Title: Disappear Here

Rating: M, to be safe.

Pairing: ClintxNatasha, vaguely mentioned StevexTony

Genre: Romance and Horror.

Avengers/Silent Hill crossover. Clint Barton contemplates pain, religion, Natasha and public bathrooms all whilst bordering on the edge of sanity.

Clint Barton, much like any other sane human being, hated public bathrooms. He hated the disgusting and powerful stench which seemed to slam into your gut the very second you crossed the threshold. He detested the pools of water which wet your trouser leg, and God help him, the stagnant puddles of piss.

The awkward silences or the even more awkward conversations, the closely packed urinals, and in particularly unhygienic bathrooms, the rats that nipped and scurried at your feet. He despised all of these things quite openly, but the worst part was definitely the fucking dripping water.

It was relentless and never ending- a constant plague. It was damned frustrating. It drummed down on some surface, perhaps a cold tile or a plastic counter, and was only sometimes even. And you could never tell exactly where it came from. Maybe it dripped from a sink, or from a toilet system, or from the gutter outside. It drove him insane.

To others, it was probably a minor irritation. It may have made them sigh heavily, or mumble and snarl under their breath, but eventually they would leave and go on their merry way. They might curse and growl and roll their eyes like marbles, but as soon as that heavy (and germ infected,) door swung shut, it was gone, the beating rhythm of that water no longer pulling and tugging at their head, twisting their fragile sanity.

But Clint, he could always hear it.

He could feel it, intense and never ending. It played a thunderous duet with his heartbeat, the torturous water falling with a steady drip, drip, and the great red muscle in his chest throbbing lazily and carelessly. Both noises assaulted his sensitive ears, unbearably, like ferocious, tribal drumbeats. It was nothing like Barton had ever heard before. Not like the steady and heavy footfalls of a SHIELD soldier, nor akin to the desolate tapping sound of empty shell cases falling and bouncing onto the ground. The water was merciless and seemed to have no source. It was mysterious and maddening, groping and tainting his sanity.

He struggled to ignore it. He didn't understand exactly why it mattered so much- but it did. He stood, hunched over the bathroom counter. A mirror faced him, his perfect twin opposite him and mimicking him. But he wasn't looking. His once bright eyes were cast downwards into the stained porcelain sink. Anyone watching would have thought he were ill. They would have thought he was battling for control, with his heavy shuddering breaths, his taut frame and the way his arms were tensed, thick veins straining against his tanned golden skin. And they were right- to a point. The noise of the water and his heart was indeed a sickness.

But he was excited.

His eyes squeezed tightly shut and he gasped for breath. His heart pumped at a frantic, exhilarated pace. His arms trembled and a light sweat coated his forehead. His hair was damp and sticky. He looked an utter mess- and his wounds and the blood didn't help.

Get it together, Clint.

Breathe.

Steady.

His breathing slowly evened, and eventually regulated. His eyes cracked open, just a little, and his eyes were massively dilated. They flickered, trying to take in everything at once. He let out a small groan, and was fiercely thankful that the building's lights were of awful quality. The light provided was dim- quite half assed and pathetic. It jolted and it flared every few seconds, flies buzzing around it and sparks occasionally being spat out. Clint raised a hand- he faintly noted the way it trembled, the adrenaline coursing through him making him shiver- and roughly rubbed at his face, pushing a hand over his hair. He felt the sweat and his handsome face twisted bitterly and gruesomely. He drew his hand away, saw blood, and winced.

Well, this is fun.

Dirt and dried blood was caked around and underneath his broad finger nails. There were multiple small scratches on his hand and an angry red burn on his palm. There were small grey dust marks too, and tiny little indents, from where he had previously stumbled and fallen onto gravel, throwing out an arm to save himself. The burn pulsed and ached, clamouring for attention. The pain pulled at him, but he ignored it with minimum effort. He wouldn't lie- it did hurt, like hell. But it was only a small burn, and besides, he had nothing to treat it with. He thanked God he has the foresight to bring his rucksack along with him, though. Simple training told him to always bring it, but only full of essentials- a little food, water, medicine, etc- but he almost left without it this time. He got cocky. SHIELD liked confidence, but did not appreciate bravado. They lost far too many good men from that. But Natasha underestimated this place too, with a laugh, a wave of her hand and a sly, roguish grin.

"We don't need the supplies, Clint. This isn't a normal mission. It's a small town, down in Maine. What's gonna happen?"

Natasha.

They hadn't spoken since their escape. They'd made it back up into their car, and after helping her inside, he limped up to the boot without a word, a minor injury (a sprained ankle) playing hell with him. He hoisted the heavy bag out of the back, and struggled over to the nearby public toilets, leaving his companion waiting silently in the front seat.

He's had an awful feeling since the moment they arrived. Ever felt that dread? The building terror and apprehension? The sense that something was inexplicably wrong and just…not at all right? He had that, resting right in the pit of his belly. Natasha had teased him relentlessly, playful and light. He'd felt silly, a frightened little boy being laughed at by his omniscient mother. But she didn't she know that everything bad happened in Maine?

Clint shut his eyes once more, a defeated sign escaping him and his eyebrows furrowing. His concentration faltered a little with the thoughts of her, and the delicate tapping of the water resumed. A brutal snarl tore free from his throat and he clenched his large, calloused hands into tight fists. He ignored the sharp pain of the burn and his nails cutting and slicing into his skin.

For Christ's sake, Natasha.

She hasn't spoken to him since. She was sulking and she was as stubborn as hell. If she didn't want to talk, there was nothing on Earth that could beg or coax or intimidate her into speaking. He knew this from experience. She was a smart girl, bright and intuitive, but sometimes she read things the wrong way. He remembered once how she took an offer of help as a belief that she as a woman wasn't strong enough. Her eyes blazed with fury, and poisonous words left him reeling. She refused to speak with him for a long time, even when the mild mannered Bruce tried to restore the delicate peace between the Avengers. Natasha was self assured- and why wouldn't she be? She was cunning, manipulative, striking, radiant and divine. She expected this mission to be a breeze, and it should have been. Get in, get the job done, leave. And it was all normal, perfectly ordinary, until they realised just what was wrong with that town. Then there was the fight, and the silent treatment begins. She was being childish, and it stung. It hurt him. But the pain wasn't like being stabbed or kicked or hit. It was like being stung by a pesky, meddlesome bee, or being bitten by a silent adder, its fangs piercing you, breaking your skin, injecting its venom. It slowly crumbled your defences, leaving you open for attack. It made you angry and scared, and infuriated you, wanted to make you swat the insect or stamp on the snake. He wanted to be childish too, to get revenge, to hurt her, to inject his own poison, to kill her slowly, to see the terror shock fear hurt loathing to see the light the spark of life that made him love her so obsessively leave those wide eyes-

No.

Clint's eyes opened wide, and his entire body twitched and jolted like he'd been electrocuted, doing a mad, puppet like dance. His spine arched, as if his skin had made contact with a live wire. His arms flew up as if to wave away his inexplicable, evil thoughts. He looked like a man possessed. His hands raised and he grasped at his short tufts of hair. His breath was suddenly laboured, like an injured, frightened animal.

"No." He looked to the mirror and said to his equally as maddened doppelganger, his voice weak and breathy. His fingers knotted into his own hair, and his tight grip hurt. His heart beat pounded in his ears, and he could hear his blood roar inside him like the wild ocean. And the water was dripping again, insistent and mocking. "No." He repeated a cultist's chant. "No, no, no, no, no."

Don't think of her. Don't. Stay calm. She'll just make you angry. No one wants that. Breathe. Calm.

The little droplets of water kept falling.

He could feel his heart. It had jumped up to his throat and thumped brutally, and stifling and suffocating him.

"No." His voice had fallen into a whisper, brimming with desperation.

No. No. Stop. It'll be fine. She's just mad at you. She'll talk to you again soon and it'll all be okay. Relax. Calm. Steady. Calm.

Breathe.

He was face to face with his own reflection. The sight of his own face, dismal and staring drearily at him was sobering. He breathed out, his body shaking, his legs as weak as a new born foals. His sprained ankle didn't help. His robin's egg eyes stared into the identical orbs of his reflection. He looked grey- but that may have been the thick, oily grime smeared across the mirror, tainting and colouring his skin. His mirror image looked like an old man- world weary and a victim of a life's worth of sorrow. His frown lines and scars and deep purple rings around his eyes were out in full force. His eyebrows were knit and creased, and a long gash spread from above his left eye, to his left temple. Sweat trickling into the wound made it sting- he hadn't even noticed- and blood had dried and cracked on his skin.

Still shuddering, but much more serene, Clint's hands reached out and turned on the tap. There was a pause before unclean looking water spat out in short bursts with a pained grinding noise, as if the tap didn't want to work. More likely it hadn't been used in a long time. The water looked green, but to be frank, the pained agent didn't give a fuck. He cupped his hands underneath the occasional stream of water, and splashed it in his face. It wasn't cold and bracing, as was ideal, but it was enough. It was something. He gasped as the water connected, and he coughed a little. His reflection shook, and the mad blur of his thoughts and blood and water calmed.

It was a start.

His bag, a huge black thing lay at his booted feet. He grabbed it, and pulled it on the counter beside the sink. He unzipped it, the harsh sound grating in the somewhat quiet bathroom. He pulled it apart, searching within the depths. It was a familiar motion- one he repeated after missions that had gone south. His hand closed around a large bottle, and upon pulling it out, it rattled- pills. He looked, and there was a surge of relief when the label proudly declared 'painkillers'. He dripped it on the counter with a thunk and a rattle. Within a minute, the pills had been joined by a bottle of water, some healthy fruit bars, some bandages, a pack of cotton balls, some antiseptic, and radio, and a small blade. Clint sighed in relief once more.

All the while, a small part of him wondered in a small voice, chattering madly, non-stop. It asked questions. The ones Clint wanted to avoid. Natasha? Where's Natasha? Why isn't she here? Doesn't she want help? Natasha? Natasha? It was a nagging, childish voice, grating and irritating. It was like a small curious kid, pouting, with watery, sad eyes. And Clint was a grown adult. He didn't need it. So he growled to himself. If Romanov wanted the help, she could damn well grow up, swallow her pride and come and get it. If not, she could wait until he was patched up and they got back to SHIELD.

He reached down and took a hold of the edge of his shirt. It used to be a thin black sweater, but it was now a ruined, half destroyed faded grey. He yanked it uncaringly over his head- and agony like wildfire spread across his ribs. He let out a sharp cry, alarmed and unable to muffle him. He dropped his shirt- and noticed the crusted blood for the first time.

He didn't understand. There was something worryingly wrong with him. Perhaps it was easy to miss things in the heat of battle, and adrenaline was a blessing when it came to numbing pain, but there was no way he could miss that much blood and agony.

He looked into the mirror, and a horrific mess of a man stared back. His chest was pale and shiny with sweat- shit, how long had he been like this? How the fuck had he not noticed? - And ochre coloured blood had dried along the dents and concaves of muscle. There was a cut arching along his collarbone, thankfully shallow. There were gashes, bruises and scratches along his ribs, and when he pressed the light purple and grey skin he hissed at the intensity of the pain. His skin was slightly firm and tender, and he bore his teeth like a pained, wild, frightened beast.

Wasn't that all he was, really?

The most important thing was multiple deep wounds stretching from his shoulder to his breast bone. They looked messy and deep, the dried blood like cement, fixed to his skin and still oozing slowly. Gloriously, to his great fortune, there was no brilliant white bone on display, peeking out from the torn and mangled flesh.

A memory returned to him, as fast and as staggering as a sledgehammer to the face. At one moment, innocently wandering, marvelling at the gently heated ash falling from the overcast sky, not bitingly cold snow, wondering out loud just what the awful wailing siren meant just a few minutes ago and whether they should get to safety. Then the next- a deep dark shadow, lunging directly at him, as graceful and deadly as a panther. He howled in pain and horror as sharp claws dug into his flesh, and his cries merging with Natasha's screams of his name. Whatever the hell attacked him clawed at him and pulled, dragging him down the road. Then the ringing shots of a pistol exploded around him, and whatever hauled him away let go with a roar. Shots continued to ring out- overkill, Clint thinks retrospectively.

He hisses at the thought. That was the first monster they had encountered, and in no way was it the last. Or the most dangerous, or horrifying. And Clint had lost his quiver and his bow (the beautiful bow he had owned for years, powerful and sleek, but fragile) had snapped like a bone with a disturbing crack. He felt defenceless without it. They'd tried to look for help and an explanation of just what the fuck was going on. Then, after finding bodies of humans- not just men and women, children and the elderly too, people who were no risk at all to the creatures. Innocent people- and then the corpses of monsters too, they began searching for survivors.

'And just look how successful that was.' The man thought bitterly, his chapped lips pursed. Natasha and himself had barely staggered out alive after spending God knows how long in that town. The lack of survivors and the amount of broken clocks (all bizarrely fixed on 2:06), coupled with the impossibly thick overcast clouds and the ash made it impossible to keep track of time. It felt like maybe a few days- but something was clearly screwing with his head, making him easily infuriated and violent using the water and his own heartbeat to push him to insanity. Who knew, really, how long the two agents remained there, and precisely what point the madness set in.

He took hold of the painkillers, and twisted the lid with more force than was really necessary. Having been reckless far too many times before, he had the dose memorized. Two pills every four hours for an adult. Do not exceed. Without a moment's hesitation, Clint picked out for pills and swallowed them down without water. Taking those pills dry without wincing at the bitter taste was an art form. He hoped for quick relief- but the stabbing pain remained for just under thirty minutes, to his chagrin.

He stared down at his collection of items- and suddenly realized he was starving. He grabbed, ripped it open and immediately wolfed two of the five bars down. Those two little bars were not particularly filling- but who knew; maybe Natasha would slink in and want some (yeah, right). He took a quick swig of water, too, for his dried throat and chapped, broken lips.

Then came the hard part.

He hesitated for a split second. The disinfectant sat there innocently enough, but it seemed to be mocking him. Clint was a fighter, not a nurse. He received cuts and burns, bruises and broken bones. He gave them too, as he fought to stay alive. When the fight was done and the threat lay broken and bleeding, then someone could heal his wounds. Each time, he was hauled out of the battle field by the scruff of his neck and shoved into the med bay. He was scolded by the doctors- the head doctor was a moody, miserable bastard. He encouraged the other doctors to make the treatment painful. 'Pain is the best teacher,' he said, and the Avengers fucking hated him for it- and practically abused by both them and his girlfriend. But he was always picked up and sent away to stumble into battle one more, only to promptly return, and always bicker with an equally as injured Tony who sat getting patched up next to him, with Steve dancing around him looking panicked.

Now he was alone. He couldn't venture out and ask Tasha for help, oh Christ no. He was a man; he could solve his own problems. And she would not win the battle of wits. If she broke her silent treatment towards him, she would just snark and smirk, her rouged lips curving in amusement. She'd tell everyone about his submission and pathetic sad eyes when they returned, and he would never live it down. No way was he asking her. He'd do this, and he'd be victorious.

Barton tore into the bag of cotton with his teeth, ripping into the plastic messily apart. He grabbed one of the soft, fluffy cotton pieces with one hand, and shook the small bottle of antiseptic with another. He popped the lid with a calloused thumb. Brown flakes of crusted blood fell and stood contrasted against the stony grey colour of the counter. He wet the cotton with a splash of disinfectant, and after he closed his eyes and took multiple deep breaths, the fun began.

He delicately traced the shorter, less worrying gashes along his wounded, tender ribs. His torso was a shrine to war- cuts, bruises, scars. You name it, he had ten of them. All collected like trophies. The antiseptic faintly stung, tendrils of dull pain holding him in a tight grip. But the real party hadn't started yet. He carefully followed the lines where knife like claws ripped across him, cautious and mindful of his quickly developing bruises. Barton let out a short breath, his brows furrowed. The blood smeared as he worked, and when he pulled away, the cotton ball was red. He swore softly to himself. He soaked another, and went over his ribs once more. Then, he moved north along his chest, up to the shallow cut that curved just around his breast bone. Apprehension built and gooseflesh rose on his skin as he cleaned and disinfected the cut. He dabbed carefully around the wound, cursing its existence. But his steady hand slipped- and he let out a savage gasp, a hiss escaping through abruptly clenched teeth. The touch of disinfectant burnt. He swore again, his voice echoing throughout the bathroom and its stalls.

Drip, drip.

He tossed the cotton away, into a nearby bin which reeked and was overflowing with rotten rubbish, and prayed for the pills to kick in quicker. He felt all of his muscles tense as sharp burning pain stabbed at him, seizing and contracting. He groaned; sweat slowly breaking out on his forehead once more. The red stained cotton ball joined its family in the bin. The severe pain made his jaw twitch and Clint hadn't even moved onto the deeper cuts yet- the ones along his shoulder to his sternum.

He gingerly twisted a new wad of cotton, and carefully washed the stiff, glue like blood that caked the cut like icing away. He used a lot of cotton doing this, but there was a beautiful, relieved moment of gratitude when Clint realised the blood made the wound look much worse than it truly was. His skin a minute later was mostly clear of blood but tinged a faint pink. The wounds were still bad, however, and they needed to be treated.

The burning sensation across his torso was intense, and it prevailed. He condemned the bloody useless pills. And fatigue was calling to him, his once strong hands becoming just a little bit frail, and quickly weakening. Like he said, adrenaline was beautiful pain relief- until it ebbed away. His bruises were yellowing, his ribs and legs sore, his body radiating pure hurt. He felt the pain acutely, and his body was stiff. He was poking about almost experimentally at his wounds, as his nerves screamed in response.

When finished, Clint's hands were stained pale pink and the bin was full of those cotton balls. Uncaring, he let out a groan and rubbed at his face furiously again. He felt disgustingly grubby and sweaty. And the abysmal surroundings of the greasy mirror, the stained floor and the awful stench did nothing to help his repulsion.

Drip, drip.

And without a second thought, he devoured another bar and took a drink. The unfortunately warm liquid spread across his tongue and satisfied a slight nagging itch in the back of his throat. He cleared it loudly, the sound a deep rumble in his throat. He lowered his dulled eyes, and looked at his assembly of objects. He longed for an ointment of some kind, to soothe the burn stinging and pulsing on his palm and to make sure his wounds wouldn't inflame. He imagined by this point tomorrow his body would feel like it was on fire. But beggars couldn't be choosers.

He picked up the roll of bandages and tried not to pull a face. His nose wrinkled and his frown lines were out in full force. He wasn't any good at this. Like he said before, he was a fighter. He destroyed and killed things. He didn't heal or fix them. But even Tony was good at putting on bandages- practise, he presumed from dangerous experimenting with his suit. To be fair, he knew Pepper often helped him, and then Steve became his nurse maid after they began their relationship- but they weren't always there to pick the billionaire up and dust him off after he was knocked down.

But he was getting off topic. Bandaging himself up was not a skill he possessed. The wraps always slipped, ripped, or whatever. It was infuriating, especially after a long, pain filled day when all he wanted was to crawl into his nest or his bed, maybe cuddle up to Tasha if she was there, and simply sleep for the next few months. Every time he needed to be wrapped up, it was usually a doctor or an Avenger who did it. If he was alone, like now, he created a makeshift and rather pathetic cover, or ripped off a part of his shirt and applied a tourniquet. When he was safe and had a medically minded companion, it was redone to a much better standard.

He struggled for what might have been fifteen minutes, and by the time he finished he didn't give a damn that it was just a bit too loose. It was a shoddy job, but it would do. By this point, the pills were finally beginning to get their ass in gear, and Clint was beginning to feel a faint but pleasant buzz. Like he'd been hanging out with Tony and drunk a little too much. He washed his hands carefully, ridding himself of crusted blood (likely not his own) and pink marks. To dry his hands he grabbed toilet paper, ignoring the way the low quality paper came apart like snow in his hands, and he pulled his shirt back over his head. The action pulled at his wound, and the shirt was damp with perspiration, but he ignored it. He could change his shirt when he got back to the safe, lovely real world.

He felt only minimally better than he had when he stumbled blindly into the bathroom. He came in bleeding, angry and just a quite petrified. If he didn't have to take care of his broken, abused body, he would have high tailed it out of there. No questions. No second glances over his shoulder. No ifs, no buts. He remembered the tight, heavy ball of apprehension and disgust in his stomach, making him sluggish and ill. His belly had heaved and his guts contracted. How he didn't spill vomit all over the floor was a mystery to him.

Drip, drip.

And if it wasn't for that fucking water, he'd be okay.

Drip, drip.

Barton's lips parted silently, and heated breath escaped him. He felt his heartbeat again, dancing lazily in his bruised ribcage. His short, damp and oily hair sticks to his forehead and covers his weary eyes. He ran a hand through it, carelessly dislodging the thick grease across it, his fingers trembling again. One quick glance in the mirror showed him grey skinned and haggard, with veins in his temple prominent and bulging. A headache was a block of tension pressurizing his brain. He looked like a crack head, he thought to himself, a dishonest and sarcastic smile on his lips.

Drip, drip.

He didn't know what was going to happen next. That town- Silent Hill- was evil. How did you deal with something like that? How can you stop the monsters, adapting to your personal, darkest nightmares, emerging from the fog? It was dark, persistent, horrifying evil.

Could SHIELD deal with something like that?

The town knew. It knew. Nothing was too private, too personal; too taboo. It threw every horror at you, based on your secrets, your regrets, and your suffering. It knew things Clint had never told anyone, stuff not even Tasha knew. In turn, he discovered more skeletons in her already overcrowded closet. The dirty laundry had been aired; every lie and theft and murder she had committed and kept tight lipped about now burnt under suffocating, oppressive spot lights. Natasha was shaken and hysterical- killing a monster in self defence, and finding it with the face of an old victim. Being hunted by a humanoid figure with the face of an ex lover, hearing the pleading voice of a child, being faced with the possibility of losing Clint. She panted, her breathing quick, her eyes wide, chest heaving, going into shock, blood everywhere, muffled screaming, crying, thrashing wildly, trying to escape.

Drip, drip.

Natasha staring at him, the accusation clear in her eyes. Her mouth, pretty and painted, remaining closed since the fight. Her silent, childlike refusal to walk- her lover having to haul her up ungracefully and carry her out of town, paranoid of every shifting figure in the fog and the mist. Dumping her in their car, too weakened and infuriated to lug her further. Being unable to stand the awful silence- his rage and desperation and depression all waging a brutal civil war over him- and shoving some random CD into the radio, just to make things that little bit more bearable, before retreating to the boot. The memory of her skin, wet and slippery with hot blood, a red stained knife slipping from her lax grasp.

Screaming, begging, pleading-

Drip, drip-

Clint bellowed, a sudden, primal noise, and he furiously swiped at his equipment, like an enraged bear attacking with a great powerful paw. He slammed his fists down on the counter- a childish display of brute strength and violence, attention grabbing and desperate. His belongings clattered noisily to the floor. The pills exploded, tiny white medications flying off into different directions. The lidless disinfectant spilled, spreading across the floor like a pool of someone's vital life blood. The objects made a lasting, terrible din.

He waited for some long seconds, ignoring the pain shooting and thrumming though his hands and wrists. He sucked in an unsteady breath, and held it.

A satisfying hush had fallen over the room.

The water had halted, and he could no longer hear his heartbeat pulsing in his ears. Not thirty seconds ago, it was pounding, kicked into overdrive, filling his brain with dread. But both sounds had suddenly stopped- which was a little bizarre. It was as if time had trickled slowly to a stop, or ended with a click of some god's fingers. The almost secretive silence reigned. It was almost blissful.

But it didn't last.

His radio, wondrously still in one piece as it lay on the slimy wet floor, spat out static. There was no music, or the cheerful voice of some announcer. It was pure white noise, grating at his senses and tugging at his brain. Clint reeled, and sickness clenched his gut.

At any other point, to anyone else, this would be odd- skin crawling and disturbing, in face, but no real threat. Obviously. What physical harm could noise do? Much like the water, splashing and plopping ungracefully on the tiles, it was a temporary nuisance. But Clint knew better. He knew exactly what it meant. He didn't know what caused it, and he didn't want to know, but he knew it was some kind of sick mixed blessing. When the mindless noise leaked from the radio, it signified the presence of a monster. One of Clint's nightmares. It was a horrid sound that promised pain and despair, and death if you were too much of a fool to flee, but it gave you seconds of precious preparation. It was like a twisted, bitter god had cursed the world with horror, but a greater god had risen and given you hope. The kind god could not undo what the other had done, but had done what he could to lessen suffering. If Clint didn't know better, he would have said that was exactly what happened. But the moment that was gifted to you was crucial, and it was up to you to use it. You could panic, and scream, and cry, or you could turn tail and run. Or you could face your opponent with a challenge.

A coward would run. An idiot would fight. And a wise man would know that he couldn't run- there was only one exit. Clint wasn't sure which he was. Most likely the idiot.

The static only rose in volume, and there was a kind of hissing noise, rattling from the radio. It was close. Clint made his decision.

He ducked down, crouching to the floor, and immediately grabbed the blade he kept in his bag. He cursed his foolish decision to not bring a gun. It could have saved his life. The monsters in the town went down quickly with a few shots to the abdomen, or a headshot, just like everything else did. It was comforting. They could die relatively easily, just like everything else in the world. He straightened, fixing his poise, and adjusted his grip on the cool handle. It was only a short blade, but it was good enough to do some damage. He wasn't amazing with knives, nor where they his favourite weapon, but he had enough training and practise. He steadied himself, and rattled out a breath, trying to calm himself. His icy eyes locked onto the door- the only exit, and the only entrance. He knew he had very little time until a hellish creature was upon him.

He had a few seconds in which to be fucking terrified before the bathroom door suddenly jolted open, a heavy bang sounding as the creature collided with the door and entered.

Clint was grateful to see that the monster was one he had already faced in the town. He wasn't really grateful- but at least he could shove down the feeling of sickening horror, bite back the shriek that fought its way out the first time he saw this creature.

The monster was humanoid, to an extent. It was a lumpy thing, made of flesh, but held a distinctly feminine shape. It had a woman's curves- subtle, like a young girls, but Clint would never call it a she. It was not a woman, not by a long shot. It was more like a bat or a snake, leathery, with wrinkling, dead, rotten skin. Its skin was sunken and gaunt and in some places it was flaking off. Its face was a twisted mess, gory and swollen. It didn't seem to have eyes. Clint tried not to look at it. He wanted to sleep that night, thank you. He kept its eyes on its general body- not taking in too many details, but always keeping his eyes on his opponent. But god, he could smell it. By the look of it, he assumed it would smell rotten, sickly sweet. But it smelt musky, or mouldy, a bit like wet dog or an average locker room. It was overpowering and he nearly gagged and keened. He wasn't sure what was worse- the sight or the smell. It was almost evenly matched, though.

The creature staggered- its legs were painted with bruises and were a vivid purplish black. They were swollen and lumpy, as if it had a blood clot. It stumbled, its feet padding on the floor. Parts of its skin littered the floor, leaving corruption in its wake. Its skin was further marred by cuts and bruises, like him and Tasha-

A flare of panic.

Natasha.

He hadn't heard her call out for him. Hadn't heard a warning. Hadn't heard gunshots. Hadn't heard a scream. The icy feeling of terror crushed his heart and he choked. Was she okay? Was she still alive? Was she even still in the car? Maybe she hadn't called out because she left. So where did she go? The man's grip on the handle of his weapon clenched tightly, and he grits his teeth. It hurt.

The monster took a shuddering step forward, and it let out an ungodly noise. It sounded like a howl, like an infuriated monster, but the noise almost bubbled. It sounded like the creature was drowning, with its lungs full of water or blood. It might have even been laughing. It was like a growl and a scream all in one, and it petrified the assassin.

So he took a bouncing step forward, like a lunge, and attacked. Most people who held a knife thought a cobra like slashing movement was the best. Clint had gone up with a few rookies in his time who had used that as an opening move. Sure, it looked cool like in the movies, and could do a lot of damage if you hit a vital area such as the throat. Depending on your enemy, if you jumped forward and back like a playful dog or a teasing dance partner, you could get out of danger quickly too. But Clint knew it was the puncturing that did the most damage.

He didn't want to get very close to this horror. He would have been much more comfortable at a range, high up on a vantage point with his bow, but he had no choice. He jabbed at the creature's belly, hoping to deal some severe internal damage, but missed. The creature let out another bubbling wail, and it convulsed. He leapt back, almost stumbling over the contents of his bag, his eyes wide with fright. He staggered back a few steps as the monster spammed, inching forwards blindly.

Clint sucked in a tiny breath. The radio was still going wild, screeching out a warning. His ears ached and his jaw throbbed as he ground his teeth together. Every muscle in his body was painfully tense. But he kept moving, and bounced easily from foot to foot, before attempting another stab. Despite the splintering pain in his hurt foot, he didn't miss this time, and his blade sunk into the soft flesh of the abdomen. There was a squeal, but Clint ignored it in favour of attempting to drag the blade down its belly. He clumsily made a small cut, but had to tear himself away as a clawed hand attempted to swipe down on his head. The hand was human, but the bones and veins were clear and prominent. Jagged, dirt stained claws narrowly whipped past his forehead. Clint darted back, an embarrassing yelp escaping him. But he tried again, using the time the monster took to recover and straighten its broken poise to try another attack. He went for the throat.

There was an obscene and foul sound, one nearly beyond description. It was a horrifying slick sound, and his knife pierced the monsters throat. The creature howled, a sound of fury and defiance and excruciating pain. Blood, thick and hot ebbed from the puncture wound he left, pulsing rhythmatically with the beat of the creature's heart. Clint took his chance for another swift attack, and he slashed at its throat.

The creature swatted at him, making that bubbling sound once more. Blood cascaded down its throat, along its collar and down its front. It shuffled forward blindly, and Clint moved away, his steady eyes watching it carefully. He only barely kept himself from muttering 'please, please.' He held his breath as he watched it advance. It was getting slower. Blood was leaking out everywhere, from its belly to its throat, surely it would die?

Please, please….

The monster's claws splayed out, threateningly, but weakly. Its feet padded backward, as if judging the distance between it and its dangerous enemy. But its knees buckled, and it shook. It's back arched, its belly pushing forward and its body bowing- then it collapsed. It joined Clint's belongings on the floor, and hissed and whined as its body pulsed. Blood and filth smeared itself all over the floor. Clint panted, his chest heaving as he listened to the radio slowly die. The creature gave a few more erratic twitches, letting out abrupt gasping and choking noises. Its life faded away with the static.

He let out a heavy breath of relief, so grateful it was almost physically painful. His legs shook with petrified adrenaline, and his heart throbbed in his ears once more. He felt like there was a hand closed around his throat and his brain. He must have looked a state, but he didn't care. He wanted to get out. That's all he wanted to do. Leave. If he were weaker, he would have fallen on his ass and cried until the tears dried up. Then he'd curl up into a ball and sleep. That's all he really wanted. Safety, rest and the kind of privacy one never had when you spent most of your time in Stark Tower.

Drip, drip.

His eyebrows knitted and he bit his lower lip as he looked at the corpse. A rotten, bleeding pile of flesh with dead eyes looked back. He sucked in a breath. He was lucky if he was ever going to sleep again. He'd seen some bad things in his life- evil, sick, cruel things, death and destruction, but this really took the biscuit.

He doesn't bother to collect his things. He leaves the bag lying on the counter. He doesn't wash his hands or his face. He doesn't check his injuries and the bandage. He doesn't pick up anything on the floor, and he certainly does not go anywhere near that corpse.

He'd never longed for home quite so badly.

When Clint steps outside, he is immediately embraced by the freezing cold like an old friend. The air is bitingly chilly, but unnaturally still. There's no wind to ruffle his hair or cool his sweaty skin. But the coldness touches the hot sweat on his forehead, and the sensation is uncomfortable.

His eyes scan the area, but nothing immediately catches his attention. The place is silent, almost serene. The tiny car park alongside the bathroom is abandoned, as is the road that stretches alongside it, minus his car. Tasha and himself were the only ones reckless enough to come. He remembered when they arrived- pulling up and bringing the car to a smooth halt, and staring out at the town down the hill, it was hard to see. The fog encased it, shielding the town and keeping it away from the prying, curious eyes of strangers. It rolled down the hill, getting deeper and denser until all Clint could see was the faint outline of one small building (it turned out to be an old, abandoned garage) and the tips of giant trees. It was thick and grey and miserable looking. It stirred and shifted, like a fog machine on a stage.

That's when the rumbling unease came, and when Natasha laughed at him. He felt tiny, and she mocked him (albeit playfully). The fog was a disadvantage to the both of them, and sometimes, if he peered at the smoke closely, he swore he could see darkness and shadows, jumping and dancing just beyond the fog, just out of reach. He didn't like it, not one bit. But Tasha shook her head, a wide grin on her full lips, and tapped at his leg with the map she carried. She told him to stop being silly, and to quit winding her up. She chuckled as she exited the car, swinging her booted feet out of the vehicle.

She always had the most gorgeous laugh.

He grumbled out a curse and he tugged at the collar of his shirt. His eyes fell to the floor and the flaked skin that lay there was a sign of the monsters passage. He searched- and the trail of disgusting skin came out of the fog, coming up from Silent Hill, and circled the car once or twice before approaching the bathroom. Clint clenched his hand into a fist, and his body was cramping from the tightness of his tense muscles. The burn screamed in protest.

Drip, drip, said the water.

There didn't seem to be signs of a fight. There was no blood, and he could see by the shed skin that the movements of the monster hadn't been interrupted by an attack. The gravel on the floor looked mostly undisturbed. And through the window of the car, he could see a messy mop of shocking red hair.

Clint hurried his slow steps, trying to speedily move to the car with his bad ankle. He tried to push down the feelings of nervousness and terror. He didn't want to pray for her safety- no, not to these gods, the dark one who ruled over Silent Hill, not even the light one who wasn't powerful enough to stop the other. He wasn't the religious type, anyway. And did any of the things he's seen prove the existence of any, if not the God? He didn't want to pray- but a little prayer slipped out anyway.

"God please, Tasha, no." He voice was weak and his throat scratched like sandpaper, his lips cracked and sore. His feet crunched and slipped on the gravel. "No."

He reached the car, and he grabbed for the cars door handle, his apprehension building. It took him a few attempts, his fingers still slippery and wet with the blood of that creature. He got it on the third try, and he wrenched it open.

The car reeks, as does Natasha. To be fair, it was hardly her fault. Everywhere smelt of blood, rust, decay and death. He likely doesn't smell any better, surrounded by the stench of bitter sweat and the cold, medicinal smell. But he drops himself into the driver's seat anyway, and his legs splay out in relief, the aches and pains killing him.

Natasha herself was lounging against the seat, in a lazy fashion, as if she had no reason to be afraid or concerned. Her head was tilted back onto the headrest, her knotty, messy hair curling around her face. Her arms rest at her sides and her long legs were stretched. She looked bizarrely at ease, almost peaceful. But he knew her. She was secretly just as terrified as he was, but she didn't want to show it. Their argument showed that. She insisted she was fine despite her tear streaked, grime covered face, and she bore her teeth, stained with her own blood. She clawed at him when he tried to touch her reassuringly, snarling insults and bruising him. She was an independent woman, she didn't need help, he didn't need to touch her, don't touch me, get away from me NONO-

"You okay, Tash?" He asked his voice soft and hesitant. It hasn't been like that for God knows how long. He wasn't the tenderest of men, or the smartest, the most delicate, but Natasha seemed to love him nonetheless. His edges were rough, his tongue was sharp and his words often callous- but so were hers. They found love and redemption in each other. And that was okay.

Natasha gave no reply. She didn't move. He watches her carefully, but she gives no sign that she was listening. Her eyes don't flicker, her lips don't purse. He half expected her to roll her eyes at him and look away to stare determinedly out of the window, but she doesn't.

During his analysis, he looks at her properly, and the confusion sets in. She was fine, still alive, that was his important thing. But she was hurt. Her clothes were faded and scuffed, ripped in some places. Her knees were grazed, like she was a kid on the playground. But she has serious cuts, ones that could be delayed but could not be ignored. There was an oozing cut just on her left shoulder, and bruises on her chest. Her trouser were ripped and frayed, wet with blood. He could see open wounds peeking through. She had a nasty looking scratch under one of her eyes, and there was a graze on her throat. It looked bad, but her casual poise showed a woman who did not give a damn.

He tries again. "You're hurt. You look….bad." She looked like hell- but she wouldn't have appreciated being told that, and he didn't want to anger her any more than he already had. "Don't you need to be looked at?"

She doesn't say anything. She's just as unresponsive as before, just like a statue, pale, grand and beautiful.

"Tash, come on." He said, his voice stern, his eyes hardening just a bit. He wasn't the most patient man either, and he didn't like being ignored. He reached out a worn hand to grace her jaw.

NONONONO-

He's seen her like this a few times, filthy and muddy and ruined, her hair a rats nest and her eyes darkened and flashing with some extreme emotion- rage, despair, hate. But he hasn't seen her like this, not in this way. She's scrambling on the floor, her heels digging into the soil, struggling to get away. Her clothes are ripped and her skin is suffering angry burns and deep cuts. Her prey is beside her, dead, blood leaking from bullet holes puncturing their chest. She killed it, but she's still being hunted, and she's terrified.

Clint's hand stops, suddenly, an inch away from Natasha's skin. She hasn't even noticed his movement. His faces creases and his frown lines are out in full force, contorting his face. He looked as old and tired as he felt. He curls in his fingers and he squeezes his eyes shut, raging against the sudden headache that assaulted his senses. Dread was sudden sinking feeling in his stomach. He shivered.

And all the while, Natasha was silent and still. Her eyes stared, but were blank and free from expression, disconnected from the world. She seemed numb. It was likely the trauma. After the things she had seen, even the strongest person would be traumatized. She was likely hiding inside herself for comfort and protection, cutting herself off from the world she thought she knew. But Clint knew the woman better than that. Her lack of reaction disturbed him.

Something was clearly wrong.

"Tasha." His gravely voice was uncertain and shy. He spoke slowly, carefully testing the water before plunging in. "…Please?"

He paused for a few long seconds. The air was perfectly still outside. Clint was grateful for the radio that he turned on before he left. Not only did it stop the car from being too unnervingly silent, but it would warn them off any oncoming danger. He managed a tiny smile, internally praising himself, but it quickly fell. The fog was still creeping along the road, drifting in the forest. He would be a happy man indeed when he was out of here. But he couldn't go. Not yet.

His lips twisted a little, and he chewed on them thoughtfully.

Time to swallow his pride.

"I- uh…." He cleared his throat and averted his eyes, staring hard at his knees. "I know our, um, circumstances are…well, unique,' He managed to choke out a laugh, and he was impressed that it only sounded half timid and a quarter cowardly. The remaining quarter managed to lie quite successfully, he thought. "But I….I want you to know…. I'm here…for you, I want to help. I want to help you. Tasha."

He turned back to her, his eyes childishly large like a cartoons, and earnest. She hadn't moved a muscle, and part of him quivered in fear. He ignored it. He cocked his head to the side like a puppy, acting cute. He'd done that sometimes- when she was mad, he pouted and smiled and purred and kissed her sweetly, and sometimes, depending on the severity of his crime, he was forgiven. He put on that dazzling smile and tried not to cry. "Tasha? Look at me?"

She didn't.

Drip, drip.

The sound of the beat of his heart and the rush of blood was overpowering.

The seats in the car were leather. Shiny, dark and smooth. But Clint's nails dug at the work, picking agitatedly at it. His chest tingled uncomfortably as his heart pounded, and he felt like someone was holding a pillow over his face. He wanted to scream. His hands clawed, scrabbling against the seats. He moved from one nightmare in the bathroom to another. He wasn't sure which was worse. He wants to reach out and touch her, feel her smooth skin under his, feel the warmth of her life, just for some reassurance. He wants to, agonizingly badly. Her hand is right there, lying empty; he could just reach out and take it in his-

She has the chance to go for her gun. The monster had arched and struck her, desperately trying to hurt her in the final moments of its life, but her weapon is close. It's right there, inches away from her palm. If she just tried, stretched her fingers just a little, she could defend herself.

But she doesn't take that chance, and instead stares with huge, fright filled eyes. She cowers on the floor, breathing quick. Vulnerable.

"I'm sorry for what happened." He bursts out, his voice high and hysterical. A part of him wonders if he has gone mad- but its voice is muffled under the insane babbles and the static screeching in his head. "I'm sorry for what I said. What I did." He feels pressure building in his temple, and his eyes burn and become wet with tears. "We were both scared and angry; I know we both didn't mean what we said. We never do."

His voice is low and dangerous, murmuring quiet- but not soft- mindless words. His eyes were unfocused and dazed. She didn't understand him. He couldn't understand himself either. He's standing above her, an empty shell, physically there but mentally absent. He has terrible wounds, wounds that must sting and burn, but he pays no attention to them. She trembles and whines.

"Natasha, I'm sorry." He speaks in a small voice. He can't be adorable now. He's scared out of his wits and he's as befuddled as fuck. Tears roll wetly down his cheeks, and they leave streaks of clean skin against the dirt. He feels the intense pressure behind his eyes and in his neck, soreness tugging insistently at his muscles. It sears through his temples, all the way across his head and down the back of his neck. He wanted to slam his head against the steering wheel, and he wouldn't be surprised if his eyes exploded. He wanted comfort. "Natasha, just look at me!" He snapped his face curling into a soundless snarl.

He twisted in his seat, feeling the unbearable pain shoot through his skull as if it was tearing up the grey matter of his brain within. His hand reached out and snatched Natasha's hand up in his, clutching it in a grip that would have hurt her, and his other curled around her cheek.

The coldness of her skin bit him, and the tightness of it shocked him. He nearly dropped her hand with a soft exclamation, but instead his thumb lightly stroked her knuckles. He stared at her hand intensely.

Then his brain was ripped apart with an explosion of memory.

The bellow of some horror brought to life, the wailing cry of dark children made from ash, the sharp bark of a gun. Natasha stumbling backwards as she blindly shot at her attackers, eager to get away. Clint squirming and grunting as he fought to kick away one of the little ones, hardening his heart as it gave a high pitched whimper, holding where he hit it. There were three of them, not including a doglike creature, a rippling mass of muscle and power. It padded towards them, its legs tense, its patchy dark fur bristling. Its tongue, and freakily long red thing, snapped at them. Clint thought it bizarre, almost comical at first- but now he had other things to worry about. His possible immanent death, for one, and the pain that pulsed through his mind.

Tasha's skin was pale, just like it always was, but it was different. It was almost grey, discoloured and dirty. Her nails were oddly white, clear of blood, as were her lips. Her teeth were still bloody, and a horrible mixture of blood and saliva pooled at one side of her mouth. And her eyes were heavy lidded, only a splash of colour visible. But they were dead. He realised now, in retrospect, she was not lounging. She was slumped against the chair, her body limp and empty. But her eyes were gleaming with accusations and rage and disbelief.

Her nails scratch at the floor as she cries. She never thought she'd be crying as she faces her death, like a little coward. She was not in any way a coward. She thought she'd go out fighting, with a bang, surrounded by foes and facing impossible odds. Maybe she'd have a friend there. She hoped not- she wouldn't want to drag someone down with her. And she wasn't sure if she deserved someone to cradle her, stroking her hair and telling her everything would be okay as she spluttered out her last breath. She certainly wasn't getting any of that treatment now. Her thoughts turned to her gun, it wasn't far, she could snatch it up and defend herself, the SHIELD would understand, the rest of the Avengers would too, it would be okay, just grab it and pull the trigger, it was easy, get a grip girl, you've killed people more innocent before, DO IT-

Clint's hand on Natasha's cheek relaxes and falls, and his warm fingers slide down her rounded but firm cheek. Wet warmth trickles down his face, dripping off his chin. He didn't understand. He didn't know. He was the kid, the butt of the joke, the innocent one who didn't catch some hidden meaning or hear some private jest. His grip on her hand only tightens, and he waits for her to gasp, her lips to part with warm breath spilling over, watches for her eyes to brighten and shine, and her to smile and thump him playfully before laughing at her fool. 'Got you!' She'd say, and she'd lean over and patronizingly pull at his cheek and tweak his nose. He'd be angry, but not for long. He'd be too relieved. He'd huff and growl and pull faces, but soon enough he'll crack a smile and press a kiss to her forehead.

She doesn't, though.

She doesn't go for the gun.

"Clint?" She tries experimentally, trying to keep her voice level and calm. He's standing there, staring down at the little pile of black ash of the floor. The pale, strangely pretty ash that drifts down from the sky mixes and contrasts with it. It collects on his shoulders and peppers his hair with white.

Clint takes hold of her chin, a delicate edge of bone in his hands, and pulls it towards him. And she falls, or more like flops, towards him.

Her attempts to reach through to him don't work- and she screeches as he reaches down and grabs her by the hair. She kicks and claws and squirms. When he hauls her up, her eyes are watering with pain, but she fights. She attempts to sink her hard, once pearly white teeth into his thick arm, but his other hand wrenches her off. He drags her across the floor, and she panics. Her survival instincts are kicking in, trying to save her life, cursing her moronic decision to show mercy for the man she loves and not take her gun. Her strong legs try to push up and shove him away. He adapts quickly, and pushes her to the ground, wrapping his arms around her waist and forcing her legs together.

There's blood, sticky and wet when she moves. It's smeared all over the headrest and almost gooey in her hair. He reaches up, smoothing her hair down, his lips parted and his eyes expressing nothing. The blood covers his fingers, and he stares at it, unseeing.

Then he does it, and she's still. She's crumpled on the floor like a paper doll dunked into water. Her long fingers grasp at nothing, and her nails are chipped from her attempts to get away. The blood under her nails speak of her failed fight to escape. Strands of hair tangle in his hand. Her gun is across the floor from him. He thinks its silently watching him. Judging him.

Her blood seeps into the ash and stains it a bold crimson.

He is silent. The radio plays quietly in the background, and it infiltrates his sluggish thoughts. It was a woman's voice singing, some band he didn't recognise on a station he didn't know- And you cry like a baby/fly like a bird/I'll shoot you down. It was perfectly normal- not the usual stuff he listened too, but it didn't matter. Her voice trickles in, infecting him and his vulnerability.

He turns his hands slowly, analysing his lover's blood with ease. She watches him with those eyes. His entire body feels heavy like concrete, and his tongue is thick in his mouth. His ears ring. His throat contracts and it's tough to breath, like having to suck in thick black smoke. He's dying, maybe he's even dead, but for a while he says nothing because he doesn't know what to do. His body runs ahead, on autopilot whilst his mind lags behind, slowly absorbing the dreadful truth.

Clint takes one look, one good, hard look, and it eventually hits him. Like the disgusting stench of a public bathroom, it slams him right in the face. His entire being is a plethora of emotion and agony. There's frantic disbelief, trying to deny the truth, alongside overwhelming self loathing. There's a sickening feeling of self pity, and crushing hopelessness. His body burns with sharp pinpricks of pain.

"God, Tasha." Her name is a bitter taste in her mouth, and his tongue is heavy while his voice is weak. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. It wasn't me, not really, it was them, there, it was that town, Silent Hill!" His voice breaks saying that name, and his chest tightens unbearably. He touches her hand again, lacing his fingers through hers. He has to work her stiff fingers out before he can comfortably cling to her. "It'll be okay- I'll make it okay. I love you, so much-"

The music that still plays, now some overly and unsuitably cheery country tune, turns.

He becomes faintly aware of the rising pitch as his hysteria peaks, the sudden distorted, disturbing tones. The singer becomes near demonic, his voice wavering and deepening. The music becomes a shrill unorganized mess. Then the warning comes, and the static returns- and Clint's body jolts and jumps as he hears the gargling howl of another monster.

No, no, no.

Drip, drip.

Everything stops in favour of the danger. He drops Natasha's cold hand uncaringly and he stared out of the window, his cautious eyes a deep beautiful blue. The fog was as dense as ever- but it was closer, swirling just a few inches short of the bonnet of their car. His fingers flexed nervously, and he shifted in his seat. The creature sounded close. Uncomfortably so. His thin eyebrows narrowed. He didn't want to tangle with this one, not after everything he had gone through. He was trying to think. What should he do? Should he run? That made sense, but did he really want to leave a monster behind so close to the road, and what if left the dark hell hole which it came from? What if others followed it? What if, what if?

The static in the radio made him ill, and the little voice in his brain didn't help. He could faintly hear it, babbling and gibbering madly in an incomprehensible, wavering voice. It was him speaking, but it was the primal part of him, the instinctual part of him that he couldn't control. Maybe it was the part of him that killed Tasha.

No

Delete delete delete no no no I would never no not her not my Tasha no

Clint cursed and thudded his hand against the door in frustration. He scrubbed at his oily hair, forgetting about the blood on his fingers. He felt dizzy with fear and apprehension, and the wild part of his brain wouldn't shut up. It swept across his mind and unsettled everything. Clint's fragile sense of sanity, almost ruined, was teetering on the abyss. But he didn't realise. He was too busy being on guard. He locked his eyes onto the fog, watching every shadow.

No, it wasn't me, why would it be me, not me, no-

He heard the monster cry out again, a low and frightful sound. It was close, awfully close.

A monster, a monster, one of those things, yes, that will do-

nononono it won't it cant be it wasn't a monster no

Delete I didn't kill her delete delete delete no she's fine no

He killed many things today. Cut their throats and spilled their guts and crushed their heads with rocks. He'd lost count as he lost his sense of time. Someone who witnessed so much death could only hold onto sanity for so long. And his sanity was long gone, now.

She's fine

He killed many things today.

Fine

Was Natasha one of them?

No

Alive

Satisfied that the monsters would not leap out of the mist while he wasn't looking, he turned his head and he wrangled up a tight lipped, thin smile at his lover. She was fine, his brain insisted. He reached out and petted her cheek. Her skin was warm, his brain said. He tucked a stray curl of hair behind her ear. There was no blood, his brain reassured. He tried a laugh, and it came surprisingly easily. It felt right and flowed fluently. He chucked her under the chin.

"We gotta move out." His cleared his throat carefully, and his voice was perfectly casual. "SHIELD'll be looking for us- God knows how long we've been gone for- and we need to be where they can find us easily. They must have lost our location, or they would have found us ages ago."

She didn't say anything. He arched a brow.

"Still ignoring me, then?" He let out another rumbling laugh. He didn't mind. Everything was fine (his brain said). He turned away, and gave the car life. The engine was beautiful- it was one of Tony's many cars, on a loan (he hoped he won't be angry about the mud and the smell) and it was sleek, sexy and fantastic. The engine was a quiet growl. He still pulled out of the parking lot quickly- he didn't want those creatures to come running. He checked his surroundings, just a little worried, but the way was clear. He wanted to make a comment to Tasha, perhaps a reassurance or a promise, or just an observation, but she radiated a kind of anger, so he kept his mouth shut. Quite wisely, he thought.

If the fog followed him home and the streets were devoid of life, he didn't notice.