Bit of a filler chapter, sorry! Promise we'll get to some plot next time, guys! 'Til then, keep smashing that review button! (As well as the favorite and follow ones too!)

Chapter 7: Shadows From The Past

Clint P.O.V

All throughout the plane ride back to the tower, Clint clutched the soggy and bent note in his hands. When he had gone back to find Bruce and Steve, he had explained what happened in clipped sentences, then said nothing else. He hadn't said another word to either of them. He was … burning. Burning for anger, burning for Natasha, burning for Doom. The ache in his chest sharpened, and the hole filled with fire. He was going to get her back, dead or alive, whether she was tortured or not. He had to. It was the only way he could live with himself without her.

Bruce and Steve knew not to try and talk, and he was pretty okay with that. He didn't want their pity that would settle at the back of his throat and choke him, not with the taste, but with the feelings it would stir up. And right now, he needed to be angry and cold to get Nat back. He couldn't afford to be compromised, well, more compromised.

When the five hours were up, he was faintly surprised; it felt like five minutes. He was the first one off the plane, and he didn't stop to plan with the others or to talk. What he did do was go to the med-bay and stare at Tony. Tony was chalky pale and wan. Smaller veins had turned black, so his appearance was ghastly. Clint looked down at him for a long time. Then, he turned and left.

His room was bland and cold without Nat, and he sat on the bed. He sat with his hands clasped with his elbows on his knees. Looking down at his hands, he saw callouses from archery and scars from fights. One scar slashed across the back of his left hand. He had gotten it when he first met Nat. He had surprised her, and she had the dagger out and moving before he saw it. He had been stunned, and she had run off. He eventually caught up with her in an alley. She had nowhere to go, and she was backed up against the wall. He had looked into her eyes, seeing her determination and defiance, but also the terror and the anguish at her actions. She was beautiful; an angel of blood, and he had decided to help her.

Clint moved to the closet and looked at the two bags there. He and Nat always had something like them. On the outside, they looked like regular duffel bags, but on the inside, well, no regular person would have one. They held fake documents and ids, weapons not carried on their persons, and varying types of clothes depending on regions. They were the things used to disappear. Nat's held a couple of daggers and handguns, and, he stopped when he saw it, a flame-red clingy dress. He remembered when he saw it. It had been the first time he knew he loved her.

They were on a mission, of course, and had to attend a party at some drug lord's mansion. They had separate apartments, and he hadn't seen her get ready, so when she walked down the golden marble staircase, his heart had stopped. The dress fit perfectly, and her milky legs slipped in and out of the slit, while the back brushed the floor. He had been at the food table, stuffing his face politely with fancy party food, and looked up, swallowed thickly, and blushed beet red. She, of course, had been calm and cool, and raised an eyebrow at him. The objective of the night was just to be seen, so they had the freedom to dance. She had walked over to him, and he hurriedly cleaned up his food, before brushing off his vest and presenting himself for inspection like a nervous teenager at prom. When they danced, she had been so graceful, and when he held her in his arms, his heart beat so quick and loud, he was sure she heard it. But she never gave any sign that she did, and they circled around the floor with her head on his shoulder. It was one of the best nights of his life. He had tried to tell her several times over the years, but she had always brushed it off.

Clint found that he had started crying silently, and wiped off his cheeks. Gently folding the dress back up, he replaced everything back into the closet, grabbed his bow, and went to the archery range to vent.

After the fourth round and the eightieth arrow, he heard a noise; sort of a whooshing booming thundering trumpet. Instantly, his fists clenched and the fire flared. Thor. He dared to show his face after missing all this? How dare he? How dare he miss maybe saving Nat?

White-faced, he slung his bow on his back and ran up to the roof. Thor was already there, beaming like an idiot with outstretched arms ready to embrace Steve and Bruce, who at least looked solemn.

"My friends! I apologize for leaving so suddenly, but I was called away to Asgard to take care of a -"

He was interrupted by Clint's fist punching him in the jaw.

"What the hell, man? Why the hell didn't you stay, or at least tell us where you were going? Tony's poisoned, Nat's captured and probably tortured, and you could've helped out, but you had to go up to Golden City to help your dad! If one of them dies because of you, I'll kill you, you son of a bitch!" Clint felt the fire dying and the hole widening, and he broke off suddenly and turned away.

"I - I was not aware of this. Please forgive me, my friends." Thor sounded perturbed, at least.

"It's okay, Thor. Let's just go inside and talk things over." Steve took the mantle of leadership and the opportunity to usher them all into the tower.

Clint didn't look at Thor, just leaned back on the wall, crossed his legs, and stared at the floor. He didn't want to look at him, because if he did, he didn't know what he might do. He didn't listen as Steve brought Thor up to speed. He didn't want to hear the pathetic, fucked-up story again.

"And so we found a note from Natasha telling us about these … blue giants with red eyes that are teaming up with Doom. Any ideas what those might be?"

Thor sounded grim. "Aye. They are Jotuns; Frost Giants. They live on Jotunheim, and control ice and snow. They are potent enemies, and the slightest touch can turn the skin blue and burned. It is not a good omen if they are here on Midgard after so many centuries."

"They were here before?" Bruce sounded curious, probably adding knowledge to his store of mythology.

"Yes. They tried to create a new ice age and inhabit Midgard, but my father and the armies of Asgard held back Laufey and his hordes of Jotuns." The sick fuck sounded pleased.

"Oh. Okay then." Steve shared a glance with Bruce. "And they would be here to do … what, exactly?"

"I do not know, but if they have allied themselves with this man, Doom, then I fear the reasons might be more bloodthirsty than gentle." Now, he sounded worried.

"No shit, Sherlock." Clint snorted before he could stop himself.

Thor looked puzzled, but continued anyway, ignoring the last part. "If this is the case, I must go to my father and tell him the news. If it is as I fear, then there may be only one person who can help us."

After a pause, Steve was the one to voice his curiosity. "Who?"

"That is not the question at hand here. The question of utmost importance is; what is the poison used to infect the Man of Iron?" Clint wasn't the only one to raise an eyebrow at the quick subject change.

"We don't know. He's in a coma, a sort of, uh, long sleep, and his temperature fluctuates from very hot to very cold within minutes, and his veins are, uh, turning black." Bruce listed the symptoms awkwardly.

Thor turned pale. "That is exactly how Aesir react when introduced to a Jotun poison. If it truly is as you say, then the Jotuns have given their poison to Doom, who will unleash it on an unsuspecting and defenseless population. I must warn Asgard." He abruptly stood to go.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, big guy. Lets not do anything hasty." Steve stood up and partially blocked him from the door.

"What are you waiting for? Every moment we wait is a chance that Doom can inflict this plague on your world, and mine. Now, you can come with me, or stay here, but either way, I am going to Asgard." Thor growled, reaching for Mjolnir at his belt.

Clint reached subtly for his bow, a reflex. The room was silent for a pause, and he saw Steve shake his head slightly.

"Fine. We'll come with. It looks like that's the fastest way to get all this over with, but I have to have your word that once we go to Asgard, we will come back, heal Tony, save Nat, and send Doom in a box to the Fantastic Four to do what they want with him." Steve looked straight into Thor's eyes, battle of the baby blues.

Thor grasped his forearm in an archaic motion. "Rest assured, my friend, once we take care of the Jotun threat, we will go after our friends. I would not consider otherwise. I promise that we will do as you say."

Clint looked disbelievingly at the two of them. "Did either of you think about consulting me and Bruce? What if we don't want to go?"

"I would not impede on your goodwill, friends. If you do not wish to go, I will not force you." Thor frowned, looking like a kicked puppy at the insult to his honor.

Clint ground his teeth. On one hand, he could stay here, go after Doom himself, and get Natasha back. Or, he could go to Asgard, speed up the process, get allies, and, ultimately … do the same thing. On the plus side, if he went, he could at least visit an alien planet. But something in him resisted the idea of leaving Nat while she was gone. It was like he was trying to rip off a part of himself; his instincts were too powerful to ignore. And they would be leaving the world practically defenseless.

He made his decision, gritting his teeth against the wrongness. "I'll go." He met Steve's and Thor's eyes. "But not for Asgard or Earth. For Nat."

On Asgard …

Whispers leaked from cracks between worlds and seeped into the Realm Eternal. The whispers carried on the wind, between golden spires, and into the deepest parts of the underbelly. In the darkest part of the dark, a pair of ears listened to the whispers.

So, the golden prince of Asgard needs help. How pathetic.

The whispers carried news of visitors seeking help, the cause being … Jotuns, how delightful. The visitors would surely hear that the only one able to help them in their quest, lies in the dungeons, imprisoned for false crimes, and cast off by family. And when they came to him, at long last, oh, how it would gall them to come, and he would take satisfaction in their misfortune. He would smile and revel, and cast seeds of discontent, while dripping words like barbs. He would bend them all to his will, bend the Allfather, the nine realms, and all of Yggdrasil to his whims. And, after so many centuries of waiting and hoping and cursing and planning, he would get his deepest desire. And they would help him willingly in this endeavor, for he will indeed play the part of the monster, of the god of lies, and gain their trust and sympathy, all the while making them dance on his puppet strings.

Sentiment.

And in the deepest, darkest, most desolate dungeon in the bowels of Asgard, a shadow smiled.

Three guesses for who the "shadow" is, and the first two don't count!

Favorite, and get one of the spies' emergency bags. Follow, and get to punch Thor. Review, and get to teach Asgardians about the wickedness of racism. Follow/Favorite me, and get to go back in time in a time machine and attend the party with Clint and Natasha. Vote for me, and get to scheme in the dungeons with the mysterious "shadow" while you both cackle maniacally and devise devious plans for Yggdrasil-domination.