Equivocation
(n)
the use of ambiguous language to conceal the truth or to avoid committing oneself
A smug smirk.
A haughty gait.
A pair of mischievous eyes.
Clint felt like he was getting sick.
"Do you remember me, dear archer?"
Clint wanted to strangle someone. His hands flexed at his sides. No, he told himself, feeling the air rushing into his lungs and out.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
"I'm sure he remembers you, brother."
'Fuck this,' he thought to himself, feeling a vein twitch somewhere. 'I'm strangling Thor.'
He raised his head and glared at the god before him, hating his very existence. Don't trust him, his gut seemed to say. A pair of green, green, eyes widened in wicked delight and Clint suddenly hated him more for it.
It's been months since he had that dream-- a vision, perhaps, some might say. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, sorting out his thoughts and memories.
Right after he woke up for the second time, the burning need to seek out the man within his dreams had abated somewhat. It wasn't that it was gone, no, but merely the flamed had been doused, yet the embers still flicker and live on. He still yearned for answers, but no longer was it an all consuming need, merely a nagging feeling that he was missing something important. It was like how he felt after hours upon hours holding his bow, feeling the grooves of the wood and the twang of the string, only to stop suddenly yet he could still feel the phantoms of it.
He needs to find some answers, but at the same time, he knew he could wait.
Contradictory, that was what it was.
He tried to tell Natasha after, but even if she nodded and looked at him with understanding, he knew she didn't, could never, fully understand.
But he filed those thoughts for later. There were other matters of more importance at the time. Like bashing the head of the god in front of him to the ground, for example. Clint felt a ghost of a smirk tug on his facial muscles, nearly giving in to the urge, even.
He opened his eyes again and met the same viridian pools. He frowned, slightly missing the time when they were a bright icy blue and not this pale mimicry of the twin storms that called upon his soul.
"Why are you here again?" Clint asked with a frown.
The god chuckled a dark and unpleasant sound. Clint tightened his fists, ready to fight if needed.
"As I told you, mortal, I, too, was under foreign influence during the event. Though, I must say, I think your eyes look better blue, no?"
Clint snarled, ready to fight if not for Natasha's hand on his shoulder, steadying his unease. "I could say the same about you," he said mockingly. "I'm sure you would've done the same with or without the damn mind control."
To Clint's satisfaction, the god's smug smile chilled, his eyes turning colder and hardened. "Do not presume you know anything about me, archer."
Clint snorted, agitation running higher and higher within him, clouding his mind and judgement, so he turned to Thor. "Why is he here?" He all but hissed.
Thor looked a bit uncomfortable at the question, but answered anyways, tightening his hold on Loki's arm, gaining an ugly sneer by the trickster. "The All-Father has deemed it important for Loki to serve his punished in Midgard. He is to aid in protecting and maintaining order within this realm."
Gloatingly, Clint turned back towards the dark god. "Seems like daddy knows you're not that innocent, huh? Are you in a timeout?"
He could feel Natasha's arm tightening, her shooting a warning stare, commanding him to reign his steadily growing unreasonable temper down. But he couldn't, something about the god just raised his hackles, turning whatever dormant instincts a man could have into haywire, his internal alarms just blaring at him to runrunrunRun--
"The All-Father has never liked me much," the god answered, chilly smile and predatory stare aimed at him. And something, something, perhaps the cruel promise that lurked beneath the ice warned Clint that he could push no further, not without consequences.
So he settled for a scoff and turned his head to look at the window, purposely ignoring Natasha's questioning and worried glance. "Whatever."
Silence descended, blanketing the room before someone— Tony, Clint noted— broke it. "So," the man began, holding a bag of blueberries that he got from who-knows-where, "you guys up for Shawarma?"
Clint saw Steve shot him at incredulous look.
"What?" The man defended himself. "We never got to try the thing. I'm curious!"
Clint internally sighed.
Shawarma it is.
A lone eye stared at the monitor, furrowed brows his only indication of worry as Nick Fury pondered upon the oddity on the screen.
He could see dozens of white-coated scientists milling about, observing the strange purple stone in the middle, protected under layers of glass and who-knows-what, all designed to keep it in.
His eye then focused on a silent figure, unnoticed by most, standing on a dark corner, observing and waiting. His youngest so far, he mused, remembering the battered form of the seventeen year old that approached him a few years ago, quickly convincing him to accept him despite his initial doubt.
'What a long way we've come,' he noted with a small amount of derision and worry.
Rapid movements on the screen captures his interest and he moved his head back to look at it, noting the panicked scientists and agents as they tried to scramble away from the foreign artefact, the rock glowing and hovering in mid air, cracking the glass and bringing nearby men and women to their knees, their faces twisted into a pained grimace, some even a howl.
"What is going on there?" He asked, no, demanded.
The woman beside him had just finished interrogating the on-site agents through her comms. "Artefact #P77 has finally initiated interaction, causes unknown. Symptoms include extreme pain and a degree of paralysis to nearby occupants. It is hypothesised that the artefact meant for all personnel to stay away."
Fury felt his eye twitch before he turned back to look at the panicking mass. "All personnel?" He questioned again, voice hard and demanding, his lone gaze trained on a single figure making his way through the crowd, silently yet efficiently making his way closer to the artefact.
Fury felt more than saw the woman look at the same figure, her eyes hard and her lips pursed. "Correction, sir," Maria Hill said. "All personnel except him."
Fury didn't bother answering as his mind whirled and catalogued every single movement of the man and the artefact. Suddenly, just right when the man was less than six feet from the glowing object, it began to spin and, surprisingly, zipped its way past the glass, smashing the protective barrier into pieces and slamming right into the agent's chest. Fury saw as the agent skidded back to a halt a few feet back, righting himself unsteadily before he all of a sudden doubled over, back hunching as his first gripped his chest.
Fury could hear his own heartbeat within his ears. Something's wrong, his instincts screamed at him. This was not supposed to happen. His mind flashed back to the numerous files filled with gruesome scenes of mangled body parts.
That stone would not let anyone touch it. Not without consequences.
"Go!" He barked out. "Send more agents into the room, get those," he gestured towards the paralysed bodies on the ground, noting how all had a look of pain as their bodies twitched and trembled uncontrollably, "people out of there!"
Fury paused, eye taking in as the hunched back figure slowly straightened, his other arm reaching blindly for some support as he steadied himself, his back trembling slightly. "Take him to the infirmary! And for the love of god get the damn stone off him!"
Maria nodded and she began sending out orders, taking care to do it as efficiently and as quickly as possible, noting the well-hidden worry coating his lone eye. He was too proud to let it show, but she had been with him for years, she understood him.
With a ghost of a smile, hidden from anyone but her mind, she proceeded to get some medical personnel to carry the downed agent and the rest back to the infirmary.
The doors to the secluded room opened with a hiss, a little bit of smoke curling at the edges. She frowned, it seems like the stone did more damage than what they saw. Quickly, she guided the personnel to gather the wounded and whisk them off to the infirmary.
Some of their eyes were wide with shock, not closing or even blinking, frozen just as the rest of them were.
Her eyes flickered through the room, assessing minute details, before finally focusing on the one man left standing in the whole catastrophe.
He was standing still, a bit too still, she noticed. She walked slowly, her boots making soft clicking sounds to not startle the other.
"Agent?" She called softly towards the figure in the corner, his frozen back greeting her wary eyes as he remained turned away from her. "Agent?" She called again, more insistently, slight currents of panic churning beneath her tone. She tensed a little, hand flexing towards her hidden gun.
"Hill?" His voice rasped out, sounding pained. "Agent, we need to get you to the infirmary."
He shook his head, still refusing to turn to her. Just as she was about to repeat her command, the agent interrupted her. "Hill," his voice was firm, commanding her to listen. "Get reinforcements. Fighters. Something's wrong."
"What?"
"Something's wrong!" He shouted a bit desperately, lone hand clutching tight at his chest at where the stone slammed into him. "Agent, I don't think—"
"Now!"
"Agent!" She shouted more desperately, her hand reaching out to clasp at the man's back.
Boom!
The wall next to her exploded.
Green eyes snapped open, staring unseeingly at the blank ceiling of her apartment. Behind the veil separating the mortal and divine world, flashes of images ran through her mind just as a cacophony of voices whispered to her.
Soon...
She sat up with a gasp, tears staining her eyes and her red curls falling onto her face.
Soon...
'Not now, please,' she thought desperately. The voices didn't deign to answer her silent plea.
Soon...
She choked back a sob, her hand reaching inside her loose shirt to splay against her side. She could feel it, the thick, raised, and bumpy mark.
She could still feel the restless nights that came after that day, when the scar against her side would never let her sleep, demanding her attention angrily as it pulsed and throbbed with pain. 'Never forget,' it seemed to whisper. 'Never forget what you did. Never forget what you lost. Never.'
She could still feel the phantoms of its anger, driving its wrath into her flesh.
Her head raised to look at the window where a lone potted Moonlace glowed in the silent yet accusing stare of the moon. Her guilty eyes lingered a little bit longer, thousands of what ifs and different scenarios filtered through her mind, nearly driving her insane like her predecessor.
"Soon..." She whispered into the darkened room. Moonlight shone, crawling in from her opened window, its ominous glow casting shadows on her face. In the light of it, her eyes gleamed.
"All hail the prince."
So, uh...
It's not early January, it's late February.
Sorry about the delay, school hit me real hard.
So this wasn't actually where it was supposed to end, but I had no idea when I could actually continue cause my schedule is pretty busy for at least the next 6 weeks.
Happy late new year, Chinese new year, and Valentine's, guys.
Did you figure out who the last woman was?
Did you notice how different this was from the original? I played around with a few new ideas.
Also quick question, do you think I should use Percy's actual name or make up an alias or some sort? Any suggestions?
Oh and whenever I continue this idk if I will just edit and put it in this chapter or a new one. Regarding my plan to also post this on AO3, I plan to post it there whenever I have either 3 or 5 chapters.
That's it for now, hope you all enjoy.
Au revoir~
