As if my brain decided to make up for the slightly shorter chapter last time, here's a slightly longer chapter! Lots of tension, character interactions, and a few awkward phrases that I couldn't seem to find a better way to write. Anyway…enjoy!
Oh, and consider this chapter the calm before the storm….
Disclaimers: I have never read a Marvel comic in my life. I have watched only a few of the Marvel movies. Therefore, I apologize if I inadvertently go against canon in some way.
I own no characters except the Colonel.
Constructive criticism appreciated. Please, no offensive language!
Please review!
Essential Moments
"Where is my family? What have you done to them? Who are you? What do you want from me?"
If the Colonel had been standing any closer to Clint Barton, then the latter would have been spitting the words directly in the man's pure blue eyes. As it was, the Colonel was taken physically aback by Barton's vicious frontal attack when he stepped into the latter's cell a full two days later. He blinked once, stepped back, turned to motion the guard to close the door, then directed his full attention to Barton.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You know what I said! Where is my family? What have you done to them?"
"They are perfectly safe—"
"And I'm supposed to believe you?"
"Since when have I ever lied to you?"
"I don't have the tolerance to answer that question. Who are you? What do you want from me?"
"Have you ever noticed that those two questions always seem to come right after the other? I believe it's the second time you've asked that series of—"
"Then answer them!" Barton shouted, straining against his chains. "I am tired of your games, and I want answers. Now."
The Colonel whirled suddenly. Barton's eyes, heavy with fear and sleeplessness, watched him as he stepped to the edge of the cell and held out a hand. Something hard clinked against the signet-type ring he wore on his middle finger, and then he stepped across the cell briskly, bent, and undid the chains around Barton's ankles and wrists.
"Then let us have them."
Like a caged raptor bursting from a suddenly open door, Barton was on his feet with surprising agility and speed. He lunged forward, toward the Colonel, ready to take the man's neck between his strong fingers, and very likely would have—except that the Colonel moved faster. Stepping to one side, he landed a heavy hand on Barton's shoulder, turned him, and slammed him against the hard concrete wall, face first. The latter found his other arm grasped in a vice-like grip, twisted behind his back, and pinioned strongly. A gasp of pain escaped his lips before he shut them, cold and hard. The Colonel leaned in.
"You want answers? So do I." The German in his accent was hardly masked now. "I have been waiting for answers. Longer than you've been alive. I have been waiting and wondering and asking myself what he did wrong. But I don't have to wonder anymore because you're here."
The arm twisted harder, and the Colonel's voice dropped to a low, grating hiss. "So, tell me, Barton: do you still hear him? Can he still hear you? What do you say to each other? Does it keep you awake at night: his voice, his presence, forever in your mind?"
It should have been evident to Barton at once whom the Colonel was speaking of, but it wasn't. Not until that last sentence. He breathed out a gasp and tried to twist his gaze to meet his captor, but the latter only forced his head back toward the wall, twisting Clint's bloodied wrist so that it sent shudders of nauseating pain rushing up and down Barton's spine.
"Loki," he whispered, rather hissed. "That is what this is about? You want to know what he did to me? Why? You don't have the Tesseract, you don't have the Mind Stone; it doesn't work with just any rock on the block, Mr. Antique German Museum Piece."
He thought that the Colonel was going to break his arm or smash his head further into the concrete or do any one of these similar things. But he didn't. He dropped Clint's arm and turned away, almost whirled away; a sharp breath lifted from his lungs. Clint turned slowly, letting his own ribcage fill with the stale, warm air of the basement.
"Where is my family?" He demanded, his voice hoarse.
The Colonel's exhale sounded exasperated. "They are safe. I have done nothing to them. They are of no use to me."
That is what I fear.
"And you are right." That unwavering, cold precision was back in place. "I do not have the mind stone. I do not have the Tesseract. Yet—neither do you, and still your minds are linked."
"Is that what this is about?" Barton exclaimed. "You're just—interested in what learning new scientific facts about mind-control—or the lack thereof? Well, you're wasting your time! Because I'm here to tell you that it doesn't exist! Not anymore!"
"Oh, I think it does," the Colonel replied suavely. "I think it very much does. You simply have no desire to admit it."
"Would you?"
The Colonel did not reply, but stood there, gazing at him with a gathering visage of smug victory. Clint cursed and turned away, realizing too late that he had all but admitted his mental torments. He stood gazing at the basement wall for a long moment, his eyes running up and down that stupid crack. Then, he turned back to the Colonel.
"If I told you everything you wanted to know—everything—would you release my family and I?"
"That would depend on what everything meant. I have to have your mind. I cannot simply hear you talk about it."
"Have my mind? For what? Is this more than curiosity?"
"You should know me by now to answer that question yourself. There are worlds to be conquered, but it won't be done by armies and guns and killing—"
"Never. I will not be your pawn. I'm done with that—"
"Then we are done here." The Colonel turned on a swift heel. "Keys."
They were tossed to him. He turned to where Clint stood watching him. The archer's entire body was rigid with potential action, his jaw set, his hands clenched, a predator-like glint in his eye. The Colonel's own lips thinned.
"You think that you have the upper hand here, Barton. You believe that you hold something over me. I am here to tell you that you are wrong."
"There's fear in your eyes. I've seen it," Clint spat.
"Doubt, perhaps—"
"Lier—"
"Why would I loose your chains and leave you unbound in your own basement if I truly thought you capable of leaving my hand?'
"Because you're stupid, maybe?" Clint suggested, his biting tone dripping with sarcasm. "I'm not interested in reading your mind. I'm not going to play your games. You broke into my house, you took my family hostage and you've been keeping my down here playing silly let's-dress-up-from-historical-moments-in-world-history performances, and I'm sick of it."
"Good," the Colonel said rather briskly. "Then you will know better than to try to exit this cell at the same time as I do. Your family is of no use to me only as long as you are. Don't ever forget that—"
He broke off suddenly. Clint watched in silent, tortured immobilization as the Colonel shut the door behind him and the lock turned firmly in place. The sound of his footsteps fading across the empty space of basement rang with mocking resonance….
The hall was a muted kind of dark. There were tampered versions of lightbulbs at measured intervals, creating a kind of gothic atmosphere that led mysteriously into the winding staircase to culminate in one of Stark's many reception rooms. Loki paused at the bottom of the staircase, running through his mind the several different options that presented themselves. The bedrooms seemed to be on the upper level. Yet which door and in which hall? It wasn't like there would be some proud, patriotic sign announcing the room as occupied by Captain America. Stark had made some noise about Jarvis being nearby if he needed help. Unless this Jarvis was an all-nighter, Loki didn't think "hollering," as Stark so crudely put it, would help much. And with his own powers severely hampered by the strange pendant eternally on his neck, he couldn't exactly rely on his own ability of sense and discernment.
Or could he? He had discovered that he had unconsciously been using his powers to mute, as it were, the vibrant nature of the visions. Suppose that unconsciousness had been extended to more than visions?
He tried. He closed his eyes, calmed his racing heart, and tried to notice any distinction of presence or potential presence. He noticed at once that there was a feeling of emptiness, void, to his present location. Rogers wasn't here. Nobody was. He turned his body so that it was facing the staircase. The hall? The upper levels? He opened his eyes and started for the stairs.
He stopped—or was stopped—on the first stair. The staircase led to the halls, where he had come from, yes, but it also curved around to lead to the quieter, more intimate sitting room to the right. There was something drawing him to that sitting room.
He turned and softly padded down the stairs leading into the sitting room. It was a greyish dark, shadowed by thick curtains at the windows, parted just enough to let the blare of New York's nightlife cast the room in a stale, grey glow. There was no one here, Loki's eyes proclaimed, yet his senses protested. He took another step into the room, breathing in the faint scent of carpet and furniture polish and glossy metal and—paper. Loki turned his gaze to the far corner. Steve Rogers was seated there, turning through a stack of papers softly.
He looked up at the same time that Loki saw him. The latter made a movement that seemed desirous of approach. Steve lifted a hand.
"Come on down. I'm just looking over my notes. I can't sleep either."
"I was awakened," Loki corrected, making his way down the short series of steps and into the small room. "Captain Rogers, you asked me to inform you of anything that might aid in locating Agent Barton—"
"I did." Steve turned over another paper.
"I know where he's being held."
Steve's gaze snapped up; his hand stilled over the papers. "How do you—" He paused as the sudden realization of Loki's earlier words dawned on him. "You were awakened—by—"
"The visions," Loki finished rather bitterly. He paused, and there was something playing in the Norse blue of his eyes. Something keen, something cunning. "I can tell you—"
"Then do so," Steve urged impatiently. "The sooner we can narrow our field of search down, the sooner we can go about getting Barton out of whatever he's gotten himself into."
"Or whatever's gotten into him."
Steve shrugged. "I suppose. It doesn't make any difference."
"I think it does."
There was silence for a long moment. Steve's gaze had suddenly gone from being open and eager to comprehending and set.
"Loki, I will not bargain with you for this. We are holding the cards here; I thought that would have been obvious by now. If you will not tell me, then I will wake your brother and perhaps—"
"He is at his house."
Steve blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Barton is being held a hostage at his house."
There was another moment of silence, but this one was stunned and reeling with uncertainty.
"I was not aware that Barton had a house."
"He is the type of person who keeps secrets."
Steve glanced at him rather sharply. "You would know I suppose," he murmured.
Loki continued, rather like he was enjoying this imbuing with new revelations. "He has a wife, too."
Steve actually stood. "You're certain?"
"Fairly. There was a woman's presence in the bedroom I saw."
Steve's hand racked across the table, snatching up the shaft of papers. "This can't wait until morning. Thor's getting woken up after all."
Tony Stark placed both arms on the table and leaned slightly over it. "So just tell me one thing, Romanoff: how long were you planning to wait until you told us that Barton had a homestead?"
"And a wife," Banner put in.
"That too. Wives tend to play a rather big role in these types of situations."
Natasha pushed herself to her feet with a sudden flare of that Russian impatience. "He asked me to keep it quiet, Tony. What was I supposed to do?"
"Oh, I don't know. Help us save his life, maybe?"
"I called him at his home! His wife answered! How was I—there was nothing to indicate that there might be something wrong. I assumed that Laura and the children were simply—"
"Oh, so there's kids now too? Gosh Natasha, thanks a lot—"
"Tony!" Steve's tight, curt tone broke off the billionaire mid-insult. "Will you please stop making things worse than they are?"
Thor held up a hand and let his own deep voice inhibit the snarky reply ready to roll off Stark's lips.
"Captain Rogers is right. Let us use the information we now possess to our advantage and not bicker over how we obtained it—"
"Or didn't," Banner murmured, still clearly upset over the breach of confidence previously thought between him and the Russian agent.
Natasha held up both hands. "Listen. I'm sorry. I—I didn't know what to do, I assumed something I shouldn't have, I suppose, and honestly, I didn't expect this from Clint's captors. It's an unusual move—which is why it makes it all the more impressive, I suppose."
Steve nodded., "Exactly what I was thinking."
There was silence for a full minute. Tony broke it with a sharp, drawn breath.
"How far is the house, Natasha?" He asked, his voice back to something like civil.
"I would say about thirty miles from here."
"You've been there?" Steve pressed.
"A few times."
"And the layout? You said farmstead—how many acres? Any trees?"
"We could probably pick it up on radar," Banner suggested. "That should give us the lay of place."
"No, you can't," Natasha broke in. "Fury keeps it off all military and non-military radar that I know of. Barton asked for that."
"Then how the heck are we supposed to prep?" Tony demanded. "I'm not going into a war zone without knowing the layout first."
"Can you draw us a picture? A map even?" Thor suggested.
"I can. Give me a couple hours."
Rogers nodded. "All right, then. We'll meet back here by no later than noon—"
"Some of us are still half asleep," Tony reminded. "I'll get Pepper to make us some double shot espresso. I'm going to need it."
"Do that, then," Steve agreed rather sharply. "Loki, you said the basement?"
"As far as I could tell," The latter replied. "There was a crack running down the wall—"
"That's the basement," Natasha confirmed. "He's been talking about getting that concrete wall repaired for some time now."
"All right, so we know some basic positions. Get us those pictures and maps, Nate. Banner, see if you can pick up anything on satellite imaging—general location, maybe. Thor, maybe you can help me brainstorm anything at all that we'll need to bring. Loki, thank you again for the information. Find something to eat. I want to be on the road by tonight and right now you look pretty exhausted. Tony—"
"Yeah."
Steve stared at him a long time before turning and starting from the room, pausing at the door to fire back a last comment. "Find something to wear beside pajamas."