Chapter Three: Iron Pastry
"Hey… Barton. Are we sure this is the place we want to be? It seems kinda unsafe, for me I mean. No one is going to want to even come close to you, not with that 'resting face' of yours, but me…. I don't like not having Happy and-"
"Stark, shut your damned mouth. After all that time I spent getting you out here, I'm not going to let anything happen to you."
The archer turned towards his companion, walking in sync with the skeptical billionaire. Tony looked as if he was ready to speak again, but Clint continued before he could.
"Unless of course you keep talking Stark, in which case I will wound you."
It had been quite the struggle getting Tony through the vents. Stark was many things – genius, billionaire, playboy, and philanthropist being his personal favorites – but subtle he was not. It was seemingly impossible for the man to move without making some sort of noise; being in a giant metal tube only emphasized his clattering nature; passing over Natasha in the living room had proven nearly impossible except at abysmally low speeds. They had managed to make it through without rousing suspicion, but it had been the single most mentally and physically taxing thing Clint had ever done. More so than taking on an army of aliens - without any superpowers thank you very much.
Thankfully, after making it past Natasha's couch-filled fortress, the rest of the air duct adventure was easy sailing. It was all too simple to exit the vents into the hallway, take the elevator down to the lobby, and hail a cab; all to the soundtrack of the Mission Impossible theme song. Neither of the two men possessed enough self-control to not hum the famous tune as they crawled around.
Now they were making their way through the streets of Budapest, searching for a place Barton had refused to tell Stark of. These streets were darker than those around the hotel, dingier with loose papers rolling down the avenues, lights flickering dim orange light across the shadows. Clint was unperturbed by his surroundings. Without a care he strolled down the cobbled streets, his hands resting in the pockets of his dark canvas jacket. Tony on the other hand was clearly out of his element, his Armani suit clashing with faded jeans of other passersby, Italian leather shoes splotched with dirt for the first time.
Stark had been to some pretty dodgy places during his adventures as Iron Man, but never without his suit. It was easy to understand how the inventor might feel uncomfortable wandering around a shifty neighborhood with no suit, a man he had only know for a few months, and more money in his wallet than one person should ever really carry at one time. Still, Clint wasn't going to let Stark get off easy. The man can poke Bruce with pointy objects without a fear, but to walk through a strange neighborhood at night and that's too much. Clint chuckled to himself. The man is ridiculous.
"I would just feel a little better if I had the football is all." Stark pouted.
Clint could just imagine the ruckus that would have ensued had they attempted to drag the large metal case through the air vents.
"That hunk-o-junk would have never made it past the Nadziratel'." Clint shot back at the petulant man, switching into Russian without a thought.
"Ooooh Nadziratel'. That doesn't sound like a cute pet name for your foxy Russian lady."
Stark rounded on his archer friend, mouth formed into a perfect "O", eyebrows raised and eyes gleaming at the possibility of drama.
"Is the deadly duo having domestic issues?"
One corner of Tony's mouth pulled upwards as he spoke, forming the signature Stark smile. Clint just rolled his eyes.
"Don't you have shadows to be afraid of?"
Tony was still smiling, but his expression was less amused. His eyes looked as if they were condemning Barton to a life of painful misery.
"Don't you go anywhere that isn't coated in filth and possibly murder?"
"Hmmm… not generally."
Clint's eyes drifted to the side of the street. There had been a movement in the alley branching off the street they were now on. It was nothing immediately dangerous, but still something the archer would have to keep an eye on. He wasn't in the habit of letting his guard down, even if he was off duty.
"I don't think you have anything to worry about. If I feel safe enough to leave without my bow, I think we're fine. Besides half the time you use your aluminum tuxedo it's not needed."
"Aluminum tuxedo!" Tony scoffed, before taking a minute to consider the newly formed nickname. "Actually I like the way that sounds. Nice call Bird-brain."
"Just doing my duty sir."
Clint tipped an imaginary hat to Stark, pleased someone appreciated his wit. At the next corner they turned left, stepping on to a new street. This avenue was just as dilapidated as the last, the only difference being the bright lights shining through the windows of a bar. The place sat sandwiched between two rundown buildings. By comparison it was the best looking joint on the block, but it was no Asgardian dining hall. Patrons could be viewed through windows begging to be properly washed and music leaked through the cracks in the structure.
"Just as I remembered."
Clint stood in front of the establishment, hands on hips, smiling ever so slightly. A strange look crossed the archer's face, one that made it impossible for Tony to discern whether he should smile with the man or run before he could do anything awful.
"Was this where you spent your time in Budapest?" Tony stepped into place next to Barton, his distaste for the bar evident on his face. "Was your whole trip this … seedy?"
The billionaire surveyed the building, taking in every minor structural fault and questionable stain. None of the patrons inside looked like those normally found in the places Tony frequented.
"I can't go in there Barton. I don't think my vaccines are up to date."
"Don't be such a priss. If the almighty Stark wishes to discover the secrets of Budapest…"
Clint threw one arm around Tony's shoulders, using the other to gesture grandly at the bar.
"Then he must come down off his pedestal and sink to our level."
It had taken Clint mere seconds to acclimate himself to the atmosphere of the bar. Shortly after crossing the threshold he spotted two empty stools at the front counter. Clint made a beeline for the empty spots, hooking a foot under one and pulling it away from the bar before finally sitting down. Stark followed, his usual confidence and strut masking his pessimism. The dark-haired man surveyed the room, taking in the stained walls, ripped seat covers, and dreary-eyed patrons swaying to the downbeat music playing over the speakers. Definitely not my usual crowd.
"Why are we here Barton? We could have gone somewhere nicer."
"If you want to wander off by yourself or sneak back into the hotel room, please feel free to do so."
Despite his complaints, Tony still sat down with his companion. He twirled around on the stool once before facing Clint. He watched as the blond muttered something in what the billionaire assumed to be Hungarian to the bartender. The balding, apron-wearing man returned to the pair, two beers in hand. Tony wasn't really a beer kinda guy, but he supposed alcohol was alcohol. He doubted they had even a single bottle of his normal fare anywhere on the shelves; the bar was definitely running a "quantity over quality" business.
"I'm just saying Katniss, we could be sitting in the VIP room of some club right now, fancy drinks in hand and sexy ladies all around."
The billionaire waited for the bartender to set his drink down before reaching for it.
"My reputation and your sweet ass would be more than enough to get us through the door, no questions asked."
Clint smirked into his beer, taking a swig before returning it to its coaster.
"You and I both know that a night like that would end up with you dancing on a pole with no shirt on, and I don't think I could ever be drunk enough to enjoy that."
A burst of laughter forced its way from Tony's diaphragm, spraying amber liquid everywhere. He smiled, turning to Clint who was now busy wiping beer splatter from his face.
"Well that sounds like a testable hypothesis, now doesn't it."
Several hours slipped by the two men as they lounged in the bar. The sky darkened further, the street only visible directly under the few street lights. Happy hour passed and with it left the casual drinkers. Now the bar filled with the regular visitors, hardy men and women who spent their nights there in the company of their fellow full-time drinkers.
In the middle of all this, still seated at the center of the bar, sat Tony and Clint happily tallying up a massive bill. Their section of the counter was littered with the crumbled remains of bar nuts and soggy napkins used in an attempt to clean minor spills. They occasionally twirled on their stools, million watt smiles shining at full power as they garbled stories to each other of their pasts.
"After I shot her a few times, Hill went full commando. She was screaming, her own Nerf darts shooting everywhere. I had to do my best to dodge 'em. But, but then get this, Fury came into the office."
Clint waved his hands enthusiastically, enunciating his words with hand gestures. A full-fledged smile spread across his face, and for the first time that day his joy was visible in his eyes.
"Fury! On the helicarrier? I woulda' never guessed. What happened next?" Tony slurred, hanging on to Clint's every word.
"He was shouting and ranting about rules and proper conduct, you know, the usual bullshit. Just standing in the doorway yapping away, I couldn't resist. I loaded my last dart into my Nerf gun...and shot 'im, right in his good eye!"
The marksman reached for his glass, draining the last portion of his beer. His disappointment when it emptied was evident on his face, even more so when the barkeeper denied him a refill. Clint shrugged it off though, opting to continue his story.
"The damn thing scratched his cornea! Hill rushed him off to medical and when he came back… he had an eye-patch over that eye too!"
The two men dissolved into a fit of laughter, tearing up at the thought of a completely patched Fury. Their high-pitched hysterical laughter signaled that it was time to go home, but both men were too far gone to realize just how drunk they were. Granted Clint wasn't nearly as inebriated as his companion, but he was far drunker than he had been in a long while; too drunk to notice the new group of patrons that had just arrived at the bar.
They were a menacing group of people, several tall buff men and a smattering of floozy women. Scarred, rough-looking people who scared the other patrons out of the bar. No one wanted to get mixed up with the likes of them. Even the bartender left the room, giving a nod before shuffling to the back muttering something about taking inventory.
Within minutes the only people left in the bar with the dark gaggle were Tony and Clint. The two sat, still laughing at Clint's story, blissfully unaware of the glaring men behind them. Their presence was not wanted, and two men had come to "request" their departure. They loomed behind the chuckling men, waiting for their arrival to be acknowledged.
Clint eventually sensed the presence of people behind him, turning around to face whoever was standing so close. Tony turned as well, his laughter dying immediately once he saw the new arrivals. The Hungarian's were tall, very tall, probably the tallest of the group, graced with dark hair and broad shoulders. One had an impressive looking beard sprouting from his chin. It was so long it almost brushed the lapels of his leather jacket. A jagged scar ran down the cheek of the other man, starting below his eye and curling around his mouth. His arms were covered with tattoos and off of one hung a mildly attractive woman.
"Who the hell are these guys?" Tony asked, jerking his thumb towards the looming figures just in case Clint didn't notice them.
"Damned if I know." Clint responded.
The two men had begun to talk now, however their words were indecipherable. They spoke only in Hungarian and the longer Clint and Tony stared, the more aggravated they sounded.
"Clint do you have any idea what these two are saying? I can't understand a word of that gibberish."
Tony shot side glances at his companion. He refused to take his full attention from them men in front of him.
"Why would I know? I don't speak Hungarian!" the archer snapped.
"Oh you don't? It sure sounded like you did. You've just been talking up a storm with the bartender all night in Hungarian!"
Clint rolled his eyes.
"I only know how to ask for two beers. That's all I've said all night. I can't even begin to comprehend a single syllable of what they're saying."
The tension in the room was rising, and with it rose tempers. Neither side was able to understand the others words, but it was pretty easy to decipher the menacing men's body language. Clint looked to the two men, trying to form some sort of communication.
"Do either of you speak English? English?"
He received no answers, the Hungarian men only tensed, startled by his sudden outburst.
"You don't speak English. Of course you don't, that would be too easy."
Clint couldn't help but heave a heavy sigh. His night was starting to take a turn for the worse. We should have stayed in the damn hotel room. Still trying to make a connection, he turned towards the woman. Schooling his face into a pleasant grin, he tried to make himself seem less threatening.
"Hi there. You wouldn't happen to-"
The scarred man mistook his friendly approach with something of a more sexual nature. He pulled his lady friend away from the bar and began to shout.
"Hey, hey, hey I'm not trying to hit on your girl. There's no need to get rowdy."
Clint took a step back, both hands raised, palms out in a submissive manner. There was no escape from the bar that didn't involve going through people, and last thing he wanted was for things to get physical. Tony on the other hand, thought the entire thing was hilarious. He couldn't contain his laughter or the few snorts that escaped.
"Calm down you troglodytes. Barton's a one-lady kinda man, why would he be taking sloppy seconds when he's got Miss Pouty Lips?"
The billionaire pursed his lips in a ridiculous manner, hands raised to his chest miming the presence of breasts. He affected a terrible Russian accent before continuing.
"Come here Clint. I wish to sit oh so close to you and hint to the fact I have feelings for you, but then dance around the issue with metaphors about ledgers."
In hind sight, that little presentation probably wasn't the best idea Tony had ever had. Not knowing English, the burly men in front of them most likely assumed the inventor was making another pass at the woman, what with all the pretend breast wiggling. It wasn't that much of a surprise when the tattooed man made a grab at Tony.
Thankfully Clint's survival instincts, far too ingrained into his person to be dulled by alcohol, stopped him before he could harm the goateed man. The fist that had previously been destined for Tony's jaw was smacked away, much to the displeasure of the man throwing the punch. He immediately rounded on Clint, attempting to strike him instead. Once again instincts took over, but this time with a more painful consequence. The archer grabbed the burly man's arm, twisting it to the left while forcing the elbow to bend against its joint. The bones let loose an unpleasant crack and Clint grabbed the man firmly by the shoulders, slamming his forehead against the hardwood bar. He crumpled to the ground laying unconscious at the archer's feet.
This had all happened within seconds and left everyone else in the establishment stunned. The felled man's partner, after a brief pause, tried to attack Clint, hoping to succeed where the other had failed. Tony, still surprisingly agile considering his state of being, swiftly dealt with the man. He picked up the bar stool closest to where he was standing and brought it down upon the bearded man's head. Both men now laid unconscious, the female companion now on the other end of the bar with the rest of the group.
"I would say I'm sorry, but your facial hair was kinda lame." Tony said, placing the stool back in its place. He turned to Clint, pride evident in his features.
The remaining men in the bar, seeing this attack on their group, its purpose still unknown to the superheroes, all rose to defend their fallen comrades. They advanced on the two men, encircling them with their far greater numbers. More men must have come into the bar while the two Avengers had been distracted, because there were far more than either man had originally thought. A quick count revealed they were outnumbered seven to one.
The two men looked to each other, both realizing the gravity of their situation. Neither was in possession of their equipment and it was too late to call for backup. This fight was not going to end well.
"Well here goes nothing."
Clint ran at the nearest assailant, ducking the blow aimed at his head and simultaneously kicking the feet out from under his opponent.
"We're fucked." Tony muttered before diving into the fray without a second thought.
They hadn't started this fight, but they were damn well gonna' finish it.
Tony awoke in darkness, his vision blurred and head pounding. He had no idea where he was, what time it was, or who had left him here. To say he was disoriented would be an understatement. He tried to collect his thoughts, but his mind was reeling so fast he could hardly remember his name.
"Anthony Stark… my name is Anthony Edward Stark." He grunted through gritted teeth.
He clung to this piece of information; it was the only thing he was certain of, the only thing keeping him grounded. Tony tried to move his arms, but found them to be immobile. They were pinned behind his back, tied at the wrist by coarse rope. He was trapped, stuck in the chair he was sitting in. He was a hostage.
"Fuuuck, not again."
Tony sighed, rolling his head forward. His chin rested on his chest, disheveled dark hair flopping in front of his eyes. The restrained engineer tried to blow the strands out of his face, but gave up shortly. He closed his eyes, his head hurting slightly less with them shut. Flashes of his memories came back to him, images of what had happened before he blacked out.
He remembered the bar fight Clint and he had gotten themselves into; Fourteen men against two, all over some stupid misunderstanding. The odds had been against them, but they had faced worse. Clint had held his ground, as always, downing any man who had dared to come near him. Tony, well he hadn't done so well. Fighting outside of his suit wasn't his specialty. Sure he had trained with Happy, but that was one-on-one while he was sober. Never had he tried to fight five men at one time, and certainly not while he could barely stay on his feet. The headache he had currently was most likely a result of a massive hangover, that and a massive ass whooping.
They had managed to halve the number of men in the room, but more had come flooding in. He remembered his shock as Hungarian behemoths came from nowhere, surrounding him then Clint. They had been ambushed and taken from behind. He winced, remembering a beer bottle smashing against his temple. After that everything was black.
He opened his eyes again, this time long enough for his sight to adjust to the darkness. opposite the one door in the brick walled room, was a single window. It cast a beam of sunlight into the otherwise murky room. Boxes were stacked against the walls, burlap sacks tossed everywhere. They were filled with… baking supplies.
"What the… I'm hostage in a bakery?"
He was thoroughly confused. The men who had fought with them did not, in any way, shape, or form, look like bakers. He didn't dwell on this long however, for he discovered another person in the room. It was Clint, tied just as tightly as he was, but still unconscious.
"Not unconscious." Tony smirked as he heard snores that could only belong to one man. "Just asleep."
He let the archer nap until he could stand waiting no more.
"Hey douche bag! Wake your feathery ass up!"
Clint snapped back to attention, jerking his head from its resting position. He blinked, confused, but not surprised. This wasn't the first time the blond had awoken tied to a chair. He took a moment to gather himself, but was quick to resume his usual temperament.
"Do you really need to shout Tony? I'm only a few feet away from you."
He kept his eyes partially squinted, his mouth set in a stern frown. A smirk crossed the billionaire's face.
"You're just as hung-over as I am!" Tony chuckled. A partner in misery made things more bearable.
"Let's stop giggling about headaches." Clint snapped. "We have more important things to worry about, like how to get out of this mess."
Clint wasted no time in wondering where they were, since it didn't really matter. They were being held hostage and the only way to remedy that was to escape. Tony watched as the archer began to survey the room, taking in every detail and formulating multitudes of plans. His face set in a look of concentration, eyes darting around the room, hands busily trying to slip from their restraints. He looked, not worried, but certainly not optimistic.
"Welp, my standard escape plan is shot." Tony casually announced, causing Clint to glance over curiously.
"I can't make a suit out of baked goods."
Tony said this as nonchalantly as one who discusses their lunch plans. The humor was not lost on Clint, who forgot his plans for escape long enough to laugh. He kept on laughing, Tony joining in as well.
"Could you imagine?" Clint gasped between chortles. "The- the Iron Pastry?"
With this both men completely lost their composure; whether it was from shock, stress, fear, or remnants of alcohol still floating around their blood streams, they were not sure. Their laughter echoed through the room, building upon itself until it was the only sound they could hear. It ran rampant, uninterrupted until a new noise made its way to their eardrums. A sharp, staccato clacking sounded from the hall getting closer with each second.
"Footsteps." Clint whispered, his laughter long forgotten.
Both men focused on the door, waiting for what was on the other side. The footsteps stopped, the door knob turned, and the door opened. A man stood in the entryway, shorter and slimmer than those who had beaten them. He chose to dress in all black, leaving brown ringlets of hair free to curl atop his head.
"Now you are awake, it time for interrogation." He announced in broken English.
Tony looked to Clint, worry in his eyes. Strangely the archer seemed to relax with this new development. He leaned back in his chair, one side of his mouth raised in a lopsided grin.
"Do your worst."
Just in case you were wondering Nadziratel' (надзиратель) is Russian for warden.
Hey look there's another chapter! Things are getting a move on, I'm so excited to write this story.
Thanks to anyone who had followed, Favorited, or reviewed. I adore you all, but especially my wonderful and glorious editor Paige, because without her, I would be utterly fucked in terms of grammar.