Chapter 1
*******
"You think they're going to hurt us?"
"Without question." Clint is eyeing him carefully, probably expecting a freak out.
But Tony isn't afraid as much as he is disgusted. "This is just so--" He gestures vaguely with cuffed hands. "How does this sort of thing even come to be? Are there books someone has written on the proper method of sticking bamboo under fingernails? Are there conferences, symposiums, where everyone forms breakaway groups and mimes out waterboarding one another? Some douche droning through powerpoint slides of a beatdown, illustrated step by step?"
"There's always people that know how to hurt," Clint says, leaning forward to tug experimentally at the chain that holds his wrists to the wall behind him. He frowns at it over his shoulder. "And always someone else willing to learn, to try it for reasons of their own. A lot of torturers even think, in the beginning, that they are the ones doing it for the right reason."
"I can't ever imagine being that deluded. I mean, that's just stupid."
Clint smiles at him sadly. "Yeah, well. We live in a pretty stupid world."
*******
It's quickly clear that the bespectacled and somewhat balding man who introduces himself as Franklin is the one in charge. The man's watery gray eyes seem to run right into his pale cheeks, which then blend into his listless not-brown-not-blond hair. The man reminds Tony of a poorly executed paint by number project, of an egg over easy that broke in the pan, of white rice that has been microwaved too many times. Bland, unappealing, with a hint of patheticness.
"I want the schematics for the new reactor," Franklin tells Tony again.
He shrugs apologetically. "If wishes were horses, and all that. It can't happen, my man."
"It doesn't have to be this way. You can make it easier on yourself. And on him." He cocks his head to indicate Clint, who wrinkles his nose.
"And you could always, you know, just not do whatever horrible thing you're planning," Tony suggests. "I mean, there is that."
"You'll be killed in the end," Clint warns, and there's an odd quality of camaraderie in his voice, of an older brother advising a younger sibling. "I mean, I guess you'll do what you think you have to, but when our buddies show up, well... Let's just say, whatever you end up doing, the Black Widow will give you back times three." He smirks ruefully. "She's a bit protective."
"I'll take my chances," Franklin answers. He sighs and pushes himself away from the desk. "Alright." He motions to one of the guards by the door. “Split 'em up. I want Stark in the green room, Barton in the red."
*******
They dump Tony in a windowless room that had once been a minty, institutional green, but much of the paint has flaked off the walls in large patches. They uncuff him and he rubs his aching wrists as he sits on the bed in the corner. He waits for something to happen, but as the hours pass and nothing does he lays down instead.
He pops awake awhile later to a guard staring at him.
"Creeper," he mutters as he is secured and frogmarched to a different room.
Franklin is there, sitting again at the desk to the side, and so is Clint, arms raised and chained to a hook from the ceiling, his body stretched painfully as he balances precariously on his tiptoes.
He grins when he sees Tony, despite the strain in his face. "You're okay."
"Oh, yes, Mr. Stark is just fine," Franklin observes dryly, all business. He snaps his computer closed. "And now that he's finally awake you can get down, and we can get started."
*******
They unhook him from the ceiling, and Christ, what a relief that is. Clint had been convinced his shoulders were dislocated, but now he thinks they might only be sincerely fucked up instead. That's good, that's something he can work with--popping shoulders back in their sockets while handcuffed, on the other hand, has never been in his particular skillset.
He and Tony are seated on the other side of Franklin's desk. Franklin's talking, then Tony's talking, Franklin threatens, Tony snarks, Franklin waits, and Clint decides it's time to participate. He's exhausted and he aches down to his bones from that hook, but he also needs a chance to think while he's sitting comfortably enough to do so, and luckily his mouth runs independently of his brain rather easily when he needs it to.
"Franklin. Is that your first or your last name? Like 'Franklin Roosevelt' or more like 'Ben Franklin'? I'm going to call you Benjamin, I hope that's okay." Clint shrugs at the man's sour look. "Anyway, I'm going to tell you a story. And I want you to pay attention when I get to the part with the watermelons, because, trust me, it's both relevant and important."
There are bolts in the walls and in the floor, and there's no screws around the plates, so they likely went in when the cement was poured. There's a drain in the middle of the floor. Drains mean water, vomit, blood. This room was planned out for the express purpose of torture, and these guys are professionals.
"--that was fun, a real toe tapper, but I personally prefer a partner that--" he prattles on. Tony's eyebrows are raised, and he looks rather amused in spite of himself.
Franklin has all the appearance of a milquetoast, but Clint is certain it's a clever camouflage. The man definitely has a thorough knowledge of stress positions, Clint having been forced into a number of them over the last few hours. He also separated his prisoners, increasing their worry of what might be happening to the other, so headgames are probably his preferred artistic medium. Clint continues talking a mile a minute while he looks over Franklin's suit, a department store special with aspirations of appearing designer, and his bland face, which is carefully expressionless. The whole package is one of a cheap, knock off Phil Coulson, as lousy and phony as Franklin's shitty suit. Clint wonders if it's just a coincidence or if Franklin had been selected for this resemblance, just to fuck with his head.
"--she said 'That's not edible' and I said 'I don't care, I'll eat anything' and then she said--"
Then again, it's ridiculous to assume that any of this, or any person in it, was chosen for his benefit--this is all about Tony and his tech. As usual. Clint sighs inwardly. It's not easy having a friend that knows how to make weapons of mass destruction. Tony is a great guy and all, but geez. What a bullshit hassle.
"--it would have been neater with rubber gloves, but, hey, we were poor. So instead we just--"
He's sure the main game will be sleep deprivation, especially since they took Tony away and let him rest while they kept Clint up without respite. Sleep deprivation is bad news. Drugs are awful, but Clint has been able to stubbornly plow his way through most of them when used. Physical torture is not something he enjoys--especially being burned, he hates that shit--but Clint's pain tolerance is sky high and he has a headspace he retreats to when things get really rough. But sleep deprivation is a real bear, because he can't reason his way through it. He's been there plenty of times in sniper situations and once very memorably back in training, and his experience is that on the third day the hallucinations invariably start to settle in, and if that happens here he's well and truly fucked. He's never gone beyond four days awake--Coulson would have pulled him from any sniper's nest long before that, and even SHIELD wasn't cruel enough to make their agents risk a psychotic episode in training just to prove a point about how horrible torture can be.
"You know those little lights that miners wear on their helmets? It looked kind of like that. So then--remember the watermelon? It comes into play here, when the third guy--"
Clint was already tired; they'd been in southeast Asia dealing with a conflict between competing arms dealers before he and Tony had gotten captured. Clint's strong, but pulling back that bow a hundred times or more in the space of an hour on top of some serious jet lag...well, he wasn't exactly in tiptop shape coming into this thing.
"And that," he concludes dramatically, "is the story of my first sexual experience."
Tony exchanges a look with Franklin, who has long since quit feigning disinterest. "Jesus God, Barton. That was...I mean...you are a nasty bastard."
"Yes. I know."
"There is no way any of that is true. No way in hell."
"It was all true. Even the lies. Especially the lies." He rolls his shoulders. "Now, shall I regale you with the story of the time the entire circus caught crabs? Folks would later say that it started when the strongman went to that whorehouse, but it was actually my own dear brother who--"
"Enough," Franklin snaps.
"Don't like to hear about body lice?" Clint asks innocently, widening his eyes. "One guy even had them in his beard. I wonder how they got there."
"Enough, I said!"
A guard comes in and pulls Clint off his chair, then beats him with methodical disinterest, using a rubber club that doesn't break his skin but hurts like hell. It's a relief, in a way--direct and to the point. Clint only wishes that Tony didn't have to watch.
Of course, Tony being forced to watch is the whole reason they do it.
And they do it for days.
*******
Tony is tired, and that makes him feel like an utter asshole, because Clint is beyond exhausted. They've been here three days now and while Tony is taken back to the green room to sleep for a few hours here and there, Clint has been awake the entire time. And he looks bad. Very bad.
Tony is secured to the wall by a length of chain, enough that he can sit or stand reasonably comfortably as needed, but not enough to reach the door or any other people in the room. They have Clint sitting up high on his knees, with his wrists chained out in front of him and also from behind on his elbows. When the fatigue becomes too much, whatever way he falls, either backward or forward or to the side, the chains catch him, jerk him back upright. Sometimes Franklin or one of the guards kick him awake when he drifts; Clint's legs are a mess of bruises from their steel toed boots.
"I just got a text from Natasha," Clint says suddenly into what had been a long silence, the only sound being Franklin tapping away on his laptop. "They're heading over, want to know if we want them to pick up some sandwiches for us on their way to kill Franklin." He looks at Tony expectantly. "Well? Want something? I know I could eat."
Tony laughs uneasily. He's pretty sure Clint is joking, trying to make things easier, but he sounds thick, as if drugged or heavily drunk. "I didn't know you still had a phone on you. Where was it, up your ass?"
"How well you know me. Thing's been jumping all morning. Like, just a few minutes ago I got an email with the subject line 'This is crazy! My neck mole was gone in 8 hours with this one weird trick!' You think that's junk mail? I mean, maybe it's legit but..." Clint frowns, then shrugs. "I dunno, it just doesn't sound terribly likely."
"Unless you have a mole that needs immediate removal I think you're safe to delete that."
"Well, I don't, but a person super close to me does." He raises an eyebrow at Franklin. "Want me to forward this to you, Ben? I mean, in case you're worried about that ungodly thing on your neck. I've got your contact info. It's [email protected], right?" He presses his finger into the air while making obnoxious bleep bloop bleep sounds. "There. It should be there any second." Clint laughs a little hysterically, but then his face falls and he sags as much as the chains will allow. "Ugh. Fuck. Ugh."
"Just hold on, man, we're going to be okay," Tony tells him, horrified to see the facade crumble. He glares at Franklin. "Let him rest, he's had enough. Let him lay down, you bastard."
"You let him," Franklin answers mildly. "We're waiting on you, Mr. Stark."
*******
Clint's thoughts are fast, disordered. He thinks he sees Barney out of the corner of his eye, perched on top of a cabinet, legs dangling, knees dirty and scabbed over. But then there is no Barney, and no cabinet either. He gives his head a shake to clear it, and that messes with his equilibrium. He can feel his eyes trembling, and God, he hates that. He knows the feeling well from years of sniper duty, waiting waiting waiting for-fucking-ever for a mark to show. When his eyes would tremor like this he knew it was time to give up, that he would make a mistake if he tried to go any longer.
Coulson, it's going to hell, he'd say, or some variation of the same. And Phil would believe him, would know that Clint would never give up early, would never throw in the towel if he wouldn't endanger the mission by staying.
Can you give me another hour? Enough time to get another agent up there?
"Yeah. Yeah, I can." Clint nods. He can hold on a little longer yet. Just so Phil can get things fixed up right. Sure. What's one more hour after so many?
"Who are you talking to?"
Clint blinks and it's Tony sitting there, biting his lip and looking worried. He looks around, disoriented, because he would have sworn he was in a sniper's nest and not here...wherever here is. Thoughts and memories slide around like sluggish tectonic plates, finally snapping together in an order that he can almost follow. They want Tony's tech. They're hurting him to get to Tony. He hasn't slept in...a lot of days. He's not sure how many.
"Tony. Hey. I can't remember if you ever...Did you, did you, did you ever meet Phil Coulson?"
Tony frowns. "Yeah. I knew him."
"Really?" Clint grins, but Tony just looks unhappier. "I missed his funeral, you know. They wouldn't let me go. I didn't go to my parents' either. Or my brother's. I don't know where anyone is buried. I can almost pretend they didn't die. I can close my eyes and pretend my brother is sitting on one side of me, Phil on the other. Sometimes I think if I just rest my head like so, it will lay on their shoulder. I know it's not true," he adds hastily, noting Tony's unhappy expression. "I just...I just like to imagine it sometimes."
"That's nice, I guess."
The door slides open and Franklin steps in. He looks bright and eager in his ill fitting suit. "Time for bed, Mr. Stark. I'll keep Mr. Barton company as he burns the midnight oil."
******
It must be night, because Tony's gone, but Clint's learned day and night don't really have much significance when one's been awake for almost a week. Not really.
"I'll make you a deal," the man who is and isn't Phil Coulson says. "If you can count backward perfectly from a hundred by...let's say, sixes...then I'll take you to the green room and let you take a nap. How's that sound?"
God, it sounds great. It sounds like everything he's ever wanted, dreamed about, and hoped for, all wrapped up together. To lay down and sleep. They don't even have to let him go. Or Tony. Clint doesn't care what happens to either of them next, if he can just rest. He'll happily count if they let him do that. He'll count forever.
"One hundred. Ninety-four," Clint says, then licks his lips. By six, he tells himself. Minus a six. Just six. "Ninety--no, eighty, eighty....eight. Eighty-eight..." Clint pauses, suddenly unsure. "Wait...am I counting up, or down?"
"Down," the man says tenderly. He's smiling from ear to ear, and Clint smiles hesitantly back.
Eighty-eight minus...six. His brain keeps switching the numbers; he can't keep clear on which is the answer and which is the one to be subtracted. "Eighty-t-t-t-two." He spits the word out finally, half triumphant, half furious. Then is lost again as his fevered mind tries to keep track of the old number, subtract, determine the new one. "Seven....ty. Seventy..."
Six. He's stuck on the fact that the second half of the answer is a six, but he's also subtracting by sixes, and everything is getting twisted painfully. Six. He blinks. Jesus, he's so tired. His head is throbbing, his eyes hurt. Six. Something comes after that. What comes after six?
He knows the answer.
"Seven." Seven comes after six. He's shaking, and the chains rattle with little windchime noises. "Seven. Seven. Seven." He can't remember why he's even saying numbers now, only knows that he's failing, that he was supposed to do it right and couldn't.
"No, I'm afraid that's wrong." The man shakes his head with a disappointed expression.
"Let me try again," Clint begs, but he can't remember what the question was in the first place.
*******
Tony doesn't want to sleep, it feels like the worst of betrayals to rest when his friend cannot, and he also knows they hurt Clint worse overnight. But he forces himself to rest all the same, because he has to keep his wits about him. He's exhausted and worried, and so often he has come close to begging, to wanting to offer Franklin something just so he'll stop. He can't let himself get any weaker, any closer to that brink. Because they can't have the reactor. Not ever.
He carves out a few hours of fitful, unsatisfying rest and he when wakes they take him to a new room, this time a blue one, where Clint sits on the floor, chained as usual. He's soaking wet and shivering; they must have been spraying him with the hose again. He's only in a pair of boxer briefs now, wet and clinging to his skin, which is blotchy with blue and purple bruises.
"I know the meaning of life," Clint says conspiratorially, in lieu of a greeting. His eyes are dilated wide, bloodshot around all black pupils. "I've seen it in my microscope."
"Oh God. You're okay," Tony croons frantically, wishing he could reach Clint, could touch him. "It's okay."
"Don't you want to hear it? You're a genius, you'll understand when I explain it. You would have figured it out yourself, but you have to be awake for a long time to see it. Most people can't do that. I've had some help, though. In a way, in a lot of ways, I'm really lucky. But I'll tell you all about it for free. Because you're my friend. Wanna hear it?"
"Of course I do."
"It's right in front of our faces all the time. The colors are the secret. You know how blood looks blue? Blue. Right, but not right, the same way maps are obsolete the moment they leave the printer. The same way. The very same." Clint grins, all teeth and too wide. Tony doesn't think the archer is aware of the tears that leak steadily from his eyes
"Okay."
"It isn't blue. That's a lie. It's always red. Do you see it? It's a lie, a lie everyone believes because it's written on our own bodies, they see it everyday when they look down at their wrist. I can show you. You see?" He waves his arm as best he can and Tony feels sick, sees what's coming next telegraphed a mile away.
"Clint, please don't."
"But it's a lie, because, see this?" He tears into the skin on his arm casually with his teeth, biting all the parts that he can reach, blood spattering everywhere. "Red!" he announces gleefully. "Now, on a color wheel, the opposite of red is green, but this, under the skin, it's blue. Looks blue, I mean. Blue looking blood." He points a shaking finger toward his chest. "My heart was blue. Just for awhile. But long enough. It's not a human heart anymore."
Tony clutches his temples. "Enough. Enough of this, please God. Don't bite yourself anymore, okay?"
"So blue is bad, and red is worse. We gotta find something green to be safe. The opposite of red. Cancels it out. That's the meaning, you see? Just like the blood, and the maps. Think we can find it? Because then we'll be free if we do. No more red. Its opposite. Green. Like grass. Like--"
Clint's eyes close and it's either a really long blink or one of those microsleeps that hit him, his head jerking and bobbing hard on his neck each time. His chin drops down toward his chest and he tumbles forward, only to be caught from behind by the chains, which go taut and snap him back by his elbows. Tony hears a sick popping noise, but Clint doesn't cry out, just makes a guttural groaning sound that is somehow a million times worse.
*******
Franklin tuts over the marks on Clint's arm. "Did you do this?" he scolds with high humor. "That was very naughty of you, very naughty indeed." He rifles through his desk and pulls out a roll of duct tape, cuts off a few pieces that he presses firmly over the wounds. "There, all better. I must point out that the only time you've bled here is by your own doing. That means something, doesn't it?" He pats Clint's cheek tenderly. "Doesn't it?"
"I don't know," Clint answers finally.
"You don't know what?"
"I don't know...what we're talking about."
"Leave him alone," Tony blurts out finally, unable to help himself. "Don't touch him."
Franklin raises an eyebrow. "Then make me stop. Give me what I want and I'll happily stop." He sees Clint nod forward again and winds his fingers in the archer's short hair, pulling his head back sharply. "Wake up!"
"Stop," Tony grits out between clenched teeth. "Stop. Hurting. Him."
"You're forcing me to," Franklin reminds him. "You're the one in control here. In fact, you're so much in control that I'll even offer you some more power. How about when you're in a room together, you keep him awake? Hmm? I bet he'd prefer that to the water hose, to shocks, to being beaten. You'd rather have your friend's gentle touch, wouldn't you?" He shakes Clint a little with the hand still fisted in his hair.
"Fine, fine," Tony says quickly. "I'll do it." He won't hurt Clint the way they have. He can try to comfort him, minimize his pain as much as possible. "But I have to be able to touch him. You have to let me be closer to him."
"Alright." Tony is surprised at the ready agreement. "But if you try anything, we'll go back to the tried and true method, and I'll cut his thumbs off, too. Sound fair?"
*******
"Wake up, come on Tweetie Bird." Tony shakes him by the arm as gently as he can, but it's not working. Clint isn't asleep so much as he is just off, like a machine with its power cables suddenly cut. "Hey," Tony says louder, slapping his cheeks a little, eyeing the guard who glowers at them from the other side of the barred door. "Up. Up. Wake up, Agent Barton!" He hesitates then brings his hand down on Clint's shoulder, already wrenched painfully from the chains, presses firmly onto the swollen flesh.
Clint's eyes fly open and settle on Tony, who flinches from the agony and betrayal he reads there. "Fucker," Clint spits.
"You've got to try to stay awake, okay? I'm just trying to help. I don't want them to hurt you worse. Remember?"
He does remember, sometimes. But things are careening rapidly downhill along with Clint's state of mind, and sometimes he remembers that Tony is on his side but more and more often he cannot.
*******
Clint doesn't know the actual name of whatever it is, to him it's always just been the 'rod thingy that people twist when they want to shut the blinds'. Maybe it doesn't even have a special name. All Clint knows is that it hurts like a bastard when they whip it repeatedly against the soles of his feet.
He does okay with it at first, all things considered, but soon enough is writhing and then pressing his lips determinedly together, trying not to cry out as it goes on and on and on.
"Why--" he starts to ask, then chokes the words off. He also manages to bite through his lip at the same time and barely notices. It doesn't matter why they're doing it. And it's not the answer he needs anyway, the why of it. "How long?" he gasps. "How long are you going to do this?"
"Until Sleeping Beauty opens his eyes," Franklin tells him. "We'll stop the second Tony Stark wakes up."
*******
It's the eighth day...at least Tony thinks it might be the eighth day.
They take him to the blue room, where Clint is already kneeling in the usual position. His whole body sags as much as its allowed by the chains, and his head rests against Franklin, who hovers close by, stroking his cheek affectionately.
"He slept so long, didn't he? Had a nice rest all safe and snug in the green room."
"Fuck you, Ben Franklin," Tony snarls.
"He's doing this," Franklin says in Clint's ear, who moves his eyes sluggishly, struggles to focus on Tony. "He could stop all of this, set you free, but he doesn't. He can and he just won't. He's being so cruel."
"Tony." Clint's voice is hollow. "What? That's not right. That isn't true."
"Leave him alone!"
Franklin just grins, keeps whispering. "All he has to do is tell one secret. And he won't do it. Not for your sake. Remember your feet? He slept like a baby while you screamed, and it never needed to happen, and nothing else needs to happen. He thinks only of himself, what he wants. He can make it all stop and he just won't."
"For...tech?" Clint is trying to puzzle it out, confused and then aghast. "You're selling me out for tech? For an Iron Man suit?"
"It's a potential weapon of mass destruction, Clint, remember? I can't give them that. You know that, you do."
"He doesn't know that," Franklin observes cheerfully. "He just knows it's all your fault. Make it stop, Mr. Stark. Make all of it stop."
*******
They are moved again so Tony can sleep.
They wrench Clint's cuffed hands up high on his back, almost to his shoulder blades, and force his head down inches from the floor as he walks. His feet throb, the arches screaming every time his weight comes down on them. The lines on the tiled floor run together, seem to form a spidery kind of script as they move down the hall. He wonders if it's a message, if the Avengers have somehow gotten a message to him that he needs to read, that will tell him how to escape. He tries to slow down and read it, but is shoved forward. He overbalances but they catch him from behind by the handcuff chain before he hits the ground.
Then he's in another room, he's pretty sure it's the blue one, and he's not alone.
Loki is there.
Fucking Loki. The headliner of all his nightmares. Every enemy he has fought since the Battle of New York, Clint's imagined Loki's face on all of them, and there's a lot of other boogeymen that he could have chosen for that honor. The demi-god huddles in the corner with his knees tucked under his chin, his grin grotesquely huge, teeth filed sharp.
"Admit that you liked it," Loki whispers. "Being my vanguard. Dealing death to those that thought they were invincible. That thought their flying fortress could never be brought down, much less by the mind, will, and hands of one man. I am a God, and you were my right hand, my Angel of Death, delivering my justice. Tell me that it felt good to see them afraid, to be the one that others cowered from. It felt good. Admit it. Admit that when they screamed, you liked it."
"No," he moans, and Phil is saying something into his comm, trying to comfort him, trying to orient him.
"If only we could have had Natasha with us," Loki muses. "You and she by my side--her fiery heart and your frozen one--we could have consumed the world. Part of you wanted that. Wanted to be unleashed, to destroy without doubt, without fear, without recrimination. Admit that you hated SHIELD as much as you ever loved it. Say it. Say that you liked it."
*******
Maybe he can give them something, Tony thinks. Just some information on the reactor. Not how to build it, God no, no way...but something. Just a piece. Maybe they'll trade a little bit of mercy for a little bit of information. That's all. Not the whole thing. It's not a concession, it's just a small compromise. A tiny one. And a futile one, because the team should be here any moment, and then it won't matter what Tony has told Franklin, because the man will be dead.
It wouldn't matter. It would be okay.
Wouldn't it?
Tony wishes, not for the first time, that he hadn't been born a genius. That he didn't have a mind that could create such wonderful and terrible things. His gifts have hurt the world as often as they have helped it, and have invariably hurt the people he cares about. He imagines a life where he and Pepper argue only about what movie to watch in the evenings, rather than his affinity for risking his life to save the world. He imagines a life where people aren't tortured to death just because they made the mistake of caring about Tony Stark.
********
"Let me out of here." Clint seems more coherent, which Tony knows is really impossible, but he also looks furious, glaring suspiciously with dry, reddened eyes. "Tell them what they want to know. I want out."
"I can't do it. I want to, but I can't. And I'm so sorry."
"I know." He says in a different tone, and sighs. "I know that, Tony, I do." Then, "It's a bomb, isn't it? Or something? Some weapon. You made another weapon when you promised you never would."
"No. It's a new arc--"
"You said you wouldn't make one, but changed your mind. I'm sure there was a good reason, right? There's always a good reason for someone like you." Clint's face goes unfocused, lost in a storm of those micro-naps, his head snapping up and down, eyes strange and staring and sightless.
Tony claps his hands together once, loudly. "Wake up!"
"I didn't like it," Clint says suddenly, and Tony winces. "I didn't want it to happen."
Oh Jesus. Tony does not, under any circumstances, want to know whatever it is Clint is remembering, because he's got a couple ideas of what it could be and all of them are awful. "Clint. Clint. What you're seeing or hearing--it isn't real. You're in a room, with me, with Tony. You're hurt, but whatever you're imagining, that's not the thing that's hurting you now."
"I don't like it," he moans again, then jerks more awake and schools his features into something neutral, almost relaxed. "I am Iron Man." He opens his eyes, winks, gives Tony a knowing grin. "I am Iron Man."
"You're Hawkeye. I'm Iron Man."
"Fuck you, I know who I am. I'm Tony Stark. I'm a billionaire. I have more money than God." Tony can't tell if Clint is hallucinating or working up to another angry rant. "I build friends. I buy them. But I can't keep them. Human hearts can't stand to be around me long. The only things that stay are made of metal, like me. Red metal." He bares his teeth and snarls, "Iron Man. Fucking Iron Man. Red. I should have known right away, because of the red."
"Stop it. Enough. I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry this is happening, but stop."
Clint falls silent for a bit, swaying back and forth. "Ninety-four. Ninety-eight. I want to go to the green room. Ninety-two. Eight...eighty..eight two. Two. Fucking two!"
Tony has no idea why he keeps counting, but something about it is disturbing. He wants to wrap his arms around Clint while simultaneously wanting to recoil from him; this seething man that wears the strained face of a friend he used to know. Tony's muscles jump with indecision, his mind warring itself, and he finally settles on just rests his palms lightly on Clint's back.
*******
"Do you have anything you'd like to tell me today?" Franklin stretches Clint's arms up high and loops the chain over the hook on the ceiling. "Or do you just like seeing your friend dangle like a slab of meat?"
Tony glares at him and says nothing. Franklin shrugs in a what-can-you-do gesture then points to the plate on the floor. "That's for the two of you to share. Unless you're as selfish with food as you are with everything else." He winks as he departs.
"Let me down," Clint pleads.
"I can't. They'll make it worse if I do, remember? I know it doesn't seem like it, but this is better. Just hang on, the others should be here any second. Literally any second. We'll hear thunder and know they're coming. We'll watch and laugh as our team tears this place apart brick by brick."
Clint makes a noise and turns his head, trying to conceal his face behind his arms. Tony moves closer, afraid he'll start biting himself again. Not that there are many places left; everywhere he can reach is covered by duct tape, Franklin's treatment of his earlier attempts. He isn't biting himself this time, though, but crying silently, trying to hide the tears.
"I hate you," he says tonelessly.
"Don't say that. I know you don't mean it." Tony breaks apart the loaf of bread on the plate, takes a hesitant step forward. "Want some of this? You must be hungry."
"I'm not just saying that." He raises his face to Tony's again, no longer sad, but furious. "I actually do hate you. Really. I just couldn't say it before, because we're on a team together. Now I don't give a shit. I hate you. I always have. You make me fucking sick."
"Stop it, Hawkeye."
"Everything you do, have ever done, you've always ever done for yourself. Thinking of yourself. At least I take care of other people. Team Delta. I would have died for them in a heartbeat. But you. But you." Clint's lip curls away from his teeth. "You won't even let me down from here, you bastard. I could get all the way to the green and be safe. And you could help me if you wanted to. You could."
"You know very fucking well that I can't!" Tony snarls back. "Screw you, Clint Barton. I'm trying to help you and I know you're hurting, but you're being a raging bastard."
"That's right." Clint nods furiously. "It feels good. You know how it is, don't you? How it feels to watch someone suffer? Feels powerful. Feels good, doesn't it?" Clint arches his head back as far as his bonds will allow, clenching his jaws so tightly that Tony imagines the teeth shattering, Clint grinding them steadily into powder. "Hurting people. He was right. He knew. That I like it. I like it."
*******
They help Clint down to the floor, his legs and knees too exhausted to hold him up any longer. They position his face over a shallow tub of water, and he has to keep his head and shoulders up or risk drowning in it. Tony helps the best he can, pulling Clint up by the jaw occasionally, trying to keep him awake, trying to keep him alive.
Tony is shaking himself and before he even knows it's going to happen the words come, unbidden, to his lips. "What if I just-" He cuts the last syllable off as sharply as he can, the 't' sound hanging in the air like a gunshot.
Franklin grins broadly, recognizing the first crack in Tony's resistance. It won't take long now, won't many more taps before the crack fractures into a spiderweb.
********
Clint is back in the chains, kneeling again, and he's asleep.
Tony stands in front of him, talking in as low a volume as he can, trying to give the illusion to the guard outside the door that he is keeping Barton awake while hoping to block his view of the reality. The ruse might work, Tony thinks, if Clint was quiet, but his head rests tipped upward at an awkward angle on his neck, resulting in a strangled snoring noise.
Tony risks a quick peek at the guard, who watches them a little suspiciously. This won't last; Tony will have to start waking Clint up soon, before they see he's not upholding his end of the bargain. If they can just get a few more minutes before that has to happen. Just a few minutes of rest for Clint, a few minutes of peace for Tony.
Barton had come into this thing healthy and with his usual good natured swagger, but now--Ten days later? Eleven? Tony really has no idea anymore--Clint is pale and his eyes so deeply ringed in shadow that it almost looks false, as if he is wearing the exaggerated stage makeup of a Greek tragedy. Today he hasn't been talking at all--that's both terrifying and a relief--but yesterday had alternated between pleading pitifully one moment and then ranting the next, his words vicious and cutting.
Tony wonders how much had been Clint's delirium talking and how much of it was truth, honest opinion peeking through cracks in the polite shell that conceals the inner thoughts most people never express. He also wonders how much of Clint's cruelty is on purpose, trying to break Tony himself, trying to make him give up the information so he can be free. He's weakened, in terrible shape, but he had been a SHIELD agent, trained in the same manipulative methods as their captors, and he's good at them.
No.
Tony clenches his teeth together. That's the kind of thing that Franklin wants him to think, one of his games, pitting them against each other. This isn't an enemy, it's a friend, one of his best friends. It's Clint--the guy with the goofy laugh and the dirty jokes. Clint, who had refused to kill the sparrow that flew into the Tower one day, instead chasing it around endlessly while the others watched and wept with laughter. Clint, who claimed that Captain America picked his nose in private, insisting that he'd seen it from his hiding spot in the air vents, grinning mischievously as Steve sputtered denials.
Maybe--probably--when they get out of here, that Clint will come back. Because that's the real Clint Barton, Tony insists to himself, not the snarling, desperate creature that he has become. When they get out of here, he'll come back.
If they get out.
Tony hears the guard shifting, trying to see around Tony, and feels frantic to delay the inevitable, of needing to rouse Clint in some painful way--gentle words just aren't working anymore. He would rather do anything but wake the man up, and for the first time it occurs to Tony that maybe it'd be kinder just to snap Clint's neck than to jerk him back into this waking nightmare. Clint is not going to last much longer as it is; he's dying a little more every hour that passes, and maybe Tony can spare him some of that pain.
And then Franklin can't hold him over Tony's head anymore, will have nothing left to threaten but Tony's own pain, and that would be better.
Maybe that would be better for everyone.
The guard is opening the door now, and Tony only has seconds left to decide if he can do it, if he can finish off his best friend out of compassion, if he can let that guard saw Clint's fingers off instead--the blood loss and shock would kill him quickly in the condition he's in now. Tony's heart is racing painfully and his hands shake as he raises them to Clint's face--every choice is bad, every one is unthinkable; there's no choice, really, when all are so terrible.
Tony slaps him, hard, and Clint awakens with a gasp. There's something dead and broken in his eyes that mirrors Tony's heart.
*******
There are noises outside. Clint is beyond noticing, and Tony hardly cares. There isn't much to be afraid of anymore. A few minutes later the door flies open, and Franklin scrambles in, pulling it closed behind him.
"Here--" Franklin unlocks Clint's cuffs, and he falls immediately to the floor with a thud. "I'll let you both go, okay? You're alive, so I don't have to die." He pulls Clint up, trying to be gentle, but too terrified to move carefully. "Look, he's just fine." He thrusts him roughly to the floor in front of Tony, then fumbles to unlock his chains as well. "You're both fine. There's no reason to kill me."
Tony wants to pull Clint close, but finds he can't bear to do it. He takes his hand instead, and fingers curl back around his immediately, limply.
"You know what I hear?" Tony's not sure he's shaking or if Clint is. "I hear the sound of doors being ripped from hinges. I hear gunshots. I hear a shield singing through the air. I hear the sounds of an angry Hulk. He's not going to like this. He's always had a pretty big smile for Hawkeye."
The sounds from outside grow louder. There are screams. Gunfire. Clanging metal, running footsteps. More screams.
"Oh no," Clint moans in a low, garbled voice. "He's drinking. Mama, don't let him in."
"Shhh." Tony grips his hand tighter and pats him awkwardly with the other, trying to soothe him with a bare minimum of touching. "You can rest. I know it's loud, but that's the sound of safety coming, not danger. Not for us."
He eyes Franklin meaningfully, unable to resist goading him a bit, hurting the way they had been hurt. "I hear the Hulk coming for you. You know what I won't hear, what you won't hear? The Black Widow. She'll be silent as she looks for us. And when she starts playing her games with you--and she will, once she sees what you have done to Clint--you'll be begging for death. And what I also won't hear will be Captain America standing up for you, asking her to have compassion."
"Oh God," Franklin pleads. "Oh Jesus. This isn't happening. This isn't real." His babbling is such a contrast to the alternately bland or gleeful demeanor the man has always presented that Tony finds himself grinning a little.
Only because Franklin has it coming. Not for any other reason. Not because he likes it.
Not because of that at all.
*******
It's Steve that rips the door open. Natasha stands behind him, tense, her pistols raised. Her eyes move from Clint to Franklin to Tony. Her face is a careful mask, but her eyebrow raises minutely.
"Every nightmare," Tony spits out. "Every nightmare Clint's ever had...this fucker made him have them awake. And me, too, I guess," he adds, looking away.
Steve moves closer, his hands ghosting over his teammates, checking for injuries. He gives Tony a concerned look and pulls Clint off the floor, holding him carefully. "We've got you. It's going to be okay now."
Natasha glides past them all toward Franklin, and runs a hand through his hair in a gesture that might look affectionate coming from anyone else. "Well, hello, pretty," she purrs. "What's your name?"
"We need to leave right now, Natasha," Steve tells her. "Are you coming along?"
"Eventually." She keeps petting Franklin, tweaks his tie. "Go on ahead. I can make my own way back."
Her smile is wide and predatory and all Tony Stark wants in life right now is to get away from her, from Franklin, from Clint, from everyone who has ever smiled like that.
"Alright."
There's heavy footsteps and the Hulk is blinking down at all of them. Tony expects a growl or an angry roar; anything but the anguished sound that comes instead.
"They're alive, Big Guy," Steve assures him. "See? Here they are, Tony and Clint. They're both alive, we just need to take them home. Will you help me carry them?"
Hulk kneels down, casting a dark look at the man who cowers in the corner, an appraising look at Tony, a reproachful one at Steve. He reaches for Clint and rumbles a noise that sounds vaguely like "Mine".
"Okay, but easy, okay? He's hurt. Be so gentle." Steve passes the archer to him, then holds his arms out for Tony. "Let's get you home."
*******
Clint moans fearfully as he is lifted into the air, his eyes screwed tightly shut. He doesn't want to see who has come this time, if it's Loki or Dad or any of the other hundreds of monsters who dance through his dreams. Clint tries to push himself away, but the arms just pull him closer. His ear is pressed up against a chest like stone, a heart that beats loudly, slowly, and the air moving in out and out of lungs sounds like the steady waves of an ocean.
It seems...safe. Clint forces his eyes to open and can only stare above himself in wonder. He reaches up with trembling fingers, presses them to the Hulk's cheek.
"Green," he whispers. "At last. It's green."
*******