Chapter Text
Plink.
The noise hit Clint’s ears like one of his own arrows.
Plink. Plink.
His face twitched. He was going for a wince, but he didn’t quite make it.
The notion popped into his head that he might have been unconscious for an extended period of time, and maybe that was why his head felt like it had been stepped on by the Hulk.
Plink. Plink. Plink.
Funny, he didn’t remember getting drunk last night. Or falling asleep on a cold, wet rock. Or going anywhere where cold, wet rocks were considered viable replacements for beds.
Aw futz, he thought, Not again.
“Tasha,” he tried to groan. It came out more like, “Uhssah.”
The answering groan came from his right. Left? Right. No, from his right. “Wudappend?”
“Kidnapped,” Clint said, working hard to not slur his speech, “I think.”
Natasha spat something crude in Russian.
With another groan, Clint blinked his eyes open to see Natasha a few feet away from him, levering herself into a sitting position. Clint quickly did the same. He shook his head to clear away some of the leftover fuzziness in his mind.
As he looked around, his eyes began adjusting to the dim lighting, and he could pick out more of their surroundings. The room they were being held in was small and square shaped, with concrete floors and walls and a cracked ceiling that dripped water next to Clint’s ear. He glared up at it just for good measure, as it continued its periodic plink plinking. What little light they had to see by filtered in through a tiny, clouded window set high in the door. It was just transparent enough to let in light, but not enough to let anyone see out.
Clint gave himself a quick pat down to check for any hidden weapons their captors might have missed, but found nothing. His phone had been taken too, as well as his second hearing aids and the emergency aspirin in his pocket. Beside him, Natasha mimicked his moves, finally ending her search with a peek down her front for her fourth backup knife. She shook her head at Clint.
“Perverts,” Clint whispered, “I hate it when they’re thorough.”
“At least we still have our clothes,” Natasha whispered back.
“Aw, Nat, that was one time.”
Natasha smirked and tapped her fingers twice on the floor: their code for a spot check on the situation, both to asses any memory loss from whatever they were drugged with, and to plan their next moves.
Clint replied in the same way, by tapping it out on the floor using their own shorthand Morse code. “We were in Latveria tracking a faction of Hydra.”
“They were smuggling weapons through Doomstadt,” Natasha added, “We found their base at the old factory.”
“Which turned out to be a trap, and they drugged us,” tapped Clint, “Now I remember.”
“Where did they take us?” Natasha asked, squinting to find even the slightest clue around her that could lead them to the answer.
“No idea,” Clint shrugged, “You remember anything else?”
“I think we were supposed to send Cap a report at five.”
“Oops.”