~Clint's POW~

It's been a while since the last time someone tried to restrain me with cable ties. I get the appeal, really: it's easily accessible and much quicker than fiddling with rope, but at the same time it's ridiculously easy to break out from and it cuts off your circulation to the point you feel like your hands are going to fall off of their own accord. Also, it leaves marks that will make people like Tony Stark grill you about the BDSM dungeons you supposedly frequent during the weekends, which would be infinitely more funny if you didn't really go to one when you were nineteen and drunk as hell, and now are just waiting for the jerk to pull that shit from under a neatly arranged rug only to hold it over your head for the rest of your life.

So no, cable ties are not good etiquette, not even in a hostage situation. Unfortunately for us, the dumbass running the biggest drug cartel in the Caribbean doesn't seem to care much for things like etiquette. I hear Nat's grunt of displeasure as her hands are fastened behind the back of the chair, and I can practically hear her thoughts when she turns to me with an eyebrow raised in disbelief.

'Their curtain rods are made of gold, but they couldn't afford a few pairs of handcuffs?'

I shrug in a 'what can you do' manner, and a moment later I have to stifle a laugh as a guy with dreadlocks places a larger piece of duct tape over her mouth, running his fingers over her covered lips way more times than strictly necessary. Nat is staring at a point on the ceiling, her determined look belying the effort she has to put into not rolling her eyes.

"There you go, baby girl."

Now, Natasha might have switched to the lighter side of the spectrum quite a few years ago, but 'baby girl' is still not something you want to call the Black Widow if you value your life. Her eyes narrow dangerously at the words, but her gaze is not directed at the offender. She's glaring at us.

Stark dismisses the warning with a blatant smirk but Steve and I give her a tiny nod, signaling our understanding of Nat's claim over the poor guy. Dreadlocks belongs to her now.

Soon, all four of us have our legs attached to our chairs, and the duct tape makes an unwanted appearance on our faces as well. Tony is the only one who puts up a mock fight when they attempt to tape his mouth shut, but apparently the fact that 'it will pull on his beard like a bitch' when it's removed is not enough of an argument to let him keep his ability to talk. I don't see the point of gagging us to be honest – we are about seven miles away from the nearest point of civilization, and even if someone would happen to stumble upon the mansion by accident, people around here know better than to pay heed to any shouting that might take place inside a drug lord's base of operations. Then again, our local Pablo already proved to be out of touch with the left side of his brain by not shooting us on sight – not that he would have succeeded, but that's beside the point – so a little more irrationality on his side makes little difference, I suppose.

Man, I can't believe we're actually here to recruit someone.

Let me do a quick recap.

Two weeks ago Stark started to fixate on some designer drugs. It's hardly a secret that he indulges in the heavier stuff every now and then, but he never dared to fuck with his brain chemistry more than maybe once a month before – even less frequently since the team moved to the tower permanently. He always claimed to be terrified of losing enough neurons to become a mere mortal opposed to the genius he likes to call himself, so when Bruce decided to drag him out of his workshop on the third day of his voluntary imprisonment, we were more than a little surprised to find he's been tripping at Lalaland during the whole time. Couple that with how Pepper ordered a hiatus on their relationship just a few months prior, and the initial reaction of the whole team understandably ended up being concern. Tony may be a privileged asshole with the heaviest god complex in human history, but he's our privileged asshole so the first thing we did while he sobered up was divide babysitting duties over the man sized child until we could agree on a solid long-term plan.

Turns out supervision was not necessary after all. The idiot was more interested in the composition of the solutions than in the high they provided, but as a true scientist he couldn't thoroughly catalogue them without experiencing their effects first hand at least once. There turned out to be more than two dozen types of the new liquid sensation though, so while Tony took only a tiny amount each time (a fact we were reluctant to believe until it was confirmed by JARVIS), the haze still lasted a good few hours on every sample, and he ended up with a near constant, three day long feeling of euphoria.

Not to be deterred by this explanation Steve immediately confiscated the remaining vials, but Stark wasn't interested in continuing his tripping fest. Instead, he latched onto Bruce, spurting out formulas and technical explanations in such a rush the doctor had to stop him several times to just catch up with what was being said.

It seems the chemicals Tony was examining are some kind of scientific phenomenon: they give you the rush without depleting your happy hormones in the aftermath, mercifully skipping the part where you're pushed into an all-consuming depression and a steady mental breakdown. No physical addiction, no ruthless comedown, no risk of an overdose.

Despite not being a scientist myself I can usually follow the discussions between Bruce and Tony, only if to get the gist of the topic at hand, but Tony's rambling went right over my head this time. Simple thermodynamics and ionic bonds I get, but azeotropes and orbital hybridisation is a whole new level of I-don't-give-a-fuck that I'll never be willing to delve into. What I did manage to gather from Stark's long-winded nonsense was that someone just came up with the mother of all drugs, and it doesn't do damage to higher level thinking or cognitive functions.

Apparently, that's a big deal.

Bruce became more and more starry eyed with each sentence leaving Tony's mouth, and when his expression started to suggest that he might want to do some experimentation with the liquids on his own, Steve quickly hid the vials behind his back and declared 'an end to this madness'.

It didn't work.

Not a full hour later Bruce declared that whoever mixed those fluids must be the ultimate prodigy of all things related to chemistry, and the collective attention was quickly turned towards finding the creator of the solutions. Steve held onto the container the whole time, not trusting JARVIS to keep its location a secret were he about to hide it, and Tony forbid the AI to let the Captain leave the building with the small metal box in hand. Learning about the price Tony paid for those vials was a game changer though. Even Bruce, who always made a point of not being impressed by Stark's wealth, let out a low whistle, and Steve proceeded to put the container down with all the caution one would handle a nuclear bomb with.

Needless to say, our resident billionaire became obsessed with finding the mastermind behind the 'revolutionary inventions', but there was only so much you could learn about a faceless criminal from behind a computer. Seeing how Steve wouldn't let him go himself, Tony started to bug Fury about sending someone on an intel gaining quest, and I guess his fan-girling gave the Director enough of an incentive to set some poor SHIELD agent to do the legwork. It doesn't happen every day that someone manages to impress both Tony Stark and Dr. Bruce Banner at the same time, after all.

A few days later the agent came back with a heap of useless material, but every single piece of information only fueled the fire of Tony's obsession. The poor victim of his fixation turned out to be some guy going under the name Nero, who is currently the most sought-after mixer on the worldwide drug market. There were no pictures of him, no real name, no known location – Agent Heffner had to go quite the lengths to get proof of the man's existence at all.

Rumor has it he entered the scene years ago, so the fact that he managed to avoid even SHIELD's radar is a remarkable feat in itself. Nero apparently doesn't take credit for his creations, is not very cooperative under the threat of physical pain or death, but he becomes a purring house cat once he's offered the right treatment. Seeing his prices it's no surprise that only the world's largest drug cartels can hope to afford his services, and clearly they are not afraid to go into full-blown wars over the sole purpose of getting hold of the guy.

Nero is not hesitant in biting the hand that feeds either: his stage name comes from the first time he traded in his old 'family' for a new one in the backyard of a Bolivian villa. His new sugar daddy formed a giant human torch of all the residents of the place, and despite staying with them for months on end, Nero not only stayed to watch, but allegedly offered to light the match.

This was the tidbit of info which caused us to lose Stark completely.

Now, I think it's safe to say that while it wasn't a short journey by any means, everyone on the team has long since arrived to the point where we can call Tony a friend. Hell, if you asked him, he would probably refer to us as his friends too. And yet… Don't get me wrong, Stark is perfectly capable of being a great guy when he ever so rarely decides to be, but he is still different from the rest of us on so many levels I can't even begin to count. The only Avenger who is even remotely similar to him in any way is Bruce, but their shared passion for science just doesn't make up for all those gaps in motives and personality. Tony struggles to connect to ordinary people, and honestly, sometimes I'm not sure if we truly fulfill his idea of friends.

But then, there came this guy who had the intellect, the money, and – if his reputation was any indication – the god complex to rival Tony's own, and the man was instantly infatuated with the idea of force-hugging the shit out of this mystery person. Throw in Nero's unabashed disregard for other's wellbeing, and Tony was practically drooling over the fact that someone could resemble his younger self so perfectly when he was so used to being the odd one out.

No one called him out on it.

When Fury learned that Nero supposedly cured some Richie Rich wannabe from some kind of hemorrhagic fever with a 100% death rate in South Africa, he sent out several teams to scout the potential bases of some of the larger drug rings. Tony stopped eating completely, his stomach unable to handle the anticipation.

A week later Natasha found herself sitting on a roof in Kyoto while I was hiding in a tree somewhere in the northern Dominican forest, keeping the two most likely suspects of being Nero under surveillance. Steve and Bruce started discussing the possibility of forcing Tony into therapy.

Two days later I got solid proof on my target's identity as Nero. Nat flew back home. Tony got so hyped that Bruce made him spend the night in the infirmary. Sedated.

The early hours of the following morning – yesterday – were the turning point in the story I think. I sent the first close-up shots of our infamous chemist to SHIELD, accompanied by a short report. Tony managed to sneak away and lock himself into his workshop. By noon Steve was ready to break the door down since the vials were still in there, but they were untouched when Tony emerged on his own, claiming he needed to talk to Fury right-the-fuck-then. Seeing how he was overly determined and absolutely unfit to be left alone, Nat and Steve took him to the Director's office, but Stark wouldn't let them join the meeting.

A little after sunset Fury gave us the order to start the recruitment of Nero as an Avenger.

Bruce, Steve and Natasha spent the night arguing with him about the rationality of his decision, and listing reasons why it would be unhealthy for Stark if Fury played right into his increasingly maniac behavior in such a significant manner. The Director wasn't swayed, but he agreed to put Tony on a time-out if his worrying performance wouldn't get better after fetching this Nero character.

Bruce, Steve and Natasha planned to spend the next day arguing with Tony and calling him out on the things we failed to mention so far, but when they returned to the tower they found him passed out on the living room couch, surrounded by three empty boxes of Chinese food and no booze or strange vials in sight whatsoever.

Since this was the first time he got any sleep without sedatives or ate anything without being force-fed in two weeks, we agreed to keep our silence for the time being. Tony looked like death warmed over when I left but Nat's descriptions made it sound like he got infinitely worse up until yesterday, and while we know we're not responsible for his wellbeing outside of missions… we kind of are.

So, for better or worse, in Fury we trust I guess.

Also, after all the dramatics that seem to surround this guy, we are admittedly a hell of a lot curious to see where this goes.

Tony was all smiles when he exited the Quinjet on a nearby clearing, fatigue and impatience replaced by a strange burst of energy that felt peaceful and strangely bouncy at the same time. Being the one with the money, Fury gave him free rein to buy Nero's assent in coming with us to New York, which means we will need to work on fixing the guy's moral compass if we manage to talk him into joining us. It also means Stark is leading the mission, which was an incredibly stupid idea from the very start, especially seeing how we ended up being weaponless and tied up in the middle of a mansion, surrounded by people with guns, dreadlocks and muscles fit for bouncers.

To Tony's credit, that's not a huge deviation from his original plan.

Natasha's soon to be boyfriend is making kissy faces at her from across the room, and a few of our dear hosts are chatting in Spanish, confirming my theory that most of the members are not natives to the island. I make out something being said about ransom money, and again, Nat's exasperated glare says it all.

'Idiots.'

The grandfather clock chimes and Stark makes a small noise of excitement I can't help but associate with teenage girls, and I wonder if he'll be able to contain himself once his paramour walks into the room. He's bound to make an appearance any minute now – the guy is a dedicated chain-smoker, and about every half an hour he makes his way to the balcony attached to this very room to get his fix. Considering how he's not above tasting his own 'medicine' in a literal sense either, I'm guessing he must know a little something about addiction.

He and Stark is a match made in heaven.

Our captors continue their discussion without sparing us too much attention, but I try to concentrate on the sounds coming from the hallway. Natasha's Spanish is much better than mine anyway, and she doesn't look worried so I figure we're good.

I hear someone sigh and it takes me a moment to realize it comes from my earpiece.

"Stop that Tony. I swear you're giving me motion sickness."

If we were dealing with people with any semblance to real professionalism, the way our heads whip in Stark's direction at the same exact moment would give the presence of our intercoms away in a heartbeat. As it is, nobody takes notice of our collective reaction to Bruce's complaint, and we're just in time to witness Stark making a last dancelike motion with his head before settling down with an unapologetic shrug of his shoulders. Fucking unbelievable.

Natasha tries to use the force to explode Stark's head before he can start cackling with glee like a lunatic, but Bruce's voice cuts her attempts short.

"Guys… I think that's him."

It is. Footsteps echo in the hallway, gradually slowing down before a dark figure crosses the double doors into the sitting room. Head tilted to the left, one hand shielding the flame as he lifts the lighter to the cig between his lips, I recognize the practiced movement before I recognize his features. I watched him repeat the same steps in the same unhurried manner a hundred times during the last few days.

Tony's shaky exhale must be audible from a mile away.

Nero freezes in the doorway, taking in the unusual sight of the typically empty room. His gaze meets mine for a second, and I notice that while his eyes are brown, they are not quite as dark as they appear on the heavily zoomed in pictures I managed to take of him yesterday. As a matter of fact, the difference between the man in front of me and the one on those shots is quite striking. There's a long scar on the left side of his forehead that cuts into his eyebrow, which didn't look so noticeable on the photos. His skin looks brighter, his features younger, and I'm surprised to realize that I misjudged his age by a good seven or eight years at least. Fucking lens distortion.

The kid – because hell, there's no way he's a day older than twenty – is wearing threadbare jeans and a sleeveless white shirt a few sizes too big on his lean frame, the digital watch on his left wrist being his only accessory. Up this close, his shaggy brown hair is less 'intentionally messy' and more 'haven't seen a comb in a decade', and I suddenly remember the first time I saw him from afar and spent a good amount of time wondering if I could possibly get it even more unruly during… certain activities that shouldn't be done with kids. Ever.

Fuck my life.

Nero lowers his half-lit cigarette without taking a drag, ignoring the rest of the party attendees in favor of raking his eyes over the four of us exclusively. He studies Tony for a long minute before he throws his head back and lets out a frustrated huff, pinching the bridge of is nose as if he's attempting to stop an imminent nosebleed.

"Why the fuck are we being raided by the fucking Avengers, Enrique?"

His voice – thanks to all that smoking, no doubt – is scratchier than it has any right to be, the muscles in his neck flexing as he clenches his jaw in poorly disguised wrath.

"Raided? What are you talking about, boy?" The pack leader (who definitely wasn't called Enrique in the reports I read) gives a hearty laugh as he opens his arms in a sort of welcoming gesture, but if Nero's forceful exhale is any indication, he's not placated by the reception. "We're not being raided, my friend. They are hostages!"

The kid takes a deep breath before he turns to the dark skinned man, but the relaxing effect of the action fails to show up on his face.

"Hostages."

Nero's raised eyebrow and pointblank, utterly condescending tone kills the chatter among the rest of the group in a flash.

"The Avengers are your hostages," he goes on with the same level of loftiness, taking a few lazy steps in our general direction. He stops right in front of Stark, who, for all intents and purposes, looks like how I imagine he did as a ten year old on a Christmas morning, drooling over the first Porsche he ever received.

"Those glasses," Nero points to the offending item over Tony's eyes and turns back to Enrique-I-guess, "have no diopters."

He waits for a few seconds for the understanding to set in, but Enrique's face is as absent of any hints of intelligence as ever. Nero's head lolls forward with a sigh. He takes a slow drag and ups the arrogance until it sounds like he's talking to a mentally challenged amoeba.

"That one," he gestures towards Steve now, "is a soldier with superhuman strength." He pauses and chances a glance at the older man again, giving his words a chance to sink in. When it becomes apparent that they won't, Nero points a finger at Steve's legs. "Those… are cable ties."

I'm not sure if Stark's snickering is loud enough to drown mine.

"If he could get out, he would have already done so," comes the overly assured reply, and Nero turns back to us with an astonished expression, like he's checking if he is the only one hearing this bullshit. Tony's shrug radiates amusement, and Bruce clears his throat in the background to cover up a laugh when Nero looks up to the ceiling in wordless mortification.

After another drag and a subtle string of curses Nero makes his way to the threshold of the balcony, leaning on the doorframe in an angle that keeps the majority of the room within his direct line of vision. He doesn't remove Tony's glasses, even though it's clear he knows they must be hiding a camera.

"Eric, I swear to god, I've never been this embarrassed to be associated with someone I'm not even fucking."

Well, that sentence has some intriguing implications, but Eric/Enrique's face contorts in anger, and all of a sudden I'm busy planning escape routes for the kid in case the ring master decides to punish the attitude with a bullet, like he's known to have the tendency for.

My worries are unwarranted. The man pushes his ire away with remarkable speed, and when he speaks again his jovial tone resembles that of a mall Santa.

"Come on boy, you get to have some of the money we get for them," he offers pleasantly without any prompting. Interesting. "Stark over there must be worth millions of dollars—"

"No he's not."

That gives Enrique a pause.

"But… he's Tony Stark, he—"

"He owns millions of dollars." Tony lets out an offended grunt at the vast underestimation of his wealth, but Nero ignores him. "He's worth jack shit. You don't kidnap rich people for money. You kidnap their fucking relatives." Another drag of smoke. "You shouldn't have brought them here."

While he's not wrong, I don't particularly care for Enrique's thunderous expression.

"They were snooping around in my yard! What the fuck else was I supposed to do with them, huh?"

"Shoot them, run, and pray their friends will never find you."

Finally, someone with sense. I mean, sure, the murderous nature of the suggestion is worrying, but Steve and Bruce will hippie-hug the criminal undertones out of him in no time. I hope.

"Fine! You want me to shoot them?"

Please don't. This vest is new.

"Too late for that," fortunately Nero counters in an even voice just when Enrique starts reaching for his gun. "They already got us."

"Got us?!" comes the agitated bark from Enrique, but Nero only crosses his arms after putting his smoke out on the railing. "No one got us, boy! We got them! Look!" The man keeps pointing at our restrained selves frantically, like Nero is the one missing the point here. The kid's eyeroll deserves an award.

"They look pretty damn comfortable to me."

He's right. Nat is slumped in on her chair like she is boneless, Stark is humming 'Pour Some Sugar On Me', and even Steve is starting to look bored with the whole setup. As for me, I'm busy breathing through a laughing fit over Nero's bitchface. God, we must look every bit as unprofessional as these idiots are.

To drive his point home, Enrique walks up to Natasha and stares down at her like he's contemplating whether he should slap her or shoot her on the spot.

"Don't touch the redhead."

Nero's words are not quite a warning, but they prompt Enrique into action nonetheless. He grabs a fistful of Nat's hair and crouches down onto her level, pushing his ugly face directly into her view. He looks like he's about to speak up, but the only sounds he manages to produce are the sickening crack of his nasal bone and the piercing shriek that follows after a moment of lag. Nat sits back with an innocent expression, and Bruce's exhale into the intercom suggests that one of these days he's just gonna up and leave us for a monastery in Tibet. Nero lights up another cigarette.

"What the f— you BITCH!"

Enrique backhands Natasha on a whim, but she doesn't bother pretending it hurt. Instead, her killer glare lands on us again, and I think we're better off to just let her handle the whole gang once this little parody of a mission is over.

The lackeys look like they don't quite know what to do with themselves, but thankfully none of them raises any weapons. A guy with a headband rushes off only to return with a towel a minute later, but it does little to stem the blood flow from his boss' nose. Damn, Nat went all out on the jerk.

"You little—"

Enrique's bitching is cut short by a generous amount of blood pouring into his mouth, and he is forced to push the towel back onto his nose. Nero shakes his head as he turns his back on the room, choosing to face the night sky instead.

"How an idiot like you came to run a cartel is beyond me."

"I have to agree on that one," Bruce mumbles in a low voice, probably speaking more to himself than to us.

"You shut your mouth boy! I'm not above shooting you!"

Stark tenses and blinks at Steve once, signaling for him to get ready to break out of his restrains lest the object of his newfound adoration should come to harm. Nero doesn't look concerned though.

"Yes you are. Everyone is."

Enrique huffs and pouts like a kindergartener, but he doesn't have a response to that. His goldfish knows his own value, it seems.

"Now either grow some balls and make good on your threat, or wrap things up around here. They are not going to wait forever."

The older man looks confused for a second, eyeing us like we pose a real danger perhaps for the first time since we were 'captured' by his minions. The way a widely feared gang leader is looking at some random guy half his age for guidance should be comical, but somehow it's just… sad. Criminals are just not what they used to be.

"F-fine! If you're so freakin' smart, you tell me what to do with them!"

Nero leans his head back against the doorframe, lifting the smoke to his lips for another puff before he lets his eyelids fall shut. His lashes cast shadows all the way down to his cheekbones.

"I just did. Don't touch the redhead."

Enrique's enraged cry prompts me into testing the ties around my wrists. They won't hold for long, but they're going to bruise like nobody's business. I almost manage to loosen them enough for a break when Nero puts an end to the man's tantrum.

"Stop acting like a goddamned child, Diego."

Well, that tone is… authoritative. Way more so than what I'd expect from a boy barely past his teenage years. It's effective too, since the dramatics stop in the background without further ado.

Also, I'm officially confused about Enrique's name.

"Look," Nero goes on without losing a speck of his confidence, the smoke he exhales creating a halo above his head. "They are obviously here for something. Just let them take it and cut bait."

Wiser words have never been spoken.

"What the hell would they want from me? It's not like they hurt for money and the drugs are not…"

I block the rest of Enrique's rambling out in favor of studying Nero's unmoving form in the moonlight, but his stillness comes to an end before I can even start cataloguing his features. His muscles stiffen at Enrique's words, eyes flashing wide as he draws in a sharp breath. The cig lands on the floor.

He knows what we're here for.

His risks a whiplash when he turns his head, and his stare jumps back and forth among the four of us for a minute before it settles on me. For some reason, I need to make a conscious decision to draw in the next breath.

"Shut up, Carlos."

Nero's voice is just above a whisper, but once again, it has the necessary edge to get the desired result. He doesn't blink as he walks up to me, and I can't decide if the slight flush to his cheeks is really there or if it's a figment of my imagination. He stops just short of bumping into my legs, which is already way too close for comfort, but then the little shit decides to take another step and ends up practically straddling me. Amber orbs peer down at me from among a myriad of dark lashes, and I crane my neck awkwardly to keep eye contact. Damn, those lashes are long.

The tape sticks to my stubble as it is peeled away, but Nero pays no mind to my discomfort. He smells like pine. And smoke. A hint of fresh sweat.

Fuck. My. Life.

"You're here for me, aren't you?"

It's less of a question than a statement, but I nod nonetheless.

"We have an offer for you," I reply, and immediately wish I had a convenient excuse – like smoking – for the gravelly quality to my voice.

"What the—" Enrique bursts out in anger, but Nero snaps his fingers behind his back and the room falls silent once more. I realize I'm baring my throat on instinct.

"What kind of offer?"

What kind of what? Oh, the offer, right. I try to gather a mental list about money and gadgets and science equipment and more money, but my focus is quickly diverted when I start noticing Nero's body heat and the way his nostrils flare on every inhale. When I feel my pulse pound behind my eardrums I decide it's time to return to safer grounds, preferably before someone catches on.

"Stark can explain it better," I incline my head towards the man in question, and a small frown paints itself over Nero's features, like he's not satisfied with my answer. Too bad. Tony is supposed to do the talking, and I never imagined I'd be saying this one day, but this time he might do a better job at it than I would.

The kid backs out of my personal bubble after a little hesitation, the frown not leaving his face as he approaches Tony. He stops just within touching distance, removes the tape covering Stark's mouth without the unnecessary force behind the motion that was definitely present with me, and I'm trying not to think too much into those things but it's not easy.

Enrique begins to look vaguely terrified.

Tony is grinning from ear to ear, enamored on all counts, and I can only hope Nero has a taste for eccentrics because the next words that leave Stark's mouth are:

"Our school needs a new Potions Master."