Author's Note:

warnings: language, some violence

sorry. *winces* but hey, two months is actually...not that bad. It's not good, but not bad.

Chapter Four:

Natasha expected Clint to be sleeping.

He's not.

Instead, he's staring dully up at the ceiling, limbs contorted to fold on the small bench. Despite the awkward flail of his limbs across the space, Natasha can see that he's comfortable.

He looks up at her when the Quinjet opens, then sighs and flops his head back down onto the bench, his expression filled with resignation.

Ah.

So she's that welcome here then.

I haven't seen you in months, Clint, she wants to say, shaking him, do you think that you're the only person that's hurting? I missed you. Every damn day for six months.

He won't even look at her, instead carefully tucking his arm inside his sleeve.

Natasha raises her eyebrows, slamming the button to close the door to the dark overcast behind her and tentatively taking the seat across from him. The inside lights flick on, layering everything in a dull yellow glow.

"That happy to see me, are you?" she asks, her tone dry. It hides the worst of the veiled pain.

Clint is quiet. It stretches painfully. Natasha bites the inside of her cheek to hide the sting.

It's over. Whatever they had. It must be.

No one stays.

Not for her.

"It's not that," Clint says at last, exhaling. He slowly eases himself upright. He stares at her shoes, hunching his shoulders in a gesture of discomfort that feels alien to her. "I am. Happy. That is. You, uh, cut your hair."

Natasha's fingers brush over the bangs by subconscious habit. The rest of the thick, unruly layers are a tangled mess, drawn into what might pass as a ponytail somewhere. The bangs had been an impulsive decision a few weeks ago, and one she's privately regretted ever since. Hair is easier to deal with when it's all the same length.

"You're so happy you're miserable I'm here?" The words feel nasty as they leave her mouth, and the near-wince that Clint does in response only assures her of that fact. She sighs, resting her elbows on her thighs. "Sorry. That wasn't…"

Clint hums, still looking at her feet. He plays with the edges of his sleeves. "It's fine."

Natasha shakes her head. "No, it's not." A beat, and then, "I'm glad you're safe, ptitsa."

He tugs on the edge of his right sleeve again. The movement bothers her. He tentatively raises his head to stare at her. Bozhe moi, what did they do to you? It's not the first time Natasha has thought the question since she saw him, but it's the first that she feels it.

He can barely look at her.

"Thanks," Clint says, his gaze dropping again. "I'm, um…How-how have you been?"

The awkwardness is unbearable, but Natasha's throat is dry.

She doesn't know what to say.

How to cross this bridge between them.

How have I been? Natasha doesn't even know where to start. Any moment she hasn't been knee-deep in S.H.I.E.L.D. shit, she's been wading her way through the legal process to get him out of the Dante Pit. Playing mediator with Laura, trying to figure out what the hell to do about the WSC.

She's stressed. She's exhausted.

And now they have Loki to deal with again.

"Fine," Natasha says. "As fine as I can be."

"That's good," Clint offers.

The silence stretches between them again. An emptiness pulls through Natasha's chest. She feels like she's standing on one end of a crevice, Clint on the other end, and the chasm is what they used to be. But that's an empty connection now.

He is the most important person in the world to her.

And she can't even talk to him.

Maybe he's not the only one who's broken now.

Clint awkwardly pushes the pads of his fingers together, tentative of the broken ones, before closing his eyes and shaking his head. She can see the edges of frustration in his expression, but she's not entirely sure what it's for. Maybe himself. Maybe her. It's hard to tell and Natasha hates that.

"Did Ross talk?" he asks.

The mission.

She can talk about the mission. The mission has nothing to do with them.

"Nothing helpful," Natasha says, and, though she would normally leave it at that, the silence is insufferable. "He mostly spoke about how unnecessary babysitting is. When I left, he was running surveillance checks again. Loki still hasn't moved."

"Is that a good thing?" Clint asks.

Natasha hesitates. "It might be the sedative."

"But you don't think so," Clint studies her face for a moment, and Natasha feels relief at the sharp assessment he gives her. There he is. Clint's voice is resigned, "What is it?"

Natasha sits up, letting out a long sigh. "There's a ventilation shaft in the room and Loki's hair kept moving in exactly the same way from the air. The footage was looped. Whatever is going on, Ross didn't want me to know. Or maybe he didn't want his subordinates to know."

Clint digs his palms into his eyes, letting out a soft groan. "Which means that something definitely is going on, and Ross has the nerve to keep it going even underneath Fury's nose. Did you see Pierce?"

Natasha frowns. She didn't realize Clint had. "Briefly. He was talking with Ross about Loki getting moved. Somewhere in the States?"

"He mentioned a facility. But it wasn't anything he could speak about in front of civies." Clint drops his hands, letting the bitterness in his voice show plainly. He's lost some of his freckles, Natasha realizes. Did he get any sun exposure in the last six months?

"You're not a civilian," Natasha says slowly.

Clint's smile is thin. "Aren't I? I don't exactly have the credentials to be an agent anymore, Natasha. I'm not right in the head." He taps the side of his temple, and the edge of his sleeve slides down his arm. Natasha sees the edge of something. Pale skin. A scar, maybe?

She keeps talking automatically as she looks at it, "Fury would never have put you on this mission if he didn't trust you."

It is a scar. He didn't have that when he left. Clint pulls the sleeve over his arm before she can see anything else.

"His trust doesn't exactly mean shit because he's the one that left me there," Clint says in protest, real anger creeping into his voice.

"It wasn't his decision, Clint," Natasha placates. "He's been doing everything he can-"

"Well, it wasn't enough!" Clint shouts. "Loki broke me and I had to go down with his ship anyway! Fury knew that! Do you really think he couldn't have pulled on something to get me out!? It was a lot easier to believe that before this!"

"I watched him-"

"Is that all you did?" Clint interrupts. His voice is scathing. "Watch? Because it certainly seems like that."

Natasha stills. Her voice is cold. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing!" Clint rubs at his face. "It doesn't mean anything."

"No," Natasha leans forward, taking in the minute details of his face. He looks away from her to hide them. "What is that supposed to mean? Clint."

Clint releases an exasperated sound. "Lila sent me a drawing. Laura wrote me letters. You didn't. I didn't hear a word from you for half a year, and you're angry at me?"

Natasha pulls back, "The WSC said that I couldn't send you-"

Natasha's phone starts vibrating.

She bites her tongue in annoyance, but Clint quiets. After years of working for S.H.I.E.L.D. together, both of them have learned to put any type of conversation on hold. They rarely argue, but Natasha remembers once, in the worst argument they have had, that Coulson called them and they put the entire thing on hold during the ten-minute phone call only to immediately pick up where they left off in the fight once Coulson hung up.

The caller ID says "STARK" and Natasha braces herself. The last update she got from him was that he was in New York, but that was hours ago. She answers, "Stark, what-?"

"Where's Barton?" Tony interrupts. The anxiety in his voice makes her shift forward. She puts the phone on speaker and holds it out in the space between herself and her partner.

"I'm with him right now," Natasha says, forcing her voice is calm. "You're on speaker. What's going on?"

"Yeah. Um. Okay," he sucks in a sharp breath. "Where are you?"

"The Quinjet," Clint answers after a moment. "On the roof. Tony, what's-"

"Great. Bruce and I will be there in five. Don't go anywhere." Tony hangs up before Natasha can get in another word.

They share a look.

The argument doesn't pick up again. They barely speak as they wait, and when the Quinjet opens, Natasha immediately gets to her feet. It's raining outside, the type of thick, heavy rain that floods cities. She doesn't remember hearing it start, but now that she's aware of the weather, it's all she can focus on.

Tony and Bruce are soaked as they come up the landing pad. "What's going on?" Natasha asks, meeting them.

Tony looks wild, frantic energy pulsing through every movement as he wipes the worst of the water away from his eyes. Bruce is skittish, a tablet clutched to his chest with clear desperation. He's not wearing his glasses.

"Hi," Tony says to her, then looks at Clint. "What did they do to your arm?"

Clint blinks.

Natasha swivels around to look back at him.

The scar.

"What?" Clint asks. "What are you-?"

Tony makes a sound of impatience and moves forward. He grabs Clint's arm and wrenches the sleeve up on his right one. Natasha sucks in a sharp breath as she sees the extent of the damage. A long scar stretches up from his palm to his elbow. There was no effort to minimize scaring. Patches of skin look like they were stitched back on. Like a patchwork doll. It's still red in some places and barely scabbed over near his palm.

Bozhe moi.

"Clint," Natasha breathes in, horrified. "Oh, god-"

Tony swears under his breath, grabbing the skin with both hands to study the skin. Clint tries to pull his hand back, but he's not looking at Tony with panic, but Natasha. His arm. He didn't want her to see his arm.

They did this to him.

The Dante Pit.

They did that to him.

Bruce gets closer, wiping water off the tablet before he opens it and stares at something. From what Natasha can see from this angle, it looks like some sort of medical paper. It's a massive block of text, but Bruce scrolls down to a picture of an arm.

Not Clint's, but white skin with a scar very similar to Clint's.

He wasn't the last person that the Dante Pit did this to. That S.H.I.E.L.D. did this to. Oh god, did Fury know?

"Yeah, it's the same," Bruce says with resignation. "Or near enough."

Clint finally manages to tear his arm out of Tony's grip. He stumbles back a step, looking pinned. He's breathing hard, panic visibly etched into every corner of his face. "What the hell!?" he exclaims. "Will someone please explain what the hell is happening?"

"What did they do to your arm?" Tony presses. "In the Dante Pit? Do you know?"

"Why do you-?"

"Clint!" Tony exclaims, grabbing at his shoulder. That frantic energy is back. "Just answer the damn question!"

"I don't know, okay!" Clint shouts, shoving the engineer back again. "Stop touching me!"

Tony visibly deflates, swearing again. Natasha can't move. She needs to, but she can't. She doesn't want to get closer. She doesn't want to see the scar in any more vivid detail than she already has. She wasn't there to stop that. She should have been. They're partners.

She didn't have his six.

No one had Clint's six.

"Clint," Bruce starts carefully. "Um. Why don't you sit down, okay? We'll explain what's going on."

Clint pulls the sleeve over his arm, his eyes wild and hunted. He takes a seat on the abandoned bench. Tony, never one for personal space, does exactly what Natasha has wanted since she first walked into the 'jet, and takes a seat next to her partner.

Bruce takes in a shaky breath and sits down across from him. Natasha keeps standing. Already, with barely any words spoken, she feels like someone listening in on this conversation, but not meant to participate. It bothers her and it shouldn't. She's a spy. This is what she does.

But it's different with the Avengers.

It shouldn't be but it is.

"Jarvis and I were going through Ross' files," Bruce starts slowly, "and I'm pretty sure we came across what Ross has been trying to keep from Fury."

"Okay," Clint says, wrapping his arms around his stomach tightly. "And this has to do with me because…?"

Bruce hands over the tablet. "It is you. That's what they were trying to keep from Fury."

A cold, icy feeling crawls up Natasha's spine. Fear. Terror. Hopelessness. Any urge to respect Clint's space escapes her entirely. Natasha presses in on Clint's other side, looking over the tablet. Their arms push together, but her partner barely seems to notice.

Clint starts looking over the document, and Natasha watches as his shoulders pull together sharply.

SUBJECT: KFB-626

NAME: FRANCIS CLINTON BARTON

OPERATION: ASGARDIAN FUSION

It goes on. Lists of trials. Natasha's body grows tighter the further down they get. It's mostly skimming because the actual document is over two hundred pages. Bruce summarizes the entire thing, his voice somewhere between gentle and apologetic, "Ross is doing experiments on Loki's magic. He was trying to see if he could give it to test subjects. The skin grafts…it's Loki's skin, Clint. They replaced the skin on your arm with his."

Clint's fingers still over the tablet. His expression is unreadable.

Natasha's eyes drop toward his arm before she can stop herself.

Loki's skin.

In Clint. A permanent part of him. God, that's…

"You're the only survivor without any permanent damage," Bruce continues. "Loki's blood isn't really compatible with ours. He's not endothermic like us, he's ectothermic-mostly. He doesn't make his own body heat. The skin predominantly rotted on everyone else. Add to that there's something in his blood that…I don't know. I've never seen anything like it before. I think it's magic. Did you know what was going on?"

Clint shoves the tablet at Tony and lurches up to his feet. "No."

Her partner looks like he's going to be sick.

"Clint," Natasha says quietly.

The archer ignores her. "They never said what it was for. And it's not like I got the choice to say no. They just did it anyway. Because that's what they...because that's what they do in the Pit and I...They just-they didn't-oh god..." Clint grabs at the wall desperately as he starts to slide toward the floor. Natasha is on her feet and across the 'jet before he hits the floor. She grabs him, wrapping her arms around him. Clint grabs at her.

"He's a part of me." Clint gasps. "He's a part of me."

There are no words to describe his voice. That much disgust and despair shouldn't be a tone the human voice can take. Natasha squeezes her eyes shut, holding him closer like she can bury him inside her chest and hide him there forever.

Loki's arm was bloody, Natasha remembers. It was soaking the straitjacket. When Bruce tried to look at it, Ross freaked. That's when the general kicked them out of the cell. If Bruce had never found those documents there's no way they would have put two and two together.

Not unless they talked with Loki.

Which would have been hard with the muzzle.

What the hell is the muzzle for? Ross said that no one had been in the cell since Loki was put there by the WSC. Which is bullshit, obviously. But then why is the muzzle still on him? Natasha was grudgingly willing to accept negligence, but that's not what this is. It was intentional. Loki doesn't need his voice to cast spells, they weren't doing it for safety.

It's dehumanization. Intentional. If people have been in and out of that cell, they chose to leave that on him.

If they performed illegal surgery on Clint without his consent, who, at least, was being monitored by Fury, then what the hell have they been doing to Loki?

Enough to take his sight from him.

Cold, dark fury washes through her. Loki is a bastard, yes, but he's also human. Or at least, near enough. Krasnaya Komnata took that from Natasha. Being human. They turned her into a thing. A weapon. Something always less than. Expendable. She became a femme fatale. The incarnation of a nightmare.

Natasha burned them alive.

But it never made that feeling stop.

And Ross did the same thing with Loki. With Clint.

If Clint was the only person that survived without long-term consequences, then he's not the first person that they did this to. Loki has been at the center of Ross' experiments for months.

They have to get the Asgardian out of here.

Now.

"That's not the worst part," Tony says.

Natasha looks up at him sharply. How can this possibly get worse? Clint's hand tightens around her wrist, and Natasha bends her fingers awkwardly to grab him back. The contact with him calms her.

"Ross got clearance for this," Tony explains.

"From who?" Clint breathes.

Tony shifts in his seat before letting out a soft breath. "Seceratary Alexander Pierce."

Shit.

000o000

"You're sure?" Fury asks evenly nearly an hour later over the video chat. Clint bites the inside of his cheek. It took them over ten minutes to decide whether or not Fury was trustworthy to take this to. Ultimately, Natasha's trust finally won them over. Clint hadn't spoken a word in the director's defense. He should have, probably, but it felt impossible.

Whatever else can be excused away, Fury left him in the Dante Pit.

Apparently to play a part in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s human experimentation.

Clint rubs a thumb along the scar inside his wrist. Knowing that it's Loki's skin makes him feel sick. Like he's touching something that's crawling with bugs. The skin feels hot and tight. Like an infection.

It is.

It's not natural.

"Yes, sir," Natasha says. "We're sure."

Fury leans back in his chair. He's in his office, but the lighting is poor, and it leaves him looking like he's hiding in shadows. His face is completely blank. No anger, no nervous tic, just nothing. It's unnerving. Clint shifts again. He's done his best to fade into the background of the conversation after he showed his scar to the camera, but Fury's gaze lands firmly on him. There, at last, an emotion sparks behind the director's gaze.

Anger.

Tony sent the documents they found to Fury, and the man had been looking them over on a tablet as they talk. Fury sets down the tablet. Fury lets out a soft breath, "I need to speak with Hill, we'll figure out where to go on our end."

"That's it?" Tony blurts.

Fury raises an eyebrow. "What exactly do you want me to do, Stark?"

"I don't know. Rein down hell? Burst in here with guns blazing, arrest Pierce? You know that the only reason he wants to ship Loki away to the States is that he wants this to keep going, right? If Jarvis hadn't dug up the NDA, then we'd have exactly squat." Tony says, "And Pierce would be able to continue his experimentation in private."

"An NDA isn't proof that Pierce is the mastermind behind all of this," Fury counters. "It's just an NDA. Ross might not have told him what was going on. It's vague, you're making assumptions based on paperwork that could be for almost anything."

"Fury." Natasha's voice is flat. "You know we're right."

That's the problem, though, isn't it, Clint realizes. Fury wants them to be wrong. That would be easier. If they could just pin this all on Ross, arrest him, and then let Loki fall squarely into the WSC's hands again, the solution to all of this would be easy. They wouldn't have to move Loki, just make sure no one is violating human rights again.

Clint digs his fingernails harder into his wrist.

Maybe it's awful, but part of Clint is relieved that it's more complicated than that. The longer they're stuck out here, the longer Clint has away from the Dante Pit. He doesn't want Loki to be in the middle of a mutilation nightmare, but. It's just.

Easier.

And easier right now means no one is digging into his arm.

Replacing his skin with an alien's.

God.

"I will look into Pierce," Fury says at length, which doesn't confirm or deny anything. "For now, just keep an eye on Ross. Talk to Thor."

"Thor?" Bruce repeats.

Fury's brow arches higher. "He's Asgardian, and about as much of a magic expert as we're going to get. If you can give someone magic, he's going to know. Where is he?"

"Sleeping," Natasha answers.

Oh.

Where?

Clint wasn't aware there was anything resembling sleeping quarters here. But there has to be, now that he thinks about it. The guards are here for weeks at a time before transferring out. They have to crash somewhere.

"Ask Thor," Fury presses. "And keep me in the loop. If something happens, I want to know about it."

"Yes, sir." Natasha ends the call and all of them stand there for a moment. The Widow takes in a deep breath. "Clint and I will take next watch."

"What?" Clint blurts. "That's what you're thinking about right now?"

"We have to keep an eye on Loki, Clint," Natasha says, her tone level. "Do you want to sit here?"

No, but he's not about to admit that to her. He wants to talk with her as much as he wants to give Loki a bear hug.

The world feels like it's spinning. He's nauseous and there's a pulse of anxiety in his chest that makes him feel like he's being hunted for sport. But the idea of sitting here doing nothing is worse.

Tony rubs his eyes. "Okay. Great. You two go make sure Ross doesn't take another organ or whatever it is that he's..." Tony trails off and pales. "Do you think that he has been taking organs? God, the money you could get for that…alien specimen, there is any number of organizations in the world that would pay for the chance to look at that."

Bruce's lips press together.

Clint's mouth goes dry.

That's messed up, but entirely possible.

God. There is something completely different from wishing harm on someone and then watching it happen. Especially like this. Clint wanted Loki hurt. He didn't want him ruined. He didn't want anything like this.

No one deserves this.

Not even Loki.

"We'll keep an eye on him," Clint promises, his voice a little faint.

It takes some arguing with Ross, but ultimately, Natasha's veiled threat of permanent bodily damage convinces him pretty readily. The general nose is broken and swelling, but he offers no explanation for it.

Whatever happened, Clint hopes it hurts. The general deserves a little suffering after everything that happened. At least Loki, for all his faults, never tried to make anyone suffer any more than they had to. Clint never felt anything but safe in his presence when he was under the scepter's influence.

Ross isn't like that.

He's like a grenade with the pin pulled you're just waiting for the detonation of.

Between the both of them, Clint and Natasha manage to get the footage to stop looping after several minutes of wrestling with the computer. Not much changes, except Loki's location. He goes from laying underneath the vent Natasha mentioned to curled up on the floor next to the bed, a long blood streak across the floor. There's something about the position that just reeks of misery.

Clint rubs his thumb along his arm again.

After more than three hours, Steve taps Natasha out, insisting that she get some rest. The Widow barely argues with him. Clint didn't realize how tired she was until that moment and mentally kicks himself for not suggesting it sooner. Clint can watch screens by himself.

After a while, Clint realizes that Steve is staring at his arm.

He offers the captain a resentful smile, "Tony or Bruce?"

"Bruce," Steve says after a moment. Clint nods, expecting as much. He didn't realize that the shame would be this severe. He should have done something to stop this. Steve's eyes are sincere. Always so damn sincere. "I'm sorry, Clint."

Sorry.

Right.

Sorry your arm got Frankensteined. That's a bummer.

Clint waves a hand, but in truth, he appreciates the sentiment. He braces for a pep talk about how his arm isn't actually that bad and he'll muddle through and it will be fine, but there isn't one. Steve is quiet, Clint realizes after a while. Not the type of quiet that's uncomfortable, just quiet.

Yeah, Clint had a few weeks with the Avengers before the Dante Pit ruling, but it's still weird. He half expected that Steve would take every opportunity to give rousing speeches about truth and freedom. He always did in the movies.

Steve Rogers…isn't that.

He does, however, notice that Steve's knuckle is faintly red.

He thinks about Ross' broken nose and wonders what the general did that made Steve punch him in the face, but he's also dreading it.

Clint isn't sure how long they've been here when Steve sits up suddenly. He turns his head in the direction of the vent with confusion. "What?" Clint asks, dropping his feet from the desk to the floor. His hearing aids are shit, generally, but he's picked up on everything important, even if it is a little muffled.

He doesn't hear anything.

"Just…I thought that…" Steve starts to say.

Something moves in the corner of his eye, and Clint has a moment to recognize a small dart flying from the vent before Steve, moving at an inhuman speed, tackles him to the floor, covering Clint's body with his own. The breath gets knocked out of Clint as he slams into the floor, but Steve is on his feet almost immediately. He grabs Clint's abandoned chair and throws it toward the vent.

The metal screeches as it crashes together and fabric tears and another dart's edge pierces through the black fabric.

Clint gets up to his feet, looking around them for a moment, his vision still spinning.

The door explodes open and five men in tactical gear burst into the room. Their faces are covered in helmets and there are tiny red insignias on their jackets Clint can't make out. They have guns. Lots of guns, which they immediately point at them.

Not an accident, then.

Shit.

Clint and Steve don't wait. Steve grabs his shield and dives toward the group as Clint withdraws a dagger. An impressive weapon in the face of guns, it is not, but Clint has managed with less.

The broken fingers on his left hand make most offense impossible. He can't hit them, and he can barely defend himself, so Clint forces himself into their faces. They have assault rifles, which are great for long distances, less so for hand-to-hand.

But Clint hasn't trained in over six months, and his body is worn and tired from weeks of misuse. The only reason he doesn't immediately get killed is either luck or their attackers are going easy on him.

Bruised, bleeding, and battered, Clint barely manages to get one of ten unconscious before he's slammed into the wall by his throat and a gun shoved into his gut. The knife goes flying out of his hands, landing somewhere on the floor behind him.

"Clint!" Steve shouts. It's faint. Like he's hearing it underwater. One of his hearing aids must have gotten knocked out.

Clint wiggles in the grip, trying in vain to kick his legs out to escape.

"Stay down, Barton," the man hisses, voice hot against his face, digging the gun harder into Clint's stomach until Clint is sure it's going to bruise. "You're not in the shape to fight. I don't want to kill you."

Clint's eyes widen with recognition.

Rumlow?

This is S.H.I.E.L.D.

What the hell is Fury doing?

Clint fights harder, and Rumlow punches him in the face. His head slams against the wall and the world sparks white. His ears ring and vertigo overwhelm him. Rumlow lets him go, and Clint collapses to his knees, gasping.

Oh god.

The world is spinning. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to fight back nausea.

Clint hears something slam into the wall, and the sounds of human flesh pounding against itself before something drops and Steve grabs his arm. "Clint," his voice is breathless and panicked, "are you okay? Look at me."

Clint forces his gaze up. The world makes a dizzying round in his vision. Oh god.

Concussion for sure.

"Steeeevve," the word comes out slurred. It's not even the one he meant to say. He was going to say Cap. He doesn't think he's ever called Steve Steve to his face. It feels weird. Disrespectful, somehow. Like he's offended America's very honor.

Steve swears under his breath. He grabs Clint's arm and hauls it over his shoulder, dragging Clint up to his feet. Clint sways dramatically but manages to find his footing. The world is still glimmering with bright lights and glowing spots that definitely only exist in his vision and not in real life.

Clint sucks in a sharp breath.

"They're going after Loki," Steve says, urgently. He's talking into Clint's bad ear and it's like he's shouting it from across a busy street. "Can you walk?"

Loki.

Shit.

This is Fury's plan? Forcefully extract Loki from the base with a STRIKE team?

"Yes, yeah. I'm fine." Clint manages. It's a lie. He's really pretty sure he's going to puke, but he's not letting Steve handle this on his own.

Oh, because he needs you? A nasty voice whispers in the back of Clint's mind. How helpful do you actually think you are?

He can't fight, but he can still shoot.

Clint grabs one of the guns from the fallen S.H.I.E.L.D. agents and follows Steve out of the room as they quickly make their way toward Loki's cell. Steve calls for backup from the rest of the team on his phone, but Clint doubts they'll be able to get here fast enough to be of any help.

Clint pauses at the end of the hallway when they reach the hall, his muscles seizing.

The agents who were stationed outside are on the ground, dead, and eight or so men are trying to drag a violently struggling Loki down the hall. Loki's murky eyes are wild and he's fighting desperately, but it's painfully obvious that he's not seeing anything.

But that's not why Clint stops.

He recognizes one of the men. Not from S.H.I.E.L.D., but the Dante Pit. Clint never heard a name associated with the man, but the silver prosthetic arm is hard to miss. There's a red star on the shoulder of the metal, and the long, wild dark hair is exactly like Clint remembers it.

What is he doing here?

The Dante Pit is hours from the Raft.

The agents keep trying to grab hold of Loki, but it's like they're trying to hold onto water. They removed the straitjacket, or Loki escaped it, because Clint can see it laying in the hall near the door.

Loki slams an elbow into one of the agents. More than one of them are grabbing at his upper arms and trying to pull him back, but Loki isn't making it easy for them. Nor pleasant. His struggle is wild and violent, elbows ramming into noses and ribs as his hands—free from shackles that they are attempting to shove on him—never stop moving.

"Damn it!" someone exclaims when Loki breaks their nose.

Loki didn't fight them when they put him in the Raft.

Not like this.

"Stop struggling you—!" Another man starts to shout in frustration before Loki jumps up, using the men grabbing at his upper arms for balance and seeming to locate the speaking man solely by his voice, smacks his legs up against him. The kicked man stumbles back into the others, and the man with the prosthetic makes a sound of frustration before grabbing Loki by the throat and slamming him into the wall.

The sound of Loki's skull slamming against the metal makes Clint wince.

"Hey!" Clint shouts, and the men all look up toward them as Clint raises his gun, "Drop him!"

Steve throws his shield, and the two of them dive back into the firefight. Clint does his best to make sure that Loki doesn't make it more than a couple of feet away from them, but it's hard to focus when his head feels like it's filled with sand and he can barely keep himself from getting his throat slit.

He shoots several people, but his wrist is probably sprained and he's added bruises to his bruises.

Steve and the man with the prosthetic go tumbling to the floor, wrestling for a knife.

Clint digs his fingers into his attacker's eyes, grateful that, unlike the STRIKE team, they didn't bother with helmets. He goes tumbling back with a roar of pain.

Where the hell is the rest of the Avengers?

Or Ross' amazing security?

Steve tears the mask off of the other man, and-

Just...

Stops.

Clint shoves back his own attacker and stumbles forward. "Cap!"

"Bucky?" Steve breathes. The horror in his voice is like like being engulfed beneath an ocean wave. Like drowning.

Steve knows him? Clint recognized him because they were in hell together, how does Steve know who he is? None of the Avengers came to the Dante Pit.

Bucky grabs the knife from the floor and shoves it into Steve's stomach. Steve exhales.

"Cap!" Clint yells.

Oh god.

Bucky shoves Steve off and struggles up to his feet. One of his legs it's working right, like the kneecap isn't attached properly. Clint forces his eyes away from the other Avenger to all but throw himself in front of Loki.

Bucky stares through him. Clint is an obstacle to push through, not a human being.

Bucky withdraws another knife from his leg.

On a good day six months ago, with muscle mass and whole bones, Clint probably could have lasted a little longer. He doubts he would have won, but he could have done some damage in return. Bucky moves with a speed that Clint has only witnessed from Steve, like he's moving on a different plane of existence than Clint is. The knife doesn't impale him, but Clint ends up with a long, nasty gash across his stomach that leaves him curled on the floor gasping.

Steve is struggling up to his feet, bloody knife in hand.

Because of course he pulled out the knife, the idiot.

Bucky moves toward Loki again, and his metal arm goes back around the Asgardian's throat as he starts to drag him down the hall. Loki makes a gasping, muffled sound. Then, in what looks like a last-ditch effort, Loki wrestles until he can reach up and grab Bucky's skull. A pulse of green light surges up Bucky's face into his eyes and he drops Loki instantly, scrambling back, eyes unseeing.

Steve manages to knock him unconscious after that and eases him toward the floor, his expression deathly pale and eyes wide.

Loki makes a strangled sound, one of his hands coming up to his throat.

Clint forces himself to the Asgardian's side, grabbing his shoulder, the other hand wrapped around his stomach. Loki fights him. "Hey, calm down, it's just me." Clint snaps. It takes him a moment to realize that might not be much of a comfort. Well, tough. They don't have a lot of options here.

Loki's breaths thin into desperate wheezes, but he turns toward Clint. Those glassy eyes are desperate.

"Hey, just breathe. In, out, you've done this since birth. Calm down. It's fine, we got them." Clint promises.

Loki attempts to follow the instruction, but the wheezing through his nose hitches and his chest heaves like he wants to cough, but can't.

The muzzle.

Loki is going to suffocate. Clint doesn't really think twice. He should have, probably, but he doesn't. His hands seem to move of their own accord. He digs his hands through the ratty black hair, ignoring Loki's tension, and finds the latch for the muzzle. He pushes it, and the muzzle snaps together into the square box it originated as.

It tumbles to the floor with a loud clatter.

Loki lets out a few coughs that sound like they're ripped from lungs filled with fluid and sucks in the air deeply, releasing a few more coughs. His face is lined with the edges of the metal, thin lines of red, raw skin that's open and bleeding in some areas, especially under his nose. Layers of bruises, varying in age, line his jaw. It looks painful. Then again, Clint doubts the muzzle was designed with comfort in mind.

Or long-term use.

God, has he had that thing on him for six months?

Has eaten? Drunk water? How the hell is he alive?

Loki releases a few more dry coughs before looking toward him. His gaze is off, but Clint still feels pinned beneath it. Loki's expression is confused. Not angry, just confused. Loki licks his dry lips. Clint braces himself for some sort of verbal evisceration, but all Loki does is whisper "thank you," in a dry, cracking voice.

Clint looks away from him for a moment, not sure what to say. Loki, being the utter bastard that he is, takes that exact moment of inattention to pass out.

Author's Note:

Ptitsa: bird
bozhe moi: expression similar to oh my gosh! oh no! goodness gracious, etc. Just basically "something unfortunate has happened"
Krasnaya Komnata: Red Room

Next chapter: idk, honestly. Hopefully next month?