Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Marvel and their respective creators. I only own any original characters that I choose to include, as well as any original plot ideas.

Chapter 32: Devil On The Throne

A/N: I would have had this up far sooner, but it just wasn't coming to me. Bleah. Also, my boss is being an unreasonable jerk, and I am working double the hours that I did through the month of December. So, simply because updates aren't coming as frequently as before does not mean that this is not going to be finished.

The recommended tune for this chapter is the "17 Crimes (LA Riots Remix)" by AFI.

An ache. Slow. Agonizing. Somehow... familiar. Not at all the usual sort from, perhaps, being bashed in the head on the battlefield nor from wasting away far too many hours amid pleasurable company in a fantastic club drinking whiskey. Not a concussion, for he could not be awake otherwise, nor anything else that seemed to be a usual cause for such strain within a man's skull. A steady pounding, that of heavy bass, thrummed through him, and Clint groaned quietly, turned to roll onto his side when he heard the steady clink of metal.

Cuffs. Natasha's work, no doubt, though there was no lasting indication that they had been used for the usual purposes between the two. A weak tug upon them was mustered up, eyes quickly squeezed shut at the ever-growing sound of the radio in the next room, echoing and booming through the kitchen as an unfamiliar voice let out a curse in a strange tongue, then greeted by a soft chuckle that could have only belonged to that great lion of a fellow. Not that way, he heard Thor tell the other, perhaps one of his Asgardian chums, as the sound began to steadily subside to a tolerable volume, though the archer still winced and let out an exasperated sound.

Footsteps as the Thunderer moved into the room, looking him over with surprise in his blue gaze, though there came with it a light flickering of relief.

"I am glad to see you awake, Barton," he said, and the archer could only draw breath, the pounding in his head rising up again. "We had thought that you would be unconscious for some time, but..."

The sound of the man's voice began to fade away, an empty sort of echo within as Clint attempted to stand, wrist still bound to the metal frame of the sofa as he did. He swayed gently, feeling the other's hand fall against his chest so as to steady him, that concerned expression coming into view, though there came no sound from his lips.

There was an abrupt anger then, swelling deep within the sharpshooter's gut, rising steadily up into his chest until it seemed as though his heart may very well burst from the intensity of the feeling. How strange. There was no reason for him to be displeased with Thor, let alone with any other, and yet...

"Could... Could you get these off for me...?"

The metal rattled again as Clint pulled, watched the god's hands drop to the restrictive device and, without a hitch, sever the short bit of chain that had held the two pieces together.

Though the cuff itself still remained, he rubbed at his wrist and felt his eyes widen.

No. No, this isn't... this isn't...

"It is you. It has always been you. Every lasting moment from the day you lost yourself, this has been you."

That voice. In his head. All over again. No. No, that couldn't be. He couldn't be compromised again, not so easily. It wasn't... It was possible. That last skirmish ought to have killed him. He had fallen so far, watching Natasha look after him as he descended, felt the atmosphere of the city close about his helpless form, the impact that, by all logical means, should have successfully claimed his life. The last thing in his mind that day, Clint had thought, would be her face. His friend, his companion, or whatever the hell was appropriate to call her. Just her, the woman whom he had defied protocol for all those years ago, knowing that every passing day would be spent with the knowledge that she had been unable to catch him as he fell.

And that, Clint knew, had been the last thing he had wanted her to live with.

"Barton, are you–?"

"Don't touch me!"

The reason he still drew breath was horrifying, destructive, forcing him into things that he would have otherwise opposed. No control. No mind of his own. No way to refuse.

And it was wrong.

Kill him. Kill him, now.

With a rush of adrenaline, the archer reached for him, gripped Thor's plated armor as best he could and stared up into those fearful eyes.

No. No, I-I won't!

"Thor..." his voice trembled. "Thor, please. You... You have to kill him..."

Those words, so softly spoken, laced with undeniable fear, and the last thing Clint managed to see following a swift flash of light was his companion's body tumbling to the floor, pierced with an arrow.

# - # - # - #

Sitting idly about had never been her forte. Ten, perhaps twenty minutes had been spent peeking into the living room at him, hoping that he would remain asleep through the warriors' boisterous chuckling. Eventually, just waiting and wishing and hoping had gotten the better of her, and Natasha had easily excused herself under the pretense that the breakfast coffee Tony had a penchant for purchasing was shit, and she would be better satisfied by getting it elsewhere. An absolute lie, that, though no one had dared to question it, given the state of things.

Well, and then there was the fact that the Asgardians, save Thor, had little to no idea what coffee was.

But that had been an hour or so ago, and while her intent had not been to obtain the steaming beverage, Natasha had gone off and wandered into the shop all the same, stood in line for a number of minutes before shooting off with the first concoction that had come to mind, and walking right out into the chilled streets again. One ride by bus, another by way of the subway, ends of the scarf tucked into the front of her wool coat as, very much on autopilot, the assassin made her way to the front doors of the building that, had it not been for this damned war, their team would have likely called home.

She huffed, phone held to her ear so as to feign a call, striding through the doors, noting the passing glances spared her by the loyalists. Rather lax security she noted, though it was likely because his royal smartass preferred to dirty his own damn hands.

Sick fuck.

In an effort not to appear too impatient waiting for the elevator, Natasha rambled on to herself as people passed, muttering about varying political standpoints that, come the Summit, would have to be solidified as she moved towards the stairwell. Her words seemed to satisfy, for not a soul sought to impede her progress, and, in minutes, she nudged a door open with her shoulder and turned to fasten the lock, tucking the phone back into her pocket again.

She would kill him. One way or another, he would die by her hand. Thor had not the courage to kill family, and while the others had reason to stake claim upon Loki's life, it was she who had arrived first.

The cup still in hand, her movements became slow, calculated, skirting about the perimeter of the room with her back pressed to the wall, breathing a quiet sigh of relief when she spotted him lounging, unmoving, eyes shut as flame burst in the fireplace.

"Wake up, monster," she snapped, popping the lid off the cup and, upon crossing the room, tipping the thing upside down over his lap.

Satisfaction filled Natasha's gaze as he lurched forward, missing her entirely and hitting the floor, wincing and swearing long enough for her to move to straddle him.

"Not too hot, was it?" The look on his face insisted otherwise. "Oh. Too bad. Now," there was a soft sound as her hand struck the god's cheek in a mocking manner, a smile breaking out upon her lips, "we're going to have ourselves a little talk. And, this time, I'm in charge."