Title: Bruises – Chapter Fourteen
Author: Lucky Gun
Summary: Because Loki's possession of one of the sharpest minds in SHIELD wasn't easy. In fact, it barely worked at all. A better take on Clint's forced defection, return to the Avengers, and the aftermath. Contains whump, language, torture, and all the horrors of a POW. AU.
A/N: Sorry for the delay in posting! We got hit hard here in VA with that super storm and we just got power back yesterday. Then our A/C was fried and it's hard to write when it's 92F in your house. The last chapter may have come across as a little repetitive, but it's simply two sides of the same coin to me. More understanding of a character is always better than less, I believe. Thanks to everyone for sticking so long with this story, by the way. It was honestly supposed to be a two or three chapter deal, but it kind of grew on its own. Also, regarding the end of this chapter…yes, I know I'm evil. I'm well aware a few of you are going to want to gank me for this. I know that you're going to call me dark side and awful. But come join me…we have cookies!
Clint wouldn't ever verbally acknowledged the amount of relief he felt upon seeing the bright white rectangle of light as he came around a bend in the tunnel. Even with the dark and dead subway train parked at the platform and six feet of height to navigate between him and the hallway, his spirits rose with the illumination.
Pushing away the pain in his thigh and the constant, breath-robbing ache in his side, he limped forward quickly, his mouth dry with the exertion. He came up on the back on the subway car and breathed a deep and heavy sigh of thanks when he found the rear access door open a crack. Wedging his battered fingers in the crevice, he pulled the door open, his back and shoulders burning with the effort. Forcing the hydraulic system, Barton stopped when he had enough room to shimmy into the car. He hauled himself into the tram and fell bonelessly onto the floor, groaning in appreciation as thick, soft fibers caressed his face. Stark hadn't spared any expense when it came to his building's reputation, and had apparently demanded the best when it came to his employees' transportation. Breathing in the smell of new carpet, new paint, and the dim but still sharp smell of new electronics, Clint counted to thirty before pushing himself to his knees.
The agent leveled himself to his feet with the aid of the closest seat and glanced around, taking in the car with the light spilling over from the platform. It was bright white, trimmed with polished chrome, and there were computer screens everywhere, dark in their power loss. Shaking his head carefully, slightly amused at the man's technophilia, Clint stepped carefully over to the doors that led to the platform. He wasn't as lucky this time; they were shut tight. He ducked slightly to the side and ran his hands over the paneling along the framework, smiling a bit in the dusk when his fingers trailed over the manual release. He pulled the handle and the hydraulics hissed as they gave. Pushing his way through the doors, he blinked owlishly as he found himself in the middle of all the light that was his beacon of hope at the end of the tunnel.
Clearing his vision quickly, he limped towards the only doorway he could see, suppressing shivers; the white tiled room was cool, and he knew he was leaving blood streaks across the wall he was staggering against every few steps. The lack of sound was eerie, but he pushed it away and instead focused on getting to the metal door thirty feet in front of him. As he drew closer, the calm he was forcing on himself started to grate on his nerves as he took in the electronic keypad at the side of the door.
Just as he was about to start taking it apart, it gave a beep, a light turned green, and he heard the locks disengage. Blinking his confusion and really, really trying hard to shed the heebie jeebies that rolled over him, he pushed the door open and stared down the second hallway in front of him, this one covered in shiny black tile.
"It's a pleasure to see you in one piece, Agent Barton."
The voice startled him and before he could think he had his bow drawn and an arrow nocked, though he couldn't figure where to aim. His eyes darted from wall to wall as he tried desperately to locate the owner of the voice, his arms almost giving out in the few seconds he had the weapon at the ready. Then his heart slowed long enough for him to think and his held breath left him in a whoosh.
"Jarvis," he choked out, his hands dropping, fingers automatically putting the arrow back in his quiver.
"Yes, Agent Barton. My apologies for startling you. Many of my functions have been damaged in attacks aboveground and I was not able to assist you until this moment."
Nodding and feeling his pulse drop back to a little closer to normal, Clint started towards the opposite door and replied, "Thanks for opening the door. Can you do the same trick on the next one?"
There was only the slightest hesitation before the AI responded, "Unfortunately, I cannot. I don't recommend explosives, as the barrier consists of six inch steel panels welded together with titanium rods in a crosshatch pattern. You would not be successful."
Clint leaned against the wall at the second door's electronic keypad to take some weight off his leg as he pulled open the side of the mechanism, forcing his tired brain to work.
"Yeah, that'd be an understatement. You have any idea how the rest of the team's doing?" he asked as he fingered the fifty million or so multicolored wires that spilled from the guts of the keypad, blinking as his eyes burned.
"I am in contact with Mr. Stark in the Iron Man Mark VII suit, if you wish me to connect you, sir," the AI offered, and Clint nodded, forgoing a verbal response as he followed two yellow wires with his eyes for a few inches before going back and tracing three red ones instead; it wasn't well known that he was more than proficient in security systems of all kinds, though it should be assumed, given his line of work.
There was a split second of silence before the room lit up with the rather obnoxious voice of the man whose security systems were giving the assassin a headache.
"What the hell do you mean, 'I might want to get a better keypad', Jarvis?"
Unable to stop the slight smile from tugging at the corners of his lips, Clint said, "He means I've just slaughtered your second security checkpoint and the door's opening…now."
As he spoke, he pulled two of the three red wires from one side of the panel and watched as the door unlocked and swung open. Ducking into the room, Barton breathed a deep and thankful sigh as the utilitarian entry gave way to a more business-like atmosphere, complete with mahogany wood trim, brass accents, and executive carpet that made the tram's flooring look like patio-ready berber.
"Wait, who did what? Barton, is that you?" Tony asked, and a dark and abused section of the assassin's mind warmed a bit at the hopeful tone in his voice.
Managing to keep his voice mostly level, Clint answered, "No, it's the Easter Bunny. Happy Hanukkah."
The staccato bark of laughter that echoed through the hall didn't hurt his ears as much as he thought it might.
"I don't think that's going to earn you many friends in the religious sectors, Barton."
Shrugging slightly and biting back the sharp groan that accompanied the movement, Clint's voice was still tight when he responded, "When I get finished helping to save their lives, they can kick my ass."
Stark heard what the spy tried to hide and his tone lost all of its joking instantly.
"Jarvis!"
Apparently, the AI's name snapped in that tone was an order in and of itself, because a moment later, the computer responded to the implied question.
"My sensors indicate Agent Barton has several deep lacerations on his back and shoulder blades, a hairline fracture in his left femur, a concussion, multiple cracked and broken ribs, muscle strains, internal abrasions to several major groups of ligaments and tendons, a significant head wound, tracheal bruising and trauma, a sprained ankle, a sprained knee, deep chest congestion due to inhalation of construction dust, and approximately two dozen areas of deep tissue trauma. Most alarming, sir, is the fact that Agent Barton was apparently injured by a piece of rebar when the street collapsed; it punctured the left side of his torso approximately an eighth of an inch above his spleen. It did not completely impale him, but my sensors appear to be damaged, as I cannot determine the level of injury his organ has sustained. He is also suffering from shock and continuing blood loss."
There was a heavy silence following the AI's description, and Clint frowned slightly, glancing down at himself in the bright light. The blood seeping through his vest was hard to ignore, but comparing the computer's rundown to his own medical file, he knew he'd had worse.
"Huh."
A split second later, Tony exploded, "Huh? That's all you can say after that? I didn't know SHIELD agents were so damned eloquent. What the hell did you do to yourself, Barton? Dammit, Jarvis, get a read on his internal organs somehow."
Understanding the man's worry, Clint needlessly waved a hand in the general direction of the hole in his side and answered, "No need, Stark. Had three quarters of my spleen removed and the rest relocated after a mission went south."
Jarvis responded with a very human, "Ah," while Tony seemed to stew for a minute.
"You had it relocated?"
Turning in a slow circle as he took in the way the hallway divided into three different branches, Clint responded absently, "Yeah. I apparently had a target painted there or something. After the third injury to it, Deluca just moved it closer to my spine, behind my stomach. Said she was tired of patching it up."
There were a few moments of precious silence before Tony abruptly started rambling over the radio, "So your body is the Magical Mystery Tour of medical science, apparently. You realize you shouldn't even be on your feet right now, but no, you've got to go and be this stupid superhero of the hour and keep walking and fighting and doing everything anyone else would definitely not be doing."
The desert in his mouth was becoming distracting, and Clint started down the hallway that seemed the most used, the heavily-tread carpet telling more stories than he had time to read. He halfheartedly wished he had a pistol or some other small, easy to use weapon, because his vest was rubbing the back and shoulder lacerations Jarvis had mentioned in all the wrong ways, and he honestly wasn't sure he would be able to string his bow again.
He came across a water fountain next to an elevator bay, and he almost tuned out the billionaire's continuing rant as he drank heavily, the icy water refreshing him while the swallowing simultaneously drew at his flagging reserves, the pain cutting.
"You jump off buildings and get tossed into the air like a sack of potatoes and you do some crazy acrobat thing on a radio tower and you turn into a skinny white Blade without the annoying vampires but at least they don't sparkle and then you go all evil Jackie Chan on those two possessed guys and then you get blown up and fall into the subway and we were almost about to send Lassie in after you and why the hell aren't you answering me?"
Clint ignored him as he started choking on the water as he drank a little too deeply, his coughing shattering the silence of the room, the agony that abruptly enveloped him shocking what little breath he had out of his lungs. He braced himself on the chrome water fountain with both hands, his eyes clenched shut as he coughed so hard he gagged, missing the blood that he spat out, the crimson flowing down the drain with the constant flow of water. He gasped in half a lungful of air and coughed again and again, his eyes watering and white spots flashing across the back of his eyelids. The pain in his chest rose to mind-numbing levels, and he wasn't even aware he had crashed to the ground until his broken leg and torn back screamed their own protests. Panting heavily, he curled up into a ball and wrapped his arms around his chest, all bravado out the window as he prayed to just breathe through the attack.
His hearing suddenly rang in his head with words he could barely understand in a voice he could barely recognize. Choking on his own fear, Clint grabbed for the normalcy with both hands, desperate for air and help.
"Breathe, Clint. In and out, nice and slow. Think of a clock, okay? Breathe in on one tick, out on the fourth tick. In on the first, out on the fourth. Slow it down, buddy. You aren't gonna die, not like this and not on my watch. Breathe in like this, out like this. Come on; breathe, buddy."
Grasping the wisdom of the words, Clint forced his body to respond to him as he followed the advice. As his breathing slowed from near-hyperventilating levels and the sound of his heart pounding faded slightly, he uncurled slightly, wincing as he rolled, the quiver under his shoulder pressing harshly against the cuts on his back. But the pain helped bring his senses back to full alertness, and he swallowed back a cough that was hanging in his throat.
"Thanks," he croaked as he forced himself to his knees, his right arm wrapped around his chest.
The voice that came back over the comm was more worried than he'd yet heard it.
"Thank me later. Let me get your girlfriend on the phone, Cupid; she'll probably want to know you're dying in my basement."
Barton shook his head immediately, cringing as his concussion made pain swim through his veins, and he growled, "Don't even think about it. She needs to focus, Stark. Worrying about my health is just going to get her killed."
The responding snort of bemusement rang through the air as Clint finally made it to his feet, leaning heavily on the wall.
"Yeah, and me not telling her is oh so great for my health." There was a pause, then Tony asked in a gentler tone, "You're not dying on us, are you, Barton?"
Refusing to acknowledge the sentiment, the archer said, "You need to focus too, Stark. Where's the team?"
He listened to the man's updates as he staggered towards what looked like a maintenance closet hidden slightly behind an indoor palm bush. Pushing it open and finding an embarrassment of janitorial riches in the ten by ten space, his eyes roved the shelves restlessly.
"Everyone's just peachy, actually, except for the scrapes and bruises here and there. Hulk went after Loki and turned him into a pancake on the top floor, Steve's doing his whole Captain America 'Real Men of Genius' thing over at a bank, Thor's thinking everything is a nail, yours truly is currently doing a spectacular Superman impression, and the only woman to ever intimidate me except for Pepper is flying around on a speeder trying to get to the damned generator."
Ignoring the flash of concern that branded itself across his mind when he visualized that last part, he finally found was he was looking for and grabbed it off the top shelf, hissing when his arm reminded him it didn't like to be extended like that. Still, he grabbed the tube of silicone caulking and a few paper towels before leaving the room, the metal door slamming shut behind him. He paused at the water fountain and wet down the towels, knowing from previous experience that it wasn't a bad idea. He limped over to a desk situated between two elevator doors and sat gingerly on the buttery leather seat. Clint set his procured equipment on the desktop and glanced at the items previously on the surface.
He saw a photo in the corner, the typical mom-dad-son-daughter picture bright and happy in its frame. He stared at the teenage daughter, the preteen son, the gray hair on the dad's head, and the puffy lips and smooth forehead of the mom who was slightly older than middle aged. Sitting in the seat quietly for a moment, he closed his eyes and visualized the woman who worked there: he saw her sitting at the desk, her eyes creased in pain from her last cosmetic procedure, wincing as she rebuffed the concerned looks from her coworkers filing in, her right hand dipping down to the lowest drawer, her eyes darting around, ensuring there were no observers…
Eyes snapping open, Clint shifted and toed open the bottom right drawer with his boot, a faint smile tracking across his face as he took in the three orange pill bottles in the bottom, partially hidden by papers. He pulled them and sat them on the desk, reading the labels quickly. Prescriptions for an oxycodone and paracetamol mix, tibolone, and alprazolam stared back at him. He ran through the list mentally: percocet, synthetic hormone replacement for relief from menopausal hot flashes, and xanax.
Grabbing the first bottle and shoving the other two back in the drawer, he palmed two tablets and dry swallowed them, thankful they didn't stick in his throat. Then he used his knife to pry the needle-like cover off the caulking tube before scraping a knife-full of the clear gel out of it. Unzipping his vest with his left hand, he grimaced as he looked down at the roughly hewn gash in his side, seeing it fully for the first time. It was still bleeding heavily and looked heinous, but he could deal with it; he'd definitely had worse.
"Barton, Jarvis told me you're about to spread silicone caulk in your freaking puncture wound. Please, in the name of all that is sane, please tell me he's developed the ability to lie. Terminator-style technological Armageddon I can handle, but people aren't supposed to treat their bodies like a leaking faucet!" Tony abruptly snapped over the air.
Clenching his jaw tightly, Clint pressed the flat of the knife against the wound, jerking in the chair as the cold metal contacted the hot skin. He let out a low groan as he forced the waterproof sealant into and around the edges of the deep gouge, dropping the blood and silicone smeared blade onto the desk when he was done. Tearing off two of the sopping wet towels, he folded them in a square and pressed them against his side, the caulking almost gluing them to his skin, and he zipped his vest back up over the makeshift bandage, wincing as the silicone started to burn in the wound and excess water dripped down his side.
"Less like a faucet, more like a fixer upper," he corrected, taking refuge from the pain in snarky banter.
Obliging him, obviously aware of the man's tactics, Tony asked, "Located in a neighborhood with a depressed economy, but lots of potential in a few strip malls and a new sector of high income housing? Few public parks, a little bit more police presence, and you'll be bought up in no time, right?"
Chuckling, groaning from the pain as he did so, Clint responded, "Yeah, something like that."
Stretching in place slightly as he felt the percocet start to kick in, he pawed through the rest of the drawers in the desk, skipping the office supplies and finding an energy bar and a bottle of soda. Scarfing the bar and chugging the drink, ignoring the slowly numbing aches that accompanied both movements, Clint breathed deeply through his nose as he waited for his nausea to settle, cleaning his blade absently with the rest of the towels and finally sheathing it.
"You going to be able to get to the tower anytime soon, Stark?" Clint asked as he stood gingerly, adjusting his motions to compensate for the needling fog that was starting to cover his nerves.
There was enough of a hesitation before the other man's answer that Barton knew the fight above him in the rest of the city was still ongoing.
"Yeah, probably sometime this week. Think they know what we're up to now. What's your plan?"
Grinning slightly, feeling the stiffness of dried blood on his face, Clint answered, "Nothing too extraordinary. Thought I might do something normal and take the elevator."
There was an equal smile in Tony's words as he said in mock horror, "The elevator? Are you sick, Barton? Isn't there some wall that needs to be impossibly scaled or some bench that desperately needs vaulting or a tightrope that needs to be walked?"
Limping up to the bright brass elevators, Barton pressed the up button and sighed thankfully when it lit up at his touch. The doors took several seconds to open, but when they did, Clint flinched and jumped back, stumbling slightly in his haste to put as much distance between himself and the elevator.
Or, more specifically, the two armed and ready aliens inside the elevator.
The area was abruptly lilt up by a salvo of purple energy blasts, heat and plasma burning through everything they touched. Clint backpedaled quickly, his left leg collapsing under him, and unnatural heat enveloped his body.
He didn't even realize he was screaming.
Tony flinched as he heard Barton scream over the radio, the repeated weapons fire almost drowning it out for a moment before the entire line went dead. His eyes darted over his HUD as he tried to figure out what had happened.
"Barton? Barton! Jarvis, what the hell happened?" he shouted as he twisted midair, his palms spewing death and destruction as he rocketed through the city.
There was the distinctive click-pop noise as the AI attempted to diagnose the situation.
"It appears parts of the sensory network in the reception area were struck by stray fire and were damaged. I have no visual or audio connection to any of the basement levels, sir."
His mind running over every option, Tony ordered, "Run a bypass, then. Get me something from down there."
A few more clicks and several more pops sounded over the air before Jarvis updated, "I have run four hundred and seventy four bypasses and still have no audio or visual. I have regained some sensory information, however."
"Get me Agent Barton's status."
Ignoring the beeping of an exterior line trying to tap into his suit's frequency, Tony listened only for his trusty AI.
"I have no specific biological information to present, sir, but I can determine the following: there are two life signs detected in the reception area. Both are located in front of the elevators; I am detecting no life signs in Agent Barton's location." There was a moment of silence before the AI added softly, "My condolences, sir. You seemed fond of him."
Tony blasted through one more enemy and paused, hovering in midair, his eyes towards the ground, his gaze boring into the concrete at the base of his tower, the world dimming in his ears. He swallowed hard and felt a sudden, surprisingly sharp pain in his heart, his throat almost closing in. A few words here, a few shared battles there, and the man had become a friend. A friend he'd lost.
"Shall I inform Agent Romanoff, sir?" Jarvis asked quietly, and Tony cleared his throat forcefully, his thoughts bouncing around his head.
Before he could respond, another voice cut over his comm.
"Stark, you hearing me? We have a missile headed straight for the city."
Director Fury's words were like a cold shower, and they shocked him to awareness.
"How long?" he asked, forcing his voice to some semblance, and he turned, his HUD flashing with information on the incoming ordinance.
"Three minutes, at best."
Tony glanced back down at the street below him, Barton's words from earlier running through his head.
"I fight because I can when others can't. Because there are things in this world worth fighting for. Because there are things…there are people worth dying for."
Nodding slightly, Tony put all his power into the thrusters and blasted off towards the incoming missile, his features hard, his determination shining in his eyes. Barton had given everything he had for the team.
It was time for Tony to return the favor.
End Chapter Fourteen