Disclaimer: I do not own "The Avengers" or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works. I do not claim any of the directly quoted lines from "The Avengers" as my own, they belong to Marvel and the writers. The cover art came from a google search with the original source being pinterest where it was credited to Anthony Genuardi.
Author's Note: While I embrace constructive criticism, remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"
Thank you to all who reviewed! I'm still travelling cross country and its all I can do to get updates posted from my phone. I appreciate every one of you and will reply to questions in Thursday's update! PS I know yesterday was emotional. I'd like to tell you it gets better but...
Shout out to those that have guessed the song inspiration for the chapter titles: animexluva13
You can guess the song up until I tell you what it is in the final chapter!
Continued thanks to my wonderful betas Kylen and JRBarton for their wonderful support and beta-powers throughout this story.
Trigger warning! Allusions to intended rape and abuse, nothing anywhere near explicit.
Soldier forth!
Last time in The Untold Stories:
This would break him. He would let it. After what happened with the attack on the New York base two years ago, she knew that to be a fact. The promise he'd made to Phil wouldn't matter. Nothing would matter, not any more. Clint wouldn't know how to survive this.
Somehow, she'd have to show him he could. And more importantly, she'd have to convince him to want to.
I hate war as only a soldier who has lived it can, only as one who has seen its brutality, its futility, its stupidity.
Dwight D. Eisenhower
April 13, 2012
7:30 am
Infirmary, Helicarrier
Dan, decked out now in his surgical gear, was just moving to push into the scrub room when he heard a sudden scuffle coming from the area the infirmary entrance was located. He almost ignored it. He had a young agent waiting to have a bullet removed and surely Christine could handle whatever was happening now.
They'd been hit with an influx of agents almost immediately after they'd waded out into the mayhem that had taken place right outside the infirmary doors. He had nothing but hearsay reports of the current situation. He didn't usually wear a comm, as it tended to distract him from doing his job with its constant chatter. His hand-held radio had gone missing sometime during the chaos. But what he'd gathered summed up to something in the range of FUBAR. It was SHIELD though, so what else was new?
As it was, Jenner Stevenson had been waiting to have the bullet in his side removed for too long already.
Dan started to push into the scrub room again, only this time was halted by a voice. A voice he knew.
"Back up!" Romanoff.
Without thought, Dan started down the hall back to the main area.
"I said back up!" She was practically snarling like a lioness protecting her cub.
Dan exited the hallway to find that assessment wasn't so far off. She was a lioness protecting something, all right.
Her mate.
Clint was laid out on a gurney, head titled to the right and giving Dan an easy view of his drawn, but lax features. Natasha, at the moment, was practically standing guard over him, squaring off with a set of armed agents.
Dan's relief at seeing Barton alive and…present at least, was short lived when the agents both took a step forward.
"We have orders to take Barton into custody. He is to be remanded into maximum security detention until his status can be confirmed."
"His status is unconscious," Natasha spat back. "Not a lot of harm he can do that way. He needs medical attention."
Dan took that as his cue and moved forward even as the agent opened his mouth to argue.
"Natasha." Her attention swiveled to him only to jump back to the armed agents a breath later. "You know the rules."
"He won't hurt anybody else," she defended sharply.
"Maybe not, but rules are rules." And Dan really didn't need the headache her taking down these two agents would bring. "You can stay with him."
He glared at the agents when one of them opened his mouth to argue that. The agent's mouth snapped shut when his partner elbowed him, which showed Dan at least one of them had some common fucking sense. Seriously, who would be stupid enough to bait the Black Widow – especially concerning Hawkeye?
Dan sighed once, very loudly.
"Look." Natasha's gaze slid back to his. "I'll go with you too and look over him myself." Her gaze switched to searching for any signs of deceit. He locked down the urge to roll his eyes, and tried not to be offended. It'd been a shit-long couple of days.
When she finally nodded – once, sharply, a jab of her chin – Dan looked back to the agents.
"Then everybody's happy and nobody gets hurt…we good?"
The agents shared a look and then nodded.
Dan nodded in return and moved to join Natasha at Clint's side.
"Beth, get Webber and have her scrub in on Stevenson. Jake, grab a kit, you're with me." Dan tossed the order over his shoulder and a moment later he felt the presence of the orderly at his side.
Jake pushed the gurney from the behind and Natasha helped steer it from her position at its side, leaving Dan's hands free to work.
"Tell me what you know," Dan directed at Natasha as she walked on the opposite side of the gurney, a hand wrapped around Clint's wrist – for her sake or his, Dan wasn't sure.
"His heart is racing," she answered even as Dan reached for Clint's other wrist himself, eyeing his watch as he counted. 120…not good, not for someone like Barton, whose resting heart rate was around 65.
"Tachycardic…it's at 120," Dan told Jake, who used one hand to keep pushing the gurney and the other to write down the number on the chart he'd rested on Clint's legs.
"What else?" He could find out all this information himself, but he needed to keep Natasha busy for all their sakes.
"His breathing was fast and shallow…I had to knock him out, so he might have a concussion."
Dan nodded, using his penlight to check Clint's eye response. Of course, unequal pupils, why wouldn't it be the hard way? He'd have to throw around some weight to get Barton in for a CT scan before long.
They slowed as the detention area came into view. They moved past the open door that held the cell they'd built for the Hulk, but Dan didn't offer the room even a cursory glance. There was a swarm of activity in there already, and he had his own problem to focus on. Natasha, he noticed, didn't take her eyes off Clint either, but her hand on the archer's wrist tightened.
Before long, after getting hands scanned and IDs checked, they were all crammed into a tiny isolation cell – number 31-F. Jake helped Dan get the gurney locked into place and then Dan got to work.
"How long has he been out?"
Natasha, now hovering around Clint's head, answered immediately.
"Maybe ten minutes."
Dan nodded, strapping a blood pressure cuff onto Barton's bicep.
"Jake, go get me a liter of Ringers and a set of restraints. If he comes back around, we'll be better safe than sorry."
Natasha opened her mouth to protest, but then closed it just as quickly. Dan figured she understood. She had knocked Clint out for what he suspected was the same reason.
Jake turned to leave, but Dan caught his arm.
"And find me Agent Coulson, he'll want to be here."
"Wait." Natasha's voice froze them both. Dan turned back to her. He'd never heard her use that tone before…it was almost…lost. "You can't get Phil."
Dan frowned at her.
"Why the hell not?" He'd want to be here, no matter what the hell had happened on this damned flying ship of theirs.
She lowered her gaze to Clint's face even as she replied, her words blunt and harsh.
"Because Phil's dead." She swallowed, her hand shifting to rest lightly on the hair of Clint's temple before she withdrew it. She raised her gaze back to Dan's, "Loki killed him."
Dan blinked at her, not quite able to process what she'd just told him. It wasn't – it just couldn't be true. But the horribly serious and devastated look in her eyes told him it was.
He looked from her, down to Barton, then swayed backward, hitting the wall with a dull thud.
"Fuck."
He felt his eyes immediately start to burn and his chest tighten painfully. Phil was gone. Phil fucking Coulson was dead…after all of this, after everything…he was just…
Dan looked down and away trying to rationalize this revelation in both his heart and mind. He didn't know how to do it though. Phil had been one of his two closest friends. The man had recruited him, for Christ's sakes. Now he was dead…and Todd was dead. Dan was the only one left.
It wasn't supposed to end like this.
"He doesn't know." Natasha's voice drew him out of his devastated thoughts. He raised his eyes to her and saw her shift her gaze back to Clint meaningfully and then looked first at Dan then Jake. "He can't know. Not right now."
Dan barely managed to nod. She was right. He looked to Jake, saw him nodding too.
"Go get the Ringers and restraints, Jake." The orderly slid out of the room without further prompting, leaving Dan alone with SHIELD's deadliest duo.
"He knew me," Natasha stated abruptly, changing the subject without warning. Dan looked at her in time to see her lightly resting her hand on Barton's forehead. "Just before I knocked him out, it was like a fog lifted and he knew me."
Dan nodded weakly, still leaning back against the wall, tried to grasp the thread of hope she was offering. But he couldn't quite manage it, not when everything else was so, so fucked up.
"Todd's gone too."
His blunt reveal earned him a wide eyed look of shock before she looked down and away, hiding her gaze by focusing on Clint's face instead.
"How?" Dan told himself he didn't hear the tremble in her tone. He told himself she was the Black Widow. She was unshakeable. He had to believe that right now. One of them had to be strong.
"Defending the infirmary," Dan shook his head, "saving another agent." It was a fitting death, he supposed. Todd Bryan had dedicated his life to protecting agents in the best way he could, by training them, preparing them to do their jobs and do them well.
Natasha just nodded, still not looking at him. Dan let his head rest back on the metal wall for a moment and then blew out a slow breath. He reached up to rub a hand across his eyes.
God…how was it that he was the only one of them left standing?
They'd been friends since the beginning. He and Todd had come up through training together and Phil had been waiting for them on the other side. From there, the friendship had been natural and easy.
Now he felt like he was missing two of his limbs.
A faint whisper, too soft for him to decipher, had him drawing his head forward, searching for the source.
It was Natasha, forehead pressed against Clint's, mouth moving with words he didn't understand.
They needed him, both of them, two people he never thought would need anyone but … but Phil.
Phil…
God.
Time to get his shit together.
He pushed off the wall with a sigh.
"You say he recognized you?"
She nodded.
"He'd hit his head and then when he looked at me, he said my name." She sighed slightly, her eyes distant as if remembering that moment. "I know something changed…but I knocked him out because…well, if it was a fluke, we're all safer this way."
Dan nodded. Never a truer statement.
"We'll get him sorted out. I'll treat what I can see and then I'll get him in for a CT to check that hard head of his." Dan reached to squeeze her shoulder, hesitated, then completed the gesture.
She didn't even acknowledge him, just kept her gaze on Clint.
Dan sighed. The best thing he could do for her, for Clint, was to treat him.
At least that he could actually help with.
April 13, 2012
9:45 a.m. NYT
Isolation Room 31-F, Maximum Security Wing, Helicarrier
Natasha sat on the floor against the metal wall, knees pulled up to her chest and elbows braced on them. Her hands were threaded into her hair and her eyes pinned on the writhing form on the bed across the small room from her.
It had been more than two hours. Two hours since Dan had stuck Clint with an IV, and told her all they could do was wait. He'd managed to get clearance for a CT scan about 45 minutes after that but Natasha hadn't seen Dan since. She supposed he was needed elsewhere and there wasn't anything more that could be done for Clint at the moment.
She'd spent the first hour staring at Clint's face, waiting for signs of life. She'd studied every inch of him that she could see. His face was practically gaunt, exhaustion lining his features even as he slept. There was bruising, hidden under the line of his jaw, like someone had wrapped their hand around his throat and exerted extreme pressure. His wrists were bruised, dark handprints speaking to fierce restraint at some point. Beyond that, there was little damage she could see. But his torso was covered and she knew the worst of it would be hidden anyway, hidden where no one would be able to see it but Clint.
When her vigil yielded no results, she prowled the room.
It was nicer than the max-sec cells back on the New York base. It actually had its own very small, very basic bathroom. Though all it really contained was a toilet, single ply toilet paper, a sink with only cold water, an automated soap dispenser and one thin, scratchy hand towel. It was basic, but it would do.
After that, there wasn't anything she could do but wait.
The tremors had started just at the 75-minute mark – she knew because she'd been counting – and had steady developed into full body writhing since. Dan had warned her this could happen. That Clint's body, for all intents and purposes, was reacting like a drug addict going into withdrawal. He had to ride it out.
So Natasha had to ride it out too.
But waiting meant thinking. It meant thinking about Phil.
She shifted her hands down to cover her eyes, shaking her head. She knew she couldn't tell Clint. Not while Loki was still in play. The last thing any of them needed was one of SHIELD's deadliest assassins going on a revenge rampage.
Of course there was no guarantee that he'd be able to even remember his own name when he finally came out of whatever nightmare he was trapped in right now – and judging by the way he kept calling her and Phil's names it was a bad one.
If he did though, if he was functional and able, they needed him in this fight. He very well might be the piece of the puzzle that had been missing to make the Avengers complete – to make them work.
That meant she had to lie, right to his face. She had to make him believe that all was well, that Loki was his biggest problem.
Just the thought left a bitter taste in her mouth. She'd promised him after Alexi that she'd never lie to him again. She didn't want to. With everything she had, she didn't want to lie. But she knew she didn't have a choice. She knew that the moment Clint knew what had happened, knew what Loki had done…he'd want blood. And if Loki was still out there, was within Clint's reach, she didn't think she'd be able to stop him.
And while Loki breathing his last sounded damned appealing, she had to be realistic. Loki was practically a god. Even at his best, Clint might not be strong enough to take him down. And right now…his best was lightyears away.
So she would lie. To save his life, to give the Avengers the last piece of the puzzle the team needed, to keep him from carrying that darkness of a revenge kill for the rest of his life…she would lie.
Somehow. He knew her better than anyone, it would be the hardest sell she ever attempted. But she would do it. Because lying was her trade. It was a skill she had perfected.
She just never thought, not since that first night in Paris, that she would ever use it on him.
She pulled her hands away from her eyes again and lifted her gaze to him. Watching him thrash, straining against the restraints so fiercely she started to worry he might pull something out of socket.
"Come back, мой ястреб," she whispered to the quiet room. (my hawk.)
He had her now, had her neck trapped with one hand and the knife bearing down with the other. She tried to push him back, tried to fight him off, but she wasn't strong enough. He forced the knife closer, scratching the skin of her neck and drawing a thin line of blood.
"Clint…" she gasped, but he ignored her, driving her backwards until her back hit the catwalk rail. It gave him the leverage he needed to bear down harder.
The cut on her neck was deep, but it hadn't hit the jugular, he hadn't wanted it to.
He'd just wanted her to bleed.
The tangy scent of copper surrounded him, intoxicating him and leaving him yearning for more. Mixed with it was something so familiar – vanilla…vanilla, gunpowder and sweat.
Something dark swept through him, a brutal, violent desire.
He wanted her. He wanted her now.
He jerked her around by the grip he had on the back of her neck and then threw her to the ground. When she tried to push herself up he brought his closed fist into her cheek, sending her back down. She tried again, but he kicked her hands out from under her.
He hooked his boot on her shoulder and flipped her onto her back, descending to straddle her waist and catching both her hands as she tried to hit him. Trapping her hands within one of his was easy, his grip was strong – too strong to be broken.
He pinned her arms above her head and ran his eyes over her hungrily.
"Clint, you gotta hear me," she pleaded, voice weak and blood bubbling in her mouth, "Please…I know you're still in there. I know you didn't let him win."
He ignored her and she bucked, trying to throw him off. He tightened his legs, digging his knees into her hips to keep her in place.
"Clint…"
He snapped the back of his hand across her mouth to silence her.
"Shut up," he commanded. "Don't say another fucking word."
Fear filtered into her eyes. Finally, she was giving him what he wanted. What he needed.
He reached for the belt on her uniform and she squirmed, trying uselessly to loosen his hold.
"Clint…don't…"
Don't.
Clint came awake with a gasp, pulling hard against whatever was holding him down. He looked around wildly, trying to recognize the room, trying to piece together fractured memories. His muscles strained to break his arms free from their confinement.
"Clint, you're gonna be all right."
His head snapped around at the voice, instincts raging to the forefront in an attempt to gauge the threat.
A woman sat across the room, watching him with concerned eyes.
He knew her…maybe…he thought he did…
"You know that?" he spat defensively, "Is that what you know?"
The woman moved, coming closer.
Fiery red hair…he met her gaze, full of concern and…something else…
He knew her…He…
It fell back into place then, everything from the last several days.
Natasha.
Loki.
Was he still in his head?
"I got no window. I have to flush him out…" he muttered mostly to himself. If Loki was still there, if he was still in his head, Clint had to go to battle. He had to force him out once and for all, now, while he still had control.
Natasha slowly poured water into a cup but he barely noticed.
"You gotta level out," she explained carefully. "It's gonna take time."
Clint dropped his head back onto the bed. He didn't feel Loki anymore. The pressure – the agonizing pressure – that had been his constant companion the past few days was gone. Loki…maybe he was gone too.
But if he wasn't…maybe it was a trick. Loki was the master of tricks…maybe…
Jesus, he couldn't think.
"You don't understand." He stared up at the ceiling. "Have you ever had someone take your brain and play? Pull you out and stuff something else in?" He shifted his gaze up so he could see her. "Do you know what it's like to be unmade?"
Natasha shifted the cup in her hand, obviously thinking, remembering.
He wanted to take it back, to withdraw the question. He knew she did. He knew every dirty detail about the Red Room now. He knew what Victor had done to her in Germany.
"You know that I do," she replied quietly.
Clint hated himself for reminding her. He closed his eyes and drew in a breath, grasping at his thoughts and forcing them into line.
He checked once more for Loki…but he was gone. Clint was certain of it now.
He was gone.
"Why am I back?" he asked, confused. "How did you get him out?"
He hadn't done it himself, he knew he hadn't. Loki's grip had been too tight this time. It had to have been her.
Natasha moved to sit on the bed at his hip.
He had her now, had her neck trapped with one hand and the knife bearing down with the other. She tried to push him back, tried to fight him off, but she wasn't strong enough. He forced the knife closer, scratching the skin of her neck and drawing a thin line of blood.
"Clint…" she gasped, but he ignored her, driving her backwards until her back hit the catwalk rail. It gave him the leverage he needed to bear down harder.
The memory came out of nowhere and it took everything he had not to flinch away from her. He thanked his lucky stars that she was looking down, hadn't seen the horror he'd felt wash across his face.
"Cognitive recalibration." At his blank look, she offered him a teasing grin. "I hit you really hard in the head."
He didn't return the grin, didn't even crack his usual smirk. She'd saved him. He'd been trying to kill her – he'd been trying to do worse than kill her…and she'd saved him anyway.
"Thanks," he offered quietly, sincerely.
She gave him another smile, this one warmer and full of more meaning. That smile told him she would do it again in a heartbeat. That she'd always do whatever it took to save him. It told him that he was still everything to her, even after all that he'd done.
She reached for the restraints on his wrists and he bit back the urge to stop her. Loki was gone. Clint wasn't a threat anymore…he wasn't.
But if that were true, why did he still feel like the enemy? Why did he feel like everyone would be a hell of a lot safer if she just left the restraints where they were?
He knew why. He still had a tight knot in his gut, a deep fear that Loki's control would tighten around his mind again. That he wasn't free. That he was still the same threat he'd become the moment he forcefully boarded the carrier.
Broken memories of that violent rampage came to him in flashes, images of agents falling at his hand as he tore his way through their ranks. How many? He didn't even know.
"Natasha," her gaze rose to his immediately, "how many agents did I…?"
"Don't," she scolded immediately, eyeing him seriously. "Don't do that to yourself, Clint. This is Loki. This is monsters and magic and nothing we were ever trained for."
"Loki." Clint couldn't quite keep the murderous rage out of his voice, didn't really try. "He get away?"
"Yeah. I don't suppose you know where?" She sounded so hopeful, he hated that he was letting her down. Letting everyone down.
"Didn't need to know."
She stood, turning no doubt to hide her disappointment.
"Didn't ask," he added.
It had just been that simple. While Loki had frolicked in his brain like a fucking prancing pony, Clint hadn't been given the same opportunity. God, if he'd just had the chance to wield the same power over that bastard that Loki had wielded over him.
He pulled his legs over the edge of the stretcher and reached for the water she'd poured.
"He's gonna make his play soon though. Today." Somehow he kept his tone level, close to normal even.
It spoke to Natasha's distraction that she didn't notice his struggle. She moved to the door instead, looking out the window. He could almost see the resolve settle tangibly in her shoulders.
"We gotta stop him," she stated firmly.
On a normal day, he'd spout something about her having a mouse in her pocket, or what army she had hiding and where she was hiding it.
Today wasn't normal. He didn't have it in him to even pretend it was.
"Yeah? Who's we?"
She turned back to him, tossing her arms up helplessly.
"I don't know. Whoever's left."
Clint nodded slightly, working the muscle of his jaw, and hoped the tremor in his voice wasn't as obvious to her as it was to him.
"Well," he swallowed, his brain playing the last few days like a movie in his head – crystal clear and in perfect color, "if I put an arrow through Loki's eye socket I would sleep better, I suppose."
He worked his jaw again, as more and more of the past few days filtered in.
Jesus…what had he done?
Natasha moved to sit next to him and he almost recoiled. She was too relieved at his comment to notice though, and smiled instead.
"Now you sound like you."
He scoffed a little. She had no idea, no idea.
"But you don't," he fired back immediately, hoping to keep her from studying him too closely. "You're a spy, not a soldier. Now you want to wade into a war? Why?" He stared hard at her for a moment. "What did Loki do to you?"
If he'd done anything…being a god wouldn't matter. Clint would kill him.
"He didn't," she denied instead, "I just…" she trailed off, shifting her jaw and looking away.
His own worries and issues faded away as he looked at her. Loki had done something…he'd said something…
"How should I best her?"
"Use me."
The memory hit him hard. God, had he done this too?
"Natasha," he said her name quietly, full of…everything – what he felt for her, understanding, pleading…apology.
She wouldn't look at him and her voice was stiff when she finally replied.
"I've been compromised." He was the one to look away now. He'd given himself to Loki as a tool to use against her and Loki had. He'd compromised her.
He felt her gaze shift to him, felt her picking herself up and moving on.
"I got red in my ledger. I'd like to wipe it out."
She wanted to wade into this fight. She wanted redemption. Maybe this would give it to her, would give her that peace. If it would, if this is what she needed, he'd do it with her. He'd fight beside her.
Hell, maybe he needed this too. He may never be at peace with his own past, may never feel like he'd wiped his own slate clean, but what he'd done for Loki? He could try to make that right. He could do his part to put an end to the son of a bitch and hope that would be enough.
Enough for everyone else…even if not for him.
He met her gaze.
"I get it."
They both still had sins to atone for, they had red to wipe out. So they would do this. They would fight in a war between gods and super humans and hope that tipped the scales of their souls a little bit farther in the right direction.
"And you're right. We need to do this. I need to do this…I need to make it right in whatever way I can."
Natasha shook her head.
"You don't have anything to make right. It was Loki, Clint…Loki."
Clint just blew out a sigh and shook his head in return. She didn't get it. She didn't know how aware he'd been. How much of this was his fault, his idea. He glanced towards the door, suddenly wondering where his mother hen of a handler was.
"Where's Phil?"
When Natasha didn't answer right away, he swung his gaze back to her. She met his eyes easily.
"He's with Fury," she told him simply. "He came by when you were still out. He wanted to stay but…"
Clint nodded, eyes shifting to focus on the wall.
But.
But Clint had led an enemy attack on the carrier and left a shit load of chaos and death in his wake.
"Yeah, makes sense…" Phil probably had his hands full. "I probably left quite the mess to clean up."
Natasha sighed like he was being purposefully dense about something.
"It was Loki, Clint. He literally took over your mind. It's not like you had a choice."
Maybe not. Maybe it hadn't been a choice. But did that make it better? Did that change the outcome? It didn't. At the end of the day, it had still been him leading the charge. Him offering up the plan.
For several moments they sat in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. When Clint finally spoke, his voice was quiet. He had to try and make her understand. He wasn't letting himself off the hook, he wouldn't let anybody else do it either. Not until he made it right.
"It was me, Natasha. It was my face those agents saw leading the enemy onto the carrier. It was my face a lot of them saw as they died. I can't just let that go."
Natasha sighed again.
"You remember that? Boarding the carrier?"
He frowned slightly, eyes still pinned on the opposite wall.
He drew back the bow string to his cheek, feeling the wind swirl around him. He gauged the distance to the carrier engine, calculated the speed of the wind, the trajectory…he shifted his aim…and fired.
"Clint?"
He blinked, coming back to the present. Natasha was watching him in concern, he could feel her eyes on his profile.
"Hey, you okay?" she asked softly.
He scoffed, though it came out sounding something close to a gutted breath and lacked the sarcasm he'd been hoping to communicate.
"I'm fine." His voice was steady enough in the lie, but he could practically feel her worry increase anyway.
She leaned into him with her shoulder, drawing his gaze back to hers.
"Bullshit." She said it with a small, warm grin to take out any bite.
He answered with a grin of his own, albeit a weak one. She was trying so damn hard. He couldn't leave her twisting in the wind.
"I'm getting to fine?" he offered instead.
She nodded slightly.
"Better." She studied him for a moment, then slowly asked, "So what do you remember?"
He stared right back at her…and lied.
"Nothing."
He didn't know why he did it. Why suddenly he didn't want her to know that he remembered everything. Maybe he didn't want questions, didn't want to explain the horrible, painful details of the past few days – how many days had it even been?– didn't want her looking at him like he was as broken as he felt.
"Nothing?" she questioned doubtfully, sensing the lie. "You were just talking about storming the carrier. You knew Loki was making his move today. You remember something."
He shrugged a shoulder, mind working quickly to come up with an explanation.
"It's fading, all of it. The longer I focus on it, the less I remember clearly. Probably part of the 'leveling out' you mentioned."
He didn't hold her gaze, shifted a glance towards he bathroom instead. He felt dirty all of the sudden, like he needed to scrub himself clean. Was that even possible? He felt like he'd never be clean again.
Natasha studied him for several long moments, but he kept his gaze averted. He hoped she blamed it on his ordeal, hoped she didn't push.
"What's the last thing you do remember?" She seemed to buy the lie for now at least.
He pushed to standing, wavered when the world tilted around him, and then caught his balance before she could move to steady him.
He answered her question to distract her and waited for the room to stop swimming around him.
"The tesseract room…with Fury." Seemed like a good spot to claim, it was when this whole mess started when Loki had…he shook his head slightly, trying to banish the memories.
Natasha stared up at him from the gurney.
"Clint, that was two days ago."
He turned to look down at her. Days had passed without meaning when he was with Loki. He'd been underground for a lot of it and traveling at night for even more.
"Two days ago? What day is it?"
"Friday."
Jesus…Loki had had him for over two days. It had seemed so much longer, it had seemed like years. The world tilted dangerous again and he staggered, hand flying out and looking for something to ground him, to keep him from just going down.
A warm, strong hand braced against his ribs and another wrapped against his bicep.
The smell of vanilla, sweat and gunpowder filled his senses.
The tangy scent of copper surrounded him, intoxicating him and leaving him yearning for more. Mixed with it was something so familiar – vanilla…vanilla, gunpowder and sweat.
Something dark swept through him, a brutal, violent desire.
He wanted her. He wanted her now.
He jerked away from her, the contact was too much. When it had just been a brush of the shoulder, he could handle it, could keep his instinct to pull away in check.
But she was too close…too close.
He retreated a stumbled step and she just stared at him, eyes wide with shock and hurt at the unexpected withdrawal. A moment later she crossed her arms over her chest and lifted her chin, intent, no doubt, to soldier on. She fixed him with a weighted, analytical glare.
"Did you sleep?"
She was looking for an explanation, for a reason he was so on edge.
Had he slept? He didn't think so.
"Or eat?" she went on.
He eyed the slight tremor that had settled in his hands and just shrugged.
"Don't know…don't think so, doesn't feel like it."
And it didn't. He felt weak and exhausted – like a strong wind would just make him come apart and shatter into pieces on the ground.
"I will break you and leave you shattered on the ground."
He felt his whole body tense, felt Natasha tense in response. Then she sighed and nodded towards the bathroom.
"Why don't you take a minute? I can get you food and with any luck maybe you can grab some shut eye before the other shoe drops."
Clint grunted noncommittally and headed into the small bathroom, welcoming the escape, the place to hide.
"Sleep ain't gonna happen." He said it mostly to himself, as under his breath as he could manage.
He pushed into the bathroom and turned to shut the door.
He flinched, jerking violently backwards when he realized Natasha had followed him, was in the bathroom too, standing close enough that they were sharing air. But what startled him the most was the blood, it was covering her, staining her shirt and pulsing from her neck.
He retreated as far as the small bathroom would allow, slamming his elbow on the wall and tangling his legs up in the toilet. For a long horrifying moment, he could only stare at her. He blinked – and the blood was gone.
Jesus, he was losing his goddamned mind.
"Clint?" She backed all the way up to the door and held up her hands much in the way he would expect you did a startled, wounded animal. He supposed it was fitting. "What's going on?" she asked.
"Nothing," he insisted immediately. "I'm fine." He tried to untangle his legs from the toilet so he could stand straight again.
"That's bullshit." There was no teasing smile this time. She was serious, her gaze worried and angry all at once. "Since when are you afraid of me?"
His eyes darted up to meet hers and he shuffled a small step closer, instinctively reaching out only to immediately withdraw the hand as if he'd been burned.
"God, Natasha, that's not it."
That wasn't even close. It wasn't even Loki.
It was him.
"Then what is it? Cuz last time I checked me touching you was usually something you enjoyed." Natasha shot back, eyeing him with concern.
He stared at her, something in his gaze that she couldn't read. That in and of itself was troubling. She'd always been able to read Clint pretty well, and ever since Vietnam he'd practically been an open book. She'd had years now to learn every nuance of how he expressed himself, from the various ways he quirked his lips to smirk to the many things he could say with only his eyes.
But she couldn't read him now, not specifically. What she could read, though, was loud and clear.
Fear.
But if it wasn't fear of her…
She thought then of Loki, of what he'd said to her during her interrogation.
"I won't touch Barton, not until I've made him kill you. Slowly, intimately, in every way he knows you fear."
She felt her shoulders sag as she put it together. Apparently, though he was starting to forget pieces of the last two days, this he remembered.
It wasn't her. It probably wasn't even Loki.
It was himself. He was the one he was afraid of.
"Clint…" she started softly, moving slowly closer. She took cautious, measured steps, not for her sake, but for his. Every inch she drew closer, the tension in his posture grew. It didn't take long to be standing nose to nose with him, but she was careful not to touch him.
He was holding himself absolutely still, his body thrumming with so much tension that she could almost hear it. His eyes – those stormy, blue-gray eyes – were locked on hers, though, as he waited to see what she would do.
"You didn't hurt me," she stated softly, but firmly.
A muscle in the side of his jaw twitched with tension and she slowly reached to rest her palm over it. His skin was warm – almost hot – an effect of coming down of Loki's spell, no doubt.
He flinched at the touch, but seemed to call upon pure force of will to stop himself from pulling away. Even if he had, he had nowhere to go.
"You would never hurt me," she continued in the same quiet but unyielding tone.
She felt his jaw clench harder beneath her hand, but he still didn't respond. But he also didn't break his gaze from hers, so she went on.
"I trust you." To her, those were the most powerful words in any language. More powerful than proclamations of a 'love' she didn't believe in anymore. More powerful than any promise.
To trust someone, so completely and fully, it was once in a life time rare.
Something in his eyes broke and when he spoke, his voice was nothing but a ragged whisper.
"I don't trust me."
Natasha felt her own expression fracture and she reached up with her other hand so that she was framing his jaw.
"Then let me trust enough for both of us," she softly commanded before pushing up onto her toes and gently pressing her lips to his.
He stood rigid beneath her touch, but she didn't relent.
She pulled back just enough to give herself room to speak, her words ghosting over his lips and her eyes boring into his.
"I trust you."
Then she kissed him again.
So slowly it seemed to happen one muscle at a time, he started to melt. It took time – how much, she wasn't sure, but eventually he relaxed under her touch. He settled one hand on her hip, just above her thigh holster, and the other he threaded into the hair at the base of her skull.
When she pulled back this time, she rested her forehead against his, giving him time to collect himself. She watched him stand there and breathe – eyes closed, forehead braced against hers. She wasn't sure how long they stood there, his hands unmoving and hers having shifted to the back curve of his jaw, her fingers threaded into the short hair behind his ears. Then, out of nowhere and with eyes still closed, he spoke.
"He made me want to kill you."
Natasha waited, very purposefully kept every muscle relaxed, and continued to watch him. She'd already known that, both from Loki and from the vicious hunger in his eyes when they'd battled on the catwalks.
After a moment, he opened his eyes and pulled his head back.
"Not just kill you. He made me want to destroy you. He made me need it."
He started to pull away, so she tightened her hands, keeping him from escaping.
"I would have," he stated bluntly.
"No," Natasha denied firmly, "you wouldn't."
"You don't know that, Natasha. You don't know what he made me want to do…and I wanted it. I wanted to hurt you, to –"
She cut him off before he could put words to whatever horrors were in his mind.
"But you didn't."
Clint gave her a look like she was being stupid.
"Because you stopped me, you knocked me out."
"No," Natasha disagreed fiercely. "You stopped you."
Clint shook his head, reaching to grab her wrists and pull her hands away from his face. He started to retreat, backing as far away as he could, which wasn't far. His back hit the metal wall and his legs were wedged awkwardly between the toilet and the sink.
"You had a knife to my neck, Clint. You had me. I know you could have finished me then, you could have put that blade into my neck and done whatever the hell you wanted. But you didn't."
Clint frowned and shook his head again.
"That's not…"
"It is," Natasha interrupted. "You hesitated. You. No matter what else was going through your head, that's what matters. You stopped you and you saved me."
Clint was shaking his head again.
"I'm sorry." He sounded broken.
Natasha felt her own heart break at the tone.
"Why?" she asked in helpless confusion.
"What I was thinking…what I wanted to do…" he shook his head again. "I'm so sorry."
"Clint," she invaded his space again, and with the wall at his back there was nowhere for him to flee. She slid her hands over his shoulders and wrapped them around his neck, pulling him to her in firm, tight hug. "You don't have to apologize for something that didn't happen. I'm okay. You didn't hurt me. I don't blame you any more than you blamed me for what happened in Germany."
That did it. His arms, which had been hanging limply at his sides, suddenly locked around her waist, pulling her closer. He turned his face into her neck and just inhaled sharply, arms tightening around her.
"You didn't hurt me," she repeated softly, sliding one hand up into his hair and fisting the other around the shoulder hem of his vest. And as they stood there – neither saying a word, just doing their best to hold themselves together – she realized that keeping the news about Phil from Clint went so far past stopping him from trying to kill Loki, past making the Avengers complete.
He wouldn't be able to handle the truth right now.
If he could barely handle that he'd thought about hurting her, he wouldn't be able to handle knowing that his actions under Loki's control had led to the death of the other most important person in his life.
It still felt like a betrayal. It felt like she was using him, keeping him in the fight because they needed him. He deserved to know. He deserved to know what Loki had taken from him.
But he couldn't. Not yet.
Almost out of nowhere an overwhelming need filled her. Whether it was for her sake, or his, or both, she needed to connect with him, to comfort him and herself. To prove to both of them that they were okay, that no matter what was happening around them, they – Natasha and Clint –were constant and unyielding. That no matter what Loki had put in his head or what he told her, he hadn't broken them. He hadn't even managed to fracture the bond they shared.
"Kiss me."
Her words had him tensing again and she let him pull back far enough to look her in the eye.
"What?"
She made sure her intent was clear in her gaze and cocked a teasing eyebrow at him.
"You heard me."
Three days ago he would have smiled at the teasing, would have returned it with a jab of his own. But it wasn't three days ago, and now he didn't even crack a grin.
He shook his head instead, a rare fear rising in his gaze that made her heart hurt for him.
"I don't think…"
"Don't think," she cut him off. "Don't think about him. Don't think about what he put in your head. Don't think about anything. Just kiss me."
She could see the desire starting to build in his eyes, but still he hesitated.
"I don't want to hurt you…"
"You won't," she replied quietly. "I trust you," she assured a final time, but this time she added one more thing, "Trust me."
Trust her to keep him grounded, to keep him from coming apart or falling off whatever ledge he was teetering on.
The words had exactly the affect she'd hoped for. Trusting her had become as easy as breathing for him. She would know. The reverse was just as true.
Whatever doubts he had seemed to drain out of his gaze and then he was the one advancing, locking his mouth onto hers and driving her backwards. He hooked his hands behind her thighs and lifted her up a moment before her back hit the door.
After that, she didn't have to do much thinking at all.
Clint stared down at the swirling water in the sink, watching it funnel into the drain. Natasha, after they'd tested out the versatility of the small bathroom, had left him alone, quietly telling him to take a minute to get his head on straight and that she'd be waiting for him in the room. After which, she was going to do her level best to get him released.
Clint wasn't sure how long he'd been staring at the water. He'd turned it on as soon as she left, but had yet to touch it.
He knew it would be cold and he'd had enough cold to last a lifetime.
He closed his eyes, breathing deeply through his nose.
He's gone. You're free. Whatever's left, you can take it.
He could take it. He could always take it. He wouldn't break, not ever again. He'd managed to put himself back together after Barney had left him shattered. Somebody like Loki wasn't going to succeed where the likes of Matthew Williams and Phillip fucking Jacobs had failed.
He could take it. He would take it.
He blew out another deep breath and opened his eyes, looking up at the shatterproof mirror above the sink.
Icy, unnatural blue eyes stared back.
Clint flinched backwards with a startled blink. When he looked again, the icy gaze was gone, leaving behind nothing but his own blue-gray eyes.
This was only the beginning, he knew that. His own subconscious had always been his own worst enemy. But he could take it. He could handle it. He'd find a way. With Phil and Natasha in his corner, it might not even be as impossible as if felt right now.
A sudden longing to see Phil, to hear his voice, overwhelmed him. Phil had a way of knowing exactly what Clint needed to hear and saying it in the exact way he needed to hear it.
Right now, he needed Phil to tell him he'd be okay. That Loki, no matter what he'd done to him or made him want to do, wouldn't win. He needed Phil to remind him that he was strong. That he was Clint fucking Barton. Phil said that like it was a piece of armor, like being 'Clint Barton' was a source of strength in and of itself. But then, Phil had always seen something in him that Clint could never see for himself.
God, he needed to see Phil.
He braced himself, stared down at the cold water, and put his hand in it. He almost pulled back, the coldness that swept through his fingers and hand too reminiscent of another coldness he'd been trapped in not long enough ago.
I can take it.
He stuck his other hand in the water too and cupped them together, gathering water in his palms.
Now or never.
He ducked down and splashed the water on his face.
The spear hit his chest without warning and with brutal, bruising force, barely a shade above breaking skin.
The ice hit him like a sledge hammer. There was no slow cresting wave this time – just absolute cold and pain.
Clint gasped like a fish out of water, one hand going to his chest and the other wiping away as much water from his face as possible. His eyes darted up to the mirror, searching for blue. He found it, but only the familiar blue-gray that had been in his reflection his entire life. No ice in sight.
He lowered his head again, letting his chin hang to his chest and bracing his free hand on the edge of the sink – his other hand was pressing hard against his sternum.
A stray drop of water rolled down his nose and fell into the sink, mixing with the still running stream from the tap and disappearing down the drain. Clint forced himself to blink and pried his hand from his chest. He transferred it to the edge of the sink, joining his other in its white knuckled grip.
He drew in a slow, deep breath and let it out just as carefully.
Then he forced himself to loosen his hands on the sink. He reached for the thin, scratchy towel hanging nearby and pressed it to his face, ridding himself of the last of the water.
A new voice – one he didn't recognize – out in the main part of the cell drew his attention.
"Time to go."
He heard Natasha respond immediately. Apparently she did know the owner of the voice.
"Go where?"
"I'll tell you on the way. Can you fly one of those jets?"
Looked like the other shoe had dropped. Time to choose, fight or flight.
He met his gaze in the mirror and lifted his chin, steeling himself.
Who was he kidding, flight had never been an option. He would always fight. He'd fight until he had no fight left.
He reached for the bathroom door and stepped out.
"I can."
End of Chapter 9
Poor Clint...as if he wasn't screwed up emotionally enough...ironic isn't it? They're both lying and both feeling guilty about it...Should Natasha be able to sniff out the lie? Maybe...but she's got A LOT on her mind. You could almost say the fact that each of them is lying is what's preventing them from realizing the OTHER is lying. And anybody else get the sense that Clint's got some PTSD like issues right now? Poor guy :(
Anyway, drop me a line if you please :) Until tomorrow, your preview:
"Okay," he muttered to himself, reaching for an arrow. "An army of aliens with big guns and sticks that shoot death rays, who happen to have flying jet skis. Should be fun…"