his eyes. That would have been gross. And bloody. He doesn't like blood, it makes him sick and it smells weird and—
Pay attention!
Clint shoves back against the weapon, but his opponent draws back suddenly and a hand loops around the bow to slam against his ribcage. Agh! Pain explodes across his vision and his already cracked or broken ribs painfully hiss at the action. Air escapes him soundlessly and he grits his teeth, twisting his hands to catch the arm between his bow string. Now captured and with the advantage, Clint advances.
He pulls the assailant forward and rams his knee up to meet the head, then twists his bow to drag the hand behind their back, spinning the point of an arrow up and slamming it into the back of his assailant. The bounce on the string has snapped and he's not going to be able to use it until he replaces that.
He needs to get a staff. Staff's would be helpful, but he doesn't really like the unbalanced feel of how long they are. It's hard to focus on both sides without the—
Clint.
A pained hiss escapes his attacker before the sharp pin prick of a blade slices the string and snaps the person free. The bow is ripped from his grip forcefully, clattering to his left before he's shoved forward and hits the ground, his head thwauping painfully. His vision fuzzes and the air refuses to return as the blade of a weapon placed at his throat. He hears something else clatter behind him, but he doesn't know what it is and can't focus enough to determine it.
A bright greenish light explodes across his vision and Clint lifts his hands in an attempt to block it as he squeezes his eyes shut with pain. Bright lights should be a form a of torture, it's absolutely ridiculous how painful they are. He's been stabbed before and it hurts less than getting a light suddenly turned on when he wasn't expecting it and—
The blade draws back suddenly and there's a following sharp inhale. The pressure of the hand against his chest eases. "Barton?"
Wait.
Clint stills, then pulls his eyes open. The light offers enough to see about five feet around them, but his gaze isn't really needed to identify the person hovering over him. Clint's tongue is tangled, but nonetheless he manages to squeeze the two syllables out: "Loki?"
His hair is slightly damp and tangled around his pale face and he's wearing one of Thor's hoodies, but the relief and surprise on his face is what catches Clint's focus. His clouded green-gray eyes are wide with fear, wariness, and shadowed. He hasn't been sleeping the last few nights—or sleeping little—and he looks very on edge.
Loki's hand draws back the dagger and it sheathes into an invisible pocket of some sort. Clint notes the long cuts across Loki's palms as if he missed where he wanted to slice down several times with his blade. Loki draws back from his position and runs a bloody hand through his hair. He looks strangely scrambled. "My apologies—I thought—" Loki's voice cuts and he exhales through his teeth.
Thought. He thought that Clint was something else, which means that he knows more than Clint does.
His head is fuzzy.
He doesn't want the pink scarf being shoved towards this face.
Clint shoves at it to make the strange sensation go away and forces himself into a sitting position. It makes the whole world spin suddenly, and his ribcage explode with further pain. He hunches and he feels Loki's hand shift slightly as if to prod at him and panic slides through him. He doesn't want to be touched by Loki—he's going to kill him, or make the scepter come back and stuff a cold murderer back inside of him and—
"Thought what?" Clint demands forcing himself to focus and put the building hysteria to the side. It's impossible, he doesn't want to associate with Loki and is that a dagger or—"Do you know what's going on? Have you seen the others?"
Loki shakes his head, "No. I'm blind, Agent Barton; in case that slipped your memory."
Right.
Clint scrambles to his feet, flicking his gaze out across the room looking for his bow. He needs a weapon incase Loki suddenly turns violently and—oh, gosh, how can anyone think through headaches? Everything is fuzzy and weirdly echoing and—he needs Loki to stand down.
"Agent Barton, I-I don't understand what is happening—"
Neither does he!? Does anyone!? He would love to have flipping signs pointing him in the direction of how to find answers! Clint flicks his gaze up to him. Loki's agitation is visible through his hazy sight, but he can't— "I don't know! Tony just tried to kill me and you're going to be next in that regard and—Agh!"
Pain ripples through his chest, then his head, furthering the headache and weird sensation of floating further. His senses prickle with intensity making him suddenly aware of thick smell of metal and blood present in this room, as well as Loki's quickened breathing. Someone is laughing in the background at him and he can't stand it.
"Look at him. Still not very good at aiming, are we Trickshot, eh?"
"Bumbling fool."
"Would have been put to better use cleaning up."
No—stop it. He can't go back, he isn't going back, he's supposed to be with S.H.I.E.L.D. now and Natasha, Coulson and—Laura. S.H.I.E.L.D. keeps Laura safe and—
Something grabs his arm, but it burns with a fiery intensity he's never felt before. Clint lashes out, slamming a fist against the hand to bat at it, his hands scrambling for a weapon. Dagger. He has a dagger on his leg. Clint rips it out and swipes it towards the foe he can't see anymore. His vision is fuzzing, but bright light is pouring into them painfully.
Stripes.
He sees stripes and fabric and—
He can't be back here.
"Clint!" Natasha's voice rings out, pain filled and worried. Clint turns in an attempt to spot her, but he doesn't. "Clint, help me!"
"Tasha!" Clint cries out.
Where is she!?
"Let her go!"
"Bumbling fool."
"Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!"
"You always were a bit daft."
"Clint!"
"Tasha, I can't—"
"Daddy!"
Lila.
"Daddy—I'm scared."
Oh, gosh, they have his daughter and he can't do this anymore because—He needs to find the—
"How quaint, she's adorable when she squirms, is she not, little hawk?"
"Daddy!"
Loki—that—
The burning sensation of a hand lands on his arm again, but he doesn't have time to shove it off before icy chill sweeps through his veins shooting up from his toes to his head. The sensation is powerful, and the blurring colors of circus tents and the screaming people behind him are ripped from his mind with force.
Clint staggers as his vision clears, before falling to his knees as he can't hold his weight anymore. His ribs are burning and his entire body aching and trembling. His slick with sweat and he can't breathe right. Something is wrong inside of him and he doesn't—he doesn't understand. What just happened, where did all of the tents and the Ringmaster and Lila and—
His stomach lurches and he leans forward heaving. It doesn't help his aching ribcage, but it does assist with the choking nausea. He tastes blood across the vomit. His hands are shaking and he wraps them around his stomach, carefully aware of his ribs.
A eldritch hand lightly touches his back and Clint jumps, whirling in his position to stare back and Loki who is standing behind him, his fist still glowing with the light that is useless to him. His expression is pinched and his eyebrows are knit with something that looks close to concern.
Clint's breaths escape as gasps.
"What did you do!?" He demands, hand scrambling for the dagger he knows he dropped somewhere around here.
"Me?" Loki sounds incredulous.
"Who ELSE!?" Clint roars, his vision spinning and his fingers wrap around hilt of the weapon. He leaps at the Asgardian, but Loki side steps him and flicks his hand out. Ice shoots from the tip of the weapon to Clint's fingers and he drops it with surprise. When the weapon hits the ground, the metal shatters from impact.
What the bloody—?
Loki kneels down next to him and grabs his shoulders. His fingers are unpleasant and unwanted, but strangely securing from the floating sensation. "Barton," Loki's voice is tinted with anxiety, "I need to you listen to me—"
"I don't want to hear a flipping—"
"Clint." Loki presses, "Listen. You were under the influence of a very powerful—oh, Norns what do you call it here!?" Loki hisses something in Aardent, "Drug! Drug. I forced it from your system, but it's going to take another minute or so to wear off. I had nothing to do with this."
Clint attempts to squirm from his grip, but Loki's fingers don't waver.
His headache is dulling and the messy anxiety building in his stomach is untwisting.
Drug.
The smell.
He decided it was some sort of drug, but he didn't do anything about it.
Idiot!
Clint's breathing slows and exhaustion takes its place. He squeezes his eyes shut and forces himself to focus on Loki's hands. Not who they belong to, but just that they're there. His hands are freezing, his shoulders are going numb from the tightness of his grip.
When Clint has gathered as much of himself as he can, he opens his eyes and meets Loki's blank ones.
Loki's fingers are still glowing, but instead of there being some sort of floating ball or something else arrayed like that from Harry Potter, every vein along his finger seems to have illuminated itself. It's strange and slightly disgusting.
He forces himself to swallow the tangle of words in his throat. "Thank you."
Loki gives a slight nod, but looks reluctant to pull his hands back.
"What did you do?" Clint questions curiously.
Loki's lips thin slightly, but he releases a breath. "Lady Romanov attempted to remove Dr. Banner's head, but Thor and I managed to stop her. Then there was some sort of acidic smell—which I suspect was the drug and Thor and Dr. Banner started muttering and Dr. Banner started to release the beast and Thor attacked me and—I put them to sleep, with sorcery. I am unaffected by this drug because of my sorcery. I don't know why. I left an illusion to watch Thor, Dr. Banner and Lady Romanov."
Natasha was taken by whatever this is.
He almost was to. Thor and Bruce were as well.
Clint pauses for a second, then presses, "How does this relate to what you did to get it out of me?"
"I…" Loki hesitates, and a strange expression flicks across his face, "forced the drug out of your system by releasing some of my sorcery into your bloodstream."
His stomach drops.
"What!?" Clint hisses, "Get it out!" He demands lifting his hands and scrubbing at his forearms like he can force the foul substance from him. "Get it out!"
"It already is." Loki bites, "You vomited, yes?"
"Yes." Clint answers through gritted teeth.
"Then you removed it. Your human frame can't handle the waves of power flowing through my veins. It is why Midgard's sorcerers are never inborn. It's gone, I checked." Loki assures.
Oh. Well. Great.
This can't be happening.
Clint shoves out of Loki's grip and scrambles to his feet. He sways slightly, but manages to find his footing. Loki rises next to him and Clint runs a hand through his hair, releasing an agitated sound. Loki's gaze rests on him, but Clint can see from the glazed look he isn't seeing anything. Clint pinches the bridge of his nose firmly. "What are we supposed to do?" Clint demands, "Everyone is trying to kill us and we don't even know why."
"I sensed over fifty life-forms enter the building before the—ah, attack." Loki offers, and Clint whirls on him. He can do that? Since when? It doesn't matter right now, he can contemplate that at a later date.
Fifty.
This is definitely an attack, then, and Clint is guessing that it's Hydra. But how did they learn? They were all painfully careful to keep Loki's (and the rest of the team's) presence confidential. Two of them can't fight against fifty well-trained Hydra agents. They aren't idiots either, they thought about how to keep them confined and released the drug. What are they here for, though? An assassination? Or—Clint's gaze lands on Loki and he releases a quiet cuss.
"What?" Loki demands.
"This is a kidnapping." He states, the words sound unwelcomed on his tongue. Loki looks confused. "For you." Clint clarifies. Loki's fists clench tightly, but his face remains impassive. He does make a quiet "oh" noise. "That's great. Yeah, okay, swell." Clint runs a hand through his messy hair again and bites at his tongue heavily.
"We need to find Steve." He decides, neither one of them has come across the Super Soldier yet and they need to determine his mind set. Can he be affected by the drugs—Thor was. But—he and Bruce were starting to lose their focus almost immediately. Clint had been wandering on his own for at least twenty-twenty five minutes before he slipped. Why? Different dosages?
Steve.
They need to find Steve.
Loki releases a breath, "If you give me a moment, I can locate his magical signature."
Clint's eyebrows lift slightly of their own accord. He's been reassured of Loki's returning sorcery, but he didn't really realize how many areas it can effect, he didn't see much of its use during the Attack on New York.
Clint waits.
About a minute later, Loki's head tilts to the right of what looks like it's own accord. He turns to Clint, "How did you get in here? We need to follow that path. The halls are a mess of the prowling soldiers."
"Vents." Clint answers.
"They're big enough for human bodies now?" Loki sounds skeptical.
Clint huffs slightly, moving back towards where he's fairly certain it was and hears Loki trail after him bringing the light. "Sometimes. I'm not fighting any more than I have to. C'mon Magical-Stuff."
000o000
In hindsight, putting a blind man in charge of navigating a ventilation shaft was probably one of the most idiotic things he's done to date. Loki kept ramming into things unintentionally, or almost sliding off into a vertical drop without prior knowledge of their existence. After a painful few minutes, seven—maybe less—Loki lays a hand flat onto the space beneath him, the grate opening to another room.
"We're above him." Loki whispers back at Clint, "I'm going to create space for us to drop down from."
Clint gives a quiet noise of confirmation. Tony's going to be unhappy when he wakes up to find that, though. It's either that or dying, so Clint's fairly certain that Tony will understand.
Loki gently slides a piece of the reinforced steel onto the space across from them, then releases a quiet breath. Clint can pick out the sounds of metal slamming against flesh and it doesn't sound exactly pleasant.
Loki's head swivels back towards him again, "Do you have a weapon?" He hisses.
Clint's hands draw towards the usual positioning of his bow and freezes. Loki broke it during their scramble and Clint left it in the room they fought in. Dang it. The dagger is laying in a million shards across the same floor. He has a few other small weapons on his boots, but this isn't his S.H.I.E.L.D. issued suit where nearly every inch is covered in something that can be used for defense or offense.
He's wearing a jacket, a T-shirt and sweatpants with boots. He isn't exactly dressed for battle.
Loki twists with an impressive feat of flexibility, and shoves something towards him. Clint reaches up a hand from where he's laying on his stomach to grab it and feels the smooth hilt of a dagger. It's wrapped in leather, but the ends are a reinforced steel or metal.
Where did Loki get all these weapons? He was searched before he was stuffed into the Raft and Clint can't recall anyone giving him one.
Loki exhales through his nose before shifting forward some more and awkwardly slipping out of the newly created hole from where the grating should be and disappears into the darkness below. Clint shifts forward and follows the Asgardian's suit. His ribs are aching in a way that isn't exactly comfortable, but is familiar enough now that he can focus on something else.
The metallic shing is stronger now and Clint can fuzzily make out two figures towards the end of the hall. One of them is leaning over the other, slamming a fist against them. Beside him, Loki lifts his hands and makes some sort of hand gesture before flicking his hand out. A long stream of dulled white light shoots across the space from Loki to the end of the hall, revealing an elevator that the light stops at.
Clint's eyes struggle to adjust, but when they do he inhales sharply.
A dark haired man is standing over a bloodied Steve, his eyes shadowed but stance tight and threatening. His left fist is encased in or is medal and raised over Steve. A strange sort of squirming protective anger rises in him and Clint flings the dagger forward before he really processes what he's doing. The weapon slams into Steve's attackers shoulder and he lets out a low hiss.
He looks familiar.
Clint can't place from where.
"I can't see—" Loki's voice is a quickened whisper, "—what is going on?"
"Steve's being attacked," Clint answers, moving forward towards the man. Loki follows his footfalls, but he doesn't sound certain of what he's doing. The Hydra soldier removes the dagger from his shoulder and narrows his eyes angrily towards Clint and Loki.
Clint spots Steve's shield laying dormant a few feet from them, and presses his toe against the edge kicking it up into his hand. He has no idea what he plans on doing. He's exhausted, unarmored, without a weapon and his ribs are straining to hold his skeleton together. He's not exactly fit for hand-to-hand at the moment.
Nonetheless, he's been assured throughout his lifetime at his lack of genius.
Clint leaps into the awaiting attack with brutal force and quickly learns to regret his decision. The Hydra soldier is well trained and matches his skill level—if not surpasses it. Clint is one of the few people in S.H.I.E.L.D. beyond perhaps Fury, Coulson and a few others who can fight Natasha to a stand-still. His skill is not low.
This soldier's is beyond that.
If he'd had all his ribs intact, actual body armor and a weapon beyond a glorified frisbee, he probably would have stood a better chance. As it is, he manages to lay a few hits and steal one of the guns off the soldier's person before getting brutally rebutted. He hears at least two ribs snap from the force of one of the blows before a cold metallic hand wraps around his throat and squeezes, dragging him from the ground.
He squirms lightly, kicking out, but his body is exhausted and his mind is rearing with panic.
He is going to die.
His breath is escaping without his permission via the building panic and the pressure is growing tighter, and tighter, and tighter and—
The hand releases him suddenly and Clint tumbles to the ground, gasping.
The soldier is on his knees, eyes wide and expression horrified as Loki, standing strangely close to them both, flexes his fingers. The man twitches further, a terrified wheeze escaping him. Loki turns to him and kneels. His other hand is still moving rapidly and the soldier keeps gasping like he's dying.
"What...are...you...doing?" He gasps out, his eyes remaining fixed on the brunet man.
Loki's jaw clicks slightly, "Caught in a bad memory, I suppose." He says it lightly, and Clint isn't certain he wants to understand what Loki means by it. The Asgardian's freehand moves and scrambles slightly. His fingers grip Clint's shoulder, than the back of his head then his neck, but Clint is too exhausted to really care what he's doing. A cool sensation spreads across the burn of the strangle and Clint realizes after a moment that Loki is healing him.
What...?
"We need to move, I can sense others rapidly coming towards our position. Where is the nearest exit?" Loki demands, pulling his hand back.
He doesn't know. A window maybe? That's over forty flights and he doesn't exactly think any of them would survive that except Loki. Oh, gosh—Steve.
He flicks his gaze up and Loki seems to read his mind. "I sedated him," Loki says, "I can't offer any assistance without more time. Think, Hawk, where."
"He's alive?" Clint demands, ignoring the question.
"Barely." Loki states.
Relief washes through him, easing the knot.
"Where?"
"The garage." Clint blurts. It's on the first floor and has access to at least three exits that he knows off; and they can move faster in a car. He grabs at Loki's forearm. "We can't take everyone." He says, wary to admit it. They don't have time to collect Thor, Bruce, Tony or Natasha. They can only take Steve with them. He doesn't know where all the Hydra agents are and he's not in any condition to fight. They either die trying, or they escape and bring back help.
He doesn't want to leave them, but they don't have any other choice.
"I'm not leaving Thor." Loki says heatedly, "He's my brother, I can't—"
"I don't want to do it any more than you do!" Clint hisses, his patience drawing thin. "We can come back for them. We'll bring back help, I promise, but I can't do anything, Steve's unconscious, and you're blind. We're helpless, Loki, alright? There is nothing we can do."
Loki hisses. A deep throaty sound that makes Clint rear back from him his mind screaming "threat!". Clint has heard many times about a snake being associated with the trickster, but he didn't really believe the analogy until now.
"I won't."
"We have to."
"We can collect them—"
"There isn't any time!" Clint explodes, "We're pushing it with hoping we can get out. They're here for you Loki, in case that slipped your mind. If we take you out of here, they might leave them alone. We have to leave." Where they'll go isn't a question he wants to think about right now.
Loki stops, and clenches his fists. They're slick with blood and Clint suddenly remembers the deep cuts he saw on them. The Hydra soldier crumples as the spell, enchantment—whatever it was that Loki did stops.
"Fine." Loki hisses, "If my brother dies because of this, I will hold it on your head and I promise by the Norns my wrath will not be a pleasant one."
Clint glances at the twitching soldier.
He doesn't doubt it.
000o000
After Loki drags Steve's weight into his arms, Clint and him mostly by accident discover that the elevator is indeed still functioning. Loki puts the Hydra soldier to sleep with some sort of spell before they step into the elevator.
Without Jarvis's persistent pestering, it seems strangely empty.
Loki leans back against the wall and Clint notices for the first time how fatigued he looks. He's been a continuous bundle of energy jumping from one thing to another and Clint hasn't thought twice on it. His hair is slick with sweat and with the emergency lights in the elevator, Clint can see a little more blood that he feels comfortable with smeared across the trickster's clothing.
Before he gets a chance to ask on it, the doors open and reveal the garage. This room, unlike the rest of the Tower is brightly lit to the point it's almost painful. Clint winces and blinks several times attempting to adjust. He and Loki step from the elevator and Loki adjusts his grip on Steve. The Super Solider doesn't look any better than the rest of them, but the in particular left side of his face is swollen and caked with broken skin. Clint is grateful that Steve isn't awake to feel it.
Unlike the rest of the Tower, however, this room is crawling with Hydra agents. They're standing in teams of two watching forward vaguely, and a few are standing in groups. Everyone is completely silent.
Clint stills next to the elevator doors, his eyes rapidly jumping across the room looking for one of the exits. Tony's cars are all lined next to each other in neat little rows, but they need one without a ceiling because Clint has no idea where the multi-billionaire keeps his keys.
There! Towards the end of the room is a bright red convertible. Not something he would drive of his own violation, but he's honestly not surprised that Tony owns it. Clint lightly nudges Loki with his elbow and Loki's head turns towards him.
Clint takes a step forward and every gun in the room save the one on Clint's person from the Hydra solider raises in their direction.
Clint forces a smile to spread on his lips, "Ah—hi."
None of them look amused. One steps forward, the black helmet covering their face impossible to make out an expression. "Clint Barton, Loki, you are under arrest for withholding a fugitive and attempted subjugation."
Quiver.
He still has his quiver.
Clint releases a sigh and slowly moves his hands towards his back, fingers twisting the slots manually to get the arrow head he wants. "I didn't have any plans to be arrested today," he says mournfully as a distraction. "Can we try this another time?"
In response, the leader fires a bullet towards his head.
Yeah, okay, sounds about right.
Clint draws the arrow from his quiver and throws it. It lands with a clatter and thick smoke explodes from the head. Not wasting the brief advantage, Clint grasps Loki's shoulder and tugs him towards the car. Loki's feet scramble, but he manages to follow.
Bullet fling in their direction, but miss.
They reach the car in under a minute and Loki lays Steve on the backseat as Clint scrambles into the passenger. He lifts his gun and fires a shot off into the fog and hears it make its mark as someone releases a cry. Loki scrambles in beside him and Clint turns to ask him if he knows how to drive before a boot slams into his face.
A loud grunt escapes him and he tumbles backwards, slamming into Loki's boney shoulder.
His vision spins, but he sees the firey red hair of Natasha.
"You ABANDONED me! I just wanted to play!" She wails.
What?
"Play!" She cries, drawing a dagger and leaning in towards Clint's face, her breathing is rapid and her eyes red and dilated. The drug. He'd almost forgotten about it, admittedly. She's still under the influence of it.
She attempts to swing the dagger towards Clint's face, but Loki's hand wraps around her forearm. He twists it and presses his fingers against her skin. Clint sees the surge of light ripple through her skin. Less than two seconds later, Natasha's eyes roll back and she topples to the left, crumpling into the backseat.
"She's coming with us." Clint declares.
"Obviously." Loki grits between clenched teeth.
A round of bullets makes them both duck and Clint turns to twist the keys for the ignition and sees it empty. Keys. He doesn't know where they are. They're trapped because he forgot you need them to start a car. This is perfect. Just amazing.
Clint curses, then turns to look at Loki. "We don't have any keys."
"What?" Loki sounds incredulous, "What on the Nine do you need keys for?"
"To start the stupid thing!"
"Keys!?"
A bullet flies dangerously close to the mirror on Clint's side and he can see Loki's expression flicker with panic. He lifts his hands and strains his fingers. Green light whirs from the tips and slams into the dashboard vanishing within. A moment later, the car roars to lift and Clint blinks at him. Well. That happened.
He can steal literally any car without a problem.
What on the—focus.
Clint sits up and lifts his hands and returns fire twice before slamming back down into the seat. Loki is still staring at him, working his lip between his teeth. "I don't—I don't know how to operate one of these."
Clint resists the very strong urge to slam his head against the windshield. "This is just excellent," he mutters to himself, "I put a blind guy in charge of driving who hasn't even touched a steering wheel in his life before."
If Natasha doesn't beat her to it, Laura is going to strangle him.
Clint squeezes his eyes shut, "There's three petals down next to your feet, the one on the far right will make the car go, the middle is the brake and far left is the clutch. Use the one on the right and drive forward."
Clint slams his elbow along the gear lever and drags it into drive.
He rises to his feet as Loki slams his foot down on the gas. Clint lurches forwards, nearly tumbling into the backseat on top of Natasha and Steve. Tony is a speeder. He enhances his vehicles to achieve that for him. This is an unwelcomed realization.
Clint ducks from a wave of bullets then lifts his arm up to return fire. The shock of the blast wracks up his arm unpleasantly. This is why using two hands is recommended. It hurts less.
Loki is murmuring something to himself in his mother tongue and Clint's fairly certain that it's quiet reassurances. Loki jerks the wheel to the right suddenly to avoid hitting one of Tony's other cars and Clint slams his leg into the edge of the car.
Agh!
He is going to be very bruised and sore tomorrow.
If they make it to tomorrow.
"There's something blocking the exit," Loki announces, his tone strangely tight, "what am I to do?"
Clint grabs an arrow from his quiver, setting the timer for the explosion and tossing it back towards their pursuers. It explodes and sends others ducking for cover.
"Barton!"
"I don't know!" He admits, his tone is unnaturally shrill. "I can't break through the flipping steel with one of my arrows—we're trapped."
Loki jerkily avoids another car and Clint can see the end outline of the garage door in the distance. Sealed and locked down. They have about thirty feet before they hit it head on.
For the love of—
Loki releases the steering wheel with one hand and throws his hand out. Clint doesn't see any sort of light or announcement that the action was anything more than anxious twitching. They approach the door. Clint squeezes his eyes shut and ducks into the seat quietly pleading with anyone listening to not let them die on impact.
"Loki..."
"Shut up!"
"Loki!"
"I said shut up!"
They reach the door and slam into it. Instead of the deadly impact that Clint was expecting, there's a wet sound before a splatter of black-gray paint splashes onto him and across the car. What the!?
Clint stares at Loki, "What did you do?"
"Matter transfiguration." Loki hisses between clenched teeth as if it's the most obvious thing in the planet and swipes his hand. The paint covering the windshield washes off instantly and Loki jerks the wheel heavily to the right as he barely manages to squeeze into oncoming traffic.
"Where am I supposed to be going?" Loki demands, weaving between cars with skill that Clint didn't really expect him capable of. Shadows, Clint recalls suddenly. He's seeing shadows. He can still sort of make out their surroundings.
Clint risks a glance behind them and spots a car emerge from the garage-paint door.
"Ugh—um," Clint's words are slurring in his throat and he doesn't know how to stop it. He didn't really plan out this far, admittedly. "Left." He announces and Loki jerks the wheel in that direction. A horn honks loudly in response and he hears someone give a loud cry of annoyance.
They need to get out of the city, at least, then see if they can get in contact with Fury.
The car. He needs to stop the pursuing car. He only has what? two bullets left now?
Clint forces himself to turn and scans for the Hydra car. He spots it a moment later quickly working through the traffic. Clint lifts his hand up and aims pulling the trigger but Loki jerks to the right abruptly, sending it off course. It slams into a building instead.
Clint hisses, "I missed."
"You never miss." Loki says firmly.
Clint whirls on him. "Of course I don't. You're a terrible driver!"
"I beg your pardon?"
"You're going to get us and everyone else killed."
"I haven't done it yet." Loki defends with bite.
Clint groans. "You really are only good at rampaging cities."
Loki's expression turns ugly. "I was hardly trying!"
"Sure. Whatever you need to tell yourself to soothe your massive ego."
Loki chokes and opens his mouth to retort, but abruptly slams down on the brake. Clint slams into the seat. Despite how expensive the car is, their seats are not padded enough for cracked ribs. A hiss of agony escapes him and his vision fuzzes. He turns to look at Loki, scowling. He swears, if this is just some sort of paypack he's going to lose it.
"What the flipping—"
"I can't see Thor."
"What? You left the room over twenty minutes ago!"
"I can't see them." Loki's fingers tighten around the steering wheel. "Someone broke my illusion."
Oh.
Great.
Clint grabs his shoulder, "We have to keep moving. I'm sorry." They're his team too.
Loki's expression flickers with a dozen emotions, none that Clint can exactly place before he slams on the gas pedal and rockets them forward. They make it about a dozen feet before a loud explosion rings and the car goes flying.
Clint hears himself exhale and his heart beat rapidly in his chest before a strange sort of sensation wraps around him and a blinding light ripples through the air. Crackling electricity makes his ears pop and something tugs at his gut jerking him before the car slams into the ground of a forest looking out towards some sort of hill. He has less than four seconds to process this before his body slams with it and his head smashes against the dashboard.
Everything goes black.