Title: Scars – Chapter Eleven

Author: Lucky Gun

Beta: SpenChester

Summary: A trip to Asgard to keep Barton out of the Council's reach after the Battle of New York places the agent in more danger than anyone could have ever imagined. Face to face with demigods capable of reading his very soul, Hawkeye is forced to protect his teammates and himself from Loki's growing influence while on the prince's home world. Sequel to Bruises. AU. Contains whump, language, and torture.

A/N: Sorry for the delay. Can't blame anything but myself. Enjoy.

He laughed because he could, and there was nothing stopping him, not even the ragged agony in his side. It was particularly freeing to act like it didn't matter.

And it didn't.

He was well aware of his superior staring at him with just a little bit of well-hidden concern. That one eye seemed to burn holes in the back of his jacket, and he shrugged slightly to get rid of the unease.

"What did you expect me to do, sir?"

He thought it was a particularly valid question, but from the way Fury sighed and shook his head, the motions visible in the hazy reflection in the glass, it apparently wasn't.

"I did not expect you to disappear from triage with a hole in your gut. I did not expect you to break into the armory to retrieve your weapons without authorization after disappearing from triage with a hole in your gut. And I did not expect you to show up in my office demanding a quinjet and a detachment of men to hunt that Asgardian bastard down after breaking into the armory to retrieve your weapons without authorization after disappearing from triage with a hole in your gut. Why, you ask? Why yes, Agent Barton, I'll happily explain why. Possibly, just possibly, because I didn't fucking order you to!"

There were a few handfuls of silence after that proclamation, and Barton stood quietly in it. He wasn't really feeling all that chastised, mostly because Fury damned well had expected all of this in its entirety. Ordered, no. Expected, absolutely.

"Understood, sir. Permission granted, then?"

It was about as smartass an answer as Barton could come up with, and he let himself revel in the loss of filters on his speech. He was going to die. He knew that. Hell, he was almost coming it embrace it, as Suvid had suggested. Mostly because he'd died before, a few times now, and it wasn't something so bad that he could hate it. He almost found those few minutes of death he'd experienced easy and peaceful, without a single shade of blue.

God, that sounded so good right now.

Exasperated, Fury leveled a finger in his agent's direction and snapped, "Down, Barton. This morning, we were at a wonderful and lovely DEFCON 4. Now we're at FAST PACE. Know what, Barton? Orange is one of my least favorite colors. Did you know that? Never knew why. Maybe this is why. Because DEFCON 2 fucking sucks. Know how much paperwork I'm looking at here?"

Turning carefully and dropping his eyes to the overflowing piles of paper on the man's desk, each stack topped precariously with a tablet or two, Barton smirked. God, he'd wouldn't miss the paperwork when he was burning in hell.

"Dammit, stop smiling, Clint! How is it that my sharpest fucking agent is bouncing around my office like he's high out of his fucking mind? Thought they hadn't given you anything beyond fentanyl and fluids." Ducking his head slightly to hide his tight grin, Barton tried to look properly abashed. After a moment, Nick spoke again, his voice calmer than it had been, "You should be back in the infirmary getting that...burn taken care of. Don't want it to scar."

A shock of electricity flooded through Clint's nerves at the thought, and the amusement faded from his face. He unconsciously pressed a hand to his side, the mark pulsing with his heartbeat, and he swallowed back a sudden rush of bile. A low snarl curled his lips, the growl animalistic, and he turned back to the window, his back tight. He still felt owned by the demigod, and he hated it. He was absently computing the different trajectories of all the arrows he could get into the man's skull when Fury's droning voice brought him back to the present.

"...and due to that, we won't be able to spare a contingent of men from the helicarrier to go track down Loki. The UN has already sent out a few search parties and they'll alert us. In the meantime, we're to head towards New York."

Blanching, Clint whirled, his side burning harshly. His demeanor shifted like a wild thing, his eyes wide.

"No! You can't...they won't know where to look. I will. I know where he's going. But keep the carrier out of New York!" he demanded, a bead of sweat trickling down the side of his face to drop to his jacket.

Nick paused, gaze focused solely on his agent, and Barton felt the wound in his gut squeeze his lungs as he added breathlessly, "Just five men. That's all I need. Five men. I can stop this before it happens."

Again.

It was unsaid, but it was clear from Fury's sharp look that he could almost hear it. The measuring focus that he levied on Barton had shifted from concern to enlightenment.

"And what could you know about his goals and plans?"

There it was. Clint had been waiting for it, had been anticipating it at every turn, but with his side in the middle of a spasm and his gut twisting like a snake, he couldn't remember what the hell he'd been planning on saying.

Fury stepped around his desk and stalked directly in front of Barton, who dropped his uncontrolled gaze to the metal grating beneath his feet. He counted shapes and added degrees of angles and connected the dots with pieces of dirt until the silence turned from annoying to uncomfortable. When Nick finally shifted, he only crossed his arms and stayed where he was, well within Clint's personal space. Barton didn't squirm – he was a sniper, and patience was the name of the game – but inwardly he reached for any answer that he could give without ruining everything.

"I can't...you wouldn't..."

Two false starts, and Barton licked his lips, fear ruining his confidence. What could he say that could get him off the ship without making the Council issue a warrant for him? A breath about information transfer through the Tesseract's magic would get him locked up before he'd even get a foot in the hangar. A hint of time travel would get him in a straightjacket. A suggestion of magic internal sight would get him on the wrong end of a gun sight.

Damn, what the hell was he supposed to do?

"Sir? Communique from Skyraider. She reports ready, sir."

The ensign that had stepped into the office was completely oblivious to the situation he'd interrupted, and Barton raised his eyes to his boss, shock apparent. The Skyraider was a specially commissioned, high variation quinjet that Fury had ordered into production shortly after the fiasco with Stark and Stane. Simply put, it was the jet to be used for all travel of the Avengers when needed. It was something that they'd neglected to use in the time that Clint had already lived through due to the fact that it had been on its landward base instead of on the helicarrier.

"You transferred it here? When?"

Frowning, Nick snapped, "In between your ramblings on the medical evac we pulled for your ass!"

The ensign, now fully aware of exactly what kind of conversation he was intruding upon, edged out of the room without a sound, and Clint swallowed hard.

"Rambling, sir?" he asked quietly, eyes lowering back to the floor.

Spinning sharply enough that his trenchcoat brushed Barton's shins, Fury paced the decking in front of Barton as he bit out tightly, "Ramble. Verb. To talk or write in a discursive, aimless way. Still not clear? I'll use it in a sentence: Clint Fucking Barton rambled to Nick Badass Fury in a delusional manner about Loki, the adopted son of an extraterrestrial demigod, who took over New York, wiped out Manhattan, killed half the people on Nick's ship, and put Nick's best agent through such a total mind fuck that Nick's best agent felt the only way out was through slitting his own throat and then traveling through time to before it all happened with some intention to stop all of it." There was a beat of silence, then, "Ramble."

Raising his eyes, Clint blinked as he stared at Fury.

"Well...this certainly makes things a little easier. Warrant for my arrest or detainment yet, sir?" he asked softly, worried that the walls had ears.

Giving the man an unreadable look, Fury's tone was still unmistakably wounded when he answered, "Why would I have told anyone but Coulson about this, Barton?"

Shifting on his feet, Clint immediately said, "I'm not crazy."

Surprisingly, Nick was the one who chuckled at this as he sat heavily in his chair. Uneasy, Clint followed his example and leaned slightly on the ledge that ran under the wide windows that made up the outer wall of his office. Fury stared at his boots for a few moments, the black leather impeccably matched to his jacket, and he finally spoke.

"Took it for insanity at first, to be honest. You've never been fully hinged." Not since Budapest. That quiet addition was always there. "But I trust you. And it made sense. The way he acted when you talked to him at the base, the way you've been acting since then, the things you've said. It makes enough sense to justify at least the Skyraider transfer, if nothing else. And I went ahead and put together a response team while we were on our way here."

The implication was clear, but Barton still verified, "Banner?"

Shrugging slightly, Nick answered, "Took Romanoff a little convincing, but we got him. Thor showed up a few hours after we got back here; the lightning played havoc with the navigation systems. Got Rogers and Stark, though they're not playing too well together at the moment. Coulson's trying to get that to change."

Tossing Clint a lazy look, Fury asked slowly, "You said you just needed a team of five, right?"

Frowning, Barton asked, "You're activating the Avengers Initiative without approval from the Council? Sir, they'll take it as insubordination."

Shrugging slightly, Nick said, "If we're looking at alien raiders wiping out the island of Manhattan using technology beyond our grasp, I think that's the least of my worries. This plays out like you implied, I'll get a commendation for it and the Avengers Initiative won't be questioned anymore. If it doesn't, we'll all die, myself included."

Shuddering, Barton heard Loki's voice in his head, memory turning his sight cobalt.

"This man shall be the last to die, Barton. I'll make him watch as your world burns to ash. Do you think he deserves that? Is that any less than what you deserve?"

Jerking, Barton couldn't cover the slip, and he didn't try. Ducking his head and passing his hand over his face, he felt another tremor shake down his spine. Pain cut through him, sharp and unwavering, the multitude of injuries he'd received before coating his mind like tar. He could feel their weight press against his consciousness, the warning from Suvid branding itself across his thoughts.

"You can change things...until you cannot."

Fuck, it was happening already. How much time did he have? How much time had he wasted? He tried to block out the images and sounds, compartmentalizing them into boxes so small and tight that they weighted down his thoughts. He pressed his hand hard against his eyes, crushing them for a moment, as they ached with the Agency's tools. Looking up, he felt his sight tremble and roll, the world awash in sapphire. To his credit, Fury didn't immediately react, and Clint allowed the power to burn his eyes, cooling the heat of the memory of Loki. Then it faded, the world returned to normal, and he closed the door tight on those memories. He didn't need them right now.

Nick was quiet for a moment before he asked, "That left over from him?"

Hesitating, Clint finally answered, "He did...something, last time. It's not dangerous. It was, but...I can't really explain it."

Actually, he could, but he didn't want to push his luck with Fury's shocking understanding of the situation. Given the leveled look he was receiving, he'd bet that Nick knew that, too.

"Do you need anything?"

This time, it was Clint's turn to laugh, and Nick let him. It was slightly desperate, but not half as crazy as the ones that had passed his lips on Asgard. The levity was missing, but it still cut the tension well enough.

"A drink?"

A smile twitched the corners of Nick's mouth before he went back to business. Clint could see the armor draw around the man, hatches closing with concussive force, a ghostly image of Stark's Iron Man suit hovering over his superior. Intrigued, Barton looked a little deeper, and snorted in amusement; where Tony's ARC reactor window was usually located, there was instead a very clear outline of a fist with the middle finger raised. How appropriate.

"My gear," he finally said, gesturing towards his outfit. "Weapons, tasers, restraint cuffs, a carbon fiber face mask. Stark needs his new suit, Tasha needs her gloves. The rest of them..."

This one came fast, slamming into him from nowhere, blurring his sight until he was looking at something other than his alarmed friend and the helicarrier's walls. Instead, he was below ground, the world spinning while he was still. Sounds faded to nothing, Fury's shouts ringing dully in his ears. Something he'd forgotten made itself known, hard and raw.

"What did it show you, Agent Barton?"

He turned, eyes like the sky, and he responded easily, "My next target."

There was a chuckle beside him, and his skin roiled as he heard, "Stick in the mud. He's got no soul." Barton turned as Selvig added, "No wonder you chose this...this...tomb to work in!"

Clint couldn't hide his annoyance as he responded icily, "Well, the Radisson doesn't have three levels of lead lined flooring between SHIELD and that cube." Selvig just bounced on his toes and shook his head as he turned back to his work, effectively ending their conversation.

"I see why Fury chose you to guard it," Loki mused, his gaze calculating, and Barton felt a mix of wariness and pride in the praise.

"You're going to have to contend with him, sir," he advised as they walked away from Selvig's operations. "As long as he's in the air, I can't pin him down."

There was a pause, then his renegade lips added, "He's going to be putting together a team."

Loki paid attention to this as he immediately asked, "Are they a threat?"

Barton chose his words carefully against his will.

"To each other, more than likely. But if Fury can get them on track – and he might – they could throw some noise our way."

Loki appraised his servant and said, "You admire Fury."

There was no question in his tone, and Barton knew it.

"He's got a clear line of sight."

It was the wrong thing to say, the admittance costing more than he would've thought.

Loki's voice was cold and hard as he stepped forward, pulling ahead of Barton, his words snaking through the air like poison.

"Is that why you failed to kill him?"

Barton stopped, his words unsure, his tone lower than normal.

"It might be," he allowed, the words tasting bitter in his mouth. "I was disoriented," he added, the excuse thin even in his eyes. "And I'm not at my best with a gun." This was clearly a falsehood. He hoped Loki would let it go.

Something else had caught the Asgardian's attention, because he suddenly turned and said, "I want to know everything you can tell me about this team of his." He seemed to plan something, his eyes moving rapidly, and he absently continued, "I would test their mettle."

Barton nodded slightly, unsure where his master was leading him.

"I am weary of scuttling in shadows. I mean to rule this world, not burrow in it."

Everything that Clint had left to fight with came out as a caution.

"It's a risk."

Loki's grin was all feral, his features turned and warped by the harsh lighting above him.

"Oh yes."

Seeing he couldn't dissuade the man, Clint figured he could as least take advantage of the situation.

"If you're set on making yourself known, it could be useful."

Loki stalked forward, abruptly re-energized, and ordered, "Tell me what you need."

Turning, Barton grabbed at and opened the case holding his compound bow, snapping it open with a flourish.

"I need a distraction. And an eyeball."

Life came back to sharp clarity and Barton jerked, gasping like he'd been underwater the entire time. He felt hands on his chest and smacked them away, rolling to his side and vomiting thin bile. Those same hands came to rest lightly on his back, testing, and he jerked away from them. Right now, he just needed to be himself, clear and true. The flash had rolled him back to Loki's influence, the memory of it melding parts of his mind that he knew were one hundred percent separated now. He spit out a mouthful of saliva and shivered as his skin prickled in a painful icy-hot sensation. The way his world spun sideways on its axis was so familiar that he felt tears burn the backs of his eyelids.

"Fuck...not again," he whispered as his arm braced his side.

Phantom pains attacked his body from all directions, his shoulder burning, his leg aching, his back twinging. For a good two minutes, it felt like the entirety of his body was nothing but a receptor for pain. Then it disappeared with a suddenness that took his breath away. Panting, Clint squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus on the world he was in. He was on his hands and knees, his left side braced against the wall of Fury's office. How he'd gotten on the ground was something he wasn't keen on discovering, and he let that detail go. Instead, he put his energy into trying to get up.

"Easy, Barton, easy."

Ignoring the order and pressing against the hands that were pushing him down, Clint murmured, "I'm okay."

The sound that echoed above his head wasn't quite a laugh, but it was close. Taking the noise for permission, he again worked towards equilibrium. This time, he wasn't stopped, and he rolled himself around, pressing his back against the wall before finally forcing his eyes open. Nothing had changed, catastrophically or otherwise, and Clint found himself horribly, immensely grateful for that fact. Nick was still the only other person in there, though Barton figured there was a med team on the way in.

"You with me?"

Nodding slightly and swallowing against a dry throat, Clint muttered, "As much as I can be."

That one sentence was enough to take what energy he had, and Barton let his eyes slide shut again. He halfway remembered something from before, something about a shower, the team there, Coulson speaking words he couldn't translate, and the agony started to rise again. Hurriedly, Clint let the memory burn away, the pain dying with it, and he sighed deeply in relief. The rules of the game were becoming clear, but the ticking clock was clearer.

"You need to tell me anything?" Nick asked, one hand pressed against Clint's shoulder to help keep him upright.

Blinking his eyes open owlishly, Barton gave him a look, one that he'd learned from Coulson.

"Not a thing, sir."

Need, no. Is it imperative information pertinent to the safety of the base and those within it? No. Dangerous? Absolutely.

Again, that's a no.

Nick cast his gaze heavenward and then went back to glaring at Clint.

"You had some sort of seizure, far as I can tell. Stopped breathing for half a minute. Think you need your side wrapped again – you might want to stop by the infirmary on your way to the Skyraider," he suggested in a tone that made it clear it was nothing but an order.

This surprised Clint – Nick hadn't called for the doc. Why?

His confusion must've shown on his face, because Fury's facade grew a little less harsh as he explained, "You seem to have expected it – you said 'not again' – so I took a wait and see approach. And Deluca's tied up with something right now."

Clint frowned slightly. He wasn't a narcissistic man, and he didn't actually enjoy the attention of the squad of torturers that Deluca called her team, but still...why didn't he call them?

Nick sighed heavily and glanced sideways at his agent.

"There was a mechanical failure in one of the maintenance rooms. Her nephew didn't make it."

Everything in the world froze at that point as Clint tried to figure out exactly what Nick had just said.

"Wait...what?"

The hard glint in Fury's eye betrayed his own aggravation with the situation.

"Problem in the electrical. Will went in with the crew, didn't come back out."

Stunned, Clint just blinked at his boss for a few moments, processing what he'd been told.

"Will...Will's dead?"

Nick nodded tightly, his lips pressed into a small line, and Clint stared past him at the far wall, his features stony. The first thing he'd thought of when he'd returned, when he was staring at the Tesseract in its cage with Loki at the far end of the dais, the first thing he'd known was that Will didn't have to die. Nobody did. He could stop all of it.

Pushing himself to his feet with a will born of ice and blood, Clint stalked across the office with a heavy step. He heard and ignored Fury calling him back as he crossed the threshold without a look at his superior. He headed immediately towards the infirmary, the destination the only thing he could think about, and he stopped before he even entered the room. Standing outside the med bay, looking through the window, he could see Ann in her office. Her back was to him, her white lab coat slightly rumpled, and she had her chin resting on one of her hands. Her shoulders didn't shake, and her gaze was on the picture sitting on the side of her desk. Will and Ann at her swearing ceremony, a fair bit younger than she was now. Will, always tall, standing in his dress whites, the SEABEES logo emblazoned brightly on his lapel pin, was arm in arm with her. His bright smile was going to haunt Clint until the moment he died.

Spinning and snarling at the pain that danced across his body with the motion, Barton walked until he wasn't sure where he was anymore, anger and frustration warring with grief and consciousness. He'd wiled away many an hour playing poker with Will, Deluca watching from the sidelines and joining in occasionally. Whenever he was laid up in the infirmary, the man had always been one to stop in to see how he was. Deluca was some type of family to him – surrogate mother or something – so Will had taken up the cause of adopting him, as well. The man was a fair fighter, but Clint had often traded battle tactics for the man's blueprints on the helicarrier. Will was a Master Chief Utilitiesman, the only one on the ship, and ran all the maintenance for it. So he knew the best locations for Clint to make his nests, something that Barton had grown to eventually trust.

And now he was dead.

Looking up, Clint was only but so surprised to find himself in the training room. The well-used mats were creased with age, and the smell of leather and sweat pervaded the area. He knew he would see, if he looked hard enough, the memories of the times he'd been here, boxing with Will, brawling like two kids in the street. But the pain behind his eyes was blue, and he looked away.

Right into the face of Suvid.

Jumping and gasping as his side screamed, he snapped, "Is that a fucking Asgardian thing or something? Sneaking up on people?"

Suvid had the good grace to look penitent, but the distraction was fleeting for Barton.

"You knew. You fucking knew. When I first woke up, that's why you said that. You knew he was going to die anyway!" Clint yelled as he stormed up to the deity, fists clenching tightly.

The knowledge behind Suvid's eyes made them glint in the harsh lighting.

"I am the fatemaster, Agent Barton. Yes, I knew."

Clint ground his teeth tightly, moisture pricking the corners of his eyes.

"You should have told me. You knew then that I was determined not to let that happen!"

Cocking his head slightly, Suvid asked quietly, "And what would you have done with that knowledge? Fate will happen, if not exactly as determined then in any method it deems true enough. If he didn't die during Loki's attack, then it would be from an electrical malfunction. If not from that, then the plane you no doubt would have bustled him to would have crashed, killing others whose time may not have been yet present. Changing one thing changes many things, Agent Barton. You were told you can change things until you cannot. You have already altered this world's fate, though in what ways you do not know. How will you proceed when you know not what your fate holds?"

Growling lowly, Clint retorted roughly, "That's not the question. Life is unpredictable; fuck, I'm an assassin, you bastard – it's my job to predict it anyway. You should have fucking told me!"

Barton had lashed out before he even realized he'd moved, and Suvid dodged his blow with otherworldly grace.

Frowning, the Asgardian warned, "Careful, Hawk. You're injured."

Panting as his gut flared with heat, Clint grit his teeth and bit out, "Now you fucking care?"

A sharp look preceded Suvid's admonition.

"I have cared since I first saw this storm take your destiny for itself. Your fate is not one that I enjoy seeing, given your power of will and force of spirit. Your heart makes it difficult to see through the howling gale to the truth within. But the truth, once seen, is one that can turn worlds. You have been given a second chance. It has rules, forms and functions, ones that you are learning. This is nothing I can do for that. But until you learn to accept this – and I would recommend you do it quickly – I can at least stop you from killing yourself once more."

Stepping backwards as his side gushed liquid lava, Clint shook his head as he wearily, angrily asked, "You care? You turn back time, tell me I can change things while telling me that fate is set, tell me I can alter things but that doing it can be worse than leaving it...you fucking care? You do these tricks and lie to me without lying and put me through this while expecting me to trust you, and you fucking care?"

Eyes softening to a degree that they almost looked human, Suvid was still for a moment before he said quietly, "I am not your brother."

Clint froze, the words cascading over him with the shock of an icy waterfall. For a few terrible seconds, all he could do was exist, and even that was an unsteady truth. Inside his mind, the world was quiet and still, the halls in good repair and the marble clean. He stood in the middle, everything silent as though underwater, and he stared at the far end of the hall.

There was his brother, standing confidently, his hard smirk towards Clint. His clothing was familiar – it was the last thing he'd seen him in. The cut of his hair was familiar too; it was from back when they were in the circus. Before he could stop himself, Clint opened his mouth.

"You said...you said it would get better. You said you'd make it stop."

The words were coming in the voice of a twelve year old, and the thiry-something standing in front of him answered in a teenager's voice.

"You should've listened to me, Clint. You always were no good for the people around you. Loki's gonna kill all of them, you know. He's gonna kill them like he killed you. Talons in the gut, chemical imbalance, lay their intestines out on a staircase, break their necks. How do you want it, Clint? Something more familiar? Like growing up?"

He raised his fists, knuckles already bloody, and Barton backed up a little, unsure as to why his side hurt so damned bad.

"Barney...you tried to kill me. Why did you do that? You were my brother."

Clint swallowed hard as Barney's eyes glowed blue, and he asked darkly, "Was I?"

Then he was in the training room, Suvid nowhere to be seen, his hands red and his pants wet. Clint looked around wildly, eyes unfocused, his thoughts untamed. He couldn't understand much about the world for the moment. Nothing but blood and pain made sense.

"You can change things...until you cannot."

Blood and pain. He had it in spades.

End Chapter Eleven