Tony shifted through several sheets of scrap paper spread over one worktable, then moved over to the cupboard looking for the right part.
"I know it's here somewhere…" He shoved aside various prototypes, wires, bolts. There was something in the back, long and thin. "Ah there it is." He pulled it out and froze.
It was not the tube he'd been looking for. He was holding an arrow. It was one of the ones he'd been developing for Clint. Most of them he'd already destroyed in a fit of…well, he had to admit, rage. He must have overlooked this one. He absently wondered how.
Tony held it in his hand, uncertain. The rage had given way to something a bit more rational. But there was still anger and something that hurt. He balanced the arrow on his palm and studied it.
The lab doors slid open and Bruce walked in. "Coffee run is here. They were out of the bagels so I got us those muffins instead-" As he set the food down on one of tables he glanced up, saw the arrow, and froze. "Oh." There was a flicker of worry in his expression.
Tony's hand closed around the shaft. "What?" It came out a bit more like a snap than he'd intended it do.
"I didn't say anything."
"You were thinking it."
"Not really."
"Well what were you 'not really' thinking?"
"Tony, I don't think it matters."
"You're looking all…Bruce-y."
"What exactly does that mean?"
"All serious and worried. You know with that little furrow between the brows and like if you had your glasses on right now, you'd take 'em off and start rubbing your eyes."
Instead, Bruce rubbed the back of his neck. "Okay I am worried; the arrow just, reminded me. That's it, it's nothing new."
"Worried about what? Me still? Because whatever my issues are, in the grand scheme of my life I am in a way healthier place right now than I've been for the majority of my life, just ask Pepper. Or check the back issues of various tabloids. This doesn't even make my top five least healthy coping moments."
"Actually…it's not you I'm worried about. I'm worried about Clint." There was just a touch of defiance in his voice as he said this.
Tony stared. "You're worried about Clint? The super assassin Hydra agent that somehow, despite betraying everyone, still got a free pass?"
"Well…yeah."
"Seems kind of like a waste of time. The guy can clearly take care of himself. And he gets to just go off and retire at that mysterious 'home' of his Nat mentioned, another indicator by the way of all the things he kept from us."
"Well he was a spy."
"Do you think he liked his martinis shaken and not stirred?" asked Tony, beginning to twirl the arrow between his fingers.
"Look, I'm not denying Clint can take care of himself in most situations. But there are some threats that are more difficult to combat," said Bruce slowly. "I keep remembering his expression that last day."
"He knew the game was up. And he had no idea what we were going to do to him. He had every reason to be scared."
"It wasn't fear," said Bruce. "If fear had been his primary concern he didn't have to come back at all once Nat told him about the files being released. No, he tried to hide it, and he did a darn good job. But I know that look. It was the look of a man who hates what he's become."
"Good," Tony snapped, "he should hate it. The things he did…he should hate himself. I've made mistakes too, and guess what, I manned up and fixed them. Clint didn't do anything. We'd never have known what he'd done until it was too late if Nat hadn't leaked those records."
Bruce hesitated a moment, he looked like a man carefully considering what he was about to say next. "The things is…the reason I do worry is the same reason why I knew that look. I've seen that look in the mirror."
"Bruce, no. You and what you've been through is nothing like-"
Bruce held up a hand. "Tony. I'm not saying the Hulk and what Clint is dealing with are the same thing. But when I had that look, it was during some of the darkest moments of my life…I know I said some things on the helicarrier, about what I tried to do to myself. When you really and truly can't stand being in your own head anymore, then there's really only one way to get away from it. One out you can see. At least most people have one way. I didn't because I had the Hulk…Clint doesn't have the Hulk. As far as I know Clint doesn't have anyone."
Tony had frozen. "You think Clint might…"
"I don't know. All I know is Clint is my friend. You have the right to put that sentence in the past tense. That's your choice. But it's my choice not to. And he's alone. And I'm worried about him." A full minute of silence ticked by. Bruce ran his hand roughly across his face and then shook his head. "I need to go Tony. For a walk or something. I just...don't think I'm going to be able to focus on work right now. I'll see you this afternoon."
He left the lab, leaving Tony standing alone, the arrow still in his hand.
Gently, carefully, Tony set it down on the nearby worktable. He stared at it.
Incongruously, the explanation of why this arrow had been in the cupboard popped into his head. There'd been something wrong with the wiring. He'd still been working on it. The other arrows had been completed and set to one side. That's how it had survived the great arrow purge.
Something nudged his foot and he looked down. Dum-E was there, holding up, almost hopefully, a tiny screwdriver, the size needed for such delicate work.
He stared down at it, and then, refusing to allow himself to think, he took the tool, pulled up a chair, and began to tinker with the arrow, refusing to allow himself to dwell on Bruce's words.
When Bruce came back that afternoon, the now completed arrow had already been whisked away back out of sight. And neither brought the subject of Clint back up again. But they could both feel him, there in the lab as they worked.
Clint was dropped to the floor of his cell. Tremors were still running through his body, aftershocks of the abuse it had taken. He was trying desperately to martial his thoughts, but his brain was still oozing pain, his vision kept jumping in and out of focus, and he couldn't seem to regain control of his own body and force it to still.
This was not the first time he had endured torture. But…that chair…it was something like he had never felt before. And he was terrified. Not of facing it again, but that eventually he truly would break.
He knew that torture, when the interrogator had time, was most effective spread out over several days. This allowed the body to slowly deteriorate, the pain to increase over prolonged exposure, the dread to grow into a monster nearly as large as the pain.
Today he had survived and endured. Tomorrow he would as well.
But what about the day after that? Or the day after that?
If he broke, would the Avengers ever know that he had fought at all? He doubted Strucker would let him live long enough to tell them, even if they could be brought to believe him. He hated to think they might think he'd sold them out without a moment's of hesitation, or that Fury might think he'd been a fool to give him a second chance. A way of desperation washed over him.
He closed his eyes and thought desperately of Laura, and felt a small flicker of strength, deep inside. He took a deep, steadying breath, trying to hold onto that life raft, trying to fight against the waves that threatened to drown him.
A voice broke through his thoughts: "Wanda."
He realized he was not alone. The guards had left but the girl and man had stayed. He was hanging back clearly wanting to leave, but she was standing at the bars, one hand on them, looking in, an unreadable expression on her face. Clint tried to focus, tried decipher it, but his thoughts were too disordered, the pain making concentration too difficult.
"Wanda," Pietro said again. She ignored him.
"What did you mean?" The question was directed at Clint. He tried to push himself up, and failed, the best he could do was lean back heavily against the wall. The tremors had subsided a little, but they still left his limbs unpredictable. "You said you were Hydra?"
"I…was." Clint said, his teeth chattering.
"Before you were an Avenger."
"Before…during…"
He tried to martial his thoughts. These two might be an opportunity, these two might be a way out…but he was too exhausted and strained to know how best to respond, to judge, to weight his words or read the room…
"You were Hydra while an Avenger?"
"I've been Hydra since I was nineteen."
"Then why do you not give Strucker the information he wants, if you are one of us?"
"Us?" He fell silent for a moment, as another rush of tremors ran through his body. "Are you really one of these people? Are you really like Strucker?"
A flash of memory from the previous hours, Strucker's voice, gloating, delighting in the scene…Clint forced it back.
There was a flicker of something on her face but he was too tired to place it. Perhaps she had had the same memory. "The Avengers are trying to destroy Hydra. They are a threat," she said, firmly.
"I don't know what lies Hydra has sold you. I don't know what promises they've made. But you can't trust them."
"They've given us what they promised," snapped Pietro. Wanda glanced at him. "Some of what they promised," he amended. "And they will fulfill the rest." Exhausted as he was, Clint could recognize the steely determination in the man's voice.
"What have they given you?"
Wanda's head raised a little higher. "The ability to protect ourselves, to protect out people, and to bring justice to those wronged. If you're truly Hydra, you would care about those things."
Clint gave a weak laugh that trailed off as a shiver ran through his body. He waited for it to pass. "Hydra doesn't care about any of those things. Hydra cares about control and power. It will string you along until you're in too deep to see a way out and then it will close the trap on you. I've been where you are. I've believed the stories they told. And you need to believe them, because at some point what's on your hands, you can't accept that you did it for the wrong reasons. That you're the bad guy you thought you were fighting. You kill someone to save the world: that's a sacrifice to protect others, and you're a hero. You kill someone because you believed a lie: you're a murderer."
"When we kill Stark, I don't care what that makes us."
Clint had leaned his head back against the wall, too exhausted to keep his eyes on her, but at this he forced himself to straighten and look at her. "Tony? Why Tony?"
"Stark is a murderer," Pietro snapped. "You talk of protecting the world? That is what we will be doing when we use the powers Hydra gave us to destroy him."
Clint stared at the two. There was that anger, personal and strong that he had seen earlier. And clarity, sharp and strong, pierced through the fog of pain that was still clouding his mind. "What did Stark do to you?"
There was a sharp intake of breath. Rage, loathing, hatred, anger…and hurt…all warring on Pietro's face. Wanda's was more still, more hard. For a moment Clint wasn't sure if he was going to get a response or not. And then Pietro began to speak.
"We were ten years old. Having dinner. Us…our parents. And then the shell hits. Two floors below. It makes a hole in the floor. Our parents…gone, and the whole building starts coming apart. I grab her and the second shell hits. But, it doesn't go off. It just...sits there in the rubble, three feet from our faces. And on the side of the shell is painted one word...
"Stark…" Wanda finishes, in a flat tone.
"Oh. I see," Clint said, gently.
"And what could we do? Hmm?" Pietro had begun to pace. "The great Tony Stark, half a world away. More money and technology at his disposal than is in the whole of Sokovia. Respected and honored! Acclaimed a hero! What could we ever do? We couldn't even make a difference as our country tore itself apart. And then…Strucker comes. He offers us a chance. A chance not to be weak. A chance to never be the weak ones again. And a chance to make sure Tony Stark never murders another family. You say you know what Hydra is. Well we know what Tony Stark is, and we know what the Avengers are!"
He turned, and left the room. Wanda gave Clint one cold, long look, and followed her brother out of the room.