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Entry tags:
Avengers - Ineffectual Methods [1/2]
Title: Ineffectual Methods
Genre: Gen, Clint and Natasha friendship
Rating: R
Length: ~18,400 words
Warnings: Non-con, aftermath of non-con, aftermath of torture
Synopsis: They were captured and interrogated by those souped up on a mock Super Soldier serum. The methods were ineffective.
Author's Notes: For the "rape/non-con" square at![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
hc_bingo. Please heed the warnings.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and am making no profit from this.
Also available as a single post on AO3.
They didn't talk about it through mutual, unspoken, agreement. They only mention how she missed her check in, how he went in to recover her, how they both escaped and how a retrieval team would be needed.
He had waited the required time, and then he waited some more. She had been overdue for check-in by three hours, and he had last heard from her nearly five before. She said she had an in and was going to take it. She said nothing about exit strategy but, then again, she rarely did. Newer agents were followed far closer, but she was a seasoned veteran and, had it been anyone but him on watch, she would have been left for a day or possibly two before anyone was concerned.
He was glad it was him.
Something about her tone, the slightest hint of hesitance, had his hackles up. Mix that with the purpose of the mission itself and with the reports she had provided of the major players thus far, and he might have been a little trigger happy, might have jumped the gun, might have come just in time.
The game was drugs. Not just any drugs, of course, because they could have and would have assigned something like that to someone far lower on the food chain. No, these drugs were experimental and were definitely not social in nature. These drugs did not get the taker high, give them a buzz, or bliss them out. These drugs mimicked the Super Soldier serum, and the evidence they had prior to the mission hinted they were pretty damned successful.
Natasha was to play the socialite, to flirt her way inside the mansion known for its wild parties, to slip away and do recon, and to report back her findings. Clint was to follow if needed as her wayward boyfriend, possibly also looking for a score and possibly also providing extra muscle should there be more fight than flight to their escape.
But then Natasha didn't report in.
Natasha, who would ditch handlers who she thought were incompetent only to swagger back days or weeks or, in one notable instance, months later with the full intel as soon as someone she trusted was reassigned. Natasha, who would always find a way to send Clint a message that she was okay, that she might drop off the grid for a bit, but that she was still viable and vital. Natasha, his partner for years, the one he trusted to either watch his back or kick his ass as needed. Natasha, who went radio silent with not even flash of a mirror in a window to tell him she was still doing fine. That Natasha, his Natasha, did not report in.
So he donned his sport coat and a pair of shoes Stark would have been proud of, bow left behind as it would be more than a little conspicuous, and sauntered in as if he had every right to be there. It turned out that guys hopped up on drugs with an unmentioned side effect that tossed pesky things like morality and inhibitions to the side took offense to that. It turned out that he really could not take on three guys with the strength of Steve, and the fourth and fifth were just ridiculously overkill.
The interrogation that followed was far more brute force than finesse, and he was left handcuffed to a bar near the floor, body aching and head pounding. A dislocated thumb was enough to get him free, or at least free enough to do what he needed to do. He took a moment to breathe, to put himself to rights and to listen for his caretakers to return, before he shuffled-crawled the short distance to the other side of the room.
Natasha had been given a nicer arrangement than he, but not by much. She was bound to an exam bed of professional medical quality, the bed itself bolted to the cement floor of the basement they had been brought to. Their captors only used the buckled medical restraints, nothing more severe, and yet she was still there, desperately still, when he approached.
She didn't turn her head towards him even though the Nat he knew would have escaped long before his cuffs reverberated against the metal. It wasn't until he was hovered above her, waving a hand in front of her face, that she blinked eyes red from dehydration and something more, and offered a strangled, "Barton?"
He didn't look at her, didn't want to see anything past her face with its smeared makeup and bruised lips. "What did they give you?" he asked before he would even reach for the restraints. The mock serum crossed their radar due to the accompanying irrational behaviors as well as increased strength - a not so good combination for an already trained assassin. He kind of doubted they had given that to her though as she normally would have been freed by now under her own power, let alone a chemical boost. Their words though, the ones they shared when they thought he was unconscious, haunted him. They had called her a candidate, debated if what they gave her would interfere or assist the process, decided for round one to wear off before they potentially moved on to round two.
"P-Paralytic," she managed. Her head tilted an inch to the left, jerky and spastic. He saw the needle marks by her jugular, dwarfed by the purpling handprint at her throat. Her features twitched, likely the closest she could get to a full blown scrunch of frustration. "Starting to wear off," she told him, and accompanied the declaration with a minuscule flex of her index finger and thumb.
It was good enough for him but, then again, she could have been given the actual serum and he would have still reached for the buckles, sprung the trap knowing he'd at least have an answer as to how much backup was going to be needed to take the place down.
Her toes curled and she managed a loose fist by the time he freed her, her adrenaline and force of will overpowering the chemicals that raced through her veins. He helped her to her side, checked her back for damage and hidden lines and found nothing that should be permanent. "They tried the easy way, but I was never one for easy," she explained, words coming slightly less breathy already, sounding like she had only been on a three day bender of a mission instead of five. She flopped back when he let go, and glared at him for the less than graceful release. "They think I'm out, wanted another go when I woke up," she warned.
He didn't want to think about that, didn't need that distraction. He scoured the room for what he needed, found a blanket that he knew she would refuse, gauze that would be thrown in his face if she was able. He turned at a noise and found her trying to push herself upright. He rolled his eyes at her stubbornness before he dragged her into a sitting position and propped her up at his side. "We need to get out of here," he said unnecessarily. Then, as fair warning, "That means I'm going to need to carry you."
She made a face that was almost her own, and ordered, "Get me my dress so I can pretend to have some dignity."
He found the cloth on the floor, stained and torn, but with enough clasps to at least hold it in place. He slid it on, her skin that much paler against the black, the damage that much more stark. She didn't ask for anything as frivolous as shoes, and he didn't offer, though he did grab his own discarded coat and forced her uncooperative arms into that as well.
She leaned against him for a moment, head on his shoulder and breathing deep, body far too lax and fumbling. It took him a sadly long moment to figure out what she was trying for his backup weapon, the one they took with his primary hours ago. She let her arms fall to her side in frustration, but even he knew it had only been wishful thinking to begin with. "We get into it, try to remember not to toss me at the bad guys," she teased, grin almost macabre where it was framed by her tangles.
"But you're my favorite weapon," he shot back, his heart really not into it but knowing it was simply rote at this point. Like he was going to let her go. Like he hadn't walked straight into a fucking armed compound just to find her.
He hauled her up into a fireman's carry, worried about her shallow breathing even as he was tempted to smile at the muffled curses in varying languages. There was no smiling though, not now, not when there was blood was slick on his hands.
He darted along the corridors, trying both to avoid what he remembered of the earlier patrols and the random wanderings of the mansion's residents. He was almost successful, and only had to put Nat down once to put another man - thankfully not one who had taken the serum - into a sleeper hold before they were able to escape to car he had hidden at the edge of the property.
Natasha could almost walk by the time he got them to the safe house, ignoring their hotel altogether. He still mostly carried her anyway, mentally arguing that she was still barefoot and that it was in no way tied to his own need to touch, to know she was there, to know she was alive and breathing.
He placed her on the couch even though she looked as though she could sleep for a week, and pulled up the secured satellite connection to SHIELD headquarters. They dutifully reported their findings, how this version of the serum required routine injections to maintain the levels, how it seemed to have a side effect of keying off the more baser of emotions and responses, how the serum was not the only drug to be had.
Agent Hill saw through at least some of the bullshit and demanded to know Natasha's true status. Clint betrayed her the way they both knew he would, and tattled on the paralytic, though kept the rest of her state of being private for now. Hill ordered them both to report to Medical once able for full bloodwork to ensure the drug was out of her system and had no lasting side effects as well as to verify Clint himself hadn't been given anything without his knowledge. She then took in the split lip and the blackened wrists when Natasha pushed her hair out of her eyes, and ordered them both to stay at the safe house until transport came for them. Said transport would, of course, be delayed until after compound was raided.
"Take 'em down?" Clint requested, just a hint of his true anger escaping.
Hill barely raised an eyebrow before she replied, "That's the intention, Agent Barton."
She signed off and Clint flopped back against the couch, tried not to take it personally when Natasha flinched in the most minuscule of ways at the jostling. He turned to ask what she needed, but found she was already struggling to her feet, using the furniture for far more support than he knew she was willing to admit. His hands flexed to catch her if needed, and he earned a glare for his efforts. "I'm going to go wash up," she told him. It was not a suggestion nor open for debate, even he knew that.
"Shout if you need me," he replied, going for nonchalant and failing by a mile.
She tensed for a second, and then shuffled-lurched towards the small bathroom. It took all of his willpower not to follow.
Instead, he busied himself with finding food and hanging a robe on the handle of the locked door she had disappeared behind and not closing his eyes for more than a second for fear that that he would see the marks again, the thumbprints on the curve of her hips, the scrapes along her ribcage, the blood smeared along her thighs.
He picked the lock of the remaining cuff and used a hand towel and the the water from the kitchen sink to scrub the worst of the dried muck off his wrist, less than secretly longing for a hot shower of his own, less than secretly keeping track of just how long Tasha had been in there all ready. She was not known to dawdle, especially not with an unknown timeline at stake, and more than once he hovered outside the door, hand raised to knock, only to promise himself he'd wait five more minutes, yet again.
The five had turned to a hell of a lot more than five by the time she slipped out. She left the locked bathroom for a locked bedroom, and he got the message: she wanted her space and he was to leave her the fuck alone.
He bathed in the lukewarm water and bandaged what he could of his own wounds and refused to take pain killers even though the safe house should be just that - safe. Until their transport came, until the mansion was in pieces and its residents locked away, he didn't want to take the chance that his reactions would be slowed, that he couldn't get to a weapon in time, that he would fail again.
The house came complete with closets full of clothing of various types and sizes, as was standard, but he chose simple cargo pants and a t-shirt, pulled on socks and boots even though he was technically on stand down for the immediate future. He chose the second of the three bedrooms for himself, food forgotten as unwanted on the kitchen counter, and laid down atop the bed to stare at the ceiling and avoid any semblance of sleep.
It was hours later when the near silent beep of an alarm sounded, the sun cutting through the slats of the blinds and the reinforced glass of the windows. The sound was a safeguard that meant someone had attempted access to the house and did not immediately pass the combination of biometric screens and passcodes. It did not always warrant an emergency as more than a single tired agent mistyped in their rush for safety, but considering the night before, and that he had heard nothing from Hill stating any agent was on his or her way, it was enough to put him on alert.
He slipped from bed, weapon at his side, and crouched in the doorway to the hallway, not surprised in the least to find Natasha doing the same. She was even dressed similar, substituting a thermal shirt for his t-shirt, though her stocking-covered feet were near soundless as she advanced towards the entryway. He noticed the slight jerk to her movements, even still, and suspected residual stiffness or simply pain from what she had gone through. He was smart enough not to question it though, not when it looked as though their guest had figured out a way to gain access after all.
He corrected that to guests when he heard at least two distinct voices. One stated he didn't think it was a good idea, and the other called out, "Honey, I'm h-"
The end of the declaration was cut short as Stark was shoved up against the wall, Natasha's arm at his throat and full weight of her anger pinning him in place. She leveled her weapon at Rogers, who was smart enough to remain in the doorway, hands up and out in as unthreatening way as possible.
Clint flipped the safety back on and revealed himself, knowing that if those two were there, there were at least two more behind them. "You broke into a safe house?" he asked incredulously.
"To be fair, I hacked in and then the door just opened for me," Tony corrected, semantics always mattering most with him, at least when he wanted them to.
His usual cavalier attitude did identify him as truly him though, so Natasha grunted her frustration and let him go, slamming him against the wall just a little bit more before she did so. Tony being Tony, he simply straightened his tie, picked up the briefcase he had dropped, and offered an enthusiastic, "Hi, guys!"
Nat looked like she was fighting the urge to sneer at him as she turned and stomped over to sit atop the overstuffed chair in the living room. Clint knew he wasn't the only one who caught the slight hitch in her step with the action, body losing its grace and giving into exhaustion as the potential emergency passed. He shook his head at Steve's raised eyebrow of a question, a less than subtle hint to let the matter go, at least for now.
Stark sauntered in and took the chair opposite of her, but Steve stayed in the doorway, eyes on the gun Clint still held in his hand, and asked, "May we come in?"
Clint tucked the thing into his waistband and shrugged with as much nonchalance as he could managed given his aching muscles, and replied, "Well, you did go through all the trouble breaking in, so why not?"
Steve lowered his hands and stepped across the threshold to reveal, as expected, a waiting Bruce and Thor. Bruce walked in behind him and said, "To be fair, that was entirely Tony's fault."
"It usually is," Steve agreed before Clint had the chance to.
Thor paused in the entryway, his massive size dwarfing the place and the door clicking shut behind him, to ask, "How is this house safe, if it so easily granted us entry?"
Clint wandered over to the kitchen counter, careful to keep his back straight and hobbling to a minimum with the multiple sets of eyes upon him, and leaned up against it to face the living room and its new occupants. "It's safe from all but genius computer hackers," he non-explained.
Stark nodded but amended that to, "Genius computer hackers who pretty much designed the original code and therefore made the impenetrable penetrable."
"If you're so genius, how did you set off the silent alarm?" Natasha challenged, a false hint of her usual amusement to her tone.
Tony offered a little wince at that and said, "Nobody's perfect? Well, that, and I'm pretty sure SHIELD tweaked the thing before they let it go live."
"Speaking of SHIELD, we should probably warn them that we have guests," Clint sighed. Hill would be ever so pleased, especially when she figured out who was responsible for it.
"Yeah, you do that. And then we can talk about how you two found yourself with a cadre of Super Soldiers and no backup and we didn't even know about the mission until we were notified that there was an 'incident,'" Tony challenged. "She called it minor but, seriously Barton, you look like you let them use you as a punching bag. Is that minor in SHIELD terms? Because it sure as hell isn't in mine."
It took his many years of training not to flinch at the words, not to get lost in the memories of just what happened in that little basement room and what had the potential to happen had he not gotten them both the hell out of there. "Something like that," he muttered instead, hoping Steve or Bruce would pick up on the subtle undertones of the need to drop the subject if Tony himself did not.
He did though, and then went on to ramble about now Hill probably knew they were there anyway as she did absolutely nothing to stop the hack and she even bothered to call them herself and he would call her right then and there if need be to prove her agents hadn't fallen down on the job. He reached to do just that, and Clint pushed it all off to the background as Bruce had walked over to him, left him his space, but stayed close enough to whisper an offer of, "Did you want me to check you out? I'm not technically a medical doctor, but I've done my share of healing, enough to know how to wrap that thumb for you or bandage whatever you did to your ribs you don't want us to know about."
Clint should have known this was coming. Everyone always underestimated the quiet doctor when he was just as pervasive as the rest of them. It would be a losing battle to stall, Banner would just wait and watch with knowing eyes, and at least this way he could have a little more control over just what those eyes saw. He might also be able to get out of a full physical and only need to submit to the bloodwork if Bruce reported that he had already treated him as it had worked in the past so there was no reason to believe it wouldn't this time.
He agreed and grabbed the sizable first aid kit from the closet, hiding behind the door of his room because he might be able to keep a few things from Bruce, but it was doubtful he could from a roomful of people used to ditching out at least as much as he did himself and knew every obfuscation and tell he might possibly use and may even be able to fake them better than himself. So he let himself be scrubbed and dabbed with iodine and bandaged, or at least part of him, and dutifully lied about any injury Bruce couldn't see or couldn't guess at. He accepted the painkillers, but refused to take them until the mission status was confirmed, which earned him both a glare and long suffering sigh.
Natasha was next, and she ducked into her room as well, probably for the same damn reasons. He doubted they truly fooled anyone, but at least it looked like they were making a passable effort at complying, so the others would let it go for now. SHIELD would get their bloodwork and a neat little form signed off on that stated they were good little agents, and they would get their privacy and it worked well for all of them or at least that's what they told themselves and that was all that mattered.
He stepped back out to the living room to find Stark wrapping up a chat with Director Fury, which meant he had pissed off Hill enough to work his way up the food chain. He didn't listen in, but caught snatches of it anyway, most of it bitching that the team should have been in the know from the beginning and then Steve's over-earnest puppy dog routine talking them into having a go at the recently emptied compound the following morning. Thor was poking at the food he had left out the night before and making unhappy faces, so it came as a surprise to absolutely no one that they had to explain why one could not order takeout to be delivered to a safe house.
Steve looked at the abandoned snacks and then at Clint and saw right through him and knew pretty much instantly that neither of his teammates had eaten upon their escape. He opened cupboards and took out pans and Clint let him be, knowing the whole feeding them now was to make up for not being there earlier and was simply Cap's way of dealing with a situation for which he had no control. Thor was always all about the food, so he jumped in and opened cans as directed, with Bruce joining them both after he wrapped up with Nat and after giving Clint a pointed look that meant he had figured out he was lying about something, likely an injury. Since he hadn't dragged him back to check him out again or turned any alarming hue more commonly found in the plant kingdom, he figured he was going to let it slide, at least for now.
While they busied themselves with that, he busied himself with sitting on the couch and facing the chair Stark had claimed earlier to confirm the plan for the following day. Natasha settled herself in her own previously abandoned chair and listened in as well, face a mask when asked if either of them were up for a return or if they wanted to stay behind and rest and heal or some such thing. Clint replied on both of their behalves and, with a pointed look leveled in Stark's direction, simply said, "We're going."
Stark didn't look surprised by the declaration, but he also didn't exactly look pleased. Clint had seen a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror and knew he looked like shit - black eye, swollen jaw, wrists ringed with red where they peeked out beneath his half-assed bandaging job before Bruce cleaned and rewrapped them - so he didn't exactly blame him for opinions he himself would have had if it have been any other member of their group. Natasha and he were trained agents though. True, they were not currently in prime condition, but both had experienced far worse in the past and handled situations far more dire than wandering an empty mansion with a phalanx of superhero guards at their sides. They would go back, face their non-existent demons, and do their damn jobs.
They would then do what any other trained agent would do, namely go back home, avoid any mention of the situation until they were ready to deal with it, and beat the shit out of both punching bags and anyone dumb enough to offer to spar with them in the near future.
He ate because he was being watched, but he honestly could not say what it tasted like or what the concoction was even supposed to be. He spent the meal watching Natasha push the food around on her plate until called on it by a blessedly blunt Thor, who worried he had mixed the spices wrong. Given that the spices in question were salt, pepper, and a fair amount of hot sauce as these things kept in the cupboards for indeterminate amounts of time, Clint was torn between the discovery that Thor had learned to use his earnest attitude for evil, and being proud of him for doing so. It had the result of getting both of them to finish the majority of what they were given though, so there was that. It still sat like lead in his stomach by the time he was done, and he really hoped that was the worst of it.
Steve had instituted a "no shop talk a the dinner table" rule quite some time ago - irregardless of whether the meal was actually at a table or spread out across a kitchen island, living room, or medical ward - so they waited for the dishes to be cleared and put in to soak before they discussed both what had happened and what they might expect to find the following morning. It was as much a test of his memory of the events as it was a test of his reactions to that memory and he wished he said he passed with flying colors but figured he ended up with a solid B for effort. He tried being vague, but he was known for his eye for detail, and ended up over-describing certain aspects solely to avoid others he did not wish to discuss.
Agent Sitwell came at what should have been the end but ended up being halfway through the review. He had a medic take blood samples from both Clint and Natasha and leave to process them immediately, the results determining their role in the next day's adventures as much as his opinion of the tale they told. He listened impassively while Natasha repeated her story of being overpowered, and how she came to be strapped to the table with Clint cuffed to the bar on the wall near the floor. He still listened, without a word, while Clint reiterated how he ended up there.
It was only when there was a brief pause while Clint tried to circumvent a particularly unpleasant occurrence that Sitwell asked, "Doctor Banner, I am assuming you have seen to their wounds? Did you check Agent Barton's ankles? He has a history of neglecting to mention thing such as sprains until after a four mile trek through a jungle."
He kind of hated Jasper for knowing him so well. To be fair, the incident in reference also involved him practically carrying a certain handler as well as the item they had been sent to retrieve. Bruce gave him an "ah-ha!" look as though that was what he had been hiding, and Clint dutifully unlaced the boots he had chosen because getting caught at this was far better than getting caught at something else.
He removed his sock to reveal a purpling bruise that stretched from his instep to his Achilles, and earned a sympathetic wince for his efforts. He also earned a snap of fingers from Stark with a pointed look towards his remaining foot, so he removed that sock as well, the welt across the top still tender but severely reduced in swelling.
Stark whistled low and demanded, "What the hell did they do to you, Barton?" but it was Steve with his quiet, contemplative look that worried him more. If his foot had been exposed to allow such damage, the question had to be asked as to what else was exposed and what additional damage had been caused, not to mention the whole if he hid this he probably hid a hell of a lot more.
Clint just pasted on his most impassive and unimpressed face and calmly replied, "Classified."
Jasper snorted, but also pointed out, "I have higher clearance than you, Barton."
This time, he let the tiniest amount of emotion show through when he said, "Section twenty-three, subsection eight of my agreement to work with SHIELD."
That caused more than a single raised eyebrow, and a heavy swallow from Sitwell, but the man wisely backed down. Clint knew that Tony would hack his file when he "went to bed" for the night, but couldn't care less about what he would find. The clause in question simply stated that Clint reserved the right to make a call to save another from great harm or possible death, even if it explicitly went against protocol and even if it was at the cost of his own person. That one had been a pain in the ass to get in there, and he had cited it very few times in his career. Two of those times had been with regards to the woman currently glowering at him, and he was fairly certain it would happen again before either of them succumbed to retirement or worse.
Jasper looked over to her, barely responding to the look of loathing she offered, and inquired, "Agent Romanov, are you willing to explain what happened?"
She tilted her head at him in a way that had caused lesser men to flee. "We were interrogated. Their methods were ineffective."
Sitwell took that as his due but, to be fair, he had worked with many agents in many situations and knew when to press and when to demand psych evals and he rarely had done either with either one of them. He trusted them to tell him what was important and relevant to the mission at hand, and to deal with the excess on their own terms. If he suspected what they hid would be detrimental to said mission at hand, he would pull them. If he suspected the detriment was to no one save for themselves, he usually let them go and possibly crash and burn and take whatever caused their current demons along for the ride.
They finished up their mock debriefing, not even bothering with the obfuscation any longer and now simply skipped over the parts they decided not to mention. Jasper's phone rang and the tech confirmed that there were no lingering chemicals in either agent, though Clint's white blood cell count was slightly elevated, so a round of antibiotics was recommended in case any of his multiple scrapes had become infected. It usually took far more than some scraped wrists for his body to respond that way, and he suspected Jasper knew that as well, but the drugs would take care of both the seen and the unseen and it was not worth the fight when the prescription was already to be had.
He dutifully took them, and then dutifully took the pain pills Bruce pointed out where still in his pocket, and then he dutifully excused himself to his room to lock the door and pass out. He only woke twice, and only stopped himself from shouting in response to a dream he rather did not wish to have once and, in the morning, he felt almost rested, if still unsettled.
He opened his door to find a bow case, quiver, uniform, and comm, as well as an open bathroom. He took advantage of them all save for the brace for his hand, washed and dressed and dragged his gear with him to shared space, not surprised in the least to find Banner half-asleep on the couch with hair still damp from his own shower, Rogers in the kitchen cooking up breakfast, and Sitwell long gone.
Thor gave home a once over, nodded, and declared that he looked much better. He also pounded him on the back in warrior pride or some such thing and Clint tried both not to topple over and to not visibly wince at the action. He failed at one, but stayed on his feet and called it a draw and moved to choose a tea that Bruce might like and to brew the sadness that passed as coffee for everyone else.
Natasha joined them shortly, and Thor offered to go wake up Stark in hopes they might actually leave at a reasonable time. Clint ate out of a need for fuel for what he considered a mission and because his stomach actually rumbled slightly in hunger instead of disgust. Nat did the same and Clint resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the way Steve beamed at their efforts.
The effort was nearly wasted when he bent down to pick up his bow case though. The light from the kitchen was off save for the bulb above the sink, the living room mostly in shadows as they prepared to leave. The linoleum had the faintest glint from the remaining light in the hallway, and the chrome of the stool-like chair against the counter reflected the same. Stark was standing just a little too close with his expensive jeans and custom sneakers, and there was a clinking crash from the kitchen where Steve was putting the last of the dishes away, followed by a self-depreciating, "I guess I just don't know my own strength."
His stomach surged and he fought to keep his breakfast down, his feet rooted to the floor but his mind miles away in a dark lit room, serum-enhanced assholes looming over him, taunting and teasing and physically manipulating him like he was nothing more than a rag doll, laughing as they plotted and planned what they were going to do next, bruising skin and maybe bone as they bragged about their abilities and just how strong they were, just what they could do with that strength.
He breathed out heavily through his nose, and then in again, smelling the ridiculous aftershave Stark preferred, the lingering scent of oatmeal and burnt coffee. Steve flipped the overhead light back on to deal with the broken glass and the entire area seemed to surge back to life. It grounded him, centered him, reminded him of where he was and who he was with. He righted himself and shouldered his equipment and hoped no one had caught his momentary lapse.
Tony looked at him though, stared at him with thinly veiled and knowing concern. "You okay?" he asked in a voice quiet enough even Steve probably couldn't hear him.
Clint nodded, shifted his quiver into place. "I just had a moment, you know," he shrugged. He left it vague, let Tony figure out for himself if he meant a memory or a muscle twinge.
The man was a genius, however, so it really shouldn't have come as any surprise when he paused, fingertips resting just barely atop the protective tabs Clint wore on his fingers, and said in a rare serious tone, "Trust me, I know."
Clint shook it off instead of leaning into the understanding the way he was tempted to and moved to join the others, who were all thankfully in the dark about his little trip down memory lane. Stark stayed close though, bumping into him and jostling him when he picked up his own gear, keeping some part of him that was covered in his flashy, iridescent shirt within Clint's line of vision at all times. If the man wasn't usually such a selfish bastard, Clint would almost take it as a silent form of support. He didn't want to dwell on it though, nor did he want to risk dropping his guard enough for Stark to figure out all the things that really needed to stay hidden.
They rode in relative silence on the way there, no one speaking and the radio playing soft nothings to fill up the empty space left behind. With the mansion effectively in SHIELD's custody, there was no need to park in the woods and trek the rest of the way in, the main gates open and wide and watched over by armed guards loyal to their own allegiance. Sitwell greeted them and gave them a brief walk through, explaining what they had found so far, which really wasn't a whole hell of a lot.
"I wouldn't have thought they'd have time to clear that much out," Banner mused. "From what Natasha and Clint reported, there were multiple labs and they appeared to be manufacturing the serum here as well, or at least a form of it. I can understand why they wouldn't want to cut and run and start from scratch again, but..." If anyone knew about leaving everything behind at a moment's notice, it would be Bruce. He was fidgeting slightly, the way he always did when the SHIELD teams didn't give him quite enough space, but he did have a point.
Natasha beat him to the obvious question, body and mannerisms still tense from the all too recent history, standing an extra few inches behind and to the side of the others. "They managed to evacuate the sub-basements as well? I get locking them down, but a full evac is impressive, not to mention beyond what we know of their organizational skills."
Sitwell paused mid-step, body frozen for a half a second before he slumped in defeat. "There are sub-basements as well?" he asked in a pained voice.
"That was in my report," Clint defended himself. The actual paperwork had not yet been filed, or even written, but he knew he had described the areas in full, or at least what he had seen of them. He may have been a bit punch drunk, but he knew what was important enough to make it into the reports, even as he knew what he could avoid, and pesky things like the damn labs where the drugs were made was definitely on the turn-in list.
Sitwell shook his head, but didn't seem upset at Barton as much as himself. "You said lower levels, we translated that to level - as in singular," he explained. "There was no evidence of anything beyond the first basement, no access point or obvious traffic areas. We - I - assumed you had misspoke due to the fact you were barely conscious." He straightened himself and apologized, "I am sorry for underestimating you and promise to try not to do so again."
Clint blinked. He had worked with Jasper enough that his straightforward manner shouldn't surprise him, and yet it did. The guy made a mistake, and he owned up to it. It was also a prime example of both why more than one team usually searched a given area and why someone from the original incident should always be on scene or wired in if available. Things could be missed. Sometimes, you could use these things to your advantage, such as to cover up wounds or sneak intel or get first dibs on something. Sometimes, the things meant a scratched mission as the lack of data meant a lack of a plan of attack.
"This way," was all he said in response, and took point to both his team and Sitwell's lackeys. He wound through three hallways to a back stairwell, then down a flight to the obvious basement. Another hallway, a no longer locked room, and false library later, and he stood in front of a bookcase, looking for the trigger to the door he knew lay behind it.
A glance at Natasha earned him a shrug and a self depreciating, "Don't look at me, I was unconscious at this point."
He raised his eyebrows at that. She was not known for admitting a weakness, and definitely was not known for announcing she had one. It was possible she was trying to make him feel better, but he doubted it. Instead, he said, "I figured you were faking like usual."
"Four trained soldiers souped up on the serum versus me? I'm good, but not that good," she replied, earning more than a single wince from her companions.
Bruce took the moment to raise his hand and offer, "What's the chance the door is rigged with an alarm of some sort? Or a defense system?"
Stark beat him to an answer. "About the same as our super soldier wannabe friends waiting to attack as soon as it's opened," he shrugged. He managed to stop Thor from stepping up and simply smashing the thing to pieces with, "But, hey, I brought this cool case that forms this awesome armor and has these things called sensors that can scan both the system and maybe the area behind it. It's okay, I know you want your own, but this one's mine."
Bruce snorted and Steve rolled his eyes, but Clint watched as Tony set the case on the floor and activated the sequence for the suit. He had seen it many times before of course, but it never got old - a block of metal unraveling to reveal gears and plating that shifted and shaped themselves to form a custom, working, fully armed suit of armor. He'd say he was envious, but he had seen Tony at the end of the battle, the suit more of a hindrance than a benefit, metal dented and dragging, accentuating injuries and possibly causing more. The benefits were wonderful, and possibly almost equal to the cost. It worked for Stark though, and no one was dumb enough to turn down his assistance when the time came.
The faceplate lowered and the eerie eyes lit up and it took him all of about a minute to announce, "Got the lock. I'm finding nothing on the other side, which either means it's clear or there's something blocking the signal. Go in hot?"
"Go in prepared," Steve corrected, which everyone took to have slightly different meanings. He hefted his shield, Thor hefted his hammer, Natasha readied her gauntlets, and Clint readied his bow. Bruce loosened the button at his collar, which made several of Sitwell's men nervous, but they all snapped to positions as soon as the senior agent flipped the safety off his weapon.
Of course, it was all for naught when the door swung open to reveal absolutely nothing save for a simple stairwell leading downwards and an elevator with no visible buttons at its side. "Downward we go," Tony shrugged, but Clint stopped him.
"You'll destroy any element of surprise clanking around in that thing. Let us go first, and you bring up the rear." It was an order phrased as a suggestion, and he could almost picture the faces Tony was making at him behind the mask, but his teammate let it go, for now.
Clint took point and led the way down the stairs. He let some of Sitwell's men fan off at the first sub-level, Cap and Bruce with them. The rest followed him to the second level, and split up easily when suggested. He let them have their fun with the labs; he wanted both the exam rooms and the surveillance room if possible. Neither were mentioned as being found yet, and if he could get there before the others, it would prevent a hell of a lot of uncomfortable conversations for them all.
Nat was fully on board with this plan, for as much as they had not discussed it. The first room held a man strapped to a bed the way she had been, unblinking and unmoving. He let the team with far more medical training take care of that, and moved on to the next one. He froze at what he found.
It was most definitely the room they had escaped from barely a day before, and most definitely had yet to be cleaned. The gurney was still smeared with blood, and a myriad of dark stains littered the floor. The empty syringes of what had been given to Nat lay in a neat row atop a tray, full vials of a multitude of different colors beside them. The floor held less delicate instruments, including the piece of pipe and the electrical cord that had served as a whip, splayed out where they had been tossed and forgotten.
"You were held here," Thor announced, and it was not a question. The malice in his tone was palpable, and Clint was tempted to ask him to light up the place, destroy it where it stood, save for the fact the building as a whole was still crawling with agents and he didn't know if his electricity-friendly ally had that much control.
Natasha busied herself with methodically wrapping the drugs and their various delivery systems, knowing the benefit of their analysis. Clint busied himself with trying to find a way to hide the worst of the evidence.
Any productivity was soon halted by a voice, vaguely familiar, which laughed, "Oh, look, they've returned! Couldn't get enough of us? Had to come crawling back for more?"
"They brought a friend!" another one joined in.
It was the third one who sounded like he might actually have a clue, his voice far quieter when he added, "A really big friend."
The others didn't seem too concerned, hyped up on their drug and borrowed strength and likely yet to find someone they couldn't beat down. "Keep the big guy for the Doc," the first one ordered. "He definitely qualifies as a viable specimen."
"And the girl?" the second one asked. Clint was willing to bet actual cash money on his partner raring for a fight from those words alone. He was torn between a smirk at the sound of her gauntlets powering up proving him right, and vomiting up his breakfast as his memory chose that moment to replay some of the less nice aspects of their prior visit.
The man shrugged. "In one piece if you can; save the important bits to play with if you can't."
Even though he knew to expect it, Clint was still surprised when the mouthpiece for the bunch seized in place with barely controlled electricity. He honestly couldn't say if it was from Natasha or Thor though, and didn't really have that much time to think about it anyway as the other two chose that moment to attack.
The fight was decidedly one-sided, with Thor using his hammer against the man dumb enough to make a move against him, crumpled bulk crashing through the wall on the far side with ease. The second man had lunged towards Natasha, who ducked, dodged, and put him in a high voltage chokehold. He tossed her back towards the gurney, only to join his cohort when Thor's hammer connected with him as well.
He would have said that was the end of it but the first man, the loudmouth, had recovered enough to stagger towards Clint, the distance far too short to make use of his bow, but close enough to land a hit against a skull as hard as concrete. He crouched into a defensive position, ready for the counterattack, but it never came. Thor took a page from his own book and hit the man as well, the force of his fist enough to knock even the serum-enhanced body unconscious.
"Are you uninjured?" Thor inquired, not even out of breath.
Clint shook out his hand, knowing his knuckles would be pretty shades of black by lunchtime, but promised him, "I'm fine. Tash?"
Natasha stood from where she had crouched and tossed an errant curl over her shoulder. She eyed the unconscious men with a wariness Clint more than understood, but nodded her agreement. Those eyes then drifted to the gurney in a rather calculating manner. "Thor," she asked with a tranquility Clint envied, though also had learned to fear. "How do you feel about a unfortunate electrical accident?"
As any such accident would be credited to their hammer-wielding friend and they all knew it, it was quite the favor to ask. Thor, however, barely paused before he agreed, "It would be quite unfortunate indeed; where do you need it?"
Which was how the monitoring equipment next to the gurney accidentally overloaded, which was how the gurney itself sparked and caught fire, which was how the fire extinguisher was needed, which was how, unfortunately, the room no longer held the evidence it once did. The foam from the extinguisher was enough to put out the smoldering flames but contaminated the area, making any samples taken from the concrete or the gurney itself worthless.
The important samples though, the ones of the serum and the drugs already administered, were safe and sound and unadulterated, ready to hand over to the panicked agents that swarmed the room at the report of fire. The agents accepted the story at face value, the evidence matching the tale, and handled clean up of both the area and the men who had yet to revive. They hadn't been Coulson-trained, and had yet to learn to be suspicious of certain happenstances around certain senior members of SHIELD.
Clint decided he would consider the outing a success. He probably wouldn't actually sleep any better anytime soon, but the worst of it was over and accounted for, or so he thought until Stark cornered him on the way up the stairs and dragged him to an unoccupied hallway, free from view of anyone else. Clint made all the required inappropriate comments and innuendos, but choked in silence when Tony announced, without preamble, "There was a video feed of the room."
Somehow, he knew Tony did not just mean that their most recent misadventures in pyromania had made the cut, but that the entire ordeal from the moment Nat and he had been brought down was available in brilliant technicolor for all to see.
"I scrubbed the feed and pulled the files," Tony said as if it were nothing, as if he didn't just break several major laws and regulations. "The charge that started the fire caused an odd sort of feedback loop and anything associated with that room and it's recordings for the past seven days were lost. I believe you'd call that 'unfortunate,' right?"
Convenient was a much more apt word, but Clint was still stuck at nodding numbly, and wondering just how much Stark saw, just how much he knew of everything that had transpired. "I..." he started, but had no idea where he was going with it and let the word trail off and hang in the air between them.
"Will take every damn pain pill and antibiotic offered because I know better than to ask you to actually go to a doctor," Stark finished for him. He was still wearing the suit, mask up, and looked like he wanted to run his hands through his hair had it been remotely possible. His eyes were haunted, though Clint could not tell if it was due to what he had seen or if he was dealing with his own flashbacks and PTSD from past events.
"Look," Tony said, breaking the silence that followed. He looked around nervously, as though afraid either a SHIELD agent or serum-enhanced goon would attack at any moment. "I didn't watch, okay? I saw Romanov stripped naked and tied to a bed and you having the shit beat out of you before they even chained you to a fucking wall. I never need to see her that still ever again, and I never need to see you bleed that much. You can play Macho Agent Man or whatever you want, but you heal, okay? You tell us, tell me, if you are ever hurt, ever beat so badly that you can't function. You don't drag your ass back the next day to do it all over again."
Clint let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding at the revelation that no, Tony did not know the full score on this thing. He then had to pause before he breathed in again when he realized that, even with the little he did know, he had gone into full overprotective mode. It was an odd feeling, someone exhibiting actual concern versus dismay at the lack of battle-readiness, someone willing to keep secrets versus demanding a full and unadulterated report with physical evidence to back it up.
He schooled his face behind a well-practiced mask, knowing he was only proving Tony's latest monicker for him correct, and said, truthfully even, "I wasn't lying when I said I've had a lot worse than that."
He was going to add that it was all part of the job, really, but was interrupted with, "And I'm not lying when I say I can get you a doctor, a full medical review, without your cronies at SHIELD ever having to know a thing even though I know you'd never take me up on the offer." Tony looked at him in a way riddled with suspicion but with no actual proof and it made Clint reevaluate just how in the dark he might be. "You obviously don't want Medical to get to either one of you. You let Bruce have a look-see so, bonus, but he's more likely to let you back in the field than Anderson or Josphine, secretly broken ribs or no. You've got a vengeance thing going on, a vendetta or whatever the hell it is that made you torch the room, I get and support that. But don't let that get in the way of actually taking care of yourself."
Stark didn't wait for an answer, probably knew he wouldn't get one to his liking anyway. He said his piece, held Clint's gaze for about a second, and then stormed off down the hallway, muttering about how he better find some of those goons of his own because he really had some pent up anger to work through. No one stopped him, no one tried, and most probably suspected he was still in a tizzy about his friends being caught and/or his teammates getting into a fight without him.
Part 2 on Dreamwidth | Part 2 on Live Journal
Feedback is always welcomed.
Genre: Gen, Clint and Natasha friendship
Rating: R
Length: ~18,400 words
Warnings: Non-con, aftermath of non-con, aftermath of torture
Synopsis: They were captured and interrogated by those souped up on a mock Super Soldier serum. The methods were ineffective.
Author's Notes: For the "rape/non-con" square at
hc_bingo. Please heed the warnings.Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and am making no profit from this.
Also available as a single post on AO3.
They didn't talk about it through mutual, unspoken, agreement. They only mention how she missed her check in, how he went in to recover her, how they both escaped and how a retrieval team would be needed.
He had waited the required time, and then he waited some more. She had been overdue for check-in by three hours, and he had last heard from her nearly five before. She said she had an in and was going to take it. She said nothing about exit strategy but, then again, she rarely did. Newer agents were followed far closer, but she was a seasoned veteran and, had it been anyone but him on watch, she would have been left for a day or possibly two before anyone was concerned.
He was glad it was him.
Something about her tone, the slightest hint of hesitance, had his hackles up. Mix that with the purpose of the mission itself and with the reports she had provided of the major players thus far, and he might have been a little trigger happy, might have jumped the gun, might have come just in time.
The game was drugs. Not just any drugs, of course, because they could have and would have assigned something like that to someone far lower on the food chain. No, these drugs were experimental and were definitely not social in nature. These drugs did not get the taker high, give them a buzz, or bliss them out. These drugs mimicked the Super Soldier serum, and the evidence they had prior to the mission hinted they were pretty damned successful.
Natasha was to play the socialite, to flirt her way inside the mansion known for its wild parties, to slip away and do recon, and to report back her findings. Clint was to follow if needed as her wayward boyfriend, possibly also looking for a score and possibly also providing extra muscle should there be more fight than flight to their escape.
But then Natasha didn't report in.
Natasha, who would ditch handlers who she thought were incompetent only to swagger back days or weeks or, in one notable instance, months later with the full intel as soon as someone she trusted was reassigned. Natasha, who would always find a way to send Clint a message that she was okay, that she might drop off the grid for a bit, but that she was still viable and vital. Natasha, his partner for years, the one he trusted to either watch his back or kick his ass as needed. Natasha, who went radio silent with not even flash of a mirror in a window to tell him she was still doing fine. That Natasha, his Natasha, did not report in.
So he donned his sport coat and a pair of shoes Stark would have been proud of, bow left behind as it would be more than a little conspicuous, and sauntered in as if he had every right to be there. It turned out that guys hopped up on drugs with an unmentioned side effect that tossed pesky things like morality and inhibitions to the side took offense to that. It turned out that he really could not take on three guys with the strength of Steve, and the fourth and fifth were just ridiculously overkill.
The interrogation that followed was far more brute force than finesse, and he was left handcuffed to a bar near the floor, body aching and head pounding. A dislocated thumb was enough to get him free, or at least free enough to do what he needed to do. He took a moment to breathe, to put himself to rights and to listen for his caretakers to return, before he shuffled-crawled the short distance to the other side of the room.
Natasha had been given a nicer arrangement than he, but not by much. She was bound to an exam bed of professional medical quality, the bed itself bolted to the cement floor of the basement they had been brought to. Their captors only used the buckled medical restraints, nothing more severe, and yet she was still there, desperately still, when he approached.
She didn't turn her head towards him even though the Nat he knew would have escaped long before his cuffs reverberated against the metal. It wasn't until he was hovered above her, waving a hand in front of her face, that she blinked eyes red from dehydration and something more, and offered a strangled, "Barton?"
He didn't look at her, didn't want to see anything past her face with its smeared makeup and bruised lips. "What did they give you?" he asked before he would even reach for the restraints. The mock serum crossed their radar due to the accompanying irrational behaviors as well as increased strength - a not so good combination for an already trained assassin. He kind of doubted they had given that to her though as she normally would have been freed by now under her own power, let alone a chemical boost. Their words though, the ones they shared when they thought he was unconscious, haunted him. They had called her a candidate, debated if what they gave her would interfere or assist the process, decided for round one to wear off before they potentially moved on to round two.
"P-Paralytic," she managed. Her head tilted an inch to the left, jerky and spastic. He saw the needle marks by her jugular, dwarfed by the purpling handprint at her throat. Her features twitched, likely the closest she could get to a full blown scrunch of frustration. "Starting to wear off," she told him, and accompanied the declaration with a minuscule flex of her index finger and thumb.
It was good enough for him but, then again, she could have been given the actual serum and he would have still reached for the buckles, sprung the trap knowing he'd at least have an answer as to how much backup was going to be needed to take the place down.
Her toes curled and she managed a loose fist by the time he freed her, her adrenaline and force of will overpowering the chemicals that raced through her veins. He helped her to her side, checked her back for damage and hidden lines and found nothing that should be permanent. "They tried the easy way, but I was never one for easy," she explained, words coming slightly less breathy already, sounding like she had only been on a three day bender of a mission instead of five. She flopped back when he let go, and glared at him for the less than graceful release. "They think I'm out, wanted another go when I woke up," she warned.
He didn't want to think about that, didn't need that distraction. He scoured the room for what he needed, found a blanket that he knew she would refuse, gauze that would be thrown in his face if she was able. He turned at a noise and found her trying to push herself upright. He rolled his eyes at her stubbornness before he dragged her into a sitting position and propped her up at his side. "We need to get out of here," he said unnecessarily. Then, as fair warning, "That means I'm going to need to carry you."
She made a face that was almost her own, and ordered, "Get me my dress so I can pretend to have some dignity."
He found the cloth on the floor, stained and torn, but with enough clasps to at least hold it in place. He slid it on, her skin that much paler against the black, the damage that much more stark. She didn't ask for anything as frivolous as shoes, and he didn't offer, though he did grab his own discarded coat and forced her uncooperative arms into that as well.
She leaned against him for a moment, head on his shoulder and breathing deep, body far too lax and fumbling. It took him a sadly long moment to figure out what she was trying for his backup weapon, the one they took with his primary hours ago. She let her arms fall to her side in frustration, but even he knew it had only been wishful thinking to begin with. "We get into it, try to remember not to toss me at the bad guys," she teased, grin almost macabre where it was framed by her tangles.
"But you're my favorite weapon," he shot back, his heart really not into it but knowing it was simply rote at this point. Like he was going to let her go. Like he hadn't walked straight into a fucking armed compound just to find her.
He hauled her up into a fireman's carry, worried about her shallow breathing even as he was tempted to smile at the muffled curses in varying languages. There was no smiling though, not now, not when there was blood was slick on his hands.
He darted along the corridors, trying both to avoid what he remembered of the earlier patrols and the random wanderings of the mansion's residents. He was almost successful, and only had to put Nat down once to put another man - thankfully not one who had taken the serum - into a sleeper hold before they were able to escape to car he had hidden at the edge of the property.
Natasha could almost walk by the time he got them to the safe house, ignoring their hotel altogether. He still mostly carried her anyway, mentally arguing that she was still barefoot and that it was in no way tied to his own need to touch, to know she was there, to know she was alive and breathing.
He placed her on the couch even though she looked as though she could sleep for a week, and pulled up the secured satellite connection to SHIELD headquarters. They dutifully reported their findings, how this version of the serum required routine injections to maintain the levels, how it seemed to have a side effect of keying off the more baser of emotions and responses, how the serum was not the only drug to be had.
Agent Hill saw through at least some of the bullshit and demanded to know Natasha's true status. Clint betrayed her the way they both knew he would, and tattled on the paralytic, though kept the rest of her state of being private for now. Hill ordered them both to report to Medical once able for full bloodwork to ensure the drug was out of her system and had no lasting side effects as well as to verify Clint himself hadn't been given anything without his knowledge. She then took in the split lip and the blackened wrists when Natasha pushed her hair out of her eyes, and ordered them both to stay at the safe house until transport came for them. Said transport would, of course, be delayed until after compound was raided.
"Take 'em down?" Clint requested, just a hint of his true anger escaping.
Hill barely raised an eyebrow before she replied, "That's the intention, Agent Barton."
She signed off and Clint flopped back against the couch, tried not to take it personally when Natasha flinched in the most minuscule of ways at the jostling. He turned to ask what she needed, but found she was already struggling to her feet, using the furniture for far more support than he knew she was willing to admit. His hands flexed to catch her if needed, and he earned a glare for his efforts. "I'm going to go wash up," she told him. It was not a suggestion nor open for debate, even he knew that.
"Shout if you need me," he replied, going for nonchalant and failing by a mile.
She tensed for a second, and then shuffled-lurched towards the small bathroom. It took all of his willpower not to follow.
Instead, he busied himself with finding food and hanging a robe on the handle of the locked door she had disappeared behind and not closing his eyes for more than a second for fear that that he would see the marks again, the thumbprints on the curve of her hips, the scrapes along her ribcage, the blood smeared along her thighs.
He picked the lock of the remaining cuff and used a hand towel and the the water from the kitchen sink to scrub the worst of the dried muck off his wrist, less than secretly longing for a hot shower of his own, less than secretly keeping track of just how long Tasha had been in there all ready. She was not known to dawdle, especially not with an unknown timeline at stake, and more than once he hovered outside the door, hand raised to knock, only to promise himself he'd wait five more minutes, yet again.
The five had turned to a hell of a lot more than five by the time she slipped out. She left the locked bathroom for a locked bedroom, and he got the message: she wanted her space and he was to leave her the fuck alone.
He bathed in the lukewarm water and bandaged what he could of his own wounds and refused to take pain killers even though the safe house should be just that - safe. Until their transport came, until the mansion was in pieces and its residents locked away, he didn't want to take the chance that his reactions would be slowed, that he couldn't get to a weapon in time, that he would fail again.
The house came complete with closets full of clothing of various types and sizes, as was standard, but he chose simple cargo pants and a t-shirt, pulled on socks and boots even though he was technically on stand down for the immediate future. He chose the second of the three bedrooms for himself, food forgotten as unwanted on the kitchen counter, and laid down atop the bed to stare at the ceiling and avoid any semblance of sleep.
It was hours later when the near silent beep of an alarm sounded, the sun cutting through the slats of the blinds and the reinforced glass of the windows. The sound was a safeguard that meant someone had attempted access to the house and did not immediately pass the combination of biometric screens and passcodes. It did not always warrant an emergency as more than a single tired agent mistyped in their rush for safety, but considering the night before, and that he had heard nothing from Hill stating any agent was on his or her way, it was enough to put him on alert.
He slipped from bed, weapon at his side, and crouched in the doorway to the hallway, not surprised in the least to find Natasha doing the same. She was even dressed similar, substituting a thermal shirt for his t-shirt, though her stocking-covered feet were near soundless as she advanced towards the entryway. He noticed the slight jerk to her movements, even still, and suspected residual stiffness or simply pain from what she had gone through. He was smart enough not to question it though, not when it looked as though their guest had figured out a way to gain access after all.
He corrected that to guests when he heard at least two distinct voices. One stated he didn't think it was a good idea, and the other called out, "Honey, I'm h-"
The end of the declaration was cut short as Stark was shoved up against the wall, Natasha's arm at his throat and full weight of her anger pinning him in place. She leveled her weapon at Rogers, who was smart enough to remain in the doorway, hands up and out in as unthreatening way as possible.
Clint flipped the safety back on and revealed himself, knowing that if those two were there, there were at least two more behind them. "You broke into a safe house?" he asked incredulously.
"To be fair, I hacked in and then the door just opened for me," Tony corrected, semantics always mattering most with him, at least when he wanted them to.
His usual cavalier attitude did identify him as truly him though, so Natasha grunted her frustration and let him go, slamming him against the wall just a little bit more before she did so. Tony being Tony, he simply straightened his tie, picked up the briefcase he had dropped, and offered an enthusiastic, "Hi, guys!"
Nat looked like she was fighting the urge to sneer at him as she turned and stomped over to sit atop the overstuffed chair in the living room. Clint knew he wasn't the only one who caught the slight hitch in her step with the action, body losing its grace and giving into exhaustion as the potential emergency passed. He shook his head at Steve's raised eyebrow of a question, a less than subtle hint to let the matter go, at least for now.
Stark sauntered in and took the chair opposite of her, but Steve stayed in the doorway, eyes on the gun Clint still held in his hand, and asked, "May we come in?"
Clint tucked the thing into his waistband and shrugged with as much nonchalance as he could managed given his aching muscles, and replied, "Well, you did go through all the trouble breaking in, so why not?"
Steve lowered his hands and stepped across the threshold to reveal, as expected, a waiting Bruce and Thor. Bruce walked in behind him and said, "To be fair, that was entirely Tony's fault."
"It usually is," Steve agreed before Clint had the chance to.
Thor paused in the entryway, his massive size dwarfing the place and the door clicking shut behind him, to ask, "How is this house safe, if it so easily granted us entry?"
Clint wandered over to the kitchen counter, careful to keep his back straight and hobbling to a minimum with the multiple sets of eyes upon him, and leaned up against it to face the living room and its new occupants. "It's safe from all but genius computer hackers," he non-explained.
Stark nodded but amended that to, "Genius computer hackers who pretty much designed the original code and therefore made the impenetrable penetrable."
"If you're so genius, how did you set off the silent alarm?" Natasha challenged, a false hint of her usual amusement to her tone.
Tony offered a little wince at that and said, "Nobody's perfect? Well, that, and I'm pretty sure SHIELD tweaked the thing before they let it go live."
"Speaking of SHIELD, we should probably warn them that we have guests," Clint sighed. Hill would be ever so pleased, especially when she figured out who was responsible for it.
"Yeah, you do that. And then we can talk about how you two found yourself with a cadre of Super Soldiers and no backup and we didn't even know about the mission until we were notified that there was an 'incident,'" Tony challenged. "She called it minor but, seriously Barton, you look like you let them use you as a punching bag. Is that minor in SHIELD terms? Because it sure as hell isn't in mine."
It took his many years of training not to flinch at the words, not to get lost in the memories of just what happened in that little basement room and what had the potential to happen had he not gotten them both the hell out of there. "Something like that," he muttered instead, hoping Steve or Bruce would pick up on the subtle undertones of the need to drop the subject if Tony himself did not.
He did though, and then went on to ramble about now Hill probably knew they were there anyway as she did absolutely nothing to stop the hack and she even bothered to call them herself and he would call her right then and there if need be to prove her agents hadn't fallen down on the job. He reached to do just that, and Clint pushed it all off to the background as Bruce had walked over to him, left him his space, but stayed close enough to whisper an offer of, "Did you want me to check you out? I'm not technically a medical doctor, but I've done my share of healing, enough to know how to wrap that thumb for you or bandage whatever you did to your ribs you don't want us to know about."
Clint should have known this was coming. Everyone always underestimated the quiet doctor when he was just as pervasive as the rest of them. It would be a losing battle to stall, Banner would just wait and watch with knowing eyes, and at least this way he could have a little more control over just what those eyes saw. He might also be able to get out of a full physical and only need to submit to the bloodwork if Bruce reported that he had already treated him as it had worked in the past so there was no reason to believe it wouldn't this time.
He agreed and grabbed the sizable first aid kit from the closet, hiding behind the door of his room because he might be able to keep a few things from Bruce, but it was doubtful he could from a roomful of people used to ditching out at least as much as he did himself and knew every obfuscation and tell he might possibly use and may even be able to fake them better than himself. So he let himself be scrubbed and dabbed with iodine and bandaged, or at least part of him, and dutifully lied about any injury Bruce couldn't see or couldn't guess at. He accepted the painkillers, but refused to take them until the mission status was confirmed, which earned him both a glare and long suffering sigh.
Natasha was next, and she ducked into her room as well, probably for the same damn reasons. He doubted they truly fooled anyone, but at least it looked like they were making a passable effort at complying, so the others would let it go for now. SHIELD would get their bloodwork and a neat little form signed off on that stated they were good little agents, and they would get their privacy and it worked well for all of them or at least that's what they told themselves and that was all that mattered.
He stepped back out to the living room to find Stark wrapping up a chat with Director Fury, which meant he had pissed off Hill enough to work his way up the food chain. He didn't listen in, but caught snatches of it anyway, most of it bitching that the team should have been in the know from the beginning and then Steve's over-earnest puppy dog routine talking them into having a go at the recently emptied compound the following morning. Thor was poking at the food he had left out the night before and making unhappy faces, so it came as a surprise to absolutely no one that they had to explain why one could not order takeout to be delivered to a safe house.
Steve looked at the abandoned snacks and then at Clint and saw right through him and knew pretty much instantly that neither of his teammates had eaten upon their escape. He opened cupboards and took out pans and Clint let him be, knowing the whole feeding them now was to make up for not being there earlier and was simply Cap's way of dealing with a situation for which he had no control. Thor was always all about the food, so he jumped in and opened cans as directed, with Bruce joining them both after he wrapped up with Nat and after giving Clint a pointed look that meant he had figured out he was lying about something, likely an injury. Since he hadn't dragged him back to check him out again or turned any alarming hue more commonly found in the plant kingdom, he figured he was going to let it slide, at least for now.
While they busied themselves with that, he busied himself with sitting on the couch and facing the chair Stark had claimed earlier to confirm the plan for the following day. Natasha settled herself in her own previously abandoned chair and listened in as well, face a mask when asked if either of them were up for a return or if they wanted to stay behind and rest and heal or some such thing. Clint replied on both of their behalves and, with a pointed look leveled in Stark's direction, simply said, "We're going."
Stark didn't look surprised by the declaration, but he also didn't exactly look pleased. Clint had seen a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror and knew he looked like shit - black eye, swollen jaw, wrists ringed with red where they peeked out beneath his half-assed bandaging job before Bruce cleaned and rewrapped them - so he didn't exactly blame him for opinions he himself would have had if it have been any other member of their group. Natasha and he were trained agents though. True, they were not currently in prime condition, but both had experienced far worse in the past and handled situations far more dire than wandering an empty mansion with a phalanx of superhero guards at their sides. They would go back, face their non-existent demons, and do their damn jobs.
They would then do what any other trained agent would do, namely go back home, avoid any mention of the situation until they were ready to deal with it, and beat the shit out of both punching bags and anyone dumb enough to offer to spar with them in the near future.
He ate because he was being watched, but he honestly could not say what it tasted like or what the concoction was even supposed to be. He spent the meal watching Natasha push the food around on her plate until called on it by a blessedly blunt Thor, who worried he had mixed the spices wrong. Given that the spices in question were salt, pepper, and a fair amount of hot sauce as these things kept in the cupboards for indeterminate amounts of time, Clint was torn between the discovery that Thor had learned to use his earnest attitude for evil, and being proud of him for doing so. It had the result of getting both of them to finish the majority of what they were given though, so there was that. It still sat like lead in his stomach by the time he was done, and he really hoped that was the worst of it.
Steve had instituted a "no shop talk a the dinner table" rule quite some time ago - irregardless of whether the meal was actually at a table or spread out across a kitchen island, living room, or medical ward - so they waited for the dishes to be cleared and put in to soak before they discussed both what had happened and what they might expect to find the following morning. It was as much a test of his memory of the events as it was a test of his reactions to that memory and he wished he said he passed with flying colors but figured he ended up with a solid B for effort. He tried being vague, but he was known for his eye for detail, and ended up over-describing certain aspects solely to avoid others he did not wish to discuss.
Agent Sitwell came at what should have been the end but ended up being halfway through the review. He had a medic take blood samples from both Clint and Natasha and leave to process them immediately, the results determining their role in the next day's adventures as much as his opinion of the tale they told. He listened impassively while Natasha repeated her story of being overpowered, and how she came to be strapped to the table with Clint cuffed to the bar on the wall near the floor. He still listened, without a word, while Clint reiterated how he ended up there.
It was only when there was a brief pause while Clint tried to circumvent a particularly unpleasant occurrence that Sitwell asked, "Doctor Banner, I am assuming you have seen to their wounds? Did you check Agent Barton's ankles? He has a history of neglecting to mention thing such as sprains until after a four mile trek through a jungle."
He kind of hated Jasper for knowing him so well. To be fair, the incident in reference also involved him practically carrying a certain handler as well as the item they had been sent to retrieve. Bruce gave him an "ah-ha!" look as though that was what he had been hiding, and Clint dutifully unlaced the boots he had chosen because getting caught at this was far better than getting caught at something else.
He removed his sock to reveal a purpling bruise that stretched from his instep to his Achilles, and earned a sympathetic wince for his efforts. He also earned a snap of fingers from Stark with a pointed look towards his remaining foot, so he removed that sock as well, the welt across the top still tender but severely reduced in swelling.
Stark whistled low and demanded, "What the hell did they do to you, Barton?" but it was Steve with his quiet, contemplative look that worried him more. If his foot had been exposed to allow such damage, the question had to be asked as to what else was exposed and what additional damage had been caused, not to mention the whole if he hid this he probably hid a hell of a lot more.
Clint just pasted on his most impassive and unimpressed face and calmly replied, "Classified."
Jasper snorted, but also pointed out, "I have higher clearance than you, Barton."
This time, he let the tiniest amount of emotion show through when he said, "Section twenty-three, subsection eight of my agreement to work with SHIELD."
That caused more than a single raised eyebrow, and a heavy swallow from Sitwell, but the man wisely backed down. Clint knew that Tony would hack his file when he "went to bed" for the night, but couldn't care less about what he would find. The clause in question simply stated that Clint reserved the right to make a call to save another from great harm or possible death, even if it explicitly went against protocol and even if it was at the cost of his own person. That one had been a pain in the ass to get in there, and he had cited it very few times in his career. Two of those times had been with regards to the woman currently glowering at him, and he was fairly certain it would happen again before either of them succumbed to retirement or worse.
Jasper looked over to her, barely responding to the look of loathing she offered, and inquired, "Agent Romanov, are you willing to explain what happened?"
She tilted her head at him in a way that had caused lesser men to flee. "We were interrogated. Their methods were ineffective."
Sitwell took that as his due but, to be fair, he had worked with many agents in many situations and knew when to press and when to demand psych evals and he rarely had done either with either one of them. He trusted them to tell him what was important and relevant to the mission at hand, and to deal with the excess on their own terms. If he suspected what they hid would be detrimental to said mission at hand, he would pull them. If he suspected the detriment was to no one save for themselves, he usually let them go and possibly crash and burn and take whatever caused their current demons along for the ride.
They finished up their mock debriefing, not even bothering with the obfuscation any longer and now simply skipped over the parts they decided not to mention. Jasper's phone rang and the tech confirmed that there were no lingering chemicals in either agent, though Clint's white blood cell count was slightly elevated, so a round of antibiotics was recommended in case any of his multiple scrapes had become infected. It usually took far more than some scraped wrists for his body to respond that way, and he suspected Jasper knew that as well, but the drugs would take care of both the seen and the unseen and it was not worth the fight when the prescription was already to be had.
He dutifully took them, and then dutifully took the pain pills Bruce pointed out where still in his pocket, and then he dutifully excused himself to his room to lock the door and pass out. He only woke twice, and only stopped himself from shouting in response to a dream he rather did not wish to have once and, in the morning, he felt almost rested, if still unsettled.
He opened his door to find a bow case, quiver, uniform, and comm, as well as an open bathroom. He took advantage of them all save for the brace for his hand, washed and dressed and dragged his gear with him to shared space, not surprised in the least to find Banner half-asleep on the couch with hair still damp from his own shower, Rogers in the kitchen cooking up breakfast, and Sitwell long gone.
Thor gave home a once over, nodded, and declared that he looked much better. He also pounded him on the back in warrior pride or some such thing and Clint tried both not to topple over and to not visibly wince at the action. He failed at one, but stayed on his feet and called it a draw and moved to choose a tea that Bruce might like and to brew the sadness that passed as coffee for everyone else.
Natasha joined them shortly, and Thor offered to go wake up Stark in hopes they might actually leave at a reasonable time. Clint ate out of a need for fuel for what he considered a mission and because his stomach actually rumbled slightly in hunger instead of disgust. Nat did the same and Clint resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the way Steve beamed at their efforts.
The effort was nearly wasted when he bent down to pick up his bow case though. The light from the kitchen was off save for the bulb above the sink, the living room mostly in shadows as they prepared to leave. The linoleum had the faintest glint from the remaining light in the hallway, and the chrome of the stool-like chair against the counter reflected the same. Stark was standing just a little too close with his expensive jeans and custom sneakers, and there was a clinking crash from the kitchen where Steve was putting the last of the dishes away, followed by a self-depreciating, "I guess I just don't know my own strength."
His stomach surged and he fought to keep his breakfast down, his feet rooted to the floor but his mind miles away in a dark lit room, serum-enhanced assholes looming over him, taunting and teasing and physically manipulating him like he was nothing more than a rag doll, laughing as they plotted and planned what they were going to do next, bruising skin and maybe bone as they bragged about their abilities and just how strong they were, just what they could do with that strength.
He breathed out heavily through his nose, and then in again, smelling the ridiculous aftershave Stark preferred, the lingering scent of oatmeal and burnt coffee. Steve flipped the overhead light back on to deal with the broken glass and the entire area seemed to surge back to life. It grounded him, centered him, reminded him of where he was and who he was with. He righted himself and shouldered his equipment and hoped no one had caught his momentary lapse.
Tony looked at him though, stared at him with thinly veiled and knowing concern. "You okay?" he asked in a voice quiet enough even Steve probably couldn't hear him.
Clint nodded, shifted his quiver into place. "I just had a moment, you know," he shrugged. He left it vague, let Tony figure out for himself if he meant a memory or a muscle twinge.
The man was a genius, however, so it really shouldn't have come as any surprise when he paused, fingertips resting just barely atop the protective tabs Clint wore on his fingers, and said in a rare serious tone, "Trust me, I know."
Clint shook it off instead of leaning into the understanding the way he was tempted to and moved to join the others, who were all thankfully in the dark about his little trip down memory lane. Stark stayed close though, bumping into him and jostling him when he picked up his own gear, keeping some part of him that was covered in his flashy, iridescent shirt within Clint's line of vision at all times. If the man wasn't usually such a selfish bastard, Clint would almost take it as a silent form of support. He didn't want to dwell on it though, nor did he want to risk dropping his guard enough for Stark to figure out all the things that really needed to stay hidden.
They rode in relative silence on the way there, no one speaking and the radio playing soft nothings to fill up the empty space left behind. With the mansion effectively in SHIELD's custody, there was no need to park in the woods and trek the rest of the way in, the main gates open and wide and watched over by armed guards loyal to their own allegiance. Sitwell greeted them and gave them a brief walk through, explaining what they had found so far, which really wasn't a whole hell of a lot.
"I wouldn't have thought they'd have time to clear that much out," Banner mused. "From what Natasha and Clint reported, there were multiple labs and they appeared to be manufacturing the serum here as well, or at least a form of it. I can understand why they wouldn't want to cut and run and start from scratch again, but..." If anyone knew about leaving everything behind at a moment's notice, it would be Bruce. He was fidgeting slightly, the way he always did when the SHIELD teams didn't give him quite enough space, but he did have a point.
Natasha beat him to the obvious question, body and mannerisms still tense from the all too recent history, standing an extra few inches behind and to the side of the others. "They managed to evacuate the sub-basements as well? I get locking them down, but a full evac is impressive, not to mention beyond what we know of their organizational skills."
Sitwell paused mid-step, body frozen for a half a second before he slumped in defeat. "There are sub-basements as well?" he asked in a pained voice.
"That was in my report," Clint defended himself. The actual paperwork had not yet been filed, or even written, but he knew he had described the areas in full, or at least what he had seen of them. He may have been a bit punch drunk, but he knew what was important enough to make it into the reports, even as he knew what he could avoid, and pesky things like the damn labs where the drugs were made was definitely on the turn-in list.
Sitwell shook his head, but didn't seem upset at Barton as much as himself. "You said lower levels, we translated that to level - as in singular," he explained. "There was no evidence of anything beyond the first basement, no access point or obvious traffic areas. We - I - assumed you had misspoke due to the fact you were barely conscious." He straightened himself and apologized, "I am sorry for underestimating you and promise to try not to do so again."
Clint blinked. He had worked with Jasper enough that his straightforward manner shouldn't surprise him, and yet it did. The guy made a mistake, and he owned up to it. It was also a prime example of both why more than one team usually searched a given area and why someone from the original incident should always be on scene or wired in if available. Things could be missed. Sometimes, you could use these things to your advantage, such as to cover up wounds or sneak intel or get first dibs on something. Sometimes, the things meant a scratched mission as the lack of data meant a lack of a plan of attack.
"This way," was all he said in response, and took point to both his team and Sitwell's lackeys. He wound through three hallways to a back stairwell, then down a flight to the obvious basement. Another hallway, a no longer locked room, and false library later, and he stood in front of a bookcase, looking for the trigger to the door he knew lay behind it.
A glance at Natasha earned him a shrug and a self depreciating, "Don't look at me, I was unconscious at this point."
He raised his eyebrows at that. She was not known for admitting a weakness, and definitely was not known for announcing she had one. It was possible she was trying to make him feel better, but he doubted it. Instead, he said, "I figured you were faking like usual."
"Four trained soldiers souped up on the serum versus me? I'm good, but not that good," she replied, earning more than a single wince from her companions.
Bruce took the moment to raise his hand and offer, "What's the chance the door is rigged with an alarm of some sort? Or a defense system?"
Stark beat him to an answer. "About the same as our super soldier wannabe friends waiting to attack as soon as it's opened," he shrugged. He managed to stop Thor from stepping up and simply smashing the thing to pieces with, "But, hey, I brought this cool case that forms this awesome armor and has these things called sensors that can scan both the system and maybe the area behind it. It's okay, I know you want your own, but this one's mine."
Bruce snorted and Steve rolled his eyes, but Clint watched as Tony set the case on the floor and activated the sequence for the suit. He had seen it many times before of course, but it never got old - a block of metal unraveling to reveal gears and plating that shifted and shaped themselves to form a custom, working, fully armed suit of armor. He'd say he was envious, but he had seen Tony at the end of the battle, the suit more of a hindrance than a benefit, metal dented and dragging, accentuating injuries and possibly causing more. The benefits were wonderful, and possibly almost equal to the cost. It worked for Stark though, and no one was dumb enough to turn down his assistance when the time came.
The faceplate lowered and the eerie eyes lit up and it took him all of about a minute to announce, "Got the lock. I'm finding nothing on the other side, which either means it's clear or there's something blocking the signal. Go in hot?"
"Go in prepared," Steve corrected, which everyone took to have slightly different meanings. He hefted his shield, Thor hefted his hammer, Natasha readied her gauntlets, and Clint readied his bow. Bruce loosened the button at his collar, which made several of Sitwell's men nervous, but they all snapped to positions as soon as the senior agent flipped the safety off his weapon.
Of course, it was all for naught when the door swung open to reveal absolutely nothing save for a simple stairwell leading downwards and an elevator with no visible buttons at its side. "Downward we go," Tony shrugged, but Clint stopped him.
"You'll destroy any element of surprise clanking around in that thing. Let us go first, and you bring up the rear." It was an order phrased as a suggestion, and he could almost picture the faces Tony was making at him behind the mask, but his teammate let it go, for now.
Clint took point and led the way down the stairs. He let some of Sitwell's men fan off at the first sub-level, Cap and Bruce with them. The rest followed him to the second level, and split up easily when suggested. He let them have their fun with the labs; he wanted both the exam rooms and the surveillance room if possible. Neither were mentioned as being found yet, and if he could get there before the others, it would prevent a hell of a lot of uncomfortable conversations for them all.
Nat was fully on board with this plan, for as much as they had not discussed it. The first room held a man strapped to a bed the way she had been, unblinking and unmoving. He let the team with far more medical training take care of that, and moved on to the next one. He froze at what he found.
It was most definitely the room they had escaped from barely a day before, and most definitely had yet to be cleaned. The gurney was still smeared with blood, and a myriad of dark stains littered the floor. The empty syringes of what had been given to Nat lay in a neat row atop a tray, full vials of a multitude of different colors beside them. The floor held less delicate instruments, including the piece of pipe and the electrical cord that had served as a whip, splayed out where they had been tossed and forgotten.
"You were held here," Thor announced, and it was not a question. The malice in his tone was palpable, and Clint was tempted to ask him to light up the place, destroy it where it stood, save for the fact the building as a whole was still crawling with agents and he didn't know if his electricity-friendly ally had that much control.
Natasha busied herself with methodically wrapping the drugs and their various delivery systems, knowing the benefit of their analysis. Clint busied himself with trying to find a way to hide the worst of the evidence.
Any productivity was soon halted by a voice, vaguely familiar, which laughed, "Oh, look, they've returned! Couldn't get enough of us? Had to come crawling back for more?"
"They brought a friend!" another one joined in.
It was the third one who sounded like he might actually have a clue, his voice far quieter when he added, "A really big friend."
The others didn't seem too concerned, hyped up on their drug and borrowed strength and likely yet to find someone they couldn't beat down. "Keep the big guy for the Doc," the first one ordered. "He definitely qualifies as a viable specimen."
"And the girl?" the second one asked. Clint was willing to bet actual cash money on his partner raring for a fight from those words alone. He was torn between a smirk at the sound of her gauntlets powering up proving him right, and vomiting up his breakfast as his memory chose that moment to replay some of the less nice aspects of their prior visit.
The man shrugged. "In one piece if you can; save the important bits to play with if you can't."
Even though he knew to expect it, Clint was still surprised when the mouthpiece for the bunch seized in place with barely controlled electricity. He honestly couldn't say if it was from Natasha or Thor though, and didn't really have that much time to think about it anyway as the other two chose that moment to attack.
The fight was decidedly one-sided, with Thor using his hammer against the man dumb enough to make a move against him, crumpled bulk crashing through the wall on the far side with ease. The second man had lunged towards Natasha, who ducked, dodged, and put him in a high voltage chokehold. He tossed her back towards the gurney, only to join his cohort when Thor's hammer connected with him as well.
He would have said that was the end of it but the first man, the loudmouth, had recovered enough to stagger towards Clint, the distance far too short to make use of his bow, but close enough to land a hit against a skull as hard as concrete. He crouched into a defensive position, ready for the counterattack, but it never came. Thor took a page from his own book and hit the man as well, the force of his fist enough to knock even the serum-enhanced body unconscious.
"Are you uninjured?" Thor inquired, not even out of breath.
Clint shook out his hand, knowing his knuckles would be pretty shades of black by lunchtime, but promised him, "I'm fine. Tash?"
Natasha stood from where she had crouched and tossed an errant curl over her shoulder. She eyed the unconscious men with a wariness Clint more than understood, but nodded her agreement. Those eyes then drifted to the gurney in a rather calculating manner. "Thor," she asked with a tranquility Clint envied, though also had learned to fear. "How do you feel about a unfortunate electrical accident?"
As any such accident would be credited to their hammer-wielding friend and they all knew it, it was quite the favor to ask. Thor, however, barely paused before he agreed, "It would be quite unfortunate indeed; where do you need it?"
Which was how the monitoring equipment next to the gurney accidentally overloaded, which was how the gurney itself sparked and caught fire, which was how the fire extinguisher was needed, which was how, unfortunately, the room no longer held the evidence it once did. The foam from the extinguisher was enough to put out the smoldering flames but contaminated the area, making any samples taken from the concrete or the gurney itself worthless.
The important samples though, the ones of the serum and the drugs already administered, were safe and sound and unadulterated, ready to hand over to the panicked agents that swarmed the room at the report of fire. The agents accepted the story at face value, the evidence matching the tale, and handled clean up of both the area and the men who had yet to revive. They hadn't been Coulson-trained, and had yet to learn to be suspicious of certain happenstances around certain senior members of SHIELD.
Clint decided he would consider the outing a success. He probably wouldn't actually sleep any better anytime soon, but the worst of it was over and accounted for, or so he thought until Stark cornered him on the way up the stairs and dragged him to an unoccupied hallway, free from view of anyone else. Clint made all the required inappropriate comments and innuendos, but choked in silence when Tony announced, without preamble, "There was a video feed of the room."
Somehow, he knew Tony did not just mean that their most recent misadventures in pyromania had made the cut, but that the entire ordeal from the moment Nat and he had been brought down was available in brilliant technicolor for all to see.
"I scrubbed the feed and pulled the files," Tony said as if it were nothing, as if he didn't just break several major laws and regulations. "The charge that started the fire caused an odd sort of feedback loop and anything associated with that room and it's recordings for the past seven days were lost. I believe you'd call that 'unfortunate,' right?"
Convenient was a much more apt word, but Clint was still stuck at nodding numbly, and wondering just how much Stark saw, just how much he knew of everything that had transpired. "I..." he started, but had no idea where he was going with it and let the word trail off and hang in the air between them.
"Will take every damn pain pill and antibiotic offered because I know better than to ask you to actually go to a doctor," Stark finished for him. He was still wearing the suit, mask up, and looked like he wanted to run his hands through his hair had it been remotely possible. His eyes were haunted, though Clint could not tell if it was due to what he had seen or if he was dealing with his own flashbacks and PTSD from past events.
"Look," Tony said, breaking the silence that followed. He looked around nervously, as though afraid either a SHIELD agent or serum-enhanced goon would attack at any moment. "I didn't watch, okay? I saw Romanov stripped naked and tied to a bed and you having the shit beat out of you before they even chained you to a fucking wall. I never need to see her that still ever again, and I never need to see you bleed that much. You can play Macho Agent Man or whatever you want, but you heal, okay? You tell us, tell me, if you are ever hurt, ever beat so badly that you can't function. You don't drag your ass back the next day to do it all over again."
Clint let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding at the revelation that no, Tony did not know the full score on this thing. He then had to pause before he breathed in again when he realized that, even with the little he did know, he had gone into full overprotective mode. It was an odd feeling, someone exhibiting actual concern versus dismay at the lack of battle-readiness, someone willing to keep secrets versus demanding a full and unadulterated report with physical evidence to back it up.
He schooled his face behind a well-practiced mask, knowing he was only proving Tony's latest monicker for him correct, and said, truthfully even, "I wasn't lying when I said I've had a lot worse than that."
He was going to add that it was all part of the job, really, but was interrupted with, "And I'm not lying when I say I can get you a doctor, a full medical review, without your cronies at SHIELD ever having to know a thing even though I know you'd never take me up on the offer." Tony looked at him in a way riddled with suspicion but with no actual proof and it made Clint reevaluate just how in the dark he might be. "You obviously don't want Medical to get to either one of you. You let Bruce have a look-see so, bonus, but he's more likely to let you back in the field than Anderson or Josphine, secretly broken ribs or no. You've got a vengeance thing going on, a vendetta or whatever the hell it is that made you torch the room, I get and support that. But don't let that get in the way of actually taking care of yourself."
Stark didn't wait for an answer, probably knew he wouldn't get one to his liking anyway. He said his piece, held Clint's gaze for about a second, and then stormed off down the hallway, muttering about how he better find some of those goons of his own because he really had some pent up anger to work through. No one stopped him, no one tried, and most probably suspected he was still in a tizzy about his friends being caught and/or his teammates getting into a fight without him.
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