Author's Note: *cackling laughter*
Warnings: LOTS OF VIOLENCE/GORE, child abuse, implied/referenced domestic violence, disorientation, implied/referenced torture, gaslighting.
"For most people, it's history now,
but for me,
when I close my eyes,
it all comes back clearly."
-(J.V)
Chapter Eleven:
"It occurs to me," the voice is smooth, collected. A balm on wounds too infected and raw for him to do anything but whimper at anymore. His entire body locks up beneath the sound, tensing against the hard ground. "That it has been some time since we had one of our talks."
He lays in the middle of the floor, his stomach pressing against the drain they use for gathering blood, unrestrained. He's in too much pain to move, his back raw and blistered from the fire. He couldn't escape even if he wanted to. He remembers wanting that. Waiting for an opportunity. For them to let down their guard. It never happens. There is no escaping this hell.
He is damned and this is his punishment.
His breath is wet. He can taste blood.
The figure sits down beside him, large and ominous, a shadow leaning over his broken body to block out any of the light. "Speak with me, lost one."
He licks dry, split lips, his body shuddering. He doesn't think he has the energy to talk, but he's afraid not to. "What…" his voice is hoarse and dry; it hurts like it's cracking the soft edges of his throat as it slips out, "what would you…like to speak…of?"
Blood dribbles down the side of his face, from his mouth, trailing toward the floor. He's too exhausted to wipe it away.
The voice is soft, "I sympathize with you, do you know that? My father hated me as well. He could never see the value of my ideas. Family…so complicated. So cold. I've heard you pleading for them, but I'm curious. Do you think that any of them would come if they could?"
An exhausted, wet cough escapes him, pulling on the raw skin of his back. He moans, desperate, his fingers clenched as he waits for the wave of pain to disperse.
Please, please, please.
(Thor, please, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please, please help me I—)
"Yes," he whispers.
It is not the truth.
He knows it as well as the other.
"Oh, lost one," the voice is cold, "you've been taught better than to lie to me."
"I—" raw terror whispers through him. The word was instinctive, he didn't think. He's in too much pain to think anymore. "I didn't—please—"
"I came here to speak with you, not to be manipulated. Your tongue is dripping with lies you seem incapable of stopping. Even after all that I have given you, all that I have done for you, I have tried to understand you, and you make this far more complicated than it needs to be." The figure whispers, angry. The master's head tips, staring at the fresh burns across his back, and he smirks, the faintest edge of humor sparkling through his eyes as he sees the brand.
He remembers the Chituari taunting him they'd put it on his face.
"I see my soldiers have claimed you. Perhaps it will teach you a lesson." His hand reaches out, and pushes down on the fresh wound, and he screams—
Blood dribbles down his back, across layers of raw, blistered skin, and he can't. Oh, gods, he can't—he can't draw in the breath to speak. The screaming is dragged out of him, hoarse and guttural, more a desperate sob than his lungs being emptied out.
The pressure stops and he gasps in heaving breaths, wanting to curl in on himself, but stops himself, knowing that it will only cause the wounds across his back to pull. It's long minutes before he can speak, but the master waits for him, patient, carefully cleaning blood and bits of skin off of his fingers. The red almost looks ethereal against the purple.
"Please," he whispers when he can speak, "Please…I don't know what you want. Please just tell me what you want."
"What I want," there's a pause here, the master considering the question. Too late, he realizes he should have said from me. "What I want is justice in this universe. I want to save people." A large hand comes to softly brush the hair away from his bloody face and he shudders at the kindness. "On Titan, we believe in a god, the all-powerful creator of the universe. She spat in our face. We should have endured hardship instead of blessings, corruption instead of peace. Starvation was our reward for our goodness." The master snarls the last word. "I will become God and I will save us all from the punishment of life growing too prosperous."
The master continues to stroke his hair. It's lulling him to sleep despite himself. His body is too exhausted to try and stay awake anymore. Perhaps he's dying at last.
(Please, please, please—)
"What I want from you," the master's voice has grown softer. It's almost far away, like a distant echo. "Is quite simple. Loyalty. I know who you are. What you are. They call you a god where you come from. I think you are mistaken. There are no gods, only me."
He's not the god of anything. Not anymore.
"I won't help you," he whispers. "I won't help you kill anyone."
"We'll see," the master says mildly, unconcerned, "rest now. You're exhausted. Don't you want to sleep?"
He grits his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. Courage, some may call it. Stupidity, it feels like, as he pushes. "My father would destroy you if…if he knew what was happening…my brother...take your head…"
The master laughs. "Do you threaten me? You? Truly, Asgardian, what makes you think they aren't aware?"
His stomach seizes. "What?"
The master stops smoothing his hair and grabs it in clawed, angry fingers. He gasps, hands weakly lifting to protest, gripping with failing strength to try and get the Titan to release him. "You have no idea how lucky you are. I am the only person who will ever love you. Thor doesn't give a damn about you. Do you not remember when you told me some time ago that he threw you into the abyss?"
"I—" confusion washes through him. He can't remember that. "Thor didn't—"
"Have I ever lied to you?" the master interrupts.
"...no."
Thor threw him into the abyss? Thor let him go. Odin watched, didn't he? He can remember both of them above him blurrily. They were there. Thor...threw him.
"You are exhausted." The master sighs, releasing him back to the floor. He doesn't move. His scalp aches. "You must rest. We will speak about this later."
"I think I understand," his voice is quiet.
"What do you understand?" the master asks, patient.
"Your brother betrayed you." he whispers. "I think I understand why you hurt so much."
The master is silent for a long moment. "Rest." He encourages. He gets up and starts to walk away. Even before the door is closed, he is desperate for the lost company. He squeezes his eyes shut, a wash of loathing washing through him. You always chase them away. Disgusting. Despicable. No one will ever want to stay with you. Help isn't coming because they never loved you in the first place.
His eyes are slipping shut. His body is so tense that he doesn't know if he can relax into sleep anyway, but he still tries. Everything is shutting down. It's not a conscious decision anymore, but a desperate slide toward nothing. He welcomes it.
Clint jerks awake falling into nothing.
The world is blurring above him. Blinking in and out of focus. Bright light, dark ceiling. Empty sky, hot blinding sun, it vanishes again. His head is throbbing. He can't feel his toes. Everything is silent. A shudder of cold washing through his veins. Fingers wrapping around his arms. Being hauled somewhere. Dragged. The ground feels like sand, but when he tries to look it's concrete.
There's a distorted jumble of sensations. Everything is raw. His head aches. He can see a blond looking over him and the face fills him with terror. He tries to fight, but he can't find his body. It's very far away and only getting further.
He doesn't know where he is. He can't figure anything out. Nothing makes sense. He keeps blinking out of focus. Here one moment, gone again. Always gone. He can't—
He passes out again.
When he finally, finally manages to hold onto consciousness for longer than a few scattering seconds, he becomes aware that his skin feels like it's blistering against the heat. When he squints he swears that he can see the sun glimmering, almost like he's staring in between the slats in a window. Everything is coated in a shiny, simmering sheen, like a weak, ghostly halo. Nausea curls at the back of his throat.
Clint groans weakly, hands curling into fists at his side. He's not restrained. This surprises him. Was Barney that stupid?
When he manages to fight his eyelids apart, the room he's in is so dark it feels like a living, breathing entity holding him close enough to strangle. A low, thrumming sound is coming from somewhere, like a ventilation shaft lazily blowing air into the room. He doesn't know where he is. He can't breathe. A new, furthering surge of wild panic washes through him. His face is going numb. He can't feel his feet. His heart is slamming inside his chest, howling. He can't remember how he got here, or even where here is.
He pats himself down, for weapons or a phone or something, but his clothing is empty.
"Barney?" Clint whispers, his voice low. He doesn't really expect a response. There isn't one, even as he waits for it, not daring to breathe. Carefully, slowly, Clint pushes against the ground—hard, cold; concrete then—and eases his way upright. He winces on instinct, his nervous system convinced he's about to smack his head against something. There's nothing there but empty air.
When he breathes in, he can taste the dust. "Barney?" Clint tries again. He looks for a sliver of light to indicate some sort of door or window, but no matter how much he strains his eyes, he can't find anything. He's hot enough that he feels like he's beginning to broil, but he shivers anyway. He's freezing and burning alive. His mouth tastes terrible.
"You know," a light flickers to his left, and Clint whips around to face it, seeing Barney behind the high beam of an ancient flashlight. Clint grimaces, lifting up a hand to block out the blinding assault. Barney lowers the beam to the floor. "For someone who hates me, you certainly seem desperate for my company."
Clint glares at him, annoyed. "You're one to talk."
They're in some sort of…container, maybe? It sort of looks like the inside of a shipping container, which would explain the heat, but they're not moving, so it's not a truck or a ship. There are boxes piled off to the far right, floor to ceiling in haphazard piles and marked with unreadable black ink. Everything is coated with a fine layer of dust.
Clint wipes two fingers across the top of a box, grimy gray and black dust swiping off onto his fingers. He looks up at his brother skeptically. "This, uh, your latest hideout?"
Barney rolls his eyes. "No. This is just a holding place. For you. I rented it."
Underneath the dust, the box is marked as Christmas - 1987 which strikes Clint as a little strange. Maybe this isn't a shipping container. Aren't there those rent-a-container-for-belongings or something? But who the heck has this many boxes that they want to keep from their lives? Personally, Clint is not a sentimental man and would gladly burn anything that had to do with his childhood.
He swallows thickly, before, unable to stop himself he mutters, "A rental? Really, Charles?"
He waits, with a painful lurch of anticipation in his stomach for Barney to return their lifelong retort of first names back and forth. It doesn't come. Part of him is a little relieved, another bitter. Maybe they've at last grown out of their Charles/Francis game. Barney is the only person besides Natasha and his birth certificate that knows he doesn't go by his first name anymore.
"Yeah. Put down my real name, social, and everything because I'm also an idiot." Barney has gotten close enough to touch and cuffs the back of his head hard. Clint winces. "Don't smartmouth me. As much as it may surprise you, I do know what I'm doing, little brother."
Clint scoffs, rubbing at the back of his head with a wince. Barney peers over his hand to look at Christmas - 1987, expression neutral. Unable to help himself, Clint asks, "You tracked me down from halfway across the world and broke into a S.H.I.E.L.D. facility, but you can't pick a lock to an abandoned warehouse or something?" Clint neatly avoids the rebuke. "Where are we?"
"Wyoming," Barney answers readily, scowling at him. "We're just waiting for Thor to show up, but he's taking his sweet time. He always late?"
"Great," Clint mutters, dismissing the last question. A rolling wave of unease curls down his spine. Thor is coming here. To kill him. Again. Thinking about what Thor did to Loki...He can't just wait around for that to happen.
Unconsciously, Clint starts playing with the edge of Christmas - 1987, eyes rapidly roving around the space to try and find some sort of weapon. If he can incapacitate his brother, maybe he can find some sort of way out of here. He hasn't seen a door, but that doesn't mean there isn't one.
Unfortunately, there aren't any baseball bats or metal polls conveniently laying around, only sealed boxes and dust. The only weapon is the gun at Barney's hip. Clint's mouth thins into a pressed grimace. He doesn't know if he could get the gun off of his brother before Barney shot him, and part of him feels a little resigned at the prospect. He feels like he's spent most of his life waiting for Barney to shoot him. His brother was never someone anyone should have trusted with a gun. Especially after their parents died. It's a Glock, German made. Natasha prefers those.
Barney's hand slides toward the weapon as he follows Clint's line of sight and when Clint raises his gaze up, his sibling's gaze is dangerous. "Try it." Barney dares, jutting up his chin. "Our last fight didn't go so well for you. You really want me to shoot you again so soon?"
(I hate you! I HATE YOU!)
Clint's brow furrows a fraction. What? What is he talking about? The last time that Barney shot him was when they had a fight in the ally, and that was over fifteen years ago. That's what they're qualifying as soon now?
Clint pushes his lips together. Regardless of the strange phrasing, the threat holds. He glances at the box again, Christmas - 1987, and wishes desperately that he had Iron Man's scanning capabilities. If he knew what was in these boxes…any sort of weapon would be enough. Anything that isn't Christmas lights or one of the freaky Stalker-Elf on the Shelf things.
Apparently seeing the capitulation in Clint's face, Barney relaxes a fraction, leaning against a stack of boxes. Dust smears off as his elbow slides a little, revealing more markings. The Park - August 25th, 1989; Driving Lesson - July 3rd, 1996; Proposal - January 4th, 2011. Clint's brow furrows a fraction, again wondering who on earth is this meticulous. Barney grimaces, wiping off the dust from his flannel jacket. Clint thinks it's almost a little funny. Barney hated flannel. Insisted he wasn't a lumberjack. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
Barney sighs. "This place is disgusting."
Clint raises an eyebrow, then suggests helpfully, "Next time try breaking into somewhere more expensive."
Not that there's going to be a next time for me. Thor's going to kill me today and that will be it. A swirling, twisty wave of nausea settles in the back of his throat.
Barney brushes a hand through his hair. "Tell me," he says, seeming almost bored, "Thor was pretty vague with the details, but I'm curious. How exactly did he go from making lily crowns and—uh, braiding hair to being in league with the Chitauri?"
"Flower crowns." Clint corrects automatically. "And it's with daisies. Dude, how do you not know—?"
Barney slaps him. Clint sees it coming but doesn't try to fight, moving his head with the blow to lessen it. An aching pain shoots down his spine and his teeth gnash together sharply. Clint squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, forcing himself to exhale. After a moment to catch his breath and swallow the blood from biting the edge of his tongue, he lifts his head up. Barney's glare is fierce. "Do not play games with me."
You feel better? is on the tip of his tongue, bitter and wicked. He swallows it back down with force.
Clint rubs at his jaw, breathing out harshly. Slowly, and with bite, he explains, "Thor is being mind controlled by the Chitauri, you idiot. He's not really calling the shots right now."
Barney considers this, rubbing at the lower half of his face. His eyes flash blue as the flashlight beam shifts his grip. Clint's eyes narrow. Flippantly, Barney says, "I'm a little surprised, to be honest. I really thought that it would have been you and your Avengers driving him to this madness."
"We lived together for months. Pretty sure if he wanted us dead he could have found easier ways to do it." Clint's laugh is dry. "You really have so little faith in his character. I'm insulted on his behalf. Honestly, that's—" Clint winces as Barney raises his hand again, quickly muttering a sharp, instinctive "sorry." The blow never lands, but it's not a relief. Sometimes it's worse when it doesn't.
"Your mouth is still running ahead of your brain, I see." Barney's hand clenches into a fist with deliberation. Clint eyes it nervously, taking a half step back. Sweat rolls down his back and he bites on a grimace. Holy crap, it really is hot in here. His mouth is dry and he's sweating enough that it's starting to give him a minor headache. Barney curses under his breath and looks toward where Clint presumes the door is. "Where on earth is Thor coming from anyway?"
"Do I look psychic to you?"
Barney slams the flashlight against his gut and Clint gasps, hands wrapping around the area as an agonized wheeze escapes him. He curls over the area instinctively. Barney repeats, harder, "Where is he coming from?"
"I don't know," Clint hisses between gritted teeth, looking up at him. His abdomen is pulsing underneath his fingers. He's the right kind of nauseous that throwing up would definitely help. "Kinda the whole problem here isn't it? Are you that desperate for him to kill me? Actually, for that matter, why in God's name did you not just shoot me in that hallway? Does it really matter if Thor does the deed that much—?"
"As if you don't know." Barney interrupts furiously, "You and the Avengers have been tracking him for the better part of three weeks now, haven't you? Surely that's enough time to find some evidence of an Asgardian. Especially with Loki's help."
With Loki's...?
Wait.
How does Barney know who Loki is? S.H.I.E.L.D. spent a great deal of time and resources wiping Loki from the Battle of New York, downplaying it to a random assault from the Chitauri and nothing more. Loki was a footnote to a footnote. It wouldn't do thinking that the Chitauri were more than a disorganized mass. People would have panicked if they realized that Asgard was—kinda—behind the attack.
Even if Barney talked with S.H.I.E.L.D. agents about Loki, no one would have suggested to him that Loki would help them. That doesn't…
Barney's eyes are brown, not blue.
Clint stares at him, his head tilting a fraction. The longer he stares, the less begins to make sense. Barney's stance is wrong. There's a scar he got from prison that's no longer there. He's a little shorter than he should be. The flannel. Not playing their Charles/Francis game when it's practically branded into their DNA. And—a sense of unease washes through him, a dawning, frantic realization slowly beginning to settle. "Barney," the word is guarded. He straightens up, hand curling around the edge of one of the cardboard flaps of Christmas - 1987. "What happened to your accent?"
They're from rural Iowa. Clint never really developed one because of how rough their upbringing was after their parents died when he was almost six, but Barney's was thick and grated on his nerves sometimes. He never pronounced the last g and sometimes skipped ts. Clint always made a point to do so as a kid just to annoy him.
There's a beat, heavy and crushing.
Barney's eyes raise up to meet his with deliberate slowness before his brother grins broadly. "It's always in the details." He says, the familiar twang now present in his voice. The scar is there, stretching across his cheek and underneath his eye. His clothing flickers, switching from flannel to something plain and recognizable. His eyes remain almost graphicly blue. Clint's stomach leaps into his throat.
What is going on?
Barney raises his hands up and takes a few steps back like he's giving some sort of presentation. "Game's up then. You always gotta notice the little details, don't you? Oh, Agent Barton…this could have been so much easier if you hadn't fought it."
A wave of painful cold slinks through Clint's body and he gasps.
There's a shimmer in the air before Barney vanishes with a ripple of yellow, leaving only behind the remainder of the grin like the Cheshire Cat. Clint's breathing picks up speed. He takes several steps backward, dragging Christmas - 1987 with him. There's probably nothing in it be pictures and twinkle lights but right now, Clint doesn't really care. It's something.
"I do wonder," the voice is behind him now, and Clint whirls, grabbing the first thing in the box—a whisky bottle with a pealing sticker what the? what type of madness encourages someone to put that in a Christmas box?—and wields it out like some sort of knife. Sharp, unrepentant denial surges through him. No. No way. It can't be— "How you managed to convince yourself that this whole thing was your brother for so long. Truly, Barton, did you really think that Thor would go and seek assistance from some lowly criminal? Thor is a god, you imbecile. He could have destroyed you with ease."
Clint's breathing hitches. There is no mistaking that voice.
Oh, man.
He's spent the last six months listening to it. Protecting it. Helping it.
There's a whisper of clothing before a flaring green light washes across the air in a blinding scattering of vivid, piercing light. Clint squints, ducking his head against the onslaught as the shipping container washes away into the communal room in Avengers Tower. The box, absurdly, remains, the bottle still clutched in between his shaking fingertips.
Around him, bound with some sort of magical, invisible restraints, the Avengers are kneeling on the floor around him in a semi-circle. All their faces are filled with terror, eyes pinned on either him, or—
Clint slowly, achingly, raises his gaze up to Loki.
The Asgardian is standing in front of him, dressed in the leathers Clint's seen rarely over the last few months, hands clasped behind his back. His head has tilted a fraction, watching Clint with something close to pity. "Agent Barton," he sighs, softly, sympathetic, "you really don't seem to understand how this game works. If you had simply let me interrogate you as your brother, perhaps we wouldn't have had to resort to such drastic measures."
What measures?
Clint grits his teeth, swallowing hard. He stares at Loki's eyes, blue, but not scepter-blue. Loki has green eyes. This—something is wrong. Right? Something has to be wrong. He takes a hesitant step backward. The Avengers watch him do so with dread.
"What's going on? …Loki? Let's—let's talk about this, okay?" Clint says, trying to be reassuring.
How did they get to New York? They were in Wyoming. Clint wasn't unconscious for that long, was he? Wait. If that wasn't Barney, then what actually happened in that hallway? He swears it was his brother. He swears on his mother's grave that it was his brother. And if it wasn't his brother in the hall, then how are they in freaking TWO THOUSAND miles away in MANHATTEN?
"Don't-don't try to bargain." Tony whispers, groaning faintly, trying to wrestle against the invisible restraints. A vague wave of Loki's hand makes Tony go completely rigid. Tony squeezes his eyes shut. "Just give him what he wants. Please."
Loki lifts a finger to his lips in the universal signal for silence and around him, their team releases choked sounds as some sort of spell quiets them. Nothing comes out when they try to speak.
what what what what what what
"Shh, Agent Barton and I are talking. Don't interrupt, it's rude," Loki chastises.
Clint looks around frantically. Jarvis, they need—police, S.H.I.E.L.D., something. Why hasn't Jarvis called someone?
Clint's gaze jumps from Tony to Loki. The Asgardian meets his stare, indifferent. Clint's fingers tighten around the bottle, the few remaining tablespoons of amber liquid sloshing inside the glass. His breathing picks up speed. He remembers this bottle. He was…the peeling sticker. He did that. The bottle was resting on the table. He peeled it back anxiously as his parents yelled at each other.
That—
There is no freaking way that Clint just pulled a freaking bottle from thirty years ago out of his head into this.
"What…do you want?" Clint asks. He tries to be diplomatic, but part of him is tempted to simply slam the bottle against Loki's head like that would be some sort of reboot. "Loki," his façade breaks, "Loki, come on. Whatever's going on, we can help, okay? Just calm down and let us help you—"
"What," Loki's tone is dangerous. "Makes you think that I want your help, Agent Barton?"
Clint's gaze skirts toward Natasha, trying, desperately, to make sense of this. Natasha's nose is bleeding and the look that she shoots him is helpless. "Loki," he lowers the bottle. The alcohol sloshes against the bottom. He slowly sets the box and the bottle down on the ground then lifts up his hands to show he's unarmed. "Calm down. Let's—"
"What I want," Loki interrupts sharply, "is for you to give me the information that you have on Thor's whereabouts. Thus far, you have been delightfully vague." Loki's jaw clenches. "No more. I'm going to find my brother and I'm tired of waiting for you to incline to share this with me."
Again, Clint finds his gaze skirting toward Natasha. This time with confusion. "What…what are you talking about? You know—we haven't withheld anything from you. You know just as much as we do. All the information we have you have too."
Loki's eyes flash with anger. His hand snaps out in a clawed fist like he's some sort of angrier Darth Vader and he jerks his wrist. There's an audible snapping of bone as Bruce's head twists violently toward the left, his neck breaking. Bruce tumbles to the ground face first, his neck horribly bent out of place.
What
How
Why
It
Oh my gosh, Bruce.
"What—" Clint inhales raggedly. "What did you do!?" He takes a sharp step toward his friend but finds that he can't get any closer. There's some sort of—force, stopping him. The world feels very far away. His breath is picking up speed and he can't feel his hands. They're shaking. Bruce doesn't move, blood slowly beginning to trickle out of his mouth. His glasses lay next to his face. Clint can't speak. All that wants to escape him is a ragged, desperate scream.
Bruce.
Bruce.
No. No. NO.
He can't remember the last thing he said to him. The last time he saw him was before they left Loki's hospital room. He can't—He hopes…it had to have been something important, right? He should have—he should have—
"I believe I've made my point, then." Loki's voice is toneless. There's not the slightest edge of remorse, just cold calculation. Clint breathes in harshly. He can't exhale. Bruce keeps laying there. He's not moving. He's supposed to move—"If you continue to ignore my questions, I will kill your Avengers. So let's try this again. Where is Thor?"
"You—" Clint's mouth forms around a thousand words. A million accusations and things screamed in anger. In the end, all he can find is that there's a hoarse, panicked feeling in his stomach that doesn't go away. There are no words he can say to convey this.
"You—You—what—?"
Loki does something close to rolling his eyes. "Do try to keep up, Agent Barton."
"I don't understand."
"An unfortunate side effect of not paying attention."
I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHY YOU'D HURT US.
"No," Clint shakes his head, taking a step back. His ankle rams sharply into the edge of the box. Christmas - 1987 rattles a fraction. For a moment, he vividly hears his father yelling out at his mother to stop being so ungrateful. The sound of a harsh slap. Barney arriving in the corners of his vision, taking his hand off the bottle.
"No," Clint repeats, shaking off the memory. "You-you don't get—you don't get to freaking kill our—my family!"
Loki makes an exasperated sound in his throat. He waves his hand in that same jerking motion again, and Tony violently twists as his neck is broken, his head swinging in the wrong direction. His body tumbles to the floor beside Bruce, eyes glazing. Clint can't move. He can't think. Can't feel. Can't—
("I survived. Yinsen didn't.")
"I really do think you should start trying to cooperate before all your friends die," Loki says calmly. Clint swallows thickly, his throat dry. Everything is still hot and it should be cold because death is cold and and and
Clint looks up at him.
"I don't know where Thor is." He says, his voice low. It's not steady.
Loki nods his head in acquiescence. "Yes. But I wasn't asking for you to tell me where he is. I was asking for what information you have on where he was. And, of course, your speculations as to where he went."
Clint grits his teeth. He doesn't look at Natasha and Steve, but he can feel their piercing, silent stares looking at him with desperation. "After Thor tried to kill us, Jarvis tracked him a few miles east before he vanished. S.H.I.E.L.D. satellites said the same story. Fury thinks it's some kind of magic."
"Yes, yes," Loki waves a hand. "I know that. It can't be anything but some sort of cloaking from an advanced sedirmaster. Where do you think he is now?"
Clint's mouth goes dry. He doesn't know what to say. His hand bounces anxiously against his leg. The longer the silence draws out, the more Loki's eyes narrow with frustration. "I don't…you were there. You know that we don't have any more ideas than—oh my—please—" his voice is cut off in a strangled, hoarse sound as Loki snaps Steve's neck.
The soldier tumbles to the floor. All of them are bleeding, a halo of red bleeding around their skulls. Angels. They look like bloody angels.
Natasha catches his eye, and Clint feels a sob of hopelessness escape him at the terror on her face. None of this feels real. He can't—oh God help me. "Loki, please," he begs, falling to his knees, unable to hold himself up, "please. Stop. What are you doing? Please. Please. We don't know."
Steve's lips look glossy painted with blood. His dead eyes are staring at Clint with accusation. Why didn't you stop it? Now you're pleading, after three of us are dead?
Loki's mouth presses into a frown, his eyes scathing. He's so apathetic yet so, so callous. It's nothing like the person Clint has come to know.
Loki continues, clearly thinking aloud, "Yes. Well. Let me make sure that I understand this. Thor went missing weeks ago and the most information you've managed to gather is that it was by the Chitauri, he's mind controlled, and that he has a kill list for some gods-unknown reason. Yet you seem to have no concept of whose on that list."
Is he…is he playing with Clint now? What on earth is—
Breath escapes him in a shuddering gasp. "Me. I'm-I'm the last person Thor has to kill. Loki, please, why—"
"You." Loki looks at him sharply, head cocking with genuine puzzlement. As if this is the first time he heard the information and not like he was the one who freaking suggested it days ago. "Why?"
"You told me!" Clint screams. "Stop this! I don't know—NO!"
A harsh, rippling pulse of anger washes through the air. The faint, whispered noise Natasha makes as her neck snaps harshly echoes in his ears. His partner collapses to the floor, tumbling like a lifeless doll. Clint can't describe the sound that he makes. There are no words.
Natasha.
Natasha.
His hands, trembling and bloody, reach out for her. Unlike before, there is no restriction. Nothing stops him from reaching out to touch her like the others. Clint gasps, inhaling and inhaling and inhaling. There is not enough air in the universe. He slowly pulls her body to him with deliberate carefulness.
Natasha is limp against him, but still warm, her head rolling listlessly against the movement. Clint's hands are shaking. His entire chest feels like it's trying to rattle apart. He cups the side of her cheek, letting go to hold it again. He repeats the movement, frantic. Blood is beginning to dribble out of the side of her mouth, her eyes staring forward listlessly.
"Tasha," Clint gasps, his voice thick. The strands of her hair feel like silk beneath his hands, which is strange. They've always felt course and rough before and this doesn't—"Posmotrite na menya, pozhaluysta. Nat…? No, no, no, this isn't—no. Vy menya slyshite? Posmotri na menya. Pozhaluysta. Please. Please." He turns her head to face him, but her eyes just keep staring forward, glazed over and lifeless. She isn't looking at anything. She doesn't see him. She can't hear him.
"Nat…"
He can't breathe. His chest is constricting, warping around his heart and squeezing it.
Natasha isn't supposed to die. None of them—None of them were supposed to. God help him. Steve is laying on the floor. Tony's neck is disjointed and Bruce is laying in a small pool of blood. His blood vessels are shot.
Natasha's face is so pale. Clint rocks them both, clutching her tighter to his chest. Her head falls listlessly against his shoulder.
A shadow falls over him and Clint looks up, gasping in harsh, desperate sobs as Loki carefully kneels in front of him. The Asgardian stares down at Natasha's corpse dispassionately. "I think," his voice is soft, but venomous, "that you don't try hard enough, Agent Barton. This is entirely your fault. I warned you what would happen. Why," the word is pressed, "is Thor trying to kill you?"
Natasha is dead.
His partner
Natasha
Everyone is
Gone
And he's still
He's here and he's
"You…k-know why," Clint whispers. He clutches Natasha tighter to his chest, suddenly terrified that Loki will try and take her away from him. Loki's eyes close with frustration, and Clint almost feels like laughing. What more can you take away from me now? You've already killed nearly my entire family.
"Remind me." Loki grits between his teeth.
"I…" Clint feels lost, trying to steady his voice before he speaks. "You implanted your memories through the tether…about the Chitauri…"
You already know about this. You TOLD ME.
Loki stares at him for long moments, searching. "Ah," he intones at length. "And the Chitauri, then, are trying to destroy those memories before they can be viewed. Well then. This will likely be painful."
"Wait, what—?"
Loki's hand snaps onto his forehead. It's not a weighted presence, persistent and there, but neutral. It's a blade. Slicing and stabbing, cutting and ripping, snapping apart his mind and bending it this way and that. There is no greater agony he can imagine.
He screams until his voice gives out and shakes until his body does as well.
The pain doesn't stop.
It never stops.
Clint frantically backs into his mind, cornering himself behind walls of nothing.
And he finds himself falling.
Down
Down
Down
And crashing.
—
"Shh, shh, just stay quiet. No fussing, okay?"
Clint sits wrapped in the arms of his brother crying silently. In another room, he can hear his father shouting. The walls feel too thin, cowering beneath every blow by his father's voice like Harold Barton intends to shatter every shard of wood with the decibels of sound alone.
Clint clings to Barney's arms. He whimpers. "I'm scared."
"I know," Barney promises. He rests his chin on top of Clint's head. "I am too. But I'll keep you safe. I promise. Let's—let's play a game, okay?"
His mother cries out in the other room. Clint tenses. Barney's arms tighten to the point of pain around his frame. A gasping, terrified sob escapes him and he buries his face into Barney's shirt. His brother pulls his head away, cupping Clint's face between two hands and forcing him to look up. "It's okay, just look at me."
"Is Mom going to die?"
Barney hesitates. It's a brief moment, but Clint sees it clearly. A surge of horror washes through him. "No." Barney's face splits into a wide, open smile. It's strained and fake. "Of course not. Mom's fine, okay? Let's play a game, okay? How many brown things do you see in the room, Francis?"
"I'm not in the mood, Charles," Clint whispers. He listens, strained, for any signs of his mother. His father is still shouting.
"Freakin'—play the game with me." Barney hisses.
I don't want to play this game.
Fresh tears well up in Clint's eyes. He looks up at his brother hopelessly. As he opens his mouth to say something brown—Barney's eyes—their mother releases a muffled scream. Barney seems to forget about him entirely as he shoots up, scrambling toward the hall, leaving Clint alone in their shared bedroom. Clint reaches for him, but his brother is gone.
Barney throws open the door to their parents' bedroom, already shouting. His voice is just as loud as Harold's is. They bellow at each other. Clint tries covering his ears and curling in on himself, but things just keep getting louder. Barney yells out in pain and a surge of panic wells up in Clint. Looking around himself, he grabs the ratty baseball Barney stole from school from under their bed.
Clint stumbles out into the hallway on shaky, adrenaline-riddled legs. His hands are steady. When he stands in the doorway of his parents' bedroom, he sees his mother laying on the floor beside the dresser motionless with a black eye already beginning to form on her face, Barney standing in front of her. His lip is bleeding, his face already red from where their father hit him.
None of them have noticed him.
"WHAT do you think you're doin' boy?" Harold bellows. "Get out of the way!"
"No!" Barney shouts. "Stop it! You're not helping anythin', can't you be normal for once? Why do you have to make this worse? You're drunk off your butt and you're not thinkin' clear—" Clint sees the hand moving and reacts before he can really think about it. Before his father can strike his sibling, Clint hurls the baseball at his father's head.
It lands dead center in the back of his skull with a loud, clattering smack. Barney exhales.
"Don't hit him!" Clint wails, "Dad, stop. Dad—"
Harold turns to look at him, his expression incensed. Clint cowers, all five seconds of bravery dying as he ducks away from the doorway to run down the hall. Harold catches him before he can hide underneath the bed.
Clint screams and screams, but Harold doesn't care. He grabs Clint around the throat, squeezing tighter and tighter and tighter. Clint bucks against the weight of the fingers, small fists pounding against his father's chest. He can hear Barney yelling somewhere in the background.
The world is turning to a disturbing shade of gray and white.
A woman stands at the edge of his vision, blurred, and horrifying. Tall and unknown. Blonde. "Show me." It whispers, repeating over again and again until it's a rattling background. A scream. "Show me the memories, Clint. Show me, show me showmeshowmeshow—"
Clint feels as his father snaps his neck, and the crunching, blinding pain of nothing.
(Show me)
—
"...and we your family. You must know that." Frigga insists. She's sitting across from him, completely earnest.
Loki stares at her, wondering how she never seems to get the point.
—
He's falling. The world is screaming into echoes. Time has lost all meaning.
He has lost meaning.
He can't remember how he got here. He remembers wailing at first. Begging for help that was never going to come. The air has been sucked from his lungs, leaving him dry.
He stares up at the blurring sky, whirling past him. The stars are blinding, not a comfort. A curse instead of a blessing. He's cold. The absurdity of this feeling strikes him and he laughs, a hoarse, croaked sound that he only feels in his throat. Rubble falls around him, golden flakes of a building he used to remember.
I could have done it, father.
He didn't do it. He didn't do anything.
He —
f
a
l
l
s
Forever. Endless. This is all I'm meant for now, isn't it?
(Show me)
The air reaches up and he drowns on it. He never crashes into the bottom. There is no air out here. Only blackness.
(show—)
—
"I'm sorry," he gasps, choking, on his knees before the throne, "Please let me live."
"You swear your allegiance then?"
"Yes."
—
"Do you think that love is real?" Natasha's voice is soft. She doesn't look at him. She's staring up at the sky, cloud-covered it may be, like it's one of the most beautiful things she's ever seen. Clint tilts his head a fraction to look at her. Her nose red and hair a mess around her face, she seems more relaxed than he's ever seen her since he brought her to S.H.I.E.L.D. a year ago.
They snuck up onto the S.H.I.E.L.D. base's roof somewhat illegally an hour ago. Not that it's technically banned, they've never been told explicitly that they can't come up here but feels like one of those things that should be illegal. Like calling in sick for work.
Natasha wanted to see the first snow. She insisted. Clint had made it happen.
(When he asked her years later, why she insisted on this every year, Natasha's eyes had dimmed. "Yelena always wanted to see the first snow," she didn't add any further details and Clint didn't press.)
"I don't know," Clint admits quietly. They're buried beneath a pile of blankets, waiting for the first snowflakes to drift down from the heavens. "I think...I want it to be."
Natasha turns her head toward him. Her brow is furrowed. "Because it's useful?"
"Because it seems…nice," Clint admits, clasping one of his hands behind his head. "Being able to trust someone that implicitly. To know that you're not so alone in this God-forsaken world. I hope it does exist, in a true form. Somewhere. I don't know. I sound stupid."
"I don't think so," Natasha assures. She slides her hand into his free one, intertwining their freezing fingers. Clint goes rigid, looking at her sharply. Natasha barely even flinches, seeming to ignore that it's happening at all. Clint smiles a little, squeezing her hand back.
"I hope it's real too," Natasha admits. She looks at him pointedly.
Clint slowly lowers himself back down onto his back. "I'd like that."
Natasha smiles at him gently. She leans toward him a fraction like she intends to bring their faces closer together for a gentle kiss. Her fingers, warm and soft, claw harshly into his throat as she pins him down and there's a horrible, pinching pressure as she stabs him in the neck.
(show—)
—
"You've got good aim, kid," Swordsmaster notes with raised eyebrows.
Barney scoffs. "Clint's got the best. He never misses a shot."
Swordsmaster's gaze shifts to him, something glinting his gaze with a question. "Is that so?" Clint shrinks beneath the gaze, trying to hide behind his brother. Barney doesn't let him, shoving him forward.
—
Thor shoves him off the edge of the Bifrost, fury twisting his face into something unrecognizable. For a moment, a desperate, hopeless moment, Loki looks to him for help. There is nothing there. Odin watches with approval, clapping his son on the shoulder. Clint feels himself tumbling backward into nothing, off the edge. He reaches out his hands, desperate to claw onto anything. He screams, begging them to help him. Clint thinks it's strange. Loki could have sworn he let go.
They shoved him.
Frigga pears her head over the edge, watching him descend slowly. "You did this to yourself," she says with a soft sigh, "why are you asking for our help? This is your fault. You should have known better."
I still need you!
Don't let me fall.
(show—)
He falls.
He lands. Crashing. Breaking bone. Snapping himself apart into a thousand pieces. He never puts himself back together again.
—
"You would be willing to hold my memories for me?" Loki asks them. Clint doesn't even know why it's a question. He nods his acquiescence and beside him, he sees Selvig and Swenson do the same. Loki looks relieved. Exhaustion eats at his face, "Thank you. This is not meant to be permanent. I need to keep them safe for now, but I will collect them later," Loki promises. "You won't even know they're there."
"We're glad to help, sir," Clint says earnestly.
Loki's smile is strained. He reaches out a hand and rests it on his forehead.
Clint lets the arrow go. Black Widow doesn't move out of the way. It impales her through her entire chest, ripping through bone, muscle and skin. She makes a choked sound, tumbling to her knees. She didn't even fight him.
Clint collects her body. He wishes he felt more.
(shhhoooooow meeeeeeeeee~)
—
There's blood. Dripping. Falling. Inside him. Everywhere.
Everything hurts.
"You do this to yourself," the master's daughter whispers. Her cybernetic hand is cold against his burning, trembling skin as she wipes away the blood. "What are you even fighting for?"
"Please help me," Loki whispers. A low, hopeless groan escapes him as his body shivers against the pain. "Please."
The master's daughter hesitates, her gaze shuddering. "Nothing can help you now. Nothing but giving up."
—
(show me)
—
"Your father and your mother…I think they were wrong to keep such an important fact from you. Biology dictates life." The master says. "You had the right to know yourself."
Loki stares at him, bewildered. "I…I did?"
The master tilts his head, "Why wouldn't you?"
—
Barney is shouting, insisting how selfish he is and how much they need him in this. Clint is trying desperately trying not to cry, putting the counter between them. Just in case. Always just in case. Clint asked if he could skip the Circus' mission in favor of school again. He has midterms.
The next week, after Clint ducks out of the heist, Barney pulls him out of school.
—
N
O
—
"Mommy! Mommy, do you see me!?" Clint yells from across the park. He's desperately clinging to the monkey bars, every finger wrapped around the metal painfully as he clings to it with all his trembling strength.
"I see you, baby," Edith Barton assures, smiling brightly. Her long blonde hair is wrapped up in a tired bun. Despite the hot Iowa weather, her jacket is zipped up to the collar. The sunglasses she's wearing don't quite cover her black eye. This doesn't bother Clint, he's having too much fun.
"Barney, Barney!" Clint shouts, "Look at me go!"
Barney laughs, nodding with reassurance. The bruise forming on his face looks painful, but he still smiles anyway. "You're doin' amazing, lil' brother. Just a couple more to go, you can do this."
Clint falls before he manages to reach the end, but Barney catches him. Barney always caught him. His brother shushes his frustrations with assurances that he did amazing and carefully helps him try again. When Clint falls again, Barney carefully sets him on the ground to kneel in front of him and wipe away his tears of anger. Because he's five, and about the age that hugs fix about everything, Barney gives him a quick embrace before they're back at it again.
They're completely alone in the isolated, rusting park and stay there until the sun slowly starts to set in the distance. It casts long, lonely shadows from the surrounding trees across the ground in definitive, sharp lines.
When Clint has conquered the monkey bars, he and Barney play endless laps of tag with varying editions until they hear a car's engine in the distance. Tires crunching over a disastrous road that hasn't been maintained since before Barney was born.
A car pulls up at the edge of the park and all of them freeze, looking up. Edith gets to her feet, her smile gone. A figure starts to get out of the car, already shouting, fingers wrapping around the edge of the door and—
The scene freezes. Stopping in a moment of breathless, painful HD before it resets, whirling through time backward.
They walk into the park again and his mother carefully dishes up the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches she brought between him and his brother. Clint gets peanut butter on his nose and his mother fondly wipes it off, licking off the peanut butter despite his wailing protests not to. His mother laughs. Soon after, Clint loudly says that he wants to learn how to do the monkey bars and he's running off in that direction, dragging his brother with him. After cleaning up, his mother takes a seat on the bench. Five-year-old Clint yells if she can see him.
From across the park, Clint watches the entire scene over and over again, the beginnings of panic clawing apart his chest into slices. "Stop," he whispers. "Stop."
The car pulls up and Harold Barton starts to get out of the car. The scene resets.
He watches as his mother, himself and his brother all come back into the park again.
"Stop," Clint gasps. He tries to grab at himself, at his brother, at anything, to rattle the scene out of shape. Nothing helps. His fingers go through the figures like they're nothing more than a suggestion to the universe instead of a guarantee.
His past self leaps off the monkey bars into Barney's arms, laughing madly. Barney catches him, his laughter echoing in the space. From across the park, Edith's smile is soft and sad.
Clint tries to grab at Barney's shoulders to force him to turn around. His hand, again, goes through Barney's chest and Clint stumbles toward the ground at the sudden imbalance. Desperation claws through him. He has to make this stop. He can't—stop, stop—
Barney and his past self run circles around the weed-ridden ground, Edith denying any of their attempts to drag her inside the game. Her exhaustion is evident as she sits slumped against the bench.
"Mom," Clint pleads, turning around to face her, "Mom, please. Please, help me. Mom."
Edith stares through him.
She's looking at her kids. The ones she actually cares about.
Clint grips at his hair, turning around rapidly in panic. Time moves faster than it should, passing it what feels like seconds instead of the hours that Clint knows it must have been logically. Harold's car pulls up at the edge of the park again. His father starts to get out of the car and Clint flinches. Harold is staring directly at him, his eyes filled with disgust and face narrowed with anger. Even from this distance, Clint can see that he's clearly drunk.
He was drunk.
He was so freaking drunk when he—
The scene resets. Clint is jerked back to the edge of the park, watching as his family moves toward the playset again. Nothing he does gets their attention. He keeps watching it play out over and over and over and over and over —
The scene resets.
Five-year-old Clint comes skipping into the park, pulling Barney along with him in excitement.
Clint sits on the bench, his head buried in his hands, weeping silently. No one at the scene cares, too focused on the monkey bars or the peanut butter or Harold arriving and—
The scene resets.
"Tasha," Clint whispers, desperate. She doesn't magically appear along the treelines. She's dead. Clint remains alone, surrounded by the memory that has haunted him since it happened. Clint feels something happening far away, like he's been skewered. He can't figure out why he's here, but he knows that he needs to leave.
He watches the memory again and again and again.
His past-self leaps into Barney's arms, laughing. Barney catches him. Clint's tears of helplessness have dried to apathy and resignation.
The scene resets.
Twelve-year-old Barney and five-year-old Clint run around the park.
"Clint."
No
No.
NO.
Clint practically propels himself off the bench, whirling around, frantically backing away. His leg catches on something and he stumbles, but he doesn't care, continuing to put distance between them.
Somewhere, distant and faint, he can feel the pressure of Natasha's body in his arms. The burning heat of the sun. "No, no, no, get away from me—don't—don't get any closer."
Loki, no longer dressed in his leathers, but in black clothing with Steve's brown jacket pulled across his thin shoulders, stops immediately. "What? What's wrong? Clint?"
Clint shakes his head. "No. Get out. I don't want—no. No. Get out of my head! GET OUT! I hate you, I HATE YOU!"
Loki's face tenses. Something visceral, dark, and dangerous passes across his expression. "Clint," his voice is flat, trying to be gentle but failing. Clint can't process anything beyond growing hysteria in his chest. "None of this is real. You're…dreaming. After a fashion."
Not real?
Clint laughs, pointing sharply at the approaching vehicle. "Right. And that's not my father pulling up in a car to drag us inside and then crash it and get both him and my mom killed. Nice try. Right. 'Not real', you gonna snap my neck for that? I know this freaking day because it's branded into my eyelids, okay? You can't freaking trick me!"
The scene resets. Loki jerks violently at it, gritting his teeth with frustration as he has to work to find his balance. Clint laughs hoarsely. Not because it's funny, but because what else can he do?
Loki looks up at him, resignation settling on his face, "Dritt," he hisses under his breath. "Forgive me, my friend," he mutters.
"Wait—" Clint gasps, fully expecting to feel the painful numbness of his neck breaking.
The sorcerer's eyes glow a sharp, painful green before he lifts up his hands and spreads his fingers, then begins to draw the scene toward him, like he's wrapping long strands of watery taffy around his palms. The blue sky, the tree, the unoccupied benches, and his mother all swirl into that taffy in between Loki's fingers until it's just Clint dragging Barney into the park. With a snapping, harsh rippling effect, Loki throws his hands forward and shoves.
A concussion wave with the force of a tsunami crashes into Clint. He's pushed from the memory, shoved from an overlapping, persistent blue haze, and goes tumbling. Falling and falling and falling and
And
Then
The world is hot. The ground is sand beneath him.
and
Clint's eyes snap open and he throws himself forward with a harsh, wheezing cry. Nothing processes for long moments except for overwhelming, blinding grief. The Avengers are dead. My family is dead. My partner is dead. Loki killed my family.
Hands grab at his arms, gripping at his shoulders with deliberate, gentle force. "Clint. Clint? Look at me. Clint."
Clint's eyes snap up, flinching back violently. Loki is kneeling in front of him, Steve's jacket still drawn around his shoulders despite the heat, green eyes searching his face, touching him and Clint forcefully jerks back, shoving him away with a sharp, desperate "don't touch me!"
Loki lets go immediately and Clint takes in sharp breaths and
wait.
This isn't the communal room in Avengers Tower. There are no bodies. The sun is beating down on them with persistence. He's laying in the sand, outside the fenceline of the Wyoming S.H.I.E.L.D. base, where he was hours ago. This—Clint inhales deeply, looking around, confused and terrified.
Loki is there.
And, behind him, Frigga stands with the scepter, looking haggard, her expression dark. Clint's brain tries to process that and immediately discards everything, crashing.
Nope. That is a No Can Do TM at the moment. We're just going to sit here and panic, thank you.
"The Avengers will be here momentarily," Loki assures him quietly, continuing to study him. Clint continues to try, and fail, to breathe. A crushing, unspeakable wave of relief crashes into him. He could be lying. He killed them. You saw it. You felt it.
"They're alive?" he doesn't care about the desperation in his voice or the sobbing relief.
Loki's expression flickers and then darkens before he nods. His voice is gentle, "Yes."
"What—what—?" Clint tries to shove up a fraction, but the sand feels like nothing. He's not sure where his fingers are. The sand is warm against his legs, but he can't feel his hands in it. Maybe they were chopped off. Why not at this point?
After a long, weighted moment, Loki squeezes his arm, his face creasing as Clint flinches beneath the contact, "Just breathe. Everything is okay. You're safe, as is everyone else. This is real, I promise."
Frigga makes an impatient sound behind them. "Loki, you're overreacting. There was no need to stop this, I wasn't hurting him and I was making progress, do you not care about your brother—?"
Loki jerks up to his feet, letting go of Clint to whirl around and face his mother. Every line in his body is bowed beneath rigid, dangerous tension. Clint finds himself bracing for another snapping neck. Another tumbling body.
"Don't." Loki hisses. "Do not try and excuse yourself to me. Do you have any idea what you've done?"
"If it means that we find your brother, then I don't care." Frigga's voice has dropped, frustrated and angry. It's familiar. Painfully so. Clint whimpers, biting harshly on his lower lip. Finding his hands, he clenches them into tight fists filled with sand.
"There is no we in this situation!" Loki shouts, shoving his mother back hard. Frigga barely takes a step back for all the force Loki put into it. "I lived years with you messing with my head and you have no Norns-idea how much it does hurt, and now you're doing the same thing to Clint!? What gives you the right—?"
"I'M TRYING TO FIND MY SON!" Frigga roars, an edge of wildness crossing through her features.
Loki draws back and there's a moment of silence, before Loki says, voice low, "It must have been so exhausting for you, when I was missing. Searching with this much desperation day after day…"
"Gods! Loki!" Frigga throws up one of her hands, the scepter's stone rippling with a wave of uncomfortable, pressing power. Clint swallows bile. "Do you have to make everything about yourself? It isn't the same!"
"It never is, is it?" Loki's voice is a low, bitter mutter.
Before Frigga can find an answer to that, there's a clattering of footsteps and a jerking sound of metal. Clint turns, shoving up with weak, trembling hands against the sand and sees as his team—living, breathing, necks smooth and exactly how they're supposed to be—wrapped around the Iron Man armor, drop. Natasha and Steve let go of Tony's arms and Bruce climbs off the back as Tony assesses the situation.
Natasha has a gun, Steve his shield, both of them looking like they just got dragged out of bed. Bruce's glasses are MIA and Clint's stomach curdles as he remembers them laying next to his broken face.
Natasha drops her fighting stance to move toward him, taking the hand that he outstretches to her. Clint inhales sharply at the contact. He wasn't sure if this was actually happening or some sort of visceral hallucination until their fingers connect. Clint throws himself forward, wrapping his arms desperately around his partner.
He has no idea what is going on. He really does not. But he finds it's really hard to care if his team is alive and safe and not in a pile around him, blood a halo.
A sob of relief escapes him. "I'm so sorry," he gasps, not sure what he's apologizing for exactly, only knowing that he needs to. "I'm sorry."
"Shh, shh, it's okay," Natasha promises, holding his just as tight. She kisses the side of his head. "You're safe now. We're here."
Alive.
Steve, Bruce, and Tony, after stepping out of the armor, move to surround him, hands touching at his back, his shoulder, his arm. And Clint wishes that he could reach up and hold all of them against his chest, cradling this small family and hide them from the rest of the world. From broken bodies and warm blood.
"You're okay," Steve repeats, as if he's saying it to himself. "You're okay."
Frigga says something sharply to Loki in Asgardian as the sorcerer turns to look at them, and Loki's face flashes with anger and he snaps something harder back. His mother's mouth tightens and her grip on the scepter tightens before she looks at the Avengers, her face crumpling. "Please, you don't understand, I was close. He must have the information that I'm seeking. Let me continue my search, it won't harm him, I swear."
Loki's jaw does this rigid bending thing like he wants to speak, but he's too angry to get the words out.
Natasha's back freezes against his hands. She pulls away from him after a moment with reluctance and an apologetic squeeze of his hand before she gets up to her feet. She turns around to face Frigga. "Are you joking?"
"No." Frigga's voice is earnest. "Please. Please, I must find my son."
Natasha's hands clench into fists. "You hurt him."
"Collateral damage, nothing important," Loki's mother insists, still somehow earnest and pleading. "Thor is more important than anything that may happen to your archer."
Natasha's head tilts and she studies the woman for long seconds. "I see." Her voice is toneless. Then, without the slightest bit of hesitation, his partner strides over to the Asgardians and punches Frigga in the face.
Author's Note: Dude. When I sat down to write this chapter, I literally felt like I chose to do something WAY beyond my skill level and this is actually the third (kinda forth) version of it. But I think I did okay. Also I apologize for the weird formatting, doesn't let you put spaces between paragraphs.
ANYWAY. I really really appreciate all your support and would love to know your thoughts if you're comfortable sharing them.
Next chapter: September? *fingers crossed*