The Skin Trade
Title: The Skin Trade
Universe: the Marvel Universe, specifically the movie 'verse
Pairing: Agent Phil Coulson/Clint Barton
Rating: mature. some language and violence. mentions of sexual abuse for the purposes of training a person to be a sex slave. toys. piercings.
Word Count: 9,778
Disclaimer: i own nothing in this story beyond the plot. the characters contained within belong to Marvel and whoever the hell else owns them. i'm just borrowing and i will put them back one day. not sure when but i will. i'm not making any money off this so please don't sue me.
Summary: Clint is kidnapped during a mission. Phil takes it upon himself to find Clint and get him back. No matter what it takes.
Author's Note: this fic is written for my Big Damn Table, which i got from avengers_tables the prompt for this story was darkness.
this is part of that 'verse i mentioned creating. i'm still looking for a name for it. but this is definitely part of it.
The metallic chirp of his cell phone pulled him out of sleep, leaving him fully awake and only slightly grumpier than usual. It had been a long day of paperwork, training, trainees, junior agents, and debriefings. All he'd wanted at the end of said day was to tumble into bed and sleep the night through. The Fates, it seemed, were determined to see that such events couldn't take place.
His gaze flicked to the screen on his phone so that he could see who was calling. He half expected it to be Clint, finally able to break radio silence with the conclusion of his mission. It would be nice to talk to the other man after more than two weeks apart. Not that he'd ever admit it out loud, but he missed Clint when the man was on a mission. Again, the Fates were being fickle bitches. The name on the screen didn't belong to his lover. It belonged to his boss.
Seeing Fury's last name sent a sharp, irrational stab of fear through him.
Phil scooped up the phone and hit the button to connect the call. "Sir?"
"I need you at headquarters. Now. There's a situation."
"Yes, sir." Phil barely got the words out before Fury disconnected. It had to be a dire situation. Director Fury rarely called at three in the morning unless something was wrong. A sense of urgency washed over Phil, prompting him to speed through getting dressed. He was ready to go in a record five minutes. If his suit was slightly rumpled and his tie askew, he didn't care. If his hair was mussed, it didn't matter. If someone asked him about his state of disarray, he would put them on desk duty for six months for even daring. Possibly more.
The drive to headquarters was silent and tense. The radio was left off, his mind far too scattered to allow him to appreciate any kind of music. Anytime he and Clint were in the car together, there was something on the radio. Either Phil's preferred big band music or Clint's choice of rock and roll. It seemed wrong to have either playing when he was by himself and he knew that something was amiss.
A quick trip through an all night drive thru got him a scalding hot cup of coffee. It wasn't his regular coffee shop coffee, but it would have to do in a pinch. It was still far better than anything he'd get in the S.H.I.E.L.D. break room.
It was three thirty when he rapped a knuckle sharply against Fury's door. He didn't wait for permission to enter, simply turned the knob and let himself into the man's office. The room was filled with people. Phil let his gaze slide around and touch on the gathered faces, kept his expression bland and empty. Not including Fury, he counted five people. His fingers tightened minutely around the cheap coffee, the only thing betraying his displeasure at what he saw. Or, rather, at what he didn't see.
Stark and Rogers had taken the only two chairs in the room other than the one the director currently occupied. Both men wore identical looks of anger and frustration. Banner was agitated, his gaze constantly shifting to the watch on his wrist. Even across the room, Phil could hear him working at controlling his breathing. Natasha leaned up against the wall, eyes focused on the thin throwing knife she kept twirling through her fingers. Thor was the only one looking directly at Phil and the expression he wore was... Phil didn't like it. Not one bit.
The one face he was looking for was the one he didn't see.
Each member of the Avengers looked haggard, a little frayed around the edges. The hair on their heads was darkened with sweat. There were spots of dirt and dried blood on their skin and clothes. Except for Stark, whose clothes had been spared the abuse. No doubt his armor had taken a beating, though. Their state of dishevelment and the looks on their faces did not bode well.
Phil saw all of that in a single beat of his heart. Even before he was fully finished cataloguing everything, his attention was turning toward Fury. The man wore a grim scowl, his one eye following Phil's every move. "Sorry to disturb your sleep, Agent Coulson. I know you put in a long day so I'll get right to the point."
Phil nodded and pushed the door shut behind him before propping his shoulders up against the solid wooden panel. Fury gave him long enough to sip at his coffee, long enough to enjoy the quick jolt of energy that it sent running through him. When he finally lowered the cup, Fury motioned a hand toward Rogers. The man heaved a sigh, ran a hand through his hair. He turned in his chair to stare at Phil. Frowned deeply. "There were complications on the mission."
One of Phil's eyebrows shot up. "Complications."
"Things were going well initially. Mission was on target. Natasha went undercover and got information from the inside, Hawkeye found a nest and did some in depth recon, got us all the information we needed on the exterior and security of the target building. We had everything we needed to get in and do what was needed of us, then get out." Rogers stopped. It looked as if he was struggling to find the right words. Phil could have prompted him, but he knew that it would do no good. Rogers needed time to get his thoughts together before he continued. So Phil sipped his coffee and waited. And ignored the tight ball of fear forming in the pit of his belly.
"Something ended up going wrong. We don't know how." Tony picked up the story from there. Phil noticed that his right hand drummed a sharp, staccato rhythm against the arm of his chair. It looked as if it was an absent action, as if Stark wasn't aware he was doing it. Phil had seen him doing the same with the piece of technology in his chest more than once. The man was thinking about his words before he let them pass his lips. He looked up at Phil, opened his mouth, then closed it and frowned. Opened his mouth again. "Coulson, we lost..."
Stark's voice trailed off. Phil crossed his arms over his chest, careful of the paper cup of coffee in his right hand. He didn't like the way no one wanted to actually talk. "You lost what?" he asked, voice level and even.
No one seemed willing to speak. Phil let his gaze slide around the room, pinning each of them with the look that sent junior agents running like mad. Rogers looked away. The lines around Stark's mouth thinned and tightened. Banner dropped his attention to his watch. Thor shifted uncomfortably where he stood. Natasha muttered a curse in Russian under her breath and slammed the knife into the wall behind her. "Hawkeye was taken."
Even though Phil had been expecting bad news, he still couldn't process what he'd heard. Instinct kept him from dropping the coffee, though only just. To be honest, he'd been expecting to hear that Clint had been injured during the mission. That was a terribly common event. He'd been expecting to be informed of Clint's condition before being allowed to head down to the infirmary. While not everyone at S.H.I.E.L.D. knew of their relationship, every member of the Avengers and the director knew that Clint and Phil were an item. Which explained why this debriefing was taking place in Fury's office.
"By who?" The question came out easily, without thought, as Phil's mind slipped into work mode. He figured if it ran on autopilot, that was okay. His body would take time to catch up. It happened that way every time Clint got himself hurt. There would be a brief flash of pain somewhere in the vicinity of Phil's heart, then he'd see Clint sitting up in bed, joking and smiling and flirting with the nurses, and everything would be okay.
But there was something inside of him that said it would be very different this time.
"We don't know." This came from Rogers. The tone of his voice suggested that he was blaming himself for the turn of events. Phil knew better, but it was within Rogers' nature to blame himself for something out of his control. He was the one who led the team. He took responsibility for everything that happened to it. "We left him in his nest with orders to provide cover fire. When the mission was over, he wasn't in his nest. All of his weapons were. But he wasn't."
"We found his ear piece about ten feet from his nest. His cell phone was back in his luggage." Stark's voice was filled with disgust. No doubt he'd thought he could track Clint's location through those pieces of technology.
There was a voice screaming in his head, one that wanted to know why they were just sitting there when they should be out looking for Clint. Given the other man's training, there's no way he would have been taken without a fight. Not unless they somehow got the drop on him. Clint knew how to handle himself. The only way someone could have taken the other man without his putting up a fight was if they'd surprised him. Drugged him. Overwhelmed him. When Clint was in a nest, he was so in the zone it wasn't funny. Nothing distracted him. No one got past him without his knowledge.
So how had his team... lost him?
It seemed to take a long time for Phil to fully process what they were telling him. Somehow, some way, the mission had gone terribly wrong and someone had taken Clint. Who would want to take him? And why? How had they managed it?
Phil did the only thing he could think to do. He slipped into work mode. "What do we know?"
"That's just it. We don't know anything. There were no clues of any kind. Nothing came across the comm unit. Its like he just disappeared."
"Where was his nest?" Phil's hands itched for a pen and a pad of paper so that he could take notes but his mind was so methodical and meticulous that he really didn't have to worry about that. He'd remember everything and then put it to paper later. Try and make sense of what he was told. Try and make sense of it all, period.
"Top of a building less than a hundred yards from the target," Rogers supplied. Phil recalled the map they'd used to lay out their mission before hand. He was pretty sure he knew exactly where Clint had been stationed. He knew that Clint would have gone for the best tactical position he could find. "There was some kind of overhang or something on the roof. That's where his nest was."
"Did you find anything on the roof? Footprints? Dropped cigarette butts? Any signs of disturbance?"
"There were some footprints." Tony shook his head, one hand reaching up to card through his hair and mess it up further. "I scanned them in and I've got Jarvis running them through every known database in the world. Not that I think it will help us in the long run. But its a place to start."
The same frustration Phil saw on everyone's faces was audible in Stark's voice. It was true that the two of them had a kind of hate-hate relationship. They constantly rubbed each other the wrong way. Phil hated Stark's party all the time attitude and felt that the man couldn't appreciate his highly valued work ethics. They constantly butted heads and grated on one another's nerves. But in this instance, Phil could tell they were united in a common goal. To bring a teammate, and friend, back home.
"There was one other thing we found." It was Banner who spoke. All eyes turned to him, though Phil was sure everyone but he and Fury knew what the man was going to say. "There was a small tuft of some kind of feather caught in a bit of the roofing. I sent it down to the lab. They're going to determine what it comes from and let us know. If you want my honest opinion, it looks like the kind of feathers used on tranquilizer darts."
"That would be the only way anyone could make off with Hawkeye," Natasha said quietly.
Phil nodded, his eyes sliding from one long face to the next. There was a sense of anticipation hanging around all of the Avengers, clinging to them like a dark spectre. It took him a moment to realize that they were all waiting for him to blow up at them. They were waiting for him to raise his voice and take them all to task for losing his lover. He'd never once raised his voice to them before and he wasn't about to start now. Instead of losing control, he offered them all the tight, bland smile that he'd perfected and used so often before Clint had stepped into his life. "I expect detailed reports from every one of you before noon." His cool gaze slid to where Stark sat, a warning in his eyes. The man was notorious about trying to worm his way out of paperwork.
Phil steadfastly refused to think about the number of times he'd had to force Clint into doing his own reports. Instead, he let his gaze land on the man behind the desk. "If there's nothing else, sir?"
"Not at the moment," Fury replied.
"Then I'll be in my office if anyone needs me." Phil nodded his head, tugged the door open with the hand not holding the cheap coffee, and stepped out into the hallway. No one said anything as he pulled the door closed behind him. And the halls were absolutely, painfully silent as he made his way to his own office.
Phil ignored the silence in order to concentrate on the thoughts running through his head. It didn't take long for his computer to boot up. Maybe one day, when he was no longer considering doing horrible things to Stark, he'd actually thank the man for upgrading S.H.I.E.L.D.'s systems so that they ran at the speed of light. But for now, he was going to use the computer to help put things in order. Help clear his head of disturbing thoughts. Help figure out a way to find Clint and bring him home.
A few taps at the keys accessed the preliminary reports that had already been filed. Opening one of his drawers yielded the files that he'd put together before the mission had started. In these, he would be able to find the mission plans and the map of the target area they'd studied at length before leaving. There had to be something in all the files that would tell him what was going on. He had to find Clint and bring him home.
And he would have felt that way even if he and Barton weren't a couple.
~*~
Phil was still in his office, pouring over the same files, when he received word that Stark's footprint scan hadn't turned up anything helpful. The prints belonged to work boots that were common to the part of the world the mission had taken place in. That wasn't surprising. It also wasn't surprising that records showed they were a very popular brand of work boots that had sold far too many pairs to be easily tracked back to one person. He could have told Stark that it was a dead end, but he hadn't said anything. Because Tony had been trying and Phil couldn't fault him for that. The other man wanted Clint back as much as anyone else did.
Phil was still in his office when the lab techs confirmed Banner's suspicions about the small bit of fluff they'd found. Someone had used a tranquilizer dart on Clint in order to take him captive. Phil wasn't sure if that meant that they'd been studying the marksman's habits or if it was simply a precautionary measure they'd taken to avoid any kind of trouble. Either way, it didn't get them any closer to discovering who had taken Clint. Why they'd taken him. Where he was now.
Breakfast hours came and went. So did lunch hours. During the time Phil spent behind the closed door of his office, studying every bit if information he could find on the mission, the location of the mission, known criminals who operated in the area of the mission, and any other minute piece of intel he could find, the rest of the Avengers came to talk to him.
Rogers spent half an hour trying to apologize to Phil. He apologized for not bringing Clint home. For losing him. For not finding him. He apologized for everything under the sun until Phil finally shot him a laser beam stare that frightened everyone on base except for Fury, and Clint, and shut him up. Then he point blank told the good captain that it wasn't his fault. Phil finally told Rogers to get the hell out of his office.
Banner came next, which was something of a surprise. Rogers and Stark were practically glued to one another when they weren't in the field, so Phil had been expecting the big mouthed billionaire to put in his appearance shortly after Rogers had left. Bruce didn't apologize. He tried to talk logistics and facts with Phil. Maybe he hoped that doing so would help answer questions and pull out the last piece of the puzzle. Maybe he just knew that apologizing was the wrong way to go. Either way, after nearly an hour of brainstorming, Banner gave up and left Phil to his research and his terse, monosyllabic answers.
The God of Thunder arrived only a few short minutes after Banner. Thor was unlike his usual self, somber and solemn as he regarded Phil across the desk. Phil ignored Thor's presence and continued with his research. Silence stretched between them for a short while, then Thor closed the distance from where he'd stood by the door to Phil's desk. "We will find him, my friend." He said nothing more, simply stepped around the desk so that he could clap a hand to Phil's shoulder, then he was gone.
Stark joined him nearly an hour after Thor left, looking even more harried than he had when Phil had seen him hours ago. He threw himself into a chair and stared across the desk at Phil. Brooded across the desk at him. As he had with everyone else, Phil ignored the other man and kept trying to find that one thing that would make everything fall into place and make sense. That thing that would tell him how to find Clint. Where to find Clint.
"You need to eat," Stark told him. Phil glanced up to look at him briefly, giving him a look that suggested what he could do with his advice. Then he went back to his reports. He heard Stark shift in his chair. The man sighed long and loud. "If you're going to be of any use to anyone, you need to eat. And sleep. You need to take care of yourself. You know Clint will kill us if you don't."
Phil sighed and set his pencil down, laying it just so across the yellow legal pad upon which he'd been jotting down notes. When he lifted his gaze to the other man, it was to find that Stark's eyes were dark with anger and with everything he wasn't about to say out loud. "Clint isn't here." It was a simple statement, not an ounce of accusation to be heard in his voice.
Stark nodded, rose to his feet. "No. He isn't. But he'll be home eventually. And when we find him, he'll be pissed if he finds out we didn't make sure you took care of yourself." Stark turned and walked out the door without another word. Phil went back to his reports and his notes.
He was still bent over his desk when Natasha stalked through the door. The air practically vibrated with her anger and rage. He could feel both emotions wrapped around her like a cloak. Phil lifted his head so that he could stare at her. She'd come to a stop at the edge of his desk, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Her gaze locked with his and held. He remained silent, waited for her to say whatever it was that was on her mind. "Make them pay."
She didn't wait for a reply. It didn't matter because she already knew what he'd say anyway. She simply turned on her heel and stalked on silent feet from his office.
~*~
Phil spent over sixteen hours in his office, bathroom breaks notwithstanding, pouring over every bit of information he had on the mission. He looked at every angle, trying to find how it had gone wrong. Where it had gone wrong. He studied and analyzed, looked for patterns and probabilities. He searched every bit of information he had three and four times over, hoping that he'd see what he'd missed. Hoping he'd find... something.
But nothing jumped out at him. Nothing stood up and screamed Look at me!. If there was an answer in all of the reports or his notes, he couldn't see it. He finally had to admit that he needed to destress and get away from his desk only when his neat, precise writing blurred into illegible blobs on the paper and his head pounded with the intensity of a heavy metal drummer double bassing as fast as he could. He took a few moments to tuck away all of his research, sliding it and his laptop into a briefcase that he'd pick up when he left for home, before he stepped out of his office, locked the door, and turned up the empty hall.
There was a vending machine near the elevators that carried his favored powdered donuts. He stopped long enough to pick up a package of those on his way to the shooting range. The only thing that was going to help him destress, other than beating the living shit out of everyone responsible for taking Clint, was time spent on the firing range. There was something therapeutic about the weight and feel of his service weapon against his palm when he caressed the grip and tapped the trigger.
He ate the donuts in the elevator, taking perverse pleasure in the sweetness of the powdered sugar that coated them. Each bite offered him a jolt of sugar borne energy that would carry him over until he fell face first into bed. He could almost hear Clint's voice in his head, chastising him for not eating something with an iota of substance. Phil chose not to listen to the imagined voice, knowing it belonged to a hypocrite. He'd seen Clint once devour a family sized bag of Doritos and a six pack of beer after a particularly bad mission and call it a meal. He was having the first of what he knew would be many long bad days. He was entitled to eat comfort food.
And for the first time in his life, Phil didn't give a single thought to the specks of powdered that had rained down on his less than immaculate suit.
There were other agents using the firing range. None of them gave Phil a second look as he crossed to an empty alley, hands full of safety glasses and extra ammunition. He'd already put a pair of ear muffs on over ear plugs to protect his hearing. He went through the motions of loading the paper target into the clip, then hit the button that sent the target to the back of the range, near the wall that stopped fired rounds. While he waited for the paper to settle and still, he took careful stock of his weapon and ensured that it was loaded properly. Slipped the protective eye wear on. Got himself ready.
It felt good to not think. He merely pointed the weapon, lined up his aim, and pulled the trigger. The repetitive motion kept his mind from wandering away from him, kept it from dwelling on things he couldn't resolve. Wondering what was happening to Clint wasn't going to do him any good. Wondering who had taken Clint wasn't going to do him any good. The cold metal in his hands kept his bring from going where it didn't need to be. Kept him focused on the task at hand. Firing the gun. Hitting the target. If he imagined each bullet he fired was hitting dead center of the forehead the person or persons responsible for Clint's disappearance, he didn't acknowledge that to himself.
Time slipped by unnoticed as he emptied clip after clip. Destroyed target after target. Each one came back with the same groupings on them. Twin flower patterns. One in the forehead and one in the heart of the target. There was a single shot in the center, while the other shots circled the first one so that it looked like a flower with petals on it. It wasn't as neat as Clint's targets were. He'd seen more than one target with a single hole in it when Clint had fired more than one shot. No one was that good.
Phil didn't leave the range until his hands hurt and he thought that he might have blisters forming. By then, he was alone on the range. All of the other agents had already left. Some had even come and gone in the time he'd been there. After dropping off the safety equipment, he headed back to his office to fetch his briefcase. Not that he planned on working on anything when he got home, but he wanted to have it with him in case something came to him suddenly. He'd had that happen while shooting, but whatever it was had slipped away without really registering. It had just left behind a faint sense of importance that niggled at his brain. There was something in the reports and his notes. He knew it.
He just had to find it again.
~*~
It took another three days for that niggling sense of importance to finally find its way into the open areas of his brain. It was something that should have been blatantly obvious to him. He should have seen it right away. Sooner. The only excuse he had for not recognizing the importance of the information for so long was that he simply hadn't been sleeping. Oh, he'd caught a few hours here and there. But never a full night's sleep. It was all he could think of that would keep him from noticing what was essentially right in front of his face.
Once he'd put it together, he went back to his research. Copious amounts of meticulous notes were taken. Plans were made and remade. He considered strategy after strategy, listing the probability of success and failure. He looked at how many people would be needed on the mission, who was and wasn't expendable. He drew up a detailed list of what would weaponry should be taken with. He spent hours plotting out just what it would take to bring Clint home.
When he had everything written out, he took his notes and research to Fury. Proposed the rescue mission and explained why it was he would be leading it up. He listened to everyone of Fury's questions and answered them accordingly. It was true that he didn't have a clue as to where Clint was, but he had approximations and he had names of people who would be able to lead him to the other man. All he needed was approval from his superior officer.
Fury gave his approval. With a few conditions. Phil would take the rest of the Avengers with him, something Phil had no problems with. Captain Rogers would keep a close eye on him and, if it seemed that his personal feelings for Clint overshadowed his ability to effectively lead the team, he would be relieved of duty and tied up in a hotel room while Rogers and the others made the rescue. Phil agreed, even though he knew that they both knew he would never abide by it. And finally, Phil had to agree to call the mission off if it started to look like Clint was lost to them.
He only did so because he knew, somewhere in the depth of his heart and at the back of his mind, that he would find Clint and bring him home.
Fury gave his consent and told him to debrief the rest of the team on the nature of the mission. Phil gathered his research, tucked it all back into a file, and left without another word. He summoned each one of the Avengers to his office with a short, terse phone call. And then he waited impatiently for them to arrive.
"You have news?" Rogers asked when everyone was present. Phil let his gaze slide around the room, let his eyes settle on each face for a few seconds before moving on. When he finished, he drew a map out of his file and unfolded it, laying it out on his desk.
"I think I know what happened," he told them. There were a few locations marked on the map with different colored markers. He let his finger touch on the spot where Clint had last been seen briefly, then he moved it toward the center of the city. "It took me a while to figure it out because none of what happened made any sense. But a little bit of research got me the answer. You all know that human trafficking is a multi-million dollar business."
He watched as a ripple of unease slid around the room as each one of them realized what he was suggesting. Natasha's eyes darkened with anger. "You think someone took him in order to sell him into the sex trade." Her voice was low, dangerous. It promised pain for anyone who was involved.
It wasn't a question. He didn't bother to answer it, just went on as if she hadn't spoken. "Usually, we see young girls being kidnapped and forced into prostitution. Or they're sold into slavery. But there are those out there that would rather a man than a woman. And then there are those who don't care, just so long as there's an element of pain involved with the pleasure."
"But why would they take Clint?" Rogers asked.
"You said it yourself. He went out and scouted. Brought you information needed for the mission. No doubt he did so by himself. It would have presented a perfect opportunity for someone to lay eyes on him and decide he'd be perfect for someone's sick idea of fun and games. All they had to do was follow him until he was alone. Then they could take him without anyone interfering with their plans."
"What do we do to get him back?" Natasha asked quietly.
"We're going to find someone who can lead us to him. Then we're going to get him out." Phil leveled a look on them. "No matter what it takes."
~*~*~*~*~
A full week passed before they got their first real lead. A week of sitting around, not doing a damned thing. Upon their arrival in Prague, they'd set themselves up in a rental house and started the long process of trying to find the people responsible for kidnapping Clint. Natasha had been chosen to do the searching. She seemed a natural choice because she spoke Russian and it was unlikely she'd draw the same attention to herself while looking for the traffickers as the rest of them would. Phil's language skills were passable, but not perfect. Too many people knew Tony Stark on sight, making it impossible to send him into a covert situation. Rogers was a good soldier and a good leader, but Phil didn't know if he could sell people on the idea that he was looking for a sex slave. Banner was a bad idea simply because everything would go to hell if he lost his temper. And Thor, while he had a good head on his shoulders, was more the beat-them-to-a-pulp-and-ask-questions-later type of guy.
So it was a week spent hidden away behind the walls of their rental house, each of them growing restless and anxious with every passing day. A week of Natasha dressing up in the most provocative of outfits and going out every night. A week of waiting for her to return to the house in the wee hours of the morning. A week of listening to her swear and threaten and promise in Russian. A week of waiting for answers and getting absolutely nothing.
A week of dwindling hope and growing fear.
Natasha didn't storm in that morning, didn't start muttering and cursing in Russian. Instead, she came in and settled at the table. She sat across from Phil, staring at him over the large area map he'd spread out on the surface the first day they'd gotten there. One finger reached out and tapped a spot on the map, the blood red polish on her nails a blatant reminder of how dangerous she could be. Phil raised his gaze to her face and watched a smile blossom on it. A smile that was dangerous and deadly, just as she was dangerous and deadly. He felt the corner of his mouth twitch up. Just a little. "You have something?"
"I met with a man last night who told me that there's a club located in the basement of this building that caters to people with very precise and demanding tastes. He also informed me that there are tunnels linking that basement to those located here and here." Her finger moved to indicate the basements as she spoke. Phil used a black marker to draw circles around the buildings in question. "These basements are used to train their 'stock' before they're turned over to paying customers."
An eyebrow went up at that. "He's sure? How does he know?"
"He's been inside the training rooms. He has the scars to prove it." Her tone of voice suggested that she was not happy with what she'd seen. He watched a hint of darkness slink through her gaze before she pressed on, obviously putting what she'd seen to the back of her mind. "He's going to convince someone important to extend me an invitation."
"Does he know for sure if Clint is there?"
"I told him I was looking for an American." Her accent thickened until it sounded like she'd never left Russia or lived in the United States. "Someone with muscles and a tan. He said there were a few men there that matched my limited description." Phil nodded his head. There was no way they could have any better confirmation that they were looking in the right place than that. Had Natasha been any more specific with her questions, it would have tipped people off and they'd have been gone before she'd gotten back to the house with her news. "How are we going to manage this?"
"We can't move on these locations until we have confirmation that Clint is there. So we have to wait until you can get it." It pained Phil to say that because all he wanted to do was burst in there right that minute and find Clint. They'd been together for a long time and Phil was beyond comfortable having the other man in his life. It had evolved to the point of an almost physical need. They'd never really discussed feelings but they both knew deeper emotional bonds than mere friendship existed. There was a part of him that said they had to move now and it took everything in him to quash that part. "When you have visual contact, when you actually see Clint, then you give the signal. We go in and we take him back."
"What do we do about the other victims?" Natasha asked almost absently.
"I'll inform Director Fury. I'm sure he can arrange something with the local authorities."
"And the people responsible for taking him?" She lifted her gaze to his, her eyes dark and filled with the promise of bad things.
Phil returned the look. Said nothing. Natasha nodded her head and rose from the seat. She understood perfectly because she was thinking the same thing he was. He watched her head off for her bedroom before he picked up the sat phone that they'd brought with and dialed Fury's number.
~*~
It took two more nights of negotiations for Natasha to get approval to meet with the person they'd been told was the leader of the slave ring. Two nights in which Phil had nothing to do but sit around and wait. There was no further need for research. There was little need for planning. After informing Fury that they had a lead, Phil had been told that he would have to call in before going into any situation so that the Czech authorities could be there as back up. They had apparently been looking for this particular group for ages and had managed to lose several undercover agents to the slavers. Phil didn't like the idea of having to coordinate with the Czech police when it was one of his people in trouble.
He came up with a contingency plan.
There was a knock at their door on the third night. After making sure everyone was hidden from sight, Natasha answered. She was already dressed for another night out on the town, body wrapped in a clinging black dress that left little to the imagination. There was an exchange in Russian, most of which Phil was able to catch despite his lack of fluency, then the door closed and left the house in silence.
He took a few moments to collect a few things that he knew he'd need, including a smaller version of the map with the marked basements on it, and leave a note on the table for the others. When he was armed and ready, he slipped out the door and found a car sitting by the curb that looked lonely. Years spent in the military, operating in hot zones all over the world, had given him a unique skill set that few people knew about. It was little trouble to hot wire the ancient vehicle and set it in motion. The GPS tracker rested on the seat beside him, a dot blinking lazily on the screen to show him where Natasha was and where she was going.
He'd taken a few seconds to put a tracking device in her shoes while she'd been in the shower so that he'd always know exactly where she was. There was a second tracker back at the house that the rest of the Avengers could use to locate them. Once they realized that Phil was gone, anyway.
The darkness of his clothes, left over from days when he'd be on super top secret missions with military forces people knew nothing about, blended with the darkness of the night that wrapped around him as soon as he stepped from the car. He made one last check of every item he'd stowed in a black back pack before tucking the GPS tracker into a pocket on the cargo pants he wore. The weapons he'd picked for this mission were painted matte black so that any light that touched him wouldn't reflect off the metal and alert people to his presence. He glanced up and down the street before disappearing into the shadows of a nearby alley.
There was an entrance down the alley into the basements that he'd marked on the map in his backpack. He'd made sure to memorize it earlier while he'd been putting together this mission. He hadn't had time to research it, had put it together on the fly. Which was why he was the only one going in. If it failed, he had no one to worry about but himself. Phil found the door and eased it open. Slowly and carefully. There was no telling squeak. No cameras or alarms. Nothing to give away his presence. The combat knife strapped to his thigh slid from the sheath without a single rasp of sound. He eased into the darkness on silent feet.
He incapacitated where he could, killed when he had no other choice. A single jerk of the razor sharp blade against a throat resulted in severed arteries and veins, slashed windpipes. Every body, dead or alive, was hidden in the nearest room so as not to draw attention. Each room he checked turned his stomach just a little bit more because he found young men and women behind each door. Some of them were barely teenagers. All of them were being used in disquieting ways.
Voices called out to him in so many different voices. He heard French, German, Czech, Russian, Ukrainian, Polish, Swiss, American. There were others that he didn't recognize. But he didn't have to understand them to grasp the meaning of their words. They were begging for help, pleading to be spared.
It felt as if he crept forward at a snail's pace. Tension crackled down his spine, pulled his shoulders tight and saw his palms slicked with a thin layer of sweat. He paused on occasion to check on Natasha's location. There was a second signal coming from the GPS tracker he'd left at the house, the blinking light letting him know that the Avengers were on the move. He didn't have time to stand around and wait because if they arrived before he found Clint...
Phil knew that he was going to find something unpleasant when he finally found Clint. He'd known that the minute he'd realized that Clint had been taken by sex traffickers. They weren't known for being kind and gentle to convince their prisoners to do what was needed of them. Torture and abuse were not unknown methods with these people. He was positive that Clint would never want anyone to see him in such a position. Not even Phil, really. But someone was going to have to see it and better it be Phil, who knew Clint's body inside and out, than one of his teammates. Even knowing what he could potentially walk in on, fear gnawed at his belly because he was sure that he was going to find something worse than he had imagined.
His nerves were strung tight by the time he finished with the first building. It was time to pick up the pace. It wouldn't take long to find one of the bodies Phil had left behind, or for one of those he'd knocked out to regain consciousness and sound the alarm. If he didn't find Clint soon, instinct told him that he wouldn't. Or he'd find nothing more than a bloodied corpse. Neither option was acceptable.
He took the second building's basement faster, not bothering with stealth. He dispatched anyone who got in his way quickly and efficiently, The blade of his knife glistened dully with blood, his hands coated liberally in red. He didn't find as many captives in this building, nearly every room he inspected empty save for equipment he didn't want to have to think about. He was beginning to think that it was a dead end when a door up the hall opened and a woman stepped out. She was clad in the barest essentials, her body thin and worn from use and abuse. She turned and spoke into the room, voice muffled by the thick wooden panel of the door. He thought she might be speaking French. But that thought slid away as a long moan followed her out of the room.
Every single cell in his body stilled at hearing that sound. He'd heard it before, so many times. That was how Clint sounded in the midst of a rousing bout of sex. But there was something off about this moan, some touch of pain or despair that didn't belong with a sound that was usually throaty and husky. Sexual. God, what had they done to Clint to make him sound like that?
He watched as the girl pulled the door closed, letting her eyes dart up and down the hall before she began creeping forward. She looked as if she wasn't supposed to be there, a hint of fear in her gaze that made him think she was trying to help. Or that she wanted to help. Phil considered her a moment, long enough to decide she was a friend. He melted out of the shadows silently, startling her into a frightened halt. When she saw the knife in his hand, she started stammering in hurried French.
He tucked the blade away and lifted his hands to show he meant no harm, He hadn't had call to use French in a while, so it took him time to find the right words. But the moment he began asking her questions, the girl opened up like a fountain and let the words just pour forth. Her name was Yvette and she'd been here for a few months. She'd been kidnapped while on holiday and had been forced to endure so much. She was free to roam the halls and help with the training, but she wasn't allowed to leave.
When she mentioned that, her hands touched the collar that banded her throat. There was a padlock on it that she said held a tracking device. She knew it worked because she'd tried escaping once, only to be found and made to return. She'd been punished, she said, turning to show him the lines that criss-crossed the skin of her back. She might have gone on with more, but Phil assured her that he was there to help.
Yvette looked him up and down before glancing over her shoulder to look at the door she'd just closed. "You have come to help him?" she asked, her English heavily accented and slightly broken.
"I have." He saw the reluctance in her eyes and offered her a faint smile. "He's a friend. I want to take him home."
"You will need this," she said, offering him a key. Phil took it, wondering if he should trust the girl or not. He didn't see any reason not to, but he was well aware that people who dealt in human trafficking liked to put someone on the inside in an attempt to get their victims to go along with what was in store for them. There was more money to be made if the slaves up for sale were well trained and broken. Unharmed. She said nothing else, simply hurried off and disappeared around a corner. Either she was going to hide until the rest of the team showed up to liberate this place or she was going to go sound the alarm.
Whatever happened, Phil figured he only had a handful of seconds to do what needed to get done.
The door was locked when he tried the knob. Phil slipped the key in and turned it. The click of the tumbler was loud in the silence of the hall. He took a breath, doing his best to prepare himself for what was to come, and nudged the door open with one foot.
There was no one inside that he needed to deal with. The room was empty save for the solitary figure near the far wall. Phil stopped and stared, breath caught in his chest while some dark, dangerous emotion broke the surface of his calm. Clint was blindfolded, arms pulled up over his head. Cuffs circled his wrists, connected to chains that hung from the ceiling. Another set of cuffs had been wrapped around his ankles, legs held apart by a thick spreader bar. Like his wrists, his captors had chained his feet to the stone beneath them. Perhaps they'd done it before they'd become aware of what he could do. Perhaps they'd done it because they'd found out the hard way what he could do. Someone had worked a gag into his mouth, likely to keep him from speaking or biting. It did nothing to hold back his moans, though.
That wasn't all they'd done to him, though. There were marks on his arms and legs, across his torso. No doubt covering his back. Some looked older than others. All were in varying stages of healing. Phil saw whip marks, thin slices where a knife had parted skin, tiny puncture wounds. Most of them were done in such a way that they wouldn't leave scars, but there were a couple that might not heal cleanly.
The bare overhead bulb flashed off silver as Clint shifted slightly, bringing Phil's gaze to the man's chest. Each nipple sported a thin silver ring with a black ball on it. Someone had brought him to a fully erect state, drops of moisture glistening on the head of his cock. A silver ring had been fastened at the base. It circled his testicles, as well. Locked in place to keep him erect, to deny him any kind of release. More sliver crept up the length of Clint's shaft, half a dozen or more barbells with plain silver balls on the ends. All of the piercings looked healthy and well cared for, a direct contrast to the wounds Phil was still mentally cataloguing.
And there was still more. Despite the fact that his cock and balls had been left out in the open, someone had put Clint into a type of shorts that covered his ass. Phil came up with two ideas as to why that was and he wasn't sure if he liked either of them. He took a moment to hope that Natasha managed to take down the leader of the trafficking ring. If he got injured or killed in the process... Well, Phil wasn't going to get too upset.
The faint buzz against his leg told him he didn't have much time. The GPS tracker he'd left at the house also worked as a kind of pager. As soon as it was in close proximity to its mate, a warning went off to let whoever carried it that someone was coming. The buzz he felt told him that the rest of the Avengers would be there. Soon. He had to hurry.
He took a step and watched as Clint's head came up, turned toward the door with unerring accuracy even though Phil was sure he couldn't see through the blind fold. Another step saw Clint tensing, as if he expected some greater indignation to be heaped upon his shoulders. "Clint. Relax. Its me. I'm here to take you home."
There was a second where Clint remained tense and alert. But it slowed ebbed away, allowing Clint to sag against his bonds. Phil hurried over to him and removed the blindfold first. Familiar blue eyes blinked against the light before turning to look at Phil. The gag went next, thrown to the floor in disgust. The other man worked his jaw while Phil tackled the cuffs at his wrists. Almost before he had both of them released, Clint was shoving him away with hands that trembled ever so slightly.
Phil took no offense, backed away and gave Clint space. Sliding the backpack off his shoulders, he fished out the fresh clothes he'd tucked inside before leaving the house. Let his eyes take in the rest of the room. There wasn't much. An old, worn cot to sleep on. An old ceramic toilet in one corner. An old shower head on the wall. A rickety table loaded down with things that Phil refused to consider. He didn't want to know what they'd done to Clint, didn't want to imagine what they'd used those things for.
A faint sound of frustration saw his attention turned back to his lover. Clint had barely moved, cuffs still locked around his feet, cock ring and odd shorts still in place. His head was bent, hands fisted at his sides. Phil could see moisture trailing paths down his cheeks, no doubt tears of frustration and rage and humiliation. He thought he understood the problem and advanced slowly, drawing a smaller but no less deadly knife from a pocket.
Clint's eyes opened so that he could watch as Phil knelt down and used the knife to slice through the thick leather cuffs. When he had Clint's feet freed, he tossed the spreader bar across the room, then once more stepped back and gave the other man his space. Clint didn't look at him, but he held his hand out in a silent request. Phil laid the knife in it and watched as the other man cut away the shorts. The material fell away in tatters.
It took Clint a couple of tries to rid himself of the rest of his unwanted accessories. The cock ring hit the floor with a metallic sound, forgotten as Clint reached for the last item. Phil didn't look away, didn't flinch as he watched Clint remove the thin vibe that had been held in place by the shorts. It was thrown across the room where it hit the wall, then dropped to the floor where it made a soft thumping noise.
Clint sank to his knees, put his head against the stone floor and curled around himself. One arm was curled up around his head, hiding his face from view. The other ran under his body. A few sharp movements of his shoulder and hips saw the erection dealt with. A low, raw sound rolled up Clint's throat, the agonized cry of a wounded animal, and bounced off the walls without mercy. Phil retrieved the blanket from the bed and set it down by him before going over to get the clothes he'd packed earlier.
Phil crouched down beside him without touching him. The clothes were set next to him. "Clint, you have to get dressed. The others will be here soon. You don't want them to see you like this."
He watched as Clint straightened, one hand reaching for the blanket to wipe away the evidence of his unwanted release. Phil waited until he saw that the other man was able to dress himself, then went and fetched a bottle of water from the backpack. He also brought out a protein bar. When he turned back, Clint had already stepped into the sweat pants and was in the process of pulling a t-shirt over his head. He'd just gotten it settled in place when the door slammed open and Rogers burst into the room.
Cap's gaze slid over Clint as the man moved to the cot so that he could sit, put on his shoes and socks. Then it shifted to where Phil stood, landed on him heavily. There was a myriad of emotions in the man's gaze. "Director Fury wants to talk to you when you're done here."
"I'll contact him as soon as we've got this all wrapped up."
Rogers gave a faint smile. "Your funeral." Then he was all seriousness again. "We're in the process of liberating the rest of the captives. Natasha took the leader down with minimal fuss and he's now in the custody of the Czech police. My understanding is he's facing hundreds of counts of kidnapping and human trafficking. I don't think he's ever going to see the light of day again."
"One can only hope," Phil replied blandly.
"You left quite the trail for us to follow, Agent Coulson. There are bodies everywhere." Steve gave him a look. Phil gave it right back. Something unspoken passed between them, some understanding that saw the other man nodding at him. He spared a glance for Clint, then he was out the door. Phil turned to find Clint on his feet, eyes locked on his hands.
"You came for me," he whispered, not looking up. Phil had no doubt that Clint knew he was looking at him.
"Did you expect anything less?" Phil asked softly.
Clint looked up, sharing the haunted expression that filled and darkened his eyes. "I hoped. But..." His voice, rough and raw and raspy, cracked before he fell silent.
"None of them will know what happened here, Clint. I'll see to it personally." It was a promise, earning Phil a very faint twitch of Clint's lips.
"I don't know what's going to happen now. They did things... I can't..." Clint broke off, jaw clenched as he fought with himself for the right words.
"Whatever happens, Clint, we face it together. I promise you. I'll be here for you," Phil told him, certainty making his voice strong. Clint stared at him, unconvinced. So Phil did something he didn't do very often. And never for anyone but Clint. He gave the other man a real, genuine smile. Clint's shoulders lost some of their tension.
"You're sure? Because this shit... Its fucked up and I'm fucked up and I don't want to make you wait if you can find someone else who--" Clint began, only to trail off when Phil shook his head. There was disbelief and a faint hint of hope in those blue eyes.
Phil smiled again, wider and broader than before. "No matter how long it takes, I will be here for you. We'll get through this. Together."
Clint said nothing, simply stared at him for a while. Then most of the shadows left his eyes, leaving them bright and piercing blue again. He said nothing, simply nodded his head and turned for the door. Phil sighed and gathered up his supplies. The water and protein bar were returned to the backpack, then it was slung up on his shoulder. He could give them to Clint later, once they were someplace safe.
He followed after his lover, watching as Clint struggled to give the impression that nothing was wrong. Tried to act normal. Phil smiled to himself. It was good sign. There would be plenty of bad times ahead as Clint tried to heal from this. But Phil had meant what he'd said.
They'd get through it together. And he'd always be there for Clint. Always.
Universe: the Marvel Universe, specifically the movie 'verse
Pairing: Agent Phil Coulson/Clint Barton
Rating: mature. some language and violence. mentions of sexual abuse for the purposes of training a person to be a sex slave. toys. piercings.
Word Count: 9,778
Disclaimer: i own nothing in this story beyond the plot. the characters contained within belong to Marvel and whoever the hell else owns them. i'm just borrowing and i will put them back one day. not sure when but i will. i'm not making any money off this so please don't sue me.
Summary: Clint is kidnapped during a mission. Phil takes it upon himself to find Clint and get him back. No matter what it takes.
Author's Note: this fic is written for my Big Damn Table, which i got from avengers_tables the prompt for this story was darkness.
this is part of that 'verse i mentioned creating. i'm still looking for a name for it. but this is definitely part of it.
The metallic chirp of his cell phone pulled him out of sleep, leaving him fully awake and only slightly grumpier than usual. It had been a long day of paperwork, training, trainees, junior agents, and debriefings. All he'd wanted at the end of said day was to tumble into bed and sleep the night through. The Fates, it seemed, were determined to see that such events couldn't take place.
His gaze flicked to the screen on his phone so that he could see who was calling. He half expected it to be Clint, finally able to break radio silence with the conclusion of his mission. It would be nice to talk to the other man after more than two weeks apart. Not that he'd ever admit it out loud, but he missed Clint when the man was on a mission. Again, the Fates were being fickle bitches. The name on the screen didn't belong to his lover. It belonged to his boss.
Seeing Fury's last name sent a sharp, irrational stab of fear through him.
Phil scooped up the phone and hit the button to connect the call. "Sir?"
"I need you at headquarters. Now. There's a situation."
"Yes, sir." Phil barely got the words out before Fury disconnected. It had to be a dire situation. Director Fury rarely called at three in the morning unless something was wrong. A sense of urgency washed over Phil, prompting him to speed through getting dressed. He was ready to go in a record five minutes. If his suit was slightly rumpled and his tie askew, he didn't care. If his hair was mussed, it didn't matter. If someone asked him about his state of disarray, he would put them on desk duty for six months for even daring. Possibly more.
The drive to headquarters was silent and tense. The radio was left off, his mind far too scattered to allow him to appreciate any kind of music. Anytime he and Clint were in the car together, there was something on the radio. Either Phil's preferred big band music or Clint's choice of rock and roll. It seemed wrong to have either playing when he was by himself and he knew that something was amiss.
A quick trip through an all night drive thru got him a scalding hot cup of coffee. It wasn't his regular coffee shop coffee, but it would have to do in a pinch. It was still far better than anything he'd get in the S.H.I.E.L.D. break room.
It was three thirty when he rapped a knuckle sharply against Fury's door. He didn't wait for permission to enter, simply turned the knob and let himself into the man's office. The room was filled with people. Phil let his gaze slide around and touch on the gathered faces, kept his expression bland and empty. Not including Fury, he counted five people. His fingers tightened minutely around the cheap coffee, the only thing betraying his displeasure at what he saw. Or, rather, at what he didn't see.
Stark and Rogers had taken the only two chairs in the room other than the one the director currently occupied. Both men wore identical looks of anger and frustration. Banner was agitated, his gaze constantly shifting to the watch on his wrist. Even across the room, Phil could hear him working at controlling his breathing. Natasha leaned up against the wall, eyes focused on the thin throwing knife she kept twirling through her fingers. Thor was the only one looking directly at Phil and the expression he wore was... Phil didn't like it. Not one bit.
The one face he was looking for was the one he didn't see.
Each member of the Avengers looked haggard, a little frayed around the edges. The hair on their heads was darkened with sweat. There were spots of dirt and dried blood on their skin and clothes. Except for Stark, whose clothes had been spared the abuse. No doubt his armor had taken a beating, though. Their state of dishevelment and the looks on their faces did not bode well.
Phil saw all of that in a single beat of his heart. Even before he was fully finished cataloguing everything, his attention was turning toward Fury. The man wore a grim scowl, his one eye following Phil's every move. "Sorry to disturb your sleep, Agent Coulson. I know you put in a long day so I'll get right to the point."
Phil nodded and pushed the door shut behind him before propping his shoulders up against the solid wooden panel. Fury gave him long enough to sip at his coffee, long enough to enjoy the quick jolt of energy that it sent running through him. When he finally lowered the cup, Fury motioned a hand toward Rogers. The man heaved a sigh, ran a hand through his hair. He turned in his chair to stare at Phil. Frowned deeply. "There were complications on the mission."
One of Phil's eyebrows shot up. "Complications."
"Things were going well initially. Mission was on target. Natasha went undercover and got information from the inside, Hawkeye found a nest and did some in depth recon, got us all the information we needed on the exterior and security of the target building. We had everything we needed to get in and do what was needed of us, then get out." Rogers stopped. It looked as if he was struggling to find the right words. Phil could have prompted him, but he knew that it would do no good. Rogers needed time to get his thoughts together before he continued. So Phil sipped his coffee and waited. And ignored the tight ball of fear forming in the pit of his belly.
"Something ended up going wrong. We don't know how." Tony picked up the story from there. Phil noticed that his right hand drummed a sharp, staccato rhythm against the arm of his chair. It looked as if it was an absent action, as if Stark wasn't aware he was doing it. Phil had seen him doing the same with the piece of technology in his chest more than once. The man was thinking about his words before he let them pass his lips. He looked up at Phil, opened his mouth, then closed it and frowned. Opened his mouth again. "Coulson, we lost..."
Stark's voice trailed off. Phil crossed his arms over his chest, careful of the paper cup of coffee in his right hand. He didn't like the way no one wanted to actually talk. "You lost what?" he asked, voice level and even.
No one seemed willing to speak. Phil let his gaze slide around the room, pinning each of them with the look that sent junior agents running like mad. Rogers looked away. The lines around Stark's mouth thinned and tightened. Banner dropped his attention to his watch. Thor shifted uncomfortably where he stood. Natasha muttered a curse in Russian under her breath and slammed the knife into the wall behind her. "Hawkeye was taken."
Even though Phil had been expecting bad news, he still couldn't process what he'd heard. Instinct kept him from dropping the coffee, though only just. To be honest, he'd been expecting to hear that Clint had been injured during the mission. That was a terribly common event. He'd been expecting to be informed of Clint's condition before being allowed to head down to the infirmary. While not everyone at S.H.I.E.L.D. knew of their relationship, every member of the Avengers and the director knew that Clint and Phil were an item. Which explained why this debriefing was taking place in Fury's office.
"By who?" The question came out easily, without thought, as Phil's mind slipped into work mode. He figured if it ran on autopilot, that was okay. His body would take time to catch up. It happened that way every time Clint got himself hurt. There would be a brief flash of pain somewhere in the vicinity of Phil's heart, then he'd see Clint sitting up in bed, joking and smiling and flirting with the nurses, and everything would be okay.
But there was something inside of him that said it would be very different this time.
"We don't know." This came from Rogers. The tone of his voice suggested that he was blaming himself for the turn of events. Phil knew better, but it was within Rogers' nature to blame himself for something out of his control. He was the one who led the team. He took responsibility for everything that happened to it. "We left him in his nest with orders to provide cover fire. When the mission was over, he wasn't in his nest. All of his weapons were. But he wasn't."
"We found his ear piece about ten feet from his nest. His cell phone was back in his luggage." Stark's voice was filled with disgust. No doubt he'd thought he could track Clint's location through those pieces of technology.
There was a voice screaming in his head, one that wanted to know why they were just sitting there when they should be out looking for Clint. Given the other man's training, there's no way he would have been taken without a fight. Not unless they somehow got the drop on him. Clint knew how to handle himself. The only way someone could have taken the other man without his putting up a fight was if they'd surprised him. Drugged him. Overwhelmed him. When Clint was in a nest, he was so in the zone it wasn't funny. Nothing distracted him. No one got past him without his knowledge.
So how had his team... lost him?
It seemed to take a long time for Phil to fully process what they were telling him. Somehow, some way, the mission had gone terribly wrong and someone had taken Clint. Who would want to take him? And why? How had they managed it?
Phil did the only thing he could think to do. He slipped into work mode. "What do we know?"
"That's just it. We don't know anything. There were no clues of any kind. Nothing came across the comm unit. Its like he just disappeared."
"Where was his nest?" Phil's hands itched for a pen and a pad of paper so that he could take notes but his mind was so methodical and meticulous that he really didn't have to worry about that. He'd remember everything and then put it to paper later. Try and make sense of what he was told. Try and make sense of it all, period.
"Top of a building less than a hundred yards from the target," Rogers supplied. Phil recalled the map they'd used to lay out their mission before hand. He was pretty sure he knew exactly where Clint had been stationed. He knew that Clint would have gone for the best tactical position he could find. "There was some kind of overhang or something on the roof. That's where his nest was."
"Did you find anything on the roof? Footprints? Dropped cigarette butts? Any signs of disturbance?"
"There were some footprints." Tony shook his head, one hand reaching up to card through his hair and mess it up further. "I scanned them in and I've got Jarvis running them through every known database in the world. Not that I think it will help us in the long run. But its a place to start."
The same frustration Phil saw on everyone's faces was audible in Stark's voice. It was true that the two of them had a kind of hate-hate relationship. They constantly rubbed each other the wrong way. Phil hated Stark's party all the time attitude and felt that the man couldn't appreciate his highly valued work ethics. They constantly butted heads and grated on one another's nerves. But in this instance, Phil could tell they were united in a common goal. To bring a teammate, and friend, back home.
"There was one other thing we found." It was Banner who spoke. All eyes turned to him, though Phil was sure everyone but he and Fury knew what the man was going to say. "There was a small tuft of some kind of feather caught in a bit of the roofing. I sent it down to the lab. They're going to determine what it comes from and let us know. If you want my honest opinion, it looks like the kind of feathers used on tranquilizer darts."
"That would be the only way anyone could make off with Hawkeye," Natasha said quietly.
Phil nodded, his eyes sliding from one long face to the next. There was a sense of anticipation hanging around all of the Avengers, clinging to them like a dark spectre. It took him a moment to realize that they were all waiting for him to blow up at them. They were waiting for him to raise his voice and take them all to task for losing his lover. He'd never once raised his voice to them before and he wasn't about to start now. Instead of losing control, he offered them all the tight, bland smile that he'd perfected and used so often before Clint had stepped into his life. "I expect detailed reports from every one of you before noon." His cool gaze slid to where Stark sat, a warning in his eyes. The man was notorious about trying to worm his way out of paperwork.
Phil steadfastly refused to think about the number of times he'd had to force Clint into doing his own reports. Instead, he let his gaze land on the man behind the desk. "If there's nothing else, sir?"
"Not at the moment," Fury replied.
"Then I'll be in my office if anyone needs me." Phil nodded his head, tugged the door open with the hand not holding the cheap coffee, and stepped out into the hallway. No one said anything as he pulled the door closed behind him. And the halls were absolutely, painfully silent as he made his way to his own office.
Phil ignored the silence in order to concentrate on the thoughts running through his head. It didn't take long for his computer to boot up. Maybe one day, when he was no longer considering doing horrible things to Stark, he'd actually thank the man for upgrading S.H.I.E.L.D.'s systems so that they ran at the speed of light. But for now, he was going to use the computer to help put things in order. Help clear his head of disturbing thoughts. Help figure out a way to find Clint and bring him home.
A few taps at the keys accessed the preliminary reports that had already been filed. Opening one of his drawers yielded the files that he'd put together before the mission had started. In these, he would be able to find the mission plans and the map of the target area they'd studied at length before leaving. There had to be something in all the files that would tell him what was going on. He had to find Clint and bring him home.
And he would have felt that way even if he and Barton weren't a couple.
~*~
Phil was still in his office, pouring over the same files, when he received word that Stark's footprint scan hadn't turned up anything helpful. The prints belonged to work boots that were common to the part of the world the mission had taken place in. That wasn't surprising. It also wasn't surprising that records showed they were a very popular brand of work boots that had sold far too many pairs to be easily tracked back to one person. He could have told Stark that it was a dead end, but he hadn't said anything. Because Tony had been trying and Phil couldn't fault him for that. The other man wanted Clint back as much as anyone else did.
Phil was still in his office when the lab techs confirmed Banner's suspicions about the small bit of fluff they'd found. Someone had used a tranquilizer dart on Clint in order to take him captive. Phil wasn't sure if that meant that they'd been studying the marksman's habits or if it was simply a precautionary measure they'd taken to avoid any kind of trouble. Either way, it didn't get them any closer to discovering who had taken Clint. Why they'd taken him. Where he was now.
Breakfast hours came and went. So did lunch hours. During the time Phil spent behind the closed door of his office, studying every bit if information he could find on the mission, the location of the mission, known criminals who operated in the area of the mission, and any other minute piece of intel he could find, the rest of the Avengers came to talk to him.
Rogers spent half an hour trying to apologize to Phil. He apologized for not bringing Clint home. For losing him. For not finding him. He apologized for everything under the sun until Phil finally shot him a laser beam stare that frightened everyone on base except for Fury, and Clint, and shut him up. Then he point blank told the good captain that it wasn't his fault. Phil finally told Rogers to get the hell out of his office.
Banner came next, which was something of a surprise. Rogers and Stark were practically glued to one another when they weren't in the field, so Phil had been expecting the big mouthed billionaire to put in his appearance shortly after Rogers had left. Bruce didn't apologize. He tried to talk logistics and facts with Phil. Maybe he hoped that doing so would help answer questions and pull out the last piece of the puzzle. Maybe he just knew that apologizing was the wrong way to go. Either way, after nearly an hour of brainstorming, Banner gave up and left Phil to his research and his terse, monosyllabic answers.
The God of Thunder arrived only a few short minutes after Banner. Thor was unlike his usual self, somber and solemn as he regarded Phil across the desk. Phil ignored Thor's presence and continued with his research. Silence stretched between them for a short while, then Thor closed the distance from where he'd stood by the door to Phil's desk. "We will find him, my friend." He said nothing more, simply stepped around the desk so that he could clap a hand to Phil's shoulder, then he was gone.
Stark joined him nearly an hour after Thor left, looking even more harried than he had when Phil had seen him hours ago. He threw himself into a chair and stared across the desk at Phil. Brooded across the desk at him. As he had with everyone else, Phil ignored the other man and kept trying to find that one thing that would make everything fall into place and make sense. That thing that would tell him how to find Clint. Where to find Clint.
"You need to eat," Stark told him. Phil glanced up to look at him briefly, giving him a look that suggested what he could do with his advice. Then he went back to his reports. He heard Stark shift in his chair. The man sighed long and loud. "If you're going to be of any use to anyone, you need to eat. And sleep. You need to take care of yourself. You know Clint will kill us if you don't."
Phil sighed and set his pencil down, laying it just so across the yellow legal pad upon which he'd been jotting down notes. When he lifted his gaze to the other man, it was to find that Stark's eyes were dark with anger and with everything he wasn't about to say out loud. "Clint isn't here." It was a simple statement, not an ounce of accusation to be heard in his voice.
Stark nodded, rose to his feet. "No. He isn't. But he'll be home eventually. And when we find him, he'll be pissed if he finds out we didn't make sure you took care of yourself." Stark turned and walked out the door without another word. Phil went back to his reports and his notes.
He was still bent over his desk when Natasha stalked through the door. The air practically vibrated with her anger and rage. He could feel both emotions wrapped around her like a cloak. Phil lifted his head so that he could stare at her. She'd come to a stop at the edge of his desk, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Her gaze locked with his and held. He remained silent, waited for her to say whatever it was that was on her mind. "Make them pay."
She didn't wait for a reply. It didn't matter because she already knew what he'd say anyway. She simply turned on her heel and stalked on silent feet from his office.
~*~
Phil spent over sixteen hours in his office, bathroom breaks notwithstanding, pouring over every bit of information he had on the mission. He looked at every angle, trying to find how it had gone wrong. Where it had gone wrong. He studied and analyzed, looked for patterns and probabilities. He searched every bit of information he had three and four times over, hoping that he'd see what he'd missed. Hoping he'd find... something.
But nothing jumped out at him. Nothing stood up and screamed Look at me!. If there was an answer in all of the reports or his notes, he couldn't see it. He finally had to admit that he needed to destress and get away from his desk only when his neat, precise writing blurred into illegible blobs on the paper and his head pounded with the intensity of a heavy metal drummer double bassing as fast as he could. He took a few moments to tuck away all of his research, sliding it and his laptop into a briefcase that he'd pick up when he left for home, before he stepped out of his office, locked the door, and turned up the empty hall.
There was a vending machine near the elevators that carried his favored powdered donuts. He stopped long enough to pick up a package of those on his way to the shooting range. The only thing that was going to help him destress, other than beating the living shit out of everyone responsible for taking Clint, was time spent on the firing range. There was something therapeutic about the weight and feel of his service weapon against his palm when he caressed the grip and tapped the trigger.
He ate the donuts in the elevator, taking perverse pleasure in the sweetness of the powdered sugar that coated them. Each bite offered him a jolt of sugar borne energy that would carry him over until he fell face first into bed. He could almost hear Clint's voice in his head, chastising him for not eating something with an iota of substance. Phil chose not to listen to the imagined voice, knowing it belonged to a hypocrite. He'd seen Clint once devour a family sized bag of Doritos and a six pack of beer after a particularly bad mission and call it a meal. He was having the first of what he knew would be many long bad days. He was entitled to eat comfort food.
And for the first time in his life, Phil didn't give a single thought to the specks of powdered that had rained down on his less than immaculate suit.
There were other agents using the firing range. None of them gave Phil a second look as he crossed to an empty alley, hands full of safety glasses and extra ammunition. He'd already put a pair of ear muffs on over ear plugs to protect his hearing. He went through the motions of loading the paper target into the clip, then hit the button that sent the target to the back of the range, near the wall that stopped fired rounds. While he waited for the paper to settle and still, he took careful stock of his weapon and ensured that it was loaded properly. Slipped the protective eye wear on. Got himself ready.
It felt good to not think. He merely pointed the weapon, lined up his aim, and pulled the trigger. The repetitive motion kept his mind from wandering away from him, kept it from dwelling on things he couldn't resolve. Wondering what was happening to Clint wasn't going to do him any good. Wondering who had taken Clint wasn't going to do him any good. The cold metal in his hands kept his bring from going where it didn't need to be. Kept him focused on the task at hand. Firing the gun. Hitting the target. If he imagined each bullet he fired was hitting dead center of the forehead the person or persons responsible for Clint's disappearance, he didn't acknowledge that to himself.
Time slipped by unnoticed as he emptied clip after clip. Destroyed target after target. Each one came back with the same groupings on them. Twin flower patterns. One in the forehead and one in the heart of the target. There was a single shot in the center, while the other shots circled the first one so that it looked like a flower with petals on it. It wasn't as neat as Clint's targets were. He'd seen more than one target with a single hole in it when Clint had fired more than one shot. No one was that good.
Phil didn't leave the range until his hands hurt and he thought that he might have blisters forming. By then, he was alone on the range. All of the other agents had already left. Some had even come and gone in the time he'd been there. After dropping off the safety equipment, he headed back to his office to fetch his briefcase. Not that he planned on working on anything when he got home, but he wanted to have it with him in case something came to him suddenly. He'd had that happen while shooting, but whatever it was had slipped away without really registering. It had just left behind a faint sense of importance that niggled at his brain. There was something in the reports and his notes. He knew it.
He just had to find it again.
~*~
It took another three days for that niggling sense of importance to finally find its way into the open areas of his brain. It was something that should have been blatantly obvious to him. He should have seen it right away. Sooner. The only excuse he had for not recognizing the importance of the information for so long was that he simply hadn't been sleeping. Oh, he'd caught a few hours here and there. But never a full night's sleep. It was all he could think of that would keep him from noticing what was essentially right in front of his face.
Once he'd put it together, he went back to his research. Copious amounts of meticulous notes were taken. Plans were made and remade. He considered strategy after strategy, listing the probability of success and failure. He looked at how many people would be needed on the mission, who was and wasn't expendable. He drew up a detailed list of what would weaponry should be taken with. He spent hours plotting out just what it would take to bring Clint home.
When he had everything written out, he took his notes and research to Fury. Proposed the rescue mission and explained why it was he would be leading it up. He listened to everyone of Fury's questions and answered them accordingly. It was true that he didn't have a clue as to where Clint was, but he had approximations and he had names of people who would be able to lead him to the other man. All he needed was approval from his superior officer.
Fury gave his approval. With a few conditions. Phil would take the rest of the Avengers with him, something Phil had no problems with. Captain Rogers would keep a close eye on him and, if it seemed that his personal feelings for Clint overshadowed his ability to effectively lead the team, he would be relieved of duty and tied up in a hotel room while Rogers and the others made the rescue. Phil agreed, even though he knew that they both knew he would never abide by it. And finally, Phil had to agree to call the mission off if it started to look like Clint was lost to them.
He only did so because he knew, somewhere in the depth of his heart and at the back of his mind, that he would find Clint and bring him home.
Fury gave his consent and told him to debrief the rest of the team on the nature of the mission. Phil gathered his research, tucked it all back into a file, and left without another word. He summoned each one of the Avengers to his office with a short, terse phone call. And then he waited impatiently for them to arrive.
"You have news?" Rogers asked when everyone was present. Phil let his gaze slide around the room, let his eyes settle on each face for a few seconds before moving on. When he finished, he drew a map out of his file and unfolded it, laying it out on his desk.
"I think I know what happened," he told them. There were a few locations marked on the map with different colored markers. He let his finger touch on the spot where Clint had last been seen briefly, then he moved it toward the center of the city. "It took me a while to figure it out because none of what happened made any sense. But a little bit of research got me the answer. You all know that human trafficking is a multi-million dollar business."
He watched as a ripple of unease slid around the room as each one of them realized what he was suggesting. Natasha's eyes darkened with anger. "You think someone took him in order to sell him into the sex trade." Her voice was low, dangerous. It promised pain for anyone who was involved.
It wasn't a question. He didn't bother to answer it, just went on as if she hadn't spoken. "Usually, we see young girls being kidnapped and forced into prostitution. Or they're sold into slavery. But there are those out there that would rather a man than a woman. And then there are those who don't care, just so long as there's an element of pain involved with the pleasure."
"But why would they take Clint?" Rogers asked.
"You said it yourself. He went out and scouted. Brought you information needed for the mission. No doubt he did so by himself. It would have presented a perfect opportunity for someone to lay eyes on him and decide he'd be perfect for someone's sick idea of fun and games. All they had to do was follow him until he was alone. Then they could take him without anyone interfering with their plans."
"What do we do to get him back?" Natasha asked quietly.
"We're going to find someone who can lead us to him. Then we're going to get him out." Phil leveled a look on them. "No matter what it takes."
~*~*~*~*~
A full week passed before they got their first real lead. A week of sitting around, not doing a damned thing. Upon their arrival in Prague, they'd set themselves up in a rental house and started the long process of trying to find the people responsible for kidnapping Clint. Natasha had been chosen to do the searching. She seemed a natural choice because she spoke Russian and it was unlikely she'd draw the same attention to herself while looking for the traffickers as the rest of them would. Phil's language skills were passable, but not perfect. Too many people knew Tony Stark on sight, making it impossible to send him into a covert situation. Rogers was a good soldier and a good leader, but Phil didn't know if he could sell people on the idea that he was looking for a sex slave. Banner was a bad idea simply because everything would go to hell if he lost his temper. And Thor, while he had a good head on his shoulders, was more the beat-them-to-a-pulp-and-ask-questions-later type of guy.
So it was a week spent hidden away behind the walls of their rental house, each of them growing restless and anxious with every passing day. A week of Natasha dressing up in the most provocative of outfits and going out every night. A week of waiting for her to return to the house in the wee hours of the morning. A week of listening to her swear and threaten and promise in Russian. A week of waiting for answers and getting absolutely nothing.
A week of dwindling hope and growing fear.
Natasha didn't storm in that morning, didn't start muttering and cursing in Russian. Instead, she came in and settled at the table. She sat across from Phil, staring at him over the large area map he'd spread out on the surface the first day they'd gotten there. One finger reached out and tapped a spot on the map, the blood red polish on her nails a blatant reminder of how dangerous she could be. Phil raised his gaze to her face and watched a smile blossom on it. A smile that was dangerous and deadly, just as she was dangerous and deadly. He felt the corner of his mouth twitch up. Just a little. "You have something?"
"I met with a man last night who told me that there's a club located in the basement of this building that caters to people with very precise and demanding tastes. He also informed me that there are tunnels linking that basement to those located here and here." Her finger moved to indicate the basements as she spoke. Phil used a black marker to draw circles around the buildings in question. "These basements are used to train their 'stock' before they're turned over to paying customers."
An eyebrow went up at that. "He's sure? How does he know?"
"He's been inside the training rooms. He has the scars to prove it." Her tone of voice suggested that she was not happy with what she'd seen. He watched a hint of darkness slink through her gaze before she pressed on, obviously putting what she'd seen to the back of her mind. "He's going to convince someone important to extend me an invitation."
"Does he know for sure if Clint is there?"
"I told him I was looking for an American." Her accent thickened until it sounded like she'd never left Russia or lived in the United States. "Someone with muscles and a tan. He said there were a few men there that matched my limited description." Phil nodded his head. There was no way they could have any better confirmation that they were looking in the right place than that. Had Natasha been any more specific with her questions, it would have tipped people off and they'd have been gone before she'd gotten back to the house with her news. "How are we going to manage this?"
"We can't move on these locations until we have confirmation that Clint is there. So we have to wait until you can get it." It pained Phil to say that because all he wanted to do was burst in there right that minute and find Clint. They'd been together for a long time and Phil was beyond comfortable having the other man in his life. It had evolved to the point of an almost physical need. They'd never really discussed feelings but they both knew deeper emotional bonds than mere friendship existed. There was a part of him that said they had to move now and it took everything in him to quash that part. "When you have visual contact, when you actually see Clint, then you give the signal. We go in and we take him back."
"What do we do about the other victims?" Natasha asked almost absently.
"I'll inform Director Fury. I'm sure he can arrange something with the local authorities."
"And the people responsible for taking him?" She lifted her gaze to his, her eyes dark and filled with the promise of bad things.
Phil returned the look. Said nothing. Natasha nodded her head and rose from the seat. She understood perfectly because she was thinking the same thing he was. He watched her head off for her bedroom before he picked up the sat phone that they'd brought with and dialed Fury's number.
~*~
It took two more nights of negotiations for Natasha to get approval to meet with the person they'd been told was the leader of the slave ring. Two nights in which Phil had nothing to do but sit around and wait. There was no further need for research. There was little need for planning. After informing Fury that they had a lead, Phil had been told that he would have to call in before going into any situation so that the Czech authorities could be there as back up. They had apparently been looking for this particular group for ages and had managed to lose several undercover agents to the slavers. Phil didn't like the idea of having to coordinate with the Czech police when it was one of his people in trouble.
He came up with a contingency plan.
There was a knock at their door on the third night. After making sure everyone was hidden from sight, Natasha answered. She was already dressed for another night out on the town, body wrapped in a clinging black dress that left little to the imagination. There was an exchange in Russian, most of which Phil was able to catch despite his lack of fluency, then the door closed and left the house in silence.
He took a few moments to collect a few things that he knew he'd need, including a smaller version of the map with the marked basements on it, and leave a note on the table for the others. When he was armed and ready, he slipped out the door and found a car sitting by the curb that looked lonely. Years spent in the military, operating in hot zones all over the world, had given him a unique skill set that few people knew about. It was little trouble to hot wire the ancient vehicle and set it in motion. The GPS tracker rested on the seat beside him, a dot blinking lazily on the screen to show him where Natasha was and where she was going.
He'd taken a few seconds to put a tracking device in her shoes while she'd been in the shower so that he'd always know exactly where she was. There was a second tracker back at the house that the rest of the Avengers could use to locate them. Once they realized that Phil was gone, anyway.
The darkness of his clothes, left over from days when he'd be on super top secret missions with military forces people knew nothing about, blended with the darkness of the night that wrapped around him as soon as he stepped from the car. He made one last check of every item he'd stowed in a black back pack before tucking the GPS tracker into a pocket on the cargo pants he wore. The weapons he'd picked for this mission were painted matte black so that any light that touched him wouldn't reflect off the metal and alert people to his presence. He glanced up and down the street before disappearing into the shadows of a nearby alley.
There was an entrance down the alley into the basements that he'd marked on the map in his backpack. He'd made sure to memorize it earlier while he'd been putting together this mission. He hadn't had time to research it, had put it together on the fly. Which was why he was the only one going in. If it failed, he had no one to worry about but himself. Phil found the door and eased it open. Slowly and carefully. There was no telling squeak. No cameras or alarms. Nothing to give away his presence. The combat knife strapped to his thigh slid from the sheath without a single rasp of sound. He eased into the darkness on silent feet.
He incapacitated where he could, killed when he had no other choice. A single jerk of the razor sharp blade against a throat resulted in severed arteries and veins, slashed windpipes. Every body, dead or alive, was hidden in the nearest room so as not to draw attention. Each room he checked turned his stomach just a little bit more because he found young men and women behind each door. Some of them were barely teenagers. All of them were being used in disquieting ways.
Voices called out to him in so many different voices. He heard French, German, Czech, Russian, Ukrainian, Polish, Swiss, American. There were others that he didn't recognize. But he didn't have to understand them to grasp the meaning of their words. They were begging for help, pleading to be spared.
It felt as if he crept forward at a snail's pace. Tension crackled down his spine, pulled his shoulders tight and saw his palms slicked with a thin layer of sweat. He paused on occasion to check on Natasha's location. There was a second signal coming from the GPS tracker he'd left at the house, the blinking light letting him know that the Avengers were on the move. He didn't have time to stand around and wait because if they arrived before he found Clint...
Phil knew that he was going to find something unpleasant when he finally found Clint. He'd known that the minute he'd realized that Clint had been taken by sex traffickers. They weren't known for being kind and gentle to convince their prisoners to do what was needed of them. Torture and abuse were not unknown methods with these people. He was positive that Clint would never want anyone to see him in such a position. Not even Phil, really. But someone was going to have to see it and better it be Phil, who knew Clint's body inside and out, than one of his teammates. Even knowing what he could potentially walk in on, fear gnawed at his belly because he was sure that he was going to find something worse than he had imagined.
His nerves were strung tight by the time he finished with the first building. It was time to pick up the pace. It wouldn't take long to find one of the bodies Phil had left behind, or for one of those he'd knocked out to regain consciousness and sound the alarm. If he didn't find Clint soon, instinct told him that he wouldn't. Or he'd find nothing more than a bloodied corpse. Neither option was acceptable.
He took the second building's basement faster, not bothering with stealth. He dispatched anyone who got in his way quickly and efficiently, The blade of his knife glistened dully with blood, his hands coated liberally in red. He didn't find as many captives in this building, nearly every room he inspected empty save for equipment he didn't want to have to think about. He was beginning to think that it was a dead end when a door up the hall opened and a woman stepped out. She was clad in the barest essentials, her body thin and worn from use and abuse. She turned and spoke into the room, voice muffled by the thick wooden panel of the door. He thought she might be speaking French. But that thought slid away as a long moan followed her out of the room.
Every single cell in his body stilled at hearing that sound. He'd heard it before, so many times. That was how Clint sounded in the midst of a rousing bout of sex. But there was something off about this moan, some touch of pain or despair that didn't belong with a sound that was usually throaty and husky. Sexual. God, what had they done to Clint to make him sound like that?
He watched as the girl pulled the door closed, letting her eyes dart up and down the hall before she began creeping forward. She looked as if she wasn't supposed to be there, a hint of fear in her gaze that made him think she was trying to help. Or that she wanted to help. Phil considered her a moment, long enough to decide she was a friend. He melted out of the shadows silently, startling her into a frightened halt. When she saw the knife in his hand, she started stammering in hurried French.
He tucked the blade away and lifted his hands to show he meant no harm, He hadn't had call to use French in a while, so it took him time to find the right words. But the moment he began asking her questions, the girl opened up like a fountain and let the words just pour forth. Her name was Yvette and she'd been here for a few months. She'd been kidnapped while on holiday and had been forced to endure so much. She was free to roam the halls and help with the training, but she wasn't allowed to leave.
When she mentioned that, her hands touched the collar that banded her throat. There was a padlock on it that she said held a tracking device. She knew it worked because she'd tried escaping once, only to be found and made to return. She'd been punished, she said, turning to show him the lines that criss-crossed the skin of her back. She might have gone on with more, but Phil assured her that he was there to help.
Yvette looked him up and down before glancing over her shoulder to look at the door she'd just closed. "You have come to help him?" she asked, her English heavily accented and slightly broken.
"I have." He saw the reluctance in her eyes and offered her a faint smile. "He's a friend. I want to take him home."
"You will need this," she said, offering him a key. Phil took it, wondering if he should trust the girl or not. He didn't see any reason not to, but he was well aware that people who dealt in human trafficking liked to put someone on the inside in an attempt to get their victims to go along with what was in store for them. There was more money to be made if the slaves up for sale were well trained and broken. Unharmed. She said nothing else, simply hurried off and disappeared around a corner. Either she was going to hide until the rest of the team showed up to liberate this place or she was going to go sound the alarm.
Whatever happened, Phil figured he only had a handful of seconds to do what needed to get done.
The door was locked when he tried the knob. Phil slipped the key in and turned it. The click of the tumbler was loud in the silence of the hall. He took a breath, doing his best to prepare himself for what was to come, and nudged the door open with one foot.
There was no one inside that he needed to deal with. The room was empty save for the solitary figure near the far wall. Phil stopped and stared, breath caught in his chest while some dark, dangerous emotion broke the surface of his calm. Clint was blindfolded, arms pulled up over his head. Cuffs circled his wrists, connected to chains that hung from the ceiling. Another set of cuffs had been wrapped around his ankles, legs held apart by a thick spreader bar. Like his wrists, his captors had chained his feet to the stone beneath them. Perhaps they'd done it before they'd become aware of what he could do. Perhaps they'd done it because they'd found out the hard way what he could do. Someone had worked a gag into his mouth, likely to keep him from speaking or biting. It did nothing to hold back his moans, though.
That wasn't all they'd done to him, though. There were marks on his arms and legs, across his torso. No doubt covering his back. Some looked older than others. All were in varying stages of healing. Phil saw whip marks, thin slices where a knife had parted skin, tiny puncture wounds. Most of them were done in such a way that they wouldn't leave scars, but there were a couple that might not heal cleanly.
The bare overhead bulb flashed off silver as Clint shifted slightly, bringing Phil's gaze to the man's chest. Each nipple sported a thin silver ring with a black ball on it. Someone had brought him to a fully erect state, drops of moisture glistening on the head of his cock. A silver ring had been fastened at the base. It circled his testicles, as well. Locked in place to keep him erect, to deny him any kind of release. More sliver crept up the length of Clint's shaft, half a dozen or more barbells with plain silver balls on the ends. All of the piercings looked healthy and well cared for, a direct contrast to the wounds Phil was still mentally cataloguing.
And there was still more. Despite the fact that his cock and balls had been left out in the open, someone had put Clint into a type of shorts that covered his ass. Phil came up with two ideas as to why that was and he wasn't sure if he liked either of them. He took a moment to hope that Natasha managed to take down the leader of the trafficking ring. If he got injured or killed in the process... Well, Phil wasn't going to get too upset.
The faint buzz against his leg told him he didn't have much time. The GPS tracker he'd left at the house also worked as a kind of pager. As soon as it was in close proximity to its mate, a warning went off to let whoever carried it that someone was coming. The buzz he felt told him that the rest of the Avengers would be there. Soon. He had to hurry.
He took a step and watched as Clint's head came up, turned toward the door with unerring accuracy even though Phil was sure he couldn't see through the blind fold. Another step saw Clint tensing, as if he expected some greater indignation to be heaped upon his shoulders. "Clint. Relax. Its me. I'm here to take you home."
There was a second where Clint remained tense and alert. But it slowed ebbed away, allowing Clint to sag against his bonds. Phil hurried over to him and removed the blindfold first. Familiar blue eyes blinked against the light before turning to look at Phil. The gag went next, thrown to the floor in disgust. The other man worked his jaw while Phil tackled the cuffs at his wrists. Almost before he had both of them released, Clint was shoving him away with hands that trembled ever so slightly.
Phil took no offense, backed away and gave Clint space. Sliding the backpack off his shoulders, he fished out the fresh clothes he'd tucked inside before leaving the house. Let his eyes take in the rest of the room. There wasn't much. An old, worn cot to sleep on. An old ceramic toilet in one corner. An old shower head on the wall. A rickety table loaded down with things that Phil refused to consider. He didn't want to know what they'd done to Clint, didn't want to imagine what they'd used those things for.
A faint sound of frustration saw his attention turned back to his lover. Clint had barely moved, cuffs still locked around his feet, cock ring and odd shorts still in place. His head was bent, hands fisted at his sides. Phil could see moisture trailing paths down his cheeks, no doubt tears of frustration and rage and humiliation. He thought he understood the problem and advanced slowly, drawing a smaller but no less deadly knife from a pocket.
Clint's eyes opened so that he could watch as Phil knelt down and used the knife to slice through the thick leather cuffs. When he had Clint's feet freed, he tossed the spreader bar across the room, then once more stepped back and gave the other man his space. Clint didn't look at him, but he held his hand out in a silent request. Phil laid the knife in it and watched as the other man cut away the shorts. The material fell away in tatters.
It took Clint a couple of tries to rid himself of the rest of his unwanted accessories. The cock ring hit the floor with a metallic sound, forgotten as Clint reached for the last item. Phil didn't look away, didn't flinch as he watched Clint remove the thin vibe that had been held in place by the shorts. It was thrown across the room where it hit the wall, then dropped to the floor where it made a soft thumping noise.
Clint sank to his knees, put his head against the stone floor and curled around himself. One arm was curled up around his head, hiding his face from view. The other ran under his body. A few sharp movements of his shoulder and hips saw the erection dealt with. A low, raw sound rolled up Clint's throat, the agonized cry of a wounded animal, and bounced off the walls without mercy. Phil retrieved the blanket from the bed and set it down by him before going over to get the clothes he'd packed earlier.
Phil crouched down beside him without touching him. The clothes were set next to him. "Clint, you have to get dressed. The others will be here soon. You don't want them to see you like this."
He watched as Clint straightened, one hand reaching for the blanket to wipe away the evidence of his unwanted release. Phil waited until he saw that the other man was able to dress himself, then went and fetched a bottle of water from the backpack. He also brought out a protein bar. When he turned back, Clint had already stepped into the sweat pants and was in the process of pulling a t-shirt over his head. He'd just gotten it settled in place when the door slammed open and Rogers burst into the room.
Cap's gaze slid over Clint as the man moved to the cot so that he could sit, put on his shoes and socks. Then it shifted to where Phil stood, landed on him heavily. There was a myriad of emotions in the man's gaze. "Director Fury wants to talk to you when you're done here."
"I'll contact him as soon as we've got this all wrapped up."
Rogers gave a faint smile. "Your funeral." Then he was all seriousness again. "We're in the process of liberating the rest of the captives. Natasha took the leader down with minimal fuss and he's now in the custody of the Czech police. My understanding is he's facing hundreds of counts of kidnapping and human trafficking. I don't think he's ever going to see the light of day again."
"One can only hope," Phil replied blandly.
"You left quite the trail for us to follow, Agent Coulson. There are bodies everywhere." Steve gave him a look. Phil gave it right back. Something unspoken passed between them, some understanding that saw the other man nodding at him. He spared a glance for Clint, then he was out the door. Phil turned to find Clint on his feet, eyes locked on his hands.
"You came for me," he whispered, not looking up. Phil had no doubt that Clint knew he was looking at him.
"Did you expect anything less?" Phil asked softly.
Clint looked up, sharing the haunted expression that filled and darkened his eyes. "I hoped. But..." His voice, rough and raw and raspy, cracked before he fell silent.
"None of them will know what happened here, Clint. I'll see to it personally." It was a promise, earning Phil a very faint twitch of Clint's lips.
"I don't know what's going to happen now. They did things... I can't..." Clint broke off, jaw clenched as he fought with himself for the right words.
"Whatever happens, Clint, we face it together. I promise you. I'll be here for you," Phil told him, certainty making his voice strong. Clint stared at him, unconvinced. So Phil did something he didn't do very often. And never for anyone but Clint. He gave the other man a real, genuine smile. Clint's shoulders lost some of their tension.
"You're sure? Because this shit... Its fucked up and I'm fucked up and I don't want to make you wait if you can find someone else who--" Clint began, only to trail off when Phil shook his head. There was disbelief and a faint hint of hope in those blue eyes.
Phil smiled again, wider and broader than before. "No matter how long it takes, I will be here for you. We'll get through this. Together."
Clint said nothing, simply stared at him for a while. Then most of the shadows left his eyes, leaving them bright and piercing blue again. He said nothing, simply nodded his head and turned for the door. Phil sighed and gathered up his supplies. The water and protein bar were returned to the backpack, then it was slung up on his shoulder. He could give them to Clint later, once they were someplace safe.
He followed after his lover, watching as Clint struggled to give the impression that nothing was wrong. Tried to act normal. Phil smiled to himself. It was good sign. There would be plenty of bad times ahead as Clint tried to heal from this. But Phil had meant what he'd said.
They'd get through it together. And he'd always be there for Clint. Always.