14 Months Earlier

Awareness came slowly and that immediately put Clint on edge. He had learned, as a child, to wake up quickly. It was self preservation. If he was having a hard time coming around, that meant he had been drugged. He was lying on his side on a cold surface. There were no smells or sounds that were common in Medical, so possibly in hostile territory.

His clothes were too light. He opened his eyes and looked at himself. They had changed him out of his battle gear and into some basic scrubs, nothing else. No wonder he was feeling the chill. Bare feet; that would make escaping more difficult.

Clint started turning his head to get a better look at his surroundings when he felt it. He was wearing a collar. He didn't panic, but his mind did blank out for a second or two when he raised his hand and felt the smooth metal around his neck. His fingers traced it all the way around, feeling for any weak points. He found two separate seams where it fit together. No hinge. Must be a magnetic lock. It was a tight fit that would have been choking him, if it hadn't had a padded inner lining. But… he twisted and turned his neck. Yeah, there were small, rounded metal pieces pressing into his neck.

He was wearing a shock collar.

He still didn't panic; but it was, decidedly, time to get out of here. He stood up, ignoring the dizziness, and assessed the room. Fifteen by ten by eight. Bare concrete. He had been leaning against a wide pillar, closer to the back wall; Laying on a perforated rubber mat over a drain in the floor. No electrical fixtures and, essentially, no windows. There were a few small holes, about the size of his fist, in the ceiling, that allowed in daylight, and they seemed like they could be closed. There were tracks running across the ceiling, from the center of the room to the pillar for… something to slide in? The door looked solid, metal, no hinges; probably slid open and closed, electronically.

Escaping on his own was looking less and less likely. But on the upside; when the others got here, Tony would own this place.

Tony.

Now is the best time! Fire now!

Clint rubbed his hands over his face as the events of the battle came back to him. Tony had been hurt. Shit, was he alright? He remembered fighting back panic when he had heard Tony screaming. Clint hadn't been able to get to him before...red. He looked down at his chest, at the ugly purple bruise in the center. The shot had hurt like hell, almost knocked him off his feet. A dye? No, the pain and the sight of what he thought was blood had dazed him, but when he had touched the red, everything tingled and faded. Oh, hell. Long distance sedative shot, delivered in a hollow round; they knew his vest was beyond bulletproof, they couldn't use a dart at long distance, the needle wouldn't have penetrated the vest and going for skin could have been fatal or too damaging; so they wanted him alive. He looked up at the tracks in the ceiling again; for chains, torture.

Best case scenario? The team was already on their way and he wouldn't have to worry too much about his captors plans. Worst case? Clint heard Tony screaming again. Whoever took Clint got away clean, the team was pretty banged up and Clint was in for some pain before they could come for him.

Pain shot through Clint so unexpectedly that he cried out, his hands moving instinctively to the collar, trying to pull it off, but only managed to make it push further into the back of his neck. After a few seconds, it cut off, leaving him bent over, panting.

"Hurts like a bitch, doesn't it?" a voice laughed.

His head snapped up; he hadn't even heard the door. He tried to lunge forward but the pain knocked him to ground this time.

"It would be best if you didn't do that again," the man said, when it stopped.

Clint looked up. Nothing really stood out that could tell him who he was. A little under six feet, reddish brown hair, blue eyes, solid build, jeans, black shirt, a wide black cuff around his left wrist; were those buttons on it?

"I'm going to assume you know why you're here?"

"Fashion advice?" Clint snarked. "I can see you want to feel comfortable but you should have gone for intimidating for the first meeting. Now it's too late to take it ba-ack," Clint clenched his teeth through the pain. Did this guy really think that would shut him up?

"Really, taking an Avenger? Are you guys morons? Do you have any idea what they're going to do to this place, when they get here?"

"You think the other Avengers will come for you?" Moron asked, like Clint was a child who had just said something about Santa Claus.

"So, Moron," Clint nodded. "Good to know where I stand."

Moron frowned and pressed and held down a button on the cuff, sending pain through Clint again. When it stopped, the guy's foot hit him in the stomach, leaving Clint gasping on the floor. Two more men quickly came in and grabbed Clint, on either side of him, lifting and shoving him, face first, against the pillar. There was a clanking of metal, then a firm pressure around his wrists and ankles.

He had missed the manacles behind the pillar.

He tried to lash out but the goons were gone and the chains only gave him a two foot space from the pillar. The sounds of gears moving started and the chains were dragged upward. Clint startled to his feet, a ball of unease forming in his stomach. He glanced at Moron as his arms were pulled above his head.

The man was smirking at him. "This room was prepared especially for you."

"You really shouldn't have," Clint said, trying not to let his nerves show. There was a click, then the chains slid along the tracks in the ceiling, to the end, pulling Clint backward with them, and locking in place. He was able to turn himself around so that his weight was resting on his toes but the manacles on his feet kept them closer to the pillar, forcing his body into an off balanced diagonal position. Who the hell made a room like this? Why would they bother with the amount preparation this obviously took?

Clint knew, he didn't want to, but he knew. This wasn't a warehouse or a simple basement; he wasn't tied to a chair. This place was for long term torture.

"I'm sorry," Moron said, walking around him. "I forgot to introduce myself. You may call me Mr. Donnelly."

"You're 'sorey'?" Clint laughed, because he really needed to, "Oh, god, you're Canadian. I thought you guys were supposed to be nice."

Donnelly gave him a small smile but his eyes were hard. He nodded once, then moved to the door, reaching around the corner when it opened, then turned and walked back into the room, a long black cane in hand.

"I don't see the need to beat around the bush," Donnelly smiled, holding the cane underneath Clint's chin, "Not when I have you for that. So, is there anything you'd like to tell me about SHIELD?"

Clint raised a single, unimpressed eyebrow at him and kept quiet.

The cane struck fast and hard across him back twice, making Clint bite back a groan. He just needed to get used to it, he wasn't going to make any noises for this guy. He'd had plenty of training in anti interrogation, and wouldn't brag about getting captured on missions, that would be stupid, but there had been enough ops that had gone south for him, that he knew what he could take and how to block out enough pain to make the really bad situations bearable.

"Is there anything you'd like to tell me about the Avengers?"

Two more strikes on his back, and, man, he had forgotten how much it hurt to be hit with a cane.

Donnelly moved closer. "Is there anything you'd like to tell be about your boyfriend?"

Clint blinked, then Donnelly hit him on the back of his knees, making him hang his full weight from the ceiling.

"It doesn't even matter if it's something I've already heard in the papers. Tony Stark does tend to take up tabloid space."

The picture of them kissing, right. That had been taken back when they were just having fun, before they had realized that they were getting serious.

"Is that what this is about? You think I'm shacked up with Stark? Hate to break it to you, he may be into guys but I'm not his type."

"Is that right, Sugarpie?"

We've all got our areas of expertise, Sugarpie.

Clint was careful not to let the surprise show on his face. They had been able to hack into the team's com signal.

Clint smiled. "You might have also heard 'Brucie-bear' or 'Captain tightpants', I'm nothing special."

"I know. And I'm sure they know that as well." Donnelly twirled the cane once. "Is there anything you'd like to tell me about Phillip Coulson."

Coulson? Clint barely processed the question before the cane hit.

He now only had time to gasp between the questions and the multiple strikes.

Nick Fury. Strike. Captain America. Strike. Bruce Banner. Strike. Black Widow, not Natasha. Strike. Thor. Strike. Pause.

Clint tried to enjoy the reprieve, but Donnelly moved in closer again.

"Is there anything you'd like to tell me about Loki?"

No, there wasn't, damnit.

"You two were quite close for a few days."

"So's a boa constrictor, with anything it want's to eat," Clint bit out.

Donnelly nodded, striking him on the back of his legs again. "Let's try again." And the questions started over. The blows were methodical, moving across his back and legs.

It was fine. The pain wasn't more than he could handle. He only had to hold out until the others came for him. He had learned patience long ago. He could wait for them.