Trigger Warnings at the end.
Unfortunately a few days later, Clint was shown where he would get his opportunity to escape.
Two goons came in without Donnelly. He had seen them before, the less methodical lackies Donnelly used to work him over. He could hear them murmuring to each other by the door, could feel their leering gaze sweep over his naked body. Clint struggled not to shiver. It was obvious what they wanted, what they planned to do.
Clint could work with that. They would need to get close to him, and that fitted with Clint's plan.
But Clint wasn't ready yet. The plan was formed but… he needed to give them what they wanted so they would come back again.
I've always known you were a little whore Clint, the way you just let Walker do whatever he wanted.
Clint flinched. Not too submissive, they'd get suspicious. They came because they want a fight, or at least a struggle.
Clint breathed. He could-
Clinton. Fingers moved through his hair.
He pulled on the chains and the men laughed. No one was touching him, they were still by the door.
No, he could do this. Just give them what they want. Give them what they want. You need them to come back.
That meant he couldn't zone out, he needed to pay attention.
Whore.
He cringed. "Shut up."
They laughed again and moved closer.
He could do this. He would.
He had to.
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His plan would only work if he knew when they were coming, what he had to get ready would be noticed eventually, so he couldn't do it until right before; the goons had to come more than once… more than twice. So more weeks passed.
Donnelly still came. Clint was still in hell. He celebrated his third month by being left hanging from the chains until his shoulders popped out. They waited a bit longer before knocking them back into place. But he could deal with it, he would be getting out soon. Clint still saw Patrick sometimes. Sometimes. Never after the lackies left, though. Did he know about them? Did he just come when he was ordered to?
Focus.
They would be coming soon. He needed to be ready.
What if he had to kill Patrick to get out?
He heard the door open. No shock, so it wasn't Donnelly.
There was a chuckle.
He moved his tongue, getting ready and stayed close to pillar, to draw them closer. The chains would be loose enough, he just had to get them closer.
Keep your body loose, submissive. Let them think they've broken you.
One of them gripped his hair, making him turn his head to look at him. The other moved behind him.
Perfect.
Clint spit his sharpened fingernail into the man's eye.
The lackey cried out, but before he could move back, Clint threw his body forward, curving it, up and over the man, forcing him back to the pillar. Clint looped one of his arm chains around the man's neck and pulled.
Movement. The other lackey was coming in, closer, to help the other. Clint tripped him, kicked him in the face, then wrapped his legs tightly around his head, and jerked, breaking his neck. Dead.
The first one was still struggling. Clint pulled tighter.
Kill him. Kill him! killhimkillhimkillhim!
Clint entire body was shaking as he loosened the chains, releasing the two, now dead, men. Why was he shaking? He'd killed plenty of times before. Adrenaline. It was throwing him. Focus. He wasn't going to have much time if anyone was watching.
Clint made sure he looked like he was searching the bodies thoroughly, and he did search, but he doubted they had anything useful. Nothing that would take the chains or collar off anyway; he needed Donnelly's cuff. So Clint hid what he was actually doing from the cameras. His fingers started quickly unlacing one of the guard's shoes.
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Clint sat huddled against the pillar and, peripherally, watched as Donnelly rushed into the room, hand on the cuff, and stop, as he took in the scene.
The dead guards were sprawled out on top of each other in front of Clint, looking like they had been kicked away in frustration. Or, at least, that was how Clint hoped it looked.
Donnelly laughed as he came closer, "Find anything useful, Hawkeye?" He kicked one one the guards moving him an inch, and Clint didn't look at the shoeless foot of the other guard or the other laceless boot, hidden beneath the top one's body. "Did you think I would allow anyone in here with a weapon if I wasn't here to keep you in line?" He pressed a button and Clint flinched from the shock.
"This must be unbearably frustrating for you. Chained up, still able kill two men, with only a few feet of leeway, and then… nothing. How long have you been planning this? A month? More? It all seems a bit anticlimactic now doesn't it?"
Donnelly stepped closer; still out of reach, but that didn't matter, he was close enough.
Clint swung the shoe out from where he had been huddling over it. Donnelly didn't even register what was happening until it had wrapped around his leg and Clint pulled, tripping him to the floor. One more long pull and he was within reach.
He was distantly aware that he was snarling like a wild animal as he attacked Donnelly, pulling him close, hitting and tearing at whatever he could, keeping Donnelly's other hand away from the cuff. He needed to get the manacles off. He lost track of what he was doing. He tasted blood in his mouth. Was it his own? He knew Donnelly was fighting back. The cuff came into his view and he went for it, pressing any button that he hadn't seen used.
The pressure was gone from his wrists, but he couldn't leave yet; he had to kill Donnelly. If he let go of the man, he would use the cuff, and if he didn't end this fast that was going to be a problem. He had lost muscle weight and his endurance was shot.
End it.
Clint grabbed Donnelly's shirt and lifted him up, bringing his own forehead against his face, hard. It was satisfying to feel the nose break and the cry of pain from his torturer; so satisfying, in fact, that he wanted to do it to his neck. He let go of the shirt, but before he could reposition himself, a body collided with him, knocking him off Donnelly. He shifted his body and rolled with it. The other man's legs hit the pillar, while Clint tucked and somersaulted around it, grabbing the man's neck and twisting. And there was that satisfying sound again.
Clint moved to get up when the pain hit.
No!
It didn't stop this time. Shaking, he forced himself to crawl forward, around the pillar. Donnelly was scooting backward toward the door, holding down the button on the cuff.
No, he was too close! He was going to kill Donnelly!
Clint put his right arm forward, but it collapsed beneath him. He couldn't breathe. He looked up as a foot connected with his head, and everything went black.
Anticlimactic.
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Clint woke, back in the manacles, hanging from the ceiling, as a fist hit is gut, making him cough violently. He tried, but couldn't make himself stand. They had really worked him over while he was unconscious. He glanced around, through one good eye, noting the absence of dead bodies.
Three dead. But he had still failed. Failed.
You're never getting out of here now. The others aren't coming for you.
His eye was drawn to the newspaper clippings on the wall. They looked happy. Did they even need him?
No. They can't find me. They'd come for me if they could.
The combined resources of SHIELD and the Avengers couldn't find you? You're lying to yourself. They were never looking. Why would they? They already replaced you.
"You actually think Carson cares about you?" Jacque laughed. "He cares about the money you bring in. 'The Amazing Hawkeye' draws in the crowds kid. Why? Because you don't miss… yet. Just wait, you start slipping and you'll be out on your ass begging for another chance, but it won't matter because they'll have already moved on to the next money maker… Don't believe me? What do you think happened to Trickshot? You actually think he wanted to leave? He was here eleven years before you came along and took his spot. Wonder who's going to take yours?"
He looked at the sniper next to Steve. Stand in or replacement, it didn't matter now, Clint was never getting out of this place. Not on his own.
They could still come.
Clint dropped his eyes from the wall. They could, but why would they?
Seeing that Clint was awake, the brute backed out through doorway, revealing Donnelly leaning against the wall.
Clint pushed back the pain and doubt he was beginning to drown in and smiled cruelly at the man's appearance; blood stained the front of his shirt and hadn't been completely washed off his face. His eyes were bruised from the broken nose and there were bruises and scratches across his face and arms. Donnelly was holding a bloody rag to his right forearm, covering… when he dabbed, Clint could see teeth marks and some missing flesh. So it had been Donnelly's blood in his mouth.
Clint may not have escaped, but at least he had given something back to the bastard; so he laughed, not caring how rough and broken his voice sounded. "What happened, Donnelly? Get in a fight with an unarmed, helpless man?"
Donnelly's eyes were murderous but a wide grin spread across his face, giving him a maniacal look. "I didn't think it was possible, but we underestimated you, Hawkeye. You ripped out your own fingernails. I've got to admit that I'm impressed. You obviously want out of this room more than I realized." He sounded sharp and close to losing it. "I can accommodate you."
The brute came into the room, a baseball bat in hand.
"We'll just need to take the appropriate precautions." Donnelly waved the man forward, as he directed, "Right leg."
Shit.
Clint couldn't even make himself move as the bat swung down against his shin, breaking the bone; but he did scream.
Trigger Warnings: Graphic violence, biting, blood, rape, breaking bones, self harm, deteriorating mental state.