Title: Sixty
Author: Proclaim Thy Warrior Soul
Rating: A strong T.
Warnings: Allusions to, and actual, torture. Hurt/comfort. Deaf!Clint. Can be read as Clint/Coulson, but can also be read as friendship.
Sixty
The first lands before he's ready; rocks him back on his knees, ears ringing.
Clint counts.
One.
He tastes blood; can easily guess their plan. Resigns himself to the fact with a snort.
Two.
They follow in quick succession, although he's prepared this time; braces for what's to come.
Three, four, five.
Lets his mind drift; elsewhere is more interesting. A crack in the wall; dust coating the floor; the sliver of sunlight through blacked-out windows.
Six, seven, eight.
He ignores the taunts with ease of practice. Can't make out their words, anyway. Lost his hearing aids somewhere between falling from his perch and being dragged here in cuffs.
Nine, ten, eleven.
His lack of reaction riles them, but he won't give them the satisfaction.
Twelve. Thirteen-fourteen-fifteen.
No order to their chaos; no finesse. Just blow after blow after blow.
...Seventeen...
Loses count, head pounding. Bites the inside of his cheek; a distraction.
Eighteen...Nineteen.
Tastes copper. Spits blood.
Twenty.
Aches and pains make their presence known. An urge to retaliate grows stronger, but he can't fight back.
Twenty-one, twenty-two.
Not yet. Orders are to stand down; wait it out - the last communication with his new Handler. Instincts scream otherwise.
Twenty-three. Twenty-four.
Cold, harsh metal bites into tender flesh, bruised and bloody from efforts at release. He stifles grunts of pain behind expertly-schooled features.
Twenty-five. Twenty-six.
The seconds slowly tick by.
Twenty-seven, Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty.
The now steady drip-drip, drip-drip holds sway over his mind; eyes fixated as they trace the path from skin to air to floor; mesmerized.
Thirty-one, thirty-two.
The room sways, his brain stutters to keep up. The numbers are lost to him. Again.
Thirty-five, Thirty-six.
The next hit touches a particularly sensitive spot, one Clint wasn't anticipating. The resulting scream of pain echoes angrily around the enclosed space. He forgets to count.
Forty. Forty-one-two-three-four.
Breathless, air taken without consent; lungs tight. Vision blurring, but still he counts; the task grows harder as his concentration falters.
Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine...
They're tiring, which means Clint is winning.
Fifty. Fifty-one.
They switch. The ones that hold him are now the ones that hurt him. Clint scents fresh bloodlust; glee. Closes his eyes. Continues counting.
Fifty-two.
A sudden cough brings up blood and Clint feels as the pitiful contents of his stomach starts to follow. Swallows it down with a grimace.
Fifty-three.
They're changing tactics. Clint prefers it when they were beating him to a pulp. Swallows a fresh scream and concentrates on drawing air into protesting lungs.
Fifty-four.
Hands. All over...
Fifty-five.
Spits the chunk of flesh to the floor, blood coating lips and tongue. Now he's not the only one screaming.
Fifty-six. Fifty-seven. Fifty-eight.
The last blow ends with him face-down on a filthy surface. Metal digs further into torn skin...but it no longer matters.
Fifty-nine.
Pressure. He can't breathe; lungs giving in. His world, reduced cruelly to dirt, pain, blood and fear, is graying out. He no longer struggles.
Sixty.
...
...
...
...
It's over.
The pressure eases, though Clint can't determine why. The static in his ears drowns out all important sounds; the fight to steal back oxygen garners his complete concentration.
...
...
...
There's a voice... A hand.
He flinches, curls tighter into a ball and mutters softly under his breath, eyes clenched shut. His words make no sense but they're a comfort all the same.
...
"-nt...sta...oka..."
The voice, clearer now. Lips close to his ear.
Clint attempts to move but gentle hands restrain. Soft, soothing in their familiarity. Clint utilizes the decision to open his eyes...
Phil.
...
It takes a moment, but recognition shows, bloody lips quirking in greeting before darkness wins.
Clint's last thought; safe.
«End»
Author's Notes: Erm, I'm *way* overdue for a new chapter on Saving Grace. Apologies...it's coming. The writing bug is returning. It's been a stressful few months...
This can be blamed on an overindulgence of Jeremy Renner... (Can you even overindulge on such perfection?) It's part one of two, and my first - ever-so timid - exploration of the Avengers fandom.
Thoughts? Feedback is much appreciated.
PTWS