Chapter Text
Clint
He doesn’t react when they come for him, but it isn’t particularly surprising, either, at least not to Clint. The others though, they react frantically, shocked out of their lassitude, jumping up and yelling, pounding on the clear front wall of their cells. Well, not Wanda; they hadn’t heard a thing from Wanda since they put that fucking collar on her.
But it’s fine. It’s what he’d intended. Since the moment he saw that asshole Guard #3’s glance linger just a little too long on Wanda. Clint knows that look. It’s a look he’d seen on too many thugs in the countless dead-end towns that were the backdrop of his adolescence, and then more in the mercenary camps of his early ‘professional’ life. It’s a look that speaks of the powerlessness and rage that grows inside them when they look themselves in the mirror and know they come up lacking. And it’s the sinister glances that jump between them that Clint knows signal the start of trouble that always – always – means someone is going to get hurt.
Those are the looks that tell Clint he needs to draw their attention - away from Wanda – and onto himself. So he baits them and taunts them and mouths-off to them whenever they appear, and more and more, they flash their dark expressions at Clint.
“What the hell are you doin’, man?” Sam hisses, more than once. “Don’t fucking antagonize them!”
But Clint ignores him and keeps right on making sure that if they’re going to take out their frustration over their miserable, impotent lives, it will be on him and no one else.
He thinks about Nat for a moment and he’s thankful that she’d signed the damn Accords and sided with Stark – and then gotten away after helping Steve and Bucky escape - because he knows that she would have seen right through what he was trying to do and would no doubt have found a way to subvert it. But she’s not here, and neither are Steve and Bucky, and he’s thankful for that, too – because at least that means there are three fewer people for him to worry about.
AAAAAAAA
When they come, there are five of them – admittedly, more than Clint had anticipated – but it’s not important. One, five, he doesn’t fucking care, as long as they don’t take Wanda. Or Scott or Sam, for that matter.
He’s seen eighteen different guards during the eight days that they’ve been here and Clint has cataloged each and every one. He’s watched their eyes, knows their habits, discerned their strengths and weaknesses. He’s not surprised that the five who are walking him away from the comparative safety of his cell are the five he has grown most wary of. He is surprised, at first, that they don’t take him in the shackles he’d arrived in, but it only takes a second before realization dawns: they need plausible deniability, so that when Clint comes back looking worse than when he left, they can point to their own bruises as the reason. If he’s restrained, it’s a harder story to sell.
As they lead him away from the cell block, he thinks fleetingly of how pissed Phil would be. He can envision the expression – the one where his mouth forms a hard, frustrated line; the one that Phil gets when he’s shaking his head at what he perceives as Clint’s lack of self-preservation. Clint blinks his eyes shut a fraction longer than normal, holding onto the mental picture of Phil for just a second, and then he ruthlessly pushes all thoughts of his partner away, because he knows what is likely coming next, and he does not want images of Phil tied up with that.
He goes without protest because the last thing he wants to do is cause Wanda any distress, and even though she never utters a word, he knows her eyes are following them. He walks calmly and quietly, but his mind is moving frenetically… watching, assessing, planning. Clint knows he’s not at his best; a week or more without real exercise - without a sparring partner to keep him sharp - means that he’ll be at a strong disadvantage. He knows he’s unlikely to come out on top with five on one - much less a whole submersed prison full of more just like them - but fuck it if he’s going to go down without a fight. He hopes he’ll at least get the satisfaction of landing a few good blows. He’s pretty sure he will.
They lead him out of a back door in the cellblock – not the one Clint and his team had entered through, or that the guards use to come and go. It takes them to a dim corridor, and as they walk, Clint is uncomfortably aware that they see no one else along the way. As they move farther and farther from the cell block, down more empty hallways into an area that looks like it’s still under construction, he suspects that this isn’t going to be a typical prison beat-down.
“Stop!” #6 orders, as #3 turns his key into the lock on one of the doors in the deserted corridor. Clint does as he’s told, but tenses, ready to go on the offensive.
The second they shove him into a mostly-empty office, Clint moves, ramming both elbows backward into the faces of Guards #2 and #17. They both drop and so does he, ducking a punch from #6 and sweeping the legs out from under #10. He lands exactly how Clint intended and he knows it will take a minute or more for the guard to get his wind back. Clint rolls with lightning speed across the small room and pops back up just in time to block a blow from #6 who pursued him across the office. In the blink of an eye, Clint grabs his shirt, pushes him over at the same time he’s shoving his knee into the guard’s solar plexus, then before he can fall, Clint strikes the point of his elbow into the meat of his back just below his scapula; #6 goes down in a heap, whining pitifully.
But it’s that fifth guard – and of course it’s that asshole #3, the one who had looked at Wanda in a dangerous way – that proves to be the ‘one-too-many’, when he steps away from the fray instead of toward it and pulls out a stun-gun. Clint sees it out of the corner of his eye, but can’t maneuver away because he’s too busy dealing with #2 and #17, who are both throwing punches at him with blood running down their faces and wearing ferocious expressions. He gets in a couple more good hits before the inevitable happens and he feels the burning jolts of electricity tear through his body; he drops like a rock.
His muscles won’t cooperate; they’re all locked and contracting and he has absolutely no control over his body. He’s lying on his side and he tries to curl into a ball – to make himself as small as possible – but the messages from his brain aren’t making it through to his limbs and he is completely exposed. It’s frustrating as hell, and all he can do is mentally brace himself when he sees boots moving toward him.
He expects them all to attack, but it’s only #3 who does; the others stand just out of his reach, though it’s not like he can actually move to do anything. The first kick – a steel-toe to the back – has to have been intended for his kidney; it lands too precisely not to be. It is so brutal in its efficiency that it takes his breath away, but somehow Clint manages to roll onto his back in a desperate bid not to take another shot like it. But the kicks that follow to his gut and ribs aren’t really any less painful, and they leave him coughing and gagging, his whole torso feeling sharply broken.
He’s still expecting the others to join in - to rain down on him with blow after blow. What happens next is much worse.
Almost before he can register it, #6 hauls him up and slams his chest down onto a nearby desk, viciously bouncing his head off the hard surface and causing an immediate tang of iron to flood his mouth. Two others grab his arms (#2 has his right arm; and he’s pretty sure it’s #10 that has his left), stretching them out to the side, and putting their weight into keeping him restrained. He kicks his feet wildly, but he can’t get any traction under his legs bent over like this. He is completely pinned and helpless; held down by the weight of three motherfuckers that each have at least 20 pounds on him. Clint’s strong (for a regular human being), but he’s not that strong.
He’s not one bit surprised when, seconds later, he feels rough hands pulling down hard on his pants.
Even knowing what’s coming doesn’t prepare Clint for the unbearable searing pain that rips through his body when he is violently breached with no preparation and nothing to ease the way. He stifles the full-throated scream that wants to come out, but can’t completely hold back the animal sound of agony that tears from his throat.
There is a hand pressing down on his back and a fist gripped in his hair, holding his head still. Pinned down like this, he can’t see much beyond the length of his arm, and the persistent bulge in the pants of #2. He is effectively immobilized and he knows it, but he never stops struggling – never stops fighting to rip free. He knows it’s largely hopeless, but Clint doesn’t have it in him not to keep fighting.
Behind him, #6 is battering brutally into him, but Clint doesn’t think about that. Instead he mentally repeats what his SHIELD training had taught him: that rape in captive situations is not about sex and arousal; it’s about power and control. It’s just like any other torture that agents might be subjected to – nothing more, nothing less.
He focuses his thoughts on that while his eyes focus on the arm he can see, watching his muscles cording and straining, skin stretched taut and slick with sweat, fingers scrabbling to grip at nothing. He pulls, pulls, pulls, as hard as he can, trying to free his arms, but the vice-grips that #2 and #10 have him in are unbreakable from this position.
Clint has a brief moment of small relief when the hand holding his head down disappears, but a second later, #3 grips his hair and ruthlessly yanks his head up and forward. He’s got a terrifying grin on his face as he starts to pull his mostly-hard cock out of his pants with his free hand.
“Put that thing anywhere near my mouth and I’ll bite it off,” Clint manages, certain that his own bloody smile is no less terrifying.
For a moment, Clint doesn’t think that’s going to stop him – and he sure as fuck will bite the guys prick off without a second thought about what they might do to him if he does – but then #3 blinks and leaves his dick in his pants. Clint sees a dark look flash across his face an instant before he smashes his fist into Clint’s eye. The room spins and Clint’s head bangs heavily back down onto the desk.
A second or an eternity later, #6 leans over his back, grunting and pushing his fetid breath into the side of Clint’s face, and he knows it’s not really possible – that there’re no real nerves there – but he imagines he can feel the come pulsing out and spreading deep inside his body. He thinks there’s a good chance he’s going to die here, but he still has the passing thought that he hopes this floating-fucking-prison screens their guards for STDs.
That thought is gone in an instant though, because the totality of #6’s weight is crushing Clint and there is urgency to the thought that, crucified as he is like this atop the desk, he can’t breathe. But he’ll take it, he thinks - he’ll happily pass out if it means that maybe he can wake up later and this will all be over. He doesn’t get that lucky though, because within seconds, he hears #3 bark, “Move it!” and his lungs expand again as #6 stands back up and yanks his dick out of him. It doesn’t seem right that it should hurt almost as much as it did going in, but it does.
Number 3 moves behind him and Clint has the fleeting thought that this time it won’t be as painful; he’s stretched now, and #6’s come will be easing the way, so it won’t be as painful. But he knows it will be just as bad.
“My turn, superhero,” #3 taunts him, pushing in so fast and hard that the desk slides several inches. Clint tries – he tries so hard not to – but he gasps in pain as #3 bottoms out and drapes himself over Clint’s back. “I’ll shut your fucking smart mouth up,” he whispers harshly in Clint’s ear, then straightens up and starts pounding into him, ruthless and unrelenting.
Clint’s body is in full fight or flight mode and he’s pouring out sweat. The hands holding his left arm slip just a bit and Clint reacts instinctively, quickly breaking the grip and half-pushing himself up from the desk. There are shouts and the others pounce, beating on him mercilessly until his arm is fully entrapped again. But even though the pummeling has left Clint stunned, he doesn’t stop resisting; never relinquishing his agency.
After too long, #3 abruptly pulls out of him and Clint has a moment of confusion before a dark-red and weeping cock appears in his sightline.
Dimly, he hears, “Hold his head up!” He’s aware that someone is panting from exertion, but Clint’s head is decidedly foggy now and he’s having trouble focusing, distinguishing one from the other.
A second later, someone grabs Clint by the hair, craning his neck back painfully so he can barely breathe. A hand works the cock in front of him and a moment later, Clint recognizes the split second of tightening ab muscles but can’t process quickly enough not to startle as thick white lines of come pulse onto his face. The first hits his right eye and the bridge of his nose, and he barely notices the stinging that makes his eyes water. The second lands just under his nose and drips past his lips – the bitter taste assaulting his mouth immediately. Clint tries to clamp his mouth shut, but #3 notices and grabs his jaw, viciously wrenching it open in time to aim the last pulse there, though half of it slides down his chin.
Clint closes his eyes for the first time in this whole ordeal as #3 rubs his cock along Clint’s cheek, smearing the last dribbles of his come there. When he opens them, he looks up to see #3 staring down at him with glassy eyes, a dangerous smile back on his face.
“Who’s next?” he asks with a feral grin, never taking his eyes from Clint’s.
A second later, Clint feels the grip on his right arm loosen, but before his sluggish mind can react this time, another set of hands grips him hard. He barely registers the start of the next assault.
Eventually, #3 turns slightly and picks up a chair that had been upended in one of the scuffles and drops down into it, his dick still hanging out and glistening. Clint watches him watch Clint, stroking his dick back to hardness as the others brutalize him as well.
He loses track of the number of times it happens; they each take a turn – he’s sure of that – but he thinks a couple of them go twice. He’s also sure that he never, ever, for one second, stops resisting, fighting, pulling to get away. He can’t really register what his body is doing, doesn’t actually seem to be consciously controlling his muscles, but he knows he’s fighting and knows he won’t stop until they do.
What turns out to be the last one - #10, he’s pretty sure - wraps a thick forearm around Clint’s throat for leverage and almost suffocates him in the process. He briefly blacks out a couple of times before #10 comes with a punch of breath and finally releases his neck. Clint gulps down grateful lungs-full of air and when his vision clears, he sees #3 standing in front of him again, red-faced and leering as his fist pistons up and down his cock. He pushes his dick right up against Clint’s swollen left cheek as he comes, grunting and smiling as he watches the viscous fluid slide down Clint’s face again.
The room stinks of sweat and sex and blood, and when they finally release Clint’s arms, his legs give way immediately and he falls heavily to floor, a sticky pool of come and blood quickly appearing under him. He leans against the desk, unmoving, and closes his eyes. It’s quiet in the room for a few moments, except for the ragged sounds of a chorus of panting.
Clint hears someone finally move, but doesn’t open his eyes until his pants hit him in the face and fall in his lap. “Put ‘em back on,” #6 barks.
He glares up at #6, then unhurriedly reaches a shaking hand down and grabs his pants, bringing one leg of the material up and wiping at the come on his face the best he can. His effort is not entirely effective, since much of it is dried and crusty and it hurts to try to rub it off, so eventually he just leaves it. He slides his feet into the pants and tugs them up, then gathers every bit of determination he can and rocks forward so he can shift onto his knees and from there, push onto his feet. Each movement is excruciating and he has to stop for a moment and reach out with a hand on the desk to keep himself from collapsing back down. His hands are shaking so badly that he almost cannot grip the waistband, but eventually he is able to slowly and gingerly pull his pants past the wet slick of his ass and up and over his hips. When he’s done, he locks his knees and straightens up fully before turning and giving #3 - who is still standing on the other side of the desk – the best ‘fuck you’ grin he can muster.
“Get moving,” #17 orders him, giving him a shove and then quickly stepping back. There’s no way in hell Clint’s going on the offensive now – he used every ounce of his energy fighting against his restraints and he knows his body is beyond cooperation if he were to try – but he has a moment of pure satisfaction that, even in this state, they are still wary of him.
He’s not sure how he makes it all the way back to the cells of his own volition, but he does. And when they enter the outer-cell area, Clint somehow materializes one last bit of strength to stand straight and walk smoothly back to his cell. He can feel the dampness on the back of his pants - he’s sure that at least some of what’s there is dark red blood - and every step he takes is excruciating, but Clint will not give these guards the satisfaction of seeing him collapse in front of his teammates; and he won’t do that to his friends, either.
He’s pretty sure the others have some idea of what has happened to him, though, because out of the corner of his eye, he can see Sam scramble up from where he was sitting on the floor and bolt to the front of his cell, his eyes wild, his face horrified.
“Jesus…” he hears Scott choke.
When they open his cell, one of them gives him a shove, and he falls hard onto the concrete floor, one arm twisted awkwardly beneath his body. A small sound of pain escapes his throat but he doesn’t try to move until he hears the guards clear the cell area, the heavy slide then dull ‘thunk’ of the door engaging, signaling their departure.
Clint rolls over as carefully as he can, releasing his arm. He bites back the groan of agony that wants to loose itself, pain flaring everywhere so that he cannot even tell where it originates. He’s pretty sure he can hear his teammates – agitated and yelling out to him - but he’s not particularly interested in answering. He thinks about trying to sit up, maybe get to the bunk, but suddenly his vision is tunneling down to a single tiny white spot. His last thought is a humorless, ‘fuck me… I couldn’t have passed out before?’ and then everything is gone.
AAAAAAAA
When consciousness returns, his entire body hurts – but it aches with the blunt throb of pain tempered by drugs. Thank god for drugs. When he manages to open his eyes, it is to what is clearly a hospital room, with no memory of how he got there, and Phil - a sitting sentinel by his side - wearing the familiar expression that Clint knows is just for him; the one that’s a mix of exasperation, worry and affection.
When he sees that Clint’s awake, Phil starts speaking immediately, while he steps up and slides an ice chip into Clint’s mouth. “We’re in Wakanda. Rogers and Natasha got you all out. T’Challa gave you refuge. The others are fine; no one touched them.” The words are tight with emotion, but rapid-fire, because he knows Clint, and knows that the first thing he’ll want is answers.
Clint swallows around the blessed relief of the ice and nods minutely, fighting the thick fog in his brain and the weight of his swollen eyelids, which are already pulling heavily. He puzzles for a few seconds over why T’Challa would give them refuge, then focuses his attention more solidly on Phil’s tone when he’d spoken. “I knew you’d be pissed,” he says, or tries to, but it comes out more of a harsh whisper. He fleetingly wonders if he’d needed a tracheal tube, but then his mind flashes on the memory of #10’s arm wrapped around his throat. He swallows again painfully and shoves the image aside. “I could see that look you get when you think I’m being stupid,” he adds, forcing a small, lopsided grin, despite the little stab of pain it causes on the left side of his face.
“I never think you’re stupid, Clint,” Phil sighs, giving him another ice chip. “But I’m surprised you gave it a thought.” Clint knows Phil’s not trying to make him feel bad about it; he’s just making an observation.
“Only for a second,” Clint admits. “Then I had to stop and put you outta my head before they started…” he slurs, his words trailing off, and he’s almost succumbed to sleep again when he realizes that Phil hasn’t responded. He manages to crack his eyes open in time to see the stricken look on Phil’s face before he can rein in his control again. Clint is suddenly uneasily aware that between the drugs and the pain and the exhaustion of his body trying to heal, his brain isn’t quite back online, because if it was, he never would have said that.
Phil swallows and seems to steel himself. “The others told me what you did,” he grits out, then pauses for a second. “I…” he starts again, his voice softer, then stops and turns his head, looking distantly across the room. When he looks back, Clint can see, even under the dim hospital lights, that Phil’s eyes are shining and damp. “I would never expect anything less,” his voice is rough and catching in his throat. He holds Clint’s gaze for a moment, then clears his throat and blinks rapidly, turning away again.
“Hey. I’m okay,” Clint croaks quietly, trying to reassure him.
Phil takes a deep breath and blows it out loudly, turning back once more, this time with fire in his eyes. “No, Clint… You have two cracked ribs, a severely bruised kidney, significant rectal damage that required suturing, a hairline fracture of your left orbital socket, tracheal swelling that indicates you’re lucky you didn’t suffocate, three broken fingers, multiple hematomas, contusions and abrasions all over your body, and you shoulder and arm muscles are torn all to hell. So, no… you’re really not okay. You are nowhere near okay,” he finishes tightly, his voice vibrating with rage.
Clint dismisses the anger because he knows it’s not aimed at him, and then catches up with the catalog of injuries Phil just recited. He glances with surprise down at this heavily bandaged hand, not at all remembering when they had broken his fingers. He tries to push himself more upright with his good hand, thinking it might make him look less… wounded, and maybe help take that expression off of Phil’s face, but he doesn’t get far, squeezing his eyes shut tight and wincing in a gasping breath at the burning pain that seems to consume his entire body.
When the pain fades to a dull roar, Clint opens his eyes to see Phil hovering above him, clearly wanting to help. Clint shakes him off and huffs a little. “Yeah, well, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?” he says, giving Phil a hopeful half-smirk.
Phil just stares at him, visibly trying to hold himself in check but not doing a very good job of it.
“I’m okay,” he says again. Because he is. Yes, his body is a mess, and yes, it will probably be weeks – or months - before he isn’t feeling the residual fallout from his dance with the guards. And hell, it might be years before what he’s sure will be a viciously vivid new crop of nightmares dissipates, but Clint’s got experience with mental minefields and he’s a master at compartmentalizing. He’s okay, because he’s safe and being cared for, and he’s done his job; his team is okay and that’s what really matters, after all. “It was the right call,” he adds with conviction.
Phil stares at him for a moment, emotions flickering over his face too fast for Clint’s foggy brain to keep up with. “Get some rest,” he finally answers, and although the lines of his body are still rigid, he sounds more like the contained professional Clint knows him to be. “We’ll talk more later about how sacrificing yourself to a group of sadistic thugs is neither in your job description nor in your or your team’s best interest.”
Clint flicks him a small, indulgent smile. “You know you can talk all you want, but I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”
Phil sighs deeply, the exhale audibly shaky. “I know,” he answers, his voice weary and resigned. “I know you would.” Clint sees him lean in and then feels the lightest press of lips to his forehead. “Go to sleep, Clint. I’ll be here when you wake up.”