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So far, the plan was going flawlessly. Too flawlessly.
Clint and Natasha were sitting in a cell somewhere outside of Seville. They had been stripped of most of their weapons, and were handcuffed. They sat on the floor, chatting about the weather and a new restaurant that had opened in New York City that they wanted to go to.
“My butt is cold,” Clint said during a pause. “HEY! Any chance I could get a cushion for my bum?”
Natasha snickered. “Or some eclairs if you’ve got any!” she added.
“Callate la boca!” someone yelled back from down a long hallway.
They snickered. In truth, they could easily break out, but the goal was to collect information during the interrogation. It was a small jail, more of a building where a door had been replaced with bars, and wasn’t very imposing.
“But yeah, I was talking with - you know that late night bakery near there? - they said that their sushi was really good but their tofu was terrible,” Nat continued.
“Aw, bummer, I love tofu,” Clint said.
“No, you know who loves tofu? Thor,” she burst out laughing.
“Oh I forgot about that!” Clint laughed. “He was so fascinated by it!”
Their laughter died away as three men walked up to the door. They were armed to the teeth.
“You. Guy. Up,” one of them barked.
Clint nodded at Nat and stood up. Another unlocked the door and dragged him out. The door closed behind him with a clang, and the lock clicked.
“See you later,” Clint said, grinning.
Natasha nodded, but didn’t say anything. Two of the men grabbed Clint by his elbows and lead him firmly down the hallway. He complied, noting the street signs outside the window, the fabric and material of their uniforms, and their gun types. Natasha was better at that sort of thing, but he was doing his best. They lead him down the hallway and abruptly stopped in front of a doorway. One of the men opened it. It was a steep stairwell with a light on the bottom.
“Down. Now,” he ordered.
Clint nodded in mock politeness and walked down the stairs. The door slammed behind him. None of them had followed.
“Clint Barton.”
Someone was sitting in the corner of the room, shrouded in shadows. Clint made his way down the rest of the stairs.
“That’s me,” he responded jauntily.
“Stand in the middle of the room.”
He did so.
“Open your handcuffs.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Pull twice in rapid succession.”
Clint did so and they came loose immediately.
“Put your hands up.”
He sighed dramatically and put his hands into the air. Out of nowhere, ropes swung down with huge manacles on the end. They swung, as if controlled by unseen hands, and clasped around his wrists. They were incredibly tight. With a click, metal rods extended from the manacles and the ends of them attached to the tips of his fingers. That settled it - something was controlling the chains.
“What’s with the fancy cuffs?” he asked. At the back of his head, he wondered if it was a bad idea to be so light hearted.
“Oh, they’re not for you. We had them installed for the Black Widow. But they work on you, too.”
The figure stood up and walked into the light. He was tall, looked very young, with some slight stubble and greasy dark red hair.
“Do you know why I’m here, Mr Barton?” he asked, walking to the corner of shadows and pulling on some gloves. There was a table that was shrouded in darkness as well.
“Can’t say that I do.”
More ropes sprang out and latched themselves around Clint’s ankles. Metal bands jumped up from the floor and wrapped themselves around his feet. He was spread out like a star, unable to move. Actually unable to move.
“I am here because I am very good at… how do you say… getting information,” he said. He picked something up and turned to Clint. It was a scalpel.
“Well, Natasha knows more than I do, you probably want to talk to her,” he said without thinking.
“Oh, should we go get her?” He walked closer.
“No!” he cried in a moment of panic.
“I see.” He was right in front of him. “Let’s keep this between us, then, shall we?”
He brought the flat of the blade under Clint’s chin. He gently pushed it up, forcing Clint to look him in the eyes. He smirked, and put a hand on his shoulder.
“Oh, you’ll be so much fun.”
The man dislocated Clint’s shoulder in one swift movement. He yelled out in pain. It was sudden, then dull and aching.
“Oh, motherfucker, that hurt,” he swore.
“It’ll get a lot worse,” the man promised.
He pulled a pair of scissors out of his pocket and cut open Clint’s shirt so it hung open. He pulled up a chair so he was face to face with Clint’s stomach.
“You have lots of muscles, but they’re not visible,” he observed, almost talking to himself. “A pity. I do love cutting people open by the lines on their body. But you are very strong. And muscles are very fun to slice apart.”
Clint took a deep breath in and out. Keep calm. Breathe.
“What information do you want?” he asked.
The man looked up and grinned at him. “I want to know what you look like, standing in a pool of your own blood, begging for mercy.”
The man began to carve into Clint’s skin. He dragged the blade over his abdomen in curving, swirling lines. They were random, but chosen. Clint winced at first, then bit his lip. Once the blade crossed a cut again he gasped in pain. He didn’t scream until the man cut a tiny triangle and sawed off the skin.
“Oh, very good,” the man said. “I do like screams.”
“Fuck you,” Clint spat, eyes tearing up.
The man stood up and placed the blade about an inch under his eye.
“Don’t cry. That will hurt,” he grinned.
He made a shallow cut, a line, swiftly. Clint inhaled sharply, but didn’t say anything. He did the same on the other side.
“There. Now, if you cry, you will have to feel that pain as well.”
Blood dripped down his face as the man took his seat again. He stuck the knife back into his skin and dragged it over his skin. It caught on the peeling flakes. Clint bit his lip and tried to breathe slowly. The man gently grabbed a flap of skin and, in a swift sharp agonising movement, he yanked on it. Clint screamed as the man ripped it away from his body. When it parted from the rest of his skin completely, the man held it up. It was small, maybe six inches at its widest, but damn his muscle was open and the air hurt and to breathe was pain and blood was falling and running down his legs and -
“Let’s do that again, shall we?”
Cling sobbed aloud. His vision spotted out.
Natasha fiddled with her shoelaces as she waited. Really, waiting was the worst part. Even the torture part she could at least be useful and gather information, but she had gathered all she could from the cell. Nat was debating taking a nap when a distant doorway slammed open. She looked up and listened. Two sets of footsteps, moving slowly.
“Er ist shwer,” one of them said to the other. Heavy? Were they carrying Clint?
Their footsteps grew closer until finally one backed into view, carrying a bloody figure by the shoulders - the figure’s feet was being carried by the second. It was Clint. The taller of the two struggled to unlock the door, but it opened with a clang. They almost tossed him to the ground. Nat inhaled sharply. He was a bloody mess, skin hanging off him in flaps, face blood covered and hands purple.
“Shit, shit, shit!” she whispered.
The guards locked the door behind them and sauntered down the hall, immediately disregarding them. Nat uncuffed herself (something she had done and undone several times due to boredom) and looked him over. Most of the bleeding had eased, and some of it had already started to scab, but it was probably a good thing he was knocked out.
“Screw this,” Nat muttered. “We’re getting out of here.”
She uncuffed her feet and stood up. It was time to leave. With a last glance at Clint, she took a deep breath, reached through the bars, and sprang the lock.
“Was war das für ein Geräusch?” someone distantly said.
Nat slinked down the hallway until she came to an office space. She hid behind the doorway and evened her breathing. She opened her eyes and leaped into the room.
Fighting felt natural. The duck and cover. The roll. Hell, even the bang of the floor was like second nature to her. It was almost calming to disarm the three guards in the office. Actually, no. It was calming. What felt nice was punching each of them hard across the jaw after they were unconscious and tied to each other.
“Assholes,” she muttered before turning back down the hallway. She snagged a blanket that was on a chair and walked back into the cage. Clint was stirring, brow furrowed.
“Clint? Can you hear me?” she said, kneeling beside him. He was sweating like crazy. “Forgive me, friend.”
Nat put a hand over his mouth and pinched his nose. A part of him struggled initially on instinct, but he slipped back into unconsciousness quickly. She sighed and draped the blanket over his wounds, tying it snuggly. Carefully, she lifted him into her arms bridal style. His head lolled back, mouth slightly open, almost relaxed. But his breathing was laboured. She adjusted her grip on him and walked out of the cell.
Clint’s blood still covered the floor.