Chapter Text
[Image ID: Three images of MCU Winter Soldier (Sebastian Stan), Daniel Di Tomasso as fancast of Jason Todd, and Garrett Hedlund as fancast of Clint Barton above the title, which is superimposed on a picture of the Winter Soldier's arm]
It’s not his usual kind of job.
Clint is a simple man. He likes the places in the world that make sense, where you can bribe your way out of a bad situation with a little grease on the right palms. Places where the food is cheap, the law is flexible, and people on the street are experts at looking the other way.
Gotham is … not that kind of place. Sure, the average Gothamite is highly adept at self-preservation, but only half the criminals are opportunists and the other half are absolutely batshit fuckin’ crazy. Not to mention there’s a ridiculously high number of vigilante heroes lurking around every corner, each one no doubt frothing at the mouth to make a citizen’s arrest of the notorious mercenary assassin, Ronin.
Okay, well, maybe he’s not quite notorious yet, still being fairly new on the mercenary assassin scene, but he’s building a reputation, dammit.
Despite Clint’s preferences, however, the target is in Gotham, and the contract has a bonus for swift execution — pun definitely intended — and so here Clint is, sneaking into a shady abandoned underground bank vault and just hoping that he can eliminate the target and make it out of Gotham before a swarm of Bats descends on his head.
It can’t possibly be soon enough. This place is creepy even by Gotham standards — dank and mildewed, with papers and broken plaster strewn everywhere. Clint has to watch every step carefully to make sure nothing crunches or rustles underfoot.
At least there had been minimal resistance on the way in. Clint had easily disabled the few inept guards as he worked his way toward the underground vault.
He’s not sure what this place is, and to be honest he doesn’t really care. If he can avoid using lethal force on anyone but his target he will, but somewhere in the bowels of this building is Theodore Strickland, a neo-Nazi scientist with a well-deserved price on his head, and Clint is more than happy to collect that bounty. Anyone else who gets a concussion along the way maybe should have been a little more judicious in their choice of employer.
There’s only a metal door now between himself and his target, and it’s ajar. It seems almost too easy, and Clint sidles closer, until he can see through the doorway while still remaining shrouded in shadows himself.
There’s — what the fuck is going on in there, anyway? There’s his target alright, in a white lab coat and bowtie, droning on about something while writing on a clipboard. But there’s also something that looks like a dystopian scifi torture device — a metal chair, heavy cables snaking from the base. There’s a man strapped into it with metal restraints. And he looks fucking terrified.
Clint draws closer, clocking details almost faster than his thoughts can track. There’s a computer display of the man’s vitals, heart rate and blood pressure already off the charts. He’s straining against the metal restraints, muscles bulging and twitching in a broad chest that’s marred by hideous scarring around a distinctive metal arm on the left side.
“Open up, Soldat,” Dr. Strickland croons, holding something up. The man in the chair makes a harsh, keening noise, turning his head away.
“Now, now, don’t be naughty,” Dr. Strickland says unctuously. He sounds like he’s enjoying this, his voice lightly amused. “You don’t want to chew your own tongue off again, now do you?”
Soldat — and that’s the Winter Soldier, with that arm it can’t be anyone but — makes another choked noise. Corded tendons bulge in his neck as he turns his head toward Strickland, and Clint can see the effort it takes for him to force his jaw open, accepting the rubber bite guard.
“See how easy that was?” Strickland coos. He runs light fingers across the Soldier’s temple, smiling at the way the Soldier cringes away from the touch. “You’ve been too long out of cryo, my pet. But don’t worry, the wipe will give you peace again. Don’t you want that?”
The Soldier makes a motion, just a short, aborted shake of his head, but it’s enough to make Strickland chuckle. He strikes quickly, backhanding the Soldier almost casually, making his head snap back and then forward again. A trickle of blood drips down from the corner of the Soldier’s mouth, running over the black bite guard and down his trembling chin.
“Soon everything will be quiet again,” Strickland says in that same pseudo-comforting tone, turning his back dismissively on the soldier and moving toward a nearby console. He turns a dial and an apparatus behind the chair starts to expand, unfolding until it turns into a halo, surrounding the top of the chair and descending to clamp down over the Soldier’s temples and upper face.
A high, electric whine builds in the air, making Clint’s hearing aids buzz. The Soldier begins to pant through his nose, harsh and panicked, nostrils flaring and eyes widening until the whites can be seen all around the pupils, bright in contrast to the dull metal plates of the apparatus.
“Fuck that.” Clint doesn’t even realize he’s spoken aloud until the Soldier’s eyes dart to him.
Strickland is still turning, his mouth open to speak, when Clint’s throwing knife thunks deep into his jugular.
Clint moves forward swiftly, stepping casually over the writhing, gurgling body to turn the dial back in the other direction.
The apparatus ceases its high whine and retracts back, collapsing into the back of the chair.
Relief seems to shudder through the Soldier. The tight arch of his body slumps back into the chair, his eyes watching Clint dully.
The smart thing would be for Clint to document the hit and get the hell out of there. But Clint has never been known for doing the smart thing.
“That guy was an asshole, huh?” he says, trying to keep his voice soft and nonthreatening. He peers at the console. “Which one of these doohickeys releases those restraints?”
The Soldier stares at him for another long moment, and then turns his head and spits out the mouthguard.
“The switch. Below the silver dial,” he rasps.
Clint hits the switch and sure enough, the metal cuffs around the bicep and forearm of both the metal arm and the Soldier’s equally-impressive flesh arm separate and retract.
Even though he’s free now, the Soldier just stays in the chair, watching Clint some more. Clint starts to feel awkward about it after a moment, and so he goes over to Strickland’s corpse.
Strickland had curled onto his side in his death throes, and Clint uses a metal-toed boot to press his shoulder down flat, taking a photo of his vacant eyes and blood-soaked torso before pulling the throwing knife from his throat, grimacing as it makes a wet, sucking sound as it dislodges from the cartilage of his vertebrae. He wipes it off on his thigh and slots it back into its sheath.
When he turns around again, the Soldier is still just watching him.
“Well,” Clint starts, gearing up for a graceful exit, but the Soldier is already speaking over him.
“Are you my handler now?” he asks abruptly.
“What? Wait a minute, no. Definitely not. I can’t even handle my own shit, let alone — I mean, um. Nope. You are … y’know. Free to do your own thing.”
The Soldier licks his lips, a small furrow appearing between his eyebrows. “What is my mission?”
“Um. No mission? I mean, I wouldn’t hang around here much longer, because these guys are obviously sadistic assholes, but —”
The Soldier is still not making a move. He’s not even stretching, or shifting his weight, or anything to signal that he might be moving in the future.
“Can you walk?” Clint asks, suddenly wondering if the Soldier has been sedated, or even paralyzed —
“Motor functions within acceptable parameters,” the Soldier says, which is — fuckin’ creepy, is what it is. He leans forward, and then slowly pushes to his feet. And immediately starts to tilt sideways.
“Oh. Whoa,” Clint says. Before he’s even realized what a bad idea it might be he’s already crowded into the Soldier’s personal space, his shoulder wedged under the Soldier’s armpit and his arm looped around the Soldier’s sweaty back to steady him.
“Well, isn’t this cute,” a voice drawls.
Clint pushes the Soldier back into the chair and steps in front of him in one smooth motion, drawing his Glock.
The man in the doorway strolls forward, his own firearm pointed causally in Clint’s direction.
“Oh, thank fuckin’ Christ, it’s just Red Hood,” Clint says, relieved, and Hood’s lazy prowl forward stutters for just a moment.
“Not a typical reaction to my appearance,” Hood says, amusement curling even through the modulated vocal output of the helmet. “But I’ll take it.”
Clint is still struggling to wrap his mind around the fact that he put his back to the fucking Winter Soldier without a second thought when the Soldier himself struggles to his feet again, stepping to Clint’s side with only a slight wobble. Damn, but his recovery time is impressive.
“Are you my handler?” he asks Hood.
This time even Hood’s polymer helmet can’t hide his shock — his whole body freezes for a moment, helmet swiveling to look at Clint.
“Yeah, I know, it’s all kinds of fucked up,” Clint sympathizes. “Whatever was happening here they really did a number on him.”
“They?” Hood says neutrally.
“Well, yeah. I mean, I’m just here to take out this guy,” Clint says, gesturing at Strickland’s bloody corpse as if it’s possible that Hood had overlooked it. “I’m not part of any of this bullshit.” He thinks for a second, and then narrows his eyes at Hood. “Are you part of any of this bullshit?”
Hood is within a few paces of them now, and somehow despite the featureless red helmet Clint gets the sense that he is carefully assessing them both.
“Got word of an unusual drain on the power grid in my territory,” Hood finally begrudgingly volunteers. “Figured I’d see what it was all about.”
“Yeah, no kidding. Bet it took a lot of power to fry up this guy’s brain on a regular basis,” Clint blurts out. He glances sideways at the Winter Soldier. “Shit, sorry. That was rude.”
The Soldier just stares at him, that same furrow between his brows, like Clint is speaking in tongues or something. Hell, maybe his brain really is fried, and he’s not understanding a thing that’s going on.
“I think we better get out of here,” Clint concludes, hoping that the situation will gain some clarity once they’re out of this creepy-as-fuck vault. There’s a badass leather jacket with the left arm missing on a table nearby and he throws it to the Soldier.
“Feel free to raid this place for guns or drugs or Nazi gold or whatever else you think they might have after we’re gone,” he offers to Hood, “But I’m blowing that creepy-ass chair to hell on my way out the door.”
Hood’s helmet tilts inquiringly. “And you think I’m just going to let you walk out that door with the Winter Soldier?”
Clint, who had been mentally running through his inventory trying to remember where he stashed his timed charges, suddenly focuses again.
“I mean —” he shifts his weight a little, moving his body in front of the Soldier again. “If you try to stop me it’s gonna be a helluva fight, and I don’t really see why you’d bother.”
“Maybe I think he’d be better off with someone else. If he really was being controlled against his will —”
“If!?” Clint’s gun is steady even as his voice shakes with rage. There’s a sliver where the helmet doesn’t quite overlap the high neck of Hood’s body armor. Clint could make that shot from a mile away, let alone from three feet. “Did you miss the whole part where they were torturing him in the mind-wiping machine?”
“I’m just saying,” Red Hood says, subtly angling his body to cover the weak spot in his armor, “that I probably have more resources. People who can help him.”
“So, I should just turn him over to the local crime boss and go on my merry way, huh? I’m not gonna see this poor guy auctioned off on the darkweb tomorrow?”
Hood is silent for a long moment. “We appear to be at an impasse.”
Clint pulls in a breath, gearing up to tell Hood where he can shove his impasse, but a sharp burst of static interrupts him. From the way Hood startles slightly, he seems to be hearing the same thing.
“If you would stop arguing for a moment —” a woman's voice interrupts crisply.
“You hacked my hearing aids? That’s some ableist fuckin’ bullshit,” Clint starts.
“Oracle —” Hood growls, “I told you —”
“— It may interest you to know that there are multiple Hydra teams en route to your location. The Soldier may have been poorly guarded, but the lapse has been identified and Hydra leadership seems intent on redeeming themselves with a dedicated recovery effort. Aerial and ground teams are already deployed.”
“Fuck,” Clint and Hood say simultaneously. A moment later they are both already moving.
“Blow the chair,” Hood instructs Clint as he dashes over to the largest computer terminal, plugging a USB transmitter in. “Oracle, upload the contents of their databases to my personal server only.”
Clint is already digging the charges out of his bag. “Ten minutes?”
“E.T.A. of the first team is seven minutes,” Oracle contributes.
“Five it is,” Clint agrees, setting the charges. There’s a battered looking red notebook on a table near the console, and Clint shoves it into his pack as well.
“Hydra incoming,” Clint tells the Soldier, who has put on the jacket but is otherwise just standing, alert but passive. “Preference?” He holds out the Glock in one hand and his modified Beretta 92FS in the other.
The Soldier hesitates for a moment, and then picks up the Glock, checking the chamber and safety with practiced motions. “What is my mission?” he asks.
Hood is already at the door, looking back impatiently.
“Fuck it,” Clint says. He holsters the Beretta and pulls out his collapsible bow and portable quiver, using the hand not holding his bow to guide the Soldier forward. “Mission parameters — don’t hurt me or him. Don’t let Hydra take you back. Try not to hurt anyone who doesn’t deserve it. That includes yourself. Copy?”
“Copy,” the Soldier says heavily.
“Is that really wise?” Hood asks as they hustle their way back through the labyrinth of passageways and stairwells to ground level.
Clint doesn’t know if Hood is talking about Clint arming the Soldier or giving him the mission parameters, but either way it’s not high on Clint’s list of concerns right now.
“I’ll pencil in my moral crisis about it for later tonight,” Clint says, scanning their flank for movement.
Hood hums, stepping over one of the unconscious guards Clint had taken out earlier. “I don’t think we’re getting out of the city right now. Do you have any safehouses nearby?”
“I planned to be gone by nightfall,” Clint admits.
Hood kicks open the door to the main bank lobby, holding modified M1911s in both hands now. “Well, then, I guess you should both follow me.”