Some Things Go Wrong …
It had gone wrong. Everything had gone wrong but at least, Stark had got away.
He, however, was caught.
Clint winced and tried to turn his head away from the glaring, bright light.
Everything was in a blur.
Someone hit him in the face, then grabbed his jaw and forced him to look at the light.
His side hurt. His arms hurt, too. His wrists. Because they had been tied together behind his back for – two days? Three? A week? He didn't know. He was surprised, actually, that he could still feel them.
There was the voice again, behind the light, asking questions he didn't quite understand because he didn't speak that goddamn language that freak was using.
He laughed. It sounded rough and strange.
He knew what they were doing. They were always using drugs, first. Probably thought they would get answers the easy way. He wasn't quite sure whether the blurring was an effect of something they had given him, though, or that blow to the head he had suffered when they had captured him. It was still hurting slightly.
Drugs, thus. And a bit of hitting and punching. All part of this stage. Once they realized their drugs wouldn't work, the torture would start in earnest.
He was hit again, harder this time.
His head snapped back. He tasted blood.
"We have your friend, Agent Barton", the voice behind the light said.
Heavy accent. Something eastern that he couldn't place.
Clint spit out a mouthful of blood
"No, you don't."
He smirked.
"Got no friends, so –"
Another blow.
"Very funny. We have Stark, then, and unless –"
"Bullshit", Clint cut off the voice. "If you had him, you'd already be torturing him, right here, to make me talk."
The voice said something he didn't understand. He was punched again. If they went on like this, he thought to himself, he might lose a few teeth before he managed to get out of here.
Someone stepped behind his chair, seized his head and pulled it back and to the left so that is neck lay exposed. From the corner of his eye, he saw the light catch on something. A needle was stabbed into his neck. He gritted his teeth but still hissed in pain when they injected him with something that felt like liquid fire.
They yanked the needle out again and let go of him. Clint blinked a few times and shook his head. Whatever they had given him, it already seemed to start working. Everything around him grew fuzzier, the glaring light softer.
"This is your last chance to do this the easy way, Agent Barton", the voice said.
"Fuck you!" Clint spat.
If they wanted him to talk, they better – they better –
He tried to hold on to that train of thought but it slipped away.
Someone stepped in front of the light. A dark, featureless silhouette. A hand reached forward, pulling back his eyelid. He twisted away.
More words spoken in that language he didn't understand. He should have tried harder to learn all those East-European languages. Tasha had said it might be a good idea and when she said that, it usually was.
Oh, wait. Hadn't she also said it was a bad idea to send him and Stark on a mission together?
There you go – right again.
On some level, he was aware that it was the drug but he couldn't help it. It was funny as hell. He started to chuckle.
"What are you laughing about?" the voice asked.
Clint almost told the guy. He remembered just in time that he wasn't supposed to tell him anything. He had forgotten why, though.
"Not your business", he said.
And that was funny, too, because now, he had his own little joke all to himself and that other guy wasn't allowed to know because it was his joke.
You're losing it, Barton, a sharp voice cut through his thoughts. Pull yourself together, dammit!
He knew that voice. It was the voice that told him what to do when he didn't know what to do. He always did what it told him – it was always right, just like Tasha.
Focus!
This wasn't the first time he was captured by the enemy and drugged. He knew how to fight the drugs. He –
Someone slapped his face, hard. It stung.
Pain. Right. That's how.
Clint blinked. He could fight the drugs if he hurt himself. And he could do that by –
He silently counted to three, then he flung himself sideways. A flash of pain shot through him when he hit the floor with his injured side, tearing the cobwebs that had been wrapping around his mind. For a moment, he couldn't breathe. The good thing was – he couldn't scream, either.
"Alright", the voice said. "Have it your way."
Two pairs of heavy black army-style boots appeared in his field of vision. The first kick landed square in his stomach. It knocked the breath from his lungs again and almost made him throw up. He tried to curl up as best as he could to protect his head and injured side but it didn't work all too well. With his arms tied behind his back, he couldn't properly block the kicks.
Just before he passed out, he thought he heard the characteristic whine of Stark's repulsors. But that was impossible, right?