WARNINGS: This section projects on Loki's line to Natasha in the Avengers movie: "Not until I make him kill you, slowly, intimately, in every way he knows you fear." It also features an unpleasant flashback from Loki, and Clint's memory of a sexual slur. (I promise it get better!)
VI. Imperious
Distract. Delay. Dismay.
The words roll around his head, crashing into his thoughts every time he tries to gather them. Clint is a splintered shaft, unable to hit its target, a wand that won't cast spells straight, a compass with no north but a pair of green eyes and a pointed smile.
He feels the wrongness as he Imperios the ickle Freshies to do Loki's bidding, but it's covered in a thick, warm haze that reassures him, even as it leaves a distant sickness in his gut.
The punch of the unexpected spell slams him to the side of the corridor, occasioning gasps from the bewigged and befrocked gentlemen in the painting hanging nearby.
Natasha.
Clint retains the presence of mind to block the next spell, and uses the wall to push himself up as he turns to face her.
She looks pale – so pretty and pale with her red red lips and her red red hair. And he wants that hair in his fist, dragging back on her head with his mouth on those lips—
Protego. The shield-spell flicks up with a thought, blocking her next attack. They've both mastered silent spellcasting, they know each others' rhythms—
He knows about rhythms, about pretty white thighs wrapped around his hips, jerking—
"Stop it, Clint!" Her cheeks are scarlet as he – or something that isn't him - shoves the thought into her mind.
—as she whimpers weakly in his arms, clutching at his shoulders as he listens to her broken pants—
"Make me," dares the pointed smile, gleeful at her distress.
—and when he's done, he'll modify her memory and she'll never remember—
The fog in Clint's mind clears for a moment. When? Where? Who—? He's never—
Her hex slams him back, her anger focusing the spell's power sunlike light through a magnifying glass – and Clint's the ant.
He blocks and parries, back and back and back. He's barely got breath to speak because the light in Natasha's eyes is cold and blue and determined. There's no space for him to cry out. There's no space for him to call for help. There's nothing but—
The punch is unexpected, rawly physical and not mere magic. Clint's head snaps back. She's got a right hook like a troll. Laughter echoes in his mind, a pointed pain sharp as the grin that slices through him from chin to balls, and suddenly the world is too sharp and too clear.
Instinct has him rolling away from her fist – it's not a duel now, it's just a fight. "Tasha!"
He blocks her – the move instinctive, the way they taught him to defend himself against the bullies when he was a kid. Moving around from town to town - the strange boy, the odd kid out, the circus faggot – he got good at defending himself...and good at giving back a little of his own. But Clint doesn't want to hurt Natasha. He's not even sure he could. But he can defend against her. And he does. Deflect, distract, direct... Down and then up, like some human jack-in-the-box, he rolls up and balances on the balls of his feet, light as an acrobat, ready to disarm her if—
"Natasha? Can you hear me? Phil's bleeding out and Nick and Thor are down. I could do with some help here!"
Her hand rises to the silvery box in her jacket pocket where a tiny flame is burning with Maria's voice – one of Jane Foster's clever little 'Floo Lighters'. There are only five in existence and she won't give them to any of the boys—
"Nat? Anyone?"
Her eyes flick to Clint, and he senses her voiceless spell as their eyes lock: Stupefy.
His last conscious thought is that Phil wasn't supposed to be anywhere near—
tbc