Chapter 3
Ronald Slater’s hatred of Clint Barton is so irrational that he's glad Barton's going to die soon, even though Slater will probably also die and thus be unable to celebrate.
They've been imprisoned in the dungeon of a dilapidated castle near Ghent for the better part of three days now, the monotony of stone and darkness broken up by occasional torture and periods of unconsciousness. The HYDRA goons who captured them during the end of a human trafficking op are much more interested in questioning Barton than they are Slater, which pisses him off. Surely he knows just as many important secrets and classified information as someone who spends most of his time shooting a bow and arrow.
"It's a bitch being popular," Barton says when they drag him back in and dump him on the floor, wrists and ankles zip-tied with some bonus duct-tape as well.
He isn't bleeding anywhere obvious, but there's a livid bump on his forehead and he's twitching now and then as if they ran electric current through his muscles. Slater got his own personal electrotherapy shortly after they were captured, or maybe a few hours ago. It's hard to tell. Time is blurry. The HYDRA goons who slam the door behind them are talking in the Alemannisch dialect about an evacuation. Or maybe that's execution. Slater's no fan of German languages and should have paid more attention in school.
"You tell them anything?" Slater asks from his corner. His shoulders and arms ache from muscle strain because he, too, is zip-tied and duct-taped, and it's all very annoying. He's been rubbing his hands against the stonework, trying to work off the tape, but it's hard to feel if he's making any progress with them laced so tightly behind his back.
Barton's voice is vague, his eyes closed. "My high school locker combination. First step toward world domination."
There's not much light, and the stonework muffles sound as if they were in a tomb. Slater would kill for a bottle of water. The hollow in his stomach is getting worse with every minute. The only solace is that the rest of their team got away, along with several young women and boys who'd been held prisoner here. Slater distracted the goons with grenades while Barton improvised a zip line over the former moat.
Barton could have made his escape too, but like an idiot he came back for Slater. Stupid, stupid move.
The fact that rescue hasn't shown up either in the shape of SHELD or the Avengers tells Slater that the team and rescued victims didn't get far. They're probably dead in the forest surrounding this fortress, their cold bodies sprawled in the even colder snow. He tries not to think about how this is going to reflect on his service record.
"You going to move or just sprawl there helplessly?" he asks Barton.
"Sprawl," Barton says, sounding remarkably unconcerned. Which is an infuriating Barton habit, but is perhaps amplified by exhausted, concussion, or truth serum. HYDRA likes truth serum. They're lucky they haven't dosed Slater, because he'd tell them exactly what he thinks of them.
"Screw that." Slater rubs his hands harder against the stone wall. "I for one want to get out of here alive."
"Yeah. I haven't started my Christmas shopping yet."
"I don't care about your fucking shopping list, Barton," he says sharply.
Barton's back arches a little as another muscle spasm works through him. His bare feet scrape against the floor. Slater's feet are bare, too. He misses his steel-tipped boots. Their trousers and thin shirts aren't much protection against the cold and damp air.
"It's a serious problem," Barton insists. "You try shopping for Nat."
Slater snorts. Agent Romanov is not on his gift list, nor she on his. He's never understood why SHIELD took her in and gave her a job, except for the part where she's remarkably ruthless and successful.
"She must like you." Barton makes the effort to roll himself on his side. He flexes his arms behind him, but of course the tape and zip ties hold. "She asks all sorts of questions about you."
A thrill of alarm sets goose bumps along Slater's arms. "What kind of questions?"
"Oh, you know. Amsterdam. Something about Antwerp." Barton's back arches as he pulls his knees up to his chest in a fetal position. "She thinks you don't like me."
Slater holds himself very still, choosing between responses. "What is this, high school? Passing notes in study hall?"
"Never went to study hall. Always stuck in detention."
Barton twists his arms in a very painful looking way and then, to Slater's astonishment, loops them down around himself to pull his legs through. It's a fucking acrobat or yoga move that annoys Slater because he's not flexible enough to do the same. With his hands in front of him Barton begins to work on unwinding the wrist tape with his teeth. The clumsy and slow-going work leaves Slater with too much time to think about Romanov's questions.
"A little faster, Barton," he says.
"You try it," Barton replies, or maybe that's "fuck you." It's hard to tell beneath all that tape.
Slater flexes his sore shoulders. "I don't know what Romanov is worried about. We make a good team. I give the orders, you follow them."
Barton's next response definitely sounds vulgar.
"I work with people all over SHIELD," Slater insists. He rests his aching head against the wall. "Personal feelings don't matter. We get the job done. She doesn't like that, she should talk to me. I'm very approachable."
Finally snagging the edge of the tape, Barton begins to laboriously unwind it. He doesn't answer.
Slater says, "I worked my ass off in Amsterdam to make sure we got the job done. In Antwerp, I was up all night trying to keep you grounded. Not my fault you had to hole up. Why would Romanov think it's my fault?"
He wonders, briefly, if their captors actually did does him with truth serum while he wasn't looking. He feels like he's talking more than he should, but doesn't really care.
"Nobody appreciates how hard it is to make things go smoothly," he complains.
Barton gets the tape off completely and spits the tangled mess of it aside. The zip tie is next. Slater knows lots of ways to get out of those. They've done training. Easy to snap if you swing your arms down correctly and break the little clamping jaw. But Barton's just shimmying his off by twisting his hands. Goddamned acrobat.
Slater maybe closes his eyes while Barton frees his ankles, because he's sick of the show-off. The next thing he knows, Barton is manhandling Slater away from his corner to work on freeing him, too.
"Don't zone out on me now." Barton looms so close that Slater can smell his bad breath. Or maybe that's his own. Barton asks, "You good to run for it?"
Wearily, Slater says, "I'm a faster runner than you'll ever be, Barton."
Barton snorts.
First they have to get through the wooden door, which is at least three inches thick and has an ancient, rusty keyhole. Slater rubs circulation back into his tingling hands while Barton works on the lock with a paper clip he stole during his last interrogation. Barton's fingers are a little unsteady, as are his legs, and Slater can't afford for him to screw this up.
"Let me try," he says when Barton starts to sway.
"My eyesight's better," Barton replies.
"Not if you're seeing double."
A smirk. "Twice as fun."
From somewhere far above them, a muffled thump reverberates through the stone. It sounds like an explosion. Or missile. Or something else equally dangerous to their health. A second explosion follows a few seconds behind, powerful enough to shake dust from the ceiling and rock the floor.
Slater says, "Now's a good time to hurry."
"Tell me something I don't know," Barton snaps, and the lock clicks open beneath his fingers.
The narrow passageway outside leads past empty cells to a twisting staircase. They're almost to the top when the next explosions. much closer, reverberate through the stone. The string of lights bolted to the wall start to flicker and dance themselves loose. The ceiling begins raining down, the steps collapsing. Slater puts his hands on his head, as if that's going to do any good against the crush of a thousand tons of rubble, and yells through the deafening noise, "We're going to die!"
Barton grabs his right arm arm and hauls him through a doorway to land in a long hall of tall windows. It's not much of an improvement, because the windows too are collapsing. Lethal stained glass tumbles out of old lead panes and shatters on the floor around them like shrapnel. Twenty feet away, twin doors lead to a snow-covered patio and a sky full of fire and smoke. Getting to them is like trying to cross the heaving deck of a ship.
The floor cracks open and Barton trips. Slater keeps going. He can't barely hear anything thanks to the noise, can't see much thanks to the smoke, doesn't know much other than he's going to die if he stops. Adrenaline whips his heart faster and faster, and he's covered in cold sweat. Before he reaches the doorway he glances back and sees Barton on the floor, trying to get up but not able to.
"Hey!" Slater yells, or maybe that's "Help!" He can't hear himself. But he certainly isn't going to stop to save Barton. He turns back to the doors, which have fallen off their hinges. Lurches toward them. The whole fucking castle is coming down and he, for one, will survive it. Five steps to safety, four, three --
The sky itself seems to explode. The concussive blast drives him backward, tumbles him to land on some kind of cushion, and then there's nothing but bleakness and black.
#
Afterward there are a couple of days of confusion and painkillers and conversations he doesn't remember, but eventually Slater opens his eyes and the hospital room isn't shaking or spinning or ringing with noise. That's good. Steve Rogers is sitting in the corner, reading a Dutch newspaper. That's maybe not so good. Thin sunlight through the window highlights him in gold.
"Good morning," Rogers says. "I didn't want you to wake up alone. That's always disappointing."
Slater has exchanged maybe twenty words with the guy since he was defrosted, but is oddly comforted by the idea someone would do that for him.
Roger continues, "We're grateful for what you did for Clint during the rescue. Shielding him with your body like that probably saved his life, even though it cost you thirty stitches."
That perhaps explains why he's sleeping on his side, a thick swaddling of bandages on his back. Slater's sure the doctors explained his injuries to him, even if he can't quite recall all the details. Someone also told him about HYDRA booby-trapping the castle and how the Avengers had to defeat a number of bombs before they could move in for a rescue. Obviously they missed some. What was once an impressive bit of real estate is now a pile of rocks.
Not that Slater cares, but it seems right to ask, "How's he doing?"
Rogers' somber expression lightens a little. "Doing better. They're going to try and wean him off the respirator today. He seems like he's ready to wake up."
As far as Slater is concerned, Barton doesn't have to wake up ever. It would be a relief to have him off the planet. But it would be irrational to tell that to the leader of the Avengers, so he prudently keeps his mouth shut.
end of chapter