Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Clint is vaguely aware of sounds and lurching, nauseating movement. Something is scratching quietly at the edges of his consciousness, requesting attention, but the warm cocoon of fuzziness that’s wrapped around his brain turns it into something small and inconsequential, and he’s more than content to ignore it. Sadly, the fuzziness doesn’t last. Far too soon everything starts coming closer. Noise. Nausea. Pain. He realizes he's felt it for a while, but it’s been a distant thing. Not so any longer. His nervous system is cranking up the volume. His head hurts. Jesus Christ, his head hurts. 

It takes an embarrassingly long time to process the fact that he’s face down and his hands are tied behind his back. He blames the floaty, disconnected feel that goes with certain kinds of drugs. On top of everything, he’s got a bag over his head.

Drugs. Tied up. Bag.

Aw, shit.

He blinks against the fabric and tries to get his bearings. His surroundings are either pitch black or the bag is made from some kind of black-out material, because it doesn’t let even a hint of light through. A feeling of creeping unease settles in his stomach. It's a straight-up reaction to his helplessness and imposed blindness, and letting it run loose will only play right into the hands of today’s baddies, so he acknowledges it and then stows it away.

There's a strong smell of diesel exhausts. That, together with the fact that his whole body vibrates to the tune of an engine, tells him he’s in a vehicle. Since there's enough space for him to lie down, it's probably a truck of some kind. He can hear that the engine isn’t firing quite right on all cylinders, and it whines and growls in protest as the driver grinds the gears and revs it like it’s a race car. Not a great vehicle. Definitely not a great driver. The first could be good to know, the latter… he doesn’t know how that tidbit might be helpful, but he files it away nonetheless.

The truck shakes and bounces, climbs and descends, and it does nothing for Clint's headache. At least the condition of the road tells him they’re not in the city any longer. He figures they’re somewhere to the east or north east. There’s nothing but flat farmland in the other directions, and this terrain is anything but flat.

The awkward position of his arms behind his back and the bite of his restraints are far from enjoyable, but trying to lessen the discomfort will alert anyone around him to the fact that he's awake, and he's not about to give up that advantage before he has to. But he still has to take inventory of his injuries. His left shoulder aches and his back twinges sharply when he furtively shifts a little, his motions disguised under the jarring motion of the vehicle. He's sore, but it doesn't feel like he's been shot or stabbed or otherwise pierced. He's not in optimal shape, but all in all it's not too bad.

The job. It suddenly comes to him. They’d been on a job. He digs around for the details in his head, but they’re frustratingly slippery, and it takes a while before he gets a good grip on the whole story. Well, most of the story; time seems to skip a few frames here and there. But he remembers the brief with Coulson, the task they’d been given: get a hold of documents with information about a new group of Plutonium black-marketeers so S.H.I.E.L.D. could do something about them. In and out. No bells and whistles. Him and Natasha. 

He goes cold. Fuck. Natasha. He tries to remind himself that she’s good, real good, so she probably got away. He hopes she got away.

He hopes she's still alive.

A boot suddenly impacts with his arm. “I think sleeping beauty number one here is awake,” someone says. 

Number one. Dammit. That kills any hope Clint had that Natasha got away. Whoever these guys are, they must be good in order to get the drop on her. But at least he knows she's still alive. And hopefully she's somewhere close. The two of them stand a much better chance of getting away if they can work together. 

He’s grabbed and pulled from the floor to his feet. The bag over his head, his restrained hands, the uneven road - all of those things make balance a precarious thing, and he stumbles when he gets a push to the chest. This is when he discovers another little thing. Shackles around his ankles. They bring his feet up short when he staggers backwards, and it's like stepping on his own shoelaces; there's nothing he can do to stay on his feet. A second later he discovers there’s a seat of some kind at the back of his knees. He lands heavily on his ass, and momentum makes the back of his head hit something hard. His poor rattled brain doesn't appreciate that and makes it abundantly clear. Skull-crushed-in-vise clear.

“Get that bitch up, too,” he hears, and despite the pounding pain it makes him grin a little, because it means she's right there, and that she probably got a few good ones in.

The dead weight of Natasha is deposited next to him on the bench. He props her up with his shoulder. Since he can’t see anything, it could technically be someone else pressed up against him, but she feels right. Her build feels right. Her hair feels right where it presses against a patch of exposed skin on his neck. She smells right, too. No scented shampoo, no perfume. That’s for other kinds of outings. This close he can hear her breathing, and he’s been on enough missions with her, sat through enough nights with her sleeping on the bed (on the floor, on the ground, in the car) next to him, so he knows how she breathes. This is Natasha, without a doubt.

He elbows her in the side lightly. She doesn’t react, and he has to remind himself that Natasha slumped against his side like this tells him absolutely nothing about her status. It can be one of three things, he figures. He was drugged, so the odds that she’s been dosed, too, are pretty good. A TKO is another possibility. Or she might be faking it. He sincerely hopes she’s faking it. His second choice would be chemical la-la-land, because it feels like quite some time has gone by and if she’s been unconscious for a significant length of time, that’s… not good. Natasha with a bad head injury isn’t something he needs right now.

Natasha with a bad head injury isn’t something he needs, period.

He flexes his toes on the freezing floor. They’ve removed his boots and socks. Solid move. It’s what he would’ve done. Makes it less likely they’ll be able to move any significant distance very fast, should they get away. Escape Prevention 101. He appreciates the fact that their captors haven’t taken something sharp or something hot to the soles of his feet. That would be Escape Prevention 102.

He hunches his shoulders a little, tries to project an air of ‘tense with a pinch of fearful’ to lull them into thinking he’s not a threat. He spends some time trying to get them talking, asking questions like who are they, what do they want, mixing in offers of money if they released the two of them; the kind of stuff expected of a someone who’s been nabbed during an attempted B & E and fitted with a bag over his head. Right now he’s not so much interested in their answers as he’s in figuring out how many they are, and where in the truck they’re located. When he fails to get any answers whatsoever, he starts baiting them. That little exercise gives him the location of two guys and a few additional bruises.

Natasha still doesn’t move.

After some painful twisting and some pretty awkward finger maneuvers he manages to count three separate zip ties around his wrists. Damn. A single nylon zip tie would be easy enough for him to get out of, even behind his back. Two ties, probably not. Three? Not a chance. The truck lurches and Clint plants his feet as wide as he can on the gritty floor, trying to maintain some balance. It's hard, because the shackles are short. They’ll allow him enough mobility to shuffle, but not much else.

His own breath is uncomfortably warm and moist against his face and his head still pounds in time with his pulse. Most of his injuries stem from when he was unceremoniously pulled down from a fire ladder by his boots. For the record, he’d been on his way down per their not-so-polite request. Fuckers. Sure, he hadn’t been very high up, just a couple of rungs, but he's not immune to gravity and someone holding on to your legs means you're left with your arms and face to break the fall. It was a spectacular face plant. He runs his tongue over his front teeth, along the sharp edges that shouldn’t be there. Yep. 10 out of 10.

The fall hadn’t knocked him out, but the time between lying there on the ground till he woke up just now is a blank, so he figures that’s when they nailed him with the drugs. What the hell happened? How were they able to pin him down on the roof like that? What did he miss? He runs through what he can recall of the op, and then one more time, but there’s nothing. Nothing had felt out of the ordinary.

He almost falls off the bench when the truck hits something that feels like the Grand Canyon, and he hears someone towards the rear grumble out a curse. Three, he thinks. That’s at least three people here in the back. There could be several more both back here and in the front with the driver, so Clint bides his time.

Then Natasha’s awake. He doesn’t know how he knows it. Absolutely nothing has changed; she hasn’t moved, hasn’t made a sound, her breathing and muscle tone stay the same, but from one moment to the next, he just knows she’s awake. He hums quietly, not a sound as much as a vibration that he hopes she’ll feel where she’s crumpled against him. He gets nothing back. That’s okay, he didn’t really expect it, either.

Just a few minutes later the truck comes to a jarring halt. There's slamming and shouting, and then Natasha is wrenched from his side. She makes a pained, confused sound, like she’s barely conscious. But Clint knows for a fact that’s not how Ms. Romanoff sounds when she’s in distress. He hears a thud, a huff of breath escaping her, and another one of those noises (just to let him know where she is, he suspects).

Someone says ‘No, him first’, and Clint’s dragged from the bench. He has time to hope that they’ll let him sit down and slide down to the ground, but alas, no such luck. He’s shoved, and suddenly there’s nothing under his feet. He tries his best to twist, tries to spare his face this time. He kind of manages, but his hands are still cuffed behind his back and he can’t see the ground to steel himself, so the impact is brutal times ten. He lands on his already sore left side and the wind is knocked right out of him. He lies there, mouth open against the rough fabric of the bag, ice cold water seeping through it in no time. He's not getting any air. None. It’s a temporary muscle glitch, he knows that, but it’s still horrible.

Without warning, he’s grabbed by the scruff of his jacket and dragged to his feet, and at that moment he’s kind of thankful he can’t draw breath to make any noise, because it feels like his back has been broken in more than one place and like his shoulder has gone supernova. He staggers and barely stays on his feet when the hands lets go of his jacket, and finally, finally, his diaphragm decides to rejoin the race. He sucks in a ragged, aching breath just as the hood is pulled off.

It's still dark, early-morning dark. The air is cold against his face, and he squints and blinks at the light rain and the glaring floodlights. An old farm house sits in the middle of a complex of what looks like old stables and sheds. A rusty, sad-looking tractor stands between two of the buildings. There’s even a small paddock pressed up against the side of the house. But that’s where the farm illusion ends. Clint counts eleven armed guards stationed around the area. They’re all in grungy-looking civvies, carrying AK47s and side arms. Most of the semi-automatics are pointed right at him. From somewhere out of sight, he hears dogs barking, and by the sound of it they’re no Chihuahuas. He scans the guards without being obvious about it. Some of them look like the real deal, like they know what they’re doing (ex-special forces from some country or another, retired soldiers from a paramilitary group, maybe), but at least three of them have no idea how to even hold their weapon properly. A mix of new and old hands, then. At the edge of the property he can see two tall HF antennas structures, but the piercing light means he can’t see a single thing beyond them. He gets the feeling, however, that even if he could see into the pitch darkness that there would be nothing there, that they’re in the middle of nowhere.

He glances back just in time to see Natasha being pulled towards the back of the truck. She has no bag over her head. Her hair clings to her face and she too blinks owlishly at the lights. Her hands are tied behind her back. No ankle shackles. He watches them push her down to sit on the edge and they haul her out of the truck. He's glad to see she is spared the flight.

One of the armed guards nods towards the house. “Move.” The order is dispassionate, spoken with authority but not with aggression.

Someone behind Clint apparently doesn’t believe in the non-agression approach, because he gets a hard shove in the back. Pain shoots up his spine again. It feels like someone stabbed a screwdriver through it, and he goes to his knees in the mud. He makes a sound of pain, but he really doesn’t care, because it hurts. When he can see straight again he’s already being pulled to his feet. “Easy on the merchandise, buddy," he wheezes. He glares at the asshole behind him. It’s the same one who made him take a nosedive from the ladder. The same one, he bets, who pushed him out of the truck. The answer is a rifle butt to his shoulder and Clint decides that right now it’s in his best interest to get with the program.

But make no mistake, when they’re getting out of here, he’s going to find this asshole and hurt him.

Chapter Text

The ground is all gravel and ice cold mud under Clint’s bare feet as they are herded towards the house. Every step jars his aching back and shoulder. They pass the paddock. Dark and dormant light fixtures are mounted on the ten-foot chain link fence that surrounds the area. He spots barbed wire at the top of it. The sawdust on the ground inside is discolored. He doesn't like the look of that. 

"What's a nice girl like you doing in a dump like this," he asks Natasha when she catches up. 

"I thought I'd see the sights." One side of her jaw is swelling, dirt and dust mingle with dried blood under her nose and down her chin. She shrugs one shoulder. "I'm not very impressed."

Clint agrees.

They're taken inside the old house. In stark contrast to the chill and the glaring floodlights outside, the interior is toasty and warmly lit. It’s clean, and the furniture is well-used and comfortable looking. It smells like food, and there are even freaking lace doilies on a few of the side tables that they pass. Clint knows they’re probably going to be interrogated at some point in the near future, and wow, these surroundings feel… wrong. Give him gray detention cells and deserted industrial warehouses any day over this place.

He maps the rooms in his head as he passes through them. Doors, windows, types of locks, light switches, objects that can be used as a weapon. He counts the number of steps between each door and knows that Natasha is doing the same thing.

The kitchen at the back of the house is spacious and rustic, and just as eerily cozy as the rest of the house they’ve seen. They’re pushed down onto chairs, and the guards position themselves silently around the room. Out of immediate reach. He sees that Natasha is tied up with multiple zip ties as well. He catches her eye and gives her hands a quick glance. She shakes her head minutely.

Dammit.

He settles back in his chair. Minutes go by in silence. He knows the drill. Let the captives wait, give them time to get nervous, let their own imagination run free. Used on a civilian, it’s sometimes half the work. It is, however, a colossal waste of time on the two of them. Natasha gives him a small, wry smile like she knows what he's thinking. Clint returns it and lets his mind go into a holding pattern of relaxed attention and waits it out. 

“Can I have some water?” Natasha asks some time later.

He knows she's not really looking for water. She’s trying to get them talking, to interact. Trying to gather information in her own unique way.

There is no reply to her polite request. The weapons stay trained on both of them.

More time pass. People are moving around in the house. Steps and conversations too faint to make out bleed through the walls. Clint hears the occasional vehicle outside, tires crunching on the gravel. Eventually they're ordered to their feet and herded out of the kitchen. That's half an hour he'll never get back. They’re taken down a concrete staircase, down into the basement of the house and okay, yeah, this is starting to look at little more like it. The cement walls are gray and greasy-looking, and there’s a permeating smell of damp. Exposed wiring along the ceiling, bare light bulbs, closed metal doors. Heavy ones. The corridor is longer than Clint expected. His spacial awareness is pretty damn good, so he figures the basement must have been extended at some point.

They’re shoved into the last room on the left. It’s… a room. A holding cell. Nothing more, nothing less. It’s rectangular with naked concrete walls and a recessed, viciously bright overhead light that makes Clint’s eyes and head hurt. No windows. A one-foot air vent by the ceiling, narrow enough that he won’t even get his hand inside. No furniture. And to top it off, a massive metal door that could be taken from the blast shelter of an end-of-the-world prepper.

Clint is directed to one wall and Natasha to another. As on cue, all weapons turn on Clint, and jeez, doesn't he feel special. He can almost feel the itch in the middle of his forehead. Keeping his shoulders relaxed takes some effort, even though he’s pretty sure they’re not being lined up to be shot. These guys wouldn't have gone through the trouble of taking them here if they were just going to shoot them.

“Turn around,” one of them tells Natasha. “Face the wall.”

She does as she’s told.

“Don’t move until I say so. Don't try to attack me. Your boyfriend won't like it if you do. Do you understand?”

"Yes."

He pulls a wire cutter from his pocket, and Clint hopes Natasha isn't about to do something stupid, because he's pretty sure his brain is going to decorate the wall if she as much as looks at them the wrong way. But she doesn’t. Her ties are cut and she just calmly lifts her hands to her head when Wire-cutter guy tells her to. The weapons move from Clint to Natasha. There is absolutely no opportunity for Clint to do anything without risking her life, so when he's told to turn, he obediently complies. He still gets his face shoved into the wall. Asshole. Three snaps in succession and his hands are free. Bringing his left arm down from behind his back sucks pretty damn bad. The shackles around his ankles are removed, too.  

“Undress and kick your clothes over here.”

Clint lifts an eyebrow. “Kinky."

“It’s freezing down here,” Natasha says over her shoulder.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get new ones. Come on, clothes off. All of them. You first, Princess."

The semi-automatics are aimed at Clint again while Natasha undresses. He grits his teeth. He hates being leverage. Natasha's jacket comes off, then her shirt, her pants, her bra, her panties. She’s calm and efficient, no hesitation at all in her movements. It takes more than stripping down in front of strangers to rattle her. When she’s done she kicks the clothes towards the door. Clint catches Wire-cutter guy leering at her. Not one of the professionals, then.

When it's Clint's turn, he too strips without protest.

"Those, too,” the guy says and points to the cut nylon ties on the floor.

They kick them towards the guards and are instructed to turn back to their respective wall. They do. They're such well-behaved children.

Clint hears shuffling, people moving, and then the sound of the door swinging shut on surprisingly silent hinges. Four muted clangs are heard as the heavy cam latches are turned on the outside. He waits another couple of seconds, then glances over his shoulder. They are alone.

Chapter Text

“Any idea where we are?”

Clint turns from the wall. “I’m thinking somewhere east of the city, judging from the road." He flexes his fingers to get the blood circulating now that the ties are gone.

He already misses his clothes. Natasha might have been exaggerating about the temperature, but it sure as hell isn't warm and comfy. He's got goose bumps. Also, taking their clothes is another sign that they're not all amateurs, because with them gone, so is the hope that their captors would miss one of the hidden knives or his lock pick set.

Natasha nods and eyes the door before moving to it on silent feet. Clint assesses the marks on her body. A reddish-blue bruise is forming on the side of her left thigh, as big as his fist, but it doesn't seem like it's bothering her. Her face looks pretty bad, but from experience he knows it looks worse than it is, a nose bleed will do that. In addition to that, one of her elbows is scraped all to hell, but all in all it doesn't look like she got roughed up too badly.

She places her hand on the door, looks at it close up. There’s no lock, no hinges on this side. It’s just a smooth metal surface. She runs her fingers all along the seam between the metal and the massive door frame, then shakes her head. "Unless we get our hands on some of the Semtex from upstairs, or someone opens the door from the outside, we’re not getting out this way.”

Clint gets closer and makes the same assessment; there's nothing to work with. And he'd missed the Semtex, somehow.

“Under the little table by the stairs,” she says as if she can read his mind.

He nods and makes a slow circuit around the room, scanning the walls and the ceiling for hidden cameras and microphones. He doesn’t see any, but that doesn’t mean anything. When he turns Natasha has moved to the opposite wall. Her head is tilted back, her hair falling down between her bare shoulder blades as she watches the vent.

“Give me a boost,” she says without looking away from it.

He joins her by the wall and laces his fingers together. She steps up into the cradle of his hands, and he has to clench his teeth; she's not heavy, but holy hell, it hurts.

“Higher,” she orders. 

Somehow he gets her a little higher. To his relief she only stays there for another couple of seconds before jumping down.

She brushes dirt off her hands against her bare thighs. “Welded shut.”

They both turn and stare at the recessed light in the ceiling. Nope. Not that either. Not even a screw head is visible. A sudden full-body shudder runs through Clint, and he crosses his arms over his chest. It's chilly, but not cold enough for such a reaction, so he's probably still working the drugs out of his system. The fatigue that's weighing down on him must be a result of that, too. The floor looks kind of inviting, but sitting on the cold concrete will just leach the more heat out of him, so until he absolutely has no choice, he will stay on his feet.

Natasha leans casually against the wall under the vent, her hands tucked behind her as a buffer between her and the cold surface. She's totally at ease, with or without clothes. Clint isn't particularly body conscious either, but he can’t deny that he feels just a little tiny bit vulnerable in situations like this. And that is exactly why stripping captives down is quite a common practice. He joins her at the wall and stuffs his own hands behind his ass.

She looks sideways at him and gives him a small smile. “Hi.”

He returns it. “Hi.”

“So, what do you think? I haven’t seen anything that could identify them, but they don’t feel like amateurs,” she says. 

“They're not. I didn’t even hear them until they were right on top of me.“ He lifts his foot and presses the sole of it against his shin, trying for some warmth. “How did they get you?”  

“I was just about done sweeping Selton's office when they remote-started one of the monitors up there." She mirrors his flamingo stance, so apparently not the only one who thinks the floor is cold. "You know, drooling and trussed up on a huge screen in full ultra-HD glory, that’s really not a good look for you.”

“Yeah," he mutters. "I can imagine.” He waits for the rest of the story, but it doesn’t come. “And then what?”

She shrugs. “And then here we are.”

He stares at her for a moment. Then one more. “Please don't tell me you handed yourself over to them because they had me.”

“Okay, I won’t.”

He pushes away from the wall. “What the hell, Nat!” he hisses.

Her eyes cut sharply in his direction, a warning. No names. “I figured it would be easier to get you out if I knew exactly where you were. Fait accompli, I know where you are.”

“Yeah! Because you’re right here, god knows where, buck-fucking-naked, with no gear and no way out. And our people probably don't even realize we’re gone yet. Jesus!” He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. “You’re smarter than this, you’ve always been smarter than this!” His breath catches, cutting his rant short when Natasha’s cold fingers suddenly slide up his back.

“Well, it’s done,” she tells him as she presses lightly just below his shoulder blade. He arches away from the touch, because ow. She ignores it, grabs his arm and turns him a little. She keeps pressing at various places up and down his shoulder. “How’s your range of motion,” she asks, squeezing the arm she apparently wants him to move. He doesn’t get a chance, because right then her fingers find a point that just about kills him, kills him dead, and he can’t breathe. Again.

“Please don’t do that,” he finally manages. He realizes that he’s got her offending hand in a death grip.

She grips his chin with her other hand and turns his head so he’s looking directly at her. “Talk to me,” she orders.

He glares at her, and the anger suddenly takes a big step forward. He's angry for being in this goddamn situation, angry at whoever or whatever made this whole mission go to hell in a bad way, angry at the goddamn pain and for not seeing what was going down before it was too late. And most of all, he's angry at her for being so fucking stupid.

He pushes her hands away and points a stiff finger at her. “Oh, we’ll talk, alright. You and I are going to have a long, long conversation when we get back.”

She nods. “Okay”.

He steams in silence for a minute, but much as he doesn’t want to admit it right now, he knows she’s right. She needs to know his status, and he needs to calm the hell down. Focus on making the best out of the situation at hand, Barton. It is what it is. He exhales and rolls his shoulders to get rid of some tension. He immediately regrets it.

“Did you catch my swan dive out there?” he asks. 

“Yes. Very graceful.”

“Yeah, well, my back and shoulder took offense to the landing.”

She runs her eyes down his body, clinically evaluating him. “What else?”

“Just minor stuff. Nothing that’s gonna slow me down. Much.”

She comes closer and pushes his lip up carefully. “What happened to you face?”

He pulls his head away. “Date with a slab of concrete.” He runs his finger over his broken teeth and feels a flicker of that very specific flavor of pain that tells tales of exposed dental nerves. He grimaces. “What's the damage?”

“It's not bad. Less than half of the right one is gone, just a corner of the other.”

“I hate dentists,” he mutters. He makes himself comfortable against the wall again. “Alright. Your turn. Regale me with riveting descriptions of your injuries.”

“Nothing exciting. A nose bleed and some bruises. That’s all.”

“It's unfair. Why is it that I always get the rough treatment?”

Natasha smirks, her arm and her leg pressed against his. Her skin feels chilled. “Because you look so tough and dangerous. You should soften your image a little. I’m thinking pink ribbons in your hair.”

“It’s too short,” he points out.

“Extensions.”

He snorts, thinks about walking up to Fury with braids and ribbons.

Both of them tense when the sound of the door latches is heard. They watch the door open halfway. A bundle is tossed in, and it closes again. Clint retrives the bundle. It’s a blanket wrapped around two orange jumpsuits. How original. He holds them up. They’re both pretty much the same size. He tosses one to Natasha and pulls the other one on. Fits him okay. She drowns in hers.

"Guantanamo chic," she mumbles, then takes the blanket from his hands and spreads it on the floor along the wall. Clint joins her on it, barely holding back a groan as he lowers himself down. 

“You think it’s Selton and company?” Natasha pulls her knees up and sticks her hands under her feet.

He shakes his head. “Nah. They’re just small fish trying to make it in a large pond. These guys, whoever they are, they’re good. They must have been there waiting for us. There’s just no other way. It was too well organized to be a response to someone spotting us.” He rubs his hand over his hair. “I don’t like this,” he says quietly. “How did they know we were going to be there?"

“Leak?”

It’s possible. SHIELD has been compromised before.

“We won't know what they want until they tell us, so we should try to get some rest.” Natasha lies down on the blanket, back against the wall. 

"Hopefully we'll be out of here before we find out." He stretches out, facing the door. Without a word she tugs at him to get closer until his back is pressed against her front. She snakes an arm around his chest. There’s nothing intimate in this embrace, just plenty of body heat. Clint closes his eyes against the glare of the overhead light. She's right. About this, too. They need to rest. It may be a while before they get another chance.

Natasha’s breath soon deepens behind him. He knows from experience that it’s a vigilant, half-aware kind of sleep, but he still envies her, because an estimated hour later he's still awake.

Chapter Text

Several hours later they come for Clint. It's the same drill as when they were deposited in the cell. Separate walls, gun point from a safe distance, ‘don’t move’. And again, it gives Clint zero opportunity to act without Natasha paying the ultimate price. So he keeps on watching, taking mental notes, and he does nothing at all to make them nervous. It's the same three guards, too. Clint takes to calling them Huey, Dewey and Screwy in his head. They tie his hands behind his back. Shackle his feet. At least he’s spared the bag. Small favors, right?

He’s walked down the hallway to the other end and into another room that looks exactly like the one he just left. Same concrete walls and floors, same metal door. Only difference is that there’s a chair bolted to the floor in the middle of the room, and two women are huddled against the wall in front of it. The hunched shoulders, the fear that leaks from both of them tell him they're not part of the house crew. They're handcuffed to sturdy metal rings in the wall. Neither of them is very young, neither of them is very old. Clint thinks they might have been in here for a while. The room smells like it, anyway. He's getting a very bad feeling about this.

He's pushed down onto the chair, and his bound hands are forced over the back of it. A solid-looking carabiner clips around his brand new zip ties, attaching them to a metal wire loop that is secured to a chain anchor in the floor. The anchor is massive and looks like it was installed when the concrete floor was poured. The shackles around his ankles are secured the same way a moment later.

The ducklings leave, and another man steps into the room. He closes the heavy door behind him. He's in his fifties, graying. 5’10, medium build. Light eyes. Tanned. No distinguishing scars or marks. Clint memorizes everything about him. He doesn’t look all that much like a physical threat, but taking things at face value is a shortcut to pain in their line of business, so Clint doesn't. But he's sure of one thing: this guy is not one of the footmen. If the clothes hadn’t told him that, the body language certainly would have. This man gives orders, he doesn’t take them.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” the newcomer says with a benign smile. ”Do you know why you’re here?”

”Let me guess, to brighten your day with my sparkling personality?”

The man laughs. ”Some sparkling would actually be very nice. This place is depressing.”

”You’re telling me,” Clint mutters.

”You must be thirsty. Do you want some water?” Without waiting for an answer, the man walks to the door, raps on it. When it opens, he spends a few seconds speaking quietly to someone outside. When he turns back to Clint, he’s got a water bottle in his hands.

Now that Clint's attention has been pointed towards water, he realizes he is thirsty. Very thirsty. Dehydrated from the drugs he was given, he assumes, because he hasn't been without water anywhere near long enough to be this thirsty. The man holds holds the bottle out and gives it a tiny little shake, as if Clint’s attention wasn’t on it already.

He doesn't know what these guys want, but if it's information they're after, they could have put something in the water; Amobarbital or any number of other psycotropics really that will send his inhibitions on vacation. Or it could be Haloperidol. That's a different kind of beast, popular in certain parts of the world. It's a GRU favorite, and it makes you want to crawl out of your own skin in the worst way. He’s tried that one during training and he never, ever, wants to experience it again. The man gives the bottle another little shake, and Clint won’t waste energy trying to hide the fact that he is thirsty, very thirsty. He makes his decision. He'll take the chance. If they really wanted to make him talk, they'd inject the drugs, and besides, he needs the water, needs to be strong enough to get out of here when the opportunity presents itself. Also, he's pretty sure he can withstand at least some of the chemical stuff they might throw at him.

"Do you want some?" the man asks again. "Yes or no." Clint gives a reluctant nod, and the man unscrews the cap. He takes a step forward, then stops. ”You’re going to behave, aren’t you?”

”Yes." 

The bottle his held up to Clint's lips, and the water is cool and wonderful down his throat. He downs almost half of it before it’s taken away. 

The man screws the cap back on. ”Okay. Shall we begin? You can call me Mr. Blacker. What’s your name?”

Clint looks around. ”You guys really need to get a new interior designer."

Blacker walks to the door and sets the water bottle down on the floor next to it. He walks back, unhurried. "Your name, please."

“Tinkerbell." 

Blacker looks at him impassively.

“Wendy?” Clint says. 

Something in Blacker's eyes changes, and Clint thinks that this is when the beating will start. But the man just turns and walks to one of the women, unlocks her cuff and grabs her by the hair. There’s a Sig in his hand now (P229, Clint notes, and where the hell did it come from?) and he drags the woman across the floor to stand in front of Clint, close enough that he would be able to touch her if his hands were free. She wails and digs at Blacker’s fingers, trying to loosen his grip of her hair.

”This is Elena. She is very pleased to meet you.” Blacker lets go of the woman’s hair and grabs her elbow, holds her at arm’s length in a hard grip. The Sig is held casually by his side, and the woman squeezes her eyes shut, tight enough that the skin around them is white. ”Let’s try this again. What’s your name?”

”Okay, okay. Don’t hurt her.” Clint licks his lips. ”Carter.” He goes for one of his old aliases. ”My name is John Car—”

His eardrums just about ruptures and a spray of high-velocity wetness hits the wall. The woman crumples, boneless, hitting the floor with a thud that is all too familiar to him. His mind goes blank for just a split-second.

Fuck.

That’s all he can think when it comes back online again. Fuckfuckfuckfuck. Over and over and over again.

Blacker says nothing. He stalks towards the wall, and before he even reaches the other woman she’s wailing, shrinking back from him as far as her cuffs will allow. She starts screaming, but Clint can’t understand the language. The meaning, however, is crystal clear. She’s pleading with Blacker. Pleading with Clint, and he tugs at the restraints behind his back, at his feet, trying to find some leverage that will let him get out of the chair. Blacker turns and watches him struggle, dispassionately, until Clint has worn himself out. It’s useless. Clint’s panting, his back a solid ball of pain, warm wetness is running down his fingers and he’s pretty sure the ties have drawn blood. And he’s not a fraction of an inch closer to freedom.

By the wall, the woman is in full panic. Blacker takes the Sig and punches her once in the side of her head. No frills, just a solid blow to the temple. Her knees buckle, and Blacker has no problem getting her cuffs off and dragging her in front of Clint. She doesn’t get to her feet, just hangs where Blacker’s holding her up on her knees. She’s crying now. Clint thinks he hears something that sounds like ‘mama’.

Jesus Christ.

“Don’t,” he pants.

“Anything you want to tell me?”

Clint forces himself to look back at Blacker, sees him lift the Sig again when Clint doesn’t speak immediately. The woman squeals brokenly and holds her hands up in front of her face in a futile attempt to protect herself.

Clint strains against the ties again, even though he knows he’s not getting anywhere. “No, don't! My name’s Barton. Clint Barton.”

Blacker drops the woman on the floor without another glance in her direction. She lands next to the other one and curls up, hands over her face. "Thank you,” he says.

He kills her anyway.

Chapter Text

Blacker doesn’t ask anything else. He raps on the door and motions for the guards to come inside. Clint is freed from the chair and hustled back to the cell where Natasha waits. The water bottle is tossed in after him like an afterthought.

The door has barely closed before he’s on his knees retching. He squeezes his eyes shut, but he can feel Natasha’s presence next to him as the retching turns into actual vomiting. “Bastards,” he mumbles and braces his hands on the floor. “Fucking bastards.” He feels his mouth flooding with saliva, and he hunches over as he throws up again.

After a while, it seems like the rest of his stomach content has decided not to join the party, and he gingerly pushes up and sits back on his heels. He hears the whisper of Natasha’s bare feet on the floor behind him. The uncapped water bottle is suddenly in his field of vision.

"Did you drink it?“

He nods.

Natasha doesn't tell him what an idiot he is, and he is hugely thankful. He knows already that he made the wrong decision. He wonders if his judgement has been impaired by the knock-out drugs.

She crouches down next to him on the floor, looks intently at his eyes. Checking for signs of drugs in his system. She puts two fingers on the side of his neck, finds the pulse point. Clint can feel his heart beating and knows his pulse is a lot faster than normal.

"How do you feel?"

"Tired. Sore." He turns his head and spits, tries to get the sour-sick taste out of his mouth. It doesn't help much. 

She pulls his sleeve up with a finger to get a look at his wrists. His hands are tacky with blood. “What did they do?” .

Cold sweat prickles at his hairline. He might not be as done with the throwing up as he had hoped. “Nothing. Not to me.”

Her lips tighten. She waits for him to continue.

When the nausea retreats again, Clint rolls onto his back, away from the mess he’s made. Fuck the cold, he’s going to lie here for a while. “Guy called himself Blacker asked for my name." His voice sounds like he swallowed gravel. "I gave them Carter, but he called my bluff. Killed two women for it. Head shot, point blank at my feet.” He tries to tell it as clinically as he can. It’s not like Natasha can’t handle the details, she certainly can, but he doesn't want want to think about it too closely. Not now.

Natasha sits down next to him and pulls the sleeve of her overly large jumpsuit over her hand, wipes it down his chin. “Did you tell him?”

He closes his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

Natasha nods. Clint presses his cheek into the side of her leg and her hand comes to rest on his head. It stays there while he tells her about every tactical observation he made before, during, and after.

Chapter Text

It’s getting colder down there, to the point where their breaths curl white in the air. They speak very little as they lie close on the blanket, and Clint is so damn thirsty. His mouth tastes like dust, his lips are scratchy and dry. Throwing up is a surefire way of getting dehydrated. More dehydrated.

The headache hasn’t retired an inch and he holds his head as still as possible. It feels like a bad concussion, but there are no sore spots. He figures it's the knock-out drug still in his system rather than something in the water causing it, because he's been in pain since before drinking it. The water. If his head wasn't about to explode, he'd be tempted to bang it a few times against the wall. He's not usually that careless. That stupid. At least he hadn't had to put two fingers down his throat. If he's lucky, there wasn't enough time for much to be absorbed.

There's not much they can do until an opportunity presents itself, so they settle in to wait. Clint is real good at waiting, he regularly spends hours, days even, perched in a location, waiting to get the shot he needs, but he's not feeling so relaxed now. There’s got to be something he can do, some angle of attack that at least might work without one of them ending up dead. There has to be one, but he can’t see it. Every scenario he’s run in his mind ends badly for one or both of them. So he lies down and tries to rest.

They're left alone for hours again. Clint manages to doze a few minutes here and there, but when the heavy door latches are heard, he’s just lying there with his eyes closed. They’re both on their feet before the door is half open. It’s Huey, Dewey and Screwy again, and it's the same damn procedure. It is, however, a whole new level of unpleasant when the ties are tightened around Clint’s raw wrists.

“Mr. Barton,” Blacker says as he steps in. There's a mug of what looks like coffee in his hand. “I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot. That wasn’t pleasant for either one of us. I hope we don’t need a repeat of that.” He looks around the cell. “Sleep well?”

Neither of them bothers to reply. 

“No?” Blacker turns his attention to Natasha. “What’s your name, dear?”

Clint fixes his eyes on the far wall, balls his hands into fists behind his back. He wonders if he's about to play the part of the two women in this scenario.

“Natasha Romanoff.” No hesitation.

Clint watches Blacker from the corner of his eye and waits for the Sig to come out.

“See how easy that was,” Blacker says to Clint.

Clint doesn't acknowledge him, but the relief makes him silently release a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Blacker seems to believe Natasha. Either that, or he knew her name before asking and was testing her, and Clint doesn’t want to think about how Blacker might have known his name as well, and killed those women just to make a point. It’s a twisted and monstrous strategy, but very efficient. It drives the point home quickly and brutally. Do as I say, or pay the price.

Blacker turns to Natasha. “Ms. Romanoff, I wish we could have met under more pleasant circumstances.”

“I don’t.” The words are completely void of inflection, and Clint's knows this tone.

“Oh?” Blacker lifts an eyebrow.

“Yes. Now I have a reason to kill you.”

Run, fucker. Run.

Blacker looks amused as he makes a gesture at Clint. “Lovely as this has been, we have work to do. Come on. Let’s go.”

Once again, Natasha is left in the cell and Clint is hustled down the corridor. The door at the end is open. His heart starts beating harder as they approach it. It’s a perfectly normal reaction, textbook even, and he knows that the thing to do is to try to keep calm and not let it show. Natasha would have aced that. Clint suspects he barely gets a passing grade, and dammit, he shouldn’t be this off balance, not even after something like that. It's not his first horrible rodeo. 

But the room is not their destination this time. As they lead him past it, he sees that it is empty. The walls and floor are clean. They must have hosed it down.

They take him to the stairs. His shackles make climbing the steps awkward, and he stumbles several times. With his hands tied behind his back, he can’t catch himself and his knees are banged all to hell. In the end, they all but drag his sorry ass up the stairs. Apparently he’s a little too vocal in his complaints, because he’s ‘accidentally’ bounced off the heavy metal door frame at the top. His already sore side takes the brunt, and he decides right there and then that as of now, his left arm is retired. It’s off the payroll. He’s taking up one-armed archery. Maybe he could try headless archery, too, because he feels like he’s about to throw up from the pain that is pounding his brain to mush.

He's dragged forward. Squinting, he sees flat, mid-day light filter into the house. It means they're seriously past their check-in. A search team has probably been assembled already. A rescue sure would be nice, he thinks. Anytime now, Coulson.

Blacker is sipping his coffee calmly, waiting for him next to another set of stairs. He starts walking up without a word, and clearly Clint is expected to follow. He does. Screwy ahead of him, Huey and Dewey trailing behind. The wooden steps are higher, and if he thought the basement stairs were bad, this is bad's badder cousin.

After what feels like forever, Clint finally reaches the top of the creaky stairs. He's out of breath and dizzy when he awkwardly gets from his knees to his feet.

The room is large with several closed doors leading to adjacent rooms. Probably a space where, at one point in time, special guests were treated to the finest the house could offer. Now it’s empty, except for a small table at one wall and a desk at another. It's not as well-kept as downstairs. Faded wallpaper. Yellowish moisture stains blooming on the ceiling. One window. The same smell of damp and advancing rot as in the basement. And to his great relief, there's no one else in the room besides him and his entourage. No hostages cuffed to the wall. 

“You haven’t told us what you want yet," he reminds Blacker hoarsely. "If you share with the class this might actually go a lot smoother.”

“Oh, I want a lot of things.” Blacker walks over to the window, sets his coffee down on the window sill. He leans back and crosses his legs at the ankles. “And most of them actually don’t involve you.”

"What, like a private island, two Playboy bunnies and a Ferrari?" Clint shifts on his feet, trying to find a way to stand that doesn't hurt his knees.

"Not quite." Blacker smiles and Clint is beginning to hate that smile. He wants to see Blacker bleed so bad. He figures he could probably do some serious damage to the bastard with a head butt to the face. It would be one second of bone-deep gratification, and then he would be either dead by sudden onset of lead poisoning, or beaten until he wishes he was dead from said poisoning. Or they'd go after Natasha.

“Well, if we're not part of your plans, how about you just call a cab and we’ll be on our way?”

Blacker motions to the rickety wooden chair behind the desk. “Sit down, please.”

It’s not like Clint really has much of a choice, what with all the hardware pointed at him. He sits down at the desk. It’s dark wood, old and marred by stains, cigarette burns and watermarks. A single piece of paper is laid out in front of him. A pen is placed neatly across it. Blacker is apparently an old-school kind of guy. There are a lot of things he might ask for. Names of operatives, handlers. Information about ongoing operations, logistics, locations of safehouses, airbases, ghost sites, tactical centers. Even though SHIELD subscribes to the heavy duty version of need-to-know, Clint knows more than he probably should. As does Natasha.  

“Is all of this really necessary?” He nods to the guards.

Blacker looks over his shoulder at the guards. “You both have quite the reputation for bloodshed and mayhem. So, yes.”

Okay. So he definitely knows who they are. Then he knows who they work for. "For the record, my partner owns most of that reputation," Clint says. "Not that I don't enjoy the occasional bout of mayhem, but I try to be a little less... messy."

Blacker huffs out a laugh. "Well, you know, you're judged by the company you keep."

Clint shrugs his good shoulder. "I can live with that."

"Unlike many of your targets," Blacker muses. He taps the paper with his finger. "I need something from you." 

“My number? Blacker, I'm flattered, I really am, but you're not really my type.”

“I’m going to free your hands, now. Please don’t do anything stupid. You wouldn’t like the consequences." Blacker rounds him "Neither would Ms. Romanoff.”  He cuts the ties. “I want into SHIELD's system, Mr. Barton. I want your access codes.”

Clint shakes his hands out. SHIELD will be on alert by now, and he knows that it’s routine when operatives go dark to lock down the parts of the system they have access to, to change codes and randomly cycle through encryption algorithms. Clint and Natasha’s access codes are probably one of the few things that remain the same, with the marked difference that by now they’ll only give access to an isolated server, filled with misinformation and tons of tracking software waiting to be triggered.

“Since you know so much about us, you must realize that our guys will find us,” he says.

“Yes, of course.”

"Okay. Just wanted to make sure." Clint knows they'll be found. The question is whether the two of them will be alive when it happens.

“The codes, Mr. Barton." 

"I didn't hear the magic word."  

Blacker indulges him. "The codes, please."

"Never let it be said that Mrs. Blacker didn't raise a polite son." Clint gives him a grin that's only teeth.

"I really don't like having to repeat myself."

"So don't."

Blacker empties the coffee mug and places it on the desk "I had hoped that the demonstration downstairs would have been enough to for you to understand just how little patience I have with lies and stalling. But I guess you need another one."

Fuck. No, Clint really doesn’t need a refresher course. He reaches for the pen. 

Blacker pulls it out of reach, and Clint goes very still.

Chapter Text

Clint raises his hands. “Okay, okay. Let's not do anything rash, now.”

“Get up.” Blacker stuffs the pen into his pocket.

"I'll give you the codes, just don't... Just take it easy. I'll give them to you." He knows this is exactly what Blacker wants, for him to start making bargains, to start negotiating. It’s a game he doesn’t stand a chance in hell to win.

"I know you will. Now come here."

Clint pushes up slowly, stiffly. The floor feels like it moves a little under his feet, and he has to take a small step to counter the sensation. Shit. This is new. Whatever was in that damn water he drank must have been absorbed crazy quick, because there hadn't been all that many minutes between drinking it and throwing up.

Coulson better crash this party real soon, he thinks, because his name and codes are one thing, but more questions will be lined up, and at some point he won't have any other option than to stop yielding to Blacker. Some information just can't get into the wrong hands. No matter what leverage is used against him.

He forces his mind to focus on the situation at hand. He dares a casual glance around the room, checks the guards and their positions. Clint's hands are still untied and this might be the best opportunity he’ll get. He’s too far away from the guards to be able to take them out just now, but if he’s just a little lucky he might---

“How is our lovely friend doing downstairs,” Blacker asks, mildly. He doesn’t take his eyes off Clint, but it's clear the question isn’t aimed at him.

Huey relays the question into a comm device clipped onto his shoulder, law enforcement-style. He’s got an earpiece and Clint sees now that all three of his escorts have the same. Huey listens to something and a moment later he turns back to Blacker. “Calm and quiet down there,” he reports.

Blacker smiles at Clint. "Let’s keep it that way, shall we?" 

Clint wants to take a low grit sander to that smile. 

Blacker motions him over to the window. It’s an old-style window to go with the old-style interior. Layer upon layer of paint has been applied to the frame over the years, cracking and peeling in places. Sash bars divide the window into six dusty panes. The landscape beyond is rugged and rough under heavy, gray clouds. Clint's hunch from last night about the emptiness around the farm proves to be right. There’s nothing around but rough shrubbery and jagged rock formations that fades off in the drizzling rain. Yep. East of the city.

The rain has turned the ground in front of the house into even more of a mud pit than it had been when they’d arrived, and everything is cast in shades of washed out browns, greens, and grays. Clint sees two guards along the stretch of perimeter that's visible to him, and he finds at least one weak spot. There are four decaying sheds of varying sizes, randomly plunked down around the large yard at some point in time, and he thinks one of them might be a garage or a workshop. He lets part of his mind play with the idea of combining a power drill with Blacker’s knees as he continues his mapping of the exterior. Unpaved country road leading up to the house. Three vehicles parked along the left edge of the yard, two sedans, and one rusty, beat up distribution truck. Probably the one they were brought in on.

Blacker shifts behind him. Clint can hear the rustle of his clothes. "The view has a certain kind of charm, don't you think?”

"Sure," Clint says. "A dreary, suicide kind of charm. I’m more of a beach person, myself.”

“To each his own. Now, Mr. Barton, I would like to direct your attention to the structure directly below you.”     

Clint looks down. The fenced paddock he spotted the night before is right below the window. From up here, the paw prints in the mud and the scratches and claw marks on the stained lower, plank clad part of the enclosure makes it pretty clear what its purpose is. “Classy little fuckers, aren’t you? I mean, kidnapping, cold-blooded murder and dogfighting.”

“Bread and circuses.” Clint can hear the casual shrug riding the words. “Not everyone is a fine art connoisseur.” A tablet appears by Clint's side. 

Clint starts reaching for it with his left hand, but changes his mind when the movement does unpleasant things to his shoulder. He takes it with his right. There’s a media player open on the screen. Blacker reaches over and taps it. Clint immediately recognizes the scene in the clip that starts rolling. It’s the view he just turned away from. The paddock. The angle tells him it’s filmed from this very window. It’s nighttime and on the screen the floodlights around the pen are fired up, illuminating the circular area in bright, hard light. The film clip has no sound, but there's no mistaking the energy coming from the crowd around the paddock. There's violence in the air.

Four dogs prowl the pen. Must be the dogs he heard when they were taken from the truck to the house. Yeah. Definitely no Chihuahuas. Looks like some kind of Staff-mix, all solid muscle and sheer fucking tenacity. They’re agitated, baring their teeth and snapping at each other, growling and barking without sound at the silently taunting crowd.

“Beautiful animals, aren’t they?”  

Clint doesn’t answer, and just then, a ripple goes through the crowd on the screen, and the excitement escalates into something savage. The crowd at the back parts and Clint suddenly knows what’s he’s looking at. His stomach clenches.

“You sick fuck,” he grinds out. 

A man is dragged towards the pen by two guards. Clint recognizes one. It’s the bastard standing by the stairs behind him, Dewey. The captive is rail thin and dressed in an orange jumpsuit identical to Clint’s. He’s got a bag over his head and he’s hunched over, holds his tied hands in front of his face, trying to protect himself against the crowd he can hear but not see.

Clint starts counting all the ways he wants to kill Blacker.

One, smash his face with a lead pipe until his brains seeps out through his ears.

The bag is roughly pulled off the man’s head, and he squints in the glare of the floodlights. He looks not even twenty. No more than a kid. Jesus. Clint sees the moment the kid realizes what’s going to happen, sees the whites of his eyes and the utter panic as he lashes out, twists and kicks at the guards. They easily avoid his attacks and thrust him into the crowd. And once he’s within reach of the mob, he doesn’t stand a chance. He tries to dig his heels in, but he slips and goes down. He’s not down for long, he’s pulled up by his hair, his arms, his jumpsuit, and shoved forward. Within seconds, he hits the side of the pen. The dogs are going absolutely insane, and Clint feels cold to the very core.

Two, break one bone after the other until the bastard’s body can’t take it anymore and shuts down. Clint will make it last for days.

Three, slit his Achilles tendons and watch him try to crawl away as he bleeds out

A massive bouncer type shoves the crowd back to open a small gate at the bottom of the fence. The young man mindlessly grabs for anything he can reach as he’s pushed down and through. People’s clothes, their arms, the frame on both sides of the gate. A couple of vicious kicks to his hands make him lose his grip and he falls into the pen.

He doesn’t even get to his knees before the dogs are on him.

The sawdust on the ground goes dark in seconds. Clint sees the kid flail, curling up on himself, but the attacks come from all sides. The crowd has gone into a twisted, blood-fueled frenzy, soundlessly roaring and banging on the fence. Somehow, the kid manages to get to his knees and drags himself towards the fence, towards the door, all the while the dogs are tearing at him and each other. Their fur and snouts are smeared with dark red, and Clint can almost smell the blood. The kid makes it about a foot. 

Four, feed Blacker to his own fucking dogs.

Clint lowers the tablet. His chest feels tight. “You sick bastard.” He can barely keep his voice even because of the cold rage that burns in him.

“I don’t enjoy this, either. But as you pointed out yourself, it’s just a matter of time before you associates locate you, so we’re on the clock.” 

Clint puts the tablet down very carefully on the window sill. He wants to smash it into Blacker's head. “You’re not stupid," he grates out. "My codes only give access to low-level systems, nothing that you could possibly use. And you must realize that they are obsolete by now. So what do you really want?”

“I don't want anything from you." Blacker fishes the pen from his pocket and offers it to Clint again. “My employers, on the other hand, want everything. And I think we’ll start with the codes, regardless.”

Clint knows what he's doing. Mind games. Not even real subtle ones. Blacker doesn’t care about the codes as such at this point; he’s extracting the information just because he can, just to drive home the point - again - that Clint really doesn’t have a choice in the matter, and that any sort of resistance comes at a high price.

He takes the pen. “Who are they, then? Your employers? Old money or noveau riche?" Blacker really doesn’t seem like the stereotype villain who will happily reveal all out of some need to show the world how smart he is, but it's worth a shot.

“I wouldn't be very professional if I told you, would I?”

Clint has to give him that. Blacker is professional. Unnervingly so. “What do you get out of this?”

“A pay check.”

“Of course. So, what's the end game? Global domination?” He keeps his eyes on Blacker, tries to read every minute sign in his eyes and his body language, because doesn't want to hit another of this bastard's hard limits. Two dead women and a truly horrific video clip is more than enough for him. 

Blacker nods at the paper. “The codes. Now, Mr. Barton.”

Clint hold his calm gaze for three defiant seconds, then walks to the desk and starts writing. His codes are useless, won't give Blacker and his employers anything, but giving in like this still tastes like failure and surrender.

Blacker asks for the addresses to the safe houses in Stockholm, and Clint’s wonders if it's luck that Blacker asks for safe houses in a place where he actually knows the locations of the current ones. He used one just three months back. He writes down two obsolete addresses, and his hands wants to shake, because Blacker has proven what a psycho he is, and Clint is truly skating on thin ice here. If this is another test, if Blacker already knows the answer to this, too, people might die, and the thought of watching something like that again fills him with anxiety. It's an atypical reaction, and that's another proof that whatever chemicals were in that water are getting to him. Not because he's an emotionless bastard who normally wouldn't care, but because he has always been good at compartmentalizing when he needs to.

But Blacker just thanks him and procedes to ask for drop sites in Zurich. Clint weighs the risk of giving him more false information against the risk to on-going operations. The drop spots are changed every month, and the break point is tomorrow. He gives Blacker the real ones. The location of SHIELD's European server halls is next. Clint hesitates, then decides to go with the truth. 

“I have no idea. I don’t even know what a fucking server hall is.” He actually does know what one is, but that's not the relevant part here.

Blacker watches him silently for what feels like forever. Then he simply says, “Okay. I believe you.”

Clint wants to close his eyes in relief, but he doesn’t.

Blacker smiles at him. “We’re making good progress.”

The good progress stops shortly thereafter when Blacker asks for weapons depots in the US. Clint's anxiety steps over the edge into something that tastes like desperation, because he just ran out of space to yield. The depots are something he can't let Blacker have, not now, not ever. Clint gives him a landfill in Samson, West Virginia. 

Blacker spends a few moments checking his tablet. He raises one eyebrow and turns the tablet to face Clint. It's an aerial shot of the landfill. "You mean this?"

Fucking Google Earth.

"You don't expect the stash to be out in the open, do you? It's an underground facility," Clint tries. 

Blacker shakes his head. “You really are a slow study, aren't you?"

* * * * * 

When Clint is pushed into the cell again, Natasha isn’t there.

Chapter Text

Natasha is gone, and Clint’s at twenty-three and the third death by water by the time he feels a little less like he’s going to vibrate to pieces if he stops moving. He keeps telling himself that she's probably still is alive, because Blacker seems to be the kind of bastard who would make him watch. It's the ‘probably’ that makes his body want to pace again.

The routine had changed slightly when he’d been returned to the cell. Without Natasha there to ensure his compliance, he’d been ordered down onto his stomach, told to put his forehead to the ground. Out of the corner of his eye he’d seen a red dot hovering on the floor next to his cheek. The leg shackles had gone first and he'd been ordered to cross his feet at the ankles. After the zip ties had been cut, he'd been told put his arms out to the sides, palms up. The fact that he can't really get his left arm to move that way right now resulted in yelling and threats, and he counts himself lucky he hadn't acquired more injuries.

He rests the back of his head against the wall and pulls the blanket tighter around himself. Fuck. He's freezing. He closes his eyes and tries to ignore the cold. Sooner or later they are going to fuck up, and he will be ready when they do. The guards will die quickly, because Clint will need to get to Backer fast. The man will no doubt be in the wind the moment he realizes something isn’t right. Not that that will help in the least him if Natasha—

Clint will spend the rest of his life tracking him down.  

He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. The fatigue and headache that had been temporarily chased away by adrenaline have come back in force. It's hard to concentrate, but he tries to estimate how long they've been here. He normally has a pretty good sense of time, but throw chemicals into the mix and it gets fuzzy. He guesses up to four hours in the truck, judging from the fact it was still dark when they arrived. Roughly six hours between their arrival and his introduction to Blacker. Then three or four hours before being taken upstairs just now. But it could just as well have been two hours. Or five. He can’t be sure how much he actually slept. He settles on fourteen hours. Give or take. It feels like days.  

He eyes the new water bottle that’s been left for him by the door. Fourteen hours without water isn't optimal, but it really shouldn't be a massive problem yet. It shouldn't. But normally he’s not dosed up on something causing this level of dehydration, and dear God, he wants that water. He feels like he's about to shrivel up and turn into dust, but he refuses to give Blacker any more advantage than he already has. With a curse he runs his hand through his hair and rolls his bad shoulder slowly, carefully evaluating the damage again. The pain flares up brightly at a certain point, and he holds his breath until it recedes a little. Fuck. That hurts. He lets his head drop forward and presses his fingers against his temples in a futile attempt to stop the slowly pulsing pain. 

He can’t give Blacker and his bosses access to what is stored in those depots. Far too much of it could be used as weapons of mass-destruction. Thousands may die. Millions. He has no choice. None. That knowledge does absolutely nothing for the roiling, sick feeling in his gut. He gingerly folds his arm over his knees and lowers his forehead to rest against it. He’s so tired, so desperately tired.

And he might just have gotten Natasha killed.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

For someone on the clock, Blacker sure isn’t in a hurry and Clint eventually lies down and tries to rest. At first he thinks the blanket is starting to warm him up a little, but then he's suddenly sweating. He extricates himself from the blanket and wipes his sleeve over his face with a groan. Goddamn water. Look at him. Nausea. Throwing up. Fatigue. Balance out of alignment. And now, fever. It’s the gift that just keeps on giving, and he’s the fucking idiot who happily accepted it. Coulson is gonna have his ass. All symptoms are low-level on their own, but combined they’re already starting to wear him down. Fourteen hours. Fourteen. It eats at him. He’s withstood several days of interrogation before, but Blacker is getting to him in less than one.

The sick heat fades in a few minutes, but by then he’s soaked in sweat and soon he's shivering in the cold air. He wraps the blanket back around himself, pulls it over his head and hunkers down into his woefully inadequate cocoon.

It’s the start of an unpleasant cycle – chills and sweating, over and over, and he has to alternate between shedding the blanket to keep from spontaneously combusting and curling up tight under it. The sight of the kid and the dogs plays in his head every time he closes his eyes, so he tries not to. He concentrates on his newest bow instead. He visualizes every little component, recalls every tactile sensation, every carefully practiced movement. As he runs through every minute step of getting the bow ready for action, he tries to find his focus, tries to find some of that calm that settles over him when he’s alone on the range. When there’s nothing but his bow, the target, and him.

He doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until he wakes with a full-body jerk. He’s halfway to his feet when he gets tangled up in the blanket and crashes back to the floor. His heart beats like it’s trying to break out of his rib cage. The dogs. The fucking dogs.

Only in his dream it hadn’t been the poor kid in there with them.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

Clint takes to walking slow circuits around the cell with the blanket draped over his shoulders, humming under his breath to keep awake. Natasha always laughs at him when he sings. Okay, so he usually only sings when he’s absolutely tanked, but stones and glass houses he always tells her, because that girl can’t hold a tune to save her life. He starts singing dirty drinking songs he picked up from Trickshot. Then moves on to stupid Mary and her stupid little lamb. Son of a Preacher Man. Jingle Bells. He draws the line at Eminem. Then changes his mind. It’s way better than falling asleep again.

Chapter Text

Clint gives up singing after a while and settles down to stare at the door and wait. For the ducklings. Blacker. Natasha. Coulson. Whoever gets here first. His eyes feel hot and gritty, and the fever keeps trying to pull him down into surrender and sleep. He fights it as best as he can, but he feels sick and miserable and more tired than he’s probably felt his entire life. Even one of the beds in Medical would be a dream right now, and wow, if that’s not a sign of how fucked up he is, then nothing is.

He scrubs his good hand through his hair and down the stubble on his face. He should come up with a strategy. But if he’s honest with himself there really isn’t much to strategize about here, is there? Unless something drastic happens, Blacker is going to come back with questions Clint can’t answer. Won’t answer.

So. Wait for the recovery team and hope they get here soon? Or give the old attack-and-escape a go? In a less dire situation, Clint would probably opt to wait for the cavalry, but Blacker seems to be a psycho on the clock and will likely keep the ‘incitaments’ coming until he realizes Clint won’t give anything more up. By then more people will be dead and shortly thereafter so will Clint and Natasha. If she's not already.  

He goes back over all the intel he’s collected since they got there. Nothing like embracing your own death to get your head to clear up a little.

It strikes him that Blacker has targeted him only. Natasha hasn’t been questioned at all. As far as he knows, anyway. But why? Why not work them both? Does he figure he’s more likely to get further with civilians as leverage if he targets Clint. And he's not completely wrong. Clint knows that in this regard he's the weaker link in their admittedly strong chain, because Natasha accepts collateral damage better than he does. He knows she too struggles with it afterwards, on her own, in her own way, but during a mission she never hesitates. It’s impressive. And occasionally deeply disturbing.

The chills return once again and he huddles up under the blanket, arms crossed tightly over his chest and knees pulled up close. He hates fevers, not just because they make him feel like shit, but because he seems to lose all semblance of poker face when they hit. On one rare occasion Natasha had actually made him lie down on the couch with her when he’d come down with something and he was feeling particularly small and raw. They don’t usually do things like that, it's not who they are. Even though she lets him closer than most, her personal boundaries are lit up in neon and he respects her too much to push. Also, she gets kinda scary when someone does. He has witnessed it on many occasions, and it’s always a source of amusement to watch people, largely men, be either cut down verbally or kicked down physically. But once in a while the neon dims and she allows herself to reach out to him for a little comfort. He knows that’s something she doesn't do with a whole lot of people, and it makes him feel kind of proud. Special. And that’s something that doesn’t happen all that often, either.

He rubs gingerly at his aching shoulder. The waiting has the anxiety rising again, and his messed up brain doesn’t quite know how to combine it with the fatigue, so it pinballs between the two. He tries some breathing exercises that he’s been given by some SHIELD shrink or another, and he might have to reconsider their usefulness in other situations because they actually seem to work a little.

He startles when the door latches suddenly clang.

It's the three musketeers.

He is ordered to his feet. His hands are zipped behind his back and his ankles are shackled. They should save themselves time and effort and just leave the restraints on, he thinks darkly. But he reconsiders almost immediately, because it's still horrible on his shoulder and his wrists, and any reprieve he can get from the ties is worth a lot.

The door of horrors down the corridor is open, bright light spilling out. His breath gets stuck in his throat as they reach it.

By the wall, Natasha is lying on the floor, curled up. Her hair is matted and dark, her lip split and her left eye almost swollen shut. A cuff secures her to one of the rings in the wall. There's a lot of blood and Clint feels sick. She doesn't move and he can't see if she's even breathing. A detached, clinical part of his brain wants to know how they managed to inflict that kind of violence without leaving an opening for her to kill them all.

“Don’t worry,” Screwey says. “Your princess is alive. For now."

Huey shoves at Clint. “Come on. Move it.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Clint tells them when he can speak again. "Every single one of you. I'm going to kill you, and I will enjoy it.” He digs his heels as he's shoved again, willing her to give him some kind of sign that she’s alive. At least the walls are free of the kind of splatter he saw before, and that's something. Right? There are smears of blood on the wall above her where he thinks she must have put her hands for support at some point. He resists another push, and is rewarded with a flutter of Natasha's lashes.

Oh, thank god. She's alive. She's alive.

He gets to savor the relief for a second and a half, because all of a sudden Huey is apparently just as short on patience as Blacker and Clint’s vision goes bright with sparks. The side of his head bounces off the floor hard enough that for a moment he doesn't even feel the pain. But then it hits, and it's truly breathtaking. He sees fuzzy movement from the corner of his eye, and he tries to roll away from it, but he's clumsy and uncoordinated and the impact of the boot against his side is clean and vicious. Pain lances through his head again, and it feels like his brain has been turned into scrambled eggs and his ribs feel like they’ll cave in the next time someone touches them.

Then gravity completely collapses.

*    *    *    *    *    *

Ice cold water shocks him into flailing life. The sudden cold squeezes his lungs tightly and his breath comes in painful fits and starts for way too long. When he blinks the water from his eyes, he sees Huey setting a bucket down on the floor next to the stairs. He’s back in the room upstairs. He has no recollection of climbing the stairs, but as a whole host of new and exciting pains make their appearance, he starts to suspect that there probably wasn’t a whole lot of climbing involved. Just a lot of dragging.

God, his head hurts. He feels foggy. This is most definitely a concussion. 

Blacker is standing in the middle of the room, arms folded over his chest. "Third time's the charm, they say." He walks over to the small desk. “I’m afraid we have gotten information that indicates that your friends are closing in even faster than we had expected," he says over his shoulder.

Clint wonders dimly why he would volunteer information like that. It’s likely to give any captive renewed incentive to resist the interrogation. 

“That means we’re going to have to speed things up even more here,” Blacker continues. He unscrews the cap of a bottle and walks over to Clint. "I really don't like having to resort to this method, needles are so much more effective, but we've had some... problems with suppliers, so," he shrugs, "this is what I'm stuck with for now." He holds the bottle out to Clint. "Please have some of this."

Clint ducks his head away. "I don't take candy from strangers."

Blacker simply grabs his chin and that's a mistake. Clint bites. Hard. Blacker makes a noise of pain and jerks away. He rubs at his hand for a moment before walking to the desk. He puts the water down, then shrugs out of his jacket and starts rolling up his sleeves. "Well, I set myself up for that, didn't I." 

He directs the guards towards Clint with a nod of the head, and Clint presses himself against the wall as all three of them head towards him. With his hands tied behind his back it's impossible to stop them from dragging him to the center of the room where he is wrestled onto his back. He struggles the best that he can, which isn’t much and it’s easy for the three of them to immobilize him completely. Huey holds down his legs, Dewey sits on his chest, and Screwey grabs his hair to keep his head still. Clint still continues to fight them, loudly and viciously, but he only manages to tear his wrists to shreds again. 

Blacker leans over him. "This might be a little unpleasant." He sounds almost apologetic.

The bottle appears in Clint’s field of vision and despite his best attempt to stay calm, his brain goes straight to white-out fucking panic, because water and being held down is a combo he's experienced before. He twists and bucks to dislodge them, but it's an exercise in futility. He's left to press his mouth shut and clench his teeth. Then Dewey punches him in the side and he's unable to do even that. Blacker slips something between his teeth. A wedge of some kind. It's held in place despite Clint’s desperate attempts at dislodging it.

And then he's choking.

He starts coughing, but there’s more water, and more, and Clint can’t draw enough breath to spit it back out. He splutters and coughs and he has no choice, he has to swallow if he’s going to get any air at all. Most of it ends up running down the sides of his face, but way too much goes down.

Then Blacker holds up, but Clint’s lungs keep refusing him a proper breath and he wheezes and coughs until he’s retching.

Soon there’s more water.

Blacker finally sits back on his heels. “I think that should do it.” He grabs a towel from somewhere behind him and wipes Clint’s face dry between his miserable coughing fits. It's a strangely gentle gesture. He pats Clint on the shoulder. “Well done.”

Clint wants to tell him ‘fuck you’, but his body is busy trying not to suffocate, and the only thing he manages is an ugly, wheezing noise before he goes into another paroxysm. His ribs hate him with the fire of a thousand burning suns, and he’s all kinds of thankful when the guards get off him. Makes it a little easier to draw in a full breath. A full painful breath that his lungs don't like at all, and he rolls over and coughs and coughs, but it still feels like he’s not getting enough air, like he's drowning.

It takes a while, but eventually the constant hacking tapers off a little. The feeling of gravel in his lungs doesn’t, but he manages to get to his knees, anyway. He's sways dangerously, but he will not give Blacker the satisfaction of seeing him cower on the floor. The water sits sickly in his stomach and he swallows over and over.  

Blacker lowers himself down behind the desk and leans back in the chair. “I suggest you try to keep it down. If you don't, we’ll do it again. And again and again until I’m satisfied."

Clint is truly, honestly trying to do just that, but Blacker hasn’t even finished speaking when his body overrules him and he doubles over. Water splatters down his front and onto the floor. The pain in his head shoots up with renewed white-out intensity.

Blacker gets to his feet. He grabs a handful of Clint’s jumpsuit and drags him through the wetness. Clint tries to get his feet under himself, to get away, but his legs don't seem to work quite the way they should. He's no match for them this time either, and it’s hell all over. He chokes and snorts and involuntarily swallows more of the horrible water. This time he throws up lying on his back, and it feels like half of it ends up in his lungs.

Blacker relents just before the nothingness that's creeping up at the edges of Clint's vision takes over completely. “Unless you want to go on the merry-go-round once more, I suggest you keep it down this time.” 

Clint is left shaking on the floor. He squeezes his eyes shut, and tears from coughing leaks out. His throat and sinuses burn and he tries to keep his breathing shallow enough to not trigger more coughing, but deep enough to not feel like he’s suffocating. It’s hard, his body keeps overriding him, keeps demanding more air, and coughing rolls over into awful retching again.   

He almost loses the battle twice, but manages to keep the water down by sheer force of will.

On the other side of the room, Blacker fiddles with something on his tablet. The guards have moved back into their usual positions at the stairs and the walls flanking it. Clint doesn’t know if it’s it's a reaction to being almost drowned, or if it’s the drugs in the water that’s already kicking in, but he’s growing increasingly dizzy and the floor has started to move in ways it most definitely shouldn’t.

“How are you feeling?"

Blacker is leaning over him, and Clint flinches hard. Fuck. He must have zoned out. That's bad, that's real bad. “Awsome,” he manages to get out. "Thanks for asking." He is freezing cold again and being soaking wet is not helping one bit. His teeth are chattering. 

Blacker smiles that fucking smile again. “I’m glad to hear it.” He threads his arm under Clint’s and helps him to his feet. Clint has to close his eyes when the floor tilts dangerously.

“We should get started again,” Blacker tells him.  

Clint freezes. No, please, no more. He can't take another round. He can't.

Blacker pats Clint's arm. “No, no. You misunderstand me. You drank your water like a good boy, so we are past that. Now we’re going to work.”   

Chapter Text

“It doesn’t have to be like this, you know,” Blacker tells him as he settles Clint by the desk again.

Yes, Clint thinks. Yes, it does.  

Water drips from his hair and hands and clothes, collecting under the chair in a growing puddle. He’s wracked by full-body shivers now and trying to keep the contents of his stomach down is still a battle. It’s one he’s determined not to lose, because god help him, he believes Blacker, believes with his whole heart the bastard will put him back on the floor for another go.

Blacker steps behind him. “I’m going to free your hands now.”

He cuts the ties and doesn’t bother with any warning this time. The fog in Clint's head makes him slow on the upstart, but as Blacker moves away to retrieve his tablet, he realizes that this is it, this is his only chance. Blacker doesn’t think he’s a threat any longer. Finally. Fucking finally. Something he can work with. He's in shit shape, and whatever he manages will be a long-shot, but it's all he's got, because he’s sure that both he and Natasha will have a double-tap to the head to look forward to when Blacker gets tired of this game. He's going to turn the tables on this asshole. See how he likes being the leverage, the human shield. The odds are staggeringly low, but Clint thinks that if he can get behind Blacker, there's at least a chance that his helper monkeys will hesitate to shot him to get to Clint.

“The east coast depot, if you will, Mr. Barton.”

“Already told you that," Clint says hoarsely. Talking hurts.

“Yes, you did. Now let’s try for the real one.”

He stays hunched over, unmoving except for the tremors that run through him.

“Well, we can get back to that in a little while," Blacker says magnanimously. "How about the facility in the Mojave? For your impressive little jets. Death Valley is the best guess to date. A little more detail would be appreciated.”

“Average temperature in July is 116 degrees there.“ Clint read a book on Death Valley that someone had left in a safehouse a few years ago, and for some reason that tidbit had stuck.

He clenches his teeth as another massive shiver runs through him. The pain in his head is changing. It's more of a dull, pulsing sensation now. On top of that, he’s starting to feel weirdly wired, which means he needs to get his mind off the depot and the Death Valley maintenance facility right fucking now, because while ‘truth serums’ are notoriously shitty when it comes to getting outright answers out of an unwilling answeree, most of them make people loopy and talkative and susceptible to suggestions. Slipping up is real easy and even unconscious clues might be enough for a skilled analyst. Fighting it is a waste of energy, and Clint knows that the best thing is to go with the flow. Chatter on about high and low, old and new, about annoyingly irrelevant stuff that drowns out whatever relevant hints may escape. He's good at that. He’s going to throw so much bullshit at Blacker that the man is going to need a shovel to find the useful stuff.

So he gets to it, despite the black hole in his stomach that reminds him he's inching closer with every word to getting himself or someone else killed. He describes every detail he can remember about the hole-in-the-wall place he found in Bangalore last time, where the coffee was the best he’s ever had in his life, absolutely divine. Very unexpected, he has to say, and did Blacker ever drive a Koenigsegg Regera? Clint did, last year and they’re sweet, so sweet, like 1,500 horse powers sweet. In the middle of that sentence, Clint suddenly gets the strangest feeling that maybe not all of the words actually come out right. A second later he decides who the hell cares and goes on to tell Blacker about the tiger he used to have, well, not really, it wasn’t his, but there was this little albino cub that used to cuddle up to sleep in his lap, suckling his fingers and Barney would always tease him about making a good mommy one day.

Shit. No. No talking about Barney. Personal information is bad. Moving on.

He brings his hands up to scrub at his eyes, but stops. His wrists are a mess. It looks like it should hurt, he thinks. Blacker shifts on his feet, and Clint pulls his focus back to him. It takes more effort than he would like.

"Hey, what’s up with the garbage situation in Naples? Even the Italian mafia must get sick of the smell of rotting fish and dirty diapers." The last couple of words are partially lost in the coughing fit that claws its way up from Clint’s lungs. He clutches at his busted ribs as he doubles over.

“I’m going to suggest the base is somewhere in the vicinity of Furnace Creek,” Blacker calmly says when Clint can finally sit upright again. “Any comments on that?” He pokes at something on his tablet, looking disinterested.

“You been to Graceland?" Clint's voice is no more than a wheeze. "I wanna go someday. See the Jungle Room.” He tries to hum Don’t Be Cruel, but his throat hurts so he stops.

“How about Badwater, then?”

Clint shakes his head with a grin, and the room starts spinning around him. For a moment it feels like he's going to fall off the chair. “Colder,” he sing-songs hoarsely. “You’re getting colder.” The moment the words are out of his mouth he knows it's a mistake. Shit, Barton. That's as close as you can get to telling them straight out that there is something in the Mojave without actually saying it.

When Blacker goes on to suggest Chloride City as the location, Clint dusts off the Conyo-speak he picked up during his months in Manila and recounts the story about the fishball vendor throwing his merchandise after a couple of asshole tourists. Clint knows he’s completely butchering what's already a heavily pidginized form of communication, but anything to make things more difficult for him. Blacker keeps asking the same two questions again and again. Depot. Air base. Clint keeps waiting for Blacker to bring some other poor bastard in, but he doesn't. Maybe he ran out of civilians to kill, Clint thinks, and an inappropriate snicker almost escapes. But then he remembers Natasha. Who isn’t a civilian, but still killable, no matter how lethal her training has made her.

God, he hopes Blacker’s strategy has changed and that it’s all about him now, because he doesn't want to watch someone else die on his behalf. But it’s hard to be completely zen about the thought of being the sole focus of Blacker's attention, because the prospect of more water coming his way fills him with renewed anxiety. If he could just find the switch in his head, the one that's seen him through shit on many occasions before. The one that turns off just about everything that prevents him from thinking clearly and acting decisively. But it went AWOL many hours ago. Fucking drugs. Fucking Blacker.    

“Mr Barton, I have to say I’ve always been impressed with how well SHIELD trains their agents, but there’s strong and then there’s stupid.” Blacker looks concerned.

Clint gives a jerky shrug. His shoulder and back remind him that it’s still a bad idea. “Never was the smart one.”

Blacker takes a small step closer and it looks like he's not even aware of it. Clint works very hard at not give anything away. Come here, he tries to convince Blacker telepathically. Come a little closer. I have cookies for you. His hands are itching to get a hold of that bastard. He balls them into fists in his lap and wishes they would stop shaking so much.

“Tell me more about the east coast depot,” Blacker asks again.  

“It's a wonderful place with bluebirds and rainbows and all.”

It’s definitely not Juliette, Maryland. Nope. No, Siree.

Blacker is about to ask something else when his phone rings in his pocket. He digs it out and answers curtly, listens, and says, I understand. He puts it back and turns back to Clint.

“I will give you one more chance to tell me what I want to know.”

“Okay,” Clint says, because he’s reasonable like that, and informs Blacker why it’s not recommended – repeat, not recommended - to call Natasha a cutie pie and pinch her ass, which in some not so convoluted way leads to a list of some of the injuries he’s treated. Not his own, no, that’s a whole different story, but others’. Like the guy who was sliced open by shrapnel in Bosnia and had his insides fall out, or the one who decided a compound femur fracture was something he wanted to experience in the middle of a freaking jungle. Oh, hey, jungle room. No, wait. Those are not related.

“Are you sure you don’t want to share?”

Clint nods. He's sure. Very sure, indeed.

“So be it.” Blacker reaches for his coat, pulls it on. He walks over to the window and opens it, and Clint’s brain suddenly catches up to the fact that he’s heard noises from outside all along. A concussion in full swing and being drowned has a tendency to put most other things on the back burner, but there's no missing it now. Voices. Lots of voices. Loud voices.

And dogs.

It’s like getting kicked in the chest and Clint can’t get a single word past the tightness of his throat.

“Get up.”

Clint shakes his head. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to see that again, not on a screen and not live, but the weapons level on him again. His knees feels watery and he almost falls as he pushes to his feet, but somehow he manages to find some semblance of balance. Shit. This is going to be bad, just as bad as with the two women downstairs. No. It’ll be worse, because this time Clint knows what’s coming. But this is it, Blacker is about to leave and Clint is running out of time. Nauseating as the thought of looking out that window is, if he's going to have any chance of getting a hold of Blacker, he needs to get closer.

Everything moves in disturbing waves under him but he reaches the window without kissing the floor. Blacker is still just out of reach, but he’s closer, lots closer. A roar from outside draws Clint's eyes to the scene below. He recognizes the dark, ugly energy that rolls off the small crowd. Sharks, smelling blood in the water. Clint has seen many things he doesn’t care to remember through the years, but if this is anything like what he watched in that clip, it will easily go into the top five on his list of fucking horrible things.

“I’ll take my leave now,” Blacker picks a pair of leather gloves from his coat pocket and shakes them out. Clint angles his body just a fraction, lining up for his attack, waiting for the moment when Blacker's attention will be more on his gloves than on him. “I’m truly sorry we didn’t get more time together, Mr. Barton, but I hope you remember one thing.” Blacker looks up at him, eyes like cold flint. “You’re the one who fed her to the dogs.”

Clint's head snaps around towards the window again, because no, no, no, not this. He sees the orange jumpsuit, sees the red hair, and for a moment time stands still as he watches Natasha being dragged towards the waiting crowd. Then rational thought simply blinks out and he goes for Blacker's throat. But his fingers haven’t even begun to wrap around Blacker’s neck before what feels like a two by four hits him squarely from head to toe. He drops like his bones have turned to dust.

He lies on the floor, his muscles locked and useless. Taser. Fuck. He’s been hit with a taser. The current stops and he tries to claw his way to his feet. Blacker is forgotten, because Natasha, Natasha is out there, and the dogs are out there, and he has to do something. Something. But another crackling jolt sends him down again. This time it lasts longer, and the sounds around him go sharp in all the wrong ways. His mouth tastes like metal. When the current stops again he tries to reach the taser prongs lodged in his back, rip them out, but before he can, he’s hit again, and this time when it stops, he can’t even get his hands and knees under himself. He lies there, his body twitching and hears the excitement rise outside. His nails scratch uselessly at the floor, trying to find something to hold on to, something that will help him get up. Natasha. Natasha. 

He’s pulled up by the scruff of his jumpsuit, and sees the back of Blacker disappearing down the stairs. He can’t coordinate his limbs enough to put up any resistance that counts, and Screwey dumps him on the floor at the wall. With the help of the wall Clint somehow makes it to his knees, but Screwey just pushes him over with his boot and Clint can’t get up again, he can’t, he just lies there shaking. The dogs howl in excitement, and suddenly the noise level spikes sharply. Clint curls up then and there’s nothing except for the horrible sounds from outside, the howls and cheers and finally a scream that his brain refuses to link to Natasha.

Screwey looms over him, gun in hand. This is where it ends, Clint thinks distantly. This is where Coulson will find him. Them.

But there is no bullet to the head. Screwey stares down at him for a few long seconds more, then just turns and leaves, leaving Clint on the floor unable to do anything but listen to Natasha dying. 

Chapter Text

Phil’s breath clouds silver in the cold air as he watches the first medevac take off with Lassiter. Arterial bleeding, hypovolemic shock, where the hell is that second RIC line, GCS is seven and PRBC going in now – Phil is far more familiar with the terms that are bandied around on the medical frequency than he would like to be. He wipes his slippery hands down the sides of his black tac vest, gets some of Lassiter’s blood off.  

The resistance they have encountered this far has been just as fierce as they had been told to expect when the intel team had presented their findings, but the extraction teams are quickly and methodically clearing area after area using flash bangs and brute force.

Reports soon start coming in; perimeter secured, primary team is inside, and the count of detained hostiles keeps going up. Then comes welcome news: Barton has been retrieved. Injured but more or less ambulatory, is the message Pihl gets over the comm.

It takes quite a while, but Clint is finally brought out. He's barefoot and in a prison-orange jumpsuit, and Phil sees that there’s an obvious tilt towards the less part of the ‘more or less ambulatory’ equation, but Clint is walking nonetheless. Of course he’s walking; the man has yet to meet a stretcher he didn’t dislike. Phil jogs towards him, waving Renzie and his med team with him.

He gets a better look. Well, walking might be too strong a word, Clint is half-hanging off Sanchez. Phil ducks in under Clint’s other arm, but Clint twists away with a sharp sound of pain and his knees buckle. Sanchez smoothly goes with him, planting one knee in the muddy water to keep him from toppling over.

”He was favoring his arm, Sir. I think it’s pretty messed up." Sanchez looks at the jet, seems to gauge the distance. "Should we get a stretcher?”

Clint doesn't lift his head but shakes it violently, and Sanchez looks up at Phil for guidance.

“Unless you’re ready to fight him all the way, that’s a no,” Phil sighs.

Sanchez hesitates, then nods. “Okay. Let's get him up, then.”

They carefully get him to his feet. “I’ve got him,” Phil says and sidles in to take Sanchez's place.

Sanchez extricates himself and steps away. The orange jumpsuit is wet against Phil’s side, and he can feel Clint shivering uncontrollably in the freezing air. Clint suddenly doubles over, arm pressed tightly to his side, and starts coughing.

Phil stops moving and holds him through it. “Easy, easy.”

Clint lifts his head. “Coulson?” he wheezes. He blinks, looks around like he can’t quite pinpoint where Phil’s voice is coming from.

“That’s right. We’re here.” Phil squeezes his arm lightly and hikes him up a little more. “Let’s get you home.”

Renzie and De Havilland trot closer, trauma kits slung over their shoulders, and Phil feels the tension that surges up through Clint’s body. Dammit. This could go bad very fast. He holds up his hand, stopping the medics in their tracks. Clint obviously recognizes Phil, and some part of him has recognized that Sanchez isn’t a direct threat either, but other than that Phil doesn’t know what kind of headspace he's in, and based on this little reaction he decides it’s safest not to take any risks.

“Back away just a little,” he tells the team. A moment later, Clint’s bare feet slip in the mud and Phil almost goes down as he has to take most of his weight. The man’s deceptively heavy, all solid muscle.

Phil is still finding his balance when his ear piece comes to life. Romanoff has been located. Ambulatory as well. Phil allows himself a moment of relief before turning his whole attention back to the task at hand. There will be time for relief when they’re done here.

“Come on. Let’s get you home.” He gets Clint a few steps closer to the jet, but then Clint abruptly stops in his tracks. He twists and grabs Phil’s tac vest.

“Natasha.” His teeth are chattering and Phil has never seen him look this shattered. So totally and utterly shattered. “She, she— Blacker, I couldn’t, I…“

Phil motions for the thermal blanket. He makes sure De Havilland doesn’t come too close. “Take it easy, Barton. She’s alright. We’re getting her now.” He somehow manages to get the blanket over Clint’s shoulders with one hand and without letting him slide to the ground.

“No, no, you, you don’t know, I couldn’t— I have to— “ 

Phil exchanges a look with Renzie over Clint's head. He doesn’t like the way Clint can’t seem to string a sentence together. They need to get him onto the jet, where Renzie has already set up the back with the medical equipment they routinely bring along for any extraction with a hostile element, but Clint digs his heels in and refuses to move.

“Barton. You need to let us take care of you.”

Clint tries to twists away. "I have to—“ 

Phil gets a more secure grip. The sooner they get him into the jet, the sooner they can get him home. Renzie and his team are best of the best, but there are things even they can't treat in the back of the jet. A traumatic head injury, for example. “Easy," he tells Clint. "We’re getting Natasha as we speak.

A violent shake of the head. “The dogs," Clint breathes. "Coulson, the fucking dogs…”

“The dogs are taken care of, too.” Phil steers him the last steps towards the loading hatch. Clint can hardly stay on his feet, but he's still trying to break free. “Calm down. You're safe. It’s time to go home.” Phil speaks calmly, firmly, hoping that even if his words don’t reach all the way that maybe his tone will.

"I can’t leave her. I have to—" Clint pushes at him. "I can’t leave her.”  

Phil doesn't let go and starts telling him again that they’re not leaving Natasha, and then he has to duck, because Clint’s eyes go a little wild around the edges and he swings. But his aim is off, his movements clumsy and broadcasted like CNN, and it's easy for Phil to block and divert the attack. The momentum of the swing makes Clint stumble, and Phil has to grab the back of his jumpsuit to keep him from going down face first onto the metal grating of the hatch. The next second Clint is fighting him, really fighting him. Phil blocks another wild punch. Dammit. Aggression is a potential symptom of a head injury and Clint needs to be taken to Medical right now.

It's far too easy to get Clint down, but maintaining control of him there is a whole different matter. Phil hisses as he takes an elbow to the face. He feels Clint’s hand fumble at the holster on his right thigh. Shit. He twists, trying to get his sidearm out of reach.

“Renzie. A little help here,” he shouts, his voice strangled as he tries to keep Clint’s arms pinned down, because weak and half out of his head, Clint is still a dangerous man. 

“Let go," Clint moans. "Let go, I have to— “

He almost gets leverage enough to flip Phil, but almost isn’t enough, and Phil gets the upper hand again. Then Renzie is there, and they mostly manage to keep Clint down.

"Get off!" Clint’s voice goes tight and desperate. He twists again. “Get off, I have to— Coulson, get off. Let me go. Please. Phil, please!" It ends on something that’s so close to a wail it makes the little hairs on the back of Phil’s neck stand up.  

“I will,” he pants. “I’ll let you go as soon as you calm down, you’re going to hurt yourself.” Clint’s wrists are slippery, and Phil loses his grip for a second. A moment later, blood is running down his chin from a split lip. Jesus. This is going nowhere fast. They have to get him into the damn jet. “Barton, stand down!” He puts as much authority in the words that he can. 

That seems to get through to him, because Clint goes dead still under him.    

Phil stays where he is, panting and waiting for Clint to explode into violent movement again. He counts very slowly to ten in his head, acutely aware of the medical team staring down at them. When Clint doesn't move, he cautiously rolls off him. Renzie does the same. Phil sits back on his heels and draws the sleeve of his jacket over his mouth, wincing at the fierce sting in his lower lip. Above him, Renzie snaps orders to his team, the loading ramp vibrates with the tread of heavy boots, and then they're alone.

Phil leans over Clint, as close as he dares. Clint's eyes are squeezes shut, his breath still harsh.

Phil modulates his voice into something kinder. “Barton. You’re okay. Natasha is okay. Do you understand?” When he doesn't get an answer, he puts his hand on Clint's shoulder. Lightly. Carefully. "Clint. You're okay." 

Clint turns his face away.  

There’s no fight left in him as Phil and Renize get him up and into the back of the jet. While Renize tends to Clint, Phil reinserts the earpiece that had been dislodged during the fight and requests a status report. Romanoff has been secured and is heading to the second jet this very moment. Some minor injuries but thankfully no casualties on SHIELD's side (the 'yet' is unspoken. Phil’s hands are still tacky with Lassiter’s blood). Some not so minor injuries and three casualties on the other side. He feels a stab of anger when he learns that the leader seems to have slipped through their fingers. 

Phil buckles up as the jet turbines come to life with a whine that grows into a massive roar. He gets a cold pack for his face and a pen light in his eyes. The verdict seems to be that he’s going to live. On the other side of the bay, Clint lies curled up under the thermal blanket, and Renzie has an IV line in before they’re even airborne. 

Renzie comes over later and gives Phil the abridged version of Natasha’s status in the other jet. Bruised and sore, but all in all okay. Clint’s injuries on the other hand, well, they're worse, but he’s stable at the moment. But with what looks like a pretty sizable concussion that can change quickly, Renzie cautions him, and Phil wants to snap at him, wants to tell the medic that he was in the field before Renzie was even out of middle school, and he knows things can go downhill fast. He’s seen it. More than once. 

But he doesn’t. He thanks Renzie for the information and sits back in his seat.

Chapter Text

Phil waits at the back of the trauma bay as Renzie does the handover and Clint is stripped and assessed, then taken away to be CT’ed and x-rayed up and down. They're most concerned about the concussion, but thankfully it's not immediately life-threatening. But not life-threatening doesn’t mean not painful, and the doctors are reluctant to give Clint anything stronger than acetaminophen before the tox screen comes back. All they can do is monitor him, keep him warm, and push fluids into him. Phil watches them immobilize Clint's left arm, clean and bandage the angrily red lacerations on his wrists. He recognizes the marks of a struggle against unyielding restraints.

Natasha arrives shortly after Clint in the second jet, bruised and bloodied, but in much better shape than her partner. After a primary assessment she is taken to the general ward. When Phil gets to her, she’s sitting on the edge of one of the beds, gingerly cleaning her face from dirt and blood with a wet wipe. She drops the dirty wipe in the small pile of already discarded ones. One eye is partially swollen shut, she has a split lip to match Phil’s, and blueish-red bruises run down the length of her jaw. There's a darkening below her eyes that speaks of two black eyes coming along nicely. No facial fractures, he's been told. No concussion, just contusions and scrapes.

She tells him about their capture, and Phil blames the long day and the night of absolutely no sleep for having to concentrate to not yell at her for her breach of protocol. She's able to give him some information on Blacker, what he wanted, his interrogation techniques. She hadn't been asked anything, just left in that cell as Clint had been taken. She doesn’t know what happened to him after he was taken the second time, only that after some time the guards had come and tasered her to within an inch of her life. She scowls when she tells him that the method and execution of tying her down had been impressive, and it certainly must have been for her not to get a chance to strike. Then the beating had started. He can tell it doesn’t sit well with her. Not the pain itself, but the fact that she’d been rendered helpless.

Cold anger rises when she describes the pleasure the guards took in giving her a detailed description of just what kind of dog-fight was about to go down. Clint's gasping words makes sense now. The dogs. Coulson, the fucking dogs. Then there had been more beating and she can’t recount with any certainty what happened until she came to outside, being dragged towards the crowd around the dog pen. She'd been pushed up against the chain link fence, but she hadn’t become dog food. Instead they had taken her to one of the smaller buildings in the yard. They seemed to have a thing for metal rings in walls, she tells him with a wry smile, because she’d been cuffed to one just like the one inside the house. Steel anchored in reinforced concrete. 

She’d been left in the shed until the recovery team had showed up, and Phil can only speculate why they hadn’t both been terminated the moment Blacker realized the game was up. Maybe he had planned to sell them to the highest bidder but had run out of time, SHIELD operatives are hard currency for some people. Or maybe he understood that there would be no hole deep enough to hide in if he killed them.

"I'm sure the stunt with the dogs was for Barton's benefit," she says.

Phil agrees.

Natasha's mouth tightens. “How is he?”

“Stable at the moment. Concussion and drugs are the major concerns right now.”  

She nods, looks down at her hands, at the balled up wet wipe. “The moment I can see him, I want to know.”

“Of course."

Phil leaves her and goes to check up on Lassiter. His team leader tells Phil he's is still in surgery. He lost a lot of blood. A lot. Was barely alive when he arrived, and he’s not out of the woods by a long shot. When one of the nurses hurries out and the outer doors swing open for a moment, Phil spots members of the team in the corridor. Still in tac gear, sitting in a row on the floor with their backs against the wall. A silent, grim vigil. 

A frazzled-looking doctor gives Phil an update of Clint's injuries. The words 'aspirated water' have made it onto the growing list, along with a side of things like 'risk of secondary drowning' and 'pneumonia'.

The doctor leaves, and Phil sits down heavily on one of the empty beds. He rubs at his gritty eyes. When he looks up, a graying nurse stands in front of him. Richardson, her name tag says.

She pushes her bifocals up on her nose. “Are you injured?”

Phil shakes his head and gets to his feet. She's almost a full head shorter than he is. "No, nothing that needs medical attention," he tells her.

She arches a very expressive eyebrow and looks pointedly at his hands. They're dark with Lassiter's blood. Phil wipes them down his pants. It's long since dry, so it doesn't really help. "It’s not mine.”

She takes his chin and prods at his cheek bone. He winces. Must be where Clint's elbow impacted. She then turns his head first left, then right, looking over his split lip. "No loose teeth?"

"No."

She pulls the glasses off and lets them hang from the beaded chain around her neck. "Then I suggest you go dirty up someone else's trauma room.”

Phil looks down. He’s filthy, covered in caking mud and god knows what. His field gear is more gray-brown than black.   

*    *    *  

A quick shower, a change of clothes, and he's is back in Medical. As he walks in, he sees the camped-out team outside has had a change of guard. 

The doctors in the inner area look relieved to see him, and Phil knows why. Clint has a history of being unpredictable when in an altered state of consciousness. But this time he's passive, silent unless asked a direct question. The half-vacant flatness that curls around him like smoke is not making Phil happy. 

Hill comes with coffee in a paper cup and Phil's laptop, his tablet and phone. She doesn’t stay long, just tells him to keep her updated if anything happens. 

When declared not actively dying, Clint is taken to a slightly more private corner and transferred to an actual bed. The monitors and IV lines and ECG leads come with him. A blood pressure cuff is fitted over his right arm and comes to life with regular intervals. He gets an oxygen nose tube along with an oxymeter on one of his fingers. He doesn't protest any of it, and that fact alone speaks volumes. Blacker had them for a day, but Phil knows that's more than enough time to inflict serious damage.

He sits down in the chair that one of the nurses brings for him and scrubs at his eyes again. He can’t shrug off a night without sleep as easily as he could a few years ago. He’s exhausted to the bone, but he's not leaving Clint alone here alone until he’s resting comfortably in the soft arms of heavy drugs. Until that happens, maybe it will be of some small comfort to have a familiar face around. It has helped him on a few occasions, anyway.

Phil looks up when he  hears Clint start coughing. Clint is breathless and teary-eyed when he can finally draw a proper breath again. With a groan, he lies back against the mattress, and Phil feels for him. That kind of strain on cracked ribs hurts like hell.

Clint still sounds wheezy, so Phil holds out the glass of water one of the nurses had brought. "Do you want a drink?"

"I need to tell you what happened."

His voice is as scratchy as Phil’s ever heard, and he wonders if it’s from the water or from screaming. He's not about to ask now, though, he will find out soon enough. He puts the glass back and shakes his head. "It can wait. I got some of it from Natasha."  

“No. It's alright. I'm okay.”

He sounds very far from okay, and Phil would prefer to wait, at least until the drugs have worn off and Clint has gotten some rest, but if it gives him some semblance of normality, Phil's not going to refuse him that. They'll debrief more in-depth later.

So when Clint starts talking, he picks up his tablet and takes notes, asks a few questions here and there, but mostly he lets Clint lead the way. It's halting, but Clint manages to tell him that there had been questions about Mojave, and the Juliette depot, and Phil hates to ask but he has to know if the sites have been compromised. The tension and distress rises around Clint as he tells Phil no, over and over and over, and then there's something about the dogs and about Switzerland tomorrow, but when Phil tries to get more information, Clint talks about stairs and white rooms and a woman whose name Phil doesn't recognize. Phil tries again to tell him that this can wait, but Clint has already circled back to the dogs, and his narration suddenly gets choppy and tangled in a way that leaves Phil with a sinking feeling in his stomach. He calls the doctor who comes with a pen light and asks Clint to follow it with his eyes, do things with his fingers and answer simple questions. Clint shivers his way through the test, but passes. The doctor adjusts the IV drip and gives Phil the evil eye, but he doesn't say anything before he leaves.

When the doctor is gone, Clint draws a shaky breath and tries to bring his hand up to his eyes. The lines snag when it's halfway, and he stares blankly at it for a second before he lowers it again. He closes his eyes. "I'm so sorry," he says, his voice anguished. "I tried." 

“Don't worry about it. You did good." And Phil means it, because it's never about giving no information in situations like this, it’s a matter of choosing what you give. When not drugged and concussed and shocky Clint knows that, too. He'd kept them alive, had withheld what couldn’t be given despite a terrible price. He'd done good.

Clint doesn't say anything, he just shakes his head and closes his eyes. 

He’s asleep in a matter of minutes. The doctor decides to let him sleep. In a fashion. The nurses wake him every half hour to make sure his concussion isn’t doing things to his head it shouldn’t be doing. Clint is reluctant to wake, but he knows his name every time and knows where he is. Phil stays close, ready to run interference should it become necessary. 

*    *    *    

Two hours in and the tox screen is still not back. The labs are good, but some tests simply take time. Clint blinks awake in between two name-location tests and groans. Phil looks up from the computer resting on his lap.

“You’re in Medical,” he tells Clint when the energy around him takes a sharp turn towards alarmed.

The sound of Phil’s voice seems to reach Clint, because he relaxes back into the mattress and lets out a slow breath. He swallows drily, and for a moment Phil sees nothing but tired relief in his eyes. But then something seems to slot back into place and relief splinters into something haunted and borderline fearful.

“Easy. You're safe. You’re home,” Phil tells him.

Clint covers his eyes with his hand. “I couldn’t do anything.” His voice is hoarse.

“I know. It’s okay. We’ll get Blacker and make sure he pays for what he did.”

Clint just shakes his head. "I’m sorry." He sounds so utterly devastated. "I tried to get to her. I did. But I couldn't, I — I’m so sorry. I’m sorry."

Phil frowns. Then something tight settles in his stomach as the penny drops. Natasha. Clint's reactions at the jet. I'm sure the stunt with the dogs was for Barton's benefit. Jesus. Phil wants to hurt Blacker, find him and hurt him so bad, because Clint may be somewhat coherent, but around this subject his mind has closed in on itself, gotten stuck in the terrifying and corrosive loop that Blacker created. He believes the dogs killed her. That horrible conviction has apparently deflected every single assurance of the opposite.

Phil carefully puts his laptop on the floor next to the chair and gets to his feet. He steps up to the bed, and mindful of the IV lines and the oximeter he puts his hand on Clint’s to get his full attention, to try to ground him here in this room, here in this moment. "Listen to me," he says firmly. "Do you trust me?"

Clint won't look at him, but he eventually gets a small nod.   

"Then you know I'm telling the truth. Natasha is okay. I promise. She’s asleep in a room down the hall. A little worse for wear, but she’s going to be fine."

Clint shakes his head. 

Phil gives his hand a gentle little shake. "Clint. She’s safe."

"I saw it, I saw her." 

"Think real hard. Did you really? Did you see her be put in with the dogs?" Phil needs him to engage his brain, because for all that Clint trusts him, he has a feeling that the only way this is really going to register is for Clint to see for himself where suggestion diverges from reality.  

"I did, I saw..." Clint stops. 

"It was all mind games. She told me they brought her all the way up to the dog enclosure, but they didn't put her in there. They wanted you to think they did." He rubs his thumb over the back of Clint’s hand. "She's safe," he tells him again. He needs Clint to understand that. Believe that.

Clint curls up under the blanket as much as the medical equipment will allow. Phil casts around for something to do to comfort him. Helplessness is not a feeling he is fond of.

"Still cold?"

Clint nods and Phil fetches another blanket. He shakes it out and spreads it over Clint, smoothing it down around him before lowering himself back into the chair.

*    *    *

Natasha pads in on bare feet some time later, a blanket around her shoulders. She's freshly showered and her bloody clothes have been replaced by a set of light blue hospital scrubs. The bruises are darkening. Got tired of waiting, is the only thing she says before she goes to Clint's side and sits down on the edge of his bed. The two of them look at each other in silence for a few seconds, then Natasha leans close to Clint's ear. Phil can hear that she's talking, but the words are too soft to make out what she's saying. Clint doesn't say a single word.

After a few minutes, she sits up. She runs her hand over Clint's hair, tugs lightly at it and says something that makes Clint crack the faintest of pale smiles. She gives his arm a pat and gets to her feet. With a nod to Phil, she walks out as silently as she walked in. 

Clint’s eyes linger on the outer doors long after they swing shut behind her. When he finally moves it’s to roll over and lock his eyes on a spot on the wall. He stares hollowly at it for a long, long time. 

Then he starts to cry.

Chapter Text

The roadside restaurant is small and doesn’t know what it wants to be when it grows up, a fast food place or a mom and pop's diner. The result is the worst of both worlds. The lazily spinning ceiling fan does its best to circulate the hot, stale air, but all it manages is stirring up the smell of dust and sweat and years of greasy food.

Clint reluctantly picks up his burger again, takes another cautious bite and makes a face. It’s just as bad as the last bite. Limp and greasy. Over-salted and tasteless at the same time. He balls up what’s left of it in the wrapper and pushes the plate to the side. He hadn't even been hungry, but the clock had told him he needed to eat something. 

He’s finally been put back into the field, but it seems babysitting missions are all he gets these days. He stabs at his fries. The latest milk-run had been wrapped up with a neat little bow on top, but after all the post-mission procedures had been completed, Coulson had taken him to the side and strongly 'suggested’ that Clint put in a request for a few days off. Clint had protested, of course, because sure, his reaction to the rookie's mistake might have been a little out of proportion, but he certainly doesn’t think it warrants something that for all intents and purposes is a timeout in the corner.

But Coulson had been unmoved, and when Clint had continued to argue his case, the suggestion had turned into an order, so Clint had changed into civvies, rented a car and started driving. That was three days ago.

He twirls the straw around his fingers and listens with half an ear to the trucker at the counter who is trying to chat up the waitress. Apparently his model doesn't come with volume control and Clint winces at a particularly crude suggestion. The guy’s not exactly prince Charming. He puts the straw down and catches the waitress's attention. She hurries over with relief plain on her face.

He orders another Coke. The one he's been nursing is long since flat, and the ice has melted. 

"Is that guy bothering you?" He nods towards the trucker who is busy reading the menu.

She pushes a limp strand of hair behind her ear. "No, he’s harmless. Just…" She shakes her head. "Just annoying. Thanks for asking, though." She gives him a tired smile. "I’ll be right back with that Coke."   

"You just let me know, okay?"

The smile reaches her eyes this time. "I can handle him. But thanks, anyway.”

As she walks off, Clint eyes the burger again, but decides against it. He runs his hand over the back of his neck, grimaces at the sweat there. Not for the first time, he wishes he’d chosen to go north instead of south. Then there's movement to his right, and he tenses up.

Natasha slides in on the other side of the table.

"Exercising your knight in shining armor complex, I see." She pulls her shades off, puts them on the table next to his and picks up the laminated menu. She looks annoyingly cool and unaffected by the heat. "Anything good here?"

Clint balls up his napkin and throws it at the plate. "Whatever you do, stay away from the cheese burger." He sits back. "Last I heard you were in Hong Kong. How was The Pearl of the Orient?"

"Not as interesting this time around."

"No mayhem?"

"Not even a little."

She orders an ice tea when the waitress comes with Clint’s Coke. It arrives quickly. She sips it and looks at him over the rim. Clint abandons the staring game pretty fast. He knows he’s going to lose anyway.

"You look like hell." Natasha leans back and rests her arm casually along the backrest. "When is the last time you got a good night’s sleep?"

He mirrors her position. "Here to check up on me?"

"Do you need checking up on?"

"No. And I sleep just fine."

"Of course you do." Natasha pulls the plate across the table, unwraps the burger Clint just abandoned and takes a bite. She frowns. "This is disgusting." It doesn't stop her from taking another bite. 

"Told you."

"Coulson tried to get a hold of you. Apparently your phone goes straight to voicemail."   

“I’m on vacation.”

She sits back, wipes the grease off her fingers. “He left a message on my phone saying he’s been trying to get a hold of you and if I hear from you to tell you to call him.”

“And you felt the need to come all this way to tell me that?” 

She ignores the question. ”What happened to your phone?” 

“It broke.” He doesn't tell her he left it in a thousand pieces on the floor of a motel room two states back.

“And getting a new one was too difficult?”

Clint scowls. “Figured Coulson would fire up the bat signal if he wanted me to chaperone another group of newbies." 

Natasha rolls her eyes. “Get over yourself, Barton.”

“Excuse me?”  

She puts the glass down with a thud. “Stop moping. It’s undignified. And childish.”

He feels the anger roll up. It’s become a good friend lately. “Is that so?”

“Yes, it is.”

Clint empties his glass. He drops a twenty on the table and leaves. For weeks he's wanted so bad to see her, but now, suddenly, all he wants is to put distance between them.

“Contact him,” she calls just as the door closes behind him.

* * * * * * *

It's still hot, but the shadows have grown long and hungry by the time Clint stops at a gas station pay phone. He feels a little bad for leaving Natasha like that, but not enough to think about going back. She’s probably long gone anyway.

He picks at a peeling I heart New York sticker next to the phone as he waits for Coulson to pick up. He knows he’s been sulking, and if Natasha calls him on it then Coulson is probably not far behind. They’re spookily synched like that. It’s unlikely that Coulson would chew him out over the phone, though. He’ll probably wait until Clint gets back and then calmly inform him he’s overreacting, that his behavior isn’t reasonable.

Fuck them both. It's completely reasonable. Get back to me when everyone doubts your ability to do your job, he thinks darkly.

When Coulson answers, Clint doesn’t bother with pleasantries.

“You wanted to talk to me.” 

“Yes. Yes, I did.” The rustle of papers is heard over the line. “What happened to your phone?”

“It broke.”

“When you get back, sign a new one out from IT."  

“Okay.”

“Enjoying your time off?”

“It's lovely." Clint squints at the setting sun, watches a large bird of prey sail on the dying updrafts. "Did you need something from me, Sir?”   

He hears Coulson sigh. “It’s not a punishment, Barton.”

Clint scowls and doesn't answer, because it sure as hell feels like one.

Coulson waits, but Clint can play that game too, so the silence stretches long.

“I assume it wasn’t a problem for Romanoff to find you,” Coulson finally says.

“I imagine not.”

“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.”

”Nat finding me?” Clint's hackles come up in half a second flat, because if Coulson is insinuating that he’s being careless and sloppy, he doesn’t want to hear it. ”I'm off the clock, didn't realize I was supposed to go off-grid. But if that's what you want, don't you worry, I can make that happen.” 

“That’s not what I meant. I wanted to talk to you about her.”

”Oh.” Clint blinks. Oh. He closes his eyes and feels intensely stupid. He pulls his cap off and rubs his forehead with the back of his hand. “What about her?”

“I’m… a little concerned.”

“Why? What’s wrong?” Clint straightens up from his slouch, his attention going sharp.

“I don’t know for sure. It’s more a feeling. But I wanted to know if you picked up on something that felt off.”

Clint runs through the few short minutes she’d been in front of him in the diner. “She seemed fine. I didn't notice anything.” Apart from the slightly weird fact that she'd gone one hell of a long way to tell him to make a phone call. They both know that if Coulson truly wanted to get a hold of him, there would be someone waiting at Clint’s next stop.

He turns as a black SUV pulls up to the gas station, and for a second he thinks Coulson really has sent someone for him, but then the occupants step out. Two girls, middle-school age. Mom and dad follow. The American dream minus the dog.

He frowns when something occurs to him. “Hang on. You left a message with her, hoping she would track me down, because you wanted me to assess her and report back to you? God. That’s convoluted even for you, Coulson.”

“It might be nothing, but please let me know if you notice anything.”

Right. Until the day Clint suspects there’s a risk to people or missions, or Natasha asks him for help, that’s not going to happen. Coulson might be the person closest to both of them, but she deals with things on her own.

“Sure,” he says.

* * * * * * *

He turns back north and hits a one-stoplight town late that evening. It has a motel and a bar. Good enough for him. He gets a room and is given a key with a wooden badge as large as his palm with the number nine carved into it. Check out time is noon, there’s an ice machine at the front desk, no pets and no smoking in the rooms. And absolutely no prostitutes.

The room has definitely seen better days, but the bed and bathroom are clean. A hideously ugly couch is crammed in against the wall and what must be one of the last fat screen TVs in the country stands in the corner. An air conditioning unit rattles by the window. It sounds like it’s about to have a coronary at any moment, but it manages to keep the temperature in the room if not cool then at least reasonable. Clint dumps his bag next to the door, checks the ins and the outs, then locks up and heads to the bar right across the street.

It’s pretty much a dive, but he's not looking for refinement, just copious amounts of alcohol.

The bartender is a woman with curly dark hair and nice lips, and Clint spends some time at the bar flirting a little. He has no intention of trying to take it further than that - he’s too tired and she’s got a gold band on her finger – but it feels good to get out of his own head for a while. When she gets busy with other customers, Clint takes the bottle of Tequila she left for him and moves to the end of the counter.

He pours himself a shot and downs it, then starts decimating the small bowl of peanuts in the shell in front of him. The place isn’t all that busy, two young men who just arrived sit at one side of the bar, a gang of rough-looking guys in MC cuts plays pool, a couple sits by a table in the corner, clearly having a hushed argument, and two women who saw their prime decades ago try to catch his attention. He studiously ignores them until they come over and sit down, one on each side of him. If he hadn’t been flirting so overtly with Greta (yes, she'd said with a roll of her eyes, my mom was a Garbo fan) he would have told them he was waiting for his boyfriend. Instead he pours himself one last shot, downs it and leaves the ladies with the excuse that he’s got an early morning, because hell no.

Greta grins wickedly at him as he gets up, clearly amused by the way he was ambushed. He leaves a big tip anyway.  

Despite the late hour, the heat is still rising from the asphalt as he crosses the road. He suddenly stops in his tracks. A faint flickering light can be seen through the window of his room. The door is slightly open. His knife lies comfortably in his hand as he moves silently towards number nine. He listens, but hears only the distant interstate and the TV singing the praise of some fabric softener or other. The door suddenly swings fully open and he presses himself against the wall, out of sight.

A moment later, an arm sticks out, holding a bottle of vodka. A large one.

”Oh, for fuck's sake,” he sighs. He sheathes the knife.

”Are you coming? You’re letting all the cool air out.” The ratty couch squeaks and the TV volume goes up several notches.

His heart still beats a little harder than normal when he steps through the door. He throws the dead bolt, but doesn’t use the chain. It will cost valuable time if they need to get out fast.

“You put a tracker on my car.” He might be on involuntary leave, but his ability to spot a damn tail doesn't do time off, and he’s absolutely sure he would have noticed a car following him all the way from the diner. 

“Yes.” Natasha gets up from the couch, walks to the dark bathroom and returns with two disposable plastic tumblers, the wrapping crinkling as she tears it off. She pours both half full with vodka and gives one to Clint. “L’chaim.” She knocks her glass against his and downs it all in one go.

Clint looks at his glass, then up at Natasha. ”You are so damn weird.” The vodka burns going down, and he coughs. ”Santé,” he says, belatedly, when he recovers.

She takes the plastic glass from him. “I’m not weird”.

Clint sits on the edge of the bed and toes off his shoes. He wants to still be angry with her, but he’s not, he’s just tired.

“Let me get this straight. You come one thousand miles to tell me I’m a pathetic idiot and that I should call Coulson, you then put a tracker on my car, follow me for another hundred miles just to break into my room and try to apologize with cheap vodka.”

”No.”

He kicks his sneakers in the general direction of the door and scrubs at his eyes. “Really? Which part of that is 'no'?”

“I’m not apologizing.” She fills their glasses again. “And this stuff isn’t cheap.” She gives him both drinks to hold while she climbs onto the bed and scoots up against the headboard behind him. He hands her drink back to her and takes a sip of his own.

Natasha is a silent presence behind him on the bed. He thinks of what Coulson said and maybe he's right, maybe there's something off about her. But maybe it's nothing, maybe Clint's just seeing things because the idea has been put his head. Or maybe he's projecting (SHIELD shrinks love that word, over the years more than one have said that's something he does).

”Why are you here?” he asks bluntly. 

She is silent for so long he thinks she’s opting out of answering the question. But then the bed dips a little and she swings her legs over the edge to sit next to him.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“Sure.” He takes a sip. ”I’m fine.”

”Clint...”

”I'm fine,” he repeats, more forcefully.

Natasha empties her glass. “Right.” She pours herself some more before topping him up. “Salud.”

He raises his glass. ”Kippis.”

The TV is showing the opening sequence of Dallas. It's a rerun of the original show with split-screen aerial shots of downtown Dallas, oil rigs, longhorns, J.R., Bobby, Sue Ellen, Lucy. Southfork. Clint keeps waiting for Natasha to bring it up again, but when it seems like she isn't going to force the issue, he relaxes a little and lies down.

He balances his glass on his chest and watches the shadows flutter across the ceiling as the theme music fades and Sue Ellen and J.R. start sniping at each other. It soon evolves into an outright shouting match which predictably ends with a tumbler of whiskey breaking against a wall and Sue Ellen storming out.

”Clint,” Natasha says.

He turns his head to look at her. ”Yes, dear?”

”You’re not fine.”

Dammit. He pushes himself up and downs what's left in his glass in one gulp before reaching past her for the bottle, because if this is a conversation she's intent on having, he needs to be a lot more drunk. Unconscious from alcohol poisoning, preferably.

She pulls the bottle out of reach. ”You're not fine," she repeats.

”Nat,” he warns darkly.

”Picking a fight just to pound those guys into the ground the other night, growling at everyone within thirty feet, not sleeping properly, drinking yourself stupid between jobs. And you wonder why the hell Coulson won't let you off the leash.”

The anger he couldn't find a moment ago is suddenly there. He gets to his feet. ”I have never jeopardized a job, not once, and you fucking know it!”

”You're headed there,” she snaps back.

”How the hell would you know? You haven’t shown your face since I got out of Medical.”

And that stings. 

She doesn’t quite duck her head at the not-so-veiled accusation, but it’s a close thing. Clint glares at her as a long-haul truck rumbles past outside, its headlights chasing strange, sharp shadows across the dark walls.

The silence stretches long, then she sighs. "I’m sorry." 

He looks at her coolly. "Yeah? For what? Calling me an idiot? Accusing me of fucking up on the job? Avoiding me?”

”For not getting us out of there.”

The words are soft, and it takes a moment for his brain to catch up. When it does, his anger fades into gray ash.

On the TV, the camera pans across never-ending lawns before zooming in on Pamela driving down the road to Southfork in a sleek, black Corvette. 

Clint scrubs his hands over his face. “Nat, come on," he sighs. He sits down heavily next to her again. "I seem to recall an abundance of weapons, and since I have this thing about keeping my brain inside my head, I’m actually quite thankful for your restraint.”

”I prefer your brain inside your head, too,” she says, her words soft. There's a pause, then she nudges his shoulder lightly with hers. "Even if that brain misfires from time to time.”

He nudges her back, and the tension in the room disperses a little. ”Watch it.”

The window unit makes an ominous clanking noise, and they both look over. When Clint decides it's not going to fall off the wall or catch fire or something, he turns his attention back to her. "Listen. I didn’t get us out, either, so I guess that one’s a tie."

She rolls the plastic glass slowly between her palms, sloshing the clear liquor around. "It was rough on you."

Clint snorts at the understatement. Yeah, I was rough. It was very rough, and he can still feel the echoes of that chemically enhanced anxiety under his skin, the crippling despair when he believed he'd gotten her killed.

The risk is always there, every single time they head out, that one of them might not make it back. It's the nature of their profession. They both accept that, but being directly responsible for her death, and a gruesome one at that, even if it hadn't been real, that had just about destroyed him.

He eyes the bottle longingly, but it’s still out of reach.

"He's going to pay for what he did," she says, her voice suddenly fierce.

"Yes, he is. But let SHIELD deal with it."

Clint means it. Just knowing that SHIELD is pouring massive resources into finding Blacker and his employers is enough for now. Also, he has to admit to himself that he'd rather never see the bastard again in his whole life.

She scowls at the darkness. "He’ll get off too lightly."

"Don't you worry. I'm going to make personally sure he’s voted Mr. Popular wherever they send him. He’ll go by Sheila and make lots of nice, new BFFs. A lifetime of that trumps a couple of hours of slow dying."

”I would make it last longer than a few hours.”

Clint swallows the sudden tightness in his throat, because he hears the heartfelt, aching, terrible truth in her words. She would. Because Blacker hurt him.

He clears his throat. "What about you? How are you doing? Wasn’t easy on you, either."

"I'm fine, I'm not the one—" She squares her shoulders and moves to get up. "I'm fine."

He catches her hand, tugs her back. "That's not how it works, Natasha. And you know it."

She looks at his fingers where they curl around hers, and he thinks she's going to pull away. But she doesn't, she just keeps looking at their hands, and something terribly complicated crosses her face. "I knew I should have brought more alcohol," she mumbles.

Clint groans. "Woman, are you trying to kill me?"

He waits for her to look up, but she doesn’t, and he tugs gently on her hand again. "Hey. You know as well as I do you don't have to be the main attraction to get a bit messed up after something like that.”

For a moment it looks like she's going to argue that, but in the end, she doesn't, she just extricates her hand from his and picks up the bottle to pour them both more vodka.

"Cin cin," he says when she raises her glass.

They don’t talk much after that. Natasha keeps the drinks coming at at steady pace. Dallas is eventually replaced by another eighties rerun, Dynasty this time, and by the time that one ends, the bottle is empty and lies discarded on the floor. Clint has flopped backward on the bed again and draped his arm over his eyes. He's half asleep when he feels the mattress dip, and he lifts his arm just enough to see Natasha get up and pad across the floor to the couch. She sits, props her feet up on the table and picks up the remote.

Clint contemplates joining her for about a second and a half, then decides against it. He rolls over and opts to do battle with his clothes instead. Getting out of them without getting up is far more difficult than it has any right to be, but eventually he manages to get undressed. He drops everything over the edge of the bed before getting under the covers. The mattress is lumpy, but he doesn’t care, because one, he's now a few miles past blitzed, and two, Natasha was right, he hasn't been sleeping well lately. The nightmares are nowhere near as bad or as frequent as before, but even when they stay away, his sleep is choppy and restless at best.

Spreading his arms, he presses his hands against the bed and tries to make the room stop spinning around him. He falls asleep with the sound of Natasha channel surfing in his ears.

* * * * * * * *

When he surfaces again, the viciously red numbers of the clock radio next to the bed tells him it’s 4:13 a.m. The air conditioning unit has died at some point during the night, and the room is stifling and very silent. Across the room, the TV is still on, muted, showing what he thinks is Astaire and Rogers dancing their black and white way down a staircase. They look impossibly happy.

Natasha has gotten into bed at some point and is lying behind him. He turns over, careful not to jostle her too much. She has stripped down to her tank top and panties. The rest of her clothes lie neatly folded over the armrest of the couch. In the cold, flickering light she looks flushed, overheated even though the sheet is tangled around her knees.

Clint hasn’t quite tipped over from drunk to hung over yet, so he lies there and listens to her breathing, feeling something inside him settle at the sound. They haven't been out in the field together yet, and they won't be until he has found a way to get completely past this whole getting Natasha killed thing. For once he agrees with the psych team, he’s not ready. He needs to know that his brain will trust her to look after herself, because anything else would be dangerous to them both.

It's got nothing to do with doubting her skills, and everything to do with the fact that his mind still goes sneaking off to bad places sometimes, and he knows it could end their working relationship if he doesn't get a handle on it. He tries not to think about what that would be like.

Natasha’s uncanny ability to know when she’s being watched is apparently alive and kicking even in her sleep, because without warning she reaches out and pulls him over. 

”Stop staring,” she mumbles, her eyes still closed. 

He obediently shifts closer, and she makes herself comfortable against him.

“Nat?" he whispers into the warmth of her shoulder. 

"Mm?"

"We're okay. You and I. Right?" He doesn’t know exactly what he’s asking, but he’s spent months feeling off-balance and lonely, and he needs to hear her say it. 

“Yeah." She tightens her grip. "We are."

* * * * * * * *

When Clint wakes the next day the sun is high and cruel, and Natasha and her things are gone.

He staggers into the shower and turns the water as cold as it will go. He stands with his forehead pressed against the wall and tries to not die. As he squints the water swirling down the drain he vows once again to never, ever drink with that evil woman.

Someone has forgotten a bottle of shampoo in the shower and when he feels like he can move without his head falling off, he picks it up and squirts some in his hand. It smells flowery and female and far too strongly in his hung over state, but he's sweaty and disgusting and he scrubs it over his head. He stops as his fingers finds something in his hair. He pulls it free.

It's a cheap hair clip with a pink ribbon. 

~ Fin ~