Chapter Text
It was the purple cup that set it off.
It had been a joke between Tony and Clint ever since the early days of the Tower. Tony had long since accepted that, whatever security measures he could think up, Clint Barton would find a way past them. Tony no longer jumped and swore when Clint dropped into his workshop from the ceiling vents, which, Clint had to admit, took half the fun out of it. Now, he’d sigh, push away whatever he was working on, and offer Clint a drink.
Forcing Tony to take a break had become half the reason Clint started to visit, and Tony had stopped resisting—physically at least, there was still a lot of verbal griping—after a few months of Clint dropping in. He never said that was why he was there, but they both knew. So Tony would dig up whatever drink was in the workshop—coffee or scotch, the time of day having nothing to do with which one he would produce—and they would, for lack of a better word, chat.
Tony always poured Clint’s drink in the blue cup.
It was a dumb, childish joke even to them, but it had become part of the ritual, so it stayed. Clint asked for the purple cup. Tony gave him the blue. Later, Clint would steal the red in retaliation.
They had been chatting about nothing, some app Tony was working on for the Starkphones as a puff piece for his long-suffering PR team, swapping anecdotes about Peter and Wanda—their respective charges—when it happened.
Tony had poured the coffee into the purple cup and handed it straight to Clint.
And Clint had known.
“Clint.”
He wasn’t sure how long they had been crouched in the corner of Tony’s workshop, pressed up against one of the billionaire’s vintage cars. Clint usually had a decent handle on his internal clock, but time was weird in this place, stretching and condensing until a minute could become an hour and vice versa. He didn’t know if that was on purpose to disorientate him further, or a side effect of whatever tech they were using to fuck with his head.
“Clint,” Tony tried again, hands scrabbling at where Clint was holding him in a headlock. “At least talk to me, asshole. What the hell?”
“You didn’t give me the blue cup.”
“What?” Tony tugged uselessly at Clint’s hold on him. “Is…is this a joke? Because, okay Barton, very funny. Now get the hell off me.”
Clint tightened his hold instead, resulting in a cut-off choking noise. The sound pulled at him like they knew it would, so he shut off that part of himself like he’d learned to do since he was eight. He was trusting survival instincts only.
Whoever they were, they were getting better. Every round of the simulation they learned a little more, took a little more, built up the world around him into something he might just believe. But they couldn’t do it all. They always got at least one detail wrong, and then Clint would know, he’d know. And then the assholes would wipe his mind and start again from scratch.
They were clearly trying something new this time because they usually restarted the simulation once Clint had figured out he was in one. They had sent Natasha a lot before they realized that mistake. Years of partnership had taught Clint Natasha’s every tick, every tell, every idiosyncrasy, even the ones she hid from herself. The first time he’d figured it out they had her kill him. He hadn’t seen it coming, hadn’t had time to defend himself as she’d taken him down and straddled him before pushing both of her thumbs through his eyes.
Even though the world they’d created around him was false, the pain certainly wasn’t.
He’d started to remember after a time, some of that well-honed survival instinct winning out after being repeatedly killed—by Steve, by Maria, by Fury. He’d remember all the previous simulations, all the previous deaths by friends, none of them quick.
So he’d started killing them first.
They’d changed tactics after that because, damn, he’d give the bastards this—they learned. So they sent Wanda or Peter, crude imitations that he’d seen straight through. Even after the twentieth, thirtieth, fiftieth time, he knew it wasn’t them; the youngest Avengers were in the public eye the least, so his captors had the least to work with there. It didn’t make it any easier to snap their necks as they begged him not to.
On the last round, they’d turned Peter into Cooper just as Clint had delivered the fatal blow and had let him sit with the corpse until they rebooted him. Again.
Tony—or whatever fake version of Tony they had trapped him in here with, and he had to admit it was a particularly good fake version—was still struggling to draw air, scrabbling at Clint’s hold on him. Clint loosened his grip a fraction, enough for the imitation to gulp down a desperate breath, still trying to elbow his way out.
“What’s your game?” Clint shouted at the ceiling, making Tony flinch.
“There’s no game.”
“I know this isn’t real, you bastards! Whatever you’re trying to get out of me, this won’t work!”
Tony went rigid and, Clint had to hand to it them, they really knew how to sell a scene. Feeling Tony shake would be too much, too obvious, but instead he could feel Tony trying very hard not to shake, to remain calm as he started to reason.
“Clint. Listen to me. I really, really need you to listen to me, okay?” Tony’s voice had gone soft, some imitation of comfort, like he was talking to a crazy person. Clint wasn’t crazy. He’d never been crazy. It had always been the world around him that was insane. “You’re not back there. We got you out, remember? We rescued you a week ago.”
And then Clint did remember, just like that, because these assholes could do that too. Implant a memory, weaving imitations into his mind as well as his senses. “I’m not falling for that. Try harder.”
“Okay. Shit, okay. You and Nat have a running thing about Budapest that you’ve never told any of us about. You have a nest in the east wing vent you thought no one knew about until Sam and Rhodey filled with it pineapples. You eat Nutella and liver sausage sandwiches like a heathen.”
“You’ve told me all that before.”
“When? This isn’t whatever fantasyland they had you in! This is real. I’m real. And that is my very real neck you are an inch away from breaking. I know things haven’t exactly been peachy between us the past few months but I think murdering a teammate is still a bit far, even for you.”
“Interesting,” Clint muttered. This was definitely new, but it made sense. They’d reached a stalemate with Clint figuring out the simulation and killing whatever teammate they put in front of him. So now they were going to try and convince him that this was real, that he hadn’t figured anything out at all.
He let his grip on the fake Tony slacken, just a little. Fine, he’d play ball. Better than being snapped back to the beginning, back into blissful ignorance before he figured it out all over again.
And, if it got too much, he could always kill this Tony and force them to restart.
The door to the workshop whipped open, Sam’s familiar voice calling across the space. “Clint? Tony? FRIDAY said you needed urgent—shit.” Sam broke off as he rounded a workbench and saw them huddled on the floor together.
“He thinks he’s back there,” Tony got out before Clint could speak. “He doesn’t think we’re real.”
Sam’s eyes widened for a second before he settled into the calm, pararescue persona. “Okay. Clint? We’re going to work together to figure this out.”
“Sure,” Clint bit back. “Sure, fine, let’s talk. How long do you think you can keep this up? My team—my real team—is on the way, you must know that.” And by team he really meant Natasha. Fucked up situations like this were always going to be on the cards for him, it was part of the job, and the only way he could keep going was knowing that Natasha would be out there looking—either for him or for the people who would eventually kill him. It was an unspoken pact they had with each other. He just had to hold on and not give anything away.
Natasha would get him out. She always did.
“We’re your real team,” Sam pressed, still in that maddeningly calm tone because, a hostage negotiation? Seriously? They were really fishing in the bottom of the simulated barrel for ideas here. “I’m the real Sam. That’s the real Tony. We rescued you.”
“Uh-huh. Yeah, I have that very convenient memory crammed into my noggin now, thanks.”
Sam lowered himself to the floor so he and Clint were eye level, moving into a cross-legged position. “You have a nest in the east wing you think no one knows about.”
“Your pathetic imitation of Stark already tried that one.”
“Hey,” Tony protested, but Clint was only up for dealing with one stolen friend’s voice at a time, thank you very much, so he pressed down on the very-real feeling windpipe under his arm, cutting off the rest of Tony’s words.
“Okay,” Sam continued, shooting a nervous look at Tony. “You have a secret farmhouse that no one but us—”
Clint twisted Tony’s neck, just a little, enough for a gasp of panic to leave his lips, shutting Sam up mid-sentence. “Don’t bring them into this. I’m already going to kill you all for that little stunt you pulled with Cooper.” And shit, no, they knew about Cooper. Had he given it away in a previous simulation, before he figured it out? “To be clear—I was going to kill you anyway. But now it’s going to happen a lot slower.”
Tony’s breaths were growing ragged. “I hear you,” Sam said, and Clint actually laughed at the words. Where had they got this from; negotiating 101? And, okay, Sam probably would go textbook if he was actually here, but that didn’t mean that Clint wasn’t seeing right through it. “Why don’t we try and give each other what we need? I need you to let go of Tony. What do you need?”
To go home; either one, farmhouse or Compound. Laura or Natasha. To know his head wasn’t being fucked with for once in his miserable life. “Tell me why you’re doing this.”
“I need you to elaborate.”
“Why not just restart the simulation? I know it’s not real.”
“Because you’re not in a simulation, Clint. I’m real. Tony’s real. I know you don’t want to hurt him, or anybody else.”
Clint narrowed his eyes at him. “So that is your game.”
“None of us are playing a game.”
“You’re trying to convince me it’s real. Like a video game. We keep getting stuck on this level. You’re trying to get past it.”
Sam briefly locked eyes with Tony, who was being uncharacteristically quiet, trying not to set Clint off enough to actually twist his throat until it broke. Clint could. He could so easily. But he was sick of getting stuck on the same level too.
“Fine,” he agreed. “Let’s play, assholes, see who wins.”
Sam seemed to take that as progress. “What would it take for me to convince you this is real?”
“Natasha,” Clint replied immediately. “You can’t get her right—you know you can’t. That’s why you dropped her, what, fifty of these ago? Sixty?”
“Natasha’s booked in for another round in the Cradle, you know that,” Sam pressed.
“Convenient.”
”It’s the truth.”
“Fine. Bucky, then.”
Tony swore under his breath. Sam darted his eyes to him again saying, “I don’t think this is the best place for Bucky to be right now.”
There was a second opening of the workshop door, although it didn’t open all the way, the newcomer announcing himself first. “Clint? It’s Steve. I’m going to come in. Is that okay?”
Clint raised his eyebrows at the fake Sam. “You’ve already done Steve. Several times. It didn’t work. None of it worked. I’m not telling you shit.”
“We’re not asking you to tell us anything,” Sam assured him, as the workshop door opened the rest of the way and heavy footsteps brought Steve into view as well. He looked like he had just come from the gym, mid-workout, t-shirt almost soaked through. Clint had to admit it was a nice touch.
Steve spread his hands as he took a step forward. “That’s close enough,” Clint ordered. “On the floor. Sit like Stepford-Falcon is.”
“Okay.” Steve lowered himself until he was also sitting cross-legged. It wasn’t an easy position from which to lunge at Clint if his captors decided to have Steve or Sam kill him and restart. Clint was going to have some vivid nightmares about Steve smashing his head open on a bench corner when this was all over. “Tony? Are you okay?”
“He’s fine,” Clint snapped back. “I’m sure he’s totally fine. He better either be in that workshop of his—the real workshop—tracking me down or already on his way with the rest of you to come pick me up, because I'm getting real sick of this bullshit.”
“He thinks he’s back in the simulation,” Sam explained.
“FRIDAY said,” Steve replied. There was something…off about that. There was something off about all of this but something specific there that Clint couldn’t pin down. Then Steve was back to talking to Clint, and the feeling was gone. “We’re here to help.”
Clint’s eyes darted from Sam to Steve, to the familiar faces these assholes were using against him, trying to work out their plan. They didn’t really think they could convince him, could they?
Maybe they could. They’d tried pretty much everything else.
Natasha’s coming, Clint reminded himself. Just play along until she gets here. Better to stay aware. String this out.
“We’re not going to hurt you,” Steve continued, all Captain America now, and yeah, they could have pulled this cheap impression from a number of different sources. Clint didn’t bother to hide his smirk—these idiots were going to have to do a whole lot better than that. “We just want to talk. So why don’t you let go of Tony so we can do that?”
“And then what happens?” Clint shot at him. “What’s next in the script? Do you tie me down? Take me off to some fake-ass psych-ward and convince me I’m crazy until I believe this is real? Is that the new game plan?”
“Clint, there’s no game plan,” Sam insisted. “You’re our friend. Tony’s our friend. We just want you both to be okay.”
So they were going for the long game. Okay, fine. Clint didn’t like to play the long game, that was much more in Natasha’s ballpark, but he could when it was needed. Days camped out in sniper nests proved that.
“We went on a mission two months after you joined,” Steve started. “Out in Belarus. We were chasing—”
“I’ve tried that,” Sam cut in and—there it was again. That off feeling. “It didn’t work. He thinks they know everything we do.”
“Not everything,” Clint corrected him. “Or there wouldn’t be any point to this, would there?” He looked around the workshop. “What are you after this time, huh? New SHIELD intel? Avengers’ secrets? Tony’s tech? You do keep bringing us back to his workshop after all. Or is that the only location you thought to properly map out before you mindfucked me.”
It was clever, Clint had to admit, the way they had slightly adjusted the expressions on Sam and Steve’s faces. They were both putting forth the calm, logical, let’s-not-kill-the-hostage persona, but Sam was holding up better than Steve was. Steve’s eyes were betraying his otherwise neutral expression, darting to Tony with increasing trepidation.
“You’re really going in for the details this round,” Clint muttered. His back was starting to ache from being propped up against the car, but he tucked that into the category of things his survival mode was resolutely ignoring right now.
“I have to say though, three simulated Avengers in a room is quite the achievement,” Clint added. “I don’t think you’ve gotten to that number before though. Close, but no cigar, and all that.”
“What does that mean?” Sam pressed.
Clint indicated his captive. “Can only have two of you talking at once though, huh? Should have kept your Captain America doll on the shelf for this one. I don’t think it’s possible for Tony Stark to be quiet for this long.”
Steve and Sam shared a glance before Steve leaned forward, careful not to make the gesture seem threatening. “Clint…you’re not letting him speak.”
What? Clint turned down his survival mode a little, allowing the sounds of Tony’s gasping breaths to penetrate his consciousness.
“You’re choking him,” Steve pressed, more of the calm persona crumbling with the words. “Clint, please, just—”
Clint responded by pressing harder on Tony’s throat, making both Steve and Sam start forward. “Well, it’s not like any of you even need to breathe, so.”
“Barton!” Steve’s voice raised a few decibels. “I don’t want to hurt you. But I will if you don’t lay off.”
Clint debated. There was a part of him that just wanted to end this; a selfish part. The beginnings of the simulations were so much easier, before he remembered that he was in this shit show of a life, because Cap had called saying Wanda was in trouble so he had left his farm and his wife and his kids and walked back into this waking nightmare of an existence.
But he knew he couldn’t. He couldn’t risk becoming ignorant again, risk giving away whatever information they were pressing him for. So he relaxed his hold on Tony, trying to ignore the relieved gasps of air the engineer hauled in after, the way he jerked against Clint’s body, both of their hearts racing.
“Jesus, Barton,” Tony croaked. “I am never offering you a drink in my workshop—anywhere, actually—ever again. Your coffee privileges have been officially revoked.”
Sam and Steve glanced at each other, each looking to the other for help and then it clicked; where that off thing was coming from.
“Huh,” Clint mused. Tony had started squirming in the looser hold, but halted when Clint shook him roughly. “Stop that. I’m thinking. You too,” he shot at Steve when he opened his mouth to start negotiating again. “Everyone just…just stop for a minute.”
Both Sam and Steve seemed hesitant, but when Clint made no move to start choking Tony again, they seemed to make a mutual agreement not to speak. Which is exactly what Clint was about to challenge.
Because Sam and Steve had been talking to each other. His captors had made that mistake early on, initiating a conversation between Tony and Rhodey that had faulted when the two simulations had started to imitate each other to the point of glitching out. They hadn’t tried again after that, quickly rebooting Clint and starting over.
Which was setting all kinds of sparks off in Clint’s brain. He usually took a fight-your-way-out-leave-no-prisoners approach whenever he fell into enemy hands, but he could be wily when he wanted to be. They weren’t going to let him out of this hellhole of a simulation? Fine. He was going to break their precious torture toy.
Or, more precisely, he was going to make them break it.
“Tell the story of how you met,” he ordered, making everyone in the room jump except for Tony, who was back to trying to hold very still so as not to receive a deadly spinal fracture.
“Okay,” Steve started. “I was out jogging when I saw Sam—”
Clint cut him off. “No, not to me. Tell each other. Alternate sentences. Humor me,” he added, shifting to bring Tony fully back into the vigilant death grip. That got them moving.
“Don’t choke him again,” Steve said quickly. “We’ll do it. I was living around D.C., and in the mornings I liked to go jogging, and one morning—”
“That’s enough,” Clint interrupted. “Wilson’s turn. Go.”
Sam took it in stride. “I was out on my usual morning run when I see this guy go past me, super fast.” He looked to Steve, passing the ball back.
Steve took it. “Well, it’s customary when running that, if you’re lapping someone, you say “On your left” so they aren’t startled by you passing. It’s etiquette.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t exactly care about etiquette that day, did you Cap?”
“It’s polite!”
“Yeah, it’s polite. The first time.”
“Not my fault you run slow.”
“Yeah, why don’t we have a foot race between me and the scrawny pre-serum you, see who wins then, Rogers?”
The banter was all false bravado, trying to get Clint to relax, and neither of their hearts was in it. That didn’t matter. What mattered was that neither of them were glitching yet, and they had been talking a lot faster than the Tony and Rhodey of the earlier simulation had. “Stop,” Clint ordered them, and they did immediately. “Tell the Triskelion story now. Alternating sentences. And you,” he said into Tony’s ear. “Walk me through the raid we did on the third HYDRA base after they were exposed in SHIELD. Go.”
The three men all looked at one another, and then followed Clint’s instructions. On any other day this would be beyond hilarious, having three teammates having to play a ridiculous game of ‘Hawkeye Says’ at his whim. But he could still feel Tony’s erratic pulse under his arm, the occasional break he took in the story to suck in breath. He was going to kill these bastards when he got out of here, because that was a whole new level of cruel.
But Clint was used to cruel. He could deal with it.
“Okay!” Clint gave up as the three voices droned on, with no glitching in sight. That was fine. He’d make them do more. He’d burn their damn mindfucker machine from the inside out. “Three at once is impressive,” Clint gave them. “FRIDAY?”
“Yes, Agent Barton?”
“Who else is in the building?”
“Colonel Rhodes returned to the Compound approximately three minutes ago and is on his way here. Dr. Banner and Mr. Parker are also on the premises.”
Tony went rigid under Clint’s grip. “Not Peter,” he rasped, tugging at Clint’s hands again. “Don’t you dare bring him into this.”
“Why, because I know he’s fake every time?”
“Clint,” Steve said softly. “If whoever had you couldn’t do a good imitation of Peter, why would a fake FRIDAY bother saying he was in the building?”
Clint glared back at him. “I’m guessing so you could say exactly that. FRIDAY? Who definitely isn’t FRIDAY but whatever dicks thought kidnapping me was a good idea? Get Rhodey in here.”
“He is already approaching the workshop and is informed of the situation.”
Clint felt Tony relax, just slightly, and yep—that was smart of them. For a time, Clint wasn’t sure anything could match the bond he had with Natasha, except maybe Steve and Bucky. But after seeing Tony and Rhodey fight together, both on the battlefield and off, he understood. Rhodey was both Tony’s safety net and also someone to kick him in the ass when he needed it. Nearly everyone in Tony’s life, pre-Avengers, had either not given a damn about his wellbeing or had pretended to care about it for ulterior motives. Rhodey had been the exception; perhaps the first person ever who had sort Tony out not for his brain or his money or his looks, but simply for his company.
It had taken Clint a little longer to find out what Tony gave to Rhodey in return, but once he saw it it was obvious. He knew firsthand what it was like to be the rock for someone who was suspicious of everyone else. How that level of camaraderie and trust could make you feel. How fulfilling and intense love could be from someone who trusted themselves to love so few people in the first place. It was a friendship hard-won over time, but one you got back tenfold and then some.
Rhodey didn’t bother knocking; the sound of his leg braces could be heard down the corridor through the still-open door. He half-ran to where Steve and Sam were sitting, only halting when Clint said, “That’s far enough.”
Unlike the others, Rhodey focused on Tony first. “Hey. You okay?”
“I don’t have any speeches on for the next week do I?” Tony’s voice was a hoarse croak. “Might have to cancel. A tragedy, I know.”
“You can stop doing that,” Clint said to the ceiling. “You figured out how to have them talk to each other, gold star.” He flicked his eyes between the three Avengers in front of him, checking for missing details, glitches, anything.
There was not a hair out of place, which meant it was time to push things up a notch. He let himself grin a little as he said the next part. “Change clothes.”
They all stared at him, unsure. Sam spoke first, dropping the negotiator act. “I swear to god, Barton, if this is some elaborate, fucked-up revenge prank for the pineapples—”
“Sam,” Steve warned, eyes darting to Tony before refocussing on Clint. “I won’t fit either Sam or Rhodey’s clothes.”
“Then they can swap, and you can strip,” Clint shot back at him. “Or don’t,” he added when they still hesitated. “And prove my point that you’re not real and changing your appearance is a step too far. Because if you’re just simulations then I might as well—” He pulled on Tony’s throat and suddenly there were clothes hitting the floor. They all hesitated when they got to their boxers, and Clint would have burst out laughing at the ridiculous picture in front of him if he couldn’t feel Tony practically vibrating from tension in his grip.
“You can leave those on,” he decided, and the room seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief as Sam tossed Rhodey his clothes and vice versa, while Steve was left to shiver, nearly naked. Before they got dressed, Clint raked their bodies for every tell-tale scar he knew and yep, they were all there. Every one. And even after the clothes were on (or off, in Steve’s case), there wasn’t a single glitch. Not a damn thing.
And for the first time, Clint felt the seeds of doubt creeping in.
He crushed them the moment he felt them. That’s what his captors wanted him to think.
“Okay, we changed clothes,” Sam said. “We all spoke at the same time, we’ve known the answer to every question you asked. Maybe you can give us something in return, yeah?”
“And what would that be, Sam?”
Sam ignored the insinuation in the last word. “How about you tell us where your head is at.”
Clint’s eyes darted between the three of them, calculating.
“What else do you need?” Steve urged him. “Tell us, it’s done. Anything to convince you we’re real, and you’re here, and you’re safe. You’re safe, Clint.”
“Hold on. Nearly there.” It took a moment to decipher Rhodey’s words, until Clint realized that they were for Tony, not him. “Mens et Manus.”
“What?” Clint’s head snapped around to Rhodey as he heard a wry laugh slip from Tony’s lips. “What did you just say?” Because he had never heard that before, didn’t even know what it meant. He’d never picked up on any Latin, despite Natasha’s attempts.
Rhodey put his hands up placatingly, “Just an old joke between me and Tony. Nothing else.”
Shit. Shit. Out of all the tricks they’d try to pull, trying to force fake information was…new. Everything the others had said he had known, but he had never heard those words passed between Tony and Rhodey before. Was that the point? Confuse him further?
“Explain it,” Clint demanded.
“It’s kind of a you-had-to-be-there thing,” Tony said. “It’s not even—”
“Stop,” Clint snapped. “Stop talking.”
It was probably one of the few times in his life that Tony did.
Clint’s back was really starting to hurt, but it was the growing numbness in his legs that made him shift, pulling Tony closer towards him to accommodate the change. He could feel the tension in the air like smog as he did so, each Avenger in front of him ready to lunge forward and snatch Tony away. As if any of them would be quick enough.
“Tell us where your head’s at,” Sam repeated in a low voice. “Talk to us. How can we help?”
Clint’s eyes darted between all three of them. He was close. Surely he was close. This was more than the simulation had even been able to do before. It felt almost real.
No. Clint slammed the brake on those thoughts. They were tricking him. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t.
Because if it was...
Clint ran his eyes again over the faces of his three patient, but also very ready-to-attack-if-needed, friends. Trust hadn’t been in high demand over the Compound these past few months —not that Clint had ever really been into the whole ‘trust’ thing anyway - but things had been improving. In incremental amounts, and the slowest with Tony, but they had been improving.
And if this was real—which it wasn’t, but if it was—Clint had just undone a whole heap of that work.
“Clint,” Steve started but Clint shushed him.
“Let me think. Goddamnit, just let me think for one second. Actually, all of you back on the floor. Legs crossed.”
They complied, Sam helping Rhodey, the movement complicated with the braces now digging into his bare legs. He tried to help him into the cross-legged position even as Rhodey winced in pain.
“He’s on the floor,” Tony said after a couple of minutes of Rhodey struggling. “That’s enough, right?”
Clint hesitated, trying to see the trick.
“Come on,” Tony pressed, a note of pleading there. “None of them are going to try anything while we’re playing Mousetrap with my neck over here.”
Clint relented. “Fine. But sit separately.”
Rhodey breathed a sigh of relief as he knelt instead, Sam scooting over to put some distance between them. They sat there like patient schoolchildren, waiting for Clint’s next instruction.
Clint tried to reason through it. They weren’t asking him anything. They weren’t trying to get him to do anything, except let go of Tony. They were just trying to convince him this was real.
“What happens if I let him go?” Clint bit out, stalling for time, trying to suss out their next move.
A glimmer of hope. A fraction of the tension lifted from the room.
“What are you afraid of happening?” Sam replied. “Talk to us. Tell us where you’re at.”
Clint revisited his dragged to a fake psych-ward idea. “Where will you put me?”
“What do you mean?” Sam pressed, the other two letting him take the lead. “Why do you think we’re going to put you somewhere?”
“He thinks you’re going to stash him away in a nuthouse,” Tony got in. “Listen, Legolas, we’ve known you’re short a few marbles since day one. We all are—no one gets into this business, let alone stays in this business, without a few cracks forming. Yours truly is an excellent example of that.”
“Clint, is that true?” Sam asked. “Are you worried about us trying to put you in psych?”
“Are you?” Clint snapped back.
“I’m not going to rule out a counselor after whatever you went through a week ago,” Sam replied. “It appears it was a lot more traumatic than we gave it credit for, and I apologize for not getting you the help you needed. But we’re not going to lock you up anywhere if you can prove you’re not a danger to us or to anyone else. And you can prove that by letting Tony go.”
Clint snorted. “Really? You’re going for the whole ‘Sam-as-everyone’s-therapist’ trope?”
Sam ignored that. “Just tell us what we can do.”
Clint narrowed his eyes at him. “No psych.”
“No psych,” Sam promised.
“Don’t…” What was the hell was he doing? “Don’t lock me up.”
“We won’t do that either. Right, Steve?”
Steve took his cue. “Of course not. We understand. We’re not angry, are we?” He looked at Rhodey.
“Hell, no. We’ve got your back, always.”
The pieces were falling into place. The fact that there were multiple people in the room, all acting independently, who could interact with each other, who could change their appearance without glitching. All the tiny details, the very real feeling of the sweat starting to soak through Tony’s AC/DC band T onto Clint’s flannel shirt; the genius’s slight shivers, the very cautiously controlled breathing. Tony who Clint had given a black eye, some nasty bruises and a lawsuit to boot just a few weeks ago because Tony had stepped in to help out his freaked out ass in medical.
Again—what the hell was was he doing?
Even as the realization washed over him, he still couldn’t quite bring himself to let go of his leverage. The survival instincts he had let take over were clinging on tight, refusing him to lower his defenses even a fraction, demanding he hold on to the one piece of control that he had.
“What do you need?” Sam said, yet again.
“Tony,” Clint said softly, and felt the man in his arms stiffen. “Are you…are we…”
“Hey,” Tony assured him. “No harm, no fowl. Fowl, get it.”
Rhodey managed a smile. “That’s weak, even for you, Tones.”
“What do you mean, even for me? My puns are historical documents. And once birdbrain here lets me off this rather uncomfortable workshop floor I’ll be back to top form. No damage done.”
Clint could see right through what they were trying to do. Do you see how we’re bantering, Barton? Look how it’s fine, totally fine, that you’re using one of our friends as a human shield right now. We’re still all buddies.
“Sorry,” Clint whispered in Tony’s ear, starting to slacken his grip. He saw Rhodey glance at Steve, saw Steve tense, ready to pull the engineer out of Clint’s arms the second he was clear, but Tony shook his head, telling them to stay back. Telling them to allow Clint to let him go on his own terms.
“Hey,” Tony said, unusually soft. “Some terrible people put your head through some fucked up shit. I get it. But they’re dead now, and you’re back with us. The only thing I’m mad about is that this little escapade wasted a perfectly brewed coffee and a very expensive shot of scotch.”
Clint had almost let him go. Steve had abided by Tony’s warning and not grabbed him, and Tony was sitting still, waiting for Clint to let go of him entirely before he moved. So he was taken off guard when Clint lunged forward and pulled Tony flush against him again, resulting in a surprised yelp from the engineer and panicked shouts from the others in the room.
“You’ve proved you can all talk at once!” Clint yelled at them. “So now, just one of you. It’s too…it’s too much.”
“Okay,” Sam slipped into the role of negotiator again as Clint glared at Steve, who had sprung to his feet and was halfway to him and Tony.
“Sit your ass back down, Rogers.”
Steve was clearly trying to stay calm, but frustration was rolling off him in waves. “You were going to let him go.”
“Yeah, and then you fucked up,” Clint snapped back at him.
“Steve, sit,” Sam ordered. “Clint, what do mean we fucked up? What happened to bring you back to the idea that this wasn’t real?”
Clint smirked at him. “You’ve been reading too many tabloids. Tony Stark hasn’t had a drink since Sokovia.”
The room fell into dead silence. The only sounds were Tony’s harsh breathing, and the scrape of Rhodey’s braces as he tried to shift into a more comfortable position without setting Clint off further.
“You said scotch,” Clint pressed. “Tony doesn’t drink anymore, idiots.”
“I…” It was the first time Tony had sounded unsure, and he dipped his head the best he could with Clint holding him by the throat, not wanting to make eye contact. “I was sober for a long time. And I’ve been trying, really. But ever since Siberia,” Clint saw Steve tense, “I’ve been slipping up. Just a few times. Maybe more than a few times.” His tone suddenly changed as he laughed. “This isn’t some really screwed-up intervention, is it? Because if so, I’ll hand it to you; you got me good. I’ve been totally scared straight.”
“Tony doesn’t drink,” Clint insisted. “Okay. You know what? I’m done.”
He didn’t think through the words before he said them, wasn’t even sure what he meant by them. Done with being fucked with. Done with playing whatever game this was. But everyone in the room seemed to think he meant he was done negotiating.
Steve was on his feet fastest, almost impossibly so, lunging across the room as Rhodey called out “Stop!”, to Steve or to Clint, he wasn’t sure.
So Clint reacted. He twisted.
Time froze, making them subjects in a painting; a carefully arranged tableau. Rhodey was kneeling, unable to rise off the floor without assistance. He was staring, horrified, at Tony, the level demeanor the Colonel nearly always carried with him gone. Sam was standing, being careful not to leave Clint’s line of sight, eyes darting around the room as though looking for a solution.
Steve has his hand a centimeter away from the arm on Tony’s throat, having lunged forward to try and grab Clint before he could finish the deadly move. His eyes are locked on Clint’s, his other hand on Tony’s leg, gripping him just below the knee, ready to tug him to safety if Clint gave him so much as an inch of space.
Clint didn’t let himself acknowledge what Tony was doing. Clint didn’t want to think about Tony right now.
He stared Steve down. “Go on, then.”
Steve’s hand tightened on Tony’s leg, but he didn’t take his eyes off Clint.
“Kill me,” Clint shot at him. “You fucked up. I figured it out. So this is when you wipe me and snap me back to the beginning, right?”
“Clint. Hey.” Sam moved closer, caution in every step.
“No,” Clint cut him off. “I’m done playing. We’re done. I’m done.”
“Don’t make me hurt you,” Steve said, his voice low.
Clint hadn’t broken their staring match. “I’m going to claw my way out and come for every one of you, and the only reason I’ll leave any of you alive is to give you to Natasha, and then you’ll wish it had been me that finished you.”
He was ending this. Either they were going to kill him and prove that he was right—because he had to be right, there were no other options at this point—or he was going to break out of here.
It was back to the overload-their-system plan.
“You’re going to do everything I say,” Clint said, aiming the words mostly at Steve. “You want to prove this is real, right?”
Steve looked uncertain, but nodded.
“I need to leave the workshop.”
“Okay,” Sam took over again. “No one is stopping you from doing that.”
“Tony’s coming with me. Just Tony. Got it?”
“That’s not—” Steve started, but Rhodey cut him off, words weighted with pain.
“Let him, Steve.”
Sam deliberated for half a second, then circled around to Rhodey, helping him into a position that took weight off the braces as Rhodey sighed in relief.
Clint barely registered it. They weren’t his main concern right now. His main concern was the stubborn, half-naked super-soldier who was still far too close for comfort. “Rogers. Either get it over with and kill both of us, or back the hell off.”
It looked like it took all of Steve’s will and self-control to take his hand off Tony’s leg. Even after he backed away, it was the last piece he took with him, prolonging the touch as long as he could, whispering, “I’m sorry.”
“FRIDAY?” Clint spoke at the ceiling. “Get Banner in here.”
“Doctor Banner’s presence is not recommended in such a high-intensity situation.”
Clint almost smirked, wondering if he needed to get out of the workshop for this to work at all. Maybe four hallucinations were all the system could manage at once after all, even if one of those was silent and frozen in his arms right now.
“You have certain protocols to protect Stark, right?”
“Securing and maintaining Mr. Stark’s safety is one of my primary objectives, yes.”
“Then secure and maintain his safety by getting Banner in here, stat.”
There was silence as FRIDAY processed the request, finally replying with a reluctant, “Doctor Banner is on his way.”
With Steve now at a relatively safer distance, Clint eased up, just a little, rearranging Tony more securely in his lap so Clint could shake out his legs. Wow, they had even remembered to give him pins and needles. He gave them extra credit for effort.
“Rogers,” Clint ordered. “Against the support beam behind you.”
Steve obediently backed against one of the thick pillars throughout the large workshop.
“Ground. Hands.”
Steve slid to the ground, his hands raised.
“Wilson. Take the braces off Rhodes.”
Sam hesitated. “That’s really not necessary.”
“Sam,” Rhodey said quietly. “It’s fine. Just do whatever he says.”
Sam had gotten through one brace and was halfway done with the other when Bruce stumbled through the door of the workshop, looking like he’d been asleep when FRIDAY had called him. He took in the scene. “Oh, no. I shouldn’t be here.”
“We won’t be long,” Clint said. “Top drawer of the workbench on the left. Open it. Get them.”
“What are you looking for?” Sam pressed, but Clint was done playing negotiation.
Confused and wary, Bruce opened the drawer Clint had indicated, eyes going wide when he saw what was inside. “Clint, I don’t think—”
“Take them out. Put them on Rogers.”
Bruce swallowed as he pulled the set of magnetized cuffs out of the drawer, shooting an uncertain look at Steve. “It’s fine,” Steve assured him. “Clint just needs to go outside, right Clint?”
Right. Outside. So what if they had figured out how to do multiple people. In all the simulations, Clint had never left Tony’s workshop. If he had to take a guess, it was that whoever had grabbed him wanted something Tony was working on in here, and was hoping that Clint would eventually lead them to it. So there would be no point mapping anything in the simulation outside the workshop, right?
“Put them on,” Clint repeated as Bruce still hovered, unsure.
“Bruce, do it,” Rhodey said quietly. He was sprawled on the ground, keeping himself up by his elbows, keeping his eyes on Tony.
Bruce dropped the restraints twice before he even got to Steve, the captain obediently putting his hands behind the support pillar to let Bruce lock them into place.
“Only Tony can unlock those right? Right?” Clint repeated, addressing the last question at Tony.
There was an awkward silence before Tony answered, barely audible. “Yes.”
The room was so quiet after that that Clint could hear the slight hitch of Steve’s breath as Bruce locked up his hands. “Ankles too,” Clint ordered. “Behind the pillar.”
With some effort and assistance from Bruce, Steve worked his legs so Bruce could bind them as well. It left him hanging forward, limbs pinned, in a position that would have been borderline agony if Steve was, you know, real.
“Go to the workbench by the cars. Get the zip-ties. Secure Wilson and Rhodes. Two zip-ties each.”
Neither Sam nor Rhodey fought back as Bruce tied their hands around the workbench, lines of nylon snapped over each wrist. Clint’s head was starting to spin, and he started to wonder if there were ramifications of staying in the same simulation this long. Maybe they’d stopped caring. Maybe they were just going to keep him here until his brain fried.
“Come here, bring the zip-ties,” Clint ordered Bruce. The physicist scurried over, eyes darting between Clint and Tony.
“Don’t fuck with me, Stark,” Clint warned, and then he maneuvered himself off the car in one fluid movement, pushing them both forward. His back groaned in complaint, but he ignored it, as he did Tony’s small cry of pain. Clint adjusted them so Tony was no longer flush against his chest. “Put your hands behind your back. Let Bruce tie them. And before either of you try anything, Banner here looks stressed enough without something else going wrong.” Clint looked notably at the three trussed-up Avengers. “Probably not a place where you’d want to bring out the Other Guy right now. Not sure these three could get out your way in time if you did.”
That would be interesting; Clint didn’t even know if his captors would be able to manage it. A small part of him was just tempted to trigger it to see what happened, but that survival instinct was too strong. He really didn’t want to know what it would be like to die by Hulk.
Bruce’s eyes went wide with panic as Tony struggled, trying to get his knees underneath himself, growling at Clint. “You’re a bastard, Barton,” Tony snapped at him. “A damn bastard, you know that right?”
“I don’t want to do this,” Clint hissed back at him. “You think I want to tie up and threaten my friends? You think I want to kill them, or have them kill me? Because I don’t. I really fucking don’t. You’re making me, assholes.” And I’m going to kill you for it when I get out.
“Don’t argue,” Tony cut off Bruce’s next words. “It won’t help.” He stuck out his wrists behind his back and to the side, the position awkward with Clint hanging onto his neck, and shook them at Bruce. “Come on. Let’s take Hunger Games outside and get this over with.”
After Tony was secured came the hardest part, which was why Clint had called Bruce in here. He fixed the scientist with a look. “You’re going to help us stand up. On three. Don’t fuck with me.” Just stop fucking with me.
Bruce shifted to go behind Clint, but Clint snapped at him, “No. Where I can see you. Grab Tony, help me stand up with him. Ready? One…Two…Three.”
Clint shoved himself off the ground as Bruce hauled Tony to his feet, his hands under the engineer’s armpits. They staggered, Bruce tumbling forward into them before pushing himself away, looking panicked. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t trying to do anything.”
Clint ignored him. He was going outside, now. He was going to watch this whole thing break down. They’d put on a good show, they were still putting on a good show, four pairs of eyes watching him apprehensively.
“Come,” he shot at Bruce, then dragged Tony to the door. “FRIDAY, open the workshop door and lock it behind us.”
FRIDAY complied, Bruce trailing them, unsure. “Where do you need to go, Loxley?” Tony said, as though they were going for a leisurely stroll.
“Just move.”
It was slower going than Clint was happy with, having to keep his grip on Tony. Moving slower meant they had more time to build up the world around him, and that’s not what he wanted. He wanted to make the bastards sweat.
Clint could feel Tony struggling to draw breath again and let up just a fraction to let him breathe unimpeded. That also had the side effect of letting Tony talk again as well.
“So just to make this clear, we’re going walkabout because there’s no way whoever grabbed you simulated the entire Compound, right?”
“They always kept him the workshop,” Bruce chimed in, trying to match Clint’s pace without getting close enough to spook him.
“So someone has enough access to my workshop enough to create The Sims version in Barton’s head? That’s not comforting in any way.”
“Had enough access,” Bruce corrected him. “They’re all dead. Clint, they’re all dead, you’re not there, just stop.”
Clint halted at the end of the corridor, debating where to go next. Bruce nearly collided with him, and quickly took two steps back.
“Armory,” Tony stated.
“What?”
“Armory,” Tony repeated. “Most complex room in the Compound. You want to prove this is real? Let’s go there.”
They did. And the armory looked exactly as Clint remembered it.
Every weapon Tony could come up with or New SHIELD could provide lined the racks on the walls. Clint spun them both around, almost knocking Tony off balance as he scanned them. They were here. They were all here. They hadn’t missed one.
“See?” Tony pressed. “Everything’s here. Okay? You think they took all this out of your head?”
“Maybe. Yes.”
He was eyeing the rows of guns, considering, and Bruce seemed to read his mind because he said, “Tony? Was coming to a room full of guns the best idea?”
“I have nothing but good ideas,” Tony was halfway through saying when FRIDAY’s voice rang out over the intercom, at a lower volume than usual. As though she was trying very hard not to make Clint jump.
“Boss? You may wish to know that Mr. Parker is headed to the armory.”
Any sense of calm from Tony, fake or not, vanished. “Tell him to head the other way. FRIDAY. Don’t you let him near this.”
“I have already advised Mr. Parker to return to his quarters. Several times.”
Tony swore as he suddenly attempted a move that might have gotten out of a less trained spy’s grip. Clint clung on. “Clint, listen. We get it. All of us have been to some not-so-pretty places in our so-called superhero heads. I get you’re there now—all of us do. We’re not mad. I’m not mad. You get a free pass for all of us. But that free pass goes away the second Peter steps in this room, you get that?” Tony started struggling in earnest before Clint whipped him around to face Bruce who froze, one hand reaching towards one of the guns on the table.
“What are you going to do, Banner? Shoot me?”
“I mean, I’d really rather not.”
“Hands off.”
Bruce backed away, hands in the air.
“Mr. Parker is approximately sixty seconds away, Boss.”
“Don’t, Clint. Don’t.”
Clint let out a breath, the image of dead Cooper stabbing back into his head. “FRIDAY? Have Peter turn around.”
“I have conveyed that message to him. He doesn’t appear to be following it.”
Tony swore as light footsteps barrelled towards the door, and then a scruffy-haired teenager who looked like he’d just woken up appeared in the door, web-shooters in hand. “Mr. Stark? I fell asleep in my workshop and then my spidey-sense went off, like real bad, and I know FRIDAY kept telling me to turn around but then I knew that something definitely must be going on so ohmygod.”
Peter froze in the doorway to the armory, web-shooter raised. But there wasn’t a gun or a knife Peter could pull out of Clint’s hands. Clint was the weapon.
“Mr. Stark?” Peter asked, unsure, and…
And this Peter was different from the other simulated ones. The others had been clearly false, the eyes too big, the face too innocent, playing younger than the sixteen-year-old he had come to know. This Peter was nervous, yes, eyes on his captive mentor, but there was a resoluteness to the stance that hadn’t been there before, assessing the situation, looking for options.
“We’re fine, Pete,” Tony said. “Clint and I are just working through some stuff. You know how he had his brain messed with by those people last week?”
Peter cottoned on. “Oh. Oh. Can I…How can I help?”
“No,” Clint whispered, eyes on Peter. “You’re…how are you here?”
“My spidey-sense told me something was wrong so—”
“No,” Clint said again. “No, this is fake. This has to be fake.”
Bruce stepped forward, palms tilted upwards. “It’s real, Clint. We’re your friends. We just want to help.”
“Yeah,” Peter chimed in, all earnestness. “I’m here to help too.”
Air. He needed air.
“Okay, let’s get some air,” Tony said. Had he said that last part out loud? “Why don’t you let Peter and Bruce go back to the workshop and untie the others and we can sort the rest out, just us?”
“No,” Clint said quickly. “Not…not yet.”
“Okay,” Tony said, and Clint could tell he was forcing calm again. “Just…there can be a couple of complications if Rhodey’s left out of the braces in a stress position for too long. And you also left...Well, Steve’s not exactly strapped into the most comfortable position either right now.”
Tony flinched as Clint shifted his hold on him, only to relax again as Clint buried his head in the back of Tony’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of sweat and coffee and motor oil. Had he been able to smell anything in the simulations? He didn’t think so. He couldn’t remember.
“Clint…” Bruce had taken a tiny step forward and, emboldened when Clint didn’t make a move, crossed the room and laid a tentative hand on Clint’s shoulder. “It’s okay. You went through a lot. No one is mad. Right, Tony?”
“Peter,” Clint got out.
“I know,” he heard Tony say. “But him being here is his fault, not yours.” His next words were directed at the teenager. "Something we’ll be having words about later.”
Peter started to protest. “Mr. Stark—”
“Many, many words.”
Another silence fell, even as Clint could hear Tony’s shallow breathing, could hear Peter shuffle nervously in the doorway.
“Clint,” Bruce said softly. “You’re safe. You can let go of Tony.”
Clint’s arms tightened instinctively instead. He wanted to let go. He wanted this to be over, to acknowledge he was home, that he was no longer a prisoner, that there was no one in his head. That he really was safe.
But every survival instinct he had gathered over decades of circus work and living on the streets and SHIELD missions were still burning hot, and it refused to let him release the last piece of insurance he had.
“I understand,” Tony said softly. “You can let go when you’re ready. I know you’re not going to hurt me. I trust you.”
Clint nodded against Tony’s shoulder.
“But you need to let the others go.” Tony finished. “At least untie Rhodey.”
Clint’s fingers dug into Tony’s skin before he realized what he was doing and loosened them again. “Okay.”
About two-thirds of the tension went out of Tony. “Okay. Peter, go with Bruce to my workshop. It’s not exactly a party down there, but you’ll find Cap in some cuffs that you should be able to break him out of.”
“What about you?”
“I’m fine, alright? I need you to trust me, kid.”
Bruce was still by Clint’s side, gently rubbing circles on his arm. “Tony…are you sure?”
“Yep,” Tony announced, sounding genuine. “One hundred percent. You and Spider-Boy are on free-the-calvary duty. Barton and I are going to get some lovely fresh air. Needed a break from the workshop anyway.”
Bruce let out a forced laugh. “This is what takes for you to admit you need a break?”
Clint could feel Tony’s trapped hands strain, trying to give his shoulders some relief. “Them or us first, Hawk Day Afternoon?”
“Us,” Clint replied immediately. “Don’t follow.”
“They won’t. Tell him you won’t.”
Both Peter and Bruce hesitated, but at Tony’s prompting agreed to let Clint drag Tony out of the armory first, pulling him towards the elevator.
The elevator was almost eerily quiet, just the sounds of them both breathing and the whirring machinery as it catapulted them up to the roof. Tony seemed like he was going to keep good on his promise to wait until Clint was ready to let him go, so Clint relaxed his hold a little, and Tony pulled in several full breaths as they were rocketed upwards.
When the elevator doors opened, Clint took in the first breath of air he felt like he’d taken in years. The air was sweet with the scents of freshly cut grass, someone having just taken care of the lawns several stories below them. It tasted fresh and clean and free.
“Do you want to sit?” Tony asked when the elevator doors had closed behind them, leaving them alone on the roof. “Or talk?”
Clint shook his head so Tony could feel it.
“That’s okay. When you’re ready.”
Clint wanted to be ready. He really did. A small part of him wished that this was a simulation after all, that he could throw them both off the roof and restart, make it so this day had never happened.
“It’s okay,” Tony said again, the quiet voice he reserved for very few people, the side of him most people didn’t get to see, the side of him he would deny in a heartbeat if you ever pointed it out to him. It’s okay. Let go. I’ll take care of you.
Clint's arms were just slackening around Tony’s throat when the elevator doors opened behind him.
Clint knew it was Natasha. He always knew. Knew the way he hadn’t in the simulations, had felt her wrongness the seconds those bastards had thrown her likeness in front of him.
“Clint. Look at me.”
It sounded like her. Every intonation, every inflection in those four words was true.
“Look at me.”
He couldn’t. It would be the last nail in the hallucinogenic coffin. If Natasha was real, then all of this was real. Everything Clint had done to his friends was real.
“Clint.”
No. No, it wasn’t her. Clint couldn’t have the last beacon of hope that today hadn’t been real extinguished just yet. She was blocking his only exit, so he made his way to the edge of the roof instead, drawing out a surprised curse from Tony that he resolutely ignored.
A gunshot rang out that didn’t make him stop. Neither did the second one. He only stopped when he was on the very edge of the Compound roof, gazing out over the long drop below, nowhere else to go.
“I will shoot you in the damn foot, Clint Barton. Turn around.”
And if that wasn’t Natasha, Clint didn’t know what was. He turned.
Natasha was still dressed in a hospital gown, paired with a set of combat boots and her mission jacket, out of breath but resolute. She raised the gun. “You’re not going to make me shoot Stark in the leg, are you?
“Yeah, as much as I love Speed, no thanks,” Tony called across the roof. “Actually, Barton was just on his way to letting me go without any pieces of metal entering my body. Right, Clint?”
Clint’s breaths were coming faster as he locked eyes with his closest friend. “Tasha.”
She softened, just fractionally, in a way no one but Clint would notice. “I’m here. You’re okay.”
“Everyone…” Clint swallowed, trying to find his voice. “Everyone else?”
“They’re okay too,” Natasha assured him. “No one is going to hold this against you.”
“Tell me about Budapest.”
A hint of a smile flickered across her lips. “Always. But let Tony go first.”
Clint was moving before his brain had caught up with his body, shifting them both so they were on the very precipice of the building, causing a sharp inhale from Tony as his toes hung over open air. “Tell me about Budapest. Now.”
“Okay,” Natasha said. “I was fresh out of the Red Room, running missions for the KGB. You’d been sent by Fury to take me out of the picture. You made a different call.”
“And?”
“And my handlers weren’t happy. They came after me. They came after me through you.”
“And?”
“And so I killed them all.”
Clint let out a long breath. Thank god. Thank god.
He threw Tony off the roof.
The pain exploded in his leg a moment later, and he was stumbling before strong hands were grabbing his shirt, yanking him back before he could fall. They weren’t gentle, slamming him into the roof as Clint lay on his back, blood gushing from the wound on his leg as Natasha pinned him down, laughing his head off.
There were tears in Natasha's eyes but she was fighting them back, fisting a hand in Clint’s shirt to haul him halfway upright. “You idiot. You idiot. What the hell did you just do?”
Her face was out of focus, Clint was laughing so hard. Then he felt the wetness on his cheeks and realized it might not be laughter after all. “I’m the idiot? I can’t believe you fell for that.”
Natasha went still, unsure, as Clint sucked in air, trying to breathe past the pain of the gunshot. “You asked me about Budapest. I told you about Budapest.”
Clint met her gaze, his grin all bared teeth. “You told me what’s on the official SHIELD files. They wouldn’t have been hard to find after Nat pulled her little Wikileaks stunt in 2014. You want to know the real Budapest story while I bleed out on this excuse for a fake Compound?”
He forced himself upright, ignoring the pain, so he was talking right in the simulated Natasha’s face. “There’s no Budapest. There never was any Budapest. It’s a stupid joke we made up that lasted for longer than it had any right to. And the real Natasha would know that.”
Natasha stared down at him in anger before she sighed, defeated. “Damn. I really thought we had you this time.”
Clint still wasn’t sure if he was laughing or crying as Natasha put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger.